#Geralt you better appreciate them both a lot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

piceuscelus · 2 years

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naked acceptance (thursday) by piceuscelus

Chapters: 1/1 (7161 words) Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Lambert, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Coën, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Lambert/Coën Characters: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert (The Witcher), Coën (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Pseudo-Incest, in pairing alone that isn't the vibe here, Injury, Bathing/Washing, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Caretaking, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Banter, Minor panic attacks, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe Series: Part 4 of ciri week 2022 Summary:

“Wait, Geralt.” Lambert grabs his brother’s elbow as he’s helping Ciri up from the blooded snow. The girl hisses as she stands, and he notes how she’s favoring one leg.

“Let me,” he continues, when Geralt raises an eyebrow. He gestures to Ciri. “She wouldn’t have been on the Pendulum if I hadn’t goaded her to it. I’ll take care of her.”

Lambert and Coën help Ciri after her near-win on the Pendulum.

full fic below! (minus italics. again.)

“Wait, Geralt.” Lambert grabs his brother’s elbow as he’s helping Ciri up from the blooded snow. The girl hisses as she stands, and he notes how she’s favoring one leg.

“Let me,” he continues, when Geralt raises an eyebrow. He gestures to Ciri. “She wouldn’t have been on the Pendulum if I hadn’t goaded her to it. I’ll take care of her.”

Geralt just raises both eyebrows, at that, a smirk starting to pull at his lip, and Lambert lets go of his arm just to whack him in the chest. He barely even gets a grunt out of it, because Geralt is a bastard.

“You can lecture her later,” he says, instead of some insult about Geralt being more mutant than all of them. Geralt just shakes his head, glancing to the side, where Coën has come to hover over Lambert’s shoulder. Clearly they share something in that look, because Coën chuckles and taps the back of Lambert’s head.

“And you, it seems,” is all Geralt says, and then he’s nodding at Coën and turning back to Ciri. “They can help you with that arm.”

Ciri just looks at him, as silent and grave as ever, and he shakes his head again and walks back into the main courtyard.

“C’mon,” Coën says, directed at Ciri as he circles around Lambert’s shoulder to grab her good arm. “We’ll show you one of the only luxuries this shithole has.”

Lambert watches him drag her along for a minute, then snorts and jogs to catch up.

– – – – –

Ciri’s never been to this part of the castle, mostly because it had never occurred to her to try exploring downward. She’d figured that all she would find down here would be more rubble and rats, and probably even creepier things, if she was unlucky.

But Coën isn’t letting go of her wrist, and Lambert doesn’t seem inclined to let her turn around where he’s trailing behind them, so down she goes. The air gets more humid as they go, and she shudders.

To her shock – literally, she jumps a little – Lambert apparently notices the shivering; his vest is suddenly being draped over her shoulders. It’s not worth a whole lot against the humid cold, but it’s better than nothing, and also, she’s not stupid.

This – all of it, that is, the vest and wherever he and Coën are taking her – it’s a peace offering.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and gathers the vest closer. It reeks of old sweat and horses, but so does everything in the keep. Beneath it, she can smell the acid tang of potions and something herbal – what Lambert himself smells like, because he spends so much time in the alchemy lab.

“You did well,” he murmurs back. “...for a girl.”

Coën snorts in front of her, and she allows herself to smile, too. Lambert is a prick, through and through, but he means well, for the most part, and she can appreciate that.

Soon enough, the humidity seems to reach a peak, and instead of being cold, it’s almost hot. There’s also a smell in the air, sharp and a little unpleasant, but she can’t place it immediately. The next turn they take brings them to a large wooden door, which Coën pulls open with some effort – the wood looks a little swollen, and when Ciri goes to her tiptoes to peek over his shoulder, she can immediately see why.

Hot springs. There are hot springs below the keep. That smell is sulfur, though it’s tempered by the scents of water and hot stone.

“What?” she asks, and Lambert laughs as he prods her through the door. Coën is leaning against it, with some visible effort, holding it open. When Lambert follows her in and Coën follows him, it closes with a bang that makes her jump again.

“Like I said,” Coën says, gesturing to the room at large, “one of the only luxuries this place has.”

“They’re enchanted,” Lambert continues, starting to pull off his clothes. Ciri averts her eyes, but not before she takes note of how well-defined his chest and stomach are. “The springs themselves have always been here – remnants of some volcanic activity on the other side of the mountain, apparently. But when the keep was built, the mages did all of this. The pools and the shelves in the walls, those benches,” he gestures across the room, “all of that. And something to the water itself, too – can’t dirty it, no matter what you dump into it, even a Witcher who hasn’t had a bath all season. It just…disappears. Somehow.”

“Huh,” is all Ciri says, still looking around and taking everything in. She carefully avoids looking at Lambert, though, even though she can tell in her periphery that he’s managed to lose all of his clothes at this point. Coën, too, and she hopes that the heat will explain away her flushing.

“C’mon, princess,” Coën says, with a note of teasing. “Can’t take a bath with your clothes on.”

She huffs and turns to stick her tongue out at him, pretending she can’t see how well-built he is as well, and pretending even harder that her mind isn’t wandering over it. Slowly, she shucks Lambert’s vest, and then, when both of them seem occupied with things on one of the carved shelves, wriggles out of the rest of her clothes. Moving her arm stings, and it’s hard to balance on the ankle she rolled falling off the last platform, but she manages to strip naked without incident.

Her plan is to be sunk into the water of the nearest pool before either of them can turn back around and see her, but her already-shit luck seems to continue, because instead she gets right to the edge of the pool and slips. The ankle she already hurt goes out from under her and she’s falling, and of course she screams, what else is she going to do as she’s on the way to crack her head open on the floor –

With a jerk, she stops falling. She registers rough, clammy hands, first, and then scarred skin, and Lambert’s voice in her ear.

“Careful,” he says, and it’s – mocking, like usual, but there’s an edge behind it that she can’t name. It makes her shiver. “I told Geralt I’d take care of you, not give you a concussion.”

She flushes red, and she wants to pull out of his arms, but the only thing that direction is the slippery ledge of the pool that almost killed her in the first place. Lambert doesn’t seem inclined to pull back, either.

“Sorry,” she offers, weakly, and Lambert chuckles.

“There are stairs on the other side,” he tells her, and then he’s stepping back, but he doesn’t let go of her – instead, he just pulls her with him, until they’re clear of the slippery spot. “How’s your ankle?”

She hadn’t known he’d even noticed her ankle. Her arm was obvious, she’d been bleeding everywhere before it started to clot, but the ankle had been more subtle, she thought.

“Fine,” she answers, even though she doesn’t actually know. She thinks it’s just a roll, she’s been able to walk on it without too much pain, but she’s seen Skellige sailors walk on broken legs.

“I’ll take a look at it,” he says. “Use the stairs.” He finally steps back properly, letting go of her, and she firmly ignores the sense of loss it brings.

She tests her footing, finds she’s just as steady as before even with a little more pain in her ankle, and slowly makes her way around the pool to the stairs. It’s just as slick, here, but with the steps it’s easier to keep her footing. She makes it into the pool without any further scene, except for hissing when the hot water touches the wound on her arm.

There’s a sort of bench carved into the perimeter of the pool, she notices, and so once she’s used to the heat of the water she moves away from the stairs to sit on it. Coën and Lambert follow her in soon after, apparently uncaring about their nudity as they bicker about the soap Coën is holding.

“Here,” Coën says, when he sits next to her on the little bench. “Let me help with your hair. You probably can’t lift that arm high enough right now.”

Immediately, she wants to contradict him, so she lifts her arm. Unfortunately, he’s right – it hurts like hell to do it, and she yelps before quickly putting it back down.

To his credit, he keeps his chuckling short. She fights a pout.

“It’s alright, you know,” Lambert says, and she turns to him as Coën starts picking apart her braid. “To need the help.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Coën murmurs behind her, and she giggles as Lambert frowns and flicks water at him.

“Do you want me to be a good influence or not?” he snaps, but he’s battling a smile even as he ducks Coën splashing him back. “Anyway. Like I was saying.”

He grabs something he’d set near the edge of the pool and scoots closer, leaving Ciri all but pinned between the two of them – Coën at her back, still fussing with her hair, and Lambert at her front, holding up a rag and a tin of something.

It’s…not bad, really. It feels like something in her stomach is squirming helplessly, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling, just…unfamiliar.

“You did well on the Pendulum,” he says, and starts wiping the blood and dirt from her arm.

“For a girl,” Coën adds for him, clearly teasing, and Ciri giggles again when Lambert gives him a dirty look about it.

“And sometimes injuries just are what they are, and you need help,” he continues, and even Ciri can tell how much it pains him to just say that.

She’s tempted to make fun of him, to join in on Coën’s ribbing, but she thinks maybe that’s not the best way to endear herself to him. At least not yet, not right now.

“Thank you,” she says, earnest, catching Lambert’s eyes when he glances up from her arm. He looks almost startled about it, and quickly looks back down.

For a long time, they’re all silent. Ciri holds still while Lambert cleans up the cut on her arm and then puts some of whatever is in the tin on it; it stings, but not for long, and when she puts her arm back down into the water, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Coën has started scrubbing at her hair by that point, and she obligingly dunks her head under the water so he can scrub at her scalp, too.

It’s…nice. Really nice, actually, even nicer than any bath she ever had in Cintra, because it feels…equal. She’s younger and littler and clearly inferior to Lambert and Coën, but they aren’t really treating her like it. Despite Lambert’s heckling, she’s just a trainee to them, and that comes with a level of respect not even being a princess ever inspired.

She likes it.

Once Coën has rinsed her hair out, Lambert scoots closer again and taps at her leg.

“Let me see your ankle,” he says, and she lifts her leg so he can pull the injured foot into his lap. He prods at it some, and he clearly notes when she hisses in pain because his touch gets lighter in those spots, but he doesn’t stop with his inspection for a long while.

“Not broken,” he eventually murmurs. “Which is good, because it’d be a fucking pain to have you in a splint for that long. Probably just a sprain. Geralt has some salve that’ll help with the swelling, and you’ll want to keep it elevated.”

As if proving his point, even though she tugs with her leg, he doesn’t let her have her foot back, instead just settling it over his thigh and keeping a grip on her shin. She frowns, but he just shakes his head.

“Elevated,” he says, closing his eyes, and she huffs.

“I’m going to fall into the water and drown like this,” she points out, and he just shrugs, but cracks one eye open to look at Coën and jerks his head. Just like that, the other Witcher is pressed against her back, keeping her sitting up even if she were to relax.

It leaves both of them touching her, just about everywhere, really, since her other leg is folded and pressed to Lambert’s thigh. Neither of them seem to even notice it, just relaxing back against the pool’s edge as they all but cradle her, but she – she can’t help but notice.

And notice, and notice, until finally she can’t help but squirm, needing to do something with the energy that’s built up in her fluttering belly. Lambert’s grip on her shin means she can’t really go anywhere, though, and Coën’s response to her shifting is to just wrap an arm around her waist, as if she were wiggling to get comfortable and his chest is the solution.

…he is very comfortable to lean against, though.

“What are you wiggling about?” Lambert finally asks, after a moment, and she freezes.

She…doesn’t want to answer that question. Because by now she’s figured out what it is that’s taking up living in her stomach and it’s embarrassing. She’s embarrassed that apparently Coën and Lambert can be normal about mutual nakedness and casual touch and she can’t, because she’s never really experienced it before and she knows that’s not her fault…but. But.

At her lack of response, one of his eyes cracks open again. He grunts, a clear indication that she should spit it out, but she bites her tongue instead and refuses to look at him, still intensely aware of Coën’s arm around her waist and his chest pressed to her back and how her legs are spread a little so she can sit comfortably while Lambert holds her ankle hostage and how naked all of them are and –

“Ciri, breathe.” Coën’s voice is soft in her ear, practically a whisper, and his tone is gentle. She notices his hand has moved to splay over her sternum, which is – a lot, that’s so much, but his words have made her realize she did stop breathing, so instead of focusing on his touch she gasps in a breath.

Coën hums. “Okay, with me. In,” he breathes in, and she feels his chest rise against her back, “out,” she hears and feels the exhale.

Her own breath is stuttering, but she manages to match the rhythm of his breaths, and the longer she does it the steadier her breathing gets. The whole time, Coën’s hand remains motionless on her chest, and Lambert’s on her leg, and despite how the touching had been what started this, it keeps her grounded as she pulls back from the edge of a full panic attack.

“Sorry,” she mutters, when she feels like she can speak again without fucking up her breathing. “I just – ”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Coën says, at the same time that Lambert announces, “Y’know, we can smell it when you get horny, it’s fine.”

Lambert is not helping.

“Lamb,” Coën says, clearly exasperated and yet still fond, and something about that knocks Ciri out of a newly-budding panic attack.

He’s trying to help. He’s failing, but he is trying.

“...thanks?” she tries, sounding deeply unsure, and Coën’s laugh reverberates through her own chest with how tightly they’re pressed together. She gasps softly, unable to stop the way her body curves as if she could press any closer.

Coën obviously notices, making a short, questioning noise in her ear as his hand slowly slips down from her chest to her belly. She gasps again, lashes fluttering at how his hand still feels so hot against her, even with the hot water surrounding them, and apparently that gasp gets Lambert’s attention, because he’s suddenly turning to face them more fully, her foot still in his lap.

“Hm?” Coën hums again, and she takes a ragged breath.

“Uh.”

“You can say no,” he assures her, thumb swiping back and forth over her belly. His fingers nearly span the whole of it, from her ribs to her hips, and it’s making the pulse between her thighs so much worse.

“...don’t – don’t want to say no,” she mutters, face flushing, and by nature of facing forward toward him and having her eyes open, she sees how Lambert’s intent-but-mostly-neutral expression slips into a wicked smirk.

