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mentalpolaroids · 6 months

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Wolf's Home

(Part I)

Geralt of Rivia x female!Reader

Summary: Geralt takes Ciri to Kaer Morhen and reunites not only with his family of witchers, but also with the person that makes him feel at home the most

a/n: this is sort of rewrite of S02E02. Sorry for the use of (y/n) but couldn't really think of a name for the reader. Also, this is my first try at writing for The Witcher so be nice to me please!!

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She woke up that morning expecting to face another routine-repeating day, possibly with an occasional healing of one of the witchers coming back to Kaer Morhen from a hunt, or coming up with a new excuse as to why she didn’t want to eat whatever crap Lambert cooked for them. His turn on food duty was always a dreadful one.

Her days were never too adventurous, not since Vasemir had insisted on a more permanent stay at the keep two years ago, when she was dragged through the Blue Mountains by a silver haired witcher, both injured, after fighting and killing a monster together. An encounter she still couldn’t really understand to this day, how they happened to be in the same place, at the same time, looking for the same creature, but she knew better than to question Destiny.

Even with her own wounds to take care of, she still healed Geralt of Rivia first, who fell under her natural charm like a trap. He wondered if it was a spell, the way he so easily was put at ease in her presence. She was a mage after all. But as the days passed, he concluded that there was no spell besides the one used to close the gash on his abdomen. That woman was simply a caretaker by heart, one that somehow remained open and pure even knowing of the existence of nasty beings out there in the Continent. Everyone else in the Fortress seemed to be as mesmerized, and so, she was welcomed with open arms to stay, and heal, and fight with the witchers.

The ropes were starting to burn the palm of her hands from all the knots she had conquered in the last hour, but she definitely didn’t mind because it was at least keeping her hands warm as she stood outside, light snow falling over the already white ground.

One of the few advantages of the icy weather was that they could hear when someone was approaching, the crunch of the footsteps over the snow being hard to disguise. She heard those in the distance, but it was of a horse. (y/n) dropped the rope and grabbed her sword, preparing herself for the sight of the intruder before making her own known. But, the sight wasn’t at all what she expected. She didn’t know what to expect at all, but it sure wasn’t a familiar brown horse carrying Geralt of Rivia accompanied by a blonde girl, who (y/n) quickly convinced herself must’ve been a princess, if not for her looks, for her posture. She looked like she didn’t belong there, nor next to someone with the nickname The Butcher of Blaviken.

The girl got down from Roach and looked around curiously. Her dress blended with the snow, from afar, (y/n) wondered if she was even real. Her gaze didn’t last long on the girl when Geralt got down from his horse too, the mere sight of his face barely visible under his dark cloak sent a shiver of excitement to her stomach. He had always had that effect on her, but it seemed the longer she went without seeing him, the stronger the sensation got after meeting again.

The witcher and the princess shared words (y/n) couldn’t really hear from where she was still in the hiding, and as they started to walk towards the main entrance of the Fortress, the mage put down her sword and walked towards them.

“You sure we’re safe here?” the princess asked Geralt, who walked in front of her. (y/n) was not close enough to hear the question, not yet to be noticed.

“Safer than out there.”

Her voice seemed to echo in the silence of their footsteps coming to a stop, both turning their heads to their right, finally acknowledging her. Geralt’s lips curved into a brief smile, his yellow eyes softening when they locked with hers. (y/n) smiled back, the shiver in her stomach was now climbing to her chest and for a moment she forgot he could probably feel her heart beating faster. Good thing she didn’t mind him knowing how she felt around him.

Three steps away from coming face to face with the witcher, she slowed her pace, planning to walk past them.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my dearest friend in all the Continent.”

“It’s great to see you.”

“Oh I’m afraid I was speaking to my best girl here.” (y/n) approached Roach, caressing the horse over her nose and planting a light kiss on her short fur, “But it’s great to see you too, Wolf.” she walked towards him again, for a second forgetting it wasn’t just the two of them there. The way Geralt followed every step of hers, his gaze warm even in the middle of a Winter day. (y/n) opened her arms to him, “Welcome home.”

The man embraced her tightly against him and it felt like getting drowned in memories of his days with her. He had forgotten how much he cherished her affection, and holding her reminded him how nice it was to let his guard down for a brief moment. It all felt like he had never left.

“I missed you.” he murmured, unrecognizably self-conscious. He surely didn’t enjoy showing this vulnerable side of him, especially in front of someone else.

“I’m sure you did.” (y/n) let go of him, casting him a warm, welcoming smile, before looking to the girl standing behind him, now more curious about the pair’s dynamic than the Fortress, “And who’s this poor thing having to deal with your company?”

“This is Ciri.”

“Ciri.” (y/n) tried the name on her lips. She walked towards her with the same welcoming smile, but a different fondness in her eyes, “It’s nice to meet you, Ciri.” she said as she extended her hand to the girl, “I’m (y/n).”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” she spoke softly, clearly wary of meeting a new face, but the shadow of a smiling curve on her lips showed potential trust as she accepted the handshake. After all, the woman was obviously someone dear to Geralt, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Is that so?” (y/n) smirked, hoping the cold outside cooled the warmth spreading across her face. She turned to Geralt, who watched the two girls interact, but the words were directed to Ciri, “I’m sure I have a lot to hear about you, too.” It was a warning to the witcher: an endless night of chatting was to come, questions needed to be answered, stories to be told and his whereabouts to be known.

As if reading Ciri’s mind, (y/n) squeezed her shoulder and tilted her head towards the entrance, “Don’t worry, you are safe here.”

“Keep up.” Geralt told the girl, and both followed (y/n).

They both pushed the heavy wooden doors and walked into the main room of the Fortress that was occupied with chatty men and the smell of burning wood and ale. (y/n)’s words echoing through the wide space caught their attention.

“Look what the snow dragged in, boys.”

All eyes turned to the mage and the murmur came to a stop when everybody noticed the figure standing behind her. Her attention turned to Geralt as well, in time to see him remove the hood of his cloak and finally getting a decent view of the face she missed so much. She also checked on Ciri, who looked uneasier than before, standing in the middle of a room full of men. (y/n) winked at her, hoping to reassure her everything was alright. Geralt noticed, and he too turned to the girl and nodded at her before moving to stand beside (y/n) as Lambert stood from his seat and walked towards them.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“We thought you got lost.” Coën followed Lambert, “Or killed.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes. Geralt smiled tenderly.

“Not yet. Sorry.”

The mage elbowed his side. She had always hated when he implied the possibility of his death at any moment, considering what he was and he did, in reality it wasn’t a massive impossibility. Still, even a simple joke triggered a non-existent grief that resided in her chest everytime she had to see the witcher leave and go long periods of time without hearing a single word from or about him. In his presence, (y/n) pretended he would stay forever, and if he didn’t stay, he would come back. Everytime.

Geralt caressed her back and brought her in for the embrace Lambert had already initiated. He then went on greeting and hugging the other witchers and, more than ever, Kaer Morhen felt like a real home. The family was back together.

“I guess I’m back to being second favorite now that you’re back.” Lambert complained to Geralt, referring to (y/n).

“Who said you were even a favorite in the first place?”

Geralt laughed.

“I hope you’ve all been treating her right.”

“We do, but she’s a mean one. Lucky for her, we don’t dislike her cooking.”

The banter was interrupted by Vasemir, who entered the room already smiling at the sight of the silver haired witcher.

“Wolf. You’re home.” the elder joined the commotion, “Finally.”

Ciri, still feeling out of place, placed herself visibly between Geralt and (y/n).

“Yeah. I had to make a few stops.” the witcher replied, referring to the princess next to him.

“He’s home!”

Once again, the commotion grew around Geralt as they kept celebrating his return. Ciri smiled shyly watching the content interactions.

“Come on,” (y/n) extended her hand for the princess to take, “I’m going to introduce you to everybody.”

When everybody settled enough for the mage to be able to order everyone to be nice to Ciri, the men were somewhat curious about the unexpected guest. The girl seemed less vigilant as she was offered a seat and cup and conversation started flowing as if both her and Geralt had always been there.

(y/n) stood next to him, a sigh leaving her nostrils as she crossed her arms and discreetly nudged the man’s broad figure.

“Yeah, I know. I have a lot to tell.”

“Yeah. You do.”

Geralt looked down at her to meet her eyes and, with a soft motion of his hand, uncrossed her arms. He smiled, in a way she knew he was promising to stay for a while. She couldn’t tell what he thought her eyes were saying, but whatever it was, he felt the need to hold her hand, hidden behind his cloak, caressing the cold skin of her knuckles with his thumb.

“I’m home.” his hoarse voice, along with the softness of his touch and stare, nearly warmed her up on the spot.

In the back of her mind, there was a voice telling her he would eventually leave again, but for once, she shut it down.

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Part II soon!

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia fic #the witcher netflix

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roughentumble · 1 year

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a while ago i had the idea for an AU where geralt's mind is sortve sent back in time to right before the dragon fight, and he makes different choices at key junctures as a sort of fix-it fic. i agonized over it for a while, then it lay languishing and forgotten in my notes app, so im deciding to publish it as is, which will either encourage me to finish it, or at least put what exists out in the universe.

also he doesnt really Remember he's time traveled, he just gets Vibes at key points

tagging @fangirleaconmigo because she expressed interest in the idea way back when i first had it!

-------

geralt wakes up in a daze.

there's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. he fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. his body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. he doesnt even recall falling asleep. he sees-- jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. he could get angry about it, or-- or...

he places a hand on jaskier's shoulder, and jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. he starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "i think you were right. we should go to the coast."

concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "you-- really? actually, you'd want that? what caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" he waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before geralt can interject. "doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. i'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old roach, and i can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because i am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just /love/ the coast i'm /certain/ of it! fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! to die for, truly!"

perhaps he did hit his head. there's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. it all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. he reaches out to take jaskier's hand in his own, and jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. that feels right, too. in the same way he cant put his finger on. he'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. for now he just pulls jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

they leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

===========

he doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. sand isnt great for poor roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because geralt of rivia does not /do/ being afraid. it's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. a certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

he likes jaskier at the coast, though.

happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

/foolish bard/, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, /foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go./ out loud he says "i'm in love with you."

he watches closely the play of emotions across jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. in the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. they kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

the incoming waves claim just one of jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "you'll be compensating me for that, witcher." he warns, shaking his finger.

"wouldn't have it any other way," geralt responds, breathless with joy, and jaskier sinks into his grip.

========

"i want you to come with me. to kaer morhen."

jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. it isnt an offer given lightly. even in all their years of on-again off-again, geralt never extended this particular invitation to yennefer. maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? she's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. she said no, and he found-- he found--

years he's spent, dragging his feet. years, and with jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. he wants jaskier with him, now and always. "this winter, the two of us. up in the blue mountains."

jaskier is nodding before geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "i want that too, love. gods, you know i'd follow you anywhere." and then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound geralt's ever heard in his life. jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

=================

they keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. he climbs the rocky outcropping while jaskier waits by roach, idle and bored. he wants to be wrong. wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with jaskier. he looks out over the path below.

he is not wrong.

a sea of black and gold. cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

============

he tells jaskier to wait in the marketplace. if this works, geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. if it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in jaskier's path too. he's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by calanthe's men-- he has no doubt jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. he holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. wishes that it didnt.

when they fall through the portal, dodging calanthe's trap, jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

[transcribe partial convo]

[bars part w/ eist]

finally jaskier has wandered close enough to notice the commotion, and he calls for geralt

[geralt pleads for jaskier's safety, appeals to eist as a reasonable man, as someone who mightve once been called a friend. says he understands eist's commitment to calanthe, but begs him not to doom jaskier by throwing him in the dungeons when he's harmless. jaskier doesnt much like this, but eventually eist agrees, as a favor to someone he respects and as someone who can see reason. geralt makes jaskier promise to stay in his room no matter what happens, and they clasp hands before jaskier is dragged back from the bars]

[maybe describe getaway, but idk if needed]

============

"this is cirilla. ciri, this is--"

"ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, i get to say it so rarely, after all." he says, cutting geralt off and turning to ciri. his shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "my name is julian alfred pancratz, viscount de lettenhove. graduate of oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard jaskier. at your service." he bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

there's a beat of silence. "...my partner." geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. ciri mostly just seems surprised. "don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "you! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you

[bicker] i dont know why i put up with you [bicker]

[something abt the moment of levity, but then geralt is saying "we need to go to sodden hill, [why] i think yen is there and i need to find her", then the moment when geralt realizes she is (presumed) dead where jaskier's playful insults fall away]

============

[noticing eskel, gets feeling he needs to check, finds out abt infection, etc etc]

============

[change vesemir pov]

he doesnt think these flowers are the answer. he doesnt recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. still, though, it doesnt sound right to his ear, even if he doesnt know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. he can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. he thinks back to eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. he feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

the little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. and even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. the metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, /chained/ in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. like it's nothing. like it isnt horrific.

but it's all he has. and it's what they needed.

his fingers curl around the paper. "how many other people know of this blossom? would be likely to put two and two together?" he asks.

"not many at all, i would imagine. even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge , or emough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. and it's only a theory, anyway, i cant confirm it as of yet." she replies, watching him closely.

their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. the continent is running out of monsters, but it hasnt run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and theyre dwindling. and yet...

he flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. a little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "cant let anyone know how we're made-- sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. no telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. and... there will be no more boys."

he looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "i thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but i urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. and if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then i can only pray your approximations were wrong."

she had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #honestly there are bits here im rly proud of and would like on my blog #i just wish i'd ever finished it

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annmarcus63 · 2 years

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I'm deeply curious to know how you might fix the fox-thing for the post-mountain fight because I can see jask forgiving geralt yet refusing to follow or shift now that he "knows" how much of a curse he is. I feel like that would leave its mark and wonder how their relationship might change because of it

Gosh, it took me so long to reply, but I got a small scene for you dear anon. It's not precisely the answer you're looking for but a part of it. Mix Jaskier and Geralt POV, hope it's not too confusing.

This is part of this post FoxJaskier

...A fox! I should have known. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!

Geralt stands at the edge of the mountain, stern looking face and clenched fists. The wind's howling. Cold spikes seep into the exposed skin of his neck and face and he feels fine, perfectly fine. He wanted to hurt Jaskier, to finally drove him away. He succeeded by crossing a line, a delicate yet resilient line that bard and witcher have built thru the years by truly and deeply trust in each other. Jaskier love him despite his monstrous side, despite everything. Geralt loves him too, love the fox inside the bard, so... why did he cut so deep? Why? A simple fuck off would have been enough, so why did he have to be a monster? By the time Geralt turns and strides up the hill it's almost dark. The last blink of the sun illuminating the rock in a soft blue and gray hue. He needs to fix this. If Jaskier have been the one to shout his monstrosity back to him, Geralt'd have die... but Jaskier would never do that. Jaskier is not a monster. Geralt tracks the bard in the dark, even though he knows there's no way to fix this, he went too far. He lost his fox, his beautiful fox.

