(a happy one. only softness)
“I dreamed of home.”
Jaskier says before yawning, stretching his limbs like an overgrown cat in a sunbeam. With his legs still on Geralt’s lap, he almost dislodges himself from the fainting couch, so Geralt loops an arm around his waist. With how long they’ve been dozing together in Yen’s garden, daylight is already fading.
“What’s it like?” Geralt tucks away a strand of his hair, blinking to see Jaskier’s equally bleary eyes.
“Organized, for once. So Ciri must be visiting.”
Geralt snorts, offended. “I clean when she doesn’t visit too.”
“Sure you do.”
“As if you get to judge.”
Jaskier’s eyes crinkle, and he lets out a happy sigh before nuzzling his forehead against Geralt’s chin. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. You have been the most wonderful husband. Not many would let me sleep on their shoulder, my dear.”
That one is not a hardship though. Geralt is feeling the most rested since they set out to visit Yen in her mansion, and he can only attribute it to having Jaskier’s pleasant weight on him, knowing his bard is sleeping peacefully too.
Geralt tries not to worry about Jaskier’s loss of sleep too much, but they both know he’s failing.
“Do you miss it?” Geralt decides to distract himself. “Home?”
The crow’s feet deepen, and Jaskier doesn’t even bother to hide the longing in his eyes. “When do I not? I miss the chaos that is our little house. I miss the coast. I miss Toby.”
Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and squeezes. “We can always leave early.”
Shaking his head, Jaskier press a kiss at Geralt’s temple. “I miss it, but I want you to be happy more, darling. When was the last time you saw Yen and Ciri at the same time? Spend more days with your family, Geralt, in such a beautiful place, no less.”
“You are their family too.” Geralt frowns.
“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, “Family comes in odd shapes and forms. Even a humble bard has a place in it. Of course, I love them both with all my heart, but don’t say it to Yennefer’s face. She’d pretend to be mad.”
Jaskier stays silent in the orange light of the setting sun for a moment before starting again.
“I do dream of it too often when I’m away. It’s like, somehow, I can keep it with me for a while longer this way. Because…what if we can’t go back? What if we get lost and never find our way home? What if Toby forgets about us?”
“He’s a cat, Jask. You have fish. He can’t forget.”
Geralt gets a smack on his shoulder for that remark.
Dusk reflects from Jaskier’s blue eyes, warm and gentle. The soft wind ruffles the hair at his forehead, revealing the white streaks that are taking over.
“I’m serious too. Toby will still be there when we go back.” Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze with all the softness he can muster. “I love you, so you’ll never lose your home.”
“You love me,” Jaskier muses as if to himself, like he’s still amazed at the fact. “Even with my white hair and aching joints and terrible sleep pattern.”
Geralt sets Jaskier’s legs down to properly look at him, seeing right through the insecurities that his husband harbors at times. Clearly, it’s one of those days.
“Your white hair,” Geralt says gently, “shows how long we’ve walked the path together. I can only be proud. Your aching joints? I’ll be careful with them when it rains. As for your insomnia.” His lips quirk up. “I think I’ll be just fine. You tolerated mine for decades—despite letting me know every time.”
After all, Jaskier was the cure for it.
“I did complain quite a lot when you made me get up before dawn.”
“Hmm. How about I complain about it too, so you’ll feel better.” Geralt presses a chaste kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, before catching his lips. He keeps it sweet and lazy, letting Jaskier melt against the back of the couch and ending up in his arms again.
Jaskier chuckles wetly when he pulls away, looking away to hide the tears. Geralt tilts Jaskier’s jaw so he can kiss them away, right under the lines around the clearest blue eyes.
He wouldn’t trade those lines for the world.
Read the epilogue here!
Aaaannnd that’s a wrap! Thanks to everyone who stuck with me for so long and through so many angsty twists and turns.
