i just keep imagining jaskier confessing his feelings to geralt while they rest after nilfgaard's attack on the refugees.
jaskier's head wound is throbbing and nearly dying makes him realize he gets one chance at life. geralt is off sleeping away from the group and jaskier finds him and simply lays down next to geralt. maybe the words tumble out of jaskier's mouth in a panic or maybe he just quietly says that three syllable phrase. geralt finds comfort in jaskier's racing heartbeat, and oddly enough, the smell of anxiety filling the air, just because it's jaskier's. geralt probably doesn't say it back. maybe he does in his own way. maybe he just grunts with a smile. geralt runs his fingers through jaskier's bloody, sticky hair. jaskier doesn't need him to say it back anyway, he could recognize geralt's palm before his own. he would know what geralt is saying without hearing his voice.
they lay together until midday. the morning was filled with mostly jaskier's worries, his fears, his hopes. and geralt, sharing bits of himself as well, often kept his gaze on jaskier's torn temple. jaskier thinks geralt is scared his head will suddenly burst, like a dam collapsing under a surge of a flood. he reassures geralt plenty that he is well, that he will be fine.
by the time they have the energy to pack and get moving, geralt's leg is healed. regis probably gives the two of them a knowing look, while the rest of the hanza overall operates as usual. they're so used to the codependency between the bard and the witcher that they don't question their arrival back to camp together.
not like anything more happened, anyway. they didn't even kiss. and jaskier doesn't realize it yet, but geralt isn't willing to do anything with him until they're able to get at least a mile away from another living creature. he doesn't know when that will be, so sharing a bedroll for warmth and comfort will have to do, for now.
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What about Geralt discovering how awesome and safe it feels to be the little spoon? Any pairing is good, but I do have a weakness for Jaskier/Dandelion helping Geralt learn how to let himself be taken care of.
what about me projecting so hard im not even sure if this makes any sense? more likely than you think.
Warnings: i went with geraskier, idk why this is a warning but im rolling with it, biiiiiig self depreciation on Geralt's part, jask goading geralt into asking for things he wants/needs, snuggles? idk. i should just start using ao3 tags here lol
______________
Geralt hadn’t realized just how much Jaskier held back in his presence until he saw the bard with a lover for the first time. Not in a libido sort of way, though Geralt could smell that well enough, but in his affinity for touching and holding.
Jaskier would cradle his love of the week and stroke their cheek and run his fingers through their hair every second he could. And what confused Geralt even more, was how the object of his affections preened under his attention, even when said attention was absent-minded and automatic. He’d known this particular fling to be rather standoffish, very much the gritted teeth and harsh glaring type when people attempted flirting or any sort of casual touching.
When Geralt asked them about it after Jaskier had made his dramatic exit, they smiled wistfully and shook their head, “Ask him. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to explain it to you of all people…”
That, of course, meant shit all to Geralt, but after weeks of biting his nails and working up the courage, he asked Jaskier how he managed to get so close, so intimate with people.
He just received a confused look in return, “Well… the same as with you?”
Geralt could only frown and sit down on a stump across the fire from his bard, his silent request for an explanation. He was never close with other people. The most intimate he got outside of some meaningless sex here and there was letting Jaskier tend his wounds.
“Trust. And respect I guess… why do you ask?”
“No reason…” Geralt muttered, staring into the flames as an embarrassed blush crept up his neck. The self-consciousness that had delayed him asking for so long rushed back over him and he began to regret saying anything. Come to think of it, Jaskier had probably just misunderstood him. Considering he’d insinuated Geralt had ever been intimate with… oh. His frown deepening, Geralt stared even harder into the fire as he came to the first realization of the night. Jaskier had meant ‘the same way I’m intimate with you’.
The bard was at his side without making a sound, joining him on a stump with their thighs just barely touching, “Ask me,” he whispered, pausing to give Geralt a chance to do so before adding a soft, “Please?”
“It’s not the same, is it? You don’t- ...you don’t hold me like that…” Geralt wasn’t sure his voice could come out any smaller if he tried, and he was certainly trying to sound casual. He hadn’t realized he was jealous. Hadn’t realized the reason he ached wasn’t that he was tired or dehydrated, but because he yearned to be treated so gently.
