#and on that note… time to imagine temeria | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years

Note

28 from the prompt list for jaskier/eskel please?

28. pressing their foreheads together

Here's some Jaskel set during season 2 in that ambiguous time between when Jaskier and Ciri got to Kaer Morhen and when Geralt and Yennefer arrived, featuring alive!Eskel. (I picture game!Eskel, but feel free to imagine the Eskel of your choice.) Warning for allusion to permanent injuries.

The first thing Jaskier does when he arrives at Kaer Morhen with Ciri and the dwarves—after he introduces himself to the witchers he’s heard so much about over the past two decades and gives them a quick explanation of the situation—is seek out Eskel. Geralt told him a bit about what happened with the leshen during their journey from Oxenfurt to Cintra, but in their hurry to get to Yennefer and Ciri, there was little time to go into the details. And while Geralt assured Jaskier that Eskel is fine, Jaskier still needs to see for himself.

He knocks on the door of the room Lambert directed him to. After a moment, there comes a call of, “Come in.” At first, Jaskier doesn’t recognize the low, scratchy voice, because it sounds nothing like Eskel’s familiar deep rumble. Then the voice speaks again. “Come in, songbird.”

Jaskier pushes open the door to find Eskel sitting up in bed, peering at Jaskier with the drowsy expression of someone who just woke up. He’s thinner than he was when Jaskier last saw him, his hair longer and disheveled. When he smiles, it only emphasizes the way his beautiful golden eyes are hollow with tiredness. Jaskier was about to launch himself into Eskel’s arms, but he pauses in the doorway, suddenly uncertain.

He first met Eskel about five years ago, when he and Geralt ran into the other witcher while traveling through Kovir. Jaskier was instantly smitten and liked to think that the feeling was reciprocated. He and Eskel met up a handful of times in the intervening years, spending a night or two at a time holed up in the room of an inn together. Eskel stopped by Oxenfurt a couple of times to visit Jaskier and they even spent two marvelous weeks traveling through Temeria together, with Eskel accompanying Jaskier to a handful of music festivals.

But they haven’t seen each other since before that disastrous dragon hunt. Eskel was supposed to come to Oxenfurt that previous autumn, but Jaskier wrote to him with an excuse about being too busy with classes. He found that he couldn’t bear to be rejected by another witcher, to learn that Eskel thought as little of him as he was sure Geralt did. With the benefit of hindsight, Jaskier can see how unfair he was to a man who had been nothing but kind to him. He wouldn’t blame Eskel for not wanting to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Eskel asks, but there’s no anger in the words, just a certain guardedness that breaks Jaskier’s heart a little.

“Geralt sent me with Ciri.” Jaskier doesn’t move from his spot in the doorway. Eskel looks fragile, like he might break if Jaskier tries to touch him. “He and Yennefer are off hunting a demon. Or maybe a goddess? I’m not sure, a lot happened and I couldn’t quite keep it all straight.”

Eskel nods, seemingly unfazed. "You okay?"

“Besides smelling like I’ve been on the road for a week and spent a week in prison before that, I’m fine.” Jaskier smiles shakily.

“In prison?” Eskel’s eyebrows draw together in concern.

“It’s a long story.” Tentatively, Jaskier steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. “Geralt told me you were injured.”

“You can say that,” Eskel says. “I’d come hug you, but I think I overdid it helping Vesemir this morning.”

That’s what breaks through Jaskier’s hesitation. Because he may not know all the details of what happened to Eskel, but he knows that the man he loves came far too close to dying. And all the while, Jaskier was holed up in Oxenfurt, feeling sorry for himself. His last communication with Eskel could have been a perfunctory note lying about his workload.

Jaskier closes the distance between them. Eskel holds out his arms to him and Jaskier walks right into his embrace, sinking down onto the bed. Eskel smells just like he always did—like leather and campfires, though there’s the bitter tang of the salve witchers apply for sore muscles. Jaskier buries his face into the crook of Eskel’s shoulder and clings as tightly as he can without risking hurting him.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says.

Eskel squeezes him gently. “What are you sorry for, songbird?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, just clings a little tighter. Because maybe if he hadn’t been a coward and told Eskel not to come to Oxenfurt, maybe Eskel wouldn’t have been passing through that forest where he encountered the leshen. Maybe Jaskier would have been with him. Maybe—

“What happened?” Eskel takes Jaskier’s injured hand in his, turning it over to examine the healing burns on his fingertips.

Jaskier grimaces and straightens up. “Had an encounter with a bastard of a mage in Oxenfurt. It’s a long story.”

Eskel frowns. “Sure we have a human-safe ointment around.”

“It’s nothing.” Jaskier pulls his hand away. “What happened with the leshen? Geralt said something about an infection—”

“That’s also a long story.” A ghost of a smile flickers across Eskel’s face. “I’m glad you’re here, Jaskier.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Eskel’s, reveling in the familiar warmth of his witcher. “I’m sorry about Oxenfurt. I shouldn’t have told you not to come. But Geralt—”

“I know,” Eskel says. “Geralt told me about the dragon hunt. Are you two okay?”

“It’s all bygones. Any amends that still need to be made will certainly come about once I teach Ciri all the most annoying songs I know.”

Eskel chuckles, the sound rumbling through Jaskier. It’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has heard in weeks.

Jaskier lets his eyes fall closed, pressing closer. “Eskel—”

“It’s okay.” Eskel cups his face in his hands. “Let’s talk about it later, songbird. Let’s just sit for a while.”

Jaskier has so many things he wants to say to Eskel. He wants to tell him why he told him not to come to Oxenfurt, exactly what was going through his mind. He wants to tell Eskel how he really feels, how much every moment they’ve spent together has meant to him. He wants to know exactly what happened with the leshen and tell Eskel the story of what happened with the fire fucker and the stint in prson that came after.

But Eskel is leaning against Jaskier like the press of their foreheads together is the only thing keeping him upright. If Eskel needs to just sit for a while, then Jaskier can just sit. They’ll have plenty of time for everything else.

“Whatever you need, love,” Jaskier whispers and just lets himself be with the man he loves.

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek

#the witcher #twn #jaskel #jeskel #eskel x jaskier #eskel/jaskier #eskel #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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samstree · 3 years

Text

splash of the waves, and the sand castle crumbles (2)

(geraskier, prince!jaskier, fairytale elements, angst with a happy ending, insecurities, jaskier whump, chest pain, 4.8k)

Geralt discovers that being with a prince comes at a price. Jaskier deals with some bad news.

previous: [1], read on AO3

A big thanks to my amazing beta @wanderlust-t!! 💖💖

Geralt will always come second in Jaskier’s heart.

As he sinks into the soft mattress and gathers the prince into his arms, the realization becomes ever so clear.

His fingers find those faint freckles on Jaskier’s back, the ones he can already trace by heart without looking. The press of Jaskier’s body nuzzles into his. The clamminess from their earlier passion makes the closeness a little uncomfortable, but Geralt can’t seem to find the strength to pull away.

Instead, he moves closer to Jaskier to observe him carefully.

The prince has this look on his face that Geralt never liked, one that suggests he’s lost somewhere far away, so Geralt brushes a strand of stray hair away to guide those blue eyes back to the presence.

“What are you worrying about?”

“Huh?” The corners of Jaskier’s eyes crinkle when he snaps out of the trance. “Nothing, um—court happenings. Valdo has received news on the investigation in Cintra.”

“About the assassination?”

“Dead end, again.” Jaskier chews his lips. “No concrete proof that it was ordered by Calanthe, nothing except for some whispers you stumbled upon in a tavern. Valdo is looking elsewhere now.”

Geralt tilts his head in sympathy, hating the idea of the prince living with one more potential threat lurking in the dark. “How can I help?” he asks.

“You stopped them. I reckon that’s plenty.” Jaskier leans in, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I won’t bore you with grim details, my dear. But perhaps…distract me? If you truly want to help.”

So Geralt presses his lips everywhere he can reach. One on the crown of Jaskier’s head, another at his hairline, and then on those already kiss-swollen lips, so enticing in the candlelight.

The prince responds eagerly, his deft fingers roaming across Geralt’s chest and provoking him with the softest touch, soothing and aggravating the ache deep within him. A surprised giggle escapes Jaskier’s lips as he catches Geralt’s hand trailing down under the cover.

“Really? Again?” the prince threads their fingers together and pulls Geralt’s hand away, subtly interrupting his not-so-subtle attempt. “The way you screamed my name earlier, my dear, I thought you would pass out from the sheer intensity of it. Witcher stamina or not, you can’t possibly still want more.”

“I don’t… scream.”

The defense is so weak that Jaskier’s grin breaks out in amusement. He continues to kiss Geralt’s knuckles with the utmost care, but the ache in his stomach still simmers.

Geralt groans with frustration.

“What is it?” Jaskier, ever so perceptive, notices his turmoil. The bliss on his face soon turns into concern and Geralt regrets ever letting on his emotions. “Talk to me, darling. It’s okay.”

“I—” Geralt realizes how silly it would sound, but Jaskier is waiting for an answer. “Tonight is the first time I’ve seen you since Ellander. Since the striga.”

“Since you accepted my hand in marriage.” Jaskier places an open-mouthed kiss on the scar on Geralt’s neck. “Darling, I wish I could have stayed with you at the temple. You know I do, but there was—”

“The coup at the border. I understand.” Geralt chastises himself for even bringing it up. He remembers how tired Jaskier looked after riding day and night to reach Temeria, how attentive he was when it came to nursing his injuries. “Uh—forget I said anything. You had to go, Jask. It’s fine.”

He also remembers when the urgent message came four days after they were betrothed and the sinking feeling in his stomach to watch Jaskier leave—albeit reluctantly. At the time, the prince kissed him so fiercely, his touch lingering on the signet ring he left on Geralt’s finger. Jaskier repeated his promise so many times, to return to him as soon as possible.

Geralt remembers the disappointment when he didn’t.

“It’s not fine.” Jaskier looks almost sad. “It’s never fine to leave you when you are hurt. It’s never fine to break my promise to you. Geralt, don’t you know you are my whole world? It’s my job to take care of you. Of course, you have every right to be angry with me.”

Except you also have to take care of the whole world.

Literally.

The world will always take precedence over a mere witcher.

“I missed you, that’s all.” Strangely, the admission lifts a weight off his chest. “I’m not angry with you for wanting to keep your people safe.”

“You aren’t?”

“I just—” Geralt’s stomach churns at the uncertain look on Jaskier’s face. “I just want to be with you, all of you. For more than four days at a time.”

“You have me.” Jaskier scrambles onto his elbow, not quite letting go of Geralt’s hand. “I’m here, all of me.”

“For tonight.”

“And tomorrow, and every day after.” He presses another kiss to the ring. “You’ll see, starting tomorrow morning. No more coups. I’ll stay with you when the tailors come over. Knowing how much you hate choosing designs and having people fuss all over you, it’d be cruel if I didn’t. It’s important that my husband looks dashing on his wedding day.”

“Hmm.”

The word husband is all it takes. Geralt finds himself drawn to Jaskier’s blinding smile, like a moth to a flame.

It should scare him, the thought of binding himself to someone. A witcher is not meant to stay at one place, with one person. And yet, Jaskier promised him the freedom to return to the path anytime as well as a seat at the Aedirnian court as the prince’s husband.

Because that’s the kind of person Jaskier is. When he’s in, he’s all in. In both his political life and with Geralt, Jaskier is ever so consistent. When he’s with Geralt, it’s like he’s only existing for the man in front of him, only in the here and now, as if his sun rises and falls with the tiniest sign of happiness on Geralt’s face. And yet, when he’s away…

It’s the world and the people the crown prince has sworn to protect.

It’ll always be the world before him.

Always second.

Geralt rubs the pad of his thumb on the signet ring, the proof of Jaskier’s devotion. The weight on his ring finger has become so comforting in Jaskier’s absence.

Maybe it’s enough. He has witnessed how Jaskier gives an ocean of love eagerly and unreservedly, to his work and his music. If Jaskier’s heart is willing to spare him anything like he’s someone worth loving, worth keeping, it’s enough.

Geralt drifts off with the prince soft and pliant, draped all over him.

And he wakes up to a cold bed, the familiar scent of citrus soap still faint on the sheets. Resting on the pillow, where tousled brown hair should be is a note scribbled in haste.

My darling witcher,

I must ride out before dawn as a riot has broken out near the settlement. It seems that men’s prejudice has not only made them seethe with hatred, but ruined our time together as well.

Forgive me for my absence, and for not having the courage to wake you before I leave.

Remember that I love you. I love you.

I love you,

Geralt’s grip tightens around the paper before letting go of it with resignation.

Perhaps he has made peace with being second in Jaskier’s heart. He just wishes the proof is not so solid in ink.

Geralt stops in his tracks when he sees Valdo Marx standing outside the kitchen, his blonde curls shining even in the low candlelight. There’s a tankard of wine casually held in his palm.

“Well, isn’t this the White Wolf himself?” The lord flicks a strand of hair out of his face, checking the witcher up and down. “What brings you here so late at night?”

“Could ask you the same,” Geralt doesn’t want to converse with the man for too long. Every time he speaks with Marx, the lord always hides an edge in his words that makes the witcher uneasy. “And Geralt is fine, as I said last time.”

“Of course, how can I forget the name of the man who captured our Prince Julian’s heart. For so many years, he thought of marriage as a mere joke. A songbird is not to be caged, he said, or he will be forever songless. Julian was ever so dramatic on this matter. But that’s before you swooped in and suddenly he’s reduced to a lovestruck fool. It’s always Geralt this, Geralt that, even before the ball.” Valdo leans against the doorframe, squinting and scrutinizing.

