#it gets under his skin and jaskier fucking knows it

[annmarcus63]

So what if Jaskier confessed his feelings? After seeing Geralt fight a monster and almost lose his life for it. I love you, fool. He would say sobbing. Or maybe he’d say it on one of those nights when he and Geralt would stay up late drinking ale and playing Gwent. One of those nights when Geralt lets himself go and laughs at Jaskier's jokes (or at him) in a free and uninhibited way.  hahaha, I love you! he’d say between guffaws. 

But Geralt doesn't love him, so he says nothing. He doesn't love him, but maybe... he could. But not now, he's not ready. …yet? His relationship with Yennefer is complicated, he loves her, she makes him happy. But maybe he could love...Jaskier.  But before things get better they get hopelessly worse. Geralt changes, something is crawling under his skin and he feels threatened by Jaskier’s feelings. By that all-consuming love that now recognises in the bard's eyes. 

Jaskier notices the distance between them. An ugly, dying presence that wants to separate them. Geralt is the first to be overcome. As soon as Jaskier reaches out to touch him Geralt turns away with a grunt. He feels like an unwanted plague, a disease. He cries sometimes, but he's ok. 

"I shouldn't have said anything '' he whispers one night, they're lying on the bed. An immense space between them, even though their shoulders are almost touching. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Forgive me." Fat, ugly tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. But before he can clean them Geralt is there. He grabs him by the face and wipes away the tears with his thumbs. "Don't cry. Don’t cry because of me.” 

Geralt's expression is pure anguish "I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know… how to… fuck, I'm sorry." Jaskier gets up on his elbows and Geralt kneels between Jaskier's legs, successfully trapping him, deep down he fears the bard will leave. "I'm not going anywhere." Jaskier assures him as he places a hand over one of Geralt's, still on the bard’s face. 

"You should." Geralt. 

"I won't leave." And then Geralt wraps his arms around him and flips them both onto the bed. They fall asleep like this. Jaskier smiles onto the witcher's chest, and Geralt feels as if he's holding everything that matters. He's holding someone he might love.

#jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #the witcher #oh look ! #anguish but with an immidiate happy ending #sort of #mine

[starfirewildheart]

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 3,936

Chapter 1

Ciri was trying to hide her chuckle at Geralt’s low growl but couldn’t keep quiet. The red spot on his forehead was already fading to soft pink due to his witcher healing powers. She’d been frightened at the goat-like creature that had jumped from the bushes at first because it looked like the demons she’d read about in books. Geralt had told it to go away but it shot a metal ball at him from a slingshot, catching the witcher in the forehead with a loud thunk. After a low growled “fuck” Geralt was off of Roach and had the little menace pinned to the ground. The entire scene was more than funny to Ciri and even though Geralt cast her a very frustrated glare she couldn’t help but laugh. 

This lifestyle was a far cry from what she was accustomed to as the princess of Centra and coupled with the loss and trauma she’d suffered she was glad for the levity. It had only been four days since she’d managed to find her protector and while she felt safe with him she was still uncomfortable with what being someone’s ‘child surprise’ meant. What were the implications of being a child surprise? Was she to be the Witcher’s mate when she got older? Was he just to be her guardian? What was expected of her? Was he now her owner? Could he sell her if he wanted to? Did she have any say in what was going to become of her? There had been no time to ask any of these things because it seemed something was always trying to kidnap or kill her. She’d seen Geralt fight several times in just the short time they’d been together and as reluctant as she was to admit it, even to herself, the witcher intimidated her greatly.  

Geralt had led them to a small town to get a room for the night. Ciri had never been more grateful for a hot bath and a bed. At dinner, she was introduced to the bard, Jaskier, who had been performing at the inn. She was surprised Geralt and Jaskier were friends as they were so different. They were like night and day. She wasn’t happy when her protector left her with the bard with a simple rumbled, “Stay.” She protested but he told her he had to take a contract and earn some coin if they were going to continue to eat. She sat at the inn for nearly a full day before he returned. He was covered in blood and muck and what looked to be entrails as he swept into the bar. The silence was deafening as he approached the mayor of the town and dropped a cloth bag containing a severed Endrega head on the table in front of him. The next morning he used some of the coin to get a horse for Ciri and they headed off, that was two days ago. 

Ciri finally worked up the courage to speak. “Where are we going?”

“Dorian.”

The witcher was a man of very few words and sometimes having a conversation was like pulling teeth. “Why?”

“Information.” Geralt wasn’t trying to be difficult but something was off. He felt a hum throughout his body. It was similar to when a monster was near yet not quite the same and he didn’t know what it was. It had him on high alert and he was trying to focus on their surroundings. 

“Can you speak in full sentences?” she huffed softly thinking he wouldn’t hear her.

“Yes, I can,” he arched a brow in her direction. “I may be a mutant but I am an educated one.” Geralt hissed and cringed; his shoulder and back felt as if they had been licked by fire. He could feel blood trickling down his skin and pulled Roach to a stop

“I didn’t mean to…” she blushed. “Geralt?” she asked worriedly.

He was off his horse and removing his shirt with a hiss. “Fuck!” The air felt electric and the pull he felt was even stronger. He wanted to run into the woods and find whatever was doing this. He looked up when Ciri came to him. “Hand me the kit in my pack.”

“What happened?” she gasped as she saw the large slash that went from his right shoulder down to his waist in a slight inward arc.

“I don’t know.” He laid out the kit and found the healing potion he needed. He poured half of it down his back on the wound itself, the sting making him growl then he drank the rest. “What the fuck is happening?” he wondered aloud. 

Ciri took one of the bandages, wet it from one of the water skins and started gently dabbing at the bloodll. Geralt tensed, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t but you can’t get to all of this to clean it on your own. What happens if it gets infected?” She took her hand and turned the witcher back around. She knew it was only because he allowed it but still she wanted to be of use. His muscles were rigid and tense the entire time she was touching him. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” He tried to hide the unease in his voice. He wasn’t used to someone caring for his wounds unless he was at Kaer Morhen. It made him uncomfortable. 

“There, finished,” Ciri said as she got the last of the blood off his skin. The wound was no longer open and bleeding but it still looked very red and angry. 

Geralt pulled his other shirt from his bag and quickly put it on. “We need to keep moving.”

They rode in silence for a bit before Ciri spoke again. “Has anything like that ever happened to you before?”  

“Quiet” he whispered as he pulled Roach to a stop again. The feeling was much stronger now. It was pulling him toward the forest. Whatever it was that was guiding him didn’t seem dangerous but he couldn’t be sure. His first instinct was to ask Vesimer but of course, that would have to wait until he saw him at Kaer Morhen. For now, he had to trust his instincts. 

A loud wolf’s howl ripped through the air and made Ciri jump. “Geralt!” 

“Stay on your horse. You aren’t in any danger,” the witcher assured her. He slid off of Roach and handed her reins to Ciri. “Stay close.” He walked farther down the trail, sword at the ready. The scent of blood and sulfur hit him before he saw the remains of the first body. “Wait here.” 

Ciri was frightened but did as he told her. Somehow the witcher seemed to have a calming effect on her even though she was scared. 

Geralt walked farther away from the road into the woods and he saw a small camp. As he looked around the area he counted the bodies of about twenty Nilfgaard warriors littered on the ground. It looked as though they had been torn apart by animals and fed upon. They were in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. Suddenly he saw movement. Someone was alive. He rushed over to the prone body and knelt down. 

Naurel saw someone approaching but did not have anything left in her to fight with. This was the end for her and she was grateful for it. The pain was finally over she thought to herself as she saw a giant cloaked figure approach. Just as hands reached for her the world faded to black.

Ciri gasped when she saw Geralt running back toward her with a woman in his arms. An unconscious, bloody woman. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. There seemed to be a fight of some sort. Maybe with a beast or animal, I’m not sure. She is the only survivor.” He knelt on the ground lowering her gently so he could examine her. “Get my bag and bring me the bandages and my kit,” he ordered as he moved to unbutton the top of the woman's dress. 

 Ciri knelt down beside him to help and she had to look away from all the gore. “What would do something like that?”

“No beast that I know of,” Geralt growled. “This was done by humans.” He wiped away all the dirt and blood he could in an attempt to help her. “This is beyond my skill,” he sighed. “We need to get her to Lakeside. They will have a healer and with any luck, Triss will be there.” He knew the sorceress frequented Lakeside and stayed there with the healer a lot. She enjoyed the quiet and the herbs that grew by the lake. Geralt lifted the woman onto Roach and climbed up behind her. “We must ride quickly. Keep up,” he ordered as he urged Roach on. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Triss smiled as she heard people start whispering about the approaching witcher. One thing about a small village was that news of visitors spread like wildfire. She was anxious to see Geralt. It had been too long. Her smile faded however when she opened the door and saw the near lifeless woman in his arms. “Get her on the table, quickly.”

Geralt laid the woman down and helped Triss start removing her dress. He noticed among the wounds was one just like the one he got on his back before finding her. “Found her in the woods. She was the only one left alive out of about twenty Nilfgaardian soldiers. No sign of what or who did this though.” They stopped short of bearing her completely. No one noticed Triss's friend the healer slip out the door.

“These wounds are not from a beast or animal Geralt. A human; likely a sorcerer or mage did this to her,” Triss worried. She turned to the young girl that was with them. “Fill the tub with hot water. Use the tea tree oil and add some of the liquid soap to the left.” She saw Geralt arch his brow in question. “There are so many wounds the best way to ensure we cleanse them all is to put her in a tub loaded with antiseptic. Normally I wouldn’t because it will be incredibly painful but she’s unconscious.”

Geralt removed his armor and dropped it on the floor out of the way before tossing his shirt aside as well. As soon as the water was ready they rid her of the last of her clothing and he lifted her into his arms. Carefully carrying her the few steps over and lowering her into the water. The maiden’s eyes snapped open at the searing pain and she started to thrash about and struggle. Geralt grabbed her wrists in both his hands and held her still. “Shh, you’re going to cause yourself further injury. We are here to help you. My name is Geralt and this is Triss. She is a sorceress. She’s going to heal you.” 

The maiden’s mouth opened to scream at her to get away but the only sound that escaped her was a wheezing rasp. She wanted nothing to do with another sorcerer. Why couldn’t she just die? What had she done to anger the gods enough to make them let this happen to her? She could feel the restraints around her wrists and it took a moment to register that they weren’t metal cuffs but huge hands holding her still. For the first time, she forced herself to focus on the looming figure above her. Her emerald green eyes met gold and she slowly calmed down. She didn’t know why but all the fight drained from her as his low, growling voice soothed her and her eyes slipped shut again.

Ciri positioned another bucket of water under the woman’s hair as it draped over the back of the tub. She began scrubbing and picking muck and bone fragments out of her hair while Triss and Geralt cleaned her body. Ciri couldn’t help but stare at the witcher as he gently cleaned and cradled the maiden's arms and legs. She hadn’t seen the gentle side of him and it helped her relax to know he wasn’t always such a brute as he seemed. 

The snarl Geralt let out when he started washing her feet made them all jump. Triss quickly moved to see what he was so upset about. There were bruises and lash marks from a cane where the bottoms of her feet had been beaten raw. “It’s a war crime,” he growled in answer to Triss’s unspoken question. “They do it so the person can’t stand to run away. I haven’t seen anything like this since Falka’s Rebellion.”

Once she was cleaned Geralt moved her back to the table and Triss covered her breasts and pelvis with towels to preserve what she could of her modesty. “I can’t heal all of this,” she sighed. “I can heal the internal injuries, probably the broken bones and the worst of the burns but she is going to have a very long recovery.”

Geralt nodded, “do what you can.” 

“Girl,” Triss called to Ciri, who was now sitting in a chair by the fire. “I need to go out behind the cabin and collect all the wildflowers you can for me. I need the stems to be about this long,” she showed her with her fingers.  “Take those two baskets and that cloth bag by the door. As quick as you can.” Ciri nodded and ran out the door. 

Triss pushed up her sleeves and prepared for a long session of healing. “ Hold her so she doesn’t hurt herself more. Healing bones is extremely painful and the burns won’t be much better.” Several hours and most of the flowers in the village later Triss was passed out in her bed, exhausted and Ciri was asleep in the den.

Geralt sat beside the woman and kept the fire going in the kitchen. He put his shirt back on but was too tired to even bother buttoning it as he leaned back in one chair and put his feet up in another. He finally took the time to really look at her and study her features now that she was stable. Her hair was fire red, her skin as pale as his own, and her eyes almost crystal green. She was tall, with long legs, slender but muscular build. He could tell she was used to hard work be it on a farm or as a servant. She had several scars on her back and legs that looked like she’d been whipped and beaten throughout her life and he wondered where she’d come from. He took her small hand in his large one. “Who are you m’lady and what drew me to you?” he asked.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfic #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii

[julek]

Jaskier turns in his bedroll again.

“—fucking winter and its wintery fucking— cold as balls, ice frozen—”

“Jask?”

“—good for nothing— oh.” His tossing stops. The ground is so fucking cold. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

One golden eye peers at him. He would say Geralt looked annoyed, but he can’t see most of his face, tucked as it is under his cloak, so he chooses to interpret it as friendly concern. “Your muttering did.”

Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him, even though Geralt probably can’t see him either, with his scarf tied around his neck and covering most of his face. “Sorry. Just...”

“Can’t sleep?”

Jaskier shakes his head. It’s their fifth year on the Path together, the first one Geralt’s invited him along to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with him — and Jaskier’s excited, really, but sleeping on the forest floor with a thin bedroll and definitely not enough blankets kind of dampens his spirits a little.

They’ve laid their bedrolls side by side, the fire keeping their feet warm, but still Jaskier can’t fend off the chill that’s seeped into his bones. He would blame it on his frilly, beautifully impractical clothing, with its soft but thin fabrics, with its stunning trim but no insulation, but if he did, he’d basically be agreeing with Geralt, and he can’t have that. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

(He still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Witchers are mind-readers). (Geralt is awfully quiet whenever Jaskier brings it up, and, well, one can never be too careful).

So he’s been tossing and turning and singing lullabies to himself in a feeble attempt of finally succumbing to a warm, deep sleep. Not that it’s worked, anyway.

The single golden eye looks considering, now.

“Wha—?” Jaskier manages before Geralt stands up, the bare skin under his sleep shirt immediately reacting to the cold air of the forest and erupting in gooseflesh.

Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.

(It smells like horse).

“There,” says Geralt, not unkindly, his voice a bit rough. “That’ll help.”

“Well,” Jaskier replies, trying to adjust the blanket without taking his hands out of his bedroll, which proves impossible. “Thanks.”

Before he can sit up straight and, like a sane person, rearrange the blanket on top of himself, Geralt’s doing it for him. His hair is a mess from where he’s been laying on it and he’s squinting, but his hands are warm as they reach for the ends of the blanket and he tucks them into Jaskier’s bedroll, making sure his body is covered.

“You’re tucking me in,” Jaskier whispers, something that suspiciously feels like love standing on his heart a little.

Geralt smiles. He smiles his soft smile, the one where his lips stretch over his face and they’re pink and pretty and there’s a shine in his eyes.

“I guess I am,” he replies, checking no corners have been missed. “We’ll reach the mountain soon. No more cold nights after that.”

Jaskier smiles. He doesn’t know what it might look like on his face, lips chapped and slightly cracked. He hopes it shows his gratitude for him.

Geralt sits back on his haunches. The smile is still there. Fonder, somehow.

“What, no kiss goodnight?” Jaskier murmurs, because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself.

“Mm,” Geralt says, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he’s getting up to leave, but then Geralt leans forward and there’s a gentle, sweet kiss being pressed to his forehead. His smile is bigger when he turns away. “There. Goodnight.”

Jaskier can feel the warmth on his skin, the skin Geralt pressed a kiss to. He can feel it seeping into his bones.

When he turns around, blanket firmly secured, Geralt is watching him from his own bedroll.

“Goodnight,” he mouths at him, and Geralt closes his eyes.

His cloak is covering half his face again, but Jaskier can see the smile he’s hiding anyway.

#mywriting #HELLO im alive #was yearning for some soft winter softness in that weird timeline fics were set in between s1 and s2 we all so dearly love #also im cold. #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff

[winters-mistress]

A Fatal Delusion

This night, Geralt will sleep. And this night, Geralt will dream.

His shoulder screams in pain, a pain burning hot and sharp that it makes him shudder and writhe, yelling out into the distance. It echoes, and he is surprised at how high-pitched it is. He's so warm, his throat burns, his skin is uncomfortably hot, slick with sweat. He's clammy and his head hurts, why does it hurt? Why does everything hurt so fucking much?

"Geralt? Yennefer?" He feels his throat move with the words, but he does not speak them. His lips are chapped and his high pitched voice cracks, his body is not his own. "Geralt? Yennefer? Jaskier?" His voice raises, although it produces nothing but an echo.

Ciri he breathes, and alas, his voice is as deep and gruff as ever. It only echoes in his head, not in his ears, and he is confused and disorientated.

He crunches his abdomen, looking over from left to right, ignoring the pain all around him as he takes in his surroundings. Sand, so much red sand. For as far as he can see, hot red sand and bright blue sky. Red, blue, red, blue. No changes, no abnormalities, just red and just blue.

Fuck, his shoulder hurts.

He can feel his throat moving, the high pitched voice muttering as a suspiciously small hand grabs his injured shoulder and roughly forces it into the joint.

A scream forces past his lips, and he looked down at his lap. Brown leather, skinny legs. Fuck, what was this?

Ciri, he breathes inside his mind again. Is this where she is? Is this where his girl is after she and their enemy were blown away by a brilliant light? Fuck, where is she? How can he get to her?

"Where are you?" He asks, but he doesn't make any sound, not in his head or in the distance in front of his girl. No echo, no nothing.

"Geralt? Yennefer?" Ciri's voice grows more frantic as she climbs to her feet, looking around in circles. "Please, where are you?" she calls, but nobody answers.

"No, don't leave me." she collapses against her knees, and he is dragged backwards. Backwards and backwards and backwards, at a speed so high that it pushes his hair in front of his face, makes his back cool with the wind, a pressure against his shoulders and torso, gripping tight and pulling hard and backwards and backwards and cold and pressure until-

heat. Bright, hot heat all over his body.

Geralt looks up from the deep red sand and forward in front of him. He inhales slowly, his body aching, his head pounding.

Suddenly, everything is dark. There's a strange temperature in the air, neither hot nor cold, neither warm or cool. There's a breeze, the stars shine, but neither of these things bring comfort when he sees Ciri's face. How thin it is, how dirty, her hair messy and hidden under a cloth.

"You told me I could be the last to change things. What did you mean?" Her voice is hoarse, thirty and tired.

"Ciri." He whispers, reaching out for her. But she seems to neither see or hear him, continuing to speak to the figure she's staring at.

That figure, it brings him comfort to know she is not alone. Not alone in her suffering or her imprisonment in this mysterious desert. His anxiety relaxes when he realises that she has somebody when he cannot be with her, must be with Yennefer, ever since her injury and Ciri's disappearance from seemingly the continent weeks ago, Vilgefortz disappeared just the same.

The figure speaks, and he realises it's a woman.

"You know you're powerful." she speaks with an accent, although he cannot place it. Somewhat similar to Yarpen's, perhaps?

"Is that another thing we have in common?"

Ciri's exhausted, he realises. He doesn't know how long she's been here, and he suddenly worries how the fuck she's managed here this long. What has she eaten, drunk, how can she not portal out of this place?

"I always had a talent for attracting friends. I should have been queen. But when my father denied me my royal destiny, I decided to rally the common folk. And with their help, I took back what was rightfully mine in the only way I knew would send an unforgettable message." The woman stops speaking to her, and Ciri speaks now. He looks at her, tries to touch, but his hand goes through her shoulder as if he's a ghost.

"Blood and fire. I've heard that story." her voice wavers, and her hand twitches. He knows that twitch, the ache of a need of a hilt of a blade in the palm. Always, just a little bit too much like him.

"Fitting, since in the end, they tied me to a stake and burned me alive."

The figure turns, and Ciri swallows thickly, but she isn't shocked or scared or in disbelief. She's barely even surprised.

"You're falka? The stories say you were a demon. A cursed elven monster." her voice becomes clearer now, and Geralt looks at her.

By the gods, Ciri is hallucinating a long dead elven rebel that lived in Stregobor's prime. He feels guilt stab in his stomach, he should be with her. Should have found a way to keep her safe so she wouldn't be loosing her mind from dehydration and hunger, stumbling helplessly in a desert a thousand miles away from all who love her.

Ciri's mouth opens, and Geralt is shot backwards once again. He cannot draw in a breath to yell, he cannot stop the hands that grab him, he cannot do anything of the cold at his back and the heat at his face. He cannot even move his body, all he can do is endure the power that moves him from place to place like a doll on strings until he's finally released.