“No, it’s not,” Jaskier confirmed. The hand resting on his thigh right next to Geralt’s twitched in indecision before Jaskier hooked his pinky around Geralt’s where it rested on his knee, “I’m far more careful with the people I couldn’t stand to lose.”
The subtle but intentional touch had Geralt’s heart racing as he stared at where their fingers were interlocked. He’d gone over reason after possible reason in his head that Jaskier would keep his distance, but the truth was almost incomprehensible. Of all the things Geralt had been to people over the years, irreplaceable wasn’t one of them. He may have been special to the mages at Kaer Morhen, but to be treated with such care that he didn’t even realize he was being protected and kept close? It almost made him dizzy.
“If you asked,” Jaskier whispered, his own puls racing almost in double time with Geralt’s, “I would hold you closest and dearest. I’d give you everything I have.”
Slowly, so as not to send the wrong message, Geralt turned his hand over and laced his fingers between Jaskier’s, “I’d- I think I’d like that…”
As Jaskier pulled him over to a bedroll and laid so Geralt was pressed with his back against Jaskier’s chest, the witcher thought he’d never been so selfish in his life. When Jaskier cradled his head in the crook of his arm and hooked the other arm over Geralt’s waist to hold him impossibly closer he started to feel guilty. He was warm and comfortable and he’d never felt safer with someone at his back, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was taking something that wasn’t meant for him.
Almost in answer to his thoughts, Jaskier murmured into his hair, soothing and gentle, “I’d hold you for hours and hours if it made you believe you were worth the love I have for you.”
It took longer than he’d like to admit for Geralt to realize why his breathing was ragged and his face felt wet, “I’m- I’m not sure that’s fair of me to ask of you.”
“Then don’t ask. I’ll give it freely if you’ll take it,” Jaskier hummed, brushing Geralt’s hair back from his cheek so he could place a light kiss there, “I want to make you feel safe and loved.”
Geralt grit his teeth and fought the fresh well of guilt bubbling up in his chest. Here his bard confessed his love, practically pledged to heal his crumbled heart, and all Geralt could do was cry. Even when he tried, he couldn’t make the words he longed to say pass his lips.
“I cant- Jask I can’t say it-”
“Shhhh,” Jaskier squeezed him tight as he placed another kiss at the back of Geralt’s jaw, “You don’t have to. We’ll get there… This is enough. You are enough.”
Hello darling wife, I come to your inbox to beg of you some words. Geralt notices a scar on Jaskier’s face, close to his mouth, and can’t stop staring. Please and thank you🥺❤️
Hello wife!! I've finally gotten to your ask. I would also like to thank all my followers because I've hit my 100 follower mark! Thank you for reading my content. Send me an ask if you have any prompt requests :)
Title: We All Got Scars
Pairing: Geraskier
Tags: Some Self-Esteem Issues and they are Hungover
Word Count: 2K
Geralt groaned as his eyes opened and he took stock of his surroundings. He was in his room. Normally that wouldn’t be surprising, but he couldn’t recall how he had gotten there.
Last night was a technicolor blur of tequila and Jaskier. Geralt took a moment to try and recall what time he’d gotten home, but it was all a blank. Damn Yennefer and her parties. He was getting too old for this shit.
Another twitch of his body brought forth a wave of nausea and pain. Coffee. He needed coffee.
Drawn out from under the covers by the promise of caffeine and Advil, he blearily stumbled towards the kitchen, solely relying on his muscle memory to make it there. As he turned the corner, Geralt was surprised to find Jaskier half-sprawled on their kitchen counter, watching the coffee machine with single-minded focus. Jaskier usually didn’t make it home after Yennefer’s parties, instead taking the opportunity to find a partner for the evening. To see him home this early was unheard of.
“Mornin’,” Jaskier mumbled into his arms as he continued to stare at the coffee maker.
“Hmmm.”
Jaskier chuckled, the motion causing the younger man to wince and look up at him. “Ditto, Geralt. When did we make it home?”
“Fuck if I know.”
At that moment the Jaskier perked up and grabbed the coffee pot off the hot plate with a triumphant expression. He looked obviously hungover with the dark circles under his eyes, greasy hair, and the scar on the corner of his lip—wait, what?
