me thinking about whump+hurt/comfort to get to sleep every night:
me thinking about whump+hurt/comfort to get to sleep every night:
please stop hurting them
(In which I delve into songfic, and Jaskier is a pop-punk singer. Song is “Golden Days” by Panic! at the Disco.)
Oh don't you wonder when the light begins to fade? And the clock just makes the colors turn to grey Forever younger Growing older just the same
It’s a house in LA, or near enough as doesn’t really matter, overlooking the sweep of the Pacific Ocean and the molten red-gold of the sunsets, with warm stone walls and great windows and just enough space for three-and-a-guest, impossibly different from Jaskier’s parents’ McMansion and Geralt’s crumbling Polish castle and the tumbledown apartment they’d shared when they’d moved to New York, when Jaskier was playing gigs in whichever bar would take him and Geralt bounced for fancy clubs. Dingy rooms and uninterested people and bedsprings that creaked loud enough that they’d woken their neighbors more than once, and yet--
--and yet he remembers it with an aching kind of fondness, all the dreams they’d had together, reaching for the heights and never quite feeling like it was high enough, all the songs he’d penned when he was young and drunk and hopelessly optimistic on new love, draped over Geralt’s lap on that absolute monstrosity of a burnt-orange velvet couch he’d dragged home from a garage sale because they’d desperately needed new furniture while Roach, old Roach, with the rag-tag ears and improbably plumy tail for a domestic shorthair had purred away on his chest. He hums the songs he’d written then, for the two of them, ‘cause I swear I’d burn this city down to show you the light.
“Hey,” and Jaskier turns, finds himself tucked into a broad, warm chest, covered (still) in the black cotton Geralt’s always favored. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just-- thinking.”
Golden days, he thinks, and turns to watch the sunset spill over the waves, tips his head back to rest it against Geralt’s shoulder and breathe in the scent of him and the sea air and every memory they ever made together, from flimsy tour-bus bunks to hotel beds to the desperate way Geralt had taken him apart after he’d tried and failed to win a Grammy. “Us.”
“What about us?”
There’s someone playing music on the water, some yacht party or other, all lit up and glittering. We'll stay drunk, we'll stay tan, let the love remain, and I swear that I'll always paint you. It’s one of his songs, from the latest album, written sitting on this very balcony, and he smiles at it.
“You ever think about how far we’ve come?” Jaskier asks.
Geralt hums and brushes his lips over his pulse. “Sometimes.”
“It’s just--” and Jaskier gestures helplessly to the great expanse of the ocean in front of them, to his music playing from some random rich guy’s yacht party, “we started out most of the way to broke in the middle of nowhere, and now I have a mansion in California and you’re-- still here--”
Geralt kisses him.
It’s a good kiss, the kind that leaves Jaskier weak at the knees and breathing hard when it breaks, and he tucks himself even closer into his husband’s side, admiring the way the light glances off his pale hair and turns his eyes to gold.
“I love you”
Time can never break your heart But it'll take the pain away Right now our future's certain I won't let it fade away
Geralt tucks his nose into Jaskier’s hair, strokes over the vulnerable place at the nape of his neck, and holds him as close as he did in that tiny bed, as he did in the wide expanse of a hotel room suite, as he does in their own house built for them and Ciri and sometimes a guest.
“I love you too.”
Golden days Golden days Golden days Golden days
iv more muzzle!au i ii iii
Geralt could not sleep. And so, he watches Jaskier. Waits until morning to hear the changes in his heartbeat and in his breathing.
It feels all too slow, and all too fast.
Awareness has always come in phases for Jaskier in the morning. At first he sits up and frowns. Taking in his surroundings. He smiles when he sees Geralt sitting just across the room. The expression soon falls, however.
Jaskier reaches upwards and touches his lips. His breathing comes quicker, more panicked.
"I took it off." Geralt explains. "Last night."
Jaskier shakes his head. Continues to look for the muzzle, as if it had simply slipped off at some point during the night. Saving Jaskier the time, Geralt holds up the cursed object.
You--, Jaskier mouths. Even his very breath cannot seem to form the words. The shock of it all leads to further trembling on Jaskier's part. He opens his mouth and tries to speak. His chin wobbles and his eyes well up with tears. Still, he tries again and again to say something. Anything.
Geralt finds it unfair that Jaskier had to lose his voice. Were he the one to have been under such a spell, the world would not have changed at all. Instead, Jaskier suffers, and there is nothing Geralt can do to lessen the pain.
This was the only choice, the only way, he reasons. Jaskier would have died otherwise. Though his pain is nigh intolerable to see, it is better than a preventable death.
His limbs feel heavy as crosses the room to sit beside Jaskier on the bed. "Calm down," He says. "Just... stop. Take a breath."
Jaskier, miraculously, stops hyperventilating. His heart continues to race on, but Geralt will take any victory.
There's a small plate of cheese and bread he'd ordered a little over an hour ago. He takes the plate and holds it out to Jaskier. "Here. You should eat."
Even with all the training he's done, all the practice he's had, the monsters he's fought, nothing could have quite prepared him for the harsh, stinging slap Jaskier gives.
Geralt blinks, his own heart starting to thud.
The spell he's under does not break when Jaskier takes the plate and throws it across the room. Nor when he tries to shove Geralt away. Not even when Jaskier lets out a wordless, soundless cry, face scrunched in a pungent mix of grief and rage.
Only when Jaskier storms away from the room, scrambling to get away from the room where his voice died, does Geralt realize the depth of this curse has caused.
He does not know how to ease the pain, isn't sure it's possible to repair their now tattered relationship, but he vows to restore Jaskier's voice.
No matter what it takes.
Title: Filled Pie (for @whataboutthebard)
Prompt: Sweet confession of feelings
Notes: Read it on AO3 HERE when I get it posted there. <3
FILLED PIE By Senashenta
Geralt, I want you to know that I treasure our friendship very much.
Jaskier stared down at the sentence he’d just written, blinked a few times, then dipped his quill in the inkwell and quickly scribbled it out again. Couldn’t use the word “friendship” in a letter declaring his love, couldn’t use that sentence structure at all, it sounded too much like a break-up letter, which he had an unfortunate amount of experience with.
He was currently sitting in their room at the inn in whichever little town they were in (honestly he lost track sometimes), doing his absolute best to ruin his current notebook in the process of writing a love letter. To Geralt. Who was off on a Contract right now.
…why had he thought this was a good idea?