This time, he cannot see his physical form, doesn't even know if he has one anymore. All he has is a visual point just higher than his usual eye height, and his eyes immatley fall onto his daughter.

"Wake up, Cirilla!"

Falka is still with her, and he has no breath to draw in or voice to shout as he watches her grab at Ciri's hair and push her face close to the flames. The girl sobs. Falka's face is close to Ciri's, her nose nearly pressed into the girl's ear.

"When the flames licked my face, I didn't cry out. I tapped into the curse everyone said I embodied. The same one that runs through you. History repeating itself. Except it isn't a curse. It's a gift. One they either wish to use you for or destroy you for. They killed Lara Dorren for it. Burned me at the stake for it. But you, Cirilla... you're different. You will change everything."

Ciri is forced deeper into the fire. It occurs to him that she is not burning, her porcelain skin doesn't blister or redden, her hair and clothes do not catch alight. She sees something in the flame that he cannot, and whatever she sees pains her.

"That unicorn you saved, he ran from you. You saved his life, and he repayed you with abandonment. Your mother, your father. They left you before they got on that boat. Your grandparents, they had a choice to remain with you, and they chose not. That magic friend of yours, and he chose not. Your elvish friend, he turned his back on you. Your bard, your witcher and your sorceresses, turned to another's arms and left you to fall into mine. They are gone, Cirilla! All of them turned their backs on you, and look at you now!"

"No, no, no!" Ciri sobs, and suddenly, he can see through Ciri's eyes what she sees in the fire.

It's he and Yennefer, bare and sweaty, rolling in the sheets of the temple.

"You know as well as I do that this is in current time. They have abandoned you, Cirilla. The witcher has turned his back on you, neither of them pay a thought to you. You are alone, hours from death and injured, and they do not pay a single thought. They do not care, Cirilla! It's time you realised that!"

Ciri's cries stop suddenly, and she inhales sharply.

"That's it." Falka whispers. "Harden your heart, Cirilla. You do not need anybody, least of all those who hurt you and abandon you. There will be a time of contempt. And then, finally, you can take back what's yours. Your wrath is righteous. Your revenge is justice. They deserve to suffer. Make them. Those you love will betray you, too. Trick you. You'll always be their pawn. Feel your rage, child of the Elder Blood. And let the world burn with it."

Ciri's eyes close, and Geralt feels the fire as it explodes all around them.

Geralt shoots up with a strangled gasp. His skin burns, wet with sweat. His eyes are wide, and he rips at rhe blankets to try and remove them from his legs.

"Geralt! Geralt, what is it? What's wrong?" Yennefer's hands are small and her voice is gentle, but the pain and panic in his chest doesn't evade. His struggles stop as the door flies open.

Nenneke rushes inside.

"Geralt!" she gasps. "Travellers have come with word of the contininent."

"What? What is it?" His voice shows as much panic as his eyes do.

"Half the frying pan has gone up in flame, my friend. We both know that there's only one person alive capable of that."

"No." He whispers.

"Yes, Geralt. To find her, your best bet is the end of the Korath Dessert. Melitele, the carnage, Geralt. All the monsters and the somehow lives, all the sand. It's burned to blackened ash. I fear Cirilla's balance will never scale if you do not find her. And soon."

Far, far away, bright emerald eyes open and she looks at the faces up above her. Rough and raggedy.

"Get out of the way."

"Let me see."

"Out of the way! Let me look."

"Gies a look!"

"It's her, all right."

"How can you be sure she's the one?"

"Seen many an ashen-haired, green-eyed whelp on the edge of the desert? You dickless knobhead. This is the girl he's looking for."

Falka feels fire gathering in the cup of her palm, and she is not afraid.

#geralt and ciri #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #cirilla of cintra #yennefer x geralt #yennefer of vengerberg #falka #witcher falka #fanfiction #witcherfanfiction #witcher season 3

[dapandapod]

For Mermay:

Geralt/Jaskier underwater singing

YES PLEASE and thank you for indulging me. I had to stop everything to write this, right now and immeadiately. I hope you enjoy! <3

Send me a pairing and a word, and I give you a fic?

On Ao3 here

Jaskier scoffs but doesn’t say anything when the witcher starts explaining different beasts to him that the first year they travel together.

His beastiarity about Mer is so fantastically outdated, and one would think someone as well traveled as Geralt would have a bit more updated view of people below water.

But correcting him means offering up a piece of Jaskier’s past that he is not sure will be well received, so he keeps his mouth shut.

The monsters in Jaskier’s songs that first time they met, they do exist. They are just not from the surface world. In his childhood, Jaskier remembers dark shadows from above, diving down and with sharp fangs reaching for his siblings.

Kelp can be a great cover, but there are beasties that know them even better than Shore Mer.

There is a reason you can’t find Lettenhove on a map. Well, technically you can, and it is a acknowledged county in books of old, but it is a lake. Was a lake, now a part of a river leading to the shore. They are still there, forgotten by almost everyone.

It is Deep Mer who has fish tales. Beautiful women from the depths with their beautiful voices and glistening skin and scales, luring fishers with them into the darkness, that is how the world thinks of Mer. There is only one type of human too, right?

No, Jaskier will not correct Geralt.

He is tempted that one time when he sees his witcher whistle, communicating in ways of old with the Deep Mer.

He is tempted again, when he refuses the lord, but holds back when all is said and done.

The secret is not only his to keep, and with Essi now exploring the surface world too, he keeps the words locked behind his teeth.

Still, Jaskier needs water sometimes. When the weather is fine, he bullies Geralt into swimming with him in a pond. He spends almost more time than Geralt in a bath, and when apart, he finds ways to submerge in rivers and lakes and sea alike.

Shore Mer are different, adapted for a life of both. While dry, his smattering of scales retreat, his feet less flat and flipper like.

They are not Selkies, no, those are something else. Drowners too, are nothing alike a Shore Mer, except for owning legs and having a similar swimming pattern. It’s unavoidable, given how you need to move in water to get anywhere without looking, well…. Like Geralt currently does.

Geralt didn’t join him to the coast after that blasted mountain. Didn’t even mention the presence of a hot spring, despite the middle of winter making the halls of the keep barely bearable.

He did, however, trail behind Jaskier on his way down the lake below Kaer Morhen, snow and ice slippery under their feet. Jaskier never heard him, never saw him, just felt the pull of the water, the intense need to Change.

Jaskier didn’t notice Geralt was there until he was below the ice with him. Cold water never bothered Jaskier much, his body regulating itself to keep him alive, but Geralt, noble, stupid, idiot Geralt, did not know this.

He dove into the water, clothes and all, attempting to save a bard that did not need saving.

In the end, it was Jaskier who had to drag a nearly hypothermic Geralt back up to the keep, and only then did he learn of the fucking hot springs.

When Geralt finally looked and felt like an icicle, there was a long, long conversation, bordering on argument.

Terse silence ruled for almost a week, until Geralt finally caved, the stubborn fucking idiot. 

Not only for Ciri’s sake, they lingered well past spring. 

Jaskier finally braves correcting the witchers about Mer, lecturing them about how the information is for their ears only. They, out of all people, should know the dangers of being seen as different.

On a spring day when the sky is startlingly blue, Jaskier invites Geralt to swim with him. With the help of the Killer Whale potion, the witcher manages to mostly keep up with him.

Below the surface, the light is murky, particles glimmering where the rays of sun pierce the darkness. 

Singing under water is… different. Vocal cords sound different with water instead of air. 

It’s been a while since he felt safe enough to sing below the surface, because of both land and water creatures, but with Geralt with him, there is no doubt.

The lullaby he starts with is soft, lapping like waves against the shore, dancing with the currents of the sea. He sings of the stars, only visible to him if he leaves his world.

In his own tongue, he sings of a wolf. There technically isn’t a word for wolf, but that one time he sang it for Essi, she understood.

All the while, Geralt is watching him. Eerie and beautiful as his hair fans around him like a white crown, eyes of a predator. Every once in a while, he has to go and breathe, and when he returns, Jaskier has lost himself in the movements of his song.

When they heave themselves up on one of the big rocks by the edge of the lake, Geralt is quiet. Jaskier stretches out on the rock, letting the sun dry his skin back to the smooth planes he is now more used to.

The witcher watches him, but Jaskier doesn’t feel threatened.

He closes his eyes, and doesn’t open them again until a shadow closes out the sun. Geralt’s hair is dripping with cold water, his thumb coarse against Jaskier’s cheek, but his lips so infinitely soft.

Geralt kisses him like he can’t help himself, and Jaskier kisses him back like he has only ever dreamed of.

“I’m sorry I made you feel you had to keep this from me,” Geralt murmurs, knocking their foreheads together after some good long moments. Jaskier’s breath comes short, and he smiles.

“If it were only my secret to tell, I wouldn’t have.” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt scrunches up his forehead in that adorable way of his when he is concerned. 

“You still look like a drowner when you swim.” Geralt says, ruining the moment completely, and Jaskier shoves him back into the water as punishment.

When Geralt gets out of the water, he traps Jaskier under him, cold water dripping over sun heated skin. 

Laughing and kissing under a pale spring sun is just a new step on the path they walk together. A path that always calls for a witcher and his bard.

#mermay #geraskier #the witcher #mermay 2023 #jaskier #geralt of rivia #all the canons i could find and remember #and some of my own mer lore because why not #essi davens #lettenhove #kaer morhen #fluff #getting together #idiots in love #kissing #dapanda writes

[dat-carovieh]

I don't fear you, I fear for you

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Wordcount: 844

Tags: potions, misunderstanding, worried Jaskier, self hating Geralt, first kiss

Read on AO3

As Geralt was returning to his camp, he was covered in grime, potions still running hot through his veins. The Kikimore had been a tough one, in the end he had cut open it’s belly and had been showered with the dark red, nearly black blood that had splattered out. He knew he was looking gruesome. People had run away from him, screaming before when they had encountered him like that or even looking less horrible. The snow-white skin under the blood and the black eyes weren’t helping at all.

When he entered the clearing Jaskier turned around and stared at Geralt. Until now he had been unphased by everything he had seen, had sticked to Geralt, even told him he was a good person. Geralt didn’t believe a thing he said. He wouldn’t hide this gruesome side of himself from the bard, better to have him run off early on. Getting attached was not good for a Witcher. Obviously, he already was on his way to get way to attached.

And sure enough he smelled the sharp sting of fear. It hurt more then he expected. He had never smelled fear in the bard in the few weeks he had been following him around. Jaskier was standing frozen in place, staring at Geralt.

“You wanna run now?” he asked in a gravely voice. This seemed to snap Jaskier out of his stupor and he did run but not away but at Geralt. Geralt couldn’t do anything except staring at him, frozen in place.

“Shit Geralt, what happened? Have you been poisoned? Will you be alright?” His hands on Geralt, looking for injuries.

Geralt didn’t know what to say as Jaskier grabbed his hand and pulled him to their camp. Touching him while most people would not even get close to him when he looked like that. What was the bard doing? He was still reeking of fear. Why didn’t he run then? Why did he even touch him? Geralt’s mind wasn’t processing at all.

“Sit down Geralt, come on,” Jaskier said and pushed him down to sit on a log. Jaskier crouched down to stare into Geralt’s black eyes. “Please talk to me. I’m freaking out here, Geralt. What’s happened to you? How can I help?” And suddenly it became clear to Geralt, Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him he was afraid for him. Geralt had a hard time processing this, never had a human seen him like this and been afraid for him.

“’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Fine? You don’t look fine, Geralt. I didn’t even know a person’s skin could be so pale without them being dead and these black lines on your face look very much like you’ve been poisoned. Are you positive you haven’t been? You look like you’re dead.”

“It’s my potions. It passes. They’re toxic but my body can easily fight that off,” Geralt explained.

“You voluntarily drink something that is toxic? That’s fucked up,” Jaskier answered. “How can I help you?”

“Just some water and rest,” Geralt answered. Jaskier hurried off to bring Geralt some water and then actually left him alone. It didn’t take long for the potion to pass his system after that. He felt worn out like always after it had worn off, Jaskier probably wasn’t too wrong. Consuming something toxic voluntarily wasn’t the best thing. He had changed out of the ruined clothes and cleaned himself the best he could out here.

“You reeked of fear when you saw me, but you didn’t act scared,” Geralt said after a while. Jaskier looked up.

“I did act scared. You probably didn’t recognise since usually people are scared of you and not for you,” Jaskier explained. So, Jaskier really had not been scared of him. And he was right, Geralt didn’t know how it was.

Jaskier got up and knelt down in front of Geralt. He lifted a hand and gently stroked Geralt’s cheek.

“You always think I will run off screaming but I won’t, Geralt. I’m not scared of you; I know you won’t harm me. But it’s reasonable to fear that you might get killed with all the monster hunting,” Jaskier explained. His hand still on Geralt’s cheek. Without realizing Geralt had been leaning into the touch and Jaskier’s thumb was gently stroking his cheek.

Geralt felt overwhelmed. No one had ever genuinely cared about him. He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist but didn’t push it away, just let his hand linger there as he looks into Jaskier’s blue eyes.

“Your eyes are getting gold again,” Jaskier whispered.

“Potion’s wearing off,” Geralt explained. Their faces were impossible close, it only felt natural as they leaned forwards and their lips brushed against each other. Geralt’s senses still heightened from the potions, he felt nearly overwhelmed but didn’t want to pull back as he wrapped his arms around Jaskier. There was no resistance as he pulled the bard closer. Jaskier just leaned more into him.

#Geraskier #Geraskier fic #my writing #my Witcher writing #The Witcher #Geralt x Jaskier

[statisticallymorelikely]

Happy birthday @ironpe!

Witcher au edit: Older Bard Chris Pine x Jaskier

Jaskier meets Older Bard Chris Pine in university, the other being a few years older and an absolute breath of fresh air among the drab scholars in academia and Jaskier naturally gravitates to him. He’s fun, flirty, charismatic and speaks so passionately about stories and love and beauty that fellow students would gather around him whenever he cared to share his musings.

He and Jaskier spend hours reading together in the library, silently penning poems on a piece of paper they pass back and forth, eyes shining with mirth, lips turned in smiles secretly shared. Jaskier has what he calls ‘the tiniest crush’ on him but what everyone else calls a ‘debilitating infatuation’. Some nights, Older Bard Chris Pine sneaks wine into Jaskier’s room and they pull the most beautiful melodies from thin air, drunk half on wine and half on the joy of creation, flushed with laughter, convinced of their own genius, skin tingling as they sit shoulder to shoulder.

Jaskier often imagines him whispering poetry into his ear while he fucks him into the bed. 

But alas, nothing further happens between them, Older Bard Chris Pine graduates and soon enough Jaskier does too. He stays for a while to attempt life in academia, gets bored out of his wits and sets off for adventure. He meets Geralt, gets into all sorts of trouble with him and creates his best songs. It’s a pleasant enough existence, seeing the world, traveling with his best friend he’s kind of in love with but who never even acknowledges their friendship, sleeping under the stars, grabbing inspiration from anywhere and everywhere. 

Most times, it’s enough to see Geralt’s sharp eyes watching him from across the campfire, something akin to longing in that gaze, but sometimes, he misses the touch that came with the easy camaraderie he had in school, elbows digging into his side, knees knocking together, fingers sliding clumsily against each other on the lute. He can’t hope for that from Geralt, not yet, maybe not ever, since the only time Geralt has ever touched him is to push him out of the way or to save his life.

Needless to say, Jaskier has some needs that aren’t being met. And that’s not even counting his desperation for something soft to sleep on. Witching jobs have been hard to come by lately so Jaskier has become very familiar with his bedroll and the cold hard ground. It’s this desperation that drives them into town one night, looking for shelter.

He hopes to get a room in the inn and pay for it with the money he earns singing. Geralt will be going to the alderman first thing in the morning to look for jobs but who knows if he’ll get paid at all. Unfortunately, there’s already a bard playing when they enter. Disappointing. Jaskier suggests they try a different inn but as they’re leaving, someone calls out his name. 

And of course, it’s none other than his crush from back at school, only he’s nearly silver now, a little more muscle, weathered by adventure yet somehow even more attractive than before. His eyes crinkle when he smiles and Jaskier’s knees threaten to buckle when he realizes that smile is all for him.

Jaskier tries very hard not to get hard when Older Bard Chris Pine pulls him in for a tight hug, big, warm hands sliding around his waist. He feels a flush creep up his cheeks but there’s a lingering unease at the back of his neck, waves and waves of anger pouring in from one direction. Jaskier looks back and Geralt looks absolutely murderous, more so than usual, but he doesn’t say anything, just glares. 

Jaskier pulls away, quickly introducing Geralt to his senior from Oxenfurt.

“So! You’re the muse, huh? The infamous White Wolf,” says Older Bard Chris Pine, cheerfully extending his hand. Jaskier has to admire his courage, not many people would shake hands with a Witcher, and a grumpy one at that. Jaskier tracks Geralt’s gaze to the arm casually slung around his waist and fights the urge to explain and placate. Geralt looks like he’s going to break Older Bard Chris Pine’s arm off, and that kind of possessive reaction stirs something hot in Jaskier’s chest, but if he really wanted to, Geralt would have already done it, so the hesitation dampens Jaskier’s hopes.

Jaskier is jostled from his thoughts when the hand on his waist tugs at him, focus drawn back to blue eyes. “What?”

“Oh, darling, you haven’t changed, have you? I was asking if you wanted to catch up. In fact, I insist on it. These fine folks can do without music for a night, right?” 

Jaskier opens his mouth, sees Geralt’s furious expression once more, closes his mouth for a moment before opening it again. “Of course! Nobody’d miss your scratchy strumming, anyway.”

A bright smile spreads on his old friend’s face. “Great! Dinner’s on me!” 

Surely, there’s no harm in agreeing to this.

Except his old friend seems to be doing everything he can to drive Jaskier insane. He parks himself next to Jaskier in a tight cramped table, pressing his thighs against his, looping an arm around his shoulder, leaning close to laugh so his breath tickles at Jaskier’s neck as he tells Geralt embarrassing stories of Jaskier at school. (Enough ale has passed through their table that Geralt’s loosened up slightly, and seriously, if you let him talk enough, Older Bard Chris Pine can charm the pants off anyone and now, Jaskier wants to claw his own eyes out because he’s suddenly imagining him with his pants off.) Jaskier is extremely aware of every point of contact, each of them sending pleasant buzzes across his nerves.

Then there’s also the way he looks at him, like Jaskier has always wanted in the past, the way he smiles so fondly at him, gaze holding something hot behind those blue, blue eyes, drawing him in and holding him captive. When he absently licks his lips to chase some ale, Jaskier’s eyes flick down and he has to fight the urge to lean forward and taste him himself. Gods, every single embarrassing daydream he’s ever had is all coming back to him and it’s all too much.

He needs some air.

So, he excuses himself to get some, reassures Geralt with a look and steps out into the cold night so he can gather himself together. He stays in the alley next to the inn to brood and untangle his mess of feelings because what is going on? It’s frustrating how hot and bothered he is. It’s like he’s gone back in time to the pathetic besotted student he used to be. He blames Geralt and his missions because he hasn’t had a decent wank in a while, they’ve been so busy.

Normally, if he likes someone he just goes for it (barring his thing with Geralt, of course, that matters too much to be handled casually), a predator in his own right, but now, he feels like prey. Maybe it’s just him regressing to his younger self. He used to know next to nothing about the world and about pleasure but now, he’s more experienced and confident but one smile and all that goes flying out his head. Maybe he's just horny and wants to get taken care of once in a while. Maybe it’s because his friend actually wants him, unlike someone else in his life.

He's so close to a realization when he's knocked out of his own thoughts by a rumbling laugh next to his ear. Older Bard Chris Pine is leaning right next to him, and Jaskier wills himself not to startle.

“Where’s Geralt?”

“I offered him a room with a bath, and he took me up on it.”

“Oh.” That answers that question then, Jaskier thinks. Maybe he should stop feeling guilty about this if Geralt isn't going to care in the first place.

“Y’know, it’s been wonderful catching up with you, Jaskier. Really made me remember the good old times, our afternoons huddled together in the library, or nights in your room.” Older Bard Chris Pine murmurs softly enough that Jaskier has to lean closer to hear him. “I still remember the pretty picture you painted, sunlight in your hair, and pink lips curled around your pen.”

He runs his fingers gently against Jaskier’s fringe, down his cheeks, thumb running against his bottom lip and Jaskier sighs. He’s had enough.

He fists a hand into Older Bard Chris Pine’s coat and reels him into a kiss. It’s hot and heavy and when Older Bard Chris Pine slips his tongue in his mouth, his brain finally gives up. He had every intention of being aggressive and redeeming his pathetic demeanor all night, but then Older Bard Chris Pine is pressing him into the wall and his knees go weak.