Geralt blinked and stared, transfixed by the small mark located near the top curve of his roommate’s lip. It was small, barely noticeable unless someone were looking intently at Jaskier, but that was the thing. Geralt always looked at Jaskier. He’d been entranced by the younger man since the moment they had met, and Geralt would have noticed a scar on Jaskier’s face before now. It must be new.
Geralt and Jaskier had parted ways during their summer holidays. Geralt had taken the chance to work at the family business to recoup his finances while Jaskier had been hired at a summer stock theatre far away from their university. They’d texted one another often, and Geralt received the occasional Facetime, but those interactions couldn’t compare with living together in an apartment. Something must have happened during those few months.
“Earth to Geralt!”
His attention was pulled back to Jaskier as the younger man snapped his fingers to catch his notice. Geralt winced, the small, repetitive noises feeling like a person using his head as a drum. He was never drinking again.
With a snarl he finally acknowledged Jaskier. “What?”
“I’ve asked you how many eggs you want five times. I know it’s usually three after a night out, but I wanted to check and what does my generosity get me?! An absolute disregard of my existence.”
Geralt watched as Jaskier prattled in an increasingly ridiculous manner while he continued to make scrambled eggs. He was too hungover to understand what the other man was saying—truthfully, he had trouble keeping up with Jaskier normally, but his concentration was being further broken by that little blemish on his lip. How hadn’t he noticed it before?
His legs moved of their own volition and three strides later he was standing beside him. Jaskier had yet to notice his shift in position, still going on his rant, but that could wait. This was far more important.
Using all the tenderness he possessed, he gently placed his hand on Jaskier’s jaw and slowly brought Jaskier’s gaze to meet his own. Jaskier finally paused midword, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he tilted his head.
“Geralt, what—?”
“What happened?”
Before Jaskier could ask for clarification, Geralt swiped his thumb along the scar, savoring the warmth of Jaskier’s skin. It was so soft, even the small ridge where the old wound did not blend in with its surroundings. He’d known Jaskier’s skin was soft. They’d brushed against each other several times while they’d lived together. It was bound to happen when living in an apartment the size of a shoe box. Between that and Jaskier’s tactile nature, Geralt had felt the smoothness of his roommate’s skin before, but not like this.
Suddenly realizing that his touch has lingered too long, Geralt tears away his hand, noting that his hand felt colder than ever after taking it away from Jaskier’s warmth. He shouldn’t have given into the temptation of touching Jaskier like that. Now he would know what he was missing.
Tearing his gaze away from the scar, Geralt realized that Jaskier was uncharacteristically silent. The younger man hadn’t said a word, his own hand trailing towards his lips and ghosting over the scar. Geralt watched in confusion as Jaskier’s eyebrows drew together before his lips formed a perfect O-shape.
“Oh. That.”
Jaskier blushed and turned back towards the eggs, throwing himself into the job of keeping them unburned and edible. Geralt watched him intently, knowing that Jaskier would eventually say something more. The man always had something to say.
Geralt was right. Jaskier soon sighed, something Geralt knew signalled that Jaskier was preparing to speak, but something wasn’t right. Jaskier’s shoulders were hunching inwards, as though he were trying to make himself look smaller, and his usual sunny smile was dimmed by something more than the hangover plaguing them both. All of this pointed to one truth: something was wrong.
“Just a small scar from childhood. Got it from falling off the jungle gym at school.”
Geralt furrowed his brows, trying to move Jaskier’s face towards him once more, but this time he found resistance. With a sigh of defeat, Geralt replied, “I’ve never seen it before.”
Jaskier nodded, his eyes staring intently at the eggs. “I usually cover it up. Forgot to do it this morning. Must be more hungover than I thought.” Jaskier smiled, but it appeared more like a grimace.
This was wrong. Jaskier was never embarrassed about his body. He walked around the apartment in little to no clothing and the walls were thin enough that Geralt knew he had his fair share of partners, but—
Well, now that he thought about it, Jaskier spent a lot of time in front of the mirror every morning. He would primp and preen, ensuring that not a single-hair could be found out of place. Sometimes Jaskier would say no to pizza with their friends, saying that he should really order a salad instead and god forbid he had a pimple! He’d once cancelled a date because he had a zit on his forehead.
Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise that Jaskier would be this worked up over a tiny facial scar.
He was drawn out of his thoughts by Jaskier’s sharp snort of laughter. “I know it’s not a pretty sight, trust me. Doesn’t suit me at all, not like your scars. If only!”
Geralt watched as Jaskier used the spatula to move the eggs around the pan. He was still trying to understand what Jaskier was talking about when his roommate kept going.
“I’ve been covering it up since I got it. My mother hated it, always said it was a shame that I’d ruined my pretty face so young and it is a shame because I need my face for my career. I can’t believe I’ve gotten so sloppy, but don’t worry about it, you won’t be seeing it again—”
Those last words drew Geralt out of his shock and thrust him back into action. “That’s bullshit.”
“What?” Geralt flinched at Jaskier’s hurt tone and the confusion shining in his eyes, and it takes a moment for him to understand why.
“No, no, not the part about me not seeing it again. Everything else. You’re beautiful, Jaskier.” Geralt trailed off as he spoke those three words, his friend’s name coming out as a whisper.
There was a moment of silence as both men stared at one another, each waiting for the other to make their move. When Jaskier stayed uncharacteristically silent, Geralt continued.
“You are. Anyone would tell you that, and a small little scar won’t change that. I’m just glad it isn’t new.” Geralt looked up into Jaskier’s eyes to find confusion, so he continued. “I thought you’d gotten it over the summer while I wasn’t there to protect you.” He gently brushed his thumb over the small blemish, his skin burning once more where he touched Jaskier. He was like a moth drawn to a flame, and he knew he’d never forget the feel of Jaskier’s skin against his own.
Jaskier smiled, his blue eyes filling with tears as he placed his hand over Geralt’s, clasping them together against his cheek. “Oh you sweet, sweet man. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Your response scared me more, Jask,” he replied, his eyes continuing to dart down towards his lips. “You are beautiful. You don’t need to cover this up.”
“But—”
“No,” Geralt said, cutting off whatever ridiculous comeback danced on his silver-tongue. “You’re handsome and smart and—fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t have the words. I’m not a poet like you are, but you shouldn’t feel ashamed of such a tiny thing when you’re so much more.”
There was silence as Jaskier took in the words he’d said. He hoped they’d come out right. Although he was no poet, he would always try for Jaskier.
“But—”
Geralt rolled his eyes and leaned in closer, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s. He felt the small gasp of shock against his lips, but it was soon replaced by an eager tongue and a wicked smile. It was everything he’d dreamed it would be, except—
Geralt pulled away, the reality of what he’d done sinking in. He’d kissed Jaskier. He’d kissed him and Jaskier had kissed him back, but what if it had been a mistake? What if Jaskier hadn’t wanted to kiss him? Shit, he’d held back his feelings for years and this was what destroyed everything? He’d have to start apartment hunting and apologize—well he could do that last bit now.
“Sorry,” Geralt murmured as he tried to pull away, but he found himself tugged back with a familiar pair of lips pressing hungrily against his lips.
This kiss was quick compared to the first and Jaskier soon broke away, breathing heavily as he looked into Geralt’s eyes. “Don’t apologize. I’ve been waiting for that for years.”
Geralt blinked, momentarily unable to deal with the fact that Jaskier had loved him back for years. They could’ve been doing that for years, but Geralt had more pressing matters to deal with.
He traced the length of Jaskier’s cheekbones, his nose, his lips, ending with the small scar that had started this conversation.
“They’re not ugly. You’re pretty.”
Geralt watched as Jaskier’s eyes softened. A smile worked its way onto his face as the singer replied, “You really think so?”
“I know so.”
Jaskier opened his mouth, but before he could speak Geralt saw him sniff the air, confusion flooding his face.
“Shit, the eggs!” Without another word, Jaskier bolted towards the stove and pulled the smoking pan off the hob.
Geralt watched as Jaskier fanned away smoke and frantically opened windows, letting those kisses play through his mind. They were perfect. Everything he’d dreamed of, notwithstanding the burned eggs. It wouldn’t have been a moment with Jaskier without one of his idiosyncrasies making things interesting.
