#mob!boss jaskier

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Fell for those ocean eyes

My fourth and final fic for @witchersummercamp! This is set in the same AU as Gonna Run This Nothing Town, set about six months previously, but you don't need to read that fic to understand this one. All you need to know is that Yennefer is a mob boss in modern day Novigrad. You can read it either below or on AO3.

Prompt: After hours

Pairing: Jaskier/Yennefer

Rating: E

Warnings: Explicit sexual content; semi-public sex

Words: 4K

Summary: Everyone needs a night off—especially a sorceress with the weight of an entire city on her shoulders. When Yennefer decides to blow off some steam at a nightclub, she meets a blue-eyed bartender who is exactly what she needs for the night.

***

Nobody in The Chameleon knows who Yennefer is. Nobody moves out of her way as she makes her way across the nightclub’s rooftop bar, dodging girls staggering in too-tall heels and men with too-wide smiles who want to buy her a drink. Nobody looks at her askance. They all see her as just another twenty-something out on a Saturday night, not the sorceress that the papers call the Raven of Novigrad. With her eyes glamoured brown and her bodyguards left at home—which will make Geralt grumpy, but the poor thing’s always a little grumpy—she’s anonymous.

Normally, Yennefer would bristle at being bumped with elbows and nearly impaled with stiletto heels. She likes the way that rooms go silent and crowds part when she enters, not because of who she works for but because of who she is and what she can do. 

But tonight, she just needs to blow off some steam. For one night, she doesn’t want to think about all the people who want to kill her or use her to further their own ends. She doesn’t want to think about all the people who rely on her to keep them safe. Tonight, she just wants to be a girl at a bar.

The Chameleon is celebrating the last day of summer—the last day of summer is actually on Tuesday, but not even U Novigrad students go clubbing on Tuesdays—so most of the drinks being clutched in slightly sweaty hands are frozen and colorful, with little umbrellas sticking out of them. There’s live music, a young blond man who is trying valiantly to hit a high note. The thumping music from downstairs is still faintly audible over his warbling.

Yennefer finds a seat at the bar, squeezing in between a canoodling couple and a rowdy group of U Novigrad students. Neither of the bartenders seem to notice her, so she takes a glance around. Ideally, she’d like to have a couple of drinks and find someone to spend a pleasant hour or two with. Either Geralt or Renfri would have been happy to help her take her mind off things tonight, but she’s in the mood for something quick and anonymous.

The club is packed with interesting options. There’s a bachelorette party at the other end of the bar and the woman in the “Maid of Honor” sash reminds her a little bit of Renfri, if Renfri grew her hair long and lost the murderous glint in her eye. The canoodling couple next to her look like they could be fun if they’re looking for company. There’s a broad-shouldered redheaded man a couple of stools down that catches her eye and smiles crookedly.

She’s distracted from her perusal by a loud conversation from behind the bar.

“I can’t be expected to work under these conditions, Essi,” the first bartender, a tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, grouses. He’s wearing a violently orange flowered shirt, which is unbuttoned to his navel, and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.

“It’s not that bad.” Essi, a curvy little blonde, rolls her eyes as she pours a line of shots for the U Novigrad students.

“Valdo is butchering a modern classic.”

“It’s ‘Call Me Maybe.’”

“A classic! This is personally offensive to me, as it should be to anyone with functioning ear drums.”

“Is unemployment personally offensive to you? Because that’s what’s going to happen if Dave sees you complaining about the entertainment and not serving drinks.”

The bartender sniffs disdainfully and turns towards Yennefer. “Apologies for the delay. What can I…” He trails off when he claps eyes on her, bright blue eyes going wide. For a moment, Yennefer worries that her cover has been blown and he’s recognized her as the Raven. Then a flirtatious smile crosses his face and he leans against the counter. “Let me guess. You look like a bay breeze type of girl.”

Yennefer blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

"Ah." He grimaces, though his eyes glitter with amusement. The name tag pinned to his chest reads, Jaskier. "Miss the mark?"

"If you were playing darts, the dart would be lodged in your own foot,” she says dryly.

"I suppose you're a woman of mystery."

"I'm a woman who refuses to ingest anything with the word 'breeze' in the name."

Jaskier smiles, wide and unabashed. "My friend, Essi, can always guess what people are going to order." He nods to Essi, who is now making a margarita with astonishing efficiency. "Impresses the hell out of people."

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. "So you're trying to emulate her?"

"With mixed results," he says.

"How mixed are we talking?"

"There's a reason I've never played the lottery." He tilts his head to the side with a self-deprecating twitch of his lips. "So, what would you like to drink, Oh Mysterious Lady?"

Yennefer would like wine, but something tells her she'd be better off ordering a shot of straight vinegar. "Whiskey. No ice."

Jaskier’s eyes flicker over her again, appraising. "Something tells me you don't want the cheap stuff?"

"Look at you," Yennefer says. "Maybe you should play the lottery."

He curtsies and goes to fetch a bottle of whiskey from the wall, pouring her a generous double. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“You haven’t. I’m not much for clubbing.” The last time she was in a nightclub, she killed every single one of Novigrad’s mob bosses in the VIP section of Wiley’s club before taking over their organizations, but she doesn’t think Jaskier needs to know that.

“Celebrating something special?” Jaskier’ glances over her shoulder, as if checking to see if she has company.

“Just needed to get out.” She lifts one shoulder into a shrug.

“Well, whiskey is an excellent cure for whatever ails you.” He slides her the glass. “First drinks for new customers are always on the house.”

“Are they now?” Yennefer looks at him from over the brim of her glass.

He has dimples when he smiles, she notices. “It’s my own personal policy.”

“Well, then.” Yennefer toasts him with the glass and takes a sip. She wouldn’t normally hit on waitstaff—it makes her think of the pretty young waitresses grimacing as they dodged Wiley Sr.’s groping hands before she blew his head off. After all, they have to be charming for tips. But a quick glance into his mind shows nothing but interest.

“Can I get a drink over here?” a man calls and Jaskier sighs dramatically.

“Duty calls,” he says and hurries away to do his job. Yennefer eyes his ass appraisingly as he saunters towards the other end of the bar. It’s cute. A little bony, but not everyone can have Geralt’s sculpted glory. His shoulders more than make up for it.

She sips her whiskey idly as she watches Jaskier hurry around, preparing drinks in the most chaotic manner she’s ever seen. He nearly drops a pitcher full of pina coladas, hands a glass of wine to a bemused man who ordered a gin and tonic, and seems to forget about the whiskey sour he’s making halfway through to complain more to Essi about Valdo’s performance. By the time he returns to Yennefer’s little corner of the bar, she’s nearly done with her whiskey.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks with what he probably thinks is a rakish grin. “I’m not a very good bartender.”

“I think everyone at this bar knows that,” she tells him.

His laugh is rich and warm. She likes it. “I’m an even worse barista Monday through Thursday mornings. I just can’t get the hang of the latte art.”

“Actor or musician?” At his puzzled look, Yennefer elaborates. “Every bartender and barista with a pretty face in Novigrad came here to be an actor or musician.”

“You think I have a pretty face?” Jaskier bats his eyelashes.

“You sure think you do.”

He grins wickedly. “Musician. I studied music theory at Oxenfurt. As I’m sure you can imagine, the job offers were throwing themselves at my feet as soon as I got my diploma. Essi was in my class. So was Valdo.” He casts a dark look at the stage.

“Not a fan?” Yennefer asks.

“He once accused me of pandering to the masses. Like playing a ukelele, growing a goatee, and playing sad deconstructed covers of pop songs makes him an artiste.” Jaskier sniffs. “Anyway, enough about me. What do you do?”

For an instant, Yennefer considers saying “mob boss” just to see the look on his face. “I'm a freelancer.”

She’s spared from having to give details by someone waving at Jaskier to close their tab. When he returns, it’s with another whiskey.

“Is there a point to celebrating the end of summer?” Yennefer asks him.

Jaskier shrugs. "Do we need a reason to charge people an arm and a leg for watered down frozen drinks?"

She arches an eyebrow at him. "I don't think you're supposed to tell me that they're watered down."

"What can I say?" He puts a hand over his heart, adopting an angelic expression. "You make me want to be an honest man."

Yennefer nearly snorts whiskey up her nose. Jaskier hands her a napkin, looking very smug as she dabs at her upper lip.

"Is the comedy routine part of the welcome package for new customers?" she asks.

"But of course. We offer only the best at The Chameleon."

"I suppose you don't get many repeat customers?"

Jaskier throws his head back to laugh, a little more dramatically than the joke called for. "You're a little mean."

Yennefer swirls her whiskey around in her glass. "Something tells me you like that."

That earns her a crooked grin. "You're not wrong."

"I'm usually not," Yennefer says.

He leans his elbows against the bar. "The club closes at ome. I need to help clean up, but I'll probably get out of here around 1:30."

"Oh?" Yennefer tilts her head to the side.

"You just seemed like you might be interested in that information."

"Did I?"

"You're even worse at playing coy than I am at playing bartender."

Yennefer's lips twitch. She likes it when people aren't scared to call her out on her shit. "I suppose I could wait around for a while."

Jaskier's answering smile is as warm and bright as his ridiculous shirt. Yennefer gets the sudden and horrible inkling that this might be someone she'll like, someone who will linger in her mind for longer than this single night of blowing off steam.

She should probably walk away then. She doesn't.

***

Yennefer sits at the bar for the last hour of the night. Two men and one woman offer to buy her drinks. She turns all three of them down and curses one of the men with a rash in a very unfortunate place when he's pushy about it. Jaskier seems to be attempting to actually do his job, because he only stops by to offer her another whiskey and bring her a glass of apple juice when she orders that instead. He doesn't charge her for any of her drinks, she notices. 

When it's time for the club to close, she retreats to a discreet table in the corner, where she watches him and Essi clean up behind the bar. When she gets impatient, she magics away several particularly messy spills without either of them noticing.

