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the-gothmother-writes · 10 months

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| 🤍 Starstruck | Character Intro: Felicity DuNoir |

/ I bet on Losing dogs / I know they're losing and I pay for my place / By the ring / where I'll be looking in their eyes as they fall / I'll be there on their side / I'm losing on their side /

Thirty-two consecutive fouettés.

The black floor of the dance hall was littered with lounging bodies. All whispering amongst themselves, giggling over inside jokes, earbuds plugged into their ears.

The instructor had announced that today of all days would be individual, one on one instruction. Most dancers had already taken their turns and were now basking in the rare gift of down time.

Thirty-two consecutive fouettés.

The giant mirror flickered with fluid shadow. A leg whipped around, propelling the shadow in a controlled spin. A single, dark braid snapped through the air like a black flag caught in a gust.

Thirty-two consecutive fouettés.

That was how many spins Felicity needed to achieve to perfect Odile’s variation. As any ballerina could attest, even the professionals, the dance of the Black Swan was no easy feat. Especially not for a seventeen year old who wasn’t even out of secondary school.

So… that was all the more reason to do it, and do it right.

Her head snapped back into place with each turn, staring her own reflection down and she forced herself to ignore the buzzing nausea licking at the edges of her brain. Her nerves told her body “just one more time,” every time and her body was starting to doubt their lies. Her shins burned, toes ached, and every muscle in her legs and glutes protested her steely resolve in true Francais fashion. But she refused to give into their demands.

Thirteen…

Fourteen…

Fifteen…

The lights grew colder, sparks of red and yellow flaring up like fire as her breaths strained to stay even. With each new spin, her chiffon skirt thrashed with brand new feathers that she could almost hear flutter as the wind whipped in her ear. The whine of a distant melody laced the gusts, an echo of her very soul.

A shadow eclipsed the mirror.

Her breath began to shake, muscles trembling. Her skin pricked when a chill passed through her. Just past her reflection… she could’ve sworn she’d seen his harsh eyes staring back. His heavy brow furrowed as he counted each fouetté she completed. His bulbous nose wrinkled with disapproval. The music lacing the wind in her ears coiled into a critical hiss.

Suddenly it wasn’t her own voice counting.

Twenty-three…

Twenty-four…

The chill seized her heart, stomach twisting with dread—

“Regarde la… She’s trying to win Jaskier back.”

The maliciously sharp giggle cut through her concentration, her foot dropping back onto the black floor. She seethed as if it’d burnt, instantly raising her pointe again to try and save it… but as she looked back at her reflection she knew it was too late.

She darted a bruised look from the corner of her eye at the source of the covert snicker. Claire… Her skin flushed, heart clutching at the sight of the petite girl. Claire’s caramel hair she insisted still counted as blonde glinted in the harsh lights of the dance hall, her lips wide to bear her teeth as she giggled politely with her cluster of friends.

They weren’t looking at Felicity… or were they? Were those fleeting looks beneath thick lashes for her? Those private murmurs… sharp grins?

Claire sent Felicity another, bright-eyed look and smiled sweetly at her. Felicity’s heart stole another quiet beat and her stomach pooled with nauseous uncertainty. That sugar coated smile… it leered at her. Challenging her to defy it. Oh she wanted to… She almost narrowed her gaze but before her eyes could twitch, her instincts panicked and she smiled back instead. Some cowardly, submissive smile that made her cheeks flush with shame.

The exchange seemed to satisfy Claire, maybe even amuse her, and she darted another grin at her friend lounging on the gym floor with her.

Their attention strayed away from Felicity, leaving her drained… or maybe that was just her body begging to collapse after such an extraneous workout.

She’d made it to twenty-five.

Unacceptable.

#Spotify #writeblr #readerblr #writing #original manuscript #chapter excerpt #original character #oc #to the stars and back #starstruck #Felicity DuNoir #Lissy #she's everything to meeee #🤍🤍🫶🏻🫶🏻😫😫

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year

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The Viper: Rewritten

Chapter 2

Ch 1 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7

Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader

AO3 - I recommend reading it there

Warnings: blood, violence, fighting

Word Count: 2197

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“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!”

All suspicious, accusatory whispers about you died at the herald’s call. Heads whipped around to feast their eyes on the White Wolf of legend, to catch a glimpse of his white hair or even his dual swords. There was not a soul across the Continent who had not heard of the glorious battle at the Edge of the World - a fabulous tale of Elves and Fauns, no doubt concocted by the man next to him who carried a lute.

A bitter taste soured your mouth at the hypocrisy. They spat and scowled at your presence, but how quickly they could turn and lunge for the Nordling Witcher’s boots so that they might kiss the ground he walked on. You did your best to ignore his presence and focus on the job at hand.

No less than a week ago, Mousesack sought you out to propose a contract for none other than the Lioness of Cintra. She desperately sought a Witcher who could act as a guard at her daughter, Pavetta’s, betrothal banquet, for the sole purpose of disposing of any unwanted guests. Mousesack didn’t know who the target could be, or why, but the amount of coin he offered was more than you could shake a stick at.

So, on the day of, you appeared donned in leather and daggers, and accepted the contract face-to-face with her majesty. Before she left to settle disputes within her kingdom, she ordered you to change into more reasonable attire.

The silk and linen was unfamiliar and uncomfortable against your skin. Your heightened senses were distracted from the sensations of the fabric, though not so much you could not hear the conversation across the hall.

Mousesack and Geralt of Rivia were tucked away in an alcove, whispering to each other about court gossip and the favored bachelor. What caught your attention was not the Witcher’s deflection of royal scandals, but the druid’s sudden change of topic.

“There is another Witcher here you should meet,” Mousesack said, conspiratorially, as if he was revealing a great secret and a great danger all at once.

Geralt of Rivia frowned at the other. “Another Wolf?”

“No, no, no.” Mousesack shook his head quickly. “A Witcher from the South.”

Even from afar, you could see how that peaked his interest. “A Nilfgaardian?” He trailed off a moment, thinking. There were only two Niflgaardian Witcher schools. “A Bear?” he asked, hedging his bets.

“A Viper,” you interjected. Mousesack almost jumped at your sudden appearance, but Geralt only frowned. You turned to the druid, a slight, teasing smile on your lips. “It’s not polite to talk about someone behind their back, Mousesack.”

He chuckled good-naturedly and slung an arm around your shoulders. “My apologies; I didn’t know you cared so much about manners.” He turned back to the guest of honor. “Geralt, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Geralt.”

Despite the easy way the druid introduced you, Geralt remained on edge. He crossed his bulky arms, pulling against the fancy garb he was also forced into wearing. The line between his brows only deepened as he looked you up and down.

“I didn’t think Vipers came this far North.”

“We usually don’t,” you agreed. You glanced at Mousesack, who seemed to be on edge from the interaction. “Mousesack tracked me down.”

“The Queen requested a Witcher to act as a guard,” he explained quickly. “They were the closest Witcher with the skillset she required.”

“Someone willing to kill humans.” It was not a question, yet the Wolf stared you down as he waited for confirmation.

You grinned at his unease. He was fighting back a scowl, though he hid it well enough. Wolves and Vipers - all Witcher schools, really - had a long standing history of distrust and conflict. With an adolescent sense of determination, you replied, “It’s what Vipers do best.”

His scowl revealed itself fully.

“Drop your trousers!”

All three of you turned your heads to a disturbance off to the side of the larger crowds. A lord had a well-dressed man - you recognized him as the bard Geralt came with - against the wall. Geralt sighed through his nose at the sight.

“I see you have business to attend to,” you teased. You ducked under Mousesack’s arm and backed away, bowing as you did so. Oh, if your mentors could see you now; you’d be reduced to sorting the library until Ivar Evil-Eye deemed it good enough. “Gentlemen.”

