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mlm-writer · 3 years

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Hero of the Swamp (Shrek x Jaskier)

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Pairing: Shrek x Netflix!Jaskier (Julian Alfred Pankratz/Dandelion) Rating: Explicit Words: 2893 POV: Third Summary: After being left on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself lost in the swamp and in need of warmth and comfort. Note: Y’all can thank @spielzeugkaiser and their amazing art for this. Sorry for the sloppy edit, but I really was not going to put even more time into this sinful work. Tags: I’ve been a bad boy daddy forgive me father fore I have sinned, pre-movies Shrek, post-mountain Jaskier, angst, fluff, Shrek’s huge dong, size kink, cum shower, monster cock, blowjobs, rimming, cum eating and Shrek has emotions ok

The growls of monsters lurking in the forest rolled over the muddy forest grounds and reached Jaskier’s icy ears. He shivered in both terror and response to the temperature. He told himself he could get off that mountain on his own, but who was he kidding? His frigid ears caught something in the dark. The bard bolted off the path, then later found himself in the middle of nowhere, chilled to the bone, disoriented, and, to be honest, frightened.

He was looking for a path, but even that seemed to not be present anywhere in the vicinity. Jaskier rubbed his trembling hands together and walked on. Jaskier thought he should at last find some shelter from the wind. Just as he was about to settle for a random tree, he noticed light in the distance, warm like fire, inviting him and promising warmth and shelter.

The fatigued bard all but ran towards it, the signs around the perimeter unnoticed in the dark. His boots sunk into the mud of the swamp, but he had his eyes set on the house-like structure in the middle of the swamp. He could not believe anyone wanted to live in this stinky place, but right now this someone was about to be his saviour. Once at what he assumed to be the door, he knocked on it. When there was no answer he knocked again. There were some angry, heavy footsteps, before the door opened.

Before him stood a massive humanoid, skin green like peas, frame built like Geralt who preferred cake over his nasty potions. “Eh, good evening, sir,” Jaskier tried. If it was living in a house, it must be intelligent to some extent… right? “Could you please spare some place for a weary traveller?” The green creature did not look nice, even without its facial expressions. Some tension left its body after the question. Jaskier recognised it as a hint of confusion. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by a fire.”

“No, get out of my swamp,” the creature spoke. It sounded like it was from Skellige. It was about to retreat into its home, but Jaskier put his foot between the door.

“Please, I’ll die out here,” he spoke dramatically, hoping for pity so he’d have a roof over his head tonight. He was not sure if he should try his luck with this creature, but at least it could speak. Wraiths had said less words, before trying to slice him.

“Not my problem. Get out of my swamp. The only way you get close to my fire is when I roast you over it.” “Oh please, you don’t mean that.”

Jaskier had barely finished speaking, when the green man grabbed him by his doublet and pulled him close. His breath stank of swamp water and fish. His mouth was wide and Jaskier was pretty sure he would fit inside there. The bard felt like he should be terrified, but underneath a thin layer of leather and cloth, there was warmth radiating off pear skin. He wanted to lean into it, thaw. What inhibited his survival skills further, where those eyes glaring into his. Under bushy eyebrows rested two brown pools of warm broth. He heard the green man roar into his face that he needed to leave, because he was an ogre and he was going to eat him, but it was hard to believe him.

Within those eyes that were so close to his, the ogre told the story of a creature that wanted to be alone, because alone was safe, alone was comfortable, alone was all he was used to. Jaskier never knew that, but after today, he understood why one would think that.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

It stung, more than anything had caused him to ache in ages. Jaskier could feel the urge to never make friends again, never love again, never lust after one he could not have. However, he refused. It was pain that made life worth living. Without pain, bliss did not feel as good as it did. The rain made sunlight so much more appreciated. The cold made fire so much more precious. The monsters made the witcher so much more valuable.

The human knew this, but the ogre holding him up by his doublet did not. Jaskier had wished for pity, but he pitied the other now. He clumsily threw his arms around the ogre and hugged him tightly. The ogre stopped yelling at him. Jaskier could feel the muscles against his body tensing up. The hand holding him loosened and he threw his legs around the ogre too, holding on and hugging him tightly. “You don’t have to be alone. I don’t fear you,” Jaskier spoke gently.

“I am an ogre.” “And if you were really malicious I would not still be breathing. Please, just for one night. There are all sorts of dangers out in these swamps, especially at night. I just want to stay alive.”

Jaskier could hear the ogre letting out a long sigh. “Fine,” he spoke, “but you have to be gone tomorrow.” Jaskier let him go, but not after planting a delighted kiss on the rough skin of the ogre’s cheek.

“Thank you so much,” the bard exclaimed. He slipped inside, before the ogre could change his mind. The inside of the hollowed out tree looked cozy. It stank like hell, but he was in the middle of the swamp; what did he expect? “Do you like music? I have little to give you, but I am a bard.” Jaskier held up his lute as he grabbed the chair that had no food in front of it. One look at the giant slug on a plate and he was pretty sure he did not want to have any food. Jaskier pulled the chair a little closer to the fire and sat down with his lute in his lap. It seemed rather strange that there were two hand-crafted chairs, while the ogre seemed to be so keen on being alone. “Oh and you can call me Jaskier, by the by. What may I call you, my hero from the swamp?”

The ogre looked at him a little annoyed as he closed the door and sat back down to finish his dinner. “Uh… Shrek. You can play, but don’t sing.” Jaskier let the name roll off his tongue, before playing a calming tune. He didn’t speak, just let his fingers do their thing as he processed all that happened during the day, well it was actually more just those few minutes that haunted his mind. Each one of Geralt’s words cutting into his soul. “Eh… Jaskier?” Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts when Shrek spoke his name. He shook his head, before looking at Shrek. “You don't seem to be… you… you seem sad, well, what I mean is… I never heard such a depressing tune.”

Jaskier faked a smile. “My apologies, good sir. I’ll play you a happier tune, if you wish.” He diverted his eyes to the fingerboard, blinking away the tears he suddenly noticed pooling in his eyes.

“No, you don’t have to. I prefer silence, anyway.” Jaskier looked up and noticed Shrek had finished eating. He stood up and started cleaning up. “You can sleep on my good chair.” Jaskier followed the ogre’s gaze to the fauteuil in the corner. He nodded. It looked comfortable enough. He had slept on forest floors with Geralt. This was more luxury than a regular day with the witcher.

Shrek had some board and card games, which he seemed to enjoy to play. Jaskier wondered if Shrek usually played these games on his own or if he hosted guests more often. Neither seemed likely, since the games seemed to have gone untouched for at least a decade, if not longer. They shared a few laughs. Shrek turned out to be more fun company than Jaskier would ever have expected from an ogre. His jokes were terrible and sometimes a little insensitive, but he so clearly meant well. It was clear Shrek was not used to talking or any social interactions. He spoke like a young man still trying to figure out what was socially acceptable to say and what was not. Still, he was trying and Jaskier welcomes the vivid chatting.

When they got tired, Jaskier curled up on the comfortable fauteuil by the fire. Shrek had draped a shirt of his over the human. It stank and was dirty, but it was warm and Jaskier was still low key afraid of getting kicked out to sleep in the mud, so he didn’t voice a single word of complaint. In the silence of the night with no one to talk to, words that were already spoken returned to his mind. Jaskier tried to block them out, but they bit at his brain, keeping him awake and drawing tears from his eyes. He curled further in on himself, trying to stay quiet as he sobbed into his hands. It just hurt so much to be discarded like he was nothing but a nuisance. Was that all he was? He was sure his songs brought joy in taverns, but right now the unlikely and unrealistic idea that everyone just pretended to have a good time was so overwhelming.

The bard flinched when he felt a huge hand on his shoulder and arm. He looked up to find Shrek hanging over him in nothing but his smalls. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the ogre clearly wasn’t good with words. “I’m fine, Shrek,” Jaskier lied as he wiped the tears off his face, “I’ll just find the nearest town tomorrow and fuck the pain away.” The words had already left him, when he realised how that might sound. “And I’ll do that tomorrow, not because I think you’re hideous, quite the contrary, you might be the most handsome ogre to ever exist, but I just assumed you would not be interested in having sex with a human… male. Human male, doesn’t seem your taste, but it could be, I wouldn’t judge you. How could I? You’ve been a most generous host! I…”

Jaskier almost suffocated as Shrek’s palm covered the entirety of his face. He got the hint and just shut up. Shrek slowly let go of his face, allowing him to breathe again. Jaskier looked away, cheeks red. He was blabbering nonsense to an ogre who preferred peace and quiet. He guessed it was time to sleep in the mud outside, however, Shrek wasn’t yelling at him… yet.

“So you just have sex and that helps you feel better?” Jaskier nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind helping you feel better. It is not like I have had lassies lining up in the swamp… or lads.” He laughed a little awkwardly, making Jaskier laugh too. He took hold of one of Shrek’s huge fingers with two of his, by comparison, tiny hands.

“Oh Shrek, you are such a wonderful host. You really do not have to do this though. I will still want to visit you again, even when you don’t want to fuck my brains out, just so I don’t have to think about some brutish asshole.” Shrek gave him a long look, before enclosing his hand around Jaskier’s waist and lifting him off the fauteuil.

“It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.” And Jaskier wanted to read into those words, figure out the ogre with complicated feelings, but he had no willpower to. Shrek’s bed was firm, almost hard like a plank. It smelled like him, like onions and mud and firewood. Shrek tried to undress him, but his huge fingers couldn’t get a grip on Jaskier’s complex clothing. Jaskier smiled kindly at him, helping him without even needing to look at any button. “Can I kiss you?” Jaskier didn’t even reply. Instead he pulled Shrek’s head down. It was an awkward kiss. Shrek’s mouth was way too big and neither of them were very coordinated in the moment.

When his clothes were mostly off and Jaskier was left in his smalls, Shrek kissed down his body, his huge tongue lapping at his skin and Jaskier could hear him enjoy the taste. He hummed to signal his pleasure, letting the ogre go about his business. Shrek pulled off his smalls and to Jaskier’s complete surprise, the ogre took his cock in his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing the sheets. Everything about Shrek was big, including his mouth. Even when the ogre sucked him to full hardness, Jaskier still didn’t feel the back of the ogre’s throat. Shrek sucked in his balls at well and Jaskier almost cried from the pleasure of having his cock and balls inside a warm mouth.

