#the witcher fic
wēijī / 危機 (chinese, n.) - crisis or critical moment; the idea that there can be a positive result in a wisely handled risk
geralt/jaskier, rated M for smut. prompt from this post
Geraskier alphabet masterpost | Ao3
Half-asleep and still in that in-between stage where dreams linger and reality hasn't yet fully solidified, Geralt rolls onto his side. He's not sure why he reaches out, but when his hand meets nothing he opens his eyes, looking around the camp with a frown. It's just him and Roach; no sign of Jaskier.
Geralt sits up.
As he listens he can hear the faint sounds of lute strings drifting on the breeze and he follows it, climbing the solitary hill that disrupts the vast, flat landscape. There's an old ruin crumbling atop it, so timeworn it's impossible to tell what it had once been, and Jaskier sits against the weathered remains of its walls, gazing up at the sky as he plucks a mournful tune. He doesn't react when Geralt comes to sit beside him.
"The stars are never this bright in Lettenhove," he says after a quiet moment has stretched between them.
Geralt doesn't know what to say to that, so he sits, waiting for Jaskier to fill the silence again.
Finally Jaskier sets his lute down and turns his attention to the ruins behind them, the moonlight deepening every crag and shadow. His fingers trail over the ancient patterns carved into the stone. "What do you think happened here?" he says.
"Doesn't matter now."
"You aren't even a little curious?"
Geralt shrugs. "Villages die out. Buildings crumble." He thinks back to the words Vesemir had said to him once, when Geralt was young. Everything returns to the earth.
Jaskier looks back at him strangely. "That's really how it all is to you, isn't it?" he says. He presses a hand to the old stone again. "Humans come and go all around you, yet you remain unchanged. The things we care about, the things we strive for; you must wonder what the point is of any of it."
There's something in his tone, an undercurrent of sadness that brings a frown to Geralt's face. He watches as Jaskier drops his hand and turns his gaze back up to the stars. The maudlin air that has been clinging to him for much of the evening is strong enough now that Geralt can practically smell it.
But, Geralt realises as he thinks back, perhaps this storm has been brewing for longer than a few hours. Jaskier has been uncharacteristically quiet since they left Ghelibol days ago. Geralt was too busy enjoying his newfound peace to question if something was wrong.
"What is it?" Geralt says now.
Jaskier sighs and pulls out a letter from within his doublet, the pages worn at the creases as if it has been opened and refolded a dozen times. "My father has found me a wife," he says. "Since I have proven so incapable of sourcing my own. I'm to return to Lettenhove at my earliest convenience so the wedding arrangements can proceed."
"This isn't the first time your father has tried to call you back to Lettenhove."
"No," says Jaskier. He turns the folded letter over and over between his delicate fingers. "But it's one thing to abandon my duties to go gallivanting across the Continent at eighteen, and quite another to do so well into my thirties."
They're the words of Jaskier's father, but still Geralt feels the cold prickle of dread at the nape of his neck, the sinking sensation in his stomach. Jaskier's usual response to word from Lettenhove is to simply toss the letter onto the nearest fire with a laugh or a curse. He doesn't keep it tucked against his breast for days afterwards.
"Are you going to go?" says Geralt, but he doesn't think he wants to hear the answer.
"Is there really anything to keep me here?"
Jaskier looks back at Geralt again then, the fond smile on his face unable to hide the sadness in his eyes. "I know how it is between us, Geralt," he says. "I've spent almost half my life traipsing after you on the Path. My world is indelibly changed for knowing you. Yet for you…" He swallows something back and sighs again. "How could I ever be anything but a fleeting distraction? You probably won't even remember my name once I'm gone."
He doesn't sound accusatory, or angry. There's just an awful kind of acceptance in his voice that hurts as if he's plunged a hand into Geralt's chest and squeezed. It couldn't be further from the truth, the idea that Geralt could just forget him, just go on with his long life as if Jaskier had never made an impact on it. But Geralt doesn't have the words to convince Jaskier of everything he is to him.
Something aches deep inside him at the thought of Jaskier walking away and Geralt being powerless to stop him.
Jaskier is still clutching the letter in his hands. Yet if he was sure leaving was the right thing to do he'd be gone already. Which means Geralt still has a chance.
"I don't want you to be," says Geralt.
Ignoring the familiar, cowardly voice screaming at him not to, Geralt leans forward to close the distance between them, and presses his mouth to Jaskier's. Jaskier stills against him – out of surprise or revulsion, Geralt doesn't know, but what does he have to lose? Jaskier choosing to leave is already the worst thing that could happen tonight.
And if this is their last night together, at least Geralt will have the taste of Jaskier's lips to remember him by.
"You, ah–" Jaskier stammers once Geralt pulls away again. His cheeks are flushed pink. He licks his darkened lips. "Huh."
"Stay," says Geralt. His hand is still cupping Jaskier's cheek, the warmth of Jaskier's skin lighting a fire within Geralt's veins. "Stay with me."
Jaskier meets his eyes, and slowly a grin stretches across his face. "Kiss me again," he says.
Gladly. Geralt pulls Jaskier towards him and this time Jaskier is ready, responding eagerly to each press of Geralt's tongue, each teasing graze of his teeth against Jaskier's lower lip, his hands working their way into Geralt's hair and holding him close until they've both had their fill of one another.
"I've wanted to do that for a while," admits Geralt as he and Jaskier take a moment to catch their breaths, and Jaskier smiles up at him again. It's some effort not to lean in and steal another kiss.
"I'm not sure when it started," he says. Jaskier's fingertips trail over his skin and Geralt presses into the touch. "But do you remember the alp contract on the outskirts of Beauclair? We were there during Belleteyn. As I came back to town you were joining in with the celebrations, dancing with some of the local girls. You had flowers tucked into your hair and looked like you'd never had so much fun in your life. I wanted to kiss the stupid grin right off your face. That was the first time I realised."
There's a strange look on Jaskier's face when Geralt finishes. "Geralt," he says, "that was four years ago."
"So you've made me wait, you bastard." He's laughing as he says it, though, and Geralt grins when Jaskier pulls him in for another hungry kiss.
They sink down onto the grass together. It's clumsy and frantic, hands slipping under each other's clothes to brush against whatever skin they can reach, their bodies rocking together with years of pent up need. Geralt's lips leave Jaskier's only to trail across his cheek; down his neck; over his chest. They don't even bother to properly undress.
When Geralt comes beneath Jaskier's talented hand, he gasps his pleasure into the warmth of Jaskier's skin.
Afterwards, they lie beside one another gazing up at the stars, the only sound now the insects and the gradually slowing beating of Jaskier's heart. He shifts onto his elbow to gaze down at Geralt through dark, lidded eyes. His hair is still delightfully mussed from Geralt's fingers and his unlaced shirt has slipped off his shoulder. Geralt traces his fingers along the pale skin, following the neckline of Jaskier's shirt and teasing it lower until he can brush his lips over Jaskier's exposed nipple.
Jaskier lets out a soft moan above him. "We have got so much time to make up for," he says.
Geralt hums against Jaskier's skin. He'll happily start right now. He rolls Jaskier back onto the ground and their bodies slot together once again.
The letter from Jaskier's father lies forgotten in the grass.
93 notes · View notes
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part three, in which we find out what happened to Geralt and Jaskier. There's softness, but it hurts.
Once again, the song for this segment is Battle Cries, by The Amazing Devil.
Jaskier wakes, and he isn’t alone.
There’s no impossible moment between sleeping and waking, now, no time when he can pretend to himself that he’s back on the Path again, that all the past ten years have been a dream and nothing more, no, he is just-- here, in his goosedown bed with the blue curtains and Geralt’s arm warm around his waist.
The headache hits a second later.
He shoves his face into the pillows, freshly-laundered as they always are (the maids are paid a fair wage, and a clean bed every night is apparently an emperor’s privilege), and groans. His stomach is a sick knot, all of last night’s anxieties and the last decade’s worries tangled up with far too much Skelligan ale and-- and Geralt.
Gods, Jaskier’s missed him.
The witcher’s already moving around, sitting up with a creaking stretch and checking the room for his swords, and the movements are so familiar it hurts. The knot in his stomach has moved up into his chest, his throat, and Jaskier thinks he might start crying again. He wants to. He want to tuck himself up into Geralt’s arms and cry like he did when they passed through another of his brother’s doings, but the ale’s long worn off, leaving him dead-sober and with no good excuse to be sobbing in a lover’s arms -- not a wife’s, not a mother’s, not a husband’s, but only… only someone he loved once, a very long time ago.
Geralt runs a soothing hand down his side, brushing over the thin cotton of his shirt, and clambers out of the bed. Jaskier tries to ignore the way that stings, burying himself further into the furs and ignoring the mess it makes of his hair. He even looks different, lines worn into his face, his hair longer and silver-streaked -- not the man he was, not the bard Geralt remembers.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, guiding him onto his back, and a mug of water at his lips, gentle as anything. He makes a face, but drinks anyways, and heaves himself up to sitting, propped up against the heavy headboard.
Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded limply in his lap, and Jaskier hasn’t seen him look this-- flayed-open in a long, long time. He wants to tuck the flyaway strands of hair behind his ears, wants to smooth out the rough lines between his eyes, wants to pull him down into the softness of a goosedown mattress and forget everything, ever, until it’s just the two of them underneath the furs--
He breathes out, slow, remembering the wind through the winter branches and the faraway sky. “What time is it?”
“Middle of the night,” Geralt rumbles, expression unchanging.
Jaskier drums his fingers against the side of the mug, one-two-one-two-one-two-three, and doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“We should. Talk,” he says, eventually, when the silence has become too heavy to bear, and Geralt finally lets out a breath and settles further into the mattress.
“Do we have to?” and it’s so very Geralt that Jaskier can’t help but bark out a laugh. It feels… foreign.
“I think we do,” Jaskier says, wry, and thumps his head against the stone of the wall, enjoying the coolness against the throbbing hangover. “Why are you here?”
“Redania,” Geralt grunts, and at Jaskier’s sidelong glance lets out a heavy breath and elaborates. “I was clearing up some of the villages near the Pontar when a few of Radovid’s soldiers took me captive. Didn’t know why until they dumped me at your feet.”
“Damn,” but it was really to be expected. It had never been a secret, exactly, that Lord Julian de Lettenhove and Jaskier the Bard had been one and the same, only an uncommon bit of knowledge, and he hadn’t thought that he would need to hide it. Another of his idiocies. Like coming here in the first place.
Geralt is looking at him, sideways, the way he always used to do when there’s something Jaskier isn’t saying, and even a decade later he still has all the witcher’s little tics and tricks memorized.
“You know about my brother,” he says, and Geralt hums, reaches over almost… tentatively, like he’s not sure what Jaskier will do.
Damn it all, and Jaskier grabs him by the wrist and tucks himself into the curve of the witcher’s ribs. Might as well make the best of it, while he still can. “I came here to try to salvage… something, out of all this mess, and once I had I couldn’t get away. Had to do… a lot of things. A lot of them bad. If I’d known--”
“You would’ve come back anyways,” Geralt says, tracing tiny patterns over Jaskier’s ribs.
“--yeah, I would’ve.”
“And you can’t leave now.”
“No, I can’t. There’s--” there’s too many things to count, too many problems, his brother’s generals and the lords used to their privilege and fucking Redania and the rebels and the massive fucking necrophage problem that he hasn’t even had the resources to try to address when had his forces refuse to go anywhere near witcher’s work-- “stuff.”
Geralt kisses him on the temple, softly, and leaves his lips resting there, where the pulse beats fragile under the skin.
“I’m not a good man anymore, Geralt,” Jaskier warns, but there’s not enough of a bite to it. “The things I’ve had to do…” There’s as much blood on his hands as any of the lords he’s learned to so despise, most of it people who placed their trust in his family line and had it flung back in their face when his brother died of a wound from a rusted spike on ship.
Geralt just looks at him, and then hands him the entire pitcher of water. Jaskier contemplates dumping all of it over his aching head, but settles for sipping at it instead.
“You fell in love with me,” Geralt says.
Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
“I was the Butcher of Blaviken. A monster. And you fell in love with me anyways.”
“That I did,” Jaskier breathes.
“You fell in love with half the people we met, and you-- cared. For everyone.”
“Soft-hearted, that’s me.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. You hated what they did.”
“What, the armies?”
Geralt dips his head, slowly. “Them, but the nobility, too. The people who wouldn’t lift a finger to save a starving village, who’d lock an injured witcher out in the cold, who’d… abandon a child in the middle of nowhere. And you loved them, too, because they were people, all the same. You loved me.”
And you loved him, too.”
There’s no need to specify.
Jaskier can’t speak, the words all tangled up in his throat, because it’s not-- quite true -- he’d never been able to muster up any sympathy for the kinds of people Geralt described, but the rest of them -- the lords who cared and the sweet merchant’s daughters with a passion for music and the old countesses and duchesses and queens with spines of steel -- them he’d loved. And--
“He was my brother.” The words are a sob. “He was my brother and I loved him because of it and he had to go and do all of--” there’s a flailing gesture meant to encompass the entire mess the world’s in but mostly only managing to nearly smack Geralt in the nose, “that and then he died and I had to-- had to take care of it, all on my own, and you, damn you--” he can barely breathe, “--you left.”
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved him.
Jaskier loved Geralt more than he’d ever loved anything else in his life and given how many song-worthy (in his opinion, anyway) romances he’d had, that’s saying something special.
It was easy, loving him -- he’d been doing it for four years, after all, but knowing Geralt loved him back, that there was someone in this world who wanted him by their side -- oh, it’s bliss.
The fucking incredible sex didn’t hurt, either.
There was a bit of a ragged edge to it, still -- the wars were still on, and getting worse, the fields sown with blood and salt, packs of monsters ready to catch the unwary traveler. Geralt would hold him bruising-tight sometimes, like he was afraid that Jaskier would be stolen out of his arms by some hungry warg or coin-desperate bandit. Nights like those, Jaskier held him back just at tight, dug his nails into his shoulders and wished with everything he had that he weren’t born into the family he was.
But there’s not much he could do about it, besides singing Geralt’s praises to all and sundry, bringing what cheer he could into the world, tending wounds and mending clothes and being quietly, impossibly, all-consumingly grateful for Geralt’s simple presence when the pain of everything and everyone around him tumbled down onto his shoulders as though it would drag him into the earth itself.
“It’ll be all right,” Geralt offered, under the smoke-stained sky when Valdo started torching Kaedwen’s forests. Rough comfort, but it had been enough. “You’ll be safe.”
“Fuck, I love you,” Jaskier told him, and dragged him down until he could drown out the scent of smoke with the feel of skin on skin.
“You left,” Jaskier says, and he really does start crying now, horrible hiccupy noises that make his head pound, right into the cool ceramic of the pitcher that he still hasn’t let go of. “You fucking left, and I’ve been here this entire time on my… on my own. I had to kill people, Geralt, just to keep the entire world from collapsing into ruin, and you. Weren’t. There.”
The room is filled up with Jaskier’s choked noises, no space for anything else, and Geralt doesn’t seem to want to try. He leaves his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, tucks his face into his throat, and Jaskier cries, really and truly, ignoring the way it makes his head pound, ignoring the way that he’s the Emperor of the fucking Western Reach and he should really be better at this whole etiquette thing right now, because right now he feels like a ragged eighteen-year-old again with only a signet ring and a crappy lute to his name.