“Oh?” he asks, and that edge is back in his voice, the one she could hear earlier when he caught her. She still doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but it makes her whine, and that makes him chuckle. He moves again, pulling away just to grab her other ankle and pull her leg straight so he can pin it between his own hip and the wall of the pool; her other leg falls into the crook of his elbow, keeping it elevated like he’d insisted on.

It leaves her – almost straddling him, kind of, in a removed way. Lambert’s hand joins Coën’s on her belly, their fingers not quite entwined but overlapping, and she gasps, hips jerking. Lambert’s smirk widens.

“What do you want?” Coën asks, distracting her from the heat of their hands, and she turns her head to try and look at him. He has to pull back a little to catch her eyes, but when he does his are burning, something about his gaze feeling like a pinning touch. She swallows.

“I – I don’t…,” she stammers, “it’s….”

Lambert chuckles, the hand not on her belly finding her hip, still with her knee hooked at his elbow.

“She’s a princess, Coën, did you forget?” he asks, and there’s so many layers in his voice – fondness, mocking, that same unnamed edge. Ciri shudders. “Do you even know what you want, your highness?”

The bite in the word highness makes Ciri’s pulse kick up, and she whimpers; Coën and Lambert must – hear it, or feel it, maybe, because both of them are chuckling as Coën’s hand slides back up to her chest, resting right over her heart this time, fingers framing one breast.

She is viciously aware of how small she is, compared to them, and it’s not making her heart slow any.

“That right?” he asks, lips back to being pressed against her ear. “Do we get to show you this luxury, too, little cub?”

His finger swipes over her nipple as he asks it, and she mewls, arching toward the touch the best she can with how caught they have her. He chuckles, but obliges the silent request, gently circling where her nipple is pebbling even with the heat.

“Look at that,” Lambert says, and it’s more than half awe. Ciri mewls again and squeezes her eyes shut, entirely unsure what to do with him looking at her like that. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you.”

His hand goes wandering, too, as Coën’s toys with her breasts, and she has no idea if she’s still breathing as his thumb swipes through her folds, the touch light enough it nearly tickles. Breathing or not, she makes a broken, needy sound, and clearly that’s all the encouragement Lambert needs; this time, when his thumb strokes over her, it’s firmer, and he stops right at the top of her cunt to press against something that makes her wail.

Clit, she thinks, distantly, remembering something or other from an incredibly awkward educational text Mousesack had read to her once while refusing to look her in the eyes. The thought is gone as fast as it came, though, because Lambert doesn’t stop with a little pressure – no, he starts rubbing, firm little circles against the sensitive bud, and the sound she makes is probably closer to a scream, now.

Coën is chuckling in her ear, again, but then he’s encouraging her – “Yeah, let yourself feel it, just like that….”

It doesn’t take long for Lambert to join in, too, “Want to see you fall apart, promise we’ll take care of you right,” the words practically purred, and Ciri feels like she’s going to – collapse, or maybe explode, or somehow both, she doesn’t know. Everything is so much, hot and tingling and she’s breathing like she’s been running, like the Pendulum has hit her again, but apparently that’s a good thing, because the quicker her breath comes the more Coën and Lambert are encouraging her – Coën has shifted, by now, so he’s got both hands on her chest, and Lambert’s thumb is moving faster against her, and they’re still murmuring, most of it nonsense but still filthy-sweet all the same.

And then, like a bough beneath too much snow, the tension twisting in her stomach snaps, and she loses all of her senses to intense pleasure for a long, drawn-out stretch of time.

Both of them are still murmuring to her when everything starts to filter back in, voices soft and hot and sweet, all of it praise and even more filth. She shivers with a broken whine, and Lambert’s head lifts from where he’d been murmuring against her collarbone, interspersed with soft little kisses.

“Welcome back,” he grins, and if she could find the willpower to move her limbs, she would whack him. As it is, all she really can do is giggle breathlessly, and Coën is chuckling along against her ear.

“How do you feel, princess?”

She takes a deep, stuttering breath. “Good.”

Lambert is the one chuckling, now, and his hand, which had apparently moved to her hip while she was lost to ecstasy, drifts back over her core, his fingers dipping lower this time, palm pressed lightly over her clit. She jumps and shouts, but all the same her hips roll into the pressure, and Lambert is grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Want more?” he asks, two callus-rough fingertips dragging lightly over her cunt. She shudders hard enough that Coën has to change his grip on her to keep his hold, and rolling her hips again gets the very tips of those fingers dipping just inside her.

“Y-yeah, yes, please,” she pants, and in the split second she can see his face, Lambert looks almost like a predator, and then he’s ducking forward and kissing her and she has no more thoughts.

Not any coherent ones, at least. Lambert’s tongue pushes into her mouth at the same time that he sinks one of those exploring fingers inside her, and the gut-deep pleasure that both of those things spark have her whining frantically into his mouth, arching up to try and get closer. Coën’s grip mostly prevents that, but it seems Lambert understands what she’s looking for, because he presses closer himself; her leg is bent near to her limit, still rested on his arm, but the burning stretch of that is overshadowed by how good it feels to have his skin against hers, his chest pinning her back against Coën.

It takes several minutes and even more kiss-thwarted attempts, but eventually she’s able to break away from Lambert’s mouth and gasp out, “More,” which makes Lambert and Coën both laugh again. Despite their humor though, there’s a second of Lambert’s fingers sinking into her, and Coën is dragging one hand up her body to grasp her chin and turn her face.

His kisses are just as distracting as Lambert’s were, though it’s harder to focus on him very well when she’s clenching down around Lambert’s knuckles like he could get his fingers any deeper. Lambert’s response to her body’s pulsing is just to move faster, though, and then curl his fingers in a way that has pleasure shooting through her light lightning.

“Lamb,” she wails, and she doesn’t even mean to use the nickname, it’s just that another forceful tug with his curled fingertips steals her breath and sound from her midway through. It seems to have a favorable effect on Lambert, though, as he growls and nudges Coën away to kiss her again, a little harder this time, the pressure making her lips swell.

“That spot feels good, doesn’t it?” he rasps against her mouth, teeth catching around her bottom lip before his tongue follows to soothe the sting. His fingers curl a little further, and on the next pull he doesn’t really stop, just keeps tugging with his fingers hooked into that spot that’s sending flames licking up her spine. “Some women can come just from this, you know – think you might be one of them.”

She wants to say something, agree or disagree or beg for more, but she can barely breathe, chest working like a bellows even as her head spins with the lack of air. Coën is kissing along her throat, his head bumping into Lambert’s jaw, and Lambert is still sucking at her lips, tracing her teeth with his tongue when she gasps particularly loudly.

She thinks he might be right, though, because the longer he keeps up that steady, rough tugging at her inner wall, the shorter her breath gets and the tighter that now-familiar tension winds, until her legs are trembling wildly around him.

Coën’s mouth finds her ear again, teeth curving around the lobe before he’s murmuring filthy encouragement again. “Go on, little cub, want to see you come on his fingers – good thing we’re in the water or you’d make a mess of him, but he wouldn’t care even if you did. Let go, princess. I’ll lick you clean when he’s done.”

And that, the implication – the promise – of Coën putting his mouth on her cunt, is what finally makes her snap. It’s – filthy and wrong and any number of things but she wants it, and then her mind is blank again as the pleasure rushes through her, muscles tightening near to cramping.

Lambert only lets up when her breathless shrieking turns into overstimulated whining, but even then he doesn’t go far, just resting his palm over her swollen cunt so when her hips roll with aftershocks she’s grinding herself against him. He’s grinning against her throat between little nips at the skin, and once again she has the urge to hit him but doesn’t have any kind of strength to manage it.

Luckily, it seems he and Coën don’t have any need for her strength, because once she’s come down a bit more – for a certain definition, at least – the two of them are shifting, and she’s being lifted rather unceremoniously out of the water, ass landing against the slick edge of the pool with a very unflattering thwack.

She yelps, but they just laugh, and then Lambert is lifting himself out of the pool to lay along her side and catch her mouth again while Coën situates himself between her legs, hands spanning most of her inner thighs as he spreads them open.

She shivers and whines into Lambert’s mouth, but he just makes a wordless, soothing noise and pets from her throat to her belly and then back up, like she’s a spooked horse. She’d feel a little offended at the similarity of comfort if it weren’t for the fact that she’s so high-strung there’s not a whole lot of difference between her and a jumpy horse, right now.

Which is proven when Coën kisses along the edge of her hip and she jumps, legs tensing; his hold on her thighs means she doesn’t clamp them shut around his head, but that’s the only reason she doesn’t. For his part, Coën just grins up at her and massages her thighs, keeping his kisses to himself until she relaxes a little bit.

Her reaction when he starts mouthing at her again isn’t as lurching, but she still reacts more strongly than she probably should. Her legs are shaking wildly before he’s even reached the apex of her thighs, and each time she feels his tongue drag across her flesh her belly tenses hard enough that Lambert has to keep a hand on her chest so she doesn’t just jackknife up.

She’s – nervous and ashamed and so fucking needy and she doesn’t know what to do with any of it, and Coën’s soft, slow approach is making her even more jittery. She swallows harshly.

“P-please,” she chokes out, hips jerking when his stubble scrapes over the very top of her slit. “F-fuck, fuck, Coën – please.”

Both he and Lambert groan, at that, and Lambert ducks down to steal her mouth again before she can plead any further. Apparently, Coën doesn’t mind that, though, because one of his hands slides in from her sensitive inner thigh to her cunt, his fingers holding her folds apart so he can just – dive in.

She wails into Lambert’s mouth, and then again when she tosses her head back to try and breathe past the searing dirty-wrong-so-fucking-good pleasure of Coën’s tongue first on her clit and then lapping over her hole, slow and wet and indulgent. She’s back to quivering all over, but not because of nerves, this time.

No, this time it’s just – she’s so overwhelmed, with the everything happening; Coën’s moan as his tongue sinks inside her, Lambert’s fingers plucking at her nipple, the stone beneath her back that’s warm but feels chilled after so long in the pool.

And then the very obvious press of Lambert’s cock against her hip, when he shifts to lean over her and suck at her nipple instead.

She loses track of anything that isn’t that, for a while, the slick-hot feeling of him grinding mindlessly against her hip as he works in tandem with Coën to drive her into fucking madness. Her attention is torn, going back and forth so rapidly she’s going dizzy, between wanting to find an excuse to wriggle her arm down between her side and Lambert’s chest to touch him, and where Coën is tongue-fucking her so well her vision keeps going blurry.

She doesn’t know how many more times she can come before she just gives up and passes out, but it seems Coën and Lambert are determined to find out.

Finally, Coën gets the lion’s share of her attention by leaning up just enough to move the hand he’s been using to hold her open, instead twisting it around so he can sink two fingers into her at once. She screams, cunt clenching so hard on his knuckles it nearly hurts, and then she’s screaming again when Coën gets his mouth on her clit and sucks none too gently.

It does hurt, a little bit, but the sting of pulling flesh somehow just intensifies the pleasure, and she has no idea at what point she goes from almost there to coming, but she knows at some point her voice cuts out and everything goes spinning, sparkly black.

Not quite unconsciousness, but so close it probably counts; what brings her back, ultimately, is the way that Lambert moans as he grinds his cock against her hip even harder. It’s weak and needy and suddenly all she wants is to feel him, for real – for him to fuck her until she really does pass out. And then give Coën a turn, once she’s back.

“Please,” she rasps, voice cracking like dropped pottery, “please, I – fuck me. Please.”

“Sweet fucking Melitele, Ciri,” Coën hisses, and then the two of them are moving so quickly she can’t keep up.

Where they end, though, is easy enough to parse: Lambert on his back, parallel to the edge of the pool, with Ciri straddling his hips – just broad enough that she can feel the stretch, and that makes her feel several things, but chief of which is just even hornier – and Coën at her back, hands wrapped around her hips. Lambert’s cock is pressed between her folds, pinned between her cunt and his own belly, and without even thinking about it she rolls her hips to grind against him, squeaking when the movement rubs the head of him against her oversensitive clit.

“Needy little cub,” Coën murmurs in her ear, using his grip on her hips to lift her up while Lambert gets a hand around the base of his cock. She thinks it’s meant to sound chiding, but it lands far left into appreciatively lustful. She just hums, mostly an agreement, and tips her head back and to the side so she can goad him into kissing her.

She can taste herself on his tongue, and that just makes everything even filthier, and better. “Please,” she breathes, rolling her hips in the air. Coën chuckles through a groan and shuffles her a little bit forward, enough that Lambert’s cockhead slots right up against her hole, sticky-slick and twitching. She clenches, and Lambert moans.

“Go on, then,” Coën prods, with the slightest downward pressure on her hips.

She whines, but does as she’s told, shifting her hips and leaning just forward enough to lean one hand on Lambert’s belly so she can balance. With Coën’s grip on her, she isn’t going to fall, but it makes her feel better to have her nails in Lambert’s skin.

Even with their fingers and Coën’s tongue, it takes a moment to make her body accept the intrusion; the entire time she’s panting, unsure if it’s residual spring water or just sweat dripping from her and onto Lambert, but neither he nor Coën try to hurry her along. In fact, Lambert starts to pet her thigh, and when she glances up to his face he looks like he’s having some kind of religious experience.

She looks away quickly, but not before he catches her gaze and licks his lips, looking debauched and just as needy as she feels. Her stomach swoops, and finally, with an angled little thrust, the head of his cock sinks inside of her.

The noise she makes is more animal than human, and she thinks it’s Coën that sounds worried about it, but she doesn’t bother trying to pay attention to him. She’s busy with the sudden, intoxicating feeling of being full, how each time she clenches down around the head of Lambert’s cock it twitches in response, a give-take that she never would have thought would feel so fucking fantastic.

