#*makemechoose

make me choose: anonymous asked:

@caseyk112​ asked tyrone johnson or chase stien

make me choose: @teddylacroix asked: 

Geralt warms up Jaskier when it’s cold

Snow blankets the landscape, falling in delicate flurries and deadening their footfalls to soft thuds. Geralt would prefer to keep riding into the night, but Jaskier is lagging behind and he hasn’t heard a peep about his wet feet for hours.

Geralt hasn’t been traveling with the bard for long, but he’s already learned that when Jaskier stops complaining, that’s when he should start paying attention.

He reins in Roach at the next rocky outcrop which will provide shelter from the snow and gets to work making camp. It’s some time before Jaskier arrives, shivering and glum. There’s a snare of annoyance in Geralt’s chest, though he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Jaskier for not keeping up or at himself for not noticing how far behind he’d fallen.

Jaskier drops to the ground in an inelegant pile and huddles as close as he can to the small fire Geralt has started. He crosses his legs in front of his chest and puts his arms around himself, his fingers blue and swollen.

He looks a truly sorry state, and after a moment’s hesitation Geralt hands him the bowl of stew he’d been planning to eat himself.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says as Jaskier eats, and it sounds gruffer than he intends. The fact Jaskier nods wordlessly and doesn’t respond with some kind of lewd comment has Geralt more worried than his shivering.

He sets out their bedrolls as far under the overhang he can and tosses an extra blanket to Jaskier, who is struggling to undo the buttons of his doublet with his numb fingers and drops it.

Geralt feels that pang of annoyance again, or maybe it’s guilt. He’s clearly going to have to be the responsible one or Jaskier will let himself freeze to death.

“I’ll do that,” he says shortly, smacking away Jaskier’s hands and taking over the task of the small fiddly buttons before slipping the wet fabric off Jaskier’s shoulders, leaving him in his thin undershirt. Geralt wraps the blanket around him and sees signs of life returning to Jaskier’s face.

“Better?”

Jaskier manages a small smile. “I’m glad you bought me dinner before taking my clothes off. I knew you were a gentleman really.”

The jibe sets Geralt’s teeth on edge for some reason, but at least if Jaskier is making jokes he’s not about to keel over and die. Geralt’s not sure when that became a concern, but there it is.

He busies himself with the packs so he doesn’t have to dwell on it. “We should rest,” he says, settling into the more comfortably familiar pattern of grousing. “Can’t have you slowing me down again tomorrow.“

He’s expecting Jaskier to grouse back, or perhaps to take overly dramatic offence. But instead he rolls his eyes and looks… fond. It’s not an expression Geralt is used to seeing directed his way, and something inside him coils tightly when he recognizes it.

He pushes Jaskier toward the back of the overhang so he can sleep between him and the open forest. It’s the most sensible arrangement. After all, Geralt is the one with night vision and faster reflexes.

As they settle in the fading light, Geralt is aware of the slow, slow drumming of his heartbeat and a restless buzzing in his fingers. Jaskier lies a few inches away, attempting to cocoon himself in blankets.

Geralt’s hand reaches out before his brain has a chance to process what he’s doing, and he strokes the damp hair from Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier hums happily, but his skin is still concerningly cold.

That won’t do. Geralt lifts the edge of his blanket in invitation, and Jaskier wastes not a moment in shuffling over and burrowing into him. Geralt’s body runs hotter than a human’s, and Jaskier must appreciate the warmth. Geralt puts an arm around him and avoids looking in his eyes, so very blue and so distractingly close.

Jaskier wriggles in a messy sprawl of limbs which ends up with their legs tangled together and one arm over Geralt’s chest, his head resting on Geralt’s shoulder. He smells of the lavender oil he uses in his hair with the spicy scent of his musk emerging from beneath the damp metallic tang of the snow. A contradictory ache of contentment mixed with yearning rears inside Geralt, the way being close to Jaskier often makes him feel.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, voice warm like honey. “My life would be far colder without you in it.”

The earnestness of it sets Geralt off kilter. Jaskier can be disconcertingly casual with his emotions, everything he feels in any given moment displayed right there on the surface. Dealing with his moods is like trying to keep firm footing on a ship in a storm.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, noncommittally.

Jaskier leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Just the tiniest brush. An invitation.

If he turned his head a few inches, he could capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It is a tempting prospect. The entire kingdom knows that Jaskier is a charming and attentive lover, and he’s never seemed distressed by Geralt’s inhumanity. They could have some fun, find some pleasure in each other.

But when Geralt lets himself meet Jaskier’s gaze, he finds such pure, naked affection there that the temptation twists into something painful.

It’s too much like what he secretly longs for: Not just a quick fumble for mutual relief, but something more. Something real. Something to last. And if he breaks what they have now, the way he breaks everything, he’ll be alone again.

It’s not a tradeoff worth making.

He turns away, and maybe he imagines the look of disappointment that crosses Jaskier’s face as he does.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” he says, voice carefully even.

Jaskier gives a tiny sigh. “Alright. G’ night, Geralt.”