And Geralt… holds him. Just as tight as he did a decade ago.
Jaskier cries until he’s hollowed out, an empty thing where his heart used to be, and leans heavily into Geralt’s chest. The witcher supports him, same as he always did. Does. Did. Whatever.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, tatter-edged and soft. “...I’m sorry.”
“Gods, look at me,” Jaskier says, wiping at his nose. “Thirty-three years old and crying like a child. I must seem pathetic.”
“Don’t give me that, I know how you thought of me when we first started out.”
Geralt snorts. “I haven’t thought that in a long time, Jaskier.”
“If this is your idea of sweet-talking me, you’ll have to do better than that.” He does feel better for having had a good cry, more willing to slip into the easy banter between the two of them. They had good reasons for parting, all those years ago, and they still hold up even now, but it still hurts like a knife to the chest to wake up alone, every morning.
To think about how Geralt told him he had to go alone.
Gods, he’s missed him, like he’d miss his heart if it were cut out of his chest, his lute if it were lost.
Geralt rumbles, amused. “Because sweet-talking was how I got you into my bed in the first place.”
Geralt hums, again, and shuffles lower in the tangle of bedding, dragging Jaskier with him. “I’m sorry.”
“Not like that.” He pauses, one of the kind where Jaskier has learned that he’s struggling to reconcile a life without words into grammar and sentences and phrases. “I-- shouldn’t have done it the way I did.”
“I thought it would be… better if we made a clean break. If I let you go, and didn’t look back.”
“And look how that turned out.”
Geralt hums, one of his melancholy ones. Jaskier can’t quite pick it apart this time -- I know and I’m sorry and you’re right, I should have done differently -- it’s never been a common thing for Geralt to admit that he was wrong. “I thought you would have forgotten about me years ago.”
“As if I could forget the man who made me famous,” Jaskier says, and it’s mean to come out lighthearted, teasing, and instead it cracks right through the middle and opens up on the raw insides of his heart, whispered into soft black wool that smells like Geralt does, herbs and musk and monster guts and him.
“I tried,” Geralt admits, blunt as ever.
“Didn’t work, I take it?”
“I never could stop loving you.”
Fuck, he’s going to start crying again.
Geralt’s hand is on his chin, tipping his face up. The room is dimly lit, only the embers in the fireplace and the burned-down candles to show the shape of things, but his eyes are still brilliantly golden, just the same as they were.
He doesn’t think about what he does next (never has, not when it comes to Geralt), just lunges upwards and kisses him, hard and bitter-bright and oh, gods, it’s everything he thought he’d never have again.
Geralt kisses him back, cups a hand around the base of his skull and one around his waist and kisses him, gentles it until Jaskier is panting into his mouth, fingers hooked into the material of his shirt. “Jaskier…”
“Fuck you.” Jaskier hooks his fingers into the row of buttons along Geralt’s front, fumbling them open and nearly shoving the shirt off his shoulders. “You don’t get to just-- show up after ten fucking years and then ask me if I really want to do this--” his hands are on Geralt’s chest now, the skin scarred and warm and so, so familiar, “and you-- you can’t tell me you never stopped loving me and kiss me back like that and then say you don’t want to do this,” and Geralt’s hand has slipped around to cup his cheek again, thumb brushing over the worn skin.
“Damn you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, impossibly soft, and leans in to kiss him again.
Previous / Next
60 notes · View notes
The Devil’s Eye
Geralt of Rivia x Reader
A/N: Here’s a soulmate AU that I felt really inspired for! I know it’s not an update on any of the series but I just really needed to write this while I had the creativity for it.
Also, I’m shocked that I haven’t seen this particular concept done for the Witcher before. Maybe someone else has done it and I just haven't been looking in the right places, but I really thought this would be a more popular trope in this fandom. Be sure to let me know what you think!
Warnings: Character Injury, Reader Injury
Cursed child, they called her. A monster’s mate.
You’ve got the devil in your Eye, child, an old woman had warned her as a young girl.
With a mother dead at birth and a father lost to a monster months later, she almost believed them when they told her she must be an ill omen, a harbinger of bad luck.
(Y/N) wasn’t often allowed near a looking glass, but she had seen it a few times in the water down at the creek. The Eye that made everyone fear her.
Everyone was born with one eye of normal color, and one Eye, the color of their soulmate’s eye. It was how those who were meant to be would find each other. At the first meeting of their gazes, the Eye would fade, leaving each soulmate with two eyes of their own same color.
She was born with a Witcher’s Eye.
Witchers are monsters, everyone would tell her. He’ll be more likely to kill you than love you.
But there were others who pitied her, tried to reassure her, saying it must be some mistake, some accident of Fate, Destiny, or the universe.
Everyone knows Witcher eyes only come in one color. They don’t have a special Eye. It got stripped away from them, along with their humanity.
She didn’t know what to think about that.
As an orphan that everyone believed was cursed, she could only work to earn her room and board, doing chores around the inn and tavern. It wasn’t until the age of fifteen that she met a Witcher for the first time. She had been brushing down a guest’s horse outside the inn when she saw him approaching. Her Eye really was a Witcher’s eye in every way; it had sharper vision than her other, and it did come in handy sometimes.
He drew nearer, and she kept her head turned to the side so that he might not catch sight of her Eye just yet. She wanted to get a look at him first, and she easily got her chance to do so when he paused to read a notice tacked to the wall beside her.
His hair was a deep brown color, and he had a broad jaw. His shocking yellow eyes were unmistakable of course, even from a side glance. Of course, Witchers didn’t really age, but he certainly looked a good deal older than her, and it did worry her a bit. She didn’t feel ready to meet her soulmate yet. But maybe it would be a bond of strong friendship, or a familial relationship? She had heard of that happening before, and it would make sense with what she knew of Witchers and the Law of Surprise.
A medallion hung around his neck, with a wolf emblazoned on the crest. Two swords were strapped to his back, and she shivered at the thought of the monsters he must have felled.
Then, she noticed the scars that marred half of his face, and she turned her face towards him to get a better look. If he was the one whose Eye she had, she resolved not to let herself be frightened of him. She didn’t believe the stories.
He caught her staring, but when he looked at her fully, it was his turn to pause and gape. Their eyes met, but she didn’t feel that telltale warmth that everyone talked about. No, she figured her Eye remained the same.
Eskel, as she learned his name to be, turned out just to be passing through, not fulfilling a contract. She had managed to find a quiet moment to sit with him, as he ate a meal. Her mind was full of questions, but she didn’t know if he would have the patience to answer.
“Go on,” he said at last, through a mouthful of bread, “I can see you want to, so just ask.”
“Do you know who it is?” she asked in one breath. “Who’s got my Eye, that is?”
“No,” came the reply.
“Oh,” she murmured, deflating slightly. Her eyes flicked around the room, and she knew that people were watching her, even though they turned their gazes just the second before she glanced at them.
“Is it true that Witchers don’t have soulmates then? That my Eye is just a mistake?” she asked, more quietly.
Eskel followed her gaze, glancing at the other occupants.
“This isn’t the place to discuss things like that, kid.”
It hadn’t been a no.
“Please,” she said, “I can’t keep living not knowing…” She sat up a little straighter as a thought occurred. “Will you take me with you?”
His brow furrowed and she rushed on before he could say no, as she feared he might.
“I won’t be any trouble! I learn quickly, you can teach me what I need to know about traveling with a Witcher!”
“You’re too young to take along on the Path,” he said firmly.
“Please,” she begged again. “I don’t belong here. You’ve seen the way they look at me. Like I’m cursed. I have so many questions, and you can answer them, I know it.”
After a long pause, Eskel slowly exhaled, almost in reluctant defeat.
“Three years,” he said. “I’ll pass through here again in three years, and you can come with me then.”
“One year,” she returned sharply.
“Two,” said Eskel, a little more firmly, “And that is the final offer. I’m leaving this place at dawn.”
She had sighed and agreed, though a little reluctantly, as he pressed a dagger into her hand under the table as a parting gift. And she had intended to honor that, really, she had. But no sooner had Eskel left the next morning, some of the townspeople who feared and hated her more than pitied her cornered her, accusing her of plotting with the Witcher, and she’d had to flee, with naught but the clothes on her back and the dagger Eskel had given to her.
All that she could think to do was follow the road, and surely it must have been Fate tugging her along, for she soon came upon Eskel, who’d been forced to pause to care for his horse after it had stumbled. Initially he tried to send her back, thinking she had changed her mind and gone back on their agreement, but once she had explained to him, he resigned himself to taking her into his care a little earlier than planned.
“I want to learn all that there is to know about Witchers,” she had told him. “If my soulmate is one, then when I’m old enough to meet him, I want to know how best to help him on the Path.”
And that was the beginning of her travels with Eskel.
She found that it was much easier to have him with her, despite the way that people tended to treat him. At least, people seemed not to care as much about her Eye. When she travelled with Eskel, they all seemed to assume that she was his daughter (nevermind that Witchers couldn’t father children), and that was the cause of her unnatural Eye.
That night he’d told her all he knew of Witcher soulmates. Few Witchers had ever found theirs, but of those who did, they knew that a Witcher’s soulmate would have their mortal lifespan tied to the life of the Witcher. It came at a price, of course, in that killing the Witcher would kill the soulmate, though it didn’t work that way in reverse. Eskel also dispelled some of the rumors about Witchers for her.
“Ordinary people don’t think we have soulmates because they see two yellow eyes,” he’d said. “But that was one thing they just never could figure out how to remove with the Trials. Our eyes change, yeah, but it’s just a glamour. If you look at us in a reflection, you’ll see the truth.”
Surely enough, he had taken her to the river, and in the water, she could see that one eye was Witcher yellow, and his Eye was an earthy hazel color. She had asked if he thought he’d find his soulmate, but Eskel dismissed the question, and she didn’t press it further.
The first two years they traveled together, he never let her come along when he actually faced the monsters. No, she was to focus on memorizing which Witcher potions did what, how to start a fire without magic, and other skills of basic survival. He purchased a steel sword for her, dull though it was, and began to train her in fighting forms.
When she turned eighteen, he gave her a sword of silver and began to let her stay at his side through smaller, less dangerous contracts.
In her fifth year of traveling with him, she saved his life, and she never let him forget it.
“You’re bonded to a member of the Wolf school, I guarantee it,” he’d say every time she teasingly reminded him. “As insufferable as you are, you must be. If your soulmate isn’t a Wolf, I’ll eat my head.”
After that, he had affectionately taken to calling her “Pup”. She pretended to hate it, but it made her feel like family.
At the age of twenty two, she decided it was time for her to travel a bit on her own.
“I’m just not ready to meet him yet, Eskel, and I have this feeling that if I stay with you, I’ll run into him sooner than I’m meant to. Especially if you’re right, and he is a Wolf. It’s time for me to go out on my own.”
Her mentor had been saddened; she could see it in his eyes. But he had understood all the same.
“You be careful out there, Pup,” he said, with a bittersweet smile, both proud and yet reluctant to say goodbye. “And just remember that the doors of Kaer Morhen are always open to you, if you need a place to stay for a winter.”
She promised to keep his words in mind. He had hugged her, pressing a Wolf medallion into her hand, saying the spare would fare best in her care, and then they parted ways.
Without the shield of Eskel’s presence to bear the brunt of people’s odd assumptions about her Eye, she invested in a large, dark hood to hide her face when she went into towns. Of course, she would remove this disguise when she was alone with none but the monsters about to witness her truth. Her Witcher’s Eye did give her an advantage, after all. Though Eskel always reminded her not to rely on it to save her, especially since it would vanish once she met her soulmate, taking any enhanced vision along with it.
Every time Eskel’s words rang in her head, her heart panged with a longing to see her mentor again, and she heavily considered going to winter in Kaer Morhen as he had suggested, just to see him again. But each time, something deep within her said not to; she couldn’t go yet, for if she did, she might meet her soulmate, and it was not yet time for that. So she settled for hoping to see her mentor somewhere along her journeys.
Though their paths did cross on occasion over the next five years, whereupon he would remind her of that offer, she didn’t take him up on it until the end of the fifth year, when she no longer felt that leaden resolve in her gut that had always told her it was not yet time to meet her soulmate.
“Alright, I’ll meet you there this winter. But I’ve got one contract to take care of first, alright?”
With a parting hug and a promise to be cautious, she followed the Path away.
She was packing away her camp in the early morning when a man her age with mouse brown hair and two striking blue eyes burst into the clearing. Her hand went to her blade, until she saw the horse behind him, carrying a slumped figure on its back.
The man, who she noticed carried a lute on his back, paused when he saw her.
“Please, can you help me?” he asked. “My friend, he’s been badly hurt!”
With his help, she pulled the other man down from the saddle. He had shock-white hair, and around his neck, she saw a medallion, same as the one hidden under the neckline of her bodice.
“What was it he was fighting?” she demanded, looking at the man she presumed to be a bard.
When he saw her eyes, he paused. Her hooded cloak was still on the bedroll.
“Bard, what did this?”
He had snapped back to attention, stammering just long enough to convey the information before slipping back into his awed state.
She grabbed the white haired Witcher’s saddle bag and rifled through it, simultaneously sifting through her memories, trying to recall everything that Eskel had taught her about Witcher potions. At last, she found what she was looking for, and set about patching up the unconscious Witcher.
“He’ll be fine now,” she told the bard. “I don’t know when he’ll wake, but he’s going to be just fine.”
Then she stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of her trousers as she finished gathering her things.
“You’re not staying?” asked the bard in disbelief. “But what if-” he glanced down at the white haired Witcher.
She paused, following his gaze, tracing those bold features in her mind.
“If it’s meant to be, we’ll see each other again. I would stay if I could, but I must go.”
Her most recent contract had taken longer than she would have liked, and now if she didn’t move quickly, the pass to Kaer Morhen would close over with snow, and she had promised Eskel she would make it. Keeping her word to her mentor was more important than the off chance that this particular Witcher might be her soulmate.
And so, with one last glance at the Witcher with white hair and closed eyes, she rode away.
“Geralt,” came Jaskier’s voice. “Geralt.”
“What?” he growled, wincing as the light hit his eyes.
“There we are, thank goodness you’re awake at last.”
Slowly, the Witcher sat up, looking around. They were in a clearing, and evidently it had been used as someone’s camp before they had arrived.
“You’re lucky we ran into that woman, or you’d have been much worse off. She certainly knew what she was doing, I’ll give her that.”
Geralt sat up slowly, testing his injured side.
“Woman?” he asked.
Jaskier turned fidgety at that, and merely nodded.
“What color is your Eye, Geralt?”
The question caught him off guard. When they had first met, the bard had been much curious regarding Witchers, and at one point had inquired about soulmates. Geralt had reluctantly told him the truth, once he trusted Jaskier more. But he didn’t know why it was being brought up now.
A strange expression came over Jaskier’s face when Geralt told him the color, but before he could ask why he wanted to know, the bard spoke again.
“Anyways… What are we to do now, then?”
Geralt sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to winter in one of the towns, if any will have me.”
When Jaskier looked at him in askance, he sighed and continued, “I had planned to go to Kaer Morhen. But this injury will delay me.”
Jaskier sat up a little straighter. “What if I go with you?”
“What?” Geralt looked at him oddly.
“What if I go with you?” Jaskier repeated. “I could help you along so that you don’t lose any time.”
Though his first instinct was to dismiss the idea, Geralt paused to consider before he refused. It wouldn’t be the first time he spent a winter away from the keep. But this time… it felt important. Something inside of him said he needed to be there.