“Fuck,” she breathes, and sinks a little further down. Lambert’s hand on her thigh turns into him digging blunt nails into her skin, but she’s leaving bloody crescents on his abs, so she doesn’t mention it. Her head is somehow clearler, now, at the same time everything is starting to blur, time slowing to an impossible crawl as she slowly, steadily works herself to the base of Lambert’s cock.

By the time she’s to his fingers around the base, and he reluctantly pries them away to let her have the last few inches, they’re both panting like that dying mammoth Lambert had compared her to earlier, and even Coën seems to be struggling a little. His fingertips are pressing little point bruises into her hips, and she shudders at the thought that they’ll linger, proof that they did this.

“Fuck,” she mutters again. “I – yes, oh my gods.”

She starts slow, clumsy as she navigates how fucking intense it is with Lambert sunk so deep inside her, but Coën keeps a hold of her hips and helps, and Lambert just holds as still has he can while she figures out a rhythm. After a few minutes, Lambert lets out a sigh, nearly relief, and starts moving with her, which makes it somehow even more intense, and Ciri has to let Coën take her weight so she can pant wildly.

Time is meaningless, so she doesn’t know how long it’s like that; mostly slow, but deep and so much and good, intoxicating and exhilarating all at once. But eventually, she realizes that as good as this is – and it is, so fucking good, she’s going to ride Lambert’s cock every chance he’ll give her from now on – it’s not enough.

She is needy, and she wants to come again.

She tries to move faster, and that – helps, a little, but it’s still not right, and even when Lambert’s hands overlap Coën’s and help her move, it remains just…too little.

“I – I need – ” she pants, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth, but she doesn’t finish because she can’t. She doesn’t know what she needs.

Coën, though, apparently has an idea.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and he stills her hips before pulling her back, shuffling a little away himself, so that when she’s finally leaning against his chest again, the angle of Lambert’s cock inside her is – different. Even holding still, it already feels better; and then Coën nuzzles at her ear and murmurs, “Hold on,” and starts moving her.

She wails, and then keens, and then falls near-silent, pleasure coursing through her like a lava flow. The change in angle has Lambert’s cock grinding perfectly against that swollen, tender little spot he’d hooked into with his fingers earlier, and each downward thrust has her losing her breath, already close again.

Lambert seems as far gone as she is, all grunts and whines, his teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut when she can manage to open hers to look, but Coën is much more coherent, if not unaffected.

“Gonna make you come on his cock, little cub, make you keep fucking until he comes and makes a mess of your pretty cunt. Just like this, princess, let him fuck it right out of you.”

Ciri whimpers, fumbling to wrap one arm back and up, around Coën’s head so she can cling better. He lets her, tucks his face against her throat and bites softly, but his hands never stop moving her hips, and she’s barrelling so quickly toward the edge again her heart is skipping beats.

“Please, please, fuck, yes, please – ”

She doesn’t really register what Lambert’s hand is doing until his thumb is already circling her clit, and that’s all it takes; she screams again, so loud that dust shakes from the stone ceiling to stick to their tacky skin, and comes the hardest yet. She’s somehow both entirely unaware and also viciously conscious of the way all of her muscles are clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, like the squeezing of her cunt has overtaken her whole body.

Lambert is growling, when she swims back to proper awareness, and she can feel how his cock is flexing inside her, buried all the way to the root and kept there by the grip he has on her hips. She can also feel the slick mess of his cum as it starts to make a mess between them, and her stomach swoops at the same time her cunt clenches tight all over again. Lambert swears in Elder.

“Good girl, look at you,” Coën is cooing, lips smearing against her jaw. “The sounds you make – just want to lay you out and make you come until you cry.”

She giggles at that, feeling somehow absolutely drained and completely restless all at once. “Okay,” she says, because that sounds fucking amazing, as far as she’s concerned, though it might have to wait for a bit, because she doesn’t know if she would survive that kind of treatment right now.

For the first time, as Coën slowly, gently lifts her off of Lambert’s softening cock, she becomes aware of Coën’s erection, pressed against her ass with how he’s holding her now. She swallows, considers how beat and sore and full of endorphins she is, and wriggles her ass against him.

Immediately, his hands tighten on her hips again, forcing her still. “Ciri,” he says, and it’s warning, but his voice is so rough and she can hear the want behind it, and she just whines.

“Your turn?” she asks, squirming the best she can in his grip.

He growls, and this time the bite to her throat isn’t nearly as soft. She gasps and tenses, just to melt back down when he sucks at the sting, working the budding bruise deeper into her skin.

“You sure, princess?” he asks, sliding one hand from her hip to her cunt. His fingers skim over her clit, an electric touch even for how light it is, and then pet over her swollen-hot hole, still coated in Lambert’s cum. She shudders and whines, then whines again, higher and pitchier, when Coën sinks two fingers inside her.

It’s – a lot. And his cock will be more, and she’s so oversensitive she’s already trembling at just this, but.

But.

Fuck, she wants it.

“Yes, please,” she breathes, riding down on his fingers, and he growls again.

“Alright,” he agrees, and then he’s manhandling her again. She ends up on her back on top of Lambert, who brings his arms up to wrap tight around her waist as he tucks his face into her shoulder.

“Perfect little slut for us, aren’t you,” he murmurs, sounding somehow awed and mocking all at once. Ciri’s cunt pulses.

“Please,” she repeats, and Coën wastes no time getting her legs over his shoulder and around his waist, respectively.

“Hold on to her,” he says, clearly to Lambert, and that’s the only warning she gets before he’s sliding his cockhead over her folds and then thrusting.

This is nothing like taking Lambert, and she doesn’t even have the mind to catalog the differences. All she knows is that Coën is fucking her – harder, enough that each stroke in is jolting her up, and she’d be skidding across the floor if it weren’t for Lambert’s tight grip on her waist. The pace isn’t quick, but each thrust is deep and jarring and Ciri’s reduced to nothing but breathless wails in less than a minute, stuttering sobs even sooner.

“Co – Co…eh, fuck, fuck, Coën!”

“Come for me, little cub,” he orders, pace not faltering at all even as he starts to pant and groan under his breath. “Come for me and I’ll fill you up just like Lambert did, leave you nice and messy for us.”

Lambert apparently decides to join in, at that, his grip shifting so that one of his hands can sink between her and Coën to skirt over her clit, and the other can pinch at one nipple. His mouth finds her ear, too, and he starts whispering the same kind of filth as Coën – talking about filling her up, keeping her full of them, making her scream and cry and pass out on their fingers and tongues and cocks, and she’s shaking so hard she thinks it’s probably a small miracle that Lambert is still holding on.

She isn’t going to move for a fucking week after this. She isn’t going to let either of them out of her sight, either.

“Fuck!”

She just catches the way Coën laughs, broken and half-moan, before the orgasm crashes over her and she finally lives up to her own expectations and passes out.

#celus writes #dead dove #dead dove: do not eat #ciriweek #celus wrecking ciri #celus pseudo-incest CW #celus overstimulation CW

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knightoflove · 3 months

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Ignore that I’m sending in asks for every game I love you and hope you feel better<333. Bastardcore for the aesthetics game :3

I actually really appreciate it, thank you for sending them in. I’m feeling a lot better now that some time has passed and I’m thoroughly distracted.

🖕Bastardcore🖕 ~ Are there any “flaws” of your F/O that you find endearing?

Unfortunately it’s the emotional repression, or the attempts at it. Otherwise I wouldn’t date three emotionally unavailable men, now would I?

No, but in more serious answer characters that would be considered more uh… “aloof” or even perhaps “cold” are so good to me. Especially when thinking about the logistics of hanging out. As much as I still adore characters like Jaskier or Peter or Adrian, they ARE going to want to fill in the silence and I’m AWFUL at small talk (though Jaskier probably has a lot of experience filling the silence on his own)

Which is why characters like Morpheus and Geralt are so appealing to me! We can just sit in silence and both be perfectly content. Parallel play and all that.

While Geralt is prepping his sword for the next monster or Morpheus is reading his books we can both be totally content in just leaving it at that. No need for awkward conversation.

#🌙 raven king of dreams #🐺 golden eyed wolf #ask games

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randomfandomimagine · 2 years

Text

Character: Jaskier

Fandom: The Witcher

Tags: Emotional hurt / comfort

Word Count: 551 words

Title: It Will Be Alright

A/N: The end of the year is kicking my ass, so I wrote this with one of my biggest comfort characters to cheer myself up and I felt better afterwards. Enjoy, lovelies, hopefully it can be comforting for you too! 💜

It felt... wrong. Sitting there with them, pretending like everything was okay. Even your smile, shaking in its forced and unnatural expression, felt wrong.

Taking advantage that Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri seemed so immersed in the conversation, you excused yourself and stood up. You felt Jaskier’s eyes follow you, but he continued playing his lute.

Glancing around you, it was hard to explain your strife. The forest was calm and peaceful, the sun shone bright above your heads, the birds chirped and the breeze was pleasant. Despite it all, a cold and brutal emptiness lingered inside your chest. You sighed, leaning your head on the bark of the tree you hadn’t realized you had weakly supported yourself against.

“I thought we were having a lovely time...” The bard’s voice startled you slightly, causing you to quickly turn around to him. You hadn’t noticed he had stopped playing. “Is something the matter, Y/N?”

“I...” You hesitated, not knowing if you wanted to tell him.

“Was it Geralt?” Jaskier grinned, taking a step and tilting his head as if to better read your expression. “He said something boorish, did he not?”

“No...” Your voice sounded hoarse, but you continued speaking. “Things aren't well, Jaskier”

He frowned, rushing to delicately take your hands, and watched you with both sadness and empathy. It was baffling how quickly he dropped his playfulness.

“What happened?”

“I just... I have a lot on my mind”

“Anything you would like to share?”

“Not really...” You gulped, feeling the urge to cry as he intently watched you.

“That’s alright” Jaskier gently tugged at your hands to reassure you. “I'm sorry that you’re having a rough time, love”

“Yeah” You forced out a chuckle, rolling your eyes at your own demeanor. “But don’t worry, I will be alright”

“Hey” He gingerly put your hair behind your ear, sending shivers down your spine and making you stare at him. “It will be alright, yeah?

Jaskier had only repeated your own words, but they had a different effect coming from him. He actually believed them. Jaskier genuinely thought you would be alright, even if your broken heart told you otherwise. Nonetheless, it was comforting to hear it from someone else.

“Yeah” You replied after several seconds, now showing him an authentic smile despite the tears running down your cheeks. “Thank you”

“No problem, darling” Jaskier lovingly wiped your tears and you leaned into his touch. “Honestly, I’m glad I was the one to go after you, those three would have made you cry more”

His stupid joke had the desired effect - before you realized, you were laughing. It was only a small chuckle, but it was enough to remind you to breathe. Enough to promise you that the pain you currently felt wasn’t permanent. A spark of hope in the fleeting darkness that surrounded you.

"Give me a hug” Jaskier’s opened his arms. His bright and upbeat smile had returned. “I know you want one, come on”

You collided with him in that comforting embrace you had indeed been needing for days without being aware of it. When his arms fell around you, it was as though they mended the broken pieces of your heart. And when he kissed your head, you knew for certain that everything would be alright.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated!! // Masterlist

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#jaskier x reader #jaskier magine #jaskier #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #the witcher #drabble #jaskier drabble #the witcher drabble #rfi writings #faves #not requested

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bamf-jaskier · 2 years

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Of lot of blogs are saying book fans wouldn’t like the show, what do you think about that?

Well, when I like to think of show vs books in any context I'm always reminded of my copy of Good Omens. It's held together by tape, sticky notes, and a whole lot of hope. At this point, the annotations have annotations. That book has traveled with me no matter where I live, no matter what country I'm in and it's gotten me through some very difficult times. The book feels personal to me in a very concrete way and despite the literal ink I've spilled on its pages I would never give it up. I viewed the book as the ultimate form of the story of Good Omens.

So when the Amazon series came out, I saw every divergence from the book, every slight change or adjustment as some sort of perversion of a book I loved.

But that's exactly the problem. I saw the book to tv show transition as a process that should be a direct copy. But it's always going to be about adaptation.

The definition of adaptation is as follows:

a composition rewritten into a new form

And that's what I really had to keep in mind when I watched Good Omens. That this is an adaptation. It is meant to be taking the original composition and putting it into a new form. When creating Good Omens, Neil Gaiman even said he changed the ending on purpose so book fans wouldn't get cocky. Adaptations change things but they also bring new things into the universe that can be wonderful benefits. For example, the whole scene with hellfire and holy water in Good Omens was really great to me and it was never in the original book.

And it's the same way with The Witcher.

The Witcher is adapting a series of books. Each episode is not equivalent to a chapter and there's going to be a lot of changes. Some of them I have thought was certainly for the better, Triss and Geralt don't get together in the show like they do in the books. Other changes I was not a fan of, like Tissaia and Vilgefortz together. But overall, I really enjoy the show, changes and all. Because it's adapting a book series I love, and of course, the book series isn't perfectly going to fit whatever the show puts out but the show is adding more to the rich world of The Witcher.

I especially love those moments in the show when I can sort of point at the TV and go "wait! I know this from the books" and get excited about that. And to go back to Neil Gaimen, he specifically changed a big plot point in the books just so fans would have something fresh to chew on and I love that mentality.

When the Witcher changes large plot points such as having Yennefer be the secret hero of Sodden and Vilgefortz stealing the credit instead of Vilgefortz simply being the hero it gives me a sense of excitement like reading all the things that might have happened but never did. If the show was exactly like the books, I would get bored. Because the books still exist and won't be changed by the show. If I want to read them, they are right there. If I want to watch the show, along with all the changes it has made, it's also right there.

Because at the end of the day, you can read the books and enjoy those alone. You can watch the show and just the show. You can join me in my camp of loving both the books and show.

I see problems in the books.

I see problems in the show.

But I also get a lot of enjoyment out of both of them. I appreciate the adaptation for what it brings to the table that is new and unique and I love the original books for creating the very world the show is playing around in.

