Prompt: Cutagens (cute aspects of mutagens) | Wuv the bard
a few days ago I saw this video of a diabetes assist dog who can alert it 's owner by booping them when their blood sugar drops, and thought it would work well for this <3
sweet confession of feelings for @whataboutthebard
Jaskier/Geralt, Jaskier & Lambert, T
It starts as something to make Geralt jealous. Cavorting with one of his brothers? A sure fire revenge scheme. No possible way for this to blow up in his face.
It backfires when Geralt becomes completely heartbroken, even from an outsider’s point of view. Jaskier and Lambert hatch a plan to let Geralt win Jaskier back, and regain some of his self confidence, too. on ao3 here!
Jaskier stumbles and tries to catch on to a tree branch, but his hand closes around something more akin to a twig and snaps it off, sending him tumbling to the ground. He scrapes his knee as he falls, and he curses, another thing to join the blister on the back of his foot as he limps down this gods-awful mountain.
Sitting for a moment, he draws up his knee and examines it. There’s blood slowly weeping from it, making the red of his pants around it even darker. He slams his fist on the ground, the events of the day catching up to him. It still feels vaguely dream shaped, like he’s going to wake up any second. Geralt wouldn’t say those things to him, surely.
Jaskier pokes his finger into his wound before his brain catches up to his body and he hisses, yanking his finger away. He spares a tiny amount of water that runs pink and brown down his leg as the blood and grime is washed away.
There’s a resounding crash in the woods from somewhere nearby, and he startles at the crackle of breaking wood and leaves rustling.
“Fucking shit!” a man’s voice yells, followed by more snapping.
Something snarls, and Jaskier scrambles to his feet, pulling everything back into his pack and wincing as his injured knee stretches and the skin shifts uncomfortably. There’s the dull thud of a sword sinking into flesh and Jaskier wonders for a second if it could be Geralt. He simultaneously wants nothing more or less than that, but the problem solves itself when he remembers the voice, too high to be Geralt’s.
Curiosity keeps Jaskier rooted in his spot even as the noises get closer, until he can see movement through the leaves and the metallic flash of armor glinting in the sun that has no right to be so cheerful when Jaskier is so miserable.
The man ends up almost running right into Jaskier, not noticing until he’s right on top of him and Jaskier is hurrying out of the way. The man slides his sword home into a drowner, Jaskier notes, and he wonders how he didn’t notice he was practically tromping through their homes. Geralt would have given him an earful for not being more aware of his surroundings, but given the emotional turmoil of the day, he thinks he can excuse himself.
The man pulls his sword out of the drowner’s gut, its intestines spilling out with it, and then he turns to Jaskier, his cat eyes gleaming.
A witcher. Well, that’s great. Just his luck.
“Can you watch where you’re going a little, pal? Or is that just too much effort?”
Jaskier sniffles and pulls himself up to his full height, noting with a little malicious glee that this witcher only comes up to his shoulder and has to crane his head up to look at Jaskier. “Yes, you’re right. That’s entirely too much effort after I’ve just had my heart ripped in half,” he growls.
The witcher backs up. “Are you...are you all right?”
Jaskier falters in his rage. He just wants someone to be mean to him now, gods damn it all, so he can be justified in snapping in them. He can’t very well yell at someone that’s trying to be nice to him. Inexplicably, tears start to drip off his nose, and Jaskier rubs at his eyes angrily.
Shifting uncomfortably, the witcher just looks at him. “Well, uh, I’ve got to, uh. Harvest these drowners. So.”
Jaskier schools his expression and wipes at his nose. He needs something to do, something to get his mind off Geralt. He’ll take anything, at this point. It’s not like he hasn’t done it with Geralt a million times. “I’ll help you.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re volunteering for,” the witcher says skeptically, but Jaskier is already pulling his nose hook out of his boot and walking towards the drowner closest to him, putting the hook up its nose and wiggling it around until it catches. Jaskier pulls until something gray and lumpy and vaguely oatmealish comes out. He turns around to ask the witcher for a jar for it, but he’s staring at Jaskier with wide eyes.
“So, uh. What else do you keep in your boots?”
He’s standing there with some sort of mallet, and Jaskier ignores the question to focus on that. “Were you just going to smash the heads open? That seems a little barbaric, don’t you think?”
The man looks offended. “No one’s exactly critiqued my technique before.” He tilts his head, considering. “That does seem a little easier, though.” The words look like they’re painful to admit, and a part of Jaskier sighs at yet another emotionally constipated man who he has stumbled upon. They’re apparently drawn to him like moths to a flame.
A ghost of a smile crosses Jaskier’s face as he performs the tedious work, the witcher trailing behind him with his jar of brains and a foul smelling liquid. At least Jaskier’s eyes are dry by the end of it.
The witcher wraps the jar and tucks it back into his bag. “Thank you. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on one of those.” He leans against a tree. “Professional curiosity...are you an alchemist?”
This startles a laugh out of Jaskier. “Not even close.”
The witcher deflates. “Oh. Nevermind, then.”
Jaskier snorts. “That much of a disappointment?”
“I just had some ideas I want to run by one. It’s hard to find herbalists that do more than dabbling.”
“Well, good luck in your search. I suppose I should be moving on.”
A rough hand closes around his elbow, then hastily lets go, and Jaskier turns to see the witcher scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. I just. I can’t let you run off after helping me without returning the favor. I could…” He pauses, thinking so hard that Jaskier almost feels sorry for him. “I could beat up whoever made you cry earlier?”