When Shrek let Jaskier go, his length was hard, red and leaking. Jaskier barely had time to recover, before he felt that glorious tongue on him again, this time licking over his hole. Whispered pleas left his lips as he imagined that tongue inside of him. Then a thought crossed his mind. If everything about Shrek was big, what about his dick? Jaskier had seen the ogre’s hands and one finger was already bigger than the average cock. While he normally was down to go big, the imaginable size of Shrek’s dong low key terrified him.

His mind had no opportunity to freak him out completely, because Shrek’s tongue entered him and the feeling was so, so good. Jaskier moaned as big green hands spread his cheeks and thick wetness penetrated him. “Ah… ah Shrek I hate to be a uh… fuck!” The bard trashed his arms around when his new found friend started to stroke his cock at the same time. “I’m gonna cum! Way too soon, I know! Sto..aahh...” His whole body tensed as he spilled all over himself. Shrek was unrelenting. As the bard’s cock was spent, he still had his tongue inside him, pressing at the right places and wiggling around so talentedly. “Stop, stop, stop, it’s too much, really, too much.”

Jaskier was out of breath, head fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss. His whole brain short-circuited as Shrek’s tongue licked over his torso, cleaning him off all the cum he had spilled over himself. “Are you all right?” The green-skinned sex machine inquired with innocent eyes that did not match the absolute tent in his smalls.

“Say, Shrek, will I die if I swallow ogre cum?” Jaskier almost laughed at Shrek’s expression. It was a ‘yes, no, maybe’. “Ok fine, but I will suck you off still.” The human pushed at the ogre, cornering the larger frame against the opposite wall, before getting on his knees.

“With all due respect, Jask, I don’t think you can fit me anywhere.” Jaskier didn’t listen, pulling down Sherk’s white smalls in spite of knowing the ogre was probably right. As soon as 12 inch of green cock basically slapped him in the face, Jaskier knew he was in way over his head. Still, he was confident that if he tried, he could still fit the head inside his mouth. With Shrek still assuring him he did not have to do this, Jaskier started licking all over Shrek’s length. The taste was not as bad as he feared. In fact, the more he licked, the more he started to like it. Jaskier made out with the head of Shrek’s cock, fucking the slit with his tongue. Shrek was holding his shoulder, occasionally squeezing a little as he moaned. And oh were those delicious moans, primal, guttural, deep and vibrating through Jaskier’s entire body.

The human tried many times, but he couldn’t slip the monster cock inside his mouth. He was resilient though and kept trying, while stroking the rest of the green length. He was so caught up in his quest that he didn’t hear Shrek telling him how close he was. He made a disappointed sound as he was forcibly removed from the cock in his mouth. Jaskier crawled back up the bed and stretched out his body. “Cum on me,” he wantonly moaned and Shrek did not disappoint. Jaskier had to close his eyes and mouth as he got showered in thick, beige cum. He never had felt this dirty, but it was a good kind. He wished he could have taken Shrek in his ass. He could’ve been so full.

Once Shrek had stopped groaning, Jaskier dared to open his eyes. He could see guilt already spreading over Shrek’s face. He must have been a sight, so much smaller than Shrek and absolutely drenched in his cum. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always fantasised about being showered in cum. Just never thought that all that cum would come from a single person.”

Shrek let out a relieved sigh and helped him wipe some cum off his face so it wouldn’t get into his mouth or eyes. “I’ll prepare you a bath,” he spoke gently, surprising Jaskier with the thoughtfulness. His eyes followed the ogre as he put his breeches on and moved out to probably get some fresh water. A laugh escaped Jaskier as he stared at the sticky substance covering his skin. Who would’ve thought that the swamp could’ve been so pleasant?

#shrekier #i've been a bad boy daddy #forgive me father for i have sinned #shrek x jaskier #shrek #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #netflix jaskier #the witcher #lemon #the witcher fic #shrek fic #monsterfucking #ogre #ogres #ogres are like onions

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geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek · 4 years

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beauty and the beast geraskier au but with banshee jaskier cursed to scream horrifically for the rest of his life because he was Too Cocky about his singing in front of the wrong person

he's got a gash in his throat that's in a permanent state of oozing blood and he's a little pale these days but other than that he's fine minus the fact every time he tries to sing it comes out as an ear-shattering death-summoning wail and the taste of rot and decay clogs the back of his throat

but it's cool it's fine he just plays his lute and wanders the halls of oxenfurt scaring the newbies and giving the professors ulcers and silently wondering if he could get away with screaming at that cunt valdo marx and killing him with his new banshee powers

but then the school hires a witcher to come get rid of him (rUDE) and its the butcher of blaviken himself (dOUBLE rude) except geralt of rivia is...nice? he says he won't kill jaskier because jaskier isn't evil, just a nuisance, and he doesn't deserve to die just because he's bored and stuck there

it turns out, however, that jaskier is not stuck like he thought, he just hadn't tried to leave before, and when geralt leaves he follows because there's nothing for him at oxenfurt anymore

jaskier tells him about the curse and geralt makes fun of him (he actually just grunts but jaskier can tell it's a judgmental grunt) before grudgingly telling him he'll help him break the curse as best he can, he knows a sorceress who might have a cure

she doesn't and jaskier dislikes yennefer of vengerberg immediately when all she does is laugh at him and his plight (r U D E) but she does tell him it can be broken, because all curses can be broken, but it's up to him to figure out how to do so—curses tailor themselves to the person cursed for full lesson teaching effects—and jaskier is on his own again

jaskier has no idea where to even begin looking for the way to break his curse so he resigns himself to being a banshee for the rest of his life, walking the edge between living and dead and unable to sing ever again. geralt gives him a sympathetic hum (another grunt really but jaskier is learning to read him) and doesn't tell jaskier to go away when he keeps following him so jaskier figures he could keep worse company than a witcher

falling in love with geralt seems like the natural progression of things and now jaskier is pining on top of everything which is just spectacular, really, and he can't even sing a ballad about it to get the feelings out because when he sings death follows and geralt keeps close company with death as it is, he doesn't need jaskier bringing it closer, so he pines and he longs and he yearns and it's fine, it's swell, he'll live (not live? is he dead? he doesn't feel dead, but he's not really a good judge of it these days)

since he can't sing, he talks—about his life, his career, his parents, anything that comes to mind, always chattering away, never quiet for long. geralt listens, or at least doesn't tell him to shut up, and it's good, it's really good being heard when for most of his life people would tell him to be quiet and bite his tongue and speak only when spoken to and just sing, julian, your singing is your best feature

it all comes to a head when geralt goes on a hunt that's supposed to be just one drowner and turns into a whole pack that nearly overwhelms him

jaskier panics, watching geralt go down, and he doesn't stop to think—he screams, the sound piercing through the air sharp and high, and the taste of rot and decay and death creeps up the back of his throat, coats his tongue and nearly chokes him, but the drowners are backing away in agony, some dropping dead on the spot, and jaskier doesn't stop until he sees geralt on the ground, looking at jaskier with wide gold eyes

he's alive and jaskier is so relieved he drops to his knees and envelops his witcher in a crushing hug and nearly sobs when geralt returns it hesitantly

"i thought i lost you," he says and buries his face in geralt's neck

"you almost did," geralt says, soft and tender, and jaskier holds him tighter, "but you saved me. i'm okay, jask."

"how?" jaskier demands. "my scream should have killed you, how—"

"takes more than a banshee scream to take me out," geralt jokes. "and you're almost...musical, when you scream. it's not the worst thing i've heard."

something clenches in jaskier's chest then—geralt accepts him, screams and all, and it doesn't push him away, doesn't make him hate jaskier

if that isn't love, jaskier doesn't know what is

he chokes, then, and there's an awful pain in his throat. his hand goes to it, and he coughs up blood, the taste so bad he gags, and he barely hears geralt calling his name in panic—

and then it's gone, and jaskier breathes easier than he has in years, decades probably, and when he pulls his hand from his throat, his fingers caress smooth skin and and come away with old, completely dried flakes of blood, and he looks up at geralt with wide eyes and a smile beginning to split his lips

"you did it," he says in awe, and there's no underlying gurgle to his words, faint as it had always been anyway, but now it's gone, "you broke the curse."

"how?" geralt asks, confused, but he holds jaskier close anyway

"you accepted me as i am," jaskier says, knowing this is right, "you don't want me just for my voice, you want me for me."

"of course i do," geralt says, simple, easy, "you've grown on me."

jaskier beams, and he feels like singing.

#the witcher #geraskier #fics.#i just really lov banshee jaskier ok #had to idea dump abt this au #long post #banshee!jaskier

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sennextheassasinkingoflight · 3 years

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To My Grave

Geraskier Rated T to be safe. Cross posted to Ao3

Prompt: I told you I love you, I thought I was dying, but I lived and now I have to deal.

Summer was of course Jaskiers favorite time of year. Not to say that he did not miss the opulence of the city, or the balls, or even the conversation and study of the arts while he was away. To say he did not miss the shade of the trees in the courtyards of Oxenfurt, or the breeze that often blew off the river would be a lie. And yet, summer brought with its adventure, travel, inspiration, and of course, his friend Geralt of Rivia.

Despite the excitement that summer brings him, today Jaskier is quite miserable as dust rises into the air with every hoof fall of Roach and Pegasus against the dried, cracked soil of the road. The sun hanging high in the sky drowns them in wave after wave of stifling heat as he follows behind the Witcher heading towards Vizima. They’ve easily another day beyond tonight before they reach their destination, but word of a winged beast has reached Geralt and he is insistent on finding out what it is. Jaskier for his part can’t bring himself to mind. There are plenty of winged beasts that wreak havoc, and he can’t wait to find out what it is. He’s certain it will make for another great tale. Beyond that, there is rumored to be a bardic competition beginning in the next few days, and Jaskier desperately wants to compete.

“Geralt?”

The barest shift in his friend’s demeanor encourages him to continue. Where it was once hard to read the Witcher it is now a language in which he is more fluent than he believed he would be. Shifting in the saddle to ease the discomfort in his lower back, a side effect of aging, he continues his speech.

“How long do you think we may be in Vizima? You see there’s this competition and I was hoping to, well, compete while we’re in town. I know, of course, that it will depend on what kind of “winged beast” it is that we find upon our arrival, but have you perchance any ideas on our time frame?”

“I could leave you there.”

