#Geralt? His own mind? The fae whispering his own words back at him?
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flowercrown-bard · 2 years ago
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I wrote a poem for a fic but I don't know how/where to include it so I'll just post it here
(heavily inspired by my favourite poem "Narcissus and Echo" by Fred Chappell)
Doubt and its Echo Hope
Tell me, what did bring us here? Hear
I cannot see with solemn eye My
Rhyme or reason. Once apart Heart
From you I cannot stop my rising Sing
Doubt. Were you ever mine before? For
I fear I merely dreamed the hue You
Of love in you when I was lonely. Only
A fool's song is my legacy. See
My rhymes became my enemy Me
For singing truth was a betrayal of Love
Secret hope. I would understand And
If you were to leave me on this day. Stay
What never was still came to an end. And
Oh love and doubt live not in contrast Trust
One is hope's birth, the other its coffin. In
Yet doubting, I still love you thus. Us
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hudine · 6 months ago
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This came into my head, just a snippet really after playing Baldur’s Gate 3 while listening to Witcher fanfiction I downloaded from AO3 and get a screen reader to read for me; all the while with a temperature of 102.3F or roughly 39C. This is when you are supposed to gather allies during act 3…. No real spoilers for BG3 but one for The Witcher 3. This is also a Fae!Jaskier snippet of a fic
In the flickering light of the campfire, Jaskier the bard stood slightly apart from the rest, his mind racing through realms of possibilities, not all of them confined to the world of music and poetry. Tonight, he had a different kind of audience in mind—Jergal, the Lord of the End of Everything, who had manifested on this plane as Withers.
"Jergal," Jaskier began, his voice confident yet infused with a respectful tone, as he approached the ancient god. The camp was quiet, the rest of the party attending to their gear, oblivious to the conversation that was about to unfold.
"Indeed," replied the god, his voice as dry as the dust of forgotten tombs. "And to what do I owe the honor of this direct address, Prince of the Fae?"
Jaskier smiled, the title echoing with irony even here, in a realm so distant from his own. "I come to discuss a matter of balance and transition. You preside over the fate of souls, guiding them to their rightful afterlives. But what if a soul's rightful place is not within the confines of this world or its celestial realms?"
Jergal's empty sockets seemed to deepen, considering. "Continue," he intoned.
Jaskier stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "These Witchers, they belong to another reality. Their souls were never meant to traverse the pathways of this world's afterlife. By resurrecting them here, aren't you merely adjusting their course, redirecting them to continue their fight in a different form of existence, akin to an afterlife?"
Jergal paused, the skeletal fingers of one hand tapping against his chin—a gesture almost human, thought Jaskier. "Your words are woven with the cunning of your kind," Jergal finally said. "But they hold a kernel of truth. These souls, if unclaimed by other deities or powers, might indeed be considered for such... relocation. What do you propose?"
Jaskier's eyes glinted with the thrill of the gamble. "For every Witcher's soul you agree to resurrect, I will pay two hundred gold pieces. Their names will only be offered by those who knew them in life, and there must be no other claim upon their spirits."
"A novel form of afterlife," mused Jergal, a ghost of amusement in his tone. "Very well, Prince Jaskier. Who will you name first?"
"Vesemir of Kaer Morhen," Jaskier replied promptly. "Slain in the defence against the Wild Hunt, a mere five years ago."
With a gesture from Withers, the air shimmered, and the form of Vesemir coalesced by the fire. His eyes, sharp and clear, flicked from Jaskier to the god standing before him.
"Where am I?" Vesemir's voice was rough with confusion.
Jaskier stepped forward, quickly explaining the situation and the role Vesemir could now play. Understanding dawned in the old Witcher's eyes, followed by a spark of determination.
"Then let's begin," Vesemir said, turning to Withers. "I can name quite a few who deserve another chance to swing a blade."
As Jaskier and Vesemir listed names, Withers, bound by the terms of their agreement, summoned each Witcher back into existence. The gold piled by Jaskier dwindled, but with each resurrection, the camp grew louder, more boisterous with reunions and disbelief.
By the time Geralt returned with Tav, Astarion, and Gale, the camp was transformed. Witchers long thought lost to the world were now laughing, sharing stories, and yes, liberally sampling the camp's stock of alcohol.
"What's happened here?" Geralt asked, his voice a mix of shock and awe as he recognised familiar faces from his past, some from his very childhood.
"Jaskier happened," Vesemir chuckled, clapping the bard on the back. "He's found us a new kind of afterlife—one with a bit more fighting and a lot more drinking."
Geralt looked at Jaskier, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Finally, he smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Only you, Jaskier, could orchestrate the resurrection of an army and turn it into a festival."
Jaskier bowed slightly, his face alight with mischief and pride. "Well, we have battles to fight, and who better to fight them with than brothers long thought lost?"
The camp buzzed with energy as the newly resurrected Witchers swapped tales with their saviour, making plans for the coming conflict. Geralt moved among them, every so often looking back at Jaskier with a shake of his head and a grin. He always was good with loopholes and pushing boundaries.
Finding out he was actually a Seelie Prince who got himself stuck without access to his magic within Geralt’s world honestly didn’t surprise him when he thought about it. He had always suspected Jaskier had some fae ancestry especially once it became obvious that he wasn’t aging. Also no bard, no matter how talented, could write a song like Toss A Coin and have it spread so far and so fast and actually make people believe that it’s good luck to toss coins at Witchers. At least it was better than rocks. Coins hurt just as much sometimes but at least you can spend a coin unlike a rock.
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bambirex · 1 year ago
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The World Is Yours, If You Seek The Good: Chapter 17
Pairings: Geraskefer, Geraskier, Yennskier, Yenralt
Characters: Jaskier, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt of Rivia, Ciri of Cintra, Lambert, original male character, Yarpen Zigrin, Rience, Emhyr var Emreis
Additional tags: implied/referenced abuse, forced pregnancy, mpreg, creature fic, fae Jaskier, creature Jaskier, creature Yennefer, captivity, enemies to friends to lovers, polyamory, found family, hurt/comfort, it starts out angsty but it will get better, completely made up lore, fertility issues, completely made up skills and powers, angst with a happy ending, whump, Jaskier whump, Yennefer whump, intersex Jaskier, Ciri whump, Geralt whump, blood, nightmares, injury, wound care, past rape/non-con, trauma, sexually inexperienced Yennefer, sexually inexperienced Jaskier, threesome-f/m/m, mild sexual content, threats of rape/non-con, violence, minor character death
Full word count: 52,732 words
Chapter word count: 2,856 words
Rating: mature
Chapters: 17/20
Summary: Used and abused by humans, Jaskier and Yennefer believe they are alone and with no reason to trust anybody. That is, until they meet each other - and then, a couple of other strange misfits.
Chapter summary: Ciri finally learns the truth about who was looking for her all this time and why. Yennefer and Jaskier are desperately trying to find a way out.
Author's notes: The whole Ciri-Emhyr thing is also a bit canon-divergent as pretty much everything in this fic, so don't be surprised if you see sentences that do not sound similar to canon!
Read on Ao3
*
While Ciri wasn't bound, she felt unable to move. She was paralyzed, her legs rooted into the floor. Her body felt like it was made of rigid bricks as she was pulled- not dragged, but almost gently coaxed - along with the man who called himself Emhyr, as well as her father. Ciri's ears rang and her vision blurred as shock took over her mind. She was taken to a room. The man had a gentle hand on her back. Ciri's stomach lurched.
Emhyr smiled at her as he gave both her shoulders a squeeze. Ciri wanted to shake his hands off, but her body didn't cooperate. She just stared up at him, her heart pounding frantically.
"You've grown so much," Emhyr said as he looked her over. "You were such a small thing when I've last seen you. You're almost a proper woman now."
No matter how much he spoke like he knew her, Ciri refused to believe it. Her father was dead. Died along with her mother. It couldn't be him.
But she's seen him in her visions, and he always felt familiar - like they've met before. Like he used to be a blurry part of her life that now came into focus.
She followed him with her eyes as he walked around in the room slowly, his presence imposing with a cold, threatening aura about him. He wasn't snarling with sharp teeth or breathing fire like Rience, and he wasn't taunting her with inhuman insults like Master, either. He was just as dangerous, though, if not more. Ciri noticed the sword attached to his side. She wished her own didn't get knocked out of her hands before.
"So much time has passed," Emhyr said as he circled around her, like a vulture ready to feast. "So much time filled with desperately searching for you. You disappeared like you never existed. Gone in the dead of night. The last rose of Cintra who remained, but couldn't be tracked down."
He stopped and smiled at her again. Ciri's stomach tied itself into a knot.
"Over the years, my spies kept bringing me girls similar to you. Little mage apprentices, dopplers, elves... never the real thing. I almost gave up hope. And then... destiny brought you back to me."
"You died at sea," Ciri whispered, finally finding the words, albeit her voice trembled badly. "That was what they told me."
Emhyr chuckled. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head, almost looking amused.
"Your grandmother, right? She was never very fond of me. She never stopped looking at me as a monster even after I turned back to human. And she was so desperate to keep me away from you. She knew you were special. She knew about your heritage but kept it a secret. She didn't realize I would figure it out myself."
He approached her slowly. Ciri flinched as he wiped the dried blood off her face.
"She made sure my death looked like an accident. She wanted to get rid of me because she knew that you and I would've been too powerful together. Me, ruling with you on my side... we would've been unstoppable."
He reached for Ciri's hands. Ciri yanked them back. Emhyr raised an eyebrow at her.
"I've done everything I could to get you back, Cirilla. I couldn't just sneak back inside the castle. I needed a better plan, a smarter one. So, I hid. I erased myself from history and I built an empire with a new name. I got everything ready for your arrival. I was patient. I waited until everything was secured for you to rule as you were meant to. And then it was time to take revenge and get you."
"Cintra..." Ciri whispered in horror. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands balled into fists until her nails dug into her palms. Her body shook with rage as everything started making sense, at last.
"You were responsible for that. You destroyed my home. Killed everyone I loved."
"That was not your home. Your home is with me."
"You caused me all that suffering," Ciri growled. The grief, the pain, the anger rose inside her as old wounds that didn't even have time to properly heal were torn up. All that death, all that destruction, because her father wanted her powers. It was not an enemy kingdom, not a dangerous stranger, who wanted her so much that she needed to run and hide all this time. It was her own father whom she needed to be protected from.
"I would've died if it wasn't for Geralt!"
Emhyr's eyes lit up dangerously. He towered over Ciri, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
"So, the witcher fulfilled his destiny," he rumbled. "The law of surprise. Who would have thought that a monster would care enough to find a child."
"He's not a monster!" Ciri yelled. "You're the monster! You were the one who burnt an entire city to the ground, who killed my family, who chased me like a ghoul all this time!"
She gasped when Emhyr grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her skin through her shirt.
"Don't you understand? I did all that for you. So we could be together again!"
"No, you did that for my powers," Ciri spat. She moved away from him. "You needed me for your empire!"
"You were always meant to be a queen," Emhyr reminded her. "That would've been your fate either way. But you could be more powerful with me. My strength, your powers... together, we could rule not just Nilfgaard, but take over the other kingdoms. I started paving the way, but I need you to finish the job."
He reached his hand out for Ciri. He gave her another smile.
"It's time for you to fulfill your own destiny, Cirilla. No more hiding, no more running around with witchers. No more of these rags you're wearing. You're gonna be empress on my side. You can tap into your full powers and destroy everyone who dares stand in your way. You and I? We will rule the entire Continent. The way it was meant to be. Come on, Cirilla. Join your father."
Ciri released a shaky breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring. She stared down on Emhyr's extended hand in disgust.
She grabbed her collar and tried to wrangle it off, but couldn't. She growled as she yanked at it helplessly. It wouldn't even budge. Emhyr just watched her struggle, shaking his head in disappointment.
"You're not my father," Ciri hissed, still fighting to take off that damn collar and unleash herself at this monster, at last.
"Geralt is my father. And the rest of my family is in danger, and I won't let you stop me from helping them!"
--
Yennefer paced up and down in the cell. Her nerves were wrecking. She wanted to tear the bars apart so she could get out and find Ciri and get her away from that man.
"There has to be a way out!" Yennefer groaned as she continued her desperate laps. She tapped around on the brick walls, looking for any sign of hope. She found none.
"I hope he won't hurt Ciri," Jaskier whispered. He hunched in on himself, hands rubbing at his stomach to calm himself and the baby. He head tears in his eyes as he looked up at Yennefer.
"He won't hurt her if he's really her father, right?"
Yennefer dropped to her knees before him. She cupped his cheeks and pressed their foreheads together.
"She's a strong girl," Yennefer told him, "but she has a collar on. And she must be terrified. We need to help her somehow."
"How?" Jaskier's voice wavered. "She's with that man and we don't know what he's going to do to her, Yennefer... how the fuck do we get out of here?"
Yennefer tilted his face to kiss him gently. Jaskier whimpered against her mouth softly.
Yennefer stood and turned around. She growled when she noticed Rience staring at them with fascination in his eyes.
"Enjoying the show, you fucker?" Yennefer spat. "You could try and show some fucking empathy towards your fellow creatures!"
"You're not my fellow creatures," Rience replied easily. "You're not driatingexes. You're nothing to me."
"We're trapped here, the same way you are!" Yennefer walked closer to the bars. Gentle approaches were more of Jaskier's forte, but she figured giving them a try couldn't hurt. They needed a way out of this cell. "You could be free, return to your own kind. Instead, you're used as a killing machine by a human. I know what that's like. I suffered the same fate. But there's a way out, Rience. If we work together..."
She didn't get to finish her sentence because Rience grabbed the hand she had around the bars, and dug his claws in it. Yennefer screamed in pain.
"Trust me," Rience smirked, "I would find a way out of here if I wanted to. But I enjoy this way too much."
"Leave her alone!" Jaskier yelled. He marched over to the bars and pulled Yennefer against his side, glaring at Rience murderously. "You're the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life! You're right, we aren't fellow creatures because I would be ashamed to be likened to you!"
Rience cooed at him mockingly. "Calm down before you go into labor. No screaming or crying or pathetic insults will get you out of here. Nor trying to befriend me. All your powers are gonna be milked for coin because that's all you're good for."
He raised his head and sniffed the air. He let out a growl as he turned towards the stairs.
Yennefer was about to spit at him for real this time when they heard a loud bang. Rience jumped. The door of the basement fell down the stairs, followed by an unconscious guard.
Tears of relief streamed down Yennefer's face when she saw Geralt with his sword out, his eyes flaming with anger.
--
Getting inside the mansion proved to be difficult, as not only Master's guards, but Nilfgaardian soldiers stood in his way. The latter caused panic rising inside his chest. It was bad enough that Master captured his family, but if Nilfgaard was also here, it meant that Ciri was in grave danger.
Geralt cut his way through them, pushed forward by the mighty need to save his family. Swords slashed his arms and back, but he could barely feel the pain. The witcher potion he downed before going in dulled his pain receptors, and the adrenaline made him unaware of everything except for his goal to locate his loved ones as soon as possible.
Blood spilled everywhere he went, his enemies', and his own. He made his way through the mansion, relying on his advanced senses to find them. He tried to shut everything out, the sound of people bustling about, the lights, the smell of blood and metal.
Then, he could finally sense it. The wild mix of lilacs and gooseberries, the almost overwhelmingly sweet cinnamon. He smelled something else, rotting and putrid. Someone else was with them.
Geralt ran towards the smell, desperately trying not to lose it. He found a door with a guard standing before it. Geralt knocked him out cold before he tore up the door and kicked it in, along with the guard's body.
His heart leapt when he descended down the stairs to the basement and finally found them. They were there, behind bars, pale and beaten up. A driatingex guarded them, his evil eyes lighting up dangerously as he saw him. Geralt drew his sword again.
"Geralt, watch out!" Jaskier yelled. Geralt managed to duck down in time before the fire the creature spat towards him reached him. He formed a shield over his head, protecting himself against the deadly heat.
Yennefer and Jaskier held onto each other as they watched Geralt push his way forward, standing his ground against Rience's attack. Rience howled as he spat more fire towards Geralt's way.
Jaskier looked around, frantically looking for something he could use as distraction. His eyes landed on Yennefer's shoes.
"Step out of them!" He yelled. Yennefer stared at him in confusion.
"What?"
"Don't ask, just take your shoes off!"
Yennefer did and handed one of them to Jaskier. Jaskier turned around to see Geralt's knees trembling as he tried to hold himself up against Rience's attack. Jaskier said a quick prayer inside before he moved as close to the bars as possible. With as much strength as he could muster, he threw the shoe out. It hit Rience over the head.
The driatingex made a confused noise as he whipped around to locate where the hit came from. It distracted him enough to stop firing at Geralt.
Geralt immediately took advantage and swung his sword at Rience, slashing him across the back. Rience let out a painful scream as he fell to the ground.
Jaskier covered his mouth to hold his nausea at bay when he saw how nasty the scar Geralt left on Rience was. It tore up his entire back, his blood pouring out quickly. Geralt stabbed his sword straight into the open wound, until Rience's scream died down to a wheeze, and then nothing.
"Geralt!" Yennefer screamed, pushing herself against the bars. "Are you alright?"
"Are you?"
Geralt's voice was frantic. There were tears in his eyes as he touched their hands through the bars. They all cried as they finally reunited after the horrible nightmare that swept them up.
Geralt noticed a large stone in the corner, the one Rience sat on as he threatened and taunted Geralt's family. Geralt grabbed it and smashed the lock with it, until the cell door opened.
He swept his lovers into his arms, holding them close. Yennefer's tears wetted his shirt as she clung to him. Jaskier trembled in his arms.
"Did he hurt you?" Geralt asked as he quickly checked them for serious injuries. He noted that they both looked very weak. Jaskier had a couple of smaller bruises, while Yennefer had deeper wounds. Still, none of them were in immediate danger. Geralt let out a sigh of relief.
That relief immediately dissolved when he noticed that Ciri wasn't in the cell.
"Where is she?" He asked, panic squeezing at his chest. Yennefer made a pained sound.
"He took her somewhere, Geralt, we need to find her!"
"Who did? Master?"
Jaskier shook his head. He still trembled.
"Her father."
The words pierced Geralt's skull like a mighty knife. That couldn't be. Ciri's father died. He couldn't be back.
"He was the one Ciri saw in her visions," Yennefer explained. She held onto Geralt's hand, anchoring the both of them. "He came for her."
"We're going to find her," Geralt promised. He tried to make sure his voice sounded strong and determined, even though he was terrified. He didn't know how Ciri's father could possibly be back, or why he wanted Ciri. But it seemed like this terrifying picture expanded some more, and the vague tracks all lead back to someone who Geralt believed was long dead.
He grabbed Jaskier's collar, trying to pull it off. No matter how he tried, it wouldn't give. Jaskier sighed and laid his hand over his.
"Only Master's keys can open them."
"Then we'll get those keys. And we'll get Ciri, too," Geralt said. He kissed them both before he grabbed their hands and lead them out of the cell.
They all jumped when Rience made a gurgling, wheezing sound. He twitched on the ground, trying to raise his head.
Yennefer stood above him with a disgusted expression on her face. She leant down and spat over his head.
"It was time it finally reached you," she hissed. Her eyes drifted to the stone Geralt used to break the door up.
She grabbed it, her weakened arms trembling slightly. Still, she gathered all her strength and then she bashed Rience's head in with it. She slammed it down a couple more times until there wasn't anything left of his gruesome, traitorous head.
"That was just necessary, wasn't it," Jaskier groaned, obviously struggling not to throw up. Yennefer gave his hip a pat.
"As necessary as you taking your lute when we first escaped from here. Now, come on. We need to find the rest of our family."
With Geralt having his sword out, they made their way up the stairs and into the corridor. Geralt stepped forward to shield them from any impending attack. Jaskier and Yennefer followed him close on his heel. Geralt could hear their heartbeats: Yennefer's exhausted, and Jaskier's frantic one. He could hear the baby's too, tiny little heartbeats quickened by the stress their father was experiencing.