Jaskier scrambles, fisting his hands in his friend’s hair as he starts to suck on a soft spot on Jaskier’s neck, right over his pulse. They’re pressed so close, chest to chest, thigh to thigh but he wants more, wants to get impossibly closer. This is everything he used to dream of and by gods, he’s going to get justice for his younger self! Older Bard Chris Pine shifts and slots a thigh between Jaskier’s legs and he doesn’t have enough willpower not to rut into it.

“Fuck...”

And then the rumbling laugh is back in his ear. “Be glad to.”

They fall into bed in a separate room from Geralt’s and Older Bard Chris Pine takes care of him gloriously, taking him apart with his mouth and his fingers and his cock. Jaskier gets to have his old fantasy come true. He gets fucked into the bed with poetry in his ear and it’s much, much better than he ever dreamed because it’s poetry about him, and if this is what worship feels like then no wonder the gods get drunk on it. 

They fuck for hours and by the end, Jaskier is thoroughly owned and marked, all covered in bruises and love bites and his hole is so sensitive he’s thankful Geralt won’t let him ride on Roach. He’s sticky with sweat, sated and exhausted, and falls asleep in a warm embrace

In the morning, he wakes up to Older Bard Chris Pine half dressed and getting ready to set off. But when he sees Jaskier awake, he stops his packing to go crawl up the bed again and kiss him senseless.

“I have to go, my party’s leaving by noon,” he says, genuine regret in his voice. 

Jaskier is a little sad but he never expected anything different anyway. He knows this was a one night affair and he’s glad he had it. For younger Jaskier’s sake. Maybe his present self too.

But there’s still a few hours before noon and he bets Geralt has already gone to see the alderman for a job. There's no sense in wasting this time overthinking, so he seduces Older Bard Chris Pine for one last tumble in the sheets and gets enough orgasms to last him a few more cold months with his hand.

Before he finally leaves though, Older Bard Chris Pine looks Jaskier over in all his debauched glory and grins widely, pleased at his own handiwork. Jaskier can just imagine what he looks like, hair all over the place, love bites scattered all over his body, lips bitten red. 

“Yes, that’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” He runs his thumb against one particularly violent bruise right in Jaskier’s pulse point in his neck. “This one. You can’t cover this one up.”

His grin widens, smug. “Your muse is going to be furious.”

And with that he swans off and leaves Jaskier to wonder what he meant by that and how he knew because Geralt was indeed furious.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #chris pine #witcheredit #geraskier #if you squint #this is such a silly thing #i love you bebby #happy birthday!!! #btw this is not meant to be chris pine's dnd character #i have not watched that yet #throwback to when i absolutely lost my mind when that pic of chris pine dropped #witcher au edit #au edit tag

[islenthatur]

The air was thick with tension as they all filed into the briefing room, Calanthe’s eyes hard and unwavering as usual as she waited for us. Vesemir was standing at the window, back to them all but Geralt could see his Chief’s eyes in the glass and it set him on edge.

Eskel pushed past him and dropped into the only free chair, knowing full well Geralt would take his usual spot in the corner.

“Vesemir, if you would.” Calanthe gestured as she began to look at them all.

Vesemir nodded and with a simple flick of his hand Yrden flickered across all windows and doors, followed by Quen. Geralt felt his hackles rise, the last time Vesemir did this on a briefing shit went down and Lambert nearly put a hole in the wall in his rage.

“The mission I am about to brief you in will be different, firstly we are getting a recruit for this only, borrowed from Sigmond for the duration…”

Lambert slammed his fist on the table in fury, snarl ripping from his throat. “The last fucking time we had a new recruit we almost tied, Kitty nearly lost his eye and… and…”

All eyes shot to Geralt who had tensed, his hands grasping the daggers at his chest with a knuckle-white grip. The last time they had a borrowed recruit was over a year ago and the fuckers incompetence caused one of the worst moments of Geralt’s life. Most nights he could still feel the fire at his back, small hands shoving him hard out the window as the building exploded… he could still hear the sickening cracks of bone, the wide terrified eyes of his Buttercup before being engulfing in the crumbling building and fire.

And all he could think of Jaskier watching his face twist in horror as his mask broke and fell away.

It took his brothers and Yen to not murder Marx; it took Ciri crying into his chest to even stay.

That was the last time he allowed anyone close, allowed anyone to see his face at all.

“We lost Buttercup.” Eskel uttered dark after a beat of uncomfortable silence when he realised Geralt would not, could not speak.

“I am aware what happened but this one was trained by Captain Pankratz.” Calanthe stated as she pulled up a file, showing one Essie ‘Little Eye’ Daven. Specialist in infiltration, hacking and language much like Julek was and Geralt knew without a doubt that the woman would be exactly as good as her file reads. He had met her once, long ago when Jaskier and he first met. She was competent, well trained and very much a beloved Sister of Julek.

Swallowing Geralt tilted his head forward. “Why is Little Eye joining us?”

Dark eyes locked onto him but it was Vesemir’s sudden appearance at his side that set the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck standing up. There was tension around his eyes, mouth turned down in a grim expression.

“This was taken two days ago in one of Nilfgaard’s bunkers in Tir Torchair.” Calanthe stated soft, very much unlike her and it drew Geralt’s eyes away from Vesemir to the image now on the screen.

It was blurry, shot through a drone or satellite but his breath hitched as he saw the familiar man before him. There was no way to mistake Jaskier, he had spent far too long watching him and in the mans presence well before they became lovers. Though the image was grainy, those blue eyes stood out from the dark bruises, piercing and very much alive.

“What the fuck!” Geralt snarled fury the likes he hadn’t felt in an age burning under his skin like Igni.

#Ghost!Geralt #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier dandelion #the witcher fandom #geraskier #fanfiction #geralt/jaskier #jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #Soap!Jaskier

[kayte-overmoon]

Daisy Chain - Part 3

Previous Part / Next Part

Alpha Geralt/Omega Jaskier

Rated E

Pregnancy AU

Full tags on AO3

It takes them both a few days to get back on their feet. 

Vesemir and Eskel are attentive but not smothering. They seem to understand Geralt and his omega need space, so they only stop by a couple times a day to bring food, water, and firewood, and to bring in Jaskier’s belongings from the room next door.

“We weren’t exactly sure what the nature of your relationship was at first,” Vesemir explains, with a look to Geralt that clearly means a message ahead of time would have been nice. “So, we put his things elsewhere. But clearly, this is where he wants to be.”

Jaskier smiles and nods thankfully at that.

Ves leaves again, shooting another look at Geralt. They’re going to have a very long, serious discussion once Geralt and Jaskier are both well again.

Once Vesemir clears Geralt, he takes on the mantle of Jaskier’s care himself. Jaskier pretends to be miffed, complaining when Geralt bundles him in furs even when the fire is roaring and bitching when Geralt insists on carrying him everywhere. Secretly, he loves every second of it. He’s taken to purring when he’s being carried about the keep by his witcher, getting the grand tour and discovering all the places he’ll no doubt be biding his time for the coming months.

They’re both particularly fond of the hot springs.

The springs are a little-known treasure of Kaer Morhen—not that it would become a popular tourist stop if they were advertised. They’re one of the reasons the keep was built where it is. Turns out, when you have a keep full of sweaty, smelly warriors, it’s beneficial to all to have enchanted hot water at your disposal no matter what time of year it is. 

At first, Geralt is hesitant to bring Jaskier into the pools any hotter than lukewarm baths. When Jaskier complains that he’s cold (he’s not, he just knows how to get under Geralt’s skin), he acquiesces and moves them closer to the spring’s source where the water is warmer. Jaskier purrs happily when the heat seeps into his bones, and crawls into the witcher’s lap to show his thanks.

That’s a new development in their relationship.

Geralt is still firm in his belief that he will not be fucking Jaskier until he’s no longer pregnant and fully recovered from the delivery—a belief Jaskier tries relentlessly to dismantle.

There’s little need for modesty in the keep. It’s just the two of them, and Eskel and Vesemir, who have taken to giving them a wide berth after Eskel walked in on them with Geralt’s lips wrapped around one of the soft, perky buds of the omega’s nipples. It had been totally innocent, he swears! Jaskier told him his nipples were sore and he read somewhere that having your alpha suck on them eases the ache…

Which Geralt now realizes was definitely a line to lure him into bed.

Tricky minx.

Said minx has taken to swanning about their room—because it’s no longer just Geralt’s room with Jaskier’s clothing pushing his own out of the wardrobe and his lute taking up space on the chair by the fire, his notes and books strewn on every flat surface—in next to no clothing. If he is clothed, it’s only in one of Geralt’s shirts, which are still big on him even with his belly. He makes it a point to bend over right in Geralt’s line of sight, which must be difficult with his center of gravity thrown off, but he handles it with grace. At night, he’ll push back against Geralt until his cock is slotted between the fat of the omega’s thighs.

And damn him, but Geralt’s self-control can only go so far.

After their first time in the warmer springs, Jaskier drifts off to sleep quickly. Geralt isn’t as tired, so he stays up to take in the familiar sounds of his home, admiring the rise and fall of the bard’s shoulders where he’s tucked in close.

Sometime long after the sun has gone down, Jaskier arches against him with a whine.

Geralt nearly panics, fearing the bard is sick again. Then the scent of Jaskier’s slick rises between them and a soft pair of lips start pressing kisses to his neck.

“Jask,” he warns lowly. 

For a moment, he thinks Jaskier may still be asleep, but then he lifts his head and aims a wet kiss vaguely at Geralt’s mouth. 

He’s incredibly tempting, all soft and pliant and smelling divinely fertile. Geralt is far from unaffected—he is an alpha, after all, and Jaskier could tempt him even covered in viscera and smelling of sewer. Still, he pushes at the omega’s waist to get some distance between Geralt’s thigh and Jaskier’s wet cock that he’s begun dragging against him. “Jask, just go back to sleep.”

“Had the loveliest dream,” Jaskier mumbles, smooshing his cheek up against Geralt’s shoulder but not ceasing his efforts at humping his leg. It wears away at Geralt’s resolve, slowly but surely.

Geralt grits his teeth. “That so?”

Jaskier hums and lifts his head again. “Yeah.” He reaches for Geralt’s face, clumsily thumbing over the witcher’s lips. Geralt kisses his finger, unable to deny himself that one soft pleasure, and Jaskier smiles. “You were fucking me into the mattress.” It’s such a turn from the sweetness of the moment before that Geralt chokes on his breath. Jaskier soldiers on like he’s reciting poetry he’s had memorized since his youth. “Had to cover my head with a pillow so your family didn’t think we were being attacked. Then I woke up before you could knot me. I’m a little upset it was just a dream.”

Geralt growls, an unintentional sound that makes Jaskier’s pulse spike and the scent of slick grow heavier in the air. “Jaskier…” he warns. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Please, Geralt?” he whines. “Just once? I’m all better now. Please, I’m so horny all the time now. If you knot me, maybe it’ll go away?”

Geralt’s being manipulated. He knows this. Subtlety is not a virtue Jaskier possesses.

But Geralt’s tired. The scent of his bard’s desperation is sopping up any common sense he had left. Jaskier is so warm and soft in his arms. 

So, he gives in.

“Fine,” he growls.

Jaskier is so pleased, he makes a sound that’s nearly a chirp, but before he can straddle Geralt fully, Geralt’s grabbing him by his hips and turning him on his side, facing away from him.

“Geralt?” 

“Shh.” Geralt noses under Jaskier’s hair, scenting him. He can practically taste him on the air. His blood is pulsing hot and quick under his skin. Jaskier is always enticing, but here, in Geralt’s bed, surrounded by the things Geralt has provided him, his scent singing for Geralt, he’s ambrosia crafted solely for Geralt’s downfall.

Jaskier squirms until his backside is nestled perfectly in the crook of Geralt’s hips, grinding against him with the barest pressure that has them both purring, nonetheless. They’ve taken to sleeping in the nude since coming to the keep. It soothes both their baser instincts to have so few barriers between them. If Geralt wanted to, he could merely spread Jaskier’s cheeks and slip right inside. He can feel his slick wetting both their thighs—it would hardly be painful for the omega, even if he’s been untouched for nearly half a year. 

But Geralt still has some resolve.

He lifts one of Jaskier’s trembling legs and slots his cock between his thighs. Jaskier arches, his breath catching as he tries guiding Geralt inside him. But Geralt gently lowers his leg until his cock is nestled in the soft, soaked space between his legs, and Jaskier whines.

“No,” he pants, wiggling to try and change the angle Geralt’s pressing against him. “No, no. Inside me, please.”

“Hush.” 

Jaskier settles. HIs disappointment colors the air, but Geralt quickly urges it away by sliding his hand over the swell of the omega’s belly and taking his leaking cock in hand. Then he presses forward to fuck himself between the omega’s thighs.

One of Jaskier’s hands flies back to tangle in Geralt’s hair, pressing his face to the bard’s neck. Sharp teeth scrape against the scent glands there, and Geralt revels in the whine of desperation it earns him. He squeezes the cock in his hand—hardly big enough for a handful, the head just barely poking out from Geralt’s fist—and Jaskier nearly sobs.

“You’ll have to deal with just this,” Geralt tells him. “I won’t break my promise to you.”

Jaskier pants for several moments, fucking into Geralt’s fist then back onto his cock. Geralt can feel the tight furl of his hole every time he pushes forward, slicking him up and making the slide smooth as butter on hot bread. He’s sure the friction is enough to drive Jaskier insane.

“I don’t care about the promise,” the omega grunts finally. He’s dripping over Geralt’s fist so much, he can’t tell if he’s come yet. If he hasn’t, it’s a testimony to how worked up he must be. In all his years, no one’s ever gotten this wet for Geralt. Granted, he’s never fucked a young male omega who’s apparently smitten with him. “You made the promise to yourself, not to me. Promise be damned, I want your knot!”

Geralt nips at his throat in warning. “I made it to myself for you. I won’t hurt you when you’re carrying the pup, Jaskier.”

His pulse quickens under Geralt’s teeth. “But you’ll hurt me when I’m not?”

Geralt growls. That hadn’t been his intent, but he can taste what his words did to Jaskier. He throbs between Geralt’s fingers, every inch of his skin alight with pleasure. “You want that?” His voice comes out grated and rough, like he’s just swallowed a gallon of venom. “Want me to hurt you?”

Jaskier’s heart pounds harder. “Yes,” he whispers. Another spurt spills over Geralt’s knuckles, and given the way Jaskier trembles, he is coming this time. He speaks through it, shaking all over and barely able to take a breath. “Yes, yes. Please, I want you to hurt me.”

“How?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s mating gland into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth but not biting down. Not yet. Not now. But gods does he want to. He channels his frustration into the pace of his hips pushing his cock between the omega’s slick thighs. It must be too much for Jaskier, all that friction so soon after cumming, but Geralt allows himself this moment of selfishness. As long as Jaskier isn’t pushing him away, he lets himself take. “How should I hurt you?”

Jaskier whimpers, but his cock hasn’t softened in the slightest. His free hand reaches back to dig his nails into Geralt’s bare hip, spurring him on. “Want you to take me, stretch me open on your cock whenever you please.” His mouth is hanging open, unable to control his breaths as Geralt squeezes his cock again and digs his thumb beneath the head. “Don’t even need to use your fingers. I’ll always be ready for you. Even if I’m not wet yet. Want to feel it inside me dry. Want your hands to leave bruises on my hips. I want your bite, on my neck, on my thighs, everywhere. Want you to smack my mouth when I misbehave, smack my face after you spill on it, smack my arse so I remember who I belong to. Want you to hold me to the bed and fill me until I’m—I’m begging you to stop—oh, Geralt—”

It’s by the grace of whatever gods still watch over witchers that Geralt moves at the last moment before he releases so his teeth sink into the nape of Jaskier’s neck rather than the side. He’s not gentle about it. He can feel the moment he breaks skin. Jaskier’s blood spills on his tongue. Jaskier cries out, but Geralt’s own blood is roaring in his ears as he spills between the omega’s thighs, so he barely hears it.

It’s not as fulfilling as knotting, but something in Geralt calms with his cum smeared on Jaskier’s hole and his bite slowly leaking blood on his neck. Their scents are both so heavy, he can hardly pick them apart anymore. Jaskier’s sweet, sticky honey scent and Geralt’s own woody musk mingle until they’re one heady perfume. Geralt would bottle it if he could. Drench himself in it and let it be the only thing he smells for the rest of his life.

Geralt licks his lips, catching his breath, then freezes at the taste of copper.

No.

No, no, no, no, no—

“Geralt?” Alarm colors Jaskier’s voice as he turns around and takes Geralt’s face in his hands. “Geralt? Deep breaths, dear heart. I think you’re hyperventilating. Melitele’s sweet cunt, I didn't know witchers could do that. Deep breaths, love, come on.”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrist and reaches around him to touch the wound on his neck. He winces, and Geralt wants to fling himself from the nearest parapet. “Jask. Jask, you’re hurt. I hurt you—”

“Hush.” Jaskier rolls his eyes then tips his head to kiss Geralt. Just licks his own blood from the witcher’s lips like it’s nothing. “I’m fine, love. I—I enjoyed it. Perhaps too much.” He blushes and looks between them.

Geralt follows his gaze. The omega’s cock is still dripping, clear omega slick and pearly cum smearing over the both of them where they’re pressed together. Some of Geralt’s spend is there, too, and he marvels at how much there is. It’s been months since he’s… taken care of things. He hadn’t realized how pent up he was.

He licks his lips again. Jaskier’s cock jumps.

“You can’t do that, Geralt,” he whines. “Not fair.”

“Do what?”

“Want me like that with your eyes.” He buries his head in the pillow, thighs pressing back together. “Look like you’re about to eat me whole.”

“Can I?”

Jaskier blinks at him. “What?”

“Can I eat you?” Geralt says it without thinking, then shakes his head, amazed at his stupidity. “I—I mean, can I clean you up? With my mouth.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond. He only turns onto his back, stealing the pillow from beneath the witcher’s head, and props himself up so he can watch Geralt crawl between his legs. He kisses apologies into his pale legs, lavishing them with his affection. Someday soon, Geralt thinks, when the pup is born and the sun comes back, he wants to get Jaskier naked and laid out on sun-warmed rocks or hot sand. Get between them just like this, hear Jaskier’s moans spilling out into the open air.

He’s not sure which of them spreads Jaskier’s thighs (perhaps it’s a joint effort) but soon, Geralt’s tongue meets their combined spend.

He sighs as he cleans his omega. His eyes close. His pulse slows. A taste of heaven meets his tongue—it’s their perfume, the one he wants to bathe in. Their scents, the flavor of them both, are mixing. Becoming one. He’d never realized something was missing from his own scent until he tasted them mixed like this.

Jaskier lets out a breath, and with it goes any tension remaining in his body. He melts into the bed. There’s not a single iota of worry or pain left on him—and looking back now, Geralt realizes there was never any to begin with, at least before Geralt began to panic.

He’d never been scared. A witcher had growled and pinned him down and bit him like an animal, and he’d only gotten scared when Geralt did. When the taste of his love’s blood had sent him reeling.

Jaskier gasps when Geralt noses at his cock then licks across his taint. “That’s it, love.” HIs hand fists in Geralt’s hair, gently urging him down. “Fuuuuuck. Yes, please.”

Geralt hums; at the omega’s begging, the hand in his hair, and the taste of new arousal and prior satisfaction blooming across his tongue. 

He licks their combined taste from Jaskier’s cock then spears his tongue against his still-leaking hole. Jaskier moans, his knees drawing further up to give Geralt access. There’s only so far he can bend with his belly in the way, but he does as well as he can. 

It takes little more than Geralt’s tongue inside and a thumb brushing his cock for Jaskier to cum again. While he’s still whining his way through it, Geralt licks away the fresh wave of slick and the cum spilling across his belly.

When he brushes his cock again, Jaskier hisses and pulls him away with his grip on his hair. “Enough, enough.”

Geralt grins, licks his lips, and crawls back up to settle beside him, tracing over him with both hands and eyes, making sure he’s content and relaxed. “Tuckered out, are we?”

Jaskier huffs and pushes him weakly. Then he leaves his hand there on Geralt’s chest. “Yes,” he finally agrees. “You’ve worn me out. Can we go back to sleep now?”

Geralt snorts and moves them back to a comfortable sleeping position, with Jaskier’s legs stretched back out and both of them sharing a pillow. “You’re the one who woke up begging for my knot.”

The omega’s blush is vibrant in the low light, but he lifts his chin proudly anyway. “And I’ll get it one day.”

“You will.” Geralt presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, his eyes finally growing heavy with sleep. “You will.”

⚘⚘⚘

The next morning, they join Geralt’s family for breakfast for the first time.

Jaskier walks of his own insistence but doesn’t complain when Geralt keeps a hand on his back the whole time, just waiting for him to collapse. He never does. Truth be told, he’s stronger now than he has been in quite some time. His fruitful stay in Oxenfurt, plus Geralt’s attention, plus an inordinate amount of rest have all left him glowing and happy, his skin flushed and supple and his eyes bright.