Jaskier is walking on the path with light footsteps, he needs to find a place to camp but, well...he doesn't care that much anymore. He's bleeding a great deal, dark warm blood leaving a trace behind, metaphorically, of course. There's no apparent wound on him, but he feels like dying. His fox trembles and cries uncontrollably inside his chest, Jaskier doesn't cry. He thought, both of them, that they were safe with Geralt. Geralt is...was...home. His mother words come back to him, warning him to never show what he truly is or else...

His legs walk on their own, this body is no longer his, he's the ghost of a monster. His fox whimpers inside his ribcage and Jaskier feels sorry for him, it believed Geralt loved him, not romantically but... what a moron. Naive stupid fox.

And then he hears his name

"Jaskier!" Geralt. His fox crawls and tries to hide. The witcher calls and calls for him.

"What do you want, Geralt? You forgot to say something? There's no need, I'm leaving." As seeing a play, Jaskier sees a hand on his shoulder because he can't feel anymore, he realizes he's in shock.

Geralt tries to talk to him, to make him stop and listen but Jaskier keeps going. The moon illuminating the path, the unforgiving wind singing a cruel song for them. He has to fix this. He runs past Jaskier, a couple of meters so Jaskier can see him before he passes. The witcher calls to his true form, his shape mends into a four-leg animal, a white wolf. The bard stops dead on his tracks. The wolf whines as it bends his neck in a clear sign of reverence, its ears flat on its head, the snout between its powerful paws. To be reverenced by an animal form it is a custom from old tales of worthy heroes and kings. The white wolf cries and the sound shakes Jaskier's bones. Jaskier approaches the wolf, he has waited all his life to see Geralt's form, but this wasn't how he imagine it. The white wolf begs him for forgiveness and prays his regret in deep whimpers. Jaskier kneels in front of the magnificent animal. The wolf stands and tries to touch him with its snout, but Jaskier avoids it. They locked eyes for a moment and then Jaskier says "You're beautiful" just how I imagine you'd be "Goodbye, Geralt" The wolf whines one last time before his fox, his beautiful and perfect pack fox walks away from him.

What Geralt does it's considered a great honour. Something that Geralt would never have thought he would do for anyone not even Yennefer. and Jaskier knows this, that's why he tells him he's beautiful. Jaskier trust is broken severely so, but Geralt would keep trying to prove himself worthy of have a fox by his side.

Maybe Geralt would follow Jaskier around in his wolf form, idk, i want to write more of this, i'd like to know your ideas.

#geralt x jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #foxjaskier #i love foxes #sorry for the angst #i'm that kind of person

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leighsartworks216 · 2 years

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The Viper (Part 4)

Jaskier x gn!reader

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve

I gotta stop writing these so late at night but that's what I get for having a broken sleep schedule

Warnings: swearing, canon typical violence, explicit descriptions of fighting, blood and death, angst, Geralt being a dick, reader getting angry at Geralt for being a dick, Jaskier being soft (that is the only fluff in this), ANgSt

Word Count: 2208

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Screams flooded the drab and dreary halls of the Viper keep. They echoed around every corner, every dead end, every twist and turn, stairwell, bed chamber. No place was safe from the agony that poured from the innocent child's mouth.

And then silence.

How many was that now? A dozen? Two? More? It was hard to keep track.

A young boy dragged himself across the cellar floor until he was right by your side. He was shaking. You couldn't tell if it was from fear or from the cold that bit at your own fingers. Something was different about him from the last time.

"What's going to happen next?" he asked. His voice was still high pitched and innocent.

Your breath came out in warm puffs of air. "I don't know."

His eyes were transfixed on the wooden trapdoor keeping you all trapped down there. Ah, that's what it was. His eyes were blue this time. Why was that?

Suddenly, those shock-blue eyes were staring at you. They were wide and watery.

"W-What's your name?"

"Y/N. What's yours?"

His voice came back muffled and distorted. No matter how hard you strained your ears, you couldn't make out any clear syllables.

The cellar door opened. Dozens of wide, young eyes stared up at the towering silhouette that peered down, backlit by a warm sun. A large hand reached down and grabbed another child that kicked and screamed as they were dragged away. The cellar door shut.

You both moved closer to each other. Cold hands grasped each other in the darkness, tiny bodies pressed as close as possible to stay warm and assure the other that they were there.

"We'll make it through this." His voice wavered. Yours would have, too.

"I want to see my ma," you whimpered. "My pa."

His hands gripped yours tighter.

"Me, too."

You fell asleep to the distant sound of screams. Cold, but not alone, you woke up. You turned to look at the boy in the darkness. He-

"Viper!"

You shot up in the chair, hand automatically falling to your waist where a blade would have been. You were met with wide, blue eyes.

"Finally!" Jaskier groaned. His hands fell from your shoulders in a huff. "Eyck is missing and Yoran, he's... well..."

"He's what, Jaskier?" You rubbed sleep from your eyes. Where the hell were you? Oh, yeah, that's right. Jaskier slept in your bed last night and you slept in the chair. No wonder you were so disoriented.

The bard sighed. "Someone killed him."

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. There were no lies to be found in the sympathetic look he held. You jumped up, pushing past him and out of your tent, to see for yourself what had become of your employer.

Sure enough, when you burst through the tent flap, Geralt was already there, kneeling by the Temerian man who lay dead in his cot, neck sliced open. His yellow eyes looked to you. They held just as much sympathy as Jaskier's.

"Oh, fuck." Yarpen came up by your side, keeping his distance from the blood that pooled around the cot. It soaked through the soles of your boots. You didn't care.

"Was bound to happen eventually." You didn't have to turn to know it was a Reaver talking. He stood just at the tent opening, peering inside with a grimace. His dark gaze turned from the corpse to you. "A Nilfgaardian guiding a Temerian?" he scoffed. "Like a rat fucking a hag."

You ignored just how Yarpen stepped away from you; carefully, as if you would slit his throat open next.

"Our people used to mine these mountains. We know a shortcut that will take half a day off our journey.” The Reavers were far ahead, by now. The rest left behind slowed down to listen to Yarpen. “Let the Reavers take the long way around. We’ll nab the treasure before they even set foot in the cave. We’ll watch each other’s backs until we reach the next peak, then every man for himself.”

Two bodies were found that morning. Yennifer's escort, Sir Eyck, and your own. Nobody else suspected Yennifer of killing Eyck. You on the other hand…

All morning, you had trudged along far behind everyone else. Still, they glanced and peered over their shoulders to make sure you weren't about to make a move against them. The only few who trusted you - Borch and his guards, Jaskier and Geralt - could not sway the minds of the Reavers and Dwarves. Yennifer, you suspected, did not trust you for your title as a Nilfgaardian alone.

“What say ye?”

“Let’s go!” Borch answered.

"Only thing: that murderer can't come," Yarpen spat, turning to Geralt.

The White Wolf's lips curled into an offended snarl, brow furrowed and eyes burning with a fire only reserved for monsters. But before he could say anything, your hand was on his shoulder, turning him away from the Dwarf to face you. The flaming eyes of the Witcher met with your own, gleaming with the warmth and comfort of an amber mead after a long day.

"I'll meet you at the top."

You both just stared at each other, as if speaking with your eyes. At some point, the scowl faded from Geralt's lips.

"Fine." The word was grit out between clenched teeth. Even as the group began moving, he lingeried for a moment longer, as if searching your eyes to make sure this was alright. They gave nothing away.

The groups split in two: the Reavers headed on the main path while Yarpen and the Dwarves led everyone else to the secret pass they knew. You stood still at the crossroads, watching as you were left behind; left to follow the group that framed you for the murder of two innocent lives.

Jaskier seemed to notice when you did not come with them. He began following at first, but then he glanced back and saw you, and he stopped.

"Aren't you coming?"

A weak half-smile lifted the corner of your mouth. "I'm afraid not," you said.

He stepped closer with the most concerned look on his face. He was making a habit of being worried for you, wasn't he? "Why not?"

"Yarpen doesn't trust me." You looked over his shoulder. He would be left here too if he didn't hurry up. "I'll be fine, Jaskier. Just..."

He cocked his head to the side. "Just what?"

Another weak smile. "Just tell me all about it when we meet back up at the top."

He grinned, eyes lighting up with that sparkle that meant he was undoubtedly preparing another ballad or poem. "I won't leave anything out, I promise."

The green dragon lay curled around her egg. The protectiveness of a mother over her still unborn child made your soul ache. It made you wish for that kind of love and protection from your own parents. Instead they tossed you away.

Téa and Véa had threatened you when you stepped inside, initially. All you could do then was stare at the “monster” behind the guardswomen as you mindlessly removed your blades from your belt and tossed them down at their feet. You remember whispering a promise not to touch the egg, not to near it or they had your full permission to kill you right there. They just watched, blades readied, as you sat by the dragon mother’s head and gently stroked her cold snout. That is where you stayed as Geralt, Yennifer, the Zerrikanians, and Borch - in his full, golden dragon form - fought against the Reavers.

In a haze, once the sound of fighting had moved outside of the cave, you stood and grabbed your daggers once again. As floods of more Reavers came, you joined the fight.

Your blades, sharpened and coated in Basilisk venom, sliced down man after man. But you fought messily. You were fueled by anger and rage at what the King and his men had done, at the hunt that was put on, at the Reavers who fought to kill the dragon within the egg. Your senses were heightened and dulled all at once. You could hear the footsteps of men, hear blades scraping and ricocheting off each other and armor, feel the tension against your arm as you plunged your weapons through flesh and muscle. And yet, you were deaf to the sounds of their blades cutting through your own flesh, or the pain that shot up your nervous system. You felt nothing but fire within your soul as your silver blade stabbed into a man’s jugular, or as it ripped out as you swung around to slice open another man’s stomach with your steel dagger.

It was only when silence fell, when all the Reavers lay dead at your feet in puddles of blood and innards, that your senses came back.

“You have fought valiantly.”

You turned quickly, blades held up in a weak defense. But Borch, now in his human form, did not look at all threatened by your actions. You sighed, dropping your arms back to your sides.

You were covered in blood - yours and that of those you’d just slain. You couldn’t even pinpoint where you were injured. All you really knew was that you were injured; every breath made your ribs ache.

The older man drew near, stepping over fallen enemies, and placed a warm hand on your shoulder. His smile was as warm as a hearth in winter. “Thank you for protecting her.”

You opened your mouth. Your mind tried to think of what to say. Instead, coming up with nothing, you just bowed your head at the man. He seemed to understand. Rather than pander you for a response, he gave your shoulder a light squeeze, and let you go. You glanced upon the green dragon one last time before you left the cave.

“Well, you look like shit.” Jaskier entered your vision. He was dirty and unkempt, but he was such a welcome sight. His little grin at his joke fell when you did not grin back. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His hands floundered around, hovering over your arms and shoulders as he tried to figure out just whose blood was where.

“I’ll tell you later.” Your voice was so quiet. It was only ever this quiet at night, when you would both stay up late together.

His brows knit together in concern, but he nodded nonetheless. He made a motion, trying to find the words. “Uh, uhm, potion- Swallow. Do you have any…?”

You nodded. On your belt with your daggers was a section that held a few bottles. You lifted your arm and tried to reach for one, but Jaskier stopped you when you winced.

“Here, let me.” He didn’t touch you - as much as he could avoid it, anyway. He found the red potion tucked into the front-most slot and carefully wedged it out of its holder, uncorked it, and held it out to you. He did not grimace in disgust as you drank it this time.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words echoed through the mountain valleys. Jaskier’s fingers rubbed together, itching for anything to fiddle with as the insults sank into his chest. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned. Someone he had considered a friend, someone he could trust, depend on, only thought of him as a burden, wreaking havoc on his life.

“You fucking bastard.” Geralt’s eyes shifted from glaring at Jaskier to where you sat up on the hill. You grunted as you forced yourself to your feet, shuffling down the rocks to stand protectively in front of Jaskier. “No one asked you to claim the Law of Surprise, or make that wish with the Djinn. You only have yourself to blame.”

The Wolf’s lips curled into a sneer. “If he hadn’t dragged me-”

You scoffed, stumbling further down the hill to stand directly in front of Geralt. “No one forced you to go! Friend or not, you could have declined, you pompous git! You did this to yourself! No one else!” You stepped back. Despite being injured, far more than Geralt had been in that fight, you still stood with your shoulders squared. You were ready to fight again, at a disadvantage, just to protect Jaskier from Geralt’s misdirected anger. But Geralt’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He would not be fighting you. “Congratulations. Your blessing has been granted.”

You took another few steps backwards, eyes watching the Witcher to see if he would do anything. Instead of gearing up for an attack or trying to argue again, he just huffed and turned to gaze out at the view. Your shoulders eased.

You turned to look up at Jaskier. The bard was wide-eyed and speechless. His blue eyes shifted from Geralt to you - one a look of hurt and betrayal, and the other a look of awe and amazement. You placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him away from his old traveling companion.

“C’mon, Jaskier.” You kept your hand on his shoulder as you both walked back to the Dwarves’ temporary camp. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be halfway down the mountain by nightfall.”

---

Tag List:

@kmuir1

#fanfic #fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #the witcher jaskier #witcher jaskier #jaskier the bard #jaskier x reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader #angst #heavy angst #cw injury #tw injury

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angst-fairygodmother · 2 years

Note

I’ve literally never requested anything in my life but please fill the void with fluffy Lambert x reader. Possibly what it’s like at Kaer Morhen in the winter in that cold castle ruin.

Please and thank you!

A/N: Hello, my lovely! Thank you so much for this request! I'm sorry it took so long, I got a bit...lost for a while. But hopefully this is worth the wait. Word Count: 1209 Rating: M (just to be safe) - mild, canon-typical language; heavy kissing; could be spicy cuddling, could be a fade-to-black/implied sexual content

To say that Kaer Mohren was cold on its best day was an understatement. The old keep was huge and drafty, the battle of years past leaving added holes and gaps for the wind to whistle through. But now that a storm had settled over the great mountain castle, howling like an enraged beast for days on end, it was nearly unbearable.