If Geralt had the ability to have increased heartbeats, he was sure his own heart would have nearly burst through his ribcage as they slowly moved forward in the mansion.
No matter how scared they were, they needed to be strong for Ciri. They needed to find her before it was too late.
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innocentbi-stander · 4 years ago
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I had a wild dream last night and an urge to write this out
Okay but... a pseudo Witcher Anastasia au that’s actually completely different?
The Romanovs were a prominent family on the Continent, royalty known for their wealth and good natural towards in-humans
They served all people well and were beloved by many
It was even rumored that they had fae blood running through their veins, and held royal position in fae courts as well
Members of the Romanov family possessed a powerful magic, usually based in nature
It was this powerful magic, their possibly inhuman status, and sympathy and kindness towards other inhuman people that caused some people to fear them
In the wake of the Great Cleansing the Romanovs realized they’d have to go into hiding
However they were ambushed while traveling to a safe house and the entire family was brutally slaughtered. All of their bodies were found, except for one of their youngest sons, 3 year old Julian Romanov
The slaughter of the Romanovs became a great source of tragedy even though their deaths were said to have been for “the good of the Continent”
Unbeknownst to the rest of humanity, a band of elves had discovered the carnage of the Romanovs long before anyone else, and more importantly, had found the young Julian Romanov hidden between the roots of the elm tree where his mother had shoved him moments before her death
The world was left to believe that all of the Romanovs, Julian included, were dead
Little did they know that the young prince was in fact alive and well in a secret settlement of elves and other inhumans who had felt the kindness of the Romanovs and would protect their own
Little Julian gained the nickname Jaskier and was raised fiercely in the name of his people
He was taught to fight in all matters of weaponry, the ways of the court and nobles, how to speak with a silver tongue and smile sharper than his throwing knives
Jaskier was taught how to be a warrior, but also how to be gentle, how to play a number of musical instruments, to weave flower crowns, and cook with little
Jaskier learned the ways of his powerful magic and how to control it, though it was something he often struggled with
He was raised knowing his name and his status, and members of the settlement who had known his family were all too willing to share tales of those fallen
Jaskier had lost a family, but managed to gain another
Eventually he was grown (as much as he would, the Romanovs had proved an ability to be rather immortal, or at the very least long lived) and Jaskier decided to set out into the world and explore it on his own, knowing the important of keeping his identity hidden
And so he left to Oxenfurt and became a traveling bard
Everything went to shit when Jaskier met Geralt in that tavern in Posada
He followed him around for twenty years like a loyal puppy, completely and utterly in love and knowing nothing would ever come of it
Geralt was unlike anyone Jaskier had ever met before, and the adventure that surrounded his life called to the bard like nothing else
Twenty years with Geralt and the witcher still thought him human, mortal and powerless and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to admit to his lies (well not lies per say, but he was definitely guilty of allowing assumptions)
Jaskier loved the witcher like he had never loved anyone else, even when he abandoned him in favor of the purple eyed witch, he knew he could never tell him about his true status without scaring him off forever. Geralt hated nobles and all matter of royalty, human or not
And then the mountain happened
Jaskier decided to give Geralt his blessing, and so he left
The bard wandered the Continent on his own, dancing around the threats of oncoming war and trying his best to ignore the rumors whispering around him
About the White Wolf. The White Wolf, and the princess of Cintra, and a witch that traveled with them
He didn’t belong to any of that anymore
So Jaskier kept his head down, kept his throwing knives close, and made his way back north, towards the settlement where he grew up
The settlement had a magic barrier to conceal it from the view of unsuspecting humans, the only people that could raise it were those who possessed a powerful magic
He trudged to the entrance, exhausted and travel weary , lifting the spell with a tired wave of his hand
The familiar hustle and bustle of the settlement met his ears with a sigh of relief and he walked through the opening feeling at home for the first time since the mountain
Only to stop short
Because who was directly in front of him, in his fucking home mind you, but Geralt of Rivia himself, staring at him with a look of awfully concealed shock across his face
At his sides were Yennefer and Ciri, both of them looking at Jaskier with similar expressions
Well fuck him
Jaskier opened his mouth, preparing to give the most awkward hello ever seen on the Continent when Oscar, an older elf who had been one of his teachers growing up rushed over to sweep him up in a crushing hug
“Ah Jaskier, you’ve returned at last!” the man smiled without abandon, completely ignorant to the tension between the group. “I see you’ve encountered some of our guests, Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer of Vengerburg, and young Cirilla. We’ve offered them sanctuary from Nilfgaard for however long they need”
Jaskier loved the kindness of his settlement family, but fuck if it didn’t terribly inconvienence him at the worst of times
Oscar turned back towards Geralt and the others, “This is who I’ve been speaking about, may I introduce to you High Prince Julian Romanov, last of the Romanov family and descendent of the Winter Court.”
Geralt’s mouth opened and closed, if he was shocked before he was dumbfounded now “What?”
Jaskier coughed awkwardly, patting his mentor on the shoulder “We’ve actually met before Oscar. Though…. they didn’t exactly know that last part.”
“My apologies, Your Highness!” Oscar looked beside himself “I didn’t mean to overstep-”
“No it’s fine,” Jaskier interrupted, “I suppose it would have come out eventually anyways”
Oscar parted ways a few moments later, leaving only silence between them all
Yennefer was the one to break it. “Julian Romanov, alive after all this time. A great mystery solved.”
Jaskier scoffed. “I guess you could say that”
Geralt seemed to have finally found his words, “You never told me you were a Romanov”
Jaskier looked him straight in the eye. “You never asked. And besides the fact, I didn’t think Geralt of Rivia, Mr. ‘nobility is just a bunch of pompous idiots’ would be interested in me interrupting with ‘Hi, lost prince of a famously slaughtered family here. Also I’m not completely human and have magic!’. Didn’t think that would go over very well”.
Geralt took a moment to process Jaskier’s tirade. “I didn’t know you weren’t human”.
“It seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Good thing you’re stuck here for a while so you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out. If you’ll excuse me?”
Jaskier shouldered his way past the witcher because he was fucking tired and in desperate need of a hot meal and a bath. He could feel Geralt’s gaze on his back the entire way back to his tent. Figures he’d finally give him his undivided attention after he told Jaskier he wanted nothing to do with him.
Things weren’t perfect. There was still a mountain between them, words to be said, apologies to be made, explanations to be given, and feelings to unravel. But right now, as Jaskier slumped onto the soft furs of his bed and prepared to pass out for an undetermined amount of hours, he felt something that seemed like a lot like hope. And for now, that was enough.
Wow this turned out to be a lot longer than I intended. Thinking of maybe extending this into a fic, let me know what you think!
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jaskicr · 4 years ago
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so i wrote a piece for the geraskier reverse bang for art made by @brothebro, and here it is! featuring some witcher jaskier and fae geralt, identity reveals, and some hurt and pining<3
summary:
Geralt of Rivia is not a witcher.
He’d chosen to disguise himself as a witcher in an attempt to bring something more to his life, to find the contentment he so desperately desires. But as much as life on the Path thrills him, there’s still something missing - until Jaskier.
Jaskier brings so much light into his life with his songs and laughter, treating Geralt without fear, with kindness and gentleness - he’s like no one else Geralt has ever met, and Geralt can’t help but be drawn into his irresistible orbit.
What he doesn’t know is that Jaskier is hiding secrets of his own.
Or: Neither Geralt nor Jaskier are who they seem, and secrets are brought to light when Geralt’s family is threatened and Jaskier is the only one who can help.
----
Geralt returns to the Path, desperate to put the incident out of his mind, but word spreads, and towns and villages start whispering of the Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher with white hair and golden eyes. The hate from humans, while bearable before, intensifies, and he’s thrown out of inns and taverns with jeers and insults, left to spend nights on the side of the road with only a feeble fire for warmth. 
Though the rush he gets from slaying monsters remains the same, the enjoyment seeps from the Path, his journeys becoming harder and more wearisome, and Geralt starts wondering whether he should give up this whole ordeal of being a witcher and return to court, fulfilling his duties alongside Vesemir. The Path doesn’t give him the same joy it used to, not with how harshly he’s treated wherever he goes - the residents of Posada glare at him, sneers on their faces as they edge away from him, and Geralt grits his teeth.
Perhaps he truly should return. It would be better for his brothers’ journeys too, if the Butcher of Blaviken were to miraculously disappear.
He turns the idea over in his head, contemplating the idea of returning home, until a voice cuts through his thoughts. 
“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”
Geralt glares up at the bard who’d dared to interrupt his thoughts, silently willing him to go away, to leave. There’s something strange about the bard, something almost magical that tickles at Geralt’s senses, but it disappears quickly, and Geralt dismisses it as nothing. 
The bard babbles on and on and on and before Geralt can fully process what’s happening, they somehow manage to get captured by elves, with the bard still by Geralt’s side even when they escape the elves’ grasp, Filavandrel’s lute held in the bard’s hand.
Geralt tries to shake him off. He should return to his realm, and the last thing he needs is a loud, irritating bard following him around, singing his praises. But no matter what Geralt does, Jaskier somehow always returns to his side, and Geralt finds himself getting less and less irritated with Jaskier’s presence by his side. 
Jaskier - he reminds Geralt of why he’d chosen to stay in the human world as a witcher rather than return home. Not only has human hatred towards him lessened with the popularity of Toss a Coin, but Jaskier brings back all the beauty of the human world that Blaviken had dulled for him. 
Jaskier sings of the beauty of the world around them, gasping delightedly at sparkling waterfalls and smiling softly at small animals darting through dense bushes, taking joy in every little thing, and for the first time since Blaviken, Geralt regains appreciation of the world surrounding the Path, starting to see it all the way Jaskier sees it - through the eyes of a human whose life is just as temporary as the surrounding world. 
And Jaskier himself - he’s fickle, changeable, wearing his emotions plain and clear, and Geralt is drawn in by the complexity of him. Geralt witnesses the way Jaskier can be petty, turning his nose up at Valdo Marx, the way he radiates fury when villagers spit Butcher at Geralt, the way he brightens with joy when Geralt talks to him, the way he smiles gently at a young child clinging to his legs. He’s everything that Geralt had originally found fascinating in the human world - he’s complex, he’s human, and Geralt can’t help but be drawn into the irresistible pull of his orbit. 
Jaskier makes the Path so much more vibrant, bringing meaning back into it, and Geralt wakes up one day to realise that he has no desire to return home permanently. He wants to stay on the Path, with Jaskier by his side reminding him of the beauty of the human realm, with Jaskier’s songs and smiles and laughter.
He’s unlike any other human Geralt has ever met. He seems so much brighter. All humans know that they might die someday, of course, but Jaskier seems to live every day like it’s his last, making the most of every moment and crafting each day into something he can take joy in, not wasting a single second. 
He never displays any fear or hostility towards Geralt - which is strange, considering all the humans he’s met have feared or hated him in some manner, and Jaskier shouldn’t be an exception. But no matter what Geralt does, Jaskier never turns away from him, not when he watches Geralt slay monsters with savage ruthlessness, not when he catches a glimpse of Geralt’s face after he’s taken his potions, not when Geralt snaps at him in a moment of lost temper. 
And it’s - nice. It’s nice to have someone who doesn’t fear or hate him in the human world. It’s nice to have someone who - who cares for him, who cares for him enough to look out for him on his hunts, to patch up his wounds after a contract. Geralt doesn’t actually need Jaskier to patch him up - he can heal himself with his own magic - but there’s something so damn nice about having Jaskier’s gentle hands tending to his wounds as he hums soothingly under his breath, to have Jaskier fuss over him like a mother hen and reprimand him for being careless. 
Before Jaskier, no one in the human world had cared for Geralt in such a way. But with Jaskier here, Geralt basks in Jaskier’s tender care and gentle affection, so different from the way his brothers and Vesemir care for him, so different from anything he’s experienced, and he finds himself craving the gentleness of Jaskier’s touch, the affection in his eyes and smile. 
link to read more on ao3 and the art in reblog!
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wherethewordsare · 3 years ago
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Jay’s 500 Follower Title Event! (Pt2!)
This title was sent in by the amazing and wonderful @dapandapod and as always, betad by the love of my life, @kuripon. Thank you both for all your love and support.
So it’s come to my attention recently that I never got around to posting chapter 2 of “You Could be My Unintended” here on tumblr. But you can also read it here on AO3!
Part 1 Here
CW: A bit of angst at the front bit then straight into smut. Against a tree. Also a super long post! ((strongk bard rights))
You Could be My Unintended Pt 2: True to his word, Jaskier wore his gloves, his fingers always fiddling with the material as he walked. With them on, his lute stayed firmly in its case. He didn’t speak much either but that scent of sour agony clung to him like a new soap. 
It had taken Geralt far too long to find a mage that knew how to remove the bands. Every other one he asked would only look between himself and the bard and frown. 
“Why would you think that’s possible?” One had asked with a frown as he examined Geralt’s arm and then Jaskier’s. He looked between them again and shook his head. “I don’t, it’s as easy as all that.” 
One after the other had been the same, for nearly three months. Geralt found himself sleeping in the stables more often than not when there wasn’t two rooms for them in the towns. He really didn’t mind. It tended to be drier than just camping on the edge of the village. 
As the weeks dragged on, Geralt realized he had barely heard Jaskier speak, let alone sing. They traveled together and set camp together, but other than that, he made a point to avoid Jaskier. Most nights he found himself tracing the lines that made up the lute strings around his arm with a heavy heart. This was the most of Jaskier he would ever get to have, a few mere lines etched into his skin like a handfasting.  
Geralt trailed a finger tip around where the flower was wrapped around his knuckle and hummed. The skin there felt warmer than the rest of him, like there was something underneath, quietly burning. 
Some nights from the stables, Geralt could hear Jaskier singing well into the night. He wasn’t sure when he had realized that some of those nights, it was because Jaskier had opened the window of his rented room and sang out into the night. Geralt was thankful for the shelter of the stables as he carefully made his way to linger just behind one of the support beams. He caught sight of Jaskier leaning against his window, his face up turned to the night sky. He wasn’t wearing his gloves and his fingers traced the broad lines that looked like wrought iron shackles from the ground. They must have felt that way to him, Geralt thought, and retreated back to the stall, trying not to wonder about the words of Jaskier’s latest lament of unreturned love. 
There was word of a sorcerer just south of the Blue Mountains that was familiar enough with elven magic to make the trip worth it. Jaskier followed, his hands constantly moving in their gloves as he walked alongside Roach. 
“You know…” He started to say before he snapped his jaw shut again, looking out over the field. 
“Hmm?” Geralt’s own hands were gloved, tightly wrapped around the reins. The night before, they had camped at the edge of a lake and Geralt couldn’t help but notice the way Jaskier had given him a wide breadth. It wasn’t like Jaskier to step away from Geralt. He still held that anxious sour smell to him that now over ran every bit of sweet that usually clung to him when they traveled together. 
“I was just thinking. We could just do this trip later in the year. I’m sure you’d still find better contracts south of here,” Jaskier pointed out, even as he didn’t look back up at Geralt. 
“Figured you’d be eager to be rid of me,” Geralt said flatly and immediately regretted it as more of the sourness Jaskier carried wafted into the air. 
“Geralt…” he finally looked up at him and there was something unreadable in his eyes. Geralt only shook his head at him and urged Roach on a little faster. He didn’t think he could hear if that was the case from Jaskier. It would be easier for him when Jaskier just simply wasn’t there one morning, but for him to actually have to listen to a goodbye would have been far too much. 
They arrived well before dark and Geralt was thankful for that, at least. It meant Jaskier would be able to make it back to the village in relative safety. Not that Geralt wasn’t about to follow him just to make sure he made it anyways, but still. 
When the sorcerer opened the door, he took one look at Geralt and raised an eyebrow. 
“Well, you two might as well come in. As miserable as you look, I imagine I’ll have my work cut out for me.” He stepped aside and let them into the small one room cottage. He pointed to a low bench by the table and told them to sit while he started putting together an assortment of crockery. “Going to be one of those spells, I believe,” he said as he went along making tea. 
“We’re here to see if you can remove these,” Geralt explained as he pulled off his glove and rolled up his shirtsleeve. He glanced at Jaskier as if to say ‘you too’ and watched with mild confusion as Jaskier pulled off his glove with reluctance. 
“But…” the sorcerer looked down at the marks and then back at the two of them. “Why would you want them removed? The process is extremely painful and will cost you both dearly.” He frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “It’s no easy thing to make the heart forget, even harder when it’s two of them.” 
Geralt looked up from where he had been glaring at the floor. His chest ached. His heart would be made to forget Jaskier. He would be made to forget how much the empty spaces of his previous existence had been filled  and how life had been breathed back into it by his bard's presence. But Jaskier wasn’t his, and not even fae magic could change that because, for once, he had dared to let himself want something. 
“What do you mean ‘two of them’?" Jaskier asked before Geralt could. "It's just... there’s only one heart here that needs to forget,” He looked away when Geralt turned to face him. “We’ll only need the one spell, sorcerer.” 
“At this point, Geralt, I’m sure he can handle it and send me on my way when it’s done,”  Jaskier said to Geralt. He reached up as though he were going for a handshake before he clenched his fist and pulled it back again. 
Sour distress and bitter agony filled Geralt’s mouth. Something was starting to turn over and click into place ever so slowly. 
“But,” the sorcerer leaned away from them, his hands pressed together and he nodded towards their uncovered marks. “You both wear the marks of the other. That wouldn’t happen unless…” He stopped and made a curious humming sound. “Witcher, tell me. How many hearts do you think need to be full of someone else to make two sets of marks?”
Geralt blinked slowly, looking between his arm and Jaskier then back to the sorcerer who only nodded at him slowly. 
“Wait,” Jaskier whispered and looked down at Geralt’s arm. He licked his lips nervously before he looked up at Geralt with a cautious smile. “Geralt… Why were you so determined to get here? For me to wear those gloves?” He asked softly. That thing that was turning so slowly for Geralt had apparently fully flipped on its head for Jaskier. 
The sorcerer sighed heavily. He reached over and picked up the cup of tea he had been nursing when they had arrived. “The fae are many things, but they only bind the willing. At least when it comes to betrothals outside of their realms.” He raised an eyebrow at the two of them. It reminded Geralt sharply of when he and the other young witchers had done something fullhearty and Vesemir would catch them in the act, calling them out for their stupidity. 
Hope, warm and sweet like honey and wheat and sword oil cut through every sense. Geralt watched in wonder as Jaskier tilted his head at him with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. 
“Because I assumed you didn’t want... me,” he finished lamely as he looked down to where their arms lay bare next to each other. The bands around Jaskier’s wrist made the skin surrounding  them stark pale in comparison. The wolf around his ring finger seemed to shift and shiver, waiting to sprint. 
Jaskier was the one who turned back to the sorcerer with a sad smile, laughing wetly. “I apologize. We’ve seemed to have taken up so much of your valuable time.” He pulled out coins and handed them over easily. “For your trouble and our idiocy.” Jaskier looked back at Geralt with a weak grin and nodded towards the door. “Come on, you big oaf. We should talk.”
Geralt followed Jaskier out of the cottage and down the path. His feet carried him almost automatically as he went, not knowing where Jaskier was taking him but somehow trusting him all the same. He had always trusted Jaskier, without fail. He felt like this was more important than being stitched back together after a battle or sleeping next to some kid he had picked up in a dusty little back water that he had only really known for a week. Even then, he had trusted him enough to fall asleep around the same camp fire. 
“Who do you think was going to be drinking that potion, Geralt? Whose heart was supposed to forget?” Jaskier turned, his hands crossed back over his chest. He was holding the gloves in one hand, clenched tightly as if trying to anchor himself. 
“I was going to… Mine. I had to forget that… If you were ever going to be free from those marks. From… my marks…” Geralt looked down to where the black bands were peeking out from under the cuff of Jaskier’s doublet. 
“But you have marks, my marks, too,” Jaskier pointed out as though he were pointing out a cloud in the sky on a day that there wasn’t supposed to be rain. 