This startles a cackle out of Jaskier. “I don’t know if you’d have much luck. You’re a little on the short side.”
The witcher puffs up in offense. “I’m a witcher; I don’t think anyone is going to give me too much of an issue.” He flashes Jaskier a nasty grin. “I can be very intimidating.”
“To other witchers?”
Realization dawns across his face. “Who?”
Jaskier sighs. “Do you all know each other?”
The witcher crosses his arms. “For the most part.”
Jaskier drags a hand down his face. “Geralt. Now who are you?”
“I’m Lambert, and it would be my unending pleasure to punch Geralt for you, although I can’t say making people cry is up his usual alley.”
Jaskier looks at the man again, Lambert, who he’s pretty sure Geralt has spoken about before, but his medallion is tucked into his gambeson. “Are you a wolf?”
Lambert grins. “Yep. So why don’t you tell me more about this whole situation and I’m sure we can plan some suitable revenge.”
Jaskier explains the situation haltingly, until Lambert interrupts Jaskier to tell him his thoughts, and Jaskier gives him a slowly blooming smile. “Are you sure you’re Geralt’s brother? This is rather diabolical.”
“Hey, we’re not all boring like him.”
They exchange matching smirks, and Jaskier almost forgets what he was upset about in the first place as he begins to mull over his next ballad.
-
Geralt trudges down the mountain, holding Roach’s reins in his hand to lead her down the treacherous path. He doesn’t want her to lose her footing and tumble down the mountain side, which would be quite the end to this shit day. He deliberately doesn’t let his thoughts drift to the words he’d hurled earlier, but his stomach churns regardless.
The sun is beginning to set, and Geralt is beyond ready to go to sleep so this nightmare of a day can be over and he never has to think about it again. That always works, right?
Geralt ties Roach to a tree, right as it begins to drizzle. Geralt sighs. Even with his waterproofed skins, he can still never keep anything dry, and his books are more of a priority to keep dry than himself.
He makes quick work of making camp, setting it up in the most canopied area he can find. Geralt lays out his oil skins over his blankets, huddling down in them. Geralt huffs a breath through his nose, as he can’t help but let his thoughts drift to earlier. He would give anything to take those words back, but he can’t. There’s no guarantee he’s ever even going to see Jaskier again.
The rain drips down on him all night long.
-
“Bard!” Lambert exclaims as he walks into the room a few weeks later, giving Jaskier a rakish grin and breaking him out of his thoughts.
Jaskier raises a brow, barely looking up from where he’s inspecting his lute strings.
“I heard your song while I was in the market.”
At this, Jaskier looks up, his interest piqued. “Oh?”
“The spinning ladies were singing it as they worked.” He exchanges a devilish grin with Jaskier. “Geralt’s sure to hear it soon.”
A pleasant spike of pettiness goes down Jaskier’s back, landing somewhere in his stomach and turning into an ache. He’s not sure what he thinks at the prospect of Geralt hearing this song.
“You’re much more heroic than him, anyway,” Jaskier says with a wink to mask his wandering thoughts.
With light hands, Lambert starts packing his recent purchases into his bags, a satisfied smile on his face. “This is going to drive Geralt up the wall.” He looks up to catch Jaskier’s eye. “What are your winter plans?”
One of Jaskier’s fingers catch a string and he frowns at the off pitch hum. “Well, I normally go to Oxenfurt, look for work for the winter. Sometimes I can find a nice family whose child needs a tutor.
Lambert snorts at the image. “I can’t help but think that child would learn more than the parents intended.”
Jaskier lifts a shoulder, focused on moving the tuning pegs just so. He strums the lute again, frowning when it’s still not what he wants.
“Well,” Lambert continues, “I was thinking, and I think you should come with me this winter.”
At this, Jaskier’s hand slips and he turns the peg much harder than he wanted, cursing and setting it aside for now. “What?”
“Come with me this winter,” Lambert repeats, watching him carefully. “If you really want to get back at Geralt, this is the way to do it.”
“Is he going to be there?”
“Probably, unless he feels like licking his wounds in private. Eskel would kick his ass if he did that, though, so I’d say your chances are good.”
Jaskier taps a finger on his chin, considering. “No one’s going to murder me, right? You reap my artistic talents all winter and then never let me leave because I know too much? Nothing like that?”
Lambert grins at him, and Jaskier can’t help but notice how much sharper his canine teeth are than Geralt’s. He wonders if he files them. “Nothing like that.”
Geralt always acted like there are hidden secrets at their winter keep and that he would never even consider inviting Jaskier there, but… “Why not?”
-
“Are we there yet?” Jaskier complains, for what has to be the millionth time that day. “I wouldn’t have agreed to come if I knew I was going to be freezing my balls off the entire time.”
“Don’t worry. Once we get to the keep, I’ll make sure you’re warm.”
Lambert gives him a lecherous grin, and Jaskier can’t help but return it, just a little, before it sputters out. “I’m not even convinced that Geralt is going to care about any of this.”
Lambert brushes a hand through the mane of his mare. Cinnamon, Jaskier’s pretty sure he heard him call it. “You haven’t heard him bellyache about you all winter to anyone who’ll listen. Just trust me.”
Lambert’s proven himself more or less trustworthy so far, or, at the very least, Jaskier’s woken up every morning he’s spent with him, so he’ll give Lambert the benefit of the doubt. “If you say so.”
“I do, so stop worrying about it. We’re almost there.”
Jaskier looks doubtfully at the trail in front of him. It seems unending, winding and treacherous. He nervously pats the gelding Lambert somehow procured for him. He didn’t ask any questions.