“I'm sorry,” Lambert muttered, retreating to the large pile of furs and blankets that the two of you had formed as close to the roaring fireplace as you dared. “When I invited you here, I thought the damned winter’d be mild, not the fucking coldest in memory.”

Lambert had been agitated since before the first storm clouds were spotted rolling across the horizon, and you couldn’t quite figure out why. He trained long hours, until past when the sky grew dark and his brothers retreated indoors, and spent the night drinking heavily, often turning down games of cards and dice in favor of pacing the halls. Most nights you went to bed alone, and were lucky if you woke up with him beside you. Lambert was never one to be settle down, or like staying in one place, even on a job, and he preferred the open places of the woods or farmer’s barns, to being in castles and inns, but Kaer Mohren was his home, and you had thought when he invited you, that it would be different here. Eskel was quick to assure you that Lambert always had a burr in his ass, and Coën teased that he was probably just nervous to have you around his much sexier brothers, and you tried to laugh along with their jokes, but you were worried.

And then the storm hit: a vicious bitter cold descended, leaving you all shivering even in furs and wool and as many layers as you could find; snow piled up in the yards and against the doors, some of the drifts reaching higher than your head, and freezing rain covered everything in sheets of unbreakable ice. There was no getting in or out. You could tell by the way some of them winced or staggered with stiffness that this cold, which sunk to the bone, was able to irritate old injuries regardless of a witcher’s advanced healing and unique physiology. Lambert did his best to hide that he was among them, but sometimes it showed anyway, like now, when raising his arm strained him. You wondered if that was part of what put him on edge, and made a note to try and help, without letting on that you knew.

“Don’t be,” you hummed, pressing close. “If it were warmer, I wouldn't have an excuse to be doing this.”

You had hoped that your amorous gesture would placate him, as it did any other time of year. He huffed, shifting so that you could be fully folded into his embrace without moving away from the heat in front of you. You could feel him starting to relax and smiled, your plan working. Which was good, because you were starting to get sleepy, and if he was still grumpy, he’d be quick to leave you as soon as he was sure you wouldn’t notice, staying up late to train, or more likely drink, and you wanted him to stay.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, trying to fight back a yawn.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “Don’t want you to suffocate on my stink.”

“You don’t stink,” you replied, pulling back to frown at him. “You don’t really believe Coën and Geralt’s jokes do you?”

He shook his head. “I know my brothers tease, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“I like the way you smell,” you protested, snuggling closer again as if to prove your point. “Like campfires, and something spicy, like...trees maybe?”

Lambert laughed, the sound reverberating through you and filling you with warmth. “That makes no sense, you mad thing. Trees don’t have a smell.”

“Yes they do! When you go from a field into a forest, with a lot of pine trees especially, the air gets…ugh. I don't know, it's different. You know what I mean!”

“No, I don’t.”

You sighed dramatically. “As soon as this storm passes, we’re going to have to find a forest so I can prove it.”

“Oh are we?” he teased, smirking down at you. “And what if you’re proven wrong?”

“Then I’ll never argue with you again,” you promised with a smile, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Bullshit! I’ve never heard such an unkeepable promise in my life!”

This led you to turn your expression into a pout and you stared at him until he started to squirm.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t do that,” he whined. When you didn’t crack, he leaned closer, breath tickling your face. “You know I love ya even if I don’t believe ya. That stubborn head of yours is sexy.”

You felt your resolve wavering, trying not to melt beneath his intense gaze. But you held strong until his hand started trailing over your shoulder and collarbone. His lip stuck out in almost a mirror of yours.

“Sweetheart, please don't be mad,” he murmured, soothing voice nearly turning you to mush. “I'll make it up to ya…”

You hummed curiously. “And just how do you plan to do that? I am, after all, very insulted.”

He grinned wolfishly, and you immediately regretted your question, a shiver of excitement running through you. Lambert wasted no time in launching into a detailed description of all the things he would do to you, for you, to make up for his grievous offense. With each action he described, his surprisingly gentle touch danced over a new part of your body, keeping your senses on edge and sending little licks of fire across your nerves. His breath tickled your face as he went on, and it took all your concentration to focus on his words - knowing he'd slip something in, hoping you'd be too distracted for a snappy comeback. There was a heat pooling in your belly, and you had completely forgotten what you'd even been talking about at the start.

Suddenly you surged forward, capturing his lips with your own in a desperate bid to shut him up, unable to bear any more of his bold teasing. He groaned against you as your fingers tangled into his wild red mane and his big hands pressed into the soft flesh of your sides, pulling at you to draw you even closer. He inhaled sharply as you trailed your tongue across his lip, teasing him physically the way he had with words. His mouth opened for you, the big man more than happy to surrender to your whims, not that he would ever admit it out loud. The kiss deepened, if that were even possible, until you weren’t sure where one of you stopped and the other began. The storm raging around you and the frost forming on even the insides of the windows were forgotten in the tangle of each other.

“So,” he asked with a smirk as you eventually parted, “am I forgiven?”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” you laughed, shaking your head and knowing he knew the answer.

#Netflix The Witcher #Lambert (The Witcher)#Lambert x Reader #The Witcher fic #spicy cuddling #also I didn't really do any editing to be honest #I'm just too anxious to be posting again #I'll go back and look at it later #but hopefully there's nothing too aggregious

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jaskierswolf · 2 years

Note

Jaskier has the softest hair. Pairing up to you :)

I went with Lambskier! Enjoy my dear! - AO3

Beauty in the World

The hot springs were quite possibly the best part about returning home for winter. Lambert didn't much care for the old draughty keep, and really he wasn't a fan of their mentor. The food sucked half the time, and yes it didn't matter that he was to blame, it still sucked. Even the beds were lumpy and old... really Kaer Morhen was a relic that should be forgotten. But... It was home. There was family, and a place to return to even after a cold and lonely year on the path. And of course - the hot springs.

That year they were filled with the sounds of a warm tenor voice, lilting and beautiful as the bard soaked in the warm water. When Geralt had said he had adopted a bard, Lambert had laughed. It was ridiculous. The mere idea of a human companion was stupid, let alone one trained with a lute instead of a sword. A knight would have been a better option if they weren't all witcher hating pompous idiots.

But after a long and miserable hike up the mountain to the keep, Lambert had welcomed the warmth that the colourful bard had brought to their home. It no longer felt draughty and cold and sterile. The music had banished the ghosts of the past, and Lambert found himself staring at the bard more and more each day.

Jaskier was Geralt's bard. He had to remember that. It was clear the idiot was unreasonably fond of his grumpy older brother, and that hurt Lambert more than he'd expected. Still, watching Jaskier whistle to himself as he ran his hands through his hair... was entrancing. Lambert had never known anyone with hair as soft as Jaskier. He had a habit of lounging across the witchers in the evenings, his head in one of their laps, and Lambert always eagerly awaited his turn.

Witchers lived a hard life. They weren't allowed soft things, but Jaskier just didn't seem to care. He would hum happily as Lambert tentatively stroked his fingers through the messy brown locks, babbling away about his day. But it wasn't enough. Lambert was selfish and greedy and he wanted more. He couldn't have the bard... but perhaps he could steal whatever tricks the idiot used on his hair.

"I can feel you watching me, witcher," Jaskier hummed from where he was rinsing the soap from his hair, not opening his eyes. "You know you do that a lot?"

Lambert cursed and went to run from the room, but Jaskier just called him back. "That- That's not a bad thing, dear heart."

Turning back towards the peacocking poet, Lambert snarled a little. "Oh yeah? What's it to you?"

"I am a bard, Lambert, a poet, a troubadour. I adore the finer things in life, beauty, music, art. I am the pinnacle of fashion, and master of the seven liberal arts. I far prefer silk to leather, honey buns to bread. I lived my youth in luxury...."

"Fuck off, bard."

"Patience!" Jaskier trilled, his bright blue eyes finding Lambert's. "I gave all of that up, Lambert. Do you know why?"

Lambert bit back another insult. His instincts to fight and defend himself warring with the desire to let the stupid idiot in. With a growl he considered the question. There was no logical reason for Jaskier to follow Geralt. They didn't know much about the bard prior to his life with Geralt, but it was clear that he was no peasant. It was a topic that had been widely debated in the years that Geralt had known Jaskier, and one that they had never found the answer to. Not one of them could work out why anyone would give up a pleasant life for one with a witcher, especially one as infamous as Geralt. Lambert had always firmly believed Jaskier was in love with Geralt, something that the White Wolf adamantly denied.

"No," he grumbled. "Why?"

Jaskier waded through the water towards Lambert, until his forearms were resting on the edge of the pool. His hair was wet and sticking to his face, tiny little curls starting to form as it slowly dried. It wasn't as soft like this, but no doubt by the time it was dry it would be more divine than the finest silk, and Lambert still couldn't work out why... he also couldn't work out why he cared, but that was a problem for another time.

"Anyone can find beauty in a castle. Any idiot can look at a sunset and write the finest sonnets the Continent has ever seen. Even Marx's attempts aren't half bad," Jaskier chuckled as he rolled his eyes. "But," he smirked and cocked his eyes. "It takes real talent to find beauty in the things the rest of the Continent believes is ugly, and you dear witcher, are perhaps the most beautiful of all."

Lambert froze. His brain just... melting. All he could do was stare and blink at the bard. His heart raced in his chest, and every instinct he had told him to run, to reach for his swords, potions, daggers... anything. Jaskier, the most handsome man that Lambert had ever seen, thought that he was... beautiful?

"Oh...." he mumbled, feeling his face heat up uncomfortably. That was new. It felt like those fever things the humans got when they were sick, or like coming down from potions when he took too many. "Right... what does that mean?"

It was better to ask, to be clear. Lambert had been burned too many times in the past to trust poetry and lies.

"It means, Lambert, that I think you should kiss me. If that's quite alright with you?"

Lambert couldn't believe his luck, but he didn't need to be told twice. He squatted by the side of the pool and Jaskier reached up to kiss him, his lips warm and wet from the hot spring. It was a chaste kiss, despite Jaskier's state of dress... but it was only the beginning of what Lambert hoped was a fun and exciting winter.

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @damnbert @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire @trickstermoose67 @alllthequeenshorses @skai6 @karolincki @eya-trying-to-function @stonedstargazer666 @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @geraltslastcoin @contemplativepancakes, @marvagon, @slythnerd

#the witcher #lambskier #lambert #jaskier pankratz #wolfie's witcher writing

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samstree · 3 years

Text

Just a Little Pretense

Jaskier and Geralt stage a fake breakup. Someone’s feelings get hurt for real.

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

AO3

“… It would be to take you off my hands!”

Geralt’s voice echoes in the ballroom, between the tall walls and the high ceiling. Everyone on the dance floor has fallen into silence. Even the band has stopped playing, their lead singer gaping with round eyes.

Jaskier blinks, impressed.

All the eyes are on the two of them. Jaskier’s back prickles with the gazes. As the fight escalated, more and more guests have stopped dancing just to eavesdrop on the witcher and the bard, the most peculiar couple in the room.

Which is just perfect. The more people witnessing their breakup, the more awkward it will be afterward, and the easier it will be to get out of this tedious party. And here Jaskier is, regretting ever having doubted his dear witcher’s ability to perform.

Who would have thought Geralt is a method actor? Drawing inspiration from a past argument is ingenious.

His old acting professor back in Oxenfurt would approve of this. The show is going swimmingly and he is pumped with adrenaline—maybe he should go back on stage one day, do a play or two.

But alas, he can muse the idea later. The show must go on.

“Really? Just like that?” Jaskier croaks, seemingly on the verge of crying. He’s not so bad himself, classically trained and everything. “Thirty years, Geralt. I followed you for thirty years, and just like that, you will kick me out of your life? Did I ever—” he breaks off with a whimper. “Did I ever mean anything to you? Or were you ready to cast me aside this whole time?”

A tear rolls down. His lips wobble. The crowd erupts in hushed murmurs and sympathetic sighs. The set-up, the build, everything has been perfect. Now the only thing left is for Geralt to break things off, and the two of them can ride into the metaphorical sunset and never see this court again.

Jaskier waits in anticipation, but his witcher opens his mouth.

And closes it.

Geralt looks as upset as he should, angry and torn and equally shocked, his golden eyes wide and his jaw clenched tight. It’s a nice picture to paint for the audience. They are supposedly having the biggest fight in their lives and his body language is very convincing.

More than convincing.

Except, it just might be … too convincing.

Wait—

Jaskier focuses on Geralt, who looks as if he wants to shrink into himself, his shoulders slumped and arms drawn in. He looks as if he’s waiting to be struck. Wait, something’s not right.

“I can’t do this.” A whisper leaves Geralt’s lips, small and achingly sad.

It’s not the line he’s supposed to say.

Geralt’s eyebrows droop ever so slightly, and there’s a flash of distress behind the molten gold. It’s gone in a second, hidden behind a façade of indifference.

The tells are subtle, near imperceivable to the untrained eye, but to Jaskier, they are clear as day—Geralt is hurt. For real.

Oh.

Fuck.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries, instantly snapped out of his character.

And yet, there’s no reply. Geralt lowers his head, turns around, and flees the scene within one heartbeat and the next. The crowd is too eager to make way for him.

“Shit,” Jaskier curses, ready to chase after Geralt, but the Countess de Stael appears out of nowhere with a flock of maids and positively blocks him in all directions. She’s eager to lament the loss of love and companionship, and to offer Jaskier a place at her court once again. Oh, shit.

Jaskier brushes her off, all the while painfully remembering he and Geralt’s goal from the beginning—to use the breakup as an excuse to get out of this place.

Well, the plan is shit. Is it too late to notice?

Weaving through dozens of nobles is a lot more difficult when they all want to extend sympathy, and Jaskier is only placating them absent-mindedly, faking regret and heartbreak. His mind is full of his witcher, who is either brooding or spiraling over the venom he spewed earlier.

The truth is, Jaskier has long forgotten about the mountain—not because it didn’t hurt. To be shunned by Geralt, blamed for everything, and denied friendship, was the worst thing to have happened to him at the time. It’s just that Jaskier has forgiven it, so long ago and so completely.

Jaskier cannot get to their room fast enough, and when he pushes open the door, the sight of Geralt’s dejected face is a stab through the chest. The witcher is perched on the bed, somehow looking a lot smaller than he is.

Jaskier never should have come up with the stupid fake breakup thing, never should have inadvertently reopened the old wound. They healed, together. They shouldn’t be hurting anymore.

“I explained. We can leave now,” Jaskier tires, but in fairness, he doesn’t remember what he said to the Countess. “Geralt?”

The witcher himself crosses his arms, hugging his midriff and avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “Good,” he answers curtly, shoulders still tense.