“Hmm.” Geralt looked down and frowned, turning his hand over. The flower ring seemed to warm again under his skin. 
“Geralt…” Jaskier reached out and with a kind of twisting pain in his stomach, Geralt realized that Jaskier hadn’t touched him at all since they had first woken up with their tattoos. All the casual light touches, the long nights patching Geralt up, the playful nudges when Geralt was taking up too much room in a shared bed. Geralt had been avoiding all of those, knowing that if Jaskier touched him, he would have never been able to walk away. But here he was, leaning out into the touch like it was a life line. 
They both gasped when Jaskier’s hand closed around his wrist. Their marks began to glow and heat, bright warm light shining just under their skin. Geralt reached down, taking Jaskier’s other hand and letting himself finally run his fingers along the broad bands there, his thumb swiping over his knuckle where the wolf had rested. Those too glowed. 
“Oh,” Jaskier breathed. He chuckled softly and his hand squeezed around Geralt’s wrist gently. “Dear heart, why didn’t you say something? How could I possibly…” Jaskier swallowed thickly and seemed to have made up his mind about something. 
He pressed into Geralt’s space before the witcher could stop him, his hands sliding from where they had been on Geralt’s arms to around his neck, pulling him close. 
“I wear your marks because it’s the only thing I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember,” Jaskier murmured. 
Then he was kissing Geralt. He went slowly, giving the other ample time to pull away but Geralt only surged forward, capturing the bard's lips as his arms wrapped around his waist. The marks on his skin tingled and flared the closer Jaskier pushed into his arms. Geralt was remotely aware of the glowing light around his shoulders from Jaskier’s tattoos. 
“I thought you were going to leave,” Geralt practically whined into Jaskier’s mouth, the bard walking them back slowly from the path. 
“How could I ever leave you, dear heart?” Jaskier hummed in return, pressing Geralt carefully into the trunk of a tree. “You’d have to send me away, and even then, I’d still find a way back to you.” 
“I claimed you in that wood, the fae tied you to me and I thought you didn’t-” Geralt pulled back again, searching Jaskier’s face. 
“Geralt,” he sighed, put upon and fond and smiling. “You’ve had me for so long, they didn’t need to hear the words out loud. Not when I was right there, practically screaming a confession in their faces.” He pulled away and Geralt’s body leaned away from the tree, swaying to stay in his arms. A hand came up and pressed him back gently by the shoulder and rested there. 
Jaskier pulled back his sleeve where it had fallen around his wrist and smiled at the marks there, glowing softly. “You’ve always had me, White Wolf. How could you possibly think otherwise?” 
Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s middle again, pulling him back under the tree. Their mouths clashed in a graceless mess of teeth and tongue and need. He groaned when the fingers on his shoulder slid up his neck and back into his hair, fingers tangling in silver strands. 
“Fuck,” Jaskier gasped. They were pressed from knee to forehead, panting into shared air. “Keep this up, love, and I’m going to have to do something about it.” It was a tease but suddenly it was all Geralt could think of. 
He nodded eagerly, guiding Jaskier’s mouth back to his before sliding his fingers down the bard’s chest to start plucking open the buttons of his doublet. Jaskier only laughed and deepened the kiss, licking into Geralt’s mouth with hungry abandon. A knee came up, slipping between Geralt’s thighs and pressed against where his trousers were growing tight.  
“You delightful creature, how have we wasted this much time.” Jaskier nipped along his jaw, one hand coming up to rest against the broad trunk of the tree while the other slid down Geralt’s body and squeezed first his hip, then his thigh. He tugged then, pulling Geralt’s leg up to wrap around him. 
“Is this… is this alright?” he whispered, nudging Geralt’s chin with his nose. 
“Jaskier…” Geralt growled in warning but it was tarnished by the soft keen he made when Jaskier pressed up again with his thigh. His fingers dug into Geralt’s leg, making him shiver. 
“Yes, darling?” Jaskier smirked, pressing light kisses to the corner of Geralt’s mouth and along his cheek. 
“Should have figured you’d be a pain in the ass in the sack, too,” Geralt grumbled. He gasped sharply as nimble fingers slid over his hardening cock through too many layers of clothes. 
Jaskier had a wicked smile in place as he repeated the motion, watching Geralt with near adoration in his eyes. 
“Oh, is it a pain in the ass you want?” He all but purred. Jaskier dipped his head down again, biting just below Geralt’s jaw, making his body bow and his thighs tremble where one leg was still trying to support him. It felt like Jaskier had taken on most of his weight though and Geralt was caught in a kind of free fall that sent his stomach swooping. 
“Jask, please,” Geralt’s hips bucked and his fingers tightened in Jaskier’s doublet, nearly ripping the fine material. 
“Fuck,” Jaskier huffed and slowly let Geralt down onto both feet. 
The witcher all but whimpered when Jaskier pulled away, his hands clinging tightly. But then Jaskier’s fingers worked his trousers open, a hand slipping inside without finesse, stroking Geralt roughly. 
“Here I’ve always thought it would be you to take me apart with those hands I’ve bandaged and cared for. But now I have you practically singing for me, witcher, and I think I could get drunk on those sounds alone.” He twisted his wrist deftly, pulling another moan from Geralt, far louder than Geralt had intended to be. 
“Perfect, darling. Fuck, you’re perfect.” Jaskier panted and pulled his hand away. “Let me care for you? Please, Geralt. This one thing. Let me…” Jaskier begged, though it seemed neither of them could really understand what exactly he was asking. Geralt found that he really didn’t care. If Jaskier was going to ask for it, he was going to get it. 
Jaskier kissed his cheek, far more chaste than what Geralt needed and turned, walking to their packs. Geralt clung to the tree, trying not to follow the bard and push him down onto the ground simply to ravish him. Years of hunger and need and something far more complex battled every rational thought he had as he watched Jaskier return to him, a bottle in hand. 
As he approached, Jaskier was peeling off his own shirt, his hands fumbling with his trousers and then those same hands reaching for Geralt. He stripped them both down, nearly dropping to his knees as he yanked down Geralt’s pants. Jaskier’s mouth never left his skin, biting and sucking marks into every inch he could get to as he unwrapped Geralt with a wanton kind of hunger. Words were murmured into his skin, soft promises and growled praise before teeth sank into his hip making Geralt buck and keen. 
He didn’t give Geralt a moment to register the cool air on his overheated skin before he was scooping Geralt up by the thighs and pinning him to the tree. Geralt automatically wrapped his legs around his bard and squeezed, pulling him in tighter as his hips grinded down eagerly. 
“The number of times I have thought of this, of you, of all the ways I wished you would look at me… And all it took was me getting us into trouble. You’d think it would have happened far sooner than this, hmm?” Jaskier chuckled. 
Geralt only growled, rocking his hips to make his point. “You talk too much, bard.” 
His low growls turned into soft whines as a slick finger was suddenly pressing just behind his balls. His back arches as he gripped Jaskier’s shoulders, his heels digging into Jaskier’s ass. 
“Oh, you like that, don’t you, love?” That slick finger traced back along Geralt’s skin until it brushed lightly over his rim, teasing in a slow circle. “What other noises can I pull from you? Would you let me?” Jaskier rasped, dipping his head down again and sinking his teeth into Geralt’s neck. 
The air left Geralt’s lungs like it had been punched out of him as Jaskier’s finger slid in, just to the first knuckle, slowly working him open as his teeth raked against Geralt’s skin. Jaskier’s free hand was in his hair again, scratching at his scalp. It was too much and not enough and perfect. Geralt bore down onto Jaskier’s finger eagerly, his thighs squeezing the bard tightly. 
“Jask… fuck!” He groaned and pulled Jaskier from his neck to kiss him. Geralt grunted as another finger joined the first, Jaskier pumping them slowly into Geralt’s tight heat. It had been a long time since Geralt had been taken like this, but he felt like his bones were going to melt from the heat that was building at the base of his spine. 
Jaskier became wordless, his mouth and free hand never leaving Geralt for too long as he took his time working him open. Once or twice, his hand would be pulled away only to return with more slick and more urgency. Geralt squeezed his legs tighter around him, rolling his hips to meet every thrust of Jaskier’s hand until there were four fingers buried in him and curling just so. He threw his head back and groaned, heat wrapping around his gut and chest and pulling him ever closer to the edge.
“Oh no you don’t, darling witcher. Not without me,” Jaskier chided gently and his fingers disappeared from where it stretched Geralt’s opening. 
“Then fucking get inside of me,” Geralt tried to growl but it came out as a groan. 
“Oh, scary witcher…” Jaskier chuckled, leaning in to kiss Geralt’s mouth gently. There was a bit of a shift and Geralt was being lifted and then slid back down. The blunt head of Jaskier’s cock prodded once then twice at his entrance before Jaskier rolled his hips up and let Geralt sink down onto him. 
They both took a shallow breath and held still, Jaskier’s eyes fluttering for a moment while Geralt clung tighter to his shoulders. 
“Oh ho ho… You really are just,” Jaskier rolled his hips up to punctuate, “perfect.” He buried his face into Geralt’s neck as he started at a slow pace. 
Geralt tangled his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, his eyes snapping open as the angle shifted and Jaskier’s cock hit just right, making him shudder. Something on his wrist caught his attention. The vine of the flower that had been wrapped around his finger glowed brighter than it had when they had first touched. The stems seemed to grow and spread, wrapping around his hand and then his wrist, warm and grounding. 
He felt supported, looked after. Geralt felt like his chest might have imploded as another thought came rushing in with the soft mutterings against his neck. 
He felt loved. Jaskier had- 
“Fuck, Geralt. I-” the bard bit off, his body shaking with effort as he picked up his pace. Geralt dragged his mouth back out from where it was marking up under his jaw and kissed him roughly, swallowing every wonderful moan on the bard’s tongue. 
Jaskier’s nails dug into Geralt’s bare thigh, clutching him tighter. He felt like he was about to shake apart, caught between Jaskier’s broad chest and the rough bark of the tree. His shoulders were going to be sore the next morning but he couldn’t be fucked into caring. There was a single minded need coursing through him just then and he was going to get it, so help him.
He clenched around Jaskier’s cock eagerly, his body gripping and refusing to let go the deeper Jaskier drove into him. 
“Jaskier,” he panted through eager moans, “Jask!” 
Jaskier only thrusted into Geralt harder, his hands bruising tight against his thighs as they jostled. 
“Come on, darling. Come on, come for me. Fuck… Geralt, I love you.” Jaskier pressed their foreheads together, his voice completely wrecked. “Yours. Of course I’ve been yours, love,” he babbled, giving the answers to questions Geralt couldn’t find the courage to ask. “Come on, Geralt…” 
Geralt’s heart pounded in his chest and suddenly everything was overwhelmingly good. His muscles went taut and he arched against the tree. There was a howling and his vision seemed to white out for a moment. It must have been him making that noise because his throat suddenly felt raw with it. 
Jaskier had followed him over that edge, spilling into Geralt with one final hard thrust, burying himself as deep as he could with a low groan. 
Geralt felt like he could float, the way his body nearly went limp against the trunk of the tree. 
“Fuck,” Jaskier grunted, his fingers petting against Geralt’s thighs. They were trembling. When did that happen? 
Geralt was set down carefully, soft hands brushing the hair back that had fallen in his face. Jaskier’s voice drifted to him as though from very far away and for a moment, all he could see was light, two thick bars of warm light that felt like coming home after the darkest of nights. 
Jaskier had been there, just a moment ago and then he was gone. He felt dazed but he relaxed into it, not worried that something might come out of the brush and get them as he leaned against the tree. It didn’t surprise him when Jaskier came back. Geralt trusted that he would always come back.
He let himself be cleaned up and led back to their packs. A single bedroll had been laid out and he was guided down into it. And then…
Jaskier was still there, wrapping around him, his arm around his waist and his head tucked under Geralt’s chin. His chest was bare against Geralt’s, though he couldn’t quite remember taking his shirt off. Jaskier had been the one that had taken him apart and put him back together again, strong and whole and wanted. 
There was something nagging at him though. Something in the back of his mind told Geralt that he had missed something. 
He turned and wrapped his arms tightly around Jaskier, burying his nose into his hair. “I love you, too. And I have always been yours. Without a question, I have been yours.” 
Jaskier sighed happily, hiding his face into Geralt’s shoulder. “I know, love. I know.” 
When Geralt woke the next time with his arm around his bard, he did not pull away because he knew then that there was nothing to pull away from. So he simply slid in closer and let himself enjoy the closeness of his unintended husband. 
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bitsandbobsofwriting · 4 years ago
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I've been struck by an absolutely, genuinely, cursed idea:
What if Fae!Jaskier was evil? And I don’t mean he used to be evil, and is repenting, or is being controlled by someone evil, or made a mistake and accidentally did something bad,,,, I mean genuinely, deliberately, evil. I'm shitty at writing but this could be angsty as hell.
Something real bad happens, all seems lost for the gang, Yennefer and Ciri have been taken, Geralt can't find his Witcher family, it's just him and Jaskier left, desperate to save their friends.
As a last ditch effort, they come up with a complicated and likely doomed-to-fail plan, involving Geralt telling Fae!Jaskier his true name.
So he agrees, Jaskier asks him if he's sure, because this can't be reversed. I can't unknown your name,  from the moment you tell me I will own you and it's a gift I can not return. Are you sure you trust me with this?
And of course the answer is yes. Geralt doesn’t even hesitate. He thinks for a second, he would be perfectly comfortable telling Jaskier his name even if they weren't trying to save their friends. Even if it was just a normal day. But that's a revelation for another time, they have more important things to worry about now.
And he gives Jaskier his name. The one his mother gave him, before he started calling himself Geralt of Rivia. He whispers it in Jaskier’s ear and holds his breath, waiting for an odd feeling, a sensation, anything.
But he feels the same. And he relaxes.
Jaskier leans back, a serene smile on his face. His eyes are brighter than Geralt has ever seen, and he seems far calmer than he should be, his teeth are too sharp, his nails grow to talons.
Slight doubt creeps into Geralt’s mind, but he pushes it away, Fae are meant to be intimidating, they're *built* to be unnerving, but this is Jaskier, and Geralt trusts him completely.
Jaskier stands, and paces calmly away, Geralt goes to follow him, hoping to get to the rescuing part of the plan as fast as possible but
"Sit." From Jaskier, whose back is still turned, forces Geralt to the floor before he even realises what's happened. He feels it now.
"Jaskier what are you..."
"Shhh"
Jaskier turns, and the smile on his face is more manic now, his eyes are wide, and seem to be dripping silver, flowers bloom in his hair, his talons grow ever longer, his teeth are razor sharp. His glamour had slipped slowly at first, but now seemed to drop all at once, and Geralt held a gasp in. He'd seen bits and pieces of Jaskier’s true form, but never all at once, never the whole thing.
Geralt is confused, but still, he trusts Jaskier, this is about trust, and love, and saving their friends, so he quells his panic, Absolutely Certain that Jaskier just wants to tell him something before they set off.
"Twenty years. Two decades. Barely a heartbeat, in the life of a fae. I honestly thought this would he harder." Jaskier says, with a raised eyebrow.
Geralt is confused, and a little scared. But he trusts Jaskier. He does. Geralt loves him and Jaskier had said as much in return. Fae can't lie. Geralt trusts him.
"Did you know, Witcher..."
(That word cuts Geralt deep, Jaskier had never called him "Witcher" before, always his name, or some stupid nickname. Never "Witcher". That was what cruel humans called him. Too filled with hatred of him to think that he could possibly have a name.)
"...that in the history of the continent, in fact, the history of Fae, none of us, have EVER, owned a Witcher? No one. I'll be the first."
Geralt is confused. He doesn’t understand. Why are they waiting around? They need to go. Jaskier needs to stop reminiscing and put his glamour back up and they NEED to go rescue their friends NOW.
But Geralt can't move. Jaskier told him to Sit.
And Geralt can't say anything. Jaskier told him to Shhh.
"I thought Witchers were supposed to be clever? Strong? But look at you. Sat at my feet, unable to move or speak. I can see the little gears in your head turning. I can see the ice creep into your pathetic little mortal heart." Jaskier drawls, amusement showing in his eyes.
Geralt flinches. He doesn’t understand. He stares at Jaskier. His eyes fill with tears. He trusts him. That's what he thinks. Over and over and over. I trust Jaskier. I love him. He loves me. I trust him.
Jaskier barks out a laugh, and Geralt’s breathing deepens. He loves me. I trust him.
"Love you? My dear Witcher. Of course I love you." Jaskier waves his hand, a gesture that Geralt registers as meaning "you can speak"
"Why?" Is all he manages to grunt out. Along with a few tears. He is not so confused anymore. Though he is still desperately clinging to the idea that he is just misunderstanding the situation. He trusts Jaskier. He loves him.
Anyone else might think Geralt meant "why do you love me?" But Jaskier knows better. Jaskier owns him, and can see into every little crevice of his mind. Jaskier knows that what Geralt actually meant was:
"Why are you doing this? What's going on? I don’t understand. I thought Fae couldn’t lie? You have to love me. You said it yourself. You cant lie."
"You are exactly right my dear. Fae can't lie. And i have never once lied to you."
That calms Geralt slightly, though too soon.
"I do love you. But I love you the same way a man loves his guard dog. Or his prize cow. Of course it helps slightly if a man's prize cow loves him in return, but unnecessary, when it comes down to it."
Geralt, who has been going steadily paler, felt his stomach drop, and his breath deepen even further, and the unshed tears pouring down his face.
And his heart shatter.
"So yes. Of course I love you, Witcher. But I have never been In Love with you. Perhaps, next time a powerful fae drops into your life, you should take care to ask more questions, hmm?"
Geralt finally understands. Everything had been a trick. A complex contract. A fae talking circles around everyone and anything and everything for two decades to get what he wanted. His very own Witcher.
He wants to be furious. He wants to spit and scream and kick. He wants to punish himself and every deity he knows the name of, for doing this to him. But he can't. He loves Jaskier. He trusts him. What else is there? What else can he do?
Jaskier laughs again, and mockingly pouts.
Grabbing Geralt’s chin, forcing his eyes to him, "So trusting," he purrs, "Though perhaps, trusting, is just a pretty word for gullible, nowadays."
Geralt doesn’t notice Jaskier’s talons slicing his chin, his cheeks, his jawline. Blood streams from his face but he can't think. He can't see he cant breath he doesn’t understand.
A smirk. "I own you. You are mine. And we are going to my court, to raise a little hell. You, Witcher, are going to do what you do best. You're going to slaughter that wench that sits on MY throne, and you're going to carve my initials into the wings of every single one of her pathetic followers."
All Geralt can do... is nod.
~
It’s shittily written so feel free to like,,, expand on this but....
All I can really say is "oops" to be honest because I seem to have accidentally made myself very sad with this idea, and if I have to suffer so does everyone else. Why does my brain do me dirty like this:((((
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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago
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So this is just a little piece based off this amazing art by @hobbart-art. I wanted an excuse to write soft Geraskier in flower crowns.
_______________
Jaskier tossed his head back and laughed. He looked absolutely ethereal. Geralt was sure that his bard had fae blood in his veins. No one else was that beautiful unless they were elven or fae. Jaskier tugged Geralt’s hand and pulled them deeper into the long grass of the meadow. Geralt had a basket of food in one hand. He’d managed to convince the tavern owner to pack them up a picnic for lunch after he’d dealt with their nekker problem. The nest had sprung up a little too close to the town and had been harassing the residents.
“Jaskier.” Geralt sighed as the bard danced through the long grass, pulling Geralt along for the ride.
“Yes, dear heart?” Jaskier beamed and Geralt’s breath hitched.
The sunlight was bouncing off Jaskier’s hair, making the brunet strands seem almost golden. He was wearing a soft blue waistcoat over his shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the buttons were undone so Geralt could see the thick dark chest hair underneath. Jaskier’s face was freckled from all his time on the path by Geralt’s side and his cornflower blue eyes were sparkling, but it was his smile that had stolen Geralt’s breath away. It was disarming in its beauty.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asked with a tilt of his head.