“Lighten up. This is going to be hilarious.”
Jaskier gives him a weak grin. What has to be at least five hours later (and if this is Lambert’s idea of almost, he shudders to think about what his idea of far is), a crumbling structure comes into view.
Although parts of it are falling down, and other sections have been overtaken by ivy, it still takes Jaskier’s breath away, just a little. “It’s spectacular,” he breathes, and inspiration starts to flare in his fingertips.
“You have other brothers, right? I can write a song about them, too.”
Lambert gives him a sideways smile. “Now you’re learning. Yes, Eskel will be there.”
“Geralt’s talked about him before,” Jaskier hums, his mind already drifting into compositions as he mutters words that might fit under his breath.
Unlike Geralt, Lambert just lets him ramble without complaint, focusing on the path ahead of them and murmuring to his horse to keep her calm as the trail gets more and more narrow, and takes them past more and more ledges.
“Be careful,” Lambert calls back to him. “The path is called the killer for a reason.”
Jaskier’s face pales. “The killer?” he yells back.
He must have heard that wrong, but Lambert’s head nods in front of him.
Oh dear.
Jaskier pushes any songs from his mind and concentrates on the trail.
-
From closer up, the keep is even more magnificent. The huge door that leads into the courtyard is open for them, and Lambert leads him through it, heading to the stables. There’s only one stall prepared, so Lambert huffs and breaks a bale of straw, bedding down another stall for Jaskier’s horse. Jaskier can’t help but admire the flex of his biceps as he works. When he’s done, they lead their horses into the stable, giving them a thorough rub down and food and water before Lambert leads him inside.
Jaskier’s heart starts to jack rabbit in his chest, and Lambert stops them right before the door. “Okay?” he asks, a departure from his usual snark.
“Just...nervous.”
Lambert pats him on the back, then looks at him deviously and pulls him in close to his side. “Don’t worry about it.”
With that, he pushes the door open. They enter what seems like a great hall, with a cavernous ceiling and huge lead paned glass windows on both sides. It seems extremely lonely; all the long tables with only three people to occupy them.
Jaskier stiffens as he realizes Geralt is one of them.
Lambert tugs him tighter next to him, his arm a heavy weight around Jaskier’s shoulders.
“I have a guest!” he shouts across the hall, once they’re close enough to be heard.
It echos through the room. The witcher facing away from them turns around in his seat, fixing Jaskier with the yellow cat eyes that he’s long since stopped finding unnerving.
Finally, Lambert and Jaskier stand before them. Jaskier pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with Geralt, instead taking the time to look at the other two witchers. He assumes the one with gray hair and tired lines around his eyes is Vesemir. His hair is pulled back just like Geralt’s, a pang goes through Jaskier as he notices.
He turns to the other one, Eskel, with the scar going up one side of his face, skipping over his eye but slicing through his eyebrow. Jaskier tries to contain a chuckle as he notices all the spikes on Eskel’s armor. It seems like all witchers have a penchant for drama.
Lambert clears his throat. “This is my boyfriend,” he crows.
Eskel looks at Lambert with a raised eyebrow, but Lambert sends him enough of a death glare that he doesn’t comment. Geralt, meanwhile, is even paler than usual, his mouth flapping.
“Jaskier?” he asks, finally.
“Yes?”
Geralt doesn’t say anything else at that, just looks down into whatever is in his mug.
“Well, join us,” Vesemir says impatiently, waving a hand at their spread of food on the table.
Jaskier sits down, trying to ignore the heavy tension that’s fallen over the room. “You might have heard a few of his songs,” Lambert finally says.
Geralt grits his teeth.
“I’d be happy to perform some.” Jaskier shoots him a beatific smile.
“It would be nice to have some entertainment for once,” Vesemir muses. “Better than watching these three play gwent all winter.”
The other witchers look at Vesemir in offense. Winking at Vesemir, Jaskier shakes his head in mock seriousness. “It seems like that’s all they ever want to do.”
“It would be, if I let them get away with it.”
“Well,” Jaskier says. “I’ll be happy to pull my weight this winter. Thank you for giving me a place to stay.”
Vesemir gives him a small smile, and the tension in Jaskier’s chest eases a bit. At least he’s won one of them over.
After supper, Lambert insists they stretch out together by the fire. Geralt sits in a nearby chair, pretending to read a book instead of watching them. Lambert makes eye contact with Geralt before wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him back against him. “Are you warm enough?” Lambert asks loudly.
Jaskier cuddles closer against him, taking the tiniest bit of delight in the sour look that crosses Geralt’s face. “I think you need to warm me up a little bit more.”
Lambert rubs his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms. “I’ll have to give you one of my shirts; didn’t you know it was going to be cold here?”
A low rumble comes from Geralt’s throat at that, and Lambert hides his smirk in Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier can feel the huff of breath hot against him. When he peeks back at Geralt, his knuckles are white against the edge of his book.
“Ready for bed?” Lambert asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Jaskier takes Lambert’s hand in his and lets him lead him to his bedroom.
“Conveniently, it’s right next to Geralt’s,” Lambert says when they get there, giving Jaskier a significant look.
“Oh. Well, I mean. Sure. You’re handsome enough, and I don’t even know the last time I got off.” Jaskier frowns. “Fucking Geralt and his hearing.”
Lambert raises his hands up before dragging one over the back of his neck. “No, no, not actually having sex. I...have someone.”
Jaskier looks at him, aghast. “We’ve been traveling together for weeks, and you let me pour my heart out for you, and you couldn’t be bothered to return the favor? I can’t believe you’re just telling me about this now.”