Right. The pining. That needed to stop, one way or another. So he would tell Geralt how he felt, and if Geralt felt the same way then great! If not, well… he’d tried. And he would know. He could move on. Closure and all that.
Frustrated, Jaskier did one big scribble over the whole page of Beginnings Of Love Letters and then dropped his quill, leaning back in the chair and letting his head fall back with a groan. He was a Bard for Heaven’s sake! He was supposed to be good with words and prose, but here he was, failing to write one stupid letter…
Okay, maybe the letter was the problem. Geralt wasn’t a letter kind of a man. Maybe Jaskier would be better served to just tell him how he felt! …that was a terrifying prospect. What would he even say? How would he start? Just “Geralt, I’ve been in love with you since fucking Posada?” Noooo no no no. No. Bad idea.
Hunching forward now, Jaskier thumped his forehead against his notebook, completely forgetting that the ink there was still wet, and when he sat up again he came away with black smears across his face without even knowing it.
Maybe he just needed to practice.
Standing, he paced over to the window to look out into the night and took a few breaths as he composed his thoughts. “Geralt,” he said to the room finally, completely missing the door opening and Geralt himself stepping in, closing it behind himself; “we’ve been travelling together for a long time. We’ve been friends a long time. But over that time my feelings have… they’ve changed. When I look at you now I feel… longing and yearning. I watch you in secret when you’re not looking because it’s impossible for me not to. I’m afraid I’ve… I’ve fallen in love with you, Geralt. With the person you are and the code you live by and the sense of humor you claim not to have. Truly, deeply, I love you. And I… I just thought you should know…”
Trailing off, Jaskier sighed and looked down. It all sounded wrong to his ears, but—
The flood creaked behind him and he whirled around, freezing mid-motion when he saw Geralt standing there. Blue eyes widened hugely. “H-how much of that did you hear?”
Geralt shifted and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Most of it, I think.”
Jaskier flushed red and looked down. “I’m sorry, I was just—”
“You’re not a filling-less pie.”
“I—what?” The bard looked up again, confused.
“You’re not a filling-less pie.” Geralt repeated as he moved farther into the room, approaching Jaskier like he would a spooked horse. “I’m sorry I said that.” And then, gently, “you’ve got ink on your face.”
“Wh—” Jaskier scrubbed at his face blindly, still beet red, and inched backward as Geralt moved toward him, until his back hit the window.
“I was wrong about that,” Geralt continued as he stepped closer into Jaskier’s space, “just like I was wrong when I said that Witchers don’t have feelings.” Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed a few times when Geralt reached to carefully cup his jaw—and then leaned in to kiss him, just lightly and gently. “Because I definitely have feelings for you, Jaskier.”
“You do?” The words were breathed out.
“Hmm. I do.” The Witcher smiled faintly, “now to get a cloth and I’ll get the ink off your forehead.”
sweet confession of feelings for @whataboutthebard
Jaskier/Geralt, Jaskier & Lambert, T
It starts as something to make Geralt jealous. Cavorting with one of his brothers? A sure fire revenge scheme. No possible way for this to blow up in his face.
It backfires when Geralt becomes completely heartbroken, even from an outsider’s point of view. Jaskier and Lambert hatch a plan to let Geralt win Jaskier back, and regain some of his self confidence, too. on ao3 here!
Jaskier stumbles and tries to catch on to a tree branch, but his hand closes around something more akin to a twig and snaps it off, sending him tumbling to the ground. He scrapes his knee as he falls, and he curses, another thing to join the blister on the back of his foot as he limps down this gods-awful mountain.
Sitting for a moment, he draws up his knee and examines it. There’s blood slowly weeping from it, making the red of his pants around it even darker. He slams his fist on the ground, the events of the day catching up to him. It still feels vaguely dream shaped, like he’s going to wake up any second. Geralt wouldn’t say those things to him, surely.
Jaskier pokes his finger into his wound before his brain catches up to his body and he hisses, yanking his finger away. He spares a tiny amount of water that runs pink and brown down his leg as the blood and grime is washed away.
There’s a resounding crash in the woods from somewhere nearby, and he startles at the crackle of breaking wood and leaves rustling.
“Fucking shit!” a man’s voice yells, followed by more snapping.
Something snarls, and Jaskier scrambles to his feet, pulling everything back into his pack and wincing as his injured knee stretches and the skin shifts uncomfortably. There’s the dull thud of a sword sinking into flesh and Jaskier wonders for a second if it could be Geralt. He simultaneously wants nothing more or less than that, but the problem solves itself when he remembers the voice, too high to be Geralt’s.
Curiosity keeps Jaskier rooted in his spot even as the noises get closer, until he can see movement through the leaves and the metallic flash of armor glinting in the sun that has no right to be so cheerful when Jaskier is so miserable.
The man ends up almost running right into Jaskier, not noticing until he’s right on top of him and Jaskier is hurrying out of the way. The man slides his sword home into a drowner, Jaskier notes, and he wonders how he didn’t notice he was practically tromping through their homes. Geralt would have given him an earful for not being more aware of his surroundings, but given the emotional turmoil of the day, he thinks he can excuse himself.
The man pulls his sword out of the drowner’s gut, its intestines spilling out with it, and then he turns to Jaskier, his cat eyes gleaming.
A witcher. Well, that’s great. Just his luck.
“Can you watch where you’re going a little, pal? Or is that just too much effort?”
Jaskier sniffles and pulls himself up to his full height, noting with a little malicious glee that this witcher only comes up to his shoulder and has to crane his head up to look at Jaskier. “Yes, you’re right. That’s entirely too much effort after I’ve just had my heart ripped in half,” he growls.
The witcher backs up. “Are you...are you all right?”
Jaskier falters in his rage. He just wants someone to be mean to him now, gods damn it all, so he can be justified in snapping in them. He can’t very well yell at someone that’s trying to be nice to him. Inexplicably, tears start to drip off his nose, and Jaskier rubs at his eyes angrily.
Shifting uncomfortably, the witcher just looks at him. “Well, uh, I’ve got to, uh. Harvest these drowners. So.”
Jaskier schools his expression and wipes at his nose. He needs something to do, something to get his mind off Geralt. He’ll take anything, at this point. It’s not like he hasn’t done it with Geralt a million times. “I’ll help you.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re volunteering for,” the witcher says skeptically, but Jaskier is already pulling his nose hook out of his boot and walking towards the drowner closest to him, putting the hook up its nose and wiggling it around until it catches. Jaskier pulls until something gray and lumpy and vaguely oatmealish comes out. He turns around to ask the witcher for a jar for it, but he’s staring at Jaskier with wide eyes.
