#fool geralt will just take it from you and toss you in one-handed

[eskelstits]

Okay okay so hear me out:

Jaskier has been acting odd lately, though the bard was either too shy or too stubborn to acknowledge it. At the very least, he was stubborn fool for thinking Geralt, of all people, wouldn’t take notice. Jaskier had suddenly become adamant about more generous rations for his Witcher, started to insist on larger dinners at taverns, and was always quick to suggest another round of food and drink— only to insist that Geralt finish it. The witcher pretended not to notice the way Jaskier watched intently while he ate and hid his wry amusement when the bard hurriedly looked away upon being caught. Geralt had so far played along with these antics in feigned ignorance, admittedly feeling a small thrill as his body started to bulk and strain against his armor. And now that he was paying closer attention, he found himself fond of just how delicate his bard looked by comparison. Armed with his suspicions of what Jaskier is up to, Geralt decides to satisfy his curiosity by embracing the bard’s antics and seeing just how much he can him squirm.

I was thinking some stuffing and size kink ~ with increasingly daring taunts thrown from both sides of the table bc let’s be real neither of the boys would give in easily.

THANK YOU i definitely had fun with this prompt

[ masterpost - ao3 ]

"Are you ill?" Geralt asked the question hunched over the plate of eggs and bacon he was enjoying for his breakfast.

More accurately, Jaskier's breakfast. Geralt had already finished his own serving, but then Jaskier had deftly stacked his own half-full plate on top of Geralt's empty one. To be fair, as it turned out, that particular tavern did tend to dish out surprisingly hearty portions, and Geralt had to remind himself that Jaskier was not a witcher, and therefore did not have the appetite of one. It was not the only occasion on which Jaskier had passed off a good fraction of his food to Geralt, however.

In fact, it seemed to be happening more and more frequently lately. He would demand seconds, larger portions, extra bread or more ale, only to immediately claim that he was full and offer it up to Geralt. After a tough life of fighting for survival, Geralt was a rather opportunistic eater, and so he always took advantage of Jaskier's leftovers. It was … strange, but Geralt could not say he exactly minded it. He did like going to bed warm and satiated rather than starving, tossing and turning and kept awake by his growling stomach. The only thing that really puzzled Geralt was the staring. Jaskier would look at him like Geralt was the most fascinating thing on the Continent whenever they sat down together to eat, but as Geralt had recently discovered, Jaskier would always quickly look away the moment Geralt met his eye.

Jaskier gaped and sputtered for a moment, eyes wide and hand settled over his chest as though Geralt had just viciously insulted him.

"Ill? Geralt, you wound me. I will have you know that I'm positively glowing with good health," Jaskier huffed.

Geralt grunted. Eyes narrowed, he examined Jaskier for just a brief moment longer, then bowed his head again to continue eating. Out of the edge of his vision, he could see Jaskier watching him.

Geralt had been willing to ignore the odd behavior up until his trousers started feeling tight. He still was not quite upset. It was not an overly drastic change, just a slight layer of padding over top of his muscles, making him look more like he did after he had been settled for a while over the winters he spent at Kaer Morhen, but there was a definite difference. Jaskier seemed to be noticing, too. Though he had not said anything about it, he still stared, and whenever he and Geralt fell into bed together, the bard's hands smoothed all over him, wordlessly worshiping Geralt's fuller frame.

Geralt enjoyed it, too. He had always been broader than Jaskier, but putting on a bit of weight had only highlighted that contrast. The day before, Geralt had caught a glimpse of his reflection looming behind Jaskier's in the mirror as the bard stood there checking over his own outfit for the evening's performance, and he had looked almost … delicate in comparison to Geralt. The sight had ignited something deep and primal and exciting in his core, and he wanted to chase that thrill.

No, he was far from upset. He was curious, though. While he had pieced together what was happening, there was still one more question: Was Jaskier doing it on purpose? Geralt supposed he could simply ask, but the thought of setting himself up for vulnerability like that was horrific. He had to find some other way to weasel out the truth. He had to beat Jaskier at his own game.

"Do I look different to you?" Geralt dared to ask that evening while they waited for the barmaid to come back with their dinner order. Jaskier looked anxious for just a brief second, but then he relaxed again and hummed inquisitively as he scanned Geralt's face.

"Is that a new doublet? Oh! Have you trimmed your beard?" Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed. By trade, Jaskier was a performer, but Geralt knew him well enough to be able to tell when he was lying -- or 'acting,' as Jaskier often corrected him. Two could play that game. Feigning ignorance, Geralt nodded and falsely agreed that he had gone to a barber, and he watched Jaskier decompress with relief. When the barmaid returned and set a full plate down in front of each of them, Geralt cleared his throat to get her attention.

"I want another," he said, pointing to his own plate.

"Ah … Another leg of chicken?" The barmaid looked a bit confused, like she was hesitant to believe that Geralt had been referring to the entire meal.

"No. Another plate," Geralt insisted. A brief pause, and he tacked on, "Please."

The barmaid blinked, but she chose not to argue. Rather, she nodded and scurried back to the kitchen. When Geralt looked back towards Jaskier, the bard was staring. Again.

"... Hungry, are you?" Jaskier questioned.

"Very."

Geralt held Jaskier's gaze for a moment longer and watched as just a hint of color began creeping over the bard's cheeks. Without another word, Geralt began to eat. He tore into the half chicken and the hearty portion of roast vegetables he had in front of him, and each time he glanced up, he found Jaskier trying and ultimately failing to be subtle about the fact that he was watching Geralt like a hawk. Geralt thought that he would have wanted to shy away before he managed to get his questions answered, but that was not the case. In reality, he actually liked the attention, those enraptured eyes fixed on him making him feel alight with a strange mixture of pleasure and shame. The barmaid came back with the rest of the food Geralt had requested, and she set it down quickly almost as though afraid of getting bitten if she ventured too close. Geralt grunted his thanks around a full mouth. Jaskier had been uncharacteristically silent the entire time, all the way up until Geralt finally broke for air and a drink of ale.

“Are you … sure you’re going to be able to finish all of that?” Jaskier sounded both tentative and almost laughably eager.

“Yes,” Geralt answered.

He met Jaskier’s eye again, his gaze dark and smoldering. The bard’s throat bobbed enticingly when he swallowed, and Geralt only barely held back a smirk. Whether or not Jaskier had been feeding Geralt up on purpose, it was obvious that he enjoyed the show, and it was always fun for Geralt to try and get him flustered.

“Ah, yes, well … I suppose you have had quite a healthy appetite lately,” Jaskier said. He spoke hesitantly, testing his luck. Geralt pushed right back.

“Someone has to eat all your leftovers.”

“Mm, yes. You are rather good for that.”

Geralt made it about halfway through his second plate before Jaskier was getting restless again. The bard still had some food remaining on his own plate, and judging from the way he kept glancing between it and Geralt and tapping his fingers anxiously against the table, he was hoping to see the witcher finish it off for him.

“Going to eat that?” Geralt spoke around a mouthful of chicken.

He had inched past satisfied a few bites ago, but he could keep going comfortably enough, and he so desperately wanted to see how Jaskier was going to react to his more deliberate goading. Geralt watched while Jaskier blushed and tried his best to act as though he had not been hoping to hear that exact question. It had been painfully obvious. Their many years together had given Geralt the ability to be able to read Jaskier like an open book. Sometimes, it was useful, likely saving Jaskier from some fights when Geralt was able to pick up on the body language that meant foolish determination or rising anger, but other times, like in that moment, it was simply amusing.

“Come now, love, you can’t possibly still be hungry,” Jaskier teased. Somewhat unexpectedly, it sent a jolt down Geralt’s spine. The witcher made a noise somewhat like a little growl, and his pupils widened. Jaskier did a much poorer job of veiling his own smirk. Perfect. Geralt was baiting him, and he was falling for it so easily. “I know you’ve been eating a great deal lately, but honestly … you’re getting greedy.”

Geralt’s heart fluttered nearly as quickly as a human’s as Jaskier scraped the rest of his food onto Geralt’s plate. By then, Jaskier seemed to have accepted that it was useless to hide his interest. He sat with his elbows braced against the table and his jaw cradled in his palms, alluring blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on Geralt. Near the end of his meal, Geralt was at last starting to struggle, the fact that his armor clung to him a bit more than he would have preferred only keeping it pinned in the forefront of his mind just how full he was. Jaskier’s reddened cheeks had only grown more vivid, the color even dusting the tips of his ears. Geralt rarely saw the bard so silent, so unwaveringly focused, usually only when he was in the middle of a fit of intense writing inspiration, and while Geralt felt scrutinized, he was actually enjoying it. Feeling bold, he grunted around his last mouthful and then reclined back in his chair, hoping to give Jaskier a glimpse of his distended belly where it strained against his clothes. Judging from the look on the bard’s face, it had worked.

“Are you finally satisfied, then?” Jaskier asked, and something about his tone of voice had something hot and exciting churning in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. He sounded almost condescending, but in the most deliciously arousing way possible.

“Mhm.” It was little more than a grunt.

Jaskier evidently had very little regard for how sluggish Geralt was looking. Lithe fingers curled around Geralt’s wrist and tugged insistently, and although Geralt easily could have kept himself planted in place if he had truly wanted to, he allowed Jaskier to haul him up onto his feet and lead him upstairs. Such a short trip normally would never have affected him, but with a full stomach weighing him down, Geralt found himself panting softly by the time he and Jaskier had reached their room. Distracted by the unfamiliar feeling of his trousers digging into his skin so tightly that it was almost painful, Geralt had little time to react before he was suddenly backed up against the closed door and drawn into a heated kiss.

“Jask --” Geralt breathed, cut off abruptly by yet another kiss.

Clearly, he had guessed right. Jaskier did enjoy that display, even more than Geralt had been anticipating. Soon, Geralt gave up on speaking, and he yielded to the kiss, lips parting for a teasing swipe of Jaskier’s tongue through his mouth. There was a pleasant warmth against Geralt’s middle that he soon recognized as Jaskier’s hands, kneading gently through stiff leather.

“Look at you,” Jaskier murmured. Geralt bit back a dry remark about how it was difficult to do that with the bard plastered up against him. “You’re getting so big.”

A thrill ran through Geralt at that. He curled his hands around Jaskier’s slender hips and squeezed, drawing him in closer, and Jaskier gasped against his lips. In truth, Geralt did not look too terribly different than he usually did, but there had been a little tone of hopefulness in Jaskier’s voice, a subtle but unmistakable hint that he wanted more. The next few seconds seemed to blur together, but somehow, Geralt had ended up spread out on the bed, staring up into Jaskier’s darkened eyes where he had perched himself on Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s usually agile fingers trembled with anticipation as he worked Geralt out of his armor, putting him on blatant display. Where he had once been all sharp angles and overly defined muscles, he had accumulated a small layer of padding, and most noticeable of all at the moment was the rounded curve of his belly, warm and full and demanding Jaskier’s complete attention. His hands smoothed over it, rubbing and exploring, interspersed with little appreciative pats and scratches.

“Knew you were doing it on purpose,” Geralt said. Much to his amusement, Jaskier actually looked shocked. “Weren’t very subtle about it.”

“Yes, well --” Jaskier paused, seeming to be struggling to decide on what to say. Eventually, he just huffed, then decided to deflect and taunted, “Are you sure you aren’t just a glutton?”

Geralt smirked. Without any warning, he rolled over, pinning Jaskier beneath him. He heard Jaskier’s pulse flutter. A heated fantasy sped through Geralt’s mind, thoughts of how easily he could subdue Jaskier, how much stronger and bigger Geralt was, how much deep trust it took for Jaskier to lay himself out so vulnerable for a witcher, a predator. Jaskier’s arms snaked around him, and his hands splayed out over Geralt’s shoulder blades. Geralt laid heavier against him and growled in his ear just to feel Jaskier squirm. Jaskier would be unable to get away even if he wanted to with Geralt’s full weight holding him down. Oddly, that was a deeply pleasurable thought, and Geralt had very quickly decided that he would take no issue with it if Jaskier wanted to keep feeding him, making him broader and heavier still, only further exaggerating that contrast between the two of them. If the way Geralt could feel Jaskier’s hardening cock digging into his thigh was any indication, they were in agreement on that.

“Going to get me something good for breakfast tomorrow?” Geralt purred into Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier groaned, hooked his legs around Geralt’s waist to grind their hips together, and moved one hand to tangle into the witcher’s hair. His opposite hand snuck downwards, and he pinched at the slight, growing plushness at Geralt’s hip.

“Certainly. You’re just wasting away.”

Geralt’s mouth was far too busy then for any proper response.

#fic #prompt fill #HI THIS WAS FUN TO WRITE #thank u :)

[rebrandedbard]

Gifted Glances Stolen Smiles

wc - 2391

Ao3 link.

Jaskier is trying to get Geralt to smile, but he just can't seem to figure out what it takes, and he maybe gives Geralt a goodnight kiss while he sleeps. In the meantime, Geralt thinks they're already in a relationship that's moving at the speed of a glacier and he's sweet about it.

-

Did Geralt ever smile, Jaskier wondered? The man was stoic at the best of times, and at the worst, his face was warped with displeasure. It was a treat to see Geralt relaxed: the lines of his wrinkles would soften, his brow unfurrow, and—if Jaskier were very lucky—Geralt would close his eyes and rest awhile, looking nearly content.

Jaskier liked it best when Geralt slept. He was always the last one asleep, the first one awake. It was a rare thing to catch Geralt unconscious, and Jaskier was sure that was by design. But twice he’d woken in the middle of the night and found himself nose to nose with the sleeping witcher. The first time, it had been nearly impossible to see his face in the darkness, but the second, the moon had been almost full, so big and bright, and she’d cast her light upon his face. It was like the light which fell through the windows of a cathedral to embrace the masterworks of great artists upon the altars. And what better pedestal for Geralt than a soft pillow? If Jaskier had his way, he’d wrap Geralt in the finest linen sheets, lay him on a down mattress, all bathed in lavender for a restful night’s sleep. He wondered what his face would look like then. Beautiful, no doubt.

Geralt had almost seemed to be smiling, softened in sleep. Jaskier had not been able to help himself. He tipped his head forward and placed the gentlest kiss upon his brow; a silent good-night, and a blessing for pleasant dreams. If he tried, Jaskier could trick himself into believing Geralt really did smile after.

Alas, Jaskier lamented: Geralt wasn’t one for smiling. But then again, he’d never been one for talking much either, and the next day he was unusually chatty. Geralt had said, ‘Good morning’ and used up a few of his precious fifty words a day to complain about Jaskier’s breath before breakfast. When they’d sat down to eat, Geralt asked if Jaskier wanted to return to the room, have his sleep out while he went off to see the alderman. A very unusual offer. Geralt often had Jaskier tag along to collect payment, as Jaskier had a persuasive tongue. With Jaskier at his side, Geralt received most of his payment in full.

“Are you trying to trick me, witcher?” Jaskier asked. “Trying to give me the slip and make off while I’m asleep? Tell me, what have you put in my morning tea? Have you spread some sleeping draught on my bread instead of jam?”

He took a great bite, swallowed it down with a monstrous slurp, then pretended to gag. He threw a hand over his forehead and went limp over his plate.

Geralt rolled his eyes and nudged Jaskier’s foot under the table.

“I live!” Jaskier gasped theatrically.

“It’s a miracle,” Geralt deadpanned.

Jaskier grinned and tucked back in, chewing at a more gentlemanly pace. “So. What is it? Have I got bags under my eyes or something? You’re being generous.”

“I just thought you might be tired.”

“Well, that was courteous of you. But rest assured, I am well rested.”

Geralt hummed. He returned to his breakfast without another word, and Jaskier regarded it as a fluke of the early morning.

Until it happened again in the market.

They were returning from their meeting with the alderman—only stiffed by one silver coin—when Jaskier wheedled his way into an extra hour of shopping. Geralt followed along at Jaskier’s side while he flitted from stall to stall, abusing this sudden burst of generosity to have a bit of fun.

“Look at this, Geralt!” Jaskier held up a little floral sachet embroidered with two stars. It was filled with lavender and chamomile, with just a hint of cinnamon.

“This,” he explained, “is a charm for good dreams. See these two stars here? They’re wishing stars. The first grants blessings for good dreams during your first sleep, the second for your second. You see, most charms try to lay a sort of blanket-blessing for the whole night, which is why they never work. My grandmother made one of these for me when I was little and she used both stars. I never had a poor night’s sleep with it under my pillow.”

“Hm.” Geralt picked up the sachet, examining it with an amused expression.

Jaskier liked when Geralt looked smug. It was not the smile he truly wanted, but anything like a smile was a blessing to see. He was always glad when Geralt enjoyed himself.

Geralt dangled the little sachet in front of Jaskier’s nose, swinging it slightly. “And how did you sleep last night? Are you in need of a sleeping charm?” he asked.

Jaskier stiffened. That made twice that Geralt had suggested sleeping poorly. Jaskier had been sure he’d been asleep, but now he had an inkling that he was being made the fool. He lightly tugged the sachet from his hand and returned it to the stall.

Geralt resumed his silence after they left the market.

That night, Jaskier slept with his back to Geralt. He thought he could feel Geralt’s eyes on the back of his head long after they snuffed the candle. He nearly jumped when he felt the arm wrap around his waist.

Geralt pulled him to his chest and spoke in his ear. “Calm down,” he murmured. “You’re thinking too loudly. I can’t sleep.”

Jaskier nodded, heart racing with nervous energy.

“This too,” Geralt said, placing a hand over the thrumming in his chest.

“I’m afraid that’s out of my hands.”

“It’s in mine. So relax. You have nothing to fear with me.”

That was … a strange sort of comment. Strange, and oddly calming. Jaskier played them over in his head, imagining them in a new context. He closed his eyes, taking in the feeling of Geralt wrapped around him, warm and steady. Geralt’s breath tickled his neck. And yes, Geralt had his hand over his heart. His heart was, in many ways, in Geralt’s hand.

Jaskier smiled, cracking an eyes to look up at the moon. “I’m not afraid of any werewolves sniffing about tonight if that’s what you were thinking.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Hm. So what do you think I’m afraid of?”

Geralt only hummed in reply.

Jaskier turned under Geralt’s arm. “Oh no, I said ‘hm’ first. You have to say something else. I already used it in this conversation.”

“Hm,” Geralt replied again, a funny little smirk on his face.

“I’ll smother you,” Jaskier threatened, putting a hand on Geralt’s pillow to make good.

But Geralt took the hand from under his head and wrapped it around Jaskier’s. “Wish you would,” he murmured.

“Come now, Geralt. The pay wasn’t that bad. And I don’t really mean to suffocate you; you don’t have to hold me back.”

“You need more sleep. You’re slow-witted today.”

Jaskier frowned. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

So he did, and things were relatively normal as the week progressed. Evidently, Jaskier looked rested enough, and Geralt no longer felt the need to make comments. Perhaps that had been all. Jaskier had to admit, he was tired. Or perhaps it was more convenient to pretend. He didn’t like thinking that Geralt had woken, and he didn’t believe Geralt would toy with him.

They were on the path again, and Jaskier returned to his musing. What, he wondered, would make Geralt smile? He told jokes at the tavern at the next town, hoping to steal one little grin. Now and then he cast a look over his shoulder to see if Geralt might laugh, but after the first few jokes he had to concede. He spent the rest of comedy hour focusing on his circle of patrons, laughing and drinking while he waited for Geralt to finish his lunch.

In the evening, he worked the same crowd, hopping round and round in a dance as he played his songs. He played a few songs Geralt had deemed not horrendously irredeemable in the past to see if that might do the trick, then tossed in a few cheeky verses of ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ for good measure. He bought Geralt an extra ale. A second plate.

Geralt never did smile, but at least he looked pleased.