“It never came up,” Lambert shrugs.
“They’re not going to have an issue with this?”
Lambert grins. “No, he’s going to think this is fucking hilarious. I can’t wait to see him in the spring. Knocking Geralt down a peg is one of my hobbies.”
“Oh? And what would the others be?”
Lambert tilts his head, thinking. “Distilling? Making bombs? Correcting the fucking terrible bestiaries in the library?” Lambert shudders. “Geralt can’t even look at some of those. Too much wrong information for his delicate constitution. I think it gives him a headache.”
Jaskier hums, and Lambert claps his hands. “Right. Let me tell you, this shared wall is a kick in the nuts when Geralt brings one of his sorceresses here, but it’s going to be fun as hell for this.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Lambert gives him a smirk, and Jaskier returns it. “This is going to be good.”
Jaskier helps Lambert push his bed up against the wall facing Geralt’s room, and then they lounge about as they wait for Geralt to come to bed. Lambert tends to his gear, rubbing some sort of oil on it before tucking it into a chest in the corner. While he has it open, he rummages around until he pulls out a warm looking wool shirt.
“Here.” He hands it to Jaskier. “Wear this tomorrow. Geralt’s going to go ballistic.”
Jaskier tugs it on, expecting the wool to be scratchy against his skin, but it’s so well worn that it’s almost soft. It’s a dark blue color that looks fetching on him, if he does say so himself.
“Ready?” Jaskier asks, after they hear footsteps outside and the sound of a door closing.
Lambert nods, settling back on the bed. “Oh, you look so good all spread out like that,” Lambert says, loud enough to carry through the wall.
Jaskier should have done some vocal exercises before all this. He moans, matching Lambert in volume. “Right there.”
Shooting him a devious grin, Lambert gets on his knees to start pushing the headboard, slamming it against the wall in rhythm. Lambert blows a raspberry, making slick sounds with his mouth.
“Harder! Fuck, Lambert!” Jaskier cries, barely containing a giggle.
Lambert adds in some fake moans of his own, and they keep going like that, until finally Lambert stops and collapses to the bed dramatically, giving huge, panting breaths. “Ah, that was so good, song bird.”
Jaskier pulls the pillow into his mouth to stop himself from laughing.
He wonders what Geralt is thinking right now.
-
Geralt stares up at the ceiling in agony, his cock joining in on his misery. He’s never heard Jaskier sound like that before, and he glares at his erection. He wasn’t the one who did that to Jaskier. Lambert did.
Lambert’s even been nice to Jaskier since he’s been here, more considerate than he’s seen Lambert be to anyone. He kept him warm all evening, for gods’ sake, and it seems like he has no issues doing that throughout the night, either. He buries his face into his pillow, turning to the side so he can resolutely ignore the tent in his blanket.
-
Pulling on his trousers the next morning, Jaskier tries not to be too gleeful about all this. Geralt is getting his just desserts, that’s for sure. Jaskier wasn’t sure if Geralt even had any feelings for him at all after the mountain fiasco, but after watching his reaction to just some simple cuddling by the fire last night, he can’t help but think that some of his feelings must be returned, even if Geralt doesn’t know how to express them to save his life.
Jaskier follows Lambert silently as he leads the way to the kitchen, having learned in their short time of traveling together that he shouldn’t say too much right after Lambert’s just woken up. Grabbing Lambert’s hand right before they duck through the doorway to the kitchen, he keeps a hold of it as they settle down at the small table where they eat breakfast.
“Look who decided to wake up and join us,” Eskel says.
Lambert smiles at him. “We were hard at work last night.”
Eskel snorts, while Vesemir wears a pained expression. “I’m sure.”
There’s a pot of porridge already there, and Lambert scoops out a serving for Jaskier, drizzling it with honey as Eskel, Geralt, and Vesemir look on.
“For my sweet,” Lambert says with an exaggerated wink as he passes the bowl over before getting one for himself.
Jaskier chances a glance over at Geralt, finding him staring down at his own bowl with a drawn expression. Jaskier swallows. “How did you sleep, Geralt?”
Geralt’s face becomes even more pinched, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he frowns. There’s a long silence before he says, “Fine.”
“Yeah? That’s good,” Lambert says breezily.
Finally, Geralt looks up, scowling at Lambert. His eyes are drawn to Jaskier, and Geralt’s face goes completely blank when he sees the shirt Jaskier’s wearing. Jaskier rubs it between his fingers self consciously. “I was cold, so Lambert offered this to me. Isn’t he a perfect gentleman?”
Drawing a finger back and forth along the wood grain of the table, Geralt just shoves another spoonful into his mouth. “That sure doesn’t sound like the Lambert we know and love,” Eskel says, ruffling Lambert’s hair and making him scowl.
Jaskier lifts their intertwined hands up to rest on the table, but not before raising them to his mouth to kiss the tip of one of Lambert’s fingers.
Jaskier’s smugness doesn’t leave him for the rest of the day.
-
“Geralt, are you okay?” Eskel asks through the door.
Geralt tugs his pillow tighter over his head. “Go away.”
Eskel sighs and tries the door knob, only to find Geralt locked it. “What are you, five?”
“Just leave me alone, Eskel.”
There’s another heavy exhale of breath from outside the door, then the sound of metal scratching metal. Geralt brings his blanket over his head, too, just for good measure. “You’re taking an awful long time, there,” Geralt comments, after a minute ticks by, with the sound of Eskel scraping his pick against the lock without getting any tumblers to turn.
