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asphaltcowgrrl) wrote2021-07-05 05:07 pm
asphaltcowgrrl) wrote2021-07-05 05:07 pm
Entry tags:
Aftermath (The Witcher Fanfic)
Title: Aftermath
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt + Jaskier
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,139
Summary: In the aftermath of a brutal battle, Jaskier fights his nature and allows Geralt to take care of himself.
Author’s Note: Found a prompt on another comm that just screamed Jaskier to me. The actual prompt is Jaskier’s ballad at the end. And yes, my tag says Dandelion because that's what he's called in the English translation of the books. That's how I know him so... *shrugs*
From the corner of his eye, Jaskier watched as Geralt stripped himself free of all that black leather. It had been a brutal battle, more so than Geralt had expected when he’d taken on the commission two days ago. They’d been told it was only one kikimora, when in reality it had been four. The Witcher, however, had taken it all in stride, making quick enough work of the beasts.
That didn’t mean that the man Jaskier had come to rely on, to call a friend, had emerged unscathed. To the contrary, Geralt sported several deep cuts along his shoulder and upper back. He winced to see them, knowing that Geralt had to be in pain, even though he’d never show it. Jaskier wanted to offer his help, but healing wasn’t his skill. He was, after all, a bard, not a priestess. Besides, his friend would likely knock back one of his Witcher’s elixirs and be fine by morning without his help.
Still, he had a need.
Taking his lute up from where he’d hung it on the back of a chair, Jaskier strummed a couple chords, eliciting a grunt from Geralt. “Sorry, would you like me to stop?”
Geralt looked at him, one foot in the bath, a wicked sort of look in his eyes. “Would you?”
Jaskier grinned. “Not likely, no,” he said, winking at the Witcher. He plucked a few more notes from his lute before settling into a traditional folk song. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?”
Scowling, Geralt lowered the rest of his body into the bath while Jaskier busied himself with anything but watching. This was the hardest part of their working relationship – acting as if hie wasn’t more invested than he was. Keeping his eyes discreetly averted despite wanting nothing more than to devour every inch of Geralt’s body with his eyes.
His fingers slipped on the strings, and he hit a sour note. Cringing, he tried again, this time, allowing his fingers to move of their own accord, brining forth music that had no rhyme or reason, only the weight of his soul.
As a bard, he was expected to love the whole damn world and everything in it. No matter how ugly or frightening, it was supposed to bring him inspiration, give him reason to sing, a story to tell. But it wasn’t always like that. Sure, heh could write an ode to the kikimoras that Geralt decimated earlier, but he had no illusions about that either. The song wouldn’t be for the creatures that had been slain by the Witcher, no, the song would be for the Witcher himself.
So, yeah, he was supposed to love the whole goddamned world, but in truth, he loved but only one man. It was so much easier, neater, more efficient when you only loved one. Even if that one was an absolute sourpuss who would never love you back.
Making a face, Jaskier pushed the thought away and focused on the music coming from his lute. He changed chords, taking the song in a deeper, darker direction. Geralt’s influence, that was. But it was okay, too. The dark things in the world deserved to be recognized sometimes, too.
The water in the bath sloshed and Jaskier looked over his shoulder. The Witcher sat, knees splayed, soaking in the tub. One hand rubbed a bit of cloth over the mounds of scarred muscle. But the scars didn’t detract from Geralt’s beauty. To Jaskier, the proof that he’d been through hell and survived only make him more alluring. Not that he could ever tell the Witcher that. No, that would end rather badly, Jaskier thought.
With a deep breath of encouragement, he turned and fully faced his friend, his partner, the reason he kept allowing himself to get involved in dangerous things. He opened his mouth to say something witty and wise and the words stuck in his throat. Geralt’s eyes were focused on him as if anticipating this turn of events. Maybe the Witcher had expected it, Jaskier had to admit he was awfully bad at restraining himself from taking what he wanted.
One reason why he and Geralt were so close. But that was another story completely. No time to get into all the times his friend had saved him from being skinned alive by some angry brother, father, or uncle now.
“Bard.”
It was only one word. It wasn’t even his name, but simply his title, and yet, Jaskier felt t down into his soul. “Geralt?”
That strong, powerful hand continued its lazy swipes up and down his chest. “Something on your mind?"
“No, Geralt,” he lied. “Do you need help?”
The Witcher narrowed his eyes for a moment, then laughed. He held out the washcloth and waggled it in Jaskier’s direction. “Come, wash my back for me. I’d do it myself but…”
But the cuts needed extra attention, something he couldn’t do for himself. Warily, Jaskier took the cloth and started wiping the dirt, sweat, and funk from the Witcher’s skin. Moments like this, when he was allowed to be close, to touch and explore, they were the best. Geralt couldn’t ever know, but it remained true all the same. “You need a healer.”
Geralt grunted.
“Okay, fine,” Jaskier said holding his hands up in surrender, although the man in the tub couldn’t see it. “I’ll just do my best. I think I have some salve in my satchel. Let me look and –”
“I’ll be fine,” Geralt grumbled. “Just clean my wounds.” He paused. “Please.”
Jaskier smiled. It was as close to an admission of affection as he’d ever get from the scary, white haired hunk of a man, and he’d take it. He’d take every damn word, just like he’d take every kiss, touch, or – or, well anything that the Witcher offered him. Anything to just be here with him.
The words came easily to him that night. They floated on the wind, embedded themselves in his brain. Only once Geralt had drifted off to sleep did he even dare sing them aloud.
They want you to love the whole damn world but you won't,
you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.
Damn him and his foolish heart, but this man in the tub, the one with the strong hands and magical soul, would be the death of him if he weren’t careful. Jaskier chuckled at the thought. After all, when was the last time he’d bothered to be careful?
