professorjaskier

But it’s fine, it is, he can deal with all that until he wakes up on the fourth day of his cold to find his voice is gone. And Geralt just smirks, reminding him again that he should have invested in a thick warm cloak rather than a new doublet. Which is entirely unhelpful, and Jaskier would love to tell Geralt where he can shove his opinion, but limited as he is he sends Geralt a crude gesture and just silently follows after Roach.

Geralt is nice enough, though, to give the bard his blanket that night. Which is…something, even if Jaskier is still mad at the witcher for finding pleasure at his expense. It takes him ages to settle into a comfortable position on his bedroll, the wetness of the ground making the fabric damp, until he finally manages to fall asleep even with all the aches and pains he’s feeling.

And then he dreams of the Djinn, of trying to speak and hot blood spilling from his lips. He wakes with a scream that isn’t a scream, fingers scrambling over his throat, his mouth, and he can practically taste the warm viscous substance. He claws at it, trying to get rid of it, to make it stop—

Strong hands grab his own, gently lowering them until Jaskier’s digits spasmed, clinging tightly to familiar black fabric. He felt arms around him, tucking him close to Geralt’s chest, whispered words telling him that he was okay, he was safe, to breathe.

And Jaskier, chest suddenly burning, gasped greedily for air, large inhales broken up by silent sobs. He wasn’t sure how long it took to calm down, only aware that when he woke up, it was much later in the day than he and Geralt usually broke camp, and he must have fallen asleep in the Witcher’s arms.

Embarrassed, Jaskier tried to apologize, frowning when nothing came out still. But Geralt simply shook his head, telling him it was fine as he began to break camp, Jaskier rushing to his feet to help.

And Jaskier shivered as he reluctantly packed away the bedding, wondering if he could just wear the blanket as a cape, when he felt something warm and heavy land on his shoulders. Freezing in shock, Jaskier had just enough time to process he was wearing Geralt’s own pitch black cloak before he was lifted onto Roach.

The bard let out a silent squeak, feeling rather dizzy at the sudden movement combined with the sensation of cotton stuffed in his head. He didn’t have long to process his new position, as Geralt hoisted himself up behind the bard. The witcher grabbed the reins, warm arms firmly pulling Jaskier towards the Witcher’s chest with a command to sleep.

And Jaskier still hated getting sick, and would love to never lose his voice again, but when that night Geralt silently curled up behind him, arm loosely wrapped around the bard’s chest to ensure he could act at the first sign of a nightmare, well.

But Jaskier doesn’t bring it up, and Geralt figures that with how particular Jaskier is about his looks, the glamour is just there to make him appear younger, slimmer, fresher. Whatever it does, his medallion does not seem to find it malicious, and that’s really all that matters to him.

Until the pair find themselves backed up, quite literally, to the edge of a cliff by a platoon of Nilfgaardian soldiers intent on taking the bard and witcher captive for torture and interrogation. And Jaskier looks at Geralt, who is standing in front of him, ready to defend him to his dying breath, and carefully removes the piece of silver.

Geralt watches, confused, as all the soldiers lower their weapons, his medallion humming stronger. Jaskier tells him not to turn around, to focus on getting them out of there, and while his voice sounds…lighter? Softer? the tone is insistent, so Geralt does as he says, trusting the bard has a plan.

Geralt blazes through the army, the soldiers barely putting up any resistance, focused on something just behind the witcher. And Geralt isn’t stupid, he knows Jaskier must have done something, he just doesn’t know quite what the bard has done to provoke such a strong reaction.

He hears Jaskier swear behind him, but doesn’t lose focus, training his eyes on the next soldier facing him until all that’s left in front is the woods they’d run out of near an hour ago now. So he turns, mentally bracing himself not to react, only to find an ethereal being behind him. He thinks the books at Kaer Morhen didn’t do the description of fae justice, that the very glow of the stars, moon, sun pales in comparison—

Geralt shakes his head, reminds himself this is Jaskier, even with the eyes that sparkle like gems, the flawless milky skin, and the hair that shines and seems to flow slightly in a nonexistent wind. It helps, that the bard looks more worried, more scared than he’s seen the man in a long time, clearly concerned about how the witcher will react.

And that…Geralt pretends like that isn’t how he feels constantly as Jaskier sheepishly explains that the bracelet fell into the ravine in the struggle. Geralt nods, grabbing Jaskier and dragging him back to Roach when he notices the way the bard looks longingly at what can only be a quick and foolish death.

And it’s…fine, for the next few days, as they camp outside. Geralt watches as the woodland creatures flock to the bard, utterly flabbergasted, both men feeling slightly guilty when some of the poor, entranced creatures are sacrificed for the sake of sustenance.