When Jaskier had a moment spare, he brushed Roach and polished her tack. It would seem this quest of his was never-ending. All month long he’d been asking himself the question, and honestly, his efforts were uninspired. He wasn’t doing anything more or less than what he would normally do, sprinkling in little treats here and there which he thought Geralt might enjoy. There wasn’t  anything special in it. The lack of imagination bothered Jaskier and he knew that if he wanted Geralt to smile, he would have to think of something bigger, grander!

But Geralt was different. Geralt didn’t mull over these things. It was surprising, yes, when Geralt went out of his way to do things for him, but he didn’t agonize over doing them. As easily as Geralt set his bags down at the campfire, he might place an apple by Jaskier’s elbow. The day might be long, but Geralt would set up camp at midday to let them rest, just when Jaskier was aching for a good lie down.

Jaskier lay awake after his first sleep some nights, watching him, thinking it over. The more Jaskier thought about it, the more he became aware of the little things Geralt did. They were more frequent now. At least once a day, Geralt did something to make him smile. All Jaskier wanted was to do the same.

What, Jaskier asked himself. What would make him smile?

He stood in the tailor’s mirror, asking himself the question once more as he adjusted his new doublet. He turned this way and that, plucking at the sleeves. It would be autumn soon enough, and he needed to dress for the season. He thought a nice red would do.

Geralt sat on a stool to one side, a new cloak folded upon his lap. It was Jaskier’s treat for the day, and he had bullied Geralt into accepting it.

Jaskier’s eyes flicked to the side of the mirror. He hoped he might steal a glance of Geralt smiling at the new cloak. It was a black wool, lined with soft fleece. It was still a bit early to wear anything so heavy, but Geralt was always telling him to think ahead. This village was known for their particular breed of sheep, and the coin was good, so Jaskier thought it wise to invest in the warmest, softest wool in the east. Silently, Jaskier dared anyone to try and find a more thoughtful gift than that! It was a smart gift, he thought, and to his great shock, he saw it at last.

Geralt was smiling, a real, true smile. Not a smile born of politeness, nor a wry grimace, not a smirk, but a genuine smile. But Geralt was not looking at the cloak.

Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye in the mirror.

Jaskier turned and said, “You’re smiling.”

“I do that,” he replied.

“Not often. I hardly ever see it.”

Great shrugged. “You’re too busy most of the time.”

“I’ve been trying to catch you smiling all month long! I’ve been constantly vigilant. How could I be too busy?”

“You’re singing. You’re talking and dancing, writing. Having fun. I like to watch you do it,” Geralt answered. “Almost as much as you like to watch me sleep.”

Jaskier flushed. “You know about that?” he asked.

Geralt stood, setting the cloak aside, and crossed the room to stand beside him. “I don’t mind. It’s no different from my watching you.” As he spoke, he carefully slipped his hand into Jaskier’s. “I understand if you still want to move slowly, but some nights I wish that you would kiss me again. I thought you were trying to tell me you were ready for more.”

Jaskier’s heart stopped.

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders, looking at their reflection in the mirror. “Even so,” he said, leaning his head against Jaskier’s cheek, “I’m happy where we are now. I’m all in, Jaskier. However long it takes, I don’t mind waiting.”

“Waiting?” Jaskier squawked. He did not currently have the capacity to process everything Geralt had said, and Geralt had said quite a lot—very plainly spoken—in less than a minute.

Geralt nodded. “As long as you need.”

“You’ve been waiting on me. Waiting for me to … I beg your pardon, but did you say you wanted me to kiss you?”

“I did.”

Jaskier’s limp hands remembered themselves. They rose to cover over Geralt’s arms. Jaskier simply gaped into the mirror. Slowly, a smile lit up his eyes.

“Hey, Geralt?” he said.

“Hm.”

“I bet you a gold coin I know a way, guaranteed, to make you smile again on command.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re broke.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m guaranteed to win.”

“Given your tone, I have a funny idea I’m about to win something as well.”

Jaskier turned in Geralt’s arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Geralt hummed. “I love being right,” he said.

“And what else do you love, my dear?” Jaskier brought a hand up to curl a teasing finger around Geralt’s long white hair. He felt giddy and silly. He wanted to dance and sing and act a fool, then leap into Geralt’s arms. But never mind the leaping; at that very moment, he was right where he wanted to be.

Geralt shushed him. Slowly, he unwrapped himself from Jaskier and walked back to the stool. He picked up the cloak and wrapped it around himself, after which he bumped Jaskier out of the mirror to have a look.

“My new cloak,” he answered.

Jaskier laughed and bumped him back. “I have excellent taste.”

“You do.” And Geralt adjusted Jaskier’s ruffled tie.

They stood together, side by side in the mirror, stealing glances at one another. No, not stealing, Jaskier realized, for this was allowed. He would not steal glances this day forward. From now on, they would be a gift. So he gifted Geralt with another glance and winked.

And Geralt smiled.

#drabbles #my fic #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #this is just pure fluff

[hum-my-name]

When You Come Home

Today's fill for @witcher-bows-and-arrows' prompt: Home!

A lot more reference to Nightmare of the Wolf than I had initially intended, and I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: None Words: 3.7K No main pairings-- just Platonic or Familial Love here!

Summary: Kaer Morhen doesn't start out as Geralt's home. Over time, though, it becomes one.

Read on AO3 or continue below

The world, for a while, is wooden walls and open fields, dirt trails and animals he knows by name. It’s his mother and her cart on prolonged travels, play-pretend fairy tales and knightly dreams.

Then, all at once, Geralt’s world is white.

Kaer Morhen’s a place of winter, of massive snowstorms staining the sky and hiding any trails the young adepts may try to take to run away. Geralt had been warned about the frozen drifts on the journey here— don’t worry, the witchers said, it’s home.

And Geralt let himself imagine something grand, something adventurous. Smaller than the other boys, he thought he might be able to slip away, to find his story alone in the woods and hills of the mountains.

But the wagon pulls past large gates, the afternoon sun cresting the top of a gray-stoned fortress. Geralt stumbles across the ice and stray pebbles in the courtyard, already shuddering beneath thin fabrics and a scrawny frame. The witchers shove boots onto his feet, tuck his pants into the top, but when they try to take his shirt, he crosses his arms and bares his teeth; the hem’s frayed and the corner’s stained, but his mother stitched a dragon on the inside of his wrist for his birthday, telling him stories of the knight who fought monsters.

The witchers tell him it will only tear beneath monster claws, the material will rip under his armor. Still, laughing, they let him keep the one thing he has.

They’re right, of course— the other kids scoff when the oversized shirt causes him to mess up in training over the next few days; it’s a liability, something for others to grab or tug on, something he needs to tie back like a girl’s dress.

“When are you gonna give up that memento, boy?” Deglan, an older witcher, snarls when he finds Geralt trying to clean mud from the sleeves.

Geralt turns, glaring. “When will this place start feeling like home?”

Deglan’s still in his witcher gear, the blood of some beast not yet dried on his swords. The world grows colder when he walks closer to Geralt, his footsteps echoing on the stone beneath them. His gaze gives none of his thoughts away, and Geralt holds his ground, refusing to back down. If Deglan beats him for disrespect, at least he’ll know he didn’t flinch.

But Deglan stops just short of him, towering and scowling.

“Don’t be a fool,” he says. “Witchers have no home.”

<><><>

When the attacks are over and the monsters are killed, Vesemir takes Geralt and the others back to Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s chest tightens at the thought of that place— of mutations and the fear of the changes rearranging every bit of his body, of hateful humans and their schemes— but Vesemir is a face he recognizes. Maybe, he even trusts him a little.

So, past rotting bodies of monsters and witchers and the humans who attacked. Vesemir leads them to the main hall and Geralt’s eyes sting at the sight of blood across the medallion tree.

For a long while, Geralt stares.

“Here,” Vesemir says, appearing beside him with medallions hanging from his hand— bent and gory and broken. Geralt’s face goes quizzical for a second, unsure of what Vesemir wants from him. He already claimed a medallion from the bag tossed at their feet earlier. Vesemir hesitates— the first time Geralt’s seen him falter— but he doesn’t speak. He turns and, one by one, he hangs the medallions on the tree.

Geralt says nothing, does nothing. He has the slight feeling that he shouldn’t be here at this moment. These weren’t his friends, his family. These people belonged to Vesemir, not him.

But, as he begins to turn away, Vesemir’s hands are on his own. Warm and calloused and shaking ever so subtly. A chain presses to Geralt’s palm. Geralt stares down at the necklace, taking in the details of the wolf’s snarling face, the chipped corner where a blade must have struck the metal; Vesemir lets him twist it through his fingers, warming the cool surface in his hands.

Vesemir’s still looking at him when Geralt hangs the medallion on a lower branch.

“Thank you,” Vesemir says. Geralt turns to him, eyes wide.

“What for?” Geralt asks. “Whoever that belonged to— they didn’t know me.”

“They were you, Geralt,” Vesemir says, and there’s a sad tone in Vesemir’s voice that has never been there before. It inspires Geralt to move closer, to let Vesemir rest a hand on his shoulder the way a father would hold a son. “Every witcher that passes through these halls share a bond that nothing else in this world could replicate. These medallions, all of them, belonged to someone who was once afraid and abandoned. I know the world out there may hate you for what you will be, but remember this tree. Each medallion you see is a reminder of how, despite their hate, you still have a place with us. You’ll never truly be forgotten or left behind.”

Vesemir reaches for the medallion hanging around Geralt’s neck, holding the thin circle between two fingers as he stares down at it. He only lets go when Geralt takes it from him, holding tighter than he means.

“Will we be a family, then?” Geralt asks, still holding his medallion.

“I don’t know what we’ll be,” Vesemir admits. “That’s up to the rest and what they choose. What I can give you is a chance at surviving the horrors out there. I can offer you protection, sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary?” Geralt asks, and Vesemir smiles softly.

“Wherever you go, Geralt,” he says. “Kaer Morhen and I will always be here.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Eskel’s the first to break through Geralt’s carefully guarded walls. Or, at least, the first aside from Vesemir. Tough as the older witcher can be at times, he does his best, and Geralt’s learned to look forward to their near-daily conversations by the medallion tree.

Sure, Geralt knows the other boys— he knows their screams from the trials, their blood from training— but he doesn’t take the time to learn more. They need to be witchers, fighters, monster slayers.

But, then, Geralt’s hair starts growing in— tufts of uneven strands tucked beneath the hat he wears when completing the day’s chores. At first, he thinks nothing of it— he’s always had pale hair, and the mages had initially warned him he may see some side effects. So, he goes a few weeks waiting for the color to even back into blond.

It’s his turn to clean through the weaponry and armory that the cap slips from his head, pulled off because it’s hot and he’s not thinking— and he jumps when something silver shifts in the reflection of the sword in his hand.

For the first time, he realizes that his hair’s growing back wrong— and, for the second time in his life, his world goes terribly white.

He doesn’t know what happens between one moment and the next, only that it’s Eskel who finds him wandering the trails outside Kaer Morhen with nothing more than the clothes on his back.

“Geralt?” Eskel calls. “Vesemir’s been looking for you.”

But Geralt’s heart pounds, terrified, in his chest. His hands shake and his vision blurs and he can’t put words to the panic he feels when he looks around and sees nothing but pale fields and white skies— white, white, white .

“It’s wrong, Eskel,” he snaps, tugging at his own hair until his scalp screams. “It’s all wrong!”

And Eskel doesn’t speak, approaching him like he does those baby goats kept in Kaer Morhen’s courtyard.

“They already hate witchers,” Geralt continues— and he was told witchers can’t cry but, gods, they can scream. “What will they think of me?”

Eskel lets him shout, lets him curse. He lets him collapse into the snow, beating the ground with his fists until his knuckles bleed. And Eskel stands, watching with unreadable eyes.

He looks at Geralt like he doesn’t judge him for his dramatics-- like he doesn’t pity him, either. But he stands before him when he could leave, if he wanted. He waits with Geralt, witnessing his anger and rage in a place where, so often, they work so hard to keep it hidden.

At last, Geralt tires himself out. He heaves for breath, still shaking as he glares at his own feet.

“Do you plan on leaving?” Eskel asks, finally speaking. Geralt’s gaze snaps up at him.

“There’s nowhere for me to go,” he answers.

“Then, come on,” Eskel says, wonderfully genuine in that way they say witchers never are, the way Eskel always is. He offers his hand to Geralt, and Geralt takes it. “Let’s go back.”

Go back , he says, and Geralt wonders where “back” is. To Kaer Morhen? To Vesemir and the sanctuary he says he has?

Go back — to somewhere they belong? To the only place they know?

Go back , Eskel says— and, walking back, hand in hand, Geralt realizes that “going back” has to be enough.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When the time comes, Geralt goes. To the Path. To the world outside Kaer Morhen, to that place full of people meant to hate him.

But they don’t hate him, not really. Not at first. They fear him and they avoid him, but it’s never hate in their eyes. It’s disgust and disfavor, shock or sick curiosity. They hire and pay him, trust him to kill their beasts. No one throws rocks or calls names.

Not until after Blaviken.

The winter after meeting Renfri and aiding Stregobor, Geralt lingers in the town at the base of the mountain. He meant to go back with the others, but the thought of facing them after everything that’s happened— it makes him sick.

So, of course, it’s Lambert who finds him in the corner of a crowded tavern, plopping on the bench beside him with a heavy grunt.

“Had a feeling I’d find you here,” he says. “You’re lucky the storms haven’t started yet. As far as Vesemir’s concerned, I came down here to get some more supplies to last us through the winter. And I am doing that, so don’t start thinking you’re too special.”

“Are you getting to a point?” Geralt asks.

Lambert continues, ignoring him. “If we leave now, we can beat the blizzards to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt hums in response, though he doesn’t look at Lambert. He can feel his gaze on him already, and it’s unfair how ashamed he feels beneath it. Does he look any different to him, now that he’s gained a new name and reputation? Is Renfri’s blood still on his cheek? Have the bruises from the stones yet healed?

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks. He means for it to be gruff, but it only sounds sincere.

Lambert doesn’t answer right away, and they lapse into silence when the barmaid brings more ale to their table. They drink, quiet, and face the window on the other side of the building; Geralt watches a sunset press through the snowy branches of the trees outside, casting strange shadows and stranger sunbeams into the room. It reminds him of Kaer Morhen in the morning, and how the sun will slowly warm his bedroom through the day because he was lucky when he picked the one room facing in that direction.

“You’re usually the first one up there, but it’s been weeks and you’ve yet to even start the journey. Are you planning on abandoning us?” Lambert asks with cautious words, a rare event for him. He sets his cup down and bumps his shoulder against Geralt, turning to look at him.

Geralt scoffs a little, softer than he’d like, and he takes his time answering, waiting until his voice feels steady.

“You hate Kaer Morhen,” Geralt accuses. “But you’ll hold it against me if I choose not to visit for one winter.”

“Yeah, 'cause I only put up with it when you assholes are there,” Lambert says like it’s obvious— and, really, maybe it is. What is Kaer Morhen if not a collection of the people Geralt trusts most? “If one of us stops returning, then—”

Then, eventually, no one will go anymore. Lambert doesn’t need to say it; the thought alone chills Geralt to the bone.

“I wasn’t sure—” Geralt cuts off. “I mean, after Blaviken—”

“I heard,” Lambert interrupts. “And it’s bold of you to assume I fucking care.”

That, at least, startles a laugh out of Geralt. “How considerate of you.”

“Look, if you want comfort, you’ll need to talk to Eskel or Vesemir,” Lambert defends. “Of course, in order to do that, you’ll need to come with me to see them.”

He’s right, something Geralt will never say to Lambert.

Still, when he sighs, Lambert smirks like he knows what Geralt means.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Geralt’s heart stutters in his chest when Ciri moves through Kaer Morhen’s courtyard, wandering aimlessly with her head held high. For a moment, during that first day, he’s reminded of small children carted in, of child-sized swords and armor, of screams and nightmares and trauma he can’t undo. He doesn’t want that for Ciri, but he needs her somewhere safe— and there’s only ever been one place in his life he could consider as an option.

“So, what is this place again?” Ciri asks, turning back to face him.

Geralt tries to figure out what to say; he has a feeling that his words, now, mean more than they did before. This is a child asking where she’s been brought, an orphan looking at large gates and monstrous bones left behind.

He must take too long to answer because Ciri’s eyebrows furrow together and she offers a response of her own.

“Is this your home?” Her voice is a hesitant guess, a chance for Geralt to nod and move on. But he hasn’t used that word for Kaer Morhen yet; he’s never thought it, never wondered it.

“It’s a fortress to keep us hidden from the humans,” Geralt says instead, meeting Ciri’s eyes. “I don’t know if that makes it a home, but it does make it safe.”

Ciri smiles; it’s small, but it’s enough.

“It’s magnificent.” She looks around, a wistfulness in her eyes and a promising tone in her voice. “You’ll show me around, won’t you? I’m assuming you know the grounds best.”

“Let’s go meet the others first,” Geralt says. He put his hand on Ciri’s shoulder as they walk.

The way a father would hold a daughter.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Seeing Jaskier in Kaer Morhen feels equal parts wrong and right. Wrong because, had Geralt a choice, he’d prefer to have brought Jaskier here under different circumstances— to invite him with more thoughtful words, to present him with better memories than those of basilisks and demons. He wanted to see Jaskier’s face when he spotted the towers over the hills, the signs of the fortress from a distance. He wanted to be the one to introduce him to Lambert and Eskel and Coen, to see their shit-eating grins and hear their stupid jokes when they finally meet the bard they’d asked so often about. He wanted to be there, and the fact that he wasn’t-- it feels wrong.

But, at the same time—

Jaskier rushes the halls with child-like astonishment. His fingers linger on every stone, curiosity and carefulness filling each subtle gasp when he finds a new detail to explore. Every so often, a strange expression crosses his face and he stares at a certain corner or hallway or room, thinking in silence, before moving on.

At last, standing before the medallion tree— stitched haphazardly back together by Yennefer’s returned magic— Geralt asks Jaskier about that look.

“I’m trying to imagine it,” Jaskier admits. “A younger you. A little Geralt and a handful of other baby witchers living in a place like this.”

“And? Can you?” Geralt turns, watching as the lights dance across those old medallions, shattered shards of flame catching on rusted wolf’s teeth.

Jaskier folds his hands behind his back and tips his head thoughtfully. “Would it surprise you if I say I can? That, the more time I spend here, the more of you I see in the bricks and windows?”

“I didn’t build it,” Geralt says.

“Not the physical bones of it, no, and not by hand,” Jaskier says, raising an eyebrow at Geralt. It feels like he understands something Geralt’s forgotten to remember. “But there are goat pens in the yard that Eskel checks on every night. There are cracks in the wall from Lambert and Coen’s drunken wrestling. There’s Vesemir in the care of the keep, the mortar filling the gaps. And there’s you, too, Geralt.”

“Where?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

Jaskier smiles, his fingers brushing the tree before them.

“You’re in the heart of it,” he says. “I hope, one day, you see that, too.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Yennefer’s at home in the lab with Vesemir, and Geralt finds little more joy than the moments where Ciri joins them, flitting about the room and asking questions about any and all alchemy and magic they perform. For the most part, it’s a teaching experience, and Ciri and Yennefer draw closer each day.

Other times, though, Geralt finds Yennefer in the lab late at night, muttering to herself while she mixes elixirs. The sting of her betrayal still aches, but he finds himself simply sitting in the room at night, anyway, watching her work.

The other witchers have yet to forgive her for leading Voleth Meir to the keep, and Geralt knows her secret evenings make them uneasy. He tells himself that’s why he watches her; he tells himself that’s why he asks.

“What are you working on?” He gestures towards her work. “You have your magic back. You don’t need to be making any more potions.”