I think that many book fans do enjoy the show, I'm certainly one of them. I also think a lot of people, like I once did, see the changes the show makes as some sort of personal attack on a book series they love. But like me with my battered copy of Good Omens learning to appreciate the show for all the things it gave us, maybe we can all learn to appreciate some of the great things The Witcher on Netflix has brought us too!

Ask me things

#the fandom grew so big because of the show and a lot of people read the books after the show too #asks #anon #the witcher #twn #the witcher books #books vs show

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

Love (I Can’t Forget)

Pairing: geralt x jaskier Warning(s): minor jaskier x other Rating: mature

Summary: Jaskier is quite enjoying his morning with the innkeeper's daughter when he hears the cry of a golem. He knows a contract has been put out for a Witcher and that everything should be perfectly fine. Only the contract put out was for a rock troll.

There are few things in his life that Jaskier regrets as much as his extensive knowledge of all things monsters. And not even the majority of the time, just right now on this particular day at this particular time.

He's been stuck in Hamm for three days on his way to Cintra to check in on Ciri. But there's a rock troll that's been blocking the only safe route out, chucking rocks at travellers and being a general nuisance. Rock trolls aren't much trouble otherwise, but this one is affecting trade and travel, so the town has put out for a Witcher. Judging by the chatter in town, the witcher arrived this morning. So, unable to leave and unwilling to go out and get involved with the Witcher and his business like everyone else, Jaskier has holed up with the innkeeper's daughter Penelope and he's quite enjoying himself.

Or, he was, until he heard the cry.

Because right now, he's quite happily trapped beneath layers of lace and silk, pinned between soft thighs, and all he can think of is that the contract was put out for a rock troll and that sound? that was a golem. Which means that right now, there's a Witcher thinking he's going up again a calm and peaceful creature and is very much not prepared for what he's about to find. And Jaskier is torn.

Because on the one hand, he doesn't want anyone getting hurt, especially due to miscommunication - intentional or otherwise. But on the other hand, the likelihood of Geralt being the Witcher called to deal with the problem is very high. And Jaskier doesn't want to see him.

It's been months now, close to a year since he last saw Geralt, having received no apology or even acknowledgement since the dragon hunt. Which is fine; Geralt's an asshole and he can travel alone if he likes, but if that's the way it's going to be, Jaskier simply does not want to see him. Ever again, if he can help it. But he also doesn't want to see him die.

"Fuck," he mumbles and Penelope giggles as he drops his head, hair tickling her thighs.

"Mmhm, I hope so."

Jaskier crawls out from under her skirts, running his hands up her thighs and doing his best to look apologetic. Because he is; he'd rather spend the entire afternoon making her come than face Geralt for even a second, but he can't sit idly by when the man he, regrettably, still loves could be in danger.

"I have to go," he says softly and she frowns. "I'm sorry and believe me, I would much rather stay here with you, but an old friend is in danger, I can't leave him alone."

"The Witcher?" she asks and Jaskier nods. She must have heard the cry too. "Isn't it his job to fight monsters?"

"Yes, when he's given the correct information, but that's not a rock troll out there." Penelope sighs but pushes her skirts back into place, tidying them.

"You'd better go find him then."

Jaskier dips down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips before gathering his things quickly and hurrying off to find the Witcher. He prays under his breath that it isn't Geralt, but even as he does, he finds himself looking for traces of the man. He knows Geralt's habits, knows where he'll set up camp - the people here aren't friendly enough to welcome a Witcher into their homes or even host him at the inn - and so Jaskier heads for the woods.

It takes him a remarkably short time to come across the meagre camp. Roach is tethered to a tree just a few feet from the fire pit and Jaskier's heart aches to see her. She dances excitedly and he swallows back a lump in his throat.

"Hey, girl," he whispers. "I've missed you too, but I can't stay, okay? Geralt could be in trouble." He gives her a quick pat, regretting that this will likely be their only chance to see one another.

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt's pack, rummaging through it. He finds the satchel of oils first, pulling them out until he recognizes the bluish hue of elemental oil. He sets it aside and continues looking for potions. Immediately, he finds swallow and thunderbolt sitting neatly in their sheaths and his heart clenches. He grabs them both and a third vial he hopes is white rafford's and tucks them all into his pockets, turning to hurry in the direction of the fight.

It's not hard to find them. The golem is loud and Jaskier follows the sound of its roars until he almost stumbles over a log in his urgency to get to him. Geralt rolls in his direction, dodging a blow from the beast, and when he sees Jaskier, his expression sours.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier?"

Jaskier stiffens, immediately defensive. He has to bite his tongue as he crouches down next to Geralt, still keeping one eye on the golem. It seems to have lost its target for now, but Jaskier knows that won't last long.

"Rude," he retorts, "considering I'm here to rescue you." He empties his pockets, listing off the supplies as he pushes them into Geralt's hands. "I thought you might need the assistance since a golem is a lot harder to talk down than a rock troll."

He's seething now, all the anger and hurt of the last year bubbling to the surface and it takes everything in him not to cry in front of Geralt. He's always been an angry crier and he hates it. But Geralt's head jerks up and a little bit of pride peeks through the anger. Because he does know what he's doing. He pointedly ignores it, eyeing a scrape on the side of Geralt's face that will need tending to later.

"Take the thunderbolt now," he says, "don't risk going at it again without it."

Geralt scoffs but he makes no attempt to take control of the situation, letting Jaskier continue. Jaskier focuses on the golem; there's no way Geralt can get the jump on it from here, so he'll have to distract it once he's ready.

"Oil your blade," he says and Geralt eyes him suspiciously, but he's already got the rag in hand.

Once he's finished, he keeps his eyes on Jaskier, no longer waiting for a command, but skeptical of what comes next. Jaskier knows he's realized something is up or else he would have just gone after the golem again, but he's waiting, he's letting Jaskier help.

"You're not going to like this," Jaskier says, rising to his feet, "but know that I'm only doing it for you."

He darts away through the trees and he can hear Geralt yelling after him, but it's too late. He ignores him, pushing on until he hears the golem turn its attention on him. This is closely followed by an angry fuck and Jaskier knows his plan is working.

Geralt still isn't at full strength, but with a distraction, he shouldn't have trouble taking the golem down. He just needs to keep it away from him without being killed until he has the chance. It's only then, that he realizes he didn't think his plan through all the way; once again, he was too concerned about Geralt's safety to consider his own and that's proved ill for him in the past.

He trips over a root - a root! - and fumbles backward to keep out of the way, but he's expecting this to be the end. He shuts his eyes and braces himself, but just as he can feel the golem's breath on his skin, it lets out a cry and whips around to turn its anger on Geralt.

Jaskier cracks an eye open to see it swinging at Geralt, now caught up and wielding his silver sword. Jaskier sighs in relief and scrambles to get up, ensuring he hasn't lost any of the supplies he brought with him. He doesn't stick around to watch the fight, heart still hammering in his chest, instead finding himself a safe spot to look out for Geralt until he takes the golem down.

And he does, shortly now that he has the right supplies, dodging its blow and pirouetting around behind it to deal a deadly blow. The golem collapses, shaking the ground beneath it and Jaskier holds his breath as he waits for Geralt to emerge from the pile of rubble.

But he doesn't and Jaskier can stand the wait any longer so he rushes out to him. Geralt's eyes are open when he reaches him, but his eyelids droop and his breath comes in hot heavy puffs. Jaskier drops down next to him, careless of the mud and blood that soaks into his trousers.

"'M fine," Geralt mumbles, but he doesn't sit up or make any attempt to move and in Jaskier's opinion, that's not fine.

He hauls Geralt up into his arms, propping him up against his chest and pulls out the remainder of the potions he brought with him. Geralt scowls and bats his hand away.

"I didn't come all the way out here to watch you die," Jaskier tuts, "I was having a very nice morning and I'd appreciate it if I wasn't interrupted for no reason. Take the potion."

Geralt rolls his eyes like a petulant child and takes the vial from Jaskier's hand, downing it like a shot of liquor.

"See," he says, "fine." Jaskier wants to smack him.

"Get up."

It's a struggle to get Geralt to his feet and Jaskier suspects his physical injuries are worse than the exhaustion, a prospect that has his heart racing, much to his chagrin. Geralt shouldn't mean anything to him anymore and yet he can't keep himself from feeling sick at the thought of anything happening to him.

Geralt uses him for support, leaning on Jaskier's shoulders as they make their way slowly back to the camp. Geralt complains about getting the necessary proof that he killed the golem and Jaskier does his very best not to call him a fucking idiot about it. He promises, with as little irritation as he can manage, that he can return for it in the morning.

He sits Geralt next to the fire and as he crosses back to Geralt's bag to collect spare linen and salve, Roach nibbles at Geralt's hair, nudging him with her nose. Jaskier smiles softly at her worry, he can understand it well; Geralt all but left him for dead, and here he is pulling him out of danger and bandaging his wounds like nothing has changed.

When he returns to him, Geralt has two of the clasps on his armour undone, but he can't reach the third and he's frowning at it. Jaskier sets the linen down with the rest of his supplies and sighs softly.

"Let me."

Geralt remains silent as Jaskier unstraps his armour and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's bruised mostly, but there are a few fresh wounds including one that spans nearly his entire stomach. There are a few scars he doesn't recognize, too, and Jaskier doesn't want to think about what caused those.

He cleans his wounds first, then wipes down the rest of his torso, relieved to find most of the gunk on him is not actually blood.

Once he's finished his work, he leaves Geralt to get dressed and gathers more wood for the fire. He lights it with bits of flint from Geralt's pack and while the smaller branches begin to crackle, Jaskier sets about finding something for them to eat. He's never been very good at hunting - that was always Geralt's job when they travelled together - but he knows his plants and with what he still has in his pack, he fixes something up for them. Not that he feels much like eating.

It's not until Jaskier is about to leave that Geralt finally speaks. Jaskier is just on the edge of sleep, exhausted from worry and the effort it takes to be so close to Geralt right now and he very nearly misses it.

"Why did you do that?"

"What part?" Jaskier asks.

"Risk your life. For me."

"I had to. I couldn't just let you die because someone was too stupid to know the difference between a rock troll and a golem."

"I'm impressed that you knew."

Jaskier's stomach does a little flip-flop and he curses himself for being so weak. "I learned from the best," he quips. "But you should sleep. I'll come back to check on you in the morning."

There's a long silence as he gathers his things and then, "Stay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier's heart clenches.

He wants to. Gods, he wants to. To lie down next to him and look up at the stars like he always has and to fall asleep to the crackling of the fire and the faint sounds of Geralt breathing next to him. But he shouldn't. That part of his life is behind him now and Geralt made it very clear that he doesn't want him around. This was just a means to an end; he couldn't with any good conscience, let a Witcher die on bad information. Even if that Witcher is the same one who broke his heart on a mountaintop so many months ago.

"I miss listening to you sing while I rest," he says and Jaskier's legs shake under him.

"You.. do?"

"Mm, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone."

Jaskier stands still, unable to think through the rush of blood in his ears. He was angry and hurt and spiteful for a long time, but maybe it's time to let go of all that.

"Alright," he breathes.

He tries to remain calm as he can because he knows Geralt can tell when he's not. He can hear the sound of Jaskier's traitor heart and the way his breath comes just a little too fast. And he'll know what it means, the insufferable git. But in the end, it doesn't matter because Jaskier will always choose him over anyone.

He lays down in the dirt, folding his arms back to rest his head on - he's already covered in muck and Geralt's blood, what's a little more dirt? - and he sings. It's not an active choice, but he sings a love song. It's a lovely little tune, not one of his own, but one he's always been fond of, and as he sings, he closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the fire wash over him, remembering the nights when this was a common occurrence. Geralt is quiet, apparently genuine in his desire to hear him sing and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that.

When he finishes, he thinks Geralt is asleep and he settles as well as he can against the rocky ground. He's tired enough that he could fall asleep anywhere, but then Geralt goes and opens his mouth again

"I looked for you," he says, "at first." Jaskier doesn't know how to respond, but Geralt doesn't seem to want a reply and he continues. "I knew what I said was wrong and I knew I'd hurt you so I tried to find you. You must have made it down the mountain before me. I was angry about what happened with Yen, I didn't mean it."

"I know," Jaskier whispers and he does. He realized a long time ago that he was not the intended target of Geralt's rage, but it didn't help to heal the wounds and it didn't bring him back. He's not sure what else to say and his heart beats too fast.

"Come here," Geralt says softly, shifting slightly to make space for him under the blanket.

Jaskier moves to lie next to him and Geralt pulls him close, wrapping an arm around him. Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt's shoulder, burying his face so Geralt can't see the emotion it betrays. He smells off, tangy, like blood and it makes Jaskier's chest tight.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"I'll be fine."

It's not a good answer, but Geralt tips his head down, burying his nose in Jaskier's hair and it's good enough. Jaskier presses closer, allowing himself this small bit of comfort.

In the morning, he wakes with Geralt's cloak over him, but Geralt himself is gone. As he rises to his feet, Jaskier realizes that Roach is still there, grazing happily at the edge of their camp and that means Geralt couldn't have gone far. He doesn't know how welcome his company will be, so he waits for Geralt to come back, but when he doesn't Jaskier starts to worry and he goes after him. It doesn't take long to find him.

Geralt is sitting on the edge of the forest, looking out over the town though they're far enough away that no one looking would notice them. Jaskier drapes his cloak around his shoulder and sits down, just slightly behind him.

"I thought about you," Geralt admits, "just before you showed up."

"Oh."

"I didn't think I'd see you again. I didn't want to die knowing you hated me."

"I don't," Jaskier says a little too quickly, "hate you. I can't, I tried. I was angry at you for a very long time and I was hurt for even longer, but I could never hate you." I love you too much for that.

"I have a... habit of saying things to you that I regret. Twice now I've nearly lost you for good and our last words would have been unpleasant."

