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merlot-and-chardonnay · 2 months

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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 45

Masterlist

Chapter 44

--------Flotsam Tavern-------------

Aemond stormed into the tavern, anger in his eyes as he thoroughly searched the establishment for the target of his ire. He looked over at the patrons, who had looks of concern and some fear, sat there silently, hoping the prince's tirade would end.

"Where is he?" Aemond demands of the patrons, "where is the bard?"

"My prince!" Criston runs in.

Aemond pulls away, scanning the room, seeing if any of the patrons looked like they were hiding something. Seeing no signs of Jaskier or the dwarf he was hanging out with, Aemond clinched his fist, turning around so as to take a deep breath, trying to remain as calm as he could in this situation.

This is not how things were supposed to go, Aemond thinks. He was supposed to he the one to find Aemma, he was the one who was supposed to rescue her and bring her back home. She was supposed to come back with quietly and willingly.

In hindsight, Aemond should have known things were not quite going to go according to plan. For as long as he could remember, Aemma had a tendency to go and do her own thing, not giving much regard to the rules, even when those rules were there for her own safety.

At this point, Aemond blamed himself for that; he recalled that time he learned Aemma had snuck out of the Red Keep to go to the docks even though his mother had forbid her to do so. And when Alicent had saw fit to question Aemma about her activities, Aemond was the one to step and cover for her, allowing Aemma to skirt off without suffering the consequences.

Had Aemond been more vigilant, had he been more insistent that Aemma follow his mother's rules...had he actually told the truth to his mother, than maybe Aemma would've been more inclined to listen both to him and Alicent more. She could've grown more into a woman and an upstanding lady instead of running away and becoming as she is now with wearing boy clothing and carrying a sword on her back.

Maybe if he done all those things, she would've stayed in King's Landing, had never set foot on the Continent the first time around...if she had stayed, the two of them would've eventually married when Aemond came of age.

"My prince," Criston gets Aemond's attention, "we need to find a boat and follow that barge. If that elf bastard lays a hand on the princess again, her and Ser Ivan-" "she ran off with him," Aemond tells him. "What?" "....Aemma was not abducted this time, she ran off with that elf of her own volition," Aemond elaborates, recalling the way she swam onto the barge after jumping out of the burning building with Geralt and the elven women they rescued with Ivan. He saw how Aemma climbed on the boat, accepting Iorveth's hand when he pulled her and everyone else onto the barge as it set sail.

"I don't understand? Why would she go with the same people that meant to harm her?" Criston frowns a bit. Aemond knew why, "She's gone off to find her mother."

Before Criston could ask for more, Roche stormed into the tavern, shoving Criston aside and pushing Aemond against the wall, dagger in hand as he pressed it against Aemond. Criston was about to draw his sword, but was stopped by Ves, knife pressed against his own back.

"I should have known," Roche sneers, "I should have fucking known, the more your family got involved, it was going to go to shit. Now that whoreson Iorveth has escaped, and YOUR bloodkin had a hand in that. And since my shit spy of a bard is currently absent, someone has to pay."

"I had no idea my cousin had such plans," Aemond insists. "Horseshit!" "I swear on the Seven!" Aemond insists, "She never said a word! We were supposed to go back to Westeros, back to my mother the Queen, that was the plan. She never told me otherwise. Princess Aemma has always done things her own way, she was...she wasn't exactly the docile type, even when we were children. It has clearly gotten worse with the time she's spent away from home. It was clearly nurtured by outside forces, I didn't know how bad it had gotten."

Roche looked into Aemond's eye, trying to find any hint that the prince was lying, "If you need someone to take the blame for your prisoner's escape, than I will do so without protest." "Prince Aemond-" Criston tries to intervene, but Ves stopped him again. "I didn't know Aemma was planning the escape," Aemond continues, "but I do have an idea where they are going." "Where?" Roche demands, keeping the dagger in place. "A town called Vergen. I don't know why, but Aemma mentioned about wanting to go there. That is all I know."

"If you release the prince, we will do everything in our power to rectify this situation," Criston speaks, hoping it would placate Roche enough to sheathe his dagger. After some consideration, Roche steps away, sheathing his weapon, giving both knight and prince a stern, and rather dangerous look, "don't make me fucking regret this," he says in a low tone, "should I find out you have been lying about not knowing, let me make clear there will be hell to pay....all seven of them..."

---------------meanwhile--------------

"Laredo escaped," Geralt informs Iorveth as soon as he and Aemma and the elf women climbed aboard.

"He'll not live long," Iorveth assures, "If the local folk don't hunt him down, someone else will. Anyway, it's meaningless. You rescue our women, you and the princess and the in'heid as well. We are indebted" "No thanks to you," Aemma sneers, to which Iorveth ignores. The Scoia'tel commander was looking at the bigger picture in that moment, something he felt required sacrifice.

Ivan, however, was not about to let this go. As soon as he wrung out the excess water, he confronted Iorveth head on by shoving him back. "Ivan!" Aemma exclaims in shock. "Indeed was no thanks to you," Ivan sneers, "the women were screaming for help as everything burned around them, and you were prepared to let them do so!"

Iorveth only gave Ivan a slightly amused look before speaking in a serious tone, "I don't expect you to understand, boy, it is clear you have not communed with your elven brethren as much as you should. True, you have to hide your ears in order to pass as d'hoine, but I can see you never truly had faced hardships the way the full blooded Aen Siedhe had." To drive his point across, Iorveth reached for Ivan's headband and yanked it off, revealing his ears. Ivan shoved the elf back once again in response. "You don't know a fucking damn thing about me," Ivan glared, "Flotsam was my home, until my mother and I were forced to leave. We escaped to King's Landing, and we lived in near destitution for much of my childhood, and I was living on the streets after her death. So don't you dare say I had faced no hardships just because of my human blood. Maybe if you had stuck around, such things would not have happened! If you had stayed you would have known about my hardships!"

Iorveth only gave Ivan a confused look, having no idea what the half elf was implying.

"Ivan-" Aemma placed a hand on Ivan's shoulder, but the man pushed it away, turning to storm away to silently stew elsewhere on the barge.

Iorveth still had that confused look on his face. Aemma pondered if she should say anything, but thought against it; she may have told Ivan what Cedric told her, but she did not feel it was her place to disclose this information to Iorveth, not until Ivan was ready to say anything.

Still, the princess couldn't help but recall the memory she acquired from Iorveth months back when she was held captive by the Scoia'tel. The memory of him and this mystery woman, whom Aemma realized had to have been Ivan's mother. She recalled how very much in love the two of them looked when they shared that kiss. She wondered how they had met...and how they had parted ways presumably before Ivan was still in his mother's womb.

"We are going to Vergen still, yes?" she decides to ask, to which Iorveth nods. "Help us find Triss and the kingslayer, consider the debt repaid," Geralt adds in.

"Hold up!" Jaskier's voice catches the group's attention as he and Zoltan show up on deck. "Uncle," Aemma was the first to speak, "did you and Zoltan stowaway?" "Hardly call this stowing away, lass" Zoltan snorts in amusement, "given the current circumstances."

"You didn't think I was just going to let you leave, and leave me out of the action, now did ya?" Jaskier interjects, looking both at Aemma and Geralt, "how else am I supposed to find inspiration for my ballads. Also," he places a hand on Aemma's shoulder, "if you what you just told is true...I don't exactly want to miss out on that bit especially."

Geralt gave a confused look at Aemma, who only nodded at her uncle.

"Unfurl the mainsail!" Iorveth orders his men. The barge gained more speed up the river as soon as this was done. Aemma looked over to see the village slowly disappear from view. She wondered if Aemond and Criston would try and catch up with her...or if they would simply give up and leave her to her devices. She was not overly confident in the latter possibility, especially given Aemond had professed to her before she jumped into the burning building.

Aemond still cared about her, even after all these years. That's why he came to find her.

"Looks like we're going to make it," Geralt states, standing next to Aemma. "and this is only just the beginning," Iorveth quips in, standing next to Geralt, "you chose the right side and I'm pleased." "...wish I could be so sure," Geralt admits.

"So do I," Aemma quips with a sigh. "Are you thinking about your cousin?" Geralt asks, which Aemma nods. "I don't know if Aemond will forgive me for this," she admits, "this wouldn't be the first time I ran off somewhere without him. He didn't appreciate it last time I ran off to the Continent without him. He admonished me for it even. And here I have done it again." "Given how adamant he was to find you before, I think he might come around," Jaskier quips in with confidence, though Aemma still wasn't confident in that statement.

"If I may ask," Aemma turns to the elf, not quite fully certain she could trust him, "what does Saskia want with me? I realize you never answered that part of my question." "I am not so certain myself," Iorveth admits, "if I could venture a guess, perhaps she is in want of more allies." "She wants my family's dragons?" "Not likely," Iorveth shrugs, "Saskia earned her reputation from single-handedly slaying a dragon, I do not know why she would recruit dragons in her cause."

Aemma's eyes widen a bit; she knew Saskia was a warrior and one who meant to establish a free state for humans and non-humans alike, but she had no idea Saskia also had a reputation as a dragon slayer. Part of Aemma now had some concern if Saskia had any intentions to make an example of the Targaryen dragons, especially if her own had decided to fly back to her rider.

In that moment, Aemma felt her vision begin to distort slightly. She saw trees from the view of a flying bird- no, not a bird- a dragon. Aemma felt her vision move side to side to see the black and gold wings. "Cirillia?"

"What was that?" Iorveth's voice brings Aemma back to the present.

"Nothing," she tells him, "Iorveth...if you are the one to bring to this Saskia. When you introduce me to her, can...can you do so with this name?"

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

The voyage upriver to Vergen took about two days.

During this time, Aemma got to know Geralt, Jaskier, and Zoltan a little more. Though Geralt himself, could not remember much of his life from before, Jaskier was able to cover much of that ground.

Aemma, remembering her time at the docks of King's Landing, seeing that play, she had asked her uncle about that story. Jaskier, who had a look of disbelief upon hearing about the play (even though that was his song to begin with, the same song that brought both him and Geralt to stardom on the Continent), so he decided to tell Aemma the real story about what happened at the Edge of the World.

Aemma listened intently during those times, wanting to soak up more of what she could learn about her mother and the life she led before her time in Westeros.

And, much to Aemma's surprise, the princess found herself having bonding moments with some of the Scoia'tel as well. It is worth mentioning that right around the time the prison barge departed from port, right after successfully commandeering the barge and getting some distance from Flotsam, Iorveth found another Scoia'tel prisoner in the cells. His second in command, Cieran, his beaten and lifeless body laying in the middle of the cell. Iorveth had said nothing during this time, merely closing his comrade's eyes and holding him close, speaking final words to Cieran in his native language.

The Scoia'tel had a funeral of sorts for their fallen comrade, electing to bury his body in the river, bidding him farewell. Despite the sadness of it all, no tears had been shed during the service. Aemma had to wonder how many lives the Scoia'tel had lost over the years, decades, centuries even. How much have these people have had to harden themselves to the harshness of the world. She felt a certain level of empathy from all this; death was the one thing that did not discriminate, it came for all, no matter who they were or where they came from. She knew this better than most.

Aemma had to admit to herself, many of the Scoia'tel were actually pleasant to be around when they weren't busy holding her captive. Jaskier had admitted that the Scoia'tel did make him nervous, but they were definitely someone one would want on their side in times like this.

During the evening time, the elves would gather around, telling stories and regaling tales of their youths. The young ones would get a little restless, to which Jaskier resolved by playing jigs on his lute. Aemma would join in on the singing, finding she and Jaskier could create quite the duet (Jaskier did find himself tear up during those times, realizing how much of this reminded him of his sister).

Try and imagine Aemma and Jaskier singing this on the barge with the elves for just a moment:

youtube

Iorveth surprised Aemma even more when he would join in on the music by pulling out his flute and adding to the music.

Ivan kept to himself mostly, though some of the elves tried to engage in conversation with him. The half-elf kept his headband off during this time, though he felt somewhat naked without it. Ivan had kept his headband on for most of his life for fear of being singled out in King's Landing, but as far as he could see, he wasn't treated too differently here. The elves already could see his mixed heritage, it didn't make a difference right now if he wore that headpiece or not.

It did baffle him, also, the way he saw his supposed father join in on the music and merry making in the evening. The flute Iorveth possessed looked familiar; in Ivan's childhood in Flotsam, he recalled his mother having a similar instrument in her possession. The carvings looked similar too. That same flute, Ivan also remembered, was left behind during the first pogrom.

Eventually, after some convincing from the other elves, Ivan joined in on the merriment. He wasn't really much of a dancer, he never had to learn, but he picked up on certain steps real quick. It wasn't too different from his sword training.

After two days, the barge eventually made it close to Vergen.

Having inquired more of the situation during the voyage, Aemma learned Vergen was in the middle of building up its defenses in preparation for Kaedwen's invasion into Upper Aedirn and the Pontar Valley.

By the time they actually made it to the Dwarven town, a strange looking mist could be seen in the distance.

Walking past the town, Geralt, Jaskier, Aemma, Ivan, and Zoltan make their trek towards a groups of dwarves conversing with one another. One dwarf looked over their way upon hearing the sounds of the group's footsteps; said dwarf had a look of joy on his face the moment he made eye contact with Geralt.

"By the milk of Mother Creatrix's tits. Geralt of Rivia!" the dwarf greets, before eyeing Jaskier, "and in the best company to boot!" "Yarpin Zigrin!" Jaskier greets back, welcoming the dwarf with open arms. Yarpin then turned to Zoltan, giving him a hug as well. "It's been years, ye old prick," Zoltan greets, "it's great to see you in good health."

"Aye, same as yourself," Yarpin says before turning to see Aemma, "and who's the lass?" "Ah," Jaskier steps in, "Allow me. This is princess Aemma Targ-" "Silverlark!" Aemma interrupts, Jaskier giving her a confused look, "that's...that's how I want to be known as for the time being," she shrugs, "it's what the Cedric called me before he..." "..alright then," Jaskier nods before continuing, "this is Aemma Silverlark. The daughter of my late sister."

"Your sister? The Lady of Lark?!" Yarpin's eyes widen before taking another look at Aemma, and then laughing in response, "Ah, I see the resemblance. The Lady Lark herself was a real beauty. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, princess," Yarpin shakes Aemma's hand, "I was sadden to hear what became of your mother. She was a true jewel if there ever was one." "I appreciate the kind words, Yarpin Zigrin," Aemma nods.

Yarpin then turned to see Ivan standing near, "Ah, I remember you!" "From where exactly?" Jaskier questions. "Ran into him at the Seven Cats Inn in Novigrad," Yarpin explains, "Well, more like he ran into me. Lost me ale to that oaf. It's all in the past now. How are you faring lad?" "Quite well, thank you," Ivan nods, "It's good to see as well, master dwarf." "Call me Yarpin." "Ivan, then."

Yarpin turned back to Geralt, "Geralt- starin as if ya seen a ghost! Come muster a hug for an old friend." Geralt only gave a confused look in response. "Geralt's head isn't exactly on straight these days," Zoltan explains.

"Hah!" went Yarpin, "Meaning he truly did Foltest in then. Fine by me. Foltest was a ploughing bastard. You did right, Geralt." "Not the point," Jaskier explains, "Geralt has lost his memory." "And he wasn't the one who killed Foltest," Aemma adds, "it was another witcher that did the deed." "Right, right, what's the difference?" Yarpin shrugs, "Someone did. But we've bigger problems now."

Right on cue, Iorveth and the Scoia'tel come onto the scene. "Where's Saskia?" Iorveth demands. Yarpin makes his displeasure at the elf's arrival. "Aye, what's this butcher doing here?" "I've come with a hundred archers-the best in the world," Iorveth explains, "here to aid your cause." "Well you'll need to wait," Yarpin spits, "Saskia and Prince Stennis went off to parely with Henselt." "The king of Kaedwen?" Aemma asks. "Aye," Yarpin nods, "me and the boys are waiting. Case something goes wrong."

Once more, on cue, Geralt looks to the sky, seeing something was going wrong. "That can't be a good sign" Aemma notices. "The sun has gone dark," Yarpin exclaims, "Call the sorceress!"

"What does it mean?" Aemma asks, sense of panic setting in.

"Not sure," Geralt admits, though he knew something like this to happen was usually not seen as a good omen. "Come Geralt. Silverlark," Iorveth gestures for the two to follow.

The trio ran towards where the mist was concentrated, seeing several Kaedweni soldiers flee the scene. A woman with long gold hair and dressed in armor was left tending to a man who looked as if he had just fallen in battle. Iorveth, Geralt, and Aemma run over to help.

The moment was cut short when the sky darken some more and dark creatures materialized in the form of undead fallen soldiers. Aemma knew this had to be wraiths of some kind.

The wraiths attack, but Geralt and Aemma were able to drive them away with their silver swords, giving everyone else the chance to get away.

The group was silent as they made the escape back to Vergen, but Aemma had a feeling the woman that was part of this was the one who wanted to meet her in the first place. "Are you Saskia?" she asks. Before the woman could answer, a snowy white owl flew over their heads. Yarpin showed up to greet the group when they made past the Vergen gate, right at the moment the owl transformed into another woman.

"I hate flying through fog," the sorceress mutters before turning to the gold haired woman, "Saskia, are you alright?" "It's just a flesh wound," Saskia assures, "You and the witcher, we owe you our lives, Phillipa. And..." Saskia turns her gaze to Aemma, "this young woman as well." Phillipa looks to Aemma and then turns to Iorveth, "So it looks as if you had heeded my words after all." Iorveth turned away with a scoff, "welcome to our little club, princess Aemma Targaryen," Aemma addresses, "We've been hoping you would join our cause." "Thank you," Aemma nods, "but I would prefer to be called Aemma Silverlark for the time being." "Well then, Miss Silverlark," Phillipa says, "you are still welcome all the same. I am familiar with your family. I was there when your father's family was hosted by the king of Redania himself." "You...I don't recall my father or sister mentioning a court sorceress in their letters," Aemma admits. "I am rather surprised at this," Phillipa admits, "I found an admirer in your sisters. Princess Rhaena especially, we had many interesting conversations during meals."

Phillipa turns to Geralt, "And you, witcher?" "I'm after the kingslayer who kidnapped Triss Merigold," Geralt tells her. "And brought her here?" Phillipa asks surprised. "Is this an interrogation?"

"There are warrants on your head from Kaedwen, Temeria, and Redania," Phillipa points out, "and I'm responsible for Saskia's safety."

"That's enough, Phillipa," Saskia speaks up, "You told me yourself you thought him innocent."

"Saskia, the folk are riled up," Yarpin quips in, "firs the sun went out, then the Squirrels arrived, and now this fog...it's too much for the common folk." "True," Saskia agrees, "Summon all the commanders to the meeting hall. Iorveth, give me some time. I must prepare them for our arrival," she turns to Geralt and Phillipa, "you two must be there as well. I wish to here what we can expect from this anomaly and how we might be rid of it."

"And...what about me?" Aemma asks, a little scared to find out the answer. Saskia turns to the princess before answering, "follow me, Silverlark. I wish to talk to the princess alone for now."

"Saskia-" "Worry not, Yarpin," Saskia assures the dwarf, "the legendary White Wolf and the equally famous Phillipa Eilhart should have a remedy for several hundred rabid wraiths." Phillipa made eye contact with Geralt, seeming to agree to work with the witcher for the time being.

Saskia orders the town's alderman to shut the gates and then gestures for Aemma and Prince Stennis to follow. Stennis keeps a certain distance so Saskia could converse with Aemma.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Aemma Silverlark," Saskia tells her, "I only wish it were under different circumstances. I heard of you. A young woman of silver hair who was traversed the Continent in search of her mother, the Lady of Larks. Last I heard, however, your mother perished in the pogrom in Rivia six years ago." "I thought she had," Aemma discloses, "but it turns out that may not be the case." "Oh?" "It's kinda difficult to explain, but I know she survived and is still out there. I spoke to the elf Cedric. He told me in order to find my mother I had to come here to Vergen."

"...I see," Saskia nods.

"I have heard of you as well, Saskia," Aemma continues, "I heard you have been wanting to meet me. But as to why, that I do not understand. I heard you defeated a dragon in battle. I don't imagine you wish to use my dragon, or any of my family's dragons in battle, so why this desire to meet me of all people?"

"...I had asked to see you...with hopes of a proposition," Saskia admits, "I heard a story of a silver haired woman traversing the Continent with a silver sword sword strapped to her back, one who stood up against a band of men who were intent on causing harm to non-humans in the establishment for merely being."

"Oh," Aemma realized, "yes, I remember that, it was two years ago." "You put your life on the line for this less fortunate, even though you knew not who they were," Saskia continues, "when I learned who you really were, I knew I wished to have by side for when we secure the Pontar Valley for the non-humans." "Who I am," Aemma repeats, "you mean a Targaryen." "A daughter of the Lady of Larks," Saskia corrects, "she too had put her life on the line in similar situations, the last one costing her life. It seems her sense of goodness was passed onto you."

"But I still don't understand why it must be me," Aemma says, "I am only one person. You have the dwarves of Vergen, Iorveth and the Scoia'tel, you have a sorceress and a witcher now, I don't why you sought me out of all of them."

Saskia makes a small knowing smile in response, stopping when they came closer to the meeting hall where the commanders were waiting.

"I don't know how much Iorveth has told you, but we have plans for this place, for the Pontar Valley. It will need someone to govern once the new free state is established. A leader...and an heir to succeed them afterwards."

Aemma's eyes widen at her meaning, "An heir? You want....you want that heir to be me?" Saskia nodded in response, "I know this is a lot to take in, and it is all so sudden. Believe me, I wish we had more time. I will understand if you need a moment to consider this proposition. You can take the time during the meeting with the commanders if you must."

"Me...an heir," Aemma mutters to herself, "excuse me, Saskia."

Aemma turned and ran off past Saskia and Stennis back outside the hall. Aemma felt herself start to hyperventilate, so she took deep breaths to calm herself.

An heir. The heir to this new free state. Aemma couldn't believe what she was told. This really was all so sudden. Aemma never imagined herself as heir to anything. In Westeros, she was a princess of the realm. The closest she ever got to that position, as it turned out, was when she was betrothed to Aegon, when Alicent made it known that meant Aemma would be his queen consort. But when the betrothal was called off, Aemma made her peace. She knew quickly that her cousin Rhaenyra being made her father's heir, despite her gender, was the exception to the rule of Westeros, a society that valued sons over daughters. It did make her realize that despite being her father's oldest child, any titles or lands he ever would possess would be past to his male heirs, not her or her sisters. Hells, Baela and Rhaena were older than their cousin by several months, yet Lucerys was seen as heir to Driftmark.

The Seven Kingdoms were not like Dorne, where the firstborn inherited everything, regardless of their gender.

Now here Aemma, a woman, was given an opportunity to be an heir to something, anything. Yet, at the same time, it all felt so much, almost like a burden placed on her shoulders. She was nobody in this part of the world, nobody of importance anyway, and what did she truly know about ruling, she was never given the tools to learn such matters.

Surely this could not be what Cedric meant when he told Aemma her destiny awaited her in Vergen. There had to be more to this. But what if it was?

What if this how Aemma would finally find her mother? If she joined Saskia and her cause, then maybe she would somehow find the Wild Hunt, and in turn, rescue her mother from its king.

The consideration was bluntly interrupted the moment Aemma saw Jaskier run over to her in a state of panic. "Uncle? What is it? Has something happened?"

"Aemma, thanks the gods," Jaskier huffs out as he catches his breaths, "you are unharmed." "Why would I be harmed, uncle?" Aemma asks, confused.

"There is commotion in the hall right now as we speak," Jaskier explains, "Saskia has been poisoned. She's dying..."

Shocked, Aemma runs back to the hall, Jaskier following behind her.

