#geralt has put YEARS of effort into his training to make sure he knows to yell for him loudly and get out of the immediate vicinity

[wolf-and-bard]

Jotastic?! Who suggested Eskel got the spikes on his shoulder? Was it a monster inspiring him? Or did someone suggest? Or did he see this really canon-age-punk kid and got inspired?

Pandawesome! 💕 Because the last one turned out soft, this had to turn out sad, I'm sorry!!! I hope you like it anyway...

cw: angst, mentions of trial-related trauma, (possibly) unrequited feelings

---

Nights You Don't Remember (M, ~1.6k)

Eskel sits alone at breakfast, the other trainees around him merry and joyous as they chat about the upcoming day. He doesn’t have much to add, doesn’t want to do anything else than quietly eat his porridge. He knows the masters worry about him, think he’s behind in his development, but Eskel still needs time to process all this.

Kaer Morhen.

The witchers.

His newfound future.

At six, those concepts seem rather insurmountable.

Eskel sits alone at breakfast until someone slides into the seat opposite him and catches his attention with a wave so that Eskel looks up from his spoon, wary.

"You like crafts, don't you?" the boy says, cocking his head. His hair falls in long strands of orange-red so bright Eskel has a hard time looking at him for long. He doesn’t know the boy’s name even though they are so similar everyone in the keep remarked on it the day Eskel arrived.

"How," Eskel asks, then breaks off and shakes his head. The boy exposes a gap-toothed smile, and presses a lump of rock into Eskel's free hand. It's cool and smooth and Eskel is almost certain there is some metallic component to it. That much he remembers from his father's workshop, how to distinguish ore from plain rock. "How did you figure?" he finally manages.

"I saw you whittle a toy knight from wood and give it to one of the younger pups," the boy says, a little sheepish.

Eskel must know his name. They are in the same cohort, they have been attending the same classes. He's only been at Kaer Morhen for a month or so, but his memory is usually so sharp. Why can’t he remember?

"... I also overheard Master Vesemir ask you about the quality of your practice sword and you seemed to know a lot about that, so I thought... well it might be stupid anyway." Red creeps into the boy's impossibly freckle-speckled cheeks as he looks away, and Eskel's lip twitches.

"What's your name again?"

"Geralt."

"Thank you for this, Geralt, I know just the thing to make with it."

Geralt's head whips back around and his grin bursts anew. He gives the rock in Eskel's hand a pat, then skips away to where Master Rennes is collecting their class for their early history lessons. Eskel lets Geralt's unexpected gift slip into his pocket and gets up to follow him.

---

That night, Geralt and Eskel sneak out of the dormitories to search the sky for shooting stars. They find none, but in the way only young children can form attachments, they have become the best of friends by the next morning. Nothing will ever come between them, Eskel thinks once he's back in bed, the rock cradled close to his chest.

---

Eskel is afraid. He is so fucking afraid of the Trials, for his own life, for Geralt's, for everyone in their cohort. He is also afraid of what will come after, what life will be like. He knows the theory of it, he will make a good witcher his masters say, but reality looms greater than any beast or monster could and Eskel is afraid.

"I have something for you," Geralt says when he approaches Eskel out on the training grounds where he's been sparring with the dummy. It's the evening before.

"Hm?" Eskel puts down his sword and wipes the sweat from his brow. His stomach gapes with hunger, his body burns from all the effort he's been putting it through, just to get his mind off things, his heart is beating way too fast. Something the Trials will remedy, no doubt.

"Here." Geralt holds out his cupped hands which hold a great, grey ball of... rock. The very same rock Eskel still has on his nightstand. Eskel blinks, then bursts into laughter. "Hey, don't laugh at me. It's to help..."

"How is this going to help me survive the Grasses?" Eskel asks, but he takes the rock and he also takes Geralt's hand because he can.

"Well, I just thought... you might need some more. For whenever you decide what to do with it. It could be your activity while you... recover."

"Oh," is all Eskel says and Geralt squeezes his hand.

"Wanna spar?"

"Sure." The rock disappears into Eskel's pocket and they fight until day's first light.

----

Eskel holds the rock clutched tightly to his chest all throughout the Grasses and none of the masters have the heart to take it away from him, not when he starts screaming for Geralt the second they do.

He holds it throughout his recovery and throughout Geralt’s second set of Trials. He holds it until he muscles in his fingers give out and all he can do is lay there and wait.

---

"We made it," Geralt says as he slips into Eskel's bed. His hair is starkly white now, and his eyes burn a fierce yellow. His freckles have faded to invisibility. Eskel can't stand to look at him, can't stand to look at reflective surfaces either. They took away his Geralt, he is sure of it, burned him out of his body and left a bleached shell.

"You made it twice," Eskel murmurs and jumps when something cool is pressed into his palm. He glances down to find that Geralt has placed yet another rock there. The collection is growing. "Why?"

"Because they make you happy."

"Where do you get these anyway?"

They're not like anything Eskel has found in and around Kaer Morhen, nor even near it. He would recognize a proper ore, he is sure of it, even after all this time.

"A secret," Geralt says on a smile and snuggles into Eskel's side. He needs the comfort, the warmth, the affection. Geralt puts on a strong front, but Eskel can see right through it. Two Grasses should have reduced anyone to a lifeless husk and here Geralt is, still bringing Eskel those stones.

Maybe they didn't kill his Geralt after all. Maybe Eskel is the one that got lost.

---

The fourth rock appears magically in Eskel's backpack after his first successful hunt. Not immediately after, but within the week. Eskel treasures that one the most, but he also resents it. If Geralt could drop by to give him the gift, couldn't he have also said hello? Given Eskel a hug?

Eskel's been aware of his budding feelings for his brother-in-arms for a while now. He feels every day spent apart as keenly as a Nekker bite, though these dull with time.

Geralt... doesn't seem to mind so much.

---

Their thirtieth birthday is the last one they celebrate. It's an arbitrary date they picked, way back when, and they always do it together. Always did, anyway. They promise each other - drunk on ale and swaying arm in arm to whatever shanty Lambert and his friends are hollering through the keep's main hall - that they won't need such a stupid thing as birthdays to be grateful for each other's existence. That they'll stop counting the years behind them.

Eskel doesn't want to disregard the past, but he nods along.

"To the next thirty years and whatever lies beyond," Geralt says and slips his hand into Eskel's pocket. When he withdraws, the fabric of his breeches pull down, heavy with whatever Geralt placed in there. "Happy birthday, Eskel." Geralt briefly bumps their foreheads together, then withdraws to chase Lambert away from the ale barrel.

Eskel squeezes his eyes shut and his hands clench into fists, one as it is, one around the object in his pocket.

It's not just the last birthday they celebrate, it is also the last bit of ore Geralt will ever give him.

---

"What are those," Geralt laughs when they part after their mandatory welcome-hug, and points at the spikes that adorn Eskel's jacket. They weren't there last winter, and Eskel wasted an entire month on crafting them, perfecting them. Each one shaped out of the dozen or so rocks Geralt gave him over the years, that last one now half a century past, and Eskel finally decided what to make with them.

Eskel opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt cuts him off before he can.

"These look like something Dandelion would put on his doublet and call it fashion."

Eskel's heart plummets. There are a million things he could say, he could explain, could confess, could... well. It would only make Geralt feel bad, wouldn't it?

"I, uh," he starts, then swallows hard, and Geralt's brow rises. "I did a job for a blacksmith who fancied himself a designer. He... insisted."

"They seem pretty useless to me," Geralt replies, then runs his fingers across them. "But I suppose that is beside the point."

I hate you, Eskel thinks then. I hate you for ever bringing me this damned material, I hate you.

I love you, Eskel thinks also. I love you for the way you used to think of me, I love you.

"At least not as useless as whatever Lambert's got going on," he says and that makes Geralt chuckle. He draws an arm around Eskel's shoulder, carefully avoiding the spikes, and together they make for the keep.

---

Eskel doesn't have the heart to pluck them off again. Not when he spent so much effort making them. He wears them as a reminder, and sheds them only on the day he leaves Kaer Morhen behind for the last time.

#the witcher #tw3 #eskel #geralt #gerskel #kaer morhen #vesemir #rennes #lambert #angst #cw trauma #trials #this got way too long for it being the background of eskel's armor spikes BUT i felt it was important to elaborate #also probably too emotional #sorryyyyy #brain wanted pain #unrequited feelings #don't look at the timeline too too closely

[julek]

inspired by @valdomarx‘s post 

Geralt’s fought many monsters throughout the course of his life. He’s studied them closely, gathering information about their weak spots and their strenghts, the causes of their existence and the consequences their actions leave in their wake. He’s thoroughly injured many of them, leaving the monsters no other choice than to flee, to exile themselves into oblivion. He’s killed many, as well, mainly the lesser creatures, whose understanding of the living and their intentions is so basic and sparse, not even a patient and dedicated Witcher can make them leave without spearing silver through their bodies. He’s seen monsters, felt them against his skin, carried their severed heads or dangling limbs as proof. 

He’s never talked to one.

Sure, he’s sat down on a mushroom-covered log and gesticulated wildly at a group of trolls that were very keen on not leaving the pond they’d taken residence in; he’s screamed at a noonwraith to stop dancing around him and finally take a corporeal form; he’d even tried, early in his training, to engage in conversation with a particularly stubborn drowner, to no avail. Talking to monsters for anything other than bargaining their leave, or allowing them a few last words —or screams, or growls— had never been Vesemir’s indication, not to Geralt’s recollection.

Well, it hadn’t been. Not until Jaskier came along. 

Geralt has never had anyone trail after him with such innocent curiosity, smelling of jasmine and sweat but not of fear — never fear. He’s never had someone test his patience and his very extensive knowledge on monsters daily, never had to explain why both Basilisks and Harpies had wings, but they weren’t pretty little birds who just wanted to be loved, Jaskier. 

He’s never had anyone pull at his heartstrings the way Jaskier has, either. 

It’s infuriating, really; he’s a Witcher, he’s never wanted anything for himself. Never found something worth keeping. But when Jaskier makes it clear he’s not leaving, not even if Geralt comes to him smelling of death and decay, twigs and blood and something else entwined in his hair, Geralt finds himself stuttering, his breath catching in his throat. He never asked —never would— but Jaskier gave him an answer anyway. It’s in the way the corner of his lips go up whenever Geralt gives in and makes a joke, it’s in the way Jaskier’s body seeks his warmth during the night, inevitably tangling their legs together. It’s in the way Jaskier’s eyes light up when they reunite after the winter, nothing but pure joy and relief overwhelming Geralt’s senses as he’s wrapped in a warm embrace.

It would be awfully presumptuous of Geralt to dive headfirst into his own feelings without being sure Jaskier feels the same, but that doesn’t stop him. He finds himself stealing glances at the bard during his performances, watching him in his element. He starts to ration their food to favor the bard, almost subconsciously, always giving him the juiciest pieces of meat and the freshest fruit he can find. He catches himself offering Roach the minute Jaskier’s scent turns sour with pain, either from a roaring hangover or from walking in those gods-awful boots he insists on wearing, the ones that accent his breeches and pair really well with the color of his hair—

And just as he’d feared, Geralt starts losing focus. Important things slip from his mind, and anything that doesn’t involve Jaskier’s choice of soap or doublet or undershirt flies right over his head at a worring pace. It’s not a curse, that he knows with certainty. The pull he feels in his gut whenever Jaskier’s away has nothing to do with magic, the feeling of contentedness that stretches over his chest when they’re together is not potion-induced. 

They’re in a small hamlet near Vizima when Geralt snaps.

It’s dark, stars reflecting on the swamp. Geralt’s sitting behind a log covered in moss, not far from where he first heard footsteps approaching. He’s stalking a zombie, which is an easy task even though he hasn’t encountered many over the years. From what he’s gathered, zombies are rather innocuous, non-sentient creatures, usually in search of bones or small animals to take to their Bokor, their creator, whom they submit to. He’s not sure if such a small town could even host such a powerful sorcerer, but he’s not ready to rule out that possibility yet. 

The zombie staggers across the forest floor, its movements slow and uncoordinated. It’s muttering something under its breath as it bends down to grab a small spider, crushing it between its bony fingers. The zombie stands tall again, but stills as Geralt’s sword is pressed against its exposed breastbone, the zombie’s eyesockets boring into Geralt’s face.

“Show me your hands,” Geralt grunts, careful not to press his sword too far, lest the creature dissolves under its weight. 

Surprisingly, the zombie nods and puts its hands up, rotting flesh hanging from its fingers. They’re empty, and Geralt thinks he’s caught it just at the beginning of its hunt. He crouches down to check the ground, sword still in hand.

“You smell terribly, by the way. Jaskier would surely recoil,” he says with a chuckle, his mind conjuring up the image of Jaskier’s nose scrunching up in disgust. “Yes, if he were here, he’d kill you in a heartbeat, just to get away from the stench. Then he’d write a song about it, so your reputation would be truly lost.”

He picks up the spider corpse and inspects it closely. 

“He’s very delicate, you see,” he tucks the spider away in his pocket, “like a flower. I’m no poet, but he really is beautiful like a flower. A rose, maybe.”

He stands tall, ignoring the way the zombie’s mouth hangs open. 

“Yes... a rose is pretty and smells good,” he reckons, leaning his weight on the zombie’s chest. “Jaskier always smells good, and he always looks beautiful. And he’s so good to me, you know. He sees good in everyone. I’m sure he’d even see something good in you.”

The zombie hums, a low sound slowly making its way out of the zombie’s mouth, but Geralt cuts it off with a dreamy sigh.

“And it’s just so hard to work now. I can’t even concentrate during a hunt, because he’s made a habit of hugging me before a contract, for luck, you know, and when I move too fast I catch his scent on my skin, and I just can’t—”

“Kill,” the zombie slurrs, its face twisting with effort to get the word out.

Geralt’s eyes widen, golden slits shining in the dark. “Did you just speak to me?”

The zombie ignores him and moves its hand up, aiming for a weary gesture.

“J-just... kill me,” it pleads. “Please.”

Geralt frowns. He can’t recall the last time —if ever— he’s had a monster request him to end their existence. He usually has to fight his way through, and there’s more blood and guts and swords involved. Modern times, he thinks, everyone’s a critic.

He shrugs and drags his sword up, splitting the zombie in two. It falls gracelessly to the ground, and Geralt can swear he hears the bones rattling in relief. 

“Rude,” he says as he gathers the bones in a bag, proof to take to the alderman. He’s never had a monster critique his hunting technique, so he’s not sure how to react — what would Vesemir say, hearing a zombie speak to him like that?

He clicks his tongue and makes his way out of the forest. In the distance, he can see a candle burning in the top window of the inn, can almost imagine Jaskier trying not to fall asleep to hear all about his heroics the minute he walks in. 

He smiles, and makes a mental note to add to his bestiary. Zombies — sentient. Eager to engage in conversation. Nosy. 

#mywriting #geraskier ficlet #geralt x jaskier #i saw george's post and had to drop everything and write this #never was hunting so easy as when geralt's lamenting through the forests #killjoy

[jaskicr]

fae witcher jaskier

aka the most self indulgent thing i’ve ever written in my entire life as i combine my favourite tropes of fae jaskier, witcher jaskier, and identity porn

the school of the manticore is experimenting with alchemical formulas to create witchers, not just from humans, but from other humanoid creatures as well (such as elves, fae, and vampires)

jaskier is a curious fae who wanders into the human world, but he’s taken by some manticore witchers and experimented on

but they didn’t expect him to be such a powerful fae and he resists their efforts to experiment on him, so to subdue him, they brainwash him

they take his memories of being fae, making him docile, and successfully turn him into a witcher

the mutations make jaskier’s fae features even more prominent - he has pointed ears, horns, deadly sharp teeth, claws, and he’s very tall, with fully black eyes (like he’s under the effects of a potion) and white hair

due to this, he’s ostracised even amongst the witchers in the manticore school - with the exception of those who experimented on him, they all think that the mutations made him monstrous and they don’t know that he’s fae

at this point, he’s mutated beyond both a fae and a witcher, he’s clearly neither - fae features are generally delicate and elegant, whilst jaskier’s have been made deadly and lethal by the mutations

with the brainwashing, jaskier is very compliant and he lets the witchers train him without complaint

he’s very good at signs, and he’s able to do magic outside of the signs for reasons that he doesn’t know

his trainers are afraid of his magic and try to suppress it, but jaskier’s magic is too connected to nature for them to sever the bond

so when he finally sets out on the path, his trainers keep a really tight leash on him, knowing that his power could mean that he might break out of their control and go back to the fae

jaskier’s appearance is so obviously other that he’s immediately hated by humans, but because of the brainwashing, he’s very passive in the face of their hatred

he just weathers the horrible things that humans call him and how they assault him, and it doesn’t even hurt him because he’s so conditioned not to feel anything

this happens for many years, with jaskier taking contracts and enduring the hatred from humans, and returning to the manticore keep to be conditioned/brainwashed further every winter

one day, tissaia stumbles upon this fae/witcher whose mind is completely and utterly blank, and it just feels wrong

and she knows that whoever did this to jaskier must have been unspeakably cruel, so she takes him in

jaskier is very confused by tissaia’s actions - on the one hand, he’s so used to be docile and passive that he doesn’t want to resist tissaia, but she’s not his trainer so he knows that he shouldn’t trust her

but tissaia calms him, treating him far more gentle than anyone has ever treated him, and jaskier’s instincts tell him to trust her

tissaia quickly grows fond of jaskier, who’s inhumanly tall and monstrous but oh-so-sweet and gentle, and she slowly undoes his brainwashing and helps him become more human

but jaskier’s trainers realise that his brainwashing is being undone, and they decide to go after him

tissaia, who’s now become protective of jaskier, portals them far away, refusing to let them take him

jaskier is slowly coming to his senses and regaining his memories as they escape, and he becomes desperate not to go back to his trainers

they stumble upon vesemir, who takes one look at jaskier and decides to adopt him, and the three of them run all over the continent to escape jaskier’s trainers, who want jaskier back under their leash

but tissaia becomes exhausted, and she tells jaskier that the only way he can escape his handlers is to let her strip all their brainwashing/conditioning from him completely

but it might take years or even decades, and it would hurt his body a lot, so she offers to transfer his consciousness to a human body while she works on healing his witcher body/mind

and jaskier agrees, because he’s so close to remembering his fae family and fully regaining his magic, and he refuses to be under the control of the manticore school again

so he’s reborn as julian alfred pankratz in lettenhove, while tissaia and vesemir fake jaskier’s death and spread rumours of it across the continent

jaskier, now human, grows up without any knowledge of his past, even after he goes to oxenfurt, even after he starts travelling with geralt

tissaia checks in on jaskier every once in a while, and vesemir asks after the bard who’s travelling with geralt to keep tabs on jaskier

however, tissaia hadn’t anticipated how strong the brainwashing had been, so it’s taking decades for her to strip it away without utterly destroying jaskier’s mind

one day, geralt is hunting a fae, who lures geralt and jaskier into the fae realm

the fae realm somehow manages to connect to jaskier’s consciousness/his magic, and all of a sudden he regains his memories from his life in the fae realm (but not his memories from being a witcher)

so he remembers growing up as a fea, he remembers his family, but there’s a huge gap between that and his life as a human bard

as geralt is trying to find the fae, jaskier is stumbling around, confused by his identity and his sudden influx of memories, but he knows that something is missing

while this happens, tissaia feels a surge of magic in jaskier’s real body and realises that something must have happened, and jaskier’s body starts destabilising

and she knows that she needs to put jaskier’s consciousness back into his body before it implodes due to the magic

meanwhile, as jaskier stumbles through the fae realm, recognising different places that he used to go to, he suddenly catches a glimpse of his sister, all grown up

and he tries to leave geralt to talk to her and tell her that it’s him, but right before he can do that, tissaia grabs his consciousness and yanks it back into his real body

jaskier’s human body drops dead once his conciousness leaves it, and geralt hears his breathing and his heartbeat stop, and he grieves

in a fit of grief and fury, he hunts down and kills the fae who had lured them here

this angers the rest of the fae, and geralt is quickly overpowered by them and he’s taken to a dungeon

and he just sort of accepts his fate, letting them take him without putting up a fight, because jaskier is dead

as he’s awaiting trial, geralt thinks that he won’t even mind being exeuted. after all, jaskier is gone, and what’s the point?

at the same time, jaskier wakes up in his real body with tissaia hovering over him, his last memory being seeing his sister and being in the fae realm with geralt

all his memories return to him in one go, and it’s so overwhelming to have three lives (fae, witcher, bard) in his head and jaskier has a bit of an identity crisis

and then he remembers that geralt is alone in the fae realm, which immediately makes him forget about his identity crisis for the moment as he readies himself to go after geralt

tissaia tries to stop him, telling him that he needs to recover, but jaskier needs to get to geralt right now

when he tries to walk, he stumbles a bit, forgetting how tall he is in his real body, but he powers through - even if his coordination is awful, he needs to go and save geralt. who knows what the fae could have done to him by now?

and he portals himself to the fae realm where he left geralt behind, only to see his own dead body, and the dead body of the fae that geralt had been hunting - but no one else

when he smells geralt’s tears, he realises what must have happened, and he panics since the fae must have taken geralt, but he doesn’t know where

he tracks down his sister, who doesn’t recognise him at first due to the changes the mutations had given him, but when she does, she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around him tightly in a tearful reunion

(it’s very cute, jaskier is tall enough that he dwarfs her and can pet her head)

jaskier’s sister tells him what happened to geralt, and jaskier heads off to save his witcher

none of the fae expect geralt to be rescued, so it’s laughably easy for jaskier to sneak to the dungeon and find geralt

and while he’s on the way to the dungeon, jaskier wonders whether geralt would hate him now that he’s little more than a monster

so when he does find geralt, jaskier pretends not to know him, and due to jaskier’s different appearance, geralt doesn’t recognise him despite a faint sense of familiarity

he’s confused why this large, not-quite-a-fae is helping him, and geralt can tell that he’s sort of a witcher, but not really

but jaskier’s dead, and geralt really doesn’t want to be rescued, so he pleads, ‘please, leave me to die’

jaskier is horrified and picks geralt up, knowing that he can’t just let geralt die, and geralt is fighting him - he doesn’t even know this fae/witcher

jaskier portals them to his sister’s house, and geralt passes out from his injuries

jaskier and his sister patch geralt up, all while his sister teases him for having a crush on geralt, which jaskier tries (and fails) to deny

when geralt is unconscious, jaskier sings to him, the way he always had whenever he used to treat geralt’s injuries after a hunt

and geralt, fading in and out of consciousness, thinks he hears jaskier, but surely that can’t be true - after all, jaskier’s dead

when he fully regains consciousness, he sees the large fae witcher who’d rescued him