Finally, Essi waves Jaskier away, telling him that he’s making more of a mess than cleaning up. 

“You’re distracted,” Yennefer hears her say. “At this rate, you’re going to mix cleaning agents and kill us all.”

“That was only one time!”

“Go away, Jask.”

“Give my love to Shani!” Jaskier waves at her like a celebrity greeting a crowd of admirers and makes his way towards Yennefer, a swing in his hips and a smile on his face that looks a little nervous.

“There’s a fantastic Nilfgaardian place around the corner that’s open until two,” he tells her as she rises to fall into step next to them. “Their shawarma is out of this world. Or if you’re not hungry, my place is about a twenty minute walk away. Unless you want to call a cab? Or is your place—”

Yennefer hooks her thumb into his belt loop and yanks him into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. It’s a tiny bathroom, with only two stalls and a sink, and looks as clean as any public bathroom can look at the end of the day. One of the fluorescent lights is flickering. It would drive Geralt crazy, but Yennefer hardly notices.

“How long do you think we have until someone notices we’re in here?” she asks.

Jaskier’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Twenty minutes or so.”

“Then we should make the most of those twenty minutes,” she says and kisses him. He tastes syrupy sweet, like he was indulging in some of the colorful drinks that flowed so freely tonight. His kisses are eager and a little clumsy, but endearingly so. She can feel the curve of his smile against her lips as his hands settle on her waist.

“You know,” Jaskier breathes when he pulls away. “When you came up to the bar, this isn’t where I thought we’d end up.”

“Where did you think we’d end up?” Yennefer asks.

“I thought that I’d hit on you badly and then you’d tell me to fuck off.”

“You did hit on me badly. I can still tell you to fuck off if you want.”

“My flirting couldn’t have been that bad, since it worked.” He gestures between them.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Yennefer’s black sleeveless dress zips up the front. With a single tug, she unzips it and tosses it aside, leaving herself in only a pair of black lace underwear and high heels. 

When she turns back to Jaskier, he’s staring at her breasts, looking utterly gobsmacked. It’s rather adorable, so Yennefer kisses him again. His hands slide up her ribcage and around to settle on her back. They’re soft, with callused fingertips. She lets her own hands wander over his hairy chest and stomach, scratching her fingers through the coarse hair. She runs her thumb over the flat of his nipple and he shivers in response.

“What do you want?” Jaskier murmurs against her lips.

Yennefer sees no point in beating around the bush. “I want you to fuck me.”

“It would be my honor.” Jaskier lifts her up with a surprising show of strength and perches her on the sink. His eyes flicker to her breasts. “Can I…”

“No,” Yennefer deadpans. “I took off my dress just for shits and giggles.”

He snorts. “How did I know you were going to give me a hard time?”

“With those kinds of observational skills, you think you’d be a better bartender.”

Jaskier bends so that she can feel his huff of laughter on the sensitive skin of her tits. He nuzzles at the swell of her breasts, breath hot and needy, before sucking one nipple into his mouth. Yennefer gasps and arches into the touch. Encouraged, he swirls his tongue around the nipple, his touch feather-light and teasing. One hand slides up her thigh, fingers teasing at edge of her lace underwear. Yennefer yanks her underwear down, tossing them aside without looking where they’re going, and widens her legs invitingly.

Jaskier wastes no time; he slips a hand between her legs. One finger teases her clit with the same feather-light touch that his tongue is torturing her nipple with. Yennefer jerks her hips, demanding more.

She can feel the curve of Jaskier’s smile against her tit. “Demanding,” he says through his mouthful.

“And you’re a tease,” she tells him.

His eyes flick upwards, dancing with mirth, and Yennefer feels a smile tugging at her own lips. He’s cuter than anyone in that atrocious shirt has any right to be. “Sorry,” he says and begins stroking her clit in earnest.

His fingers are long, strong, and deft as they stroke her. His hand that isn’t occupied settles on the small of her back, massaging little circles into her skin. She almost tells him that she’s not a horse that needs to be gentled, but she’s having a hard time concentrating on anything but the flick of his tongue across her nipple and the finger stroking her clit. She’s already embarrassingly wet; she can hear the slick noises his fingers make against her skin. When he slips two fingers inside her, she can’t stifle a little gasp.

Jaskier begins to stroke harder, driving his fingers into her as she rolls her hips encouragingly. She wraps her legs around his legs and leans back, trusting in the hand on her back to stop her from crashing into the mirror. The pleasure is already building inside her and she can feel her thighs shaking and her breath coming out in short, erratic gasps. It only takes a few more caresses before she’s coming with a cry, burying her hands in his soft hair as he strokes her through the waves of pleasure.

Jaskier raises his head from her chest, his mouth red and slick and eyes bright. “Fuck,” he says with feeling. The front of his pants is tented with his impressive erection.

Yennefer exhales a shaky little laugh and reaches for his belt.

“Hold on.” Jaskier pulls away to hurry to the condom dispenser by the door. Yennefer almost protests that they don’t need one—she can’t give or get any diseases from him, nor can he get her pregnant—then remembers that she’s not here tonight as Yennefer of Vengerberg, the Raven of Novigrad. She’s just a woman who met a cute bartender and is about to fuck his brains out.

She waits with barely concealed impatience as Jaskier fumbles for his wallet in his back pocket, pulling out a half crown to feed to the dispenser. When it doesn’t give him his prize, he swears softly and smacks the side. Yennefer flicks a discreet finger and six condoms in brightly colored foil come shooting out like confetti out of a cannon. Jaskier catches one and turns to her with a sheepish grin.

“It’s temperamental,” he tells her.

“Use it often?”

“Once in a while.” He rejoins her at the sink. “Never with anyone as pretty as you before.”

Yennefer snorts loudly. “Do you tell every girl that?”

“All the time,” he admits cheerfully and kisses her again.

Yennefer slides from her perch on the sink to undo his belt and unzip the front of his jeans, pushing his jeans and boxers down around his thighs to free his cock from their confines. When she glances down, she finds a pretty cock with a bead of pre-cum at the tip. It’s almost as long as Geralt’s, though not quite as girthy, nestled in a bed of neatly trimmed dark hair. She smears the bead of pre-cum with her thumb and is rewarded when Jaskier sucks in a harsh gasp of breath.

Yennefer pushes Jaskier back against the bathroom sink. He’s a good six inches taller and a good deal heavier than her, but he lets her manhandle him easily. The mirror offers her a nice view of his ass, which is as bony as she expected it to be, but has a certain charm. He has two freckles on his left cheek. She traces a finger between them and he shivers.

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly.

“A little late to ask that, don’t you think?” She watches in the mirror as her bright red nails rake over the pale globe of his ass. When she gets near the crack, he shivers again, his cock twitching against her. Now, that’s intriguing. Something to explore next time.

There won’t be a next time, she tells herself firmly.

“Maybe,” Jaskier says. “I’d still like to know.”

Yennefer opens her mouth, then hesitates. The name Yennefer of Vengerberg is too easily recognizable in Novigrad. Even Yennefer might raise an eyebrow. It’s not exactly a common name in this century. “Yenn,” she says after a moment. “My name is Yenn.”

If Jaskier realizes she’s lying, he says nothing. “Nice to meet you, Yenn.”

“Nice to meet you too.” She takes the condom from his hand and tears the wrapper open. “Are we going to do this?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins cheekily.

Yennefer takes her time sliding the condom on, partially because she hasn’t had many occasions to put condoms on people before and partially because the way Jaskier’s hips twitch and the impatient little noises he makes are fun. When it’s on, Yennefer uses his shoulders to leverage herself up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. Jaskier leans back against the sink so he can fully take her weight, sliding his hands over her hips to support her.

Yennefer kisses him again, because it seems like the thing to do, and sinks down onto his cock without preamble. The punched out noise he makes against her mouth is lovely and Yennefer rolls her hips against him experimentally, getting the feel of him, before she starts to ride him, snapping her hips to drive him deep into her with each thrust. Jaskier buries his face into the crook of her shoulder to muffle his moans and digs his fingers into the meat of her ass.

Yennefer fucks him hard and fast because this is exactly what she needs, the rasp of chest hair against her breast, hands clutching her ass, hot breath on the shell of her ear, a cock filling her up. Jaskier kisses her jaw and neck sloppily, his breathing ragged. On one particularly enthusiastic thrust, his sunglasses—which Yennefer can’t believe were still on his head—go clattering to the ground. He doesn’t even notice.

“Yenn,” he gasps as Yennefer nips at the swell of one of his pecs, leaving a red mark that will probably bruise. She finds that she likes the idea of him having the imprint of her mouth on him in the morning. She bites his other pec, just hard enough to leave a faint imprint of her teeth.

He laughs, sounding breathless. “You don’t need to leave me reminders of our time together. Trust me, I won’t forget you.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls.” She scrapes her teeth over the jut of his collarbone.

“No.” His voice goes quiet. “I don’t.”

That isn’t what Yennefer wanted to hear, so she pulls him into another kiss to keep his mouth occupied. He seems to take the hint, kissing her hungrily. When she comes, it’s with his tongue in her mouth, his hands clutching her ass, and his cock buried deep inside her. He kisses her through her orgasm, then snaps his hips harder, chasing his own. Yennefer opens her eyes, glancing into the mirror so she can see the muscles in his ass and thighs working as he thrusts.

When he reaches his pleasure, he moans into the crook of her neck, long and low. They stand there together for a long moment, his cock softening inside her as he shudders with the aftershocks of his orgasm. It’s nice to just be held and Yennefer lets herself enjoy it for a minute before she remembers herself.

“I think we might be nearing the end of that twenty minutes,” she says.

Jaskier groans. “I really don’t like this job. I might be okay with losing it. I could sell my body for rent money. I’d be better at that than bartending.”

Yennefer doesn’t dignify that with a response as she slides out of his arms, heels clacking as they hit the floor. Jaskier disposes of the condom, then wets a paper towel and hands it to her. They both clean themselves up, keeping their eyes averted from each other politely.