"Twice?" Jaskier asks.

"Mm. The djinn."

"Right." Jaskier doesn't remember much about the djinn incident - it was fairly traumatic for him - but he does remember Geralt wishing for peace and quiet and saying some awful things about his singing voice. He mentions it, a little of the bitterness bleeding through.

"I didn't mean that either," Geralt swallows, "you have a beautiful voice." That voice fails him now as his stomach twists into a knot.

"Why now?" he asks because that's all that will come out.

"I miss you. I miss your company and seeing you again," he sighs like it's the most difficult thing he's ever had to say. Jaskier forgives him for that because this is already more than Geralt has said to him in a long time. "It makes me realize I was wrong before." He pauses again and Jaskier waits, nearly breathless. "I didn't actually expect you to leave."

"Then what did you expect?" he snaps, "Geralt I've put up with so much of your shit and I've stuck by you despite it. But you told me you didn't want me, that I was a nuisance, that I-" he turns and Geralt is right there. His words stick on his tongue and his throat goes dry.

"You're not a nuisance," he says and Jaskier nods dumbly. He looks at him and he can see how hard this is for Geralt to even get out this much and it's better than he was expecting. Anything else they can work out later if Geralt was genuine about wanting him around. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak to offer a compromise, but Geralt interrupts him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says, "I didn't want to, I wasn't thinking."

"Geralt-"

"You're important to me, Jaskier. And you saved my life yesterday," his lips quirk just so and Jaskier stares for a moment, trying to figure out if he's really seeing this.

"You never were very good at taking care of yourself," Jaskier shrugs. "You should have someone to look after you. Someone who knows something about these monsters you hunt."

Geralt huffs a soft laugh but says nothing, meeting Jaskier's eyes and holding his gaze. He tips his head to one side and Jaskier can feel the breath catch in his throat because Geralt is so close and it's been so long. He doesn't move, afraid to disturb the peace between them, but Geralt leans in, closing the space between them and cupping Jaskier's face in his palm. Their noses bump together, then Geralt's lips brush against his own so faintly he thinks he imagined it. But when he doesn't pull away, Geralt kisses him properly, leaning into it. Jaskier lets himself be drawn forward, lost in the press of Geralt's lips against his own. He hums softly as an arm winds around his waist, bringing him closer, and when Geralt breaks the kiss, he presses their forehead together.

"I know it's not fair," he breathes, "to ask you to come back after the things I said to you, but I want to make amends. Tell me how to fix this."

"Come back to the inn with me," Jaskier breathes, "I'll talk to the innkeeper, get you a room - or you could stay with me?" he's still a little hesitant, but this is Geralt. "We can talk about what comes next after a bath and some supper."

"Will you join me?"

"In the bath?" Jaskier stutters and he can see the flush that creeps across Geralt's cheeks.

"I didn't mean -" he starts, before glancing down at Jaskier's muddy trousers. "But if you want-?" Jaskier barely remembers to breathe, but he settles himself.

"Supper first," he says, "then we'll see about a bath." Jaskier smiles at him and Geralt smiles back, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself looking forward to whatever comes after.

#geraskier #post-mountain #rex writes

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samstree · 3 years

Note

number 3 for the casual affection for geraskier? 💛

Exceptions

Casual affection asks: 3. “laying their hand on the other’s leg”

Or, the mortifying ordeal of being known. (read on AO3)

A passionate Jaskier is not to be distracted.

Once the mood strikes, he will go into the most excruciating details on music theory while Geralt resigns to the reality that their night is going to be filled with his bard’s voice. It’s not a bad voice, one of Geralt’s favorites, even.

Although he still hasn’t admitted it out loud.

This part is implied in the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, one that he half-heartedly tried to hide while Jaskier starts to demonstrate the evolution of playing positions of the lute. An excited flush paints the bard’s cheeks rosy-pink as the lecture goes on, and, of course, ends up in another tirade about Valdo Marx.

“…seriously, if he’s a testament of the teaching quality of Cidaris, I’d say no parent should ever send their child to the coast for music education again! No scenery can make up for the lack of appreciation of art—Geralt, are you even listening? Anyway, the worst part is that the masses are still so taken with him…”

The smile on Geralt’s face blooms. A passionate, rambling Jaskier is not to be distracted.

Except—

When Geralt puts a hand on his lap and squeezes his thigh gently. Amber eyes meet cornflower blue with a quiet plea. That’s how Jaskier knows something is needed from him. Something important.

The string of complaints halts immediately. The only sounds left are the crackling of campfire and leaves rustling in the cool autumn wind.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, frowning.

Geralt only gazes upon his bard with all the softness in his chest, before shifting his attention to those lips. He leans in, ever so slowly, giving Jaskier enough time to react, to pull away if he wishes to.

He doesn’t.

The kiss is sweet, unhurried, and with the lute between them, even a little awkward. Jaskier lets out a gasp as Geralt pulls away. He chases with a whine.

Geralt makes sure his voice is dark with desire. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” he says and prides himself in the beet-red flush stretching all the way down Jaskier’s neck.

The bard licks his lips. His half-lidded eyes gleam dreamily.

“Huh…?”

Jaskier looks like he’s forgotten every last thought, so Geralt pulls him into another kiss.

---

A determined Geralt is not to be stopped.

Especially when the determination serves to protect. One should learn not to interfere with a Geralt trying to keep someone safe.

Although a bard may disagree.

Jaskier wakes to hushed arguing in the room. He’s curled up on his side. The bed is too warm and the pillow too soft. The urge to squirm is overwhelming, but the stitches on his back tug uncomfortably, preventing him from rolling away.

“…I didn’t save your bard from the brink of death again for you to throw your life away, Geralt.”

Is it Yennefer? It sounds like her, so annoyed as usual but somehow always correct.

The mattress dips near Jaskier’s stomach, and he realizes Geralt is perched on the edge. Facing away, he doesn’t notice Jaskier has woken up. “He came after Jaskier once already. I can’t let him do it again.”

“Remember you are hurt just as bad.” Triss is here too, and a lot calmer. “You won’t even be able to cast signs. How do you suppose you can fight?”

Geralt scowls in frustration.

Even from behind, Jaskier can imagine the determined look on his witcher’s face. That’s never good because it means he’ll charge into whatever danger headfirst. Jaskier wants to protest, but all he manages is a pained grunt. A hand rubs soothing circles into his knee, but Geralt doesn’t look around.

“For heaven’s sake. Are the two of you not capable of seeing senses at the same time?” Yennefer growls in return, but a murmur from Triss sends her pacing away. “Don’t make me fight you, Geralt. You will regret it.”

“Then don’t fight me!”

Triss is the one in Jaskier’s view now, her expression displeased but still patient.

“Yenna is right. We better rest, recover, and then make plans for the future. You are being too impulsive to be reasonable.”

As if reason is on Geralt’s mind in this state. Yen’s fury won’t work on him, nor will Triss’s logic.

Jaskier’s face scrunches up in his struggle, but Geralt only tucks in the blanket at his cold feet.

“There’s nothing you can say to convince me. I know both of you are trying to help, but…I need to do this,” Geralt says with finality. “Take care of Jaskier while I’m gone.”

The mattress shifts and Geralt makes a move to leave. Yennefer starts full-on shouting again. In a panic, Jaskier grabs blindly with all the strength he can muster, and his boneless hand land on Geralt’s lap. Tears well up in his eyes, from the wound and from the white-hot fear. The weakest, most pathetic sound escapes his throat, but it’s unimportant. Jaskier has to stop Geralt, even if he feels barely lucid, even if his witcher is an unstoppable force right now.

And then, everything stills.

Jaskier blinks, and all he can see are worried amber eyes, the fight in them completely gone. Warm hands are at his temple, tucking away strands of hair and wiping away the tears.

“Stay.”

The word is no more than a broken whisper, but that’s all Geralt needs. He catches Jaskier’s shaky hand and holds on to it. The promise shouldn’t be this easy, but it is, because Jaskier asked.

“Okay.”

Geralt stays.

---

This prompt is so soft. Thanks for sending it! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #whump the bard #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #protective geralt #kissing #hand holding #established relationship #yes i've hurt the bard again #i don't even resist it at this point #might as well lean in

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havenoffandoms · 3 years

Note

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

#havenwrites #the witcher #wiedzmin #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #the witcher geralt #geralt #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #dandelion x geralt #geralt/dandelion #request open

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mimikoflamemaker · 2 years

Text

My Post About The Witcher

I decided to watch Netflix! Witcher again this time with original voice acting - for reasons I watched the first time with polish dubbing.

And while I don't think I can force myself to watch all 8 episodes once again, I need to say a few things, before I close that particular doors for good and likely pretend they aren't there.

What I liked about The Witcher - Season 2:

Henry - at least I can see that he is trying, with what he was given to play - I also appreciate that he apparently saved us from getting even more of "meta-commentary" in the scenes where there is no place for it.

some visuals - f.e screaming bruxa

those rare moments when we've got glimpses of what could have been, if the producers gave rat's ass about the source and not only about their overlords with cash.

What I didn't like:

pretty much everything else

If we put aside that this is The Witcher we are talking about and look at this as a random fantasy series so I won't have a heart attack over butchering of the lore and the characters I love - the plot is so full of holes and so shallow, that I have a feeling that I could construct better story at 15, not to mention now.

What happened with the narrative depth? With having a piece of media draw us in? Making us care? I think the puddles in my backyard have more depth. Or is this just not required anymore? Why, in general, media creators seemed to think us, the public, are dumb and incapable of grasping more complex stories anymore?

And logic? Does it get lost also somewhere along the way?

Now - acting - I have to say that people who dubbed the polish lines gave them WAY more than the actual actors this season - season one did not have such a huge difference. But I am all in favor of polish dubbing with this one, even when I generally much prefer watching movies and series in it's original form. Not with this one.

(The only two that are on par in both versions are Geralt and Jaskier - though I admit I am biased towards Michał's voice since he was my first Geralt. And Joey's singing is WAY better.)

I could go on. There are a lot of things that are wrong with this series and even looking at it as a stand alone doesn't make it more favorable. As a fans, speaking from a position of someone who is aware that we wouldn't ever get things 100% as we wanted and imagined, I think we were spat on.

Roach (and I love her, she's the best girl) got it better then Eskel (apparently only thanks to Henry) and I think that sums up season 2 pretty well.

All in all. Do Not Recommend. If you want entertainment, then maybe. If you are a fan - save yourself the heartache and go read "The Grain of Truth". Or play some games.

#personal #the witcher #netflix!witcher #wiedźmin #my late two more cents #let them be the last

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 3 years

Text

Drink Up - Geralt of Rivia x reader

Summary: Traveling for hours on end can become exceptionally loathsome, but with a bottle of something strong to pass the time, things get very interesting indeed.

Warning: reader and Jaskier talking about sexy times, reader getting drunk and things get entertaining, the trio being goofs tbh

-reader is part of my Geralt series (Of Monsters And Men)

Masterlist

With not a whole lot of entertainment sprouting forth from the nearby scenery of the continent most days, or by the unfortunate lack of abundant random wanderers to cross your path. You’ve become accustomed to imploring very creative ways in amusing yourself while wayfaring the roads with your two favorite traveling buddies.

A Witcher, to handsome for his own good, and a lovely yet mildly annoying bard.

You’ve been currently hiking on this forest trail for half the day without much to pass the time. Sure Jaskier has delved into giving you all a show with his ballots and fantastic lute playing skills. But there’s only so much of that angelic voice you can take before it turns into the most goddamn irritating thing you’ve ever heard.

Also you’re pretty damn certain that Geralt could have been one more strum away from knocking the bard out cold, thus pleading for you to leave him there for the next unlucky fellow who decides to wander by.

The sun on the other hand keeps her great golden colors beaming across the landscape, warming the earth to a comfortable temperature on this calm spring afternoon. It’s been a good hour since anything interesting has happened and this stick you keep flipping around in your hand is not cutting it.

Pressing onward, your mind suddenly sparks with an idea, surly an idea that will stir up some much needed conversation on this rather dull trip though the peaceful woodland. Smirking to yourself, you glance to your right where Jaskier is walking with lute in hand, oblivious to your growing mischievousness.

Then your crimson gaze trails a small distance ahead where Geralt sits atop of Roach, his snowy head faced forward as he relishes in the quiet of the green woodland. Gods he looks like a proper knight, with that dark armor, sword on his back, and all that manliness seated atop his grand stead. Hmm, delicious.

Casually twirling your stick here and there, you turn your attention over to Jaskier who’s looking away from you, “Psst...Jaskier.” You whisper, making sure Geralt can’t hear.

The bards head snaps over to you in an instant, a new intrigued curiosity overtaking him, “Yes?” He whispers back just as quietly, blues darting over to Geralt who’s none the wiser.

You casually shrug, using your normal speaking voice now, “Just wanted to make sure you haven’t forgotten your name.”

His face falls, “Y/N.” He whines disappointedly, “Come on I’m bored as shit.” Complains Jaskier like a whiny little toddler before he huffs and pauses for a moment to think. Suddenly he taps the side of your bicep with the back of his hand, you raise a curious brow as he shrugs, “You got any good stories?”

Searching your extensive past of palpable events for a moment, your face quickly lights up, “Ohhh better then a story. Get a load of this shit.” You muse while pulling out a bottle of wine from your traveling pack, “Stole this from some pricy vendor. Figured it’d have some purpose sooner or later and right now I need it sooner.” You chuckle while popping off the spongy cork and taking a hearty swig.

Jaskier lets out a breathy laugh as he watches you fully enjoy your stolen beverage, “Not sure if I should be impressed or concerned.”

“Don’t worry I’ll share but only if you indulge me.” You quip before taking another gulp before bringing the bottle to your side, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before speaking, “I have a question for you my dear lover boy.” You inquire with a wiggle of your brows.

Jaskier smirks, ready for the challenge and some wine, “Ask away.”