Geralt can practically see Eskel’s scowl through the door. “Let me in at any time, jackass!”
“It sounds like you need the practice.”
“Are you trying to be more like Lambert to win your little bard back? Because I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Geralt scowls. “He’s not a prize to be won.”
Eventually, there’s the final click of the door, and it swings open. Eskel sits down on the bed with a bounce, ripping the blanket away from Geralt and bundling himself with it. Geralt just curls tighter into his miserable ball.
“Geralt,” Eskel says plaintively.
“What,” Geralt growls back.
“Why don’t you come help me patch up the wall in the armory?”
Geralt buries his face into his pillow even more tightly. “Pass.”
“Will you at least talk about it? Whatever this is? I figured your bard would be showing up with you this year.” Eskel puts a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
“I fucked up.”
Eskel waits patiently, and Geralt curses the effectiveness of his method as he continues. “I said some things that I never should have said, and he left, just like he should have, and apparently he stumbled right into Lambert’s waiting arms.”
Eskel hums. “You know, between you and me, I don’t think they’re the greatest match in the world.”
“Jaskier is out of Lambert’s league,” Geralt confirms.
Eskel huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I was talking about. I’m sure he’s out of your’s, too.”
Geralt’s hand twitches where it clutches at the bedsheets.
“I’ve heard them arguing,” Eskel says.
“When? They always seem so happy.”
“That’s just when they’re in front of you, Geralt. You know as well as anyone that things aren’t nearly as peachy as they seem behind closed doors.”
Geralt grunts. Eskel is right. He’s dealt with enough people to know that things are rarely exactly what they seem to be.
“I just thought you should know, that’s all. Maybe you should go out of your way to be nicer to Jaskier. Apologize. It couldn’t hurt.”
The bed dips again as Eskel’s weight leaves it, and Geralt frowns as he contemplates his words.
-
There’s a rap on their door, and Jaskier hurriedly undoes his top three buttons, putting the one at the bottom through the wrong hole just for good measure before he tugs at Lambert’s hair, making the short spikes stick up. He scrambles to answer the door, pulling it open a tiny amount and poking his head through.
He’s surprised to see Eskel, and even more surprised when he pushes his shoulder on the door and barges right in, shutting it behind him. “Fix him,” Eskel demands.
“Who?”
“Geralt! He’s miserable.”
Lambert sticks his nose up in the air. “Did you ever think he got what was coming to him? I found our little song bird here in quite a state.”
“I think he’s learned his lesson. Look, I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” Eskel says, jerking his chin at Jaskier. “I know how much of an ass he can be sometimes. I’m just saying, stop rubbing this in front of his nose if you don’t even mean it.”
“And why do you think that?” Jaskier frowns, offended.
His acting skills are first rate. This has to be Lambert’s fault.
Eskel pinches his nose. “Just. This is the worst I’ve seen him in a while. Haven’t you had your fun?”
Jaskier frowns. “You really think he’s sorry?”
Eskel nods, fixing him with an examining look. “How do you feel about all this?”
Jaskier bites his lip, before shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just—we had a good thing going, you know? And then he said all those things, and it made me think that what we had wasn’t so great after all.”
“Well, if you want to give him another chance, I think he’s prepared to do a bit of groveling.”
Jaskier exchanges a look with Lambert, flashing him a devious grin. “Is that so?”
-
Geralt stumbles out of his room when he smells something cooking. Tomorrow, he’ll do his fair share of the upkeep around the place, but he thinks he deserved the day to wallow, just a little. He reread one of his favorite knight errant books, and it’s put him in the head space to at least be able to glance at Jaskier and Lambert without falling into a sticky web of self loathing.
He’s stopped short right before the great hall from the sound of Jaskier shouting. Peeking his head around the corner, he sees Jaskier poking a finger into Lambert’s chest. “You cad!” he yells. “You cheated on me? Me? I thought what we had was special!”
Lambert catches Jaskier’s hand, just as Geralt’s blood starts to boil in anger. He can’t believe Lambert would do this to Jaskier.
“Jaskier, baby,” Lambert says softly, trying to bring up Jaskier’s knuckles to his lips.
Jaskier jerks his hand away. “Don’t call me that!”
Jaskier storms away, leaving Lambert standing in the middle of the room with a twisted expression on his face. Geralt bites back his anger. There’s clearly a cog loose in Lambert’s brain if he cheated on Jaskier with someone.
Geralt goes after Jaskier, finding him sitting on a rock near the chicken coop. Geralt sits down beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jaskier sniffles. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Geralt hesitates. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, and Geralt takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just trying to push you away to make myself miserable, and it worked.” Geralt’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay if you can’t forgive me; I just wanted to tell you that. I...love you.”
Jaskier swallows hard. “Well. I think we still have some more things we need to talk about, but I think I can work with that.”
Geralt gives him a hopeful smile.
“Do you have ideas of any ways to heal my broken heart?” Jaskier asks, throwing an arm over his eyes and leaning into Geralt’s side.
Prompt: Sept 21: There was only one bed (with a hint of Sept 15's Discrimination Against Witchers and Sept 19's Loss of Voice)
Pairing: Lambert & Jaskier, could be romantic if you squint
Rating: G
Warnings: None? Other than that it is unbeta'd af. Let me know if there is any I need to tag <3
@whataboutthebard | written for @natskier, who said "And if you want to write something, could I have some quiet cuddles in the dark? Don’t care whomst, don’t care if platonic or family or romantic, don’t care if they cant talk rn or just be comfortable with silent cuddles, but if you want to write and this strikes an idea at some point, I sure would love to read that" | thank you, @endrega23 for giving it a quick onceover <3 | on ao3!
