#also for the record yennefer had nothing to do with this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

idahofallshq · 2 years

Photo

it's so exciting to see a character who thrives on antagonism as much as anso does! in a world that has created thousands of monsters, we are very much looking forward to how anso’s brand of malice will affect those around him. and with a track record like his, of following awful people and doing awful things, we wonder what sort of damage anso could inflict during this tug-of-war, with yennefer pulling on one wrist, and alexei pulling on the other.

welcome to idaho falls, anso sommers! please make sure to complete the accepted checklist so we can invite you to our servers. we can’t wait to start writing with you!

OOC.

name: kris

age: 25

pronouns: she/her/hers

timezone: cst

previous roleplay blog: redacted

triggers: redacted

wanted connection?: n/a

IC.

name: anso sommers

gender & pronouns: cis man, he/him/his

faceclaim: ed skrein

age & birthdate: 40, 12th november 2004.

occupation: soldier (undercover grizzly general)

immunity: not immune

skills.

mixed martial arts trained in various forms of martial arts by his father from an early age, anso is highly skilled in most forms of physical combat and specifically, various disciplines of mixed martial arts. his primary fighting style contains heavy lethwei, muy thai, and karate influences, though he is trained in a mixture of multiple others. anso doesn’t necessarily fight fair; he is brutal and reckless, in addition to being well trained. he makes for a deadly opponent.

free running proficiency this started off more as a hobby that anso and his brother enjoyed; making fun out of what their environment had to offer them which was not much. it played well with the physicality that ruled much of anso’s early childhood and beyond. the dexterity it granted him also went well with the training he endured and this is something he has incorporated into his combat style and overall skill set. this also adds to his dexterity as an opponent – he is limber, adaptable to his surroundings, clocks how to use the lay of the land against his opponent in addition to his more formalized combat training. perhaps he’s gotten in trouble a few times, once he’s garnered some weak form of immunity at the falls due to his promised wyoming knowledge; he can be found scaling the perimeter walls and topography beyond during patrols.

wyoming militia knowledge there are sanitized trade secrets anso can share about his knowledge of the grizzlies. knowing this would be an integral part of sending another inside agent to idaho falls, there are agreed half-truths anso has been told to deploy to keep alexei and his loyalists hooked and to keep anso valuable to them. it’s a dangerous line to tip toe, as these half truths are the very thing ensuring anso’s cover doesn’t get blow. can he keep his lies straight?

positive traits.

adaptable: anso is nothing if not adaptable. it has been a matter of survival for him. adaptation was required to survive his father’s training and their early missions. adaptation was essential for it promised a safety not much else provided to anso. adapting to be the perfectly trained son and soldier meant surviving his father and all that lay beyond for them in their journeys through no man’s land. it was hard coded into him at a young age and is what makes him peskily hard to shake off a trail. in a more practical sense, he also has the more applicable survival skills needed to physically and readily adapt to survive any surroundings.

undogmatic: anso is as faithless as it comes. he will never subscribe to dogma. there is no moral code, no prescription of leadership that speaks to him. he is wild and ruly to start. what he lacks for in belief, though, he makes up for in making gods out of those he follows. his complex relationship with his father has led to an irrevocably twisted understanding of authority. anso will always find someone to believe in, to follow (he is a follower at heart, best at being commanded than doing any commanding), but he has no set of codes that otherwise bind him. his lack of belief in systems and thus set faith in people is also what makes him loyal in the ways that he is.

daring: anso is wild and unruly by nature. there is not much he fears, or would admit to fearing. fear feels to adjacent to thrill for him, and he is likely to run headfirst into whatever evokes either out of him. this recklessness adds to his ruthlessness. though he is not infallible, he wars like he is. this makes him a good resource to command and a dangerous opponent to have.

negative traits.

brutal: anso is ruthless and absolutely brutal in most all aspects of his personality. though most applicable to his style of combat, his brutality also applies to the way he views the world and the decisions that he makes. he respects cruelty in others as well and flocks to where he sees this behavior amongst others. anso is unforgiving with it, finds some level of joy in it. at some deep seated level, perhaps his violence is an answer to the violence inflicted upon him. though, anso will never call himself a victim; the trauma too buried for him to acknowledge or claim. he chooses to believe this to be more his executioner’s tool in a dog eat dog world.

faithless: hand in hand with the rejection of dogma above, anso’s faithlessness is a double edged sword. he can’t be tied down to broken systems or codes, but his lack of faith is what makes him wildly untrustworthy. he sees no rhyme and reason to the violence and so he chooses to revel in it. he sees no rhyme or reason for victimhood, so he chooses to make victims of his own. while what faith (dog-gone loyalty, if you will) he doesn’t put in things, he puts in people – his faithlessness is also what makes his vicious loyalty relatively easy to sway. dogma is untenable, gods can be replaced – gods can be renamed.

malicious: in addition to his brutality, anso is vindictive and malicious. he fights dirty not because he thinks he needs the advantage but because he wants to inflict more harm. he picks and festers because he like to see how much he can make a wound bleed. there is a greed in him for the unsavory and for the worst, and it makes him malicious. it gives an uneasiness to his presence, as if he’s cataloguing the ways he can gut you but choosing instead to toy with you now.

biography. (abuse tw, violence tw, death tw)

2004 - 2013 (birth place, joint base lewis-mcchord, wa) anso is born to cordelia and arthur sommers on-site at the join base lewis-mcchord in washington. the only world anso knows before the infection is one on this military base. his father is a green beret, high ranking in the military. it means his hours are long, and anso spends the early years of his childhood almost solely with his mother. they make a life on this base, contained and sheltered from the chaos that befalls the world outside. in these early years, there are only glimpses of his father’s anger and of his parent’s unhappy marriage that anso catches. but he is a child, and children learn to make sense of the world as they see it.

when the infection hits critical mass in 2013, his father is one of the first generals to be assigned to the seattle qz. the sommers are amongst the first few to transfer to the seattle qz.

2013 - 2029 (FEDRA run seattle qz) life at the seattle qz feels a lot like life at the military base in the earlier years. his father isn’t around much, and the silence seeps into their home the same time the warmth seeps out. a pregnancy isn’t what’s needed to save an already doomed marriage, but it’s the sommers resorted fate. anso is 10 years old when he becomes a brother to elias sommers. brotherhood, however, is unbecoming on anso, who only sees in elias the shortcomings of everything he couldn’t be for the family. elias’ arrival breathes life into his mother who becomes more and more distant with a baby to raise. anso finds himself, more often than not, feeling like an outsider looking in with no words to ask his mother to see him again. and though elias and anso are brothers in name, anso never does let go of his resentment towards the other. it’s the hand of this maker that drives him to his father.

bonding with his father comes in the form of backyard training sessions. the sommers already have a son in elias, but his father makes a soldier out of anso. when he outgrows the training sessions, there are FEDRA sanctioned programs that turn into FEDRA sanctioned training, for him to attend. anso grows from a child to a man because he has to. this is what survival looks like, for him. his father is demanding, cruel because of it. but anso learns how to take a hit as well as he learns how to take orders. he finds freedom in it, excels in it. he is the son of a high ranking FEDRA general, but he rises through the ranks on his own merits. he finds avenues for his brutality, here; where he can turn the fury molten in his bones at the hands of his father’s wrath and unload that onto others. his resentment at his mother and elias only grows over the years as he is constantly called upon and rises to the cruelty of his father, while they live mirror lives – those that don’t have anso or his pain it.

the sommers see the fall of FEDRA coming from the inside in, though they remain loyal to the FEDRA till the last day. skirmishes with the WLF turn into losing battles, and there come the days when the loyalty stops meaning anything. the sommers plan to make their escape knowing what would happen to the remaining FEDRA loyalists were they to try to stick out the losing stronghold. his father catches wind of when the next major attack from the Wolves is to be, and they plan to make their escape a few nights before that under the cover of a new moon. they make the preparations but don’t get the time to use them. the attack is an ambush and it comes days earlier than planned. the rush of the escape separates the sommers, anso leaves with his mother heading east out of state as planned, leaving his father and his brother behind.

2029 - 2034 (washington > montana) his mother is but a stranger to him and that doesn’t change in their travels. they survive and they survive well. his mother is a liability, but anso is trained. it’s at the border between washington and montana where they meet the Ophites, a guerilla group running under the influence of what they call a council. anso sees them for what they are, a few too unruly egos running wild; but, he recognizes there’s power in numbers. the group is too small to be a faction when the sommers join them, but they grow in numbers along their trek through montana.

there is no rhyme or reason to the chaos and destruction the Ophites chart along their path, though anso does not need one. he finds comfort in the violence, is steadfast in its deliverance. if his mother was a stranger to him before, they grow more estranged as their travels continue. she had never had a stomach for the kind of violence anso’s hands knew, and and anso had long run out of the words needed to ask her to try to do so. the Ophites rag-tag travels littered with blood lead them to st. helena’s (formerly, helena, MT). the town is somewhat picturesque in a time where their world is not. the initial dalliance between the Ophites and this community comes under shrouded claims of peace, though the kind of chaos the group harbors is surely not to be contained. as the Ophites plan their attack to bring down the town, cordelia decides she wants to stay and implores her son to join her. but his sonhood is something she lost her rights to years ago, anso thinks, and tells her as much. he says he won’t protect her if she decides to do this; when the Ophites take the town, he doesn’t. cordelia sommers is considered MIA when st. helena’s falls, and anso presumes if the raid didn’t take her, the wild would have.

2034 - 2036 (WLF run seattle zone) the Ophites’ bloodlust doesn’t end there, of course – running high on the adrenaline of taking down a town, they continue their rampage back towards seattle. anso tells them the Wolves will make a worthy next opponent; if they’re looking for blood to shed, there will be more in seattle with the WLF.

the freedom of the hunt only breeds his brutality, and anso revels in it. there’s not as much in terms of hunting on their journey back to seattle, but they make slim pickings of whatever rag tag survivors and infected they find. when they find their way back to the now WLF run seattle qz, their initial encounters are cautious. the Ophites were never good at diplomacy, though, and when it’s apparent they’re looking for trouble, the Ophites and WLF take up guns against each other in earnest. the Ophites are gravely outnumbered and don’t have the resources to match the Wovles, so the resistance doesn’t last long. it is here where anso is reunited with his father and brother, and where he learns that they have since joined the WLF ranks. survival can be this too, it seems.

it’s not the reunion anso imagined, one at the ends of the barrels of guns. his father asks anso to join him – the return of the prodigal son – but anso has long traded the chains his father had on him for the freedom his bloodlust culls. he sees elias, his brother, by his father’s side – he doesn’t fit right, can’t seem to know how to hold a gun yet still though anso has to imagine he’s had to have had practice – and all he sees is all the ways in which he was replaced, yet again. there is nothing sacred, there, anso finds. he has always been the son who could be replaced. he makes a better soldier, he’s come to find. when he shoots his father dead in the middle of a shootout, he could claim it wasn’t personal – but of the many things anso is, a liar is not one of them. elias doesn’t deserve his mercy, but anso imagines if he doesn’t kill him – the wild will. elias was never built to survive, not like anso was. there’s a pointed gun, a fire in his eyes that shines the wrong shade of red when he tells elias to run and promises him that if they ever cross paths again, it would be elias who’d end up dead with a bullet in his head next.

when anso leaves seattle this time around, it is on his own.

2036 - 2044 (wyoming militia base) his travels take him beyond montana this time, though the path is no less bloody. it’s somewhere in north-most wyoming where he gets picked up by some grizzlies, rounded up and packed tight in the back of a filthy truck as they make the journey to fremont lake. he’s a rabid dog tamed only because he’s tied down, outmanned. when they release him on grizzly grounds, anso finds himself, for the first time, at a place that he may be able to call close ot home.

he’s put into the pits. in fact, he volunteers for it. there’s no mistaking the enjoyment he gets from it. anso’s already bred the brutality that breathes life into him here. it makes him feral, it makes him dangerous – entertaining. he rises through the ranks, doesn’t leave the pits until he’s commanded to. he prefers the bloodshed, you see; the only thing he prefers more is yennefer. every dog needs a loyal owner, and anso finds his in yennefer. their brutality, crudenes – anso finds them to be a revelation. when yen calls, he answers. over the course of the eight years at the grizzly base came, anso rises through to become one of yen’s trusted generals. he views him with a reverence that is irrevocable. even monsters need their gods.

2044 - present day (idaho falls qz) when yen decides to send grizzly spies to idaho falls, yen’s loyal wardog is one of the few picked. they tell him to go shake up the roots on base and bring back the heads of those that betrayed her, and so anso promises to do so. as yen wishes, that they should get. anso plans to make sure of that.

arcs.

the defection: anso looks to make his gods out of monsters; what does that mean now that he’s under alexei’s thumb and not yen’s? i think with enough time and sway, i could see anso’s loyalties defecting to him. perhaps alexei is growing wary of the whispers of dissent along the qz grounds and wants someone to be his strongfront on the base lines. maybe alexei sees in anso what yen likely did – someone willing to be at his beck and call as long as it came with the promise of bloodshed. while the reverence anso holds for yen can likely not be dissuaded, i think his loyalties surely can be.

the uprising: in a world where his loyalties aren’t bought, anso will make the perfect inside man for yen and the grizzlies. trading washed through, sanitized secrets; spreading whispers of unrest, dissent; digging dirtied claws into the little cracks taking hold in idaho falls – all while he waits for the call from yen that would suggest the oncoming strike. anso has no skin in this game, or any other, for that matter. he’s invaluable because he operates as if he’s infallible. the frankness of it makes his ultimate motives, of those as a grizzly spy, hard to detect. if there was ever a path in the future where idaho falls was to fall at the hands of the grizzlies, anso would make sure to pay his dues for that in blood for yen.

misc tidbits

anso is fluent in english, spanish, farsi, and russian. language training had been included as part of the additional training his father put him through.

anso already had a serious kill count under his belt by the time he was 25. his patrolling duties at the FEDRA run seattle qz had seen him through the killing of plenty infected and dissenting humans.

one of anso’s prized possessions is a metal lighter embossed with the design of a snake. he found it off of a rotting carcass in the wild, but anso keeps it as an homage to his time with the Ophites

extras.

pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/pomiifer/dogs-of-war/

#accepted.

0 notes

jaskiersvalley · 4 years

Note

I absolutely love your writing!! It's so very enjoyable and your au's are absolutely delightful. I just thought you should know.

Thank you so much, Nonnie! AUs are something I really enjoy and to hear that others find them fun makes me so very happy. As a little thank you, here’s another AU feat Kaer Morhen Radio and a Jaskier driving an 18 wheeler.

Life was a lonely one on the road. There were many acquaintances and other drivers Jaskier had a passing friendship with, Valdo Marx had the annoying habit of having similar routes to him - they did say mimicry was the highest form of compliment. Alas, nobody was a steady presence in Jaskier’s life. Well, nobody who was aware of him. Though there was the Kaer Morhen Radio family. They were the closest Jaskier had to everyday friends, as sad as that sounded.

“Good morning fuckheads.” Such a declaration could only mean it was 6am and Lambert had taken over. Instinctively, Jaskier was smiling as he sat up with a yawn. Most radio stations liked to gently rouse listeners with swelling music that got more up beat as the day went on. Not Kaer Morhen Radio. They had Lambert as their morning DJ, there to wake sensitive ears in more and more creative ways. He had become known for his unique way to wake listeners up; from bringing in pots to bang to trying to imitate the mating call of a moose at full volume. The only thing listeners loved more than Lambert being a general prick was his flirtation with Aiden who did weather and traffic announcements.

“And, in those four famous words: and now, the weather,” Lambert announced gleefully. After a long moment of silence, he snickered. “We shall have to give Aiden a moment to climb out from under the desk and rinse his mouth. In the mean time, here’s a banger.”

The banger, Jaskier was surprised to find, was quite literally a recording of someone (possibly Lambert) attempting to play drums (badly) on some kitchen pots. By the time the piece reached its rather boisterous end, it seemed that Aiden was no longer preoccupied.

“The weather today-” Jaskier tuned Aiden’s words out in favour of figuring out whether he was messing around or whether he really did sound so husky and gravelly thanks to having his throat fucked. It was quite the conundrum and Jaskier spent the start of his morning drive wondering how many complaints Lambert and Aiden will get now. Their record was 36 for the game of “identify that noise” wherein they stuck their fingers in various containers and made them squelch. To that day, nobody knew whether the last one really was, in Lambert’s words, “Aiden’s well used hole and my come”.

Afternoons were much more peaceful. Eskel took over at 2pm and he was laid back, played soothing music and gave the impression of being a very calm and reliable member of society. Jaskier always maintained it was an impression because, among all the chat, Eskel would sometimes drop a strange little fact that made him do a double take or two.

“This next song,” Eskel had once said, “was written while under the influence of cocaine.” It was a reasonable enough fact to share, Jaskier had been listening while stuck in a traffic jam along a motorway. “How they managed to write it though, I have no idea. Cocaine is terrible for your focus, I could barely scratch an itch before being distracted by something else. So kudos to the writers for creating a whole song while off their face.”

Which was something Jaskier had never thought Eskel would know anything about. He always seemed to demure, the solid rock of Kaer Morhen Radio. He balanced out Yennefer’s news updates perfectly. It was probably why Jaskier liked him so much, now that he thought of it. The surface innocence mixed in with hints of a very colourful life lived beneath the steady exterior. Well, hints other than the incident where Eskel somehow managed to not turn his microphone off and had a conversation about going to a rave with someone who worked at the radio station. Nobody knew the man’s name and his answers were half muffled but listeners swore they heard him suggest something along the lines of a collar and leash - which Eskel had hummed in agreement to, sounding all too happy. When questioned, Eskel resolutely refused to name the mystery man but conceded that there had been a rave. Jury was out whether Eskel had grumbled about being ‘in ecstasy’ or ‘on ecstasy’ for it. And there was definitely a picture of floating around the internet of him in a collar at what definitely looked like an underground rave.

The real reason Jaskier listened to Kaer Morhen Radio was the late night DJ. 10pm on the dot, Eskel would flick the switch and a prerecorded intro played, announcing that it was Late Late Nights with Geralt. Between 10pm and 6am, Geralt manned the station. The only reason Jaskier knew his name was because of the intro. Otherwise the man was silent other than a few hums between songs. Sometimes, presumably when he knocked something over, there would be a growled “fuck” that listeners lived for.

As little as Geralt said, Jaskier was in love. The music was eclectic and death metal could be followed up by electro swing or grime. There was to way to predict just what Geralt would play next, he didn’t take requests, didn’t talk to his listeners. But, somehow, he still drew them in. Jaskier had made the mistake of looking Geralt up online and swooned a little at the few pictures available. It seemed Geralt was an elusive man, somehow managing to turn away from cameras with an uncanny ability. Though a few pictures did exist of Lambert and Eskel on either side of him, quite literally holding him down for a photo.

Truthfully, Geralt was one of the main reasons Jaskier chose to do overnight hauls. Not only did they pay better, he also had Geralt’s nonverbal grunts and hmms to look forward to. He was well aware that it was an infatuation and nothing more. He’d never met Geralt before, Geralt wasn’t even aware of his existence. So, really, Jaskier could daydream all he wanted but had no intention of doing anything more.

Except, Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder. Geralt had such range in his musical taste, maybe he would like what Jaskier wrote. It was a rare night off and Jaskier was well into the bottle with Valdo when they got talking, egging each other on about who was the better musician. It ended with Jaskier drunkenly posting a CD of his music to Kaer Morhen Radio, addressed for Geralt. When he woke up in the morning, on the floor next to his couch which was occupied by Valdo, Jaskier groaned.

Thankfully, there was never a mention or even a single note of his music in the next week. Slowly, Jaskier relaxed, only a little disappointed that his music hadn’t even been acknowledged by Geralt. He almost had a heart attack when eight days later, Lambert came on air with a mad cackle.

“Morning fuckheads!” Lambert sounded more cheery than ever before. “You’ll never guess what I found. Geralt has been hoarding new music. Good music. Said it was for him. Well, I have decided he cannot hold this back from us. If you’re listening, Jaskier, your note was hilarious. I hope your hangover was worth it. Thanks for the CD!”

There was a growl that sounded like Geralt storming into the booth but the microphone was cut and Jaskier’s song started playing. Jaskier almost crashed his truck in shock. Especially when Lambert declared it so good, they would play it again and, sure enough, the song went back to the beginning to play twice in a row.

If it had just been Lambert, Jaskier would have quietly died of shame, accepting that he was being mocked. But Eskel got in on it too. That afternoon he introduced Jaskier’s song with the promise that management were looking into getting in touch with him about the music. Even worse, a listener even requested the song later that evening. Jaskier was both in heaven and hell at the same time. That night, Geralt didn’t play his song and Jaskier was only a little disappointed.