“So, uh. What else do you keep in your boots?”
He’s standing there with some sort of mallet, and Jaskier ignores the question to focus on that. “Were you just going to smash the heads open? That seems a little barbaric, don’t you think?”
The man looks offended. “No one’s exactly critiqued my technique before.” He tilts his head, considering. “That does seem a little easier, though.” The words look like they’re painful to admit, and a part of Jaskier sighs at yet another emotionally constipated man who he has stumbled upon. They’re apparently drawn to him like moths to a flame.
A ghost of a smile crosses Jaskier’s face as he performs the tedious work, the witcher trailing behind him with his jar of brains and a foul smelling liquid. At least Jaskier’s eyes are dry by the end of it.
The witcher wraps the jar and tucks it back into his bag. “Thank you. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on one of those.” He leans against a tree. “Professional curiosity...are you an alchemist?”
This startles a laugh out of Jaskier. “Not even close.”
The witcher deflates. “Oh. Nevermind, then.”
Jaskier snorts. “That much of a disappointment?”
“I just had some ideas I want to run by one. It’s hard to find herbalists that do more than dabbling.”
“Well, good luck in your search. I suppose I should be moving on.”
A rough hand closes around his elbow, then hastily lets go, and Jaskier turns to see the witcher scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. I just. I can’t let you run off after helping me without returning the favor. I could…” He pauses, thinking so hard that Jaskier almost feels sorry for him. “I could beat up whoever made you cry earlier?”
This startles a cackle out of Jaskier. “I don’t know if you’d have much luck. You’re a little on the short side.”
The witcher puffs up in offense. “I’m a witcher; I don’t think anyone is going to give me too much of an issue.” He flashes Jaskier a nasty grin. “I can be very intimidating.”
“To other witchers?”
Realization dawns across his face. “Who?”
Jaskier sighs. “Do you all know each other?”
The witcher crosses his arms. “For the most part.”
Jaskier drags a hand down his face. “Geralt. Now who are you?”
“I’m Lambert, and it would be my unending pleasure to punch Geralt for you, although I can’t say making people cry is up his usual alley.”
Jaskier looks at the man again, Lambert, who he’s pretty sure Geralt has spoken about before, but his medallion is tucked into his gambeson. “Are you a wolf?”
Lambert grins. “Yep. So why don’t you tell me more about this whole situation and I’m sure we can plan some suitable revenge.”
Jaskier explains the situation haltingly, until Lambert interrupts Jaskier to tell him his thoughts, and Jaskier gives him a slowly blooming smile. “Are you sure you’re Geralt’s brother? This is rather diabolical.”
“Hey, we’re not all boring like him.”
They exchange matching smirks, and Jaskier almost forgets what he was upset about in the first place as he begins to mull over his next ballad.
Geralt trudges down the mountain, holding Roach’s reins in his hand to lead her down the treacherous path. He doesn’t want her to lose her footing and tumble down the mountain side, which would be quite the end to this shit day. He deliberately doesn’t let his thoughts drift to the words he’d hurled earlier, but his stomach churns regardless.
The sun is beginning to set, and Geralt is beyond ready to go to sleep so this nightmare of a day can be over and he never has to think about it again. That always works, right?
Geralt ties Roach to a tree, right as it begins to drizzle. Geralt sighs. Even with his waterproofed skins, he can still never keep anything dry, and his books are more of a priority to keep dry than himself.
He makes quick work of making camp, setting it up in the most canopied area he can find. Geralt lays out his oil skins over his blankets, huddling down in them. Geralt huffs a breath through his nose, as he can’t help but let his thoughts drift to earlier. He would give anything to take those words back, but he can’t. There’s no guarantee he’s ever even going to see Jaskier again.
The rain drips down on him all night long.
“Bard!” Lambert exclaims as he walks into the room a few weeks later, giving Jaskier a rakish grin and breaking him out of his thoughts.
Jaskier raises a brow, barely looking up from where he’s inspecting his lute strings.
“I heard your song while I was in the market.”
At this, Jaskier looks up, his interest piqued. “Oh?”
“The spinning ladies were singing it as they worked.” He exchanges a devilish grin with Jaskier. “Geralt’s sure to hear it soon.”
A pleasant spike of pettiness goes down Jaskier’s back, landing somewhere in his stomach and turning into an ache. He’s not sure what he thinks at the prospect of Geralt hearing this song.
“You’re much more heroic than him, anyway,” Jaskier says with a wink to mask his wandering thoughts.
With light hands, Lambert starts packing his recent purchases into his bags, a satisfied smile on his face. “This is going to drive Geralt up the wall.” He looks up to catch Jaskier’s eye. “What are your winter plans?”
One of Jaskier’s fingers catch a string and he frowns at the off pitch hum. “Well, I normally go to Oxenfurt, look for work for the winter. Sometimes I can find a nice family whose child needs a tutor.
Lambert snorts at the image. “I can’t help but think that child would learn more than the parents intended.”
Jaskier lifts a shoulder, focused on moving the tuning pegs just so. He strums the lute again, frowning when it’s still not what he wants.
“Well,” Lambert continues, “I was thinking, and I think you should come with me this winter.”
At this, Jaskier’s hand slips and he turns the peg much harder than he wanted, cursing and setting it aside for now. “What?”
“Come with me this winter,” Lambert repeats, watching him carefully. “If you really want to get back at Geralt, this is the way to do it.”
“Is he going to be there?”
“Probably, unless he feels like licking his wounds in private. Eskel would kick his ass if he did that, though, so I’d say your chances are good.”
Jaskier taps a finger on his chin, considering. “No one’s going to murder me, right? You reap my artistic talents all winter and then never let me leave because I know too much? Nothing like that?”
Lambert grins at him, and Jaskier can’t help but notice how much sharper his canine teeth are than Geralt’s. He wonders if he files them. “Nothing like that.”
Geralt always acted like there are hidden secrets at their winter keep and that he would never even consider inviting Jaskier there, but… “Why not?”
“Are we there yet?” Jaskier complains, for what has to be the millionth time that day. “I wouldn’t have agreed to come if I knew I was going to be freezing my balls off the entire time.”
“Don’t worry. Once we get to the keep, I’ll make sure you’re warm.”
Lambert gives him a lecherous grin, and Jaskier can’t help but return it, just a little, before it sputters out. “I’m not even convinced that Geralt is going to care about any of this.”
