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hanzajesthanza · 8 months

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dressed elegantly. this will never leave my head. the implications of this.

because geralt and his company, they saddled up, left beauclair, travelled through mountains and frozen blizzards and downpours and muddy sod for two to three months. you need to pack outfits for that. you need to plan your gear.

what was the rest of the company wearing? what did they pack for this long journey? they packed practically, dressed warmly for the frozen journey of january, february, march. geralt wore a wolf-skin cloak, a scarf, a shawl… milva wore a fox-fur kalpak, angoulême wore a hat with a pompom and a sheepskin coat. cahir’s dress isn’t mentioned, but he must have been dressed similarly, because he rubs his hands briskly together and were he not dressed warmly he otherwise would have frozen to death. regis’ dress isn’t mentioned, but it is mentioned that he’s immune to the freezing temperature. so, i mean, it doesn’t matter what he’s wearing in this scene, maybe a regular outfit.

but at stygga. dressed elegantly.

so you’re telling me that. regis packed his things in preparation for their flight from beauclair, went to his quarters after geralt explained to him the satisfactory reasons they were leaving, and went,

“alright, time to prepare for this long and dangerous journey that will conclude in a great clash between our forces and the kidnappers of ciri. the end of our quest. the final journey. and a dangerous road awaits us, with snow still blocking the passes, frost and white all around. a grand fight and conflict awaits us. what gear should i prepare, what should i wear for this expedition, what kinds of clothing should i pack.”

and then he went:

“you know, i want to look fucking good ✨ when we get there 💅🏻🦇”

imagine the final preparation before they approach castle stygga. geralt sees the castle hewn out of the cliffside, effortlessly noticing every detail from far away, seeing like an eagle with his mutated eyes. and like an eagle, compelled to swoop down and snatch vilgefortz like a fish. ordering the company forward, declaring they’ve made it. this is the moment they have all been waiting for. everyone has been waiting such a long time for this. they prepared everything.

they wait until midnight. angoulême eagerly unsheathes and whets her long sabre, swings her axe around with predatory glee. cahir fits the plate armor and winged officer’s helmet he scavenged from a small nilfgaardian dispatch that they ran into extorting caravista for tax. milva tightens the same worn, polished leather bracer that she’s always had on her left arm, and mutters as she fixes her spiralled arrow fletchings over boiling water. geralt, with nothing left to do, paces and breathes, wondering where the hell regis has gone.

just then, regis walks out from behind an outcropping of rock, eyes glinting with cat-like light, in his “elegant” outfit, absolutely slaying that shit, and all his friends look at him absently like. “what the hell are you wearing. where the fuck did you get that. you packed that? you planned your outfit for the final battle, you planned this outfit in advance three months ago?” to which he counters, “well, three months isn’t very long at all,” and they’re like, “this is the preparation you made? we thought you left to do some secret vampire rituals or whatever. or to reckon with yourself for the severe violence we’re about to inflict.” and he’s like “no, i just wanted to make sure i was dressed nicely for the occasion”

#witcher 3 keira metz’s ‘if i’m to die i should look smashing for the occassion’ should really go to book regis i think that’s canon for him #also my headcanon would be that he looses his hair and takes his glasses off #kind of like in a movie where a nerd girl has a glow up and walks down the staircase at the end with her glasses off and hair down #and the boy she’s dating is at the bottom of the stairs like ‘wow… i didn’t know …’#except the boy in this situation is geralt #however it’s less of a cute thing of ‘haha where’d the cute nerdy girl go’ and more of like. um. where is the kind barber surgeon i know #because if you exist quietly and sense the night around you and pay close attention to the moonlight #there are some kind of powerful unknown dark energies brewing and swirling around their group now like fog #he laughs and smiles and he does not purse his lips. and his hair is becoming tangled in the wind #and geralt’s like. who the fuck did i bring to stygga castle. lmao #angouleme: yesss slay uncle | regis: [nods head solemnly] we certainly are | angouleme: noooo like SLAYYYY 🔥🔥🔥#bruh your drip is straight fire 🔥💯#the witcher books #txt #emiel regis #regis #book: lady of the lake #headcanons

