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It’s a name that’s followed him since word began to spread of who he was and what he did.
Littered among the utterances of ‘Witcher’s bard’, ‘The bard Jaskier’, and just ‘Bard’, the words that have always described him best pass like venom through the lips of strangers. Spat at his feet, or in his face, acrid and vile - he doesn’t much care what they think of him. If he’s being honest, perhaps the words themselves are the most accurate portrayal of exactly what he has become, but it’s the intent that bothers him. What the history behind the words means - what those people think of the other half of Jaskier’s heart. That’s what bothers him.
It’s no secret that he lays with anyone of age who’s willing.
He’s young, virile - lonely.
He could blame a lot of his actions on being a horny youth, but as he grows older and (arguably) wiser, he still finds himself drawn to people’s beds. Many of them ill-advised.
It doesn’t take a hedge witch, nor a mage, to figure out he does it because he can’t have what he so desperately wants. He buries himself in a slew of bodies to distract himself from the one body he can’t have - avoids the longing rising over him like an ocean wave, dragging him under and drowning him.
“Bet I can fuck you better than the mutant does,” a man whispers in his ear in a town just in the borders of Velen.
“Is that the best pickup line you could come up with?” Jaskier asks, flitting away to bring his lute up onto the stage and avoid the blossoming of rage in the man’s face.
He doesn’t fuck the man, but Geralt is away on a hunt, and Jaskier gets a vicious beating on the tavern floor before the guards manage to wrestle the man away, all the while screaming about the injustice.
“You didn’t want to fuck him?” Geralt asks later when Jaskier has told him what happened and the witcher is sitting with a damp cloth, gently dabbing away the blood crusting around Jaskier’s split lower lip.
“I’m not going to fuck a man that’s insulted you, Geralt.”
Geralt shrugs, “Don’t care what he says about me.”
“Well, I do,” Jaskier sniffs and leaves it at that.
–
“Has he got a big cock?” A woman asks him in the streets of Oxenfurt, her voice lowered as Geralt carefully looks over the craftsmanship of a new saddle that Jaskier has seen him eyeing every time they pass through for the past three years. Jaskier knows that Geralt hears her, but a human wouldn’t expect him to, rumours of sensitive hearing or no.
“Sorry?” Jaskier prompts, because if he’s going to respond, then he’s going to make the woman actually ask what she wants to know.
“The witcher,” she specifies, “heard a rumour they’ve giant cocks. So?”
Jaskier shrugs, “Not too big to enjoy, I’m sure,” he says and walks away.
“Why did you not tell that woman the truth?” Geralt asks him later in the privacy of their room. They stay in Jaskier’s home, a simple two-bedroom apartment above one of the city’s many music stores, when in Oxenfurt.
“What was that, darling?”
“You said I am… enjoyable. But we have never…”
“No,” Jaskier agrees, “But she was being nosey. And there’s nothing wrong with giving the people a little something to talk about. It’s good publicity, Geralt.”
“They’re going to think that we…”
“So? Let them.”
–
It is, perhaps, a slightly bigger deal than Jaskier may have led Geralt to believe.
He’s in Beeches when it happens. A little town just within Kaedwen that he stops in on his way to meet Geralt in Ard Carraigh - a journey he makes from Oxenfurt every spring.
He’s not entirely sure how he ends up there, knees scraping on the piss-soaked stone of the alley behind the shitty little tavern, hands wrenched behind his back. He keeps his mouth clamped shut, because he knows what these men want from him.
His doublet is torn from his shoulders and tossed into the mud, one of them laughs where he can’t see, and hands off a knife to the one towering over him.
“What’s wrong?” The man smirks, “Nothin’ left t’say?”
“Fuck you,” Jaskier spits.
The men chuckle, and Jaskier hears the chilling sound of a belt unbuckling. He squeezes his eyes shut as the knife is pressed to his skin and forces himself not to scream at the sting of it carving into his chest.
