#AND JASKIER SENSES IT ON THE WIND AND IS *DELIGHTED* | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

officerjennie · 3 years

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Title: As the Clouds Whisp Overhead

Summary: Jaskier gets off on Geralt's soft thighs and tummy. Literally. Geralt relaxes back and lets him, enjoying the show. Weight gain spoken of positively. Pairing: Geraskier. WC: 3.5K+

CW: smut, brief mention of weight loss due to difficult times (past)

It had been a rather easy spring, all things considered.

Geralt lazed in the field, not really watching the clouds that drifted overhead, his eyes closed and breaths deepening into an almost meditative state. The smell of wine and cheese was almost drowned out by the wildflowers about them but it was still there, as was the scent of apples, salt, the road, and the lingering oils that Jaskier had insisted on wearing ever since he’d discovered Geralt’s nose was sensitive to the others that he used to reek of.

Said bard was currently shuffling their lunch about, putting most of it away for later, humming one of his newest tunes as he folded back up the blanket he’d apparently bought for just this occasion. Though they’d eaten plenty of meals without it or the basket he’d purchased at the market as well, Jaskier had insisted that a picnic was a special affair and deserved the right accessories to make it just right.

Geralt had just let him do as he wished, not worried about his friend’s coin purse - and not worried about his own, for once. Usually the end of winter spelled a time of heavy work for him but he’d lucked out on a couple of easy and well paying jobs right off the bat - so he thought a bit of down time wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.

The song on Jaskier’s lips was one he hadn’t quite finished yet. Geralt had already heard several different renditions of the first verse alone, lyrics tweaked here and there, the exact lilt of his voice changing back and forth as he tried to settle on what he believed would sound the best. And despite his occasional grumbling over the repetition it was a rather relaxing tune, one he didn’t mind listening to.

Beyond that, there was a sort of...intimacy that came with being trusted with Jaskier’s unfinished works. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t always his best around him, was able to fuck around with a song and riddle the air with curses of “bollocks” and “cock” while he tried and failed and tried again to make it just right. That Geralt could see him like this and not the perfected performance that he was to the rest of the world, the mask that was firmly in place right up until the moment he didn’t want it to be.

And that moment just so happened to frequently involve witchers, whether directly or indirectly. How many times had he gone feral on someone for just saying the wrong thing about one of Geralt’s colleagues? Just early that spring he’d jumped someone for spitting on the ground over Lambert’s name, and Jaskier hadn’t even met him yet.

Something like pride welled up in his chest at the thought, though it was a quiet thing. Jaskier should be more careful, he shouldn’t be fighting their fights - but it meant the world to him all the same that he wanted to. Especially for his brothers.

“You know, I’ve never been one for cheese and crackers as anything more than a snack, but that was simply delightful.” Jaskier’s voice came closer as he talked, and the flowers and grass were disturbed next to him as the bard flopped over at his side, quickly snuggling in when Geralt moved his arm to make room for him. “We’ll have to go back and ask again what the name of that cheese was. Never have I ever given so much thought to pairing and wines and all that stuff - my youngest sister was always more interested in that sort of thing, and really if I heard her say one more time that my palette wasn’t refined enough I might have had to hide frogs in her bed again.”

Jaskier settled in nicely at his side, slotting in like they were made for each other, fit perfectly together. He chattered away and Geralt mostly tuned him out, something Jaskier loved to fake hurt over though they both knew it was just that: fake. Over the years Geralt had perfected hearing what he needed to hear and simply listened to the tune of Jaskier’s voice, the song of his highs and lows, his sighs and breaths and every heartbeat becoming the song that was his bard.

Meditation came easier around Jaskier than it did anyone else. Even around his own family it was a struggle. Lambert was a little shit at the best of times and Eskel simply existed larger than he wanted to, and Geralt was always tuned into his brothers, paying attention to them because he knew just how limited theri time was together. But with Jaskier, he could rest, relax, simply let himself be like he’d never experienced with anyone else.

His arm rested at Jaskier’s back, hand loose on his side, barely hanging on and feeling his bard breath in and out as he spoke. Jaskier’s fingers tapped a rhythm where they were rested on his chest, though eventually they moved, sliding down to rest against his stomach and making Geralt hmm at the pleasant warmth they brought.

They’d stripped earlier to bathe in the nearby river and had mostly dressed, though Jaskier had forwent his doublet as Geralt had his armor. It was nice, being out in the wild, away from the faux sense of safety that inn rooms allowed them and yet still able to be this content without his armor on. Just their loose clothing, not enough to be considered decent in any sort of societal setting, simply existing and being and just…

Geralt was content, and he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Not in the slightest.

A breeze rustled the field about them, loose silver hair tickling his face though Geralt didn’t have the bother in him to brush it out of the way or tuck it behind his ear. The air smelled nice for once, no clogging dust on the wind, no rotting anything nearby nor farms to make his nose want to clog itself. Since the summer was still a ways off the sun wasn’t too harsh on his skin, his chemise enough to keep any possible chill away though it was warm enough in this part of the country, everything pleasant and not too much.

There was also a lovely set of fingers that had wormed their way under his chemise. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to push it up, had just scooted his hand underneath, and with very gentle circles had begun to rub patterns into the soft flesh there. It was enough to make Geralt melt beneath him, a soft hmm on his lips accompanied by a sigh as he felt his every muscle relax at the touch. The winter had been extra good to him, Eskel having returned with more coin than expected from his path which had meant more meat for their stews, and the lot of them had eaten extra well.

Jaskier had never shied away from letting him know exactly how much he appreciated it when he ate well. There had been a few times on their own path that food had been scarce, and despite witchers having an accelerated metabolism Geralt had always done his best to see after his bard first and foremost - so when times were tough his body showed it, and Jaskier had played his fingers raw when he saw the worst of it just to make sure the both of them could eat their fill.

But there had been no such worries or struggles yet this year, what with the good winter and the well paying contracts that had followed. Geralt’s stomach was full and soft, protecting the muscles and other important organs underneath, and the rest of him was showing the spoiling as well. His thighs had grown softer, somewhat straining against the material of his pants but it wasn’t quite uncomfortable yet - he knew well enough to keep his clothes somewhat baggy, to make room for the waxing and waning that came with the path. His chest, too, had grown softer, encouraging Jaskier to nuzzle into it at any given opportunity.

Those calloused fingers found some of the scars that ran across his belly, caressing them gently. Some stretch marks veined their way across his skin as well, hidden at the moment by his chemise but Jaskier felt his way across them all the same, giving off a gentle sigh as he snuggled in closer and traced his love wherever he could reach.

Geralt could not have thought of a more peaceful way to spend the afternoon. The clouds blurred as his eyes slid closed at the tender affection, his breaths deepening. Deep breaths in through his nose, smelling the wildflowers. A rabbit was nearby, chomping as quietly as it could on some grass, its hops barely whispers as it braved further away from its burrow. Geralt could hear the gentle chuffing of its babies hidden away, the call of a hawk overhead that sent the rabbit scurrying. The scent of budding trees, of a little mouse that had found some seeds to munch. The scent of his bard, his oils and shampoo and the hint of river on the both of them, and the growing scent of-

A snort brought them both a bit out of the peace, and Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to smirk down at the startled confusion growing on his bard’s face.

“Really?”

Those pretty pink lips pouted up at him as if Jaskier wasn’t fully aware of what was growing in his pants. Geralt made a show of raising one of his eyebrows, raking his gaze down, down his bard, straight to stare at his crotch just long enough to get his point across before flicking his eyes right back up.

It took a few seconds for his bard to catch up, Geralt watching the thoughts clear as day on Jaskier’s face, until red spread pretty across his cheeks and darkened the speckle of freckles there. Jaskier sputtered a bit and Geralt had to bite back a wider grin, starts to words that had no finish dropping between them before Jaskier cut himself off with a whine, ducking in to nuzzle into his chest and push the rest of his body closer.

“That’s not fair, Geralt - what, can you, I don’t know, smell it or something?”

Geralt didn’t respond to that, just reached up to tug a stray curl back behind Jaskier’s ear. His bard peeked up at him with another adorable pout jutting out his lower lip, his nose scrunched up as he waited for his ‘ridiculous suggestion’ to be shot down.

But it wasn’t shot down. And Jaskier frowned, and then he squeaked, climbing on top of Geralt to straddle him and poke a very firm finger straight into the chest he’d just been nuzzling.

“You and your- your entirely unfair witcher ways! Are you telling me you could tell all this time? Every time?” Geralt didn’t stop his grin this time and the indignation just grew, hand gestures growing wider. “That is- Geralt, how am I suppose to walk through life knowing you can smell my erection? How am I ever supposed to get up of a morning knowing my every waking naughty thought will be given away? Which yes is entirely too often but you’re entirely not fair, have you looked in a mirror in the past decade? Cruelty, unfair, entirely too sexy for your own good, for anyone’s own good-”

Jaskier went on like that, ranting like only he could, while Geralt eventually tuned his words out just to listen to the lilt of his voice. And the bard made a rather pretty picture himself, straddling him like that. His chemise was loose, showing off curls of dark hair that Geralt could run his fingers through for an eternity and never be bored of it. Broad tanned shoulders, a soft stomach barely hidden underneath his clothes, his pants a wonderful shade of green that fit in with the waking world around them.

A very pretty picture, but a noisy one at the moment. Geralt sighed but Jaskier went on, wildly flourishing his hands as if it was the end of the world that Geralt could smell his arousal. An arousal that had notably not died down, still pressing against the fabric of his pants, catching Geralt’s eyes and making him tilt his head in that way that Jaskier insisted was ‘adorable’ - though Geralt didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

His thigh twitched with a rather mischievous thought, and as Geralt’s gaze traveled back up to Jaskier’s face, cheeks still stained pink from his rather unnecessary embarrassment, he thought there perhaps that voice would do better singing for him than ranting about his dramatics.

He’d been called an asshole before, and Geralt had never disagreed with the label. But he was lucky enough that Jaskier for the most part never minded - and he greatly doubted Jaskier would mind his next movement.

As Jaskier waved one of his delicate looking wrists in the air, dandelion seeds drifting on the wind about them, Geralt shifted beneath him until he had room to lift up one of his thighs. Before Jaskier could catch his movement it pressed up into him, cutting his bard off with a gasp, his eyes fluttering as Geralt’s smile showed teeth.

“That’s-” Jaskier pressed right down onto his thigh, his hands coming down to support him, and he didn’t waste any time in making it more enjoyable for himself. Shifting down, one hand placed on Geralt’s chest to support him, Jaskier straddled his thigh and slowly ground down onto it. A pretty moan escaped his lips and his tongue darted out as if to catch it.

It was a lovely show, watching as Jaskier pressed down onto him, sought out his own pleasure by rubbing against his thick thigh. Geralt pillowed his head on his arms and just watched, not moving his leg, letting Jaskier set his own pace and feeling pride bubble up in his chest at how pretty he sung for him. On a particularly rough grind Jaskier whimpered and rutted against him faster, making Geralt’s own cock twitch - but he wasn’t really in the mood for pleasure, so he ignored it in favor of the show.

Though he made for a beautiful picture, back lit by the sun and clouds, a pretty blue above that couldn’t quite beat the beautiful blue of his eyes, Jaskier wasn’t purposely looking good for a show. He didn’t touch his own skin like he did when he rode Geralt, didn’t skim his hands down his chest and stomach to show it off. Didn’t bite his lip or run and tangle his fingers into his curls. The emotions that crossed his face were not stressed or controlled, his noises slipped out without thought, his body moving without any purpose beyond pleasuring himself - and it made it a moment Geralt wanted to sear into his memory forever. That Jaskier could let go like this for him. That he trusted that Geralt didn’t mind, trusted that Geralt did not judge him for his desires. How human Jaskier allowed himself to be, imperfect and all the more beautiful for it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed on an exhale, his movements already shaking, his cock dripping enough precum that it soaked into the front of his pants. Geralt could almost feel it wetting his own. “Geralt I- fuck you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous, I want to-” his hips stuttered, breath catching on a moan, brown curls caught on the wind and dancing. “Can- can I get off on your stomach? Gods it’d be so soft, feel so good, I- fuck.”

That was something he’d never requested before. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, belying another twitch of his own cock, but he grunted out “If you must.” And he had to bite back a chuckle at how quickly Jaskier’s fingers went for the ties of his pants.

Jaskier’s cock was leaking profusely though that wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. It looked like it was aching from it, hard and red and angry when he fished it out of his pants and smalls, and Jaskier whined as he couldn’t help but stroke himself a few times. His hips bucked with it, a greedy and wanting noise slipping from between his wet lips - but then he was slipping down Geralt’s leg to straddle his hips, and his cock was pushed against the soft skin of his stomach.

It didn’t slide against him very easily. The precum leaking from the tip helped, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, holding onto his cock and gently rubbing it against him, jaw wide and loose like it was the single most pleasurable act Jaskier had ever experienced. Geralt cocked his head and tore his gaze away from Jaskier to watch his cock rub circles on him, precum dribbling faster and catching in the hair that curled white all over his abdomen.

Honestly, Geralt didn’t quite understand it. Wasn’t entirely sure what had Jaskier’s breath coming so fast, his heart beating so quick at rubbing against his soft stomach. But he didn’t really care. Jaskier’s hips jerked and he fought to keep himself reigned in, to keep his movements steady and slow, and Geralt just watched him and let him. Let him take this pleasure, smelling the arousal coming off of him in waves, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and body and heart. And Geralt memorized every little detail, from the flutter of his long eyelashes to the way his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, nails just at the edge of biting him.

Jaskier whimpered, long and shaking, when he came. It was desperate, his face scrunching up, eyes shut tight as if he was grasping onto the pleasure with all of his might. Geralt reached out to take hold of one of his hands, letting Jaskier clench his fingers as hard as he needed, bringing them up to brush his lips against the knuckles as Jaskier spilled all over his stomach.

His bard almost collapsed onto him, but Geralt moved him before that could happen, bringing him down with a shush at his further whimpers and letting him rest once more in the crook of his arm. And Jaskier came down slow, heartbeat eventually matching the rhythm of his deepening breaths, eyes still scrunched up tight as if he didn’t want to let go of what he’d been feeling.

When Geralt ran his fingers through his curls, they were damp with sweat. He hummed, not minding, just holding him close as he melted against him.

Eventually, Jaskier stretched, letting his arm flop against Geralt’s chest and legs tangle with his once more. He almost made an effort to open his eyes. Almost. Instead he frowned lightly, nuzzling into Geralt and as he moved impossibly closer.

“Want me to return the favor, love?” His words were light things that could have been carried off by the wind if Geralt’s hearing had been even slightly worse.

In truth, Geralt was turned on. How could he not be when Jaskier had ridden his thigh and stomach so beautifully? But he thought it over for a minute, the cool breeze tickling his face with a few stray white hairs, the scent of wildflowers coming back to him as the one of arousal dissipated.

“No,” he said finally, pulling Jaskier closer to kiss the top of his head. Despite the interest his body had shown he found he wasn’t in the mood himself, content enough to let Jaskier have his pleasure and leave it at that.

Jaskier just hummed, not questioning him further, and a small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips knowing there would be no hurt feelings over it. His bard’s fingers eventually went back to lazily tracing patterns into his skin, though he made a bit of a yucky face when they found the sticky mess he’d left of Geralt’s stomach hairs. Still they were both far too content to clean up just yet, not even wasting the energy to tuck Jaskier’s softening cock back away in his pants as they laid there, relaxed, enjoying the non-harsh sun and the clouds that lazed across the sky overhead.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier whispered into his chest after a time, and Geralt grunted, not even opening his eyes to look down as he responded.

“A bigger food budget.”

A moment later, and Jaskier’s laugh filled the field around them, sharp and uncontained, a laugh that was so far away from the performance he played that it drew a chuckle out of Geralt as well. That they could be themselves around each other, that they could be so carefree and human, was the most joyous thing Geralt had ever found in his long, long life - and that they’d discovered a new way to have fun was exciting, and Geralt was certainly going to take advantage of this new discovery. How could he not, when his reward was a well-pleased bard melting in his arms.

#why did I give this smut piece such a poetic title?#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #lemony #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #gerskier #and now back to writing the stuff I'm supposed to be working on

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

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Better Than Gwent?

doing this thing | day 25/26 - drunk sex + “I think I’ve broken something”

This got long and I didn’t have time for two, so I combined them for something I’ve wanted to write for a while now c:

This, like so many other things in their life recently, starts with a game of Gwent. It's been one tournament after another lately and because Jaskier is a very patient companion (and because Geralt's life needs a little more happiness in it) he lets Geralt drag him alone to each and every one of them.

Tonight they're in Dorian and Geralt is playing against a very determined dwarf whose name Jaskier failed to catch. He blames the wine. If there is one thing Geralt is as good at as killing monsters, it's Gwent and he's been winning the majority of his games, leaving them significantly richer and Geralt particularly generous. He's been providing Jaskier with drinks all night and Jaskier is nothing if not thankful.

He's hammered when Geraly starts a new game with a pretty Elf whose name also slips his mind. The wine. It's a shame, he thinks because until she's joined by a very large and menacing looking man, Jaskier was considering asking her upstairs after the match. But the man with her makes no mistake about who she'll be leaving with and Jaskier sighs to himself.

But that's fine. It's been a long time since he's had a good night out with Geralt and from what he's witnessed so far, Geralt is having a very good night. So Jaskier isn't expecting a bad reaction when he lifts one of Geralt's arms and slips into his lap, but he's not exactly expecting to be welcomed.

"Hey!" Geralt's opponent shouts, "he's cheating!" Geralt just huffs a soft laugh and transfers his cards from his right to left hand, circling his now free arm around Jaskier's waist.

"Believe me," he says, flashing a quick grin at Jaskier, "if he was helping me, you'd win with certainty."

Jaskier would be offended, but he's right. No matter how many times Geralt has explained the rules and even talked him through it, Jaskier cannot grasp the concept of Gwent. Nor why anyone would want to spend hours on end playing it. The firm hand on his thigh also goes a long way to distracting from the insult. Jaskier smiles across the table and the woman Geralt's playing gives him a warning look before returning to her cards. The man with her keeps his eyes on him but Jaskier isn't worried; even if they did start something, even drunk, Geralt would protect him.

He settles against Geralt's chest, looping an arm around his neck and looking down at his cards like he has any idea what any of them are for. He hums thoughtfully and Geralt, surprisingly, holds him a little closer, letting his hand slip over his thigh. It distracts Jaskier from the cards and he shuts his eyes instead, basking in the attention.

He focuses on the heat of Geralt's hand, now rubbing circles into his thigh and the sounds of the room around them. Heat coils in his gut, but he ignores it; it wouldn't be the first time Geralt got him worked up when he shouldn't. Only this time Geralt doesn't stop like he normally would. The more into the game he gets, the firmer his grip gets on Jaskier's thigh and the further in his hand slips.

Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt's neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and leather and liquor that only feeds his growing arousal. For someone so frequently covered in monster guts, Geralt smells good and Jaskier can't help himself. He presses his nose right under Geralt's jaw, parting his lips just so and running his tongue up the length of Geralt's throat. In his head it's playful, but Geralt shudders under him, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. And oh, that's fun.

He does it again, just for fun and Geralt growls low in his throat. It's a warning, but there's no anger behind it and Jaskier loves nothing if not pushing his buttons. So he leans in again, letting his breath dust over Geralt's skin, but he doesn't move to do anything more. It's enough.

Geralt shifts under him, and despite the game, does his best not to move his hand from Jaskier's thigh. If anything, it moves higher, and his fingers slip further between his legs. Jaskier loses all sense of restraint at that point, moaning softly against Geralt's neck.

He's paying so little attention to the game that he doesn't realize it's over until Geralt's other hand rests on his knee and his opponent says, "good game."

"You too," Geralt says and his voice is rough, thick in a way that goes straight to Jaskier's cock. Which, in this position, is far too close to Geralt's hand and swelling rapidly under the attention.

Jaskier mumbles, pressing his nose back into Geralt's neck with a soft moan and Geralt shifts under him turning his head so he's breathing into his hair.

"Jaskier, he breathes and whatever he was going to say next is lost because he slips his hand between Jaskier's legs, pressing his palm against his cock. He inhales sharply and Jaskier whines as Geralt presses harder, fits his hand around him. "Fuck."

Jaskier shifts his legs, spreading them just slightly to give Geralt better access and he's quick to take advantage of it, squeezing him through his trousers and grinding the heel of his hand against him. And fuck, it's a damn good thing they're sitting at a table because Jaskier is rock hard under Geralt's touch and they're already putting on quite the show.

Another challenger slides into the seat across from them and Jaskier groans softly under his breath. The man across from him looks him up and down with a smirk and Jaskier realizes what he must look like; the man probably thinks he's a whore. Which is... probably fair. He's feeling rather dishevelled and his face is hot with lust and it would probably be his first assumption as well. Especially in the lap of a highly intoxicated Witcher. Jaskier decides he'd be quite happy to be Geralt's whore and the assumption doesn't bother him one bit - unless the newcomer tries to join in.

Jaskier is generous and open-minded but absolutely, positively, unequivocally against letting anyone join in on whatever this is with Geralt tonight. Another time, perhaps, but this is unprecedented and if he's only going to have one night with Geralt, he's not about to share it. He makes to shoo the man away, but when he looks back at Geralt, he's already got cards in his hand and he gives Jaskier a pleading look that no one could say no to. Geralt leans in, pressing his nose into his ear and whispering against his neck.

"Can you wait one more game? I'll make it worth your while." He nips at the skin below his ear and presses a kiss to the reddened skin. Pulling back, Geralt offers a smile and, perfectly straight-faced, wraps his hand around JAskier's cock and squeezes.

Jaskier may not be terribly good at Gwent, but he likes to watch Geralt play. He loves the intense focus, the absolute passion and thought he puts into playing - no matter who his opponent. But right now Jaskier is shaking with the restraint it takes not to grind up against Geralt's hand and everything else is a blur in the background. Geralt's palm sits curved around the jut of his cock, unmoving save for the faint twitch of Geralt's fingers when Jaskier leans forward to groan at him.

He shifts in Geralt's lap, pressing himself closer and is absolutely delighted when he slides his hand between Geralt's legs and finds him fully hard and straining against the leather of his trousers. It's too much for Jaskier to ignore and he presses his palm against the bulge, rubbing him through his trousers.

Geralt remains maddeningly calm, though he presses down a little more firmly on Jaskier's crotch. Not exactly the effect he was hoping to have, but a little moan slips from his lips and he drops his forehead to Geralt's shoulder. It suddenly becomes very important to him when this game is going to end.

Geralt wins the first round and the second ends in a tie. Jaskier groans loudly, pressing his lips to Geralt's throat and kissing up to his ear. The third round starts and Jaskier whines.

"Patience," Geralt hums, lips quirked in a smug grin. Jaskier whimpers at him and Geralt runs his fingers up the length of Jaskier's cock, rubbing against him before pulling up and slipping open the clasp on Jaskier's trousers. Maybe one more round won't be the end of the world.

Geralt's hand slips into his trousers, wrapping around his bare cock and Jaskier nearly chokes on the wave of need that rushes through him. Jaskier nearly doubles over, hips twitching up into Geralt's fist. At this point, the entire inn could buy tickets and Jaskier would be happy to give them their money's worth. He doesn't even care that the man across from him is watching or that he's blatantly touching himself under the table. In fact, it's a little arousing in itself, knowing someone else is getting off on this little game.

Geralt continues stroking him absently, apparently unaware of how fucking hard Jaskier has to try not to just tear his clothes off right there. He lets his head loll, rocking into Geralt's touch with a little gasp. He's being intentionally obscene, but neither Geralt nor his opponent seems to mind and Geralt shifts under him, readjusting so Jaskier's ass is pressed against his cock.

He lets out a little groan and Geralt holds him closer, rolling his hips against him. Jaskier is tempted to pull his trousers down and see if Geralt will fuck him right there, but he hears a smug pass from above him and the muttered fuck that follows from across the table.

Immediately, still thanking the other man for a good game, Geralt rises to his feet and Jaskier fumbles, somewhat delayed, after him. He's in a fucking state - trousers open and slipping down his hips, cheeks flushed dark, hair ruffled - but he couldn't care less about it when Geralt's arms wind around his waist, slipping down to cup his ass. He quickly collects his cards from the table and Jaskier spares a parting glance to the stranger as Geralt walks him back toward the dark hallway. Their room is at the end of it, but Jaskier isn't sure he'll make it that far.

Geralt pushes him into the wall, tugging Jaskier's shirt from his trousers as he leans in against him and it's all Jaskier can do not to haul him forward and kiss him stupid. Apparently, Geralt has the same thought. His mouth crashes down against Jaskier's, hot and greedy and Jaskier would collapse under the urgency of it if he wasn't pinned between Geralt's body and the wall.

He whines into his mouth, acutely aware that they're still in full view of anyone in the common room and parts his lips, encouraging Geralt to deepen the kiss. And he does. Jaskier moans at the first press of his tongue between his lips and reaches down for the hem of Geralt's trousers, wrapping his hands around them and tugging him close. He slides on hand down, cupping Geralt's cock through the leather and makes a quick decision that the trousers are much too thick and he needs to be out of them. Now.

He pushes Geralt off of him and takes a step after him to fumble with the buttons on his trousers. He kisses him hard and Geralt's hands fall to his hips, before slipping lower. Jaskier has only just finished unbuttoning Geralt's trousers when he's unceremoniously lifted off his feet and slung over Geralt's shoulder.

"Geralt! You brute, let me down! I wasn't finished!"

He gets an unsympathetic chuckle in response and Geralt squeezes his ass as he carries him toward the bed. Once they're in the room, Jaskier expects to be put down, but Geralt just crouches down next to their things, slipping his cards back into his pack and grabbing what looks like a vial of oil. Jaskier groans at the implications.

Geralt carries him over to the bed and drops him on it, climbing up after him before Jaskier even has a chance to right himself. But gods he doesn't care when Geralt dips down and catches his mouth in a heated kiss. It's not graceful, what with Geralt crawling up over him and Jaskier doing his damndest to rid Geralt of all his clothes, but he feels it all the way down to his toes. Or maybe that's the wine. Geralt shoves Jaskier's trousers down far enough to free his cock and wrap a hand around him, and Jaskier finds he's unconcerned about it any longer.