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lambden · 1 year

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2.9K words, explicit, geraskier/competence kink, no warnings. originally posted (anonymously) to ao3 here

Something pulls Geralt from his meditation early. He has no clue what it might have been; when he opens his eyes, the forest is pristine. Picturesque, even. He and Jaskier had set up camp along the actual path of the Path. Fearing that the cold mountains would greet them with a blizzard, Geralt had suggested last night that they might seek refuge in a narrow but deep canyon for safety.

Jaskier had pointed out that a blizzard was about as likely to happen as an avalanche, and that if the goddesses decided to bestow the latter disaster upon them, they’d be absolutely fucked between the high rock walls on either side of them.

The petty bickering of last night seems so trivial in the brisk morning air. The thin tarpaulin Geralt strung up over their bedrolls to shield them from snow was fine yesterday. Functional, if ugly. But now, dappled light from above makes the fabric glow, and the sparse patches of new snow beyond their camp sparkle like glitter. Everything looks beautiful in the dawn— or, not dawn, technically, since he slept in.

Geralt strains his senses for threats and finds no distant monsters to flee; he only hears birdsong. He only sees beautiful nature. He inhales deeply, and the sharp scent of spilled blood hits him immediately before Jaskier stumbles back under the tarpaulin.

“Ah, joy, you’re finally up,” says Jaskier cheerfully. There are no obvious wounds on him and no blood visible on his clothing. If Geralt hadn’t been made to spot irregularities, perhaps he would have missed the sweat at Jaskier’s hairline. Melodious and irritating as ever, the man continues, “Can we pack up camp and start moving now? I’m beginning to understand why you always gripe when I sleep in.”

Geralt doesn’t mince words. “What happened?”

“No clue what you mean,” Jaskier sings. He scooches over to come and sit beside Geralt, resting his back against the mossy wall covered in small icicles of frozen dew. Geralt, unconvinced, leans over the bard’s lap to try to get a look at the side he’s hiding, and Jaskier sighs. “Shit. Alright, you— alright! It’s fine, Geralt, really! Just a spot of bother, nothing to write home about.”

Geralt’s glare makes it clear that he isn’t going to repeat his question.

“It’s not my blood,” tries Jaskier, which does come as a small relief, although it hardly puts Geralt’s panic to rest. “It… I had to piss, alright? So I climbed up out of the canyon, and, you know—” he does some truly reprehensible miming— “I was right in the middle when I heard this awful caterwauling coming from somewhere. I thought it was a dying bobcat or something, but… it was actually a few of them, you know. Shrieking and grunting back and forth.”

A chill runs down Geralt’s spine. He leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as he breathes the blood in once more. He should have clocked the scent for what it was: “Nekkers.”

“Yeah, a whole happy family.” Jaskier, sighing again, finally relents and shows Geralt the spray of blood along his side. True to his word, it isn’t human. It still makes the witcher unhappy. He settles back down into his own seat as his friend continues, “There must have been about eight of them.”

Suddenly the amount of blood seems like far, far too little. Geralt stares, and demands, “How are you not dead?”

“It’s a funny story, actually,” says Jaskier, sounding sheepish, of all things. “I’ve seen you fight those little shits before, so I sort of… I dunno, copied what you do. Minus the swordsmanship, and magic fire, and all that, of course.”

If his eyes were bulging out of his skull before, Geralt is sure he looks positively ridiculous now. He can’t rein in his expression or regulate his emotions, too shocked by Jaskier’s story. “You killed them?”

“What was I supposed to do, give them all names?”

“You killed eight nekkers?”

“It was a little hard to tell from the mangled bodies, but yes, I believe so.” Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat. His pulse races. “Geralt, you’re staring at me like you want to bite my head off.”

The witcher doesn’t blink. “I’ve never even seen you kill a fly.”

