#chubby jaskier

It was a long hunt. It had been a long week. Constantly running from angry mobs and harsh words. It had been a long life of fighting, of running, if Geralt is honest with himself. Which he was, mostly. Really he just tried hard to not be dishonest. However, it was hard to be honest with people that don’t want to hear it. Usually, Geralt just kept his mouth shut, but even that didn’t solve everything.

The past few weeks had been hell. Every town they stopped in found a reason to run them out. Usually, it was due to Geralt being a witcher and, well, all together ghastly. They had stumbled upon a town that morning that they might have been able to stay in for a while, Geralt had even found a hunt that would pay decent enough. Sadly luck, as much as Geralt was loath to admit such a thing as ‘luck’ existed, was not on their side xand Jaskier had managed to offend someone. Geralt had plenty of ideas on how he managed that. This time it was due to Jaskier’s rather insatiable hunger for sausage of the nonhuman variety. Long story short the town butcher was very angry and off the pair went. Geralt still went on the hunt, much to Jaskier’s chagrin.

Geralt had just made it back to where they set up camp, a small clearing in the woods, just far enough from the road, where the trees left an open view of the sky. It was dark, well into the night, and Jaskier had almost finished cooking the two rabbits that Geralt had been able to hunt that afternoon. They were fortunate, he thought, to have all this misfortune (or as Geralt liked to think of it: “regular life”) happen in the summer when the weather was pleasant and food plentiful.

Jaskier was sitting in front of the fire, his face lit up in the warm tones that the firelight cast across his round face. He was dressed in just a pair of loose pants and an untied chemise that hugged his plump middle. He was beautiful. Geralt was beyond smitten with the man. If Geralt didn't know better he would have attributed his adoration to being enchanted by a spell. He was enchanted by Jaskier, but that was all charm and personality, not magic. Jaskier could easily pass as an ethereal being as he smiled up at Geralt, framed by vast woods and molten stars, even with the crows feet crinkling at the edge of his kind eyes.

“Oh, hello, darling. Good hunt? Any injuries today or just dirty?” Jaskier glanced up, scanning Geralt for injury or anything else distressing. He usually inspected Geralt head to toe when he got back from a hunt while Geralt would grumble and complain, but inside he would feel warm. Content, and cared for finally, after so many years of hatred and pain, he had Jaskier to love and care for him. Not tonight though, and that was okay with Geralt because the food smelled divine and he hadn’t eaten in what felt like days. Might have been, too. He couldn't remember.

Geralt grunted and began to shed his armour. He didn't say that he wasn't injured so it didn't count as a lie, his traitorous mind also supplied that it was not quite a truth. Jaskier had begun to serve up the food when he saw it; a giant bite into Geralt’s shoulder, gushing blood. As quickly as humanly possible Jaskier was on his feet, dinner forgotten, and on his way over to Geralt. 

“What the hell is this?” Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm to inspect the damage even as Geralt continued on changing. “There is a tooth in there! Okay, Geralt, sit down.”

He wasn’t yelling but as Jaskier stormed off to fetch the bag with all the bandages and equipment, Geralt could tell he was angry. It was all he could smell. The metallic and bitter tones overtook their small camp, muting the pleasant musky and floral perfume that Jaskier usually smelled of.

Geralt kept changing. He wasn’t about to sit down in only his small clothes. He had just gotten a light pair of cloth pants out of his bag and onto his ankles when he heard Jaskier huff.

“Damnit Geralt! Can you please, just for once do as I ask and let me fix this?” He exclaimed, gesturing to the oozing wound on his shoulder. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me!”

Geralt was tired. So very tired and so very hungry and Gods he knew better but between the stressors of the last few days and their unnecessary eviction from the town, he snapped. He did that a lot these days. “Fuck off! You’ve done enough damage today! I don’t need your help! Why don’t you go eat your rabbit since you can’t seem to stop stuffing your face!”

Jaskier was gobsmacked, his eyes, once shining in the starlight now shimmered with tears. He stared, looking at Geralt through tears that he wouldn't let fall. After a moment of tense silence Jaskier nodded and tossed the bag of supplies at Geralt’s feet. Geralt thought that Jaskier was going to walk away and in that moment he felt regret like never before. Jaskier should walk away, Geralt thought bitterly, while he studied the complicated waves of emotion passing over the bard's face. It was what he deserved. How was it possible for him to fuck something up so quickly and just as quickly regret it?