“You are in a chatty mood, my lord,” the witcher dismisses the salty comment and walks toward the door. “Excuse me for not having the time. I’m only here to fetch Jaskier some food.”

“No need.” Valdo puts a hand on Geralt’s elbow to stop him from entering the kitchen. The smell of alcohol is strong around him. “I’ve ordered the maid to prepare something to be brought up. I know Julian must have slept through dinner. How is he now?”

Geralt hums. The too-familiar tone with which Valdo speaks of Jaskier has always put him off, as well as the hand that’s currently resting on his arm. Even though the urge to shake the man off is palpable, Geralt is determined to remain civil to the most important member of Jaskier’s council.

“His heart acted up earlier. It’s fine now. But he’s still resting.”

“From the fatigue, I imagine.” Valdo releases Geralt’s arm, his face falling. “The riot was a real pain in the neck. The people living near Dol Blathanna have been displeased since the settlement started, but one that lasts a fortnight is a first. Julian barely slept a wink. He was dead on his feet by the end of it.”

And now he’s just woken up, waiting for Geralt to return.

“I should go if you have everything sorted—”

“Do you know how dangerous it got at one point? How out of control the situation was?” Valdo’s piercing eyes meet Geralt’s, his tone demanding. “How come you, the deadliest witcher and Julian’s betrothed, were not at his side protecting him?”

“Jaskier never wanted me involved. I assume the Butcher won’t be good for his looks.”

“You would be more stupid than I thought I you believed that bullshit,” Valdo curses loudly. “He wanted to propose after meeting you twice, even though his whole council was against the idea. And you think he’s ashamed of you? No, he’s leaving you out of everything to protect you.”

Geralt frowns, but the lord continues.

“He cares so much about your stand, your neutrality or whatever moral code your kind holds on for dear life. He believes accepting his hand has already compromised your beliefs—as if marrying a prince is such a chore—so he won’t ask your loyalty to Aedirn. He won’t ask you to fight for him.”

The bitterness in Valdo’s voice is nothing compared to the bile that rises up in Geralt’s throat.

“If I was with him…”

“He’d be safer. The guards can’t always stand between him and danger, as your first meeting has already proved.”

The lord’s jaw tightens before downing the content of his cup. The silence hangs in the quiet night.

As much as Geralt dislikes Valdo’s snarky remarks and jabs, he cannot bring himself to hate the man. His devotion to Jaskier is unmatched even amongst his closest advisors, let alone the fact that they were childhood friends.

Even when no one supported Jaskier, Valdo was there. And for that, Geralt will forever be grateful. Even though a witcher never answers to nobles, perhaps an explanation is owed to Valdo Marx.

“I am loyal to Jaskier if that’s your concern.” Geralt says in earnest. “He has my sword, even though I’m no knight.”

Valdo crosses his arms, the tankard still in his hand and tipping sideways. A drop of red liquid hits the floor.

“Good. If you have to marry our prince, you might as well take your duty of serving him more seriously. Although only the gods know why he chose you over so many more deserving.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at the bitterness in that statement.

“Like a court advisor? A politician of the highest rank?” he stares down at the other man. “A long-time friend, maybe?”

No surprise flashes across the other man’s eyes, but being a lord his whole life means anything can be hidden under the calm surface.

He does let out a tight laugh, the wine loosening his tongue. “The whole continent will know before Julian.” He shakes his head, mumbling something incoherent. “Did you know he started to sing because of me? I took lute lessons one summer in Cidaris. I was eight and Julian was two years younger, and what do you know! He was better than me within six months. Ha! With talent like that, it’s a shame princes aren’t allowed to be bards.”

Geralt feels equally proud and jealous to hear the childhood tale. Jaskier has not talked about his relationship with Valdo much, apart from the fact that both of them were extremely competitive growing up. Although it is not difficult to imagine if a six-year-old Jaskier was as infuriatingly persistent as he is now.

“Are you to flaunt how well you know him again?” Geralt almost scowls. “How you know him better than anyone because you’ve known him for two decades longer?”

“I should remind you, witcher, that I’m also friends with people more powerful beyond your imagination. Mages who can dispose of a witcher with the snap of a finger.” Valdo straightens his back as if it’ll make him more imposing. “Julian may never listen to me on the matter of his marriage, but if you ever harm a hair—”

“What’s left of me will only be found in the deepest dungeon of Aedirn, I know.” Geralt holds his gaze steadily. These threats would be laughable if not so tiring. “No need to repeat yourself so many times, my lord.”

The promise hangs in the air. Just when Valdo Marx opens his mouth again, they are interrupted by soft footsteps padding from the other end of the hallway.

“Geralt? What’s taking so—Oh, Valdo.” Jaskier blinks while turning the corner, his sleep-rumpled hair sticking to all directions. His nightshirt is all wrinkled and unbuttoned halfway down, revealing thick chest hair. A soft woolen robe is draped around the prince’s shoulders. “Why are you still here? It’s so late, just go home already.”

And Valdo Marx, wordsmith and seasoned politician, is spluttering.

“I—Julian.” The other lord bows, way too formally, and clears his throat. His eyes are darting all over the place, avoiding the unkept picture of the prince. His already flushed face is turning a bright red. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. That is…um, why I stayed.”

“I’m fine, just tired.” Jaskier rubs at his heart in the guise of adjusting the shirt. “Now will you go? You did so well, as always. You deserve some rest.” Despite the weariness in Jaskier’s eyes, a hearty smile lights up his face, and Geralt hears Valdo’s breaths catch.

“If you say so, Julian.” The lord nods before taking his leave, throwing another stern look over his shoulder at the witcher, only to avert them when Jaskier drops all pretense and burrows into Geralt’s embrace with his back to the exit. The clicking of Valdo’s heels fastens almost desperately.

Geralt would have sympathized with the man if he didn’t have something much more important to take care of.

“Are you really fine?” Geralt asks quietly, frowning when Jaskier’s freezing hands press against the nape of his neck, and the prince shakes his head faintly.

“Not when you’re held up for so long, darling. I’m still waiting for my late-night snack,” Jaskier mumbles into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“It’ll be brought up in a minute.”

“You are the sweetest.”

“Valdo, actually. He thought of it.”

“Oh.” Jaskier pulls away, surprised. “Have I told you that I learned the lute just to spite him, back when we were kids?”

“You can tell me now.”

The prince wraps the robe tighter around his torso and steers Geralt towards their bedroom. “It’s a great tale that ends with my sweeping triumph, my dear. If you will just follow me.”

Gladly.

Valdo’s words keep turning in Geralt’s head for the rest of the evening as he helps Jaskier with a simple meal before letting him retire again. Asleep for the second time, the prince looks uncharacteristically small, his frame swathed by the thick velvety blankets, carefully tucked around him to fend off the chills. A shadow falls under his long lashes, making Jaskier’s features appear a lot younger than he is, a fragile buttercup, even an innocent one.

But Geralt’s prince is anything but innocent. Not when he’s seen no less evil than anyone on this continent, not when he’s hurt deeply for acting against it.

Geralt wraps his body around the prince, and knows for a fact that he is willing to follow Jaskier anywhere on this journey.

Geralt fusses with the cuffs of his ceremonial doublet one last time when the servant rushes in.

“It’s the king,” the boy says with rounded eyes. “He just collapsed, sir. The prince is with him.”

When he gets to the other side of the castle, there must be more than a dozen people in the corridor, close friends of the royal family waiting outside of the wooden double doors. Among them is Valdo, pacing anxiously at the edge of the crowd.

There are only two heartbeats in the king’s chamber, one steady, the other one weak and erratic, like a candle in the wind.

Geralt doesn’t need to smell the decay in the air or the stale melancholy trapped in the building to know that the king is dying.

Through the closed doors, Jaskier’s soft whimpers follow the king’s hoarse murmurs. Geralt forces his heightened senses away from what must be a private moment, the last heart-to-heart Jaskier will ever have with his father. He shouldn’t intrude.

The collar is too tight. Geralt rests his hand against the door by instinct, wanting more than anything to be with Jaskier, to hold and comfort him. Waiting out here might just be the cruelest torture when Jaskier is hurting in there.

“Geralt,” Valdo interrupts the witcher’s wandering mind, “I’m sorry that it’s happening today.”

Geralt blinks at the genuine sympathy on the other man’s face. “It’s hardly about me, Valdo.”

They turn their heads towards the king’s bedchamber in unison. The young prince sitting at his father’s deathbed is the single focus of both men, of everyone standing in this corridor, and soon enough, of this entire country and all of the northern kingdoms.

“Still, I was warming up to you, witcher. It’s a shame your big day has to end like this.”

Geralt hums, and, “Thank you, my lord.”

In the dim light, Geralt’s attire appears to be a homogenous dark fabric, the embroidery easily overlooked—buttercups, threaded with the same black as the silk. Subtle, but they are there. There are hidden buttercups all over him, weaving through his color and laying claim.

Jaskier would appreciate the design. Geralt brushes his thumb over one flower sadly.

“Did he tell you already?” Valdo asks.

“About what?”

“The investigation.”

A frown creases between Geralt’s brows. “I thought you couldn’t trace it back to Calanthe? That there was no proof.”

“Because it wasn’t her. Think about it. Since when has Calanthe resorted to a shady kill like this in the past? The Lioness was angry at our prince and she was vocal about it, but you’d think she’d just charge across the Yaruga with a sword in her hand,” the blonde man snorts. “We were looking the wrong way.”

“Jaskier never told me.” Geralt stands there, dumbfounded.

“He was protecting you. Again.”

Annoyance licks up in Geralt’s chest, burning for answers. “What is the truth, then? You have no inclination of doing the same, Valdo. Just tell me.”

The lord drags the witcher away from the murmuring crowd and lowers his voice in secrecy. “We were overthinking it by assuming it was an elaborate plan, but it hit me one day. How can we be so blind when it’s right in front—”

“Out with it.” Geralt grits his teeth and finally the noble sighs and ceases stalling.

“A friendly fire.”

“The poisonous arrow was friendly.” Geralt deadpans.

“When it was sent by someone who only wished to deter Julian from furthering his plans and angering every other king in the north by siding with the elves. Someone who arranged an attempt on his life only to scare him off, but didn’t anticipate the one million things that could go wrong on the day.” Valdo sends a heavy look to the closed double door. “Someone dear to Julian. Someone who has regretted the decision since.”

Geralt feels like all air has been punched out of his lungs. His knuckles crack and his nails are close to drawing blood from the palm. It’s because of Valdo’s hand halting him in place that Geralt is not charging into the room.

“His own father…” Geralt murmurs, suddenly all strength saps from his body and he just wants to get Jaskier out of this damned place, away from the man who’s supposed to support him but instead almost took his life. “I need to go in.”

“Don’t. These people will know something’s wrong. This cannot get out,” Valdo hisses. Down the hall, a few lords and ladies are already throwing them some curious looks.

“Jaskier knows this,” Geralt says, shaking off the buzzing in his ears.

“And he’s made his peace with it, and now they are spending their last moments together. Your anger, or mine, is—”

The double doors open with a creak, and there Jaskier is, eyes red-rimmed but his back straight.

“—pointless.”

Valdo completes the sentence but Geralt pays no mind. When he reaches Jaskier’s side with a few quick strides, there’s no other heartbeat inside the room, only silence. His world narrows down to the thrumming in Jaskier’s chest.

The palpitation is unmistakable. Fluttering dangerously.

So is the stench of overpowering pain, mixed with the distinct citrus floral scent that is Jaskier and the never-ending decay of a sick old man. Geralt almost gags.

“The king is dead,” the prince announces the tragedy. A few nobles reply with kind words. It all fades into background noises.

Geralt’s gaze fixes on the man he’s supposed to marry this very day, and watches as Jaskier bites into his lips when another quiver happens upon the spasming muscles of his heart like the wings of a hummingbird. A lady reaches out to offer condolences, so Jaskier takes her hands and thanks her. His features reveal nothing.

The paleness could be taken as a result of grief, the tremor as well. The guests remain blissfully oblivious to the agony their prince is in, and one by one they come to him and linger.

But Jaskier’s agony cannot escape Geralt’s eyes, not when he’s the one most intimate to those heartaches that have been with Jaskier since the day they met. A sheen of sweat gathers at Jaskier’s forehead, his lips pursed into a tight line, but the prince won’t show any weakness to these people. Instead, he stands tall and proud, stubborn like the first dandelion in the spring, blossoming where the wind is cruel and the soil still frozen.

“Julian,” Valdo calls out the name like a prayer.

“I need you, Valdo.” Jaskier’s voice cracks, the first outward indication of discomfort. “We’ve found ourselves in the most precarious situation, and I—”

Jaskier breaks off for air, squeezes his eyes shut to ride out a chill down his spine. Geralt catches the prince by the elbow and instantly Jaskier leans into the support.

“I will make the arrangement for you, my prince,” Valdo replies when the prince schools his expression back to normal and gives out a trusting smile.

“I depend on you, all of you,” Jaskier addresses the crowd, “for the future of this land we share. But now it’s time for me to grieve, my good people. Allow me some privacy and time with my husband.”

The slip goes unnoticed when the lords and ladies are led out and the only people left are Geralt, Valdo and Jaskier himself. The prince lets out a labored gasp, staggers, and sags against Geralt’s chest like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Shit. Jask—” Geralt scrambles to keep him up but Jaskier drops like a leaf in the wind and they both end up on the floor in a heap of limbs. He looks to Valdo in desperation.

“I’ll get the healer. Julian, please hang on.” The other man’s hand lingers by Jaskier’s wrist before he hurries away, but the prince seems unaware.

