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jaskierswolf · 4 years

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A Night Alone With You

Written for the below prompt and cross posted on my AO3 ☺️

Oooh for a prompt: some tender hurt/comfort for Geraskier please ☺️ Like maybe Jaskier is having a hard day and is sad in bed and Geralt comforts him or something like that @geraskier-trashh

__________

To look at Jaskier Pankratz, you would think that he thrived when he was around people.

That wasn’t strictly true.

Yes, he did love people. He loved pleasing people but most of all he loved the music. He sang and he danced and he flirted with the crowd but it was about the music. It was only ever about the music.

No one expected a famous troubadour and poet to retire to their room alone at night and whilst he was more than happy to have a warm body to lie with, tonight he was fucking exhausted.

He’d been performing for three nights straight and every evening he’d been surrounded by beautiful people that had demanded his attention. He needed a break. He needed to hide under the sheets in his rented room. He needed to spend a week in the woods with just the taciturn witcher for company. He needed to get away from all this noise and people.

He just needed to recharge.

Then he could go back to the extroverted bard that everyone knew and loved.

He finished his song with a last strum of the lute. He smiled brightly at the crowd and bowed whilst the final notes hung in the air. He gathered up the coins that were flung in his direction and gracefully declined any offers of drinks, then he scarpered up to his room taking the stairs two at a time.

His doublet fell to the floor and he kicked off his boots then he dove under the covers.

The weight fell over him and he could finally breathe again. He hummed happily and closed his eyes. In his head he wove the next few verses of his latest composition, picturing the story so very clearly in the empty darkness of his room. He muttered under his breath as he tested out the rhymes and rhythms of the lines. Occasionally he would scrunch up his nose as the story went somewhere he didn’t like, and then he’d start over. He kept starting over until the daydream and the story of his ballad followed the path that he wanted it to.

Eventually his eyes grew heavy as he told himself his own bedtime stories and he fell asleep with his head still buried under the covers.

___________

He woke up drenched in sweat and with a pounding headache, which wasn’t helped by insistent knocking on his door.

“Bollocks.” He grumbled and untangled himself from the sheets. He pulled them around his shoulders like a cape and yawned as he padded across the wooden floorboards towards the door.

“Jaskier.” Angela, the barmaid who he had spent the previous evening with, purred as he opened the door, clearly aiming for seductive and on any other day he would have been delighted.

As it was it took all his energy not to slam the door in her face.

“Is everything alright?” He mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He peered back at his window. It was still dark outside and he could see the moon even from across the room.

She pulled at the lace of her bodice and sauntered into his room.

“It is now we’re alone.” She dragged a finger down his chest, pulling at his half opened shirt.

Fuck.

“Ah. I see.” He mumbled and extracted himself from her grip. “No. Thank you for the offer but I would really rather get some rest… alone.”

She raised an eyebrow and put her hand on her hip. “But last night?” She pouted.

“Was wonderful.” He agreed, and honestly it had been.

She sighed. “But not tonight?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

She nodded with a frown, obviously hurt by his rejection. He leaned in to kiss her cheek and he squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing personal, darling.”

“Well, goodnight.” She pulled away from him too roughly and he sighed.

Fucking people, but at least she’d let it go easily, not everyone did.

“Goodnight, sweet Angela.” He whispered after her.

Then he sighed again.

“Bloody hell.” He groaned.

He pulled off his shirt and trousers this time, not wanting to overheat again and flopped back down on the bed. He jumped straight back into his composing, he couldn’t remember exactly which at point he’d fallen asleep so he went from the last bit he could remember.

Until there was another knock at the door just as he was starting to fall back to sleep.

“Oh fuck off!” He groaned. “Can’t a bard get some peace?”

“Jaskier.”

His eyes went wide and he jumped from the bed, pulling the covers with him. He almost tripped up as they tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the door.

Geralt!

He’d been out on a hunt the last view days and Jaskier hadn’t been expecting the witcher back for another day at least. There was a teensy chance that his worrying about the witcher had contributed to his foul mood and lowered his tolerance of people. It was mentally exhausting knowing that his best friend was out there risking his life for the thankless souls of humanity and there was nothing he could do about it. In front of people he acted like he had every confidence in Geralt’s abilities but in reality he’d seen the scars, he’d even seen a few of the wounds that left the scars.

No matter how good Geralt was, it never diminished the risk of him getting hurt.

Jaskier flung about the door and pulled the slightly startled witcher inside.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greeted him warmly. “How was your hunt? You must tell me everything!” He babbled on like he usually would. He didn’t want to cause Geralt any concern, especially if he’d been injured, by not being his usual verbose self.

Geralt hummed and slunk down on the edge of the bed. “Thought you’d have company?”

Jaskier shrugged.

Geralt scowled at him. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier stammered but slid down onto the bed next to Geralt and pulled at the covers so they were once again draped over his shoulders. “Yeah.” He drawled, the word sounding false even to his ears.

“Jaskier.” Geralt growled.

“I. I just needed a rest.” Jaskier mumbled.

Geralt scoffed.

“I needed to be alone.” He sighed and rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “Everyone always expects me to be so… ahhhh…” He gave a frantic wave of his hands, “all the fucking time. It gets a bit much, even for me.” He admitted, feeling strangely vulnerable.

Even around Geralt he was always the story teller and the extravagant poetic. Geralt struggled to express himself at times and Jaskier picked up the slack. He didn’t mind. Out of the two of them, he was the more eloquent one, and it was his role in their friendship.

Geralt grunted. “I can go.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s hand before he could move and looked the witcher in the eyes. “No. Don’t.”

“You want to be alone.” Geralt looked, quite rightly, confused.

Jaskier sighed. “I don’t want to be around people.” He amended.

“But…”

“You don’t count as people.” Jaskier insisted firmly. “Please don’t go.”

Geralt smirked as he looked around the tiny room that was clearly made for just one person. “It’s cheaper to share.” He noted.

An excuse.

It was always an excuse. There was this unspoken… thing between them. It wasn’t quite a relationship but it was different to friendship. There was a weird tension there that never existed between two good friends. They shared bedrolls, actual beds, bath water, meals… practically everything in their travelling lives was shared. At first it had been out of necessity but the coin was steady these days and they no longer needed to share.

And yet.

“It is cheaper.” Jaskier agreed.