‘who the fuck are you?’ he demands, slightly pissed that he hadn’t been left for the dead

and jaskier, who still doesn’t want geralt to know who he is, panics and introduces himself as julian

it takes him a while, but jaskier manages to convince geralt that he’s trustworthy - after all, the fae can’t lie, and when jaskier tells geralt that he’s safe, that he doesn’t mean any harm, geralt tentatively relaxes

with geralt still injured, he can’t leave the house even though he just wants to go back to kaer morhen and grieve jaskier, so he stays

jaskier helps him around the house whenever he needs to get around, and geralt is too weak to stand on his own, so he leans on jaskier as he walks (jaskier is tall enough that geralt only comes up to his chest, which geralt finds very nice and warm)

and as days pass, geralt realises that, despite his imposing size, julian is soft and gentle and caring, and it makes his head spin, because only jaskier has ever been this gentle to him

meanwhile, jaskier is having an internal crisis - over his identity, over his memories, but also over geralt

because he knows that geralt thinks he’s dead, so jaskier concludes that he can pretend to be a whole new person who’s decidedly not jaskier, and geralt would never know - after all, jaskier’s human body is dead

and jaskier thinks that’s better for both of them, because he doesn’t want to taint geralt’s memories of human jaskier since he’s a monster now

jaskier’s sister is just done with him, she tries to slap some sense into him but he insists on not telling his true identity to geralt

so geralt feels safe around julian in a way he’s only ever felt around jaskier, but he doesn’t suspect anything

(there’s one morning when geralt wakes up to julian spooning him from behind, and he feels so safe, so cared for. he feels seen)

as he recovers, he realises that he really doesn’t want to leave - julian is so nice to him, and geralt wants nothing more than to stay here with julian

but part of geralt feels like he’s betraying jaskier, even though he’s dead - julian makes him feel like jaskier did, and gods, he misses jaskier so much

so geralt pretends that he’s reocvering slower than he really is, and jaskier pretends not to know what geralt’s doing, and one day, geralt stumbles and falls backwards, and jaskier catches him

geralt realises that their faces are really close as he stares into endless black eyes, and he’s unable to stop himself from pulling julian into a kiss

all while he tries not to feel guilty about it, because he feels like he’s kissing jaskier, but it’s julian

and jaskier is stunned that geralt would even want to kiss him in this form, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he kisses back, and internally decides that he won’t ever tell geralt who he really is

jaskier and julian can be two separate people - let geralt remember jaskier as a human, not a monster

after that, they get closer and more intimate, and jaskier tells geralt about his trials and what the manticore school had done to him

geralt’s heart aches for this kind man who’s been through so much, who’s suffered so much, and yet, he’s still so gentle and caring

he asks how julian how he’s escaped the manticore school and regained his memories, and jaskier panics

‘... um...’ he stutters. ‘... magic?’

and geralt gets slightly suspicious because julian is hiding something, and he tries not to think about the fact that julian has the same tell that jaskier did when he was lying

geralt knows that julian physically can’t lie, but clearly, he’s hiding the truth, but julian keeps avoiding the question whenever geralt asks, making him more suspicious, but he decides that julian can have this secret

after all, it’s not harming geralt or anything, and he trusts julian

then geralt fully recovers, and he’s reluctant to leave julian, so he shyly asks julian to join him on the path so they can go witchering together

of course jaskier agrees, beyond joyful that geralt wants his company, even now, and before they leave, jaskier’s sister tries to talk sense into him one more time, but jaskier is still too dumb to listen to her

as they set out on the path, jaskier realises just how much he misses singing, how much he misses playing the lute

he hasn’t sung since rescuing geralt, since he doesn’t want geralt to recognise his voice, and he hasn’t played his lute since it was broken by the fae after his human body died

besides, he can’t really hold a lute now - he’s too big, and it would break in his hands

as they sit together one night, geralt quietly tells julian about jaskier, his heart aching and grieving

when jaskier freezes up, geralt thinks that he’s jealous and gently teases him for that, despite the pain in his heart as he tries not to compare how similar they are 

in fact, jaskier’s just panicking a lot, and he tries to act normal

they’re both really dumb

that night, jaskier is lying awake when he suddenly hears geralt having a nightmare about losing jaskier

he’s whimpering, voice pained and fearful, ‘no, please, jaskier, please don’t go, i can’t lose you -’

and jaskier tries to soothe geralt, but it doesn’t work and geralt thrashes harder, going deeper into the nightmare

then jaskier remembers that the only way he used to be able to calm geralt down from a nightmare was to sing, and he can’t bear to thrash and scream in his sleep, filled with grief and anguish

so jaskier sings

he sings geralt’s favourite songs, the ones that always loosened geralt’s shoulders and made him smile, and as he watches geralt relax, he falls asleep as well

the next morning, geralt wakes up before jaskier, remembering his nightmare, and he knows that he heard jaskier’s voice

grief almost threatens to overwhelm him because he must have hallucinated jaskier’s voice, but then he realises that if the singing hadn’t been real, he wouldn’t have been able to return to sleep, and he would’ve woken up instead

so geralt knows that someone must have sung to him - had julian sung to him

and he twists to look at julian, who’s curled around him, and he looks closer

geralt thinks of the way julian would hold him gently, the way only jaskier had, thinks of the way julian made him smile and laugh the way jaskier did, thinks of how only julian and jaskier had ever cared for him like that

and it makes sense now, why julian had kept a secret about regaining his memories, because it must have been tied to jaskier somehow, and it makes sense why julian decided to just come and rescue him

jaskier is alive, and geralt hadn’t known

but jaskier is real, and he’s here, and though geralt is mad that jaskier hadn’t told him, his joy at jaskier being alive makes him forget his anger

when jaskier wakes up, blinking blearily at geralt with a soft, lazy smile, geralt says, ‘jaskier?’

and he prays that he’s right, because he’ll be shattered if jaskier is truly dead -

and jaskier responds, exhaustion slurring his words, ‘yes, geralt?’

then he realises what he did, and he freezes, but geralt gentle pulls him into a kiss, and jaskier relaxes

‘why did you never tell me?’ geralt asks when he pulls away, light and buoyant with love and joy

jaskier has no choice but to confess

‘i didn’t want you to remember my human self as a monster,’ jaskier murmurs, looking away. ‘i wanted to keep jaskier and julian separate, so i wouldn’t taint your memories of me.’

‘you’re not a monster,’ geralt says fiercely, tracing jaskier’s face with gentle fingers, tracing over his horns and his ears, brushing under his eyes and over his teeth. 

‘but i am,’ jaskier insists, spreading his arms. ‘look at me, geralt. how am i not a monster? why would you want to remember me, my human self, as this - this monstrous thing?’

geralt’s heart breaks for him, and he tugs jaskier into a tight embrace, peppering him with kisses.

‘you’re beautiful,’ geralt whispers, and jaskier sucks in a breath at the sincerity in his voice. ‘you’re not a monster, jaskier. and i’ll love you no matter who you are, no matter what you look like. it doesn’t matter to me.’

‘even like - like this?’ jaskier asks, vulnerable, as he gestures to his too-large body, to his mutated features.

‘especially like this,’ geralt says, and kisses him

as jaskier wraps his arms around geralt, and geralt tips his head up to meet jaskier’s lips, they feel warm, they feel loved, they feel whole

(afterwards, they travel the continent together, hunting monsters and killing the people who had experimented on jaskier, and they get a glamour for jaskier so he can be a bard again, they get married on the coast and they live happily ever after)

someone once asked how many AUs of i have often dreamed of a far off place can i write, and i think that this might be my third one... with a fourth version that i dumped into the wj server earlier today oops?

#geraskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #fae jaskier #witcher jaskier #witcher!jaskier #buffskier #mine* #thank you to the rbb server for suggesting this wonderful thing #i spent an hour typing this into the wj server and another hour compiling this into a post

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 24: running after the plane/train

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 1441 Summary: Before leaving for tour, Jaskier makes things more explicit than their casual "friends with benefits" relationship. Geralt doesn't respond well and has to fix it before he leaves.

read on ao3

"You’ll miss me, won’t you?”

The question hung heavy in the silence. Geralt imagined he could hear the racing thump thump thump of Jaskier’s heart, but he knew that it was only his own he could hear. It sat there, just a moment too late, before Jaskier withdrew with a breathy laugh, soft and hurt. He had been pressed into Geralt’s chest when he said it, Geralt could feel the way his lips moved, but now he sat up, turned away. Collected himself for a moment with the blankets pooled in his lap and his skin shining silver in the moonlight from the window.

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have--” Jaskier started, only to abruptly cut himself off. Geralt lifted himself to his elbows and reached out a hand to touch Jaskier’s bare shoulder. Jaskier pulled away. “I should go. Before I--well. I should just go.”

Geralt didn’t want that. He sat up as Jaskier bent over the side of the bed, retrieving his underwear and pulling it back on. “Jaskier, don’t--”

“No, it’s fine. I knew what this was. I crossed the line with that question.” He paused, ran a hand through his hair, and Geralt knew he wasn’t imagining the trembling of Jaskier’s hand. “I suppose I… got a little sentimental. Leaving home is never easy; it makes you a bit emotional. I’m sorry.”

Geralt’s heart ached. “You don’t have to leave,” was what he said, but what he meant was I want you to stay. It was a subtle difference, but one Geralt knew Jaskier could reach the depths of. Wanting was so much harder, so much scarier, than simple permission. Geralt did not let himself want for anything, not even Jaskier. Jaskier, who was leaving him tomorrow to play his music for his hundreds of thousands of adoring fans. Jaskier, who had shared Geralt’s bed, Geralt’s kisses, Geralt’s life for the past several years, only interrupted by Jaskier’s tours.

When Jaskier left, Geralt always missed him. Each time, he thought, this would be the last. This time, the goodbye would stick, and Geralt would never get to share Jaskier’s light again. But Jaskier always came back to him. Despite the distance Geralt kept between them, Jaskier always came back.

Something was different, this time. Geralt could see it in the set of Jaskier’s shoulders, the way he was hiding his face from Geralt. This time, Jaskier wasn’t coming back. This time, what they had between them would be lost to the silence Geralt had wrought.

“I’ll get myself to the plane,” Jaskier said, and he took a deep breath. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“Jaskier, you don’t need to go . Your bags are already here, I can drive you tomorrow. Just stay the night.”

Jaskier huffed out another hurt laugh at that, and when he turned to Geralt, his eyes were red-rimmed.

“Don’t, Geralt. I don’t need to put myself up for any more disappointment, here.” He sniffed, then turned away. “I just keep hoping, you know? I keep hoping that eventually this will be more than this is. That you’ll love me the way I love you. It’s unfair to you, for me to keep putting these expectations on you. It’s unfair to me, to keep setting myself up to be hurt. So, no. It’s best if I spend my last night here somewhere else.”

Now dressed, he walked to the bedroom door. There was a long moment when he stood there, barely silhouetted in the dim light. Then Jaskier took a deep breath.

“For what it’s worth, I will miss you desperately. I’d say I won’t write a song about this, but you didn’t figure out all the others were about you, so what’s the difference?”

He left. And Geralt’s bed had never felt colder.

--

Geralt woke up the next morning in a frenzy. He did the bare minimum required to get ready, grabbed his food on his way out the door, and threw himself into the car. He hadn’t woken up early enough, and now he was running late. The only thing saving him now was the fact that Jaskier would be leaving from a private airport, not the big commercial one, and Geralt actually had a chance to get to him.

He called Yennefer on the way to the plane.

“You have to stall,” Geralt said in lieu of a greeting.

Yennefer paused for a moment. “You want me to stall the plane ? Are you kidding me, Geralt? Don’t tell me you’re the reason he’s been in a mood all morning. Why should I do any favors for you when you’ve made my life infinitely more frustrating today?”

“Yen, please. You have to stall the plane, and get me past security.”

“What power do you think I hold in all this?”

“All of it?” He sounded a bit unsure but, really, Yen was in charge of everything when it came to Jaskier. Surely she could delay the plane, give Geralt some clearance to get there, and all without too much effort on her part. She just had to choose to.

She clicked her tongue. “Fine. You have thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

Geralt continued to sing her praises as he was escorted through security, straight to the gate, where Jaskier was arguing with Yennefer.

“--being so cagey, Yen. I get it, you’re in charge, I’m not disputing that, but could you just tell me what it is we’re waiting for? I’d much rather wait on that plane in the comfortable chairs than on these terrible plastic ones and if I have to be a diva about something I think this is a fair place to start--”

He stopped, then, and did a double-take as Geralt walked into the waiting room. Yennefer glared at him and made some gesture that Geralt couldn’t really decode, but he had a feeling had something to do with him owing her. He could think about that later, though. All his attention was on Jaskier, who was now turned to him, with a guarded expression on his face.

“Geralt, what are you doing here?” Jaskier asked, and he crossed his arms. “You’re mighty lucky you caught me. But I have a feeling it didn’t have much to do with luck.” He turned to give Yennefer a suspicious glance, and she only raised her eyebrow in return.

“Yen, can we have a minute?” Geralt asked. She glared at him again, then huffed and walked away, off to do whatever it was agents did. Or she was just going off to complain about them. That would be fair. “Jaskier, we need to talk.”

Jaskier frowned at him and his eyebrows furrowed. “No, you need to talk. I’m pretty sure I did my part last night. Only to be met with your silence.”

“I’ll miss you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows pinched even further together. “This sure seems like a lot of trouble just to say that. And, Geralt, I’m sorry, but it’s just. It’s not enough anymore. I don’t--I can’t keep coming back to someone that thinks of me only as a bed warmer. You can’t play with me like that. I need more than your scraps.”

Geralt nodded. “You do. I just. I wanted to start there.”

He took a deep breath, then stepped closer, right into Jaskier’s personal space. Jaskier didn’t step back, which was a pause, but he didn’t reach for Geralt either. Geralt reached for him, instead, and took his hips. Still, Jaskier didn’t return the embrace, but Geralt watched as his lower lip pouted out and he blinked, trying to dispel any wetness forming.

“I always miss you when you’re gone,” Geralt said. “I count down the days until you come back, until you’re with me again. I should have told you. I should have told you every time you left, and every time you came back. I want you to stay. I want you to come back. I want you however I can have you, for as long as I can have you. And I do love you as you love me.”

Jaskier’s eyes were wet and red as a disbelieving smile crossed his face. He cupped Geralt’s cheeks and searched him, as if he was looking for any hint of a lie.

“You stopped my plane to tell me all this?” Jaskier asked. “You really mean it? Every word of it?”

Geralt nodded again, and he savored the breathless, happy laugh Jaskier gave him. “I want to start over. Try again, and do it right. When you come back to me. If you come back to me.”

“Always, darling. I’ll always come back to you.”

#geraskier #geraskier au #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfic #geraskier angst #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #my writing #romtober

[sasskarian]

First Line Meme

I was tagged by @asaara-writes. Thank you, my dearest! <3 

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

My Heart and I -

If there’s one thing about Evelyn Swann that the entire Commonwealth knows by now, it is her love of music. Silence does not mark Evelyn’s arrival anywhere— instead, the soft tones of Billie Holiday do, crooning about mountains moved for love. Or the sultry voice of Lady Day herself, Ella Fitzgerald, floating around her and the companions like a bubble of the past, dreaming on into the future. Heavy footsteps beat out a tempo contrasting Butcher Pete and his big old ‘knife’ and everywhere she goes, she trails ribbons of jazz and cheer.

Like Afterimages - 

The settlers call her a survivor. Sanctuary calls her a savior. Codsworth cries when she returns from the wastelands, dragging in another minute— heh— victory for the Minutemen, or another rescued synth she doesn’t tell anyone about. But Mama Murphy just calls her a ghost.

That’s what she is, after all. Just a two hundred year old ghost. Like a mirage, superimposed on the darkness, burned into immortality by nuclear fallout and tragedy. Evelyn is only sometimes here, those dark gray eyes a pair of rain clouds on the distant horizon, drifting on invisible fronts. The thunder is inside of her, too, a raging storm swirling in her chest, beating fists made of babies crying and gunshots rimmed in frost ringing out against her ribs.

The Thrill of Your Hand - 

Danse has been a soldier too long to be a deep sleeper.

That’s the first thing the Brotherhood trains you out of. The indoctrination comes later, because only a good soldier can be indoctrinated, and a good soldier has to wake up at the first hint of danger. So when he hears the first whimper from across the room, his eyes snap open.

Paladin’s Bubble - 

The Commonwealth is quiet tonight.

It’s not silent, by any stretch: Evie can hear the hounds in the distance, their mutated throats sending their boofs echoing through the streets of Boston even from a long distance, and somewhere— a mile or more— the whoop of a raiding party rises over the station’s lookout, too far away to do anything but pity the poor prey they’ve caught. Dogmeat grunts, his paws pushing against her armored thigh as he stretches. His ears are perked, though, so he’s just catching some rest while he can. Even the thwomp-and-hiss of her partner’s power armor is missing from the darkness, the red light of his scope the only thing highlighting his face in their little bubble of quiet.

After the Glitter Fades - 

“If there is a future to be had,” Fenris murmured, his lips hovering near Hawke’s, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

His gorgeous green eyes were fixed on hers and Hawke fumbled for a moment, a half-smile playing across her mouth as her fingers played with the crumbling stone behind her. Silly, but part of her almost wanted to believe him. With the smallest sound, Fenris leaned in, his gauntleted fingers sliding through her hair as he kissed her— it started out soft, a chaste brush of warm lips and warmer breath, but within a couple of heartbeats, it deepened into something that promised wildness and fire.

Glitter: Marginalia - (E)

She can’t remember what dragged her awake— only that it left a sour, desperate taste in her mouth like old coppers and the cheapest bottle of whatever would get her drunk enough to sleep.

Waking up with nightmares is nothing new. The Amell curse, as most of the Kirkwall film crews call it, has yet to hit Hawke directly, but it had taken her father (a stunt gone wrong) and her mother and uncle (an unlucky intruder)– had struck Carver, too. She and Garrett and Bethie are safe, so far, but it's only a matter of time until it circles back around. The curse is a generations-long predator, still and patient, and it will hunt them down one at a time if it has to  

Ah, Kirkwall, she thinks, some blend of annoyance and fondness and adrenaline mixing uneasily in her heart. You fuck with us again and again and still, here we are.

He Might Like That - 

“So. Let me get this straight.” Greef lifts his bad knee with a groan, settling it over his other leg so he can sprawl a little more indolently. Din’s HUD focuses in, shows the elevated temperature in the joint in a dark red, and he turns it off with a flicker of his eye. Greef lifts his glass again, takes a sip, and gestures with it before continuing. “You two. Not together?”

Where I Can’t Follow - 

The day Geralt of Rivia dies, he hears the whistle of the sword which almost kills him. There’s a series of tiny holes stamped along the spine of the blade, keeping weight down and adding a sinister shrill hiss through the air on each pass. The raiding party - if it can be dignified with such language - are nearly all armed with similar steel, with hunting horns, rattling chime-spangled shields, and bullroarer slings wailing and droning like an oncoming swarm of giant wasps. The effect is deafening, overpowering all efforts to coordinate the various companies on this mission.

Malicious Compliance - (M)

So this is how it feels to have a galaxy tremble at your feet.

Not just the galaxy, though— millions of lives shuddering under the weight of your boot on their necks cannot compare to the half-lidded gray-blue eyes drinking you in like you’re his salvation and damnation both. No, there is power in this, in these stolen moments with him, that rivals nothing else you’ve found anywhere among the stars.

He’s a brave man, your Captain.

Counting the Days (since Exegol) - 

“That’s good, Finn.”

Rey smiles, feeling the Force ebb and flow around Finn as he manages to lift himself a few inches off the ground-- along with the meditation mat, two glasses of water, and the plate of snacks they keep for anyone who comes to visit. Finn cracks an eye open, smiles back at her, and lands with a thump. For half a moment, she almost expects him to be disappointed that his training is progressing slowly: hyper-competency is a Stormtrooper trait he’ll never outgrow.

Star by Star - 

The galaxy looks different now.

It’s not just the cautious celebrations still happening, weeks later. And it’s not just the way people step back from her now, too much reverence in them for her comfort. It’s in the way she looks at the sky and sees the color of Luke’s eyes, and the gentle wind that feels so much like Leia’s hand, she cries. The way that Poe’s back straightens at the podium, broadcasting Republic news to everyone, and Finn’s hand clutching his under the table, their life forces bright and right in her senses.

Stardust and Memory (and a little bit of romance) - 

“Wow.”

Jaal chuckled against her ear, hands firmly on her waist; a good thing, probably, or she’d be on her face on the floor. “It is… a lot, I know.”

“No!” Sara protested, only wilting when Jaal tilted his head at her. “...okay, maybe a little. There’s just— a lot of them?”

Scars and Holes and Broken Things - 

Whispers follow him wherever he goes.

What’s left of the crew whispers in the halls, the mess, on the bridge, and conversations trail off when his ghost walks through, haunting the only place that's ever felt like home. Whatever they’re saying doesn’t matter, though—he doesn’t care. He’s too tired to care. He hasn’t slept more than his body demands in weeks. Tali’s immune system has already begun to destroy itself, and even though the Normandy is stocked with more dextro rations than it’s ever carried before—

Almost like Shepard knew. Always prepared, that’s my girl.

Heart of the Woods - (E)

You left the Templars, but do you trust mages? Can you think of me as anything more?

Less than a fortnight of sweet words, gentle touches, and stolen kisses are the only weapons she could levy against the trauma that shaped a man’s youth. And for a moment in time, Isera hoped.

Common Ground (isn’t so hard to find) - 

“Skkut! Ryder!”

“Sorry, Enroh— oh!” Sara tried to stop, bounced into a low bench, and crashed into a pile of bruised, groaning Pathfinder on the other side. At least this time, she remembered to shield her head as she skidded to rest against the wall. Lexi would be pleased. Another concussion would get her put back under the scanner and that just ruined everyone’s day. “...ow.”

A Language Reserved for Lovers - (M)

The first time you touch him, his skin flushes red; the first time he touches you back, he trembles. Interesting, since if there is a word to describe him, it is steadfast. But there is more beneath the easy surface, beneath the deadly grace and unflagging stamina. He is loyal, and good, and so fascinating under the burden of his name. But nineteen is a young age, even if you're only a little older, and he seemed so young at first, unsure and innocent— then he gave you that crooked little grin, and stole your heart with it.

Every Beautiful Thing - 

I would prefer to be Mary Shelley. She died a widow.

Despite a foolhardy counter, thrown in indifference and pride, Edith never really thought she would be a widow. Despite her foolish quip so many years ago, she is no Mary Shelley. And despite moderate success as an author and teller of stories, the only thing she and Shelley have in common is a belief in a world outside of the everyday, and widowhood.

Yesterdays - 

He’s always thought she was invincible.

Sure, Morrigan told them the truth of the Archdemon’s death, an account more grisly and heartbreaking than the one Riordan gave; just the sort of tale that might ensnare a young boy’s heart, give him delusions of grandeur, while an older man might look upon it with resignation. But the truth doesn’t sink in until now.

If You Ever did Believe - 

“There are people dying,” Isera repeated slowly, as if she could make her advisers understand what she'd seen. As if giving her memories voice might lift some of their weight in her heart. “We couldn’t even get to Redcliffe because of the fighting.”