For now, he had to make sure the fire alarms wouldn’t go off and make their hangovers worse. They’d have time to talk later.
In which Geralt goes nonverbal after a fight and Jaskier is soft with him
1000 words
CW: brief mention of canon-typical violence, but no details and one swear word (for luck)
thank you @thecomfortofoldstorries and @veritasrose for proofreading and cheerleading! <3 this story was inspired by both of your and @hailhailsatan ‘s wonderful soft writing, thank you for being wonderful and sharing your incredible writing!
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“Geralt, are you okay?” Jaskier asked as he sprung up from where he had been sitting in front of their camp fire when Geralt walked back to the clearing. He had just dispatched a nest of nekkers. Not a bad fight, but it had taken hours to track them down, kill every one of these little fuckers and blow up their nest. And now he was exhausted.
The nest had been in a cave and he had taken cat to see better in the darkness. Even though the potion had mostly worn off and it was the dead of night, the light from the full moon stung too bright in his eyes. The adrenaline still rushing through his body made his skin prickle and the sound of his own footsteps was too loud in his ears.
-
When Geralt didn’t answer, Jaskier knew what kind of night this was.
Sometimes when Geralt came back after a fight, still full of adrenaline and potions, it was hard for him to talk. It wasn’t impossible, he could force himself to do it, but it took a lot of energy and he was always glad when he did not have to.
And he was glad that Jaskier understood. They had talked about it after one of his first hunts after they started travelling together because the bard got worried when Geralt had been even more taciturn than usual.
-
Geralt sat down next to Jaskier and unstrapped his swords. A moment later he exhaled and slumped his shoulders forward. Slowly and carefully Jaskier leaned his shoulder against Geralt’s, testing out if he wanted the physical closeness tonight.
Jaskier had learned that in these moments it was easier for Geralt to touch.
Not that the witcher often had the opportunity for it. On the path he did not have many friends he trusted like that and in the winters at Kaer Morhen monsters and real fights were thankfully rare these days so these particular situations rarely arose.
But the bard had wormed his way through Geralt’s defences with his open nature, soft touches and not the slightest whiff of fear about him. Learning to trust Jaskier had been a slow and rocky process, but with his unwavering patience they had found something that worked for both of them.
-
Geralt sighed and leaned into him. Jaskier smiled at that and hummed. They sat like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, staring into the fire.
A few moments later Jaskier got up, moved in front of Geralt and knelt down, looking up into the golden eyes of his friend. There was no smile on the witcher’s face but Jaskier saw his expression soften. Slowly Geralt closed his eyes and leaned his head forward, till their foreheads rested against each other.
Jaskier had closed his eyes as well and enjoyed their closeness. He listened to Geralt’s slow and rhythmic breathing and the crackle of the fire behind him. He was thankful that Geralt felt so comfortable with him by now.
The bard laid his hand into Geralt’s bigger one, giving him another point of contact, something to hold onto and feel. Geralt looked at him, opened his mouth and breathed in as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. He drew his eyebrows together in a frown and opened his mouth once more, but only an annoyed huff came out.
Jaskier squeezed his hand and said quietly, “no need to say anything, I’m here.”
Even on the best of days words to describe his feelings and needs did not come easy to him. And today they were a jumble in his head. He could have picked out a few like ‘friend’, ‘I need’ or ‘thank you’, but it was easier for him to touch and be touched, to feel.
So he leaned back and squeezed Jaskier’s hand softly in return. Then he lifted it to his lips - not to kiss, but to feel it with the sensitive skin there and let the four knuckles of Jaskier’s fingers glide against his lips.
Jaskier’s hand smelled of Roach and the leather of her saddle, a trace of smoke when he must have lit the fire and the faint scent of the walnut oil he used for the strings of his lute. This mix of odours was warm and strangely calming.
He turned and opened Jaskier’s hand and pressed the palm to his lips. He could feel the calluses from his lute playing but also from their life on the path - collecting and chopping wood, carrying heavy bags and even from holding the dagger Geralt had given him and made him practise with. The bard’s palm was warm and the scent of it stronger there.
Jaskier let his hand wander to the side of Geralt’s face and stroked his cheekbone with his thumb.