Geralt stripped off and cleaned up the best he could without calling for a bath. They would have to ask for one in the morning but at least Geralt wasn’t covered in monster guts this time. Once he was ready for bed he laid back on the mattress, his long silver hair spilling over the pillows. Jaskier still had the covers wrapped around him and he wasn’t planning on letting them go any time soon but Geralt wouldn’t complain, he never did when Jaskier stole the covers in the night.

Jaskier curled up against Geralt’s chest and let out a sigh of relief. He really had meant it when he’d said that Geralt didn’t count as people. He was one of the few people on the Continent that Jaskier could be around when he needed to recharge his energy, in fact it was almost better to be with Geralt than alone.

Still, even now, the silence was stifling.

Geralt’s fingers threaded through Jaskier’s hair as they lay there in the darkness and the silence. Jaskier felt like he could have purred under the rhythmic ministrations of the witcher’s hands, but the quiet was making his thoughts seem too loud.

They were always too loud.

“Tell me about the hunt.” He asked, tentatively breaking the silence.

Geralt’s hand stilled in his hair for a few beats but then he started again, tugging at the knots where Jaskier had been messing it up earlier in the day.

“What do you want to know?” Geralt answered with his own question, his voice a low gruff rumbling in the dark.

“Everything.” Jaskier breathed. “Make it up if you have to.”

He could practically hear the eye roll from Geralt. “I’m not making it up, Jaskier.”

“Then tell me all the wonderfully nerdy things you know about vampires.” Jaskier insisted.

“It was a bruxa. You know they aren’t just vampires. It’s more complex than that.” Geralt grumbled.

“There we go. Just like that. I like your voice.” He admitted. “It’s soothing.”

Geralt scoffed. “Says the bard.”

Jaskier whined and buried his face into Geralt’s chest. “You don’t even like my voice.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I do.” Geralt grumbled.

“Nah.” Jaskier muttered. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” Geralt’s hand moved from Jaskier’s hair down his back and Jaskier felt himself being pulled closer. He snuggled into Geralt’s chest quite happily.

“Tell me.” He asked, bordering on pleading.

Geralt took a long heavy breath as he gathered his thoughts and it took all of Jaskier’s patience not to push his friend.

“You have… fuck.” Geralt snarled and buried his face into Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier stayed silent but drew out the pattern from his lute on Geralt’s chest as best he could from memory.

“Your voice is home.” Geralt mumbled. “It’s warm. Beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Jaskier’s heart began to race in his chest and he had no doubt that the witcher could feel it too.

“Hmm. Yes, like the sirens only you don’t try to kill me.” Geralt seemed to laugh at his own joke but Jaskier was still stuck on beautiful.

“You think my voice is beautiful?” He squeaked.

“You are beautiful.” Geralt replied with such sincerity that Jaskier felt like he was going to burst.

Instead he let out a stream of sounds and pulled the covers over his head.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly and tugged at the edge of the sheets but Jaskier held them tight.

He was blushing too much.

Geralt thought he was beautiful.

Geralt.

Oh fuck!

He whined pitifully.

“Is. Is that alright?” Geralt’s voice was muffled through the covers and Jaskier could barely hear anything over the sound of his own heart. “Your heart, are you ok?”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier groaned and pulled the covers from off his head, glaring at the witcher. “Are you trying to kill me?"

Geralt seemed taken aback. “No?”

“You. You’re being all… nice!” He sat up and waved his hands in the witchers face. “It’s. It’s too much.”

Geralt frowned. “You don’t want me to be nice?”

“No. Yes. No. Oh I don’t know!” Jaskier jumped up and tried desperately to calm his heart.

Geralt huffed. “You are being confusing tonight.”

“Yeah well, I’m not feeling like myself.” Jaskier muttered. “Sorry.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt slowly sat up and moved towards the end of the bed, like he was scared Jaskier would spook and run a mile.

He wasn’t wrong.

Jaskier licked his lips and wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Forgive me if I’m reading this wrong. I’m not good at, well, this.” Geralt snarled quietly and frowned then took a deep breath.

“Reading what wrong?” The words fell from Jaskier’s lips before he could stop them.

Geralt didn’t answer. Instead Jaskier was pulled back towards the bed and Geralt’s lips were hovering over his so tantalisingly close and yet so far. Jaskier whimpered as his knees knocked against the edge of the mattress. One of Geralt’s hands was holding his wrist and rubbing circles against the skin there with a thumb, the other was cupping Jaskier’s cheek so tenderly. He could almost hear the swell of music surrounding them in the moment. Geralt’s warm breath tickled his lips and Jaskier swallowed.

Gods, if Geralt didn’t kiss him now then he was fucked.

Royally fucked.

“Can I?” Geralt murmured, his warm amber eyes watching Jaskier intently, taking in every movement of Jaskier’s eyes and every shaking breath.

“Please.” Jaskier stammered.

And Geralt kissed him.

Oh gods, did Geralt kiss him. It was everything Jaskier had ever dreamed of and more. It was tender and slow where he’d imagined it would be rough and bruising. There was love where he’d imagined there would be pure lust. There was a hand on his wrist, pulling him down to sit with Geralt on the bed, where he’d pictured hands in his hair and being pushed up against a wall.

He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t want to breathe.

He didn’t need to breathe.

He just needed Geralt.

Fuck.

Well perhaps he did need to breathe a little. He panted as he pulled away from the witcher. His eyes were still shut, he couldn’t remember shutting them, but he was scared that if he opened them then Geralt would disappear and he’d be alone, truly alone.

“G-Geralt?” He mumbled.

Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s and Jaskier let out a sigh. His eyes slowly opening to find the witcher gazing back at him.

Gazing with such adoration that Jaskier was sure he’d stepped into a fairy tale or a dream.

“Is this alright?”

Jaskier let out a small laugh. “Yeah. More than alright. It’s perfect.”

Geralt smiled. “So I haven’t ruined your evening?”

Jaskier pulled back and hit Geralt lightly in the arm. “Geralt!” He pouted.

Geralt shrugged. “You wanted to be alone.”

Jaskier pressed his lips against Geralt’s in a chaste kiss and then bumped their noses together as they pulled apart. “My darling, there is no one else I would rather be alone with, but you.”

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier pankratz #geralt of rivia #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #one shot #wolfie's witcher writing #a night alone with you #let me know what you think #prompts are open

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havenoffandoms · 3 years

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All That I Cannot Have (Eskel/Geralt) (NSFW)

Based on Kashimalin’s 50 Types of Kisses prompt list.