Whipping your stick around, you point it at the bard, “Okay. And be honest, I can tell if you’re not.....what’s the best part of a woman?”

Jaskier nods, his face shifting into one of legitimate deep thought as he takes a considerable amount of time to contemplate the possibilities, “Well, I guess I’d say I’m decently fond of a good smile,” Admits the bard before he lets out a small chuckle, “cause if they don’t have one it’s regretfully difficult to watch them enjoy themselves if you understand my meaning.” Adds Jaskier, nudging your arm with his elbow as you roll your ruby irises.

“Hmm alright well you’re a fucking snooze.” You deadpan as he suddenly lets out a burst of laughter.

“Oh I didn’t realize you wanted all my inner most personal tastes, is that it then?” He wonders as you chuckle at his little half offended outburst.

“Tell me what gets you all hot and bothered and I’ll indulge you in my own appetites.” You add slyly, giving him a mischievous wink while continuing to twirl your stick and sip more of your strong liquor. Damn this stuff is strong.

He nods in understanding, a cheeky smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he decides to indulge you, “Well the lady asks, where to start?” Questions Jaskier.

“Oh I don’t know. Let’s say, personality aside cause we’re not here for that shit right now..” You swat the air theatrically before taking another sip of your drink, “...what do you think? Firm or soft, maybe even a little saggy?” You suggest, making a squeezing motion with your one hand while your stick is tucked underneath that arm.

“I’d say both. A breast is a breast.” He confirms Jaskier with a laugh.

“A man of all dishes served I see. I respect the inclusion of diverse variety.” You add with an honest nod of approval. “Alright. Are scars a turn off if severe?”

“Taverns are dark for a reason Y/N.” Muses Jaskier with a knowing look causing you to snort with laughter.

“Fair point.” You wheeze.

“Okay Y/N/N, my turn.” Inquires Jaskier as you hand him the liquor.

“Lets hear it.”

He gives you back your bottle, “So....what’s so intriguing about that old grumpy wolf up there?” Questions Jaskier as he nods towards Geralt who’s minding his sweet business from his perch on Roach. No doubt probably listening.

Biting your lip, your eyes linger on the broad leathered back of your silver haired lover, “Are we talking physically or personality wise?” You wonder while turning your attention back to the bard, your voice lowering a couple octaves, “cause let me tell you he’s not much for words most times...” You lean in closer to Jaskier before whispering, “but I can get him moaning so goddamn fast.”

“Oh gods. Please tell me everything.” Presses Jaskier with a laugh as you take another sip from the bottle. Shit, you’re already feeling buzzed, guess it is much stronger then once previously thought.

Giving Jaskier a fangy smirk, you point the stick in Geralt’s general direction, “You asked so you’ve been warned. This man can come absolutely undone within minutes, literally all I gotta do is call him some cute names and lick his cheek...you know, feel him up a bit. Get him feeling all loved and appreciated you know?”

“Really?” Inquires Jaskier, enjoying your progressively drunken shpeel of personal info regarding yours and Geralt’s sex lives.

“Oh fuck yeah, but what really gets him off, is if I undress in front of him and then get all dominant and rough you know. He loves that shit.” You explain with a smile as Jaskier stares at you in awe. “He’s a moaning mess after I put on the charm, practically cumming at my command. The fucking power I have.” You mumble proudly with a shake of your bottle, though you try and keep your voice down.

“Y/N, you are, quit the woman.” Points Jaskier like a proud father watching his daughter marry to a prestigious lord of great wealth.

“I know.” You add with a shrug, clearly self confident and half drunk by now, “I’m a seductress what can I say?” Taking a moment to drink some more wine as Jaskier holds in his laughter.

He watches you trip on nothing before regaining your bearings a second later, “So uh, how you feeling?”

You give him a fangy grin, raising your bottle in salute, “Fantastic.”

“That’s good.” He muses, clearly not believing you, “How’s the wine?”

“Delectable and worth every coin!” You whisper yell, raising your bottle once more, the dwindling contents swirl around, some drops falling out as you bring the glass back down to your side.

“I thought you stole it?”

You snort, “I did.”

“Hmm alright, maybe uh....maybe slow it down on the intake Y/N?” Says Jaskier, taking notice of your new inebriated state and knowing all to well what you’re like when fully drunk of your ass.

“Fuck off bard I’m fine.” You mutter with an elated snicker before starting to giggle like a drunken jester in a kings court, causing Geralt to turn his head to the side in interest before shrugging and looking down the trail once again.

“You sure?” Half worries Jaskier, though in truth he’s absolutely living for the situation unfolding in front of him, “I’d rather not have you puking later.”

Scoffing you take another sip, “I’m not getting sick Jaskrr, I’m just horny.”

Brows raised in surprise, he coughs, “Oh, that’s um...good....I think?”

Almost tripping over a jutted out root, you bite your lip while eyeing up Geralt hungrily, “Now that....is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and you know what?”

“What should I know?” Wonders Jaskier with interest, making no faults to decrease how he’s clearly egging you on.

Grinning with a face full of mischief, you snicker, “Well....I can say I’ve seen his dick.” The bards eyes widen in amusement as you continue, “Which is...by the way....very lovely and large, he knows how to please a woman if you know what I mean.” You mumble quickly with a wink as Jaskier snorts.

“Oh, that’s good to know. What else is nice about him?” He agrees while successfully baiting you on further.

“Hmm mhmmm. Big muscles, Jask, big muscles.” You emphasize while leaning into the bards side and squeezing his less then impressive biceps, “Oh and he’s so good at hugging and cuddles.” You squeak with joy, shaking Jaskier as you swoon over Geralt, “Ugh, I love it when he’s shirtless and he looks at me and I just....ugh I’ll take my pants off so goddamn fast.”

Shoving his face into the crook of his arm to keep from laughing, Jaskier does all in his power to refrain from losing it while you lean away, stumbling around on the trail, oblivious to how hilarious he’s taking everything you just confessed to him. The biggest lovestruck grin dancing across your features as you stare longingly at Geralt’s leather clad back. A flash of lust rising in your smiling expression as you eye him up.

“I want.” You mutter, throwing your stick to the side as you make a childlike grabby motion with your hand.

“Y/N he’s on a horse.” Explains Jaskier as you make a face.

You scoff, sending Jaskier another dirty look, “You don’t understand.”

“Y/N it’s the middle of the day and we’re in an unknown forest.” Warns the bard, “Not exactly the time or place for whatever is brewing in your head.”

“Nuthin’s brwing in me head Jask.” You slur, tripping once again before just barely catching yourself.

Jaskier gives you a less then convinced expression, seeing straight though your terrible lying, “I don’t believe you.” He says while you frown.

“But he looks so delicious.” You whine with a dramatic pout, “And I’m so fecking horns right noww ‘cause of....wull, I just’am!” You grumble, turning your head to face Jaskier with an angry little frown before a mischievous smile begins to form upon your lips.

Jaskier blinks, knowing all to well what drunk you is capable of, “Y/N. Don’t you dare.” He warns.

“Waterr you gonna do bart?” You challenge, pushing him though its a weak assault that does nothing significant, “Fight me? I’ll kick your little pixie ass.”

Shaking his head, Jaskier takes a cautious step away from you, “Definitely not. Actually you know what? He’s all yours, go get him Y/N.” Urges Jaskier, really anticipating the possible beautiful disaster that may just soon enough present itself.

Raising your brows in pleasant surprise, you down the rest of your bottle, “Ha! Yu’r not as stupi’s ass’he says yur. I knews it. All along, nev’r a doubt in my mind really.....I sw’r it........promise.” You slur, the alcohols affects really starting to delve into your system.

Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion, not one hundred percent sure how he should take that, “Well, that’s good I suppose.”

“Yes.........it is....... isn’t it.” You agree with a couple quick nods that look like a small child who’s trying desperately to get their parent to agree with them, “Okay, I’m go’in ta get h’em ov’tha house now.” You pause a moment, brows furrowing in thought as you grab Jaskier by the shoulder, “Horse. That’s uh, what I mean.....yeah.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something but you’re already stumbling quickly down the beaten trail much faster then he’d anticipated. You zero in on Geralt’s fine leather armored back, your vision slightly blurred and your legs a bit wobbly from the strong alcohol you’ve managed to make empty in less then ten minutes.

Shaking the fuzziness from your head, you drop the empty bottle in the dirt before hustling to Geralt’s side. Stopping quickly, halting a moment to gather yourself before walking onward, continuing side by side next to his feet and Roach’s middle.

Geralt hums before casually turning his head to find your beaming face with the dark of your eyes as big as a ceramic plate. Raising a brow, the Witcher throws Jaskier an odd look before shifting his attention back down to you.

“Y/N?” He mutters, not sure if you’ve eaten something you shouldn’t have or were recently hexed by some random fairy nearby.

Letting out a little burp, you hold your hands close to your chest all the while giving him the biggest smile, “I’m....in’loe....v..uh, love....with’u.”

Geralt let’s out a humored snort at your intoxicated self while you await his answer to your grand declaration of love that he was indeed able to understand, “Sorry, I’m taken.” He quips, obviously teasing you though you’re to drunk to realize this.

Frowning you look at the ground in disappointment, “oh.” You whisper sadly causing Geralt to legitimately feel bad until your whole demeanor shifts to heated aggression, “That fucking bitch!” You shout coherently through a small slurred wavering in your angered voice, scaring some perched crows from their keep as well as a couple of innocent rabbits.

Geralt listens to the muffled laughter of Jaskier as you throw your hands up in aspiration before letting out a colorful stream of curses, “No good dirty whore faced dog shit horse shit bitch who’s clamed h’em ferr the’own!”

“Do’snt mak’any sense! I have a sw’urd! I can run....really fast! I’m half vampurrr goddammit!” You shout into the woods, struggling to keep your words together, “I’m pre-destinated...pre-dun.....pre-dragons....destiny, de-destined to be seductive! I am sexy!” You shout dramatically.

“Okay, Y/N let’s not wake something or someone with ill intentions.” Interrupts Geralt as you make two frustrated fists, your face appearing rather angered, crimson eyes dancing with hellfire.

“No!” You snap before turning an accusing dagger up at him, where you got that he’s not sure, “Tell me..who’s this-this donkey wumunnn! So I can...grrr....so I can uh, so I can...” Quickly looking down, you struggle to put away your dagger back into it’s designated sheath, you frown once again before shifting your face into a fake, yet rather convincing smile, “I just’uv sum’thins to say to’er. Thas’all. Promise.” You add sweetly, grin as shiny as a barrel of shimmering pearls and honestly a bit sadistic if he didn’t know any better.

Chuckling at your adorable drunken antics, Geralt shrugs, “She’s from a far away land. About a couple leagues from here northwest.”

“Wha’else.” You demand urgently, tone authoritative and hostile.

“She’s pretty tough, and very beautiful.” Teases Geralt as you scowl in irritation for this unidentifiable cunt who’s taken your man.

“Disgustin.” You scoff, flicking a hand upward as you mutter, “Go’un.”

“She’s got the most lovely body I’ve ever seen, and her laugh is more angelic then all the greatest singers in the entire continent.” He confirms with a handsome smile that would have you swooning like a fair maiden if not for how filled with hatred you are right now.

“Blah.” You dismiss while sticking out your tongue in disgust, “Com’un giv’m a name. Then I’ll handle the’rst.”

“I don’t want you to hurt her.” He mutters with a shrug, holding back laughter at your amusing facial features.

“I won’t.” You sass, making a face before mumbling, “Jus’wanna talk....re’memr.”

“I don’t think I believe you Y/N.” Affirms the handsome Witcher much to your frustration.

“I jus’wanna fucking talk!” You growl as Jaskier cackles in the background, clearly enjoying this conversation though you can’t understand what’s so funny.

Snapping your head in his direction, you squint your eyes at him menacingly before yanking off a hanging thin branch and launching your new makeshift weapon full force in his general direction. He yelps in surprise before ducking, the wooden assault just missing his face by mere inches.

“Dear gods Y/N!” Gasps the bard with wide eyes as you snicker at his dramatic reaction.

“Fuck’ov h’was gonna tell me!”

“No he wasn’t!” Argues Jaskier while fearfully clutching his lute to his chest, afraid you might start swinging.

“H’was and I’m gonna fuck’n kill that bitch!” You snap angrily as Roach snorts, having not a single iota what the hell you’re saying. Only that you sound like some wounded beast on their last hour.

Rolling his baby blues in annoyance, Jaskier shouts back, “There is no other woman or man or any fucking forest nymph that Geralt has any sort of eyes for! You-you crazy woman!”

“How’u know? He doesn’t tell you shit!” You yell back, emphasizing the last word with some heat.

“He does! For your humbled information.” Protests Jaskier sassily while Geralt silently listens to you two idiots scream at one another in the middle of some large lumbering forest. His drunken lover and his, perhaps he could say it, friend who happens to be a bard.

“Oh really?!” You challenge, “Wel’in who’s this fuck’in cunt who’h said he’s with’en? Huh?!” You shout back.

Jaskier let’s out a stream of incomprehensible mumbles before throwing his hands into the air in frustration, “That’s because this woman is you, you drunken bat!”

“I’mnut drunk! Nor’m I a bat!” You yell, ignoring the fact that he confirmed you’re indeed Geralt’s lover, “I didn’evn drink tha’mush!”

“You drank the whole bloody bottle!” Claims Jaskier, much to your great shock and bewilderment, that Geralt struggles to keep himself from losing it atop of Roach.

You scoff, clearly not believing a single thing out of this bards mouth, “I dunt see’a bottle!”

“That’s because you threw it somewhere!”

“Wel’wy woulda’ do’tha?” You snap, hands fanned out to each side in puzzlement like an angry castle pigeon standing up to a hulking statue.

