#i heard the witcher one was pretty bad as well by the way
Sing Me a Song
“You Geralt of Rivia’s bard?”
Jaskier looks up from his notepad and grins at the man who’s just sat at the opposite side of the table.
“Technically, I used to be,” the bard says, taking a sip of his ale. “We had a tiny misunderstanding last year. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine, though, I’m just giving him some time to cool down and wallow in self-pity.”
Jaskier frowns, because his brain has finally caught up with his mouth and informs him that even though the man who asked the question is very pretty (and he is – a bit short, but lean and clearly very agile, brown-skinned, with dark, wavy hair and stunningly unnatural green eyes), he also has got two big, scary swords strapped to his back, way too many scars and has, in fact, only one green eye, the other being covered by an eye patch, presumably missing.
And then there’s the Cat school medallion on his chest.
As Geralt would say… fuck.
“Unless you’re here to kidnap me and torture me to lure him into a trap. If that’s the case, I’ve never met a Geralt of Rivia in my life. Also, if you harm a hair on my head, he will hunt you down and kill you, very slowly and painfully. Just a heads up,” Jaskier smiles, utterly failing to sound at least a little bit threatening.
“Thanks for the warning,” the Witcher laughs. “But I actually need you to write me a song.”
“Sorry, I’m afraid this bard already has a Witcher to praise,” Jaskier protests, shaking his head firmly.
“Ugh. Who says I want praise?” the man says, making a face. “I just can’t seem to find a friend of mine, so I need to make him find me.”
“With a song? Do I look like a fucking pied piper?” Jaskier smirks.
“A little, yeah.”
“Fair enough. What’s in it for me?”
“What do you think is going to happen once Geralt hears that his bard has found himself a new muse?” the Witcher grins.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, chuckling. “Oh, but that’s good.”
“Are you in, then?”
“Absolutely. And, uhm… What did you say your name was?”
“By the gods, where are my manners?” the Witcher laughs. “I’m Aiden.”
Geralt places two tankards of ale on the table and sits down with a grunt.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting old, Wolf,” his brother Lambert smirks and promptly pulls one of the tankards closer. “Because that almost sounded like Vesemir when he’s trying to get up from his chair.”
“You’re so fucking funny,” Geralt murmurs.
“I know, right?” Lambert grins, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind his ear. “So, how’s life on the Path without your beloved bard?”
“Not my bard.”
“So pretty fucking terrible, eh?” Lambert chuckles.
“Fuck off, Lambert.”
“You’re being very nice and friendly today, you know?”
“I bought you a drink. So shut up and… drink.”
Lambert shrugs and for once does what he’s told. Within a few seconds, half of the tankard’s content vanishes.
“If it’s any consolation, life without my Cat is also pretty fucking unbearable,” he says then.
“Oh, really, Geralt? You’re using your famous hm against me? Me, your brother?!”
“By the gods… Why can’t I just run into Eskel for once? Why does it always have to be you?”
“You’re just lucky, I guess.”
Lambert rolls his eyes and focuses on his ale again – until the local bard grabs his lute and starts playing a slow, romantic ballad. Lambert growls.
“Fuck, I hate that song!”
“Why?” Geralt blinks, because he’s never heard the song before, and to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t really sound that bad.
“A brown-skinned woman with dark hair who’s seemingly killed, then comes back to life already plotting her revenge, only to find out that her lover’s already avenged her? Always reminds me of Aiden.”
“Aiden wasn’t exactly… A woman, was he?”
“He also hasn’t come back to life, as far as I know,” Lambert mutters.
“Who wrote it?” Geralt frowns, listening carefully. “It sounds like Jaskier’s work.”
“Some Master Dandelion. Never heard of him, but it seems he’s very popular now.”
“Oh, not again!” Lambert groans.
“It just… It really does sound like Jaskier’s song.”
“You just fucking miss the bard, Geralt, that’s all.”
“No. No, I actually think…”
“That might be exactly the problem,” Lambert says and places his empty tankard back on the table. “The second round’s on me.”
“Seems like your plan’s not working as intended,” Jaskier comments. He’s spent weeks traveling with Aiden, and they still haven’t even heard about another Witcher trying to find them.
“I’m aware,” Aiden mutters, chewing his dinner without even noticing its taste – which is, honestly, probably for the best. “Could you be, like… less subtle?”
“Fine,” Aiden nods. “Do it.”
“It’s a man now,” Geralt frowns, listening to the song he’s heard countless times already. “That’s new.”
“Looks like Master Dandelion might like to, uhm, dual wield,” Lambert snorts.
“It still sounds like Jaskier’s work.”
“Does Jaskier like to dual wield?”
“Hmm,” Geralt says dreamily.
“All the more reason to apologize, then, eh?”
“Oh, shut up, Lambert…”
“Still not working!” Aiden groans. He’s been waiting for three months for his Wolf to find him, and to no avail.
“I could, you know… Try something more obvious,” Jaskier offers.
“It’s a cat now,” Geralt blinks. “Dark-skinned, dark-haired… cat.”
“Yeah, I hate those fucking metaphors.”
“I’m starting to think I should have just… kept trying to find him,” Aiden sighs, staring out of the tavern’s window.
Jaskier, cheeks still flushed from his performance, downs his ale and shakes his head.
“Don’t give up hope just yet,” he says. “I’ve already made a few changes to the song.”
“Oh, have you?” Aiden smirks. “Does it now say Lambert, I’m alive you moron, stop hiding and fucking find me?”
“Well, not yet… But almost.”
“Great. I can’t wait to hear it.”
Lambert is staring at yet another local bard singing the fucking ballad. He doesn’t even blink. Geralt is getting a little worried that his brother’s brain might have actually exploded.
“It says a Cat Witcher now,” he says, hoping it would get a reaction out of Lambert.
The redhead finally blinks. That’s probably good.
“A Cat Witcher who comes back to life only to find out his Wolf lover has already avenged him,” Geralt adds.
Lambert blinks again.
“And you know, I’m almost sure that this Master Dandelion is just Jaskier’s new alias.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Lambert mutters when the song finally comes to its end.
“Which one of them?” Geralt smirks.
“Both of them!” Lambert growls. “I swear to gods, if I find out your stupid bard stole my Cat…”
“Excuse me, madam,” Geralt says to the innkeeper who’s just brought them their dinner. “Where did your bard learn this song?”
“That sappy ballad?” the innkeeper frowns. “From this Master Dandelion himself. He passed through the town last week with a Witcher.”
“And Master Dandelion…”
“You know the bard that calls himself Jaskier? It’s him with a fancy hat on,” she smirks.
“About this Witcher,” Lambert growls. “Does he look like in the song?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Kind of small for a Witcher, and almost too pretty, you know, but we had a little griffin problem and he slayed that beast like it was nothing, so…”
“I’m so gonna kill them both,” Lambert murmurs while Geralt has to try very hard not to chuckle.
“Would you happen to know where were they heading?” he asks.
“I would,” the woman says and looks at the Witcher expectantly.
“I see,” Geralt sighs. “You have another monster problem, don’t you?”
“Well. It turns out the griffin probably had a mate…”
“Of course it fucking did,” Geralt nods and picks up his fork. He simply refuses to deal with this with an empty stomach…
Jaskier critically eyes the clothes he’s picked for tonight’s performance.
“What do you think, Aiden?” he asks his companion. “Isn’t the purple a bit too much? It’s a small town, after all. Wouldn’t the steel blue look better?”
“I don’t know, I like the red one best,” Aiden shrugs from his spot on the bed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Reminds you of Lambert’s hair,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “Melitele’s tits, I wish he’d find us already, because this is getting really–”
As if on cue, the door of the room slams open and a big, red-haired man walks in.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells when he sees Aiden.
The dark-haired Witcher beams and gets to his feet.
“Oh. Okay. That was fast,” Jaskier nods.
Lambert growls and grabs Aiden by the collar.
“Asshole!” he hisses. “I fucking mourned you!”
“Oh, honey, that’s so sweet,” Aiden smiles.
Lambert pushes him against the wall, so hard that Aiden grunts.
“I cried for you!”
“In my defense, it wasn’t exactly my fault,” Aiden smiles.
Jaskier inches towards the door.
“I guess I’ll just… leave you two to it.”
Needless to say, Lambert ignores him completely.
“I fucking avenged you!”
“Yes, that was very kind of you,” Aiden grins, utterly unaffected by Lambert’s angry face so close to his own. “You saved me a lot of trouble.”
Lambert groans, buries his face in Aiden’s shoulder and sighs deeply.
“You fucker,” he mutters.
“Yeah, I missed you too, puppy,” Aiden smiles, wrapping his arms around Lambert.
Jaskier, who’s already standing in the doorway, places his hand on his heart and takes a deep breath.
“Oh,” he whispers. “I shall write the most beautiful ballad about this… Ow!”
He’s unceremoniously dragged out of the room and this time it’s his turned to be slammed against the wall by a big, angry Witcher – but this one is white-haired and dressed all in black.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, his face brightening up.
“You won’t write a fucking thing,” Geralt growls.
“Is that so? May I ask why, dear heart?”
“Because you’re mine. My bard. And if I ever find out you’re writing about another Witcher again–”
“Then what?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head. “But before you answer, I’d like to remind you that I am not yours anymore, as you have made it quite clear on the mountain that you are not interested in having me as a companion–”
Jaskier is effectively shut up by Geralt’s lips pressing against his with determination that makes it absolutely clear that Geralt hasn’t merely lost his balance and happened to be falling in Jaskier’s general direction.
“Mine,” he growls.
“Well,” Jaskier sighs, slipping his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “When you put it like that… Fuck the mountain, I suppose.”
“Fuck the mountain,” Geralt agrees. “But I’m sorry. For what I said.”
“Apology very much accepted,” Jaskier laughs. “I’d ask you to fuck me, but I’m afraid my room is currently… occupied.”
Lambert’s loud moan only confirms Jaskier’s statement.
“Hm,” Geralt hums. “Do you think this tavern has a bath? I think I still have some griffin blood in my hair from last week.”
“Oh,” Jaskier purrs. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure I could get some chamomile oil…”
They hear another moan, this time Aiden’s.
“What are we waiting for, then?” Geralt grins and grabs Jaskier’s hand. “Come on, bard. We have some catching up to do…”
2K notes · View notes
yo! if you're still doing stoplight prompts — breeding kink maybe? either way, you're amazing and an absolute trooper omg <3
(a/b/o, omegas have vaginas, infertility angst, topping from the bottom, rough heat sex, alpha!jaskier/omega!geralt, explicit)
Witchers can’t carry, making them functionally useless as Omegas.
Geralt knows this well enough, and that it is why whatever this is between himself and Jaskier ... can’t be more than temporary.
“Mate me,” Jaskier pants, when he’s all knotted up in Geralt’s cunt, so gone with it that he’s still thrusting, grinding his cock in as deep as it’ll go as Geralt shudders and struggles to trap his moans behind his gritted teeth.
“Your brains are leaking out your prick,” Geralt rasps, and Jaskier laughs, though a little sadly. He pushes their faces together and licks over Geralt’s lips until his jaw softens enough for Jaskier to kiss him, slow and slick, and Geralt can muffle his longing pleas with the heat of Jaskier’s mouth.
Because Geralt wants to. So much that it makes him weak with it. Not just when he’s fucked so well he’s seeing stars, but also when he hears Jaskier’s crooning timbre from across the room, sees the silver brightness of his smile under the moonlight.
The span of Jaskier’s untouched neck begs for Geralt’s teeth. And whenever Jaskier so much as licks over Geralt’s nape, he gushes slick like he’s in heat, though his body hasn’t ripened in that way for years.
(Would a human bite even take? Geralt’s seen the mark that Lambert flaunts, but that was given by a Witcher. There’s an even chance that Geralt’s body would just ... reject it. Grow over Jaskier’s bite even as Jaskier is forced to carry Geralt’s returning claim for the rest of his days, their bond slowly souring with resentment. The thought puts a pit in Geralt’s stomach.)
It’s well enough to have this for now. Soon enough, Jaskier will be drawn away by the smell of a sweet, fertile heat.
And Geralt will have to let him go.
Geralt should have known something was wrong when his head goes all ... syrupy.
They’re in a tavern after an easy hunt with Jaskier performing in a yellow circle of firelight, his gestures sweeping and animated, his voice raised in hearty song.
Pretty mate, Geralt’s hindbrain begins purring as he lounges in the corner, his attention sharp on Jaskier even though Geralt has already heard these songs a hundred times or more.
Jaskier is wearing dark indigo and green tonight, a peacock among the pheasants, and more than a few covetous glances are thrown in his direction. Geralt feels a faint satisfaction at seeing their disappointed expressions when they catch sight of the love mark peeking out from under Jaskier’s unlaced tunic, just above his heart. Geralt had made a point of sucking it in just that morning.
It’s nothing like a bite ... but it is as much as Geralt will allow himself.
Still, the attention Jaskier’s getting makes Geralt roil with possessiveness, unquenched by the ale he keeps pouring down his throat. He’s starting to sweat under his collar, growing heated with frustration. It feels like eternity before Jaskier finishes with his set and collects his coin, waves away some pretty offers, and finally, finally turns his attention to Geralt.
Where it belongs.
Geralt doesn’t quite preen, but maybe he smiles a touch wider as Jaskier walks towards their table. His Alpha is delectable. Wide shoulders and so much strength hidden under those foppish clothes. The sweetest knot Geralt’s ever taken.
(His Alpha? Now where had that come from?)
(Because if Jaskier was his, Geralt would have no hesitation informing all the desperate knot-hunters even now cutting their glances at their table of who Jaskier truly belonged to. Geralt would scent-mark him roughly in front of Melitele and the world, shove down his braies and ride him within an inch of his life-)
Jaskier stops sharply as he reaches the table. “Ah fuck,” he says. “You’re in heat.”
Geralt’s lust-addled daydream of Jaskier bending him over the tavern table cuts abruptly and he scowls. “Witchers don’t have heats.” It’s easier to perpetuate that myth rather than explain the irregular - though intense and prolonged - heats which could have a Witcher on their back for a week or more, leaving them utterly vulnerable. But Geralt’s sure he’s done with that. From what he knows of Omega Witchers, their cycles dry up early, which is as much a relief as anything.
(Not that he knows much of Omega Witchers, Geralt has to admit. There were only two others in his School when he was a boy, and neither survived the Trials. Cat Witchers have a higher survival rate in Omegas, but the Schools are in hardly the graces to share notes.)
“Let’s get you out of here,” Jaskier says brusquely, ineffectually dragging at Geralt’s arm as he nervously glances around the room. “You’re going to start a riot.”
Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier, indicating to his half-finished drink and largely ignored dinner. “You think any one of them can push down a Witcher?”
“No,” Jaskier huffs. “But you’re an unmated Omega and I don’t put it past any of them to try.”
Geralt flicks a glance around the tavern, and the looks in their direction that he’d attributed wholly to Jaskier’s desirability ...
There are a few Alphas in the mix, and they’re staring at Geralt with a single-minded focus. He’d been too preoccupied with mooning over Jaskier to notice.
Maybe he is on his heat.
Geralt’s attention snaps back to Jaskier as he hears a growl. Jaskier has half-climbed onto Geralt’s lap, apparently given up on hauling Geralt up bodily, and is now trying to put himself between Geralt and the rest of the room.
The look in his eyes is heated and dark.
“Fuck, you smell so good,” Jaskier purrs, then shakes himself harshly. He grabs Geralt’s hand. Squeezes it. “One cross-eyed glance and I’ll be flinging myself at them,” Jaskier says plaintively. “I won’t be able to help myself.”
Geralt knows that this is meant to appeal to his long-suffering protectiveness of Jaskier, but all it does is make Geralt’s hindbrain shudder with pleasure.
He’s seen Jaskier launch himself at rivals (personal, professional, and/or one-sided) in a rage before, and more often than not has been forced to pull them apart. Jaskier is outlandish and clumsy when it comes to fighting, very willing to do real damage, but with no real skill to back that up. Geralt might find it a little endearing, when Jaskier jumps into an altercation on his behalf. But he’s never found it attractive.
It has never made him slick.
“Fuck,” Geralt says, and looks mournfully at his half-eaten dinner.
He's on Jaskier the second they get into the room, barely letting him close the door before Geralt is shoving him against it, kissing him with teeth, licking over Jaskier's neck where the scent of his rut is just blooming - dark and heady.
"You need it bad, don't you?" Jaskier groans. "Don't worry, darling ... I'll take care of you."
From any other Alpha, it would sound condescending, put Geralt to mind of the dubious things he had to do to fulfill his heats when he was young and alone on the Path.
But Jaskier's not like that. For all his flippancy and usual barbs, his tone is earnest and adoring, his fingers gentle as they card through Geralt's hair.
Geralt can hardly stand it.
He falls to his knees and roughly tears open the front of Jaskier's braies, and for once Jaskier doesn't complain about his ribbon laces or some other such nonsense.
Geralt needs to get his mouth on Jaskier's cock. It's suddenly the most imperative thing he can think of.
"Fuck," Jaskier breathes as Geralt begins sucking him through the thin material of his smalls, rolling the head of Jaskier's cock around his mouth like a plum.
When Geralt tears down the flimsy fabric and sinks his lips over Jaskier's prick properly, Jaskier moans loud enough to wake the floor, his thighs twitching violently under Geralt's grip.
Good, Geralt thinks darkly, show them who you belong to.
Jaskier’s fastidious about bathing, at least compared to Geralt, but now he’s fresh from a performance, all sweat and musk, the salt-slick taste of him filling Geralt’s senses and dredging through his basest instincts. Though it’s uncomfortable, Geralt shoves past his gag reflex, until Jaskier’s prick is stretching his throat and Geralt’s nose is buried in the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Geralt can’t stop his hungry noises as Jaskier trembles and whines, his rut pheromones bleeding through the room.
They’re wrong, Geralt thinks, when they say an Omega’s nature is to submit.
An Omega’s nature is to take.
Geralt wraps his fingers around Jaskier's half-filled knot and squeezes, punching a guttural sound from Jaskier's chest.
"I...I'm going to ah- ... spill if you keep doing that," Jaskier babbles, his hands knotted roughly in Geralt's hair.
That’s what finally makes Geralt pull back, wipe his swollen lips on the back of his wrist.
"No," Geralt rasps, his voice rough from fucking his throat on Jaskier's cock, his braies now slick, plastered to the folds of his cunt. "I want that knot to pop in me."
“Fuck,” Jaskier breaths, flushed and already halfway to being wrecked.
"Let me take care of you," Jaskier says again, and Geralt bristles at that, even in his heat-addled state.
He pushes Jaskier onto the bed, claws off his own clothes in an impatient fervor as Jaskier works on his own. Jaskier is still trying to pull his head through the neck of his tunic when Geralt manhandles him onto onto his back, throws a leg over his hips, and begins grinding his cunt against the length of Jaskier’s cock, the friction of his throbbing cocklet against Jaskier’s lower belly making Geralt shudder.
“For the love of Melitele,” Jaskier hisses, looking almost comedic half-in, half-out of his tunic, with his hair sticking up at all ends. Geralt gives him a hand, tearing a seam as he rips it off of Jaskier’s head and flings it to the far side of the room.
"I love your cock," Geralt groans as he continues his purposeless rutting. It’s not fulfilling his heat, but it feels so good that his eyes slide closed in bliss. "You get so hard for me." The heat has loosened his tongue, made his thoughts spill from his mouth with no stopper. Geralt knows he will regret this in the morning, but he can’t help but enjoy that for the first time in his life, Jaskier seems to have been struck dumb.
All he can do is whimper as Geralt slides his cunt down to grind against the base of Jaskier's cock, slicking his knot, his thick, lovely prick that Geralt dreams of when they're apart, frigging his cocklet roughly as he thinks of Jaskier sinking into him, stretching him so fully, filling him so well.
Jaskier has a cock as fine as the rest of him, well-shaped and pretty. A princely thing that would make any proper Omega drool through their smalls.
It’s annoying. Almost. That Geralt is just one of the pack, so weak-kneed for Jaskier’s charms that he’ll carry the scent of Jaskier long after he’s gone. With a frustrated growl, Geralt pins Jaskier to the bed, plucks hungry, biting kisses from his pretty red lips as he groans.
“Geralt, please,” Jaskier begs, his eyes shining, almost tearing up with his want. “Let me taste you, I’ll make it so good, darling ...”
Jaskier is excellent with his fingers, and even better with his mouth, and any other night Geralt would have been more than happy to let him take as much time as he wanted between Geralt’s thighs.
But tonight, Geralt’s need is too urgent to deny any further.
“Here,” he says, slipping two fingers into his cunt, and slides them, shiny with slick into Jaskier’s needy mouth as Geralt positions himself.
They both catch their breath as Geralt finally begins sinking down onto Jaskier’s cock.
The noise Jaskier makes is almost inhuman. He’s sputtering, drooling around Geralt’s fingers even as his hips begin bucking up into Geralt’s dripping cunt.
Geralt loses himself in the rough rhythm of it quickly, bracing himself with one hand behind his back, his spine arched in a tight curve as he chases the relief to the itch deep inside himself. Jaskier, when Geralt’s fingers are removed from his mouth, pulls Geralt down to mouth sloppily at his chest,
Their first round is wild and desperate, chasing their pleasure like ravenous predators running their prey to ground.
Geralt makes a strangled sound as Jaskier’s knot pops in him. It’s always a surprise, just how big it is, compared to Jaskier’s much more manageable, though still above average prick. It’s the feeling of being filled that makes Geralt come, shuddering violently as he clenches down, milking Jaskier for all he’s worth.
“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Jaskier says weakly afterwards, when they’ve collapsed on their sides on the bed, awkward and sweaty and entwined tightly in their tie. The heat has dissipated enough for Geralt to manage a moment of coherency, and with that ... comes guilt.
“Sorry,” he mutters, his fingers clenching at his side. He takes stock of Jaskier’s hair plastered to his face with sweat, his pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat like a live thing. Quietly, Geralt maneuvers Jaskier to a more comfortable position, swallowing a groan as the movement jostles Jaskier’s cock within him. “Sorry,” Geralt says again, “I ... it’s been a while since.”
“Yeah, apparently,” Jaskier says empathetically. He clasps Geralt’s face and forces him to look into his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why this Witchers don’t have heats bullshit?”
Geralt grimaces. He wishes he could escape this conversation, but he literally, physically cannot.
“I haven’t had heats for years,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought I was done. I’m barren, so it’s ... it’s useless.”
“The cruelties of biology, eh?” Jaskier says lightly. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, then pulls him close, and presses a kiss to his forehead. It’s remarkably chaste for what they just did.
Geralt allows himself to sink closer, link his arms around Jaskier’s waist and bury his face against the side of Jaskier’s neck. Affection he usually curbs himself from displaying. But he can blame his heat for this weakness.
He mouths at Jaskier’s pulse point and feels him shudder.
“If I had proper warning, I could’ve gotten us a nicer room, and paid up for the full week,” Jaskier grouses. “Gotten some food and drink, materials to make a nest ...”
A nest. Geralt feels yet another wave of inadequacy wash over him. He doesn’t even think he knows how to make a nest, even if Jaskier had gathered the materials.
“Hey,” Jaskier says softly, sensing the direction of his thoughts. “Don’t worry, we’ll make do. When it goes down a bit I’ll steal downstairs and handle it, okay? Order us a food and bath. If my legs haven’t gone numb by then, that is.” Jaskier shifts, and his knot has deflated enough for him to pull a little from Geralt’s clench. “Ah good, looks like it’s almost over.”
Geralt doesn’t know what comes over him, but at the feeling of that slip, at the dribble of Jaskier’s spend escaping his cunt, a feeling of distress wells from deep within him that makes him clamp his knees tight around Jaskier’s hips.
"I ...” Geralt fights against the words which rise to his lips, pathetic entreaties for Jaskier to stay.
“It’s okay,” Jaskier says soothingly. “I’ll be back. I’ll help you through this, I promise. I’ll give you what you need, whatever you want.”
Geralt shakes his head, frustrated. He doesn’t want Jaskier’s help, his pity or the exercises of his lust, which is all Geralt had expected when they began their dalliance, but.
The heat is rising in him again, far faster than it should. His face feels flushed, his heart pounding loud and painful in his chest. He wants Jaskier wholly, his teeth on Geralt’s neck, his scent on Geralt’s pillows and his smile under the sunshine. He wants-
“I want you to put a pup in me,” Geralt blurts out, and Jaskier’s eyes grow wide.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. He pushes up abruptly, rolls Geralt underneath him with surprising ease. All as his cock is still inside, pulsing spend. Geralt covers his face with his forearm, feeling the heated flesh under his skin.
“Forget it,” Geralt says roughly. “I know I can’t-”
“Oh darling,” Jaskier says, pulling Geralt’s arm away to kiss him. “That doesn’t mean we can’t try.”
Geralt doesn’t think he understands this logic, but he allows Jaskier to shove a pillow under his lower back. It helps keep the spill inside as Jaskier slides out, though some still escapes, dripping down the crevice of Geralt’s ass. He releases a low whine at that, stuffing fingers inside his cunt to plug it up.
Jaskier groans like something has been dragged out of him. “You’re going to kill me,” he repeats, this time almost in admiration.
Their second time is sweet, almost tender ... Jaskier pressing Geralt’s knees to his chest as he fucks Geralt deep and slow, hollowing out Geralt’s needy cunt as he whispers heated little fantasies in Geralt’s ear. How beautiful their pups will be, how happy Jaskier is to pump Geralt full of as many litters as he can carry.
Geralt grows hot as he thinks of swelling with Jaskier’s get, his chest growing heavy and tender, feeling the flutter of new life under his heart. Smiling, Jaskier presses a warm hand to Geralt’s lower belly, just cupping it, and Geralt bucks, moaning suddenly as his cocklet spurts weakly between their bodies, his cunt clenching around Jaskier’s cock.
“Knot me,” Geralt bares his teeth, his nails digging into Jaskier’s shoulders as he rolls his hips in a desperate rhythm, grinds his cunt down to the base of Jaskier’s cock. “Give me all you got, Alpha.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier groans, as his grip tightens on Geralt’s hips. They’re making the bed shake, the headboard slamming into the wall with each of Jaskier’s thrusts. “Anything,” he declares brazenly, his voice going rough and his eyes growing dark. “Everything ... ah- I have."
The wild devotion in Jaskier's voice makes Geralt's face heat, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. No one has ever treated Geralt - with his scars and his bulk and his tragic, bloody history - like he is worth something. Like he is precious.
Geralt closes his eyes and thinks about trapping a piece of Jaskier deep within himself, safe and sacred, protected by his body. Maybe then he will feel like he deserves the open-hearted adoration that Jaskier feeds him like honey on a spoon. Making Geralt pathetically addicted, watching after Jaskier at every opportunity, dreaming about his hands and voice and mouth.
Maybe then Geralt will have something to keep after Jaskier leaves him for good.
Jaskier comes with a cry, shuddering as his hips continue to thrust, making Geralt whine to keep the knot from popping out of his cunt. Their bodies are slick with sweat, but Geralt clings desperately to Jaskier nonetheless, the rocking of their hips growing slower and slower as Jaskier kisses Geralt like he can live off of the taste of his mouth alone and Geralt kisses him back like he wants to believe it too.
“You think I’d leave you to become ... a father? Me?” Jaskier shakes his head, an edge of hysterical laughter to his tone which he just manages to bite back at Geralt’s scowl. “When have I ever given the indication-”
“It’s biological,” Geralt says quietly, shuddering as he feels the seep of Jaskier’s seed from the sore, empty space between his thighs. His heat has gone down enough that he feels an edge of shame for his earlier desperation, though Jaskier had acted like it was no more serious than their usual bedroom play.
“How regressive,” Jaskier flaps a hand in his direction. “Just because I’m an Alpha, doesn’t mean I’m gagging to produce.”
“You’re a viscount.”
“Two of my sisters are Alphas,” Jaskier says breezily. “They’ll figure something out.” He pushes himself up on one arm to look Geralt in the face, patiently awaiting his next protestation.
Geralt gazes at Jaskier’s bright eyes, the boyish lock of hair which has fallen over his forehead. It’s a waste, he doesn’t say, because Jaskier really would make beautiful pups. Strong and exuberant, stubborn and dramatic, with blue eyes and chestnut-gold hair.
But knowing of Jaskier’s sordid history before he fell into Geralt’s bed, there is likely as not already a few of Jaskier’s cuckoos running about under a cuckold’s name.
“I’m sure there’s a thousand reasons against us becoming mates, and I can hear your mind tallying them up as we speak,” Jaskier says, poking Geralt in the forehead until he scowls and bats Jaskier’s hand away. “But I’ve yet to hear the one that will make me stop asking.”
“What would that be?” Geralt asks dryly. “Tell me so that we may get this over with.”
“That you don’t want me,” Jaskier says, and he’s suddenly serious, suddenly ... tentative.
Geralt opens his mouth. Indeed, there are a thousand reasons, he thinks. Jaskier is a human - and a foolhardy one at that. He’ll trip and break his neck one day when Geralt isn’t around and then where will he be? ... and Jaskier’s hardly the model of a perfect Alpha. Can’t protect worth shit. Can barely provide for himself-
Everything I have, Jaskier had said, and of all the nonsense they had spouted to each other during Geralt’s heat, that is one thing he believes.
He can never allow Jaskier to offer the vulnerable span of his neck to anyone else.
"I do want you,” Geralt admits, something soft breaking over him at the sight of Jaskier’s smile. “More ... more than I should. Melitele knows why.”
“It is because we are in love, of course,” Jaskier says, and reaches behind Geralt to brush his fingers across Geralt’s nape, making him shudder.
“Hmm,” Geralt says, as he turns and pushes his hair aside, offering the span of his neck for Jaskier’s teeth.
“I ...” Jaskier sounds awed. “Now? Are you sure? This isn’t ... just the heat talking, right?”
“Do it before I change my mind,” Geralt says dryly, then adds, softer, “yes, I’m sure.”
The sigh Jaskier releases is lovely, as is the way he crowds close to the line of Geralt’s back, his arms wrapping tight around Geralt’s waist.
Love, Geralt thinks, his eyes fluttering closed at the sharp, sweet pain of Jaskier’s bite.
That might just be it.
(now on AO3!)
485 notes · View notes
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Fem!Reader.
(if you’d like your gif removed, please let me know and I’ll remove it asap)
Requested by: @assassinscross
Warnings: 18+ only! Possible OOC!Geralt. Sword fighting as foreplay, outdoor sex, rough sex, f on top, aggressive sex, light dirty talk, light pet names (pretty girl), light praise kink, light pain kink, light biting. I believe that’s it, but please let me know if I’ve missed anything, and I’ll add it ASAP!
Word Count: 3.1K.
Witcher's were rare; female Witcher's rarer still. Not many people still living have met one, nor did they believe the stories of those passed who did.
Even male Witcher's forgot they existed. At least, those out of other Schools such as the Viper and the Cat. The School of Wolf remembered, because although they didn't have one of their own, they often worked closely with the Vixen of the School of Fox.
She went by the name Cross; known for her prowess on the battlefield, and for the pommel of her silver sword, forged in the shape of her namesake.
Geralt has heard of her; has heard of the Witcher in the body of a maiden, but the skill with the sword as that of a man.
He thought it horseshit; human's doubting her abilities simply for her sex. He found a sense of satisfaction at the tales Jaskier would regale him, of the fierce Vixen of the Continent, scaring men shitless with her amber eyes and sharp sword.
There was nothing scarier than a powerful woman to a weak-minded boy.
And on the same hand, there was nothing sexier than a woman in power.
The White Wolf had heard talk of the Vixen being in town, and he had expected two things to happen: They'd meet; they'd go their separate ways.
And while eventually, both things did happen...there were two circumstances in between that Geralt failed to predict happening.
The clash of steel on steel rang throughout the forest, scaring the birds and other small critters away and into their hiding spots.
The Wolf and the Fox moved in a blur of black and red, sparks flying each time they crossed swords.
As Geralt parried a blow that would've killed a lesser man, he reflected back on how exactly he got here.
Geralt and Roach camped by a flowing stream, the Witcher having just come back from slaying a manticore. He was refilling his water-skins when he felt eyes on him.
Without looking up from the stream, Geralt spoke, "I know you're there, Vixen. No sense in hiding."
Cross laughs as she steps into view, blonde hair stark against her red armor; almost as stark as Geralt's white against black.
"Hello, White Wolf. How is it that the manticore contract was given to me, but you were the one to get the reward?"
Looking over his shoulder as he corked the water-skins and tossed them onto his bedroll, "I'd imagine it's the same thing that has kept up from meeting; bad timing."
Cross scoffs, but it lacks malice as she sits on a nearby log, taking her famed silver sword from its sheathe and laying it across her lap, "Or good timing, depending on what side you're on, hm?"
Snorting, Geralt sat next to her on the log, picking up his own sword from where it lay next to a cloth and whetstone. Cross could smell lemon oil as he swiped the cloth across the blade; making it glimmer in the light cascading through the trees.
"I'm surprised you're still here. After all, I've already received payment. Unless..." Geralt trails off, tilting his head as he looks her up and down, slowly; eyeing her sword, his lips twitch in amusement.
Cross arches an eyebrow, returning his appraisal, "Unless...?" She almost purrs, attraction making her skin prickle with goosebumps.
Geralt smirks, subconsciously spreading his legs wider and leaning toward her, gold eyes heavy-lidded, "Unless you're here to take black what's yours."
Grinning, Cross twists her wrist, and slashes her blade before them with practiced ease, "Well, I was here first. It would only be fair to see who truly deserves the coin."
Arching a brow, Geralt huffs in amusement, "Considering it was my blade that gave the killing blow, I would say I've earned the coin."
Playfully, she nudges him, lingering pressed up against him for longer than necessary; Geralt hums, quietly delighted by her close proximity, "Come on, what's the harm in a friendly spar between new friends?" She bares her teeth in a feral grin.
Playing off of her energy with ease, Geralt answers quick as a whip, "My income, if you have your way."
Laughing, Cross stands up and wanders over toward a clear spot in the brush; she points her blade at him and tips her head up in mock arrogance, "Is the great Geralt of Rivia afraid of losing to a woman? And here I thought you Wolves didn't partake in those archaic ideologies."
Rolling his eyes, nothing short of entertained, Geralt rises from his seat; freshly oiled sword loosely but confidently gripped in his large hand.
"You're quite the mouthy one, aren't you, Cross." His eyes flash as his pupils dilate, "Awfully confident for someone who has never seen me in a fight."
Cross shrugs her shoulders, "Eh, all you Wolves fight the same. You see one fight, you've seen them all."
Geralt laughs as he stands across from her, stance loose as he waits for an opening; Roach whinnies from her spot near the water, shaking her head as if exasperated with the two Witcher's as she walks further down the stream to graze, far away from them.
At first, they just circle each other; each waiting for the other to strike first.
"Come on, White Wolf. I can take it." She smirks as she taunts him, the double entendre not lost on him.
"Oh, I believe it." Geralt laughs, a dark thing that sends shivers up and down Cross's spine; settling deep in her core.
Tension crackles thick in the air, not the kind that happens before a fight between enemies; but the sort that happens during foreplay between lovers.
Cross moves first, striking hard and fast like lightning. Geralt blocks the blow with ease, their silver swords crossed at the hilts as they lean toward one another; baring their teeth in grins.