“Sit down, Geralt of Rivia. Just fucking sit down and let me do this, you ass.” Jaskier bit out as he pushed Geralt’s shoulders down and got to work. There was a mixture of feelings building in Geralt’s chest, relief and doubt certainly, but mostly it was just horrific, ugly, agonizing guilt. The usual wash down was done in silence. Jaskier ignored the prickling in the back of his eyes as he wiped away the congealing blood. He had a job to do and crying wasn’t going to help heal anyone. Jaskier focused on Geralt’s shoulder, while Geralt focused on his own rough hands. The urge to lean his heavy head against Jaskier’s soft belly was strong but he didn't deserve it, because he was a fucking idiot, truly the worst. To yell at Jaskier like that? He felt like he could never face himself again after saying those horrible things, those false things, to the only man who had ever truly loved him. Who Geralt loved more than anything. Fuck. He was a monster.

Geralt stewed in his self deprecation as Jaskier continued his work to patch up the bloody wound. Jaskier would feel bad for it later, surely, but at the moment he didn’t have it in him to be gentle with Geralt as he dug the embedded fang out of his arm. He really hadn’t thought that his presence had been burdening the older man. It was perfect weather to camp under the stars, after all. With a deep break Jaskier pushed aside his worries. He couldn’t think about it now, not when he was supposed to be sewing Geralt’s arm together. He was sure Geralt was just grumpy. He was sure. There was a different reason he said those things, he didn’t really mean it. Gods, Jaskier hoped he didn’t mean it. Hoped Geralt wouldn't decide to ditch him, to leave behind the overzealous bard that just made his life harder. Not after what happened on the dragon hunt a few years earlier.

What Jaskier had not been prepared for was Geralt’s jab at his increasing weight. Jaskier knew he had been indulging in the food that was available to him and the metabolism his youth granted was fading faster by the day. He truly hadn’t thought Geralt disliked his changing appearance. This was the first time the man had said anything about it. Perhaps it was simply fueled by the “Sausage Incident” from that afternoon. He hadn’t meant to get them kicked out of town, truly. Jaskier had just wanted to grab a few extra sausages for them to share because it had been so long since they had gotten to enjoy a good meal together. He wanted to do something nice for his beloved, but the sausages were expensive and Jaskier really hadn’t thought the butcher would notice if a few went missing. Jaskier hoped Geralt’s outburst was simply due to leftover frustrations from that afternoon. 

He had been traveling with Geralt for a thousand years. Or at least it felt that way. Jaskier knew how much shit Geralt put up with. He knew how Geralt could lash out when he was overwhelmed, and he knew that sometimes he got annoyed with Jaskier’s eccentric differences because they were just that: different. And if there was one thing Jaskier knew about Geralt it was that he had a hard time dealing with this kind of emotion, specifically the gentle, loving and healthy feelings that should accompany a romantic relationship. Yennefer, for all her good qualities, had not been much help to Geralt in this department. This was all foreign to Geralt and that made it frustrating. Now Jaskier felt like the ass, he should be more careful and patient with the love of his life.

As Jaskier finished wrapping Geralt's shoulder he bent down and kissed it. An apology, for pushing. Geralt knew that Jaskier's kiss meant his forgiveness, but he hadn't forgiven himself. He would never understand how Jaskier could so readily forgive and forget all the missteps that he continued to make. He truly did not deserve this man. He wasn’t fit for the love he gave. 

“Alright, come eat.” And with that Jaskier walked over to the previously abandoned rabbits, as he continued the night like Geralt hadn’t just ruined everything. They had been… together for a while. Or at least Geralt thought so. To be honest, he wasn’t too sure when they had become lovers, as Jaskier would call it. He knew that the first time they kissed was only a few seasons ago when Geralt had finally managed to get Jaskier back after the fuck up he made on the mountain, but he felt like they had been more than friends for a lot longer (even if Geralt couldn’t admit it. Or comprehend it, really). But that really could just be his own warped sense of what friendship was.