“Let me help you out of your armor,” he said softly. Geralt nodded but stayed motionless.
So Jaskier unstrapped the three buckles of his breastplate and slowly guided it down his arms. After that he unstrapped the kneepads so Geralt was just in his normal clothes. Jaskier could see more and more of the tension seeping out of him.
He placed his hands on the witcher’s knees, and looked at him with a question in his gaze. They locked eyes for a moment before Geralt nodded slightly. Jaskier sat up on his knees and leaned forward. Slowly, to give Geralt the time to adjust, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, drawing him into a hug.
Geralt sighed and let his head drop onto Jaskier’s shoulder. Then he put his arms around his middle and drew him closer. It was nice to feel the bard. After a day of fighting, death and exhaustion it was immensely calming to hold his friend, this human who was so full of energy and joy that he so willingly shared. Geralt buried his face in Jaskier’s neck and sighed.
A while later Jaskier drew back and searched Geralt’s face once more. When the witcher looked back, he asked, “okay?”
Geralt nodded and Jaskier stood up. He walked over to their saddlebags and got out a wooden cup that he filled with hot tea, that had been brewing over the fire.
“Drink this and I will make us dinner,” he said as he handed the cup to Geralt.
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yeah I wrote this pretty much immediately because it's so fucking cute
no tws only smooching
---
To Jaskier, Geralt is the brightest and most beautiful light in all the world. He's more drawn to the soft-hearted Witcher than anything else. Whenever Geralt is away, the Fae sits in the middle of his nest in the dark and yearns. He waits patiently for his darling to return home to him, carrying the warmth of daylight in the golden hues of his gorgeous eyes.
Jaskier leaps to his feet when he hears the front door open, his wings fluttering behind him as if urging him to speed up. He bursts into the front hall with a wide grin plastered across his face, his antennae twitching excitedly. "Dear heart!"
"Jaskier!" Geralt wraps his arms around the cryptid and spins him in a quick circle.
"How are you, darling?" Jaskier asks, checking Geralt over for any new injuries. The Witcher gently bats his hands away before putting his hands back around Jaskier's hips.
"I'm fine. I could still use a kiss, though."
Jaskier flushes prettily and bites his lip, gazing up through his lashes at the white-haired Witcher holding him close. "I suppose I could manage."
He closes the scant space between them and presses their lips together, letting the tender moment stretch out for a few more heartbeats. He cards his fingers through Geralt's silvery tresses and pulls them more tightly together. The Witcher licks against his mouth and Jaskier yields to him, melting against that broad chest and knowing he'll always be safe in this embrace.
When they pull apart for air, Jaskier laughs breathlessly. "Oh darling," he coos after a moment to gather his composure, "Come back to the nest so I can welcome you home properly."
Geralt grins and allows himself to be tugged down the hall to the guest - no, Jaskier's room.
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Stay….he says. It’s what he always says, as though Jaskier was a small child or a particularly wayward puppy. He was neither of these things, obviously, but as he opens his mouth to protest for the umpteenth time, knowing full-well the argument is absolutely fruitless and completely self-indulgent he finds himself dispelled abruptly with the witcher’s second favorite silencing mechanism; piercing golden death glare. But, Jaskier was a man of principle, and arguing with Geralt was just that…a matter of principle.
Stay, Geralt whisper hisses over his shoulder, handing him Roach’s reins before sneaking ahead into an abandoned cave or shack or fog shrouded thicket or other such likely place, securing the area like some sort of overgrown, witchery body-guard. And while Geralt playing the big, bad protector did indeed have a rather charming ‘knight-in-shining-armor’ ring to it, Jaskier wasn’t completely useless.
Stay, he growls as he bandages Jaskier’s wounds, obtained more oft than not by merely tripping over his own feet, but that was hardly the point.
Stay, he says through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of Jaskier’s doublet and hauling him quickly behind the edge of a building before stepping out to put himself between Jaskier and this week’s angry lord, which sends a blush blooming in his cheeks for entirely different reasons. But, he had succeeded in out-foxing many a past dalliance long before Geralt came along and was well practiced at looking out for himself, thankyouverymuch.