He wakes several hours later, when the sun has all but set. He’s tucked away in that same alley, stuffed uncomfortably behind some crates and barrels, body contorted into an unnatural position that makes his muscles ache and joints scream in protest. His skin feels like it’s on fire, and when he presses his fingers gently to his tender chest, they come away tacky with blood.
He stumbles his way out of the town, snagging a shirt from a clothesline on his way back around to the inn to grab his belongings. He wants to be surprised they didn’t kill him, but then again, men like that… well, killing was never the point.
The first time he sees it in a mirror, he cries.
He can’t read it in the mess of blood and dirt and… things he’d really rather not think about, but once he’s begun dabbing away the blood with a damp cloth and the words become legible –
He’s never thought much of it when people would mutter it under their breath, or even shout it across the tavern or street, but, somehow, having it carved into his flesh is different. He cries, he’s angry, sad, confused, everything hurts.
Once he’s cried himself out, he wraps up his wounds, collapses into bed and sleeps a few hours before getting up and slipping out before dawn to continue his journey to Ard Carraigh.
It takes four more days to reach the city, and Geralt is already there when he arrives.
“Geralt!” Jaskier changes his pace to a jog when he sees that oh-so-familiar white hair amidst the crowd. The witcher turns to him, eyes warm and lips turned up in the slightest smile, “You look well, how are your brothers?”
“Good to see you too, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, sincere but quiet enough to not be overheard by the folk perusing the markets. Jaskier has learned over the years that Geralt much prefers his displays of affection to be in private, and while a younger Jaskier had no qualms with throwing himself at his dearest friend, hugging and clinging, he’s learned that only gets him pushed away and his private cuddle time revoked. He settles for their usual clasping of forearms.
“What are you looking for in the market, dear?”
“I found it,” Geralt blinks slowly, eyes firmly on the bard, and Jaskier laughs.
He follows Geralt back to his room. The city is close enough to the base of the Blue Mountains that they’re used to the foot traffic of witchers, and therefore, they have no issues giving Geralt a room when he needs one. Eskel, Lambert and Geralt all make their way through twice each year to get to and from the keep and the people are more tolerant here than most places because of their frequent visits.
“So?” Jaskier asks as the door to the room is shut and Geralt takes his bags from him, hanging them on the hooks by the table, “any good winter stories?”
Geralt returns to his side, “Mm,” he hums, and tucks his face into the hair at the side of Jaskier’s head, just behind his ear, “Missed you.”
“Oh, Geralt, darling,” Jaskier reaches up to run his fingers through those glorious silver tresses, “I missed you, too. Winter is always terribly lonely without my dearest witcher.”
“Mm,” Geralt agrees, “Lambert… asked to bring a friend back. Next year.”
“Oh? Isn’t Lambert the contrary asshole?”
“Mm.”
“Well, I’m glad he has a friend. You all deserve people you care about.”
Geralt pauses, Jaskier feels him shift and shuffle just a little bit closer, “Would… you come? Next year? With me?”
“Oh!” Jaskier pulls back to look into Geralt's eyes, “Of course I would, if you wanted me there.”
“I do.”
“And Vesemir is okay with that? Me and Lambert’s friend?”
“Mm.”
“Alright,” Jaskier smiles warmly, “then, yes. Let’s plan for that, darling.”
Geralt smiles. It’s a small, timid thing, but he’s grown steadily more comfortable showing emotions around Jaskier over the past few years, and Jaskier’s heart soars with it, so much so that he almost forgets the words now carved into his skin.
Almost.
—
The scabs on his chest itch like crazy.
He finds himself rubbing at them through the fabric of his chemise just for a little relief.
“Are you alright?” Geralt asks him the third time he notices Jaskier’s new habit, head tilting in that very cute puppy-like way of his.
“Fine,” Jaskier lies, “Just some acid reflux from the lemons.” Geralt has been adding lemon and orange to their water for a few years now, to help with vitamins. The moment Jaskier told his darling witcher that humans need certain vitamins, Geralt had gone off and read every book he could get his hands on on the subject, then subjected Jaskier to many more horrible greens and lemon water to keep him healthy. It’s really very endearing, and only serves to make Jaskier love him all the more.