Geralt didn’t argue, he simply took the food that was offered and silently took his place on the opposite side of the campfire. As he ate he felt even more guilty. Jaskier had gone through the effort of preparing his meal just the way Geralt preferred, even though it took more time and care than simply roasting it. Eating became more difficult as the foreign feeling of tears choked him. His eyes began to sting and his world blurred. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It must have been when he was a child, during the trials. Those were tears of pain and fear. These, somehow, were worse. The tears tracing their way down Geralt’s cheeks were those of helplessness and disappointment. The realization of how much he had hurt someone, someone he only wanted to protect.

Geralt set down the remains of his meal, the hunger that plagued him only an hour ago effectively quelled and replaced with horrid, guilty nausea. Jaskier, of course, noticed. He always noticed. Because he was perfect. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, watching as the fire made Geralt’s tears shine, bright like diamonds. Except that wasn’t quite right because diamonds were supposed to be pretty and heartwarming. No, these were some type of fucked up jewels. Not because they were grotesque - Jaskier was incapable of thinking of Geralt and grotesque in the same sentence, the words completely incompatible in his mind- but because the witcher’s tears were jewels that could only be made from pain and it broke Jaskier’s heart to see his strong witcher hurting so. Perhaps Geralt’s tears were diamonds. Rare and precious. Jaskier was getting ahead of himself, now was not the time to be waxing poetic on the fragility of his witcher’s heart and the wonder of his tears.

Geralt could feel them, the tears, like a storm. Slow, like a light sprinkle, but soon they were thundering, worse than any downpour, and Geralt couldn’t hold in the sob that pushed its way up from his heart. He brought his hands, calloused, dangerous, monstrous hands, to his face and hid. That’s all he knew how to do. He was a fighter, a runner, who wouldn't fight, who couldn't run. What was left? Geralt ran his hands through his wild hair, desperately trying to calm his thoughts, pulling harshly at the stands caught between his fingers. He was certain that after tonight there would be nothing left. He would lose Jaskier tonight, he could feel it. And without Jaskier there was nothing, not for Geralt, because Jaskier was everything.

Geralt was sure Jaskier didn’t know, couldn’t possibly understand that he would do anything for him. That he would do anything to make him smile and laugh. He would sacrifice everything just so Jaskier could eat a warm meal and want for nothing. Geralt was so sure, so unwaveringly sure, that no matter what he did he still could not be enough. He knew, he always did, that he could never be enough for Jaskier.

Geralt’s body shook with tremors and sobs. He sounded disgusting, he thought. He wished he could stop, he couldn’t hear anything except for gasping breaths and choked cries. It almost felt like it wasn’t even him. How pathetic, he thought. A witcher who couldn’t even walk the path, even with the added comforts a companion like Jaskier afforded him. 

Jaskier. 

He was there, kneeling in front of him. His nimble fingers pushed Geralt’s own hands away from his face. His puffy eyes met the pure blue orbs of his beloved. One glance at the deep pools full of love and concern just made Geralt cry harder.

“Geralt, darling. Breath, please.” Jaskier’s soft fingers brushed over his cheeks. The familiar callouses tracing his face only made him feel more gentle, the clever fingers still capable of a loving caress. Geralt felt like he was spinning, nothing made sense. He just wanted it all to end, but he didn’t. Not really. He didn’t know what he wanted. That was a lie. He wanted Jaskier. He’d always want Jaskier. 

“Jas,” Geralt managed to choke out past the stuttering breaths and whimpers. He noticed his hands were trembling, as he grasped the front of Jaskiers chemise. “I’m sorry. ‘M sorry.”

“I know, my love.” Jaskier pulled Geralt down to lean against the tree. Jaskier had never seen Geralt breakdown like this before. He guided him to rest against him, his head pillowed by his stomach as he pet his hair.  “Just relax, my love.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Geralt whispered after getting his breathing under control. He had run out of tears, his cries quieted to the occasional sniffles. 

Jaskier leaned down and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s head, “I know, my love.”

“I didn't mean it.” Geralt sounded like he would start crying again. Geralt felt like he would start crying again. His pink lips trembled and his hand gripped Jaskier’s shirt tighter. He was taller and broader than Jaskier, by a lot, but he felt so utterly small. Like a lost child. Like when Vesemir had found him, abandoned, all those years years ago.

