another soft headcanon: ciri is wary of jaskier at first, because he seems so gentle and different but there’s a weird tension between him and geralt.
she’s tried asking the witcher about that, but all she got were grunts and shrugs. so she keeps her distance, even though she’s so charmed by the songs and the way jaskier calls her ‘sweetling’ or ‘young lioness’ when no strangers are around.
then, one day, she catches jaskier rambling to roach. or, not rambling, straight out acting like they’re having a conversation made of monologues, huffs and neighs. geralt does that too, although with considerably fewer words.
so ciri smiles and listens as jaskier tells roach about how geralt hasn’t apologised yet, which is just outrageous, but what can you do, he’s not about to let himself be chased away a second time, especially now that his darling witcher has finally seen reason and stopped outrunning destiny like a fool. and by the way, sweet melitele, doesn’t geralt look just heavenly with longer hair? he wishes he’d let him braid it.
she laughs at that, and jaskiers turns around with a sheepish grin on his face.
“if you keep talking like that, geralt will hear you when he comes back”
“i guess you’re right, but wouldn’t that do him some good? what do you think, ciri?”
they hug for the first time soon after that, and that’s how the witcher finds them, walking back to the inn with a monster’s severed head.
“gross!” they giggle and make faces at him. geralt squints but relaxes when he sees the mirth dancing in ciri’s eyes.
he thinks that maybe they’ll be alright, really alright, once he finds a way to sort things out with his little lark.
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This one is hard. I think I’m closest to Jaskier. I write poems about love all the time, everyone thinks I’m fragile and weak but I go feral if someone tries to hurt my loved ones. But I don’t sleep around like him , so idk.
geralt and jaskier don’t remember their previous lives, not really. but sometimes they get glimpses in dreams - echoes of blood, swords, inks and parchment, halls packed with musicians and nobles, monsters, creatures and landscapes that belong to another world entirely.
geralt doesn’t think much of it. they’re just vivid dreams, everyone has them, right? he blames the amount of times he re-read the lord of the rings.
while jaskier feels the strangest pull. it’s an urge to write the dreams down, to turn them into something else, even if it’s just scattered and hazy impressions. and so he composes songs out of them. they’re hauntingly beautiful, gritty and dark, but with many hints of sweetness and longing. he’s not a famous singer (yet), but he’s julian pankratz, a music teacher with a dream, and he plays gigs at pubs and small festivals sometimes.
that’s how they meet. lambert and eskel drag geralt out for drinks, as it’s their tradition when they manage to reunite, and jaskier happens to be playing a set in the very same bar. the three brothers sit at a corner table and pay little mind to the concert, but geralt’s eyes drift towards the singer more than once. he can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something intriguing about his voice and his songs. it feels like he’s heard them before.
the look on geralt’s face doesn’t go unnoticed. when the set is over lambert - being his adorable, dumbass self - goes to the bar, orders a drink for the singer and asks the bartender to tell him that it’s from the silver fox brooding at table 7. then he yanks eskel away to have a smoke outside, knowing very well that geralt won’t join them - he promised his goddaughter ciri that he’d stop smoking for good.
not even two minutes later, jaskier is sitting down across geralt, blue eyes sparkling with delight and curiosity, doing his very best not to drool. because holy fuck, this man might just be the most splendid creature he’s ever laid eyes on.
“hello! thanks for the drink, that was ever so kind of you. i hope you’ll allow me to return the favor later. what’s your poison of choice? i bet it’s beer, stout. or whiskey, you look like a whiskey man!”
“what.”
“i’m julian, by the way, though i go by jaskier. can i get your name or should i just keep calling you silver fox?”
geralt can do absolutely nothing but stare for ten seconds, confused and transfixed. who the hell is this guy wearing eyeliner and a shirt of the most garish purple shade ever, not to mention half unbuttoned? and why does he look so - familiar, mine, growls a voice at the back of his mind.
“have we met before?” is all he manages to blurt out.
jaskier licks his lips and seems to consider the question for a moment, tilting his head and hesitating. then he just shrugs and replies “in a dream, perhaps? you look like you just walked out of one”, with a flirtatious wink. because he’ll be damned if he leaves the bar without getting this man’s name, phone number and possibly the imprint of his broad hands on his arse.
it’s not until months later, when they fall asleep nestled against each other for the first time, that the dreams become different. and when they wake up, they remember. not all at once, but enough to jolt awake, hearts racing in their throats.
“gods, oh gods, geralt.” jaskier gasps as a bewildered sob leaves his lips. it feels like an invisible hand has just shattered his heart and pieced it back together in the space of a breath.
and geralt? geralt starts crying quietly before he even realizes it. the ghost sensation of the icy wind at the top of the mountain is like a slap to his face, but nothing hurts more than the memory of jaskier’s sorrowful ‘see you around, geralt’.
he draws jaskier in a crushing embrace, practically melting against the soft skin of his neck as he whispers “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”
“shh, no, it’s okay. i’m here now.”
they don’t understand what’s going on, but they’re in this together, and that’s all they need to know for now. they spend the rest of the night holding each other and kissing with a consuming, almost fearful devotion.
in this life, they’re happy. there are no monsters or demons, save for the ones they’ve learned to keep at bay. and there are promises. in this life, they’re together, for good.
