The Messenger of Gabriel

Okay, but look, all the other witches and sorceress on the whole damn continent know that Geralt is an amazing witcher, but not the sharpest knife in the armory when it comes to those close to him. And they all clearly see that Jaskier is a vampire - probably because you know he has written a really popular and clearly about himself song about how wonderful vampires are if you give them a chance.

“Bit weird how Jaskier doesn’t age,” Eskel says to Geralt.

“He says joy for life keeps him young, and like five creams from Toussaint,” Geralt replies.

“He really has an aversion to holy symbols, doesn’t he?” Vesemir points out.

“Well really, what have the gods ever done for people?” Geralt returns.

“He’s really fucking strong, Geralt, in case you haven’t noticed!” Lambert gestures to where Jaskier is carrying rubble like it is a feather.

“Knows how to lift and all that walking he does with me,” Geralt just shrugs and picks up so keep rubble himself.

“Geralt?” Ciri smells scared, “He’s eating a person?”

“No no, we are very clear on this, people who try to kill you are no longer classified as people, and just prey,” Geralt explains and turns her back just like his had been. “See this way, when people ask, we can say honestly, we’ve never seen it.”

“Geralt, he’s a vampire, I’ve seen you kill vampires,” Ciri whispers and is clutching his hand. “Jaskier, is eating people.”

“Jaskier, are you eating people?”

“No, they tried to hurt Ciri, not people, prey, and remember you can honestly say I don’t eat people - drinking is not eating.”

“See, sparrow, all good,” Geralt says cheerfully. “Remember to check their pockets for anything we can sell.”

“Of course my love!” Jaskier calls back. 

“Geralt, I don’t understand, witchers kill monsters.”

“A witcher makes a choice every day about what sort of hunter they are,” Geralt goes and sits on a rock so they can be eye to eye while Jaskier finishes his dinner. “Do I kill godlings?” Ciri shakes her head. “Trolls who have caused no harm?” She shakes her head again. “Do we kill a vampire, who just wants to sing songs and wander by our side, and has agreed to follow very strict rules about whom and whom not he can drink from?” Ciri pauses and shakes her head. “There are a lot of monsters out there Ciri, and my job is to teach you to recognize the difference between monstrous and a monster.” He smooths her hair down. “He loves us, sparrow, we’re safe.” 

“Of course you are, besides I’ve eaten a witcher, you lot just taste awful,” Jaskier says as he comes over, wiping his mouth on a hankerchief. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

Geralt hangs his head a bit. “I almost had her fine with you.”

Ciri thinks about the man who makes her flower crowns, and is teaching her music, and physically jumps in front of her to protect her from anything and everything in the world. She hugs Jaskier and he hugs her back, and Geralt sweeps them both up in an embrace.

A few months later Yen pulls Ciri to the side, “Bit odd, how Jaskier can seem to be in one place and then another isn’t it?”

Ciri just shrugs, “Has had to climb out of a lot of women’s windows, makes you fast and sneaky.”

The Gaang and their elements

(Not my art)

“No, no, far too many ruffles.”

The rejected garment comes flying over the screen and lands in Geralt’s lap. Geralt has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do with it. The whole experience of being in a clothes shop, much less a fancy tailoring store like this one, is not something he’s comfortable with.

Still, the experience has its perks. Jaskier pops his head out from behind the screen, and Geralt is treated to the sight of his thick shoulders, scandalously uncovered, showing off hard cords of muscle and the elegant line of his neck.

“... don’t you think, Geralt?”

Geralt blinks. He’s missed something, apparently. But Jaskier merely rolls his eyes and ducks back behind the screen. There’s the rustling of fabric and Geralt can only imagine what’s going on behind there, his heart picking up imagining Jaskier in a state of undress so nearby.

“How about this?” Jaskier appears from behind the screen clad in a pair of elegantly decorated blue silk trousers and nothing else, and Geralt’s heart does something funny as he takes in Jaskier’s broad chest, dusted with dark hair. “I think the color brings out my eyes, don’t you agree?”

“Hnnngg,” Geralt says.

Jaskier pouts. “No need to be rude.” He disappears again.

The next time he appears, he is, fortunately for Geralt’s sanity, wearing a shirt of soft loose linen. But he’s wearing it with a pair of cropped trousers, cut so short that when Jaskier strolls out Geralt can see not only his ankles, but also his calves.

Geralt’s mouth is dry. His head is spinning. Going shirtless is one thing, but to show off an ankle? This is surely scandalous even by Jaskier’s libertine standards.

Jaskier does a little turn, examining his reflection in the polished metal mirror. As he turns, Geralt watches, entranced, as the muscles of his calves slide and contract. It might be the most sensual thing he’s ever clapped eyes on.

Jaskier eyes his outfit, oblivious to the effect it’s having on Geralt. “Maybe it’ll be good for parties in Toussaint. What do you reckon?”

“Hebleugh,” Geralt manages.

Work inspired by lovely poetry by @cowboyjimkirk their edits are so good!!

Theory: Their saliva is antibacterial/disinfectant.

Do they have fresh breath first thing after waking up in the morning and french-kissing your witcher is as refreshing as rinsing wit mouthwash?

Can they literally kiss your wounds better?

Because I can see applications for that.

Of the “Geralt does not have soft, squishy feelings for Jaskier, he’s only kissing him for medical reasons” variety.

Whisper-soft kisses placed with the utmost care on the hot, swollen skin of Jaskier’s side, tender but meticulous as he follows the line of stitches he put there himself earlier. Each kiss is an apology for the bite of the needle, the drag-pull of thread through trembling flesh Geralt had held in place, his hand a vice against Jaskier’s instinctive attempts to evade the pain. Up the red, angry line, and down.