And it’s just them, alone on their wedding day.

Jaskier’s ragged breathing echoes in the empty hallway and Geralt has never felt more helpless in his long life. The prince’s face crumbles in agony and his body won’t stop shaking.

“Hey, just look at me.” Geralt places Jaskier’s cheek against his shoulder so their gazes meet, the cornflower blue not responding. “Why do you need to be so stubborn? Damn you, Jaskier…”

“You are wea—wearing buttercups, Geralt. Look—” A boneless hand comes up to caress the dark embroidery on Geralt’s collar, Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with fascination before a tremor racks his body again and contorts him into a writhing mess.

“Shh. Don’t talk, Jask. Save your strength.”

Geralt’s words are drowned in fear, and he can only wrap a steady hand around Jaskier’s cold, clammy one and hold it over the prince’s frantic heart in the hope of easing the tightly wound muscles underneath.

“But…but I’m all over you. Like you are all over me. See?” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s fingers and that’s when he notices the wolf pattern sewn into Jaskier’s sleeve for the first time, silver thread against white. A perfect symmetry between them.

Despite himself, the corners of Geralt’s lips tug into a sad smile, and it is soon returned by Jaskier. His eyes well up in the process. From the physical strain or grief, Geralt isn’t sure.

“I don’t need it to know that I’m yours, my prince. Now and always.”

Where Jaskier bit into his lips earlier seeps with crimson, a stark contrast against his bloodless complexion, the look in his eyes dreamy and far-away.

“My knight in shining armor. My savior.” Jaskier says in earnest before something dawns in his eyes and devastation sets in. A whimper chokes in his throat. “You, Geralt…Will you betray me too? Even…my own father. The person closest to me. But how can he? How—”

The prince squirms against Geralt’s chest and struggles to take in air, his cheeks soaked wet with sweat and tears. Something twists in Geralt’s stomach powerlessly as he hears the wheezing sounds in Jaskier’s lungs.

“I won’t, Jaskier. Please,” Geralt pleads into Jaskier’s hair but it falls on deaf ears. Strings of words tumble out of his mouth, delirious and nonsensical.

“We didn’t even have the time…couldn’t even make it right. There was no time…”

Geralt shushes him and tries to calm Jaskier’s breathing by stroking his back but it only makes it worse. The deterioration is happening too fast, juxtaposed with grief and shock that Jaskier’s already weakened heart cannot handle. Geralt fears the worst.

“My father, I—they all hurt me and leave me…Like my… Don’t leave me, G’ralt—" Jaskier clings and pleads, but cannot escape the cage made out of his sorrow.

“I won’t. Not when you’ve promised the same, Jask. Stay with me. Just stay with me, please.”

He’s trying.

Jaskier is trying and failing. And it’s the last straw.

“It hurts too much.”

With that, blue eyes roll into the back of his head and Jaskier collapses in Geralt’s embrace, the column of his neck exposed with the strain and the pulse underneath faint like a whisper. His listless hand slips from Geralt’s grip and hits the floor.

Carefully as if any more force would break Jaskier’s skin, Geralt presses his lips to Jaskier’s still ones and tastes of copper and salt. He draws out the kiss like in those fairytales, like a proper true love’s kiss. When he finally pulls away, a swarm of healers and nurses are surrounding them and Geralt is pulled away by hands he doesn’t recognize.

But Jaskier doesn’t wake from the kiss.

Not like in the stories.

---

I know Jaskier isn’t having the best day but I promise this story has a happy ending. <3

Also I’m not sure who wants to be tagged for this one, but feel free to tell me ;)

#geraskier #geraskier fic #hurt/comfort #prince!jaskier #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #insecure geralt #(slightly) jealous geralt #valdo marx #geralt x jaskier #established relationship

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sunflowersupremes · 4 years

Text

Next of Kin

Part 1/???

Read on AO3

He didn’t know what to think when he got the letter.

Redania and Temeria were constantly fighting one another, so the news that there’d been a skirmish wasn’t a shock to him at all. What was a shock was that one of the soldiers had apparently put Geralt down as their next of kin.

The solider’s name - one Julian Alfred Pankratz - wasn’t familiar to him at all, so that didn’t explain why he’d been chosen. He thought about ignoring it, assuming it was a mistake, but he was close to the skirmish - which was how the envoy had found him - so he took a day off from the Path and found the Redanian encampment.

His letter was only enough for him to be informed, rather bluntly, that Private Julian was still alive, but that visitors weren’t allowed inside.

But the commander saw him and said that if he dealt with a drowner nest he’d invite Geralt in as his personal guest.

It took less than an hour to handle the drowners, and soon he was back, demanding entry and explanations. He was taken to a nurse who promised she would take him to his friend.

“How is he?” Geralt asked, glancing at the lines of sick men, laid out in cots in the hastily constructed medical tent. He didn’t recognize any of them, but she just walked straight past, apparently none of them were Julian.

“Feverish,” she explained.

“What was the wound?”

“An arrow to his leg. His discharge paperwork has already been completed.”

Geralt frowned. “Discharge?”

“Yes, he’s too wounded to continue to remain on the front, he’ll be honorably discharged and it will be noted with the draft office, so he won’t be called up again.”

“Where will he go?”

“I thought you were here to take him home.”

No, Geralt thought. I’m only here to solve a mystery. But he remained quiet, admitting that he didn’t know Julian now would only keep him away from the wounded man, and then he’d never get any answers.

“Here he is,” she said suddenly, pulling Geralt from his thoughts. She was standing at the bedside of a young man, his eyes were closed, his face flushed, and his blonde hair in ragged curls.

Upon seeing the man, the mystery was solved immediately, but with it came even more questions that he lacked answers for.

Dandelion.

It took all of Geralt’s self control to keep his face impassive as he thanked her for her help, kneeling beside the cot the poet was laying on. As she left she promised to notify him as soon as the paperwork was completed.

What happened? The Witcher wondered, studying Dandelion’s face with a frown. Haven’t you got any other family to take care of you? He’d barely known Dandelion a full two years, they’d traveled together a probably ten months in total, so why would Dandelion have given Geralt’s name?

More curiously, what was Dandelion doing being drafted? He was Oxenfurt trained, he must have family money, connections, relatives would who protect him from a draft.

But, most importantly, what could Geralt do to help him? Leaving him wasn’t an option. Though he barely knew him - a fact which was becoming more and more obvious - he didn’t know how to help.

He studied the man’s flushed face, tilting his head and noting his symptoms. Feverish. I can smell an infection, although it’s not terrible and it could be from anyone else in the room, though I suspect it’s from him.

“I’m here to see my brother!”

Geralt ignored the loud man, no doubt some lord or another that fancied himself as someone important. Most likely some lord who had dodged the draft, coming to check in on a sibling who had thought going to war would be a great time. He shook his head.

“Nobles are fools, Dandelion,” he murmured to the poet. “Stay away from them, please.”

“Julian!” the man cried, rushing up to Dandelion’s other side and staring at him in horror.

Geralt stared at him. “Who are you?” they both asked, staring at one another across the unconscious bard.

“I’m his brother!” said the noble.

“I’m his next of kin,” argued Geralt, holding up the letter. If you are his brother, then why the deuce did he send for me?

“Oh,” said the noble, his voice slightly strained. “You must be his friend, then, I imagine?”

“I am,” confirmed the Witcher. “Forgive my suspicions, but he’s never mentioned you-”

“He wouldn’t have,” the man said, shaking his head. “Listen, sir Witcher, I’ve already secured him a bed at a local hospital, he’ll receive far better care there. If you’d like, you may accompany me and I shall explain on the way.”

A bed at a proper hospital was far better than Geralt could offer Dandelion, so he nodded. “Fine.”

#jaskier #dandelion #geralt #geralt of rivia #Witcher Fanfiction #Witcher Fanfic #The Witcher #Wiedźmin #My Writing #series: next of kin

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geralt-jaskier · 5 years

Text

Changes

In which Jaskier gets turned into a woman. Rated M.

You can also read on ao3

Jaskier is only trying to help, which could possibly be the title of the biography that will surely be written about him one day. Only Trying to Help, the epic tale of a bard and all manner of trouble he gets into alongside his witcher friend.

They are rifling through the house of a mage that Geralt is tracking down. Geralt sniffs and squints around for clues, and really if you think about it, the whole situation is his fault because in between all that sniffing and squinting he says, “Make yourself useful, Jaskier. Search the bedroom.”

So he does as he’s told, and what happens next could have happened to anyone--Geralt included. When Jaskier reaches for a suspicious-looking piece of paper poking out of a book on the upper shelf, he knocks over a small bottle on one of the lower shelves, and when the glass shatters against the ground, some of the liquid inside splashes onto Jaskier.

He freezes, waiting for pain or, perhaps, even pleasure, but there’s nothing. He reaches a hand back out for the note, but it’s not...his hand is not his hand.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls, panic growing in his voice as he looks down at this body and, oh sweet Gods, hears his voice, “something has gone very very very very wrong.”

His voice is not his, that is not his voice, he thinks frantically.

Geralt rushes up the stairs and when he catches sight of Jaskier his eyes go wide in a way that they normally do not, which only confirms Jaskier’s fears that indeed something has gone very very very very wrong. “Fuck.”

“I need a mirror. Do I need a mirror? Do I even want to see?” the voice that is not his own asks, panic-stricken.

“There’s one on the other side of the room.” Geralt has the audacity to laugh, so at least it’s not like Jaskier is dying, but now does not feel like the appropriate time for Geralt to be a complete and utter shithead.

Jaskier’s clothes feel too loose now, and he has to hold his trousers up with one hand as he makes his way over to the alchemist’s changing area.

In the mirror staring back at him is a beautiful dark-haired woman. He recognizes his eyes, gone wide now with shock.

Geralt comes to stand behind him.

“One of your tits is hanging out,” Geralt points out.

“Yes, thank you, Geralt. I can see that.” Jaskier can’t look away from the reflection where indeed one of his tits has fallen out of the v-neck of his now-loose white tunic. “Nice tit, though.”

“Hm.” Geralt nods back at him in the mirror.

After three weeks, they’ve not had much luck finding anyone who knows of a cure. They haven’t managed to track the mage who was responsible for the potion, and the two alchemists they’ve spoken to were utterly flummoxed.

“I know of a group of druids we can speak to,” Geralt says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I have another alchemist contact in Temeria. We will find a cure for you, Jaskier.”

It’s been taking some adjustment to get used to the changes in the way his body is built, the way it moves, how there is somehow considerably less strength. It’s even harder to get used to the staring and leers and horrible come-ons. He feels a bit like a double-agent, now working for the other side and is deeply embarrassed by the lack of finesse from his old team.

If he stands a little closer to Geralt when they stop at a tavern, that’s only because it offers a welcome reprieve from the attention his beauty attracts when men think that he’s the girlfriend of a terrifying witcher.

Jaskier learns that while he definitely does know how to please a woman--as all of his past lovers will attest--there is still so much to learn. He’s lying on his stomach, hand between the bedroll and his body as he rubs slow circles around his clit.

“Would you stop doing that,” Geralt snaps one night from his bedroll on the other side of the fire.

Jaskier freezes. He’d thought that without the revealing and obvious sound of his hand against his cock he’d be able to get away with this.

“Doing what?” Jaskier asks as innocently and evenly as he can, hand still between his thighs.

“I can smell and hear you,” Geralt adds through gritted teeth.

“The thing is, Geralt. Is that I’m really really close.”

He doesn’t add that not only is he too aroused to feel the weight of mortification that he should surely feel, he’s only more turned on knowing that Geralt is aware of what’s happening. He imagines Geralt getting up, sliding under the blanket with Jaskier and then sliding into Jaskier’s ready, willing, wet--seriously, dripping wet--cunt.

His whole body goes tense, thighs trembling, and he can’t help the muffled moan he lets out into the blanket as he comes.

“Fuck you, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is sure he’s wrong, but it sounds a little strangled.

Geralt has been more irritable than usual about Jaskier coming on hunts with him.

“I’m not sure how my being a woman changes anything. I wasn’t exactly critical to the monster-killing side of the operation.”

“No shit.”

“So that settles it. I’m coming with you.”

Though he’s gotten funny about letting Jaskier go on hunts, he’s gotten even funnier about traveling with Jaskier. It makes some sense that they wouldn’t part ways until a cure was found, but Geralt could have ridden ahead on his own and told Jaskier to stay put in a city like Novigrad.

But he doesn’t, and as they make their way towards Temeria to speak to Geralt’s contact there, he finds he likes living alongside Geralt as though this is their everyday life. Geralt takes contracts and Jaskier still performs for coin and, of course, accolades.

He even announces to his audiences, with great excitement, that he is, in fact, the famous bard Jaskier and has been temporarily afflicted by a curse that has turned him into the gorgeous woman they see before them today.

At the end of his performances, he’s found it quite lucrative to say, “Every coin you can spare helps me continue my search for a cure.”

The thing that’s funniest and strangest of all about Geralt’s behavior during this whole ordeal is that while Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier on hunts, he seems to want him alone in the evenings even less. Geralt sits in all manner of corners and glowers and broods more than he’d done in the past while Jaskier performs--his voice as gorgeous as ever as he adjusts to his new range and the highest of notes he can now reach--and if there’s even a hint of nastiness from the crowd, Geralt puts a stop to it with one of his infamously scary looks.

Jaskier rather likes it.

“Husbands are so much less violent when they catch me sleeping with their wives now,” Jaskier muses. “All I have to do is wink at them and they’re practically thanking me for doing it!”