Lambert brushes a hand through the mane of his mare. Cinnamon, Jaskier’s pretty sure he heard him call it. “You haven’t heard him bellyache about you all winter to anyone who’ll listen. Just trust me.”
Lambert’s proven himself more or less trustworthy so far, or, at the very least, Jaskier’s woken up every morning he’s spent with him, so he’ll give Lambert the benefit of the doubt. “If you say so.”
“I do, so stop worrying about it. We’re almost there.”
Jaskier looks doubtfully at the trail in front of him. It seems unending, winding and treacherous. He nervously pats the gelding Lambert somehow procured for him. He didn’t ask any questions.
“Lighten up. This is going to be hilarious.”
Jaskier gives him a weak grin. What has to be at least five hours later (and if this is Lambert’s idea of almost, he shudders to think about what his idea of far is), a crumbling structure comes into view.
Although parts of it are falling down, and other sections have been overtaken by ivy, it still takes Jaskier’s breath away, just a little. “It’s spectacular,” he breathes, and inspiration starts to flare in his fingertips.
“You have other brothers, right? I can write a song about them, too.”
Lambert gives him a sideways smile. “Now you’re learning. Yes, Eskel will be there.”
“Geralt’s talked about him before,” Jaskier hums, his mind already drifting into compositions as he mutters words that might fit under his breath.
Unlike Geralt, Lambert just lets him ramble without complaint, focusing on the path ahead of them and murmuring to his horse to keep her calm as the trail gets more and more narrow, and takes them past more and more ledges.
“Be careful,” Lambert calls back to him. “The path is called the killer for a reason.”
Jaskier’s face pales. “The killer?” he yells back.
He must have heard that wrong, but Lambert’s head nods in front of him.
Jaskier pushes any songs from his mind and concentrates on the trail.
From closer up, the keep is even more magnificent. The huge door that leads into the courtyard is open for them, and Lambert leads him through it, heading to the stables. There’s only one stall prepared, so Lambert huffs and breaks a bale of straw, bedding down another stall for Jaskier’s horse. Jaskier can’t help but admire the flex of his biceps as he works. When he’s done, they lead their horses into the stable, giving them a thorough rub down and food and water before Lambert leads him inside.
Jaskier’s heart starts to jack rabbit in his chest, and Lambert stops them right before the door. “Okay?” he asks, a departure from his usual snark.
Lambert pats him on the back, then looks at him deviously and pulls him in close to his side. “Don’t worry about it.”
With that, he pushes the door open. They enter what seems like a great hall, with a cavernous ceiling and huge lead paned glass windows on both sides. It seems extremely lonely; all the long tables with only three people to occupy them.
Jaskier stiffens as he realizes Geralt is one of them.
Lambert tugs him tighter next to him, his arm a heavy weight around Jaskier’s shoulders.
“I have a guest!” he shouts across the hall, once they’re close enough to be heard.
It echos through the room. The witcher facing away from them turns around in his seat, fixing Jaskier with the yellow cat eyes that he’s long since stopped finding unnerving.
Finally, Lambert and Jaskier stand before them. Jaskier pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with Geralt, instead taking the time to look at the other two witchers. He assumes the one with gray hair and tired lines around his eyes is Vesemir. His hair is pulled back just like Geralt’s, a pang goes through Jaskier as he notices.
He turns to the other one, Eskel, with the scar going up one side of his face, skipping over his eye but slicing through his eyebrow. Jaskier tries to contain a chuckle as he notices all the spikes on Eskel’s armor. It seems like all witchers have a penchant for drama.
Lambert clears his throat. “This is my boyfriend,” he crows.
Eskel looks at Lambert with a raised eyebrow, but Lambert sends him enough of a death glare that he doesn’t comment. Geralt, meanwhile, is even paler than usual, his mouth flapping.
“Jaskier?” he asks, finally.
Geralt doesn’t say anything else at that, just looks down into whatever is in his mug.
“Well, join us,” Vesemir says impatiently, waving a hand at their spread of food on the table.
Jaskier sits down, trying to ignore the heavy tension that’s fallen over the room. “You might have heard a few of his songs,” Lambert finally says.
Geralt grits his teeth.
“I’d be happy to perform some.” Jaskier shoots him a beatific smile.
“It would be nice to have some entertainment for once,” Vesemir muses. “Better than watching these three play gwent all winter.”
The other witchers look at Vesemir in offense. Winking at Vesemir, Jaskier shakes his head in mock seriousness. “It seems like that’s all they ever want to do.”
“It would be, if I let them get away with it.”
“Well,” Jaskier says. “I’ll be happy to pull my weight this winter. Thank you for giving me a place to stay.”
Vesemir gives him a small smile, and the tension in Jaskier’s chest eases a bit. At least he’s won one of them over.
After supper, Lambert insists they stretch out together by the fire. Geralt sits in a nearby chair, pretending to read a book instead of watching them. Lambert makes eye contact with Geralt before wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him back against him. “Are you warm enough?” Lambert asks loudly.
Jaskier cuddles closer against him, taking the tiniest bit of delight in the sour look that crosses Geralt’s face. “I think you need to warm me up a little bit more.”
Lambert rubs his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms. “I’ll have to give you one of my shirts; didn’t you know it was going to be cold here?”
A low rumble comes from Geralt’s throat at that, and Lambert hides his smirk in Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier can feel the huff of breath hot against him. When he peeks back at Geralt, his knuckles are white against the edge of his book.
“Ready for bed?” Lambert asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Jaskier takes Lambert’s hand in his and lets him lead him to his bedroom.
“Conveniently, it’s right next to Geralt’s,” Lambert says when they get there, giving Jaskier a significant look.
“Oh. Well, I mean. Sure. You’re handsome enough, and I don’t even know the last time I got off.” Jaskier frowns. “Fucking Geralt and his hearing.”
Lambert raises his hands up before dragging one over the back of his neck. “No, no, not actually having sex. I...have someone.”
Jaskier looks at him, aghast. “We’ve been traveling together for weeks, and you let me pour my heart out for you, and you couldn’t be bothered to return the favor? I can’t believe you’re just telling me about this now.”
“It never came up,” Lambert shrugs.
“They’re not going to have an issue with this?”
Lambert grins. “No, he’s going to think this is fucking hilarious. I can’t wait to see him in the spring. Knocking Geralt down a peg is one of my hobbies.”
“Oh? And what would the others be?”
Lambert tilts his head, thinking. “Distilling? Making bombs? Correcting the fucking terrible bestiaries in the library?” Lambert shudders. “Geralt can’t even look at some of those. Too much wrong information for his delicate constitution. I think it gives him a headache.”