And once he’s done, once he has washed and stitched and [kissed] disinfected where the claw carved into the soft, defenseless skin of his stomach, levered him up into a sitting position, carefully, carefully, and wrapped a bandage around Jaskier’s middle.

Then, almost finished, he slips behind Jaskier and lets him lean back against his chest, because it’s warmer than the ground and Jaskier is shaking with pain and shock and exhaustion, and lifts Jaskier’s hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists. He uncurls finger after finger, slowly, until Jaskier’s hands lie lax in his and he can see where his nails have dug deep, bloody half-moons into his palms, and presses kisses to those, too, one, two, three kisses on the dirty, salty skin for each of the tiny wounds, because after all this Geralt will be damned if it’s the dirt under his nails that brings Jaskier down.

They sit like that all night. Geralt awake and aware, one ear on their surroundings and one on Jaskier as his short, shallow breaths slow and deepen, as his trembling eases and he slips into exhausted sleep, and Jaskier insensate, dead to the world but alive, unaware of the times when Geralt brings his hands back to his mouth and repeats his earlier actions, one, two, three, one, two, three, each kiss a benediction, simultaneously blessing and thanks that Jaskier is safe in his arms, warm and healing, that tomorrow, he will wake up, wash off the stench of blood and pain and fear, and Geralt will not have to leave this place alone.

Jaskier will stay young and essentially immortal as long as someone is singing his songs. 

“Jaskier.”

His name was said in that kind of tone which is Geralt’s kind of panic; still about as raspy and deep as it always is, but just that hint of strain and a tad bit pitched. It was adorable, really. At least to Jaskier. Now was no different, as the Witcher was standing in the doorway of their room, gripping the edge of the doorway, amber eyes wide and strands of hair having escaped his hair band, making him almost look frayed.

“Geralt?” As adorable as it was, it didn’t stop a slight worry to stir within Jaskier.

“Help.” That wasn’t a word that Geralt usually used, making the amused expression on Jaskier’s face vanish completely. Setting his lute aside, he slid of the bed where he had comfortably made his little nest of notes and future ideas.

“Geralt? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Talk to me, I–” While he was approaching Geralt, there was a noise. A soft twitter– No. Quack. There were quacks. When he finally ended up in front of the Witcher and looked down, there was a handful of small, yellow ducklings crowding Geralt’s feet. Five of them were waddling in place, looking up at Geralt with large, dark eyes while a single little rascal was nipping at the heel of the man’s boot.

“Help.” It sounded, if possible, even more panicked this time. Jaskier blinked once, twice, then burst into laughter.

“Oh, Melitele’s sweet fucki–”

“No swearing.”

“What?” Jaskier almost choked on his laughter. Geralt didn’t respond, only glanced down at the small ducklings, making the bard laugh even harder.

“Oh. Oh, this will be the story of my greatest ballad yet! The Witcher and The Six Ducklings!” The small birds were almost as ecstatic as him, making small peeps and flapping their small wings.

“Take this seriously, please.” Geralt sounded anxious, bending down to pick up the one trying to consume is shoe, holding it gingerly between his large hands, 

“What do I do?” Trying to calm down, Jaskier cleared his throat and put his hands on his hips, looking down onto the five small ones, then up to the rowdy thing in Geralt’s hands.

“Well, first of all, do not name them. When you do that, I hear you get attached.” Looking up at the Witcher, Geralt immediately had a look of guilt. “Oh, what did 

you–”

“This is Lambert.” Geralt interrupted, holding up the one in his hands, “Because he is a prickly bastard.”

Netflix!Geralt: *sustained silence, leaves him alone on the cliff*

Game!Geralt: Or... hear me out... we could retire to a picturesque Toussaint vineyard where we spend our days drinking fine wine?

Book!Geralt: You're my friend, and I love you, but we've got shit to do. Maybe later.

He started out their travels as a spindly little noodle of a kid. Muscles not having come in quite yet as his body shoved all its energy into making him Tall. But slowly. Slowly all those countless miles walked and saddles hefted and windows climbed in and out of changed him.

He had muscle now. But he wasn’t silly enough to think he compared to the farmers who hefted straw bales like they were nothing. To the knights who swung swords all day. The townsfolk were being polite and the nobles. Well they spent a lot of time on their asses. No wonder they thought his was nice.

Sure. He managed to carry Geralt back to camp when he got injured- but that was pure adrenaline. People did remarkable things when the people they cared about were in danger.

And Sure, Geralt always responded to his shoves and wrestling. But he was just letting himself be moved. Jaskier couldn’t make the man budge if he didn’t want to.

Me: *reads an entire 40k fanfiction in one sitting*

Clock: 3 am

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3  Part 4 Inspired by @spielzeugkaiser art here

Also now on Ao3 cause that’s probably easier for everyone. (And someone asked)

It was odd. Being around someone who knew.

Someone who didn’t look at him strange when he took on his other forms a little too much. Who would scruffed him like a kitten when he got a bit to hissy or would throw him a stick when he got too antsy like a dog or would just heave him into a lake for a swim when he got too dry or toss him into the air when he got too grounded or-

That probably wasn’t normal. Humans didn’t get too dry or too grounded because they hadn’t been an otter or a bird in a long time. Other bards spoke about wanting to fly, to soar, to fall without hitting the ground in ways that had made his arms itch to feather and flap but it seemed more a metaphor for freedom then actual longing for flight.

It was odd. Being around someone who looked less human than he did but was, without a doubt, more human than he was.

He told Geralt that when they were chased out of town to the choruses of Mutant. Monster.

Witcher.

But it never felt enough, because what did Jaskier know about being human? He was perhaps better imposter. That was all.