“We need to find a cure,” Geralt mutters.

It’s now been nearly three months since Jaskier’s transformation, and the contact in Temaria was unable to help them. They’re now making their way to the druids, and at this point, Jaskier is starting to come to terms with the fact that he might have to adjust to life as a goddess. There are worse things that could have happened to him, honestly.

There is one thing, though, that he hasn’t done for a variety of reasons that he would very much like to try, and he thinks maybe just maybe Geralt will be willing to help. They’ve barely been apart from one another in these past months, and Jaskier is sure that his request will at worst be met with an irritated silence.

He drinks just enough ale one evening before they head up to their room and cap off the night with a round of cards that he finally works up the courage to both literally and figuratively lay his cards down.

“Geralt,” I have a proposition. “Now, you can say no if you--”

“No.”

“At least let me finish!”

Geralt fixes him with a wry look but waves a hand as if to cede the floor to Jaskier.

“I would like you to fuck me. Now, before you say no again, let me explain where I’m coming from. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and my reasoning, I’m sure you’ll find, is quite sound. Over the years, you and I have built up a certain level of trust, so I feel confident telling you that a little tumble in the sheets couldn’t possibly harm that. Not for two friends as close as us.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, right on cue.

“As a witcher, I know you’re sterile so there’s no risk of, uh, child.” Jaskier really does not want to experience that part of womanhood. The monthly bleeding is already terrible enough and after complaining and complaining Geralt finally bought him potions that helped ease the pain, and then he kept providing them without being asked.

“You want me to fuck you because it won’t hurt our friendship and because you won’t get pregnant,” Geralt says slowly.

“Well, I also think you’d make it very enjoyable.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You can say no, but I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Jaskier says, an accusatory note in his voice, just daring Geralt to deny it.

Deny it he does. “It’s just jarring seeing you like this.”

“That’s nonsense, and you know it. It’s been months. You’ve had plenty of time to get used to me like this.” Jaskier gestures down at his perfectly shaped, lovely body that he would ravish in a heartbeat if presented with the opportunity. Really, Geralt should be getting down on his knees and thanking him.

Geralt glares at him across the table.

Jaskier knows Geralt will never hurt him, so he does what he’d want a sexy seductress to do to him if the roles were reversed, and he goes to Geralt and straddles him in his seat.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is a low rumble, and Jaskier can see how his amber eyes are going dark. “This is a bad--”

Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and kisses him, and after a moment Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s waist and kisses him back. He can feel the hard outline of Geralt’s cock pressing against his clit and he grounds himself down, chasing that sweet friction.

He’s losing himself in the kiss, the building ache in his cunt, his breasts pressed against Geralt’s strong chest when Geralt stands, Jaskier’s legs wrapping around him, and walks them to the bed.

The next morning Jaskier rolls over and opens his eyes to find Geralt looking at him strangely.

“What?” Jaskier says in a voice that is his but not his. He looks down at himself. His beautiful tits are gone, his hairy chest has returned. He feels sweet relief and joy and a touch of regret which grows into an entire fistful of regret when he catches Geralt’s eyes and realizes that last night would be a memory not to be repeated. His stomach drops.

Geralt’s brow furrows. “Don’t have to go find the druids then.”

“You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” Jaskier says testily.

“I’m not,” Geralt says. “Are you?”

“I don’t know.” Jaskier sighs and says wistfully, “I was so beautiful.”

“You did make a beautiful woman,” Geralt agrees. He hesitates then says, “Don’t really mind what I’m seeing now either, though.”

There’s a moment where Jaskier thinks he must have misheard or misunderstood, but as he meets Geralt’s eyes and Geralt doesn’t look away, Jaskier’s heart begins to hammer. A smile spreads across his face.

“Leave the sweet-talking to me from now on, Geralt,” he says, not meaning this at all.

He tugs Geralt to him and Jaskier celebrates the welcome return of his cock.

As they ride on from the town, Jaskier begins to work on a song about his time as a woman, which he will always remember fondly.

“How does this sound? Oh how I’d fix this, I couldn’t be sure / Only to find true love’s cock was the cure .”

“True love’s cock.” Geralt snorts. “That’s a new one.”

Jaskier waits for the moment Geralt will tell him it’s not true love.

The moment never comes.

#geraskier #geraskier fanfic #gerlion #geskier #fem!jaskier #my writing #genderswap #short fic

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mlleecrivaine · 4 years

Text

Strength and Grace

Author’s Note: Here’s some Jaskier smut no one asked for. If I’m not bothering you with the tag; I’d like to formally thank @ficsandcatsandficsandcats for getting me irrevocably hooked on Jaskier.

Word Count: 4275

Pairing: Jasker x f!reader

Warnings: smut

Summary: Reader and Geralt are sparring as Jaskier watches. The bard determines that this may have been a bad idea.

---

If Jaskier watched much longer, the chances of his elevated blood pressure killing him were very high. He grit his teeth and tried to pull some of his blood back into his brain by sheer willpower, but as he unfortunately remembered in this moment, that’s not how it works.

Instead, he focused on the flex and bulge of your muscles as you executed strike after bone-crushing strike. Geralt blocked each of them, as he was meant to, but you were successfully driving him backwards in the clearing. You wound up, curling your elbow in front of your throat in a way that made your dirtied bicep swell in the rolled-up opening of your shirt sleeve, spinning to gain momentum and brought your sword in a slashing arc that under normal circumstances would have taken your opponent’s head off. The cry you let you as you put all of your effort into this blow sent a rush of gooseflesh down Jaskier’s body and another dizzying amount of blood ran south in him and he had to suppress a groan of awe and pleasure. Geralt blocked the attack, sidestepping with the force behind your blow. Once again you wound up, this time executing a powerful roundhouse kick that Geralt had to rush to block. Jaskier smirked in spite of himself; you nearly knocked Geralt over with that one. Jaskier wondered what it would be like to have those powerful legs around his head…

You backed off and started circling the clearing, catching your breath. You held the sword limply in one hand, placing the fist that held it on one hip and your open hand on the other, right on the most curved parts of them.

Jaskier tried to keep his eyes on the ground but he couldn’t help looking up between his eyelashes at the way your chest heaved with your breath, the way your sweat made your body positively glow under the gentle sunshine coming through the canopy above.

He cursed himself. This was not the way friends were meant to look at one another. Of course, he’d tried, the moment you’d met. He had this nasty habit of falling in love with basically everyone and everything that came even remotely within his sphere. And when you showed up, all shining eyes and beauty to make the gods jealous, he did the same thing. He flirted. He made you laugh a few times. He struck out. Now, countless months later you were still with them and he counted you amongst his closest friends. He liked to think that you counted him amongst yours as well. You still laughed at his jokes and actually appreciated his music, where Geralt still did not despite their years of acquaintance, and yet.

And yet. He could not control his reaction when he watched you at the peak of your performance. Sometimes he swore he breathed for the way your muscles moved. It didn’t matter if you were simply lifting something, shaking someone’s hand - that always made your arms look exceptionally powerful for some reason - or if you were executing acts of unthinkable violence. You were… powerful. And beautiful. And sometimes, although he was sure it would be strange to say such a thing out loud, he thought that if you were to use those muscles to crush the life from his body he would thank you with his dying breath.

“Are we boring you?”

Jaskier’s eyes shot up, not realizing quite how close you’d gotten. He could see the sweat patterns in the dirt on your face, weaving rivers on the map of your features.

“Not at all,” he said a little more softly than he anticipated. He cleared his throat. “I was just lost in thought.”

“You don’t have to stay close by if you’d rather go walking,” you offered. “I can only imagine how dull this is to watch.”

“Not the word I’d choose,” he said. Captivating. Awe-inspiring. Devastating. Hot.

You snorted softly, still out of breath. Looking over your shoulder at Geralt, you waited to see what the witcher was doing before you crossed your ankles and dropped to a cross-legged position across from Jaskier. Normally it wouldn’t have crossed his mind, but given his current predicament, he had to force himself not to look at the apex of your thighs under your breeches stretched taut by the arrangement of your legs.

“Are you thinking of a new song?” you asked as you let your upper body fall back onto the grass.

Jaskier glanced over bug-eyed at the graceful way your arms had landed on either side of you, bent at the elbow so your hands were up by your head. What he would give to hold your hands there as he hovered over you, kissing you deeply… his cock twitched in his trousers and he had to hold his breath for a moment to keep from making an embarrassing noise.

For all your strength, the grace with which you carried yourself also made him weak. Whenever he played at a party or a gathering or even at the right kind of bar and you ended up dancing to his music, he was for once in his life saddened by the fact that he needed to keep playing. That he couldn’t step in and dance with you to see the enchanting twists and turns of your body up close. That grace and that power played together in your body to make you truly a wonder to behold, a flower laden with dangerous potential, and he counted himself lucky that he got to behold you, even if he couldn’t worship you in the way he knew you deserved.

“You could say that,” he muttered.

“You’re being awfully cryptic today,” you mused, tilting your head to the side to look at him. Was that what you would look like, he wondered, looking down at him as he lowered his head between your legs…

“Jasker!”

Your voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up and noticed that Geralt had disappeared.

“Are you alright?” you asked, raising yourself up onto your elbows to stare him down.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Where did…”

“I think he went back to camp to see to Roach,” you said, cocking your head to the side. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine, I’m just… really deep in thought.”

“So deep, I expect,” you said pushing yourself all the way up and Jaskier tried not to let on how closely he followed the arc of you first sitting up again, pulling your breeches taut once more, then rising up onto your knees and finally back down onto all fours to crawl up to him, the tendons and muscles in your forearms tightening with each shift of your weight, and you reach out to pop several buttons on his doublet, “that you’ve neglected to realize how warm it is today. You’re probably overheating, Jask.”

“Probably overheating,” he echoed, watching your face as you focused entirely on his doublet. Your eyes caught the light at this angle and the nuances of colour usually hidden burst to life making you look for all the world like a precious gemstone.

“Jaskier?”

He finally realized that your eyes had met his, your hand stilled somewhere on his stomach. He blinked to show that he had heard you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, pulling your knees up so were sitting on your haunches. “You haven’t looked at me like that since I was hurt.”

Jaskier’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He didn’t think you’d remember. It was a kikimora in a swamp in Temeria nearly three months ago. You and Geralt left alone to dispatch it. Geralt came back with you in his arms, bleeding out from a stomach wound. The bard had followed you to the healer’s and he refused to leave your side. At the time he could feel the worry written on his face, but the pain he felt in his heart eclipsed his will to care to hide it. Every time you opened your eyes even for a moment, he watched your face with a longing, a desperation to simply breathe life into you and have you come back swinging like you were before. When finally you were cleared for the road - not for active hunting, but for the road at least - he swore to himself that even though the experience had awakened a painful longing in himself, you had already made your position clear upon your first meeting. And so, rather than force his affections on you, he simply tried to ignore the feeling of life you gave him every time you so much as existed in the same room as him.

And now here he was, harder than he had ever been in his life - he would swear to it - and staring at you as though you were dying, apparently. Would that he were dying in this moment, then an end to the embarrassment was surely in sight.

“Jaskier, I’m fine,” you said soothingly.

To Jaskier’s horror you deftly unlaced your armour and slipped it over your head, leaving you in just your flimsy shirt through which, if the light caught it at the right angle, he could see the outline of your body underneath in silhouette. In a move that would clearly be the end of him, you lifted the hem of your shirt to show him your scar.

“See?”

It was an ugly thing. The kikimora had speared you straight through. The scar now flowered out like a daisy just higher than and right of your belly button.

In spite of himself, he reached out and touched the scar. To his relief, you didn’t slap his hand away. The warmth of your skin was a blessing and to his surprise it blissfully took the edge off of his painful arousal. He traced the petals of the mark and paused when you shivered.

He looked up and met your eyes. You gave him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” you said with a nervous laugh in your voice. “I can’t actually feel anything there anymore… the nerves are dead. It kind of… tickles, I suppose when you get close to the edges.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, taking his hand back.

“It’s alright,” you said, shaking your head with that kind smile. You dropped your shirt, covering once again the flesh that Jaskier wanted oh so badly to touch. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In a move that Jaskier understands was supposed to be a joke, you raised both of your arms and gave him an impressive flex, showing off the unfair bulge of your biceps, straining at the rolled up fabric of your shirt sleeves, the way your forearms looked as if they were cut from solid stone. And Jaskier made a muffled noise that was a mix of surprise and very painful arousal.

He felt himself shrink back in embarrassment and you dropped your arms. By the look on your face you knew exactly what that sound meant.

“I’m sorry,” you both said at the same time.

“I didn’t mean to-” you started.

“I’ll go,” Jaskier announced but he stumbled as he tried to stand, his cock hanging so heavily in his breeches he was surprised he could get up at all. He was just slow enough for you to reach out and put your arm in his way. He paused and looked at you with wide eyes.

You looked like you wanted to say something and gods, he wished you would.

“Can I?” you asked softly, reaching forward to put your hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to,” he said hurriedly and you paused your movement. “If you don’t want to,” he added quickly.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to, Jaskier,” you said in a voice slightly deeper than usual and Jaskier felt parts of himself actually start to shake.

“Then yes, gods, yes please do,” he let the words spill out but he didn’t make a move to touch you back quite yet, not sure how far you were willing to take this.

You circled your fingers painfully lightly around his forearm nearly making Jaskier choke. Your other hand came higher and touched the burning flesh of his face. In a smooth movement you lifted yourself once again, Jaskier very aware of the fact that he could see the muscles in your thighs moving you of their own accord, and you leaned in and hovered your lips over his while your eyes searched his face.