Chapter 46

#hotd #the witcher #geralt of rivia #oc #jaskier #aemond targaryen #criston cole #vernon roche #iorveth #aemond x oc #saskia #phillipa eilhart #zoltan chivay #ves #Youtube

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valdomarx · 3 years

Text

“Geralt. My dearest friend. My closest companion. Light of my life, fire of my-”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“Seeing as how I’ve made you famous, and I flatter myself that this has eased you path somewhat, why, this very inn not only took us in but even offered us a discounted rate-”

“What do you want, Jaskier?” Testier this time.

“Ahh. Well. Let me put it plainly: I’m in need of a favour.”

Geralt raises one eyebrow, in an expression he knows speaks volumes.

“I need you to come with me to Lettenhove this winter and pose as my fiancé.”

Geralt nearly drops the sword he’s sharpening. A million thoughts whip through his mind, but one is most pressing: “Why, for Melitele’s sake?”

Jaskier waves a hand in a vague and non-descriptive gesture. “It’s a court thing, you know how families are, and my mother has made it abundantly clear that it’s time for me to settle down and this year I’m to return affianced or else she’ll select someone for me. And I can’t get hitched to some local lady, Geralt, I simply can’t, it’ll ruin my bardic appeal, not to mention my employment prospects, and of course I won’t be able to travel with you, and it’s-”

Geralt holds up a hand to ward off the wall of words. The idea of no longer travelling with Jaskier is unconscionable, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. And they spend so much time together they’re practically married anyway. How hard could it be to pretend for a few days?

“Fine,” he says gruffly.

“Oh, Geralt, you are wonderful.” Jaskier beams and throws his arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt growls, but secretly, it’s actually rather nice.

“Mother, this is Geralt, my fiancé.”

Cold, clear eyes look him up and down, assessing him, and pinch into an expression suggesting he has been found wanting. Geralt decides against opening his mouth and further cementing that opinion.

“A witcher.” Her voice has the familiar twang of Jaskier’s, but with the flat, expressionless cadence he associates with the higher echelons of the aristocracy.

“A witcher!” Jaskier confirms in a cheery tone. “Isn’t that exciting?”

She sniffs in a manner which makes it clear that exciting would not be her first choice of word. “I see. He will be joining us for this year’s Yuletide?”

“He will.”

Her face draws back into the impassive mask of the well-bred. “Very well. You will stay in the east wing.”

“Thank you, mother.” Jaskier executes a stiff bow which Geralt copies and they beat a hasty retreat.

“That went rather well!”

Geralt blinks. “Jaskier, I’m fairly sure your mother means to have me killed in my sleep.”

“Oh, don’t mind her. She’s always like that. She’s actually softened up a lot since dear old dad died, gods rest the grumpy bastard.”

Geralt struggles to imagine how such staid, cold people could possibly have produced a son as bright and warm as Jaskier. They might as well be a different species.

Jaskier pushes open a door to a grand suite, all plush velvets and gold ornamentation, a thick woven rug underfoot. It’s the most opulent room Geralt has ever seen, but Jaskier pays it no mind and throws his bag casually on the bed.

“We’ll have to stay here together,” he says apologetically, not looking Geralt in the eye. “But the bed is plenty big, or I can sleep on the sofa if you’d rather -”

Geralt is still taking it all in: The space, the furnishings, the frankly enormous bed which looks divinely comfortable. And there, through the next room, that looks like-

“Is that a copper bathtub?” he asks, eyes wide. Such luxuries were a rarity indeed.

Jaskier grinned. “It is. Let me get some food sent up and I’ll wash your hair?”

Geralt grumbles, just for the effect, and decides that putting up with tedious aristocracy might have its benefits after all.

Yule festivities in Lettenhove are, mercifully, a mere matter of days. First there is the fitting for formal attire, which Geralt scowls through but Jaskier promises will be made up for with plenty of good food and wine. Then there are several deeply tedious aristocratic parties, which Jaskier sails through and Geralt spends mostly hiding in dark corners, as is his wont.

Occasionally, Jaskier will grab him by the hand and introduce him as, “Geralt, my husband-to-be,” and something funny will flip over in his stomach which will require several drinks to settle. When he returns to his dark corner he’ll find his heart pumping a little faster as his eyes track Jaskier flitting around the room. It’s probably just indigestion from all the rich food.

Then there is the formal family Yuletide dinner, a spectacularly awkward and singly unpleasant evening spent around a long, cold table with Jaskier’s mother and various cousins, who regard Geralt with expressions ranging from bland disinterest to active hostility. The food is heavy beyond measure and the conversation cruel and bland by turns.

They cover the need for raising taxes, the many failings of the servant class, and the petty squabbles over jewels and titles that seems to be the bread and butter of these people. With each hateful line, Geralt feels his blood rising. If it weren’t for Jaskier making pleading eyes at him, he’d take great pleasure in explaining some hard truths to them.

When a cousin begins expounding on useless lazy peasants in the estate, complaining that they can’t work because of plague, but we all know they’re simply idle, Geralt grits his teeth so hard that he swears the sound must be audible.

Beneath the table, Jaskier takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Staring down at their joined hands, Geralt detaches from these awful people and their awful conversation and focuses on the simple warmth of Jaskier’s fingers intertwined with his own.

They make their escape from dinner as soon as can be considered polite, and Geralt takes a second to lean against the door to their room, breathing deeply.

“You did well not to throttle anyone,” Jaskier says with a reassuring smile. “If we’d had to listen to cousin Edrick for a minute longer, I might have launched over the table with a carving knife myself.”

Geralt reaches for him without thinking, and once again Jaskier’s hand slips into his own. It’s grounding, to feel something genuine in this place surrounded by artifice.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Geralt doesn’t even ask where they’re going before nodding.

They sneak away from the estate out of the servants’ door and follow a winding path toward a cluster of lights in the valley below. The path into Lettenhove town is quiet and calm, and as they walk the snow begins to fall in soft flurries, covering the ground in a peaceful white blanket.

The town looks picture perfect when they arrive, a charming jumble of thatched cottages and a small, cosy inn from which bright light spills out into the snowy night. When they enter the barmaid runs over to hug Jaskier and the proprietor slaps him on the back, and Jaskier has a kind word and a waved greeting for every person in there.

Geralt feels something unwind in his chest, something he hadn’t realised was tight and twisted until now. Seeing Jaskier in his element, among people who love him for who he is, instead of among that cold, hateful family, he feels right in a way he hasn’t for days.

Jaskier is already buying drinks and passing them around, and he excitedly waves Geralt over. “Bree, Geoffrey,” he addresses the couple behind the bar, “This is Geralt.” A shy smile sneaks over his face. “My fiancé.” The couple gasp in delight and congratulate Jaskier, then they’re embracing Geralt like old friends and pushing a drink into his hands.

“Come on, Geralt, join us!” Bree smiles warmly. “It’ll be the ten o’clock bells soon, and we must have Jaskier lead us in a song.”

The evening is a whirl of music and dance and loud, terrible singing, which the entire town seems to join in. For once there is no corner for Geralt to hide in, so he stays by Jaskier’s side, basking in the reflected glow of these people’s clear adoration of his bard.

When the midnight bell chimes and Geoffrey turns them all out for the night, the revelers wend their way home still singing and drinking. As the place empties out, Jaskier slides over to Bree to press a kiss to her cheek and a bulging purse into her hand. She tries to wave him off but Jaskier tucks the money behind the counter all the same, and Geralt watches, a deep wave of fondness sweeping through him.

The snow is still falling when they step out into the now-quiet street, soft, fat flakes drifting lazily from the sky and sticking in Jaskier’s hair. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair falls in an messy sweep over his eyes; without thinking Geralt reaches out to brush it away behind his ear. Jaskier’s blush deepens as he does so, but he shivers in the cold.

“Here.” Geralt unclasps the thick cloak from around his neck and sweeps it over Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier’s mouth forms a little o of surprise and he looks up at Geralt, something tender in his eyes.

Geralt’s gaze is caught by the snow flakes settling on Jaskier’s lashes; he’s so focused that he almost jumps when Jaskier reaches out to take his hand. The sky seems to glow with a soft orange light as the clouds reflect the last few fires in the town below; everything is warm with Jaskier’s hand in his despite the chill in the air.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says softly. “For being here with me.” And leaning in, his breath caressing over Geralt’s face, he touches his lips to Geralt’s cheek in a ghost of a kiss.

Suddenly it occurs to Geralt that this will be it, tomorrow they’ll head back on the path like none of this ever happened, no more holding hands or being close, no more being introduced as Jaskier’s betrothed. And despite the hellish parts of this experience he really doesn’t want it to end. He likes being Jaskier’s person, and he likes Jaskier being his.

They are still standing close together, mere inches between them, and it’s no effort at all to lean in, slowly, cautiously, to find Jaskier’s lips with his own, to place a tentative kiss there. And then Jaskier’s hands are fisting in his shirt and tugging him closer still, and his arms go around his waist and Jaskier is kissing him back like he’s been waiting for it, their mouths slotting together like they were made to fit each other, and everything is blazingly bright like the white of the snow.

When they pull apart they stay with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, and Geralt can see a smile cracking wide over Jaskier’s face.

“I like being engaged to you,” Geralt says quietly, unable to keep it in.

Jaskier’s smile widens even further. “I like being engaged to you too,” he says. He kisses him again. “Fiancé.” Another kiss. “Husband to be.” And another. “Partner.” One more. “Beloved.”

“I like the sound of those.” He suspects he may be wearing the same dopey grin as Jaskier is.

“Then let’s make it official.” Jaskier bites his lip. “Marry me?”

Jaskier is a picture of perfection, eyes gleaming and cheeks ruddy, snowflakes in his hair. Geralt’s heart has always been right here.

“I’d be honoured.” He considers for a second. “But not in Lettenhove.”

Jaskier’s laugh sparkles with joy. “Anywhere but here.”

#PLEASE ENJOY THIS HOLIDAY ROMCOM NONSENSE #i am feeling festive and also sappy #geraskier #the witcher #my writing

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innocentbi-stander · 3 years

Note

i'm sorry, but imagine this: Elsa Jaskier

yes, yes, yes yessssss

We all know I’m a slut for powerful jaskier content, but jaskier with ice powers?! sign me the fuck up

excuse me while I drop a few headcanons for this

jaskier was born with ice powers, his parents first noticed when he was a toddler and made it snow above his crib

elemental powers was a gift jaskier’s mother’s family had been blessed with by the fae decades ago, and often skipped several generations (although all members were disturbingly long lived)

his parents loved him, but feared for his safety if anyone were to find out that the viscount’s son had special abilities he would be killed (thanks to all of the ridiculous anti non-human royal fanatics out there)

they also struggled with how to teach jaskier how to control his powers, nobody in his family had been born with ice elemental powers in generations, it was an exceedingly rare ability

and so in order to protect jaskier, they often kept him away from others, cooped up in his room and only in the company of his parents, tutors, and nannies

as he grew, so did his powers, and jaskier’s parents became even more desperate to control his abilities

they sought out the assistance of a witch, who provided them with a powerful glamour that would help tamper jaskier’s abilities while wearing the amulet it was tied to

but this was only a small solution, because while the glamour restricted jaskier’s powers, he still could not control them very well

his parents set off to Skellige, searching for help from a tribe of people there rumored to have similar powers

but their ship went down at sea, and both of jaskier’s parents perished

jaskier didn’t know what else to do, but he knew that he could remain in his home no longer, not without his parents

and so jaskier ran away to oxenfurt, leaving the estate in his cousin’s capable hands

at oxenfurt jaskier found a second home, but he spent every day hiding himself away

his powers were often ruled by his own emotions, and bouts of extreme anger and frustration were key to setting them off

and so in fear jaskier kept his amulet glamour on at all times, but he could feel his power rebelling at being pushed down and trapped within himself

it was all jaskier could do to ignore it

and then he set off from oxenfurt and met geralt, and spent the next twenty years traipsing after a man who thought he was nothing more than an ordinary human, and jaskier couldn’t bring himself to tell the man he loved more than anything else in the world that he was wrong

the years went by, and the storm of jaskier’s powers grew, and the bard did what he did best: ignored it

and then there was yennefer, and the mountain, and jaskier thought he’d spend the rest of his life picking up the pieces of his broken heart, frozen as it was

but then there geralt was, standing in front of him in the middle of nowhere, months after the mountain, a witch and a princess lingering a few feet behind him and.... apologizing?

jaskier didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, and so he settled with kicking geralt in the balls and then kissing the living daylights out of him

and geralt kissed back

a few weeks of life on the run from nilfgaard later and jaskier is sure it’s all about to be over

nilfgaard had finally caught up to them just shy of the Blue Mountains, so fucking close to freedom, and they were losing

there were too many soldiers

too many for geralt to fight, and yen with her depleted magic could only do so much

jaskier stood in front of ciri, dagger clutched in hand and ready to fight to the bloody end to protect her, when his fingers brushed the amulet ever present at his throat

oh fuck

maybe they weren’t screwed over after all

the storm inside of jaskier rolled, as if sensing its impending freedom

he could do it. if jaskier could, at the very least distract nilfgaard, it would be enough for the others to get away, retreat to kaer morhen

jaskier knew what he had to do

as if destiny herself was lining up, at that very moment both geralt and yennefer backed up to jaskier’s sides, no doubt preparing for a final stand

“Get behind me” Jaskier said, catching geralt’s confused gaze

“what?” the witcher asked, his eyebrows narrowing as if he couldn’t begin to comprehend his bard’s stupidity

yennefer’s eyes lowered to where jaskier’s hand clutched his amulet in a death grip, and understanding filled her face

“Do as he says geralt” the witch shouted over the clanking of incoming soldiers, surrounding them

geralt looked at them as if they were out of their minds. maybe they were.

jaskier reached up and let one hand cup his witcher’s face, meeting his golden gaze with determination

“Please, geralt.Trust me” Jaskier could feel geralt’s resolve weakening at yennefer’s lack of hesitation. He took a step back.

“What are you going to do jaskier?” The bard payed him no mind, turning to face the hoard of black soldiers. Over his shoulder he called,

“If something happens, run to kaer morhen. don’t look back, don’t worry about me. save ciri”

He could hear geralt’s growl even from several yards away

“Jaskier, what-”

jaskier tuned him out, grasping the amulet in his hand. his fingers trembled, and the storm roared, a battle cry. he took a deep breath, and ripped the amulet from his neck. As the chain broke, the storm inside jaskier rushed up, racing through his body and electrifying his veins. He had never felt his power like this before. His powers were that of ice but in this moment jaskier’s soul felt like it was on fire.

he took a deep breath, and let go.

Part 2 anyone?

#jaskier #geraskier #geralt #the witcher #bamf jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher jaskier #witcher geralt #witcher jaskier #immortal jaskier #the witcher yennefer #the witcher ciri #powerful jaskier #non human jaskier #feral jaskier #Elsa jaskier #or at least Elsa powers #competent jaskier #secret powers jaskier

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Note

a prompt for you: geralt and jask enjoying a little chocolate treat at the shops.

Okay this got waaaay out of hand. Even so, hope you enjoy! It also may have gotten a bit horny lol. No beta because it's late.

A Simple Taste

wc - 2361

Jaskier takes Geralt along to help plan the coming out party his parents are forcing him to have. Geralt enjoys the chocolate samples they try. Perhaps a little too much. Jaskier doesn't seem to mind.

"X that one,” Jaskier said. “She’s horrible at parties, always getting sloshed and making a scene on the dance floor. This is meant to be a dignified affair.”

“Sir Branwhich?” Geralt asked.

“Strike him. I may have gotten a touch handsy with him during the winter revelry. He truly did have something in his eye, as it happened. Completely misread his winking. I think it best I stay as far away from him as possible for the next year or so.” He shuddered, reaching for one of the chocolates in the box between them.

Geralt made two marks and tapped the end of his quill on the edge of the paper as he considered the quickly disqualified list of names. “We’re running out,” he warned. “Soon enough, there won’t be anyone left but cousins and obscure aunts.”

Jaskier shuddered in disgust. “The more distant the relation, the more comfortable they feel letting their hands travel low. No aunts, I beg of you. Aunt Cecily—terror of a woman—let me see, she must have been thrice removed at least. She pinched me once in broad daylight during the Calla Lily High Tea. Actually, put her under No Admittance. I want posters made of her face. I couldn’t bear to have her on the scene."

He scrunched his nose up, putting down his half-eaten bonbon. “Ugh. Much too bitter. Honestly, what do they put in these things? It almost reminds me of your mugwort tincture.” He snatched up the list and quill, working down the list with terrifying speed. “X, X, and cross this one off as well. No. No, no, and no. Certainly not! Cross, strike—scratch you out—rejected! Declined! Dismissed!”

“You can’t refuse every name on the list,” Geralt sighed.

“I can. It’s my party.”

Geralt plucked the quill from Jaskier’s hand and pointed the end at him. “It’s your parents’ party,” he corrected. “You’re merely the horse on auction.”

“At the very least, I have a say in who rides me at the end of the night.” At the look on Geralt’s face, Jaskier flushed. “Not like that; you know what I mean. Whoever I choose to open the dance with will be set apart. There’s an expectation. It could very well lead to a courtship.”

Once more, Jaskier shuddered. He dropped the paper upon the table and bundled his head in his arms. “Fuck me,” he mumbled. “Why couldn’t I have been born a baron?”

“Even a baron would have a coming out party,” Geralt said.

Jaskier glared at him over the paper. “One. This is the forth party in which I’ve had to take part. There are only so many times a man can come out before he wants to go the fuck back in.”

Geralt chuckled and pinched a chocolate from the box. “At least it comes with perks.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier sighed. He brooded over the assortment of samples that lay before them. There were a variety of sweets, all chocolate, arranged on a tray in little boxes for them to test. Confections for the party.

“And all of them bitter and mealy. I hate chocolate,” Jaskier complained.

They were rich and very smooth, Geralt thought. He happily indulged in another, trying to eat them slowly, sparingly. It was a rare treat for a witcher.

“I’m getting too old to take this choice lightly. My parents are becoming impatient. When you’re young, the first dance is not such a serious choice, but now I’m of a ‘marrying age’—so they tell me—and with that comes the expectation to meet someone and settle down.”

As Jaskier continued his spiral of despair, Geralt continued to eat. Really, that was the reason he’d come along in the first place. Jaskier didn’t need help planning or crossing off names; he simply needed an ear to bend awhile. And with that came the promise of food. A veritable banquet, as his parents had booked sampling sessions throughout the city. Fine dining, and the finest whining. At least it came with the better wine.

Geralt picked next a chocolate with a red powder on top. Inside, it was bursting with a tart glazed cherry. The filling dripped over his fingers in bright red drops and he knew he ought to have had it all in one bite, as Jaskier recommended from the first. But he’d tried to take eat chocolate in two bites at least to prolong the experience. He took his second bite and licked the mess from his fingers.

“This box,” Geralt said, tapping the arrangement. “Best so far. If you’ve finished with the opening list, we might go over the rest of the venue. If you don’t choose a performer, they’ll only recruit Marx to play.”

Geralt had expected another burst of outraged rambling at the utterance of that hated name. He had a laugh waiting for when Jaskier leapt from his chair, raging indignities of the most barbaric and original nature. But Jaskier was silent, just as if he’d not heard the word, and Geralt knew he could hear Valdo’s name breathed in a whisper across a full and chatty ballroom.

“Jaskier?” he said.

Jaskier was staring at his hand. He blinked as if waking. “What?” he asked.

“Marx?”

Jaskier shook himself upright in his chair. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The band. Well, erm, I’ll see if I can get Priscilla to scout someone for me. She knows everyone who plays this side of Lyria.”

Had something happened between them lately? Geralt scrutinized Jaskier. He was oddly flushed, and he busied himself shuffling papers around, his head ducked low. Jaskier was avoiding the subject, hurrying onto the next available thing in reach.

“So … chocolates,” Geralt volunteered.

“Oh, I, uh, leave that to you then. The fruit box was it? Or you tell me—I haven’t been paying it much mind. How many did we have left again?”

Geralt nodded. “Finished the fruit now. Nuts last.”

“Go on then. Let’s wrap this up and get to our next appointment,” Jaskier said. “Lots to do today to prepare. You’ll need that witcher stamina of yours to keep up. Nobody plans like a Pankratz, and we can sweep a city in a day!”

Geralt was glad the weather was cool. They’d truly swept through the whole of the city, and twice they’d had to circle back to a section they’d been in before for a new appointment. There seemed to be someone waiting for them on every street: the pâtisserie, the tailor, the milliner … They’d returned to Jaskier’s apartment with their arms loaded with boxes of all shapes and sizes.

Jaskier collapsed on his bed with a pained groan, dumping an armful of colorful boxes tied up with ribbons upon the floor. “I hate shopping,” he said.

“You love shopping, you hedonist,” Geralt replied.

“Not this kind. This is organized. This is obligatory. I love to flit around and see what catches my fancy; I hate having to rush to and fro while people are expecting me in all corners of the city. This is work, Geralt, and it’s exhausting.”

Geralt settled on the other end of the large bed, boots hanging over the side and back against the footboard. He picked a small box from the top of his stack and removed the lid, fiddling with the chocolates inside. It was cool enough that they’d not melted as the two of them had gone about their business in the city, and he was satisfied to find them whole and well. He had only to worry about the heat of his own hands. Witchers ran hot, and each treat left him with brown fingers.

He hummed, enjoying a chocolate filled with a sort of orange marmalade. There had been plenty of orange dishes on the menu that day. They were in season, and they grew well in the east. Geralt had been particularly fond of the roasted chicken they’d tried, cooked with an orange glaze and rosemary. He almost felt guilty with how much he was enjoying the preparations which tormented Jaskier so. Despite Jaskier’s misery, Geralt was looking forward to attending the party, if only for the food. He licked the chocolate from his fingers with a smile.

When he looked up, he saw that Jaskier was staring at him once more.

Jaskier twitched, meeting his eye. He then flapped a hand to his chest in mock disapproval. “What a pig you are. Here I am, suffering under the strain of expectation, and you’re drowning yourself in sweets. I’m the one who should be eating my feelings!”

“You don’t like chocolate,” Geralt replied. He dug through the box to reach what smelled like a raspberry filling at the bottom.

“Perhaps I had the worst samples. You seem to be getting along fine with those. Here, let me see what they’ve packed us.”

As Jaskier reached forward, Geralt crowded back against the footboard, clutching the box protectively. “Packed me,” he corrected. “You were going to throw them away.” In fact, he was willing to bet Jaskier would spit out whichever one he meant to steal as soon as he had a taste. Jaskier had spat three chocolates at the appointment before forfeiting the decision to him.

“I paid for them. And I never got to try the fruit ones. Come let me try one, Geralt.”

“You’ll waste it.”

Jaskier reached for the box and Geralt tucked it behind his back. When Jaskier tried to get around him on one side, he took hold of his wrist. While Geralt had been distracted with his first hand, Jaskier had managed to sneak one chocolate from round the other side and he held it up with a triumphant cry, only for Geralt to grab that wrist as well, yanking his hand back down. They tugged back and forth a moment, fighting for the box or the truffle. If Geralt let go of the truffle hand, Jaskier would have it in his mouth like a shot, but if he let go of the hand reaching for the box, Jaskier would grab it and dash out of reach. He had a choice to make.

Geralt drove forward and clamped his mouth around Jaskier’s fingers.

Oh, Geralt was surprised to discover. He’d taken the raspberry. Geralt pulled away, chewing his chocolate carefully. In one bite, it was gone too soon. He frowned, wishing he’d taken his time. Then, he looked at Jaskier’s fingers. They were coated with chocolate, a bit of red filling on the tip where the chocolate had been crushed between them. He looked at them, feeling a strange heat creep up his neck, then he heard the thrumming of Jaskier’s heart in his ears.

Jaskier’s breath hitched. He was sitting perfectly still, no longer trying to break away or snatch the box of chocolates. When Geralt looked him in the eye, he saw Jaskier looking back with rapt attention. Jaskier’s fingers flexed unconsciously, rubbing the mess between them.

Geralt hesitated, still gripping Jaskier’s wrists. He licked his lips, looking back at those fingers as the raspberry filling began to drip down. Free of his own volition, a strange whine escaped his lips and he leaned forward again, licking at Jaskier’s fingers before the drop could fall.