“Will I see you again?” Jaskier asks as Yennefer retrieves her dress.

Yennefer zips herself up, glancing around for her underwear. They’re lying on the floor and she refuses to wear underwear that have been crumpled on the bathroom floor, so she decides to give them up as lost. Realizing that he’s waiting for her answer, she glances over to meet his eyes. She should tell him no, because he's looking at her with the kind of bright, hopeful expression that will only ever lead to disappointment. But she's always been an inherently selfish creature, so she says, "I guess you'll have to wait and see."

"Leaving me in suspense, huh?" But he doesn't look disappointed, just delighted, like he was hoping she wouldn't make things easy on him.

"Or maybe I haven't decided yet." She shrugs.

“Well, when you do decide, I’m here Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights,” Jaskier says, still smiling. Yennefer finds herself wanting to kiss that smile.

Instead, she says, “Goodbye, Jaskier,” and slips out of the bathroom.

***

Two weeks later, when Yennefer strides into The Chameleon, Jaskier is wearing a mesh crop top the same bright blue as his eyes. As soon as he sees her, he spills a strawberry daiquiri all over himself and Yennefer knows that his skin will taste like strawberries later when she takes him apart with the dildo she has tucked in her purse.

“You came back,” he says when she approaches the bar, doing nothing to disguise how pleased he is. She doesn’t think he could disguise it; everything he feels seems to be visible in those eyes.

Yennefer smiles back at him, feeling lighter than she has in years. “I came back.”

***

If you enjoyed, please consider leaving comments or kudos on AO3!

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek

#the witcher #yennskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #mob boss!yennefer #ghost's fic #ghost's writing #witcher summer camp 2022

[thedemonofcat]

Modern Mafia au:

The rookie cop, puzzled by the department's focus on a lone missing person case, learns that the disappeared individual is Jaskier Pankratz, a musician romantically linked to Geralt Rivia, the city's formidable mob boss

Geralt's unwavering protectiveness over Jaskier serves as an unspoken assurance for the city's safety.

However, with Jaskier missing, the very foundation of that assurance is shaken, and the threat looms that Geralt might unleash chaos upon the city in his relentless pursuit to find him.

#the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #the witcher #joey batey #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #anya cholatra #the witcher season 3 #anya chalotra #the witcher season three #witcher yennefer #modern au

[lyricalvillain]

WIP Ask Game

Rules are as follows: post the barebones plot of your wips in a new post and let people send you an ask with the title that intrigues them the most, then post a snippet/tell them something about it! Then, tag as many people as you have wips.

Aside from working on finishing up my unfinished fics, I have a few new ones sitting around waiting for me to finish the current ones.

Bearing Witness

Mandalorian Adoption Fic

No pairing planned yet. Just family drama.

Arla Fett was sold into slavery after death Watch killed her family in front of her. By some twist of fate she ends up in the deep sea mines of Bandomeer when Bitty baby Obi-Wan is kidnapped and thrown into the holding pens. Arla is a reluctant parent, Obi-Wan a tiny little bean burdened by visions, and throw in a Jedi Knight Feemor who will stop at nothing to find the initiate that his Padawan brother kidnapped and set things right. (No jedi culture bashed here, just so many misunderstandings)

Moorchild

A Witcher Labyrinth fic

Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier

Geralt says wish instead of blessing on the mountain. As a result the fae come and carry Jaskier away. Geralt has to find his way to the castle, through dangers untold to reclaim his bard, and maybe come to terms with some feelings along the way.

Don’t Call Him a Manwhore

Another small fic for the Don’t Call MCU series

Peter Parker was very happy not knowing anything about his friend’s sex lives. So happy. The happiest. Too bad a lot of Daredevil’s Bedroom Buddies have information on a particularly slippery Mob Boss.

@taki118 @quillfulwriter

#Fanfiction #Fanfiction wips #wip ask game #Star Wars fanfiction #mandalorian adoption #arla fett #Obi-Wan Kenobi #feemor #witcher fanfiction #geraskier #fae jaskier #jaskier #labyrinth #marvel fanfiction #Team Red #Deadpool #Wade Wilson #Daredevil #matthew murdock #Spider-Man #Peter Parker #my writing #my fanfiction #my wips

[fangirleaconmigo]

Hi! I just finished the serie Eskel and his Angel, I love your Jaskier in this and how he keeps surprising the witchers with his attention and actions. ❤️ Do you have intentions to keep writing the serie? If it's not, do you have any recommendations of Sex worker!Jaskier good fics?

Hello dear! Thank you! I do intend on finishing it. I started writing when I was sent home from work for the COVID lockdown and ended up with three big WIPs. At that time I was writing alone in my house for sometimes ten hours a day.

Then I went back to work and back to a social life and family obligations and my writing time shrank and I had to slow way down and finish them one by one.

I finished Refuge in Lettenhove first because I was the closest to finishing that. Then I focused on Posada Remix which I am thisclose to finishing.

Then I’ll go back to Eskel and His Angel.

Thanks for the ask and I’m so happy you like it.

As for other sex worker Jaskier fics I’m trying to thinkkkkkk hmmm.

I do have another finished one where he is a sex worker though by the time he sleeps with the Witchers (plural) it isn’t sex work, they’re in a relationship. That’s called I Know the Kindest Thing.

Oh, can I recommend an Eskel x Jaskier X Geralt sex worker fic where Eskel and Geralt are the sex workers?

It is called Thine Hungering Heart by @greyduckgreygoose and it’s just amazing. I reread it a lot.

And then @eyesupmarksman who is fantastic has a modern mob boss AU where Jaskier is a sex worker and an assassin called Shrike.

Now I’m drawing a blank on others even though I know I’ve read others. (It’s still kinda early here and my brain still needs to start up)

If anyone puts any recs in the rbs for kittyoswald I will rb! Self recs welcome!

#the witcher #ficrecs #Jaskier

[eredins-a-king-aint-he]

A E I N P S

For a second I thought this was a word and somehow you were reacting to something I said— hilarious fr

A - Your current OTP(s)/OT3(s)/OTX(s)

Hard to choose one since I’m only just creeping back from a year of being obsessed with a character from a different fandom… but I can comfortably say that I am still very into Geralt/Gaunter and am also considering writing a Geralt/Letho ficlet though I’ve never written for the pairing before so I’d hardly call it an otp

E - Have you added anything cracky/hilarious to your fandom, if so, what

Oh lord, I’ve written some very cracky stuff, though my crack magnup opus might be the Dijkstra/Gaunter fic I wrote😂 if we’re talking art, I had a whole phase of drawing Eskel, Gaunter, and Geralt in slutty crack au outfits— they’re in my art tag somewhere tho idk where? Might be able to find them under #Gaunskeralt

I - Has tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why

Well, I recently kinda fell out of my most recent fandom (Doc Ock from Spiderman 2 and NWH) because a few people made me really fucking uncomfortable and kinda half-killed my desire to create for the fandom, so yeah pretty much

N - Name three things you wish you saw more or in your main fandom (or a fandom of choice)

I wish I saw more:

love for The Hexer, it’s hilarious and great and it’s Geralt and Jaskier are fantastic

love for random background characters (and also for my unpopular favs)

appreciation for the nuance of the franchise and its characters, I firmly believe that the grey morality and the nuance are a significant part of what makes the franchise so damn good

P - Invent a random AU for any fandom (we always need more ideas)

Oh lord it’s hard to come up with something on the spot— but I can always advertise my shitty crack au where Gaunter is like a mob boss and Geralt and Eskel are his “body guards” but they’re mostly sexy arm candy for him, and they’re all banging of course! Also I do have some various au fics up on my ao3 for anyone who’s interested

S - Show us an example of your personal headcanon (prompts optional but encouraged)

This is pretty vague without specification— but a headcanon I love (that’s like vaguely sorta canon but I like to expand on it) is that Eskel is especially magically powerful, to the point where it can kinda get away from him and just explode a little when he uses it esp if he’s emotional or distracted👀

Thank you for the ask!! Sorry I answered so late😅

#cedar answers #asks #ask game #thank you again!! I always enjoy answering these types of things

[roughentumble]

mob boss mentions wanting to get Jaskier The Bard to play at Ciri's birthday bc she's a huge fan and Eskel and Lambert misunderstood and kidnap him to play the event while Geralt's pinching the bridge of his nose going, "Hire him! I meant hire him!" while Jaskier's like 'oh he's hot! and a dilf!'

OH MY GODS THATS SO CLOSE TO WHAT I WAS THINKING GSBDHSBSJS great minds think alike 😌

SUCH a funny idea. once jaskier shakes off being so nervous he's trembling(and promising that he'd make them much more money if he's ransomed out and returned safely, rather than killed, to try and save his own hide) he's very keen on playing the party of a lifetime for someone hot and powerful(and also his daughter, awww he's a family man 🥺) while getting wasted.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #''you can request my services anytime'' he informs geralt with a lascivious grin #meanwhile geralt cant help but be intrigued by him. #and in jaskier's oh-so-humble opinion he's always looked rather good dripping in jewelry on the arm of someone sexy and powerful.

[yennskier-feed-ao3]

Fell for those ocean eyes

Fell for those ocean eyes

by ghostinthelibrary

Everyone needs a night off—especially a sorceress with the weight of an entire city on her shoulders. When Yennefer decides to blow off some steam at a nightclub, she meets a blue-eyed bartender who is exactly what she needs for the night.