Three days of being stuck on a horse, only to have to turn around after three skirmishes— their first mission to the Hinterlands had been a remarkable experiment in failure. Isera had learned her skills at the hands of the best of her clan, had fought alone for years, and yet the shock of tripping over Varric and accidentally hitting Cassandra with a ball of ice had made their first fight a near loss.

Some saviors, Varric had laughed afterward, staggering around like baby nugs.

Glitter: Velvet over Veridium - 

If anyone had ever accused Marian Hawke of being a reasonable adult human being, she might have laughed at them. No, she'd have pointed and then laughed at them. But under all her bluster, and all her immature jokes, her dirty one-liners and cheesy pick-up lines, there was an adult hidden in there somewhere.

Okay, maybe I put more than one opening line, but I have a thing for context, dammit! 

This got so long -- mobile users, I’m sorry omg. 

Forwarding the tag (no pressure as always!) to @mayihavethisdanse @athreehundredthirtythree @thebisexualmandalorian @natsora @loquaciousquark @valdomarx @theggning @cullywullycurlywurly @systlin and @third-rail-vip 

#dragon age #mass effect #star wars #cullavellan #fenhawke #fallout 4 #the witcher #shakarios #danse x sole survivor #geraskier #lavellan x fairbanks #ZevWarden #wardistair #rydaal #long post #my fic #i did the thing #do the thing

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.i

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the incredible @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

_____________________

It’s not often that Geralt wakes up and doesn’t have anywhere to be.

Even in Kaer Morhen, in the only place where he can forget about the Path for a while, every morning starts with a few hours of training, and it’s either that or listening to Vesemir’s grumbling for the rest of the day.

And even if he did sleep in, staying in bed had always seemed like too much of a luxury for him to afford. But, perhaps, waking up in a luxurious bed can justify spending a little more time under the covers.

The sun is already high above the treetops of the forest outside when Geralt wakes, and his biological clock tells him that it’s a little after ten, and though he doesn’t feel like going back to sleep, just staying in bed seems like a very tempting prospect. With the exhaustion of two weeks on the Path and the pain of healing wounds now finally catching up to him, it feels like a well-deserved rest.

The sky behind the large windows is heavy with clouds, and Geralt can smell the approaching storm in the air. Summer storms are frequent in this part of Redania, especially this late into the season.

Perfect weather to stay in bed.

Geralt stretches with a soft satisfied rumble, the silk sheets smooth and pleasant against his bare skin. He used to think that having more than two pillows on the bed is a waste of space and coin but right now, burrowed between twelve of them, he feels more than content.

Outside, he can hear the first echoes of thunder, rolling across the sky in a soft rumble, almost a purr. If he’s lucky, it’s going to rain through the entire day, and if that’s really how it’s going to be, he’s probably going to stay in bed all the way into the next morning.

Jaskier will probably join him, if he asks.

The thought sends a little thrill of anticipation through him.

Geralt thinks back on the previous night, on Jaskier’s hands on his thigh and his lips so close to his own that Geralt could almost feel the taste of them. Had he had the courage to close in what little distance there was between them, he would’ve known that taste in more than just his imagination.

Would it have ended with a kiss? Or would Jaskier have indulged him the pleasure of laying him down on the pillows, stripping those expensive silks off him layer by layer, and getting a taste of him in more ways than one?

Geralt drags a hand over his face, banishing those thoughts from his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about him this way. He shouldn't even be thinking of kissing him, because surely, it would mean more to him than to Jaskier, with his effortless flirting and teasing.

Or at least that is what Geralt prays for, for if that’s not how it is, then kissing him would result in far worse consequences. The last thing Geralt wants is for Jaskier to grow attached to him, and he knows that kissing can influence that even more than sex. When he’d first gone to a brothel, he’d been told that by the woman that he’d paid.

“It’s nothing personal, sweetheart,” she had told him then. “It’s simple work ethics that make life easier both for us and for our clients. Sex is sex, there’s nothing more simple than that, but kisses are something different, something that both body and mind react to on a whole other level, and before you know it, you can grow attached. Now, we don’t want that, do we, my darling?”

No, he shouldn’t kiss him if he’s going to leave. And not leaving is not an option. He’s a witcher, he belongs on the Path, not in a luxurious mansion, next to what is certainly the most breathtakingly gorgeous man he’d ever seen.

Jaskier can play his little games with him, and Geralt knows that if Jaskier will be the one to kiss him, he won’t be able to resist, won’t be able to break away, but Geralt’s not going to be the one to hurt them both.

What doesn’t make matters any easier is that he still desperately wants him. Those days on the Path were bad enough, but they were nothing compared to the fire that flares up in his chest every time Jaskier actually touches him, every time he teases so mercilessly that had Geralt not known any better, he would’ve thought him cruel.

Is Jaskier just waiting for him to break? Or is he simply playing with him, teasing with something that he can never actually have, and will break away if Geralt touches him?

Those are the only two options that Geralt can think of, and while one makes his chest tighten in a way that he knows he shouldn’t allow, the other one hurts like a twisting blade.  

There is no winning for him. Not in this.

It will hurt either way, and the only question is whether it will be just him or both of them.

***

The sky is completely taken over by the dark, heavy clouds and the trees outside whisper restlessly in the wind, when there is a knock on the door.

Geralt doesn’t have to ask who it is.

“Come in,” he calls.

In the last half an hour, he’d managed to concentrate on something other than his own feelings, and now feels like he can breathe again, his head clear.

Just as last time, Asra and Lucio are the first to slip through the door, and Jaskier follows. The dogs cross the room to Geralt, sniffing at his hand when he reaches out to pet them, and then jump right onto the bed.

Jaskier gasps, so sincerely that Geralt snorts, and puts his hands on his hips to give himself more authority. Before he can say anything, though, Geralt steps in:

“Let them be,” he says, watching both dogs make themselves comfortable at the far end of the bed. “There’s more than enough space, and it’s going to rain soon, the floors are going to be cold with drafts.”

Jaskier sighs but doesn’t object, instead coming closer and sitting on the edge of the bed, just like he did the night before.

“You’re feeling better, I assume?” he smiles, reaching out to brush a stray silver strand out of Geralt’s face.

Geralt has to make an effort over himself not to hold his breath.

“I told you that with your hands I’m going to be healed in no time,” he says, the corner of his lips curling up against his will. “But I might just stay in bed for today. After all, a thunderstorm is a perfect weather for that.”

Jaskier hums approvingly, and Geralt isn’t sure if that regards his decision to stay in bed or his opinion on the weather.

“Then move,” Jaskier says.

Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Move closer to the centre of the bed, Witcher. Or do you not want me to stay with you?”

Oh, Geralt thinks, I will not live to see another day.

And still, he moves, letting Jaskier slip under the covers. He’s got the same clothes on as he did last night, which can only mean that he had also just gotten out of bed and has not yet changed. The only thing missing is his dressing gown.

Despite all better judgement, Geralt hopes that Jaskier will slither right back into his arms, like he did the night before, but instead, he grabs a heap of pillows and makes himself comfortable opposite of Geralt, pulling the furs from under Lucio when he comes to lie down next to him, head resting on Jaskier’s lap.

“That werewolf you told me about yesterday,” Jaskier says after a few seconds, not quite looking at Geralt. “You said that you wanted to try and break the curse?”

Geralt nods, watching him scratch Lucio behind the ear absentmindedly.

“Are there a lot of curses you’d broken?”

It seems like an unusual question to ask, especially now and not when Geralt had first told him, but Jaskier did seem genuinely curious about his hunts, so maybe he just didn’t want to interrupt. And, more than that, he was half-asleep.

So Geralt doesn’t think much about it.

“That’s not the term I’d use,” he says, shrugging with one shoulder. “Four or five, maybe, and all of them on the simple side. Curses can usually only be broken either by the one that had inflicted them in the first place, or by meeting the assigned conditions. Sometimes curses can be tricked and broken that way, but it usually requires magic.”

For a moment, Jaskier’s face falls, and Geralt can feel something bitter in the air, like disenchantment, but before he can ask or even reach out, Jaskier is smiling again, his impossibly-blue eyes meeting Geralt’s.

“It’s so exciting,” he says, throwing his head over the wooden frame of the bed. “Werewolves, curses, magic. You see so much in your life, and I have always been tied to courts and pretentious nobility. Partially by choice, of course, but I’ve also been born into it, so a different kind of life had never been too much of a prospect.”

I’ve also been born into it , echoes in Geralt’s mind, and for what feels like the thousandth time, he thinks back on the rumours about Jaskier being a prince.

He also thinks about the way his neck is torturously exposed with his head thrown back, just begging to be kissed and bitten and marked, and, by the gods, Geralt would rather concentrate on the thought that he’s in one bed with a prince.

He desperately wants to ask, because it’s killing him not to know, but surely, he shouldn’t. If he doesn’t want to ruin everything, he needs to keep those rumours to himself, even if he feels more and more like they are more than that.

“Can't court life be exciting, too?” he asks instead. “I’ve been to a banquet or two, you look like you would have fit right in, with all your silks and velvets.”

Jaskier laughs, raising his head again and giving Geralt an evaluating look.

“Why, Witcher, I’m sure you looked wonderful on those banquets, as well. Were you wearing your armour or something more… exquisite, hm? I can certainly picture you in a suit of black velvet,” his eyes sparkle. “Or without it.”

Geralt forces himself to maintain a neutral facial expression but he can feel heat crawling up his chest.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he grins.

He knows he’s making this worse for himself but it’s impossible not to give in to the temptation. And Jaskier takes the game on immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.

“Maybe I would,” he murmurs, seemingly completely unfazed as his fingers run steadily through Lucio’s fur. “If it’s going to rain through the day, the night is going to be a cold one, and I need some way to keep myself warm, now don’t I? I have a very rich imagination, Witcher, I could come up with the most complicated suit in my mind, only to then imagine taking it off you, button by button.”

By the gods, Geralt thinks, I am never going to win this.

“I’m afraid taking things that slow is not in my nature,” he still says, refusing to give up without a fight.

But he knows he doesn’t stand a chance, and Jaskier only reaffirms that, shooting him a smile.

“Is that why you’re looking at me like you could devour me whole right here?”

Oh, it would be so easy to just push him down onto his back, kiss that grin off his lips. Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier is just torturing him, playing for his own entertainment but it’s impossible not to indulge him.

“Oh, but somehow I doubt that you would mind,” Geralt murmurs. “Lots of people have a thing for sharp teeth.”

It’s not like he hasn’t noticed.

Every time he smiles, Jaskier’s eyes flick up, transfixed on the witcher’s canine, elongated and sharpened by the Trials. They’re sharp enough to draw blood easily, and with just how interested Jaskier is in witchers, Geralt is more than sure that he’s aware of it.

And this time, too, it works like a charm.

“Why, that’s hard to argue with,” Jaskier nods, and Geralt isn’t sure if the joke isn’t on him, for it’s hard not to break under the gaze of those blue eyes.

And yet, it’s comfortable, somehow. Almost like a pattern that’s easy to fall into.

Behind the windows, a bolt of lightning flashes through the clouds, followed almost immediately by a deafening clasp of thunder that makes Jaskier flinch. Asra and Lucio raise their heads, ears perked up, and listen, nostrils flaring as they pick up the smell of approaching thunder.

A gust of wind breaks into the room from the open window, bringing cold with it, and before Geralt can really ask what he’s doing, Jaskier already crawls under his blanket to tuck himself against Geralt’s side.

“If you do decide to use those teeth on me after all, start with the neck,” he huffs dismissively, rearranging himself to his comfort.

Just like last night, Geralt is suddenly hyper-aware of only wearing a shirt and smallclothes, while Jaskier is completely dressed, but that doesn’t seem to bother the younger man in the slightest.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, throwing one arm across Geralt’s middle and keeping him pinned to the bed even though he weighs nothing in the witcher’s arms.

This is… something Geralt could get used to. And though the thought terrifies him, he still wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, keeping him warm and close.  

“Scared of a little thunder?” he teases, the scent of Jaskier’s hair making his head spin.

Jaskier huffs a laugh, utterly unimpressed.

“If you want me to go back to my own bed, you need just say.”

In response, Geralt just pulls him closer, until Jaskier is laughing again, until he’s breathless with it.

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier pleads, slapping Geralt’s hands away. “I’ll stay, you can seize your manhandling.”

Maybe I really could get used to this, Geralt thinks somewhere in the very back of his mind, Maybe I could get used to sharing a bed with someone on cold rainy mornings and making them laugh.

He knows he shouldn’t think of it, shouldn’t even entertain the possibility of having a life like this, because he’s a witcher and Jaskier is most probably a prince of Redania, but he just can’t help himself. It’s like something in his mind refuses to abide by his rules, and instead makes him feel like his life could be more than just the Path and Kaer Morhen.

He knows he’s only making it all worse with those thoughts but there’s nothing he can do with the feeling that he gets when Jaskier is close… like when they’re together, everything finally falls into place.

And that’s why it hurts so much to know that in a few days he’s going to have to leave and never come back anymore.

For the sake of both of them.

***

Just as Geralt had hoped, it rains well into the night. And Jaskier stays with him the entire time.

They talk just about everything, and though Geralt mostly listens, he enjoys the way Jaskier’s eyes light up when he’s talking about something he’s passionate about, like poetry or fine art. Even more than that, he enjoys the way Jaskier stays close to him, under the same fur blankets, even if he eventually leaves the witcher’s arms to sit up and gesticulate widely with his arms, telling him about the Academy and the nights that he and his classmates would spend down at the Oxenfurt docks, drinking and thinking about their perfect future lives, all the while aware that they’ve got early morning lectures.

He tells Geralt about how he had almost missed an important exam once because he’d been too preoccupied with trying to get out of the forbidden section of the library that he’d sneaked into the night before and realised belatedly that it’s locked from the outside, and there is no way that he’d be able to reach the same window that he’d used to get in.

He laughs until there are tears in the corners of his eyes, and falls heavily down onto his back, looking at Geralt from under his unfairly long lashes.

It’s like they’ve known each other forever.

Having seemingly pronounced a temporary truce between them, Jaskier doesn’t tease anymore, doesn’t make Geralt feel like the flame in his chest is going to burn him alive, but he still touches.  

Geralt allows for it, because how can he not, but every time Jaskier’s fingers brush over his shoulder or chest, every time their knees touch under the covers and, worst of all, every time Jaskier takes his hand, Geralt finds himself struggling to breathe.

They skip all three meals, a day spent in bed not requiring much energy, and only drink the sweet tea that Arthur brings them every couple of hours.

Geralt wonders, distantly, what the majordomo thinks when he sees the two of them, and also wonders how many other people he had seen Jaskier sharing a bed with. That thought, though, echoes through his chest in a painful stab, and Geralt makes himself forget about it.

He’s certain that Jaskier will grow bored of just laying in bed the entire day, but the raging weather behind the windows is a compelling argument. Jaskier forbids Geralt from closing the windows, and instead just hides under the covers, close to the witcher’s warmth.

Geralt couldn’t have asked for more.

The only time Jaskier does leave the bed is when Lucio and Asra wake from their peaceful slumber and relocate to the door, having grown bored of the two of them.  

Having let them out of the room, however, Jaskier is back under the covers within seconds, eager to get back to the warmth that they hold.

And now, when there are only a few hours before midnight and the rain is still pouring, the dark sky flashing with lightnings, he finally seems to have grown tired of talking, and has retreated into Geralt’s arms.

They lie together in comfortable silence, watching the flames in the fireplace worry with the draft from the windows, and though Geralt is more than sure that Jaskier will not stay for the night, he feels… peaceful. He will have to leave in just a few days, and leave for good this time, but while he’s still here, he finally feels like he might let himself enjoy it, even if it’s bittersweet.

“The gardens are going to be a mess tomorrow,” Jaskier murmurs, more to himself than to Geralt, turning to rest his head upon the witcher’s chest.

This close, the sweet scent of pomegranate that lingers on his hair is almost overwhelming, and before Geralt can stop himself, he noses at the chestnut locks.

“Even so, they’re going to be as lovely as ever,” he assures.

“Flatterer.”

Geralt can’t see the smile on the younger man’s lips but he can hear it in his voice. His heart is beating way too fast for a witcher when he presses a soft kiss into his hair.

“Am not.”

Jaskier makes a tiny little sound in the back of his throat - something pleased and content, and when he shifts, just a little, his lips brush over Geralt’s shoulder in return.

It sends sparks across Geralt’s skin, and it feels equal parts incredible and absolutely terrifying.

And, worst of all, Geralt cannot resist it.

He wraps his arms a little tighter around Jaskier and closes his eyes, listening to his steady, quiet breathing. He can see himself falling asleep like this every night. If only he could.

Jaskier stays with him almost until midnight and then, almost like it’s another part of his never-ending games, slips out of his arms to get back to his own bedroom. Geralt desperately wants to ask him to stay, to sleep next to him, warm and safe, but he can’t bring himself to.

“Find me in the gardens tomorrow,” Jaskier smiles, already out of reach. “I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, he’s gone.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

A Favour Repaid

|| also on ao3

Royal gatherings were never Geralt’s preferred way to spend an evening. He’d rather a quiet corner and a mug of ale than dancing and singing and whatever long ceremony he inevitably had to sit through. But things were just not like that amongst the wealthy and well-to-do. Geralt preferred to be quick and precise, to the point; no wasting time with long, indulgent ceremonies. The only reason he has ever attended is out of obligation, a contract or, in this case, a favour for a friend.

Damn him for becoming so soft. All it took was a pleading look and the promise of something nice in return and Geralt had found himself here, sitting between a chatty countess and the apparent object of her affections. And Jaskier, the whole time, was happy as can be, prancing and performing for the gathered wedding guests.

Geralt watched every step; a strategy to keep his mind off the mindless conversation being spoken over and around him. He focused instead on Jaskier’s hands, the way they held his lute and so carefully picked at the strings, all the while making it seem entirely effortless. Geralt didn’t share that kind of finesse and it intrigued him, like any other secret begging to be learned. He wondered briefly what else Jaskier could put do with his hands that required that level of easy precision, but thoughts like those were dangerous and unwelcome in halls like this.

He wasn’t enjoying himself, though he made a promise to Jaskier and so he was stuck, at least until the bard’s talents were no longer required. So long as this didn’t go as badly as the last time he did Jaskier a favour, he would keep his promise. Although, thinking about it, he had to stop and wonder why he agreed to this in the first place.

As the night wore on, Geralt’s mind wandered. The festivities weren’t enough to hold his attention and short of leaving, his only other option was to find a way to amuse himself. Not so simple in a place like this. His clothes were tight, uncomfortably so, and he found himself hoping for some sort of attack - anything that would give him reason to leave without breaking his deal. Because as much as he hated it, he gave his word and he wasn’t about to go back on it over boredom.

He shut his eyes, tried to enjoy himself through the scents and sounds of the party rather than suffering the visual of people with too much coin stuffing themselves. The chattering was overwhelming, but Jaskier’s music, his voice rang out over it like a beacon in the dark and Geralt focused on that. It was nice for once to hear a song without several breaks while Jaskier worked out the lyrics. This particular one, he’d never heard all of, only bits and pieces in the dark around campfires. He liked it though and it was a welcome familiarity among the rest of the noise.

A subtle warmth crept under his skin, one he so far had done his best to keep at bay. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he preferred not to think too much about, though it had been becoming clearer that only certain situations provoked this feeling. Certain situations and certain people.

He opened his eyes again, letting the cacophony of sound rush back and engross him. Those thoughts were better left untouched.

To Geralt’s great relief, Jaskier didn’t linger once his job was done. He came to Geralt immediately, beaming with pride and smelling of something delightful. Geralt turned his attention elsewhere, ignoring the nagging sensation in his gut. Too much ale, he told himself.

Jaskier trotted alongside him as he made his way back to the inn and their room, jovially recounting his success at the party. Geralt listened intently, offering the odd hmm or nod of his head when appropriate even though he’d been present for the entirety of the event now being described to him. Jaskier, he decided, was in a very good mood.

Which might explain the scent that followed them back to the inn. Geralt had been happy to leave it behind, assuming it belonged to some nobleman at the party, but it seemed not to be the case. Jaskier his brain offered, but Geralt was not in the mind of thinking too much into things, especially where the bard was concerned.

The man in question stepped out in front of him and stopped so suddenly Geralt nearly ran him over.

“Are you even listening?” he asked. “Here I am coming off the greatest performance of my life and you can’t even be bothered to listen.”

“I was there,” Geralt responded. The scent was back, harder to ignore than before and right there.

This time, when he tried to push it out of his mind, it was harder, he could pinpoint the various scents that combined into such an intoxicating aroma. Pride, lust, and something very specific like wildflowers and spice. He’d been trying not to think about the latter, but he couldn’t deny its familiarity, not while it was right there staring him in the face.

“Well?” Jaskier demanded and Geralt realized he’d stopped listening again.

“Let’s get back to the inn.”

He didn’t wait for a response, already uncomfortable from a night of playing at civility and the haunting scent that twisted his stomach. When they returned to the inn, Jaskier disappeared and Geralt took it upon himself to arrange a bath before bed.

As he traipsed upstairs, he could hear Jaskier below him, recounting the tale of the wedding to whatever pretty face would listen. Geralt rolled his eyes. At the least, it would mean a little peace and quiet for him.

As he sunk into the hot water, Geralt hummed to himself. His head was foggy, the thought of that scent overwhelming. He closed his eyes again, trying to recall it. The scent, he knew, belonged to Jaskier, but he’d be loath to admit the way the bard made him feel. Even without this new, intoxicating scent, Jaskier just had a way of getting under Geralt’s skin like no one else could. And despite his best efforts, a part of him liked it.

He could still think back on years of solitude, sleeping under the stars every night because people were afraid to house a Witcher, much less the Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier was the one who changed all that, despite Geralt’s initial hesitation and outright refusal to have a traveling partner.

Now, so many years down the line, Geralt was sitting in a tub in an inn he never bothered to get the name of, trying to convince himself that the bard was just a traveling partner. He slipped lower under the water and shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about things like that right now.

He tilted his head back, arms spread over the edge of the tub and he let his mind slow. Jaskier was down at the bar, probably flirting his way through the rest of the patrons. And while Geralt had to fight back a bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach just thinking about it, it meant he would have some time alone to himself. It was a pleasure not often enjoyed.

There were many things he could do alone in the bath, but he was tired, drained after a night of listening to nobles bicker over meaningless things. He didn’t have the energy, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about it. About Jaskier and his stupid scent and how all of Geralt’s training and discipline couldn’t keep him from wanting. It was stupid to think that a bard, this bard of all of them, could affect him so drastically, but he did and continued to do so. Grumbling to himself, Geralt rolled his head along the edge of the bath.

His mind wandered. He thought about Jaskier singing down in the hall, about elegant fingers picking at strings. Jaskier was good with his hands, Geralt was sure of it. He’d heard too many stories of returning lovers - men and women who sung the bard’s praises and flirted their way back to bed with him - to think otherwise. It meant something that they kept coming back, not that Geralt thought about it often.