“Come now Witcher, I’m being serious.” He laughs out. Geralt hasn’t threatened to leave him behind, seriously, in almost a decade.

“So was I, bard.” Geralt tells him with a slump in his shoulders that indicates he isn’t serious at all.

“Hmm, I don’t think I believe you.” Snarks Jaskier like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. And for him, it might as well be. Perhaps he is too comfortable with his companion. Still, he wouldn’t change this for the world.

“I won’t stop you from competing with Jaskier. In fact, maybe you’ll be too busy to get in my way.” Geralt grins over his shoulder and any retort Jaskier had dies in his throat. He rarely sees those smiles, so he focuses, captures the moment to memory and smiles in return. The lapse in conversation is hardly a new commonality for them. Instead of being uncomfortable it has become a token of their friendship, and Jaskier has learned how to put the silence to use for him at some point in the last fifteen years.

As the sun continues to glare down at them, Jaskier drinks water skin and then pulls out one of his many notebooks and a broken piece of charcoal. He has yet to master playing the lute and riding a horse at the same time, but he can take down notes, even if they are a bit of a mess. Messy notes are much better than no notes at all. Absently he wipes sweat from his brow, unintentionally leaving a streak of charcoal dust across his forehead. With the same movement, he unbuttons the top of his doublet. It is unusually hot for this early in the summer he thinks as charcoal meets parchment again.

The rhythmic clip clop of the horse’s hooves is melodic in his ears as he continues brainstorming. Certainly, he could start another conversation with Geralt, but sometimes it was best to save that for around the campfire. Instead, he watches Geralts back, jots down some ideas and notes, and then watches his surroundings. A slight rustling in the bushes to the left catches his attention. Geralt is saying something but he can’t make out what it is over the cacophony of shouting surrounding him, or the burning in his stomach.

Gasping he falls from Pegasus. The trees look lovely from the side, canopying the road like they may actually cast it in shadow from time to time. With a thud his shoulder comes into contact with solid earth and he groans. Unconsciously he curls into the fetal position on his uninjured side and grits his teeth against the sharp pain below his ribs. Squeezing his eye shut against the ringing of steel in the air and the sun above him he tenderly seeks out the wound with tips of his right-hand fingers. There is an arrow lodged below his ribcage, just below his left lung. Well, that’s lucky isn’t it. He thinks to himself as he assesses the damage as much as possible without the use of his eyes. Slowly he forces them open, blinks against the white in his vision and tries to observe his surroundings.

He watches despondently as Geralt disappears into the woods chasing something, bandits, his brain supplies as he forces himself to roll onto his back and breath as deep as he can. It hurts. It hurts worse than anything he has felt before. Whimpering he considers what he needs to do and blinks back tears trying to keep them from sliding through the dust on his face and turning to mud. Shaking he manages to get to a sitting position, his head spins wildly and he presses his eyes closed so hard he can hear the fluttering of his eyelids. It doesn’t take long for nausea to set in and he vomits to the side.

When he has caught his breath, he looks down and tries to ascertain the extent of the injury. Due to its location he can’t tell exactly how bad it is, between his doublet getting in the way and the poor angle. Exhaling a long, low whistle of air he looks around and notes Pegasus nearby and Roach grazing peacefully to the side, waiting for Geralts inevitable return. Which, Jaskier admits to himself, could be a while if he’s found reason to kill them all. Unlikely, but a good beating, certainly. Hesitantly he tries to stand and fails. Pain like fire rips through his side and the wound begins to bleed worse. Instead he uncrosses his legs and scoots, and starts and stops to the side of the road.

When he finally makes it to the grass he moans. He aches all over and he is shivering cold, despite the heat of the sun against his skin. Sweat beads across his brow, down the nape of his neck and across his back. The station of the sun tells him some time has passed and the only feasible explanation is that he passed out. It doesn’t surprise him. He can’t remember much beyond falling to the ground and Geralt giving chase. Trying to relax his body he lays back feels at the wound, the arrow has been jostled in his movement and it comes loose without much prodding. He inhales too sharply and grimaces, clenching his teeth as air tickles his insides. With a groan he rolls onto his good side and curls up. There is little he can do on his own. He knows he should try and stop the bleeding but he can’t as black shapes swirl in his vision.

+++++

When he comes to the throbbing in his head and side are enough to make him grunt in pain. He can’t seem to formulate words, and despite the darkness that surrounds him when he tries to open his eyes, he is burning up. He lets his weight shift to the right and feel his forehead come into contact with something hard and cool. He moans, pleased and leans further into the item. Leather? His tired mind supplies and he sighs.

“Hold on Jaskier. Just, hold on.” Geralt says nearby, voice rough like gravel, and all he can do is form a strangled sound in response.

++++++

When he wakes a second time, there are two voices whispering urgently somewhere nearby. The first is melodic, clipped and paced. Designed to be listened to, informative. He wonders if the face that belongs to it is soft? If the lips that form words are plump? Are her eyes gentle? The second voice is familiar, like gravel beneath boots. It puts him at ease. He’s to tired to try and open his eyes, though he wants to. Everything burns and aches. Fire courses through his veins, and his side is the source of its fuel.

He tries to speak, but his tongue is heavy in the pit of his mouth. It feels as though someone has poured sand into it while he has slept. His lungs, too, feel as though they are dry as the deserts to the east. He tries to move, to make any sign of life and it is impossible given how barren every part of himself is. If the fire continues to rage, he knows he will not wake up. The thought terrifies him, puts him on edge. Something is placed on his forehead and it feels like boiling water, the cloth like horsehair against his skin. It makes him want to squirm, to lift his hand and throw the blasted item off.

“Jaskier, rest.” The voice like gravel says and so he tries. No. You cannot rest now, Julian. There is something you must tell him before you go. A voice inside his head tells him, and he’s tired enough to listen to it. Aching to fall into oblivion and never return. He is in agony.

“Ge- Grlt.” He manages through parched lips. He tastes blood on his tongue, and in some sick way it is soothing, his mouth finally feels wet, like it should.

“Jask. Sleep.” Geralt says, and he can’t. How could he possibly sleep when he has something this important to say? He tries to swallow, fails, coughs weakly and chokes.

“I.” He wheezes. These words are mummified deep within the caverns of his body. They are dust in his lungs; never meant to be pushed up the dried canal of his throat, never meant to pass through the forbidden gate of his vocal cords, over the desert plateau of his tongue, and carried by hot air through the cracked dunes of his lips.

“Love you.” He finishes voice rough as a sandstorm, before the call of darkness’ cool embrace drags him into the depths of her inky waters.

+++++

He wakes to cool air against his skin, darkness surrounding him when he manages to pry his dried eyes open, and the smell of rosewater and ivy encompassing him. Altogether it is a pleasant change from the last two times he woke up. Of this he is certain. There is very little pain in his movements as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

The bed beneath him is soft, comfortable, expensive. The pillow he shifts behind him is down, and he almost grins, then remembers he has no idea where he is, and in the darkness, he cannot see anything. There are no candles, or fires in the room, and the faint starlight shimmering at the edges of what appear to be heavy curtains does nothing to illuminate the shadows dancing around him. He opens his mouth to call out and whimpers when his lips crack. Tentatively he licks them and finds them bloodied. After a moment he swallows and tries again.

“Hello.” It’s hoarse, and coarse, and too quiet to have been heard, and yet the air to the left of the bed stirs. He shifts to listen more attentively and is surprised when he receives an answer.

“You’re awake!” Its melodic voice and he can’t help but smile at the joy he hears in it.

“I. Yes.” He manages.

“You must be thirsty, let me get you something.” The disembodied voice says and he smiles.

“Thank you.” He blinks away the tears that form when there is a sudden burst of light in the room. Several candles lit themselves across the expanse of the chamber. He watches as the woman moves to the table and pours water from a pitcher, likely there for that very reason. She is lovely, brown hair in ringlets and dark skin shining in the flickering light. When she brings him the water he accepts it gratefully and sips at it.

“Geralt?” He asks after the silence has stretched too long.

“He went out after your reveal. He hasn’t been back yet, but he left Roach so I’m sure he will be back at some point.” She grins, eyes revealing nothing but amusement and understanding.

“I’m sorry, but my wh— oh.” The word comes out of him like he’s been punched in the gut by a witcher. “Please, tell me, it was more than three words?” He begs, voice very quiet, eyes turned towards the cup in his hand as he tries not to spill it. He focuses on keeping his hand from shaking as the woman giggles and then speaks.

“Well, four if you count his name.”

“Lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” He mumbles and then smiles up at her.

“Triss, Triss Marigold.” She says with a smile and refills his water.

“Thank you for staying with me while I recovered. And for the water, I feel as though I could drink a lake dry.”

‘After the fever you had, I’m certain it feels that way. Are you feeling hungry at all?”

It takes him a moment to process the question, and when he does he simply shakes his head no. He doesn’t have much in the way of an appetite, but he is exhausted. Tentatively he brings the glass cup to his lips and drinks the rest of the water. Triss smiles encouragingly at him and he can’t help but return it.

“Miss Marigold, perhaps this is tactless of me, but did you use magic on me? I seem to notice a lack of hole in my gut.

She laughs and her eyes crinkle with glee, “Yes, some. Though I specialize in plants, which is what cured your fever. My magic and Geralts potions did the rest.”

“Witcher potions. He used, a potion on me?”

“Before you got here. He was… concerned you would not make it. You’ve been out for a while, but you haven’t been resting. Try to go back to sleep and we can speak more in the morning.” Triss stands, takes the cup from him and returns it to the table. When she reaches the door she turns to look at him one final time.

“If you need anything, I’m down the hall on the right. Good night Jaskier.” With a wave of her hand she plunges the room back into darkness and the door closes behind her with a soft clunk.

Sighing to himself, Jaskier snuggles down into the thick duvet and curls onto his side. He’s alone with his thoughts and the knowledge that his best kept secret is in the air. He would scream if it didn’t feel like it would drain him of every drop of energy he has. Instead he growls into the pillow with frustration and lets out a long winded sigh. Well Julian, He thinks, this is great. Look what you’ve gone and done now. Ha! You weren’t even awake to see his face. Cowardly now aren’t we. Of course, when haven’t we been? Then again, this wasn’t something we counted on right? No. No it wasn’t. This is fine. This is completely fine. I was dying, right? Yes. I was dying, and feverish. Geralt can’t blame me. We’ll…. We’ll just pretend it was never said and that will be that. Yes, that’s all there is to it. I’ll just pretend not to remember. Geralt probably won’t bring it up and that will be the end of it. Or so he tells himself as he drifts off to sleep in an oversized, overstuffed bed.