“Oh I don’t know...let me think for a brief moment here...oh right! Because you’ve drank more then a king on his wedding night!” Shouts Jaskier as Geralt rolls his golden eyes, moving to jump off of Roach.

Standing oblivious to your Witcher who’s no more then five feet away from you now at ground level, your eyes start to grow darker as your frustration grows in this hazy state you’re in. “Mayb’if I knuck you’ot wit’a lute then’ull shut up!” You slur, taking a threatening step forward.

The bards eyes widen in fear for a moment as he sends Geralt a desperate glance, “Geralt!”

“Y/N.” Mutters Geralt gently in that grumbly voice of his, causing you to immediately turn in his direction.

Eyes softening, you instantly break out into a joyful fangy grin, “Yes.” You mumble happily, eyes shifting from his boots to his face as you shamelessly check him out.

“Come here.” Beckons your beautiful Witcher with a pleasant smile upon his plush lips, his arms soon reach out for yours and quickly enough they intertwine.

You blink back your slightly blurred vision to witness as Geralt’s lips flicker from your mouth to your shimmering irises of ruby red, a second later he pulls you flush against him for a heated embrace. Just want you wanted.

Your lips move passionately against his own, a delighted smile forming as you enjoy the feeling of his tongue inside your mouth. Then all to soon he pulls away and your lips are left empty and wanting so much more.

Pouting you make an adorably angered face, “Wul’that wasn’t nearly s’long as it coulda been.” You grumble bluntly, suddenly yawning as you try desperately to keep focused on his face. His beautiful face. So pretty, so kissable, so lovely.

Dark spots skip and flare through your fading vision until without warning your legs feel like they’ve turned to pudding, giving out from underneath you in an instant and all you’re able to witness is Geralt’s lovely face before....

Darkness.

——

Waking up from a deep sleep, your eyes open to the sound of a fire crackling nearby, the sweet smell of grilled leaks wafting into your nostrils that aids in fully awakening your senses. You let out a sleepy yawn, sitting yourself up from your once previous positioning on your rolled out travel sack underneath you.

Sitting criss crossed, you wipe the bleariness from your scarlet irises before sucking in a deep breath and blinking, your sights now set on the campfire in front of you, a beautiful glow of bright oranges and gold. Geralt and Jaskier on either side, both quietly talking to one another before turning to face you. A knowing smile on either of their faces. Oh, Gods what did you do? And how did you even get here?

Shifting your confused gaze from Jaskier to Geralt and back again, you raise a puzzled brow, “Would any of you be kind enough to tell me how the fuck it’s already dark out?”

“What do you mean Y/N? It’s sunny as a summers day.” Confirms Jaskier with an honest smile, blue eyes looking into the fire as he strums a cord on his lute.

Shaking your head, you sniff, “Okay fuck you.”

Jaskier laughs as Geralt lets slip a couple chuckles before explaining, “You drank all of that wine bottle you stole.”

“Shit.” You mutter while rubbing your temples, “Who let me do that?”

“You did.” Adds the bard.

“Did I threaten you? I feel like drunk me was yelling for some reason, my throat kinda feels weird.”

“You were trying to get me to tell you the name of my lover.” Affirms Geralt with a laugh, “Which is obliviously you. Though drunk Y/N thought otherwise.”

“Fantastic.” You deadpan before turning on your side and laying on your back, deciding to relax once again, “So, how’d I get here? I forget after I was telling Jask about...uh, well...doesn’t matter.”

Smiling to himself from the explicit information you slipped to him about yourself and Geralt in the bedroom, Jaskier chuckles at that while Geralt moves to lay down as well, his head close to yours as you both make an L on the ground. “I put a drop of sleeping potion on my tongue and when I kissed you...”

“You gave me tongue and drugged me?” You confirm with a breathy laugh, honestly quit impressed he managed to pull that off so smoothly. Well, then again you were drunk off your ass.

Geralt hums, “It was either that or let you kill Jaskier. It was a tough decision really.”

“What?” Gasps Jaskier, “You had to think about it?”

“And he chose to slip me some enchanted sleeping juice instead. You’re welcome.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Yeah well you wanted to fuck him in the woods so....shut it.”

“We still can,” Mutters Geralt with a smile, face turned a bit so he has a better view of your face, “if you want.”

Smirking back at him, Jaskier almost chokes on his own spit, “I am right here. Right here Geralt. Right here.”

You laugh at the bards dramatics, “We never said you had to watch.”

“Wha-thats besides the point! And just, ugh please don’t....” Whines Jaskier, making a face of disgust before frowning, “or at least just wait for me to fall asleep.”

Laughing, you give the bard an agreeable nod, “Don’t worry we will.”

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt x you #geralt x y/n #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #Jaskier the bard #the witcher imagine

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dapandapod · 3 years

Note

hello my sweet panda!! how about geraskier 17 for the kiss prompts, if you feel like it?? 💞

17. Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

I would friggin love to, my dear!! 💞

Ok, so i missed the “just to watch them” part because I saw that first now, but I imagine Geralt does watch him. (is that a spoiler?) Please have a modern au, completely self induglent because we all need a treat sometimes! Hope you like it, love!

On Ao3 here!

Send me a kissing Prompt? <3

Warnings: The cookies die.......

Being in love with your roommate has its pros and cons. For most of the time, it is the thrill of watching Geralt coming out of the shower, hair a wet mess, dripping water over his t-shirt. It is the warm churn when he stumbles out of his room in search of tea, all disheveled. It is the fluttery sensation when Jaskier is on the receiving end of one of those private smiles.

Then there is the loneliness, when they go to their separate rooms each night. The heartache when Geralt gets a phone call from Yennefer or Renfri, and he stays out until morning. The fear of being found out and ruining everything when Geralt catches Jaskier staring, or crying. He’s done both. Point is, there is a lot going on, and even if it is a little painful at times, Jaskier wouldn’t want to stop loving Geralt even if he could. For all his huffs and puffs, Geralt is the best friend he’s ever had. Even if that is all he gets.

Recently, Geralt has been spending more time at their place. Not staying out as much, not following Renfris and Yennefer's every beck and call. Jaskier isn’t sure what to make of it, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Today they are baking together. Jaskier decided that 11.30 at night is a perfectly reasonable time to start making cookies, and Geralt realized that the last time Jaskier did cookies they had to buy a new stove. Jaskier currently has half the bag of flour in his hair and on his shirt, and is now put on the kitchen counter and not allowed to touch anything.

Geralt is wearing an apron, which, adorable, and prepares the baking tray to be put in the oven. He is close enough that Jaskier can reach him with his foot, so now he simply has to poke and kick at him. Those are the rules.

“Let me taste them.”

“They are not done yet.”

“But cookie dough.”

“Then you won’t get any cakes later.”

“But I want some now.”

“Are you a child? You can have the spoon when I’m done.”

“How very gracious of you. This was my idea, you know.”

“Most catastrophes are, unless I step in.”

“Rude!”

Jaskier kicks him a bit harder, and Geralt grunts and catches his foot. He already has one of the oven mittens on, for some reason, so Jaskier easily wriggles out of his grip.

“I’m having some.” Jaskier declares, jumping down from the kitchen counter and bare feet hitting the floor. He is a bit closer than intended, and that familiar fluttering comes again, but he is a man with a mission. Geralt is in the way anyway, how else is he supposed to get them.

“No, you’re not.” Geralt says, catching his hand mid-air.

A playfight breaks out, consisting of mostly flailing and half hearted slaps. Jaskier presses on with a grin, and Geralt is grinning right back but not moving an inch.

Everything comes to a halt when Jaskier realizes he did himself in. He is pressed between Geralt and the counter, and he suddenly realizes how very close they are. How very close they are.

Geralt seems to realize this at the same time, but instead of moving away he stands completely still. His arms are caging him in, they faces inches from each other. Jaskier feels himself blushing, heat creeping up his cheeks.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, and Jaskiers eyes dips to his lips. Oh no.

The inches are disappearing, Jaskier isn’t sure who is leaning in, but he is completely helpless against the pull he is feeling. All his fears are pushed down, pushed away, out of sight, because Geralt's mittened hands are now on his hips.

The first touch of lips sends a jolt through him. And then Jaskier finds his hands clutching at Geralt's arms, warm and real. It is slow, hesitant, Jaskier can’t bring himself to pull away. But he doesn’t have to, as Geralt is the one leaning in now and takes a careful kiss. Jaskier sighs into it, melting into it, barely believing that this is happening. The cookies are completely forgotten, and Jaskier is lost in the dag of lips against lips, noses bumping, breaths mingling.

The kisses become longer, braver, and Geralt's hands lets go of his hips for a moment. He can feel them doing something, and when they come back the oven mittens are gone, and his fingers dig into Jaskiers hip and press him close.

Fuck.

When Jaskier is pressed against him, Geralt's hands travel. They find the hem of Jaskiers T-shirt, searching ever so slowly, creeping upwards. The feeling of Geralt's warm hands pressed against his sides makes Jaskier break the kiss and draw in a shuddering breath.

And again everything halts.

Geralt tenses up, stops, as if caught in something he shouldn’t have done. Jaskier’s heart is beating so fast, trying to catch up with what is happening. He leans his head down against Geralt’s shoulder, exhaling.

“Fuck. Been wanting to do that for a while.” He says quietly, lips tingling.

The damage is already done. He might as well say it. Geralt is still not moving, his warm hands against his sides frozen in place. That doesn’t bode well. Nothing happens for another beat or two.

Alright. Geralt doesn’t want this. Jaskiers heart sinks, hurts, and he swallows hard to keep everything inside. But when he makes to pull away, Geralt's fingers tighten again, still holding him close to his body.

“Geralt?” He breathes, and gasps when Geralt's hands gently move over his bare skin. He pulls his head back up to watch Geralt, hope burning a hole in his chest. Their eyes meet.

“Can I kiss you again?” Geralt asks, looking so serious, half terrified and Jaskier can only nod.

They burn the cookies. They did set a timer, only ignored in favour of kissing against the fridge, the counter, the couch. The cookies come out hard enough to serve as a weapon, but Jaskier is very much alright with that.

He got to taste something much better.

#geraskier #the witcher #kissing prompt #modern au #and they were roommates #cookies #sadly the cookies die #pining jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #dapanda writes

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ruthoakenshield · 3 years

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Very Good Friends (Chapter 22)

Catch up here: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 19] [Chapter 20] [Chapter 21]

Reader x Henry Cavill, OC Reader x co-star named Dan

Warning: This tale is for 18+ readers ONLY!!! Mentions of flashbacks: (rape, anal sex, non-con sex, abuse), severe bruising and injury, mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression, humiliation, and some of the good kind of fluff to make us feel better.

Smut (the happy good kind) is here as I promised. In all it’s fluffy, juicy, tantalizing goodness!!! :) :) :)

If ANY of the warnings upset you or make you uncomfortable, DO NOT read below the cut! go find something else to read in this case and if you want to be removed from the taglist for this story, let me know. I won’t be upset, I promise!

If you are okay with reading those things then enjoy the tale below the cut.

Feedback and reblogs are appreciated. I do not own Henry nor do I have any personal knowledge of him besides what is common knowledge amongst the Cavillary. Any mistakes and typos are mine, story is not beta-tested.

GIF I got from the tumbler search thingy.

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By the end of the night, the two of you are ready to head out. You both make your rounds and thank the producers, co-stars and directors for their work and praise them for the movie and wish them success with it. Then the two of you slip out and head back to the hotel. Henry is unusually quiet, and you caress his leg. “Hen, do you still want me to join you on your vacation?” you ask.

He looks at you and nods, still moody. You frown. “Hen, what’s the matter?” you ask as you cup his face. He continues to frown and looks up when the limo stops. You are at the hotel, and he gets out of the vehicle and helps you out. He thanks the driver and takes your arm leading you inside.

Henry walks to the elevator, and you are puzzled by his sudden sullen and moody attitude. You both get in the elevator, and he hits the button for the top floor. You glance over and see it has a ‘stop’ button that isn’t an emergency one. You reach up and tangle your fingers into Henry’s curls and pull his head down towards yours. He resists at first, then you start to massage his skull at the base, and he relents. You bring your lips to his and give him a breath-taking kiss. While you do so, you lift your heel and kick the ‘stop’ button pushing it in. Henry breaks the kiss as the elevator stops suddenly.

He looks down at you and frowns. You look up and say, “Okay, Geralt, spill it. We’re not moving till you tell me why the hell you’re acting like a pissed Witcher!” you tell him with a raised brow and your hands on your hips.

He tries not to smile at your reference, but he knows you’re right. He’s been acting like an ass tonight. Sighing, he looks down at you. Your hands are on your hips on top of his and you’re looking up at him with a concerned face. He swallows hard and closes his eyes.

“It was just hard for me to see you dancing with other men. You’re my woman, and it’s just hard for me. I know they don’t know that you’re mine, but the men around me were making lewd comments about you in this dress all night long, not realizing your boyfriend was hearing it all. If they would’ve known, we were dating they never would have said those things near me. I just wanted to beat their heads in all night cuz a lot of what they were saying was things Dan had said!” he tells you. “I wanted to protect you and make them stop saying such lewd things, and I couldn’t. Not without blowing our cover.” he says quietly and drops his head.

“Oh, Henry! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were struggling with that. For the record, though, the ladies were all asking me how I scored being your date for the Red Carpet Premiere. They all wanted to get you in their beds and be your baby momma.” You tease. “It was hard for me too, to hear other women gushing about all the different ways they were wanting you to fuck them so they could give you little mini-you’s.” you tell him while caressing his chiseled, clean-shaven jaw.

He looks up at you from under his long dark lashes. “They were saying that?” he asks in disbelief. You giggle, “Hen, your sheer size alone makes women horny. It just screams, ‘I’m big, I’m strong, I can breed you and protect you and provide for you’ and yeah, you make women all hormonal and broody and melt their panties right off just by being you.” you giggle.