I am following a folktale-themed inktober prompt list and each time a wolf is mentioned it becomes a geraskier AU. So here's a werewolf AU, please enjoy (and join me on Instagram, if you want, m_sky_art)
This inktober prompt was out of a russian folktale about a tsarevich (prince) and the grey wolf, that helps him on various quests. At a point, the wolf finds the tsarevich killed and makes a raven bring him magical water to ressurect the tsarevich, I turned it into geraskier AU
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Here it is, the second installment. This is where the angst really starts to kick in!
The song for this segment is Into the Open Air, by Julie Fowlis. (Yes it's a song from Brave but it's a damn good one go listen)
He first met Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, in a very small town on the edge of the world called Posada, about as far as one could possibly get from Lettenhove. The story itself is practically public record at this point, he’s told it so many times. Tavern, elves, ass-kicking, Toss a Coin -- ask anyone how the bard Jaskier met the White Wolf and they can rattle off the song like they learned it at their mother’s knee, never mind that it isn’t-- quite true.
Less well-known is the story of what happened after, how he followed Geralt to the next town over, and then the next, and the next, and made a name for himself singing songs about a heroic witcher, and how Geralt let him when he seemed bound and determined to drive away everyone else who tried to give a fuck about him.
Jaskier wandered across half the known world at Geralt’s side, singing songs about monsters and magic and the heroes of old to people so hollowed-out by the wars that even a mediocre bard who sang about a witcher was a welcome change, and pretended to everyone, even himself, that he wasn’t related to the man who wrought so much destruction.
Jaskier is currently getting resoundingly drunk.
He tends to do that a lot, actually -- he has a whole stash hidden away in some forgotten broom closet that no one’s been able to find him in yet that he saves for when the weight of everything rumbles down on top of him like a pile of stones.
Right now, he’s having an argument with the patch of lighter stone on the walls that looks like a face if you tip your head to the left and squint at it, because he’s always been a maudlin drunk and he needs someone to talk to.
“It’s Geralt. I haven’t… I haven’t thought about him in a decade, you know. I was over him.”
The stone face appears to be judging him, silently.
“Fine, fine. I wasn’t over him, but I was doing fine.”
“Okay, so I missed him. A little.”
The face looks at him out of one lopsidedly triangular eye.
The face does not fuck off, because it’s nothing more than a lighter bit of rock in the middle of a castle in some forgotten broom closet where Jaskier is getting drunk because everything he thought he’d left behind for good, everything he’d thought he ripped out of his own chest just to be able to function, has abruptly come back in the form of a white-haired witcher and it turns out that Jaskier is decidedly not fine, at all.
“What am I supposed to do?” he asks the universe at large, and the walls rattle his own voice right back at him. “I can’t just-- can’t just kick him out--”
But he can’t let him stay, either, because Geralt is a weakness and any weakness will get him thrown to the hounds. Or, more accurately, his brother’s legions still snapping at his heels for war. He can’t show weakness, can’t be anything other than the perfect, untouchable Emperor of the West and loving some scruffy monster hunter is most definitely something that could get him deposed or more likely assassinated, but--
But never mind all the shit they say emperors are supposed to do, he wants Geralt to stay.
He first fell in love with Geralt of Rivia two years after Posada, in the middle of some tiny no-name town in the southwest of Kaedwen, when he’d come down with some kind of cough that was catching like wildfire and Geralt had huffed, sighed, and bought him an inn room for a week while it felt like he was going to hack up a lung. It was the first time he’d shown anything more towards Jaskier than the gruff kindness he gave to everyone, his hand on Jaskier’s back as he coughed a warm reassurance that someone, at least, didn’t want him dead.