Much improved from his pale, clammy skin when he was ill.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says cheerfully to the other men at the table. Vesemir nods at him and pushes a basket of still-warm bread his way. 

Eskel only smirks, his gaze fixed on the bandage Geralt had insisted on putting on Jaskier’s wound from the previous night. “Morning.”

Geralt knows both his family members are eyeing his omega’s neck, but he ignores them in favor of grabbing a plate for himself and Jaskier. The bard immediately nestles into his side, picking bits of food off Geralt’s plate even with his own right in front of him. Geralt doesn’t say anything about it. He lets him take what he wants.

“How are you both feeling?” Vesemir asks, then pauses. “The three of you, I suppose.”

Jaskier smiles through a mouthful of bread and jam and presses a hand to his stomach. “We’re much better. Rowdier and rowdier by the day.” He swallows, and for a moment, grows serious. “I can’t thank you enough. I can’t imagine what would have happened if—” Geralt puts a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. Jaskier takes a breath, blinks rapidly a few times, then continues. “Thank you. Truly. Whatever I can do to repay your kindness—”

Vesemir waves a hand. “Nonsense. Family doesn’t pay family for taking care of one another. I may not have known you existed two weeks ago, but my son has clearly staked a claim on you and your pup. So long as you mean him no harm, you will always find a home here at Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier turns watery eyes to Geralt, who also finds himself uncharacteristically choked up. “Thank you, Ves.” He nods at his brother. “Eskel. Thank you for taking care of him when I couldn’t.”

Eskel snorts. “Nearly took my eye out trying to get to you when he woke up. If you weren’t so clearly enamored with him, I would’ve put a leash on him.”

The bard finds that funny, but something green and ugly rears its head in Geralt’s chest. He growls, too low for Jaskier to hear. His family hears it, though, and offer him equal looks of exasperation and surprise. He ceases the noise immediately, his face growing hot.

Eskel quickly changes the topic before Jaskier can catch on. “Has Geralt showed you around yet?”

Jaskier nods. “A bit. Mostly the hot springs, and one of the old armories.”

“You haven’t seen the library yet?” Eskel asks in surprise.

The bard turns to glare at the man plastered to his side. “There is a library in this keep and you haven’t shown it to me yet? I thought you cared for me, Geralt! How will my poor, tortured soul ever—”

Geralt hauls him into his lap, making him cease his complaining with a giggle. “I was focused on getting you well again, and I knew the second you were aware of the library, you’d never lie down to rest.”

“You are correct.” He seems pleased with his new seat and sinks back into Geralt’s chest happily. “Will you take me?”

There’s a double-entendre there waiting for Geralt’s attention, but before he can point it out, Eskel’s cutting in again. “I could show you,” he tells the omega. “And the greenhouse.”

“Not the greenhouse.” Geralt’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Jaskier argues anyway. “Why not the greenhouse? You would deprive me of a glimpse of nature in this cold, rocky castle?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s an alchemical greenhouse. Mostly herbs and grasses we need for our potions, spell components, magical flowers for research. There are plants in there that could kill you from a five-foot radius without so much as releasing a spore. You are not going in there.”

“Fine.” He has the gall to look affronted. “But I expect a tour of the entire grounds in return.”

“I don’t think you have the energy for that.”

Jaskier frowns at him. “You think I can’t?”

“I think you’re, what, six months pregnant?” Geralt asks. “And it’s winter. You’re not stepping foot outside until the sun returns.”

His frown deepens, but he makes no argument.

Geralt knows Eskel only volunteered to show Jaskier the library so Geralt would have no excuse to continue avoiding talking to their father. He’s still giving Geralt looks across the table that make him feel like he’s a child running about the keep again. And Geralt is old and grown, but that look from the man who raised him makes him feel about as tall as an ant.

They finish eating and Jaskier rises from Geralt’s lap with a parting kiss to the cheek. “See you at lunch?”

Geralt nods and squeezes the omega’s hand before Eskel sweeps him away.

The vast Great Hall is left nearly silent at their departure. A single sound rises above the crackling fireplace at the center of the room: the steady tap, tap, tap of Vesemir’s finger against the table.

“Well,” the old witcher says after a long, painful moment. “Have you nothing to say?”

Geralt’s no longer hungry but he picks up a piece of bread Jaskier had left on his plate regardless. “I won’t defend myself if that’s what you’re wanting. I have nothing to be guilty about.”

“Geralt.” Vesemir rises. He’s not as tall or imposing as he had once been—time and grief have taken their toll on the set of his shoulders, the slope of his spine—but when he stands and Geralt sits, he’s every inch the warrior he still is. “I am aware your beliefs about witchers have been tainted by the world. But we are not the sort to go around stealing omegas and mating them without a thought.”

Geralt rises too, suddenly so angry he can’t see straight. “Do not speak of things you know nothing about.” There’s a growl in his voice he’s never used against Vesemir. He’s never dared to. He’s his father, an alpha, and a seasoned witcher to boot. Only a fool would dare raise his voice against Vesemir.

Ves only narrows his eyes. “Fine.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Then explain it to me.”

“We’re not mated,” he begins, but Vesemir raises an eyebrow and points to his own neck. Geralt’s face heats. He’d seen the bandage Geralt had wrapped around Jaskier’s throat, smelled his blood. “It’s on the back of his neck. It was… an accident.”

Vesemir says nothing.

Geralt takes a breath. He doesn’t want to be angry with his father, but his accusation hurt, no matter that Geralt knew what he would think. It’s what people have been thinking all along: innocent, naive Jaskier was whisked away by some brutish witcher and mated before he could string two thoughts together, the poor dear. He knows how it looks. But he is guilty of no crime beyond wanting Jaskier all for himself. And while that will inevitably lead to heartbreak on all sides he hasn’t quite brought himself to consider, he isn’t breaking any high moral code. A few social norms and expectations, sure, but he’s done right by Jaskier at every turn.

“We met in Posada,” he says evenly. “He wanted to write songs about my heroic exploits—his words, not mine—and we got tangled up in this ordeal with the elves—”

The old witcher barks a laugh. “He wrote that? You must have liked the attention an awful lot to pup him so quickly.”

Geralt’s eyes go wide. “The pup isn’t mine, Ves.”

This information doesn’t seem to surprise Ves, but the tightness in his jaw eases just the slightest. “But the omega is, yes?”

Silence stretches between them.

“No,” Geralt finally says. His voice shakes. “No, he’s not.”

Vesemir snorts. “Does he know that?”

Geralt sinks back onto the bench and puts his head in his hands. “I can’t—Ves, he’s insistent that I’m going to claim him before the pup even comes. I can’t do that. He’s not thinking clearly. There’s all the hormones and the pheromones—”

“Give him more credit than that, son.” Vesemir takes a seat next to him. Now that they’ve done their bristling and posturing, the closeness is nice. Familiar. The proximity of another alpha, his pack, eases Geralt’s worries minutely. “He’s pregnant, not enthralled.”

Geralt snorts. “You’d think he was.”

“Do you really find it so strange that he would be interested in you?”

Finally lifting his head, Geralt meets his father’s eye. “You don’t think it’s… You don’t think I’m taking advantage of him?”

“If anything, he’s taking advantage of you.” When Geralt bares his teeth again, Vesemir laughs and holds up a hand. “Not that you’re going along unwillingly. Geralt, you’re as good as bonded to that boy. Rejecting him will only cause unnecessary pain to the both of you at this point.”

“Why are you—you’re not angry?”

Vesemir huffs. “Now that I know you didn’t manage to somehow defy the laws of nature to put your pup in him?” Geralt blushes full-on, but Ves graciously moves on. “No, son. He’s young, but he’s old enough to make his own decisions. And he’s chosen you. Gods know why.”

Geralt snorts at the half-assed insult. “I’m sorry I didn’t send word ahead. I meant to, but—”

“I understand. New pairs always seem to lose track of things when they get together.”

“You’ll help us? With the—” He makes a vague hand motion.

Ves rolls his eyes and claps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “The delivery? Yes, of course I will. But you’re going to have to get a lot more comfortable with the terminology if you’re going to be a father.”

Geralt’s heart stutters, nearly stops, before jumping back into rhythm. “A what?”

The old witcher gives him an odd look. “What did you think was going to happen when the pup came? Did you think you could get the omega without his child?”

“No, no. I never intended for that to be the case. I promised to protect him and the pup with my life. I just… never thought of it like that.”

A whisper of a smile tugs at his father’s face. “Parenthood hits you hard, I suppose. Especially when you’re raising another alpha’s pup.”

That strikes a bitter chord in Geralt’s heart. He grabs the hand Ves had left on his shoulder and squeezes it tightly, his lips pressed to a thin line. “Getting a taste of my own medicine, eh?”

Ves, much to Geralt’s surprise, brings their intertwined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of his son’s hand. 

No more words are exchanged between them.

They’ve said what needs to be said.

⚘⚘⚘

Jaskier is late to lunch, which should come as no surprise to Geralt, yet worries him immensely.

He scoops out a bowl of stew big enough to feed two Jaskiers and cuts half a loaf of bread for him then sets out in search for the omega.

He finds him exactly where he expected: bundled up on a sofa in the library, a stack of books beside him, a handful more spread across his lap, a fire raging in the fireplace. He looks up when Geralt shoulders the door open and nearly blinds the witcher with his grin. “Hi, love!”

Eskel, who was set up by the window with a book of his own, catches Geralt’s eye and leers at him. Geralt’s face flames but he ignores it (and Eskel) to come to Jaskier and drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Hi.”

Jaskier hums that near-purr that makes Geralt want to sit at his feet and languish in his happiness and wrestles the bowl from his hands. “You didn’t have to bring me lunch,” he says as he scoops a big spoonful into his mouth.

Geralt chuckles and scoots the books out of the way so they don’t get stewed, making sure to mark Jaskier’s place in each so he doesn’t bitch at him for it. Jaskier’s ability to read several books at a time without issue constantly astounds Geralt. He settles in next to him, letting the warm little omega snuggle up to him while he eats.

“You were late,” Geralt says. “Ves and I already ate and cleaned up, so I figured I’d bring your food so you didn’t have to move.”

Eskel pipes up from across the room. “And you didn’t bring me any, brother? I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, look at him wasting away over there,” Jaskier says through another mouthful. He doesn’t look willing to share, despite his words. “Poor dear.”

Eskel makes a face at him, to which Jaskier merely rolls his eyes.

Clearly, Jaskier and Eskel have bonded in his absence. Eskel hardly ever jokes like this unless he’s fond of someone. It’s nice to see two of the people he cares most about getting along, but still, that monster in the back of his head roars.

“The second someone pups my dear brother, I’ll wait on him hand and foot as I do you,” Geralt says, then turns to Eskel. “Tell me, do you prefer lavender or chamomile oil for me to rub all over your—”

“I’m starving!” Eskel proclaims, springing to his feet and abandoning his book by the window. He’s out of the room, the door shut behind him, before Geralt can continue his teasing.

Jaskier digs an elbow into his side. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it. He’s been kind to me.”

Geralt chooses not to share that he and Eskel have fought over partners before, and instead pulls Jaskier closer. “I know,” he says. “And I’m thankful. I just don’t like sharing you.”

The bard raises his eyebrows, a pleased flush taking over his cheeks. “You’ll have to get used to it soon.” He grabs Geralt’s hand and places it over his belly, moving him around until he can feel the babe kicking against his palm. “Ah—there it is, the little bastard.”

“You can’t call your unborn daughter a bastard!”

Jaskier tips his head back against the sofa, giggling. He rests his bowl on top of his belly—it’s just big enough for him to be able to do that with some success—and watches Geralt caress the bump fondly. “I can so!” he insists. “It’s what she is, esp—ah! Especially when she kicks my ribs like that, sweet Melitele.”

Geralt frowns, gently cups either side of Jaskier’s belly to steady him as he shifts. “You alright?”

Jaskier waves him off. “I’m fine. Just takes some getting used to. She’s rowdy when I’m hungry.”

“Better feed the beast, then.” Jaskier tucks back into his stew now that the pup has settled. Geralt keeps his hands where they are, feeling Jaskier’s steady, unworried pulse and the thrum of the pup’s as well. After a moment, the bard slides a hand over one of Geralt’s. “What is it?”

Geralt takes a breath, smiling reassuringly at him. “Nothing. Everything’s perfect. I just like… feeling you both. Knowing you’re alright. Especially after…”

“Me too.” A shadow passes over Jaskier’s face as he laces his fingers with Geralt’s. “For a bit after I woke up, I was afraid I’d lost her. She stopped moving. It’s been only a couple weeks since I first started feeling her move, but I’ve grown so used to it in such a short time. When I stopped feeling her… it scared the shit out of me.”

“When I woke up,” Geralt says. “My first thought was for you. For her. I couldn’t calm down until I knew you were okay. Nearly took Ves’ head off trying to get to you. If Eskel hadn’t brought you when he did, I probably would have fought them both until I found you.”

“I know what you mean. Eskel heard you waking up. As soon as he told me, I just… I had to see you.”

Geralt sighs and rests his head on the couch, content to watch Jaskier eat and feel his daughter shifting every couple minutes. 

“Ves agreed to help with delivery,” Geralt tells him as he’s finishing his stew. “I knew he would, but…”

Jaskier sets his bowl aside and beckons the witcher closer so they’re sharing the same space on the couch, entwined in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable but somehow is. “You had your talk, then?”

Geralt winces. “You noticed?”

With a roll of his eyes, Jaskier says, “You clearly get your subtlety from your father. I thought you were going to sweat through your shirt. Eskel practically carried me out of the main hall. Figured you needed some long-overdue father-son bonding time.”

“Hardly,” Geralt snorts. “He thought I’d bent the laws of magic to knock you up. Or, I don’t know, bewitched you somehow.”

“But you have bewitched me, witcher.” Jaskier tips his head, looking at Geralt through his lashes in the way that makes him short of breath. “Perhaps not in the way he thought, but you have a pull to me I can’t explain otherwise.”

Geralt knows what he means. He feels the same. It’s the reason he hadn’t left him in the street in Posada. It’s why he hasn’t been able to shake him since. It’s why he came back to Oxenfurt and carried him up a mountain in a snowstorm.

He can’t lose him.

But he’s not quite ready to say any of that out loud.

Instead he clears his throat and says, “He was fine once I assured him you were here of your own free will and the pup isn’t mine.”

Jaskier hums contentedly. He’s growing warm—not feverish, but sleepy and full. He finished the entire bowl of stew and a good amount of the bread. He’s tiring easier these days, so he must be winding down for his afternoon nap. 

Geralt has something to ask before that.

“Jask?”

He hums again, inquisitive even as his eyes are slipping shut and his cheek is smooshing against Geralt’s arm. 

“What role do you want me to have in her life?”

The bard stirs a bit at his question. His eyes flutter back open, alert. He studies the witcher’s face intently for a long moment. “What role would you like to have?”

Geralt shrugs, looking to the fireplace. He’ll need to get up and stoke it soon. He can’t have the room going cold if Jaskier plans to take a nap.

“Geralt, this isn’t one of those times I let you get away with nonverbal responses.”

“Vesemir mentioned… well, he made a comparison to him raising me and my brothers and…” Geralt gives up, sighs, and says, “He said I’m going to be a father. I thought he was joking at first, but then…”

“Do you want to be a father?”

It would be easier if Jaskier wasn’t looking up at him with those big blue eyes, more trusting than anyone he’s ever met. Not for lack of knowing him—he’s seen Geralt at his worst and still hasn’t run away. If anything, he likes those bad parts. Wants to make them better. Cherishes them.

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. “I just need you to tell me, Jask. I’ll be anything, just don’t… don’t make me choose.”

“There’s no choosing to be done, dear heart.” Soft hands cup Geralt’s cheeks, brushing beneath his eyes until they open and are met with a beautiful, gentle smile. “I’ve considered you this pup’s father since before Oxenfurt. The second I knew I wanted to be with you, something just clicked. She’s yours as much as she is mine, love.”

Something takes flight in Geralt’s heart, leaving him lighter than he’s ever been. “But I’m not her sire,” he says. “I could never be. It’s not in the stars for me.”

“Did I say you were her sire?”

Geralt frowns. “No.”

“I’m not asking you to be that for her. She has a sire. She may meet him one day, if I decide it’s right.” Jaskier’s face tightens. It tends to do that, when the subject of his past comes up, but it’s gone in an instant when Geralt brushes his fingers against the inside of his wrist. “I’m asking you to be her father. The person who will teach her to be strong and kind, who will protect her and teach her how to fight for what she believes in.”

“You can do all that much better than I can,” Geralt says. “You’re her blood. You’re human. You’re intelligent and talented and compassionate.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Human? No, I’m not.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and bites Geralt’s arm in retaliation. “The other things. Vesemir isn’t your blood, yet you call him your father. You and Eskel share nothing but a childhood and a lifestyle, and yet he’s your brother. You, of all people, should know that family isn’t blood.”

“I can’t give her a normal life. I can’t give you a normal life.”

“Did I ask for one?”

Geralt smiles in spite of himself. “No. Quite the opposite.”

“Then the rest of it can wait until we need to figure it out.” Jaskier snuggles closer again, sighing. “Now, is the father of my child done with his emotional crisis, or can I finally get some sleep?”

Geralt laughs as he wraps him in his arms, his chest full of too many things to name. “You’re the one who woke me up in the middle of the night with all your begging.”

The omega’s face heats where it’s pressed against Geralt’s neck. “Shut up. I’ll do it again, just to spite you. You’ll see.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

⚘⚘⚘

Lambert arrives four days later with Aiden by his side and a letter from Yen in his pocket.

While Jaskier busies himself with the former (since he was unable to greet Eskel or Vesemir with his usual charm, he’s determined to make up for it with the rest of Geralt’s family, significant others included), Geralt turns his attention to Yennefer’s message.

“She found me a week ago in the pub where I was meeting Aiden,” Lambert tells Geralt. “Creepy, that. Don’t know how she found me.”

“I’ll let her know you said so.” He slips open the seal and is utterly unsurprised when the parchment unfolds on its own, dropping what appears to be a piece of cloth with runes drawn in red-brown ink across it into his waiting hand. Lambert snorts in surprise. Geralt clutches the cloth, his medallion humming softly, and reads the missive written in Yennefer’s elegant, precise script.

Geralt,

I have considered your generous offer of a place to spend the winter and have decided to take you up on it. However, present affairs prevent me from joining you and your new bard on the mountain for some time.

Triss Merigold will be traveling ahead of me to look after your brood. Since your keep is well hidden even to the eyes of all-powerful mages such as Miss Merigold and myself, I ask that you burn this token to grant her safe passage. I will join you when Destiny allows.

Regards,

Yennefer of Vengerberg

P.S. - Do not burn the token near your little bird. I fear it may impede his ability to sing for you.

Geralt grits his teeth at the mention of potential harm to Jaskier and clutches Yen’s token in his fist. He’s sure it’s nothing dangerous before it’s set alight—Yennefer would have made mention of it, if it’s powerful enough to harm Jaskier—but something in him says to keep it far, far from his omega.

“I don’t like that look,” Lambert says. “Did she send bad news?”

Geralt schools his scowl back into something marginally friendlier. “No. The opposite, actually. She and Triss will be joining us.”

“They will?” Jaskier chirps, appearing at Geralt’s elbow as if he’d been summoned. On instinct, Geralt moves a step away to keep the token away from him. The bard frowns at his retreat. “I’m only trying to read the letter, my love. I wasn’t trying to bite you.”

It’s the wrong choice of words. Jaskier knows this the second they leave his mouth and Geralt lets loose a growl that silences the entire main hall. 

Geralt’s family, stunned to silence in the midst of their hellos, turn to look at him in unison.

“Eskel,” he says gruffly, holding out the hand with the token blindly, fighting the blush on his face. Eskel, who’s been standing by silently, blinks and steps forward. “Take this outside and burn it. Yennefer says it will help Triss find her way.”

His family members catch on at once and graciously ignore his outburst. He relaxes the second the token is out of his hand. 

“Sorry, Jask.” He hands Yennefer’s letter to the man beside him. “Yen says that token would be harmful to you, so I…”

“Ah.” Jaskier smirks up at him sidelong before perusing the letter, mumbling something about the sorceress’ lovely penmanship. “This Triss Merigold? That name sounds familiar. We haven’t encountered her on our travels together, have we?”

“No,” Geralt says. “I haven’t seen Triss since… last Belleteyn? Yes, I saw her at Yen’s birthday celebration.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says once more, but this time there’s a pinkness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

“What is it?”

“Belleteyn. That’s when, um…” He brings a hand to his belly, almost absentmindedly.

“Ah.”

“Well!” Lambert proclaims, appearing behind them and slinging an arm over each of their shoulders. “No one can blame you for partaking in the festivities!”

Geralt doesn’t intend to fling his brother on the floor, and yet he does. 