What he usually thought about was slim, calloused fingers dragging over his own skin, twisting themselves in his hair and pushing him to the height of pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut then and readjusted himself, feeling his body heat at the thought of it. Damn. Jaskier and his damn hands and his damn scent and-

The door creaked open behind him and Geralt was suddenly overcome with the scent of Jaskier surrounding him. He didn’t know how he didn’t smell him earlier, and he kept his eyes shut. His stomach turned, that same familiar flip-flop that he’d been trying to ignore for years.

Jaskier hummed, amused, and slipped up behind him not speaking as his hands settled on Geralt’s shoulders.

“I was going to give you a massage, but maybe I should go. You seem to be having a good time all on your own.”

“Stay,” Geralt said, ignoring the comment; Jaskier was teasing, but it didn’t stop him from not wanting him to leave. A bad idea, Geralt reminded himself but when Jaskier’s fingers pressed into stiff muscle his mind settled and all of the good ideas went out of it.

“You’re very tense for someone who spent his entire night with a mug of ale in his hand,” Jaskier commented.

“Hmm.”

“And very talkative too. That’s fine, I don’t need you to talk.”

Geralt turned and quirked an eyebrow at him, but Jaskier just grinned his little grin and continued. He didn’t stop talking, but Geralt stopped listening, focusing instead on the firm press of Jaskier’s fingers. He wanted to give in completely, to let Jaskier do what he wished with him, but his body was already reacting and he suspected things might not go exactly as he was thinking.

Practiced fingers slid up to his neck and down over his shoulders and a low groan bubbled up from his chest, escaping as Jaskier’s fingers slid further down over his collar bones. It didn’t stop Jaskier; if anything, it encouraged him.

“Oh ho,” he said, understanding clear in his voice. “So that’s why you’re so tense. Tell me, Geralt, what’s on your mind?” He didn’t give more than a grunt in response, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. “What have you been thinking about, hm? Up here, all alone- You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I was thinking we could go to sleep early tonight, get an early start, but maybe I have a better plan.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” Jaskier sing-songed, “I promised you something nice, didn’t I?” He did, Geralt thought, but he was beginning to wonder just what something nice meant.

Jaskier stepped away from the tub and though the water has lost some of its original heat, Geralt was comfortable enough not to be too worried about where he was going. From a short distance, something broke the surface of the water and Geralt lifted an eyebrow in question before the salts sunk low enough to hit his skin. He hummed thoughtfully and Jaskier returned a moment later.

There was the pop of a cork being pulled and for a moment, Geralt’s senses were overwhelmed by the scent of wildflowers before the scent mingled amongst the others, fading. Then Jaskier’s hands pressed down on him again, slicks with oils and bolder than before. They slid down his stomach and the water rippled as they dipped into it, drawing it back up over Geralt’s dry chest.

Behind him, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s delicate state, Jaskier started to sing. Geralt didn’t know the song, or couldn’t focus well enough to recognize it if he did, but he liked it. He liked the soft, lilting sound of Jaskier’s voice stronger as he bent lower over Geralt’s shoulder.

With each pass, Jaskier pushed lower until his chest was pressed against the back of Geralt’s head and Geralt’s body ached to press up into that touch and let Jaskier prove how dexterous his hands really were. A spike of lust, warm and spicy, spiked the air and at first, Geralt assumed it was his own, bleeding through where he tried to hold back. But this was different, this was tinged with something familiar, that same scent from earlier.

And then it hit him, that one component that he couldn’t figure out.

Anticipation, he realized and his eyes flashed open. Geralt reached blindly behind him, groping for any bit of loose clothing he could get his hand on. When his fingers found Jaskier’s wrist instead, he pulled him around to the front of the tub.

“You planned this,” he accused. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open and he drew back, his hand flying to his chest in shock. He opened his mouth to speak but Geralt lifted an eyebrow at him, one corner of his mouth quirking just so. Jaskier rolled his eyes relenting, dropping his arms to lean over the bath.

“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe.”

“Maybe,” Geralt echoed. “Why?”

Jaskier pushed himself upright again, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Why?” he asked, “why do I tend to your needs and take care of you? Because you don’t.”

“Hmm.”

“And maybe if you weren’t so stubborn-” Geralt cut him off, leaning forward and curling his fingers into Jaskier’s shirt.

“You smell-” he growled and Jaskier’s eyes widened where they met his own.

“Like I need a bath?” he offered anxiously, looking quickly down at the water beneath him. The hem of his shirt was hanging dangerously close to the water and by all accounts it appeared Geralt was intent on getting him in the water.

In reality, he hadn’t even quite thought this far. Now he’s sitting forward in the bath with Jaskier hanging over the edge of it, his own hand the only thing keeping him from being in the bath with him.

His skin prickled at the thought, but his mind was otherwise occupied, focused on Jaskier’s eyes and the almost hopeful glint in them, to push it aside. The scent, now tinged with something not unlike delight filled his head and Geralt surged forward without a further thought, catching Jaskier’s startled mouth in a bruising kiss.

To his surprise, the bard showed little apprehension, and when Geralt pulled back, Jaskier didn’t hesitate. Geralt didn’t even have time to catch his breath again before Jaskier kissed him, his lips soft and eager against his own. Geralt growled low in his throat and Jaskier all but when limp against him as he sat forward in the tub.

Behind him, Jaskier shifted awkwardly, kicking off his boots just in time for Geralt’s patience to run out. He inhaled deeply, letting Jaskier’s scent flood his senses and slid his hands underJaskier’s arms, hauling him up over the edge of the tub and into it with a splash. There would be hell to pay when the girls came to clean up after, but Geralt had waited far too long to worry about something as trivial as water on the floor.

Jaskier fitted himself against Geralt’s body, his thighs bracketing him with some difficulty in the confined space. Every time he moved, he sent waves of pleasure rolling through Geralt’s body and the Witcher dropped his head back, rolling against the tub. Jaskier was quick to take advantage of the situation, stretching up to mouth at his neck even as Geralt’s fingers pressed into his clothes.

He was soaked through up to his chest, but Geralt didn’t manage to get further than pushing his doublet back off his shoulders before Jaskier was shrugging out of it and reaching for him again.

There was a bang on the door and Jaskier’s head shot up to look at it, but Geralt pulled him back.

“Ignore it,” he breathed and Jaskier didn’t need to be told twice, melting back against him and letting Geralt kiss him with dedication.

Jaskier shifted against him, his arousal prominent as Geralt slid a hand down his back, pressing him closer. The innkeeper was still there, banging on the door, but Geralt wasn’t interested in talking or getting out of the bath or anything that didn’t have Jaskier in his lap, soft and damp and lovely.

In the background, there were complaints about water and dripping and then-

“Witcher!”

Geralt groaned as he pulled away from Jaskier’s lips, rolling his head back along the edge of the tub. His fingers continued, pushing through Jaskier’s hair and dragging against his skin as Jaaskier kissed a trail down the side of his neck and along his collar. His hips pressed down against him, moving in time with his kisses and Geralt dug his fingers into Jaskier’s hip to hold him steady, an attempt to keep his voice even.

“Ten minutes,” he shouted back at the innkeeper, his voice hoarse nonetheless.

“You’ve got five and I’m coming in.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, pulling Jaskier up to face him.

Jaskier was unaffected by the news, straightening and pressing his hands to Geralt’s chest. He leaned forward again, but Geralt turned his head to deflect. “Jas-” he groaned as hot lips found his jaw again. “I don’t want to get kicked out- I want a bed tonight.”

Jaskier seemed to gather his meaning and at that, he drew back, a look of intrigue plastered to his face. He climbed out of the tub, dripping all over the floor, his soaked clothes clinging to him in all the right places. He turned his back to Geralt, crossing to the door to try and placate the innkeeper.

Geralt heard something about a bathing mishap and a fire before rolling his eyes and pushing himself up and out of the tub. He dried himself just enough to pull his clothes back on before sliding up behind Jaskier, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Bed,” he rumbled and Jaskier turned in his arms, reaching up to pull Geralt’s face to his own. When he kissed him, Geralt’s motivation to leave faded quickly, instead letting the bard press him against the wall, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair.

Cold seeped through his clothes, but Geralt pressed closer, taking the chance while he had it, lest it be the only time they got to do this. Wherever this night took them, Geralt was sure it would only happen once; he wasn’t blind to Jaskier’s other affections, nor did he expect him to give them up. He was happy enough just to have him around, most of the time.

Jaskier’s hand slipped down his stomach, creeping dangerously close to his untied trousers and Geralt pressed him back, walking him into the middle of the room. He only had so much patience and the innkeeper would be back soon and likely unimpressed to find them there like that.

Wet and cold, they quickly retrieved Jaskier’s boots and the remainder of Geralt’s clothes and stumbled out the door together. When they finally broke apart, Jaskier reached back, slipping his fingers between Geralt’s and tugging him along behind. Geralt huffed and followed, pleased enough to let Jaskier have his way with him, whatever that entailed. When they reached the room, Jaskier let go of his hand, turning to face him with a grin.

He crowded him up against the bedroom door, reaching around to open it and Geralt stumbled back, catching himself just as Jaskier shut the door behind them. As he turned back, Geralt slid a hand over his jaw, pulling Jaskier’s face back to his own. He kissed him softly, tugging him along even as Jaskier pushed him back, only stopping when his legs hit the edge of the bed.

Jaskier slipped his arms around his waist, kissing him once, finally, before pulling away. He curled his fingers around the edge of Geralt’s shirt, tugging it maddenly slowly up over his head. Geralt frowned at his leisureliness, but Jaskier just grinned at him, leaning in to kiss him again as he worked on getting the Witcher out of his trousers. Once he had, he pressed against Geralt’s chest, encouraging him down onto the bed Geralt sat, looking up at him expectantly. When Jaskier didn’t immediately join him, Geralt quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Lie down on your stomach, I think I promised you a massage.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt lay back on the bed, rolling over as Jaskier returned to the bed, his hands full of various bottles of oil. He set them down on the bed and took a step back. Geralt shifted to look behind him, watching as Jaskier peeled off his wet clothes and piled them in a heap on the floor. When he caught Geralt watching, he winked and crossed over to the bed.

“Like what you see?” he asked, smug. Geralt didn’t get a chance to respond before Jaskier climbed up over him, straddling his thighs and running a hand up his spine to lie him back down again. His skin was cold from his wet clothes, but it felt good against Geralt’s, heated with lust. “Relax,” he breathed, pressing his fingertips into Geralt’s shoulders.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to relax when his body burned with desire and Jaskier’s cock pressed into him every time he leaned forward. He shut his eyes, trying to focus on Jaskier’s hands instead of his cock slipping against his ass, pressing into his skin and sliding frustratingly close to where he really wants him. Geralt grumbled and groaned under him, but Jaskier’s hands were incredible seeking out every knot and soothing it, moving slowly down from his shoulders.

The scent of the oil was sharp and floral, mixing with Jaskier’s natural scent and the combination was intoxicating, driving Geralt crazy even when Jaskier wasn’t touching him. He groaned into the bed, arching his back and Jaskier leaned down, humming against his skin. He was keeping tune with something, but Geralt didn’t recognize the song, or maybe his head was too clouded with lust for the memory to get through.

When Jaskier’s fingers slipped down, pressing between his cheeks, Geralt’s entire body tensed and subsequently relaxed as warm, slick fingers slid across his hole. The moan that broke through the air was soft and desperate and it took Geralt a moment to realize it came from him. Jaskier didn’t even give him time to be embarrassed about it before pressing against him again and coaxing another shaky moan.

“Gods,” Jaskier breathed, bending low enough that his lips grazed Geralt’s skin when he spoke. “I could write a dozen ballads about the lines in your skin- and a dozen more about the sounds you make when I touch you.”

Geralt remained silent, curling his arms around a downy pillow and bringing it to press his face into. Jaskier continued, mumbling soft praise into Geralt’s skin as he pressed into him. He was cautious at first, testing the waters, but when Geralt rumbled and pressed his hips back, his wariness faded.

Jaskier leaned over him again, kissed his way down his spine, whispered into his skin all sorts of things Geralt knew not to be true. He wasn’t beautiful, he wasn’t good, but Jaskier- Jaskier believed these things about him and more. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, quickly to be replaced as Jaskier pressed into him again. He groaned, shifted his hips and his fingers clenched around the soft cloth of the pillow.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier hummed, so quiet Geralt wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear it at all. “Roll over, darling.” Jaskier withdrew and Geralt complied, turning onto his back and looking up at Jaskier.

He was smiling, looking down at him so softly and Geralt had to wonder if he ever stopped smiling. He reached out, slipped a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and guided him down, kissing him softly. Jaskier moved as he kissed him, shifted Geralt’s legs apart and settled himself between them, knees pressed under his thighs.

Jaskier groped blindly around the bed, happy enough to let Geralt hold him down. When he found what he was looking for, he shifted slightly in Geralt’s grip, slid a hand down between the two of them and wrapped his hand around him. Geralt pushed up into the touch, sliding one hand down Jaskier’s back to push his hips down against him. Jaskier huffed against his lips, stroking him slowly as his own cock pressed into Geralt’s hip.

He was steady but eager, always tending to Geralt’s needs before his own, but Geralt wants to see him, to know what Jaskier is really like behind closed doors where there was no one to perform for. Just once, he got to be the focus of Jaskier’s attention. He had spent more time with the bard than anyone else in his life, but this was different. This was so much more than just Jaskier traipsing around after him, flirting incessantly.

Jaskier frowned down at him. He was thinking too much.

Before Jaskier could do anything, Geralt pushed him up, rolling him onto his back. He climbed over him, pressing Jaskier’s arms against the bed as he reached up for him. He dipped down, catching Jaskier’s lips in a slow, passionate kiss.

Geralt lingered longer than intended, letting himself sink a little lower, press himself against Jaskier. He slid his hands down, pressing his palms against Jaskier’s and Jaskier surges up, kissing him back hard drawing him in with his enthusiasm. And Geralt let him, let him overwhelm and when Jaskier’s legs wound around his hips, he dropped against him, fitting their bodies together.

When he finally drew back, Geralt’s breath caught. As his grip lessened, Jaskier pulled his hands free, reaching up to tangle them in Geralt’s hair. His eyes were wide, dark with lust but bright, smiling and a familiar warmth flooded through Geralt’s chest.

This wasn’t going to just be one night. Even if he wanted it to be, even if they both decided against it, they were bound to wind up here again because Jaskier did something to him that no one else had succeeded in doing in a very long time; he made him feel wanted, loved.

He slid his arms under Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him close and Jaskier met him halfway, tugging his head down and kissing him roughly. Jaskier smiled against him, and when Geralt pressed against him, rolled his hips slowly, he dropped back to the bed with a gasp. Geralt followed and let himself be pushed back against the bed.

Jaskier pressed him down, kissing a line down his chest, drawing away. Geralt watched him go and Jaskier caught his gaze, holding it as he moved slowly down, tracing circles in Geralt’s skin with his tongue. Geralt groaned and his breath grew ragged as Jaskier’s fingers dragged over his hips, his mouth creeping close to his cock.

When his mouth wrapped around him, Geralt’s eyes dropped shut, hips rising as he reached for Jaskier.

“Fuck,” he breathed and Jaskier hummed proudly around him, sinking further onto him. Geralt pushed off the bed, his eyes dropped shut as Jaskier’s tongue wrapped around him, his fingers pressed against his head as he tried not to let himself lose control.

Jaskier’s scent spiked with a heady spice and Geralt dropped one hand to the bed, digging his fingers into the bedding as Jaskier’s mouth slid up to the head again. He opened his eyes, risking a glance, and Jaskier looked up to meet him, all dark eyes and tousled hair. He looked incredible like that and the sheer image of it combined with that scent was making it difficult for Geralt not to just haul him up over him.

“Fuck, Jask-”

Jaskier pulled up, letting Geralt’s cock drop back against his stomach and he watched him, running his fingers along the inside of Geralt’s thigh. He dipped his head, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt’s hip before crawling slowly up him, over him.

Jaskier slid a hand over his chest, twirling his fingers in the short hairs there. Geralt tilted his head up and Jaskier grinned at him. He dipped down, kissing Geralt’s chest and when he reached his mouth again, Geralt could smell sweetness mingling with the spice of his lust, something he didn’t quite know what to do with. But Jaskier wasn’t concerned.

He kissed him sweetly, letting Geralt feel the full force of his affection, and when he pressed up close, he pushed Geralt’s legs up as he did. Geralt went with him, letting Jaskier do as he pleased, too preoccupied with his touch and his fucking scent to want anything more. As he kissed him, Jaskier sought out the oil again, rocking himself against Geralt’s ass. He felt incredible and Geralt growled his impatience, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair as he brought his legs up around Jaskier’s hips.

When he found the bottle, Jaskier slipped a hand down between them, stroking himself slowly as he slicked himself and pressed against Geralt’s rim. As he pushed in, he pressed his forehead against Geralt’s, groaning out a low oh fuck.

Geralt’s hold lessened on him as Jaskier moved inside him, setting him aflame from the inside out. His body burned with Jaskier’s touch, ached for it even as the bar gave him what he wanted, thrusting deep and pressing himself against him. He kissed him like he was something precious and Geralt wrapped his arms around him, sliding his fingers up the back of his neck.

He realized now that he would never see that park of Jaskier that flirted his way through court and charmed every pretty face that came his way. He wasn’t unhappy because he knew why now; it was simple, Jaskier was just different when he was with others. He liked to belong to someone, to love them for a few hours or days or weeks, but inevitably those romances faded. And yet, for eleven years, he’d been with Geralt and continued to return to him.

The realization sat heavily on his heart and Geralt pushed him up enough to look at him. A soft smile crept onto his face as Jaskier grinned down at him and he leaned up to kiss him again.

He shut his eyes and focused on the body against him, the fingers that pushed through his hair, the lips against his own. Jaskier was indeed talented, but more importantly, he was loving. In their years together, he had always been affectionate, caring, but Geralt could be happy to spend the rest of his life in this bed with Jaskier’s hands on him, soothing over the scars and fawning over him.

They moved together, breathing heavily and Geralt’s moans broke the quiet as Jaskier’s thrusts grew quicker, more erratic. His own body responded in kind, pushing off the bed as his pleasure came to a peak. He clutched Jaskier against him as he came, kissed him breathlessly. And when Jaskier tensed against him and pressed his face into Geralt’s neck, he ran his fingers through his hair, breathing softly against him.

They laid like that for some time, chests heaving against each other and tangled together before Jaskier leaned up, kissed him and rolled off to the side. He laid on his back, still catching his breath and turned his head to Geralt, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, a smug smirk spreading across his face. Geralt shut his eyes with a soft smile and shook his head.

“Thank you for bearing with me tonight,” Jaskier breathed, propping himself up to face Geralt.

“Hmm.”

“I know you don’t like sitting through feasts and speeches and I do appreciate it.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Geralt admitted and as he peeked over, Jaskier’s eyes shone.

“That’s right,” he smirked. “Something got to you tonight. What was it?”

Geralt shut his eyes again and ignored him. He valued his peace too much to let Jaskier know his singing and playing affected him. No, that was information that didn’t need to be shared.

“No really,” Jaskier pressed, “tell me what you were thinking about in the bath? What got you all hot and bothered before I showed up?”

Geralt hummed, laced his fingers between Jaskier’s and lifted their hands, considering them before lowering them to his lips and kissing Jaskier’s knuckles.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes, in fact, I would.”

Geralt chuckled softly, rolling onto his side and leaning in to kiss Jaskier, effectively silencing him. “We should clean up before bed.”

“Mm,” Jaskier hummed. “That may be difficult. I don’t think they’re going to let you back in the bath.”

#geraskier #scent kink #bathing #massage #wip: bath #5k+ #rex writes

[hostgalli19]

Once Royal Wolf - Chapter 1: The Perils of Mishandling Superheated Flour

Story Summary: Vesemir had been alive for a long time, he purposefully tried to forget his past. His life before being picked up by Barmin when he was 8 years old and his easy-going and promiscuous ways after start on The Path were times he tried to bury for various reasons.

With the recent changes in Kaer Morhen brought about by Geralt becoming Warlord of the North, he had been focusing on the present and the improvement of the Witchers within the Keep.

With the upcoming Progress to review the Wolf lands and building diplomatic ties having brought up the uncomfortable topic of Rivia. A place he had not been to for centuries.

He hadn’t counted on Ciri digging into his hesitancy and accidentally pulling someone from the past and into Kaer Morhen. Vesemir now has no choice but to face his past and deal with the person he has longed to see for so long.

Chapter Summary: There are downsides to not handling flour correctly

Notes: This story was inspired by my lovely Beta and co-author Randi and I chatting about Vesemir's past and about the things he got up to when he was younger.

This is the original prompt:

Randi: so even though he slept around in his youth and couldn't have gotten women pregnant everyone who kind of looks like him gets accused of being his because his brother had mistresses and bastard children

Me: It would be even better if they were identical with the only difference being a slight difference in eye colour

Randi: In my head the twins were identical

It sort of snowballed from there.

30/08/21: I finally decided to post this story on here. I have been meaning to but haven't gotten around to it until now.

Length: 3,651 words (7 pages)

Link to Ao3:

Date: 05/06/21 - 06/06/21 Time: 1:55 pm - 1:56 am

Today wasn't going well for Vesemir. He had a low-grade headache for the better part of the day that was very quickly turning into a migraine. It was originally caused by a lack of sleep and a series of strange dreams that didn’t quite feel like dreams.

He couldn’t fully remember them once he had woken. Remembering only bits and pieces instead.

Every time he closed his eyes he would see the inside of an expensive carriage. He decided to give up at that point. He wasn’t getting back to sleep. The migraine had gotten worse as the day progressed, small things that usually wouldn’t bother him were irritating him more than usual.

A young pup who had been struggling with the same flaw in his sword forms despite constant correction and hard work. The loud noises of his fellow Witchers as they went about their own training.

The Cranes had started a section on bomb-making with their chicks which resulted in somewhat frequent explosions that felt like they were rattling his skull.

The hustle and bustle of the various servants and inhabitants of Kaer Morhen as they prepared the Keep for the start of the Progress set to begin in a few weeks once the passes and The Killer had fully thawed out. All added to the relentless pounding in his head.

His back and knees were aching due to the lingering cold of the early Spring weather.

He sat down in the office above the Kitchen, resting his tired body and began to work on the mound of paperwork that went with ensuring newly medallion owning Witchers would have what they needed for their first years on the Path and reorganizing pack groups to include rookie Witchers among the Veterans.

Just as he had started to really make a dent, and his headache had started to go away, the rest of the council appeared at his door, bringing their own issues and needs. They still needed to work out who was going with Geralt, Ciri, Eskel, Jaskier and Yennefer on the Progress.

In no time, he was entrenched in discussing and mediating between the various parties and his headache was back with a vengeance. Jan needed input on the number of staff and the Witchers to remain in Kaer Morhen so he could meet the needs of those that remained while everyone was on the Path with the Progress.

At the same time, the same information would be needed to calculate the supplies needed for the Progress.

Livi needed to know how much coin would be needed for each person as well as who exactly would be staying and who would be going so no one would run out of coin and the staff would be where they were most needed.