Or maybe he first fell in love a month earlier than that, when Geralt got caught in the back by a kikimora he hadn’t seen coming, on a contract for drowners of all things, and Jaskier had dragged him out of the mud and bandaged up the gashes and sat by him, all night, to make sure his breathing didn’t stop and Geralt had thanked him, deep and serious, when he’d finally been able to speak again
Or maybe it’d been six months before that, when Geralt’d taken a collection of pretty rocks a child had gathered as “payment” to kill the monster that was killing her family’s sheep and then set them back on her windowsill in the middle of the night, offering no explanation beyond the slowly-growing evidence that he was a good man, one of the best that Jaskier had ever known. Has ever known.
Or maybe-- well, it doesn’t really matter when he fell in love with Geralt, only that for as long as he can remember he’s been burningly, blindingly, achingly in love with the man, the kind of love that feels like it could make Jaskier’s heart cease to beat if anything ever happened to him.
And damn his stupid fragile heart, but he never really stopped.
By the time he’s made his way through most of the Verden brandy and into the Skelligan white, he’s stopped lamenting Geralt’s presence and started wondering what the fuck he’s even doing here.
He took the throne to try to repair some of the damage, to keep his brother’s armies from fragmenting and carving out bits and pieces for themselves, to try to let the land recover and keep everyone else from attacking him, and most of all to keep his brother’s empire from collapsing in a pile of bodies.
A year or two after that, he realized that as de-facto ruler of a good third of the civilized world, he had a chance to start making things actually better, and he started making reforms. Limits on the power of the nobility, regulations for how much merchants had to pay their workers, protections for travellers and offers of neutrality for universities. It’s a work in progress -- it’s near-impossible to turn a pack of bandits into an effective police force, and that’s the least of his problems -- but he’s trying.
But he is-- he really is a despot, a dictator, who rules by strength of arms and little more and the things he’s had to do to keep the peace, to keep a hundred different factions from starting a thousand different wars…
Perhaps Geralt was right to not have recognized him after all.
He laughs at that, bright and bitter and overloud, and takes another drink to drown out the pain of that realization, knocking his head against the wall.
“I’m fucked,” he tells the face conversationally. “Thoroughly, irrevocably, irredeemably fucked. If I stay, I’m fucked. If I leave, the world’s fucked. If Geralt stays--”
“He’s fucked too?” The words are coming from the hallway, deep and amused and achingly, achingly familiar.
“We’re both fucked,” Jaskier corrects, morosely, and then, because he’s drunk enough that it feels like the world’s about to end, “Hello, Geralt. How’d you find me?”
“Followed your scent,” Geralt says, taciturn as ever, and then “...may I come in?”
“Always,” Jaskier says, and it comes out more heartfelt than he really means it to, but the door swings wide and it’s… it’s Geralt, looking like he hasn’t aged a day, still with his hair falling messily out of its tie and his ragged black clothes and his golden eyes that can somehow manage to look so unspeakably fond--
“Jaskier,” and oh, that sensation like a trapped scream is back, building and building in his guts-- “come on.”
Geralt huffs, exasperated, and it’s so fucking familiar that it might as well be ten years ago and Jaskier drunk off his ass in some country tavern. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“Is that you offering to keep me company?”
“Yes.” It’s so very Geralt that Jaskier wants to cry.
“Okay. Yeah, okay,” and he lets Geralt haul him up onto his feet and out into the light of the hallway.
He first knew that Geralt loved him back the first time he nearly died.
The contract was supposed to be for archespores. Just archespores, which, while dangerous, were also stationary and thus easy to observe from a distance. He was supposed to take a seat on a nearby hill, record the fight, and stay well out of range of danger.
The fact that there was a colony of arachnomorphs on that very same hill hadn’t been mentioned by anyone in the village, so you couldn’t really blame Jaskier for not knowing.
He remembers-- flashes, bright moments caught in time. Fangs sinking into his calf; black blood splattered across his face; the gleam of Geralt’s sword as it struck an arachnomorph clean in two.
He remembers struggling to breathe, not knowing why his heart was slowing, slowing, until Geralt had choked out something about paralytic venom, and then he’d been scared, almost more scared than he had been when his brother was conquering everything a day’s ride to the south of Oxenfurt and the Pankratz name had been a curse on every tongue.