Words: 4270, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion, Essi Daven

Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Mob, Mob Boss Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bartender Jaskier | Dandelion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Meet-Cute, Flirting, Banter, Casual Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Biting

#the witcher #yenskier #yennskier #yennefer #jaskier #yennskier fic feed

[captainsy-cookiemonster]

Breathe Masterlist

Summary:

Lizzy is the daughter of a mob boss, kept out of the business, growing  up as  her daddy's little girl. When Lizzy and Jaskier's father dies,  another  clan starts to invade the Pankratzes' territorium. An arranged  marriage  to Geralt of Rivia is the only way to save both of the  families'  businesses from the new clan. Lizzy is okay with that, her fiancé is a  handsome man, the only problem  is: Lizzy is very shy, and literally unable  to breathe, evertime she  meets Geralt's eyes. He has an idea how to fix  that.

⚠️Warnings⚠️(for smut): fingering, powerplay, dom/sub relationship, male!dom, fem!sub,daddy!kink, use of toys, (light) bondage, multiple orgasms, age gap (not that big), (later) unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (so far only f receiving), all the good stuff

⚠️Warnings⚠️(for whole work): arranged marriage, mentions of death, blood and gore, violence, etc.

Pairing: modern, mob!boss Geralt of Rivia x Lizzy (OFC) / first person reader (often referred to with pet names)

I’ll add to these lists as I go, I have no idea where to go with this story. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, DON’T READ!

Also on AO3

Chapters:

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

WiP

Masterlist

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #the witcher smut #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia smut #geralt smut #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt of rivia x lizzy (ofc) #mafia au #arranged marriage AU #modern au #mob!boss geralt of rivia #mob!boss geralt #mob!boss jaskier #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #breathe

[geraskierficrecs]

Mafia AU

Since I apparently have no self control, I’ve started a new story featuring a very morally grey Jaskier in the modern era.  You can read it here.

Here’s the description:

In the world of the wealthiest members of society, there is only one man who you call when there is a problem that needs to disappear. Whether it's killing off your competition or ensuring you have the blackmail you need to keep your enemies at bay, Jaskier--better known as Dandelion--has made a living getting his hands dirty.

So, when the offer comes to track down the missing child of a billionaire CEO, Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is more than happy to go undercover and get the information they need to ensure Geralt doesn't become a problem.

But what happens when he starts to have feelings for the kind, smartass barista and his strange family?

#mafia au #mob boss jaskier #feral jaskier #badass jaskier #badass Yennefer #angst #hurt/comfort #betrayal #geraskier #gerlion #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #wolf pack #found family #Angst with a happy ending #my stuff #ao3 #ao3feed #netflix the witcher

[process-pending]

Jaskier in a zoot suit.

#Owner of a speakeasy #Does the whole loungesinger bit #Tickles the ivories #Leads the swing dances #Geralt is a mob boss who haunts the joint #Dark corner table #Leader of the Wolves #Breaks the kneecaps of the guy who roughs Jaskier up #Though he's yet to actually speak to Jaskier #All about that slow burn #Witcher AU #Mobster AU

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Shrike - Geraskier [E]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): Smut (Rating E); Mild Violence

Originally posted to my AO3

Mob Boss Geralt is brought to the Rosemary and Thyme Bar, where he meets with an alluring Jaskier; who has a new work proposition.

In hindsight, he should have just punched Lambert in the jaw and left it at that.

But here he is, in the back of his own car, heading towards downtown. Gods only know what time it is, but Geralt’s eyes are already starting to sting. A tight pain runs up the side of his face. He’s clenching his jaw again. There isn’t a moment where he isn’t. But after catching himself going it, he manages to flex his jaw and wring the pain out.

The red-haired man laughs, mostly to himself. He’s sitting in the back of the car with him, letting Coën do all the driving. He can only assume the other man didn’t have much of a say in it, with how grimly he’s glaring back at Lambert stretched out along the backseat. “You work too much,” he lilts, looking out on to the changing cityscape.

Gods alive, he hates downtown. It’s busy and bright and desperately loud, assaulting every sense that he has. Work might lure him down here every so often, but that’s why he has Lambert and Eskel and Coën. If he can send them in place of him, then good. They’ll go. But more often than not, people want to meet the White Wolf personally. Even if it’s the last meeting with him they’ll ever have.

It’s not that he works too much. It’s that there is so much work to do. Vesemir retired and overnight Geralt found himself in charge of all of this. People underneath him who know who he is, knows that the Old Wolf raised him personally to take over. But he still watches those with uncertain eyes. Whispers of a coup have been brushing his ears ever since Vesemir fucked off to the countryside and left the title of boss to him. An argument could be made that they had talked about it. Vesemir was getting greyer, and young bucks were popping up all around the boroughs, crowing and fighting amongst themselves. It was only a matter of time before they ran their antlers through the Old Wolf and took over.

Best to get someone like Geralt in before any of that unpleasantness started. The White Wolf may have been a shy pup, quiet and always keeping to himself, but he could level anyone with a stare, enough to knock them over and have them scampering from the offices. Eskel, gods bless him, is too kind-hearted. Lambert is too much of a prick. Geralt has the perfect temperament; but is easy to anger.

And he can feel that very anger starting to bubble up now, just as downtown’s bright and irritating neon lights stream in through the dimmed windows of the car.

“Stay for an hour,” Lambert reasons, tilting his head to the side. His brother might be a prick and a degenerate, but he knows how to look at the elder in a certain way to get him pliant enough to do whatever he asks. That’s how he got Geralt to fight all of his battles for him when they were boys. Lambert was often the one to get them into trouble, and Geralt got them out. That’s how it worked. And then there was Eskel, wearing an ever-suffering expression on his face wondering why in the name of all of the gods their father put Geralt in charge in the first place.

Lambert splays his hands. “Stay for an hour,” he repeats, “and if you hate it as much as you think you’re going to, then you can leave. I’m sure Coën would drop you back home if you asked. Isn’t that right, Coën?”

There’s an illegible huff from the front of the car. Coën keeps his glowering eyes on the road, muttering something or other under his breath.

It isn’t directed at Geralt, that’s all he knows. So he allows it. If Coën had his way, he would be home in bed too. Geralt’s ache bleeds for them both.

Lambert slaps a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. He leans over, lowering his voice. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t look so fucking grumpy all of the time,” he lulls, only sitting back when the bar comes into view. Geralt tries not to roll his eyes. Of course. Of course he would bring him here.

The dazzling, irritating lights of Rosemary and Thyme glare at him. A bar and club frequented by just about anyone who can slip in through the small army of security posted to the front doors. Just as Coën parks them in front of the door, Lambert slips out and has a word with the burly men. They nod and stand aside. Lambert looks back at him with a brilliant smile. “Come on, Geralt!” he calls out.

Coën offers him a sympathetic look through the rear-view mirror. “I can hang around, if you like?”

If you want to bolt after a minute.

Geralt grunts. “Might be an idea,” he rumbles, but steps out of the car all the same. He’s used to it; having security come up to meet him. Despite everything, even though they’re contracted by the bar and they could call the police on someone like him, they know to lead him past the queues formed outside and get him into the building as quietly as possible. He catches a few faint whispers, all about the White Wolf. He tries not to let his eyes roll. He’s had enough of it, to be honest. But Lambert laps it up. Sticking close to Geralt’s side, he gets anything he wants. A completely different world to the one he grew up in.

They’ve barely stepped into the bar before a woman meets them. Armed with a clipboard and armoured in a suit, she points to some secluded rooms to the side of the bar. “If you would like to come with me, Mr. Rivia?”

Geralt grunts and follows. Lambert makes idle chatter with the woman; always polite when he wants to be, laughing when he should be keeping the swearing to a minimum. But as soon as they’re shown to the rooms, Lambert turns on his heel and whispers something into her ear. They have a quiet conversation, one that Geralt can’t hear through the din of music.

She nods. “I’ll see if they’re available.”

“They’ll be available,” Lambert says firmly, palming some gold into the woman’s hand. She nods curtly before disappearing.

Geralt watches Lambert stride into the room. It’s a far cry from the main bar; chrome-lined and with a dance floor already heaving with people. Even the booths lining the sides of the room are full, with parties of people keeping to themselves. Curious glances had followed him while they walked through the floor. Now, shielded away, at least he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore.

But he still has Lambert, which is a problem. The man makes himself at home within the room; letting the door click shut behind them and tossing his jacket over the back of an L-shaped couch pushed to the back of the room. A well-stocked bar lines the walls, something that has grabbed Lambert’s attention.

“You work too much,” the man lilts, pulling some bottles from the shelves. “You need to loosen up a bit.”

Geralt grunts, stalking over to the couch. It’s plush and just soft enough for him to sink back into it. He leaves his jacket sprawled beside him, still within an arm’s reach just in case he decides to leave early. He thinks of Coën, driving aimlessly around downtown, or maybe grabbing something to eat while Geralt ponders when it would be an acceptable amount of time passed for him to leave.

“Then let me go home and sleep,” he sighs, burying his face into his hands. Lambert...is a lot. The only reason why Geralt hasn’t flung his body into the nearest river is that he’s family. And Vesemir will come out of hiding or retirement to make sure Geralt’s body joins his.

Not that there haven’t been moments. His fingers itch for the trigger, but not here. If he’s going to kill Lambert, he’ll make it look like a damn accident.

The man plies him with alcohol, setting a familiar drink down in front of him. Geralt’s glare softens slightly, but doesn’t disappear completely. He reaches out, taking a measured sip. It’s strong, whatever he’s concocted, mostly whiskey that burns the back of his throat. But it’s enough to start unwinding the tension from his muscles.

There’s a knock at the door. Lambert, midway through knocking back a shot of something, eyes the door. He sets his glass down and the same hand moves to his waist, to the sheathed gun resting there. Geralt’s eyes narrow. If he’s smart, if he can keep a hold on himself, then that gun will stay where it is.

Lambert cracks the door open just enough to glimpse at who’s outside. Geralt’s ears twitch as the man grunts, stepping outside for a moment.

There’s a short conversation, one that he can’t hear. He reaches for his glass, taking another measured sip of whiskey and letting it sizzle on his tongue. If he’s going to be dragged this far away from home, he’s not going to weather the night sober. He thinks briefly of fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, dialling Coën’s number and getting the man to come back. He has enough drinks lining the bar in his own home. Who’s to say that he can’t get what he wants at home? At least his ears will be spared from having to endure endless thumping of music beyond the walls.

