“Mmph?” Jaskier peeks one eye out from the nest of blankets he’s ensconced in and looks around suspiciously. The sun is streaming in through the narrow window and everything appears safe enough, so he cautiously ventures one foot out from under the covers, exploring the temperature…
Andnope, far too cold, fuck that. He withdraws his foot from the freezing air and burrows deeper into his blanket pile.
He hears the door being pushed open and the clink of two mugs which may well contain tea, followed by a sigh that suggests fond exasperation. “If you’re not out of bed soon, Vesemir will come in here and throw a bucket of water over you.”
Jaskier peeks his face out far enough for Geralt to see his expression of appalled horror. “He wouldn’t.”
Geralt stifles a smile. “It’s how he used to wake Eskel and I when we overslept. I’m not sure he’d dare treat a visitor that way though.”
Jaskier wriggles smugly in his warm cocoon. “I have you here to protect me if he tries.”
“I don’t know…” Geralt places a mug of tea next to him on the low table and perches on the side of the bed. “Maybe I’ll leave you to his mercy. Get you Kaer Morhen trained.”
Jaskier gives him a look of haughty offense and experiments with sticking one hand out from his nest. The cold is obnoxious, but it’s tolerable enough to risk grabbing a sip of tea. As he places the mug back on the table, Geralt catches his wrist and runs gentle fingers over the sensitive skin there.
“However should I tempt you out of bed?” he asks, eyes sparkling.
Jaskier shrugs, though it’s likely impossible to see beneath the mound of fabric and fur he’s buried in. “Can’t be done in this cold.”
Geralt nods solemnly. “Only one thing for it then,” he says, kicking off his boots and scrabbling at the pile of blankets.
The freezing air hits Jaskier’s side with a whomp.“You fiend! You monster! If you leave me in this cold, I shall surely perish!”
Geralt laughs, a rich sound that warms Jaskier more than the layers of fabrics. He burrows his way into the pile and tugs Jaskier into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “I’ll have to keep you heated myself then.”
“Hmm.” Jaskier tucks his chilly toes around the back of Geralt’s calves and buries his face into the soft warmth of his chest. “I guess you’ll do.”
what is it about winters in kaer morhen that is so viscerally appealing?
having geralt be safe and loved and appreciated for once? the quiet domesticity of cooking and knitting and reading among witchers who spend most of their lives in violent conflict? the allure of a secret, forbidden place where only a chosen few can enter?
or perhaps it’s jaskier getting railed eight ways from sunday by a group of big burly men who are super horny and have literally no other outlet
“Oh!” Jaskier gasps, quick and breathy, when Geralt sinks his teeth into the juncture of his shoulder and neck.
“Too much?” Geralt laps at the bite mark already reddening on his skin as an apology. “Did I hurt you?”
The delightful rosy blush dusting Jaskier’s cheeks darkens a shade. “No…” He swallows thickly. “Well, yes, a bit, but I rather liked it.”
“Hmm.” Geralt noses at the spot he’s particularly fond of just behind Jaskier’s ear. He smells like musk and sweat and lavender, a combination which never fails to set his pulse racing, and he teases a line back down his neck with his mouth.
With each drag of teeth, Jaskier squirms in his lap. He’s so unashamedly tactile, so responsive, so open. Even now, he bends his head to bare his throat to Geralt, giving tacit permission to do as he will.
That kind of power is heady, and Geralt has always loved Jaskier’s neck. There were more times than he could count when he’d been distracted by the sweep of skin visible over a shirt collar, or the fascinating outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he performed. This intimate place, where Jaskier breathes and talks and sings, given over to him like a gift. He is truly rich beyond comprehension.
He bites down into the soft skin again, feeling the firm cords of muscle beneath. Jaskier inhales sharply, his pulse racing, and he can almost feel the blood pounding through his veins, so close to the surface, so vulnerable. He sucks at the skin there, lips and tongue exploring, seeing how he can make Jaskier moan and twitch.
“You’re going to leave a mark,” Jaskier breathes. He presses back into Geralt and grinds against him, the friction sending sparkles of pleasure through his body.
He inspects the red blemishes already blooming along his neck, climbing up far past what would be covered by a doublet. “Is that a problem?” he asks, voice raspy.
“Not for me.” Jaskier bites his lip and lets his head rest on Geralt’s shoulder.
Geralt goes back to worrying at the skin with his teeth, seeing what colours and patterns he can make bloom. The knowledge that Jaskier will be marked with his imprint for days in shades of crimson and purple has him hard as iron.
“There.” He eyes his work with satisfaction and laves over the marks one last time, soothing and inflaming at once. “Now everyone will know who you belong to.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Geralt’s voice is rough, strained from the way every muscle is clenched tight as Jaskier kisses a line along his jaw.
“Weabsolutely should.” Jaskier pauses for a moment to disagree before scraping his teeth along Geralt’s neck, hot lines of sensation against his skin that felt too good to resist, too much sensitivity for such a simple action.