He looks angry, and when Geralt is angry, it’s most likely with himself. Oh, whatever heartbreak Jaskier acted out earlier, it’s not a match to a fraction of what he’s feeling now. It must be the one millionth time Geralt’s self-loathing has broken Jaskier’s heart, and it never gets easier, not when Jaskier caused it himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier desperately wants to wrap his arms around Geralt. So he does. He sits down on the bed and pulls his witcher into the biggest bear hug, which is returned immediately and so very tightly. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I fucked up, Geralt. I’m—”

“Don’t be.” Geralt buries his nose into Jaskier’s neck and shakes his head. “I never should have said those things, Jask. I should be the one apologizing. It was wrong and untrue and I would never abandon you. You are my best friend. How can I ever? Please, believe me…”

Geralt trails off, his hands rubbing circles into Jaskier’s back. Although it’s unclear who he’s trying to soothe.

“I know. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier murmurs, over and over again, sealing each reassurance with a kiss pressed into silver hair.

“I never meant it, Jask.”

“I know. It was fake. We were pretending.”

Geralt pulls away, golden eyes dead serious, pausing between every word. “I never meant it.”

Jaskier meets his gaze unwaveringly, with not an ounce of doubt. “I know.”

They stay there for a while, just holding each other. Geralt keeps sniffing Jaskier’s scent the same way he always does to check for injury or distress. He thinks he’s subtle, the sweet man, so Jaskier never mentions it.

Despite what an outsider might assume, Geralt is the sensitive one between the two. He’s so careful when it comes to their relationship, especially after the mountain and sometimes to his own detriment.

He’s so scared of hurting Jaskier again.

“I was an idiot for suggesting it,” Jaskier breaks the silence, nudging Geralt in the knee.

Geralt hums, lips pursed.

“Fake breakup is a terrible idea. Next time we’ll just grit our teeth and sit through the month-long party.”

Still, no smile.

“Alright, you win. Next time I won’t take you to a month-long party to start with.” Jaskier gently pats Geralt on the cheek. “For your delicate sensibilities, darling.”

Finally, finally, Geralt’s lips turn upwards, just a smidge.

“You are an idiot,” Geralt says, the crease between his brows fading. “Just…don’t make me make you cry again.”

Melting into the warmth welling up between his ribcage, Jaskier leans forward and presses a tiny kiss at his witcher’s forehead, so softly as if he’d break with any more force.

“Yes, dear.”

Being careless with Geralt’s heart is a mistake that Jaskier never wants to repeat. As he put a hand over his witcher’s languid heartbeat, Jaskier feels the soft thrumming against his palm, and realizes just how terribly he needs to guard it with the same care too. Against his frivolous self, and against the past that never seems to stop haunting them.

Because Jaskier needs this thing between them to work. If a faked breakup already seems unbearable, he shudders to imagine a real one.

A witcher’s life is already riddled with pain and sadness and could-have-beens. A poet would hate it if he added himself to the list.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #reverse trope #fake breakup #geralt x jaskier #post mountain #hurt/comfort #geralt of rivia is a sap #soft jaskier #jaskier is an idiot #don't mind him #established relationship

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xreader-obsessions · 2 years

Text

Stubborn Soulmate Part 2

Jaskier x Soulmate! Reader Part 2

Masterlist

Summary: You meet with Jaskier and Geralt to gather your payment and end up getting closer to Jaskier. 3 pages

"Let her go Jaskier. She obviously doesn't want to be here." The Witcher comments roughly.

"But it's destiny Geralt! Who doesn't love destiny?"

"Me. Only I control my life." You snapped at him, "Now if you don't mind I am leaving to fix myself up." You call your horse and ready to mount it when the Witcher stops you.

"Meet me at the bar afterwards to discuss your payment."

You looked in his eye and nodded. "See you then Witcher." You appreciated that he valued being fair and would honor your effort in the fight. After you dressed your wounds, you mentally prepared yourself to enter the bar.

You were half elf, and being in any town that did not accept them was always hard on you. The thing the villagers did not understand was that you were not a true elf. To them you had tainted unpure blood that was too human to be acceptable. In other words you were not accepted by humans or elf, but that did make it easier for you to detach yourself from communities and keep wandering on your own.

Inside it was calm and quite, everyone seeming to be put to rest by the effects of alcohol. A bard played a quite love song from the corner of the room, but did not sing. The smell of well-cooked food filled the air in a comforting manner. You might have felt safe in such a place if it were not for the humans you had to share it with.

They gave you harsh glares the moment you stepped through the doorway. None of them even trying to hide their dislike of your presence. Jaskier took a moment to catch on to the sudden shift in the room. He was oblivious to it as he happily greeted patrons as if they were there for him.

Upon noticing your distance from him, and your hesitance to enter, Jaskier spared a glance over his shoulder to check on you. He was surprised to see your hold her head high overlooking the glares. You had faced this type of oppression all your life; you knew how to handle it. With firmness and class but never anger or aggression. Even if you were a monster slayer at the end of the day, you refused to give them anything to prove you a savage and be what they expect you to be.

"If you want I am sure we can find another place." Jaskier suggested.

"First time traveling with an elf I take it." You replied flatly, obviously already having a response on hand as well as a direction to turn the conversation in.

"Yes. Is it that obvious?" He chuckled in an attempt to make light of the situation as he always did.

"If you had, you wouldn't be surprised by the way I am treated. You'd be used to it, just as I am. You would also know there is no safe place from this. No one likes an Elf who is not human nor creature." Jaskier thought back to towns like Oxenfurt where he used to smuggle elves to sympathetic kingdoms like Cintra.

"Let's sit here and have a drink. I promise I won't let anything happen to you here." Jaskier offered, pulling out a seat for you and then himself. The tension in the room did not fade away as they found their seat but stayed heavy and thick in the air. If anything it grew and you knew if it was not for the famous bard sitting next to you, you would have already been thrown out for upsetting customers. In an attempt to stay away from your negative line of thinking, you focused on your....soulmate.

"How do you and Geralt know each other? You aren't a fighter like him and...well I thought you hated him. I mean burn butcher burn?"

"So you've heard of my songs?" He perked up and you gave him a warning glare in response. He held back on the teasing. "Hate is a strong word. We were friends actually, the best of them. I traveled with him on many adventures until he seemed through with me."

"He abandoned you?"

"Ooon a mountain." Jaskier added in confirmation, you nodded in response.

"Seems like everyone in our little group has abandonment issues then." You joked flatly, which received a laugh from Jaskier to your surprise. Usually you do not appreciate idle chatter, but with him it was actually pleasant. Upon realizing that you were enjoying his company, it dawned on you that you were not supposed to. Not if you wanted to avoid the soulmate system. But at this point did you even care anymore? If he was pleasant to be around, did you want to deprive yourself of his company over pride? The answer was yes. So you began to engage in conversation with him less until Geralt came around with your coin.

He dropped a large filled bundle on the table as he approached you. You immediately opened it and began counting.

"You don't trust me?" Geralt questioned seeming slightly offended.

"There are few in this world I actually do."

He grunted in response before continuing on a different topic, "We have a contract involving clearing out bandits. You're welcome to come."

He turned to leave when the bar owner stepped in. "It's enough I accepted Witcher into my bar. I draw the line at letting them make deals with some savage knife eared--"

Jaskier, who was normally not quick to anger or action, became engaged at the insult. He struck a sharp blow to the man's nose, even drawing blood. He seemed quite proud of himself until his face fell as he realized the reproductions of his actions. The bartender hit him against his left cheek, seeing him stumbling back in surprise. It was about time for you to leave the village anyways. Geralt let out an annoyed sigh, knowing he would have to pick up the bard's mess once again.

#jaskier x reader #soulmate au #witcher fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #soulmarks

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itsclydebitches · 2 years

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I really haven't been paying attention because apparently season 2 of the Witcher is out. Like now. I went to Netflix randomly and there it was. Here's hoping its good.

No idea if you two are the same anon or not, but you're getting paired up!

Spoilers below.

Yeah, the only reason I didn't lose track is because I follow a couple of Witcher blogs and reminders have popped up on my dash the last few days. And I'm glad one of us is enjoying it! I'm in a 50/50 split so far regarding season two, as I've only watched the first two episodes. I thought "A Grain of Truth" was great. Yeah, there were changes, but they still fit the overall thematic questions (which I think is the key to a faithful adaptation) and I love everything they did with the bruxa. From the Exorcist walk around Ciri's bedroom to using echolocation in her bat form, I think her characterization was both entertaining and struck a nice balance between "Holy shit this is a dangerous monster I shouldn't trust" and "Is she really something to instinctively fear simply because she's different?" Good stuff there.

"Kaer Morhen" on the other hand... good god, where do I even begin. Eskel is a completely different character. Just nothing like his book or game counterpart. And I know this is a minor issue for some people, but his scars are a pretty defining characteristic, both in terms of how he got them and how they've impacted his sense of self, and when the trailer dropped there was some disgruntlement over how non-disfiguring they were. Well, in the actual episode the lighting is so dark I could barely even see that there were scars at all. If I hadn't been looking for them I likely would have missed they were there at all, outside of maybe a, "Oh yeah. A witcher. Witchers have some wounds yeah?" reaction.

He's rude. He brash. He's cursing at Ciri instead of trying to make her feel comfortable because he knows he's intimidating. He lasts for a grand total of one episode. Eskel arrives at the keep, goes back out (??), and brings a whole slew of prostitutes with him because... dragging a ton of women up the insanely dangerous looking, snow covered mountain to a place that Geralt just told Ciri is kept mostly hidden since the massacre makes perfect sense? But it's fine because they took something (???) that'll make them forget everything in the morning. They exist only to a) die and b) tell Ciri that women are meant to run when things get rough, so that she can be positioned as the outlier who stands her ground and stays. After they're all forgotten Eskel turns into a Leshen (because that's canonical) and is killed by Geralt while attacking Vesemir. And it's not even in a cool, "You really had to do it" kind of way. I mean Geralt stands there for a looooong moment debating, after Vesemir has just told Eskel that they need time to try and cure him, when Geralt could have just cut the branches holding Vesemir like they've been doing this whole fight. But nah we kill him and before he dies Eskel admits that he came back because he thought Geralt could help him, which both rubs salt into this needless wound and begs the question of why Eskel didn't tell them anything worthwhile. I mean yeah, there's this implication that whatever part of him was already Leshen was hiding his affliction out of self-preservation, but then why draw attention to the strange battle in the first place? Eskel comes back and everyone is like, "Oh yeah, a seasoned witcher with sword skills to match Geralt took 6 hours to kill a Leshen and just forgot to use fire. Classic Eskel!" Why not just have Eskel acting like everything is fine and then Geralt discovers something funky in the limb that tips him off? As it stands, both scenes don't accomplish a thing. The witchers randomly shrug off this anomaly and Geralt doesn't find anything because he's distracted by prostitutes arriving.

I've said this before, but I don't think Netflix would be in so much hot water if they'd just admitted that they were doing Witcher fanfic from the start. But advertising this as an authentic adaptation and making changes that, for most, make the series worse is just a bad combo. I don't even like most of the books. There are plenty of things I'd like to change in those... but none of that is what Netflix has done. They keep taking the things that do work, that are the heart of the story, and twisting them for seemingly no reason. At this point it's not a practical matter of, "We can't fit this in because it's a TV show and we have limited time" or "We couldn't recreate this because of budget or safety reasons." They're just making huge changes for reasons I personally can't fathom.

If I didn't know anything else about the Witcher franchise I would have had no problem with this version of Eskel. Random side character becomes a monster for the witchers to fight? Sure, that's cool! Why would I care about him outside of that? But as someone who does know a lot of the lore and, more importantly, knows the character, it's hard not to be frustrated by all this. They took a character who Ciri thought was a monster because of his disfigurements before he reveals himself to be one of the most kind and level-headed witchers... and turned him into a literal monster. Why? I'd really love a peek into the writer's room to find out what thought process they went through to hit on these changes.

#witcher #twn #witcher spoilers #eskel #mymetas

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witchersgoldenbard · 2 years

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hello ily!!!! I would love to hear more about your whumpy soulmate au <33333

oh angel, why did i know that you out of all people would be the one to ask for this? you're predictable and i love you 💛

someone once sent in a prompt for whumptober (listen, don't even start, time is fake) that either, it would be a soulmate au where they would feel each other's emotional pain, or a curse that traps them in their head, so like they're trapped in their own head, forced to face their worst thoughts. i decided to combine the two, because i am just a generally very nice person, you know?

so! essentially, geralt and jask are bound together on that mountain because fate and destiny have gotten attached to jaskier and geralt respectively and start fighting over them. fate decides to stop geralt from fucking up by binding these two together, but soul bonds really are destiny's work these days, as rare as they are. and with all the destiny magic and djinn magic and clusterfuck of interference, fate stumbles, the bond is faulty.