“Witcher…” Calanthe gasped. You couldn’t tell which one she spoke to. “Kill it.”

You should have leapt over the table. You should have drawn your blades the very second the disturbance began. You should have, but you couldn’t. Something kept your feet glued to the floor.

“No,” Geralt replied coolly.

“Viper, kill it,” she hissed, growing desperate.

The dark eyes of the animal-knight stared up at you. Briefly, you considered how grateful you were for the cover of the Queen’s throne.

Geralt half-turned to look at you. “This is no monster.”

He must have known that meant little-to-nothing to you. The Viper School was the only school to focus on hunting monsters, humans, and non-humans. Whether he was a beast, a man, or some other creature of the land did not matter. You were taught to accept all contracts on any head, and remain neutral. Above all else, take no sides.

“This knight has been cursed,” he tried again, a twinge of distress in his words.

Calanthe sighed irritably. “You’re as useless as the rest of them. Slay this beast!”

Your heart leapt forward. Your feet stayed put.

Take no sides.

Two more guards fell to the ground before Lord Urcheon drew his sword to point at Calanthe. “Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.”

Take no sides.

In one motion, you vaulted over the banquet table and drew your twin blades. Geralt tried to grab your arm, but his fingers barely had time to brush against the silk of your attire.

One royal guard after another ran forward. Lord Urcheon skillfully deflected blows, redirecting swords with the momentum behind their swings. A guard collapsed to the floor, clasping his gut, after the knight sliced it open.

He turned and swung his sword down. It stopped dead in the air with a metallic screech, caught between two crossed daggers. Dark eyes full of fear peered deep into the focused gaze of the Viper before him.

You arched your daggers up and out, pushing his sword back. In the opening, your foot collided with his stomach in a powerful kick, knocking him to the ground. His sword skidded across the polished stone, far away from his desperate grasp.

The royal guards gathered to stand behind you as you towered over the defenseless man. Terror rippled through the party so intensely you could smell it.

You were exactly the monster they whispered about.

You flipped your daggers in your grasp. The knight’s heart raced.

Dual daggers raised into the air, smooth curves of metal glinting in the candlelight as they formed the deadly fangs of a snake.

You pitched your swing down, aimed directly for his heart.

The hollow sound of a dagger hitting the floor echoed through the room. Blood dripped down your knuckles as you stared into the eyes of the Wolf, his sword aimed at the hollow of your throat. Your silver dagger stayed in a tight grip by your side.

Movement caught your eye as the knight picked up your dagger. A protectiveness settled in your chest seeing the weapon in his hands.

“KILL THEM BOTH!”

Chaos. You and Geralt fought head to head. Lords and royal guards rushed in to stop Lord Urcheon. Sir Eist joined to help. Queen Calanthe was forced to sit by and watch. Swords clashed, blood spilled. Your heart pounded in your ears as adrenaline coursed through your veins.

Men fell left and right, but none were slain by the White Wolf. You were deadlocked. You would throw a swing at his side or neck, and he would deflect it with his sword. He would aim an attack at your chest or head, and you would dodge out of the way. Trapped in the futility of fighting an enemy matched to his abilities, he couldn’t help against the guards or lords. If he did, he would risk opening himself up to an attack from you.

His sword sliced horizontally through the air. You rolled under the blade, behind him, and whipped around to stab yours into his back. You stopped inches from driving the silver into the Queen’s neck. Her sword locked with Geralt’s. You stared, stunned, at the back of her head.

“Stop.” It was a plea. His sword slowly fell. Hers followed. “Stop!” she called to the rest of the fighting crowd.

Your eyes met the Wolf’s over her shoulder. His gaze was tense. It burned through you. Your dagger fell to your side once more, and then found its way back to its sheath.

A burst of energy shoved everyone back. Some went flying into pillars or banquet tables. The oxygen was stolen from your lungs as your back slammed against the wall.

A figure curled overtop your body, protecting you from the fierce winds brought about by Pavetta’s powers. You gasped and coughed as you fought to catch your breath once more. The figure came into focus as you did.

It was the bard. He was skinny, though not scrawny. Short, dark hair blew about and caught on his long lashes as brilliant blue eyes stared down at you. You hoped he did not see the confusion in your own.

Why would he protect you?

Shards of glass rained down as the windows shattered one by one. He pulled your head down into his chest and raised an arm to cover himself. Sharp pieces fell down your back and scattered into his hair.

When he relaxed his hold, you pulled away and pushed yourself to a kneel. The fragments dug into the rough skin of your palms and latched to the almost-dried blood that stained your hand red. You paid it no mind as you squinted to see into the vortex.

At the center stood the princess and the hedgehog knight. Loose chairs and food swirled through the air around them like a tornado destroying a village. Your eyes traced the crowd of people who all were forced to watch helplessly as Pavetta cast spells under her breath - all to protect her lover. Geralt and Mousesack were pressed against two pillars, closest to the whirlwind. Queen Calanthe and Sir Eist held each other on the floor as they hid beneath her banquet table.

Wood groaned and scraped across the floor as a table came barrelling toward the wall. As fast as you could, you pushed the bard aside and covered him with your body. You felt him flinch as the heavy wood slammed into the wall right next to you and splintered, narrowly avoiding hitting your back.

Just as soon as it started, it was over.

The wind stopped. The world fell silent. You slowly pulled away from the man to see what happened. It was dark. Every candle was out. Haloed by moonlight in the center of a circle of debris lay Pavetta and Lord Urcheon. Geralt and Mousesack stood a few feet away, panting heavily with exhaustion.

It was over.

Guilt setted, heavy and unwelcome, within your chest. Had you listened to Geralt, had you rejected your training and picked a side - All of this could have been avoided. Or, if it was truly destiny that brought the two souls together, perhaps it was unavoidable.

Your back ached as you stood. You would be bruised come morning, there was no doubt about that. The man you protected looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes. You wondered why Geralt brought him along. Surely, he saw terrible things every day on the Path; he looked far more in his element amongst the royals and elites in the world.

You reached out a hand and heaved him to his feet. He shakily nodded his thanks. But even as the Princess stood and the Queen joined her in the circle, his attention remained focused on you. He wasn’t afraid. He did not wrench his hand away or spit on you. He just stared.

Before you could ask why, Calanthe began speaking. She held hands with her daughter, seemingly forgiven. Remorse and regret settled on her features. For a brief moment, you caught her eye. You would not be getting paid tonight.

How could she, with a clear conscience, pay the person she hired to murder her daughter’s love?

A glimmer of light caught your attention. Resting within the debris was your steel dagger, a beam of moonlight reflecting off of its sharpened edge. No one seemed to pay you any mind as you stepped forward and slid it back into the sheath at your waist. You said nothing to the man as you passed him, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the hall, and slipping out of the castle.

---

Tag List:

@writeawaythepain

@sleepyqueerenergy

@lex-caspartine

@lastwandastan

@adozenforks

@plaguedoctorsnake

@solomonssimp

#fanfic #fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #jaskier x reader #jaskier #jaskier the bard #witcher jaskier #the witcher jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt & reader #x reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #gn reader #x gn reader #cross posted on ao3

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limerental · 2 years

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ficletober 2022 day nineteen - yenralt modern au

Ciri is about to go off to college and the extended family hasn't had a real beach vacation in about a decade. Everyone knows why. Yennefer and Geralt haven't been able to be in the same room together since their divorce nine years ago.

Content warning for a past mutually unhealthy/abusive relationship

It's somebody's hare-brained idea to rent a place on the coast a few weeks before Ciri flies off to her freshman year of college. A big family thing like they used to, as much as any of them have ever had family. Musing aloud about why they stopped like they don't all know.