Bright light filters through his eyelids and wakes him the following morning. With an unamused groan he rolls over in bed and pulls the duvet over his head. Whose idea was it to open the blinds without warning him. Did they want him to go blind? The smell of food draws him from the cave of warmth he’s created. Sitting up he looks towards the table where Triss is sitting amusedly waiting for him.

“You’re in good spirits this morning.” He grumbles, the effect somewhat ruined by a yawn.

“Of course, I am. You're alive. Geralt is back. The king listened to me for once. It doesn’t get much better than that around here. Now, eat your bread and broth. Nothing heavier for a few days. You’re still recovering.”

Languidly he stretches before slipping from the bed and joining her at the table. In the light of day he can see that the room is smaller than it appeared in the dark. The table is situated a short distance from the hearth, there is a finely woven rug between the table and the bed, a chest and wardrobe against the far wall, and an end table beside the bed and the chair which yet remains beside it.

“Well then, it seems as though everything is going to plan for you today.” He smiles and sips at the steaming beverage in front of him. It soothes his throat on the way down and tastes sweet.

“For now.” She agrees. They eat in companionable silence until heavy footfalls pull them both from their thoughts. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Geralt has entered the room. He can feel eyes on the back of his neck. Triss smiles at him, then looks passed him.

“Well I have some tasks to attend to. I’ll check in on you later, Jaskier.” She says politely and makes her way out of the room.

Jaskier chews his bread slowly, waiting. He will let Geralt speak first, let him decide where this conversation is going to go. Straightening his back, he takes another gulp of his drink and finally Geralt comes into his line of sight. With obvious discomfort the witcher sits across from him.

“You’re awake then.”

“Obviously, Geralt. I am sitting up and eating, or is this a dream?” His lips pull up in a half-hearted smile. He’s too tired to pretend but he will do what he needs to to put Geralt at ease.

“Right. Yes.” Geralt coughs and oh gods, he can’t do this.

“You seem…. Unnerved, my friend.” He winces internally as Geralt makes eye contact with him and just as fast breaks it. Well Jaskier, way to act normal. He closes his eyes and scrubs at his face.

“You almost died.”

“I remember and its far from the first time.” Geralt stares at him and the words catch up with him. He comprehends them and wants to go hide in the folds of the blankets. The silence stretches long and tense between them. It’s uncomfortable in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. Jaskier catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror and notes the slight wrinkles around his eyes, the way his hair is gathering grey at the temples. He shifts, winces at the slight pain, and thinks, better to have said something now than live to regret it, I suppose. He watches Geralt watch him from time to time, face impassive and unreadable, and finally he drops his gaze from golden irises. Geralt will speak when he is ready, and in this Jaskier will not push him for an answer, only… he can’t quite keep his mouth shut.

“Like you said, I was dying, and I know I was feverish. We can pretend nothing was said if you like. We're good at that. At pretending. So why don’t we just move on? It’s not like we haven’t pretended in the past.” He manages, and his voice sounds weak, disappointed, even to him.

“It did happen.”

“Yes, but I’m saying if you want to pretend it didn’t then say so. Look, I was dying, I didn’t really think I’d be alive to deal with the repercussions of my words.” He flicks his eyes up to Geralts and freezes. Geralt looks vulnerable, like he’s battling something inside himself and he thinks he should look away but he can’t make his eyes obey.

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier almost misses the question, caught completely off guard by the earnestness in Geralts tone.

It takes him a long time to answer. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he is trying to choose his words wisely. He opens his mouth and closes it more times than he likes to admit and holds up his hand to stop Geralt interrupting him when the witcher tries to speak. Finally he does speak, slowly, as though he doesn’t really know the words he wants to say and hopes that they will instead flow from his mouth.

“I did. I do.” He takes a breath and perseveres, “But I think, what you mean is: How do I love you? What makes you different from any of my dalliances?” Geralt simply nods noncommittally.

“You are who I think of when I think of home. If you ask me where I want to be at any given time, the answer is always; with you. When we began traveling together, I counted the days to when I would go back to Oxenfurt for the winter to work on finishing the manuscripts I start in the summer. Now, at some point along the way, that shifted. It came full circle and all I can think about when I’m supposed to be teaching is where we’ll be going next. It’s consuming, and it’s not fair. It’s an ache and a longing, and a hope. I don’t know how to best answer you, for that much I am sorry.”

Geralt nods slowly at him, hums in understanding and they lapse back into quiet. It’s not as tense or uncomfortable as before, but it stretches nearly as long.

“And if that feeling were returned?” Geralt asks, looking right past him.

“I would have died happy.” It’s the best he can offer. To say more risks never traveling with the Witcher again. As it is, it wouldn’t completely surprise him if Geralt packed up Roach and took off. Told him to go back to Oxenfurt and never come back. He hopes that won’t be the case, that at worst Geralt goes along with pretending. At best, he hopes that the feeling is returned, that the question isn’t just cryptic, and curiosity fueled. Geralt sits straighter and rolls his shoulders.

“Triss says you need a few more days to recover and I still need to deal with the gryphon. You missed your competition.” Geralt says briskly as he stands.

“I imagined as much.” He responds dutifully, tries to keep the bitterness from his voice as Geralt leaves the room. He lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling. It could have been worse, he tells himself, he could have sent you back to the university. For now we pretend, and that has to be enough. With a mournful sigh he gets to his feet and makes his way to the window, his food forgotten. Leaning against the wall he watches as Geralt prepares to go on his hunt. Idly, he wonders how long it will be until this all crumbles around him, tries to console himself to contentment as he soaks in the morning light. Summer is his favorite, but he worries this will be the last one that fits into the category as he watches Geralt ride out.

Happy (ISH) Epilogue:

The summer had continued in a kind of stale peace. They’re actions, hesitant and second guessed at every turn. Neither comfortable around the other. Awkward in each other's presence in a way they hadn’t been in years. Every dance and rhythm they had gone, replaced with missteps and uncertainty. More than once, Jaskier wonders if he should return to Oxenfurt, but he is greedy and if Geralt isn’t actively asking him to leave then he will stay. June fades into July, and July bleeds into August before they know it, and still they’ve only just begun to return to the familiarity of longstanding friendship.

The sun is setting, and the smell of their supper has settled heavy over their campsite when Geralt speaks softly across the fire. The Witchers voice is soft enough that Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to right away, over the sound of his lute. He fumbles the strings at the oddity of it and blinks rapidly at Geralt. It was unusual for him to start the conversations, they had reverted back to Jaskier being the chattery one and Geralt being the monosyllabic one since their conversation.

“I’m sorry, what?” Geralt stares at him and shakes his head in what appears to be amusement. Jaskiers heart somersaults in his chest and he can’t help but be happy about it. Maybe normalcy is returning to their relationship.

“I said, there is a competition in Redania. Do you want to go?”

“Yes. Yes! Of course I want to go, Geralt!” He grins and strums a bold chord. Geralt shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the boisterousness of it all.

“Good. I thought… it would be nice. Since you missed the last big event.” Geralt mutters to him, as he stokes up the fire, carefully avoiding Jaskiers eyes.

“Wait,” He begins slowly, uncertainly, “You don’t have a contract that’s taking us to Redania? You’re offering to go simply for the competition? You’re not a doppler are you?” a laugh bubbles out of him by the end. Geralt glares, unfortunately, Jaskier grew an immunity to them almost immediately.

“I am not a doppler. Not that you would know one if it bit you on the ass, Bard. I’m certain I’ll find contracts as we travel.” The Witcher sighs and lies back on his bed roll.

“Why?” Jaskier asks, voice quiet. He knows Geralt has heard him, but he also knows maybe it’s pushing the boundaries a little. When no immediate answer comes, Jaskier lies down for the night too, watches as the stars come out and light the night sky. His eyes have grown heavy and he lets out a small yawn. When he’s settled and nearly asleep, Geralt finally answers, voice steady in the dark of night.

“So, you can die happy.”

He grins into his bag, Geralt was never one for words, but Jaskier has always been good at understanding what he means. It’s no secret to either of them, that Jaskiers days will end before Geralts unless some freak accident happens. And maybe, mentioning death isn’t the best way to say “I love you”, but nothing about them has ever made sense to anyone else.

#The Witcher #Geraskier #Prompt fill #Writing'#Fanfiction #Jaskier #Geralt #Triss'#I confessed my love for you because I thought I was dying but then I lived and now I need to deal.

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ma12s · 4 years

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Phases/Interests the Arcana characters would have had if they were Gen Z

Asra:

Naturally, when he was young he’d have a phase for Harry Potter, only the books though, and as he got older he’d re-read them and laugh at the magical inconsistencies.

TAZ. He probably simped at some point for Taako. Perhaps just dnd in general, and he either played a Magick user of some kind or a bard depending on his level of intoxication.

*inhales* PERCY JACKSON. that's it that's the point. He even got the unfulfilling Best Years Of Your Life Depression(tm) from reading exciting, romanticised accounts of teenagehood, only for it to not live up because how could it? its chill though, he finds his own little ways to be adventurous like making pasta in the late dead of night/early void hours of the morning, and eating on the floor. Faust helps him.

Listens to sleeping at last just to feel again and Saturn is his favourite and he will dance sensually and soulfully to it, somehow.

He watches Midnight gospel because he just loves the concept of podcasts but can sometimes struggle listening when its just audio bc he will vibe himself into a mediative state and have no idea what half the episode was about, so the visuals ironically keep him pretty grounded while he watches it. (He does meditate afterwards, though)

Julian:

This man DID have a fnaf phase and he IS the MAN behind THE SLAUGHTER. (He also gets a kick outta die in a fire (obviously) but it sends him absolutely, irrevocably feral)

He 100% had an emo phase too, but in a gay way that slowly transitioned into a weird taste for aspects of cottage core but like a Seaside cottage, and jams it to bear ghost now.

I bet he also got into true crime and has many pieces of paraphernalia with the slogan “Be GAY Do CRIME”. He also knows waaaay too much about how to dispose of bodies from that one reddit thread and worries everyone by bringing it up just a little bit too often. Also! out of morbid curiosity, he's the kinda bitch that would watch autopsy videos at 3:27am and is subscribed to ask a mortician and definitely participates in vulture culture.