Jaskier hums, and Lambert claps his hands. “Right. Let me tell you, this shared wall is a kick in the nuts when Geralt brings one of his sorceresses here, but it’s going to be fun as hell for this.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Lambert gives him a smirk, and Jaskier returns it. “This is going to be good.”
Jaskier helps Lambert push his bed up against the wall facing Geralt’s room, and then they lounge about as they wait for Geralt to come to bed. Lambert tends to his gear, rubbing some sort of oil on it before tucking it into a chest in the corner. While he has it open, he rummages around until he pulls out a warm looking wool shirt.
“Here.” He hands it to Jaskier. “Wear this tomorrow. Geralt’s going to go ballistic.”
Jaskier tugs it on, expecting the wool to be scratchy against his skin, but it’s so well worn that it’s almost soft. It’s a dark blue color that looks fetching on him, if he does say so himself.
“Ready?” Jaskier asks, after they hear footsteps outside and the sound of a door closing.
Lambert nods, settling back on the bed. “Oh, you look so good all spread out like that,” Lambert says, loud enough to carry through the wall.
Jaskier should have done some vocal exercises before all this. He moans, matching Lambert in volume. “Right there.”
Shooting him a devious grin, Lambert gets on his knees to start pushing the headboard, slamming it against the wall in rhythm. Lambert blows a raspberry, making slick sounds with his mouth.
“Harder! Fuck, Lambert!” Jaskier cries, barely containing a giggle.
Lambert adds in some fake moans of his own, and they keep going like that, until finally Lambert stops and collapses to the bed dramatically, giving huge, panting breaths. “Ah, that was so good, song bird.”
Jaskier pulls the pillow into his mouth to stop himself from laughing.
He wonders what Geralt is thinking right now.
Geralt stares up at the ceiling in agony, his cock joining in on his misery. He’s never heard Jaskier sound like that before, and he glares at his erection. He wasn’t the one who did that to Jaskier. Lambert did.
Lambert’s even been nice to Jaskier since he’s been here, more considerate than he’s seen Lambert be to anyone. He kept him warm all evening, for gods’ sake, and it seems like he has no issues doing that throughout the night, either. He buries his face into his pillow, turning to the side so he can resolutely ignore the tent in his blanket.
Pulling on his trousers the next morning, Jaskier tries not to be too gleeful about all this. Geralt is getting his just desserts, that’s for sure. Jaskier wasn’t sure if Geralt even had any feelings for him at all after the mountain fiasco, but after watching his reaction to just some simple cuddling by the fire last night, he can’t help but think that some of his feelings must be returned, even if Geralt doesn’t know how to express them to save his life.
Jaskier follows Lambert silently as he leads the way to the kitchen, having learned in their short time of traveling together that he shouldn’t say too much right after Lambert’s just woken up. Grabbing Lambert’s hand right before they duck through the doorway to the kitchen, he keeps a hold of it as they settle down at the small table where they eat breakfast.
“Look who decided to wake up and join us,” Eskel says.
Lambert smiles at him. “We were hard at work last night.”
Eskel snorts, while Vesemir wears a pained expression. “I’m sure.”
There’s a pot of porridge already there, and Lambert scoops out a serving for Jaskier, drizzling it with honey as Eskel, Geralt, and Vesemir look on.
“For my sweet,” Lambert says with an exaggerated wink as he passes the bowl over before getting one for himself.
Jaskier chances a glance over at Geralt, finding him staring down at his own bowl with a drawn expression. Jaskier swallows. “How did you sleep, Geralt?”
Geralt’s face becomes even more pinched, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he frowns. There’s a long silence before he says, “Fine.”
“Yeah? That’s good,” Lambert says breezily.
Finally, Geralt looks up, scowling at Lambert. His eyes are drawn to Jaskier, and Geralt’s face goes completely blank when he sees the shirt Jaskier’s wearing. Jaskier rubs it between his fingers self consciously. “I was cold, so Lambert offered this to me. Isn’t he a perfect gentleman?”
Drawing a finger back and forth along the wood grain of the table, Geralt just shoves another spoonful into his mouth. “That sure doesn’t sound like the Lambert we know and love,” Eskel says, ruffling Lambert’s hair and making him scowl.
Jaskier lifts their intertwined hands up to rest on the table, but not before raising them to his mouth to kiss the tip of one of Lambert’s fingers.
Jaskier’s smugness doesn’t leave him for the rest of the day.
“Geralt, are you okay?” Eskel asks through the door.
Geralt tugs his pillow tighter over his head. “Go away.”
Eskel sighs and tries the door knob, only to find Geralt locked it. “What are you, five?”
“Just leave me alone, Eskel.”
There’s another heavy exhale of breath from outside the door, then the sound of metal scratching metal. Geralt brings his blanket over his head, too, just for good measure. “You’re taking an awful long time, there,” Geralt comments, after a minute ticks by, with the sound of Eskel scraping his pick against the lock without getting any tumblers to turn.
Geralt can practically see Eskel’s scowl through the door. “Let me in at any time, jackass!”
“It sounds like you need the practice.”
“Are you trying to be more like Lambert to win your little bard back? Because I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Geralt scowls. “He’s not a prize to be won.”
Eventually, there’s the final click of the door, and it swings open. Eskel sits down on the bed with a bounce, ripping the blanket away from Geralt and bundling himself with it. Geralt just curls tighter into his miserable ball.
“Geralt,” Eskel says plaintively.
“What,” Geralt growls back.
“Why don’t you come help me patch up the wall in the armory?”
Geralt buries his face into his pillow even more tightly. “Pass.”
“Will you at least talk about it? Whatever this is? I figured your bard would be showing up with you this year.” Eskel puts a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
“I fucked up.”
Eskel waits patiently, and Geralt curses the effectiveness of his method as he continues. “I said some things that I never should have said, and he left, just like he should have, and apparently he stumbled right into Lambert’s waiting arms.”
Eskel hums. “You know, between you and me, I don’t think they’re the greatest match in the world.”
“Jaskier is out of Lambert’s league,” Geralt confirms.
Eskel huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I was talking about. I’m sure he’s out of your’s, too.”
Geralt’s hand twitches where it clutches at the bedsheets.
“I’ve heard them arguing,” Eskel says.
“When? They always seem so happy.”
“That’s just when they’re in front of you, Geralt. You know as well as anyone that things aren’t nearly as peachy as they seem behind closed doors.”