In addition, she needed to know how often and where the Progress would stop so she could make plans to coordinate with sympathetic Lords and Ladies to ensure the Progress would be supplied as well as giving hosts warning as to when they could expect the Progress to enter their lands.

This would ensure the Hosts were at their best to meet their current and future leaders. Mouse also needed this information so she could place her spies and gather intelligence of the state of the Wolf Lands and the Kingdoms beyond.

Jaskier and Yennefer were trying to convince Geralt that stops outside the Wolf Lands would be equally important to Ciri’s future leadership and diplomatic efforts.

“She needs to be seen, Geralt. Not only as your Heir but a future leader of her people.” Yennefer insisted. Geralt glared at her, not willing to budge, not caring that he was being stubborn. He wasn't going to put his daughter in danger.

“Taking her outside our lands puts her at risk and potentially exposes her to the ongoing tensions and threats in the South. Nilfgaard is pushing towards Sodden and threatening to invade the North.” Geralt snapped.

“It’s bad enough I agreed to this endless nightmare of parties and diplomacy within our own lands; as you have repeatedly insisted it will help us get a better grip on the state of the people and their needs.

In addition, it will help unify the various countries and peoples but we don’t need to be going to other sovereign countries. That is just asking for trouble”

“You already agreed to Aedirn, Wolf” Eskel stated before Yennefer could say anything else.

“That was out of necessity. The only way to keep somewhat peaceful relations with Demavend,” Geralt glanced at Yen and Jaskier.

“As everyone has pointed out, has been to make a diplomatic visit with myself and Ciri present in his capital. I don’t have to like it, but I can tolerate it. However, I draw the line at Aedern.”

“But if we visit the capital of Aedern and don’t don’t go visit Lyria and Rivia, it will be a slap in the face for Queen Maev who has always been supportive of Witchers,” Jaskier added, staring at his husband with a raised eyebrow.

Vesemir’s headache was approaching full-on migraine territory. He paled slightly when Jaskier mentioned Rivia, not enough to be immediately noticeable.

Feeling his heart rate pick up, he thought for sure the other Witchers in the room could hear and scent his distress but so far it had gone unnoticed save for the very observant silent shadow of Ciri.

He smiled wanly at Ciri, hoping it would distract her from his distress.

Vesemir wasn’t… looking forward to visiting Rivia. It had been a long time since he had stepped foot in those lands. He left for good reason and tried to leave the past behind him.

The Progress would be leaving in a few weeks and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, let alone a trip to the place of his birth.

If improving relations between their neighbour's and aid abroad for Witchers was the benefit and mission of this trip then he wouldn’t stop it.

However, it was something he was hoping to avoid himself as he hadn’t been home in 300 years.

“Vesemir what’s the matter?” Ciri asked. She had indeed noticed how distracted Vesemir had become since he had heard they would be stopped in Rivia for several days.

The others paused in their debate when they heard Ciri’s question. Now aware of Vesemir’s distress, Jaskier, Yen and Eskel became equally concerned.

Vesemir was never this distracted during council meetings and had been fine until this point as far as they could tell.

“Hmm… ah, just concerned as Rivia is very close to Sodden and the trouble with Nilfgaard potentially preparing to invade is all,” Vesemir replied, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice and scent.

He knew there was a very high chance they wouldn’t believe him. It was a valid concern but not the reason he was actually nervous.

He tried not to wince when he saw the looks the rest of the council were giving him.

“Vesemir, the Mahakam Mountains are to the west and the Desert to the South of Rivia. Poor conditions for the troops of Nilfgaard to march through and cause problems for us. Now, what are you actually worried about?” Eskel questioned, staring at his mentor. It was a very poor lie and the man clearly knew it.

Vesemir sighed, he looked like he was about to say something when there was a loud explosion from below, the force was enough to make the floor shake.

Vesemir grabbed his wine goblet and inkpot before wine and ink could end up on his paperwork, that was a mess he didn’t want to have to clean up.

“What the hell? The Cranes know better than to practice inside or near the Keep itself!” Vesemir snapped, getting up, using the explosion as a distraction from the inquiry he was suddenly facing.

“I’m going to have words with Einri and Byrtel.” He marched towards the door, having to back away when the door suddenly opened.

Letho stalked into the room dragging the completely flour-covered Crane Trainees Konrad and Rafal followed by a somewhat messier than usual Julita.

The three Witchers were coated from head to toe in flour. Letho’s scowl showed he was clearly not pleased with the two boys. Julita looked like she wanted to strangle Konrad and Rafal as well but was also struggling to hold back laughter at the same time.

Seeing the scowl on not only Letho’s face but Vesemir’s as well, the boys immediately tried to speak in their defence, only succeeding in talking over each other.

“We didn’t mean for it to go off in the kitchen. Please don’t punish us” Rafal pleaded.

“We meant to take it outside. I don’t understand why it went off in the kitchen,” Konrad added at the same time.

“Shut up” Letho growled glaring down at the two trainees. The boys' mouths quickly snapped closed. He had just stepped foot into the kitchen on his way to the hot springs to get a quick bite to eat and to see how Julita’s newest creation was coming along.

He had wanted to see if she had figured out the solution yet when Konrad and Rafal started to drag the very clearly overfilled bag of flour from the pantry and across the kitchen.

They obviously weren’t going as quickly as they would have liked. Julita had been on the way to the door to greet him when the bag of flour exploded from the friction.

Letho’s quick reflexes were the only reason he managed to get between Julita and the fireball caused by the superheated flour.

“What the hell happened?” Jan demanded, staring at the flour-covered trainees. They were burned in a few places and appeared to be bleeding a little from where their skin had cracked open from the heat of the explosion.

Letho was also a little singed but Julita, thankfully, looked perfectly fine though clearly very amused by how scared the two trainees were of her Uncle.

“These two idiots were dragging an overfilled sack of flour through the kitchen and it blew up. The flour somehow caught on fire. You're very lucky no one else was injured given the size of the fireball,” Letho growled in answer for the boys, now cowering not only from Letho’s anger but a very stern Jan as well.

Every Witcher, fully trained or not, knew to never mess with the human staff whether directly or indirectly. Just then, two older Cranes burst through the open door of Vesemir’s now very crowded office.

“Is everyone alright?” They immediately queried.

“We heard the explosion near the kitchens and just wanted to make sure everyone was unharmed.

“Ah, Einri, Byrtel so nice you could join us,” Letho growled when the two Cranes appeared. They looked a little concerned when they saw the state of the two boys and paled slightly at Letho’s words. Bad things happened when Letho was pissed.

“What on earth were you two doing, overfilling and dragging 50lbs of flour across the kitchen?” Byrtel questioned. He and Einri had told the boys to fill two five-pound containers they had been given with flour. Using what would commonly be on hand, they had to find a way to create bombs just using flour, cloth and string soaked in oil as these were items they would often have on the Path.

“This, boys, is why we told you to be careful in the kitchen and exactly why you shouldn’t overfill the bags of flour. The friction from the bag being dragged across the stone floor and it being pressurized from being overfilled caused it to explode.

The force of the explosion was likely the cause of the fireball. We’ve talked about the importance of keeping substances under pressure from exploding.

Next time pick the bag up,” Byrtel explained, not once taking his eyes off Letho who looked like he was contemplating strangling not only him but any Crane who stepped across his path.

While it was true Letho had mellowed out a little since he had rescued Julita he was still dangerous. Every Witcher and Human in Kaer Morhen knew Letho was very protective of his niece.

Anyone who hurt Julita had to face Letho and if they did hurt her they knew what was going to happen to them once Letho found out.

With his pounding migraine and the inquisition he was surely going to face from the Council for his previous distress prior, Vesemir decided to use this argument as a distraction and beat a hasty retreat from the room.

Now would be the perfect time to head to his quarters, make the room as dark as possible and lay down to wait for his migraine to go away.

He might even be able to catch up on the sleep he had missed the night before. Surely his anxiety around visiting Rivia was an overreaction to not getting enough sleep.

300 years was a long time and nothing was the same as it once was. Right?

End Note: Yes, I know this isn't the entire chapter. This chapter is almost 7 pages long. If you would like to read the rest of the chapter you can find it on Ao3 via the link at the top of the post.

#The Witcher #geralt z rivii #vesemir #inspired by AWAU by Inex #My Ao3 Witcher Stories

[last-wish]

Feainnewedd: Chapter 7

Summary: Geralt and Ciri leave Kaer Morhen and set out for the Temple of Melitele. On her journey there, Yennefer returns to a key place from her past where a new war is brewing.

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Word Count: 4,1k

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Cross posted to AO3. Special thanks to @ohrackham for all her help.

The Blue Mountains loomed like silent giants over Kaer Morhen. Ciri huddled inside her fur coat, trying to keep the cold out. Despite spending all winter in the witchers keep, every time she climbed to the top of the walls, she felt the stinging wind in her bones like the first time. She sighed. Gazing down the valley, a glinting line revealed the course of the Gwenllech river, swollen by the snow melt. Soon she would be following the river southwards. Away from Kaer Morhen, from Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert, from the safety of the Blue Mountains. And back towards the South.

The mere thought brought back an old sense of unease, the urge to sharpen her hearing, to look for anything suspicious around her. Everyone is looking for you. You can hide for a while, but how are you ever going to feel safe when they all want you? Your name, your claim to the throne of a forsaken kingdom, your blood. You can’t escape.

She clasped the battlement in front of her and recalled Calanthe’s words from her deathbed. As in life, it is impossible always to be fully prepared for battle. Keep your sword close and keep moving. Her ragged breaths slowly evened out. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned like a cornered beast.

“Hey,” Geralt said, “it’s just me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… thinking about the journey. It feels strange, going back South after everything.”

The witcher put his arm around her shoulders and stood beside her in silence for a while, staring into the distance. “I remember the first time I left Kaer Morhen. I was just as nervous as you.” The witcher smiled. “Vesemir took Eskel and me down the river to look for work. And we found some—a villager tormented by a curse. He claimed that every night someone knocked on his door. The ghost of his brother, who had frozen to death in the snow the previous winter.”

“Oh. What did you do?”

“Well, Vesemir said we had to do everything for ourselves. So Eskel and I stayed at the house that night, waiting for the knock. Eskel was sure it wasn’t a ghost, probably just some drunkard or the villager’s imagination. But then, in the middle of the night, we heard it, loud and clear. We rushed to the door, busted it open and saw no one. We did find a strange trail near the door and followed it to the village cemetery.”

“You must have been terrified,” Ciri said.

“Oh, we were,” Geralt chuckled. “It was so quiet. We got to the center of the cemetery when we heard footsteps around us. We stood back to back, ready to kill and die. And then—” Geralt snapped his fingers into the Igni sign and a small flame flickered before his face. “Light. A bunch of older apprentices around us, howling with laughter.”

Ciri shook her head slowly. “Uncle Vesemir? Really?”

“Well, every witcher of the School of the Wolf must pass it. It’s an ancient ritual of Kaer Morhen.”

“You’re all just… ridiculous.” Ciri burst out laughing.

Geralt smiled and leaned on the parapet. Ciri noticed then that the witcher was holding something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

Geralt slowly revealed it—a sword, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard. The witcher offered her the hilt and the girl seized it immediately, the warmth of its grip inviting her hand. She unsheathed the sword and the slender blade glinted in the morning sun. Astonished at its lightness, the girl turned and swung it. After training for so long with heavy wooden swords, wielding this blade in her hand she felt she could fly off the battlements of the old keep. She cut the morning mist again and again, slashing the throats and piercing the hearts of the fiends that inhabited her nightmares.

She stopped to catch her breath and when she turned, Geralt was smiling at her.

“Does it feel good in your hand?” He asked.

Ciri nodded and giggled while she sheathed the sword.

“It belonged to a witcher that trained here a long time ago. Vesemir adjusted it for your weight and height and I sharpened it.”

The witcher girl jumped at Geralt and hugged him tightly. After a moment of surprise, the witcher hugged her back.

“You know,” Geralt said when they separated, “you’ve learned here how to defend yourself. You have that potential in your hand now. This blade is light and sharp, it will want to leave its cage and bite. But keep this in your head—once you unsheathe it, there’s no coming back. That will always be the hardest decision you’ll have to make.”

“Is that why you have that golden brooch on yours?”

“How do you—” The witcher shook his head.

“I saw it in a dream. You were holding a woman bleeding out on the street. She had that same brooch.”

Geralt looked over the wall, his face like stone. “She was called Renfri and she... she was a princess like you. And yes, that’s why I have her brooch in my sword.”

He didn’t look eager to talk about it and Ciri didn’t press him. Instead, she approached him and looked at the abyss below them. “I hate leaving people behind. I had to leave my grandmother in Cintra, then the dryads in Brokilon and Dara after that. Now I have to leave Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert. I’m so tired of it, Geralt. Will it always be like this?”

The witcher put his arms around her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“I will always be with you.”

***

“Alright lady, your papers are in order. You can go.”

Yennefer mounted on her black horse and crossed the bridge over the swollen Pontar river, leaving behind a throng of merchants and peasants trying to pass through the customs post. After just a few steps of her horse on Redanian soil, the sorceress stopped abruptly. On the other side of the river, the forests of Temeria extended to the horizon. Among the sea of green, the road she had followed before approaching the bridge waited patiently for her return. Stop overthinking. This won’t take long and I have more than enough time.

After setting the meeting in the Temple of Melitele via megascope, Yennefer had decided to avoid any unnecessary risk. Bidding farewell to Tissaia as she returned to her diplomatic missions through the Northern royal courts, she had headed to the Academy of Aretuza to spend the winter. Helping her friend Rita in her new role as Rectoress had been a much-needed distraction from her worries, but, as soon as the roads thawed, she had set out in secret to the Duchy of Ellander. The Northern roads that waited for Geralt and Ciri would take longer to reappear under the molten ice, giving her time for a short detour to the other side of the Pontar.

Almost there. The place where the spark of a single decision started an all-consuming fire. But even so, a tainted spark, one that contained the doom of its own product. Could an impure creation be saved from itself? Was it worth the effort? Many lives ago, she had asked herself the same questions. Her own answer at that time was marked forever on her wrists.

She reached the top of the hill and the city walls rose before her. Red standards hung from the guard towers of the southern gate. The white eagle of Redania flapped its wings as if getting ready to take flight. The sorceress wondered again if she should do the same and turn back to Ellander.

Almost ten years already, Yennefer thought as she walked the bustling streets of Rinde. The city was an awkward combination of worn-out but still recognizable places and new additions that sticked out like a fresh, nasty scar on a familiar face. The air carried the events of past months in its smell of clay and mortar. The proud local nobles strove to repair the landmarks, but the rebellion of the Redanian peasants had left an unmistakable mark upon it.

The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestone startled her. A group of riders dismounted before a nearby building, bringing three wounded soldiers with them. At once, a lanky man emerged from the building and guided the troop inside. The last soldier stopped before him, his face twisted with rage and contempt. The tall man raised his hands in appeasement, only to find a blade over his throat. Yennefer rushed towards them. Before she got there, the enraged soldier spat on the ground and left. Sighing with resignation, the man was about to go back inside when he saw the sorceress. From up close, his light blue eyes and pointed ears left no doubt.

“Chireadan!”

“Yennefer! What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by and I thought—” Shouts from inside interrupted her.

The elf clenched his jaw. “Sorry, I have to go. We can talk later.”

“Can I help you?”

The healer’s eyes shone. “In fact, you can. Come, quick.”

Before they got to the end of the hallway, they bumped into the soldiers leaving the main room.

“Get this into your skull, elf,” one of them said, his finger an inch before Chireadan’s face. “We tried every sawbones in this city before we brought ‘em here. Guess what? None has any room left thanks to your traitor kind. You better slog your guts out mending our wounded because you see my boys?” He grinned. “They are just waiting for an excuse to expand our collection of nonhuman scum hung at the square.”

“Are you suggesting Chireadan would let a patient die?” Yennefer asked. The soldier stared at the sorceress with a mix of surprise, confusion and restrained anger. After a moment of quiet tension, the soldier made a gesture and his companions followed him outside.

“Thank you,” Chireadan said when they closed the door behind them, letting out a long sigh. “Few people in Rinde would dare to defy the sorceress that almost destroyed the city. Or so the stories say.”

“Stories from a time when all the city respected you and sought your services. What happened?”

“It’s been some rough years, Yennefer. Today’s Rinde has little in common with the one you left a decade ago. First, the peasants rose up in rebellion, and now…” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. A slight wince highlighted fine wrinkles all over his face, betraying a pain that ran deep beneath. Somehow, this elf seemed to have visibly aged in just a decade—an absolute absurdity. “It started shortly after the war with Nilfgaard. Just whispers among elves in the beginning. Then leaflets calling for revolt appeared in the nonhuman district and the attacks on the roads started not long after.”

“Elven rebels here, too?” Yennefer asked. Chireadan frowned. “I’ve encountered them in Sodden and Temeria,” the sorceress clarified.

“Then the saying is true, misfortunes never come alone. I truly thought it was just a Redanian matter. Mobs started lynching elves and dwarves during the peasant rebellion and the youngest among us needed just a spark to take up arms. I guess things weren’t better in the rest of the Continent. Anyway, come with me, I must tend to the wounded.”

Yennefer followed Chireadan to a large room where the three injured soldiers laid among others. A nauseating stink of sweat and blood assailed her. Chireadan wrinkled his nose while he examined the rushed bandages on an unconscious soldier’s arm. “It’s a miracle this one’s not bled out. We have to change the dressing, bring me the cloth over there.”

“What’s their goal?” Yennefer said as she handed him the rags.

“The Scoia’tael’s?” The elf raised his gaze from the soldier. “That’s how they call themselves, because of the squirrel tails they wear. Well, they demand the liberation of the nonhuman prisoners, the end of the racial laws and the privileges by birthright.”

“Here, in Redania? The nobles will never accept it. They’d have Vizimir’s head on a spike if they suspected him of bargaining with those chips on the table.”

“I’m aware,” Chireadan said sharply. “It’s hard not to notice with every mutilated soldier that finds his way here. This war won’t end with a treaty. Is this the reason you’re here?”

“Oh, no. It’s more of a… personal reason.”

Before she could continue, one of the wounded moaned and squirmed, and the healer rushed to his side.

“I must—” He struggled. “I must warn them.”

“Of what?” Chireadan asked.

The soldier twisted and screamed. “You fucking squirrel, let me out!”

Yennefer approached the man. “We’re in Rinde. You’re safe. Chireadan is just trying to treat your wounds.”

“There’s no time for that, take me to the barracks now.”

“Soldier,” said Yennefer. “What’s your name?”

He stared at her. “Caspar.”

“You are in no condition to go anywhere, Caspar. I can take a message if that’s what you want.”

“Not with him here,” Caspar said through gritted teeth, looking at Chireadan. The elf threw up his hands and crossed the room to attend another patient.

“Well?” Yennefer asked.

“I heard two squirrels talk before they stabbed me. They’re breaking camp. They’re leaving Redania.”

“Great news, then. Where’s the urgency in that message?”

“They’re going to join the squirrels from Kaedwen. Don’t you understand? These commandos are giving us hell. If they join forces—” The man shook and moaned, his breaths turned to rasps.

“I see. But what can you do about it?”

The wounded soldier rose slightly, drawing closer to Yennefer, his voice a whisper. “The Murivel pass. They’ll cross the Kestrel Mountains there, towards Kaedwen. An ambush there… We’ll get them all.” Caspar’s smile was interrupted by a coughing fit. Yennefer turned away as Chireadan rushed to the dying man. The sorceress wiped her hand across her face. It was covered in blood.

“Bloede pest!” Chireadan screamed, trying to turn Caspar over. The cough stopped after an endless moment. The soldier’s lifeless eyes were fixed on the ceiling. An ominous laugh made Yennefer’s skin crawl.

“You’re done, elf,” one of the wounded grunted. “Maybe I’m too. But I’ll die with a smile knowing your body will hang soon on the square. Then they’ll get the rest of your own and you’ll all understand that Redania is no place for murdering scum like you.”

Chireadan stooped over the corpse, grabbing the bed with both hands, his knuckles white.

Yennefer approached him. “Chireadan…”

He stormed out of the room. She followed him.

“Chireadan!”

“Don’t you see it? I have no way out!” His hands trembled. “Those soldiers were just looking for an excuse to arrest me, it doesn’t matter what we tell them. What’s left for me, join the rebels and die with a blade in my hand? By the Mother, my job is mending bodies, not maiming them!”

“Maybe there is another way. If the Scoia’tael are fleeing to Kaedwen, perhaps they can help you escape Redania, start a new life there.”

The elf laughed bitterly. “A new life among humans in Kaedwen, another kingdom besieged by rebel commandos. How do you think they’ll treat me there? Not just an elf but an outsider.”

“Then join them. You’ve healed wounded for one side, why not for the other?”

“I must be feverish too if I’m hearing the hero of the Hill, savior of the Northern Kingdoms, urging me to enlist with the rebels trying to topple them.”

“Urging you to save your neck, Chireadan. Do you think I fought on the Hill for this? For injustice, crushing the different, the pogroms? No. I fought for the people I care about. And I intend to keep on doing it. If there is truth to what that soldier said, we are the only ones who know about the Scoia’tael plans. You still have time to reach them and get out of Redania.”

The healer stared at her, a storm raging behind his eyes. He let out a long sigh. “I’ll get my things. As for my patients… I’ll go warn my assistant.”

“You’ve done far more for them than they would have done in your place.”

He nodded. “You won’t be safe here either, those soldiers saw you with me. The river is our best bet. I have a friend who can get us across.”

“Then I’ll see you on the docks at midnight,” the sorceress said. “I must do something first.”

***

“This is a good spot,” the witcher said. “Here, give me the reins.”

Ciri dismounted her mare. As soon as her feet touched the mossy forest floor, pain shot through her legs and she fell pathetically to the ground.

“Shit!” She winced and moaned.

“All winter without riding a horse,” Geralt chuckled. “It’s only normal you get leg cramps now.”

“Normal?” She massaged her worn out legs. “Does riding all day sound normal to you? The sun is almost set.”

“Then get up and help me. This is the only light we’re getting tonight—no fires. We’re still close to the fort and I don’t want to alert any patrols.“

Ciri got to her feet and relieved her exhausted mare from the weight of her saddlebags. After rummaging a bit, she took some food and sat on the ground next to Geralt, her back resting on a thick tree. She took a deep breath. The air carried the scents of earth, damp moss and flowers in bloom. The forests of Kaedwen were beautiful in the spring. Ciri’s stomach rumbled and she started munching on the lamb pie she had bought in a village that morning.

“You better get your fill of food and rest tonight,” Geralt said. “We have another long day before us.”

“Oh, come on,” Ciri protested, her voice muffled by the pie. “First you leave Triss behind and now you want to ride all day.”

“Triss was too sick to continue and you know Eskel is taking care of her. We just need to get some distance between Fort Leyda and us. The road will be much calmer after—”

Leaves rustled suddenly somewhere nearby. Geralt's eyes narrowed.

“What was that?” Ciri asked.