Lambert steps back into the room before he can make his decision. He’s as comfortable as he can be; his jacket set to the side as he lounges back against the plush couch. His legs drift apart from each other, but only because the day’s work finally starts coiling through his muscles and tensing them.

A devilish smile starts to curl along Lambert’s lip. Another man joins him, and Geralt blinks. He’s not a man he would expect Viola to have in her employ. He’s certainly not dressed like it. Hair that sweeps over and dusts his eyes, a luring smile that rounds his cheeks and highlights the faint flush of colour. Geralt’s eyes wander. His visitor is made up in tight-fitting pants – leather, if he were to guess – and a shirt that dips low enough into the middle of his chest.

Lambert just about manages to swallow a delighted laugh. “My dear brother works too much,” he lilts, nodding to the other side of the room. He turns his eyes back to the man. “He’s been terribly stressed lately. Be a good lad and make sure he enjoys himself tonight. He’s an awful bastard when he’s pent up.”

He’s going to fucking kill Lambert. Screw making it look like an accident. He might just have Coën drive by one of the biggest rivers in town just so he can hurl Lambert over the bridge and into it. So fucking what if Vesemir appears at his door tomorrow, glaring daggers at him.

But it’s either the whiskey or the man’s eyes slowly drifting over him, the urge to kill his brother is slowly fading. Geralt grunts.

He eyes his brother, watching the mop of red, curly hair try and disappear around the corner. Despite that, Lambert is loud enough for him to keep track of, even when the door clicks closed and he’s left alone with his guest. He turns to the man. “How much did he pay you?” he rumbles.

The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. Scrutinising whatever words perch on the tip of his tongue. If he’s one of Viola’s, which Geralt doesn’t think is likely with the more he stares at him, he’ll hold that tongue.

Geralt sighs. “I’ll pay you twice as much to turn around and leave me alone.”

The man’s face lightens. A delighted smile suddenly stretches over his lips, and just for a moment Geralt thinks that he might be free. There aren’t many things he can’t worm out of with money.

But this doesn’t seem to be one of them. Geralt notices the man holding a drink in one hand. He brings it up to his lips, resting them against the rim. “That’s a shame. If you don’t want me to do anything, fine,” he lilts, taking a measured sip. It’s bright and shines slightly when it catches the lights. Geralt can practically taste how sweet it must be. The man hums. “But company is free. We can talk. Or sit here in silence, since you don’t seem to be the talking type.”

Geralt stares at the man. “It’s bad manners to refuse a boss’ offer.”

“It’s bad manners to come into a whore’s bar and turn him down,” he replies just as easily, tilting his head again.

Geralt isn’t unused to having people try and read him. Ever since a grubby-faced, shaggy-haired pup appeared at Vesemir’s side one day, he’s had eyes watch and regard him. He’s learned how to shake them all off; to keep himself measured and in control, unreadable. Even when his temper flares, he can keep it to himself. He’s used to people trying to burrow under his skin.

But this man, with eyes the colour of oceans and a smile as bright as the sun, burns right through his skin and reaches into his muscles and bones. Geralt sighs. He grabs his drink and takes a mouthful, not even wincing at how the whiskey burns and stings the back of his mouth and his throat as he swallows it.

It’s suddenly not enough. He could pad over to the bar, down the whole bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves. Or he could get his company to do it. He seems to know his way around a bar and its bottles.

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Listen, you don’t want me for company,” he grounds out. It’s more words than he would normally gift anyone. Usually, if his patience starts to wear thin, or people annoy him just enough, he leaves. No reason to give any excuses. But his company is the responsibility of someone else, and if they see Geralt leaving as quickly as he plans to, words might have to be said to the man.

He has a certain soft spot in his heart for those who find their work in sex.

The man lifts his chin. “I know who you are. You don’t work here long before you start picking up names.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And who is trading those names?” It’s all well and good having the right kind of people knowing your name in the boroughs; but it’s dangerous to pick up on whispers. People can be talking about you for all the wrong reasons.

“Everybody.” The man lifts a shoulder. “Everyone wants to be the White Wolf. Or in his pack.” The man’s eyes venture down. Brave things that linger on the open folds of Geralt’s shirt. His neck bobs as he swallows, taking a measured breath. He can feel his skin starting to flush from the scrutiny. “A few want to be in his bed.”

“And what about you?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of the centre of his chest. “Do you fall into any of those groups of people?”

“I didn’t give it much thought, to be honest,” the man replies, lowering his voice to match, “until now.”

It’s almost lost to the thump of music. Even through the walls of the secluded rooms, broken off from the main bar where wandering eyes stop, it still worms into him. Before long, his heart matches the beat of the music, thumping in his chest and rattling his ribcage. Geralt swallows the last of his drink before setting his glass away. The couch underneath him is just plush enough to let him sink into it.

The moment he sits back against the couch, splaying an arm out to the side, sure fingers suddenly explore his chest. The fabric of his shirt is pulled at and scrutinised. A nice paying job means nice things. And even though he spent most of his life preferring to keep to simple clothes, Vesemir insisted on looking the part of the head of a pack. Pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons always undone to reveal a portion of his chest. A simple silver chain sits around his neck, pooling in the hollow. Blue eyes investigate, spanning over everything fingers map out. “I knew you were the White Wolf the moment you walked in,” he lulls. Blue eyes glance up at Geralt’s hair. A tell-tale shade of white. “And not because of the obvious. But you hold yourself in a certain way. You want to walk a head higher than everyone, because that’s what someone taught you to do. But you want to blend into the walls, too.”

The man tilts his head, his gaze softening. “Have I caught myself a shy wolf?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Are you a therapist?” he asks, not helping the small smile that quirks the corner of his lip. This one...this one is peculiar.

The man laughs. It’s a light thing, and the smile that stretches over his lips rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Too many strangers have batted their eyelashes and dazzled him with sweet smiles, while none of it was at all genuine. This man, though, Geralt likes. His smile lures a small one out of him, and he’d very much like to hear that laugh again.

Inquisitive fingers only get braver as they catch one of his shirt’s buttons, fidgeting with it. The man hums. Within seconds, Geralt’s lap is full.

The man moves surely, slinging his leg over Geralt’s thighs and perching himself on Geralt’s lap. Arms slowly wind around his shoulders, crossing at his nape.

Geralt’s hands go to the man’s hips, settling over the arches and feeling the soft swell of muscle underneath. He’s dressed just as well as Geralt; in a soft blue shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes, slacks that ride up and bunch around his thighs, showing off the muscle gathered there. He isn’t a small or lithe man by any means. Not in the way Viola’s people usually are. His fingers are sure in what they’re doing, as are his lips.

Geralt grunts as he’s caught in a kiss. The man dips down and the arms around Geralt’s shoulders tighten and draw him closer. The man’s lips are warm and plush and flavoured with tequila and something searingly sweet. Below it all, Geralt can taste him.

The hands on the man’s thighs tighten, with his fingers delving into any bit of muscle he can find. They eventually travel, slipping around and kneading the globes of the man’s ass. A cut-off groan is muffled against his lips. With that, hips roll and grind and the arms around his shoulders gather him closer—

There’s a firm knock at the door. It cuts through everything and almost scalds the both of them. The arms slung over his shoulders tighten, drawing Geralt closer, and the hands he has on the man’s hips firm too.

Geralt parts from those plush, reddening lips, barely swallowing down a growl. “What?” he calls out. It could be someone from the bar, it could be Lambert. Though, Lambert would just barge in and make himself known. He wouldn’t bother with doing something as polite as knocking.

He keeps his jacket in the corner of his eye. One hand parts from the man’s thigh, resting just beside his jacket, ready to draw his gun if he needs to. The man stiffens against him, probably seeing the movement too.

A woman’s voice cuts through the door. “Apologies, Mr. Rivia,” she calls in through the door. She doesn’t come in, and it’s probably from the sharpness of Geralt’s voice. That’s fine. The fact that she’s even here, taking him away from the body on top of him, annoys him to no end. But she continues on nonetheless. “None of our regulars are available. I’m afraid I don’t have anyone for you.”

The words take a moment to settle with him. He remembers Lambert palming gold into her hand, the mutterings of someone being available. He isn’t stupid. And he knows what his brother is like.

The body on top of him doesn’t even stiffen. But a small sigh is puffed against his lips. Blue eyes blink open, watching his, scrutinising. Waiting for Geralt to say something, either to him or the woman outside.

He muses over his words for a moment. Sly thing, he thinks, regarding the man on top of him.

“That’s fine,” he grunts, sitting up a bit. He moves them both, letting the man lay back slightly. The arms loosen from his shoulders, but still sling over them as if they always belonged there. And he finds himself loath to actually part with the warm body perched on him.

But the warm body isn’t meant to be there at all.

At Geralt’s quirked eyebrow, the man sighs. “I saw you come in,” he says, reaching up to brush some of Geralt’s hair back from his face. He curls it around his ear. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Geralt grunts. “You’re not one of Viola’s, are you?”

“I’m a whore, among other things,” the man corrects, but he muses over his words for a moment. Whatever he says next could earn him a death sentence. When he’s decided on what he’s going to say, his hips move. A slow roll over Geralt, keeping his attention. As if Geralt could focus on anything else but the enigma on top of him. “But I don’t work for Viola.”

Geralt hums, lifting his chin. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” the man replies. The same fingers that explored his chest now skim over the ridge of his jaw, sending slight shivers through Geralt as his skin scalds. The man’s touch is too much, even now. “Though, I’m currently looking for some new business ventures.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. People have asked things of him in the past. And he has had certain people be more forward than others. This isn’t the first time he’s been straddled and kissed and plied with gentle touches, and suddenly a business plan is placed in front of him.