The only thing that matters is Geralt's hand around his cock, until it's Geralt's mouth around him and then that's the only thing that matters.

He writhes in the sheets, already wound so tightly and eager for release. But Geralt is shockingly talented with his tongue and Jaskier wants to stay like this forever, floating between overstimulation and greed, desperate for more. And Geralt - wonderful, perfect, Geralt - gives it to him.

It's a bit of a struggle to get him out of his clothes like this, but Jaskier does away with his doublet and shirt, happy to see them gone, as Geralt leans on one elbow and slides Jaskier's boots and trousers off. Satisfied, he slides further up the bed again, pressing his shoulders under Jaskier's knees and pressing them up.

Abruptly, Jaskier is displaced and Geralt pulls off his cock, sitting back on his knees. Jaskier watches as he pulls his shirt up over his head, just barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch. But as his eyes roam the planes of his chest, he realizes he can and as Geralt pushes his trousers down, Jaskier climbs to his feet.

He slips one arm around Geralt's neck, sliding the other up his chest. For a moment, Geralt indulges him and when Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock, Geralt's hips snap forward hard.

"Fuck," he breathes, "Jaskier-."

Jaskier's eyes drop shut, letting the sound of Geralt's voice wash over him. He sounds needy and so fucking sexy, Jaskier doesn't quite know what to do with him. Without thinking, he turns them around, pushing Geralt down against the mattress and climbing up over his chest. He's quick to snatch the oil from Geralt's hands and Geralt just watches wide-eyed as Jaskier pulls the cork and drizzles the oil over his fingers.

As he reaches behind himself, he watches the way Geralt's nostrils flare, the way his eyes, so dark and wide dart from his face to his hand and back again. Jaskier presses between his cheeks, rubbing against his hole with a little groan. Geralt watches, enraptured as Jaskier presses in, his eyelids fluttering as he works himself open. Geralt is bigger than anyone Jaskier has been with maybe ever, and he takes the time to prep himself properly, despite being able to hear the way Geralt touches himself.

Eventually, the sound of it is too much and he pulls Geralt's hand from his cock, shifting back into place. He doesn't even care anymore that Geralt is still wearing his boots and trousers because, from this position, he can see every little expression that flits across his face. From here, he can see how Geralt's eyes drop shut and his mouth falls open when he touches him.

Jaskier adjusts himself, pressing the head of Geralt's cock against him and sitting back on him. His own eyes drop shut at the initial pressure, but Geralt's hands come up to hold his hips, thumbs rubbing light circles in his skin.

"That's it," he whispers, "fuck Jaskier, you're perfect." He reaches up, pressing his thumb to Jaskier's bottom lip and Jaskier sucks the digit into his finger, sliding his tongue around the tip as he finally settles on Geralt's cock.

He drops his head back, shifting his hips and rising just slightly off Geralt's cock before dropping onto him again. He gets a loud groan in response and immediately does it again, desperate to draw more of those sounds from Geralt's lips. It only encourages him and Jaskier rides him hard, uncaring of how loud they are or who could hear them. Geralt feels incredible inside him and beneath him and nothing else matters.

He's leaning back, propped up on his hands, when Geralt sits up, wraps an arm around his waist and flips him onto his back. Jaskier lets out a high laugh and Geralt kisses the sound from his lips as he shuffles them back into position. He buries himself deep, rutting into him as Jaskier coils an arm around his neck. The other goes up to hold the bedframe as Geralt's hips dislodge him with every thrust.

Their lips barely part for a second as Geralt picks up momentum, slamming into him hard with every thrust now. He manages to hit the perfect spot every time until Jaskier is writing under him, one hand clenched hard in Geralt's hair and the other still struggling in vain to keep him steady.

Geralt thrusts hard, snapping his hips and there's a deafening crack but Jaskier is unaware of anything but the pleasure that zips through him as he comes. Geralt shifts onto his side, stroking Jaskier through it even as they're displaced onto the floor. Unfazed, Jaskier slips his other arm around Geralt's neck, breaking away from his lips long enough to look at him.

"Fuck Geralt, you're amazing, darling. Are you gonna come for me?"

Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier's, mumbling a soft, yeah as he shuffles up closer, knees on either side of Jaskier's hips. Jaskier groans as he's bent practically in half, flopping back against the floor and letting his knees hook around Geralt's neck instead. Geralt's so close now, he can't do much but rut into him and Jaskier encourages him, breathing soft words of praise against his lips as Geralt tumbles over the edge after him.

Geralt collapses on him almost immediately and they tangle together, Geralt with his head on Jaksier's chest and Jaskier with his hands in Geralt's hair. His chest is still heaving and he's not sure he'll ever catch his breath, but when Geralt looks up at him again, he can't help but kiss him, sinking into the kiss even as Geralt wraps his arms around him and rolls them onto their sides. Breaking away for a moment, he grins at Jaskier before leaning in and whispering conspiratorily,

"I think I've broken something."

Jaskier glances back at the bed now behind them, one corner of which is bowing significantly lower thangthe others and he turns back with a grin, running his hands up Geralt's chest.

"D'you suppose they'll charge extra for that?"

"Mm, probably," he hums and he smirks, rolling on top of him again, "I suppose we'll have to make it worth our while."

#rex writes #october prompts 2k20 #geraskier #smut

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Note

Hey I have a holiday prompt for you! What if it’s the pairing’s first holiday together and they stress about figuring out what to get each other? Any pairing you feel like! PS Reading your stuff never fails to put a smile on face!💜💜💜

Hi Blondey!

cute shit ahead. Modern AU

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“Yen,” I swear,” Geralt panted into the phone. “It’s an emergency. Please, I need your help.”

“No.”

“Yen please I’m actually begging.”

“You should have thought to beg before Christmas Eve.”

“I’m meeting him tonight, Yennefer, I’m on Wilson Street, with all the shops and I’m so lost, please.”

“No.”

“I’ll set you up with Jaskier’s hot friend. The one from the coffee shop. She’s single.”

“...I’m on my way.”

-- -- -- Across Town, Triss and Jaskier’s Apartment -- -- --

“I just thought I’d have more time to get him a gift,” Jaskier wailed, draped dramatically over Triss’ beat up armchair. “And then it was thanksgiving, then finals and it’s Christmas eve and I don’t have a gift.”

“Well,” Triss said, sipping her cocoa and barely looking up from her book. “It’s not noon yet, shops aren’t all closed. What kind of gift does your relationship need?”

“What?” Jaskier looked up from his flop of despair, confused.

“I mean, if you’d been dating for a month it would be slippers or some scotch or something.”

“We’ve been dating eight months though!” Jaskier wailed. “I love him, Trissy, desperately. I see his face and everything goes all pink and mushy.”

“You should get that checked out.”

“No, I mean,” Jaskier sat up and looked at her. “I think he could be the one. He might be it for me.”

Triss looked up from her book. She’d known Jaskier since university, and his heart had always been so mobile, but there was something shining in his eyes. She shrugged mentally. Put it down to a Christmas miracle, but Jaskier was really in love.

“What does he like?”

Jaskier huffed. “He likes being grumpy.”

“And?”

“Me.” He paused for thought. “His horse, Roach, he loves riding. He loves his goddaughter, and mythology.”

“Lord of the Rings nerd?”

“Oh you have no idea, he’s basically Aragorn if Aragorn had albinism.”

“I know a place,” Triss said, getting up. “Put on your coat.”

“Will it be open?” Jaskier asked anxiously, pulling his boots on.

“They live above the shop,” Triss said, throwing his scarf at him. “I know the owners, I’ll just shoot them a text.”

-- -- -- Back on the other side of town -- -- --

“Okay,” Yennefer said. “And you’re sure the hot barista is single?”

“Triss,” Geralt said. “And yes, apparently she’s been crying about it to Jaskier for ages.”

“Right, let’s go looking,” Yennefer said, looking remarkably cheerful.

The rows of shops were mostly open for last minute shoppers and Geralt and Yennefer fought through them.

Well, Geralt fought. Yennefer just glared and people moved out of her way.

“Does he cook?” Yennefer asked, pointing at a cookware store.

“Ramen and box mac n cheese,” Geralt said.

“You said he likes clothes?” A very full store with what could only be called hipster clothing.

“He has lots of clothes I want something...special,” Geralt said. He was trying not to lose hope.

“You really like this one.”

“I do, you met him he’s just...bright,” Geralt said, mumbling a little into his scarf as the wind blew a flurry at him.

“Hey, look at the music shop on the corner,” Yenn said. “I’m down here all the time, I’ve never noticed it before.”

Neither had Geralt. “Is it new?” It didn’t look new. It looked nearly condemned.

“You said he loves music,” Yennefer said, stomping in the direction of the store.

“I dunno, that store looks...”

“He loves music,” she said. “And you love him.”

They entered the store.

-- -- -- Triss and Jaskier -- -- --

“How the hell did you find this place?”

“I told you,” Triss said, matter of factly. “I know the owners. They’ll be down any minute to open it up.”

“They’re opening it up just for us?” Jaskier asked guiltily. It was Christmas eve after all.

“They owe me,” Triss said. “I introduced them. Well...reintroduced.”

“Welcome to The Sword in the Stone, Gifts and Novelties,” grinned a young man with very blue eyes and slightly large ears, opening the door. Behind him a blonde young man grinned cheerfully too, he was wearing a santa hat.

“Hi,” Jaskier said, stepping gratefully inside. “It’s a pleasure, I’m Jaskier.”

“Merlin,” said the young man who’d opened the door.

“Arthur,” the blonde waved.

“Seriously?”

The pair just shrugged. Well, Jaskier, called Buttercup/Dandelion/Julian/a lot of other things, wasn’t about to tell people what to call themselves.

“I hear you need a gift for that special someone,” the blonde -Arthur- said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, he loves fantasy stuff and I just... I don’t know what to get him.”

“Gotcha,” Arthur began to lead him back into the shop. Merlin and Triss were chatting by the door.

“Were you thinking bigger, got a lovely cardboard cutout of Viggo Mortensen?”

Jaskier pictured Aragorn watching them have sex from the corner of Geralt’s little studio apartment. “Maybe smaller but kind of...niche?”

“Lucky you, this place if full of niche,” Arthur said cheerfully.

Jaskier looked at the wall full of swords and was that a battle axe? “Yeah...”

“Does he wear jewelry?” asked Arthur, jingling a box full of metal in Jaskier’s direction.

“Not really,” Jaskier said. Then something caught his eye. “Wait...” he pulled something out of the box and held it up to the light.

Somehow...it was perfect.

“How much.”

-- -- -- Yen and Geralt -- -- --

“This place looks closed,” Geralt whispered to Yennefer, looking around at the racks of instruments.

“Not closed dearie, just dusty,” came a cheerful voice from right behind Geralt. He and Yennefer jumped.

“Sorry honeys,” said a little old lady with coke bottle glasses. “Got my slippers on, makes me quiet. She shuffled one foot, clad in pink fluff, off the floor as exhibit A. “Gift from my great grandson, aren’t they darling? Now,” she looked at Geralt with laser intensity. “You’d be needing a gift.”

“Um, yes ma’am,” Geralt said. How had she known?

“Ooohoo you need a gift,” said the tiny old woman, “Cause you’s a boy in love.” She nearly cackled. “Follow me honeys!”

Geralt and Yennefer looked at each other, shrugged, and followed. What choice did they have?

“Got a harp,” the shopkeeper called cheerfully. It was indeed a full, standing, concert harp. It had a figurehead on it but the face looked absolutely agonized.

“Maybe not,” Geralt said.

“Hmmm no,” said the lady, shuffling her fluffy slippers. “Bagpipes?”

“He lives in an apartment.”

“That’ll be a no, then,” said the woman, peering at a rack of instruments in the corner. “Aha!” she shrieked, startling Geralt and Yennefer both.

“This!”

It was perfect.

“I can’t afford it,” Geralt said, feeling hopeless.

“Oh yes you can,” said the little old lady gleefully, if she could Geralt got the sense she would be jumping and clicking her heels. “Nobody wants ‘em these days, this one’s seventy-five percent off!”

Geralt left with a weird shaped package.

-- -- -- Geralt’s studio apartment, evening -- -- --

“Hey,” Jaskier, said, stomping his boots on the mat.

“Hi,” Geralt replied, stealing a kiss. “What’d you tell Triss?”

“Told her I was sending a gift, what’s you tell Yennefer?”

“She’s heading over there now,” Geralt said. “With that movie they both like.”

“Ocean’s 8?”

“That’s the one, and a plate of homemade Christmas cookies.”

Jaskier smiled at Geralt and stole another kiss. “We’re never going to have a moment of peace, now we set them up,” he said. Geralt grinned at him. “Never, but I think we did the right thing.”

They settled in on Geralt’s little loveseat. Jaskier set a wrapped present on the side table. Beside it, on the floor, was a very poorly wrapped mess. Lots of scotch tape was visible. It was quite large.

Jaskier felt panicky.

“Should we,” Geralt said awkwardly. “Do you want to exchange presents now?”

“Sure.” Oh god, Geralt’s gift was so small, and what if he hated it?

“You first?” Geralt said, handing over the odd package.

Jaskier had always been a rip-it-open present person, but he took his time, although there was no salvaging the taped up paper.

“A lute?” he turned to Geralt in delight, face lighting up.

“A lute,” Geralt said. “Is-is that a good thing?”

“Oh my god, Geralt, yes! Oh I love it! I can’t wait to learn it!” Jaskier dropped kisses all over Geralt’s face, careful of his new baby.

He handed Geralt the little package. “It’s not as great but...”

Geralt was a folding kind of person and folded up the wrapping paper carefully, then he opened the box and took out the amulet with the silver wolf’s head.

“Oh,” Geralt said.

Oh. Was that a good oh or a bad oh? Jaskier tried to breathe slowly.

“Jaskier I...”

Oh no. He hated it.

“It’s perfect.”

What?

“When I was little I thought I’d be a knight,” Geralt said, pale eyes shining. “And I drew wolf’s heads on everything, my crest, I said.”

Geralt was holding up the amulet as if transfixed.

“Vesemir can show you, he kept the drawings,” Geralt said. Then he slipped the medallion over his head.

“My knight,” Jaskier said. “My wolf.”

Geralt gave a playful growl. Jaskier’s heart thumped a little harder. Geralt must have picked up on something in his eyes because he cocked his head.

“Oh?” he rumbled, low in his chest. “You want a wolf, do you?” He growled again.

Jaskier leapt up, shrieking with laughter and ran to hide in the bathroom. Geralt caught up before he could close the door.

“I’ll huff and I’ll puff,” he said, dragging Jaskier closer and giving him a bear hug. He growled in Jaskier’s ear.

“And I’ll blow your...how does it go?”

“I’m not sure, wolfie,” Jaskier said, pulling Geralt closer by the amulet. “But I think it ends with you eating me all up.”

It was a very merry Christmas indeed.

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Ope! Idiots! With a random appearance from BBC’s Merlin (In 2020? I guess.) and a little old lady. + the magic of christmas.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #modern au #christmas #minor merthur mention

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asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story!

tags: @whereismymonsterlover

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher #big bang #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #me lamh #geraskierbigbang #multichapter

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 3 years

Text

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 11- At Last

Summary: Finally reunited with Geralt, the two of you attempt to avoid Nilfgaard and find a tavern for the evening, although it appears destiny has other plans.

Warning: angst, fluff

Masterlist

-last and final chapter my Witcher friends, that is until next season, and yes I will be continuing reader and Geralt’s story. There’ll be more monster slaying and adventures to come!

Within minutes after reuniting with your silver haired lover, did the two of you immediately find a spot elsewhere from the main trail for well...you know. A place hidden away from any unwanted prying eyes so that you both could show one another just how much you've desperately missed each other, in more ways then one. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so euphoric, perhaps that's just what making sweet love to your Witcher does to you. Even when he's pounding you against a tree while whispering the most dirtiest of sweet nothings into your ear.

You hadn't touched him like this in weeks, nor seen him for that matter, but he felt wonderful and seemed to be enjoying his time with you just the same. Though all too soon would your bodies have to part from one another's close embrace. All to your utter disappointment did the two of you end your hasty love making session, seeing as the land is closely crawling with Nilfgaard soldiers and who knows what else.

You got what you could get, and anyways, that won't be the first nor last time you two fuck in the woods.

The grass feels soft against your clothed bottom as you lace up your boot, your gaze set to the individual across from you as your eyes unbashfuly admire Geralt while he lays in the grass shirtless. His beautiful golden irises staring up into the tree tops as the wind sways the leaves every which way.

You pull at the leather strings, tying a confident knot with skilled hands while a small breeze blows your hair back, you're admittedly feeling quite delightful if you're being honest. Though when your crimson eyes glance up at the snowy haired man again, he's turned his head to you.

Your eyes meet at once, sending a blissful smirk upon your lips, "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" You teased, narrowing your eyes in a playful manner.

Geralt's lips curl into a half smile as he lets out a small hum in reply. Setting your arms upon your propped up knees, you freely show him an eye roll. Earning a proper chuckle from the man, "Y/N I was simply cherishing your stunning appearance."

Shaking your head you smile, "Yes, of course you were. And I am simply looking at a shirtless man with the most utter respect and clean of thoughts in my mind." You casually shrug, "Nothing else going on in here, I promise."

Geralt raises a greyish brow, moving to prop himself up upon his elbow, "That sounds honest." He hums, "But you are no virtuous maiden my love, and by that telling look on your face only moments ago. I can only imagine what things you may have been thinking of then."

You let out a snort before deciding to crawl over to him, where he lets you push him back into the grass, "Indeed I am not." You whisper close, leaning on an elbow as your other hand caresses his cheek, "But I am undoubtedly in love with a Witcher of all creatures to walk this earth, so if we're using our heads, what does that truly say of me then?"

His golden eyes keep to yours as he brings a hand to rest over your arm, "I would say it means perhaps I am a fool to fall for one of my enemies' creations, my dear Y/N..." He pauses for a moment, taking this brief second to focus on you and only you as he holds you with the most care, "you are most cunning and beautiful."

Leaning into his small touch you grin blissfully, a feeling of ease and calmness setting over you as Geralt studies your face, "You are no fool my White Wolf. That I am sure of without a doubt in my mind, I can't seem to be able to even jest about it." You chuckle, "Though you tempt me at times." The smile that he gives you is the most precious thing your eyes could ever be blessed with, its warm and genuine, filled with the deepest and most purest of love for you. His lady of night, the one monster he could never slay, nor would he ever dare.

Though your heart fills with joy for him, a sudden sadness seeps into your soul, obstructing your happiness. Your eyes fall downcast as you move to lay yourself next to Geralt in the grass, he follows you closely, a frown displaying itself upon his handsome features at your sudden spurt of melancholy.

"What troubles you Y/N?" Wonders Geralt, shifting his body so that he can rest an arm over your chest, pulling you in close as he studies your face.

Resting a hand on Geralt's muscular arm, you frown once again, "I was brief about my short time in Aretuza and the Elven keep, I know I told you about all those bastard soldiers I killed and when I helped the mages the best I could.....it's just. I haven't told you everything." Your voice feels so small in the large forest, now since you think about it. You haven't had the time to completely process what happened at Sodden's Hill, with all those soldiers, the other mages, and especially Yennefer.

So much death.

His brow furrows in thought, unsure of what you're going to reveal next, all he knows is that he doesn't plan on letting you go for awhile longer. Your Witcher hums in reply, giving you a moment to find your words. Taking a deep heavy sigh you turn your head to look out at the clouds. "We tried to protect the North from Nilfgaard, those fuckers had their own spout of powerful mages to test against our own. For the whole day we all fought together...every man, woman, child, and mage. Fucking farmers and tired refugees, they weren't warriors, Geralt. None of them were."

You take another shaky breath as Geralt presses his head against your cheek, "I did what I could to save them. But I'm just one person, I couldn't save them all....though I must admit, those people fought braver then most royal soldiers I've ever seen. They have good heart in them....well, I guess did. Not many survivors I think, just the ones who had enough sense to get the fuck out of there.....and of course myself, Tissaia, Triss, and Yenn..." A small lump forms in your throat as you remember what happened, causing you to choke on your own words for a moment.

You bite your lip hard, your hand squeezing tightly onto Geralt's muscular forearm as you collect yourself enough to speak, though your voice is raspy and broken, "Yennefer, right. She fought valiantly like a true warrior, she was like a phoenix, like a raging mighty dragon of power and flame...Geralt you should have seen her." A tear falls down the side of your face as you smile into the cloud covered sun, your voice above a whisper, "I'd never seen anything like it....it was.....beautiful."

A light kiss is placed gently over your tear streak while his hand moves to find yours, "What I would have given to see you slay those dogs alongside Yennefer, Y/N. I'm sure she is proud to call you a friend."

"She's dead." Those two words leave your lips so quietly that Geralt almost doesn't catch them, but he does.

The heavy weight of this news takes him off guard, he did not expect you to just lay such tragic tidings over him like that, he may have been greatly annoyed by Yennefer but he did see that stubborn mage as a friend. Though his heart hurts for how broken and defeated you feel from the terrors you'd underwent only yesterday, the great loss you've experienced, all of your traumas crashing down atop your soul in this moment. He wants to comfort you the best he can.

He listens to the steady beating of your heart, understanding how sad yet angry you're feeling, "I'm sorry Y/N. Truly I am."

A tired smile forms at the corners of your lips as you turn teary eyes over to your Witcher, your faces mere inches from one another, "She was my first real friend you know, and I think I was hers. I'm grateful to have spent the last of her hours on this earth by her side then.....glad she wasn't alone. I just wish..." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you focus on Geralt's shimmering irises once again, "I just wish the world wouldn't take everyone I give a shit about, so don't plan on doing anything stupid, okay? I can't lose anyone else or so help me god or whoever is listening out there, I will slaughter the bastards who dare take you away from me."

"I do not doubt it my love, and don't worry Y/N. I don't plan on leaving you anytime soon." He speaks honestly before pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "You have my word."

——

Geralt holds tightly to Roach's leather reigns as he keeps a firm hand over your lower abdomen, a small content smile gracing over your features while you sit comfortably in front of him on the large mare. Just as you always have.

Your hands rest over his as you keep a steady lookout over the trail ahead, silently overjoyed to be leaning against Geralt and all of his godly body holding you up. A blissfully drunken grin keeps to your face while your mind tumbles and reels with everything that he's just confided about from the last four weeks, like what you'd done earlier after a fine quick session of love making.

Apparently he's been busy.

Though for the second time today, another troubling thought randomly pops into your mind as things tend to do, and now you feel this time is as good as ever to actually address it. Squeezing his arm a bit you let out a half amused huff, showing that you're about to speak your mind on something idiotic Geralt has done, and he knows it.

Your Witcher figured you'd eventually spill your two cents, as you always seem to do.

"So." You begin, slow and filled with something Geralt's not quite sure of, he mentally cringes as you squeeze his arm again, "you just told him to fuck off and that you'd prefer to never see him ever again? Just like that? To our bard. Jaskier."

Geralt pauses for a moment as you wait for an answer, "Yes." Is all he whispers, low and filled with regret. He told you all about Jaskier and himself hours ago, hoping you wouldn't bring it back up, but of course you would. He's never that lucky, there's nothing you don't ever catch.

You raise a brow and shrug, "Can't say I blame you. That idiot has gotten our asses in a lot of shit over the years." He lets out a breath, glad you're not fuming at his heated rash actions on the mountainside after you dramatically parted ways. Suddenly you grip his arm tight, enough to actually feel uncomfortable, he sucks in a breath as you squeeze, "Although, I don't believe Jaskier completely deserved that." You seethe through clenched teeth before letting go of your iron grip. So you are angry after all, thinks Geralt, funny way of showing it.

"I know....I was just....I'm sorry Y/N." He replies, his voice much softer then he'd intended.

Your face falls as you feel the hurt in his words for what he's done, "I know Geralt." You sigh, "Enough with the sorry's and regrets okay....what's done is done and there's nothing we can do about it now. And anyways, as I like to say "we'll cross that bridge when we get there" so don't feel shitty about it now." He gives you a hidden smile as you chuckle to yourself, "You can feel shitty about it later."

Geralt lets out an amused snort, "Always one for wise words Y/N. What would I do without your kind intellect?"

"Dunno." You casually shrug, "Be a far less intriguing creature I suppose."

He tenderly kisses the top of your head, "I'd be a fool to argue against that logic."

"You're still a fool either way." You jest, cackling at your friendly jab at him, earning a gentle squeeze on your hip that sends butterflies into your stomach.

Gods the things he does to you.

For a couple more hours would you both ride Roach down the trail, past countless trees and a few streams until the sun would begin her descent over the land. Through this time you've been admittedly back to your old habits of amusing your Witcher to pass the time, mixed with seeing how long it would take to annoy him before he threatened to kick you off the mare.

It had been quite the eventful stretch of time before you caught the nasty pheromones of war seeping throughout the forest from some place close by, but not seen by your skilled eyes just yet. You held your tongue, not wanting to worry Geralt over something as insignificant as rotting corpses in the woods. But as Roach gets closer and closer, you begin to feel more strange, your scarlet irises suddenly catch a ripped tent behind a few trees.

Nilfgaard. Smell of death, more destroyed tents. Those bastards did this.

Your nose crinkles in disgust, the scent of freshly decaying corpses overloading your senses just about making your eyes water, you can't smell anything else but the stench of death.

"What I would give to be in a flower meadow right now." You seethe, blinking away the reactive tears in your eyes, Geralt looks down to you, unsure of what you mean considering his sense of smell is not nearly as prominent as yours. "I think Nilfgaard found a camp just over there, gods it reaks."

His grey brows furrow in thought, though he's left his words in the back of his throat as Roach walks closer to the carnage. Suddenly the three of you are face to face with an older man and his horse cart as he desperately and stupidly does his best to move the dead in piles for whatever it is that he's intended for them.

What a strange man.

Geralt shifts from behind you, tilting his head at the bearded man, "Ill winds follow grave robbers." States your Witcher as he hugs you closer protectively, or perhaps to keep you from doing anything destructive. The greyed man looks to the two of you, quietly acknowledging your existence before turning around to continue his doings.

"If I was a grave robber, I'd be taking their belongings, Butcher." He adds gruffly, squatting down to examine another slain body, "So best keep your beast with you." He adds, side eyeing you cautiously as he goes to move another of the deceased. Well, he knows Geralt's a Witcher and that you're not human. Maybe he's not that idiotic?