Jaskier gasped and braced himself, a hand beside Geralt’s hip. Geralt released his hold and brought his hand up to Jaskier’s arm, twisting it around to lathe his tongue between Jaskier’s fingers. He closed his eyes, suckling the tip as he chased the last remains of the chocolate. A warm hand touched his thigh and Jaskier crawled forward to rescue the chocolate box from falling over.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier groaned.

Geralt paused, pulling slightly away. Shit. That wasn’t what … he didn’t mean to …

Jaskier pushed his fingers back into Geralt’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He leaned in, placing a kiss to the other corner. “You make it look so good,” he said. “Make me want to try it. Fuck, can I, Geralt? Can I taste?”

Geralt took Jaskier’s face between his hands and crushed their lips together. Jaskier’s tongue slipped inside, prodding, exploring. Geralt whined again as Jaskier shifted, pulling at Geralt’s legs. Geralt raised his legs and wrapped them around Jaskier’s hips, his arms coming down to wrap around his shoulders as he clung tightly. Jaskier pushed him against the headboard, licking into his mouth with a slow reverence.

When Jaskier finally pulled away, his eyes were dark, his lips shining and red. He grinned at Geralt and produced the chocolate box, tucking it in his hands. He pushed his free hand to Geralt’s chest, easing him back when he tried to chase his mouth again. Instead of indulging him in another kiss, Jaskier plucked a chocolate from the box and pressed it to his lips.

“I think,” Jaskier crooned, “that the party would be that much more tolerable if we rearranged the seating. We could throw out your chair. You could sit just like this, in my lap all night. And one piece at a time, I could feed you chocolates from my plate.”

Geralt took the chocolate, kissing the tips of Jaskier’s fingers. “Not all night,” he said, catching his breath. “You’ll have to open the dance.”

“Should I invite Sir Branwhich after all?” Jaskier teased.

Geralt growled, his grip crushing the box. “No.”

With a chuckle, Jaskier took the last chocolate from the box and dangled it between them. “Then I suppose I ought to open the dance with you,” he said.

“And … the expectations?”

“My love, when have I ever done what’s expected of me?” Jaskier stroked Geralt’s bottom lip with his thumb, pressing the chocolate between his teeth. He kissed him once more, and when he pulled away, he had a sweet brown smudge on his lip. “But if they expect me to go home with my partner … well, I suppose I could stand to meet expectations once in my life. If he wants me.”

“Fuck me—I do,” Geralt groaned.

Jaskier laughed. “Looks like the horse will be doing the riding,” he concluded.

#asks #my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Text

Meet The Parents

Over on The Bog on Discord, there is a cursed Shrek channel. The idea for this fic was encouraged there and, well, 1.5k later, I have so many regrets, this is definitely what I'd call a shrekcident. All I can say is that writing Shrek and Fiona is really really difficult!

@dapandapod, @thecomfortofoldstorries and @fontegagrilledcheese I think you all asked to be tagged when this is up?

Meet The Parents

There had been several letters from back home, suggesting Jaskier return and brings his lovely travelling companion. It was, without a doubt, Jaskier’s mother writing the letters, she had always had a better grasp on courtly things than his father. Truth be told, it was no secret that the Count of Lettenhove absolutely hated ruling and would much rather spend his time out and about. There were several swamps in Lettenhove that he claimed needed his very dedicated attention. The fact Jaskier’s mother went along with him was no surprise. Despite her upbringing, she was quite fond of a swamp or two too.

“It’s another letter,” Jaskier sighed, flicking it into the fire in the inn. “I don’t understand why they are so insistent on me bringing you home. I mean, they’ve never been interested in previous love interests before. Probably because they’ve all held titles and had standards.” Geralt grunted, eyes fixed on the small alchemy set up he had going on the table. It didn’t deter Jaskier as he carried on. “Mother thinks you and father might get on well once you get past the initial shock of meeting.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being over the moon to meet a Witcher. Especially not one that their darling son is fucking.”

“Well, quite. Father had a couple of run ins with Witchers in his youth. Not all of them were pleasant. But I’m sure you can change his mind.” Jaskier hummed to himself as he thought. “Plus Mother was a cursed princess so you might find some common ground with her. And did I mention my uncle? I spent a lot of time with him growing up, he was really patient, letting me learn to walk by clinging to him. Anyway, he and his dragon-”

“Dragon?” Naturally Geralt perked up at that. “You should have started with that. We’re going to Lettenhove.”

Naturally Geralt had assumed the worst. As if anyone related to Jaskier would be able to keep a dragon against her will. His family was just too nice! But Geralt would learn that fact for himself in a few short weeks when they arrived at Jaskier’s ancestral castle. It was a castle, not a mansion, well kept, if a little more shabby than most. There were overgrown bushes around it and Geralt could have sworn the small of a sulphuric swamp drifted on the winds. They marched up the stairs, everything eerily quiet until the door burst open to reveal two menacing figures.

“Ogres!” Geralt shoved Jaskier behind himself, a snarl on his lips and ready to fight. “I believe this is the Count and Countess of Lettenhove’ residence. What are you doing here?”

“Witcher!” The male ogre spat. “Nothing good has ever come of your kind. You’re not making us move.”

From behind Geralt, Jaskier sprang forwards. “Mother! Father!” He embraced the ogres before being almost bowled over by a donkey. “Uncle!”

“You call this a greeting? This is how you say hello to your favourite uncle? What have I got to do before I get a hug from my favourite nephew?” The donkey looked to the side where the ogres were still staring and turned to see what the issue was. “That’s a Witcher. Oh, that’s your Witcher! That’s a nice Witcher.”

That seemed to pull Jaskier back into the moment and he stood up, clearing his throat. “Right, Mother, Father, Uncle, this is Geralt of Rivia. Geralt, my family.”

Vesemir would be so ashamed if he ever found out how Geralt reacted. All the years spent drilling manners into Geralt’s head were for naught.

“How?!”

“Well,” the donkey said into the stunned silence, “when one ogre loves another ogre and they’re into experimenting with potions-”

“Donkey!” Jaskier’s parents cried in unison before his mother continued. “Please excuse Donkey. I’m Fiona, this is Shrek. And to answer your question, ogres and humans had different anatomy. We got curious, had potions to change temporarily and, well, Jaskier happened during those three days.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to hiss, “Mother! Please don’t tell Geralt about your kinky sex lives.”

“Yes, Eskel told me about ogre anatomy and the differences in rather too much detail,” Geralt grumbled.

“Eskel fucked an ogre?”

“It was an orgy actually - though he insisted on calling it an ogre-y. Said he couldn’t get the mud from the swamp out of certain places for over a week.”

As far as first impressions went, Geralt didn’t think he could have done any worse. But he was being ushered in all the same, Donkey already chattering away about the inane things that had happened since Jaskier last visited. It left Geralt in the rather silent company of Shrek while Fiona led the way.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Shrek gritted out and Geralt hummed in acknowledgement which garnered a grunt in reply.

“Oh my word, you’re marrying your father,” Donkey cried at Jaskier, head snapping to look between Shrek’s retreating back and Geralt standing in the hallway as Fiona opened a door.

“Don’t mind him-” Whatever else she was saying went over Geralt’s head because he caught up with Donkey’s words. Just what was that about marrying?!

They stepped into the room and Jaskier let out a wail of anguish. “Mother! Two beds, really?”

“Just be glad Shrek let you even share a room. But I couldn’t talk him out of having Mirror on the wall.”

“Hello,” the enchanted mirror called. “Please don’t rearrange the room or do anything untoward, I really rather wouldn’t see those kinds of things.”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths. This was fine, he could do this, there was a dragon somewhere around and he was duty bound to make sure she was free. He regretted such a decision by the evening. There was indeed a dragon who lived at the castle but she refused to take a human form, far too happy and, of all things, in love with Donkey, enough to have a clutch with him Dragon-Donkey babies were terrifying, Geralt had ascertained, menaces, taking their temperament from their father while their mother gifted them with wings and the ability to breathe fire. Suddenly, Geralt understood why there were never any contracts in the area. The locals befriended every creature, monster and anything in between. And any they couldn’t? Well, ogres and dragons could easily keep things in check.

Once the shock of it all had worn off, Geralt could actually focus on eating. Other than Jaskier, there seemed to be no one who cared for things like utensils.

“Please, Mother, Father, at least try to have some manners?” Jaskier looked pleadingly at his parents. His only response was Fiona letting out quite the impressive belch before high fiving Shrek.

The sound of small, pattering feet caught Geralt’s attention. He looked at Shrek and Fiona before trying to find the source of the sound. This seemed like the kind of company that would appreciate his party trick with a fork. A hand around his wrist stopped him.

“Not the Three Blind Mice. They’re friends.”

Almost disappointed, Geralt settled back to finish his surprisingly hearty meal. It wasn’t the usual fair of courts, this was more about being filling and warm rather than showing off all the money that went into making tiny portions full of expensive spices. However, it certainly helped set Geralt at ease.

“So, when’s the wedding?” The small amount of peace was shattered by Shrek asking around a mouthful. It had Jaskier shrieking while the rest of his family watched him, frozen in place but not exactly surprised. More like they were patiently waiting for him to be done. Shrek shrugged. “I thought you were bringing your Witcher home to get married. Isn’t that how it usually goes in fairytales?”

“That’s only princes and princesses,” Donkey cut in. “You have a viscount. They don’t have to get married. Unless…?”

“I’m not proposing,” Geralt blurted out. There was a collective groaning sigh from the table, some of it relief, some of it disappointment and Geralt didn’t know just how offended he should be. He didn’t expect Jaskier to loudly but delicately put his cutlery onto his plate to make in clink pointedly.

“Good. Because I wanted to be the one to propose. On my own terms. In my own time. Mother, do you still have the ring? I think I will take it with us. Might eventually use it.”

Donkey gasped. “Not the One Ring?”

“No!” Jaskier sounded exasperated. “We all know what happened to cousin Gollum with that one. I don’t have any wishes to lose my hair because of that. I meant Grandmother’s ring. I doubt Grandfather’s would be very useful.” He turned to Geralt. “Grandfather was turned into a frog. His ring is rather tiny as a result.”

Of course Jaskier had ogres for parents and a frog for a grandfather. He still took after his uncle the most by the sounds of things. Given how Donkey hadn’t stopped making noises, whether it was humming or popping his lips, it was incessant. Geralt felt he now understood Jaskier a whole lot better. And, when the time came, if Jaskier did offer him a ring, Geralt had zero reservations about the knowledge that he would say yes. But the wedding was going to be at Kaer Morhen, he was going to have to insist on that.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #shrek #donkey #fiona #the witcher #witchrek #tldr: jaskier's parents are shrek and fiona

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hirikka · 4 years

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space that’s in between every page

Geralt has learned many things about Jaskier over the years: He is loud and annoying, loyal and stubborn; he has a knack for getting into trouble and for talking his way out of it; he has never been afraid of Geralt (even when he probably should have been), and he is married to a viscount. That last piece of information ends up being the most troublesome.

Or, five times that Geralt thought that Jaskier was married to Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and the time he (finally) realized they were the same person.

(read on AO3)

Geralt is not sure when he first heard the name Julian Alfred Pankratz. Jaskier talks about so many people that it is difficult to keep track. And that is putting aside the fact that for the first few months (or perhaps years) of knowing the bard, he tuned out most of what the man said. It hardly seemed important at the time, when he was sure that Jaskier would lose interest and flit away at any moment.

By the time he realizes that Jaskier is not planning to leave any time soon, he’s also missed any window where it is reasonable to ask who the people he mentions are. Most of them are fairly easy to figure out, once Geralt is paying attention. Classmates from Oxenfurt are frequently mentioned, and he almost never talks about any family members.

It’s Julian, though, who comes up the most. Not that often really, in the grand scheme of things, but he’s usually mentioned at least once a season. His relationship to Jaskier is the least obvious; at first, Geralt assumes that he is some sort of patron for Jaskier’s music, but that doesn’t quite seem right. It takes almost two years for him to figure it out; after all, Jaskier doesn’t act like a married man. But Geralt is sure that is what is happening, the only explanation that makes sense: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, is Jaskier’s husband.

“No taste for the arts,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath. “Completely absurd.”

“We can leave,” Geralt murmurs. He can get the information later, stop by to speak to the lord at some point when there isn’t a party happening. He would prefer that, to be honest, even if it would slow them down. He hates fancy parties like this, and Jaskier’s tendency to sulk for several hours when nobles don’t appreciate his music is a good excuse to leave and come back later.

Jaskier looks at Geralt and huffs. “No, you need the information. I can put my ego aside.”

“Hm.” Geralt isn’t sure where that leaves them.

The guard shifts, placing a hand on his sword as a reminder that Jaskier is not invited.

“Look for Julian Alfred Pankratz—” Jaskier says, turning his attention back to the guard “—Viscount de Lettenhove.”

The guard looks dubious for a moment, but he does check the list of invited guests, and after a moment, he gives a nod and steps out of their way.

Geralt follows Jaskier, trying to focus on the information he needs to get and not the unpleasant emotions that tend to well up every time Julian is mentioned.

iii

Geralt plants his feet, stalling the guards who are trying to move him away from the gathered crowd, and turns his attention to the man who had hired him—he had seemed at least somewhat sympathetic. “Please, get word to Jaskier. The bard. Let him know that—”

One of the guards shoves him forward, and he stumbles against the ropes tying him again.

“Wait.” The command is clear in the man's tone. The guards come to a stop as a tall man with dark hair steps through the crowd.

“Sir?” One of the guards holding Geralt asks.

“What’s going on here?” the man asks. He looks like a noble, wearing fine clothes and with the air of someone used to getting their way.

“The witcher was found sneaking into the city. Armed.”

“I was hired for a job,” Geralt growls. “How am I supposed to hunt without swords?”

The man looks at Geralt now. “Are you Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt nods.

“Let him go,” the man instructs. The guards hesitate for a moment, but at a glare, they hastily release Geralt and reluctantly leave, fading into the crowd.

“Thank you,” Geralt says, rubbing at his wrists.

“Not to worry. I heard you mention Jaskier, and I knew I had to step in.”

“You know Jaskier?”

“I’m Ferrant de Lettenhove. Julian’s my cousin,” Ferrant says.

Geralt manages to keep his face impassive. He sincerely hopes that word of this doesn’t make it back to Julian—he can’t imagine the man being happy to have his spouse traveling with a witcher; no need for it to become worse by mentioning that he was almost arrested.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Ferrant asks. “So that you can conclude your job in the city?”

“It’s alright,” Geralt grunts. “Don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Not to worry.” Ferrant offers a small smile. “I’m the royal instigator; there are very few people with the authority to cause me trouble.”

Geralt hates the idea of being indebted to Julian, but he does need to finish this job, and he’s not particularly interested in getting into more legal trouble for being armed in the city.

Geralt is used to Jaskier wearing jewelry; the bard is like a magpie, constantly picking up new shiny trinkets to wear. This ring seems different, though. It is larger and more ornate, and a symbol on it indicates that it is a sigil ring. He’s fairly certain that Jaskier didn’t have it the year before, and now he seems to wear it every day.

“Where’d you get that ring?” Geralt asks.

“Hm?” Jaskier looks up from his lute, meeting Geralt’s gaze.

“The ring.” Geralt waves his hand towards the ring glittering in the firelight.

“It’s a Lettenhove family heirloom,” Jaskier says.

“Oh.” Geralt feels his heart sink. He’s never known Jaskier to wear a wedding band or anything else connecting him to his husband. He wonders what this means, if it suggests that they have gotten closer over the previous winter. “That’s nice.”

“Why the sudden interest?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. Jaskier, used to him, just smiles and returns to practicing his lute.

Whatever the ring suggests, it isn’t that Jaskier is going to be more committed. More loyal to his husband. He still flirts just as much, still beds whatever pretty stranger catches his fancy.

Geralt cannot stop thinking about it and finds his gaze drawn to the ring at inopportune moments. This obvious reminder that Jaskier is bound to another, that no matter how far he might be willing to wander with Geralt, he is always going to return to someone else.

Geralt feels pleasantly light from the wine he’s drunk; it had been flowing freely at the festival they are attending, and the townsfolk were in a good enough mood between the holiday and Geralt’s successful hunt that they had been welcoming to Geralt. He’s found a spot on the outskirts of the town square and is leaning against a wall, watching Jaskier dance through the crowd of locals. He is bright and joyful, and Geralt feels warm and pleased.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He’s standing in front of Geralt now, still catching his breath and smiling so very wide. “Come and dance with him.”

“I don’t dance,” Geralt says without any of his usual heat.

“I’ll lead,” Jaskier says, taking his hand, and Geralt allows it, letting Jaskier pull him close and start leading him through the steps of the dance. Geralt thinks that he would allow Jaskier anything, and the thought does not scare him the way it once did.

“See? It’s not that hard,” Jaskier murmurs.

He is so very close, one hand clasping Geralt’s and the other resting on his shoulder. Geralt can feel the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart from where they are pressed together, and his senses are overwhelmed by Jaskier’s lavender and mint scent.

Jaskier sways in, somehow impossibly moving closer, and his eyes dart down to Geralt’s lips before returning to meet the witcher’s gaze. For a moment, Geralt thinks that he ought to finally give in, to let himself want and have. Then, Jaskier’s hand in his shifts and Geralt feels the touch of metal, and all at once, he remembers why he has never allowed himself to respond to Jaskier’s flirting. He steps back hastily, wrenching his hand away.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s face is clouded in confusion, but Geralt’s eyes are drawn down to the signet ring on Jaskier’s hand. He turns and flees back to the inn, ignoring Jaskier’s confused call behind him.

He cannot acknowledge this want, no matter how much his heart aches. Jaskier would only ever be able to see Geralt as a dalliance, a flight of fancy; he cannot truly be Geralt’s, not in the way Geralt wishes him to be. Not when he is married. And Geralt knows himself, knows he is not strong enough to take that step, knowing that it would not mean the same thing to Jaskier that it would to him. It is better to keep Jaskier’s friendship and companionship. It has to be.

Geralt turns to Jaskier. It’s not the time for jokes, not when he feels like he’s been stabbed, but he understands what Jaskier is trying to do. He turns, intending to tell Jaskier to let him be, but then the light catches on Jaskier’s ring. On the ring that Julian gave to him, and suddenly Geralt’s own hurt is boiling over.

Julian knows that Jaskier will return to him, that no matter how far the bard wanders, he will come home, and Geralt is hit with a wave of jealousy. He craves that assurance—the certainty that someone will always come back. He thought he had that with Yennefer, but he lost her through his own actions. He doesn’t know why he thought it would end any differently; witchers are not made to have connections. Yennefer wants nothing to do with him, and Jaskier has a husband to return to, and Geralt has nothing but his swords and his horse and his anger.

He has spent so long suppressing his emotions, pretending they didn’t exist. Now, he is overwhelmed with sorrow and longing that feels impossible to push aside or ignore. So he lets it out in the only way he knows how: as rage. He turns on Jaskier and unleashes his fury, takes out his hurt on the only person who has chosen to remain with him. [He spits] cruel cutting remarks designed to cause the most damage possible.

Geralt stares out over the mountains and tries to force himself not to regret what he has just done. Tries to convince himself that it is better this way—if Jaskier isn’t loyal to the man he married, then it is only a matter of time before he leaves Geralt as well; better to have it over and done with.

He fails.

Yen smirks at him over the top of her wine glass, and Geralt feels his heart sink—this conversation had been going surprisingly well. Yen had forgiven him for the djinn bond, and, although she was no longer interested in a relationship with him, she does seem excited to help with Ciri; he thinks they can become friends. He’s content with that—he can see now that their relationship did neither of them any good. This smirk, though, means trouble, and he’s not sure he’s prepared for that.

“I saw Julian the other day,” Yen says.

Geralt glares at her.

“He’s in good health, seems to be doing well.”

“Hm.”

“Would you like to know where he is?” Yen prompts.

“Why would I want to know that?” Geralt growls.

For a moment Yennefer’s smug mask of indifference falls away, but she recovers quickly. “Just thought I’d make the offer.” She drains the wine glass and stands. “See you around, Geralt.” For a moment, she almost looks concerned about something, but then she has swept out of the room.

The scent of lilac and gooseberry lingers in the air as Geralt looks down at the table and wonders why Yen would have mentioned seeing Julian but not Jaskier. Had the bard mentioned their fight to her? Had he asked Yen not to tell Geralt where he was? Or, worse, had Jaskier not been at home with his husband? Geralt had managed to ease his worry for the bard by convincing himself that Jaskier was safe at his home, not wandering the countryside getting into trouble, but perhaps he was wrong to think that. Geralt grits his teeth and pushes the thoughts aside. He can’t let himself give in to panic now—not when he has Ciri to care for.

“You saved my life!” the knight gasps up at him. Geralt has a sinking feeling.

“Hm.”

“I—” the knight starts.

“It’s fine,” Geralt cuts him off. He’s not interested in claiming any kind of reward—he has enough trouble with one child surprise.

The knight blinks at him for a moment, assessing. “I understand. There’s a contract out for this monster; let me at least show you back to the estate so that you can collect the reward.”

“Hm.” Geralt is still worried that the man might press, insist on offering something in exchange for a perceived debt, but he and Ciri do need the coin; he hasn’t wanted to take jobs when it means leaving her alone. It had only been chance that had brought him to this man and the kikimora attacking him. “Fine.”

“Good.” The man smiles at Geralt without a hint of fear, and Geralt feels off-kilter for a moment. “Will you also accept my hospitality and stay for the night? I can give you food and a bed.”

Geralt hesitates. “I’m not… traveling alone.”

“Oh? Well your companion is welcome as well,” the man says. “My name is Kaz.”

He takes the extended hand. “Geralt.”

He catches the smallest hint of shock in the Kaz’ scent, but the man doesn’t say anything, so Geralt doesn’t worry about it. He leads the way back to the road where Ciri is waiting with Roach.

The man rubs his hand across the back of his head. “My horse spooked; she’s probably smart enough to make it home on her own, but we’ll have to walk.”

Geralt nods but doesn’t say anything until they reach the road. “Fiona, this is Kaz. We’re going to stay with him for the night.”

Ciri brightens considerably at the prospect of a warm bed.

“We’re close to the Lettenhove estate,” Kaz says. “We should be there in time for dinner.”

Geralt freezes, considers throwing himself onto Roach and riding as far away as he can before they lose the light. The last thing he wants is to finally be confronted with Julian. The possibility of seeing Jaskier again is something he has longed for and dreaded, but seeing him with his husband is unthinkable.

He has Ciri to think of, though, so he doesn’t give in to his own fear. He just follows Kaz and feels his stomach sink with every step.

Kaz is greeted warmly as they approach the estate, and Geralt revises his assessment; this man clearly holds a higher rank than his clothing suggests. Geralt and Ciri keep their hoods up as they move towards the castle, but he still sees curious gazes following them.

Once they are inside, Kaz summons a servant. “We’ll set you up in a guest room. Dinner is in half an hour, so you should have time for a bath before that, if you wish to warm up.” Kaz looks down at his own muddy clothes. “I know I do. Someone will be sent to get you for dinner.”

Geralt nods and lets the servant lead him and Ciri down a different hall, presumably to the guest wing. Part of him still wants to protest, but it is overpowered by how badly he wants to see Jaskier again. He knows it will likely hurt, but it is better to know that he is safe.

The dining hall that Geralt and Ciri are led to is small and intimate, although it is still richly decorated. Kaz is already at the table, along with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Jaskier.

“Good sir witcher!” Kaz smiles as he stands. “And Fiona. This is my wife Estera.”

“Thank you for saving my idiot husband,” Estera says.

Geralt shifts, uncomfortable with the warm reception; it’s so different from what he is used to. He wonders what Jaskier could have possibly told these people to make them so open towards him.

A servant opens the door, and Geralt is briefly grateful for the distraction before the man announces: “The Viscount de Lettenhove.” Then his heart sinks, and he tries to brace himself to see the man Jaskier married.