“Who says it’s for me?” She asks, swirling an orange liquid in a glass vial. When Geralt grunts in confusion, she turns towards him with a sigh. “I’m trying to enhance the potions for the witchers, alright? Happy?”

“What?” Geralt blinks. “Why?”

“Because it’d be a waste to let the potential of this lab and its supplies rot,” she snaps, only to ease her voice with a gentle shake of her head. “And because I want to show my appreciation to the lot of you for letting me stay here. I know what this place means for the witchers, and I know its past. To let a sorceress claim safe haven here, even after all I’ve done— it’s important to me that I pay that debt.”

Warmth curls in Geralt’s chest, swelling until it’s difficult to take a proper breath.

“It’s a fortress, Yen. Many seek safety here,” he says. “You don’t owe us for that.”

“It’s more than just a witcher’s keep,” Yennefer says, her eyes so terribly soft. “But if it makes you feel better to say it's simply that, I won’t argue with you about it. Not tonight.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Geralt says— but even he can hear the doubt in his voice.

Yennefer smiles and nods along with his uncertainty. They say nothing else for the rest of the night.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The keep, for once, fills with noise. Story-telling and jokes. Laughter. Love.

Geralt pauses at the entry of the main hall, watching.

“It’s a good sound, isn’t it?” Vesemir asks, coming up to him with an offering of white gull. “I didn’t think I’d hear such joy in these halls again.”

He gestures towards the ongoing activities— a messy mix of dancing and play fighting along with Jaskier’s clapping hands and songs. Ciri spins with Yennefer’s hands on her shoulders; by another table, Coen and Eskel nearly fall over themselves laughing as they try to shove Lambert to his feet to join the fun. It’s different, but Geralt doesn’t necessarily think that’s bad.

Vesemir, too, looks upon the scene with a look Geralt’s rarely seen on him. A tension’s lifted from his face, a weight he’s worn since he first brought a collection of mutated orphans back to the keep. Geralt stares at the tender smile on Vesemir’s lips, imprinting it into his memory. It’s an image he’ll fondly recall when the Path grows difficult and he needs to remember the small joys life offers his kind.

“Get over here and tell Lambert to show us his pretty dancing, Geralt!” Eskel calls. He says it teasingly, and Lambert’s cursing is only half-hearted.

“Perhaps he’s just waiting for the right partner,” Geralt says. He smirks when the argument then becomes one over who should play the part of Lambert’s damsel— Eskel or Coen, each of them pointing at the other. Geralt laughs, crossing the room to join them. “Is Lambert really worth fighting over?”

“Fuck off,” Lambert tells him, holding his hand up in a crude gesture. “I don’t see you dancing with anyone, pretty boy.”

Geralt’s response cuts off when Ciri bounds towards them, hands reaching out as Jaskier drifts into a quicker jig. There’s a certain joy about her that she’s been lacking recently, like she finally feels safe here.

Witchers don’t dance— it’s part of why the previous teasing with Lambert had been so absurd— but Geralt finds himself reaching back for Ciri, allowing himself to be tugged into a stumbling version of a courtroom dance. He feels whole as he spins her, free and light in a way he never is.

Jaskier sits on a table nearby, stamping his feet against the bench while he claps along to his own singing, Yennefer standing beside him with a delighted smile at Ciri’s antics. Geralt and Ciri spin through the room, drawing nearer the center.

Gods, but as his brothers cheer him on— and Jaskier winks at him, and Yennefer waves— Geralt feels something within his chest click into place. Something that had been carved away long ago, something discarded but never forgotten.

Laughter swells in the air and he’s almost surprised to realize that some of it is his own.

The song ends and plunges into another. Ciri goes to try her charm— successfully— on Coen; Yennefer takes her place, her hands on Geralt’s arms when Jaskier cheekily begins to sing “The Golden One.”

Everyone smiles and claps and sings along. Geralt, somehow, keeps dancing. He passes by Eskel and Lambert shoving and trying to be louder than each other, Coen and Ciri dancing nearby— though, to call it dancing would be kind; they’re more like a tornado whizzing past the rest of them. Vesemir even joins in, offering Jaskier a drink to keep his singing going.

That thing in Geralt’s chest burns with a name— Family . This, at last, is his family.

And Kaer Morhen, finally, is a home.

#my fic #geralt #vesemir #eskel #lambert #coen #ciri #jaskier #yennefer #the witcher #found family #kaer morhen #witcher fandom #witcher bows and arrows #witcher valentines

[imagineredwood]

"Bad day, mama?"

Request: Quarantine based imagine. Tranq’s Old lady is an essential worker. She’s a manager at a grocery store and she comes home after a long day dealing with rude customers and very few nice people and he lets her rant and he cooks dinner for her. Very fluffy.

Pairing: Tranq Loza x female reader 

Warnings: Talk about the pandemic and shitty people, that’s it 

Word count: 1K

“Bad day, mama?”

You nodded with a tired sigh as you walked into your home, kicking your shoes off, and enjoying the freedom of no longer having them compressed. Tranq pouted and held his hands out to take your purse and other belongings from you.

“Go take a shower. I already got dinner started, it’ll be done soon. Then we can talk about it.”

With a kiss to your forehead and then other to your lips, Tranq gently pushed you in the direction of the master bedroom. You headed in his direction and went to the bathroom, stripping out of your work clothes and tossing them lazily into the hamper.

You took your time in the shower, washing up, and then simply standing in the hot water for minutes on end. You let the water soothe your tired and tense muscles, eyes closed as you relished in being back home. Having to work in a pandemic was one thing but having to work in a pandemic with customers who only cared about their own selfish wants added on an extra layer of stress that had you near tears out of frustration. You felt like you could almost fall asleep, your body swaying slightly. The sound of someone knocking on the bathroom door startled you, your eyes shooting open.

“Baby? You almost done?”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you and finished rinsing off, calling out so he could hear you over the water.

“Yeah! I’m coming.”

Washing off the final bubbles from your skin, you shut off the water and climbed out, drying off and hurrying through putting on your lotion.

Clean and dressed comfortably, you made your way out to the living room, Tranq in the kitchen already serving both of your plates. He smiled as he saw you and motioned down to the plates, showing you that he had made your favorite. Your stomach growled and your mouth watered, thankful more than ever for your husband.

“Looks so good.”

Tranq smiled, eyes crinkled in the corners at your compliment. He was pulling out your chair for you then, letting you sit before pushing you back in. He sat down across from you the way he always did, eyes on you and giving you his full attention.

“Do you wanna talk about it? You don’t have to if you rather forget about it, but I’m here if you wanna vent.”

He gave a soft nod and you returned it, taking a bite before starting.

“It’s just…people can be so stupid. We’ve got signs plastered everywhere saying that masks are required to enter, and they come in without one. Then they want to get pissed when we tell them they need to put on a mask. Then you have people taking shit out and then putting it back where it doesn’t belong, so not only do I have to make sure that everything gets put back where it belongs, but we have to sanitize them all over again. People wanna yell and get angry because we’re out of stock like I can just go fly the shit in on a private jet. Everyone is just so rude and shitty and I just- “

You stopped yourself and took a deep breath, not wanting to give into the anger once again. Tranq felt the same way and reached across the table, placing his hand on top of yours and stroking his thumb along the back of it soothingly.

“It’s ok, sweetheart. They ruined your day; don’t let them ruin your night too.”

You nodded and fed yourself another bite, calming down slowly.

“It’s just annoying. We’re all stuck in shitty situations. Why be a dick and make it worse for us when we’re just trying to keep the world running?”

Tranq nodded, understanding your frustration. He wished he could do something more about it, but alas, he couldn’t make people be more sensible, nor could he make them be nicer. He could try his best to distract you though.

“Were there any nice customers? Anyone that was helpful or appreciative?”

You nodded, a small smile coming to your lips as you recalled the elderly woman who had come in thirty minutes before closing.

“There was this little old lady that came in at the end of my shift. Said that she was sorry for coming in so late, but she burned the chicken that she had told her husband she would have for dinner for him when he came home from fishing and she didn’t want him to know. So, she bought one of the whole rotisserie chickens and said she would just pretend that she made that.  Said she would come in tomorrow and let us know if she fooled him.”

You chuckled and Tranq did too, the mood already lighter from the story. Tranq took advantage and jumped in then, letting you eat while he told you the positives about his day. About the pranks the guys had been playing all day, about Letty and how she was doing well in school. By the time the two of you had finished eating you had relaxed, and your bad mood had lifted, your mind and body no longer weighed down with the stress of the day.

You and Tranq washed the dished together, talking quietly, happy to be home with each other. With the kitchen clean, you both went and sat down on the couch, the bear of a man taking you into his arms and letting you lean back to rest against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you in a snug hold as he nuzzled into your neck.

“At least you’re home now, baby.”

You nodded, resting your chin on his forearm, and relaxing into the warmth of his embrace, unable to agree more.

“At least I’m with you. You are home.”

The Mayan blushed and leaned his cheek to lay on the top of your head, more and more in love with you each year you were together.

“Always.”

General taglist

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @my-rosegold-soul @that-chick212 @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @elcococruz @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @iambabyharry @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @saturnsaree @multiyfandomgirl40 @destynelseclipsa @sadeyesgf @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @all-the-boys-to-the-yard @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @beeroses​  @abby-splace​

Mayans MC taglist

@dazzledamazon  @abunnykisses @briana-mishell24 @angelreyesgirl @wrcn9fvlcver @peaches009 @capt-canadian @thesandbeneathmytoes @krysiewithak @veracruz-djarin @appropriate-writers-name @cind-in-real-life @blessedboo @montanaraed @kkim120 @megapeacelovemusic-blog @emoengelfurleben @blowmymbackout

#Tranq Loza #tranq loza x reader #Mayans MC #imagines #mayans fx #mayans imagine #tranq loza imagine

[julek]

jaskier had been working on his newest song for months, as geralt had reluctantly been a witness to his creative process. and what a process it had been: humming for hours on end walking next to roach as they approached their next town; repeating the same line over and over, trying to think of the next rhyme; getting up in the middle of the night, scrambling for his quill and notebook because that’s the word i was looking for, geralt!

so when jaskier triumphantly announces that his ballad is done, and just needs to be written down, geralt feels some tension leave his shoulders. it’s funny, really; as much as he loves to deny even listening to the bard’s musings and constant chattering, he’d been subconsciously rooting for him. geralt’s come to understand how important jaskier’s singing is to him, how his lute is basically an extension of himself and his embellished speech is not hyperbolic, it’s natural. the bard’s good at what he does, too; he’s seen it firsthand. the way he can have a tavern full of people dancing around with just a flick of his wrist one moment, and have them quietly shed tears as he sings of longing, and heartache, and lust the next.

they get to a clearing in the woods, and geralt starts setting up camp. jaskier gets his notebook and quill from roach’s saddlebags, sitting on the ground next to the pile of firewood. he was eager to finally give his ballad the finishing touches, and get it on the very expensive and scarce pieces of paper he’d managed to acquire while geralt had been hunting the bruxa that’d been terrorizing the town they were passing through. the townsfolk were poor and there was no inn for them to sleep in, so they had to settle for another night of sleeping under the stars.

“i can’t believe my masterpiece is complete! they’ll be singing my praises everywhere across the continent, you’ll see”, jaskier says, as he sticks his quill in the small bottle of ink he’s precariously balancing on his thigh. “of course, jaskier, they’ll adore you and queen calanthe of cintra herself will request your presence at every banquet. why, thank you geralt, for your precious and incredibly accurate comm—”

jaskier gasps and geralt turns around to face him and see what could have possibly diverted the bard’s attention from— well, himself; only to find him gaping and staring at his lap, where he’d spilled his ink. his doublet sports a big, black stain on the side, but jaskier is more preoccupied with the ink that’s covering the majority of his fine paper.

fuck, geralt’s never gonna hear the end of this.

he braces himself for an unending stream of cursing and fussing, but instead, he is met with silence. jaskier looks at the ruined paper for a moment, his expression blank, and tosses it into the fire. geralt breathes in the sour scent of disappointment, but there’s no anger attached to it.

they eat in silence, and jaskier lies on his back on his bedroll, but geralt knows he isn’t asleep. he can easily imagine why the bard is upset; he’d heard all about the man that had tried to charge him way more than the paper was actually worth, i may like the finer things in life, but do i look like a fool to you? wait— don’t answer that. he also knows how eager jaskier’d been to immortalize his song in paper, not only for aesthetic purposes, but also because this particular ballad was worthy, in jaskier’s opinion, of being sent to oxenfurt, for his professors to critique. 

suddenly, the peace and quiet geralt had been praying for since he met the bard falls flat. he’ll feel better in the morning, geralt thinks, this isn’t such a big deal. he’ll live.

and yet.

 geralt knows what a life devoid of comfort is like. for a long time, it’d been the only life he knew. walking the path, getting a contract, collecting his coin, and moving on; that had been his daily routine for a long time. if he had nothing to look forward to, little could disappoint him. the less people he let in his life, the better.

and then jaskier came along. 

jaskier, who’d sing every night, even for uninterested crowds who would only heckle at him, just to secure a bed for geralt. jaskier, who’d spend a ridiculous amount of coin on chamomile oil, because he knows it’s the only one geralt’s sensitive nose can tolerate. jaskier, who’d go out of his way to get a new brush for roach, who’d lash out at people for talking shit about witchers, and detangle geralt’s hair after a contract gone sideways. jaskier, who gives, and gives, and gives, and never asks for anything in return.

and the truth is, he deserves more. so much more than geralt could ever give him. and even if he could never afford to give jaskier the highest luxuries in life, he has to try. 

 geralt keeps some pieces of parchment in his pack, for the rare occasions he has to write to vesemir. they’re rolled up and tied with a small leather band, but geralt figures it’ll do. he grabs jaskier’s notebook from where he left it, abandoned, next to their fire. geralt knows jaskier keeps early drafts of his songs in it, but never the full piece — what if someone steals it, geralt? what if some half-assed, poor excuse of a bard comes across my precious lyrics, and steals my songs? so he tries to remember the little details jaskier had left out, while attempting to decipher jaskier’s calligraphy. in the end, he gets the entire song out on the parchment, and he feels it’s decent enough. 

at last, he falls asleep.

 -

geralt wakes up to the sound of anxious pacing. he rubs a hand over his tired eyes, and opens them to see a very flustered bard at his side. 

“you— last night— you did this for me!”. jaskier gestures to the parchment splayed out on his bedroll, his expression unreadable. geralt can’t tell if he’s pleased or not, but at least he doesn’t smell upset anymore.

“i know it doesn’t look very good, and it’s not real paper”, geralt says, looking away. “i guess… i— you were upset.”

“i was”, jaskier says, and his is voice soft. geralt feels a hand cup his chin, and he looks up at jaskier. his blue eyes are as clear as the morning sky, and geralt finds himself staring a little too hard. “thank you, geralt. it means a lot to me. really. and i mean, your handwriting is far more legible than mine, they’ll love this at oxenfurt!”

at that, geralt smiles, and receives a goofy grin in turn. 

“well, i’m famished. breakfast?”. jaskier holds his hand out for geralt, and he’s about to turn him down, about to grunt something about how he’s a witcher, strong enough to get up on his own, thank you very much, but he takes it, instead. 

he feels jaskier squeeze his ink-stained hand as he stands up, and he should let go. he should let jaskier enjoy the life that’s so clearly laid out for him; the finest of wines and the fairest of ladies, the softest of silks and the most adoring of crowds. but jaskier looks at him, and he smells like honey and something else he can’t quite place. home, geralt decides, and nods. 

“breakfast.”

#this started out as a small headcanon inspired by my pen exploding on my notebook #i hope you like it! :) #i'll probably post it on ao3 tomorrow #witcher stuff #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fluff #mine #mywriting

[asweetprologue]

window to the soul

Octoberfest 3: ghost (from geraskier hollow) + stare

“It’s drawn to strong emotions,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew that he was about to become bait.

The monster of the week was a wraith, but of an unusual type. Over the years of traveling together, Jaskier had seen plenty of wraiths - noonwraiths, nightwraiths, even a plague maiden once. He probably could take one on himself, knowing what he did about the process of destroying them, though it would be difficult without the use of yrden holding them in the physical realm. Luckily it was Geralt’s job to dispatch them. Jaskier usually didn’t even go along to watch anymore, unless the story behind the haunting was particularly ballad worthy. 

This time, the wraith was different. Geralt had quickly identified the lost soul, a young woman who had recently died. She’d been deeply in love with a merchant that had regularly come and gone from the town, and had tried to cast a spell to trap his heart. Jaskier knew, after everything with Geralt and the djinn, that there was no curse or potion that could truly emulate love. Her spell had made the merchant obsessed with her, the man driven slowly mad by a fixation that he did not want and could not escape. In the end he had killed the girl and then himself, to escape from the madness that she had struck into his mind. The strength of her grief and the magic of the binding spell had changed the spirit of the woman into something else entirely, something extremely dangerous. 

“It’s a sort of hybrid between a vampire and a wraith,” he explained. They were in the field beyond the village, and Geralt was meticulously checking over his potions. His blades were laid off to the side, the slick oil that he used to slay spectres shining across his silver blade. It was nearing sunset, the twilight hour that made it easier for apparitions to make themselves seen in the material world. Jaskier was sitting across from him, nervously stripping leaves from a small twig. Geralt continued. “The emotion she felt and her unrequited love turned her into a heartwraith. Sometimes people call them ‘hungry ghosts.’ They’re never satisfied, and they feed off of people’s emotions to try and fill the void in them.”

“Sounds like a truly awful existence,” Jaskier mused, watching Geralt. The evening light played across his broad shoulders, turning his hair from silver to gold. Jaskier thought he might be able to understand where she was coming from, even if he’d never have tried to bind Geralt to him unwillingly. It was a terrible thing, to be so deeply and unfortunately in love with someone who didn’t want you. 

“I need to draw her out,” Geralt said gruffly. “She’s seeking out powerful emotions, like the couple that were attacked and the man who was beating his wife. I’ll need your help.” Jaskier sighed. Of course, it didn’t make much sense for Geralt to try to draw her out. Though Jaskier didn’t subscribe to the notion that witchers felt less than regular humans, Geralt was what Jaskier would dub repressed. The man couldn’t look an honest emotional conversation in the face without getting flustered and running away. 

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier said, like he always did. He didn’t love playing bait, but he knew Geralt would never let anything bad happen to him. 

Geralt nodded and picked up his silver sword, his steel one still securely in its sheath on his back. “Come on. We need to build a fire to destroy her locket.” The girl had kept a locket with a small lock of the merchant’s hair inside, which Geralt had guessed helped tie her to this plane. Over the next few minutes, the two men built a small pyre. Geralt pressed the locket into Jaskier’s palm, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s skin. He tried not to blush at the contact. 

“When she’s distracted, throw this into the fire. It’ll weaken her,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded mutely, clutching the warm metal close. The fire crackled merrily beside them, painting the landscape around them in swatches of ocher and dark blue. It was truly approaching night now, only the barest hint of sunlight still left on the far horizon. 

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked. “To get her attention, I mean.”

Geralt gave him an odd look. “Nothing. I’m going to draw her in.” Geralt’s face was pinched in a way that Jaskier had come to realize meant he was experiencing some kind of emotion, though it was always hard to tell which one. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain all translated into relatively the same expression - tight jaw, drawn eyebrows, thinned lips. Jaskier wanted to reach out and sooth the tension from his friend’s features, but luckily the locket demanded his hands’ wandering attention. Geralt gestured to the soft earth beside the fire, clearly bidding Jaskier to sit. He did so, flopping gracelessly into a crossed legged position, back straight from tension. It was hard to forget that a wraith could appear any moment to wreck the quiet evening. 