His phone rang the next day.

“Good afternoon, my name is Vesemir, I’m calling from Kaer Morhen Radio. May I speak to Jaskier?”

Jaskier promptly choked. He got an invitation to the studio. It was a good seven days of driving away and Jaskier searched for a contract that would take him across the continent. While he drove, he got a bit braver and started e-mailing the radio station on his breaks.

His written request for songs were acknowledged by a hum and the song coming on next. When he asked Geralt for a shout out, he got obnoxious pop music playing instead. So Jaskier asked for two hums if Geralt wanted to meet and three if he didn’t. Thus, there was a “fuck” on air and the Beauty and the Beast theme song started playing. It was safe to say Jaskier didn’t understand it but he wasn’t deterred.

By the time Jaskier got into town and made his delivery, it was almost 6am. There was no time he had been specifically invited for and he ended up approaching the building at the same time Lambert showed up with Aiden and three large cups of coffee in hand.

“Excuse me,” he called out, “I’m here to see Vesemir.”

“Bit early for that.”

“He never gave me a time so I figured an early start would be appreciated.” It wasn’t exactly a lie but Jaskier kind of wanted to meet Geralt who would be finishing up soon.

For some bizarre reason, Jaskier was led into the radio studio, no questions asked. Surely it was a security issue but then again, Jaskier checked out Lambert and Aiden, they would no doubt be able to handle any issues. Then there was Geralt, stepping out of the booth, Lambert’s intro queued up. He froze when he spotted Jaskier and, curiously, glanced away, seemingly all shy. The curious response was explained away all too soon. There, on the wall, was Jaskier’s CD and a polaroid of him and Valdo, helpfully labeled “The Talent” with an arrow to Jaskier and “The Fake” pointing at Valdo.

“You here for Vesemir?” Geralt asked eventually, sipping at one of the cups Lambert had brought.

“Amongst other things,” Jaskier replied.

“He won’t be here until 10. Why don’t we go grab breakfast while you wait?”

Aiden wolf whistled at that and Lambert whooped, arms in the air.

“My dear fuckheads,” he purred into the microphone, “we have a date between our local cryptid and our mystery siren. Please wish them luck.”

It turned out that, in person, Geralt was a bit more talkative than on air. And Jaskier helped fill any silence without any problems. He ended up being later than planned to meet Vesemir and Tissaia who had a very handsome cheque for him for playing his music and also his phone number with the promise of passing it on to some connections who had expressed an interest in his music.

Never before had Jaskier thought he would thank Valdo Marx for anything. But, one drinking session with him had landed Jaskier with not only a contract with a record label but also a boyfriend. With his first pay, Jaskier send Valdo the biggest bouquet of flowers humanly possible.

#geraskier #laiden #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #aiden #eskel #radio au #long post #tldr: jaskier drives a truck while geralt is a dj

296 notes · View notes

peaktotheocean · 2 years

Text

catchy

pairing: jaskier/lambert notes: written for flashfic 45 summary:

Lambert brings Jaskier to the farmer’s market.

It’s all downhill from there.

Jaskier normally had gigs on Friday nights. As much as Lambert loved seeing his partner perform, Saturday mornings were prime farmer’s market hours which meant Jaskier got home around the same time Lambert was preparing to head to the farm to help Geralt pack up.

He and his brothers had their system down to an exact science [most of the time]. Vesemir might have started what became their family farm a few decades prior but all his sons had stepped in with gusto [or eventual gusto in Lambert’s case] as they grew older.

On Saturdays, Eskel handled the cheeses. From molded goat cheeses and aged rounds to the metal vat of floating mozzarella balls he stirred with a wooden paddle every once in a while. Not to mention the occasional raw milk sale to the adventurous type who desperately wanted to attempt their own mozzarella.

Lambert’s eldest brother hadn’t yet laughed in the face of a confident-turned-sheepish customer who followed up a raw milk purchase with a mozzarella order a week later. Wouldn’t do much for sales if he had, but Lambert saw Eskel tempted plenty of times.

Geralt was in charge of the meats.

No, not like that. Not if his wife had anything to say about it.

But more and more people wanted their meat, whether poultry, beef, or otherwise, right from the source and to know the animals were treated well, at least up until their slaughter. And Geralt provided that service with a smile [most of the time].

Yennefer took advantage of the trend too. Not just for the meats but all the products from the farm. She worked with smaller shops and local suppliers to get their farm label into stores and restaurants, not just at outdoor markets. She also got them a website for online preorders so occasionally, Geralt didn’t even have to talk to customers. All he had to do was take a look at their order number, open the big freezer chest, and hand over the packaged meat.

While growing up on the farm, Lambert never imagined staying there. The grumpy teenager he used to be wanted nothing much to do with livestock or his family.

Adult Lambert was still a grumpy bastard, don’t him wrong. But what he and his brothers built out of Vesemir’s dream? Successful in-demand products? Working with his brothers?Waking up to Jaskier in his bed every day? He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And yes, perhaps he was a bit less grumpy now with Jaskier by his side. Not that he hadn't mellowed a bit regardless as he grew older, but certainly meeting the musician playing at Geralt and Yennefer's wedding had helped.

Lambert knows he's monopolizing the guitarist’s time [Jaskier, he reminds himself, Jaskier's time], but he can't help himself. And if the way Jaskier is leaning into him is any indication, he doesn't seem to mind much.

His eyes flick away just for a second, to the dance floor. There’s an older couple dancing to the pre-recorded track but beyond that, it’s empty, most guests opting to refresh their drinks during the band’s break. Lambert tries and fails not to picture himself leading Jaskier out onto the floor, holding him close, and swaying to the music.

When he looks back, Jaskier’s eyes are soft and it’s like the man just read Lambert’s mind.

"Darling, my break is only fifteen minutes. I'd love to dance with you but your sister--"

"Sister-in-law," Lambert corrects him, though he supposes that Yennefer is kind of his sister at this point. That’s how weddings work, right?

"Right then. Your sister-in-law will have my non-existent balls if she doesn't get all the music she's paid for."

He's right. Yennefer might be as close to marital bliss as possible for her and Geralt [which really just means they've been trying to escape for a quickie for the past half hour] but Jaskier's read on her is accurate.

Even in his fuzzy dance floor fantasy, Lambert isn’t surprised when she comes back through the hall to demand extra time from the band in exchange for however long Lambert wants to spend with Jaskier in his arms. Which right now...is a long time.

"Tomorrow?"

"It's a date."

While Eskel handled the dairy and Geralt managed the butchery, Lambert usually took care of the egg sales.

They offered quail, chicken, and duck eggs. Occasionally a few ostrich eggs when he could convince his friends over at Cranes to let him hawk a few. Not many buyers but the huge eggs certainly grabbed attention of people walking around. And once Lambert drew them in, he rarely had anyone leave without carrying a dozen eggs off with them.

The point was that it was rare for Jaskier to be attendance for a Saturday morning farmer’s market unless he showed up around noon with coffee and pastries for everyone.

So Lambert supposed that his first mistake was bringing Jaskier to the farmer’s market. The second was leaving him alone at the table for an extended period of time.

Long enough for Jaskier to take the very few eggs that had broken in transit and make some kind of twisted sculpture. Where had he even gotten string? Was that butcher’s twine? Geralt was an instigator and Lambert fully intended on enacting revenge at some point..

His mad boyfriend had set the some of the smaller quail eggs inside the empty chicken and duck eggs as well, hanging them off a wicker arch in what certainly must read as a warning to all poultry.

“What the fuck?” Lambert managed to get out before remembering just where he was. All of Vesemir’s boys have gotten official warnings from the farmer’s market board about their swearing but they’ve yet to even attempt to ban them. Still, he doesn’t want to tempt fate.

Jaskier looked up from his book and smiled at brightly at just seeing Lambert that he almost forgot why he cursed in the first place. His partner’s smile turned into a sneaky smirk and Lambert quickly remembered.

“I thought we needed a catchy display,” Jaskier said calmly. He stuck his phone in the book as a placeholder and slid it onto the table behind the mountains of eggs and his “catchy display.”

“But why? It’s just the egg table.” Lambert rubbed against his temple.

“Yes, but there was nothing to showcase the eggs.” Jaskier was clearly trying to hide a bigger smile while Lambert attempted not to pull his hair out. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tackle Jaskier to the ground in general or to kiss him senseless. It often was a tough decision.

“It’s a farmer’s market, not a craft show.” Lambert caught the eye of an older woman who was a regular and a mask fell over his face. A bland smile and a nod hello that very much said that he wasn’t at all exasperated with his partner.

Jaskier, the bastard, just kept going. “It’s a bit like a craft show!” He insisted, delighted that Lambert played along with him. “You made things and now you’re selling them.”

“I didn’t make these eggs,” Lambert reminded him which gained him such a leer that he wished he was behind the table to adjust his pants.

“No,” Jaskier murmured thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed. “I suppose you didn’t.”

Before their banter could escalate into either shouting or PDA, little Ciri came skipping up to the egg table.

“Uncle Lambert!” She squealed at a range that should be illegal before 10AM. “Do you like the display I made you!”

Lambert’s head shot up but it was too late, Jaskier was holding his book up in front of his face in order to laugh without his niece seeing it.

“It’s wonderful, princess.” Lambert swallowed. “Very…inventive.”

“What’s in-ven-tive?” Ciri sounded out as she wandered the perimeter of the table, peeking at each egg as though it perhaps would magically hatch. Jaskier saw his opportunity to herd her away from anymore breakable items and did just that, leaving the table’s chair vacant for Lambert to gaze at longingly.

“It means that people will be so captivated by your art that they’ll be drawn in!” Jaskier motioned to the slowly increasing crowd entering the market’s field. “They’ll be so compelled to stop at our table and once they’re here, they won’t be leaving without eggs.”

Ciri’s eyes shone brightly, captivated by her uncle’s explanation. She came around and hung off of his waist even as he gesticulated.

“Now Lambert…” Jaskier started, too sweetly, and mildly threatening. By god, Lambert loved this man. “You were saying something about the display?”

Lambert reminded himself how much he loved the two people in front of him. And how Yennefer and Geralt would eviscerate him if he made their little girl cry.

“Just how marvelous it is,” he told her, hands on his knees and leaning towards her.

There was that squeal again and Lambert shook his head. Ciri took the opportunity to rush around and admire her art again while Lambert grabbed Jaskier’s waist.

“You absolute twat,” he whispered into Jaskier’s ear, punctuated it with a kiss.

“I know you are, but what am I,” Jaskier teased. Two could play that game.

“I’ll show you after we pack up for the day.”

“Promises, promises.”

From the front of the table, Ciri looked up and announced, “Uncle Jask, I’m hungry.”

“Well, we certainly cannot have that.” Jaskier unwound himself from Lambert’s arms, kissing him as an apology and a promise both in one. He snagged his phone off the table and stuck in his back pocket. “We simply must go forage for sustenance. I’m thinking breakfast sandwiches, sweetness. How does that sound?”

“Yes please!”

“Darling, would you like one?” Jaskier called over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” Lambert grumbled with a sigh. Jaskier kissed him on the cheek one last time and sauntered off, Ciri in tow, still chattering.

Lambert lets himself flop down into the chair and watches them both go, right through the hole in Ciri’s monstrous egg sculpture.

By god, he did love his life.

on ao3 here

#jaskier x lambert #bombard #this is my fic tag

6 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 3 years

Text

counting my way back to you.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Also on AO3

3113 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply

Complete

It is not easy to make a Fae lose count.

It does not take much for a Witcher to worry.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

It is not easy to make a Fae lose count. People say that, once you enter the immortal world, there is no way of knowing what time it is when you step back out. Jaskier had always found that foolish blabber, of course. It was a simple calculation: just keep count of the number of seconds you are in the Fae world, divide or multiply that by the number of stars in the sky when you enter - depending on the number of grass blades in the fairy circle you entered through - subtract the number of heartbeats it takes between entering the Fae world and touching a snowbell and voilà, that's how many milliseconds have passed in the world mortals know. A simple calculation, really. But it did not take long for Jaskier to realise that foolish mortals are easily distracted, it takes much more for a Fae to stop counting. It takes much more, but it is possible.

It does not take much for a Witcher to worry. Or, well, it does not take much for Geralt to worry when Jaskier’s concerned. To know your closest friend, soulmate, better half, husband, whatever you wanted to call it, is perfectly able to handle himself is something completely different than actually feeling it. If only the rational part of his brain listened to his emotions. Geralt sighed as he looked around him one last time. They had agreed to meet here, one damn week ago. And Jaskier was never late for these meetups.

Never. Until now.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

‘Julek, you are to be crowned king this winter solstice.’

Breathe in, breathe out.

And Jaskier lost count.

‘You want me to do what?’ his reaction came, just a few seconds (minutes? hours? in the world of the Fae, who knows?) too late. Or was it right on time? The Fae world is weird when you lose count, however brief. But here’s the thing when you lose count: once lost, it can never be found again. Never truly. A decent estimation can be made, of course, especially for such a talented Fae as Jaskier, but finding it? No, even those who break the laws of nature in every regard have to keep to the mathematical rules of the universe.

A week later (two weeks too late, Jaskier never even arrived a second later than he wanted to. Sure, he arrived late, ‘fashionably late’ as he called it, but he arrived the exact lateness as he intended to. Even whilst Jaskier slept Geralt could sometimes hear the man in his arm count, count, endlessly count.) Geralt could firmly conclude that Jaskier was neither kidnapped, nor murdered, nor seen by mortal eyes ever since their goodbye at the end of autumn, when Geralt left the flowering field with Jaskier’s scent on his lips, his taste on his tongue and spots of white on his shirt he wouldn’t discover until three days later.

Knowing the number of days (hours, minutes, seconds) till winter solstice did not, Jaskier knew, meant knowing the number of days until he would have to be present at the tree where he and Geralt would meet, would rejoin their bodies and minds and souls and step as one, think as one, breathe as one creature travelling the endless continent. For yes, winter solstice for the Fae equalled winter solstice for the mortals, but assuming that the Fae keep to a linear timeline is a foolish endeavour. This solstice meant nothing, when it came from the mouth of a Fae who has not breathed human air for aeons (decades? centuries?). This solstice might be this solstice for them, but for Geralt? it could be a hundred solstices ago, or a million into the future. No, Jaskier had lost count, and there was nothing he could do to gain it back.

Five minutes into his visit to Yennefer, she confirmed his biggest fear. Jaskier was indeed not kidnapped, or drugged, or murdered, or bored of the life the witcher could offer him. Jaskier was gone. Simply gone. Unable to be found with any magic or spells or dreams or portals, lost to any who could not follow where he had gone. Jaskier, no matter how impossible it was to believe, had lost count. That was the only possible - even if it did not seem possible - way for him not to have returned. Either that, or- Geralt could not bear to think the words as Yennefer disappeared in a flurry of purple cloth and violet scent and muttered curses, looking for a way to bring the bard home. Home to Geralt, home to her, home to their little cottage where they would hide away when the world became too much for the three of them to bear, where they would have just each other, skin touching skin, lips touching lips, breath breathing breath, just them, just them.

‘Mother, why?’

‘It is time for the Fae court to have a king again, after the- unfortunate weaknesses of your father.’

‘The Fae court has not had a king for aeons. Why now?’

‘Because you are losing your way, Julek. Look at you, you have lost count.’

‘I have-’ but the words would not cross his lips. No matter how hard Jaskier tried, the sound dug itself into his chest, into his stomach, down down down away from his vocal cords, away from the air where the words would be sounded and heard and listened to.

‘Not? Julek, you have even lost the art of lying. It is time to stop playing with those foolish mortals and take up the role for which you were born. It is time for you to rule beside me, to welcome your responsibility and care for your people.’

‘Sit there and be an ornament, you mean, whilst you still hold all the strings?’

‘Julek’

‘I have not lost enough of myself to be unable to recognise your tricks, mother. Even if you crown me king, I will not stay by your side for long. I will return to those I love, and that is an oath.’

His brothers would have more monsters to fight this season, Geralt had resigned himself to the teasing he’d endure the next winter when he had to relinquish his 10-year record of ‘most monsters slain’. Not that any of them would blame him, if they knew.

Two months now, two months had come and gone and still no sign of Jaskier. They had fallen into an uncomfortable routine, Yennefer and him. Without Jaskier there to hold them together, to silence growing fights and touch their skin and hearts and souls at just the right ways to make them forget about all annoyances, to ply them and mould them and nudge them in just the right ways, the two of them had fought more often than they meant to, than they wanted to. But rather than leaving, rather than running away and slaying a monster and sleeping in the cold and dark and dirt and feeling sorry for himself, rather than running away and parading at court, manipulating royals and mages and feeling sorry for herself, Geralt and Yennefer remained. Every morning and every evening, Yennefer’s magic scoured the continent and all the known and unknown places beyond for any sign of Jaskier. And every day, she would portal to a new place, find new manuscripts, new books, new writings, new myths and legends and stories and they would read them all, trying to find a way to get the one who had stolen their hearts back to where he belonged: in their arms and in their beds (for Jaskier had never left their minds and hearts and souls).

As if things couldn’t get any worse, according to Jaskier’s calculations, he will have to leave a couple of seconds before midnight during the winter solstice. In other words, a couple of seconds before his coronation, in the middle of (for as far as there is a middle in) the Fae world. And, although Jaskier is a powerful man, even he cannot win a fight against all of his kind. They will find him during his flight, and they will make wherever he threads the middle of the world, regardless of how close to the border he will go. And it is not like he is ever given the opportunity to catch his breath, to see the stars and count the flowers and touch a snowbell and make a wish. No, for he is crown-prince Julek Taraxacum and a hundred million other names, and they will not let him go.

They talk. Every night they drink and stare at the ceiling in silence and drink and drink and drink and drink until not talking hurts more than talking and then they talk. One night it is just two words, on others two thousand. Yet the topic remains the same.

The one night: ‘I miss him.’

The next: ‘I know.’

The following: ‘It’s so quiet here.’

And, after a night of just silence: ‘No. I miss- I miss more than just his voice, or his touch, or his laughter, or his eyes. I miss his stubbornness. I miss his infernal, eternal unyielding determination to get done what he wants to get done. Regardless of the cost. Regardless if we let him or not. Regardless if I let him or not.’

From there, every night they drink and talk and drink and remember, painfully remember every glint and touch and look and movement and word and silent threats to those standing in the way between Jaskier and whatever he desires.

‘I miss his ruthlessness,’ Yennefer sighs. ‘That glint in his eyes and that innocent smile that threatens any who want to walk in his way. The ease with which his words weave a web and his fingers twirl a dagger until the whole world lies at his feet.’

‘I miss his sharpness.’ Geralt adds the next day. ‘I miss the way he yells and curses at me when I put myself into danger he deems unnecessary, I miss the way he hits at just the right spots to make you feel like you are absolutely nothing and yet everything at all.’

And, as the sun rises and Yennefer gets up to let her magic roam the world once more, always once more and once more again,

‘He is better than either of us could ever be.’

He does not succeed. Of course he does not. Not with his mother chasing behind him, not with the court pledging their service, not with the lesser fairies swimming his clothes and weaving his crown and setting the tables and not with the moon - bright, round, full and hiding the stars with her betraying light - rising higher and higher and higher until the Words are said and the Vow is made and the cape and crown and sceptre weigh Jaskier down and he is King, and it is too late (seconds? minutes? years?) too late (decades? centuries? millennia) too late to return, too late to escape and find his way back through the endlessly changing maze of time and space and place and all that the Fae world entwines and changes and corrupts and has been ever since even the gods can remember. It is too late, and Jaskier does not know if he can ever return home.

Jaskier still counts.

It has been a year without Jaskier and their nights cease to be long speeches, and fall into just words. Alternating, every night the other starts, and they - in between drinks, in between trying to find some consolation in being an immortal mortal and missing, missing, missing the one thing you believed to be a constant in your life, the person who holds your heart and mind and soul and who you wishes could hold you, trace your skin with delicate callused hands, touch you in ways you never dreamed possible whilst whispering your greatest secrets and knowing, knowing that there is no safer place than there, completely surrendered to the hands and voice and soul that holds them - just repeat the same list over and over and over and over until the betraying sun raises above the skies and their futile search continues.

‘Voice.’ Geralt drinks.

‘Touch.’ Yennefer drinks.

‘Laughter.’

‘Eyes.’

‘Stubbornness.’

‘Ruthlessness.’ They open a new bottle, stolen from some corrupt mayor.

‘Sharpness.’

‘Strength.’

‘Love.’

‘Compassion.’

‘Talent.’

‘Humour.’

Jaskier.