“It’s not…”
Jaskier sinks his teeth into Geralt’s throat, sharp and fierce and just on the right side of painful, and whatever it isn’t is lost in a haze of wantandneedandmore that makes his whole body shake.
There are pink dots dancing in his peripheral vision and the rough bark of an oak tree digging into his back, enough to momentarily sharpen his focus.
“Jaskier.” With a tremendous effort of will, he pushes Jaskier away. His usually sparkling blue eyes now have pupils blown wide to two black pits and his cheeks are flushed a deep rosy red. “Those flowers. That pollen has done something to us. It’s affecting our minds.”
Jaskier’s brow furrows in concentration and he chews at his lip. Geralt suddenly, desperately wants those lips back on his skin, leaving marks on his chest, wrapped around his -
“Meh.” Jaskier goes back to pushing Geralt’s shirt aside and licking stripes along his collarbone. “Didn’t affect me that much.”
It did, Geralt wants to yell. It must have, or you wouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words. Then Jaskier’s hands are creeping up under the hem of his shirt and the feeling of touch on his bare chest is like fireworks exploding beneath the skin, wiping any remaining coherence from his mind.
The next minutes are a blur of heat and hunger and sensation, Jaskier’s hands and mouth everywhere on him, his head spinning. When Jaskier pushes him back against the tree and grinds their hips together, the sparkles in his vision twirl and glitter, a heady twist of indulgence.
“Do that again,” he gasps, and Jaskier hums, sounding so pleased with himself. That should be annoying, or at least he should pretend he finds it annoying, but right now he can’t remember why. It’s probably not important, and anyway Jaskier goes back to grinding against him and that’s where his thoughts end.
His armour ends up in a heap on the forest floor along with Jaskier’s clothes, bright blue silk interspersed among dark muddy leather. He’s vaguely away there as something he was supposed to remember, something he was supposed to do, or not do, but now there’s so much skin in front of him and every touch is like an explosion, Jaskier warm and pliant before him. Jaskier winds a hand into his hair and that’s nice, that’s soothing, and then he yanks and Geralt’s eyes roll back with the pleasure, the lust, the all-consuming greed for more.
There was something… Jaskier drops to his knees in the leafy mulch and Geralt can barely breathe with the anticipation, the longing. There was something important… He touches a thumb to Jaskier’s lips and he opens his mouth so easily, lapping at Geralt’s thumb with his tongue, hot and wet and tempting.
There was something, but it doesn’t matter now. Jaskier bends his head to swallow him down, and then there’s nothing but bright, white light.
Geralt rolls his eyes as Jaskier comes skidding to a halt in front of him. He dreads to imagine what trouble he’s gotten himself into now.
“Something terrible has happened! I had an, umm, unfortunate encounter with a sorcerer.” He blushes, pink creeping over his cheeks. “And he put some horrible curse on me and portaled away, the bastard.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.”
“And now I can’t touch anyone. Look!” Jaskier holds out a hand to stop a passerby. He goes to shake the confused man’s hand, but the moment their skin makes contact Jaskier gives a yelp of pain and leaps back.
That reaction isn’t feigned, Geralt is sure, even as the man gives them both an odd look and leaves.
“When you touch someone, does it hurt badly?”
Jaskier’s bottom lip wobbles. “It really does.”
He sighs. A lack of touch might be a mere annoyance for him, but he knows it’s more than that for Jaskier. “I’ve heard of a mage who specialises in lifting curses. But he’s all the way in Kovir, and that’s no small journey.”
Jaskier turns big, pleading eyes on him. “Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. You have to help me.”
As if he could ever refuse him anything. “Alright,” he grumbles. “We’ll head to Kovir.”
-
At first, Jaskier appears as bright as ever. Yet as the days pass, more and more often he chews his lip in a nervous habit, and he rubs his fingers together when people come too close. He smells of anxiety and restlessness.
Each evening, once the dinner has been eaten and the sun has set, they lay out their bedrolls by the embers of the fire. The scent of anxiety is replaced by one of loneliness and Jaskier will curl in on himself, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. It’s sad, how much lesser Jaskier seems to feel without touch.
Geralt is used to being shunned, to going months without a friendly clap on the shoulder or shake of the hand. But Jaskier isn’t, and the curse is taking a toll on him. Geralt wishes he could help, that he could provide some comfort, but he knows right now all he can cause Jaskier is pain.
Geralt stalks like a beast through the forest, strength and anger rippling beneath his skin and twisting into dark, bitter shapes.
The potions give him the edge he needs to take on larger, more dangerous monsters. But once the killing blow is struck and a trophy claimed, he’s left like this, with poison running through his veins and bile building in the back of his throat.
He feels raw, every nerve exposed, every sensation overwhelming and yet also distant. The Cat has sharpened his senses to flood the dark night with sickly white light, but spots of acute brightness dance in the corners of his vision and every twig cracked underfoot sounds like a thunderclap, reverberating throughout his body.