"Not bad, Wolf. But you'll have to do better than that if you want to keep your money." Cross winks before using their crossed swords to shove Geralt away from her.
Geralt laughs as he twirls his wrist, smarting slightly from her force, "I wouldn't get so cocky if I were you, Vixen. We've hardly even begun."
He moves on her then, slashing and jabbing, forcing her back toward the creek as she parries and jumps out of the way.
Arousal shoots through her veins as she realizes he's not holding back. The White Wolf is coming at her with full force and no mercy. He wasn't going to just let her win like so many men before him.
Good. A real opponent.
Geralt's nostrils flared as he picked up her scent; the sharp tang of a woman aroused. Seeing her own nostrils flare, he knew his own scent was rising to meet hers.
Trying not to actually kill each other was getting more difficult the longer they danced.
Cross almost purred under her breath as she kicked Geralt's blade away, using the distraction as a means to get closer to him.
As he fumbled to grip his sword properly, Cross managed to spin him around and push him into the creek.
In unison, they gripped each other's wrists, nails digging into flesh to force each other to drop their weapon, and to prevent the use of Signs. Neither of them let their blade fall.
"It appears we're at a stalemate, you and me." Cross tilts her head to the side, amber eyes mirroring his gold as their pupils dilate.
"It would appear so." Geralt hums, a smirk tugging at his lips as he takes her in.
Cross steps into his personal space, chest almost pressed against his as they each take a deep breath, reveling in each other's scent.
"Whatever shall we do?" She teases, tilting her chin up so her lips are nearly brushing his.
Geralt's eyes are heavy-lidded as he responds, "I'm sure we can think of something."
Two monster-slaying swords crash into the shallow stream, their weight keeping them moored to the rocky bottom.
Geralt's hand, large and scarred, cupped the back of Cross's head as he brings his lips down to hers. Humming into the kiss, she grips tightly to the collar of his shirt; the silver chain of his medallion twining with her fingers.
With a splash of water, the White Wolf lifts the Vixen by her thighs, wrapping her legs around his hips as they kissed.
Cross laughed against his plush lips, "Show off."
Grinning, he pulls away to look at her, finding her cheeks flushed and eyes dark and heavy lidded.
He carries her with ease to the shore, falling to his knees into the soft grass there, and laying Cross down underneath him.
For a moment, they only stared at each other, chests heaving with anticipation; lips parted as they pant for breath.
For a moment, nothing happens. But then Cross bites her bottom lip, eyes wide and eager as she silently urges him to do something--anything--and something in Geralt snaps.
They tear at each other's clothing, one article after the other falling into the soil next to them. Baring not only their bodies, but their souls as well, to each other. The world slows around them as they gaze at each other.
She can't hide the hunger in her gaze as she takes him in. Broad shoulders leading into muscular arms, barrel chest dusted with hair and covered with scars; his Wolf medallion hanging in between his pecs, drawing her eyes even further down his body. Her breath hitches as her eyes fall to the width of his thighs, and his thick cock standing proud and leaking between them, tip flushed and ruddy.
He lets her look her fill, sitting back on his heels as his own ravenous gaze takes her in.
Soft curves under even softer skin, the blush in her cheeks carrying down past her neck to her breasts, her own medallion with the silhouette of a Fox etched into its face. His gaze catches at the small buds of her nipples, just begging to be touched, before trailing down the smooth expanse of her stomach, riddled with scars just as his own body was. Breathing in deeply, he almost purrs with desire as he catches the scent of her weeping cunt in between her muscular thighs.
He can't help himself but to grip her thighs and tug her closer to him, slotting her legs over his and opening her further to his hungry gaze.
Before Geralt can bring his callused thumb to her clit, she's launching herself at him.
He catches her against his chest with a quiet "oof", large hands splaying across her back to keep her steady as she kneels above his spread thighs.
"Eager thing," He's grinning as he says this, the sword calluses on his hands making Cross shiver as he slides them down her back to her ass, and giving her flesh a squeeze.
Cross laughs as she grips his pale hair at the roots, tugging his head back as she hovers her face above his, "You don't know the half of it."
She kisses him at the same time as she presses her wet core to the length of his cock, swallowing his groans as she falls into a slow but eager grind.
Geralt digs dull nails into the flesh of her ass, urging her on faster as he buries his face into the side of her neck, biting at her collarbone as his own hips start to move with hers.
Between the excitement of a hunt and the adrenaline of a swordfight, Cross was dangerously close already. She knew she wouldn't last as long as she wanted to if the hair at his groin kept brushing against her clit, and if he didn't stop making those sounds in her ear. But at the same time, she didn't want him to stop for anything.
Geralt would never admit it, but he was nearly there too. His blood was always pumping long after a hunt, and it often went south, filling his cock with an almost animalistic need. It certainly didn't help that a beautiful woman--as good with a sword as he was if not better--was straddling his lap, her sweet pussy coating him in her essence.
"Thought you said you could take it."
His voice was like honey poured over gravel and Cross had to bite back a whimper as it settled right between her legs, making her hips jolt against his.
Gritting her teeth at his words, she pulled his hair again, sharper this time as she hissed inches from his face, "I can."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, pink and swollen and wet from her kisses and nips of sharp teeth. Arching a brow, he says, "Then prove it."
Cross growls through bared teeth, because although she knew he was only teasing, she couldn't stand for someone doubting her word.
As she grips his hard shaft, making him hiss as she strokes him once to coat him thoroughly in her slick, she grins.
"Be careful what you wish for, Wolf."
The Vixen sinks down on him with little more warning than that, and Geralt can't help but howl like his namesake. Surrounded by her heat, he can feel her arousal dripping down his balls, and he can't help but buck his hips up sharply.
Moaning as the flushed tip of him hits her spot, she digs her sharp nails into the skin of his shoulders, tightening her thighs around his sides as they begin to move against each other in tandem.
The small clearing echoes with the wet slapping of their skin and their growls and yelps and shouts--sounding almost as if they were two wild animals in heat, and the only cure each other’s cores.
"Come on," Geralt pants, grinning wolfishly up at her, eyes mirroring her own wild ones, "You can do better than that, Vixen."
With enough strength to rival his own, she forces him to straighten his legs and fall onto his back with a sharp glare. He can't even feel the water even as it seeps into his hair; he can't focus on anything but the vision atop of him.
She looks as wild as the creature of which the men of the Continent named her; her hair a tangled mess as it surrounds her face, amber eyes gazing down at him ferociously as she bares her teeth in a pleasure-filled snarl. Rather than wince with pain as her nails dig into his chest, he moans, louder than he had intended, and arches his back as if seeking out more.
Cross laughs at the sight of him even as it makes her moan; the great Geralt of Rivia brought to his knees all because her cunt clutched so deliciously around his cock.
It was a sight she wouldn't mind seeing again.
She can't help but mewl as her clit brushes against his pelvis again; she locks her thighs around him to hide their trembling.
Geralt's eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head as she swivels her hips just so; his hands darting to her hips, although too weak with pleasure to either stop her or help her along.
"F-Fuck..." He grits out, nostrils flaring as her scent changes just slightly. She was going to come soon.
"You're taking me so well, pretty girl," Geralt groans, watching as her eyes flutter at the praise, his next words coming out stuttered as her core did the same around him, "D-Does my cock feel good inside your little cunt, Vixen?"
Despite not wanting to admit it, Cross can't help but nod her head yes. It did feel good; it stung at first, the stretch as she sunk down on his girth, but now it was nothing but pure bliss. He was big everywhere, and it annoyed her almost as much as it made her crave more.
Geralt laughs as he regains strength back in his arms; wrapping them around her back and bringing her chest flush to his.
She gasps as her neglected nipples brush against his chest hair, but her gasp turns into a yelp as he plants his feet, and begins to pound up into her.
The sounds they made together were obscene, but Cross couldn't find it within herself to be embarrassed.
"G-Geralt!" She hadn't meant for the first time she said his real name--not in jest or mockery--to be in the throes of passion, but she didn't care, couldn't; because as she said it, he let out a sound that was too close to a whimper not to be one.
"Gonna make me cum, Cross," He manages, "Your sweet pussy is going to make me cum..."
His admission made her gasp and clench around him, moaning as she tries to match him thrust for thrust, but his hold on her was too all-encompassing. But in the end, that was okay...because she liked it.
She manages to lift her head enough to meet his gaze; he could tell just by looking at her that she was on the very precipice of losing it herself. All it would take...
"Then do it," She breathes, eyes heavy and desperate, "Cum, Geralt. Cum inside of me."
Sliding his hand between their bodies, his callused fingers find her clit, and give the swollen pearl a gentle pinch.
...was one little push.
His hips snap up into hers once, twice, three times, and they're both gone.
Cross shudders over him as he falls still under her, both of their eyes screwed shut but their mouths open on silent screams.
An age could have passed and neither of them would've noticed.
Cross falls across his chest as she gasps, trying to regain her bearings. Geralt's arms only tighten around her further as he opens blurry eyes, gazing up the sunset painting the sky pink and orange.
They stay like that--her still plastered to his chest and his softened cock still within her--long after both of their slow heartbeats slowed even further and the combined sweat cooled on their skin.
Cross is the first to move as she practically throws herself to the ground next to him, just managing to catch the last of the sunset before the night sky took its place.
Their eyes adjust with ease to the darkness as they turn to look at each other, and for awhile, that's all they do. Until she breaks the silence.
"It was never about the money, you know."
Her voice is almost shy as she says this, and Geralt finds himself smiling.
293 notes · View notes
Prompt: fake realtionahip/marriage, whoever you like!
Ooohoho! This has been chilling as a draft for ages, now I have completed it. *mildly evil laughter*
The funny thing about Geralt, Jaskier thought as he did up the buttons on his best doublet, was that he really didn’t lie. He said things that weren’t true, but they were usually things he believed, or thought he believed because he was tired or grumpy. Sometimes he told half truths. He didn’t lie though.
It wasn’t even as if he didn’t have a poker face, Geralt’s face was all poker face, he just hated lying. Normally it wasn’t an issue, but tonight, Jaskier reflected, it wouldn’t be ideal.
Jaskier had heard through some whispered words at a pub that a bunch of Nilfgaardian nobles were having a gala, and the temptation of finding out what political secrets they could was two strong for their odd little family. So Geralt and Jaskier were going undercover.
There had been quite a bit of debate about that. Jaskier was obviously going. He’d grown his hair longer and had a bit of scruff going, and to be frank, all a bard really needed to disguise themselves was a new name, people saw the clothing and heard the music, but rarely remembered the face. Yennefer would have been the ideal partner in crime except for a crucial thing.
When Yennefer had been changed by magic, her eyes had been left the same. Somehow, the transformation had solidified them, and no spell would change them. Her eyes were too distinctive, and so she would stay behind with Ciri. That left Geralt, and since the ball was only for the nobility, he would be the fiance of Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.
See, Geralt didn’t lie, and that was bad enough. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to rely on Yennefer’s in-depth knowledge of the nobility and that was worse. Worst of all though, was the fact that Jaskier would have to spend a night full of wine and dancing pretending to be in love with, and engaged to, Geralt. Who he loved.
And who had, not three months ago, blamed Jaskier for every bad thing in life.
Since then Geralt had caught up with him half-way down the mountain and there had been some grumbled words about how Jaskier ‘wasn’t actually, exactly, a total curse’. Not a glowing review, but then Cintra had fallen, and they had Cirilla and they’d found a wounded Yennefer and it had all gotten so very busy.
Jaskier cast a last look in the mirror as the door to his room creaked open. He turned, expecting Geralt, but it was Yennefer.
“I suppose,” she said, eyeing him. “That this is as good as you get.” It could have been said cruelly. A year ago it would have been. Now, though, the words were fond.
“I like the kohl, it goes well with the wrinkles at your eyes,” she winked. He smiled. There were no more wrinkles now than had been twenty years ago, and they both knew it.
“I wasn’t sure about the eyeliner,” Jaskier said, trying to sound haughty. “Overdramatic eye looks are your thing.”
Yennefer chuckled and sat on the end of the bed. “A tiny smudge of eyeliner is hardly overdramatic.” She studied him approvingly, then looked at him. Her expression was frighteningly soft.
“Have you told him that you love him?”
“Never,” Jaskier said, fiving his cravat in the mirror.
“Why ever not?”
“It would only be the mountain all over again,” Jaskier sighed. “I tried, you know. I spent years trying, and then on the mountain, I thought I was being clear...”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him to leave it all, just for a little while, with me. I thought we could go to the coast.”
“The coast,” Yennefer said from her spot on the bed. “As in Lettenhove? You wanted to show him where you grew up?”
“Partially. I could explain the immortality business easier if he met my sister, but mostly I just thought it would be peaceful.”
Yennefer snorted. “With Geralt? Peaceful? He’d spend the whole time fighting drowners and telling you not to write about mermaids because they’re vicious.”
Jaskier smiled wanly. “That’s pretty peaceful for him.”
“But he said no?”
“He didn’t say anything,” Jaskier said. “Then he, well, you know, he spent the night in your tent.”
“Ah,” Yennefer said. “For what it’s worth, I hate that it happened too.”
“He doesn’t though!” Jaskier cried, whirling around to face her. “He wants it to happen again! And you! You don’t want him but he wants you while I want him!” The frustration of the whole situation and nerves for what was to come were overwhelming. “And you’re here, trying to help me,” he said more quietly. “Why?”
“Because I like you,” Yennefer said, simply, standing from the bed. “And I like him. I also never, ever want to kiss him again. The djinn is sitting, somewhere in my chest, telling me I love him, but the feeling is...sick. It feels like love, as well as I can remember, but it’s poisoned and twisted and I want no part in it.”
Her purple eyes pinned Jaskier to the floor.
“And that poison pales in comparison to how much you love him. He deserves that.”
She swept out the door, tossing a “Sort it out,” over her shoulder.
The next knock at the door was Geralt, Ciri in tow. Jaskier hoped the witcher hadn’t heard any part of his and Yennefer’s conversation, but he suspected that no one overheard conversations that Yen didn’t want them too.
“Dandelion!” Ciri said, leaping at him and using the name she’d first met him under. “You look nice! Like a prince in one of your stories!”
Jaskier blushed and thanked her quietly as he scooped her up and tossed her, laughing, onto the bed.
He looked at Geralt for his opinion.
Oh he looked so good too. Yennefer had charmed him so that anyone else would see a different man in Geralt’s place, but to Jaskier he looked just the same. But he was wearing white.
A white chemise, the collar and cuffs with fine red embroidery, with a cream colored cape, half length so it fell just to Geralt’s hips. It was embroidered too, green and pink and so many other colors, despite being overall still mostly cream. The pants were the same creamy fabric with a stripe down each side. Dark boots and a wide, decorative, dark belt completed the look.
“Wow,” Jaskier said.
“Rivian traditional clothing,” Geralt muttered.
“I thought you’d hardly actually been to Rivia,” Jaskier said,.It was a better choice than the other thoughts in his head, which were half-formed screams about how absolutely skin tight those pants were.
“I haven’t been, but my...character is.”
“Right,” Jaskier said, dragging his eyes above Geralt’s shoulders. “My fiance, Ludomir of Rivia.”
Geralt said nothing.
Jaskier kicked himself for mentioning the fiance thing.
“We should go,” he said.
And they went.
The lord’s castle was small, as castles go, and the guards at the gate didn’t even bother to check their invitations. With all the other lords and ladies streaming past, no one would guess that the pair were out of place. Jaskier and Geralt enterred the ballroom and Jaskier felt his stomach drop straight through to his shoes.
The walls were positively lined with Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt’s shoulders stiffened too, but they steered themselves to a feast table as if nothing was wrong.
It took them almost a full circle of the tables to find the two little cards for ‘Viscount de Lettenhove’ and ‘Guest’. Getting onto the guest list had been laughably easy, and Jaskier just sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the stupid title was finally useful for something.
They sat in their places and guests populated the seats around them. There was a lady next to Jaskier who already smelled of the strongly alcoholic sherry that was being served. Her hair, probably a wig towered, and was strung all over with so many pearls and little tiny golden ornaments that when she stepped outside she must surely be attacked by magpies.
“My lady,” Jaskier said, as chivalrous as he could around a mouthful of her rose perfume. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be introduced.”
“Oooh,” she giggled, “You’re sweet, I’m Dame Au’Vigne, and I can see by your card that you are the Viscount de Lettenhove, I knew your father.”
Yes, Jaskier thought. I remember, he turned down your proposal. Jaskier had been a lad then, barely eight years old, but he remembered through a child’s eyes a mountain of lace and perfume who had offered to marry his father while actually at his mother’s funeral.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said. Heinous bitch, he thought. He remembered rumors too, which are always a bard’s stock and trade, that Dame Au’Vigne’s husbands were always wealthy, usually handsome, and all of them had shockingly short lifespans.
Rumor also had it that she was backing Nilfgaard financially and had been playing the shipping stock with insider knowledge of their movements. A very good person to be seated next to tonight.
“May I introduce my fiance, Ludomir of Rivia,” Jaskier said, gesturing to Geralt. Geralt nodded and hummed, somewhat politely.
“How handsome,” Dame Au’Vigne stage whispered. “Where ever did you find him?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jaskier said.
The lord of the castle stood up and gave a droning speech. It was full of euphemisms about ‘upholding standards’ and ‘fostering strong relations’ that boiled down to ‘I’m an untrustworthy bastard who believes that allowing the deaths of my people en masse is fine so long as I make money.’ It was depressing, too, as Jaskier looked around the ballroom to see so many people nodding in agreement.
Traitors and bastards, the lot of them.
Geralt’s face hadn’t changed even an inch.
“So,” Dame Au’Vigne said as the appetizer course was served. “You two aren’t exactly in a honeymoon phase, are you?”
And she was right, for a couple, newly engaged, Jaskier and Geralt hadn’t acted the part yet at all.
“I’m afraid,” Jaskier said, inventing wildly. “That we’re both just a touch nervous, the engagement is so new, you see, and this is our first event,” he took Geralt’s hand, above the table, so Dame Au’Vigne could see. “As a couple.”
“Oh how sweet,” she said airily. “You know, they’ll have dancing between the courses, it’ll be a great way for you to wet your social feet. Sir Erdin and the lady in the lavender dress,” she pointed across the ballroom. “They’re newly engaged as well.” She lowered her voice.
“Sir Erdin is very supportive of the cause, word has it he’s in with the very inner circle,” Dame Au’Vigne giggled, as if being in the inner circle of a murderous group of intruders was as delightful as a recent engagement.
“How interesting!” Jaskier said, affecting a jealous and impressed tone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Geralt’s eyebrow twitch, the way it did when he was listening hard.
“Oh yes,” Dame Au’Vigne said. “And Lord Snapcase, in the corner, he...” and she went on, was the marvelous thing, she couldn’t seem to help herself but gossip about everyone. And she had all these details about how they were helping ‘the cause’. Destiny must have finally decided to throw Jaskier and Geralt a bone.
Then the appetizer course was finished and Jaskier felt much less lucky. Dame Au’Vigne was ushering him and Geralt out of their seats to dance. It wasn’t one of the quick, hopping around, switching partners dances either. No, the band seemed insistent on only slow, romantic music.
Awkwardly, Geralt slid one large hand around Jaskier’s waist and they turned in slow circles on the dance floor. The witcher’s face looked like a thunderclap.
“Try and look like you’re having fun, darling,” Jaskier said. Please don’t look at me as though holding me is torture, his inner self begged.
“Hmmm,” Geralt said. Jaskier leaned in.
“Really dear heart,” he leaned in even closer, lips almost touching Geralt’s ear. “People are going to suspect something,” he said in the barest of whispers.
“Let them,” Geralt hissed back in the same fashion. “We’ve got the information, we can leave.”
Jaskier, keeping up appearances, tossed his head back and let out a delighted shriek of laughter, as if Geralt had just told him a joke or, perhaps, made a wonderfully indecent proposal.
“Later, perhaps,” he said, stage-whispering for the sake of those around them. Leaning in again he whispered for real, “We can’t leave until the party’s over, no one else will, they’d send some of those soldiers after us for sure.”
The music changed, and Geralt and Jaskier’s slow circles changed speed with it.
Geralt hissed in his ear again, “I don’t see why I had to be your,” this close Jaskier could see Geralt’s jaw working with distaste. “Lover.”
“Fiance,” Jaskier said, trying not to let his heart sink. It couldn’t possibly go any lower. “There’s a difference.”
They said no more to each other, and after the second dance, declined the third to sit back at their seats and await the arrival of the soup course.
The man sat beside Geralt was some old military man, mostly mustache and the rest of him was a rather musty and very old fashioned uniform. It had gold braid and a colonel’s insignia. The hat that sat next to his chair had a plume.
He leaned over to Geralt and said, rather loudly, in a voice that implied tone deafness, to both volume and social situations, “Just marrying him for the money, eh?”
People to both sides of Jaskier and Geralt looked around. Dame Au’Vigne looked at them askance.
“Hmmm,” Geralt said. It was a negative answer to the colonel’s question, but the man didn’t take it as such.
“Often is the way,” the man nearly bellowed. “My missus hated me right up to the day she died.”
Jaskier curled in on himself. The role of Viscount wasn’t a big one, mostly administrative and, these days, completed by his sister Rowena, who was better at sitting behind a desk. Still, argued a battered part of his long ago but still proper upbringing. The name of Pankratz was being dragged through the mud. Lots of these people would know the name too, these sour, vindictive, unpleasant, murderous people. And they’d know the gossip, would have taken part in the gossip about ‘Young Julian running off to be a bard,’ (this generally said with the same tone as is usually leant to slave trader) and how ‘he’ll never find a good marriage now,’ how he was ‘a disgrace to the name.’
And here was their long awaited confirmation. Jaskier-Julian, couldn’t find a good marriage, was being wed only for his money. Of course, more than half the pairings here were only in it for the money, but to have it said, so loudly too, and before the wedding had even happened, it was social condemnation.
Jaskier looked down at the table cloth, his face hot. He’d faced social condemnation before, of course, he’d survive. What hurt was that Geralt wasn’t really protesting, Geralt couldn’t even pretend to like Jaskier, not for a single evening. Twenty years he’d done a good enough job of acting to convince even Jaskier, mostly, apart from the punches and the insults and...maybe Jaskier had been a little blind to the truth but still.
It was ruining their cover though, so he protested quietly. “Not just for the money,” he said, patting Geralt’s hand where one fist wrapped around his goblet. “My fiance is just shy, that’s all.”
The damage was already done, but the old colonel hiccupped. “Well lad,” he said, giving Geralt a slap on the back. “This ale’s pretty good so drink up. Got me through three years of happy marriage, strong ale did.” The man took a slug of his own drink. “And fourty seven more unhappy years.” He guffawed hugely and unpleasantly, little drops of ale flinging from his mustache.
Wherever the soul of the unpleasant man’s dead wife was, Jaskier felt sure she was happy to be away from this miserable old drunk.
Geralt, however, was looking at Jaskier. Their eyes met. Jaskier knew he probably looked as hunted as he felt, and his cheeks were probably still burning from the embarassment. Still, it seemed as though Geralt was about to say something. His golden eyes were full of emotion, but Jaskier couldn’t parse out what kind.
Whatever kind it was, it caused Geralt to take the colonel’s advice and drink like there was no tomorrow.
Great. Jaskier had driven his companion to drinking.
He felt a little like doing so himself.
The soup course was good, hot and savory, but underspiced. Geralt slurped it up gratefully. Jaskier knew that rich food was usually too much for his senses if it was spiced to Jaskier’s taste.
More dancing. Jaskier didn’t stand, at first, assuming that Geralt would rather sit and drink more. There were some snickers as people judged him. Geralt stood though, and he offered a hand and led Jaskier to the dance floor.
“You need to act drunk,” Jaskier whispered in his ear. “If you were a normal man you would be.”
“I am acting,” Geralt rumbled.
“You’re very steady for a drunk,” Jaskier sniffed.
“You said I was shy, now I’m less shy,” Geralt whispered. “And I’ve been drinking. So...drunk.” It was torture, being held like this, having that voice in Jaskier’s ear. That hand, so warm cupping his own. He wanted to cry.
A couple whirled past them. It was the Dame Au’Vigne, gossiping to some new dance partner. A snippet of her words caught them.
“-de Lettenhove. Entirely loveless of course. Unlovable, his father said once, of course as a bard-” then the tide of conversation and other dancers stole the rest of the words.
Jaskier sagged. His father hadn’t been a nice man, and unlovable wasn’t the worst of what he’d been called in his life, but now, with Geralt so close and so disgusted by the prospect...well, it hit a little close to home.
“Laugh,” Geralt whispered in his ear.
“What?” Jaskier hissed.
“Like before, laugh like before, but...more so. Pretend I said a dirty joke.”
Jaskier did, heads turned as he pretended to laugh, half scandalized and half delighted at something Geralt said.
Geralt even chuckled along with him. Then his hand crept down Jaskier’s back to his hip. It wasn’t dirty. It was just so,so spine tinglingly close to dirty.
It was almost worse. If Geralt had gripped his ass that would have been bad, but this, Jaskier was left to speculate. He had a very active imagination. The couples next to them were giggling and tittering, scandalized, but not too much, at the pair.
They danced all three dances. During the second dance Geralt spun Jaskier out and then back in flashily, dipping him over one arm like a dainty maiden. Jaskier, who was no dainty maiden, knew the strength that elaborate dip must have taken and his head spun. The third dance was slow, and once again they simply held one another and turned in slow circles. Except Geralt pressed their cheeks together in a way that was so intimate that Jaskier finally gave in. Just tonight he had Geralt, all of him, his attention, his warmth.
There was only so much a bard could take, and Jaskier gave in to the fantasy.
“I wonder how Yennefer is,” Geralt whispered. “And Ciri.”
It was like having cold water poured all over him. Jaskier’s fantasy shattered as soon as it had formed. Of course Geralt wasn’t enjoying this, of course his mind was elsewhere. He had a beautiful sorceress to think of, even if they weren’t sleeping together. Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri made the perfect, happy family. Where did Jaskier fit in to that?
He pulled back a little, already missing the warmth of Geralt’s cheek against his own. They finished the dance stiffly.
Back at the table, squished between Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, the main course was awful. Jaskier couldn’t judge it on the food, which he barely tasted. Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, however, had apparently come to the conclusion that Geralt or, Ludomir, rather, was marrying Jaskier for the money and the sex. They tittered, loudly and drunkely, to those around, and Geralt leaned in.
“Surely we can leave after this course,” he whispered.
Desperate to be rid of the charade, Jaskier thought. To not have to be engaged to me. “Can’t,” he whispered. “Have to stay for dessert and more dancing, else it looks suspect.”
“Hmmm.” It was a displeased hum.
“And, there will be small talk, with dessert. You need to say something, people will think you’re mute.”
“You two twitter into one another’s ears all the time,” Dame Au’Vigne said loudly. She was fully drunk off the sherry and very loud. “But not one kiss,” she lowered her voice, as if trying to be discreet. It didn’t work. “Is it truly as loveless as they say? I know you aren’t waiting until marriage.”
As who say? Jaskier thought. The only person quite that invested seems to be you.
“Not loveless,” Jaskier said. It seemed weak even to his ears.
“Surely you’ll join the dancing again, then,” Dame Au’Vigne said.
“No,” Jaskier said, fiddling with his napkin. “I’m feeling quite too full to dance, ate too fast, I’m afraid.” He hoped she was too drunk to notice he’d picked at his plate. It seemed she was.
“Lovely little veranda, get some air there,” said a man who, according to Dame Au’Vigne, was shipping weapons to Nilfgaard behind the backs of multiple heads of state.
Jaskier nodded,stood, bowed, and made his escape. He sighed, but wasn’t surprised to find that Geralt had followed along behind. Of course he wanted to escape the party too, but Jaskier wanted to escape...him.
To his shame and surprise, he found tears in his eyes. The pressure of sitting in a room chock full of people who wanted to kill him, combined with the fact that every last one of them reminded him of being bullied in school, and add to that that he was supposed to be fake engaged to Geralt...it was too much. Fake engaged and even in their fake engagement Geralt didn’t like Jaskier.
Jaskier’s rational brain knew that Geralt did like him, mostly. He just didn’t love him.
Jaskier leaned his elbows on the railing, overlooking some moonlit gardens, and felt the tears roll down his face.
“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said quietly.
“Yes,” Jaskier said. He knew Geralt could smell the salt of his tears or whatever, but still turned his face away so the witcher couldn’t see.
“I danced with you though.”
Jaskier chuckled wetly. “Nobles dance with people they hate all the time.”
Geralt was quiet for a minute then, very gently, he took one of Jaskier’s hands. “I don’t hate you.”
It was too much, Jaskier started crying in earnest, sobbing.
“C’mon, Jaskier, I like you. A lot.” Geralt was, for him, panicking clearly. Jaskier almost smiled. He was so bad at dealing with other people’s emotion. And his own.
“You’re my friend,” Geralt said, a little stuntedly. “You know I’m not a good liar.”
Too much. Twenty-two years and he finally said the word ‘friends’ and Jaskier wanted more. He whipped around to face Geralt.
“Tell me the truth, then, Geralt. Tell me you love me, it doesn’t have to be the truth for forever, but can you love me just for a night? Can you make it the truth for tonight?” Jaskier’s tears were ugly and blobby and drying up fast but he continued.
“Because I’ve loved you so long I don’t know any other truth,” He leaned forward and planted his forhead on Geralt’s collarbone and sniffled through the last of his tears, curling one, shaking fist into Geralt’s lovely pale cape as he cried. “Just this one night, Geralt, love me back.”
He hadn’t meant to say any of it, was half expecting Geralt to toss him off the low balcony into the bushes below.
Instead Jaskier was lifted by two strong arms and sat down on the railing. Warm, delightful lips pressed against his and suddenly he was being kissed within an inch of his life.
“The truth, you want,” Geralt said, pulling back and panting. “Is the only one I can give. I can’t pretend to love you.” Here Geralt looked into Jaskier’s eyes, like being struck by lightning. “I only love you, no pretending, I swear it.”
“But-” Jaskier was cut off.
“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said, furiously. “I think you think I don’t like you, Jaskier I like you, I love you so much I don’t know what to do and I’m...I’m not good with words. Or emotions.” Geralt’s shoulders dropped a little. “I just am, and the way I am is... The way I am is better with you.”
Geralt’s face screwed up with anguish. “And I’m the reason you think I don’t like you, it’s my fault and that feels so...so bad. Yennefer’s been working with me on the feelings thing and always says ‘bad isn’t a feeling’ but I can’t tell you what all the feeling is.”
Jaskier was staring, mouth open, as frustrated, stilted, fumbling words left Geralt’s mouth. They sounded angry, but only at himself. Geralt was looking up at him as if seeking benediction.
“Tell me you love me again,” Jaskier said.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
Jaskier giggled as Geralt lifted him and spun him around before tucking him in close and kissing his forehead.
“I,” he said.
A kiss to Jaskier’s nose. “Love.”
A deep, breathtaking kiss to his lips. “You.”
There was nothing left for Jaskier to say except, “wow.”
Geralt smiled, that lovely warm little smile he saved for special times and offered his arm to Jaskier. “Shall we?”
They paraded back into the ballroom and danced the final dance of the set. Geralt whispered a suggestion of what he’d really like for dessert and this time Jaskier didn’t have to fake the scandalized giggle. “Back home, perhaps,” he said.
Dessert meant more conversation with Dame Au’Vigne, which was of course unbearable. There was plenty of Champagne though, which was pretty good, and the bubbles seemed to fill Jaskier all the way up. He took pleasure in picturing the downfall of all these horrible people when Nilfgaard was finally defeated for good.
He especially enjoyed sticking it to her gossip when he fed Geralt a strawberry with cream from his fingertips and recieved a kiss in thanks. Geralt was clearly enjoying himself too. He had a sweet tooth, and that certainly helped, but his hand that never left Jaskier’s under the table was a much better clue.
They walked back to the inn, flushed and warm in the cool night air, bidding farewell to the other drunken lords and ladies all filtering to finer inns or grand coaches.
Then they were alone on their path back, Geralt’s witcher senses confirming their isolation. Then, Geralt, who never told lies, whispered sweet nothings into Jaskier’s ear the entire way home. Jaskier believed every single one.
It’s done, this one’s quite long and I loved writing it. Geralt is useless at playing pretend, but very good at loving Jaskier in his own way. I imagine his emotion lessons with Yennefer must have been rather intense.
880 notes · View notes
Title: As the Clouds Whisp Overhead
Summary: Jaskier gets off on Geralt's soft thighs and tummy. Literally. Geralt relaxes back and lets him, enjoying the show. Weight gain spoken of positively. Pairing: Geraskier. WC: 3.5K+
CW: smut, brief mention of weight loss due to difficult times (past)
It had been a rather easy spring, all things considered.
Geralt lazed in the field, not really watching the clouds that drifted overhead, his eyes closed and breaths deepening into an almost meditative state. The smell of wine and cheese was almost drowned out by the wildflowers about them but it was still there, as was the scent of apples, salt, the road, and the lingering oils that Jaskier had insisted on wearing ever since he’d discovered Geralt’s nose was sensitive to the others that he used to reek of.
Said bard was currently shuffling their lunch about, putting most of it away for later, humming one of his newest tunes as he folded back up the blanket he’d apparently bought for just this occasion. Though they’d eaten plenty of meals without it or the basket he’d purchased at the market as well, Jaskier had insisted that a picnic was a special affair and deserved the right accessories to make it just right.
Geralt had just let him do as he wished, not worried about his friend’s coin purse - and not worried about his own, for once. Usually the end of winter spelled a time of heavy work for him but he’d lucked out on a couple of easy and well paying jobs right off the bat - so he thought a bit of down time wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.
The song on Jaskier’s lips was one he hadn’t quite finished yet. Geralt had already heard several different renditions of the first verse alone, lyrics tweaked here and there, the exact lilt of his voice changing back and forth as he tried to settle on what he believed would sound the best. And despite his occasional grumbling over the repetition it was a rather relaxing tune, one he didn’t mind listening to.
Beyond that, there was a sort of...intimacy that came with being trusted with Jaskier’s unfinished works. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t always his best around him, was able to fuck around with a song and riddle the air with curses of “bollocks” and “cock” while he tried and failed and tried again to make it just right. That Geralt could see him like this and not the perfected performance that he was to the rest of the world, the mask that was firmly in place right up until the moment he didn’t want it to be.
And that moment just so happened to frequently involve witchers, whether directly or indirectly. How many times had he gone feral on someone for just saying the wrong thing about one of Geralt’s colleagues? Just early that spring he’d jumped someone for spitting on the ground over Lambert’s name, and Jaskier hadn’t even met him yet.
Something like pride welled up in his chest at the thought, though it was a quiet thing. Jaskier should be more careful, he shouldn’t be fighting their fights - but it meant the world to him all the same that he wanted to. Especially for his brothers.
“You know, I’ve never been one for cheese and crackers as anything more than a snack, but that was simply delightful.” Jaskier’s voice came closer as he talked, and the flowers and grass were disturbed next to him as the bard flopped over at his side, quickly snuggling in when Geralt moved his arm to make room for him. “We’ll have to go back and ask again what the name of that cheese was. Never have I ever given so much thought to pairing and wines and all that stuff - my youngest sister was always more interested in that sort of thing, and really if I heard her say one more time that my palette wasn’t refined enough I might have had to hide frogs in her bed again.”