Stay, Geralt orders before he takes off on a hunt, leaving Jaskier behind in camp or at an Inn, and no matter how he huffs and puffs and complains that if Geralt describes one more monster as ‘He was one-hundred feet tall with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing teeth’, the witcher merely quirks a smile at him, golden eyes effectively rooting him to the spot once more as he swings up into the saddle and takes off into the growing twilight…and Jaskier absolutely does not swoon at that.
“Stay.” Geralt repeats even now, like a bloody mantra, and Jaskier barely looks up from where he’s scratching various rhymes and lyrics into his notebook with his tongue caught between his teeth.
*
Jaskier knows Geralt’s been gone too long as he strides up to the front of the tavern he’s playing in for his second set of the evening and the dim, corner table near the back remains steadfastly empty.
He knows Geralt’s been gone far too long as he gathers his coin and tucks away his lute, turning toward the stair leading up to their room with a worrying twist in his gut.
He knows something must be absolutely wrong as the hour turns later and later, pushing well into the realm of the wee morning with still no Geralt. So, he makes like any good friend, and builds himself up with reassurances that Geralt’s condition that he ‘stay’ surely came with provisos like ‘In the event of a Griffin evisceration, send help…particularly a devastatingly handsome bard with eyes the color of the bluest sky, and lips as sweet as cherry pie…strong enough to bench an ox and hands I wish would wrap my c—’ Okay, okay perhaps the last part was a bit wishful, but a bard could dream. More importantly, Geralt could be in trouble, and that certainly wouldn’t do…for a variety of reasons.
With one dagger tucked safely in his boot and another hidden away inside his doublet, he grabs his cloak and sets off into the night. The mayor who had contracted Geralt in the first place was understandably disgruntled, brushing his valet aside as Jaskier’s incessant hammering of the door, practically fit to break it in, finally yields results. Jaskier draws himself up importantly, waving aside the poor man’s outrage at the late night interrruption and proceeds to interrogate him about the location of the latest big bad Wyvern Geralt has been commissioned to dispatch. After talking the poor mayor hoarse, and apologizing again for the late hour, he bows his way off the front stoop and heads off in the direction of the mayor’s half-lucid gesturing, hoping against hope that he’s made the right choice.
There’s surely no better recipe for worry than walking alone down a dark forest path in the middle of the night by one’s self, fretting in equal measure about A. whether he’s made the right decision about venturing out in the first place; he had seen Geralt in action before, and knew the witcher was more than capable of taking care of himself. He flushed richly just thinking about how Geralt’s muscles rippled and flexed in the midst of a battle, effectively obliterating any wonder of why there was even a fight in the first place upon more than one occasion, and B. Hoping against hope that Geralt wasn’t actually seriously hurt, and that the hunt was just taking longer than normal because Wyverns were, by all accounts, very flighty and unpredictable beasts…with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing teeth…bloody hell.
It takes Jaskier a surprisingly shorter amount of time to find Geralt than he thought it would, which was both a blessing and a curse as the witcher lay propped against a boulder breathing raggedly with a hand pressed over what appeared, even at a distance, to be a rather sizeable gash across his lower abdomen.
“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps aloud, closing the remaining distance between them at a desperate stumble.
“Jaskier…” Geralt breathes, drawing a slow, pained breath, “I told you to…”
“…I know, I know…stay” Jaskier shoots back, skidding onto his knees at Geralt’s side and examining the wound. It’s deep, judging by the blood that’s seeping slowly over Geralt’s fingers, and Jaskier swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep a cool head as he turns instead to rummage in his pack. He withdraws a bottle of alcohol (definitely not the drinking kind) and yanks the cork out with his teeth.
“Right now, I need you to stay…stay still unless you want me to suture your elbow to your crotch.” He manages to muster a small, encouraging smile as Geralt’s eyes flicker to his, before emptying the bottle over the wound, eliciting a sharp hiss from the witcher that makes Jaskier’s chest clench. He squeezes his eyes shut in a tight grimace as Geralt swears aloud, but he pushes it desperately aside, holding a small needle and thread up to his eyes. Jasier can see Geralt’s jaw clench and unclench in his periphery as he sets the point of the needle to the witkcher’s flesh. He can feel that piercing golden gaze on his face as he closes the wound, nimble fingers making quick work of the suturing and trying not concentrate on the way Geralt’s chest shudders with each stitch.
