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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 3 years

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Without You

Prompt: Meeting after a long time apart

Pairing: Jaskier/Yennefer (background Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer)

Rating: M

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture; Presumed character death (no one is actually dead); Heavy drinking

Summary: Jaskier barely copes after word spreads that Yennefer has perished at Sodden Hill. But when Nilfgaard sets their sights of him, help comes from an unexpected place.

This was supposed to be a Wuv the Bard fic for @whataboutthebard, but it grew a whump, so I had to recategorize it. You can read it below or here on AO3.

The day before Oxenfurt’s winter term starts, Jaskier learns that Yennefer of Vengerberg perished defending Sodden Hill, going out in a blaze of glory that took an entire squadron of soldiers with her. It’s a death worthy of the most terrifying, wonderful woman he ever met, and he thinks he might be sick just thinking about it. He drinks far too much mead and sleeps through the first day of classes. It’s lucky that the dean is a friend and had met Yennefer when she visited Jaskier at Oxenfurt two winters before, because that’s the kind of infraction that could get a professor dismissed.

The news comes only days after Jaskier learns that the entire Cintran royal family, including little Princess Cirilla, was butchered during Nilfgaard’s invasion. Jaskier knows that Geralt was heading to Cintra to try and get to the princess before Nilfgaard did, but he has no way of knowing if Geralt also died in the invasion. He has a horrible feeling that if Princess Cirilla is dead, Geralt is too. There's no way his witcher would have let harm come to his child surprise while there was still breath in his lungs. He lays awake at night and tries not to imagine both of his lovers consumed by flames.

It’s a small comfort that Geralt came to see Jaskier in Oxenfurt before going to Cintra. They had the chance to apologize to each other for the stupid way they both acted during the dragon hunt and make amends for years of careless words and crossed boundaries. When they fell into bed afterwards, it almost felt like it had that first time, nearly two decades before.

“Let me come with you to Cintra,” Jaskier whispered afterwards. “I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I don’t want you anywhere near Nilfgaard. Or Calanthe, for that matter.”

“I can help. Calanthe won't listen to you, but she might heed me.”

"No," Geralt said firmly. "I won't risk you, Jask. Not for anything.”

Geralt was gone before Jaskier woke up the next morning. Jaskier is sure that his lover knew if he had stayed to say goodbye, Jaskier would have talked him into letting him come to Cintra, but that didn’t ease the sting. At least they had had a goodbye of sorts the night before.

But Jaskier never got a chance to say goodbye to Yennefer. He never saw her again after the dragon hunt, something that keeps him awake nearly as much as the thought of her burning up with her own power. If she died hating him…

Jaskier is so furious at himself, for not doing everything in his power to hold onto Geralt and Yennefer. He’s furious at Yennefer for walking away, not just from Geralt, but from him too. He’s furious at Geralt for pushing her away and for running off to Cintra and leaving Jaskier alone. Sometimes, he’s even furious at Princess Cirilla for drawing Geralt away, though that’s the kind of thought that only hits him when he’s deep in his cups. He’s not proud of it.

There’s nothing he can do to abate the well of grief and fury and desperate despair within him. He can’t even bring himself to sing about it.

***

He’s surprised that it takes a month for the dean to call him into his office. Sebastian and he have been friends since their schoolboy days and when Jaskier looks at the other man, he sees how his life could have turned out if he had done what his parents wanted him to do: marry a respectable woman, find a steady, stable job, have a few children to carry on the family name.

“Julian,” Sebastian says. “You know I consider you a friend.”

Jaskier’s head is pounding. He was at a tavern the night before when a bard began singing a ballad of the Fourteen of the Hill, as they’re calling the mages who perished at Sodden Hill. There was a verse about each of the Fourteen, and when she got to Yennefer’s name, Jaskier had to leave the tavern. He’s tried to write a dozen songs about Yennefer in the past month, and hasn’t been able to compose more than a few lines. That another bard, one that didn’t even know her, is the one telling her story hurts more than it should.

Sebastian’s expression is painfully kind. Jaskier would rather him be cruel. “But your conduct this term has been unacceptable. Being late to classes, not showing up for classes at all, coming to class reeking of alcohol—”

“I haven’t come to class drunk.” That’s one line Jaskier would never cross.

“But you have come to class hungover. You’re hungover now, aren’t you?”

Jaskier looks away, unable to meet his old friend’s eyes.

“I know how much she meant to you,” Sebastian says softly. “And I know you’re hurting. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I’ve gotten complaints about you from students, parents, and your fellow professors. This can’t go on.”

“Are you asking for my resignation, Sebastian?”

“Not yet.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m reassigning all your classes for the rest of the term. Take a couple of months to get your head back on straight. If you can pull yourself together by the spring, we can discuss you resuming teaching. If not…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to elaborate. Jaskier swallows. “I’ll pull myself together.”

It’s what Yennefer and Geralt would have wanted.

***

Jaskier is going to allow himself one more night to wallow in his grief and self-pity, he tells himself as he sits at the corner at his second-favorite tavern that night (the proprietor of his first favorite is concerned about the amount Jaskier has been drinking and refuses to serve him.) As he sits there, huddled in the shadows, he thinks of the first time he saw Geralt, brooding in the corner like the tragic hero of a storybook. Geralt would surely have something smug to say if he saw Jaskier brooding tragically. Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut at the thought of the little smirk on Geralt’s face.

“I love the way you sit in the corner and brood,” he would say in a terrible imitation of Jaskier’s voice. He always made Jaskier sound so much more high-pitched than he really is.

“Cheeky bastard,” Jaskier mumbles into his ale, startling the barmaid who’s clearing mugs away from the next table over. He offers her an apologetic smile.

Several hours and three ales later, the proprietor of his second-favorite tavern shows him the door. Luckily, the proprietor of this third-favorite tavern wouldn’t notice if he stripped naked and drank himself to death while singing Skelligan sea shanties in the corner, so Jaskier staggers down the road towards that fine establishment. He starts to hum to himself, but the only tune that comes to mind is “Her Sweet Kiss,” and even thinking about that song causes something sour to curdle inside him.

He stumbles over his own two feet and nearly falls, but a strong hand seizes him by the upper arm, keeping him upright. Beaming, Jaskier turns to his rescuer.

“Thank you, my fr—”

A hand slaps over his mouth. Jaskier only has time to register the pale, watery eyes of the hooded man in front of him before two fingers press against the underside of his chin and darkness overtakes him.

***

A bucket of cold water to his face rouses him an indeterminate amount of time later. Jaskier jerks awake, gasping. For a moment, he’s disoriented and outraged, until he registers the chains binding his wrists over his head and his ankles together. When he looks around, he finds himself in some kind of cellar, mostly empty except for a few crates and many cobwebs. And the three men standing in front of him.

“You’ve slept long enough, bardling,” the man in the middle, a weaselly, pale-eyed thing with a canny expression Jaskier doesn’t like, says.

Bardling.

“If you don’t stop humming and let me sleep, bardling, I’ll turn you into an eel.”

“Get over here and kiss me, bardling.”

“Harder, bardling. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaskier whispers, voice trembling.

The pale-eyed man laughs unpleasantly. “You’re not the one making demands here.”

Jaskier tries to draw himself up to his full height the best he can when he’s trussed up like a goose. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Rience,” the man says and Jaskier has the horrible thought that surely he wouldn’t be so open with his identity if he expected Jaskier to live through this encounter. “The names of my compatriots don’t matter.”

The other two men, who are both scowly and muscular in a way that makes Jaskier think of either mercenaries or soldiers, make no indication of whether or not this offends them.

“What do you want with me?” Jaskier demands.

“We’re looking for someone,” Rience says. “Two someones, actually. I think you might know where they are. Geralt of Rivia and Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. If someone is asking after Geralt and Cirilla, does that mean they’re alive? Does that mean they’re together? Did Geralt get to her in time? He recovers himself enough to say, “Princess Cirilla perished in Cintra, or so the rumors say. As for Geralt of Rivia… I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“Wrong. He visited you here in Oxenfurt right before Saovine.”

Jaskier swallows hard. “Ah, yes, I’d completely forgotten about that. How silly of me. In my defense, it’s been a very long—”

The sensation of a hand tightening around his throat hits him, but none of the three men are touching him. Jaskier gasps and sputters, drawing a laugh out of Rience and one of the soldiers. Eyes watering with lack of breath, Jaskier struggles against his chains. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that they’re just going to kill him and leave his body in this cellar to rot.

And then the pressure on his throat releases and Jaskier sucks in a sweet lungful of air, not even minding that it’s stale.

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” Rience asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not privy to his plans.”

“You’ve been his friend and lover for decades. Surely he told you where he was planning to take the girl.”

Geralt didn’t need to tell Jaskier. Knowing that the contents of his own mind aren’t safe from a sorcerer, Jaskier does everything in his power to not think about Kaer Morhen. “I don’t know.”

Rience steps close enough that Jaskier can smell his sour breath. “I can tear your mind apart, you little shit. I can dig through your thoughts until I know every single thing the witcher ever told you. But I’d much rather you tell me willingly. It’s the only way you’re going to walk away from here alive.”

“I don’t know anything,” Jaskier whispers.

Rience sighs. “I was hoping you’d be difficult. It’s more fun that way.”

When the first punch comes, Jaskier closes his eyes and thinks of Geralt and Yennefer.

***

The beating isn’t all that bad, all things considered. Yes, Jaskier is fairly certain his nose and several of his ribs are broken, but they haven’t brought out blades or braziers yet. Yet. When Rience and his lackeys leave him alone in the cellar, Jaskier sags, letting his shoulders heave with his pained breaths. If the chains weren’t holding him up, he would crumple to the ground in despair.

Jaskier is just a bard. He’s not a witcher or a sorceress. He’s not trained to withstand torture. He will break, he realizes. He will tell Rience everything he knows, no matter how hard he tries to stay strong. And then Rience will kill him and Jaskier’s last act on this mortal plane will be to betray the man he’s loved since he was eighteen.

Tremors wrack Jaskier’s body as terror and pain overwhelm him. It’s not fair that he learned that Geralt is alive at the same time that he’s about to lose his own life. It’s not fair that he’s going to be used against the love of his life in such a horrific fashion. It’s not fair that he’s going to go to his grave without ever seeing Geralt again and that Geralt will lose both him and Yennefer.

Jaskier is alone in the cellar for a long time, long enough for him to feel every ache and pain.

From upstairs, there’s a thump and a long, loud scream.

Jaskier’s head jerks up. Do they have another prisoner here? Who else in Oxenfurt could they have targeted to get to Geralt, or is their other victim some poor bystander that they came across? There’s another agonized scream, this one cut off, and Jaskier starts to shake harder. He doesn’t want to die. He’s so, so afraid of dying, of everything that makes him him being snuffed out, leaving only an empty husk of flesh and bone. But even more terrifying is the thought of all the hurt that will come first, of the crying and bleeding that he’ll have to endure before Rience ends things.

Footsteps sound of the stairs and Jaskier’s head jerks up to see a hooded figure descending into the cellar. They’re smaller than Rience or either of his compatriots, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Jaskier swallows around the knot of panic in his throat as the newcomer approaches him, their features obscured by the hood and the shadows of the cellar.

“I don’t know anything,” he says hoarsely. “You can do whatever you want to me and I still won’t know anything.”

The newcomer draws back their hood at the same time that Jaskier registers the smell of lilacs and gooseberries. He makes a punched-out noise at the sight of violet eyes that he didn’t ever think he would see again.

“A pretty illusion,” he tells the face of the woman he loves, voice trembling. “But Yennefer is dead. She died at Sodden Hill and you can wear her face all you want, but I still won’t know anything.”

“Jaskier—” the illusion starts to say.

Jaskier laughs as loudly and obnoxiously as he can when he’s trying not to breathe in too deeply. The scent of the false Yennefer makes him want to cry. “And you’ve already gotten it wrong. She never called me ‘Jaskier.’ No, I was ‘bard’ or ‘bardling’ or ‘you fucking idiot—’”

“For fuck’s sake, bardling. Pull yourself together!”

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. Strangely, it’s the harshness of her tone that convinces him. If Yennefer were to offer sweet words of comfort, to coo over his injuries and tell him that it would all be okay, then he would know for sure that the person standing in front of him wasn’t his sorceress. No mage trying to manipulate him into spilling his secrets would expect him to be comforted by the exasperation in her expression.

“Yenn?” he whispers.

Yennefer steps closer and he sees that she obviously hasn’t had a good time as of late. Her face is thinner and her nose has been broken at least once. Her hair is more bedraggled than he’s ever seen it and her dress and cloak clearly belong to a taller person; they drag on the ground behind her. There are dark shadows under her eyes. When she raises a hand to make the chains around his wrists and ankles fall away, he sees that there are hideous burn marks marring her own wrists.

Without the chains holding him up, Jaskier collapses into a heap on the ground. Looking up at Yennefer in disbelief, he says, “You…”

“Not here.” She grasps him by the shoulders and the next thing he knows, he’s being yanked through a portal.

***

It’s not the first time Yennefer has visited Jaskier at his faculty lodging in Oxenfurt. Two winters ago, she replaced his perfectly serviceable bed with an enormous, glorious feather mattress with silken sheets and a goose down comforter and they spent three days in the glamoured bed, lost in each other’s bodies. Now, she sits on the edge of his perfectly serviceable bed, wearing one of his old chemises and carefully avoiding looking at him as he wipes the blood and fear sweat from his face with a basin of water.

“You’re hurt.” He glances at the bruises dotting her legs.

She lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “Not badly.”

Jaskier nods, swallowing hard. He wants nothing more than to sink into her arms. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated; touching her was the most natural thing in the world. But that was before the mountain and the cruel, senseless things they said to each other. So he keeps himself on the other side of the room to mitigate temptation.

Outside, someone shouts. Jaskier flinches, even as the shout turns into laughter.

“Rience fled with his tail between his legs when I threw a fireball at him,” Yennefer says. “And his men are dead.”

“Imagining fleeing from a fireball. Fucking coward.” Jaskier splashes more water on his face. His hands are shaking. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“Geralt and the child surprise—”

“Safe. I’ve been having dreams about them. They’re at Kaer Morhen with his brothers.”

Jaskier lets out a long, slow breath of relief. When he first learned about the djinn wish that binds Geralt and Yennefer, he was so jealous and furious to learn that they have a bond that he’ll never come close to matching. Now, he’s just relieved that Yennefer can tell him that Geralt is alive and that he got to Cirilla in time. “Thank the gods.”

“I saw what Nilfgaard left of Cintra. Gods had nothing to do with it.”

Jaskier turns to face her, taking in her hollow eyes. “Where have you been? I heard you’d died at Sodden Hill. I…” He breaks off, because he feels pathetic admitting the depths of his grief this past month, the way he nearly drank away his career and his life.

Yennefer’s jaw clenches in a way that reminds him of Geralt, not that she would appreciate the comparison. “I was taken by Nilfgaard’s mage, Fringilla, right after the battle. I spent a month in captivity. They thought they could use me to lure Geralt out, that our connection would alert him to my predicament.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “Oh, fuck. Yenn…”

She shakes her head sharply, like she’s trying to shake off his sympathy. “When that didn’t work, they were planning to find you and torture his location out of you.”

Wincing, Jaskier touches his ribs. “Yeah, I figured that.”

“Fringilla put a spell on me that kept me docile,” Yennefer says softly. “It stopped me from wanting to escape and the dimeritium cuffs did the rest. But I heard her giving instructions to Rience. I knew the kind of man he is, how much he enjoys inflicting pain.” She touches the bump on the bridge of her nose almost absent-mindedly and Jaskier is suddenly flooded with the burning urge to track Rience down and eviscerate him. “I realized what he would do to you, bardling, and that knowledge broke through the haze. I had to get to you, no matter what it took.”

Jaskier can’t be on the other side of the room from her anymore. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he crosses the space between them, dropping down to his knees in front of her and taking her hands in his. They feel so fragile, her fingers thin and riddled with small cuts. “Yenn, I’m so sorry. The mountain—”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “I thought you were dead and the last conversation we’d ever had was a fight because I was too stupid and jealous about the djinn bond to see that you were hurting and—”

Yennefer pulls one hand from his grasp to cup his cheek in his hand. “That explains all the empty liquor bottles.”

Jaskier laughs without humor, feeling tears slipping out from behind his closed eyelids and down his cheeks. “I thought you were gone and Geralt too. I thought I lost both of you.”

“No, Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “You haven’t lost either of us. No matter what happens between Geralt and me, you won’t.”

Jaskier can’t hold back the tears anymore, so he buries his face into her lap and lets himself weep, letting out the grief and the terror and the pain. She doesn’t offer verbal assurances— if she did, he would really think this was a cruel trick of Rience’s— but she cards her fingers through his hair as gently as she would if they were lying in bed together. Jaskier cries until his eyes are sore and dry, but doesn’t lift his head from her lap. Part of him feels like the moment he stops touching her, she’ll vanish.

“I wore myself out portaling here and fighting Rience,” Yennefer says. Her voice would sound perfectly calm, if not for the faint tremor. “But tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do about your ribs. And then in a day or two, we can portal to Kaer Morhen to join Geralt.”

Jaskier lifts his head to meet her eyes. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think Kaer Morhen is the one place Nilfgaard won’t find us,” she says. “Once Rience stops smoldering, he’ll be back. I won’t leave you here for him to find.”

Jaskier shudders at the very thought. “But you and Geralt…”

“If it will keep you and Cirilla safe, we’ll figure things out.” She brushes his tears away with her thumb. “We can worry about Geralt and me after we’re safe in Kaer Morhen, bardling. Or as safe as anyone is in a crumbling old ruin.”

“At least I have you to stop the ceiling from collapsing on me.” He offers her a watery smile.

Her returning smile is a small, almost unsure thing. “You say that like I wouldn’t be the one bringing the ceiling down on top of you.”

“Ah, Yennefer.” Tentatively, he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “There’s the sweet disposition I missed so much.”

“Did you hit your head during your ordeal?”

“Most likely, yes.”

Yennefer squeezes his hand and pulls him up to sit on the bed next to her. “I missed you too, bardling.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and rests his chin on the top of her head. “Thank you for coming for me. I didn’t think anyone would.”

Yennefer leans against him, letting out a shaky little breath. “I’ll always come for you. So will Geralt. I’m sorry you doubted that.”

Jaskier puts his arms around her, the awkwardness of their separation pushed to the side, and lets himself hold her like he hasn’t in over a year, like he thought he never would again. Tomorrow, they’ll have to have a longer talk about the dragon hunt, the djinn wish, and Geralt. Apologies will need to be made and conversations about the future had. They’ll have to make their way to Kaer Morhen to reunite with Geralt and meet his child surprise. They’ll have to figure out what to do now that Nilfgaard is after both of them.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, Jaskier just wants to hold the woman he loves and forget everything else.