But when they need to go into town, to restock, he watches as Jaskier hesitates, exuding terror. He takes the Witcher’s cloak offered to him with trembling hands, not even complaining about its drab colors, and Geralt just humms. Nothing will happen, not when he’s with Geralt, which Jaskier should know by now.

But Geralt wasn’t expecting the way the townsfolk flocked to the bard, their mental barriers even worse than the soldiers’ were. He tries to keep the bard behind him, but they’re quickly surrounded, and Geralt flounders for a moment. He can’t attack these people, not when they’re as much victims in this as Jaskier is, but he also can’t let them get to his bard.

So he tosses the man up on Roach, clearing a path for the mare before hoisting himself up behind the cowering man, shielding him from the unwanted touches as they flee into the woods.

And Geralt isn’t sure what to do as the bard breathes quickly, harshly, head whipping back and forth to make sure they’re not followed until they’ve returned to the small clearing they’d slept at the night prior. Geralt helps the bard off Roach, watches as the man clutches his own hair, rocking silently on the forest floor.

This is normally where Geralt would try to comfort the bard, to maybe give him a hug, but would that even be welcome here? After the touch enforced on him? After what almost happened, would have happened, if not—

And Geralt mentally swears as he slowly approaches the bard like he would a spooked Roach. Because clearly, if Jaskier had seen fit to spend what must have been quite a lot of money on such a powerful glamour, there were other instances like this. Situations that Jaskier couldn’t get himself out of, times where he was overpowered and—

Geralt holds out his hand, only stumbling a bit at the way the bard practically flies into his chest. Ignoring the growing wet spot on his shirt, he whispers promises of getting a new glamour, of not entering any more towns, of keeping the bard safe.

And as Jaskier falls asleep, dried tear stains doing nothing to take away his unparalleled beauty, Geralt wonders if this is part of why Jaskier was never scared of him. If Jaskier approached him all those years ago, uncaring what others thought of the witcher, because he understood what it was to be dehumanized for simply existing.

The thought made Geralt wonder if, given the chance, he would trade the hatred he faced for the unwavering infatuation the bard’s presence compelled.

Jaskier is a viscount, and he inherits the estate shortly after meeting Geralt. He makes a few changes that first winter in Lettenhove, firstly being setting up a council to make decisions in his stead that will serve the people, made up of trusted advisors and peasants he can personally vouch for. Secondly, having no need for the coin himself, he insists that the majority of the collected taxes be invested into the education and support of his people, as well as put towards increasing the reward for the services of any witchers that need to be hired.

(Okay, so maybe he’s a bit biased, but he’s seen how much Geralt is paid on average to risk his life on contracts and finds it offensive that he can make double that some nights playing his lute in a warm, safe inn. It’s not right, and he refuses to encourage such backward practices.)

Jaskier returns the next winter, surprised to hear that he’s apparently gained new land and citizens. Apparently, the people of the neighboring estate practically begged to be taken in under the viscount, something about nasty lords who steal their food and money, and hearing that Lettenhove never lost loved ones to monsters.

Which was…not what Jaskier was planning when he put in the orders he had last year. But he should have considered the fact that most nobles were utter pieces of trash, really, and that it wouldn’t take long for word to spread that Lettenhove warmly welcomed witchers of all sorts. And he can’t exactly fault his advisors for sort of going to war with the nearby estate, especially considering it was a rather peaceful affair.

Apparently the lord paid his soldiers so pitifully that they simply refused to fight for him, and simply handed him over to be executed, his kin banished upon pain of death. Which, Jaskier thought was a bit extreme, until he heard exactly what the noble was spending so much coin on that he’d left his people starving.

Face pale and visage hard, Jaskier agreed to let his advisors do what they saw fit with those brought to them for punishment, on the grounds that adequate evidence was found condemning the guilty party.

And every year Jaskier returned, he grew less and less surprised to see that his once small estate had grown even larger. It got to the point, eventually, that Jaskier had to assign vassals to the farthest portions of his land. Not to mention he was forcibly plied with a xenovox from one of his mages—and since when did he have mages?—that he may continue to provide council and wisdom while on the Path for the other three seasons of the year.

It was rather annoying to have to do viscount work year-round, but he supposed if it was for the sake of his people, then it was a responsibility worth bearing. And while it did eat into his song-writing time, he found it wasn’t that much of a hassle to simply use the communication device when Geralt was on his hunts. The result was he wasn’t just sitting around bored while he waited for the witcher to be done anymore, and he didn’t come home in the winter to a mountain of paperwork. Really a two birds with one stone situation, if he thought about it.

And he was vaguely aware, in the way said bird adds twig after twig to make a nest, that he was accumulating a rather…large, amount of land. But what was he supposed to do? Start turning people away who were in desperate need of aid? Begin treating his own citizens like little more than cattle for slaughter, which is how most other nobles seemed to see peasants?