“I know, my love.” Geralt’s hand was enveloped in Jaskier’s smaller one. He let go of the shirt to tangle his fingers with Jaskier. He watched as his hand, responsible for so much death and torment, was peppered with kisses from Jaskier’s lips. Lips that were responsible for songs and happiness. 

“I need you.” Geralt felt like he was pleading. Pleading for Jaskier to stay, to forgive him. Geralt knew that he already had, or he wouldn’t be holding him like this but he still felt like he was going to lose him. 

“Oh, my love, I’m not going anywhere. Not for as long as I can, not ever if I can help it.” Jaskier wrapped Geralt in his arms and held him close. Jaskier never wanted to let go. Geralt never wanted him to let go.

“It hurts,” Geralt squeezed eyes shut and pressed his face into the soft warmth of Jaskier. He wasn’t talking about his arm but he knew he didn’t have to elaborate, and he was thankful for how well the bard knew him because he wasn’t sure if he could find the words. Ever. 

“I know, my love.”

“I was so alone. For so long. I don’t know how to live anymore. Jaskier, I’m so tired.” And he was. He has been tired for years. No matter how much he sleeps, no matter how hard he tries, he’s just so tired. 

“I know, my dear. You can rest now, without guilt. You will never have to face this world alone again. I will always be by your side, nothing could ever keep me from you.”

“Not nothing,” Geralt hated that this was the first thing he could think of when hearing the comforting words Jaskier was whispering to him. But he couldn’t help it. He thought about it frequently, the day Jaskier would grow too old to travel with him. His hair had already gained a streak of gray and the joints in his knees creaked when he knelt. Geralt could hear them. The day that Jaskier would become ill, the day he might not run fast enough. He dreaded the day that death caught up to his bard. Jaskier seemed almost untouchable, he was so lively that it could fool him into thinking he had forever. He didn’t.

“No, not even death will be able to part us, my angel. For every moment onward you will have our memories and my music. You will have my words and love for eternity. Mark my words, Geralt of Rivia, I will not let death part us.”

Geralt laid his head onto Jaskier's stomach, contemplating the promise his lover had so readily gave. Angel. He had called him an Angel. It felt wrong, almost perverse to use such a term in relation to him. Like he was good, he wasn’t good. 

“Jaskier?”

“Yes? I’m here, my love”

“Am I a monster?”

Jaskier shook his head in denial as he gathered the larger man onto his lap, a thoughtful look on his face as he spoke. “No, my love, you are not a monster. Because the true monsters are the men that kill, not out of necessity, but out of revenge and hatred, or cruel enjoyment. The ones who torture and abuse. Those are the scariest monsters I have ever faced, and you are nothing like them, darling. You are a witcher, not a monster. Not a man.”

Geralt was happy to just be held. He loved Jaskier. He loved the easy comfort and love he held for everyone, for him. He loved how he understood Geralt. He loved how fearless Jaskier was around him, how stubborn and ready he was to stand up against him when no one else could. He loved how it felt to be held by him, like he was precious. He loved that, in Jaskier’s eyes, he was precious.

Geralt kissed Jaskier’s core as he nuzzled his face into the comforting warmth. It was an apology, for what he said. Geralt loved Jaskier’s stomach. His bard had thickened in the past few years, time finally catching up to the man, and resulting in a thick layer of pudge lying over what had once been lean muscle. As Geralt settled down on his lover's tummy, held in Jaskiers firm arms, he was in heaven. He was safe here; safe and loved. He could hear his lover’s heart, steadily thumping away, and the sounds of his stomach digesting his dinner. It was odd how comforting the sounds of an alive Jaskier could feel, but then again, it wasn't really odd at all. Geralt let one of his hands slip under Jaskier’s shirt. His fingers pressed oh so faintly into the soft layer of fat as he rubbed up to Jaskier’s chest. He let his fingers rest over his heart, feeling every beat, and playing with the hair that covered Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier smiled, humming the soft tune of one of his songs he knew Geralt secretly liked.

Geralt’s eyes were practically swollen shut from his intense bout of crying but he could picture how gorgeous Jaskier looked in that moment. Soft and content, illuminated under the summer stars. 

“I love you, Jaskier.”