Lambert clatters to the ground with a mighty thud that shakes the floor and catches the attention of Aiden and Vesemir, who barely pause to make sure the youngest wolf hasn’t been brained before returning to their conversation. Jaskier covers his mouth, but it does nothing to hide his smile.

Lambert pushes himself onto his elbows. “What’s gotten into you? I was only joking!”

Eskel, having returned from his brief trip outside (thankfully without the token that had made Geralt so jumpy), teases, “Perhaps it’s best not to joke about our new friend with Geralt in earshot.” He reaches a hand down to help his youngest brother off the floor. “He’s a bit touchy about it.”

“As he should!” Aiden chimes in. He seems unconcerned that Geralt’s just thrown his mate to the floor with all the ease he would do so with a sack of grain. He shares a conspiratorial look with Jaskier. “You should see little Lamb when I’m nearing my heat. Nearly bit the head off some poor woodsman who came across our camp a few summers back.”

Jaskier’s cheeks are still pink, but his eyes widen in curiosity. “You’re an omega? I thought all witchers were alphas.”

“A difference in the magic used to make the different schools of witchers, I’m afraid,” Vesemir says. “Wolf Witchery forces you to present as an alpha. The potions taken by the School of the Cat left more room for natural presentation. Omegas had lower rates of success, but they weren’t wholly uncommon.”

“Fascinating. Would you mind if I picked your brain about how your presentation and witcher abilities interact?” he asks Aiden, who raises his eyebrows. “I’ve had months to study Geralt, to see where the witcher ends and the alpha begins. I’d love to see how it works for an omega.”

“You’ve been studying me?” asks Geralt, partly surprised but mostly amused. Leave it to Jaskier to make a research project out of him.

Blue eyes flick his way briefly. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Lambert barks a laugh as he straightens his jacket after returning to his feet. “What he means is he’s been making mooneyes at you for months and just so happened to make some keen observations while he was at it.”

“I’ll have you know—” Jaskier steps forward, cocks a hand on his hip. “—there are a great deal of scholars who are interested in witchers. So many that I was asked to present my findings to the faculty of Oxenfurt University during my stay the past few weeks.”

“You were?”

The bard looks at Geralt sheepishly. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I know you get embarrassed when I write songs about you—”

“Because they’re vain and inaccurate—”

“It’s called artistic liberty, dear heart. And I took none when I spoke with the faculty. I used only the facts.”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow, and though his expression hasn’t changed much, Geralt can tell he’s impressed (and more than a little amused). “Which are?”

The bard blinks but smiles, pleased to have someone as wizened and academically bent as Vesemir ask for his input. “Witcher mutagens don’t have any effect on biological presentation—aside from the different schools having different odds of presenting as omega, apparently. As I didn’t have that information when I gave my thesis, I’ll have to write to the board to correct my findings.” Jaskier goes on evenly as Geralt leads him to the benches at the table in the hall, not seeming to notice he’s being herded into a seat. “Anyway, as with most things, biological processes aren’t changed by the mutagens. They’re merely enhanced.”

Aiden takes the seat next to him. “How so?”

Geralt’s about to sit opposite his bard, but Lambert catches him by the arm and tips his head to the door. Jaskier is blessedly ignorant, talking with his hands as he explains his findings to his new friend, who acknowledges their departure with a small nod.

Eskel follows Geralt and Lambert back into the courtyard. The snow has stopped coming down so heavily, but the temperatures remain far below freezing. There’s a layer of snow cover thick enough to strangle a dragon. The sun is doing its best to make an appearance through the thick gray clouds, but all it manages to do is bless them with a few thin rays of light.

The token is still smoldering in a pile in the middle of the courtyard. The acrid tang of sorcery wafts their direction, and Geralt makes sure the heavy, enchanted wooden doors of the keep shut firmly behind them.

Lambert crosses his arms and turns on Geralt. “You’ve got some explaining to do, brother.” 

Geralt sighs. “I’ll give you what I’ve told Ves and Eskel. The pup isn’t mine, for obvious reasons. We met on the Path after he conceived, and he’s been with me since the early days of his pregnancy. He’s a bard by trade. Yes, you have him to thank for Toss a Coin. His name is Jaskier. No, we’re not bonded.”

Lambert simply gapes at him in the wake of this flood of information. Finally, he laughs. “I was just going to throttle you for not sending me an invitation to the bonding ceremony, but I suppose that will do as an apology!” He claps Geralt on the shoulder hard enough to bruise had he not been a witcher, then strong-arms him into a hug. “I’ve never seen you so absolutely smitten, brother!”

“Wait until you see him when Jaskier gets all cozy in his lap,” Eskel says, grinning off to the side of their hug, which Geralt is vehemently trying to escape. “He practically melts.”

“Alright!” Geralt wrenches himself free and tries to hide the heat in his cheeks by straightening out his shirt. “Like you’re any better, Eskel. I saw how you lit up when a certain sorceress’ name was mentioned.”

Eskel shoots him a look that could make—and has made—a lesser man wet his trousers.

Lambert cries out in shock. “Her? You fancy Yennefer of Vengerberg? The same Yenna who had our dear White Wolf’s balls in a strangle hold some ten years back?”

Geralt bares his teeth at him, but Eskel only laughs. “Not that sorceress.” He shakes his head fondly and looks to where the magical token is still smoking gently. “Triss Merigold and I have been tiptoeing around something of a courtship for the past three years.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows at that. “I hadn’t realized it’s been going on that long. I only just saw the look on your face when I read Yen’s letter.”

“We’ve been discrete,” Eskel says simply. There’s a look in his eye that Geralt knows well. It’s the same look he got when they were mere pups running about the keep and they finally got caught for some horrible ruckus they’d caused: sheepish, secretive, and only a little coy. “I had no idea she was coming. I doubt she took that into consideration when she decided to join us—”

“Horseshit!”

Eskel barely blinks at Lambert’s exclamation. “Since we agreed we would see each other when the ground thaws again,” he finishes. “I’m sorry, Lambert, did you have something to say about my relations with Miss Merigold?”

“Yeah!” He sidles up to his brother, gets right in his face. “Horseshit!”

The barest tightening of Eskel’s fists betrays his anger. “What’s horseshit?”

“That oh, she probably didn’t even think about me before deciding to come to my ancestral home shit! Of course she thought of you, brainless. Yennefer isn’t so frail as to need company on her trip here.”

“To be fair,” Geralt adds. “Yennefer is shit at healing magic. It’s Triss’ specialty. I only invited Yen because she seemed like she needed company.”

Lambert just frowns at him. “Why the fuck would we need a healer?”

When Geralt only returns the frown with twice the ferocity, Eskel elbows Lambert then makes a terribly unsubtle gesture to his stomach, holding his arms out to mimic Jaskier’s bump. 

“Oh!” Lambert says. “Right, that. Yes, I imagine a healer would be quite helpful then. When’s he due anyway? Tomorrow?”

“Nearly two months,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. It’s truly a blessing that Lambert and his mate were both sterile. He fears what dull monstrosity would come from that union—though with Aiden diluting Lambert’s defunct genetics, the pup would have at least some common sense. 

They’re all saved from Lambert saying something terribly stupid by the sudden rush of wind and dizzying whirl of a portal opening across the courtyard.

Before Triss Merigold can even set foot on the cobblestones, Eskel’s there, holding out a hand to steady her. She meets his eye, her wild auburn hair whipping about them, not seeming to care that she’s utterly bogged down with a stack of books in her arm and an overfull bag slung across her shoulders.

Even from half a courtyard away, Eskel’s brothers see the affection between him and the sorceress. Geralt feels a fool for not seeing it before. He’s been around them in the past three years, both together and separately. The more he thinks about it, the less subtle he realizes they’d been. Eskel had been awfully distracted all last winter, whisking away to write letters when he thought his family was otherwise occupied. Triss had asked after Geralt’s family when he stopped by her shop in Rinde to refill his potion supply some months before Jaskier came into the picture, and she’d been particularly interested in how Eskel was faring. And now that he’s thinking about it, when Eskel got winged by a golem last summer, Triss had dropped everything and ran to them when she got Geralt’s fire message. The trembling of her hands as she’d healed him had only ceased when Eskel, still delirious from blood loss, grabbed them in his own and held on until they stilled.

Discrete, my ass.

“As I live and breathe!” Lambert caws, shamelessly breaking the tension between Triss and Eskel, who’ve just been standing and staring at each other, her hand in his, as the portal swirls shut behind her. “Triss Merigold, you are a sight for sore eyes!”

Triss blinks, as if she’s coming out of a stupor, and pulls her hand from Eskel’s before turning her blinding grin on Lambert. “Little Lamb! How are y—oh!” Lambert scoops her up like she weighs nothing and spins her in a circle around the courtyard. Once she recovers from the shock, Triss laughs. “Put me down, you oaf! You can’t have missed me that much.”

“Missed you?” Lambert sets her on her feet by the doors to the keep, having accomplished his goal of making Eskel go red in the face as he picks up the books that had spilled from the pretty sorceress’ hands when Lambert swept her up. “I worship you, Triss Merigold. If you can take someone as morose as my brother and—”

Geralt cuts off his brother before he can make more of an ass out of himself (and start a bloody battle with Eskel, who’s watching from a distance with fire in his eyes). “Triss.” Geralt reaches for her hand, which she offers kindly, and raises it to kiss it in greeting. “You look well. Thank you for joining us.”

Her face softens. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She hooks her arm in Geralt’s and lets him steer her toward the doors. “When Yen told me you’d picked up a pregnant omega, I thought she was joking. But I can smell him on you.” Triss is too polite to pull down the neck of his shirt to look for a bite, but not too polite to avoid giving his throat a cursory glance. If she’s curious about the lack of a mating bite poking out from his shirt, she doesn’t comment on it. “Is he… how is he faring?”

“Come see for yourself.” Geralt pushes the door, which gives easily under his touch. Triss’ warm brown cheeks regain a bit of their color the second the rush of heat from inside hits them. “We had an eventful trip up the mountain in the storm, but he and the pup both recovered well. Restless, both of them, but in good spirits.”

Jaskier is still explaining his thesis to Aiden and Vesemir (Geralt makes a note to ask about it later when they’re alone) but he looks up when Geralt returns. He stops mid-sentence, his expression souring when he sees Triss on his witcher’s arm, but then after a moment of scrutiny, surprise steals away the jealousy. “Oh. It’s you!”

Triss frowns at him for a moment before recognition overtakes her face. “Julian!” She leaves Geralt (and her bag with him) at the door and rushes to Jaskier’s side as he rises. Her eyes scan him from head to toe as she takes his hands and spreads them to get a good look at the bump beneath his clothes. “My, you look wonderful! How you’ve grown!”

Jaskier is beaming as he guides her hands to feel the pup. “I thought your name sounded familiar, but I didn’t think much of it. I can’t thank you enough for your help last spring.”

“Think nothing of it, love.”

Geralt exchanges a look with Eskel as he and Lambert join them inside, shutting out the cold behind them once more. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls, urging him closer. “Remember the sorceress I told you about? The one I spoke with when I first left home?”

Geralt looks to Triss. “It was you?”

She nods. “I hardly did anything. He already knew he was with child. I merely confirmed it for him.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You did more than that. I was scared out of my wits, and you talked me down. You convinced me I wasn’t making a huge mistake and told me I wasn’t going to die a horrible, gruesome death at the hands of my unborn child.”

“Every parent has the same doubts. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.” She lifts one of her hands to Jaskier’s cheek. A faint yellow glow spreads beneath her palm and her brow furrows in concentration before smoothing over nearly immediately. “You seem strong. Healthy.” Her eyes flick to Geralt, who realizes he’s hovering. “Happy.”

“I am.” Jaskier turns his gaze unsubtly to Geralt as well. “All of the above.” 

“Triss,” Vesemir says, both a greeting and an instruction. “Why don’t you examine Jaskier yourself. I’ve done a cursory look, but it’s not my area of expertise. I’m sure all our minds would be more at ease if you took a look.”

She nods, smiling warmly at the eldest witcher. Jaskier offers his arm for her and leads her out of the hall, chatting amiably the whole way.

When their voices fade into the keep, Eskel rounds on Geralt. “Did you know they knew each other?”

Geralt shakes his head. “He never said.”

“Small world, I suppose,” Lambert declares, swinging a leg over the bench to join Aiden at the table. His mate watches him in mixed exasperation and fondness as he reaches for a loaf of bread on the table, rips off a chunk, and scarfs it down like he’s half-starved.

“Or,” Aiden offers. “There are only a few mages who specialize in healing magic and omega male pregnancies.”

“It’s good fortune, either way,” says Vesemir. “It’s best that they’re well acquainted before your bard progresses in his pregnancy any further.”

Geralt frowns. “Why’s that?”

The old witcher sighs and steeples his fingers together in front of himself. It’s the closest he ever gets to a nervous tick. “Male omegas rarely carry to full term. It’s a miracle he’s made it as far as he has, especially with the stress he’s been under. I suspect it will only be a matter of weeks before dear Triss’ services are needed.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. A matter of weeks. He’s not sure why in his head he and Jask had so much more time left. He knew Jaskier would deliver before spring came (if he didn’t that would be a whole other issue) but the reality of the pup being there, in their arms, before the month’s end, made a swirl of emotions overtake Geralt so strongly he has to sink onto the bench before his legs give out.

“Have I done the right thing?” He doesn’t intend to voice it. His family’s faces reflect his own surprise at his admission, but none of them move to answer, so he continues. “He’s not even twenty. He’d have a much happier life, a much safer one, if I left him with his friends in Oxenfurt, or somehow convinced him to return to his parents’ home. I don’t know how to interact with children. They don’t tend to like me.”

“What about that little girl in White Orchard last summer?” Eskel asks, looking down at his brother with no small amount of compassion and bemusement. “She wouldn’t leave you alone until you picked her up and put her on your shoulders.”

Geralt pressed his lips into a thin line. “She only wanted to see the parade over the crowd, and I just happened to be the tallest one there.”

“Really? Is that why she insisted on putting little braids in your hair while she was up there?”

“Fine. So, one child liked me. That doesn’t mean I’m capable of raising one.”

Lambert rests his chin on his fist and stares at Geralt. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve never seen you care this much.”

As a rule, witchers didn’t get involved with humans. Countless humans had tried using witchers for their own political gain, so to circumvent that, they’d taken up the habit of only getting involved when they had to. They weren’t expressly forbidden from making human friends—they were making their own rules these days, after all—but when one’s life expectancy is more than three times that of the average human, one tends not to get too attached.

“I tried to discourage him,” Geralt says. Though not very hard, or for very long, he adds silently. “But he just sort of… clung to me.”

“And you to him,” Vesemir grumbles. “If any of you have a problem with Geralt’s bond with his omega, you best get over it. Severing it now would only lead to more pain than necessary. And speaking of pain, it won’t be long until Jaskier begins getting territorial. We don’t know how he will react, so I expect all of you—” He cuts his gaze to Lambert, who immediately drops his head. “To be on your best behavior. If he asks for something, give it to him. If he snaps at you, leave him be. Omega male pregnancies are rare and volatile. We cannot let him lose this child. Am I understood?”

Silently, the younger witchers agree.

Vesemir nods, then leaves the table. Geralt watches him go, something nagging at him. He springs to his feet and follows him.

He doesn’t acknowledge Geralt until they’re in his study with the door closed behind them. “What’s wrong, wolf?”

Geralt crosses his arms and leans against one of the tables Ves uses for potions. “You’ve taken a keen interest in Jaskier’s health. Is there something I should know?”

The old witcher sighs and sets about tidying the books and papers strewn about his desk. “Can I not simply show some care for the man my son has chosen as his mate? Can I not ensure both he and his child are safe?”

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?” Geralt squints at him. To anyone else, it would seem Vesemir was merely busying himself with cleaning, but to Geralt, and anyone else who knows him well, his worry is obvious. Vesemir doesn’t fidget. “What are you not telling me?”

With another, mightier sigh, Vesemir sinks into his chair and folds his hands on top of the desk. “You should sit.”

Alarms ring inside Geralt’s head, but he does as he’s told. “Is everything alright? Is there something wrong with Jaskier, with the pup—”

Vesemir cuts him off with a chuckle. “You’re howling at the wrong moon, wolf. They’re both in perfect health.” He cocks his head to one side. “Which is why I’m concerned.”

“You think they’re… too healthy?”

“Don’t make it sound as if I’m complaining, Geralt.”

“I’m only repeating what you’ve said!”

“Geralt.” Ves leans across the desk. “Listen to me. Omega male pregnancies rarely last. Men typically are not built for the strain on their bodies. And since male omegas are only fertile the first ten years after their presentation, they’re often young, scrawny, and depending on where they live, underfed. Your bard is lucky he found you when he did. I think the exercise and your care for him have helped him remain healthy.”

A knot in Geralt’s chest loosens at that. He remembers the change he’d seen in Jaskier after his time in Oxenfurt—the weight he’d gained, the color of his cheeks, the pup’s new habit of kicking his spleen at every given moment. In all his years, he can’t claim to have seen such a healthy pregnant male omega—not that he’s encountered all that many. But the ones he had met were as Vesemir described: thin, pale, often bedridden. And here Jaskier was, mere weeks from delivery, healthy as he’d ever been, even after his scrape with death.

“What are you getting at?” Geralt asks. “I’m taking too much care of him?”

Vesemir laughs, but there’s little mirth in it. “No. I’m glad you have been. But there’s something else I think may be sustaining your bard and his child.”

“Which is?”

“Magic.”

Geralt blinks at him for a long moment. “What?”

“Magic,” Ves repeats, as though Geralt had simply misheard him the first time. “I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on it yet. It’s all over him. Even Eskel felt it before I did.”

Geralt sits up straighter in his chair. “And neither of you have said anything to me?”

“Settle, pup.”

At the admonishment, Geralt huffs and returns to his slump. “So, someone’s cast some sort of spell on Jaskier?”

“Not quite,” Vesemir says with a slight squint. “I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s more like the magic is Jaskier’s himself, yet he seems to have no knowledge of it.”

Sure, there are things Jaskier has kept from him for various reasons (his family situation being the foremost) but the fact that he has magic would certainly have come up by now. If Jaskier has magic, he surely doesn’t know about it. 

“What’s more,” Vesemir continues. He’s got that glint in his eye he gets when he’s found something that fascinates him. Though that usually includes an ancient tome untouched by human hands or a creature none of them have seen before, it’s never extended in such a context as this. “While the magic is all over Jaskier, it’s doubly powerful inside him.”

“Meaning?”

“The pup has magic. Much stronger than your bard’s.”

“But—” Geralt stammers. “But he said the sire was just a stable boy. No one remarkable.”

“Unremarkable stable boys can still have magic, Geralt. Although perhaps…” He pauses, reluctant to continue. “Perhaps he lied to you.”

“He didn’t.” There’s no hesitation in Geralt’s tone. “He wouldn’t.” He doesn’t make note of the fact that he would have known, since he’s been in touch with the changes in Jaskier’s scent for months. He can tell when Jaskier’s lying just from being within fifteen meters of him.

“Very well,” Vesemir says. “If you trust him to be truthful, then so do I. Regardless, some twist of fate, or some machinations Jaskier himself is unaware of have granted him a clandestine pregnancy.”

“Meaning?”

“He and the pup are protected, both of them, with magic I’ve never seen in my long years.”

Geralt slumps in his chair, gnawing on his knuckle. Leave it to him to find the one pregnant omega bard apparently blessed by the gods. Though in his humble opinion, if anyone is worthy of such an honor, it’s Jaskier—biased though Geralt may be, he can’t deny the bard has a certain appeal beyond his looks and his musical talent. He makes friends easily. He’s got a silver tongue that’s gotten him out of trouble countless times. He could flirt his way into a nun’s heart. Animals love him—even Roach, the traitorous little wench, perks up when he’s nearby. He can turn even the most boring encounters into grand epics about Geralt’s heroics. He pretty much single-handedly restored the reputation of the Butcher of Blaviken in only a few short months.

Would it be so outlandish to believe Jaskier really has magic?

He ponders this as he leaves Vesemir to his tasks and wanders about the halls of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is safe and content in Triss Merigold’s capable hands. Though that invisible thread tugs at him to climb the stairs to wherever the bard’s been whisked away to, he ignores it and walks the perimeter of the keep.

Vesemir does a good job keeping the place from crumbling to dust year-round, and it’s clear Eskel has taken on some of the tasks Vesemir doesn’t care for. His brother’s hand is evident in the repaired benches, re-sanded door frames, and newly carved wooden bowls and spoons in the kitchen. The cracks in the walls have been filled. The whole place could use a good wipe down. Geralt’s not sure the keep even has enough buckets required to mop this whole place before—

Before what, Geralt?

The thought shocks him so thoroughly that he grinds to a halt in the middle of an unused hallway, his own chuckle of surprise echoing around him.

He’s nesting.

Gods be damned, Geralt of Rivia is nesting!