“Well, why would I kill a fly,” Jaskier is beginning to sound a little exasperated— then before either of them know it, Geralt is swinging a leg over his lap and straddling his thighs and pressing in close, and Jaskier’s voice rises at least an octave. “I— I have no intention of taking on contracts! It was just a minor inconvenience; I didn’t want to wake you from your meditation! You can be quite a cranky prick sometimes, you know. Are you going to teach me some demented lesson about safety by bashing my head in?”

“No,” he informs Jaskier plainly. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a little difficult to think while I’ve got a lapful of witcher!”

Geralt reaches between them to untie the complicated drawstrings of Jaskier’s trousers. His fingers only still when he’s got the cords loose from their knots; he glances up to check in, his gaze meeting the bard’s. Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide and dark, and how his heartbeat raced before is nothing compared to now. The silence is live, the air simmering like a place of power, and Geralt’s question goes unspoken but is understood perfectly by both men.

Jaskier nods, a small, overwhelmed motion— his chin tips forward and his head bobs with it, his lovely hair falling in front of his pretty eyes. Geralt gently pushes the errant strands of hair back, and before Jaskier can properly recuperate from that first delicate touch, the witcher inelegantly and bluntly reaches to free the bard’s cock from his pants.

“Holy ploughing mother of cunt,” Jaskier breathes.

“Tell me what happened,” repeats Geralt, “in detail.”

“Right. Yes. The nekkers.” His fist closes around Jaskier’s length just under the thick flushed head; they watch together as liquid wells up at the tip. The broad pad of Geralt’s thumb brushes over the wetness and a new drop of pre-cum rises to take its place immediately.

Sounding more winded than Geralt has ever heard him, Jaskier manages, “They weren’t trying to sneak up on me, actually, so I had an extra minute to prepare. If they got the jump on me I would have been fucked, but as it was I had the time to rifle through Roach’s saddlebags. And, by the way, Roach was massively unhelpful during the fight. Loyal companion, my arse. I suppose I should stop talking about your horse while you’ve got your hand round my cock!”

“Focus,” says Geralt, stroking Jaskier with firmer, slower motions. “How could you have known what to use?”

That question nets him a very unimpressed look, the effect of which is only slightly dampened by Jaskier’s obvious arousal. “I’ve been your local companion for quite a while now,” huffs the bard. “I do actually pay attention, some of the time. And it’s easy enough to tell Grapeshot apart from the other explosives!”

Geralt adjusts his position atop Jaskier’s lap, fist still moving slowly around his prick. “I only had two Grapeshots made,” he mutters. “And I’ve never taught you the recipe.”

“Two was all I needed.” More turned on than he’s ever been in his life, Geralt keeps his gaze pinned to Jaskier as he tells the story— and his hand firmly in place. “You— You kept a trophy from that nekker infestation a few contracts back, and I figured, you know, they follow some kind of h-hierarchy. So I held the nasty thing up right in front of my head, and I shrunk my shoulders down and hunched my back, and… well, I’m not going to do my impression of a monster growling right now, but needless to say they fell for it.”

“Hard to mistake you for a nekker.”

“They aren’t the brightest,” admits Jaskier. His heart beats faster from the compliment regardless; Geralt feels a thick vein pulsing under the soft side of his knuckles. He chases the feeling, dragging his fingers up and down the bard’s length curiously. “It wasn’t a long ruse, anyway— I just had to get them to follow my orders. Once they’d all lined up in a group, it was easy enough to sling the Grapeshots their way; like one of those prize games from a festival, you know? But right as I threw the bombs—”

Geralt’s prick strains against the codpiece in his armour. Unable to hide the raw edge of desperation in his hoarse voice, he demands, “You threw two bombs at once?”

“Yes,” Jaskier mumbles, a bit pink. “What, is that against the rules?”

Instead of offering his immediate response, which is that Geralt is damn lucky he ran into Jaskier before Lambert ever did because if his little brother heard a story like that then he would have married the bard long before the fall of Cintra, Geralt shakes his head dumbly, and gestures with his free hand for Jaskier to continue.