The Tawny Owl gives him the stamina to fight on long past the point a human would have dropped dead from exhaustion, but it doesn’t take away the tiredness deep in his bones. The weariness weighs on him like a yoke, dragging him down toward the earth, but he knows there is no way he’ll be able to rest or to sleep until the heavy thrumming clears from his bloodstream.
The potions are toxic and cruel, but he has made his peace with them and their necessity in his life. Still, he will not impose himself on others in this state, at his most base and vicious.
His eyes are black from pupil to sclera, more wolf than man, and thick, dark veins spread across the taught, pale skin of his face. He longs to snap and to tear with pointed canines, to rend and to rip with sharp claws. He vibrates with furious, animalistic energy, and any creature that comes into his orbit turns and flees the moment they catch sight of his monstrous visage.
He smells the bard before he sees him, and a ripple of rage runs through his chest. He’d told him to stay back at the village. He’d told him it wasn’t safe. In the months they’d been travelling together the bard had proven himself braver than his foppish appearance would suggest, but real dangers lurked in this forest.
Tonight, Geralt was the most dangerous of them all. He was all instinct and malignity, unfit for human company. And now he’d have to confront Jaskier in this state and see his horrified expression and smell his fear. The sharp, metallic tang of fear on the tongue was unpleasant at any point, but now, with his nerves frayed to the quick, it will be truly unbearable.
He resolves to get the damn confrontation over with and pushes into the campsite, all heavy steps and snarling teeth. Jaskier, who has been sat by the fire playing his lute, sucks in a quick breath when he catches sight of him. He waits for the screams of horror, the trembling of fear, the recriminations and excuses as Jaskier leaves. He braces himself for it like an oncoming storm.
Instead, Jaskier tilts his head to one side, considering. Geralt barely dares to move. “Huh,” Jaskier says, after a moment. “Is that a potion thing? Or a witcher thing? Or a you thing?”
Geralt doesn’t understand why he hasn’t run yet. He takes a step closer, lets Jaskier see his hideous form more clearly in the firelight. “Potions,” he snarls, waiting for the panic to set in.
“Huh,” Jaskier says again. He does not look panicked. He looks thoughtful. “Does it hurt?”
Geralt flinches back like he’s been struck. No one has ever asked him that before. Why would they? But Jaskier sits patiently, apparently awaiting an answer, so he grinds out the words. “Not exactly. It’s,” He casts around for a term to explain it. “Intense.”
Jaskier hums and gets to his feet. Now he will gather his things and make an excuse, and then he’ll be gone, frightened away by Geralt like everything else living.
Except Jaskier takes a step toward him. And then another. Geralt stands still as a statue, unwilling to frighten him further. Jaskier walks right up to him, bold as the day they’d met, and examines his face with unabashed interest.
“Would it help if I-” He wets his lips and Geralt follows the movement minutely. “- That is, can I -?” He lifts his hand and brushes the hair back from where it hangs in Geralt’s face, a movement so delicate and soft it feels like the ruffling of a breeze.
“There you are,” he says, and smiles.
This behaviour is mystifying, even by Jaskier’s standards. Geralt scents the air, trying to determine his mental state, looking for fear or confusion or disgust. He smells… he smells, honest to gods, only the sweet sickly cherry of arousal.
What the fuck?
Whatever this is, he won’t keep Jaskier here against his will. “You can leave,” he growls. Jaskier’s face falls. “If you want.”
Jaskier shakes his head sadly, and brings one hand up to delicately cup his cheek. Through the hum of toxicity, the touch is warm and kind and grounding. “Silly witcher,” he says, so softly. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”
“You can leave,” he growls. Jaskier’s face falls. “If you want.”
Jaskier shakes his head sadly, and brings one hand up to delicately cup his cheek. Through the hum of toxicity, the touch is warm and kind and grounding. “Silly witcher,” he says, so softly. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”
Find the fic that inspired this and the text above : Here
i am closer and closer to getting myself together and actually writing a dragon jaskier au for the new season. there’s a distinct lack of bamf dragon jaskier on ao3, gotta do everything myself over here smh
i missed all of you, so amazing to see so many of you still here can’t promise i’ll immediately be active again, but i’ve been slowly coming back to the fandom and hngh shirtless jaskier
Geralt who ages a lot slower than humans and therefore has a completely different understanding of age and to whom Jaskier still seems like a child, panics one day when asked about his relationship with the bard and says, “He’s my waif.”
People look at eighteen year old Jaskier who, by medieval time perception, is more than old enough to be married and have fathered a couple of children and go, “Yes. His wife.”
Soulmate au where you can’t lie when talking to your soulmate. Jaskier always tells Geralt the truth. Geralt doesn’t hide anything from Yennefer. Yennefer finds herself wanting to voice every thought when Jaskier is around.
okay but jaskier tries to play footsie with geralt beneath the table at kaer morhen but the problem with just SO FUCKING MANY tall people is that it’s easy to lose track of who’s who among the long legs beneath the table without looking, so really jaskier has played footsie with every wolf BUT geralt