No no, there was really nothing for it. If those other lords wanted to keep their people, they should have been nicer.

Meanwhile, Geralt wasn’t completely oblivious that something had changed with his bard. He figured it had something to do with the new Warlord of Kerack, who had taken over enough of the kingdom for the king to have considered it an act of treason. He’d heard nothing definitive yet, but there were rumors of a war, of the king fearing his own soldiers would turn on him no matter how much money he promised them. Apparently, money didn’t do much good when it wasn’t enough to support the soldiers’ friends and families, who had suffered greatly at the cost of extravagant banquets and gaudy decor.

Geralt knew that Jaskier was some lower noble from the kingdom, and that he was likely worried about how his people would fair if the warlord targeted them next. The witcher also knew that while Jaskier didn’t care to live the life of a noble, stuck in a manor all day and being forced to sit through meeting after meeting, he did truly care for his people, if the eyebags and satisfied smile he wore every spring said anything.

Thus, Geralt was unsurprised when he had to defend the bard from more and more attacks, assassins and kidnappers intent on harming Jaskier, likely so that the warlord would have an easier time with taking over the man’s lands. After all, Jaskier had no (legitimate) children or siblings, making it far too simple for the warlord to control the bard’s lands as soon as he was gone.

Still, after the fourth attack in two weeks, by a particularly skilled group of hired mercenaries that almost got the better of the witcher, he decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t risk leaving the bard alone at this rate to take contracts, and he needed to know who he was dealing with to better protect his traveling companion.

So he used axii to interrogate the man he’d purposely left alive. Geralt actually gaped as the mercenary explained that he was hired by the king to take out Jaskier, who was apparently the very warlord Geralt was worried about harming the bard.

And Geralt was extremely pissed off that the bard had neglected to give him some very vital information about his identity, until a rather high pitched voice squeaked:

“I’m WHAT?!”

He kind of pieced together what he was like (incredibly handsome bard). This Geralt guy comes up often, but hearing that name makes him feel uncomfortable for some reason.

They were probably on bad terms, so Jaskier decides to avoid him like the plague.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, drawing in a slow breath that felt like dragging air through broken ribs. He had rehearsed this speech a hundred times in the dark — on lonely roads, beside dying fires, beneath skies that never answered him back.

“I’m sorry. For what I said on the mountain… and for all the smaller cruelties that came before it.” His voice faltered, rough as gravel. “I told myself they didn’t matter because words are just words. But they mattered to you. And that makes them matter to me.”

He looked away for a moment before forcing himself to continue.

“You have this way of seeing the world — bright and impossible. You find goodness in places where no one else would even think to look. In me.” A bitter smile ghosted across his face. “And that terrified me.”

Geralt swallowed hard.

“I thought if I pushed you away first, the world couldn’t hurt you through me. That if you hated me, you’d survive me.” His golden eyes lifted to Jaskier’s again, stripped bare of all their usual armour. “But I was wrong. Because all I’ve wanted since you left… is you beside me again.”

Silence settled between them, thin and trembling.

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, searching his face as though he were seeing a stranger wearing Geralt’s skin.

Finally, softly, almost in disbelief, he asked:

It has been literal years but every time I see Martin’s tweets posted somewhere and his word is shared as truth while her post is not shared it sort of reiterates the fact that we trust men to speak about feminism more than we believe women who experience it. 

Adding screenshots of her post. His whole post is there without needing a link. Hers should be, too.

“Wait—how do you know Lambert?” Geralt asked, the question slipping out sharp as a drawn blade, caught somewhere between suspicion and disbelief.

Jaskier blinked at him, entirely unbothered. “Oh, that? He’s my godfather,” he said, as casually as one might remark on the weather.

Geralt stared. Truly stared. His eyes widened until it seemed a wonder they did not tumble free and roll across the floor. “How,” he said slowly, “is that even remotely possible?”

“Well,” Jaskier began, with the air of someone about to recount a perfectly ordinary tale, “it all started when I was a baby, and a fae tried to curse me.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “A fae cursed you?”

“Tried,” Jaskier corrected, lifting a finger as though this distinction were sacred law. “Important difference. You see, the fae was hopelessly in love with my mother—tragic, really—who, inconveniently, was in love with my father. Then along came me, which did not improve matters. Jealousy, curses, the usual sort of thing.”

Geralt said nothing. He simply looked at him, face carved from stone, as Jaskier carried on, bright as birdsong.

“Anyway, it’s my first name-day, everyone’s celebrating, and this fae decides it’s the perfect moment for revenge. But—fortunate twist—Lettenhove had been dealing with drowners at the time, so my father had already hired a witcher.”

Geralt exhaled through his nose, the pieces clicking into place despite himself. “Lambert.”