His second, third and fourth attempts fail too. Jaskier curses the patience and stubbornness of Fae as he counts to his fifth, unable to manage to smile because of the irony of his own patience and stubbornness being the things leading him to try again (he will try again and again and again and again his whole immortal life long, for he carries hearts and souls of value and he has to return to give them back). Yet as a king he is guarded too closely, kept too busy, held to too high a standard, and never, never, never alone (he had never minded being surrounded by others all the time, as long as those others held his heart and soul and these others certainly do not).

But as he reigns and makes decisions and cuts ribbons and blesses babies and is held as a prop by his mother who enjoys having the empty throne next to her filled and speaking as a Queen with a King on her side, he feels a tug. A small thread forming in his ribs, tying around his heart and weaving through his veins, first unnoticed but rapidly rapidly rapidly all-consuming, all-knowing, overwhelming and strange and yet so distantly familiar, tasting of lilacs and violets and onion and adventure and destiny and fate. He can feel it in his fingertips, spinning through his ears and knitting his joints together until his body feels like the restless sea and he can faintly taste the Beauclair White and Toussaint Red on the tip of his tongue and deep, deep in his empty throat devoid of words and song and him.

With every heartbeat, the tug gets stronger.

The best ideas happen when one is drunk. The most foolish, idiotic and dangerous ideas happen then too, but the only way to know whether your plan is genius or will end the world is by trying it out.

It is because of that reason that Yennefer and Geralt infiltrate the highest security library, steal an ancient manuscript and spend a full week without sleep translating their nightly list into the oldest language known to mortal men.

It is far from the oldest language ever spoken, but it is close enough.

Geralt feels a thread of something entwining his fingertips, rooting in his stomach and growing to his heart and encircling his skull. It meanders through his brain, wrapping itself like a noose around the parts of him he doubts and criticises and hates and loathes and tying it close, close, close, till no negative thought can survive and he has to admit that his hair his mouth his face his scars his eyes his everything is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Yennefer feels a thread of something extending from her hair, diving into her skin and spinning in the emptiness between her hips reminding her of the sacrifices she made, filling the void like a clew of golden, loving, sharp and stubborn yarn, pulling and pulling and pulling something, someone, the only person who succeeded in making her feel whole and beautiful and perfect and flawless and yet so endlessly, endlessly human.

They hold their hands, grab the thread so strong it is almost visible in the open air of their hidden garden and pull.

And then, just as he is once again paraded around for dignitaries and officials and others in positions that, by all accounts, should not exist in the frankly dictatorial Fae court, like he is some rare flower or pretty dress or beautiful painting or another essentially worthless, worthless object, the growing tug that drags him forward, that makes him walk quicker in certain directions or holds him back in others, that has interwoven around every cell in his body making him wonder why nobody has seen the almost visible golden string tying him to somewhere yet, why nobody has noticed he has lost his appetite (why eat flowers and grass and honeydew imported from the sweetest countries when the taste of your lovers weigh on your tongue and fill your stomach in a manner no food could ever equal) the tug suddenly grows stronger. The thread extending from him, through him, in him, grows from a thin cotton thread to a long string of woollen yarn to a thick rope to a cable filling his lungs and throat and tugs, and tugs and tugs.

And the world becomes blurred and the wind picks up and the chattering around him rises and then fades and fades and fades and the busy streets of the Fae city make place for an empty garden next to a lovely cottage and two pairs of arms wrapping tightly, tightly around his waist and chest.

And, like a breath Nature didn’t notice she was holding in, there Jaskier is. With regal dress and tired eyes and dulled cheeks, but Jaskier nonetheless. Their Jaskier, their life and love and joy and reason for holding on, holding on to life and the world when there is nothing to hold on to. He is there, truly there, really truly there.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

A tug from another world. A hug from his loved ones. A frantic pushing and pulling and ripping of clothes, trying to get closer and closer and closer (true lovers can never be close enough, their souls are so entwined their bodies will always be trying to become one) to make up for lost time, to assure themselves that it is real, to touch, to see, to smell, to taste, to know that it is real, not yet another happy dream but real and present and here. A violent kiss. A perfectly placed touch. A hundred thousand touches in a row, all at the same time for forever yet for no time at all.

What does it take to make a Fae stop counting? Oh, although it is difficult, there still are many things that can.

But what does it take to make a Fae stop counting, without them worrying about it?

That is a secret only those who have loved and lost and found again can truly know.

39 notes · View notes

bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

Text

lip synch your way into my heart pt. 4

(it just keeps getting cuter and there’s nothing I can (or want) to do in order to stop it, so...)

Part One // Part Two // Part Three

---

“So you’re really invested in this guy, huh?” Yennefer asks. She’s sprawled across Geralt’s black leather couch and her wildly curly hair almost blends into the material completely.

“Yeah.”

“What’s so great about him?”

“What’s so great about Triss?” Geralt retorts. “I like him, okay?”

“Ger-bear,” Yen groans, rolling onto her stomach and resting her chin on her hands, “Just tell me what it is about this little baby twink that has you so riled up and I’ll leave you alone about it for the next five days at least.”

“What a gracious offer,” Geralt deadpans. “So I suppose I shall accept your terms. If I tell you the reasons why I like him so much then I get five days of radio silence on the topic of Jaskier. Who is not a twink, by the way.”

“Mhm. Continue.”

“I like him because he’s sweet,” Geralt explains. Yen makes a gagging noise but the influencer continues, unperturbed by his friend’s antics, “Jaskier is unusually kind for someone who’s seen so much rapid, negative change in the world. He’s honestly curious about getting to know people, even people he doesn’t need to know. He just...cares about them. He’s also super upbeat, even on his bad days. I could use someone with optimism in my life, you know?”

“You’ve only been on two dates. How do you know all this shit?”

“Two dates was enough.”

“Fair. I only went on three with Triss before asking to make it Facebook official,” the young witch shrugs. She glances around the minimalistic apartment and frowns, “Now, where the fuck is Cirilla? She’s late.”

---

Ciri and Yen are standing behind him and ready to go when he is, so why is Geralt so gods-damned nervous? It’s just a Tik Tok. He’s made, what, a couple hundred of these already? He’s made dozens upon dozens with Ciri and Yen; he’s even played the jealous ex in a few of Yen’s skits with Triss.

But this? Asking Jaskier to be his boyfriend so publicly? After their second date? It feels...strange.

“Hurry up, loverboy,” Yen groans. “I want to drink.”

“Yeah,” Ciri echoes. “I didn’t carry four liters of soda all the way up here for you to chicken out.”

“I told you I already had mixers,” Geralt grumbles. He presses play on his phone and starts the Tik Tok video recorder. Ciri and Yen jump into position behind him, popping their hips to the side and moving in time with Geralt as he mouths the words along to the song.

“Baby, it's the way you make me

Kinda get me go crazy,

Never wanna stop!

It's gotta be you! (uh huh, uh huh, yeah)”

The dance is going well. Nobody’s lost their footing yet; he’s glad he didn’t choreograph this himself. Yen memorized it from an old Backstreet Boys music video and they’d simply copied the moves. Jaskier would probably be happy; there was a lot of hip thrusting and squatting involved.

“I can't control it anymore;

I've never felt like this before.

Mmm, you really make me lose my head,

My hungry heart must be fed (uh huh, uh huh).”

Geralt quickly and gracefully steps back to join Yen and Ciri in a line for the last series of steps.

“Baby, it's the way you make me

Kinda get me go crazy,

Never wanna stop!”

He points directly into the camera and winks, “It’s gotta be you!”

---

“Oh my god, Jaskier! Get in the kitchen now!” Priscilla shrieks. He flies to her aid, sure that she’s in some sort of mortal danger, but no...she’s looking at her phone with her mouth hanging open. Jaskier skids to a stop and clasps a hand over his chest melodramatically.

“Jeez, Prissa,” he pants in a breath, “Don’t scare me like that! I thought you were in serious distress.”

“I am in serious distress! One of the most popular content creators of our generation has just asked my best friend and roommate to be his boyfriend over Tik Tok! And it has roughly six million likes already! Have you even answered him, Jask?”

“Wh-what?!” Jaskier gasps. He reaches for Priscilla’s phone and she hands it over readily.

She’s right. @whitehairdontcare has uploaded another video and it already has six million likes and over fifteen million views. Shit.

This time the caption reads: “POV: you’re the cute cashier from Party City and I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

“So?” Priscilla asks, nudging him with her elbow. “What are you going to say?”

“Yes, duh!”

“What song are they lip syncing to, anyway? Turn it up, Jask.”

Jaskier turns up the volume a little and hears The Backstreet Boys come pouring out from his friend’s speakers. “Oh my gods, he remembered!”

“What?”

“I told him that I loved this album as a kid. It was a gift from my cousin and it was way too mature for me but I loved it.”

“Gay.”

“Yeah, well, if the boyband fits,” Jaskier shrugs. He can’t stop smiling. “I can’t believe it. I have to go call him.”

“Yes! Do that!” his friend urges. Jaskier sprints back to his room, beaming brightly from ear to ear.

---

“Hey,” Jaskier grins. “So uh…”

Geralt takes his hand gently and brings it up to his mouth, kissing the back of his knuckles again. The simple, sweet gesture never fails to make Jaskier turn a pretty shade of pink; Geralt does it whenever he gets the chance.

“So what?” the influencer asks.

“I guess we’re boyfriends, now.”

“Yeah,” Geralt nods, stepping closer and squeezing Jaskier’s hand. The younger man squeezes back. “I guess we are.”

“So…”

“So?”

“Does that mean we can...uh-”

“Yeah,” Geralt smiles indulgently. He leans down, bringing his free hand up to cup the side of Jaskier’s face gently. He runs the pad of his thumb across the brunette’s cheekbone as he presses their lips together. It’s gentle and nervous and so achingly sweet that Jaskier actually swoons a bit.

He loses his balance, tipping forward against Geralt’s firm chest. The influencer wraps his arms low around Jaskier’s waist and nuzzles the side of the brunette’s soft neck. “Careful, babe.”

“I like that.”

“What, babe?”

“Yeah. I like you, too. A lot,” Jaskier flashes another shy smile up at him and Geralt’s heart melts. “Kiss me again?”

“For you? Anything,” Geralt murmurs against his lips.

And he leans back down to continue kissing his new boyfriend.

#Geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #geraskier tik tok au #lip synch your way into my heart #geraskier influencer au #influencer geralt #tik tok star geralt #party city employee jaskier #this fic is fueled by chris fleming #geraskier meet cute #geraskier story

133 notes · View notes

notebooks-and-laptops · 4 years

Text

Based on that post about how keeping track of your possessions so they don’t end up in museums would be the real hardship of being immortal and I just thought that fit Jaskier so well and then...this drabble happened. You can also find this on AO3 here!

-///-

Certain hardships come along with being immortal which simply aren’t advertised.

And no, this isn’t at all about the horrors of watching everyone you love wither and age around you (the people Jaskier loves generally don’t wither and age), nor the torturous boredom created by unending centuries (Jaskier hasn’t run out of things to keep him entertained yet). It’s not even about that whole silly ‘falling in love with a seventeen-year-old human mortal angst’ that seems so popular in literature nowadays but which, quite frankly, strikes Jaskier as incredibly unrealistic (You wouldn’t catch him dead at a school. Kids are mean. They’d probably mock his singing. They’d probably mock it accurately).

No. The true secret hardship that came with being immortal was the historians.

Historians were the worst.

In Jaskier’s most humble opinion, historians were nothing but terrible gossips, good only for getting their facts muddled, making unfair judgements on events they weren’t even privy to and – worst of all - stealing his shit.

It wasn’t mere trinkets they were taking either. The British History museum had his second favourite lute. The American Smithsonian had somehow gotten hold of a couple of his early songbooks. The Museum under the main square in Krakow had gotten hold of a few of the jewels he’d once been gifted by his dearly departed Countess de Stael.

Assholes. The lot of them; gossiping and playing ‘finders’ keepers’, like children on a playground.

Jaskier hadn’t yet worked out a way of getting his stuff back. What was he supposed to do, stroll up to the help desk and tell them the truth? If they believed him he’d be shipped off to a lab for scientific testing or if they didn’t, he’d be put down as mental and shipped off to the nearest hospital. For all this age was so completely, mundanely magical (you could talk to people on the other side of the globe with the ease of a few dialled numbers on a thin black box) they quite resolutely refused to believe in things ‘out of the ordinary’.

“We could organise a heist,” Yennefer had suggested one dull Monday morning, emerging from Geralt’s room to peer at Jaskier’s laptop screen, the monitor displaying the British Museums catalogue. Jaskier wasn’t surprised to see her, though it was the first time he had for…how long was it this time? Six months? A year? She came in and out of their lives over the centuries like the turn of the seasons. Jaskier missed her when she was gone, but he was always sure of his return. Her and Geralt couldn’t stay away from each other for long.

Geralt and Yennefer: world record holders for the longest on-again-off-again Romance ever had.

He snapped his screen shut a little too firmly, shaking his head, “useless. By the time we finish, they’ll just have unearthed more of my most private possessions to flag to the world.”

He watched as she stretched her lithe body upwards to grab herself a mug from above the cabinet, the dark grey fabric of shirt riding upwards slightly to reveal the smooth skin underneath. Luckily, Jaskier was apt at pretending he wasn’t staring. He’d grown quite good at that, over the years spent with Geralt and Yennefer at his side.

“Could be fun though,” she pointed out.

“I’ll think about it.” She was right; it could be fun.

“No. You won’t,” Geralt’s gruff voice alerted them to his presence at the doorway (or altered Jaskier at least. Yennefer was rarely caught off guard by anything).

“You’re no fun anymore,” Jaskier pouted, “we barely even go on contracts nowadays. And you’re all against me getting famous. Old age has truly mellowed you.”

Yennefer handed Jaskier a mug of tea, then Geralt his morning coffee: made to perfection, despite her years of absence, “there aren’t as many monsters left,” she reminded him.

“Ah, but how I miss the days when there were,” Jaskier leaned back in the chair. Of course, central heating and vaccines were good too. Fair trade-off, he supposed.

“You complained back then too,” Geralt grunted, offering a kiss to Yennefer as a silent thank you for his coffee.

Jaskier didn’t steal a glance. He didn’t.

(Which he could say without lying because it was a bit more of a stare than a glance. But. Semantics. What could he say? His best friends were hot.)

They were getting off-topic, Jaskier thought. He wanted attention for his woes, not a morning of reminiscing and pining. “It’s just not right, that’s all. All those people looking at my private things.”

“The Great Bard Jaskier not basking in the attention? Why, are you feeling quite well? Been replaced by a doppler?” Yennefer quirked an eyebrow, removing herself from Geralt’s grasp to take a seat beside Jaskier.

“It’s not attention, though,” Jaskier whined. “It’s a bunch of tourists taking pictures they’ll never even look at when they get home, thinking how quaint life must have been way back when lutes were an easy commodity. Fucking hell, do you know how hard it is to find a lute nowadays? I can’t believe they’ve gone out of fashion.”

“We can thank the world for small blessings,” Geralt muttered.

Jaskier smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

Over a millennium, and still, Geralt was an emotionally stunted, dry-witted arse. Over a millennium, and Yennefer was still a beautiful, powerful bitch of a woman.

Jaskier loved them for it. He wouldn’t have them any other way.

Well— alright, not true. There was one other way he could imagine having them, and it involved him being a little bit more than simply a roommate to Geralt and a little bit more than simply an annoyance to Yennefer.

Still, things could be considerably worse. He wasn’t complaining. At least, he wasn’t complaining often. Not about that.

He’d complain about historians all he bloody well-liked though.

Arseholes the lot of them.

-///-

“You’re a traitor, a filthy, filthy traitor,” Jaskier hissed as he strolled up to the front desk of the British Museum.

Triss rolled her eyes, exasperation and fondness playing on her features in equal measures. He’d long since gotten used to people looking at him that way; it was the most common expression he inspired. “You asked me to tell you if anything showed up. I’m only here while they’re sorting through the collection of ancient plant samples. You’re lucky it all lined up.”

“And which one of my misplaced possessions has found its way into this house of stolen goods?” Jaskier’s voice was perhaps a tad too loud for dramaticism but sometimes you had to take one for the team and become the excentric mad man in the room when nobody else was willing to do it. Those teenagers in the corner could giggle and shoot him glances all they wanted.

“You’re a drama queen, you know that, don’t you?” Triss murmured, already turning to head back to the office she was working in, “they have a display on love through the ages. Third floor. Try not to get too flustered when you see it.”

“Flustered? By a bit of love poetry? Triss, what do you take me for?” Jaskier was a true romantic and had been falling in and out of love to varying degrees since he was but a mere mortal man. He wasn’t going to get flustered. Nothing could get him flustered anymore.

Ten minutes later, he had a rather pronounced blush on his face to match the speeded heart rate and the quietly muttered ‘no, no, no’ leaving his mouth like a mantra.

Certain hardships come along with being immortal which simply aren’t advertised.

The love letter you wrote to your best friend and his on-again-off-again-girlfriend showing up in a display case of a national museum? No one told him about that particular brand of down-side when he signed up for this gig.

This is so much worse than the lute, and the song-book and the jewels.

Oh, he is so screwed.

-///-

So far he’s managed to concoct and execute three cunning plans to get the love letter safely out of the display case and away from the public (the public that he’s very aware includes Yennefer and Geralt) eye.

Considering he’s in a holding cell at Scottland Yard waiting for Geralt to come and bail him out? Yeah. He can probably write all three off as a failure.

The first plan was to ask the attendant if the display would be up for much longer. Keeping Yennefer and Geralt from a museum they rarely frequented for three weeks wouldn’t be too much of a challenge, particularly if he had Triss on his side.

Today, the Gods were clearly not on his side. The attendant informed him that the display had proved a huge attraction and they had no plans of taking it down for the foreseeable future.

The second plan was to march into any office he could find and demand the letter be removed. It was his letter. This was a violation of his privacy. He had every write to want it removed from a display case.

Which was all well and good until the poor museum curator asked him why he was so instant that a five-hundred-year-old letter be taken down and – when Jaskier could give him no good answer – proceeded to believe he was being pranked.

“You’re one of those homophobes, aren’t you, young man? We simply won’t have that. The letter is a lovely display of impassioned bisexual polyamorous feelings and it’s not going to be censored by the likes of you.”

Jaskier would have respected him for that if it didn’t get in the way of his plan.

The third plan was to simply smash the case and run away with the letter, head across the seas (he hadn’t been to Asia in quite some time it might be nice to go back) and come back in a few decades when everyone had forgotten about a petty museum thief.

Except hitting frantically at a glass case in the middle of a crowded exhibit? Maybe not his smartest idea.

“What the fuck did you do this time?” Geralt growled. It was the same question he’d growled down the phone when Jaskier had first rung him and asked him (very nicely, he might add) to come and pick him up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the option of simply hanging up this time around.

Jaskier decided to bow out of answering the question with a good old diversion, “That’s just rude. This time. Like you expect me to get into these situations.”

Geralt fixed him with a glare which, alright, maybe he deserved. He did tend to get into these situations rather frequently, but one had to spice life up now and then.

Luckily, it’s pretty simple to get Jaskier out and they were let off with a warning and – for Jaskier – a lifelong ban from the British Museum. Jaskier has come to find life-long only really means about half a century anyway, so he can live it. Why would he want to walk into that den of thieves anyway?

“Were you trying to steal back your lute?” Geralt asks on the walk back.

“Um. Something like that, yeah.” Hopefully, he can play it off as just trying to steal the lute back.

“I said no heists.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Someone should be.” Geralt fits his key into their apartment door.

Unsurprisingly Yennefer is home, lounging as if she contributes to the rent on their sofa, doing her nails some stunning shade of purple.

“Me next!” Jaskier exclaims, already forgetting about the woes of his brief stint as a criminal that afternoon.

Yennefer raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, “Don’t think so, lark. Only good boys who don’t get arrested get their nails painted.”

“Says you,” Jaskier scoffs, “You’re hardly one to follow the law. We get magic Netflix, Yen, that we don’t pay for because of your-” he wiggles his fingers, “it has movies that haven’t even be realised yet on it.”

She waves her hand dismissively, “I didn’t say you had to follow the law, I said you had to not get caught. I’m never caught, therefore, I get my nails done how I like.”

Jaskier scowled at her as Geralt reached over to switch on the TV. Still, he couldn’t keep up his petulant act for long. He had missed her after all; the times when Geralt and Yennefer weren’t together were almost as bad as the times that they were. Jealousy vs. longing, ah, what a hard existence he led. She’d only been back now a week, but he was so glad to come home to her that they weren’t even bickering very much.

Their couch wasn’t really big enough for three without excessive cuddling, so he took a seat on the floor while Yen and Geralt curled up together, his back pressed up against their legs. At some point someone’s hand – Geralt’s, he thought – ended up carding through his hair. It was nice, familiar, affection that only came with centuries of knowing and caring for one another. Eventually, Geralt started critiquing the monster law on the crappy show they were watching, which prompted Yen to start critiquing the magic.