The servant steps aside, and Jaskier steps into the room. His clothes are suited for the cold, but still show his flair for color—bright and vibrant against the more muted colors most people wear in winter. He is alone, and the door closes behind him. So where is the viscount? Although, Geralt supposes that Jaskier would technically share the title with his husband, so perhaps Julian won’t be joining them. He isn’t sure if he should be relieved or even more concerned.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is strangled, shocked. His scent tinges with something bitter.

Kaz glances between them, looking pleased. “I thought this was your witcher, Julek.”

“Kaz. What did you do?” Jaskier’s voice is cold, and he isn’t looking at Geralt any longer.

“He saved me from an arachas. I insisted he come collect the reward and stay for dinner. It’s nothing nefarious.”

Jaskier sighs. “I'll take my meal in my room.”

He turns and leaves. Geralt isn’t sure what is happening.

“Why is he leaving?” Kaz asks.

“You are a fool,” Estera says although she sounds fond. She leans past Kaz to look at Geralt. “You can still fix this.”

“Fix what?”

Estera snorts. “Honestly. Men. The fact that you broke his heart, witcher.”

“What?”

“If you don’t care for him, you can stay for the night and leave tomorrow and never see him again—“ she catches Geralt’s wince “—but since that isn’t what you want, you should probably go after him”

Geralt stands. “I'll be back,” he says to Ciri. He doesn’t ask about Julian, doesn’t ask about the comment about Jaskier’s broken heart. It feels vital to speak to Jaskier now, before any more time has passed.

He leaves the hall and follows Jaskier’s scent, trying not to think about why it seems to have soured or about the fact that, if Jaskier has gone to his rooms, there’s every chance that Geralt will be arriving to find Julian.

The room is easy enough to find, although it is not in the kind of grand hallway that Geralt would have expected for the viscount. He can hear Jaskier plucking at his lute—not in any tune, and Geralt is familiar enough with his habits to know he’s anxious. The room doesn't smell like anyone but Jaskier, so perhaps he and Julian don’t share chambers. At least that means he might be able to talk to Jaskier alone.

He hesitates a moment longer before he knocks on the door. He hears Jaskier sigh and the movement of fabric.

“Come in, Geralt.”

Geralt pushes the door open and steps into the room, suddenly feeling unsure of what he should do.

“I’m sorry that Kaz made you go to the formal dinner,” Jaskier says when it becomes clear that Geralt isn’t going to say anything. “If I had known, I would have stayed away.”

“Why?” Geralt asks. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier is hiding in his own home.

“Because you don’t want to see me?” Jaskier says slowly. “Your life’s one blessing and all that?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“No?” Jaskier’s voice is cold. “Then why say it?”

“Because of Julian!” Geralt snaps. It’s not the whole truth, but it is as much as he can admit to.

“What?” Jaskier asks. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Geralt forces himself to take a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to explain without revealing his own feelings for Jaskier in the process. “After Yennefer, it made me think of the way Julian might feel about—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, “who do you think Julian is?”

Geralt frowns at him. “Your husband.”

Jaskier is completely frozen for a moment, and then he flops back into the bed and starts giggling. “How—” he tries to get himself under control “—how long have we known each other?”

“Hm.” Geralt knows that he’s missing something, but he doesn’t know what.

Jaskier sits up after a minute, managing to get his laughter under control. “Oh my dear witcher.” Jaskier sighs, but his scent has lost the sour notes. “I suppose I never formally introduced myself, did I?”

“Hm.”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove—” he sweeps into a formal bow “—at your service.”

“I… hm.” Geralt’s mind is racing, reassessing everything with this new piece of information.

Jaskier giggles again. “I can’t believe you thought I was married.”

Geralt frowns at him. It is possibly an expression that Jaskier would describe as pouting.

“I’m still not happy about what you said on the mountain,” Jaskier says, growing more serious.

“I am sorry,” Geralt says. “I shouldn’t have said it. No matter what I thought. It, hm. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Jaskier beams. “Apology accepted.” He pats Geralt on the shoulder. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He moves to open the door.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks.

“You look like you could use food, and I would like to meet your child surprise properly.”

Geralt steps closer before he can think better of it and catches Jaskier’s arm, pulling him away from the door.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt pulls Jaskier closer and leans down to kiss him. Jaskier makes a pleased noise, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and deepening the kiss—it feels like coming home.

After a moment, Jaskier pulls back slightly and narrows his eyes. “Did you ignore my flirting for twenty years because you thought I was married?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, meaning yes.

“Gods, you are such an idiot,” Jaskier says fondly.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher fic #witcher #idiots to lovers #misunderstandings #fics #my writing #my fics

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vvitchering · 4 years

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Witchers of the Wolf School travel in packs. There’s strength in numbers and plenty of coin to be had for the bigger contracts they can handle as a team. The Path is less harsh, less painful, with brothers at their backs.

Wolves lack the ferocity of their Bear and Griffin cousins. Which isn’t to say an individual wolf isn’t dangerous, they certainly could manage on their own. But their true strength lies in their bonds with each other; in their ability to coordinate and work together.

Occasionally there are times when the blood lust is needed. The beast is too large or too powerful, or simply requires more than the wolves can muster. There’s another reason they travel together. A pack is needed to monitor the potential use of more...extreme decoctions.

The recipe for Bloodmoon isn’t written down in any field guide or alchemy collection. It’s passed from master to initiate in hushed, solemn tones. All wolves know it and all equally fear the knowledge. It strips away the humanity they cling to, leaving behind something raw. It trades sanity and reason for unchecked power and feral instinct.

It’s a last resort for instances where death is assured, but the fight must be won, regardless of the cost.

Geralt isn’t sure what they’re hunting. It’s big, it’s wiped out entire herds of livestock on its own, and it’s left the whole surrounding area scared to death to leave their homes. It’s much too dangerous a contact for a witcher to take on alone. Thankfully, he is very seldom alone.

Eskel thinks it could be a mutated fiend. The tracks seem similar enough and the behavior matches, but they’re hundreds of miles from fiend territory and the sheer size of the creature makes Geralt reasonably sure they’re not dealing with a simple freak of nature. Lambert watches them bicker, thrilled that, for once, he’s not the cause of the tension in the group.

Jaskier ignores them all and focuses intently on tuning his lute. His job came post-hunt, when it was safe for him to poke and prod around the beast’s corpse and create exciting stories about its demise while the witchers claimed their trophy and harvested any parts of value.

He looks up from the tuning pegs when Geralt throws up his hands and storms out of the camp, muttering something about finding the damn thing himself since Eskel is so keen on sitting around theorizing instead.

Jaskier has siblings so he’s quite familiar with the look of exasperation on Eskel’s face as he watches his brother stomp away into the woods.

“Not gonna go after him?” Lambert asks.

Eskel sighs.

“Nah, let him walk it off. He’s too damn prideful about that bestiary he calls a brain sometimes.”

Afternoon turns to dusk and Geralt doesn’t return. They eat a meal of rabbits and wild mushrooms and still Geralt doesn’t reappear. It’s not like the white wolf to wander off alone for so long and Jaskier becomes increasingly concerned as the evening creeps in. Geralt knows better than to stray too far from his pack, especially when there’s an unknown threat waiting somewhere out there.

The frogs are just beginning to sing when the tranquility of the evening is marred by a rumbling and deeply unsettling roar. It rattles around in Jaskier’s bones and makes something deep inside him cower in instinctual terror. It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before and he almost feels frozen on the spot, like a deer in the presence of a hunter.

Eskel and Lambert are on their feet even before the roar has finished reverberating around their little camp. Lambert immediately takes off in the direction the horrible sound came from while Eskel turns to face Jaskier long enough to say,

“Do not follow us, Bard.”

And then he’s gone as well.

Jaskier likes to think he’s an easy traveling companion. He’s delightful company, pulls his own weight, pays his own way, and polishes the reputations of witchers everywhere with his music. He does admit to one shortcoming, however, which is his inability to sit still when he knows there’s a grand battle unfolding, the likes of which is just begging to be immortalized in song.

It’s for science, for history, for precious posterity, even, that Jaskier leaps to his feet, checks his boot for his hidden dagger, and jogs determinedly into the brush.

It’s properly dark by the time Jaskier finally catches the sounds of a fight close by. He can hear indistinct yelling, the clang of swords, and the roar of what he assumes must be the creature they’re after, just as deeply disturbing as the first time. Oddly, he can also see light up ahead, though he’s very deep in uninhabited forest. As he draws closer, he realizes the light is coming from several small fires in the tops of the surrounding trees. Either the beast breathes fire or someone has let loose with Igni. Neither option bodes well.

Abruptly, he’s hit with a wave of fear. Geralt never came back to camp. What if he’d encountered the beast on his own? Would he have been able to hold out against it long enough for Eskel and Lambert to arrive? Ice cold dread drips throughout Jaskier’s body.

He crouches behind a bush and reaches out to comb his way through the foliage to get a glimpse of the battlefield. More fires dot the trees around the small clearing. He immediately spots Eskel and Lambert, who both look exhausted and injured. Lambert is favoring his right leg while Eskel has one hand on his sword and the other clamped tight over a painful looking burn on his neck. They look broken and haunted in ways Jaskier has never seen them before.

His eyes dart to the opposite side of the battlefield, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dreaded beast before he’s forced to retreat. What he sees makes his heart seem to stop dead in his chest.

Geralt stands beside the corpse of what must be the beast, breathing like a horse run ragged. The flickering light of the fires reveals he’s covered in black spider-webbed veins that show through his pale skin. His eyes are black like tar. At the sight of his friend alive and whole, Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. Geralt must hear the exhale and turns his head slightly in search of the sound.

Jaskier has seen Geralt under the influence of potions before. He’s no stranger to the veins and the eerily blank black eyes. But this feels fundamentally different, somehow. Geralt’s gaze is cold and more than slightly unhinged, without a single hint of recognition or warmth. Jaskier has never looked at Geralt and felt any type of fear in his heart until now.

Geralt lifts his face slightly, inhaling noisily, scenting the air. Zeroing in on Jaskier. Another bloodcurdling bestial roar has the bard sinking to his knees in all consuming terror and sudden understanding. It hasn’t been the creature producing that terrible inhuman sound.

It’s Geralt.

(tbc!)

[EDIT] You can now read the whole completed fic on my ao3!

#my fic #the witcher #wolf school witchers run in packs because I say so #yeah I don't really know what this is either but it grabbed me by the throat and made me write it #witcher au #mine #no beta no editing we die like witchers

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

Text

Good as Gold pt.18

[part seventeen] | [part nineteen] [prostitute!jaskier masterpost]

This chapter was inspired by Shagouti over on ao3. I may have gotten a little carried away with the ‘moping’ aspect of this, but I hope it’s still okay <3

It’s not the first time Jaskier has struggled to get an erection; it’s not an uncommon problem in his line of work and most of his clients couldn’t care one way or the other. If he can get hard to fuck them, they’ll fuck him. Simple. Few of them care what is going on with his body, so it’s never really bothered him before. It hasn’t happened for a long time and he’s come to be able to predict when it’s going to happen - usually shortly after Geralt visits.

This time, Geralt hasn’t been around in a while and Jaskier assumes his body is just exhausted. He doesn't mind much. The man under him has a very different opinion, but there’s nothing for it. After three failed attempts to get hard, including the most irritable blowjob Jaskier’s ever received, the man angrily tugs his clothes back on and stomps out of the room, demanding to see another whore and Jaskier flops back against his bed.

He can still hear the man - not a regular - outside in the hall making demands and he feels surprisingly… bad. He rarely feels anything with his clients - Geralt notwithstanding - but he feels guilty today, as though he has any control over what his body is doing.

When the noise dies down, he peeks out into the hall and the first person to walk by is Jakob, one of the few other men working there. Jaskier smiles at him before ducking back into the room. Problem solved then, he’ll just have to turn his customers away for one day - no huge loss in the grand scheme of things.

A couple of hours later, he's lounging on the bed, with a glass plug in his hand, watching the way the light reflects off of it when someone comes to the door. Jaskier sighs to himself, he had made it clear to everyone that he wasn’t seeing customers today, but the knock comes again and he sighs. He’ll just have to turn them away himself.

Sighing, he lifts himself from the bed, setting the plug down on the table and tying his robe around his waist but when he gets to the door it’s Jakob standing in front of him.

"Sorry," Jakob says, "I know you're not seeing customers today, only your Witcher is here." He says it with a little smirk and Jaskier's stomach churns uncomfortably.

He groans and earns himself a questioning look from Jakob. He would never send Geralt away, but he doesn't want to disappoint him either.

"How did he seem?" Jaskier asks and Jakob's smirk turns into a full-on grin.

"Seemed eager to see you."

"Fuck."

"That's bad?"

"Today, it is," Jaskier huffs. He exhales dramatically. "Send him up. I certainly hope he's feeling patient."

To his credit, Jakob doesn't ask and he flashes Jaskier an enthusiastic smile before starting toward the stairs. For the first time, Jaskier is anxious to see Geralt and he wonders if Jakob would be willing to see Geralt if he can’t please him. The thought sits uncomfortably, but he'd rather it was Jakob than anyone else and he certainly doesn't want Geralt to leave unsatisfied.

It isn't long before he hears the telltale footsteps and the soft knock on the door. He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, bracing himself for the worst. His stomach turns over itself and he remembers a cousin describing the feeling as butterflies once. It's certainly an accurate metaphor.

Jaskier pulls the door open and Geralt smiles at him. He tries to remain calm, but the second Geralt's expression falls, he knows he's failed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says brightly, "come in, darling, make yourself comfortable." Fuck, he's really fucked now.

He shouldn't have let Geralt come up, he should have told Jakob to keep him company for the afternoon, as much as the thought makes him nauseous. But this isn't about him and his misplaced feelings, it's about Geralt and helping him get what he wants. It’ll be fine, it’s Geralt. He can get through one awkward day. Jaskier gestures for Geralt to sit on the bed, but when he turns around to compose himself, warm hands settle on his hips. He stiffens immediately and Geralt withdraws. Jaskier shuts his eyes and silently pleads that Geralt doesn't leave when he finds out.

Usually, he loves the feeling of Geralt's hands on him, especially like this, the way he holds him and pulls him close, but today he just feels like a failure. Like Geralt is going to walk out as soon as he realizes what's up.

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispers, "if you don't want me-"

"No," Jaskier says a little too quickly, a little too harshly. His chest is tight and he feels like he can't breathe. It scares him and he's so focused on trying to pull in air that he doesn't realize Geralt is touching him again until he's facing him and Geralt's palm is against his cheek. Geralt looks anxious and it doesn't help with the pressure in his chest.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's thumb brushes over his cheek and Jaskier realizes it's wet. Fuck, he's crying. "Jaskier, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he chokes. He worms his way out of Geralt's hold, wiping at his eyes, and turns to prop himself up on the dresser. Geralt's hand slides up his back, settling between his shoulder blades and Jaskier can feel the heat from his body. He shuts his eyes and focuses on that.

"You said you'd tell me if you didn't want it," Geralt says softly, "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"It's not that. I want to be able to please you, but-" he chokes and Geralt presses closer, moving both hands to slide down Jaskier's biceps. "I'm just... having some trouble rising to the occasion, so to speak." Which is actually terribly frustrating right now when he'd like to push Geralt down to the bed and fuck him until they both forget what an idiot he's being.

Geralt is a customer. Sure, he's a hell of a lot different than the others and Jaskier may have a little bit fallen for him, but he's still a customer. And in this context, he'll never be anything else unless Geralt makes the first move. Jaskier had tried and he had been so close. He even thought Geralt was going to kiss him that night. But here they are now and Jaskier shouldn't be thinking these things anyway.

"Oh," Geralt says and Jaskier is expecting a follow-up is that all to just further affirm how stupid he's being, but Geralt hums softly and presses his nose to the back of his neck. "You don't have to fuck me," he says, "we don't have to do anything, but-" He seems uncertain and Jaskier turns back to him, stepping forward so Geralt's arm can slip easily around his back.

"Could I stay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier nods quickly, not trusting his voice despite the relief that floods through him. Geralt smiles and lifts his free hand to wipe away the remaining tears, using the other to guide Jaskier back toward the bed with him.

Geralt only lets him go when they reach the bed and he climbs up, pulling off his gambeson and tossing it to the end of the bed as he lays down. When Geralt looks up at him, it's all Jaskier can do not to climb on top of him and kiss him stupid. Carefully, he gets up and lies down next to him, propped up on one elbow.

For a few moments, they lay in silence and Jaskier settles knowing Geralt still wants him. He shuts his eyes and lets himself relax, sinking into the mattress, basking in the warmth radiating from Geralt’s body. Then, seemingly out of the blue, Geralt shifts and looks up at him.

"Can I touch you?"

Jaskier smiles softly, eyes still shut. "You know you can, darling. Just don't be too disappointed if nothing happens."

"I don't mind," Geralt says almost bashfully, "I just want to make you feel good." He moves slowly, rising up to his knees over him and Jaskier doesn't have a chance to consider just what this means before Geralt is curling an arm around his waist and turning him onto his back.

From here, his only view is Geralt, soft and cautious. But, Jaskier notes, not as cautious as he once was, not even as much so as he was the last time they were here. It prods at something in his chest that Jaskier tries not to focus too hard on and he shuts his eyes to block it out.

Geralt's lips press against the inside of his calf and he lets out a little gasp at the unexpected contact.

"Is this okay?" he asks and Jaskier nods.

"Yeah, can I-" he brushes his fingers against Geralt's forehead and Geralt presses into the touch, pushing Jaskier's finger through his hair.

Jaskier runs his fingers over Geralt's scalp and Geralt lowers his head, returning to his task. He mouths at Jaskier's skin, licking and sucking his way up his legs and if it was anyone but Geralt, Jaskier would think he was still trying to get him hard. And any other night, it wouldn't even be difficult.

For someone who is so quiet and stoic in his regular life, Geralt is incredible in bed - and Jaskier would know, he's been fucked by half of Hagge. His tongue alone is enough to get him off most nights, which only makes tonight all the more frustrating.

Geralt's hand slips up, pushing up the hem of Jaskier's robe and he knows he's exposed, that his traitorous cock is in full view and for the first time ever, he feels anxious about it. But Geralt's fingers brush over his hips and his breath is hot and damp against his skin, comforting in an odd sort of way. Or maybe it's just Geralt, soft and sweet as he is, that puts Jaskier at ease.

He tangles his fingers in Geralt's hair, tugging lightly as Geralt moves up his thigh. There's a moments' hesitation and then Geralt's mouth is on his cock, kissing up the length of it. Jaskier tenses up, but Geralt wraps his mouth around him, pressing his nose into Jaskier's skin before pulling off with a soft smack.

"'S not gonna work," Jaskier mumbles. Geralt's lips drag along his skin where it's most sensitive and Jaskier shudders.

"Did it feel good?" Geralt asks and Jaskier could laugh. What a stupid question.

"Having your mouth wrapped around my cock? Of course, it did."

"Then let me?" Geralt asks, "I want you to feel good."

Jaskier nods. Geralt tips his head down and immediately his mouth is wrapped around Jaskier's cock again, hot and wet and so frustratingly good. He lets himself relax under Geralt's hands, delighting in the warmth of his cock around him, even if his cock can't properly appreciate it. Heat and affection swell in his chest and Jaskier runs his hands over Geralt's shoulders, up the back of his neck and into his hair.

He knows the reaction he'll get when he tugs on it, so he pulls near the base of his skull, expecting the vibrations of a moan around his cock, but Geralt whines, arching off the bed. His forehead presses against Jaskier's stomach and Jaskier tugs again, delighting in the little high-pitched sounds that spill from Geralt's lips.

He'll never get over Geralt, not the way he's always so eager to please or the way he falls apart when he finally allows someone to take care of him.

Before he can think better of it, Jaskier hauls him up against him. He only realizes what he's doing when Geralt's lips are inches from his own, slick and swollen and too tempting for his own good. Geralt's eyes drop to his mouth and Jaskier's breath catches.

He slides a hand down Geralt's chest, intent on distracting him, but when he finds Geralt's cock, he's already fully hard. Jaskier knows Geralt would never press him for anything he thought would make him uncomfortable and moreover, would deny himself satisfaction to make Jaskier comfortable. Jaskier doesn’t want that tonight; he can feel how badly Geralt wants this and he wants to let him have it, even if he’s not feeling it himself.

He promised Geralt he’d tell him if he didn’t want it, but that’s not what this is. He’d give anything to be able to fuck him properly tonight and it’s only his own anxieties holding him back from fully enjoying it.

He brushes his fingers up the length of Geralt’s cock, slipping up to unbutton his trousers. When he gets them open, he slips one hand inside, stroking slowly as Geralt huffs against his shoulder. Precome beads at the head and Jaskier slides his thumb through it, wrapping an arm around Geralt's waist as he shudders.

"What do you want, darling? I can't let you fawn over me all night, hm?"

"Mm, but I want to." Jaskier shuts his eyes with a soft groan.

"You like to, don't you? Fuck, is that what's got you so worked up like this?" he runs his fingers along the underside of Geralt's cock for emphasis.

Geralt groans and presses his face into Jaskier's neck, biting gently. His cock presses into Jaskier's thigh and he gives a quick little thrust of his hips, grinding into the meat of his leg. Jaskier groans in frustration, rolling Geralt's hips against him and kissing his shoulder.

"I want you," he breathes. Gods, he wants him so badly.

"Can I fuck you?"

Jaskier groans and wraps his arms around Geralt's waist, bringing him close for a moment before tipping him backward. He crawls up over him, letting Geralt's hands brush his thighs and eventually settle on his hips. He keeps his eyes on Geralt, taking in the flush of his cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth.

Reaching back, Jaskier removes the plug and strokes Geralt's cock, not even hesitating before pulling his cock from his trousers and sinking back onto him. He needs this tonight, to be able to give something to Geralt, to make him feel good. He shuts his eyes and focuses on Geralt beneath him, desperate to do what he can, to prove he can still be good for him.

He loses himself in the motion, hands pressed to Geralt's chest until he realizes abruptly that he's treating Geralt like anyone else, like the only thing that matters is getting him off. His stomach turns at the thought. This isn't what he wants and more importantly, this isn't what Geralt wants. He's said more than once that if Jaskier doesn't want something, he doesn't want it. But he'd gotten so caught up in making sure to please him, that he hadn't thought of it that way.

At some point, he must have stopped moving because Geralt runs a hand up his chest and it startles him.

"Hey," Geralt whispers, "what's wrong?"

"I'm-" Jaskier starts, but he looks down into Geralt's eyes, still wide with arousal, and he sighs. Geralt doesn't want this. "I can't do this right now. I just- I wanted so badly to make you happy so you'd stay-"

"Why would I leave?" Geralt asks softly. He lifts one hand to cup Jaskier's cheek and Jaskier climbs off of him, flopping down on the bed beside him. Geralt shifts, sliding up behind him. "Can I?" he asks and when Jaskier nods, a warm arm slides around his waist. "Why do you think I would leave?"

"What good is a whore who can't get it up?"

"Jaskier," Geralt breathes. His nose presses into his hair and he hums softly as he curves around him.

"I can find you someone else if you want. One of the others, Jakob-"

"I don’t want someone else." Jaskier falls silent, not quite sure what to say. "I can go."

"Could you stay?" Jaskier whispers, just barely. He can feel Geralt's smile as warm lips press against his neck.

"Of course."

Warmth spreads through Jaskier's chest and he remembers how to breathe. He settles back against Geralt and shuts his eyes, revelling in the warmth of the body against him. He might be a disaster and he might be making mistakes left right and center, but at least, for now, he hasn't fucked it up. At least he has Geralt.

#special thanks to everyone who gave me advice on this chapter #it was fighting me #and then I did a bunch of v last minute edits #so I hope it still reads smoothly #rex writes #good as gold #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #prostitute!jaskier

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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

Text

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

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thearvariblues · 4 years

Text

Valdo Marx Plays Matchmaker

AKA Geralt has to deal with the fact that Valdo Marx isn’t quite as he had imagined him. To begin with, he’s not, in fact, a he.