Geralt grunts. Eskel is right. He’s dealt with enough people to know that things are rarely exactly what they seem to be.
“I just thought you should know, that’s all. Maybe you should go out of your way to be nicer to Jaskier. Apologize. It couldn’t hurt.”
The bed dips again as Eskel’s weight leaves it, and Geralt frowns as he contemplates his words.
There’s a rap on their door, and Jaskier hurriedly undoes his top three buttons, putting the one at the bottom through the wrong hole just for good measure before he tugs at Lambert’s hair, making the short spikes stick up. He scrambles to answer the door, pulling it open a tiny amount and poking his head through.
He’s surprised to see Eskel, and even more surprised when he pushes his shoulder on the door and barges right in, shutting it behind him. “Fix him,” Eskel demands.
“Geralt! He’s miserable.”
Lambert sticks his nose up in the air. “Did you ever think he got what was coming to him? I found our little song bird here in quite a state.”
“I think he’s learned his lesson. Look, I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” Eskel says, jerking his chin at Jaskier. “I know how much of an ass he can be sometimes. I’m just saying, stop rubbing this in front of his nose if you don’t even mean it.”
“And why do you think that?” Jaskier frowns, offended.
His acting skills are first rate. This has to be Lambert’s fault.
Eskel pinches his nose. “Just. This is the worst I’ve seen him in a while. Haven’t you had your fun?”
Jaskier frowns. “You really think he’s sorry?”
Eskel nods, fixing him with an examining look. “How do you feel about all this?”
Jaskier bites his lip, before shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just—we had a good thing going, you know? And then he said all those things, and it made me think that what we had wasn’t so great after all.”
“Well, if you want to give him another chance, I think he’s prepared to do a bit of groveling.”
Jaskier exchanges a look with Lambert, flashing him a devious grin. “Is that so?”
Geralt stumbles out of his room when he smells something cooking. Tomorrow, he’ll do his fair share of the upkeep around the place, but he thinks he deserved the day to wallow, just a little. He reread one of his favorite knight errant books, and it’s put him in the head space to at least be able to glance at Jaskier and Lambert without falling into a sticky web of self loathing.
He’s stopped short right before the great hall from the sound of Jaskier shouting. Peeking his head around the corner, he sees Jaskier poking a finger into Lambert’s chest. “You cad!” he yells. “You cheated on me? Me? I thought what we had was special!”
Lambert catches Jaskier’s hand, just as Geralt’s blood starts to boil in anger. He can’t believe Lambert would do this to Jaskier.
“Jaskier, baby,” Lambert says softly, trying to bring up Jaskier’s knuckles to his lips.
Jaskier jerks his hand away. “Don’t call me that!”
Jaskier storms away, leaving Lambert standing in the middle of the room with a twisted expression on his face. Geralt bites back his anger. There’s clearly a cog loose in Lambert’s brain if he cheated on Jaskier with someone.
Geralt goes after Jaskier, finding him sitting on a rock near the chicken coop. Geralt sits down beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jaskier sniffles. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Geralt hesitates. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, and Geralt takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just trying to push you away to make myself miserable, and it worked.” Geralt’s shoulders slump. “It’s okay if you can’t forgive me; I just wanted to tell you that. I...love you.”
Jaskier swallows hard. “Well. I think we still have some more things we need to talk about, but I think I can work with that.”
Geralt gives him a hopeful smile.
“Do you have ideas of any ways to heal my broken heart?” Jaskier asks, throwing an arm over his eyes and leaning into Geralt’s side.
“Uh. Roach is a good listener?”
Jaskier sighs, but… it’s a start.
New Witcher trailers dropped all aboard the angst train!
Tumblr ate this post twice so here’s a third attempt! I wrote this for last week’s flash fic challenge; the prompt was so good that I decided to whip up some Yencilla. Priscifer? Who knows, but I love them. (Also on AO3)
Summer - Calvin Harris (Medieval Bardcore Remix)
T, 2.8K words, Yennefer/Priscilla, Yennefer/Priscilla/Triss, Geralt/Jaskier
Tags/warnings: Modern AU, established relationship, minor nonspecific reference to past drug use
“I shall never forgive you for this,” Priscilla tells her best friend. Jaskier doesn’t raise his head from his task of draping cheap tulle around her legs, so he must not take the threat seriously. Her eyes narrow. “Do you hear me, asshole? Never."
“I hear you,” Jaskier replies, all sing-song and teasing. Priscilla is going to poison his next meal. He pushes a safety pin through the netting, fastening it around her hips and then stepping back to survey his handiwork. “Not too bad!”
Priscilla scoffs, twirling to test the makeshift skirt. Sure enough, her metallic underwear, with bright silver straps clinging to her thighs and ass, is... partially disguised. You’d really have to be staring to notice it, and as Jaskier assured her upon their entrance, nobody’s going to spare her any weird looks. Not when there’s so many other oddities to stare at.
Like many of the hijinks that Priscilla has been drafted into over the last few years, this is solidly and wholly Jaskier’s fault. He’d sent her a text two days ago about getting last-minute tickets to a festival. Priscilla had reminded him (politely) that she didn’t do drugs anymore, and he had laughed and said ‘but you still drink, don’t you?’
The website to The Hidden Continent was down when she tried to check, but Priscilla didn’t bother asking Jaskier about dress codes, figuring that this event would be similar to other music festivals the two of them had frequented. So she had only checked the weather— blue skies all weekend, not a single cloud to warn her about the oncoming embarrassment— and packed her tent and supplies into the back of her tiny car.
She thought that something might have been wrong from the second she saw the unicorn on her way into the forest. An actual, honest-to-God unicorn, not a decoration; there was a knight tending to it, brushing out its mane by the side of the road. Priscilla nearly drove into a tree but managed to right herself, chasing away the creeping suspicions that this was a different kind of festival.
Then she’d gotten out in the parking lot, wearing only her golden lingerie set, small iridescent wings, and a dramatic makeup look with at least a pound of fake gemstones. Her gaze landed on Jaskier, waiting outside the festival entrance, wearing… Well. Wearing some Medieval Times bullshit.
They’ve mostly screamed it out by now, but Jaskier is still determined to go inside— inside the Renaissance Faire, which is absolutely not the weekend experience that Priscilla thought she’d signed up for. He brought a lute and a stupidly long coat that he’s sure to overheat in and everything. He looks the part— well, he looks like a bloody idiot, but judging from everyone else in sight, that seems to be the assignment. Priscilla, on the other hand, looks exactly like the rave queen she thought she would be this weekend.