*
Stay, Jaskier whispers, helping him up on to Roach before climbing up in front and clicking the mare to a brisk walk so as not to disturb Geralt’s wounds.
Stay, Jaskier says reassuringly, lowering Geralt onto the bed and squeezing his hand just briefly before crossing the room to retrieve bandages.
Stay, he says, trying on his best imitation of Geralt’s glare before disappearing downstairs to retrieve food and Geralt’s favorite drink just so he can see the rare but nonetheless genuine smile Geralt reserved for the things he holds dearest in life (Ale, Roach and…well perhaps Jaskier ranked in there somewhere even if Geralt wasn’t exactly forthcoming…)
“…and now you’re going to stay here and rest…and let me take care of you…” He croons reassuringly, sitting upon the edge of the bed and reaching up hesitantly to brush a stray strand of silver off of Geralt’s face as the witcher levels him an un-readable look.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than Jaskier’s suddenly leaping from the bed as though burned, a wide-eyed look of comprehension dawning on his face as he darts across the room to his bag, wherein he knew resided an old dictionary. Ignoring Geralt’s grunts of surprise that chase over his retreating shoulder, his fingers flip madly through the pages until he finds the one he’s looking for:
Stay; /sta/ To remain in a specified state or position. To delay harm or risk or hurt. To prevent the threat of danger, harm, or loss. Often to impose the protection or safe-guarding of something valuable.
With an effort, Jaskier un-sticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallows the lump in his throat, a somewhat guilty sensation writhing in his chest….
…Geralt had been taking care of him all this time.
‘Safe-guarding something valuable’ loops on repeat in his head as he closes the old book and slides it back into his bag before rising slowly and turning back toward the bed. He finds Geralt’s inquisitive golden gaze, the hard lines of his brow drawn in a question, and Jaskier finds himself fumbling for the right words.
“Y’know, just…thought of a word for a song..” He murmurs, waving a hand dismissively when Geralt simply continues to stare at him with a look that is equal parts concern as though he had suddenly taken ill and something else that he could only describe as indifference…which Geralt could hardly be condemned for, as impulsively diving for his notebook was something Jaskier was indeed prone to doing, and often.
“You can uh…you should take the bed and I’ll kip on the floor here….” He produces awkwardly but Geralt’s penetrating gaze doesn’t falter.
Suddenly there’s a hand on his forearm as Geralt’s fingers close tentatively around it;
@wherethewordsare suggested “soft drunk kisses” and how could i resist
“Well and then I--Darling, Darling, what are you doing?” Jaskier interrupted himself, laughing.
Geralt just hummed into Jaskier’s neck, and continued to press soft, somewhat wet kisses against his skin. His fingers splayed out over Jaskier’s abdomen, holding him close, and he had long since lost the trail of Jaskier’s conversation. It was fine. He and the other bard weren’t paying much attention to Geralt. At least, not until now, as Jaskier’s fingers began to card through Geralt’s hair.
“Excuse me,” Jaskier said, though he sounded far more fond than apologetic. “It seems my witcher had has a bit too much to drink.”
Jaskier tugged Geralt away, pulling some grumbles from Geralt as he tried to keep Jaskier close. His hand cupped the back of Jaskier’s neck and he slid his other hand around to Jaskier’s hip as they stumbled... wherever Jaskier was taking them. They barely got outside the door before Geralt pressed Jaskier bodily against a wall.
“My love, we are not in our room yet. You’re being remarkably forward,” Jaskier said into Geralt’s hair as Geralt trailed kisses along Jaskier’s shoulder, up his neck, and along his jaw. “My, aren’t you affectionate? You lovely thing, you.”
Geralt gave Jaskier a sleepy smile, then leaned in to pepper soft kisses along Jaskier’s lips. Any other time, Geralt would probably be embarrassed at how doting he was being now. However, with the alcohol in him, he found he didn’t much care. Especially not with how pretty Jaskier looked with wet lips and rosy cheeks. He could be embarrassed later. For now, Jaskier demanded to be kissed.