***

#the witcher #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing #what about the bard #whump the bard

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reinvent-and-believe · 3 years

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saying your names

Prompt: hallucination Relationships: Geralt & Visenna Rating: T Content Warnings: unintentional but constant misgendering by a parent; depiction of gender dysphoria in a small child; reference to child self-injury (scratching); abandonment issues; minor book spoilers Summary: Visenna's child is claimed by a witcher through the Law of Surprise. When she bears a daughter instead of the promised son, she thinks she's cheated Destiny. But Destiny rarely accepts such defeat. (Or - the trans Geralt mommy issues fic)

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

i. The Brave Knight

There’s an old fairy tale from far-away Toussaint, one Visenna remembers her grandmother telling her when she was little more than a babe, of a cohort of the bravest knights who gathered at the behest of the first duke to slay monsters and defeat villains and protect the land from all manner of evil. They were five in total, but none rivalled the gallant Sir Geralt, who defended the innocent and the weak, who perfectly embodied the Virtues, who fearlessly and faithfully loved the beautiful maiden Liliana. It’s a story like no other, full of heroics and chivalry, grand quests and epic romance. Visenna remembers sighing as a little girl, of braiding flowers into her shining copper hair and pretending to be Lady Liliana, rescued by that most puissant and most chivalrous of knights.

She hopes that her own daughter will love the tales as much as she did, so she recounts them while Greta lies in bed, wide dark eyes barely blinking as she soaks in every detail. She’s two now and obsessed with stories, any silly rambling thing Visenna remembers from childhood or improvises about the forest creatures near the village, but none have captivated her quite like this tale.

The next day, Visenna hears her daughter whacking at the swaying cattails at the bank of the river with a stick. “I defeat you!” comes the tremulous cry. “I Sir Geralt! I brave knight!”

It’s a small thing, and silly, yet Visenna goes cold.

ii. The Babe

When she realizes she’s with child, Visenna knows it will be a boy, feels it as sure as she feels the wind on her face, the blood pounding in her veins. She’s happy for a time. She knows the horrors women face, has seen, has felt firsthand the cruelties the world inflicts on beautiful little girls. Better a boy, then. Better a boy with a chance at a good life, a boy she can teach and train, a boy who won’t beat or violate or torment.

A mere month before the babe is due, the man returns, and finds her with child, and tells her what he’s done. He blames Destiny and the Law of Surprise and Tradition as Visenna learns a new type of cruelty men can inflict.

And so she hardens herself, tells herself that she will not become attached to what’s growing within her, this life promised to pay a life debt. “Don’t be absurd,” her friends tell her, through nervous glances. “You always assume the worst. It may well be a girl. The witcher won’t have need of a girl.”

But Visenna knows it, feels it with every spark of chaos within her and every pulse she sends out. The babe will be a boy, and she will have to give him up to the witchers, to be trained and transmuted into something other, something more and something less than the child she’ll birth.

And so Visenna grows cold.

When the midwife puts the squalling red girl with dark hair and wide dark eyes in Visenna’s arms, she sobs for days, sobs until she has no tears left and her eyes are raw and swollen. She won’t let the tiny thing out of her sight, barely lets others hold the babe, even in her utter exhaustion. Destiny may have promised her child to the witchers, but Destiny made the folly of giving her a daughter instead of the promised son.

iii. Greta

Greta will not wear her clothes.

At first, it’s almost a game. Visenna dresses her in a frock while the three-year-old protests then glares in turn when she’s overridden. She moves stiffly in the garment, pulling at the sleeves and tugging at the skirt, but she complies. But the minute she’s out of her mother’s sight, the dress comes off, and Visenna finds her naked, regardless of the weather. And the process repeats.

The struggle over clothing is only the beginning. Generally obedient, respectful, intelligent, Greta is nonetheless not an easy child, prone to inconsolable fits of panic and distress, prone to disappearing if not constantly monitored. It’s as though Visenna has birthed two different children. There’s the sullen, timid girl who hates wearing clothing, who barely speaks, who flinches at the sound of her own name, who stiffens in panic sometimes when she’s called, who cries at the slightest provocation, who goes missing only to be found after a frantic hour of searching lying on the floor in the narrow space between her bed and the wall, staring blankly, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Then there’s the other child, the one who cuts dark curls short with the pruning shears from the shed, who runs fearlessly through the woods, slaying invisible monsters all around, yelling and laughing and breathless.

When a young couple with a son not much older than Greta moves into a nearby cottage, Visenna hopes that companionship will stabilize her daughter’s volatile, inexplicable moods. Instead, it leads to an immediate altercation: on the first day Greta and the boy Marek play together, the boy’s father shows up on Visenna’s doorstep, furious, with a wide, bleeding gash in his hand. He’d found them wearing each other’s clothes, he tells her. Greta had refused to surrender Marek’s clothes, and when he moved to force her out of them, she’d bitten his hand. “Like a rabid beast,” he spits out as Visenna runs past him to the small shack where Greta makes herself as small as possible, shaking all over.

Visenna shoves a few coins at the man with a glare. “Buy your son another outfit,” she snaps, and when she kneels down to Greta’s level the terrified child’s arms wrap immediately around her neck. She takes her child home in the roughspun tunic and trousers.

(Maybe she should punish the child for biting, but Visenna knows the ways men can be cruel, had seen the terror in her child’s huge brown eyes. Even if he meant no harm in trying to retrieve his son’s clothes, she can’t help being glad the child bit him rather than permit his touch.)

Visenna has never listened to Greta’s thoughts before, rarely listens to anyone’s on purpose, hates the uneasy sense of violation the act stirs up in her. But as she carries the silent, shaking child home, the thoughts ring so loudly she can’t keep them out.

Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl. Not an idiot girl.

Then:

Not a girl.

iv. The Child

The morning after the incident with the neighbor, Visenna lays two outfits side by side on the bed: the tunic and trousers nicked from the neighbor boy, or the dress most frequently tolerated, a plain shift of soft linen, comfortable and loose.

"Which would you rather wear today?" Visenna asks, making the beds as usual. She hears the sharp intake of breath, sees out of the corner of her eye the hesitation, and then the child grabs the boy's clothes and cradles them in trembling arms.

Visenna visits a tailor and trades in little frocks for breeches and shirts. She watches her child’s face light up when she presents them, watches the child run reverent fingers over each garment, little hands doing their best to neatly fold each piece.

She stops calling the child Greta; stops calling the child anything but child. The child doesn’t seem to mind this namelessness; on the contrary, the child thrives. The too-thin frame rounds out with healthy, nearly chubby development as the child begins to eat more than a few bites at each meal; weak, skinny arms and legs grow strong with constant running and playing in the woods near the house. Banished is the pale, terrified little girl; only the rambunctious, talkative, joyful child remains.

"When I'm a knight," the child tells her one day, coming in from the yard wearing a bucket as a helmet, "I'm going to ride a big horse."

"Oh, a big horse," Visenna echoes, ladling the soup into a wooden bowl and blowing gently to cool it. "What will you name the horse?"

The child considers this. "Does it have to have a name?"

"All creatures need a name."

The child doesn't speak for a long while. Then that piping, gentle voice rings out. "What if the horse hates its name? It won’t be able to tell me."

Visenna sets the bowl down on the table. She doesn't ask any of the questions pounding through her head as she looks at her nameless child, lost in thought. She doesn’t think about Destiny, how a witcher may well show up at her door at any moment looking for their payment, doesn’t think about taking the child there herself. "Helmet off," she says instead, running a hand through dark curls when the child obeys. "Come, eat your soup."

v. The Butcher

She first hears whispers of the Butcher of Blaviken when she’s traveling through Poviss, brought north by an outbreak of smallpox needing healers. She hears of the vile, deranged, white-haired witcher who slaughtered nearly an entire village unprovoked, even women and children. She thinks little of it. The child she left with the witchers over half a century ago had brown hair, and the years would not have turned it so quickly, not on a witcher.

If he’s even still alive.

She puts the thought away, carefully, as she has for decades.

She thinks of it a little more in Kovir. “You’re one of them!” shrieks a woman in the tavern, pointing at a bulky man sitting in the corner. “One of them witchers like that Butcher! I seen your wolf necklace!”

All eyes train onto this disfigured witcher who is not Visenna’s child. (Does her child bear scars like this? Do his shoulders stoop in such defeat?) He scrubs a square hand over his face, looking almost pained, before he shoves away from the table in silence and leaves.

School of the Wolf, then, just like the witcher she’d surrendered her child to with naught but a letter left at the inn where he was staying. Your Child Surprise will be at the crossroads by the river at midday. A few brief, stilted sentences explaining that the child was different from other boys but Destiny had chosen him nonetheless. A terse plea that the witcher treat the child with kindness, to protect him if he could. A postscript, written in a shakier hand than the rest of the letter. My son’s name is Geralt.

Vesemir. The child’s father had called him old, grey-haired even then. Is Vesemir this Butcher, the ruthless, barbarous old witcher who leaves a trail of fresh corpses in his wake? Had she entrusted the helpless child to a merciless brute all these years ago?

It’s not until the notice board outside of Tridam that she understands. It’s a fairly standard notice concerning some vague, nondescript monster that’s caused disappearances, pleading for help from any witcher, excepting the butcher Geralt. Show your face in Tridam and we’ll finish you off like they should have done in Blaviken.

Her child, the Butcher of Blaviken.

She doesn’t know what happened in Blaviken, can’t find a clear telling. Killed a woman, some say, killed an army, killed all but three people, killed everyone down to the dogs and cows and sheep in his rage. Tales grow in the telling, she knows, but she can’t dispute it. Perhaps he is evil incarnate, perhaps by sending him to the witchers she doomed the continent to bloodshed, perhaps he is the monster in these furious whispers.

But she can’t help remembering the tiny, terrified body, rocking in the corner of a shack, those wide eyes staring up at her in panic. “Like a rabid beast,” the man had said, but Visenna found only a petrified child shaking in the corner.

vi. The White Wolf

The young man swaggers towards Visenna. Between the bright turquoise doublet, the enormous feather swooping dramatically through the air on his jauntily tilted hat, and the self-assurance of his stride, he looks like a veritable peacock.

It’s her own fault. She knows she’d been staring, but the sound of that name on his lips…

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” His smile is bright and surprisingly genuine, reaching all the way up to his eager blue eyes. He’s younger up close than she’d imagined from across the tavern, barely more than a boy. “Though not half so lovely as you, I daresay. Might I interest you in a drink?”

She nods, silent. Watches him charm a passing barmaid who blushes and quickly returns with the desired ale. He slips into the chair across from Visenna, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his long fingers together beneath his chin, fixing her with a wide-eyed, adoring smile.

Before he can speak, she asks, “Your song. About the witcher.” She pauses, unsure what she means to ask. “Did you write it?”

Somehow the boy looks even more delighted. “Indeed I did! By the gods, it’s wonderful to chat with a fan. It’s one of my most recent compositions. How did you like it?”

“Hmm.” The boy’s song had been so jarringly different from any reference to the child she bore than she’s ever heard. In the bard’s honeyed voice, he sounded almost heroic. She hesitates. “Do you know him?”

“Only a little,” he admits, but there’s a slight flush on his childish face that he attempts to cover with bravado. “The song is the true telling of our grand adventure. I accompanied the White Wolf on his quest to defeat the Devil of Posada, the most terrifying monster to ever...well, terrorize the good people of the Valley of the Flowers.”

“And he’s...he’s not what people say?” Those huge brown eyes staring up at her, tiny body trembling. “Not a butcher?”

“Oh my good lady, not at all!” The bard’s expression of dismay is guileless, earnest. “He saved me, put himself between me and harm’s way when we were captured by the elves, offered his own life for mine.”

A life debt. Just as the child’s father had promised the Law of Surprise to the old witcher, the vow that had set the course of Geralt’s life before he was even born. And now this strange boy owes Geralt a life debt of his own.

“So that’s why,” she confirms cautiously. “Why you write songs for him. Make him the hero when men would be more than happy to remember him as a monster.”

The boy hesitates, his charismatic blustering slipping as he bites at his bottom lip. He reaches distractedly into his pocket, finding some trinket he rolls about in his palm to occupy his busy, nervous hand before he slowly answers. “Even if he hadn’t saved my life I would have written about him. Well, not if I hadn’t survived that particular encounter, of course. But if I’d gotten away myself, or if I hadn’t followed him into the wild in the first place, I would still have written about him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I…I don’t think he’s known very much kindness.” The bard doesn’t look at her, quite, as he speaks, slower and softer than before. “You ought to see the way he responds to a simple compliment, you’d think his head might explode, he twitches and looks bewildered and grunts angrily. It’d be amusing if it weren’t so very sad.” He’s quiet for a moment, tracing the wood grain in the table with his eyes as he gathers his thoughts. “But he’s kind, even if the world isn’t. He gave his reward for the contract to the…well, to someone who needed it more. And before that, he…” He glances down at the dull gold coin between his fingers, rubbing absently at worn, beveled edges, his face flushing prettily. “He liked my singing.”

She watches the bard, lost in thought and fiddling with a lone coin, for a long while.

vii. Geralt

A slip of a thing running through the woods. Frightened. Alone.

A fight. Gruesome, brutal, fast.

The stench of decay.

“And me? What did I do? I bandaged a wounded man who’d fainted away and put him on my cart and didn’t leave him to expire. It’s an ordinary matter.”

“It’s not so ordinary. I’ve been left...in similar situations...like a dog.”

Blood. Not running, red and healthy and clean; slow. Thick. Dark. Foul.

Infection.

Youths dancing in lusty delight on a warm spring night. A woman with raven curls, naked and wistful in his arms, the warmth of a bonfire lighting her face a beautiful gold. Children screaming, playing in a dried moat. A queen, formidable and sneering, full of contempt.

Hideous wounds, threatening the leg. Amputation may be necessary, without immediate intervention.

Resin in the air.

Ashen hair matted over the clumped, drying cake of blood deforming half of a pale face.

Black potion with a green seal. And then darkness.

Visenna awakes with a start.

The druids’ campsite is still, the last embers of the fire the only light in the darkness of the forest. She pulls the woolen cloak around her thin shoulders, grabs her medical bag, and goes to find the witcher that was once her child.

She finds him a pale and bloody mess on the back of a cart, eyes open and unseeing. He’s racked with feverish chills as his body desperately attempts to fight the infection poisoning him.

She helps the merchant move Geralt carefully onto blankets on the ground. She tends to him, as she’s tended to thousands of others. She cleans his wounds, scraping destroyed, decaying flesh away from healthy tissue, pulling the gentle pulses of chaos from the earth to purify his blood, draining infection and necrosis and narcotic alike from him.

She’d cleaned blood and dirt and debris from scraped knees, once, the too-fast beating of a little, huge heart pounding so loudly she could feel it. The wounds of childhood.

His pulse is slow, the drumbeat of a dirge.

She’s warm all over, suddenly, then cold. Her vision swims before her eyes.

A little more. The pulsing wanes, wavers as she begins to join him in the dark void beyond consciousness.

No.

She breathes, her eyes closed, then returns to her work.

She feels him stirring before he makes a movement, senses him swimming to the surface, coming to. He’s quiet, still, blank. When his eyes open, he’s staring at the treetops above them. His face is impassive. Lifeless.

The way she would find him, sometimes, after he went missing as a child. Staring at nothing. Trying not to be.

She can hear it in his voice. He knows.

His leg will heal, now. She’s done all she can.

She moves on to the bedsores, massaging ointment carefully into the open wounds. His body is stiff and unyielding beneath her touch.

She gives him what she can. “It’s my profession,” she says. Her voice is steady, cool. It’s no excuse, no answer, but it’s what she has. “The only thing I’ve ever been good at.” This much at least is true. This much she can give him.

She’s always known she would meet him again. She never sought him out, never avoided him. “People linked by destiny will always find each other.” She hears it, as though it’s someone else’s voice.

“I want you to look at me.” It’s a snarl. Not a sound she’s heard from those lips before. “How do you like my eyes? Do you know, Visenna, what they do to a witcher to improve his eyes?”

She knows enough. She meets his gaze.

Those eyes, the greatest marker of his difference, his inhumanity. They’re golden, now, instead of brown. His pupils are wide, round, black, pained. They aren’t so different. So monstrous.

Just the eyes of a terrified child lashing out in desperation.

“Do you know it doesn’t always work?” he demands.

“Stop it, Geralt.”

And something breaks.

“You don’t get to use that name!” There’s a frantic rage dripping off every syllable, hatred and agony, like a festering wound ripped open and left to bleed. He glares at her with a wild fury. “Vesemir gave me that name.”

And he’s a child, he’s three years old and screaming like he’s being tortured when she calls his given name. He’s five and distraught over the thought of a horse who hates its name and can’t tell anyone. He’s four and he’s a trembling mess with blood beneath his fingernails, shaking and unable to stop ripping at his own flesh.

“You trusted Destiny rather than trying to find me yourself,” he begs.

A child with nothing in the world running through the forest and into the arms of a witcher.

There’s a tear running down her face. It’s the only thing she can feel. “Don’t ask me any more questions,” Visenna says softly.

“Why?”

She’d known since before he was born that she wasn’t to keep him. That Destiny had other plans.

When she thought she had a daughter, there was hope.

“The answers will only hurt us both.” Carefully, Visenna presses him back into the makeshift sickbed.

“Yen was right.” His voice is low, barely audible, a broken murmur. “It’s not enough to be destined for each other.”

A child runs through the woods and finds a witcher waiting.

Brown curls become ashen locks. Eyes swirling brown and gold and green.

“Something more is needed.” He’s not speaking to her anymore. He’s staring up, at the treetops and through them to the stars above, his eyes losing and regaining focus. “I...I want…”

“No.” Her voice is soft, and she sees him relax into the smooth cadence in spite of himself. “Go to sleep, Geralt.” She hesitates as his eyes grow heavy, begin to drift shut, and she can’t help leaning toward him to gently whisper, “And just between us, Vesemir didn’t give you that name.” She lets herself reach out, carefully brushing white hair off his sweating brow. “It doesn’t change anything, but I’d like you to know that.”

“Visenna…”

“Sleep. I was just a dream.” She hesitates, watching silently as he fights the exhaustion, like a child fighting to stay awake past his bedtime, begging for one more story. “Sleep, Sir Geralt.”

He does.

viii. Sir Geralt

She does not see him again.

She travels to Sodden and heals the injured, soldier and mage alike.

She hears tales, as she has for years.

Geralt’s kidnapped a young Cintran princess for unspeakable, nefarious purposes.

Geralt died on Thanedd, caught up by chance in the mages’ bloody revolt.

Geralt led the forces of Lyria and Rivia against Nilfgaard, earning himself a knighthood and a position in Queen Meve’s army.