He remembers warm arms around him, holding him upright as he struggled to breathe, potions and thin broth poured down his throat as often as Geralt could manage, a whispered midnight plea; “don’t you dare fucking die on me, Jaskier.”
He remembers when he’d finally gasped awake with a full breath, when his heart had stuttered back to a normal rhythm, how Geralt had buried his face in his neck for a long, long time, and how his lips had trembled where he pressed them to Jaskier’s skin.
Geralt supports him on the long wobbly walk back to his own rooms, listening to Jaskier’s mumbled directions and occasional snatches of maudlin poetry, and manhandles him easily onto the bed. It’s barely midafternoon -- the sun hasn’t even begun to think about heading for the horizon -- but it feels like it should be later, like the sky should be darker. He’s not someone who walks under open sky and sunlight anymore.
“We should… talk,” Jaskier mumbles, head shoved into a pillow, and he can feel the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him again.
“Jaskier, you’re drunk.”
“‘S why I said we should talk.” He drags himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the way the room seems to dip and wheel around him, and focuses only on Geralt. “Wouldn’t-- wouldn’t be able to say this if I wasn’t.”
“I missed you.”
“I know.” Jaskier blinks at that, until Geralt makes a face and chokes out “I-- missed you too.”
“”S been a decade, Geralt, I would certainly hope you’d spent some of that time missing me.”
“More than I’d like to admit,” and oh, oh, that’s-- he’s-- Jaskier grabs for Geralt’s arm with both hands and drags him down onto the bed until he can slump against the unforgiving plane of Geralt’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says, to the universe at large and maybe a little bit to Geralt, and there are hands along his shoulders and that screaming feeling is back in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t do this.”
Geralt huffs, sharply, a prelude to something, so Jaskier cuts him off.
“I’m not the man you fell in love with. Not anymore.”
He wants… he wants to ignore it. He wants to tuck his face back into Geralt’s shoulder and pretend like the last ten years were all a dream and that he doesn’t have just as much blood on his hands as any warlord, like he’ll look up and they’ll be somewhere in the back-end of Sodden hunting drowners for a silver penny a head. But he is drunk and he is tired and there is a little voice in the back of his head chanting be all my sins remembered and Geralt…
He’s not the man that Geralt fell in love with. He hasn’t been for a long time.
“I… I killed people,” he starts out with, because that seems like as good a place to start with as any. “I ordered their deaths because they were going to destabilize my fucking empire, and I attended their execution, and I tried not to start any more wars but it doesn’t really help that I’ve got rebels on half a dozen borders and if I want to manage overland trade at all I’ve got to find a way to manage them, and I’ve sunk the ships of my brother’s generals because I was too scared they were going to start a rebellion and I should have just fucking given everything back and pretended like Valdo never even existed but I didn’t and now I’ve got an empire and I’m just a bard, Geralt--” and it turns out, in the end, that the scream in his stomach was actually a sob, now that a decade’s worth of pain has caught up to him, “and everyone thinks that I’m some kind of warlord even though everything I’ve done has been to try to make it all better and I never wanted so much as a fucking Viscounty.” Because that’s just the cherry on the fucking cake.
He snorts, thunks his head back against Geralt’s bicep. “Do you remember Idalia? Because I had her killed, when she tried to-- to make a puppet of me and take over the navy. She put me on this throne, and I repaid that with an axe. How could you possibly still think I’m worth--
Geralt covers his mouth with a hand and hums at him, warm and familiar like an oft-remembered bruise, or perhaps an old scar, and settles Jaskier back against the headboard while he strips off his boots and the leather arming jacket, all the Redanians left him of his armor, the movements like something out of a dream. Remembered and yet not. “I know.”
Jaskier lets out half a startled noise and chokes the rest back, because maybe all of this really is a dream--
“I’ve heard what people say about you in taverns.”