It was almost enough to make him forget about the museum. If there was one thing age had brought with it, it was a sense of domesticity which had been oh so absent in their first few centuries. Witchering, Barding, maging—all of that still went on, behind the scenes. But they no longer lived on the road, they no longer lived out of a horse’s saddlebags. They had a home. They had movie nights. They had a life.

Once upon a time, barely a decade into their acquaintance, he’d asked Geralt if Witchers ever retired. He’d been told ‘no’ and yet…here they were. It wasn’t quite retirement, but it was something close to it, more than any of them ever thought they’d get.

It was just what they needed Jaskier thought. A good, long life deserved a bit of a retirement package, even if that package came intermittently interspersed with monsters and Jaskier’s absolutely hopeless pining for Geralt and Yennefer both.

After the show ended, they each had a glass of wine. Jaskier pretended he didn’t want to join them when they disappeared behind the door to Geralt’s room, and that he didn’t hear them moaning each other’s names while he tried to settle in for the night.

If there was one thing he was good at, after all these years, it was pretending.

-///-

In the end, it was Ciri who fucked it up for him; an inconvenience as he’d never much been able to manage staying mad at the girl.

Cirilla didn’t spend all her time in London; she still had the wanderlust she’d inherited from all her adoptive-parents (Jaskier was proud to be included on that list), and it took her across the world. Her Instagram account was a mess of photos taken in location after location: the pyramids in Egypt, the mountains of Poland, the ruins of Rome. Recently, her posts had also featured a tall, rather stunning brunette. Jaskier figured that was her main reason for coming back to England; so they could meet her latest girlfriend. (Ciri also had a way with women and men alike, which Jaskier would like to think she’d adopted from him too).

He was thrilled when he heard that she was coming home. He’d taken the day to prepare the spare room in their apartment (one that hadn’t been there a couple of days ago; there were advantages to having a mage staying with them) and was just finishing up making the bed when his phone buzzed.

Is there a reason why a love letter to Yen and Geralt is in the British Museum signed from you?? -C

Fuck. Fuck, not good, not good. Ciri was many, many things, but among her traits, he would definitely put ‘meddlesome’ near the top.

Because Historians are nosey pricks. Do NOT tell your parents. -J

;) – C

The winking face of a semicolon and a bracket stared up at him, composed of unforgiving pixels. She wouldn’t, would she? No. No. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

He was sure of it.

Positive.

She wouldn’t.

-///-

“Where’s Cirilla?” Jaskier asked, his energetic bounce (which was partly built on the nervous energy of that damn winky face emoji what did it mean) slowing slightly when he saw their girl wasn’t entering with Yennefer and Geralt.

“She’s staying with Triss this evening,” Geralt explained, though really, that didn’t explain anything. Ciri and Triss got on excellently, but if she was coming home why wouldn’t she spend her first few nights catching up with them?

“But—we got her a room ready? Why would she do that? Oh, shit, what did you do? Geralt, if you were an ass to her about something then—” his words come to an abrupt halt as he notices that Yennefer’s left hand is curled around a piece of paper.

An old piece of paper. Practically parchment.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no—

“We got your letter,” there was a dangerous glint in those violet eyes that Jaskier didn’t know how to name. But he knew it didn’t bode particularly well for him. “Must have been an issue with the postal service, I think it spent half a millennium lost in the mail.”

“Ah. Well, yes, um—”

“And it’s really some of your worst prose, Jaskier. Completely dreadful. Let’s see…you compare Geralt’s eyes to ‘the burning sun of my desire’ a few times, and my hair to ‘the deepest waters poured from the holy grail itself’. Christian imagery? Really? What would the girls at Meleites temple that you swore belief to think about that?”

“Um,” Jaskier doesn’t know what to say. Here he is, stood in his hallway, staring down what feels like an ambush and there’s nowhere to run. Yennefer and Geralt are blocking the door. So unless he feels like going full childish mode and locking himself in the bathroom…

It is really, really pitiful that he actually considers doing just that.

Instead, he bites at his lower lip, “In my defence, I was…very drunk?” He’d spent quite a lot of that century drunk if he recalls correctly. He was going through a bit of a rough patch. That probably isn’t the only letter out there, though he desperately hopes it’s the only one that any nosey historians have managed to get their grubby fingers on. He doesn’t need any more embarrassment.

Because right now? This is the most embarrassed he’s felt in his entire existence and considering all the time he’d been alive…that was really saying something.

“Why didn’t you send it?” Geralt asks, and his expression is – if possible – even more guarded than usual; more guarded than Jaskier has seen it since their first lifetime together.

“Uh, because, as Yennefer just pointed out it’s literally the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever written?” his cheeks must be on fire, with how red they feel. He wants to look anywhere put them, but they’ve always been like the flame to his moth, he can’t keep his gaze from them for long. “Look, we don’t have to, um, I mean, look, they’re just words and it was a really long time ago now so really we could put this whole thing behind us if you wanted to—”

Geralt, if anything, appears to close off even more.

Yennefer does not. In fact, she looks even more predatory. Jaskier has the unnerving realisation that he is the prey in this scenario.

Yennefer takes a step forward. Her outfit, he notes dimly, is perhaps one of the most stunning he’s ever seen her in. She never gave up her taste in dresses, but today she’s donned black trousers, a white blazer and sheer necked purple top which is doing everything to accentuate her figure. He feels a little like a deer trapped in headlights.

“Oh, so you wouldn’t be interested in joining us tonight? Pity. And Geralt was so excited about finally getting you…”

“Wait, the fuck?” he can’t help it, it slips out, his brain trying to process what Yennefer just said.

You wouldn’t be interested in joining us tonight?

Geralt was so excited about finally getting you…

He feels like he’s slipped out of reality and into some fairytale world. He tries to recall if he and Geralt have been on a contract with any fae recently that might have entrapped him, but it’s been a few decades since they faced anything that could do that.

He shifts, one foot to the other. “Uh…is this some sort of trap?”

Yennefer laughs, and despite her expression, it’s bright and warm and he wants to bask in it for all of eternity. He gladly would, if she let him. “No,” she murmurs softly, she’s at him now, stepped close, and he didn’t really notice her moving but all of a sudden her slim hands are reaching upwards to cup his cheek, “it’s not a trap. Jaskier, songbird, we’ve been flirting with you for centuries now.”

Okay, now he knows he’s dreaming, “What? No. No, see, you haven’t, because I would have noticed that.”

“We touch you,” Geralt finally speaks up, “we ran our fingers through you’re the other night.”

“Yes, platonic touching. You touch me platonically.” Jaskier’s world is tilting on his axis

“Geralt let you slip on his lap in that pub three years back.”

“There weren’t many seats available! We were being economic with space!”

“We’re loud in bed when we know you can hear us,” Yennefer comments, and that one almost knocks the wind out of him.

“So…you knew. This whole time?”

Geralt steps closer now, “I could smell the arousal on you,” and wait, what? He knows Geralt can smell things like fear and pain and blood but arousal? A thousand-million moments flash to his mind, all becoming a hell of a lot more embarrassing, starting with his very first sighting of the man. “But we weren’t sure…”

“If it was more than that,” Yennefer finished for Geralt. They truly are the perfect couple, Jaskier thinks. He’s always thought that. Although sometimes it’s like something is missing from them, something that would make their on-again-off-again become more permanent, more stable.

They’re so close to him now. He can smell her perfume, he can feel the heat radiating from Geralt. It’s intoxicating. Fuck, fuck, if it didn’t feel so real he would be sure he was dreaming. “Okay…you’re going to have to give me a minute. And also, you’re fucking morons, you weren’t sure if it was more than arousal. I’ve—I’ve fucking been in love with you both for—the songs did you even listen to the songs? There’s like…so many songs I’ve written about you guys it’s unreal and—”

Yennefer shuts him up by kissing him.

Usually, he’d protest when Geralt or Yennefer try and shut him up. But this is a method he thinks he can get used to. Her other arm comes up to wrap around him, and he feels the fragile parchment brush the back of his neck.

“We should take this to the bedroom,” Geralt murmurs, low and he’s dropping a kiss to Jaskier’s neck and—

“Yes, yes, yes, enough time to talk later—”

Yennefer walks them backwards, and they stumble, and it’s messy and it’s wonderful and fuck Jaskier thought he’d felt all the pleasures of the flesh in his time but this…there’s nothing else like having the both of them.

Nothing else in the world.

-///-

“How did you even get it?” Jaskier asks a few hours (and more than a few rounds) later when they’re sweaty and panting and Yennefer has her head pillowed on Jaskier’s chest while Geralt plays with his hair.

“I’m a mage darling. And I did a little better than just trying to smash a case in, in broad daylight.”

“Hey! I was panicking!”

Geralt snorts. “You told me you were after the lute.”

“Which, by the way, if you can get the letter, you can get that back,” Jaskier narrows his eyes at her, “you could get them all back.”

She laughs and it is one of his favourite sounds in the whole world, “what would the fun be in that?” her fingers fiddle with his chest hair absently, “I like watching you squirm and suffer.”

Jaskier turns his head to press a kiss to her forehead. Fuck. He is so gone on her.

“And there is a vain hope that you might learn to take better care of your shit,” Geralt hummed, “teaching you a lesson.”

“The point is not that I take better care of my shit, Geralt, Gods how many times do I have to explain that it's about the principle of it all?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, shifts Jaskier’s head upwards and slots his lips against Jaskier’s again, lazy and content. He’s shutting Jaskier up again, but fuck, Jaskier can’t help but be glad of it.

“So, we’re dating now?” Jaskier murmurs, then frowns, “you can’t play on and off again with me. I am but a simple romantic soul, my heart won’t be able to take it.”

Yennefer and Geralt share a look. He’s not entirely sure what it means, but when Yennefer shifts closer and murmurs, “that won’t be an issue,” he finds himself believing her.

When he falls to sleep that night he is blissfully happy.

-///-

Ciri smirks her way through dinner, no matter how many times Jaskier calls her a traitor.

“It worked out, didn’t it?” She asks, green eyes far, far too innocent for her play in all of this. “Maybe you’ll have to forgive your grudge against historians now.”

“Never, Ciri.” He breathes, mock-aghast at the thought of dropping his grudge.

Still, at the end of the night when Ciri heads out to meet up with her current girlfriend, and Yennefer drags Jaskier by the collar to their bedroom, he will admit (privately) that perhaps she has a point.

This is the best thing that happened to him in all his long existence.

-///-

Yennefer doesn’t move out again, at least, not until Jaskier and Geralt do too. They stay together. There is no more on-and-off-again. It is like a hole was waiting to be filled all their lives, and now Jaskier is there and it’s like glue, keeping all three of them centred and – more importantly – communicating. So that changes.

Jaskier’s things keep turning up in museums. That doesn’t change (no matter how much he insists that he takes care of his stuff. Some things never do.

Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way.

#geraskier #yenskier #geraskifer #Geralt/Jaskier/yennefer #yennefer #geralt #jaskier #the witcher #immortal jaskier #geraskier fic #yenskier fic #Geraskifer fic #niamh be a writing

239 notes · View notes

rallamajoop · 3 years

Text

A few rambling notes on my Witcher WIP list

Witcher fandom has done something to me, I do not know what. I have more different fics in progress (mostly Geralt/Regis or Geralt/Yennefer/Regis) in various open word documents than I have had in years – most of them short, and (even excluding the 3 I’ve already posted) several already somewhere in the basically done pending final edits/betaing/the inevitable 3-day debate over how to title and summarise this bastard-stage. That is some pretty atyptical productivity by my usual standards; we’ll have to see how it lasts.

More to the point, something about this fandom has me churning out these weird mix-and-match ficlets. Like, I have the beginnings of a Geralt/Regis/Yennefer sequel to a (as yet unposted) Geralt/Regis ficlet about a post-B&W-spontaneous-drunken-hook-up – but it made sense to me to just kind of avoid mentioning the status of the whole Geralt/Yennefer relationship during that initial drunken-hook-up fic, so that anyone who’d rather take it as a standalone from a ‘verse where Geralt and Yen never got back together can. In fact, there are already two different versions of that drunken-hook-up fic (preliminary titles: ‘happy-drunk-sex’ and ‘angsty-drunk-sex’), picking up from the different possible B&W endings, and either of them could theoretically lead into that G/R/Y sequel (or not). And then I found myself going, okay, but is it even really necessary to specify which angsty-B&W ending this is, given that there’s no outcome where everyone lives and Regis doesn’t leave – so you can have Geralt sitting there second-guessing all his choices little realising he’d be sitting there feeling almost exactly the same regardless of what those choices were? How can I resist that?

And so on. I mean, congratulations if you even managed to follow all the above – hopefully I’m going to find some better way of explaining it all in the fics themselves.

Now, the obvious excuse would be that playing choose-your-own-adventure is only what the games do, so perhaps it’s natural to carry the same logic into fic. Only problem being that I’ve already landed myself in the same boat with book-verse fic, given how I’m already telling people From the Wisdom of Bards can be taken as a sequel to the less-cracktastic A Decent Proposition, but could also just be a standalone thing if that’s what works better for you (and it may well do).

And lest you suppose that one might be an isolated case, there’s also this little Yennefer/Regis-“heeeeyyyy, what if Regis knew Yennefer from years before he ever met Geralt, and just never got around to mentioning it“-backstory fic I have started writing (look, I am determined to make this OT3 work even if I have to build that missing leg from scratch). It could feed directly into a post-B&W sequel where Yen and Regis finally get around to mentioning all this to Geralt – or it could be a prequel to that other book!verse AU I have planned-but-not-started, which is basically a retelling of A Shard of Ice only where the old flame Yennefer’s involved with on the side is Regis instead of Istredd and instead of her breaking it off with both of them, it ends in an OT3.

Figuring out how to sort all this nonsense into series on AO3 is going to be a hoot, seriously.

Then again, this is also the point where the savvier reader is probably saying, “joop, this is nothing you haven’t been doing for years – remember that old Cable/Deadpool teen AU that went even more AU because you were having too much fun to pick just one option? Or that Venom fic you eventually posted as a five-things scenario? All you needed was the excuse.” – and would probably be right.

(Leftover fic ideas that I have not found an excuse to mention yet because they are less complicated: that one crackfic where Geralt has to deal with the fact that not only has he just had an ill-considered drunken one-night-stand with Dandelion, but Dandelion is now trying to write a ballad about it, and a Discworld AU probably-also-crackfic where Regis is a black-ribboner and Geralt is a grumpy magical exterminator – because honestly I feel like The Witcher and Discworld’s senses of humour blend much better than they get credit for, and let’s face it, ‘exterminator’ is basically what Geralt’s job description becomes the moment you stick him anywhere half as modern as Ankh-Morpork. Oh, and that one Amnesia!Geralt/Regis fic my beta is looking at now.)

In short, I am having way too much fun with this fandom, and we may have to just wait and see how many of these do actually get written and/or posted (I mean, let’s be realistic here: my record for clearing out any fannish to-do list is no better than anyone’s).

Still, if anyone would like to try and nudge me towards one or another of all those potential WIPs, rest assured that replies and tags do always get noticed around these parts.

#geregis #yennefer #regis #geralt of rivia #dandelion #fic #the witcher #oh the joy of figuring out how to tag for an OT3 maybe noone else ships

9 notes · View notes

mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

48 Weeks (1/4)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 1-12

Week 1

The memory of everyone he left behind is still fresh in his mind. He clearly recalls how he embraced Ciri and Yen for the last time. The hugs were short but his daughter and ex-wife know that he needs to grow distanced before deployment. It hurts less this way.

Jaskier was there to say goodbye too, but it was different with him. He has no idea how all of this works, and they only had mere three weeks to enjoy each other’s company. They tried to make best of it but Geralt still wanted to detach himself in the last week. Jaskier reacted with panic and kept asking if he’d done something wrong.

The only wrong Jaskier’s ever done was to appear in Geralt’s life just like that, waltzing past his walls and defences with laughable ease. Jaskier is loud and bright, almost unbearably so, and everything is suddenly too dark and quiet when he isn’t there.

Geralt didn’t use to mind dark and quiet. He rather enjoyed them, in fact. Now, as he waits for Jaskier’s first video call, he’s vaguely annoyed that he allowed Jaskier to influence him like this in such a short period of time. The change is small but significant and he shouldn’t have let it happen, not so fast.

But then Jaskier’s face appears on the screen, his face lit up by a brilliant smile, and any negative thoughts suddenly fly out of Geralt’s mind.

“Hi, handsome,” Jaskier purrs.

“Hello,” Geralt replies.

“I must say,” Jaskier goes on in low voice, “the sight of you in the uniform does certain... things to me.”

Geralt looks down at his clothes with a bemused frown. He’s wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt with shoulder pads showing his rank, a black tie and black trousers. It’s nothing special. He has no idea what Jaskier sees but what he does know is that Jaskier’s gaze on him is distracting, so Geralt decides to change the subject. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How are you?”

Jaskier beams as if he asked the best possible question.

Week 2

“How the first two weeks on the ship have been?”

“Busy,” Geralt answers truthfully.

“And?” Jaskier prompts, after a moment of silence.

Geralt sighs, irritated. “And there’s a lot of work to do and some chaos, like always at the beginning.”

Jaskier chuckles. “This will have to suffice for now, but know this, White Wolf: I will get all your stories out of you.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and asks, “How are you?”

There’s that smile again.

Week 3

“How are you?”

Jaskier’s grin is blinding as he answers, “Honestly, Geralt, you’re just so sweet.”

Geralt grunts. Jaskier has to be mentally challenged in some way, to think that the basic human decency which Geralt displays is some kind of special gesture. (Or have had unpleasant experiences with past relationships but that doesn't seem right. Who would treat Jaskier like that?)

He only asks Jaskier about how he’s doing the first moment he can. It’s not much but Jaskier appears to think it is. Geralt’s not going to correct him, not when it makes Jaskier smile like that.

Week 4

“I wrote you a song.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’ll send you the recording, just tell me what you think.”

He only nods. As he listens to the song after they hang up, he can’t find any words to describe it. The beautiful lyrics tell a story of lovers camping in a forest, and Jaskier’s voice conveys so many emotions that Geralt’s chest aches.

Before the knows it, he listens to the song every evening, then it keeps replaying in his mind at all times. Jaskier’s voice is there with him, luring him towards thoughts that he shouldn’t entertain, and it all affects him in a way he struggles to express.

Week 5

“Thank you, siren.”

It’s the only words he’s found. Somehow, they seem to be enough for Jaskier.

Week 6

Jaskier is leaving on tour tomorrow, his first international one. He has a lot to say, but not necessarily on that topic.

“It turns out my agent and your ex-wife are friends from uni. I hate it, Geralt. I don’t want them to get along. I have a feeling I’m gonna have little say in my own life from now on.”

Geralt acknowledges Jaskier’s despair with a grunt that is barely noticed because Jaskier chatters on, “The only thing I’d hate more would be you knowing Triss too.”

Geralt frowns. There’s only one Triss he knows. “Triss Merigold?”

There’s a stunned pause and then, “What the fuck, Geralt –”

Week 7

Jaskier is in Europe now and Geralt is somewhere on the Atlantic but he can’t say anything else. Jaskier seems tired but Geralt finds out that it doesn’t make him any less talkative.

“I’m still not over the fact that you were right there the whole time –”

“Jaskier –”

“ – just two introductions away!” A huff. “Hey Jaskier,” he pitches his voice high, imitating how a woman would sound rather well, “do you know my friend Yennefer? Oh, and here’s her ex-husband, who’s gonna ruin you for other men, women, and everyone in between and outside of that spectrum.”

Geralt snorts.

“I could’ve had you for so much longer,” Jaskier laments, “But actually, I wouldn’t have, because it seems I’d have had no idea about your existence at all if not for Lambert? Those two introductions were possible for five goddamn years that Triss has been my agent but apparently, that’s not enough time for it to happen –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. He needs some sleep and rest. He misses home, already.

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt does want to tell him to shut up but Jaskier’s eyes are too distracting, so what comes out of his mouth is, “Sing something.”

Jaskier obliges with the brightest of smiles.

Week 8

“We can’t –”

“I know,” Jaskier replies, “but that’s the thrill of it, don’t you think, darling?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, breathing heavily. The temptation is so strong he almost trembles, like a bloody teenager. Memories don’t work in his favour now – he still remembers Jaskier’s scent, how his skin, mouth and cum tastes. It sets his nerves on fire, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to start palming himself through his trousers as Jaskier keeps talking in that damned husky voice.

“You know... your moans are the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He bites down at his lip, hard.

“Moan for me, Geralt.”

Geralt does.

Week 9

It’s been more than two months and gloomy silence hangs between them as they stare at each other through the screen.

“Tell me something funny,” Jaskier says.