Geralt smirks, "If I was to let her satiate her appetite, you'd be amongst the corpses." The man falls silent, looking wearily between the two of you as your scarlet eyes trail over the nervous man.

He lets out a sigh, finally breaking under both your hard gazes, "I was goin' home to my family when I came upon these poor souls." He points towards the rotting bodies, "Cintran refugees. Dead at least a week. Now they're a feast for the crows."

"They're not for crows." You implore, shifting your ruby irises across the shadowy wood line while you listen to the buzzing of feasting flies. You had previously forgotten about what else may lurk in the shadows ready to feed, until now.

"Wolves?" He wonders.

"No."

Shaking his head, he ignores your odd wary vigilance, turning to glance at the two of you, "With more hands I could move quicker."

Yeah, fuck that.

"The only thing you should do quickly is flee." Warns Geralt, alert to the same understanding of what creatures may be hiding close by. The strange man grunts as he drags a body over the leaves, ignorantly discounting both your warnings.

With a click of his tongue, Geralt pulls at the mares reigns, "Come on, Roach, back to Kaer Morhen." You shake your head at the man as Roach begins to take a couple steps forward.

"Don't leave!" Pleads the bearded man, while dragging another, "Look at these people. Innocent people, killed for what?" He exclaims, sucking in labored breaths as he stands to look out over the mass of dead refugees, "So Nilfgaard can have more land? We owe it to 'em to do better."

"I'm not better." Mutters Geralt as he directs Roach away.

Always so dramatic huh.

You don't make it even three feet before your sensitive ears prick at the sound of crawling under the dirt. You know exactly what's now hunting the man, without a second thought do you break from Geralt's muscular arms to jump off of Roach.

Your feet move inhumanly fast as you race for the panicked man who's now scrambling away on the forest floor as two hungry ghouls claw for a taste. Realizing all too late that your silver dagger is lost to the ages you quickly adapt to instead aim for electrocuting the ugly fuckers.

Your palms spread wide as white hot lightening crackles and sparks in the misty night air, piercing the grotesque bodies of the living undead.

They screech in pain, giving Geralt just enough time to cut them down before they're able to recover, the man stops whimpering in fear as he turns his head up to you and Geralt. Who's now crouched a couple feet from the wide eyed man while he cleans off his sword, his eyes now two pools of glistening obsidian.

Sparks crackle in your palms as you huff in annoyance, "Go home." Your voice strong and steady.

The man snaps his attention over to you, "I can help." He insists urgently, causing you to roll your crimson eyes.

"One bite will kill you." Implores Geralt sternly.

The man turns to him, "Or you two." Then back to you again, his eyes fretful as you notice how he's just about shaking. He's terrified.

You let out a frustrated sigh, "I'm immune." You conclude gruffly, pointing to both himself and Geralt, "But not you two, so if you want to see your wife again...go home." The man stays still, breathing heavily as he sits on the soft ground, his mind swirling.

Geralt slowly stands, glaring at the man, "Go...home!" He snaps in that gravely voice of his, the petrified man stares at him before looking to your equally as stoic face. The blood red glow of your irises and the low crackling of lighting in your palm shifting his mind to a new understanding of his current situation.

He lets out a shaky breath, "All right..." Huffs the bearded man before scrambling to his feet, his boots carrying him over to his cart as he throws something into the back.

You ignore him and watch as Geralt walks slowly forward, his black eyes cautiously surveying over the land as you take a step, "Let me be the first to say, but I don't happen to feel very fond of what else follows." You whisper softly, your voice laced with concern as you sniff the foggy damp air, smelling nothing but decaying flesh as it wafts into your nostrils.

Geralt holds his weapon tightly, opening his mouth to answer, but before he's able to say anything a piercing screech breaks out from the woods. His sword flashes in the moonlight as he cuts down another hungry ghoul. Without warning another one breaks out of the earth to his right, dead in a flash as he slashes it across the throat.

The dirt bulges upward as another crawls from underneath the ground, heading directly for Geralt, the beast doesn't stand a chance as your Witcher stabs the soil directly in front of him. Killing the damn ghoul in an instant. Suddenly a black screaming flash races past you and tackles him to the ground.

"Oh fuck!" Unknowingly leaves you lips as you race to his aid, five of them have him pinned to the ground already as you pull his silver sword from the earth that he had left behind in the scuffle. These starving bastards don't see you coming as you begin slashing and hacking violently away at the ghouls. Trying your damn best to get them off of Geralt, they scream in agony as you end their half-lives.

More race out from the shadows to surround the two of you, Geralt pushes and punches more off of him as you slice through their grotesque inhuman bodies. So caught up in your own world that you don't have time to make sure if Geralt is all right when another one jumps for your arm, only to be greeted with a hard cut to its sunken in stomach.

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as you turn your head left and right, readying for anything else. When nothing appears to move you lower his sword to your side, turning around to give Geralt a smirk and no less a cocky comment.

Your face instantly falls when he whispers a harsh "fuck" while he leans down to look at something on his left thigh. He shakes his snowy mane, standing to his full height as he takes a limped step towards you. His obsidian eyes finally finding yours as he takes another troubled step forward, he looks like a mess.

Your eyes glance down at the bite mark revealing itself from an opened spot in his dark pants, you suck in a sharp breath, your face dead serious as you watch him with wide glossy eyes. His face looks rough and sweaty as he limps closer, suddenly falling to his knees as he stares at you, almost pleadingly, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Geralt?" You whisper, your nerves standing on end at the sight of him, no way he's just been bitten, it can't be.

Your lip quivers as you drop the forgotten sword upon the earth, taking hasty steps as he looks tiredly into your frightened face. You quickly kneel down to meet his eye level as he lets out a shaky breath, your hands gently touch his dirt smudged face as he wills his hands to grasp your arms.

His grip is unnaturally weak as you look deeply into his eyes, your voice shaky, "You're fine. You're fine, it's just a small wound nothing worth worrying over....it's just..it's nothing...you're fi...." His head falls downward in your palms as his hands slip from their place on your arms, "No, no, no, no....Geralt, love look at me! Look at me!" He answers back with a low groan, you swallow the building lump in your throat as he struggles to lift his tired gaze to yours.

The weakest of smiles displays over his handsome features as he lets out a tired sigh, "You're beautiful....you know that?" His voice is soft and broken as you hold up his face, biting your lip to keep from crying. He smiles sluggishly, "Thank you for loving me...I....Y/N...I...love y..."

Suddenly his eyes shut as he goes limp against you, you catch him and quickly move to gently position his body so that his head can rest in your lap, "Geralt no!" You exclaim desperately through tears that are starting to blur your vision, "Wake up! Wake the fuck up you dick...you can't leave me here!" You shake his shoulder but to no avail, "Fuck! No, no, no....I just got you back." Tears race down your cheeks as a sob racks through your entire body, you suck in a breath, trying to contain your pain.

This isn't fucking fair!

The old man hustles to your side, now made aware of the dire circumstances, "Ohhh, dear...Uh....we can take him to my house, if you will.....Just, keep him awake." Proposes the man, you hold Geralt closer, your wet cheeks glistening in the moonlight as your crimson eyes glow blood red.

"If you help me save him I won't end your pathetic life because of your stupidity!" You snap, making him flinch backwards as you glare at him, a low growl emitting from deep within your throat. If Geralt dies you might tear this man to shreds.

He quickly regains his bearings, now understanding that his life is at stake if Geralt dies under his care. The man walks around you, reaching down to pull Geralt from out of your lap. Once you're free he looks to you, "Miss he's quite heavy, this one. Could you lift his legs and help me carry him to...."

He's left with nothing but a genuinely bewildered look as you pick your sleeping Witcher up, holding him in both your arms while ignoring the mans shocked expression as you walk over to the large wooden cart. Setting Geralt in the back on a couple soft bags of goods.

Jumping in next to him, you kneel down by his side while the man quickly ties Roach to the back. It's going to be a long night. Until dawn broke out over the horizon, the great sun coating the land in daylight would you lay by his side as he slept through the multitude of hours.

Finally coming to in the late morning, looking more pale then usual and clearly disoriented, his golden irises trying so hard to focus on your blurry face. The man, who revealed himself to be Yurga, kept his horses at a fast trot while you continued to hold tightly onto your Witcher's arm, squeezing it every time he would begin to close his eyes. Just keep him awake.

"I don't know about you." Starts Yurga, "But I'm not liking the sound of those explosions in the distance....bloody Nilfgaard better keep themselves far away from here. We don't need trouble like that round these parts. Not after everything they've done."

Geralt stirs underneath your touch, snapping your attention back down to him, you watch as his eyelids open and close, his golden irises looking rather lost and hazy. He's so pale, too pale.

"Easy does it Butcher." Affirms Yurga as he turns his head to the side, "You got bit, best keep your sights trained on the pretty lady in front of you."

Geralt's brows furrow as he turns his own head to the side at the sound of the mans voice, confusion clear on his face since the poison from the ghouls has begun to mess with his mind. Seated closely on his right, his muscular arm on your left and his broad body on your right, his face is much more faded in color now. Too pale and sickly looking for your liking.

Reaching an arm out, you gently touch his face, turning his head back to you, "Geralt, keep those fine golden eyes on me, you gotta focus love....you're becoming delirious, but you're not dead. Just stay awake Geralt I'll be right here." He blinks hard, his face appearing dazed as he listens, suddenly trying to sit himself up.

You quickly react, leaning over him to grasp both his arms, stopping him from moving anymore, "Be still Geralt. You'll only make things worse if you try and move, your bite is spreading slowly but moving will only bring you more pain." His face grimaces in discomfort, you release your grip, sitting normally once again.

Oh Geralt, be strong for me.

Your face a mask of deep worry at his reaction, he may be a Witcher, but if his wounds are not treated properly he will die. Leaving you completely and utterly alone in this world whether you're ready for it or not. You rest a hand over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat, he stares up at the sky, his gaze lost in the clouds.

You can tell he's probably watching some hallucination playing out before him, his gaze seems so far away while you sit here on this stupid hay covered cart pulled by the slowest two horses you've ever seen. He stirs again, his pale face trying to find yours as he focuses in on your worried appearance.

You can tell he's back, especially when his left arm quickly takes yours that was previously resting over his chest. He squeezes your hand, "My bag. Y/N I need my bag." His voice his gravelly and urgent, you quickly turn to look around, the pull of the cart jostling you while your eyes hunt for the bag.

"Yurga stop the fucking horses for a moment!" You yell, letting go of Geralt's hand as you grab the leather bag. Yurga directs his horses to stop, turning abruptly around to see what's the matter.

"The bottle....Y/N.....you know which one." Rasps Geralt as your eyes quickly find the small glass bottle containing some dark liquid, a type of healing potion for sure.

Handing the potion to your Witcher he hastily takes it, ripping off the cork with his teeth before making a face and chugging most of it. He groans, pouring the rest over his infected wound, more groans of pain sounding as you listen to the sizzle of flesh take to the healing mixture.

Gently patting his arm you hand him a small smile of reassurance, "You definitely need a healer, I'm afraid not even my blood can heal these wounds. Those fucking ghouls." You growl as Yurga urges his horses to begin trotting down the trail again.

His body rests against the piles of clothes and hay while his hand reaches out for yours, "I need to go to the Blue Mountains....Y/N...tell him I need to...." Mutters Geralt with tired eyes.

You squeeze his hand, "What? No, we don't have....you don't have enough time, Geralt you'll die."

"He'll heal me....I just need to go...."

"No!" You cry, there is absolutely no way you'd both make it to the Blue Mountains before his heart stops beating, "Stay awake you fucker, we'll heal you soon enough, just stay awake....we're almost to Yurga's farm. You'll get proper treatment there....just stay awake."

Until the sun would set and the darkness of night crept over the land would you constantly play as an ever continuous jostling annoyance to Geralt, doing all that you must to keep him awake and alive. Soon enough would Yurga have to stop and let his old horses rest for awhile. In the meantime, you'd help Geralt to lean against a tree as you went off in search of healing plants that could help to temporarily stop the spread.

With not much to give from your herb hunting, you walked forth from out of the bushes and into the grassy tree covered opening where you're greeted with the sight of a dark-red haired mage tending to your Witcher's infected bite wound. You immediately freeze, though she's too focused to even realize that you're watching her work. For a couple minutes would you observe her talents before blinking once and suddenly she's gone. Just like that, gone.

Well that was fucking bizarre.

Suddenly Geralt bolts upright, your brows furrow as he looks all around him, his wide eyes shifting right and left until they finally find your familiar form walking closer. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, before his grey brows furrow once again in thought.

"Where'd she go? The woman?" He wonders, confusion clear on his face as he watches you crouch down to meet his eye level.

You raise a brow, "Can't say I'd know, but I wish I'd have time to thank her for doing whatever magical mage shit she did to your infected bite mark." You reply with a chuckle, "Now you've gotten yourself a new scar added to the collection. Though still a very handsome work of art in my humble opinion."

His face softens at your relaxed tone, suddenly realizing that there's no need to worry anymore, "Thank you Y/N."

You laugh, "What for? I didn't do that much, I didn't even know how to properly heal you. And I definitely wasn't planning on turning you into a vampire just to have you around longer."

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as you study his face, "For keeping me awake this long, no matter how much I wanted to shove you off the wagon."

"I knew you wanted to do it, I could see it in your face. That is, when you weren't staring off into nothing like a lost boy who had too many special herbs." You jest, earning a pleasing chuckle from your sweaty Witcher. You smile, "Now. Come on my love, let's go." You reach a hand out for him to take, without a second thought he accepts, letting you pull him to his feet.

He shakes his head, steadying himself as he holds your arms, "Geralt you're acting like you've just downed half a dozen mugs of ale, lets rest on the cart yeah? Yurga will take us to his farm where we can get some proper food and drink, and if we're lucky....you some new pants."

His smile is soft as he looks down at you, Geralt touches your chin affectionately, "That sounds rather lovely."

Before he can do anything else you grasp the hand that's touching your chin, "I know exactly where your mind is going next and all I have to say is you're getting a bit more cleaned up before those pretty lips of yours are allowed to kiss me." He closes his eyes, resting his head against yours as he releases his hand from your chin. Now pulling you closer with his large strong hands.

"I could have died." He mutters, his gravely voice laced with a friendly playfulness.

"But you didn't."

"I could have."

"I know." You finally sigh, "You're still sweaty and smell like a dog who rolled in cow shit."

He lightly chuckles, "That's rude." Before pressing a feather light kiss onto your forehead where he then pulls away after a moment, "Guess we should help the old man pack the rest of his bags away."

Gripping his torso tighter you lean in close, "I'm enjoying myself too much." You admit, "Even though you smell rather atrocious at the moment."

"Oh please Y/N." Muses Geralt, his face inches from yours, "You still called be pretty when I was covered head to toe in Selkiemore guts, if I do recall."

"Did I? Must have slipped." You mutter lowly, brushing your lips past his.

"Y/N." Warns Geralt, his hot breath fanning over your smirking face as your ruby irises flicker from his plush lips to his golden eyes.

"On second thought. Perhaps you do look rather lovely at the moment, I think I'll just have to..." He's left guessing what you would have said next as your lips press firmly against his, both your arms pulling one another even closer now. Despite all he's just endured, Geralt tastes quite nice, his muscular body feeling even better holding you so close.

His lips move with yours in some pleasurable heated dance, soon enough does his calloused hands reach up to place themselves on either side of your face, you smile into the kiss at his urgency to hold you close. A couple more lingering blissful moments are shared flush against one another before your Witcher inevitably pulls away, first pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips once again before finally pulling away to look into your glistening eyes.

His hands still gently holding your cheeks, while your own ones grip around his forearms, "I hope there's more of that for when we find a tavern later." You muse, biting your lip as Geralt's eyes stare deeply into yours.

"Y/N. I'll let you take me any way you want." Mutters Geralt in that low and gravelly voice of his, "Just me and you."

"I think I'd like that very much." His lips find yours once again as your fingers trail down his back, wishing so hard that you were both laying on a soft warm bed in some hidden tavern in the mountains.

While you're both unbashfully exploring each others bodies like it was the first time, a sudden cough is heard from behind you causing the two of you to abruptly pull apart and look in that direction, "Uh...don't mean to intrude, but uh.....could we get moving if ya both don't mind?" Asks Yurga politely, trying not to find either of your amused gazes as he looks at a stick on the ground.

Right, you'd probably want to get out of the woods first.

The merchant Yurga had been true to his word, he had finally at long last made it to his home placed in a great clearing within the woods. A comfortable farmhouse on an open spot of land away from the fighting and battles nearby. His cart came to an abrupt halt as his wife quickly opened up the door and raced out to meet him, excitement flowing through her veins as a huge smile graced her face.

"We're all okay. The war is close, but we're okay. I need to tell you something." Exclaims Yurga's blonde curly haired wife.

"Me too." Affirms the older man with a slight thrill lacing his words.

His wife smiles, "I met a girl. An orphan, I found her in the woods nearby." Geralt halts all movement at the startling words, you doing the same as both of your furrowed gazes find one another.

No way this is who you think she's actually talking about. Hundreds of girls have been orphaned by the war.

"I met a Witcher." Speaks Yurga with a nod, "And a dhampir, if you'll believe it." Without warning Geralt jumps down from the cart and begins walking towards the woods much to your confusion, "They saved my life. Now fetch 'em some ale before they go to Kaer Mor-somthing." Urges Yurga, while you jump down from the cart, making hasty steps in Geralt's direction as Yurga and his wife finally look over to watch as the two of you make for the woods, "Hey, Butcher. Butcher! Where you goin'?" Shouts Yurga as Geralt continues onward, almost caught in a trance as he ignores the rambling merchant.

"Y/N?" Shouts the older man, causing you to stop and turn to him, "Where you two goin'?"

Your brows furrow, not completely sure of yourself, "I don't know." You whisper, keeping your body still as you look out at the thick greenery where Geralt had just wandered into for some unknown reason. You can't explain why, but you feel as though this is a path that only he must take.

The girl in the woods will be with him always.

He walks through the forest, his feet taking him somewhere or rather to someone who's been hiding from him for a long time. He can't even fully explain it, the call he feels to find what he's seeking. He suddenly stops, thinking his thoughts must be false and this urge to find who lingers in the wood is simply horseshit as per usual. A false sense of destiny. He turns around, walking a couple steps further back the way he came before an undeniable urge to look back consumes him.

The girl in the woods will be with you always.

And there she is, Princess Cirilla of Cintra, a shining beacon of hope in the dull wet gloom of the towering forest.

Destiny has prevailed.

Your boots shift from right to left as you stand idly in the morning air, your thoughts swimming around in your head of what could be taking Geralt so damn long, even if it's only realistically been about three minutes. Your new friends from behind you have instead left you to yourself and decided to tend to their horses, much to your relief.

Hugging yourself closer, you shiver, though you're not cold. A kind of magic of sorts seems to catch you in the misty air, a feeling you haven't felt since that night at Pavetta's banquet pulls around you like leaves on the wind.

How odd it feels, yet this seems right.

Two heartbeats reach your heightened ears, one so slow. But the other, beats normally like that of a child's.

You take a step back, steadying yourself as you wait for who you're expecting to inevitably appear. Shoes move across earth and leaves, signaling their close arrival. Your nerves die as two shadows emerge from the bushes and into the sunlight, the two of them are talking, unaware of your presence in the yard.

The child suddenly looks, her enchanted blue green irises falling onto you as she quickly comes to a halt, her eyes full of wonder and nervous apprehension. Geralt's brows furrow as he stops as well, his face turning to find the source of the girls fear.

His golden eyes spot you in an instant, he finds you staring curiously at the small blonde girl, the tiniest of smiles gracing your lips as you fiddle with your hands. You can't help but feel ridiculous for how you've been feeling about meeting this Child Surprise after so long, she is just a girl, a survivor of the unspeakable. Though you may not be the best with children in general, you feel no ill will against this one, all those previous feelings of loathing and judgement are gone to the wind.

Geralt's eyes are kind as he gently rests a comforting hand over her thin shoulder, she looks to him now then back to you as he speaks, "This is Y/N of Alkatraz, the dhampir princess of the High Northern Kingdom. My uh, lover?" He says cautiously, a bit unsure of what to truly call you before he thankfully finds his words, "Well...uh, my immortal companion, and someone who I love very deeply."

Oh, Geralt you adorable idiot.

Ciri's brows furrow in thought for a moment as she finds her courage, "My grandmother told me of that kingdom, she said it is ruled by vampires. Are you one?" She wonders, her voice a small nervous whisper.

The corners of your eyes crinkle in amusement as you smile, shaking your head, "No my dear princess, I am of that blood and character, but a dhampir is what I am as Geralt said. It's someone who is half vampire and half human." You assure the small girl, "No need to fear me, I promise you princess that I would never harm you in any way, you have my word."

A small grin tugs at the corners of her lips before her eyes fall downcast, "That's very kind, most people I've met so far out here have tried to kill me." She hands you the flash of a smile, "Glad to know not everyone is like them." She reveals freely to you with her small voice, so this is truly the Child Surprise.

The princess of Cintra.

"With us, you will not have to fear the damned talons of Nilfgaard Princess Cirilla...I will protect you with my life now."

Her brows furrow in thought at your truthful words, "You know of me? But how?"

You smile kindly, your scarlet irises flashing over to Geralt for a brief moment, "I have traveled with this handsome Witcher for almost fifty years, I know everything he knows. Even who you are." You take a couple steps forward, kneeling down to face her sad eyes, "And I am truly sorry for your loss, no child deserves the pain and fear you have endured since Cintra's fall. No less the horrors you have witnessed since your escape, these lands are undoubtedly deadly."

"Thank you, Y/N." She looks from you to Geralt, "I'm glad to have found you both then." You smile, standing up fully to lace your arm with Geralt's.

"Now, I think these kind people here may have breakfast waiting for us and some ale if I'm lucky, so my small friend Ciri, would you join us for a decently peaceful morning?" Ciri gifts your ears with a small giggle as Geralt hums in amusement. Proud that you're taking so well to the newest addition to your group of two.

You turn around just as the curly haired woman waves, "Would you all mind joining us for breakfast?" She calls out as a satisfied grin breaks out upon your face, "Of course we would be delighted!" You shout back, probably with too much excitement but you're trying to look as non threatening as possible. Also you are admittedly very hungry.

The three of you begin walking toward the farmhouse, Ciri follows the woman and her husband inside as Geralt stops near the entrance, you turn a raised brow to him, "What is it now? You planning on finding another magical orphan in the woods again?"

He looks down at the muddy ground before finding your lingering gaze once again, "No, just trying to figure out what to do next." Grumbles your Witcher in that lovable gravely voice of his.

You gently squeeze his hand as a smirk plays at your lips, "How bout we think of breakfast first? Then we can set our sights on paying our friends at Kaer Morhen a little visit. Bet they'd love that." You add sarcastically, wiggling your brows.

Your Witcher finally gives you a small smile, "Oh, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you again." He jests.

Lightly smacking his arm you take a step into the doorway, turning back to look at him, "What? Am I not nice and lovable? Can't believe you'd even say that."

"Only when you want to be." Mutters Geralt before gently kissing the side of your head while walking past you, "Now lets get some ale."

Tagged: @seninjakitey @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1@haleypearce @diegos-butt (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

#the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x reader #geralt x you #princess cirilla #roach the horse

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Note

Darling, gorgeous, incredible, beautiful Wolfie... my love of your Jaskilion works knows no bounds. The characterization of the beautiful bardic duo, and their snarky ways, is immaculate.

Might I request Jaskilion and the two Geralts having a foursome??? Because that has So Much Potential 💖

If not spicy, I will happily eat up some pseudo-domestic ~vibing~ with the four of them; just being silly and cute, the Geralts being amused, fond, and exasperated 💖

As discussed, this will be Geralt/Jaskier/book!Dandy... because I struggle to make the Geralts different. I mix them too much.

Geraskilion - 3.6k

Thanks to @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for being my beta and making me cackle with her commentary.

CW: 18+ for shameless smut, threeseome, anal sex, blow jobs, name-calling (Dandy calls Jask a whore), hair pulling, multiple orgasms, coming untouched, voyeurism, exhibitionism, finger sucking, almost choking but more of a tease of it than actual?.... I think that’s it?

Jaskier stared at the man in front of him. Cornflower blue eyes blinked back at him like he was looking in a mirror. It was his eyes that were most startling. Jaskier had never met anyone with eyes quite like his before and now this man not only had similar eyes, but fucking identical. Facially they were similar too, although this… this imposter, had cheek bones that would look more at home on the elves. His whole face wasn’t too dissimilar to that of an elves now Jaskier came to think of it, and the long limbed fellow could easily be mistaken as one of Filavandrel’s brethren. His hair fell down to his shoulders in soft golden curls, like something out of a fairytale. On top of his head he had a wine coloured hat with an egret’s feather poking out from one side.

The man, Dandelion, put his hands on his hips, mirroring Jaskier’s own stance. He let out a peel of laughter, like a symphony of chiming bells, perfectly in tune and expertly rung. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this fun?”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at the poet. “Hmm.”

Geralt grunted as he stood up from his corner. “Who are you really? You’re not human, my medallion-”

“Oh come now, Geralt. I’ve just apparently jumped into a whole new world! I can’t even begin to fathom the magic needed to make such a jump, not even that sorceress of yours could do it. In fact, I think I’ve only ever heard of Ciri successfully managing…” Dandelion trailed off and his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. “How old are you?” he asked Jaskier haughtily, peering down at him with piercing blue eyes.

“What the bloody hell has that got to do with anything?” Jaskier scoffed.

“Do you know Cirilla?”

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Geralt who just shook his head. “No,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think so,” Dandelion muttered, clicking his tongue. “My point is, my dear witcher, that I’m probably covered head to toe in residue magic. There’s no wonder you medallion is vibrating. Maybe your world’s magic can sense that I don’t really belong here. Fascinating, utterly fascinating!”

“You really think you’re me?” Jaskier asked, still not trusting this arguably very attractive stranger.

“But of course!”

Jaskier grinned as an idea came to mind. “Prove it,” he said, chin raised in a clear challenge.

Dandelion smirked and Jaskier recognised the glint in his eyes. “Oh, and how would you propose I do that, little buttercup?”

