#and geralt spent an HOUR telling jaskier all of the graphic ways he's seen people get their earrings ripped out

[contemplativepancakes]

the thorny heart of a wolf

3.5k of it being increasingly obvious that Jaskier has written a romance novel about Geralt while Geralt is increasingly oblivious. read this and my other witcher fics on ao3 here!

Geralt stirs the smoldering logs, brooding as the poker makes ash and ember drift up. His nose twitches at the smokiness of it, but it reminds him of comforting nights spent near the fire with good food and better company. Geralt rarely makes a fire when he’s by himself, but Jaskier insists on complaining about his cold feet all night if Geralt doesn’t keep their campsite warm enough. 

Eskel clears his throat obnoxiously, making Geralt look up at him. It’s a rare night in the keep where Vesemir couldn’t think of any additional chores or maintenance that needed done, so they had scurried away before something came to him. 

Geralt peers at the book in Eskel’s hand, not recognizing it from the library. It’s a garish purple that’s frankly an affront to Geralt’s eyes. “What are you reading?” 

Eskel snaps it shut. “Nothing.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look at it, then.”

“Geralt, really, I’m just trying to protect you from yourself.”

Geralt holds his hand out, and Eskel reluctantly hands it over. Lambert snickers from his corner, and Geralt levels him with a glare. Even Aiden looks amused, and Geralt’s mood sours at the laugh at his apparent expense. He looks at the cover in surprise. Luminescent yellow eyes peer back at him from a shirtless man with an impressive abdomen. Geralt thumbs through the book, and the word witcher catches his eye. “This is about...us?”

He looks back down at it, eyebrows lifting in surprise as graphic descriptions leap off the page at him. “Is this a romance?” he asks incredulously. 

“‘And he prodded the smaller man’s backdoor with his throbbing meat stick, plunging in with a wet squelch,’” Lambert quotes. “Yeah, I think it’s a romance.”

Geralt makes a face and throws the book at Lambert. Aiden catches it right before it hits Lambert square in the nose, and Geralt shakes his head. “Should have let it hit the ass. It’s the least he deserves.”

“Hey, I haven’t even told you the best part yet,” Lambert says. “We’re pretty sure it’s about you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Geralt scoffs, glancing at Eskel with narrowed eyes. 

Eskel’s look does not exactly inspire confidence. “You and the main character do have a suspicious amount of shared scars.”

“Coincidence.”

Eskel bites his lip, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’ll let Geralt live in blissful ignorance for now. 

Lambert pages through the book, his head laying back on Aiden’s lap. “Did you get a new scar on your ass since last winter?”

The meat of Geralt’s ass where a griffin tore into him twinges. “Fuck off.”

-

Geralt is two hours out on his journey away from Kaer Mohren when he feels a hard edge digging into him from his pack. He adjusts it, trying to stop whatever it is from poking him, but it’s bulky and it won’t settle right. Geralt digs a hand into his pack, fishing around until he finds it. It’s a—book? Geralt pulls it out and squints at the cover, recognizing it as what Eskel had been reading. No doubt one of his brothers had thought this would be a funny joke. Geralt considers tossing it alongside the road, but as he looks thoughtfully at the cover with two shirtless men clutching at each other, his curiosity wins out. The Thorny Heart of a Wolf, the cover says.

He tucks it back into his satchel.

Later, after the sun has set, and he’s gone as far as he can for the day—certainly not travelling in the vague direction of Oxenfurt to see whose path his own might end up crossing—Geralt pulls out the book. He flips through pages at the beginning, reading that the witcher’s love interest is a viscount. Geralt huffs a laugh under his breath that someone resembling anything close to nobility would willingly follow around a witcher. 

Geralt thumbs through it until he reaches the middle, a faint blush rising to his cheeks as his eyes flicker across the page. 

The witcher moaned at the sight of his lover stroking himself as he leaned against the tree. Eric’s eyes were black, and the color spread to the veins standing out in stark contrast to his pale face. Julian palmed himself through his trousers as Eric moved closer, his breath hot on Julian’s bared neck, his head tossed back in pleasure. 

Eric paused with his hands just shy of Julian’s chest. Julian took the step forward and wrapped his arms around Eric gently. Julian knew just how overstimulated Eric got when his blood was black with toxicity. Eric buried his face in Julian’s neck, scenting him with a deep sniff. Julian wrapped his fingers into Eric’s long gray hair, tugging at the strands a bit and making Eric moan. 

Eric nipped his way up Julian’s neck, sucking a bruise onto the soft flesh and staking his claim. Julian felt his member twitch at the thought that people would notice it tomorrow, that they would look between him and his handsome witcher and connect the dots. 