The beachhouse they rent is unreal and clearly only in the budget thanks to the contributions of the resident popstar, who immediately claims the master suite. It's all big, big windows and sleek wood panelling and wet-shiny tile floors and too much glass. Ten bedrooms and an inground pool out back looking right over the dunes and the ocean, rippling.

Geralt scoffs at it, says, what do you need a pool for if the ocean's right there? His beach vacations as a kid with his brothers had been a stuffy motel room with the old man, lugging all their beach gear, towels, chairs, umbrella a few damn blocks on sandy asphalt to the beach and not leaving the water for hours and hours.

Nobody's all that interested in commiserating with his whiny grumbling. They haven't seen each other in years, and some of them haven't ever met at all, not all in the same room under pleasant circumstances.

Geralt's brothers fly in. Lambert's accompanied by his feisty and charming partner, Keira, who walks everywhere with one hand shoved in his back pocket, and Eskel comes bearing gifts of homemade wine and goat cheese and his usual, big, smothering bear hugs that threaten to crack your spine in half. Vesemir arrives and immediately sets himself up in a chair on the pool deck with a margarita, but he nods at Geralt and says something about him doing a good damn job with that girl and Geralt gets up to grab another beer before he can hear whether the old man's proud of him or not.

Triss shows up with regrets that her mysterious new partner is too busy with work, and she doesn't really look at Geralt much at all but kisses Ciri on both cheeks and twirls her around like she's still young enough to play princess tea party like they used to.

There's Uncle Regis, who mostly occupies himself with a little laminated birdwatcher's guide and tiny binoculars, and Auntie Milva with young foster Angouleme, who has maybe finally stopped getting into trouble, and cousin Cahir, who slathers himself head to toe in pasty sunblock and still turns lobster pink after the first day.

Jaskier appears in all his airbrushed tan, blonde highlighted, popstar noisy flourishing wearing pink-tinted glasses and a creamy linen kaftan and kissing everybody full on the mouth in greeting. He's got some young guy with him who must be just about Ciri's age, and they retreat to the master suite together almost right away and don't come out half the trip.

Ciri's delighted by the whole deal, shrieking like the little girl she still is in Geralt's eyes. She and Angouleme and her school friend Mistle scurry up and down the dunes and ride waves on their bellies in the water and return windblown and gritty with sand. Regis, hands on hips and floppy sunhat catching the wind tuts at them about the fragile dune ecosystems, and they stick out their tongues and make a series of rude gestures. Eskel scolds them about showering off before jumping in the pool, and when they resist, he and Lambert threaten to hold the ruffians under the spray of the outside shower, young ladies or not.

And then, a few days in, Yennefer arrives.

It's like all the air's sucked out of the atmosphere when she walks onto the pool deck. Geralt had been down on the beach all day and missed her arrival, and she's dressed in something gauzy and black, sheer enough to see her white bikini underneath and the familiar curves of her body, and her wild curls are loose and she's barefoot. Geralt stares at her toes and stays rooted to his spot by the poolside grill, gripping at a spatula so hard he's afraid the handle will crack.

Lambert leans on his shoulder and says, don't fucking burn the hotdogs, you doofus, and Eskel comes up on his other side and says, you got the shittiest hot dogs imaginable anyway, what did you just waltz in and grab whatever? And Geralt protests that they were on sale and you can't mess up cooking a hot dog anyway, and his brothers throw up their hands and nudge him away to take over.

Then he's just standing there by the pool wearing a grilling apron with some busty tits in a bikini pastered on it, and Yennefer's toes start marching their way closer. He flees. He all but flings himself off the boardwalk down to the water, heels burning on the sand.

He balls up the apron in his hand and leaves it on the beach and breaststrokes out into the water imagining maybe he could swim all the way out past the buoys and just keep going. Or maybe get turned around enough that when he comes back out of the surf, he's in some alternate dimension from a decade ago where he and Yen and Ciri and his brothers still do yearly beach vacations and he didn't screw it all up and Ciri's not yet yo-yoing back and forth between each of her parents in their separate worlds.

She's turned out OK, he knows, but it hadn't been easy for her for a moment and that never fails to chew him up with a nauseous sort of guilt.

When he crawls out of the water and goes back, it's already evening and the big house is fully empty. Gone ice cream, says a note on the kitchen counter and in someone else's chickenscratch it says ur a ding dong. The leftovers from dinner are stowed away in the fridge, and Geralt stands there in the glaring fluorescence of the stainless steel spaceship of a kitchen eating cold hot dogs one after the other until he feels less like he's going to float away from shaky hunger.

Then, he goes right to bed.

Of course, he can't sleep a wink in unfamiliar places, so he lies there in the blue silence of the too big room listening to everybody when they get back, voices echoing through the house. The lot of them play a board game with more gusto than seems necessary, hooting and hollering, and several times, there's a commotion and a splash as somebody gets chucked in the pool for being a sore loser or for cheating or the last time, just because of your face, Eskel yells as he dunks a screeching Lambert again.

Geralt lies there flat on his back and watches the glowing ripple of the pool water against the ceiling of his bedroom, and he must fall asleep eventually because suddenly the house is dead silent.

He can't breathe suddenly, knowing somewhere in this house is a room where his ex-wife is sleeping, maybe curled up with Ciri for old time's sake or maybe staring at the ceiling the same way he is. He doesn't know how to picture her as something that exists in the present, seeing her as she was when she was twenty-five with a slicked back ponytail and bouncing little Ciri on her hip looking a little shell-shocked like she still didn't know how she ended up there, holding a baby and playing house with a guy she only met a year ago.

He remembers her saying, you said I'd make a shit mother and maybe you were fucking right.

He gets up. He tiptoes down the slatted main stairs and goes out the glass door to the pool deck. He's only been standing out there a few minutes when the door slides open, and she's right there.

Like a mirage, the sickly-blue of the pool's chlorine glow washing the underside of her jaw, hooding her eyes, catching in her loose curls. She looks greyscale, ghostly, and Geralt thinks, zombie. As if he's not the one who's been shuffling, shambling, living dead for a whole decade.

He slumps forward against the impractical glass railing of the deck with the absurd thought that maybe if he holds still, she won't see him. When he was a kid, he always dreamed of camouflaging like some slippery amphibian, shrinking away into the background. His freaky albinism and his gangly, gaunt looks mean he's always stood out more than he ever liked to.

Out of anybody, Yen's the only person he's ever met who had always toed this perfect line of looking right over his head, right through him when she felt like it and the next second zeroing in exactly where it hurt. Geralt's always been teetering on a similar knife edge of remembering only the fuzzy-warm good moments and then only the sickening worst of the worst.

The Christmases, the birthdays, the first infamous blind date, the nights in her apartment in Vengerberg where he had a side of the bed that was soundly his and a toothbrush there and a whole drawer in her wardrobe for his mismatched socks and single pair of blue jeans and ugly button downs.

The dropped calls, the cheating, the times she shouted and he bitched and she bellowed and he flung cold, cutting insults, and the sticky red bloodstain congealing on the wall the night she hurled a pint of jam, how he'd sliced his palm cleaning the shards and bled fat drops across her living room carpet and worst of all, when little Ciri stood there moon-eyed and disheveled and woken from sleep watching them without a word.

Yen calls to him, and he doesn't look around. Geralt, you're not invisible no matter how much you want to be, she says, and he drops his head into his hands and pushes his palms flat against his eye sockets. I'm surprised you're here, he says, his voice sounding like someone else's, didn't think you'd actually show.

He can hear her bare feet slap on the damp concrete as she rounds the pool.

He has this weird thought that she's about to snug up tight behind him and her hands will sneak down to grip one buttcheek in each hand the way she used to sometimes, teasing and vulgar and juvenile the way she let herself be with him, putting her pelvis flush against the backs of her hands and calling him sweetcheeks with a throaty drawl that made it sound less like a cutsey moniker and more like a challenge.