Alphas—because that’s what Geralt is, whether or not he can sire a pup—nest in different ways from omegas. Omegas will often horde soft things, pillows and blankets and furs to line their nests. They tend to seek out sweet-smelling things, like fruits and baked goods. They’ll steal clothing and blankets from their pack members, anything that will help them feel safe and their nest fortified. Alphas, however, get protective of their pack. They make sure there are no unseen dangers lurking nearby and ensure their mates are content and provided for.

He’s a fool for not seeing it sooner.

Geralt humors himself and allows one last lap around the keep before seeking out Jaskier.

He’s not hard to find. 

Geralt’s meeting with Vesemir and his subsequent survey of the grounds took longer than expected, so Triss has concluded her examination and moved onto more pleasant pastimes. 

The sound of laughter echoes down the halls. It’s not a sound Geralt’s used to in recent years. He’s well-versed in the hearty guffaws of his family over too many pints of White Gull, but bright giggles are somewhat foreign to the walls of Kaer Morhen. He follows the sound to the hot springs, where he finds Jaskier and an equally naked Triss Merigold soaking in the hot springs.

Face flaming red, Geralt turns around once he enters. “Apologies, Triss.”

“Oh, don’t be such a monk, Geralt,” Triss huffs. “Join us. We’ve both seen each other in worse states.”

Geralt obeys, toeing off his boots and stripping easily before slipping into the water. Jaskier meets him halfway. He’s barely taken a seat along the low stone outcropping on the edge of the pool before the bard’s legs are slinging up over his own, one arm thrown around Geralt’s shoulders.

“How was your examination?” Geralt asks them both, politely ignoring both their states of undress. Triss, beautiful as she is, is easier to ignore. Geralt’s a gentleman, despite what others might say, and with Jaskier completely nude and in his lap, it’s hard to focus on much else. 

Triss pushes a stray curl back into the haphazard bun she’s tied her hair back into. “Right as rain,” she chirps. “Both of them are strong and healthy. Jaskier needs to up his protein intake, but other than that, everything is going swimmingly.”

Geralt frowns at Jaskier, worry finally dragging his thoughts from the hairy thigh dragging against his own. “Is that bad? Should I have made sure you were eating more meat?”

Jaskier visibly bites his tongue at the joke he clearly wants to make at that. “No, darling,” he says instead, cupping Geralt’s cheek with a warm, wet hand. “It’ll be good for the pup’s development in the last couple weeks and help me gain some more strength. Triss also says I should try and walk more. Rest is good, but it’s also good to get my blood moving.”

Geralt nods faintly. 

“Geralt,” Triss says softly, grabbing his attention. “You’ve taken care of Jaskier amazingly well. There isn’t a single thing I would have advised you to do differently.”

That soothes him more than the warm water or Jaskier’s hand stroking down his neck could.

Before any of them can continue the conversation, the door to the springs opens, and Eskel enters. He cries out when he takes in the scene, slaps a hand over his eyes, and in a perfect mimicry of Geralt when he’d entered, spins to turn his back to them. “My apologies, om—Triss. I should’ve knocked.”

The sorceress’ cheeks redden deeper than they had been before, but she rolls her eyes. “You witchers and your propriety. How half the Continent thinks you’re all brutes is beyond me.”

Lambert appears from the hallway and ducks under Eskel’s arm and begins stripping himself of his traveling clothes, leaving them in a puddle on the floor before jumping into the pool. He makes enough of a splash to soak the current occupants of the springs. He surfaces and shakes his head to rid himself of the water, further baptizing them all.

Geralt turns to Triss, who has merely watched the whole affair in open-mouthed mirth. “Does that answer your question?”

⚘⚘⚘

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier pulls him into bed again that night, absolutely soaked and nipping at the witcher’s throat.

“Are you sure you won’t mount me?” he moans, his hand already down the front of Geralt’s trousers before they reach the bed. He seems to have accepted Geralt’s unwillingness to fuck him for the time being, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a bitch about it. He brings it up every night they fall into bed together, unable to leave Geralt to his convictions.

Geralt growls softly, which he’s come to realize Jaskier really likes, if the spike of his scent is indication enough. Jaskier seems adamant to bend over the side of the bed, but Geralt can’t stop thinking about putting strain on the pup, so he eases Jaskier onto his back on the pillows. He loses his pants somewhere between the door and the bed, his shirt hanging loose over his cock, his knot already swollen at the base just from Jaskier’s hand. He looms over Jaskier, pins him to the bed with only his stare and his arms boxed on either side of his head. “Are you testing me, Jask?”

“I’d never!” 

Geralt doesn’t need to see the flutter of his pulse at his neck to know he’s lying.

Geralt strips him gently, soaking in the scent of Jaskier’s skin and the oil he’d put on after his bath. Witcher senses have made it hard to appreciate such luxuries as scented soaps, but whatever it is Jaskier brought with him from Oxenfurt is sweet and soft and just tempting enough for Geralt to want to sink his teeth in. Though all that could also be accredited to Jaskier spreading his now-bare legs and drawing Geralt between them.

They don’t take their time with it. Jaskier’s worked up from pregnancy hormones and Geralt’s worked up because Jaskier’s been worked up for hours. It only takes a hand around each other’s cocks for only a few minutes for them both to spill, panting into each other’s mouths.

Geralt rolls off him after cleaning him with his tongue—the part of this he insists upon every night. The omega sighs in content, rolling up into a blanket and tucking himself against Geralt’s side.

He can tell Jaskier’s drifting into sleep already, his soft little huffs and sighs as he gets comfy lulling Geralt into restfulness as well. But there’s something clawing at him, keeping him from slipping off.

“Jask?” he whispers. 

There’s a low fire burning in the grate—he’ll have to stoke it shortly when he’s sure Jaskier won’t wake when he moves. It gives him just enough light to see the shine of the bard’s eyes when he blinks them open, humming softly. He’s never looked so soft, so sweet, so open.

Geralt hates to ruin it.

He needs to.

“Triss…” Geralt begins softly. “This morning. When she first saw you… she called you another name. Not Jaskier.”

Two dots of pink rise high on his cheeks, but Jaskier makes no move to extricate himself from Geralt’s embrace. “Ah,” he sighs, turning onto his side a bit so Geralt can see more of him. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that.”

“It’s none of my business,” Geralt says, then doubles down when Jaskier side-eyes him. “Truly. I’ve vowed to protect you and to love you, but you are now, and always will be, your own person, Jask. Your secrets, your past, are yours to keep. Either until you wish to share them with me, or beyond the grave. Nothing about you could ever make me want to stop being right here, beside you, for as long as you’ll have me. I just… wanted you to know that.”

Jaskier goes a bit misty-eyed, but he frowns into the distance, pulling the blanket higher on his shoulder. “I love you, Geralt,” he says, and it’s not an answer, but Geralt would let him leave it at that. However, Jaskier continues. “Jaskier is the name I’ve chosen for myself. It’s the one I prefer, the one I wish to be called. But it is not the name I was born with.” His jaw works like he’s trying to gnaw through bone. “And if it’s all the same to you, I think I would like to just be Jaskier for some time. I will tell you my real name, one day. When I’m ready. But for now… I just want to be Jaskier.”

“My Jaskier.” Geralt reaches up and tucks his love’s hair behind his ear. It’s fruitless—his hair is too fluffy and just the slightest bit too short to stay where it’s put—but he likes how Jaskier’s eyes soften when he does it, how he turns to press his nose to Geralt’s wrist. “Jaskier the Bard.”

His lips brush against Geralt’s pulse as he speaks. “And His Witcher.”

And that is enough for Geralt to draw the omega’s legs around himself once more. 

Previous Part / Next Part

#fanfic #the witcher #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #kayte overmoon #omegaverse #abo #alpha beta omega #alpha geralt #omega jaskier #mpreg #geraskier mpreg #daisy chain #witcher omegaverse

[dancingwiththefae]

How about “ i feel like shit. “ “ you look like it, too. “ “ hey! “ for Yennskier? Because it just fits them SO well 💚❤️ love you

Thank you for the prompt! It feels like ages since I've done one.

I somehow made this sadder than I thought I would but apparently I am in that kind of mood.

CW for blood and canon injuries, aftermath of torture

wc: 845

--------------------------------------------

They'd found a moment of respite. They'd lost Rience – or at least it seemed that way – but Yennefer couldn't warn Geralt without her magic. It seemed neither of them knew where to go from this point. In an alley, hidden amongst lines of washed clothes and sheets, the pair of them stood in silence. Things were getting very serious very fast and they needed to plan their next move. Of course, it was hard to think when you'd just spent a night strapped to a chair, tortured by some insane mage who for some reason thinks you have the answers to everything. He hurt. His whole body hurt. The burns on his hand were especially painful and definitely needed checked by a healer.

“I feel like shit,” he sighed.

“You look like it, too”

“Hey!”

She held out her hand expectantly.

“Let me see.”

He instinctively covered the burns with his other hand. Logically, he knew she was going to pull anything. But he was hurt and the residual fear hadn't left him yet.

She gestured impatiently and he conceded, hesitantly holding his hand out to her. She met him halfway, taking his hand in her own. He hissed at the contact. She gave him an apologetic look and cradled his hand gently in hers. Avoiding the worst of his injuries, she turned his hand palm up and brought it closer to examine his fingertips. They were angry, raw, and Jaskier could cry at the thought of whether he could play again. How long that be, if ever.

A crease appeared in Yennefer's brow and she swallowed.

“I could fix it if-” she bit her lip. If I still had my magic. He sighed and pulled his hand away. He didn't really have a response. It wasn't like he thought she would be able to help. They were both helpless, defenceless. This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. She wasn't supposed to be like him. She was powerful, amazing, terrifying. She was everything he wasn't and now? Now they were one in the same.

He sat back down. Weariness was starting to set in. The adrenalin that had carried him from that godsforsaken bar was slowly ebbing away. He just needed a minute. Just a minute, and then he would be fine. The ground below him started to blur as he got lost in his thoughts. Or maybe his eye was starting to swell. One of the two.

He had been stupid. The thought he could do something good. That he could be more than he actually was. And what was worse, he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have let something slip if Yennefer had not come to his rescue. He didn't think he knew anything worthy of any note. But what if he did? What if she had never come back for him?

He was pulled out of it by a sudden tearing sound. Yennefer shredded a sheet on the line with her hands, carelessly discarding the larger part onto the ground.

“That's- that's someone's washing, you know!”

“Frankly, I don't give a fuck. Now stay still,” she ordered as she crouched down in front of him. He was not one to defy and order from Yennefer of Vengerberg and so he stayed perfectly still, eyeing her warily as she brought the scrap of cloth to his face. It was cool and damp as it touched his skin. In fact, Jaskier had just become very aware of how hot his face had become. He felt the sting of the swelling as Yennefer dabbed at the blood and bruises on his face. He didn't even want to think about how he must have looked.

“For what it's worth,” she mumbled, brushing his hair back to wipe the sweat and blood from under it.“It was quite brave, what you did. And just a little bit stupid.”

“'M not brave, Yennefer. I was...scared. I thought I was going to die in there.”

A hand brushed his cheek and Yennefer tilted his chin up to look him in the eye.

“You didn't tell him anything.”

“Because I don't know anything.” He wasn't angry he was just...defeated. Weary. Afraid. All of the above. She refused to let him look away.

“We both know that's not true.”

He must have been hallucinating – perhaps the pain had got to him – because he swore that Yennefer brushed her thumb across his cheek in the most tender way. It was the kindest touch he'd felt in a long time, he realised. He wanted more. He didn't know how to ask for more.

She backed away suddenly and he missed her instantly.

“Come on,” she said, holding out a hand to help him up, “we can't stay here much longer.”

Taking her hand with his uninjured one, she helped him up onto his feet. She held on until he was sure he felt steady.

And then they were interrupted by a group of men. One of them insulted Yennefer. She kicked him and the chase began all over again.

#yennskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #faye writes

[beth--b]

Burn

Jaskier knew that the Witcher’s of Kaer Morhen were wary of him. He was, after all, a stranger in their midst. Life had taught them to beware strangers, not to trust humans. 

He didn’t know what Geralt had said about him over the years, though he had obviously been mentioned as they seemed to like to refer to him as  ‘Geralt’s bard’ or ‘the Wolf’s bard’. He wasn’t Geralt’s anything really. Not anymore. Perhaps this would be easier if he and Geralt weren’t still unsure of each other, but that was something that only time would help to heal, if it ever did.

So it was with those thoughts in mind that he offered himself up to help in any way that he could. The other Witcher’s had scoffed at him in the beginning, what use could a bard be to a Witcher.

Eventually though one of them decided that washing up duty would be suitable.

At this Jaskier had mentally cursed himself. Washing up with a burnt hand was not his idea of a good time, no sir not at all. But he’d offered, so he couldn’t really refuse the task assigned to him now could he.

So instead he simply plastered on a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes and readily agreed.

That was how, after their evening meal Jaskier found himself in the kitchen with Vesemir as the old wolf told him how to get hot water for the sink and where the cleaning supplies were kept.

He nodded along and waited for the oldest witcher to leave before setting about with his task.

The first time he submerged his burnt fingers he couldn’t help the pained gasp that escaped him. He quickly withdrew his hand and bit his lip to prevent any further noise from passing his lips. Witcher hearing after all was far better than his own and he didn’t want Geralt to hear him, nevermind one of the others. Tough bloody Witcher’s would probably just think he was even more ridiculous for whimpering over a few minor burns if they found him out.

Better prepared the second time he took a deep breath and put his hand back in the water. The burning pain was no less the second time than the first. He simply bit his lip again and kept going until all the dishes were done. By the time he finished he was barely able to hold back his pained whimpers and hurried to get some cold water to run over his hand, desperate to make the burning stop. 

Once the pain had settled back to a manageable level he carefully dried his hands, the burns red and irritated by the hot water. Certain he couldn't fake acting like his usual self he grabbed himself some wine and headed to his room.

It was fucking freezing in his room. 

Of course it was, he hadn't lit a fire.

He wasn't going to light a fire.

Instead he sat on the bed, pulled the too thin blanket around himself and drank deeply from the bottle he had brought from the kitchen, letting the alcohol help warm him from the inside out.

Eventually he drifted into a fitful doze, waking through the cold night and wishing he could simply go to Geralt's room but unable to bring himself to do so.

When morning came he forced himself up, splashed some cold water on his face and let his still healing hand rest in the cool water for a moment, sitting in relief as the constant burning under his skin eased temporarily.

Jaskier finally dragged himself downstairs and sat down to breakfast with a few of the others in the keep.

He sat in silence, nobody seeming to be interested in early morning conversation. Once he would have forced his chatter upon them but he had learned his lesson the hard way, having his heart ripped open on the top of a mountain. So silence it would be unless someone spoke to him first.

Just as he was finishing up Geralt came and sat beside him, sweaty from training but there nonetheless.

“Morning,” came the low rumble of Geralt’s voice.

Jaskier nodded, “That it is my dear Witcher. Training done for the morning?”

Geralt hummed in response, reaching past Jaskier for the porridge in the middle of the table, filling his bowl and settling in to eat in silence.

“Right then, enjoy your breakfast. I might see you later on.”

Jaskier pushed up from the table only to stop at the sound of a growled ‘bard’ from Lambert.

“Did you need something?”

“Where are you off to bard? Forgetting your chores already?”

“My chores? Oh, the dishes? Sorry I didn’t realise that would be for every meal.”

“Well there’s not a lot else you can do here now is there?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier winced at the implication but was cut off by Geralt. “Lambert shut the fuck up. No need to be an asshole this early in the day. Jaskier, you don’t have to-”

“No Geralt. I did offer to do something to help out. If I’m only good for washing dishes then so be it.” He turned and left the room before anyone could say anything further, heading to the kitchen to get started once again on the painful task . “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, resigned to his fate.

it wasn’t that bad really. Nowhere near the pain he was in when the fire fucker first burnt him. It had been days now and the initial fire that seemed to have settled under the surface of his skin had eased. It was still painful, skin shiny, red and hot to the touch. But it wasn’t burning quite as much. The water really didn’t seem to be helping though. He wasn’t sure how he was going to keep this up for every meal. 

Once again he pushed through the pain, letting his hand soak in cooler water once he was done to take some of the sting out. His hand was aching. He should say something to Geralt, maybe he’d help. He’d wait a little longer, surely it had to heal soon and then there would be no need to bother anyone with it after all. Just a little longer.

Somehow he made it through washing up duty for the day without anyone coming into the kitchen while he was cleaning. At least alone, if a few little noises managed to escape him there wouldn’t be any questions about it. Worse still would be if someone was there and didn’t care to ask. 

The next morning he woke with his hand aching more than it had in days. The fingers were stiff and hard to bend. Blisters on his fingers weeping slightly. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. 

He contemplated just not going downstairs. Staying in his cold little room for the day and hope that nobody would remember he existed. If they left him alone he wouldn’t have to do any chores, wouldn’t have to aggravate his hand anymore than he already had. Hot water and dirty dishes were probably not the best combination for half healed burns.

With that decided, Jaskier curled back up under his blanket to try and ward off the chill. He felt even colder now than he had last night when he went to bed. He shivered and wished he could bring himself to light the fire in the hearth. Eventually he dozed off again.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep but he was woken by a knock at his door. By the sound of it the person on the other side had perhaps been knocking for a while, the banging getting louder and more frequent when he didn’t reply.

“Jaskier? Can I come in?” Geralt’s muffled voice came through the door,

Jaskier stared a moment longer before pushing himself up on the bed and calling out for the witcher to enter.

“Are you alright? Nobody has seen you all day,” Geralt asked as he came into the room, frowning as he took in the sight of Jaskier still in bed.

“What do you mean all day? What’s the time?” 

“Mid afternoon. Are you well?”

Jaskier took a moment to think about it before remembering that he didn’t want to be a bother and nodded slowly.

Geralt gave him a disbelieving look and moved closer, sitting on the bed beside him.

“Why’s it so cold in here? Do you need me to light the fire?”

“Ah no, no thank you Geralt. I’m fine,” Jakier silently cursed himself as he shivered despite his words.

Geralt seemed to be dissecting him with his eyes, looking the bard over for anything that might be wrong. Jaskier shifted and absently ran his hand through his hair, hissing when the momentarily forgotten burns made their presence known.

Eyes narrowing as Jaskier quickly moved his hand away and under the blanket Geralt sighed. “Jask, please tell me what’s going on? You don’t look well.” Geralt pressed a hand to the bard’s flushed cheeks nodding as if it just confirmed his suspicions. “You have a fever Jaskier, let me help you.”

Jaskier seemed to deflate at that, knowing he couldn’t hide away forever and Geralt may not know exactly what was wrong but he knew something wasn’t right.

Silently Jaskier held his burnt hand out to the Witcher.

Geralt looked the burns over and frowned. “Did you do this here? What happened?”

“No Geralt, it was in Oxenfurt. Before you found me I had a run in with a mage.”

Geralt growled low in his chest. “Fire fucker.”

“Ah yes, I suppose that would be him. Wanted some information on your and your child surprise. I didn’t tell him anything though so don’t worry. I didn’t really have anything to tell after all.”

Geralt just shook his head and carefully held onto the burnt hand Jaskier still held before him.

“I’m sorry Jaskier. Yen said you were in trouble but she didn’t tell me what. That never should have happened. Why didn’t you say something about this? Fuck, Lambert had you washing up-”

“Ah yes hot water on burns was not the most pleasant experience. I dare say it may have made things a little worse in fact.”

Geralt dropped his gaze to the floor before standing abruptly and striding out the room.

“Ok then. Guess I’ll just stay here.”

Jaskier stayed on the bed, shivering with fever and feeling very alone.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it for long though before Geralt came back into the room, carrying a jar and some bandages.

“Geralt?”

“Give me your hand Jaskier. Let me take care of you.”

Geralt sat back on the bed, then gently took the bard’s hand into his own larger one and began applying a thick paste to the burns before wrapping his burnt fingers and hand in the bandages he had brought, tying them off once he was satisfied.

“No more chores until that’s healed. I’ll bring you some food and water and then you need to rest some more and let your body fight the infection that you’ve been exposed to by leaving those untreated so long. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I just, after the way things ended for us on the mountain and then when I finally see you again there was everything with Ciri and it just, it just seemed so trivial. There was so much else that was so much bigger going on. I just didn’t want to be a bother.”

Geralt leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the bard slowly, giving him time to pull away.

Jaskier didn’t need any more prompting than that though. He wrapped his arms tightly around the Witcher and pressed his face against the side of Geralt’s neck. Tears began to fall before he was really aware, leaving a wet, salty trail down Geralts’s neck and collarbone. Geralt just tightened his hold on Jaskier and held him until he had cried himself out.

When Jaskier finally pulled away he gave a small smile and inhaled, ready to apologise.