Geralt presses the heel of his hand over his crotch and resolutely does not grind down. He casts a furtive glance around him, and seeing nothing creeping from the tree line to rip out his intestines while he’s distracted, he turns his attention back to the book. 

Julian caught Eric’s lips in a messy kiss, bringing his fingers up to trace the black veins spider webbing out from his eyes. Eric ducked his head, but Julian brought his hand under Eric’s chin, tilting it back up and gentling their kiss. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and the sentiment echoed into the night and made Eric’s heart twist. 

Geralt sets the book down on his lap and stares up at the leaves swaying in the breeze. He sticks his thumb in the book, marking his spot as he flips it over and looks for the author. They can’t have any firsthand experience with witchers if this is the sort of thing they’re writing. He runs his fingers over the embossed letters on the spine. Dandelion Pankratz, it proclaims in shiny gold. Geralt hums to himself in curiosity as he flips back to his page and skips forward a bit, eager to get to the good parts and stop having an existential crisis. 

Julian reached behind himself, his fingers slick with a neutral smelling oil. Eric sniffed the air, his senses still extra heightened from his elixirs and shuddered as he drank in the scent of Julian’s and his own arousal mingling. Eric moved forward, catching Julian’s hand and replacing the fingers with his own. 

Julian stifled a cry as Eric found his prostate, leaning forward and muffling his gasps into Eric’s shoulder. Julian brought a hand up to wrap around Eric’s cock, engorged and black veined from the elixirs. Julian shuddered at the thought of that monstrous thing inside him, his stomach tingling in anticipation. 

The first time he and Eric had done this, Eric had squinted at him doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s going to fit?”

Julian had laughed and showed him exactly how well it filled in all his gaps. 

Eric finished stretching him out, and Julian positioned Eric until he was right where he wanted him. Julian sunk down slowly on Eric’s cock, moaning as the prominent veins rubbed against his walls. Eric reached around him to grasp his cock, and he stroked it in time to Julian’s rhythm. 

Geralt swallows hard, palming at his cock before pulling it out of his pants. He trails his fingers over the head as he holds the book awkwardly in one hand, continuing to read as he gets himself off. 

“Oh, fuck, Eric, you feel so good, darling.”

Eric was never one for eloquent declarations at the best of times, and in the middle of sex was typically the worst of times. Eric grunted, but Julian understood the sentiment. 

“I love you, too,” he gasped as he came. 

Geralt drops the book with a thud and pulls his hand away from himself. This author must never have met a real life witcher before, if they think that witchers are capable of being loved, that they deserve to be cherished. Geralt stares at his erection, willing it to go down. It doesn’t, and he vehemently does his pants back up anyway, hissing as the fabric presses rough against the sensitive flesh. 

Geralt shoves the book to the bottom of his pack like it’s burned him, and as he tries to fall asleep that night, he tosses and turns. 

-

Eskel raps on the door three times before he stands back and waits. He waits for ten seconds, twenty, until a woman opens the door just a smidge and stares out at him from the crack. “Can I help you?” 

Eskel is caught off guard at her suspicious squint, so he splutters for a second before regathering his wits. He pulls a book out of his pack, and her eyes widen at the sight. “Where did you get that?” she hisses, beckoning him inside urgently. “The author made it very clear it wasn’t supposed to be seen by any witchers.”

Eskel’s surprised by this. It’s not like people go to great lengths to hide what they think of witchers, and at least this author doesn’t paint them through a lens of disdain. “How exactly were you going to accomplish that?” Eskel asks, in genuine curiosity. Witchers travel all over the continent, and seeking new knowledge isn’t exactly out of the ordinary for them.

The woman tilts her head, considering. “I suppose it was more of a meaningless platitude than anything.”

“Excellent. That means you can tell me who this writer is.”

The woman shakes her head rapidly. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know, what if you decide to take revenge on them for what they’ve written?”

Eskel frowns. “Have you read this?” he asks.

The woman blushes and nods. 

“So why would I want revenge? Is there some offense hidden between the lines?”

“Well, no,” the woman hedges. “You’re an unpredictable sort, though. There’s no telling what you might do.”

Eskel huffs and rolls his eyes. For being so unpredictable, this woman is sure comfortable insinuating things about him and not giving him what he wants. 

“Just tell me who it is, and then I can be on my way.”

“I can’t say,” she says, tilting her chin up. 

Eskel sighs. He can tell a lost cause when he sees one. “You know, this isn’t the first romance about witchers I’ve seen,” he says, trying a different tack. 