Geralt searches for any memory of the kind in his mind. When he finally finds it, he launches into the story, “There was that time when me, Eskel and Lambert went out and got so drunk that we blacked out. Next thing we know, we’re in some stranger’s flat, and Lambert’s wearing actual handcuffs, his hand tied to the guy’s ankle.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. We couldn’t find the keys to uncuff them anywhere and we couldn’t pick the lock either. Me and Eskel had to get clippers to set them free. We still have no idea how we got there.”

Jaskier starts chortling.

“That’s how Lambert met his boyfriend Aiden. They’ve been together for seven years now.”

Jaskier keeps cackling. When Geralt realises that listening to that – probably the most inelegant sound he’s ever heard in his life – warms him to his very core because it’s Jaskier’s laugh, there’s only one thought on his mind.

Fuck.

Week 10

“Another song?”

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, looking almost embarrassed, “I hope you like it.”

“Hmm.”

He knows he will. When he listens to the recording, he quickly finds out he wasn’t wrong. The song is more lively and dramatic than the first one, expressing the wonder of watching your lover move, and it feels like a promise. It makes Geralt look beyond the sea.

Week 11

“Thank you for the song, siren.”

Jaskier sighs in a love-sick way. “I wish I could kiss you right now. Have got the slightest idea what I’d do to you?”

Geralt smirks. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Jaskier moans and goes on to describe his fantasy in vivid detail.

Week 12

Geralt toys with the gold wolf signet as he waits for Jaskier’s call and tries not to drown in grim thoughts.

Being away from his family starts getting hard. The worst period of deployment begins – he hasn’t been away from home long enough to forget but just enough to miss his loved ones terribly and not be able to get over it. The very second his thoughts wander away from work at hand, he remembers Ciri’s laugh, Yen’s smile, his brother’s embraces and father’s gruffness.

Then there’s Jaskier, with his bloody bright smiles, charm, quick wit and endearing... everything. He makes it so much harder.

They should’ve just parted ways, Geralt muses. They shouldn’t have exchanged their “engagement rings” for safekeeping to give them back to each other after Geralt returns like it’s some ridiculous romance novel.

Jaskier’s ridiculous like that, though, and Geralt’s still hasn’t learnt to say no to him.

When Jaskier greets him cheerfully and asks him about how he’s doing, a smile tugs at Geralt’s lips as he answers, “Better now.”

Part 2

***

A/N: you can also read this on AO3.

The first song that Jaskier writes is in Icelandic IRL (and it’s so goddamn beautiful) but even the English lyrics are just so stunning, I can 100% imagine Jaskier singing that: This night is ours, spring in the forrest air Let’s pitch our tent among the berries over there. Lead me, my dearest, to the grove of yesterday Where the brook kindly whispers and the birches sway. Light locks in motion, lingering emotion A rose scented breeze from the Fae Dew drops glitter, the dale is quiet and fair Dreams coming true for lovers sleeping there Heather blushing in the evening sun’s last ray The cool quiet night comes after a perfect day Light locks in motion, lingering emotion A rose scented breeze from the Fae

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #the Sailor and the Singer AU #mildly nsft

6 notes · View notes

bomberqueen17 · 4 years

Text

new work: Aretuza Craftsmanship

So I finished the Accidentally Super Horny f/f Keira/Yennefer fic, which turned out not to be so irredeemably Horny after all once I got over my excessive musings about Keira’s Magic Tits.

So that’s up now, and it’s 7k long and all about strap-ons but there’s some unexpected gender fuckery to go along with that. It’s Yennefer’s POV, and she’s not super introspective about this sort of thing, but Keira’s working through some stuff here. So do heed warnings if that’s a thing that’s super sensitive for you, I attempted to explain it some more in the notes. Also: I did not tag for infidelity, because all of this is within what Geralt and Yennefer have negotiated like grown-ups...

Aretuza Craftsmanship, on AO3. 7100 words, rated E for Extremely A Lot of hardcore lesbian sex and some really gratuitous silliness about tits. I really wanted to title it something facetious about boobies but I restrained myself.

For the record body-safe stone dildoes do exist, btw, I looked it up. No I don’t own one.

Yennefer smiled. “That was my point, actually,” she said. “If he hadn’t wanted to, and you didn’t force him, then it’s really up to him. I’m not angry with you.”

“I can still regret it,” Keira said loftily.

“Don’t,” Yennefer said, relenting; it wasn’t worth trying to hold this over her, not now, not like this. “He did nothing wrong either. We have an agreement and he’s supposed to avoid any of my particular rivals, but you weren’t expressly on that list and you weren’t doing it just to get in a swipe at me. To be fair to him, I don’t think he’d have done it if he thought you were, he’s pretty good about that.”

Not as good as he should be; he consistently undervalued himself and forgot that he mattered, at all, and in so doing devalued Yennefer by association, but that was not something to get into now. That was none of Keira’s business.

“Of course he showed you a good time,” Yennefer said.

“He was perfectly considerate,” Keira said. “It was very pleasant.” Yennefer was going to have to relate that one to Geralt; if ever someone had been damned by faint praise, it was now. Very pleasant, Geralt; she could already see his expression.

“And then you spelled him unconscious,” Yennefer said.

#keira/yennefer #f/f #my fic #my writing #fic update #meet death sitting #the witcher

21 notes · View notes

labyrinthof-fan-fiction · 4 years

Text

(When Your Heart’s on Fire) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Geraskier 50s AU

Summary: Geralt just wanted a calm night at the club, a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other. Then that crooner, Jaskier, took the stage. Post WWII, Geralt is still adjusting to life as a civilian.

Companion One Shot of Jaskier seeing Geralt for the first time here.

Warnings: PTSD mentions, Alcohol Consumption

A/N: I warned you all that this was going to happen, we’re going to be thriving off this Vera Lynn playlist for a long time. Also I’ve made Roach into a cat for this, why not? Inspiration: Vic Damone’s (When Your Heart’s on Fire) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. His version was recorded in 1956, but the song has existed since 1933. Look his voice is to die for and exactly how I’d imagine crooner Jaskier would sound. Because I love Joey, but crooner Jaskier would be a hell of a baritone with a beautiful falsetto.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Witcher. I don’t own ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’

Word Count: 2,340

Geralt had a long day, hell a long week. Adjusting to civilian life after the war had taken its toll on him. Going back to his job in the factory had not been as easy as he had planned. Shell shock was what they had called it when they found him curled in a ball in the bathroom after a machine had let out a violent blast. His shaking hands wrapped around his head, eyes searching for the shrapnel that never came.

After that incident he had been taken off the floor and placed in an office. He despised the office. They even had the audacity to require him to come to work in a shirt and tie everyday. “It’s what an office man wears.” They had said. “You can always go somewhere else.”

He wasn’t about to tell them he had never wanted to be an office man, that their absurd notion of moving him to a desk job was an act of service to him for his own act of service, was an insult. Because in the end, he needed a job. He didn’t have a wife or child to care for, but he had a cat, and the cat had to eat. Roach, his mangy tom cat, provided him with companionship, in turn Geralt provided him with a meal.

He was constantly badgered by his coworkers about his bachelor status. “How haven’t you found a little lady to settle down with?” One would say.

“A man like you would have no trouble getting some little thing to fall in love with you.” Another would chime in.

“You’ll grow tired of the bachelor status soon enough.” His boss would say, “Nothing like comin’ home to a house with a woman to take care of you.”

“You better tie down that dark haired beauty you always bring to functions.” Another would chime in.

He would nod his head and mumble something about just not having found the right girl yet. But he knew, he would never find the right girl, because he wasn’t looking for a girl. And that was a fact that he would not share around the water cooler. That alone would send him out the door, and he was not going to test his luck. Being home with his cat was depressing, he knew this because his best friend, Yennefer, constantly reminded him of this fact.

He was thankful for her, whenever he needed a date for a company function, she would be there. A beautiful woman to hang off his arm, then go their separate ways when the night came to an end. She was determined to forge her own way into the world, without a husband. A revolutionary idea, if you asked Geralt. And he was always ready to step in if she required a man to stand beside her. Most men would feel used and sour if they were a face to help a woman further herself, but Geralt felt honored she trusted him. Occasionally he felt guilty that she needed him at all. She was the person who turned him on to the club and since that he spent each night there.

The club was comfortable, tucked away in a back area of the city. Far away from the traditional areas, a small nook in the middle of chaos. To most people, it would have seemed a normal club with a bar and tables scattered about the walls, a small dance floor in the middle, a stage front and center. But Geralt knew that the women at the bar, chatting and smiling were not just good friends, and when they left, they weren’t going to go separate ways. The men at the table in a dark corner were not conducting an under the table business deal. But Geralt had one reason for being in the club every night, and he was on stage.

Jaskier, was his name, it took Geralt three weeks to get the courage to approach him. A slight blush crept up his neck when he remembered the night he finally introduced himself to the singer. After far too much alcohol, of course.

Geralt was frustrated from work, one of the younger men announced his engagement. Now this should not have bothered him, it usually didn’t. Engagements and weddings were so common that there was a constant supply of cigars passed in the office. No the boy’s engagement didn’t put him off. His boss did.

The men all sat down, with glasses of scotch and cigars toasting to the happy couple. This was fine, a normal occurrence. His boss started poking at him. “All these young men settling down, what about you Geralt?”

“Maybe sometime.” Geralt answered emptily. There wasn’t going to be a sometime, not for him.

And this is the sulky attitude he took to the club that night. Jaskier was on stage, singing his set of tunes. His baritone voice floating above the smoke, piercing through Geralt’s clouded mind. His voice grounded Geralt, brought him out of his attitude, and redirected his attention to the man on stage. He was in a deep blue suit, cream shirt, and a pink bowtie. Not Geralt’s style, but it was Jaskier’s. “Hmmmmm.” Geralt mumbled as he listened to Jaskier’s voice float around the room for an hour as he nursed a drink, then another, and then he couldn’t remember how many. The crowd began to clap and cheer as Jaskier wrapped up his set for the day. Geralt joined them, letting out a wolf whistle.

The man onstage bowed and leapt lightly off the edge of the stage and headed to the bar. He easily made his way through the patrons and placed his forearms on the bar. “Sidecar, Andy.” He said to the bartender who nodded and began to mix the drink.

Jaskier’s hazel eyes turned to Geralt, a few stools away. His eyes slowly scanned the larger man up and down until they made their way back up to Geralt’s eyes. A flicker of something burned in the singer’s eyes, but Geralt could not place it before the man turned away to accept his drink from the bartender.

Geralt sighed. They had been doing this same dance for a while now. But tonight, Geralt was putting an end to it. He slammed the last of the glass of whiskey in his hand and stood. His head spinning slightly. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before moving into the bar stool next to the other man.

“Nice set.” He said gruffly, panic setting in. He had never approached a man before. Sure he had wanted to, but he hadn’t.

Jaskier took a sip of his drink. Silence wrapping around the two men as Jaskier sized Geralt up. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“You always put on a great show.” Geralt managed to spit out. In his mind he was being suave, in reality. He was a goddamn mess.

“I try.” Jaskier said, taking another sip. Geralt trying to come up with something to keep the conversation from dying. “Have a bite with me?”

Geralt’s eyes widened and he nodded. The singer chuckled and nodded to the bartender. Jaskier stood and put a hand on the larger man’s forearm. “Let’s go to a table.”

Geralt followed the other man blindly to the table where they fell into a conversation. Well, Jaskier spoke and Geralt listened. Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell you what they said, what they shared, the mix of alcohol and excitement erased everything but the fact that he spent time with the singer.

After that night, the two fell into a pattern. Geralt would sit at the bar through Jaskier’s sets for the night. When he was finished they would get food and sit at a table, talking until closing. Some days they would talk about nonsense, others they would talk about their families, their pasts. They had both served in the War, Jaskier and been further from the front than Geralt. They both no longer had ties to their families. Geralt would tell him of Roach’s most recent adventures and catches. He would talk about his job.

Jaskier would listen to every word Geralt would say, and Geralt loved him for it. Geralt shook his head slightly. He loved him. He loved Jaskier. He’s in love with Jaskier. This had not been an easy conclusion for him to come to. It took him almost a month to process. Yennefer had laughed at him when he bore his soul to her.

“Took you long enough.” She said, taking a sip of the milkshake in front of her. She always insisted they meet in. For ‘appearences sake’ she said. Geralt had a feeling that she didn’t come there for just the burgers, but he wasn’t one to pull information from her.

And so he found himself leaving work to head to the club. The club Jaskier was singing in. The club that he was going to tell the singer that he loved him in. His heart beat in his chest as he made his way downtown. He pulled at the tie around his neck until it was loose enough for him to breathe.

He entered the club, giving a quick greeting to the doorman, who gave a slight tilt to his head as Geralt rushed past him. Geralt glanced around the room. His normal spot at the bar was filled by a woman he recognized, Yennefer. She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling as she raised her glass to him. He glanced around, the only seat he could see was at the table by the stage. He sighed and made his way there, the bartender brought his usual drink to him. The band was warming up onstage, Jaskier was no where to be seen. Odd, Geralt thought, Jaskier regularly would be front and center for sound checks.

The lights in the room dimmed. And Jaskier made his way onto the stage. Geralt felt his heartbeat speed up. Jaskier made his way to the mic, wearing the same suit he had when they first met. Even with that damn pink bowtie.

“Good evening everyone.” Jaskier said into the mic. “Tonight, we are going to start out with a song for a special someone.” A few whistles broke out from the crowd. Jaskier winked in Geralt’s direction and nodded to the piano player who began a flourish of notes, fast paced arpeggios rang out from the baby grand. Jaskier put one hand on the mic and took a deep breath.

“They asked me how I knew

My true love was true

I of course replied

Something here inside, cannot be denied”

Jaskier placed a hand over his heart. Geralt’s eyes did not leave Jaskier’s. Did this mean what he thought it did? He nervously pulled at the collar of his shirt, suddenly it felt too tight. They must have fixed the heating in the club this week.

“They said "someday you'll find all who love are blind"

When your heart's on fire,

You must realize, smoke gets in your eyes”

He winked into the crowd, causing one of the cigar smokers to blow a large puff of smoke towards the stage.

“So I chaffed them and I gaily laughed

To think they could doubt my love”

He raised an eyebrow at Geralt.

“Yet today my love has flown away,

I am without my love,”

He glanced into the crowd, a forlorn gaze, before his trademark smile broke out across his face.

“Now laughing friends deride”

Jakier gave a slight tilt to his head, causing Geralt to look back to the bar where Yennefer sat. A Cheshire grin splitting her face. She raised her glass and took a sip.

“Tears I cannot hide

So I smile and say

When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes

Smoke gets in your eyes"

Jaskier smiled he finished holding out the final note, Stephen, the pianist, brought the tune to a close with a tremolo on the final chord. The crowd erupted into cheers, several people standing, but Geralt remained in his seat. Jaskier’s eyes stayed locked with his, Jaskier finally broke their contact by turning to the crowd.

“Now, let’s get this started.” The band erupted into a fast tune, carrying couples to the dance floor. Geralt stayed in his seat, nursing his drink. He knew, without a doubt that he loved that man up on stage. The set came to a close and Jaskier leapt from the stage to stand in front of Geralt.

“I love you.” Geralt said, not giving the other man the chance to say anything.

“Oh thank God. I was hoping I didn’t just sing you a love song and you didn’t have feelings for me.” Jaskier said, Geralt paused for a moment. “I love you too.”

Jaskier held his hand out to Geralt, who looked at it, confused. “Hmmm?”

“Dance with me.” Jaskier said, and Geralt would not deny him. He would never be able to deny Jaskier anything.

They made their way to the middle of the dance floor, Stephen played a lilting slow introduction on the piano, the band following him. Jaskier placed one hand on the back of Geralt’s neck, the other guiding Geralt’s hands to his waist. Once he had Geralt situated he brought the other hand up to wrap his arms around the taller man’s neck, causing Geralt to look down at the man in his arms. Geralt’s mind blanked and he found himself leaning down to the other man, Jaskier closed the distance between them, locking his lips onto Geralt’s.

Geralt tightened his hold on Jaskier, deepening the kiss. Jaskier pulled away for air, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s. They remained silent, wrapped in each other’s arms as the band played on. For the moment all that mattered was the man in their arms and the love they felt. The reality of the world was a problem for another time, for all who love are blind.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #50s au #the witcher #witcher fic #surprise surprise it's another slice of life fic from me

39 notes · View notes

thegoodthebadthesickly · 4 years

Text

Jaskier- Dehydration

Request: Dehydration

Fandom: The Witcher (Netflix)

Requested by: Who even knows at this point? You think I keep accurate records?

TBH I've been looking for an excuse to write about my current hyper fixation, so...

Warnings: Language

@badthingshappenbingo

Stars are complete, Swirls are requests

Jaskier plodded through the forest with the enthusiasm of a child that had just been told it was time to come in from their daily playtime. He licked at his lips, but they were as dry as his mouth. He'd lost track of how long they'd been walking through the same forest, a fortnight, maybe? It'd been at least half that since he and Geralt had come across any kind of suitable water source, and their water skin had run dry three days ago. Jaskier made a face at a plump, green tree as they walked past, mentally shaming it for having the nerve to look so hydrated.

"Jaskier, keep up." Geralt ground out, not bothering to turn around. "The last thing I need is having to save your arse from something in this forest."

Despite the fatigue that had pushed it's way into his bones, Jaskier tried to quicken his step to match Geralt's. The forest looked innocent, if not for it's taunting hydration. Jaskier scarcely longed to know what lurked in the tall limbs of the trees.

"Geralt, can you-" Jaskier took a deep, hitching breath, his lungs protesting at the feeling. "Can you, perhaps, use those amazing Witcher skills of yours to find us some drinking water?" Yes, he was so thirsty it was maddening, but a stream, hell, he'd even take a trickle at this point, would provide a chance to sit and clear his sleep muddled thoughts.

"Jaskier, I've already told you that you will know about a stream as soon as I-" Geralt paused, putting a hand up to signal silence.

"I hear a stream a few miles northeast of here." Geralt huffed, putting his hand down and resuming his quick, loping walk.

"How- nevermind." Jaskier put up his hands in surrender, learning long ago not to question the senses of his Witcher. "Exactly how far is 'a few miles?'" Jaskier asked, knowing that his perception of distance was decidedly less intense than the Witcher's.

"Maybe five." Geralt grunted.

"Maybe? You've gone soft in old age, Geralt." Jaskier wheezed a laugh, his lungs still refusing to cooperate.

"It's actually six, but I wanted to give you a little hope." Geralt smirked, yellow eyes cutting in Jaskier's direction.

"Shove off!" Jaskier pouted, resigning himself to tired silence.

Comfortable silence fell over the duo as they walked on. The only sound being Roach's occasional soft snorts.

"How much-" Jaskier tried to clear his throat. "How much longer?" He asked, swallowing against the raspiness of his voice.

Geralt only grunted.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

Jaskier could only just see dusk start to fall through the thick foliage above him. That's when things got strange.

Lights danced in the corner of Jaskier's eyes, but when he tried to see them head on, they dissapeared. Soon enough, little black dots began to accompany the lights with flitting in and out of Jaskier's vision. Remembering what Geralt had said about things in the forest, Jaskier quickened his pace to match Geralt's, a feat that was not kind to his lungs or heart.

After only a moment of keeping pace with Geralt, Jaskier pulled back, and then stopped all together. Bending over, he put his hands on his knees in an effort to catch his breath and still his rapidly beating heart. The lights were getting closer, the black dots were getting bigger. Fae.

"Geralt, Ger-" Jaskier ran to get in front of Geralt, losing his breath. His heart was at a steady gallop now. "Fae. we've been followed by fae. They thought they could trick us, but I see them. I see they're lights when they think I'm not looking."

Geralt, having learned, on some level, to trust his frie-travel companion long ago, scanned the area for any signs of fae. Fae were nasty creatures, willing to give you anything, but in return, they could take anything. There was nothing. Not a single spark in the darkened forest. Geralt turned 360 degrees just to be sure, but he saw nothing, nor heard the tell-tale twitter of the fae.

"Jaskier, your eyes play tricks. There are no fae in this part of the forest." Geralt explained, surveying his companion. Jaskier's face was wan and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. "You're tired. We will hike to the stream and make camp for the night." Geralt pushed past Jaskier gently and continued walking.

Jaskier looked around wildly, the starbursts still dancing at the edge of his vision. Geralt was messing with him, he wanted Jaskier to be taken by the fae, be rid of him finally. He'd never wanted a travelling companion. Jaskier shivered, although he remembered it being a warm day before night fell.

"Just going to let me turn my back on the fae? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Finally rid of me, and you didn't even have to make it look like an accident." Jaskier spat, feeling dizzy. Had Geralt drugged him?

"Did-did you drug me?" Jaskier asked, his words slurring together.

