asphaltcowgrrl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asphaltcowgrrl) wrote2022-04-07 02:50 pm
asphaltcowgrrl) wrote2022-04-07 02:50 pm
Entry tags:
Drowning (The Witcher Fanfic)
Title: Drowning
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Jaskier + Geralt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 763
Summary: Jaskier is desperate for his friend’s company but can’t get close enough to capture his attention.
Author’s Note: Written for the Rainy Days and Mondays challenge at 1_million_words. The prompt was: I was drowning right in front of you, and you were too busy to notice.
A sudden commotion startled Jaskier, causing him to turn away from the bartender. His gaze traveled towards the entrance and a smile curved his lips when he saw his old friend, Geralt, in the doorway, surrounded by curious townsfolk. He’d known the witcher had been in town, how could he not, what with all the talk in the inn? But seeing was believing and god, was he seeing Geralt right now.
His wild white hair was in need of a wash, as was the rest of him, Jaskier noticed. But that was the risk you took when you hunted monsters for a living, the bard supposed. Dirt smeared his face, dust clung to every curve of his leather armor. Hygiene be damned, Jaskier never could resist Geralt when he was all grimed up like this. He knew his friend would smell of the forest, of Roach, of blood and gore, but fuck his tastes, it all turned him on.
Forcing his gaze from his friend, Jaskier turned to the bartender and put on his most charming smile. “Mind if we settle up later? I’d like to go speak to my friend for a bit.”
The bartender frowned. “You don’t know the witcher, bard, and I don’t care what your songs suggest. I know you’re a liar.”
Jaskier resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely. Digging into his purse, he fetched some coin and tossed it onto the bar for the man. “Fine,” he whined. “Excuse me.”
The crowd followed Geralt through the inn, gathering close enough to hear his words, but not close enough that he could cast a spell on them. The idea made Jaskier laugh – the witcher didn’t know that kind of magic, it was beyond his abilities. Now, if that witch Yennefer was around…
“Geralt,” he called, waving a hand in the witcher’s direction. The crowd was too noisy, too excited. Jaskier raised his voice and tried again. “Geralt!”
Still nothing. A body jostled him, roughly shoving him aside. “Out of my way you fop.”
Straightening, Jaskier brushed dust off the cuff of his jacket. “I’m not a fop, you ill-mannered, son of a – what the hell?”
The people surrounding Geralt were becoming agitated, unable to get close enough to the witcher to make sure he was real. But every time he moved, they all flinched, outing themselves as not being half as brave as they were trying to pretend. An elbow to the sternum made Jaskier swear and step back a bit. He glanced at Geralt, wishing he could get his friend’s attention.
Geralt’s eyes snagged his, held him tight. He wanted to call out, to tell his friend that he needed just five lousy minutes in his company, anything, but he was frozen. Speechless. Could you believe it? Him, a bard famous across the continent, speechless. His heart felt as if it were straining against his ribcage, begging to be released so it could fly to Geralt’s capable hands.
One corner of Geralt’s mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. Jaskier felt the tension leave his shoulders, positive that the witcher was about to stand, excuse himself from the group, move towards where he stood, waiting. Geralt gave him a slight nod, then turned towards some dandy who had to be the town’s mayor, listening intently to whatever the fat blob of a man had to say.
Jaskier went limp, all thought and feeling rushing out of his body and into the room around him.
“Well,” he said, with a flick of his hand. “If that’s how you’re going to be Mr. Monster Killer, then I’ll return to the bar.”
He turned his back on the crowd, on Geralt, took three steps and looked back. Geralt was fixed on the people in front of him, his eyes never wavering from whomever had his ear. The last bit of hope fell from Jaksier’s heart. He pushed it aside and returned to his spot at the bar.
“I knew you’d be back,” the bartender said, pushing a mug of ale towards him.
“Yeah,” Jaskier said, tipping the mug back for a lengthy swig. “Yay me.”
The bartender snorted. “For that, bard? That drink’s on the house.”
Jaskier laughed despite himself. “Guess that’s one thing in my favor tonight.” He tilted his head back in the direction of the witcher and the townspeople, wondering how he could turn this into a song. “Jerk ignores me just when I need him most,” he muttered. “Least he could do was bring me some money for all my heartache.”