But this man may be the only one Geralt hasn’t shoved off of him yet. His hands settle back on the man’s thighs, feeling a gentle tremor shiver through them.

The man perched on Geralt’s lap straightens, pulling himself just out of kissing range. Brave little thing, Geralt things. “I heard a rumour that you’re looking for a new hitman,” the man lulls, letting his arms fall from Geralt’s shoulders. Sure hands map down his chest, lingering slightly over every swell of muscle they can find.

Geralt blinks. Letho’s death isn’t public knowledge. His own people haven’t been told yet, just because Geralt can’t be bothered dealing with the fallout just yet. He needs to gather everything he has, resource-wise, just because the Vipers might not be too pleased one of their own has fallen. He’s been keeping an eye on Lambert. One more outburst and Geralt will have run out of rivers to dump bodies in.

The man’s dexterous fingers linger on the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. He plucks one open, revealing more of his chest. It stops there, though. Geralt wonders vaguely if the man can feel how his heart hammers in his chest. He’s caught. And he could very easily shove the man off and go home. But this man knows about a vacancy in his house. How he knows about Letho’s death, that’s another matter.

For now, the man has his attention.

The man tilts his head. “I want to be a member of your house,” he murmurs, his gaze flickering up to meet Geralt’s. “I’m done with working by myself.”

Having the man within his house would keep him close. Wolves could keep their eyes on him; and tear him apart if he became too brave. Geralt hums, musing. “You know your way around a gun, I suppose?” Even though he doesn’t work for the woman, he knows that Viola teaches those on her payroll how to use one and a blade, if it ever calls for it.

The man nods. “I’ve known how to kill someone longer than how to pleasure them,” he counters.

Geralt’s chest tightens. He lifts his chin. “What’s your name?” he rasps.

“Jaskier,” the man replies.

A single name shouldn’t mean much, but when it’s Jaskier—

A slow smile slowly curls along Geralt’s lips. Of course. “The same Jaskier who dealt with one of my irritating problems in Cidaris?”

Jaskier laughs. The same laugh Geralt wants to hear more of. “I didn’t know that you considered Valdo Marx an irritating problem, but he was certainly irritating to me, and causing problems.”

“Well, I guess I owe you a thank you.” Without the pompous bastard strutting around like a peacock, making far too much noise about anything and everything, Geralt’s men can work a lot easier within the streets without being bothered by a man who’s far too brave for his own good.

Jaskier hums. His fingers pluck at the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, seemingly struggling between undoing them and revealing more of his chest, or leaving them be. Geralt hopes for the former. “I can think of a few ways to repay me,” Jaskier lulls. Those fingers venture further down, deftly catching and undoing Geralt’s belt.

At the clink of the buckle, a low moan slips out of Geralt’s throat. He reaches up, catching Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. “Careful, little lark,” he rumbles, delighting in how the man’s eyes shimmer. His attention is solely Geralt’s, already wrapped around him. The voice that rumbles out of him is deep and rasping. “Wolves are dangerous.”

A shiver shakes up Jaskier’s spine. “Good,” he replies, dipping down to lure a kiss out of Geralt. He hums against his lips, breath hitching when Geralt snags his bottom lip in his teeth and tugs.

A clever and sure hand slips down the front of his pants, reaching into his briefs and curling around his cock. He’s already half-hard. The man peaked his interests. Fingers coil around it, slowly pumping up and down. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when Jaskier twists his hand around his head, gathering a bead of precum in his palm to slick his way back down. It’s dry, but the pressure and coil of the man’s fingers around him is just enough to keep his interest. And the squirming thing in his lap, plying him with kisses and luring words, has him very interested.

Geralt slides his hands into Jaskier’s pants, kneading the globes of his ass and rolling their hips together. A thrum of pleasure rumbles through him. A lithe groan slips out of the other man.

He pauses when he feels metal.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow.

Jaskier, for the first time all night, actually blushes. Though, he smiles his way through it. He pushes his hips back against Geralt’s hands, wanting them to keep going in their explorations. He’s a hopeful thing, if he expected Geralt to say yes. Or an incredibly self-assured one. Geralt isn’t sure which one he’d appreciate more.

Geralt’s finger traces around the man’s rim, following the edges of what he can only expect is a plug. He leans up, plucking a gentle kiss from Jaskier’s lips. “Stretched out already?” he hums, lounging in the way his lips tingle after kissing Jaskier’s.

The man doesn’t answer. It could be the blush that’s warming his cheeks giving him all the answers he needs, but Geralt delights in any sounds he manages to lure out of the man. He grabs the end of the plug and tugs it gently. The body on top of him shivers.

He sets up a gentle rhythm, delving the plug in and out of Jaskier’s hole. He can feel how wet the man is, and the images that flash in front of Geralt almost catch his breath. He might have spotted Geralt coming into the bar, or known that he would have come this way. To be as bold as to assure himself of a night with the White Wolf, to go into a bathroom stall or the back rooms of the bar, lube and plug in hand, readying himself.

Geralt’s growl rumbles through his chest. “Has anyone else had you today?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, a moan slipping out. “No,” he manages to breathe.

Geralt nips at his jaw. “Good,” he mutters against the skin. “Because you belong to me now.”

Jaskier’s moan is a gorgeous thing, just as beautiful as his laugh.

He isn’t a possessive person. He sees other masters of their guilds hoard people in their beds, and while these people walk around the boroughs draped in silks and gold, people know who they belong to and wouldn’t dare look in their direction, let alone touch them. He’s never been like that. Those who have fallen into his bed have had their time and have gone with the changing wind.

And then there’s Jaskier, who he’s known for all of thirty minutes now, and he wants to keep him forever. He slowly works the plug in and out of Jaskier, languishing in every small choked-off sound that he wrings out of the man. Eventually, the man’s hand tightens around his cock. If he can tease him, then Jaskier can tease right back.

Geralt sets his teeth to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, slowly working the plug out of the man’s hole. There’s a broken attempt at Geralt’s name, followed by a high-pitched whine when the plug slips out of him. As soon as it’s gone, and Geralt sets it on to the couch to be forgotten about, he delves in with two fingers.

Jaskier did a good job of stretching himself, but he still tightens and clamps around Geralt’s fingers. He curls just enough to search out that spot inside of the man, and when he brushes it with the pads of his fingers, one of Jaskier’s arms coils around his shoulders and hauls them flush against each other. “Geralt,” he breathes.

The heat around him is hot and warm and wet. Geralt’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth at the thought of burying himself into it. His cock twitches in Jaskier’s hand. He nips at Jaskier’s jaw. “Get us both ready,” he rumbles.

Hand scramble and pull off what they can. He’s desperate, Geralt can tell that. And he is too. The more time Jaskier spends squirming in his lap, bunching their slacks down as far as he’s able too before perching back on his lap, the more fidgety he becomes. When Jaskier is close enough, he winds a firm arm around the man’s waist and holds him in place.

It shouldn’t sear his blood as much as it does. He’s lost count of the number of people falling in and out of his bed. Some appear more often than most, while others are gone by the time the sun decides to peer over the horizon. But this one...

Geralt reaches down, guiding the man’s hand on his cock. It’s tight and quick, and if he’s not careful then this will all be over with too soon. Jaskier’s hand eventually falls away. He squirms on Geralt’s lap, trying to roll back on to the other man. The noises that slip out of him Geralt will commit to memory. If he’s as serious about this new proposition as he thinks he is, Geralt will be hearing those noises for many nights to come.

He sets the head of his cock against the man’s hole. A small chuckle escapes him as Jaskier whines and tries to roll his hips back. Geralt tights his old on him. “I’ll give you everything, darling,” he rumbles, delighting in the shiver that shakes through the man’s body. He sets his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, hints of teeth scraping, as he slowly pushes himself into the man.

He struggles to keep his breath. Jaskier might have stretched himself out, and Geralt might have played with him for as long as he could have, but the heat that surrounds him is hot and tight and already lures depraved sounds out of him. Jaskier’s moan is choked and stuttering as he lets his hips fall flush against Geralt.

He’s perfect. Geralt moans against Jaskier’s jaw. Short puffs of hot breath ghost the man’s ear, making him shiver and tremble against him.

Jaskier’s arms coil around his shoulders, tightening their hold on him and bringing him closer. “Fuck me,” he sighs, half into the air above them. He lets himself feel Geralt for a moment. He’s big, and there isn’t a lot of space inside of Jaskier that he isn’t flush against. Every twitch of his hips has the tip of the man’s cock brushing his prostate. And this could all be over too soon.

Geralt has his hips trapped. He might allow the small quivers and rolls of movement, but he can’t lift himself. The hands around him tighten and fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Jaskier whines against Geralt’s lips. It’s too much and not enough. His cock leaks between them, the first few drops of precum already beading around his tip. He needs a hand on it. Or the man below him needs to move. Or something.

The man laughs, mostly to himself. It’s a rumbling thing that comes from the depths of his chest. Geralt leans back against the couch. His hands don’t part with Jaskier’s hips, but his hold loosens, just a touch. Lain out in front of him, Jaskier’s eyes wander over any stretch of bared skin he can find. “Come on, little songbird,” Geralt rumbles. “Take what you want.”

Jaskier’s moan is the only thing he can hear. The thump of music worming in through the walls, the shitty fluorescent lighting overhead, the hum of alcohol buzzing in his veins. It all slips away the moment the man’s hips roll and lift and fuck down on to him. Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyelids droop. There’s a struggle in him. To close his eyes and lean back, languishing in how Geralt feels inside of him. Or to watch the man underneath him, make those golden eyes meet his and see what he’s doing to him.

Geralt bites the edge of his tongue. The same war starts to unfurl within his own mind.