He blushes a deep red and he gets his twinkle back in his eyes. “Do I make you all hormonal and broody and melt your panties?” he asks, leaning into your neck and nibbling it as his hands make their way to your rear.

“Does the pope shit?” you ask and laugh, “Of course you do, Henry! You make me horny as hell! Every time I see you, I want to climb your sheer size and have these massive arms around me, squishing me to your rock-solid chest and I want the kraken pounding into my sweet lil pussy till I’m screaming your name and coming so hard you make my whole body spasm!” you say boosting his ego another notch.

“I want this kraken being shoved down my throat and I want to drag my fingers along these thighs as thick as tree trunks. I want to feel your massive mitts caressing me inside and out, and holding me so tight as you pound into me, that I have bruises to remind me who I belong to for days afterward.” you coo as you run your fingers up his chest and under his jacket, wrapping them around to his back. “I want these luscious lips and that talented tongue eating out my dripping wet pussy till I’m a panting, moaning, mess and can’t think straight.

And I want to run my fingers through those wonderful, soft chocolate locks on that noggin of yours as you fuck me to oblivion and fill me with your hot cum while you throb inside my tight pussy or ass.” You purr, further stroking his ego. You feel him groaning and rumbling with desire at your words. He pulls you flush against his massive body, and you feel his hard kraken against your belly.

Henry closes his eyes and groans. “God, Kitten, you sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego and paint naughty pictures in his head!” he rumbles in your ear as he reaches behind you, pulls the ‘stop’ button back to it’s normal position and presses the button for the top floor once again. The elevator jerks and then begins to ascend once more.

Henry pushes you against the wall and presses himself into you. “I want you, y/n, I want you to be mine and to join me on my vacation. Will you please come with me to Greece?” he asks.

You reach up into his hair again and give it a gentle tug. He leans down to you, and you kiss him. Then turn your head to his ear and whisper, “Only if you promise to fuck me for an entire day on your boat, and then show me the sites all over the country.” you say. He groans at the thought of fucking you for an entire day on his boat. “Oh, Honey, we may need more than one day on my boat.” he teases. “Then I’ll join you, Love.” you tell him.

He beams and gives you a hug and picks you up and kisses you soundly. As the doors open, he carries you out of the elevator and over to your rooms. He unlocks his door and picks you up and carries you inside. Once he sets you down and flips on the light, he quickly closes and locks the door then turns and looks at you with a predatory look in his eyes.

You smirk and say, “If you tear this dress, I swear I won’t let you touch me for a week!” you warn. He growls, “Well then you had better hurry and get it off before I rip it off.” He replies with a growl. You reach behind your neck but can’t reach the zipper.

“Hen, come help with the zipper, I can’t reach it.” you ask in a sultry tone. He comes over and slowly unzips the zipper. The slow sound of it descending, makes goosebumps appear on your flesh. Henry lets the gown drop to the floor and pool at your feet. He kisses you from your shoulders, down your spine as his fingers caress your sides and when he reaches your ass, he gently bites each of your cheeks, then stands and wraps an arm around to your front and starts to caress your mound as he talks dirty in your ear.

You lean against him and moan as you feel yourself getting wet for him. His fingers spreading the wetness all over and you gasp as he slips two fingers into your aching pussy. You reach up with both hands and encircle his neck as he is bent over you. He hooks his fingers inside you, so he is gripping you by the front of your pubic bone. “Hang on, he growls in his Geralt tone, and he stands, keeping his fingers inside you firmly. You feel your feet lift off the floor as he stands, and you are literally hanging off of his neck. He walks over to the bed, whips off the top layers and tosses them on the floor, then lowers you onto the bed.

He is leaning over you, his fingers still inside you and your legs are dangling off the bed. He begins to fuck you with his fingers, and you moan loudly. He covers your mouth and rumbles in your ear that if you aren’t a good kitty and keep quiet, that he’s going to have to gag you and put a collar on you.

You try to keep quiet, but Henry is purposely hitting the spots inside you that make you cry out and moan like a whore. He smirks and with his other hand, slowly removes his cravat and then rumbles in your ear as he hovers over you, “Open your mouth, Kitten.”

You do and he reaches around you and stuffs the cravat into your mouth. The soft silk caressing your lips and tongue, the taste of his skin and sweat lingering in its fibers, release into your mouth as it becomes wet with your spit. Your sounds are muffled as Henry continues to slide his fingers in and out of your drenched hole and he adds more fingers until all four of his are inside you. Your muffled moans fill the room and are music to his ears.

He pulls his fingers out of you and you whimper. Henry grins and walks over to his suitcase and digs around for a moment. He pulls out a tie and comes back over as you roll onto your back and watch him. He takes your wrists and slowly starts to bind them together with the tie as you watch him with wide eyes.

He watches your face and sees a myriad of emotions flit across it. Fear, excitement, lust, love, trust. He kisses your fingers, sucking each one into his mouth and he twirls his tongue around each one, giving them love and attention. Then he kisses both the backs of your hands and your palms, then begins kissing his way up your left arm. Slow, gentle, kisses mixed with little flicks of his tongue, reminding you of little kitten kisses. Once he reaches your shoulder, he does the same with your right arm.

He lays your arms above your head and says, “Stay put.” as he gets off the bed and slowly undresses. Carefully putting his suit onto its hanger and into its garment bag. Then he hangs your dress from off the floor. He returns to you naked, and climbs onto the bed, straddling your legs. He leans down, pulls you up fully onto the bed, and begins to run his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp. Your eyes slip shut, and you enjoy the feeling of his massive, warm hands cradling your head. He removes the hair pins and accessories and begins to kiss every inch of your face with feather light kisses and little licks. Ever so slowly moving down your head to your neck, to which he does the same.

You giggle at how it tickles your neck. His hands still are in your hair but now massage the base of your skull. He begins to kiss and give little licks to every square inch of your chest and shoulders, your moans reverberating in your chest. Your hands ache to touch his back and you begin to lower them, but he catches them and says, “Stay Kitten.”

So, you leave them above your head. He goes back to kissing and licking your body. He lingers at your breasts and suckles them, enjoying the sounds he was getting out of you. You in turn, grin at his little grunts of pleasure as he suckles each of your pert, rosy nipples. Creating that deep pulling sensation that goes straight to the coiling spring in your core.

Finally, Henry moves on to worshipping your belly and his hands come down to continue giving your wonderful globes above it more attention. You’re trying not to squirm under his ministrations, but your pussy is wanting friction. His member gently hangs down and occasionally brushes against it as he worships you with his mouth and tongue and hands as he slowly lowers to the bed again.

“Someday, I hope you’ll let me put a little one in here.” he murmurs as he kisses your lower belly and gently rubs his cheek against it, inhaling your addictive scent of lavender and mint. “You’ll look gorgeous being pregnant with our kiddos.” he says seductively as he looks up at your face with his big, blue eyes.

You shiver and grin. He pulls the gag from your mouth. You swallow then say, “Shall I have the IUD removed?” you ask. “It’ll take a couple months for the hormones to work out of my body.” you tell him. He smiles, “Not yet, Love, I want to enjoy just the two of us for a while before we do the kid thing.” he replies and continues to kiss and lick down your left leg, making sure to get every inch he can reach. He purposefully neglects the sensitive crease between the junction of your thigh and your mound. He rests his curly head against your leg as he kisses and licks it. Enjoying the salty taste of your skin. When he reaches your ankle, he stops, removes your shoe, and gives you a wonderful foot massage, then massages the other foot in the same manner after removing its shoe.

The slow pace he has set as he worships every inch of the front of your body has every nerve ending firing and the slow burn of passion is agonizing for you. Your pussy is throbbing and aching for his attention, and you whine quietly. His gaze moves from your foot up to your face and he sees the want in your eyes. “Patience, Kitten, you’re doing wonderful. Soon I’ll give you what you want.” he promises and begins to kiss and lick his way slowly up your leg, getting every inch he can covered in his love for you.

Finally, he reaches those sensitive junctions where your legs meet your mound. He nuzzles your hair covering your mound and begins to lick and kiss the sensitive creases. Zig zagging his way left to right and right to left across it.

You’re a whimpering mess and he is grinning. His lips finally find your nub and he takes it in his mouth and gives it a gentle suck. You cry out and try to raise your hips, but his massive hands are holding your hips to the soft mattress. He knew it would drive you nuts and held you firmly down. He slowly licks each fold of the lips covering your cave. His hot tongue gliding across your wet, drenched folds. He watches as you come undone and cry out. Your whole body is trembling as you cum and he grins.

Henry begins to slowly lap at your entrance collecting your tangy nectar on his broad tongue. He hums in pleasure, sending waves of energy into your overstimulated and needy core. You whine and try to beg for more, but he stuffs the gag back in your mouth, which makes it impossible to communicate. He continues to lick and kiss the folds at your opening, occasionally sucking on your clit till you come again and again.

He takes his time, in no hurry. Bringing you repeatedly over the edge so he can just enjoy the wonderful sounds you make and give him the wonderfully addicting nectar he so desperately loves to taste. After what felt like hours to you, he pauses and gets up. He heads to the coffee station and opens one of the cups, pulling it from the plastic. He goes to the bathroom, fills it with cold water and comes back to the bed.

Gently he sits you up and removes the gag from your mouth. “Here, drink.” he says quietly as he holds you against him. You drink greedily and he smiles. “You’re such a good Kitten.” he tells you and kisses your forehead. “Are you ready for more?” he asks. You nod. “Use your words, Love.” he tells you softly.

“Yes, please.” you beg with pleading eyes. He grins and nods. “Lay back, Love.” he says as he helps you to lay down again. He leans over and gives your mouth a long, sensual kiss, invading your mouth and learning all it’s secrets as he tastes the chocolates you had eaten earlier and tasted the champagne you had drank at the after party. His ministrations with your mouth were leaving you moaning and wanting to be filled with him once more. You wanted it so bad you were nearly in tears.

He moves to straddle your body again and begins to lower his body onto yours. Just so it lightly touches. His member is hard, and he begins to slowly rub it against your throbbing entrance. You both let out a low, rumbling moan and he lowers his head to yours, resting his forehead on yours. The two of you share breaths and kisses as he lines his member up with your entrance, which is drenched. The hooded head of his cock rubs against your opening, making you moan into his mouth as he kisses you again.

Ever so slowly he begins to enter you, inch by agonizing inch he slowly pushes in. Taking his time and groaning with the effort as he refuses to give into the desire to take you hard and fast. He wants this to last for as long as he can make it happen.

Your body arches up into his and tears slip from your eyes as he fills and stretches you ever so slowly. You feel every inch of him, every ridge, every bump, the long, thick tendon at the underside of his meaty girth. The pleasure of him slowly sinking into you outweighing the pain of his girth stretching you to the max.

Henry kisses away the tears and finally bottoms out in you. You both groan at the feeling of finally being fully and completely connected. You both just pause and relish the feeling. He knows you love the feeling of finally being so completely filled by him that you feel whole. He lets you enjoy it as he kisses your neck and shoulders, your bodies tangled together, embracing each other as your hands trace his curves and ridges as best you can with bound hands. His hands freely roaming yours.

Eventually you want him to move and begin to move your hips. He takes it as your sign and begins to ever so slowly pull out of you until just the head of his kraken is left inside you. He knows you’re aching to touch him and with your hands bound it will be limited. He grins.

With the same slowness he begins to push back into you, and you let out a moan that nearly snaps his resolve. Your eyes roll back into your head, your mouth forming an ‘o’, and your head tilts back as your eyes close. He takes your bound arms and raises them over his head, so they form a loop around his neck. He massages them one at a time as he continues to slowly push in and out of you with an agonizingly slow pace.

Your pussy is repeatedly filled then emptied of his girth and you’re writhing, your body wanting more, faster, and Henry refusing to give it to you. Your eyes water in frustration, and you beg him for more, and faster. “Soon, Kitten.” is all he says, and he kisses you. His mouth nestling at your ear, and he nibbles your earlobe as he whispers all the kinky things, he wants to do with you once you two reach Greece. It’s igniting the fire inside you and your body begins to burn with desire. Your moans get louder and more seductive sounding.

Henry knows you’re getting desperate, he knows your body wants it hard and fast, and when he gives it to you the way you want, neither of you will last long. He feels your body heating up and he slowly increases the pace. Agonizingly slowly.

He continues to murmur in your ear between nibbles and marking your neck with his love bites and hickeys, slowly driving your desire to a higher and higher pitch. Your eyes continue to shed tears and he continues to kiss them away with promises of ‘Soon’.

Just when he gets into a faster rhythm, that begins to slake your raging thirst for him, he picks up the pace even more. Your fingers are snaking across his back the little bit you can reach. As he picks up the pace, his grunts and growls get louder and more demanding, his moans lower and more rumbling. His hands grip you tighter.

Finally, his pace reaches a feverish pitch, you both are sooooo close to the edge. Yet neither of you are able to tip over it just yet. He grunts and arches his back and feels your clit rubbing against his pubic bone. You suddenly yank on his neck and pull him against you as you feel the coil begin to snap in you and he grips you tightly as he feels your fingers grab the hair at the back of his head and you clench around his girth inside you tightly, almost painfully. Your whole body shakes with the force the orgasm hits you with. He tries to thrust a few more times and suddenly he roars, “Oh God, Kitten!” and comes equally as hard, seeing white as he pulsates and explodes into your tight, hot cavern.

You both are panting heavily, and he collapses on top of you, unable to withstand the force the orgasm hits him with. He isn’t sure if you passed out, but neither of you are able to move. Your bodies suddenly feel like lead. Panting, his head rests against your chest. He can feel your heart pounding and is certain you can feel his doing the same. You both lay there basking in the afterglow of the hardest hitting orgasm either of you have ever had.

#very good friends #henry cavill #reader oc #kitten and the bear #post red carpet #angst with a happy ending #jealousy #smut and fluff #sexy times #the big o

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