Ngl he probably also got roped into a SuperWhoLock phase by Asra and it just added to his trust issues and permanently damaged his Gaydar.

Probably haunted by April 13...

He can't tell whether he wants to BE hozier or if he wants to FUCK him but tbh he's not fussy. He sings his heart out to From Eden, and bops hard to cheer wine (his favourite is the live version) and you better bet he listens to the 8d audios of Hozier but its.... and his YT history is full of them.

Nadia:

She's a bad bitch, but probably didn't get into anything too obscure. She probably has liked something and tried desperately to hide it from her elder sisters, only for them to get into it too. she’d be alright about it at first, but when Nasmira starts getting way more likes on her fandom content, Nadia starts feeling a bit put down and quits the fandom.

She’s is or has been at some point been knee deep in showtunes. She liked Hamilton but isn't quite trash for it, but will wipe the floor with your ass if Dead Girl Walking comes on.

Probably had a ‘not like other girls phase’ but instead of giving her a weird, kinda toxic relationship with womanhood, she got over it and accepts her femininity and will defend within an inch of her life women's rights and choices.

She's a proud Barb and would absolutely let Doja cat step on her. She hypes up girls on their OnlyFans and will actively murder people who tries to disrespect sex workers, as she too, respects the grind.

Also likes Greek and Egytian mythology, and stans Medusa as a victim of Men aint being shit. She also can't decide whether she stans Persephone or Aphrodite more and it is a constant ongoing debate in her head. She probably supports Lore Olympus on patreon.

Lucio:

MLP but he wouldn't ever admit it, and protects Fluttershy from creeps with his liFE. he also actually felt pretty bad for Discord, and kinda related to him. (Legend has it that on cursed, cursed nights of solitude, you can hear the sounds of DiSCOrddd iM hOWLin’ aT ThE MooN~~ drift in the air, accompanied by an actually really good rendition of the lyrics).

Lucio also liked heathers and he and Nadia bond over belting it out together, but his favourite is candy store (but will occasionally bop it to Big Fun).

His experience of Gay Culture was just binge watching drag race while he was still trying to accept his mlm-ness, and gatekeeped it until he learnt eventually how its supposed to be a place of tolerance and support and will now actively encourage All drag monarchs to work it. (He realises belatedly why it felt kinda wrong when RuPaul/the show did the queens dirty and the lack of diverse identites etc). He’s a little off with some things but with a little guidance from a very hesitant Asra, he's slowly getting Woke. (Neither will admit that they bond over these little lessons by the end of it, but everyone knows it and wish they’d just chill abt it)

Liked Voltron, stanned Lotor and his redemption arc and just... does Not want to talk about it.

Felt *weird*~~ when he watched that [one] scene with Levi from attack one titan and it took him a while but Now He Knows...

Muriel:

Got into Buzzfeed Unsolved and is mildly ashamed of himself but he finds Shane and Ryans dynamic really funny so he keeps watching it anyways. For some ~~mysterious~~ reason, he has had mad respect for Shane after the Goatman’s bridge episode, and immediately went to send it to everyone else, but got scared.

He likes to watch documentaries on cryptids (sometimes with Asra, or with Julian depending on how creepy the cryptid is)

His life was changed on the fateful day of 11/11/11. He has the highest logged hours on steam out of everyone ever and ProtectOrcs2020 could basically be his tagline at this point. He always adopts the kids and makes them the Best House with the hearthfire DLC. He always goes with the stormcloaks and probably simps for at least 5 of the companions.

He got into the Witcher through the Netflix series and started out being a Geralt stan, but jaskier slowly snook his way into his heart and he highkey ships them and Siri IS their child. (he would convince Nadia to cosplay as Yennefer, if he had more confidence).

Portia:

She liked dan and Phil but wasn't creepy abt it. She swore she could never pick a side but she secretly enjoyed Phil’s content more bc existentialism gives her anxiety. She did ship them but has since learnt quick that irl people ships aren't cute. She probably stays Thomas Sanders too

IF you're looking for a bitch with the nicest island on animal crossing, portia is 100% your bitch. She has Lillies of the valley for days and absolutely died when the special edition AC switch sold out before she could buy one, and compensates by copious amounts of Isabelle and the able sister stickers. Her favourite villagers are Fauna, Goldie, and Nate.

Portia is also a queen of Stardew and often passes out before she can get to bed because she just wants to get ON with her beautiful FarM dammit! She can never make her mind up what villager she wants to romance and switches faves like every week.

Listens to girl in red to drown her sorrows after 🎨🎻👩🏼‍🤝‍👩🏻🔥.

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

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Chapter 15 - A Broken Solitude

Hello lovelies, I am back with another chapter. I'm so glad that the last one was so well received - especially the oath and Yennefer. Maybe I'll be tempted to write a short prequel about Jaskier and Yennefer and how they got down the mountain? We'll see how it goes. I also want it to be known that this chapter was filed as "Geralt vs. the Doublet" in my WIP's. You'll see why shortly.

Unfortunately, I also come bearing bad news: sadly, @persony-pepper will be unable to continue betaing this fic due to personal reasons. So, I guess if any of you is interested in doing that going forward, shoot me a message? I also have to announce that this is the last pre-written chapter and I am experiencing a minor wave of writer's block atm, so the next one might take a while. I apologise in advance. Have fun reading the chapter!

Summary: While Geralt is still wrestling with the implications of Jaskier's impending wedding, a new Pankratz sister comes to town. Surely, everything will be fine, right? Right.

Read on AO3

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Geralt couldn't fucking sleep. It wasn’t a new problem, he was well aware of it. Maybe Jaskier even had a point when saying that worries were the cause for his temporary insomnia. The fact that he hadn’t so much as blinked since swearing himself to his not-friend was a pretty good clue.

But it wasn’t just that or the quiet noise that drifted towards him from behind closed doors. It wasn't as simple as Jaskier's confession of his impending marriage either, or the godsawful anger that seared through his body whenever he thought of it, or even the glaringly obvious lack of music, which was a rather vicious thorn in his side.

Why wasn't there music? There should be music. A dirge, maybe, playing in the distance. A requiem, to mourn the death of the Viscount’s freedom, his happiness, his soul. One last song to bid farewell to Jaskier the Bard. It would have been a welcome relief to drown out the silence that rang far too loud.

Geralt wasn’t stupid. He knew that was what it was. Jaskier had left him on that mountain, but he had never reached Lettenhove. Instead Julian Pankratz had risen from the dead, instead of staying in his grave where he fucking belonged. This marriage was nothing but another nail in the bard’s coffin.

And if that wasn’t enough, each passing day revealed more of the nightmarish monster that slumbered beneath Lettenhove's pretty facade. Geralt suspected it only just began rearing its head. 'He shouldn't have to,' was the mantra of madness that kept Geralt sane that night. 'He shouldn't have to, he shouldn't have, he shouldn't.'

He remembered his first instinct when he saw Jaskier again: ‘A curse. It had to be a curse.’ What else could shut him up, after sixteen years of grunts and insults? What else could make him lay down his lute, stop his singing, drive him home, if all the horror of the Path hadn’t been able to?

In a way, Geralt supposed, it was a curse. Not a proper one, of course, they were very different. But like one of those Jaskier used to sing about, pretty curses for pretty princesses that would be broken with a true love's kiss.

Only that this one wouldn't be. He wanted it to be, very much so. Maybe he even prayed for it to be, as stupid and futile as it was. A curse, he could do something about. A curse, he could break.

But this? This self-inflicted purgatory Jaskier was living in, dragging him deeper and deeper down the stairway of living hell with each passing day? There was nothing he could do about that.

Because Geralt had delivered him there and now Jaskier did not want to be rescued by him - if he wanted to be rescued at all. ‘He’s not being dragged,’ he thought glumly, ‘he follows willingly.’ He didn't have to choose this way, and yet he did because of... what exactly? Because a miserable witcher had showed up on his doorstep and their friendship was still important enough for him to sacrifice nothing short of his soul for that? Surely, that couldn't be it.

'It isn't,' he thought as he watched the sun rise on another day of misery. 'It's not for you that he's doing this, you heard him yourself.' And why would he be? He got a pretty young wife, a secure position and maybe even a new title out of it. Many people would do more for less. It shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

That was true for a lot of things. He had no right to be bothered by this marriage, nor did he have any right to resent the young lady that had overtaken his own place at his bard’s side. Nor should he be complaining about the very comfortable rooms he was residing in, that so clearly had belonged to someone much higher up the social food chain of Lettenhove than a jumped-up witcher. He tried not to think too much about who the noble in question had been. The answer to that question only made him uncomfortable.

He heard Jakub quietly knock on Jaskier's door to announce the looming arrival of one Lady Justyna of Kerton. The Viscount sighed along to the quiet whisper of silken sheets. "Alright then," he answered, "let the mummers' farce begin. Fetch me my motley, will you?" There was a joke in there, one that Geralt didn't quite get, too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The news that yet another of Jaskier's sisters would join them in Lettenhove had left a sour taste in Geralt's mouth. He wasn't sure what to expect. But if Janina's delight, Józefa's indifference and Jaskier's jumpiness were anything to go by, he doubted it would be a pleasant experience for him.

'Here's to hoping it's better than the last visit for Jaskier,' he thought. The day of the oath still haunted him in his waking hours as well as his sleep, with the look of pure agony in Jaskier's eyes when he had told him of his betrothal out of his head. He just couldn't forget how the whole keep stank of onions and tears, mingling with Jaskier's smell that was as familiar to Geralt as his own. Or the way Jaskier's pinkie finger had trembled in his grasp, the way Jaskier's hands had closed around his, to pin him to the present with nothing more than a gentle squeeze. The way Jaskier had looked at him, a plethora of scented emotions swirling around them, cupping his cheek, caressing the outline of his cheekbone with his thumb-

"Fuck." Geralt sat up with a start and forced himself to get out of bed. He needed a bath. A cold one, preferably.

He cursed again when he heard Jaskier race down the stairs, and busying himself with... whatever he was doing in his study. So, a lick and a promise had to do and Geralt had to rely on his discipline to will the hot feeling coiling in his stomach away.

But even with his shortened ablutions he wasn't quite fast enough. He crouched before his chest in nothing but his breeches when his door burst open. "There you are, witche- ah," Jaskier stopped mid-sentence.