“You said,” he murmured and you started to chase him backwards. He didn’t want to touch you until he knew, and the only way to go was backwards. He ended up flat on his back on the grass and you crawled forward until you were hovering over him. Your mouth was right there but still not a single part of you save for your hands touched him.

“I said what?” you prompted after he was silent for a few seconds.

“You said you weren’t interested… ‘under any circumstances,’ I think, were the words you used,” Jaskier muttered, hoping to the gods he wasn’t tripping over his words.

He found his own hands hovering somewhere around your hips and your waist, begging to touch, but not closing the distance.

You chuckled softly, coming so close he could feel the aura of your nose touching his.

“I said that when we just met Jaskier. Now I know you,” you said, staring into his eyes with your half-lidded ones, and Jaskier could see you begging in your own way to touch him. “If you’ll still have me…”

“Of course I will,” he said somewhat incredulously.

“Good,” was all you said before you finally closed the distance.

Jaskier moaned very loudly into your mouth at the final, blessed contact. You swallowed his sounds, sliding your tongue past his lips while he was preoccupied with his relief.

When he got his wits about him, he closed his hands around your waist and slid them down to the hem of your shirt to sneak under the loose fabric and touch your skin, drawing another moan from him.

You smiled against his lips and he melted up into you.

You hitched your knees a little higher as his fingers explored the contours of your ribcage, your back, your spine and the tops of your hips. When you pressed yourself down on him, there were not enough layers of clothing in the world to ease the sensation and Jaskier actively cried out and you had to let his mouth go so he could arch his back.

When he calmed himself and lowered his shoulder blades to the ground once more, he found you smiling down at him with a smug twist to your lips.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he breathed with a laugh.

“Darling, I wouldn’t dare,” you replied, kissing him once again before pulling away and watching his face while you gave a concerted roll of your hips. His eyelids fluttered and he looked for all the world like his soul had just left his body. “I’m just impressed at how well you concealed such a significant problem.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Jaskier mumbled, sure that the sensation of your warmth on his throbbing cock was going to kill him at any moment.

You gave him a soft, kind smile. If this were any other situation, Jaskier would have thought of the word loving, but as it was, this was a tryst of chance more than anything else.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” you murmured, kissing him softly once more. “Would you like me to solve that problem for you?”

Jaskier nearly choked.

You grinned at him and sat back on your heels once more to untie the front of his breeches.

Jaskier regained enough of his faculties to sit up and pull your chemise up and over your head. He couldn’t help himself from indulging his keenest curiosities first and he skimmed the strong outlines of your arms with his fingertips. You shivered again and he looked up to find you blushing.

“Sorry,” you said again, “this time it feels good.”

“What else might feel good?” he asked, letting his fingers ghost to your chest where he laid his palms over the heaviest parts of your breasts. You rewarded him with a gasp.

“That, maybe,” you said with a grin.

You tugged the strings loose on his breeches and turned your attention to his doublet.

He helped you get the layer off and obediently held his arms over his head while you pulled the undershirt off, exposing his chest.

He blushed a little, knowing he wasn’t quite as well defined as you and especially not as defined as Geralt, but the way you drank in his body, stopping everything else you were doing to gently set his shirt on the ground as your eyes roamed over him, sent a wave of confidence through him and he returned his hands to your chest making you gasp.

You got back up on your knees and reached behind you to help get his trousers down to a place where he could kick them off.

Jaskier almost cried when you ghosted your fingertips over his length. He screwed his eyes shut at the electric sensation and grabbed you around the waist to steady himself.

“You can’t wait can you?” you asked.

He shook his head vehemently, letting out a pained sound.

“Then help me,” you murmured, lifting your hips again.

Jaskier took a deep breath and opened his eyes, before untying the strings of your own breeches. You pushed them off as quickly as you could and you looked down into his eyes as you let him line himself up with your entrance.

You lifted a hand to his face and stroked his cheekbone with your thumb once before lowering yourself onto him.

“Ohhh fuck,” Jaskier swore, leaning forward and placing his head on your sternum.

You took all of him in one slow stroke. Your fingers wound through his hair, your nails dragging lightly on his scalp and he could have sworn he was halfway into the grave from how good everything about you felt.

“Gods, my love, please…” he begged, feeling an all new kind of need for you now that he was finally inside of you.

For your part, your own desire for this made the feeling of his flesh inside you flash like water in a hot pan, overwhelming your senses and stealing the breath from your lungs.

You obliged by lifting yourself nearly off of him and sinking back down, starting a slow but steady rhythm. Your own breath shuddered as you moved, and you reached out to hold his shoulders to steady yourself as you struggled to maintain the strength in your legs.

Jaskier started to feel his very soul shake because you were going too slowly and he was about to go blind from need. He bucked up into you once and planted his hands behind him on the grass so he could thrust up into you.

You cried out as he hit just the right spot and your hands wound back into his hair and you started to ride him in earnest, hard and fast.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier moaned letting his head fall back. He wanted desperately to watch you, but he was so damn close… “I’m not going to last…”

“I didn’t expect you to, darling,” you murmured, pulling his head back up to look at you. “It’s alright. Come, my darling, you’re almost there.”

“But you-”

“Don’t worry about me,” you crooned. “Come, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s vision whited out and he, for the first time in his memory, screamed as he came, one long, guttural note. If he could still think, he’d be ashamed for not having your name prepared on his lips for the moment of release. You weren’t expecting his voice to take such a deep, throaty turn and it made you clench around him, only milking his orgasm from him more thoroughly.

Finally the heaving of his chest seemed to abate and you let yourself slow down, your thighs starting to burn.

Jaskier ceased all movement for a moment and luxuriated in the afterglow of his pleasure.

You let your fingers trail over the contours of his face, down his throat, over his collarbone, and into the thicket of hair on his chest, letting the strands tickle your fingers. When you looked back up to his face, you watched his eyes refocus on you.

He wound a hand around your back and flipped you over so you were on the grass under him now. He started thrusting gently, somehow still hard enough.

“Jaskier…” you started to protest but the needy whine in your voice betrayed you.

“I’ve got something left in me,” Jaskier said with a playful smile. “Let me repay you.”

He reached between you and pressed his thumb to your clit, circling sharply. You gasped and slung an arm around his shoulder.

Jaskier turned his head and pressed reverent kisses to your arm as he continued thrusting into you. The fatigue was starting to show in the off-kilter rhythm of his hips.

“You,” he kissed your bicep, “are,” he kissed higher up, toward your elbow, “devastating.”

You grinned and captured his lips as he leaned down to kiss you, his hips suddenly speeding up and the pressure of his thumb increased until you were moaning with each thrust.

“Jaskier,” you whined between moans, “I’m almost there.”

“Just a little bit more, my darling, please,” he begged, almost as if his own pleasure were on the line. If he were to go by the sweet coiling sensation in his stomach, it might be. “Come for me, my darling.”

He gave you a few more hard, deep thrusts and you came unravelled around him, crying out his name in a high, broken voice. He thrust through your shuddering a few more times before a second orgasm hit him and he sobbed as it struck, dropping his forehead to your chest. He had nothing left to spill for you, but the feeling was still divine. He recovered first and kissed every part of you he could reach while you rode out the waves of your pleasure under him.

When your body finally came down you opened your eyes. Jaskier watched your eyes as you skimmed his face. He hoped that his staring would grant him this memory etched into his mind forever. With the final twitches of your body fading against his, he was certain that nothing would ever come quite this close to perfection again.

You reached up and cupped his face in one palm and he leaned into the touch, kissing your wrist before pulling out of you and rolling so he lay propped on his side next to you. You rolled sideways too, so you could look at each other.

Jaskier brought a hand up and skimmed the contours of your arm with his palm, committing the hard yet soft feel of them to memory.

“Devastating, hmm?” you asked after a moment. You gave him a sly smile.

“Awe-inspiring. Divine. Utterly-” he murmured before shaking his head. “Sorry.”

You cocked your head.

“Why are you sorry?”

Jaskier smiled and looked at his hand on your arm instead of at your face. He felt his ears grow warm.

“I just…” his mouth twitched as he searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to do this. It was brilliant, by the way, I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but you weren’t interested in me to begin with, and I don’t want to make it weird, I mean, we still have to travel together-”

“Jaskier.”

“-and I still want to be your friend after this, not to say I don’t think we could be, but I’d really like to keep the nice thing we had going instead of it getting, you know, weird-”

“Jaskier!” you said with more force.

He quieted and waited, uneasy for you to continue.

“Like I said, I turned you down before I knew you. I didn’t want to just jump into bed with someone about whom the only thing I knew was that you had a reputation of flitting from one fancy to the next,” you said, reaching out to touch his chest with your fingertips. “I’ve gotten to know you so much better since then. And if this is a one-time thing, then I think I can live with that now. I hope it’s not a one-time thing, not by any stretch, but if that’s all you want it to be, I’ll respect that.”

“I don’t want it to be one-time at all,” Jaskier blurted, gripping your arm in the hopes that he can convey the meaning through touch alone. “Darling, I’ve never met anyone like you and if you were to choose me over everyone else in this world, I would count myself the luckiest man in the realm. And I would serve you until my last breath.”

You blinked at him for a moment before a wide smile graced your face.

“Well in that case, my darling bard,” you said, pushing forward to roll him onto his back again, you straddled his hips and leaned down to kiss him. He sighed into you and took your arms in his hands, caressing the flesh with the pads of his thumbs. “You’ll be happy to hear that I chose you a long time ago.”

#jaskier x reader #jaskier #the witcher #reader insert

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fairymadnessyeah · 4 years

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A Bard in Kaer Morhen

Chapter 1: All Party Members are Here!

Find it in AO3!

Summary: After the battle of Soddon Hill and finding his surprise child, Geralt goes to Kaer Morhen to spend the winter and protect his company. What a surprise is he going to get when he finds he is not the only witcher who picked up strays and brought them to safety from the on-going war. Or that said person is so being so praised and spoilt by his brothers. He does care. He is happy for him. He is. ... ... Hm.

Notes: Hey! This is my first Witcher fic, so please be nice! I never had enough money to buy the games (I still don't) but I really got into the fandom when I watched the series! I re-visited it a few days ago and I couldn't get this idea out of my head! I doubt I will write another fic, not until I get enough to buy the book or the game, (probably the book, tho) or until the next season comes out. Sorry if this is too OCC, I tried to do my best!

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The scenery had turned into an icy and snowy deadland in what seemed like a blink of an eye. The travellers, a man with hair as white as the snow surrounding them, a girl who had been through hell and was still standing and two mages, one hurt and the other healing them. They had all come from a worse place though.

Sodden Hill had become a graveyard after the battle between Nilfgard and the mages. The reinforcements of king Foltest were keeping the attacking kingdom at bay, but it wouldn't last for long. People would say it was destiny that Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, was near to help the last surviving mages of the battle, but he only called it luck. Whether it was good or bad was yet to be decided. He had only been travelling with his Surprise child for less than 48hs when he came across a middle-aged woman and the mage from Temeria carrying an unconscious Yennifer.

Triss was wounded too, but it wasn't fatal, and while the two looked as if they were seconds from dropping to the ground, they were still holding on. The middle-aged woman, Tissaia de Vries, explained everything that was going on once they were on safer grounds.

She told him about the war and the decision The Chapter had come upon, along with their little resistance and then asked for him to take the two younger mages with him. She had clearly noticed the girl with him was Princess Cirila, the lioness cub of Cintra, and that he was protecting her. He accepted, but only because he didn't have a choice. Even if Yennifer had left him, the two were still bonded thanks to the Djinn and Triss had saved his life back on Temeria. He owned them both.

The rectress didn't join them. (Not that he would let her). She said something about drawing the attention away from her pupils. Since they were more powerful and younger than her, and therefore played a more important role in the war than her, she would sacrifice being followed and found (and whatever came after that) to give them more time to escape the war. Geralt suspected there was more to it than that, but it didn't seem to be his place to say that.

After farewells' were said between Triss and the rectress (and the unconscious Yennifer), the four made their way towards Kaer Morhen. Yennifer rode on top of Roach, Ciri and Tress by her side and him at the front, leading and protecting at the same time. Yennifer didn't wake up until a week after they set off and it took them another two weeks to arrive at witcher school.

When she woke up, both Tris and him had to physically stop her from going back to Tissaia's side. They were setting camp in the woods when she sat up from the floor with a start. Ciri, who was closest to her, got quite a fright and a scratch, when she tried to calm the sorceress. They somehow got her soothed enough to listen to them and explain the plan for the time being. The kingdoms of the country that weren't below in Nilfgards' reign were holding their attack back, so until she and Triss were ready to join the battlefield once more, they were to stay with the witcher. He would take them to Kaer Morhen, a place filled with witcher during the winter, a place which Nilfgard would have to be crazy to attack. Once the two mages were fine, they were free to leave. Cirila would stay with him up in the north until there wasn't a bounty on her head anymore or she could protect herself, whichever happened first.

They continued their journey the next day, although the air around them a little tense. The first-week Ciri and Triss had talked lightly about trivial things, but with Yen now awake things had turned awkward. It surprised Geralt that the purple-eyed woman was not angry at him, or at least not showing it. After the disastrous Dragon hunt, he imagined the next time they saw each other, she would try to slit his throat. But, alas, she still hadn't tried. Maybe she was too drained to be bothered by it.

He was too in some way. Finding the little princess had drained in ways he never experienced before, and the silence of the journey was weighing on him, strangely. It had never bothered him before, the quiet. But even when the tension between the three women dissipated and the three chattered normally, the feeling was still there. As if something was missing. He didn't understand it. When Jaskier talked and composed whenever they had travelled, he never felt this way.