(She doesn’t believe any of them, doesn’t let herself care either way, but she hopes the latter is true. Hopes he lives out the rest of his days a brave knight, as he always dreamed of becoming.)

Visenna works. Cleans and stitches and bandages wounds, wanders from battleground to battleground. There’s no shortage of work for a healer.

So many tales of Geralt the witcher, Geralt the traitor, Geralt the butcher, the knight, the outlaw, the hero, the father. Of his victories and defeats, his loves and enemies, his transcendence, his demise.

Visenna listens to them all. Collects the stories, the lies, the praises, the calumnies. She draws them carefully within her. Carries them with her as she continues on the path.

For all the rumors and speculation and ballads, of all things, for all the different Geralts, there’s one that’s hers and hers alone. A skinny, adventurous child with brown curls and a bucket-helmet falling into his eyes who swings a gnarled oak stick as a sword. He’s ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the weak against the unrelenting onslaught of monsters only he can see.

#the witcher fic #the witcher #geralt of rivia #visenna #trans geralt #my fic #still don't really know how i feel about this but here it is #witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

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spencer-reid-in-a-pool · 3 years

Text

It Was You All Along (Part 5)

Author’s note: In case you can’t tell, this part starts off with a flashback! I think it’s kind of obvious, but in case you are like me and don’t catch onto things very quickly, here is your warning. It’s a bit longer than the others, so please enjoy! I’m a bit lost on where I want to take this, so please drop any ideas if you have them. And as always, feedback is very appreciated! ALSO!! Get ready for some soft platonic Geralt x reader at the end.

Tags: @ayyyyitswednesdaymydoods @blackjay04 @bravelittlesunflower

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If it wasn’t one thing, it was another, that’s for sure. So far it had been a normal morning. I had restocked the flowers and herbs around my shop, and cleaned every display until it was spotless. It felt like it was going to be a good day. I could really use more of those to be honest.

But of course, something had to come and change that. And when I say something, I mean someone. Two someones actually. A really large, intimidating someone supporting a smaller one through the door.

My heart felt like it stopped when the door was kicked open, the sudden noise startling me. So of course I looked up immediately and saw them. The large man with white hair supporting the smaller man who was slumped over and covered in blood.

After freezing for half a second, I dropped the soiled rag that was in my hand and made my way over to them without a word. This man clearly needed help for his friend.

“What happened?” I asked breathlessly, closing the door behind them.

“Can you help him?” the large white-haired man grunted as he shifted his weight to better support his friend.

“Gods, Geralt- I can walk and talk for myself.”

The injured man groaned out his words as he tried to stand on his own two feet. But him standing on his own didn’t last long. He took one step forward and fell into the large set of glass displays in front of him.

I yelped as he fell, and my hands shot out in an attempt to catch him before he hit the floor completely. But the man named Geralt was a few steps ahead of me it seemed, and had already grabbed him by the arm. A large red spot was forming on the side of the man’s face, along with jagged slashes on his cheek from the shattered glass.

“By the gods! Will you please sit down before you hurt yourself even more?” I practically yelled. Not because I was mad, but because I was scared for the man’s safety at this point.

Geralt sat him in the chair that I pulled over for him, and then finally settled his eyes on me.

“Can you help him?” he repeated in that same voice.

My mouth opened but no words came out. Without responding to him, I hurriedly made my way around my stock, picking out the things I would need to help this poor fool.

I pulled up another chair and sat down in front of him. He was slumped forward now, breathing quite hard. Gently, I pressed a hand to his shoulder and leaned him back so I could get a better look at his injuries. Not counting the now half-purple spot on his face and the bleeding, jagged lines on his cheek from just a moment ago, I didn’t outwardly see anything wrong with him.

I began dabbing a clean cloth on his face to wipe away some of the blood and it occurred to me that these men looked familiar.

Without skipping a beat, I said “I know who you two are. You’re that Witcher that everyone sings about. And you’re the one that does the singing.”

As I said the last part, I turned back to the man in front of me, and he almost looked like he was smiling, even through all the pain he must be feeling.

“The one and only,” he panted.

I scoffed at him.

“Is he always like this?” I asked, turning to look up at Geralt.

A look of what seemed like pain or frustration crossed his features.

“Unfortunately.”

Stifling a laugh, I glanced back at the bard.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Geralt. And Jaskier.”

Jaskier perked up at his name but immediately winced after I put a salve on the gashes on his cheek.

“Now are you going to tell me what happened? I see a large amount of blood but no wounds.”

Jaskier raised a shaky hand and pulled back the left half of his slightly undone shirt. Three large gashes, much like the ones on his face, adorned his chest.

“Gods...”

“I never get tired of hearing women say that... but normally it isn’t in this context.”

My eyes seemed to roll themselves at his words, but I couldn’t say I blamed women for their reactions to him. He was quite something to look at. Under normal circumstances.

“I don’t even know what it was...it happened so fast. Did you kill it, Geralt?” Jaskier asked in a huff.

Geralt crossed his arms, and shook his head.

“I figured I should make sure you didn’t die first, bard.”

Jaskier nodded, a simple “Ah,” leaving his lips.

“Well, no matter. You can fix me right?”

He sounded like he was poking fun at the situation, but I could hear the fear in his words. I decided to try and make him smile before I did this next part. It would be painful.

“Anything for Geralt of Rivia and his emotional support bard.”

I don’t know what woke me up first. The pounding in my head or the loud birds above me. I was almost afraid to open my eyes, in case it made my head hurt worse than it already did. So I laid there, on what felt like grass and leaves and twigs, with my eyes completely closed. Then I remembered what happened, and my eyes shot open.

It looked like it was early morning now, which would explain the birds calling loudly to each other in the trees surrounding me. Had I been out cold all night? I had gotten hit pretty hard, so it would make sense, I suppose. Slowly, I lifted a hand to my face. But before I reached all the way up, I couldn’t help but notice the cuts and bruises that adorned the skin on it. This caused me to gasp sharply, which only caused a stabbing pain in my chest. With a whimper, I finally touched the pads of my fingers to the skin on my face and was not surprised when I felt scabs and dried blood. I could only imagine what I looked like right now.

After examining my injuries as best I could, I gingerly got up off the ground and leaned against the nearest tree. Right above my head was a really large, thick branch. I’m assuming it was the branch that knocked me out.

Lily was nowhere to be seen. Gods only knows where she ended up. I just hoped with all my heart she was okay, wherever she was. And of course, I hope that Geralt, Jaskier, and Roach were okay. Wherever they were...

It only hit me then how completely alone I was. How incredibly deafening the silence around me was, since the birds had quieted down some. It almost felt as if there was a wall around me. I felt trapped and utterly helpless. Sighing, I lifted myself off the tree I had leaned against, and decided there was only one thing for me to do now. And that was to get moving.

Maybe if I was a Witcher, I could just track down the boys and my horse instead of wandering aimlessly through the woods. I could only dream, of course. Girls can’t be Witchers. That gave me an idea, though.

I glanced at the ground in front of me, and saw what looked to be the prints of horse hooves. They must lead to where Lily went. A glimmer of hope made me feel a bit lighter, so I decided to go with it. It was the only plan I had, after all.

But I quickly realized it would not be as easy as I thought. Some of the prints were obvious, but others were not. Some were covered by leaves and dirt, but others were plain as day. And they were so spaced out, it was hard to tell what was new and what was old. It was hard to tell what might have been Lily’s.

I took a deep breath, one that felt like it filled my lungs to bursting, and kept walking, following what tracks I could see and hoping to the gods that it would lead me somewhere good. At least somewhere where I wasn’t alone.

I had no idea how much time had passed. It felt like hours, but it could’ve been only minutes. All I know is that my feet feel like they could fall off my body, and my stomach is so empty that it made noises that might give the monsters Geralt fought a run for their money. But that’s not even the worst part. It was just so damn quiet. Eerily quiet. The daylight had begun to darken a bit, but there was still plenty of light to see where I was going. I had lost track of the horse tracks a while back, but I just kept walking. I felt as if I was in a trance. Staying in the same place just felt like the wrong thing to do. I had to move. I had to keep doing something.

Eventually, I reached a clearing. In that clearing was the ruins of what looked like an old castle. A small one, but a castle nonetheless. I decided to find the most comfortable spot of rubble I could and rest for a moment. But before I sat down, I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye. Needless to say, it startled me.

Forgetting how badly my feet hurt and how hungry I was in a matter of seconds, I sprang up from my place on the ground with widened eyes.

“Who’s there?” I croaked.

There was no answer. I don’t know why I expected one.

“Please, don’t hurt me, okay? I’m just lost. I don’t know where I am.”

Still, no one replied. This terrified me even more. I frantically looked around and found a decent sized stone I might be able to use to defend myself. After picking it up, I made my way slowly over to where I had seen the movement.

The ground beneath my timid footsteps crackled and crunched. I tried to control my shaking breaths as best I could. Stopping for a moment to try and calm down, I crouched behind the nearest slab of stone and tried listening for any more sounds. All I could hear was a slight swish. It was rhythmic almost. It sounded like something was brushing gently up against something else. To be honest, it reminded me of the sound Lily’s tail makes when it makes contact with the grass beneath her while she is grazing.

My grip on the stone loosened, and I stood up excitedly. Could it be?

With only this thought and a sliver of hope in my chest, I turned to where the noise was coming from to finally see what or who it was. And praise the gods, it was Lily. A very disheveled, dirty, and scratched-up Lily.

I shouted her name, holding back a sudden wave of tears. She turned to me, chomping on a clump of grass lazily. I was probably more excited to see her than she was to see me, but let’s not talk about that.

I ran to her and threw my arms around her neck, not caring that she was chewing grass over my shoulder, probably dropping bits of it and drooling on me.

“Gods, I thought I lost you. Thanks for waiting for me to wake up, by the way. That was really nice. All the things I do for you...”

I didn’t really mean what I was saying and she knew that. I had just been so scared. After I pulled away from her, I began picking out the twigs and leaves and other things that had gotten stuck in her tail and mane. It gave me something to focus on while I calmed down.

Once I was finished, I led her over to where I had been planning on resting.

“We’re gonna wait here a while, okay? I’m so tired, and I’m sure you are too. At least you can eat, though,” I said with a sigh.

She simply glanced at me, but I took it as a signal that said, “Okay.”

Darkness had begun to fall now. The light seemed to dwindle by the minute, and it was still just Lily and I, sitting in the same spot from earlier. I didn’t know what to do. I was starting to feel sick from not eating or drinking anything, and my feet weren’t feeling much better than earlier either. But I didn’t want to put any extra stress on Lily by riding her, so that was out of the question.

I had seen some berries around here before, but I had no idea which ones were poisonous. And I was too scared to venture out to try and find some clean water to drink. So I’m kind of just stuck here for the moment.

The darkness brought a chill along with it. My breaths could be seen in puffs of air out in front of me. And as it got colder, they got more and more shaky. I was only wearing my basic dress that I had been wearing all day, and it wasn’t very thick. The only other clothes I had on were my underclothes, and those were even thinner. All the bags with my things in them were back at our original camping spot. Obviously, I didn’t have time to grab them when we were attacked. So, quite literally, all I had was the clothing on my body.

When it got dark enough for the stars to come out, I laid against Lily who had curled up on the ground long ago. Thankfully, she provided some warmth. Whether she wanted to or not was debatable.

Perhaps the worst thing about my current situation was the silence. It was so damn quiet. I hadn’t realized how used to the noise I was. Whether it was Jaskier talking or singing, or just the sounds of the three of us walking along a dirt road together.

So I did something that I had been taught by the best there was. I sang. I just sang. All my favorite songs that I knew by heart, most of them being Jaskier’s. It made me feel warmer, although I know it isn’t real warmth.

My voice wasn’t the greatest, but it wasn’t terrible either. That wasn’t my concern anyway. I just wanted to feel less lonely and more comforted. While I sang, I thought about the many nights that Jaskier and I sung together around the fire, passing the time while Geralt was out and about. I wasn’t used to singing alone, and it made me sad.

There was only one song left that I hadn’t sung, and I honestly wasn’t sure whether I had left it for last on purpose or not. My throat was itchy now, not used to singing this much for this long alone.

“I am weak my love, and I am wanting...”

It came out like more of a whisper than a song. But I continued anyway. Had I really fallen for him this quickly without even realizing my feelings? Or was I just too stupid to know how I felt from the beginning? I wasn’t sure, but all I could think about while I sang was the purple marks I saw around his collarbone the last time I saw him. And the way he and Geralt whispered about me that night. It made me angry all over again.

“I’m an idiot,” I whispered to myself. Lily shifted underneath my weight as if she was agreeing.

At some point I began to drift off. But I was awoken when I heard footsteps nearby. Immediately, I shot up and looked around. It was pitch black, so I couldn’t see anything. I only heard footsteps, and they sounded like they were getting closer every second. Instead of trying to flee, I sat curled up in the corner of the slab of stone with Lily, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t see me. If the gods were on my side, they would just keep walking.

“(Y/N), I know you’re there. It’s just me,” a gruff voice that I knew all too well spoke out in the darkness.

As soon as he finished talking, it felt like a ton of rocks was lifted from my shoulders. It was Geralt. Thank the gods above, it was Geralt. I had never been so happy to see the oaf in my life.

“Geralt!” I yelled with glee before I could even see where he was.

He got closer and closer and then I could finally see where he was. His hair was a mess, and so were his clothes. I can’t imagine I was looking any better.

“Come on, I’ll start a fire. I’m sure you have questions, and I know you’re hungry.”

My stomach growled in response to his words. If he heard it- which I’m sure he did- he made no comment about it. I was thankful. And above all, I was thankful for his company.

Geralt and I now sat around the small fire he had made. I hadn’t noticed this before, but he had Roach with him, who was now tied to a tree nearby with Lily.

“So what the hell was that? What happened? And where’s Jaskier? Wait- how did you even find me?”

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. I glanced over at Geralt across the flames, a bit embarrassed. But the corner of his mouth twitched, which meant he was almost smiling.

“What answer do you want first?”

I gave a breathy laugh in response and shrugged.

“I found you because I could smell you. Witcher, remember? Nice bruise, by the way. Hope you gave that branch as good as you got.”

My cheeks burned and I tried to hide them from his view. Asshole.

“Anyway, I don’t know who they were. Bandits, I’m guessing. But one was a mage. That’s why I told you to run before fighting them off. Who knows what would have happened had you been there. Unfortunately, I don’t know where that bumbling idiot Jaskier is. After you left, he tried fighting off one of them, but got a pretty good punch in the face. I turned for one second, and when I looked back he was gone.”

I’m sure Geralt could see the look on my face. I was worried and scared.

“We’ll find him. He’s probably in a brothel somewhere. I caught a bit of his scent a while back. I remember the place. We’ll go check there in the morning.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. Geralt’s words echoed in my head: “He’s probably in a brothel somewhere.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Geralt quietly, “and it’s not what it seems.”

“Well, what is it then?” I spat, my words laced with a sudden venom, “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me listening in on you two the other night. I heard what you were talking about. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. It was a mistake he said.”

My eyes stung and my chest hurt all at once. Truthfully, I didn’t know just how severe these feelings were since I had somewhat successfully bottled them up. But now they were back in full force. I guess they had never truly been hidden.

“It’s not my place to say.”

“Of course it’s not,” I whispered, barely audible. “You never want to get involved in anything. Except you always do, anyway.”

A silence settled over us. I didn’t know what else there was to say.

The sounds of Geralt digging around next to him broke the silence. It was then that I saw him take something shiny out of his bag. He grabbed some other bags, which turned out to be my things I left at camp before, and slowly walked over to me, never making eye contact with me.

Geralt handed me my belongings first, and I thanked him quietly, He still wasn’t looking at me.

“This is for you. Do you know how to use it?”

He gently held out a dagger. It looked brand new, the silver gleam of the small blade almost blinding even in the dying light of the fire. Its hilt was bejeweled with twinkling stones of several different colors, and there was a small inscription on it.

“It says “be brave” in Elder. I got it for you a while ago because it occurred to me you have been travelling without a weapon all this time. And I thought now might be a good time to give it to you.”

With a slight tremble in my hands, I took it from him, never looking away from it.

“Geralt, I- I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” I whispered, finally looking up at him.

He simply nodded, but his eyes were soft. He truly did care about my well being.

“Truly. Thank you for everything Geralt. For this, for finding me, and for telling me what I needed to hear back at the tavern. But mostly, thank you for being my friend.”

Geralt nodded once more, then turned away without a word to go back to his spot across the fire.

“Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

Sleep did sound quite good, so I decided to follow his advice, wondering what tomorrow could possibly hold for our little group.

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bamf-jaskier · 4 years

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alright so no one asked for his but I can’t stop thinking about it.

Jaskier is not talented at fighting in anyway shape or from. He’s fit enough to run away pretty quickly and is taller than most people, but honestly he just doesn’t having any knowledge of how to fight. He has a dagger but it’s more for looks that anything else.

Most people assume that after years of traveling through increasingly dangerous situations with Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier would have picked up something, sword fighting, pakour, hand to hand or even would be strong enough to throw a good punch but honestly he’s really useless at that kind of thing.

When Geralt is around, the witcher can normally take care of any enemies they have so Jaskier doesn’t bother and when Geralt isn’t around Jaskier has enough charisma and charm to get himself out of the situation. He’s a bard by trade. He doesn’t like to resort to fighting.

Then he begins to hear whispers from people about The White Wolf’s bard. There are rumours that he is viscious when crossed, that he can hold his own in a fight. The rumors are helpful, Jaskier is accosted quite a bit less and when people see him late in the night, they leave him alone but it begins to push at Jaskier in an unpleasant way. Because, in the end, these are just rumors, falsehoods. He can’t actually fight, he can’t actually go feral or take out a dozen bandits in the night.

He’s not useful to Geralt and once he realizes this Jaskier begins to a feel more than a bit self-conscious. The swords in the windows of local blacksmiths begin to look more appealing and the measly dagger he carries to defend himself begins to looks more pathetic. How could be matched up to Geralt if he’s really as useless as all that?

His mood must be obvious because Geralt begins to give him odd looks that Jaskier understands to mean ‘we really should talk but I’m too much of a coward to say anything’. Jaskier is having trouble composing his music and he feels entirely uninspired.

One night, when they have just left a town and are headed for a contract on a nekker nest Jaskier feels brave enough to ask Geralt.

“Geralt, uh, quick question, no pressure, no commitment here. But, well, I know that you have those big scary swords of yours and well, I was wondering if you think you could teach me how to use them.”

From over the fire, Geralt gives Jaskier the strangest look.

“Why do you want to learn to use swords? There’s not much room to carry them alongside a lute.”

Jaskier tries to edge around the questions, “I just think...it could be fun.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, “Fun? You once said that watching me practice swordsmanship must be a special type of torture desgined by Witchers for use against bards.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I was mistaken.”