Geralt frowns, but doesn’t say anything. The next time Jaskier is handed water, it has no lemon.
—
“Are you going to ask Yennefer as well?” Jaskier asks on their third night back together. They’re a day out of passing back through Beeches and Jaskier desperately needs a distraction from the anxiety slowly beginning to creep into panic. He can still taste the coppery blood and the salt of the men. Can still feel the ache in his shoulders when he moves just so. He dreams of it every night, and if he makes sounds or is obvious in his distress, Geralt never mentions it.
Jaskier has never been more grateful for his chronic nightmares, aside from when they first prompted Geralt to slide their bedrolls into one and let Jaskier snuggle firmly into his warmth - his safety.
“No,” Geralt responds, his brows creasing in confusion, “Why would I?”
Jaskier shrugs, “I don’t know. Aren’t you two… together?”
Geralt snorts, it’s an ugly sound, but Jaskier still finds it beautiful, “We fuck, nothing more.”
“You say that,” Jaskier argues, “But you still struggle to admit that we’re friends most days.”
“We aren’t friends,” Geralt responds automatically, and Jaskier glares at him. “We aren’t.” Geralt repeats, firmer, “We’re… like warm bread with butter.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier stares at him, flabbergasted.
“You know,” Geralt makes a vague gesture with his hands and Jaskier can’t help the confused little grunt he makes.
“No, Geralt, I very much do not know.”
Geralt makes a frustrated noise, “Like… both are fine on their own, but… It’s better, when they’re together.”
“Oh,” Jaskier smiles softly, “that’s actually very sweet, Geralt.”
Geralt grunts, clearly uncomfortable, so Jaskier lets the matter drop.
—
The wound gets infected.
He wakes the next morning, and it’s so tender to the touch that Jaskier almost considers pulling off his shirt to let it breathe, but he can’t risk Geralt seeing.
He doesn’t think he’d think anything less of Jaskier, but the guilt would eat away at him, and Jaskier isn’t going to help such a sweet man hate himself more than he already does.
Geralt frowns at him as they get ready for their day, brows pinched in concern.
“You smell strange,” Geralt tells him as he fastens his bedroll to Roach.
Jaskier squawks, playing offended rather than giving in and admitting he knows what Geralt means, “Geralt! Just tell me I need a bath! No need to be so rude!”
It’s seeping some horribly yellow liquid some hours later, and even Jaskier can smell it, a strange mix of sour and sweet. His shirt sticks to him with the tacky fluid leaking out of him, and then he sees the sign for Beeches, a high arch at the exit of a thick bit of forest that eclipses the town –
Jaskier stops in his tracks, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. His mouth goes dry, hands shaking.
Geralt is there in an instant, leaning to look into Jaskier’s wide, terrified baby blues.
“Jaskier?” A solid, steady hand squeezes his shoulder and Jaskier forces out words.
“I- I’m just rather tired all of a sudden. Perhaps we skip town and head for a good spot to rest before we carry on?”
“Jaskier, you’ve got a fever,” Geralt tells him softly, “I need to take you to their herbalist.”
“No, no need, really, Geralt,” Jaskier responds, far too quickly. “I’m alright, totally fine. Let’s just find a stream to rinse off in, hunt a rabbit or two, hm?” He realizes rather belatedly that perhaps he should have told Geralt some lie before they arrived here to avoid the town. That the people were rude, threw fruit at him, or maybe that he’d fucked the inn keeper’s wife. Faced now with the reality that he’s been ignoring for the past week, he feels rather like the world around him is going to crumble at any moment.
“We’ll skip it if you tell me what’s wrong.”
Jaskier forces out a laugh and waves him off, deciding instead to do what he always does. Perform.