Prompt: "Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer."

Pairing: Eskel/Geralt

Content Warning: breeding kink (Geralt), bottom Eskel, top Geralt, possessive Geralt, nipple play

Read on AO3.

Most people who meet Eskel for the first time - people like Triss, people like Jaskier, people like Ciri - describe him as serious, quiet, calm and potentially a bit shy, even a little intimidating with the scars running down his face and curling his lip in a permanent snarl. Geralt knows better, though. No matter how well people claim to know Eskel, they’ll never be on par with the century of shared trauma that Eskel and Geralt went through together, first as friends, then as brothers, then as lovers. It’s not like Eskel isn’t serious, or quiet, or calm, and occasionally shy around people he doesn’t know well. He can definitely seem a bit intimidating when he wants to be, but what witcher isn’t?

All Geralt is saying is that there is so much more to Eskel’s personality, aspects that Eskel either wouldn’t dare show to a stranger in public, or aspects that only Geralt notices after over a century of knowing Eskel intimately. At times Eskel can be quiet and shy, and to use Lambert’s phrasing, as stiff as a bookkeeper in a body cast. He wasn’t always like that, though. A century of walking the Path, of being spat on by contract givers and chased out of villages by having stones thrown at him, a century of people not bothering to hide their disdain, and fear, and disgust for Eskel and his kind, was bound to take a toll on anyone eventually. Even Eskel, who used to be so playful and full of mischief. Even Eskel, who would willingly get himself into trouble to make Geralt laugh.

Eskel has changed over the century Geralt’s known him - and that was always bound to happen, Geralt presumes - but one thing that never changed was Eskel’s bleeding heart and the inherent goodness inside of him. If anything, his big heart only grew bigger and softer over the years. Geralt admires that about him. Even though the Path has wiped away all of Eskel’s childlike playfulness, there are times when Eskel’s mischief comes back with a force, usually when he finds himself around children. Geralt will never forget the first winter he brought Ciri back to the keep. Once she had warmed up to Eskel’s presence, he would goad her into action every time, giving her ideas for pranks to play on Lambert, Vesemir and Geralt, of all people.

Turns out that sharing Eskel’s bed every night during winter did not grant Geralt immunity from Eskel’s prankish machinations. If anything, it used to make him Ciri and Eskel’s prime target.

There are times, when it’s just Geralt and Eskel in their shared bedroom, when Eskel’s playfulness truly comes to shine. Nobody else knows just how adventurous Eskel can be in the bedroom, nor how bratty he can be when he decides to test Geralt’s patience. Not that Geralt wants anyone to ever witness Eskel like this - not like this, completely debauched and reduced to a whimpering mess. That is a sight reserved for Geralt’s eyes exclusively, as he’s made it known multiple times in the past when Eskel would tease him about letting someone walk in on them.

Nobody gets to see Eskel like this, not if Geralt has a say in this.

Tonight is not that kind of night, though. Tonight is different, and Eskel somehow subconsciously knows that Geralt craves a different kind of game. Geralt and Eskel have retreated to their bedroom after celebrating Ciri’s coronation as Empress of Nilfgaard. A big day for Geralt’s pup… well, not so much a pup anymore, is she? She’s all grown up now, no longer the fiery little she-devil that the wolf witchers trained, but a grown woman. An empress. Geralt didn’t think Ciri’s coronation would make him feel so damn emotional, but it did, because it means that he’s now officially lost her. She’s officially left the nest, and she has exactly no obligation to visit Geralt now if she doesn’t wish to.

Tonight, Geralt needs something different from Eskel, a game they’ve dabbled in on past occasions, but one that Geralt and Eskel both had to be in the mood for. He knows it’s weird to want this - not that Eskel would begrudge him this need, not his dear Eskel, who’s never once judged Geralt based on what he enjoys in bed. It’s weird to feel this need as a witcher, of all things. Or perhaps the fact that Geralt and Eskel are witchers is precisely the reason why he craves this kind of activity in bed.

“Are you sure you want this?” Geralt asks one last time as he drops his forehead to Eskel’s, and lets his hand roam over the flat expanse of Eskel’s abdomen, “say the word, and it stops now.”

“I want this,” Eskel whispers back, his tone growing impossibly softer as he leans into Geralt’s touch, “I want you, whatever way you’ll have me.”

“Hm. Safeword.”

It’s a request, not a question. Geralt won’t proceed until he’s certain that Eskel is aware that he has a way out if he needs Geralt to stop. Eskel huffs out a small laugh which falls just short of teasing. It sounds almost fond, in fact.

“Wolfsbane.”

One of the herbs used in the Trial of Grasses, the smell of which Eskel has come to hate with a passion over the years. Geralt nods, pleased with his lover’s cooperation, trusting Eskel to use his safeword if he feels at all uncomfortable with what’s about to happen. Geralt takes a composing breath and snakes one hand at the back of Eskel’s head, where he buries his long dextrous fingers in the soft brown mane and tugs him closer into a hungry kiss.

"I love you," Geralt breathes between them, gently biting down on Eskel's lower lip as he breaks their heated kiss, "so much."

Eskel whimpers, his body arching needily at those words. Geralt smirks, knowing just how worked up Eskel gets over hearing the three magic words. Geralt presses a final, chaste kiss to his lover's lips before sinking lower. His hands squeeze the soft layer of fat that covers Eskel's hips and abdomen. If Geralt closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that Eskel's winter blubber is not just the result of the hearty meals and Cintran ale he's been enjoying as of late…

A possessive growl rumbles deep in Geralt's throat as he nuzzles the dip in Eskel's hip. He splays his fingers so that they cover most of Eskel's belly, pretending that the sound of his lover's accelerated heartbeat belongs to someone else, to something growing inside Eskel's belly… Geralt isn't delusional. He knows that even if witchers weren't infertile, he and Eskel could never have children of their own. Not biologically, at least. Geralt knows that, and he knows that this kink of his is ridiculous.

And yet, here they are, and Eskel looks so willing to indulge Geralt’s fantasy. Geralt simply can't help it.

"Geralt?" Eskel's rough baritone is the only thing that keeps Geralt from spiralling. That, and his lover's hand gently cupping his face in a silent demand to look at him. Geralt complies easily, seeking reassurance in the familiar amber orbs. "I can hear you being mean to yourself in your head. Stop that."

"You don't think I'm…" Geralt swallows thickly as he musters the courage to finish his sentence. "Weird?"