“She’s a woman,” Geralt announced, his yellow eyes wide with disbelief.

Jaskier snorted, staring into his beer.

“Thank you for the information, I had no idea.”

“No, I mean… A woman.”

“Yes, Geralt, you’ve already said that.”

“You never told me she was a woman!”

“Shut up. I must have.”

“Never,” Geralt said firmly, shaking his head.

“I must have referred to her by a pronoun at some point, you just never listen to me.”

“I do listen to you, Jaskier, and you never did.”

Jaskier took a large gulp of beer and shrugged.

“Well, now you know. So what?”

“So what? I always thought it was some old, wrinkled… ballsack from Oxenfurt! A pompous prick, you always said, an insufferable cockalorum–”

“Yes, and?”

“And now I find out that he’s… she’s… That Valdo fucking Marx is a…”

“Woman, yes, Geralt, we’ve been through this!” Jaskier moaned, desperately trying to ignore the ridiculously boring music and the high, melodic voice that filled the air.

“It’s a shock, that’s all I’m saying,” Geralt grunted.

“Yeah, well, whatever. Finish your fucking beer, I want to get out of here.”

“Writing a new song?” Geralt smirked. “Because that rhymed.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier groaned.

Geralt took a drink, contemplating.

“You know, I don’t even know why you hate her so much. She’s quite good, actually. Reminds me of you.”

“She is nothing like me!” Jaskier hissed.

“Well, if you listen carefully–”

“Don’t you ever dare comparing me to Valdo Marx!” Jaskier growled. “I have enough of it every fucking time I go home to Lettenhove. Oh, Julian, have you heard Valdo’s new composition? It’s so good, don’t you think? Julian, couldn’t you be more like Valdo instead of following a Witcher around, it’s so unbecoming of a young man like you. Oh, Julian, have you heard that your sister–”

“Wait, your what?” Geralt blinked.

“Sister, Geralt, try to keep up.”

“Trust me, I am. Desperately,” Geralt said. “But you don’t make sense, Jaskier. You talk about Valdo one second, and then you start about your… Hold on. Are you telling me that Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, is…”

“Is, in fact, my sister Madeleine, yes.”

“Your sister Madeleine,” Geralt repeated. “Fuck.”

“I’d rather if you didn’t,” Jaskier sneered.

“Are we talking older or younger here?” Geralt asked, eyeing the troubadour on a tiny makeshift stage. She was wearing a plain, dark blue dress made of some kind of a glossy fabric. Her skirt was so long it brushed the boards of the stage with her every movement, but it didn’t look like she cared, she just played her lute and sang and had no idea how entrancing she was. And she did remind Geralt of Jaskier.

The bard muttered something unintelligibly.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“For fuck’s…” Jaskier sighed. “Twin. My twin sister.”

“Oh.”

“Older by three fucking minutes, and she’ll never let me forget it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Jaskier snorted. “Always better than me, our Madeleine. Born first, learned to walk first, learned to read first… The only thing I started to do first was playing the lute and singing, and what does she do the second I decide to travel and become a bard? She follows in my footsteps, trying to outdo me once again. And she fucking succeeds!”

“That’s not true, Jaskier,” Geralt smiled, placing a hand on Jaskier’s forearm. “She might be the more… artistic one of you two, but she will never be a better a´performer. And I can’t hear people singing her songs like they do yours, can you?”

“Well… If you put it like that… Oh, fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

The song had ended a few seconds ago, Geralt realized. And Jaskier was now staring, utterly terrified, towards the stage.

“She’s noticed us,” the bard mumbled. “She’s coming here.”

“Oh,” Geralt said. “Fuck.”

Jaskier huffed, watching as Geralt pulled a clean shirt over his head.

“What?” Geralt grunted.

“Nothing,” Jaskier muttered, looking away.

He was sitting on a bed in their shared room in the tavern and trying his very best not to brood. And he knew very well that he was failing spectacularly.

“I had to say yes, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed. “It would have been impolite not to.”

“And you’re all about politeness,” Jaskier mumbled. “Like every time you show up covered in blood and guts and brain occasionally–”

“That was one time.”

“Well it’s not very polite to barge into the room, tell my lovely date to go fuck herself and immediately start taking off your filthy clothes, is it?! The moment she saw your impossible, muscular, god-like torso, I stood no chance!”

“Is there any point to this babbling, Jaskier?” Geralt sighed.

“Well, yes. That you should have said no to my fucking sister when she asked you to have dinner with her!”

Geralt smirked.

“Are you jealous, bard? Did you want to have dinner with her yourself?”

“No, I wanted to have dinner with–” Jaskier started before promptly cutting himself off. “It’s just so… Madeleine, you know?!”

“What is?” Geralt frowned.

“She always has to steal what’s mine!” Jaskier groaned, letting his body fall onto the hard palliase. “My success in music, my parents’ affection, and now my Witcher.”

“She won’t steal me, Jaskier,” the Witcher in question said. “I would first have to allow myself to be stolen.”

“Yeah, wait until you’ve talked to her for five minutes. I bet you’ll like her way more than you like me.”

“Nonsense. There’s no one I like more than I like you.”

Jaskier blinked in confusion, raising his head to look at Geralt, who was, for some reason, blushing.

“What did you just say?” the bard asked.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, fleeing the room.

Valdo Marx was nothing like Jaskier had ever described her, that was the first thing Geralt realized.

She wasn’t pompous. She definitely wasn’t insufferable. And she wasn’t a, well, cockalorum.

She was quite nice, actually, and she really did remind Geralt of her brother. She was intelligent, she was funny… And well, she was pretty, he had to give her that.

Not nearly as pretty as Jaskier, though, his traitorous brain put in, and Geralt nearly choked on his beer.

“Are you alright?” the woman smiled. “I’m not boring you, I hope.”

Geralt shook his head.

“No. Please, go on.”

Oh, and she spent the entire evening talking not about herself, like Geralt had expected, but about her brother, about his songs, about his successful students from Oxenfurt… About their childhood. And Geralt, who had never heard a single word about Jaskier’s life before Posada, was beyond fascinated.

“Well, as I was saying, Jaskier’s always so competitive,” she chuckled. “Everything’s a race for him. I don’t know how many times I told him, dear heart, we don’t have to be enemies, but he just doesn’t listen.”

Geralt nodded solemnly.

“I know. He even accused you of trying to steal me from him.”

“Dear, I would never,” she said. “I know how madly in love he is with you, I couldn’t–”

“He’s what?!” Geralt gaped.

Valdo’s eyes went wide and she covered her mouth in shock.

“Oh, my. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud, it just slipped,” she gasped. “Please, don’t tell Jaskier that I revealed his secret so carelessly!”

But Geralt was already rising to his feet, finishing his beer on the way up.

“Excuse me, madam,” he croaked, slamming the tankard on the table. “I need to go and speak with your brother. Right fucking now.”

Valdo Marx was busy wolfing down the boiled eggs and sausages she was having for breakfast when, suddenly, a shadow fell on her table. Before she even managed to lift her eyes up, her brother unceremoniously plopped himself down on the bench opposite of her.

“You traitorous bitch,” he growled.

“And good morning to you too, Julian,” she grinned at him. “Sausage?”

“I hate you,” Jaskier muttered, grabbing one from her plate. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Of course not. What do you think of me, little brother?!”

“Only the worst.”

She chuckled.

“It was mother’s idea, if you absolutely need to know,” she muttered with her mouth full of scrambled eggs. “She told me to do anything to make you pull your head out of your arse and finally confess to that Wolf of yours.”

“Lies. Mother would never say arse.”

“Right. She said backside. My bad.”

“Hmpf,” Jaskier hummed. “May I remark that making me confess and telling him about my feelings, making it seem like an accident is not the same thing?”

“You may not.” She shook her head, sighing. “Besides, it’s not my fault you’re both denser than cousin Amelia, is it? Look, I tried. I wrote that romantic ballad about him, claiming it was a new song by the famous Jaskier–”

“Oh, of course. I should have known that complete atrocity was your doing! That sloppy excuse for a ballad that could have ruined my reputation!”

“Jaskier, one of your most popular songs is about a girl wanting to jerk you off.”

“Your point being?”

She laughed, letting him steal another sausage.

“Nothing, my dear. How was your night, anyway?”

“I think you know damn well,” Jaskier said, smiling. “Actually, I think the whole town knows.”

“To be honest, I think our mother in Lettenhove knows that your Witcher loves and desires you back. He wasn’t exactly trying to keep his voice down.”

“Believe it or not, but he was,” Jaskier grinned. “He just wasn’t very successful.”

She nodded, finishing her breakfast and getting to her feet.

“Well, my work here is done, dear brother. Will you pay for my meal? I think I deserve it for what I’ve done for you.”

“Always so humble,” he said. “I still hate you, Madeleine, you know?”

“I love you too, Julian,” she winked. “Oh, and by the way, mother sends her love and demands that you bring the Witcher the next time you come to visit. She said there is a monster in Lettenhove that desperately needs to be slain.”

“Well, if it’s urgent, I could try convincing Geralt to…” Jaskier started before pausing. “Right. She meant grandmother, didn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so,” Valdo chuckled, grabbing her cloak. “Well, I’ll be on my way. See you around, Jaskier.”

“See you,” the bard replied, trying to hide a smile. “Valdo Marx.”

#geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #my fics

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vampire--dad · 4 years

Text

Only The Sweetest Words

Based on a prompt for the October prompt bingo - a soulmate AU.

——————

Eskel remembers the morning of his sixteenth birthday like it was yesterday— and it certainly wasn’t bloody yesterday. But he remembers it as clear as day, waking up to find his soulmate’s first words on the skin of his wrist.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Classy.

Geralt thought it was hilarious. Eskel tried to act like he did too. In truth, the connotations began to haunt him. It was because he was a witcher, wasn’t it? Somebody was going to look into his yellow eyes and be repulsed by their apparent soulmate. As the years went on, those thoughts weighed even heavier on his mind whenever he saw someone with their lover. The scars across his face certainly didn’t help. Whoever it was, they’d think he was hideous. He can’t say he disagrees.

Jaskier can’t help but feel like destiny has pulled a cruel joke on him. Up until the age of sixteen, he had dreamt of seeing the most romantic words on his wrist, a prophecy of a lifetime of romance and fulfillment. His cousins were blessed with the most beautiful words upon their skin. And what did the poet get?

“Oh, fuck. Sorry.”

His mother had almost cried at the obscenity on her son’s skin. His father had tried not to laugh for fear of his wife’s wrath, but the boy saw the mirth in his eyes. Jaskier was distraught. His dreams of romance were shattered. Not to mention it was such a common phrase that many a-times he had gone stumbling after people, asking to see their wrists, only to be turned away once again. It had made his love life quite the travesty.

———

“Geralt? Geralt!”

Eskel stands from the rickety chair in the corner of the room. That head of white hair is unmistakable. That’s his best friend. Two pairs of yellow eyes meet from across the room accompanied by grinning and delighted laughter. Geralt makes his way to the corner and practically throws himself into his brother’s arms. Eskel does not notice his travel companion, but he hears a sweet voice and the familiar sound of a lute as he and Geralt share stories of their travels and a drink.

Geralt has a more… complicated relationship with destiny. He doesn’t have one soulmate, not one destined romantic partner to see him through his years. It came as a relief to him, he was never particularly fond of the idea of romance. Instead, he has upon his wrist a neat vertical line made up of four letters— the first initial of each of his platonic soulmates. E was the easiest to decipher. It was none other than Eskel, the boy he had been raised alongside, the boy who had become like a brother to him. The next letter is L, for Lambert. At first, he wondered why the feisty young redhead was tied to him, but as he grew into a man, it became clear. He might be an asshole, but he’s loyal to a fault and would defend his brothers with his life. It took almost seventy years for the mystery of the third letter to come undone. That was when he met Jaskier. After the third time they had crossed paths across the Continent, Geralt had asked for his real name. Julian, although he despises that name, was clearly destined to walk the Path with a witcher. At first Geralt hated the thought of putting him in danger, but time and time again the bard proved he wasn’t so useless with a blade. The fourth letter, A, remains a mystery.

As Eskel recounts the days he spent tracking down a griffin just south of Crinfrid, gesturing wildly in the excitement of seeing his brother again, his arm collides with a tankard grasped by a calloused hand. Ale spills over the edge and onto a pale blue doublet.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry,” Eskel says.

A pair of bright blue eyes glare at him, the same colour as the doublet on the man’s chest. Jaskier has heard those words many times, hoping he’s finally met the one, but when they fall from the lips the tall, yellow eyed, absolutely dashing man before him, he knows. He knows he’s looking at the man who cursed him with such unsophisticated and painfully common words. Not only that, but he’s spilled ale on his new doublet. He never expected to be angry when he finally met his soulmate, but he’s fuming.

And then he says those words. Those words that Eskel has dreaded hearing his whole life. The first words his soulmate would ever say to him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Eskel winces and seems to shrink into himself. All of the thoughts he’s had about those words begin to form a terrifying reality. The man before him, his soulmate, thinks he’s a monster. Of course he does, he’s a witcher. Yellow eyes, riddled with scars, nothing compared to the well dressed beautiful man glaring at him. After a moment of pause, the man continues and what he says isn’t what Eskel could ever have expected.

“I have had those damned words on my wrist for fourteen years. My parents were disgusted that their little boy had such obscene language on his wrist and my cousins— sweet Melitele, my cousins howled with laughter. They’ve all got something quite poetic, haven’t they? And me, the aspiring little poet I was, I had ‘Oh, fuck. Sorry’ on my wrist. I suppose I can get them back for it, seeing as my soulmate is far more handsome than any of theirs. Seriously, you should see Darla’s husband. But that’s besides the point. You really couldn’t have come up with something a little… classier? Something a little more creative, romantic even?”

The white haired witcher scoffs.

“You weren’t exactly romantic yourself, Jaskier. Cut him some slack.”

“Shut up, Geralt.”

Eskel stares at him, dumbfounded.

My soulmate is far more handsome than any of theirs.

You really couldn’t have come up with something a little… classier?

Of all the things Eskel expected him to be upset about, it certainly wasn’t that. But never mind that, he thinks he’s… handsome? That doesn’t sound right, yet he said it with such conviction that the witcher can’t argue. There are too many things that Eskel wants to say at once. But only one thing comes out.

“Huh?”

Geralt laughs and shakes his head. He stands and claps a hand on each of their shoulders. Idiots.

“Allow me to be of some assistance. Eskel, this is Jaskier. He’s the bard I told you about. Forgive his little outburst, he’d really been hoping for something more romantic and if I’m guessing correctly, he’s rather upset that he’s spilled ale on his new clothes.”

“Well yes, I was getting to that…” Jaskier mumbles, earning him a pointed look from his travel companion. He falls silent again.

“Jaskier, this is Eskel. He’s my brother, one of my other soulmates, and he’s terribly sorry about your doublet.”

Geralt stands from his chair and places it behind Jaskier, pushing the two down into their seats.

“Try again.”

Geralt watches from across the room as Eskel and Jaskier get to know each other, a soft, amused smile on his lips. It’s an awkward affair at first, his dear brother has no idea what to say. But the bard, ever the charmer, coaxes him out of his shell and has him grinning from ear to ear within minutes. He apologises for his harsh words. Eskel thanks him with a smile.

Jaskier, having forgotten about the ale on his new doublet, is positively captivated by the man and he’s not afraid to say it, if only to see how flustered Eskel gets. The witcher doesn’t know how he can say such sweet words about a face like his, but Jaskier reassures him that he thinks he’s beautiful, scars and all.

Their hands touch for a moment across the table between them. Even through Eskel’s thick gloves, it feels like an electric shock. They both recoil. Eskel looks at his hands with alarm, but Jaskier laughs, soft and melodic. Eskel silently promises himself to do whatever he can to hear that laugh again.

“The same thing happened to my mother when she met my father,” Jaskier says. “Their hands met as he passed her a glass of wine. Of course he dropped it. She was too excited to even be mad about the stain on her dress.”

He looks down at the dark stain on his doublet.

“Destiny really is a wicked mistress…” he chuckles

Eskel laughs and without thinking twice, slips his gloves off and lays his hand over Jaskier’s. Their skin tingles and buzzes where it meets, but it’s a pleasant sensation. The witcher could stare at the soft smile Jaskier offers him all damn day. Eskel has never felt so comfortable with someone before. It’s wonderful. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from Jaskier. Not his scars, not his past, nothing. He can be himself.

Jaskier finds his eyes wandering across Eskel’s handsome face as he speaks, only half paying attention. The bard can’t help but admire him. His hair brushes against his nose when he looks down at their hands. Jaskier begins to wonder what it would feel like to kiss him, how his stubble would feel against his cheek, what the scars across his lips would feel like against his own. What a hopeless romantic he is. He’s barely known the man for an hour and he’s already thinking about kissing him. But everything about Eskel feels… right. It’s only natural that he would want more.

“Jaskier?”

Eskel is looking at him curiously. He had a feeling Jaskier wasn’t fully paying attention to him, only to discover that he was staring at his lips with a dreamy expression. It’s endearing and baffling to think someone can be so enchanted by him, of all people.

“Can I kiss you?” Jaskier blurts out.

“Is that why you’ve been staring at me?”

“Yes.”

“Then… yes.”

Jaskier decides this table between them won’t do. He stands, slipping around the edge of the table to take Eskel’s strong jaw into his hands and press their lips together. That same shock fizzes through his body and down his spine, but this time he doesn’t pull away. The witcher’s arms wind around his waist, pulling him closer. Their first kiss is far too short. Eskel pulls away only to stand, pull Jaskier against his chest, and kiss him again, utterly entranced by the feeling of Jaskier’s lips moving against his own. A sweet taste clings to them, the bard’s breath hot against his lips. This time Jaskier is the one to pull away.

“This is not the place for what’s going to happen next if you keep kissing me like that,” he says softly, a cheeky grin on his face.

Eskel chuckles. Geralt smiles from across the room and looks down at the letters on his wrist. Destiny can be kinder than she seems sometimes.

——————

Tags: @lovelyeskel @patchwork-doublet @jaskierswolf

#the witcher #eskel #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #jaskel #soulmate au #fan fiction #the witcher fanfiction

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valdomarx · 4 years

Text

A Marriage of Convenience

Octoberfest romcom tropes day 1: fake dating

Jaskier pushed his ale aside and broke the wax seal on the letter. As he read the contents, his face pinched into a frown.

“Anything important?” Geralt asked, glancing up from his soup.

Jaskier chewed his lower lip. “Not really. It’s from my family.” He took a breath. “They’re going to disinherit me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What did you do this time?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Nothing, thank you very much! But it’s my 35th birthday next month, and the stipulations of the Lettenhove family will are quite clear. If the oldest son isn’t married by the age of 35, inheritance passes to the next married cousin.”

“Very keen on weddings in Lettenhove, are they?”

“Rather less keen on unmarried bachelors, actually.”

Geralt grunted. “That’s too bad. I imagine a viscount’s fortune could have come in handy for you.”

“Oh, I don’t care about the money.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just,” he sighed. “I have younger sisters who rely on me for support. If the inheritance goes to cousin Edward, he’ll turn them out without a penny to their names.”

“That’s unkind.”

“It is.” Jaskier slumped. He was glad to have left Lettenhove and its court intrigues behind, but the thought of his sisters being at the mercy of his greedy cousin was unconscionable. He knew too well all the terrible things that could befall a woman alone in the world.

“This will,” Geralt said, stirring his soup absentmindedly, “does it have any rules about who you have to marry?”

“No. Any old wedding will do. But it’s not like I’m going to find anyone willing to tie themselves to me in the next month.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll marry you.”

Jaskier choked on his ale. “You?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he broke off and mopped the sweat from his brow. Because I’ve been in love with you for decades. Because I’ve fantasised about you saying this in a million different ways. Because having to pretend it’s real is going to break my heart.

Geralt reached over the table and patted his hand. “It’ll just be pretend,” he said, as if that were in any way reassuring. “This is a problem easily solved. Let me help you.”

Jaskier sagged. This was going to be a disaster.

“This is going to be a disaster!” Jaskier paced anxiously around their room. “There are so many ways this could go horribly wrong.”

Geralt sat on the bed counting bundles of herbs. “It’ll be fine.” He was infuriatingly calm. “We’ll head to Lettenhove, have a quick wedding, get your family off your back, and be on our way. It’ll only take a few days.”

“But,” Jaskier kept pacing. “We’ll have to. You know. We’ll have to do couple things. There are certain… expectations of a newly married pair.”

Geralt got to his feet and placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, stopping his anxious traipsing. “We’ll manage. Can’t be any worse than fighting drowners.”

Jaskier looked into amber eyes and felt his heart turn over in his chest. “Everyone will expect us to be holding hands, and kissing, and gods know what else. And you can’t do that.” He sighed. “You don’t even like men.”

Geralt leaned in closer, close enough that strands of his silver hair tickled Jaskier’s cheek. “I like men just fine,” he said, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then Jaskier did something terribly foolish. His body moved before his mind, his feet stepping closer, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck. He kissed him, hard, and to his astonishment Geralt kissed him back hungrily, lips parting to allow Jaskier to taste him fully, tongue exploring, hands roaming, and by the time they broke apart Jaskier was flushed and breathing hard.

“See?” Geralt said, his deep voice sending a shiver up his spine. “We can do this.”

Jaskier wrote to his family to tell them the good news, and he and Geralt wasted no time in heading off to Lettenhove. The journey was long but nothing they were unused to. They traveled by day, slept under the stars by night, and Geralt even picked up a few quick contracts to help pay their way.

It was comfortable, and normal, and Jaskier could almost forget about what he was about to put himself through.

At least, until they reached the outskirts of Lettenhove and they heard the whoosh of an incoming portal. The ground shook, the air rippled, and through the rent in reality stepped Yennefer, terrifying and beautiful as ever.

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to come up with a snarky reply as she swept past him and went to Geralt. He stood back and watched the two of them, powerful and dazzling together, each other’s equals in capability and composure.

He had never had a chance in this competition, he thought bitterly. He would be pretending with Geralt, while she had his heart for real.

Jaskier was left at camp while Geralt and Yennefer went off to do... whatever it was they did together. (He could guess what that was.) He spent a cold, lonely night with no one but Roach for company, berating himself for feeling so hurt by something he knew from the beginning was nothing but a ruse.

With their arrival in Lettenhove proper, there was nothing to do but face his family. The brightest spot of his day was walking into the estate and having his sisters squeal and jump on him just as they had done as children.

He stopped laughing and caught his breath long enough to introduce them. “Essi and Priscilla, this is Geralt.” My husband to be, he thought, and something twisted inside him at that. “Geralt, these are my troublesome sisters.”

Essi dipped her head and Priscilla performed a theatrical bow. “We were wondering if Jaskier would ever settle down,” Essi said with a sly smile.

“But seeing how handsome you are, I can’t blame him!” Priscilla replied, and the two of them broke into fits of giggles.

Geralt, for his part, took them with good humour. Where Jaskier had been expecting him to be dour, he smiled indulgently and took each of their hands in turn and pressed a kiss to their knuckles, resulting in another uproar of giggling.

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier said quietly as they made their way to the room waiting for them.

Geralt inclined his head. “Have to make a good impression on the future in-laws,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking upward in amusement.

The rest of his family were predictable as clockwork. Cousin Edward was sour, his father was distant, and his mother was simply relieved to see him married off as was proper. Geralt sat through all of it with more patience and good grace than Jaskier would have thought him capable of.

The day of the wedding itself passed in a blur. With such short notice the ceremony was terribly paired down by noble standards, but still, there was the formal breakfast, the dressing in formal garments, the journey to the temple outside of the city, the clamour of priestesses and officials and his family, the exchanging of rings, the reading of texts, and of course the formal dinner.

Jaskier barely remembered any of it. Looking back, the only thing that stuck out in his mind was the feeling of Geralt’s hand clasping his own during the handfasting. And the way that, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed over the course of the day, Geralt’s hand would find his own and give a comforting squeeze.