Since the Viscount couldn't see him, he allowed himself to smirk. "Told you to knock, my lord," he mumbled and pulled out a fresh shirt that he pulled over his head.

"Well, yes," Jaskier responded, stumbling only a little over his words, "and I also told you that I can go wherever it pleases me. My castle, remember?"

“I remember.” He dug out a quilted doublet he didn’t know he owned and began fiddling with the buttons.

"Now, where was I?” Geralt could hear the finger fidget he did so often now. Another one of the jittery days, then. “Right, you need to hurry up. My sister's almost at the gate, or so I am told, and you will greet her."

He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, closing the front of the doublet in the process. "Of course, my ngh-" He turned and his words failed him.

Geralt would've been glad to say the first thing he noticed about Jaskier was his flushed face. Alas, that was not the case. 'He's wearing colour,' was the first thought that crossed his mind, closely followed by: 'Fuck.' After sixteen years of peacocking he should be used to this. After more than a month of mourning garb, though, it still came as a shock.

The Viscount de Lettenhove stood before him in all his glory. Of course, he was wearing the cursed red chemise again, that had drawn his eyes to Jaskier like a fucking target painted on his chest. 'Fuck.' Instead of black, Jaskier wore green, a frivolous velvet doublet embroidered with goldthread that didn't have any buttons. 'Of course, it doesn't have any buttons.' He supposed the silk lacing fit Jaskier and his chronic immodesty, that had been suspiciously absent the past weeks. The thigh-high boots the matching breeches were tucked neatly into, made Geralt's mouth go dry. He counted it as a small blessing that at least the shirt was buttoned up properly.

"Are you quite done yet?" Jaskier huffed and that was when he first noticed the blush burning bright on his cheeks. Geralt liked to imagine that he himself didn't look quite as flustered. His hopes weren't very high, though. "I know you glare at every speck of colour as if it's attacking you, personally, but I am, quite frankly, not in the mood today. So, you'll have to get used to it again, no matter how bad of a look you think it to be."

"I don't," he heard himself say before his brain had the chance to catch up. "It's not as offensive as the black."

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth like a stranded fish. “Hmm,” he said after a while.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, too preoccupied with how the light caught on the intricate goldwork with Jaskier’s every move for a conversation. He shifted from one foot to the other, showcasing the glittering strings that tied doublet and breeches together and Geralt couldn’t tear his gaze away.

"Can we go now?" Jaskier interrupted his musings once again.

"Do you want me to greet your sister barefooted," he shot back, "my lord?"

He just sighed and leaned against the door frame, waving his hand in boredom. "Get a move on, then. We haven't got all day."

"Yes, my lord," Geralt mocked and put on the soft stockings Ana, Marin's mother and the head cook, had gifted him before pulling on his boots. It was weird to be dressed all in new clothes. It felt like they didn't really belong to him. But it was nice, too. Nice to be given things. And not to worry about holes in his socks.

"Ready?" Jaskier asked impatiently.

"Ready, my lord," he confirmed. Jaskier turned and bolted immediately.

He quickly caught up with him. It wasn’t hard. Jaskier was very distracted that morning, staring down the stairs at nothing at all. He didn’t even notice Geralt approaching. Instead he started fidgeting again. He'd done that before, Geralt knew, and he recognised it as a tell-tale sign for the bard to lunge for his lute and start plucking at the strings. Only that there was no lute in sight. Only that he wasn't a bard anymore.

The urge to grasp his pinkie finger again was nearly overwhelming. Or better yet, to hug him tight, that all the tension pent up in Jaskier's body could seep deep into Geralt's bones. He’d done that before, too. It had been uncomfortable at first and he had growled and snapped at him. Only when even that hadn’t discouraged Jaskier, he’d learned to accept it. To anticipate it even.

‘How ironic,’ he thought, ‘to think how I hated it then and how I wish for it now that I’m not allowed to anymore.’ He didn't even have to ask to know that. "Nervous, my lord?" he asked instead.

"No," Jaskier replied and fiddled with the signet ring on his finger, "why would I be? She's my sister, after all."

Geralt raised his eyebrows at that. 'You tell me, my lord.' "I had the impression that your relationship with some of your sisters is rather strenuous."

Jaskier gasped indignantly. "Now thats-" He faltered and winced. "- probably true.” He looked almost pained when he dragged his focus back to their way downwards and began walking again. "There won't be anything to fear from dearest Konwalia, though. She loves me."

'I've heard that one before,' he thought but couldn't find it in him to act annoyed. "Hmm," he answered.

Jaskier scoffed, not very impressed. "Go on, witcher. Speak your mind. I can hear you mocking me even so."

He smiled. Of course he could. "I was just reminiscing on all the times you said this in the past, my lord," he answered. "And how often it led to us spending the night out in the rain."

Jaskier laughed and pushed the door to the courtyard open. "Well, you're in luck, Geralt," he said and spun to hold it open for him. "The chances of that are minimal."

Geralt snorted and stepped out into the freezing morning. Next thing he knew, the Viscount was on the floor, writhing and yelling, and shoving at the stranger who had tackled him.

Geralt cursed. How had he not seen that coming? He was a witcher, for fuck's sake. Fuck, he had just sworn to Jaskier that he would keep him safe and now this: "Get off me!" Jaskier shouted and kicked his legs. "You're crushing me, you horrible, horrible person! And ruining my doublet besid- no, not the sides, I’m ticklish, fuck- godsdammit, Geralt-!"

He was on the attacker a heartbeat later, pulling her off his Viscount. "Oh, you dirty son of a whore, get your hands off me!" she screeched in turn and slapped at his wrists, not that it did her any good. "Unhand me, you brute, you swine, and let me punish my brother for his crimes!"

'Brother?' Geralt looked at Jaskier who was slowly getting to his feet and mercifully looked unharmed. Using the distraction in her favour, the woman stomped on his foot, which made him loosen his grip. She spun, kicked him in the balls and when he doubled over, she pressed a tiny dagger against his throat.

She stared at him defiantly. Geralt stared back. Blinked in confusion. He looked at Jaskier. Back at her face, an exact copy of Jaskier's features. The Viscount doubled over with laughter. "What?" Justyna of Kerton snarled and pressed the blade harder into his skin, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Jaskier slung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "I missed you, Konwalia." He grinned and Justyna of Kerton grinned, too, and for a moment it was like seeing double.

It took his brain an embarrassingly long time to catch up with what was happening and to drop his hand. "Apologies, my lady," he mumbled, "I didn't realise who I was talking to."

"Obviously not." She turned up her nose at him, but didn't lower her dagger. "Who do you think you are, mangling me like that?"

Jaskier sighed and took a step back. "You know who he is," he answered and waved his hand.

She narrowed her eyes, her gaze burning with icy fervor as she took him in. "Oh, I know who you are alright. You're the man who stole my brother from me.” Finally, she sheathed the blade, the gods knew where, and extended her hand. “Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia."

“The pleasure is mine, Lady-” Geralt bowed to kiss her hand, but Jaskier's sharp whisper stopped him, too quiet to be heard by any human: "Don't touch her rings."

He halted, eyeing and sniffing the pretty jewels warily. He nearly hissed with disgust when the stink of several lethal poisons assaulted him. Hemlock, cyanide and lily-of-the-valley. “Konwalia,” he said, thoughtful.

Justyna scoffed. "You're no fun," she accused her brother, as she withdrew her hand.

Geralt straightened himself and quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier, who crossed his arms. "I won't let you kill my witcher."

"Please," she rolled her eyes. "He's a mutant. It wouldn't have killed him."

"I won't let you incapacitate my witcher either. I-"

Whatever he had wanted to say next, was quickly drowned out by a squeal: "Mother," a boy in dusty travel clothes called, "look at what Daria is doing!"

Daria, he supposed, was the girl in Ciri’s age balancing precariously on the railing of a trough to evade the grasping hands of a nursemaid. "What? You told me I’m so dirty, it'd be easier to dunk me in the horse trough!" Daria shouted defiantly. "I'm dunkin' myself!"

"Gods have mercy on the parents of clever children," Justyna groaned and rolled her eyes. "Not before you greet your uncle, you won't!” She shouted. “You two come over here right this instant!"

The boy obeyed right away, scurrying over to hide behind Justyna's skirts. But the girl needed more begging by her nurse and shouts by her mother before finally running over. Not before giving one of the two ponies in front of the stable, a pat on the neck, Geralt noted. Justyna’s three guards standing with the five horses watched the scene with thinly veiled humour. No other nobles, though.

"Your husband is not joining us?" Jaskier voiced the question that occupied Geralt's mind.

Justyna sighed exaggeratedly. "Alas, I fear he is still in Goldfurt," she answered cheerily, "where he is annoying our beloved brother-in-law terribly and teaching my eldest all his horrible fibs."

Jaskier looked startled for a moment, before he continued: "And he can stay there as long as he likes, so long as he doesn't come here."

Justyna smiled and mussed her son's hair. "Indeed, he can."

"Here's to hoping my husband dearest doesn't grow tired of yours," Janina shouted from across the courtyard and knocked on the wooden door. "You look good, Justynka. I am glad to have another sensible person in these halls."

Józefa and Ciri were with them, too, and they looked upset at that. But Justyna was quick to answer before the youngest Pankratz sister could protest: "As if I've been sensible for one day of my life," she sighed and opened her arms to stiffly hug Janina and Józefa after. "Ah, there you are." She smiled fondly as Daria slid her small hand into hers. "Go on now, be nice guests and greet Lord Lettenhove."

The two children looked up at her with wide eyes, then glanced over to Jaskier. 'The same blue eyes all Pankratzes share,' he noted. The Viscount smiled and took a step forward while Geralt backed up a little, trying to look as unintimidating as possible.

Jaskier's niece let go of her mother's hand and his nephew came forth from behind her skirts to greet him with a nice bow. "Thank you for allowing us to stay at your keep, my lord," Daria said and if he strained his ears, Geralt could hear Jaskier's heart skip a beat. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, no, d- madam," Jaskier said. He took her hand, to raise her from her curtsy and kissed it gently. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you may forgive the mishap that is failing to make your acquaintance until now."

She pursed her lips, obviously straying from the carefully rehearsed protocol when she said: "I might. If you're a nice uncle, Lord Lettenhove."