“You’re me?”

Dandelion nodded.

“Then you know exactly how I like to be kissed.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groaned but Dandelion shushed him with a wave of his hand, long elegant fingers dancing in the air.

“No no, he’s got a point, my dear,” Dandelion giggled.

“It’s a bad idea,” Geralt tried again but both bards shot daggers in his direction. The witcher sighed heavily and pressed his fingers to his forehead.

“All the best ideas are very bad ideas,” Jaskier agreed. His heartbeat was starting to pick up, the thrill of seduction and the promise of a willing bedmate for the evening starting to send tendrils of lust through his body.

And come on, who else got the opportunity to fuck themselves. It would be a tragic waste if he let the opportunity pass him by, and curiosity was truly his greatest folly. He really did want to know if this man shared his own weaknesses when it came to carnal delights.

Dandelion stepped forward, his breath tickling against Jaskier’s cheeks, and the scent of wine and lavender oil washed over him. He wondered if he would be able to taste the wine on Dandelion’s lips. Dandelion’s fingers brushed against his wrist, a featherlight touch that danced across his skin, like leaves on the wind. Dandelion’s tongue swiped along his lips, making them look wet and so very kissable. Jaskier swallowed, he felt as if the rest of the inn had melted away. All he could see was Dandelion, all he could smell was Dandelion.

“You really are stunning, my darling,” Dandelion breathed, a whisper, an almost silent prayer.

Jaskier’s own breath caught in his throat. The fucker was even more charming than he was, he hadn’t been expecting that. He tried to stammer some witty response but he wasn’t even sure whether he even managed a single sensical word. Dandelion’s long finger trailed under his chin, his thumb brushing Jaskier’s bottom lip.

Fuck.

“Can I kiss you?” Dandelion asked, the tension now so thick between them that Jaskier honestly thought he might melt under the heat of it. He wasn’t used to being seduced like this. No one had ever needed to charm him this hard to woo him to their beds.

He nodded, not trusting his voice, and Dandelion’s lips were finally on his. The kiss was chaste, a tease of what was to come, leaving Jaskier weak and wanting. He chased Dandelion’s lips as he pulled away, eyes fluttering open.

Oh cock.

He swallowed, mouth dry as his heart thundered in his chest. He let out a low whine and Dandelion laughed before cupping the nape of his neck and pulling him into a second kiss. This time there were no hesitations. Jaskier eagerly explored Dandelion’s mouth, the rich taste of wine dancing over his tongue. Dandelion’s hat fell to the floor as Jaskier’s hand threaded into the soft golden curls, he tugged experimentally at Dandelion’s hair, and wasn’t surprised by the guttural moan the poet let out.

“Oh fuck,” he whined in between kisses.

“Upstairs, now,” was all the warning they had before they were torn apart and Dandelion was thrown over Geralt’s shoulder.

Jaskier’s eyes widened as Geralt stormed off up the stairs without evening looking back at Jaskier. “Oi!” he called after them, tripping over his feet as he stumbled after them. “Geralt! Darling I wasn’t finished!”

Jaskier fell into their room in his eagerness. Dandelion was lying pouting on the bed, and Geralt had settled into an armchair in the corner on the room. Jaskier felt a rush of arousal as he recognised the set up.

Geralt was going to watch.

He met Geralt’s eyes across the room and quirked an eyebrow in a silent question. Geralt nodded, his hand already palming himself through his trousers. Jaskier half wanted to fall to his knees in front of his witcher and get his mouth on that monstrous cock.

But then Dandelion was right there on the bed, already looking debauched. A temptation that Jaskier just couldn’t resist. In the time it had taken Jaskier to follow them upstairs Dandelion had unbuttoned his doublet, revealing an expensive lacy chemise underneath. He looked like a fallen angel.

“I trust you don’t mind the company?” Jaskier asked with a tilt of his head.

Dandelion scoffed. “It’s as if you don’t know me at all. Get over here and kiss me, you tease!”

Jaskier didn’t need to be asked twice. Pulling off his doublet as he went, he crawled over to where Dandelion was sprawled out on the bed. He ran his hands up the inside of his chemise before pulling him into a kiss, a mess of breathy moans as their tongues danced. Jaskier managed to elicit the most gorgeous songs from Dandelion’s lips, fingers pinching at his nipples. They may be strangers but Jaskier knew Dandelion’s body better than he knew his lute. He knew exactly which strings to pluck to draw out the most sinful melodies. Dandelion was a writhing mess underneath him before he even managed to undress him, kissing at his neck and biting bruises into the soft pale skin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled from the corner.

Jaskier stopped his attack on Dandelion’s elegant neck and glanced up at his witcher. Geralt’s eyes were dark with hunger, his cock now red and glistening his hand, and Jaskier moaned at the sight. What else was a bard supposed to do when he was just so weak?

“Yes, darling?” he asked, his voice low and sultry.

“Let him up,” Geralt said, already sounding as wrecked as Jaskier felt.

Jaskier pouted.

“He’s supposed to be proving how well he knows you, not the other way round,” Geralt explained softly.

Jaskier grumbled, biting Dandelion’s neck one last time before letting the poet up. Dandelion grinned as Jaskier rolled off him, and quickly straddled Jaskier’s waist, pushing him back onto the bed.

“You like being in charge just as much as you like being manhandled, don’t you, sweetheart?” Dandelion cooed, his fingers brushing along Jaskier’s cheek. Every touch sent shivers down his spine. He could feel the electricity between them, a hot wave of arousal with every moment of contact.

“Lucky guess,” Jaskier winked, moaning as Dandelion wrapped his hands around his throat. It wasn’t enough to choke him but the knowledge that Dandelion held him such a vulnerable position thrilled him, adrenaline mixing with the heady sensation of lust.

“Not a guess.”

Dandelion’s fingers gripped tighter at his throat as he rolled his hips forward. He could feel the poet’s erection through both their trousers, it was so close and yet not nearly enough.

“Dandelion,” he whined, “stop teasing, darling, please.”

“Patience, love.”

Dandelion’s lips captured his, a messy kiss as their bodies moved together, humping like fucking teenagers. Dandelion kissed like a dream, yet looked like the very definition of sin. He was tantalising, a temptation from Lillit herself.

And he was wearing far too many clothes!

“Off!” Jaskier snapped, tugging at Dandelion’s doublet.

“So demanding,” Dandelion sighed dramatically, but he pulled off his doublet and threw it at the armchair. Jaskier watched as Geralt caught it in mid-air, one hand still lazily stroking his cock.

Jaskier whimpered and pulled at the hem of Dandelion’s chemise until the poet yanked it over his head. Jaskier’s own shirt swiftly followed, landing on the floor in a heap. After that it was an awkward dance of removing their trousers and small clothes whilst desperately trying to keep their lips on each other, and, not a moment too soon, they were finally naked. Jaskier’s could barely resist rolling them back over and taking Dandelion’s cock in his mouth but Geralt preempted his move and let out a low growl. Jaskier tossed his friend a frustrated look.

“Geralt,” he moaned.

Dandelion just laughed, running his fingers along Jaskier’s lips, gently pressing them into his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, sucking at the long digits, swirling his tongue around the tips. It wasn’t as satisfying as having a cock in his mouth but it was enough for now.

“Good,” Geralt hummed, the praise making Jaskier’s cock twitch even though it wasn’t meant for him.

Dandelion preened, looking like a cat that had gotten the cream. His soft blond curls were a mess, and his face was flushed but it was his eyes. Gods, his eyes were almost black, only a thin blue ring visible. Jaskier moaned around the blond’s fingers, taking them further into his mouth.

“Gods, look at you, pretty little whore,” Dandelion cooed and Jaskier felt a rush of heat prickle over his skin. His cock was aching, desperate for touch, but Dandelion acted as if it didn’t exist, happy to just watch Jaskier suckle on his fingers.

It was driving Jaskier mad with lust.

The bastard really did know exactly how to destroy him, with the least amount of effort.

Jaskier whined, bucking his hips off the mattress in what he hoped what a clear sign of what he wanted, nay, needed. Dandelion pulled his fingers from Jaskier’s mouth, and immediately he felt empty, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips.

“Geralt, darling, do you have oil?” he heard Dandelion ask through the heady feeling that was making everything a little foggy.

Jaskier pouted as Dandelion shuffled on the bed, reaching towards the witcher sat in the corner of the room. He licked his lips as he watched the small vial of oil pass hands. He wriggled on the bed, his hands reaching down to touch his cock but Dandelion was back and swatting away his hand before he had a chance.

“Not yet, sweetheart, if your good I’ll touch you later, can you be good for me?” Dandelion asked in the sweetest voice, like honey trickling over his skin.

He nodded, tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth.

“Am I doing well, witcher?”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s reply was a low growl more than anything else and the sound went straight to Jaskier’s already leaking cock.

“Lion… please…” Jaskier whined.

Fuck, he sounded wrecked already. It normally took more to make him lose control like this. He looked over to Geralt, and the sight was nearly enough to make him cum. The witcher looked obscene, lips wet and red from where he’d been biting on them, fulling clothed except from where he’d unlaced his trousers, cock proudly on display. Jaskier wanted him, gods… but to have Geralt’s attention like this, trapped under his dark and wanton gaze.

Fuck!

He didn’t even hear the pop of the cork, too distracted as he watched Geralt lazily stroke his erection, precum already leaking from the tip. Jaskier licked his lips in reflex as if the action would allow him to taste…

He hissed as Dandelion’s finger teased his rim, arching his back, a familiar pull in the pit of his stomach. “Fuck!” he gasped as cum coated his belly, embarrassingly early but Geralt’s growl and Dandelion’s chiming laughter put him at ease.

“Oh darling,” Dandelion trilled, a finger trailing through the mess on his stomach, and then moaning as he took the digit into his mouth.

Jaskier groaned, if he hadn’t already cum then he would have done then. Judging by the wink Dandelion gave him, the whore knew exactly what he was doing, bastard. “What do you think, Geralt, shall we continue our little game?”

Jaskier glanced over to Geralt, a pleading look in his eyes. Yes, Dandelion had proved himself. Yes, Jaskier had already cum. No, he wasn’t satisfied. There was still an emptiness that left him feeling weak and wanting. He needed to feel full, needed a cock up his arse, in his mouth… just somewhere.

Geralt nodded. “We’re not finished yet, poet.”

“As you wish, witcher.”

The finger that had been gently teasing Jaskier’s hole pushed in. Jaskier gasped, still feeling sensitive from his orgasm, but Dandelion was more in sync with his body than any other lover, even Geralt. The blond took it slow, gently working his finger into Jaskier until his cock began to harden once more. He was panting by the time a second finger pushed inside, just as he was about to beg for more. Good gods, Jaskier was going to ruined for anyone else.

“Stop,” Geralt’s voice rumbled from the corner.

Jaskier huffed and managed to prop himself up so he could glare at his witcher. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groaned as Dandelion pulled out all his fingers. “There’d better be a bloody good reason for the interruption, Geralt!”

Geralt smirked and got up from his chair. “Mind if I join?” he asked, looking more at Dandelion than Jaskier.

The poet visibly brightened, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. “Oh ho ho! Geralt, my dear, please be my guest. The more the merrier!”

Oh gods, Jaskier was doomed, completely done for.

Dandelion whispered something in Geralt’s ear, a flushed smile on his lips. Geralt’s eyes flashed dangerously to Jaskier and he nodded once before pulling off his clothes until he was deliciously naked, and Jaskier wanted to lick the lines of his muscles, kissing every scar until the memory of the battle had been replaced with Jaskier.

But Geralt had other plans. Dandelion pulled at Jaskier’s ankles until they were wrapped around the poet’s waist, and Geralt straddled Jaskier’s torso. Jaskier swallowed as he was left to stare at Geralt’s rather lovely cock, so tantalisingly close to his lips. His eyes flicked up so he could meet Geralt’s gaze as he licked his lips.

“Geralt?”

“Yes,” Geralt growled Jaskier whimpered as he lunged forward greedily. He wrapped his hands around the base of Geralt’s cock, whist he could take Geralt down his throat, he preferred not to. He was a bard after all. He really needed to take care of his voice, and deep-throating a witcher’s cock was not advised.

Although his professors at Oxenfurt had also never specifically told him not to.

That was one thing he’d learnt from experience. So instead he licked at just the tip, lapping about the precum that was already there. He hummed happily as he sucked around the head, working the base in his hands, the skin already slick from oil where Geralt had been stroking himself. It smelt like the chamomile oil Jaskier preferred to use for massages, he idly wondered whether it was the same one Dandelion had used whilst stretching his hole.

As if reading his thoughts, Dandelion pushed his fingers back inside Jaskier’s arse. He moaned around Geralt’s cock, taking the witcher deeper into his mouth. The weight was heavy on his tongue and with Dandelion’s fingers probing his hole… the aching emptiness was finally gone. He whined as Geralt’s fingers threaded into his hair, scraping at his scalp.

He closed his eyes, sucking and moaning around the cock in his mouth in time to Dandelion’s fingers fucking his arse, but it quickly began to leave him feeling dissatisfied again. He wanted more, so much more… always more.

“Hnnng,” he choked out around Geralt’s cock as the witcher held him in place, fucking into his mouth with shallow thrusts.

“Good,” Geralt half growled, “so good for us…”

“Hmm…” Jaskier whined.

“I think he’s ready for my cock now,” Dandelion hummed thoughtfully, pushing his fingers deeper into Jaskier’s arse, right against his prostrate.

Jaskier thrust up, moaning as much as he could around Geralt’s cock, trapped under the weight of his witcher. His fingers dug into the meat of Geralt’s arse. He couldn’t even beg for more, but he tightened the grip of his thighs, hoping Dandelion wouldn’t get the message. With a choked gasp, Geralt pulled him off his cock. Jaskier whined at the sudden emptiness of his mouth, pouting up at Geralt with wide eyes.

He was almost surprised by the fondness in Geralt’s gaze as a calloused thumb stroked his cheek. “Still good?”

Jaskier nodded and went to mouth at Geralt’s cock but he was pulled back again, a sharp tug at his hair.

“Words, Jask.”

“Yes, now let me suck your cock, witcher,” he grumbled, a happy sigh escaping his lips as he was finally allowed to take Geralt back into his mouth.

“Needy little brat, isn’t he?” Dandelion giggled.

“Takes one to know one,” Geralt replied, his breathing starting to hitch between words… fucking finally.

The bastard had far too much stamina. Although, Jaskier did love to take his time in worshipping Geralt, so he really shouldn’t complain. He hummed, flicking his tongue around the tip of Geralt’s cock, his fingers teasing Geralt’s rim. He almost regretted not slicking up one of his hands so he could properly tease his witcher, but instead he kept one hand on his cock, twisting his wrist as he bobbed his head.

He whined, head falling back against the pillow, as Dandelion pushed into him. It was tortuously slow. He could feel every inch of the bard’s cock as it filled him. Geralt’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing along his lips. Jaskier whimpered as he sucked on the digit. It was a poor substitution for the witcher’s cock but he needed to adjust to the feel of Dandelion. Gods, it felt heavenly.

He had truly been blessed on this day.

“Fuck, Gods, Geralt….” he babbled, words muffled around the thumb that was still pressed between his lips.

“Thank Dandelion,” Geralt hummed, a quiet but firm instruction that made Jaskier feel all dazed.

Jaskier barely managed to gasp out his thanks to the poet. Dandelion had begun thrusting into him, finding his prostrate with ease, because, well.. of course he did.

Fucking yourself really did have its perks.

“Ger��” Jaskier panted but he didn’t have to finish his pleas because Geralt’s cock was already back in his mouth. Jaskier moaned loudly. He couldn’t even reach round the witcher to touch his own cock. He wasn’t sure if he could cum again untouched, every nerve ending felt like it was on fire, and his cock was aching. He needed more, he needed to cum, he needed…

Fuck!

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dandelion grunted as he finally wrapped his long fingers around Jaskier’s cock, every thrust still blinding him with pleasure.

Jaskier came almost instantly, clenching around Dandelion cock and choking around Geralt’s. He collapsed back onto the bed, tears streaming down his cheek, feeling utterly fucked out. He might have blacked out for a few seconds, he wasn’t sure, but the next thing he knew, Geralt’s cum was splattered over his chest, mixing with his own, and Dandelion keened as he fell forward, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s back.

There was silence in the room except for their heaving breathing and the sound of his own pulse ringing in his ears. After what could have been minutes or hours, he started to feel uncomfortable, even with Geralt and Dandelion pressed into either side of him.

“I am not cleaning this up,” he grumbled.

“Well I did all the work!” Dandelion whined, in a similar tone.

They both turned to Geralt, with matching cornflower blue eyes wide and pleading.

Geralt sighed heavily and rolled off the bed. Jaskier laughed and pulled Dandelion into a kiss whilst they waited for their witcher to return.

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskilion #geraskilon #multiverse #nsft #wolfie's witcher writing #anythinggoesfandoms

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jerakeenc · 3 years

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march recs (7)

March was pathetic. Literally, in every way.

Here you go, this is all I have.

Christ in Repose by spqr

Mandalorian | Din/Luke | Teen | 7,760 words

More on this story as it develops. Subscribe to HNN’s JEDI WATCH newsletter for instant updates on Jedi sightings throughout the galaxy.

I didn't expect to enjoy this as much as I did honestly.

Thaw by spqr

Mandalorian | Din/Luke | Teen | 6,300 words

That’s what hope does to you, Luke remembers now. It lingers at the back of your mind, whispering maybe, maybe, so that knowing a plan is stupid isn’t enough to keep you from trying it.

Made my heart explode into itty bitty pieces.

Echoes of Memory by KittenKakt

Witcher | Geralt/Jaskier | Explicit | 41,400 words

Geralt loses his memory and needs to figure out how he acquired a bard of all things. Most importantly, he must figure out how to keep him.

Amnesia!Geralt is delightful!

the roads we walk are winding by shellybelle

Witcher | Geralt/Jaskier | Explicit | 67,200 words

Jaskier doesn’t actually know how much time has passed since the black-cloaked Nilfgaardians grab him after a performance in a shitty tavern in the backcountry of northern Kaedwen. He’d assumed--foolishly, apparently--that he was far enough north that any Nilfgaardian soldiers would be few and far between, likely just scouts or even deserters. It would have been hard to actually get any further north--the little backwater town where he’d been singing was just a day from the mountains. Anymore travel, and he’d find himself skirting the Trail up to Kaer Morhen, the Warlord’s Keep, and, well. He’s brazen, but not that brazen. (or: a wandering bard bites off more than he can chew with the political ballads, accidentally makes friends with a princess in exile, and finds the Warlord of the North in his debt.)

Great story overall, though I do strongly disagree with the ending.

The Paths You Take by CosmicOcelot

Witcher | Geralt/Jaskier | Mature | 35,180 words

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes. “Name’s Lambert, actually,” the witcher corrects, his lips breaking into a crooked grin, “Though I certainly won’t stop you from worshipping me.”

Features everything I enjoy in fic, basically. Love when that happens.

Closer than Skin by Mottlemoth

Venom | Eddie/Venom | Explicit | 50,550 words

As Eddie settles into his new life as a host, his symbiote's growing interest in his body causes feelings he's unsure how to deal with. Being close is one thing; being intimate is another. Venom's company is everything and Eddie worries about blurring the line—then dreams and frustration start to blur it for him.

So much domesticity and soft soft love. Both kinky and so very wholesome.

They're a Man-eater by General_Button

Venom | Eddie/Venom | Explicit | 14,900 words

“Hey,” Eddie says, leaning back against the kitchen table. “You’ve been quiet lately." It almost feels like—like nerves, or some shit, which doesn’t make any sense, because the symbiote never had trouble calling him a pussy and a loser before it all almost ended. Or: Eddie and his symbiote learn to be together.

Precious, in a kinky, tentacle bondage sort of way.

#recs #venom #witcher #mandalorian

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witcherscrane · 3 years

Text

Breath

“Jaskier!” The young man’s head whipped around, looking towards the elderly captain that called his name. “Get your ass to the port! They need your help on the ropes!”

“Yes, Sir!” Jaskier could barely hear the old captain over the storm raging above them, the wind causing the rain to feel more like acid rather than water as it pelted his skin. Jaskier slid across the deck, the finely sanded planks slick as oil with the coating of water, sliding to a halt as he collided with the railing and grabbed hold of the ropes before the momentum of the slip caused him to go overboard.

“Easy there, kid!” Jaskier just smirked over at his crew-mate, laughing with him as a rough wave came up and crashed onto the deck, making their feet slip about.

“C’mon! Pull!” The crew pulled the ropes, trying to get them tied down proper.

“Look out!”

“Find cover!”