So he agreed to the bard’s offer, and they left within the hour.
Damn wyverns. One of them had ambushed her and got in a lucky strike. She’d managed to kill it, but probably injured herself further in doing so. A nearby cave served as a temporary shelter, and she cursed that wyvern all night long as she stitched herself up. She knew she needed outside help. This wasn’t a wound that could be cared for on her own. But the nearest town was too far to turn back. Though the road that lay ahead would be brutal, it was her only option.
Again she cursed the wyvern when she was delayed the next day from debilitating pain. By the afternoon, she forced herself to move on, lest fever set in and prevent her from ever leaving the cave.
She told herself that Eskel was waiting for her, he would be worried if she didn’t show. But would he come looking for her? Or would she be lost on the pass to Kaer Morhen?
Geralt made steady time, with Jaskier along. He would never admit it, but he couldn’t have made it without the bard’s help. Vesemir was already there, along with Lambert and Eskel, who insisted on checking the wound, citing that if it had taken that long to heal, it must be serious.
The other Witcher paused when he spotted the stitching in the wound, as if the pattern were familiar to him, his eyes flicking between the needlework and Geralt’s eyes.
“Who fixed you up?” he asked awkwardly.
Geralt regarded him with a curious expression. “I don’t know. I never saw her. Jaskier said she saved my life, but had to leave urgently.”
A frown appeared on Eskel’s face.
Eskel didn’t answer for a long time, deep in thought.
“What color is your Eye?”
First Jaskier asking him, now Eskel. Gritting his teeth, Geralt summoned his patience and told his brother.
“Why do you ask?” he asked after a silence.
Before Eskel could answer, a commotion came at the entrance, and he was on his feet in an instant. Geralt stood and followed, wondering why his brother was so alarmed.
When he arrived, the sight of the doors flung open was not what surprised him, but rather the woman who stumbled into the keep, clutching her side. Her gaze was focused on Eskel, but he could see clearly that she had a yellow Witcher Eye. And her other eye… her other eye was--
“I made it, didn’t I?” she said with a breathless laugh, and promptly collapsed into Eskel’s arms.
Eskel picked her up, calling her name and cursing when she didn’t respond.
“Come on, Geralt, she’s wounded.”
Numbly, he followed, wondering what the hell just happened.
Eskel told Geralt the story of how he had met her as they dressed the wound.
He didn’t dare ask if she was his. He didn’t want to know. Not until he was certain she would survive.
They did all that they could for her, until they could only wait to see if her condition would change.
Geralt offered to sit at her side through the night, to keep an eye on her fever. He could see that Eskel was distressed, and insisted that he get some rest.
Close to midnight, as the storm outside grew stronger, her eyes opened. She was still very obviously feverish, but she looked right at him.
Their eyes met, and Geralt felt it.
All Witchers were trained to overcome their one weak Eye, the one that didn’t belong to them. Now, he felt the change occur, and he had two Witcher eyes. He watched the yellow slip from her iris until her Eye matched the other. Then, her eyes fluttered closed once more, and she didn’t wake again until morning.
When she woke, she knew something was different. She felt… imbalanced. It took her a moment to realize why. Her problem was the opposite, in fact. Her eyes were now the same. One was not stronger than the other, and a nervous warmth settled in her chest as she recalled a hazy, feverish memory, and realized why that must be.
Glancing around the room, a man with shock-white hair stood at the window, facing away from her. She sat up, drawn to him, but was stopped by a pain in her abdomen.
“Damn wyverns,” she hissed, drawing the Witcher’s attention.
“You need to rest,” he said in a beautiful, deep voice, coming to sit at her side.
Calming a bit to have him nearer, she relaxed back into the pillows.
“I want my eye back, you bastard,” she said weakly.
His gaze snapped to hers, and she wondered if he had misunderstood her humor.
“Hm. Well. It was never really yours to begin with, now was it?”
Then, she laughed so sharply, she felt the stitches in her wound pull painfully.
“I do feel half blind without it,” she said a little more seriously. “But I suppose I should know your name.”
“Geralt. Eskel told me yours.”
She sighed. “I hope I didn’t worry him too much.”
“He’ll be glad to know you’ve woken. I can get him, if you’d--”
“Not yet,” she said, smiling. “I think I’d like to get to know my soulmate a little first.”
He seemed hesitant, unsure of himself, but he nodded, the hint of a smile showing on his face.
“Hm. Soulmate…” he murmured. “I like the sound of that.”
She liked the sound of that too. And she knew that only fools believed that Witcher eyes only come in one color.
Everything Tags: @swanky-batman @captured-memory @jordan-ia @geeksareunique @shelbybyr @decaffeinated--fangirl @ayo-cowbelly @stilllivindue2spite @thatoneartgalsstuff
1K notes · View notes
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Plus Size Reader
Summary: You and Geralt are due for a bath…
Note: i rewatched this series and forgot how much I loved this show and can’t wait for season 2 in December!😁😁😁😁
Warnings🛑: implied smut
There was nothing better after weeks of adventuring and slaying monsters than having a nice relaxing bath…
Especially the ones Geralt insisted on joining you. The two of you crossed paths many years ago when he first became a Witcher, for some reason you didn’t annoy him so he kept you for himself. It took time, but you slowly grew affections for your partner in crime.
It wasn’t long until he had you crawling in his bed and vice versa…
You sighed as you sunk in the tub of warm water, making sure to wet your hair before leaning it on the ledge. Your muscles relaxed instantly, you were insanely grateful this inn was able to keep the water at a decent temperature so you could actually enjoy your bath.
“Starting without me?” Geralt teased as he entered your shared room.
“I couldn’t help myself love,” you chuckled lightly, eyes closed as you went back into relaxation mode.
Geralt hummed deep in his chest, that sound always made you shiver. It was so fucking sexy when he did that, and he knew the affect it had on you. He couldn’t help but to stare at your beautifully naked figure submerged in the water.
What light he had, and with his enhanced vision, he could make out every bump and outline of your curves. He was obsessed with your body.
“Staring is rude,” you called.
“I’m allowed to stare, you’re mine.” he huffed, quickly undressing himself.
“Am I?” you grinned teasingly, earning his low growl which made you excited.
“Do you want me to prove it?” he asked.
“Maybe later, we both need a good and proper wash.” you laughed, but it was completely true.
Geralt chuckled as he got undressed, pushing you forward a bit and sliding in behind you. His hands gently caressed your aching muscles, a hum of satisfaction escaped your lips.
“Love this,” you smiled, tilting your head back looking into his beautiful amber eyes.
“I know my love,” Geralt murmured against my hair line as he laid a gentle kiss there.
You and Geralt took your time bathing, the silence between the two of you so thick, but you two didn’t need to talk to communicate so much to the other. The rest of the night was spent making sweet and slow love to each other…
@the-sky-writes @tamstrugglestowrite @holding-on-to-starwars @kmuir1 @myalupinblack @simpingbutch @halsmultibitch @jeyramarie
493 notes · View notes
Okay so here's a lil' prompt for you
How about some rough foreplay between a jealous Geralt and Jaskier being all "fucking finally you dumb sack of potatoes"
my darling nonie, thank you for your patience, im sorry it took me so long to get my writing vibes back, but we're finally back in business!
Warnings: horny, lil bitey/manhandle-y but nothing past netflix canon consistent roughness, grumpy dumb geralt and jaskier doing his best to get him to use words, lol and swearing.
“You don’t scare me, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed, leaning back against the footboard of Geralt’s bed. They’d been sitting on the floor by the fire in his room for hours now, enjoying the warmth and reveling in the rest that the last few weeks of winter provided. Geralt, of course, had been getting a little antsy, ready to pack up and go, but also reluctant. So of course he had expressed this by being a bit of an asshole.
“I don’t want you scared…” he grumbled, picking at a hangnail and feeling a little bit like an idiot. He couldn’t exactly tell Jaskier how he wanted him, and that was probably the most frustrating thing on his mind that night. No matter what, he was going to keep the bard around as long as Jaskier would suffer his foul moods and emotional illiteracy. But it hurt to have him so close but so far out of his reach and he was constantly angry with himself for continuing to want.
“Then how do you want me? Hm?” Jaskier asked, flailing his arms about, expressing nearly as much frustration as Geralt felt, “Are you looking for a fight? Someone to hold your hand? Would you like me tied up instead? For fucks sake Geralt just fucking spit it out.”
Clenching his jaw, Geralt growled as he did his best not to picture his best friend tied up and desperate for him, “No.”
Jaskier got up on his knees and shuffled a little closer to where Geralt was leaning against the opposite wall, looking something like a praying monk, “Mellitelle, Geralt. I don’t think I can get it through your thick skull that I will absolutely not run and hide or abandon you if you tell me what you’re thinking. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Especially if it’s uncomfortable.”
As Geralt tried to find a way out of the corner he’d backed himself into with words satisfactory to the bard, he made the mistake of glancing at him. Jaskier looked like a romanticized painting in the firelight. His hair glowed in an orangish warmth and the low golden tones made his blue eyes sparkle even in the fading light. It really wasn’t fair. How the hell was Geralt supposed to say anything other than what he truly wanted?
Fear. Fear of rejection, or worse, of Jaskier, thinking it was some ridiculous joke and laughing him off like that couldn’t possibly be what has Geralt so worked up. That was plenty to keep Geralt from telling him exactly what he felt and thought. So he stayed quiet.
“You absolute-” Jaskier grumbled, almost to himself before starting in on a lecture, with animated hands and everything, “Here I am, quite literally on my fucking knees asking you to tell me what’s bothering you - which appears to be about me, so I think I have a right to know- and you just fucking look at me. What the ever-loving fuck makes you think I’m shivering my ass off in this haunted keep for, not getting laid in a warm castle - or even by your brothers down the hall- for anything other than a pathetic devotion to your grumpy ass?! Are you blind? Are you really so self-loathing? Do you just not care? For fuck’s sake, Geralt. Tell me so I can make it better because I’m not allowed to make the leap here! I’m not a sorceress! I can’t just probe your mind to-”
Geralt lunged, not a single thought in his head, just a frustrated need to tell Jaskier what he meant and an inability to do so with words. ‘The first leap..’ Fuck he hoped he’d read that right. If years traveling with the bard and constantly unraveling his riddles was anything to go by, he absolutely had. But the chance of rejection still hung in the air and pushed him near the edge of tears.
His hands gripped the front of Jaskier’s chemise and yanked him closer, so he was almost hovering over Geralt, and he recklessly mashed their lips together. Jaskier had to brace himself on Geralt’s shoulder and for a moment the witcher was terrified he was being pushed away. He was about to let go and quite literally tuck tail and run when Jaskier’s other hand laced its way through the hair at the back of his neck and tilted his head for him, deepening their kiss and adding a little intent to the passion.
Geralt groaned and hauled Jaskier up with him as he clambered to his knees, only breaking the kiss out of necessity but sealing their lips together whenever he could. He’d been given permission. After years of wanting and wishing and guilt-ridden fantasy, he could finally taste what he’d been longing for and self-restraint was rather hard to come by. So he didn't bother.
He crushed Jaskier to himself, needing to know this was real, not just one of his many dreams. In turn, Jaskier hooked one leg around his hips, an awkward position for the two of them standing on their knees on the cold stone floor, but it spurred Geralt on nonetheless. He lifted one knee so the bard was practically sitting on his thigh and rose to stand, kissing and sucking dark red marks on the bard’s jawline and neck. Without a second thought, he used his momentum to slam Jaskier against the wall, trapping him against his own body. Exactly where he wanted him. The bard let loose a soft grunt on impact but dug his nails into Geralt’s back regardless.
“Sorry,” Geralt murmured before leaving a set of angry red crescent teeth marks on the bard’s exposed collar bone.
“None of that, I’m in heaven,” Jaskier gasped, rolling his hips against Geralt as he rested his head back against the wall, “Fucking finally.”
Geralt made a confused grunt, not entirely too concerned with the conversation as he worked on untucking Jaskier’s shirt, clumsily and forcefully yanking it over his head.
“You thick sack of potatoes, I’ve been flirting with you for years. Fucking claim me already,” Jaskier gasped, gripping Geralt’s hair and pulling him back to him in a punishing kiss.
If there’s one thing Geralt was good at, it was following orders. And he followed this particular order with hitherto unmatched enthusiasm, in Jaskier’s words, “going above and beyond the call of duty.”
443 notes · View notes
The Death of Me
Pairing: Geralt x reader
Word count: almost 4K - big whoops!
A/N: This was totally meant to be a drabble / blurb, but the story got away from me! A huge thanks to the sweet anon who submitted this prompt - I was beyond inspired and chuckled warmly throughout the entire writing process. This baby isn’t proofread so thread lightly!! I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this one :’)
Prompt: Heya! I saw your post about wanting to practice writing short stories so I have a small prompt for Geralt! What about: the reader and Geralt have always had a difficult relationship, always running into each other at the most inconvenient moments and hence disliking each other. However, while Geralt is passing through a village the reader comes barging into his room bloody and near death, only getting a chance to say “I didn’t know where else to go” before collapsing. I would be honoured if the idea inspired you :3
You’d never considered yourself unlucky but lately life had a funny way of throwing you for a loop, or rather, throwing you to the wolves. One wolf, actually. A damn, irritating, and arrogant white wolf.
At first, it was all business. You’d arrive in a village itching for a contract, only to find that a “legendary witcher” had already come through and taken care of every monster within a two-days ride. Furious, hungry, and broke, you set out determined to get as far as you could and as quickly as possible. Your determination got you far enough that you’d managed a full three months of contract work, but not far enough it seemed.
You’d been on your way to collect payment from your latest contractor when you’d heard the buzz on the street; a witcher had come through asking about work, and had been told to wait and see as someone else (a woman! A human woman!) had already committed to the case. Apparently, he was either incensed or bemused at the idea – the brute was very hard to read, so say the town gossips – but it didn’t matter to you. You beat him to it and now you get to eat. When you finally met with the contractor to collect your coin, you couldn’t help but swell with pride as they thanked you, eyes wide, for taking care of a monster no human ought to be able to handle. You could have sworn your pride had given you wings as you floated out of the inn.
That is, until you heard them mumble under their breath, “Thank Gods that lass was able to handle it! Had it been the witcher, I would have had to pay triple!”
“Thank heavens for cheap labour!” whispered their partner, raising their glass to cheers their big victory.
Suddenly whatever weightlessness you felt transferred onto your coin purse. Biting hard on your cheek you pushed up your chin, determined to remain dignified. But then you saw him.
Impossibly broad chested, rippling muscles evident beneath his leather armour, with golden eyes that reflected back to you with a cruel playful nature that made bile rise in the back of your throat. He held your gaze and raised his own tankard to you as you walked past him. His deep voice rumbled through you as you pushed the door open.
“Cheers to cheap labour,” you heard him say, and swore you could hear the smirk on his full lips.
Groaning furiously, you pushed the door so hard it swung back and slammed shut behind you with such force a flock of birds took off somewhere in town. Undeterred, you stomped off towards your horse and set off at a gallop.
I’m going to make sure I never cross his fucking path ever again, you thought searingly.
You were wrong it turned out, but how were you supposed to know that?