He laughed and reached out to mess up her already tousled hair. "I will have to make an effort, then, little Lady Daria." She grinned widely, and Jaskier turned to his nephew: "What about you, sir? I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

The boy straightened himself, but his eyes continued darting around, not daring to settle on his uncle. "Julian of Kerton, my lord, if it pleases you," he said far too quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier's mouth forming a silent 'Oh'. Honeyed happiness trickled through the air, as he carefully looked over to Justyna. She smiled and nodded.

Jaskier gulped and dropped to one knee before the boy. "Now that will lead to some confusion, huh?" He laughed nervously.

Justyna clicked her tongue. "How were we supposed to know either of you would grace the halls of Lettenhove? Go on, Julek, and let your namesake give you the hug he owes you."

If Jaskier looked nervous, then Julian did so doubly so, glancing back to his mother thrice, before finally wrapping his small arms around the Viscount's neck. He startled just like Geralt, when Jaskier sniffled quietly. "I'm sorry," he whispered, hugging his nephew tighter. "I'm sorry I'm late."

There was a simultaneous scoff from all three of his sisters and some muttering about 'idiotic men who didn't know how to apologise' or something of that kind. Truth be told, Geralt stopped listening as soon as Jaskier introduced his 'Cousin Fiona', and once more related the unlikely tale of their reunion.

Absentmindedly he wondered, when it would be acceptable for him to make a quiet escape. Three siblings had set him on edge already. Four was definitely nothing he was equipped to deal with.

Just when he was about to leave, there was a tug on his sleeve. When he turned, he saw Daria looking up at him with curious eyes. "Who are you?" she demanded to know.

"Geralt of Rivia," he responded with a nod of his head. "At your service, madam."

"Are you the witcher mother talked about?" she continued. "The one that stole Uncle Julian? Did you really steal him? Why did you return him?"

"I... am?" he answered cautiously, not entirely sure how to address any of those questions.

He was still trying to figure out how to answer them when she already babbled on: "Why d'you look so weird? What happened to your eyes? Why's your hair all white? Only old people have white hair, but you don't look old. Why don't you look old? Can I have white hair, too? It looks wicked."

"No," he growled, but she didn't even flinch.

"You can't tell me no!" she exclaimed. "You said you're at my service, so you can't deny me!"

“Aren’t you scared of me?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

She stood with her hands on her hips. “I am Lady Daria of Kerton,” she informed him, “and you have no right to frighten me.”

He had to repress a quiet chuckle. 'Oh, you're Jaskier's niece alright,' he thought. 'No fucking sense of self-preservation.' "Is that so? Didn't your mother tell you, witchers steal children and turn them into monsters?"

Her eyes grew even wider. "You can do that? Can I be a witcher, too? Are there girl witchers? Can you steal me, so that I don't have to marry someone? Mother says, that's what you did to Uncle Julian. I'd rather be a white-haired witcher than marry someone. And I already know how to swing a sword!" She gasped and quickly clasped her hands over her mouth when she realised what she'd said. "Oh bother," she mumbled, "I wasn't supposed to say that."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Why not?"

"Father says, a lady mustn't bear arms."

"Hm," he answered. 'Arsehole,' he thought. "And what does your mother say?"

"That a true lady knows where to hide arms from idiot men's view." Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Did you know that I can hide ten blades on my person without father noticing?"

That made him chuckle. "I did not, madam. Do you think it wise to entrust that information with an idiot man?"

She frowned and cocked her head. "No. But you don't look like an idiot."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

Daria crossed her arms. "Will you train me now?"

Geralt shrugged. "I fear that is not up to me to decide. You'll have to ask your mother about it. And your lord uncle. It is his service I am sworn to."

"Very well," she answered and tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. "I will ask."

He already feared she was about to ask right then and there, when Justyna of Kerton came to his rescue: "Daria," she called, "time for your dunking. In a bathtub."

"Later," she acquiesced. "I will ask later." She and her brother quickly vanished between four chattering Pankratz siblings, leaving him alone with Ciri.

His child surprise beamed at him. “Can we train? Please?”

As if he needed any encouragement. “Meet you back here in half an hour,” he told her and went to change and get his own training sort.

“Daria is fun,” Ciri announced as soon as she came barrelling into the courtyard again. “She said you’ll train her, too. Is that true?”

He glared at her. Fucking great. “Maybe.” His voice sounded far too soft for his liking. “You’d like that?”

“Oh, I’d love that!” Ciri spun in a circle and giggled childishly. “I’d love to have a friend.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “You’re not here to make friends. You’re here to train. Start with the drills.”

She sighed and took her basic stance, moving effortlessly through the footwork Geralt srilled into her. “Why can’t I do both?”

“Making friends gets you talking,” he recited Vesemir’s words, “talking gets you sloppy.” He nudged her food with his sword, adjusting the position slightly. “Sloppy gets you killed.”

“But Geralt!”

“First rule of training?”

“Listen and do as you’re told,” she mumbled.

“Right. D’you need your mouth for that?”

“No.”

“Then shut it and get moving.” She pulled a grimace he knew he should reprimand her for. Somehow, he couldn’t. “Alright, I’ll do it with you.” That always seemed to cheer her up. Together they moved through the basic drills until they were rudely interrupted by Justyna of Kerton.

“Continue,” he told Ciri and walked over to Jaskier’s sister, who was eying his student with interest.

"So, it is true," she said.

"My lady?" he prompted.

"Daria told me you were willing to train her."

Geralt sighed. "Would you believe me if I said those were not my words?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I'd be disappointed if they were. She's a good liar."

"You sound proud," he said as disapprovingly as he could.

"Lying is a very useful talent for people like us," she answered secretively.

"Nobles?"

"Noblewomen," Justyna clarified.

"Hm," he answered. "Lower, cublet," he shouted to Ciri, who thought she could cheat by not making proper use of her knees, "I want to see a right angle!"

"So, will you?" Justyna inquired.

"Will I do what?" he asked irritated. Using a whole lot of words without saying anything at all seemed to run in the family.

"Train my children."

"The boy, too?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Justyna wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I fear the same people that forbid my daughter from picking up arms, also dictate that my son must. Despite their contrary natures."

He scoffed. "Your daughter can store ten blades on her person without anyone noticing.”

“So she can,” she agreed. "And one day, that’s what will bring people to listen to her. If she knows how to use them. So?"

He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. "As the intelligent woman I know you to be, you should know that I hold no power here. Ask your brother."

"You are just like him, absolutely no fun," she pouted.

"I'm sure your sisters will be happy to agree. If you excuse me now? I have a job to do." Without looking back, he walked over to Ciri to correct her posture. She was cheating again. "You know you're doing yourself no favour with that, hm?" he said as he tapped her feet to get them wider apart.

She lost her balance with flailing arms and his hand shot out to steady her. "But it hurts," she complained.

'The trials hurt, pup,' he remembered Vesemir's response to those words, 'this is nothing.' But when he opened his mouth, the words couldn't seem to come out.

'It's a stupid phrase,' he thought. 'There are no trials anymore.' And even if there were, nothing in this world and the next could bring him to subject her to their cruelty. He tried not to think about how Vesemir had been able to do it to all of his pups.

"It will stop hurting," he told her instead.

"When?"

"When you get used to it." He poked her in the side and she giggled. "Once we get some muscles on you, you'll hardly notice it. From the top."

Both of them were lost in the almost meditative trance that came with drills, when suddenly a loud voice cut through the silence: "Jaskier!" Justyna called.

Geralt groaned quietly. 'Gods preserve us.'

The Viscount was dressed in a green riding cloak and heading to the stables, where Marin was already waiting for him. Apparently, they were about to restart their daily rides. "What?" he asked, mildly irritated.

"Nothing at all, brother. I just wondered whether or not your witcher might be persuaded to train Daria and Julek, too?"

"Sure," he replied with a smile, as he mounted his horse, "why not? Are you alright with that, Geralt?"

He shrugged and looked down at Ciri. "Fine," he replied begrudgingly. "Might be nice for Fiona to have some company."

"It's settled, then. Marin?"

"Ready, my lord." The Captain of the Guard was already in his saddle, his horse prancing a little.

"Where are you going?" Justyna asked.

Jaskier shot Geralt a quick glance. "I can't tell you," he replied cautiously. 'Great,' he thought. He hated the damned secrecy. "But you are welcome to come with me."

"And I would love to! Wiktor, my horse."

Geralt sighed and turned back to a grinning Ciri. "What?" he grumbled.

"You're staring," she informed him.

"So?" He knew he was fucking staring. How was he supposed not to stare?

Her grin grew even wider. "So, nothing. I really like Jaskier's new doublet. Don't you?"

"You little menace," he growled, "you're doing this on purpose."

"Maybe," she drawled.

"If you've got time to pull my leg you're not training hard enough. Again!"

It was the early afternoon, when Jaskier and Justyna returned from their ride — without Marin, though. He could hear them from a thousand yards away, talking animatedly about everything and nothing at all.

"Again," he grunted at Ciri, who was drenched in sweat, her dark-dyed hair clinging to her forehead. She groaned loudly but did what she was told all the same.

Geralt didn't really pay attention, much too preoccupied to listen to Jaskier and his sister. "As the good friend that I am I told him to talk to me," he related as they rode through the gates. "A futile attempt, I'm well aware. I hadn't been able to get him to talk for a full decade, but my inebriated past-self still believed in miracles. And then — can you imagine? — he asked whether or not I had sung to her before she left!"

She snorted. "Unbelievable."

"I know!" He hopped from his saddle and handed his reins to Wiktor. "But that's not even the worst part. He told me, my singing was like, and I quote, "ordering a pie and finding it has no filling"."

"The audacity!" Justyna gasped and clutched at her chest. “Your witcher should really learn to respect his fellows.” As if he wasn’t fucking standing right there.

He didn't catch Jaskier’s response, for there was a sharp pain in his shin that demanded his attention. He looked down to where Ciri had hit him with her wooden sword. "Ow."

"You're not even paying attention!" she complained.

"Not true. I was paying attention. I chose to ignore that blow."

"Lying is a sin and a crime," she told him.

"Good that I heed neither king nor god, then. Again."

Ciri groaned again but did as she was told. Geralt's attention was already elsewhere again, as Jaskier and Justyna laughed loudly and Geralt couldn’t help but scowl. He should be thankful, he figured. Thankful that Jaskier was happy again. Why did it make him even sadder?

“Are you alright?” Ciri asked quietly, as more snippets of conversation drifted over to them.

“Deliver our dinner up to my study, if you will,” Jaskier told some servant. “And see to it that my liquor cabinet is restocked. There are some celebrations in order."