Geralt couldn’t remember what he’d meant to say so he said the only thought in his mind. “I love you.”
Jaskier’s face soften and he flitted over to Geralt, his free hand cupping Geralt’s face as their lips met. Geralt closed his eyes and basked in Jaskier’s warmth. “I love you too, my dearest.” Jaskier whispered against Geralt’s lips.
Geralt opened his eyes and pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “I know.”
Jaskier hummed happily and then was off once more, dragging Geralt behind him. “Ooh, here. This is perfect!” Jaskier announced with a wide wave of his arms.
Geralt peered at the patch of grass. It looked like every other patch of grass they had passed but as long as it was free of monsters then he was happy. Jaskier twirled in a circle and then flopped ceremoniously to the floor with a dramatic sigh. Geralt sat next to him with the basket of food. Jaskier chattered away about everything and nothing as they ate. Geralt hummed in appropriate places and sipped the red wine, Jaskier’s favourite kind. As they ate Jaskier weaved nearby flowers together in two long strings, one made from forget-me-nots and the other from buttercups.  By the time they had finished the sun was low in the sky and Jaskier had two flower crowns in his lap. Geralt shook his head in fond exasperation, it had taken Jaskier twice as long to eat his food but he seemed happy so Geralt couldn’t judge him.
Geralt would do anything to make Jaskier happy and the bard knew it.
“Come lie in my lap, dear heart.” Jaskier asked with a tilt of his head.
His tongue flicked out to lick his lips and Geralt couldn’t resist pulling Jaskier into a kiss. He tasted of the wine they’d been drinking. Jaskier hummed into the kiss and wrapped a hand around Geralt’s neck to pull him closer. Geralt bumped their noses together as they pulled apart and brushed his lips against Jaskier’s cheek. He let out a long sigh and laid down with his head in Jaskier’s lap, lifting his head slightly so Jaskier could pull his hair out, allowing him to braid it as they sat together to enjoy the last of the sun’s light.
Jaskier began to sing softly as he braided Geralt’s hair. Geralt enjoyed the gentle tugs at his scalp as Jaskier’s nimble fingers worked. Once he was finished he brushed out the braids with his fingers. Geralt looked up at his lover with a puzzled expression.
Jaskier let out a chime of laughter. “It looked shit. I have a better idea, anyway.”
“Hmm?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier leant to side scooped up the flower crowns from the grass. “Blue or yellow?”
Geralt looked into Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes and smiled. “Blue.”
“I was hoping you would say that, dear heart.” Jaskier brushed Geralt’s hair from his face. “Lift.”
Geralt lifted his head and Jaskier placed the forget-me-nots on top of his head. Geralt sighed as he settled back into Jaskier’s lap, watching as the bard placed the ring of buttercups on his own head. Geralt once again was taken aback by Jaskier’s beauty.
“How do I look?” He asked with a wink.
“Ethereal.” Geralt answered as he reached up to stroke Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier caught his hand in his own and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s wrist.
“I love you.” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt’s wrist and placed a second kiss to the palm of his hand. “Fuck, those words are not enough. They cannot possible explain all that I feel for you, Geralt, but I love you.”
“They’re enough for me.” Geralt smiled up at his lover. “As long as you stay with me.”
“I will.” Jaskier promised, letting Geralt hand drop back down to his chest. “As long as you’ll have me.” _______________
Tag list: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @awitchersbard  @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @victorieschild @hailhailsatan
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buffskierights · 4 years ago
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Prompt by @everyones-favorite-bard
Right now the fic thing I have in my head is one where Jaskier is cursed (or somthing) to be able to read Geralt's mind (Geralt doesn't know) (at least not at first) and it is just a constant stream of words, a lot of which are about the bard to his surprise.
Stupendous, inspiring, wonderful, I ended up writing something so incredibly soft and way less humorous than I thought it would be
“Jaskier.”
Geralt’s exasperated voice filters into his consciousness as he wakes with a groan, his cheek pressed against something cool and hard. It’s much too early to be garnering his friend’s ire already today, especially after the night he had. He doesn’t remember much of it, after the eighth ale everything goes a little fuzzy, but if the pressure in his eyes is anything to go by then Jaskier definitely started crying at some point.
It wouldn’t surprise him, he can become a bit of an emotional drunk past a certain point in the night and he’ll find the nearest willing shoulder to cry on. Usually about the Witcher looming over him, he thinks, as he peels his tired eyes open and sits up with another groan. His spine pops as it realigns from being slumped over a table and his neck aches in a way that it didn’t used to when he was a much younger man.
“We need to get going,” Geralt says quietly, and if Jaskier didn’t know better he’d say his friend was being considerate of the intense hangover he’s sporting.
“Mm, Mhm,” He nods with a yawn as he stands up and stretches, “Give me a moment to get freshened up and I’ll join you at the stables.”
As he’s walking towards the stairs he hears Geralt’s voice again, “I wonder why he drinks so heavily these days. Doesn’t he know it’s not healthy for him?”
Jaskier’s cheeks flare with embarrassment and he pretends he didn’t hear the Witcher’s comment as he hurries upstairs. Maybe he can lay of the drinks a bit, if it worries Geralt so much.
When he walks into the stables with his pack over his shoulder and his lute case secured across his chest, he’s surprised by Geralt’s voice sounding relieved, “There he is. Glad he didn’t find trouble in the last fifteen minutes.”
“If you know I’m here, dear Witcher, there’s no need to speak as though I’m not,” Jaskier raises his eyebrow at Geralt as he stops in front of Roach’s stall to see the Witcher tacking her up. Geralt gives him a mildly confused glance before grunting and holding his hand out for the bard’s bag. Jaskier hands it over and as the strap settles into Geralt’s palm he hears the Witcher’s voice again.
“Seems awfully light. Maybe he needs new clothes again. Those silks are pretty but not nearly sturdy enough for travel.”
Jaskier blinks and then squints suspiciously. For starters, Geralt has never once cared about the state of Jaskier’s clothing, other than to complain that it’s too bright or too flimsy. And another thing, he’s quite certain he didn’t see Geralt’s mouth move when he heard his friend’s voice. Now, Jaskier is no idiot, despite what Geralt might think, but he doesn’t want to immediately jump to the conclusion of ‘I’ve been cursed to hear my best friend’s thoughts’. Maybe Witchers are just excellent at ventriloquism; it wouldn’t be the first time Geralt’s had an unusual skill.
“He’s being rather quiet this morning. His hangover must be worse than I thought. I should look for some mint along the path today for him to chew on.”
Jaskier would be quite touched by how caring Geralt’s voice is, if it didn’t confirm that he’s hearing his friend’s thoughts. Fuck, how is he supposed to tell Geralt?
He discovers, through some trial and error, that the curse is restricted by distance. It seems that Jaskier has to be within ten feet of Geralt to become privy to the Witcher’s innermost thoughts, and the closer he is the louder Geralt’s mental voice is.
He’s gone from being mildly disturbed by the situation as a whole to being somewhat flustered by how many of Geralt’s thoughts are about him. Sure, Jaskier thinks about Geralt a lot, but that’s because he’s completely arse over heels in love with the man. What’s Geralt’s excuse?
To distract himself from thinking too hard about it, Jaskier has spent the last couple hours deep in thought on how he might have acquired this curse, and how to break it. He tries to stay at least ten feet away from Geralt and Roach, or at least he did once he figured out the distance aspect, but the next thought of Geralt’s had been so sad as he wondered if he did something to upset Jaskier that the bard was powerless to falling back into step with the Witcher.
“Maybe he’s taken ill. His face is looking a bit flushed. Fuck, the last time Jaskier was ill was a disaster. Fucking pneumonia bullshit. Whoever came up with that brilliant idea deserves a kick in the balls.”
Jaskier nearly chokes for what must be the seventh time that day as he forces himself not to laugh. Geralt is even funnier than he is normally in his head and Jaskier’s not sure how much longer he can hide his shaking shoulders.
He’s come up with an idea. It’s a horrible idea, really, but it’s one born of remembering his drunken crying upon the shoulder of a silver-eyed man who, in hindsight, was very clearly a mage.
He remembers the mage cooing sympathetically as he spilled his heart upon the sticky floor of the tavern, his last ale listlessly hanging from his fingers, and then promising that Jaskier will be able to figure out whether Geralt’s mixed signals are a sign of desire or not. Well, thank you, secret mage, but Jaskier is even more confused now than before as he sits across a warm fire from the man of his dreams.
Geralt is cleaning some gear that’s been overdue for a good treatment while Jaskier himself sits on a log with his arms crossed atop his lute. Both of them are silent as they listen to the crackling fire, Jaskier’s gaze deep in the flames as he thinks.
“He’s going to ruin his night vision like that. I suppose it’s okay, though, since I’m here.”
Jaskier’s lips twitch downward. Geralt’s thoughts have been filled with sweet shit like that all gods-damned day and it’s driving him crazy. Plus, he has yet to even tell Geralt about the curse! And he knows the longer he waits, the worse Geralt’s reaction will be.
“I wonder if he’s going to play tonight or just use his lute as an armrest. I rather like his songs that aren’t about me. The one he wrote about Eskel and Deirdre is especially beautiful when Jaskier sings it.”
Jaskier groans aloud and drops his head to his lute with a dull thunk, and Geralt’s thoughts become alarmed and concerned.
“Is he okay? Did something happen? Maybe he’s ill after all? Or something magic? My medallion’s been humming slightly all day but I haven’t been able to figure out what could be causing it the only different thing is how quiet Jaskier has been. What if he’s a Doppler? Or a changling? Do faes even take fully grown men? Maybe they would if it’s Jaskier, they seem fond of quality bards. He isn’t moving, oh fuck, I can still hear his heartbeat though so he isn’t dead, thank the gods. I don’t know what I would do if Jaskier-“
“Enough!” Jaskier cries as he sits up again, raking his fingers haphazardly through his hair, “I can’t take it! My gods, you think so fucking much, Geralt, I’ve barely had a thought to myself all gods-damned day!”
“What?”
“What?” Geralt echoes his own thought aloud, a deep frown settling on his face.
“I should have told you, I know I should have, but I thought I could figure out what was happening and fix it and then we wouldn’t have to talk about it at all,” Jaskier rambles. He feels like he probably looks a bit wild right now but he can’t do anything about it, “But then I couldn’t think because of how many of your thoughts I was hearing all fucking day and it was so overwhelming! I mean, I barely get a break from my own mess of a mind, and then I had to figure out a way to not hear yours, too?”
Geralt has gone eerily silent, both internally and externally.
“But, gods, I thought I could figure it out and fix it myself since it’s my fault I got cursed by that damned mage last night when I told him how confused you make me sometimes because I lo-“ he cuts himself off as his mouth shuts with an audible click, swallowing hard and glancing at Geralt with wide eyes.
“Because you, what, Jaskier?” He asks quietly.
Jaskier shakes his head, stroking the strings his his lute with his thumb as he whispers, “I don’t want to lose you if you don’t feel the same.”
Geralt looks at him for a few moments but his mind is quiet, “You’ve been able to hear my thoughts all day?”
“Most of them,” he nods weakly, “Clear ones.”
Geralt hums with a nod before waiting until he catches Jaskier’s eye and holding his gaze, “I love you. And even if I didn’t, you wouldn’t have lost me for loving me.”
Jaskier gapes at him in shock and Geralt smirks slightly before it falters, “Unless... that’s not how you-“
“No! I mean yes! I mean,” Jaskier feels his face start to burn as he scrambles for words, “I-I- you... I mean, we... that is to say— fuck, this isn’t— no, yes, I do love you Geralt, I’ve loved you for years I just... I never thought...”
“That Witchers could feel emotions?” Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier feels a spike of flustered alarm.
“What? No! I’ve never— what makes you think— Geralt, no, I would never think that!” He’s certain he’s as red as a tomato as he watches Geralt’s lips twitch into an amused smile and Jaskier groans, tossing some small pebbles across the fire at the Witcher, “You’re horrible, dear Witcher. You’re going to send me to an early grave.”
“Guess I’ll have to protect you,” Geralt shrugs with a grin, “Can’t have you dying on me, after all. Not right after we finally got our acts together.”
Jaskier tries to groan again but it ends in a laugh as he covers his burning face with his hands. They’ll have time to figure things out and actually talk later; but, for right now, he’s just glad he hasn’t lost his best friend while gaining a suitor.
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devendrasbeard · 3 years ago
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My Body Is My Weapon, So I Keep It Loaded
Prompt: Belly Bulge / Cum Inflation Relationships: Geralt/Eskel Rating: E Content warnings: Belly bulge, Explicit sexual content, Anal Sex, Crack!fic (kinda), but with a happy ending Summary: On his way to Kaer Morhen for winter, Eskel gets cursed by some faes, making his cock too big for any partner to handle.He turns to Geralt for aid, and Geralt is more than willing to lend him a helping hand (and more!)
Also on ao3!
Geralt was on his knees, his lips stretched thin around Eskel's enormous cock. He knew (and experienced himself more than once) that Eskel was well endowed, but this time it was just ridiculously too much. He barely took the head in his mouth and the tip was already bumping against the back of his throat. He looked up at Eskel with shock and amusement, eyes already watering.
Eskel tangled his fists in the bedsheets, using all his willpower to not buck his hips forward and choke Geralt even more. But he was already so desperate to get at least some friction around his cock, after all these long weeks of forced celibacy.
Geralt didn't want to believe him at first, when Eskel had arrived in Kaer Morhen frowning, slightly panicked and with a visibly big bulge in his breeches. "Geralt, you're not gonna believe it, but I need your help."
And so Eskel told him about that one time a few weeks ago, when he had tried to take a shortcut through a deep forest, instead of staying on the Path. He stumbled onto a fae sanctuary and before he could retreat, they've "attacked" him.
"They've put a weird spell on me and, well... My cock's now twice as big as usual," he sighed with a frown.
Geralt couldn't help but burst out laughing. "I don't see how this is a problem."
"You're laughing, but I couldn't get laid in over two months now," Eskel said weakly, shoulders slumping. "I've been in three different brothels on my way here and it all ended up the same - as soon as I undressed, the girls would just give me back my coin and straight up leave. 'No way in hell I'm gonna let you stick that monstrosity in me,' one of them even said."
Geralt threw his head back, muffling his chuckles with a fist. He wiped tears of mirth from the corner of his eye. "I'm so sorry this has happened to you, but at the same time it's the most hilarious thing I've ever heard." 
"Geralt," Eskel let out an exasperated huff. "I need you to help me, I have no idea if the spell will wear off by itself. And also, please don't tell Vesemir."
"I am so fucking gonna tell Vesemir," Geralt grinned. "But first of all," he licked his lips, scooting closer to Eskel, "let me take a look at what were dealing with here."
Eskel undid his laces with an embarrassed huff, looking away from Geralt's face. Geralt slid his pants down and gasped. Eskel's cock was resting against his thigh and it was much bigger soft than Geralt's dick has ever been when hard.
"Fuck me," Geralt whispered with a hint of awe in his voice.
"Please don't tease me like that," Eskel whimpered, his cock already stirring under Geralt's hot gaze. "I'm hanging by a thread here, I'm damn sure I would stick it in a tree hollow by now, if it weren't so cold outside."
"No, I'm serious," Geralt replied, voice husky, gaze fixed between Eskel's thighs. "Will be a challenge for sure, but I'm so willing to try."
Geralt released Eskel's cock from his mouth with a loud pop. His lips were already red and swollen, and he wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes. "You're gonna fucking destroy me."
Eskel propped himself on his elbows and looked at Geralt with half-lidded eyes. His expression was pure lust, his fists still tangled in the bedsheets, but he exhaled deeply and forced himself to talk. "You really don't have to do this for me..." He huffed and swallowed thickly. "I will... manage somehow."
Geralt didn't say anything in response. Instead, he stood up and nonchalantly slid his breeches down, freed himself of his shirt and then got on all fours on the bed. He looked at Eskel over his shoulder, taking in the astonished expression on the other Witcher's face. "I want to do this for you. And I also want to see how it feels to be utterly ruined by you," he accentuated his statement by perking his butt up. "But if you want to fuck me, you have to work for it."
Eskel worked him open patiently and steadily, pouring the oils generously over Geralt's hole and his fingers. Geralt took him in eagerly, and he had already three fingers deep inside him. Geralt's heated moans and huffs send shivers down his spine and Eskel stirred with arousal and lust, hoping for his wait to be over soon.
"Can you fit another finger in?" Geralt's voice was dark and hoarse. He stared at Eskel from behind his shoulder, looking already wrecked - skin damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded, his hair a mess. "Open me up good," he stretched that last word out, making it sound so much like a needy growl that sent sparks of lust straight to Eskel's cock.
"Geralt..." Eskel started weakly, his mind going dark with arousal, all of his thoughts focused on the promise of sheathing his cock in Geralt's welcoming heat.
He took his heavy cock in hand and lined it up with Geralt's ass. Geralt shot him a half-angry look from behind his shoulder. "No way I'm gonna let you ram into me like this. I'm gonna ride you."
Eskel laid on his back and propped his head on the many pillows, watching Geralt intently from under his heavy lids. Geralt lined himself with Eskel's cock and started sliding down, excruciatingly slowly. Eskel's hands darted forward to grab on Geralt's hips, the tension almost impossible to bear. Geralt grabbed his wrists firmly and pressed them into the mattress. "Don't you fucking move," he coarsed, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed. "I need to concentrate."
Eskel watched mesmerized as Geralt slid down his shaft, inch by inch, exhaling deeply with every little twitch of his hips. By the time he bottomed out, Geralt was panting heavily, his forehead adorned with beads of sweat, eyes darkened with lust. He hesitantly released Eskel's wrists from his grip.
Geralt has never felt so full in his life, the stretch almost unbearable, stinging pain blurring his vision and causing his breath to hitch. No amount of preparation could make him prepared for this. He felt as if all of his insides have made space for Eskel to fill him out completely. "If you move, I'll die," he whispered, more to himself.
Eskel looked at him, eyes widened, the golden brown of his eyes swallowed by his blown pupils. He reached out with one hand and placed it just above Geralt's hardened cock, completely disregarding the way it was leaking precome onto his stomach. Geralt's abs, usually rock hard and firm, were now unnaturally bulged, his belly round and sticking out. Eskel shuddered with excitement and pure desire - when he pressed his hand more firmly to Geralt's stomach, he could feel his own cock twitch inside of him.
Geralt looked down at him, equally mesmerized and only a little bit worried. He's also noticed the bulged belly and the way he could feel Eskel both directly under his skin and deep on the inside. "Are we doing this?" he asked quietly.
Eskel nodded, licking his lips and placing another hand on Geralt's stomach. "I want to feel it move inside you," he whispered hoarsely. He then looked Geralt in the eyes and added, "At your own pace, I'll leave you in charge."
Geralt swallowed thickly and propped himself on Eskel's chest, the slight change of his angle already causing him to tremble. They both groaned at the new sensation. Having braced himself, Geralt started moving.
He moved so terribly slowly, still trying to get used to the enormous stretch and the feeling of being so incredibly full. Eskel's eyes were constantly fixed at his stomach, and he watched Geralt's belly round up and then turn flat again while he moved up and down. He pressed his hands down more firmly to not only observe, but also to feel how full Geralt was.
With every move of his hips, Geralt moaned and whined and Eskel moaned with him. The sensations were driving him crazy, even though Geralt didn't speed up at all, stretching his every move out to impossible lengths. Eskel looked up at his Witcher's furrowed brow, his forehead wet with sweat, lips twitching with every move, eyes fixed on Eskel's medallion. Geralt was somewhere else entirely, his body moving up and down along Eskel's shaft, but his mind and soul have reached a totally different plane.
Eskel reached out with his hands and skimmed them over the damp skin of Geralt's hips. He so wanted to grab him tightly, to pull him up and then ram back into him; he wanted to be fast, filthy and aggressive, but he didn't want to hurt Geralt nor break off the reverent feeling Geralt was clearly now experiencing.