“Well, one of the buggers noticed what I was doing right before the bombs exploded— or maybe he noticed that his newly beloved queen bee was actually a beheaded, reanimated corpse— and, in any case, he wasn’t too happy. While I was shielding my eyes and ears from the explosions he ran right up to me, and tore the trophy out of my hands.” Jaskier mimes this part of the fight, too caught up in his own story to even pay proper attention to Geralt jerking him off. His passion is beyond endearing. “But unfortunately for him, I had my trusty dagger.”

Geralt can’t help it— before he can restrain the sound, he snorts. “The paring knife you use to cut up Roach’s apples?”

“Yes,” huffs Jaskier. “I made do with what I had, alright? Time moves at a normal speed for us humans, you know, even during battle, so I didn’t have a moment to prepare. I just—” he thrusts his hand forward, miming gutting— “in and out, boom, done. Before I knew it, I had stabbed him in the eye. And he let out the most horrible sound, really, I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up!”

“You stabbed it in the eye,” Geralt repeats, dizzy.

“Yes…?”

“Right.” He finally lets go of the bard’s prick, rolling off his thighs. Jaskier watches with hooded, puzzled eyes that quickly widen as Geralt removes the lower half of his armour as quickly as he can. When he reaches back between his legs to shove two blunt, dry fingers into himself, the bard lets out a squeak not unlike a lutestring snapping. Geralt pants, “Tell me again.”

“Tell— tell you— wh-what exactly,” stammers the professional wordsmith. It only gets worse as Geralt takes hold of his prick once more. Jaskier’s cock is hard, standing at attention, and leaking everywhere; Geralt smears the pre-cum over its flushed, angry head. “Gods, fuck, Geralt—”

“Tell me the story again,” Geralt demands. “While I ride you.”

“I’m afraid I won’t last past the inciting incident— oh,” cries Jaskier. Geralt slides down onto him slowly, letting them both feel the tightness, and the lack of proper preparation. Geralt doesn’t care if the stretch is bordering on the edge of pain; he likes the weight inside him. It grounds him. Jaskier’s breath comes in quick, shallow puffs while Geralt inhales and exhales deeply through his nose, the same way he would after taking Killer Whale to dive to the bottom of the ocean. This isn’t too dissimilar from that— except that Killer Whale doesn’t usually make his prick hard as a whetstone.

Geralt sinks down to the very bottom of the sea. Once he’s fully seated on Jaskier’s cock, he can feel the length of it inside his arse, filling him completely. He can even feel Jaskier’s thudding heart under his hands, and echoing through the air, and pulsing deep inside him— almost in the right spot, but not quite.

The witcher places a broad hand on each of Jaskier’s shaking shoulders and uses them as leverage to pull himself up, slowly but firmly gripping onto the cock inside him as he does. Then, right as Jaskier’s cockhead is about to breach him once more, Geralt slides back down in one fluid motion. And rises to do it again. And again.

Jaskier’s grip on his hips is viselike; if Geralt was human, he might bruise. The thought allures him so he encourages the touch, tightening his own grip on the man’s shoulders as he fucks himself on Jaskier’s cock. Every time the bard opens his mouth to undoubtedly let out some irreverent prayer or curse or expression of disbelief, an incomprehensible litany of moans and other dirty sounds escapes him instead. He practically sobs when Geralt adjusts their position, bending his knees on either side of Jaskier so as to ride his cock more efficiently. With each new roll of their hips it seems to strike deeper and deeper inside Geralt. Then one of Jaskier’s hands quests around his backside to press them into a new, closer position, and the new angle has Geralt seeing stars, and suddenly he’s the one making all sorts of embarrassing noises.

“Good, that’s perfect, darling,” Jaskier, though breathless, takes the time to praise him carefully. This almost makes Geralt groan deeper than the pressure inside him. “You’re doing so good for me. Had I known this was my reward coming back from the hunt, I wouldn’t’ve wasted any time with those ugly monsters.”