“A deer. We must have scared it. Or something else did.” The witcher stood in silence for a while, eyes alert and his sword nearby. After a while, he slowly relaxed.

“I wish I had a bow,” Ciri said. “We could eat some fresh meat tonight.”

“A bow is no weapon for a witcher.”

“You witchers are so boring. I should have stayed in Brokilon, the dryads would have taught me how to shoot a bow.”

Geralt laughed. “Dryads do not hunt forest animals. I don’t know how Eithné could have put up with you.”

Ciri smiled. “You never told me how you met her. When was it, a thousand years ago?”

“Not quite that long. But I was still a young witcher, sent on a contract by the King of Verden...”

Ciri’s eyes closed as night fell over the forest and Geralt’s voice slowly drifted to the realm of dreams.

***

The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon when Yennefer reached Rinde’s main square. Not even a ray of moonlight cut through the overcast sky, and only torches and lamps hanging from the balconies provided some light in the dark. Not that there was much to light up. A couple of guards leaned on their halberds before the mayor’s house. On the opposite side of the square, a bunch of drunks broke the night silence with their songs and shouts. Between the two groups, the corpses of two elves and a dwarf swayed softly, hanging from the gallows at the center of the square.

The sorceress stood on one of the side entrances to the square. The thought of stepping into it felt wrong, as if the impossible peace of that place would snap like a taut rope with no hope of mending it. Her resolution hardened—despite her sacrifices for the Northern kingdoms, despite the friends fallen in battle, she would never help tighten the chains of injustice.

Under the faint light of the torches, the mayor’s house looked as ten years back, but an attentive look on the right place unveiled the truth. The top of the house had been rebuilt in an austere style after a djinn had collapsed the previous one. Yennefer felt a strange relief as she realized she was not the only one marked by the events of that day. But could she restore what had fallen time and again during those ten years? Was it not a doomed effort, trying to build on a cursed foundation that had never withstood for a long time? Each breakup with the witcher had inflicted a deeper, more painful wound than the last. And now he had embraced a new life, taking care of the princess of Cintra. Was there a place in his life for her? Was it worth casting her shield aside, show herself as she was, maybe even taste the sweet fruit of affection just to be abandoned again? You already know what will happen, an old cruel voice whispered in her ear. No one will ever love you.

The world spun around her—screaming drunkards, crackling flames, dancing corpses on the gallows. She leaned on the wall of the entrance arch. The smoke from the torches scratched her throat and slowly choked her. She felt her own insignificance again, stuck into her heart like a sharp dagger. A shiver ran down her spine as the clouds above her opened, the moon emerging from behind them. She was naked against the silver light, no shield able to protect her. Yennefer stopped fighting and tasted salt on her lips. Her limp body trembled against cold stone.

The desire to flee invaded her. To flee far from the city, from the war brewing within, from kings, rebels and assassins to a shelter against this ravenous cold. Inside a tent standing bravely on a cruel mountain, beside braziers that warmed her skin. A smile against hers, a drowsy, sincere voice uttering a confession she clung onto, each word a rope she would never release. You’re important to me.

Yennefer rose. She had lost track of time, but the moon was still above her among the clouds, lighting the now quiet square. Her footsteps broke the silence as she walked towards the docks, where Chireadan and her embarked on an old weathered boat, never to return.

Crows cawed in the night. The clouds flared red as if the sun was about to break through, and the scents of the blooming spring had turned into a burning smoke. Cintra was falling. The bird of prey would take her soon, as it did almost every night. But the face looming over her was not the one she expected.

“Ciri, get up!” His hoarse voice could hardly belong to the same person that had told her old stories of Brokilon just a while ago, but Geralt’s eyes were full of worry and Ciri did as he said. “Fort Leyda is burning, we have to get out of here.”

“War again.” Ciri’s voice broke. “But we’re so far North, how could it reach us so fast?”

“This can’t be Nilfgaard. Must be bandits. There’s no time, get your things and—”

A whistle cut through the air, ending abruptly as a thud on the tree behind Geralt. The arrow was just a few inches above his head.

“Glaeddyv vort, dh’oine!” A raspy voice rumbled in the dark of the forest. Geralt stood silent. “Do you not understand? Drop the sword, human, or my next arrow will pierce your neck!”

The witcher’s hand gripped his sheathed sword, where Renfri’s golden brooch glinted against the fiery sky. “Essea neén dh’oine,” Geralt said curtly.

Ciri recalled her Elder Speech lessons with Triss back in Kaer Morhen. I am no human. The witcher’s eyes burned bright. Ciri had no idea how many attackers surrounded them, but she knew Geralt could see in the dark far better than her. His thumb pressed against the brooch on the sword’s crossguard. What would he do? Ciri’s sword was by her saddlebag, too far for her to reach before an arrow found her.

A woman emerged suddenly from the trees in front of them, her footsteps so light that Ciri didn’t hear her coming. She held a short bow with a strange shape, bowstring drawn near her pointed ear. Her green clothes were splattered in blood.

“Gwynbleidd?”

“Toruviel?”

#the witcher netflix #geralt x yennefer #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #fanfiction #the witcher

[mrsarnasdelicious]

Having a Child with Geralt of Rivia Would Involve

‘Y/N, it is not mine’

‘Bullshit, you are the only one I bed’

‘Not bullshit, don’t you know all Witchers are Sterile!’

‘And yet here we are’

‘NO!’ 

And he will just ride off

And not be heard of for a couple of moons

But he’ll be back, eventually

Because he always comes back

Even if it takes him a few moons

And with a young girl in tow

He doesn’t even greet you

He puts his hand on your belly

‘So it is mine..’

It is not even a question

‘What made you realize?’

And here comes his whole explaination, involving several oracles, an elder god and a Child Surprise

And Ciri just stands there like 

‘Hi I am this child surprise’

And suddenly your cottage is full of Witcher and Princess

And you do your happy family thing

And for a while it is okay

Geralt proves to be a good dad

And Ciri doesn’t mind the simple life

Geralt seems to settle down as well

But of course, a witcher must hunt

He comes home between hunts, though

And you take good care of Ciri while he is away

And sometimes Geralt comes back with the noisy bard

So you become vast friends with Jaskier

And you have this fairly normal domestic life for a good while

And the closer you come to popping out the kid, the less Geralt leaves

He even tells Jaskier to stay

Jaskier makes money by doing his bard thing in the nearby town

And Geralt goes on two or three day trips before coming back to you

He is home when your waters break

He is in the stables and hears you shouting orders at Jaskier and Ciri

So he dashes into the cottage

Half in a blind fury to protect you and half mad with fear for this very moment

And for good measure you begin ordering Geralt around too

He’s holding his little boy in his arms

‘But I am sterile...’

‘What did the elder god tell you?’

‘That our son will do great deeds..’

‘And?’

‘That he thought it fun to see my seed quicken’

Jaskier and Ciri stand by with wtf expressions on their faces

But gosh does Geralt look proud with his own son in his arms

His first born

And likely only biological child

He decides to name the boy Natan

A name you agree on

He watches over you while you rest, giving birth is not an easy feat after all

He helps Ciri wash Natan and swaddle him

Big Time Hoovering while you nurse Natan

The first few days of the boys life, Geralt refuses to let him out of his arms

Except to use the privy, to eat and to tend to Roach

And when you or Geralt are not holding Natan, Jaskier or Ciri is

Geralt affectionately nicknames Natan his ‘little spud’

‘Did you just call your own son a potato, Geralt?’- Jaskier

‘Hm’ - Geralt

Geralt is so protective over Natan

He does go on hunts again

When Natan is like half a year old or so

And even so, Geralt will not be away from longer than a week or so

He stays home for two weeks at a time though

Absolutely doting on Natan

He is there when Natan says his first word and it makes the White Wolf melt

Natan’s first word is papa

When Natan is like 3 or so, you extend your cottage

Build a room for Ciri and one for Jaskier as well

It is not like the bard never stumbles in unexpectedly

It is a team effort, the four of you buidling together

It really shows Geralt that he has now build his own little family

He weds you, once the building is done

The town priest officiates

Jaskier, Ciri and Natan are the only one’s in attendance

Jaskier is Geralt’s witness and Ciri yours

That night Geralt sure does his best to try and give Natan a little sibling

Alas, his seed does not quicken again

But dang does he keep trying

Eventually he takes Ciri along for missions

And when Natan is around 10, Geralt starts training him 

And the three set out on longer and longer missions

But you will always be their home ]

And they will always come back to you

Overall Geralt is a pretty good pa

He tends to be a little over protective

But he gets so much joy from his kids

Like he legitly almost weeps, secretly, when Ciri slips up and calls him dad

His whole face lights up when Natan or Ciri laugh

He is so good at dad naps

Natan on his stomach and Ciri curled into his side

He teaches Natan to ride at an early age

And teaches Ciri how to ride propperly

Teaches Ciri, Jaskier and Natan to handle weapons

With great joy, might I add

And he loves you so much

He’ll tell you

To Jaskier’s utter surprise

He has these smiles he saves for only you, Ciri and Natan

Queue jelly Jaskier

Good wholesome Geralt

#This is very long and I am not sorry #Geralt of Rivia #the witcher netflix #henry cavill #breaking one canon rule

[potrix-the-queerschlaeger]

not a goodbye, a thank you

For @daphne--blue, who gave me this heartbreaking prompt I just couldn't resist: "Geralt facing the one monster he can’t fight. The passage of time, and losing Jaskier to it."

As mentioned in the tags, there is no actual character death in this fic. There is talk about future death, however, after one character suffers a near death experience. The fic ends on a bittersweet, happy-ish note.

Let the feels happen, folks. Embrace them!

You can also go and check this story out on AO3.

- - -

▪ This is not a goodbye, my darling, this is a thank you. Thank you for coming into my life and giving me joy, thank you for loving me and receiving my love in return. Thank you for the memories I will cherish forever. But most of all, thank you for showing me that there will come a time when I can eventually let you go. ▪ 

The cool breeze carries the scent of early spring with it, fresh and cleansing and full of life, and Geralt closes his eyes as it ruffles his hair and caresses his cheeks. His head is tipped back against the wall of the stables, hands lying loose and relaxed in his lap as he breathes, slowly, in and out in a steady rhythm.

Not many places grant him the safety to act and be this careless, this free, and he’s determined to bask in the pleasure of it for as long as he can. They’ll leave Kaer Morhen soon, all of them returning to their tasks and duties for the year; Yennefer will take Ciri with her to Aretuza for the season, Eskel and Lambert will set out to travel the Path again, as will Geralt after escorting Jaskier across the Continent to the Academy.

In the late summer, Ciri will find Geralt wherever he might have ended up, and together they’ll travel to Oxenfurt to join Jaskier for the end of term festivities. The three of them will make the journey back to Kaer Morhen together come fall, where Vesemir and his brothers will be waiting for them, and Yennefer will turn up whenever she’s grown bored with life in whatever court she’d decided to grace with her presence and services.

And Geralt will feel whole again, he will be home once more, and the thought alone makes him smile softly to himself.

Somewhere further in the courtyard, Lambert yells out a colourful curse while Ciri cackles maniacally. Eskel is taunting the former through his laughter, and Vesemir’s voice joins in with barked commands and corrections once the clang of steel against steel continues. Somewhere above them, on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, Geralt can hear the scratch of quill against parchment as Yennefer works on her correspondence, interrupted every now and again by the tapping of nails against an inkpot.

He realises what’s wrong an instant before everyone else grows suddenly, eerily still; Jaskier is quiet.

Geralt’s eyes snap open and immediately find Jaskier in the same spot he’s been in for most of the afternoon, sitting perched atop a few old crates with his lute in hand and a tune on his lips. Only now the lute has been set aside so Jaskier can press his hands to his chest, a frown pulling at his brows as his face twists and turns ashen.

He begins to gasp as Geralt springs to his feet, coughing harshly before that turns into breathless wheezing. His hands are shaking when they reach for Geralt, their grip weak and feeble where they curl into Geralt’s tunic, and his heart stutters.

Jaskier’s eyes are wide and shining, and his heart stutters, stutters, stutters, and then it doesn’t anymore because it stays silent.

Silent. Silent. Silent—

“Geralt, move!” Yennefer hisses sharply as she shoves between them. “Move and help!”

It’s overwhelming, as everything comes rushing back in; the sound of raised voices, the smell of worry and fear, the feel of his brothers flanking him closely, the taste of his own panic in the back of Geralt’s throat.

“Yenn,” is all Geralt manages to choke out, but Yennefer knows him well enough to simply, brusquely instruct, “Lift him, carefully. Follow me.”

His mind is blank apart from a frantic, terrified repetition of Jaskier’s name as they step through a portal into their rooms. He gently arranges Jaskier on the bed and begins to undress him as ordered while Yennefer vanishes for a long, torturous moment. She returns with her bag of herbs and salves, and Geralt has to bite the inside of his cheek bloody to keep himself from snarling at her when she tells him to give her space to work.

Jaskier is quiet. Silent. Still.

“Is he going to be—” Geralt’s voice breaks off halfway through the question when bile rises up his throat. He swallows convulsively against the sting of it, vision swimming. “Yenn, will he—”

The hand Yennefer’s got splayed across Jaskier’s chest turns purple with magic, glowing brightly, and Jaskier’s whole body jerks before going limp again. Yennefer waits, watches, holds her free hand over his mouth and nose. Her expression grows pinched, her hand glowing bright for another moment, Jaskier convulsing more violently than before.

Geralt can hear himself growling, low and hurt, though he can’t seem to stop. But then Jaskier sucks in a painful sounding breath, twitching under Yennefer’s hands as she smooths them down his torso, murmuring quiet spells that Geralt doesn’t hear over the sound of the renewed beat of Jaskier’s heart.

Slow. Weak. Too slow, too weak, but there once more.

Yennefer sits back with a shuddering sigh, eyes squeezed shut and mouth pressed into a thin line. Somehow, despite his legs feeling weak like he’d just run for hours, Geralt makes it over to the bed to perch down next to her, laying a hand on her back.

“He’s stable, for now,” she says quietly as she tips her head to rest against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt moves to wrap an arm around her, holding her close. Yennefer leans into it and pats Geralt’s thigh. “He’ll be in the clear, I believe, if he makes it through the night, although I do highly recommend a visit with a human healer. Good thing your little lark is as stubborn as they come.”

He is, proudly so, and were the circumstances different, Geralt would see the humour in the situation. He can't find it in himself to do so, now. “What happened, Yenn?”

Yennefer gives a delicate shrug. “It's near impossible to tell. Whatever it was, it put a strain on his heart which proved to be too much.”

Geralt's own heart clenches at that. “I didn't—”

“Oh, please, Geralt, get over yourself,” Yennefer cuts in sharply. She moves back a little, and Geralt pretends he doesn't notice her wipe discreetly at her eyes. “Trained healers and physicians find it impossible to predict and prevent these things, how could you have?”

It's illogical, Geralt knows, but he wants to argue anyway. It's him who knows Jaskier, inside and out, better than any other living soul. It's him who cares for Jaskier, who loves Jaskier, who is supposed to protect Jaskier when Jaskier can't protect himself.

It's him who has failed, spectacularly so.

Some of what he's thinking must show on his face, despite his best efforts, because Yennefer's features soften again. “Geralt,” she says, too gentle for Geralt's comfort, “he's human. He's growing older—”

“Don't,” Geralt snaps, harsh enough to make Yennefer's face close off entirely. Geralt swallows hard, looking back at Jaskier and away from Yennefer’s eyes. “I know he—I know, Yenn, fuck. I know. Just. Don't.”

They're quiet for a while, after that. Yennefer pulls several pouches of herbs and vials of liquids out of her bag, setting them out on the desk in the corner. Geralt takes one of Jaskier's hands, pressing his lips to his pulse, head bent over their clasped hands while he listens to Jaskier's shallow breathing.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Yennefer who speaks first again. “Spring water and aether,” she demands, still bent over her equipment. “Honey, if there’s still some left, for the taste.”

“If you think I’m leaving him right now,” Geralt grunts out, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“He’ll be asleep for hours, yet, the healing spell I’ve put him under will make sure of that. You, on the other hand,” Yennefer turns to raise an eyebrow at him, “can go and make yourself useful.” Geralt opens his mouth to protest again, but Yennefer talks over him, “And go see how your daughter is handling all of this.”

That’s enough to make Geralt shut his mouth, sudden guilt churning in his gut. Reluctantly, after kissing his palm, Geralt releases Jaskier’s hand, laying it back down gently. He ghosts his lips over Jaskier’s forehead before getting up, moving towards the door without glancing back at Yennefer.

Before he lets the door fall closed behind him, though, he murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”

He gets as far as the end of the corridor, where Vesemir is leaning against the wall. He straightens up as Geralt approaches, watching him without saying a word when Geralt stops in front of him, unsure of what to say. Eventually, he settles on, “He’s alive.”

Vesemir nods, once, and then he reaches out to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt melts into the touch, can’t not, and Vesemir breathes out, “Oh, my boy,” and tugs him closer, lets Geralt bury his face in his neck, and cling to his back as he shakes apart.

Geralt shakes, and shakes, and can’t seem to stop, eyes dry but burning terribly as Vesemir holds him, strong and tight and the only thing keeping Geralt from crumbling into tiny, shattered pieces of himself. He can’t tell how long they stay like that, but when Geralt feels like he can move again without losing himself, his throat feels parched and his head aches.

In a shocking display of tenderness, Vesemir tucks a strand of loose hair behind Geralt’s ear before he steps back, clapping him on the chest. “The others are on the sparring grounds,” he says, and the smallest of smiles tugs at one corner of his mouth. “The little menace was beating the ever-living shit out of your brothers before I left.”

Taking the dismissal for what it is, Geralt detours through the kitchen to gulp down some ale, splash some water on his face, and grab the ingredients requested by Yennefer before he makes his way outside. He hears grunting and swearing long before he sees them, Ciri sitting on Eskel’s chest with a dagger to his throat while Lambert is crouched close by, ready to pounce.

Their heads swivel around in almost eery synchronicity when they hear Geralt’s boots crunch along the gravel path, and then Ciri is on him in an instant, flinging herself at him hard enough to force a startled, “Oof,” out of him.

“Tell me he’s okay,” Ciri whispers against his cheek, her voice small like Geralt almost never hears it.

A brief glance over her shoulder reveals both Lambert and Eskel watching him intently, their faces creased in apparent concern. Geralt turns his face into Ciri’s hair before answering. “For now.”

Ciri makes a hurt noise, Eskel breathes in sharply, and Lambert mutters, “Fucking hell.”

“I want to see him,” Ciri says, pulling back just far enough to glare at Geralt with wet, shimmering eyes, as if he’d ever refused her a single thing in his life. “Right now, I need to see him. Please.”

“Oh, now we have manners, do we?” Lambert snorts, and it’s enough to effectively break the worst of the tension.

Vesemir has commandeered the comfy armchair by the hearth when they get back, a book in his lap that Geralt would bet he hasn’t read a single word of. Lambert plops down on the carpet by his feet, legs pulled against his chest and chin resting on his knees, while Eskel takes the potion ingredients from Geralt, and goes to help Yennefer with the brewing.

Ciri has no qualms about curling up next to Jaskier on the bed. She cautiously puts a hand on his ribs, making sure she can feel him breathe, presses her forehead against his shoulder, and closes her eyes, sniffling quietly every now and again.

Geralt settles on Jaskier’s other side and takes his hand again.

No one but Jaskier sleeps that night.

*

It’s shortly after dawn when Jaskier’s fingers twitch against Geralt’s palm.

“Geralt,” he hums quietly, blinking sluggishly for a moment. His eyes widen as he looks around at the people gathered in the room. And then he grins jauntily, tongue-in-cheek. “Well, now. To what do I owe this honour?”

“Jaskier,” Ciri hiccups, lower lip trembling, and Jaskier says, “Oh, my darling little lion cub,” as he wraps his arms around her, and tenderly kisses the crown of her head.

Eskel comes over to squeeze Jaskier’s ankle through the furs. “Fucking hell, Jaskier,” he grunts, but the relief is palpable on both his face and in his voice.

“Don’t fucking do that again, buttercup,” Lambert adds gruffly, then yelps when Vesemir none too gently cuffs the back of his head.

He herds Lambert and Eskel out of the room with a roll of his eyes, but not before promising Jaskier the last of the pickled cherries—his favourite, and a rare commodity by the end of the winter—to go with his morning meal.

“And once you've eaten,” Yennefer says as she sets a vial of swirling, pale blue liquid down on the small table by the bed, “this, and another after supper. Twice a day, for a week at least. Geralt forgot the honey, so, please, do feel free to nag at him when it tastes like unwashed feet.”

“Your bedside manner is atrocious,” Jaskier informs her, nose wrinkled, even as he frees one of his arms to beckon her closer. “The absolute worst, let me tell you.”

Yennefer sniffs at him haughtily, flicking her hair, but she does hug him tightly for a long moment, and kisses his cheek when Jaskier whispers, “Thank you, my dear.”

Ciri gets up when Yennefer tilts her head at her, though she's very obviously unhappy about it. Jaskier, of course, notices as well, reaching out to squeeze Ciri’s hand. “Go eat, little darling, and fetch me my food as well, would you?”

Once he and Geralt are alone, Jaskier slumps, and breathes out a tired, shaky sigh. Geralt helps him lie down more comfortably, arranging the pillows behind his head, and tucking the furs more snugly around him.

He looks up again when Jaskier grips his arm, a small smile playing on his lips. “You're fussing.”

“We're out of honey,” Geralt blurts nonsensically, then immediately winces at his bumbling. He opens his mouth to say something, anything else, then closes it again helplessly. When he tries again, all that comes out is a hoarse, broken, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier's eyes crinkle, turning almost impossibly fond, and he tugs at the arm he's still holding, urging Geralt to lie down with him, head on Jaskier's shoulder. One of Jaskier's hands finds Geralt's to twine their fingers together, and the other moves to Geralt's head to stroke through his hair.

“The thought of losing you,” Geralt murmurs, eyes shut firmly, “scares me more than I ever thought possible.”

“My love,” Jaskier's voice is brimming with just that, damn near overflowing with the emotion of it, “of course it does. As it does me, when I dare to think of a world without the wonder that is you in it.”

Geralt tightens the arm he has around Jaskier, swallowing hard around the sudden, painful lump in his throat.

Jaskier brushes a kiss over his temple, then lets his lips linger there. “Death will take all of us, human or not,” he says, and shushes Geralt when Geralt makes a choked sound of protest, gently tugging at a strand of   Geralt's hair. “Not today, and damn well not any time soon, if I can help it. But it will, eventually.”

“Jaskier—”

“And should it come for me before it finds you, you will go on. You will hurt, and you will rage, and you won't believe that the pain could ever pass enough to let you breathe again, but it will. And you will go on living, Geralt, because you'll know it's what's right. You'll know it's what I wished for you; to heal, to live, to love—”

“No,” Geralt almost snarls, because it is unthinkable. His mind balks at it, his stomach churns; not after Jaskier, not without Jaskier. “Not that. I couldn't—”

“Don't be ridiculous, dearheart,” Jaskier chides. He nudges Geralt's chin until Geralt looks up at him, into his soft eyes and open, adoring face. “You'll continue to love your daughter, your brothers, Vesemir, Yennefer. You'll keep loving me, like you've kept loving everyone else you've had to let go. And you'll find new people to love in the most beautiful, wonderful of ways, people who'll care for you, and cherish you, and love you back with all that they have.”