You’d gone years without actually seeing him again, but that didn’t mean you were free of him. You’d alternated winning and losing contracts to each other, and the pressure of beating him to the next one stressed you so fiercely you developed ulcers. That alone would have been enough to push you to murder had you not heard from another witcher that their brother, the great white wolf, was losing sleep trying to keep up with you. Knowledge of this fact spurred you on; after all, if you couldn’t beat him, it’s best to be even, no?
The next time fate brought you two together, though, you could not have been farther from on top. What made matters worse, is that you weren’t even in battle when your paths crossed. Your literal paths just simply… crossed.
You’d been riding east for many days and just as many nights. You were tired, sore, and somehow still soaked to the bone despite the fact that the rain had stopped at least a day ago. You were so tired, your muscles seemed heavy in your limbs, and you had to keep blinking hard to bring the spinning world around you back to its axis. As you rode through an intersection on the trail, the sun peaked out from behind the thick curtain of clouds just long enough to pull you fully into sleep, and right off your still-moving-horse’s saddle.
You honestly didn’t remember falling asleep, or off the saddle. You also had no memory of the moment another traveler, who was riding towards the intersection on the other trail, leapt off his mare just as you started your descent and caught you before you could split your skull open on one of the many rocks sprinkled throughout the street. You had no memory of the way he’d pulled you off the path, leading both horses behind him as he’d carried you over his shoulder. Zero recollection of him laying you down on a bed grass, tying your horse to a nearby tree, lighting you a campfire, or filling your pack with some bread and meat.
What you did remember, was the arrogant look on his face when you finally woke up. The condescending tone he took as he reminded you that you were ‘only human’ and had to take care of yourself accordingly was also seared into the annals of your memory.
You hated that he’d saved you almost as much as you hated the fact that you’d been asleep around him. Completely vulnerable for God knows how long and he’d been there to witness it all. Whenever the memory of the look on his face or the way he’d crossed his arms and tilted his stupid head as he condescended your humanity came to you, you couldn’t help but cringe even months after the fact.
Your saving grace came a full six months after your damned damsel in distress moment on the trail.
Well fed, well worked, and well travelled, you were taking your time enjoying the market in your town of the week. The work you did wasn’t glamourous, but it did allow you the means to afford a few luxuries every now and then. This time, it just so happened that your coin could buy you the sweetest gift of all: revenge.
The market was busy as ever, you could barely hear yourself think over the cacophony of voices and animal bleats bouncing around the square. Had it been anyone else, the conversation would have been lost among the noise around you, but when that voice came rumbling through the mess of shrieks and shouts, you couldn’t help but seek out the source. You didn’t know why you cared or why you were so surprised to find that the voice’s owner was none other than the White Wolf himself.
“You good?” you asked, making sure to tilt your head, hands on your hips, the same way he’d done the last time you’d met.
“Fine.” He practically barked, not even turning his head fully to address you directly.
The merchant, none-too-concerned with your arrival on the scene, continued as if uninterrupted. “I’m sorry Mr. Witcher, sir, but I can’t go any lower. This is the best I can offer.”
“I can’t pay that much,” he grumbled, hands closed into tight fists.
“Is this enough?” you interjected, knowingly offering forward far too many ducats.
“Y-yes!” breathed the merchant, looking quizzically at Geralt before picking three coins from your open palm, “thank you, madam...”
“Y/N,” you introduced yourself with a warm smile and a nod.
“Y/N!” Geralt hissed, at the same time, reaching out to push away your hand a fraction too late; the vendor was paid, and you’d won this round.
“What is it, Witcher?” you teased, as the vendor took his sword back for repairs, “been on vacation? Why so skint?”
“Been low on work lately,” he replied coolly, cat-like eyes boring into yours, “not as many contracts as there use to be.”
“Well, I’ll be,” you said, cocking your head to the side and pursing your lips in mock contemplation, “I can’t imagine why that’d be the case! Seems I keep running into monsters to kill.”
“Mmhm.” He hummed, narrowing his eyes at you.
Refusing to let him have the last word, you quickly turned on your heels and high-tailed it out of the market, shouting over your shoulder to the blacksmith to give any change back to Geralt before disappearing back into the crowd.
Being even should have brought peace between the two of you but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Your last interaction only fanned the flames of your rivalry. As the months turned to years without coming upon each other again, you still found yourself filled with unreasonable anger whenever you saw a mop of white hair cross you on your travels.
And not that you’d know it, but it turned out that Geralt wasn’t faring any better; finding himself frustrated and acting recklessly whenever he’d come upon anything that reminded him of you.
You were both completely obsessed with one another. Thoughts of the other constantly on the mind. Whether in waking or in dreams, you were both equally afflicted by an intense need to outperform, out run, and also, inexplicably, to impress the other.
It was that need to impress each other that led you to accept a contract you should have never even considered taking. You honestly wouldn’t have even considered it had the circumstances been any different but you’d been hearing about this monster for weeks on your travels. Tales of the mighty griffin tearing people to shreds had been circulating far and wide on this side of the Yaruga, and honestly, with every retelling you’d expected to hear that a witcher had handled it, but that never happened. You’d somehow managed to arrive at the village at the source of these stories before him and had an opportunity to literally rob him of this victory.
Granted, you were the only one who’d been attributing him with this win, but that didn’t matter, not to you. The only thing you cared about when accepting this particular contract was the knowledge that by taking it, you were preventing him from having it, and that was more than enough.
The shock on the villagers faces when they saw you accept the contract only added to your already inflated confidence. The sheer size of the griffin’s wingspan humbled you a little, though, and whatever grand illusions of an easy victory you’d carried into the forest were squashed along with a couple rib bones only moments after engaging the beast. In short, you were fucked.
Some might say that coming out of it alive was enough of a win. Those people would be morons, you thought as you stumbled clumsily back towards the lights of the village, clutching your split abdomen with both hands and blinking back blood dripping from your forehead. Every step you took came with the stabbing pain of additional tearing around your wound. You could barely think, your ears were blocked and caked with dried blood and dirt, your tears stung as they fell across the gashes on your cheeks, and every breath in felt like it could be your last. You’d never admit this out loud, but a part of you wished the creature had finished the job.
Perhaps the only saving grace here was that in your condition, you couldn’t hear the villagers as they pointed and gossiped. You didn’t hear the “told you so’s” or the lewd shouts coming from the drunk men as you stumbled into the tavern. You could barely hear the disappointment in the inn owner’s voice as they reprimanded you for accepting a contract, they knew you couldn’t complete. Rolling your eyes, you pushed your way towards the stairs as quickly as possible – which, as it turned out, was not so quick, praying that someone would call you a healer.
“… and to think a witcher arrived only hours after she went off to kill herself! Tsk-tsk!”
You stopped dead in your tracks, drops of blood falling across your brow as you interrupted the momentum you’d been building. “W-what?” you croaked, turning towards them as much as possible to make sure you’d hear them correctly.
“Yeah! And not just any witcher, lass, the Butcher of Blaviken no less! Checked in with us just as you head out. Had you waited half a day you could have saved yourself a world of – ‘ey! Now where’s she off to?”
As you registered this news, something inside you snapped. Before you knew what was happening, you’d made your way upstairs and started pushing your full weight onto every door you passed. The great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was certainly arrogant enough to leave his door unlocked. You might have been wrong about the griffin, but you’d be damned if you were wrong about this.
Fortunate or not, you weren’t wrong about this. As you pushed your shoulder against the last door with whatever strength you had left, the door swung open with very little resistance. The heavy wooden door slammed loudly against the wall at the exact moment that your limp body crashed onto the floor.
“WHAT the fuck!” Geralt howled, leaping off the bed and onto his feet. His wild eyes assessed the situation in an instant, and he bound to you in barely two strides. “What the fuck did you do? What happened?” he asked as he flipped you over, so gently you were sure you’d already passed out and were now dreaming. Or maybe the blood loss was finally catching up to you and you were full-on hallucinating.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, before losing consciousness in his arms.
Regaining consciousness was a slow, painful process. You’d come in and out of it a handful of times throughout the night, and flashes of what you’d seen before you lost it were coming to you in an almost dreamlike haze; terrifying images of the furious griffin, its blood-soaked talon shining in the setting sun as it reared back to strike you again, and warmer visions of Geralt, shirtless, running towards you with – could it be? – genuine concern in his eyes.
Now as the rising sun cast its glow across the room, you squinted painfully against the light. Your head felt as though it was full of cotton; heavy, and scratchy, and unnatural on top of your shoulders. Hesitantly, you ran your tongue over your teeth and were equal parts relieved to find them all there and disgusted at the acrid, mineral taste the blood left behind. Blinking slowly, you tried to bring up your hand to rub at your eyes, but stopped short as you felt the large bandage draped across your forehead.
Slowly, you started to register the other bandages, on your arms, your cheek, across your abdomen. Your eyes grew wide as you finally registered the man facing away from you in the far corner of the room. Geralt’s broad strong back was hunched away from you as he rifled through herbs and small glass vials looking for something. Inexplicably, you found yourself disappointed to see he’d put his thick black tunic back on. Horrified by that realization, you literally gagged, startling Geralt and pulling his attention squarely onto you.
His big dumb beautiful face was all hard lines as he looked you over, stern eyes flashing to meet yours before dropping back down to the vial in his hands. You couldn’t help be notice the way the muscles in in jaw rippled and tensed as he sighed. He was oozing disappointment and anger, and that infuriated you.
“Am I dead?” you ask, squinting at him a little theatrically as you squirmed and winced in your bed.
“No.” he practically growled, his body tense as he made his way towards you slowly.
“Oh,” you breathed, bringing your eyes up to his before adding, “this isn’t hell?”
To your immense satisfaction, his stern eyes widened into shock, but then something unrecognizable flashed across his features – wait, was he hurt?
“Why, because I’m here?” he shouted, as if in confirmation of your hunch, and slammed the damp cloth he’d been holding back into the basin.
“No, jackass,” you retorted, pleased that despite the position you were in, you still had some semblance of an upper-hand, “because a griffin fucking fileted me like a fish and some poor drunk is probably downstairs slipping in a pool of my blood right now.”
You’d kind of hoped that he’d laugh, or at least have a comeback geared up for you, but Geralt just stood there staring at you, his mouth in a tight line, nostrils flaring.
Uncomfortable by the intensity of his stare and the silence accompanying it, you decide to continue to poke the bear.
“Come on, what’s with the face, Geralt? Pissed I’m still alive? You know you could have just closed the door over my body, let nature finish the bloody job.”
“Fuck, no! Y/n!” he screamed, startling you out of the attitude you’d put on, “I’m pissed because you’re an impossibly difficult woman hellbent on killing herself! I’m pissed because you don’t seem to fucking care about what happens to you! You can’t keep doing this Y/N! Because one of these days you’re going to get hurt and you’ll be too far away from me and I won’t be able to fucking save you, again! I am pissed because I am losing my mind spending every god-awful day wondering if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed! Fucking hell, woman! If you didn’t find me – I-if I wasn’t here, with these herbs – Damnit Y/N!”
You just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You couldn’t believe it. You didn’t know what to say. This man, your nemesis, was in front of you pacing back and forth, breathing heavily, looking like a maniac. His nostrils were flaring more than the monster that almost killed you just yesterday. Part of you wanted to correct him and demand he never address you as ‘woman’ again, but his wild earnest eyes kept you quiet. My god… was he crying?
Before you could say anything, Geralt sighed gruffly, ran his large hand over his face and stormed out, mumbling something about needing to get you more water.
Left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop yourself from spiralling. You’d expected him to be angry – hell, you wanted him to be angry! You’d humiliated yourself twice over, enraging him would ease the blow – but this was… different. He seemed genuinely concerned about you. And what was with his whole speech? He spent every day thinking about you? Worrying about you? There’s no way.
Sure, you thought about him daily, but that was out of spite! You hated the man! Why else would your heart race whenever you thought you spotted him in a crowd? Why else would you actively seek out the most dangerous contracts? What, like you were hoping these contracts would draw him out, and therefore, closer to you? As if!
Your ridiculous inner monologue was interrupted by Geralt’s return. The horrible brute knocked gently on the door before stepping inside, and your heart had the audacity to skip a beat.
Oh, you thought, fuck.
“I need to change the dressing on your wounds,” he grumbled, not meeting your eyes. You nodded wordlessly as he settled onto the chair next to you. You watched him work in silence, praying he would attribute your insane heartrate and flushed skin to a pain response from his work.
“Geralt?” you tried, chewing nervously on your cheek, as was just finished up with the last of your dressing.
“Hm?” he hummed, keeping his eyes cast down as he fussed with the bandage on the gash across your abdomen.
“Thank you… for saving me.”
He finally brought his gaze up to meet yours, but said nothing in return. He merely grunted in acknowledgment. You didn’t know why, but his silence in combination with his inscrutable gaze encouraged you to keep talking.
“I honestly only took this contract because I didn’t want you to have it,” you admitted bashfully.
“What the fuck? No one was taking it because they weren’t paying nearly enough! Hell, and you’re just a human,” he fumed, throwing up air-quotes as he said it, “so what – they offered you a third of nothing?”
Laughing lightly, you shoved him with your elbow, “they offered me three whole ducats!”
“Oh, wow,” he laughed, low and rumbling, “so a big pay day for you, eh?”
“Shut up,” you gasped as pain rippled through you with each peal of laughter, “knowing I could screw you over was payment enough!”
“Well congratulations are in order, you did manage to screw someone over,” he chided.
“Me,” you stated dryly, gesturing widely at your busted up body.
“You,” he echoed with a sigh that seemed to deflate him.
He suddenly looked so small, sitting there next to you. You watched him as clenched and unclenched his jaw, rubbing his large hands up and down his thighs – was he anxious? You mind raced as you felt his eyes travel slowly up your body. You held your breath as he worked up the nerve to finally bring his eyes up to yours.
The moment his eyes landed on yours, something shifted. Whatever had been lodged uncomfortably between the two of you all these years had finally clicked into place. This change, albeit small, was palpable. His eyes dropped to your lips and lingered there. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like he was afraid he might never see you again.
Without speaking, Geralt inched himself closer to you and reached a tender hand to tuck your hair behind your ears before cradling your face.
“You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?” he whispered, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb.
You gave him a quick nod and brought your hand up to his, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm before giving his hand a quick kiss.
“I need to hear you say it,” he begged, bringing himself even closer to you.
“I do,” you breathed, trying to sit up to bring your face closer to his. “I’m not going to die, not on your watch, but I’m also not quitting.”
“No! If I quit, you’d get lazy. Who’d push you? What would be your driving force?”
“Wow,” he scoffed, looking at you incredulously but fondly, “you’re so fucking arrogant.”
“And yet…” you said, quirking a brow flirtatiously as you pulled him closer by the collar.
“… and yet?” he murmured, letting himself be pulled closer to you. His eyes half-closed and his lips slightly parted.
“You love me.”
“I love you.”
And then he kissed you. His mouth claimed yours urgently but his hands were ever gentle, ghosting over your bandages and caressing your skin with a feather-light tenderness that would have brought you to your knees had you not already been bedridden. Any hesitation or doubt melted away under the heat of his touch as all those years of tension sprung apart catastrophically. The knot you had carried in your stomach unfurled into flittering fireflies, their heat traveling up your stomach to your chest as his hands worked their way into your hair.
You didn’t know when they’d fallen, but you let out a shaky laugh as Geralt kissed away the tears on your cheeks, his thumb swiping at the tears his soft lips failed to catch. Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against yours; his hands cupping your face as yours captured his.
Gods – this man was going to be the death of you.