Jaskier settled in nicely at his side, slotting in like they were made for each other, fit perfectly together. He chattered away and Geralt mostly tuned him out, something Jaskier loved to fake hurt over though they both knew it was just that: fake. Over the years Geralt had perfected hearing what he needed to hear and simply listened to the tune of Jaskier’s voice, the song of his highs and lows, his sighs and breaths and every heartbeat becoming the song that was his bard.
Meditation came easier around Jaskier than it did anyone else. Even around his own family it was a struggle. Lambert was a little shit at the best of times and Eskel simply existed larger than he wanted to, and Geralt was always tuned into his brothers, paying attention to them because he knew just how limited theri time was together. But with Jaskier, he could rest, relax, simply let himself be like he’d never experienced with anyone else.
His arm rested at Jaskier’s back, hand loose on his side, barely hanging on and feeling his bard breath in and out as he spoke. Jaskier’s fingers tapped a rhythm where they were rested on his chest, though eventually they moved, sliding down to rest against his stomach and making Geralt hmm at the pleasant warmth they brought.
They’d stripped earlier to bathe in the nearby river and had mostly dressed, though Jaskier had forwent his doublet as Geralt had his armor. It was nice, being out in the wild, away from the faux sense of safety that inn rooms allowed them and yet still able to be this content without his armor on. Just their loose clothing, not enough to be considered decent in any sort of societal setting, simply existing and being and just…
Geralt was content, and he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Not in the slightest.
A breeze rustled the field about them, loose silver hair tickling his face though Geralt didn’t have the bother in him to brush it out of the way or tuck it behind his ear. The air smelled nice for once, no clogging dust on the wind, no rotting anything nearby nor farms to make his nose want to clog itself. Since the summer was still a ways off the sun wasn’t too harsh on his skin, his chemise enough to keep any possible chill away though it was warm enough in this part of the country, everything pleasant and not too much.
There was also a lovely set of fingers that had wormed their way under his chemise. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to push it up, had just scooted his hand underneath, and with very gentle circles had begun to rub patterns into the soft flesh there. It was enough to make Geralt melt beneath him, a soft hmm on his lips accompanied by a sigh as he felt his every muscle relax at the touch. The winter had been extra good to him, Eskel having returned with more coin than expected from his path which had meant more meat for their stews, and the lot of them had eaten extra well.
Jaskier had never shied away from letting him know exactly how much he appreciated it when he ate well. There had been a few times on their own path that food had been scarce, and despite witchers having an accelerated metabolism Geralt had always done his best to see after his bard first and foremost - so when times were tough his body showed it, and Jaskier had played his fingers raw when he saw the worst of it just to make sure the both of them could eat their fill.
But there had been no such worries or struggles yet this year, what with the good winter and the well paying contracts that had followed. Geralt’s stomach was full and soft, protecting the muscles and other important organs underneath, and the rest of him was showing the spoiling as well. His thighs had grown softer, somewhat straining against the material of his pants but it wasn’t quite uncomfortable yet - he knew well enough to keep his clothes somewhat baggy, to make room for the waxing and waning that came with the path. His chest, too, had grown softer, encouraging Jaskier to nuzzle into it at any given opportunity.
Those calloused fingers found some of the scars that ran across his belly, caressing them gently. Some stretch marks veined their way across his skin as well, hidden at the moment by his chemise but Jaskier felt his way across them all the same, giving off a gentle sigh as he snuggled in closer and traced his love wherever he could reach.
Geralt could not have thought of a more peaceful way to spend the afternoon. The clouds blurred as his eyes slid closed at the tender affection, his breaths deepening. Deep breaths in through his nose, smelling the wildflowers. A rabbit was nearby, chomping as quietly as it could on some grass, its hops barely whispers as it braved further away from its burrow. Geralt could hear the gentle chuffing of its babies hidden away, the call of a hawk overhead that sent the rabbit scurrying. The scent of budding trees, of a little mouse that had found some seeds to munch. The scent of his bard, his oils and shampoo and the hint of river on the both of them, and the growing scent of-
A snort brought them both a bit out of the peace, and Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to smirk down at the startled confusion growing on his bard’s face.
Those pretty pink lips pouted up at him as if Jaskier wasn’t fully aware of what was growing in his pants. Geralt made a show of raising one of his eyebrows, raking his gaze down, down his bard, straight to stare at his crotch just long enough to get his point across before flicking his eyes right back up.
It took a few seconds for his bard to catch up, Geralt watching the thoughts clear as day on Jaskier’s face, until red spread pretty across his cheeks and darkened the speckle of freckles there. Jaskier sputtered a bit and Geralt had to bite back a wider grin, starts to words that had no finish dropping between them before Jaskier cut himself off with a whine, ducking in to nuzzle into his chest and push the rest of his body closer.
“That’s not fair, Geralt - what, can you, I don’t know, smell it or something?”
Geralt didn’t respond to that, just reached up to tug a stray curl back behind Jaskier’s ear. His bard peeked up at him with another adorable pout jutting out his lower lip, his nose scrunched up as he waited for his ‘ridiculous suggestion’ to be shot down.
But it wasn’t shot down. And Jaskier frowned, and then he squeaked, climbing on top of Geralt to straddle him and poke a very firm finger straight into the chest he’d just been nuzzling.
“You and your- your entirely unfair witcher ways! Are you telling me you could tell all this time? Every time?” Geralt didn’t stop his grin this time and the indignation just grew, hand gestures growing wider. “That is- Geralt, how am I suppose to walk through life knowing you can smell my erection? How am I ever supposed to get up of a morning knowing my every waking naughty thought will be given away? Which yes is entirely too often but you’re entirely not fair, have you looked in a mirror in the past decade? Cruelty, unfair, entirely too sexy for your own good, for anyone’s own good-”
Jaskier went on like that, ranting like only he could, while Geralt eventually tuned his words out just to listen to the lilt of his voice. And the bard made a rather pretty picture himself, straddling him like that. His chemise was loose, showing off curls of dark hair that Geralt could run his fingers through for an eternity and never be bored of it. Broad tanned shoulders, a soft stomach barely hidden underneath his clothes, his pants a wonderful shade of green that fit in with the waking world around them.
A very pretty picture, but a noisy one at the moment. Geralt sighed but Jaskier went on, wildly flourishing his hands as if it was the end of the world that Geralt could smell his arousal. An arousal that had notably not died down, still pressing against the fabric of his pants, catching Geralt’s eyes and making him tilt his head in that way that Jaskier insisted was ‘adorable’ - though Geralt didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.
His thigh twitched with a rather mischievous thought, and as Geralt’s gaze traveled back up to Jaskier’s face, cheeks still stained pink from his rather unnecessary embarrassment, he thought there perhaps that voice would do better singing for him than ranting about his dramatics.
He’d been called an asshole before, and Geralt had never disagreed with the label. But he was lucky enough that Jaskier for the most part never minded - and he greatly doubted Jaskier would mind his next movement.
As Jaskier waved one of his delicate looking wrists in the air, dandelion seeds drifting on the wind about them, Geralt shifted beneath him until he had room to lift up one of his thighs. Before Jaskier could catch his movement it pressed up into him, cutting his bard off with a gasp, his eyes fluttering as Geralt’s smile showed teeth.
“That’s-” Jaskier pressed right down onto his thigh, his hands coming down to support him, and he didn’t waste any time in making it more enjoyable for himself. Shifting down, one hand placed on Geralt’s chest to support him, Jaskier straddled his thigh and slowly ground down onto it. A pretty moan escaped his lips and his tongue darted out as if to catch it.
It was a lovely show, watching as Jaskier pressed down onto him, sought out his own pleasure by rubbing against his thick thigh. Geralt pillowed his head on his arms and just watched, not moving his leg, letting Jaskier set his own pace and feeling pride bubble up in his chest at how pretty he sung for him. On a particularly rough grind Jaskier whimpered and rutted against him faster, making Geralt’s own cock twitch - but he wasn’t really in the mood for pleasure, so he ignored it in favor of the show.
Though he made for a beautiful picture, back lit by the sun and clouds, a pretty blue above that couldn’t quite beat the beautiful blue of his eyes, Jaskier wasn’t purposely looking good for a show. He didn’t touch his own skin like he did when he rode Geralt, didn’t skim his hands down his chest and stomach to show it off. Didn’t bite his lip or run and tangle his fingers into his curls. The emotions that crossed his face were not stressed or controlled, his noises slipped out without thought, his body moving without any purpose beyond pleasuring himself - and it made it a moment Geralt wanted to sear into his memory forever. That Jaskier could let go like this for him. That he trusted that Geralt didn’t mind, trusted that Geralt did not judge him for his desires. How human Jaskier allowed himself to be, imperfect and all the more beautiful for it.
“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed on an exhale, his movements already shaking, his cock dripping enough precum that it soaked into the front of his pants. Geralt could almost feel it wetting his own. “Geralt I- fuck you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous, I want to-” his hips stuttered, breath catching on a moan, brown curls caught on the wind and dancing. “Can- can I get off on your stomach? Gods it’d be so soft, feel so good, I- fuck.”
That was something he’d never requested before. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, belying another twitch of his own cock, but he grunted out “If you must.” And he had to bite back a chuckle at how quickly Jaskier’s fingers went for the ties of his pants.
Jaskier’s cock was leaking profusely though that wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. It looked like it was aching from it, hard and red and angry when he fished it out of his pants and smalls, and Jaskier whined as he couldn’t help but stroke himself a few times. His hips bucked with it, a greedy and wanting noise slipping from between his wet lips - but then he was slipping down Geralt’s leg to straddle his hips, and his cock was pushed against the soft skin of his stomach.
It didn’t slide against him very easily. The precum leaking from the tip helped, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, holding onto his cock and gently rubbing it against him, jaw wide and loose like it was the single most pleasurable act Jaskier had ever experienced. Geralt cocked his head and tore his gaze away from Jaskier to watch his cock rub circles on him, precum dribbling faster and catching in the hair that curled white all over his abdomen.
Honestly, Geralt didn’t quite understand it. Wasn’t entirely sure what had Jaskier’s breath coming so fast, his heart beating so quick at rubbing against his soft stomach. But he didn’t really care. Jaskier’s hips jerked and he fought to keep himself reigned in, to keep his movements steady and slow, and Geralt just watched him and let him. Let him take this pleasure, smelling the arousal coming off of him in waves, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and body and heart. And Geralt memorized every little detail, from the flutter of his long eyelashes to the way his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, nails just at the edge of biting him.
Jaskier whimpered, long and shaking, when he came. It was desperate, his face scrunching up, eyes shut tight as if he was grasping onto the pleasure with all of his might. Geralt reached out to take hold of one of his hands, letting Jaskier clench his fingers as hard as he needed, bringing them up to brush his lips against the knuckles as Jaskier spilled all over his stomach.
His bard almost collapsed onto him, but Geralt moved him before that could happen, bringing him down with a shush at his further whimpers and letting him rest once more in the crook of his arm. And Jaskier came down slow, heartbeat eventually matching the rhythm of his deepening breaths, eyes still scrunched up tight as if he didn’t want to let go of what he’d been feeling.
When Geralt ran his fingers through his curls, they were damp with sweat. He hummed, not minding, just holding him close as he melted against him.
Eventually, Jaskier stretched, letting his arm flop against Geralt’s chest and legs tangle with his once more. He almost made an effort to open his eyes. Almost. Instead he frowned lightly, nuzzling into Geralt and as he moved impossibly closer.
“Want me to return the favor, love?” His words were light things that could have been carried off by the wind if Geralt’s hearing had been even slightly worse.
In truth, Geralt was turned on. How could he not be when Jaskier had ridden his thigh and stomach so beautifully? But he thought it over for a minute, the cool breeze tickling his face with a few stray white hairs, the scent of wildflowers coming back to him as the one of arousal dissipated.
“No,” he said finally, pulling Jaskier closer to kiss the top of his head. Despite the interest his body had shown he found he wasn’t in the mood himself, content enough to let Jaskier have his pleasure and leave it at that.
Jaskier just hummed, not questioning him further, and a small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips knowing there would be no hurt feelings over it. His bard’s fingers eventually went back to lazily tracing patterns into his skin, though he made a bit of a yucky face when they found the sticky mess he’d left of Geralt’s stomach hairs. Still they were both far too content to clean up just yet, not even wasting the energy to tuck Jaskier’s softening cock back away in his pants as they laid there, relaxed, enjoying the non-harsh sun and the clouds that lazed across the sky overhead.
“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier whispered into his chest after a time, and Geralt grunted, not even opening his eyes to look down as he responded.
“A bigger food budget.”
A moment later, and Jaskier’s laugh filled the field around them, sharp and uncontained, a laugh that was so far away from the performance he played that it drew a chuckle out of Geralt as well. That they could be themselves around each other, that they could be so carefree and human, was the most joyous thing Geralt had ever found in his long, long life - and that they’d discovered a new way to have fun was exciting, and Geralt was certainly going to take advantage of this new discovery. How could he not, when his reward was a well-pleased bard melting in his arms.
201 notes · View notes
This Is Home
Summary: Sam leaves you and Dean lone to go help Eileen with a Vamp hunt in Texas, and Dean shows you a whole new side of himself you never new existed, especially towards you.
Warnings: Smut, Unprotected sex, all the fun stuff that comes along with it. Insecure/shy reader, hint of shy Dean. Mild hand kink, no sorry. Language.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Written For: @spnkinkbingo
Square Field: Size Kink
Word Count: 3003
Bate’d By: @deanwanddamons Thanks babe!
Dividers By: @firefly-graphics
A/N: Please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden! Hope you all enjoy this one!
Masterlist My Patreon
It was a typical Saturday night. Sam was nose deep in some book at a table in the library. Dean was in his cave watching TV and nursing a beer. You were curled in the little reading corner, you'd set up for yourself in your room at the bunker. All was mostly quiet and peaceful. Well, as peaceful as someone in your line of work got anyway. The downtime was welcomed though, so you decided to enjoy the serenity while it lasts and not look the gift horse in the mouth.
A roll of thunder sounded somewhere overhead, but you didn’t really pay it much mind. Not like a place this big was in danger of any weather, and you actually enjoyed the rolling spring thunderstorms that hit Kansas this time of year. In fact, you didn’t really pull yourself from your book until a knock on your door startled you back to the present. You quickly mark your place and yell for whoever it was to come in because it could only be one of two people.
The door cracked and Sam’s face appeared in the door of your room, giving you a tight smile as slid his body about halfway through the door, and peered over into the corner you’d huddled down in for the night.
“Sorry to bother you Y/N, but Eileen just called. She said she needs some help with a vampire hunt down in Austin, Texas, and I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be headed out for a couple of days,” he’d said, and you straighten up a little in your chair.
If Sam was going away to Texas to help Eileen work a case, that means you were stuck here with Dean for no less than a week. Lovely. You’d always harbored feelings for the elder Winchester, sure, but he didn’t know that, not at all. You kept it well hidden and to yourself. Using Sam as a buffer was a good way to do it too, but now, it was about to be just you and Dean for days. You’d been with the Winchesters for years, but you never ceased to not be nervous around Dean, and you were pretty sure it was because of the feelings you had for him. How were you going to keep it covered up when it was just you and him?
“You sure you guys don’t need one more? Cause I’m willing to rock that third wheel if you guys don’t mind?” you offer, but Sam just chuckles and shakes his head.
“No, I think we can handle this one,” which was just Sam code for he wants some alone time with his girlfriend. “I’m sure you and Dean will be fine. There is plenty here to keep you both entertained for the next few months. I’ll be back in a few days anyway.”
You give Sam a tighter smile than the one he’d given you when he’d opened the door to your room, and tried not to show how big of a coward you were being over him leaving you there alone with Dean.
“Just thought I’d offer. If you change your mind, just let me know,” you assure him, and he nods before exciting your room. Thankfully, he didn’t call you out about why you were so afraid to be left alone here with Dean, because you were pretty sure he knew how you felt about his brother.
You listened as Sam’s footsteps made their way further and further down the hallway towards the garage, and you swear you jumped when you heard the garage door closing echo through the building.
For a place that was so full of stuff, it sure could have a cold empty feeling at times.
You hadn’t even had time to pick up your book when a knock on your door disturbing you again, and this time it could only be one person.
“It’s open,” you said in a voice that seemed to already be trembling.
Get ahold of yourself Y/N!
“Hey sweetheart. Sam tell you he was leaving?” Dean asked, coming in through your door a lot more boldly than Sam had a few moments ago and taking a seat on the foot of your bed.
“Yeah, he just left.”
You cleared your throat, and settled your gaze back to your book. The words were blurred because all of your focus was on the extremely attractive green eyed hunter sitting perched on your bed. You could literally feel his gaze running over your body as you sat there pretending like the words you were reading were sinking in, and you wondered if he could see right through you. If he did, he never let on.
“So, uh...I got some pizza in the oven, and there’s enough beer here to get us through the next ice age, wanna join me? No reason to sit here all by yourself.” Dean offered. There was a softness to his deep baritone voice that surprised you. He wasn’t a shy person, and he definitely wasn’t as quiet as you were. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was afraid you were going to turn him down.
“Yeah, sure,” you tell him, finally looking up to meet his gaze, and you hoped the shiver then ran through your body wasn’t a visible one. Dean was huge come paired to you. Tall and broad. Thick in all the right places. His hand alone was probably almost as big as your head, and those fingers...fuck they could probably ruin you. The same fingers that were running up and down the length of his thick, jean clad thigh as he rubbed his left hand over it.
“Cool. I’ll get everything set up in the Dean Cave, it should be ready by the time you get there.”
You swallowed thickly as you watched his perfectly bowed legs carry him to your door, and out of it towards the kitchen. Fuck this was gonna be a long few days. Dean had never really offered you to eat with him, or spend much time with him at all anyway.
When you’d first met Dean Winchester, he was carrying the Mark Of Cain. You were a little terrified of him, and with good reason. Not long after that he became a demon, and you had to watch as Sam tried desperately to save his brother. If you thought he was terrifying as a man with the Mark Of Cain, Demon Dean was something nightmares were made of. It took you a long time to warm up to him after that, and you were pretty sure that’s why he still kept his distance from you even today. He had warmed up to you since becoming human, including you willingly on hunts, and Sam said that’s something by itself. He made sure you had food and anything else you would want, but this behavior of asking you to share a pizza with him was new. He’d never done it before.
Stop it Y/N! He just wants some company! Stop looking into things and making something out of nothing! AND STOP LUSTING AFTER THE MAN!!!!
No matter how much you scolded yourself, the thoughts continued to slip their way into your senses every time he was close, or just in the same room…
He was more than his looks. He was sweet, kind, and giving to a fault. He was everything a woman could ever dream of with looks to boot, and he was way out of your league.
With a long, exaggerated sigh, you pull yourself up from the chair and make your way down the hall towards where Dean was waiting with a pizza and beer as promised, The Witcher paused on TV to binge watch. Did he remember you told Sam on the way home from your last hunt that you wanted to watch the series? Maybe he was paying even more attention than you thought he was.
“I hope supreme is okay? It’s all we had left in the freezer.” Dean said, as you entered the room.
The two recliners that had occupied the space had been replaced with a rather large couch in the center of the room, and a small coffee table was within reach. That’s not what had your attention though.
He’d apparently taken the liberty of getting comfortable while waiting for you, choosing to change into a dark green Henley and a pair of loose hanging grey sweatpants that did little to hide what he was packing. You were pretty sure that he’d forgone the underwear.
“Yeah, supreme’s fine,” you answer as you slowly make your way into the room after tearing your eyes away from the screen.
“Good, cause I could have totally gone out to get us a hamburger if you didn’t want pizza,” he said, flopping down on the couch really close to you and grabbing his own slice of pizza.
“Oh no, this is perfectly fine Dean, You didn’t even have to do this.”
You were trying really hard to not focus on his extremely large form sitting next to you on the couch, but it was damn hard when the scent of his body wash seemed everywhere, and he was close enough for you to literally feel the heat coming off of his body.
“I wanted too, besides, you and I don’t really get to spend a whole lot of time together, especially when Sammy is around.” Dean answered with a shrug. “Sam seems to think you're scared of me, which I hope he’s wrong, cause I really really don’t want anyone to be scared of me. Especially you.”
“I’m not afraid of you Dean,” you tell him earnestly. You honestly felt a little bad that you had given him that impression, all because you were insecure and shy.
“Really, because most of the time I feel like you're avoiding me?”
Dean had suddenly become very interested in the label on his beer bottle and was avoiding looking at you all together.
“I mean, I know when we first met I wasn’t exactly myself, but I...I think I’ve been doing at least okay since then. Nothing too crazy.”
“Dean, seriously, I’m not afraid of you, I’m just a bit of an invert, and besides, you have way better looking girls than me gunning for your attention with just the snap of your fingers. It’s not like you need me tagging along.”
You hated how pathetic that sounded, but it was the truth. It’s how you felt. You had seen the type of women Dean normally went for, and that wasn’t you, not by a long shot. You were short, a bit of a nerd on your best day, and you definitely weren’t some busty blonde. You were...just you. You were nothing special. There was nothing memorable about you. You were just Y/N. The “stray” that the Winchester brother’s had picked up. At least you were sure that’s what all the other hunters thought about you. You were nothing Dean would ever want.
The elder Winchester sat his beer and pizza down on the coffee table, and grabbed your hands in his giant, warm, calloused grip. It was grounding and comforting all while sending an excited shiver through your body at the way his hands completely engulfed your own.
“Look at me Y/N/N,” Dean said with a deep, gruff timber to his voice that made your breath catch in your throat as you tore your eyes away from his hands that were wrapped around yours, and to his jade colored eyes there were boring into you.
You wondered if your heart was beating so hard he could hear it from where he was sitting on the couch next to you, because you swear you were about to go into cardiac arrest.
“How do I make you understand that none of those girls are even on my radar. Sweetheart, you're the only one I see, and have seen for a long time. I couldn’t care less what those other girls have to offer, when I have so much better than anything they can bring to the table right here. I like you Y/N, a lot, maybe more than I should for your own good, but there’s only one girl I want, and she’s sitting right here next to me.”
To say your mind was blown was an understatement, and you surely looked liked a dumbfounded toddler sitting there with your mouth hanging open, but as soon as Dean lowered his mouth to yours, and pressed a soft, tender kiss to your lips it was as if some sort of second nature you didn’t even know was buried deep down inside of you took over, and there was in the world was the way his lips felt as the moved with yours. The way his tongue danced so easily along with your own. The way his taste and scent was everywhere. It was intoxicating. It was everything you had been missing and them some.
His calloused hands rest heavily on your hips as he pulls you closer to him, deepening the kiss and pressing your small frame against this solid chest as his free hand sprawled over your back. You felt so small in his grasp, but never so safe in all of your life at the same time. His lips trailed their way down your throat, sucking his mark at your pulse point for the world to see, and pulling a moan from somewhere deep down inside of you.
When he was satisfied, his strong and capable hands lifted your night shirt from your body and tossed it to the floor. The dominante growl that left his lips when he saw you had forgotten your bra sent a shiver of anticipation straight to your core.
You were always a little ashamed of the fact that your breasts were on the smaller side. In fact, when you were still in school the boys used to make fun of you, saying you favored a boy more than a girl when you had to take gym class with them.
Dean wasted not time latching ahold of your erect nipple sucking and licking at you like you were the best thing he’d ever had in his mouth, giving the other nipple the same attention until you were desperately grinding against his wide thigh in search of the friction your aching clit was begging for.
Dean let go of your nipple with a pop, his eyes heavy and lust blown as he helped guide your path over thigh.
“So fucking beautiful baby girl,” he mumbled to himself and the impressive bulge that you could fell drag over the top of his thigh told you he wasn’t lying and it did nothing but spur you on.
The thin shorts you had on for the night and the lack of underwear created the perfect amount of friction just where you needed it the most and before long your legs were shaking and you were right on the edge as Dean’s callosal hands left bruising finger prints on your hips as he pushed you on faster.
“Fuck Y/N,” Dean all but groaned at the wet mark you were leaving on his sweats and you swear you felt his dick twitch between the thin fabric that was restraining it. “Bet you can come just like this can’t you baby. Come on honey. Cum for me.”
It was like something had exploded inside of you, and you came all but screaming his name, your core clenching around nothing and your body nearly bowed in two from the force of your release if it were not for Dean’s strong grip holding you up.
While you were still coming back to yourself, Dean lowered you on the couch, and quickly rid himself of his clothes, leaving him standing hard and completely naked next to you before he covered your body with his own, the weight of his meaty length pressing against your still quivering cunt and his sheer size was breathtaking. He was the biggest man you had ever seen and you were worried that for a moment that there was no way you were going to fit all of him inside of you.
The warmth of his hand guided your gaze to meet his, and there was more love and affection showing there than you had ever seen before. You were certain no man would ever look at you the way he was looking at you know, and it almost knocked you breathless.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this sweetheart, but is this what you want, because if I go there then this is it for me; your it for me.”
In a moment of bravery, you place your hand on the side of his face and the way he nuzzles into your touch makes your heart flutter in your chest. This was real. He was real. This wasn’t a dream you were going to wake up from. Dean Winchester wanted you, and dammit you wanted him. You wanted him more than you ever wanted anything.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted Dean. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
It was like that was the permission he was waiting for, because as soon as the words were out of your mouth, his lips were on yours, and this length was sliding through your soaking folds and into your waiting heat with one sure push of his hips. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as he was fully seated inside of you. You had never felt so full. So stretched. It's too much, and then again not enough all at the same time.
Slowly he started to thrust in and out of you, testing the waters and gauging your reactions to him, but soon enough he was pounding into you with force, and there really is no real word to describe the amount of pleasure that was ripping through your body with every drag of his manhood against your velvet heat.
He was hitting your G-Spot with mapped out precision, and it wasn’t long until your walls were starting to collapse around him.
“Come on baby girl, I can feel,” Dean said with gritted teeth as his own pace started to falter and his eyes began to become unfocused with the effort it took not to fall over the edge until he had you there.
“You can do it baby cum for me.”
Your body must have had a secret connection with him that you didn’t know about, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth you were falling over the edge again, and your body sucked his cock deep inside of your cunt, milking him until he was swearing and coating your insides with his hot seed.
By the time you both came down from your highs you were both a shaking mess. Dean climbed off of you on shaky legs and you watched as his perky, very naked ass made its way to the bathroom, returning with a washcloth to clean you both off before he grabbed your hand and led you to his room to curl up on under the covers with him in the safety of his arms.
For the first time in a long time you fell asleep feeling safe and loved. For the first time you didn’t feel so alone anymore. Dean as the safe place you had always looked for, that place you thought you’d never find was always right there in front of you. This was it. This was what you were missing. This is home.
Jensen and Dean’s Babes:
374 notes · View notes
Would you mind sharing some tips on writing eskel as well? I've heard people complain about how eskel is basically written as geralt with a scar, but I'm not sure how to NOT do that? How do you write him as himself and not a copy of Geralt?
Ahh, Anon. Eskel. Well, believe it or not, this was harder to pull together than the one for Lambert. Eskel’s a character quite close to my heart and I’ve used him across a wide range of stories to explore issues close to home. I’ve broken down some core principles, so I hope this is both informative, but flexible enough for you to twist and warp as you see fit. A lot of his traits are interwoven, but I’ve tried to sort them into some sensible order.
My usual disclaimer: personal interpretations; mileage may differ. Remember that everyone engages with media differently, etc.
TLDR: In the books, it’s said that he and Geralt look so similar that they could be mistaken for brothers, but for the scar on Eskel’s face and Geralt’s white hair. They’re close. Eskel’s life is governed by quiet pragmatism, whereas Geralt is governed by idealism. Eskel doesn’t involve himself like Geralt does; he’s capable of operating inside societal norms and is well aware of his emotions/needs (enough to have sound mastery of them). He prefers the life of an anonymous witcher, not because he isn’t special in his own way, but because that is the life he chooses.
Special shoutout to those in the Cake Shop who helped me answer the question “how do I talk about Eskel without showing my whole ass?” @lohrendrell, @tumbleweedtech, @frenchkey, @octinary, particularly.
Eskel knows how society works. He’s able to live within its boundaries.
“It was Eskel’s behaviour which was most unlikely; he got up, approached the enchantress, bent down low, took her hand and kissed it respectfully.”
“Vesemir hawked again. But Eskel, dear Eskel, kept his head and once more behaved as was fitting.”
Blood of Elves
Eskel is often written as the “diplomatic” one. Part of this stems from the “eldest child” syndrome he has—polite, responsible and Vesemir can “count on him”—but also because he understands society’s rules and his place within it. He doesn’t chafe against the yoke like Lambert or stumble awkwardly through like Geralt. It’s not that he’s passive, but he has accepted the world for it is and rather than rail against it (Lambert) or believe that he can change it with enough personal suffering (Geralt), he has decided to operate within its framework as best he can.
Even if he wholeheartedly disagrees with something, he will feign interest. His one big tell is the inability to maintain eye contact when something truly bores him, probably because he’s well aware that his eyes might give him away.
Eskel would have pinched the bridge of his nose in despair had been present when Geralt skewered that rodent in the dark. Triss notes that Eskel “behaves as he should” and Eskel is able to conduct himself in a manner that encourages Triss to assist with Ciri, because he knows that is what’s needed at the time. He doesn’t see himself “above” a little bit of deference if it achieves the end goal, which leads me onto the next point…
Eskel is a pragmatist, not an idealist.
Eskel and Coën bestowed a look which was entirely devoid of respect on the old man.
Blood of Elves
Eskel: Saved this lost knight once... You know, woods, dark, wolves. The standard. Told him "Give me what you find at home" and all that... No kid this time, but his mare had just foaled.
Geralt: Eskel and Scorpion... Bound by fate. An enchanting tale.
Eskel: Mock me all you want. You're just jealous.
Dialogue, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Eskel gets a bad reputation for not picking up Deidre and leaving her to “suffer”. In reality, Eskel was pragmatic in making his decision to leave her where she was. A princess would live a far better life in a palace, surrounded by luxury, than he could ever give her. I’ve debated whether he puts much stock in “destiny” either, since he claimed law of surprise a second time—sometimes I write this as him asking the world for a second chance to get it right, because his decision bit him in the ass. There may have been a small concern at taking on the responsibility, particularly given the timing of his “acquisition”.
After the whole Deidre debacle, Eskel carried a collective work about the phenomenon of the “Black Sun”. He concluded that the Council of Wizards meddled too much in state affairs, botched it and, had they not sent Sabrina Glevissig, Ademeyn might not have been ostracised. In other words, Deidre was a victim of the machinations of the Council. Is Eskel dogged by regret and thoughts of “what could have been”? I think so. Why else would he take such great pains to find an explanation beyond something as erroneous as “fate”?
Another aspect of this pragmatism is the realistic way he views his relationship to Kaer Morhen and the witcher brotherhood. He doesn’t view Vesemir as a father figure (contrary to what our beloved fanfiction tropes would have you believe) and treats him with detachment (if not open disdain as evidenced above). This suggests he has a better grasp of the reality of his training years than Geralt—a leap, but it matches the rest of his approach to the Path (see next point). They weren’t trained as gallant knights to rescue damsels from distress, but as monster hunters that would live on the periphery of society.
He is notably disturbed by performing the Trial of the Grasses on Uma and walks away. Like all witchers, there is certainly some residual trauma there, particularly because he almost lost Geralt during the whole process.
I think this foundational understanding of his place in the world meant that he never quite developed the sense of “unworthiness” that Geralt carries with him. This doesn’t mean that Eskel isn’t very aware of his worth and his place; he is conscious of his scars (touches them when he’s anxious or contemplative) and saves his smiles for his friends and family. He is aware of how the world views him—resigned to it, perhaps fatigued by it in some ways—and manages himself accordingly.
As an amusing aside, he once caught a vampire by getting a woman drunk on drugged alcohol and using her as bait (with her consent, of course), but I can just imagine Geralt clutching his pearls at the very idea and it makes me grin.
Eskel chooses anonymity. He chooses the simple life of a witcher and takes a certain amount of pride in it.
Geralt: You too. How are things?
Eskel: Same ol', same ol'. Another day, another drowner.
Geralt: That it?
Eskel: I'm a simple witcher, Wolf. Don't fight dragons, don't fraternise with kings and don't sleep with sorceresses... Unlike some.
Dialogue, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
“And the lord barons and village elders,” added Eskel, “have their heads full of the war and don’t have the time to defend their subjects. They have to hire us. It’s true. But from what Triss has been telling us all these evenings, it seems the conflict with Nilfgaard is more serious than that, not just some local little war. Is that right, Triss?”
Blood of Elves
Eskel prefers a quiet life on his own terms. He chooses to walk the Path with his own morals and chooses not to engage the way Geralt or Coën do (both intervene and find heartache and pain), whereas Geralt wants a happy family, Eskel prefers his solitude. He chooses to be an anonymous witcher, chooses simplicity instead of glory, or even a sense of grand accomplishment. He finds accomplishment in carving out the life he wants, because his early life was characterised by a lack of agency. In summary, if Geralt is high drama, then Eskel is maximum chill.
He never gained Geralt’s renown—deliberately, as I’ve stated—but he has a reputation as a solid witcher; professional, reliable and competent. He has undertaken a number of notable feats, including the rescue of a young girl from the stomach of a basilisk and the slaying of a manticore (neither of which he got paid for due to the lack of contract).
We can extrapolate a little from what he doesn’t say or do. In the Blood of Elves, when Triss commented on their treatment of Ciri, he listened rather than bite back like Lambert and lament like Geralt. After they discussed what to do with Ciri, the conversation turned to the situation in the Northern Kingdoms. Eskel asked a question initially (as above) but went silent when it turned into a debate about neutrality. He’s the closest example we have of a witcher that pays more than lip service to the neutrality of the order (besides, perhaps, Vesemir).
Eskel is quiet, but he’s not “slow”.
Geralt: Something about Yen bothering you? C'mon, grow a pair, give it to me straight.
Eskel: You grow a pair and admit she tricked you. More than a few times.
Geralt: That was then. Yen's changed.
Eskel: Right. Fine, never mind... Let's go.
Dialogue, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Geralt: We shouldn't. Rather not tire out my horse for no reason.
Eskel: Ah... Honestly can't see what all those dames see in you. You're a stick in the mud.
Geralt: Pretty damn handsome stick, though.
Eskel: Debatable... Let's go.
Dialogue, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
There can be a tendency to paint Eskel as a little bit dim, because some of his rebuttals to Geralt amount to “no, you” and he has this lovely, warm accent in the game that drops the ‘g’ and uses the word ‘ain’t’. However, I propose that Eskel has a dry sense of humour, has grown up dealing with Geralt’s sass and knows the best way to shut him down is to disengage with a one-liner and move on.
You also have one of my favourite examples of Eskel’s intelligence, which is the fact that he spent months hunting a katakan and dragged it to Kaer Morhen for an autopsy to figure out what was so special about it. I’ve gone into this in more depth in a “headcanon” post, which is more focused on what I have built Eskel as (including a love of poetry and literature).
Other bits and pieces:
He is perturbed by Geralt’s relationship with Yennefer and points out her poor treatment of him (and her poor behaviour when she arrives at KM); he remarks that Yennefer plays Geralt like a “cheap fiddle”. Ouch.
He has a feathered bonnet he wears on special occasions.