As they made their way towards his home, the three females got better acquainted. They would trade who would ride on Roach, though Ciri spent more time there. She was still gaining her strength back and this way, they moved quickly. The two mages didn't seem to mind, as they told her stories and fables of magic and spells, the girl opened up to them, even confessing that she believes to have magic of her own. Geralt already suspected it and was planning to bring it up with her once they were in Kaer Morhen, but Yen and Triss beat him to it. They taught her how to hide it and control it so that it didn't explode, but nothing more. Magic lessons were hard when you were on the run.

Unfortunately, when the three ran out of things about themselves to talk about they moved on to talk about him. Ciri was naturally curious about the man who was now her... protector? (Yes, let's go with that. Protector) And her curiosity wasn't satisfied with his grunts and one-word responses, so when he proved fruitless, she asked the two mages. Who was too damn happy about answering her, even if it was the correct answer or not. Besides, he was less than 2 feet away from them, they could at least pretend he was there, right?

By the time they arrived at the snow-covered mountains, he was all too happy to end their little journey.

"Well, look who it is, Geralt of Rivia," Vesemir greeted him with an embrace and a few strong pats in his back when they reached the gate to the fortress. "You know, for a loner, you have the most company this year," the old man jokes as he turns to his companions.

Vesemir welcomes the three females and they go inside. They make a small stop at the stables where they leave Roach before Vesemir shows them to their rooms. Geralt can see they are not the first ones to arrive, other horses have already been left there.

"So, is this where you were born?" Ciri asks as they walk through the old stone hallways.

"No," Geralt grunts. "This is where I was taught how to be a witcher,"

"Am I going to be taught how to be a witcher too?"

"No," he responds too fast. "You'll learn how to protect yourself, in case you need to," he says sternly. He should be more considerate with her, after everything that's been going on, but he can't help it.

"Don't worry, little one," Vesemir tells her. "You'll probably be able to do anything a witcher can. And with good timing, business has never been better for witchers!"

"Hmmm?"

"But I people hate witchers?" Triss asks as confused as the rest of them.

"Well, yes, they do," Vesemir agrees. "But compared to the last century, these two last decades have been wonderful for us. Ever since the great Epic Hymns about The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia have been going around more and more people are requesting our services. Your tales are painting us in a better light. Your little bard is making our lives easier, you should really thank that little dandelion of yours," Vesemir tells them.

"Hmmm." if only he could. He hadn't seen or heard about Jaskier since the dragon fiasco. He had been busy, though. And after everything that had happened and had been said, he doubted his the bard would be happy to see him.

"Alright, this is your room ladies, right next to Geralt's," they finally arrive. "I will see if we have anything for you to wear and I'll make sure one of the boys brings you another bed. That thing might be big, but I doubt you three would be able to sleep comfortably," Vesemir tells them as they enter the chambers.

"Oh, no, please, that won't be necessary!" Triss tells the older man.

"We won't be here long," Yenn adds after Triss.

"Nonsense! It might not be as fancy here as a royal court or some other bullshit like that, but you are guest here! If my boys bring somebody here, they are special and they will be treated as they deserve!" the man declares and then turns to the younger witcher. "Supper will be at 10, you might want to take a bath before that," he chuckles and leaves, patting his shoulder a few times.

"Hmmm,"

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Geralt knocks on the door next to his chambers when it's time for dinner. Triss opens the door, letting him in. She is dressed in a simple, yet nice green dress. Probably made it herself. He doubted a place full of witchers owned something like that. When he comes inside, he sees Yen (also in a dress made by herself) braiding Ciri's hair in front of a mirror in the corner of the room. The princess, unlike the two mages, was wearing the clothes they used to give the younger witchers.

"Time for dinner," he announces.

"We are almost done, be a little more patient," Yenn tells him without taking her eyes off her hair.

"Hmmm,"

"What could you be so excited about? Having dinner with more brooding tall men?" Triss chuckles at her comment as Ciri smiles humoured.

"Hmmm,"

Yennifer sighs tiredly and a few seconds later puts the hair down. "Perfect," she compliments and the three start going towards the dining hall.

Geralt, while the three mages are blissfully unaware, has been losing his mind. Coming to Kaer Morhen is supposed to be a season for him to relax and be with his brothers, but ever since he arrived he keeps getting whiffs of nostalgia. Of honey mixed with cedarwood. Of cheap fragrance and dirt. Of the sweet aroma of dandelions. It brings shivers down his spine and it makes his chest ache. It reminds him of pubs and inns and life on the Path. Of a constant melody, right by his side, commenting and praising and joking, but most importantly, never stopping.

He must be losing his mind if a place like this reminds him of the bard. The only time he had ever been here was through his words. When his brothers asked him about Toss a coin and the bard who was telling the epic stories of his adventures. He had never brought Jaskiel here. At the moment, it seemed wrong to bring him to the cold and bitter snow of Kaer Morhen. So why was he smelling the bard in here? As if he was there? As if Geralt had never pushed him away.

"Do you hear that?" Ciri interrupts his inner musing. It makes everybody stop and listen.

On the halls of what should be a cold mountain, the soft sound of strings and music catches their attention. They all rush to the source. Or Geralt rushes as the other three follow him. Because he knew that music. He had heard it be sung in pubs, heard as it manifested in a melody, heard it born from a humming. As he opens the door to the dining hall, the cold stone hallway gets filled with light and warmth. The slow singing that had once been a slight whisper, is now in full blast as his brothers, probably drunk out of their minds, sing along. Or at least try, as the only man with an instrument and tuned voice strouts on top of one of the table, strumming his lute with careful fingers as if they danced around the stings.

"Toss a coin to your witcher,

O' Valley of plenty,

O' Valley of plenty,"

"Is that... ?"

'Jaskiel... ?'

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #princess cirilla #yennefer of vengerberg #triss merigold #yennefer and ciri #yennefer and geralt #kaer morhen #eskel #lambert #vesemir #witcher fic #ao3 link #fanfiction

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letmychaosexplode · 4 years

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Melinoe - The Witcher Alter Ego

Please note that my alter egos are more self inserts and how I imagine myself into my favourite fandoms, sometimes they may come across as very Mary-Sue but it’s all about self indulgence. Creating an alter ego, not an original character, for me has become a form of escapism and a way for me to cope with what is going on around me.

So this is the first in many posts I may make as I create and share my alter ego Melinoe from ‘The Witcher’ and pretend that I am powerful and cool like Melinoe is.

I have some fan fiction planned featuring Melinoe if anyone is interested in reading those.

This version of Melinoe is more based off the Netflix series. I will likely adept her to fit the books, comics and games in the future.

“They might call me, mad, but their opinions mean nothing to me. I know I am just more brilliant then they could ever hope to be.”

Name: Melinoe of Temeria.

Nicknames: Mel, I also like the idea of her being called Melz but it doesn’t really fit the time period.

Name significance: This is more an writer thing then something that’s significant in the universe. Melinoe is also the name of an Greek Goddess, Melinoe is Goddess of Nightmares and Madness - I named her after such a negative goddess because the idea I have of Melinoe she does suffer night terrors regularly as well as being regarded by many around her as “mad”. Melinoe was actually fired from her post for being “mad” but in realty is just very innovative and imaginative with what she has around her.

Gender: Cisgender female, Melinoe will be using traditional pronouns of she/her.

Age: At the start she is fifteen, but as time progresses Melinoe is late 60s. You have how the show’s timeline is - but she appears in her early twenties to those around her.

Birth date: I don’t think dates were tracked during this time period but I picture her born in the spring and in 1192. I did work this out with Yen being roughly fifteen-sixteen-seventeen when she’s brought to Aretuza and I picture them being fairly the same age.

Zodiac: I’ll only give the short version, but despite the zodiac not being invented my personal headcanon is that Melinoe is an Aries, with a moon in Taurus, and her ascendant in Capricorn.

Location: She starts off in Aretuza before eventually meeting with Yennefer at several points in time. Melinoe is present at the final battle also.

Birthplace: Temeria

Ethnicity: Ellanderan

Nationality: Temerian

Race: Human, white (on a side note I did consider making an elf character but they don’t play large parts in the Netflix series and my favourite character is Yennefer so I made an human sorceress instead.)

#The Witcher #Alter Ego #Original Character #Melinoe #Me: Trying To Create In Grief #Me: Just Distracting Myself From My Suffering #Me: Don't Mind Me #Livia Of Rivia Becomes Melinoe

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ladylilibet · 5 years

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Tainted Love|Chapter 4

I/II/III/IV/V Tainted Love – How can you tell a lady no? The White Wolf claimed he needed no one, but his collection of misfits started with Lady Helena of Oxenfurt… and ended with her, too.

Chapter IV: 𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝕿𝖎𝖒𝖊

Two seasons had flown by and landed the pair in the thralls of winter. Unbeknownst to Helena, a bounty sat on her head. She was being hunted by her father's men and her White Wolf wasn't alerted until she was all but cornered. Once captured, a deal was struck , a compromise was met . Her adventures were to be viewed as her studying abroad. Warranted freedom that was also an extension of her education. Her parents allowed this independence, yet still kept her on a short leash. She had to promise that she would send a letter home at each fort and would return in time for a summer wedding.

They never did pick up where they left off in the forest of Blaviken, often leaving her to wonder if it was a dream. They shared many baths, but other than stolen looks, nothing came of it. She stopped questioning her place as his ward once they stopped at a brothel a week ago.

The chill of the night made Helena tremble and shiver. She hugged her cloak closer and rested her head on Roach's shoulder with a sigh. She was kicked out of her room for non-payment -- the owner refused her broaches in place of coin. Geralt was able to finish his philandering but she couldn't even finish her meal.

"Don't judge me." Geralt told her he sauntered out of the brothel as he took note of her pouty lip. She responded with a half-hearted shrug. He turned to the brothel keep that was escorting him out, "I'll be back with payment in a few days. Anything happens to my horse..."

"You don't scare me," He snorted

Geralt glowered down at the shorter man who was now trembling. He demanded to know where Temeria is and the keep immediately pointed in the right direction.

Helena set forth, not sure of where she was going, but more than willing to keep a distance between her and Geralt. She had difficulty adjusting in the dark and could feel his eyes bore holes into her back as she stumbled every so often .

"Lena," He called out after watching her trip once more. She kept her pace and kept quiet. "Mind telling me what your problem is?"

She let out a sarcastic laugh, unable to bite her tongue, "Mind telling me what that was? To... tease me for months, only to bring me to a brothel and leave me to my own devices. A respected noblewoman surrounded by immodesty. I don't have experience with men, but what kind of mind games are you playing?"

Helena stopped to face him and questioned whether she was being daft given his emotionless expression . Ready to give up and forget it, she turned around, only to have him grab her wrist to stop her.

"I am still a man, Helena. Would you have preferred you to be the one to warm my bed?" Geralt provoked, voice gruff. She could feel the heat rise to her face and with her free hand, she slapped him across the face. A blow he expected but caused him to grimace nonetheless.

"I don't expect you to feel how I do --"

"Because I'm a Witcher?" An argument he always chose to default to whenever the pair bickered.

"No, you absolute dolt." Helena huffed and returned his glare. "forget it."

The pair continued to walk to Temeria in silence, but this time, side-by-side. They arrived within the mines and listened to the worker's demonstration.

"My son, rest his soul, told me in Nilfgaard the king diddled whores while his subjects starved. Then someone came: The Usurper.

And he rallied the people, and they took back what was theirs! I say we follow their lead!" The man's story was met with cheers from his comrades, but a chuckle from Geralt.

"You can't kill the Vukodlak so you decide to kill your king?" He asked in a condescending tone before pretending to think about it, "Great plan."

"Another fuckin' Witcher." He was met with distaste as some of the works spat at his feet, "Your kind already swindled us once."

"I take payment after the job is done and for a third of the price," The white-haired man corrected.

Helena nodded her head towards the workers, "An utmost apology from ours to yours."

The demonstrator seemed hesitant and looked to his fellow men for reassurance, "And if you can't kill it ?"

"Then I die." The Witcher responded matter-of-factly .

The march of armor caused the crowd to go tense; pick-axes were now held like weapons at the ready.

"Lower your weapons and return to your homes," A nobleman commanded, "Do so quickly and without further theatrics and you have my word that our king will not hear of this treason ."

"Foltest commits treason. He hides in his winter castle as we are eaten ." The demonstrator's argument met with more cheers.

"Mikal was a good boy." The nobleman told the man, feigning empathy as he clasped his hand on his shoulder. "Revenge will not ease your pain."

The mourning man removed his hand and spat at his feet. Forces were at the ready to clash but were called off with a waved of the hand.

"You know nothing of my pain." He left with his men following in suit.

Geralt sighed at their departure and looked to the nobleman, "Does Foltest have a plan?"

He ignored Geralt's question despite looking at him. "See this one to the borders. Temeria's had their fill of Witchers."

Knights escorted the pair with only the moon lighting their path. After walking for a short time, the four horsemen slumped off onto the cold ground as a fog surrounded the party.

As Helena opened her mouth to voice her concerns, her bones felt heavy. She struggled to breathe before she too fell in the snow. She could feel strong arms pick her up and cradle her. She strained to hear them speak, but their voices fell on her deaf ears. Feeling weak and unable to continue to fight the spell, she let herself be consumed by the darkness.

Helena awoke to the smell of incense that permeated the air. She blinked away the sleep in her eyes before sitting up to note her surroundings. Geralt's cloak tucked in around her and she drew the cloth closer to her frame. She attempted to call out for him, but her voice was hoarse and her mouth felt as if she swallowed sand. What little sound she could summon was enough to alert someone that she was awake. Footsteps made their way towards her.