He remembers how she'd sometimes lean and kiss his body standing like that if they were alone, too short behind him to reach anywhere but the groove between his shoulderblades, her nose chilled and pointy and her mouth tickling and sending an itch all through the muscles of his back. He always thought about turning around to see what facial expression she hid against his back, but he never once did.

But of course, in the present, she just leans a polite distance away against the rail, and he looks out at the dark smear of the beach and can't really make out the tide or horizon line. Just dark, just percussive waves, and Yen rests a hip against the glass and doesn't look at him either when she says, you're the one who left, Geralt. In Vengerberg way back then. You left.

Geralt swallows and he feels it in every muscle in his face and throat and jaw, like he has to voluntarily flex every minor little one to make it happen. He doesn't know anatomy too well. He thinks he's missing some parts anyway or else it doesn't really make sense why he can't just open his mouth and not say something useless.

He says, yeah, I left. Yeah. You know why, and she hums. He doesn't know why, not with the surety that he used to. The good things and the bad things tangle into confusing knots, and it's impossible to weigh her bad things and his bad things on the scale to see who caused it, who's worse, who broke them.

Back then, he said it was what's best for Ciri, but now, he sees her years of shuttling back and forth across the country, her parents never in the same room for long a whole damn decade, never doing another family beach vacation again, and isn't all that sure. They maybe should have tried to tough it out for her sake, tried that couple's counselor, done some therapy.

Yen seems like she's thinking the same things, because she says, we didn't do too bad with her, did we? I mean. We didn't totally screw her up. He hasn't stood this close to her for so long in maybe nine years. He imagines he can smell a waft of her perfume, lilac-sweet. He says, not totally. Probably. But we did a number on her.

Geralt's half looking out of his periphery, enough to see her face crumple. I mean, he says, I guess no more than anyone does. I think we did what we could do.

Like something from a dream, Yen sighs and leans and suddenly her forehead is pressed against his shoulder, both of her hands are on his bicep, fingers curling tight in a way that hurts a little.

He only hesitates a moment before he turns his body toward her, holding her with the arm she isn't clinging to like a lifeline, and almost to herself, she says, there's still time. He wants to ask, time for what?

He doesn't know how to make himself say all the stuff he wants to. How he even misses the manic pitch voice her voice took when she's yelling. How he thought about calling, texting, something. How when he went to the flowershop that last time, they'd asked him what he wanted to put on the card and he all he could think of was There's nothing at all wrong with you. Because he'd shouted that and worse the night before. But there's nothing wrong with you didn't sound good at all, and he couldn't make himself think what it was that was right with her.

In Vengerberg, he'd left the flowers on the kitchen counter, no note, and cleared his things out of his drawer.

He tucks his face into her neck, hunching down, and rubs his palms against her back again and again. Slow, like he can memorize how she feels again, like he ever forgot in the first place.

He wants to say, there's a lot of stuff right with you, there's nothing more right in the world, but instead he says, missed you, Yen. All small. Remembering how she lit up when he called her that the first few times back then. How she grinned against his smile and he mouthed Yen like it was precious.

He says it now into the nighttime quiet of the pool deck and then can't stop saying it. Yen, yen, yen.

She winds her arms up around his back and clings, hiding her face. There's still time, she breathes, and he gets what she means. It's not a yes or a no but a knife-edge maybe, teetering.

He can feel the silent presence of his whole family sleeping in the hushed mansion behind them, and he knows Yen doesn't really have anybody else, doesn't know how to let herself have anything even though the wanting eats her up to nothing. And maybe he's been cruel, keeping her from this, making it awkward, making her feel like she has to skirt around the edges of a life he's carefully excised her from.

It's already almost dawn, a little glow pinking the horizon line. You want pancakes? he blurts, because it's his turn to do breakfast and she says, remember when you tried to make heart-shaped ones and they all looked like butts?

He remembers. She pulls back a little, enough to really look at him and that means he can really look at her right back, and she says, make mine really really butt-shaped.

And he laughs and is afraid to laugh and laughs anyway, and he doesn't say anything except, butts it is.

When the rest of the house rouses themselves and trickles down to the kitchen hours later, they find a pile of lumpy pancakes warming in the oven and a horrible floury mess all over and a note on the counter that says

really sorry for the mess. and the kitchen too - G&Y.

#yenralt #the witcher #my fic #ficletober #yennefer x geralt #them

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inexplicifics · 1 year

Note

I'm currently rereading "Twirl Three Notes and Make a Star" and i noticed something: is Jaskier's song about the Bear School called "Beware" as a reference to the song "Beware!" by Bear Ghost? Considering the latter is also... about bears?

Also i just wanted to say that i adore your writing style and the way you tell stories, pretty much all of your fics are my ultimate comfort reads and i don't even know how many times i've reread them.

Thank you very much! <3

Thank you so much for the kind words! I am glad my fics are comfort reads!

The song Beware isn't a reference to anything, it just seemed like a good title for a song about the Bear School.

#questions answered #accidental warlord au #people being sweet to inex

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blackberrywars · 1 year

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Requests for Witcher Ficlets!

What: Me taking requests for 500-1000 word witcher ficlets because I’m home for the holidays and I need something to do!

When: 12/27-1/10

Rules:

Most game/show characters and ships are welcome! As a fair warning, I don’t know a lot about book canon, but I will do my best to research and deliver on any requests from that angle

Modern/Alternate AUs are accepted and appreciated!

I will take up to 3 requests per person! Please flood my ask box, for it is barren as a desert and dry as my mouth at 3am.

NSFW requests are welcome! I will write a wide variety of kinks, but it is case-by-case, and there are some I won’t do. Still, don’t be shy, my anon is available, and I will answer any respectful questions via ask/PM

Limited Dead Dove. Acceptance will be case-by-case, but I will do canon-typical types of violence, whump, and taboos. Rape is off the table as far as an actual scene, but references are allowed

Recommendations: I am very excited to branch out of my comfort zone with this, so feel free to go buckwild, but if you want recommendations of stuff I’m more practiced at, I have a masterpost over on my page. The following is a list of stuff I’ve posted, drafted, or am otherwise really into.

Fem!Lambert x Fem!Aiden (it’s my brand and my specialty)

School of the Cat/Dyn Marv (group dynamics + partners)

School of the Wolf (both brotherly and romantic)

School of the Bear (particularly Arnaghad, Ivo, and Junod)

Nenneke (bamf and milf supreme)

Witchers & Whores (as allies)

Iorveth x Roche (I’ve seen a lot of content for them recently, and go absolutely wild over the fics/art where Roche is revealed as a half-elf)

Ves (she’s so hot and she loves knives and I wanna be her)

Previous Fills: I’ve done this thing exactly once before, and it was a blast, so if you want to check out what you can expect, these are the two prompts I received last time

Waltzing Wolves: a Super-soldier Spy AU for Gereskel + Jaskier, where Geralt drools over Eskel waltzing like a suave gentlemen, with ART by the amazing original requester, @whyzowl!

Kitten Shenanigans: Guxart learns a way to manage his unruly kittens while also developing their skills. Vesemir is only a little horrified. Done for my dear @halehathnofury.

I will accept requests from now until midnight on January 10th, 2023! Ficlets will be posted as soon as I get them done because I have zero self-control.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #berry's fics #please ask questions! my inbox and PMs are open!

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keirametzbrassknuckles · 9 months

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Okay no but seriously Steddie Witcher AU... got me acting unwise. I'm Thinking.

I like Witcher Steve as much as the next guy (school of the Bear fits him nicely I think - the lonliness and the beating on things) and I know that Eddie usually gets the Jaskier treatment (ew) but consider, if you would, Scoia'tael Eddie. Fighter not by choice but by circumstance, an outcast, on the margins and already marked as other.