Hence the skirt. She hikes it up, adjusting her silver bra so that the straps cross in a different way. There’s no way to make this outfit look decent, but the only other thing she packed is her pajamas. She’s about to tell Jaskier that she’s bailing when a family walks past them in the parking lot and one of the children’s eyes go wide. “Look, mum! A fairy!”
Jaskier’s expression is equally gleeful when Priscilla looks back at him. She relents, glowering, “Fine, alright. We can go in.”
The Hidden Continent, as it turns out, is just as weird as a rave, but smells infinitely better. Instead of dank clouds of sweat and weed, the air is intoxicatingly sweet. Jaskier drags Priscilla over to the vendor stalls and plies her with honey cakes and glass bottles of mead, which… is a good first step towards apologizing, she has to admit. The way he orders is hilarious though; he’s always been grandiose and melodramatic, but this takes it to the next level.
Strangely, Jaskier fits in here. Priscilla knows she must look as nervous as she feels, but Jaskier was right— nobody pays her any mind. A woman selling ‘alchemical treatments and medicine’ checks her out, but Priscilla doesn’t mind that kind of attention. Music drifts on the breeze from somewhere, and everyone seems to be in good spirits. Slowly and reluctantly, Priscilla begins to let herself have fun.
Then Jaskier finally lets go of her arm without warning, making a beeline across the market. Priscilla struggles to follow him through the crowd of knights and maidens and strange druid-looking people, nearly dropping her mead in the process. She drains the rest of it and finds Ye Olde Recycleing Binne to dispose of the bottle. And when she lifts her head, she finally spots Jaskier again, approaching the smith’s tent.
If Priscilla didn’t know Jaskier so well, she could have easily mistaken the scene for something right out of a movie. Jaskier takes off his ridiculous hat, smoothing down his hair and moving his lute onto his back, striding towards the tent with less confidence and bravado than before. He looks nervous, and Priscilla can’t tell why— not until the sole occupant of the tent comes into view, anyway. A grizzled, strong man, with his white hair half-tied up and a sword in his giant hands. Jaskier’s type in a fucking nutshell.
Priscilla groans. So that’s why they’re here this weekend.
The blacksmith sees Jaskier and drops his sword, burying it into the dirt without a second glance. He blurts out, astonished, “Dandelion!” and sounds just as raspy as Pris had expected. Jaskier strides forward, pushing the man further into the tent, and Priscilla groans and turns away. She doesn’t need to watch this, not when she’s the one holding Jaskier’s coinpurse and there’s still mead that she can go waste it on.
But when she tries to make her way back to the market, she gets… turned around, a bit. This festival is far bigger than she’d expected, and she begins to regret not taking a map when they’d come in. Jaskier had promised he knew his way around, but now that he’s in the arms of his mysterious summer lover, Priscilla doubts she’s going to see him for several hours. Fuck.
After wandering past a strange group of goth princesses who possibly might just be vampires and a rosy nobleman drunk off his ass on whatever ‘Erveluce’ is, Priscilla finally finds a row of buildings. Not tents, real buildings— small quaint brick houses that probably accommodate more permanent vendors than the stalls. The first one has a large sign over the door marking it as an apothecary, and Pris figures that’s as good a bet as any to ask for directions.
Except when she opens the front door, no counter or wares are in sight. It looks more like an eclectic bookstore than a drugstore or apothecary, with stacks of old books piled from floor to ceiling. Dried bundles of herbs hang from the walls; lavender is the only one that Priscilla recognizes, and it makes the entire foyer smell like lilacs. She breathes in, uncertain, and wonders if she’s perhaps breaking and entering.
But then someone barks from another room, “Come in, you’re going to let the cat out!” and what choice does Priscilla have? She shuts the door behind her, toeing out of her sandals and dusting off her tulle skirt. The safety pin has started to snag; she’ll need another quick repair the next time she tracks down Jaskier. Or maybe she’ll go buy one of those fancy gowns that everyone is wearing.
The first room she enters is vacant, with no humans or cats to be seen. There’s a skull up by the window, and more books and plants. It isn’t exactly the kind of cheerful decor Priscilla would pick out for her own apartment, and it’s colder in here than outside on the festival grounds; she shudders, folding her arms over her chest. The motion pulls her wings taut, nearly making them flutter. She doesn’t notice, too enraptured by the weird skull on the desk.
“Oh,” the voice from before says, surprised. Priscilla straightens up, whipping around. In the doorway to the study is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. “You’re not Triss.”
“No, I’m not,” Priscilla agrees. The woman tilts her head, scrutinizing her and her outfit. Her violet eyes trace over the shape of Priscilla’s body, as well as the silvery underwear that must be visible through the translucent tulle. Pris flushes under her watchful, curious gaze, stammering, “I’m sorry, I got turned around outside. I think I’m a bit lost, do you have a map or something that I could borrow?”
Priscilla clears her throat, wishing she was wearing more clothing. Or much, much less. This stranger must sense her dismay because she makes a sympathetic noise, sharpness not quite disappearing from her expression but she softens, shoulders sinking. “Is it your first time here at the festival?”
“Yes,” Priscilla nods, grimacing. “That obvious, huh?” She reaches down to grab fistfuls of her skirt, twisting them up into bunches. “Um, my friend didn’t give me a lot of details, and then he ran off to go get laid. And by a lot, I mean any. Any at all! Before I got here, I thought it was a rave.”
Laughing suddenly, the woman smiles. Priscilla smiles back, absolutely enchanted. It’s hard to keep her eyes off the woman’s body in that dark dress that flatters her in all the right places, but her smile is even more hypnotic. “That’s alright,” she tells Pris, still smiling. “You look the part. When I saw you standing in here, I thought that a beautiful lost fairy might have stumbled in.”
From anyone else, it would be unbearably cheesy. From this gorgeous woman, it’s the best pick-up line Priscilla has ever heard. She mumbles, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all.” That perfect smile widens. “My name is Yennefer, and yes, I can give you a map. Or you’re welcome to stay here while your friend is otherwise occupied, if you’d like. I have food, and wine…?”
Remembering how the blacksmith had called Jaskier by his stage name, Priscilla decides that a layer of anonymity would be sexy. Just for the festival. “I’m Callonetta,” she introduces herself, curtseying slightly. Yennefer laughs again, soft and delighted. “Wine sounds lovely!”