A fond smile, one that falls just short of sad, graces Eskel's lips. He shakes his head and cards his fingers tenderly through Geralt's hair.

"I'm glad you feel comfortable enough around me to show this side of you," Eskel assures him, "but if it doesn't feel right, we can stop. This should feel good for you, not make you feel ashamed."

Geralt knows that his lover wouldn't lie to him about this, nor would Eskel pretend to be fine just for the sake of getting Geralt off. That has never been how their relationship worked. Contrary to Eskel’s reputation as being a people-pleaser, even Eskel has his limits. It's all the reassurance Geralt needs before he fully surrenders to this unusual urge of his.

"Don't wanna stop," Geralt grates, his voice rough with desire, "gonna fill you up with my pups before the night is over."

Eskel’s reaction is instantaneous. The high-pitched keen that tumbles past his lip goes straight to Geralt’s cock, which gives a twitch of interest in response. Geralt’s fingers glide reverently over Eskel’s abdomen, followed closely by his lips as Geralt scatters feather-light kisses over the twitching skin. Eskel arches into the touch, whispering a string of curses under his breath as he does so. Geralt lets himself drift further and further into that corner of his mind reserved for nights like this one, into that corner that longs to breed Eskel and see him grow large with Geralt’s pups.

Geralt’s lips travel back up of their own accord until his mouth latches onto one of Eskel’s nipples, pulling a startled gasp from his lover. Geralt presses the flat of his tongue against the areola and gives the sensitive bud a tentative suck. If Geralt concentrates hard enough, he can imagine how Eskel’s milk would taste, sweet and warm and filling. Eskel nearly bucks him off then, but Geralt’s steadying hands on his lover’s hips brings Eskel’s twitching under control. Once his lover has relaxed into the mattress and gotten used to Geralt’s suction, Geralt brings one hand up to cup Eskel’s other pec, squeezing the meat of it between his calloused fingertips. Eskel’s tits - so firm, but layered with a softness that Geralt adores - look so inviting that Geralt cannot resist temptation much longer. He switches sides, barely giving Eskel a moment’s respite before latching onto the other nipple and resuming his gentle ministrations.

“Ger’lt… gonna-”

That is all the warning Geralt gets before he feels Eskel’s cock twitch and spill hotly between his and Geralt’s body. The thought that Geralt made Eskel come just by focusing on his nipples has no business making Geralt’s cock twitch in the way it does. He pulls away from Eskel’s sensitive nipple with a wet ‘pop’, flicking his tongue at it one last time. Eskel looks dazed, maybe a little bit shocked at himself even, but Geralt is quick to wipe the insecurity he sees reflected in his lover’s eyes with a hungry kiss.

“Fuckin’ love your tits, Kel,” Geralt growls between two heated kisses, “love how soft they feel under my hands, love how sensitive they are… they look so full already. They’ll get fuller once you’re heavy with my pups.”

Eskel makes a choked noise at that. He throws his head back against the pillow and lets out a needy little mewl, Geralt’s name falling from his lips like a prayer or a plea. Geralt smiles wolfishly at the sight.

“Would you like that, sweetheart? Would you like for your tits to fill with milk until they’re nice and heavy for me? Bet you’d be leaking so easily, too. That’s okay, though,” Geralt leans in to capture Eskel’s lips in another sloppy kiss, “because when that happens, I’ll lap it all up and relieve you of the pressure. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Fuck, Geralt!”

While Geralt is now firmly in the right mindset, he knows that Eskel won’t engage with him as much when they’re playing this game. Eskel is enjoying himself, that much is clear, but he doesn’t feel the same need to breed - or, in his case, be bred - as Geralt. Eskel’s pleasure comes from having Geralt’s attention focused solely on him, and having Geralt whisper soft praises about Eskel’s body. That’s fine, Geralt thinks to himself as he reaches for the slick he stored away in the bedside table, so long as Eskel is getting something out of this too, even if they’re both getting different things out of this game.

Geralt gets to project his fantasies onto his lover, while Eskel gets to be worshipped by Geralt. A win-win situation if Geralt’s ever seen one.

“You still good?” Geralt rasps just as he pops the cork of the vial open with his thumb. Eskel nods jerkily in response, his chest heaving with the force of his panting.

“All good. Need you, Wolf, please!”

And how can Geralt deny his lover this when Eskel begs him so sweetly? The night is just beginning.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #geralt the witcher #the witcher geralt #witcher geralt #eskel #the witcher eskel #eskel the witcher #witcher eskel #eskel x geralt #geralt x eskel #eskel/geralt #geralt/eskel #gereskel #geskel #eskralt #havenwrites #kiss prompts

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wordsablaze · 3 years

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11. tell me love

your beauty hides the pain Lost on the mountain, Jaskier accidentally angers a mage who decides to curse Yennefer with his company and for once, it might actually be a blessing in disguise…

A/N: it’s been a while but hi again !! @random-nerd-3 @surreal-static @10moonymhrivertam @bicount-de-lettenhove @i-need-blog-ideas

previous chapter

Vengerberg smells strange.

For some reason, Jaskier had been under the impression that it would smell like Yennefer, like flowers and power and bittersweet memories and something distinctly purple.

He must make his confusion obvious because Yennefer takes one look at him and laughs, letting go of his hand and striding ahead. “Catch up, bard, unless your delicate perspective of the world can’t handle it.”

Jaskier scoffs. “What, you think witchers have any idea what classes as a good bed and not just something that isn’t the ground?”

Yennefer hums in a way that suggests she’d never bothered to find out but doesn’t stop walking, somehow speeding up despite the length of her dress - most women he’s met prefer not to go too fast when wearing long flowing fabrics but then again, she’s far from most women he’s met.

“So, uh, will we be gracing your ancestral home? Your childhood haven? Your adolescent getaway?” he asks as he falls into step beside her.

“We’re only here to find the mage who cursed you,” Yennefer replies eventually.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Well, actually, she very specifically went to the trouble of cursing us, dear witch, and that means she’s just as invested in your matters as she is in mine.”

He’s far too focused on watching for her reaction to notice the woman walking past them who had very clearly expected him to move out of the way, leading to them colliding rather awkwardly.

“You moron! That was my finest batch of apples this week!” she yells, gesturing to the apples that’d toppled from her basket to the ground and are now definitely not her finest batch anymore.