“Jaskier you have never admitted to being wrong a day in your godforsaken life, what is this about?”

He sighed, he might as well admit it. It could be the only that convinces Geralt.

“I’ve been hearing these rumors about my apparently hidden talent at weapons, but the truth is Geralt I can hardly throw a punch and honestly I terrified that...”

He stopped he couldn’t say it. Then he looked at Geralt who was waiting patiently, no judgement in his eyes and it gave him the strength to continue.

“I’m terrified that I am absolutely useless to you as a traveling companion.”

For a moment, Geralt was silent and Jaskier considered bolting then and there but Geralt began speaking in a measure voice.

“Jaskier, by this point in time I truly hope you aren’t measuring your worth on physical prowess alone.”

He looked up, what was Geralt saying? The Witcher must have noticed his questioning look because he continued talking.

“You are easily one of the most talent bards on the Continent, you manage to get people in your pocket within minutes of meeting you and you have the have the terrifying talent of making people forget why they ever hated you in the first place. Jaskier, you don’t need to be vicious and ruthless to be interesting, you don’t need to be strong to be brave, and you don’t have to be useful to be my friend and the most worthy travel companion I have ever had.”

Jaskier blinked. Those weren’t tears forming in the corners of his eyes, nope, the smoke from the fire had just irritated them. He tried to open his mouth to speak but the words came out rough.

“Than-thank you Geralt.”

He grabbed his lute from behind his back and pulled it in front of him. His desire to amass an increasingly immense stockpile of weapons was diminishing and the want to compose his next song was growing. He began to strum a simple pattern on the strings.

Geralt was right. He didn’t have to be the most powerful person in the room. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to be useful to be loved.

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oh-for-fic-sake · 4 years

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A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

Masterlist

Chapter Two

Warning: Adult situations +18 SMUT, Breeding Kink, A/B/O

A/n This is the brainchild of me and @havenoffandoms who helped me a lot with suggestions that I hadn't even thought of xx this will be a short chaptered fic hope you enjoy

Geralt finds his omega and Jaskier helps.

A Witcher's Pack Chapter One

You sighed watching the younger children running playing, weaving in and out of the sparse stalls in the village market. You sighed wistfully as they played chase, not a care in to world. You was jealous. You had that at some point, a reason to laugh, smile and play. You hand tightened on the basket as you were spotted by one of the mothers she was glaring at you. A beta. Most people here were betas there was only two alphas in the village. One an old waif of a man long past his prime and the other a young teen who had only just presented now that puberty had hit him and it had hit him like a brick wall, you smirked as you recalled the mouthy little shits wails as his senses were overloaded and had caused him to erupted in the most unsightly of ways.

You smiled as you remember him kicking, screaming and groaning, how he could be an alpha was beyond you ,he was a well known mamas boy even now at eighteen he hid behind her skirts. Your bet was on black magic Alphas presented at puberty he was eighteen summers old. But of course his presentation was a good omen and there was a celebration over it. You sneered 'yes it was fine for them'. You hissed in your mind as you strode across the market picking up vegetables for the week. Quickly taking your share you turned leaving the market without a second glance heading through the gates, the village didn't need a wall but apparently you was a threat. you almost felt honored they had been so wary of you they built a wall to keep you out. How thoughtful. You quickly walked to the old granary shack it was tiny but you'd been condemned to on the outside of the village. We wouldn't want the omega to seduce the villagers with her evil sinful ways now would we?.

You cringed remembering that day. You was eleven. Playing with the other children much like the ones in the market today and you began to feel unwell. The bakers son sven who you was sweet on, walked you home. That night you got the shivers your mother tried to help but the fever persisted and got progressively worse. By dawn you was moved to the healers cottage. You remembered how every breath was agony, the air was freezing in your heated lungs you truly thought you was dying as each breath was a struggle. Sitting by the fire you could still feel the pain, reliving it your bones ached and your head felt fuzzy then it happened it felt like you had been drowning your whole life everything muted and suddenly you was above the water hearing, smelling, seeing for the very first time. Terrified the village was convinced at first it was a curse, or maybe they hoped it was. You never really found out all you knew was that after the awakening came the cramps and your first bleed. The pain that sealed your fate was agonizing and nothing soothed it. You was an omega, it was a daunting realization. Omegas are a commodity around these parts either sold to an alpha to produce more alphas or sent to whore houses, but our village didn't have either and you had presented young a whore house probably wouldn't pay much, you didn't have tits yet.

The next option was killing you, an honor killing they said before you could disgrace your family with your depraved instincts. Your mother was against it, she was torn an omega was a bad omen believed to only present just before a disaster that would kill many the thought being the omega would repopulate and replace those lost and on the other hand you was her little girl, her youngest, miracle child who was born without breath yet somehow managed a cry after being declared dead. So at her insistence you was banished from the village, you could enter for commerce but nothing else, they couldn't risk you tainting them anymore then you had. you cringed as a cold wind swept through the shack planks were missing from the side and your hearth consisted of a small pit in the center of the space with rocks haphazardly strewn in a circle to try and avoid the place burning to the ground, a rug was your bed with a thread bare blanket for comfort. you survived on vegetables and berries, no one in town would sell you weapons for hunting they refused to waste the meat on you that was for there own.

Not you.

Luckily you had managed to dig through the soil with your hands and plant some of the seeds you had carefully picked from the food you was allowed to have. you watched as the sun began to fall below the walls casting a red glow above them. You wanted them to burn. It may be bad but you didnt care. Three days was all it took for you to become an animal to them. A child they had watched grow and flourish, was cast out without a second thought. You sighed poking at the fire adding a some tinder and curled up before the fire trying to preserve as much body heat as you could.

"Geralt are you sure this is the place? it looks to- well its not exactly high brow is it? i though witches like fancy places not back water villages" for once Jaskier wasn't spouting nonsense.

Geralt sighed looking up to the sky. it'd be snowing soon, he really should turn around and make his way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He glanced down from roach at the bard who was still trailing behind him. he found himself doing that more and more recently, checking the beta making sure he was still there. looking forward again as he contemplated what exactly that meant, witchers didn't have packs. Or at least they weren't supposed to but Geralt had found himself classing Jaskier as pack and now couldn't help but look out for the weaker male wanting him to remain close. he shook his head irritated tho he was a witcher he was also an alpha and that was something the mutations couldn't take. But it wasn't all bad he summarized, he didn't endure ruts and didn't fall prey to heats like other alphas that's not to say he didn't find omegas appealing, they were a good fuck responsive and fed his ego, called him alpha and let him do as he pleased well until they realized he couldn't knot them then things changed very quickly. They went from wanton bitches to spitting hellcats so fast that even he couldn't keep up. He glanced forward sitting straighter seeing their destination peak over the long stretch of tundra.

A village that had rumors off a witch casting dark magic across the village or that's what he had been told when he was asked to come, normally witches struck places that held valuable artifacts or rarities. The meager defenses of wooden stake walls and simple slat gate that he could probably scale with roach didn't suggest there was anything here of value.

"I'm sure bard, lets get this over. Its probably just a widow and nasty break out of fever" he grunted already thinking this as a waste. But the coin was good and if it meant he just had to place some protection runes to give them piece of mind he'd be a fool to pass it up. He began feeling funny as he closed in on the village noticing something off as small barely standing shack sat outside of the makeshift walls. A scent it was pleasant, very pleasant it didn't burn his nose like most did now. Rosemary, mint and something else he couldn't put a name to. It wasn't thick like most. Many scents felt thick and muggy to Geralt's witcher senses but this was free and wafting. He took a deep breath enjoying the scent more and more as he approached the shack wary it was different, too different from anything he had ever smelt ,even Jaskier seem to be inhaling deeper.

"What is that? oh it smells divine" he said without thinking the bard followed the scent. Geralt swore getting down from roach following the beta that was probably about to be caught up in some form of trouble. They both followed the scent until arriving at the door to the shack. He peered in. His heart stopped as the scent washed over him making him growl low. he took a dominant pose squaring his shoulders. Omega. But what the fuck was she doing out here?! she should be inside the walls not sleeping out her almost freezing to death!. He wasn't sure just where this immediate protectiveness came from but he was ready to slit the throats of who ever had allowed or forced the young female out here.

"Oh an omega." Jaskier said sadly almost sympathetically, he wasn't angry . Why wasn't he angry?. He should be omegas were rare. Rarer now then ever as attitudes had changed. But that was just it attitudes had changed. Omegas were no longer cherished as they should be, as they had been when Geralt was younger. the reality was that She was most likely abandoned. Geralt felt his rage shaking him to the core as he peered over the tiny malnourished omega she shivered in her sleep pulling her knees to her chest. His gaze took in the room. This was not a nest. No comforts for her, Nothing soft for her to sink into. Nothing to defend herself in her heats. Not even a proper fucking hearth. 'I will make her a nest. She will be safe'. He was disturbed by just how his thoughts turned he had never had this reaction to an omega before even when they were in the depths of heat pining fora male. Jaskier moved to her side about to stroke her face. With no control over it Geralt snarled and snapped at him fangs dropping.

"No!! OFF!MINE!" Jaskier slipped back nearly toppling over unprepared for the out burst as Geralt lunged forward at him. His .His omega. He heaved deep breaths watching Jaskier with predatory eyes. He was challenging him for the female. Jaskier shaking and completely frazzled only just managed to present his throat to the feral witcher, surrendering to his alpha. That seemed to pacify him as Geralt swung his cloak off draping it across the female smiling as she snuggled into it and her shivers ceased. he sat down heavy beside her casting axi on the dying fire bring new life and a burst of heat. after a few moments Jaskier slowly made his way to him and sat cautiously.

"G-Geralt what was that? is- you called her yours... I thought witchers didn't you know?" he was hesitant with his question. Geralt cast him a fleeting glance.

"We don't... Well not normally... Honestly we aren't taught about it just told that we are impotent and wont have ruts... But I suppose it could be like all mutations, they are all expected to do certain things but all mutations have varying results and mine are different anyway." he looked down at the content female by his side. His omega. Thats what his lesser had called her. And it wasn't a lack of judgment either. Once the words left him it had clicked , A soulmate just for him, A scent tailored to for him. That would be why she didn't smell like any other. A mate. A pack. He lifted a finger to her slowly running a knuckle across her slim cheek. She would never go hungry or cold again. Now that he found her he wouldn't let her go.

"Bed down for the night we will talk to the master of the village tomorrow." Jaskier nodded uneasy going to roach to retrieve the bed rolls.

You whimpered coming to you was warm. Oh my god yes. You groaned melting into the warmth that encased you feeling a large heavy fabric like a huge warm hug. And the fire before you was roaring hot on your face and the scent of meat filled the space. You wiggled a little pressing your face into the hot firm cushion below , must be a dream. You flinched as other scents followed two. Male. Both intoxicating one of herbs and something tangy and addictive the other was musky and sandalwood-no oak like an aged whisky barrel deep masculine and alpha. You tensed as you came to then frowned warm? no that's not right and the fire? that dies every night something was seriously wrong, you squeezed your eyes tight whimpering dreading opening your eyes in case you found yourself sold to a whore house. You fears grew when you felt a huge hand scratch your scalp lightly

"sshh its ok don't worry I've got you now" you opened your eyes there was a male in front of you sleeping soundly on a bed roll he was a beta you- you just knew soft kind features he looked healthy and you bet he had a glow when awake he was resting peacefully. So the one stroking your hair must have been the alpha. You gulped taking in your surroundings you was in your home still. They had broke in. You shivered getting hot ,sweat beaded across you as the scents swirled around you in a delicious overwhelming mix. Effecting you like a sorceress potion. You panted panicking lifting your hands to the hand in your hair pulling expecting resistance but instead he let you remove his hand.

He sighed shushing you again a deep voice that vibrated through you. A large warm hand landed on your shoulder rolling you to your back. It was then you realized that he was sitting cross legged you'd been using his thigh as a pillow. You looked up gasping as you met two amber irises long silver hair fell framing his angular face slight stubble donned his face making him even more handsome. You wanted to panic. Should have panicked but you instead had this overwhelming urge to bury yourself into his chest. To drink in as much of his scent as you could. You whined crying softly as the heat that had begun to race through your body became a scorching fire. Torrents of boiling and uncontrollable lust flooded your body leaking onto your skirts. This mus be it. The disgusting shameful desires of omegas you was spat at for. You'd had heats but never this way. It was coming fast and merciless, you watched as the alphas nostrils flared he released a slow breath.

"No wh-what hahahah i cant - What have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didnt understand why. had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. you cried out thrashing hitting him.

"no wh-what hahahah I cant Wha-what have you done!?" you panicked as your body was bending to his will and you didn't understand why. Had the village done this? sent him to seduce you? or have they done what they always threatened and sold you to an alpha?. You cried out thrashing hitting him.

He wouldn't allow you of his lap instead lifting you into it. Your bottom on the floor knees bent over one leg back resting on the other.

"Its ok.....Its ok omega... I'm your mate, your true alpha your body is responding it want's to mate... wants to bond" your cries must have woke the other male as you both looked to a new voice.

"Ge-GERALT! What are you doing to the poor thing?!?" he called moving to remove you from him. The alpha, Grealt growled as he went to touch you.

"Fuck off Jaskier I'm trying to help her, I've sent her into a proper heat!" Jaskier stopped scenting the air before going pink embarrassed.

"Well she looks terrified! you should explain to her, i doubt they teach omegas here especially considering she is out here not in there" Jaskier gave a small smile.

"Do you know what you are love? Whats happening?" you nodded then shook your head sobbing yelping as another cramp, worse this time longer tighter and lower.

"I'm a harlot, bad" was all you could get out as you fell into your more basic state not capable of coherent thought. Geralt growled at that then crowded you holding you close wanting to sooth you.

"No...No your not bad.... Your good such a goood girl... It hurts I can make it stop...Please let me make it stop it will keep getting worse until I do please..." he kissed your face cradling you into him his need to help his mate was almost to much but he would not touch you if you refused him. Unlike other males he did not use instincts as an excuse for such things. Jaskier watched unsure of what to do, he didn't doubt his alpha for a second but this female was young uninformed she was fragile and frightened and he suspected that she didn't know much about what she was or what was to come. She cried grasping at Geralt

"H-how?... I-help please make it stop its bad..... Really bad" you pleaded weakly with him. unable to move as your body quivered in pain as it felt like one continuous cramp. The alpha called his beta over ordering him to help rid of her clothes, he would stay and help. Jaskier gaped, alpha's generally didn't let anyone else near omegas in heat but it would seem his alpha was different on many levels. Quickly recovering you felt hands pulling and tugging the sticky dress from your body discarding it quickly you created as your slick made your cooled your heated skin you felt dirty, shameful. Wailing trying to cover yourself from them as Geralt quickly striped himself cock relieved as it sprung up tall and proud. He wont waste time pushing Jaskier before her as he moved her into position she was to far gone to try and protest as she was bent over on hands and knees then GeraLt pressed between her shoulders angling her for him. He wont bite not today. No he would get her threw this and then when she was back down to earth he would talk to her. Or at least that is the plan.

"Jaskier help her stay calm and still." he ground out watching with bright eyes as Jaskier crouched by you head letting you reach out to him clutching as his hands scared not sure what was happening as Geralt poised himself then quickly drove forward sheathing enough to quickly break threw the barrier that he knew was just inside wanting it out of the way as soon as possible.

"AAAHH! NO I-STOP!" you scrambled tying to dislodge him constricting your walls to push him out whimpering as he held firm holding the same position, his hot calloused hands cupped your waist holding you still not allowing you to move an inch from him when you bucked forward and he followed. You leaned so far that your knee slipped and Geralt had to catch it before you fell ripping him out of you. He growled

"Jaskier fucking help her!" he grunted still tucking his chin to his chest trying desperately to refrain from moving for your sake the worst was over. The beta quickly cupped your face wiping the tears away reassuring your quaking form.

"shh shh its ok the worst is over now... good girl I know he's a grump isn't he but its fine...... so good" he winced as you cried pitifully he knew you would be soothed in a moment but it was gut wrenching for him to endure try and temper your cries. Slowly Geralt began pushing forward dragging you back on him impaling you as gently as he could. You keened as you stretched to accommodate his lust, so full and taught almost felt as if you was tearing apart at the seams. Grunting lightly as your passage rippled across him he groaned moving a hand across your back rubbing soothingly.

"Yes that's it relax...... OH FUCK.. Yes that's it so precious..... See it feels better now doesn't it? all that fuss you made" you tried nodding it did feel better almost as if you'd applied a healing balm to your insides. You moaned digging your nails into Jaskier's hands. panting as Geralt's hips finally pressed into yours his balls resting on your little bud making you squeak and try to rub back against him trying to grind up into the light taps they delivered.

"Ha-oh is that it?... You like that?.......All you needed?.... Good girl all there now" his praise made you glow he rocked slowly , just enough to reward you with soft pats from his balls against your clit. You gasped trying to buck against him.

"AH! Please-Alpha PLease I want!" you panted forcing the words

"Oh I know what you want... you want to be bred like the good little bitch you are" his words were filthy derogatory and perfect, Jaskier watched wide eyed as Geralt placed a hand below you rolling the pad his finger against your erect bud . Gulping Jaskeir closed his eyes, face on the rug beside you drinking in your moans and pants that went straight to his own cock, he moaned softly a hand sneaking to his bottoms cupping and rubbing, smoothing his digits around the engorged flesh. His eyes popped open glazed and hazy as you moved a hand to his crotch slim and dainty holding him through the fabric. You cried out as Geralt withdrew and pushed back forcing your body to give way to him.

"Don't you .....omega you want to be bred? full and round..... your so fucking ready for pups aren't you?" he grunted as his pace quickly escalated as he lost himself faster than he ever had. His own words revealing his own darkest desire. A pup of his own. Watching his mate swell with proof of there coupling. Yes. He closed his eyes relishing in the impossible image. You screeched holding Jaskier's thigh moaning and crying your pleasure all the way. Your walls fought him at every plunge of his hard flesh, resisting his punishing deep thrusts as he kissed at your cervix yet at the same time clutching at him trying to take as much as it could, muscles trying to capture him properly as nature intended but at the same time clenching to push him out. It was cruel and delicious Jaskier couldn't help it you look to appetizing he leaned down licking into your open mouth coaxing your hand down into his bottoms you clutched him underneath his palm as he began making you stroke him in fast even strokes he groaned loud a beautiful high sound that, to Geralt was much better then his singing. Grunting, Geralt's fingers pried and pinched your clit and flicked the tip of the swollen bud that peaked from between his tight fingers you screamed squeezing Jaskier he faltered as your hand was ripped off him. Geralt was powerless as his fantasy became to much of a temptation making a snap decision, as he saw Jaskier on the floor beside you crying and panting himself trying to fuck into your hand faster and harder.