Geralt despises Valdo Marx (once he gets to know him)

–

They’re at a party in Cidaris, some fancy banquet for the king’s court which Geralt has barely been paying attention to, when a figure approaches and he notes Jaskier stiffen beside him.

The stranger saunters up and gives them an overly elaborate bow.

Jaskier’s eyes narrow. “Valdo.”

“So good to see you, Julian.” The man’s gaze sweeps over Jaskier, pausing at his frayed collar and the spot on his doublet where a button is missing. “You’re fresh from the road, I see. How rustic. Tell me, how is your life of adventure? I hear they sing your songs in taverns and whorehouses across the continent.”

Valdo is smiling serenely, and Jaskier looks like he’s about to explode.

“At least people have heard my songs,” Jaskier snaps. “Tell me, does anyone outside of Oxenfurt even know your name?”

“Perhaps not. But some of us search for a higher form of appreciation than mere renown.” Jaskier opens his mouth to argue and Valdo ignores it and continues. “Still, it’s nice that the common folk have music too. We can’t all be artists, hmm? The world needs its entertainers as well.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops and he launches himself bodily at Valdo, stopped only by Geralt grabbing him by the neck of his doublet. “You take that back!” he yells, trying to claw his way out of Geralt’s grasp. “I’m twice the artist you’ll ever be!”

Valdo turns his serene, syrupy smile on Geralt. “Glad to see someone has him under control,” he says, ignoring Jaskier’s hisses. “You must be the famous White Wolf.”

Geralt, unsure how to respond, inclines his head.

“Ooo.” Valdo shows his teeth. “The strong and silent type, hmm?” He returns his attention to Jaskier, who is still struggling. “I can see why you take so much pleasure in traveling with him. He seems most… inspiring.”

Geralt watches impassively as they snipe at each other, reminded more than anything of two feral cats yowling over a dead mouse.

“Perhaps I should take a leaf from your book, Julian. Find myself a traveling companion as a muse.” His eyes flick back to Geralt, hungry and beady. “Maybe I could entertain your White Wolf, hmm? Take him on some adventures  of my own while you take some much needed time to rest and practice.”

“I’ll scratch your fucking eyes out if you try!” Jaskier yells, eyes wild and teeth sharp.

“My my, Julian. Such a temper. I see age hasn’t improved your sense of decorum.”

“I’ll kill you myself, you shit-guzzling son of a whore!”

Valdo laughs, deep and throaty, like he’s delighted by Jaskier’s performance. “How charming you are. One can always count on you to liven up a party.”

Valdo steps closer to Jaskier, all of the warmth dropped from his manner to reveal cold, hard malice beneath. “Let’s see how spirited you are when the king of Cidaris claps you in irons, shall we? You shouldn’t forget, I have powerful friends.”

Jaskier’s face falls, and Geralt decides enough is enough. He pushes Jaskier aside and steps right into Valdo’s personal space.

“If you or anyone from this court lay so much as a finger on him,” he warns, close enough to Valdo to whisper in his ear, “You’ll see what kind of powerful friends he has. Because I’ll deal with you myself, and however long they search, they’ll never find all the pieces of your body.”

Valdo blinks. He steps back and takes Geralt in, notes the unforgiving set of his jaw, the aura of barely contained violence which Geralt usually tries to keep under wraps.

He goes pale. “Understood, my good sirs,” he says in a hurry. “Now if you will excuse me, my attention is required elsewhere -”

He turns and leaves at a brisk pace just short of a run. Jaskier finally stops clawing at Geralt’s hand and relaxes.

“So that’s the man you wished dead, is it?”

Jaskier pouts. “Now you understand.”

make me choose: @brownbicon​ asked:

Jaskier is surprisingly handy with a dagger

“Geralt! Look out!”

The warning makes him duck to one side just a blade hisses past his head, missing by mere inches. Seems Jaskier does have his uses after all, even if he’s currently hiding behind a rock.

Now Geralt is facing two opponents. They’re only humans but they’re well trained and heavily armed. He kicks the one in front of him in the stomach and wheels to face the newcomer, who is raising his sword to strike again.

He crosses blades and beats him back, parrying a blow and unleashing a vicious counterattack from below, shoving his sword up and through his opponent’s throat.

As the man staggers and chokes, Geralt turns back to the first opponent but he’s too slow, the man is swinging at him and he won’t have time to pull his blade free to defend himself -

A strip of silver arcs through the air and the man stops mid-strike, staring down at the dagger that is now protruding from his chest.

He blinks, once, then falls to the ground, dead. The prettily engraved dagger had hit his heart precisely.

Geralt turns to stare at Jaskier, who is standing a good fifteen feet away and looking rather smug.

“You’re welcome,” he says with a wink. “Now would you be a darling and hand me my dagger back? I am most attached to it but would rather avoid digging around in the… unfortunate mess.”

Stunned, Geralt does so. He wipes the blood off the blade on his trousers and walks it over to Jaskier.

“How did you do that?” he asks. He should perhaps feel grateful, but mostly he feels hot and strangely flustered.

“How did you think I survived before you came into my life?” Jaskier is grinning, a wild gleam in his eye.

He spins the dagger in an elaborate loop and tucks it back into his belt. Geralt’s mouth is suddenly very dry.