He has a lot of luck with the ladies when wearing a mask—don’t worry, Eskel, we love you without one—which suggests an innate charm that he can deploy effectively.
He’s infamous for sleeping with succubi and doing fisstech. While some might try to base his entire character on this, it only suggests that he knows how to have a good time and, in his own words, loves a woman with horns.
He enjoys drinking and laughing with his loved ones, and there is evidence that he has a close relationship with Lambert as well as Geralt.
He is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.
There is still plenty of scope to explore issues of self-esteem and Eskel’s expectations of the world (and how it treats him).
My headcanon that he has an army of grannies that feed him on the Path because he is a “good young man” that helps them out.
Some random headcanons that aren’t wholly based on canon material.
He appears once with a goat.
His hands “emanate with power”, more so than Geralt. He is known for an astounding mastery of Signs.
I’ve avoided discussing anything to do with kink or NSFW; I’ll let you make up the fun bits by yourself (but I’m personally partial to Eskel any way he comes, to be honest; the lad loves to please his lovers).
Chonkskel for life. There is no other way.
In conclusion, Anon. Eskel is not Geralt Lite. I view them as two halves of one soul, yes—even if you just view them platonically, they’re bound by the life they have lived together—but Eskel is the balance to Geralt’s chaos, the calm to his turbulence. They find effortless acceptance and love in each other (evidenced by the way they fall into each other’s arms in the Blood of Elves).
On his own, Eskel is a simple man in that his wants in life are simple, but he has his own clear moral code of neutrality, a dry wit and an easy charm. I always advise people to drink some bourbon, listen to Tennesse Whiskey and read about sultry summer evenings before sitting down to write Eskel, because that’s how he feels to me.
314 notes · View notes
Grunge-Metal Geralt 2
holy fucking shit yall really loved the first one so I wrote some more
this is totally self indulgent tho. like yall have no idea. if i could live in any AU it would be this one. i have so many feels.
Warnings: drinking mention, nothing over the top, unwanted pics taken but like they’re celebrities? i guess, we get a bit emotional about past relationships/crushes but nothing too heavy
Jaskier had no idea how he got there, but he was knocking on a green room door with a temporary label reading ‘The Witchers’ before the stadium had completely emptied.
Lambert yanked the door open, Aiden clinging to his back like a monkey, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head before a huge grin spread over his face, “Hey there, Jaskier!”
Eskel grumbled, “Haha, Bert. No need to fuck with Geralt.”
Jaskier shoved his hands in his corduroys and rocked up onto his toes, “He’s not fucking with anyone,” he laughed, desperately trying to keep the nerves out of his voice as he peeked around the door jam.
Geralt was curled up in the corner of a couch, now wearing a massive grey-blue hoodie and gold wire-rimmed glasses, scribbling in a composition notebook propped up on his knees. His hair was pulled back in a disaster of a bun with pieces falling in his face but Jaskier absolutely loved it. It suited him. He hesitated a moment before scrawling one last line in his notebook, brow furrowed as he chewed on his bottom lip.
When he looked up he snapped his notebook shut, “Holy fuck,” he breathed, “Hi!”
His eyes were actually gold. Jaskier had just thought that was some thirst driven exaggeration. He expected light brown, but no. He was staring directly at eyes that practically sparkled.
Lambert waved Jaskier in and he hesitantly stepped through the door, “Hi! I uh, dig your boots.”
“Th- Thank you,” Geralt bit back a grin, blushing bright pink as he stood up, “I didn’t think you’d see my message. Or respond.”
“After that performance?” Jaskier, normally bard-worthy with his quick tongue and easy conversation, was feeling his own cheeks heat up as he scrambled for something to say, “I’m honestly not sure if I even locked my car when I came back in.”
Eskel snickered from behind Jaskier, stretching and putting his feet up on a coffee table, “Told ya.”
Aiden sighed and rested his chin on top of Lambert’s head, “This is so cute.”
Jaskier laughed, not entirely uncomfortably but definitely awkward, and ran a hand through his hair, turning back to Geralt.
Geralt pushed his glasses farther up his nose and snatched his wallet from the coffee table, “I offered drinks. You wanna…” Geralt trailed off and made an exasperated, and maybe a little annoyed face at the guys behind him but when Jaskier turned around they were pretending to mind their own business, “How does Pensive sound?”
Jaskier shot him a grin, “Sounds perfect.”
Geralt snagged his keys from a bag and held the door open for Jaskier, “After you.”
“Okay so,” Jaskier took a sip of his drink and set it in line with their two empty glasses and a napkin holder, “Aiden and Lambert fuck?” he asked, pushing an empty glass and the napkin holder together. Geralt snorted and nodded so he went on, “And Eskel and Lambert are brothers?” Another nod as he tapped the two empty glasses, “And you and Eskel were college roommates?” he asked, gesturing to his half-empty glass.
Geralt grinned, “You know, you’re keeping up pretty well for a self-proclaimed lightweight.”
Jaskier giggled, “I’m trying really fucking hard.”
Geralt leaned his head back and laughed and Jaskier was absolutely done for. He rested his elbow on the table and his head in his hand as he stared dreamily at this adorable man. He was carefree and soft around the edges, nothing like Jaskier had expected from the lyrics he’d listened to all night. And either he was a good listener or Jaskier had had one too many vodka-crans.
When Geralt finally got himself under control he took off his glasses to wipe at his eyes before placing them back on his nose with a grimace, “I shouldn’t have taken my contacts out.”
Geralt blushed, “Don’t usually wear them in public,” He admitted, pushing the frames higher.
Jaskier must have had too much to drink because he reached out and tucked a curly strand of white hair behind Geralt’s ear, “I think they’re cute on you.”
Geralt’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at Jaskier, jaw hanging down just a bit, his pupils blown wide. Jaskier bit his lip and smiled as he pulled his hand away and rested it on the table between them, hoping Geralt would get the hint. Gods he just wanted to hold his hand and giggle until the sun came up.
“Thank you,” Geralt muttered, blinking a couple times and laying one of his hands over Jaskier’s.
“Can I ask you something?”
Geralt licked his lips and nodded, shaking the hair loose that Jaskier had just tucked away.
“Why that song?” Jaskier stared at their hands, not having the courage to look at Geralt in case the answer wasn’t what he wanted it to be.
“Hmm…” he didn’t sound upset, but he was certainly choosing his words carefully, “I’ve done the whole.. How do I put it?” Jaskier looked up at him only to see him staring at their hands too, “...‘I could be enough for you if you’d let me’ dance more times than I can count… and knowing it would never happen but yearning anyway…” he chuckled and glanced up at Jaskier, a sad look of acceptance in his eyes, “And I love your voice.”
Of course, he’d heard those words before, it was his job to have a good voice, but fuck, they hit different coming from Geralt. He was so earnest and disarmingly handsome that Jaskier felt anything he said would make him giddy. His chest felt warm and it took a moment for his brain to catch up. He had planned on showering Geralt with praise and adoration, not the other way around.
Jaskier squeezed his hand, “I love yours too,” he whispered.
There was that gorgeous blush again, making Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.
“I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re not magnificent,” Jaskier mumbled, watching Geralt blush even deeper and dip his head so the loose hairs covered his face a bit. Jaskier may have been a flirty drunk, but he was one hundred percent sure he’d be just as forward with Geralt sober. He wasn’t leaving the bar without making damn sure Geralt knew he was gorgeous and talented and everything Jaskier could imagine wanting in life.
“Careful. You can’t just say things like that,” Geralt warned, flicking the hair out of his eyes with a guarded but amused smile.
“And why not?”
Geralt squinted at him for a moment, “I might believe you.”
“Geralt, darling,” Jaskier started, sitting up and turning to square his hips toward him, holding his large hand in both of his, “I don’t mince words. I mean everything I say. And tweet. I really do think you’re wonderful. And I really do want you to sing me to sleep. Sometime. Anytime. I’m not picky.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows and took a breath in to say something but was interrupted by a camera flash in the low light of the bar and someone swearing.
“Oi!” Jaskier turned toward the light, and the idiot fumbling with their phone.
Geralt squeezed his hand before he could say anything more, “It’s alright. The hair kinda glows in the dark, I’m used to it. I was thinking we could get out of here?”
Jaskier did his best not to let the sly smile take over his face and give him away, “Would you like to come to my place?”
Geralt grinned, “Absolutely. Mine is a shit show right now.”
“Is it really that bad?” Jaskier joked as they stood.
“Eskel is a slob,” Geralt laughed.
“Mine it is!” Jaskier declared, slapping enough cash to cover their drinks and an exorbitant tip on the table.
They walked out of the bar with Geralt’s arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, both with giddy smiles and a little extra pep in their step.
506 notes · View notes
a gift fic for the wonderful @cherry-witcher who needed some more Todou Aoi x Reader
Even after you’d rushed inside, the downpour was still deafening.
The entire morning had been filled with thunder and rain and the badly isolated college buildings did little to stop the noise, though the heating protected many of the drenched and lost students from the cold outside. The floor was riddled with muddy footsteps, discarded one-off poncho’s and small puddles of water left behind by the many students walking past.
The way to school had been terrible. You’d had to go through this weather from the bus stop, which was a way’s off, meaning you were utterly drenched the moment you’d stepped in. Your hair, which had of course decided it would cooperate with styling for once this morning, was in utter disarray.
You’d have a cold tomorrow probably, which already sucked, but you’d also have to get through the lectures today like this, probably freezing your ass off while feeling uncomfortable due to your clothes being completely soaked. The cacophony of raindrops on the roof was the only convincing you got for staying, the rest of your body screaming to go back home and sleep under the covers.
The weather report had warned for this kind of weather, but they really weren’t kidding when they said it would be bad. Your umbrella had broken nearly two steps out in the rain.
At least everyone was going through the same thing, you figured, seeing another girl try to fix herself before entering class, her make-up washed out over her face.
Though, you quickly realized, not everyone.
Normal people just walked to school, took the bus, or biked from the dorms or inner-city housing. Rich kids and college star boys just took their car to the front entrance and walked in spotless, a hot coffee in one hand and their overpriced backpacks in the other. You hadn’t known athletes got special treatment like that, but it figured.
You didn’t want to seem bitter, but seeing Todou Aoi prance in and laugh at the other students annoyed you.
He was easy to recognize, towering out above an army of lackeys and people wanting to get into his good graces, despite no one ever seeming to succeed at that. He kept his black hair tied up in a top ponytail, and the large scar crossing his left eye would be the most eye-catching thing about him, if his body wasn’t wider and larger than nearly anyone around him. He was an athlete, and build like one, his muscles bulging out underneath the purple shirt he was wearing.
He wasn’t a bad guy per se. The entire school loved him for his athletic accomplishments, putting more trophies on the school’s name than any other athlete before him. While he was adored, the general consensus was that he was very intense, having a bad habit of crushing an opponent that had already lost, and rather weird
Being a bad winner didn’t make someone weird per se, but there were some rumors he got a bit crazy over idols, crazy enough that it was treated as a hush hush topic all around school.
You just had a bit of a bad feeling about him since the party last week. You didn’t follow everything surrounding sports all that well, so you had little to no idea who he was for a long time, so you’d thought nothing of it when he’d talked to you at a frat party, thinking him maybe one of the hosts or something like that.
Friends told you afterwards that he’d refilled your cup almost constantly, keeping his hand on your lower back the entire time. You’d blacked out most of the night, so you couldn’t really remember it yourself, but the parts you did remember were indeed filled with alcohol and stray touches you’d found odd in the moment.
One of your friends had taken you home after he’d apparently tried helping you upstairs.
While you didn’t remember anything, they’d assured you it was plenty creepy, which made you a bit on edge in the presence of Todou since. Frat boys and student athletes being a bit egocentric and dangerous during parties was no new story, but you just couldn’t fathom why someone like him would do that to you of all people.
As far as you knew, that had been the first time you met him, so it all felt rather odd.
Which is why you stiffened up a bit, eyebrows lifted up in surprise, as Todou casually walked toward you with a great sense of familiarity.
“Good morning, y/n.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, laughing softly when he felt exactly how drenched your clothing was. “Shit weather we’re having, right? You cold?”
You halted in your step, slowly removing his arm from your shoulder, and looked rather puzzled his way. Why was he acting so familiar? This was overstepping like twenty boundaries in one go. “Uhh, yeah, I guess.”
He, in turn, seemed puzzled by your behavior, as if you were the one acting strange. “You have a change of clothes? You’re not planning to run around in that all day, right? You’ll get sick.”
“Didn’t think of that when I left home.” You admitted, looking for a way to cut this sudden conversation short and leave. You didn’t have the excuse of being late, as you were pretty sure it was still twenty minutes before the first class would start. “Can I help you with anything, Todou?”
“Uh, nope, why?”
“I don’t really know you and you walked up to me so I figured there had to be something.” You honestly replied. His eyebrows shot up at that statement, and for a second you wondered whether he would bring up the party. You wanted to forget that whole affair, so you would just pretend you didn’t remember anything, which wasn’t far from the truth.
You’d been completely blackout drunk after all.
His confused expression turned into a happy one, his frown interchanged with a wide and toothy grin. “You’re joking. Of course you are.” Before you could intercept with the fact that you were most certainly not joking, he held up one finger to shush you and rummaged through his sports bag, pulling out a large jersey. “Since you didn’t bring a change of clothes, you can have this for now.”
“I really don’t-” “Y/n. Don’t be difficult.”
Your eyes widened and you took a hesitant step back as he glared down at you for a split second, the gleam in his eyes and the tensing of his jaw making sure you knew he wasn’t kidding. Hesitantly you took the jersey he pressed into your hands, flinching as his happy expression returned just as easily. Behind you, you heard some people mutter, confused alongside you as everyone wondered why Todou was acting so familiar with you.
He was harsh and short with everyone, meaning it was pretty odd to have him casually touch and hand out jerseys to some random person in the hallways.
“See? Easy.” He pulled the sports bag back over his shoulder, his eyes flying at the clock nailed to the wall, probably inwardly calculating how much time he had left before he needed to be in class or go to training. “I’ll see you later, Y/n. If you wait for like twenty minutes after your midterm, I’ll drive you home.”
You blinked, probably gaping like a fish after he left, a soft exclamation of ‘how the fuck do you know I have a midterm today?’ dying in your throat.
And driving you home? How was there so much to unpack from such a small conversation in the hallways? You looked at the jersey in your hands, a bit lost on what to do with it. You were definitely cold, but as you peeked between the folds of the fabric, it became very clear that this was Todou’s jersey, his name and number proudly flaunted on the back. Wearing this would save you some shivering in between classes, but it would also be awkward as all hell.
Opting to store it in your bag for now and give it back later, you went your way, grabbing your phone to text your friends what just happened. Your first class would be boring as all hell, and there was nothing like some weird college drama to spice up the experience of listening to the professor’s drawling voice.
The rest of your day went without another Todou sighting, though the group chat went wild with the new information, both out of a sense of drama and a slight worry for your sake. That night at the party could’ve ended up very differently, and it left you with a bit of fear toward the rather tall and muscular fellow student.
But all drama has to take a pause when midterms are concerned, the looming threat of failing an important test overtaking all other nerves.
And so you were just revising in a small booth, your eyes flying over the course material. You had studied well, but you were sure you’d leave one or two answers that would leave anyone guessing to what you meant, including yourself. It was just too vague a subject to be completely concrete about, despite the professors insistence everything was perfectly easy to understand.
Your peace was interrupted by a harsh knock on the booth.
“Y/n?” You looked up to the narrowed eyes of Todou Aoi, who gestured to his friends and lackeys to continue on without him, his attention returning to you after they’d all shrugged and moved on. He seemed rather... off. “Can you come with me for a second?”
Looking down at your laptop, you gestured at all your notes. “I have my midterm in a bit... I kinda need to study right now.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll only take a moment.”
Despite not really wanting to, you hesitantly stood up and packed your stuff, not wanting to leave your belongings behind. You let out a noise of surprise as he grabbed your hand and pulled you with him to a nearby empty classroom, his head peeking inside for just a moment to check if it was truly empty. After he pulled you in and closed the door behind him, you decided enough was enough.
“Todou, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-” “Why didn’t you just tell me you needed help changing your clothes?” He interrupted.
“I would’ve helped immediately, you know that.” He wore a carefree grin as he took your bag from you, his strength pulling the entire thing from you in one swift pull, and dug out the jersey he’d given you. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about something like that.”
Your anger was interrupted by pure confusion. “Wait. What?”
“Though I am also to blame.” You took a step back as stepped toward you and hooked his fingers underneath your, admittedly still damp sweatshirt, your attempt to get away thwarted by a desk. “I should’ve noticed. You could’ve been nice and warm so much sooner.” He nearly whined the last part, ignoring your struggles as he pulled the damp sweatshirt off of you.
“If- If- If you don’t stop, I’ll scream.” You threatened as you covered yourself, your tank top being the only thing keeping him from seeing your bare chest. He hummed at that, before grabbing both your arms and pulling them up, holding them by circling both your wrists while his other grabbed his jersey, his eyes shamelessly focused on your chest. “I’ll really do it. Let me go.”
“I’ll be done in just a sec, babe.”
You opened your mouth to scream out for help, but before you could even push out a single noise, his mouth was on yours, your hands still held above your head. Todou immediately groaned in the kiss, teeth nibbling down on your bottom lip, whilst he completely silenced your attempt to get help.
You tried pressing your mouth shut, or bite down on his tongue, but as you caught his tongue between your teeth and bit down, rather than hiss in pain or retract, he pushed into the kiss even more harshly, the hand circling your wrists squeezing tightly whilst he was grinning against your mouth.
You let go immediately, afraid he would hurt you if you kept that up, though he didn’t seem mad at you at all, his eyes twinkling down at you as you looked at him.
“You’re that impatient? Kissing me like that?” He’d kissed you, but reality seemed to be not all that important to the star athlete, his broad arms caging you in against the desk as he pressed his entire body closer. “I know we got interrupted at the party, but babe, we’re at school.”
You didn’t dare open your mouth again, knowing he’d just take it as another opening to kiss you, and biting him only seemed to excite him.
Letting him pull on the jersey seemed to be the easiest way to get out. You didn’t struggle as much as he resumed pulling the jersey over your head, his grin widening as he took in the sight. You weren’t sure what he was thinking, but he certainly was pleased about it.
“See? Isn’t that warmer? Aren’t you glad I helped you out, babe?” He wasn’t wrong, the jersey thick and soft and definitely much warmer than the drenched sweatshirt you’d been wearing, but this was all kinds of wrong, and you didn’t feel comfortable saying anything. “C’mon, y/n. What do you say to someone when they help you~?”
He wasn’t backing off, and the longer you remained silent, the less amused his expression became, his jaw tightening and his eyes flashing dangerously as you looked down and refused to speak. When he gripped your upper thigh tightly, you flinched and relented.
“Thank you, Todou.”
He immediately let go and smiled brightly.
“Anything for you.”
290 notes · View notes
like a secret in your throat
y’all asked for whump. y’all got whump. title from “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” by my all-time favorite band, My Chemical Romance
whump, hurt/comfort with a happy ending!
tw: manhandling the bard, vampire transformations (side character), non-sexy biting, blood mention, canon typical injuries/violence
Geralt looked up from his mug of ale when he realized that Jaskier had stopped playing. Instead, the bard was chatting merrily away with a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak. The hood obscured most of the stranger’s face but Geralt caught the reflective glint of a bead or piece of metal braided into his matted black hair. An instinct tickled at the back of the Witcher’s head but Geralt couldn’t quite place the feeling. Something was wrong about this little tableau but he couldn’t figure out what it was; his medallion wasn’t reacting to anything in particular and Jaskier seemed perfectly happy, lost in conversation with the dark-haired man.
Geralt returned his gaze to his mug and let his mind wander.
Jaskier did seem perfectly happy to be without him on nights like these, when they were back in civilization and the extroverted bard could branch out and meet new people. That was the problem, in Geralt’s opinion.
Lately the Witcher had found himself contemplating what life would be like on the Path if he decided to travel alone again. Winter wasn’t close enough for him to excuse himself and go North, but he’d developed a strange and uncomfortable dependence on the bard that he needed to be weaned away from. It wasn’t healthy for either of them.
It wasn’t safe.
If he grew too close to Jaskier, then…
Wouldn’t that be a weakness? Wouldn’t that be a vulnerability and a dangerous closeness? Geralt couldn’t risk forming a connection like that. He couldn’t allow himself to hope for something so organic and pure to develop between a half-monster and a youthful, bright-eyed bard; Witchers weren’t meant to get nice things. That was not his lot in life.
Some mornings, when he only barely cracked his eyes open and used his heightened senses to peek across their campsite, he saw Jaskier looking back at him, a curious glint in those pretty blue irises. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint the emotion the bard’s face held; he was bad at that, and the uncertainty of the younger man’s feelings scared him. He could handle rejection, but acceptance? If Jaskier was as loving and openminded as Geralt thought him to be, it could prove to be a problem. Jaskier was too good for a Witcher. He didn’t deserve to be trapped by a life on the Path, dying too young because he was foolhardy and quick to fall in love.
The Witcher’s introspection came to an abrupt halt when the Jaskier in question appeared beside him, flushed and grinning. “Geralt, dear heart, are you ready to retire for the evening?”
“Are you asking me to bed?” the Witcher smirked, smothering the very real ache in his chest at the thought of curling up next to Jaskier like that. “Or do you need to borrow our room to entertain a guest?”
“Oh, no, I have no plans of that nature.” Jaskier’s already pink face darkened a shade and Geralt’s stomach flipped. “I’m actually rather tired. I was hoping to get some decent sleep tonight before we flung ourselves back into nature tomorrow.”
“Hmm. I’ll be along shortly. Don’t wait up.”
“See you in a bit then, dear heart.”
And Jaskier disappeared up the stairs.
Unfortunately, the Witcher didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one watching Jaskier slip into their rented room with a longing expression on his face.
“We need to set up camp for the evening,” Geralt announced, bringing Roach to a stop and sliding gracefully down from the saddle. Jaskier loved the way his Witcher looked when he did that, like some kind of fairytale Prince or knight errant. The way his long, silver-white hair shifted and fluttered against his shoulders in the dusky light made him look more like a fantastical painting than a century-old Witcher; even with his scars and his pallid skin tone.
The unconventionally enchanting sight made ballads stir in the most romantic corners of the bard’s busy mind. Words pooled and shifted behind his eyes, arranging themselves into neat rhyming couplets or quatrains.
Geralt of Rivia, tall and fair,
With golden eyes and silver hair;
Whose glare could even douse the sun,
And send a Gryphon on the run.
The bard barely kept himself from sighing aloud as he removed his pack from across his shoulders and unfolded his bedroll and thin travel blanket. The material felt fragile between his calloused fingertips and he sighed forlornly, “I’m going to need a new blanket soon.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. And I’ll get Roach some new reins while I’m in town,” the bard waved his hand nonchalantly, as if spending money was no big deal. It really wasn’t, all things considered. They would be able to travel far more comfortably if Geralt would allow them to stop in Novigrad and access his University accounts more often. Alas, Witchers are stubborn creatures. “I see the way they chafe her poor muzzle, Geralt, so don’t argue. If you really insist you can pay me back by letting me write a song about the color of your eyes.”
“They’re rather pretty, dear heart, and I think the world could do with a ballad about how they glow when you turn your face toward the sun.”
Geralt felt the back of his neck grow hot and he glanced away, “Hmm.”
“Well, let me know what you think in the morning. I don’t need an answer right away.”
Geralt finished setting up a decent pile of firewood and brought it to life with an efficient burst of Igni. He glanced across the flames to Jaskier and grunted, “I’m going to catch us some dinner. Make tea.”
“Yes, sir,” Jaskier saluted, smiling. Geralt rolled his eyes, grabbed his crossbow, and disappeared into the darkening treeline. Jaskier began to hum as he set up their tea kettle and filled it with water from the waterskin. The humming turned to quiet singing as he measured out two mugs worth of tea from the sachet of dried leaves.
Singing that was cut off with a sharp, sudden cry.
Geralt heard the bard scream once. Only once.
The sound punctuated the air before leaving an uncomfortable, grating silence in its wake.
The Witcher took off towards their campfire without a second thought, allowing his instincts to take over and guide him safely back, the potency of Jaskier’s fear hung thick and sour in the air, growing stronger the closer he came to their clearing. When he burst back into view, chest heaving from the sprint, he widened his eyes at the sight before him:
The cloaked figure from the tavern had Jaskier wrapped in his burly arms. One large, long-fingered hand had immobilized Jaskier’s wrists by pressing them into the dip at the base of the bard’s spine, forcing his elbows out and pressing his chest even tighter against the stranger’s.
Jaskier looked up at Geralt beseechingly through his dark, damp lashes. His mouth opened in a silent cry of confusion and pain when the man tugged at his wrists and forced his arms to bend awkwardly. The bard wriggled and strained against the stranger’s iron grip in an effort to escape but the man only snarled in irritation and jerked him back into place. “Bad bard. Stay put, little thing.”
Geralt took a slow step towards his swords, trying to reassure Jaskier with his expression that: Everything will be okay. I will get you out of this. I will protect you and keep you safe… somehow.
Jaskier needed Geralt to pay attention and protect him from harm.
Geralt had failed.
The Witcher watched with wide, horrified eyes as the hulking man keeping Jaskier captive shifted slowly into a far less humanoid form. The baubles braided into his hair jangled and clinked as his nose elongated and his eyes widened. His arms lengthened to form clawed bat-wings and his face thinned and covered over with a layer of grey fur. Fangs burst forth from his gums and slid over his previously humanesque canines. His voice, which had been rasping odd little sounds in the Witcher’s direction, faded into an terrible shriek.
A Katakan that had snuck in and out of civilization without Geralt so much as smelling it; one that had Jaskier pinned against its chest, the claws of its unoccupied hand sharp and dangerous as they hovered near the bard’s ribcage, ready to pierce but unwilling to waste precious blood unless absolutely necessary. It screamed again, even more shrilly. “Want him!”
Geralt dove forward and pulled his silver sword from its sheath. He swung it in an elegant arc and narrowed his eyes, “Let him go and I might let you live.”
The Witcher’s words were a lie and they both knew it.
The Katakan twitched its long ears in annoyance and hauled Jaskier even closer. It wrenched his arms painfully and the bard whimpered, blue eyes filling steadily with tears. Geralt’s heart seized wretchedly in his chest and he tried his best to ignore it; he couldn’t let his feelings distract him until Jaskier was safe.
“I want him,” the monster rasped, readjusting the bard in its grip. It turned Jaskier around until he was facing the Witcher, releasing his wrists just long enough to pull his hands around to the front before capturing them again. It grazed its two long fangs against the column of Jaskier’s throat and trilled happily. “He sings so pretty. Talks so sweet. Bet he tastes sweet like he talks.”
“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “He does have a rather pretty singing voice. I suppose that’s why I can’t have you killing him.”
“But he will sing for me,” the vampire shrugged. It shook Jaskier like a toy and the bard’s tears finally fell. He whimpered again when the vampire leaned close and told him: “Sing, little thing. Let me pull lovely music from your veins.”
Jaskier shivered visibly. He gave a few panting, strangled sobs as he slipped into panic, too frightened to move with the vampire’s fangs so close to his neck. He wanted Geralt to finally swing that stupid sword and get this over with. He wanted to curl up in Geralt’s arms and never leave for the rest of his life. He wanted to be taken to Kaer Morhen and hidden away in safety, fuck his music career and the rest of the world. He wanted Geralt to stay in his presence forever, never letting him out of sight again. He wanted…
Before he could finish his thought there was a sharp, piercing, all-encompassing pain at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.
A keening wail filled the air once.
The vampire bit down harder, its tongue sliding against the skin of the bard’s neck in an effort to urge the blood to exit faster.
There was another high, piteous cry for help and then...
The world went black.
When Jaskier opened his eyes again, the world was even darker than it had been before; mostly because the light from both the moon and their campfire was being blocked out by the broad plane of Geralt’s chest, which Jaskier found himself cradled against almost… lovingly. Above him, he heard the Witcher murmuring: “Jaskier, please. Please wake up, Julek. Come on, bard, I kn-”
“G-Geralt?” he managed to croak. He followed it with a very eloquent, “Hunh?”
“Jaskier,” the Witcher sagged with relief, pressing his forehead against the bard’s and breathing in deeply. He tightened his arms around Jaskier, pulling him even closer as his frown disappeared, “Melitele be blessed, you’re alive!”
“Should I not be?” Jaskier asked. He tried to sit up on his own and winced when a bright burst of pain flared out from his shoulder.
“The Katakan- You were bleeding so much and I-” Geralt was, as always, at a loss for words. Jaskier waited patiently, still feeling drowsy and half-alive, and allowed the Witcher to gather his thoughts. His neck ached and his left arm tingled fiercely every time he tried to flex his hand on that side.
“Did it… Am I a vampire now?” he asked. The absurdity of the question broke Geralt from his confusion.
“No,” the Witcher answered swiftly. “You’re still very mortal-” a hand swept through Jaskier’s hair, calming him further “-And unfortunately still very fragile.”
“Are you going to beat yourself up over this for the next week and somehow twist it around until it’s all your fault?”
“Hmm,” Geralt looked away. Jaskier was still being held so very tenderly in his arms, laid across the Witcher’s lap like some kind of swooning maiden. He rather liked how close he was to Geralt and hoped to stay that way for just a little longer. The Witcher surprised them both by letting a full sentence slip into the air between them, “I don’t like seeing you hurt, Jaskier, especially not when… when I was close enough that I could have prevented it from happening at all.”
“Your medallion didn’t give you any hints about this thing back at the inn when I was talking to him? He seemed completely normal, if a little monosyllabic. I’m used to monosyllabic, anyway,” the bard joked, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It didn’t work; Geralt lifted his head and stared into the fire, his brow already furrowed as he slipped into his private realm of self-loathing. Jaskier was still laying across his lap, his neck and shoulder giving off pulsing aches with every beat of his heart.
Eventually the Witcher spoke again, his voice low and full of frustration. “Katakans are different, they don’t- they don’t set off my medallion the way other creatures do, and they can disguise themselves as people. They can move and talk like people; you saw it transform.”
“I did,” Jaskier grimaced. “And it wanted me to sing while it drank my blood.”
“You didn’t do very much singing,” the Witcher grumbled. “You screamed twice and fainted. It nearly dropped you.”
“If I remember correctly,” the bard smiled playfully, “Someone said my singing was too pretty for me to die.”
“It was you, Geralt. You said that.”
Jaskier tried to sit up again and nearly passed out from the pain that screamed through the entire left side of his body. “I- Geralt, I-”
“What’s wrong, Julek?” the Witcher asked, adjusting the bard until he was more comfortably enclosed in Geralt’s arms, his back leaning against one of Geralt’s bent legs for support. Geralt’s other leg was straightened out before him and Jaskier let his calves fall atop the Witcher’s thick thighs. They looked like a painting, with Jaskier reclined as he was and Geralt looking at him like that.
“Everything hurts, dear heart. My whole left side feels aflame.”
“It’ll burn like that for a day or so,” Geralt shushed him. “You bled quite a lot, you were bitten, and you hit the ground pretty hard.”
“You didn’t catch me?”
“I was a little busy beheading your attacker and keeping you from becoming a member of the undead,” Geralt scoffed. “Pardon me for not carrying you to safety first.”
“Well since you let me get injured, you have to kiss it better to gain your pardon,” the bard insisted. Geralt’s eyes widened comically and his hand clenched where it was resting on Jaskier’s lower back.
“It’ll- It would hurt if I kissed your wound,” Geralt replied shakily, trying to escape while he still could. Jaskier wasn’t about to let him. Not again.
“Then you’ll just have to kiss my lips instead.”
“Hush, Geralt. I know how you feel about me, and I feel much the same about you. Let’s skip the words bit, because I know that’s not your favorite, and get right to the kissing.”
“Oh, uh...” The Witcher allowed himself to smile. It was a soft, nervous thing but it made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Jaskier felt himself fall even further in love with his darling Geralt. “Alright.”
Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s head carefully, tilting his own chin down, and brought their lips together slowly. The bard’s lips were soft and plush and warm beneath his own, giving just slightly but not wilting beneath his touch. It was better than anything he could have imagined. When they pulled apart, Jaskier frowned.
“Was it bad?” Geralt asked automatically, more nervous than he had ever been with another lover.
“No,” Jaskier shook his head. “I just don’t think I’m healed yet. I may require another. Or several more.”
“Well, if the patient thinks it’s necessary,” Geralt grinned, leaning forward again. Jaskier pulled himself up a little to meet him, ignoring the lances of hurt in his arm. “I suppose...”
206 notes · View notes
Quarantine Antics: Henry Cavill Smut
Authours note: This is the first piece of smut I have done in years so I really do hope you all like it... Please me nice XD I have only ever written one piece of smut before so I’m pretty new to this. If you have any feedback please don’t be afraid to comment or message me (but again please be nice XD). Also sorry for any typos or grammar mistakes, despite reading this over like 10 times I tend to miss them somehow XD Enjoy - L
You were over the moon when Henry had asked you to live with him during quarantine. You had always loved his mews house in London, loving how the old stables had been converted into house, it began to feel like home to you the more you were there with Henry so were overjoyed when he asked you to stay with him.
"We don't know how long we'd go without seeing each other and I can't live that long without you" he said all those months ago, you remember being so happy that you basically jumped on him, begging him to take you to his room, soon to be your shaded room.
Now it was months later and living together was perfect, sure you had a few arguments and tiffs but it made for interesting sessions in the bedroom.
Henry spent some days just relaxing with you, some days on calls for the Witcher season 2 and some days playing PC. You were a huge gamer too so often played alongside him, chatting amongst yourselves about the games you were playing, both chuckling at each other when one got a bit too invested. You too were an actor so you mainly spent time reading over scripts for upcoming shows, doing calls with your manager, directors and many more people. You both loved what you did but quarantine certainly did give you both (particularly Henry) a well-earned rest. It also meant that your relationship which was fairly new could blossom a bit more.
You had just woken up, your head throbbing a tad making you groan lowly. You placed a kiss against Henry's forehead, smiling when his lips turned up a bit. You slipped out from the duvet, Henry's hand falling from your waist. You took Henry's shirt from off the floor, slipping it over your head, loving the way it drowned you. You walked to the kitchen, your bare feet tapping lightly against the cold tiles. Kal jumped up at you making you giggle slightly, petting his head you placed more food and water in his bowls. You began to make coffee and tidy the kitchen from yesterday's dinner. Henry walked in as you were taking some paracetamol for your headache. He groaned lowly upon seeing you in his shirt, walking behind you and placing his arms around your waist and his head on your shoulder.
"Morning gorgeous. I still can't get used to seeing you in my shirt every morning, love it more everyday" he says as you turn around and placed a gentle good morning kiss against his lips.
"What do you want to do today Hen?" you said running your hand through his untamed curls.
"Was thinking we could have a little gaming session?" he said making you smile.
"I have quite a bad headache today so I think I'll pass on that" you said, turning round to make two cups of black coffee.
"Aw lovie, I'm sorry, that sucks. We can always find something else to past the time?" he says, grabbing his coffee and making his way to the couch where Kal had taken most of the space up.
"Kal. Mummy and Daddy need to sit" Henry says making your stomach flutter. Kal instantly moved, panting up at his dad.
"Good boy" you said, placing your coffee on the table and sitting next to Henry, he swivelled you round so your legs were resting in his lap and your bottom was close to his thighs.