"Jaskier here now!" Geralt couldn't stop he needed it. Needed to see it, to feel the kick of pups in the telltale bump of his omega. He longed for the soft heart beat's he had heard enviously in the past. He relished in the glow that all omegas had when full with a litter. He wanted that happiness for his omega. He would give that to her one way or another. Jaskier was confused but obey rounding the rutting couple unsteady. He was caught off guard as Geralt pulled him to rest his forehead to his still pulling and pushing into the small wailing female. The alpha kissed him not deep or lewd a chaste kiss and pulled back holding the smaller male's gaze.

"wh-what? I cant do that?" Geralt growled as he felt his end coming trying to fight it until this was sorted.

"YOU! have a cock don't you?!? do it bard SHE needs it!" you moaned not hearing much of anything as you tucked your hands beneath yourself rocking quicker and quicker chasing something needing more.

"PLEAASE! please pleaspleas I-I dont know wha-I need please alpha!!" you brawled scratching and digging at the rug. Jaskier looked between you and his alpha the desperation that you both leaked was to much, he bit his lip then nodded. Relieved Geralt finally let loose roaring his release spraying his useless load into you the force hitting your cervix grunting low as you came at the sensation, howling into the floor below. panting Geralt sat back on his heels grabbing Jaskier by the scruff sitting his ass on his thighs ignoring the bards protests as he shucked his trousers down and gripped his cock using his scruff to raise him into position

"I-I cant do it-ger-GERALT!" he shouted gasping as geralt lined him up with your entrance the witcher thrust his pelvis forward forcing the beta into your quivering heat. You squealed as your sensitive walls caressed a new cock, although not as large it was still an addictive feeling you lowered back down pressing your chest to your makeshift bed pebbled nipples rubbing skimming the rough fabric as they swayed with each rock of your body.

"AH-OOHH! please yesyesyes... please fill me!" you withered below the new male as Geralt was on his knees behind Jaskier still holding the bard by his neck.

"Don't worry love..... You'll be full soon enough...Well you better be..." Geralt threatened as Jaskier took over holding you and rocked into you grunting quietly trying so hard not to think of the alpha watching as his cock disappeared into you. You cried as you felt a familiar hand return to play with your tender clit your body spasmed violently finding a second release with a loud high pitched cry. Geralt held Jaskier up not allowing him the chance to bite a mark into you at the same time he ground his pelvis to the his ass pining him still and deep as your twitching passage milked him with a loud series of grunts he came into you not as powerfully as Geralt but still spurting pleasantly tickling your insides.

"Jaskier deeper- I want her bred" Geralt stated noticing that as the bard finished he had arched removing an inch of so as he did. Sighing as Jaskier was to lost moaning and rocking he rolled his eyes at the beta. Omegas were the best fucks and this was most likely the last time he would fuck you he would want to make the most on of it. Geralt hooked an arm below your hips tugging you back you cried as you was forced still and tight against them. Jaskier still leaking small streams of cum this time you felt it at your true opening wetting and burning as his seed trickled past it. you cried.

"oh-OH fuck its- done yes fuck I-hot its hot" you babbled trying to raise up stopping as you heard a growl

"No stay there let it keep going... Good girl.... I'm so proud.... Cant wait to see you round with them....Fuck yes you'll be so good" Jaskier stayed still awkwardly clamped between the tow of you. Amazingly enough feeling like the third wheel even if it was him pumping you full. geralt slid back patting jaskiers rump

"Stay... I'll be back" then left Jaskier blinked smoothing his hand across your back.

"you ok down there?" you nodded sleepy folding your hands below your head content and ready for sleep. Geralt returned carrying a pack then dragged the bard off you dropping to the floor legs spread placing you between them his inner thigh against your pussy pressing tight trapping everything inside you leaning you back cradling you he tugged a black shirt of his from the pack sliding it across your arms and buttoning it up. Jaskier sighed pulling up his trousers

"dont bother with them you'll need to give her another load soon." Jaskier sputtered

"I'm sorry? what?"

"Beta or not if your going to breed my omega you'll breed her like an alpha, now drop em" Geralt said seriously as he reached over to the almost forgotton meat tearing small chunks bringing it to your lips. You took the bites happily still lost in your haze.

"I'm sorry Geralt I'm not an alpha I cant just pop one off on demand"

"Not with that attitude you wont, sit eat your going to need it breeding is serious business" the bard was speechless then huffed throwing the trousers to the floor he wasn't going to win so whats the use, taking a seat by you both helping himself to the meat deciding that he should fuel up if this was going to last for a whole heat. Secretly excited about the prospects of the new addition to the small pack and pups.

You sat there thrilled some primal part of you understanding that your alpha was tending to you, Feeding and providing for you and had called the other pack member to eat with you. You took several bites before turning away from his hand. He tutted.

"No you need your strength, come on open up we need you big and strong for the pups." you contemplated the words agreeing as you let him continue to feed you. Jaskier just stared watching Geralt drop all walls for the first time. He looked happy. Truely happy. There was a slight worry for the future but he brushed it away choosing to bask in the glow of the newly formed couple.

#geralt smut #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt x jaskier x reader #witcher fanfiction #witcher smut #geralt x reader

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gayregis · 3 years

Note

I live and breathe for the scene where Geralt and Cahir roll around like drunk toddlers and Milva just starts wailing on them with her belt without hesitation.

honestly ok 😅 i feel awkward bc i found this scene really tragic and depressing, but it seems like everyone else really likes this scene and thought it was funny? to me it feels like the hansa reached one of their lowest points as a group. i made a looong post about this on r/wiedzmin but i deleted my reddit account so i cant find it and think it’s gone forever...

the scene is tragic to me because it represents how desperate geralt is to blame someone for his predicament other than yennefer, because he doesn’t want to believe that she would ever betray him. she, of course, hasn’t, and the magic spying was a result of her torture because she finally broke after holding out for very long, instead of her free will. but geralt still has had his worst fears falsely confirmed by this new information -- and it’s something that he’s suspected from the beginning, that yennefer betrayed him (when he sees her clothes in the room at thanedd, he wonders if she had to leave them in a hurry as a captive, or if she changed into men’s clothes to be a double agent...) and since geralt thinks that the entire world is out to get him, his lover yennefer betraying him would be the twisting in the knife lodged in him already from society’s abuse of him. additionally, he thinks that ciri has died (or suspects it, or maybe knows the truth that ciri has undergone extreme trauma and abuse, and pronounces her dead later because he doesn’t want to believe that his daughter is suffering, instead choosing to think that she has died, because in death, one does not suffer).

and cahir very desperately wants to be trusted by the company, because he has nowhere else. it doesn’t matter now if they fall into the hands of the temerian lilies, rivian lozenges, or under the nilfgaardian sun, because they’ll be punished by all of them. cahir has “lost” his family because he is traitor to the empire, and he has no hope of being accepted into a northern country because -- well, the north has been largely destroyed by nilfgaard at this point -- but he has already pissed off the rivians for his desertion of their military, and he speaks with a slight nilfgaardian accent and isn’t entirely able to evade detection as a nilfgaardian (he’s perhaps gotten better at it than during the massacre of cintra where he had to shed his armor and all, but i digress). so the hansa’s really all he has, and geralt of course is the leader and a father, which cahir wants the trust and respect of, because he has lost the trust and respect of his previous leader, emhyr, and his biological father, ceallach (or so he may assume - ceallach seemed distraught at cahir being declared a traitor of the state. but no matter how he or his family may feel in their hearts, legally, ceallach has to denounce his son in order to remain in favor in court, and cahir is aware of this).

so these two forces collide -- that’s the fight. geralt lashes out, cahir defends himself adequately. and the rest of the hansa is desperately trying to stop them. regis is frozen -- i surmise that he is so because regis is a very philosophical and logical character, his domain is that of thought and pondering. in contrast to him, milva is a very direct and quick-to-anger character whose domain is that of action and force. so, as milva can act, because she is composed of action, regis can’t, because no thought has gone into this fight -- it’s completely senseless, and regis can’t make sense of it, so instead he is limited to freezing on the outskirts and commenting on the aftermath in a cold voice. additionally, i wonder if the fight reminds him of fights that he instigated amongst former friends when he was younger, and the present violence reminds him of his past violence, revolting him.

milva acts, but she acts in desperation. she uses the improvised weapons of her belts to draw them apart, lashing them evenly. it’s funny to many because this is a punishment usually reserved for juvenile means, but i think about being struck with a belt and i wince, it’s painful and terrifying as well due to the cracking of them like whips. and it’s not her regular weapon - a bow, because she does not intend to kill, but it’s not something less in force - her hands, because simply her hands will not work in drawing them apart. she HAS to use violence in order to stop THEIR violence. pairing with what ciri speaks of in another chapter about drawing an eye for an eye, repaying evil, i think a lot about this question of can only violence can stop violence? and as for milva’s character, she is not the leader of the company, she refers to herself constantly as a simple peasant girl from the forest (or wench, in some translations...), and she berates herself for not being educated and not knowing how to make decisions. though she demonstrates real skill and knowledge throughout baptism of fire in relation to making decisions for the company, it is evident that she lacks the confidence in herself and the desire to act as a leader. she is forced to take action because no one else can.

the situation is further exaggerated in drama by dandelion, who is usually jovial and the optimist of the company, becoming truly upset and having his voice even shake (iirc) as he tries to tell passersby that everything is okay and it’s just an argument between friends, already solved. it uneasily hints that his optimist nature serves to mend unhappy realities, and makes me wonder what else he relates as already patched up, but is actually significant of a larger break...

and of course, angouleme. the girl that just joined, who has been running from a lifetime of trauma and violence, has run right into this scene of more violence. like dandelion, her nature is to lessen the horrifying nature of the scene with optimism and comedy, and she congratulates milva for her good work, not knowing of milva’s temperment and hidden fragility (milva hides it well, but as we can see in baptism of fire, she really is fragile inside!). this of course results in milva lashing out at angouleme, who immediately breaks, cowering and sobbing. milva, realizing what she has done, drops the belts and hugs her silently, with that action saying silently to her, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to. again, milva is not a woman of words, she is primarily driven by action, and her actions demonstrate her inner self, so that this is act is considered apology. angouleme and milva share much in terms of escaping abuse and trauma, so this outburst of anger triggering (term used in the actual psychological manner) angouleme makes milva recognize in the girl the features within herself that she tries to hide, and so she realizes that they are not at all that different, and immediately feels horrible for taking her fears and anger out on her.

so the company at this point is broken. cahir and geralt, two men without families, are lost and alone, now broken and damaged by their fight and by milva’s work. milva, our fighter, and angouleme, the youngest, are paralyzed, thinking about their traumas. dandelion, our artist and best friend to geralt, is shaken and can’t compose thoughts or provide consolation. regis, our philosopher, usually eloquent and well-spoken, is at a loss for words.

everyone is suffering! meanwhile, fireworks rise and explode in the background. it could be seen as comedic due to the setting of the festivities playing in the background, but it is a dark humor based upon tragedy. this is what this scene feels like to me... i’m sorry if it’s not funny it’s just how i feel D:

#ask #anon #tower of the swallow #milva #geralt #cahir #hansa

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

Note

What if Jaskier got magicked into the center of a maze and Geralt had to solve the maze to rescue him?

(okay so I’m indulging some of my middle school tastes in whump with this and that’s FINE)

tw: perilous situations, life or death situations (obviously he lives I write fluff), the mage made them do it (smooch), whumpy moments, panic attack/shock

---

“There he is,” the mage gestures. Geralt can see the bard, wrapped in -is that ribbon?- something and dangling helplessly in mid-air. He’s wriggling and crying out; words the Witcher can’t quite understand due to the distance. “If you can reach him in time then he’s yours. If not then...well, I guess he dies.”

Geralt doesn’t wait to hear any more. He takes of at a sprint into the maze, dodging between the hedgerows and flying back from dead-ends in a whirl of movement.

There are no monsters to fight, here. There is no game of wits to win. There is only Jaskier, slowly sinking downward through empty air towards...Geralt doesn’t even know what fate awaits the bard once he’s lowered close enough to reach it.

He only knows that his true love is hanging in the balance, literally, and he isn’t getting any closer to saving him. He releases an angry snarl and pushes his body harder. Runs faster. Jumps higher. Avoids obstacles more quickly and more decisively. He has no weapons, no armor, no potions to help him now.

“He’s getting closer,” the mage sing-songs from her comfortable dais. “I wonder what will happen when he gets close enough.”

“Geralt!” the Witcher is close enough to hear his darling bard’s anxious screams. His shrieks of fear. His grunts of protest as he writhes and twists in his bindings. They’re made of thick blue ribbon, the kind one might use to wrap an enormous wedding gift, and Geralt grimaces at the implications.

He hasn’t really had the chance to tell Jaskier about his feelings. He never will, if this mage has her way. The Witcher is growing exhausted, now, but he pushes himself just a little harder. A little further. A little more.

And there’s Jaskier being lowered towards a large metal spike. It’s not very practical, nor will it guarantee his death, but Geralt suspects that the mage was going more for drama than practicality in this instance.

He uses the last of his strength to leap up, wrapping his arms around the bard and getting them both safely out of harm’s way. The Witcher collapses, fingers scrabbling to free Jaskier from the twisting, intertwined lengths of velvet cloth. Jaskier is sobbing, trying to get as close to the Witcher as possible in his current predicament.

“Oh my love,” the bard gasps between hiccups, “I thought-I thought I was-”

“Love?”

The bard blushes even darker red beneath the tears and Geralt’s heart aches for him. His voice goes quiet and raspy as he cries through his next words, “I’m s-so sorry, G-Geralt. I cou-couldn’t help i-it.”

“Help what, my little bird?”

“F-falling in l-l-love with you.”

“I love you, too, Jaskier.”

A slow, bored clap interrupts their hushed confessions and Geralt sits up, ready to defend Jaskier again if necessary. The mage holds her hand up and shakes her head. “No worries, Witcher. You did as I asked. You won him back fair and square. I’ve never seen anyone quite as determined. I was temped to give him back even if you’d lost.”

“I’d never lose,” Geralt snarls.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” she says. “Anyway, I’m bored now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”

Then they’re back at the campsite. It’s pitch dark except for the fire, which is blazing merrily away between their bedrolls. Geralt collapses to his knees and whines, low and long. The shock of everything that’s just happened is setting in. His body is beyond exhausted and his mind is foggy.

Jaskier takes a seat on his bedroll and pulls the Witcher’s head into his lap. He cards his fingers through the silky strands of moon-white hair and begins to massage the Witcher’s scalp.

He sings one of Geralt’s favorite songs very quietly, so softly that it won’t irritate his delicate senses, and continues to move his hand through the Witcher’s hair.

Eventually the Witcher’s breathing returns to normal and he looks up at Jaskier with damp, frightened eyes. The eyes of a man who has faced rejection a thousand times and isn’t sure he can do it again. Luckily for him, the bard holding him steady is just as lost in love. “Don’t panic, my darling. I will love you as constantly as the moon pulls at the waves.”

“You will?”

“I will be at your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever, if I asked?” Geralt’s low, rumbling voice is so unsure. So terrified. Jaskier smooths his hand down the back of his Witcher’s head to cup the soft skin at the base of his neck. He leans down and presses a firm, slow kiss against his darling’s pink lips.

“Forever.”

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 18)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

UPDATES FOR WITCHER OF THE NIGHT WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NOW IN MY TIME (GMT +8)

CHAPTER 17

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: The Djinn effects had reasons. A miracle for the Witcher but a threat for everyone in the Continent and this mystery had you placed under a curse that will give you bad fortune for you future and a child that he sorceress plans on ruining.

Warnings: Mention of MCU. Iron man too. Blood. Witcher monster and sign. Curse words and degrading ones. Corporal punishment said and involved.

Words: 8.4k+

A/N: Ghost readers, please do reblog my fic if you’re reading this so others can see it as well. Also people who are in my taglist, I hope you leave even just an emoji of feedback or reblog if you’re done reading. I appreciate the tiniest dot of comment ISTG. I’ve been in a writer’s block (and also mentally exhausted from writing too) but I’m trying my best to give y’all content or an update for WOTN. My mind has been jumping from one character over another so feedback will be nice to receive. Thank you and stay safe.

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! This is kinda a rough draft. I apologize for many errors, this has been a result of fast editing.

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

The Kaedwenians had the last laugh.

Jaskier couldn't keep you safe from anyone, not even a tiny fly. All he could do was be a distraction and be the special wingman for a witcher. But, when it's about protecting the ones he takes care of, Geralt has always been the answer to keep one safe---that he couldn't even take care of himself when he's caught in his shenanigans and monkey businesses.

His mutant friend could always be counted on, by hook or by crook.

Yet, he certainly will disappoint him when he knows what threat and problems happened after a day; only a darn day that he was away and kidnapping arose and hindered everything that the witcher wanted to avoid.

How did they know where his family even were?

Jaskier was limping alongside with Cirilla who has hauled him on her side, an arm slithering over his waist to drag him to where the dining chairs where. One out of ten? hence, this particular sunflower surrounded by a bunch of poison Ivy has been a bard all along.

Sunflowers don't have thorns nor poison. They were harmless. Soft. Bright. Just like him. But, the bees surely did its attack considering how he'd sliced two men on their necks. Nonetheless, it wasn't enough to keep you out of harm.

"Those bloody knights did a number on me!" he suddenly exclaimed out of nowhere; wincing and grumbling out profanities from his wounds as Cirilla went around to grab onto an empty pail, sprinting straight out to quickly come back with her bucket full of water for the bard.

Dried up blood designed his busted lip; plump and ruptured from the constant clouts he'd received. His lower lip were out in a pout, frowning his way from lightly tapping his wounds with a clean cloth; holding up a small mirror to his face. Disheveled doublet untied, the collar of his inner white tunic being a sketchpad of a kid who loved his red paint. Another nasty curse accidentally slipped out of his broken lip when Cirilla loudly dropped the bucket on the table with an obvious sight of panic, fright and anger written on her face.

Her thin, candle-like fingers slightly trembled from the handle and Jaskier had gotten a glimpse out of her fear, terrified for an important person in her life to be in the brink of death. Again. She didn't want it to happen especially when the princess has finally found comfort and light from you; like how her heart hoped to meet a woman who she could treat as her rightful mother.

She didn't want you to die; not like this, never. If only you could live long enough, longer than a normal human then it would be a part of her wishes.

"W-Will she be okay, Jaskier?"

Jaskier was hissing as he tried to take off his doublet. In his unfortunate case, he'd probably earned a fracture or two over his ribs and arm. But, it was far from any organ that will give him demise. He'd thought about it again before deliberating on leaving it on to continue patting the blood off his face, "No. I swear to the death of Valdomarx that the rat will not be fine in their hands, Princess Cirilla."