"What the hell are you on about?" Geralt turned back around to face Jaskier, but the bard was indeed swaying on the spot.

"No, I didn't drug you. Did you eat anything? Any berries or leaves?" Geralt turned and walked back toward Jaskier, steadying him with a strong hand on his shoulder.

"N-no. Jus' tired. Thirsty." Jaskier batted his eyelashes, looking ready to fall over.

Geralt put a hand to Jaskier's forehead. It was bone dry, but burning to the touch. In fact, Jaskier's entire body was dry, which was odd for both the heat of the forest and the odd fever.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt through what he now saw as dangerously fevered eyes. Geralt needed to get the fever down, but the only supplies readily available were his potions he used for battles, and those were much too potent for any mortal man.

"Get on Roach." Geralt said gruffly, more putting Jaskier into the saddle than waiting for him to climb up.

Jaskier only hummed in response, looking like he'd fallen asleep standing up.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunted, not certain it was a good idea for the bard to sleep just now, "stay awake. Please." He added that last part as a near whisper.

Everything was coming in muddy flashes now, but Jaskier was certain he'd felt himself being lifted. Was he sitting on Roach? Geralt scarcely let him touch the creature, much less ride her. Jaskier was also fairly certain he'd heard Geralt say "please", which was slightly less fathomable than Geralt letting him ride Roach. Feeling something, someone, press up against his back, Jaskier let himself drift.

His dreams were odd, mostly just colors and shapes and Geralt's face creased with worry floating in and out of Jaskier's vision every so often. Then, there was the distinct taste of magic, like someone had been burning wood nearby.

When Jaskier woke, it was to someone holding something cool to his lips. He opened his eyes to see Yennefer's form kneeling over him. "Shh" She hummed. Jaskier just managed to catch Geralt's white mane behind her, his form muddled by the bright sunlight. Then, he was off again.

When Jaskier woke next- for good this time, he hoped- everything felt much more solid, including the feeling that he'd been trampled by Roach.

"Ugh" Jaskier groaned, his voice a hoarse croak.

"Jaskier?" Two voices asked. Geralt and Yennefer. Yennefer? That hadn't been a dream?

Yennefer knelt down beside Jaskier, her long hair tickling the tip of his nose. She opened her mouth to speak, but Geralt beat her to the punch.

"How are you feeling?" Geralt grunted, looking oddly uncomfortable and out of his element as he stood behind Yennefer.

"Like I was trampled by Roach."

"That's to be expected," Yennefer spoke up, cutting Geralt off. "I used magic to heal you and with magic, there's always some kind of give and take. It seems the trade off was your strength. Temporarily." Yennefer added the last part as Jaskier balked.

"What happened?" Jaskier pushed up on his elbow and looked past Yennefer to Geralt.

"Simple dehydration. Your body overheated, resulting in a delirium and fever." Geralt explained, still looking like a child who'd been given a chiding.

"Simple dehydration, Geralt? Really?" Yennefer asked in disbelief. "What your Witcher is trying to say, is that he doesn't understand how human body's work and forgot that you might need a sip of water every few days to continue breathing." She rolled her eyes, helping Jaskier to sit up all the way and handing him a cup (where had the cup come from? Jaskier wondered. Magic?) of cool water.

"Small sips, your stomach still tender." Yennefer instructed softly.

"How did you get here?" Jaskier looked at Yennefer quizzically.

"I have my ways." She said mystically.

"I called to her. Magic." Geralt explained simply.

"Must you always spoil my fun." Yennefer pouted, standing up. "Well boys, it's been fun, but I've really got to be going, there's a gentleman in Essoros that will be getting quite worried about a, erm, perky problem right about now. You better be glad I have a vested interest in both of you living. I was in the middle of something very important when you called." Yennefer smiled, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. She created a portal and was about to step through when she stopped and looked back at the two men over her shoulder.

"Do try to remember that it is dangerous for mortals to have an erection for more than four hours, Geralt. Don't need you calling on me just because your bard's little lute is rotting off from blood loss." Yennefer added cheerily, stepping through the portal.

The portal closed with a hiss, leaving a heavy silence between the two blushing men. Did Yennefer have spies? Jaskier looked around, feeling nonexistent eyes on his back.

"Do you, um, do you need anything?" Geralt asked uncomfortably.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly overly aware he'd been stripped down to his undershirt and pants at some point. "Why are you acting so odd?"

"I'm not." Geralt grunted, shifting from foot to foot.

"You are. You look nervous, like you think I'll break if you come too close." Jaskier huffed a laugh, putting down his cup of water and pushing himself to sit up straight, the muscles in his stomach and arms burned with the effort. Stupid give and take, he thought.

"Well, won't you?" Geralt asked.

"Geralt, what's wrong? Seriously, talk to me." Jaskier lightened his tone, looking at his-the Witcher with soft eyes.

"You're so, so courageous so much of the time that I sometimes forget." Geralt sat down beside the bard, gently pushing the cup of water back into his hand. "Drink." He said softly.

Jaskier did as he was told, shocked at how gentle Geralt was acting.

"Forget what?"

"I forget that you're not like me. You're human. You're fragile. Frankly, it's terrifying." Geralt huffed, looking off into the distance.

"I'm not 'fragile'." Jaskier countered.

"Yes, you are. Almost anything could bring your death. A mild illness, dehydration, lack of food, too much food, the wrong food, weather that's too cold or too hot-" Geralt could have gone on and on, but Jaskier cut him off.

"Geralt, look at me, I'm alright."

"This time."

"Geralt, listen to me, humans spend our entire lives being fragile. I reckon a dragon is fragile by your standards." Jaskier laughed, putting a hand on Geralt's bicep.

"Some species of dragon actually are quite fragile."

"The point is," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm always going to be fragile, but that will never stop me from singing your praises to each town we cross through. I will always be right there by your side." Jaskier promised.

"Are you sure?" Geralt grumbled, a smile playing at his lips.

"Now that's just rude!" Jaskier gasped, fighting his own smile.

Banter between the two floated into the air. In the end, Geralt was the one to insist that they stay an extra day for Jaskier to gain some strength back, despite the latter's half-hearted attempts to get back on the road.

In the future, if Geralt took a little more interest when Jaskier said he was tired or hungry or thirsty, he would just say that it seemed to be a good time for a break, but Jaskier would swear he could hear Geralt mumbled something about remembering that his bard was fragile and had limits.

#bad things happen bingo #prompt fill #prompt: dehydration #fandom: the witcher #netflix #jaskier #geralt #yennefer

84 notes · View notes

dhwty-writes · 3 years

Text

Gods

Part 5 of my gift for @heyabooboo for @thewitchersecretsanta.

Alright, I lied. I like this chapter just as much as the last. There's a lot of poetry in here, I hope that's your thing!

Summary: Jaskier has finally reached the garden, but so many questions still remain: Where is Geralt? How will he get them both home? And who the hell is Wade?

Moodboard by the amazing @petrificustotaluss

Warnings: very minor references to depression and truly copious amounts of poetry. You have been warned!

Read on AO3

Jaskier froze mid-movement. “Oh,” he said quietly, relishing in the sound of the familiar voice. ‘Is this a dream?’ he wondered. Well, of course it was, but that was beside the point. Slowly, he turned around. "There you are," he breathed, "Geralt."

The witcher stood before him in all his glory. Or something like that. He looked… weird. Healthy enough for sure, no bandaged broken bones, no bruises, no nothing. But still, his appearance was worrying to say the least. He did not wear any shoes for starters, despite the feet-thick layer of snow in the garden. Somehow, that was the least concerning aspect of his state. No, Jaskier was much more preoccupied with the fact that Geralt's hair was not only loose, but also soft and clean. And the fact that he didn't wear any black. No, he was wearing white of all colours. Long, white robes, and golden jewellery; bracelets and anklets and delicate chains around his neck. It was... pretty, he supposed. Pretty and oh-so-very-wrong.

"I found you," Jaskier whispered, barely believing his eyes. "I actually found you. Oh, Geralt!" He ran and launched himself at his witcher. A delighted little noise escaped him when Geralt actually indulged him for a moment, holding him close, before pushing him away again.

"Jaskier," he said sternly, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, obviously," he replied, mechanically checking his witcher for injuries. "You didn't think I was going to let you hide here until millennia after my death, did you— Geralt, what are you even wearing?"

"They gave them to me," Geralt grumbled. "They said they wouldn't have me wear anything but the finest silks during my... stay here. They don't want their... priest dressed in rags, they said."

"Their priest?" Jaskier laughed nervously. "Geralt, whatever are you talking about?"

"The deity that governs this realm and keeps me here," he explained and frowned deeply. "Apparently, I am their priest now. They didn't tell me their name, they just said I had to figure it out myself."

Jaskier had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Geralt's signature scowl looked a lot more like a positively adorable pout in white robes and silky curling hair. 'Oh, he's cute,' he realised, not for the first time.

"Well, worry not, dear witcher," he tried to reassure him, "for I will get you out of here in no time. I brought some frie-uh." He turned around to where the door had been with the flowers right above it. Nothing. Not even the lark was anywhere to be seen. "They were right here. Where are they?"

The chuckle that crept up to them seemed to come from all sides at once. Jaskier twirled around, in hopes of locating the speaker. "They cannot enter," a velvety voice purred into his ear, "into the centre," a ghostly hand caressed his cheek, "of my domain. Outside they will remain."

The creature rose from the fog curling around their legs a few feet away from them; a slender figure thrice as large as any man made of mist, snow, dim light, and shadows intertwining. An agonised groan spilt from Geralt's mouth as he slowly dropped to his knees, his legs trembling as if he was trying to fight the motion but couldn't help but comply.

"Wade?" Jaskier asked sceptically and ignored Geralt's splutter. Because if that was Wade, the flowers definitely could've warned him; he was not prepared for... that. Jaskier did his best to focus his vision on them—stubborn as always. But it was difficult, to say the least, akin to staring directly at the sun. As if he wasn't supposed to perceive them with his own eyes—which, of course, he wasn't. What mortal can hope to gaze at a god?

None, is the easy answer, obviously. They go mad if they do so too long. But this bard had to be half-mad already, for he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The robes they wore were quite similar to Geralt's, long and white and flowing. Their hair was unbound as well, though much longer than his witcher's, tumbling down to their feet in raven curls and barely concealing the grey mass of their chest; the only part of their body that did not seem to shift, shimmer, shine. In a way they resembled Yennefer with their fine chiselled features and their olive skin. The eyes were different, though, the piercing black of their irises was in no way less frightening.

“Wade, my old pal,” a gruff voice grumbled as the lark sat down on their shoulder. “How’s it hanging?”

They smiled benevolently albeit a bit confused. “It’s… hanging just fine, little friend of mine. How have you been? You’re cheerful, it seems.”

“Cheerful,” they parroted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. You see that buffoon there?” All three of them turned to look at him. “A right pain in the arse, he was. Took him ages to figure out your poem.”

"Oh...," he managed, barely keeping his shaking knees in check. He had absolutely no desire to kneel before his best friend's jailer. "You're.... beautiful," he stammered and while that was no ideal response either, he preferred it to the humiliation of kneeling.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Geralt cursed. "Now's not the time, bard."

Jaskier scoffed. As if he didn't know that himself. He had a witty remark ready on the tip of his tongue, but Wade was faster than him: "Be still, my dear, I'm greeting here a friend, it seems, who himself a flower deems."

"I do not deem, I named myself!" Jaskier replied, outraged. "Besides, would I be here if I were a flower? I've heard they are not welcome."

"Oh, and clever he is, too." A smile curled around their lips as they crouched down to get to Jaskier's eye level. "Who knew? It seems you have brought me quite a treat, priest. You should have told me, at least."

"Ngh," Geralt said, a pleading look in his eyes, looking back and forth between Jaskier and Wade. He could see the muscles of his jaw working, just like with Stregobor earlier. As if someone had willed him to shut up.

Rage boiled in Jaskier's stomach. "He did not bring me, for I belong to myself. As he does, for the record. He’s a person, and my friend, and I do not appreciate how you treat him."

"Silly mortal," Wade laughed and stood up straight, "he does not. He is mine to pay for the agony he brought."

"Pain? What pain? Stop speaking in riddles."

"Start listening instead, the answer's clear," Wade contested and straightened themself again. "There's a lovely home I had, but along came our witcher here. I did neither bad nor good, just dreams, not that he understood. He drew his sword and it brought war. So now he has to pay. He will stay."

"A drawn blade is hardly a war," Jaskier disagreed. "A lost home is hardly agony."

"Of course, you're too blind to see. It's not just a home I lost; there was a much higher cost."

He gnawed on his lip, waiting for Wade to elaborate. They didn't. The denizens of this strange world were not exactly forthcoming with information, much to Jaskier's chagrin. Well, in that case he had to be the direct one. Fancy that. "I have come to bring him home. Name the cost, I'll pay it in full."

Wade laughed, again, and for the first time Geralt spoke, too. "No!" he roared, " attempting to rise from his knees, but evidently held back by some invisible restraints. "No, Jaskier, you mustn't. I chose this fate for mys-"

"Then you chose wrong!" Jaskier howled, seething with anger. "How could you?” he accused him. “There are people waiting for you. People who need you." The witcher kept infuriatingly silent. "Why?" he asked, his lower lip quivering dangerously. He was not about to cry, definitely not, but it was a close call. "Why on earth would you do this to us? To yourself?"

"They wanted an immortal priest," Geralt said simply.

The deity hummed at that, combing their fingers through Geralt's hair. "It's true. I keep him here for his immortality. A priest who won't leave my side."

"You're immortal?"

He shrugged. "Immortal enough. Still have a couple of centuries to go, a couple of millennia with their help. I had no choice. It was me or..."

Ciri. Yennefer. Yes, Jaskier could see how a Child of Elder Blood or a sorceress might be a fitting replacement for someone as long-lived as Geralt. And of course, he hadn't wanted to jeopardise their safety. Of course, he'd preferred to stay himself. He loved them after all.

His eyelids fluttered shut. 'And I love Geralt.' He couldn't leave him to this fate. He couldn't— He couldn't. He had to get him out of there. 'Whatever the cost.'

"I see," he whispered and turned to Wade. "I suppose my soul would be no fitting— Hang on a moment." This whole looking up to the deity thing wasn't really doing it for him. That caused horrible cricks in the neck; netherworld or not, he sure as hell didn't want to deal with that. Once he had grown in size to match the god, he continued: "I suppose my soul would be no fitting recompense?"

The deity blinked at him in surprise but nothing beat Geralt's look on his face: "Did you- did you just grow yourself?" the witcher spluttered.

"Of course, I did," Jaskier replied, just as confused as the other two. "Didn't you know that anything is possible here?" Those were the rules of the netherworld, right? He could do whatever he could imagine. Right?

After a beat of silence, Wade laughed. "I see you are divine, too," they said delightedly. "Lucky me, that makes us two!"

"What?" Jaskier spluttered. "That's nonsense! I am no god, just a man."

"Just a man? I know none of my children's blood flows through your veins, but you're a poet, it's the same. Still, there must be more to you."

"There is not," he insisted.

"No elf, no fae?"

"No."

"No treachery at play?"

"If I say so."

"And what, man, is it that you brought here?"

"A lute."

"Why? Is it for me to hear?"

"It's for me to play."

"You say there's no fae blood in you; with my eyes I see it's true. And yet, you speak as they do."

Jaskier scoffed. He had quite enough of that Wade's antics already. "I speak as I see fit. And I would appreciate it, for you to let us go."

They tilted their head to their side. "Interesting."

They blinked.

The world shifted around him and Jaskier felt the sudden urge to puke.

He had regained his composure just fast enough to see Wade take a seat on a towering stone throne, Geralt kneeling at his side. Another blink and a similar, though much smaller chair appeared right beneath Jaskier's behind. "You're not afraid of me," Wade noted.

"Why should I be?"

"Because I am a god. Because you're a coward and a fool. Because I made your friend my tool." They smiled viciously. "In case you forgot."

"I did not. But if I'm a coward and a fool, so are you. You imagined this garden, too. I cannot be found."

"I grew this garden from barren ground, do not teach me about its laws," they snarled. "You're bathetic, flower, more than I ever was."

"Are we here to talk or to insult each other?" Jaskier laughed. "I'm Oxenfurt studied and trained, prat, why do you even bother? Smear poems are my bread and butter."

"A brat is what you are, the worst I've met so far. So, here's a tip for you: do not bite off more than you can chew."

He crossed his arms defiantly and risked a glance down at Geralt. The witcher was following their conversation with a deep frown, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. For just a moment he wondered how many quick-witted rhymes ago they had lost him. Still, he had a mission: "I did not come here to trade puny slander, let us not meander. I want a bargain. And I will not ask again."

Wade looked at him bemusedly for a moment, then they threw their head back and roared with laughter. "You've got guts, I'd hate to see them spilt. I like your little threats. You want to bargain before you wilt? Let's."

With a flick of their wrist, the air around Geralt flickered as he was pushed further away. Jaskier could see the invisible walls rising around him, could see the horror on Geralt's face, see him scrambling to his feet, banging on the barriers with both his fists and inaudible shouts. "I'm sorry," Jaskier whispered. 'I'm not,' he knew.

A sly smile spread on the deity's face as they leaned on the armrest and rested their chin in their palm. "Go on," they invited him with a grand gesture. "Talk."

"I already told you," Jaskier sighed, exhaustion showing plain on his face. "I ask you to let him go."

"And why should I do so?"

"Please," he begged, "name a cost. I'll replace what you have lost."

"Hm," they said contemplatively, thrumming their fingers against their cheek as they stared off into the distance. Suddenly, their gaze focused on him again, the expression on their face softening. "You love him," they said gently. Still, it felt like a slap in the face.

Jaskier nodded shakily.

"You might be a coward and a fool, yet you achieved what few can do. You prevailed where many fell, shouldering your burden, and his as well. Aren't you exhausted, dear? You could stay here, the both of you. I'd take good care of you."

He shook his head defiantly. "I'd rather have you take care of me alone and let him return to those he loves."

The deity laughed. "How do you wield words so prettily if you are too blind to see what's right in front of your nose? I can do only one of those."

Jaskier frowned, not understanding. "What—"

The deity paid him no heed and kept on talking: "From god to god, I have a bargain for you, man, listen closely to what I say: win my game, and you both walk free. Lose, and you belong to me." They spread their arms wide. "What's your answer, then? Aye or nay?"

Jaskier looked at them, studying their face as closely as he could. 'That sounds almost too good to be true.' Still, there was no trace of betrayal or deceit. "If I lose, only I belong to you?" he made sure.

"That is true."

"You're asking what I choose, at a game I cannot lose?" He laughed hoarsely. "I say deal."

"A handshake's the seal." Jaskier grabbed the offered hand and they grinned widely, dangerously. "May the better dreamer win."

Jaskier returned the grin that was almost a snarl. "Let's begin."

"He should listen, too, I think," the deity said and Jaskier nodded.

With a flick of their wrist, the walls around Geralt shattered and a roaring scream rolled over them: "Let him go! No, Jaskier, this is madness."

He stood and turned to him with a bow and a sad smile. "I have won your freedom already," he explained quietly, "that is all I came here to do. Now, please, dear, be quiet, so I can barter for mine."

"Aren't you two divine?" the deity cooed.

"Do not worry about our divinity," Jaskier told them sharply. "Worry about me."

They snorted disbelievingly and crossed their arms in front of their chest.

Jaskier imitated him. "So," he challenged, "what are we playing?"

"Ah, my dear flower, you're in for a treat," they purred and rose to their feet, still looming over Jaskier, "for you've met your rival you cannot beat. Welcome!" They bowed down to him. "To the Game of Fools. Here are the rules: One!"

A giant engraved stone slab slammed into the ground a few feet from the ground. "I start with a song. And you respond. It has to be your own, one that is just yours alone. Two!"

A second slab joined the first. "You must not speak out of turn. The speaking time is earned. Three!"

A third slab. "You cannot utter a single word that's already been heard. A song already sung does not belong." They whirled around to him. "Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." They bowed with a deep flourish. "With these rules, I'm sure you'll complete your goal."

Wait, what? Jaskier's head snapped up. "Goal?!" his voice was shriller than he had intended to. "What goal?"

"Listen closely and you'll see. Tell me, where else the fun would be." They flashed him a bright smile and said jovially: "I start. Take a seat and listen close. And if you're not quite as verbose, well," they chuckled, "don't take it too hard."

Jaskier scoffed, unable to resist the sudden urge to kneel in the snow next to Geralt. He was about to tell them that they obviously had no idea who they were dealing with. Not quite as verbose? 'I am Jaskier of Oxenfurt, Viscount to Lettenhove. I have written more songs and poems in thirty years than most poets do in their whole life. Not quite as verbose my ass.' But something told him that breaking the second rule already would end badly for him.