Geralt can't recall the last time he cried. He knows he must have, as a child, and most likely during the worst of the trials as well, but he doesn't remember.

He won't forget this time, he knows.

Jaskier leans in to kiss the wetness away from his cheeks, and opens up like a flower in the sun when Geralt turns his head to bring their mouths together. He lets Geralt push him back, lets Geralt cover him, lets Geralt cry, and keeps kissing him.

Kissing, and kissing, and kissing until their lips are red and swollen, until Geralt has nothing else to give.

Until there's nothing left for Geralt to feel but exhaustion.

And love.

Always love, when he's with Jaskier.

Geralt lays his head down on Jaskier's chest.

He drifts off to the new yet familiar beat of Jaskier's heart.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #vesemir #eskel #lambert #cirilla fiona elen riannon #established relationship #love #friendship #family #found family #health scare #near death experience #illness #sickness #NO CHARACTER DEATH #myfics

[the-book-reaper]

my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @saltytransidiot!! I’m no IndigoDream, inexplicifics, round--robin, or any of the other amazing authors in this fandom, but I hope this makes you smile 💕💕

Jaskier absolutely loves wintering at Kaer Morhen. Geralt had finally worked up the nerve to invite him  to meet his family two years ago. They’d been together for thirteen years and together for a little over five.

Jaskier loves the winter because it’s really the only time Geralt gets to completely relax. With his father-figure (though none of them would ever admit it) and brothers there, isolated from a world that seems to wish them every harm.

read on ao3 here

Even after just two winters with them, Jaskier loves Lambert and Eskel. Not in the same way as he loves Geralt, of course, but as some mix of friend and brother. Eskel showed him around the library and Jaskier is teaching him how to craft his own lute, since every lute made for a human would be much too small. Lambert, while he loves his pranks, is quite clever and they can spend hours trading riddles and jokes.

He’d been expecting at least some animosity from Vesemir, considering he is the first “human” to enter Kaer Morhen since the raids. Geralt had blushed so adorably when Vesemir casually mentioned how often he talks about his bard. Jaskier likes doing food prep with him, though he’ll leave the actually cooking to the old wolf. The few times he tried… well, let’s just say those scorch marks in the stone of the kitchen weren’t completely intentional.

He loves cuddling up to Geralt in the evenings, all five of them around the crackling fireplace. He’d tried one sip of Lambert’s moonshine and started tearing up from the sheer amount of alcohol in it. The wolves would need a lot of human drinks to get drunk, so they usually only can during the winter. Every coin they make on the Path goes to food, shelter, supplies, and the occasional prostitute. Anyway, they don’t feel safe enough around humans to allow themselves to be in such a vulnerable state even if they did have the money.

Vesemir never gets terribly drunk. Actually, Jaskier has never seen him act even just the littlest bit intoxicated, even though the witchers drink from the same barrel and roughly the same amount. Eskel either stops after he feels tipsy or drinks until he falls asleep. Lambert usually has to be cut off once he starts suggesting things like going outside—during a blizzard—to spar. Naked.

And Geralt. Oh, how Jaskier loves his witcher. Completely sober, Geralt always maintains at least one point of contact with him if they’re in the same room. After one drink, he purrs easily and will grumble at Jaskier if he stops playing with his hair. At two, Geralt either pulls him into his lap, or is nearly in Jaskier's lap.

Somewhere between three and four is the adorable sweet-spot. When he hits this point, Geralt gets sad if Jaskier's attention strays from him too long. He demands many kisses, pouts if he only gets a peck, and whines adorably if Jaskier refuses him outright. Jaskier will herd him to their room at this point, where he cuddles his darling witcher until he falls asleep, secure in his arms.

This year, he is very much looking forward to exchanging their gifts. Geralt has been extremely secretive about his present, and the anticipation is killing him. This year, Jaskier’s gotten his love a couple new journals with some pencils, colored chalks, and a few paints.

Geralt recently shared that he initially had a lot of trouble with memorizing the bestiary. After the first couple beatings when he couldn’t answer the Masters’ questions, he learned that if he drew each monster, labeling as he went, he was able to retain the information much easier. Soon, he had a sketchbook completely filled with drawings and his only bruises were from training or roughhousing.

But once he’d memorized the bestiary completely, he didn’t want to stop drawing. So he started filling up notebooks with sketches of herbs and flowers, whether or not they had a use. Then he turned to anything he could think of, really.

Nothing is secret in Kaer Morhen though, and the other trainees mocked him mercilessly about it. Eventually he just stopped drawing altogether. Once he was on the Path, he didn’t exactly have much coin to spare on such frivolous things.

When the bard started improving his image, however… Geralt found his coin-purse to be not nearly as empty as it was before. Still, he worried that Jaskier would make fun of him about this hidden interest as well.

He honestly can’t even remember how, but Jaskier did find out and actually supported it, surprisingly. Jaskier had even been the one to buy his first notebook along with a few different pencils.

He never made fun of him, instead praising his art to a near ridiculous extent. Ridiculous to Geralt, that is. Jaskier insisted he was merely being honest.

Now Yule is coming up, and Jaskier has his gifts prepared. The art supplies for Geralt. A good set of strings for Eskel’s lute and some more sheet music. For Lambert he’s brought a book of 500 names since the idiot never calls his horses anything but “Horse” as well as more of that fancy soap he pretends to hate.

Vesemir is always the toughest. The old wolf doesn’t want for much, and it’s pretty bad form—in Jaskier's opinion—to give a person a gift they’ve already received in the past. Last year, Jaskier gave him an extremely old book of poetry written in Elder Speech he’d gotten for a steal at the market. The poor merchant had absolutely no idea about the true value of it!

That find had just been a fluke however, but he somehow got lucky again this year.

--

Now, four Wolves and one bard lounge by an open fire, safe and content. Jaskier takes another sip of his hot tea, the warmth spreading through his body. He can’t help but snuggle in closer to Geralt, who squeezes him gently with the arm around his waist. Finally, it’s time to open presents.

Jaskier insists they open their gifts from him first. He simply can’t take any more anticipation; he needs to know what they think. They’ll probably like them, but there’s always that little niggling voice telling him they’ll only say they like it to be polite.

“Oh, fuck you.” It seems Lambert has opened his gift the fastest. “And why do you keep getting me this fancy-pantsy soap?”

“Why do you keep using it?” Jaskier teases. Geralt chuckles at Lambert’s petulant grumble. Warmth completely unrelated to his tea blooms in Jaskier's chest. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being nice to yourself every once in a while, my little wolf.”

Lambert growls at him, but can’t protest because he is several decades younger than Jaskier.

Eskel and Vesemir love their gifts, which is good because Jaskier had no doubt whatsoever that they would. Absolutely none.

He turns to Geralt, who had been able to open his gift with only the one hand, and is staring down at the art supplies in his lap. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s breathing. His heart drops. “Darling? It’s okay if you don’t like-”

Geralt quickly sets the gift aside, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. His shoulders are shaking suspiciously. “Oh! Oh, my dear. I take it you do like your present, then?” Jaskier tries to add a teasing tone to his words, but he really was not expecting this kind of reaction.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers emphatically into his neck.

Jaskier adjusts his grip on his—thankfully unsplit—tea and hugs him back just as fiercely. After a moment, Geralt releases him, kissing him softly.

There’s a gagging sound to their right and Jaskier has to pull away to laugh. Eskel cuffs Lambert on the back of the head—almost starting a spat—but Vesemir growls at them before it can go much further.

They move on to opening Vesemir’s gifts, no one mentioning the water in Geralt's eyes. Despite being crass and rough with each other, the Wolves know when not to make fun of something.

They open their gifts from Geralt last. Jaskier unties the meticulously wrapped string and unfolds the paper. Inside is something made from yarn, a light lavender that’s ever-so-slightly reflective. He runs a finger over the indescribably soft yarn, breathing in sharply. The fabric unfolds as he picks it up, revealing it to be a long scarf. Holding it closer, he can see the beautiful design woven along its entire length. There are a few breaks in the pattern, but they only make it more perfect.

Geralt spent gods know how long making this, either late at night or early in the morning, most likely frustratedly undoing his work half the time. That he spent so much time and effort, remembering how Jaskier is sensitive to the cold, and deciding to do something about it… His eyes prickle with an emotion he cannot name, he only knows that the word “love” is not strong enough.

He looks up at Geralt, who seems nervous. “Darling… You made this?” he whispers, just to be sure. Geralt nods and Jaskier mimics his love’s actions from earlier, throwing his arms around him—mindful of his drink, of course—and holding him close. “I love it so much. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must have been!” Jaskier releases him and holds the scarf up. “Will you put it on me?”

With reverent hands, Geralt wraps it loosely around his neck. Jaskier rubs a cheek against the yarn, breathing in Geralt's scent, etched into every fiber.

What happened after that, Jaskier honestly couldn’t tell you. The rest of the night passes in a sort of happy daze. Geralt gets all gooey with him and Vesemir herds them all off to bed.

He would have slept with the scarf on, but his dear witcher is much too fond of falling asleep with his nose buried in Jaskier's neck. They both relish in the little touches. Being able to hear the other’s heartbeat, feel their chest move as they breathe.

The undeniable truth of it gets to Jaskier sometimes. That scarf is just one more testament to their love. He really had been loathe to part with it so soon, but it would have just become tangled or stifling in the night. Besides, no item of clothing—even one made by Geralt—could ever amount to the man himself.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #secret santa #no angst only somft

[inkatheart-fandom]

Ranty Plot #001(B)

You can find Part 1 Here.

Modern AU where Geralt, Jaskier, and Yen are in a poly relationship. But what about the other characters? Well, prepare for Lambert’s piece of Modern AU.

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Lambert/Aiden

Tags: Emotional Constipation, Stubborn Boys, Friends to Lovers, Lambert is a Good Friend, Happy Ending, Some Homophobic Language (Aiden is an ass).

Geralt dropped out of High School his Jr. year. He was getting mediocre grades and had no desire to do much outside of school that he wasn't already doing. He was a simple man with simple pleasures. He liked working on the ranch and loved the horses and had 0 desire for higher education. Vesemir tried to encourage him to at least finish High School but it just wasn't gonna be. 

 Eskel graduated with a 3.9 GPA. He was on the water polo team and got a full-ride scholarship. However, he instead decided to go serve in the military after High School. Joined the Marines as a Linguist. Later became a part of MARSOC. He served for 8 years before he suffered a major injury. He was going to recover, but took the honorable medical discharge so he could return home.

LAMBERT. Lambert always struggled with school. As a kid he was never enrolled in school, so he missed out on Pre k-4th grade. He also had dyslexia, so by the time he did get enrolled he was way far behind and struggled hard. 

Vesemir spent a lot of time trying to get Lambert the help he needed. Eskel helped whenever/wherever he could before he went away.

But during Lambert's Sophomore year he met Aiden who was a year ahead of him. Lambert hadn't made many friends outside of his brothers, and most other kids thought he was too loud/aggressive/mean looking. He and Aiden though, there was something there. They got to be thick as thieves lightning fast, but Lambert was the only one happy about it.

Aiden also came from a fucked up home, but unlike Lambert he didn't get some guardian angel to come rescue him. So there was quite a bit of jealousy there on Aiden's part, and he made sure to put Lambert down about it whenever he could. 

Aiden and Lambert got into a lot of trouble together though. They were quick to jump into fights, started messing with drugs and alcohol, and by Aiden's Senior year he had been in and out of Juvie several times. But no amount of trying to convince Lambert was going to break his bond with his bestie. So all Vesemir and Geralt could do was watch and step in whenever they had the opportunity.

Shortly after Aiden turned 18, he ran away from home for good. He packed a bag and showed up on Vesemir's doorstep at 3am. He told Lambert to come with him, they were going to get the hell out of their shitty little podunk town and go make some names for themselves. 

Lambert was beyond temped, and in reality he just wanted to keep his friend from getting in trouble. But he knew that he couldn't just leave behind his life and family here and he begged Aiden to stay. They could work something out with Vesemir, hell Lambert offered to drop out of school and get a job so they could split rent on an apartment together.

Aiden called Lambert a coward, mocked him for being soft for being a surrogate kid to some creepy old man. He said that he and Lambert were closer than Lambert and his 'fake family.' When none of his cajoling worked, he finally left with a few more scathing remarks.

Geralt had heard it all though, ready to step in and stop Lambert from making the biggest mistake he would ever make. Instead he was there to comfort his brother after having lost his best and only friend. 

Lambert didn't hear from Aiden again for five years. He managed to barely graduate High School, but didn't go for anything beyond that. He was good at developing his own skills though.

He joined the police academy, figuring that if he could do anything he might as well try being a force for good. Unfortunately, due to problems with his temper and morally questionable choices at times, he never made it as a full fledged officer.

It was late one night when he got a call. The voice on the other end was familiar and alien all at the same time. Aiden was drunk and in pain. He'd been arrested several towns over, caught gambling. He was looking at some serious charges that involved him having some bad gambling debts, and didn't know what to do. 

Lambert ended up driving all night to go bail Aiden out, but this man wasn't very recognizable from his old friend. Drugs and alcohol had made him a shell, and he was involved with some pretty bad people that had him in a constant state of paranoia.

Unsure of what to do, he just sat with his old friend in a hotel room and listened to him for hours.

So Lambert made a deal with Aiden. If Aiden cleaned himself up, no more drugs or alcohol, Lambert would clear all his debts. He wasn't entirely sure how, but he had some ideas. It took some effort, but Aiden agreed in the end. 

Lambert had himself made into Aiden's temporary guardian (I forget the actual term, my brain's fried) so that Aiden couldn't discharge himself.

So over the next six months, while Aiden worked on getting clean, Lambert spent every waking moment working. Between working for Vesemir on the ranch, he used his Academy training and some help from Eskel's military knowledge, and started bounty hunting. 

 He was surprisingly good at it. Started making a name for himself. He scraped together the money needed to pay off Aiden's debts and some of the rehab. So when Aiden was finally cleared to leave, he was free from his old life.

Lambert wasn't sure what he was expecting. Aiden wasn't the type of person to shower someone with praise and affection or gratitude. He swore he would pay Lambert back somehow. Lambert didn't care about being paid back, he just didn't want to see Aiden fall back into old habits.

The next several years were a lot of push and pull. He and Aiden have a lot of ups and downs, but it didn't take long for Aiden to join him in bounty hunting. And they made a hell of a team together. 

 But of course, Aiden is always going to be Aiden. The debt that he thought Lambert held over him was always there, always sitting sour on the back of his tongue. So he saved what he could until one day he gave Lambert a check for the money Aiden thought he owed and said that he doesn't owe Lambert shit anymore.

Of course, two dumb boys being two dumb boys, it ends in one hell of a fight. A lot of things are said that can't be taken back and Lambert and Aiden walk away with deep wounds.

Lambert moves in with Eskel, goes back to working on the ranch, and Aiden disappears again.

Lambert finds Aiden trying to pack his shit and leave. He begs Aiden to stay, and Aiden falls back into his old habits of verbally lashing out. He starts digging that Lambert must be some kind of homo and wants to suck Aiden's dick like a chick. That Lambert really must be fucked in the head if he's that broken. 

 But Lambert has a nerve there, and Aiden knows it by now. Not only because he does have reluctant romantic and sexual attractions to his best friend but because Aiden starts taking stabs at Lambert's family. "Geralt's one of them too, shouldn't surprise me." It's at this point that Lambert kinda snaps.

Lambert socks Aiden right across the face and lays into him. Because maybe he is a fucking homo, and he's the stupidest motherfucker in the world for being in love with such a selfish prick. He never asked or expected Aiden to return any emotions, that's not how Aiden works, but fuck it all he's happy just being friends and not thinking about it. 

 So it's actually Lambert who ends up leaving. He goes off the grid for a few days, takes his bike and just fucks off into the ether for a while. By the time he gets back it's to an empty apartment. He argues with himself over what to do with the check, because he knows what Aiden is going to do. Everything they'd worked for will be gone.

In the end he cashes it and opens an account to store the money because he knows that, one day, Aiden is gonna need it. He never considers it his money, he's just holding onto it because Aiden is a danger to himself.

Another year or two passes. He gets not a single word from Aiden in all that time. For all he knows Aiden is dead in a shallow grave somewhere and it eats at him, but there's not shit all he can do about it. 

 Then one day he gets the call he's been dreading.

Aiden's in the hospital two states over. He was found during a bust of a local gang and was in bad shape. When they got ID on him, Lambert's name was the one that came up as the emergency contact. It was hard to say what would happen because Aiden was in bad shape. 

 So of course, Lambert withdraws all the money and a chunk of his own savings. He knows he's an idiot, thanks-you-Eskel. But his brother insists on joining him because Lambert shouldn't go in alone this time. And even he knows it.

Aiden's in rough shape. He'll live but it was damn close. But what he isn't expecting is the person there when he goes to see Aiden. He calls himself Aiden's partner, and it takes a while for Lambert to realize that the guy means a hunting partner. 

 Aiden had stayed straight. Instead of falling back on drugs and gambling he'd thrown himself into bounty hunting. He and his partner had gotten caught in an attempt at the gang boss and they'd grabbed Aiden. 

 Hurt that he'd been replaced, but also relieved to know that his friend hadn't gone back to his old habits, Lambert just uses the money to do what he can for Aiden's medical bills. Eskel is there with him the whole time but stays quiet for the most part, playing emotional support. 

 They're just about to leave when Aiden's partner asks why Lambert won't even go see Aiden. He's mad because Aiden won't shut up about Lambert, and is always comparing him to Lambert, and it's infuriating. So it's Eskel who nudges Lambert to at least go talk to his friend - which is the first time that's ever happened.

He's there when Aiden wakes up. They sit in silence for a long while and finally all Lambert asks is, "You want me to stay" and Aiden just says, "Yeah." And that's enough for Lambert, because that's the closest thing the other gets to verbal affection. 

 Aiden needs time to recover, and Lambert drags him back home with him and Eskel so the other can do just that. There's no more scathing remarks about Lambert's attraction, no more anger. It's a slow process to getting Aiden back on his feet, but the man doesn't immediately bolt so there's that at least.

Lambert doesn't prod or press. Aiden stays through his recovery, he joins Lambert on a few hunts, they go to the bar together. Aiden doesn't get anything more than two beers, he'll order them both and then tell the bartender to not give him any more no matter how much he asks. Lambert is proud and unreasonably happy about this.

Eskel's apartment is only two bedrooms, and after the first week of letting Aiden have his bed, Lambert complains about sleeping on the couch. Aiden doesn't say anything about Lambert sleeping in the bed with him. They keep to their respective sides, a total no-homo situation. Just two bros bunking together.

One month turns to two, then to three. Their friendship is calmer this time around. Aiden is...relaxed. Eskel's lease runs up and he talks about getting a bigger place. Instead, Lambert and Aiden decide to try again. They get another place together, two bedrooms. They use the second bedroom as an office.

Nine months in and hey, what's an adrenaline-fueled kiss between bro's. No-homo right?

Ten months, "The water bill is too high." "We don't pay for the water here." "...shut up and get in the shower with me dumbass."

And the rest is history.

#Rant Plot #My Writing #Witcher #Lambert #Aiden #Laiden #Eskel #Vesemir

[kelpiemomma]

Witcher/Scorpio Races AU

please be gentle with me i haven’t read Scorpio Races in forEVER and this... is only loosely following the book’s plot.

to start with:

Jaskier separated from his parents during college, essentially leaving them a note that said “I’m leaving to pursue what I want to do, I’m an adult I can do what I want” and did just that. He didn’t want to become a lawyer or a doctor like his parents wanted, he wanted to make music and live easy. He more or less ran away with a few changes of clothes and most of his savings withdrawn in cash. We’ll say he was a very clever young man, graduated high school early (at 16), and had three years of college under his belt by the time he was 19. He runs away to Thisby, a tiny island where they have the deadly ‘Scorpio Races’ each year. He’s certain his parents would never look for him there, given the innate danger of the island’s native amphibious equines and Jaskier’s own penchant for attracting every bit of danger possible. Jaskier’s age at the beginning of the fic: 24-ish, 25-ish

Geralt has lived on Thisby his whole life. He was born on the mainland, but his mother gave him up and he was adopted by a small stable-owner known as Vesemir before his first birthday. Vesemir has two other sons, Lambert and Eskel, and the boys all grow up around the capaill uisce of the island, each one starting with regular horses before Vesemir decides when they’re allowed to work with a capaill. Geralt had a knack for horses at a young age, and was the youngest of the boys that Vesemi allowed to work with the capaill. His very first capaill uisce was a brilliant red mare with a bold blaze down her face and three white socks that he named Roach. This Roach was forever trying to get back to the surf, back into the ocean. Even as a young teen Geralt was not the type to be selfish, and rather than force her to train and run in the races, he released her back to the ocean. Since then, he’s shown an obvious favoritism for red capaill mares, especially those the brilliant flame-red as the original Roach, though he’s known to train any and all. Geralt’s age at the beginning of the fic: around 30, give or take a few years.

background

Vesemir was the first person that Jaskier - 19, baby faced, and afraid but trying to hide it - met on Thisby. Jaskier had gotten off the small boat, headed down the boardwalk to the town, and was almost immediately run over by one of Eskel’s capaill while he and Vesemir were training. Vesemir pulled Jaskier up, examined his injuries, and told him Eskel was going to pay for his treatment. Jaskier ended up with some nice lil stitches on his forehead, and Vesemir had a new duckling under his wing. Lambert and Jaskier get along like a house on fire- either very well, or something will be destroyed. It did surprise Vesemir, though, that Jaskier seemed quite taken and content with Geralt, who was - by far - the least friendly of his sons. Jaskier trailed after Geralt like a dog begging for scraps when he wasn’t shadowing Vesemir nervously. Geralt was clearly irritated by Jaskier, but Vesemir could see that Geralt understood Jaskier as well and that their personalities, somehow, meshed well. Jaskier, for all his foolishness, learns quickly how to train the horses. He’s got an innate talent for it, and the capaill all calm when he sings. However, he is still danger-prone, and at least once a week there is some Jaskier-capaill related incident.