“How did you know about the— the hierarchies, the family structures— that they follow a chieftain,” pants Geralt, his sweaty hair falling forward in front of his eyes. “You’re not even a witcher.” Jaskier quickly reaches up to brush it back, then holds it in a loose fist, which is, as it turns out, perfect. The hand on his scalp is just enough to ground him, and when Jaskier uses his grip to pull Geralt in closer, he doesn’t resist at all.

“Well,” Jaskier practically purrs against his lips, somehow managing to be smug even as he bounces Geralt on his cock. “It wasn’t that hard.”

Geralt surprises them both by coming all over Jaskier’s abdomen, and as his body tenses the bard follows him over the edge a moment later, arching up into him and filling him with his release. The two eruptions happen in such quick succession that they feed into each other, and it’s all Geralt can do to avoid clinging to Jaskier hard enough to hurt him. Jaskier presses against Geralt with the same fervour, kissing him almost violently; Geralt gives as good as he gets, sinking into the sensation.

When they pull away from each other’s mouths, Jaskier’s lips are bitten red and wet with spit. Geralt moves slightly and feels the odd but familiar heat shift inside him; judging from how Jaskier’s mouth falls open, he feels it too. Even after the aftershocks fade, Geralt doesn’t pull off just yet, enjoying the fullness and closeness. He bends down to kiss Jaskier again, and the bard reciprocates easily and readily.

All those years bickering over petty, pointless nothings, when they could have been doing this instead.

“The next time there’s a monster, wake me up,” Geralt finally reproaches, punctuating the order by nipping Jaskier’s lip.

Jaskier nods, sluggish and satiated; then, because it’s Jaskier, he tacks on, “I handled it, though.”

“You got away with it this time, but you could have been in danger.”

“You like that I handled it,” accuses the bard. Geralt kisses the smirk off his face but can’t kiss away that smug edge in his voice. “You like that I can handle myself… and handle you, too.”

“As I recall, I handled you,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs; it still sounds smug. The witcher hums thoughtfully.

He then rolls them over without warning, and ignores the resulting cry from his bard. He lowers his back onto Jaskier’s bedroll— like hell he’s staining his own bedroll with cum— and hooks his ankles around the man’s back, pushing Jaskier deeper inside. They both groan at that, and Jaskier lowers himself down without hesitation to loom over Geralt. “Shit,” he whines, bottomed out entirely inside the witcher again. “Fuck, how are you hard again?!”

“Takes a lot to tire me out,” grins Geralt. Truth be told, he doesn’t usually want this much— but Jaskier is having an unexpected effect on him. “You said you could handle me.”

“Might be the death of me, but I’ll certainly try,” huffs Jaskier. He holds Geralt up by his thighs and slowly pistons back and forth into him, pushing the load of cum already inside him even deeper. But he pauses as an idea strikes. Divine inspiration, or a gift from the muses; Jaskier talks about the concepts all the time, but Geralt hasn’t seen them really occur before. It is like glancing at the night sky and catching a comet. The man’s entire face lights up, and his tone is new as he says, “You know, I never told you about the one winter we had a pest infestation at Oxenfurt.”

Suddenly, Geralt knows precisely what he means. Trying to sit up, he protests, “You swore to me you won those extra vials of arachas venom in a game of Gwent!”

“I’m shit at Gwent, you should have seen right through that,” Jaskier laughs. He leans down, pressing Geralt back down against the mat and rocking his hips to push his length in deeper. “But the good part is that now I can tell you the whole story. In painstaking detail.”

“Oh,” breathes Geralt, quickly surrendering his anger and spreading his legs. His cock dribbles pre-cum between them. “... Yes, alright. Tell me the tale, Jaskier.”

#geraskier fic #power bottom geralt of rivia #geraskier #my writing #flash fic challenge #i was caught up in Birthday Celebrations and unrelated stresses but ! i'm so excited i finally get to post this!!!

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