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Jaskier bribes Geralt into coming to one of his classes to show some point about how life on the road blah blah blahblah and Geralt just sits in Jaskier's chair glaring at all the giggling students, one of them even calls him Mr. Pankratz on their way out
First of all, I need you to know that when I read this in bed last night I snorted so loudly at Mr. Pankratz! You genius, you.
I wanted to write a short drabble about it, because the idea is just so good (and we’re all in love with the professor!Jaskier art, right?), then it somehow snowballed into a 1k ficlet. Because I have no control over my brain. So now let’s slap a very dignified title on this thing and call it a day lmao
Professor Pankratz brings his himbo husband to class
Geralt surprises Jaskier by travelling back from Kaer Morhen a fortnight earlier than planned.
Of course, when asked, he simply states that they’ve had a mild winter and there was no sense in loitering inside the castle walls when he could have picked up a few contracts along the way.
“Naturally.” Jaskier agrees with a knowing smile. For once, he refrains from calling the witcher out on his bullshit. That’s one of his many ways to show Geralt that he missed him, being mindful of the man’s appreciation for quiet after a taxing journey.
Just like Geralt is always more prone to soft touches and casual gestures of affection, after he’s been away from his lover for so long. It’s the sweetest thing, really. Like the first bite of a warm pastry filled with jam.
And not even Jaskier, for all his lyrical prose and dewy-eyed emotions, could have imagined a future like that for the both of them. But against all odds, it works. Summers circle back to misty autumns, icy winters give way to springs and their bond grows fonder, steadier and all the more fiery for it.
The bard doesn’t say much that night, but he does draw a hot bath for Geralt and he scrubs his back, unknotting the tension in those broad shoulders with a nimble touch born of intimacy.
“Hmm, I needed that” Geralt murmurs once he’s drying his hair with a towel that smells like lavender. It means thank you, but also come here.
They tumble into bed together not one minute later. It’s been four months and they’re eager, so thrilled to stroke and lick and bite, to plunge and sink deeper.
They’ve dreamt of this so many times.
After, when the window is cracked open and the smell of sex blends with their languid breaths, Jaskier rolls over and slings an arm across Geralt’s flank to draw him closer.
“Come teach my class with me tomorrow.” He whispers in the witcher’s ear. He’s sporting a neatly trimmed beard these days, and it tickles Geralt’s neck in the most tempting way.
Geralt chuckles dryly, but the lack of an immediate quip tells him that Jaskier is serious. It’s a little scary how often they can read their minds by now.
“Don’t think so. You’re the teacher, Jask. I’ve got nothing to tell them.”
“But you’re the reason I’m still alive and teaching in the first place. Besides, you can just sit there, look pretty and answer some questions. My students have heard a lot about you, they’ll adore you.”
“Jaskier, no, you know I don’t-”
“If you say yes now, I won’t ask you for another three years.”
Geralt considers it as Jaskier nips at the nape of his neck. “Deal.”
How awkward can it be anyway, the witcher asks himself as they walk inside a small classroom on the following morning.
Pretty fucking awkward, as it turns out.
“Good morning, professor!” A couple of students pipe up, before a dozen pairs of young and excitable eyes zero in on the massive, leather-clad man standing next to their teacher. Even without his swords, there’s no mistaking who he is.
“Melitele, is that-”
“It’s Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier’s muse!” Someone hisses with unabashed glee.
Geralt glares at them, wide-eyed and scowling, and they stare back. Trust a bunch of green singers and poets in training to call him, a witcher of Kaer Morhen, a blasted muse to his face.
“Yes, we have an acclaimed guest with us today, and I’m expecting you all to be on your best behaviour.” Jaskier announces with a flourish of his hand and a smile that’s equal parts dazzling and menacing.
And fuck it if that doesn’t turn Geralt on a little.
But this is decidedly not the time for it, so he dumps all of Jaskier’s books and scrolls on the desk and he just sit there, feeling very much like he’s trapped in a Kikimore’s nest.
Meanwhile, Jaskier prompty busies himself with returning the lastest assignments, taking the time to bestow a comment or two on each student. It’s clear that his pupils hold him in high regard, but they’re not afraid to interact with him.
Geralt remembers a couple of tales about Jaskier’s education, and how literacy was beaten into him with a stick, to quote the bard. It’s a thought that sits uneasy in his stomach, even now. Which is why he feels a surge of admiration witnessing his lover in his element.