Jaskier looked up, tightening his grip on the ropes in his hand, fear crawling up his spine as his eyes widened, watching as a wave three times the size of the ship loomed over them. Dread filled his gut as it started to tumble over, and Jaskier shut his eyes tightly, wrapping the rope around his arm quickly and curled into a tight ball just in time to have the wave crash down onto the ship.

~~~~

Eskel swam alongside his brothers, picking up scraps from ships that had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, a small chuckle leaving him as a sudden current from the storm raging overhead and propelling them forward.

“Feels like a big one,” Lambert says, smiling as he looks over his shoulder, flicking his crimson tail at the waters.

“Think we’ll find anything new?” Eskel asks, plucking a small piece of wood from the ocean floor to investigate it.

“Hmmm,” Geralt looked back at his brother, brow lifted.

Eskel just rolled his eyes, following behind his brothers. Geralt’s silverytail easily spotted in the darkened waters, his gaze darting towards Lambert as his crimson tail flicked in and out of sight. The larger mer sighed, looking back at the wood in his hand, as his brothers would say he had a bleeding heart for the humans, always taking the time to bury all the skeletons they find on the ocean floor.

The brothers all paused as a loud cracking noise echoed through the waters, looking up and staring wide eyed as they watched a ship, one of the larger ones they’ve seen, split in half and shatter as a large wave crashed into it.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Lambert breathed, watching as the ship gets torn apart by the constant onslaught of rough waters from the storm.

“No way anyone survived that,” Geralt said, ever the ray of sunshine, and Eskel glared over at him.

“Ever the delightful one, aren’t you brother,” Eskel deadpanned, smirking when Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Think there was anything good on there?” Lambert asks, looking towards Geralt, the silver mer shrugged his shoulders.

“Possibly, we will have to wait for it to sink more before we can investigate,” Geralt says, folding his arms over his chest. Lambert snorted.

“I got nothing to do, do you?” Lambert smirked, Geralt shrugged and looked around, setting himself down on a rock. Eskel rolled his eyes at his brother’s banter, staring up at the wreckage as it slowly wunk to the depths. His gaze narrowing as he stared at all the broken pieces, the barrels spilling out from the hold, the tables floating up to the surface, the bodies of the lifeless crew that couldn’t get a breath before the wave crashed on them.

Eskel’s eyes went wide as his gaze caught something moving, something struggling against ropes wrapped around itself. His brother’s must have seen it too if the sharp intake of breath was anything to go by.

“Well that… sucks,” Lambert grused, frowning hard.

“Drowning,” was all Geralt said as they watched the scene unfold. Eskel looked over to his brothers then back at the struggling human, his body itching to move, to get to it, and he was about to when suddenly a strong arm wrapped around his shoulder and he looked over to see Geralt staring at him with a hard frown.

“Don’t,” Geralt growled, “it’s against the rules!”

“Rules that are century years old! When the elders forced us into hiding because of some misunderstanding!” Eskel yelled, pulling his arm from Geralt’s grip.

“Eskel!” Geralt yelled after his brother, Eskel’s emerald tail barely visible in the dark waters until he got closer to the surface, the light from the storm making the emerald scales stand out like gems.

Eskel swam as quickly as he could, rushing over to the struggling human. He reached the man just in time to see a burst of bubbles leave the man’s mouth, eyes shut tightly as he gave up struggling with the ropes and instead clawed at his throat.

The human must have sensed him approach cause his eyes suddenly flew open wide, another burst of bubbles leaving his mouth as Eskel approached. Eskel held up his hands in a placating manner, knowing the human wouldn’t be able to understand him, and pointed to his claws then the rope as he made a swishing movement through the water.

He didn’t wait for the human to answer and just went ahead, grabbing hold of the rope with one hand and cutting it away with the claws on the other. Once he was free, the human began struggling to go up, to get air, but another wave crashing down against the ocean’s waters pushed him back down.

Eskel frowned and quickly grabbed hold of the human, pulling him close. He didn’t have time to try and explain what he was going to do, grabbing hold of the humans jaw, Eskel pulled his face towards his and locked his mouth over his. The human struggled, pushing against Eskel’s chest, but the moment the human’s mouth opened again in an attempt to get air, Eskel could feel the small amount of water he’d already swallowed and dipped his tongue inside to absorb the water from the humans body and expel it through the gills on his neck.

The human struggled less, eyes wide, as Eskel breathed into his mouth, giving him air. Eskel kept his eyes on the human’s, admiring how <i>blue</i> they were, a small smile appearing on his lips as he pulled back when the human tapped his shoulder and looked at Eskel properly. His fingers trailing across the sun kissed colour of his skin, dipping down to trace the start of his scales around his waist, eyes stuck on his gills.

Eskel held the human there for a solid minute before the human’s face scrunched up and bubbles escaped his mouth again, so he dove in without a second thought to refill his lungs. Once he finished, Eskel pulled the human close to his chest and looked around, smiling wide when he saw a cave in the closest reef. He held the humans face on his chest and dove, swimming down quickly but not so fast that the pressure would hurt the human, and swam into the cave.

He only needed to swim into the cave a few strokes before it turned upward and he breached the surface, the human sputtering and gasping loudly for air, sucking it in greedly. Eskel helped the human onto the edge of the small pool, looking around the air pocket and realized that there was a type of glowing sea slug that provided light in the cave.

“You… your a merman,” Eskel looked over towards the human, smiling and giving a nod. “And you understand me,” Eskel nodded again with a small roll of his eyes. “And a smart ass,” Eskel’s shoulders shook with mirth.

“I… thank you, for saving me,” the human said, watching as Eskel swam over to him, eyes wide as he looked at the emerald tail. “Uh,” he licked his lips, “my name is Jaskier,” Eskel smiled wide, now knowing the humans name. “I… I don’t suppose you can speak, can you?” Eskel tilted his head, watching Jaskier.

“Eskel,” Eskel said his name, pointing at himself.

“Es-... Eskeial?” Jaskier tried, Eskel shook his head.

“Eskel,” he said again.

“Eskel,” Jaskier echoed and Eskel beamed, nodding quickly.

“Eskel,” Jaskier pointed at the merman, “Jaskier,” then pointed at himself.

“Jas… kier,” Eskel said slowly, the voice deep and rich, making Jaskier shiver.

“You saved me,” Eskel nodded, “aren’t there, like, rules against something like that? I mean… you’re a merman,” Jaskier said, waving his hands about. Eskel just nods, still smiling at Jaskier. “And… you don’t care?” Eskel shook his head. “Huh…” Jaskier just stared at him, a small smile on his face.

“Eskel!” Jaskier went rigid at the new sounds, the loud clicking noises coming from the water making him jump back in the waters and cling to Eskel’s side while the emerald tailed merman looked towards the entrance of the cave.

Geralt and Lambert’s head appeared from the waters, both of the brothers blinking in surprise to see Eskel holding the human so close to him, protecting him, and Geralt sighed heavily.

“You have to be fucking difficult, don’t you,” Geralt growled, shaking his head.

Eskel growled at Geralt as Lambert started to laugh, holding his mate close to his chest.

#the witcher #witcher fanfic #eskel #geralt #lambert #jaskier #mermaid/merman #drowning #jaskel #rescue #shipwreck #firs kiss #sharing air #i wrote this instead of sleeping #bikm bingo

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writinglizards · 3 years

Text

Fanfic Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @drowningbydegrees!!!

How many works do you have on Ao3?

64, not counting the works I’ve anoned, for a variety of reasons.

What’s your total Ao3 word count?

518k.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Between the Fights (I Still Need You)

This was my first fic in the witcher fandom??? And still the most popular??? We all really love our post mountain angst, don’t we?

Tell Me Honestly--How Could I Love Somebody Else?

AKA the “Jask flirts with Geralt when he’s drunk” fic. I desperately want to do a redux on this trope, it’s so much fun to write.

5 Time Geralt Deliberately Botched a Hunt so Jaskier Would Touch Him (and 1 Time He Didn’t Have To)

God. This is probably one of my favorites, honestly. Only time I’ve really done a proper 5+1.

Sorry (When You Leave Me)

AKA the mpreg fic. I’m still baffled why yall like this one so much??? It was 100% written in a fit because I’d just finished an mpreg fic that was...uh...not...great...and was overcome with “I could do that better” so I did. And I haven’t been able to stop since, ugh.

All We Need (One Last Chance)

Corvo fic, my beloved!!! I still have another idea for an adjacent fic, I’ve just gotta...find the time. Corvo vibes and oranges, anyone?

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I used to. Now I generally don’t? There are so many of you and only one of me, unfortunately. If I responded to everyone it’s all I’d ever do lmao.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Genuinely, I have no idea. Most of what I write is happy ending because I like the catharsis of happy endings. Personally I’d probably say All We Need (One Last Chance) is the happiest, though. They’re both retired and in love!!! What more could you want?

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Oh, this feels like an even split between The Last Sense to Go and There isn’t Actually. On the one hand, main character death. On the other hand, extremely painful one sided relationship in which the other party is completely oblivious to the other’s feelings.

Do you write crossovers?

Not??? Exactly??? I think the closest is the daemon fic I did. I like taking traits from other genres and throwing them in, but not full on crossovers.

have you ever received hate on a fic?

I’ve never gotten blatant hate on Ao3, but I did when I was on fanfiction dot net as a teen just getting started, yes.

Do you write smut? if so, what kind?

Yes, and just about everything. Yall know this.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yep! I did a few train fics with friends a while ago and I’ve got a co-fic in the works with another friend we haven’t touched in awhile, but will eventually be done...some day...

What’s your all-time favourite ship?

I am capable of one focus at a time, so right now? Geralt/Jaskier.

What’s a wip that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

RIP to I Said Some Things I Wish I Hadn’t (I Wish That We Could Talk About It). Maybe someday, but no time soon, that’s for sure.

What are your writing strengths?

Lengthy, long winded nonsense.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Short and concise nonsense.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I am not bilingual enough for that, but it is VERY cool!! I love when others do it.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Naurto, as a wee baby middle schooler.

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

Probably Take Everything from Me (Take Time). I wrote it for Alex for her birthday but it was genuinely one of the most delightful stories to tell. I had a great time writing it.

Tagging:

@greyduckgreygoose @contemplativepancakes @witcher-and-his-bard @julek

No pressure, only if you want to! <3

#tag game #how has it been over a year of writing nothing but these idiots???

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funkzpiel · 4 years

Note

Another consideration (sorry) is if Jaskier did lose his voice permanently from the Jinn and Geralt feels guilty and doesnt stop trying to find a cure even though he knows there isnt one (or lies to Jaskier that he's trying to find one til Jaskier finds out)

He doesn’t sing again. That prickly part of Geralt that’s been traveling alone for most of his life gruffly thought he’d enjoy that result. After all, he did his level best to have the issue resolved. It wasn’t his fault that the bard got involved. He hadn’t invited him along – he had just wanted to fucking sleep for fucking once in his life, damn it. It had been his wish though, however unintentional, that brought the bard into this new life, this silent existence. A world without Jaskier’s singing.

It is like biting into a pie only to find it has no filling.

Those words haunt him in the lingering silence of Jaskier’s presence. They hang between him and the bard as heavily as any wraith might – leeching him just as much as actual conversations exhausted him. Jaskier, like the birds of the woods, was born to sing and talk and fill the world with the litany of his voice and his perspective and his life; and Geralt had taken part in shattering him.

Yennefer had, in her way, tried to heal him. They had released the Djinn – much to the mage’s dismay – and that should have been the end of it. Jaskier’s swelling went down, his bleeding stopped.

But when he opened his mouth to greet Geralt when finally he woke, nothing more than a wheeze passed his lips. In that moment, the witcher watched a part of Jaskier die. He saw it in the bard’s eyes – a small bit of the light that constantly filled him fading away like a cloud passing over the sun.

Jaskier stayed with him. Geralt doesn’t understand why. It was his fault, his words, his hasty and ill thought out wish that had crushed the bard’s vocal cords to dust. Jaskier should hate him, and yet he stayed. Geralt thought pragmatically that it was because alone, Jaskier would struggle. He was a man who had independently crafted a life and a career for himself off his voice, and now that was gone. He had his fingers, his lute, of course – but drunken pub-goers relished the bard’s songs, his lyrics, and with nothing to sing along to, it left Jaskier’s lute playing, while lovely, pale and hollow by comparison to what patrons expected to hear when they recognized who he was.

Geralt did that to him. So it was the least he could do to keep Jaskier by his side. To provide a safe place for the bard to sleep, coin for him to eat. And that must be why he stayed, he reasoned. Why else?

As they passed through villages, he asked for healers, for mages – anyone who might have insight into the bard’s situation. He even began to direct their travels in the direction of famous herbalists or sorcerers (or sometimes even creatures), all without ever making it plain, just in case they might stumble upon someone who might have a cure.

‘Sorry’ hung heavy on his heart, weighing it down between his ribs, pressing in on his lungs, strangling him. He spent his nights, already so prone to sleeplessness, on his back and staring up at the sky as though the stars might suddenly align and spell out the answers he sought. His eyes drifted to Jaskier, curled by the fire. Small and quiet. So fucking quiet.

Geralt was really beginning to fucking detest the quiet.

It made him admire Jaskier’s penchant for conjuring a conversation seemingly out of nowhere; particularly when he began to try and solve this problem of too much fucking quiet by doing what Jaskier could not: talking.

“Pleasant day,” he growled one morning, eyes on the meal he stoked above the fire as Jaskier silently worked on lacing up his clothing. Blue eyes sought him out over the fire. He could feel the weight of them, the surprise. But what else was there to say? His words had been efficient. The day was pleasant. What should he say next? Describe the color of the sky? Foolish.

He grit his teeth, hating himself for his blatant inability to provide even so much comfort as this. But he keeps trying. He practices. Only because when he does, Jaskier’s gaze falls to him – keen in a way those blue eyes had not been in some time since the silence started – and for a moment he feels as though his bard has returned again.

Jaskier, for his part, does not simply melt back into the stone of a garden wall like a shrinking violet. His voice was not what made him so lively, so vibrant; it was a side effect of all the life and sunlight and existence that the gods had seen fight to cram into a body as lithe as Jaskier. He learned how to speak with his hands and Geralt, a man who had only spoken through body language for so long, found it easy to listen. It was an act of communication that drew no end of curious looks when they went to villages. How could two men speak so silently? Some even began to suspect Jaskier was a familiar of Geralt’s – which made the bard wheeze silently, laughing.

Geralt couldn’t even be annoyed by that. It was good to see the bard laugh.

Jaskier’s hands grew more and more fluent as they travelled until he learned how to fill the silence in an entirely new way. And if Geralt’s attention were distracted, his eyes not on the bard, Jaskier found ways to grab his attention. A pebble to the shoulder, if annoyed. A hand to his side, to the small of his back, to his bicep if not.

But still, Geralt looked for a cure. He did not ask for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it – not while Jaskier was still unable to say the words to pardon him for his wish. Wishes. How Geralt hated them, hated the word. His wish had driven Yennefer away. His wish had bound Jaskier to a life in which he could not do what he loved. Geralt didn’t deserve forgiveness. So he did not ask.

And then came the contract about the witches of the bog.

Ancient hags. Magical ladies. So old that Geralt wasn’t even sure if the word ‘witch’ truly befitted them anymore. He didn’t even know what to call them, what to research in his bestiary. Three witches of the bog. Complicated and powerful, hand in hand. Some of the village worshipped them. They kept the forest rich with game. They protected birthing mothers. They warded off those from foreign lands that might colonize their home, change it, urbanize it. It left the area like a capsule from another time; perfectly preserved.

Others hated them. Virgins tended to disappear now and then. Children too. Livestock would die, men would suddenly fall dead. Believers called it penance, divine and unknowable justice for deeds the public might never see or fathom. Nonbelievers called it terrorism at the hands of monsters. Geralt found himself stuck in the middle.

He insisted Jaskier stay in the village. This was beyond even his expertise. Even with normal monsters there was always the chance that he might fail, not protect Jaskier, however slim. Now? He would not tell Jaskier that he had a healthy fear for what laid ahead, but he made it known that for no reason should the bard follow him this time.

He approached the bog with his swords on his back but his hands nowhere near their hilts. Women as old as these, there was a chance he might be able to reason with them. Negotiate.

There was just as big as chance that he might offend them by trying.

His heart thumped in his chest as he kneeled in a dry spot in the bog. He set out the offerings the believers told him would attract the witches to him. He rested his hands on his thighs. Closed his eyes.

“Bog women,” he said, calling to them in a hushed, croaking voice, “Ladies of the North, Winter Women… I have no request but to parlay with you. I humble myself, I kneel, knowing I don’t deserve an audience. Would you speak with me?”

At first there was nothing. He wondered if the believers had lied, if the nonbelievers were far more stable by comparison. He was just about to stand, to leave, when a wind brushed the faint hairs not held back by his hair tie to wisp about his face. The willows around him swirled and sang a sorrowful tune. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rose.

“What is a boy’s name?” A witch sung to him. A boy. Despite his years, he felt very much like a boy kneeling at the feet of those women.

He nearly responded. Nearly. But there was power in a name for folk such as them.

“You may call me witcher,” he said instead, careful in his wording. Another witch laughed, delighted.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the laughing witch chirped, stepping out of the fog. She was lovely. Her red hair hung down to her bottom. Her face was round like a peach, her cheeks pink like one too. She wore a gown unlike one he had ever seen before. She looked kind, her smile pleasant, but her eyes – if he looked too long, he could see the predatory glint in those eyes. Her glamor blurred around the edges and if he peered too closely, he could almost see—

His pupils dilated, huge and blown out as he tried to make sense of what he saw. Limbs, so many limbs. A body distorted with tumors; or what he thought might be tumors, but perhaps just did not know the right word for them. Too many mouths, eyes, faces. The punishing visage of those warped by black magic or simply the form of a god not meant to be seen or understood by mortal men? He didn’t know, but he did register something wet beneath his nose. Hot and dripping. His heart thundered. He wondered if it might burst when finally another woman came up behind him, bent over him, and gently rested a hand over his eyes.

“A strong boy with keen eyes,” the woman behind him hummed, “Few have seen past our glamor. Fewer still remained sane enough to tell the tale.”

The first witch cackled, having appeared from the fog as well, and sneered, “You steal our fun,” then said a name that made Geralt’s lashes flutter sickly. The name sounded more like the mad tumble of rocks down a mountain side that any human word. His stomach lurched. He was so fucked. “I wished to see how far a witcher-boy’s mind might bend.”

“A boy came to us in good faith,” the witch whose name sounded like falling rocks said. Her voice sounded like the voice of many women, but also, one woman. His mother. He wondered if that was part of the glamor as well. If that magic was seeping into his mind, collecting fragments and details that might sooth him, lure him into a false sense of security.

Too bad it was the voice of the woman who had abandoned him. It only served to wake him up.

He decided to call that woman Earth Mother. The name pinged something familiar in the far recesses of his mind.

“Laws of matronhood,” said the second to the first, naming her as well. He gritted his teeth against the sound of it – glass shattering, wolves howling. It made his muscles tense, ready to flee the jaws of a wolf. When the feeling passed, a human name appeared in his mind seemingly from nowhere: Beast Mother.

“Aye, I know the laws,” said the Beast Mother, then a final name. Geralt’s stomach dropped sickly like missing a step on a staircase. This name sounded like the wind – both tame as the first warmth of spring thaws the fields, and wild like the storm that punishes a village. Sky Mother, his mind supplied.

Geralt bowed his head as those final, hind-brain instincts washed over him and eventually dulled. He felt suddenly exhausted. Word thin by the mere presence of these women.

“What does a witcher-boy call to women such as we for?” Asked the Sky Mother.

“Does a witcher-boy come to kill us?” Laughed the Beast Mother cruelly, and even with the third woman’s hand over his eyes – cool and soothing and dark – Geralt knew the Beast Mother was grinning with too many predatory teeth. More teeth than any human mouth should have. Teeth and teeth and teeth—

“The village placed a contract on you,” Geralt forced himself to say. “But I’m quickly realizing this is no monster hunt.”

He was in the presence of gods, or at least as close to gods as reality might ever get. Every story, every religion, stemmed from something after all. These land spirits, these witches, these women – they were so much more than a contract to be hunted. They owned the land, the wood, the swamp, and all inside it. Fuck.

“If you know this, then why come?” The Earth Mother asked gently.

“Some of the villagers are suffering,” Geralt explained, “I’m here to help. To parlay.”

“Life is to suffer,” laughed the Beast Mother cruelly.

The Sky Mother said instead, “And what can a witcher-boy offer us? How can a witcher-boy help?”

The Earth Mother was against his back, matronly and kind. He felt like a boy hiding behind a mother’s skirts – or more accurately Vesemir’s legs. It felt both nostalgic and sickening at the same time, his mind peeled apart like an onion so easily in their presence.

“I am nothing and no one to you Mothers,” Geralt acknowledged, “But I cannot turn my back on suffering. If I do so here, I have no right to my namesake.”

“A witcher-boy wanted to be a hero,” cackled the Beast Mother, fangs gleaming in his mind’s eyes, pearly and wet with hungry spittle.

“A witcher-boy is kind,” whispered the Mother blinding him with her mercy, her hand.

“A witcher-boy is doomed,” offered the Sky Mother clinically, but not dispassionately.

“What did the village ask?” The Beast Mother spat, “Did they whine about their lost babes? Their disappeared virgins? Their dead men? Their cows?”

“The milk had spoiled in their udders, so we killed them,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“The men had raped and stolen and marred the virtue of our lands, so we removed them from the grace of our hospitality,” the Beast Mother growled.

“The virgins sought escape from abusive homes, sought freedom and peace, so we guided them to happier places,” the Earth Mother hummed.

“And the babes would have died a painful death from winter, from illness, from genetic deficiencies – so we lured them to that better place in peace instead,” the Sky Mother finished.

“Life is cruel,” the Beast Mother growled like the sound of hooves on earth, pounding in chase after the fox, “But we are not. A witcher-boy cannot fathom our motives, so we pardon him once, but question our intentions again and a witcher-boy will understand punishment for himself.”

Geralt bowed his head intentionally this time, hands in tight, humbled fists on his knees.

“Apologies, Mothers, I knew not what to expect.”

“As we said, a witcher-boy is pardoned,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“We know a witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother sang behind him, her voice the laughter of a babe’s first smile, the song of a mother kneading dough in the morning. “A witcher-boy withholds his name, but we know him.”

“White. Wolf.” The Beast Mother is grinning with too many hungry teeth again. Geralt shivered.

“You helped a Godling not far from here,” says one.

“Spared a group of trolls in the eastern mountains,” says another.

“Helped a succubus escape the fires of the cities and the purge of daft men who put their faith in nonsense,” says the last.

“The list is long,” the Earth Mother says, her other hand stroking through his hair now. She’s untied it, let it fall loose around his ears. She tsks and says, “At least a witcher-boy tried to bathe for us. You need fine oils for hair such as this.”

He feels disoriented, exposed. Unsure of his footing.

“I will explain to the village—” he begins, but clicks his jaw shut audibly when the Beast Mother howls, “We were not done, witcher-boy!”

He swallows dryly. His very bones shiver. The Earth Mother shushes his fears and continues to pet him like a dumb, beloved dog warming her feet. It feels… nice. He has to shake his mind awake not to fall for that glamor, that lulling sense of safety. There is no safety. Safe is an illusion.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother says proudly, fondly.

“You’ve helped people and creature alike on our land,” the Sky Mother said.

“But you’ve also taken justice into your hands, as if we were not suitable to maintain it,” snarled the Beast Mother.

“What are three Mothers to do with their witcher-boy, their kind hearted wolf, their man of stone?”

They might kill him. They were not wrong, he had taken their affairs into his own hands unknowingly when fulfilling contracts in these lands. If their territory extended as far as he thought it did, he had only done so twice perhaps. Maybe thrice. A werewolf that had gone mad, slaughter their family. A cockatrice that had been spoiling the hunt for another township, killing the best of their providers. A wraith left behind by a widow spurned.

“We would have gotten to them in our own time,” the Beast Mother said, answering his unspoken question of why, if they protected these lands, had they not handled it?

“Or perhaps we did handle it in our own right,” the Earth Mother offered with a chuckle. Working through him, he realized. A pawn in their ways just as he was a pawn to fate. He shuddered helplessly, a little flame of offense rising in his gut as it always did at the concept of ‘fate’. She brushed his hair back in apology, stroked his cheek. “You need a shave.”

Disoriented didn’t begin to cover it.

“Spoil sport,” the Beast Mother snorted. So that had been it, then. He had acted as unwitting representative for them and their will.

“You are a trustworthy wolf,” the Sky Mother said, “Good in intention, civil in mercy.”

“You will go to the village,” the Earth Mother continued. “You will explain the way of things. Those who cannot abide by those ways can flee freely or be dealt with accordingly… They will not pay you, witcher-boy. Their hearts are selfish and easy to see reason why they should keep their coin despite your bravery, despite how you put yourself between we women and their cowardly souls.”

“For this, for the works you’ve already done unintentionally in our name and for the works you will later do intentionally in our name, we women shall pay you instead.”

He stiffened. Every bone locked in his body like rusted hinges on a door, painful and tight. That was a dangerous offer. He could not deny it and live. But one wrong word would spell a world of pain unending. He swallowed.

“You are too kind to someone as undeserving as me,” he managed to croak.

The Beast Mother laughed cruel and amused, high like a harpy’s screech and low like a bear’s roar. He shuddered visibly. The Earth Mother smoothed down the hackles that rose on the back of his neck like a master calming a spooked dog.

“Correct, we are too kind. Wise of you to notice,” the Beast Mother said.

“What does a witcher-boy want?” The Sky Mother asked.

Geralt clenched his jaw, feeling more like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws than a witcher. It was an uncomfortable, greasy feeling, and he hated it.

“I require nothing –”

“—Ha! A man says he requires nothing from gods!” The Beast Mother howled like a pack of wolves.

“You would spit in our eye and refuse our gift?” The Sky Mother asked diplomatically.

“Do not let them frighten you, witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother hummed, stroking his hair again. “We Mothers are unused to debt.”

He could ask for a token from them; small enough so as not to ask too much, but enough to appease their debt. He could ask for some tidbit of knowledge; the location of a cache in their lands, perhaps. He could ask for hospitality in their woods; safety and peace whenever he visited. But as their champion, which he was quickly coming to find that he was unknowingly, he inherently knew he need not ask for any of this. They had always provided for him, had always shown him the way. He never went hungry or thirsty in these woods. The birds called when anything deigned attack him, warning him. He slept here. To ask for what they already provided would be turning a blind eye onto their gifts – a dangerous thing.

He should find something else – something small, something humble. And yet…

“My friend… what would it cost for you to heal him?” Geralt finally asked.

“Aaah,” the Beast Mother crooned, “A witcher-boy does not love silence after all.”

“A witcher-boy did not know what he had until it was gone,” the Earth Mother said, her voice if possible even more fond.

“Witcher-boys tend to be clever, and yet dumb as rock trolls,” the Sky Mother said blandly.

“Please,” Geralt said, leaning into the cradle of the Earth Mother’s hand which blinded him, protected him. She hummed soothingly behind him.

“We women are powerful and old. We saw the mountains form and the rivers fill. We were there for the first storm, the first wind that graced the ground, the first sprig of grass, the birth of the first land beast,” said the Sky Mother.

“But alas, this boon you ask for is not as simple as you think,” the Earth Mother said sadly.

He nearly asked ‘so you can’t help’ before he caught his tongue. What a stupid way to die, offending gods. The Beast Mother cackled. She knew what he had almost asked.