"Jaskier," Geralt hissed leaning over to him. Had he grown too? Or had they shrunken? A quick glance around told him that the latter was the case, the thrones looming up over the three of them impossibly tall. "Jaskier!" he hissed again.

"Shush," he answered. The deity was about to begin with their song, Jaskier couldn't risk missing it.

Still, the witcher was persistent. "Do you really think this is a good idea? Didn't you hear them? You cannot beat them."

He closed his eyes praying for patience. 'I know all of that,' he thought bitterly, 'and this is not really confidence-instilling.'

Thankfully, Wade began their performance, thus keeping Geralt from any other stupid comments:

"Men die, it’s true, but so do Sounds.

And when they do, there’s no

Formality, no-one around.

No-one will watch them go."

They had already reached the end of the first stanza when Jaskier realised belatedly that he probably should be counting syllables and lines and rhymes. 'Shit,' he cursed silently. 'So much for a good start.'

"A Sound, it dies with no last song,

No elegy or chant.

A final sigh and then it’s gone.

With efforts Men are scant.

A Sound dies with reminiscence,

Remembrance dies with God,

A God’s death is with reverence,

A Prayer’s death’s in naught.

In Nothingness all endings lie

When no-one’s left to dream

With the Last Poet Earth will die

The Last to write its theme.

Men die, it’s true, but so do Gods.

From mortals they all stem.

Finds one a Priest against all odds,

It’s a new life for them."

Wade finished with a flourish and looked at him expectantly. "Well?" they asked, entirely too smug and self-satisfied for Jaskier's liking. "What do you say, flower, poet, bard? I hope this first challenge isn't too hard?"

"Too hard?" Jaskier scoffed. "What do you take me for, an amateur?"

They hummed with a smirk that betrayed that, yes, that was exactly what they took him for. 'The audacity!' Jaskier would teach them— He wanted to get up, but Geralt caught him by the wrist. "Jaskier, are you sure?"

He snorted. "Please, Geralt, apparently we're doing elegies!" Of all poetic forms to choose from, they had elected the most dull, uninspired, and ordinary of them all. With a common metre at that! He hadn't done that since his pre-Oxenfurt days! "It's as if they're trying to bore me."

"Or bait you," he warned. "Don't fall for it, bard. You're too smart for that."

"Why, Geralt, is that a compliment?" he trilled. "I never thought I'd see the day."

He huffed with feigned annoyance that hadn't fooled Jaskier for decades.

"Don't worry about it, I know just the one. And rest assured that it is a greater work of art than that." He gestured vaguely into the deity's general direction.

"Silly mortal," Wade chided. "The true dreamer is not who crafts art of the dramatic but of the mundane. It's your turn."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, alright. You want to hear an elegy, too?"

"Are you trying to tell me you don't have one prepared?" They leaned forward with a sly smile. "Do not insult me, Jaskier."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he ribbed, and walked over to take their place.

He took a deep breath. They were right, of course, he had an elegy prepared. It hadn't started out like that; the first stanza had come to him many years ago. But then it had just kept growing. The thing was— He glanced over to Geralt, who looked at him intently. The thing was, that his witcher was not meant to ever hear it.

He wet his lips with his tongue. Nothing to be done about that now; so, he started reciting:

"In my time I have known a host of men;

Great kings and knights who met a tragic end.

And yet not one of them was greater than

Geralt of Rivia, my beloved friend."

He kept his eyes trained firmly on the ground; he couldn't bear to face Geralt now. Still, he felt his eyes burning on his skin. Jaskier felt naked all over again, even though he was still wearing clothes. It was almost worse.

"The core of men is shift and change.

He faced and braved the Trials and Trail.

For that men called him monster, mutant, strange,

A butcher, a witcher, a hero to hail."

He could hear the nigh silent gasp that escaped Geralt and his eyes snapped up involuntarily. He expected to see Geralt offended, outraged even. Instead, he just looked confused.

"For two decades I journeyed at his side,

A fragment of the century he’s seen.

No words can illustrate this witcher’s might;

He’s the most noble knight there’s ever been.

He was not known to be a man of words,

His Path, it was a lonely road to walk.

And yet he did speak, even jest of sorts,

'twas his hands, his deeds, his eyes that did the talk."

Jaskier closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in the words he spoke into existence. It felt like flying. It felt like floating.

"His pride’s his unrelenting amity,

His light a guiding star to follow

For us, his pack, his friends, his family;

Alone without him we are left hollow."

He ended his poem with a tiny gasp, just as it was meant to be. He gnawed on his lip. It felt... wrong. Unfinished.

He did not know what it was that kept him talking, nor did he know where the words came from. Suddenly, they were there as if he'd always known them. Maybe he had.

"Was it just him who fell? Or did we both

That morn find our demise in that chateau?" he whispered, his words scarcely more than a breath. As if he wasn't quite sure if they were meant to be heard.

"For, though by chance, our strings of fate were tied

He's gone, and I am dead with all my woe."

When Jaskier looked up again, all he saw were two wide golden eyes, staring at him in shock. He suddenly felt the need to throw up. "I'm sorry," he wailed. "I'm sorry, Geralt, I shouldn't have—"

"No," the witcher interrupted him and evaded his gaze. "'S good." Jaskier scowled. Was he... blushing? That couldn't be, surely. Witchers couldn't blush, Geralt had told him so himself. Surely, he had seen wrong. Surely, a quirk of the netherworld.

"You have done well," the deity decreed. "You truly are a poet, I can tell. There were worse foes I have faced. Yet, such a simple deed shan't be overly praised. Another test is due. A sonnet, is that something you can do?"

Jaskier scoffed and crossed his arms. "Honestly, Wade, do you even know what Oxenfurt is? I have read and interpreted sonnets until my eyes bled. I could write one in my sleep."

They raised their eyebrows. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"I thought you would go first," he said warily. He might not understand much about this world, but he was an expert on tales and fables, and if there was one thing, they all agreed upon, it was that you did not, under any circumstances, break the rules of a contract with a supernatural being. Circumvent them via rather liberal interpretations? Sure. Break them? Not in a thousand years. "You said so yourself."

"I said it before, I'll say it once more: you're a clever one." They snapped their fingers and Jaskier watched the rule rearrange themselves on the stone slab. "There, it's gone. Now let's continue with the fun," they clapped their hands excitedly. "Carry on."

"Alright, alright," he muttered and tugged at the collar of his doublet. A sonnet they had said? That was not an easy choice. Not for lack of suitable poems, of course. Rather the opposite was the case.

As much as he hated the rigid rules Oxenfurt had—quite literally—beaten into him, he had to admit that he had a... certain fondness for the sonnet. Alright, that was an understatement. He loved sonnets, loved the challenge to tell a story in fourteen short verses. He had written dozens, hundreds, myriads, only a fragment of which had even seen the light of day.

While he rejected Valdo Marx' notion that he was "pandering to the tastes of the masses" and thus produced inferior lyrics, there was at least some truth to it. Even he couldn't deny that his jaunty jigs and breezy ballads were much better received than poems that relied on finer nuances than raucous bawling. Such as sonnets, for example.

And while he had a travel companion for most of the time, Geralt had no sense for literature either. To him, a ballad sounded just like any other, and after one pitiful attempt from his part to try and introduce his witcher to lyrics without any music that had ended in Geralt rolling around on the floor howling with laughter, Jaskier had decided to postpone the re-introduction. Into the far, far future.

But all of that still didn’t keep him from writing his poems. Nothing in this world or any other could. That was precisely why he wrote them at all, because he was so full of words that threatened to spill over and ruin everything. They had to go somewhere.

Long story short, there were about two dozen notebooks collecting dust in some Oxenfurt archive filled with sonnets about a certain witcher, that would never be read by anyone but a sentimental, foolish bard who had tried and failed to process his desperate yearning in poetry. But which should he choose?

"What is it, flower?" Wade asked, their hand in Geralt's hair again. He wished it would fall off. The deity just laughed. "That's beyond your power. You are just here to recite a poem. Go on."

Jaskier bared his teeth at him and launched into the first sonnet that came to his mind:

"A witcher is most valiant a knight

He’s armed with silver, magic, and with steel.

He faces any monster without fright

For conscience’s sake and not just for the deal."

It wasn't his best, probably, but it had to do. With every unbidden touch, every condescending word, his anger grew more. His anger and his determination to get Geralt out of there as soon as possible.

"A witcher is a gruesome fiend and vile;

No mercy left in his mutated heart.

He bathes in virgin blood and monster bile,

Nothing that sets his kind and prey apart.

So, now you ask which of my tales is true.

The answer’s plain, my friend, they all are lies.

With words and tales bards build the world anew,

But life’s no simple sketch in blacks and whites.

A witcher is the commonest of men;

We all are beasts and saints in fortune’s plan."

Wade only nodded thoughtfully. "A beautiful work," they decreed, "and seldom have I heard one that held more truth. You're wise, despite your youth."

"I am not so youthful for a man," he admitted sheepishly. "Nor am I wise. I have just seen much of the world."

"Do not sell yourself short," they chided and strode over to take his place, "we all know you're not the humble sort. With your tongue as sharp as a dagger you like to brag and swagger. Let's see if it serves you well. I've got my own poem to tell."

Jaskier ducked his head to hide his smile as he sat down next to Geralt. 'Pity,' he thought. 'Had we met under another circumstance I might've even liked them.' Alas, they had not, and so Jaskier was morally obligated to despise every word that spilt from their mouth. 'Just like the good old Oxenfurt days.'

If only it were a task as easily completed now as back then. The problem was, however, that Wade was good. They were a good performer, for a start, one who you couldn't help but follow with your eyes. Their voice was loud and clear, rising and falling at just the right parts. And the poetry. Gods, the poetry. It was just out of this realm.

"Illusion, vision, vagary; the style

Is not what makes the dream a lovely thing.

Instead, it’s joy, it’s freedom, it’s a smile.

But still does reverie deep sorrow bring."

Jaskier wanted to hate the poem. He really did. But how could he when his heart ached with every word, when his eyes filled with tears, when he found himself mouthing along to the words to remember them, recite them himself in the future? He just couldn't.

"The terrors of the night most humans fear;

They pray, they beg, they curse to no avail,

They toss, they turn, they scream for all to hear,

They try to fight and cannot help but fail.

What makes a dream celestial and sweet?

What makes a nightmare grievous, ghastly, grim?

All fantasy grows from the unchanged seed,

Each one alike, the former’s perfect twin.

Are all the dreamers blind? It is a shame,

Not one sees that both are one and the same."

Jaskier was clapping before he knew what was happening and Wade bowed graciously. "Jaskier," Geralt hissed sharply.

"What?" he replied innocently. "It was a good performance," he insisted. "I won't forget my manners just because I am fighting for my life."

"Thank you kindly," they said with a smile. "I truly am glad that it is to your liking. It's been a long time since I had not only an audience, but found myself among friends."

"We are not friends," Geralt growled. "Neither he nor I want to be here."

Their face fell. "And yet you both sought me out. That can't be my fault, no doubt."

"Just get on with the song!" the witcher grumbled.

"Oh, Geralt, I'm so proud of you," they purred, "you're already rhyming, too!"

He huffed an annoyed breath and scooted closer to Jaskier, leaning against his side. "You know," he whispered, "they've got a point."

"Shut up," he grunted, his pout appearing again. After a moment the witcher groped around on the floor until he found Jaskier's hand. He held on tight and Jaskier almost didn't hear his confession: "I missed you. And I'm glad you're here."

Jaskier's throat tightened, and, oh, apparently the clear skies rained salt water in the netherworld. "You're—" He cleared his throat. "You're welcome," he managed without sounding too much like he was crying. Which he wasn't, for the record. Crying, that was. Nope, definitely not, not him.

Geralt squeezed his hand, and Jaskier really would have loved to continue this conversation, but Wade was talking again: "One last round, bard, one last chance to complete your task. I hope that's not too much to ask?"

"Some task that is," he huffed. "I don't even know what I have to do!" They didn't even dignify that with an answer and he sighed. "I do not have a choice, do I?"

"Do you still insist to leave with him?"

"I do."

"Then you have to win."

"I will. Name your challenge, Wade, I will meet it."

"So be it," they bowed their head. "For the last round let us compete with poetry at its most complete, most accomplished form: a ballad."

"Of course," he muttered. After a short moment he added, because he couldn't resist: "And what might satisfy your noble palate?"

"A ballad, bard, and both of you can go. A ballad to—" They faltered. "A ballad. One that comes from you."

Jaskier eyed them warily, but nothing in their face betrayed that they had just stumbled over their words. Well, it could happen to the best of them. Carefully weighing his words, he said: "That I can do." He made an inviting gesture. "After you."

"If you wish so," they extended their arms and a lute appeared out of thin air. For a few moments, the garden was completely silent, both him and Geralt waiting with bated breath. Then, they began to sing:

"There once was a maid as fair as summer sun

She loved to dance to the bards’ songs.

She loved to laugh, play, ride, and over hills run.

Her kindness’s famed in all kingdoms."

Jaskier gulped. The verses were joyful enough, but he knew enough about the art of ballads that he realised with the first string being plucked that this song would make him cry again. It was a heart-wrenchingly beautiful melody that made pure adoration mingle with bitter jealousy in his mouth. He knew whatever he wrote in the future, it could never be as good as what he was just listening to.

"Though her laugh was bright there was something she missed.

A part of her heart beyond gates.

So, one day she ran away into the wilderness.

Her fortune, a gift to the fates.

This is the poor dreamer’s lament

A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe.

This is how the maid’s fable went:

She got what she craved, but was sad even so."

He gnawed on his lower lip, not daring to even glance sideways at Geralt. This was a sentiment he understood only too well. 'And yet,' he thought, 'here we are.'

"The maid wandered aimlessly through the lands,

Wherever her heart’s wish led her.

She was free though many knights asked for her hand

She said: “Thank you, but no, my good Sir.”

In the end the maid’s heart led her to a garden

Filled with daisies, roses, and more.

The Gods told her: “You’re now its patron and warden.”

She dreamt it more grand than before.

This is the poor dreamer’s lament

A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe.

This is how the maid’s fable went:

She got what she craved, but was sad even so.

Though beauty surrounds her, no flower’ll replace

The joy that comes with humankind.

In her lonely garden she longs for an embrace

And all that she left behind.

She is forced to wait until the end of time,

Alone she grows still on her throne.

All the while waiting for the gentlest rhyme,

The dream to melt a heart of stone.

This is the poor dreamer’s lament

A story of freedom, found fortune, and woe.

This is how the maid’s fable went:

She got what she craved, but was sad even so."

Jaskier's breath hitched as the last note faded out, only for the deity to pluck at the strings again:

"This is my pathetic lament;

I got what I craved, but am sad even so."

His mouth formed a silent 'O' as he saw that the deity's cheeks were just as glistening with tears as his own had to be. Before his mind could even follow up, he was already on his feet, only held back by Geralt's iron grip on his wrist.

"Jaskier," he said, softer than he ever had, softer than he had any right to.

"Yes?" he breathed.

"I believe in you." And with that the anchor tethering him to his witcher's side was gone and he stood in front of the deity.

"Did you like my song?" they asked, almost hopefully.

Jaskier envied them for their dry-dreamt cheeks. "I did. I—" Slowly, he extended his hand and put it on their arm. It hurt. It hurt so much, so much worse than the trials, so much— 'This is it,' he thought, 'This is how I die.' Still, he didn't let go. "I'm sorry," he gritted out, "no-one deserves to be lonely."

They stared at him with wide eyes and jerked back suddenly. "Sing your song," they commanded.

He blinked.

There was a lute in his hands and the pressing urge to sing building in his gut. This time, Jaskier didn't really have a choice. He could count the number of his ballads that no-one had ever heard on one hand, and, well, there was a reason why they only existed in the privacy of his head. Either they weren't finished yet, or— Or.

Truly, he had no choice at all. A work in progress had to do, then. He took a deep breath and started to sing:

“Peace in our lands is of short-lived supply,

Soldiers and monsters both make children cry.

That’s why the gods let the witchers be born;

Demons they slay in foul and human form.

Geralt of Rivia, the noblest of all

Will slay the basilisk haunting your hall.

Good folk of Aedirn, you asked for his aid,

Lo and behold, the White Wolf brought his blade.

Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,

The fangs and the maw, he would not die.

Although the witcher did not need to beware.

He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify. ”

Jaskier faltered. ‘Ah,’ he thought as he blushed furiously. ‘Right, I hadn’t edited that yet.’ He winced, expanding his interlude. Well, the child had fallen into the well already, he could also follow through now:

“The White Wolf did not wait, he took the risk,

He set out to slay the vile basilisk.

Quickly, the White Wolf put an end to this farce

With his swords, signs, and his great muscled... arms.”

Jaskier winced. Not what he had scribbled down drunkenly during the victory celebrations afterwards, but he sure as hell wouldn’t praise his best friend’s behind in front of some deity and Geralt himself. Contrary to popular belief, he did have some dignity.

His silver blade slashed through the vicious beast,

His silver hair’s just as glorious at least.

The basilisk knew its demise was nigh.

Both of us vanquished with the flex of a thigh.

Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,

The fangs and the maw, he would not die.

Although the witcher did not need to beware.

He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify.

Armed with a mirror he evaded the the glare,

The fangs and the maw, he would not die.

Although the witcher did not need to beware.

He’s sculpted like granite, he cannot petrify. ”

The last notes of his ballad faded away. He already dreaded the conversation with Geralt to come, barely raising his gaze when he turned to him.

He blinked.

The deity loomed over him thrice as tall as any man, shadows, mist and snow swirling. "You cheated," they growled like roaring thunder.

This time, Jaskier couldn't resist the need to drop to his knees. "No," he whimpered. "No, please, I didn't!"

That, however, didn't satisfy them. "That was not your ballad," they growled. Blinding white lightning flared right around the still unmoving grey area of their chest.

He whimpered and ducked his head. "Yes, it was," he tried to defend himself. "I wrote every note and line myself."

"It was not your right ballad," they insisted. "You cheated. You lost."

Thunder roared. Lightning flared.

He blinked.

#my writing #For You I'll Always Wait #FYIAW #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher secret santa

3 notes · View notes

stressedspidergirlsfandomblog · 4 years

Text

preview

one of my beta’s pointed out one of my fics was a little too depressing. So here I am fixing some of the things I never finished writing, and trying to add some fluffier nonsense. When I finish it and my beta has a chance to edit it, it’ll go up on ao3. This is just the newest section of the chapter I had no idea i hadn’t finished like... 2 months ago... yep. .... don’t... yeah. I know. When I finish this section I’ll finish the other fic that’s... basically done anyway.... and then... get back to work on this one again... but like... the other chapter... I didn’t finish that I didn’t forget about i Just had to reread an entire novel to make sure i wasn’t flubbing it. (I do research. See? I care?)

When morning comes Geralt reluctantly pulls himself out of bed. He splashes his face with cold water from the basin and it does little to wake him up. Grateful for a small mirror he scrapes away days of facial hair from his jaw with a little sigh of relief. That task accomplished, he binds his hair back from his face and heads down the stairs to find himself some food. There’s not much else to be done. His leg is stiff but less horrible than usual, and while he’s still tired, it’s not the same bone-deep weariness that had been dragging at him earlier. Amazing what a night in a bed will do.

Able to get some things they can eat, he heads back upstairs to their room and settles the dishes quietly on the small vanity table. He avails himself of the salve Yennefer has been using on his leg and sighs in relief. He feels a bit like an addict. Every few hours he needs his fix or he won’t survive. He glances at Ciri, glad she’s still asleep in Yennefer’s arms. Silently he resettles the jar on the table and picks at some of the food.

Having gone to sleep earlier than the others, Ciri wakes up and finds Geralt not in bed with her. She looks around blankly and sees him sitting at the table. She gets up to join him and nibbles at some of the bread. Not awake enough to be truly interested in food she picks up the comb and starts working the snarls out of her ashen hair. By the time she’s done she’s awake enough to make a face at Geralt and remove his headband. He glares but she looks over at Yennefer and raises her eyebrows at him.

He silently concedes her point and she brushes out his hair and ties it back with thread so that he won’t need the headband. Yennefer’s right, it does look stupid, Ciri feels. Kissing his forehead when she’s done, she feels awake enough to properly eat breakfast. He shows her how to peel a fruit she’s never seen before and they eat together in companionable silence.

When Yennefer starts to rouse, Geralt knows she’ll wake the bard whether he’s ready or not. They should be moving on soon. He’s been seen, and people will comment on the white-haired witcher moving among them. Better not to give Skellen or Rience a chance to catch up with them.