Finally the ceremonies were complete and they were left in peace in their chambers, the two of them alone for the first time all day. Geralt’s hair had been braided into two slim plaits running either side of his face, though by now they were starting to become mussed. He’d even put on a shirt of dark blue silk as opposed to his standard uniform of all black. The effect was quite stunning.

As the door closed, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped and he breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

Geralt cupped one cheek tenderly. “You good?”

Jaskier exhaled, letting the anxiety and stress of the day slowly unwind. He looked into Geralt’s warm eyes and felt, for once, safe and unjudged. “I’m good.”

Geralt brought their lips together, soft as could be, and Jaskier’s knees shook. He grabbed Geralt’s forearms to hold himself upright and, desperate for some sort of control, some sort of meaning, he pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss.

This was a bad idea, he was aware, but Geralt felt so good in his arms. He ran his hands through silky silver hair like he’d always wanted to, he pressed himself close to that muscled chest he’d spent more time than he should have admiring, and he moaned unrestrainedly when Geralt picked him up, locking his legs around his waist.

This was a terrible idea, he knew, but Geralt carried him over to the bed with firm, confident steps, and the temptation to touch, to hold, to kiss was overwhelming. This would only lead to heartache, but he was weak in the face of love, as always.

Geralt laid him out and took him apart with soft lips and careful fingers and a wicked tongue, and it was everything he’d been dreaming of for years, and yet so much more intense than anything he could have imagined. Geralt was dazzling beneath him, warm amber eyes and pale scarred flesh, beautiful and kind and more than he could possibly deserve.

Nuptial celebrations in Lettenhove were mercifully brief, and with the ceremony completed and recorded to the satisfaction of the genealogists, they were free to depart.

There were, however, some customs which could not be avoided.

“You’ll be honeymooning nearby?” Jaskier’s mother asked, with the understanding that this was not a question.

“Actually, we thought -”

“They’ll be staying in my cottage, won’t you?” Priscilla interjected. She’d availed herself of her position, such as it was, to secure a tiny ramshackle cottage on the Kerack coast. It wasn’t opulent but it was, thankfully, far from prying eyes.

Jaskier gave her a tiny nod of thanks and she winked.

“A cottage?” His mother’s lip turned up in distaste. “How quaint.”

“And there’s ever so much to pack, so we must be on our way -” he excused himself with a bow, tugging Geralt behind him.

Out of the view of their parents, Priscilla and Essi set upon him with hugs and kisses, thanked him for saving them from the horrors of cousin Edward, and packed up an obscene quantity of cheeses and wine to take with them.

By the time they departed the estate, Jaskier was even smiling.

It was quiet and calm on the coast. The cottage overlooked the sea, rolling and tempestuous, and had just enough space for a kitchen, a bed, and a bath. They had everything they needed, even a stable for Roach outside.

Even though it was only for a few days, Jaskier imagined Geralt would be bored and unhappy, feeling trapped in a place so small. But he seemed content: riding along the coastline in the morning, brushing Roach out, going fishing in the afternoon, preparing the catch for their evening meal.

Jaskier showed him his favourite spices and how to prepare the fish with butter to make it rich and indulgent, and in the quiet moments he wrote poetry or simply sat on the battered chair on the porch of the cottage and watched the waves.

Geralt returned to the cottage with a net bulging with fish and a smile on his face. He’d been doing that more recently, Jaskier had noticed, smiling in a way that seemed natural and unforced. He even left his armour and swords in the cottage and waded down to the sea in just his trousers and shirtsleeves, disarmingly casual.

It was comfortable, almost domestic.

And it was a torment, showing Jaskier a tiny glimpse of a life he’d never have.

Their last night on the coast, Geralt cooked the remainder of their provisions into a feast, poured the best wine they had, and set a fire in the hearth. He piled up blankets and pillows, laid down their warmest furs, and pulled Jaskier into his arms in front of the flames.

“Thank you,” he said, dotting kisses in a line up Jaskier’s neck, “for taking such good care of me.”

Jaskier fidgeted unhappily. “You’re the one doing me a favour,” he reminded him. That seemed important to remember. This was a favour from a friend, nothing more.

Geralt hummed against his neck, the vibrations rippling against his skin. “I can see some advantages to me,” he murmured, continuing his line of kisses up Jaskier’s jaw and toward his lips.

Jaskier, stupidly, allowed Geralt to turn him around, hands delicate around his waist, allowed him to bring their lips together. He allowed a kiss, soft at first, and then another, more intense, moaning into Geralt’s mouth.

“Can I interest you in an early night?” Geralt purred in his ear, and everything in Jaskier’s body said yes, and everything in his mind said no.

Eventually, his mind won out and he pushed Geralt away.

“No,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry, Geralt, but this was a terrible mistake.”

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Geralt’s sad expression. He was hit by the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Geralt’s voice was so soft behind him. “It’s okay, Jaskier. Whatever it is. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I won’t do it again.”

Jaskier deflated. He turned to face Geralt, watery eyes and all. “That’s not the problem. I don’t want you to stop. I want this to be real.”

Geralt stood carefully still. “What do you mean, real?”

Jaskier took a breath, tried to imagine how to explain himself, how to convey what he felt. “I’m in love with you!” he snapped in the end. Not his most eloquent work, but perhaps his most honest.

Geralt tilted his head. “I know,” he said. He looked down at the ring on his finger. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The point?” Jaskier exploded. “The point!” He couldn’t stop himself from waving his arms as he ranted. “Oh, sure, I’m certain that the ideal marriage is between one person who’s hopelessly in love and one person who’s indifferent and besotted with another. I’m sure Yennefer will be delighted when she hears about this whole situation.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m in love with Yennefer?”

“Yes! Obviously!”

He paused, obviously weighing his words. “That night when she visited us outside Lettenhove, she wasn’t surprised by the news. She told me congratulations, and that it had taken long enough. I think she knew long before I did that I wasn’t in love with her, not really. My heart already belonged to another.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “You mean… You and her, you’re not...”

Geralt shook his head. “What she most wants is something I can’t give her.”

“And you?” Jaskier asked, dreading the answer.

Geralt took his hand. “What I most want,” he stroked his thumb over the ring around Jaskier’s finger, “is something I already have.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt. It was almost too much. It was overwhelming. “You really love me?”

Geralt smiled softly. “I really do.”

Jaskier threw himself into Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “Tell me again,” he said, because he was needy.

“I love you,” Geralt said, kissing down the side of his face. “I love you,” he said, lacing their fingers together against the furs. “I love you,” he said, their bodies moving together, finally free to feel with the intensity they had been hiding for so long, their scents mingling together with the fresh salt tang of the sea.

The sun shone brightly and the wind whipped their hair as they packed up Roach the next morning. Jaskier paused to admire the view one last time: The rolling waves, the steep cliffs, the shingled beach.

Geralt slipped his arms around his waist from behind and dropped a kiss just beneath his ear.

“What does our life look like now?” Jaskier asked, eyes on the waves.

He felt Geralt’s smile against his hair. “Much the same as before,” he said. “With perhaps a few improvements.”

Jaskier turned then and kissed him fully, no need to hold himself back, taking Geralt’s hand and running his fingers over the ring there.

“Ready to head back to the Path?”

Geralt smiled, and Jaskier would never tire of that. “Ready if you are,” he said with softness in his eyes, “husband.”

#this just in: i am secretly soft #squeezing this in before midnight #geraskier #lesdemonium #thank you for the prompt inspo!!#octoberfest #the witcher #my writing

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

Prompt: Going to a Fair Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Teen Audiences And Up Content Warnings: None Summary: A beautiful thing about Toussaint is the fairs and masquerades the dutchess holds every now and then. And the big canopy beds. Oh, those are the best part.

[This one turned out to a little all over the place but I still really enjoyed writing it. Hope you’ll enjoy it too, my darlings.]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Crossposted on ao3 here

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"Geralt, my love, you look wonderful, stop being so hard on yourself," Jaskier says, wrapping his arms around the witcher's waist and hugging him from the back, locking eyes with him through the mirror.

Geralt doesn't really share the bard's enthusiasm. He's used to his armour, to thick black leather with only a few elements of silver, and that is what feels natural, what feels right.

A dark-crimson - almost wine-red, really - doublet with intricate embroidery in gold thread does not.

He knows that he'd agreed to this himself, knows that Jaskier had told him that if he doesn't want to go, he won't get upset with him and just go with Barnabas-Basil or one of his friends. But Geralt always went out of his way to make his husband happy.

So, naturally, when Jaskier told him that there's going to be a masquerade and a fair in Beauclair, he couldn't say no.

"The dutchess herself is said to be there," Jaskier murmurs against his neck, smiling encouragingly. "I'm sure she will be delighted to see you. After all, we were personally invited, weren't we?"

"Isn't the whole point of a masquerade is for the participants not to recognise each other?" Geralt tries, weakly.

"Oh, don't be like that," Jaskier huffs, waving a hand dissmissingly. "It's going to be fun, I promise. Besides, isn't Regis going to be there?"

That's true, Geralt supposes. Regis is going to be there, which makes the event slightly more bearable. It's always nice to talk to an old friend.

"He is," he hums, adjusting the collar od his shirt. "Going to keep me company when you run off to flirt with the next pretty little thing you see."

Jaskier just laughs at that, circling Geralt to stand in front of him and take his face into his hands, getting a stray strand of silver out of his eyes.

"You know that never leads to anything," he smiles, leaning in to touch the witcher's dry lips with his own. "I can innocently flirt with everyone I see but it's only you I love, my darling. And only you I want."

Geralt does know that. He's not even jealous, never doubting Jaskier's faithfulness but missing an opportunity to tease would've been a waste.

"I know," he finally says, stealing another kiss. "And yet, if the dutchess herself is going to be there... She's got an eye for you, you know. Would be terribly rude of you to turn down such an important woman."

Jaskier snickers and shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Then it's a good thing that she's not going to recognise me."

When they arrive, the event is already in full swing.

Jaskier's eyes light up at the music that flows through the garden and the way he squeezes Geralt's hand suddenly makes the entire thing worth it in the witcher's mind.

Jaskier looks breathtaking in his dark-blue silk suit, the silver mask hiding just enough of his face for it to be almost impossible to recognise him yet leaving enough open for Geralt to still have the option of pulling his close and kissing him. in the witcher's mind, it couldn't be more perfect.

"May I hear the password?" asks one of the guards at the gates, his own face hidden behind a mask with a long beak.

"Waterlilies," Jaskier says, repeating what's been written in their invitations.

The guard nods and gestures to the doors.

"If you'll be so kind as to follow me," he says. "Our most generous dutchess Anna Henrietta has arranged a room for you so that you don't have to make a long journey back home at night."

There is nothing about Jaskier's expression - half-hidden by the mask - that gives away his delight but Geralt knows him well enough to be able to smell it on him. Jaskier is, after all, of a noble family, a court man, and Geralt knows just how much he loves it when he's treated like one, even though most of the time he happily trades it for the life on the Path.

Corvo Bianco, it seemed, was the perfect middle ground.

They follow the guard through the garden and into a big, richly decorated estate with stained-glass windows and luscious flowers hanging in big round pots. The guard takes them to the upper floor, opens the door with a key and gestures for Geralt and Jaskier to step inside and make themselves comfortable.

"If there shall be anything you need, the servants are on the ground floor, you need only call," he says, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves and handing Jaskier the key. "Enjoy your night, gentleman."

With that, he bows and leaves, leaving Jaskier and Geralt alone in the room.

"Oh, this reminds me of home," Jaskier sighs, a smile on his lips as he falls onto a truly enormous canopy bed covered with red velvet.

"Of home?" Geralt echoes, almost feeling out of place in such a rich interior.

"Well, you know, my childhood home," Jaskier says, propping himself up on both elbows. "I have to be honest with you, Geralt, I miss all of this from time to time."

The witcher comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed, runs his hand over the velvet and sighs, content. It does feel nice.

"Do you think we could get a bed like this for the vineyard?" Jaskier asks, pushing him down onto his back and lying down next to him, finding Geralt's hand and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to the knuckles. "It's not only amazing to sleep in but also-" his eyes light up behind his mask, and Geralt knows a little too well what that means. "Look at those poles, my love. I could let you tie my wrists to them if you were to wish for it."

Oh, that sounds tempting.

"Hmm," Geralt hums, non-commital. "Sounds intriguing. Though I might need to try first and then decide. After all, finding this kind of bed is not easy."

It takes Jaskier a second to understand what exactly it is that Geralt is saying but then he gasps in mock offence and shoves him in the shoulder with no real force.

"Preposterous!" he gasps, a hand over his heart. "This is the dutchess' cousin's summer residence, and this is, I'm more than sure, the best guest bedroom. Anarietta herself might be sleeping in this bed while visiting."

"Yes," Geralt says simply, knowing that all of that only adds to Jaskier's interest. "And tonight this bed is ours."

Before that conversation can take them anywhere, Jaskier demands they go back to the garden.

Geralt doesn't object, just follows the bard down the stairs and helps him adjust his doublet before they step out the door. He feels just a little strange with his hair done up in a complicated bun but then again, Jaskier told him that it will help the witcher be even less recognisable, and there was never anything that Geralt could deny him.

The disguise was, it seemed, working effectively for they've almost bumped into Anarietta - Geralt recognised her by smell - when passing the gates again but she didn't notice them. Or, at least, she didn't come up to them, to Geralt's immeasurable relief. He'd only ever said it to Jaskier but the dutchess was getting on his nerves and if he could avoid her, he gladly did just that.

"There's a Gwent tournament somewhere in the north side of the garden, as far as I'm aware," Jaskier says, making a non-descriptive gesture in the general direction, as they walk past a table with all sorts of baked sweets. "If you're interested."

Even with Jaskier, Geralt feels somewhat out of place at an event like this. And a few rounds of Gwent sound like a perfect way to forget about it.

"Sounds tempting," he says, reaching to brush his fingers over Jaskier's and take his hand into his own. He's still getting used to it. "Though you know I prefer to play with you."

Jaskier rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.

"That's because every time we play, you insist that we play strip Gwent, knowing perfectly that you're a better player than me," he chuckles. "Honestly, Geralt, all you need to do for me to undress is ask."

"I know," the witcher grins, pulling Jaskier closer to shamelessly press a kiss to his cheek. "But where's the fun in that?"

He plays a few rounds without Jaskier, winning effortlessly every time while the bard is making new acquaintances by the wine vault where there are multiple tables with all the best blends of reds and whites.

Geralt can't see him but he can hear him, Jaskier's voice soft and beautiful as he tells a group of young women stories about Skellige. They all gasp almost in unison when the bard tells them about that one time when they've been travelling between the islands on a boat and nearly drowned when a pack of sirens toppled it over.

Geralt chuckles to himself, knowing perfect that they were never in any real danger for it was near the coast of And Skellig and if anything happened, fishermen or sailors would've picked them up almost immediately.

Jaskier refers to him as "my husband", not giving away any names, including his own, and every time the witcher hears that, a little piece of his heart seems to melt. It's been more than five years since they've gotten married but in a way, Geralt is still not used to it.

When the time is moving towards late evening, Jaskier joins him at the table, nodding a greeting to Geralt's opponent and leaning down to brush his lips over the witcher's cheek.

"Winning, my love?" he asks, blushing just a little when Geralt pulls him into his lap.

"As usual," he grins, to great displeasure to the man across the table.

Jaskier murmurs something content, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and sneaking a look at his cards. Geralt tries to hide them from him but the bard scratches his shoulder through the doublet and that's all it really takes for the witcher to give up and let him see.

Geralt's a long-time player and his deck is pretty much as good as it gets, nearly every gold card there is being in his possession but it's the final round and Geralt's opponent's got four cards in hand while as the wither only ahs three. By now it mostly depends on luck. But Jaskier might just know a way to get it onto their side.

"Win this round for me," he murmurs into Geralt's ear, quiet enough only for him to hear. "And I'll think about what you said back in the bedroom."

Geralt's golden eyes light up with a flame that Jaskier knows well enough to know that his words have been effective.

It all goes very fast from there. Though Geralt's only got one gold card in hand, it's a Cirilla card which has the power of fifteen and that is what ends up getting him the win, when the man across the table, with his overall score of sixteen, throws a water card onto the table, making both of Geralt's archers drop from four to one.

He wins by just one point, but he wins.

Jaskier can feel his heart flutter with anticipation as Geralt grins at his opponent, reaching over the table to get the coin they've put up. It's a rather impressive amount. The other player must be a count or something like that.

He's clearly not too happy about losing his gold but he takes it as a good player, standing up and shaking Geralt's hand with a congratulation. Then, he wishes them both a pleasant evening and leaves, waving to someone by the fountain.

"I won," Geralt states, still grinning and oh so pleased with himself. "What was it that you said, bard? If I win, what is it that you're going to think about?"

Jaskier laughs and pulls him into an affectionate kiss, one hand coming up to cup the sharp of the witcher's jaw.

"You just wait until we're back in the bedroom, my dearest."

It's closer to midnight when they finally find Regis.

Or, rather, when Regis finds them.

"Fascinating how people always seem to want to disguise themselves," he says instead of a greeting, appearing out of nowhere, just like he always does. "And how they seem more attracted to each other when they don't know who is hiding behind the mask."

He's got a full-black velvet suit on, adorned with raven feathers, and a matching mask that hides most of his face. If it wasn't for his voice, Jaskier would've never recognised him.

"Mystery is always thrilling," the bard smiles, taking a sip of his Est-Est. "There's something irresistibly captivating about a man in a mask. A woman, too, of course, but women are mysterious creatures in general."

Regis nods knowingly and also raises his wineglass.

"Yes, women are... A mystery no man will ever solve."

They all fall silent for a couple of moments, and even though Jaskier knows that Geralt is thinking about Yennefer, there is no more pain. There hasn't been, for years now.

It took them a long time to figure it all out, to talk everything over, and though it would come with tears what seemed like every time, eventually, it was all over. And it brought them so close that if Jaskier had to go through all of that again twice, he would.

"Well, my dearest friends," Regis finally says, breaking the silence. "I've heard that there are prize-winning games starting at midnight, would you care to join me in testing my luck?"

Regis turns out to be a rather talented fisherman.

That is, given that what he's fishing for is a gold ring with a bright-red ruby in the centre - one of the three main possible prizes in the game.

The other players look at him with both jealousy and fascination, loud applause echoing through the garden.

Regis looks very pleased with himself - as much as Jaskier can tell, keeping the mask in mind - but it's only when they leave the deck of the pond that he asks for Jaskier's hand and places the ring into his palm.

"Beautiful work," he says, closing Jaskier's hand around the ring before he has the chance to refuse. "But it just so happens that gold suits you better, my friend."

"Regis-" Jaskier breathes out. "I cannot accept this. You've won it, it's yours."

Regis smiles - one of those tight-lipped smiles of his that doesn't show his teeth.

"I'm afraid I must insist," he says. "If it puts your mind at ease, I don't wear jewellery at all. It gets in the way of making my medications."

"Of making your moonshine, you meant to say," Geralt chuckles teasingly.

"The most effective out of all of my elixirs, my friend."

Jaskier knows said elixir a little too well and shakes his head with a fond smile, opening his hand to examine the ring closer.

"Thank you, Regis," he smiles. "I shall treasure this gift forever."

Geralt refrains from any other games, saying that he's very happy with his winnings from Gwent and doesn't want to push his luck any further.

Jaskier, however, overhears that there is a bardic competition about to start and he nearly runs, having grabbed Geralt by the hand. They get there just in time for him to take one on the last remaining places.

All of the participants are given their preferred instruments and are told to improvise for three and a half minutes. Whoever comes up with the best song and gets the loudest applause, shall win five long ribbons of the finest Toussaint silk that the winner can then take to a seamstress and get their clothes adorned. Jaskier's eyes shine like the stars above when he sees the royal-blue ribbon.

Geralt and Regis take their places in the audience, the witcher secretly worried, and try their absolute best at hyping Jaskier up by rolling their eyes at the other participant's songs to indicate just how non-impressive all of those attempts are.

Jaskier smiles at them from behind his mask and giggles when Regis implies that he's so bored by one of the songs that he's about to turn into smoke and disappear.

When it comes to Jaskier's turn, the bard adjusts the collar of his doublet and the cuffs of his sleeves, stands up because he hates to perform sitting down, runs his fingers over the lute strings and takes his first note, practised and beautiful, as always.

He sings about two people meeting at a masquerade and falling on love with each other immediately. Sings about them kissing in the dark alleyways of the garden and promising each other the stars. And sings about them not recognising each other when they cross paths the next morning while also searching for one another. They part, having nearly touched hands at the gates, to always look for each other, aching with love, but never meet again.

By the time Jaskier touches the strings one last time, half the audience is wiping at their eyes, including Regis.

It's an immediate win and Jaskier shines with it when the judge hands him his silk ribbons and compliments both his singing and his lyrics.

"Such a beautiful story," Regis says when Jaskier joins them. "Tragic romance is never going to get old."

Geralt can almost smell Jaskier's blush.

"Thank you, my dearest," he smiles, only a little coy. "I'm going to make sure to write more pieces like this."

When they part, it's nearly dawn.

Most of the games and shows are over, the tables with food and wine nearly empty, and all the guests start slowly making their way home.

Jaskier isn't necessarily tired but he's grateful to all the gods he knows that there is no need to ride back to Corvo Bianco.

When they're saying their goodbyes, Geralt invites Regis to come visit them for a day or two - or even a week, he says - and Regis, in turn, suggest they come visit him at his crypt. Jaskier realises that they've knows each other for so long now that it doesn't even sound strange to him.

Nearly all the guests are already gone when they get back to their room.

"Remind me to send a note to the dutchess to express our gratitude for being so considerate," Jaskier says, shrugging off his doublet and rolling his sore shoulders.

Geralt just hums, non-commital.

"That song you've played," he says, letting his hair down which is a gorgeous sight to see. "Had it really been an improvised one?"

Jaskier blushes under the gaze of his golden eyes, untying the laces of his mask. Geralt's always read him like an open book.

"No," he admits, averting his eyes when the witcher comes closer. "I've composed it a few weeks ago, when we've just gotten the invitations."

"Hmm," Geralt hums again, his half-grin making Jaskier's heart stutter for what seems like the millionth time. "Thought of me?"

The bard blushes even further, grateful the dim light of the fireplace is making it less apparent.

"Always think of you," he says, leaning into the touch when Geralt hugs him from the back and noses at his neck.

Geralt breathes a pleased noise against his neck, low and rumbling, knowing a little too well just how much of a weakness it is for the bard.

"Of course you do," he murmurs, undoing the buttons of Jaskier's shirt one by one without looking and leaving long hot kisses on his neck.

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, throwing his head onto Geralt's shoulder and just forgetting about everything else for a few long moments before the witcher slips the shirt from his own shoulders to take it off, and he has to put the silk ribbons he's still holding down. They're all incredibly beautiful, they really are but as he sets them down onto a small round table, it's a pale-lilac one that catches his eye.

"What are you going to do with them?" Geralt enquires, letting the fabric of Jaskier's shirt fall to their feet and trailing his kisses down, onto his shoulders. "Order a new doublet from the court seamstress? Or change up one of those that you already have?"

Jaskier picks the lilac ribbon up, unties the bow that's keeping it folded, wraps it around his wrist once, twice, and pulls to see how it feels. The silk is pleasantly cool against his skin.

He bites his lips and turns around in Geralt's arms to lock eyes with him and run his hand through his hair.

"I might have a better idea."

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt and jaskier #my writing #calton writes

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samstree · 3 years

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You are too well tangled in my soul (5/5)

(Geraskier, 1.6k, time travel, hurt/comfort, soft geralt, now complete, cw: mentions of abuse)

Inspired by The Time Traveler’s Wife.

Read on AO3

Yennefer comes in a whirlwind of buzzing magic, a portal opening up in the middle of the empty courtyard, blowing up the melting snow everywhere.

Of course she can come through the protective ward around the keep like it’s nothing.

She steps onto the ground of Kaer Morhen with her usual poise, all shiny raven curls and sparkling eyeshadows, breathtaking as ever. Only her proud demeanor shifts into something marginally softer when those enchanting violet eyes fall on Ciri.