His hands do nothing more than guide. Jaskier’s thighs work and warm as he lifts himself up and down, slowly riding Geralt. The heat around him tightens and quivers. One of Geralt’s hand slips down to his thigh, feeling the muscle work. He pets skin and mumbles sweet, worshipping words. “That’s it,” he tries to steady his own voice. “Look at you, little bird. Taking my cock so well. You were made to be there, hmm?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as a moan slips out of him. One of his hands moves, curling into the hair at the back of Geralt’s head. He grunts as the man’s hold on him tightens. He might be enjoying himself, but he isn’t as naive to lose himself completely. Surely he must know what kind of effect he’s having on the man beneath him.

And he does – if the smirk curling along his lips is anything to by. Geralt tries to keep his breath. In and out. Settle.

Jaskier leans down, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. Their noses brush and warm air is shared between them. The smirk doesn’t budge. “Do you say that to all of your whores?”

Geralt pushes back. They’re close. The man’s lips are just there. He could lift his chin and steal a kiss. And he’s sure the other man is betting on it. His lips are plump and bitten already, luring him closer. “No,” he hums. “Though my hitmen tend to have excellent bed-manners.”

A laugh lilts out of the man. That’s it settled then. Jaskier works for him. And if he has his way – and if the other man is amenable – he’ll litter marks all over Jaskier’s skin so people get the message. Having a bird-like Jaskier perched on his shoulder, ready to go and hunt those undesirables he has out in the other boroughs, it tightens the coil in his core.

His hips lift and fuck up into him. He meets Jaskier thrust for thrust, and it lures the most divine of noises out of him. The smirk slips off of his lips as they stretch around moans and half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name.

Sweat starts to bead on both of them. Eventually, Jaskier’s thighs warm and give out, and he’s moved along with each of Geralt’s thrusts. He sags against the man’s chest, tightening the hold he has around his shoulders. “Fuck me,” he breathes against Geralt’s ear. “I want to feel you for days.”

He grabs the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and stands. The man’s arms tighten around his shoulders as he’s lifted and carried and eventually set down along the length of the couch. With the firm cushions underneath him, he rolls his head back. Blearily blue eyes watch Geralt; hovering above him and setting a hand next to his head.

His hips roll, driving himself deeper and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier’s breath thins and his whines grow higher and wisp. Every thrust fucks out one more sound Geralt can’t get enough of. He wants to hear more. He wants his name falling from the man’s bitten, plump lips. He wants to see what those hands can do; in his bed and for him out on assignments.

The people he hates most in life won’t know what hit them when he lets the songbird out of its cage.

Well-toned legs move, hooking around Geralt’s waist. Feet cross and heels dig into the small of his back. “Come on then, White Wolf,” Jaskier lulls, stretching his arms up and over his head. “Thank me properly.”

Geralt grabs his hips in a sure grip. Even through the shitty lighting, he can see the beginnings of marks form. He’ll leave more, when there’s time. When he has his little bird at home and in his bed, he’ll mark every stretch of skin he can find. And from the way the man watches him, his lips curling into a satisfied smile, he’s sure he feels the same.

Jaskier’s moans thin as Geralt snaps his hips. He’s close. He can feel beads of sweat starting to trail down his back. He fucks into the body beneath him with all he has, chasing down the edge that he can see in the distance. Jaskier’s legs splay around him, hips opening up, inviting him to delve deeper. If he could get any deeper, he would. The heat around him trembles and tightens, and it’s so wet and hot Geralt wonders if it has truly just been him to fuck the man tonight. He’s so spread open and inviting.

One of Jaskier’s hands moves. He watches it trail down, palming over his chest for a moment before it ventures downwards. Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Jaskier holds his gaze. Fiendish thing, Geralt thinks, watching a small smile curl the corner of his lip. “You can take your time with me later,” he wisps, not bothering to hide the moan that slips out of him when Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. His hand curls around his cock and gives a slow pump. The heat around Geralt tightens. His pumps start to match Geralt’s quickening thrusts. “When I’m in your bed – fuck – you can do what you like. Your mouth, fingers, hands, cock. Whatever you like, darling. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have a few less problems to deal with.”

His words rasp as he stumbles closer to the edge, but they lure the more depraved of sounds out of Geralt. His hold on the man tightens as his hips start to stutter. Jaskier lifts his chin. His breathing thins and he moans Geralt’s name better than any of Viola’s whores. “Are you close, darling? That’s it, oh gods. Fuck it into me, Geralt. Harder, good—Geralt—”

The man’s breath catches as Geralt thrusts deeply into him, his hold on him turning white-knuckled, as he comes. Bowing over the man, he catches the first splattering of cum across Jaskier’s abdomen. Geralt moans at the sight. He trembles around him, hole fluttering, as come starts to pool around his cock and spill out.

Jaskier’s chest lifts and falls, every breath heaving.

Geralt has danced with enough of Viola’s payroll to know when they’re genuine or not. And though this little songbird might not be one of hers, he’s sure that he’s been in enough beds to know how to play people to his advantage. And Geralt has been careful. This bird might be his, but he’ll keep an eye on him. Any creature can turn against their masters; especially when a better offer comes along.

But he watches the man below him, fingers slowly trailing up Geralt’s abdomen and chest, feeling his sweat-beaded skin. Hooded eyes follow where his fingers go, slowly taking him in. Even through the shitty lighting overhead, he can make out just enough of him to hum. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch when blue eyes blink up and meet his.

He’s too soft to stay in the man. He bites down on a small whine as he slips out of him, already missing the warmth. Jaskier’s brow twitches in a small frown, but it’s gone within moments. Geralt sets a hand on the outside of the man’s thigh. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks. “No,” he says, after a time. “No, no. Just...You were good.”

Geralt meets his gaze for a moment, holding it. He hums. “Well,” he rasps, “as you said; I can take my time with you next time.”

It lures a smile out of the little bird. Jaskier stretches out, lounging in how his muscles groan and protest the movement.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Geralt manages to gather enough energy to slip away from the couch, fixing his trousers up and around his hips and doing up his belt. Sweat starts to cool and he just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. His jacket lies nearby, tumbled to the floor after he had placed Jaskier along the length of the couch.

Geralt fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. Numbed fingers are barely able to tap out Coën’s number. The man answers on the second ring. “Bring the car back,” Geralt grunts, glancing over to the man still stretched out on the couch. He’s brought a leg up, splaying it to the back of the couch. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch at the sight: the man reaching down and trailing a finger around his hole, feeling wet heat slowly trail out of him.

Coën hums. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Geralt replies, lowering his voice. He leaves it at that, because he’s sure that even if he doesn’t say anything, Coën will take one look at them both in the backseat and know everything he needs to know. He can already feel colour start to warm his cheeks.

Lambert will be given a wide berth. Gods forbid if he knew that his plan for the night worked – in a way. He’s sure this isn’t what the man planned, but he’ll lord it over Geralt for weeks on end if he finds out that Geralt did in fact have a good night.

He hangs up with the knowledge that Coën will be here in moments. His ears twitch at the sound of clothes shuffling.

Jaskier pulls down his shirt, and Geralt mourns the loss of a bare chest to look at.  He’s managed to fix himself back into something more or less presentable; though his hair is distinctly out of place and a colour flushes along the heights of his cheeks. He doesn’t look much better, he guesses. He can feel wisps of hair dusting his face, fallen out of his ponytail. He should fix it, try and run his hands through his hair and fix it back into something normal. But blue eyes flicker up to his face. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to curl a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “Ready to go?” he asks. His voice is still rasped and nothing but a gentle rumble. His hand gentles down the side of his face, trailing gooseflesh in its wake.

Geralt hums.

Jaskier’s smile is a devastating thing. He lifts his chin. A silent request.

Geralt bows, brushing a light kiss on to his lips. Jaskier moans into it, trying to chase it even as Geralt pulls away. A sure, firm arm coils around the man’s waist. “We have a lot to discuss,” he rumbles, already leading them both out of the room. No one waits outside for them. Lambert will have taken up a space at the bar, probably having lured someone into his lap. He already made his promise to Geralt to keep himself out of trouble and make his own way home. And Geralt, knowing better, knows that at least one of those things is true.

Rosemary and Thyme has secret, more shielding, exits for certain patrons. Viola, catching Geralt’s eye just as he passes her, blinks at the man curled around him. Jaskier buries his laugh into Geralt’s shoulder, but winks at the woman all the same.

Coën and their car sit out in the alley. The man is still in the driver’s seat. He isn’t their driver, but often finds himself there because Lambert drives too recklessly and Eskel is never around enough. And if Geralt could drive himself, he would. But with a certain man starting to paw at him again, he clambers into the back of the car and shuts the door behind them without a word.

CHAPTER II

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #dandelion #geralt of rivia x jaskier #geralt of rivia/jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt/dandelion #geralt of rivia x dandelion #geralt of rivia/dandelion #henry cavill #joey batey #mafia au #mob boss geralt #hitman jaskier #yourqueenforayear #agoodgoddamnshot

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

oooh tell me more about mob geraskefer? 👀 any good snippets?

Mob Geraskefer is my mob!boss Yennefer modern with magic AU that was inspired by this Tumblr prompt fill. Yennefer is a mob boss in Novigrad, Geralt is her witcher bodyguard/lover, and Jaskier is her casual hookup who she definitely doesn't have any deeper feelings for, of course. Yennefer stumbles across Ciri, who a bunch of very dangerous people are looking for, and makes enemies while trying to keep her safe (hence the Jaskier-napping from the original fic.)

Here's a snip:

Yennefer wakes to the smell of brewing coffee and opens her eyes to find Jaskier puttering around the kitchen stark naked. She takes a moment to appreciate the view of his cute little butt, not to mention his lovely shoulders and strong legs. He’s miles from the chiseled perfection of Geralt or Renfri’s lithe grace, but there’s something endearing about his absurdly hairy chest and the slight pouch of his belly. Something appealingly human.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jaskier wiggles his bottom ridiculously. “Enjoying the view?”

“Absolutely,” Yennefer says. “That wall is lovely.”

He shoots her a look of mock offense. “Dreadful woman. And here I am whipping you up a gourmet breakfast.”

“Coffee and cereal?”