Then Geralt closed his eyes shut, guiding Eskel's hands to grab his hips, Geralt's own hands resting on his round belly. "Do it," he whispered with a broken moan. "Ruin me, Eskel."
Eskel hesitated just for a few seconds, then sat straight up, pulling Geralt into a heated kiss - the first kiss since they've started - and moved his hips. The sound that left Geralt's lips was definitely not human, he growled like a wild animal, something feral and primal coming deep from within. He grabbed Eskel's hair firmly, pulling at it to expose Eskel's neck. He bit down to muffle the obscene sounds he was making with every move of Eskel's hips, and that send Eskel over the edge.
Eskel bucked his hips up a few last times, making Geralt's stomach bulge unnaturally, his thrusts frantic and unforgiving, every brush of his cock against Geralt's prostate making him leak streaks of precome. Eskel grabbed Geralt's thighs firmly, his fingers digging painfully into Geralt's flesh and he came - the sensation making him see white and shudder with every spurt of spend leaving his cock.
Geralt whined and wailed, his teeth still biting at the crook of Eskel's neck and he trembled under Eskel's touch, finally finding his own release. He kept quivering through the aftershocks, still holding one hand on his stomach, feeling Eskel's cock turn soft inside him, but still stretching him to the fullest.
He moved up very slowly, freeing Eskel's dick from the tight heat, and toppled onto the bed, panting heavily and unable to speak. He felt wrung out and awkwardly empty, but at the same time extremely satisfied. 
After a moment, he turned to Eskel, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Do you think we need to tell Vesemir right away?" he asked hesitantly. "Maybe the spell will be lifted after I... dry you out?"
"You're fucking insane," Eskel replied, still unable to move nor open his eyes. "We can try lifting the curse this way, though," he smiled weakly.
"Oh, I think it's definitely more a blessing than a curse." Geralt chuckled, hugging him closer. He would surely not be able to walk straight for a week, but he was more than ready to try again soon.
-----
@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo
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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago
Text
The Colour-Magic Theory (7/?)
Intro, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
@genkitaco
***
Bitter consequences can bring sweetness amid turmoil.
At Ciri’s request, Jaskier has dropped his glamour completely just this once. It took the girl only a week of travelling together to convince him, which is a remarkable feat. Geralt never even dared to suggest it in the first place, knowing it was a lot to ask.
Now Jaskier stands before them in his true fae form. Only the hair on his head remains unchanged – everything else about him is different. His facial features are sharper, so are his teeth. Jaskier’s ears are much bigger, elongated and pointed, while his fingernails resemble talons. The fae’s eyes are such a vibrant cornflower blue that they sparkle. His skin, in an olive tone, is also radiant; so much so that it appears as though sunlight was touching it. Jaskier is wearing only his boots and trousers (having foregone putting on any upper garment), and all over his hairless chest and arms, there are delicate veins of tiny speckles in all shades of brown and green. Freckles dust Jaskier’s face, too, light blue and beige in colour.
There are also some parts of Jaskier that haven’t been changed by the glamour – there were actually completely veiled by it until now. Small, sharp-pointed antlers are seated on the top of his head and on his back, there are massive, feathered wings. The feathers are dark brown at the root, just like Jaskier’s hair, but gradually turn beige and then blue at the tip; there’s also a blue-green shine to them.
Everything about the bard screams inhuman, and he exudes fae magic so much that Geralt’s medallion vibrates only because of Jaskier’s proximity. The witcher isn’t alarmed, however. He and Cirilla both admire the magnificent creature before them, unmoving in their awe. Geralt’s eyes roam all over the fae’s form, and the searing gold of his gaze reminds Jaskier of the sun itself. He longs to let himself bask and bloom in the warmth like a flower, or to fly towards it. Jaskier is a fae of the skies after all; his wings can carry him far. (But not far enough. The sun is out of his reach).
“Jaskier, you’re beautiful,” Ciri breaths out as she steps closer towards the bard, her voice full of wonder.
Jaskier smiles softly. “So are you,” he answers, then boops her on the nose.
Ciri giggles and hugs him. Jaskier wraps his arms around her, then his great wings envelop them both, only the fae’s face remaining visible. Geralt hears Jaskier make a deep coo, to which Ciri responds with a chirpy purr.
Jaskier’s gaze drifts up to rest on the witcher and the look in his eyes hardens. The cornflower blue gains a threatening glint but the bright gold doesn’t back down. Geralt wants answers but none are in sight since the bard refuses to talk to him. They continue glaring at each other but then Cirilla wriggles out of Jaskier’s embrace and the tension is broken.
They make camp for the night. Jaskier chatters with Ciri all the while, although he doesn’t reply when she asks why he seems angry with Geralt. Geralt offers no words on the matter too; he finds himself unable to admit to what he has done. Cirilla pouts and whines, as she tends to do when she doesn’t get her way, but the witcher and the bard don’t relent.
In the evening, Jaskier croons a lullaby to put Ciri to a restful sleep. Due to the glamour being gone, his fae powers aren’t restricted by anything, which makes his soft singing even more sweet and charming than it usually is. Cirilla dozes off very quickly but the fae keeps crooning, and Geralt starts getting affected by it too. He feels himself drift to sleep but doesn’t fight it – it’s like gently easing into calm, quiet and warmth. Suddenly everything he has been missing is there.
Then, Jaskier stops and the world turns cold. Geralt sits up abruptly, comprehension striking him like a lightning.
“Jaskier,” the witcher says. Jaskier’s sparkling eyes lay upon him and before he can think better of it, Geralt blurts out, “it’s you.” He swallows hard. “The blessing of my life, it’s you.”
Jaskier breaks the eye contact, a wry smile twisting his lips. “And yet you run to Yennefer every time,” he murmurs, his tone so bitter that Geralt can almost taste it on his tongue.
The witcher frowns, confused. “Jaskier, what? It’s not–”
“Spare me, Geralt,” the fae cuts in, waving his hand. He sighs, averting Geralt’s gaze, and goes on, “I’ve forgiven you long ago. And yet, I can’t forget.”
“Let me fix it,” Geralt replies, his voice balancing on the edge of pleading. Jaskier doesn’t react. “Please,” the witcher insists, inching his body closer to the unmoving, unmoved creature. “I want us to be like before. We used to be...”
Happy. The words linger between them, better left unsaid. The air grows thick with the bitter sting of memories – the moments of peace and laughter long gone.
Jaskier slowly looks up at the witcher, his features weary and rueful. “There’s no coming back, Geralt,” he says.
The truth rings out in the silence and Geralt can only fight for breath. His chest constricts, a voiceless scream filling lungs and burning his throat until his eyes begin to prickle. The witcher opens his mouth but no words come out. He can only stare at the beautiful fae he has hurt, self-loathing coiling in his gut.  
“There’s no running away either,” Jaskier adds, pointing at sleeping Ciri with his chin. “I think she’s bound to both you and me.” The fae gets up to sit by the girl’s side and starts caressing her cheek. “My bud-ling,” he says tenderly.  
Geralt understands the sentiment. A small smile lights up his face as he watches Jaskier and Ciri. The moment is quiet and soft. Everything is basked in the gentle light of the bonfire that makes Jaskier appear even more otherwordly. The witcher commits the sight to memory.
Soon after, Jaskier gets ready to put on his glamour again.  As he’s about to leave the campsite, Geralt says, “Just know that I’m sorry.” Jaskier stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn around. Geralt goes on, “I was cruel. You deserve so much better than... me.”
Geralt can’t decide whether he actually hears the whisper of, “Yet it’s only you that I’ve ever truly wanted” or his mind and the wind trick him.
When they go to sleep, they lay down on Ciri’s sides. As the girl sleeps between them, a feeling of wholeness settles deep into their bones, enveloping them like a warm cocoon. They hold Cirilla throughout the night, feeling like they’ve done something right.
*
Jaskier reaches for his travel pack, currently swung over Geralt’s shoulder, but the witcher moves away before he can take it.
“I’ve got it,” Geralt grunts and starts walking ahead, leading Roach by the reins.
Ciri jogs up to Geralt’s side but Jaskier stands in place for a moment more. The witcher has been kind to him in all those small yet grand ways – carrying his travel pack, making sure he eats first after Ciri, letting him ride Roach, and more – and the bard finds it hard not to let the gestures warm his heart too much. His heart is almost fully withered, after all; it would catch fire easily. He can’t allow wishful thinking to spark a disaster.
After Jaskier joins the witcher and the princess, he says, “We’re getting close.”
Ciri nods enthusiastically. “I could feel her,” she gushes, “she’s powerful!”
“That she is,” Jaskier agrees because there’s no way to deny it. The sorceress is almost pure Chaos, which, together with the other reason, is why the bard has always found her company hard to bear. Her magic clashes with his Order.
Trees talk to each other and their roots run deep. They know about what’s been happening miles away, and so do birds. When Jaskier, due to Ciri’s relentless insistence, kept asking them about a “lilac woman”, one day they finally answered that they had heard of a woman smelling of lilac and gooseberries. And so, two weeks ago, Ciri made them change their course, claiming that she needed the woman to join them. They had been travelling for a month at that point, and autumn was just around the corner, but there was no arguing with the princess, no matter how much Geralt and Jaskier dreaded meeting Yennefer again.
Jaskier started showing Ciri how to connect with the thrum of life, which allows to experience what plants and animals do in one’s mind eye. They would sit on the ground together, searching for any traces of Ciri’s “lilac woman”, and they soon discovered that nature’s Order was disturbed far away, both by a mighty Chaos-wielding person and a large group of soldiers who kept starting fires. They’ve been following the disturbance ever since despite the danger.
Now it won’t be long until they catch up with her. Geralt and Jaskier try savouring the last moments of calm before the storm. Although nothing between them is sorted, they both find peace in caring for Ciri. The three of them (and Roach) have settled into a rhythm over the past month. The daily travelling routine involves, among other things, Geralt teaching Cirilla self-defence and her learning fae magic from Jaskier. The lessons help the witcher and the bard to get to know the princess better, and vice versa. The girl took to Jaskier quickly, since she had met him before, but has grown close to Geralt too. She’s started seeking out Geralt’s attention and affection on her own. The girl even hugs him from time to time, much to the witcher’s astonishment. Jaskier laughs at the frankly adorable look on Geralt’s face every time it happens.
The evening on the day before they find Yennefer, after Ciri falls asleep, Jaskier addresses Geralt, which is something he still rarely does.
“Tell you what,” the bard says apropos of nothing, “in the end, I just find it annoying.” “What do you find annoying?” the witcher inquires. “It ‘s always us who want something from her,” Jaskier replies, “not the other way around.” Geralt huffs a laugh and answers, “Believe me, in this, she needs us more than we need her.”
Geralt says it with so much fondness betraying his deep affection and understanding of Yennefer that only one fibre in Jaskier’s heart stays beating. What else remained alive before now withers.
TBC
Part 8
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phoenixandjacob · 4 years ago
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In the Business of Reunions
author's note: so this is just a bit of world building for the dark fantasy au, specifically Lavender and Jaskier's reunion after Geralt kills Ira
this is pretty much what precedes this piece
so like, yeet
---------------------
The night is growing darker, her coin purse fatter, and the tavern patrons drunker with each song she plays. So drunk and rowdy are the villagers that they don't notice the entrance of the witcher and his companion.
But she does. If not for her decades long muscle memory, the wave of horror, relief, and confusion that crashes into her would have made her fumble the next chords.
For standing next to the witcher was Jaskier. Six years had passed since she had last heard from him, five since anyone had last seen him. But…something was wrong.
It was in the simplicity of his outfit, a plain icy blue chemise tucked into black trousers; the lack of reaction when he saw her on stage, a mere passing glance with eyes shadowed in the lamplight where once there would have been a crow of delight or perhaps a good-natured heckling; the suspicious lack of a lute case swung around his torso, instead carried by the hulking figure next to him. And the mere presence of the other man next to her friend. The vitriol and heartbreak staining his words whilst describing the dragon’s quest and vow to never follow the man who’d thrown him away burned in her mind’s eye as the witcher gently steered Jaskier to a table.
Something was very, very wrong.
But she still had a few songs in her set left. And she still hadn't eaten. Fuck.
-------------
The bard was watching them. She was doing a good job of hiding it, but he could feel her eyes linger on them as she pranced around the tavern. He was unsure of what she wanted with them but her gaze kept slipping towards Jaskier and it was making him uneasy. His medallion’s near constant vibrations due to the ex-bard had only increased as soon as they stepped into the tavern and grew each time she moved closer. It was only the man across from him’s insistence he “Eat a proper meal, Geralt, by the gods!” that kept him from dragging the ex-bard out of the tavern and into the safety of the woods. He could still feel the heat from Jaskier’s glare after he noticed the witcher skimping on feeding himself to increase their pace. The man’s threat to drink all of his potions in retaliation echoes in his mind as he sips his watery broth.
“My dears, I am quite saddened to say that this is the end of my performance! I feel quite honored to have been graced with your presence but, I am quite famished. I wish you all a very good night!”
With that, the bard packs up her lute and hops of the stage. By the humming of his medallion, Geralt knew without looking that she was approaching their table.
Fuck.
-------------
It’s a relief when the crowd lets her go easily. She starts packing her lute back into its case, gathering the coins scattered around, when she spares a glance towards the corner. Her eyes meet Jaskier’s, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly as he gazes back at her. It should feel like an invitation or curiosity but unease settles in her gut instead. It’s hard to make out his face in the shadows but she swears it’s completely blank.
Eager to get her meal but even more eager to confront the once missing man, she nods towards the barkeep. He nods back and she sets her sights on the corner table. With every step she takes, the witcher grows ever tenser. By the time she makes it within a meter or two of their table, his scowl had deepened to a near snarl and she can hear the wooden tankard splintering under his grasp. If it were anyone else, she would have stayed away. But her friend is sitting there, blankly watching her approach, not even a smile on his lips.
She stops within a meter of the table, a frown playing on her lips. As soon as she opens her mouth to speak, Jaskier cuts her off. A smile slides its way onto his face and he jumps up out of his seat, arms waving.
"Ah, Lavender! Hello! A wonderfully dull set as always,” he teases.
He’s always been a good actor, she thinks absentmindedly.
The bubbly personality she knows from experience is perfect. But it’s the pulsing wave of malevolencehateempty f a e that shreds her budding hope. The smell of mist and decay clings to it, the scent only detectable to other faerie.
“That was weaker than Marx’s attempt to hold a sword and we both know it,” she snipes back, “What’s wrong?”
And just like that, he freezes. The mask he put on slides off and a frigid stare replaces it. It reminds her too much of another icy gaze as the pulsing wave of malevolencehateempty f a e grows. Alarm bells ring in her head as he sits back down.
“Nothing is wrong, go back to your seat," his words are like icicles, piercing through any lingering hope that she was mistaken.
Fear, dread, concern, anger. They well within her breast, nearly choking her. She takes a moment and breathes deeply, wrestling the tidal wave down to a more manageable trickle. It would do her no good to lose control here.
Once she can breathe freely, she glances around the tavern. Seeing that no one is paying them much attention she summons a quick privacy ward around them. She rolls her eyes as the witcher shoots her a look, his hand drifting towards the swords leaning against the wall.
"To keep this between us," she mutters before squinting at Jaskier.
He gazes back at her, the frigid look replaced with empty eyes. Dread rises in her but she squashes it back down. She steps closer and leans against the table, gazing directly into Jaskier’s eyes as she does. She thinks of choosing her next words carefully but decides not to as another pulse of magic washes over her.
"Buttercup, if nothing's wrong, then what in Melitele's name are you wearing and why are you traveling with him again? Furthermore, darling, why do you reek of fae magic?"
While speaking, she slips into the seat next to Jaskier, heedless of the warning growl Geralt let out. A quick wave of her hand and the witcher is frozen. She goes to say something else but a hand grabs her wrist, it’s grip bordering on painful.
“Let him go,” Jaskier growls.
His rumbling voice drags forth that wave of emotion she was trying desperately to smother. Whatever she was going to say dies on her tongue as she takes in the man in front of her. The cold glare from before had nothing on the fire in his eyes. They burn brighter than the sun as they pin her in place. Her heart quickens to a rabbit's pace and she can hear her blood rushing in her ears. Distantly, she thinks of a lyric comparing them to the blazing blue stars above.
Her musing is cut off as a gasp escapes her, that pulsing magic turning hot and the empty feeling replaced by rageragerage. It burns against her own magic, feeling as if she was stuck in a raging forest fire. Ozone and smoke follows it and she’s quick to release the witcher. The man grunts as he’s unfrozen and the hand gripping her wrist let’s go.
“Shit, Jaskier,” she pants, as the ozone/smoke smell recedes and is replaced by the previous scent.
She goes to rub her wrist, eyes darting down to it. She wrestles the wave back down again, hesitant to look back into those eyes. They were near identical to another pair, one that haunts her dreams and forced her into human civilization all those years ago. She shakes her head softly and steels herself.
She expects lingering embers, an echo of resentment, when she brings her gaze back up.
Instead all that meets her is a blank slate, barely anything smoldering behind them. Something else makes her pause. She hadn’t noticed before but now she can make out a film of magic, separate from that pulsing wave, covering those eyes. She leans closer and pushes past it, hoping to lift it, even for a moment. Her heart aches as Jaskier blinks and the glamour is removed. He doesn't react to her touching his hand nor when she softly cups his face.
It’s like he can’t even feel it.
Her thumb gently rubs the stubble underneath it as she gazes into his pupiless eyes.
"Buttercup…What happened to you?" she whispers.
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belettewrites · 4 years ago
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Some mountains and a dog part 8
previous | next | AO3 | masterpost 
The thing about that forest was that it felt welcoming. Looking around him was like looking at those small drawings children got at school when they were good – or so he was told. Rare were the children getting to enjoy this, paper was expensive and he avoided being around nobility as much as he could, but Ciri had mentioned, in passing, that she used to get them from Eist when she had done particularly well in her lessons.
But the forest did look like a painting, like something you’d see in an illustrated book for children – the good kind of book, where nothing bad happened, the kind that you read to children after they had a nightmare. A painting, as if Melitele Herself had added small brushstrokes of colors. Dark green for the pines, and a lighter one for the fern; birds flying, small dots of red around their necks. And, the richest color of them all, a bright gold for the sunbeams that were coming through the branches and warming the ground.
This scenery didn’t make the forest look like a threatening place, and it was unnerving. It wasn’t silent, either, and Geralt almost wished it was, because he at least would have known that something was lurking around, scaring the birds and other animals away. But the only thing lurking around was him, and the lack of apparent threat made him feel uneasy.
Or maybe that feeling came from the fact that he had kissed Jaskier right before leaving. Maybe. Geralt tried not to think about it.
Tried being the key word here, because he wasn’t exactly succeeding. To think that he hadn’t realized it right as it happened, that he had done it like he had been dreaming of doing it for a while now without seeing what he was doing – it had felt so natural, to just get closer and kiss him, as if they had done it a thousand times before, a good luck and goodbye kiss, a promise to come back safe.
But they hadn’t done it before. It wasn’t a thing that they did. It was something Geralt oh so desperately longed for, but couldn’t have. It was… one would call it longing, the thing he felt – he had thought he had it under control, that being Jaskier’s friend was enough, and in a sense it was, he would take whatever the other man would give him, but for his mind to betray him like that –
Geralt was furious at himself, because he had overstepped his boundaries and had forced a kiss on Jaskier, had taken advantage of his friend before leaving without apologizing, because apparently he had been so out of his mind that he hadn’t realized before it was too late.
A distracted Witcher was a dead one, no matter the circumstances. It shouldn’t have happened for multiple reasons, the first one being that Jaskier hadn’t consented to this – it made Geralt feel sick. He hoped his friend would be able to forgive him. If he couldn’t, well, Geralt hoped that Jaskier would at least let him help him down the mountain, before they parted ways – why was it always on mountains that Geralt found ways to fuck up?