“It is not that we are not capable. You ask for something more than what we owe,” the Beast Mother said, fangs glinting, her words the framework of a hungry maw in his mind’s eye, waiting for an excuse to eat him. A merry chase, a dangerous game. It thrilled her to chase him like a rabbit through their laws and customs and loopholes, waiting for him to trip and yet hoping he might not so the game would continue. “And you cannot afford a cure outright.”

“What is the cost of an outright cure?” He asked. He had to know. Maybe he could—

“Souls. Innocent souls. Blood. Flesh. Creation and death. You request to overwrite a Djinn’s will, witcher-boy. That sort of magic by human means, by the means in which you could pay us, would change you fundamentally. You’d no longer be worthy as champion of our will. We have no intention of warping a witcher-boy and losing a pawn such as yourself. Too dull, too boring. Too simple. A witcher-boy offends.”

He hung his head again. His debt to his friend was more expensive than his morality, the makeup of his being, than his use to the world and to these witches, these gods. His stomach became a stone inside him. There was no outright cure…

His head rose a little.

“What cost for his voice?” He asked. Not a cure. A voice. The Earth Mother stroked him approvingly. The Beast Mother smiled with impressed fangs. The Sky Mother considered him.

“A steep price,” the Sky Mother said, like spring rain.

“A generous price,” snorted the Beast Mother, like boars stomping in the brush.

“A fair price,” hummed the Earth Mother, like the sound of a gentle hands guiding a plant into fresh soil.

“Name it,” Geralt said, something unidentifiable to his knowledge of himself in the edges of the words, though he recognized it in others. Pleading.

They named it.

He agreed.

“But first,” said the women with too many voices, “What is a witcher-boy’s name?”

They already knew it. Geralt knew that they did. But he hadn’t given it to them. There was power in giving a name.

Geralt paid.

–

He returned to town feeling exhausted, hollowed out and reed-thin, and yet he held the light of dawn in his chest, weightless and hopeful. He carried it with him over the hall and down the path that led to the village, leaving behind him his Ladies and the offerings he had placed on their humble altar.

He followed their instructions precisely.

He went first to the village alderman – a believer – and the man who had posted the notice – a nonbeliever. He explained that this village was not in fact their home, but the home of the women, and it was by their mercy that their crops flourished and their lives went by in relative peace. When the nonbeliever questioned him, cheeks red with rage that Geralt had not done as he was tasked, Geralt merely offered precisely what the women had told him to say.

“If you do not like living in the lands of the Ladies, you are free to relocate somewhere with no matronage. But if you stay and presume to keep calling the lands your own, and living outside the laws of matron and guest, there’s nothing I can do to spare you from them. This was their land first. They’ve upheld every law, provided every mercy. Live by their terms, live somewhere else, or find out for yourself why men have disappeared from among you by becoming another face on a flier.”

They had bid him not over explain. There was no faith to be had otherwise, no trust, and the Ladies asked for little more than that from their guests. To explain would be to condemn these villages to eviction. So he left the nonbelievers’ fate to themselves. Heed, flee or perish.

They didn’t pay him, just as the women had warned. The nonbelievers accused him of solving nothing. They called him a charlatan and a cheat. The believers claimed that they had not asked for help in the first place – and honestly, that was fair.

He didn’t need their payment anyways, not now. He would not go hungry or thirsty while in their wood. They’d tide him over until he left their lands in pursuit of his next contract. That was more than enough.

He brushed off their accusations, their thanklessness, like kicking dirt from his shoes. He wondered if that was what endeared him to the Ladies, or at least part of it – for both he and the god women understood thanklessness despite service.

He went to the inn, carried himself up to the room he had left Jaskier in. He could hear his lute from halfway up the stairs. It was a pleasing sound, something cheerful to wake to – it’d have to be, not to received complaints from other patrons also guesting at the inn.

The moment he walked in, he found Jaskier seated on the window sill, face to the early morning sun like a plant soaking in daylight as he played with mindlessly fluent fingers. Geralt leaned against the doorframe and enjoyed watching the dance of those fingers over the strings, plucking, always searching for the next note. He let himself bask in that moment, in the portrait of his bard in peaceful domesticity. Then, knowing the Ladies would not wait forever, rapped two knuckles against the doorframe, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

The bard let his song lull to a stop, his face lighting up at the sight of him returned unharmed. There was relief there, plain and naked as Jaskier was in most ways; unabashed and quick to feel, to express. He set his lute aside with the same sort of care that Geralt might give one of his swords and immediately his hands went into action, his whole body speaking to Geralt as easily as he once did with words.

Well, what happened, don’t keep me waiting? Were they in fact witches or something more nefarious? Well? Come on, Geralt, these stories don’t write themselves!

He smiled. There was a weight in his chest he hadn’t realized he had been carrying until now as it slowly lifted, so close to resolution as he was. He stepped forward without a word, amber eyes locked on his bard, his traveling companion, his friend, his partner. It drew Jaskier’s hand to a stuttering motion not unlike ‘um’ or ‘uh’ or ‘what’s going on?’.

“Months ago, I stole your voice from you,” Geralt finally said, standing in front of the bard, close enough to touch him – but not yet. A puzzled look spread across Jaskier’s face.

I don’t understand.

“I wished for peace not knowing I already had something better. Already had peace in my hands. I was just to blind to comfort, to kindness, to know that I had it.”

Jaskier gave him a baffled look that both said ‘well aren’t you chatty today?’ and ‘who are you and what did you do with my witcher?’

Geralt did not know this language, this new tongue he was trying to learn: intimacy, apology, love. He reached to cup Jaskier’s jaw and paused nearly there feeling foolish, blushing, because words and intimate touches had never been a language of his. It felt foreign. Like a crude imitation, rusty and weak for what he was trying to convey. But Jaskier just watched him patiently, brows drawn into a curious frown as he met him halfway and nestled his jaw into his calloused hand.

‘Geralt?’

He brushed a thumb over Jaskier’s smooth jaw, freshly shaven and smelling of sweet oil. Memorized the lines of Jaskier’s face, the soundless paragraphs of his expression, and tucked it away in his mind for later.

“I am sorry knowing me left you silent,” he finally said, croaked, hushed, admitted.

Jaskier’s brows drew tight, his mouth a strange line. He shook his head.

“I understand if you cannot forgive me,” Geralt looked away. “I should have apologized the morning you first could not speak, but it felt wrong to ask when you could not answer. But now… Do you trust me, Jaskier?”

There was still that expression – anger, grief, confusion, all deserved. He’d leave him after this, no doubt. Geralt had pushed too far, presumed too much. But he pressed on. He had to see this through. Then he’d let Jaskier return to his normal life. Let him make his choice. Set him free.

He thought he heard a womanly sigh.

Jaskier’s hand came up to cradle Geralt’s on his jaw. In his touch and in his face, Geralt heard him: Of course I trust you, you daft excuse for a witcher.

Do or die.

He leaned down. Watched as Jaskier’s eyes widened. Watched until he was too close to see anymore. Got closer until their lips brushed – his so chapped against the bard’s meticulously cared for lips, soft and pleasant. The bard felt like a canary in his hands, all fluttering energy; fragile with hollow bones, more melody than flesh. He pressed, then swiped a tongue across trembling lips to ask permission.

Jaskier let him in. He sealed their lips together. Let his hand move from the man’s jaw to cup the back of his neck, crush him close without actually crushing him. Then he felt it. It began in his throat, behind his Adam’s Apple, and slowly crawled up – warm, not unpleasant but certainly not normal. It rose. When it met his tongue it tasted of night and bestiaries; earthy and deep. His voice. It passed by his teeth, slipped through their lips, then felt Jaskier jump in his hands. He leapt as though stung, or perhaps shocked like walking with socked feet and touching a door knob – surprising, sharp and fleeting. Then settled in his hands.

Geralt pulled away to mumble three words against Jaskier’s slack mouth, his own stomach twisting when no words actually bloomed despite his tongue and mouth doing what needed to be done to make words. He was mute. It had worked. The price had been paid.

He should have said it before he lost the chance to, and yet, there was a pathetic sort of comfort in murmuring the words soundlessly against Jaskier’s lips instead – like hiding behind a mask, bold because he could do so secretly.

Jaskier pulled away, speaking on instinct out of shock, “Geralt, what’s wrong with you—” then he stilled, eyes owlish. His hands shot to his throat. Patted and fluttered and searched for something that might give away what was going on.

Geralt smiled. His throat vibrated as it would if he had chuckled, but no sound followed.

“My voice,” Jaskier croaked, pale from shock and relief and all manner of emotions he wore as plainly on his face as he did his clothes. “How?”

Geralt felt relief bloom in his own belly: that weight lifting fully now that he had made amends, had fixed his wrongs. Relief that Jaskier’s voice was his own and not Geralt’s because that was a level of weird even the witcher couldn’t handle. He tapped his own throat with his fingers and looked at Jaskier pointedly.

Color leeched from the bard’s skin.

“You gave me yours?”

Geralt nodded, then blinked – confused – when Jaskier suddenly sprung to his feet, all pent-up nervous energy, and slapped faintly at Geralt’s chest with a sharp, “Take it back!”

Geralt’s brows drew tight, his lips pursed, utterly baffled.

“You lummox! Don’t you give me that look! You can’t—I can’t—this is too much!”

Geralt shook his head.

‘I had to make it right’ he said, using his hands, with his face, with his body; a pale imitation of Jaskier’s fluency.

“It wasn’t yours to make right! The Djinn did it, not you!”

‘My wish—’

“Was an accident! You thought the Djinn was under my control anyhow, it hadn’t been intentional. I honestly don’t recall if you even wished for it or said ‘I just want some damn peace!’ – you had warned me it was dangerous! If I had just listened—”

Wait. Wait.

Geralt shook his head. How had this spun away from him so quickly?

‘This wasn’t your fault.’

“It was no more yours than mine or mine than yours!” Jaskier pointed out, as if that had been his intention all along. He threw his hands out to his sides, pacing quietly – quiet, he hadn’t expected that, as if it had become a habit. He watched as the bard fluttered nimble fingers against his lips, eyes darting to Geralt distractedly, and mumbled, “Lovely kiss, by the way,” and when Geralt smirked he continued haughtily, “Which we will further discuss later, you oaf!”

Geralt chuckled without chuckling.

“You are,” Jaskier said slowly, finally stopping his pacing, “Insufferable. Your hero complex will see you into the ground one day, I swear, and no one will even know now because you can’t talk.”

Geralt gave him an obvious, deadpanned look. This? This felt right. Natural. Things had always been this way. Jaskier just hadn’t realized that yet.

‘You have always been my words.’

Jaskier stilled. In the lines of his body Geralt saw the quiet sway of wind through a garden well cared for; buzzing with bees, home to all manner of flowers, beautiful and soothing to its guests. So alive, so open. Jaskier was a garden. Geralt had merely returned the birds that had lost their way.

He waited. Waited for the inevitable. He had taken Jaskier’s voice, then made parlay for it without his permission. Surely the bard would leave him. He no longer needed the witcher, after all, and in his silent days had seen more than enough journeys to sing about for the rest of his life. Geralt waited.

“You bloody imbecile,” Jaskier breathed, his face going slack with subdued outrage and realization. “You daft man, you uncommunicative bastard!”

Geralt looked away. He didn’t need his voice. It was better suited in the bard. He didn’t need Jaskier. He had been on the road alone for years before him, and he could do it again.

But there was something in his chest – heavy, prickly and unfamiliar. Want.

He swallowed. He didn’t approach him, but also did not shy away when Jaskier stomped forward and reached for his face. He waited for the slap, for the slam of a door.

Jaskier guided his gaze back down to him.

“Don’t belittle my affections by presuming I stayed because you were convenient. I do not need my voice to live a comfortable or enjoyable life. I need you.”

He felt like shattered glass in a repair man’s palms, all his broken edges grinding together in wrong ways.

“What’s done is done,” Jaskier finally said, his hand reaching back to cup the back of Geralt’s neck as he had done to him not long ago. “And… you’re right. We’ve never needed words to speak and they have never been a tool you enjoyed using. I shall be your words. I’ve been with you long enough to know how to explain your creatures to townsfolk and gods above know I am a better haggler than you – you let that bastard swindle you into this contract for 250 crowns, for gods sake, Geralt! I was dying – ahh,” he shook his head, refocusing, “Nevermind. Point is, we’ve always made it work. We’ll make this work too. But for the record, I wasn’t broken, Geralt. Not with you.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to the witcher’s mouth, smiling and soft at the sight of Geralt’s baffled look, his inability to collect himself to react in the face of such an unexpected confession. Jaskier was the one to whisper into his lips this time between kisses, “Not that I don’t appreciate your sacrifice. The songs I’ll sing about the gift you’ve given me, Geralt – gods above, I’ve missed singing.”

‘I’ve missed it too,’ Geralt thought, perhaps said with his touch and the way he leaned into every peck Jaskier gave him, every breath against his lips.

“Fucking knew it,” Jaskier said, grinning against his mouth, “Filling-less pie, you emotionally constipated dog. And don’t think for one moment I didn’t hear you. We’ve been talking without talking for too long for me to have missed it, you know.”

Geralt felt heat rush to his cheeks and crawl up his neck, making a home in the tips of his ears. He turned away to hide it as Jaskier pulled back, but it was too late. The bard chuckled fondly and when Geralt finally chanced looking back at him, he grumbled embarrassedly – silently.

“It’s not the first time you’ve said you love me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, smiling with all his teeth, skin aglow like dawn breaking the night. “You’ve been saying it for ages.”

Jaskier drew his face back to him when Geralt tried once more to look away, bristly and unsure of himself and self-conscious that all this time he hadn’t been half as secretive – or aware himself – as he thought.

Jaskier took his time looking him over. Memorizing his face, Geralt realized, as he had memorized the bard’s when he found him on the windowsill. He felt exposed as he had at the Mothers’ feet. Known.

He leaned into Jaskier’s hand. Enjoyed the brush of a thumb over a sore scar on his cheekbone.

“I don’t need words,” Jaskier said gently, “But I am grateful to have them. Thank you, Geralt. I’ll use your voice wisely.”

The witcher leaned in, loose like a puppet with his strings cut now that it was finally done, and pressed his forehead to the bard’s. Power thrummed between them, the magic of being known and kept.

Silently, love spoke for them

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #gaskier #prompt #wtf do I even tag this #i don't think I've ever written so much back to back fluff as I have for this fandom #who am I?#witcher writing

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agoodgoddamnshot · 3 years

Text

Hollow - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning: Injury Recovery

Word Count: 4769

Originally posted on my AO3

His lessons in Oxenfurt have become afterimages; faint pictures and muffled sounds, none of which is sturdy enough for him to recall. But he can remember one thing a lecturing poet had said to them. They had been learning about sonnets, about the boring compositions of them and all of that technical nonsense. And Jaskier’s mind was still groggy and addled from a night spent drinking and lounging in another student’s bed. He had just enough wherewithal to grab what clothes he needed for the day and stumble his way down to the lecturing halls, still numbed and stumbling and squinting against the midday sun that was just so damn bright.

‘Tis a Fearful Thing to love what death can touch.

And Jaskier still wishes that he had thought of it. It’s a line that has stayed with him throughout the years that have trudged by. He’s generous with his love – he’s loved a lot of people in all different capacities. He’s loved some for a night, others for years. And then there’s Geralt; luring the kind of love out of him that hurts his heart when he’s with the Witcher and hurts when he isn’t; when he wakes in the soft light of morning to a dozing wolf in his bed, hair askew and all form of his usual frown eased from his brow, his chest tightens and his breath catches, and he reaches out to gently dust the backs of his fingers along the Witcher’s cheek, smiling delighted at the soft snuffling sort of noise that comes out of Geralt.

He loves Geralt so much, his heart might just burst. Where it all changed, he isn’t quite sure. Maybe it was in the cave of Dol Blathanna, hearing the Witcher speak with such reverence to the elves. Maybe it was out on the road where he broke half of his bread loaf to give to a struggling mother and her children, displaced from their home by warring factions to the south. Maybe it just came gradually, like seasons blurring into each other.

Days and nights spent on the road would surely kill them both. Monsters or wayward human bandits could take his Witcher while Jaskier’s heart might just give out from worry. Winters at Kaer Morhen were when he could let his shoulders drop and his breathing steady. A keep of Witchers kept monsters out of the mountain and the forests that wrap around it like a shroud. In those short days and long nights, he keeps his Witcher to his bed and cards his fingers through his hair, murmuring soft praise underneath his breath.

But he’s not a fool – no matter how many times Geralt tells him that he is. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like.

He’s in Oxenfurt when it happens. When word reaches him about the extent of Geralt’s injuries, he just about manages to slump into a waiting chair, rather than collapse on to the floor. The student who brought him the news, a shy teaching aide he’s worked with for the spring, quietly slips out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind her. Jaskier’s hand trembles as he reaches out for a nearby goblet, knocking back the rest of the wine left inside. It does nothing to dull the sour feeling of panic wringing his throat.

He can’t get the Brokilon Forest quick enough.

Listen, he knows. He knows that Geralt is a Witcher. He’s going to get injured, or even killed. Jaskier has been there to stitch him back together for most of his scars. If Jaskier had any say in it at all, he would want death to come to Geralt when it’s quiet and he’s lived his life as much as he can; when Geralt would be asleep, curled around him, with years of life behind him. And Jaskier would follow, because there’s no life without Geralt.

The dryads that meet him at the outskirts of the forest are kind to him. Either they scent the slight scent of elven blood on him or they understand the panic in his eyes as he scans the forest floor for his Witcher. Eithnė leads him to a pool. Jaskier struggles not to catch his foot and stumble over every tree root breaching the ground, stretching out and entangling with others. Eithnė moves through the forest easily, as if the vines and branches part for her.

By the time they reach the ponds in the inner-most part of the forest, Jaskier’s heart struggles to jump out of his throat. His breath catches at the sight of the Witcher, swaddled between thick, moss-cushioned roots, caught in a deep sleep, but with mumbled nonsense slipping out of numbed lips. Jaskier staggers over to his side.

Eithnė stays away, regarding the two of them with an unreadable expression. “He came to us screaming,” she says levelly. “I’ve never known a Witcher to be in so much pain.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. He flattens a hand along Geralt’s cheek, gently brushing his thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone. His murmurings are slurred, nothing at all making sense. Even the words that Jaskier manages to catch mean nothing to him. Memories, maybe. Geralt mutters about towering walls and how they fall, at fire catching in the great hall and how there’s too many of them to hold back. He twitches underneath Jaskier’s touch. “Hush, my darling,” he whispers, “I’m here. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

It does nothing to quell the small frown knitting his eyebrows together. Geralt grunts and huffs out a breath. His eyes dart underneath his lids.

“The waters of our forest aren’t kind to a Witcher’s mind,” Eithnė says, her words managing to break through the rush of blood through Jaskier’s ears. “But they will heal what they can. Once he’s awake, you may go.”

He’s always been careful with how dryads phrase things. It’s a little known fact to be careful with how you speak to a creature of elven blood, and how it speaks to you. Physically, Geralt is healed. Deep injuries that shattered his knee and elbow welded back together again, as did the muscles and skin surrounding them. Apart from the scars that refuse to fade, one wouldn’t notice a thing. On that front, he can thank Eithnė that yes, the waters of her forest healed what they could.

But he’s not cured. The pain stayed. In the contracts taken after, travelling from town to town; in each battle faced because he just wants to protect Ciri from everything out to take her away from him; in the last few years where Geralt came into possession of a villa tucked away in the Toussaint valleys, the pain stayed and festered and crippled him.

When they settle in Toussaint, an estate gifted to Geralt for all he’s done for the kingdom and its people, Jaskier can at least think of somewhere safe he could corral the Witcher should the cramps come back.

On their travels, when they could wander past Nenneke’s temple, she gifted him glass vials and clay pots of all sorts of things; oils and salves to seep through the Witcher’s skin and try and work out the worst of the pain, should it flare up. With all the years that have drifted past, they’ve both learned what can set the pain off. Sometimes it’s random. Sometimes they’ll be strolling around the vineyards or through the streets of a neighbouring town, and it will flare up; a niggling pain at the back of his mind, poking and prodding at him to get his attention. The only thing Jaskier can do is get them both back to the villa as quickly as he can before bones groan and muscles seize.

Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of metal clattering to the ground. He pauses, his quill’s tip hovering over the page. Blots of ink fall, staining the paper, but he doesn’t care at all. The house is quiet, just for a moment, before Jaskier hears it. A grunt and a rumbling curse underneath the Witcher’s breath.

His quill and notebook are pushed to the side, entirely forgotten about, as soon as he stands from his desk. The villa itself is sprawling, with more land than they know what to do with. Grapevines occupy most of it, tended to by the staff living down in the main courtyard. The presence of staff, people who bow their heads slightly whenever he passes, and the paved cobblestones that wind through the estate, it all reminds him of home. But this place is nothing like Lettenhove. This place has love and warmth seeping out of the walls.

Jaskier’s office is upstairs, alongside his and Geralt’s bedroom, a guest’s room, and the Witcher’s own study. Jaskier doesn’t have to think about where the Witcher could be – he just follows the sound of grunting curses, all bitten off in an attempt to stay quiet.

He finds Geralt in his study, leaning against a dresser with his good arm braced on it. Two short swords sit sprawled on the ground, long forgotten about. Jaskier doesn’t bother with knocking on the wooden portal of the door. From how pinched the Witcher’s face is, how he’s curled in one himself and his weight is pressed down on one side, he knows exactly what’s wrong.

Winter can crawl in, even this far south. In a place scorched by the sun, where wine flows out of vineyards and the frosty, howling winds of Kaer Morhen are long forgotten about, the weather can still change. Nipping winds can tumble down from the mountains, chilling the valleys and those in them. And with the weather steadily changing in the past couple of weeks, Jaskier spent his days waiting for this to happen.

He clicks his tongue. “Come here,” he says, walking to the Witcher with one hand outstretched to set on his back.

Geralt can’t help the small flinch that darts through him, trying to get away from Jaskier’s touch. Some self-preservation that had been embedded into the Witcher’s bones; something Jaskier still can’t unravel even after decades spent together. He doesn’t think any badly of Geralt for it. He can only imagine the pain that scorches through him.

Geralt’s arm is bent at the elbow, curled in and nestled against his chest. It’s going to take a while to get it relaxed enough to pull away and straighten out. But they have all the time in the world now, nestled away in a place like Corvo Bianco. Jaskier glances down. Geralt’s knee fairs that bit better, though it’s still not great. Even though he can’t see anything, no kneecap swollen or muscles twitching, he can see how Geralt is loath to put any weight on the leg.

Jaskier gentles a hand on to the small of Geralt’s back. The muscle underneath his palm is taught and tight. “Geralt, my love,” he murmurs, “come with me. We’ll get you sorted.”

If he had more time, he might have moved them to their room. He could have peeled Geralt’s loose shirt off and discarded his boots and breeches and lain him down on their bed, and set about his work there. But Geralt’s study will have to do. A room with a desk and chair, bookcases lined with worn-leather tomes, and walls decorated with weapons long retired.

Geralt levels his breathing as much as he can. One golden eye meets his as he looks sideways. His jaw is tight, almost bulging, and he swallows and nods. Jaskier has spent years softening the edges of the Witcher, but being wrung through with pain will only bring back the wolf’s bite.

The desk is nearby, just a few short shuffling steps away. Jaskier nods to the chair. He doesn’t have to say anything, but the order is perched on the tip of his tongue. Sit.

Geralt sighs, knowing that trying to argue with the bard is pointless. Moving is slow and methodical. He drops with the chair with a pained huff, most of the groan swallowed back down as he tries to settle himself. Jaskier won’t touch him just yet, not until he’s relaxed somewhat. But with the ripple of pains tensing and straining through him, he isn’t quite sure how long the bard will wait until he sets his hands on him.

Jaskier leaves him for a moment, darting back to their room to gather a small leather-entombed box. Nenneke’s last gift to them before they dug roots into the estate. Everything they will ever need for Geralt’s pains is in here, alongside Nenneke’s own recipes for more should they run out. Everything is easily available; herbs that Jaskier has seen to growing in one of their gardens. Anything else, like extracts and oils, Yennefer had offered to fetch for them. Being only a portal’s call away, it’s handy. And though she’ll always have an air of being put out by the requests, asking her to halt whatever it is that she’s doing and go and fetch something for them, she’ll always do it.

When Jaskier steps back into the study, he’s met with the sight of Geralt trying, and failing, to pick apart the laces of his shirt. His bad arm is still curled against himself, and his other hand trembles with frustration and pain. The look spread across his face only shows his struggle.

Jaskier’s voice is nothing more than a gentle murmur. “Here,” he says, crossing the room in a matter of strides. He sets the box on the table and sets about deftly undoing the laces.

Geralt glances up. Jaskier stands close by him, with the bard standing in the gap of his spread legs. His fingers twitch. If his hand wasn’t doing such a wonderful job of bracing his own elbow to himself, he would reach out, curl an arm around Jaskier’s waist, and hold him close.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him, probably reading everything on the Witcher’s face. “Let’s get this off, hmm?” he rasps. Wrangling the shirt up and over himself takes longer than it should, and some small part of Geralt scoffs at how difficult something like disrobing himself has become. He snaps back at it, a low growl caught in his throat. With the shirt over his head, and his arm freed, Jaskier drops it on to the table. It’s forgotten about as soon as it’s out of sight.

Jaskier will deal with Geralt’s knee later. His elbow seems to be giving him the worst trouble. Nothing needs to be said. Sometimes they’ll talk – though it would be mostly Jaskier, rambling on like always about something or other. On other occasions, like now, silence will settle over them and stay.

Jaskier wets his hands with oil, eyeing where he’ll need to work first. Geralt’s arm is cradled against him, with his elbow and forearm already tight. He breathes for a moment, reaching up to dust his fingers over the round of Geralt’s shoulder. They’ve done this hundreds of times, out on the road and in their home. Geralt knows what to do. He still looks away, his interest caught by some small framed picture of Ciri perched on his desk.

When Jaskier smoothes his palms over Geralt’s muscle, he can feel the Witcher biting down on a groan of pain.

Nenneke gave them everything they could ever need. Pungent, sharp smelling lotions and oils and salves, all of them wrinkling Geralt’s nose. They sour the roof of Jaskier’s mouth, so he can only assume what an onslaught of scent it is to the Witcher. But they work, one way or another. He spends a few minutes slowly working the worst of the tension out of Geralt’s shoulder, just enough to try and pry his elbow away from his chest. Geralt focuses on his breathing, biting down on every whine of pain that threatens to slip out of his throat. It’s just the two of them here. If he wanted to show how cracked and vulnerable he’s become, he would. But the Witcher is a stubborn old bastard and will insist everything is absolutely fine.

Jaskier sets one hand to Geralt’s shoulder while his other catches his forearm, just underneath the point of his elbow. His muscles there are so tight already, trembling in Jaskier’s palm. He levels his breathing with Geralt’s, trying his best to ease the worst of the tension out of him. “I’m going to move it now,” he mumbles, “alright?”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. He nods.

It’s slow, and he doesn’t stretch Geralt’s arm further than it needs to go. But he needs it away from the Witcher’s chest to massage the pain out. Geralt’s breath hitches as Jaskier stretches his arm towards him. Geralt’s other hand, resting on the lacquered surface of his desk, curls into a white-knuckled fist.

Jaskier’s tongue sours. He hates his Witcher being in so much pain. He hates the fact that to ease it, he has to cause him pain. The sharp citrus scent of the oil doesn’t help, but he can already feel it warming underneath his palm. He’ll massage as much as he can out of Geralt’s arm before he brings him to bed.