They fight. Not the bard and the Witcher, but Fate and Destiny. They stop Time and keep them on that mountaintop where a fateful fallout is about to take place. Destiny is distracted, already planning the Future of the Witcher without his bard and without his sorceress, paving the way for him to find his child. Their child. The child of Destiny. It's cheating. And Fate won't have it. And so, they forget that one rule, the biggest and strongest rule of the universe. Don't get attached. Don't get involved. Fate gets involved the very second they bind two souls together, spiting Destiny and Life and the Universe itself. Witchers don't have soulmates. Well, this one does. And it is glorious. Glorious for one whole second. Before the Universe stops, Time rewinds for just a blip, and Reality shifts just a bit to the side. When Fate, rusty in the practice of binding two souls that are already weighted by Destiny, realises their mistake, it is already too late.

witcher's arent made to have soulmates, so geralt has like an allergic reaction to it and gets stuck in his own head while still feeling jaskier's heartache. and because jaskier feels so strongly and so much, it accellerates geralt's reaction and he just spirals deeper and deeper into himself. it's like a bad trip, but he's all alone now so nobody notices, really

The moment the words leave Geralt's mouth and he sees Jaskier's shattered expression, a bone-deep nausea sets in. That's his first warning. The second one is vertigo, his mind and body playing a trick on him, and he's sure Jaskier would say it's the world resetting itself or something like that. Geralt knows it's not that. It's just vertigo. And regret. And hurt. And guilt. The ache to turn around and yell apologies at Jaskier and stop him from leaving. Sure. But it has nothing to do with the world or Destiny or anything like that. The pain inside his chest doesn't cede, it remains with him as he stares out at the world, glaring at the sky and asking the world to show him the way outside the Path just once. It doesn't. The world doesn't show Geralt anything as it slowly, almost gently, fades to black around him. When Geralt startles awake, everything is pitch black - if it weren't for the stars above him, he would be convinced he's still unconscious. His hands go to his swords, still strapped to his back and aching on his back where they're poking into his muscles after resting on them for hours. There's no danger, nothing palpable, but Geralt feels... nervous. On edge. Anxious. Hmm. Maybe that's his third warning. To what, he doesn't know. But he doesn't like it. His left hand goes to his medallion, but it doesn't vibrate or singe his skin. No magic. No danger. Just a barely conscious Witcher sitting on a desolate mountaintop. There's something poetic hidden there. A human myth, a legend, a tale. Someone doomed to hold up the sky, carrying the weight of it on his shoulders, his life doomed to that purpose alone. Jaskier would know the story, could tell him and console him that there is no connection here whatsoever despite the weight Geralt feels looming over him. But Jaskier is not here. Not anymore. And Geralt feels sick once more before everything goes pitch black again.

jaskier, on the other hand, kind of feels the shadows of those spirals but doesn't notice it at first, because his heart is broken and he has been cast away like last week's rotten meat, so of course he feels like shit.

somehow, jaskier finds out, and it is on him and yen to do something about it. yen tells him that there might be a way to sever the bond, especially because it seems so faulty, but it has never been done successfully, especially not with a witcher. jaskier is probably going to die trying. and so, he tries anyway. and he does die. though i have not yet decided if he stays dead. the rest, though, shall not be told yet.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #jaskier whump #geralt whump #bonafide whumper strikes again huh #yall. this is why. this is why you shouldnt send me prompts anymore becuase they are always Getting Out Of Hand #jk keep em coming skjfh just be patient please :3 #wip game #nat rambles #nat writes

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

The Stars Are Not Wanted Now

Was this among my list of WIPs I posted recently? No. Not at all. Because it popped into my head fully formed and hurt my feelings so I decided to make it everyone’s problem.

TW: Believed character death (not real) ,grief, discussions of hallucinations.

Title cheerfully stolen from W. H. Auden’s Funeral Blues

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It took Geralt almost an hour to realize what he’d done. He’d sat and stewed and wished his tearducts would give him more catharsis than a handful of small drops. He wanted to sob, really cry, eyes red and face wet, but his body let him down. He stared for a while at the dirt. At the footprints in the dirt.

They weren’t his. They were from Jaskier’s stupid shiny boots. Impractical boots that gave him blisters, but he’d only had enough money for one pair and he needed ‘court boots’ apparently. And he was walking down the mountain in those silly boots and a doublet that wouldn’t keep him warm as the mountain air chilled with night and Geralt had just let him go. Geralt had made him go. He didn’t have any gear, they shared gear and Geralt had made him leave.

Geralt’s slow, witcher heart beat double time as he realized he might have murdered his bard.

Roach huffed at him for being gone so long but he shushed her and loaded her up as quickly as he could. He needed her, and Jaskier needed him.

Geralt followed the footprints like a bloodhound, eyes and senses searching, but his mind wandered behind. Their relationship was such an odd one, Jaskier always traveling ahead or staying behind. Bards needed audiences and witchers needed wilderness, but they were never more than a few days from eachother, and every town Geralt went into he could be sure Jaskier was there. There had been exceptions of course, when bardic festivals or court appointments swayed Jaskier’s path, but he always came back. It was down to the separate nature of Geralt’s Path, with the capital P, and Jaskier’s path. Bards traveled between towns, straight shots, rarely sleeping rough, so his bard didn’t need gear, and it would only slow him down. Witchers wandered, fighting a monster here, collecting potion ingredients there, and coming to towns only for contracts and coin.

Geralt’s eyes scanned every inch of the track, never missing the boot prints, noting the depth of them, the scent of sadness lingering. A human would have missed the single, red thread caught on a bush, the shade of Jaskier’s stupid, too thin doublet. Geralt’s fingers plucked it from a branch.

He remembered how, in the first years of their acquaintance, he’d watched the bard walk away each time, believing he’d never see him again. But Jaskier had always come back. He’d circle around or wait in the next tiny village, playing ditties for barmaids and he’d greet Geralt with a smile that struck something sensitive and previously well protected in Geralt’s chest. Slowly Geralt had started expecting Jaskier’s presence and those treasured smiles.

It had come with detriments, that was true, Jaskier talked so much Geralt wondered how he found the air and he was foppish and disinclined to wake before noon. It was just that, so slowly that Geralt didn’t know how it had happened, those faults found favor in Geralt’s eyes.

And now he’d told Jaskier he was a burden. That he wanted him gone. As Geralt had grown to treasure his bard he’d stopped expecting Jaskier would leave him and started fearing he would instead. Geralt had just been the creator of his own nightmares, doing to their friendship what wind, weather, time, and age could not.

That was the thing, Geralt thought as his eyes scanned the trail, near invisible in the dark. Age. Jaskier was forty at least. Crow’s feet, Yennefer had said. He would have to leave Geralt sooner or later, settle in some city and see him only if Geralt sought him out. The impending end to their precious routine rolled Geralt’s stomach and took over his thoughts. Now, though, well, how weak was a forty year old human? Strong enough to go down the mountain in the dark? It seemed so, which was frustrating. Geralt was going as fast as he could while tracking Jaskier’s every footstep, but even his magical eyes only saw so much in total darkness. Jaskier was hiking blind.

A new scent drifted to Geralt’s nose. Wolf. A mixture of fur and wilderness and wet dog.

And blood.

Geralt let go of Roach’s reigns, sprinting as best he could, letting his nose lead him. He could smell blood. He followed it into the trees, crashing through the brush, careless of the briars that tore at him. He didn’t even smell his own blood, it didn’t matter, he didn’t care. All his senses narrowed down to the smell of Jaskier’s blood and...

and his eyes saw red. a torn doublet,

Geralt lurched forward, hoping, praying that it didn’t mean what he knew it meant. He clutched the rags to him and he stumbled. His foot hit something.

A boot. A stupid, shiny boot and it reeked of blood. Geralt let it fall from numb fingers. A tiny beam of moonlight struggled down, gleaming dully off of leather. Geralt knelt before the instrument case, smelling blood on the strap, feeling the contours of it. When he lifted it it was heavy. Jaskier had died alone on a vicious mountainside, devoid of his beautiful doublet and his lute.

Geralt felt a puff of breath on the back of his head. Roach had followed after him, picking her way through the forest in the wake of his mad dash. He pressed his face into her mane and finally felt tears flood his cheeks. She settled beside him when he no longer had enough water to cry and he just stayed there, knelt between tree roots and bushes, cradling the lute and a scrap of doublet that still smelled like chamomile.

He didn’t move until dawn.

When the runny light of morning came Geralt just moved on. Whatever had happened to Jaskier’s body, he couldn’t see it. Of course the bard deserved a proper burial, and Geralt cursed his weakness all the way down the mountain, but there mightn’t be much of Jaskier left to find. Geralt felt sure that if he saw his friend like that he’d simply lay down next to him and die too.

He already felt like he might.

Geralt moved on, physically. He moved around, slinging Jaskier’s lute up with his saddlebags. He wandered between towns and fought monsters, going north in a roundabout way. Going home.

Kaer Morhen was going to be cold that year, it always was, and Jaskier was never there, but without the hope of Jaskier’s smile in the spring the cold seemed to have taken residence in his soul.

Geralt wasn’t eating well. He couldn’t bring himself to do more than chew a few pieces of dried meat. He drank a lot and didn’t sleep and took too many risks when fighting monsters. It was foolish, he knew, it was how witchers died, getting sloppy like that. He did it anyway. And on the rare nights he did sleep, he clutched the tattered piece of doublet. The chamomile scent was slowly fading and Geralt feared when it left entirely. It and the doublet were all he had.

In light of all of this, Geralt wasn’t that surprised when he finally lost it. He heard music in a tavern and it sounded like Jaskier. Every bard sounded like Jaskier now. There were no instruments, just an achingly familiar voice. Of course, Geralt still had the lute.

When he walked into the tavern and saw a bard turn, saw Jaskier smile wide at him, Geralt didn’t even flinch. His medallion was still on his chest. This was no ghost, he had simply lost his mind.

Geralt sat at the bar without looking away from the apparition, and his heart swelled as it sauntered towards him. Jaskier looked so lifelike, so alive. There wasn’t a scratch on him. He was exactly the bard Geralt remebered, no crows feet to be seen. He was dressed in blue, not unlike when they had first met. Geralt’s heart twisted as he remebered all things he’d said, and, even worse, the things he hadn’t. His heart was thundering in his ears, blood rushing, everything else tuned out. It didn’t matter that Geralt had gone crazy, Jaskier was here and so beautiful and Geralt loved him so much that it hurt.

“Mind if I join you?” The hallucination said. Geralt just stared. He wasn’t going to talk to it, there were enough rumors about witchers without the townsfolk knowing he was crazy.

“C’mon, now, Geralt,” the faux Jaskier said. “You wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

Geralt just stared as the bard pulled a half-eaten roll from his pocket and winked. The hallucination stopped smiling, shoulders slumping. “I’ll go,” it said.

“Stay,” Geralt whipsered immediately. He was alright with going crazy because this last bit of comfort was so tantalizing, so real Geralt could almost reach out and touch. “Please,” he said, even quieter. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier beamed and sat and ate and Geralt wondered idly who the bartender served in place of the man he knew couldn’t be there.

Geralt had thought the hallucination would be gone in the morning, but the vision of Jaskier was standing by Roach the next day, a travel bag over one shoulder. Okay, Geralt’s brain was in it for the long haul. Fine, but there had to be rules. That momentary weakness last night couldn’t happen again. He needed to get to Kaer Morhen soon if he wanted to beat the snows and there could be no distractions. So, no talking to the bard.

It was very hard not to talk to the hallucination. It traipsed and danced and prodded and teased, but when it got not even a hum in response the exhuberance dimmed. That was horrible. Geralt didn’t need the reminder that he’d hurt Jaskier’s feelings, he’d already killed him. The proof was walking right beside him.

Something in Geralt felt healed, though. It was why he didn’t try to fix this. Having Jaskier, even if it wasn’t real, was nice. He wondered what would happen if he reached out and kissed the bard. It was his hallucination after all. The thought, though, that he would reach out to Jaskier, who looked so real and alive, and feel nothing but air....Geralt would rather go through the trials again. It would be like losing Jaskier all over.

One night, when the hallucination reached out for the instrument strung on Roach’s saddle Geralt tensed. Some part of him believed that if this shade of Jaskier was reunited with his beloved lute he’d go, dissappear and leave Geralt all alone again. He didn’t, of course. This wasn’t a spirit, Jaskier wasn’t tied to this realm by the lute. He was a figment of Geralt’s tortured mind.

He played Toss a Coin and Her Sweet Kiss. As far as Geralt knew, Jaskier hadn’t finished the latter, but his imagination finished it anyway. It hurt to hear Jaskier singing about love unrequited, it was obviously about Yennefer but that...that wasn’t Geralt’s love. Geralt’s love had be eaten by a mountain. Red sky at dawning, Geralt had had enough of red. It didn’t put him in mind of Yennefer’s lips or of rubies or harpies or anything else, but Jaskier’s doublet, the scrap still hidden in Geralt’s bags, and some words. “See you around, Geralt”

The apparition continued to play, but Geralt turned his face away. Maybe this was torturing him for killing his only blessing.

At the crossroads of the northern mountains Geralt paused. He had been walking besde Roach, resting her for the trek up the Killer, with Jaskier’s lute across the saddlebags and his hallucination trailing along behind. This was where Jaskier always parted from him in the autumn, and the hallucination stepped forward, reaching toward the lute on Roach’s back. Geralt felt ice down his spine.

His hallucination was going to leave, of course it was, Geralt had never brought Jaskier to the keep, but to be there all winter without this small, fake comfort would kill him.

Geralt wrapped his hand around the lute strap, ready to pull it from the nonexistant fingers of his dead companion. “No,” he said.

He slung the lute over his shoulder and walked toward the Killer, praying that his failing mind wouldn’t choose now to become sane. To his relief, the hallucination followed.

On the way to the keep the vision changed into a warmer cloak and gloves and Geralt marveled at the detail. He wondered if he wasn’t dead himself, or asleep and simply dreaming, but he kept going up the trail, hearing the crunch of Jaskier’s shiny boots on frost. The vision talked and Geralt loved its voice and cursed the sound.

Night was falling when they reached the gate of the keep, and Geralt could see three lit lanterns, one for each brother and another for Vesemir. He paused, watching the lights come closer. He drew a breath, in through his nose, smelling pine and chamomile, out through his mouth. He couldn’t let the others know. He had to pretend that the ghost of all his regrets wasn’t doggin his steps. He flexed his fingers on the strap of the lute.

“Don’t just stand there, idiot, get in here, it’s cold,” Lambert called. Eskel smiled at Geralt and took Roach’s reigns, cooing to her as Geralt followed Vesemir and Lambert into the hall.

The fire was lit and warmth seeped into Geralt’s numb fingers and toes. Vesemir raised an eyebrow at him.

“Aren’t you going to introduce your guest?”

“What?”

“Vesemir shook his head. “Gods almighty, Geralt, I didn’t raise you boys with much manners but I thought you had some.” Then Vesemir turned to where the vision of Jaskier stood. “You Geralt’s bard?” he asked.

“There’s no one there, Ves,” Geralt hazarded.

Vesemir scowled at him. “Stupid prank to play on your old teacher. Never get an apprentice, lad, they’ll take your sanity and all your time.” That last part wasn’t aimed at Geralt. It was like someone had poured fire into Geralt’s veins.

“You can see him too?” he asked, quietly.

“What game are you--” Vesemir began, but Jaskier’s eyes had gone soft with understanding.

“Oh, Geralt,” he whispered.

Geralt stretched out one shaking hand and caressed his bard’s chilly cheek. Jaskier leaned his face into it and brushed a kiss against the palm. “I’m so sorry, dear heart,” he said, stepping closer to Geralt and wrapping his arms around his neck. “I should have known something was off.”

“You were dead,” Geralt said into the crook of his neck. “There was blood and your doublet was shredded, and you left your lute behind.”

“You truly thought...all this time? Geralt, I thought you knew,” Jaskier said, warm breath brushing Geralt’s ear. To his surprise, Geralt was crying, tiny, bare tears and shoulders shaking.

“Knew you were alive?”

“That too, but dearest, I’m a changeling, on the mountain I...I was so sad I just wanted to run away, and I was so tired, so I became a wolf.”

“Changeling...you’re fae?”