The princess approaches the sorceress in tentative steps, before picking up the pace and running into her embrace. Yennefer is visibly taken aback by the sheer force of it but soon gives back a loose hug. The girl, being a head shorter than Yennefer, steps back and smiles brightly.

“I saw you in my dreams.”

Those violet eyes become more curious.

Beside Jaskier, Geralt’s voice rumbles deeply. “Yen, this is Ciri. My Child Surprise.”

The corner of her lips quicks up. “Nice to meet you, Ciri.”

In the main hall, Jaskier sits in front of the fire and watches the three of them talk quietly at the table.

A lost princess with immeasurable chaos in her body, a witcher who protects humanity with nothing but two swords on his back, and a sorceress so powerful she scorched an entire Nilfgaardian army all by herself.

They make a perfect family, beautiful, powerful, and well-matched.

Lost in thoughts and the wine in his cup, Jaskier never notices the young princess going off to sword lessons with Vesemir or even Geralt settling down on the thick carpet next to him.

The witcher adjusts the blanket draped on Jaskier’s knees absent-mindedly. “By the way, Yen, what did you think of our ward?”

“It’d be a good idea.” The sorceress looks down at Geralt, posture elegant from the vantage point of the chair. Her hand flattens the folded wrinkles on her embroidered dress. “Don’t worry, Geralt. I’ll enhance it for you so no mage can get through. You child will be safe in here.”

Geralt’s voice turns solemn. “Thank you, Yen. And thank you for coming.”

“I came for her.” Yennefer’s gaze studies Geralt up and down with a piercing curiosity, and softens ever so slightly. “Fatherhood looks good on you.”

Geralt hums without answering.

“Did you ever doubt destiny’s decision?” Jaskier challenges her, regrettably drawing attention to himself.

Yennefer finally looks at Jaskier for the first time since she arrived, amusement creeping into her expression. Geralt sighs long-sufferingly next to Jaskier, braced for the usual snarky jabs between these two.

“Bard.”

“Witch.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “The gray hair suits you.”

“Not being tortured by Nilfgaard suits you.”

From his peripheral, Jaskier sees Geralt tense but keeps his eyes on the sorceress. Framed by the flickering candlelight, everything beautiful about her now is a sharp contrast to the last time Jaskier saw her – tied up, depleted of magic, and covered in blood.

Her lips curve dangerously. “Still saved your sorry ass, didn’t I?”

This time when Jaskier returns her smile, it’s genuine. “You are right about that one. I never got to show any gratitude.” Geralt’s questioning gaze is burning a hole on Jaskier, but he’ll have to wait. Jaskier continues the peace-offering. “So thank you, really. It’s good to see you again, Yen.”

“Don’t call me that.” She takes a jab at him but there’s no malice. “And destiny often makes shit decisions. You should know.”

Yennefer looks between the two of them and Jaskier’s breath hitches. Somehow the sorceress knows about their bond. Jaskier turns to look at an equally startled Geralt. “Did you tell her?”

“Oh, please,” She cuts in, “The temporal magic is all over you two. I felt it the day you first barged through my door.” She pulls a sealed letter out of nowhere and holds it before Jaskier’s face. “I only meant this.”

The Pankratz insignia carves into the scarlet wax seal.

The buzzing of the world drowns Jaskier’s heartbeat. It’s been years since he received news from home. Distantly, he knows Geralt is asking if he’s alright, the warmth from the witcher’s large hand seeps through the fabric on his back.

He reaches for the letter and tears through the seal in an instant, and pauses.

“You know what it says.”

“The news traveled faster than a letter.” Yennefer offers a tight smile. “My condolences, Jaskier.”

Jaskier is perched on their shared bed while Geralt paces around the room. He clutches the thin piece of paper, reading the words again even if he’s stared at them for so long they’ve begun to blur.

…Alfred Pankratz, Count de Lettenhove, passed away in his sleep three days ago.

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier rubs his eyes when they lose focus, and that’s when he notices how stiff his joints are for staying in the same place for too long.

He blinks and Geralt has come to sit next to him on the mattress, gently prying the letter away from Jaskier’s tense fingers. His knuckles are turning white for gripping it so tightly.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Shaking his head, Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, who instinctively wraps an arm around him. “I don’t know.” He adds, “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs.

“Why?” Jaskier nuzzles, seeking comfort. “You never had kind words for the man.”

The pain from childhood flares up again. Memories of sitting by the lake crying and nursing his hurt as a child almost make panic bubble up Jaskier’s throat. He has to calm down by focusing on Geralt’s solid touch and the rise and fall of his breathing.

It does the trick, as always.

“You still mourn him, despite everything.” Geralt answers, drawing circles on Jaskier’s back slowly.

Jaskier lets out a tight chuckle. “I should hate him, and maybe I did for many years. But…in the end, he was just my father.”

They sit in silence. Jaskier melts into Geralt’s continued soothing touches, letting reality sink in. A plan comes together in his head.

“I should go back.”

“To Lettenhove?” The movement on Jaskier’s back stops.

When Jaskier pulls back, there’s apprehension in Geralt’s eyes. His brows furrow in distress so Jaskier eases it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m still the heir. There are things that require seeing to. I don’t want his title, so I’ll have to be there to renounce it. The estate and all the fortune will go to my cousin – Ferrant is quite a natural leader. He will do well being the head of the family. As for my mother, she’ll want to see me. It’s been too long since I wrote her.”

Geralt frowns again at the idea but reluctantly agrees after a moment.

“I don’t like the idea of you being back there.”

“Oh don’t you worry, my love,” Jaskier says. “It just got me thinking. My father died and they didn’t even have a way of reaching me. If Yennefer hadn’t come across this funeral invite at some random court I would still be in the dark. Not that I’ll be back in time for the funeral of course. It takes too many days just to get down this mountain. Still, it could be nice to see my family again. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Hmm.” Geralt runs his fingers through the hair at Jaskier’s temple, where he knows a strand is peppered with silver as Yennefer so kindly pointed out. “Speaking of. Since when are you best friends with Yen?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jaskier teases him. “I’m sure you’ll have all the time in the world to get the story out of her, now that she’s around to give Ciri magic lessons. I’m sure she won’t paint me in a heroic light in our little Nilfgaardian prison adventure. Too bad I won’t be there to save my image.”

“Jask.” Geralt blinks, taking Jaskier’s wrist in a gentle hold. “You know I’m going with you, right? You are not going alone.”

“But Ciri’s training…”

“Yen is taking her to a safe house just outside of Novigrad. Triss will be there too. The chaos Ciri carries is raw power. It’s so complicated they’ll be lucky to figure it out within a couple of months.”

“Don’t you need to go as well? To stay with them and protect your daughter?”

Geralt smiles at the word daughter. No matter how many times everyone or even Ciri herself uses it, the word still brings him so much joy.

“I’ve had her all winter, taught her a lot about being a witcher. Now she needs to learn from real magic users. Besides, I think she’s getting tired of being cooped up with five men for this long. Staying with the ladies might do her good.”

Jaskier stares at the warmth flowing in those ember eyes, suddenly feeling lighter like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He doesn’t have to do this alone.

“You’ll come with me,” he muses the sentence.

“You’re hurting, Jask. I would never leave you like this.” Geralt’s tone is so casual it’s like he’s stating the weather. Gods, this ridiculous man has no right to make Jaskier’s heart swell three sizes like this.

He picks up Geralt’s hand and presses a kiss to his calloused palm. “We’ll go straight to Novigrad soon as business finishes at home. Even I’ll miss her too much.”

Jaskier gets pull into Geralt’s embrace again, breathing in the smell of the chamomile soap he insists on the witcher during baths. It feels like Geralt is marked by him somehow, covered in his signature scent.

“I love you, Jask.”

“Mm-hmm. Enough to face all the nobles for me.”

Geralt hums, perhaps surprised.

“You know there’s gonna be a lot of them, right? Many will be there to pay respect. I’m a noble, in case you forgot. If you can barely tolerate me, imagine the chaos when we get there.”

The laugh rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest, and soft lips press on Jaskier’s hairline at his temple.

“Only for you, Jaskier.”

(Feedbacks are much appreciated! Tell me what you think of it!)

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the witcher #the witcher fic #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #it is finally finished!#there's still a sequel but it counts as finished #hooray!#geralt/jaskier

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noladyme · 4 years

Text

The Princess Frog. Epilogue

She had no wish to be bound down to anyone, but Y/N none the less found herself being dragged across the continent; to marry King Foltest of Temeria. Instead of pomp and spectacle; she was accompanied by the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Their travels would bring both monsters, lust, love; and heartache. All sound tracked by an endearing buffoon of a bard, named Jaskier.

TW: Violence, language, sexual themes. Rated M.

I hope you have enjoyed reading this, as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any of my future writings.

- no lady

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@ayamenimthiriel

Epilogue - The Queen Frog

It was spring. The flowers in my private garden were budding; and a few were in full bloom – making them ripe for harvest. I walked past the chamomile; inhaling the sweet smell. It made me think of my Tootie. Thrude had passed a year ago – Eist having sent a letter with the information, and his warm condolences. Not long after, Mousesack had visited me. His grief was deep; but he had told me that seeing me still wearing her frog around my neck, brought him much joy.

“Mousesack; was I hurting Thrude, when she healed me as a child? Was she draining herself for me?”, I’d asked. The wizard laughed out loud. “Do you think all she was feeding you was chamomile and honey?”, he guffawed. “My dear; Thrude had years of training as a vöelve before you were even born. She knew how to heal using plants and other medicines; that was what she was using on you”. He took my hand. “She also didn’t have your powers. She was teaching you how to use what you had naturally in you; by using the words, that would help you in the future”.

And I was learning to use them properly. Triss saw to that.

Ylva had got a cut to her arm while in a tussle with a drunkard in a tavern, who had told her women couldn’t be soldiers. She’d insisted she didn’t need treatment; but I couldn’t let my personal guard walk around with cuts and bruises that might fester. So, I was preparing a poultice of celandine and wolfs aloe. Saoirsheen walked up to me, as I was kneeling in one of the flowerbeds.

“Your majesty, he’s here!”, she smiled broadly. Saoirsheen had been with me, as my lady in waiting, ever since Cynnes had passed from old age three years before.

My heart leapt; and I smiled broadly. “Where is he?”, I asked, almost giddily. “He’s shoving grapes into his mouth in your dining room”, she smirked. I quickly wiped my hands in my apron, and took it off; handing it to her. “How long has it been?”, she asked. I frowned. “Not since Foltests and my two year anniversary, I think”, I answered. “There was that midsummer feast the year after that”, she smiled. I scoffed a laugh. “Yes, but he was piss-drunk; and had his face buried in the countess De Stael’s cleavage”, I said. “Right”, Saoirsheen laughed.

I walked into the door of the kitchen; then made my way up the stairs, and down a hallway to my private chambers. Ajvin was standing outside the door to my dining room. “Is it true, my queen?”, he asked; his voice shaking with excitement. “Is it really him? Will you introduce me?”. I smiled and nodded. “I will, Ajvin”, I said. “You will see him at the feast, and I will introduce you to him. Maybe he’ll even let you accompany him in a song”. I winked at the man. “For now, I need to speak to him privately”. Ajvin nodded. “Yes, your majesty”, he said, and stepped aside.

I opened the doors to the room. I never had guards outside my chambers – or inside – except for Ylva. It made me feel uncomfortable to constantly be watched by anyone else.

By the end of the large table – in my own seat, no less – sat a blue eyed; brightly smiling man.

“Jaskier!”, I said. The bard sprang to his feet. He ran over to me; and took my outstretched hand; kissing it. “Princess!”, he smiled. I raised a brow at him. “Queen…”, I smirked. Jaskiers smile broadened into a grin. I put my arms around him for a warm hug.

We went to sit by the table. I gave the bard a light tap over the back of his head, when he went for my chair. He took a seat next to it instead. “Did you eat most of the fruit already?”, I jeered. “I had to”, Jaskier answered. “I was worried you might start throwing it around if I didn’t”. I laughed. “How have you been?”, I asked. “You know…”, he said. “Travelling. Falling in love. Performing. Falling out of love. Almost died from a djinn-attack…”. “That sounds like a story!”, I said. He smiled. “I haven’t written the song yet”, he winked at me. “So, my queen. You have asked me to come here for a certain reason”.

I nodded. “Adda’s 20’th birthday-celebration”, I said. “She was very clear that she wanted the great bard Jaskier to perform. I think she has a crush on you, from when she saw you at that midsummer feast two years ago”. Jaskier’s face lit up. “Really?”, he asked. I frowned at him. “Don’t even think about it bard; or I’ll have Ylva cut of your bollocks and serve them to you on a plate”, I said menacingly. “Besides; she’s still… having troubles controlling herself; after her difficult beginnings as a striga”. Jaskiers face scrunched up. “I’ll make sure not to butter that biscuit, then”, he muttered. I threw a grape at his head. He laughed. “There she is…”, he smirked.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. “He’s here…”, Jaskier suddenly said. I looked at him; my breath hitching. “Here?”, I said. Jaskier nodded. “He owed me a favor from… almost getting me killed”, he answered. “I insisted he travel with me here, as my bodyguard”. I smirked. “Last time you did that; he ended up with a child of surprise”, I said. The bard laughed nervously. “Yes well, I trust you don’t have any pregnant princesses wandering the halls”. I scoffed a laugh. “No pregnancies here”, I said. “We avoid them. Like the plague”.

Jaskier sighed. “He wanted to come”. “He said that?”, I asked, and poured myself a goblet of mead. It was Jaskier’s turn to scoff. “It’s Geralt. Does he ever say anything, unless he has to?”. He used to say many things, I thought to myself.

I took a large sip of my drink. “The feast”, I said. “Tonight. You will perform?”. Jaskier nodded. “Of course. But I thought you already had a court-bard.”. “We do”, I laughed. “But in all honesty; he’s terrible”. Jaskier laughed. “Why keep him?”. I smiled warmly. “He’s a good boy; our Ajvin”, I said. “And he’s managed to spawn 4 children with his wife. He needs the pay”. Jaskier grabbed my hand. “You’re a good queen, your majesty”, he said. “And a kind woman”. I grinned at him. “Maybe; but I still have the mouth of a fucking sailor!”.

We laughed together; when suddenly there was a knock on the door. “Yes?”, I called. My good friend – the court-enchantress – stepped in. “Triss!”, I smiled. “You’ve arrived! How was Aretuza?”. She smiled. “Filled with the grunts and moanings of old men; as per usual. I’ve come to celebrate the princess. I’m in desperate need of some cheer and good times”. I stepped over to give her a hug. “Well then”, I said. “Let’s have them!”. Triss nodded. “Yes”, she said. “But tomorrow – training!”. I scoffed. “I’ll be hung over…”. The enchantress smirked at me. “All the more reason to train. It’ll wake up your brain”.

I hadn’t used my powers for anything serious since my run in with O’Dimm. There had never been reason to. But they remained there; and I knew I had to control them.

Saoirsheen came into the room then. “Your majesty. I was unsure whether you wanted the velvet or the silk gown tonight”. I frowned. “Hel’s ass; can’t I just wear pants?”, I said. Triss laughed behind me. “Come, bard”, she said. “Our Zaba has preparations to make”.

They went to leave through the door. “Jaskier!”, I called after them. “If you sing that song…”. I looked at him menacingly. He grinned at me. “I’ll take my chances”, he winked; and he and Triss left the room.

---

I was standing in my bedchamber; brushing my hair. He’s here. It was like a jolt through my body, just thinking of Jaskier’s words. I wondered if he’d changed. I knew I had. I was older; though only a few years – but I knew that those years on the throne, had rid me of at least some of the rough edges of my former life.

I’d taken my role as queen seriously. My husband had been respectful, even kind. And he listened to me; and guided me through the complicated politics of court life. I recalled how terrified I’d been; standing in front of the grim man at our wedding. Not a smile had ghosted his face at any point of the ceremony. Just hardness. So I had taken him as being that. Hard. Cold. I’d had so much to learn.

Our wedding had been grand. I’d kept from crying my way through it, by reminding myself of the people that needed me to be here. Jaskier had told his most thrilling stories, and sung his best songs – even on my wedding-day I could not avoid The Foulmouthed Princess of the Skellige Isles. It had made my new husband laugh heartily. The first time I saw him smile.

I remembered that night with him – our wedding night – as we had shared a meal in private; before we were to go to bed.

I was picking at my food; heart in my throat from what was to come. And I remembered Geralts eyes before he turned around, and walked out of my life. “My lady”, my new husband suddenly said. Not my queen or my wife. “It is vital to me, that I make it clear, why you are here”. I gulped. “I am at your disposal; your majesty”, I whispered. “I need a queen at my side; and a mother for my daughter”. Foltest drained his goblet, and looked at me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the urge for a bedmate; so, I shan’t be bothering you for that”.

I was flabbergasted; sat, mouth agape. The king took my hand in his own two. “You will have a crown; a home; and public displays of my chaste love. And your cousin and his wife will have my armies”. He looked down. “My heart still belongs to my daughters’ mother; however repulsive you might find that. I hope you can live with me on these terms. If not…”.

I sighed, swallowed; and looked up at him, meeting his pained eyes. “And what of friendship, and respect?”, I said. “Friendship?”, Foltest asked.

“I can live with you on your terms. But I cannot be a puppet to be put on display, whenever it suits your majesty. I wish to be heard; and seen as a queen and woman in my own right”.

Foltest stifled a laughter, and narrowed his eyes at me. “I was told you’d be a handful”, he murmured. “I will treat you with whatever respect you earn from me; and I promise never to be unkind. Should this seem to you as friendship, I have nothing against it. I’ll welcome it”.

I smiled and nodded. “Then you have your wife”.

He put a chaste kiss on my hand. “And you have a husband”.

So, I was queen. And it was good, for many people. My cousin. His wife. Those were less important to me.

But then there were people like Saoirsheen; and others like her; who needed a safe haven, that I now had the power to create for them.

Ajvin and Lysa; and their brood of children. The bard sang and performed as best he could – bringing cheer and laughter to the courts hearts, every time he played a false note.

Filivandrel and his people – whom I’d promised to stop Nilgaard from using me for evil.

Ylva and her pack. She’d never gone back; but in stead was now my greatest protector and personal guard. Flaxon had showed up shortly after the wedding with a sour expression on his lips; and I’d informed my husband of his crimes. “Your majesty; you’d belive this woman over me?”, Flaxon said. “You ask me if I believe my wife – the queen – over you?”, Foltest said. “Yes, Flaxon. I do”. He’d been stripped of his rank; and now spent his days in a Maribor cell. The one I had been placed in myself, those years back.

Five years. Five years of learning and growing. Days of boring meetings, where my husband would roll his eyes at me behind the back of his counsellors. Days of working with Triss; and riding the fields and forests outside Vizima, on my stallion – Bayrd. I’d been a mother. Not to a child I had given birth to myself; but to a teenaged girl with a troubled heart and mind. And I’d guided her, best as I could, with the help of Triss. I would tell her fairytales about moonwraiths and witchers, succubi and bards. And I’d stroked her hair when she could not sleep from nightmares. I loved Adda, and she loved me. But she was difficult.

Saoirsheen joined me in my chamber; carrying a purple velvet gown. “Oh gods”, I said. “Not that one!”. Saoirsheen smiled. “The princess insisted”, she smiled. “Mother looks so pretty in that one, she said”. I sighed defeatedly. “Fine”, I said, and took the bundle of fabric from my ladys hands. Saoirsheen went to look for shoes for me. “Would you like to take a bath before the feast?”. “No”, I said. “After. I think I’ll need it to calm my nerves”. The half elf smiled. “He’s in the courtyard”, she said. I looked at her. “Thank you, Saoirsheen”. She set a pair of shoes on the floor in front of the bed, and took her leave.

I walked to the window; and looked down into the courtyard. I found him instantly.

He was talking to one of the stable-hands; with a very serious expression on his face. The man nodded – looking terrified – and took the reins of a red mare from him; leading it into the stable. “Not next to the black stallion!”, I heard the witcher growl after him.

My breath hitched; and – as if he’d heard me – he looked up. His amber eyes found mine; and I parted my lips – having to remind myself to breathe. Looking at me; his expression was warm and strangely sorrowful. His lips twitched into a smile for a second.

It was as if we stood there for hours; just looking at each other. Suddenly, his head turned; and I saw Jaskier walking towards him. The bard patted his shoulder, and said a few words; before looking up and meeting my eyes with a grin. I nodded at them both; and stepped away from the window.

I had to sit on the edge of the bed for a second; to control my shaking hands. Saoirsheen came back into the room. “The king is expecting you, madam”, she said. I nodded; and begun the task of getting dressed.

Purple velvet; draping over my body; like a 10 layer cake. White, frilly lacing across my chest, and at the bottom of the sleeves and skirt. I put on my necklace – the one with the small frog landing between my breasts. Saoirsheen managed to tame my hair into a somewhat regal style; and I went to join my husband, outside my chambers.

Foltest took my hand and kissed it. “You look beautiful, my queen”, he said warmly. “I look like a fucking dessert”, I said. He chuckled; and led me down the stairs to the great hall.

---

Horns blared when we entered the room. “Yes, yes. We’re here now”, I muttered bellow my breath.

Adda was already dancing; sashaying around a young count, who was having great difficulty in keeping up with her energy. I nodded at Triss, who was in deep conversation with a visiting wizard from Ban Ard - looking terribly bored.

Foltest and I went to our thrones – ridiculous things that I hated sitting on – to overlook the festivities. Adda looked at us and waved, with a grin on her face. Jaskier was playing a happy jaunt; and she skipped over to him, twirling around in front of him. He smiled cheekily; before looking at me. I raised a brow at him, and winked, then gestured at Ylva; who was lurking menacingly in a corner. The bard gave a nervous giggle, and returned his focus to his lute.

“We’ll have to get her married off soon”, my husband murmured. I sighed. “Yes, well… you know how I feel about that”. He frowned. “She’ll have the choice of man she wants”, he said. “I just hope she makes the right one”. I squeezed his hand. “We’ll guide her”.

“I received a letter from your cousin today”, Foltest said; taking a sip from his goblet. I’d turned him on to Skelliger mead. “With 10 barrels of your favorite, I’m guessing”, I said. He chuckled. “You know me too well”, Foltest chuckled. “He sends his best, and speaks of his grandchild”. I clenched my jaw. “Anything in particular?”. I had not seen Eist in years; and knew very little about his and Calanthes grandchild – the child of Pavetta. Pavetta herself, had drowned while travelling from Skellige to Cintra; and I knew that it must have broken Calanthes heart; making her overly protective of the child. “Not much. It grows healthily”, Foltest said. “Good”, I said quietly.

I was deep in thought, when suddenly the king sat up straight. “Is that the witcher? Geralt of Rivia?”. I looked up.

The doors had opened; and there stood Geralt – stripped of his weapons, and looking very uncomfortable. My mouth opened; but I couldn’t speak. “I haven’t seen him since he brought you here”, Foltest said. “Five years”, I muttered. “Yes”, my husband agreed. “I owe him a great thanks for his service”, he said smilingly. I tried to match his smile; feeling very short of breath. “Bring him forward”, the king said to his crier. I dug my fingers into the armrest of my throne; convinced that I’d fall of my seat if I didn’t.

“Geralt of Rivia; witcher!”, the crier called out, and an embarrassed looking Geralt stepped forward. He looked at Foltest, and nodded. “Your majesty”, he said. His voice still sent shivers down my spine – dark and brusque, but bellow it, a great warmth. His eyes met mine; and he got on one knee – bowing to me. Geralt doesn’t bow to anyone. He took my hand; and kissed it – the feeling of his lips to my skin an instant reminder, of where else on my body they had been. “My queen”, he muttered. He stood back up, facing Foltest.