"In my defense, I presumed you were also a sorceress. I didn't expect you to pass out." A melodic voice offered her. The speaker rounded the corner in tandem with Geralt, revealing herself. She was pretty and lithe, almost unnaturally so, with her honey skin dusted with freckles. She gave Helena a soft smile as she clasped her hands in front of her, "I'm Triss Merigold."

Helena strained to speak but was met with only a wheeze. She huffed as a blush crept up her cheeks, prompting Geralt to laugh. He strode towards her and patted her back before introducing her.

"she means to say she's Helena."

"I can fetch a maid to bring you some tea if you'd like," Triss offered. At Helena's quick nodding, she continued, "Though King Foltest didn't prepare for your arrivals, I'm sure I can get you two settled in the guest chambers . Would you like to room together or separate?"

"Separate." The pair spoke in unison, though Helena's response was more of a croak.

Triss nodded, her soft smile now contorted into a smirk, and left to have their rooms readied.

Helena would be lying to herself if she said she didn't mind having a bed all to herself. She could stretch out and didn't have to deal with Geralt's tossing and turning. And yet she still missed him sleeping next to her.

She sat up and stretched with a sigh. Was it unfair for her to still be annoyed with him? He owed her nothing. After all, they weren't a couple. She was betrothed to another man. And yet…

" I think I'm falling for him," Helena slumped back into the bed with a groan and ran her fingers through her hair.

She mentally wrestled with this conclusion. As she did, her bedroom door flew open, causing her to shriek and clutch the duvet to her, hiding her dressing gown.

Geralt stood at the entrance, a small grin played on his lips. Speak of the devil.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" She huffed with a scowl, which caused him to smile more.

"Glad you have your voice back. Pack your things."

"Why?"

"I... may have accused Foltest of fucking his sister."

Helena rubbed her temples, "So we're leaving?"

"No, of course not. We have a curse to break."

The duo stood outside the abandoned castle that housed the Striga. Geralt had given her the full run-down. Princess Adda, Foltest's sister, was presumably cursed during her pregnancy. She and the child died during birth and the stillborn grew into a Striga. A beast with an insatiable appetite that was powerful to kill a Witcher once before.

The wind blew causing the old castle walls to groan. The men on guard shuddered and flinched at every small noise. Their knuckles were white as they held their weapons at the ready.

"You were told to leave Temeria," Triss said as she approached them.

Geralt replied in a flat tone as he gestured around him, "But come on. These views."

"Are you going to kill her?"

"I don't want the miner's coin."

"Or mine, apparently ." Triss accused, eyeing them both. "What is this girl to you? Why do you care?"

"You first. I saw how Foltest and his boy spoke to you. Why help those who won't listen?"

The other woman sighed. Accepting that she wouldn't win this argument, "And how do you plan on getting past the guards?"

Helena picked up a large rock amongst the rubble and tossed it overhand behind the guards. At the sudden commotion, they abandoned post with their tails between their legs. She looked to the others with a smug smile.

The group wandered into the castle and Geralt tried each locked door. Helena regarded the skeletal remains that littered the floor.

"Temeria reeks of secrets. I could sense them," Triss spoke, " Just like I could these bodies before we entered. I imagine you sense them, too."

Though she was speaking to Geralt, he didn't reply, causing Helena to respond to him.

"A big, spooky castle has dead bodies in it? How revolutionary."

Triss rolled her eyes and stopped to view a painting, "Foltest and Adda. Whatever happened to them?"

Helena shook her head, unsure. The sorceress looked to Geralt, hoping to get a response from him, but got nothing.

"Not answering questions is a pillar of his brooding charm," Helena answered.

"I'm pretty sure Foltest is the father," Geralt kept walking as he ignored the women. They followed him in silence until they reached the master bedroom.

"Do you think he cursed her?" Triss questioned. When she only received a quirked brow from Geralt and a blank stare from Helena, she clarified. "Foltest."

" Maybe ."

Geralt sniffed the air around the bed as Triss played with a music box. The eerie tune made Helena more on edge as it added to the ominous presence. The music stopped, the noise of tinkering followed, then Triss called out.

"Guys. Letters from Queen Sancia, Foltest and Adda's mother.

'My dearest Adda, you must leave your room one day soon, my child. You must maintain your strength. Despite the crimes you have committed against the crown, you remain my only one, my little girl. Understand that you and Foltest may not see one another again so that your sin cannot be repeated'..." Triss trailed off and stopped reading the letter.

"Looks like you were right, Geralt." Helena quipped with a crinkled nose and a shudder.

Unsure of the next step, Triss suggested they take the letter to the king's courtier, Ostrit.

"A Queen Mother cursing her own children for their affair," With a click of his tongue, Ostrit tossed the parchment onto his desk . "This could destroy the throne."

They asked questions such as whether the Queen Mother had any ties to dark sorcery. These letters now making her a prime suspect. None of these questions seemed to strike a chord with Ostrit, but one.

"What was your relationship with Adda?" Helena asked.

The older man faltered but attempted to act indifferent, "Well, I like to think that she saw me as a confidant. A protector, even. She could be naive."

"Did she ever mention her relationship with Foltest?"

" Certainly not like this," He replied, gesturing to the letter.

Triss furrowed her brow, "She was ashamed .

"Or she was frightened ." Ostrit offered, "What if the relationship was not... consensual?"

Helena crossed her arms with a frown, "You think he raped his own sister and then cursed the child to cover it up?"

"Kings have done more for less."

"True," Geralt nodded as he stepped towards the courtier. "But there is one small wrinkle, though. Your scent was on her sheets. Old ones... and new ones."

"Geralt, what would he be doing in a dead girl's bed?"

"I could smell what he was doing." His tone was dark and the realization hit her, causing her to cringe.

Ostrit began to tremble and cried out, "Foltest had no right! He seduced Adda. He abused his position. He was always nagging her for attention. But he didn't love her. I did!"

"You cursed the woman you loved?" Triss spat as her hands formed fists.

"I cursed Foltest, not her."

"Countless are dead because of your jealousy."

"Countless are dead because of Foltest! He spoiled Adda with his seed. He refuses to kill this striga. He lies to his people. And yet you wag a finger in my face."

"Cool motive, still murder." Helena jeered, "If you wanted him to suffer, you could have just exposed the affair."

"And hurt Adda? Never. Her memory will not be sullied while I'm alive to protect it."

"Your actions led to her death regardless. You weren't protecting her."

Geralt cut off Helena and looked down his nose at Ostrit, "Tell us how to lift the curse."

"No," He stated with a defiant glint in his eyes, "Foltest will watch as Temeria turns against him. Just as he turned Adda against me."

Geralt hummed and punched the man, knocking him out cold.

Helena checked each tip of her arrow was sharp enough as the full moon neared. Once she satisfied, she put the last bow in her quiver and tightened her straps. Geralt readied his own things and once he saw she was prepared , he stood with a sigh.

"Look, Lena..." He began as he scratched the back of his neck.

She raised a brow. Was he about to apologize? Make any sudden declarations?

"You're going to sit this one out," He continued, "It's too risky. It's not the same as fighting a ghoul."

"Do you not think I'm ready?"

"Lena, please don't start. Triss will look after you. I'll see you when the sun rises." He squeezed her shoulder as a goodbye before taking off.

Helena looked to Triss with a scowl who threw her arms up in mock surrender.

"I'm not the one who told him he should make you stay."

"He keeps treating me like a child. He makes me practice combat every day, and for what?"

"Are you going to follow him?"

She paused, having not considered that as an option, then nodded. She grabbed the last of her things before leaving the sorceress behind.

"Okay, but if Geralt asks, I put up more of a fight!" Triss called after her.

She sat holed up as she listened to the terrible screams of the Striga. Her vantage point wasn't the greatest. Though she could see that this was the ugliest beast she had yet to encounter. As she watched the fight take place, she cheered Geralt on. But once the Striga broke free of the chain Geralt bound her in --

"Fuck," Geralt and Helena uttered in unison.

The creature tackled and pinned the Witcher to the ground as he struggled under her weight. With a piercing screech, the Striga had overtaken him and her spit pooled on his face. He attempted to grab his sword, only to have it knocked away and out of reach.

Helena drew her bow back and paused. With a deep breath, she released and the broad sharp pierced its shoulder. The beast reared with an unpleasant cry. Though it was now distracted from Geralt, the beast's attention was now on Helena. Before she could position another bow, the Witcher used the symbol Aard. Thrusting both him and the Striga through the stone floor and onto the lower level with a heavy thud.

Helena scrambled from her hiding spot and raced to the second floor. She was trembling as she attempted to use her bow to steady herself. She looked at the Striga who lay motionless then to Geralt as he inspected a broken vial.

"Is it dead?" She asked, nudging the creature with her foot.

The White Wolf threw the broken glass and scowled at her with bared teeth, "You disobeyed me."

The young girl clutched her bow tighter and avoided his gaze. She mumbled about how it was Triss's idea for her to come. He towered over her, face stern but eyes soft, as he clasped her hand.

"You have to trust me as I trust you. If we are to be a team, I need you to follow my instinct."

He gave her wrist a soft squeeze and let go, walking off to the crypt's entrance and placing a protection ward.

"I'm here now," Helena called after him, voice shaky. "So what do we do?"

"Keep the Striga out of her crypt 'til dawn."

"Simple enough." With a final look at the beast, she took her station at Geralt's side as he tested the ward.

Moments later when she went to check on the Striga, she noticed it had gone. Before she could even voice her concerns, the beast tackled her. Its weight enough to bring them both hard on the ground. Helena cried out for Geralt as claws dug into her shoulders. She pressed her bow against the creature's neck, pushing it off. The wood splintered and broke under the force.

Geralt grabbed the Striga. In retaliation, the Striga tossed him into a stone pillar, treating him as if he was a ragdoll. With a final blow to the Witcher, the beast retreated to the crypt only to be blown back by the protection charm. Furious, the Striga ran to assault Geralt once more. He was ready this time and punched it back with a pair of brass knuckles.

Sunlight infiltrated the castle -- they finally made it to dawn. Geralt picked Helena up and carried her as they ran to the tomb. He threw them back into the coffin. He clutched her to his chest as he closed the lid and sealed it with a protection charm. Helena buried her nose into his tunic as a feeble attempt to hide from the scent of death and decay. He stroked her back as they lay waiting. Once they heard the rooster crow for the third time, Geralt opened the coffin and helped them both out.

The Striga was now transformed into a human but lay bloody and shivering. Geralt approached her. The small movement was enough to spook her and she attacked him. She bit deep into his jugular.

As he bled out and succumbed to darkness, she inched away. Terrified eyes locked with Helena's. Helena wanted to scream, cry, anything, but she knew it would further frighten the girl.

Helena held her hands up to show she no longer had her weapon. Her face was soft and she cooed to the girl as if she was speaking to a stray dog on the street.

"Hi there, Princess. I'm not going to hurt you." Helena slowly took off her cloak and tossed it at her feet. She mimed shivering and pretended to wrap an invisible cloak around herself. "Brrr, cold."

Apprehensively, she stood and put on the cloak as she followed Helena's lead.

Helena stepped towards her, causing the other girl to flinch at each step. "Outside." She pointed and rubbed her belly, "Find food."

Together they walked out of the castle -- Helena kept her distance as the other struggled to walk. At the end of the bridge, Foltest and his men waited. The princess eyed them suspiciously and looked to Helena who gave a reassuring smile and a nod.

With no time to help reunite the estranged daughter and father, Helena went back to tend to Geralt. She thanked Melitele that he was still breathing. She knew that she didn't have the strength to drag him out alone, so she would need to nurse his wounds where he lay.

She grabbed her satchel and rummaged for her things. With a rag, she held pressure to the bite and her free hand brushed his stray hair out of his face. Once assured that the bleeding had stopped, she grabbed her bottle of vodka. She poured it onto the wound to clean it. The burning was enough to wake him; his golden eyes shot open and he clenched his jaw.

Ignoring him, Helena dressed the wound tight and secure. Satisfied with her work, she hummed and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I'll put some salve on it later. It looks like it'll lead to a nasty scar."

"Add it to my collection." Geralt tried to sit up but was met with a small hand to his chest, pushing him back. He sighed and strained to look around.

"She's with Foltest," Helena answered. "You were magnificent, Geralt. You could have killed her and yet..." She shook her head and exhaled, "Look, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

Before she could ramble, Helena was cut off with a deep kiss. She stiffened and didn't return it and instead broke away. Geralt seemed pained by the rejection which she quickly shook off.

"You're just... covered in a lot of blood."

"Oh," He blinked. "That I am."

"We can try again later." She assured with a laugh. She rose and walked over to where her weapon lay. The bow was completely splintered and Helena grimaced, casting it aside.

"Time you learned how to wield a sword. Lucky for you, I know a good master."

#witcher fanfiction #witcher oc #geraltxoc #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #taintedlove|

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 4 years

Text

honeysuckle & chamomile

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Scent

Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Tags: Established relationship; Long distance relationship; Non-explicit sexual content; Pining; Canon-typical violence; Minor Geralt/Yennefer; A little bit of Jaskier whump for flavor

Summary: The Path takes Eskel and Jaskier to different parts of the Continent far too often. One of Eskel’s shirts always smells like Jaskier, reminding him of home.

It starts, as far too many things in Eskel’s life do, with ichor.

“Well, fuck.” Jaskier looks down in dismay at the ruined doublet in his hands. “This was Elihal’s work too. He’ll be furious when he sees what I’ve done to his craftsmanship. He may fire me as a customer.”