He glanced at the lump of man asleep in the bed and grinned. Yeah, this Witcher was going to be the death of him, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to go down smiling.
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt + Jaskier
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,139
Summary: In the aftermath of a brutal battle, Jaskier fights his nature and allows Geralt to take care of himself.
Author’s Note: Found a prompt on another comm that just screamed Jaskier to me. The actual prompt is Jaskier’s ballad at the end. And yes, my tag says Dandelion because that's what he's called in the English translation of the books. That's how I know him so... *shrugs*
From the corner of his eye, Jaskier watched as Geralt stripped himself free of all that black leather. It had been a brutal battle, more so than Geralt had expected when he’d taken on the commission two days ago. They’d been told it was only one kikimora, when in reality it had been four. The Witcher, however, had taken it all in stride, making quick enough work of the beasts.
That didn’t mean that the man Jaskier had come to rely on, to call a friend, had emerged unscathed. To the contrary, Geralt sported several deep cuts along his shoulder and upper back. He winced to see them, knowing that Geralt had to be in pain, even though he’d never show it. Jaskier wanted to offer his help, but healing wasn’t his skill. He was, after all, a bard, not a priestess. Besides, his friend would likely knock back one of his Witcher’s elixirs and be fine by morning without his help.
Still, he had a need.
Taking his lute up from where he’d hung it on the back of a chair, Jaskier strummed a couple chords, eliciting a grunt from Geralt. “Sorry, would you like me to stop?”
Geralt looked at him, one foot in the bath, a wicked sort of look in his eyes. “Would you?”
Jaskier grinned. “Not likely, no,” he said, winking at the Witcher. He plucked a few more notes from his lute before settling into a traditional folk song. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?”
Scowling, Geralt lowered the rest of his body into the bath while Jaskier busied himself with anything but watching. This was the hardest part of their working relationship – acting as if hie wasn’t more invested than he was. Keeping his eyes discreetly averted despite wanting nothing more than to devour every inch of Geralt’s body with his eyes.
His fingers slipped on the strings, and he hit a sour note. Cringing, he tried again, this time, allowing his fingers to move of their own accord, brining forth music that had no rhyme or reason, only the weight of his soul.
As a bard, he was expected to love the whole damn world and everything in it. No matter how ugly or frightening, it was supposed to bring him inspiration, give him reason to sing, a story to tell. But it wasn’t always like that. Sure, heh could write an ode to the kikimoras that Geralt decimated earlier, but he had no illusions about that either. The song wouldn’t be for the creatures that had been slain by the Witcher, no, the song would be for the Witcher himself.
So, yeah, he was supposed to love the whole goddamned world, but in truth, he loved but only one man. It was so much easier, neater, more efficient when you only loved one. Even if that one was an absolute sourpuss who would never love you back.
Making a face, Jaskier pushed the thought away and focused on the music coming from his lute. He changed chords, taking the song in a deeper, darker direction. Geralt’s influence, that was. But it was okay, too. The dark things in the world deserved to be recognized sometimes, too.
The water in the bath sloshed and Jaskier looked over his shoulder. The Witcher sat, knees splayed, soaking in the tub. One hand rubbed a bit of cloth over the mounds of scarred muscle. But the scars didn’t detract from Geralt’s beauty. To Jaskier, the proof that he’d been through hell and survived only make him more alluring. Not that he could ever tell the Witcher that. No, that would end rather badly, Jaskier thought.
With a deep breath of encouragement, he turned and fully faced his friend, his partner, the reason he kept allowing himself to get involved in dangerous things. He opened his mouth to say something witty and wise and the words stuck in his throat. Geralt’s eyes were focused on him as if anticipating this turn of events. Maybe the Witcher had expected it, Jaskier had to admit he was awfully bad at restraining himself from taking what he wanted.
One reason why he and Geralt were so close. But that was another story completely. No time to get into all the times his friend had saved him from being skinned alive by some angry brother, father, or uncle now.
“Bard.”
It was only one word. It wasn’t even his name, but simply his title, and yet, Jaskier felt t down into his soul. “Geralt?”
That strong, powerful hand continued its lazy swipes up and down his chest. “Something on your mind?"
“No, Geralt,” he lied. “Do you need help?”
The Witcher narrowed his eyes for a moment, then laughed. He held out the washcloth and waggled it in Jaskier’s direction. “Come, wash my back for me. I’d do it myself but…”
But the cuts needed extra attention, something he couldn’t do for himself. Warily, Jaskier took the cloth and started wiping the dirt, sweat, and funk from the Witcher’s skin. Moments like this, when he was allowed to be close, to touch and explore, they were the best. Geralt couldn’t ever know, but it remained true all the same. “You need a healer.”
Geralt grunted.
“Okay, fine,” Jaskier said holding his hands up in surrender, although the man in the tub couldn’t see it. “I’ll just do my best. I think I have some salve in my satchel. Let me look and –”
“I’ll be fine,” Geralt grumbled. “Just clean my wounds.” He paused. “Please.”
Jaskier smiled. It was as close to an admission of affection as he’d ever get from the scary, white haired hunk of a man, and he’d take it. He’d take every damn word, just like he’d take every kiss, touch, or – or, well anything that the Witcher offered him. Anything to just be here with him.
The words came easily to him that night. They floated on the wind, embedded themselves in his brain. Only once Geralt had drifted off to sleep did he even dare sing them aloud.
They want you to love the whole damn world but you won't,
you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.
Damn him and his foolish heart, but this man in the tub, the one with the strong hands and magical soul, would be the death of him if he weren’t careful. Jaskier chuckled at the thought. After all, when was the last time he’d bothered to be careful?
He glanced at the lump of man asleep in the bed and grinned. Yeah, this Witcher was going to be the death of him, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to go down smiling.