When he’s pulled the arm away from Geralt’s chest, Jaskier’s hands move. One catches the back of Geralt’s upper arm while the other sets about spilling a sliver of more oil on to his forearm. He knows what to do. Nenneke took him aside and showed him everything she could about how muscles work. The bones themselves were shattered and beyond repair – until the dryads poured forest water on to him, at least. The bones knitted back together, as best as they knew how to, while muscles and skin tried to do the same. The dull ache always remained.

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, like he always does whenever he’s about to touch the Witcher’s elbow. It’s painful and the sounds that wring out of Geralt’s throat are awful, but it needs to be done.

Geralt grunts, turning away again. Get on with it.

The worst of the tension sits along his upper forearm, where the muscle twitches and bulges in some attempt to keep the worst of the pressure away from his elbow. When Jaskier sets his oil-slickened fingers to the muscle, it tenses underneath him. Geralt’s breath hitches, but he bites down on whatever groan threatened to slip out of his lips. Jaskier glances up at him, frowning at how tightly the Witcher’s brows are pinched together. He hates this. He hates this so much.

Another apology mumbles out of him. It’s entirely lost on Geralt – the Witcher digs himself so far into his own mind, trying to distract himself and dull the pain. But Jaskier has made a habit of it. He apologises for every twinge of pain he causes Geralt in an effort to help him feel better.

His digs his fingers in.

Geralt grunts, sucking in a harsh breath.

Jaskier’s fingers smooth out where he dug in, working the muscles as firmly as he can in some effort to try and get them to relax. It used to take what seemed like hours. He would wince and almost cry at every sound of hurt that choked out of Geralt in those first few days at Nenneke’s tower. The priestess, normally so brash and brave with her words and quips with them both, only encouraged him to keep going. He can’t do this by himself, bard. He can still remember the warm tone she used with him; one that he probably would never hear again, and if he s much as mentioned her softness to him, she would cosh him silly.

Jaskier smoothes his palms up and down Geralt’s forearm. He’ll have to look at the Witcher’s knee at some point. Glancing down at it, he notes how Geralt hasn’t even bent the knee. His leg is splayed out straight in front of him. Jaskier clicks his tongue, but says nothing.

His work is quicker now. He knows what muscles and tendons cause the worst of the pain, and just how stubborn they can be. Pouring a trickle of more oil on to Geralt’s arm, Jaskier digs the heels of his hands into the muscle, working out the last irritating bit of tension.

Geralt’s breathing has levelled out. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye. The worst of his grunting and hitching breath has stopped, thank the gods. Tremors still rattle through him, but he’ll deal with them when he can.

Jaskier hums. “That’s most of it,” he mumbles, mindful of the quiet that has fallen over both of them. He grabs a dry strip of cloth and wipes most of the excess oil off of his hands.

A low rumbling sound slips out of Geralt’s chest. Before Jaskier can glance down, one good arm coils around his waist, drawing him close. Geralt’s head falls forward, his forehead pressed against the middle of Jaskier’s chest.

“Silly man,” the bard admonishes, a small smile tilting the corner of his lip. He bends down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head. He lingers, scenting the faint scent of himself on the Witcher. It’s hard to know where one of them ends and the other begins these days. They wake up and go to sleep entangled in each other, a mess of limbs that neither of them knows how to get out of. Even in the days, when they would pass each other out in the estate’s trails on walks or in their own home, shoulders brush and fingers hook together.

His chest tightens. One last kiss is pressed to Geralt’s head before the bard leans away, reaching to the desk to root through the box. He caps the vials, putting them away and taking a mental note of how much he has left. Maybe enough for two more bouts of pain, but that’s it. He’ll have to take a trip down to the gardens where he can gather more herbs.

He pats Geralt’s good shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “off to bed with you. For an hour, at least.”

Geralt peers up at him. The look the bard levels him with makes his point stand firm. I’m looking after you and you have no say in this whatsoever.

Not that Geralt would argue with the bard anyway. He gathers what he can of his breath.

When he’s ready to move, he nods, sluggish and letting Jaskier help him up from the chair. His knee still twinges and a whorl of pain digs deeper. Jaskier threads Geralt’s good arm over his shoulder, bracing Geralt’s weight on him. “Let’s go,” he mumbles, guiding his Witcher back to their room. It’s not much of a journey. Though the estate sprawls out in all directions, seemingly reaching for the horizon, their house is small. Perched on the biggest hill, it catches the morning and evening sunlight. Glancing outside, Jaskier spots the sun. Some thick, rain-heavy clouds have rolled in from the neighbouring hills, but for the most part, midday sunlight still streams through, desperate to reach the valleys underneath.

Geralt hates wasting daylight. Jaskier could argue with him; he wasn’t going to be much help around the estate anyway with his pain flaring up. And even then, he’s sure that Barnabas and the other tenants would have glowered at him if he tried to set one foot into the vineyard. Either way, Geralt is going to rest.

The Witcher perches at the edge of their bed, huffing out a sharp breath. He reaches out, catching the bottom of Jaskier’s shirt with his good hand. He tugs the bard over. “Stay,” he mumbles, pulling Jaskier until he’s gathered against Geralt again.

Jaskier huffs a short laugh, curling his arms around Geralt’s neck. He’s mindful of the man’s shoulder, giving it as wide of a berth as he can while he’s ensnared. Geralt hugs him to him for a short, quiet moment, letting their breathing and heartbeat match. The quieter moments are Jaskier’s favourites. He can recall most of the nights spent in rowdy taverns, luring smiles out of his Witcher while he leads a chorus of crowing singing, or lain out underneath the stars, huffing short laughs at Geralt’s stories about the constellations, stories he remembered Vesemir telling him when he was a boy. But he’ll take every quiet and still moment he can get with Geralt; swaddled away from the world, gentled in his arms and where Geralt can actually relax.

The Witcher’s stretched out leg catches his eye. “Do you want me to see to your leg?” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s hair, kissing where he can.

“Elbow was worse,” Geralt grunts. Sleep starts to tug at him, luring him further down. He’s growing heavy in Jaskier’s arms. He helps the Witcher down on to the pillows. A collection of them are bundled up by the headboard of their bed; Jaskier grabs what he can and makes a support of sorts for Geralt’s arm. Geralt lets him work, keeping his gaze on the rafters above them.

And Jaskier knows what’s swirling around in that head of his.

Before it can fester, Jaskier cuts in. “You were injured,” he says lowly, mindful of the way sleep seems to be stalking in from the shadows, ready to pounce. “A terrible thing happened to you. But your life isn’t over.”

Whispers brush the shell of his ear.

I feel useless.

I can’t do anything anymore.

What’s the point?

You shouldn't have to coddle me.

I'm not made of glass.

Geralt is a stubborn old bastard. Jaskier has watched him clench his jaw and go out on hunts while they were still trekking through the wilds; taking contract after contract while his muscles and joints screech at him to stop. Even when adjustments were made to his armours, metal supports bound to his thigh and arm to stop the strain of swinging a sword around too much. He adjusted everything around the fact that he was hurt. His fighting style had to change. He couldn’t turn and weave through opponents like he used to. But he kept going.

Jaskier thins his lips. The argument already festered between them. It was a long time ago. He couldn’t stand aside and let Geralt’s own mind rip him apart. And while he’s better now, still frustrated but not as angry, he can stumble.

All Jaskier can do is lend support to get him back on his feet.

Geralt watches him, a small smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his eyelids slipping closed. It’s a struggle to try and open them again, but before he can, Jaskier leans over and pecks a kiss to his forehead.

“Get some rest,” he mumbles against Geralt’s skin, palming a gentle hand over Geralt’s chest. Within seconds, the Witcher is gone – lured under by sleep. It’s a strange feeling, being left alone in the room once sleep has claimed the other man. But Jaskier catches the blankets and draws them over Geralt, mindful of his arm. He covers what he can, staving off the worst of the chill that will ultimately try its best to slip through the cracks in the walls. He’ll get B.B to see to the last of the upkeeps before the winds grow too harsh. Too many nights spent in Kaer Morhen’s halls, huddled with a Witcher under the sheets for warmth, have left him with a not so favourable impression of winter. Though maybe, being as far south as they are, the weather might be kinder. He hopes so.

Glancing up at the slumbering Witcher swaddled in a sea of blankets and furs and sheets, Jaskier's chest tightens. He loves Geralt. He loves him so much it hurts. He pads back over to his side of the bed, parting with a gentle kiss to the Witcher's forehead. Geralt barely twitches. Trying to pull himself away is agony. He could call on the staff to pick up his last remaining duties. They would be glad to help the master Witcher and Jaskier in any way that they can - something they keep telling the pair of them. But his mouth sours at the thought. It's midday, leaning more into the afternoon. Geralt will sleep for an hour, or however long he wants to, and then they'll have dinner. The house will be warmed by the hearths and all remnants of pain wringing through the Witcher will hopefully have been wrung away.

Jaskier's chest lightens at the thought.

105 notes · View notes

pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

Thicker Than Water (Part 5)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, (here) Part 6, Part 7,�� Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Happy to announce that Thicker Than Water will be getting a companion piece from Geralt’s POV called The Blood of the Covenant, but probably not for a little while, because it’s still in the very early stages yet.

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The three days to Ard Carraigh were torture for Jaskier, and yet they were almost numb. He’d finished his story for Ciri and was talking less. Part of his brain delighted in it. Talking less would make Geralt like him, he was being good, not being too much. He knew, though, he was just too tired to talk.

It seemed that a weight had taken up residence in his chest. Many weights had, the feeling of being a burden, the constant ache of rejection, but this was a new feeling, cold and heavy and hot all at the same time. He was slower too. Jaskier tried, he tried so hard, but he needed a new cloak and better boots and even with them he got the sense that his body just...couldn’t go any faster.

Since only Geralt had a horse, he’d taken to walking alongside Roach, rather than riding her. Ciri was happy to skip ahead and come back and walk all around so that she probably walked twice the distance Jaskier did. Sometimes she took Jaskier by the hand as if trying to pull him along, and he’d smile at her and trot a few paces to the front of the group, but he just couldn’t manage more.

He wondered if it was because he wasn’t eating much. Jaskier knew he needed food, but he just wasn’t hungry, and wasting food on someone who wasn’t hungry for it wouldn’t get him into Geralt’s good graces.

They day before they reached Ard Carraigh the first snow had fallen. It was tiny and wet and gone by the time the sun was fully above the horizon, but it crunched underfoot and set a chill into Jaskier’s bones. He’d eaten a little more heavily than he had lately at breakfast that day, and he wondered if that was why his body felt so heavy. He was unable to stop himself from falling to the back of their little group, even with Ciri’s coaxing.

Once, when she tugged at his hand he chuckled and jokingly said, “Little lady, please spare an old man such exertion,” with a funny little bow, then exaggeratedly put his hand on his back, as if he were too geriatric to straighten fully. When Ciri giggled at that he mimed hobbling along with a cane, and moving his lips as though he were toothless and gumming at something. She laughed, bright and clear, and even Yennefer smiled. Geralt’s eyebrows lowered, though. It wasn’t an angry face, but it wasn’t a happy one and Jaskier couldn’t parse it out.

As the day wore on Jaskier felt the cold. His traveling cloak had seen too many winters and wouldn’t bear another one. It was patched and dirty and worn so very thin. The wind bit at Jaskier, feeding off of him, feeling like it was freezing the very air inside his lungs. No matter how he tucked his cloak around him, no matter that his doublet was buttoned all the way to his chin, Jaskier felt frozen.

He slowed down, feeling panic rising in his throat. He was too slow, he was going too slow. His mind hurtled backwards in time. Those times that he’d woken up to an empty camp, with Geralt packed up and leaving while he slept. Waking up in inn rooms that had held two people when he fell asleep, only to find himself alone, all of Geralt’s posessions gone.

He was going to get left behind again.

His legs were lead, though. There was very little that hurt more than Geralt leaving him behind, but maybe it would be for the best. He felt like he’d just fall forward onto the frosty ground and stay there. The little family could go on and he could just stay, dissolving into the leaf mold.

Ciri would worry though. She’d come back and take his hand and he knew if he stopped he couldn’t get up again and she’d worry. She might even cry. Making Ciri cry, those big green eyes filling up because of him, that would be worse, even than being left behind. Hurting Ciri would be worse than anything.

Jaskier found a few more steps.

It was like turning a crank handle that never did anything, or riding a horse all day, but every time he thought of Ciri, lip trembling, he could continue.

When it was almost evening he slowed further. He was maybe twenty paces behind Yennefer and Geralt. Yen, despite looking much better, was still not healed, and walked slower than her standard, brisk pace. Geralt, of course, walked at her side. Jaskier considered that twenty paces was good enough. The wind was behind them and it almost seemed to push him forward, digging icy fingers through his cloak.

Part of him fretted for his lute in the cold weather, even inside the case, but what did it matter. He would sell her in less than a day.

He wasn’t going to cry about it. Tears prickled at his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not one. Because there was Ciri, up ahead, so bright in her Cintran blue cloak. She’d found a stick and was stabbing at imaginary villains. Jaskier would do anything for her. He would make it to Ard Carraigh, he would make it up the mountain and to the keep. He would even sell his lute.

His body had other ideas.

Jaskier stumbled on a root, hidden under fallen leaves. He fell, one knee down, the opposite hand catching him against the ground. It was like Atlas, carrying the world, as if a weight was pressing him down. He couldn’t stand back up.

Ciri trotted over and took his other hand. His fingers were stiff and going blue, but he wrapped his hand around her mitten, which was slightly too big for her hand. He stood, Ciri tugging him slightly.

He smiled wanly at her and she grinned back.

It happened again, though, only a few more paces along. Bumps and ditches that would normally mean nothing overrode his weakening limbs and shaky balence. He stumbled and fell, catching himself again and feeling the cold ground ache his knee where it hit.

His head spun.

Ciri was tugging at his hand but his ears were ringing. Something big and warm wrapped around him. It was slightly rough fabric, and it smelled like horse. Geralt’s cloak was sturdy enough to block the wind and the hood over Jaskier’s head warmed his ears.

Jaskier’s eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He could feel, though. There were arms around him, warm, big arms, cradling him as easily as if he were a sack of flour. He recognized the feeling, too, from more than a decade ago, when blood had welled from his throat and Geralt had held him. Jaskier felt the lift as Geralt mounted Roach, settling his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“We’ll stay in an inn in Ard Carriagh,” Geralt was saying. Jaskier didn’t care. He was too tired to care even that he was being a burden, because his eyes slid shut and Geralt was holding him as though he were something precious.

As if Jaskier were something to be cared for.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Jaskier woke up in an inn room. Alone.

His heart raced, tears welling in his eyes. He’d been a burden. He couldn’t keep up and they’d left him in some inn and moved on. The blankets were suffocating and he kicked them away, getting tangled in them. He could hardly see for the tears in his eyes. They’d left him. He hadn’t been good enough, not fast enough or strong enough and they’d gone. Even Ciri.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was standing in the doorway.

“Uh, Geralt, hi, wasn’t expecting you here.” It was the truth.

“...I heard your heartbeat.”

Of course, his heart had been beating out of his chest, it was only now calming down.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier said, trying to play it off. “Woke up in this room and I didn’t recognize where I was.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. “You passed out.”

Jaskier hung his head and fought tears again, feeling hot shame seep down his neck. He’d failed. He’d really failed. All that work to not be a burden and it was all down the drain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands. I’ll do better, he thought. I can do better please don’t leave me behind. Please don’t take me off your hands.

He didn’t say it. It was battered and broken and worth very, very little, but he still had some pride.

“You’ve been eating little,” Geralt said. There was an undertone there, a soft undercurrent of something else. Jaskier didn’t know what it meant but he wanted to sink into it and wrap it around himself.

“I just haven’t been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I would faint, I just truly wasn’t hungry.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “We would have stopped here anyway, Ciri needs it.”

“Is she alright? You’re not disguised, is that safe?”

Geralt shook his head. “I am disguised, you can just see through it.” Geralt shook his head again, a little more dramatically, and just for a second it was as if the magic needed time to catch up, and his hair and eyes were dark, a full beard covering his face.

“Woah,” Jaskier said.

“It tired Yen out,” Geralt grunted. “So don’t annoy her.”

Right. With the almost easy companionship and tentative worry Jaskier had almost forgotten. He was just an annoyance.

Jaskier stood, fighting his spinning head. “Right,” he said, glancing out the window at the water light. “Morning, and I have things to do, so...” He picked up his lute in her case and...

And they were in Ard Carriagh. Where Jaskier needed to sell her.

“I might just tune up this lovely lady,” he said, sinking back onto the bed and cradling the case.

“Yen is consulting on an apothecary’s question,” Geralt said. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, like at any moment he would either sit down or leave.

“Good for her,” Jaskier said, not looking up from the lute case as he flicked open it’s latches, savoring the familiar click.

“Ciri is with her.”

“That’s good, she’s safe then.” Jaskier dragged his fingers over a scratch on the wood, it was thin and long, but had no effect on her sound.

“So you have to stay with me.”

“Why?” Jaskier let his index finger curl over the lovely inlay work on her front. In his opinion, it was unmatched, but what did he know of wood working?

“To be safe,” Geralt said, still in his odd posture.

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier, looking down at his lute, felt, rather than saw the skeptical eyebrow raise. “I’ll just eat something and be right as rain, promise.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Fine.”

Jaskier strummed one sweet chord and closed the case. No need to torture himself further. He stood and adjusted his clothes. He’d slept in them, but there was nothing nicer for him to wear. Then, he proceeded down to the taproom on the first floor of the inn. Geralt followed like a shadow. A very tall, broody shadow.

They ate in silence.

The taproom was well packed, but early enough that no one was rowdy. Between the spaces of their unhappy silence, Jaskier could hear the inkeeper complaining about the maid going off to get married and leaving him shorthanded.

It was a while since Jaskier had been to Ard Carriagh, but he had a good memory, and walked quickly through the winding streets to the luthier. His breakfast wasn’t sitting well, it was too much and too little all at once and he felt sick, but he said nothing. Any bard was an actor and Jaskier was the best. He was fine. The luthier’s shop was between a ladies clothing store and a jewelry store, tucked in and not as well kept as the shops on either side.

There was a bell above the door and it jangled as Jaskier stepped in, Geralt just behind.

“Lute strings,” Geralt said, looking around. “Can you afford that.”

“No,” Jaskier said simply. “I’m selling my lute.”

The words burned like acid. The pit of his stomach rolled like he’d swallowed one of Geralt’s disgusting potions, but he knew his face was totally impassive.

Geralt’s however, twisted. It looked like panic, anger, and pain all at once. It looked like Jaskier felt. He almost looked to check that Geralt hadn’t dropped something heavy on his foot to make that face.

“Ooh, you wish to sell,” said the shopkeeper, next to a display of gitara picks. “The case looks very good but let’s see...”

He reached forward. His hands were pale and sweaty, fingers grabbing and outstretched and Jaskier wanted to step back, yearned to clutch his lute case to his chest rather than relinquish his beautiful girl to this man.

He set the case on top of a glass display case instead. The clasps clicked under his unwilling fingers. The lid creaked.

“Oh, what a lute,” the shopkeeper said. He stroked the strings and Jaskier noticed his dirty fingernails. “rather mediocre condition, though...”

Jaskier wanted to audibly scoff. His lute was in mint condition, apart from the single scratch, and he knew it.

Geralt snapped the lid of the case shut, nearly catching the shop owner’s fingers. “He won’t sell it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it,” the owner protested. “Beautiful lute. Elven made?”

Jaskier nodded grudgingly. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t like this man.

The shopkeeper hummed. “I thought so, I would probably have the frontal piece,” he opened the case again and traced the wood with the inlay. “Removed. For use on a different lute.”

Chop her up?

Geralt shut the lid again, more carefully this time, but somehow the slower closing felt angrier, rather than calmer.

“He’s not selling. We’re leaving.”

He lifted Jaskier nearly off the ground, taking the case in one arm and gripping the bard by the back of his collar with the other hand. Jaskier spluttered as he was frog marched out of the shop.

“I was going to sell it!” He protested, back out in the watery sunlight. He clutched at his lute case, though, as Geralt pressed it back into his arms.

Geralt’s jaw was tense and his lips were thin.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You aren’t selling your lute.”

Jaskier felt guilty and relieved all at once. Here was Geralt saying he didn’t have to sell his lute. He was free of that burden, but they also needed to purchase a cart and supplies. He himself needed a cloak, boots, and gloves. Probably a hat and scarf as well. The pair ambled, unhappily silent yet again, to the center of town. Jaskier glanced at the notice board.

“Ghoul problem,” he noted.

“No.”

“You need a contract, they have a harpy issue too, looks like. Two contracts, Geralt.”

“You have to stay with me--”

“And you won’t take me into danger, blah blah,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He knew he was being a pest, but two contracts would likely solve their money problem. Hopefully. Not for sure.

“You should go back to the inn,” Geralt said. “I would do the contracts, they’re quick, then get you.”

An idea glimmered in Jaskier’s mind. He yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good, I’m pretty tired still.” It wasn’t a lie because Geralt could basically smell those. Going back to the inn did sound good, and Jaskier was definitely still tired.

Geralt huffed, and they walked back to the inn. It was too late for breakfast and early for lunch, so the little taproom was basically deserted. Geralt hummed again, pressed one hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder as if trying to stick him to the floor, then left.

Jaskier walked up to the inkeeper.

“Hi there,” he tried. He was too tired to really flirt, but the inkeeper put down his barcloth at least.

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re a little short handed at the moment...” he let the sentence linger.

The inkeeper scoffed. He was a big, red faced man with red hair to match, and when he scoffed his whole torso moved with it. “You want to do a little work for some coin, then,” he said. He didn’t sound opposed to the idea, though, so Jaskier beamed at him.

“Absolutely sir, I’m a very helpful--”

“I’ll not have you around food,” the man cut in. “That man brought you in half dead and you still look pale. Bad business getting customers sick.”

Oh. Jaskier deflated.

“Got a water barrel needs filling though, so’s long as you don’t cough in the water. Privies need cleaning too.”

They haggled a little over the pay, but Jaskier was a world class haggler. Finally the man slapped his hands on the bar top. “Fine,” he said. “And a meal for you thrown in if you get the privies really clean. One for the little lass too.”

“She eats a lot,” Jaskier warned. He felt it was only fair, considering he would be paid decently for his work. To his surprise the man grinned.

“My youngest does too, eats like a lion and she’s only nine. I’ll have as many helpings as your daughter wants, no problem.”

Jaskier thanked him profusely and the inkeeper waved his hand. “Just consider playing something tonight at supper, brings in customers. And get that privy really clean, mind.”

Jaskier, figuring he wouldn’t find a better deal that day, hightailed it out of there to look at the water barrell.

It was a big barrel. It would need between thirty and fourty buckets of water to fill it, and it was empty right down to the bottom. The well was at the center of town, like wells tended to be, and the inn wasn’t close, but there was a pump in the inn’s yard.. Jaskier sighed, rolled his aching shoulders, rocked slightly on his aching feet, and began to pump.

One bucket at a time, Jaskier filled the water barrell in just under two hours, feeling blisters form on his hands from all the pumping. Then he filled two more buckets and went to the privies.

Yuck.

He sloshed one bucket each into the men’s and women’s privies and went back to the inn to ask for some soap and a scrub brush. Then the real work began. Scrubbing the wooden walls and floors of the fetid outhouses was backbreaking, and of course he had to pause every time a patron wanted to use them, but the grime came off the wood eventually and Jaskier was willing to work hard sometimes. He wasn’t being a burden.

An unintended benefit of the work was that Jaskier’s mind was temporarily taken off of how miserable he felt. HIs chest still rattled a little, and he was tired beyond belief, but maybe all he’d needed was a full meal after all.

It was late afternoon when he fetched the inkeeper to inspect the privies, and the man nodded in approval at them. Then he gave Jaskier one last task.

“Fill that tin tub by the door with water and put it over the fire there,” he said, pointing to one of the two large fires the inn’s kitchen had. “Then haul it upstairs and bathe because you smell like a privy yourself.”

Jaskier grinned tiredly and took the offered coin before doing just that, wincing as his aching muscles protested. When the water was warm but not boiling he took the small tub upstairs to his room and washed what he could. It wasn’t a big enough tub to properly bathe in, but with soap and a rag he managed to at least get clean.

He tipped the tub out and replaced it in it’s spot then curled up in the inn bed in a change of clothes, dozing. He’d been there perhaps a quarter of an hour before Geralt tapped on the door.

Geralt looked at him. “You’re clean,” he said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Struck a deal with the innkeeper. Contracts done?” Geralt held up a bag of coin in answer.

It was odd, he thought. It was like normal, almost. Walking along at Geralt’s side. Several times he had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on this or that. It was so hard to remember that they weren’t friends, or at least travelling companions. Whatever they had been before the whole...dragon hunt thing. His brain argued that they were still traveling companions now, and it was true, but only in the literal sense. Geralt didn’t want him around.

It got easier to remember because Yennefer rejoined them, Ciri trotting at her heels.

“Julian,” Yennefer said, using his real, more innocuous name. “Cleaned up I see, and dressed in finery,” it was a jab, although not very sharp. His clothes were worn and badly patched. “Going to go cuckold some poor husband?” It was said lightly and Jaskier smiled.

“How do you know I haven’t already,” he said. Yennefer laughed, but Geralt growled.

“Are you and your conquests going to get us thrown out of town?”

Jaskier startled, skittering a few steps away in shock at the low, angry tone. “I was only kidding,” he protested, but he cursed his stupid mouth, always running ahead of his brain. Just like that, it seemed, the brief truce had broken, and he was back to being a shit shoveler once more.

Ciri slipped her mitten into Jaskier’s hand. “Yennefer says I need a hat,” she said.

“I need one too,” Jaskier confided. “Why don’t you and I go get hats and scarves while those two grab other supplies.”

“You aren’t going off on your own,” Geralt growled and Jaskier wanted to flinch, but then Ciri would notice.

“I’d be only a street away,” Jaskier said. “I’ll look after her.”

“Can’t even look after yourself,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier did flinch that time, just a little bit. It was true, though. He was kind of worthless, especially if there was a fight.

“We’ll all go,” Yennefer said, glaring pointedly at Geralt. Jaskier wondered what that was about.

They all went. Jaskier paid for his new cloak, hat, and gloves, and ignored Geralt asking where he got the money.

“Did you steal it?” Gerals said, quietly, so Ciri wouldn’t hear. Jaskier sniffed.

“I’m not a thief.”

Geralt dropped it, but his expression was stormy.

They bought a small cart, light enough for Roach to pull by herself, and some more supplies. Yennefer even bought Jaskier new boots.

“Just giving advice on apothecarial matters is worth a hefty fee,” she explained. “I have plenty of coin.” Pleasantly surprised, Jaskier thanked her. When he tried the boots on in the shop he made a show of how much he liked them, going over the top until he heard Ciri giggle. Mission accomplished, because he made Yen smile too.

Geralt didn’t smile.

Back at the inn Jaskier ate a big dinner, even as his stomach rolled, and delighted in seeing Ciri do the same. They were all well fed, but seeing Ciri’s delight in getting a second helping was worth any amount of blisters, or privies.

He played after dinner, although he barely felt up to doing so, and of course was careful to avoid all mentions of the white wolf. He winked at a few patrons and even the inkeeper just out of habit. Then he ended his set early.

“Any reviews?” he asked his table, cheekily. “Three words or less?”

“Tolerable,” Yen said, smiling widely. She looked younger when she did that.