Geralt settled next to him, dropping into the kneeling position that he favored for meditation. His eyes were grave as he looked over Jaskier’s face. “Just… sit still,” he said softly. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with that tone, so he just tried to do as Geralt asked. He settled in, waiting for something to happen, but Geralt just stared at him. 

For a moment it was awkward. Jaskier felt a blush spread across his cheeks as those golden eyes regarded him, sweeping over his face and following the line of his neck. Geralt was a man who always split his attention half a dozen ways at once, one eye always on the door and an ear out for trouble. Jaskier had accepted long ago that Geralt never fully listened to him, and that was alright. It wasn’t in his nature, and Jaskier didn’t need participation to hold a conversation. Now, though, he felt the full force of Geralt’s focus on him, looking back at him as if trying to see beyond a mask. Geralt’s own face was impassive, that slight frown still marring his features. 

What could he hope to accomplish through this? If he wanted to elicit strong emotions, there were certainly easier ways to do it than a staring contest. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever elicited strong emotions in anyone that he wasn’t actively singing to. It was he who was often overtaken by the whims of his own heart, prone to fits of temper and weeks of lovesickness by turn. Geralt never seemed to feel anything other than mild annoyance. Gods, what if Jaskier annoyed him so much that just looking at him made the witcher angry enough to summon a spectre? Jaskier knew he could be infuriating, but surely if Geralt detested him that much he would just leave Jaskier behind. Right?

Anxiety filled his chest, but he’d been instructed specifically not to move. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier found himself taking the opportunity to just look back for once, something he so rarely had a chance to do. He absorbed all the details of Geralt’s face that he never allowed himself to - the way Geralt’s left eyebrow was ever so slightly interrupted by a tiny scar, the slight wrinkles on his forehead from years of frowning and the even fainter ones around his eyes, the ever so slight part of his lips. The dramatic light of the fire and the moon overhead made his face into a patchwork landscape of color, the valley of purple shadow in the hollow of his cheek highlighted by soft gold. Jaskier committed every feature to memory, thinking of the notebooks he could fill with songs dedicated to Geralt’s eyes and lips and brilliant white hair. He loved him so much it felt like it was going to drown him, leaving no room in his chest for his lungs. 

After he’d finally taken in all the abstract elements of Geralt’s face that he could in the low light, Jaskier’s eyes dragged back to meet Geralt’s. The gold of his irises were nearly consumed by dark pupil, his eyes expanding to take in as much light as possible in the darkness. In this lighting he looked both more and less human, and it made Jaskier feel helplessly fond. Their eyes met, and suddenly the situation struck Jaskier as a bit funny. Two men sitting in a field, silently staring at each other, one pining away like nothing else while the other tried to summon a ghost. It was ridiculous. He quirked a playful eyebrow at Geralt, as if to say, Aren’t we just a couple of fools?

Jaskier watched Geralt’s face shift, a second of surprise flitting across his face. And then, without warning, there was something new there, something Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. A softening in Geralt’s eyes, in his brow, as he looked at Jaskier, open and affectionate. The expression hit Jaskier like a punch, or a kiss, demanding and devastating. Geralt’s mouth opened on a low exhale, and Jaskier leaned forward, wondering if he dared, if Geralt might - 

There was a screech, and the wraith was upon them. 

Geralt was up in an instant, silver sword flashing as he blocked a clawed hand from coming down on Jaskier’s head. Jaskier yelped as he scurried out of the way, clutching the locket he’d almost forgotten. There was a sudden burst of purple light in the field, making the shadows around them dance and twist eerily. The wraith made a horrible noise, like flint scraping across metal, endless and clearly annoyed. Geralt pushed her against the wall of the magical trap, cutting off bits of wispy energy with his sword. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure when the exact right time was, but the wraith was certainly distracted. Jumping forward, he tossed the locket down into the fire, watching as the clasp popped open and the little lock of hair fell into the embers. It caught quickly, and Jaskier heard the wraith shriek again, this time a haunting and mournful sound. When he turned back it was just in time to see Geralt shove his sword in her chest. The strange, cottony fabric of her ragged dress seemed to dissipate in the wind, her dry flesh cracking and falling away like old paint. After a moment there was nothing left but a pile of ash. 

“Go in peace,” Geralt said, and turned to Jaskier. Dropping to one knee, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier pushed himself into a better sitting position. They were close, too close. He hoped the warmth of the fire would mask his blush. “I’m fine, thanks to you. Is she really gone?”

Geralt nodded. “Should be. She has no tether to this world anymore without the locket.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. He paused. “So. Um. What you did there seemed to work, at least.”

Geralt leaned back away, out of Jaskier’s space. He missed the proximity immediately. “I wouldn’t have exposed you if I could think of another way.”

“Well, it’s not easy to find someone as irritating as me on such short notice,” Jaskier said nervously. “Hardly efficient.”

Geralt gave an almost comical shake of his head, surprise slapped across his features. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Jaskier shifted, uncomfortable. Giving a forced laugh, he said, “Well, I can only imagine that you were conjuring up strong emotions of the, ah, annoyance you so often display when I do something like, I don’t know, sing or eat or breathe. I know you’re not so easily swayed by my charms.” He tried to pass it off like a joke, but he knew it fell flat even as he was saying it. There was too much hurt in his throat to make it come out anything less than bitter. He stared into the fire, watching the locket turn a liquid red from the heat. 

A warm hand suddenly came up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier blinked in surprise as Geralt’s fingers urged him to look up. “It’s not that,” Geralt said forcefully. “You must know, Jaskier, you have to - When I look at you, it’s so...” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound. Words had never been his strength. “I feel many things for you, bard.”

Jaskier swallowed. “You do?”

Geralt’s eyes were hot on him, and Jaskier wondered if one could be branded by a glance. It certainly felt like it. “Yes,” Geralt said. “Intensely.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier stammered. “Um. I’m not sure if I’m reading all this right, but assuming that you’re saying you don’t hate me, then, ah -”

Geralt gave an annoyed huff, and Jaskier was just about to comment, say something like, see, I am irritating, but then Geralt was kissing him, and he decided to let it go. He leaned into the press of lips, gasping softly. It was brief, nearly over before it began, but Jaskier could feel the warmth of it after Geralt pulled away, breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier shivered.

“Quite the opposite,” Geralt said softly. His eyes were molten gold, hotter than the locket still melting in the fire at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier never wanted to look away. 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

~~

this fic was heavily inspired by Somedrunkpirate’s piece A Lover’s Lament, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. If you read it you’ll be able to see exactly what scene I borrowed from, and I need you to know that it lives in my head rent free. 

edit: for some reason tumblr ate everything but the heading for this fic and I didn’t realize until this morning, so thanks to the ten people who liked it with no content LMAO. yall the real

#october2020 #my work #the witcher #witcher #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier hallow #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #prompts #fanfiction #fanfic #witcher fic #fic #octoberfest #Somedrunkpirate #at one point in one of my performing arts classes we had to do this #just sit an stare at someone else in class for one minute in total silence #it's a very strange and oddly intimate experience

[generallynerdy]

I don’t know a love that doesn’t destroy (The Witcher)

AO3

Work Summary: The sorcerer grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat. “Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.” At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.

Prompt: Angstpril Day 1 - “I didn’t mean for this to happen” Word Count: 3,810 Warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death, whodunnit except it’s who’s the corpse, on-screen death, canon-typical language, angst, description of a corpse, knife wounds, blood

Author’s Note: The title is from the poem Anniversary by Diannely Antigua. Sorry about this one, gang, and for the fact that my return to fanfic is through angst. Also, uh, sorry Pearl.

*

It was a crisp summer morning when they hit the narrow trail. They’d been travelling for days already, but finally, they were approaching their destination. Despite the exhaustion that chilled the trio’s bones, their spirits were higher than ever. In fact, for once, Yennefer found herself enjoying Jaskier’s company.

“Ciri, dear, give us a song.”

Nevermind. She hated the bard and his stupid fucking lute.

“Don’t you dare, Cirilla,” Yennefer growled out from atop her horse. 

The other was occupied by her companions, dearest Ciri at the reins and Jaskier back-to-back with her so that his hands were free to annoy Yennefer to death. If she still had her magic, she would’ve cursed him with silence before he could open his mouth. Alas, she was stuck with his endless portfolio of songs and his even more endless babbling.

Ciri giggled, which would have been endearing in any other moment. The girl put a finger on her chin, in mockingly deep thought. Finally came her rumination: “Do Toss A Coin.”

Yennefer groaned a rumbling noise as if a dragon lived in her chest. “Not again.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady,” Jaskier said. He gave his lute a wild strum with a flourish, a dastardly, falsely genial smile on his wicked face. Without hesitation, and despite Yen’s glare, he began to sing. “When a humble bard graced a ride along…with Geralt of Rivia—”

The great sorceress rolled her eyes. “The one time we are without the oaf and all you want to do is sing his praises.”

“Good gods, Yen, you could at least pretend to miss him!” he teased.

“It’s nice, just us three,” Ciri chimed in, knocking her elbow into Jaskier pointedly. “I don’t miss his hovering.”

Yennefer huffed a laugh. “You’re just glad he’s not here to stop you from stealing our wine. Hm?”

“And I get to hear the bawdy songs!”

The bard cackled. “Oh, you haven’t heard the truly ribald songs.”

“Even Jaskier is somewhat responsible, darling,” she said. “Geralt would kill him. He’s an idiot and reckless, but he hardly has a death wish.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

He scoffed, looking between them with a scandalised expression. “Always the butt of the joke. You know, I thought I’d get a break from it being without Geralt, but no, he’s rubbed off on both of you now! Cirilla, I truly expected better of you.”

“Grave mistake,” she chirped with a silly grin.

Yennefer spotted Jaskier’s scandalised face, his open mouth, and interrupted him before he could start rambling. “Enough, the both of you. We’re here.”

Ciri brightened significantly, while the sorceress shared a look with the bard, a disgustingly fond one. 

This trip of theirs was not for Jaskier alone, though it had begun as a chance for him to perform for a crowd that wasn’t witchers at Kaer Morhen. The festival he’d pointed out in a nearby town was one Yennefer was fairly familiar with, so she decided to tag along. For herself, of course. Not to keep an eye on the bard. And when Ciri found out that they were going to a festival, a warm, flower-themed one at that, she absolutely begged to go. It didn’t take much to convince Geralt—no, just one pleading look from his girl. It took a little more to convince him to let them go alone, but eventually, they managed it.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want Geralt to go. They knew, however, that he wouldn’t enjoy the festival, nor would he be welcomed in the first place, annoyingly enough. So, Lambert and Coën, two of his closest brothers, dragged him along on a job and told him to let them bond.

Leading Ciri and Jaskier into the town, Yennefer reminisced on it fondly. Despite herself, she smiled. Lambert had called them all Geralt’s: Ciri “his girl,” Jaskier “his bard,” and Yennefer “his witch.” Her own nickname wasn’t exactly affectionate, but she knew he meant it lightly.

To think they were Geralt’s droll little group. Was there even a word for what they were to him? She couldn’t think of one.

"Yen, look!"

Her attention was drawn back into the present at Ciri's insistent hissing. The girl had their horses sidled up next to each other, close enough that she could tug on her sleeve. She pointed into the square of the town as they entered, eyes bright with wonder.

Ciri was pointing at the decor, she thought, gaze drifting over the sight.

Every inch of the market stalls and walls was covered with flowers of all colours. Purples and blues seemed to be the favourite, though, with smatterings of reds and yellows and pinks. People wore flowers around their necks, wrists, and ankles. They handed them to each other, as well, in single stems, bouquets, and even artful pieces of jewellery. It was a sight to see, the beauty of summer here. Most other villages celebrated these holidays in spring, but this environment was perfect for flowers in summer, what with their frequent rain showers. Legend had it that it was some sorcerer's fault a hundred years ago.

Yennefer probably would've thanked them if they were still alive, just for the look on Ciri's face when a girl, much younger than her, offered her a necklace of carnations for her steed.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” the young princess murmured.

She ran her fingertips over the petals, apparently in deep thought. 

At her back, Jaskier sat up. “Ooh, bookshop! We should see if we can find anything for dear old Vesemir.”

“Necessities first, bard,” Yennefer chided, swinging her leg over her saddle to dismount. “Then we can spend all Geralt’s coin.”

Snickering, Ciri let Jaskier hop down before she followed him. Once they got their horses situated for the night, they took to exploring the festival. Yennefer split from the other two briefly, haggling her way through the market. Ciri found her way to her later, hiding her giggles at the annoyed vendors as they attempted to bargain with an unstoppable force.

When Jaskier reappeared, he held something out to Ciri.

“For me?” she asked, eyes wide.

He nodded encouragingly, a blinding smile on his face. “Go on, princess.”

Without further questioning, the girl ripped into the brown paper packaging like the child she was. Yennefer gave their companion a questioning look, but he only smiled and shook his head. When she looked back at their girl, she saw a dumbfounded Ciri.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, hesitant hands drifting over the gift.

It was beautiful; a curved, decorative hairpin forged of rose gold and decorated with sparkling white gems. The metal twisted like branches with leaves on the offshoots, the entire thing shaped almost like a tiara. The eye-catching part, however, was the line of three pink roses it bore. They were real flowers, enchanted to stay alive for decades. Of the three, the middle rose was the largest, but each was perfectly pristine. The jewellery was ideal for a princess, Yennefer thought. It was practically made for Ciri.

“I love it!” she cried.

Unexpectedly, she threw herself at Jaskier, tackling the bard in a vicious, witcher-trained hug. He took it with a grunt and a laugh, hugging her back the moment he could. Yennefer smiled at them both, eyes bright.

“Thank you,” Ciri whispered into his shoulder.

He petted her hair gently. “Any time, dear. Now, I think Yennefer has her eye on yet another vendor to harass. Help me make a song out of this one?”

“Only if you call Yen something wicked,” she bartered.

Said sorceress brightened, while he gave a dramatic, beleaguered groan. “If I must.”

Yennefer bore a devious smile. “That’s my cub.”

That night, Ciri and Yennefer retired to their room in the inn long before Jaskier, whose voice echoed throughout the tavern and its halls far into the night. While he belted out his songs and made all the village girls swoon, Yennefer helped Ciri undo her braids and settle in for bed. They stayed up longer than intended, a fact they would keep a secret between themselves, lest Geralt find out and never let Yen watch over Ciri again.

“I’m happy that Geralt found you and Jaskier,” Ciri said during a long silence.

Admittedly, Yennefer was somewhat dumbstruck. “Oh?”

She gave a sheepish smile, her free hand playing with her hair. “Everything that happened was…scary,” she continued, “but you’re both with us now. I like it better with you here. So does Geralt, even if he doesn’t say it. He’s happier with you two around. More, uh, complete.”

At that moment, Yen’s heart broke. She didn’t even like it around simply because she liked them, but also because Geralt was apparently all the better for their presence. The way she said it, too, with such love in her eyes, killed the sorceress right there. She almost wanted to bundle her in blankets and never let go.

Before the clock struck midnight, however, she tucked the girl into bed alone and kissed the crown of her head.

“Sleep, dearest,” she murmured, sure she was already asleep. “I’ll keep watch.”

And keep watch she did; her keen eyes drifted over their room what must have been a thousand and twelve times before Jaskier arrived. There was a sag in his shoulders but a pep in his step as he entered. The sight of Ciri’s hairpin on the nightstand made his eyes all rheumy, disgustingly enough. Yennefer greeted him with a nod, ready to turn in herself now that he was there.

“Good show?” she asked, her voice barely a breeze.

“Not as good as Kaer Morhen,” he admitted with something like longing in his words. “But good. Ciri’s alright?”

She nodded as she climbed into bed beside the girl, leaving Jaskier on his own. “No nightmares yet. I’ll wake up if she does.”

“Good.” He curled into his blankets. His speech was slurred. “That’s good.”

Yennefer huffed out a chuckle. “Goodnight, bard.”

“Goodnight, witch.”

She was very nearly asleep the second she laid down, but her mind kept her up a moment longer. We’re Geralt’s family, her traitorous thoughts decided. That was the word she was looking for earlier. We’re family.

~

“GERALT!”

It was a bright summer day in Kaer Morhen, a rare occurrence, when Lambert burst through the doors to the library. Vesemir and Geralt dropped their conversation in an instant, the latter getting to his feet with a hand on his sword. He knew his brother and that tone of voice meant bad news.

Lambert turned the corner, finally coming into view. “Geralt,” he said breathlessly, “it’s Yennefer. At the gate. She—”

He never did finish, what with the way Geralt ran out of the room like a bat out of hell. His feverish escape didn’t go unnoticed by his fellow witchers, many of whom followed at a somewhat slower pace. Of course, he ignored them all, gaze set on the front gate. Underneath his ragged old boots, soft grass parted for him without resistance.

It was rare for him to be home in the warm months. He was used to the crunch of snow under his feet and the biting cold of the mountain snows. This summer at home felt almost new to him after so long of being deprived of the experience, but he’d grown fond of it. It was all for Ciri, who loved Kaer Morhen dearly and needed a stable environment while she learned to use her magic. Everything those days was for Ciri. Even Lambert and Coën visited more frequently to see her. (And her alone, they’d claim. Perhaps for Jaskier’s music. Yennefer loathed the bard’s boasting when they said as much.)

The trip to the festival was for Ciri, too. But the fear in Lambert’s voice had Geralt choking on air. He knew it was a bad idea for them to go alone, without him, especially such a distance.

One of his brothers had just managed to get the gate open when he appeared, rushing through without pause. On the other side, a single horse stood. At its side was the trembling shadow of Yennefer of Vengeberg, a ghastly looking image of a once-powerful sorceress who held the reins with a deathly grip.

“Geralt,” she choked out, voice raspy, as though she’d been screaming.

Geralt was starting to hate his own name.

He took a few steps toward her but stopped at the sight of something on the horse. Someone. Almost someone.

A limp body lay across the saddle, buried under blankets.

The witcher felt his stomach leap into his throat. “Yen, what—?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she cried. Her voice trembled in a way he hadn’t heard in years, something broken and shattered in every word. “Geralt, I’m—”

When she tried to step forward, her body seemed to collapse on itself. The white-haired witcher barely caught her, holding her in his arms when she lost the strength to stand on. He wondered, absently, if she had walked the whole way here. Did she transport herself, the horse, and the…the corpse with magic?

The corpse. He couldn’t see their face. He couldn’t tell which of their companions laid dead before him; nausea crawled up his throat all of a sudden. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to know.

Was it Jaskier, his lips never to quirk up in a smile or open for a song again? Or was it Ciri, her bright eyes dead and cold?

“Geralt, I’m sorry,” Yennefer gasped. She grasped the back of his neck, desperate for something to ground her. “I’m so sorry.”

~

“Let them go and I won’t turn you into ashes,” the sorceress hissed.

She gathered flames in her hands. Before Sodden, it might have been an empty threat, but the sorcerer in front of her knew very well what her ash-ridden palms were capable of now. In fact, she would do it for lesser things than this, far lesser.

On the floor before him, Ciri squirmed dangerously. The skin of her cheek was unnervingly close to the blade in the other sorcerer’s hand, but she clearly didn’t care. On the ground beside her, Jaskier had been beaten to the floor for daring to open his mouth. Unfortunately, it was a situation he was all too familiar with. This time, however, his insults had been to keep the filth’s hands off Cirilla. It worked too well.

“I was sent to break you, Yennefer,” the sorcerer said. She didn’t even know his name. “I only need one alive to do that, so…pick your favourite.”

He grasped Ciri’s hair and dragged her upwards, exposing her throat.