The witcher and his girl slowly pack up their things as Yennefer gets up and washes her face before brushing out her hair. She offers Geralt the salve for his leg and he shakes his head, indicating he’s already found it. He’s starting to smell a bit like the elderberry used along with Stellaria Media and what he thinks might be rosemary. There’s arnica, too, he knows, and while the smells together aren’t all that pleasant at least it helps. Ciri helps Yennefer with her notes and various bottles. As she packs, Yennefer fills her stomach with the meagre offerings Geralt had managed to get them. She wonders if perhaps she should send the bard down to get them more food. Noting he’s still asleep she debates how best to wake him up.

The unfortunate victim of that look many a time, Geralt chooses to wake Dandelion himself. With gentle caresses and a kiss or two he manages to rouse his sleeping lover. He’s rewarded for his ministrations with a soft smile and cornflower blue eyes regarding him steadily. “We need to get moving,” he tells Dandelion.

“I might uh, need a little help,” the bard flutters his eyelashes a bit.

“With what?” Geralt asks.

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m all the way awake yet,” he drawls. “Perhaps a few more kisses would help?”

Ciri makes retching sounds behind them as Geralt leans over to oblige. Dandelion makes a rude gesture in her direction that makes her laugh. A few moments later, Geralt pulls away to make sure his things are packed and ready. He also wouldn’t mind stealing some kisses from the sorceress while he waits for the bard to get ready. She chuckles a bit when he pulls her aside to kiss her and ignores Ciri’s complaints about them all being disgusting.

“It could be worse, Ciri,” she warns, violet eyes dancing in amusement. “It’s just kissing,” she adds knowing full well if they had somewhere safe Ciri could go it would be a lot more than just kissing. She allows Geralt a few more seconds of her time before she pulls away. “Best to start getting the horses ready,” she kisses his cheek and smiles at him. She knows he’s disappointed. There will be plenty of other chances to steal kisses along the road.

“Go with her,” Geralt tells Ciri. “Kelpie is liable to end up a pile of ashes if you don’t. I’ll be down next,” he tells her. Dandelion is finishing up his own breakfast and working to wake himself up the rest of the way. He’d mostly repacked the night before, seeing no need to make his own life any harder.

Food finished, face and hands washed, he looks at Geralt, who is waiting anxiously for him by the door. “It takes them longer to saddle up than it does us,” he reminds Geralt, thinking that’s what the witcher is upset about. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up his saddle bags and doing one last sweep of the room. His lute is already slung ‘round his shoulders.

“We’re….” Geralt coughs and his throat squeezes. They had fought, and then just ignored it. Which was somewhat unlike Dandelion. Not that Geralt could think of any resolution to the problem other than to ignore it.

Dandelion strides across the room and hugs Geralt tightly. “We’re alright, my love, we’re alright,” he promises. “We’ve had spats before,” he presses kisses against Geralt’s cheeks and neck. “We will again, but I imagine we’ll always be alright after. How could I stay angry with you?”

“You’d find a way,” Geralt mumbles. “If you truly wanted to, you’d find a way.”

“I could never want to,” Dandelion protests. Geralt had never much seemed to care if they got into tiffs before they’d started sleeping together. The bard cups his cheeks and forces Geralt to meet his eyes. “Love is many things Geralt, but the kind of love I have for you is more than anything I feel you could imagine. We’re human, we’ll make mistakes, but Love, Geralt, love does not anger, it does not boast, and it will not allow us to ruin everything over an argument any more than we ever ruined our friendship. Love keeps no record of wrongs.”

Geralt leans in to the touch and kisses the bard, pressing him into the wall.

“Geralt, you understand I wasn’t even angry with you, right? Perhaps things got heated because of how you avoid dealing with things or answering them. But I wasn’t angry with you. Just, the world has hurt you and I wish I could undo it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry we’ll butt heads again. Please know how much I love you.”

The witcher nods, but he has nothing to say. So he kisses Dandelion instead, trying to show he understands, and he agrees. They probably will pick another fight eventually, they’re both criminally stubborn. It takes him a few seconds, but he remembers that they need to leave. And that the women are already downstairs in the stables saddling horses and will not be pleased that he and the bard chose to dally. With a groan of irritation, Geralt pulls away, wishing he didn’t have to. From what he could feel against his hip, the bard isn’t any happier than he is about the situation.

“Geralt?”

“Stables,” he reminds his lover.

“Ah, yes. Well then.” He adjusts himself to hide the effect the kissing had on him and smiles as Geralt does the same. He reaches out to hold Geralt’s hand and then remembers the less attention they draw to themselves as they leave, the better. It’s not entirely uncommon for men to bond or be close, or women, but a witcher and one of the most famed poets on the continent would draw raised eyebrows. Especially considering how many songs he’d written about Geralt and Yennefer, it would be even more strange to see the White Wolf and Dandelion together in a more romantic capacity.

By the time they reach the stables, Ciri is already saddling Pegasus and Yennefer is holding the reins of both her own mount, and Kelpie. Geralt quickly saddles Roach and adjusts her bridle and his packs across her saddle before mounting up. Yennefer gives him a knowing smile and he has the grace to look away in embarrassment.

The road is relatively quiet and they all feel relieved to be mostly alone. There’s another smaller town about a day away, they’ll see about resupplying and perhaps finding another inn. It might be a stupid risk, but they can always double back around so people think they’d continued on the road and then camp out in the woods.

Ciri engages Geralt in conversation about various monsters and he’s more than happy to elaborate on different types of ghoul and any other creature that prefers dead flesh to live. Not that they won’t go for live flesh if it happens to pass by. He ends up explaining to her about the necrophages that poisoned him badly and while he does not tell her about running into Visenna or the days of delirium he does impress upon her how dangerous they are. She realizes towards the end of the story that this is how he found her, and how Destiny brought them together. In some ways, this is the start of her story. He had been trying to find her, and had been told she was dead. In almost dying himself, he’d ended up in a cart that took him right to her doorstep. He was her destiny just as much as she was his.

#geraskefer #geralt x dandelion x yennefer #geraskier #gerlion #yenneralt #yenralt #the witcher #geralt of rivia #cirilla of cintra #ciri #yennefer of vengerberg #dandelion #geraltxjaskierxyennefer

14 notes · View notes

mimikoflamemaker · 4 years

Text

Witcher OC Ask Meme – Neve

In the spirit of @oxenfurt-archives January Theme “Something Ends and Something Begins” and introductory ask meme for Neve. Neve is my disaster child and I love her, however it took me literal years to create her – I was fan of the books before the games came out, but it was the Witcher 3 that finally gave me the ground I could work on comfortably. Let’s see what came out of it.

(ask meme by @mollumaukerie)

1. What is your OC’s name? Do they have a fake moniker or a nom de guerre?

Neve. Which means “snow” and pertains to her being born in the depths of the winter. Her mother never bothered to give her a more meaningful name and just chose the first thing that came to mind. Her father was never there to begin with.

Though later, that name came to correspond quite well with her cold and distrustful nature.

Due to her profession she uses plenty of fake name and back stories, sometimes thinking them up on the spot.

2. How old are they, and where do they fit in terms of current events in the Witcher universe? Have they aged naturally or through magical means?

It would be fair to just say that she isn’t sure as her exact birth date was never recorded. The action of the game takes place in 1272 and she is about a hundred years old at the time, which means she was born anywhere between 1172-1175 so around the same time as Yennefer.

Being told from the very young age that she is a product of crossbreeding and therefore not a full blooded elf, she was at the time, a little surprised by her apparent longevity, but after a while the thought faded into the background. Maybe she was just lucky in taking more after her mother. Maybe her mother never told her the truth about the birth father. It didn’t matter - she was busy with the real issues like surviving in the world that hated her for the way she was born.

Visually, she looks anything between twenty five and thirty five depending on who you ask.

3. Where do they come from? Did they grow up wealthy, well-off, or poor?

Neve comes from Blue Mountains – being born into the scoia’tael commando, meant that she moved a lot as soon as she was capable of following her elders. So she doesn’t really know where exactly she comes from, so when asked she usually says, that she is from Ban Ard – when she is feeling safe and honest enough to tell the thing closest to the truth.

Growing up like that meant no permanent place to live and more often than not, hunger. She was quickly thought to fend for herself, because as much as the children were considered precious by the elves and taken care of to the best of their abilities, Neve never tasted a proper, parental love, so she took the matter in her own hands as soon as she could, trying to at least be useful if she couldn’t be loved.

4. Do they have a family? Are they on good or bad terms with them?

Rhoenna – neve’s mother, she was a hunter and a regular fighter in the commando. She doesn’t know who her father is or where he might be now and she really doesn’t care. Her mother certainly never cared about her going as far as telling the girl that she was unwanted and a mistake. As a child, she did feel hurt by such treatment, but she learned to fend for herself on her own. And years had faded that memories to the point of not caring. Why would she care for people that never bothered to care for her? Besides, her mother was dead. And if her father was a human like she claimed he was most certainly dead as well.

5. What kind of personality do they have? How do they handle strong emotions of anger, grief, fear, etc?

Neve keeps a carefully crafted image of herself that she put up for others and molds depending on her needs. Most often given her line of work, she chooses to show confidence and competence, not shying away from showing of her various skills if necessary. She tends to be brash and a bit arrogant at times – a no-nonsense type of person that seen enough of life and doesn’t have the time of people’s bullshit.

That said, she doesn’t handle emotion well, even if it mostly reflects in her mental state. She has so much insecurities she hides from the world fearing that they might give others a way to exploit her, that any instance of feeling any sort of distress could be the tipping point for her. Therefore she tries her hardest to keep her feelings on the leash. But there are cracks if someone bothers to look.

She would often go with anger if she has to let off some steam. Anger is the easiest to handle. Violence can give her the momentary satisfaction, making her feel powerful. It is also the best way to assert dominance in some cases, especially when you are a woman surrounded by men most of the time.

Anger is probably the only emotion she allows to take over – and an emotion that often serves as the replacement for other things she feels.

6. Do they wear their heart on their sleeve or play their cards close to the chest?

She doesn’t really know the meaning of the word “honesty”. Is that even a thing? Neve chooses what she tells to whom, choosing lies over truth most of the time. She lies to get herself a better job, she lies to wiggle herself into the graces of powerful people and she lies to get herself out of trouble. But she also builds bits and pieces of truth into her lies. And she really knows how to lie – she is capable of making anybody believe her – maybe except for those capable of reading minds.

There is really no way of telling when she lies and when she tells the truth, which makes most people wary of her. And causes some problems, because if she decides to actually be honest for once, more often than not people don’t believe her.

7. What is their moral compass like? Do they abide the law, an organizational creed, or their own moral code?

Neve follows her own moral code, which can seem convoluted to the people around her, because she is just as likely to kick the beggar in the teeth as she is to shower them with money. She herself says that she only cares about whatever she wants to do at the moment, but she isn’t a complete chaos. She does abide the law when her safety and survival depends on it. She is ready to fit herself within the rules and regulations of let’s say the army for the same reason. But she is not afraid to toss it all to wind if she feels the need to. Because above all else, she craves her freedom – even if she knows that people like her cannot really be truly free. So she settles for whatever short instances of it she can catch.

8. Are there certain traits they value? Honour, integrity? Or do they feel such things aren’t necessary to live true to oneself?

Neve values adaptability, competence, versatility… the traits of a survivor and traits that can be useful in any way to her or her goal. She doesn’t care much about the personality of the people she surrounds herself with as long as they can get the job done or they are giving her the sense of safety. She isn’t all that fond about so called “higher values” thinking them all either a smoke screen, hiding the more sinister things or an utter bullshit fed to children through tales so they wouldn’t vex their parents.

The instances where those things turned out to somehow be true were just an exception from the general rule and nothing more.

9. What is their presence like? How are they perceived through posture, gait, and demeanour?

Much like with her personality, most things Neve’s appear to be is a carefully crafted image, build for the sake of fooling the world around her. To enforce the personality she wants people so see. So she moves with grace and easy confidence, head held high in spite of her pointy ears. She wears armour and weapon and makes sure that people understand quickly that those are not for show. But is she needs to be flirty, she is going to lean over and unbutton a few buttons more. She becomes what the situation needs her to be – like a chameleon.

10. What drives them? Do they have high ambitions or none at all?

Survival. Survival is what drives her from the early childhood. The will to live. And the desire to show the middle finger to the world that hates her. Does she has any higher ambitions? Not really – she knows that someone for her social standing is worth little more than a dirt. Maybe if she was born a mage, she would be able to forge a different fate for herself. But she was not born a mage.

[Part 1]

#of monsters and men #witcher oc #the witcher oc #oxenfurt-archives #neve #january theme: something ends and something begins

9 notes · View notes

imaginativecrime · 4 years

Text

7 reasons The Witcher series is a mess (or damn I need to vent)

Unpopular opinion time! For the record, I’ve read the books, played the games, hell, I’ve binged the Polish movie and series (because my love for Michal Zebrowski and Zbigniew Zamachowski is undying, sue me), and I was super hyped. Then I spent the entire series yelling at the TV, so I made a handy numbered list of the reasons why I personally consider it mediocre at best.

Because I’m fucking disappointed and I’ll never not be bitter about it. Fact.

Be warned, there are all sorts of spoilers below.

Let’s look at some of the issues that affected the show as a whole:

1) Adaptation is hard work - but you have to do it right

Adapting a story from one medium to another is difficult, you inevitably have to change things to make it suitable to the new form of expression and also, everybody wants their adaptation to be unique, to emphasize points they think are important, to reflect on the current times, you name it. But changes in an adaptation should make sense and lend themselves to the storytelling.

Many changes in the series were arbitrary, nonsensical and contributed absolutely nothing. One such example is the Battle of Sodden Hill, a terribly executed “siege” with not enough extras to fill a classroom instead of a battle of 100 000 people. Writing out Redania, Aedirn and the Brotherhood of Sorcerers from the conflict doesn’t seem to have a point to it, while the delayed arrival of the armies of Temeria and Kaedwen is both unexplained, unlikely and underwhelming, not to mention that it completely undermines the Nilfgaardian threat as a whole. This, of course, is just the tip of the iceberg of all the things that are wrong with Sodden Hill in the series.

Or take Foltest and his affair with Adda. It is perfectly clear in the books that after seven years of wizards, witchers and all manner of frauds coming and going while Foltest is obsessed with breaking the curse instead of killing his daughter, even the very last blind and deaf peasant knows about his shenanigans. It’s only logical, too. The story is relayed to Geralt in no uncertain terms at the very beginning. Now in the show the whole episode is too short to set up a murder mystery that requires Geralt’s incredible detective skills (uhuh) to unravel. What is worse is that you cannot make a big reveal of something that your audience actually has previous knowledge about. So why even bother to have Foltest deny it and have Geralt beat it out of Ostrit?

Which brings us to point two:

2) We all know which way to Temeria, don’t we?

Even if you have popular source material, you cannot expect everyone to know it. An adaptation has to consider people who are just getting their first introduction to the sandbox. When your lore is as rich as that of the Witcher, you need time and careful effort to set up your world. The show made a total shit job of this one. As in the above example, sometimes the show ignores that we, as an audience, know things.

Another example is Vilgefortz. We know him, his plans, abilities and allegiances, we have very specific expectations of his character. Besides completely failing these expectations (and doing a very unconvincing early reveal of his true colors), the show goes as far as taking Vilgefortz’s iconic sentence (You mistake stars reflected in a pond for the night sky.) and putting it in Fringilla’s mouth. Like did they actually think we wouldn’t notice? Or not be pissed?

At other times the show expects us to fill in its glaring blanks exactly by knowing our lore and characters. One obvious, overarching example of this is the issue of the separate timelines, that sometimes left even fans a little confused. Also, fun fact: one of my friends (who has no idea about anything in the Witcher’s world) for instance needed some time to realize Pavetta wasn’t, in fact, a grown-up Ciri, and he remains to this day very confused about Blaviken.

Basically, we are on a swing here, which is actually made even worse by another thing: bad pacing.

3) Hold your Roach for a moment

The first season wants to cram too much into its limited time and it has a severe negative impact on worldbuilding and character development. By bringing in all three timelines from the beginning, the show has to juggle time allotted to each.

To be frank, Ciri’s timeline at this point consists of a lot of running and screaming, which in itself hardly merits all the time we spend with her. It could have been utilized in part to provide us with a view of the war from ‘below’, to show that beyond the high politics and heroic battles there are burned villages, dead peasants, people who lost everything, cripples, deserters, ruined fields, and so on. Instead, we get one refugee camp of neat tents, actual beds, food and complaints about Calanthe (though not of dead husbands, lost homes or winter). Though I guess it should come as no surprise that the shock value of paint being made from a woman’s reproductory organs (that never happened in the books) is more important than actual large scale human suffering.

Now giving Yennefer an extended back story is great. But by that level of extension once again time is being consumed that is taking other opportunities away. Opportunities like giving Geralt himself a bit more background, clarifying points for fresh faces in the audience, giving characters more time for meaningful interaction. Because there is not enough time to let the story breathe and progress naturally, episodes are often rushed, choppy, and shallow.

4) Reverse worldbuilding, aka welcome to nowhere

Another serious issue with worldbuilding is what I suspect to be a deliberate departure from the game visuals and aesthetic. One of the things I adore most about the games is that it built heavily on Eastern European history and folk tradition. Nothing compares to the feeling when you ride into a village and you feel right at home because things are inherently familiar, or you go out into the woods and hear the exact bird song you are used to.

Netflix is very careful not to even offer a whiff of this particular identity to its show, but it doesn’t seem to have a clear artistic vision beyond that. Thus while landscapes are nice enough, other settings such as cities, taverns, ballrooms and the like are horribly bland in that “this is how we imagine the middle ages in Hollywood” way and look exactly what they are: sets. While one is not likely to quickly forget the red rooftops of Novigrad or the wild beauty of the Kaer Morhen pass from the games, there is nothing memorable about the locations presented in the series. (Even more bewildering is the depiction of the elite boarding school of Aretuza as a creepy dungeon with elf skulls everywhere. I cannot even begin to address this one unless it is all in caps.)

Point being that the show lacks an actual visual identity that would distinguish it from any other dime a dozen medieval fantasy.

5) My kingdom for a decent wardrobe

Sadly enough, the bland and flavorless visuals have a terrible effect on something else: clothes and armor. While some costumes are well done, there are way too many examples of the opposite. One very obviously is Nilfgaardian armor, which looks like fossilized trash bags with sad dick helmets. The fact that armor in the show is treated as the equivalent of cardboard is doing no one any favors. Please do your homework next time. Please?

Another inexplicable departure from the books and games is the appearance of the nobility, and most jarringly, sorceresses. That dress Yennefer picks out the first time? It’s literally the drabbest, ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and the others are not much better. When it comes to period-accurate choices, the range is just so wide: we are talking cambric, velvet, silk, cloth of gold and silver. We are talking luxurious furs, embroidery, colorful feathers, bright dyes, coats of arms and jewelry. Brooches, necklaces, bracelets, rings, hat badges, belt buckles, hairpins, you name it. People wore their wealth. Making them look like sad orphans will not make them look any more medieval.

Peasant clothes also had their decorations, though to a lesser degree than nobles, obviously. But I guess it’s too much to hope that those would get any attention when queens are dressed like they lost a bet.

6) I see your people and I raise you mine

Including people of color in the casting choices caused a lot of heated debate amongst the fans, but at least it means that the show cares about minority representation, right? Right?

The world of the Witcher has its own minorities, and what we have seen of them so far is so incredibly pathetic that I haven’t the words. For one thing, they look so terrible that elves in the Polish series actually look better, and that was so not a high bar to exceed. To make matters worse, they again seem to lack any sort of distinguishing visual identity (except for the Dryads. I’m also willing to make an exception for Chireadan, as he actually looks right and he’s a settled elf.)

Sadly, unlike the games, the series also fails to establish even the beginnings of a compelling narrative for its minorities, which definitely needs to be in place by the time Thanedd happens at the very latest. What is more, we seem to be given something called the Great Cleansing, which is plenty obscure but comes across as a Night of Broken Glass sort of thing (though that could be just me). While still salvageable at this point, this shift in narrative is cause for some concern, and so far doesn’t make much sense.

7) Your villains are not my villains

Unlike the books and games, the Witcher series sadly doesn’t seem to excel at presenting opposing sides without the need to vilify one (which again, makes me worried about what they are going to do to the Scoia’tael later).

Nilfgaard is now an Empire of Evil (TM) that lives for killing and religious fanaticism, Fringilla is a psychopath, and Cahir... Well, Cahir is a thousand shades of wrong all on his own. Stregobor and Istredd are now assholes of a whole different caliber, and even poor Eyck of Denesle gets to enjoy his five minutes of fame as a madman frothing at the mouth instead of a paragon of knightly virtue.

This is going so well.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher spoilers #the witcher netflix spoilers #review #crit #i am so disappointed in you #I'm legit afraid of s2

8 notes · View notes