He’s not playing the lute yet, but he’s composing a symphony nevertheless, carefully guiding and encouraging every young man and woman.
Then he launches into a full analysis of an epic poem and the merits of adapting a story to the metrics of a contemporary ballad, talking fast but never rambling, and no one is staring at the witcher anymore.
Geralt crosses his arms and listens, his cool exterior still in place, though Jaskier can definitely tell he’s amused. He flashes him a smug smile.
The class soon nears its end and Jaskier goes to stand behind Geralt, placing a hand on his shoulder. A couple of students most definitely mask an aww with the turn of a page or a cough.
“Now, as you’ve been such lively listeners, let’s see if our guest would like to, um” He tilts his head and meets Geralt’s wary gaze, “Answer a few questions, absolutely not related to his personal life?”
Four hands shoot up immediately. Geralt groans.
The questions are actually nothing like he expects.
“Did you ever meet Filavandrel again? Would you say your advice had some influence on his decision to change the rules of succession?”
“Was your life any different during the plague?”
“How does it feel to have inspired many tales that will live on as popular folklore?”
Geralt does his damnedest to give passable answers using as few words as possible. He’s sure no one is very impressed, but if they’re disappointed, they don’t show it. Smart brats.
As soon as Jaskier declares that their time is up, he stands up in one fluid motion and he heads towards the door with a brief “Hm. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Pankratz!” A girl answers politely. That stops him dead in his tracks.
Mr. Pankratz?
“What the fuck, Jaskier.” He mutters as he turns around and fixes his lover with a stunned glare. The man throws his head back and chortles, and the whole classroom bursts into laughter after that.
Geralt doesn’t remember ever blushing for such a trivial thing. For a second, he’s legitimately hoping some monster will emerge from a dark corner and swallow him whole.
Jaskier teases him about it later, but not that much. And he more than makes up for it when he drags Geralt to his chambers.
All in all, Geralt doesn’t regret visiting him in Oxenfurt. Quite the opposite.
Geralt helps Jaskier to bed because the idiot just had to drink a large tankard of ale to celebrate the success of his newest song. The last log crackles merrily in the fireplace of their shared room. It smells like lavender, leather, spruce and sweat, now that they’re in there.
The bard sighs in a contented daze as he flops down on the bed and Geralt thinks that maybe for once he’ll miraculously fall asleep without talking. But no such luck.
“Geralt?” Jaskier murmurs, rubbing his eyes and stretching on the mattress with all the energy left in his lithe limbs.
“Hm?”
“Did I ever tell you that my real name is Julian?” The words are slurred, but there’s a crooning lilt to his voice.
The witcher just stares without answering. Julian. He tries out the name in his mind. It’s solid and denser than its floral moniker, like a smooth pebble settled in a river bed.
It’s hard to catch Geralt of Rivia by surprise, and it’s downright impossible when he’s awake and his medallion is silent. The movement is slow and he sees it coming with innate clarity. Still he doesn’t move away, almost transfixed.
Jaskier tugs at his shirt to pull him down until their lips collide. It’s a sloppy kiss, barely more than a fumbling urge, but there’s warmth and affection and it cuts straight through his lungs. Fuck.
Geralt groans and he pulls back, but not quickly enough. The soft touch of Jaskier’s lips burns like embers. The bard smiles a secret grin at him before his head meets the pillow again and he feels — stripped down of every defense. Stunned. Safe. He fucking feels human.
Geralt sleeps on the floor that night.
The second time they kiss, it’s on purpose. It’s been more than six years, but who’s keeping count anymore?
They meet in the outskirts of Tridam. The slopes of the mountains have long given way to outstretched and tame planes, and yet Geralt has to tether his feet to the ground when he dismounts from Roach, as if afraid he might slip in a treacherous ravine.
“Ah, dearest Geralt! How was winter in Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier looks healthy and vibrant. A light scruff dusts his cheeks and Geralt finds himself wanting to reach out and explore the feel of it.
Once, that was such a dangerous thought. But now, under the first rays of spring, it morphs into a sweet curiosity. For the first time in many years, he shrugs off that thick veil of worry, wrong, forbidden and he simply drinks in the sight of Jaskier’s beauty.
“Long time no see, Julian.” Geralt says, stepping closer. His gaze finds the bard’s blue, soulful eyes, gleaming with a touch of surprise. He’s delighted.
“Oh, you.” Jaskier gives a captivated laugh and he’s about to say more, much more, when Geralt swiftly cups his face.
It’s a very different kiss, their second one. Deliberate but shy at first, then enthusiastic. Eager. A promise. Jaskier chases his lips again and again with a thrilled chuckle, until Geralt smiles into the kiss.
When they look at each other again, they’re both flushed and drunk on the sensation of finally crossing that invisible line. It feels amazing.
“Missed me, have you?” Jaskier drawls, and before the witcher can roll his eyes he licks his lips and adds “Gods, me too. Terribly so.”