Someone blows a bugle somewhere, doing a poor imitation of a rooster, and Geralt shifts beneath Jaskier. Jaskier, not accustomed to waking at the very break of dawn, grumbles and sprawls over Geralt’s chest, muttering his protests. Geralt just laughs, kissing the closest part of Jaskier in reach— his ear— and then whispering, “Time to get up, Dandelion. Day’s a-wasting.”
“Day’s a-wasting— it is the crack of fucking dawn, you bastard,” Jaskier grumbles, half-muffled by the meat of Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt shudders, grinning. “I want to sleep in with you til half-past ten at least, and then go for round five, because you fell asleep before we could try that other thing—”
“You were half-asleep when you suggested it,” teases Geralt. Jaskier moves his thigh until it’s pressing between Geralt’s legs, but his lover just sighs, nipping his jaw underneath his ear. “You’re going to miss the whole fair at this rate.”
“Don’t care about the fair,” sings Jaskier. He can’t keep all the sadness from his voice when he admits, “Don’t give a shit about any of it. I only came here for you.”
“You must have really needed a good sword polishing.”
Still drowsy and half-hard, Jaskier still finds the mental clarity to smack Geralt’s arm for that one. But he’s smiling against Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m serious! The school year is too damn long! I’ve waited forever to get to see you, and now the first night is over already… Before we know it, you’re going to be whisked away back to the real world, and I’ll never get to see you ever again.”
“You still come see me during the school year,” Geralt snorts. “Ciri thinks we’ve got raccoons thanks to all the fucking noise you make sneaking in.”
“Well,” squawks Jaskier, “I can hardly be blamed for my eagerness when I’ve so dearly missed you and your giant cock—”
Geralt silences him with a kiss, which is by far Jaskier’s favourite way to be silenced so he doesn’t put up a fight. They kiss unhurriedly, heartbeats matching pace after a quiet, long moment. Geralt’s lips are even sweeter in the morning; one of the great impossible injustices. Surely someone as beautiful as Geralt should have at least one catch, like horrendous morning breath. Jaskier wonders if he somehow sneaks away a few minutes before dawn to brush his teeth and put on mascara.
“We’ll get to round five, but I have to get up now,” Geralt tells him, kissing him once again. “I barely made any sales yesterday thanks to a certain clingy bard, and you’ve got to go track down your friend.”
Jaskier goes still. “Oh, fuck. I forgot about Pris!”
It takes them twenty minutes to get dressed and ready— well, to be accurate, it takes Geralt five minutes to dress and fifteen to fuck around with his hair, while Jaskier scrambles around the house rambling about how he abandoned his friend without a second thought in pursuit of some good dick, the best dick, but no dick is good enough to forsake a bosom friend, and Geralt, where the fuck did they leave his pants. It’s half-past dawn by the time Jaskier kicks open the door to Geralt’s summer home, still rambling about how Priscilla is going to actually murder him.
“You’ll have a grand funeral,” Geralt promises. His mouth opens to say something else but he freezes, staring oddly behind Jaskier.
“You’d better fucking come,” Jaskier stammers, pulling his doublet into place. His hair is a mess and there’s no accounting for his beloved hat, but whatever, he’ll track it down later. First things first is finding his friend. Then he finally clues into Geralt’s expression and follows his gaze, whirling around to see the occupants of the house across from Geralt’s lodgings.
Yennefer and Triss, the Continent’s resident witches, are also shutting their front door. But accompanying them is a pretty blonde wearing a long purple gown and a crown of flowers. She turns around, giggling about something, and then she and Jaskier make eye contact and the world goes to hell. Both shriek, in unison and similar tones, “So that’s where you were last night!”
“I looked for you!” Priscilla rounds on him first, stomping over. Her lips have a tell-tale wine stain and her hair has been painstakingly braided back into an intricate style under the flowers. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, and you were here all along? Snuggled up to this… this beefy blacksmith?!”
“Well, I looked for you,” Jaskier lies boldly. He can feel Geralt rolling his eyes. “So you mean to tell me the whole night you were just across the street, cavorting with witches?!”
“They aren’t witches! They’re lovely women, and yes, they were kind enough to host me last night, since you fucked off to get your dick wet and I couldn’t find you.”
At that, the two not-witches approach. Triss nods to Geralt, smiling politely as if to say ‘so you’ve found yourself an idiot bard too’— he nods back. Yennefer tilts her head, eyeing Jaskier with that shrewd look that always makes him a little scared for his life. But when she speaks, she sounds far nicer than usual. “So you’re Nettle’s friend?”
With the grace and reservedness of a banshee, Jaskier demands, “Nettle?!”
“Callonetta,” amends Yennefer, smiling broadly and mischievously. Her fingers curl around Priscilla’s far shoulder, arm circling around her protectively. Jaskier is going to blow a gasket. “She was lost. We helped her out.” Sure enough, Triss walks around Priscilla’s other side, sliding an arm around her hips and smiling politely. Jaskier’s eyes bulge out of his head.
“I’m glad we found your friend, Dandelion,” Geralt intervenes before anyone can yell any more. “Shall we work this out over breakfast?”
“Sure,” Priscilla nods quickly. There’s still glitter on her forehead from her makeup yesterday. “I’d love to get to know the man that Dandelion is so taken by.” Her eyes sparkle, and Jaskier wants to jump down her throat, but… she’s smiling so genuinely that he can’t be mad. He had half-assumed she would leave yesterday, so he supposes he should just be grateful she’s still here, and happy to boot.
“Well, Callonetta, if you’re hungry, there’s a stall that does these biscuits with lemon curd— here, I’ll lead the way.” He offers Priscilla his arm as an obvious peace offering, and she takes it, stepping out of the grasp of Yennefer and Triss. Jaskier starts leading his friend over towards the food vendors, and quiet music drifts across the gentle morning breeze, meaning the other bards have woken up somewhere. Jaskier starts to think this might shape up to be the best Faire yet.
From behind them, he hears Yennefer say, subdued but still amused, “Callonetta was telling us about another kind of festival in the fall that we think could be very fun, Geralt.”
Hey-o! After seeing the new footage for Witcher season 2, I am up for some Geraskier Roleplay! I mostly play Geralt as that’s who I’m most comfortable with, and I’m open to any kind of AU’s and ideas! I love dark themes, I’m a sucker for that, so any ideas you have I am open to! I also RP WinterBaron, and I play both Baron Helmut Zemo and Bucky Barnes! So if you’re up for a Marvrl/TFATWS RP hit me up as well!
My preferred place to RP is for discord, so send me a message on here or message me there! My discord is Baron Helmut Zemo#4744 ! I look forward to hearing from you!