“Don’t say it Jask, don’t apologise, there is no need. I have treated you poorly in the past, I can’t go back and change what has happened but I can be here for you now. I can help you, as long as you are willing to let me. Besides, I really am going to need your help you know.”

“Oh and what pray tell would you need the help of a humble bard with my good Witcher?” Jaskier asked playfully, a real smile brightening his still tear stained face.

“With Ciri of course. She and Yen might be busy learning about chaos together for now but there is so much more for her to learn and I want you to be the one to be there, helping me to teach her.”

Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt's neck again and kissed his cheek, before pulling away to look him in the eye.

“Well then, I suppose you are stuck with me. I can’t leave poor Cirilla to your teachings alone. She might as well be raised by wolves,” he said with a grin.

Geralt snorted softly and shook his head. “That was terrible bard.”

“Oh come on, I know it wasn’t my best but I’m a bard and a poet, not a comedian!”

Things may not yet be back to the way they were before, but perhaps this time they could be better.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump

[starfirewildheart]

Chapter 5

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 3,266

Yennefer cursed under her breath as she heard Geralt returning faster than she’d expected. He’d gone into the woods while Ciri and Jaskier were packing their things on the horses. She had to do this now if it was going to happen and she knew it. She’d helped Naurel to her feet with the guise of leading her to the horses just before she threw down the vial that caused the portal to flicker open.

“YENNEFER!” Geralt yelled when he saw the air ripple and wave to life. He ran toward it diving just in time to grab Naurel and pull her back causing all of them to topple to the ground. He rolled to his feet as did Yennefer and she tried to bolt toward the portal. It faded just before she reached it.

“Fuck,” she tried to figure out what to do. Had he seen her open the portal? If he hadn’t seen her do it then maybe she could claim surprise. If he had seen her could she make it to Ciri in time to take her instead since Geralt had his hands on Naurel? She only had one more potion to open a portal and she had to make it count. Movement caught her attention and Geralt’s as they both turned to see six Kikimora running toward them from where the portal had been.

“Fuck,” Geralt grabbed an elixir from the holster on his thigh and drank it as he pulled his sword from his back. He stopped one of them from slicing into Naurel by cutting its front legs off then stabbing it through the head. “Stand with Ciri and Jaskier,” he ordered. She ran to them and they all huddled together near the horses.

His sword arced through the air sending black blood flying as he fought against the monsters. They were fast and vicious as they encircled him instinctively knowing if they took out the biggest threat together the humans would be no match for them.

“Geralt!” Ciri gasped as one Kikimora stabbed into his thigh as another sliced across his side while he cut the head off of another with his sword. She hid her face in Naurel’s shoulder.

Naurel saw them spitting venom at the witcher and could see the smoke rising from his skin as it was melting away. Her hand was searching Geralt’s saddlebags while keeping her eyes on the battle trying to find anything that would help. By the time her hand closed around the handle of a dagger Geralt had killed four of the six creatures but he was fading from blood loss and the acid-like venom they had spit on him. “Jaskier, take Ciri,” she said, shoving the girl to the bard. Naurel stepped carefully toward Geralt and the two remaining Kikkimora’s just as the witcher hit his knees. “Hey!” she yelled to get their attention as she sliced across her arm.

“No!” Geralt’s voice was different, more dangerous and demanding with the elixir. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She held up her hand letting the blood flow freely knowing it would drive them crazy. Everything after that happened so quickly it was a blur. Geralt was on his feet right behind them swinging his sword and cutting them to pieces. He cut one’s head from its body and with a huge leap through the air he stabbed the other one from the top of the head through, driving his sword in the ground with a squish.

Geralt saw another portal open to his right and four people running toward them. On instinct, he raised his blade to the first one but stopped short of killing him. “You look like day-old shit,” he rasped before dropping his weapon to the ground and leaning heavily on Naurel while grasping the bleeding gash on her arm.

Eskel was shocked when he saw Geralt was the one at the site of the attack, Their amulets had all alerted them to the presence of monsters nearby, and with Triss at the keep, she offered to portal them so they didn’t have to ride in the snow. He hadn’t expected to see his brother at the other end.

“What the fuck happened here?” Lambert asked as he saw the four humans and the six dead Kikkimoras.

“A portal opened and released the kikimora,” Geralt explained. “Nothing else came through though,” his confusion was clear. “Did you see anything?” he looked at Naurel.

She wasn’t sure what happened. It looked to her that Yennefer used a potion to open a portal but why would she do that? She was a witch, she didn’t need a potion for that. “I..I don’t know. I just saw Yennefer drop a potion and then everything went wavy.

All eyes turned to Yennefer who thought up a lie quickly. “I had made a potion for Naurel and was about to give it to her when the portal opened. I didn’t see anything come through besides the creatures. I’m sorry I wasn’t of more help but I was trying to get her to safety.” Geralt could hear her heart racing but he didn’t question her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

It was decided that Geralt, Naurel, Ciri, Yennefer, and Jaskier would accompany Triss and Eskel to Kaer Morhen through a portal while Lambert and Cohen brought the horses up the path. It ensured that the keeps location remained a secret and also that Geralt and his friend could be treated quicker.

When they stepped out of the portal he put his arms around Ciri and Naurel ushering them into the great hall with Yen and Jaskier following with Eskel. “Look who we found,” Eskel shouted at the other witchers.

“We thought you were dead,” one of them yelled.

“Not yet,” he grinned as they all moved to embrace their brother. Naurel and Ciri smiled as they watched them interact.

“Wolf?”

Geralt turned toward the newest voice. “Vesimer,” he hugged the old witcher then introduced his companions.

“Damn three women and a bard,” one of his brothers smirked. “You must be in hell.” Naurel grinned and shook her head at their banter before allowing Triss to guide her to a seat at one of the tables.

Once greetings were shared and everyone started drinking and telling stories Geralt sent Ciri and Jaskier off in search of rooms and Triss, Vesimer, Geralt, and Naurel all moved to the laboratory. Naurel insisted that Geralt be looked over too after all of the venom and he smiled. “I’m a witcher. I will heal on my own.”

She wasn’t happy about it but she relented and let Triss expose her wounds. Vesimer stepped forward but stopped, “May I?” she nodded her consent, grateful he’d asked before touching her. After much looking and touching, even drawing blood for testing she was on edge but covered in salves and most of her wounds were healed by Triss. She wasn’t hurting nearly as much now.

Knowing that she’d agreed to come here to help Geralt figure out why he was so drawn to her she knew she had to come clean now. She looked at him, “You’re sure they can be trusted?” After all the things that had happened she was terrified of their reaction and them turing her over to the enemy again.

“Yes,” he assured her as he slipped his arm around her for support.

Vesimer looked at them both in question but gave her the time she needed to find her words. “I.. I’m not sure where to start to be honest. I was a slave in Centra all my life, sold when I was three, and just traded around to a few families. There was nothing about my life that seemed important at all. It was really boring, to be honest, until the day I was sent to the market to buy a sweet cake for the master's child’s birthday. You see his mother didn’t like to cook and she feared that he was already too reliant on me so if I made him a birthday cake that it would make him look to me more than her,” she knew she was babbling but couldn’t stop herself.

“I went to the market after lunch and bought a sweet cake and a wooden soldier that my master wanted to give him as a present. As I was walking from one merchant to another there was a group of guardsmen wandering around and one of them made a crude comment to me. I ignored him and finished the shopping but they were waiting for me as I left.” A shiver wracked her body at the memory and Geralt rubbed her back soothingly. “They cornered me and kept trying to touch me making lewd comments about things they wanted to do to me or me to do to them. I tried to walk past again and one of them grabbed my breast. I..I slapped him,” her voice wavered and tears spilled down her face. She looked at Geralt with wide, pleading eyes as she tried to explain her actions like she was going to be punished for them again. “It was stupid I know but I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I felt my hand connect with his cheek.”

His heart broke at the fear that was coming off of her. Geralt hugged her close to him rockinging her gently to try and sooth her. When she was finally able to speak through the sobs she started again. “They knocked me down in the mud and started hitting and kicking me as they ripped at my dress. That’s when I heard someone yell he’d been robbed and he came running over to the guard. They spoke in whispers and suddenly they were going through my basket. I just sat there with my knees pulled to my chest trying to cover myself where they’d ripped my dress while they dumped everything on the ground.” She looked up at Geralt with tear-filled eyes, “I watched him drop the bracelet onto the pile of things. He took it from his pocket and just dropped it. The guard saw him do it but he arrested me anyway.”

He wanted to go kill the guardsmen but he was pretty sure they were likely already dead. “Is that where you were tortured?”

“N..no. The man who accused me of stealing, the one who put the bracelet in my things, He requested I be turned over to him as punishment. Queen Calanthe agreed to his request and I was taken to his carriage and bound to it.”

“Do you know his name?” Vesimer asked.

“No. No one ever said his name in my presents. I don’t know how long he held me captive and tortured me. He would starve me until I was too weak to fight back then he would do all sorts of medical experiments,” she shivered at the memory. “When he got tired of cutting things and breaking my bones he moved to magic.” She looked at Triss, “It was nothing like you do. It felt,” she paused and searched for the proper words. “It felt wrong, like it was fueled by hate but I had never even seen the man. What did I do to make him hate me?” she questioned.

“Some people are just evil, girl,” Vesimer told her. “We witchers were made to fight monsters and protect humans but when they created us they didn’t consider that some humans were monsters.”

“It blurred the lines of what we do that’s for sure,” Geralt agreed.

She rested her head on his shoulder. All the emotions were draining her energy. “He cast all sorts of spells, forced potions into me, performed rituals, injections” she shook her head. “I don’t know what he did to me but I felt as if all the warmth from my body was turned to ice. I’ve never been warm since. I’m always weak and tired and it takes all my energy to just walk sometimes.”

Triss put some water in a cup and handed it to Naurel. She accepted it gratefully but her hands were shaking so bad that Geralt had to help her steady it to take a drink. Not realizing how thirsty she’d been till the cool liquid hit her tongue she drank it down quickly then blushed when she realized she’d gulped it down. “Were you always on the move like when Geralt found you,” Triss asked.

“No, I was kept in a dungeon most of the time. I don’t know why they moved me but one night, I guess it was night, I had no way of seeing the sky, they moved me and I was whisked away in some traveling camp. It was on the third day of being kept in the camp that the attack happened.”

“Do you know who attacked?” Vesimer asked.

Naurel hesitated unsure if she should tell them. She felt Geralt lift her chin and turn her head so that he was looking into her eyes. “Please, we need to know. You can trust us.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just,” she sighed. “It’s so unbelievable.”

“More than mutant warriors who fight monsters?” he smiled at her trying to ease her tension.

“He was about to kill me. I guess with everything going on it was too much trouble to keep experimenting on me. Just as he held the blade high to stab me in the chest, howls ripped through their air and he froze. I heard the soldiers screaming and then yipping and barking. The mage fled the tent to see what was happening and I forced myself to roll off the table and crawled out of the tent. I don’t know if I was just trying to see what was happening or hoping he’d come to finish what he’d started but I did not expect what happened next.”

“A wolf pack, three grays, and one huge white wolf had killed all of them except the mage. I saw him open a portal and flee. I lay on the ground unable to run as the white wolf stalked toward me. He stood over me and I was positive he was going to kill me but instead, he laid down and wrapped himself around me. We stayed like that for three days. He kept me warm and tried to feed me by dropping random chunks of the guards on me and when I refused he started to get upset. On the third day, he stood over me and tried to pour a mouth full of blood into my mouth. I curled up so that he missed and he gave a growl that terrified me before he howled loudly. It wasn’t long after that, maybe ten minutes, before you arrived.” She took a shaky breath, it felt better to get it out. Not having to hide her crazy meant that they could lock her away and be done with it.

They were all three staring at her but it was Vesimer who spoke first. “Geralt’s guide is a white wolf.”

“Guide?” she asked.

“When you become a witcher you go through different trials,” Geralt explained. “Some witchers find spirit animals that help guide them on their tests. My animal was a white wolf.”

“It’s a rare thing for a witcher to have a spirit guide, it’s one of a few things that makes Geralt special among us. Geralt was destined for something more and we’ve always known that but we just don’t know what it is. It seems that you are destined to be a part of that too,” Vesimer told her.

“I noticed something when I met you but I didn’t think anything of it until now,” Triss said. “The way the two of you interact is different. He says something and you lower your head and bare your neck to him, other times you look like you want to argue but you can’t.”

Naurel’s face burned red as she tried to hide behind her hair. “He has this rumbling growl that makes me listen even when I don’t want to and this scent that will almost make me enthralled.” There, now her embarrassment was complete.

“I find myself drawn to her, even before I knew her,” Geralt continued. “I can’t stand for her to be out of my sight and I’m so protective of her that sometimes even friends touching her causes a reaction. She smells,” his eyes close, “like safety and home.” He looked at her, his pupils blown wide, “I fight the urge to mark her every second.”

Vesimer and Triss share a look before the sorceress goes to retrieve a book. “Geralt was injected with a mutagen that had wolf DNA in it. He picked up the aspects of the wolf,” Triss said as she handed them the book. “He is an alpha, the strongest in his pack and you my dear seem his mate.”

“What? No,” Naurel shook her head. “He already has a mate. He’s bound to Yennefer, not me. I came here so that one of you could free me from whatever magic binds us and he can be free of me.”

“I’m not bound to Yennefer,” Geralt growled.

“Did you not wish..” she argued but he cut her off.

“I made a fucking wish that our deaths be bound. She was trying to kill herself by becoming host to the Djinn. It's the only reason she agreed to help Jaskier to begin with. She thought he was the one with the wishes. When I came for him she was trying to capture the Djinn in her body, to become the vessel. A Djinn can not kill its master so I used the last wish to bind our deaths.”

“But you… after,” Naurel waved her hands as if to signify what she wasn’t saying.

“I couldn’t fucking sleep!” he roared like that explained everything. “I was tense and frustrated,” he growled.

“You slept with Yennefer too?” Triss asked, petulantly.

“You whore,” Naurel snapped. Triss gasped but then saw the woman was looking at Geralt and not her. “I guess you have a thing for witches!” She stood and started to walk out but he grabbed her arm and stopped her.

Geralt glared at Vesimer who was not even attempting to hide his laughter before turning back to Naurel. “That was years ago before I even knew who you were! You can’t judge me on my past.”

She really wanted to argue but realized he was right and it made her sort of angry because he was hers. Wait, where had that thought come from? “Fine but what are you going to do about Yennefer? She thinks you are mates.”

“I will talk with her,” he promises as he pulls her close and breathes in her scent.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

Wolf and flame tag list

#witcher fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill characters

[bambirex]

Witcher + yennefer/Jaskier + there was only one bed + Jaskier secretly masturbating with yennefer in the bed + bonus points if yen realised halfway through and then encourages him + extra extra bonus points for mild humiliation/degradation. X

Warnings: masturbation, voyeurism, dirty talk, light dom/sub, humiliation

**

Yennefer warned Jaskier right away that if he dared snore and bother her beauty sleep, she would turn him into a toad by next morning. Jaskier only laughed and told her he would make sure she wouldn't get a blink of sleep.

It seemed like he was intent on keeping that promise, because he has been making those weird, muffled sounds for long minutes now, to Yennefer's biggest dismay.

It was only her luck that there was only one bed in their room. Geralt had warned her that Jaskier was quite the restless sleeper, and that Yennefer should only stay in one room with him if she could handle getting kicked in the ribs every two minutes, or if there were separate beds.

Yennefer was hoping for the second option, for two reasons: one, she wanted to have a night of peaceful sleeping, and two, there was something about the idea of being that close to Jaskier that made her body heat up inexplicably.

She sighed deeply, squeezing her eyes close and hoping that Jaskier would finally shut up. The bed was incredibly narrow, forcing them close to each other. Jaskier moved under the blanket, his elbow brushing Yennefer's side. She shivered softly, trying to will her brain to stop thinking about how warm Jaskier's body was against hers.

Now, Jaskier really should have fallen asleep for real, because those tiny, breathless sounds he was making under his nose sounded a lot like something else, and it was riling Yennefer up in a way she wasn't exactly proud of.

There was an unmistakable moan, then a soft gasp, and Yennefer realized those sounds didn't simply remind her of a certain, lewd act.

She pulled herself up in a half-sitting position, careful not to draw attention to herself. She peered over Jaskier's shoulder, her eyes adjusting to the darkness quickly. She bit down on her lip, feeling wet heat rise between her legs.

The way Jaskier's hand moved between his legs, combined with his choked-up whimpers and the slick sounds told Yennefer everything she needed to know. The knowledge that Jaskier was wanking off in secret, right next to her set fire in her core.

"What a nasty little thing you are," she breathed, her eyes glued to the way Jaskier's hand moved. Jaskier suddenly snapped his head back at her, his eyes wide and clearly guilty even in the darkness, lips still parted on a gasp. God, Yennefer wanted to ruin him.

"Yeah, I noticed what you were doing," Yennefer purred. She licked her lips and squeezed her thighs together. "You were playing with yourself like the pervert you are."

"Yen..." Jaskier's voice was equal amounts terrified and aroused. He still didn't pull his hand away, and Yennefer quickly noticed he was still hard.

"Go on, then," Yennefer continued. She placed a hand on Jaskier's hip, enjoying the way goosebumps rose on the flesh at her touch. "Keep touching yourself. Show me how much your enjoy fucking your own fist like a horny teenage boy."

The moan that left Jaskier's lips was like music to Yennefer's ears. She watched, mesmerized, as Jaskier's hand started moving again, jerking himself off in quick movements.

"You're so desperate, aren't you?" Yennefer cooed, her thumb drawing circles onto Jaskier's skin. He whined softly, bucking forward and into his palm.

"Are you thinking about me?" Yennefer whispered into his ear, her breath hot and moist against Jaskier's skin. She couldn't resist nipping his earlobe and making him shiver.

"Tell me, Jaskier. Are you thinking about me when you're touching yourself?"

"Yennefer, you.."

"Answer me."

"Fuck... yes..."

That was exactly what Yennefer wanted to hear. She leaned in and licked a long stripe across Jaskier's neck, his pulse beating hard under her lips.

"Maybe one day, I'll let you touch me," Yennefer told him. Jaskier made a sound similar to a sob. His hand moved so fast and so hard on his prick that his movements became a blur. He was rolling his hips forward, his eyes shut tight as he chased his completion.

"But you need to earn it."

"I'll be good," Jaskier moaned, and damn, did that go straight to Yennefer's clit. She so desperately wanted to get off, too, but she enjoyed this one-sided game too much.

"You can't be good," Yennefer chuckled. She propped her chin up on Jaskier's shoulder, watching closely as Jaskier's hand shook, his prick leaking more and more steadily. He was getting close, Yennefer could tell: his hips were undulating without rhythm, and his breathing was harsh and ragged.

"Just look at yourself now. Jerking off while I'm right next to you, don't you think you should be ashamed of yourself? Do you seriously think you deserve to fuck me?"

Jaskier whined loudly. He was going to wake the whole inn at this point, but it would be worth it.

"Please, Yen..."

"Come for me, right now," Yennefer ordered, pinching Jaskier's hip harshly, "and maybe I'll allow it one day."

Jaskier sobbed, his hips shooting forward. It took a couple more shaky twists of his arm, and he was spilling over his hand, making a huge mess in their bed.

Yennefer dropped a kiss onto his shoulder and pulled him closer. Jaskier was surprisingly soft and pliant in her arms, and it made Yennefer's heart swell.

For all her seductive, teasing game, she was sure she would let Jaskier fuck her very soon - the bard may have been more explicitly desperate, but Yennefer needed him just as much.

#yennskier #the witcher fanfiction #my fic #request #the witcher fic #yennefer x jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #the witcher

[kingthunder]

Okay, prompt time! You get a choice:

❛ the most beautiful part is, i wasn’t even looking when i found you. ❜ for Yenskier

or

❛ i broke my rules for you. ❜ for Geraskier.

Have fun <3

You can also read this on AO3.

yennskier, 2230 words, rated T

Jaskier picks his half drunk beer up and then sets it back down. His guitar case sits clamped between his knees under the bar. The bar isn’t as busy as he would like—it’s a Tuesday, and it’s raining—but an open mic is an open mic, and he’s got a new song he wants to test out for an audience, even if it’s a modest one. The beer he picked is really bad, though. The person up at the mic right now isn’t great either, some guy with a ukulele who desperately needs vocal coaching.

“Julian! What are you doing here?”

Jaskier doesn’t even have time to turn before Essi Daven is sliding onto the stool next to him, all blonde curls and big voice. He glances over his shoulder and sees Priscilla sitting at a table in the corner guarding both of their instruments. They must be here for the open mic, too. Typical.

“It’s not like I was drinking that or anything,” Jaskier says as Essi snags his drink and drains it. 

“Wow, that’s disgusting,” Essi says, wiping her mouth. “I didn’t know your taste in beer was as bad as your taste in music. Seriously though, what are you doing here? I never see you on this side of town.”