Yennefer is the town’s resident witch, who provides the majority of the tack and such for the capaill. She’s longtime friends with Geralt and finds Jaskier a mix of adorable and annoying. Instead of being afraid of her (as most islanders are, but she’s good at her work, and it’s a family business that’s been around as long as the races have, so they keep coming to her) he barks back and then she finds him delightful. She welcomes him to the shop anytime, and over time they become the best of friends though people who walk into their conversations are always concerned at if they’re friends or if one is about to die. (Yen’s age at the start of the fic: around 30, same age as Geralt if not a bit younger)

Calanthe owns the largest stable on Thisby and is known for her well-trained horses, if not her rather heavy-handed training of the capaill. Her daughter was an ex of Geralt’s and preferred his more gentle method of training. Calanthe is generally accepted as having grown more firm with her training methods (not abusive, and she’s never harsher than necessary, but any joy she once found in training capaill uisce is all but gone, and her words are more sharp than a capaill uisce’s fangs) in the wake of her daughter and son-in-law’s death during a freak accident on the beach with a couple of their capaills. An unprecedented wave of capaill uisce raced up the beach that Pavetta and Duny had been training on and they were unable to escape. Calanthe’s granddaughter, Cirilla, was toddling around at the time. Despite her grandmother’s method of training, Ciri can often be found hanging around Geralt and Jaskier and taking tips from Vesemir’s way of training the capaill. (Ciri’s age at the beginning of the fic: 13)

Vesemir taught Jaskier how to train horses, beginning as he did with his boys- begin with the standard horse, and upgrade to the capaill. Jaskier never got into the capaill as Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel did. Between him being prone to accident, the capaill being tempermental at the beset of times, and the inherent danger of the island- all agreed it’s for the best if he doesn’t train capaill unless they’ve got a heavy workload. However, when he’s not training them the capaill seem to adore Jaskier. He’s got a lute, picked it up in Yennefer’s shop not long after he came to the island, and in his down time can be found in the stables singing to the horses.

fic premise

Jaskier’s parents discover where he is. One of the native islanders took a video of Jaskier singing to one of the capaill, the water horse going from a raving beast to calm as a lamb in the face of his lullaby. The video went viral on social media and his parents fly out to Thisby to try and drag him home. Jaskier has, at this point, been living on his own on Thisby for several years though he remains within a half-hour’s walk from Vesemir’s stables.

His parents end up face to face with Geralt while Jaskier unashamedly hides behind him. They tell Geralt that they’ll be taking their son back to the mainland where he can continue his education before taking over the family business. Geralt tells them that Jaskier is an adult who can make his own choices, and says that if they don’t leave peacefully, they’ll leave violently. Jaskier’s parents leave but tell Jaskier that one way or another, he’ll be coming home. Jaskier is highly unnerved, and stays at Vesemir’s place for a week before braving living on his own again. The Witchers (the last name of Vesemir & Co) and Yennefer are constantly checking up on him to make sure he’s still there.

A couple weeks after the initial surprise of his parents, Jaskier finds out that his house - a rental - has been purchased, and that his parents are trying to spread rumors about Jaskier leaving behind a wife and child. All the townsfolk who have known Jaskier since he arrived, 19, babyfaced, and bleeding from a capaill injury, are like “sure, jan” and don’t believe a word they say. However his parents put their money where their mouth is, and begin purchasing as much property as they can on the island in an effort to smoke Jaskier out. There’s not much income on Thisby, and many things work on a barter system. Jaskier finds himself, once again, living with the Witchers- this time it seems more permanent.

Jaskier has enough of his parents harassing the islanders and confronts them in front of Yennefer’s store- because if anything happens, he absolutely wants Yenn as backup. They inform him that until he comes home, they won’t leave him alone. Jaskier tells them that no matter what, he cannot leave until the Scorpio Races have concluded for the year because he regularly helps Vesemir train his capaill for them. His parents tell Jaskier that they’ll make him a deal- if one of Jaskier’s wins the race, they’ll back off. However, if anyone else does, he’ll be going home with them. Jaskier agrees, and then goes inside of Yenn’s shop, where she’s got a dark look on her face and some tea steeping. They’re quiet until Geralt arrives to pick Jaskier up, wherein they both tell him what happened. Yenn says “they’ve clearly never watched the races- a Witcher has won more often than not.” 

Geralt turns to Jaskier and says “did they say a Witcher, or you specifically?”

And then they realize- his parents trapped him. They learned that Jaskier can train capaill, but doesn’t. Learn that Jaskier himself has never raced, and when Jaskier demands specifics, says that while one of his horses might race, he doesn’t, his parents inform him that their deal is with Jaskier and Jaskier only.

He wins, or he leaves Thisby.

Jaskier has a bit of a breakdown over this, because the last time he truly rode a capaill he was almost dragged into the sea. Geralt and Yenn promise to help him find the right capaill. Later on, Vesemir ponders on if they truly must use a capaill, and tells Jaskier about how when there are stories of a young woman racing a standard horse in the races and winning. Lambert argues that this is an old wives tale, but Vesemir points out the perks of racing a standard horse- there’s no call to the ocean, and given the right training they’re just as fast as a capaill uisce. Jaskier nervously agrees to try it with a standard horse and they examine what they’ve got in the stables. 

During this, Jaskier’s parents approach Calanthe with Ciri eavesdropping. They tell her that they know of her recent financial troubles, and that if she helps get Jaskier out of the race they’ll fix it for her. Calanthe is prideful and loves Jaskier- but she’s not going to pass up on the money. She agrees to it and shoos the Pankratzes out of her home, before turning to look at Ciri (who left her hiding spot, looking betrayed). “I’m not going to say what I did was right or wrong,” Calanthe says calmly, “but I will say that we need the money, and that if it wasn’t me it would’ve been someone else. Tell Vesemir I’m going to do my best to keep Jaskier out of the race, but I won’t resort to underhanded tricks. Tell him I’m not the only one they’ll approach, because those kinds of people are never satisfied with paying off one person. To get what they want, they’ll ensure it. I can talk to Jaskier, try to encourage him to stay out, but as much as I’d like to shove his lute up his ass I won’t hurt him.” and sends Ciri out to warn the Witchers.

Jaskier is angered but not surprised, and wants to confront his parents. Vesemir advises against it because the only proof they have is word of mouth, and they do have faith that Calanthe won’t resort to underhanded tricks to keep Jaskier out of the race. She even, on the downlow, helps them find a gelding for Jaskier to train- a calm, steady-tempered grey with long legs and a good head on his shoulders that Jaskier names Pegasus. The whole time she warns Jaskier that the stories of a standard horse running in the Races are just that- stories. Women have been allowed to race for generations, but standard horses are a liability. Capaill are carnivorous, and standard horses are a snack to them.

Jaskier begins training Pegasus and is delighted that the gelding is quick and has decent stamina. Geralt helps him train the gelding, and they regularly check the stables to make sure that no one is trying any underhand tricks to keep Jaskier from the race in their home.

There are those who try to injury Jaskier- attempting to crowd Pegasus into the ocean, or knock Jaskier off his horse, but the Witchers regularly train with Jaskier and so they always form a protective wall around him. Upset that their money is no good, his parents approach Jaskier again. They try to tell him that he must enter with a capaill as per the rules, but he tells them they never said that, and that the rules don’t say anything against standard horses competing. They only said it had to be Jaskier and his horse. They’re angry, but they don’t believe a standard horse can win. They let it go.

Jaskier writes down his and Pegasus’ names on the board, The islanders show their support, though they all are rather disbelieving that Jaskier will win. Geralt helps him train Pegasus by racing him against Roach, who’s one of the best contenders for the win this year. She’s sleek, fast, and vicious when necessary. She’s won the race before, and she and Geralt are actually the favorites for the year. Geralt trains but he doesn’t normally race- he leaves that to the other Witchers. However, he’s entered this year to protect Jaskier.

When the race comes around, Jaskier is nervous. Pegasus is solid under him, but Jaskier fears that despite all their best attempts to train, despite that Pegasus has gotten faster and has gained more stamina, they’ll lose and his parents will drag him off of Thisby and he’ll never see his found family again. Yennefer goes along to check the racers, providing blessings and checking to make sure their tack is legal. She gives Jaskier something, something that is purple and blue and white and red, and he tucks it into a pocket. Geralt is given a spoken blessing rather than a physical one, but it’s a blessing that Yennefer gives him quietly. When the racers line up, Jaskier checks the line.

He can see how the capaill fare. He can see which are raring to go, which ones are eyeing the sea to their left, and which are simply wanting to cause a fight. He tries not to tighten his grip on Pegasus’ reins, doesn’t want to ruin his chances, and is so distracted he almost misses the starting horn. His body is so used to responding to the sound at this point, though, that he leans forward and squeezes and-

Pegasus flies off. There is no doubt, at all, that they will be among those who show in the race. But showing isn’t enough. He has to win. Geralt is by his side, there’s a capaill in front of him, and with a quick glance under his arm he can see another approaching from behind. He’s afraid. He doesn’t want to be forced to leave.

And he starts to sing. It’s quiet, under his breath, but Pegasus hears him. Roach hears him. And they seem to- speed up. Pegasus seems to get lower to the ground, his legs moving faster, and they’re approaching the front runner. He can hear Pegasus panting, hear his breathing getting labored, but the finish line is there, so close, and they’re getting closer and closer and closer and-

it’s a photo finish between Roach, Pegasus, and the third horse. The fourth is less than a length behind. There are bets on who won, and the judges are all deciding. Jaskier is walking Pegasus out beside Roach when he sees his parents approach the judges. Sees them talking with their heads close.

Sees their hands moving between them, and the green of cash passing hand to hand.

And Jaskier knows, but hopes that the judges aren’t in the pockets of his parents-

But they announce that it was not Jaskier who won. It was not Geralt. It was the third rider.

And the townsfolk boo. They yell about how it’s not true, how Pegasus had his nose out, how his legs stretched just enough to put him over first. But the judges are firm, and even the winner (alleged winner) is uncomfortable taking the title. Jaskier is in shock. He wasn’t surprised, but-

he thinks about it.

Thinks about how it happened.

And he sees red. He confronts his parents about the bribery, yells at the judges, and Geralt has to physically hold him back. The judges are trying to completely disqualify him for being such a “poor loser” when Calanthe appears.

Sticks her hands in a few pockets.

And pulls out brand new cash money.

The judges are shame-faced, they’re escorted out, and Calanthe takes over judging. She calls, for the first time, for the popular vote. For who the townsfolk, the tourists, truly believe won.

Someone provides a picture- of Pegasus and Roach, their noses crossing the finish at the exact same time. With Pegasus’ hoof just a little bit before hers. And with the third horse just a smidge behind them both.

The winner is clear.

Jaskier wins. His parents forfeit all property they bought. Jaskier gets his prize money, as well as some of the bribe money that Calanthe took (because she bet on him to win, fuck his parents, and since the odds were no in Jaskier’s favor, and riders can’t bet so none of the Witchers did, she got it all) because she doesn’t need it. Jaskier knows that it isn’t permanent- that his parents will be back, that they’ll try again, because he’s their son and he’s a prize to them. But for now- he’s safe. He can go back home. He can put Pegasus in his backyard. He won’t have to race again.

He’s content.

(Until the next year, when a leggy red dun roan mare with an awkward snip and two white stockings appears. When she walks straight out of the ocean, up to Jaskier, who had sat singing upon a rock, and sticks her head in his lap. Until she sees how fast the mare is, how she turns on a dime, how she practically run circles around Roach-

and then he can’t resist racing again, but on his own capaill this time.)

#the witcher #scorpio races au #the witcher au #jaskier #geraskier #it's not specifically geraskier because i don't really write romance into things when they're a rough like this #unless its specifically romance based which this is not #however it is absolutely intended to be geraskier #this is 3100 words of heavily modified scorpio races nonsense #i didn't even get into tack or anything this is just basic plot #please help i can write plot outlines for fic but i cannot write fic itself rip

[myupostsheadcanons]

My loooooong rant about The Aen Elle: The Witcher

Book Spoilers, not so much Game Spoilers.

First off, my “elephant in the room” ... Eredin.

In the books he is nowhere near final-boss material like he was in the games. He’s the “That One Boss” rather than “The Big Bad”. Eredin has less of his shit together in the books tbh. He’s like Kylo Ren Evil rather than Voldemort Evil.  They both did extremely bad things and you can’t deny either of them being villainous characters, just different types of evil characters.

Book Eriden has no filter, literally, he says what’s on his mind and doesn’t hesitate to go after what he wants. He’s arrogant and too the point, and doesn’t know what discretion is.

Some of his semi.... alright.... ? qualities:

1. He accidentally insulted Ciri upon first meeting her and apologized right away, he even gave her a flower. 2. He was the only one to be upfront with Ciri that she was a prisoner and will never be released. Even though he did lie to her about her friends being dead and gone. (Unless he wasn’t in his POV and just didn’t understand that TIME means nothing to her).

3. He wasn’t a bad sport about loosing a horse race with her. While he was competitive while it happened, at the end praised her skill and her horse for winning. Note: Kelpie let him pet her on the muzzle. Kelpie, the super horse with a foul temper that Ciri had made sure to note that would bite.... Either this was to show that he is decent with animals or to prove some kind of point of rebuking the “animals hate them” trope that villain characters often get stuck with.

Side Note: Considering he is the commander of mounted combat shock troops for the past several hundred years, it would be logical enough to say that he has a healthy amount of knowledge on horses and their mannerisms and knew if it was safe to pet Kelpie or not.

4. He was honestly trying to help further their people’s common goal when he offered Ciri the aphrodisiac to give Auberon, enough so that he gave it to him himself anyways. And was surprised to learn that it killed Auberon. 

I highly doubt that Eredin’s skilled enough to make the potion properly 100% of the time, or making it more potent/concentrated turned it into a poison  OR, somebody else made it...... (Avallach???? hmmmm???) and gave it to him with instructions on what it does.

((Avallach making it would mean that him getting the hell out of dodge was intentional, that he wanted to be far-far away when Eredin put the puzzle pieces together.))

Auberon, Avallach, and Eredin had a Triumvirate going on. The Unicorns specifically called out all three of them as being dangerous and behind most of what the Aen Elle had been doing. Together they followed the Face/King (Auberon), Brain/Sage (Avallach), and Hand/General (Eredin) .

Just look at the nicknames the Unicorns gave the three of them: The King of the Alders, The Fox, and The Sparrowhawk. They mean something.

While Alder can be an alternative name for Elder, as in the elder blood, the Aen Elle themselves, an actual Alder is a kind of birch tree common in wet areas and used often in dying leather, charcoal/gunpowder, and for making structures that need to be held in wet areas without rotting. The Alder is also a sacred tree, the tree of Bran the Blessid, and was the inspiration for the Weirwood Trees in GRRM’s A Song of Ice and Fire, the insides of the Alder tree will turn red/brown/dark when it is cut (weirwoods are blood red on the inside).  Forests of Alder are considered “cursed” and to be avoided at all costs, those that go in unprepared or properly blessed will not be seen again (killed by monsters or taken by Fae, the Sidhe, to their realm (hmm, Aen Sidhe.... any one?). Though irl, it is because Alder Forests are in wetland and boggy areas, people just get stuck in the mud and drown.

(Note: another literary example, The Erl King from The Dresden Files. King of the Alders also refers to the character he is based off of: Erlkonig (Elf/Alder King). And in the Dresden series, The Erl King is a powerful wild-fae, the Goblin King (think: The Labyrinth) and King of the Wild Hunt (The Elk-Horned King). It is a also a common fan theory that he is /the/ Oberon, though he is called Lord Herne by name, another horned-crowned hunter of myth as well. As a lord of the wild-fae, he is neutral to winter and summer.   ((Yes, one character can have many identities. This is a word where Odin the All Father is also Santa Clause)).

Remember, Auberon wasn’t some aloof sassy king. He’s jaded and apathetic from being around for over 650 years. But he’s ordered the deaths and enslavement of millions of humans, a genocide, and Avallach and Eredin were right there carrying out these orders. He was polite to Ciri because they needed her, and that eventually went out the window when given an opening to do so.

The Aen Elle’s entire plan was based on re-opening the gates so they can continue this practice. They tricked the Unicorns into doing this once before, but they grew wise and are now at war with the Aen Elle. Lara was the culmination of the Aen Elle’s breeding efforts to create somebody powerful enough to accomplish this. There is a strong possibility she completely disagreed with her people’s ideals, be it that she knew she was being used and/or because she fell in love with a human and changed her ways. But she completely booked it and left them all to rot, while giving them two big middle fingers  (which were later mailed back to Avallach in an envelope...... bad joke).

IMO, Avallach, The Fox, was the more dangerous of the trio (not necessarily the most evil of them). With Eredin he didn’t hide who he was, but Avallach.... he had an agenda a mile long and lied through his non-pointed teeth.  He would present a kind and helpful facade, and when ever something underneath would slip through the cracks, it wasn’t very pleasant.  Foxes are depicted as tricksters, cunning and wily, an animal most frequently associated with being deceitful, or having ulterior motives. When Auberon threaten to give Ciri over to Avallach and his laboratory,  my mind went straight to Vilgafortz and his plans for Ciri... i don’t think this was unintentional.

There is several instances in the novels (The Lady of the Lake especially) where events parallel one another (like Auberon’s abhorrence to Ciri ended up mirroring itself with Emhyr rejecting his plans for Ciri in the end. The theme with Ciri escaping people associated with Birds of Prey (Cahir (his helmet), Tawny Owl, Eriden the Sparrowhawk.... Merlin better watch himself)). Vilgafortz was the obvious villain of the saga, the biggest threat at the time, but did not start out that way, he was first presented as a diplomat, somebody who should be respected and came off as being the reasonable authority figure compared to the decadence of the Sorcerers. Then was revealed to be a sick, twisted SOB doing science experiments on abducted women in order to perfect a technique he was to do on Ciri. Everything he did was in order to accomplish this end goal, to harness Ciri’s powers for himself, even his kind and diplomatic facade at the start and him spending decades gathering political influence in both the North and Nilfgaard under it. The disfigurement of his face was a physical representation of his madness, that the mask was removed and now showed on the outside the ugliness on the inside.

Emhyr’s plan for Ciri started out as Vilgafortz’s plan. Vilgafortz was the one that knew of the prophecy and was the person to find out whom Duny was really. He brought the prophecy to Emyhr and put the idea that the heir of Nilfgaard will be the chosen one.  When this was proposed, Ciri was a toddler at the time (keep in mind that Pevetta was only around 20/21 when she died, and wasn’t 15 yet when she met Emhyr/Duny. In perspective: Ciri was 16 by the end of Lady of the Lake).

Avallach was part of the original breeding plan with Lara, a multi-generational slow-burn magical science experiment. It was more than likely that it was arranged that the two of them become a couple. Avallach is a powerful Sorcerer, member of the Aen Saeherne, sages with specialized training and secretive knowledge about the “Lara Gene”.  When the actual Lara, also an Aen Saevherne, broke up with him and left their people he was very upset about it, something he’s still grudgingly bitter about centuries years later. This is one of the cracks in his facade, when people talk about Lara, and when he did snap at Ciri it was because she compared herself to Lara and in anger suggested that Avallach should be the one to knock her up. He pretty much told her that she disgusted him (maybe even more than Auberon was of her), that her human blood was an insult to their people, that a human took their gift away from them and Lara away from him.

Avallac’h isn’t even his actual name, it’s Creavan Espane aep Caomhan Macha. The root of the nickname also gives us the name to Avalon (the Isle of Apple Trees)... Avalon is were the faeries live, where Morgan La Fae learned her powers, /The/ Lady of the Lake lives there in some stories (she was the one to give Arthur Excalibur, the “sword in the stone” is Uthar Pendragon’s sword), and where King Arthur was taken after he was mortally wounded by Mordred. Geralt and Yennifer were basically taken to Avalon by Ciri and the Unicorn. Then sometime between that and showing up before Galahad, she got into a bloody fight (and won/escaped from that).... (If you believe that Avallach betrayed his people intentionally and ran off.... Ciri taking Yen and Geralt to Avallach for help would be quite the literal interpretation)

Eredin being the Sparrowhawk is one of the more straightforward meanings, its practically hanging a lampshade on what his reason is in the over all story. Like the character himself: to the point and doesn’t hide his motives or pretends to be something he is not. Sparrowhawks get their name because small birds are their most frequent prey. Cirillia’s name came from the Aen Elle word Zireael, a word that means Swallow, a type of small bird. Sparrow and Swallow are very similar words.  Book Eriden calls her Zireael instead of her name to put further emphasis that he sees her as prey.

Wiki Note: Falconers have utilized the Eurasian sparrowhawk since at least the 16th century; although the species has a reputation for being difficult to train, it is also praised for its courage.

Falconry is a practice of keeping birds of prey captive in order to hunt small game for sport or food. They are kept on a leash, hooded, and in cages/aviaries.

Who had Eredin’s leash and used him to hunt prey? Auberon, The Alder King. There was very  little indication that there was a conflict of interests between the two, Auberon even trusted him enough to take the vial from him on his word alone. And, again, Eredin seamed not to have expected it to kill Auberon.

Eredin’s name doesn’t seam to have as much significance as Auberon (Oberon) and Avallac’h (Avalon). Eredin Breacc Glas  (fan nickname: break glass)  he’s literally the first thing that comes up, excluding “witcher” from the searches, you get results from League of Legends, Star Wars, and Final Fantasy :/

A shot in the dark is the Eridanos (river of Hades). AND I only thought of that one because of.... Homestuck’s Eridan Ampora being named after it.  It means “Amber” in Greek. And when i think of “Amber” I first think of Roger Zelazny’s Amber Chronicles. Another series based off of Arthur and Shakespeare Mythos (King Oberon, Avalon, Traveling through Time/Space (Shadow), Blood of the Unicorns, Merlin). Amber was written in the 70′s and 80′s, Zelazny died right around the same time the Witcher short-stories were being published.

Note: Ciri escaped while fighting him on a river, because it was the only path to get out of the loop... if that means anything. :/  (water is a common “ground” for magic, it disperses the energy needed in the spell. it is why Vampires can’t travel across moving water).

The mere presence of Ciri among them, her curse of destiny, ended up breaking open the below-surface cracks in their Triumvirate.   Auberon’s disgust, Avallach’s jealousy, Eriden being the unhelpful helper... Ciri’s insistent want to go home... the Unicorns.... Their plans just crumbled in their hands and resulted in the death of Auberon, Avallach possibly deserting them, and Ciri’s escape from Eredin.

Myu Recommends, Extra Reading Material:

Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files.... A Wizard for Hire, solving supernatural cases, and later gets tied up in wars with the Vampires, the Fairy Courts, Arch-Demons, and Ancient Horror Terrors. 

Roger Zelanzy’s Amber and Chaos Chronicles. (As Collected in The Great Book of Amber). Corwin of Amber wakes up with amnesia, discovers that his father Oberon, King of Amber, is missing or dead and he is now on the top of his siblings’ hit-lists. Those born of the unicorn and traversed the pattern can freely walk through time and space, The Shadow. (Chaos Courts have an older and more complex version of gaining the same ability, The Labyrinth/Logrus, The Serpent .... most people die before completing it)

King Arthur: Le Morte de Arthur, The Once and Future King, and (maybe) The Mists of Avalon. The Faery Realm, Galahad ascending into Heaven, Merlin being Trapped in a cavern for centuries, The Isle of Avalon.... The basis of many of the modern “alternate dimension” in fantasy stories, including The Witcher, Dresden, and Amber.

#the witcher #aen elle #avallac'h #Auberon #Eredin #the witcher books #myu reads