#Nancy is definitely Scoia'tael in this universe #Robin is a mage living in the swamp and loving it #Jonathan is a mage but one of the super nerdy ones who just wants to be left alone to do his science #i absolutely do not need to write this AU but also... consider....

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islenthatur · 2 years

Photo

Made this for my Mark of a Lark Universe, Bear Witcher Jaskier! © Falling Stars

Posted this on my other Tumblr as well, forgot this was also here oops!

#witcher jaskier #Jaskier #The Witcher Fandom #the witcher fanfiction #The Witcher Fanart #Fanart #School of the Bear #Geralt/Jaskier #BAMF!Jaskier #Mark of a Lark Universe

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prpfs · 5 months

Note

🐺🐻 Hey y'all, I have a plot that I always wanted to develop, I have this idea of a Witcher OC that I'd like to pair with Jaskier from The Witcher

Basically, my guy is from the School of the Bear, he's missing an arm and is overall a sweetheart

You like Geraskier but feel like Jaskier deserves better/someone else than Geralt ? Then this is for you

I am not the biggest fan of the Netflix series, as I prefer the video games and books, but I love Joey Batey, so Netflix!Jaskier is more than welcome

Since witchers are very trans coded, I'm more than okay to involve my character as a trans man or Jaskier as one or both with some T4T (I am myself trans)

This would be a 3rd person +18 literate rp on Discord involving dark and sexual themes like in the universe

Like this and I'll reach out to you so we can brainstorm together, thank you

like if you're interested and op will get back to you

#the witcher rp #the witcher roleplay #fandom rp #fandom roleplay #dead dove

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echo-bleu · 1 year

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18. If you wrote a sequel to every promise and lie, what would it involve?

Oooh ngl while it's not part of the near future plans, I have toyed with a sequel to every promise and lie. There's something highly appealing about spy!Jaskier in a modern AU.

So here are some headcanons. First on the (inter)personal side of things:

I actually started writing Jaskier and Yen's introduction to the other witchers at Kaer Morhen (in this verse they're basically freelancing retrieval specialists), before I realized it was too long for the fic. Vesemir and Lambert especially are really wary of them at first.

Jaskier definitely worsened his injuries running after everyone, so he's Not Walking in the near future (he's gotta have surgery on his foot and no weight-bearing for 8-12 weeks). That's going to be real hard on him, and Geralt will have his hands full with a disgruntled bard-spy.

Yen needs to learn to navigate properly with her cane, at least until she has surgery for the cataracts in a few months. And even then she won't regain all her sight, she'll still be legally blind. That's an adjustment that isn't easy for her. I was thinking of having blind!Aiden around to help.

Ciri's pretty wary of Yen for a while, although at some point Geralt definitely finds Yen and Lambert teaching Ciri how to make dirty bombs. Jaskier is horrified, Geralt is like "err, as long as you teach her safety", Ciri is very proud of herself.

Jaskier meanwhile teaches Ciri both regular school stuff (she can't exactly go to school) and basic intelligence work.

Geralt and Yen both have a lot of grovelling to do. Jaskier is Tired(tm). Ciri is an evil matchmaker and keeps trying to lock them in rooms/closets together, but she's not much of a match against two professional spies and a mercenary, so she enlists the other witchers to help.

I don't have too much on the plot side, which is the main reason why I didn't jump in to write it. Yen is on many Most Wanted lists, Ciri is being coveted by just about everyone, Jaskier's work as the Sandpiper escaped containment, and Rience has a personal beef against both Yen and Jaskier. I think Jaskier needs to go back to Oxenfurt sooner or later, probably before he's fully recovered, to take command of the network again. Then they work on eliminating Rience, and probably Vilgefortz as soon as possible. Emhyr is a lot less attainable. Their best bet might be to make a deal with him to leave Ciri alone until she's an adult and can make her own decisions about Cintra and about being his heir.

#thank you for asking!!#echo's fanfiction #ask game

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witcherthingies · 2 years

Text

First Flight

witchers experience flying for the first time... mixed results.

“Okay so!” Jaskier claps his hands, gathering attention from the witchers. “As you all know, the world is a lot bigger than you thought.” Laughter rings out. “And as good sorceresses as our mages are, having to portal to literally the other side of the world is a bit of a strain for them.” Yennefer grimaces at this, as if hating the idea of her magic being limited in such a way. “Which is why, for the first major patrol being sent to Moscow, we are going to send them in a plane.” An unease settles throughout the hall, witchers shifting uncomfortably. They all learned what a plane was from their teachings, but that doesn’t mean they like or exactly trust them.

“I will be with you all the entire time, and we’ll even be using a private jet to limit interactions with the public, and really this is a sort of test run to see how you fare before engaging in longer flights.” The time between Koltsovo, the closest airport from them, and Moscow was about two and a half hours, a perfect short trip.

“We will be assigning the witchers tonight and will inform you tomorrow,” Geralt now speaks up. “But whoever we choose will be expected to be professional and cool-headed.”

“Remember the entire world will be watching us,” Jaskier drops into a more serious tone. “You will be representing all of the witchers and set a standard which will hopefully allow the other countries to have us enter in order to protect their people.” There’s a chorus of White Wolf through the hall, then chatter strikes up again as they return to their supper.

The witchers end up being as follows: Eskel, Artek, Coën, Treyse, Auckes, Merten, and Stefan. As many school heads as possible, and those thought best fit to represent the other schools. For as much of a witcher mission as this is, it is also a diplomatic one.

Yennefer is kind enough to portal them to the base of the mountain, where a large transport van is waiting for them, as well as a Russian escort.

Well good to know the Russians are at least tolerating us, Jaskier thinks to himself as he greets the soldiers. Eskel has been in a car before, so he’s at least familiar with the sudden acceleration and deceleration, the constant hum of the engine, and the general trapness of it all.

The others, however, are not used to it.

“Too fast,” Artek grumbles out, a vice grip on his traveling bag, the poor large bear is hunched in his seat and having to close his eyes at every turn.

“Makes traveling a whole lot easier, though.” Stefan stretches out, seemingly unperturbed by the vehicle. “An’ we won’t smell like horse shit.”

“What about the other monsters along the road?” Coën questions quietly. “Normally we’d be able to deal with whatever other monster we come across, now we seem to pass right by them.”

“For now that is for the best,” Jaskier speaks up, lounging against Eskel. “Monsters will no doubt figure out how to rip open the top of cars soon enough, but we want to prevent that as long as possible by encouraging quick trips where you don’t get out unless absolutely necessary.” Engineers and manufacturers were already hard at work to find ways to monster-proof their vehicles and other devices, though they are limited in how exactly to test that sort of thing.

They reach the airport with ease, the caravan pulling up right to the base of the jet, where the stairs were already lowered. There was very little public at this small airport, which meant damn near no reporters or cameras flashing at them, but Jaskier knew what would wait for them in the major international airport of Russia.

Normally a private jet would only have one flight attendant, if you could even call them that, they were more concerned with fetching you drinks and refills than safety. But Jaskier had requested a full staff of the best trained flight attendants available, he knew he’d need all the help he could get.

He and the flight staff do their very best to prepare the witchers as much as possible. Before the pilots even turn the engine on they explain how it will be rather loud and they might feel the vibration beneath them, but that is completely normal. They explain how as they climb in altitude so quickly they will feel the change in pressure, mostly in their ears, as if cotton was being stuffed in.

“Chewing on gum will help alleviate this side effect,” Jaskier explains and hands out a pack to everyone. Many have experience with gum, understanding (after a few disastrous incidents) that it was purely meant to be chewed not eaten like fucking candy.

The pilots roar the engine to life, and just about every witcher jumps at the sudden assault of noise, hands reaching for any nearby weapons. They taxi for a couple of minutes, allowing the witchers to get used to the feel, buckling seat belts and clutching armrests, and Merten damn near stuffing the entire pack of gum in his mouth.