It was the same way he’d pulled her out of her soft bed in the inn. Yennefer barely had a second to react and even that was too long. By then, Jaskier was flying at the man with his lute and beating him over the head with it, folly as it was. With both the bard and the princess in hand, the sorcerer had Yennefer as well.

“Tick tock, Yennefer,” he crooned. “The child or the bard. It’s your choice.”

“Over my dead body.”

He only laughed. It was a mid-tier cackle, she thought. She’d certainly heard more villainous attempts. “Not the deal. One dies.”

At his feet, hunched over and still spitting blood, Jaskier lifted his head to meet Yennefer’s gaze. Her fists clenched at his determined expression, disgust pooling in her gut. He wanted her to save Ciri. She wouldn’t let either of them die. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill.

“And if I don’t choose?” she questioned fiercely.

“Yen,” Jaskier hissed, receiving another swift kick to the stomach for his gall.

Ciri glanced at the bard. “Don’t you dare.”

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “I’ll stand here as long as I have to. Or, if I get bored, I could always kill them both.”

“You wouldn’t live to make the second hit.”

“But the first, well, that one’s easy,” he mocked.

Ciri met Yennefer’s gaze. There was childlike terror in her expression, but trust as well. It was nothing like Jaskier’s determined, knowing look he gave the woman a moment after.

This was not Sodden. Making a rash, desperate decision would not have her kidnapped and without her magic. One wrong move here would lose her something far more precious and dear to her than any form of Chaos.

She clenched her fists, quenching her fire. Jaskier nodded sharply.

“The bard,” she declared, her voice sickeningly steady.

The sorcerer grinned and moved his knife away from Ciri’s throat just as her eyes went wider than plates. “Very well.”

“No! Jaskier!” the girl cried. She tried to move to him, but the sorcerer stopped her with a click of his tongue.

“If you love the girl so much, I’m sure this will hurt more.”

Despite his early words, he lunged for Ciri. She yelped. Before she or Yen could do a damn thing, Jaskier flew at the sorcerer with a furious cry. He tackled him to the ground, both of them falling. Yen blinked and the bard was horrifyingly still above their kidnapper, a muted shock on his face.

He lifted his hand, and blood dripped off his fingers.

“JASKIER!”

Her scream was drowned out by Ciri, who wailed. From deep in her chest came her Chaos and its wind, driving the room into a restless hurricane. Yennefer blocked her face with her arms, but couldn’t hold against it. Her back slammed into a wall. The shrieking of the young girl had her ears ringing and similar screams from the sorcerer indicated his were as well. Regardless, he’d been thrown off Jaskier, leaving Ciri to run to him.

The girl didn’t take a breath, shrieking her heart out as she held Jaskier with trembling hands. When she finally did stop her screams, she broke them with heaving sobs.

“Stay awake, stay awake—” she begged. Her voice was gravelly, worn from the rage and the fear and the grief. “Hold on, please, Jaskier!”

Yennefer sent a ball of magic at the other sorcerer, who had just been standing again. With a shout, the two were at it, sparks flying and Chaos going wild.

Ciri didn’t spare them a glance, desperately putting pressure on the massive wound across Jaskier’s doublet. He held her hands back, one of his own reaching up for her face. With a gentle, pale hand he caressed her cheek.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll be alright, dear, don’t cry. Shh, shh, it’s not your fault. Look at me. It wasn’t your fault, I swear.”

“He was going to kill me.” She hiccupped, tears streaming down her cheeks and turning them red. “You stopped him. Why? Why? It was supposed to be me!”

His hand grasped her shawl, the precious one from her grandmother. “No. Never, do you hear me? I would do it again, Ciri, again and—” he was cut off by his own hiss of pain.

“Brat!”

Ciri opened her mouth to scream, but a calloused hand slapped over her face, silencing her. He ripped her away from Jaskier, dragging her toward another corner, where a portal appeared with a quick flick of his hand.

Yennefer, recovering from a nasty blow, cried out. “Ciri!”

“Yennefer!” She screeched, the sound muffled as she pushed and kicked against the sorcerer’s grasp. “Yen! Jaskier! Yen—”

A woosh of magic cut her off, and then she was gone.

Yennefer howled, racing forward even though the portal was long gone. She slammed her fists against the wall, quivering with rage. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Her palms fell against the wood a moment later, defeated.

Then, she realised.

“Jaskier!” she gasped out, whirling around. She flung herself to the ground next to him. Her hands went to his shoulders, shaking him viciously. “Bard! Bard, wake up! Wake up, damn you!”

The bard moved with her, putty under her hands. She realised he wasn’t moving an inch, not even looking up at her through his dark hair. Quickly, she brushed aside the locks. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw his eyes.

They were dull now, cold and empty and wrong. His skin was still warm under her touch, as was the blood staining his fanciful clothes.

“Come on, you useless fuck, he has Ciri! We have to—” Yennefer gasped for breath, shaking her head as if to shake off the idea that he wouldn’t respond. “Get up! Get up, damn it!”

He did not move.

She pulled him close, her face in his hair. “Please, Jaskier. I’m—I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so fucking sorry, please just get up. Get up.”

In his limp, lithe fingers, he clutched a blue shawl with golden tassels.

“Jaskier?”

~

Geralt couldn’t bear to let go of Jaskier when he pulled him down from the horse. Vesemir had appeared, barking orders to the other witchers to deal with the horse or something like that. He could hardly hear over the cotton in his ears. Maybe, if he’d had the ability to, he would have been crying. Instead, he felt a gaping hole in his chest.

Yennefer cried enough for the both of them, her face buried in his shoulder as she avoided looking at the bard anymore.

Meanwhile, Geralt had brushed his hair out of his face and done nothing but stare.

He almost looked asleep. He was…peaceful, like those nights out under the stars with all four of them. Ciri would try to last the night with them, but she always drifted off beside Jaskier, whose lilting voice lulled her right to sleep.

More than anything, Geralt wished for this to be a nightmare. Then, he could wake up and find the three of them worrying over him, ready to coddle him into his grave. Ciri would curl up under his arm and snore into the early afternoon, utterly dead to the world. Yennefer would run her hands through his hair with gentle mutterings of comfort. Jaskier…Jaskier would tease him, the big, bad White Wolf, but he would always have a cup of something warm and a tune to hum him right back to sleep. It was silly, wanting a comfort he never needed.

“Where is she?”

Yennefer nearly jumped at his voice. She only shook her head, unable to cry anymore. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Shh, it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, tucking her close. “It wasn’t.”

 Her shoulders shook. “Ciri’s gone, Jaskier’s—and I’m here. Fuck, he still has her, fuck—Geralt, what do we do?”

“Fuck.” He grimaced, a grunt barely passing his lips. “We’ll find her, Yen. We will.”

“He’s gone,” she whispered, weaker than she’d been before. “He’s not coming back; I can’t—I can’t bring him back, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It was a crisp summer morning when they buried Jaskier.

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop, @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

#angstpril2022 #day 1 #i didn't mean for this to happen #the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #princess cirilla #geralt of rivia #the witcher fanfiction #rivika #generallynerdy #suffer :)

[dapandapod]

We should talk about it

I decided to treat myself something so here you go! A little fic after the kiss in the alley, where they have to talk about it. 

(Turns out it is a lil steamy! Beware! 😂) Boys be insecure and boys be pining. Please enjoy!

On Ao3 here 

Geralt walks in the room, closes the door behind him, and leans back at it.

He looks at the floor for a moment, and then up at Jaskier. That can’t be good.

Jaskier sits on the floor leaning back on the bed while writing. His heartbeat picks up when his eyes meet Geralts. A nervous flutter that has always been there but gotten worse just these last few days.

“We should talk about it.” Geralt says.

Fuck.

“About what?” Jaskier feigns ignorance, buying worthless time as his mind races for ways to avoid this exact conversation, like he has for days now.

“The kiss.”

Fuck.

It’s hard to look at Geralt now, to meet his eyes, so he looks down into his writings again, finding comfort in his own words. He writes down things he wishes to hide, to rework them and pretty them up a little.

“Uhm… Why?” He asks, fiddling with the edge of the paper. Stupid question, he could kick himself.

“Because you are obviously bothered by it.”

Shit shit shit why does Geralt always pick up on the wrong things at the wrong time?

Flirt openly with the man for years, get over it, and then this, and now the fool realizes somethings afoot?

“I'm not bothered.” Jaskier lies.

Geralt hasn’t moved from where he’s leaning on the door. A good and a bad sign. Good for giving him space, bad for Jaskiers heart.

“You have been avoiding me.”

Now Jaskier has to look up at him with a look of disbelief. Half truths then.

“We are literally sharing a room.” Jaskier deadpans.

He is a good actor, but Geralt's nose is a worthy opponent.

“You know what I mean.” Geralt keeps staring at him, and yes, well.

“I’m not sure I do. What am I doing, or rather not doing, to make you think I'm avoiding you?” Jaskier asks. It is sweet that Geralt has noticed, but really, again, so slow.

“You don’t… touch me anymore.” Geralt sounds strangled. “I know we just kissed to throw them off, but it is obviously bothering you and I- hm.”’ Ah, the Hmm. “I'm sorry. You are my best friend and I don’t want to lose you.”

Jaskiers jaw drops. Of all the things he expected, it was not that.

“I- No. Geralt, we did what we had to.” Jaskier says, and he is aching inside.

It was slightly more than they actually had needed to.

Geralt had grabbed his chin, eyes burning and Jaskier was helpless. Parted his lips, moan caught in Geralt's mouth as he got pushed against the wall. Their pursuers disappeared, but they lingered. And Jaskier can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop himself from wanting more.

“I'm still sorry. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” Geralt says. He looks so earnest, and Jaskier can’t take it anymore.

Giving his writing, his escape, a mournful look he rises up and dust off his knees.

“I’m not.” Ah fuck. Here he goes. “I’m uncomfortable around myself, to be completely honest.”

They look at each other from across the room, trying to read the other. Jaskiers heart is beating hard, what he is about to say might fuck things up irrevokeably.

“I liked it.” Jaskier confesses quietly. Complete and utter silence.

Jaskiers cheeks burn, and he fears what might happen.

“You don’t have to lie.” Geralt says, smiles kindly. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“I'm not.”

“I can smell your fear. And you like all kisses.”

Jaskier makes an exasperated motion with his arms. Damn take this man's insecurities and toss them in the deepest fucking hole.

“Mothers take me, Geralt, I’m not lying. I liked your kiss. I'm scared because I want more!”

There it is. There is his doom.

Jaskier feels out of breath, like all that running finally caught up with him. Geralt looks at him with disbelief.

“You-?”

“Yes!” Jaskier sighs, and starts pacing the room, mindful of his work on the floor. “Whatever you think, I don’t like all kisses. I like- yours, ok?”

Jaskier is working himself up into a full rant, arms flailing around. Geralt takes a step forward, catching Jaskiers hand in his.

“So why did you avoid me?” Geralt asks quietly, and Jaskier smiles sadly.

“I value our friendship higher than any kiss.”

“But you liked it?” Geralt asks again, and takes another step closer.

Jaskier can’t breathe, suddenly he feels like he is burning, like someone is squeezing around his chest.

“I did.” He says again, allowing himself to feel, to hope, to want. Geralt's hand is big around his, warm and a little sweaty. Is Geralt nervous?

“We could do it again.” Geralt says lowly, and oh. That’s a thought indeed.

This time Jaskier is the one who steps closer, all his thoughts in a hopeless jumble.

“We could.” He agrees, slipping his hand out of Geralt to put them at his sides, steadying himself. Geralt feels warm under his hands, real. There is not enough air in the room, his knees are like jelly. When Geralt puts one hand on his lower back and one under his chin and tilts Jaskiers face up.

Up, in that tantalizing angle where they just hover, inches away from each other, breaths mingling.

Jaskier can feel his heartbeat jump in his throat, feel every point of contact like a burn, his eyes fall shut and his lips open to let out a small puff of fluttery feelings.

Geralt surprises him, warm lips connecting just between his ear and jaw. A small and slightly embarrassing sound escapes him, and he leans forward in search for more contact. Geralt allows it, pressing them closer together as he presses hot, open kisses to the soft skin there.

Jaskier angles his head to allow him more room, barely believing this is happening.

“Geralt” he says. “Please.” He says.

He is not sure himself what he is asking for, but Geralt seems to feel the same. He lifts his head from Jaskiers neck, nose dragging against Jaskiers cheek until they do that terrible hover again.

If Jaskier wasn’t desperate for Geralt to take the initiative, to really prove that he wants this, he would do something about it.

But for now he will have to swallow heavily, lick those suddenly very dry lips and hope Geralt will do something soon.

Jaskier never knew what a fucking tease Geralt was, but he is starting to learn.

Finally, finally, Geralt closes the distance, kissing on Jaskiers lower lip, and Jaskier is trying to decide if this feeling is more like dying or like flying. His stomach swoops, it tingles all the way out in his fingertips, and he grabs a hold of Geralt's tunic, holding him close. He could cry, he could laugh, but what he does is moan.

Geralt leans into him even more, taking the opportunity to lick between his parted lips. All too soon Geralt pulls back, and Jaskiers lips already feel lonely.

They press their foreheads together, breathing the same air for a few heartbeats.

“Still like it?” Geralt asks, the bastard.

“No. You should try again.” Jaskier says, because he can be a bastard too.

#the witcher #kiss aftermath #kinda #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #kissing #this is a kiss focused fic #dapanda writes #jaskier #jaskier the bard #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #talking about it #geralt is a big boy and uses his words #julian alfred pankratz #steamy

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Whump you say? Geralt gets Hanahaki

I’ve been waiting for you, Anon. I’ve been waiting for this prompt specifically and boy when I tell you I might have cried writing it...

2k ish (a little less) words long. Idk why y’all were worried, it’s me. It’s gonna have a happy ending.

tw: Hanahaki, blood mention, illness, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending ---

It had started up just before they parted ways for the winter; Geralt had quietly coughed a handful of rose petals into the corner of his cloak and hidden them from sight as Jaskier gave him their yearly parting embrace. “See you in the spring, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

You might not ever see me again, actually, the Witcher thought. He tried not to let anything show on his face; not his fear and certainly not his longing, but he ached to tell Jaskier that he loved him and that he’d miss the bard’s presence through the long and dreary cold of the winter months. Geralt also knew that if he told Jaskier the truth about his feelings that he may never set eyes on the bard again anyway, regardless of how the disease currently wracking his body developed over their time apart. He was sure that Vesemir could identify whatever the strange illness was; the old swordmaster might even have a cure ready to go in the old storeroom. If not, they could send for Triss. 

“Safe travels.”

“And you as well,” Geralt nodded curtly. He mounted Roach with all his usual grace and ease, biting back another cough and tasting the sickly sweet floral note of rose rising up his throat to coat his tongue again. 

---

“Fuck,” Vesemir sighed. “It’s Hanahaki disease, Geralt. It’s not going to be easy to cure now that the pass is full of snow.”

“What’s Hanahaki disease?”

“It’s-” the eldest Wolf Witcher scrubbed his hand over his bearded face and took a moment to compose himself. He’d seen it happen before. He’d seen human bodies buried in the ground with entire root systems crawling from their chest cavities. He’d watched young men and women alike cough entire violet or rose or daisy buds from their mouths while they shivered with fever and seemingly unending pain, but a Witcher? Vesemir hadn’t even thought it was possible for a Witcher to contract such a frivolously deadly illness. “I don’t know exactly how to explain this to you, Geralt.”

“I won’t go screaming into the hills, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” his middle-child joked, “I can’t run very far anymore without a coughing fit.”

“I can’t send for Triss or Yennefer, either. They won’t be able to do anything,” Vesemir spoke calmly and evenly. Geralt, propped against some pillows on adoptive-father-enforced bed rest raised an eyebrow. “It’s a disease that eats at you from the inside out. It latches on to, uhm, romantic feelings and grows with them until it overtakes its host completely. Or until the host, uh… confronts those feelings head on and admits them to the object of their affection.”

“So this is…” Geralt’s eyes were wide and terrified. The eldest Wolf had never seen the stoic boy look quite so scared before, and he’d seen him go through the Trials. “This is going to kill me, is what you’re saying.”

“Who are you in love with, you stubborn oaf!?” Lambert cried, marching into the room from where he’d been lurking in the hall. He startled the other two Wolves and Geralt coughed out another handful of petals. The blood that came with them was surprisingly new. 

“What do you mean!?”

“He means,” Vesemir said, as slowly as possible (so that even the great Geralt of Rivia would understand his situation), “That until you tell this person how you feel, the flowers inside you will continue to grow and dig their roots in and, if you never tell them how you feel at all, you will eventually die.”

“Then I guess my fate is sealed,” Geralt smiled sadly, settling himself back against the pillows. “My time as a Witcher is up. Coughing up flowers isn’t the worst way to go, all things considered.”

Lambert growled angrily. “I’m not ready to lose my brother yet, Geralt, so just tell us who you’re pining after and we’ll go fetch her back!”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

Geralt, growing increasingly more feverish and already exhausted from everything that had happened that afternoon, closed his eyes. “Because he deserves better than me, Lambert. He deserves so much more than I could ever give him and I’m not about to steal him away like a selfish ass and force my feelings onto him for my own sake. I’d rather die.”

“Self-sacrificing bastard,” the youngest of the Wolf Witchers snarled, storming from the room. “Ass! Cock! Fool!”

Vesemir could only nod his agreement and follow silently after.

---

Jaskier read the letter once.

Then he read it again.

After a third time through he was sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the contents.

Dear Jaskier (aka Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Prof. of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt),

I am Eskel, brother to Geralt of the Wolf Witcher School at Kaer Morhen. I write to you now to ask for your presence at the keep. Geralt has fallen gravely ill and will not likely make it through the season. He does not know that I have written to you, but as his best friend and companion on the Path, I thought it my duty to invite you to see him one last time before he’s gone for good. He’s loathe to admit it, but he misses you and fears for your safety come springtime.

Sincerely,

Eskel of the Wolf School

Somewhere beneath the bright embroidery of his doublet and the hand-woven muslin of his chemise, Jaskier’s flighty, deeply-loving heart shattered into a million pieces. 

He grabbed his heaviest woolen cloak from its peg near the door and made for the stables at once.

---

“Geralt!”

The White Wolf opened his eyes a sliver to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating again; ah yes. What a lovely last dream to have before I die. Standing in the middle of his bedroom at Kaer Morhen, covered with still-melting snow, was Jaskier. The bard’s blue eyes were brimming with tears and his bottom lip was wobbling violently as he gazed upon the Witcher’s withering form.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Your father and brothers sort of explained it to me but I’m still not sure what’s happening. You’re dying?”

“Don’t worry, bard,” Geralt smiled. A loud, sudden cough wracked his body and he bent over double, spitting a blood-spattered but fully-bloomed rose out into his cupped palm. He laughed joylessly and tossed the bloom onto his bedside table. “I’ll be out of your hair, soon. Won’t this be a last ballad to write, a wolf dying as he’s eaten by flowers?”

“I don-”

“Hush,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier dropped his cloak to the ground uncaringly and rushed to his Witcher’s side. He sat on the edge of the mattress and took Geralt’s closest hand in his, grasping the appendage to his chest and sobbing into the sword-calloused skin like his tears might save his best friend’s life. “Don’t be sad, Jaskier.”

“I am sad, Geralt! I’m absolutely fucking terrified and heartbroken and crushed! Vesemir said you could heal this at any time but you just… you just won’t because you’re stubborn and an idiot and the sweetest goddamn man I’ve ever met in my life! How dare you tell me goodbye when you are perfectly capable of fixing this problem yourself! How could you promise to see me in the spring and then break your word by dying well before the grass turns green again?! You bastard!”

“You won’t miss me after another year passes,” Geralt reassured him, flexing the hand still held tight in Jaskier’s grip. “You won’t even remember me by the time the first daisies spring up.”