“Witcher”, the king said solemnly. “When I saw you last, I did not thank you, for your protection and care of my wife”. Geralt smiled. “The honor was mine”, he said. Foltest laughed. “Come now, witcher!”, he said. “We both know she can be a bloody pain in the ass!”. Geralt laughed; and I bit my cheek to avoid saying something un-queenly. “None the less, my friend”, Foltest said. “I am honored to have you here for this celebration. Just don’t start any fights, or claim any children”, he jeered.

Geralt looked at me somberly. “Am I to understand congratulations are in order?”. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “No”, I said quickly. The first word I had spoken to him in five years. Foltest took my hand. “Alas, the gods have not blessed our union with any children”. He looked at me meaningfully. I smiled. Geralt narrowed his eyes at me.

Foltest drained his goblet. “Well”, he said. “I brought you forward to thank you, and so I will. Thank you, witcher”. He kissed my hand. “Now; I will go dance with my daughter. Sit with my wife; entertain her. She’s been very bored lately; I’ve noticed”. Foltest got up; and went to join Adda.

Geralt sat down in the chair next to me. We were quiet for a while. “A-are you well?”, I stammered. “I am”, he grumbled. We were quiet for a moment longer. “And you?”, he said. “Yes”, I smiled. Geralt looked towards the floor, where my husband was lifting my stepdaughter into the air; and twirling her around – to great applause and cheer from the guests. Jaskier was making a grimace; and trying to nod approvingly at Ajvin; who was playing his best rendition of The Fishmongers Daughter.

Geralts body so close to mine sent waves of warmth through me. “Does he… treat you well?”, the witcher asked. I smiled. “He treats me like a queen”, I answered. Geralt grunted. “With all that entails…”.

I looked at him and laughed. “Are you jealous of my husband, witcher?”. He scoffed. “What? The sweaty sister fucker?”. I frowned softly. “My husband…”, I began. “My marriage… it’s turned out very differently than what I had imagined. In spite of the sister fucking”. I took a large gulp of my mead. “How so?”. Geralt lifted a brow at me.

I sat up straight; trying to look completely at ease with our conversation. It wasn’t like it was his business – but I felt that he should know. “My husbands… carnal desires, aren’t much to speak of”, I smiled meekly. “I haven’t been with a man since…”. I bit my lip. “Your wedding night”, Geralt said. I met his eyes. “Since you…”. Geralt looked stunned. “Oh!... well…Fuck!”, he said. I smiled. “Well, not really”, I said. He chuckled and nodded. “Right…”.

Foltest came back to sit with me; panting. “I am getting to old for this”, he said, out of breath. “Do you dance, witcher?” “I do not”, Geralt chuckled. I smiled. “You don’t dance. You don’t sing”. I raised a brow at him. “Is there anything you do?”. He smirked at me. “Kill monsters and tame frogs”. I laughed. Geralt stood up and nodded his head at us. “I should go fulfill my duties to the bard”, he sneered. Jaskier was being held against a wall by a baron; who’s blushing wife stood by, looking at the scene. Geralt took my hand, and kissed it again. “Your majesty”, he said softly. He narrowed his eyes at me. “That dress looks ridiculous on you”, he whispered. I chuckled in response. The witcher went to help his friend.

“He made you happy”, Foltest muttered. I looked at him in shock. He squeezed my hand and smiled warmly at me. “I might be old, but I’m not blind”. I looked down. “I want you to be happy, wife”, my husband said softly. I sighed. “He did”. Foltest nodded. “We need drinks and music. Bard! Sing that song we talked about”.

Jaskier – having been let lose by the baron – stepped onto the middle of the floor; and began.

“Once a lady from Kaer Trolde fared, with skin so smooth, and beautiful hair. She held the heart of many a man; but mouths stood agape, when she speaking began.”

Foul mouthed lady, be kind onto me And I’ll be your thrall, I will never flee. Foul mouthed princess, have mercy, I plea And I shall be ever a servant of thee

The foulmouthed princess of the Skellige Isles The foulmouthed princess, the foulmouthed princess, the foulmouthed princess of the Skellige Isles!”

---

I partook in the festivities as long as I could manage; before – with a smile to my husband, and a kiss on my stepdaughter’s cheek – I retired to my chambers. It was good to see him, I thought to myself. He would be gone in the morning.

As she’d promised; Saoirsheen had had the maids prepare a bath for me. I shed myself of the monstrosity Adda called a dress, and was about to step into the tub; when I realized that they’d forgotten to leave towels for me. I didn’t want to call out for help. I hated being waited on; and only accepted Saoirsheens help; because she was more friend than servant. In combination, she and Triss made me feel like I was still in my Tooties warm embrace.

I wrapped myself in a robe; and went to the door, to make my way to the linen closet down the hall. I opened the door; and was met by Geralt. “Saoirsheen said…”, he began. “She said to bring you these”. He handed me two towels – one for my hair, another for my body. I took the towels. “Thank you”, I said, meeting his eyes.

I stepped back for him to enter. He looked around the room. “It’s very different that a tavern”, he said. “Or a wood shack”, I smiled. He grunted a smile back.

I went to lay the towels next to the tub. It was steaming. “I was about to have a bath”, I said. Geralt nodded. “Yes, of course”, he grumbled. “I’ll come back”. He went for the door. “No, please!”, I halted him. “Stay… talk. It’s been so long. The water is to hot anyway”. He smirked. “That’s never been an issue before”, he said. I chuckled. “Five years in a castle and on a throne has made me a weakling, I’m afraid”, I said. “Never”, he muttered.

I looked at him; unsure what to say. “B-but you. You’ve not changed…”, I said. “Never more than what I told you that time”. I have changed. You’ve been a part of that change. He looked at me meaningfully. I swallowed hard.

“There must have been someone else, witcher”, I said. Geralt grunted. “There was… maybe is…”. His expression became tentative. I smiled. “Our lives are different now”, I said. “I always knew… You don’t owe me anything, Geralt. You are allowed to love”. He sighed deeply. “I did love…”, he said; and met my eyes. “As did I”, I answered quietly. He frowned. “And now?”, he asked.

I took his hand, and pressed it to my lips. “You wrote your name on my life”, I said. “As I wrote mine on yours. What we were… are… no one and nothing can change that”. The witcher smiled softly. “What we’ve taken and given”. I nodded. “I can’t say that you will always have a place in my heart; because that would mean that you’d left it”. He grunted, and squeezed my hand.

I sighed. Take it. “There is another place you will always have, though. A place I know you will have to leave”, I said. “But… it will always be here for you when you come back”. He looked at me confusedly. “What do you mean?”, he said. I smiled; and slid my hands behind his neck. “For all your improved eyesight, witcher…”, I said, “… you are blind”. I pulled his face to mine, and kissed him.

It had been so long, but the warmth; the passion… it was all there. Geralts hands found my waist; pulled me to him. “Little frog…”, he breathed. “Always”, I whispered. Our kiss became heated – his warm body familiar; yet new. His tongue tasted like a million unspoken words. Words that he had saved for me; but could never utter. I pulled back.

“You can send me away”, he said. “I won’t”, I whispered.

Squeezing his hand; I stepped over to the door, and bolted it. I felt him moving up behind me; and his hands slid around my torso; as he drew in the scent of my hair. “Still…”, he said. I smiled at the sensation of his warm breath to the back of my head; and turned around to face him again.

I put my hands on his chest. “I want…”, I began. “Yes?”, he said. “I need…”. He pulled me towards him; and slid his finger from my chin; down my collarbone; and rest it by the pendant between my breasts. “Tell me, your majesty”, he smirked. My breath hitched; as the finger slid behind my robe; and found my breast – stroking softly just above my nipple. “Geralt”, I breathed. “Will you let me finish my sentence?”. He chuckled softly; and let his hand cup my breast - his thumb stroking the nub of the nipple. “If you can…”, he said. “Tell me. What is this place you have for me?”.

I took his free hand and drew it down my torso. “Here”, I whispered; and placed it between my legs; letting his fingers find my folds. He groaned as he found me already wet from want. I threw my head back and gasped; almost throbbing already, when his index finger slid between my labia; stroking the path from my nub to my entrance, and back again. “It is a good place”, he smirked. “Then explore it more”, I moaned.

He growled; and pushed me against the door; sliding two fingers into me. “I have missed this place”, he chuckled. “It is warm… slick… always wanting”. I mewled. “It’s wanted you for five years”, I said. He leaned in to me; pressing his fingers deeper inside my warmth. “Hmm”, he breathed into my ear. “That must be why it is so much tighter than I remember”. His palm began massaging my bundle of nerves; drawing swearwords from my mouth, not even I knew I had in me.

Geralt used his free hand to open my robe; and pull it off my shoulders – before dropping it on the floor. “I think the bath is cool enough. Let’s go warm it up again”. He drew his fingers from me – making me moan from the lack of contact – and put them in his mouth, tasting. The look of pleasure on his face; was enough to make me gasp and my tunnel tighten.

“I want to undress you”, I said. He smiled, and stepped back; letting my arms free for my task. I opened his jerkin, and pushed it off his shoulders; making it hit the floor with a bump. Running my hand across his chest; I walked around him. I slid my hands under the hem of his shirt; running them up his back, and lifting the fabric along the way. He helped me pull the shirt over his head.

I gently kissed the scar on his shoulder, where – so many years before – I’d treated his wound from the fight with the foglets. Cinnamon and neem. No chamomile. I felt him shiver under my touch. “Are you cold, witcher?”, I said. “Or do I scare you?”. He chuckled. “You’ve always scared me little frog”, he said. “But no more than now”. I stepped in front of him, and tilted my head. “What are you afraid of?”, I asked. He looked suddenly apprehensive. “That I’ll close my eyes; and when I open them again, you will be gone”. I smiled. “I’m here”, I said. “Now remind me that you are as well”.

Geralts eyes grew dark; and I swallowed hard, remembering what that expression on his face had led to, when we knew each other before. “Bath”, he growled. I gasped as he picked up my naked body; and carried me to the large tub. He leant down; as if to gently seat me in the warm water; but stopped a few inches above the surface – found my eyes, and grinned at me. “Geralt…!”, I managed; before he let go, dropping me into the water with a splash. I heard him laugh as I was resurfacing; and rubbing the water out of my eyes. “You’ll pay for that!”, I snarled; without being able to stifle my laughter. He quickly removed his boots and breeches. “I have the best currency right here”, he smirked; and released his hardness from his pants. My jaw dropped. I have missed you, I thought; sitting face to face with that most cherished part of his body.

Geralt stepped into the tub; making the water splash onto the floor. He sat down facing me; and realizing I was too stunned to move; he pulled me onto his lap, so I was straddling him. His fingers found my folds again. “Remember that night?”, he breathed. I moaned. “I remember many nights”, I smiled, panting. “At taverns… in haylofts… against trees… under the stars”. He chuckled. “You were so angry”. He slid his fingers into me again; his palm against my clit. “So beautiful”. I began riding his hand. “You wouldn’t let me come in the bath”, I breathed. “You made me wait”. He put his free arm around me; and pulled me close. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. “I won’t make you wait this time”, he growled into my ear; and his fingers and palm worked in perfect coordination – pushing and rubbing – until I was just about ready to come.

“Look at me”, he demanded. “I want to see your eyes”. Panting and mewling, I opened my eyes, and met his. His pupils were blown from lust; and his lips were pulled back into a snarl. “Do you want this?”, he asked; and I nodded with bated breath. “Then come for me, your majesty!”. His hand moved faster; and without breaking eye-contact; I rode him into extasy. My loins felt like they combusted; and my walls clenched around his fingers. In the end, I collapsed onto his chest.

He gently drew out his fingers, and removed the hair from my face to look at me. “This I remember”, he smiled. “What?”, I panted. “My well and fucked look?”. He growled. “I haven’t fucked you yet”. I felt his hard cock twitch against my stomach; and I smirked. “Well, as long as you’re here…”, I said. He narrowed his eyes. “Not yet”, he said. “I seem to remember as well; that you have a mouth on you”. I bit my lip. “That fucking lip”, he rumbled; pulled my face in for a kiss; sucking hard at my lower lip. “Get up”, he demanded.

I got out of the bath; my body dripping with water. Geralt got up behind me; his member rigid and wanting. “Bed”, he said; and with bated breath I walked over to the bed; seating myself on the edge of it. “No. On your knees”. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you asking the queen of Temeria to kneel for you?”, I smirked. His eyes were animal. “I’m telling you, woman; to get on your fucking knees and face the bed”. With shaking legs and a pounding heart; I did as I was told. “Good”, the witcher said; passing me to sit down in front of me on the bed. He looked at me for what seemed like forever. Then his face warmed, and he smiled. “Please”, he said. I smiled up at him.

Sliding my fingers around his shaft; I placed the head on my tongue; instantly recognizing the taste of him. I let out a moan; and slid him into my mouth. He groaned above me; sliding his fingers through my wet hair. I ran my nails down his torso; playing with the hair there; before gently cradling his testes. I bobbed my head up and down; never breaking eye-contact with the witcher. He smiled at me so gently; making me feel as if I had never looked more beautiful.

“How many nights I have thought of you like this”, he moaned. “Your hair wild, and your eyes… Shit!”. He cried out, as I took him deep into my mouth, sucking and swallowing; so he would feel the tension around his hardness. “Careful; someone will hear us!”, he breathed. I pulled him out; and pumped his length. “No one will hear us”, I said. “My rooms are empty at night, save for myself – and the occasional guest”.

Geralt looked at me wonderingly. “You said you hadn’t been with anyone since me”, he breathed, as I continued pumping him; and lapping at his tip. “I said I hadn’t been with any men”, I smirked. Geralts eyebrows raised, and he chuckled at me. “You’re always a surprise, woman”, he said. I stroked my tongue from the root to the tip of him. “I like to think of my life as a series of journeys”, I smiled. He placed both his hands on the sides of my face; drawing me to him. “Well”, he rumbled. “Let’s go on another one”.

He met my lips; and let the tip of his tongue met mine; before picking me up by the waist; and straddling me on him. I grabbed at his cock; desperately wanting him inside me; but he took a hold of my wrist; stopping me. “No”, he said. “No?”, I asked. He bared his teeth. “Hungry”, he growled. My eyes widened.

As if I weighed no more than a small animal; he flipped me around; laying me on the bed. He grabbed me behind my knees; and tugged me towards him – the sudden jolt of it making me gasp. He kneeled in front of the bed, and looked into me. “Has it changed much?”, I smiled at him. He exhaled and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to taste it”.

I drew in a breath; and his lips closed around my folds. He stuck his tongue inside me; after which he slid it up between my labia – letting it flicker over my nub. “Still sweet”; he said softly; before diving in again – taking the same route. “But more…”. He paused. “What?”, I breathed. He sent me a wicked smile. “Royal”. I laughed; which soon turned into a mewl, when he once again dove in to me. He flattened his tongue; and stroked it up and down my slit – all along holding my hips down; so I couldn’t move. “Fingers!”, I moaned. I heard him chuckle, and he slipped his fingers into me again; pressing upwards. His lips closed around my nub; and he suckled at it. First softly, then hard – as if he was in fact trying to devour me. My legs began shaking; and I once again saw stars and contracted around his fingers.

As I was still laying – panting – Geralt moved up my body; wiping his face of my juices. “I think I’ll have you now”, he growled smilingly. My breath heaving; I nodded, and spread my legs further for him to enter me. “No”, he said. I was dumbfounded “No? Geralt!”, I panted. He smiled. “I don’t want to use you up to fast”, he said; sliding his hands around the outsides of my breasts. He sucked at my left nipple; while pulling at my right. “I don’t think I ever had you here”, he said.

My lips parted. “No, you didn’t”, I said. “May I?”, he said. I bit my lip; and he groaned; catching my mouth in a brutal kiss; before straddling my waist, and placing himself between my breasts. He pushed my warm mounds around his hardness, and began thrusting slowly. He was careful not to place his full weight on me as he went; but his eyes were wild – the amber staring all the way into my soul. I scratched my nails down his chest, and he growled.

He was pulling at my nipples as he thrusted, sending sparks from them to my core. My small mewls every time I felt one of them, made him smile. “I will have to be careful I don’t come like this”, he groaned. “You were always able to continue quite soon, after you’d finished”, I smiled. “Yes”, he said. “But I want to come inside you”. He lifted himself off me, and looked at me; eyes suddenly soft. “Can you take me?”, he asked “It’s not been long since you came last, and I don’t want to…”. “Just fuck me, Geralt”, I said, and laughed. He smiled widely.

“Do you remember that first night we laid in bed together? At the inn?”. He ran his fingers from my collarbone, between my breasts; all the way down my stomach; ending up in my curls, playing with them. I laughed and nodded. “I thought you hated me”, I said. “I’d just tried to run away; so you tied me to the bed”. He placed himself between my legs; and lifted my knees – leaving me open for him. “That whole night I was pretending to sleep. In reality I wanted nothing more than to press my body against yours, and…”, he slid his fingers between my slick folds, opening and entering me, “… slide in to you”. His breath was warm against my neck, as he began moving slowly; his thrusts soft and swaying.

“I’m not sure I would have tried to stop you”, I breathed; moving with him; his hardness and the delicious ripples of its veins sending shivers through my body.

“It would have been a bad-mannered move of me. I did have you tied up to the bedpost”, he chuckled. I returned his laugh; and gasped as he made a single deep thrust, bottoming out in me with a groan.

“Again?”, Geralt smiled. “Yes, please...”, I said. He kissed me and our tongues met; massaging eachother - as he continued thrusting softly; and then bottomed out again. The feeling made my walls clench - and I came for the third time that night; taking us both by surprise. “Fuck!”, I yelped; making the witcher chuckle at me. “It is good I can still have this effect on you”, he said, letting my walls settle around his member - still inside me. “Are you ready for more?”.

I gasped as he thrust into me again, “Slow and sweet is still not your way. Is it, master witcher?”, I moaned into his ear. “I can go as slow or fast as you want, your majesty”, he said; dark voice almost warning me. I scratched my nails down his back, and locked my legs around his waist. “What about what you want? Why don’t you show me that?”.

He lifted his head, and looked at me warily. “Are you sure? I might hurt you…”, he said. I swallowed. “I want you to do to me, what you wanted to do that night”, I breathed.

His eyes darkened, and he put his lips to my mouth, quickly pressing his tongue between my teeth, and meeting mine. I felt a sting on my thigh, where he was digging his fingers into my skin. His thrusts became harder. “Say it”, he said. “Say you’re sure”. His pupils were blown, darkness taking over in him.

“I’m sure”, I said.

He made a groan, and pulled out of me; the sudden emptiness in my core almost painful from want. He flipped me over with a single hand on my hip; making me lay on my side, and placing himself behind me. Pulling me close to him with one hand; the other one grabbed my wrist, and placed my hand on the bedpost; closing it around the wood. He wanted me to hold on to it; as I had been tied up that night. He grabbed himself, and slid back into me; bottoming out in one thrust. I cried out from the feeling of it.

“Are you alright?”, he asked, his breath catching. “Y-yes”, I stammered. “Don’t stop”.

His arm around my torso; he held me firmly to his chest – putting his hand on my shoulder, so that I was nailed onto him. “I’m going to move now”, he said. I nodded and panted in anticipation.

With a loud groan, he pulled back; and slammed back inside of me – making me feel as if he was reaching all the way into the deepest parts of my being. He made the same move again; this time making me shiver so hard from pleasure, that my hand fell from the bedpost. Geralt grabbed it, and firmly put it back around the wood; clenching it to let me know not to let go. His hand then travelled to my neck, lightly squeezing my jugular. He moved again, slamming into me with a force I didn’t know could exist in lovemaking. My walls began to clench; as Geralts thrusts became more consistent.

His chest-hair tickled my back, making me giggle. “Something funny?”, he growled into my neck. “It tickles!”, I laughed. He continued thrusting in to my core. “This”, he said, slamming into me hard, once, “tickles?”.

I gasped loudly, and followed the sound with a loud moan. He squeezed my throat a little harder. “I’ll show you tickles”, he snarled; pulling out, and flipping me onto my stomach.

He placed both my hands on the headboard; once again making it clear that I was not to remove them from there. Putting his hands on my hips; he forcefully lifted my bottom into the air; and gave it one hand spank – making me yelp in surprise.

“Too much, little frog?”, he said, sliding his hand from my bottom, up my spine to my neck; before grabbing my hair, and turning my head to the side. He leant over my body; his still throbbing member poking at my thigh as he spoke. “I can stop any time”, he smirked; and slid a finger between my labia, tracing the shape of my entrance. I shivered; shook my head and turned it forward – holding on firmly to the headboard. “Good girl”, he whispered; before smacking my cheeks one more time, grabbing my hips; once again bottoming out inside of me. He held himself there, letting me adjust to the sensation.

Not satisfied with his lack of movement; I moved myself forward, and backed up against him again; trying to coax him to thrust. In a sudden movement, he lifted my torso against his; one hand on my breast, the other holding my throat; slightly squeezing. His hold on me was strong, both arms around me like firm logs covered by soft leather; and I melted against his broad chest. His length was still inside me, like a warm rod; forcing me to stay upright. I winced from the sudden sting of his fingers tweezing my nipple; and felt my whole body shiver as his voice rumbled from his chest. “I thought I told you before”, he said. “Don’t play with fire”. “Well, you never did punish me”, I croaked.

In an instant my hands were back on the headboard, his own hand covering them; making me lean forward again. He began thrusting hard, continuously making my whole body jolt forward each time his hips met my ass. Placing his right hand on my lower back; his thumb moved between my cheeks, probing at the ring of muscle there, intensifying the sensation of his thrusts. The muscles in my thighs were seething from the strain of holding my bottom raised. Geralt continued to thrust into me; but realizing my predicament, slid his left hand under me to hold me up – taking advantage of his finger’s closeness to my nub, to tease and rub it. He was now stimulating my entire intimate area.

I could no longer moan silently; my walls once again clenching around him from the sweet sensations of his fingers along with his brutal attack on my vagina. I began mewling loudly, accompanying the sounds of his groans each time he bottomed out.

A thundering current, pulsating to the rhythm of his thrusts, began spreading from my core, throughout my limbs. It was at once a hot and cold sensation, that made my fingers shake, until I could no longer hold on to the headboard, and fell forward; with my face into the pillow.

Suddenly it felt like I shattered. A sweet mixed sensation of pain and pleasure spread into every inch of my body. My legs began to shake, my arms and shoulders jolted – and I opened my mouth; and screamed.

Geralt did not stop. Continuously moaning and grunting, he slammed, slammed and slammed into me; almost lifting me into the air with each thrust, from the sheer force of it.

I was losing control of my limbs, and the growling beast behind me was relentless in his excavation of me - while simultaniously rubbing and teasing my most sensitive spots; to force me to continue orgasming around him - giving him pleasure, and drawing mine out.

Behind me, Geralt roared; and with a final hard thrust into me, he came undone; and fell over me – our bodies still attached. Panting, Geralt lifted the hair from the back of my neck, and kissed it gently, before rolling of me, and onto his back; sliding out of me in the process. My face was still buried in the pillow.

He slid a finger down my back. “Are you alright?”, he asked; sounding worried. I turned my face to look at him; my body still convulsing in aftershocks. I tried to nod, but it disappeared in one of the jolts.

“Y/N?”, he asked, distressed. He pulled me into his arms, stroked my cheek and removed the hair from my face. His fretful eyes searched my own. “Say something!”. “I… can’t move”, I breathed. “Did I hurt you?”, he asked. “N-no”, I stammered. “I haven’t… so much… in a long time... ever...”. I couldn’t finish my sentence.

He breathed a gasp in relief, before laughing at my expression. “I told you”, he said; and pulled me to lay across his chest. “Mhmm”, I answered, my eyelids heavy. “You did. But I wanted it. It was good”. His chest rumbled from his chuckle. “Just good?”. “Hhmmm…”, I sighed, and yawned.

He put his arms around me, and ran a hand through my hair. “Sleep now, little frog. I might want you again in the morning”.

“Hhmnn frog…”, I mumbled – and drifted off.

---

He did have me again in the morning; twice. And then one more time in the afternoon, before I waved him off from my window; his note to me, still in my hand.

Until the next journey, little frog.

---

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