--
End note: Generally speaking, the townspeople would not be crowding Geralt like this. More often than not, they’re terrified of him. However, that wouldn’t have suited my need, would it? Hah.
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Jaskier + Geralt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 763
Summary: Jaskier is desperate for his friend’s company but can’t get close enough to capture his attention.
Author’s Note: Written for the Rainy Days and Mondays challenge at 1_million_words. The prompt was: I was drowning right in front of you, and you were too busy to notice.
A sudden commotion startled Jaskier, causing him to turn away from the bartender. His gaze traveled towards the entrance and a smile curved his lips when he saw his old friend, Geralt, in the doorway, surrounded by curious townsfolk. He’d known the witcher had been in town, how could he not, what with all the talk in the inn? But seeing was believing and god, was he seeing Geralt right now.
His wild white hair was in need of a wash, as was the rest of him, Jaskier noticed. But that was the risk you took when you hunted monsters for a living, the bard supposed. Dirt smeared his face, dust clung to every curve of his leather armor. Hygiene be damned, Jaskier never could resist Geralt when he was all grimed up like this. He knew his friend would smell of the forest, of Roach, of blood and gore, but fuck his tastes, it all turned him on.
Forcing his gaze from his friend, Jaskier turned to the bartender and put on his most charming smile. “Mind if we settle up later? I’d like to go speak to my friend for a bit.”
The bartender frowned. “You don’t know the witcher, bard, and I don’t care what your songs suggest. I know you’re a liar.”
Jaskier resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely. Digging into his purse, he fetched some coin and tossed it onto the bar for the man. “Fine,” he whined. “Excuse me.”
The crowd followed Geralt through the inn, gathering close enough to hear his words, but not close enough that he could cast a spell on them. The idea made Jaskier laugh – the witcher didn’t know that kind of magic, it was beyond his abilities. Now, if that witch Yennefer was around…
“Geralt,” he called, waving a hand in the witcher’s direction. The crowd was too noisy, too excited. Jaskier raised his voice and tried again. “Geralt!”
Still nothing. A body jostled him, roughly shoving him aside. “Out of my way you fop.”
Straightening, Jaskier brushed dust off the cuff of his jacket. “I’m not a fop, you ill-mannered, son of a – what the hell?”
The people surrounding Geralt were becoming agitated, unable to get close enough to the witcher to make sure he was real. But every time he moved, they all flinched, outing themselves as not being half as brave as they were trying to pretend. An elbow to the sternum made Jaskier swear and step back a bit. He glanced at Geralt, wishing he could get his friend’s attention.
Geralt’s eyes snagged his, held him tight. He wanted to call out, to tell his friend that he needed just five lousy minutes in his company, anything, but he was frozen. Speechless. Could you believe it? Him, a bard famous across the continent, speechless. His heart felt as if it were straining against his ribcage, begging to be released so it could fly to Geralt’s capable hands.
One corner of Geralt’s mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. Jaskier felt the tension leave his shoulders, positive that the witcher was about to stand, excuse himself from the group, move towards where he stood, waiting. Geralt gave him a slight nod, then turned towards some dandy who had to be the town’s mayor, listening intently to whatever the fat blob of a man had to say.
Jaskier went limp, all thought and feeling rushing out of his body and into the room around him.
“Well,” he said, with a flick of his hand. “If that’s how you’re going to be Mr. Monster Killer, then I’ll return to the bar.”
He turned his back on the crowd, on Geralt, took three steps and looked back. Geralt was fixed on the people in front of him, his eyes never wavering from whomever had his ear. The last bit of hope fell from Jaksier’s heart. He pushed it aside and returned to his spot at the bar.
“I knew you’d be back,” the bartender said, pushing a mug of ale towards him.
“Yeah,” Jaskier said, tipping the mug back for a lengthy swig. “Yay me.”
The bartender snorted. “For that, bard? That drink’s on the house.”
Jaskier laughed despite himself. “Guess that’s one thing in my favor tonight.” He tilted his head back in the direction of the witcher and the townspeople, wondering how he could turn this into a song. “Jerk ignores me just when I need him most,” he muttered. “Least he could do was bring me some money for all my heartache.”
--
End note: Generally speaking, the townspeople would not be crowding Geralt like this. More often than not, they’re terrified of him. However, that wouldn’t have suited my need, would it? Hah.