Jaskier curses before reaching down to pick some of them up. “My sincere apologies, I truly meant you no harm. If you’d like, I’ll be happy to offer my assistance with anything you require to-”

“Get your hands off my fruit!” the woman snaps before chucking one of the apples at him with startling speed.

Despite years of practice ducking away from things being thrown at him, the only thing he can think to do in time is close his eyes and hope the apple isn’t hard enough to bruise. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t even feel its impact, which is odd because last time he checked, fruit is almost always solid enough to hurt.

When the other woman gasps, he risks opening his eyes.

Yennefer’s hand is curled around the apple, less than an inch away from his face.

Oh gods, his heart can’t handle this.

“I would advise you to take your anger elsewhere before I make sure you can only ever produce rotten apples for the rest of your life,” Yennefer says coldly.

The woman mumbles something unintelligible before offering Yennefer a curtsy - an actual, genuine curtsy - and all but running away from them.

“Did you forget how to use your jaw?” Yennefer asks him after a moment, one of her eyebrows raised.

Jaskier blinks, pointedly closes his mouth, and then grins at her. “That was quite possibly the scariest thing I’ve seen in my entire life! Could you really make sure all her apples turn out rotten?”

Yennefer only smirks.

She tosses him the apple before carrying on walking as if she hasn’t just firmly established herself as his new muse, not that he’s currently willing to risk revealing that in fear of losing his chance to witness such inspiration unfold.

“You know, there’s something incredibly poetic about the colour of your lips matching the colour of her, well, attempt at a weapon… the fruits of her anger and the fruits of your power, both fruits that you wouldn’t want to cross paths with... the innocence of fresh apples having been corrupted by emotion, her sweet anger and your sweet, uh, kiss...”

Yennefer hadn’t paid him much attention as he’d been thinking aloud but she stops at that, frowning at him. “And since when is kissing an emotion?”

Jaskier all but jumps, really not having expected her to be listening, and shrugs. “A kiss could imply many an emotion.”

His gaze travels to the perfect red of her lips without him meaning for it to, but all he can think about is how that shade is actually more akin to blood than apples. Or perhaps a morning sky like the beautiful sunrise they’d watched back at the temple. He’s forced out of his thoughts when he feels her presence in his mind, to which he shakes his head and tries his best to glare at her. “Hey, it is hardly polite to keep intruding like that!”

She shrugs just as he had done, a small smile playing at her lips. “And it is hardly polite to keep staring like that.”

Jaskier flushes, fiddling with the strap of his lute. “Yes, well, in my defence, I hadn’t entirely intended to keep staring. I was only thinking and-”

“Quiet,” Yennefer interrupts, then swears almost inaudibly.

He has no idea why he follows that order so quickly but he instantly bites his tongue and waits for her to elaborate. Except she doesn’t elaborate, she only grabs his wrist and pulls him sideways, leading him along several twists and turns before he can even attempt to understand what’s happening.

He stumbles over something but she keeps going and he finds himself toppling forwards, only for her fingers to interlock between his and tug him back upright. She says nothing, still guiding them along, and he takes the opportunity to smile widely at her, which he knows she wouldn’t necessarily allow if she could see him. The oddly soft comfort of her hand in his is probably the only thing that keeps him going until she eventually slows to a stop.

“You couldn’t have… warned me?” he mutters once he catches his breath, resting his free hand on his knee and pretending he’s not still panting between each word.

She sighs, waiting until she’s caught her breath and yet again looks perfectly composed before even trying to explain. “The mage. She knew we’d come looking for her. We set her wards off, I could feel it.”

He nods, but that still doesn’t entirely make sense. “And we ran here, wherever here is, because...?”

Yennefer sighs, letting go of his hand - which he most certainly doesn’t mourn - so she can pinch the bridge of her nose. “Ordinarily, I’d say too much time has passed since I left for you to see my, as you put it, childhood haven, but it seems that this town is stubborn about even the worst of its architecture.”

Jaskier frowns. He can see a few houses further along the road but they’re currently standing in front of a random, slightly dilapidated shed and he has no idea why they’d paused to rest here if their actual destination was further along.

“So, which one is it? Did you stop us here just to warn me of that? Because I assure you, I will be as respectful as physically possible towards whichever of those lovely establishments is-”

“Jaskier.”

He blinks.

She rarely uses his name so he knows she’s being serious. He bites his lip, once again waiting for her to carry on and hoping she doesn’t try to kill him. After a moment, she gestures to the shed and raises an eyebrow with something that, if he didn’t know better, he’d say looks like nervousness in her expression.

He frowns again. “Are you telling me this is…?”

"My rotten haven, yes,” Yennefer sighs.

She starts walking again before any of his previous assumptions about her childhood have time to catch up. And as they do, he wants nothing more than to give her space and put some distance between them because he feels as though he’s just insulted her, but unless he wants both of them to be in pain, he can’t; reluctantly, he follows her inside.

this was meant to be longer to make up for taking ages to update but i wrote the other half at like 2am and can’t find it so it’ll have to do...

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#yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #yennefer x jaskier #the witcher #fanfic #getting together #hurt jaskier #protective yennefer #yennefer: *does anything scary*#jaskier: *heart eyes*#and also #jaskier: *gets intro trouble*#yennefer: *ready to kill someone*#we love that for them #angst #my writing #ybhtp

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som3thingcr3ative · 4 years

Text

And I am Wanting

So, here it is...a slow burn, angsty, poly-amorous Geraskier fic. This beast is gonna be multiple parts, feature our boys Geralt the sass master and Jaskier the smol bean as well as an OC.

It’s got canon-typical violence, respect women juice (tm) and everything else that goes with the beauty of the Witcher.

Our story begins two months before Geralt meets Yennefer in a small town south of Rinde.

part one part two part three part four

Summary: Geralt seeks a bounty and finds something unusual waiting for him in the monster’s lair: Jaskier composes a song in honor of an unsung hero.

Warnings: If you’ve watched the Witcher, you’re prepared. This gets a little more into Geralt’s feelings, but that’s about it.

pairings: so far, mild Jaskier x OC, eventual Geraskier x OC.

also, this is loooong. You’ve been warned.

Word of a beast with a price on its head had come from a local town: the Lord of the town promised a room for any who dared attempt to slay the beast, food for three nights and a great ransom upon return of the creature’s severed head. Geralt was intrigued. The disgruntled highwayman who’d told him spoke also of the town’s vigilante, a man who ‘cleaned up the streets’. It’s a town without rapists or child-molesters, the man had said. The only murderer is the vigilante, and people are calling his work just. They honor him. Whores have professed their undying gratitude.