It’s not true that witchers don’t feel. It’s a bald faced lie that was created to make it easy to hate witchers, to throw rotten vegetables at them and make them sleep with the livestock. Some witchers have learned to live with these misconceptions, happy to fake stoicism or politeness in the face of discrimination. He thinks, however, that if any humans met Lambert, they would change their tune quickly.
After having spent years traveling with Geralt, who said two words about anything good or bad, it was a culture shock for him to hear a litany of curses coming from the red headed witcher. Jaskier sits on the bed, watching Lambert pace through the room, anger seeping out of him as he rants about the town official who tried to cheat him out of his coin or the merchant who tried to sell him mediocre wares for luxury prices. Jaskier doesn’t even need to make any kind of noise or nod along to encourage him, he just emotes, his arms flailing and tensing as he punches his fist to his palm to avoid ruining the furniture at the inn.
Hilariously, the witcher doesn’t even flinch or stumble when Jaskier stands, walking over as Lambert continues his barrage of insults towards the town’s blacksmith and the stablemaster, who had given Lambert’s horse a dirty look upon realizing what he was. He barely takes a breath as Jaskier helps strip him of his armor, not even giving Jaskier a second look or following up on where the bard tucks away his swords (somewhere safe, but within easy reach always, Jaskier has picked up on habits universal to every witcher in his travels). It shows an insane amount of trust and it warms Jaskier’s heart more than he cares to admit.
Once Lambert is stripped of his armor, Jaskier takes his hand and tugs lightly. Lambert is still going, insulting the barkeep who tried to give him watered down ale, but his tone is less aggressive, less loud and he follows Jaskier without hesitation. Jaskier pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, tugging Lambert in beside him. The bed is only just barely big enough for two grown men — another slight towards witchers that the town has participated in — but it’s never bothered the bard before.
Lambert’s words trail off mid-sentence as Jaskier curls into him, head resting on his chest, just above his slow beating heart. He looks down at the bard, taking deep breaths to calm his mind. He hums as Jaskier’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Geralt mentioned this happens sometimes. You okay?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
Jaskier nods against his shirt, eyes closed and pressed close to Lambert. Even in the quiet of it, he can hear emotions in Lambert’s voice, softer this time, gentler than the rage he showed just moments before.
“Okay,” he whispers, shifting to snuff out the candle. He shifts again to wrap both arms around the bard, holding him close and Jaskier listens to his slow, even breathing, copying his rhythm.
Jaskier clings to Lambert, breathing in the scent of warmth and rosemary that seems to come naturally from the witcher. He thinks of how wary Lambert had been when Jaskier had first met the wolf, the way he wouldn’t take his eyes off the bard and the purposeful movements that kept his back away from him. It’s not easy out there for witchers, he knows that, and compared to what they have to go through, the things that plague Jaskier’s mind are hardly worth noting, and yet, they care. They let him ask questions and be as loud and obnoxious as he wants, but in the face of moments like this, where all Jaskier wants is to be held and to have no expectations placed on him, they’re right there too, making sure he’s safe, feels loved.
Even if Lambert’s breathing has evened out, Jaskier knows he’s in a state of meditation more than anything, so that if Jaskier needs him, he’s there, awake, alert, and ready to do whatever needs to be done. He slides his hand over the space above Lambert’s heart, a soft sigh escaping him as he snuggles in closer. The gentle squeeze of his shoulder is the last thing he consciously feels before falling asleep.
Pairing: None (Gen -- Ciri and Jaskier friendship)
Rating: General
Warnings: N/A
Also here on AO3
@whataboutthebard
Prompt: Role Reversal (Comforter/Comforted)
Jaskier comforts Ciri after she wakes from a nightmare. As the night goes on, though, Ciri finds that Jaskier's hiding fears of his own.
Ciri twists against the forest ground, the dirt beneath her hard and dry. Sleep rests against her with the cruel press of nightmares— memories of Cintra’s fall, the days she spent alone and afraid. Even after finding Geralt, the bad dreams persist.
Yennefer tried teaching her how to keep her powers from lashing out in the dark, protecting her from the things seen only in her head. Alongside her, they’ve picked up Geralt’s last sidekick— a smiling bard they’d sought out after hearing of Nilfgaard’s plans to capture him. A reunion of sorts, they told Ciri. A new family, she hoped.
But her old family screams in her head as she shuts her eyes to sleep. Her grandmother whispers vague words, cryptic promises to lead Ciri through the trials of her life. They echo like ghosts when she dreams of the loneliness she felt after her grandmother died— the empty days of running and hiding and nothing more.
Geralt says sleep will help her recover, but Ciri still faces each day with weariness in her bones.
Ciri wakes with a start from another such nightmare— dark trees and shadows that move like spirits, taunting her attempts to escape her isolation. A scream lodges in her throat; tears don’t sting her eyes, but her breath hitches as though she’s crying, all the same.
“Ciri? Darling, are you alright? Ciri?”
Jaskier appears beside her, hands soothing up and down her arms as those kind blue eyes flicker across her face. He guides her fists into open palms, stroking his thumb across her fingers to ease the tension from their hold. He never looks away from her, never does anything more than smile and ask if she’s okay.
“I was alone again,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to stop feeling so alone.”