The bard went on in jawing away over his thoughts with some painful complaining here and there as he tried to wipe the blood off his face with a heavy amount of strength used because of how his arms were sore and aching, "Ow-ow-ow! Geralt needs to give what they want. However, going to the south swamps will be the only solution to alert the witcher,"

Jaskier tutted in exasperation when his dampened cloth grazed through the wound, making him sigh and close his eyes to calm down. The child has done the same, copying his reaction before reaching out to grab onto the cloth and tried cleaning his wounds for herself. He bellyached away over how she's been cleaning the wrong places but a simple sharp, warning of her blue eyes kept the toubadour fidgeting from the child care.

"It's been how many hours already since she was taken?" he sounded incoherent from trying to talk with his mouth never closing as Cirilla tried to pat over the pillows of his lips. She made him repeat his question, moving away from him to dip the cloth inside the bucket and squeezing the excess water out.

When she'd heard him repeat it much clearer this time, she thought for a second before turning her heel to face him again, raising a finger to show him the time it took.

"An hour or two."

He weakly nodded more to himself. The accident was utterly fresh inside their minds and Jaskier couldn't help but worry as the clock ticks by because he knew and understood that the people in their world were more cruel and grating to be with than in your kingdom that you have lived in for years, the bard was anxiously bouncing his leg up and down with his thoughts and solutions going in places.

"We can't go to where Geralt is tomorrow," he noted as a matter of fact, pausing to glare at Cirilla who leaned close and started caring for his wounds with heavy hands, "---all we can ever hope for is wait for the gods plan. Hush now, princess."

In Cirilla's point of view, hearing his response drove her bananas. They just couldn't wait for Geralt to arrive when he'll be taking up three days before telling him what has happened. What if you were already being punished because of their false accusations about you? Geralt's child of surprise has heard everything. Even from the time that the troopers has been kicking up a fuss over the woman named Savia that looked entirely like you.

She'd even saw the fight between Kolby; seeing him run away so suddenly broke her heart as much as yours did. Will he ever come back? the princess thought at the back of her mind from overrating. Will you ever come back to their lives again or will Geralt be too late to save you from their dirty hands?

The lion cub of Cintra has pulled away from treating Jaskier's wounds, straightening her back when she began to let the negative thoughts go to her head.

"How about Kolby? I---I've seen him run away!"

Jaskier grabbed the cloth out of her hands, trying to sanitize his wounds instead. He'd tightly blinked his eyes, the left side utterly benumbed from their sucker-punches and he knew a black eye would come forth soon whether he likes it or not. The bard wasn't even on an adventure with the witcher, yet why has there been an incident where he'd been belaboured till he was bleeding with a hobble.

"He'll come back, dearest Cirilla. We can only hope for the best and also for Geralt to do his witchering---the heightened senses, I mean. Do you think his hearing can reach from here?"

They've been surrounded by silence after that. It was already morning by the time that Cirilla has successfully helped the bard to his feet, earning minutes of pure inveighs against what they've done and why Geralt decided to leave earlier than they have arrived. Their house was left as it is and it seemed like the only job that they needed to do was hold you ransom for what they wanted from the witcher because they knew what was happening beyond the four corners of their house.

The Kaedwednians have acted like they knew you were important to their family; beneficial to be taken for hostage and a crucial person for Geralt that would make him cave in to their desires.

Hence, they probably were right when Jaskier and Cirilla has heard the fast, pitter-patters of a horse from a distance; riding towards the house in a canter. Geralt's family looked at each other with knowing faces before Cirilla's face fell from thinking about the pessimist side of her head.

"I--I hear galloping!" she exclaimed before Jaskier noted the pale look of her lips like she has been thrown a bucket of ice on her head, "---What if its them again?" her lips began to tremble this time with a high pitch tone that says she was nervous and scared because she wasn't ready yet.

"What if they're back to capture me this time?"

They have been living in a world that scares her and when the right time comes, Geralt promised to take her where she'll be trained better to become like him for when danger and chaos tries to make them stay, the princess will know how to defend herself from the risks and threats. But, the witcher would still protect her no matter what happens because it is his duty and also because she has already been an adopted daughter to him. A daughter that he cherishes despite acting cold and dispassionate about the idea.

You knew she was important to him, a daughter that he somehow cared for from the moment they met. Geralt has told you this in the middle of the night, trying to tell you stories as he slept, managing to ask him about Cirilla and how she was involved in his life. The witcher never did plan it along but their destiny has made it happen for them to meet. She was the girl in the woods that people have been telling him about and the law of surprise that he has given voice that had you in awe because their world consists of beliefs and preternatural principles that never existed on earth.

Jaskier felt like his whole body grow numb and forgotten what the pain that the cavaliers has inflicted upon him when he suddenly stood up, apprehensively grabbing onto Cirilla's shoulders and looking around to find her somewhere to hide.

The heavy set of footfall started to tread near, out of the threshold of their front entry. With a swollen face and bloody clothes, he grabbed onto her wrist and tried to pull her out of the kitchen and onto the back door of their house with a need to keep another person safe and away from danger. They've already taken you and Cirilla was out of bounds.

"No. No. That can't happen. They have no idea who you are. Run in the woods. Away from here, alright? Don't worry, I'll get to find you---Geralt will find you again, I promise you---has he taught you little tricks here and there? If not---"

The loud crash of a door opening has got Jaskier in full-protective mode; pulling along Cirilla to stand behind him with a hand outstretched open in front of him to tell this person to stop from their attacks. Until they've seen a person whom they were praying to the gods appear before them utterly shambolic to their shock.

"Geralt?! Oh dear, gods! What happened?!" Jaskier yelled out loud, their breaths hitching from the picture that stood before them.

Geralt's ruined armor was off; keeping the black under tunic on that has been torn with holes. The openings held blood under the apertures of his ravaged shirt. His face seeming to be the only one left untouched from the burns and wounds. His hair was dirty from soot and darkened, moist like sand but his breeches has been surprisingly free from the scratches that his upper clothing has received from.

Cirilla couldn't help but feel the warm, hazy moisture of her eyes fill her vision from seeing him stand in the middle of their hatch, the fish bones that stuck inside her chest finally breaking free from Geralt's appearance because hope has arrived for them.

"Geralt! You're here!"

The latter couldn't believe his eyes. They were safe. His family was safe from the show that the Kaedwenians tried to scurry them off with.

Relief washed through Geralt, his Aureate peepers widened from being stunned at seeing them both.

"Jaskier. Cirilla. You're both okay." he stated in a monotone manner, his gaze examining their forms when he'd realized Jaskier has been beaten to pulp.

The hold on his sword that rested on his palms tightened from seeing red. If there was blood involved, then something bad has happened especially when he'd lately realized that his family was missing one special person that came with the ménage he had.

You. There was no midget. Were you just hiding in a corner? Trying to be playful like the person you are? Where you hiding upstairs and planning to surprise him?

Jaskier paid heed to his sudden silence, the peeved look within his eyes that held a flicker of catastrophe because he couldn't see his midget with them.

He didn't know nor realize that seeing you gone like you never existed felt like an Nightwraith has tried to rip his heart open and eat it to their satiation.

Cirilla sprinted to where Geralt stood, immediately wrapping her arms around her step-father that she also holds dearly till the moment; she'd hug him, the embrace simply an allegation of fear, telling him that it was the right thing to come back earlier than they expected him to.

"I'm so glad you're here!"

The witcher wholeheartedly accepted the embrace, patting her head that was shoved to his chest despite of the wounds he has; just thoroughly relieved that she wasn't taken. His sword fell on the side with a loud thud as he'd look away from Jaskier, his eyes shifting from high and low, finding the Hirikka not in his place under the dining table as well.

"The midget? where is she?"

Howbeit, knowing the answer. He still wanted to hear what happened from the poor bard.

Jaskier subtly coughed, alerting that his tale was ready to be told. But, Cirilla has cut him off with her voice bawling out to Geralt, frowning against his chest as she loudly sniffed. The tears in her eyes dripping down as she couldn't help but keep the emotions balled up inside her chest anymore. Shock. Fear. Worry. Care. All together, it was brought and made with tears.

"Th-they've...they've taken her away from us! She saved my life for the second time, Geralt! You owe her everything!"

Geralt didn't answer at that and just patted her braided hair to soothe her worries---her braided hair that you have fixed before being taken. He was already too maddened on the inside to even hear that Jaskier began to start his story.

"So, do you want a simplified version or the dramatic one? I hear you choose the second option, so here it is!"

Cirilla sobbed against his chest when Jaskier started. His thoughts was filled with you. He was angry, irritated and dumbfounded that you've been offering your life in exchange for Cirilla to be safe. You always did. Hence, he didn't know if he was thankful of your selflessness or utterly vexed from how kind you were at heart.

"Fuck." he whispered to himself, Jaskier's voice going on and on in the background as if it was their music, his next words sounding exasperated as he simply sighed out of his nose and closed his eyes in frustration.

"---Midget..."

Jaskier was unaware that Geralt wasn't listening to his nonsense blabbers until he got straight to the point. He'd even told him how he rearranged and hid the bowls where you couldn't find it which made the witcher give him a simple raise of his brow.

Cirilla cut the hug when she was feeling dandy enough. Geralt gave her one final reassuring and affectionate pat on the head before grabbing on his fallen sword with a scowl on his face as he listened to Jaskier run his mouth.

"---So, I've been punched in the gut from different kind of Cavaliers. The Kingdom of Kaedwen can suck my arse---I've learned that from the rat by the way---and I've bled to the end of my second life. Hence now, this is my third---Hallelujah!---Kolby listens and follows every command but he's gone now and we don't know where he is---even tried to save me and her but the vampire is too strong---not that it isn't surprising,"

The simple action of grabbing onto his sword inflicted pain onto the fairly large wound on his lower rib which made him hiss. It was from the burning blood of the Bloedzuiger that he somehow managed to not shield himself with; forgetting to use Quen in the midst of battling.

"Tybalt." he understood completely, knowing exactly who tried and planned to get you from him for their use. They still haven't found the witch and needed to find her as soon as possible. Geralt wandered over the kitchen, closing the door behind him as he lowly grumbled to no one in particular.

"---They still want me to lift the curse. They want me to kill their monster,"

Their ears perk from the admission; watching the witcher peel his damaged under tunic off with an aggravated sigh as he stood in front of the dining table. He'd taken a lot more injuries than he most likely does; even had his energy spike to its lowest due to wanting to get the job done in less than half an hour. Hence, this resulted in accepting more wounds and detriments by rushing the whole task.

Geralt has already taken potions for him to heal on the way. Some of the smallest wounds has been healed. Though, the deepest wounds did not yet. It would certainly earn him a scar or two from it but he never cared.

"You're bleeding, Geralt. Where are you going?" Jaskier sauntered to his side with a wince from seeing more blood than what he normally sees, Cirilla also pulled a face and watched the witcher heavily sigh from examining his opened wounds. He deeply had a grimace on his face as he does when he tried to explain.

"It's from the Bloedzuiger's blood," he gruffly muttered, only answering the troubadour's first question.

His talkative friend circled around him to be met with the nastiest laceration that he has seen. Jaskier's nose scrunched in repugnance from what stood before him for the first time in years, "You've never taken enough damage like this before," he claimed as a matter of fact; in deep conjecture as to why he seemed to be in adrift prior to his hunt.

Geralt's attention was solely on the gash that could make him lowly groan in the back of his throat; rough and sounding uncomfortable from the pain it was giving.

"Jaskier, stay with Cirilla. Keep hidden and never go out until I come back with the midget," he gruffly started when the princess has rushed upstairs to find gauze to help with his lesions.

The Weccan leaned over the table, his palms on either side; flat on their wooden dining table with his ruffled hair framing his features and his head bowed down as he deeply pondered, his worries all about you because they've kept you ensnared. They knew he would come for you. They knew they will be expecting a witcher to welcome and they were right.

"---we can't leave the midget within their reach. They'll know her existence---Ingrith of Helmfirth already knows her existence,"

The bard's eyebrows were knitted tightly together in confusion for what he has heard, stammering from all the questions inside his head that kept on bothering him. He leaned on the table beside Geralt, bright blue eyes inquisitive and confused, "What? how---how did you even know she was gone? I thought you didn't know the sorceress?"

"The Djinn placed the midget and I in a spell where I can feel what she feels and I knew she was in danger,"

Jaskier gave a hesitant nod, deliberating over what he's trying to figure out from all the phenomenon that he has encountered, "Like some curse?"

Geralt shot his head up to nonchalantly give him a glimpse of his convinced golden peepers, pursing his lips, looking away to stand straight and lean away from the table.

"If you put it that way, we can call it a curse then."

The white wolf left Jaskier in the kitchen and drifted towards the stairs, making him trail behind; walking with a phrase of protests over the half naked witcher taking his flight.

"We need to treat those wounds before you step foot in the castle, Geralt."

There was no need to beat behind the bushes in Geralt's protective instincts. Specifically when you were in a risk to be hurt by their filthy hands. He took the staircases with his heavy footfall, roughly reassuring the bard from his worries.

"Already did. I'll be fine, bard."

Once they've reached the second floors, all wounded and bloody; both Geralt and Jaskier, they stood in the middle of the wooden hallways. Eye to eye as they were having a serious talk. Their voices echoing all over the place, "She saved Cirilla's life for the second time around," Geralt huffed and gave one seething sigh when the pain on his lower rib was burning. He certainly needed them to gauze his wounds before leaving.

"---even helped you forget about that knight you were fond with. I need to save her,"

Jaskier's mouth fell open from his bluntness, believing that you have been used as a person to forget his previous ones. He'd wiggled those slim shoulders of his, hands on his hips and keeping his head held high. A fake cough left his lips, thinking of ways to get back from being attacked figuratively by Geralt for a lot of times already.

"I won't let another slip away again, Jaskier."

Jaskier raised a knowing brow, sharing a bloody compact with the witcher as they stood against each other dripping with their own wounds and blood; an understanding that they both could only comprehend and would silently agree to, "I understood Durriken now," he gave a firm nod, convincing himself for his sentences.

Geralt squinted his eyes back at the bard, judging him from the back of his head and reading between his lines.

Jaskier talked to Durriken when they've left the other day. He tried to know what they've talked about because the bard was full aware of how the switch has turned inside Geralt's peculiar, introverted mind from that moment in the marketplace.

Durriken knew before everything could even happen---perks of being a fortune teller, believing that you had a reason why you've arrived.

Jaskier raised a finger to his front, a sassy brow raised as he firmly claimed, "She's the witcher's destiny. The reason she's here is because..." pause. "---of you, Geralt."

Julian just couldn't keep still and watch everything unfold. He knew Geralt and what ticks him, understood the simplest gestures that had a whole lot of meaning behind it. Jaskier can't help but pry around when it involved the white wolf.

This was why he was the bard who stood by his side because he tried to understand him for who and what he was. A person who truly cared, a friend who truly accepted him; though, most of the times, he was there to annoy the shite out of him.

"And that's why she needs to be saved. I can't let her die, Bard." Geralt honestly spoke, the truth being said rather than staying silent like how he would usually do.

The bard has given him a satisfied smile, his beam widening once he jested, "Oooooooh! I've waited for this moment to come so I can finally say it after decades---In other words," he playfully bantered, finding the right words to get back for receiving his bluntness, "---you love her, Witcher. Don't you?"

Cirilla held the ripped, long, white clothing to her chest. The door to her room slightly opened as she tried to listen onto what they were arguing about, they weren't. The word 'love' peaking her attention when Jaskier lightly tried to poke on Geralt's honesty, irking him to the bones and hoping to get something out of his sudden uprightness.

Lo and behold, as soon as the witcher opened his pretty mouth, they were left disappointed from a hum that he'd habitually does everyday when he wanted to stay silent.

"Hmm."

Retrieving no answer from such an important, scandalous question that would be a fact once it was positively answer; a simple 'yes' would've been evidence that the white haired witcher was actually capable to experience a certain feeling that would make him more human than he can ever be.

All you could see was darkness. No visions nor imagery of where you were going as an empty sack has been forcefully placed around your head. Tybalt has kept you immobilized within his arms that surrounded you. The sack was needed so there was no risk of escaping which can happen if you knew your ways just like their previous capture who happened to be a thief that knew the directions of the kingdom.

The sack was tightened around your neck, making you choke once they roughly shoved your shoulders to move as you were curtly placed down by the vampire. Pavement. Rock pavement. You silently thought as you felt rough hands grip your arms so tight. On either side, they were controlling you and assuming who they were; you knew it was cavaliers.

The gates seem to open as you've heard the loud screeching of a sound. A couple of harsh tugs; here and there. Some offending remarks you've received when you tried to thrash against their holds. They were calling you 'the witcher's whore' or his tramp that made you frown behind the empty sack of potatoes used for your head.

Footfalls can be heard all around you. They were everywhere and all heavy, marching as if they have a purpose as to why they were there. There was no idea as to where they tried to confine you; in a large cage? a building where all their prisoners are there in jail? or were you in a castle? their palace?

The men on either side of you dragged you strengthfully towards where they wanted; making you bark back despite of being temporarily blind for their purpose.

"I know how to walk, okay?! Stop dragging me around like I'm your rag doll!"

Tybalt loudly scoffed from behind, walking through the stoned hallway that directed straight towards the hoosegow where an Elven has been kept for a month, "Prisoners shan't be complaining, ye' know?"

A loud thump and squeaking of a door made you hastily look around in panic; thinking that you might be thrown in a huge fireplace so your body can be burnt to dust because they knew your existence here didn't actually existed and if you do get to be cremated, nobody would even care.

Will Geralt try and save you for the third time?

From the day that you have been taken and cared for in their home, it was already an act of protection. He didn't think twice to adopt and let you have a part of their house; saving you from an Alghoul who was hunting you down and planning to make you its meal. But, Geralt killed it for you.

The white wolf has even killed men for you to feel sympathy for. When Geralt of Rivia protects one person, he would surely not think twice but to put an end towards their life; as long as they were evil or hurting another.

He was one of a kind and the affection you have for him needed label. You were understanding everything now; the care and worry you feel whenever he goes for his hunt, how the sting feels inside your heart whenever he tends to become a lot more quieter rather than usual, thinking that he was avoiding you because he'd realize how much of a burden you are in his life.

Also considering the feeling of happiness whenever he sweetly touches you, feeling his skin on yours like it was destined for sensations to occur. Sensations that only he can transpire out the the earth's perimeters.

You comprehended it very patently. It was love that you had for him. You hoped it was because lust or infatuation never has given the effects like what you've been interpreting from the witcher.

No secrets can't be revealed as long as it was true especially with undisclosed matters. Hence, you planned to tell Geralt as soon as you get to see him again.

That is, if your future around the Kaedwenians won't involve you and death rolled together as one.