'Oh, fuck no,' he thought and paled. Geralt was well aware of Jaskier's usual manner of celebration. They began with a tankard of ale and bawdy songs. A few hours of prancing and at least one pint stolen from Geralt in tiny sips later, he would stop singing and start drinking vodka. One drink had him chattering, four and he was draped over Geralt, and after that he took on the strenuous task of spilling every secret he knew, to anyone who would listen. The end normally came with sunrise, at least one vomit spell and Jaskier in some stranger’s bed. The handle of his sword creaked dangerously in his clenched fist.

“I am,” he told Ciri, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible. “That’s enough for today. Go and get changed.”

She hesitated. “What about you?”

“I’ll stay for just a bit longer. Go now.” She gnawed on her lip and he had to look away. He couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. After a quick squeeze of his hand, she took off all the same.

When he looked up, the courtyard was deserted and it felt as if Geralt was suffocating. "Fuck," he grunted and angrily kicked the horse trough. He really needed to get a grip.

He heard an appreciative whistle behind him and spun to see Marin stand in the gate, leading his horse by the reins. "Careful now, Geralt," he said with a soft smile, "or you'll scare his lordship's servants again."

"His lordship and his servants can go kiss my arse," he sneered, half hoping to smell a whiff of vinegar at that. But of course, he didn't.

Instead, he laughed, and the amused smell of young wine laced with honeyed happiness filled the air. Without really wanting to, Geralt took a deep breath. It was intoxicating. "I bet you'd like that," he said with a wink and handed his reins over to a stableboy.

"Piss off, Marin," he said exasperated, “I don’t want company.” He was not in the mood for any of his prying questions and clever words.

Unfortunately, that didn't discourage him in the slightest. "Now, now, don't say that too loudly. Else someone's going to believe it."

"I care fuck all about someone's beliefs."

"Stop taking the piss out of yourself," he said unimpressed, "and start telling me what's gotten you so riled up."

Geralt grunted and crossed his arms. He had no intentions of telling him anything. Somehow, the words still tumbled out of his mouth when Marin smiled expectantly: "I can't fucking sleep."

"Oh?" The captain of the guard leaned against the wall. "Lord Julian's finally warmed up to you, then?"

He scoffed. "Still hoping to win the bet?"

"Hm," he said and smiled. "That too, yeah. So, how's the lordly bed?"

"Fuck if I know. Haven't even really talked to him in two days." And with Justyna's arrival he doubted that would change anytime soon. He sighed and drew the sword from his belt. "Drop it. Spar with me instead?" He had offered it, after all. More than once.

He pushed off the wall and went to pick up another wooden sword. "Gladly. I was promised to get my arse kicked, after all.”

Geralt snorted and that’s all the warning he gave before charging. “You seem awfully unbothered by that.”

He laughed and blocked the blow. “My fortieth winter came and went some years ago. I’d be awfully offended if I so much as stand a chance against you.” He grinned and almost landed a strike. “Don’t you dare go easy on me, witcher.”

“Not any easier than I would go on any other human,” he promised and knocked his sword away, pointing his own blade at his throat. “Yield.”

“Again,” Marin demanded with an eager gleam in his eyes. Geralt was happy to oblige and they resumed their positions. After a few rounds, they fell into an easy routine. It was less of a fight and more of a dance.

“Oh, Melitele’s tits, I missed this,” Marin sighed as their swords clashed again. “Not as good as sinking my sword into some Nilfgaardian’s, but it gets my blood singing all the same.”

Geralt snorted as he sidestepped and dealt a blow to Marin’s backside for good measure. “Are you always this chatty during swordplay?”

“Usually,” he admitted and grinned. “You could try to gag me, though I make no promises that’ll work. I like to know my foe before sheathing my blade in them.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And I suppose you know all about fighting while gagged.”

“Certainly. I was captured during the war, you know? Had to, uh, fight my way out.”

“Hmm,” he answered. “Again?”

“Definitely.” He raised his sword again. “Wouldn’t want our tilt to end so soon.” Geralt blocked his blows easily, relishing in the silence safe for the clank of their wooden swords.

“Speaking of getting to know my foe…”

“I’m not talking about my past,” he grunted.

“And I wouldn’t ask you to,” Marin said and grazed his thigh with the tip of his sword. “So, about this sleeplessness.”

“Marin,” he grunted annoyed and felt the control on his strength slip. He hit him square in the chest and the human stumbled a few paces back.

To Geralt’s neverending confusion, he laughed. "Come on, witcher, is that all you got? I thought you were angry!"

'I am,' he thought, 'but-' "I don't want to hurt you." His anger always hurt people.

"Don't worry about me, I can take it." He blocked another blow, hard enough that it was bound to hurt. "That's better," he said with a wide grin. "Let your blade talk if you can't."

For the second time that day he answered despite his better judgement: "It's just fucking shit," he grunted and ducked away under a mean blow. "I know I fucked up, but it's like he's a different person. Sixteen years, dammit, and now nothing."

Marin shook his head and used the moment to catch his breath. "I don't think you understand how things here work. Maybe you were friends with him some time ago. Maybe you brought Lady Fiona here. But they're nobility. They're different from you and me."

"Bullshit."

"What happens when they catch you stealing? When you chop someone's head off? When you're a traitor?"

He grunted and lunged forward again.

"I know. But when they steal, it's taxes. When they kill, it's justice. When they act like the backstabbing cunts they are, it's politics. Like it or not, but as long as you're in Lettenhove, you're at his mercy. No matter how friendly he might act with us, we are not the same. He could always decide to fire us or banish us, or execute us. Nothing you can do about it."

"That's stupid. There must be something."

He shrugged and parried. "Tell me when you find out. In the meantime, enjoy what you can, shut up about what you can't. You're lucky. You're free to go, at least. For the rest of us, there's nothing out there."

Geralt snorted. "Right now, I can't."

"Why, because you're his lordship's guest? He won't force you to stay."

"Hmm." He drove him farther back. "You sure about that? That bloody oath seemed pretty fucking important to him."

Marin tripped over thin air and landed on his butt with a grunt. "Ex- excuse me?" he stammered.

"Hm?" Geralt said and pointed his sword at his throat. "Yield."

"Yeah, sure." He pushed the blade out of the way and accepted Geralt's hand to get back to his feet. "I just thought you said you're sworn to his lordship now."

"I did."

"Well...," he said slowly, "that changes quite a bit."

"It does." He knew damn well that it did.

Marin didn’t get the hint to shut up: "He certainly won't fuck you now."

Geralt made a point of slowly sheathing his sword and sat down against the wall to take a large gulp from his waterskin. "Hm."

"Is that what's been keeping you awake?" Marin settled down next to him and accepted the waterskin. "The oath, I mean." He hesitated for a moment. "I'm sure he'd release you from it, if you asked. He's got a good heart, you know, and-"

Geralt closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the wall. "I know," he interrupted him harshly. “Too soft.” Was his heart supposed to hurt like that?

"Right, I'm so-"

"I can't sleep because I can't stop hearing him," he gritted out, not knowing why.

"Your ears're that good, huh?"

He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I can hear your mother scolding the kitchen boys from here."

"Really?" Marin whistled through his teeth. "What's she saying?"

"Nothing child appropriate."

That made him laugh. After a moment he said: "So you're frustrated, huh?"

Geralt grunted. "Nothing that should concern you."

"Really? 'Cause I've heard I've got a knack for stress relief. I’d love to take the edge off."

Turning to him he frowned. “Hm,” he hummed quietly as he took in his appearance. The sweaty hair, the flushed cheeks, the lewd grin. ��Ah.’ The dark eyes that gleamed mischievously. And then the wave of spicy-sweet cinnamon, he inhaled greedily. ‘Fuck.’

For a moment, he thought of Jaskier and his heart ached. He'd missed that smell, omnipresent as it had been on his bard. And now it was back, only all wrong.

It was stupid, he knew. Marin wasn’t anything like Jaskier. Silver strands streaked his hair and crow’s feet adorned his eyes. His hands were rough, his stomach soft and his smile kind. 'This isn't right,' the voice of reason told him.

‘Like rubbing salve on a tumour.’ He frowned. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Jaskier had told him that. He had been right then, he’d probably be right now.

But Jaskier wasn't here. He was in his rooms, about to get drunk with the sister he had evidently missed and never mentioned before. 'He'll be fine,' Geralt told himself. 'He'll be happy.'

Marin's smile faltered. "Look-" he began, but Geralt gave him no chance to finish that sentence. ‘Fuck it,’ he thought and hauled him close by the collar of his shirt.

Their lips crashed together in a bruising kiss. His lips were rough, too, but so were Geralt’s and he’d never cared much about that. It also dispelled any illusion that he was kissing anyone but Marin, which was just as well.

Marin pulled back slightly to catch his breath. "Oh, good," he said, smirking, "I already thought you weren't interested. "

“Hmm,” Geralt answered and leaned back against the wall, “didn’t know it was an option.”

He threw his head back and laughed, exposing his throat while he did so. Geralt didn’t even fight the urge to lean in and kiss below his jaw. Judging by Marin’s groan and the hands that tangled in his shirt, it wasn’t unwelcome. “I didn’t know you suffered from blindness, witcher. Aren’t your eyes supposed to be keener than any man’s?”

“I’m seeing you just fine,” he chuckled. “Just wasn’t listening.”

“As long as you like what you see.” He craned his head again, obviously waiting for Geralt to make another move. He kissed him again, just because he could.

This time, a stifled groan from the battlements broke them apart. “Captain!” Borys called, a large smile plastered on his face and that of half a dozen other guards. “Have pity on our eyes and get yourself a room!”

Marin huffed and smiled enticingly. “Alright, alright.” He got to his feet and extended his hand. “What d’you say, Geralt? I’d fancy a night in silken sheets and eiderdown.”

He frowned, unwittingly thinking of Jaskier. Geralt gave him three hours to be drunk as a sailor. He’d be telling stories, humming and laughing, maybe even singing. All of that in his study, where Geralt would hear every word. “No,” he decided firmly and let him pull him to his feet. He couldn’t bear it, neither with Marin nor alone.

So, he grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close. “I don’t care for silk and featherbeds,” he announced and kissed him again. “But I like the sound of a wall between us and those pricks. Lead the way, Captain.”

#my writing #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #cirilla of cintra

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