“Great,” Ciri chimed in.

“Should’ve sold it,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier felt ice slip down his spine.

“What?”

“Should’ve sold the lute,” Geralt growled, lowly.

Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the strap his lute hung from, feeling hurt well up like spring water.

“No,” Yen snapped. “You two go outside and sort that out, I’m not dealing with it. Ciri and I will finish our dinner while you idiots figure this out between yourselves.”

Jaskier obeyed, feeling the heat of shame and hurt in his face and longing for some fresh air. Geralt lumbered out behind him.

The night was cold and felt icy against Jaskier’s burning face but he turned to Geralt fuming.

“What the hell,” he said. “You tell me not to sell the lute, then you make me sit at the inn all day like a child, then you tell me I should have sold it after all? Do you hate me that much or do you just like seeing me do things wrong?”

“Better you sell the lute than whore yourself,” Geralt growled.

That was so far from what Jaskier was expecting that he actually stepped back. “What?”

“Struck a deal with the innkeeper? All that coin? And you move like your knees are bruised,” Geralt said, jaw moving tightly.

“I didn’t have sex with the inkeeper!” Jaskier said, half amused. “I didn’t have sex with anyone. I thought we needed the money, so I cleaned the privies, that’s why my knees are stiff. My hands are sore too!”

Geralt took one hand and turned it over to see the red, irritated skin.

“You--?”

“No,” Jaskier interrupted. “I don’t care what you have to say.” Even though he did, he cared so much. “First of all, don’t pretend that there is anything wrong with prostitution, we both know you visit those ladies from time to time. Second, even if I was having sex with someone, for money or not, it isn’t any of your business, and third, nothing about your assumptions gives you any right to be so...so rude!”

Jaskier was ashamed to feel tears leaking from his eyes but right now he was angry, so angry and hurt, so he just kept going.

“I am sorry,” he said, softly. “That life couldn’t give you the blessing you wanted, but the least you could do is not make this worse for both of us.”

Jaskier turned on his heel and went back to his room, where he curled up and cried himself to sleep.

He was awoken later by a tap on the door. It was Yennefer and Ciri standing in the hallway.

“She wants to be with you,” Yennefer said.

Ciri sat on the bed and looked up at Jaskier with wide eyes. Jaskier sat next to eachother.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, using her special name for Jaskier. “Do you hate Geralt?”

Jaskier sighed and hugged her close. “Not at all,” he said, truthfully. “But it’s like I said, bards aren’t welcome forever, it’s just how it is, and I’ve overstayed my welcome a little bit.”

“No you haven’t,” Ciri said into his shoulder. “I think you’re welcome. I want you around.”

“Thank you, little highness.”

“Geralt doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it, he was really worried about you when you fainted.”

“He worries about everyone, that’s just the way he is,” Jaskier said. Geralt had a big heart, even if those feelings came out gruffly, he was a real hero. He just couldn’t stand Jaskier so long as Jaskier was concious.

“When my grandmother was worried,” Ciri began. “She could seem sort of mean, she’d yell or snap and it was scary unless you knew that she was just scared. Maybe Geralt was scared for you.”

Jaskier wished it was so. Could almost believe it was true. Ciri didn’t know about the dragon hunt though. She didn’t know he was a shit shoveler. Didn’t know about Geralt’s unfulfilled blessing.

Jaskier curled on his side, letting Ciri bury her head into his shoulder until she fell asleep. Eventually, face solemn but eyes dry, Jaskier slept too.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I promise, I PROMISE Geralt isn’t trying to be an asshole. Like I said, I intend to write this from his POV as well, he’s just worried for Jaskier and thought that Jaskier had prostituted himself, despite his illness, becuase he wanted to earn them money. Geralt felt so guilty that Jaskier would do that and, well, he’s not good with emotions and can’t control his tone well, so it came out like he hates Jaskier. He just loves him very much and is very worried about him. He also thinks Jaskier hates him because he tried to sell his lute, which Geralt also sees as a tie between him and Jaskier, so it hurt his feelings.

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @samukai @charlies-dragon @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @morte-mistrata @mewithanie @sharondn @stinastar @ionlylikemycat @annafortoday

#the witcher #angst #heavy angst #ADHD Jaskier #Geralt is bad with emotions #Ciri #Mountain Fix-it #sort of #not yet #Yennefer is a good mom #and deserves nice things #yennefer #cirilla fiona elen riannon #future geraskier #they've got things to work out first though

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jaskicr · 4 years

Text

fae!jaskier and geralt get married. they get to wear dresses, geralt is a blushing bride who gets picked up by jaskier, and they’re both very soft and smitten

summary:

“Geralt,” Jaskier exhales, and opens his eyes with a soft smile. “Gods, I can’t wait. You’re stuck with me forever, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Forever,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier curls a hand around Geralt’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. “Eternity, with you.”

“No take-backs,” Jaskier whispers, his breathing warm against Geralt’s face.

“No take-backs,” Geralt affirms, and Jaskier kisses him, sweet and tender. Geralt basks in the warmth of Jaskier’s body against his, sinking into the feeling of being loved and cherished, into the knowledge that Jaskier will be his, and he will be Jaskier’s, forever.

After five decades of travelling together, Geralt brings Jaskier to the coast and proposes. They get married in the fae realm, surrounded by their family, binding their souls together as they promise each other eternity.

—-

It’s time, Geralt decides. The medallion is in his pocket, has been there for weeks, a heavy weight that constantly reminds him of what he needs to do.

It’s time. They’ve been travelling together for five decades now, and it’s been two decades since Geralt had come to his senses, demanding why Jaskier didn’t age. Jaskier had laughed at him for finally noticing, confessing to being an immortal fae prince, and Geralt had finally, finally let himself kiss the love of his life, who was immortal and would be by his side for eternity, never leaving him.

These decades have been the best years of Geralt’s life, filled with light and joy and love, Jaskier by his side every step of the way. They’ve been through everything together - hateful humans, deadly monsters, even raising a child - they’ve been through so much together, and Geralt is secure in the knowledge that their partnership is forever. He’s happy to continue as they are, but he’s seen the way that Jaskier looks at couples with rings around their fingers, seen the way that Jaskier’s eyes glow with longing when he plays at a wedding, and Geralt wants to give him this one thing.

He’s been planning this for weeks, Yennefer popping in to help him with directions, Eskel and Vesemir’s advice from months ago burned into his mind. For the past few weeks, Geralt has been subtly nudging the course of their travels towards the coast, towards what many have called the most beautiful view on the Continent.

They’re not far now. Geralt catches the distant crash of waves against the shore, and next to him, Jaskier inhales deeply and smiles, soft and content, the salty scent of the ocean carrying on a cool breeze.

Jaskier is gorgeous like this, relaxed and smiling as he basks in the beauty of nature, and in that moment, Geralt can see the fae in him, in the way nature calls to him, in the way he wraps himself in nature’s embrace, painting his eyes a little too blue, his features slightly too sharp, and Geralt gazes at him, transfixed, scarcely able to believe that Jaskier is his.

Then Jaskier gasps, and Geralt knows that he must sense how close they are to the coast, the sea drawing him in. “Geralt, can we go there, please?” Jaskier begs, tugging at Geralt’s sleeve as he points in the direction of the ocean. “Please, it’ll be worth it, please!”

Geralt pretends to think about it, as if he hasn’t been planning this for weeks, relenting easily when Jaskier pouts at him. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

“How sweet of you,” Jaskier coos, pecking Geralt on the nose before he darts off, dragging Geralt with him with inhuman strength, and Geralt lets himself be towed along, smiling in the wake of Jaskier’s excitement.

When they emerge to an endless beach, white sand glittering under the sun and fading into the crystal blue of the waves, Jaskier gasps in delight and races towards the ocean, sand kicking up beneath his feet as he laughs, wild and bright and free. Geralt follows him with warmth in his heart, watching Jaskier soak up the ocean breeze and the sun rays.

Jaskier had always loved the coast.

Jaskier doesn’t bother rolling his trousers up, only kicking off his shoes hastily as he wades into the blue ocean, waves lapping at his ankles. He spins around with a wide grin, arms stretched open as the ocean breeze tousles his hair. “Geralt, this is -”

He breaks off, mouth dropping at the sight before him. “Geralt, oh my god,” he whispers, and his blue eyes glow.

Geralt is on one knee, arms extended, cradling a medallion in his hands, a hand-crafted medallion with a growling wolf wrapped around a buttercup, the metal gleaming in the sun.

Geralt had designed it himself, forged it himself, pouring his heart and soul into it, a token of his love and devotion, and now, on the coast, he offers his heart to Jaskier, cradled gently in his hands.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s heart is pounding faster than it ever has in his unnaturally long life. “My bard.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is barely audible, fluttering in the wind, lost in the crash of the waves.

“Half a century,” Geralt murmurs, taking a deep breath. He has - well, he had a speech prepared, drilled into his head by Ciri and Yennefer and his brothers, but at the sight of Jaskier, so utterly breathtaking as he stands in the middle of the wild beauty of the sea, blue eyes sparkling in the shining sun, the words flee his mind. “Love - I - Jaskier -”

“Yes,” Jaskier repeats, taking a step closer and stretching out his arms.

Geralt swallows, the moment stretching out in the air between them, fragile and hopeful, a beacon to the future. “Will you -”

“Yes, Geralt, always yes,” Jaskier breathes, dropping to his knees and taking Geralt’s face in his hands. “Forever, my love, I’ll give you forever and more, I promise you eternity.”

Slowly, Geralt loops the medallion around Jaskier’s neck with trembling hands, overcome with a swell of emotion, and Jaskier chokes out a sob, tears shining in his eyes as he peppers Geralt’s face with kisses. Geralt lets him, circling his arms around Jaskier and tugging him closer, closer, ever closer. And they stay there, wrapped in each other and surrounded by the waves and the sun and the sand, nature enfolding them in a loving embrace, and Geralt basks in Jaskier’s presence, his love and his light.

When Jaskier finally pulls back, his face is alight. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

Geralt flushes. “I should’ve done it sooner, but I -”

“I don’t need you to propose to know that you love me, darling witcher.” Jaskier presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Though I must say, you never actually said the words.”

“You knew what I was asking, anyway,” Geralt mumbles. It’s not his fault that Jaskier is so stunning that Geralt’s brain empties itself of coherent words.

Jaskier lets out a tinkling laugh. “It’s been half a century. Of course I knew what you were asking.”

link to ao3 in reblog

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #non human jaskier #fae jaskier #mine*

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inkformyblood · 3 years

Text

made for you (and only you)

Geraskier + Vesemir/?, Courting via Lovespoons

“Stop fidgeting.”

Vesemir punctuated his words — slightly on the softer side of exasperated to hold any true irritation — with a cuff to the side of the injured boy’s head. It wasn’t meant to harm, merely to chide, but Geralt could feel the restrained power in the gesture and obligingly dragged his bouncing leg away from the table. A morbid sense of curiosity overwhelmed him, and he peeked at his injured leg: his toes turned at an angle that still made his stomach twist — an instinctive reaction to something grotesque — and the skin hidden beneath a thick set of bandages stained green from salve.

“Now, the Krasue. How to kill it?”

Geralt frowned, eyes darting from side to side as he tried to recall Vesemir’s teachings, lips moving soundlessly as he did so. He could almost feel the heavy weight of one of Vesemir’s many books lying across his knees, the scent of the decaying ink so sharp and hazy. “Sever the head from its organs or a blade to the brain. The saliva and flesh is contagious so burn them well, so nothing but ash remains.”

He managed to see the tail end of Vesemir’s grin, gone the moment it appeared, as he turned to stare at the man. He wore his armour like a second skin, uncaring of the bulk the padded leather added to his broad form, settling back into the seat with an air of relaxation.

“How is it made?”

Geralt bit back the sigh, feeling the restlessness twist in his legs and stomach. The hall they were in was large, the walls a featureless grey stone bereft of windows to try and salvage the heat from the fire when winter loomed, but the door was propped open, letting in the sunshine. A cold breeze pressed against his ankles, and with that breath of freedom came the mock battle cries from outside — Eskel’s voice clear above all the rest to Geralt’s ears. The hall would soon be full of the others, hungry for tales and food in equal measure, but the high ceiling only seemed to empathise the newly empty seats they all tried to ignore.

“A curse. Cast over five nights or through consumption of contaminated food and drink. Some reports claimed that it originated from a cursed wealthy lady who always wore a black ribbon around her neck as protection from the sun, then spread from there.”

Vesemir nodded, needing to make no marks on any parchment to remember his student’s progress, instead pulling a twisted scrap of wood from his pocket. The scent of pine came with it, different to the crackling logs in the fire, and Geralt’s eyes were drawn to the motion as Vesemir turned it round and round in his calloused hands.

“What’s that?”

There was a certain softening at the crinkled corners of Vesemir’s eyes as he smoothed a thumb over the edges of the wood.

“It’s tradition to give tokens to someone you are trying to court, someone you hold affections for.” His chuckle at Geralt’s wrinkled nose, at his childish confusion, seemed to rumble from deep within his chest. “It’s an old tradition, but one I keep.”

From a pouch at his belt — the inside soft with soft grey rabbit fur, moulded to the shape of the carving — Vesemir drew out a carved wooden spoon. The handle was an intricate series of twisted vines coiled round and round the other until he could barely remember where he had started. Vesemir touched it so carefully as if he feared it would shatter beneath his touch and returned it to the pouch with the air of a supplicant at a temple.

“I was younger then. But the carving helps pass the time.” It was as if a curtain had fallen behind his eyes, closing the man off from everything around him. Vesemir shifted his shoulders, the chair creaking beneath him with the motion, thumb digging into the edge of the half-carved wood in his hand. “Now, what are the other names for a Krause?”

Geralt sighed, a heavy thing that seemed to well up from the soles of his feet, and answered, his mind still turning around the twists and turns of the vines.

He couldn’t have known back then how that single object would be the centre of his current obsession or frustration.

It had stuck with him: the intricate carvings and the symbols he watched Vesemir carve into the new scrap of wood, hands barely hesitating as the storms raged outside and they huddled together, desperate to drown out the howling wind they swore were calling their names.

So Geralt poured over old books, half-forgotten lore and what information he could pry from Vesemir when nostalgia loosened the old Witcher’s tongue.. He learned the symbols and their meanings. In his darkest nights, Geralt would curl his hands into fists so tightly that he could smell the iron tang of his blood on the air, the small pinpricks of pain nothing compared to the weight pressing him down, the longing for something he would never own, and think about his own carving that would never be given to anyone.

“Geralt!”

The Witcher was ripped from the hazy fog of his memories by Jaskier’s shout, the bard barely even pausing before crashing into him, arms wrapping around Geralt’s waist and squeezing as tight as he could, seemingly trying to imprint his touch onto Geralt’s skin.

It hurt, but not in a way that Geralt could ever explain. His hands ached to reach out to the bard as the other man stepped away, missing their closeness fiercely but unable to act on the twisting knot in his stomach. He sighed instead, making a point to peer over Jaskier’s head — searching for the nonexistent danger, normally in the form of a furious parent or jealous spouse — just to hear the other man laugh and lean into Geralt further.

“Can’t I have just missed you, dear heart?” Jaskier asked instead, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled, and something in Geralt’s chest twisted at the sight.

“Hmmm.”

“Look!” Jaskier was undeterred by his silence, slipping an arm through Geralt’s as he rummaged in his pack. While his head was ducked, his words only slightly muffled as he, Geralt, slipped a hand into his own pack, fingers brushing against the piece of pine he had bought only moments ago.

Vesemir had carved another spoon over the winter as he did every year, settled into his chair by the fire and ignoring the younger Witcher’s bickering — their tempers running higher as the snow on the ground lessened — repeating the same patterns of wheels and anchors, symbols of stability and devotion, into the scented wood. Geralt watched him, as he always did, and Lambert drew closer despite himself, eyes narrowing into a glare when Geralt glanced his way, shoulders set and jaw clenched in preparation to argue.

He had thought to ask Vesemir why so many times over the years, but that urge lessened with time, with the knowledge of Jaskier’s smile sitting so warm in Geralt’s heart. Now he only wondered who? Who did Vesemir keep exchanging tokens with after all this time, all decorated with the same symbols of devotion and love? But he kept quiet, unwilling to even inadvertently cause Vesemir more pain.

“Here!” Delight radiated from Jaskier as he held up a small pouch, pressing it into Geralt’s free hand. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and tied tightly closed. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s eyes upon him as he picked at the knot, hear his heartbeat quicken in anticipation even over the din of the marketplace and the cries of the hawkers as they moved with the swell of the crowd, baskets balanced on their hips.

“Oh,” Geralt breathed, his eyes wide as he dipped his fingers among the heavy seeds — he hadn’t seen them for years, making substitutes in his elixirs that made him vomit afterwards, sent the world around him into a fit of movement that made his head explode with pain.

“Are they the right kind? I remember you said you had run out, so I contacted an old friend of mine — a lovely woman, her wife makes the most beautiful tapestries — and she managed to locate some!”

Geralt found himself at a loss for words, unable to speak as his heart swelled in his chest, and he simply reached out to squeeze Jaskier’s hand in silent thanks.

“Don’t mention it, dear heart. I’m glad you like them,” Jaskier said, twining his fingers with Geralt’s for a moment, the calluses on his fingers similar to Geralt’s own.

Geralt didn’t need to ask Vesemir why he kept carving tokens. He knew why.

Jaskier grinned, soft and sweet like the sun emerging during a gentle rain, and Geralt knew the old Witcher’s devotion as the bard looped his arm back through Geralt’s, steering him through the marketplace as he talked. Geralt nodded in the appropriate places, mind turning over the vines and anchors and wheels, love and devotion and dedication, he would carve into his token for Jaskier.

It would be clumsy and rough. Geralt’s hands already ached with the predicted cuts and indentations he would inflict upon himself, but, as he watched the sun turn Jaskier’s hair to burnished copper and highlight the constellation of freckles on his nose as he spoke, he knew it would be worth it just to see Jaskier smile.

#geraskier #vesemir #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jaskier x geralt #my writing #fanfic

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Note

I don't know if you're taking requests right now but could I maybe get a drabble about Jaskier and Geralt his pretend boyfriend going to Cidaris and meeting Valdo Marx?

Geralt is very much regretting saying yes to this whole ordeal, as he squeezes himself into a slightly-too-tight doublet the colour of the night sky. Sure, he’s grateful he doesn’t have to wear anything with colour in it, and these clothes fit much better than the last time Jaskier had forced him to attend a party, but still - he prefers his armour, or something he can at least properly move in. He’s not looking forward to having to spend the night in a room full of nobles, either, or to having to pretend he’s Jaskier’s lover.

He sighs. “Why the hell did I agree to this, again?” he mutters to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

He hears the door open, and looks up, any and all regrets flying out the window as soon as he sees Jaskier.

“The- the...”

Jaskier looks down at himself, before looking up at Geralt again. “Do you like the dress?” He gives the Witcher a little twirl, the soft, light fabric of the skirts billowing around him. Geralt can see that Jaskier’s back is almost entirely exposed, the cleavage at the front showing off his chest hair. There are tiny, clear gems embroidered in the pale silver fabric of the dress.

If Geralt’s clothes make him look like the night sky, then Jaskier’s make him look like the moon.

He’s gorgeous. Geralt shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “You and I both know I look better than ‘fine’, my dear Witcher. What I need to know is: is this going to make Valdo Marx jealous?”

Geralt swallows thickly, and offers Jaskier his arm. The bard takes it, grinning up at the Witcher. “Definitely,” he mutters, and Jaskier’s grin only widens.

The bard gestures to the door. “Let’s go, then. Let’s ruin my ex-boyfriend’s night.”

---

The second they step through the large doors, Geralt already knows he’s going to have a shit night. There’s not a lot of people in the room - and those who are there are all nobility - so their entrance draws everyone’s attention. Jaskier grins at the sudden audience, his presence next to Geralt the only thing keeping the Witcher sane, and bows at the nobles.

Luckily, after a few seconds, people seem to lose interest, and most look away. Jaskier tugs him towards the tables against the wall, filled with food and drinks. “Come on, let’s get some alcohol. I don’t feel like suffering tonight sober,” Jaskier whispers, soft enough that only Geralt’s heightened senses pick it up.

He lets himself be handed a glass of wine, and sips as he stands next to Jaskier, both of them looking around the room. “So which one is Valdo Marx?” he asks the bard.

“None of them,” Jaskier whispers back, and Geralt can’t help but notice how his lips are stained red slightly from the wine. “He always likes arriving way too late cause someone he knows once said that it makes him look better.”

“Whoever told him that lied.”

Jaskier chuckles softly, taking another sip of his wine. “That, I did,” he whispers into his cup, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Geralt makes a mental note to make sure Jaskier never gets angry with him, because his bard sure seems to know how to ruin someone’s life.

Geralt’s attention is drawn away from the bard when a middle-aged man and a slightly younger-looking woman approach them.

“Ah, the Duchess of Iylico, and of course her handsome husband, how lovely seeing you two!” Jaskier exclaims, raising his cup in greeting.

The Duchess and her husband stop in front of them, the woman giving them an appraising look, the man staring blanky ahead. “Master Jaskier, so lovely seeing you here. That is quite a dress, you look absolutely lovely,” the Duchess says.

Jaskier smiles at her. “Why thank you! But of course, one could never be as lovely as the Duchess of Iylico, herself. You look splendid as always, Martha.”

The woman blushes a little at the praise. “Oh, stop it, you. Say, master Jaskier, will you be performing tonight?”

“I will not, unfortunately.” He leans towards her, a bit conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Of course, I would never arrive so late if I were.”

She nods. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago. Quite a travesty, if you ask me.”

“A disgrace, indeed,” Jaskier agrees, sipping wine from his cup. The Duchess excuses herself, and moves on.

Eventually, a door in the back of the room opens, and a tall, slim man walks in, his curly, blond hair reaching down to his shoulders, his outfit too bright and entirely too pompous, and Geralt quietly blesses Melitele that Jaskier doesn’t dress like that - compared to Valdo Marx’s outfit, Jaskier’s almost looks humble.

“That’s him, that’s Valdo Marx,” Jaskier hisses to Geralt, entirely unnecessary, and the Witcher nods.

The troubadour of Cidaris starts his performance, and though his music isn’t all that bad, it doesn’t hold Geralt’s attention for long - the language too flowery and complicated, the songs too long-winded, his voice only slightly above average. Clearly, he isn’t the only one who gets bored of Valdo Marx, and after half an hour or so, the conversations have picked up again.

Jaskier goes to fetch another cup of wine, and as he goes, Geralt can’t help but be distracted by the way the skirts of the dress billow around him, the way the open back shows his toned muscles and soft skin. The Witcher’s so distracted, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Valdo Marx has stopped playing until the man is right in front of him, drawing his attention away from his own bard.

Valdo makes an exaggerated bow that has Geralt fighting not to roll his eyes. “My, oh, my,” the troubadour says, “am I mistaken or are you Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher?”

Geralt nods curtly. “Hmm.” He notes in the back of his mind that Valdo Marx smells of cheap wine and dust, barely masked with way too much lavender perfume.

“Quite an honour to meet you, Witcher.” He doesn’t say those two syllables the same way Jaskier always says it. It almost sounds hungry, and it makes Geralt’s stomach churn lightly.

“Hmm.”

“So, what brings you here, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I do.” Suddenly Jaskier is back by his side, a new cup of wine in one hand, the other splayed across Geralt’s lower back possessively, and the Witcher feels himself relax slightly. “Lovely seeing you again, Valdo. That performance was quite... something.”

“Why thank you, Julian. And thank you for honouring us with your presence, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” He looks Jaskier up and down. “I suppose you got off the road only just now?”

Jaskier smiles broadly, but it looks so fake to Geralt it makes him slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I could ask you the same thing, since you were so horribly late. Did no one ever tell you it’s not polite to be late? You’ve made a bad impression on the Duchess of Iylico.”

Valdo’s cheeks start to redden slightly, and Geralt can hear his heartbeat picking up. “Well, that’s unfortunate. Though I’m glad I at least have a reputation to tarnish. Unlike some bards.”

Jaskier laughs, throwing his head back, though there’s no real mirth in his voice. “Oh, Valdo. I do have a reputation, but it’s mostly outside of the walls of Cidaris. I’m quite well-known both in the smaller towns all across the Continent and in Cintra’s court. I was even invited to play at princess Pavetta’s engagement party, a few years ago, and have been invited back every year since. Of course, you wouldn’t know that if you never leave Cidaris. Maybe it’s time to do so, dear, I don’t think I’ve heard your name in years.” He turns to Geralt. “Have you, my love?”

The Witcher startles slightly, but quickly shakes his head, fighting to hide his smirk at the anger he can smell in the wine-dust-lavender-scent of the troubadour of Cidaris. “Unfortunately, I’d never heard of you until Jaskier told me about you, good sir,” he says to Valdo Marx, who turns even redder.

“Really?” The troubadour says. “I presume you two don’t talk a lot, then.”

“Oh, we do,” Jaskier says, a sly twinkle in his blue eyes. “At least, not unless our mouths are otherwise occupied.” He winks at Valdo, who suddenly turns pale, the redness draining from his cheeks as he looks between Jaskier and Geralt.

“Ah, so you two are...”

“Lovers, yes,” Jaskier fills in for him. He smoothes his hands down his dress, making the gems shimmer in the candlelight. Geralt watches Valdo’s eyes follow the movement, sees him swallow thickly, the anger in his scent making way for slight arousal. “Well,” Jaskier continues. “We must go, don’t we, Geralt, darling?”

Geralt nods, laying a hand on Jaskier’s waist, the fabric of the silver dress soft beneath his fingers. He bends towards his bard’s ear. “As gorgeous as you look in that dress, I can’t wait to tear it off you,” he half-whispers in Jaskier’s ear, way too loud, trying not to grin as the arousal and anger spike in Valdo’s scent again.

Jaskier laughs, slapping his chest lightly. “Geralt! This dress is expensive.” He turns back to Valdo. “Well, it was absolutely lovely to see you, dear. Until the next time?”

He turns around before Valdo can answer, the soft skirts of the dress swishing around him, and Geralt follows him through the large front doors.

---

Jaskier breaks out in giddy giggles as soon as Geralt closes the door to their room at the inn behind them. “Did you see his face? He was so angry.”

He can’t help but grin at Jaskier’s mirth. “He was. I could smell it on him. He’s still attracted to you, too.”

Jaskier gives him a delighted smile. “I knew the dress would work. And I knew our little charade would work, too!” He walks towards Geralt, laying his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders, Geralt’s own hands settling on Jaskier’s hips without a second thought. “You did amazingly, Witcher. Thank you for indulging in my little revenge plan.”

“My pleasure,” Geralt replies. “I can see why you don’t like him.”

Jaskier smiles at him for a little longer, before stepping a bit closer, his smile turning sly. “Did you mean it when you said you couldn’t wait to tear this dress off me?”

Suddenly, he can smell arousal, thick in the air around them, though he’s not sure if it’s from him or Jaskier. He bends forward, nosing at the sensitive spot under Jaskier’s ear, and he figures it’s from both of them, as the scent spikes. “I did. Though you look gorgeous in it as well.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat is rabbit-fast against his lips, and he can’t help but grin. “Well-” the bard swallows thickly. “I would prefer you keep it intact, but I’m sure I would be able to get certain... stains out of it.”

Geralt smiles, moving back a bit, looking into impossibly blue eyes, pupils blown wide, arousal spiking in the air. Jaskier’s lips are still a bit wine-stained, and Geralt can’t stop himself from kissing them, licking away the taste, his bard sighing into his mouth softly, contentedly, slender arms looping around Geralt’s neck.

Eventually, he breaks the kiss off, leaning their foreheads together, hands gently stroking over the soft fabric of the dress. “Sounds like a plan to me,�� he whispers.

Jaskier grins back at him.

#dhwty-writes #squish answers #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #drabble #been waiting for an excuse to write jaskier in a dress for a while now #yes it's the same dress as yen wears in ep 5 #i just think he'd look really good in a dress #sue me #valdo marx

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