“Only half,” Jaskier said. “Or less, I’m not sure, but I can change into all the animal of the forest.”

“You never have.”

“It’s a painful feeling and you can’t play a lute with wings or paws but I was overwhelmed so I just...oh darling I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to think--”

“I smelled blood.”

“My boots, you told me to buy the practical ones, but I didn’t listen.”

Geralt pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s and felt the warmth of him. “You’re alive,” he said. “You’re real and you’re alive.”

“You thought all this time I was a ghost?”

“A hallucination,” Geralt said. “A good dream, or torture for killing my...”

“Killing your what, darling?”

“Killing my love. Letting my greatest blessing be taken from my hands. I thought it was penance, my love.”

Jaskier leaned in and kissed Geralt softly. His lips were soft and perfect and too chapped to be a dream. His breath tasted like the jerky they’d eaten on the trail and it was real. When he pulled away Geralt leaned back in and kissed him again.

“Nothing I said on the mountain was true,” he mumbled against dry lips. “Not a word. I love you more than life itself.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier said. “And I won’t leave again, not even if you tell me to.”

“I won’t,” Geralt said. “Never again.”

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #post mountain #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #angst with a happy ending #fake character death #tw: grief and mourning

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asweetprologue · 4 years

Text

deep in the coffin of your chest

Octoberfest 13: Possession (whumptober #15)

Something was wrong. Jaskier knew it instantly, in the way a deer knows when it’s been spotted by a wolf, the way a field mouse feels in the shadow of a hawk. Jaskier was sitting on the other side of the charcoal circle they’d drawn up, finishing the second to last of the runes. It looked like yrden, mostly, just a more permanent trap. Geralt had wanted to snare the wraith for easier dispatch, knowing that the fight would be harder without a talisman to burn. Jaskier helped as much as he was able, looking carefully over the lines Geralt had sketched out in his notebook before moving to fill in the runes on the floor. The smooth marble of the mausoleum accepted the marks easily, neat little lines of soot almost hidden from view. The air was still, the smell of damp stone and faint decay hanging around them. Geralt had finished his own side and looked over the work with a satisfied hum, and then something in his posture had changed.

He looked the same, was the thing. Nothing had changed. There were no flickering lights, no rush of wind, nothing to indicate that a malevolent force had arrived. But the way Geralt was holding his head was suddenly a little off, his expression when he looked up at Jaskier just a bit too flat. Something wasn’t right. Jaskier had barely one more line to do before the circle was complete, but he hesitated.

“Geralt?” he said, unsure. “Are you alright?”

It was like a switch being flipped. For a moment, everything was still, Geralt’s face utterly emotionless. And then, in the blink of an eye, rage unlike anything Jaskier had ever seen stole over his features and a growl filled the room. It rumbled through the room like thunder, echoing through the alcoves and into the vaulted ceiling above them.

Jaskier dropped the charcoal. It clattered softly to the ground near his knee.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? What -” Jaskier didn’t have time to finish, because Geralt was standing with all the fluid grace of a seasoned witcher and stalking towards him. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He’d never felt scared of Geralt before, but something about the slow prowl towards him made the long lost prey part of his brain scream run run run! Geralt’s pupils were wide, black entirely swallowing up the lovely gold, and he looked angry. Jaskier turned, seized by a sudden panic, but Geralt closed the distance too quickly. The witcher slammed into him, shoving Jaskier back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He floundered for breath as Geralt stepped towards him again, unable to get his bearings before fingers were grabbing his forehead and slamming his head back into the stone wall of the crypt.

Jaskier’s vision swam. Spots danced in front of his eyes as pain exploded from the back of his skull, instantly making his stomach lurch. He gasped, reeling at the shock of the blow and the betrayal. Geralt would never hurt him. He wouldn’t. But whatever this was, it wasn’t Geralt. Jaskier could tell, squinting at him through watering eyes. Geralt would never look at him with such hatred. “Geralt, snap out of it!”

There was a blow to his gut, not as hard as Jaskier knew Geralt could deliver but hard enough that he could hear the faint groan of his ribs. It bowled him over, one hand going to cradle his abused stomach while the other blindly reached for Geralt’s shoulder. Seeking support even when it was he who’d dealt the blow. It was a mistake; Geralt grabbed his arm and twisted, tackling Jaskier to the ground. He couldn’t keep his injured head from banging against the floor again, and the repeat impact made Jaskier’s vision go black for a long moment. Huge, warm hands were pinning him down, an ongoing growl reverberating through the chamber.

Jaskier lashed out, blindly reaching to try and slap Geralt’s face or knee him out of the way. It must have come as a surprise, because both blows landed and the growl stopped with a startled huff of breath. Jaskier blinked his eyes open in time to see the witcher flinch back a bit, fury twisting his features. Seeing an opening, Jaskier tried to wriggle away. His head was swimming, but he tried his best to struggle free of Geralt’s grasp. Whatever was possessing him couldn’t do this. It couldn’t be allowed to use Geralt against him.

It didn’t matter. Geralt recovered easily and grabbed Jaskier by the leg, pulling him back into place with a snarl. Jaskier met his eyes, looking for any recognition, but was met with hateful indifference. It hurt worse than any of the blows Geralt had rained down on his body, cutting through his chest like a blade. Geralt looked at him with impersonal vehemence, and Jaskier felt despair flood through him. Whatever had Geralt, it had him completely. Jaskier felt hot breath over his jugular as Geralt leaned down, violence in every line of the body above him. He choked on a sob. This was more powerful than either of them. Jaskier was going to die. And if he escaped with his own life, Geralt would be devastated.

Jaskier's hands came up to clutch at Geralt's back, holding him close even as his body screamed for him to try and fight. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst in his chest. He'd never felt fear like this - Geralt's sharp teeth were inches from Jaskier's neck, ready to tear him open at any moment. Jaskier felt a tear slip down over his cheek, falling back towards his hair. Geralt's entire body was drawn tight above him, shaking.

"It's okay," Jaskier gasped. He raised a hand to card it desperately through Geralt's hair, his thumb barely brushing over his clenched jaw. "It's okay, Geralt, it's okay. I forgive you. It's not your fault, I forgive you, okay? It's okay. I love you - i-it's okay, I love you, I love you." He was crying, but he tried to put all of his trust in Geralt into the words. Geralt was going to tear himself apart over this, Jaskier knew, and it was almost worse than the fact that he was going to die.

Geralt's clenched teeth pressed against Jaskier's neck, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. One quick move and it would be over, Jaskier’s blood spilling across the floor and Geralt’s tongue. His fist slammed down next to Jaskier's head, shaking the ground.

"It's alright," Jaskier said softly. He leaned his forehead against Geralt's temple, a parody of a lover's embrace. "I love you, Geralt. It's okay."

Geralt shuddered against him, a whine leaving him. He was fighting it, Jaskier realized, pushing back against the thing boiling his blood. It was a moment. A chance.

The charcoal was still on the floor, inches from his face.

His only advantage was surprise. Using the hand in Geralt’s hair, Jaskier suddenly pulled as hard as he could, at the same time twisting to shove Geralt’s knee out with his foot. It was a trick Geralt himself had taught him, one only managed successfully in the past because the witcher had allowed it. But this wasn’t Geralt, and the thing inside of the body above him wasn’t ready for it. Too distracted in a silent battle of wills, Geralt tumbled to the side.

Into the circle.

Jaskier scrambled for the charcoal just as Geralt began rising back up on his knees, none of the hesitance present in his face. He - it, whatever was playing host to Geralt’s body right now - was furious, absolute rage contorting his features. It was utterly inhuman. Jaskier threw himself at the edge of the circle, towards his last final rune, just as Geralt lunged forward. One line, a gentle curve, and a tiny dash off the end.

Jaskier held perfectly still, on his hands and knees before the circle. There was a sudden shift in the air, like the pressure change when walking up a mountain, and then Geralt gasped. Jaskier looked up just in time to see a half solidified form stutter out of Geralt’s body, peeling off of him in fits and starts. Geralt staggered when it was done, fumbling a few feet outside of the circle. The thing within lunged for him, but was stopped at the edge with an angry howl. It was no true color, barely there at all, more of a density in the air and a presence before them. So hateful.

Geralt drew his sword, untouched throughout their own scuffle. It was a simple fight, which Jaskier watched from his slumped position on the marble tiles. Within a moment the creature was gone, dissipating into ash.

Not a second later Geralt was beside him, sword flung to the side. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in place, and another came up to cradle the back of his head. Jaskier winced at the throb there, flinching away from the hand.

Geralt released him immediately, his expression pained. Jaskier swayed towards him without the extra support, catching himself on Geralt’s chest with one wide spread hand. “Sorry,” he said, still feeling woozy. “Hit my head. That didn’t seem like a wraith.”

“Demon,” Geralt said. He reached out again, more hesitantly now, and cupped Jaskier’s jaw. Their eyes met, and Jaskier was relieved to see familiar liquid gold staring back at him. Geralt’s eyebrows were creased in worry, guilt making his features tight. Jaskier spared one brief moment to be intensely glad that he hadn’t died. For both their sake. “You’re hurt,” Geralt said. And then, more quietly, “I hurt you.”

Jaskier huffed, even though the movement hurt his ribs. Definitely bruised. “None of that,” he said, tapping Geralt’s chest. “You didn’t do this. You know that.”

“I could see it. I couldn’t stop. It was so angry, it wanted to hurt you so badly. Why didn’t you fight back?” Geralt asked. He sounded wounded, his other hand coming up to hold Jaskier’s face in his palms. Searching his gaze for answers. “You just… gave up. You said -”

“I said I love you,” Jaskier finished for him, bringing one hand up to curl around Geralt’s wrist. He skimmed his thumb over the pulse point there, soothing. “It’s okay. I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“Guilty,” Geral repeated, his voice breaking. “Jaskier, I couldn’t - If you -”

“I know,” Jaskier said. He turned his head just slightly to press a kiss to Geralt’s palm. The movement made his head swim, but Geralt inhaled sharply at the soft brush of lips, so it was well worth it. “I know, darling. I’d never blame you.”

Geralt made a choked sound, and then Jaskier was being pulled into a gentle hug, mindful of his injuries. Geralt tucked him in close, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s throat in an echo of his earlier position. This time, Jaskier had never felt so safe. “I’m sorry,” he rasped out, pressing the words into Jaskier’s skin. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. You must know, that I - You -”

“I do. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier said. He brushed his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair, trying to sooth the guilty, fearful man before him. Who he loved so dearly. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt hummed and Jaskier felt the press of slightly chapped lips at his jaw before Geralt pulled back. “Good,” he said, eyes over bright. He glanced over Jaskier’s features and frowned. “Shit. We should get you to a healer.”

“Ah, I’ve had worse after a night of hard drinking,” Jaskier said, offering Geralt a grin. “You aren’t all that tough, at the end of the day.”

Geralt frowned back at him, not rising to the joke. “I was holding it back,” he said absently, moving to run his fingers lightly through Jaskier’s hair. There was a sizable bump there, but Jaskier hadn’t been lying - this wouldn’t be his first knock on the head, nor likely his last. “You’re going to have a concussion.”

“Good thing I’ve got you to take care of me,” Jaskier said, feeling woozy and bruised but somehow still warm and relieved. They were both alive. That was all he could ask for, at the end of it all.

He expected to receive an eye roll and a dismissive hum at his remark. Instead Geralt just looked at him with an expression that made Jaskier ache in a too-pleasant way, deep in his chest, before he leaned in to press their lips together so, so gently. “You do,” Geralt mumbled, tipping their foreheads together. “You do.”

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

For your Geraskier prompt, maybe Jaskier or Geralt realizing that spring has become their favorite season because they get to see their bestie again?

Thank you! I love how I got two spring themed prompts <3 All the more chance to write about what might start to become my favourite season

word count: 886 words

Winter had always been the one season Geralt was looking forward to.

No hunting, no being chased out of towns or swindled out of his pay. Instead, he got to see his family again, got to be in the one place he could call home without having to worry about any of the danger or discomfort he faced the rest of the year.

It was the only time he was excited for.

Until something changed.

It happened slowly at first, almost unnoticeably, but one year as winter approached, his mind wasn’t filled with thoughts of his brothers, shared laughter and nights spent drinking in the library.

No, for some unknown reason there was a strange sense of dread pooling in his stomach, growing stronger the colder it got.

It didn’t make any sense.

Until one day when even Geralt had to put on his fur-lined coat to shelter himself from the icy winds, Jaskier turned to him with a forced cheerful look, as he clutched the strap holding his lute tightly.

“So… I guess that is it,” he said and his voice quivered from the cold. “I heard there were some merchants heading towards Oxenfurt. If I hurry, I’ll be able to travel with them.”

Oh.

And there was that dread again, gripping at his heart like a clawed beast, constricting Geralt’s throat and making it impossible to speak, while simultaneously burning Geralt with the need to say something, anything really to buy himself just a little more time with the man - the one friend - he spent most of the year with.

But he couldn’t find the words. Nothing he could have said would tempt Jaskier to stay at his side only a little longer. Not if it meant Jaskier would miss his chance to go back to his home; The place where he was welcomed with open arms and cheer instead of innkeepers eyeing him distrustfully because he was travelling with a witcher. In Oxenfurt Jaskier would be surrounded by friends who were able to carry a conversation with him as he deserved, so unlike Geralt. He would have a warm bed and hearty meals instead of what little they would afford on the Path. He would have people hanging at his lips instead of having to beg someone who didn’t know how to talk about music for any scraps of clumsy praise.

It would be selfish of Geralt to keep Jaskier away from what must surely be the best part of his year.

So all he did was give Jaskier a tight smile. “Be safe.”

“You too.” There was just the barest hint of hesitation, a brief tightening on the grip on the lute strap, before Jaskier let go and throw his arms around Geralt’s neck.

It was only a short hug, but it still made Geralt’s breath hitch and his heart stutter. By the time he had shaken off the stupor at the unexpectedly warm touch and made to lift his arms to return the embrace, Jaskier pulled back with a strained smile.

“So,” he said, giving Geralt an awkward pat on the back. “See you next spring.”

Geralt remained on his spot, his heart sinking as he watched Jaskier walk away from him. And for the first time he cursed the cold winds that made him go back to Kaer Morhen.

Spring had always been the worst time of year.

The melting snow made the earth slippery and hard to fight on. Monsters that woke from hibernation were hungry and out for fresh blood. After the long absence of most sounds of nature during the winter, the renewed noise of the birds was disorienting.

Worse than anything, spring meant parting with his family, never knowing for sure when they would meet again. Spring meant going back to people who shunned him and sleeping on the cold hard ground most nights.