“Maybe so, but the rest are all knock offs,” she informs him smugly. “They don’t even have experience with real witchers. This one’s the best there is out there. There’s even going to be a sequel.”

Eskel hums thoughtfully. “I imagine there’s been an uptick in interest after that accursed song.”

“That’s right!” the woman says, before clamming up and refusing to say anything else. 

The wheels turn in Eskel’s head. 

-

Geralt looks through the smoke wafting up from the campfire over to Jaskier, who’s furiously scribbling something in his notebook. They’ve just been on the road for the past four days, so Geralt’s not sure what he could be writing about with such fervor. It’s not like there’s been much inspiration. 

Jaskier’s quill continues to fly across the page, so Geralt pulls out his own book. It’s too dark for Jaskier to be able to see the cover, he reasons. He props his legs up on a log and opens it up to where he left off. 

“Julian, wait!” Eric cried. “Come with me.”

Julian looked up in surprise. “Really?”

“It… it gets lonely, being without you all winter long.”

Julian wound his arms around Eric. “You’re not the only one.”

Eric looked inordinately pleased at the statement, and he slotted their mouths together delicately. 

Julian kissed him for a moment before pulling back. “I’m not going to break, you know.”

“I know,” Eric murmured, but he kept the same slow pace. 

There’s a sudden flurry of movement that draws Geralt’s attention away from the page. “Geralt! What in the world are you reading?”

“A bestiary?” Geralt tries. 

Jaskier is practically in his lap before Geralt can think about it too much, swiping the book right out of Geralt’s hands. “Where did you get this?” Jaskier asks. 

“Eskel gave it to me.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “And where did Eskel get it?”

“I think Lambert.”

“Did every single witcher read this?” Jaskier shrills. 

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t think Vesemir did?”

Jaskier presses the book to his chest. “Are you liking it?” he asks, eyeing Geralt closely. 

“It’s not bad,” Geralt says gruffly. “But it’s not very realistic.”

“I hate to break this to you, but realism in sex scenes are not exactly a romance writer’s chief concern.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Not that. I just—no human could think about a witcher like that.”

Jaskier looks like he has something he wants to say, but he bites his tongue, settling on giving Geralt a disbelieving look out of the corner of his eye. 

Geralt turns his attention back to feeding the fire. “So, what did you do all winter?”

Jaskier huffs. “Believe it or not, I do have a life when you’re not around, you know.”

Geralt knows. Gods, does he know. There’s a whole life that Jaskier has that Geralt isn’t a part of, not at all. He wonders how many of Jaskier’s friends approve of them travelling together. Most likely none of them, if Geralt is being honest with himself. And why would they? Geralt wouldn’t be happy if he found out Eskel had decided to travel with some dangerous monster. 

“I know.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “Well, I had this whirlwind affair. It kept me quite busy all winter, I’m afraid. Not very much time for much else. I’ll spare you the details.”

Geralt grunts. 

-

Eskel leans back in his chair and looks at Yennefer suspiciously. “So it’s not you?”

Yennefer slants an amused smile his way. “Definitely not. I am rather enjoying it, though,” she says, drawing Eskel’s attention to her table, where she’s tapping her fingers on a copy of the book. “Who knew witchers could be so in touch with their emotions?”

Eskel snorts. “Can I see it?” Lambert had taken his copy, telling Eskel he had snuck his own into Geralt’s things. Eskel had laughed at the thought enough that he had handed his over. 

Yennefer hands it over and Eskel thumbs through the pages, humming softly. He had skimmed through it before, but this time he’s looking for anything that might give him hints of the author. 

Eskel lands on the main character’s name. Eric. The name niggles at the back of Eskel’s mind, and he racks his brains to remember the significance. It hits him then, and the image of a young Geralt sitting on the bed across from him and grinning comes to mind. Geralt had barely been able to get the words out because he had been so full of self satisfaction. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde,” he had finally said, adopting a solemn tone before dissolving into laughter again.  

Geralt had been poking fun of the ridiculously long names of the nobles, wanting to adopt one for himself. Vesemir had given him a sharp no, so the idea was shelved, and just Geralt took its place. 

Eskel is more convinced than ever that whoever wrote this knows Geralt well, and at this point, it’s so obvious that the story is about Geralt, it’s laughable. 

Eskel thinks he has a pretty clear idea of who it must be.

-

Geralt knows who wrote the book. The thought has been bothering him for weeks, and even though a few nights ago, Jaskier had tripped while he was carrying the book and dropped it straight into the fire, Geralt hasn’t stopped thinking about it. 