He viciously stepped on a branch that had fallen, almost disappointed when it didn’t crack under his foot. A bird sang in a tree next to him, and he glared at it. Everything reminded him of Jaskier, and of the way he had –
Something howled from deeper in the forest, ahead of him. He wasn’t walking on a path, there weren’t any, but he was hoping he’d find one made by animals as they passed through. He clenched his teeth and his fist, and started walking faster, looking out for stumps and other holes in the ground, his bag with some potions at his side. He would take care of whatever it was, go back, and apologize – and maybe confess, too, because there was no other way he would be able to explain what he had done without telling Jaskier that he loved him.
It would mean losing his bard, but Jaskier’s happiness mattered more to him than his own.
***
To say that Geralt hadn’t fucking expected this would be an understatement.
That being said, Geralt hadn’t fucking expected this.
To be fair, it was not as if he had expected anything; he had walked inside the forest ready to fight (ready to forget what he had just done), ready to do his witchering and to go back to the house (ready to go back to Jaskier), ready to fix the problem (ready to apologize).
He didn’t know for how long he had been in the forest – one always lost track of time when they couldn’t see the sun in the sky, even a witcher, but he knew that he had been walking for what could have been two hours or more before he had heard the howling coming from afar. After that, he had walked for maybe half an hour before hearing more noises, something that had sounded like two people talking and dogs playing on the ground, yapping and growling – young dogs, by the sound of it.
It intrigued him. Why would people be out there? He and Jaskier might have been in the forest, but they had stayed close to paths already traced. They had not… ventured three hours away from them.
Geralt started walking more slowly, careful not to step on anything that would have alerted them of his presence; he must have done something wrong, though, because the noises suddenly stopped. All noises, in fact, seemed to have stopped, the only thing he could hear being the wind softly whispering between the trees.
He carried on, walking towards where he thought he had heard the voices coming – and he could hear heartbeats now, someone was there. Someone, or something. He paused to listen. They were beating rapidly – whoever, whatever it was was scared, which meant that they – it – had heard him. It wasn’t good. Scared people or animals tended to react impulsively, and Geralt had promised to Jaskier that he would come back uninjured.
There was a clearing ahead of him, he could see it by the way there was much more light over there. He didn’t draw his sword. No need to, not yet. If there indeed was someone there, Geralt didn’t want to burst in, sword in hand, seemingly ready to attack – his reputation had been more or less mended by Jaskier’s songs, but anyone would be scared shitless of a Witcher coming out of the woods.
The trees soon parted ways, letting him distinguish silhouettes. He could see two, maybe three people standing in the clearing, looking in his direction. So they had heard him, and they were indeed people. Hoping he didn’t appear that threatening, he approached them.
“Hello,” he said, stepping in the clearing, taking in the sight in front of him. Three people, an unlit fire and – and nothing else. Which was weird, because Geralt could hear six heartbeats.
He wished Jaskier was here, as he often did; Jaskier would have known what to say, would have known how to ask why the fuck were there people without bags, in a clearing in the middle of a forest, without sounding aggressive or threatening.
But Jaskier wasn’t here, so Geralt had to do this himself.
“Hello,” the woman nodded. Her clothes needed some mending, as did the ones of her two companions, a man and a teenage girl who might have been only slightly older than Ciri. It made Geralt’s heart ache, but he also didn’t miss the way his medallion was softly vibrating against his chest. They were magic, and he hoped they weren’t fae, because if they were –
“Everything alright?” Geralt asked, still not drawing his sword, but searching around him for the source of the three other heartbeats. The vegetation around the clearing was dense and perfect to hide in. He counted again – yes, six heartbeats, three in front of him and the others coming from around him. All extremely nervous.
He heard a small whine coming from the bushes, one that sounded like Charcoal’s, but a pitch higher, as if it were a very young dog that had made it. The woman glanced at the bushes before looking back at Geralt, nervously stretching her hands.
“Yes, yes of course, sir. We were just-”
Cutting whatever she had been about to say, two dogs ran out of the bushes, landing at her feet, yapping happily. Her eyes widened in horror as she looked at Geralt, who suddenly realized that they weren’t dogs, but young wolves. Cubs. A third wolf, fully adult, came out and growled at him, standing protectively in front of the younger ones.
Geralt took a step back, his medallion vibrating more than before.
“You’re shifters,” he breathed, making sure to watch the adult wolf’s movements. Its yellow eyes didn’t leave Geralt’s, and the cubs, having apparently understood that something was going on, hid behind it.
“Please don’t hurt us,” the woman pleaded, stepping in front of the teenage girl who had tears in her eyes.
The whole situation had made Geralt tense his shoulders and frown; knowing how that made him look he tried to relax a bit, not smiling but definitely not frowning anymore. He put his hands in front of him in the traditional ‘I’m not being a threat, I’m not going to attack you’ gesture.
“I’m not going to,” he said, and the wolf growled. “I wouldn’t.”
“You say that,” the man who had been silent until now snarled, “but I see your medallion, your swords. You’re a Witcher, your kind kills monsters.”
“You aren’t monsters,” Geralt frowned.
Something shifted in the air, his medallion vibrating once more, and where once stood an adult wolf was now a tall woman, hair loosely tied and a scar on her cheek, sword on her hips.
“Aren’t we?” she almost barked, her eyes glowing fiercely, “Aren’t we? We’ve been thrown out like dogs when our village learned what we were, why wouldn’t a witcher be different? If people that were once close to us stoned us, why would you spare us?”
“Are you the ones that have been attacking the sheep?” Geralt replied instead. He wouldn’t hurt them if they didn’t threaten Lila and Violet’s security, but he couldn’t tell them that, they wouldn’t believe him. They seemed harmless – but wolves had teeth and claws and could use them.
“We’re forced to hide, witcher, we’re forced to hunt and sleep outside. Winters get tough, went the game gets rarer – you can’t blame us for taking a sheep that they don’t need to survive, not like we do.”
Geralt was suddenly reminded of his first meeting with Jaskier, of the elves and of Filavandrel, of how they had justified stealing from the valley as a means to an end, because they had no other choice. The pack of shifters in front of him was like them, if less regal; they hadn’t asked for anything, were merely trying to survive. Though maybe, unlike the elves, they could be reasoned with.
The two cubs were still hiding behind the tall woman’s legs – she was the leader of the pack, then. Tears were rolling down the teenage girl’s face; from fear or pain, Geralt didn’t know.
“The shepherdesses would welcome you,” he told the leader, “You don’t have to hide. You need to talk to them, offer your services – I think they would gladly give you a sheep in exchange for labor.”
She squinted her eyes and didn’t reply, assessing him.
“You give humans a lot of credit,” the only man of the pack replied. “How can you know that they will?”
He reminded Geralt of Lambert, in a way. So he replied like he would have replied to his brother.
“After you attacked their dog, leaving it in such a shape that they had to put an end to its misery, you mean? Some humans are good, and the shepherdesses are.”
Geralt looked at them, truly looked at them. He didn’t want to hurt them – it would be against his witcher code. As nonexistent as that code might be – a way for him to refuse contracts –, it was based on his own morals, and he absolutely refused to harm another sentient being. Though he would do what he needed to do in order to protect Violet and Lila – he quite liked them, the way they were around each other and with Jaskier.
He almost groaned. Why the fuck had he thought about Jaskier? It seemed that his mind couldn’t stay away from what had happened for long. Guilt and love didn’t go well together.
He tried to focus on the task at hand. Distracted witchers didn’t last, he berated himself. He would deal with the Jaskier situation when he would be back.
“But if you don’t,” Geralt warned, his voice a bit colder, “I’ll do whatever is necessary for you to stop being a threat to their safety. I understand you need to survive, I know how it is to have a cub to protect, but you���re putting them in danger. I’m sure they would accept to help you, if you asked.”
Violet hadn’t flinched when she had recognized him as a Witcher, Lila had welcomed them at her table and had served them lunch, hosting them and lending them towels that had been obviously gifted to her by her wife. They were kind, he knew. They would welcome the shifters in their house, looking at them a bit coldly after learning that they had been to the ones that had killed their dog, but they wouldn’t throw an entire family out. It wasn’t like them. Geralt had maybe known them for only a day and half, but he thought himself to be a good judge of character, and Violet and Lila were reliable people.
The tall woman glared at him. Geralt was feeling a bit threatened, if he was being honest. He would be able to win in a fight against her if the need arose, but there were two other adults here, plus the teenage girl, and he knew he wouldn’t make it out of it uninjured. He wouldn’t have time to take his potions, and he was away enough from Jaskier that the other man wouldn’t be able to help him, let alone actually find him here.
“We’ll think about it, witcher. We won’t harm the sheep for now, but I can’t guarantee that it’ll continue if the shepherdesses aren’t able to help us.”
Geralt nodded. It was fair, and all he could ask of them.
“Now go back before the night falls, witcher.”
He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he had nothing to add. He would tell Violet and Lila what he had seen and done, and they would get to decide what they would do next. He hoped they would be okay, though – both the two wives and the shifters. Some people were played a cruel hand by Destiny, humans but not enough to be accepted among them, and he could only hope that they would be able to find a safe haven in the form of Violet and Lila’s hospitality.
He turned around, not really liking the fact that he was facing away from them, but not having any choice. In theory they wouldn’t attack him now, because he had established the fact that he was no threat for them, but he had to stay careful, years of training screaming at him to not face away from your enemy.
Geralt walked in silence, thinking about what he would tell Violet and Lila. He had expected a fight against some ungodly creature, and here he was, unscathed, his potions still tinkling in his bag. Jaskier would be relieved, but also disappointed – he would have to lie if he wanted to make a ballad out of this. Maybe he would turn it into a song about how Geralt had defeated a monster that could only be found in mountains, terrorizing the shepherds, lurking on its prey for days before finally attacking them.
Geralt would pretend to be bothered by the inaccuracy of the song, secretly admiring how his bard was able to twist events to get a way better story out of them, and would buy him more ale. Then they would go to their shared room, and Jaskier would braid his hair while humming a soft song, and Geralt would stay still, relaxing under the soft touches of his hair, wishing that he could reciprocate Jaskier’s tenderness-
Fuck. But that wouldn’t happen again, wouldn’t it? Not with Jaskier knowing how Geralt felt. Maybe he would stay, maybe he would not. Watching him leave again would be Geralt’s nightmare manifesting in front of his own eyes, but he’d let it happen. He would let a lot of things happen for Jaskier.
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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 5 years ago
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Prompt Request
So, here’s the thing, dear reader. This thing kind of took on a life of its own. 
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Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Jaskier x Reader Word Count: 4,558 Rating: M Prompt:  “Hello! I’m glad to find another writer who writes for Jaskier. Can you please write a fic with Jaskier x female reader (perhaps one that is sweet and kind, but insecure about herself) that is both got fluff and angst with the prompts “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” + “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.” + “I love you. You are what matters to me.” + “Can I kiss you?” + “Are you scared?” + "I can’t believe you’re carrying my child.” + “Shh, don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you.” a/n: Reader and Jaskier are in an arranged marriage and end up falling in love. There are little breaks between parts to denote time passing. How much time? Who knows. But time! I hope that this is ok and that you like it and that you aren’t 96 by the time you finish reading it. For better or worse, here it is. 
It was the happiest day of your life. That’s what they told you, anyway. That’s what you’d always hoped it would be. Everything about the moment was like something from a dream. You, standing in a simple white gown with a crown of buttercups on your head. The man standing in front of you was handsome, with sparkling blue eyes and rich, chestnut hair. He smiled at you and squeezed your hands, clasped before you, with tenderness. This was everything you wanted your wedding to be, if only you knew the groom.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Y/F/N and Julian Alfred Pankratz. May their union provide happiness and bounty for both of their houses,” the priest declared, intoning the words with solemnity suiting the business merger this wedding essentially was. The man named Julian smiled at you but you could see a tinge of nervousness in his eyes as well. It helped you feel less alone.
“The groom has requested to provide vows of his own writing. He may speak them now,” the priest said. You’re surprised to hear this, wondering what this stranger could have to say to you. He squeezed your hands tighter and though a crowd was gathered around you (including many weeping ladies sitting on the groom’s side of the chapel), he only had eyes for you.
“It is no secret that this wedding is… complicated. I have only known you for a short time. Indeed, I only laid eyes on you as you walked down the aisle. I cannot speak to your interests, your tastes, or even your favorite color. I do not pretend to possess the knowledge to make you happy but I can promise you this; I will treat you with respect and kindness and I will do my utmost to make the best of this for the both of us, if you will allow me to.”
If you had to be forced into a political marriage, you’re happy at least that you have ended up with someone kind.
“Y/N, repeat after me…” the priest begins but you stop him.
“Actually, I would also like to recite my own vows,” you say, surprising yourself. You look back at your almost-husband and take a deep breath.
“I have heard you are quite the wordsmith so I won’t spend too much time trying to impress you here but I wanted to say that I offer in turn respect and kindness and also a really good loaf of bread.”
He laughs and you feel a smile break across your face as well and you both stay focused on each other as the rest of the formalities are read. When the moment comes that the priest announces you man and wife, your new husband leans forward and you can feel your heart in your throat.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, a whisper’s breadth from your lips.
“I mean, that’s what we do now isn’t it?” you ask, feeling awkward under the watchful eye of the crowd around you.
“Not necessarily. Not unless you say so,” he says firmly. You know that he means it and that you don’t need a kiss to complete the arrangement, at this point you have both held up your sides of the bargain and your families are wealthier with new trades.
“Yes,” you say decisively. He smiles and pulls you in closer and his mouth is soft and tender on yours. It’s a sweet kiss, but not chaste, his teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip as you pull apart, giving you a wink as he does.
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“My name is Jaskier, by the way. Well, it is Julian Alfred Pankratz but everyone calls me Jaskier. Everyone but my family but fuck ‘em.”
The words slip out with a slight slur, the result of the wine you’ve both been drinking. You’d gone to the after-wedding feast for appearance’s sake but he’d snuck you both out with a plate of cheese and meats and a bottle of wine to escape the pomp and circumstance. You were grateful for the opportunity to get to know your husband. Crowds always made you nervous anyway. Jaskier had pulled off the stifling doublet and undone the buttons on his undershirt in a way that you thought should shock you until you remembered that you were married now. At some point you had placed the flower crown on Jaskier’s head and he left it on, looking like some sort of fae being that was put on this earth to save or damn you and you weren’t sure if you cared which it was.
“I’m not feeling very charitable towards my family either,” you say in response to his outburst, the closest you’ve come to openly expressing how you felt about being forced into a marriage to a stranger.
“Oh come on you can do better than that,” Jaskier goads.
“No I mean, I understand where they’re coming from. I’m their only daughter and one does have to consider the future…”
“Come on darling let’s not start this false marriage with more lies. I recognize that I’m a hell of a catch to get but surely somewhere deep inside of you there is some anger over this. You could have married anyone you pleased but you get saddled with a stranger. I could have been 85 years old or had a humpback or, or, or been Valdo Marx for god’s sakes!” Jaskier exclaims. His fervent anger makes you laugh but also makes you bold.
“It was….”
“Yes?” Jaskier says encouragingly, gesturing with the empty goblet in his hand.
“Well I must admit…”
“Go on,” he urges.
“It was damned disgusting,” you finally blurt out, half-shocked at your own temerity.
“Yes! More! Keep going!” Jaskier insists, rising unsteadily to his feet to cheer you on with more gusto.
“For all of my life leading up this I have done everything they’ve asked. I’ve been an excellent pupil, I’ve attended every stupid event even though I couldn’t have cared less, I have sacrificed and tried to be a good daughter and carried this stupid legacy and I don’t know what I expected but… but they could have at least talked to me! They could have asked me how I felt, they could have pretended to give a shit. They could have tried to care, I deserved that at least, didn’t I?” your anger turns to bitter sadness and Jaskier stops pumping his fists when he sees your shoulders start to shake with stifled sobs.
“Oh no, oh bollocks, no please don’t, hey,” he crouches next to you and pulls you into a hug you’re too upset to resist. His arms are strong and he offers quiet, comforting words in your ear as you cry into his chest, your face pressing up against the soft linen of his shirt and the patch of dark hair beneath.
“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. I know we didn’t choose this but you’re not in this alone, I promise,” he murmurs the words into the top of your head as one hand rubs soothing circles into your back. He holds you long after the tears dry and you fall asleep curled around each other.
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Your life falls into a sort of rhythm. He introduces you to Geralt who immediately rejects adding you to their adventures until Jaskier makes him try your bread. You hadn’t been lying about the promise, having honed your craft through years of baking to cope with the feelings you were forced to repress. He begrudgingly acquiesced to you joining them on very specific journeys for very specific lengths of time but despite himself you grow on him. You and Jaskier also grow to know each other better. Before long he knows that your favorite color is (Y/F/C) and you learn more of his life as a bard. At first you were nervous about going to the inns with him as he performed, especially when he would flirt and sing directly to you, but he always seemed to sense when you were too uncomfortable and would turn his attention back on the rest of the crowd. In time that began to bother you as well but you didn’t examine those feelings, trying hard to enjoy the relative peace you had.
At first you didn’t mind when Jaskier would go on his long journeys and you even grew to enjoy your solitude in the little house your parents had given the two of you as a wedding present. It was easily the most modest of your properties, but you didn’t care, you reveled in the ability to make a space your own. As time went on, the longer Jaskier was away you grew to wish there were more signs of him around. He didn’t possess much, bringing with him only clothes and the lute he took with him on his journeys. When he came back he would tell you all about his journeys and perform his new songs for you and you would provide him with a sampling of what you’ve done with your baking and pottery and the other things you did to fill your time. He was usually back after a few weeks but one night Geralt came with word that he would be leaving for much longer, at least a month, and while the words weren’t directly spoken you could tell that there was no guarantee they would both be coming back.
“Are you scared?” you asked Jaskier after Geralt had left ostensibly to tend to Roach but truly to give them space to talk.
“A little,” he confessed, “But I must go, you understand.”
You bite your lip and he saw you warring with some emotion he couldn’t place.
“Y/N?” he asked, “Come on, talk to me.”
“It’s just… what if you don’t come back?” you ask.
“Don’t let Geralt scare you, he always makes things sound worse than they truly are. I will be back. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it,” he says.
“But what if you can’t?” you insist.
“Well… then everything I own is passed to you and you could be your own woman again. I mean, we don’t really prevent each other from living our lives but you could find someone to fall in love with and have children and whatever else people do,” he doesn’t look at you as he says this and you’re quick to wipe away the tears that come up as he speaks. He glances back up at you and brushes the last trace of wetness from your cheeks.
“Don’t be scared,” he insists, “I’m right here.”
He pulls you in for a hug and holds you, much as he did your wedding night, and you squeeze back as hard as you can as though you can keep him chained to you through the embrace. You look up to say something else and your lips brush by accident, the first they’ve touched since the kiss on the altar. He wordlessly pulls you in again and deepens the kiss, running a hand through your hair as he tentatively brushes tongue against your lips. You part them in response and shift in his arms til you’re straddling him, arms wrapping back around his neck. His hands trace the contours of your body through the clothes and settle on your hips. You arch against him and feel him beneath you, hard and wanting. The pressure of your body pressing against him pulls a moan from his lips and the sound seems to break through the moment, pulling him back to earth. He reluctantly pulls back from the kiss and for a moment you sit there, panting and uncertain.
“You have a long journey tomorrow,” you whisper when the silence grows too long, “I should let you rest.” “Y/N…” he begins but you slide off of him and hurry to the kitchen, eager to find a way to rid yourself of the energy and emotions that have gotten away with you. Jaskier thinks about following, wants nothing more than to finish what you’d both started, but he leaves tomorrow, and you were right. He may not come back. And he could never forgive himself if he got you with child and then died to leave you to care for it alone.
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75 loaves of bread, 19 dozen cookies, and 14 pies later, Jaskier comes back home.
You’re sitting by the hearth reading when you think you hear it, that familiar strumming of a lute in the distance. Then you hear an unmistakable voice and you jolt to your feet, running to the door. You can see him walking, still a block away and you keep running. When he sees you he stops singing and places the lute on his back. By the time he’s got his strapped on you’ve tackled him in a hug that nearly knocks him off of his feet and he lifts you slightly off the ground, spinning you in a little circle as he does.