"wouldn't want to stop you from gaming if that's what you want to do baby. I can take Kal out for a..." you say raising your eyebrows so Henry knows without getting Kal too riled up.
"You sure?" he says raising his eyebrows back at you.
"Positive, the fresh air might do me good" you said making Henry nod in agreement. He leant forward placing a soft kiss to your lips, you instantly melted against him, his tongue slipping past your lips slowly, you gently sucked on the tip of it making Henry sigh against you before moving his lips to a different position against yours, massaging each other perfectly. Kal jumped up out of jealousy making you giggle as Henry groaned.
"Who knew you could be such a cock block aye?" Henry said rubbing the big dog behind his ears.
"Aww is Daddy being mean to you? Just want to go out huh?" you said making Henry smile at you.
A little while later you had returned from walking Kal, placing a bowl of water on the floor of the kitchen and some food down before hanging your jacket up and walking to the small living room. You found him on his PC at the end of living room, a headset sitting on top of his head, flattening his hair a little.
"Hi gorgeous" he said, pausing the game and placing a hand against your thigh as you came to stand next to him, he leant up a little as you bent down to place a kiss against his lips.
"Kal is all tired out now" you said making Henry smile.
"How's the headache?" he said pouting up at you cutely.
"Better" you said placing another kiss against his lips, scratching his stubble lightly, making him groan. He pushed his chair back slightly before pulling you down into his lap.
You straddled him against his chair, his thick jean clad thighs resting against your core. He nibbled your bottom lip before suckling it into his mouth, running his tongue over it shortly after. You could feel him getting harder against you, making you sigh against his mouth as you brought your hips down further against his, bringing your core closer to him.
"Hmm" he groaned as you began grinding against him.
"Think I've been playing long enough" he said, picking you up effortlessly and walking the both of you to your bedroom.
He threw you down onto the bed, your head landing perfectly amongst the pillows as you giggled, grasping the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. His lips found yours again, placing more kisses against each other, moving to a better position when it felt right. You placed your hands on his firm shoulders, running them over his chiselled chest, down over his abs before landing on the button of his jeans. His own hands interrupted yours as he too took your shirt off, sighing happily when he saw a new piece of lingerie in which he didn’t recognise.
“Hmm, this is nice, new?” he said, placing his lips against yours, nibbling your lower lip before pulling back to allow you to answer.
“Mhmm, got it for you” you said, leaning forward to place kisses against his chest “well I like it he moaned deeply and you felt him get lighter, allowing you to successfully flip the both of you over so you were now straddling him. You popped the button of his jeans open and placed open mouthed kisses along his chest, sucking at his collar bone making him thrust up at you lightly, grunting as he did so.
“So strong for such a little thing” he said, his own lips finding your neck and sucking until a love bite formed. One of his big hands landed on your back, skilfully undoing your bra whilst the other found its way into your jeans making you push down on him.
“You’re so wet” he said, pulling your bra off and groaning before placing sweet kisses against your breasts.
“Hmm you’re so perfect my love” he said, sucking a nipple into his mouth making you moan blissfully. Your fingers reached under his chin, softly pulling his face towards yours so you could kiss him. Your tongue entered his mouth but his quickly took over and he gained dominance as you ground down on him.
“Need you” you said simply, making him groan loudly and flip you over again, his hands quickly pulling down both of your jeans, taking yours and your underwear fully off but being impatient with his own pulling them and his boxers down until they were barely over his bum. He thrust into you roughly making you gasp against him. He pulled all the way out before thrusting into you again, groaning loudly as he did so.
His eyes met yours as he kept up the rhythm, your fingers came to gasp at his face, wanting him closer to you. You loved it like this, the both of you looking into each other eyes whilst you fucked like animals, it made it rawer and more passionate.
His hips angled upward reaching further into you making you cry out in pleasure.
“My angel, you feel so good. Pulsing against me” he said “fuck” he said, head tilting backwards, you looked down to where you were joined, moaning at the sight making Henry look down too.
“Taking me so well, it’s like you were made for me” he said, as he made a particularly hard thrust.
“Henry. You’re so big, I feel so full” you moaned as he hit your g spot making you scratch down his back.
“That the spot?” he said, his forehead resting against yours as you nodded. He pulled out making you groan. His hands came down on your knee, bending it so your legs were over his shoulders before thrusting back into you, you could hear how wet you were, your juices mixing with his making you groan.
“Better?” he said, reaching your g spot with every thrust now thanks to the new position.
“Hen. That’s it” you said, kissing him as you could feel the both of you getting close.
“So Close. Fuck. I. Love you” he said with every thrust. His pupils were blown wide, taking up most of his eyes, his hair was a mess with how much you were running your hands through it, he was glistening with sweat. He looked absolutely ethereal.
“I love you. Come for me” you moaned out, one last thrust and you both came together, you moaned loudly, Henry catching it with his lips, his hips stuttering against yours. You could feel your core pulsing against him rinsing him for all his worth.
“Hmm you’re too good to me” he said pulling out as he placed another kiss to your lips, his tongue meeting yours for a passionate kiss. He got up out of bed, kicking off his jeans and underwear, walking into the bathroom to get a flannel to clean you both up.
You heard Kal bark lightly making you laugh loudly when you heard Henry say “Not now boy, Daddy’s tired, Mummy’s just given me a run for my money and I would love to just go ravish her again without any interruption on your behalf”.
Henry came back wet flannel in hand, pausing at the door, he sighed deeply, smiling at you “you are so beautiful, the things I could do to you” he said, his thumb coming up to pull at his lips, he thoroughly enjoyed seeing you this blissed out.
“Well? Are you going to just stand there and gawk or are you going to… how did you put it? Ravish me?” you said, making him drop the flannel and crawl onto the bed, his body covering yours once more.
You flipped him easily, straddling him again. Your hand grasped and his thick length which was still hard getting harder and heavier in your hand. He leant forward to kiss you as he groaned, you pulled back making his lips graze yours. You smirked teasingly, your hand wrapping around his shaft, moving it up and down making him moan out in pleasure.
“Baby please” he begged. You then began stroking up and down at a pace that seemed to work for him. His hand came up to your jaw, pulling your lips to his, tongue stroking yours and your hand continued on his cock.
“Need you” he said, you took his cock, placing it at your entrance before slowly sinking down, sighing out when you had taken all of him. You began bouncing on him quickly, already close to your second orgasm of the day.
Henry’s fingers began rubbing your clit, making you moan deliciously at him.
“those sounds” he says, his voice dropping a register or two sounding very similar to Geralt.
“Hmm. Fuck” you mocked, using Geralt’s lines against Henry, he chuckled against you.
“You shouldn’t tease me Miss” he says, staring deeply into your eyes.
“Hmm? Why’s that sir?” you said, making him groan before he quickly began thrusting up into you making you scream his name in pleasure.
“That’s it. Let everyone hear” he said, moaning your own name. He came shortly after, his come shooting up into you making your own orgasm arrive.
You collapsed against him, both breathing deeply against each other.
“The love I have for you woman” he said, placing one last firm kiss against your lips.
“Hmm. I love you too bear” you sighed, climbing off him getting up to get the wet flannel and cleaning the both of you up before lying next to him. Your head on his chest and one leg draped over his, his hand on your back which began to trace random things against it. Both of your eyes were shut, completely blissed out, completely in love with one another.
760 notes · View notes
I Mean, If The Shoe Fits
Prompt: Witcher discrimination
Pairing: pre Geralt/Jaskier
Warnings: name calling
Jaskier rolled his neck, wincing at how many pops he heard. Even popping it, his neck was still just as sore as before. He could not wait until they reached the town up ahead (Geralt said there was a town, but they travelled for so long Jaskier would believe it when he saw it) and paid for a room, and slipped into a nice, cozy, definitely-not-hard-solid-ground bed. He wasn’t prone to exaggeration (at least not that much, never mind what Geralt said) but everything hurt. The last time his feet hurt this bad he’d attempted to teach a noble’s sister how to dance, and suffice it to say, he was not successful.
Jaskier glanced up at Geralt, wondering how the ever stoic witcher was faring. He hadn’t said a word all afternoon, (grunts didn’t count) but then he never needed to for Jaskier to know how he felt. He could tell from the hard way he sat in the saddle that his back probably hurt, and his shoulders could definitely use a massage, not that he’d ever ask. But that wasn’t what caught Jaskier’s attention.
It was the hard line of his mouth, the deep lines above his golden eyes, the subtle way he watched everything around them. The longer they traveled, the tighter Geralt’s grip was around Roach’s reins. Unfortunately, Jaskier knew these signs all too well, Geralt expected a fight.
He drifted closer to Roach and rubbed a hand over the knots in his neck. He wouldn’t say no to a good massage himself. Taking a chance he said, “I cannot wait til we reach the inn. I don’t even think I’ll perform tonight I’m so sore.”
Geralt didn’t look at him as he replied, but his voice came out deeper than normal. “We’re not staying in town.”
Jaskier stopped walking. “What? Why not?” He knew Geralt was on edge, but he hadn’t expected this.
“There’s a river up ahead, and this is the only bridge for miles.” Jaskier didn’t miss the way his fist tightened over the reins. “They’re not fond of witchers.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but that sounds like almost every town we stay in Geralt. Then you do your witchering, and I sing of your incredible feats, and usually they’re pretty alright after that. I’ll just use the ol’-,”
“No.” Geralt’s voice was all but a growl. He kept his gaze straight ahead. “You’re not performing, and we’re not staying.”
Normally, Jaskier was always up for a good debate. But the stiffness of Geralt’s posture convinced him otherwise. “Alright, we won’t stay,” he conceded in a soft tone. He gave Geralt a soft smile when the witcher turned back to look at him. When he turned back around, he grimaced and rubbed at his neck again. Looks like he wasn’t going to get that massage after all.
Jaskier knew this town was different as soon as they reached the outskirts. The weather was lovely, a nice summer day with a soft breeze, and children played around a puddle near the road. Or they were, until they took one look at Geralt. The little miscreants shrieked with screams to rival bruxae, and Geralt stopped Roach dead in her tracks. Jaskier could only watch in horror as parents rushed to their children’s aide (not that it was needed, Geralt was a natural with children, never mind that he’d die before he’d hurt a child), fathers grabbing anything they could use as a weapon.
Geralt dismounted Roach and stood there for a few more moments. Jaskier watched him for a moment before moving to stand by his side. Geralt looked so still he almost didn’t look like he was breathing, those golden eyes fixed on the road stretched out in front of them. Jaskier caught his hand reaching for Geralt’s and stopped. His witcher didn’t welcome physical affection any other time, would now be any different?
The pair stood there for a moment, Jaskier watching Geralt, and Geralt watching the road. Up ahead, the crowd grew, along with their agitation, and Jaskier didn’t like the mumbles he could make out. Something about torches and filth and Jaskier couldn’t hear any more over the blood rushing in his ears. If he could hear them, what all could Geralt hear with his witcher senses? This man had done so much good, so much fucking good for people all over, only to get battered and bruised and scarred and traumatized and abused time and time again.
Without even realizing, he stepped in front of Geralt, painting an entertaining smile on his face, spreading his arms wide open. “Good people of this fine town, thank you so much for this welcome you’ve prepared for us, but unfortunately we must be on our way. If you’ll be so kind as to excuse us.” Jaskier claps his hands in front of him and makes to drive through the crowd in front of them, by force if necessary.
Or at least, that was the plan until a man nearly as large as Geralt (though nowhere close to Geralt’s beauty) stepped to the head of crowd, holding a wicked looking axe low in his hands. He looked Jaskier up and down, sneering. “Not another step.”
“I can assure you good sir, that won’t be necessary. We only wish to use your bridge. If you’ll be ever so kind and just show us the way.” This wasn’t Jaskier’s first time on the wrong end of a man threatening him with a weapon, but he vaguely noticed he wasn’t as afraid as he should have been. Maybe it was the exhaustion.
“We won’t have witchers stealing our children or murdering our men. Filthy bastard’s worth less than his horse’s shit,” the man’s thick accent made his words hard to hear, but the way he glared at Geralt made his intention all too clear.
“He’s a butcher!” Another piped up from the safety of the crowd.
“Don’t let him closer!” A woman shouted. Jaskier could almost imagine her clutching at her imaginary pearls.
Façade dropped, Jaskier opened his mouth. “Geralt has done nothing-,”
“We only wish to cross the bridge,” Geralt piped up behind Jaskier. Jaskier paused and turned back to look at his witcher. Now those golden eyes locked onto the man in front of them, and Jaskier couldn’t identify the look on his face. “Just let us cross.”
“Go around.” His voice left no room for discussion. He gripped his axe tighter.
“There’s not another crossing for 30 miles! Just let us cross your stupid bridge-,” Unintentionally Jaskier took a step forward and the man raised his axe, baring his few teeth.
“Get back, monster fucker,” the man spat, his eyes livid.
Jaskier saw red. How dare he, how dare he, even with all the audacity in the world and none of the braincells, call Geralt a monster? Who did this man think he was, to call Geralt, a hero, a monster, to hurl outdated, untrue, and unwarranted accusations, to insinuate that being with Geralt was kin to being with an actual monster?
Jaskier always prided himself on his sense of self-preservation, even with the sweet promise of a pretty face, or a good story. Now however, self-preservation be damned, he made to hurl himself at this man, this small-minded piss-poor excuse for a man, without a weapon, or a plan. It wasn’t for his own honor, he had been called much worse (and undoubtedly would be called worse again in the future), no, this was for Geralt. No one would call his witcher a monster and get away with it.
He would’ve collided with the man (and quite possibly done some damage, he was quite sure of it), but Geralt grabbed his hand at the last second. All the fight fell from his limbs as he turned to look back. Geralt had Roach’s reins in his other hand, already halfway turned around, eyes fixed on the ground.
What was happening? Geralt was never one to back down from a fight (especially when this bastard had it coming, Jaskier was just helping lighten karma’s load), and in Jaskier’s confusion he managed to pull the bard back a couple steps. Without so much as a look back (or a fuck off) Geralt was already turning them back onto the road, as if nothing happened.
“That’s right, tuck your tail and run!” Someone from the crowd shouted. Jaskier almost turned back to them to argue they weren’t the ones scared of superstitious nonsense.
“Jaskier,” Geralt spoke so softly, so delicately. It was the closest thing he’d ever heard to the man begging. Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off the ground, but he turned back in Jaskier’s direction.
Jaskier did not understand what was going on. Sure, maybe they couldn’t reason with the crowd to just let them pass over their stupid bridge, but if things got ugly, Geralt could take them on blindfolded and one hand tied behind his back. They weren’t even in the wrong here. But he was never one to deny his witcher anything (except maybe silence), so he gripped Geralt’s hand tighter and flipped the crowd off.
They walked like that, Roach on one side, Geralt still clinging to Jaskier’s hand, back down the road they came. The further they walked away from the town, the more Jaskier worried. The danger passed, Jaskier wasn’t about to throw himself at anyone now, and no one was going to attack them, but still Geralt held onto his hand like a lifeline. He couldn’t tell whose palm was starting to sweat. Geralt still stared at the road ahead, letting Jaskier and Roach lead the way. Geralt never held his hand before, much else acted like this before (not that Jaskier was complaining, he wanted to hold Geralt’s hand for ages).
“Here, let’s get off the road for a second,” he spoke softly, lest he spook his witcher. Geralt blindly followed him as he led him off the road. Only when Jaskier carefully unwrapped his hand from Roach’s reins did Geralt come back to himself. He yanked his hands away from Jaskier like he’d been burnt and turned away. Jaskier didn’t miss the way his chest heaved.
He waited a beat. “Geralt, talk to me. What do you need?”
The man transformed before his eyes. He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and growled out, “Nothing.” He grabbed Roach’s reins again, yanking just a little too rough. She gave a little snort and refused to move.
Jaskier knew there was a good chance what he was about to do would be ill received. Still, without another word, he wrapped his arms around Geralt. His witcher stiffened, and for a split second Jaskier thought he’d suddenly find himself thrown back on his ass. But instead, he softened, one hand coming up to cover Jaskier’s where it rested on his stomach. They stayed like that for a moment, Jaskier wrapped around his witcher, listening to him breathe.
When Geralt finally turned around, his face softened, and he met Jaskier’s gaze. He wasn’t smiling, but Jaskier counted it as a win that he wasn’t growling. Still, Jaskier wouldn’t let go of his hand. He loved the heavy feel of it in his, how natural it felt to hold each other. “You’re not a monster,” he whispered, almost more to himself than to Geralt.
Geralt looked down at their entwined hands. Jaskier had tried to convince Geralt since they met that Geralt was good, that he was worth something, that he was a hero, and deserved to be treated as such. He deserved nice words, soft touches, friends, relationships. Still after all these years he didn’t believe him. It didn’t surprise him.
“I know you don’t believe it. But you are not a monster. Not to me.”
This brought Geralt’s gaze back up to him. His facial expression didn’t change, but oh those eyes. Jaskier could write song after song about them (and don’t tell Geralt, he actually had), their depth and expression and beauty. Geralt didn’t need to say anything, Jaskier saw it all in his eyes. He couldn’t help but draw him back into a hug, drinking in the sensation of those strong arms wrapping around him.
Geralt’s voice rumbled out of his chest much softer this time. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say he could hear a smile in his words. “So, your problem was them calling me a monster, not them calling you a monster fucker?”
He pulled away from Geralt, giving him a mischievous smile. “I mean, if the shoe fits.” He shot Geralt a wink.
Geralt’s eyes widened and Jaskier couldn’t help the laugh bursting out of his chest.
34 notes · View notes
Jaskier never ate all of his meals. A crust of bread, a strip of meat, a slice of apple, a handful of wild-harvested nuts—all of these got squirreled away in Jaskier’s colorful pants. Set aside for future hunger, Geralt thought at first, and Jaskier did do some surreptitious snacking while they were on the road. But when they stopped to water Roach at a stream and heard a crow cawing at them from a nearby tree, the truth came out as quickly as Jaskier’s hoard did.
“Here you are, my feathered friend,” Jaskier said. “Toss some food to your corvid, o’ valley of plenty!” He tossed his scraps at the base of the crow’s tree.
Geralt frowned at him. Perfectly good food, and a crow was getting it?
“I’m making friends,” Jaskier explained. “I know this is a difficult concept for you, but I share things with creatures that I like.” He spread his arms wide as if offering the crow a distant embrace.
If it was some kind of weird religious thing, it was for a god Geralt had never heard of. Probably it was just a weird Jaskier thing. Crows, of all creatures! Corpse eaters. Grain stealers. No one liked crows. But Jaskier was voluntarily traveling with a Witcher; maybe he just had poor taste.
(Or maybe, as Jaskier had recently claimed, he had chosen to travel with Roach and Geralt just happened to be there, which meant Jaskier had excellent taste. The odds were against it.)
“They’re very clever,” Jaskier said, his eyes on the crow click-clicking its beak around an acorn until the shell came off. “And funny, if you watch them.”
As he spoke, another crow fluttered to the ground and nipped at the first one’s tail so it turned around, leaving the invading bird time to snatch up a strip of meat. It bounced a few feet away with its catch and nibbled on it, eyeing the first bird all the while.
“Hmm,” Geralt said.
Did crows feel petty satisfaction in the same way that Lambert did when he snatched the last cheese and onion pasty right out from under Eskel’s nose? Maybe not. But Jaskier was right: they might be grave-birds, but they were a little bit funny.
(Continued on AO3, and also under the cut)
Fresh off killing a nest of nekkers, he guided Roach a respectable distance away from the bodies but stopped at the first suitable clearing he found. The rustle of the leaves cracked through his ears from every side, and each beat of his heart pounded through his head, too loud, why couldn’t his bloodstream shut the fuck up and be still? The metallic stench of nekker blood reeked in his nose, inescapable because the source was himself. He shucked his bloody armor and moved to the opposite side of the clearing to take off Roach’s tack.
Maybe realizing he wouldn’t be moving on, a flock of crows started yelling from the trees, strident and piercing. Fuck. But going back to the inn to endure the sounds and smells of a gaggle of humans would be worse. Once he had her kit off, he leaned his face into Roach’s neck. The smell of Roach wasn’t nekker, and that was good. He tried to focus on the familiar sounds of her breath, the rise-fall of her chest under his hand as she inhaled and exhaled. She knew to be still for him when he was like this.
Jaskier arrived after a few moments, having observed the kill from a tree on the far side of the fight. He moved into their routine, humming quietly as he unpacked their bedrolls and scouted for fallen wood to lay their fire. He didn’t say anything about heading off the forest’s gathering dusk and moving towards civilization. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. Small mercies.
The crows, on the other hand, clearly felt that they should leave. Even though their initial outburst of displeasure faded away, one of them still cawed periodically, as if to say, ‘We haven’t forgotten you! You aren’t welcome!’ Every discordant squawk scraped its way across the inside of his skull.
Geralt gritted his teeth and stepped away from Roach. Dinner. Right. He tracked a pheasant to Axii, made quick work of snapping its neck, and sat down cross-legged by Jaskier’s surprisingly well-built pile of firewood. Mechanically, he cleaned the bird. Food would help. The scent of cooking would, too.
“Here,” Jaskier said, coming up beside him. “Trade you.” He held up a fistful of wild garlic leaves, pungent allium prickling Geralt’s nose pleasantly, and gestured at the dripping entrails in Geralt’s hand.
Geralt tilted his head, looking up at him. Jaskier, volunteering to get his hands dirty?
Jaskier rolled his eyes and made the exchange without consulting Geralt any further, his fingers sliding across Geralt’s palm to cradle the still-warm offal. “Disgusting,” he commented, but he dropped the garlic leaves in Geralt’s now-empty hand, and instead of burying the entrails like Geralt did to avoid attracting scavengers, he walked a ways away with his new burden. “Toss some food to your corvids, o’ valley of plenty,” he sang, much quieter than usual, and shimmied up a tree with surprising agility. He distributed the organs along the branches and slid down the trunk at speed, leaping upright from a comical tumbling roll once he reached the ground.
Geralt snorted. “Expert dismount,” he said.
Jaskier grinned and bowed. “Thank you, thank you; I am honored to accept your award for ‘best leap from one’s lover’s window,’” he said.
Of course. Sneaky ascent and hasty descent? Jaskier hadn’t learned his climbing skills from picking apples, but from pursuing other, lovelier rewards.
The crows found their own rewards quickly enough. Incredibly, they also shut up. Beaks too full to complain? The same trick never worked with Jaskier, who somehow managed to talk and empty his plate all at once.
Their dinner lay skewered across Geralt’s knees. He had carved and prepared the pheasant while watching Jaskier’s antics, but he hadn’t lit the fire yet.
“I’ll cook,” Jaskier said, plucking the skewers from his lap. “You turn around and meditate or something. Just let me know when dinner’s done; I’m sure you’ll smell it before I see it.”
“Hmm.” Geralt hesitated. He had cooked through potion after-effects plenty of times before, squinting into the flickering light of the fire and enduring the way his eyes throbbed. “You don’t have to.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Jaskier said. “Nor do you, for that matter. Now, go on,” he made a spinning motion with his fingers. “Your pretty face is far too distracting; I can’t focus at all.”
“Figured that was a congenital defect,” Geralt muttered. Unless he was in a fit of composition, Jaskier’s mind flitted about like a puppy through a meadow, determined to sniff at everything.
“Well, your handsome visage is around all the time, don’t you know, so you’ve never seen me un-distracted, have you?” Amusement bubbled in Jaskier’s voice. Amusement, but not mockery—they’d been together long enough for Jaskier to know the best way to lay a fire and for Geralt to know that Jaskier genuinely saw beauty everywhere, even in scarred old Witchers.
Good humor tugged at the corners of Geralt’s eyes. “Guess I could take pity,” he said, and he turned his back on the fire-to-be, put his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. He would hear any threat before seeing it, anyway.
In the night, a couple of wild dogs snarled, probably fighting over the remains of a nekker. The wind whistled high through the trees. But the rustle of the grass under Jaskier’s feet wasn’t so bad, nor the loam-smell from the ground. Above them, an owl soared from its branch on almost-silent wings. Around them, frogs and night insects chirped their familiar soft chorus. Behind him, the fire crackled to life, a flare of warmth at his back. Jaskier sang under his breath, “Pheasant is pleasant on a pyre of fire, roasting and toasting, our meal we acquire,” and the sound of his usual nonsense somehow soothed as much as the other night noises.
The crows, so unhappy before, stayed as quiet as Geralt did.
Jaskier kept feeding their entrails to the crows near their camps, and if he and Jaskier came through the same place again, the crows mostly didn’t caw at them. The pattern held even months later, and even if they set up at a different camp and interacted with what was clearly a different flock from last time. So long as they traveled in the same general vicinity, the neighboring crows seemed to recognize them.
Crows must gossip, Geralt realized, which seemed...unusual. Maybe Jaskier was right about their intelligence. Did the crows have names for them in bird-speak? Was he white-hair-two-swords-silver-neck, while Jaskier was lute-singing-with-many-colors?
Sometimes one of the birds fluttered down from the trees to bounce around Jaskier’s boots, its head cocked inquisitively, and Jaskier serenaded it with a tune about the beauty of its glossy feathers and the strength of its beak.
“You’re an ebony beauty, a guard-bird on duty, so quick and so keen, your bite’s a cricket’s bad dream! Oh, damn, keen and dream, I can do better than that, terribly sorry. And perhaps you might like grasshoppers better, but they just don’t scan, darling,” he added after the crow plunged its head into the grass and returned with a wiggling prize in its beak.
If the crow were especially charming, Jaskier offered it a shiny bit of ribbon or a scrap of cloth from the latest tunic that a monster had ‘cruelly victimized.’ And if Jaskier were especially lucky, the crow took it in its beak and flew off with it, and Jaskier walked with an extra bounce in his step for the rest of the day. Ridiculous bard.
Even more ridiculously, in the places Jaskier traveled through most often, the crows started to give him things back.
Outside of Oxenfurt, a crow deposited a shiny brass button at Jaskier’s feet. In Dorian, a floren by his bedroll. In Ellander, a crow dropped a silver charm shaped like a penis right onto his head, a relic from the recent fertility festival that made Jaskier grin for days afterward when he recalled it.
“Even my feathered friends think I need to be getting laid more,” he chortled.
“Your feathered friend was saying you’re a dick,” Geralt replied.
Jaskier kept the gifts in a velvet-lined wooden jewelry box, each trinket in its own little compartment, and the feathers of his pens were often black, foraged from where they’d naturally fallen.
Geralt tried not to give Jaskier anything that he could put in a box.
A jar of honey for Jaskier to sweeten breakfast, share with Roach, and lick from his long fingers when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking. A pair of soft woollen socks when winter was coming on, sure to be worn through by the end of the season. A night of sleep at an inn that they left behind the next morning, Jaskier’s eyes brighter after a few hours of human company.
Nothing permanent. Nothing important. Nothing to tie them together.
Jaskier seemed to follow the same rules: a second dinner bowl charmed from the kitchen and shoved across the table at him; a hot bath after a hunt; Roach brushed until she gleamed; the cramps massaged out of his sword hand after he’d spent hours killing ghouls, Jaskier’s frowning face half-caught by the firelight, his strong lutenist’s fingers rubbing and smoothing until the pain was gone and easy warmth took its place.
There were crows who had a more lasting piece of Jaskier than he did, their nests lined with his silk.
Foglets dealt with. Roach safe. Bard found. Sun still up, plenty of time to get out of Brokilon, get back on the Path, get a good few hours of travel in before they made camp. Or there would be, except—
“Just ride ahead,” Jaskier said, and his lips pressed together stubbornly. “I know the way back to the road.” He pointed in the exact wrong direction.
Geralt couldn’t tell if he was bullshitting or not; Jaskier had chased his foglet illusion into the treeline with a singular focus. In case Jaskier wasn’t fucking with him, Geralt said, “No, you don’t,” and resigned himself to the latest idiocy, because of course. Of course they survived all the bullshit in Cintra, and of course they made it through an attack by foglets without a scratch, and of course they were going to get held up anyway because a nest with its nestling had been knocked out of its tree by an Aard and Jaskier had a bleeding heart.
Damn Jaskier’s wayward organs. When would he learn to keep his cock in his pants and his heart locked in his chest?
“Oh dear, oh dear, I’m sure Mama and Papa Crow will come back,” Jaskier cooed at the nestling, as if parents didn’t abandon their young all the time. The stunned little bird, cupped in Jaskier’s hand, stared up at him. Its dark, downy body trembled. No flight feathers yet. A baby.
He and Roach herded Jaskier and his new charge to a spot that smelled of loam and sharp fir trees instead of the mouldy-amphibious damp of foglet corpses. “Cold rations,” Geralt said. If he left to hunt, something even more ridiculous might happen, like Jaskier trying to adopt a godling or getting kidnapped by irate wood nymphs.
“Cold rations are the fashion to keep our heads un-bashed-in,” Jaskier chanted with a shrug and a nod. He threw down his bedroll and sat with the nestling tucked between his crossed legs. His body heat would warm the bird’s new haven. That was good; it might not keel over immediately in front of Jaskier’s naive little face.
Geralt took aim and thumped that naive face with their bag of salted pork, ignoring Jaskier’s sputtering complaints. Then he gave Roach a good grooming and counted himself lucky that she was a sturdy companion.
Spots of afternoon light flickered through the verdant canopy, dappling Jaskier in shifting spots of light and shadow. He plied the bird with little bits of dried meat that he softened in his mouth and spat back out onto his fingers. “There we go, open that beak nice and wide, very good—oh, gods, birds’ necks really are hideous stretchy things until they get their feathers, aren’t they?—that’s it, eat up.” The bird ate, and napped, and after the nap it started hissing and hopping after each bite it took, much more lively than it had been when they’d found it.
Geralt sharpened his swords and cleaned the foglet gore off his armor. At least the baby bird was quieter than its adult brethren. Smaller lungs.
When the sun went down the thing finally, blessedly, shut up, its fuzzy body safe in a handkerchief-nest pressed against Jaskier’s breastbone. Jaskier had curled up on his side to rest. He seemed to have discovered the ancient truth that infants of all kinds were exhausting. Children of all kinds were exhausting.
Moreover, there was still no guarantee that the bird would live through the night, or that if it did, it would survive the next day. And the day after that. And the days after that...
“Baby birds die a lot,” Geralt said into the quiet dark between them. They’d forgone a fire.
“I know,” Jaskier said, surprising him.
Jaskier’s hand fluttered towards the handkerchief-swaddled bird, fluttered away again before he could disturb it. He hadn’t touched Geralt, either, not since the kind of child-ruining monster Geralt had sworn never to become had dug a burrow under his skin, ready to make itself at home if it ever got the opportunity. Not since they had fled in the night, one of Jaskier’s hands gripping his shoulder, and Geralt had growled, “Don’t touch me!”
Jaskier had listened. He hadn’t sulked either, not about that. And he was listening and not-sulking now, too, with the baby bird, because it was important.
“I’ll leave him in the morning,” Jaskier was saying. “Don’t worry. But there’s no reason to let the thing die of shock before his parents can come back for him. We can at least give them a chance. And no reason not to give him some decent memories even if his life turns out to be short.” The fist perched on his thigh clenched, but he smiled at Geralt through the dark, like there was nothing wrong with loving something that might die tomorrow.
Abruptly, Geralt’s mind formed an image of what it would have looked like if, impossibly, Jaskier had found him when his mother had left him by the road. Jaskier would have dandled his smaller self on his knee, would have fed him trail rations until his belly went round, would have played games with him to make him smile. Maybe Jaskier would still have given him up to Kaer Morhen, just so a Witcher didn’t kill him. (A Witcher would have, if Jaskier had tried to steal him.) But at least Geralt would have known before he went into that place and came out—different—known how it felt to be precious to someone who valued his life instead of his possibilities.
(Precious like his Child Surprise would be, living safely with her family instead of with him.)
“You’re an idiot,” Geralt said, glad that the dark hid his face.
“I’m a master of the seven liberal arts!” Jaskier protested with a squawk not unlike that of his nestling.
“An educated idiot, then,” Geralt replied, and found one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile despite his thoughts. Such was the effect of Jaskier. “You don’t have to leave it,” he said a long moment later, even though it was stupid.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Jaskier reminded him, as he often did. “We make choices. And I choose to leave the wee babe for its parents, even though it might be dangerous, because our life would be more dangerous still. And that’s all right.”
In the morning, Jaskier left the bird in its old nest, and the nest in its old tree.
Geralt hesitated, looking up at the nest. He couldn’t say that things would be fine. But he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder, felt Jaskier’s hand find his forearm and squeeze back. The two of them would be all right, at least.
They hoped for the best and walked on.
As the years passed, Geralt kept traveling up and down the Continent, his horse underneath him and his bard trailing behind. Even when they parted, Jaskier’s songs smoothed his way, and there were fewer and fewer places where someone spat in his ale before they brought it to him, and more and more local leaders willing to hire him for a fair price.
Despite these changes, a friendly corvid ‘hello’ continued to be more likely than a human one. It was...pleasant...making camp and spotting a greedy little opportunist hopping in his direction with no concern for monsters or mutants, only for its hungry belly and inquisitive brain.
Was this what Jaskier felt like, every new place filled with possibilities for unthreatening companionship?
(...He wasn’t going to do anything with those entrails anyway. Better that someone get a use out of them.)
(And if he was more assiduous about grooming Roach’s shedding winter coat when there was a crow family around who might like to line their nest with horse hair, well, the crows weren’t going to mention it.)
After the incident with the djinn, Jaskier’s singing voice took longer to come back to him than his speech did. But when he sang-croaked at the crows in their camp outside of Rinde, the crows called back in their own raspy voices, and Jaskier smiled. “You know, technically, they’re songbirds.”
“I’m not hearing a difference from the usual,” Geralt teased, and it was a tease, really, now that he’d had some sleep.
Jaskier clutched a dramatic hand to his heart. “Just for that,” he said, “I shall serenade you with the ballad of the Witcher who needed a nap. Still in the drafting process, but I had ample time to compose while you were otherwise occupied.”
Geralt braced himself for excoriation, for a thorough reminder of his flawed decision-making and Jaskier almost dying.
What Jaskier sang for him was even worse: he had made the song cute.
“No,” he said, horrified, after Jaskier hoarsely concluded that ‘a glass of warm milk/will calm a Witcher’s ilk.’
“No?” Jaskier asked, his face shining with false innocence. “You mean to say you appreciate my other singing much more?”
Jaskier didn’t bluff about music; he would actually sing it, and knowing his luck there would be someone from School of the Cat sitting in the corner, ready to claw his face off for the warm milk comment. Not to mention the possibility of the other wolves hearing about this; they would tease him for decades.
“Only the milk pie is empty,” Geralt said.
“The others are…?” Jaskier prompted.
“Filled. With filling,” Geralt said.
“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier said, smirking at him. Vengeful little fucker.
Jaskier’s face shone in the light of the dying sun, alive and mischievous, alive and petty, alive and happy. Alive, alive, alive.
The next time the crows cawed, it sounded like laughter.
After he had bound himself to Yennefer to save her life, he had half-thought it would be like the crows: mutual aid and entertainment. Instead they orbited each other as though on distant ends of the same tether, coming together and clashing apart with equal fervor when they met.