352 notes · View notes
The witcher pirate au where Geralt and Yennefer are captains of two rival ships and are constantly fighting each other.
-Then one day they have this really violent fight where it’s like “all hands on deck” and canons are firing everywhere and it makes such a commotion that it wakes a sea monster. (like a siren queen or something) and they’ve stumbled near the cover where it has its lair and it’s full of treasure and stuff.
-And they fight this monstrous creature and take it down together and they’re like “wow you’re actually not total shit when we’re working together”
-But then just after they’ve landed the killing blow they hear crying and they look over to the treasure pile and in the middle they find a treasure chest with a baby inside (Ciri) that the creature had been using as a cradle or something idk
-so Geralt and Yen still lowkey hate each other but now they have this baby siren that they just orphaned and pirates are very superstitious so it would be a really bad omen if they just abandoned it. So they become joint-custody parents of this baby siren.
-and it’s like the super passive aggressive kind of divorced parents relationship but they need to work together to take care of this baby that they somehow adopted and both of them are absolute shit at caring for a child, especially a baby siren.
-like Ciri is three years old and Geralt is trying to teach her how to steer the ship or letting her sit in the mast lookout when he needs a break and his First Mate Jaskier and kind of co-parent is just horrified all the time and constantly saving baby Ciri from certain doom as a result of Geralt having no brain cells for being a responsible adult.
-and Yen isn’t much better. she’s like “you’re what, four? that’s old enough to use a pistol, here, kid” or teaching her shit like how to interrogate a prisoner at the age of four.
-But they both really love Ciri and learn as she gets older how to take care of her properly. But they’re still rivals so some of their meetings to swap custody of the child start to escalate.
-like we’re talking Yen attacking Geralt’s ship with a full on assault and then climbing aboard and holding Geralt at gunpoint and being like “where’s the baby, bitch, it’s my month to take care of her” and Geralt picking up Ciri for his turn and just “accidentally” tipping off the Redanian government to the notorious pirate Yen’s location.
And Triss and Jaskier are both Very Tired™ First Mates that are secondary parents to Ciri cause they’re in a relationship with the Captains and they are the only thing actually making sure that Ciri is raised properly
-and both Geralt, Yen, and their crews agree, when Ciri grows up she is going to be an absolutely terrifying pirate queen.
479 notes · View notes
Summary: You finally muster up the courage to ask Geralt what you’ve been craving... needing. You desire the animal in him to be unleashed. (1st person)
Warnings: angst if you squint, Dom!Geralt, Sub!Reader, manhandling, rough sex, vaginal penetration, ￼dirty talk, breeding kink, ￼choking
Title: “Drink Me”
Word count: 816
Note: dedicated and written for my beautiful friend @hylian-hoe 💗
His hand dragged across my thigh, his growl still echoing in my ears. His fingers left an unseen trail of fire in their wake, causing a shiver to dance up my spine.
“G-Geralt?” I asked, trying desperately to push my nerves to the side. I wanted this, needed this.
He only let out a gruff in response, not once taking hips lips off of my midsection, fangs dragging across my ribs. How was I supposed to be able to ask this of him, let alone think at all with his distractions? I sucked in a breath as he lightly bit down on the bones.
“Speak, girl,” he commanded, lifting his eyes to mine. I was captivated by him. I had been from the moment we’d met all that time ago. His honeyed eyes flashed as he spoke once more. “Patience is a virtue I do not have- not with you. If you think I can’t sense how whatever thoughts that roam your pretty head make you feel, you’re mistaken.”
Heat spread across my cheeks at the bluntness of his words; and as I did know. I knew how he could SMELL me. Scent what just thinking of him did to me.
“Drink one of your potions,” there was no point in holding back my thoughts from him.
A roll of shock flashed across his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Only his blank expression with amusement flaring into his fiery orbs. “A potion? What makes you think you could handle me in that state?” As a new wave of heat flowed through my core, a noise grew in the back of his throat. “I see. You want me to TAKE you,” his already earthy voice was somehow even more coarse.
He rose from where I laid against the thin mattress, leaving my body cold and utterly empty. I couldn’t help the whine that escaped my lips. An amused grin splayed across his face, the slightest dimple forming. It so rarely happened that it always left me awestruck. He began striding towards the door of the bedchamber. “Do not move, girl.”
My hands clutched at the sheets as I waited but he returned as quickly as he had left. The only difference being the vial he held in his hand, the ominous black liquid sloshing against the glass. My thighs involuntarily squeezed together in anticipation as I watched his head tilt back, the muscles in his neck contracting as he swallowed.
It never took long. I watched the veins under his pale skin work, dispersing it through his body. He had his back turned to me as he pulled the tunic he always wore under his armor over his head. The shinier skin of scars that adorned his back captured my eye- a constant reminder of just how strong he was.
By the time his britches hit the floor and he turned to me, onyx clouded his eyes. Deep veins branched from around them and-
The length of him.
He snarled as I watched him move towards the bed, determination laced in his step. I hadn’t realized I had propped myself up onto my elbows until he shoved me back down, calloused fingers ripping into my nightgown. I was bare beneath him, my reflection bouncing off of his twin back orbs.
He didn’t give me the moment to prepare myself as he pried my already quivering legs apart, shoving himself deep into me. A rough hum of satisfaction formed in the back of his throat, a gasp releasing from mine. His movements were steady, but powerful; each one jarring my body.
One of his hands clutched my hip, lifting the lower half of my body off of the mattress with ease. I whimpered as I felt him plunge even deeper than before. My eyes began to drift shut each time he hit that overly sensitive area that only he could access.
They quickly reopened when I felt a hand grip my jaw.
“Look at me while I fuck you.”
I didn’t dare speak, but I held my gaze. I felt his pace quicken and hand sink to my neck, his index still lingering on my jaw. The light pressure causing me to quiver and clench against his throbbing cock.
My breaths came out ragged as I felt my lower stomach begin to constrict. It was the sounds he made- the deep grunts and growls of pleasure- that sent me over the edge. My cunt desperately clung to him, his nails on my neck and hip softly digging into me as I felt him exhale.
The feeling of his hot cum was relieving inside of me. And I knew he would continue his lax thrusts, ensuring that not a drop left me. I only then realized he allowed my eyes to drift shut, reopening them to his dark gaze watching my every move.
Taglist: @tinystudentfirepurse @summersong69 @mansaaay @mazeltovcocktail555 @myloveforhenrycavill @griscka75 @madbaddic7ed @tuckersgirl @fangirl199812 @beck07990 @pandaxnienke @kebabgirl67
798 notes · View notes
U asked for prompts so how 'bout Jaskier trying to learn about herbs and getting his Geralt to explain them to him.
My darling dear. I apologize for taking so long. I took prompts then fell into a pit of self doubt. But I ended up having a great time writing this for you, my favorite :D
I did riff on it a little bit though.
It is a story about Geralt trying to court, and Jaskier missing it completely. A bit of moronsexuals and lot of sweetness.
THANK YOU FOR THE WONDERFUL RESPONSE. AS A RESULT OF YOUR LOVELY FEEDBACK, IT IS NOW ON AO3.
Jaskier leaned against the counter and idly fingered the sachet on the cord around his neck. He had been doing that so much lately, his hands were beginning to smell like flowers. He barely noticed. There was just something about the rhythm, the rub of the scratchy burlap that soothed him.
He watched the gray haired herbalist scoop the medicinal smelling paste into a jar, screw on the lid with efficient flicks of his wrist, and hand it back to him. “That’ll be one oren.”
Jaskier reached for his coin purse. As he did so, the man’s eyes settled on his sachet. “Do you want to take something for your intended as well? A spring bouquet perhaps? I can give you a fair price.”
Jaskier stopped rooting around in his coin purse and looked up at the man. “Intended?”
The man chuckled softly. “I’m from Gwenllech. I recognize a lover’s sachet when I see it.”
Jaskier’s hands froze. He released his purse and slowly traveled up to touch the sachet around his neck again. His fingers rested there doubtfully.
“You don’t mean...”
The man tilted his head like a question mark. When Jaskier just stared at him stupidly, he shook it. “My mistake, son.”
He reached for a coin Jaskier had dropped onto the counter. When the herbalist turned his back to place it in the till, a whiff of panic seized Jaskier. “Wait!”
The man turned back around with a raised eyebrow at the ready. “Yes?”
“This is...a lover’s sachet?”
The herbalist shrugged. “Smells like it from here. Looks like it. But you know better than I.”
Jaskier played back a series of scenes in his mind. The patient herbalist watched him as he thought, slack jawed, eyes darting around as he tried to connect the dots.
He thought of Geralt, giving him sprigs, leaves, and petals. Sneaking them into his bag while he half napped under the dappled shade of a tree. Presenting them softly, face unreadable, over breakfast on a crisp wintry morning. Pressing them into his palm after a hunt, sludge and blood smearing from Geralt’s hand to his own.
Jaskier had never asked Geralt why he was giving him wayward plant material. It was so rare for Geralt to reach out to him at all. As a result, Jaskier had cultivated a hard, gritty little ball of desperation in his gut. He was like an exceptionally neurotic peach. He waited, stomach trembling, for Geralt to give him anything at all...to return even a fraction of the overwhelming love Jaskier was drowning in.
So the thought of questioning Geralt for giving him anything, even stray twigs, made him anxious. So he had just taken them in silence, with a cautious half smile. He had gathered every plant Geralt had given him into one little pile and kept it safe.
It was a little odd, but he couldn’t bring himself to cast aside anything Geralt gifted him, even a leaf. He had thought it was pathetic on his part, and had taken to hiding the little pile of debris. He didn’t know why. Geralt could smell it on him. It was just reflexive. Like covering a wound.
Then one day, Geralt had presented him with a leather cord, a small burlap bag, and a piece of string. Jaskier had fiddled with the materials incompetently, and Geralt had placed a hand on his own to stop him. Jaskier still remembered the warm brush of his hand. He had patiently shown Jaskier how to make a neat, cinched sachet and stuff everything inside. Then he had looped it around the cord and held it out for Jaskier to take.
He hadn’t dared question it. He thought maybe it made him smell better. Geralt had such a sensitive nose.
The herbalist cleared his throat. Jaskier’s eyes snapped to him apologetically. “Yes, well--”
The man cut him off. “Do you want to open it up and I”ll take a look? I can tell you definitively what the herbs mean.”
Jaskier fumbled urgently with the sachet until it was an open square, herbs and flowers sitting innocently in a neat pile.
The man lowered his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and leaned in. “Yes.This is definitely a lover’s sachet.” He glanced at Jaskier over his glasses. “People do this in the north. The Blue Mountains. Mostly Gwenllech.”
“Really?” Jaskier’s voice cracked eagerly as though puberty had come to call again twenty years later.
The man smiled indulgently with the air of an old man who is happy to school a younger one on his hard earned knowledge. He separated out the herbs on the burlap. “These are all symbolic now. But they sprung from real beliefs. The chives are to ward off spirits. To protect the couple’s happiness...”
“Our--” Jaskier breathed “--happiness?” The thought that he made Geralt happy, was enough to make him melt into a puddle in a herbalist shop in Temeria. Hold yourself together, he inwardly hissed at himself.
The man didn’t notice. He just continued. “And the thyme symbolizes chivalry, or the desire to protect and care for someone.”
Jaskier’s jaw actually dropped like a drawbridge. It even clicked when it hit bottom. Geralt did protect him. He quite literally jumped in front of arrows and blades for him. But that’s just what heroes did, right? What if he was reading too much into this?
“Yarrow is also for protection, lavender for devotion, and rose for love.” He finished and looked up beneficently at Jaskier. “This is definitely a lover’s sachet.”
Jaskier swallowed hard, wetting the gravel of his throat. “Could it be...coincidence?” He couldn’t bring himself to hope. What if he hoped and it was crushed? Would he survive it?
“Where is your beloved from?”
Jaskier had never said that part out loud. It was always dear friend, and when he was feeling brave, my muse. But hearing the truth said out loud was satisfying. It released a rebellious curl of satisfaction in his heart.
“Er, Kaer Morhen,” said Jaskier.
The herbalist’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! Kaer Morhen. Our neighbors in Gwenllech. They used to come to market in early spring and pick up sachets for each other to wear out on the path. There were quite a few who had fallen for each other, I think. Yes, we can safely assume that this sachet is a statement of intent.” He chuckled and placed his hands on his hips expansively.
Jaskier reeled. “Well, what do I do? Oh god. How do I show him I....accept? That I return his love that I feel the same?!” Jaskier foraged through his memories to make sure he hadn’t done anything that could be construed as a rejection. He panicked, worrying he had turned away the one thing he wanted most, without knowing it.
“You’re wearing it,” said the man with an amused grin. “So that’s a start.”
“Alright, alright,” Jaskier dragged his now clammy hands down his trousers. He tipped onto his toes and rocked back down. “What else? Is there something else I can do?”
“We can take a few petals and press them into a clay pendant. It will preserve their shape and it demonstrates that you want your relationship to endure.”
Jaskier nodded his head so enthusiastically that he practically jangled.
Jaskier softly padded into the stables, quietly closing the gate behind him. His heart would not stop thudding in his ear, like a dinner guest who had overstayed his welcome. The pendant in his palm pressed half moon marks into his clenched fist. His lips moved silently as he rehearsed what to say to his friend.
Geralt’s thick back muscles bunched as he dragged the brush down Roach’s coat. He had paid the proprietor to groom his mare, but no one ever did the job well enough.
So, a Temerian herbalist told me you love me. Wild, right? What do you have to say for yourself?
These plants indicate that you love me Geralt, and it is entirely too late to take it back.
Geralt patted Roach’s side, dropped the brush into a bucket with a clatter, and turned to look at Jaskier. The contact of his golden feline eyes sent a flock of wings fluttering through Jaskier’s chest. He simply never got used to the beauty of it. Of Him.
Jaskier told himself that was a good thing. If he inured himself to love and beauty, he’d be a pretty shit poet, wouldn’t he?
“You’re back,” rumbled Geralt. His eyes darted up and down Jaskier’s body, concern evident in them. Of course Geralt could hear his thudding heart. “You alright?” He only looked a little alarmed.
Jaskier closed the distance between them, stopping just short of tipping into the witcher. They stood close enough that the warmth of their bodies mingled. Geralt had been grooming Roach, so he was sheened with sweat. Jasker had run back to the stables like a damned lunatic, so he was sweaty too. He tried to slow the rise and fall of his chest. He drew his tongue over his wind chapped lips. “Yes.”
Geralt, as was his habit, didn’t press. He just waited. Jaskier fidgeted in small jerky motions to calm himself. His thoughts and eyes strayed to the dip between Geralt’s pecs revealed by his untied tunic.
He focused again.
“I had this made today.” He awkwardly yanked his hand up between them, the new pendant cool but a bit slimy, dangling on the chain.
The panic Jaskier was feeling, was conquered by the slow, gentle spread of Geralt’s smile. That smile gave him another nudge of courage.
“Can you help me put it on?” he asked.
The necklace didn’t have a latch or buckle. It was long and open and slipped easily over the head of the wearer. Geralt scrunched his brow only for a moment. He took the chain from Jaskier’s hand, fingers slowly sliding over his knuckles.
Geralt frowned in concentration, eyes glittering with pride, and raised it over Jaskier’s head. Jaskier ducked and then raised his eyes again as the pendant settled on his chest.
“So,” Jaskier was whispering now, fear jackhammering once again in his chest. The next words felt like a freefall. “You love me?”