Then they reach the runway and Jaskier is fully ready for the shitshow that follows. The plane speeds up, faster and faster, the g-force forcing their heads back against the rest. Auckes has his eyes squeezed shut, entire body taunt like a bowstring. Treyse looks a particularly nasty shade of green that Jaskier is surprised he hasn’t vomited yet, and Jaskier swears he can hear Coën praying behind him.

They climb and climb higher in the sky, causing poor Treyse to open the sick bag he was handed, confirming that he must have a nasty case of flight sickness. But eventually they level out, blessedly with little to no turbulence, and the flight attendants cheerily tell them all that the first hardest part was all done.

“As fucking horrible as this is,” Stefan finally speaks up, needing to shout from the noise. “And this is truly horrible. Why the fuck humans would willingly do this is beyond me... The view isn’t that bad.” Jaskier turns, seeing the crane leader gazing out the small window, others following suit. Even after flying hundreds of times, Jaskier is still amazed by the view from thousands of feet in the air, so he could only imagine the shivers running down the witcher's spines as they gaze out.

Stefan seems content with continuing to stare out the window for the entire flight, barely even touching his food and drink in favor of studying each and every spec of land beneath him. Aukes, seemingly not a fan of heights, closes his window and sits back to try and meditate the time away. Slowly the others relax in their seats, left to their own devices as they wait.

It finally allows Jaskier privacy with Eskel, curling up next to him, making sure to give him as much attention as possible. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, love.” He presses a kiss to his unscarred cheek. “But the majority of the world right now has seem to just accept queer relationships as a normalcy. I fear what would happen if we introduced all three of us as lovers...” He knew they wouldn’t be able to be public with the three of them, needing to leave Eskel as the seemingly purely right-hand to the warlord.

“I know, catmint.” Eskel reassures, lips against his soft hair. “Can’t say I like it, but I understand why it has to be done.” That was one of the more heartbreaking things to teach the Witchers, Jaskier decides, that for all this world has advanced, it has gotten only more and more bigoted in their morals and acceptance.

Two hours later, they are flying over the great city of Moscow. The others are looking out their windows again, taking in the sheer size of the city, the architecture and colors-

“Not half bad,” Treyse comments just loud enough for Jaskier to hear, making him snort in laughter. The flight attendants tell them they will soon be landing and begin instructing them in what to do and how it will feel.

Poor Treyse has a hand clutching another sickbag, just in case, the others sitting ramrod straight with hands gripping the armrests hard enough to cause the plastic to bend and crack.

Jaskier isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s a little proud of Treyse managing to make it all the way until the first jump of the wheels hitting the tarmac before vomiting into the sack. His mere human senses are sharp enough to pick up the pure relief that spreads throughout the cabin as the plane slows, the engine lowering to a purr. Of course they couldn’t be taxied to an actual terminal - no - Jaskier sighs in resignation as he sees the steps being lowered to a swarm of reporters and paparazzi and security and even a few dignitaries.

“Here we go...” He sighs out, taking the front as he leads the witchers out and into the public eye.

#thingywritesthingies #twn #the witcher #witcher 3 #modernized awau #modern awau #eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #artek #coen #treyse #auckes #flying #flight sickness #cw vomiting

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year

Text

The Viper (Part 10)

Jaskier x gn!reader

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Eleven - Part Twelve

I was going to keep writing and adding more to this chapter but it's just so long that I have to break it up lol

Warnings: swearing, a LOT of talking about old scars and old injuries, lots of cute moments, like zero plot, romantic tension (?)

Word Count: 2867

Masterlist

Tag List Form

The distant trill of birdsongs flooded the morning air. A cool mist hung low to the ground, concealing a world further beyond the trees.

Your eyes opened slowly. Your limbs felt detached and distant. Your body was warm and comfortable.

At first, it was hard to place where you were. You could hear a low growl right next to your ear, but instead of seeing an animal, your vision was filled with blue ruffles. It shifted slowly. It rose up… and then fell back down, in a repeated motion. It smelled very faintly of vanilla.

Carefully, you moved away from the growling blue frills, until your brain finally processed what was happening.

The blue fabric was Jaskier’s doublet. He didn’t remove it, as a means of preserving heat. And the growling was not an animal, that was true. Rather, it was the sound of the bard’s snores. Your head had been on his chest, right next to the sound.

But why?

You don’t recall falling asleep like that. The only contact you recall sharing with him was his arm draped over you. Now it seemed both of them were circling you, holding you close. Not only that, beneath the thin blanket, your legs were woven together, booted feet knocking against each other.

You imagined for a brief moment what it would be like if he awoke at this very moment. Blue eyes fluttering open, droopy and dull from sleep, landing on your face, staring back into your own slitted pupils. It felt like all too much. Fortunately, his face remained still, eyelids shut and fluttering with a dream he would most likely share with you later over breakfast.

With careful, slow movements, you worked to untangle your legs and the arms around you. It was difficult to completely remove yourself from his grasp, as he would keep trying to hold on tighter and tighter to you, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of your cloak and undershirt. Once you were fully free, his arms wrapped around his own body, you escaped out of the tent.

“Do Witchers believe in anything?” Jaskier asked. He rode behind you atop Bayard as you urged the horse to a trot, arms holding on to you as the animal jostled its riders. Without mud clogging up the roads (or Bayard’s hooves), it was the perfect time to make up lost ground. “Like, Melitele or something?”

You hummed, thoughtful. “Nothing so… religious, as far as I’m aware.” You glanced over your shoulder. He looked at you with curiosity, urging you to go on. “Perhaps the closest we get is in our devout search - or research, rather - of the Wild Hunt.”

You could imagine the furrow in his brow as he questioned you further. “The Wild Hunt? Like, those stories about phantom riders that fly across the sky, abducting people?”

“It’s a bit more nuanced than that, but yes. I don’t know much about the other Witcher schools, but the Viper school was built to study the Hunt. Well, that and a disagreement as to who and what a Witcher should take contracts for. All my time growing up there, between lessons on beasts and potions, we would study the Wild Hunt, until we could recite all of the scrolls collected there backward and forward.”

“How many schools are there?” He tried to look over your shoulder and meet your eyes. “There’s Wolves and Vipers - are there more?”

You hummed, nodding. “Quite a few more, actually.” He watched as you thought about the other schools, mentally ticking them all off an imaginary list. “The Wolves have the most Witchers left, as far as I know. But there’s a Cat school, a Griffin school, Crane, Bear, and, uhm… Manticore.”

“There’s… seven schools?!”

“Well, some disbanded, or their Witchers have died out… As far as I know, I’m the last Viper left.”

Jaskier was quiet behind you. The last time the topic of schools came up, you got this distant look in your eye. He still wasn’t quite able to place what the look was. Perhaps a mix of grief and nostalgia, of longing and loss. He wished he could take those feelings away.

“But you don’t know for sure,” he tried. He scanned your face as best he could from the awkward angle he placed himself in, searching for any emotion aside from the careful neutrality you usually faced the world with. “Some might have escaped, or maybe they’re hiding-”

“It’s not worth dwelling on, Jaskier.” You sighed. It was sad. “If they did escape the destruction of Gorthur Gvaed, they would have to hide and fight their way out of Nilfgaard. And even in the North, a constant mark would be placed for their head.”

His face morphed with confusion. “There are people out to get you up here?” It was hard for him to believe. Witchers performed a vital task normal villagers weren’t willing to: slay monsters. They protected civilizations from the fiercest of beasts. And people wanted to kill them? Destroy the only source of protection from Drowners, Ghouls, and Kikimore?

“There will always be people against us,” you explained. “To them, we’re just… soulless monsters.”