Their tight grip has made your arms sore. You were flailing your arms away from their grasp and the violent reaction that they have gotten from resulted in you being pushed to the ground, creating your healing gash with another deep wound that made you yelp. They've quickly yanked the sack off your head; all unkempt from being cramped, hurriedly keeping you inside the slammer as they marched away to lock up the thick, metal railings like you've committed such a harsh crime.

You've held onto your scrapped knee, seeing blood on the pads of your finger and it made you aggressively scream from where you've laid hunched over the cold stones beneath you; igniting the tiny, surprised jump from the knights who were guarding your cell.

The tight coil on the top of your stomach was starting to move; meaning to say, another panic-attack was starting to give rise because of how uncomfortable and eerie does it felt to be in jail from the past era. It was more ominous and uncanny rather than what jail looked like in the modern period.

You were heaving breaths, turning around and staying flat on your bottom to see the armored men squinting their eyes back like you were some weird creature, the notion of being Geralt's lover sickening their bones as if they were much of a better man than he is. They weren't. Geralt was better than them---soul-wise. Their gauging eyes made you giggle aloud in a sarcastic tone.

"I can't believe you are all actually humans---"

The lock of the door jiggled, people behind the entrance loudly pushing it open; in which Tybalt and a lady with glowing purple eyes emerged from the hatch.

"My lady," Tybalt started with a sultry tone dripping on his tongue, subtly nodding his head off to where you were hunched over.

This woman in front of you didn't look entirely human after all, you mentally thought. Glowing purple eyes; with her shoulders rolled back with a head held up high, such stance that made her look powerful. It was enough to make you cower.

She was a beauty even. Utterly bewitching from a woman's perspective. A high bridged nose, glassy dark skinned complexion that came with a pouty lip. The grotesque woman was enchanting in the eyes of men if her physical aspects could make you dumbfounded.

"Incredible." the latter spoke in fascination, taking heedful steps close amongst the lines of metal hinges. The luminescence of a torch has caught her purple eyes, glowing against the light as if magic was flowing through her veins; utterly strange because no normal human had eyes like hers, nor have you seen one in Geralt's dimension up until today.

"Another...you," she continued, her eyes cast upon you when she took heed of your familiar face.

"---It's true. There has always been another dimension,"

You've looked around, avoiding her discretionary gaze, a gaze that held corruption or malign beneath the colorful hue of her beautiful colored irises. They were winsome; however, her allurement came with a thorn that would surely make you bleed when touched.

"I'm..I'm not---"

Straightforwardly, she pointed out with a silent and warning tut, "There is no use of lying, little one. You are talking to a sorceress,"

As that has been mentioned, you couldn't help but snap your head and turn to look at her. Your eyebrows knitted together with eyes scrutinizing her features. Was she the sorceress that Geralt has been in love with? you questioned mutely to your alter ego. Ingrith was hasty enough to know that judging look in your eyes because of how your witcher has been involved with sorceresses after sorceresses or mutant and mystical beings.

He was known for it and based on how you were judging her, your mind was also well aware of how infamous he had been with women.

Geralt of Rivia was given a lot to choose. Yet, he has chosen a powerless, vulnerable, less of a beaut than what he would've picked and Ingrith wanted to laugh for his choices---what he planned to be destined with a dangerous life ahead.

"You're the Yennefer one?"

"How do you know her, thief?"

An obvious shake of your head was given; shaking the worry away from seeing Geralt's long lost love working in a castle and also for the queen and king. That wasn't just the reason why you didn't want to see Yennefer anymore, another justification as to why you didn't want to was because of the bigger chances that you would be going home in one way or another when the white wolf wanted to because there was no proof or evidence that he wouldn't send you home. Sure, he has said several times already that you were his home---however, what if his feelings changes especially that his relationship with the sorceress has been ruined from a certain fight you didn't know about?

Did Geralt feel the same way about you? Was it love or merely just infatuation?

"Nevermind. You're not her." pause. "---also, why are you calling me a thief, lady?!"

Your eyebrows knotted closer than ever from her assumptions. It wasn't just Tybalt or his goons calling you a thief, even the sorceress too. Ingrith pulled away from the bars, dusting her gloved hands from the dust that was transferred to her leather mittens like the people sitting behind closed bars were infectious. She'd given Tybalt a look, her face indistinct of what she wanted to feel for seeing the real you.

She ignored your yapping as she asked the vampire beside her, "Are you sure she's destined with the witcher as a lover?"

Tybalt gave her a small nod, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched you give him a glare back, "Yes, my lady. Last time I stabbed the little woman, the witcher was all feral, ye' know? It was quite fun to watch, nevertheless. This whore seems to be very important for him,"

"He'll be coming then."

Your knotted eyebrows suddenly went up your hairline at that. She sounded too enthusiastic for Geralt to come by; her voice masking a mixture of anticipation for seeing him and also hoping for something else when he arrives. It was a tone that only women could understand in their own language and you couldn't help but go livid.

She wanted something from your witcher and it doesn't look nor does it feel right because you could sense your eye twitch.

"Hey, sorceress of doom. I'm not a child. My womanhood is fully developed if you wanna know because you sound like you're insulting my height---thank you very much because that wasn't a first---Also, you sound like you want to fuck my witcher!---My witcher!" you bluntly stated, the tip of your tongue feeling vile and bitter from the truthfulness of your words. Jealousy being the root of it all and probably intimidation over this sorceress.

She wasn't that Yennefer yet. What if it was her already?

"---Find your own witcher! He's coming to save me, not give you a rumpy pumpy while you are all keeping me in prison!"

Ingrith could feel her temples have gotten flicked from that. Your attitude was making her blood boil---a know-it-all in a world you hardly knew about. She was beginning to come to a realization that your mouth needed barricade, it needed to know where you stood because apparently, she was having the upper hand and you were munching on her toe figuratively.

"Are you sure about that?" Ingrith spoke as a matter of fact; her lips curling into a sinister grin and this is what gets her going, "---you sound like you don't know your witcher too well, child."

"---You haven't heard the truest tales of him then. Your witcher loves to bed women in all brothels---Witchers leave all the time because that's what they do. They travel anywhere to hunt monsters,"

Your mouth was ready to throw curses after curses. A few steps close toward the bars made her grin wider to see your tough facade falter in the tiniest, seeing it from behind those confused eyes of yours. A mixture of fighting for what you had with a self destructing insecurity that makes you overthink of the future despite not talking it through with your mutant of a lover.

Ingrith didn't back down to that fight you have been mentally trying to assault as she was wiser to knowing your existence had a count down with them around.

She only needed to know where the portal was; options would be a sorceress back in your world which transported you to the continent. Second is a physical egress that has been never found nor discovered by anyone yet. From your kingdom to theirs. It wouldn't just be a theory because when the conjunction of spheres started, all hell broke lose in the continent. So, the idea wasn't completely a hypothesis that didn't hold zero percent chances of it.

All Ingrith needed was evidence and she will surely get the answers out of you even if she'll be using corporal punishments---even to the point of drawing blood until you say words she wanted to hear.

The sorceress began to wind you up a lot more, finding amusement from the reactions and tiny twitches of your face which tells how upset you are as she ran her mouth with endless gibes, "---your beloved Witcher can't be satisfied with one woman in all his life especially with a human like you because one ages slower over the other."

She crouched before you behind bars, gritting her teeth together like a feral hound trying to mark up his or her prey.

"You don't have magic. You aren't mutated and you die like normal men," Ingrith seethed, her eyes piercing and full of hatred towards you.

---Or maybe from mankind itself. You tried to understand where she was coming from or what she was taking a stand to. The sorceress in front of you thinks of herself as if she is higher than most human alive and probably a power-hungry feline where she would take revenge on whoever has hurt her.

It was that, or she just thinks she's above all because of the power and magic that she has been lucky to have.

"They have no capacity for emotion because of the combination of their hard training, genetic modifications, and seclusion from society. I suppose love is important and heartfelt in your world, correct?" the sorceress articulated with a scorn, "---Not to Witchers, my dear. I doubt he would love you as you expect him to. You'll only be the woman who tried to substitute over Yennefer of Vengerberg's position,"

You've given her a petulant expression and a moue that could make plants wither from the hate of seeing the sorceress. She couldn't help but send a ridicule as Ingrith also feels the same, "You are not special. The Witcher needs a person who does not give him more weight on his back---he needs a strong, independent woman who can save herself from being locked inside a cage and not screaming help for him,"

Ingrith of Helmfirth brought to a stand, her eyes throwing daggers over your kneeling form. You were easy to intimidate and certainly effortless to scare away just by the height differences. She simply chuckled when all you've ever done was give her a purse of your lips and a death stare that has probably killed her inside your head for a lot of times already; yet, you were helpless, inundated and incapable of doing such from a mortal.

She knew it; sensed that you held no magic.

"I didn't need you attacking me this way," you quipped with a shake of your head, sighing from the tiring conversation that was taking a toll on you no matter how unaffected you try to appear. But, you were futile to their world and even to a government that was quite unfamiliar to you, authorities that didn't care about the welfare and lives of people.

Sitting back on your derriere with your legs in a criss-cross position, you've held your guard down and went on with the flow. Suddenly, on the midst of prompting down in a comfortable position, you've heard the metal door swinging open and saw the sorceress holding up a hand to you like she had some repulsor; thinking she was Iron Man from how she pointed her palm at your face.

Your face was warped in irritation and ambiguity. You knew what she was doing; her magic is what it is. With a slap of her hand away from your face, barks of remarks has been said out in the open, "What? you need a high five after insulting me like that? even had to pry over what relationship I have with Geralt?---or are you Iron Man dressed as a lady? am I in the MCU?"

The vicious sorceress had a nonplussed look on her face, analyzing what was wrong with the spell she tried to cast upon you, but it seems like her runes has been blocked by someone or something she couldn't understand. Ingrith knelt before you and quickly grabbed onto your throat, her fingers roughly wresting along the line of your jaw as she made you look into her eyes.

None. You had no magic; really knew no witchcraft.

"You should be fainting right now," she lowly mumbled to herself, her gaze intently examining your face while you spat out dry cough from being choked alive, gagging in the process of being pounced on.

"Excuse---E-Excuse me, I'm not. You---You suck! You're not a real sorceress then!"

Until such time, she'd realize the light, chain of metal attached to your neck. Ingrith has straightaway pulled the collar of your sweater down until it has been slightly ripped off. You yelped and resisted to comply from her wishes. However, she'd slapped you hard enough on the same spot as Tybalt did which has made you cease from shrieking as the ache in your jaw started to double up more than ever.

They were literally treating you like a doll that they could hurt or ignite pain and you want nothing more than to see Geralt and lull you to sleep, being taken care of by your own witcher as he tells stories about his adventures with Jaskier or Cirilla, appreciating the difference of being in his family's arms and the people whom they've warned you about.

They have been right all along.

Ingrith pulled the collar down until she'd seen such Cicatrix engraved in between the valley of your chest; the medallion of the Witcher and his school, you were destined to be with him and to create a progeny---his progeny in this world you were in. The lesion now looked like a birthmark, turning darker against your skin and it was enough to presume that the process has finally began.

Along came with an ornament; specifically, the fae necklace that had enchantments to rebound ill-fate has turned from coral green to black like her incantations have been reversed.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed in the middle of the slammer, the Elven who was in the same stockade you were in has given her a look from her loud guffaws, "---you're under a curse---the Warp of the souls. Who'd curse you?"

The sorceress urgently demanded, her fingers tugging your arm as she pulled you closer to her face; seeing the beauty you once saw turn monstrous over the hate that was controlling her to live.

You shook your head, eyes all wide from the frustration, anger and hopelessness being confined inside a dungeon, "I don't know! I haven't met any mages except for you, bitch!"

Ingrith pushed you off to the side, making you stumble on your back flat that has made you groan.

"You're being protected," she stood up on her feet and dusted off her hands straight to your face; all feral with barred teeth, you've given her the stink eye and a nasty scowl, wanting to spit of her foot for her malign, "---Did the witcher find you a Djinn and planned to throw you off back to where you came from?"

"I'm not fucking answering you!" you loudly yelled, voice echoing inside the stoned slammer.

"It is a yes, then."

The sorceress turned away at that, paving her way to the entrance of your spectral, cold cage. She stepped out of the hatch with a lour and most likely with such ire, the curse being a stronger fuel to the fire as she scanned you from head to foot, her gaze lingering longer on your stomach.

Her glowing purple eyes that was quite difficult to decipher when she'd step out of the cage has made you hold a hand on your belly. Why was she staring at you in a way as if she was planning something? did she wanted to eat your intestines?

"---It's that...kind of wish, Tybalt."

Her right hand man has been silent all through out your conversation with the sorceress. The vampire kept his mouth shut, listening to what information they could earn from Ingrith's interrogation. He immediately understood what she meant about 'that kind of wish,' and it was confusing him because of the Witcher's inability to conceive such children.

Tybalt was thinking that your existence never had any reason as to why you've stumbled across the continent. Unless, you've been brought by destiny to produce and make miracles for Geralt's life?

The sorceress leaned closer, her mouth near to his ear as she quietly spoke; not risking for you to hear, "Starve her. Leave her alone with the Elf until The Witcher arrives---or better yet, cudgel her until she speaks answers." she huffed a breath, full of detest over what powerful being was protecting you from her---your curse making her loathe you even more as you were fertile enough to give Geralt an offspring. He shouldn't have been given that luck because he was destined to be completely barren. But, here you were being a complete wonder as to why the curse was a success.

Ingrith hated the concept of an offspring especially that she was also an infertile woman and she couldn't risk the likelihood of a child and its genesis of being a successful heir of a djinn's given malediction; a byproduct of the spirit's potentials in one human to be protected by a witcher.

It could be a threat to her and you were certainly a hazard that she needed to control.

The sorceress speedily left the cell with Tybalt following suit. Her palms itching to go berserk over being futile to your existence, "---She must not produce an heir with the witcher," she sauntered through the path with raging blood. The higher vampire swiftly tugging onto her wrist with his agility.

"But, witchers are infertile, my lady. I doubt they may produce a child,"

"She's made a wish. She has never been infertile from the start nor is she mutated. This thief does not possess such magic but she can give the witcher a child as long as she's protected by the Djinn. The Djinn would give their heir his own magic to create madness in this world which is why she's under a curse. Their child will hold power that no one can ever understand with the help of it,"

"---To make sure of it, we shan't walk around bushes. Spells or maybe poison shall do the trick. We don't need another damned prodigy in this world!"

Tybalt has given her a look, puffing out his frustrations for how she was a foot farther away from the future. The sorceress and her intentions was thoroughly getting out of hand from the moment the prince has been cursed for years. They were present when the curse for the prince has started; more so, Ingrith lasted longer than him in the castle from the moment he was seized by her when she was younger and he respected her for it, even thankful for abducting her when he was a vagrant.

"Ingrith, this is beyond the plan," he spoke through gritted teeth; tightly clutching onto her arm. She raise a brow back at him with a sarcastic reply.

"Do you want the witcher to have a child who may possess black magic then?" Tybalt shut his mouth at that, listening to her reasons and opinion about the whole tragedy that was about to happen in the future, "---you don't even know who that child with Ashen hair is. She can't be his child---he's protecting her from someone---even the thief because she is having his child,"

Ingrith forcefully yanked his hold away from her arm, giving him a sharp look of warning as she continued her gaslighting, "I remembered saving you when you were down and dirty, covered in grime in the caves because you have been abandoned as a higher vampire from your guild,"

The higher vampire's features turned adamantine; features withdrawn and never believing what words he was receiving as it felt like she was making him feel the indeptedness for taking him in.

Ingrith couldn't help but give him a mordant smile of her lips, tilting her head back at him as they stood in front of each other; eye to eye as they both had the same height. She'd seen and read the look within his eyes, conceding to her request of assenting over what side she was trying to fight as her own opinions is what matters and has always been right.

"You're strong, Tybalt. Stronger than the witcher. His sword is no match for you. You're smarter, agile and inevitable. Though, you have a weakness and I suggest you fight that vulnerability of yours---that foolish sympathy for humanity because pity for others isn't what this world needs,"

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means you couldn’t be tagged, Bb. Please check your settings) @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @turkish276 @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernaturalhero @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @deadlydemon @cheesecakeisapie @angelofthor @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi, @a–1–1–3, @gutfucks, @raynosaurus-rex, @britty443, @suhke3, @shadowclawstudio88

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza, @crazybutconfidentaf

General taglist for Henry Cavill: @agniavateira, @iloveyouyen, @rahdaleigh, @silverkitten547 @henrythickcavill @kaatelyyynn

185 notes · View notes

flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

I'm just thinking about the first time Jaskier learns that Geralt names every horse he gets Roach. Does this amuse Jaskier? Does he realise the abandonment issues involved? Is Geralt nervous or embarrassed to tell him? Does this count as a prompt? I'm not sure if it does but I hope your day gets better!

that absolutely counts as a prompt! thank you :)

A Horse by Any Other Name

The insistent strumming of the lute was starting to get on Geralt’s nerves. One would think by now he’d be able to tune it out, but no. It was like everything the bard did was demanding Geralt’s full attention. The bard would probably let it get to his head if he knew, insisting that Geralt liked having him near or some such nonsense.

“The mighty steed by the name of Roach

Loyal even when a monster approach…es.”

The notes faltered as the bard stumbled over the words of his new song for the umpteenth time. “Damn it.”

Geralt’s lips twitched upwards, when the bard picked up the tune again, trying in vain to find a decent rhyme.

Eventually he gave up. Finally, some silence. Though not for long.

“Really, Geralt. Roach? How am I supposed to fit that into any song? She deserves to be sung about, but nothing makes a decent rhyme for that name and if I change the syntax it doesn’t fit the metre anymore.” He scoffed and put the lute onto his back. “Sometimes I think you only named her that to spite me. Roach! You couldn’t have picked literally any other name, could you? Something that would sound good in a ballad about heroism and adventure maybe?”

Geralt grunted. “No.”

His jaw clenched. The bard had no right to demand such a thing. It was none of his business what Geralt called his horse. Roach wasn’t here to be a shining accessory to the bard’s songs. She was his companion.

Despite his time at the theatre, the bard didn’t know how to take a cue. Geralt’s frown and obvious dismissal must not have been obvious enough for him.

The bard skipped some steps ahead, until he was walking backwards, looking at him with an impish grin.

“Oh…that almost sounds like it has a story behind it.” He spread his arms widely. “The great tale of why Roach is the only acceptable name for this valiant mare.”

“There isn’t one.” None that the bard would get to hear any time soon, at least.

Geralt guided Roach around the bard and urged her on to walk faster.

“Come on!” He ignored the bard calling after him. “Tell me!”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Geralt didn’t look back, but after a few seconds he heard an indignant huff and the sound of hurried footsteps.