“And I wished I could have stayed with you anyways,” he says, and scoops Jaskier back into his arms like he never really left.
Geralt hadn’t let go, even as Jaskier’s heart eased back into its normal beat with just the faintest of pauses beforehand, even as all the pain of the paralysis caught up with him and he let it all out in desperate dry sobs, and his lips didn’t leave Jaskier’s skin, either.
He just-- stayed there, cradling him, even as the fire burned down to smoking embers and the slow breathing of the night crept over them, and his lips stayed pressed against Jaskier’s temple, where the pulse beat close under the skin.
Things… changed, after that.
When Jaskier was well enough to stay on Roach’s back with a minimum of wobbling, Geralt led them both to an inn and practically carried Jaskier upstairs, his hands horribly, horribly gentle right up until Jaskier had wrapped his own shaking fingers around the cut of his jaw and dragged him down for a kiss, and then for more.
That first time had been sloppy, horribly so, Jaskier still trembling-weak and Geralt terrified of hurting him more, but he’d held him as close as ever afterwards, and the time after that--
Jaskier hadn’t gained the reputation he had in only four years as a wandering bard for no reason, after all.
And it’d been-- more, at the same time. No early mornings fleeing a married lover’s bed, no spurned affections, no bedazzled flings with nobility for a week or a month or a day before right back onto the mud and blood and dirt of the Path -- no, now he woke in the same pair of arms every morning, felt the weight of Geralt’s fond frustration and his pride and the desperate, desperate love he held, even as they watched the world fall apart around them under his brother’s sword.
“I’ll keep you safe,” Geralt promised, one night after wandering through ruined village after ruined village with only the stray dogs and witcher-wary nekkers for company. “No matter what.”
Jaskier just tucked his face into Geralt’s throat, ignoring the way his stubble burned, and wished with everything he has in him that that were true.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
A Witcher and his Bard 🐺🎶
This is a redraw from last year's inktober
Joey Batey in these new pics looking like Brahms from The Boy. Looking like a little British wall boy hairy rat man.
Good for him. Good for him.
Jaskier (Dandelion) Stimboard
🌻🌻🌻 | 🌻🎶🌻 | 🌻🌻🌻
Chapter 3 now up on ao3
“C-calm myself?” Jaskier went from terrified and confused to absolutely furious in the blink of an eye.
His entire posture changed, his shoulders squaring, his hands balling into fists, his jaw clenching, his lip curling in a snarl. Something in his eyes flashed. Something that wasn’t quite human.
“Are you fucking kidding me Geralt?” he spat, “I’m a monster. You let me feed off you rather than letting me die and now I’m a fucking monster. Just breathe Jaskier. You’ll be okay Jaskier. I just-I can’t-“ his hands flew to his hair and he pulled hard, a barked out laugh falling from him and he sank to his knees, the laugh cracking along with his expression and tears spilled down his cheeks, curling forward until his head bumped off the floor, hands still fisted in his dark locks.
“I don’t want to be a monster Geralt,” he sobbed, “I don’t want to be a monster.”
Whumptober - Day 15
Hey there friends, it’s me, ya boi. Continues from Day 13 (no I did not do day 14 because I am lazy and there are no rules).
Title: Fateful Pursuit
Warnings: Major injury; blood; violence; death; mild stabbing
Characters/Relationship: Valdo & Arnaghad; Valdo & Jaskier; implied Jaskier/Lambert
The second worst part is that he knew that he was dreaming.
The worst part is that he didn’t want to wake up.
Here in the halls of his family home, he could hear the sound of his brothers and sister playing, his cousins yelling about whose turn it was to drag buckets of water in from the well, his mother’s voice humming a quiet melody, his father’s chuffing laugh as he lost again at cards. He dreamed a single perfect moment and he wanted to stay there, caught in the memory for as long as he could.