Jaskier sighs. Essi is a friendly rival in the indie folk music scene and he likes her, but she isn’t exactly the person he wants to be talking about this with. Honestly though, he’s tired and a little heartsick and he doesn’t have it in him to make up an excuse.

“Geralt kicked me out,” Jaskier said. “I’ve been staying with Yen.”

Essi’s eyes are wide. “Oh my god. Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Jaskier says, and goes to pick up his drink, which he realizes is empty only after he brings it to his lips. He sets it down with a small flush of embarrassment. 

“What happened?” Essi said.

That’s a good question. It all went down a month ago, and Jaskier still doesn’t know how to make heads or tails of it. He and Geralt had been friends and roommates for years. And sure there had been some amount of sexual tension, but it had never been a problem as far as Jaskier was concerned. It was just their baseline, and one that Jaskier was more than happy never to cross because he valued Geralt’s friendship more than any potential romantic entanglement, no matter how ridiculously hot the man was. But then Geralt had a blowout argument with Yen, and she’d brought up Jaskier’s slightly more than platonic interest in him, which was apparently news to Geralt, and Geralt had lost his mind and told them both to get out. And so they had.

Together.

Jaskier doesn’t know how to make heads or tails of that either. Except that he and Yen went out and got very drunk that night and she’d let him crash on her couch as an apology for accidentally making him homeless, and he’d just…

Never left, somehow.

“Geralt and I had some… communication issues,” Jaskier says. “Big ones.”

“But why are you staying with Yennefer? Last I saw, you two were still trying to scratch each other’s eyes out every time you were within a hundred feet of each other.”

“Wellll,” Jaskier says, and devoutly wishes he had more beer, even the nasty one that Essi finished. Possibly enough beer to drown in. God, isn’t it time for his set yet? “She’s not all that bad.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That woman skins puppies for fur coats, you can’t convince me otherwise.”

“She’s—” Jaskier starts. He sighs. What is there to say about Yennefer fucking Vengerberg? She’s driven Geralt and, by extension, Jaskier crazy for years with her hot and cold antics. She’s volatile and messy and thinks that insults are a good substitute for conversation. She bullies everyone, only she disguises the bullying behind a veneer of “incredibly gorgeous woman with a sexy smile” and thinks no one will notice (well, Jaskier fucking noticed, thank you very much). She’s stubborn and inflexible and—

—and kind in a way that Jaskier never realized, not until he actually spent time with her in private. Quietly sad, and with a deeply buried vein of insecurity that she covers up so well that Jaskier isn’t even sure she knows it’s there herself. He thinks that maybe Geralt never figured it out. If maybe that’s why he and Yen could never quite see eye-to-eye, because they were two strong-willed sad sacks who each thought the other wasn’t one.

“She’s—” Jaskier tries again. He’s not usually at a loss for words, but he doesn’t have any weightless ones on the tip of his tongue. The only ones he can find are too personal. She’s strong but the price she pays for it is too high. She’s lonely. She just wants someone to love her, but she’s afraid she isn’t loveable (and he knows a thing or two about that, doesn’t he?).

She’s a welcoming couch, and late nights eating takeout and gossiping about mutual acquaintances, and the way her lips slide over her teeth when she smiles, and the tense, lovely line of her neck when she wants to cry and she thinks no one is looking and she’s trying not to cry anyway.

“She’s here,” Essi says, gesturing with her chin.

Jaskier turns as the music stops and people start to clap, and there she is. His new roommate and star of his every waking thought for the last few weeks. Yennefer fucking Vengerberg.

The neon of the street signs illuminate her for a moment before the door swings shut behind her, and there are raindrops in her hair, and she looks so beautiful that Jaskier’s heart gives a little lurch. He has to pretend to drain the dregs of his beer yet again to hide the flush in his cheeks, and he tightens his knees on his guitar case. She’s never come to see him perform before. Why tonight, of all possible nights? His throat suddenly feels tight.

Essi pats him on the back, and he must be as transparent as water, because she says, “I see. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, huh? Well, if it doesn’t work out, me and Pris have a couch too. You’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier chokes out, ears burning.

And it’s a kind offer, it is, even if he has no intention of taking her up on it.

“You’re up,” the bartender says to Jaskier.

Jaskier gives Essi a grimace that he hopes looks at least a little like a smile and climbs the two stairs to the raised platform at the end of the room, guitar in hand. He focuses on fiddling with his tuning pegs. He’s already in tune, but he doesn’t want to see where Yen is sitting. He’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he does.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, leaning in to adjust the mic to the right height. “I’m Jaskier. Been going through some shit lately—” (“haven’t we all?” someone yells and Jaskier points at him with half a smirk) “—just like you have. Thought I’d write a song about it.”

And then he takes a deep breath and puts his hands on the strings and starts to play.

And why oh why did Yen have to pick tonight to suddenly develop an interest in his music?

Because the song is about her. Geralt is in there too, but it’s mostly about her. Even though Jaskier never mentions either one of them by name, it’s got to be deafeningly obvious. There’s all this nonsense in there about storms and orphan ships and beauty found in the wreckage, and at one point he sings about “these violet delights” referring to her eyes (what a horrible pun, why had he thought that was a good pun), and an awful attempt to rhyme “bosom” with “lose him” and oh god he’s going to spontaneously combust right here on stage.

At the bridge he dares to look up. Yen is tucked into the far corner, alone, and the look on her face is unreadable. He has to look away, can’t stand to make eye contact through this, and he almost loses his fingering, but he’s a fucking professional and manages to save it.

“The most beautiful part is, I wasn’t even looking when I found you,” Jaskier sings, strumming the final chords. His voice catches a little right at the end, but it’s okay. He’s right at the edge of his vocal range there, and it catches all the time. It’s part of the charm. It’s absolutely not because Yen has gotten up and is already making her way towards him with a determined look on her face.

Okay, so it is.

People are clapping (maybe more than usual?) but Jaskier absolutely does not have the mental or emotional bandwidth to appreciate it right now. He decides the best thing to do is pretend that he didn’t just sing a song about falling in love with his best friend’s ex-girlfriend, or that if he did it’s just a hypothetical situation—he sings songs about the human condition is all, he has that other one he sings all the time from the point of view of a father with a kids, and he’s not a dad is he?—and he hurriedly exits the stage, already taking his guitar off.

Yennefer is there waiting and she looks at him as he avoids her eyes and starts stuffing his guitar back in its case.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Jaskier says, just to get the drop on the conversation. He’s fiddling with the button for the guitar strap, it’s stuck. “Thought you hated music. Well, maybe not all music, but my music specifically. You haven’t talked to Geralt, have you? He broke radio silence to ask me to come pick up some of my stuff, and I know I haven’t written him back, but I was thinking maybe we could go together, strength in numbers and all that, and—hugging, oh we’re hugging.”

She’s warm in his arms and smaller than he expected (everything about her is larger than life in his mind), and his arms go around her automatically. Her hair smells like lilacs, not like violets at all. Did she fit against Geralt this seamlessly? Like the breadth of her was made specifically for his arms?

“I hate your music, you sing-songy little twit,” Yen says, her breath warm in his ear. “I never want to hear that song again.”

“Oh, I’m glad we cleared that up. Because I was just starting to think that maybe—mmmf.”

Her lips are warm too. Warm and soft, and Jaskier sighs into her mouth, and buries his hands in her hair to tilt her head and kiss her deeper.

Someone wolf whistles (Jaskier could swear it was Essi) and they break apart.

“Fuck you!” Jaskier calls out to scattered laughter. His heart is pounding.

They move away from the stage. Yen’s lipstick is smeared and Jaskier touches his own mouth and comes away with burgundy on his fingers.

“That was unexpected,” Jaskier says.

“Was it?” Yen says, eyes probing, and something about the way she says it sends a hot curl of anticipation licking down into his belly. Yennefer fucking Vengerberg just kissed him. Of her own volition. Because of a song he wrote. He thinks he might be able to fly.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Thought for sure you were coming over here to tell me to get off your couch for good.”

“I am.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, suddenly on the edge of tears. “Alright then—”

“My bed’s big enough for two,” Yen says.

He exhales a shaky breath, relieved, and Yen finally cracks a smile.

“You should see your face,” Yen says, and he’s gratified that even now she’s still taking every opportunity to take the piss out of him. He smirks at her and steps close enough to kiss her again, but doesn’t do it.

“You think I’m that easy?” Jaskier says. “That I’ll just hop into bed with the first person who kisses me?”

“Aren’t you?” Yen says, still smiling.

This is the kind of game of mild insults that they play all the time, but there’s something else there now, a note of uncertainty or vulnerability in her voice that Jaskier wouldn’t have noticed a month ago. He does tonight.

He takes her hand and kisses it, old fashioned and over the top. “Only for you,” Jaskier says. Because he’s looking for it, he sees her eyes soften, and his heart melts for her. He wants to give his heart to her. He wants to believe she’ll keep it safe. Maybe she’ll just gobble him up, but there’s a kind of safety in that too, being tucked snugly inside the belly of the beast where nothing else can harm him.

But he’s getting ahead of himself, like he always does.

“Let’s go home,” Yennefer says. “We’ll see how many other parts of your body look good with lipstick on them.”

Home, he thinks. That word used to mean Geralt, but he realizes that somewhere along the way it’s come to mean Yennefer as well and he smiles.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says. “Let’s go home.”

#witcher #my fic #fanfic #yennskier #jaskier x yennefer #yenskier #jaskier #yennefer #smooch smooch fall in love #ask box prompts #sorry this took so long! #you probably forgot you even sent it in! #jaskier the bard #yennefer of vengerberg #post mountain breakup but make it modern au

[amzngdevil]

❛ why am i so fascinated by you? ❜ for Geraskier if the mood so strikes you? ☺️

Thank you so much for the prompt! I really hope this isn't as bad as it seemed to me as I was writing... 😬

[prompt from here]

Geraskier +18 • CW: Smut with a little gore at the first paragraph. I didn't edit it, so pls forgive any mistakes!

The sword sliced ​​through the creature's belly, spurting blood and something Jaskier thought looked a lot like guts, but he didn't look for long to keep from vomiting.

He knew that was Geralt's occupation. He had seen him kill all kinds of aberrations many times. Damn, his success as a bard came thanks to the witcher's adventures!

That didn't mean, however, that Jaskier was used to it all.

Geralt turned slowly towards him, cleaning his sword on the broad leaves of a plant beside him. The bard remained crouched behind the trunk of a fallen tree, even though the danger had passed. The witcher's eyes met his, and a shiver ran through him.

They weren't yellow. They were completely black.

Geralt moved closer, crouching in front of Jaskier, who didn't move. Their breathing was quickened - the witcher's from the effort; Jaskier's, for a feeling that still confused him.

"Everything is fine now." Geralt whispered against the now silent night. Jaskier felt his breath against his lips. "Nothing bad will happen to you. You can get out of there, and let's go back to the inn."

When they were under the influence of the elixirs, those eyes scared him. But they were still Geralt's, after all. Sweat poured down the witcher's forehead, the scent bringing another shiver to the bard's skin.

"Why am I so fascinated by you?" his voice was hoarse, never failing to stare at the darkness on the witcher's face.

"Good question." Geralt leaned his body over the bard. "But I think deep down you know the answer very well."

The fear was joined by something else when Geralt's tongue founds Jaskier's. The elixirs used to have some... bad effects at the witchers under that kind of situation, but Geralt didn't seem affected. On the contrary: Jaskier could feel his desire pressuring him even more at each second.

"You're used to beautiful ladies pampering you with gifts and luxury…" Geralt's hand closed against the collar of Jaskier's shirt as the bard shrugged off his coat sleeves and left it lining the floor. "You're used to make love in silk sheets and the smell of perfume, not to get fucked deep in the woods in the middle of the night."

With a tug, the shirt was ripped and the remaining rags were tossed away.

"Oh no, no, no!" the bard grunted. "Do you know how good that shirt was? And how much did it cost?"

"I don't give a damn." he started to work in Jaskier's pants, and soon they joined the shirt, but intact.

The witcher slipped a hand through the bard's chest, slightly railing his nails against skin. Jaskier tried to move, but Geralt hold his fists up his head.

"Don't move. And don't touch me, or I'll stop and leave you hard right here."

Defenseless, Jaskier obeyed.

Geralt started to cover the way his nails traced with bites, smirking when made eye contact with Jaskier.

"Your taste will be the death of me, do you know that?" His breath gets heavier. "Do you know how you make me feel? How I need to tame myself to don't do this to you every single day, and don't be as rough as I want?"

"Fuck, Geralt!" he had never felt something like this before. The mixture of fear and lust only provided by the witcher - his witcher - was like a drug: once he experimented it, he couldn't stop beggining for more.

"That"s exactly what I'm gonna do, Jask." he grunted while started to suck Jaskier's cock, making the bard leave some deep moans from his open mouth.

Geralt remembered that this was the favorite thing he does to Jaskier - and that people will never know that the famous verse I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting came in the first time he showed Jaskier how good he was with his mouth.

After bringing relief to Jaskier and swallow every drop of it, Geralt knelt with one leg on either side of his hip. Touching himself, the witcher smirked again while the bard's eyes followed his movements.

"One day I will do this exactly the way I dreamed of." he increased the pace as Jaskier moaned higher. "I will have no mercy on you, bard. You'll be mine."

This time was Jaskier that smirked. "I'm all yours, and you're all mine... Let's dance together, you and I..."

Geralt almost gone crazy. If Jaskier's taste was incredible, his voice was divine. The tone, the smoothness, the malicious look on that grey eyes... Geralt couldn't handle anymore. He relieved himself on the bard's chest, soaking him with his own pleasure.

"Fuck!" they both muttered, amazed by the vision. Jaskier searched the rags of his shirt and used them to clean himself as Geralt got up.

"Hey." the witcher grabbed his arm. Jaskier noticed he was hardening again. "I didn't finish with you. We didn't finish."

They only stopped when the day had dawned. And yes, Jaskier realized that he really did know the answer for his own question. He knew Geralt well enough to know the soft side behind the mask of coldness, the sensitive soul disguised as stone. But in moments like these, Jaskier realized the source of his reputation.

Geralt was far from being a monster, but the wolf inside the witcher only surfaced with Jaskier and for Jaskier, and the bard loved the sensations it aroused in him.

#the witcher fanfic #amzngdevil writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #smut #amzngdevil

[islenthatur]

A Leshen’s Roar

Jaskier stood in the back of the hall far away from the others and shifted uncomfortably, hands fiddling with the woven gold bands around his wrists that he had made long ago to hide his Self from magical means. Geralt’s eyes found his as he, Ciri and his brothers all gathered ales and food, his head tilting in question.

Are you well?

He gave his Witcher a grin and nodded, it was a complete and utter fucking lie but still, it eased Geralt. Being here in these halls felt wrong all kinds of it, the magic of the Old Wards that protected this place itched under his Glamour-skin. Yet, he would endure like always. Geralt had begged him quiet in the night when he and his child surprise stumbled across him, startling him bad enough that if it wasn’t for Geralt’s fast reflexes and Jaskier’s own and age that the roots he sent tearing towards them would have struck true.

Geralt had been asking him for years to join him in Kaer Morhen even knowing the truth, he steadily rejected the fact that Jaskier would not be welcomed in his home with the same vehemence as Jaskier defending Witchers against humans

This time he agreed because he was a fool with a fool’s heart. There was still something hollow between them after the mountain, even with an apology but… no, there had been something broken between them since the Djinn and that fucking wish twisted Geralt so far up in the Witch’s presence… yet, Jaskier couldn’t refuse, not with the way Geralt looked at him, not when there was so much tenderness in those eyes directed at him.

He hadn’t looked at him like that for a very long time.

“Thank you,” He whispered to the polite Witcher – Coën – when the Griffin brought him a plate of food and an ale.

The Witcher dipped his head in reply and went back to the others while Jaskier leant against the wall and watched, a smile pulling at his own lips as they began to break out in cheerful stories. He couldn’t help but inch closer, coming to stand by Geralt and laughed as Lambert grew utterly animated in the midst of a fabulous story that Jaskier itched to write down.

Vesemir hummed as he moved to stand at the centre of the table, waiting till all eyes were on him. He cast a look at each other them, lingering on Jaskier for a beat longer than expected but still. "Each of your faces here is enough cause for a celebration. You're safe, made it back home in one piece… mainly. That is enough for me."

"Here's to another Winter together," Coën added a small grin on his face, cup raised in toast.

"To arguments over who gets cleaning duty!"

"To the breath in our lungs!"

Geralt hummed as he raised his own mug of ale, a twitch of a smile on his lips. "To the brothers."

"To forgetting the fucking path!" Eskel's voice booms in the hall. "For one fucking night!"

Something dark twisted in Jaskier as he turned with a smile to the new Witcher, the one Geralt was most eager to see. His favourite brother that he spoke of often, one that Jaskier was eager to meet as well to gather some embarrassing stories… yet that pleasure died as he took note of the man before him.

He looked like a Witcher, carried all the marks of one but everything about him was wrong. The air vibrated around him as Geralt moved closer to hug his brother, pausing as Jaskier’s hand clenched tight around his wrist with strength he knew the bard rarely used.

“You are not welcome here.” The voice that rumbled from the bard has Geralt stiffening, it was a tone he had only heard several times and it was when Geralt was truly in dire need or danger. Inhaling deeply he tried to sense what set off Jaskier for Eskel still looked like his brother, acted like his brother… but he knew that Jaskier’s senses were much more attuned to creatures than Geralt’s so with that in mind Geralt stepped back, hand going for his silver sword.

“What the fuck…/”

“Now see here bard!”

“Geralt?”

Several voices spoke out as one but Geralt ignored all to lock his eyes on Jaskier who’s eyes seemed to burn a brilliant blue, never wavering from Eskel who stood frozen in the spot.

“Jask?” He inquired slowly, hand gripping the hilt of his silver sword tight but did not draw it yet. “What is it?”

Blinking Jaskier turned his eyes ever so slightly towards Geralt, a spark of resignation in his eyes that made the Witcher’s stomach drop, he knew that look. It was an apology. Before Geralt could do anything Jaskier’s form twisted, the gold bangles on his wrist dropping to the floor with a plink.

“Release him youngling.” Jaskier snarled his voice warbling into the sound of creaking wood and a raging brook, his skin twisting to bark as horns began to sprout.

The others began to move, their hands drawing their own weapons as Jaskier’s form finally finished taking shape. Geralt moved and snarled, hands forming Quen as his brothers and mentor hurled daggers towards Jaskier’s back. “Stop!”

“Stop!? He’s a fuckin’ Leshen that you brought into our home and is about to kill our brother!” Lambert snarled as he charged forward, but Geralt didn’t allow him to get further than several feet before kicking out with all his force and a muttered apology.

Jaskier cared not for the fight behind him as he advanced on Eskel, his roots twisting to hold the being in place as rage simmered under his bark. Dandelions and buttercups wilted along his moss covered arms as he reached forward, his magic swirling.

“THIS ONE IS MINE!” Eskel snarled in a twisted warble that stilled the others behind him.

A dark laugh escaped Jaskier’s lips, the sound of grinding bone and snapping branches. “No youngling, he is not… he’s mine.”

A wretched snarl escaped Eskel’s lips as Jaskier’s power rippled out of him in a screech, his body arching back, arms splayed open as Jaskier burst into a flock of crows to swarm around him, looking for the infection. This Leshen was from an old Sphere, one that Jaskier was born to, for it to twist a being this way. The Leshen’s of this world were twisted, wrong… not as powerful but Jaskier was old, far older than this creature and he reached within the Witcher and grasped the fleck of twisted rotting wood that inched towards his heart and yanked.

Everything about the rotting wood was wrong, powdery like crumbling stone but sparkled like—like stellacite. His heart stuttered as he swung his head around to gaze at Ciri, remembering one night of her waking up screaming, burrowing into his arms and sobbed out the harrowing story of how she escaped Cintra, what her scream could do and that it toppled the monolith.

If this got through, then… fuck. What else got through?

Steeling himself Jaskier turned to the wriggling arm and felt the roar build up, releasing it as it reached its bubbling point and shattering the slivers of the Youngling that dared to harm something of his Beloved.

Everything spun as Jaskier let his magic release, letting his form shrink back down enough for Geralt to slip the bangles over his hands once more and solidifying him to his preferred human body. Exhaustion crept up on him as he moved Eskel, who was now unconscious, towards them all with is vines.

“He’s alive, will be unconscious for a while. The youngling was trying to Twist him into a Leshen- formować. If left to fester then Eskel would have died and in his place the puppet of the Youngling.” Jaskier explained broken, toneless as he moved to stand behind Geralt slightly. “He will be well now, sore but well.”

#Leshen Jaskier #Non-Human Jaskier #Geralt/Jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #I should be writing for Mark of a Viper but this #Ficlet #the witcher fandom #jaskier dandelion #geralt of rivera