“Only kidding, Geralt! Shall we get a room? You know how the ground hurts my back, and it’s colder than a Grave Hag’s tit out here. Why must you live in the continent’s coldest province? Honestly, you Wolves,” Jaskier plasters a wide smile on his face and begins to force his way forward, one step at a time.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
He can do this.
Right.
“Jaskier,” Geralt comes into step beside him, features awash with concern, “You’re sweating.”
Left.
“It’s called exercise, Geralt. You should try it. I’m surprised poor Roach hasn’t thrown your lazy arse off.”
Geralt’s lips press together in a firm, unhappy line, but he doesn’t press; he places his hand gently on the small of Jaskier’s back and steers him around the outside of town and into the forest a ways. Far enough that the noises and smells of the little town are undetected by even his own enhanced senses.
Jaskier looks pale and sick by the time they stop. Geralt watches him shakily gather firewood and put out the bedrolls. He goes to hunt a rabbit or some squirrels. Jaskier is asleep when he gets back.
–
He wakes up feeling quite a bit better, though very tired. There’s a strange taste in his mouth, herbal and bitter, a taste that is reminiscent of the medicine his nannies would give him as a child.
Geralt is sitting nearby, frowning down at a bowl of something. It’s steaming, so it must be food.
“You don’t have to show me,” Geralt mutters, making Jaskier jolt a bit with the sudden noise, “But I know you’re injured.”
“It’s nothing,” Jaskier insists, because it has to be nothing, or else it will consume him and be everything.
“It’s infected.”
Jaskier wriggles his way out of his blanket cocoon and sits up, looking guiltily into the dying fire, “I know.”
“You don’t want to show me,” Geralt says it as a statement, not a question.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hm.” The witcher stands, pulling a little jar from his pocket and placing it on the ground next to Jaskier, “Twice a day.”
Jaskier takes the salve and sniffles, nodding, “Thank you, dear heart.”
– – –
He does as instructed, smearing the thick, sticky paste over his wounds, and slowly the infection fades. The wounds heal and become scars, pink and almost silk-like.
He forgets about them.
– – –
It’s six months later, the height of summer, and the sun is blistering in its intensity. Jaskier feels like they’ve been walking for days on end, feet sore and sweat-soaked as he is. He hasn’t even got the energy to play the lute or chatter - not even a complaint has slipped past his lips in the last hour. The only thing keeping him from removing his thin chemise is that the damp fabric is kind of cooling - and also, he doesn’t want to get sunburned.
“There’s a lake,” Geralt says from his place atop Roach. His black leathers have to be cooking him alive and Jaskier wonders how in the world he can stand it. “Half mile that way,” he nods into the treeline.
“Oh,” Jaskier blinks up at him, “Please tell me we can go cool down?”
“Hm,” Geralt says, which Jaskier takes to mean ‘just let me check it for drowners before you go diving in’.
With Roach settled in a shady area with plenty of grass and the small lake deemed adequately safe, Jaskier drops his things by a tree and heads for the water, leaving his boots on the shore.
“Fuck, that’s cold!” He yelps, does a funny little dance, and dives in clothes and all. It is rather brisk, but it’s so refreshing that he doesn’t even care. Geralt settles on the grass in the shade of an oak tree and watches his companion splash and sing.
It’s nice.
It’s nice until Jaskier exits the water and Geralt’s eyes are drawn - as they often are - down the line of Jaskier’s neck, following an errant trickle of water as it drips from his hair down along the curve the neckline of his shirt makes and into his chest hair –
The water soaked into the fabric weighs it down and pulls it open, exposing the relatively fresh scars of letters carved into Jaskier’s flesh. Geralt stares, open-mouthed and horrified.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s head tilts, “Is there something -” realization dawns as he follows the witcher's gaze. He flushes hot, quickly gathering the soaked fabric and drawing it back over the marks, “I-I can explain!”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, so soft, so broken , Jaskier can barely stand it. “What - when - “ he swallows, lost for words.
Jaskier sighs. He should have known Geralt would see eventually. He did know, he just... chose to ignore it. To avoid it.
“Let me dry off and we can talk.”