Suddenly, everything changed. Not in any jarringly obvious way, but like the sun passing behind a cloud. The sound of his mother’s voice faded. The shrieking laughter of his cousins stopped. Everything around him was leached of colour, the once bright walls now monochrome pallets of grey and black. The sense of urgency that had started niggling at the back of his mind had become harder to ignore and he started running through the familiar house, stopping only to glance through empty doorways, trying to find the people whose voices he’d just heard.
Instead, inside each room was a shambles. Draperies torn down, furniture scattered and broken. Pools of black liquid seeped into the fabrics, spattered against the grey walls. Panic clawed its way up his throat until he was screaming, trying desperately to find someone, anyone, inside the walls of his once safe home.
He burst out into the courtyard, scanning the area frantically, but all that remained were overturned benches and the shattered shards of clay pots. Everything still stood in shades of blacks and grey and he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get rid of the after-images that he knew lurked at the edges of this memory.
His mind knew what had happened here. Knew the truth. But he wasn’t willing to face it. Not like this.
Suddenly, and without warning, the tree that stood in the center of the courtyard was being consumed by flames. These were at least correct in their bright bursts of orange and red and white. The old willow tree smoked and burned, long sweeping branches shriveling and blackening before breaking off and landing on the ground. A resounding crack sounded as the trunk broke open and there, in the hollow shelter at the heart of the tree, Valdo could see his mother. She was hunched forward, like she was wrapped around something, protecting whatever she held in her arms.
She looked up at him, grey-blue eyes snapping to his as her lips lifted in a snarl. He could see the faint shimmer of her shifted form layering the air around her and he wanted to yell, to scream at her to change, to run, to do something to get away from the flames. He went to take a step closer, gathering his will to shift - like he would burn any less in the shape of a bear than a boy.
Something stopped him, like a physical wall in front of him that he hit head on. It bounced him backwards, startling him and knocking the breath from his lungs as he landed on the cobblestones. He looked around, startled and scared before his eyes caught on another figure striding across the courtyard towards him. This one held himself with the sort of arrogance only those born to power could exude. His hair was short cropped, a dull auburn that matched the bushy beard that graced his chin and cheeks. Shrewd eyes landed on Valdo as his lip curled into a sneer. He stood between Valdo and his mother, looking down where he was still sprawled in the dirt.
“Oh, poor little boy. You cannot help her now. And she’s not in any shape to help you.” The man made a gesture with one hand and Valdo felt coils of invisible rope wind themselves around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. “But you! You’re young, and strong, and bendable - tameable.” A wide smile graced the man’s face, abhorrent in the cruelty that hid behind it. “I look forward to taming you, little one.”
Valdo snarled and shifted. It was easy - so easy - to break through the startled mage’s bonds. It was easy - so easy - to rip him apart with claws and teeth. He relished the taste of blood in his mouth as he stood over the man’s pitiful corpse. The pounding of his own pulse in his ears, the heaving of his breath, the weight of his body around him felt so natural, so right.
He wanted to live in this moment forever.
Turning back towards the tree, he felt everything change again. No longer was it on fire. Instead, green leaves adorned the hanging branches. Sprays of yellow flowers were interspersed and he could hear the buzzing of insects and the sharp calls of birds.
But around him, the house he had called home, the place he’d lived and loved and grown up in, was a ruin. Rotted wood, soaked through from countless rains and ravaged by industrious insects, had fallen away from the walls. The roof in parts had collapsed inwards, leaving gaping holes. Even the cobblestones under his feet were beginning to be pushed up, disturbed by the freezing and thawing of the ground underneath.
Still wrapped in the shape of his bear, Valdo turned laboriously to look through the tumbled down doors of the entrance. There, standing in her usual worn breeches and untucked shirt, stood his mother. She was smiling softly at him, the laugh lines in her face etched deeper than he remembered.