Relief broke onto Geralt’s face like the tide onto a rocky shore in the morning sun. It said oh thank the fucking gods, you understand.
“Of course I do,” he said.
“I didn’t,” stammered Jaskier. “I didn’t know.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He slid them over his waist then dropped them back at his sides.
Geralt shifted. He swallowed and looked at the sawdust under their feet. “But. What about all the things we’ve done?”
Jaskier thought of all of the things they had done. They had clutched each other, naked, under the cover of night. They had fucked and moaned wrapped tight in obscuring blankets. Jaskier had sucked Geralt off with tiny huffs and slurps only heard by Geralt himself. But in the morning, in the harsh light of day, it all disappeared like so much fairy dust in the wind.
“I just thought. I thought I was meeting a need. I thought it was just because I was there. Because I’m--” Jaskier smiled crookedly and said with raw, bittersweet words “--extremely sexy.”
Geralt drooped. “Because I can’t feel?” he asked. He sounded vulnerable and it cracked Jaskier’s heart.
“No!!!” Jaskier almost shouted it. “No! That’s utter horseshit. You feel more than anyone, Geralt. But it wasn’t clear that you felt for me. When we’re done with our...activities...you don’t say anything. You just go to sleep. Then when we go into town, you don’t act like we’re together. You introduce me as your friend. You don’t put your arm on me or hold me when other people are around--”
“Do--do you want to hold hands?” Geralt cut him off. It didn’t feel like he cut him off to shut him up. It was more like Geralt had gathered a kernel of courage and thought if he waited one more solitary second it would abandon him. “In town?”
Jaskier’s eyes flicked to Geralt sharply, expecting to be greeted with a teasing look. But Geralt looked uncertain, gentle, and possibly more nervous than he had ever seen him. And he had seen him fight monsters the size of a building.
Jaskier huffed out a joyful, ragged laugh and grasped Geralt’s hands with both of his. Geralt leaned towards him like a morning glory towards the first rays of the early sun.
“Yes. Yes, Geralt. I would love that.” He felt a tear slide out of the corner of one of his eyes. Geralt leaned in and pressed a kiss to it. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed and pieces of things he had always doubted, slotted into place.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured. “I don’t know how to do this. I wish I could just tell people, the way you do, when I find them pleasing or lovely.”
Jaskier slid his arms around Geralt’s waist and pulled him close. “There’s nothing wrong with how you show love, Geralt. Nothing.”
They held each other for a moment, acting as anchors. The ground had shifted, allowing for the new sprouts of vulnerability and the daring saplings of honesty. They found their feet again, one leaning on the other. Jaskier curled his arms around Geralt and melted into him. Geralt rubbed Jaskier’s back in soothing rhythmic motions.
After a time, Geralt broke the silence.
“Witchers,” he said thoughtfully, his voice now vibrating warmly against his chest, “do not have parents kissing each other in front of them. We aren’t invited to coming of age dances. We aren’t taught to court.” He sighed and nuzzled into Jaskier’s tangled hair. “We aren’t the best at romance. I’m sorry, poet. That must be difficult.”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Geralt,” said Jaskier heatedly. “I was the oblivious one. Thank you. Thank you for my sachet.”
Geralt drew back and cradled Jaskier’s face in his hands. Several looks flitted across his eyes in rapid succession. Love. Eagerness. Hunger. A glimmer of real fear, then a solid wall of determination.
“I love you Jaskier. Please, know that I love you.” His voice was husky with emotion.
“I love you too, my darling,” said Jaskier. “Now and forever.”
The chains Jaskier had cinched around his spirit began to crack and split open. All of those moments he had silenced himself, fearful of driving Geralt away, had cut into him cruelly. He had lived in fear. No more. Jaskier flexed and remembered who he was. He was a brash man, an affectionate man. He displayed his feelings like a peacock opens its colorful tail and strutted around the field. He remembered. He vowed to shower all of the love he had on Geralt. No more hiding.
Geralt leaned in slowly and Jaskier waited, panting softly into the space between him. Then Geralt closed his eyes and slowly, tenderly met Jaskier’s lips. It felt like a first kiss.
569 notes · View notes
Hey Witcher Writers, have you ever wondered any of the following questions?
Could Geralt have a chat with an Antherion?
What creature could challenge Yennefer’s powers?
What could Lambert run into in the Dank Wilderness?
What creature could give Jaskier hallucinations?
Which sword should I bring to a Wyvern fight?
HERE IS THE ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTIONS: The Witcher Creatures Data Base
Entirely based off every single bit of info I could get from the Witcher Wiki page. It’s not super mobile-friendly but it’s there!
If you find any mistake, missing information or would like to literally say anything to me, hit me up!
681 notes · View notes
I'm at a park and should theoretically be socializing but instead I am sitting in a tree and posting this thing that I discovered in my drafts! Enjoy some Geralt and Jaskier getting-to-know-each-other fun. :D
Edit: Also on AO3!
The bard is not afraid.
Well, that’s not entirely true. The bard is afraid — only not of the same things as everyone else. He was afraid when the elves broke his lute in Posada, and he was afraid when they threatened his life. The threat of mud on his irrationally fancy clothes, the sight of a mosquito, the sound of wolves howling in the night: all of these are enough to send the stench of fear wafting towards Geralt.
But when the bard first saw Geralt in that tavern and recognized him for a witcher, there was no fear. When they are alone, when the bard is walking beside Roach and chattering away while Geralt ignores him, there is no fear. When they set up camp in the wilderness, alone but for each other and Roach, there is no fear. Even when Geralt growls or snaps at him, there is no fear.
Geralt does not understand.
Geralt is a witcher. He can kill most humans without breaking into a sweat. He has killed humans without breaking into a sweat. He could crush the bard like a snail beneath his boot. The bard should be terrified of the monster with the swords. He should run away from Geralt, not run to catch up with him. People like this bard do not follow witchers. They recognize the danger they are in and they leave.
The bard doesn’t leave.
The topic comes up, one night after about three months of the bard not leaving. Geralt’s not entirely sure why he hasn’t driven him away yet. Perhaps it’s just not worth the effort. Jaskier is irritating and talks too much, but Geralt has endured worse. That song, Toss a Coin, is also irritating, but it’s proved surprisingly useful from time to time. Besides, the bard is young and flighty. He’ll leave on his own eventually.
Tonight, Jaskier is chattering away about something to do with butterflies and a technique for hiding vodka in Oxenfurt’s bathrooms. Geralt is skinning a rabbit. He’s efficient and dispassionate. The knife in his hands is dripping with the little creature’s blood.
“And then I said, ‘Flutter away, you flighty bugger! I know a better way!’ And guess what he did? He said—”
Jaskier jumps to his feet with a dramatic flourish. Geralt, who stopped paying attention several minutes ago, starts. The knife in his hand slips just a little, and now there is a small bleeding gash across his palm. Geralt growls.
“Shut up!” he shouts. Thankfully, Jaskier shuts up.
Geralt does not look at the bard. He puts down the knife with a scowl and goes to his pack, searching with hands wet from his and the rabbit’s blood for his supply of bandages. He scowls to himself. He should never have made such a careless mistake. He should never have let Jaskier cause him to make such a careless mistake.
Geralt turns with a snarl. The bard winces.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you. Is there anything I can do to help?”
There is no fear in the air. Geralt looks at Jaskier for a long moment, then turns and continues looking for the bandages. Once he finds them and wraps his hands, he turns again to face the bard. Jaskier is still standing there, looking at him with what appears to be remorse and concern.
Geralt walks back towards Jaskier and the rabbit. He picks up the bloody knife.
There is still no fear.
Jaskier is facing down an angry, blood-covered witcher with a knife in his hand, and there is still no fear.
Geralt does not understand. “You’re not afraid.”
Jaskier blinks. “Should I be?”
Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I mean, you’re a witcher,” Jaskier says. “Your whole job is to keep people from getting themselves killed. Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to start hurting people? Unless they have it coming, of course. Which I don’t. Hopefully.”
“I kill monsters for money. That’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, just like you killed that sylvan for money. Oh, wait a moment. You didn’t kill the sylvan? Or the elves? Despite the fact that they tried to kill us? Honestly, Geralt, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that you’re not big on hurting innocent people. I’m not worried.”
Geralt is at a loss again. He sits back down and silently resumes skinning the rabbit. Jaskier still seems a bit guilty for startling Geralt, and stays silent for a record-breaking three minutes before speaking again.
“Is your hand all right?”
That night, Geralt watches Jaskier as the bard rolls himself up in his blankets and falls asleep. His back is to Geralt, his breathing even and peaceful. He is alone with a witcher, in the middle of the wilderness, far from any outside help, and he sleeps as peacefully as if he were in a room at an inn. For the first time, Geralt wonders what it might be like if Jaskier stayed.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad.
120 notes · View notes
palinoia (n.) - the obsessive repetition of an act until it is perfect or mastered
geralt/jaskier, rated T, mild injury detail. prompt from this post
Geraskier alphabet masterpost | Ao3
It wasn't often that witchers encountered one another on the Path. The Continent was vast, after all, and the number of witchers remaining far too few. So when a fellow traveller upon the road out of White Orchard had called Geralt's name, Jaskier had fully expected Geralt to respond with a drawn sword, not by grinning wide and pulling the man into a fierce hug.
Eskel had been travelling alongside them since.
They would go their separate ways once they reached the Temerian border – there was little to be gained walking the Path with a fellow witcher, unless you rather fancied splitting an already meagre purse two ways after every contract – and already Jaskier knew he would feel Eskel's absence. He had a companionable air to him, equally at home sharing hunting techniques with Geralt as he was discussing literature with Jaskier. And despite his mild-mannered demeanour, the stories he could share around their campfire at night were enough to make even Jaskier blush.
It had taken no time at all to understand why Geralt had always spoken of the man in such fond terms.
He too was different since Eskel had joined them, revealing a delightful new side of himself Jaskier was going to miss as much as Eskel when it inevitably departed alongside him. Over the years Geralt had begrudgingly softened to Jaskier's presence, but there still remained a part of himself he kept guarded, those final few walls too high for Jaskier to scale. In Eskel's company Jaskier was offered a peek beyond them, at a Geralt who was relaxed; playful; happy. Each time that bright, easy smile spread across Geralt's face Jaskier felt one tug at his own cheeks in response.
Just beyond the flat stretch of heathland where they had made camp, partially obscured by the rocks and overgrown scrub brush, Geralt flung up his sword to block Eskel's swing. The sound of clashing steel was still ringing through Jaskier's ears as Geralt nimbly picked his way over the rocks and dove to avoid Eskel's next attack.
The pair had been training for much of the evening, and they showed no signs of slowing down.
Jaskier had watched Geralt fight, ugly and without finesse, for his life against creatures even Jaskier's worst nightmares could not conjure. He'd watched him fight because he had no other option, each movement impossibly restrained to keep from inflicting serious injury despite being offered no such courtesy in return. He'd watched him practise his swordplay against unsuspecting trees in the absence of a skilled opponent.
He had never seen anything like this.
Geralt and Eskel were a blur of grunts and clanging metal, so closely matched they could only have learnt from the same tutor, both favouring practical, uncomplicated movements over the artful flourishes that had comprised the pitiful sword training Jaskier had received in his own youth. Of course, a witcher wasn't trained in how to impress. He was trained to survive.
Yet while their sparring might not have been theatrical enough to satisfy back at his father's court, Jaskier watched, enraptured. His notebook was open in his lap should he spot any details worth noting down for later reference – however his attention was too firmly fixed to so much as set quill to paper. When Geralt dropped to one knee to parry a blow from above, Jaskier's eyes slipped down to his strong thigh, watching muscle strain against the obscenely tight fabric of his trousers. Any thoughts in his head at that moment were far removed from those he could share with the public.
Geralt thrust his sword into the spongy ground as he and Eskel took a moment to catch their breath. He tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, chest heaving, his skin glistening with sweat, and Jaskier had to dig his fingernails sharply into his thigh to keep from letting out an embarrassing squeak at the sight.
Before he could even recover Geralt and Eskel were at it again.
By the time their movements had finally stilled for more than mere seconds at a time and the last echoes of their clashing swords had died away, Jaskier was quite certain he had forgotten how to breathe.
"You still don't protect your right flank when you swing," said Geralt as he extended a hand to pull Eskel to his feet. "Vesemir would have you for that."
"I would say it's fortunate that he isn't here, then, yet there seems to be an echo of his voice every time you open your mouth." Eskel tucked his sword into its sheath and followed Geralt back towards their campfire where Jaskier was sat. "I still would have had you, by the way."
"I think he's right, you know," said Jaskier conversationally, grinning at the wounded expression that passed over Geralt's face in response.
Eskel laughed and clapped Geralt on the shoulder. "I knew I liked you, bard," he said to Jaskier, before sinking heavily onto his bundled packs and taking a long drink from his waterskin.
Geralt took a step closer as Jaskier stood to meet him. "I thought I was supposed to be your witcher."
"Darling, are you feeling jealous?"
It was a tease, but Geralt's responding grunt suggested he perhaps wasn't so far off the mark. Jaskier tried not to smile at the thought.
He offered Geralt his own waterskin and watched him drain it gratefully, throat bobbing as he swallowed. A drop of water spilled from the edge of his lips and trailed downwards, teasing a line down his throat that Jaskier ached to follow with his tongue.
It was as his gaze descended that Jaskier noticed the trickle of blood on Geralt's bare chest where Eskel's sword must have made contact. "Are you hurt?" he said, pressing his fingers to Geralt's skin. It was a small cut, too shallow to need stitches, but Jaskier's hand remained in place on Geralt's chest all the same.
Geralt covered it with his own. "It's nothing," he said. He didn't release Jaskier's hand, though.
It was a moment before Jaskier remembered they were not alone. His eyes flicked over to Eskel.
He was watching them with interest.
Jaskier snatched his hand away. "Good," he said. "That's… good."
Geralt nodded brusquely, clearing his throat as he shot a furtive glance of his own Eskel's way and stepped back. The air felt a little less stifling once he had. "I'll check the traps," he said, tugging his discarded shirt back on. He stalked away out of sight.
Before Jaskier could do more than take a slow, steadying breath, Eskel was at his side without a sound.
"He could do worse," said Eskel.
"I am quite certain I don't know what you're talking about."
Eskel just looked back at him, a knowing smile on his face, before he turned to see to their dwindling fire, leaving Jaskier to stare helplessly through the trees as he awaited Geralt's return.
196 notes · View notes
While the Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side
All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate
Part four, and this bit... it's the smut. That's it, beginning to end. (If that isn't your jam, feel free to skip)
The song for this segment is Jet Pack Blues, by Fall Out Boy
He’s so, so gentle.
He’s gentle as he tugs Jaskier out of rough, sweat- and ale-stained clothes, as he tugs the tangled furs and crumpled pillows into something resembling order and settles Jaskier back against them as carefully as he can, fumbles through the nightstand for where Jaskier keeps his various oils (ever predictable, that’s him).
Jaskier, for his part, doesn’t let go.
He thinks he might start crying again, actually, which would be even more pathetic than last night, or fifteen minutes ago, but he’s spent ten years very determinedly not showing a single hint of weakness so he’s probably allowed, at least. Geralt won’t judge.