He’s decided that the book is mostly accurate to witchers, so the author must have some experience with them—but only a little. There’s no way anyone would write about witchers the way that author does if they truly knew them, knew someone like Geralt. The book talks as if Eric is deserving of love, and while that’s a nice sentiment, witchers are just meant to kill monsters. They walk the Path alone. 

On top of that, it’s someone who’s seen the wicked looking scar on his ass, and that narrows down the list quite considerably. The griffin had torn into him last spring, and Geralt doesn’t typically seek out people to sleep with while Jaskier is with him. 

In fact, the last time he had been with someone was on his way out of Oxenfurt when he had dropped Jaskier off last winter, when he had run into a rather charming bard who he certainly had not slept with solely because he reminded him of someone else. 

The writer has to be Valdo Marx. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, who is predictably scribbling in his notebook. Geralt supposes he must be composing another song; he’s had to have come up with at least in a dozen this year so far with as much writing as he does. 

Geralt nudges Jaskier’s foot with his, and Jaskier looks up after a few more seconds of rushed writing. “What?”

“I know who wrote that book.”

Jaskier’s face twists into something Geralt can’t place. 

“What book?”

Geralt huffs in exasperation; it’s as if Jaskier is being obstinate on purpose. “You don’t remember the book you pitched into the fire? I still had one more chapter to go,” he complains. 

Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, that book? Who?”

“Valdo Marx, have you heard of him? He’s another bard, not that I expect all of you to be acquainted with each other, of course,” Geralt rambles until Jaskier cuts him off. 

“You—you think—Valdo Marx wrote that?”

There’s a sour distressed smell wafting off of Jaskier, and Geralt frowns. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” Jaskier laughs. “Yes. And I can't believe you think he wrote that."

“Well, I do.”

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. “And what do you plan on doing with this new found knowledge?”

“I have to...talk to him, I think.”

“Oh?”

Yes, Geralt has to talk to him, has to know if what he wrote is what he truly thinks of witchers. Geralt’s not used to people assuming he’s anything but a monster. 

He wants to get used to it. 

-

It’s not a long journey to Oxenfurt from where they are, but it’s compounded by the three contracts Geralt picks up along the way. Jaskier is generally huffy at Geralt, and Geralt’s asked him what’s wrong on three separate occasions, but Jaskier just says, “Nothing,” with a dramatic sigh and walks away mumbling to himself. 

Geralt has no idea what his problem is. 

Jaskier gets more and more worked up the closer they get, a fruit senescence smell drifting off of him that has Geralt wrinkling his nose at the sickly sweetness of it all. Geralt even makes sure they make it to an inn to sleep one night so Jaskier can perform and hopefully improve his mood, but he just sulks in their room all night. 

Jaskier usually has no problem curling up next to Geralt and trying to leech all the warmth out of him that he can, putting his ice cold feet on Geralt’s under the blanket, but that night, there’s an ocean dividing them, and Geralt doesn’t know how to get across. 

It’s a long night, one in which Geralt manages to get very little sleep because of Jaskier’s tossing and turning next to him. Geralt doesn’t even have the heart to growl at him to stay still because it’s obvious he’s upset about something or other. 

“Is this about your romance this winter?” Geralt finally asks. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer for a long while. 

“You could say that.”

-

Eventually, Geralt finds himself in front of Valdo’s house. It looks vaguely familiar, as it should, when the last and only time Geralt had been here was almost a year ago. 

Geralt raises his hand and knocks, and then Jaskier’s warm hand is on his wrist. 

“Geralt, wait.”

Geralt turns to him with raised eyebrows. “What?”

“Geralt, it’s me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s me! I wrote the books!”

Geralt’s head spins. The answer has not been sitting in front of his face this entire time. He’s not that oblivious. Hell, his whole damn job depends on him not being oblivious. “My ass,” he says weakly. 

Jaskier takes a step back. “What?”

“The scar. How would you know?”

Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation. “You’re not exactly modest, Geralt. Excuse me if I couldn’t exactly keep my eyes to myself. You know, you were rather vague about why you thought the writer was Valdo fucking Marx of all people. Want to expound? On how he’s seen your ass?”

Geralt grins weakly. “I don’t think we need to get into that.”

Jaskier grumbles to himself. He looks Geralt in the eye before seeming to make a decision, and before Geralt knows what’s happening, he’s being tugged into a very heated kiss. 

The door swings open, and Jaskier pulls back just long enough to sneer in its direction. 

He slams the door shut. “Fuck off, Valdo.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #geralt is a himbo #fanfiction #contemplative writing #romance writer!jaskier #that really needs to be a tag because i need more of it so i am going to manifest it