Much more commonly than he saw her, he went to brothels, which was satisfying until his post-coital prostitute remembered that it was a Witcher who had just made them come, a mutant who had made their toes curl. He was good at distracting them, but the sour tinge of stress always returned to their scent.
Occasionally there were late nights like tonight: easy hunt, room in an inn with a barmaid who wanted a bit of weird in her bed, whispered to her friend that she’d tell her tomorrow if the rumors were true. A fuck with her got the tension out, though she was disappointed that he only had one cock down there. “Come back if you do grow a second,” she told him as he left. Easier to leave after one round than to chance another and make them do the how-do-I-kick-out-a-Witcher dance, he’d learned.
He returned to find Jaskier in their bed, his warm body sprawled greedily across the whole mattress. Geralt lifted the bulk of him and deposited him a few inches to the side.
“Hmm, that didn’t take long,” Jaskier muttered with a sleepy laugh, his eyes fluttering open.
Geralt slid in behind him. “Told you not to sing that song about my two swords.”
“That song just got you laid, my friend,” Jaskier said, huffing with obnoxious offense. He didn’t get it, that Geralt needed sex but it made him feel like a drowner dragging people in his wake, like something his bed partners escaped from afterward.
Jaskier wanted to fuck him—Geralt could smell it sometimes—but Jaskier wanted to fuck most people, so Geralt didn’t think much of it. He didn’t want Jaskier to flee him, so they didn’t fuck.
Anyway, Jaskier touched him even without sex as an excuse. Even half-asleep like this, he reached back to pat Geralt’s knee for no reason. As if their touches were a pleasure. As if Geralt were a person worth touching.
Skin-hunger happened less often with Jaskier around. Saved on brothel money.
A puerile problem: The City of Metinna’s nobility had slighted Lord Forgeham’s son, who had retaliated by vandalizing Metinna’s castle with the help of his friends and a few wagonloads of shit. This had led Lord Metinna’s forces to occupy the best bridge across the River Sylte, disrupting Forgeham’s trade to the north, ostensibly so as to prevent further be-shittings but really because some people with money were bored, and the common folk were bored, and a fight with those fuckers across the river would really liven things up.
This had led to an extremely stupid battle in which more of Lord Metinna’s hired soldiers and armed peasants died than Lord Forgeham’s hired soldiers and armed peasants, largely because Forgeham’s local men were willing to hack at the cavalry in a way that the horse-breeding folk of Metinna refused to.
Many of the professional soldiers were foreign, which meant no family around who cared to fetch their remains, and those corpses had been left to linger ‘as a warning,’ which was even stupider than the battle had been. The dead had, of course, attracted ghouls, and now Geralt got to be one of Forgeham’s hired men too, contracted to clear them out. Decent pay, at least. He wouldn’t turn down the work. But he would take his horse and his bard away from these idiots the very next morning, in case the foolishness was catching.
“We could head to Ebbing next,” Jaskier said beside him, and he patted Geralt’s booted foot where it rested in Roach’s stirrup. “Claremont has a surprisingly good arts scene and a notably diplomatic aristocracy.”
Jaskier had come along for reasons known only to himself. No thrill to be had in crossing Metinna’s endless grassy plains, nor in the ghoul hunt. Unless they reached horrific numbers or exceptional power, ghouls meant a slaughter instead of a battle. Pest control.
“Better to cross the Pliszka into Geso,” Geralt said, leaning over to tweak Jaskier’s cowlick as revenge for the boot-pat.
“Not the hair, you—! Oh, wait, you mean Geso that borders the desert?” Jaskier asked, perking up, as Geralt had known he would. “It’s said the wind plays across the sand dunes like an instrument.”
“It’s also said people die of dehydration and heat sickness,” Geralt said. “And if not from those, then from the desert bandits. But in the villages before the dunes, there will be new songs for you to learn and plenty of work for me to do.”
They smelled the rot before they reached the battlefield, and Jaskier held a mint-scented handkerchief to his nose. “I’ll stay with Roach while you do your thing,” he offered when they found a good shade tree with a view of the carnage. Probably some people with money had rested under this tree and complained about the heat of the summer sun in between cheering or groaning as people bled out before their eyes.
Geralt nodded and dismounted.
Monsters gnawed at the corpses of people and horses littering the trampled grass, but so too did crows: crows pecking at eyeballs, crows tearing at sun-shriveled lips, crows nipping at internal organs that had been exposed by mortal wounds.
“Your friends are having a feast day,” Geralt said. He tried not to look at the horses, good mounts turned into crow-meat. If Jaskier had had any illusions about his so-called ‘corvid companions,’ surely this sight would break him of them.
But Jaskier only nodded, not looking away from the scene. “Bad day for the dead, good day for the carrion-eaters,” he said. “It would make a good topic for a bard—war benefitting no one but the scavengers. I could lay on some apropos imagery about where the meals of our weapons-makers and profit-takers come from.” His lips curled, mirthless. “Shame patriotism is always going to sell better.”
“Humans like to puff themselves up,” Geralt said. He oiled his silver blade.
“Humans have a bit more choice in what they consume than crows do,” Jaskier countered. “We could develop a taste for something other than martyrs to a rivalry born of ennui.”
Geralt shrugged. “Only know how to deal with the literal kind of necrophages,” he said, and the first ghoul lost its head shortly afterward.
He didn’t try to avoid the crows, but they had the sense to scatter out of range of his sword and his Igni. Crows had rules. They mated for life; they gifted trinkets to their friends and mobbed their enemies; they didn’t cannibalize their own dead; they tried to stay alive. Like him, they were taking advantage of a shitty situation.
The only rule for a ghoul was hunger. Either you were dead, and it would eat you, or you were alive, and it would try to kill you and eat you.
“Nicely done!” Jaskier called when the last ghoul dropped. “Nine out of ten from the Viper judge.” Then he put Roach’s blinders on and murmured softly to her while Geralt bombed the ghouls’ nest. Roach would kick a ghoul before she bolted from it, but she hated bombs.
Forgeham had tried to be cheap, of course, and let the bodies keep rotting. Upon hearing this, Jaskier had pulled out his crispest Oxenfurt accent and asked him to sign a document saying that Geralt couldn’t be held liable for a second ghoul attack in the event that the bodies continued to decompose in the open. Forgeham had folded like a man with the wind knocked out of him and coughed up the oils and coin for cremation as well as extermination.
Geralt harvested his trophies and alchemical ingredients, and then he set the field and the bodies aflame until they crumbled to ash.
Most of the bodies, anyway. He left one ghoul to the side: a warning for anyone who cared to see it; a compensation for the birds’ other lost meals.
“An awful offal offering,” Jaskier said as they walked away, dodging the flick that Geralt half-heartedly aimed at his ear for the wordplay. “But at least I didn’t have to climb a tree with a ghoul on my back.”
When they returned to Forgeham, Geralt collected his pay and was back at their lodgings in time to hear Jaskier performing a biting song with a catchy chorus that included the words “Born in Forgeham town!” shouted with apparent fervor. His audience was too drunk to notice the political criticism, which Jaskier had undoubtedly planned on, and patriotic coin filled his purse.
Back in their room, Jaskier flopped onto the bed and heaved a great sigh. “What a dismal day,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “I know it wasn’t really bad—routine drivel, completely unsurprising mediocrity of leadership and sense—but that’s part of what I hate about it. I wrote that song with easy rhymes so I could substitute any town and a few of its traits in there, so sure am I that this kind of balderdash will happen again.” He tugged at his hair and hid his face behind his arms.
Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and patted him on his brocade-covered shoulder. “Crows prefer live food to carrion,” he said. “They love insects. But they’re opportunists at heart, and a bird has to eat.”
“I know,” Jaskier said, wrapping his hand around Geralt’s wrist and squeezing. “We don’t have to do anything, but if we’re to live then a crow has to fly, a bard has to sing, a Witcher has to hunt, and we’ve all got to eat. And sometimes there’s only corpse soup for supper, never mind our discerning palates.”
Geralt poked him in the ribs with his free hand. “You were able to have your corpse and eat it too with that passive-aggressive little song you wrote,” he pointed out.
Jaskier grinned. “Maybe. But so were you, leaving that ghoul behind like they left that shite in Metinna,” he said. His hand left Geralt’s arm, curled around an imaginary glass, and made a toasting gesture: “To fucking with the establishment.”
“To surviving stupidity,” Geralt said. He waited a reasonable few moments before adding, “Now stop moping and move over, you’re hogging the mattress.”
“You haven’t even taken your armor off—”
“Sometimes a witcher has to lie down,” Geralt retorted, and he tipped over onto Jaskier’s chest and lay across him.
Jaskier’s breath came shallower, his lungs trapped beneath Geralt’s bulk, but after a moment his body went limp, all the tension draining out of him. “Yes, okay,” he said, his hands open at his sides and his mouth gently curving.
Geralt shifted to cover Jaskier all the way, his face against Jaskier’s soft neck, his greaves knocking against Jaskier’s shins. The armor had dried ghoul blood on it, but the heft of it made him heavier, and something about the feeling of weight and pressure always closed its jaws softly around Jaskier’s hindbrain and scruffed him like a kitten, his restless energy becalmed.
Geralt breathed in the scent of him, the fading tang of stress and the warm bloom of contentedness. It wasn’t a terrible day if it ended like this.
(But they were still leaving this pit of insensibility first thing in the morning.)
The northern land near Vespaden carried its wealth in its flocks of sheep and in its chalky green hills, flecked with clover and buttercups; coin came in a trickle instead of a rush, but Geralt always left with a good winter coat and a hefty wheel of smoked cheese. It was the kind of place Jaskier would enjoy if Geralt ever brought him up north. Most of the shepherds also played an instrument—a pipe or a harp—and they were polite but wary of strangers, and Jaskier loved to convince reticent people to be his new best friends.
This year, the people here mostly wanted him to clear the monsters out of their old guard posts, disused stone towers that they had previously been happy to avoid in order to keep their wallets a little fuller. With Nilfgaard on the move in the south, they sharpened axes and fletched new arrows while wearing anxious frowns on their faces, and they spoke of setting guards, though there was hardly anything north of Vespaden to conquer.
If Nilfgaard made it this far, what could a country of shepherds do to resist? But there was flint in these hills as well as chalk, and if farmers knew how to do anything, it was how to prepare for what the next seasons might bring.
Geralt vanquished specters, mostly, and culled the odd pack of wargs, until at the base of the last of these derelict towers, he came across a crow ripped to shreds, harpy feathers still clenched in one of its torn off feet. The rest of its flock, perched in the arrowslits around the building, sounded their scolding alarums. Warning him off? Or just warning him?
Hard to tell. Vespaden’s crows ate his offal, but they tended to be as aloof as their people. And as stubborn, he thought, watching as the crows cawed from the safety of their narrow apertures. Few animals ventured into harpy territory; none stayed. But these crows refused to move.
“I’ll avenge him,” he told the crows. They probably didn’t understand him, but someone had cast a powerful blessing on the towers, and enough time around magic could change a creature; one never knew.
In any case, actions would speak louder than words, and he was here to kill monsters.
Above them, the harpies, beasts with eagle-like bodies and almost-human faces, screeched and wheeled through the air. At least a dozen by the sound of it. The ammonia stench of their guano burned in his nose. Usually they hunted like owls, with silent diving and individual attacks on their prey, but these knew enough to make a Witcher come to them so they could swarm him.
A murder of crows watched from the rafters as he entered the tower, oiled his silver blade, and ascended the stairs. He came out of the hatch to the roof Aard-first, knocking the harpies gathered to gut him off balance. Then Igni, a jet of flame across the ones he’d dropped, catching their wings alight. Hard to fly without feathers. Hard to dodge a blade when your balance was fucked. Hard to see when the blood of your brethren splashed in your eyes.
The harpies died burnt and bleeding, all fourteen of the damned things. Once their screeching stopped the crows joined him on the roof, watching as he smashed the harpies’ eggs and reduced their disgusting nest to ashes. A crow’s worst fear, he thought, visited on their enemies. Jaskier would have appreciated it.
This last tower lay a long distance from the Lord’s castle, so he fetched Roach from the clover-patch he’d left her in. They spent the night in the tower and slept with the ruffle-rustling of crow feathers all around them. The crows had nests in the rafters; explained why they hadn’t left after the harpies had moved in.
When Geralt woke in the morning, he found a silver ring perched on Roach’s saddle, bright against her dark leathers.
“Thank you,” he said. He dropped the ring into a saddlebag. Every year, he and Lambert and Eskel got together and compared—what was their strangest contract? With payment from a crow, he had a feeling he would win this winter.
(Jaskier, on the other hand, could never know about this; he would be insufferable.)
Eskel fed the crackling dining hall fire with a cinnamon stick and a thick log of apple wood before settling down on the bearskin rug in front of the hearth. Last year’s winner got to choose the scent for the night, and Eskel loved apple pie.
Geralt sat opposite him on the rug, breathing in the sweet-smelling heat. Might be cold outside, but it was warm in here, and there weren’t any better Witchers to spend the winter with. He set his loser’s tribute next to him, a fine cask of Erveluce, and filled the three tankards he had fetched from the kitchens. (Vesemir had given up on stocking breakable cups.) They might bicker all winter, but tonight was for celebrating, even if they didn’t say it outright. Another year on the Path; another year they’d all made it back.
A few moments later, Lambert arrived and sat diagonal to them, completing their triangle, and with him he brought a platter of tart cheese, crisp apple slices, smoked bacon, and still-warm honey bread. (When they were lucky, Lambert took his temper out on a ball of dough instead of a person.)
“Fuck yes,” Eskel said as soon as Lambert sat down, and although they had all enjoyed the venison at dinner, half of Lambert’s tray disappeared into their bellies in short order while Lambert ducked his head to try to hide his pleased smile.
After shoving a last bite of Lambert’s bread down his gullet, Eskel tried again. “Ahum! I call this meeting of the Wolf Surprise to order,” he said. “Time to find out: which one of us has the best surprise this time?”
Eskel pulled a silver disc from the back of his medallion and set it down on the rug between them: the blank face of it had been engraved with a teddy bear design, a reminder of the time a child had paid him in candy to fetch her soft toy from a wraith-infested field. Whoever won would sand it blank and add their own engraving, carry it with them on the Path until they all met up again. Easy to add and remove it from their medallions when a little Igni could melt the glue.
Lambert sipped his wine, his eyes flicking from the silver prize to Geralt, and for once he kept his caustic mouth quiet. No one who thought they had a winner wanted to go first.
Geralt often experienced surprising things on the Path, but not always on the job. The djinn, for example, had been disqualified due to being not-Witcher business. Cintra hadn’t counted either; invoking the actual Law of Surprise to get your surprise story was cheating, which had been their first rule when they’d made the game up in the year after Eskel’s Child Surprise had slashed his face. So Geralt met Lambert’s challenging gaze with his own; now that he had a real contender, he wasn’t going to let Lambert win easily.
“Right,” Eskel said, snorting as he looked between them. “I’ll go then. This is the story of the bruxa contract that wouldn’t end.”
They nibbled at Lambert’s snacks while Eskel wove the tale of killing a bruxa in Kerack, only for two more people to disappear before he left. Then the same thing happened again—another bruxa lured and killed, another two people disappeared. The bruxa even seemed to be the same one that Eskel had killed before. By that time, he and the villagers sorely wanted some answers, so Eskel surveilled the village that night and tracked the bruxa and her newest captives to her lair.
“She had ensnared a mage,” Eskel said, downing his wine. “Wanting sisters, she bade him make them for her. He had a spell that could change a human into an exact copy of her, but it required a sacrifice, of course. Blood and bone. They were both pissed off that I’d undone so much of their work, and even angrier when I undid them too.” He softened the frown of memory on his brow and straightened his shoulders. “Hard recovery,” he admitted. “And the village didn’t have the coin for the shitshow it turned out to be, but they put me up at the inn for as long as I needed to heal. Scorpion too.”
Lambert harrumphed. “Hospitality. That’s the real surprise right there. Still,” he gave an impressed whistle, “a mage and a bruxa? Not bad.” Fucking dangerous, he didn’t say. But he shoved the food tray closer to Eskel. They’d left the last apple slice for him.
Geralt nodded. “Good fight.” Glad you’re still here, he didn’t say. But he patted Eskel’s knee.
Still not as surprising as the story we have to tell because mages and bruxae get up to no good all the time, they didn’t say, but Eskel read it in their faces and laughed at them. “Rock, paper, knife for the next one,” he said, and he halved his apple slice, gave the other half to Lambert.
They all drained and refilled their tankards, and then Lambert’s paper beat Geralt’s rock, so Geralt told his story next.
“This is the story of the time I made a contract with a crow,” he said, gratified by Eskel’s startled twitch and Lambert’s frown. He channeled Jaskier and did his best to convey the good parts about the avenged crow and its stubborn flock, even showing off the ring at the end, polished so it shone in the flickering firelight.
“A true surprise!” Eskel said at the end. “Might be the first time an animal’s given us silver. We’d have to ask Vesemir to make sure.”
Lambert rolled his eyes. “Right, like Vese-drear wants to hear about us having fun instead of being miserable. And the real surprise is Geralt saying more than ten words.”
Glad you didn’t let the harpies get you, neither of them said, but Lambert rocked on his hips so his shoulder bumped against Geralt’s, and Eskel shoved the food tray back in his direction, one slice of cheese still left for him. Geralt tore it in half and shared it with Lambert.
They drank and refilled their tankards again, and then he and Eskel looked at Lambert, expectant.
“As it happens,” Lambert said, smiling slyly, “I met some crows too. This is the story of how those little fuckers stole my medallion and a lark brought it back.” He bared his neck, making it obvious that his medallion hung from a silk ribbon instead of a chain.
Eskel laughed, more incredulity than mirth flitting across his scarred face. “What, did you just leave it hanging on a tree branch for them to take?”
Lambert scowled. “Yeah, Eskie, I thought I’d make this one conifer real pretty, just do some exterior decorating while I was hunting a leshen.”
A leshen—he and Eskel sat straighter, their eyes searching Lambert for signs of injury even though they’d all given each other a once-over earlier. A leshen’s magic could spread through an entire forest. They fought fiercely, with cunning and cruelty, and they ensorcelled packs of wolves and flocks of crows to do their bidding. Every fight a Witcher encountered was a potentially deadly one, but a fight with a leshen more so than most.
“It was a big one, too,” Lambert bragged, his chest puffing out. “Tree-limbs thicker than a troll’s chest, and the antlers on its skull were as long as Vesemir is old.”
“Let me guess,” Eskel said, quirking his eyebrows. “It gored you with the antlers.”
“Little bit,” Lambert admitted, holding his thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. “Had some back and forth with it first, you know, bombs and shit, but its flock flew in my face and it got a hit in. Antler snapped my medallion chain right off my neck.” He pulled his shirt up, showing a pale scar that crossed diagonally from his belly to his right shoulder.
Fuck. The scar had long since healed, but the blood would have gushed. That gods-be-damned lightweight Cat armor he’d taken to wearing—
“I charbroiled it with extreme prejudice after that,” Lambert said, “but it managed to slam me against a bastard-thick tree trunk before it died, knocked me out. You’ll never guess what I woke up to.” He aimed his cocky grin right at Geralt.
Geralt shoved down the image of Lambert’s desperate gout of flame, his crash into a tree, the leshen burning and Lambert blacking out without being sure if he’d wake up. “Crows?” he asked. They might have appreciated being free of the leshen, and they would have been curious.
“There were some around,” Lambert said, his grin widening. “But what was better was the chatty little bard who’d taken my chest piece off and put a field dressing on the bits where I was bleeding.”
This couldn’t possibly be happening to him. “No,” Geralt said, putting his hand over his eyes. His two worlds were meant to stay separate.
Eskel barked a laugh.
“Yes!” Lambert crowed. “Do you know what he told me?”
“He told you that you were an idiot for fighting a leshen in light armor,” Geralt growled.
“He did mention that,” Lambert said. “But! But, but, but—he also said that I was a beautiful specimen of Witchery. Ha. Your bard likes me, o’ famous White Wolf!”
“He meant that you were fucking heavy,” Geralt told him, which was conveniently the truth even though it also satisfied his need to squash any of Lambert’s bard-snatching thoughts.
“Yeah, he said that too,” Lambert said, apparently unbothered. “He sweet talk you all the time?”
“How did he even find you?” Geralt asked, ignoring the question.
“That’s the best part,” Lambert said. He flicked his medallion. “You and he had been through the area before, he said, so the crows knew him. One of them knew him well enough to give him my medallion after stealing it while I was out.” He and Eskel shared a glance and peered at Geralt.
Geralt grunted and suddenly found his drink very interesting. Trust Lambert to uncover all of the ridiculous attachments that he wasn’t supposed to have.
“Anyway,” Lambert said, shrugging, “he figured if you didn’t have your medallion some bad shit had gone down, so he did the stupid thing and went towards the magic medallion vibrations instead of away from them. He found me instead of you, fetched my kit from where I’d stashed it, stayed with me while the potions did their thing, and offered to compose a song about my ‘fierce clash with a forest god.’”
“Spirit,” Geralt said automatically. “I’ve told him they’re not gods, just some people are stupid enough to worship them—”
Lambert threw his head back and cackled. “He—he said you’d say that!” he gasped out in between his laughs. “And to tell you that nothing good rhymes with ‘spirit’!”
Eskel’s shoulders shook with silent amusement.
It wasn’t that funny, but they were all a little drunk, and it was hard to keep from smiling when his brothers were laughing. Damn Jaskier for knowing him so well. And damn him for running towards a leshen that might not have been dead, and for finding Lambert of all people.
“A Bard Surprise is a good one,” Eskel said when he’d recovered, his eyes still crinkled with mirth. “But I have to say—seems like an ordinary contract to me. The surprising parts happened afterward.”
That was true, actually. Geralt glanced at Lambert, making sure he didn’t think this was favoritism between the two older Witchers.
Lambert raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I know my contract was tame enough,” he said. “But a crow paid Jaskier in silver to help a Witcher; seems like his contract was pretty unusual. I think Jaskier should get it this year.”
Geralt opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “He didn’t keep the silver,” he said, ignoring the ridiculous fact that said silver was Lambert’s medallion.
Lambert shrugged. “Not in the rules that you have to keep your payment. Only that you have to take it.” He met both of their eyes; they had all had the experience of accepting a poor man’s coin only to sneak it back to him.
“Fair. I’ll add it to the bylaws,” Eskel said wryly. Geralt still wasn’t sure if Eskel really had the rules written down or just kept them in his head.
“He’s not even one of us,” Geralt said, though the words left his tongue reluctantly.
Lambert leaned forward. “Also not in the rules,” he said, his eyes intent. “You only have to be someone who walks the Path and takes contracts.”
And Jaskier walked the Path with Geralt and took contracts all the time, albeit for music instead of monsters.
Eskel made an impressed noise low in his throat. “Playing dirty, Lam. I’ll allow it.” He looked at Geralt.
If Geralt objected, it wouldn’t go further. And if it were just a stupid, silly game, then he might be petty enough, possessive enough, to strive for the win.
But when Geralt searched Lambert’s face, Lambert met his eyes and spoke in Vesemir’s gruff cadence, a mantra they’d heard a thousand times, “No kids. No spouses. No, not for us,” before asking in his own plaintive voice, “Do you think we can’t have friends either?”
Of course they couldn’t. Monsters didn’t have friends. But even as he thought it, he couldn’t look away from Lambert’s fingers tapping at his thigh. Always moving, was Lambert, like Jaskier. Always pushing, like Jaskier. And Lambert had been happier the past couple years, traveling with the Cat he never talked about, the Cat they only knew about from Lambert’s new armor and flexibility. And like Jaskier, Lambert was a little shit, but he wasn’t a monster, and he deserved—he deserved to have whatever he needed in order to be satisfied on the Path. And unlike Jaskier, he was so often snarling and unhappy about his fate that Geralt couldn’t imagine denying him this. Did he have to?
No, he thought abruptly. He didn’t. He didn’t have to do anything.
Geralt lurched sideways and embraced his brother. “You can,” he said, his throat tight, his arms squeezing around Lambert’s hunched shoulders. “We can. Of course we can.”
“Of course we can,” Eskel echoed, and the wonder in his voice crushed Geralt’s lungs in his chest. Eskel tried so hard to be the perfect Witcher. No crows greeted Eskel on the Path, no bards. If it had been him in Dol Blathanna, he would have Axii’d Jaskier away.
If misery were a monster, Geralt would slay it. He swallowed and pulled back so he could look at them both. “If you want a friend, have them. Keep them. We’ll figure it out. And if you want a—a companion, I’ll witness the handfasting. And if you want a child—I don’t know. Logistics would be hard. Not impossible.”
They stared at him, pulled up sharp by the heresy.
“You’re fucking with me,” Eskel said, his eyes bright.
Geralt shook his head. “It’s only the three of us,” he said. “And Vesemir. Can’t we decide what being a Witcher of the Wolf School means?”
Lambert glared at him, his lip curled. “Show me. Prove that we can.”
Geralt exhaled. They had a whole winter, and he wasn’t a mage, he couldn’t snap his fingers and bring Jaskier here. But he could— “Here,” he said, lifting his medallion off his head. “Swap.”
“It’s my bard’s ribbon,” Geralt said, gesturing at Lambert’s medallion. “Isn’t it? So I’ll wear it, and Vesemir can deal with it, just like he can deal with—other things.” Vesemir would hate the idea of their medallion hanging from something so fragile, which was undoubtedly why Lambert had kept the ribbon in the first place. He probably even had a spare chain hidden in his pack for when he returned to the Path.
Lambert bit his lip. “Guess I can find some other way to mess with him,” he said, and they traded.
“Right then, meeting concluded!” Eskel said, pulling the mantle of the host role back over his dazed face. He passed the silver prize to Geralt. “You can give it to him in the spring and take it back before winter,” he said. “Or you could bring him with you and have him hand deliver it.” His wolfish smirk was definitely a dare.
Geralt made a point of rolling his eyes, exaggeratedly long-suffering. “There’ll be no living with him if I tell him that a songbird managed to win a wolf competition,” he complained, and the others went to bed sniggering.
The ribbon around his neck smelled like Lambert, like hard-worn leather and the walnut oil he used on his hair. Lambert probably would have been fine after the leshen. Probably would have woken up and managed to crawl to his bag, cursing and bleeding all the while. But he might not have. It had taken Jaskier and a fucking crow to tip the scale to certainty.
On a purely utilitarian level, hard to object to having better odds.
Vesemir did lecture him about the ribbon, but he also made a point of celebrating the solstice that year, gave a little speech about finding lights to brighten the dark points of their lives. He reminisced about a time when the keep had been full of Witchers: numbers enough to meet periodically on the Path, to support each other on difficult hunts.
“Enough Witchers to drag more kids off to a life they didn’t ask for,” Lambert snarked.
“Enough to make sure the ones who survived the Trials would live for longer on the Path,” Vesemir countered. “Back then, a Witcher could only trust another Witcher.”
Geralt wondered, not for the first time, how much of their little ceremony Vesemir might contrive to overhear.
The week before he left, Geralt found that a parchment had been slipped onto his desk while he was out, the contents written in Eskel’s most formal hand:
The Rules of Wolf Surprise
1. Invoking the Law of Surprise is cheating
2. The surprise must be acquired as part of a contract
2a. Djinn wishes don’t count, Geralt
3. Payment must be taken for a contract
a. Payment need not be in coin
b. Payment may be returned according to the judgment of the Wolf Surprise participant
4. The surprise must be acquired by someone who walks the Path
a. This person may or may not be a Witcher of the Wolf School
5. Wolf Surprise participants are permitted to
a. have friends, companions, and partners who are not Witchers of the Wolf School
b. have children—ethics and logistics permitting
c. decide for themselves* what being a Wolf Witcher means
i. *decide in committee, Lambert; don’t get ideas
Eskel had signed it with a doodle of a wolf with a scar across its snout. He had also drawn a lamb next to it, but someone with a different pen had crossed the lamb out and replaced it with a second, larger wolf that had two slashes across its face like Lambert did.
Geralt rolled his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from drawing an even bigger wolf with a scar over its eye on the parchment before he tucked the rules away in a desk drawer. It felt...good. Seeing it written out in black and white. Knowing the rules represented Eskel and Lambert’s voice, not just his own.
Eskel had always had a knack for knowing what people needed.
He found Jaskier in a Maribor tavern, singing his face off, and he endured the taste and smell of cheap ale at a back table while Jaskier finished his set. Red trousers, red doublet; he danced a courtship dance for his audience and looked more cardinal than the crow Geralt had carved into the silver prize for him. But once his songs were sung, it was Geralt who Jaskier quickly invited to his room.
“Did he win?” was the first thing Jaskier asked once the door was closed. “We worked so hard on how he would tell it! Did he use the comparisons we talked about? Did he have good imagery?”
“It wasn’t that kind of competition,” Geralt said. “You unrepentant sneak.” He arched an eyebrow. (The idea of the story competition was, of course, how Lambert had persuaded Jaskier to keep their meeting secret.)
“But did he win?” Jaskier asked, ignoring the accusation of treachery. He sat down on the bed, his hands clasped in entreaty. “I’ve been in suspense all winter!”
“No win,” Geralt told him.
Jaskier flopped back on the mattress. “Oh, poor Lambert. It was such a good story! I should have sought him out again before winter. ...Wait.” He sat back up, peering at Geralt. “Does that mean you won? Did you, Witcher of few words, win a story contest?”
“Hmm,” Geralt said dryly.
“That was a negative ‘hmm,’ my closed-mouthed companion, don’t think I can’t tell. So...Eskel again?”
“No,” Geralt said, and having got his revenge for the secret-keeping, he withdrew the silver disc, threaded now on a silver chain that he’d picked up in the market earlier in the day, and dropped it over Jaskier’s head so it settled around his neck. “Your new friend nominated you for the honor.” He explained a little of the decision and his lips rose at the sight of Jaskier’s bewildered face.
“I’m—but I’m not even a Witcher,” Jaskier stammered. His hands fluttered above the necklace like they’d once fluttered above a baby bird.
“We decided that was fine,” Geralt said. Jaskier was still staring at him, so he added, “The prize has to go back to Kaer Morhen this winter, but the chain you can keep.”
“I can keep?” Jaskier repeated, as if the words were foreign. “But—you understand, right, that it won’t disappear into nothing like a pair of holey socks or a honey cake?” He bunched the red silk of his trousers in his fists, not touching, as if he didn’t know whether Geralt would let him. As if he wanted but couldn’t have. Waiting, like he had waited in Brokilon. Had waited for years, maybe.
Geralt gently pried Jaskier’s hands open and clasped them in his. “New rule,” he said. “We can keep things now.”
“Things like necklaces?” Jaskier asked.
“Things like bards,” Geralt said, and hugged him close.
When they walked into the stone-walled outer bailey of Kaer Morhen that winter, Geralt wore his medallion on a chain that matched Jaskier’s, and Roach had new tack, and there were books in the saddlebags because Jaskier had figured out that Geralt liked learning new things. Jaskier wore a new winter outfit from Vespaden, warm wool in a bright blue that favored him.
“Not well-acquainted with the local crows,” Geralt said, finishing up a lecture about the castle’s surroundings. “We hunt in rotations and they’re not always around when it’s my turn.” Kind of embarrassing; he knew the crows around Novigrad better than the ones on his own grounds.
Jaskier spun to face him. “Of course we must befriend them,” he said, his arms spread wide and welcoming before dropping back to his sides. “But you should know, I didn’t give a damn about crows until I met you.”
Geralt stopped in his tracks on the way to the stables, his stomach drawn tight, Roach’s breath hot against the back of his neck. “Were you making fun of me?” he asked. It was the only thing he could think of.
“Nothing like that,” Jaskier said, and he put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “I just wanted very much for you to believe that clever, funny creatures who people say nasty things about deserve to have nice things, and that those nice things don’t have to come with strings attached. And between you and I and Roach and the crows and your wolves, we managed it.”
Geralt considered this. “You seduced an entire species for me.”
“Maybe,” Jaskier admitted, glancing up at Geralt from beneath his lashes.
“You know we have to keep them, right?” Geralt said, starting to smile. “Crows talk to their kids. Crows who are too young to have seen us still recognize us. We’re already in the third, fourth generation of them. More, maybe.”
“Then it’s a good thing that I plan to keep you and the crows for as many generations as you’ll have me,” Jaskier said. “If you’re all right with being kept?” He fidgeted.
Jaskier having him as much as he had Jaskier, he meant. Two-way commitment. Could have felt like a trap, like Fate’s rope wrapped around him. Instead it felt secure, like the certainty that most places he went, a nosy black bird would hop over to him, hoping for a handout, willing to shout a warning if it saw something dangerous. Not because of destiny, but because he’d made a choice.
“Been your Witcher for as long as you’ve been my bard,” he finally said. “Not planning on a change.” And then he let his lips curve up to show a flash of teeth. “Besides, stupid to let you go now that you’ve almost figured out how to sing.”
Next to him, Jaskier squawked his indignant crow squawk and informed him about his plans for vengeance, and behind him Roach snorted and shoved her head at his back to get him moving towards the stables again. But they would care for him no matter if he teased or walked slowly to the stables, just as he cared for them. That was what keeping someone meant, he thought: that the caring, like the gifts, didn’t come with strings.
1K notes · View notes
Prompt: Geralt gets shrunk and both him and jaskier are not used to the power dynamic. Bonus points if jaskier writes a shithead song about it
Ehehe I really like this one, a tiny Geralt is *chef’s kiss* I haven’t done a fic on The Witcher in a while so this was v fun, thank you for the prompt! (sadly..no bonus points for me;;;;)
Post about what prompts I’ll take is here!
Geralt sometimes thought that Jaskier would be the death of him. It wasn’t uncommon for the witcher to shove the bard out of the way of incoming danger, and Geralt had done it once again. This time, however, things were different–because rather than suffer a slash on the arm or stab in the leg, Geralt was dealing with a situation much worse.
“Geralt! Goodness, you’re so...tiny. That crazy witch...how the hell are we going to fix this?” Now, with the Witcher’s surroundings comically large in comparison to his little body, Geralt was certain today would be his day of reckoning. The bard towered over his shrunken form, with Jaskier not being Jaskier anymore, at least not in the way the witcher usually perceived him. Rather, he reminded the witcher of some kind of haunting, ominous force. A being Geralt would probably almost die fighting, making the witcher stiffen and hand move to grip the hilt of his sword.
Would it even penetrate his skin? The thought left Geralt feeling somewhat...hopeless, heartbeat steadily increasing as Jaskeir walked closer. Walking was a bit of an understatement–each step sent tremors into the ground around the tiny warrior, vibrations seeming to shake his very bones. It took everything in Geralt not to rush backward–swallowing heavily when the bard loomed over him.
“Woah, Geralt...you’re smaller than my pinky.” Jaskier stooped over, shadow casting over the tiny being as he examined the witcher in awe. Geralt was so incredibly small now, not at all the intimidating, hulk of a man he had been just moments before. Geralt looked to be annoyed more than anything, his usually stoic face twisted up into a nasty scowl. Heavens, I would be terrified if I were him...does nothing scare this man?
Geralt sucked in a breath, stopping himself from cowering away when Jaskier held his pinky up to compare with Geralt’s little form, the witcher’s stomach twisting with dread when he saw it was true. Was Jaskier doing all this on purpose? Geralt felt terribly skittish–wanting to get as far away from the larger being as possible. He growled low in his throat when Jaskier poked him, pinning a murderous glare on the bard. It was slightly harsher than he had intended it to be–causing the larger being to openly flinch.