Geralt, in the meantime, is stripping out of his own clothes. Once upon a time, Jaskier would’ve propped himself up on an elbow and watched, traced the lines of the revealed muscles and carefully avoided the scars, but now he’s reduced to simply wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s wrist and hanging on, like he can keep the witcher close to him for forever this time.
Geralt sets the oil back on the nightstand with the softest of sounds and promptly tucks Jaskier underneath his body, lets him bury his face in the witcher’s shoulder and breathe him in, stroke over the harsh bump of his spine, the winged expanse of shoulder blades. Geralt’s thinner, leaner, but the weight of him is just the same and Jaskier sinks his nails into Geralt’s skin and holds on.
Geralt strokes over his ribs, rocks up against him, presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple the way he always does until Jaskier lets out a long breath and smooths his hands down over the cut of the witcher’s waist. “I’m ready.”
Geralt nods, kisses him quickly, slides back and pushes one of his legs up, stroking over Jaskier’s calf. “Let me…?”
“Anything, darling,” and if it’s not quite as flirty as it would have been a decade ago, it’s a valiant effort. Still, Geralt’s face goes raw, impossibly young, and Jaskier catches him by the cheek, smooths over the rise and dip of the bones underneath.
The oil is unscented, the way he prefers, but Geralt doesn’t touch him quite yet, rubbing gentle circles over the clench of his hole, petting at the most vulnerable part of him until Jaskier is writhing under it, hands flexing and releasing in the bedsheets until he shoves his hips down and Geralt takes pity on him.
He goes-- maddeningly slow.
Geralt hums, strokes over that sweet spot he’s always been so damn good at finding, and Jaskier’s hips buck up into the sensation. He’s still tucked up next to Jaskier and the heat of his body is a rising swelter, and Jaskier loves him. Loves him for coming back and loves him for still being alive and loves him for all his immense, impossible gentleness, how even with hands that have shed more blood than any mortal man’s he holds Jaskier so carefully.
“I-- missed you,” and Geralt hums again, leans down to kiss him and tucks another finger in, catching the roll of Jaskier’s spine and guiding him back down to the bed again. “I missed you, I missed you,” and Geralt is shushing him but he can’t stop. His skin feels too tight, overfilled with sparking pleasure, running quicksilver up his spine with every pulse of Geralt’s wrist-- “gods, I missed you.”
“I know,” and Jaskier hiccups out a sob that turns into a shuddering cry when Geralt slips another finger inside him, trying to shove down on it, take as much of him inside as he can. He wants to drag all of Geralt inside his body, tear open his own ribcage until there’s space for them both side by side inside this ruin of a world.
Geralt’s lips press to his calf, there and gone again. “You know I won’t hurt you, Jaskier,” and all he can do is hum, ride the pulse-and-surge of pleasure in his hips and try not to burst at the seams. He’s here and he’s here and he’s splitting Jaskier open until he never wants this to end, even though it has to.
Jaskier might be crying again, he’s not quite sure.
Geralt pulls his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to, unanchored as he is, a drowning man with no ship in sight, and Geralt is there, he’s there, he’s there, arms steady around him and his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hair, breathing hard and harsh and oh, gods, like he never even left. It feels like a dream and not like a dream and Jaskier just wants to lie here and never wake up and also, more importantly, he wants Geralt to fuck him.
Geralt lets out a huff of air, even though Jaskier was sure he hadn’t actually said anything. “You always were impatient.”
Jaskier, for once, has no words, only a desperate, pleading need to have Geralt close and closer still.
Geralt tucks his nose into the hollow space under his jaw, breathes in slow, wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, and slips in, impossibly gentle.
Jaskier digs his nails back into the hollows he left on Geralt’s shoulders and clings, bodies pressed together hip-to-chest. It’s not as easy as it was when he was young and limber but his skin is still too tight, hot and cold and sparking with every rock of Geralt’s hips, every drag of his stomach against Jaskier’s aching cock, and it’s the best he’s felt in an eternity.
Geralt fucks him-- like the sea, Jaskier thinks, neverending.
For the space of a heartbeat, for the hovering eternity before the wave breaks, it won’t and it doesn’t and he will live here forever, caught up in this impossible, incredible dream and Geralt, love, don’t leave--
Geralt lets out a shuddering sound, almost a sob (though you’d never catch him admitting to that), and comes, reaching down to wrap around Jaskier’s cock and tug at it, firm and good and everything Jaskier’s ever loved until the pressure underneath his skin and inside his ribs where his heart has beat its way to the surface overflows and he spills into Geralt’s hand.
In the after, where the winter air is chill against his skin and his throat feels rubbed raw though he’d barely made any noise at all, still he clings to Geralt’s back, holds him down when he’d try to pull away. “Don’t go.”
Geralt only hums, but he’s still held in the clutch of Jaskier’s body, still a mess of tangled limbs and rumpled bedsheets and lips pressed to skin when he settles, and Jaskier winds his fingers through his hair and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
Previous / [link to next part will go here]
36 notes · View notes
"Sorry, Dearheart. I never caught your name."
CW: Soft tummies, flirting, Jaskier rambling on about whatever he feels like
Summary: Jaskier makes a habit of ogling one specific construction worker from his porch, and one day said construction worker does something about it. Jaskel, WC: 2k+
Tag list: At very bottom (send me an ask if you want on it!)
Also a special thanks to both @softdarlingjaskier for the AU (thank you so much for letting me use it), and @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for beating the dialogue into submission for me (aka writing it for me). I love you both
Most people wouldn’t be all that happy about construction in the morning. The noise always started at about 7 am sharp and it was right across the street, sometimes jackhammers (or whatever loud equipment they were using; Jaskier didn't know anything about construction work or building a house) and other times just lots of trucks, moving, other vehicles that Jaskier really didn’t have any names for.
He was a light sleeper. Always had been, and considering the amount of rolling around he did in his sleep any headphones he fell asleep with in didn’t stay in for long. So every morning, on the weekdays for the past several weeks, he’d woken up to the cacophony of construction noises that had replaced the pleasant birdsong that used to greet him when the sun was first peeking in through his window.
Most really wouldn’t be pleased about this, but every morning Jaskier found himself blearily blinking at his window and trying to figure out what all of the noise was through his confused sleep haze. And every morning a shy sort of smile followed after.
He kicked his blankets off one such morning, fumbling with them as they tried to tangle around him and keep him in bed. A check of his phone assured him he didn’t have to work that day (Thursdays were a splendid respite from his shifts at the local coffee shop), so he got to stretch and relax for a moment with that good news in his head. Even if he did work, he usually worked mids and nights, so the earliest he’d ever need to be in was around 10, but there was just an extra sort of joy knowing that he could, really, lay there all day if he wanted to.
Sometimes he did. Used to, anyway. But with that noise drowning out the rest of the morning he knew he had better things to do than laze around in bed all day.
His house was a bit too cold for just the flimsy old boxers he was wearing, so he quickly grabbed one of his blankets to drag around with him while he fixed himself a nice cup of coffee. When he had the blessed life juice in one of his favorite mugs, he clutched it close, letting it warm his fingers as he collapsed into his desk chair and just closed his eyes to smell it for a while.
It was only after his second cup of coffee that Jaskier had the wherewithal to actually get dressed. He managed to get himself up out of his desk chair and went to the cloth bags that had been dropped in front of his closet the day before when he’d done laundry, fishing around in them for a cute pair of shorts and a tank top, as well one of his cutest pairs of underwear. After he was dressed, he eyed the bags, knowing he should really put his clothes away instead of leaving them there in the bags until he had to do laundry again.
But that could be later Jaskier’s problem. He picked them up and dumped the clothes out onto his bed to make sure he dealt with them later, and then went back to the pot of coffee to refill his mug.
It was only thanks to his late grandfather that he had an actual house, and he felt blessed to be able to step outside onto the small wooden porch outside his front door. The heat would be unbearable later but for now it felt cool enough, thankfully little humidity to leave him feeling sticky either. He stretched one arm over his head as he held his mug in the other hand, closing his eyes for a brief second as he yawned.
Later, he’d need to water his plants. He thinks he’d read somewhere that it was technically better for them to get watered earlier in the day but he’d never been that great at taking care of them anyway. Really, he didn’t even know the names of the flowers he’d bought. All he knew is that they were pretty and looked lovely hung up in their pots on his porch, and made for a nice view as he settled into the wooden chair near his front door.
That said, they weren’t the view he was after.
Maybe it was a little weird, but Jaskier had started to take advantage of the early mornings. Day two of the construction work, he’d woken up exceptionally grouchy, and had dragged himself out the front door and plopped himself down, intent on passive aggressively staring at the people who were working across the road. A bit petty maybe, not at all necessary, but he was tired and he needed to take out his grouchiness somehow. And all told, just sitting and being a grump without actually saying anything to them was innocent enough and shouldn’t hurt anyone.
Except he’d not ended up staring grouchily at all, and had damn near drooled into his coffee when he spotted one of the men. Brown hair tied up tight in a bun at the top of his head, strong arms that were tanned from his work, rolled up sleeves that showed them off. And he was tall and big, and just from the little bit of skin Jaskier could see the man was covered in hair. A bear of a man, with a quiet smile and sparkling eyes and Jaskier was gone for him.
He’s the reason Jaskier planted himself in the chair on his porch every morning he could spare the time to do so. And he wasn’t disappointed today. There he was, in all of his unfair glory, lifting up some equipment or another while they busied themselves building the house across the street. Jaskier could pretend like he could see his muscles flexing, could even pretend like he could actually see the sparkle in his eyes. He wasn’t pretending when he hummed and followed the man’s backside, taking a sip of his coffee and relaxing back to enjoy the morning.
It was a delight to watch him work. Well, a delight to watch all of them work. Jaskier had never been picky as far as the gender of his partners and every single one of the workers was built. He was pretty sure most of them could bench press him and he would certainly be down for it, even if he himself wasn’t quite as scrawny as he looked. Sure, working at a coffee shop didn’t sound like that much hard work, but that’s before you took a look in the backroom at the palettes of supplies they had to unload each and every day.
Working in a city meant a lot of customers, and beans weren’t that light in bulk. He was thankful his arms had gotten used to it and weren’t sore every night after work nowadays.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the view, though.
The exceptionally attractive man had gone into the house for a minute, coming out sweating up a storm. Like the summer heat was already on them, the poor man. Jaskier sighed in sympathy but the breath was quickly sucked back in as the man lifted up the ends of his shirt to blot the sweat off his forehead. And gods, but he was a man. His stomach was pooched out over his work pants and Jaskier needed to run his fingers through the hair there, needed to follow the trail up and down. There were handfuls of him and Jaskier had to clutch his mug close, hands itching to knead every inch of him, a small noise ripped out of his throat when instead of putting his shirt back on like a decent person not trying to ruin him the worker took it off instead.
He was not ready for today. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open and his eyes couldn’t pick a single spot to stay focused on. He’d woken up and crawled out of bed thinking everything would be just fine and peachy, and it was not, because the man was unfair. Big tits that Jaskier could kiss or sleep on or both, a soft stomach that made him look so fucking squeezable, arms that could wrap around him or hold him down - god he was ruined for anyone else and he didn’t even know the man’s name yet.
That man would make the best weighted blanket. And could wreck him up against a wall no problem. Also probably gave the best hugs and Jaskier honestly wasn’t sure which of those he wanted more than the others, except maybe he wanted them all, and it was unfair because the man was walking around flaunting his sexiness to him and the whole world - and Jaskier wanted to touch him.
He let out another small noise. Maybe. Honestly he wasn’t sure. His coffee was forgotten in his own hands as he followed the trail of dark curls all the way down the man’s stomach with hungry eyes, then back up to the tattoo that covered one large pec. There was a litany of discolored marks that he was sure were scars that he needed his mouth and tongue on, needed each and every story to so he could properly lavish this god of a man with affection and touch and-
And- was he getting closer?
Jaskier managed to shake himself out of his ogling stupor and snap his mouth shut to notice that, yes, the man hadn’t been on this side of the street when he’d started his ogling. As a matter of fact he’d never been in Jaskier’s front lawn even once and yet, there he was, a smirk on his lips as he walked towards his porch through the grass.
There weren’t many times in Jaskier’s life that he’d gotten embarrassed over flirting or staring at someone. Usually he was the one to do something about it; approach the sexy man from across the bar, slip his number to the cute woman who’d been giggling over his jokes, or ask the couple at the restaurant who had sent him glances if they fancied a night together. But he’d never been quite as lost in someone as he was the shirtless construction worker that came up to his porch that afternoon, and had always had a plan in the back of his mind. Something further than ‘stare and yearn’.
He hadn’t had a plan. Hadn’t really even considered much beyond attempting to not drool all over himself. And Jaskier could feel the heat on his face as the man came over and leaned against the wooden railing of his porch, propping his chin up on one of his large hands, his eyes certainly just as bright as Jaskier had imagined them to be - but it wasn’t just humor that had them sparking.
“Thought for a bit you were trying to catch flies,” the man drawled. Drawled. Jaskier swallowed hard, his toes curling just a little in his sandals at the deep baritone. It wrapped around him and made him forget for a very long few seconds that normal people responded when someone was talking to them.
He really was doomed.
"I... uhh.” Jaskier cleared his throat, feeling his face flush further at the squeaky tone. He wasn’t some preteen talking to his first crush; he was a grown ass man, so why were words suddenly so difficult? "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't?” The man’s grin grew wider, showing off a flash of white teeth where a part of his upper lip was missing. “So you haven't been sitting out here staring at me for the last half hour with your mouth wide open."
“No! I- I’m just...sitting.” It was possibly the lamest excuse Jaskier had ever come up with but he was floundering. Caught red handed and for some reason he was denying it instead of owning it - but he couldn’t stop now, one lame word after another falling out of his mouth. “I just... it's my porch, I'm allowed to sit out here. Nothing wrong with sitting."
"I didn't say I minded you watching."
"I wasn't- wait, come again?"
The man’s grin grew impossibly wider and mischievous, and Jaskier found himself leaning closer. "Sometimes, I like an audience.” The dark tone promised he meant it. Jaskier’s eyes flicked down to his lips. “But that comes after the third date.”
The man pushed himself back off of the railing, all mischief gone from his tone as he brushed some dirt off of his pants. “First can be coffee? There’s a nice little shop a little ways down third, and yours is cold by now.” He gave a little wink as if Jaskier’s gay little heart wasn’t already having a moment, and then he turned to walk back towards the road, calling over his shoulder, “Lunch is in half an hour. Unless you would rather sit on your porch instead?”
Jaskier could only watch after him for a second, dumbfounded, before he stuttered out, “No, no, I-” And then he sighed, slumping back in his chair, bewildered, his heart pounding away as giddiness snuck in.
“I’m rather done with porch sitting, I think,” Jaskier said to himself, watching the worker - his date for lunch, apparently - jog back across the road to get back to work. But he was done watching. He had a date to get ready for.
194 notes · View notes
Geralt of Rivia
❣ innocence ❣ make up sex ❣ golden ❣ (multi-character/fandom masterlist) ❣
❣ eye contact ❣
❣ does the carpet match the drapes ❣
❣ bratty ways ❣
❣ a jealous man ❣
❣ little rabbit ❣
184 notes · View notes
What about Geralt discovering how awesome and safe it feels to be the little spoon? Any pairing is good, but I do have a weakness for Jaskier/Dandelion helping Geralt learn how to let himself be taken care of.
what about me projecting so hard im not even sure if this makes any sense? more likely than you think.