Jaskier adjusts so he’s on his knees beside her. He brushes tangled hair from her face, making soft shushing noises; it scares Ciri, too, how easily he calms her, how easily she can look at him and hope for that touch of optimism in her heart, as well. Though he’s seen her crush trees with her screams— and though Nilfgaard wanted him dead because of her— he’s never looked at Ciri with anything less than that overwhelming fondness.
“You’re with Geralt and Yennefer, and they love you so much,” he says. “You’ll never be alone again. Not if they have anything to say about it. I’m sure you’re stuck with them for good, now.”
Ciri smiles— a soft thing, a slight thing.
Something in his words, though, pokes against Ciri’s mind, drawing her brows low in confusion.
“What about you?” She asks.
Jaskier starts, covering his small shock with another reassuring grin. “I love you, too, of course. I always will.”
But he doesn't say she’s stuck with him. He doesn't say she’s with him. Only Geralt and Yennefer— only those two.
Ciri blinks, a new fear rising in her chest as she tears her gaze from Jaskier’s eyes to look at the full picture before her. The lute hanging across his body, the boots yanked up his legs. The bags at his side. The note in his pocket.
Here, at last, the threat of tears rises.
Ciri tosses herself against him, mangling his balance as she reaches for the paper sticking out from his trousers— a traveling outfit, she realizes. Jaskier gasps at the impact, trying to keep quiet even as he hisses Ciri’s name, asking what she’s doing. She turns from him, wiggling out of his grasp, and reads what words he means to leave behind.
My dearest Witcher , his letter begins, I’ve come to the realization that the best thing I can do for you— and for myself— is to—
“Leave?” Ciri reads. “You’re leaving us?”
Jaskier winces when she turns back towards him, his guilt written across his face. “It’s what’s best, Ciri. I should—”
“Is it Nilfgaard?” Ciri asks, casting the letter aside to face Jaskier once again. “Have they threatened you? We can stop them, Jaskier. We’ve got Yennefer and Geralt. They’re strong enough that no one can hurt us ever again.”
They’re the same words Jaskier’s used to ease Ciri’s panicking mind. The same calm, however, doesn’t settle across Jaskier’s eyes when he hears them; in fact, Ciri’s convinced she sees the opposite.
“Yes, that’s just it,” he says with a soft whisper. “Geralt and Yennefer can protect you better than anyone else. Certainly better than a traveling bard.”
“But what does that have to do with you leaving?” Ciri asks, uncomprehending. Why would Jaskier want to leave somewhere so safe? Why would he risk the dangers of capture by going off on his own? She thinks back on what she knows of Jaskier, trying to make the pieces fit. “Do you plan to teach at Oxenfurt again?”
“Maybe,” Jaskier says, though he wears that smile all grown-ups wear when they’re playing along with childish beliefs. It unsettles something in Ciri’s chest.
“And, when you’re done, will you come back?” She asks, almost afraid of the answer.
And— oh, here. Here’s where the pieces fit. She watches as Jaskier looks past her to Geralt’s sleeping figure, a veil crossing over his eyes— a sadness that says he cannot cross whatever line he’s drawn out for himself.
“I don’t think I will.” It’s not a whisper— nothing more than an exhale of words Ciri’s not sure she was supposed to hear. “I’ve already disturbed your little family far longer than I should have.”
Ciri doesn’t respond as understanding dawns upon her, the slight breath of epiphany escaping her throat. The words on his page suddenly make a tragic sort of sense— the pieces of what he believes is best for Geralt, the pieces about what’s best for him. The lower lines about apologies and burdens, of promising to stay out of their way.
No one’s told Ciri about what happened to this trio before they found her, but she gathered there was some sort of fight. Cruel words and a sudden distance. When they found Jaskier, he and Geralt spent all night talking. She remembers Jaskier crying. She remembers Geralt holding him as he fell asleep.
When Ciri’s grandmother and grandfather fought, such moments often brought the end of the argument— at least, on the outside. There were times, though, where hurt feelings took longer to fade, festering over until the other realized the damage beneath the happy facade.
Perhaps, Ciri thinks as she looks at Jaskier, that’s what happened here. A bard who pretended to forget the pain to keep it from spreading to those around him— a pain that, somehow, convinced him that it’s best if he leaves. Sneaking away at night like a pet who’s wandered off to die alone.
In Ciri’s silence, Jaskier gathers his things. He stands, brushing wrinkles out of his doublet and cloak. He looks at Ciri, frowning in apology.
Ciri doesn’t let that feeling last for long, shoving herself to her feet so she can properly toss her arms around his waist. Hugging him. Holding him. Keeping him in place so he doesn’t dare take another step away.
“Ciri,” he says, though he makes no move to push her off. “Come on, now. I have… I have to go. I don’t fit in here, darling. I couldn’t possibly live with myself if I held your group back any longer.”
“You’re a fool,” Ciri says, spitting the words so they don’t tremble in her throat. Jaskier’s already one foot out the door, so to speak; Ciri can’t mess this up, she can’t fail. “You’re an absolute fool if you believe we don’t need you.”
“Oh, dear.” Gentle fingers brush down her hair. Pressed against Jaskier like this, she can feel how his breaths shake on the edge of a sob. “I’m afraid that’s just not true.”
Ciri tilts her head awkwardly, looking up to meet his eyes. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Jaskier smiles sadly. “I’m only suggesting that you don’t know all the facts. And the facts are that I’m simply a bard. If we’re attacked, I’ll be no good in a fight— just another person for those two to protect. I tell stories, Ciri, I don’t live them. Not like Geralt or Yennefer do. They’re the heroes. I’m just… support. Barely that, really.”
“You’re important,” Ciri presses. “Who cares if you can’t fight? You do something so much harder than that, anyway.”