“You’re home,” you say.
“I’m home,” he echoes, one hand brushing the side of your face and cupping your chin, “And I have so much to tell you.”
You hold hands as you walk back to the house and he begins to tell you about the journeys he and Geralt have been on. You’re only half paying attention as he speaks, no story of dragons or mythical artifacts capable of competing with the sight of him finally in front of you again, the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hand in yours. Over bread he tells you about his dilemma over writing a series of songs or one very epic song to capture the tale. By the time night has fallen you’re both seated in front of the fire, your head on his shoulder. You notice his fingers twitching and you can tell there’s something left unsaid.
“Jaskier?”
“Hmm?”
“What is it?”
“What is what?” he asks, the innocence in his voice forced. You sit up and level a look at him.
“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend nothing’s wrong. We’ve never lied to each other, don’t start now,” you say. He sighs and you feel your heart pounding in your chest as you think about what he may be about to say. He’s in love with someone? He’s cursed and dying? He isn’t really here and this is just a dream and soon you will wake up alone in your bed, the right side cold and empty?
“It’s foolish really, it’s nothing to be worried about,” he says.
“Then tell me what it is,” you urge, trying to soften the demand with a smile.
“Being out there with Geralt for so long… well, it made me realize some things,” he says. Your heart stops and you fight the urge to tell him to stop, to let you live in the fantasy you hadn’t realized you’d fallen into where somehow he did fall in love with you and this marriage that started as a contract can become more.
“I thought a lot about my time here in this house. With you. I thought about the little flecks of paint on your fingers and the smudges of flour in your cheeks. I thought about that little snorting sound you make in your sleep…”
Your face burns bright red as he lists your faults. Countesses never snorted; you were almost certain.
“I thought about the way it feels when you listen to my stories, truly listen to them. Not because you’re paying me for them or because I’m forcing them on you. The way you just… listen to me. I have written so many songs about it but I think, maybe, I’ve never felt it like this before,” he takes a deep breath and turns to face you, the soft, blue eyes staring into yours intently as he speaks again, “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in and when they have you’re still not sure how to feel. Making someone feel loved doesn’t mean they love you back. You had learned that the hard way from your parents to your sparse attempts at romance in the past. He looks at you anxiously, waiting to see what you will say but the words fail you like a curse striking you mute.
“Ah,” he says after a while, turning back to face the fire.
“No, Jaskier,” you begin but he stands and takes a deep breath, shaking his head and forcing on a smile. It’s a performance you’ve seen many times before and the first time he’s ever turned it on you.
“Please, Y/N, it’s probably for the best,” he says.
“No but you don’t understand,” you continue.
“Heartbreak is good for the songs, really. And we never made any promises to each other. Not any real ones at least. Not ones that matter.”
The words break your heart and anger you at the same time. You’ve spent a lifetime letting people tell you how you feel or what is best but not Jaskier. Never him.
“Julian Alfred Pankratz shut up and listen,” you snap, standing to meet him eye to eye. He’s visibly taken aback, eyes going wide in shock, but he stays quiet.
“Before you go too deeply into a pity party, I would like the opportunity to actually speak for myself. How dare you say those promises didn’t matter? When from the very start we have spoken honestly and fairly to each other? Sure, the marriage wasn’t sincere, but the vows were. Respect and kindness and, and, and bread! And more than that, more than anything we could have promised each other that day, love. I love you. You are what matters to me. I’m sorry if that ruins your career plans but you’ll just have to adapt!”
The pair of you stand in stunned silence as your words resonate and then you are pulled into his arms as his lips hungrily seek yours. You begin tearing at each other’s clothes, a trail of fabric leading to the bedroom. Once inside his gestures slow a little and when you impatiently rip at the buttons on your dress he halts your hands with his and his nimble fingers slip through them with ease, his eyes hungrily staring into yours as he works. He’s shirtless now and you let your gaze fall to take in the lean, corded muscles in his shoulders and arms, the toned definition of his body. You run your hands along the veins in his neck, down to the definition of his shoulder blades, across the collar bones, down into the hair on his chest which is soft and coarse all at once to the touch. The dress falls away and you feel the cold air of the room hit your exposed skin, shocking you to the fact of your nakedness and making you lose whatever courage you had summoned in your anger and passion. He sees your eyes fall away and the blush rise in your cheeks and he gently lifts your chin back up to meet his eyes.
“What is it, love?” he asks, the word moments before unspoken now falling casually and naturally from his lips.
“I’ve never… I don’t share your… experience,” you admit.
“Well I hardly find that shocking. I am very, very experienced,” he says with a roguish wink. You laugh nervously and he runs a hand along your arm, barely grazing your breasts which are taut and eager for his touch.
“How about this time I take the lead. If I do something that you don’t like, you tell me and it stops immediately,” he says.
“What if you’re enjoying it?” you ask.
“I will never enjoy something if you’re not enjoying it too. Please tell me. And next time, if, and gods I pray and hope there will be a next time if I don’t utterly cock this up, you can take charge. Does that sound good?” he asks. You nod but he shakes his head, leaning down to give you a long, lingering kiss.
“I need to hear you say the words,” he murmurs against your chin.
“That sounds good,” you answer. He smiles at you and pulls you in for another kiss, his hands bolder in his exploration, brushing against your breasts before lowering his mouth to kiss and caress them with his tongue. You’re quiet at first, not intentionally but because the sensations are new and you struggle to breath through them. You see him looking up at you, watching your face as you react, taking his cues from your body. A hand reaches lower and you part your legs for him. He finds you wet and makes a satisfied, throaty sound as he brushes a finger lightly against the folds. You gasp and he looks back up for confirmation.
“Yes, do that again,” you say. He presses in further, two fingers roaming the length of you and circling the top. You grip his hair and he continues the same rhythm.
“Do you like this?” he asks, not because he isn’t sure but because he loves to hear you try to speak when he has you like this, wet and needy and at his mercy.
“Y-yes,” you reply. “Fuck.”
“Such dirty language, Y/N, am I a bad influence?” he teases as he slides one finger gently inside of you. You can’t respond, struggling between your need to breathe and the effect his hands have on you.
“You feel ready for me, Y/N. Do you want more?” he asks.
“I want everything,” you say breathlessly. He stands, pulling his hands away despite your whine of protest and he gently leans you back over the bed. He pulls off the last of his clothing until he is just as naked and you can see the proof of his arousal.
“Is it… odd to think a penis is beautiful?” you wonder aloud. He laughs and shakes his head.
“Oh god I love you,” he says, eyes shining brightly as he stares at you in wonder.
“Prove it,” you say, a playful challenge. His eyes darken and he climbs on top of you and you can feel the delicious weight of him, the lean, strong body and the weight of his desire pressed up against your thigh.
“You may have heard that this hurts but I’m going to tell you a secret; it shouldn’t. If it starts to hurt, tell me. I want every part of this to be as exquisite for you as it possibly can be,” he whispers, warm breath tickling your ear. You nod in agreement and then, when he doesn’t move, you agree out loud. He shifts his weight around and you can feel the tip of him brushing against your entrance gently. He slides it through in increments, halting when he feels resistance until he feels you relax beneath him once more. His kisses are softer than before but deeper as well. Before long he is fully sheathed inside of you. He rests his forehead against yours, holding perfectly still to let you adjust to the feeling until you tentatively shift your hips beneath him eliciting a soft moan. He follows your lead, gently rocking himself in and out of you, his movements slow and thorough and forcing soft gasps of pleasure from your lips. You urge him to go faster and he matches your motions, angling with his cock the way he did with his fingers, following the sounds you make and the look on your face until he finds exactly where you need him. You come apart underneath him and the feeling of your release spurs his own, buried deep inside of you where he stays until you both have caught your breath.
“All in all,” he says once he’s curled up by your side, “Marriage isn’t that bad.”
The sound of your laughter lulls him to sleep.
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Jaskier stays around for a while after this but before too much time has passed Geralt returns with word of a nearby job. He is wary about bringing you, insistently so in a way that almost hurts your feelings, but he finally relents. He asks you to ride Roach, an action that drives Jaskier nearly apoplectic and the trip to the neighboring town is spent with protests about injustice and the bonds of friendship that are meant to rise beyond that of romance. The job is quick and Jaskier is able to perform one in the series of songs about his prior adventures at the inn while you and Geralt eat.
“Does he know?” Geralt asks, yellow eyes seeking yours.
“Does he know what?” you ask.
“Hmm,” is all he says in answer before looking back down at his meal.
“What?” you insist.
“It might not be my place to say,” he says.
“Well you’ve already said this much you might as well keep going,” you say. You’ve grown much more assertive since marrying Jaskier and Geralt can’t help me pleased by it, even if it is inconvenient for him at this moment.
“You’re with child,” he says bluntly, popping a piece of bread in his mouth as he does. You stare at him blankly.
“What?” you ask.
“What?” Jaskier asks, suddenly reappearing behind his friend and reaching for your ale to take a drink between songs.
“I…” you look to Geralt for help but he gives you a look that tells you you’re on your own. Coward.
“I’ll tell you after your set,” you say.
“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asks, worry creasing his brow. “Y/N, tell me.”
“Ok. Well. And this might be wrong because frankly I don’t know how he would know, though it would make sense…” you trail off as you try to remember if your courses were due yet. Jaskier watches you anxiously and you know you have to put him out of his misery.
“He says that I’m… pregnant,” you say. You watch Jaskier’s face carefully and you can see the moment what you’ve said resonates. His eyes light up and he gives a little incredulous laugh.
“You are? With me?”
You scoff.
“No, Jaskier, with a bloody goat. Yes with you,” you say. He leans over the table to kiss you, knocking over the ale and squashing Geralt’s meal with his knee but the witcher doesn’t say anything and simply stands and walks away to leave you your moment. Jaskier cradles your face in his hands and happy tears run down his face.
"I can’t believe you’re carrying my child,” he says, his voice awed and filled with love.
“Well you’ve got a few months to come around to it,” you joke.
“I will be the best father and I will love this child with every ounce of my being. I will write them a litany of songs that would make the angels weep with the love I hold for them and their mother,” you smile at the dramatics that come of Jaskier’s emotions and press your foreheads together.
“I’m glad this will be good for business,” you tease.
“This is the best thing. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he says. And for once, without reservation or fear, you believe him.
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drowningbydegrees · 5 years ago
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Once Written in the Stars Pt. 1
I think this might be the first fandom I’ve been in that really reads fic here, so I’m trying to be better about posting it. It’s also on AO3 It’s only when Geralt sheaths his sword that he realizes his medallion is still humming, perhaps even more than it was before. He squints through the trees, and sees nothing beyond the blanket of buttercups carpeting the forest floor. There’s a lark somewhere in the distance, but nothing near him moves.  Buttercups. He circles back to that, to the bright spring flowers that stretch out into the forest as far as he can see. It’s the end of summer though, where the world goes brown and dry as it waits for relief from the heat to tumble into fall. There’s not something in the woods making the medallion vibrate against his skin Geralt realizes too late. It’s the woods themselves, and perhaps the keepers of it.  “Fuck,” he mutters to himself, hoping he hasn’t gone so far astray that there isn’t a way back. 
So, Geralt walks back in the direction he’s certain he came from, searching for where the flowers fade back into the dirt and twigs he should be finding under his feet. The medallion only thrums more urgently, for so long that it’s eventually just a background sensation as Geralt tries to find his way.
He passes an old, moss covered tree for what he’s certain is the fourth time and makes himself stop, as if pausing will help him regain his bearings. It doesn’t of course, but somewhere nearby, someone is singing.
Somewhere in between the moss and the stone
The wind and the wood became my home
I layed myself down upon the green
when the ivy overgrew I could never leave
Something in the darkness pulled me deeper
Something in the madness eased my mind
Was I awake or was I dreaming
Cut the strings that bind me to mankind
Geralt bristles, starting to reach for his sword, but it’s a stuttered, aborted motion as the melody sinks in. The song is beautiful, he realizes, subtly easing the wariness with which he regards the woods. Perhaps he’ll just listen for a moment, because it’s ever so soothing. When his feet begin to carry him closer, Geralt doesn’t notice. Nothing good lives in a fae forest, something far away in him whispers. He grasps for the truth of that, because it might be important, but it’s so very far away from him now. The sentiment slips uselessly through his fingers like the pleasant spring breeze that ruffles his hair as it blows through the trees. Caution flits somewhere at the periphery, but he can’t pin it down and it’s… unnecessary. There’s no need for caution here, not when the calm sinks right down to his bones. It lulls him until the witcher wants nothing more than to wrap himself up in the music, the world beyond the woods be damned.
The trees pass by as Geralt ventures deeper into the woods, never catching sight of the mist that swathes him. If anything, it is a caress, an embrace, something that softens the sharp edges of him and blots out the things that keep him up at night. There is a peace here he never knew he wanted, but he yearns for it, to be allowed to keep this thing as he steps into a glade where the sunlight comes through in soft, slanted bars.
It is there that he sees it, though the creature is tangled up in the shadows where the trees begin again. The claws are the first thing to catch Geralt’s eye, razor sharp and curved like scythes. They’re lost as they fade into sinewy arms, rough and ashen like tree bark on something long since dead. Its limbs come together like twisted vines and branches, framing around its dessicated belly where the thin flesh that stretches across is sunken in.
This is the thing singing him lullabies, he realizes. The sense of danger claws its way closer to the forefront of his mind, but every inch is a struggle as he tries to remember why this should frighten anyone. Shaking something loose, he slowly cobbles together the sense to draw his sword.
“Silver? You can’t hurt me with that.” The music has stopped, but the voice is lyrical all the same, pulling Geralt’s gaze upward where the creature looms a bit over him. He hadn’t seen its face before, but it’s no more pleasant than the rest of it. Teeth like long daggers fill up its mouth, pulling it into a sort of rictus grin. Geralt can see patches of ashen skin underneath, crowded in by branches that fan out at grotesque angles, a mockery of antlers. A short ways beneath them, a pair of blue, blue eyes zero in on Geralt, unnaturally luminous. He’s never seen a damned thing like it.
“I don’t think it’ll tickle,” he grouses, adjusting his stance. It spoke to him though, clearly more than the beast it appears to be, so he doesn’t attack right away.
“You were lost.” It’s not a question, and Geralt isn’t sure if it’s that or the creature’s utter lack of concern about his weapon that puts him on edge.
“I wasn’t until you lured me here,” Geralt growls, because if this is going to end up in a fight, he’d just as soon get on with it.
The creature regards him with a wider smile, probably meant to convey mirth, but mostly only pulling it’s mouth into something more grotesque. It shakes its head, horns catching in the leaves overhead. Worse, the creature laughs. “I watched you all afternoon.”
Had it been so long? There is rumor that time moves differently in places like this, but surely it can’t have been hours he’s been here. For the first time, Geralt notices the sunlight has taken on the drippy gold sheen it wears just before dusk begins to settle in, and he curses under his breath.
“What do you want?” Geralt braces himself, sure he’s not going to like the answer.
At first, the creature is quiet, it’s expression so twisted that it’s impossible to glean any sense of intention. “No one is meant to survive this place, but....”
The response covers the obvious, Geralt thinks but does not say. “If you’re waiting for me to beg for my life, you’re going to be very disappointed.”
“What? No, no, of course not. I want to help you.” Geralt had expected some sort of formality in conversation with the kinds of things that live in a forest like this, not unlike the way conversations go with nobles. The cadence this one keeps to is like an old friend though, casual, friendly even, and it’s all Geralt can do not to be swayed again despite what’s looking at him. Almost too late, Geralt realizes it’s making eye contact, but he cannot look away.
“Don’t do that,” he grits out, and perhaps he’s caught the creature in a good mood because the tug at his emotions and sense of reason dissipates until it has faded to nothing. All at once, Geralt is entirely his own again.
“Of course,” it agrees, stepping through the glade, strangely graceful. Where Geralt expects a lumbering gait, the creature moves like a dancer, eerie in the way it glides to where the witcher stands and then right on past him. “Come along then.”
“Just like that?” Geralt arches an eyebrow, recognizing following the creature through the woods for the terrible idea it is now that his mind is no longer clouded. Granted, there aren’t a great many options. Besides, it could have forced him or killed him or just left him in the woods, and it had done none of those things. Heaving a sigh and cursing under his breath, Geralt follows.
The creature leads the way, absently dragging its fingers along bark and branches. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, but he swears everywhere it touches brightens, as if this monstrous thing is luring the foliage to flourish the way it lured Geralt to stand before it. It must be a fairy, he realizes, its distorted visage the truth that lurks beneath the pretty picture fae paint for men.
“Do you always hunt monsters? Is it exciting? Do you travel?” the questions come rapidfire, and for something dredged up from someone’s nightmare, it’s shockingly amiable. Chatty too, much to Geralt’s chagrin. The fairy doesn’t actually wait for an answer to any of the things it asks though, before sort of interrupting itself. “I’m being rude. I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”
Fairies aren’t really monsters, and they mostly keep to themselves, so Geralt isn’t as well versed in their ways as might be useful, but this part he knows. There’s power in a name, and it’s not something he’s keen on handing over to any sort of fae, no matter how friendly it seems. There’s… something about being very careful not to be rude though, he thinks, so Geralt gives it something, a useless moniker as a standup. “You can call me witcher.”
“You really are a monster hunter, then.” If the fairy is put off by Geralt’s answer, it doesn’t show. Quite the contrary. Its mouth pulls wide into the unnatural, sharp edged smile that Geralt is starting to realize is just the fairy’s face and not some kind of threat. And then, perhaps because the name thing doesn’t work in reverse, or because Geralt has misremembered the lore entirely, it replies, “Well, hello then, witcher. I’m Dandelion.”
“Dandelion.” Geralt dubiously repeats, drawing the word out as his gaze sweeps over the fairy from head to toe. If said fairy recognizes that Dandelion is terribly incongruous with his nightmarish countenance, he gives no indication, instead chattering on about something else entirely. He pays little mind when Geralt mostly doesn’t answer, as if the witcher were just an accessory to the fairy’s one sided conversation.
Geralt feels the change before he sees it, when the muggy summer air begins crowding into the woods’ perpetual spring. By the time the treeline comes into view, the sun has nearly sunk below the horizon, the first stars peeking out where the sky has already gone dark. A tension Geralt hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally eases, as he reaches safety once more.
“Thank-” Geralt begins, but the look on Dandelion’s face stops him. His face is always somewhat twisted, but even still, there’s no mistaking the anger in the way the fairy’s eyes narrow at him.
“Don’t. You. Dare.” It comes out far more forcefully than Geralt can imagine there being any call for, and Dandelion punctuates each word with a sharp poke of one clawed finger against the armor in the center of his chest. “Have you no manners at all?”
Belatedly, Geralt thinks he might remember some such thing about thanking fae being rude. Maybe? He can’t really recall because it had never been important, but he holds up his hands placatingly. “I only wanted to convey that I appreciate your help.”
Dandelion lets out an affronted little hmph, but the fairy’s eyes soften around the edges. Geralt can’t help but think he’s narrowly sidestepped something awful. He’s never met another fairy, but he’s heard stories, and never got the impression they were easy to mollify.
“Why wouldn’t I help? Okay, maybe the others wouldn’t have, but that’s hardly the point. It’s not like you deserved to be stuck there,” Dandelion mutters, clawed hand falling loosely back to his side, leaving Geralt to wonder what metric the fairy was judging that by.
Eager to put some distance between himself and those cursed woods, Geralt chooses not to give the fairy an opportunity to drag him into further conversation. He offers up a hasty goodbye and turns on his heel to leave. He doesn’t wait for a response, and Dandelion moves so quietly, it’s only the continued thrum of his medallion that gives the fairy away. Bracing himself for what he assumes are going to be far too many words, he looks at Dandelion, “You’re following me. Why?”
“Oh! I can’t go back,” Dandelion says a little too brightly, waving a spindly arm at the meadow stretched out in front of them. “Seems like as good a direction as any.”