“How dare you,” the bard cried again. He pressed a nervous kiss to the tip of the Witcher’s pointer finger before letting go completely and dropping his head into his own hands. “How dare you say those things to me when you know full well that I love you with all my stupid, fragile mortal heart. You asshole.”

“Wh...what?” 

“I love you, Geralt!” The Witcher stared up at his friend with nothing but confusion written across his handsome features. Jaskier reached out, wiping a smear of blood away from the corner of Geralt’s mouth as tenderly as any maiden in any of the bard’s favorite romance novels. “I love you and I’ll never forgive you for letting yourself die on me like this.”

Geralt blushed. He stammered. He coughed up two or three more bloody roses and Jaskier tossed them all into the fire with rage blazing in his cornflower irises. 

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything on this gods-forsaken Continent and now you’re going to take yourself away because you’re, what, scared of something? Is it Yennefer? If she’s refusing to help you then I’ll ride all the way to Vengerberg by daybreak and then I’ll break all her fucking fi-”

“I love you, too.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, stopped mid-rant and mid-thought by the Witcher’s sudden admission. “What did you just say to me, Geralt? If I didn’t misunderstand, you said you loved me too.”

“I did. I do! I have loved you for a rather long time, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that,” Vesemir said from the doorway. He turned on his heel and disappeared. “See you both for breakfast tomorrow, I’m sure. Well... maybe breakfast is being a bit optimistic. I’ll see you for lunch.”

“What did he mean?” the bard asked. His eyes flitted between the empty doorway and Geralt’s guilty grimace. “What the fuck did Vesemir mean when he said he’d see us at lunch?! You’re still clearly dying and I-”

Geralt felt his fever receding and coughed experimentally. There were only a few brown, half-dried petals that fell from his lips. No blooms. He coughed again and nothing came out of his mouth at all. He grinned and laughed, tugging Jaskier up onto the bed and against his broad chest. “Vesemir was right!”

“What the fuck is going on?!” the bard begged. His hands twisted into the neckline of Geralt’s shirt, holding him still and steady. Blue bore into gold with such heated intensity that the Witcher thought he might pass out regardless of his recently healed disease, “What just happened!?”

“I- I told you I loved you and it cured the Hanahaki!”

“You had fucking Hanahaki and I was the cause of it? Oh Geralt, I’m so sorry! I should have noticed sooner! I should hav- Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I didn’t think you loved me back.”

“You didn- Geralt, have you been paying any sort of attention for the past seven or so years? I follow you everywhere, I bandage your wounds, I put food on your plate and a pillow under your head whenever we get the chance. I bathe you and mend your clothes when your fingers are too stiff from practicing your forms to do it yourself… you utter fool. You buffoon. You great, dumb, goofy, idioti-”

He was cut off by Geralt bringing their mouths together with such gentle but insistent pressure that all Jaskier could do was melt against him. His hands unwound from the shirt and stabilized against the Witcher’s pectorals instead. He sighed into Geralt’s mouth, swallowing down the happy sounds his dearest Witcher made in return. When they were finished pouring out their affections they sat, breathless, curled against the pillows of Geralt’s enormous bed. 

A large pointer finger slipped beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilted his face up, locking their gazes, “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet my family or see Kaer Morhen for the first time, but I’m glad you came. I know the journey through the snow couldn’t have been easy, even though I’m sure there was some magical assistance.”

“For you, my love, I’d travel the pass barefoot.”

“You’d die of exposure.”

“Not if your life was on the line,” the bard murmured against those flower-chapped lips. “For you, Geralt, I could survive anything. Just as you must swear from this moment on to survive whatever you can to make it back to me.”

“Will you go back to the academy until spring?”

“I’m never leaving your side again, Geralt of Rivia. Come flora or fauna, you’re stuck with me for good.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“Just… Just don’t bring me flowers any time soon.”

#geraskier #geraskier whump #hanahaki disease #hanahaki #geralt whump #bounceacoinoffyouranons #sick geralt #sickfic #clueless jaskier #clueless geralt #eskel #lambert #vesemir #winter at kaer morhen #the kaer morons #geralt/jaskier #geralt is an idiot #idiots to lovers #blood tw #body horror tw #angst #angst with a happy ending #bouncey's fluff addiction #geraskier fluff #first kiss #love confessions #near death experiences

[jaskierswolf]

The White Wolf (pt. 1/3)

Ship: Geraskier - Established. Rating: T Word Count: 6k in total (this chapter is 2k)

Summary: Following an unfortunate encounter with a mage, Geralt gets cursed into a wolf. Jaskier and Geralt must travel the Continent in search of someone that can help them. (AO3)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, nudity (Jaskier’s clothes don’t change with him).

Part 7: Shifter!Jaskier Verse (Tumblr) - Can be read as a stand alone. 

_________

The cloud of sparkling dust settled on the floor and Geralt was nowhere to be seen. The last Jaskier had seen of his boyfriend, he’d been thrown against the wall, barely able to move his fingers to form Quen in time before his head knocked against the stone. There was no witcher in the room now. Just a pile of bloodstained white fur in the corner of the room.

Jaskier snarled and sniffed the air. He could smell Geralt but something was wrong. Geralt reeked of wet dog. Jaskier growled, low and menacing, at the sorcerer in front of them. The man had been luring children away from their homes in the dead of night using all sorts of sweet treats. Then at night he was pulling their dreams from their minds and using them for fuck knows what. The children were returning to their homes as lifeless ghosts of their former selves, and thus a witcher and his trusted companion had been hired.

“I’m no fool, bard.” The sorcerer spat. “I can sense your magic.

Jaskier let his sharp teeth show as he snarled again. He let his magic loose and there was a sickening crunch of bones. Jaskier’s thick russet fur melted away into long red feathers. He spread his wings as a thick black mane grew along he neck. He roared at the sorcerer and struck both talons across his chest, balancing on the large lion paws of his hind legs. The sorcerer was thrown backwards as dark blood seeped through his clothing. The attack had caught him off guard. Jaskier stalked forward, his front talons clacking on the wooden floor. This human had stolen Jaskier’s mate and they had to pay.

The scent of blood was thick in the air and all he knew was the hunt.

The prey was wounded. It was an easy kill.

He screeched as he prepared to land the final blow but a large snowy white wolf with glowing amber eyes suddenly stood between him and the prey.

Amber eyes.

Jaskier knew those eyes.

Geralt.

He let his magic loose and shifted back into a wolf. There was just something about Geralt being in wolf form that ignited all his pack instincts. He didn’t know whether Geralt was stuck as a wolf or could shift between animals, but Jaskier knew he would match Geralt no matter what.

The thought gave him pause. He wondered whether it was an instinct of his people, lost and long forgotten. Were there ever groups of shifters? Were they still alive? Or was he alone… He’d always felt so alone. Jaskier nudged his head under Geralt’s snout and whined. Geralt huffed and butted Jaskier’s head. Jaskier did his best wolfy grin and then mouthed at Geralt’s nose before rolling over onto his back with a wag of his tail.

Geralt gave a quick bark and then looked pointedly between Jaskier and mage. Jaskier tilted his head, wondering how Geralt still managed to look unimpressed even as a wolf. Jaskier snorted and rolled back onto his paws. He glanced around the room, his clothes were still at the inn. Geralt’s clothes appeared to have disappeared when he was changed into a wolf; lucky bastard. He spotted a long cloak hanging up on the wall and wagged his tail. He leapt up on his hind legs and pulled at the cloak with his teeth. When he was covered nicely by the heavy material he shifted back into his human form with a crack of his bones.

The cloak was thick, grey and woollen. It had a large hood, reminiscent of the cloaks the elves used. He wrapped it round his shoulders and then grinned at Geralt.

“Hello, dearest. I know you’re the White Wolf and all, but isn’t this taking it a bit too far?” He reached out with his hand and Geralt bumped it with his snout. He gave Geralt a quick scratch behind the ears. “Can you shift?”

Geralt tilted his head.

Jaskier frowned and stuck his tongue out as he tried to figure out a way to explain it. It was like trying to explain how to blink or breathe or… just exist. “Umm, ah, think of Roach? Try and feel her hooves, her mane?”

Geralt’s snout scrunch up and he let out a snarl.

“No?”

Geralt shook his head, one ear twitched and Jaskier couldn’t help but coo. Geralt growled at that.

“I’m sorry!” He said, not really sorry at all. “But, my love, you look so cute!”

Another growl.

“Oh stop it. You’re trying to be all scary witcher and it’s not working. You are adorable and I can turn into a dragon so shush.” He bopped Geralt on the nose and gave him another scratch behind the ears. Geralt’s tail began to wag. Geralt looked behind him and snarled, clearly not enjoying the way his body was betraying his feelings. He also looked as if he was about to start chasing his tail. He was baring his teeth, snarling as the tail flicked on the stone floor. Jaskier took pity on him and knelt down so he could cup his wolf’s face in his hands. “Geralt, darling?”

Geralt blinked and looked up at him.

“There you go. The instincts might feel a bit strong at first but we’ll work it out alright?” Jaskier buried in face in Geralt’s fur, his own instincts to shift back into a wolf were almost overwhelming him, but Geralt needed him human. It was easier to explain things to his newly wolf companion when he could use words. It was also nice to be able to snuggle in Geralt’s fur for a change.  “Do you know how to fix this?”

Geralt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have killed the mage, should I?” Jaskier asked with a sigh.

Another head shake and a whine.

Jaskier kissed Geralt’s head. “In my defence, witcher. I thought he’d killed you!” Geralt licked his face and he grimaced. “Geralt! Oh gods, that went up my nose!”

Geralt wagged his tail and pounced. Jaskier was knocked back onto the ground and Geralt’s tongue was drooling all over his face, which would have been fine if Geralt’s tongue didn’t feel so coarse against his skin. “Oi, no! Get off you big lump!”

Geralt nipped at his ear and sat back down, his tail thumped noisily against the stone floor.

Jaskier sighed and grabbed Geralt’s swords from where they’d clattered on the floor. Jaskier hummed. Geralt’s clothes and medallion had changed with him but his swords had not. At least his magic was consistent. Geralt head-butted his leg and they finally fled the tower together. It felt strange being the one on two feet instead of four but they’d faced worse things in their two years travelling together.

Two years…

Had it really been so long? He’d been with Geralt for two whole years… not mentioning the little blip of his mother’s horrendous return into his life. He shuddered at the memory. Yeah, they’d definitely been through worse together. ___________

As they approached the town Geralt snorted and laid down on the ground, resting his head on his big white paws. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder at the wolf with a scowl before he realised why Geralt had stopped. He grinned and walked back to pet Geralt’s head. Geralt’s tail thumped heavily against the ground as Jaskier gave him a scratch behind the ear. Geralt still looked put out by his tail’s reaction to affection but now seemed resigned to the fact he could no longer mask his happier feelings.

“Well isn’t this a turn of events. I’m normally the one that has to wait outside!” Jaskier announced with a laugh.

Geralt let out a low growl and mouthed at Jaskier’s fingers.

“Ouch! Sharp teeth, Geralt. You’re not exactly a pup, dear heart,” Jaskier chided.

Geralt’s ears flicked and Jaskier was pretty sure the strange snuffling noise was Geralt trying to laugh at him.

“Stay here. I’ll go and get our stuff,” he sighed and looked down at himself. The cloak wasn’t exactly modest and whilst he had very little shame over his body, most humans wouldn’t appreciate him walking around town with his dick out. “Next time we are keeping my clothes in a pack and not back at the inn.”

Geralt barked and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he wagged his tail.

“Yeah yeah, go on, laugh at your poor suffering boyfriend.”

Geralt barked again and jumped up to lick Jaskier’s face, placing both paws on Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier just ruffled Geralt’s fur and kissed his snout.

“I’ll be back soon, love.”

He wrapped the cloak around him in a feeble attempt to cover himself up and trudged back to the inn. He did get some bizarre looks from the villagers but he did his best to ignore them. Had they never seen a bard wearing just a cloak and witcher’s swords before? He scoffed. They were amateurs. He tried to sneak up to their room at the inn but the bloody innkeeper spotted him.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?”

Jaskier spun around, only just remembering to keep his hands gripped on the cloak to stop it from flying open. He still had Geralt’s swords in their holder in his hand and he held them up for the innkeeper to see. “I’m a friend of the witcher’s. Jaskier? The bard? You might have heard of me?”

“Toss a Coin?” The innkeeper asked and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

“Ah, yes. That’s the one,” He sang a couple of lines just to prove his point. “And umm, well. Geralt… Geralt was looking after my lute for me whilst I was… away?”

“Away?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier winced. It was a terrible story and he was ashamed. “But you see, I really need to get it back.”

“Did the witcher take your clothes too?” The innkeeper asked with a smirk, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and it took all his control not to shift back into a mouse. He laughed nervously and tugged the cloak tighter around his chest. “Well, funny you should say that.”

“Those his swords?”

“Yes! Yes they are. I ran into him on the path just outside of town. He’s dealt with your mage problem, but ah. Umm. Spells! He was hit by a spell and it’s really not very pretty so he asked me to collect our… his.. belongings. So I’m just…” He pointed to the stairs and the innkeeper waved his hand. “Thank you ever so much, kind sir. May all the gods praise you!”

“Just go, bard.”

Jaskier gave a quick bow and then flew up the stairs, two steps at at time. Once inside the room he got dressed and quickly gathered up their belongings before heading back out to fetch Roach. The conversation with the stable girl went just as well as the one with the innkeeper and Jaskier barely remembered the story he’d woven only a few minutes before, but he was gone and heading back towards the forest before anyone else could question him.

He didn’t ride Roach but it was easier with her carrying the bags and his lute. Once he was out of sight from the townsfolk he considered shifting back into a wolf. Whatever the mage had hit Geralt with was driving him crazy, but they still needed to find a solution to Geralt’s wolf problem so regretfully he remained on two feet. He huffed and dragged his feet as they headed back to where he’d left Geralt. How did people cope with being in one form all the time? It was so boring!

___________

Next

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #shapeshifter!jaskier #shifter!jaskier #wolf geralt #cursed geralt #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #wolfie's witcher writing #let me know if you want to be tagged

[thebadboyfanclub]

There’s Nothing Wrong With Submission (Geralt x Reader)

Again, this wasn’t requested and I ain’t even gon’ lie to you, I got this idea while catching my reflection in the mirror when I was laying on my bed with a bra and underwear so.... get ready for this.

P.S I don’t want to hear it about how this magical creature isn’t factual, neither is being a witcher so shush and enjoy this

(Y/n) was one of the lucky ones that chose to become something... different. Her “mortal” life felt like it was ages ago and she was a maid in a wealthy household and she fell for the son that only wanted to get her to bed on demand, it only resorted into her having a baby out of wedlock... shame. Her parents sold the baby and kicked her out of the household, she only got to hold it for a few minutes before it was stripped away from her.

Another enchantress found her in the forest, crying and shaking from the cold. She took her to her shelter and told her about a new life, a life of... pleasure and power.

(Y/n) was liberated, she had never seen women take such pride and strength in the sacred act of sex, they were the leaders in bed and they used their bodies for power and brought submission to a different level. The sex enchantresses of Lillith, they could survive like everyone else but they absorbed power from the mans lust for her, not to be mistaken for a succubus, a succubus survived from sex, an enchantress gave immense out of body experience to the man that provided with magical power, the trick was that the man had to have lust for the enchantress and that’s where they “fed” from.

She decided to move from her hometown and with the money she had from her “sisters” she bought a small cottage nearby the forest she was found. She was almost home when she heard the voices of two men and the prance of a horse, she decided to hide so she can fully observe the men that are approaching

“Hold that thought”

They stopped abruptly and the man with white hair looked around, she scanned them carefully and she liked what she saw. The man with silver hair was made of muscle, tall and proud, she could only see his profile but from what it seemed like his face was sculpted by Lilith herself as a treat to her daughters.

“You can come out now”

He said in a low voice that made it sound more like a grunt, he looked straight at her hiding spot. She rose up and took off her hood, letting her hair loose and frame her face.

“Who are you?”

“I think I am supposed to ask that, you are the nomad here”

She responded. Geralt had encountered many women in his life but never someone like this, her eyes spit fire, her skin seemed perfect and she exudes confidence and femininity out of this world, he was mesmerized by her lips that curved into a devilish smirk as she came closer.

(y/n) saw his eyes, he was a witcher and a handsome one at that, she had not yet discovered the advantage she had on him, she knew what he was yet he was still guessing what she was.

“You’ve traveled a long way... witcher”

“I don’t see how’s that a concern of yours”

“It’s not, although I am willing to give you shelter for the night, even after your dismissive and rather I say rude tone”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, trying to figure her out. There she stood, a woman made to perfection offering him and his friend shelter in the forest, something didn’t seem right.

“Oh what a kind offer, we would be very grateful if you kindly took us in miss...”

“(Y/n), pleasure to meet you”

“Jaskier, pleasure is all mine, believe me”

“Shall we?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, she just turned her back on them and started walking towards her house. This is a gift directed to her, she hadn’t fed off in a while and she was ready to...serve this man.

As they walked in and let them settle, (y/n) changed at her house attire, an almost see through night dress that would always do the trick. As she walked down the stairs to her guests Geralt was speechless at the sight of her.

“Jaskier, follow me please”

They ran up the stairs as (Y/n) led the way to the spare bedroom. Jaskier was more than happy to see a nice clean bed ready to lay down and wake up in 3 days, he thanked her once again and went in the room not even questioning the fact of his friend not having a room. 

(Y/n) walked back down and went over to living room, kneeling in front of the fireplace to light up the fireplace. Geralt took her in, she seemed so calm and sure of herself, she wasn’t a mortal judging by the fact she lived in the woods and wasn’t afraid of him in the slightest.

“Haven’t you seen a woman before witcher?”

“Not your kind I’m afraid”

She scoffed as she got back up and went over to the kitchen, filling it with water and placed it on top of the fire to warm it up.

“Don’t you want to find out?”

She slowly went to him, a few strands of her falling on her face. As he reached with his hand to grab her face, she turned her back on him and walked to the stairs.

“Let me show you to your room, witcher”

“Geralt”

“He has a name, very well then follow me Geralt”

As they went up the stairs Geralt noticed there were only two doors and since she had already escorted Jaskier to his room then... him and (y/n) would share.

“This is my room but I have a spare bed you could sleep on”

He felt his excitement slowly leave his body, he wasn’t ready to admit it but she was a woman he would indulge in for hours on end.

“Great”

“Where you expecting something better?”

“Perhaps, but I guess beggars can’t be choosy”

As he went to his bed, (y/n) made sure to close the door behind them. She could feel everything he felt, she had never fed off from a magical creature before, this was better than she ever expected.

“Then let’s see if I can make the offer more appealing”

As Geralt turned to look at her, he was met with a naked (y/n). Her dress was on the floor and her hair grazed her breasts, her body was a dream for every man, she was a woman made to make men lustful and get them on their knees.

“Does my offer not please you? Witcher”

It took Geralt a few steps to be able to grab her, her legs immediately wrapping around him and his lips found his, it was like he could taste sweet nectar that dripped from her full lips and her scent made him clasp her waist harder. He took her to her bed and before he could comprehend it she had managed to straddle him and take off his clothes, she started kissing his neck when the first moan of hers was heard when he entered her. 

She rode him like a professional, her skin soft and just the sight of her moving her hips and her breasts going up and down could make anyone finish, he rose up to kiss her and wrap his arms around her sweaty body, his muscles against her torso aroused her and when his hand found her hair she smirked as he pulled her head back, she run her tongue over her lips,feeling the power of magic run through her, it was so overwhelming that it forced her body to start shaking and closed her eyes tightly

“What are you doing to me?”