“Do I?” Jaskier still speaks like he’s indulging her fantasies. “And what is that? Irritate Geralt with my songs? Bother Yennefer with my jokes?”
“You make them smile,” Ciri says, grinning when she hears Jaskier gasp softly at the exclamation.
“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, stumbling over words as his cheeks pinken, “forgive me if I don’t actually enjoy being the butt of every joke. Just because they laugh at me—”
“No, not that,” Ciri says, releasing him long enough to pinch his arm teasingly. “I’ve seen it, you know? The way Geralt looks at you when you practice your music at night. Like he’s remembering a hundred other nights just like that. You’re too focused on your lute to ever notice, but he smiles when you find a new chord you like or when you get excited over a lyric. He’s so happy that you’re here, Jaskier. He looks at you like he regrets not looking at you like that before.”
“I’m sure it’s just—”
“And, Yennefer, too! It’s harder to spot, but I’m good at watching people. She likes talking with you, Jaskier,” Ciri says, voice picking up in volume and speed as she tries to get him to listen, tries to make him understand. “Before we found you, she was so tense, all the time. Now, she smiles— just in her eyes, just a bit— whenever you two talk about all the idiots you two know. When you make jokes about villagers who are mean to witchers, she smiles. When you tease her— like so many people are scared to do— she smiles, Jaskier, I promise she does.”
Jaskier doesn’t speak for a long while, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly— this world-famous poet failing to find words as Ciri holds him tight, hiding her wet eyes against his shirt.
“They’ll be so hurt if you leave us,” she whispers for just the two of them to hear. “They won’t say it, but I know it's true. You didn’t see Geralt when he heard about Nilfgaard’s plans for you, how scared he was. If you leave, it’ll break everything. I’m scared that, if you go, they’ll never smile again.”
More silence. Ciri takes steady breaths, easing the panic in her chest before it can erupt into sobs. Jaskier’s beaten her to the crying, anyway, his voice wet with quiet tears as he finally speaks.
“And what about you, dear heart?” He asks. “Do I make you smile, too?”
Ciri laughs. She doesn’t look up— if she does, she knows she’ll give in to the emotion growing in her heart, the desperate thing that wants to cry like a child.
“Of course,” she says. “You make me smile most of all.”
“Ah, well, then.” Jaskier, at last, brings his arms around Ciri, returning her embrace. “How could I possibly leave? It seems you’re stuck with me, princess.”
“Good,” Ciri asserts, tightening the hug. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
curse causes funny results (although one could argue this is a deadly serious matter) written for @whataboutthebard
Jaskier/Valdo, G
“You just had to go and upset the scary sorceress!” Jaskier snaps, futilely trying to yank his hand away from Valdo.
“How was I supposed to know who she was? She wasn’t appreciating my ballad!”
“And now I’m the one who has to suffer?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t wanted an excuse to hold my hand for a year straight.” Valdo’s chest heaves when he gets done speaking, and Jaskier stares at him, a blush creeping up his face.
“Apparently she cursed you to always lie, too, because that’s the opposite of the truth.”
Huffing a breath and pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, Jaskier tries to think. He can’t very well just walk around with his hand in Valdo’s all the time. He has his reputation to think about!
“Well, who are you going to be find to fix this, then? Because this is possibly the worst curse I can think of.”
Valdo shoves him. “Is not.”
“Is too!”
Looking down at their intertwined hands, Jaskier sighs. It’s going to be a miracle if they both survive this.
A shrill scream echoes through the empty halls of Kaer Morhen, waking four witches and a band. They all rush to the source of the scream, a small blonde girl, looking even smaller wrapped in the furs provided for her, and she writhes in bed, her screams bouncing off the walls.
"Ciri, cub, wake up, you're safer." Geralt says, keeping his tone firm and gentle as he shakes her awake.
She bolts up, nearly hitting Geralt with her head, eyes wide and frantic. It takes her a moment to understand where she is, but the tension seeps out of her once she does. "Geralt… the castle..."
"I know, it's okay. You're safe now, and l've got you," he says, wrapping her in his arms as the other wolves settle down around the room - Vesemir sits in the armchair, Eskel at the foot of her bed, and Lambert by the dying fire.
Jaskier slides on the bed on her other side, taking her hand gently. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, rubbing his thumb over her skin gently.
Ciri doesn't answer for a few moments, keeping her face buried in Geralt's shoulder, before she shakes her head.
"How about a song to help you fall back asleep?"
A soft noise and a nod.
"All right, let's get comfy then, yeah?" he says, locking eyes with Geralt, who smiles before shifting in his seat, helping Ciri adjust so she's nestled between the bard and the Witcher.
Jaskier smiles as the other wolves get comfortable too, lifting Ciri's hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.
She squeezes his hand lightly and moves to nuzzle into his chest, fist curled around his sleep shirt as she closes her eyes.
After she's stilled, Jaskier hums softly before he starts singing a song about mountaintops and dancing girls. His voice drifts through the room, the words echoing through the empty rooms.
When he finishes the song, Jaskier’s eyes drift around the room to find Vesemir leaned back in the chair, Lambert spread out on the floor, and Eskel leaning against the bedpost, all their eyes closed and breathing evened out.
"Put them right to sleep," Geralt whispers. giving him a small smile as he plays with Ciri’s hair as she sleeps.
"Works like a charm every time," he mumbles. leaning back and closing his eyes. "Sweet dreams, Geralt,” he whispers.
"Good night, lark," the Witcher responds, his voice soft.