“Why can’t you go back?” Geralt hears himself ask, even though he really doesn’t want to know, even though he’s very aware that he’s going to feel obligated to do something once he does know.
Dandelion’s shoulders lift and fall in what Geralt can only assume is an approximation of a shrug. “You break the rules. You leave. Or you die. Really, it happens so rarely I don’t think anyone remembers one way or another, so probably best to decide for them and be on my way.”
Geralt stops then, because Dandelion appears pretty determined to follow and given how difficult a time he has with humans already, the fairy’s appearance would only make it worse. Dandelion's earlier assertion that no one was meant to survive the woods takes on an entirely different connotation now. It had never been the threat he’d assumed it to be at all. “Why did you help me, then?”
“You were lost.” Under other circumstances, the naive simplicity of that might be endearing. No qualifiers. No caveats. Either Dandelion is terribly manipulative or terribly kind-hearted, and Geralt has an incredibly irritating suspicion that it’s the latter.
“I’d have found my way.”
Dandelion’s features don’t change much, but the glow of his eyes shifts, taking on a softer cast. “You really wouldn’t have. No one does. That’s the point.”
Geralt wants to argue, but they probably both know better when it comes down to it. Resigning himself to having company at least for the trip into town, Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you ever even been out here?”
“Nope.” Dandelion’s tone is far too untroubled for someone who’s just tossed aside their entire life, but the fairy glances away, and for just a moment, Geralt spots the sorrow underneath, no more than one last longing look at the trees behind them.
“Fuck,” Geralt mutters to himself, already knowing he’s not going to abandon Dandelion out here. Resigned, Geralt gestures at Dandelion’s looming form. “Well, you can’t walk into town like that.”
“Like what?” Dandelion’s head cocks to the side like a curious puppy. A very large, very nightmarish puppy.
“I’m not sure if you’ve if you’ve seen yourself, but-” That’s as far as Geralt gets before it becomes clear that Dandelion has grasped the issue. Geralt had been looking up at the fairy’s face, so the abrupt disappearance as Dandelion shifts into some hopefully less imposing form throws him off.
Geralt’s gaze drags downward until he catches the top of a mop of brown hair framing the high cheekbones and soft curves of a startlingly human face. Only Dandelion’s eyes give him away, and even then, only because Geralt knows the blue of them is a touch too vibrant to be normal. Dandelion’s newly human looking mouth turns up pleasantly, a far cry from the jagged teeth from before. Even his clothes are convincing in that they’re bright and eye catching and recognizably human. “Better?”
“...Better,” Geralt is forced to concede. Pretty, even, if he’s being honest. At least Dandelion hadn’t decided to model this new form after him. Where any of this came from is a revelation Geralt is very, very sure he doesn’t want to partake in.
“Wonderful!” Dandelion claps his very human looking hands together once and sets off in the direction Geralt had been walking.
And it’s fine, really. He’ll get Dandelion to civilization, where he’s sure the curious fairy will find something other than Geralt to occupy his time. That’ll be the end of it, Geralt decides. It has to be because there’s no place for a fairy at the side of a witcher.
While he might prod Dandelion for his thoughts on the matter, the fairy is already incessantly chattering about practically everything else. The stars are so bright without the trees in the way. The grass is scratchier out here. Do you ever wear anything other than black? It’s so warm. How does anyone stand it? What’s that, anyway?
The last in the barrage of commentary and questions is punctuated by slender fingers reaching out to brush over the medallion around Geralt’s neck. Instinctively, his hand shoots up to curl around Dandelion’s wrist and pull it away. “Do not.”
“Touchy,” Dandelion complains, rubbing at his wrist when Geralt releases it. The witcher might feel bad if he wasn’t quite certain that the only thing he could possibly have injured is Dandelion’s pride.
There are a few moments of blessed silence where Dandelion is either sufficiently chastised or maybe just grumpy enough not to keep talking. They’re almost to the road when Geralt realizes another issue and very, very reluctantly speaks up. “What are you going to call yourself?”
“I have a name.” Apparently all is forgiven, because Dandelion’s frown dissipates in favor of open curiosity.
“You can not go around calling yourself Dandelion if you’re trying to pass yourself off as human.” Before Dandelion can argue, Geralt adds, “And you are passing yourself off as human.”
“Fine.” A frown creases Dandelion’s lips again as he shuffles along beside Geralt. The fairy is blessedly quiet as they reach the road. The village is too far away to see in dark, even for Geralt, but it’s close enough to promise an end to all this nonsense. Geralt doesn’t see the way Dandelion abruptly brightens up, but he hears it. “Buttercup?”
Why did he think this was going to be anything other than thoroughly exasperating? Geralt glances over at Dandelion who, oddly enough, seems very invested in his approval. “That’s not better.”
“Daffodil? Oh, I don’t like that one. Maybe Peony?” And Dandelion is off again, prattling on about crocuses and tulips and bluebells and…
“Not a flower.” Geralt finally cuts in when he can’t tune Dandelion out any longer.
That quiets Dandelion for the space of a single breath before he’s pressing, “Why not?”
“Because humans would never name someone after most of those,” Geralt forces himself to explain very slowly and very calmly and very much not beginning to lose his temper. It’s only as he realizes Dandelion probably doesn’t have enough context that something like sympathy creeps in around the edges of his irritable mood. “Just pick something else.”
The fairy protests that if he’s giving up the last thing tying him to his old life, he should at least replace it with something good, and Geralt supposes there’s not much to argue with on that front. They go back and forth a great deal before Dandelion finally suggests something that isn’t a flower. “Jaskier?”
“Fine.” Geralt agrees with an exasperated sigh. He’s so grateful that the fairy has finally suggested something that isn’t completely ridiculous that he almost misses the toothy little smile Dandelion… Jaskier gives him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jaskier sing songs, looking very much like he’s won some game Geralt didn’t even know they were playing. “Nothing at all.”
****
The further they get from the forest, the more aware Dandelion (Jaskier, he reminds himself) is of how horribly uncomfortable it is. The air is too warm and too thick, like tree sap where it sticks to his skin. How does anyone live out here?
He supposes he’s going to find out if he’s meant to make a life beyond the woods, which is fine, really. It’s… fine. It has to be. The only home he’s ever known is no great loss, with the promise of endless adventure stretched out in front of him. It’s what Jaskier tells himself, at least, and he refuses to look back lest the fragile belief crumble.
After all, if he’s going to follow the witcher, there’s a whole world out there to explore. The man doesn’t appear all that interested in having Jaskier’s company, but that’s not exactly a new experience for the fairy, odd by even fae standards. That will all change, he thinks, when the witcher sees how useful it is to have someone around with magic at their fingertips. Surely, there must be something the witcher wants, if Jaskier can just learn what it is.
So, he follows at the witcher’s heels, unsure he particularly likes the wide dirt path humans have cut through the wilderness around them. Grass and flowers sprawl as far as the eye can see to either side, but the ground underneath them is hard, even through the soles of his boots. There’s a reason for it, probably, but the sentiment remains all the same.
Losing interest in the road, Jaskier watches the witcher, silently walking just a bit ahead. He isn’t much of a conversationalist, Jaskier quickly discovers. The fairy tries valiantly, but it’s not until he asks about why the man carries two swords that Jaskier gets more than a vague grunt in response.
“Silver for monsters. Steel for men.” It’s abrupt and to the point, and then the witcher is silent.
That seems… extreme. Jaskier has never actually met a human, mind you, but he’s seen a couple from afar. They looked quite fragile in the grand scheme of things, but if someone like the witcher has a weapon dedicated to them, perhaps he’s miscalculated. “Are humans really so dangerous?”
“You can decide that for yourself.” The witcher gestures ahead as they top a hill. Beyond the crest of it lays what must be a human community of some sort. It’s a collection of buildings silhouetted in the dark, yellow light glowing from within some of them.
Jaskier had somehow expected something more grand. He thinks to ask if all the places humans live are like this, but there’s the slightest dip to the way the witcher carries himself. From everything else he’s seen, it strikes Jaskier that even this very slight show of vulnerability is more than the witcher has allowed, as if there’s just too much exhaustion at this point to hold it all in. So, Jaskier tries to keep his questions to a minimum after that, humming softly as they make their way towards the buildings.
It’s louder here, though not by much. Somewhere off to Jaskier’s right, there’s the din of a number of conversations happening at the same time, but the witcher keeps walking and so the fairy does too. The road is mostly empty, but there are a couple of people out and about. Jaskier does his best not to stare too openly, but he sees enough to decide none of them are individually that interesting. They’re quiet and plain. Even their clothes are muted.
By the time Jaskier stops trying to make sense of their surroundings and thinks to break his attempt at silence to ask where they’re going, the witcher has stopped in front of a door. It’s the grandest building Jaskier has seen yet, which really isn’t saying much. All that sets it apart from the rest is some pretty filigree carved around the doors and windows.
“Don’t say a word,” the witcher insists as he raps his knuckles against the door. Of course, that just brings more questions. Don’t talk to the witcher or to whoever is on the other side of that door? Is this knocking thing some tradition before you walk into a building? Before he can ask anything, the door swings open.
The man that greets them is nothing at all like the witcher. He’s unpleasant to look at with his beady eyes and beaked nose, and even before he speaks, Jaskier knows his voice will be equally unpleasant. It’s the way he looks at the witcher though, that gets the fairy’s hackles up. He doesn’t know humans, not really, but he knows disdain when he sees it, and that won’t do at all.
“Witcher,” the man greets, and the tone of it has sealed his fate as far as Jaskier is concerned. Oh sure, the witcher is gruff and not very friendly, but he’s good. Jaskier knows that much, even if it’s hard to explain why in words. He’s done nothing to deserve this man speaking to him like they’re less than equals, and yet the witcher wordlessly bears it.
Is it always like this? Jaskier wonders only briefly before deciding that if it is, it won’t be anymore. Maybe that is the thing he can do to sway the witcher into allowing him to keep following.
The door opens more widely, and the man hardly spares Jaskier a glance, clearly taking him at face value. That, or he’s too busy watching the witcher’s every move. As if he hasn’t even noticed, the witcher steps past the threshold into the building, Jaskier close behind him.
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strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years ago
Text
you wingless thing
C H A P T E R   O N E
summary:  So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.
The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”
Geralt gets a contract in a town called Eristan, but it turns out the only monster there is human.
word count: 26516
tags: rape/non-con, dead dove: do not eat, geralt / jaskier, original female character, original male character, angst with a happy ending, angst, angst and feels, rape, past rape/non-con, implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, emotionally repressed, fae jaskier, fae magic, hurt jaskier, torture, revenge, past torture, hurt/comfort, past abuse, jaskier whump, feral jaskier, creature jaskier, inhuman jaskier, eventual happy ending, love confessions, idiots in love, wing kink, homoerotic wing grooming
author’s note: this fic came to me in a dream and is now 26k so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
and on that note, any weirdness can be blamed on my subconscious, which is very wild and is lucky i can actually make its nonsense coherent enough for a fic.
scheduled monday, wednesday, and friday
main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>
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It’s in the heat of summer that Geralt gets a contract in Eristan, a town buried deep in a forest named after it.
He’s heard rumors about this town - nearly everyone who travels within a two hundred mile radius of it has. The town isn’t small - it has some nobility of its own, and quite a few open fields within it - but the entirety of it is surrounded by a massive forest. Trade there is nearly impossible due to that, and some say that the forest itself is cursed, because it happens far too often that some people don’t make it out. Others say that the town is cursed; the streak of good and bad luck there is too extreme, too spontaneous to be normal.
Geralt doesn’t believe these rumors. Not in the way the townsfolk do, at least. Eristan is not cursed, and neither is Eristan Forest. There is simply a creature there, or a mage, which they have gotten on the bad side of. He doesn’t take it as superstition - for one, because he doesn’t feel any magic in the forest as he travels through it, and for two, he makes it out just fine, emerging on the outskirts of one of the fields on the edge of the town.
He stops at the treeline and scans the town. Short houses are scattered in clumps around larger mansions, supposedly belonging to the nobility, and vast open fields separate the clusters from each other. It’s a bit different than most established towns Geralt has come across, especially the fact that one of the noble mansions is atop a hill, and behind it, a stone spire, twisting up into the sky.
Geralt feels the hum of his medallion against his chest, and almost considers turning back right then and there. There’s no monster in this town; he knows that tower is the source of their troubles, and judging by its proximity to the noble mansion in front of it, he’s guessing the nobles are playing with forces they don’t understand. He wouldn’t be surprised if they managed to piss off some powerful creature, and that’s why the city is so spontaneous and extreme with its luck.
Geralt sighs and begins making camp right there. He really doesn’t feel like traipsing across an entire town with the weight of everyone’s judgmental stares on his back, and then have to deal with entitled nobility. Especially when that nobility probably has even more of a power complex for being able to keep up the illusion of capturing a powerful creature like the one in that tower.
He sleeps under the stars instead, with the fading warmth of the fire next to him and the even more faded warmth of his medallion humming against his chest - and then ends up traipsing across the entire town in the morning, waking up at the early light of dawn and packing up the little things he has.
The first cluster of houses he comes across is just as judgmental as he expected it to be. Geralt doesn’t miss the whispers following him, of Butcher and monster and freak; the names have been following him like a shadow his entire life. The only difference is there’s one more added on. He sighs and keeps riding on Roach, through the second and third cluster of houses.
It’s nearing sunset when he finally makes it to the fourth, just beneath the hill the noble’s mansion is built on, with dust in his clothes and Roach panting beneath him. He dismounts Roach and stables her in an inn that looks only slightly more promising than most of the others, because the stable boys, at least, only look at him with the customary fear of a Witcher, and not the heightened fear of the Butcher.
He swings the inn door open, mentally bracing himself against the onslaught of noise, and walks inside. The inn slowly goes quiet as he does, the sharp scent of fear stinging Geralt’s nose and the quiet hush of whispers reaching his ears as he makes his way to the innkeeper and negotiates for a room.
It takes at least ten minutes, and it’s the smallest room the inn has at too high a price, but Geralt manages to get it and he pays for the room before walking directly upstairs to it. He’s not in the mood for drinking, not when he’s going to be dealing with nobility in the morning, and he doesn’t want to push his luck either. It’s unlikely he’d get a drink in this establishment anyway, when it was as hard as it was to get a room.
He sighs as he sets his swords down and strips off his armor, looking around the room. There isn’t a bath drawn, and Geralt isn’t sure that the inn would provide him one. He figures that it’s just dust anyway, and he’d rather go to bed slightly dusty than get thrown out of the inn or deal with harsh words for wanting a luxury such as bathing. At least he’s not covered in monster guts, though in that memorable occasion, he did get a bath in the end, if only because the innkeeper got too many complaints about the smell.
He falls into the bed in the corner once he finishes and drifts into sleep quickly, ignoring the increased pulsing hum of his medallion against his chest.
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Geralt’s eyes snap open just as footsteps stop outside his door and three loud, resounding knocks sound on the wood. He sits up in bed, a quick scent of the air bringing in lavender, exotic spices, and some more expensive smells. There’s no sweat, dirt, or ale on any of Geralt’s sudden company outside his door.
Nobility then. Geralt sighs, mentally lamenting the fact that he hasn’t even had breakfast yet, and stands up, walking to the door and swinging it open with an unimpressed expression on his face.
There’s three of them - one young boy whose fear-scent makes Geralt’s nose burn, and two guards who do better to hide it, but whose heartbeats still ratchet up a notch at the sight of him.
The boy falters at the expression on Geralt’s face, brown eyes wide and terrified, so he softens his face slightly. He isn’t here to terrorize the pager boy this entitled noble lord hired, and it’s not the boy’s fault that they came to get Geralt at the crack of dawn.
So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.
The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”
Geralt sighs and flicks a glance at the guards. It most definitely is not a request, not from nobility, so he has no choice but to accept. Unless he’d rather be drawn into the political mess of a lord’s anger, which, he’d really rather not.
“Ten minutes,” he rumbles, and doesn’t wait for a response before he turns around and goes to get his armor.
The guards don’t look too happy with him when he walks back up to them fully dressed, but he can’t be made to give a fuck. If they want to come get him at the crack of dawn, then they can wait for him to get his shit together.
The walk to the noble’s mansion is quietly entertaining for Geralt, who watches the guards hide their panting and racing heartbeats, while he’s relatively unaffected by the uphill walk. The pager boy walks just ahead of Geralt and the guards, heart still racing and fear still stinging Geralt’s nose.
Of course, he shouldn’t have expected the people at the keep to be any less judgmental than his very unhappy escorts. As he’s led through the gate, he gets barely a nod of acknowledgment from the guards there, and he can feel the curious gazes and hushed whispers of the various landscapers occupying the front courtyard.
The main entryway of the noble’s manor is grand, including a spiral staircase in the center and clean white marble floors, the whole space made airy and open by the soaring ceilings carved with intricate patterns. Servants dressed in plain clothes flit about through doorways, some sparing curious glances at Geralt and some paying him no mind. The pager boy, straightening slightly as he’s in his element now, leads Geralt through one of the doorways to what appears to be a lavish front room, covered in soft, expensive rugs and couches and smelling almost overwhelmingly like flowers.
The floral perfumes almost hide the still-present scent of fear from the pager boy, and the natural scents of the guards. The perfumes are so strong that it puts Geralt on edge, having his sense of smell inhibited like this, but he tries to stay as relaxed and calm as possible in the guards’ presence, and takes a seat on one of the couches at the boy’s request before he hurries away out of sight.
The guards take up position behind him, against the wall - and that sets off more alarm bells in Geralt’s head. His fingers twitch from where they’re hanging between his thighs, and he focuses on the weight of his swords leaning against his calf, and the fainter, natural scents of the guards beneath the perfumes.
He doesn’t have to wait long before there’s the sound of footsteps and the floral scent increases, drifting in from the doorway as a man he can only assume is Lord Erynd enters and sits down on the couch across from Geralt.
Erynd is dressed in an expensive suit, with an overly generous application of that damned floral perfume floating around him in an almost suffocating cloud, and wearing the kind of smug arrogance Geralt only sees on nobles who think they are better and more entitled than everyone and everything around them. He sighs internally, really not up to dealing with nobility, but not exactly having a choice.
“Witcher,” Erynd starts, a note of harshness to his voice that solidifies Geralt’s assumption of this lord’s attitude, “I assume you came because of the contract one of my townspeople posted in a nearby village?”
Geralt nods. “You’ve been having bad luck lately - and really good luck.”
The lord inclines his head in acquiescence, but there’s a strange air of calm about him, as if he doesn’t care. It sets off distant alarm bells in Geralt’s head, but he stays still and quiet and keeps listening. “Yes, but the cause is of no concern to you. Your services are not required in this situation, because I have it more than handled,” Erynd says.
Geralt frowns, suspicion immediately seeping into his tone and his eyes narrowing as he holds Erynd’s eerily calm gaze. “Handled how?”
Erynd gives a small, pleased smile, which only sets Geralt more on edge. At this point, he’s on a hair-trigger, fingers twitching against his thigh and the weight of his swords leaning against his ankle a comfort.
“I would be delighted to show you, Witcher,” he says, all smug arrogance, “I’m sure you will appreciate my mastery of these beasts.” His tone drops lower, almost secretive - and there’s the catch. “I only ask that you keep this between us.”
Geralt pauses, frown still in place, considering his options. It’s very likely that this is a trap - if Erynd has some creature imprisoned in that tower like Geralt thinks he does, he knows he is dangerously close to being a monster himself, and may find himself the next monster in Erynd’s supposed collection.
Or, it’s something entirely different. But either way, it won’t work out well for him to refuse nobility.
Geralt smooths out his frown and schools his expression into something neutral. He can’t find out what Erynd is hiding if he shows displeasure towards it - that can be saved for later, when he dismantles whatever the lord has happening with the monsters, or when he is slashing his way out of being added to the lord’s collection.
“As you wish,” he replies instead, voice steady and neutral, and tries to shove down his uneasiness at the resulting sickly sweet smile on the lord’s face.
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