“Magic”

She responded, the pleasure he felt was immaculate, euphoric one might add, he has slept with all types of women but there was never one that could out do him. Geralt was an excellent lover and a force in the bed, so him starting to feel drowsy and weak was something utterly new, he felt so tired he had to lay back down, the room started to spin and some stars started to clog his vision. (Y/n) picked up on the affect she had to him and leaned closer to his ear, her hands went on his chest, smiling down at him as she continued to ride him towards the finish line

“It’s alright Geralt, Just enjoy it”

She reassured him, tossing her hair to one side as she lifted herself back up. (Y/n) started feeling the climax coming closer and closer, her moans louder and her hips going faster, Geralt could feel he was close to the end as well, (y/n) got there first, throwing her head back and her mouth fully open, not caring that jaskier was right across from them and could hear everything. 

As Geralt reached his end it felt like his body was acting on it’s on, fire spreading through him and then nothing, lights out.

-

“Hello witcher”

Geralt fluttered his eyes open. (Y/n) was laying next to him naked, smiling at him as her hand caressed his cheek. He grabbed it and rose up immediately looking straight in her eyes, their face so close one could feel the others breath.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, you fainted”

“What are you?”

“An enchantress”

That couldn’t be, he had met an enchantress before and there was no mention of making men faint during sex. She scooted closer to him and then straddled him once more, as much as he wanted to throw her off he couldn’t do it, he just laid back down as her hand pushed him gently down and let her lay on top of him.

“Have you ever heard of the sex enchantress of Lilith?”

“No”

“We feed of lust men have for us, of course we don’t need it to survive it just helps with out powers”

“You fed off from me? Impossible”

“Dear Geralt, you might be powerful but you still haven’t figured out one important thing”

She said as she sat up, still sitting on top of him, her hands on his chest caressing his sweaty muscles.

“Really? What is that?”

“Nothing is impossible when a woman is involved”

He flipped her over earning a squeal and a giggle as he guided her leg to hook around his. He should be mad, furious for falling for her tricks, however he felt like there was nothing he could do to her, secretly wanting to please her. He was a fool for being so kind to her, well I guess there is no rules on war and sex. His hand reached her throat giving her a tight squeeze, she couldn’t breath easily he knew that, still there was no sight of discomfort on her face

“Do it, come on do it, kill me. You’ve done it before haven’t you Geralt?”

“I should do it, it will be easy”

She looked straight in his eyes while her mouth hang open at an attempt to breathe. In a blink of an eye Geralt found himself caving in and kissing her lips once again, his hand still on her throat but there was no grip.

He pulled back and moved his hand to her cheek, his thumb going over her swollen red lips, he could feel the blood running through them, they were so tempting that he had to restrain himself from kissing her as hard as he could until he draws blood, he was slowly going mad just by being in her presence. Nothing good would come out of their paths crossing

“You...”

“Just enjoy it Geralt, there’s nothing wrong with submission”

#geralt of rivia #geralt imagine #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x oc #geralt of rivia x reder #geralt of rivia imagine #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x oc #the witcher imagine #the witcher oneshot #geralt of rivia oneshot #the witcher headcanon #henry cavill oneshot #henry cavill headcanon #geralt #the witcher

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 6: adopted by love interest’s family

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 1675 Summary: Jaskier wasn't quite expecting to have such a warm welcome at his first visit to Kaer Morhen, but he certainly isn't complaining. Especially not when he accidentally overhears conversations he wasn't meant to hear.

read on ao3

“I do not kiss and tell,” Jaskier insisted haughtily, though he winked at Eskel and Lambert as he did so.

Lambert snorted into his drink--something far stronger than Jaskier would find at any old tavern in the Continent. Jaskier had taken one sip, gagged, and made some crack about it curling his chesthair that had Eskel and Lambert howling as they offered him something more suitable. More suitable, apparently, meant probably the strongest wine Jaskier had ever taken. It was meant to be sipped, absolutely, but at least Jaskier could stomach this one. He had never considered himself to have a weak constitution, but Witchers just so loved proving him wrong.

“That’s a lie and we all know it, bard,” Lambert accused, a finger pointed at Jaskier as he narrowed his eyes. Jaskier smiled pleasantly back. “If you had actually managed to kiss that princess, you would be bragging about it until your dying breath. I bet she rejected you.”

Jaskier feigned affront. “Rejected? Me? I’m offended you would even suggest such a thing. But I will forgive you, simply because you do not know of what you speak; you have not seen me in action.”

Now was Eskel’s turn to snort. “We haven’t seen you in action,” he repeated, an eyebrow raised pointedly and a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Have you seen him in action, Geralt?” Lambert asked, with all the faux innocence a shithead like him could muster. “Is it truly a sight to behold? Knicker dropping, would you say?”

Jaskier’s face flushed and he resolutely did not turn his attention toward Geralt, lest Geralt read a bit too much on his face. Geralt, however, didn’t seem to notice the teasing, which was less surprising and more disappointing than Jaskier would have thought. Instead, he hummed and tapped the table as if he was actually considering his answer. Bastard.

“It’s a sight, I’ll say that much,” he answered, ever the diplomat.

“Inspirational, truly. I think your roles should be switched. Geralt should sing of Jaskier’s triumphs,” Eskel said, rolling his eyes.

Jaskier waved a hand. “Save us all that misfortune, Eskel. Geralt would have to say a nice thing or two about me on occasion. I don’t think his poor, delicate heart could take it.” Jaskier grinned at Geralt and nudged him with his shoulder, only to receive an eyeroll and a push back--Geralt likely thought it was just a nudge, but it sent Jaskier tumbling over on the long bench. “See? Brute.”

When Jaskier had first come to Kaer Morhen, he had expected a far cooler reception than the one he received. He had been traveling with Geralt for years, and though he knew Geralt was fond of Jaskier, in his own ways, Jaskier could never quite call him warm. It was a safe assumption that a winter in Kaer Morhen would be much the same, but from three new witchers. 

Vesemir did have a bit more of his progeny’s cool and collected demeanor, but he had clapped Jaskier on the back in a way Jaskier could almost call fatherly on multiple different occasions. When he had met Lambert and Eskel, Lambert had loudly started singing Toss A Coin at them and Eskel had pulled Jaskier in for the most thorough hug of his life. 

Since that welcome reception, they had been outrageously chatty compared to their brother in arms, and nearly every night was spent talking well into the evening. Jaskier had no monster stories to regale them with, but the others did not make him feel as if he was the odd man out. Instead, they looked forward to his stories of skirt chasing and court drama just as much as he looked forward to their tales of heroics against monstrous monsters.

Monstrous monsters. Maybe he’d had a bit too much of the wine.

“It seems my meager human constitution pales in comparison to what your sturdier frames can put away. I fear I must retire before I say something to embarrass myself,” Jaskier said, pushing himself back from the table and standing.

“That’s the longest way to say ‘I’m pissed, gonna go sleep it off,’ I’ve ever heard,” Lambert snorted. “Do you ever say things straight?”

“No,” Geralt answered. “He once ranted through an entire meal, but the only thing he managed to say was that I was a troll.”

“And you are, darling. And a miserable hag to boot.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “A true wordsmith such as I knows how to weave even the most simple of statements into works of art. Try not to miss me and my eloquence too much, and pray that you do not drink yourselves into an early grave. Is it still an early grave if you’re well over a hundred?”

The witcher’s laughed and bid him goodnight, and Jaskier made his way out of the hall.

The problem with the witcher’s keep was that it was not the most intuitive place to navigate. Jaskier prided himself on his sense of direction, having been in many a castle before, and all castles started to look alike with their long, windy hallways and doors upon doors, many of which led to nowhere. The keep was much the same, and the combination of its inherent confusion, the darkness, and Jaskier’s slight inebriation had Jaskier lost. Quite quickly.

It took him about ten minutes and four different doors he was certain had contained stairs earlier that day to finally admit defeat and shuffle back to the dining hall. He didn’t mean to overhear, he really didn’t. Jaskier wasn’t even trying to be sneaky--why bother, when you’re in a keep full of men pumped with so many mutagens they could tell the color of a rabbit from the way it shuffled its feet? Only, apparently the ale had dampened their attention enough that Jaskier’s quiet steps had gone unheard, and he was able to approach the door to the dining hall without so much as a stutter in their conversation.

“--like him, Geralt,” Eskel said.

“Aye. If you manage to fuck things up in the next year and don’t bring him back, I’m not sure if we can let you pass through the gate,” Lamber agreed, though his voice was unusually pleasant. Like he was teasing Geralt.

“So glad to know my own brothers have turned on me so quickly,” Geralt scoffed.

“Well, we’d probably let you in, but only because if your froze your balls off we’d be hearing about it for the next century or so. Seriously, though. He’s nice to have around. You have certainly been less moody this winter,” Eskel said.

“Yeah, you were a right prick last year. And the year before that.” Lambert paused, as if he was considering something. “You have been a right prick this year, too, now that I think of it. Maybe the bard just distracts from your overall unpleasantness.”

There was a quick scuffle and a grunt from Lambert, followed by a long laugh from all of them, though Lambert’s took a moment to move from begrudging to warm. Sometimes, Jaskier wondered if they truly were brothers since infancy; they certainly acted like it. Though, he supposed experiences like they’d had bound people together far more securely than mere blood.

“I’ll ask him, but there’s no guarantees. He makes his own decisions. Goes where he wants. I have no claim to him,” Geralt said, and Jaskier was sure he was not drunk enough to be imagining the sadness etched in his voice.

“Well that’s bull--” Lambert started, only to be drowned out by Eskel.

“Geralt, are you kidding?” Eskel asked, incredulous. “That bard would go wherever you went, if only you’d ask. Even over a fucking cliff.”

“Seriously. He makes eyes at you so frequently, I don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it at this point.”

Lambert laughed, as if it was a joke, but Jaskier’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Ah. So they had noticed. Jaskier was half afraid they would, and now he had mounting concern over the fact that they were telling Geralt. Jaskier was quite certain this winter was about to get a hell of a lot longer, lonelier, and colder. Either Geralt would realize Jaskier’s affections were just as his brothers said and be disgusted, or he would just let them stay there, as if nothing had happened. Jaskier wasn’t sure which option was worse.

“I’m going to bed,” Geralt said, his voice gruff, and Jaskier heard the scraping of his chair against the wood. 

Jaskier stumbled back a few steps, silently cursed himself, then tried to tiptoe away without attracting too much attention. This was not something he wanted to explain. Except, he still didn’t know how to get back to his own room. Fuck.

“If you’re smart, you’ll go to your bard’s bed!” Lambert called as the door opened. Fuck.

Jaskier scrambled behind a nearby door, trying to hide as quietly as he possibly could. It was a fool’s errand, he knew. After all, even drunk, Geralt would be able to notice him, surely. But he had gotten lucky once tonight when it was him against witchery senses; Jaskier could only hope he’d be lucky again. Otherwise he would have a fair bit of explaining to do.

Geralt walked by the door, and Jaskier only narrowly avoiding expelling a breath of relief. Until he heard Geralt stop, then push the door closed.

“Next time, you should make sure you close the door after you hide behind it,” Geralt said, a smile in his voice, then continued on his merry way, as if he hadn’t left Jaskier frozen to the spot in shame.

It took a long time for Jaskier to build up the courage to leave whatever room he had been hiding in. By the time he did so, Geralt was gone. Apparently, that was that. Apparently, Geralt was content to allow Jaskier to at least sort of live this down.

Maybe this winter wouldn’t turn out to be horrible after all.

#geraskier #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #my writing #romtober

[anna-pixie]

safe passage -> the witcher {part one}

This is going to be quite a long series - hopefully! Let me know if you’d like more parts :)

Summary: Your parents have married you off to the prince of a far away town, but to get there you need to pass through some trecherous lands. Your father hires a Witcher and his bard to assure your safe passage. When feelings get involved, what could possibly go wrong?

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Warnings: None

“The next time I see you, you’ll be a proper woman.” Your mother blubbers, grasping one of your hands in her own as she cries. You pull yourself from her gasp with a roll of your eyes, still sour due to the fact they were pawning you off for their own gain. 

“That’s if I ever do see you again. Who’s to say he won’t keep me locked in that tower of his forever?” Your voice is sharp as you spit the words, turning away from your parents sorrowful gazes and heading towards the carriage waiting for you. 

Your wrist is snatched quickly and you’re turned back, your father's eyes glaring into your own, “You’d best hope this attitude is fixed by the time you reach your new home. A month on the road should be plenty of time for you to really understand why we did this. We’ve paid the Witcher his coin already, he is waiting in the carriage and will assure your safe passage to Vizima.”

“I hope he lets me die on the way there.” Are the parting words you utter to your father, who releases your arm with a resigned huff. You pick up the bottom of your pink gown as you step into the spacious black carriage, not bothering to glance at the man who already resides in there. 

Your mother waves at you once more, whilst your father signals to the rider that it is time to leave, and the carriage rolls on slowly as you leave your life behind. Tears prick your eyes and you sigh sadly, finally looking forwards at the hulking man sat across from you, a smaller man that you hadn’t even noticed sat next to him. 

You had never seen a Witcher before in person, but their reputation precedes them - this one in particular. You’ve heard of the inhumanly large man, with hair the colour of pure silver and eyes like a cat - but it is the wolf pendant hanging around his neck that really tips you off. You’re sitting in a carriage with the white wolf himself. Geralt of Rivia, or as he is more commonly referred to, the Butcher of Blavikken. 

And, oh, the stories must have failed to mention that he may be the most attractive man on the continent. He observes you with his bright eyes, his chiseled jaw clenched as his fingers tap against his large thigh. 

“I’m Jaskier, you must be Princess Y/N!” The smaller man greets you, a wide smile on his mouth as he extends his hand towards you. Although your aim was to not get along with your carers, to anger them until they left you to die in the forest, you can’t help but smile warmly at the man in a blue ensemble, shaking his hand gently. 

“It’s a pleasure, Jaskier. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

The man furrows his brows at you, “Better circumstances? We’re delivering you to your new husband! A prince! Shouldn’t you be happy?”

“I should. It’s a princesses duty to accept her husband with happiness no matter if it is her choice to do so.” You reply, a tight smile on your face as Jaskier takes in your words. Your eyes travel to the man next to him who has remained silent, his yellow gaze fixed on you, unnervingly so. 

Your body heats and you squirm a little, looking out of the window to escape his suffocating gaze. 

“Is that why you hope for me to let you perish on our journey?” The butcher speaks, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest. Your breath catches in your throat at the sound of it, it’s so raw, so dark and masculine. You’ve never heard anything like it. 

“Oh, you heard that.” A blush coats your cheeks, and the younger man begins laughing while the white wolf merely continues gazing at you. 

The corner of his lip quirks up ever so slightly, “Your father paid us a hefty sum, with even more promised once we deliver you to his highness. Forgive me, princess, but I cannot let you perish, even if that may be your wish.”

“Perhaps I will just have to outsmart you then, run away.” You jest, although a wry smile coats your mouth as you realise you will never be able to outrun a Witcher, there is really no point even bothering. 

“I’d love to see you try, princess.” 

The next few hours is spent with Jaskier trying to get to know you, and by the time you’ve stopped to set up camp for the night you feel as though you’ve been well and utterly interrogated. 

“And then as I was jumping out of the tower, the needle caught on my leg, went all the way through.” Jaskier’s face is pale, and you smirk as you show him the scar on your shin, letting this be your revenge for his incessant questions. 

“Forget I even asked.” He pretends to gag, leaving you giggling to yourself while he exits the carriage. 

“Impressive, you’ve shut the bard up for a while.” Geralt comments whilst returning to help you climb out of the carriage. You take his hand and jump, gulping when his other hand rests on the back of your waist, steadying you. 

“I have two younger brothers, I’m quite well versed in how to deal with an annoyance.”

“Hmm,” He observes you, his hand lingering for a moment, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“I’ve never been this far out of the city before.” You think outloud as you gaze around the tranquil clearing, watching Jaskier drink from an almost too-blue lake. The unnamed carriage driver slumps against a tree, a hood covering his head while he takes a nap. There is a calming breeze in the air, the thin tree branches swaying and rustling, “It’s so peaceful.”

“Don’t get fooled into a false sense of security. There is a reason you were never allowed out of the city, monsters lurk everywhere, even in the most tranquil places.” Geralt’s eyes dart around while he speaks, like he has just reminded himself that he needs to check for potential dangers. 

You observe him as his nose scrunches ever so slightly. Is he trying to sniff out the monsters?

“Witcher’s have increased senses,” Jaskier speaks, startling you as he appears beside you silently, “Smell, taste, hearing, you name it he’s got it.” 

“That’s amazing.” You’re awestruck as you watch him slink around the nearby trees, hopefully determining that this is a good enough place to spend the night. 

“I tend to forget that one too many times, run my mouth when Geralt annoys me not realising he can hear everything I’m saying.”

“Well, if we need to run our mouths during this month we’ll make sure to do so far away.” You joke, sending a joking glance towards the laughing bard. Your head snaps forward when you hear a low chuckle, and you realise with a groan that Geralt had been listening in on your conversation. 

“See what I mean?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, heading to grab the tents from the back of the carriage when Geralt gives him an approving nod. 

You lounge back, leaning on a thick tree bark whilst the two men construct the tent, under the shade of two large trees. You look over to the carriage driver, still asleep under the tree adjacent to your own. You don’t know the man, your usual driver remained in the city, continuing to serve your parents whilst they hired a replacement to take you to your new husband. 

Your eyes catch the end of a scar peeking out of his black sleeve and your brows furrow as you look at it, your gaze travelling back up again expecting to see the driver sleeping peacefully, but you instead catch his dark gaze peering back at you. 

A smile crawls up his lips but before you can dwell on it too much, your attention is stolen by Geralt who places a large hand on your shoulder. You can’t help but shiver at the feeling of his warm skin through your thin dress, looking up at him with a curious gaze. 

“We have two tents. Jaskier, the driver and myself will take one - apparently it’s not … “lady-like” for you to lay with men you’re not betrothed to.” His tone is sardonic, clearly not agreeing with the strange marital traditions of upper society. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” You smile at him, shuffling behind him as he leads you to the small white tent in which you’ll be sleeping. 

You’re on your knees, about to crawl into the tent when Geralt’s voice stops you once more, “We won’t spend every night on the floor, princess, we’ll take some care to stop at inns. Your fathers request.”

“Oh how lovely of him to ensure I have a comfortable place to lie whilst I wait to be sold off like a prized pig.” You mutter quietly, turning away from Geralt before you can catch the way his stoic face drops for a moment as he gazes at your retreating figure. 

You decline Jaskier’s invitation for you to join them in eating that evening, you’d been thrown a leaving banquet the night before and still felt stuffed. You can hear the low chatter of the men whilst you toss and turn, waiting for sleep to overtake you. 

Slowly falling into a slumber, you can just about make out the shadow of a man standing outside of your tent, unmoving as they seem to just stare at you. In your drowsy state, you don’t think twice about this, simply groaning to yourself before falling into a restless sleep.

#geralt x reader #geralt x oc #geralt x you #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia x oc #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia #geralt x ofc #the witcher #the witcher imagine #witcher imagine

[pherryt]

A Curse Upon All Bards...

So first off - my daughter is evil. She got “There’s Always a Reason” stuck in my head, about a bothersome bard and the warrior and sorceress duo who are frustrated with him beyond all reason. Sadly, I can only remember just the one section:

“A curse upon all bards, another on their tongues, A double curse upon their songs, I swear. A triple curse upon this fool who chose to sing of us! If I could catch that Leslac, I would skin him then and there!”

But it was more than enough to apparently inspire a bit of something.

This is also after the realization some months back that “The Leslac Version” (which is hilarious and I love) is quite literally Jaskier singing his version of events while Geralt keeps trying to correct him.