Geralt sips his ale and wonders what the vigilante would think of him. Across the tavern, Jaskier has started his third run-through of ‘fishmonger’s daughter’. The Witcher feels his eyes twitch. He downs the ale and motions for another from the hesitant bartender; it’s his sixth- or so, he’s not really counting. When the barkeep fills his mug once more, he slams it back and lets his stools’ legs scrape loudly against the slatted floor as he stands, making his exit. He spares only the briefest glances for Jaskier, who is surrounded by drunkards singing along with him. The bard’s cheeks are rosy from drink, his eyes sparkling in the low light with the attention of so many on him.

The Witcher waits outside the tavern, leaning against the hitching post Roach is tied to. He strokes a hand over her ear and murmurs lowly to her as he looks around; the town is quite large by rural standards, boasting three taverns and two brothels, a church with a monopoly on the religious sheep of the place, and a rather palatial estate overlooking the main street. This estate is where he needs to go- he takes the whole thing in, from the neatly trimmed rose bushes out front to the large barn to its left. There is a circular cobblestone path for horses and coaches, tall columns guarding the entrance.

Jaskier stumbles out of the tavern, a little tipsy and with a wide grin on his face. Geralt grunts, sending the bard a short glare before he turns his back, throwing the reins over Roach’s head and mounting up. Together, Jaskier telling Geralt in great detail how amazing having everyone singing his songs was, they make a steady pace for the estate.

The first thing Geralt notices as a servant leads him into the dining room is the beautiful woman sitting to the right of who he assumes is the Lord of the town. She’s stunning, her features refined as he’d come to expect of nobility, her long hair let loose in ringlets that spill over her shoulders in waves of auburn. Her posture is perfect, hands clasped in her lap over a flowing dress. Every inch of her screams wealth.

Geralt doesn’t have to force himself to look away. While she looks like she can afford the price on the beasts’ head, she doesn’t look like the type to get her hands dirty- in fact, even at dinner her hands and forearms are covered by black silk gloves. She’s far too prissy for his taste.

“Geralt of Rivia!” The Lord of the town booms, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he stands up. He spreads his long arms wide. “I’d heard you were in town. Have you come for the monster? Who am I kidding, of course you have! Welcome, welcome!”

The Witcher steps into the dining room, Jaskier just behind and to his left. He knows he’s out of place with his dual swords, his black leather armor, but he couldn’t give less of a damn. Money is money, and this man has plenty.

“Please, sit!” The Lord continues. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Lani.” He motions to the auburn-haired woman beside him. She inclines her head with a small smile, properly polite. Geralt nearly scoffs. Instead, he takes a seat at the foot of the table, Jaskier placing himself beside the woman. He kisses the back of her hand, turning on the charm. Geralt watches them for a second, seeing her polite dismissal of the bard. Jaskier doesn’t seem deterred- he keeps talking to her despite her lack of interest.

“I head you have a pest.” Geralt says, ignoring the way the woman’s green eyes lock on him.

“Yes, a werewolf. There’s a mage who has gone rogue around here, and the werewolf seems to be her pet. It’s a creature born, if the pattern of attacks mean anything, and it’s killing our businesses. My businesses, really, since everything in this town is mine.” He laughs, self-confident to the point of cockiness. “I’ll pay you handsomely if you slay it.”

“When.” Geralt corrects, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t have it threatening my daughter, you see. No suitor will want her if the land she is to inherit is plagued with a monster.”

The daughter’s eyes narrow, but she quickly composes her face into an emotionless mask. Geralt notices the slip, though. It seems she’s not content to be married off.

“We have rooms prepared for you, Witcher. Your…friend can stay in the adjoining room. Please, help yourself to whatever food and drink you fancy while here. I can’t offer an advance payment, you see, or too many fakes would come through those doors, but I promise payment in full as soon as the task is complete and the wolf’s head- human or otherwise- crosses my threshold. And only the head, mind you.” He clears his throat. “Apologies, Lani sweet, for such coarse language.”

Lani tips her head to him, but her eyes are still focused on Geralt. He shifts an inch, starting to feel uncomfortable. Her stare isn’t obvious, but it is disconcerting, and with her careful mask, he can’t tell what she’s thinking or why she’s staring.

“Where?” Geralt questions.

“It’s sheltered in the mountain just south of here, at the base. There’s a cave system there, it’s hard to miss. Just follow the creek upstream.”

Geralt nods and stands, turning to leave the room without another word.

“Did you see how beautiful Lani is?” Jaskier babbles as he follows Roach up a sloping hill. “She looks like a princess, or a queen. Oh, I could write a song about her beauty! Should I? Do you think that would woo her to me?”

Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes. Roach is sure-footed on the rocks, but he can hear Jaskier slipping every so often behind him. Nevertheless, the bard keeps up his steady stream of talking. They’re an hour into the woods, following the creek as Lord Corro (He’d gleaned the name from a passing servant in the hall) had said. There are fresh hoofprints in the bits of sandy ground between rocks, and only in one direction. Whoever had gone hadn’t come back.

The Witcher holds up a hand. Jaskier stops with a huff. “Are we there yet?”

Geralt glares at him, but his attention is diverted; just over the crest of the hill he can see the very top of a cave mouth. Inside, echoing just loud enough for his highly tuned senses to pick up is the sound of a fight. He hears a shout, a roar, a scream- and then a thud as something- or someone- is thrown.

He nudges Roach into a canter over the path, finding that the ground levels out and becomes less rocky the closer they get to the cave. Outside the mouth of the cave, a large black horse grazes amongst bones strewn haphazardly on the ground. It lifts its head and whickers, puffing itself up to full height as it watches Roach canter in. Inside, the sounds of the fight have resumed. Geralt catches the scent of blood, of sweat and something else- wood smoke? He turns his mare and jumps off, rushing into the cave.

The inside of the cave is littered with full skeletons, half-eaten corpses and fresh blood. There are several human bodies among the dead, but sheep and goats far out number the people. He even spots a few cows, their skulls resting in odd positions. Closer now, he can hear each grunt the human fighter makes, each glance of their weapon over the werewolf’s hide. The monster screams, then roars. For a second there’s nothing.