“This is how it looks now, you know,” her voice was still strong, still that rich timbre that could shake the rafters if she chose. He missed it with his whole self and he whined, low in his throat, causing her to laugh softly. “Oh I know. This isn’t how you wanted to see me again. But there isn’t time for me to come to you - not in the flesh, so to speak.” She grinned again. “You’ve found a Witcher, though, as I knew you would.”
He rolled his eyes and grumbled, secretly gratified when she laughed again.
“Little one, you’ve always been so stoic. Always level headed, always knowing your own mind. But I need you to help Jaskier now. There is a girl - a child - that is tied to one of the Witchers. Destiny dictates that he needs to claim her. She will grow to be powerful, but there are those who would use her, twist her gifts to their benefits.” Valdo watched as his mother drew herself up, the air shimmering around her again as her form bled through. He’d always loved to watch her shift. She was the only one of their family that could fly.
“Help Jaskier find her. Help her, little one. Her name is Cirilla.” She hesitated for a moment, and again, suddenly Valdo could feel the dream shifting, changing. She took a step towards him, but the edges of the world were already melting away as Valdo’s mind swam towards consciousness.
He tried to shift, to reach out to her, to do anything to keep the dream together, but the more he tried, the faster it fell apart. He watched as his mother faded with the rest of the memory, barely hearing her parting words.
“I’ll come find you, I promise!”
Valdo opened his eyes, tears gathering at the corners. She had felt so real, inside a dream. But that couldn’t possibly be true. It has been years since he’d seen her. It was his mind reaching out for comfort, for the familiar, when he was in pain. That was all.
Slowly, he took stock of himself, noticing how easy it was to breathe now, despite the rasp still present in his throat. Whatever Triss had done to him had fixed the crushing feeling in his chest, and for that, at least, he was grateful. His limbs felt heavy and weak, though, and there was a pounding at the base of his skull that he knew meant he wasn’t going to be getting up any time soon.
Turning his head to the side, he grinned to see Arnaghad propped up in the chair beside him. The huge man was leaning with his head back against the wall, mouth hanging open and arms crossed over his chest, in an uncomfortable looking position, but clearly asleep. That feeling of disconcerting comfort was still lodged in his chest, but he decided to ignore it for now.
Maybe his mother was right. And maybe she was a figment of my over-active imagination, he thought wryly.
As he shifted his feet, he dislodged the weight that had settled overtop of them. Jaskier sat up quickly, startled out of sleep to stare at Valdo for a long moment before a wide smile broke across his face.
“Don’t,” Valdo hissed before he had a chance to speak, eyes flicking over to the still-sleeping Witcher. “If you wake him, I will kill you.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes but nodded. “I’m glad you’re awake. It’s been a few days since Triss stabbed you in the chest and we were worried.”
“Triss stabbed me in the - you know what, nevermind. I can breathe, that’s enough for now.” Valdo sighed, already exhausted again from the conversation. He closed his eyes as he tried to decide if he should just go back to sleep or eat something. A few days seemed a long time to be asleep.
“You need to drink some water, at least, if you’re just going to sleep more,” Jaskier interrupted his thoughts. Valdo sighed again, but took the proffered cup and sipped it slowly as he worked back through the still vivid dream.
It had all seemed so real. He wondered if any of it was rooted in reality. He wondered -
“Jaskier,” he started cautiously, looking over the rim of the cup at his brother, sitting and fidgeting at the end of the bed again. The man couldn’t sit still for the life of him and it made Valdo feel bright with happiness and annoyance. “Do you know a girl named Cirilla?”
Jaskier went absolutely still, a sight so foreign to Valdo that it sent a swoop of fear through his stomach.
“How do you know that name?”
Y/N: I'd just like you to remember how much you adore us.
Jaskier: And how dull your life would be without us.
Geralt: ...What did you do?
It’s buffskier, innit
(Gif credit: @lamberts )
oh yeah nothing big happened today, only a new amazing devil album has been announced