“But you fight the monsters! How…?”

“It’s just how the world is, Jaskier.”

He huffed, leaning back. “Well, that’s just completely unfair.”

During the silence that persisted for the rest of the ride, you swore you could hear him muttering under his breath and humming tunes you hadn’t heard before.

“Oh ho ho! Yes!” Jaskier barely waited for Bayard to be at a complete stop before he was sliding off and rushing to the creek. He almost ripped the expensive fabric of his doublet as he scrambled to take it off, draping it carelessly over a tree branch before he began wading into the water.

Almost instantly, his whole body tensed up, his arms flapping in the air as he finally comprehended the temperature of the water. “Fuck! It’s freezing!”

Despite the exclamation, Jaskier continued to wade into the running water. He hissed and breathed quickly to fight through the cold until he was waist deep. A violent shiver ran through his body, but he continued to remove his undershirt, exposing his hairy chest to the autumn breeze.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you chided from the riverbank. Nimble fingers worked on tying Bayard’s lead to a tree, considering it could be a while before Jaskier decided to get out of the water.

He chuckled, the sound of water splashing followed his movements as he cupped water in his hands and poured it over his body, scrubbing the muck and grime and stench off as best he could without his fancy soaps or oils. “Better than smelling like a stable that hasn’t been mucked out for weeks,” he countered.

You sighed, but argued no further. Besides, you were making good enough time; a little detour like this shouldn’t affect the journey much. In a couple of days, you’d be in Tretogor. Perhaps you’d even reach Oxenfurt before it began to snow.

“C’mon, wash up!” his voice lilted from the water. With a playful grimace, he added, “You don’t smell too good yourself, you know.”

He had a point, despite the teasing. The last time you bathed was when your shoulder was recovering. Now it was fully healed, and you were covered in dirt, mud, and most likely monster blood. A quick bath wouldn’t hurt.

You undid the straps of your leather armor, pulling off the protection piece by piece. They dropped to the ground unceremoniously in a pile next to Bayard. Even he snuffed at the smell coming from you.

You pulled off your boots and socks (something Jaskier neglected to think about before recklessly trudging forward), and began the slow walk into the cold water.

“Melitele’s tits!” Your whole body tensed as the freezing water touched you, finding its way through the fibers of your clothes to caress against your skin. Goosebumps rushed up your arms and down your back with a shiver; you almost couldn’t feel how cold your legs were. You groaned and tugged at your shirt. “Quick wash, and then we’re building a fire.”

Before you could even see Jaskier nodding in agreement, you were turning your back to him and pulling your shirt off over your head. The wordsmith was struck silent by the sight before him.

He’d seen some of your scars before, though it felt rude to linger on them too long while you were injured and out of it. But this…

A long, jagged scar ran from your shoulder blade to your mid-back. Claw marks from a large animal, now scabbed over, traced just under your ribs, but they began on your stomach where Jaskier couldn’t see. Marred skin over old sword wounds. Raised, improperly-healed scratches. Injuries, new and old, littered your back. It was… horrifying, but not in the way that Jaskier was disgusted by the wounds. Rather, he was scared to imagine how close to death some of them brought you, or what fights you got into over the long span of your life.

You must have felt the burning gaze on your back, or maybe you just noticed the dead silence, because when you looked over your shoulder, you didn’t seem the least surprised or shocked he was staring.

Your yellow eyes, or maybe the movement of looking at him, shocked Jaskier back into reality. He cleared his throat and looked away, down to his shirt that he clumsily began washing. He whistled. “These stains,” he began. “I didn’t think mud could stain something like this. I mean, wow! They’re really stuck in there!”

“You’re allowed to look,” you assured him through a chuckle. “Ask about them, if you’d like - I’ve nothing to hide.” A cool breeze blew through the trees, kissing your exposed skin with shivers. All your muscles tensed, waiting for the wind to leave before you could relax them again. “After we make a fire.”

Jaskier reached out and just brushed one of the marks littering your back before quickly pulling away, as if burned by the rough texture of the scabbed-over injury.

“It’s okay,” you were quick to assure him. “I don’t mind.”

Hesitantly, calloused fingertips touched your skin again. They were rough and warm, and gentle. You almost couldn’t feel the way his hands moved to feel every last bump and scrape, every old injury that healed over.

A fire crackled and snapped nearby, eating away at the wood you fed it. Bayard snorted softly as he pulled up what little living grass remained and munched on it. The log beneath you, that originally sat several feet away before you moved it further into the clearing, was rough on your behind, with bark and nubby limbs pressing into you. But his hands… It was difficult to fathom how they could be so soft for someone who traveled - lived, even - on the roads of the Continent.

Jaskier had a similar thought. As his eyes and fingers traced every scar, brushed against marred, ugly skin that didn’t heal as it should have, he wondered how you weren’t rough and ragged, too. You had just about as many scars and scabs as Geralt, yet you were soft and patient and kind. How did you remain so soft, even as the monsters and beasts, human or otherwise, tore you apart over and over again?

“What about this one?” His fingers outlined a particularly nasty mark - the scar that ran from your shoulder blade down your spine. He would begin at one end and follow its shape the entire length, carefully feeling each ridge and bump, before going back over it again.

You thought for a moment, and hummed. “A training exercise, I think.” Truth be told, it was hard to remember.

Your whole life was filled with being battered and broken; when you healed and got hurt again, it was difficult to remember exactly what caused what. Had that scratch on your shoulder been from a Drowner? Or perhaps that scab on your leg was from a Dwarf. Melitele knows at this point.

“Hm, yeah… We were sparring, practicing with our daggers for the first time. Real daggers, not the wooden ones we’d been using. I got cocky, I think. I tried spinning around to dodge a move, or maybe I was just trying to be fancy with an attack, and Jefer took the opening to attack. But, we weren’t used to having real blades that could slash and cut; we were used to wood that bruised or splintered at worst.” He could see a faint smile on your lips. “While I was being bandaged up, my teacher gave me an ear full.”

He chuckled lightly. “A quick way to learn, I suppose.”

You murmured a quiet agreement, but said nothing more.

Jaskier turned back to the canvas before him. He traced tiny scratches that were more superficial than anything. Fingertips drew along the outline of blotchy skin, seemingly burned.

“And this?” He ran his finger along the rim of the skin again, following a vaguely circular pattern. “Were you burned?”

“Ah, sort of? I turned my back to a dying rotfiend. It exploded next to a torch. And when rotfiends die, they release a toxic gas.” You gestured with your hands. “The fire lit the gas, it exploded again, and the blood from the beast landed on my armor and burnt all the way through.”

“It burnt through leather?!” Jaskier found his eyes searching for your armor, as if he could still see the hole left behind.

“Yup. Exceptionally easy, too. I couldn’t take care of the burn right away, either, as I was dealing with the rest of the rotfiend’s nest.”

He frowned at the thought. Had you screamed in agony while you worked to dispatch the rest of the monsters? Or did you grit your teeth and bear it, as he was accustomed to Geralt doing?

Your face fell into something akin to a pout. “I had to buy a whole new set of armor. Used up all the coin I got for the contract, and then some.”

His eyes and fingers roamed once more, searching for another interesting wound and another interesting story. He traced along the old training injury once again, still entranced by it. However, he quickly caught sight of another scar. The claw-marks that wrapped around your side, following the curve of your lowest rib. Without thinking, he followed it, his whole hand almost holding you as it followed the curve. When he brushed against your side and you jolted slightly, he pulled back.

“That’s from a werewolf.” Your voice was quieter than before. After a moment of arguing with yourself, it seemed, you turned to show him the full reach of the lacerations.

They began at your back, came along your side, before tapering off near your navel. The marks were sharp and clear, but it was also obvious how the claws had torn apart your flesh. Jagged, irregular edges, stitched back together long ago in such a way the skin simply didn’t line up. He could just imagine your side, torn apart, skin loose and hanging.