“No need to kill me with your eyes...I guess we'll have to find some other magician somewhere to turn you back to normal.” Jaskier didn’t give any warning, proceeding to reach a hand down and pluck Geralt’s body off the ground.
The witcher gasped softly in alarm then–Jaskier picked him up so easily–fingers bigger than his entire body loosely wrapped around him. Geralt knew Jaskier was only trying to not harm him, but he felt as though he’d simply slip through the bard’s fingers with how light the grip was, tiny hands instinctively gripping onto the giant fingers that held him for some kind of support.
“Aw...he’s adorable…” Jaskier whispered the words once he brought Geralt close to his face. He wondered how someone so frightening could become undeniably cute in a manner of seconds, smiling a bit to himself. Jaskier curiously fiddled with Geralt’s body–examining his minuscule limbs and equally tiny face, using the pad of his finger to finally lift Geralt’s face up to his own.
Oh, he is terribly angry now. Jaskier knew in any other circumstance the witcher would have his ass–and not in the way he’d like. So he took the opportunity to observe the little creature to his full satisfaction, unaware of how his actions were driving Geralt into a complete frenzy.
The witcher could do nothing against the massive fingers that poked and prodded his little body, his resistance apparently so minute that Jaskier didn’t even notice. It was enough to make Geralt’s nerves increase drastically, feeling his chest tighten when Jaskier just wouldn’t stop. The giant seemed more interested with his new shrunken form than the witcher would have liked, tugging on Geralt’s arms–they vanished between Jaskier’s fingers–pinching his waist...and shit...tilting his little head up to look Jaskier in the eyes.
“Well, isn’t this just fascinating?” There was something eerie in those words–Jaskier’s voice dripping with mischief and expression unreadable–that made Geralt’s mind scream at him to run.
It screamed to fight, to protect himself, to do anything–anything to get away from the growing threat that was Jaskier in his head. Fuck. Geralt wished he could escape this, to wake up from this horrid dream where he was helpless against a fucking bard. But he couldn’t, body trembling against his will as Jaskier finally let his tiny chin go.
“Jaskier…” All he had to do was menacingly ground out the name before Jaskier seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had been in, cheeks slightly flushed as he sheepishly grinned.
“Ah...sorry.It’s just quite different–your size and all. Should…should we go into town? I’ll need to ride Roach...to be quicker you know.” Though Geralt hated the idea of someone else riding her, he slowly nodded, breath caught in his throat when Jaskier began to move.
Geralt thought the whole world was shifting, and not at all in a good way. It was as if every step Jaskier took was going to be Geralt’s last, air violently rushing past the tiny and forcing Geralt to burrow deeper into Jaskier’s palm. I’m going to fall off, or worse...barf into his fucking hand.
Geralt tried. He struggled to calm his constantly churning stomach, focusing his eyes on his shaking hands rather than the incredibly distant ground below him. But his mind betrayed him, conjuring up every worst-case scenario–proceeding then to make them a thousand times more dreadful. The thoughts filled the witcher’s mind until it was all he could imagine, head pounding against his skull when he finally spoke aloud.
It was a single word, said with a desperate, raspy voice that Geralt loathed. Great, now I sound as weak as I am. Somehow Jaskier heard the frail words, cautiously coming to a halt and looking down at the tiny in his hand. Geralt was stooped over in his open palm, making the bard’s mind fill with worry.
“Put me down Jaskier, now.” The command made the larger human blink, and although Jaskier would have listened with no complaint in any other circumstance...it was easy to resist Geralt when he was this small.
“Wait–why? We need to get into town as soon as possible...we don’t know if this curse depends on time or not–.”
“Dammit, Jaskier! Can’t you just do what you’re told for once? I have to drag you around like a dead weight half the fucking time. Are you so useless you can’t even listen to me now?” Once again Jaskier was interrupted, this time Geralt’s voice full of malice and frustration. He all but hissed, face contorted into a sinister glare he focused the bard with. The tiny witcher wasn’t expecting, however, for Jaskier’s own face to change as well, eyes darkening as he spoke.
“You know, I am sick of you treating me like I’m nothing. Even now–you’re fucking minuscule, couldn’t hurt a fly even if you wanted to–yet you still have the balls to insult me? It’s almost like you want me to hurt you Geralt. Is that it?” Jaskier ground out the words threateningly, tone icy and making the witcher quiver against his will. He didn’t–no he couldn’t say anything, mouth slightly agape and heart palpitating. This was bad, shit this was awful…
Jaskier was incredibly annoyed, unable to believe Geralt was treating him like this. Especially when he’d done virtually nothing! He was only holding Geralt and planning to take them both into town. Yet the witcher was vexed, laying insult after insult on the bard, so pissed he was trembling. Really what was he supposed to–ah.
Geralt was shaking.
Almost instantly Jaskier deflated, face relaxing and eyes softening. He truly was an idiot. How could he actually believe Geralt had shrunken to less than three inches and wasn’t afraid? No one in their right mind would stay calm, and while Geralt was a bit off sometimes Jaskier was pretty sure his head was screwed on straight.
Now, as Jaskier looked closer he could see how stiff the tiny witcher was, eyes darting everywhere but Jaskier’s face, shoulders slightly shivering. Sure, his expression was still grim as ever, but after ages of traveling together Jaskier could tell it was a different kind of grim expression. It was the kind he made when he was overwhelmed, desperately trying to figure out a solution, an escape even, the realization making Jaskier’s heart sink.
“Sure thing Geralt, but I’m just worried okay? Stay near me.” Jaskier spoke in a much softer tone, gingerly placing the witcher down on the grass next to him. Geralt didn’t say anything, leaving Jaskier’s hands a bit too quickly, taking long strides away from the giant before he stopped. Gods, the witcher sucked in deep breaths, frantically attempting to calm his heart. He’d been utterly terrified when Jaskier grew angry, still somewhat confused as to why the bard had changed his tune so abruptly.
Was going with Jaskier...really the best choice? Geralt wondered if perhaps he could make it into town himself, navigate discreetly through the streets until he found a magician that would help him. Staying with someone so...massive...it felt like being in a constant gamble of life and death.
Jaskier knew Geralt was thinking, devising some sort of plan in which Jaskier was barely relied on, if even present. The witcher was always like this, wanting to do everything on his own. This time, however, even the bard could tell that there was no other way around this. Geralt needed him, the witcher couldn’t do any of this alone, and Jaskier knew the very fact irked the warrior.
“I...shouldn’t have raised my voice. I’m sorry. But Geralt you have to trust me. I want you back to normal as much as you do.” Jaskier was kneeling, aware now that standing at full height above the little being had not been the smartest choice. Now that he was looking for such signs, he noticed how Geralt instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword when he spoke, and how the witcher took a deep breath to steady his voice before he spoke.
“I know.” It was the best response the bard would get, nodding a bit before he slowly laid his hand down beside the tiny. Jaskier pressed it down gently, making sure it was as flat against the ground–anything to make it seem smaller than it actually was.
“I’ll be careful this time. Promise. So please...can you climb into my hand?” Jaskier wasn’t sure if this was the right move, Geralt’s eyebrows were practically tied together at this point, face in what seemed to be a permanent scowl. The tiny felt suddenly bombarded. Jaskier had been handling him almost as if he were a toy before, and now the witcher had a choice? What the hell?
Though against his better judgment, Geralt risked a glance up at Jaskier–gulping nervously as he took in his giant form. I’m going to be...in the hands of that? He was about to reject the offer when he finally looked the bard in the eye, feeling his stomach twist and body grow warm at the sight. Jaskier’s eyes were full of concern, hints of regret at his previous actions peeking through. It compelled the witcher to pause, taking a breath and nodding despite his worries.
Hesitantly, the tiny climbed on, situating himself in the center of Jaskier’s hand. It felt much different than before, more secure and safe. Even when Jaskier rose–he did so in a debilitatingly slow manner–making Geralt barely notice the rise in altitude.
The larger being put his other hand around the open palm, bringing Geralt close to his chest before he began to walk. The movement blocked out the terrifying wind Geralt experienced before, in fact, the witcher felt warm if anything, letting himself relax in Jaskier’s palm.
“Your hand...it’s comfy.” The words slipped past him before he could stop himself, embarrassment seeping into his bones once they did. For a moment Jaskier said nothing, making the tiny grumble to himself over his idiocy, jolting when rolling laughter echoed in his little dome. It both frightened and comforted the witcher, heart beating wildly against his chest at the sound. Fuck, even his laugh is deafening to me now…
“Is that so? I’m happy you think so, I just want you to feel sa–okay around me, you know?” Jaskier grinned down at the smaller being, the action–full of dazzling eyes and a gleaming smile–enough to make the witcher’s stomach fill with butterflies. He could only nod in response then, palms sweaty and cheeks hot, thinking that this size truly was dangerous for his heart, in more ways than one.
76 notes · View notes
Hero of the Swamp (Shrek x Jaskier)
Edit by me
Pairing: Shrek x Netflix!Jaskier (Julian Alfred Pankratz/Dandelion)
Summary: After being left on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself lost in the swamp and in need of warmth and comfort.
Note: Y’all can thank @spielzeugkaiser and their amazing art for this. Sorry for the sloppy edit, but I really was not going to put even more time into this sinful work.
Tags: I’ve been a bad boy daddy forgive me father fore I have sinned, pre-movies Shrek, post-mountain Jaskier, angst, fluff, Shrek’s huge dong, size kink, cum shower, monster cock, blowjobs, rimming, cum eating and Shrek has emotions ok
The growls of monsters lurking in the forest rolled over the muddy forest grounds and reached Jaskier’s icy ears. He shivered in both terror and response to the temperature. He told himself he could get off that mountain on his own, but who was he kidding? His frigid ears caught something in the dark. The bard bolted off the path, then later found himself in the middle of nowhere, chilled to the bone, disoriented, and, to be honest, frightened.
He was looking for a path, but even that seemed to not be present anywhere in the vicinity. Jaskier rubbed his trembling hands together and walked on. Jaskier thought he should at last find some shelter from the wind. Just as he was about to settle for a random tree, he noticed light in the distance, warm like fire, inviting him and promising warmth and shelter.
The fatigued bard all but ran towards it, the signs around the perimeter unnoticed in the dark. His boots sunk into the mud of the swamp, but he had his eyes set on the house-like structure in the middle of the swamp. He could not believe anyone wanted to live in this stinky place, but right now this someone was about to be his saviour. Once at what he assumed to be the door, he knocked on it. When there was no answer he knocked again. There were some angry, heavy footsteps, before the door opened.
Before him stood a massive humanoid, skin green like peas, frame built like Geralt who preferred cake over his nasty potions. “Eh, good evening, sir,” Jaskier tried. If it was living in a house, it must be intelligent to some extent… right? “Could you please spare some place for a weary traveller?” The green creature did not look nice, even without its facial expressions. Some tension left its body after the question. Jaskier recognised it as a hint of confusion. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by a fire.”
“No, get out of my swamp,” the creature spoke. It sounded like it was from Skellige. It was about to retreat into its home, but Jaskier put his foot between the door.
“Please, I’ll die out here,” he spoke dramatically, hoping for pity so he’d have a roof over his head tonight. He was not sure if he should try his luck with this creature, but at least it could speak. Wraiths had said less words, before trying to slice him.
“Not my problem. Get out of my swamp. The only way you get close to my fire is when I roast you over it.”
“Oh please, you don’t mean that.”
Jaskier had barely finished speaking, when the green man grabbed him by his doublet and pulled him close. His breath stank of swamp water and fish. His mouth was wide and Jaskier was pretty sure he would fit inside there. The bard felt like he should be terrified, but underneath a thin layer of leather and cloth, there was warmth radiating off pear skin. He wanted to lean into it, thaw. What inhibited his survival skills further, where those eyes glaring into his. Under bushy eyebrows rested two brown pools of warm broth. He heard the green man roar into his face that he needed to leave, because he was an ogre and he was going to eat him, but it was hard to believe him.
Within those eyes that were so close to his, the ogre told the story of a creature that wanted to be alone, because alone was safe, alone was comfortable, alone was all he was used to. Jaskier never knew that, but after today, he understood why one would think that.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
It stung, more than anything had caused him to ache in ages. Jaskier could feel the urge to never make friends again, never love again, never lust after one he could not have. However, he refused. It was pain that made life worth living. Without pain, bliss did not feel as good as it did. The rain made sunlight so much more appreciated. The cold made fire so much more precious. The monsters made the witcher so much more valuable.
The human knew this, but the ogre holding him up by his doublet did not. Jaskier had wished for pity, but he pitied the other now. He clumsily threw his arms around the ogre and hugged him tightly. The ogre stopped yelling at him. Jaskier could feel the muscles against his body tensing up. The hand holding him loosened and he threw his legs around the ogre too, holding on and hugging him tightly. “You don’t have to be alone. I don’t fear you,” Jaskier spoke gently.
“I am an ogre.”
“And if you were really malicious I would not still be breathing. Please, just for one night. There are all sorts of dangers out in these swamps, especially at night. I just want to stay alive.”
Jaskier could hear the ogre letting out a long sigh. “Fine,” he spoke, “but you have to be gone tomorrow.” Jaskier let him go, but not after planting a delighted kiss on the rough skin of the ogre’s cheek.
“Thank you so much,” the bard exclaimed. He slipped inside, before the ogre could change his mind. The inside of the hollowed out tree looked cozy. It stank like hell, but he was in the middle of the swamp; what did he expect? “Do you like music? I have little to give you, but I am a bard.” Jaskier held up his lute as he grabbed the chair that had no food in front of it. One look at the giant slug on a plate and he was pretty sure he did not want to have any food. Jaskier pulled the chair a little closer to the fire and sat down with his lute in his lap. It seemed rather strange that there were two hand-crafted chairs, while the ogre seemed to be so keen on being alone. “Oh and you can call me Jaskier, by the by. What may I call you, my hero from the swamp?”
The ogre looked at him a little annoyed as he closed the door and sat back down to finish his dinner. “Uh… Shrek. You can play, but don’t sing.” Jaskier let the name roll off his tongue, before playing a calming tune. He didn’t speak, just let his fingers do their thing as he processed all that happened during the day, well it was actually more just those few minutes that haunted his mind. Each one of Geralt’s words cutting into his soul. “Eh… Jaskier?” Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts when Shrek spoke his name. He shook his head, before looking at Shrek. “You don't seem to be… you… you seem sad, well, what I mean is… I never heard such a depressing tune.”
Jaskier faked a smile. “My apologies, good sir. I’ll play you a happier tune, if you wish.” He diverted his eyes to the fingerboard, blinking away the tears he suddenly noticed pooling in his eyes.
“No, you don’t have to. I prefer silence, anyway.” Jaskier looked up and noticed Shrek had finished eating. He stood up and started cleaning up. “You can sleep on my good chair.” Jaskier followed the ogre’s gaze to the fauteuil in the corner. He nodded. It looked comfortable enough. He had slept on forest floors with Geralt. This was more luxury than a regular day with the witcher.
Shrek had some board and card games, which he seemed to enjoy to play. Jaskier wondered if Shrek usually played these games on his own or if he hosted guests more often. Neither seemed likely, since the games seemed to have gone untouched for at least a decade, if not longer. They shared a few laughs. Shrek turned out to be more fun company than Jaskier would ever have expected from an ogre. His jokes were terrible and sometimes a little insensitive, but he so clearly meant well. It was clear Shrek was not used to talking or any social interactions. He spoke like a young man still trying to figure out what was socially acceptable to say and what was not. Still, he was trying and Jaskier welcomes the vivid chatting.
When they got tired, Jaskier curled up on the comfortable fauteuil by the fire. Shrek had draped a shirt of his over the human. It stank and was dirty, but it was warm and Jaskier was still low key afraid of getting kicked out to sleep in the mud, so he didn’t voice a single word of complaint. In the silence of the night with no one to talk to, words that were already spoken returned to his mind. Jaskier tried to block them out, but they bit at his brain, keeping him awake and drawing tears from his eyes. He curled further in on himself, trying to stay quiet as he sobbed into his hands. It just hurt so much to be discarded like he was nothing but a nuisance. Was that all he was? He was sure his songs brought joy in taverns, but right now the unlikely and unrealistic idea that everyone just pretended to have a good time was so overwhelming.
The bard flinched when he felt a huge hand on his shoulder and arm. He looked up to find Shrek hanging over him in nothing but his smalls. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the ogre clearly wasn’t good with words. “I’m fine, Shrek,” Jaskier lied as he wiped the tears off his face, “I’ll just find the nearest town tomorrow and fuck the pain away.” The words had already left him, when he realised how that might sound. “And I’ll do that tomorrow, not because I think you’re hideous, quite the contrary, you might be the most handsome ogre to ever exist, but I just assumed you would not be interested in having sex with a human… male. Human male, doesn’t seem your taste, but it could be, I wouldn’t judge you. How could I? You’ve been a most generous host! I…”
Jaskier almost suffocated as Shrek’s palm covered the entirety of his face. He got the hint and just shut up. Shrek slowly let go of his face, allowing him to breathe again. Jaskier looked away, cheeks red. He was blabbering nonsense to an ogre who preferred peace and quiet. He guessed it was time to sleep in the mud outside, however, Shrek wasn’t yelling at him… yet.
“So you just have sex and that helps you feel better?” Jaskier nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind helping you feel better. It is not like I have had lassies lining up in the swamp… or lads.” He laughed a little awkwardly, making Jaskier laugh too. He took hold of one of Shrek’s huge fingers with two of his, by comparison, tiny hands.
“Oh Shrek, you are such a wonderful host. You really do not have to do this though. I will still want to visit you again, even when you don’t want to fuck my brains out, just so I don’t have to think about some brutish asshole.” Shrek gave him a long look, before enclosing his hand around Jaskier’s waist and lifting him off the fauteuil.
“It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.” And Jaskier wanted to read into those words, figure out the ogre with complicated feelings, but he had no willpower to. Shrek’s bed was firm, almost hard like a plank. It smelled like him, like onions and mud and firewood. Shrek tried to undress him, but his huge fingers couldn’t get a grip on Jaskier’s complex clothing. Jaskier smiled kindly at him, helping him without even needing to look at any button. “Can I kiss you?” Jaskier didn’t even reply. Instead he pulled Shrek’s head down. It was an awkward kiss. Shrek’s mouth was way too big and neither of them were very coordinated in the moment.
When his clothes were mostly off and Jaskier was left in his smalls, Shrek kissed down his body, his huge tongue lapping at his skin and Jaskier could hear him enjoy the taste. He hummed to signal his pleasure, letting the ogre go about his business. Shrek pulled off his smalls and to Jaskier’s complete surprise, the ogre took his cock in his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing the sheets. Everything about Shrek was big, including his mouth. Even when the ogre sucked him to full hardness, Jaskier still didn’t feel the back of the ogre’s throat. Shrek sucked in his balls at well and Jaskier almost cried from the pleasure of having his cock and balls inside a warm mouth.
When Shrek let Jaskier go, his length was hard, red and leaking. Jaskier barely had time to recover, before he felt that glorious tongue on him again, this time licking over his hole. Whispered pleas left his lips as he imagined that tongue inside of him. Then a thought crossed his mind. If everything about Shrek was big, what about his dick? Jaskier had seen the ogre’s hands and one finger was already bigger than the average cock. While he normally was down to go big, the imaginable size of Shrek’s dong low key terrified him.
His mind had no opportunity to freak him out completely, because Shrek’s tongue entered him and the feeling was so, so good. Jaskier moaned as big green hands spread his cheeks and thick wetness penetrated him. “Ah… ah Shrek I hate to be a uh… fuck!” The bard trashed his arms around when his new found friend started to stroke his cock at the same time. “I’m gonna cum! Way too soon, I know! Sto..aahh...” His whole body tensed as he spilled all over himself. Shrek was unrelenting. As the bard’s cock was spent, he still had his tongue inside him, pressing at the right places and wiggling around so talentedly. “Stop, stop, stop, it’s too much, really, too much.”
Jaskier was out of breath, head fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss. His whole brain short-circuited as Shrek’s tongue licked over his torso, cleaning him off all the cum he had spilled over himself. “Are you all right?” The green-skinned sex machine inquired with innocent eyes that did not match the absolute tent in his smalls.
“Say, Shrek, will I die if I swallow ogre cum?” Jaskier almost laughed at Shrek’s expression. It was a ‘yes, no, maybe’. “Ok fine, but I will suck you off still.” The human pushed at the ogre, cornering the larger frame against the opposite wall, before getting on his knees.
“With all due respect, Jask, I don’t think you can fit me anywhere.” Jaskier didn’t listen, pulling down Sherk’s white smalls in spite of knowing the ogre was probably right. As soon as 12 inch of green cock basically slapped him in the face, Jaskier knew he was in way over his head. Still, he was confident that if he tried, he could still fit the head inside his mouth. With Shrek still assuring him he did not have to do this, Jaskier started licking all over Shrek’s length. The taste was not as bad as he feared. In fact, the more he licked, the more he started to like it. Jaskier made out with the head of Shrek’s cock, fucking the slit with his tongue. Shrek was holding his shoulder, occasionally squeezing a little as he moaned. And oh were those delicious moans, primal, guttural, deep and vibrating through Jaskier’s entire body.
The human tried many times, but he couldn’t slip the monster cock inside his mouth. He was resilient though and kept trying, while stroking the rest of the green length. He was so caught up in his quest that he didn’t hear Shrek telling him how close he was. He made a disappointed sound as he was forcibly removed from the cock in his mouth. Jaskier crawled back up the bed and stretched out his body. “Cum on me,” he wantonly moaned and Shrek did not disappoint. Jaskier had to close his eyes and mouth as he got showered in thick, beige cum. He never had felt this dirty, but it was a good kind. He wished he could have taken Shrek in his ass. He could’ve been so full.
Once Shrek had stopped groaning, Jaskier dared to open his eyes. He could see guilt already spreading over Shrek’s face. He must have been a sight, so much smaller than Shrek and absolutely drenched in his cum. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always fantasised about being showered in cum. Just never thought that all that cum would come from a single person.”
Shrek let out a relieved sigh and helped him wipe some cum off his face so it wouldn’t get into his mouth or eyes. “I’ll prepare you a bath,” he spoke gently, surprising Jaskier with the thoughtfulness. His eyes followed the ogre as he put his breeches on and moved out to probably get some fresh water. A laugh escaped Jaskier as he stared at the sticky substance covering his skin. Who would’ve thought that the swamp could’ve been so pleasant?
159 notes · View notes
5 times Jaskier got sick and 1 time Geralt did
As part of my 500 followers celebration! Masterlist!
CW: being sick, vomiting
He sneezes, and Geralt looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you getting sick?”
Jaskier scoffs, shakes his head, and continues prodding at the fire. “No.” He sneezes again. “Okay, maybe.”
He frowns. “Ooh, now that’s a ‘hmm’ I haven’t heard before. What does it mean?”
Geralt rolls his eyes and looks away, as Jaskier sneezes again. “It means I’m not going to take care of you if you get sick.”
Jaskier sneezes again. “Yeah, I figured that much.” He rubs at his eyes, which are slightly swollen from all the sneezing. “I’ll just firmly tell my body not to get sick, then. That always works.”
“Hmm.” He recognizes that one as a slightly amused ‘hmm’, and he smiles in triumph. Over the past few years, it has become a bit of a personal challenge to make Geralt laugh or smile as much as possible, and, while low on the tier list of ‘how amused is Geralt of Rivia?’, an amused ‘hmm’ is better than nothing. At least it’s better than an unamused ‘hmm’.
Like the one he gets, now, when he suddenly dissolves into a bout of coughing. “It’s fine,” he chokes out when he finally regains his breath. “Not getting sick.”
“We’re stopping at the next inn. You’ll stay there until you get better, and I’ll get some contracts.”
He wants to whine, tell Geralt he’s fine and he’s coming along with these contracts, but when he starts coughing again, he can’t help but admit that the Witcher is right. Though, when Geralt leaves him behind at the inn the next day, he finds himself wishing Geralt would stay.
He’s performing ‘Toss a Coin’ when he sneezes. The audience laughs, and he plays it off as a joke, making fun of himself, so the audience won’t, before he continues with his song. After he’s done, he graciously accepts his payment and a pint of ale, before he saunters over to the corner of the tavern, sitting down opposite Geralt.
“You sneezed,” is the first thing the Witcher says to him.
“Hello, Jaskier, what a lovely performance, Jaskier, thank you for paying for our dinner tonight, Jaskier,” he says in a mock-gruff voice. He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Really, Geralt, we talked about your conversational skills.”
He dramatically lifts his hands. “So what? People sneeze all the time! It’s dusty in here, Witcher.”
“Your voice is rough.”
“Yes, that’s what you get for performing for three hours straight. You’re welcome, by the way.” He plonks his full coin pouch on the table, gesturing at it, eyebrows in his hairline.
“Well, now you’re just being downright insulting, Geralt. After all these years of me traveling by your side, and you have the audacity-“
“Jaskier. I can tell you’re getting sick.”
Geralt looks at him, blinking slowly, almost lazily. His expression is almost bored, but Jaskier can tell from the little muscle that’s pulling at his lips, that the Witcher is getting annoyed. “Hmm.” Now that’s an ‘I don’t believe you for shit but I’m tired of arguing’-hmm, he can tell.
“Alright, maybe it’s not fine.” He points at Geralt. “But don’t you dare leave me at an inn again, like last time.”
Cause it hurt my feelings, and I would love for you to take care of me when I’m sick. “I don’t want to miss out on any contracts and potential inspiration.”
“Hmm.” An ‘I can tell you’re lying’-hmm.
He simply changes the subject, for now, and hopes he doesn’t get sick in the next couple of days. He thanks all his lucky stars when he doesn’t.
He tries to keep quiet as he leans one hand against the tree, the other on his stomach as he retches, emptying the contents of his stomach in the leaves. He must’ve eaten something bad, or caught a stomach bug. He decides it doesn’t really matter, though, as another wave of nausea rolls over him. He gags again, trying to not make any sound.
Of course, it doesn’t work, and he soon hears Geralt’s voice behind him. “Jaskier.”
He closes his eyes, trying to keep down the bile that rises in his throat. “I’m fine.” The clipped and strained sound of his voice begs to differ.
“Hmm.” A ‘not even Roach would believe that’-hmm. Then: “Are you done?”
He holds up a finger, chokes down one last gag, before he stands up straight, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m fine, let’s go.”
He turns around to find Geralt frowning at him, confused. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“No. We’re not going anywhere but back to camp.”
He sighs. “I’m fine! We can go to the next town, don’t worry about it.”
“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. Once again a ‘hmm’ he can’t identify. Strange. “Come on, Jaskier.”
He sighs, but follows Geralt back to camp, laying down on his bedroll when the Witcher motions at it. He does have to admit, laying down makes him feel a lot better, and pretty soon he finds himself dozing off to the rhythmic sound of Geralt sharpening his blades.
When he wakes in the morning, the Witcher gives him a piece of… some sort of root. “Ginger,” the Witcher explains roughly. “Helps.”
Jaskier shrugs and eats it. It doesn’t taste entirely pleasant, but it does make him feel better, and by midday, he’s ready to set out on the road again.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not.”
“Hmm.” Another ‘I don’t believe you’-hmm. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
Jaskier stops walking when he no longer hears Roach’s hooves on the dusty path behind him, and he turns around. “Nothing! It’s really fine, there’s nothing going on. I appreciate you worrying, though, it’s very endearing.”
He sighs, then shrugs. “Okay, maybe I got a cut on my leg last week that healed badly. So what? I assure you I’m perfectly fine, Witcher.” He starts stammering when Geralt dismounts Roach, stalking towards him. “A- and there is absolutely no reason for you to walk towards me, in- in a vaguely threatening manner- Geralt!”
He lets out an angry huff when the Witcher bends down, yanking the leg of his breeches up. “Hmm.” An ‘I’m very angry right now, but not at you’-hmm. “It’s infected.”
He shrugs again, pointedly looking everywhere but the reddened skin that surrounds the cut. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about, r-really, and-“
He scrunches his face in confusion when Geralt lays a hand against his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Get on Roach.”
“Geralt, as much as I have longed for you to say those three words for the past ten years, I assure you I’m perfectly fine.”
“Get. On. Roach.”
He holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright! Melitele’s tits, Geralt, if I’d known you’d kick up such a fuss over a simple flesh wound, I would’ve been more careful.”
“Hmm. You should be.”
He sighs, rolls his eyes, as he climbs on Roach. Geralt climbs on the horse behind him, and Jaskier tries to fight the furious blush that starts spreading across his cheeks at the feeling of Geralt’s chest against his back. They set out to the nearest town, where the Witcher gets a room at the inn and drags him to the herbalist for something against the infection.
The ointment the old lady gives them works wonders, and within two days, the infection has cleared.
It’s hard to breathe. Harder to move. Opening his eyes for more than two seconds isn’t even an option, anymore, and every time he does manage to pry his eyelids apart, the world is swimming around him, making bile rise in his throat. He’s hot. No- he’s cold. But now he’s hot again, and he’s sweating, but he’s also shivering, and good gods, what did he do to deserve this?
He sighs when he feels something cold and wet and rough against his forehead, seeping away some of the heat. He doesn’t know whether the droplet that slides down the side of his head is sweat or water, but he decides it doesn’t matter when a bout of coughing wracks through his body.
He’s tired, he’s so bloody tired, but he can’t fall asleep when the temperature keeps changing from hot to cold to hot again, when his lungs keep constricting in his chest pathetically, making him cough and wheeze, desperate for any gulp of air he manages to suck in. The shivering becomes uncontrollable, unbearable, even though he’s sweating, still. He finally manages to pry open his eyes, finding the room around him blurry and dark. He looks around, desperate for anything recognizable, anything that doesn’t give him the feeling that he’s floating in a vast ocean of his own goddamn sweat. Finally, he finds something silver, to his right.
“Geralt,” he manages to croak out, desperately gasping for breath soon afterwards.
“I’m here.” He could cry at that familiar voice, and he might actually be, when he feels another droplet slide down the side of his head.
“I feel like shit.”
“Hmm.” And amused ‘hmm’. But slightly worried as well. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”
“It hurts.” It does. Everything hurts. His muscles hurt, his lungs hurt, his head hurts, his eyes hurt. It fucking hurts.
Someone wipes his sweaty hair away from his forehead, knuckles trailing down his cheek lightly, and he figures someone else must be in the room because Geralt would never be this gentle with him. It’s already a bloody miracle he’s still here, really. “I know, Jaskier. I know. Try to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“Will you be there? When I wake up?”
“Hmm.” That’s a ‘yes’-hmm.
He sighs, his lungs aching. “Good. Cause I don’t want to wake up at all if you’re not there.” His eyes drift closed again, and he finds himself slipping into unconsciousness.
When he wakes up, he finds Geralt next to the bed, stuffed into an entirely too small chair, asleep. No way the position he’s in is comfortable – his neck craned at an awkward angle, his back barely supported by the hard wood. But he’s there, just as he had promised to Jaskier.
The bard smiles, and reaches out, pushing at Geralt’s knee. The Witcher wakes, amber eyes widening when he sees Jaskier. He immediately bends forward, laying his hand against Jaskier’s forehead, eyes studying his face. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit better.” He smiles. “You’re here.”
“I told you I would be.”
He laughs softly, eyes drifting closed again, sleep pulling at him limbs. “That, you did.” He shivers, the heat of the fever no longer keeping him warm. “Geralt, I’m cold.”
“There are no more blankets.”
He pouts, reaches out, eyes still closed. “You’re warm.”
He hears a long-suffering sigh, then the creaking of the chair. Footsteps across the room. He feels the dip of the bed behind him, feels strong arms closing around him, and he sighs in content, before frowning. “Won’t you get sick?”
“Witchers don’t get sick.”
“Okay,” he whispers, before falling asleep in Geralt’s arms.
By the time they finally leave the inn, several days later, neither of them has mentioned what happened, and Jaskier doubts either of them will.
He doesn’t think much of it when Geralt coughs a few times. He does find it strange when it happens more and more in the next few days. He grows suspicious when a fine sheen of sweat appears on the Witcher’s forehead, even if he says he’s fine and tells Jaskier to stop fussing over him like that, he’s just hot, is all. He’s had enough when red spots start to litter Geralt’s skin.
He forces the Witcher to go to an inn, and he’s glad he did, by the time they reach it. Geralt’s hunched over Roach’s neck, sweat dripping from his brow, his skin so spotted with red he almost looks sunburnt. Jaskier barely manages to get him up the stairs, and immediately drops him on the bed, where Geralt lays very still, staring up at the wooden ceiling, breathing heavily.
Jaskier helps him out of his armour, uncovering more and more red spots as he works his way down to Geralt’s boots.
“I’m fine,” Geralt rasps to him. He doesn’t believe it for shit.
“Yeah, no you’re not, Witcher. Looks like you’ve got yourself some measles.”
Geralt scoffs, though it sounds more like two pieces of sandpaper rubbed together. “Witchers don’t get measles.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, taking a washcloth, wetting it with some water from his waterskin. “Well, you did, so I suggest you change your views on that, Geralt.” He sits down on the side of the bed, gently laying the washcloth over Geralt’s brow, softly pressing it down. “You’re burning up,” he whispers.
He smiles. “Go to sleep, Geralt. Get some rest.”
The Witcher sighs. “Hmm.” A ‘fine, alright, I’ll listen’-hmm. “I’m cold.”
Jaskier laughs softly, climbing over Geralt, laying down on his other side, hugging him to his chest. “Better?”
Geralt shakes his head frantically, weakly pushing at him – the fever’s clearly already taking a toll on him. “You’ll get sick,” he rasps.
“I had the measles as a kid. I’ll be fine, Witcher.”
“Hmm.” A content ‘hmm’. Then, suddenly: “Thank you, Jaskier. I love you.”
Geralt’s breathing evens out, as Jaskier pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down on his Witcher. Geralt is fast asleep, breathing deep and steady, face relaxed from its eternal frown. Jaskier smiles, laying down again, pulling his Witcher closer. “I love you too,” he whispers. Of course, Geralt doesn’t hear him, but he’ll say it again when he wakes up.
He’ll say it a million times if he has to – and he would mean it every time.
1K notes · View notes
restart | seven
[ SEQUEL TO PERFECTLY WRONG ] | [ series masterlist ]
summary: as you and taehyung start to build your life together post graduation, things become more complicated than what you expected it to be. while taehyung struggles with his inner demons, you’ve become the sole supporter, the pillar, juggling different jobs to keep you two afloat. your love for each other has been put to the test as your relationship continues to face hurdles - hurdles that have you questioning whether or not your relationship will make it through.
pairing: reader x fiancé!kth
genre: post grad au, established relationship au | fluff, angst, smut
warnings: cussing/mature language, insecurities and overthinking, angst, a sprinkle of crying, alcohol consumption, yoongles is the bestest boy, really supposed to be a calm chapter so y/n gets a little break from the stress
note: i honestly wasn’t gonna post this tonight, but it only makes sense since.. it’s yoongi’s bday and he’s in this chapter heavily 💓 + taehyung one shot for the witchers one shot series is up if you’re into fantasy au fics and shit like that! most likely will be working on jin or jimin’s next; enjoy!
tags: @enchantaeduniverse @thedarkwinterrose @jeontier @jwlmnbt @bluesharksandfish @ra-mun-e @brightcolorsoffendme @jungcrookthecookbook @sunniejinnie @littlewolfieposts (please message me if you would like to be added to the taglist!)