Warnings: i went with geraskier, idk why this is a warning but im rolling with it, biiiiiig self depreciation on Geralt's part, jask goading geralt into asking for things he wants/needs, snuggles? idk. i should just start using ao3 tags here lol
Geralt hadn’t realized just how much Jaskier held back in his presence until he saw the bard with a lover for the first time. Not in a libido sort of way, though Geralt could smell that well enough, but in his affinity for touching and holding.
Jaskier would cradle his love of the week and stroke their cheek and run his fingers through their hair every second he could. And what confused Geralt even more, was how the object of his affections preened under his attention, even when said attention was absent-minded and automatic. He’d known this particular fling to be rather standoffish, very much the gritted teeth and harsh glaring type when people attempted flirting or any sort of casual touching.
When Geralt asked them about it after Jaskier had made his dramatic exit, they smiled wistfully and shook their head, “Ask him. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to explain it to you of all people…”
That, of course, meant shit all to Geralt, but after weeks of biting his nails and working up the courage, he asked Jaskier how he managed to get so close, so intimate with people.
He just received a confused look in return, “Well… the same as with you?”
Geralt could only frown and sit down on a stump across the fire from his bard, his silent request for an explanation. He was never close with other people. The most intimate he got outside of some meaningless sex here and there was letting Jaskier tend his wounds.
“Trust. And respect I guess… why do you ask?”
“No reason…” Geralt muttered, staring into the flames as an embarrassed blush crept up his neck. The self-consciousness that had delayed him asking for so long rushed back over him and he began to regret saying anything. Come to think of it, Jaskier had probably just misunderstood him. Considering he’d insinuated Geralt had ever been intimate with… oh. His frown deepening, Geralt stared even harder into the fire as he came to the first realization of the night. Jaskier had meant ‘the same way I’m intimate with you’.
The bard was at his side without making a sound, joining him on a stump with their thighs just barely touching, “Ask me,” he whispered, pausing to give Geralt a chance to do so before adding a soft, “Please?”
“It’s not the same, is it? You don’t- ...you don’t hold me like that…” Geralt wasn’t sure his voice could come out any smaller if he tried, and he was certainly trying to sound casual. He hadn’t realized he was jealous. Hadn’t realized the reason he ached wasn’t that he was tired or dehydrated, but because he yearned to be treated so gently.
“No, it’s not,” Jaskier confirmed. The hand resting on his thigh right next to Geralt’s twitched in indecision before Jaskier hooked his pinky around Geralt’s where it rested on his knee, “I’m far more careful with the people I couldn’t stand to lose.”
The subtle but intentional touch had Geralt’s heart racing as he stared at where their fingers were interlocked. He’d gone over reason after possible reason in his head that Jaskier would keep his distance, but the truth was almost incomprehensible. Of all the things Geralt had been to people over the years, irreplaceable wasn’t one of them. He may have been special to the mages at Kaer Morhen, but to be treated with such care that he didn’t even realize he was being protected and kept close? It almost made him dizzy.
“If you asked,” Jaskier whispered, his own puls racing almost in double time with Geralt’s, “I would hold you closest and dearest. I’d give you everything I have.”
Slowly, so as not to send the wrong message, Geralt turned his hand over and laced his fingers between Jaskier’s, “I’d- I think I’d like that…”
As Jaskier pulled him over to a bedroll and laid so Geralt was pressed with his back against Jaskier’s chest, the witcher thought he’d never been so selfish in his life. When Jaskier cradled his head in the crook of his arm and hooked the other arm over Geralt’s waist to hold him impossibly closer he started to feel guilty. He was warm and comfortable and he’d never felt safer with someone at his back, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was taking something that wasn’t meant for him.
Almost in answer to his thoughts, Jaskier murmured into his hair, soothing and gentle, “I’d hold you for hours and hours if it made you believe you were worth the love I have for you.”
It took longer than he’d like to admit for Geralt to realize why his breathing was ragged and his face felt wet, “I’m- I’m not sure that’s fair of me to ask of you.”
“Then don’t ask. I’ll give it freely if you’ll take it,” Jaskier hummed, brushing Geralt’s hair back from his cheek so he could place a light kiss there, “I want to make you feel safe and loved.”
Geralt grit his teeth and fought the fresh well of guilt bubbling up in his chest. Here his bard confessed his love, practically pledged to heal his crumbled heart, and all Geralt could do was cry. Even when he tried, he couldn’t make the words he longed to say pass his lips.
“I cant- Jask I can’t say it-”
“Shhhh,” Jaskier squeezed him tight as he placed another kiss at the back of Geralt’s jaw, “You don’t have to. We’ll get there… This is enough. You are enough.”
394 notes · View notes
48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?
Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.”
Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping
It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.
“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.
The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”
A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.
“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”
Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”
Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.
He’s not sure why he bought it.
He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.
They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.
“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”
“So...it’s a pretty weed.”
“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.
Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.
The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.
Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.
Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.
Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.
In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.
It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.
It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.
(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)
The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.
Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.
The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.
“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”
Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.
(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)
“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”
Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.
“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.
Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”
Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.
A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.
“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”
“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”
There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.
Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”
“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”
“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”
Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.
Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.
It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.
“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”
“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”
Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.
“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”
Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”
“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”
Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.
“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.
“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”
Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.
He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?
Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.
The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.
Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.
Sometimes I want things I can’t have.
The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.
“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”
Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”
Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.
“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”
When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.
“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.
His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.
His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.
He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?
“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.
And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”
And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.
His kiss tastes like sunlight.
1K notes · View notes
I lost the prompt, but @veritasrose wanted some soft hurt/comfort with the wolves. Geralt is in pain and in a funk, and his brothers take care of him. 609 words
- - -
Geralt woke up in his bed in Kaer Morhen, in pain and in a funk. His knee and elbow ached, the room around him looked grey, and the air felt oppressive. He wanted to pull the bedding over his head and stay there, but he knew that the longer he lay there, the more uncomfortable he would get.
With a grumble he threw the blankets back and pulled himself up and out of bed, slowly tugged his clothes on, and headed downstairs.
As he walked around the table in the dining hall his knee twinged, and he bumped into a chair with a curse before dropping into the one next to it. Lambert looked up from his seat on the other side of the table and raised a brow. After silently appraising his brother for a moment, the younger witcher went to the kitchen without a word. He came back a few minutes later to find Geralt rubbing at his knee, and handed him a steaming mug.
“Drink this, pretty boy.”
“What is it?” Geralt eyed the mug skeptically.
“That tea Vesemir makes, for inflammation and shit.”
“Why?” Geralt looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What did you do?”
“Oh, shut the fuck up and drink it, would you?”
Geralt rumbled, but did as he was told.
Eskel came out of the kitchen with Vesemir, putting out plates laden with breakfast. He quietly served Geralt, then himself, and Geralt grunted his thanks. They ate a quiet meal, and after silently appraising the younger wolves while they ate, Vesemir asked Geralt and Eskel to clean and organize the library instead of continuing the repairs they’d been doing outside the day before.
In the library a few hours later, Geralt dropped a book and cursed, then kicked the shelf in front of him before letting out another string of expletives.
“You want to talk about it?” Eskel asked.
“What, dropping the book?” Geralt said bitingly. Eskel just gave him a look in response. “It’s nothing. I woke up sore. And… it’s… quiet here.”
Eskel’s lips quirked. “Never bothered you before.”
Geralt scowled and didn’t answer.
“Couldn’t be missing someone, could you?”
Geralt let out a quiet growl.
Eskel chuckled. “No, of course not.”
Over dinner, Eskel turned to Lambert.
“Hey Lambert, what do you say to a throwback? We all sleep out in front of the fire here, like the old days?”
Lambert spluttered. “What, are we—” Eskel shot him a look to shut up, then cut his eyes to Geralt and back, and Lambert changed course. “I mean, yeah, a good ol’ fashioned puppy pile! Sounds, uh, sounds great.”
Geralt didn’t say anything, but after dinner he went over and started piling furs on the hearth. When everyone was done with dinner and clean up, Eskel, Geralt and Lambert flopped onto the furs, bellies full. They shuffled around until Geralt had his head on Eskel’s middle, and Lambert’s was on Geralt. Eskel pulled the tie from Geralt’s hair and started combing through the silver strands with his fingers. Geralt felt tension that he hadn’t realized he was holding melt away from his body.
“You should invite him next year,” Eskel murmured.
“What? That isn’t - I mean, who—” Geralt said, and Eskel huffed a laugh.
“Just think about it.”
Lambert had started softly snoring, and shifted to curl into Geralt’s side.
Geralt laughed softly. “He always was a cuddler in his sleep.”
“But he’d bite you before he’d admit it,” Eskel said.
They lapsed back into silence, Eskel lightly scritching Geralt’s scalp.
“Thanks Eskel,” Geralt said softly.
Geralt drifted off to sleep, cozy and warm and safe.
- - -
TY @ahh-fxck & @lohrendrell, beloved beta’s.
- - -
Check out my master list for more Witcher fics ⚔️
Please let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from my list!
Tag list: @chrisflemingslegs @elliestormfound @its-onions @hailhailsatan @veritasrose @rawrkinjd @westmoor @tumbleweedtech @nonegenderleftpain @fandommagpie @kueble @honeysuckletook @justavengers3000 @trickstermoose67 @sharinalein @eavidreader @kittynannygaming @britishmysteries @alllthequeenshorses @the-blondey @biitumen @annafortoday
If your name isn’t highlighted/underlined, the tag won’t take! It’s something to do with your settings.
80 notes · View notes
Uuugh I love number 1 of that prompt list. It's a classic but there can never be enough of it! Would love to see your take on it!
Dear Anon I totally agree! There's a reason why it's a classic. Thank you so much for sending me this prompt! ❤️💖❤️ It's also the 1st ever that has been sent to me. Thank you so much! ❤️❤️❤️💕💕💕
1. There’s people chasing us and I pulled you into the alley with me and wow you’re close
Geraskier, no warnings just silliness and some Jaskier pining, wc 375
"Geralt! Just the man I hoped to see, a true sight for sore eyes!" Jaskier exclaimed in a rush, grabbing Geralt's arm and continuing walking hastily down the street.
"What did you do?" Geralt asked.
"Nothing. Why would you think I did something?" Jaskier protested, glancing around.
"Because you're speaking in your 'I fucked up and need saving' cadence," Geralt deadpanned, allowing himself to be dragged along. "So, what did you do?"
"There miiiight have been a misunderstanding between me, a handsome fella, and his very pretty wife… But it wasn't my fau– Shit! There's more of them now," Jaskier cursed as he looked behind. Time to start running.
Thankfully Geralt was still letting himself be tugged around.
"Don't they have better things to do than hunt a bard?"
"That's not a useful comment, Geralt!" Jaskier said as they rounded another corner.
Suddenly, Jaskier found himself being yanked hard and slammed against a wall. Just as he was about to complain a hand pressed itself against his mouth, cutting him off and muffling each sound he tried to make.
"Shut up," Geralt growled into Jaskier's ear, voice low.
The thrill it caused to run down Jaskier's spine was more than enough to silence him.
Geralt was close.
So very close.
"Stop moving. Your clothes rustle," Geralt commanded, warm breath tickling Jaskier's neck. In emphasis, Geralt crowded him more firmly against the wall until their chests were pressed together.
Jaskier hadn't expected Geralt to get even closer.
He hoped Geralt would confuse his suddenly almost painfully racing heart to be caused by the pursuers. Since it most definitely wasn't because of having Geralt –the man he loved in vain– suddenly holding him firmly between himself and a wall. No. It definitely wasn't that.
"They're gone now," Geralt said, meeting Jaskier's wide eyes.
Jaskier hadn't even noticed the danger having literally passed. He still couldn't focus on anything else than the proximity to Geralt. On the way the way he could see all the different shades of of gold in Geralt's eyes, on the way Geralt's warm breath was still tickling him, on the way Geralt had pinned him.
Geralt's hand was still against his mouth so Jaskier did the only sensible thing.
He licked it.
I hope you won't mind me tagging you...
@jaskierswolf @dapandapod @blaidd-gwyn @dont-trust-humanity @mayastormborn @jaskierslastbraincell @frywen-bumbles @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher @ahh-fxck @kueble @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @fontegagrilledcheese @herostag @stinastar @abluescarfonwaston
468 notes · View notes
"Ten more minutes," Geralt mutters. He baps the alarm to quell its incessant beeping, and wiggles to cuddle himself closer into his boyfriend.
Jaskier grumbles something in agreement, and shoves his face into the space between Geralt's cheek and the bed. How lovely and warm and—
They nearly break the alarm trying to shut it up again.
Geralt's the first one to sit up, rubbing away the crust from his eyes as he sets his feet on the carpet floor and tries not to fall asleep sitting. Jaskier pulls the duvet over his head as Geralt stands, taking one more final minute of not-sleep before sitting up in their nest of blankets with a groan.
Geralt's already stumbled into the bathroom to run the shower.
Jaskier's eyes are half closed as he shoves the blankets and comforters on their bed into something that's not entirely too messy. The sound of the running shower promises reprieve from the morning cold. He finishes fluffing the pillows (a little something that Geralt will never admit to loving) and begins stripping off pajamas in his walk to the bathroom.
The yellow-white light reflects off sandy tiles and into Jaskier's eyes, and he winces as his bare feet are met with the chill of the floor. Geralt sticks a hand into the water to make sure all the cold has run out, leaving only warm water in its wake; Jaskier rests his head against Geralt's bare shoulder as he waits.
"It's good," Geralt says, and then they're both half-blindly walking into the bathtub. Jaskier sets his back to the shower, and sighs at the warmth against his skin. Geralt yawns in his face before he plasters his chest to Jaskier's, leaning against him and tucking his head into the crook of his neck.
They stay standing and still, stealing a couple more seconds of not-sleep before reaching for soap and loofahs. It's a quick wash, and their eyes are open by the end of it. Geralt gives him a kiss good morning, and Jaskier kisses back; they’re too used to one another's awful morning breaths.
Jaskier grabs the toothpaste first, pressing into the middle of the tube and onto his toothbrush; Geralt’s shoulders brush against his as he smoothens the tube out, and rolls it up. He can’t stand mint toothpaste— it’s birthday cake flavor (he’d chosen it out himself).
The coffee’s running by the time they’re dressed again. Sweatpants and sweatshirts for a morning too cold; Geralt dons Jaskier’s favorite pastel pink hoodie, and Jaskier’s apparently grabbed one of his boyfriend’s black nike crewnecks. His clothes are too mixed in with Geralt’s to tell them apart anymore (Jaskier’s silks and everyday finery are in a closet of their own). Their socks are their own, at least.
They pour coffee into mismatched cups, Jaskier’s black (too lazy to make anything fancier at seven am) and Geralt’s with just enough milk and far too much sugar (black’s too bitter for his tastes). The sun’s yet unrisen as they walk out onto their balcony, steaming mugs in one hand and each other’s hand in the other.
They drink, quiet as they listen to the early calls of birds. It’s just loud enough for Jaskier, and just quiet enough for Geralt. Geralt tucks himself into Jaskier’s side just as the sun begins to rise, an arm wrapping around his waist.
“Good morning, darling,” Jaskier whispers. The chill’s turned Geralt’s nose pink, and he can’t keep himself from pecking it a little kiss.
Geralt smiles at him, eyes soft and gentle. It’s a sight Jaskier’ll never tire of seeing. “Good morning, Jaskier.”
The sun warms their skin as they steal quiet kisses under early morning light.
649 notes · View notes