So anyway, here’s the bit of something I came up with, 783 words total.

         ***

When Geralt had finally asked Jaskier to come home with him to Kaer Morhen -to which the bard had very enthusiastically said yes - the last thing he’d expected was to walk into Eskel and Lambert having an argument.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Lambert was always an argumentative fuck, and a bit of prankster. He loved to stir shit up, and throughout the winter the three younger witchers – and occasionally their guests – would wind up rolling around on the floor, throwing punches, pulling hair and even biting. Vesemir would grumble, but he’d step over the squabbling pile of witchers and go about his day as if nothing untoward were happening.

So no, Geralt wasn’t exactly expecting the others to be on their best behavior just because he was bringing the bard home, finally. Not that they had known he intended to do that this year. Still. He just… hadn’t expected the cause of their argument to be about the bard.

Lambert was fully worked up by the time Geralt and Jaskier arrived, cursing all bards, their songs, and - specifically – Jaskier. Because while there were others that sang Jaskier’s songs, none other had dared to write about witchers to begin with.

Eskel, Geralt was glad to note, was trying to be the reasonable one, trying to talk Lambert down from his rant.

“You can’t deny it’s a catchy tune,” Eskel pointed out.

Lambert glared. “I’m so sick of that song…” he mumbled. “If I have to hear it one more time, I’m going to find that bard myself and flay him alive.”

“But, think about all the good these songs have been for our reputation!” Eskel said. Beside Geralt, Jaskier preened. “Not being chased out of towns, cheated as often by the alderman, or turned away from the whor –“

Lambert’s snort interrupted Eskel.

“Our reputation? Oh sure, sure, sure, our reputation. Well, what about all the folks who approach us, expecting us to be their knights in shining armor, and us walking away unpaid because of course we’ll rid them of the monsters for free! We’re the fucking friends to humanity!” Lambert growled. “I can’t replace my armor when no one’s willing to pay, and then I’ll just be a dead witcher. And what good will that do to anyone?”

Eskel blinked, nodding slowly as if agreeing to Lambert’s side. If Eskel was coming around to Lambert’s way of thinking, he and Jaskier were fucked. Geralt was just thinking that this might be the best time to beat a hasty retreat and get Jaskier to safety when a hand came down on his and Jaskier’s shoulders and Vesemir’s voice rumbled out.

“Ah, you’re home,” Vesemir said. The hand on Geralt’s shoulder squeezed almost painfully. Beside him Jaskier was wincing from a similar grip. “And with a guest, no less. You made it just in time. Storm coming down the mountain tonight. Gonna be a big one.”

Meaning, Geralt realized as Vesemir propelled them both out of the doorway and into the main hall, that there was no turning back now. They were stuck here. Here, where everyone was glaring at him and his bard.

Well.

Fuck.

 Bonus – Dramatic Jaskier

“But the song literally says ‘Toss a coin’!!” Jaskier shouted over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt spirited him away deeper into the keep. “Why are you blaming me for the tight wallets of the continent? Really? Me?! When I have been encouraging them to send money your way!”

The other witchers were still glaring after them and Jaskier wasn’t too sure they wouldn’t up and follow anyways. He bounced on Geralt’s shoulder with every step, but with the excellent training at Oxenfurt, Jaskier still had the breath to continue, and he did. Loudly.

“It’s not my fault the general populace is stupid! I mean, we already knew it, treating you all they way they were in the first place! Excuse ME for trying to make it better! But yeah, good, yeah, go after the poor bard doing a good deed instead of the villagers who try to take advantage of you! You don’t like my songs? Well, let’s see if you change your tune when I write ones about-”

Geralt’s hand landed on his ass with a sharp, calculated smack. “Don’t antagonize them, Jaskier. Besides, any defaming songs about a pair of witchers will just come back to haunt all the rest of us.”

“Oh, you ruin all my fun,” Jaskier pouted, leaning his head on his hand and digging his elbow just a little bit into Geralt’s back. He stuck his tongue out at the witchers one last time before they were whisked out of sight by Geralt turning a corner.

#witcher #geralt #jaskier #eskel #lambert #inspired by there's always a reason and the leslac version #it's not quite a drabble but it's definitely short #less than 1000 words is definitely short for me #had to get this out of my head #i should be doing other things #my daughter was HIGHLY amused by this #i blame her #my daughter is evil

[ahh-fxck]

Here is my gift for @mossymel for @thewitchersecretsanta 2020 gift exchange! I hope you like it!!

Title: Heat and a Healer

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Geralt x Female!Reader

Cross-posted to Ao3

Geralt is injured in a hunt to save your village. You find him in the snow and bring him inside to keep him from dying.

The courtyard is muddy and cold, the air in front of your face misting with every breath. It is crisp with a light dusting of snow that crunches under your feet. Pale fingers of dawn light are creeping over the rooftops as you go about your morning chores. As you round the corner of your barn to break the water on the livestock trough you let out a startled gasp. 

The water on one end is already broken and there is a strange brown mare contentedly drinking from it. It takes you a moment to realize that her rider is there as well; He is barely visible at first, huddled in a snow-encrusted cloak at the base of the trough. When he hears your gasp he jerks, as if he hadn’t meant to fall asleep and is slightly startled to find that he had. 

The movement draws a thin, reedy noise of pain from him. Milky white hair spills from the cloak, and you see a flash of silver around his neck. With a start, you realize that you’ve seen this horse before. The road to the south has been terrorized by a griffin and no trade has gotten through in months; Everyone’s larders are bare and tempers in town have been growing short. The Witcher riding into town a week before had been a welcome sight. 

It’s a relief to see him back again, but your heart plunges as you take in the state of him. You kneel to inspect him, frowning at what you see. His lips are blue with cold and his face is streaked with dried gore of some sort. When he opens his eyes you can see they are a startling shade of gold, like a cat’s. They are hazy with pain and exhaustion.

“Witcher?” You say, beginning to brush the snow off of him. “Oh Melitele, look at the state of you! Can you walk? Quick, let’s get you inside.” You bend to help him as he struggles painfully to his feet. The clothing all down one side of him is stiff under your hand and his armor is ominously tattered. 

“My horse,” he croaks through dry lips.

“I’ll see to her once I have you settled,” you promise. “You need heat and a healer first, Witcher. She’ll keep.” He is too weak to do more than nod, allowing you to guide his stumbling steps across the courtyard. You hurry him into the kitchen and ease him down on the floor in front of the roaring fire. 

He goes down with a grateful groan, settling in a sodden heap on the well-swept floor. As quickly as you can, you pull the sleeping mat you use for guests out of the crowded storage room. Next, you bring a pile of blankets and set them aside. Then you hurriedly help him remove his wet clothes before the chill can set any worse. As the full extent of his injuries is revealed, you can feel your blood running cold. He is gouged and bruised all over one side, still slowly leaking blood from ugly wounds in his flank. Every movement, every breath, pulls at them and causes his face to flicker with pain.

As soon as he is tucked under the blankets near the fire you race out of the house, battering at the healer’s door until she shuffles out to greet you. Her eyes widen as you breathlessly tell her what happened. In short order, she is dressed and hurrying after you. The crunching of your footsteps on the empty streets is loud in the hush of dawn. 

You spend the rest of the morning running at the healer’s beck and call, boiling water and making simple herbal preparations at her instruction. During a lull, you slip out to tend the animals and stable the Witcher’s horse. The mare is stroppy and irritable, but you’ve known your share of horses and you aren’t impressed. Far more impressive is the griffin’s head dangling from the far side of her saddle, where you hadn’t been able to see it before. A rush of relief goes through you; the alderman will be pleased to see that, by the gods.

Before long, the horse is clean and dry, munching on her feed. The same cannot be said for her rider. The sun is well in the sky by the time the healer straightens from her work, and even then he looks gaunt and pale. He lies on the floor sleeping soundly as she cleans up and prepares a basket of supplies for you. She explains each item as she puts it in the basket, then instructs you to let him rest. As she leaves, she squeezes your shoulder silently. You and she both know without speaking that keeping the Witcher alive is the right thing to do.  

Not long after that, the alderman comes to call, no doubt notified by the healer. Bodily blocking him from entering your home and seeing the state the Witcher is in, you insist on walking the alderman over to the griffin’s head yourself. He eyes it skeptically, hemming and hawing about whether or not the Witcher has earned the full price. 

Your eyes flash with fire. Your alderman is a fool and a scoundrel, else you’d expect him to have some compassion for the man who nearly died to save his bloody town. You tell him that and a fair few other things besides, letting him have the sharp side of your tongue. There are few women he’ll take this treatment from, but as the best baker in town, you happen to be one of them. By the time you threaten to refuse baking his daughter’s wedding cake, the alderman buckles, handing over a far fatter sack of coin than he’d intended to.

Pleased, you hand him the griffin’s head to dispose of and march him off of your property. Then you return to the kitchen with the Witcher’s coin. He wakes when you come through the door, eyes bright with fever and exhaustion. When you toss him the bag of coins he catches it though, and his crooked smile lights his face handsomely.

Over the following days, he slumbers in front of your hearth as he heals. At first, he is too exhausted to do much but wake occasionally to eat and use the privy. Though your larder is as bare as anyone else’s in town, you feed him as if he were your own. With gentle hands you tend to his wounds, cleaning them, spreading salve on them, and finally wrapping them with clean bandages. You can see sometimes in unguarded moments how much he likes your touch. His face relaxes and sometimes you can even see the brief flicker of a smile. He is handsome when he smiles. 

You find yourself enjoying the time you spend at his bedside, treasuring the little flashes more than you'd expected to. It turns out under the grime he's gorgeous. Wide golden eyes, a square jaw, a cupid's bow lip, and that's only his face. Each of his long limbs is cabled with heavy muscle, and his skin is almost as milky as his hair. It gives him a very striking appearance, and you frequently find yourself struggling not to stare as you change his bandages. 

He becomes more alert as he heals. At first, all he does is silently watch you from the floor, golden eyes following you about the room. You don’t mind, filling the air with friendly talk as your hands work. You tell him stories about your childhood, your family, sharing the little memories held in chipped teacups and lovingly crafted decorations. 

In his turn, he tells you little things as well. You learn that his name is Geralt and that he’s trying to get north before the snows close the mountain roads entirely. You also learn that he loves baked apples and that he adores his horse. They’re small things, but they put you at your ease, making him seem less remote and strange.  

Though he heals quicker than any man has a right to, it is still days before he can limp around your house on his own power. He moves first from the sleeping mat to the chair near the fire, where he listens to you talk while you work. Although supplies are scarce you ply him with tea and treats from your bakery as you work. It gives you joy to feed him nice things after everything he's been through. The kindness and the treats both seem to confuse him, but he devours the pastries without complaint as he listens to you talk. Before long he is alert enough to mend his tattered clothing and armor as he sits there in the corner, his big hands working skillfully.

On the day that the caravans finally arrive in town, he has made it as far as the yard. He is slowly moving through forms with his massive steel sword, limbering his healing body. A clamor arises all through the town as a horn sounds.  By the time the first wagon is through the outer gate, half of the town has surged out to greet them. 

At the sound of the ruckus, the Witcher’s head comes up. Yours does as well, and you race to the gate. When you realize that the caravans have arrived at last, you let out a joyous whoop, dancing around your courtyard. You catch Geralt up before you can even think about it, so overcome with excitement that you plant a huge kiss right on his lips.

“The caravans! We’re saved! Oh, we’re going to have such a feast tonight, just you wait!”

It’s only then that you see how wide-eyed he is, looking between your hands fisted in his shirt and your lips. You drop his shirt with a start, worried that you’ve caused him offense, but as you back away he breaks into a slow smile. The corners of his golden eyes crinkle handsomely, and you feel your heart trip over itself. 

Cheeks heating, you look over your shoulder and then back at him. He’s still smiling. You smile back, giving him a thoughtful look, then tap him gently on his chest. “You just wait here. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Then you’ll see why they call me the best baker in town!” Without waiting for him to reply, you race off to get ready for the impromptu market already forming in the town square. 

You walk back to your house sometime later with your cart and donkey in tow. The cart is practically overflowing with supplies, and your heart is glowing as you pull it up in the courtyard and begin to unload it. All your worries about the winter’s food have been wiped away, and you are in a very merry mood indeed.

The kitchen is rich with the smells of good food and mead that evening, and it’s already groaning under the weight of all the treats you’ve baked for the next day. Geralt sits on a stool at your kitchen table. He munches pastries and chops herbs for you while you cook and sing. You catch him smiling to himself as you overflow with happiness. It’s the nicest meal you’ve been able to make in months, and it’s a joy to share the bounty with the man who’d made it possible.

When dinner is cooked and dessert is cooling, you sit down to dine with him. For once he’s able to eat his fill. Even though he puts away a truly surprising amount of food, there is still enough for leftovers. It’s satisfying to see him warm and contented at last, his belly full and his pale complexion flushed with drink. He’d come into your home so gaunt and pale, but now… 

You realize you’re staring a little when he smiles at you over his cup of mead. You break away, flustered. When you look back at him, though, there is a little gleam in your eye. You rise from the table and go to where the honey cakes are cooling on the counter. You retrieve some sugared rose petals from a jar, which you arrange on two of the cakes. Then you dress them with cream and a little rose syrup. It runs and gathers prettily at the bottom of each bowl. 

You make eye contact with him as you offer him his little bowl, a smile playing about your lips. He looks at the bowl, then at you, his pupils dilating subtly with interest. A slow smile breaks out across his face and he carefully takes the bowl from you, letting his fingers linger against yours as he does. A little shock of delight goes up your arm, and your eyes twinkle. You sit across from him to savor the sweetness of your dessert. As sweet as the honey cakes and cream are, still sweeter is the way he can’t seem to stop watching you, his gaze lingering on you as he licks delicious crumbs off of his spoon.

When he sets his empty bowl aside and rises from the table to go to bed, it feels as natural as breathing to stand with him. Your own bowl is left empty and forgotten on the table. You step closer to him and he brightens with interest, head cocking to the side. Emboldened by the mead and the desire waking in those lovely amber eyes, you lean up and capture his lips in a kiss. He sighs hungrily as you do, drawing you wordlessly closer. 

His broad chest is warm and firm under your hands, and his lips taste of roses and honey. You hum happily as he brings his hands to your hips, drawing you firmly against him. Parting your lips, you wind your arms around his neck as he slips his tongue into your mouth. His breath hitches as you lean up to meet him, your clever tongue twining with his. 

The kiss is heady and hot, leaving you wanting more when he draws back for air. He swirls his fingers up the back of your clothing, a playfully sensual gesture, and you smile. Your hands trace down his flanks, feeling the firm muscles flex beneath. His beautiful eyes are alight with desire, watching your every movement, wanting more but not daring to take it. 

Then you lean up, inviting him in for another kiss. He gives a little shiver, rumbling a low noise of approval. The kiss is deeper this time, slower and more sensual. You take your time with each other, fingers gently tracing the edges of clothing, plucking at laces without pulling. The only sound is the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Heat pools between your thighs and you sigh, rocking idly against him. You can feel him stir in his trousers where his hips are pressed against you and you rock more firmly, finding yourself suddenly dizzy with desire. He hitches in another breath, then growls oh so softly against your lips. He rolls against you and you can feel his cock hardening, pressing against you. You let out a little moan, fingers pulling at his laces in earnest now.

A flurry of clothing is left in a trail leading to your bedroom door. Geralt walks you back until your bare thighs are pressing against your bed, kissing you hungrily. You wiggle your way up onto the bed, giggling as he snuffles at your neck between kisses to take in your scent. He helps to lift you onto the bed, big hands squeezing your thighs as he settles between them. Making low noises of pleasure he mouthes his way to your breasts. His tongue is velvety-hot, and you give a low little cry as it flicks across your nipple. 

He savors your belly and your thighs in the same way, hungry and eager, like he hasn't been with a woman in far too long. When his lips finally brush the soft thatch of hair between your thighs you can’t help but groan, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He teases at you gently, eyes alight as he takes in every little reaction. When he finally bends to trace the tip of his tongue up your inner lips they are sensitive and slick, causing you to whimper and shiver. You wind your fingers in his hair as he sets to work, savoring the warmth of his tongue. 

A look of bliss suffuses his golden eyes as he laps at your dewy cunt, his pale lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You tremble with delight, your soft cries filling the room. When he slips gentle fingers inside of you and flutters them just so, a swell of pleasure breaks over you. You cry out as you buck against him. A low rumble emerges from somewhere deep in his chest, an intent look coming into his eye as he redoubles his efforts. His clever tongue circles and dances, bringing the pleasure to a fever pitch, working you until you are coming harder than you thought possible. He withdraws only when you have fallen back to the bed panting, your thighs trembling with the aftershocks. 

You run your fingers through his hair as you quiver, savoring the glow that suffuses you. He hums and smiles, nuzzling you. His eyes flutter half-shut as he lets you stroke his hair and face, enjoying the affection. After a lazy moment, you draw him up onto the bed with you. He goes willingly, pulling you down on top of him with a wolfish smile. From the way he moves you can tell he is still stiff and sore, but the bandages are gone. Though you worry about hurting him, he doesn’t seem to care. His smile broadens as you lower yourself to rest across his hips, your lower lips kissing the base of his cock with wet heat. 

That grin wipes all your worries out of your mind, replacing it with a sudden rush of desire. His hands guide your hips to start moving, encouraging you to take your pleasure. You smile wickedly, placing your hands on his broad chest as you start to rub your clit against his throbbing cock. He moans softly, his hands sliding up your flanks as his amber eyes trace the beautiful curves of your body. He begins to tease at your nipples, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment at the sounds he draws from you. His touch on them is surprisingly delicate, sending exquisite little shocks of pleasure down to your cunt. 

Before long you are rocking hungrily against him, your composure unraveling by the second. He moans and shivers beneath you, arching. The feeling of his thighs tensing sends a shock of heat through you, hunger for more. With a twist of your hips you rise, using a quick hand to position his cock at your entrance. His eyes fly open as you groan happily, circling your hips on the blunt head just barely pressing into your wet heat. He looks at you with wide eyes, breath hitching as you twist your hips again. You lock eyes with him as you sink slowly down, savoring his guttural moan when he bottoms out inside you. 

His gold eyes are hazy with need as you begin to rock on top of him. He matches your tempo carefully, watching you with a now-familiar intent expression coming across his face. Without a word he presses a hand against your abdomen, pushing you until you are leaning back with your hands on his thighs. He shifts his angle and you let out a sharp gasp of pleasure, the change allowing him to hit your spot with every thrust. 

You cry out as he grins breathlessly and begins to fuck you in earnest. He is surprisingly vocal as he does so, making up for days of silence with murmurs and growls of pleasure. When he brings his thumb to your clit you can’t help but join him, your shaking cries punctuated by every thrust. 

He fucks you with care and precision, one hand on your hip, the other working your clit until you come with a ragged yowl. Your muscles clench tight around him and a sharp groan punches out of him as his hips stutter, losing rhythm. Grabbing your hips, he only lasts for a few more short, sharp thrusts before he is spilling inside of you and crying out, his body arching beneath you. His head tosses, white hair scattering across the pillow as he holds you close against him.

In the thundering silence that follows you collapse against him, laying your head on his shoulder. Both of you go limp, too exhausted at first to crawl under the blankets. You lay there listening to the crackle of the fire in the kitchen, the occasional creaking of your old home, and a soft hissing noise that you can’t place at first. He looks to the window and your eyes follow. You see thick white flurries of snow, and once you see them you realize that the hissing is the sound of them being blown against the windowpane.

The first blizzard of winter has come.

You turn back and eye each other thoughtfully, then smile and settle into the blankets. Until the snows clear, what else is there to do but enjoy one another?

And you do, all winter long.

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