You looked at the ring on your finger, sitting criss-crossed on the twin bed that sat a couple of feet away next to Yoongi's at the small airbnb you shared. The flight to Tokyo was short and sweet, but it was quiet, Yoongi giving you the space you needed as he wasn't one to pry into someone's business like most people. He obviously knew you weren't okay after everything that went down and he's done what he could to support you while you had been away from Taehyung, but sooner or later, he knew you'd open up more and he'd be ready to listen with open arms.
"Tired?" Yoongi says, plopping onto his bed after washing up in the bathroom. You both had spent the day exploring, ready to hit another night at the art and music festival in a few hours, give or take.
"A bit, but I'm pretty excited to see what's new tonight." You say very blankly as you continued to spin the ring around your finger. The art and music festival was almost like Coachella, or Outside Lands, being that there were new music artists and illustrators lined up for the three days it was on. It ranged from all kinds of different artists, and it had already been exciting from day one just being able to connect and be in the same space as people with the same passion as you and Yoongi.
"She says, ever so excitedly." You give him a small smirk as you finally turn your attention to him.
"I am!" You chuckle. "Thanks again, Yoongs. For everything."
"No problem. I have to say, I'm pretty happy to be here with you. I think Hobi or Kookie would have given me a headache. They're always so chaotic." You laugh.
"That's what makes them who they are though."
"Yeah and I need you to balance it out." You shake your head and give off a small chuckle before returning your attention to your ring. "Have you heard from Tae?" You simply shake your head.
"No." You respond softly.
"While we're here, let's make the most out of it, yeah? We can figure everything out when we get home." Yoongi and his usage of ‘we’ every single time; it never made you feel alone.
"I know. But—" You turn to look at Yoongi, who was now sitting up against the wall. "Do you think I was too harsh?"
"Too harsh? I honestly thought you were too easy." He puts his hand out and waves it. "Not saying I don't like him or anything. He's definitely earned my respect over time, especially when he really learned how to treat you well. But, this is something he needs to learn on his own too. He has to unlearn that bad habit of acting like the world is out to get him. Like everyone is an enemy and he's the only one left to fend for himself when he has such a big support system, you know? He has to learn, Y/N. And quite frankly, you being around all the time is sweet, but there comes a point where he needs to take control. There's only so much you could do for him."
"I just worry about him all the time."
"You're his fiancé." He chuckled. "Of course you do. But you need to step back a little and let him figure this out. You also shouldn't be putting anything on hold for him. If he can't keep up, then he can't. It's a sad ass truth but life stops for nobody." Yoongi was also in the know about you putting shit on pause with your business and how you had told Jimin to hold off on helping you. He obviously didn't agree with it, and hoped that being here would spark your push even more.
"Yeah." Is all you respond with because quite frankly, you're not really sure what else you can say to that. He was right.
Yoongi was right.
And you just hoped Taehyung could grasp that before it was too late.
As the night comes, you and Yoongi get dressed again to head out for the 2nd night of the festival. The streets are packed just like it was the first night, people swarming to different booths left and right, or heading over to the stages to listen to different music artists present their craft. You hang onto Yoongi's jacket, hoping not to be separated by the sea of people, but you two already decided that you'd meet up at a certain place if you both got lost and couldn't get a hold of each other for whatever reason.
You ended up lingering around a booth that sold super cute pillows and other little home decor - super fucking cute to the point that you were wondering how else you could haul this shit home if you ended up buying the entire booth. You were so invested in your planning that you didn't even realize Yoongi had left your side. You hadn't realized until you asked a question and the stranger next to you gave you a weird look.
"But wouldn't this look cute in our room?" You held it up in front of you, your head cocked to the side to imagine it. "Yoongs?" You turn to see a guy looking at you with pure confusion, brow raised and all. "You're.. not Yoongi." You say to yourself a little louder than you anticipated, the guy simply walking away from you as you slowly put the painting down and check the area. You get on your tippy toes to get a better view and catch his beanie-wearing big head a couple of booths down, a huge smile plastered on his face as he talked to a cute female at another booth. It looked like it was her art that she was showcasing, but you weren't able to catch a glimpse from where you were standing. You make your way over, Yoongi still laughing and talking to the girl in high spirits.
They would definitely look cute as hell together.
"Oh shit, I was just about to call you to meet me here." Yoongi gently grabs your arm and pulls you closer to get a better view of the girl in front of him. You and her definitely had the same taste in art, and she had a similar style in comparison to yours. Nonetheless, you were in awe of her work. "Y/N, this is Luna. Luna, this is Y/N, my bestfriend." He introduces you two. "I literally just came across her booth and thought of you." You smile at her and shake her hand softly.
"Hey! It's nice to meet you." She says cutely. "Yoongi told me quite a bit about you already. You're an artist, too?"
"Yeah I am." You looked at her booth again, running your fingers down her painting to feel the curves of the dry paint against the canvas. "I really, really like your work. How long have you been doing this?"
"Ah, just about a couple of years. To be honest, it wasn't really my thing but I figured I'd try and use it as my outlet for whenever I'm not feeling the greatest." She says.
"She's planning to open up a shop." Yoongi adds, you quickly shooting him a glare because he knew where that stood right now.
"Are you really? I am too! But it's so difficult. Or I guess, I just don't know what I'm doing." She chuckled.
"I was, but just had to deal with a couple of personal things first."
"Maybe you two can talk a little bit more and help each other out." Yoongi shrugs. "You both definitely have the same taste." Yoongi helps himself and shows her your IG page. You watch as she grabs his phone, her eyes lighting up and her smile getting bigger at the few pictures you have up.
"Dude, this is fucking beautiful!" She says. "Oh my god, and you call me talented? You definitely need to give me some tips."
"Yeah, of course." You giggle, feeling a little shy from the compliments you're getting from her. I mean, she made it as part of the vendor list for this festival - why else would she fucking make it? She, too, was talented as hell.
"How long are you both in Tokyo for?"
"For the next couple of days." She nods.
"Cool, maybe we can meet up for dinner or something and talk before you leave?" She hands you her phone to put in your number.
"Yeah of course!"
"Alright, perfect!" She says excitedly. "Well, it was nice to meet you two. I really do hope we can find some time to talk a bit more."
"Same." You smile at her before she quickly gives you both a hug and tends to the others in her booth. You and Yoongi walk away to start checking out the rest of the festival and to grab some food, doing your best to catch everything before the festival was to end for the evening.
"Hey." Yoongi says, eating his corndog while lazily swinging his arm around your shoulder, the both of you trekking back to the airbnb nearby. "Maybe you and Luna can work together on stuff? You both seem to have similar tastes already and the work that you both do are fucking amazing."
"Maybe, we'll see. I don't know her enough. What if she has other goals, you know?"
"True, but she seems genuine."
"She does, she's really nice and super sweet." You smile to yourself before nudging him. "She's cute."
"Yeah, she is." He laughs down at you. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Ohhhh nothing." You chuckle.
"That's not nothing."
"You two just looked really cute when I was looking for your ass in the crowd. I have never seen you smile so big."
"That's not true, you make me smile. Kookie makes me smile. Hobi. Our friends."
"Yeah but you give us like a really small, these are my friends that i have to deal with kind of smile."
"No!" He says defensively.
"Whatever, Min Yoongi. I know you think she's cute and I think you should go for it."
"Let's not rush anything here, okay?" He says in typical grandpa Yoongi fashion. "Besides, she probably already has a boyfriend."
"Excuses. Full of excuses and assumptions." He gently shoves you to the side, causing you to laugh. "See where it goes before you start throwing those out, will you?"
"Alright, whatever you say Y/N." He dismisses you, causing you to smile down at your feet. The rest of the walk home isn't too bad, you immediately calling dibs on the shower so you can hop in bed and rest your body. You don't take long though, and you're hitting the sack in the next 20 minutes, regardless of your wet hair. You lay down, scrolling aimlessly through your phone with the only light coming into the space is the bathroom light from Yoongi taking his shower.
No texts or calls from Taehyung, and it hits you all over again.
You missed him, and you were still so hurt. Was it always going to be this way? Was he just not going to try?
Maybe you two just didn't hurt the same.
You let out a sigh, biting your lip to prevent yourself from crying due to the thoughts circling your head. You set your phone down on the nightstand, turning onto the opposite side to put your thoughts away and finally get some shut eye.
You, Luna and Yoongi sat and talked over dinner at a nearby, affordable mom-and-pop shop. You had stuffed down your entire bowl of japanese curry, your heart [and stomach] content. You had learned a lot about Luna, just as she did with you and you had realized how similar you two were in tastes, goals, family, almost everything. You also found out she lived in the town over from yours and that she only had joined the festival to showcase her art because she hadn't gotten a chance to put herself out there as much. She too, wanted to open her own shop online but hadn't gotten to it because her family had been too busy talking down on her and making sure they're filling her time with 'more useful and productive' tasks instead of her art. Her mom was almost like Taehyung's father - except, she just tried really hard to get Luna to work anywhere instead of pursuing her passion for art. You've come to know how genuinely warm, caring and kind she was, and how much she truly enjoyed art just like you did.
She was almost like your long lost soulmate.
"Why don't we just open a shop together?" You throw out the option, watching Luna's eyes widen and light up. "Seriously, fuck it. Let's just do it together. Jimin and his dad can help if need be but we can figure it out along the way."
"W-wait, really? You'd really wanna do that with me? I-I don't even know what to say, I just think you're so much better than me and—" You put your hand over hers and shake your head.
"Stop, Luna. Seriously. Don't say that. You're an amazing artist and I honestly wouldn't feel as comfortable doing this with anyone else. Let's do it. Let's just say fuck it and do it." Yoongi nods excitedly in his seat.
"Yes! That's the attitude." Luna laughs and nods at Yoongi's remark.
"Okay, fuck it!" She responds with a playful shrug. "Let's do it."
"Hm, so I've also done some reading on getting an official business license and how to set things up." Yoongi pulls out his phone to look at his notes.
"Did you really?"
"Yeah, ever since you told me about the Jimin thing, I've been trying to pull my research to pass on." He looks at you with pursed lips. "It's the least I could do since I barely know shit."
"Yoongs." You pout as you pinch his cheek.
"Yeah, yeah." He says, putting his phone down. "Okay, here." He begins to outline the steps for you, things that already sounded familiar from what Jimin and his father had passed along to you previously. Both you and Luna take down notes on your phone, organizing your thoughts and putting deadlines to certain steps so that it's set in stone. Quite frankly, even though you've appreciated the help from Jimin and his father, you felt 100x better having Luna do these steps with you from beginning to end [hopefully] - from brainstorming, to setting deadlines, to figuring out the website and a brief plan of how to lay things out.
And for a majority of the night, the three of you are planning things out until you get kicked out of the restaurant because of its closing time. Feeling super accomplished and excited for what's to come, the three of you head over to nearby bars to drink and enjoy the remainder of the night, even if that meant staying out until late to take in the rest of Tokyo and its nightlife.
It's been a minute since you've felt completely happy, and carefree. Alive. And you loved every minute of it.
[taehyung♡] 12:36am: i miss you, baby. i hope you're having fun with yoongi. i know i've made a lot of mistakes and empty promises lately, but know that i'm gonna go through hell and back to make this up to you. you're my everything, love. that will never change.
It feels like the world stops for you when you finally see Taehyung's name pop up on your phone. You stand still, while the rest of the world moves. Your feelings come rushing back, and suddenly, the happy, carefree feeling you just experienced dwindled away.
"Hey." Yoongi says, looking down at your screen, puzzled as to why you're just staring at it. He sees Taehyung's name clearly, causing him to give your wrist a gentle squeeze. "Come, let's play a few more games before we head home."
"Okay." You give him a small smile before tucking your phone away without responding to follow Yoongi back inside the arcade.
It's nearing 2am before you and Yoongi are heading back after making sure Luna grabs a taxi back to her place. Although you've put yourself out there and truly tried to enjoy the remainder of the night, you were ending it on a sad note.
Suddenly, you felt incomplete.
You missed Taehyung despite everything that had happened between you two before you left. No matter what, you could never deny your feelings for him and how much he truly meant to you.
"Yoongs." You say, gently dropping your bag to the floor.
"Hm?" He says, throwing his wallet and phone onto the nightstand that separated your bed from his.
"I—" You sigh. "I really miss him."
"I know you do." You turn to face him, eyes watering and throat feeling dry.
"This is so fucking annoying." He chuckles.
"No, don't say that."
"No, I know. I don't mean it. But, sometimes, I really and truly can't understand how it gets this way for me."
"Regardless of all this shit going on, Tae is always going to hit a soft spot for you. He means a lot to you, you don't have to tell anyone that in order for them to see it."
"I just get so scared of what he's capable of, you know? We've seen what he's like. I—" You sigh. "I really don't wanna get hurt, and I hate how this triggered all of these feelings to come back."
"Y/N." He says, coming over to you and pulling you into a hug as you wipe away the few tears that drop. "Please don't cry, we're in Tokyo for fucks sake." You laugh.
"I get it, it's not easy. But I really wanted you to enjoy your time here and give yourself a break. Take a moment to just.. not think about that shit. I promise when we get home, everything will fall into place as it should."
"Thank you. I really do appreciate it."
"No problem, brat." You gently shove him away, chuckling while you watch him act a fool and throw up some finger guns with that gummy smile of his.
129 notes · View notes
"There you are!"
Jaskier burst in through the door of their room. Geralt almost knocked down the sword he was polishing in surprise.
"Fuck, Jaskier! What?"
Jaskier walked over to the Witcher, who was sitting on the bed. The younger man wore a radiant smile and Geralt couldn't help but to feel warm in his chest at the sight of him.
"Close your eyes".
Jaskier had both hands behind his back. Geralt raised a dark eyebrow at him.
"Are you going to punch me in the face for spilling water on you this morning?"
Jaskier rolled his eyes. "No. And that was really rude, by the way".
Geralt gave him half a smile. "I tried to wake you up four times before that. Even tried dragging you by the legs-"
"Shush. Can you just close your eyes, please?"
Geralt frowned slightly, before setting down his sword and closing his eyes.
He heard something rustling and Jaskier chuckling.
"Great. Now open them".
Geralt opened his eyes. Jaskier was holding something big wrapped in a paper sheet.
Geralt blinked at him. "It's not my birthday".
Jaskier seemed unfazed. "Well, someone here wouldn't agree to tell me when his birthday is. So I've decided that it's today. So, happy birthday!"
"Jaskier, I don't like birthda-"
"Jaskier, I don't like birthdays" Jaskier mimicked him, lowering his voice so it would sound more like Geralt's. "I'm Geralt of Rivia, a big, scary Witcher. I only kill monsters and fight with my big, scary brothers".
Geralt raised his eyebrows in amusement. "That was pretty impressing".
Jaskier huffed. "I don't care what you say. Everybody deserves a birthday and we're having one for you, too. If you still refuse to tell me when exactly it is, then we'll just have it today. So... This is for you!".
Jaskier was still holding the present and his smile was even bigger now. Geralt stared at him.
"Don't just stare at it. Take it!".
Geralt took the papers and whatever was inside of them from his hands, placing it on his knees.
Jaskier rolled his eyes again. "Open it".
Geralt unwrapped it. Inside, there was a dark-green, thick and hooded cloak.
"Thought you could use a new cloak" Jaksier said, studying Geralt's expression. "Your old one is all worn out and has holes in it. Not so suitable for the winter, mind you".
Geralt was still staring at the fabric in his hands, silent. Jaskier started to feel a little nervous.
"You don't like it? It's okay, I can still return it-"
"I love it". Geralt raised his head, meeting Jaskier's eyes. He gave Jaskier a warm smile. "It's really great. And useful. Thank you".
Jaskier returned the smile, his eyes glowing.
"But wasn't this expensive?"
Jaskier rolled his eyes for the third time this conversation. "Oh, shut up. Believe me, sometimes my barding makes more money in one night than your witchering does is a month".
Geralt shrugged, still smiling. "Hard to argue with that".
"So you're done with the unnecessary questions? Good, try it on. I took the measurements from your old cloak, but I want to be sure".
Geralt tried it on. It fit him perfectly. He thanked Jaskier again and the bard was beaming.
Setting the cloak aside, Geralt pulled Jaskier into his lap, kissing him softly. He nuzzled the bard's neck, humming quietly.
"You were very close, by the way".
Jaskier turned to look at him, slightly confused. "What?"
"It was last week".
Jaskier raised both eyebrows. "Oh, really. The 22nd?"
Jaskier grinned. "So now I know the real date! Glad I wasn't entirely off".
Geralt smiled again, pecking his nose. "You didn't have to do this. I don't think I've ever done something special on that day, ever since I was a kid".
"And I'm going to fix that. You can claim that this day means nothing to you, but it sure means a lot to me. Like it or not, we're celebrating today and getting drunk".
"Doesn't sound so bad to me".
"Lambert and Eskel are coming to town today".
"Yeah. I need to ask you about their dates too, by the way. Oh, and Yennefer helped Ciri make you something special, also".
"Hey, I didn't tell her to do anything! She's the one that wanted to make something special for her father".
Geralt stared at him. Jaskier giggled.
"You're so adorable when you blush".
"Pff. You love me".
Geralt kissed him again, harder this time. He tangled one hand in Jaskier's hair and grabbed his hip with the other.
"I really do" Geralt murmured against his lips with a wide smile.
Jaskier hugged him, burying his face in Geralt's neck. Geralt gently rubbed a palm between his shoulder blades.
The Witcher hummed quietly. "I guess this means we're doing something next month for our one year anniversary?"
Jaskier laughed into his neck. "You remember. And yes, we are".
"Fuck. I'll think of something".
"That's sweet of you, Geralt. My romantic Witcher".
They both laughed, holding each other tighter and exchanging soft kisses between them.
634 notes · View notes
I’m reading a non-canon short story written by Andrzej Sapkowski about Geralt and Yennefer’s wedding called Something Ends, Something Begins and my heart is literally so full. Even Asaps has to get tired of having so much angst so this short story is a literal fluff-fest and I love it so much.
So I thought I would share some of my favorite quotes from the story and if you all want to read it, here is the link.
"One day she'll break her neck," growled Yennefer, watching Ciri galloping in the splashing water, bent, firm in the stirrups. "One day your crazy daughter will break her neck."
Geralt turned his head and without a word looked into the sorceress's violet eyes.
"All right, then," smiled Yennefer, without averting her eyes. "Sorry, our daughter."
She hugged him again, pressing herself against him firmly, bit him in the arm again, kissed him, and bit him once more. Geralt touched her hair with his lips and carefully pulled her gown over her shoulders.
I am literally...I swear, we finally get domestic Yenralt and it isn’t even in the canon universe. I am literally going to fight someone. This is so damn cute and the way Yennefer is like “our daughter” my goddamn heart.
The list of the guests wasn't that long. The engaged couple compiled it together and charged Dandelion with sending the invitations. Soon it turned out that the troubadour lost the list before he could even read it. Because he was ashamed to confess, he used a cheap trick and invited whomever he could. Of course he knew Geralt and Yennefer well enough that he didn't miss anyone important, but it wouldn't have been him if he didn't enrich the list of the guests by an admirable number of quite random persons.
Why does it just make sense that Dandelion would fuck this up? It’s so in-character, putting him in charge of the guest list was the first mistake.
No one invited the golden dragon Villentretenmerth, because no one knew how to invite him and where to look for him. To the general astonishment the dragon turned up, of course incognito, in the form of the knight Borch Three Jackdaws. Of course, where Dandelion was present, one could not speak of any incognito, but even so few believed when the poet pointed at the curly-haired knight and claimed it was a dragon.
The image of Dandelion just pointing at this dude and yelling “He’s a dragon!” is fucking hilarious, especially when you consider most people don’t know dragons can shapeshift.
"Was it you who invited
"No," the witcher shook his head and silently praised the fact that the mutation of his blood system didn't allow him to blush.
"Not me. I think it was Dandelion, even though all of them claim to have learned about the wedding from the magical crystals."
"I don't want Triss to be present on my wedding!"
"But why? She's your friend."
"Don't make a fool out of me, witcher! Everyone knows you slept with her!"
"That's not true."
Yennefer's violet eyes narrowed dangerously.
"It is true."
"All right," he turned around angrily. "It is true. So?"
The sorceress was quiet for a moment, playing with the obsidian star on the black velvet ribbon around her neck.
"Nothing," she said at last. "I just wanted you to admit it. Never try to lie to me, Geralt. Ever."
I love the little bickering. Also, like, even though Triss and Yennefer are friends try valid of her to not want her at the wedding. She slept with Geralt!! Love how Geralt tries to deny it at first but gives up ten seconds later. Geralt really tried to pull the “just friends” card and Yennefer was having NONE of it.
The doppler accused Villentretenmerth of racism, chauvinism and lack of knowledge on the discussion's topic. Therefore, the insulted Villentretenmerth changed for a moment into his natural dragon form, destroying several pieces of furniture and causing a general panic. When the situation calmed down, a fierce quarrel began, in which humans and non-humans accused each other of lack of open-mindedness and racial tolerance.
A quite unexpected twist in the discussion came from the freckled Merle, the whore who didn't look like a whore. Merle announced that the whole debate was stupid and pointless and didn't concern true professionals, who don't dinstinguish between such things, which she was willing to prove on the spot (for an adequate reward, of course), even with the dragon Villentretenmerth in his natural form.
In the silence that fell abruptly in that instant they heard the female medium proclaim that she's willing to do the same, and for free. Villentretenmerth quickly changed the topic and began discussing safer topics, such as economics, politics, hunting, fishing and gambling.
Everything about this sequence is perfect, absolutely prime. Dragons and Dopplers fighting, Merle saying she would fuck a dragon in dragon form. This has EVERYTHING.
"I'll get going right after the feast," Ciri repeated.
"I want... I want to feel the wind in my face on the back of a galloping horse again. I want to see the stars on the horizon again, I want to whistle Dandelion's ballads at night. I'm longing for a fight, the dance with a sword, I'm longing for the risk, for the delight victory brings me. And I'm longing for solitude. Do you understand me?"
"Of course," Geralt smiled sadly. "Of course I understand you, Ciri. You're my daughter, you're a witcher. You'll do what you must. But I must tell you one thing. One thing. You can't run away forever, even though you'll always try."
"I know," she replied and cuddled herself closer to him. "I still have hope that one day... If I wait, if I'm patient, then I, too, perhaps will live such a beautiful day like this... Such a nice day... Even though..."
"I've never been pretty. And with that scar..."
"Ciri," he cut her off. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world. Right after Yen, of course."
"If you don't believe me, ask Dandelion."
Ciri telling Geralt she wants to travel and move on is just heartbreaking but it makes sense. She has more adventures to go on. Geralt’s story is ending. Hers is beginning. Also Ciri feeling insecure about her appearance and Geralt being a good dad and comforting her? Amazing.
"I have unfinished business there," she hissed. "For Mistle. For my Mistle. Even though I avenged her, but for Mistle one death is not enough."
Bonhart, he thought. She killed him out of hatred. Oh, Ciri, Ciri. You're standing on the edge of an abyss, daughter. Not a thousand deaths would avenge your Mistle. Beware of hatred, Ciri, it consumes like cancer.
"Watch out for yourself," he whispered."I'd rather watch out for others," she smiled ominously. "It pays off more, it works better in the long run."
I will never see her again, he thought. If she leaves, I will never see her again.
"You will," she answered unexpectedly and smiled with a smile of a sorceress, not of a witcher. "You will, Geralt."
When Geralt asks what Ciri plans to do on her travels she literally says: I am going to avenge my dead girlfriend and murder some people. Which is not a healthy coping mechanism but damn if the idea of a gay revenge story doesn’t sound good to read.
The priestesses Iola and Eurneid also sobbed, when Yennefer refused to put on the white wedding dress they had made for her. Not even Nenneke's mediation helped. Yennefer cursed, threw around hexes and dishes, while repeating that she looks like a fucking virgin in white.
The enraged Nenneke began yelling, too, and told the sorceress that she behaved worse than three fucking virgins at once. Yennefer responded by conjuring a ball of lightning and demolishing the roof of the corner tower, which had its good side, too. The crash was so terrible that Caldemeyn's daughter got shock from it and her diarrhea stopped.
Once again, this scene has EVERYTHING. Yennefer getting so pissed it demolishes a tower. The shaking being so bad it stops diarrhea. Also, why does Asaps use diarrhea so often in his books? You know what, I don’t want to know.
Triss Merigold and the witcher Eskel from Kaer Morhen, were seen again, sneaking, arms linked, into the garden summerhouse.
Is that...IMPLIED TRISSKEL?? OKAY THEN. All the Trisskel friends out there: They hooked up at Geralt and Yennefer’s wedding I don’t make the rules.
She looked breathtaking. Black wavy locks, curled up with a golden tiara, fell in a shining cascade over her shoulders and the high collar of a long white brocade dress with black-striped sleeves, pulled together on a bodice with countless drapes of lilac ribbons.
"Flowers, don't forget the flowers," warned Triss Merigold, all in dark blue, and handed a bouquet of white roses to the bride. "Oh, Yen, I'm so happy..."
"Triss, darling," sobbed Yennefer all of a sudden, upon which both sorceresses embraced and kissed the air around their ears and diamond earrings.
"Enough of those endearments," ordered Nenneke, smoothing the folds on her snow-white priestess dress. "We're going to the chapel. Iola, Eurneid, hold her dress, or she'll kill herself on the stairs.
Triss and Yennefer’s friendship is so sweet sometimes. Like, they would literally murder each other but they would also murder FOR each other too.
Yennefer approached Geralt and with a hand in a white lace glove she straightened the collar of his black cloak, embroidered with silver. Geralt offered her an arm.
"Geralt," she whispered into his ear. "I still can't believe it."
"Yen," he answered her in a whisper. "I love you."
I don’t know is Asaps is purposefully referencing Star Wars here but either way this had me tearing up. Geralt and Yennefer deserve a happy ending and even if it’s not officially canon the author wrote it so this is canon in my head.
The wedding was splendid. Ladies and maidens cried collectively. Herwig was the master of ceremony, a former king, but still a king. Vesemir from Kaer Morhen and Nenneke stood in as parents of the betrothed couple, Triss Merigold and Eskel as witnesses.
Okay but why is Asaps sneaking in the Trisskel? I want more of it and this pairing definitely intrigues me. Also Vesemir and Nenneke as their parents? That’s so damn sweet. I swear to fuck this entire short story is too damn cute and I want more of it.
I cannot stress how much I love the energy Merle brings to the table. Saying she would straight up fuck a dragon. The power of it all.
128 notes · View notes
Also, we talked a mill years ago about an Inuyasha AU? You wanted to make G wear the necklace etc. Which OBVIOUSLY is a fantastic idea and I really which you would, please 🤣😘💗
Okay, so this isn’t exactly the necklace bit, but it’s the most Inuyasha crossover thing I could think of at the moment! Also I’m sorry that this has been sitting in my inbox for so long! <3 Oops!
Geralt turns into a human one night a month, during the new moon.
TW: emotional Geralt whump, angst with a happy ending, pining
“Stay in the room,” Geralt instructed, glaring Jaskier down from his place near the door. The bard nodded obediently and made a show of pulling his recently acquired book from his travel bag.
“I might go down and perform for a bit, but I promise not to bring anyone back and I promise not to start any fights.”
“I’d rather you didn’t leave the room at all,” Geralt grumbled, “But I suppose the coin wouldn’t hurt.”
“Where are you going, anyway?”
“Next town over. Nightwraith.”
“Why can’t I come with you?” the bard pouted. His lower lip stuck out slightly and his eyes crinkled so cutely that it always made the Witcher question his ‘human’ parentage; there was a siren’s power in the way he turned up his nose and fluttered his pretty lashes. “Surely I could sit incredibly high up in a very sturdy tree and watch my glorious companion in all his… glory?”
“Excellent word choice,” Geralt rolled his eyes. He hefted his swords over his shoulder and shot the bard another meaningful look. “I’ll see you in the morning. Stay. Safe.”
“Yes, Milord,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, flopping back against the pillows and opening his book. “Return to me in as few pieces as possible, dear heart.”
And with that, Geralt disappeared into the late afternoon light.
There had been several distinctive changes to Geralt’s physical body after the second round of experimental Trials; his hair, of course, and his ghostly-pale skin were the most obvious. His greatest secret, however, and the strangest of all the Trials’ side effects, were the temporary changes he underwent on the nights of the new moon. His Witcher strength and senses abandoned him and his body returned to its pre-Trial state. He became, for all intents and purposes, a normal human man.
He hated it. He hated himself. There was no power behind his punches on his human nights and while he remained graceful and competent with his swords, he lost his speed and dexterity. It left him feeling helpless and alone, and an onslaught of emotions (which he was usually able to suppress or ignore) flooded his mind, pulling tears from his eyes and putting a ruddy redness on his cheeks and ears that he found ugly. No doubt Jaskier would find him just as hideous. And useless…
If he couldn’t protect the bard, the handsome young human who smiled at him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be friends with a Witcher, then what good was he? Keeping Jaskier safe, keeping him alive and smiling like that, was what motivated Geralt to slump his way back to their room even when he wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and pass out from exhaustion. Making sure Jaskier was okay (and, alright, getting his wounds fawned over and his hair washed wasn’t too bad either) was what kept him alive.
I can’t believe I forgot to keep track, Geralt berated himself as he set up his small campfire just inside the mouth of a cave. I almost revealed my secret to Jaskier.
Geralt wasn’t sure which outcome he feared more: Jaskier seeing him in his less horrible state and rejecting him completely for keeping secrets/being a true monster, or Jaskier finding his human body attractive and being even more disgusted by his Witchery appearance. Geralt wouldn’t be able to stand either outcome, so he disappeared into the woods or back to the Path (if Jaskier was stuck in a town, teaching or performing) whenever the night of the new moon arrived.
He sighed and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on his bent knees and setting his chin on one upright palm. He glanced up at Roach and grumbled out an excuse: “I just don’t want to lose him.”
Roach whinnied quietly, reproachfully, and Geralt nodded.
“You’re absolutely right, I should tell Jaskier about all of this, but if I tell him now, after travelling together for so long, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And I do trust him! I trust him as much as I trust my brothers, maybe more considering their pranks… But I don’t want to scare him off, either. I’m such a fucking coward.”
As the last light of day slipped away beneath the horizon and darkness fell, Geralt felt his hair grow coarser and heavier atop his head. His eyesight dimmed and his knowledge of the landscape - every scent and sound - disappeared from his consciousness. The scars on his skin faded away into nothing as his pupils dilated into circles, the irises shifting from honey-gold to a deep, forest green.
From a nearby bush, Geralt heard a familiar voice mutter, “Holy shit.”
He leapt to his feet and backed against the cave wall, throwing his arm across his face to hide it. “Dammit, Jaskier, I told you to stay at the inn!”
The bard took a nervous step forward, away from his hiding place, and waved bashfully. “Sorry, dear heart. Are you really- is it really you in there, Geralt?”
“Yes?” the Witcher-turned-human raised an eyebrow, lowering his arm back down to his side with no small amount of shame. “Who else would it be?”
“Well,” the bard said, taking a measured step forward. “I wasn’t sure if this was, like, a reverse-werewolf type deal. I didn’t know if you’d have the same memories as before or- or if-”
“It’s still me,” Geralt blushed, actually blushed, and dipped his head down to avoid Jaskier’s curious gaze. “I’m sorry for not telling you before, but-”
Geralt glanced back up, even more confused, his emotions playing havoc with his pulse. “I- Don’t I owe you an apology?”
“No,” Jaskier said, settling down on the rocky ground across the fire and gesturing for Geralt to join him. The flames lit up his face, highlighting the roundness of his cheeks and the softness in his eyes. So youthful, yet so determined. “If you’re still Geralt in here” - he tapped the side of his head and grinned playfully - “then you’re still my best friend.”
“Oh yeah, my Witcher is definitely in there somewhere,” Jaskier laughed brightly. The sound wound down and he wiped a tear of glee from the corner of his eye. After a long, sobering pause he asked: “So is this what you looked like before… they did all that stuff to you?”
“Before the Trials? Yes. This is what I looked like fifty years or so ago, when I was young and mortal. My shoulders are wider, of course, but that’s just old age.”
Jaskier made his way slowly around the fire, inching closer to Geralt, who had finally taken a seat on his bedroll. When the bard was right next to him, close enough for Geralt to feel their combined body heat through his shirt, he took a lock of Geralt’s hair in his hand. “It’s… it’s not as soft, like this. But it has curls! And it’s almost red!”
Jaskier looked overjoyed at the change, and every one of Geralt’s fears flashed before his eyes. He was tempted to wrench away, to fling himself up into Roach’s saddle and ride hard until they both needed a rest.
But Jaskier had begun talking again, and Geralt did his best to pay attention. “It’s different, but not bad. I think you’re only slightly more handsome when you’re a Witcher, but your eyes are a lovely shade of green and I’d love to do up your hair someday… if you’d like that. If you’d let me.”
Geralt made a startled noise and turned his head sharply, his eyes boring into Jaskier’s very soul. “Do you mean it?”
“You don’t- you aren’t mad? Or scared? You don’t think I’m more approachable like this? You wouldn’t prefer me to be like this - like a human - all the time?”
Jaskier shook his head, a sadness Geralt often noticed but didn’t understand falling over his face. “Oh Geralt, you silly, silly, wonderful man. I don’t lo-” - he paused, took a deep breath, and continued - “I love you, okay? As a Witcher. Like this. I have always loved you and I will always love you, regardless of what you look like, but I fell in love with the White Wolf. The man whose reputation needed mending and whose heart… whose heart is so incredibly large despite how often the world tries to harden it.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped. He clutched at his chest, the ache he felt there intensifying a hundredfold under Jaskier’s steady gaze. “I love you, too. I never thought-”
“You often don’t,” the bard teased, closing the space between them with careful, intentional slowness. “Now, keep up the good work and stop thinking entirely. Just kiss me, Geralt. Please?”
“Would you like it if I kissed you?” the Witcher asked, incredulous. Jaskier lifted one delicate hand and slid a lock of Geralt’s curly hair back behind his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek and smiled.
“Very much, darling.”
“Alright,” Geralt breathed, closing the space between them. It felt so much more intense like this, with his heart beating as quickly as Jaskier’s, threatening to burst from his chest because it was overflowing with happiness. His hand, smooth and unblemished in its current state, cupped the peach-soft skin of the bard’s cheek. He ran his thumb over the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, feeling the bone and joint working as their mouths moved together. When they finally pulled apart they were both beaming broadly, “Was it okay?”
“You’re very soft like this,” Jaskier noted. “But I miss your eyes and your hair… when will my Geralt return?”
“I’m still yours, Jaskier. Even when I look like this,” Geralt frowned. Jaskier took one of the Witcher’s hands in both of his and held it flat over his heart.
“I know, my dear. And I’m always yours, of course. It’s just… odd. I’ll get used to it the more often I see it, I’m sure. How long does it usually last?”
“I’ll be back to normal when the sun rises.”
“Come here,” Geralt held up the corner of his blanket. Jaskier shifted so that they were cuddled together, side-by-side. “Better?”
“Now that I’m with you? Of course.”
117 notes · View notes