Geralt skids to a stop at the entrance to the main lair. The werewolf lays dead, skewered through the neck by a silver-plated sword. Standing over the corpse with a leg over either shoulder is a black-clad figure whose face is obscured by a mask and a hood- but Geralt can see that the blood dripping from their hands to the sword’s hilt isn’t werewolf blood. It’s their own.

The figure collapses, falling just to the side of the werewolf’s massive body, curled in on itself. Is it the vigilante? Geralt thinks, blinking at the well-made sword, the man’s black doublet and thick leather pants. He sure did come prepared.

As he stalks toward the too-brave human, he takes stock of the fight scene. It had been brutal, this much he can tell; there is human blood smeared across the ceiling and directly below, too fresh to belong to anyone other than the vigilante.

“You shouldn’t have taken on a monster by yourself.” Geralt admonishes the panting, nearly-broken figure on the floor. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He doesn’t answer verbally, instead pushing himself up with both hands firmly planted on the ground. As soon as he gets his feet under him, he’s scrambling backwards, away from Geralt.

The Witcher holds his hands up, seeing the vigilante reach for a dagger belted to his waist. “No need.” He says. “I only hunt monsters, not humans.” Still, no response other than ragged breathing. The man presses a hand to his ribs, hunched over. Clearly injured. “You need help.” Geralt comments. “I can help you.”

He’s aware of Jaskier finally catching up; the bard stands in awe of the scene before him, jaw dropped. Then he sees the vigilante, and notices that both of Geralt’s swords are still strapped to his back- though there is a sword stuck in the werewolf.

“Geralt?” Jaskier questions, confused. “Did he kill the monster?”

The vigilante drops like dead weight. Geralt rushes over, taking the dagger from a limp hand. His fingers come away slick with blood. Up close, the man is smaller than most men he’d seen. He pushes back the hood, noting that the man wears a tight black knit cap that lines up perfectly with the mask. Blood seeps from below the mask, so Geralt takes it off carefully.

“Oh.” He murmurs, shocked. The man, the vigilante, slayer of the werewolf, isn’t a man at all.

Lying unconscious on the ground before him, her body battered, is Lani, Lord Corro’s daughter. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, but her face is unmarred. Up close, Geralt notices a small scar over her right eyebrow, a tiny imperfection on her otherwise unmarked face. She groans, face scrunching, then gags, rolling over to spit up blood. For a second she seems to gather herself, then her eyes land on his.

She reaches up, feeling for the mask, but when her fingers touch only skin her eyes widen. “Don’t tell my father-“ She says, voice hoarse with the blood coating her throat. Geralt pats her back as she falls into a coughing fit, spitting up more blood. When she flops onto her back, she gives him a side-eye. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re injured.”

Her hand lifts to her ribs and she winces. “I’ll be fine. Just…don’t tell.”

Geralt looks to Jaskier over his shoulder. The bard has a comical look of surprise on his face, so shocked that he can do nothing but blink. Huffing, he nods. “I won’t.”

Lani closes her eyes, nose scrunching in pain. She pants through bared teeth as she tries to lift herself onto an elbow, but Geralt is quick to push her back down. “Stay.” he says.

“M’lady?” A girl’s voice calls out from behind them. “Oh! Lani!” Geralt turns to see a woman the same size as Lani rushing towards her. She wears the outfit of a handmaiden in Lord Corro’s house, her mouse-brown hair done up in a braid. Without even bothering to glance at the witcher, she kneels beside Lani and cups her face in one hand. “This is going to leave a mark.” She says.

“You knew about this?” Jaskier’s incredulous voice questions from just over Geralt’s shoulder. His face is bewildered, and Geralt thinks- not for the first time- that the bard lets too much of what he’s feeling show on his face. “You knew that she’s the vigilante?”

The handmaiden cuts Jaskier a look so cold that Geralt’s eyebrows raise. “Of course I did.” She growls, already feeling down Lani’s side for broken bones. “I knew I couldn’t stop her, so I decided to join her. I’m the only one who knows.”

“Not anymore.” Lani coughs, wiping at her mouth. She glances only briefly to the blood on her hand before she warily eyes Jaskier. “Don’t. Tell.”

“Her father would disown her.” The maid explains. “Some of the men she’s, ehem, stopped are men who work for Lord Corro. He’d kill me if he found out I helped her.” She cuts herself off, looking to Lani. They share a glance that clearly means something to the other.

“You can say it.” Lani says, gritting her teeth past a fresh wave of pain.

“Lani’s been playing a long game. Lord Corro is the most corrupt person in town, and she’s been taking out his pawns one by one until she can bring him down, but it’s dangerous. If she were to be found out…”

Geralt’s mind reels. This is not the woman who he’d seen sit so demurely at her father’s side. This woman is cunning. She’s an incredible actress, and far more than he’d given her credit for. “He’s your father.” The Witcher comments. “Not many people would dare take on their own family.”

She bares her teeth, her smile bloodied. “He doesn’t deserve what he has. No one should be that rich while others suffer.”

Behind him, Geralt swears he hears Jaskier whimper. The scent that always clings to the bard intensifies. He looks over his shoulder to find Jaskier making heart-eyes at the woman lying bleeding on the floor, broken but victorious.

“We have to get you back.” The maid murmurs to Lani. “Can you move?”

“She shouldn’t walk on her own.” Geralt says, wondering at the sudden protective urge he has over the woman. “I’ll carry her.”

Lani scoffs, but he knows her pride won’t get her upright. She sets her jaw, eyeing him distrustfully, but when he only holds out a hand for her she seems to deflate. He waits until she nods before he scoops her up with an arm behind her back and one under her legs. She groans in pain, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling. “You’re not like the others, Witcher.” Lani grudgingly admits from behind clenched teeth. “Most men wouldn’t wait for permission.”

Geralt hums low in his chest, knowing she can hear it. He doesn’t bother to answer as he turns around, noting that Jaskier is still reeling from the surprises of the day. “Are you coming, bard?” He burrs, amused. Jaskier nods, glancing back to see the maid following them.

The Witcher places Lani as gently as he can on the black horses’ back, frowning when she still grimaces in pain despite his best efforts. She’s a tough woman, but those are serious injuries, he thinks to himself. “You take the bounty.” She says to him, not meeting his eyes. “As payment for keeping my secret.”

He nearly shakes his head. She’d almost been killed in the fight, the bounty was hers by rights- but the part of himself that remained from his lessons says that coin is coin, no matter how it is gotten. “You killed it.” He says instead. “It’s your bounty.”