There was little he dreaded as much as the return of spring.

And yet.

As he paced his room in Kaer Morhen, everything he would need on the Path already packed, he found himself looking out of the window more and more often with an unknown impatience for the snow to thaw.

When the first birds of spring finally returned, Geralt was the first of the wolves to leave the keep.

He had no reason to strain to go back out there. No reason, other than the strange feeling urging him on to leave the mountains behind as quickly as possible.

No reason, other than the way his heart skipped a beat when he heard the sound of a familiar voice singing to themselves. He didn’t try to fight of the smile that pulled on his lips when he caught sight of a bright screen doublet and windswept brown hair.

When Jaskier finally noticed him too and his eyes lit up with something Geralt thought he could name and understand for the first time since he met the bard, he didn’t waste time waiting for Jaskier to make the first move.

Geralt closed his arms around his friend and held him as close as he could. And as Jaskier let out a startled laugh and slung his arms around Geralt in return, he found that Kaer Morhen was no longer the only place deserving to be called his home.

#geraskier #geraltxjaskier #witcher #fic #thank you for this lovely prompt!#ask and you shall receive

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wherethewordsare · 3 years

Text

Right Where You Left Me

Real quick. Two things. Thank you @kuripon for being just an absolute gem and beta reading this for me. I’m sorry for all of my yelling. You’re an actual factual life saver.

SECONDLY!! Some Content Warnings upfront: Post Mountain, Post Torture, Near Death Experiences, Descriptions of Injury (though not graphic.) and some mild drugging. Just... Jaskier Wump ahead. Happy ending though, I swear.

Jaskier felt it in his bones, the way his body was starting to give out. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. They had been zealous in his interrogations, all of them. He huddled in the corner of his cell and took a deep breath, wincing at how it pressed against his broken ribs. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking him, not mentally at least. Bodily however, he knew he didn’t have much left to give.

They had pulled him off the road to Oxenfurt as he was returning from the dragon hunt. Though he was still broken-hearted and angry, he still wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to be responsible for one more heap of shit shoveled in Geralt’s life, maybe it was because despite the way his heart broke, he would still remain loyal to that bastard.

He coughed, his body shaking, and he knew that the next time they came to collect him for the information he would not give, they would only find his body but Jaskier would be well far away from this hell. At least he thought so.

Large hands gripped him and hauled him up and when his feet did not find purchase on their own, he was scooped up and carried. He might have heard a small huff and a hum that sounded familiar but he had been hearing that everywhere recently. His eyes had been swollen shut for the past day and what he could see was merely a blurry collection of lines.

Jaskier ached and he was so tired and there was a sickening feeling like the world had turned the wrong way for a moment. Still the guard held him, silent as he was carried. Jaskier was determined not to go out without at least a few biting remarks but his mind was so muddled and his throat had been screamed raw weeks ago.

“You’ll never find him,” he wheezed, choking on the words as the figure laid him down on-

Jaskier knew he must have finally snapped. The surface under him was soft and there was a blanket, warm and clean being pulled over him.

“He’s worse than I’d have imagined,” said a voice he couldn’t quite place, a woman’s voice that made something old and familiar turn in his gut.

“He’ll make it. Jaskier’s always been a stubborn shit,” came another voice, gruff and also familiar. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries and he didn’t have time to really think about it before he was slipping into darkness.

Jaskier woke slowly, his mind fighting back against the hazy sleep that kept pulling him down time and time again as he slowly realized his body was healing. It still hurt, but the pain wasn’t as deep. There was something warm pressed against his face, gently rubbing against his cheeks and forehead and a soft humming. He wanted to turn into the presence and cling to the comfort that washed over him.

The cloth pulled away from his face and he knew the whimpering he had heard was his own as he tried to chase the feeling again. A large warm hand cupped his cheek, calloused fingers grazing against his jaw. He could weep with how good it felt after months upon months of that dungeon and those guards and their mages.

“Can you hear me, Jask?” someone murmured only inches from him. Jaskier could feel the tips of his hair brush against his neck. “Jask, you have to wake up.” His voice sounded tight and wounded. “I’m-” Geralt made a hurt noise as a thumb brushed his temple.

“Hmm, G-rlt?” He turned his face into the palm that held him, sighing as though it had been the balm to all his aches. The hollow pang of loss in his chest flared again as he slowly gained his bearings. Oh, this wasn’t a dream but a nightmare. Geralt, the Geralt he knew wouldn’t touch him like this, wouldn’t be this soft. The Geralt he knew, the one that had thrown those words at him on the mountain, wouldn’t care about him now, not like this.

Tears came unbidden. He had been so careful not to let the guards of Nilfgaard see him break but some tricks were far too cruel not to hit their mark. He tried to pull away from the hand, fighting every fiber of himself that wanted it to be real, needed it to mean he was safe. He sobbed as his heart finally cracked open.

“Jaskier, no. No no, you’re-” Firm hands lifted him up gently by the shoulders and he felt his head rest against a broad chest as he was being cradled. The feeling turned his stomach and he struggled to pull away.

“You might need to axii him,” came another male voice from somewhere beyond Jaskier’s senses and the chest under his head expanded with a sigh.

“I don’t want to make it feel like I tricked him, I need him to believe it’s real,” Geralt said from above him, those calloused fingers now sliding into his hair.

“Geralt, he’s not with it yet. Just let him sleep a little longer,” said the voice. This one he didn’t recognize.

Jaskier tried to thrash, to pull away. He wanted to fight this but he had no more fight in him to give. The man above him sighed again, almost sadly and Jaskier felt a twinge of magic against his scalp. By his cheek, a round metal piece seemed to hum for a moment and then there was darkness again.

The next time Jaskier woke, he was alone in a large room, cocooned in a pile of furs and pillows. The room was bright and outside the window, a craggy landscape stretched as far as he could see. It smelled of pine and clean air and the very tail end of summer.

“You’re awake, bard.” A man walked in, carrying a tray with what looked like a bowl and two cups, steam rising from all of them.

“Where am I?” Jaskier croaked, wincing at how his words scraped against his throat. He knew he wouldn’t be singing again any time soon.

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, home of the witcher keep and the school of the wolf,” he gave a smile that tugged at the scars that ran along the one side of his face though he had let his hair fall in a way that looked like it was meant to hide them.

“You’re a witcher?” Jaskier found himself leaning away slightly, not trusting his own eyes.

“Last time I checked, yes. Eskel. It’s good to finally meet Geralt’s bard,” Eskel set the tray down on the edge of the bed and backed away to give Jaskier room. He sat in a dusty arm chair in the corner, fishing a book from his pocket.

“I’m not Geralt’s anything,” Jaskier said automatically. It had been what he had told Nilfgaard, again and again and again, even as they continued to break his bones and burn his skin and invade his mind. “Geralt isn’t anything to me,” he added, swallowing around the taste of ash in his mouth.

“Eat, then we’ll talk,” Eskel only gave him a small smile and turned back to his book.

Jaskier looked down at the tray. One cup remained and the bowl, a broth with onions and small bits of root vegetable floating in it. Jaskier immediately recognized it as the same soup Geralt had made when he had caught a fever a few years back. He picked up the tea, foregoing the broth for the moment, not ready to swallow those memories just yet.

It occurred to him that all of this may have been some kind of trick. He had never met Geralt’s brothers in arms, he had never been to Kaer Morhen. Maybe they thought he had and they were waiting for him to mess up. But there was nothing to mess up any further.

Eskel lifted the other cup of tea that Jaskier hadn’t seen him take, sipping slowly as he disappeared into his book. “Broth too, bard.” It felt like a gentle chide, though he glanced up with an easy smile.

“Are all witchers this bossy?” Jaskier grumbled as he lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping. It turned out to be nothing like the broth Geralt had made him, this was so much better. The moment the liquid touched his lips, he realized he was famished. He made only a small attempt to go slow at first before simply tilting the bowl back to drink it down. It burned his throat but it warmed his limbs with a deep kind of comfort.

When the bowl was empty, Jaskier leaned back against the headboard, cup of tea in hand. He let the quiet stretch between them for a few moments, Eskel still in his book, Jaskiser in his thoughts.

“Now, let’s start with the easy stuff,” Eskel set his book aside but made no move to stand or come near Jaskier. “We heard Nilfgaard had you about six months back. We finally managed to get you out four weeks ago. You were not in good shape but you’re doing better now.”

It had just frosted when he was taken from the road, Jaskier thinks. Now it looked to be the end of summer. He had been captive for almost a year. He took a sip of his tea and nodded.

“So this isn’t a trick?” He said flatly, curling his toes to test his minimal strength. They ached with the rest of him.

“No. We understand that you’re going to take some time to trust that, but we’re not going to rush you. Anything you want to know, we’ll answer to the best of our ability and you are, of course, welcome to stay here,” Eskel looked down then, scuffing his boots along the floor boards. He seemed to be trying to word his next statement carefully.

“You’re asking that I choose to stay peacefully. I’m not a captive, but leaving isn’t a good option,” Jaskier bit out. The tea and broth and rest had rekindled a fire in his gut that Nilfgaard hadn’t quite managed to bank and he felt like he was burning with it.

“Just for now, till we know it’s going to be safe for you,” Eskel shot back. He rubbed his hands on his thighs.

“Safe for Geralt and his child surprise you mean. I’ve seen your hidden fortress and am now a liability,” He knew it to be true but it didn’t take the sting out any more.

“Jaskier, that’s not fair. Geralt-” Eskel clicked his mouth shut quickly.

“Oh no, no no, go on. Tell me what that asshole said, hmm? Did he mention that he threw me aside? Is that why you’re worried I’ll turn him in so quickly? They had me for three seasons and the most I gave them was trouble,” Jaskier shook, suddenly exhausted. He found that he struggled to keep his eyes opened and he looked back down at the bowl of soup. “At least you had the decency not to axii me this time,” he spat.

Darkness took him again, but before it did he heard another voice from the door, “I’m sorry, Jask.”

He was alone the next time he came to, though he hadn’t been moved to any kind of dungeon which was a relief. His chest tightened at the thought of going from being the prisoner of an army to the prisoner of someone he had once considered his friend.

He stood slowly, letting his weight shift gently onto the balls of his feet as he made to get up. He nearly collapsed again, grunting at the way his muscles refused to hold him. He scolded himself for not having seen it coming. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood, let alone walked under his own volition.

Jaskier took a deep breath as he let his fingers pry gently along his healing body. He found that the worse of the damage had been healed though he still ached and he was certain he would have to rebuild his strength again. It would take time, time that he probably had now that he was a resident of circumstance in Kaer Morhen. All those years he had wished of coming here and how he longed to be anywhere else.

He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. He had just wanted to go home and forget the war and the witcher and the mountain.

The tap on the door made him jump but when he looked up, Geralt was standing there. He was without his armor, his hair pulled back, and his arms crossed over his chest. Geralt frowned at him, his brows knitted together.

“Jaskier,” he started then stopped again, his jaw clicking shut as he shifted. He didn’t budge from the door, only looked out the window as he took a deep breath.

“I won’t fight. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. I-” It was Jaskier’s turn to look away. He hadn’t had much time to consider just how he might have made it out of a heavily guarded Nilfgaardian fort alive but with Geralt standing there looking all the world like a man put out by one underfoot bard, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. “You didn’t have to come rescue me. I would have-” he swallowed around his next words. I would have still protected you with my last breath, Geralt. “Thank you, anyway.”

Geralt rubbed his face and took a hesitant step forward before retreating back to the door again. “Jaskier, why?” There was something wrong with Geralt’s voice, like it had been rubbed and frayed.

“Why? Why am I staying? Because I don’t really have much choice, do I? Apparently I’m not done healing, and now I know where you and your child surprise are hiding, I’m a liability, aren’t I?” He let his hands fall into his lap in defeat.

“I don’t want you to stay,” Geralt said quickly, his hands coming up in surrender. He looked up for a moment and shook his head before he opened his mouth again.

Jaskier felt like his heart had finally snapped. “Right, well. Now that we have that settled, I’ll just give myself enough time to get up to snuff and then I will be on my way, shall I? Should have known you didn’t want me here.” He sounded wounded, even to his own ears. “Don’t understand why you went through all that trouble to rescue me if,” Jaskier tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears there to not fall. They did anyway.

“I didn’t mean to shovel more shit, Geralt. I don’t know why you didn’t just let me die in there doing the one thing I’ve always tried to do,” he looked at Geralt then, wincing, “try to make your life a little easier.”

“I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to,” Geralt said softly. He took a hesitant step forward as though Jaskier had the strength to cause any real damage to anyone other than himself. “You didn’t give me up, even after the way I… after the hunt,” Geralt rubbed his face. “I just don’t understand why you did it, why you wouldn’t tell them even as they…” His words trailed off and they both seemed surprised to find that he had knelt down beside Jaskier, his hands wrapping around one of Jaskier’s. “Why did you do that, Jaskier?”

“You’re a fucking fool,” Jaskier spat. “Because I love you. Because I’ve loved you for nearly twenty years and even after you tore my heart out, I couldn’t bring myself to give you over,” Jaskier cried. He could feel Geralt fighting down a flinch where their fingers met and a small part of him was pleased. He was shaking, his mouth impossibly dry as he pressed his free hand to his eyes. “Geralt, how did I get here?”

Geralt moved to sit beside him on the bed, not letting go of his hand, his eyes never quite meeting Jaskier’s. He was getting his words together, Jaskier knew and he gave him the time.

“We had heard they had a travel companion of a witcher. There are… very few of those who exist, let alone one Nilfgaard would be interested in. When we sprang Yennefer, she confirmed that she had heard you had been taken prisoner too,” Geralt gave a small smile then. “She had heard that you would just sing to them, all of your songs instead of giving them information.” He sounded almost proud as he said it, but then his face fell.

Jaskier sat in stunned silence, trying to pay attention to Geralt’s words as he seemed to hyperfocus on the warmth of his hands around his own. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, trying to make sense of what was happening. Either his confession was going to be left unacknowledged or Geralt was working up to let him down easily for once. He had to beat him to the punch for once.

“I’ll get my strength back and then I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. I’ll lay low, maybe head to Creyden or somewhere out of the way.” He clasped his hands together, pressing where his skin was still warm from Geralt’s touch. Twenty years of wanting stuck in his throat. Then he thought of the mountain and swallowed them down again. He had always been good at that.

“You don’t have to leave here, Jaskier. You’ll be safe,” Geralt said, tilting his head down slightly to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“I’d be in the way,” Jaskier reasoned.

“You…” Geralt sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “No, Jask, you wouldn’t. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped here. Just… Give me some time?” Geralt winced as he looked back at Jaskier.