“A werewolf?” he pressed.

You began tracing the mark yourself. Jaskier was mesmerized by the way you followed them to your side, before running along all three long scars in the motion the werewolf would have taken to make them.

“It’s a bit of a blur, really,” you admitted. “I… promised to protect this young girl through her first transformation. She was scared and desperate… But when the time came, she was much larger than any other werewolf I’d dealt with, and I was caught off guard… I think… she swatted at me, hit me into a wall. But I don’t truly remember much after that.”

“And what about her?” He was enraptured. Geralt wasn’t much of a talker, much less a story teller. But you were explaining everything perfectly, and he was caught up in each tale, adjectives and poetic verbiage circling his mind. “Did she run off or…?”

You frowned, thinking. “I don’t know.”

Your fingers traced back and forth, over and over the claw-marks. Jaskier rested a hand over yours, stopping the repetitive motion with a soft smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

This close, you could see the way his irises were darkest blue on the outer rim, and how they faded toward his pupil into a greenish-hazel. Whereas before they seemed entirely one shade of brilliant blue, now you knew they held honey and ferns within them.

Jaskier was just as mesmerized with your eyes. They were yellow, sure, but they had flecks of gold scattered throughout. The edges were brown, like a warm ale. They reminded him of the sunsets during fall, as gold sunlight coated the Continent. Or of fire, crackling in a hearth, just contained enough to be somewhat safe. Embers reaching out for more tinder to consume.

And then it was over. You smiled and pulled your shirt back on. Your eyes no longer studied his, but looked to the sky. The sun was already beginning to fall, casting long shadows and spewing its last, golden rays for the day.

---

@kmuir1

@writeawaythepain

@sleepyqueerenergy

@lex-caspartine

#fanfic #fanfiction #the witcher #witcher #jaskier #witcher jaskier #the witcher jaskier #jaskier the bard #jaskier x reader #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #gn reader #x gn reader

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dear-galileo · 2 years

Text

you spin me right around

modern au!geraskier, written for the @thepassifloradiscord fic and art swap!

8.5k words, mature

read on ao3

“I am going to learn magic,” Jaskier declared into his phone. Triss, on the other end, made a noise of surprise.

“Really? What brought this on? Oh, I can recommend you to one of my professors-”

“I am going to learn magic, and curse Valdo fucking Marx so that whenever he goes to sing, his dick gets smaller.”

“Is that his middle name?” Triss asked. Jaskier paused, already lost in a conversation that he had started. “Fucking? Valdo Fucking Marx? I can’t tell if his parents had great confidence in him, or simply hated him.”

“I’ve made the word cuck in my phone autocorrect to Valdo.”

“I can’t imagine how often you text the word cuck.”

“No, but it’s quicker to type that than Valdo Fucking Marx.” Jaskier said easily. Triss laughed, before composing herself.

“Why are you cursing him? Or should I say, what did he do today?”

“He’s into painting .” Jaskier revealed dramatically. He was currently walking through one of the many courtyards of Oxenfurt University. Having spent the past two years at this school studying music previously had granted Jaskier zero shame regarding freshmen overhearing his phone conversations. Let them be entertained, lord knows they need it.

“He’s-” Triss hesitated on the other side of the phone. He could imagine her sitting at her desk in her dorm, twirling a pencil in one hand, her phone in the other. “He’s into painting? Isn’t that a good thing, since he would drop out of your music classes?”

“No.” Jaskier corrected. “He’s into painting alongside his music- he’s making art to represent his songs.” Triss hummed, and Jaskier could tell from the tone that she wasn’t getting the full picture. “Not only has he stolen three of my songs from freshman year and mangled them with his bloody fucking [__], but he’s making toddler-level finger paintings based off of them.”

“I might need photographic evidence of these.” Triss said.

“Already sent one to you. It looked like he shat himself on top of a canvas and called it art. I couldn’t bear to stand around and listen to his lecture on what it represented, so I got out when I could.”

Triss’s laughter echoed through the phone as she checked the photo. “Dear Gods,” she said, putting the phone back to her ear. “That is truly terrible. But how is this magic worthy?”

“He’s trying to one up me! I bet you he overheard that I am going for that internship at the record studio, and is trying to beat me out.”

“How would bad artwork help him in that case?”

Jaskier threw up one of his arms, even though Triss couldn’t see him. A freshman with an overloaded backpack stared at him as she walked by.

“Fucked if I know! But I refuse to let this slide by, I’ve got to do something.” Triss groaned.

“No, every time you say you’ve got to do something, you end up doing something ridiculous that very much does not need to be done,” she complained. “And half the time you drag me into it.”

“How many times must I apologize for setting you up on that fake date with him? I didn’t know he was going to spend the entire two hours at the movie talking.”

“You can stop apologizing when I can smell movie theater popcorn without cringing. He tried to hand feed me popcorn , Jask, that’s not something that one could easily forget. He has sweaty hands.”

“Which is why you were never sent on another spy mission- in fact, I gave up the spy missions sophomore year. That’s growth!”

“If I didn’t know how much you genuinely hated this man, I would say just fuck him and get it over with,” Triss said with a barely suppressed sigh. This was a discussion that they have had before.

“Getting back to the point-”

“Oh, goody, there’s a point,” Triss said dryly. Jaskier gasped loudly into the phone, just to get his feelings of betrayal across.

“Rude! You are spending too much time with Yen. She’s a bad influence.”

“I actually think that she would help you with the penis shrinking spell, if you gave her a good enough reason to.”

Jaskier considered this for a moment, but Yen still scared him, even after half a year of her dating Triss, his best friend.

“No, okay. I have to find another medium, and be better at it than Valdo is.”

“You are going to make shitty paintings?” Triss asked. There was movement on her side of the phone. “Oh- Yen’s here, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Is he complaining about that greasy fuck again?” Yen’s voice distantly said.

“Yes! He is!” Jaskier called. Yen’s scoff could have been a general one, or because of Jaskier talking about himself in the third person, it was too hard to tell through the phone. “Listen, so I can’t get into painting, a, because that’s too obvious, I would be blatantly stealing his idea, and b, that’s stupid.”

“I doubt Valdo owns the market to making paintings based off of songs,” Triss started to say.

“Hush, my lovely beautiful friend,” Jaskier cut her off. “I was going to try wood carving, but then I remembered the last time I held a knife in the kitchen, I managed to nearly chop off my entire hand, so that’s out. That means ice sculptures are out as well. Perhaps sandcastles?”

“We live nowhere near a beach.” Triss reminded him. Jaskier cursed, scowling. He was on his way across campus, back to his car to get to work, so he didn’t have the time to run back to his apartment to scavenge through his closet of abandoned crafts.

“I have an idea,” Yennefer said, suddenly very close to the phone. “Pottery.”

“Like the art of weed?” Jaskier asked, before remembering he was speaking to a very powerful mage who could create a portal to him to smack him, if she so wanted. Thankfully, Yen chose to ignore the joke.

“Sculpting with clay. I have an old friend who runs a pottery studio in town. They do open house nights every week, where people can try to make their own pieces.”

“It’s not a castle made out of fine sediment, but that might still do the trick.” Jaskier declared. “Triss, please kiss your lovely girlfriend for me as a thank you.”

“Please do not give me a kiss from Jaskier,” Yen said to Triss. “Is your problem solved? May I spend time with Triss now?”

Jaskier made kissy noises into the phone until Yen got the point and hung up. A few minutes later, a text from Triss with an address and a name came through. It was just downtown, and thankfully not too far from his apartment. The name provided was Geralt, which the website unhelpfully gave no more information about.

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#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #em posts #my fics #passiflora discord #jaskier #geralt #modern geraskier #pottery

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