Geralt just nods, eyes far away.
He dries and dresses in his cleanest clothes available, the wet ones laid over a large rock to dry.
“Alright,” he approaches Geralt, who has gone from looking far away and lost to painfully stone-faced in a matter of minutes. He stands to meet Jaskier on the grass in the sun. The heat is much more welcome now that his skin is cold with lake water.
“This was in Beeches, wasn’t it?” Geralt thumbs at the collar of Jaskier’s chemise. It’s just open enough that he can see the tip of a single pink letter.
“It was,” Jaskier admits, and is surprised when fear no longer floods him at the memories.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“What could you have done, Geralt?” The question is soft and unexpecting, “You weren’t even there.”
“I could kill them for you,” he mutters, and, when their eyes meet, Jaskier knows he means it.
“No,” Jaskier takes his witcher's hands, “I won’t have anyone believe you a butcher ever again.”
“I would be,” Geralt says, “For you.”
“Oh, darling,” Jaskier smiles sadly, “I know.”
“Can I-” Geralt glances down and back again, “Can I see it?”
“What would that solve?”
Geralt shrugs, but returns to staring at the dip of Jaskier’s shirt collar.
“You can look,” Jaskier gives in, “But you may not feel guilty. Do you understand?”
Geralt nods and reaches to pull the collar aside. Jaskier looks away, not able to bear the moment Geralt reads the words that were carved into him.
‘WITCHERS WHORE’ stands out in stark relief against his pale skin and dusting of dark hair, and the sound Geralt makes when he sees it – a horrible, sharp whine like nothing Jaskier has ever heard from the man – is heart wrenching.
“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier says, throat tight. “It’s not your fault.”
“Jaskier–” Geralt’s voice is so hoarse it sounds like he’s crying, and when Jaskier looks back at him, he is astonished to find there are tears in the witcher’s eyes.
“It’s not,” he insists, stepping in closer, “you didn’t do this. You couldn’t have stopped them.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Geralt argues.
“No,” Jaskier is quick to agree, “It shouldn’t have, because people shouldn’t be so horrible. But you, love, please… You can’t –” tears spill over his cheeks, “I couldn’t bear it if you blamed yourself. Please.”
“I’ll kill them,” Geralt promises again, letting Jaskier reach up to cup his cheek.
“A compromise,” Jaskier offers, “You hold them still. I’ll kill them.”
He’s delighted by the small huff of amusement that gets him, but Geralt’s eyes are inevitably drawn back to the scars. He frowns as he looks at them.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Jaskier pokes at it, looking down with him now, “They didn’t even use an apostrophe.”
Sensing that he is trying to make light of it, and desperately not wanting to make Jaskier any more upset, Geralt hums and offers, “We could fix it. I’ve got a knife,” which earns him an offended squawk and a slap to the chest, before Jaskier laughs.
“I could ask Yen to help,” he offers more seriously a while later, when they’re settling in for dinner.
“Oh, please, so she can laugh at me? Besides,” Jaskier takes the spoon Geralt has been using to stir the soup from him, “I don’t want your girlfriend prodding at me, it’s humiliating.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Geralt mutters, sounding vaguely annoyed.
Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Oh, sorry, casual and frequent sex friend who happens to be a terrifying witch. Honestly, Geralt, you have terrible taste.”
“Hm,” Geralt says, “We aren’t doing that anymore, either. Not good for Ciri.”
“Yes, gods help us if she tries to emulate a relationship like that in the future. You don’t want her ending up with a heartless slug of a woman, do you, Geralt?”
“No,” he agrees. “But she could still look at it for you.”
“If I agree, will you never talk about it again?”
“No.”
“Ugh. Fine.” Busy as Jaskier is, stirring their dinner, he misses the look of fondness Geralt gives him. Perhaps his taste had gotten better over the years.
Or, he thinks, as Jaskier dips a finger into the soup pot to taste the mixture, quickly yanking the digit back out with a hiss of pain, perhaps it has gotten worse.