“The best coffee and cereal on this side of the Pontar.”

“Do you have unexpired milk this time?”

“Of course. Just for you.” He shoots her a cheeky wink.

She shakes his head at him and grabs his discarded shirt from the night before off the floor, pulling it on. It’s a soft buttercup yellow, not her usual shade, but it’s worth it for the little smile that curls Jaskier’s lips at the sight of her wearing it. He puts a hand on her waist and pulls her in for a kiss, heedless of morning breath. Yennefer lets herself lean into the embrace for a moment, enjoying his warmth.

“Good morning,” he murmurs when he pulls away. “It was nice waking up to find you still here. Normally, you sneak out like a ninja in the middle of the night.”

“I usually try to escape your abysmal coffee,” Yennefer says dryly. “I decided to risk it this time.”

“Excuse me, I am a professional barista.”

“If you’re as good of a barista as you are a bartender, then no wonder your coffee is barely drinkable.”

“Fighting words.” Jaskier presses a kiss to the top of her head.

Yennefer reaches around him to pour herself a mug of coffee, then leans against the counter. “You know, making breakfast naked is dangerous. One of these days, you’re going to get a burn somewhere unpleasant.”

He winks at her. “I’m willing to risk it to give you something nice to wake up to.”

“Yes, waking up to your high-pitched screams some morning will be delightful.”

Ask me about my WIPs!

#the witcher #geraskefer #ask games #ghost's writing

[jaskiersvalley]

I hate to be a bother, but I desperately need to see a mafia!au would you help a fella out? :3

Sometimes a prompt comes in and it gets ideas into motion. Before I know it, there’s a story clamouring to be written even though the ask is new. Nonnie, it’s your lucky day because a mafia!au has not left me alone since you sent this in. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it!

Times were hard and Geralt found his gang had to pull off more jobs that were more dangerous if they wanted to be able to eat. Part of the problem of being a motorcycle gang of three was that they had to be utterly self-reliant. While they had freedom of choice for jobs, somehow they had found themselves unable to turn down any job because they needed to live. Which was a problem when they accepted a job in an area that was known to be protected by the mob.

In a way, Geralt didn’t know which was worse. They had been caught red handed, police blocking their exit from the shop they’d been paid to target. Not ideal but it wasn’t like they hadn’t been caught before. All three of them had spent various amounts of time in jail before and would no doubt do it again. However, it was potentially worse when a woman in a sleek dress stepped out of a car that pulled up.

“Thank you, Filavandrel, we’ll take it from here.”

It was definitely worse when the police stepped aside. It meant that the mob had taken an issue with a shop in their territory being robbed. Fuck. The three of them were ushered into the car and Geralt growled when he was their bikes being loaded into a truck.

“They better be careful with Roach,” he warned even though he knew he had no power. The woman ignored him, looking over the three of them like they were something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

The building they pulled up in front of didn’t exactly fill Geralt with confidence. It was an old casino, long since shut down but the gaudy decorations had been carefully maintained. The woman led them up to the door and opened it, ushering them in.

“Try not to loot anything,” she said with a dry smile and closed the door behind her.

“What the fuck?” Eskel said as he looked around at the high ceilings, the decor, all still exactly like a casino would be. It took the three of them an embarrassingly long time to notice the man leaning against the wall, arms crossed and watching them. But as soon as they realised he was there, he was moving.

“Welcome!” He looked so cheery in bright clothes that looked both cheap and tacky yet good on him.

“What are you, the court jester?” Lambert smiled, sharp and dangerous.

“I can be,” came the easy reply. “I hear you were the clowns who got caught robbing a shop.”

The more they looked at the man, the more off putting things about him there were. The necklaces around his throat were the cheap plastic ‘gem’ kind. He looked like he dressed in a downmarket fancy dress shop and borrowed awful, cheap jewellery from his great aunt.

“Is this some weird jerkfest for the mob?” Eskel asked. “You’re the ringmaster, here to set us up for a night at the haunted casino. If we survive the night, the mob forgives us?”

That drew a laugh from the man, head tipped back. He dramatically wiped at his eyes. “Oh, that’s a good one. It might be something we should try though-” he turned and looked at the building, “-I quite like it being blood and gore free in here.”

He turned back and looked at the three bikers. “So, The Wolves of Kaer Morhen have fallen far. Geralt of Rivia, Lambert and Eskel. The mighty sure are the beggars now.”

That got their hackles up almost immediately. Whoever this was, he clearly knew more about them than was safe.

“And what should we call you?” Geralt asked.

“I go by many names. The Lark, The Bard, Julian, Viscount de Lettenhove. But I think you’ll be best knowing me as Jaskier.”

Silence engulfed the room and Geralt looked at the other two nervously. Jaskier was the head of the mafia. The one everybody feared and the one who held all the strings. Including at the police it would seem.

“Viscount de Lettenhove - no relation to Superintendent de Lettenhove perchance?”

Geralt’s question had Eskel murmuring. “Julian Alfred Pankratz - his long dead son.”

“Oh I did so enjoy my funeral,” Jaskier chirped with a wide smile. “Quite the gathering! Daddy dearest did such a wonderful job. He even let me wear a dress and introduced me as a distant aunt there to pay respect.”

“Awesome.” It was Lambert who laughed at that, tickled by the idea. “I wish Vesemir had let us do that.”

“Indeed.” Jaskier’s smile melted off his face dangerously quickly. “The question remains though, what am I going to do with you? You’ve been a bit of a headache for me recently, making messes and hurting people under my protection.”

If they had been in a better situation, Geralt would have offered up money and goods in exchange for their safety. Alas, they had nothing to bargain with. Well, Geralt had one thing.

“You can have me if you’ll let the other two go.”

The protests from Lambert and Eskel were silenced when Jaskier laughed.

“You value yourself incredibly highly if you think one of you is worth two others.”

“You’ve not seen what I can do,” Geralt countered.

“I don’t need to. I know all about you. If all three of you swear your allegiance, I can guarantee your safety and livelihoods for as long as you work for me.”

It wasn’t like the three could refuse. Grudgingly, they nodded and Jaskier looked smug as he held out a ring laden hand. Leaning forward, Geralt was appalled to realise the rings were edible, gummy ones. Hesitantly, he kissed one and straightened up, casting Eskel a look. Thankfully, Eskel didn’t let on he was just as stunned and Jaskier crooned at their obedience. That was ruined by Lambert who leaned down for a kiss and stood up chewing while Jaskier squealed.

“Oh you brute!”

“What?” Lambert shrugged. “I was hungry. Wait, you want it back?”

He spat the chewed gummy ring into his palm and offered it back to Jaskier who looked torn between disgust and admiration. Message received, Lambert tossed the ring back in his mouth, chewed a couple more times and swallowed. He frowned at Eskel who had stepped in front of him.

“I’m so sorry, he has the manners of a ravenous goat,” Eskel was saying, trying his best to shield Lambert from view.

Nobody expected Jaskier to sigh dramatically. “It’s worse than I had expected, if you’re this hungry. Sweethearts, you’re mine now, let me look after you.” Turning on his heels, Jaskier marched off and the three trailed after him. They were led through the casino to doors at the back which were flung open dramatically.

“The wolves are staying for dinner,” Jaskier announced to the room at large and a cheer went up. There was already a table with food and spaces all around for them to relax. Geralt looked to the other two, uncertain whether they could believe this or not. In the end, it didn’t matter because Jaskier himself was shoving plates at them and pulling them in to feast and settle into their new family.

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #mob au #tldr: jaskier is the mob boss

[cottagecorefroggyfairy]

“What is this?” Vesemir asked after he took a quick glance at their hostage. “Trouble” Eskel answered, sharply. Lambert bared his teeth. “We found this little shit at the club. He killed two of your boys and injured another two before we could even lay a finger on him. He fucking bit me” he said harshly, shaking the boy slightly “And the bastard keeps smiling like it’s fucking Disneyland and I’m Mickey fucking Mouse” Vesemir opened his mouth to answer, his face becoming increasingly concerned and angry with every word Lambert said, but the boy was quicker. “I was looking forward to meet you”

-- After some troubles at the club, Lambert and Eskel bring someone back with them. But maybe the lark they caught out of the nest is not lost at all.

The Mobster au no one asked for... but I wrote it anyway 

#mobster au #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #just an hint this is their first meeting #and jaskier is already obsessed #lol #jaskier dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #the witcher au #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #ao3 #fandom writer #mob boss geralt #mob boss vesemir #vesemir #witcher eskel #witcher lambert

[abluescarfonwaston]

Rating: Mature Word Count: 3795 Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Alonso Wiley | Whoreson Senior, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion 

Summary: It's been two years since the pogrom that killed Geralt and Yennefer. Dandelion's been. Surviving. A new patron finds him. One Alonso Wiley. Whoreson Senior. Head of the Novigrad underworld. He's lucky the man's a romantic and a lover of the arts. It would probably be easier if he didn't look so much like Geralt though.

#geraskier #gerlion #TW3 #Geralt #Dandelion #Dandelion x Alonso #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #writing #check the tags please it is Angst (with a happy ending) #Cause game Dandelion is Majorly fucked up in the first 2 games #and this fic reflects that #i'm talking alcoholism suicidal behavior and thoughts and sleeping with a mob boss #stay safe #also somehow the Alonso/Dandelion tag already existed but i'm the first one in it? #i'm in top tear rare pair now baby!

[roughentumble]

that mob boss and kidnapped musician thing where Jaskier stays behind after the party for Ciri wraps up and at first Geralt's like "did those idiots not even offer to drive you home?" but then Jaskier makes it very clear that he stayed back bc he wants to fuck

GSGZGSJDBSJDBSJSV

#''they didnt even drive you back? those dumbasses. here you can use my car-- my driver will get you where you're going safely'' #''oh darling i would love to ride in your car-- provided my destination is your place ;)'' #geralt: ??!? O///O #witcher tag #ogc tag