The bard didn’t broach the subject again. Almost a week had passed and Geralt was starting to relax, hoping against his better judgement that the bard had lost interest. Experience should have told him that this hope was stupid.

As per usual Geralt was riding on horse while the bard walked behind him like a stone stuck in one’s shoe, annoying and likely to still be there, even when one thought they had finally gotten rid of it for good. And as per usual the bard was talking.

“My feet are killing me, Geralt! Don’t ever let me put on these shoes when we are going for a long walk again. Gorgeous as they are, they are not made for adventuring.”

Geralt grunted and damn it, he was unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

The bard must have picked up on it, because he doubled down, sighing overdramatically.

“You could save me from my misery, you know? You are supposed to be my hero. My knight in shining armour. So, if we keep travelling together for much longer, you could just let me ride –“

“No,” Geralt said, though at this point it was more to see the bard’s reaction than anything else. He was loath to admit it, but the bard had a point. If he were to stick around, it would be better if he didn’t have to walk everywhere. It was slowing them down and it would do no good for the bard to get blisters. If for some reason the bard would ever get in danger, being exhausted from a long walk would prove fatal.

Geralt ground his teeth together. He shouldn’t be thinking such things. There would be no travelling together. Soon enough the bard would get tired of trailing after Geralt and find someone else to latch onto, probably some pretty woman who openly showered him in adoration.

The bard’s huff brought him back to the here and now, in which the bard was still very much by his side.

“Fine then. Maybe in the next town I will just buy my own horse. And I will give it a truly beautiful name, one that can actually be used in my poetry. Like Pegasus. That is a name worthy of ballads.”

Geralt tensed. He didn’t mean to, but his heels must have dug into Roach’s sides, for she made a disgruntled sound.

The bard chuckled. “Don’t worry, Roach, my dear.” The bard came closer and gently stroked her nostrils. Geralt couldn’t help the relief he felt when Roach didn’t snap at the bard, biting the fingers that he so dearly needed for his playing. “You are still my one and only Roach.”

“She isn’t.”

The words were out before Geralt could stop himself.

The way the bard rolled his eyes was far too exaggerated for him to be truly annoyed. “Oh hush, you can stop it with your boorishness. I know you get touchy about her, but you can’t deny that Roach and I have become friends.” He paused. “Just like you can’t deny that we have become friends.”

Geralt could and very much would deny that as often as he must until the bard finally saw reason. Geralt’s jaw worked while the bard looked up at him challengingly.

Ah fuck it.

“That’s not what I meant. She isn’t the only Roach.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Not the first one anyway.”

“The first one?” Despite Geralt avoiding the bard’s eyes, he could see his expression turn confused. “You mean there were others before her? And there will be Roaches after her?”

Geralt nodded curtly. And that was that. At least as far as Geralt was concerned. The bard obviously had a different view on things.

“So that’s why you didn’t want to talk about her name!” There was a smile in his voice that had no business being there. “It’s alright, you know. I won’t judge you for not being creative with names. Happens to the best of us. To be frank, I think it’s quite endearing.”

Geralt snapped around sharply. “Stop talking about things you know nothing about.”

He was about to spurn Roach on, just to get away from the conversation and the uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest, when he noticed that the bard had fallen eerily quiet.

Geralt risked a glance over his shoulder to find the bard staring at the ground, where he was kicking a stone in front of him, apparently lost in thought. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. He knew he was gruff and just overall not good company, but he hadn’t thought that he would actually manage to get the bard to shut up. Somehow it didn’t sit right with him. As much as the constant chatter could be annoying, it was part of the bard and losing it felt a step closer to the inevitable. Still, he didn’t know what to do about it. He had never been good at keeping things close.

He almost slumped in relief, when the bard spoke up again, quieter this time and with none of the dramatics and exaggerated emotion of a performance. “What was the first Roach like?”

Geralt’s breath hitched. It had been so long since he had taken the time to think back to the first one, even though the memory never left him.

When Geralt didn’t immediately answer, the bard swallowed and averted his eyes. “Sorry. Ignore my question. I don’t actually want you to talk about things you don’t want to talk about.”

“He wasn’t mine,” Geralt said, unsure how much the bard was willing to hear, but feeling the strange need to tell him anyway. “When I became a witcher, I didn’t have a horse. I was quite disappointed about that actually.” His lips twitched. “It would have fit into the ridiculous idea I had about being some heroic defender of mankind.”

The bard started fidgeting and pressed his lips together, like he was burning to say something, but holding back to let Geralt talk. Geralt wouldn’t admit it, but he was grateful for it.

“The first monster I killed…. let’s just say the one I saved didn’t exactly see me as a defender.” His brows drew together at the memory. “After she regained consciousness, she ran away as fast as she could. Didn’t care that she had left her horse behind. I didn’t want him either. I was no hero and I was too bitter to think of how useful a horse would be.

“But he kept following me around.” A smile stole itself onto Geralt’s face. “Just wouldn’t leave me behind, that stubborn horse. For a week or so I didn’t give him a name. I wasn’t planning on keeping him. It was only when I had to choose between spending my coin on food for him or for myself that I decided to name him. I caught my own food that day – a roach – and figured it was a good enough name. It wasn’t the best, but I wasn’t going to keep the horse for long anyway. He didn’t leave though. Stayed with me until he wasn’t able to run fast enough when a griffin got away from me.”

There was that silence again. It was what Geralt had wanted, wasn’t it? For the bard to be quiet. But this silence was heavy, filled with something Geralt didn’t dare name, lest he would have to admit to himself that the bard wasn’t just some idiot who only followed him because he hadn’t yet realised the foolishness of it.

He scoffed, filled with the unexpected need to hear the bard react in some way.

“You satisfied?” Geralt’s voice sounded bitter even in his own ears. “Is that something you can make a song out of?”

“No. I don’t think I will,” the bard said quietly, thoughtfully. So unlike the way Geralt was used to hearing him speak. He wasn’t sure if he minded it. “Thank you for telling me.”

Geralt grunted, his throat suddenly dry. For a terrifying moment, he had come so close to making a fool of himself by thanking the bard for listening.

When he looked at the bard out of the corner of his eye, he had a tiny smile dancing on his lips.

“It’s good to finally know that she is named after the fish.” Something loosened inside Geralt at the bard’s light-hearted words. “For the longest time I thought our dearest Roach was named after a cockroach and that would have just been a strange name.”

Geralt huffed, but didn’t hide the tiny smile that tugged at his lips. “Says someone named after a flower.”

The hearty laugh was enough to vanquish the last of the heaviness around Geralt’s chest that made it hard to breathe.

“So you do know my name after all.” The bard cocked his head to the side, smile still in place. “I had begun to wonder if you just didn’t know and reached a point where it would have been embarrassing to ask.”

“Hard to miss the name people shout when they chase you out of their rooms.”

The bard grinned. “Not to mention the multitude of adoring fans shouting my name. As they will yours once I make you famous.”

Geralt snorted.

“Actually, could you halt Roach for a moment? There’s been a pebble stuck inside my shoe for forever now and I really need to get rid of it.”

Geralt lifted a brow, but did as the bard had said. His breathe got stuck in his throat when the bard placed a hand on his leg for balance, as he took one boot off.

The smile on the bard’s face when he had finally managed to shake the pebble out of it was incredibly smug.

“Alright then, onwards!”

Geralt hesitated. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I said come here. Onto Roach. I want to reach town before nightfall and I can’t do that when stones keep getting stuck in your shoes.”

For a heartbeat, the bard looked at Geralt with an unreadable expression, before a grin spread across his face.

It was only when he was sat behind Geralt with his arms slung around him, that the bard spoke again. “Just in case you were worried. I am not going to leave you, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed, but somehow the annoyance he had come to expect at such a declaration didn’t come.

“I am afraid you’re right, Jaskier.”

#Geraskier #The Witcher #Roach #Bad Shakespeare references #Subtlety? Never heard of her #Jaskier #Geralt #fic #My writing #ask and you shall receive

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Text

The Prince of Darkness

Written for @thewitcherbog flash fic challenge a while back but I never posted!

Rating: M

Summary: Jaskier is the King of the Underworld, and it's Valdo's day of judgement.

CW: Demon!Jaskier (and witchers), implied sexual content, death, torture (burning, choking, freezing.), Jask has an open relationship with all the witchers (but Geralt is his favourite), mentions of non con.

The hotel lobby was sophisticated and yet traditional, like something out of a movie. The dark panelling on the walls were dimly lit by flickering candles, and there was a fireplace roaring in the centre of the foyer, and a handful of gorgeous golden-eyed beauties were making their way around the room. They were finely dressed, perfectly tailored suits with silken blood red waistcoats detailed with golden buttercups, a tray balanced on their hands as they passed out flutes of champagne. In the corner of the room was a black grand piano, the lid propped up as the man behind it let his fingers dance across the ivory keys, rings glistening silver and gold in the candlelight.

Jaskier smiled to himself as he played, his eyes shut, focussing on every little sound in the room, blending it with the music, manipulating the souls around him until they were practically eating out of his hand.

The Prince of Darkness, the mortals called him.

Lucifer himself.

He preferred Jaskier; buttercups were so beautiful, so innocent, so toxic.

It was the perfect moniker.

Lux was his domain, his hotel, a haven for demons and sinners alike, and the perfect stage for when Jaskier had to deal with… unpleasant business. The witchers, as he liked to call his inner circle of demons, would deal with the aftermath, cleaning up the elevator before any of Jaskier’s regular clientele could see.

The witchers were just such good pets.

Geralt approached the piano, his honey golden eyes almost entirely black as they approached the end of another poor soul’s contract. There was an itch that creeped under Jaskier’s skin, hot fire burning through his veins, but it didn’t bother him. No, he relished in the flames, let it warm his cold immortal body. Cracking an eye open, he peered at the witcher who had disturbed his music.

“He’s here, my lord.”

Jaskier sighed, bringing the music to an end, and then, with a snap of his fingers, the ivory keys started to play anew. The song was a familiar tune, a well known pop song from the mortals’ charts. It would keep his honoured guests entertained, after all, at Lux the party never-ended. Those who stepped through the swinging doors were transported to a realm of endless night; cocktails, champagne and designer clothes. The chandelier in the middle of the room twinkled, and there was a sharp clack of high heels on the granite floor as his guests mingled.

None of them ever seemed to realise there was something not quite right about Lux. When they were done partying, when Jaskier had made deals for their souls, they would leave and return to their realm as if they had only been there for an evening, never to return until their contract was up.

And they always returned.

Occasionally, a poor mortal would fight it, realising their impending doom. They’d try to flee the country, get as far away from Lux as possible, but the witchers were excellent hunters. Once the demons got the right scent, they could track their prey to the end of the known universe. The mortals never stood a chance. They either came willingly or they would be dragged through the doors by two of Jaskier’s finest demons; he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Yes it was simpler if they accepted their fate, but he couldn’t deny that he just adored the thrill of watching the poor terrified soul being thrown at his feet.

He thought of himself as a kind devil, if such a thing existed, his father would certainly disagree, but his father could rot in heaven. Truly, Jaskier did his best to be fair. He granted the mortals wishes and made sure they lived their best lives, he even allowed most of them to live for many decades with the gifts he gave them, their deepest desires. Really, for some of the wishes he’d granted, it would have been kind to allow them even a year of life, let alone what he gave to them.

Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them.

Valdo Marx had been an easy soul to claim; he was greedy, lustful, full of pride. He’d practically begged at Jaskier’s feet back when he was in his first year of university.

“I want to be the best musician the world has ever seen, I want the most beautiful woman, Virginia Stael, to be my wife, and I want-”

Jaskier had waved his hand, his dark feathered wings spreading out behind him, and Valdo’s jaw had snapped shut, muffled sounds coming from his throat.

“I want, I want, I want,” Jaskier had cooed, his finger hooking under Valdo’s chin as he pouted down at the mortal, whipping his tail round to caress down the poor man’s arm until his wrist had been locked in a vice. “Do you know what I want… Marx?”

The wanna-be musician had scoffed, a fatal mistake and one that had cost him years off his life. “Everyone knows that, Lucifer.”

“My name, Valdo, is Jaskier,” he’d hissed, his forked tongue flicking out from his lips as more and more of his devil form had been revealed. “And I just want to have fun.”

“You want my soul.”

“No, your soul is the price. A mere business transaction. I just want to get wasted and shag my rather lovely demons, and you are wasting my time.”

Ah yes. Valdo had always been a little shit-stain in Jaskier’s life, but now his time had come.

The piano music began to build to an earth shattering crescendo, making the glasses rattle, and dust fall from the chandelier. Jaskier cracked his neck, feeling a prickling sensation on his scalp as his horns began to grow, and still the sweet, oblivious mortals noticed nothing. They sipped on their champagne and chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the way Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes slowly turned onyx, his skin deathly pale. He smiled sweetly at his favourite witcher, running his lips along Geralt’s sharp cheekbones.

“Thank you, darling,” he breathed, capturing Geralt’s lips with his, tongues meeting in a quick but heated display of passion.

And then the doors burst open, Lambert and Aiden dragginga handsome but aging man through the doors, grey hairs dusting his temple, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It had been a long time since Jaskier had seen Valdo Marx, but there was no denying his beauty, now distinguished, a true silver fox. Dark chocolate eyes met his as all the colour drained from Marx’s face.

“Oh God, no… no, please,” he stammered, struggling in the arms of the demons that held him.

“My dear father holds no power here,” Jaskier chuckled, smirking at the man at his feet. “There’s no use in praying. Your soul belongs to me.”

“Lu- Jaskier, please. I’m too young. It’s too soon,” Valdo begged, reaching up to Jaskier with open hands. “My wife, my children.”

“Oh but Valdo, It’s never too soon. I am never early and I never try to back out of a deal, darling,” Jaskier pouted, squatting so he was at eye level with the mortal. “So why don’t you come with me, love? Stop all this fussing. You’re ruining my party.”

With a fire not often seen in mortals, Valdo spat at Jaskier, and an eerie silence fell over the club. The piano music screeched to a halt, the lid closing with a bang, and the only sound was a low rumble of growls from the witchers. Geralt was at Jaskier’s side in a flash, his sword drawn and pointed at the man.

It was sweet.

As if Jaskier couldn’t defend himself, but he did enjoy the show, the way Geralt’s arms would flex as he gripped the sword, twirling it in a circle before executing his victim.

“I had planned to give you an easy death,” Jaskier lied, standing back up to his full demonic height and clearing his face with a snap, “but now, I think I’ll have some fun. Geralt, Eskel, with me. Lambert, Aiden, make sure our guests stay out of the way.”

“No!” Valdo cried, falling once more at Jaskier’s feet, gripping onto his ankles.

Oh, how he loved it when they begged for their lives.

When Jaskier glided through the foyer, picking up a champagne flute from Coen’s tray with barely a brush of his lips to the demon’s cheek, the crowd parted before him. Compliments fell off their tongues, sweet like honey, unaware of the influence Jaskier had over them. They all watched him, they always watched him, so very eager to please. Geralt snarled behind him as one brave mortal rested their hand on Jaskier’s arm, but it was Eskel who snapped their fingers, silent and deadly, before they’d even realised he was there.

Valdo was pulled into the elevator, tears streaming down his face and choked off screams ripping from his throat, but Jaskier remained calm, and if it weren’t for his eyes and the horns amongst his tousled brown hair, he would have looked like any other hotel owner.

Until the doors closed.

And then all hell broke loose; literally. Jaskier’s body cracked and snapped into place as his legs extended to inhuman proportions, his fingers growing into talons, and he let out a sinful moan as his wings unfurled behind him. He flicked out his tail, and his three-piece suit melted away into a gorgeous black silk corset, embroidered with golden buttercups. Red stockings adorned his legs, held up by lacy black garters, and as he flicked out his ankles, a pair of strappy heels materialised on his feet, the soles flashing red before clicking back onto the floor.

“Jaskier, please, please,” Valdo cried, falling against the side of the elevator as lightning sparked and they dropped fast, the dial on the wall spinning out of control.

“Your soul… belongs to me,” Jaskier hissed, pressing Valdo up against the wall, his hands wrapping around his throat.

He was tempted to snog Valdo’s soul right out of him, a sweet kiss to seal the deal, but that was too kind, and he was feeling a little more dramatic than that, so he pushed back off the wall, beating his wings so he hovered just off the floor. Geralt and Eskel were standing on either side of him, swords drawn with toxic black eyes, veins like ink beneath their skin.

Flames burst out behind them, whipping around so the whole elevator was surrounded by a burning pyre, singeing Valdo’s clothes, and the mortal screamed as the fire licked at his hand, scorching the calloused skin. His precious hands, his livelihood, the first things that Jaskier had blessed for him.

There was something so delightfully poetic in that, and Jaskier found great pleasure in it.

“Everyone always thinks that hell is eternal fire,” he purred, stroking a talon along Geralt’s cheek, before pulling Eskel into a soft kiss, taking his time to enjoy the taste of sulfur on his tongue, “but that isn’t always true.”

“W-what?”

Jaskier just pouted at Valdo. “Do try to keep up, darling.”

And then he snapped his fingers, the fire was suddenly extinguished, replaced by a flood of muddy tar. Valdo spluttered and choked as he slid to the ground, the tar catching in his hair, and wherever it landed his handsome looks withered away. The wedding band slipped from his finger and disappeared, despite Valdo’s desperate scrambling to find it.

The muddy mixture spewed all over the lift, covering the two demons as well as their victim, but Jaskier stayed clean and dry, untouched by the tar. He really wasn’t in the mood for ruining his clothes, not like this. He was rather hoping Geralt would tear them from his body later on that day whilst his other beloved witchers watched.

“J-Jaskier!” Valdo screamed, just as the entire elevator froze.

Blue ice creeped up the walls, wrapping around the legs of both the demons and the pitiful mortal on the floor. Valdo sobbed, trying to escape the ice but they both knew it was over. His back pressed against the wall as the ice grew, crystallising over his body, wrapping around his throat. Snowflakes fell from the ceiling, landing in his eyelashes as he struggled to breathe.

And Jaskier stole back his voice.

The final gift.

Valdo’s soul ripped from his body, and the man fell limp against the wall.

With a wave of his hand, Jaskier captured the soul, weaving his magic until a silver fox with chocolate brown eyes was nestled in his arms. He grinned, lowered the fox to the floor and then snapped his fingers to open the doors.

Before he left the elevator, his corset grew into a beautiful gown, split all the way up to his thighs, and his demonic features melted away. He patted Geralt once more on the cheek, pressing their lips together, before striding back into the foyer, not looking back at the frozen massacre he’d left behind. Beside him, a silver fox trotted along, a shadow of the man he used to be.

#the witcher #jaskier loves witchers #demon!jaskier #wolfie's witcher writing

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