“She won’t take it.” the maid replies when Lani clutches her ribs, her face scrunching up in pain. “She’s stubborn like that. Either you take the money or no one will.”

“He’ll take it.” Jaskier jumps in. “Or I will.” When Geralt gives him a short glare, he shrugs. “Living on the road is expensive. We need to pay for food somehow.” Geralt’s lips twitch in annoyance but he realizes the bard is right. It’s a waste of Lani’s blood if no one takes the bounty.

“Where will you go?” He asks instead.

“Home.” Lani breathes, pushing herself upright in the saddle. She takes a few shallow breaths past her bruised ribs. “I’ve gotten good at hiding my injuries.” Geralt sees the sadness in her maid’s expression and knows it’s all too true. “Ready, Loretta?”

The maid nods, swinging up unassisted into the saddle behind her Lady. Lani turns the horse toward the town, giving Geralt a lingering look. “I’ll see you there, Witcher.” She says, gritting her teeth as she urges the horse into a rolling canter.

Geralt huffs, muttering a low ‘fuck’ under his breath. He turns toward the cave where the werewolf’s dead body waits. Jaskier, behind him, is staring after the two riders with longing in his eyes.

“I want to marry that woman.” Jaskier murmurs, his cheeks pink. “She’s so… perfect.”

The Witcher grunts. “She’s her own woman, Jask. Can’t be tied down.” He stomps into the cave, finding the monster exactly the way it had been left. The blood on his leather is Lani’s, but no one in town would know that, so he decides to leave it as a sign of the battle. With a savage yank, he pulls the sword from the werewolf’s spine and uses it to sever the head in two blows. When the head rolls alone on the stone floor of the cave, Geralt takes a closer look at the sword, humming in appreciation of the wonderful craftsmanship. If Lani left it, then she left it for a reason, so he decides to keep it though it is smaller than he likes.

The sun is nearing its crest when Geralt walks out of the cave with a new sword in one hand and a werewolf’s head in the other. Jaskier waits, already strumming his lute to a new tune; one of the witcher, victorious in battle against yet another monster.

Lani sits stiff as a board in her seat beside her father. Her ribs throb with every shallow breath, her entire right side is an amalgamation of black and blue bruises, but the sleeves of her dress and her black silk gloves cover everything. Behind her, Loretta frets. She can feel the handmaiden’s eyes boring into the back of her skull, watching and waiting for a sign that she’s had enough.

She’s about to give up when the double doors to the dining room crash open and in strides Geralt, bloodied and carrying the head of the monster she herself slew.

A good excuse, she thinks, feeling rather pale. She puts the back of one hand daintily to her forehead, sighing just enough that her father hears. “Oh my,” she murmurs. “Father, I feel quite faint. You must excuse me.”

And with that, she rises on unsteady feet, using the back of the chair as balance to leave. As soon as she’s out of eyesight of anyone, Loretta slips an arm around her waist and takes half of her weight, guiding them both to her room.

Lani doesn’t see Geralt unceremoniously dump the head to the floor, or her father hand over a large bag of gold coins. She lays in bed, aching all over and so tired as Jaskier serenades the Lord with a song of Geralt’s triumph over the beast. She hears the revel thrown in Geralt’s honor, the revel that goes on for hours until there’s a shallow knock on her door.

“My Lady Lani?” Jaskier’s voice calls, muffled through the door.

Lani motions Loretta to open the door, too weak to do much more. Jaskier is quickly by her side, gingerly taking her hand in both of his. “How are you feeling?” The bard asks, and Lani can see genuine worry in his eyes.

“Everything hurts.” she confesses, in too much pain to put on an act. “Did Geralt collect the bounty?”

“He did. I made a song about his victory over the beast, but I wanted you to hear the real one, the one I’ll only sing to him or you. Would you like that?”

She doesn’t know why there are tears suddenly at the back of her eyes, or why seeing his soft gaze breaks down the walls she’s built for so long. “Loretta,” She calls, and instantly her handmaiden is there, helping her sit up. Jaskier helps too, his hands warm on her shoulder and careful not to hurt her any more than she already is. The bard fluffs her pillows behind her without being asked. “Thank you, Jaskier. I’d love to hear your song.”

And so, with Loretta sitting comfortably on her bed beside her, she watches as Jaskier kneels and swings his lute over his chest, strumming a few careful notes.

“This tale begins with a proper Lady whose beauty knows no bounds, whose courage is unmatched, whose honor is worth more than gold.

Defender of her land, protector of her realm, she is unknown to all but one.

She fought minor beasts, men whose deeds made them wicked, defeated their demons and emerged victorious.

So when true evil came to her land

When a monster stalked her people,

She did as heroes do and she hunted the creature.

When no man would stand up and fight, when cowardice was proven, she asked no recompense, no quarter, for there could be no mercy either.

When no man would fight, she said ‘I am no man’ and she proved her worth.

She fought the creature with every breath, she slew the beast with the last of her strength

And though battered by the monster, she didn’t cry for help. This valiant, beautiful woman had proven herself worth more than fifty men and yet she asked to remain hidden.

And so it is that no one will know her name, the glory of battle goes to another, the spoils of victory hers to give but not taken.

But let not her tale end here.

Let it not end here, but let there be many more victories in her future.’

Loretta is crying when Lani glances over at her. Jaskier’s eyes are soft, but there’s something glimmering in them from his song, and Lani feels the effects of it long after the last note fades away, like some sort of spell. “That was beautiful.” She whispers to the bard. “Thank you.”

Jaskier smiles, a smile that lights up his whole face. Geralt never compliments his singing, and more often than not he’s boo-ed out of taverns. “No, thank you, M’lady. Today you proved that it doesn’t take a Witcher for all monsters. There may be hope for us yet.”

Lani laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Jaskier is quick to help, rubbing her back soothingly as she coughs. She leans into him for a minute, weakened by the fit, and his heart threatens to burst. He’d always been one to trust too quickly, but even he knew that from the moment he first saw her that she was unlike the others. He sets her back against her pillows gently, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. Her eyes are as green as he remembers them being from first glance, though they are pain-dulled and tired. “Get some rest.” he says, kissing the back of her hand once more. He can feel her callouses from weaponry and realizes why she always wears gloves. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.” She says as he stands, moving his lute onto his back. “And please tell Geralt thank you too.”

“I will.” He replies. “But you are the one we should both be thanking.”

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