“What am I doing here, Geralt? I don’t want to be kept around just to absolve you of some guilt you’re carrying,” Jaskier asked again.

Geralt made a low noise, somewhere between wounded and relieved. “I shouldn’t have yelled, it’s true, and it’s my fault they took you in the first place. But I brought you here, because this is where I wanted you, where I thought I could keep you safe.” His jaw worked for a moment as he chose his next words carefully, though he seemed stuck.

“I don’t get it. Help me understand, Geralt. I didn’t even think you cared,” Jaskier frowned, his fingers fidgeting.

Geralt looked up at him and his eyes had gone soft around the edges. “I’m a fucking fool.” His hand came up and cupped Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears Jaskier could no longer hold back. He couldn’t help but lean into the touch, his stomach swooping. “I love you, I’ve loved you for… far longer than I was willing to admit.”

Jaskier gave a soft laugh, trying to cover his sob. “What the fuck do you witchers put in your soup?”

Geralt went still for a moment before he snorted, ducking his head. “It’s the onion.”

Jaskier gasped as he pulled away from Geralt dramatically. He only just managed not to start cackling. “I knew this was a trap! The Geralt I knew would never-” a pillow hit him in the face, knocking him back. He grinned madly from where he had landed only for it to be lost into a yawn. He hadn’t realized how taxing the conversation had been.

Geralt stood, leaning over to adjust Jaskier’s bedding. “Rest, bard. You’ve still got healing to do and we have a lot to talk about.” He hesitated for a moment before leaning down, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jaskier let himself settle into the bed again as he watched Geralt leave the room. He felt it in his bones, the way his body melted into the furs around him. He’d be on his feet in no time and he was free to follow them wherever they took him, though he knew he’d still happily follow Geralt anywhere he went.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jaskier wump #injury #rescue #hurt/comfort #cw: main character near death #cw: trauma #cw: injury #cw: drugging #cw: post torture #cw: near death #use of axii #i'm sure i'm missing some tags here #and am open to suggestions #long fic #jay writes

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

I'll Hold You Just The Same

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list prompt: vampire

Everyone knows about Geralt's affliction and has for years - at least the people closest to him do - and it's not a problem anymore. During the warmer months, feeding isn't difficult; there's no shortage of bandits and criminals coming after him and if they happen to wind up with holes in their neck, well, Geralt knows well enough how to dispose of a body. It's become a necessity, one he hated at first but had grown to put up with in the past few years. The only time he has to worry is during the winter, but if things go south, his brothers are always more than willing to let him feed when he needs it. Geralt never takes more than he needs and the other Witchers never offer more than they're willing to give. They know each other well and it works. So taking Jaskier to Kaer Morhen with him hardly seems like it's going to be a problem.

Their first sign that something was bound to go wrong should have been obvious. Things happen in threes, or so they say, and the first of three happens as soon as they hit the last town heading north.

It's a little place, more of a trading post than a town, really, but they have a small bunkhouse for travellers and a shop for supplies. Geralt always stays on his way up the mountain - one last night of rest before trekking up the pass. This year, there are no free rooms.

A hunting expedition gone badly, the man serving as innkeeper says, two injured and one killed, everyone remaining is being sheltered until a sled can be brought up to take the injured into town. And that's... fine. They've slept in worse places and the innkeeper offers whatever he can for supper and comfort.

Geralt leaves Jaskier in town while he heads off to find them somewhere to sleep for the night. He's hoping for a cave or an overhang of rock, something to help keep the heat for Jaskier. He especially needs a good nights' sleep before they head out. But as he's searching, Geralt encounters the second sign.

There's been a light dusting of snow on the ground for days now. This far north, it isn't uncommon, especially so late in the year, but tonight it starts snowing heavily. Geralt finds what he's looking for, sort of. It's a small shelf of rock, enough to shelter them from the oncoming snow, but it won't do much in terms of holding heat. That, he can cope with, so long as they're out of the snow.

He goes back to collect Jaskier once he's lit a fire and cleared a space for them. They sleep under the shelf that night, and it's not as bad as some nights on the road, but Geralt still feels bad. It's the first time he's brought Jaskier home with him and he wasn't expecting to have problems immediately.

In the morning, he's feeling somewhat better. He's no less hesitant about the mountain pass than he has been since asking Jaskier to come, but they've made it through the worst of it and soon enough they'll be up in the keep with his brothers, with Vesemir.

They set out early, just after dawn, and the snow hasn't stopped yet but Geralt tries not to let that bother him. He's made worse treks, including the one year he had to leave Roach at the foot of the mountain and walk up alone. Since that year, he's been much more careful.

The snow doesn't stop, though and while Jaskier is steadfast and determined, Geralt starts to worry about him. It's not until they're halfway through the day, that Geralt realizes he hasn't fed in a couple of days. At the time, he thinks it's the third in a line of problems, and that things should be easier from then on, but he has no idea what's coming.

By early evening, the snow is falling in heavy flakes and the wind has picked up. They push through, but even Geralt is finding it hard to continue with the snow piling up toward their knees. When Jaskier stumbles, Geralt barely catches him in time to keep him out of the snow and he knows they have to stop early for the night.

"If we press on a little longer, there's a cave," Geralt says, "are you okay to keep going?"

Jaskier nods. He's gritting his teeth against the cold, Geralt knows and he hates it. Unclasping his cloak, he winds it around Jaskier's shoulders, tucking it under his chin.

"Not much longer," he promises.

And it's not. Barely ten minutes later, Jaskier is ducking into the mouth of the cave and Geralt is trying to encourage Roach in after them. The roof of the cave is tall enough, but she's hesitant nonetheless and it takes Jaskier bribing her with an apple to get her out of the snow. After that, she's quite calm and happy so lay near the fire once Geralt gets it lit.

But the morning only brings more snow, rising at least six inches up from the ground and Geralt's optimism is wearing thin. He's certain now, that this must be the third in their bad luck streak, that nothing could possibly be worse than this, but he holds out. Hopefully, the snow will stop, maybe some of it will melt and they'll be able to make it up on time.

He continues to keep up hope until the third day when he realizes how long it's been since he's fed, and then the hope he offers Jaskier is no more than platitudes. He sleeps too much and Jaskier notices, fretting over him more than usual. He's always got an eye on him, always checking in, and what can Geralt do but lie. There's nothing here for him and he knows it, his only option is to sit and wait and hope his brothers come looking for him. They know he's coming this year, they know he's bringing Jaskier.

When he falls asleep that night, it's with Jaskier pressed against his chest, facing out into the cave. He's soft and warm, but he smells fucking incredible and Geralt can't help but press his nose into the back of his neck. He wants to push further, to nip at his skin, to sink his teeth in. And fuck, Jaskier would taste so fucking good. Already his scent is practically unbearable when Geralt gets to this stage. But he can't. He won't. He'd never do anything to hurt Jaskier or to harm their friendship in any way. Jaskier has been so understanding since the beginning, Geralt can't do anything to betray his trust.

He wakes, shaking, in the middle of the night and when he opens his eyes, Jaskier is kneeling over him. Geralt thinks it's a dream at first, but Jaskier's palm cups his face and he's so warm. Geralt leans into it and Jaskier sighs.

"Geralt?" he asks, "when was the last time you fed?"

"Mmm," Geralt mumbles, "before we stopped."

"Geralt, that was a week ago. Maybe longer. You need to feed."

Geralt grits his teeth. He knows what he needs, but he also knows there's no way to do it. He won't hurt Jaskier so he has to wait. He says nothing. Jaskier, of course, has a different opinion.

"You know I'd be more than happy to offer."

"Absolutely not."

"Geralt-"

"Jaskier, no. I won't risk it."

Three days pass before Geralt gives in. Three days pass and Jaskier offers every day his pleas becoming more desperate as Geralt finds himself weaker and weaker. On the fourth day, they're sitting by the fire and Geralt sways. It takes too much effort to keep upright properly any longer and the only reason he tries is so Jaskier won't worry about him. But before he knows what's happening, Jaskier is on him, climbing into his lap with his hands on Geralt's face.

"Please," he says again and he's already tugging away to unbutton his shirt. Geralt watches, exhausted, as Jaskier pulls his shirt and doublet off, dropping them into the dirt behind him.

Geralt knows exactly what he's doing, knows he probably should let Jaskier give him this, but the thought of what he might do to him. The fear wars with a budding arousal, sparked by the way Jaskier shifts in his lap, shirtless and willing.

Jaskier leans in close enough that his thighs press in against Geralt's hips and he can practically taste the woodsmoke on Jaskier's skin. He braces his hands on Jaskier's waist and Jaskier leans in closer, tipping his head to bare his neck to Geralt. One soft hand slips up the back of his head, guiding him closer and Geralt groans softly. He wants this, he does, but this is Jaskier and he shouldn't.

"Go on, love," Jaskier whispers, "you need this. I want to give it to you."

Geralt's nose bumps under Jaskier's jaw and he's not sure which one of them is moving, but then his lips are on his skin. He presses a soft kiss to the skin, then another, and he can feel each shudder that runs through Jaskier's body. When he parts his lips, Jaskier shifts in his lap, turning slightly so the angle is better.

Geralt parts his lips, lets his teeth graze Jaskier's skin before pressing forward and biting down. As he breaks the skin, Jaskier lets out a soft sound, more needy than pained and Geralt lets the sound of it echo in his ears as he drinks from him.

He loses himself in the rush of it, only vaguely aware of Jaskier moving in his lap until Geralt draws away. There's a trickle of blood down his neck and Geralt leans in, licking it away without thinking.

His strength returned, to some extent, he turns Jaskier to face him. He didn't smell it before but the air is thick with it now, arousal and anticipation. Jaskier slips back and Geralt can feel the way his cock strains against the being of his trousers. Geralt can't exactly say he's unaffected, either.

For two days they don't talk about it.

Geralt is feeling back to normal again and Jaskier had rations for at least a couple more days, so neither of them needs to think about food. Time has become irrelevant, known only by the light coming on from the mouth of the cave. It's dark though when Jaskier approaches him again.

"I can't see you like that again," he pleads and Geralt is helpless to fight.

This time when Jaskier crawls into his lap, Geralt tugs him forward so they're pressed together, so this time, if Jaskier is aroused, he'll be able to feel it. He wants to, wants to know Jaskier is turned on by this, that's is mutually beneficial.

He presses his lips to Jaskier's neck, placing soft kisses over the mark from the previous bite, then slowly moving toward his collarbone. Jaskier is shirtless again to prevent the staining of his fine clothes and Geralt takes advantage of that, running his hands over all that bare skin.

When he pulls away, Jaskier lets out a little whine, but Geralt lifts his hand, nosing at the veins in Jaskier's wrist. He can hear his pulse, feel the beat of it under his fingers and he longs to feel that skin under his teeth. Less because he's hungry than for the way Jaskier will react to it.

Jaskier's breath catches as Geralt licks the skin before pressing down with his fangs. There's a groan of pleasure and it takes Geralt a moment to realize it's coming from him. Jaskier is stone-still, watching with wide eyes, pupils blown so only a sliver of blue is visible around them. Arousal wafts off of him and Geralt can practically feel how badly he wants this. Which is... something.

If Jaskier wants this, if he feels like this about it, who is Geralt to argue. He bites down, breaking the skin and Jaskier's arm jerks involuntarily, but as the shock passes, he relaxes, a soft moan slipping from his lips. Jaskier brings his free hand up, slipping his fingers through Geralt's hair and it feels good. Geralt presses into the touch with a hum just as Jaskier slips forward and there it is. Jaskier is hard, his cock pressed firmly between them and when Geralt draws back, Jaskier meets his eyes and rocks his hips forward.

When Geralt draws back, Jaskier surges forward and Geralt has to stop him. His lips are stained red, the tang of blood lingering, and he doubts Jaskier wants to taste it.

"But I want to kiss you," Jaskier whines and Geralt huffs a soft laugh as he lets the hand pressed to Jaskier's chest drift downward. When his fingers wrap around the jut of his cock, the kiss is forgotten.

Jaskier's hips jerk forward and Geralt fumbles between them, opening Jaskier's trousers and tugging his cock free. He strokes him slowly, paying special attention to the head, squeezing tight around it then brushing his fingertips along the underside.

Geralt spares only a moment to unbuttoning his own trousers and shifting so his cock fits against Jaskier's, sliding against him with the slightest movement. He gets one hand around them both, stroking slowly as they rock against each other, his hand source of friction more than anything else.

He wants to kiss him, wants to bite his lips and make him whine and if he didn't have Jaskier's blood in his mouth, he would. Instead, he buries his face in his neck, licks and sucks at the skin there as they grind against each other. It’s rough and dirty and uncoordinated and Jaskier would probably be horrified should anyone find out this is how he treats a lover, but Geralt couldn't ask for anything more.

Jaskier wants him at his worst - literally with a mouthful of blood - and Geralt loves him more for that than the rest of his lovers, past or present, combined. He holds Jaskier against him with his free arm, cinched around his waist and Jaskier's fingers dig into his scalp.

"Bite me," Jaskier says, breathless. It's not a question.

Geralt doesn't hesitate, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Jaskier's throat and the moan he gets in response is low and heady. Jaskier's hips jerk hard, nearly dislodging them both and then he's coming, spilling hot and wet between them and Geralt can't keep his eyes off him.

Jaskier's cock twitches with one final spurt and Geralt drops his own cock, wrapping around him to pull every last drop of pleasure from him. Jaskier's shaking before he's done, mumbling breathlessly into Geralt's skin and then he's pulling away, spreading out on his stomach between Geralt's legs.

He takes his cock without hesitation, wrapping his lips around him and swallowing him down as far as he can manage. The position is awkward, but Jaskier is talented and Geralt finds himself drawing close to the edge almost immediately. He rocks his hips lightly, thrusting shallowly between Jaskier's lips and he pushes a hand into his hair, guiding Jaskier's head as he takes control again.

When Geralt comes, he doubles over, nose nearly pressed into Jaskier's hair, and it feels so fucking good. He doesn't care that he's a mess, doesn't care that Jaskier is. That they're both covered in blood and come and whoever finds them will know exactly what happened. It doesn't matter because when Jaskier pulls off, letting Geralt's softening cock drop between his legs, he kisses him.

It's just a soft peck on the lips and Geralt couldn't fault him for it; he knows what he is and he knows how people usually react to blood. But it's a kiss, nonetheless. And he resolves to spend the entire winter at Kaer Morhen returning that kiss, again and again and again.

#geraskier #vampire #monster march #spicy #nsft #rex writes

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