“Told you to stay back.” Eskel crosses his arms over his chest and tries to look stern.

“But, darling, I’d never seen a harpy before. I had to get closer.”

Eskel snorts. “Let me guess, you were expecting a beautiful woman with wings.”

“Well, yes.” Jaskier grimaces. “Have to say, I wasn’t expecting the beak. Or the talons. Those were rather disconcerting.”

“Apologies, I usually don’t seek out contracts based on the attractiveness of the monster.”

“Witchers.” Jaskier shakes his head despairingly.

Eskel sighs and retrieves one of his shirts from his pack. It’s his best shirt, a rich reddish brown color with no holes or stains. “Here, wear this. We’ll find you a tailor tomorrow.

Jaskier takes the shirt with a grateful smile. “You’re too good to me.”

Eskel putters around their room at the inn, putting away his bottles of potion and tucking the payment for the harpies away in his saddlebag. When he turns around, he stares. Jaskier is sitting on the bed, poring over his notes and wearing nothing but Eskel’s shirt and a pair of smallclothes. The shirt is far too big on Jaskier, as expected. He’s not a small man, broad-shouldered and long-legged, but he has nothing on a witcher’s bulk. The shirt hangs low, showing off quite a bit of chest hair, and is slipping off one shoulder.

Jaskier catches him staring and grins. “Like what you see?”

“I always do.” Eskel’s voice is low and husky.

“Why don’t you come over here and show me how much?”

Eskel is only too happy to comply.

***

They part ways in Temeria, Jaskier to head to Ellander to meet Geralt and Eskel to travel through Velen to pick up contracts. They make plans to meet up in a few month’s time, but Eskel still watches Jaskier go with a heavy heart.

He’s been saying goodbye to Jaskier for years now, ever since that fateful winter where Geralt brought the bard to Kaer Morhen for the first time. It never gets easier.

The next day, Eskel takes the red shirt out of his pack and puts it on. He’s immediately hit with the scents of Jaskier— the honeysuckle and chamomile perfume he favors, lye soap, the mint leaves he chews to keep his breath fresh. Eskel closes his eyes and breathes deeply, imagining that Jaskier is here with him, and the knot of sadness in his chest eases slightly.

He wears the shirt sparingly, wanting to keep Jaskier’s scent as long as possible. He sleeps with it folded next to his head at night, so he can breathe in the scents of honeysuckle and chamomile and dream that Jaskier is curled up next to him, warm and safe in Eskel’s arms, instead of halfway across the Continent with Geralt.

***

The smell has just faded the next time Eskel meets up with Jaskier for a night. He finds himself coming up with excuses to let Jaskier wear his shirt. He’s sure the bard sees right through them, but Jaskier doesn’t say anything, seeming content to trade his elegant silks for Eskel’s simple cotton shirt. He keeps it on while they fuck, slowly and sweetly, and the next day, the shirt smells like the both of them mixed together.

“I’ll see you soon,” Jaskier whispers when they part ways, pressing kiss after kiss to Eskel’s face.

It feels impossible to let him go, not when he’s looking up at Eskel with those big blue eyes, but Eskel knows he has to, because Jaskier needs to get back to Geralt. Jaskier has been Geralt’s bard, best friend, and travel companion for nearly twenty years now. Eskel can’t bring himself to come between them, no matter how much a selfish little part of him wants to.

“Until next time, songbird.” Eskel squeezes his hands and turns to leave, the smell of Jaskier still lingering on his skin and clothes.

***

Not a week later, a griffin’s claws slice through the front of the shirt, just managing not to slice through Eskel as well. Normally, he would patch it up himself, even though his hands are large and clumsy and his needlework looks like that of a drunk toddler, but the shirt still smells like Jaskier, like love and safety and home. He pays a seamstress to patch it up. She does such a good job that it’s hardly noticeable that there was a tear. Eskel knows it was a waste of coin, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

***

Eskel smells the fear and the blood before he hears the shouting. He spurs Scorpion on faster, galloping through the streets of the picturesque little village where he left Jaskier while he tracked the katakan that has been preying on the locals.

As soon as Eskel makes it to the town square, he realizes that he should have let the katakan continue its reign of terror.

Jaskier is tied between two posts, chest heaving, brow slicked with sweat, and eyes wide with fear. He’s wearing Eskel’s red shirt and it's hanging low on his chest, showing off the thin, shallow cut on his collar bone. Blood stains the neckline. There’s a group of men surrounding him, with a larger crowd gathered to watch. The air hums with that vicious mixture of righteous fury, horror, and titillation that only seems to occur at scenes like this one.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Eskel roars. He’s never been one to shout or get angry. He’s a large man with a scarred face; he normally takes pains to not appear threatening. But the alderman is holding a knife that’s red with Jaskier’s blood and Eskel is enraged.

Everyone turns to Eskel with wide eyes.

“You were gone for three days, witcher!” The alderman tries to infuse his voice with authority, but it wavers too much to be effective.

“I told you it would take me time to track your monster.” Eskel throws the katakan’s head at the man’s feet, enjoying his flinch. “Why is my travel companion tied up and bleeding?”

There’s a long, ugly silence.

It’s Jaskier who speaks, voice hoarse. “They thought you had run off with their coin. They were going to make a cut for every ducat they thought you’d stolen from them.”

Eskel was paid two hundred ducats up front for this job. That’s two hundred cuts these monsters were going to leave on Jaskier’s skin. It would have been a slow, torturous death. Eskel doesn’t realize he’s drawn his sword until he hears the screams from the assembled humans and sees the alderman’s eyes bug out with terror. Eskel is almost to the alderman, sword raised to strike, when Jaskier cries, “Eskel, no!”

Eskel turns to look at his lover.

Tears are sliding down Jaskier’s cheeks. “Eskel, don’t, please. Let’s just go. Please.”

Eskel remembers Blaviken and the years after, when witchers were even more hated and feared than usual. He remembers how hard Jaskier has worked for nearly two decades to undo that damage.

“Please,” Jaskier says again, voice cracking, and Eskel cuts through the rope binding him to the posts. The bard collapses into his arms and Eskel holds him close, breathing in the scents of sour fear and coppery blood.

For a moment, he wonders if another Blaviken would really be so bad.

Jaskier’s fists clutch the front of his armor, like he knows what Eskel is thinking. “Let’s get out of here.”

Eskel nods, then turns to the alderman with a snarl, causing the man to flinch back. “We’re going to go get our things from the inn and then we’re leaving. Anyone tries to stop us, they die.”

The alderman nods frantically.

They make camp about ten miles from the town. Eskel cleans and bandages the cut on Jaskier’s collarbone, trying not to think about what would have happened if he had been only a few minutes later, then curls up with his bard on his bedroll. He holds Jaskier until the smell of terror has receded and Jaskier’s heartbeat has slowed to normal.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier keeps murmuring. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

They’re able to get the bloodstain out of the red shirt, but the smell of blood and fear seems to linger. After they meet up with Geralt and part ways, Eskel has to stuff it in the bottom of his pack, unable to look at it.

***

When Eskel meets Jaskier in Oxenfurt, where Jaskier is teaching a summer course, they hole up in Jaskier’s rooms for three days, kissing and cuddling and fucking until their scents are so mingled that Eskel can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. The wound on Jaskier’s collarbone didn’t even leave a scar and Eskel presses kiss after kiss to the unblemished skin, filling his nostrils with the scent of honeysuckle and chamomile and trying to forget what Jaskier’s fear smells like.

“I wish we could do this more often,” Jaskier murmurs on Eskel’s third day in Oxenfurt. “Shut ourselves away from the world.”

“Me too.” Eskel nuzzles at his hair. “But you have songs to sing and I have monsters to hunt.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Jaskier sighs mournfully. “I just miss you so much when we’re not together, dear heart.”

For a moment, Eskel thinks about suggesting that he stay in Oxenfurt until the term ends in two weeks and then traveling together for a bit, before he remembers that Geralt is coming to meet Jaskier soon so they can travel north through Kovir and Poviss together. Eskel doesn’t want to put Jaskier in an awkward position of having to choose between his best friend and his lover.

So he just kisses away Jaskier’s frown, already missing the bard in his arms.

***

By the time the leaves begin to change colors, the smell of Jaskier has faded from the red shirt again. Eskel still sleeps with it next to his head every night, more out of habit than anything. In only a matter of months, he’ll travel to Kaer Morhen for the winter and see Jaskier, along with Geralt, Lambert, Coën, and Vesemir. But that’s still months of falling asleep alone every night and being surrounded by nothing but the scents of horse, ichor, and bitter potions.

It’s almost Saovine when he stops in a small town in southern Kaedwen that posted a contract for something dragging travelers off the road. While he’s stabling Scorpion, another horse bumps the back of his neck with its nose and he turns and finds himself face to face with Roach.

“Hey, girl,” he tells her. When she bumps him in the shoulder with her nose, he tells her, “I know Geralt doesn’t let you have sugar cubes.”

She snorts in protest. It’s a convincing enough argument for Eskel, who hands over two sugar cubes. Then it registers that if Roach and Geralt are here, Jaskier is almost certainly here too. Just the thought has a smile tugging the corner of his lips.

He heads for the inn, heart lifting when he hears the upbeat sound of a lute playing. When he pushes open the door, there Jaskier is, resplendent in a bright green doublet, dancing around in circles as he plays a truly filthy ditty about a rusalka and a sailor. Eskel grins, imagining the lecture Geralt will probably give the bard about the fact the rusalki prefer streams and ponds, places where sailors don’t normally travel. He looks for the shadowiest table in the tavern and sure enough, there’s Geralt. To Eskel’s surprise, Yennefer is with him.

Geralt turns, lips quirking upwards, as Eskel crosses the tavern. He stands and Eskel pulls him into a hug.

“Guessing the contract is taken care of?” Eskel asks.

Geralt nods. “Just foglets. Only got half what the contract offered anyway. Not worth your time.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Jaskier and I will be getting you your money.” Yennefer smiles her sweetest smile, which usually means she’s plotting a minor maiming. “Hello, Eskel. You just missed Jaskier’s third rendition of ‘Toss a Coin.’”

“Shame.” Eskel settles down at the table. He can tell Jaskier was recently sitting in this chair; the scent of honeysuckle and chamomile lingers. His lover still hasn’t noticed him; he currently has his leg propped up on the bar and his pounding his foot along to the music. “I like this one. Don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

Geralt grumbles under his breath about rusalki not being able to survive in salt water. Yennefer pats him on the hand.

“I’ll take this over the sad love songs he’s been singing lately,” she says.

Eskel frowns. “Sad love songs?”

“He’s missed you,” Geralt tells him. “The longer you two are apart, the sadder the songs get.”

“The latest is called ‘Teardrops on My Lute,’” Yennefer says. “I may turn his tongue into a slug if I hear it again.”

Eskel doesn’t know what to do with that. He knew Jaskier missed him when they’re apart, but he didn’t realize it was to the point where Jaskier was singing sad songs about him.

“I’ll give you two time to catch up.” Yennefer rises to her feet, her hand coming to rest on the top of Geralt’s head.

Geralt hums and leans into the touch. “I’ll be up soon.”

After she walks away, Eskel and Geralt are quiet for a moment, watching as Jaskier begins to serenade a table of tittering young women.

“He’s a good travel companion.” Geralt says.

Eskel nods, unable to take his eyes off their bard.

“He wasn’t, when we first started traveling together. Couldn’t light a fire for shit, cried the first time I killed a rabbit in front of him for dinner. Got us kicked out of half the inns in the Northern Kingdoms for chasing the wrong skirts. But he grew up a lot. Calmed down. He’s good to have around. Hardly ever gets in trouble anymore. What happened in that town last spring was an isolated incident.”

Eskel hardly ever hears such an impassioned speech from his brother. “I know. When we do travel together, it’s nice.”

“Oh,” Geralt says. He’s quiet for a minute. “Then why don’t you want to travel with him more?”

Eskel stares at him. “What?”

“He’d be happy to spend more time about you,” Geralt says.

“But what about you?”

“What about me? I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s my best friend. I like having him around, but I want him to be happy. And you too.” Geralt shrugs. “Don’t want to hear ‘Teardrops on my Lute’ anymore either.”

Before Eskel can think of a reply, the music abruptly comes to a stop. A moment later, he finds himself with a lapful of bard, enveloped in the familiar scents of Jaskier. Of home. Eskel buries his face in the side of Jaskier’s neck, ignoring the catcalls from some of the drunks at the bar.

“You’re here,” Jaskier murmurs.

Eskel squeezes him close. “I’m here.”

Geralt finishes his ale in one gulp. “Going to go join Yenn upstairs.”

“Don’t run off on our account,” Jaskier says.

“Don’t need to watch you making cow eyes at my brother. Already going to have to put up with it all winter.”

“Oh, like you don’t give our dear Yennefer the same looks when you don’t think anyone is watching.”

Geralt only hums in reply and heads upstairs.

Jaskier presses a kiss against Eskel’s temple. “It looks like I have a room all to myself tonight, since Geralt’s going to be otherwise occupied. Care to join me?”

Eskel grins. “Can’t say no to an offer like that.”

They spend hours reacquainting themselves with each other after their months apart. For a long time, Eskel just presses Jaskier down into the mattress, kissing the bard until he’s squirming underneath him and the scent of lust is so heavy in the air that it’s all Eskel can smell. He takes his time taking Jaskier apart, because they have nowhere to be. When they’re done, and Jaskier is boneless next to him on the bed, cheeks pink, hair mussed, and lovebites decorating his throat and chest, Eskel holds him close.

He wants this all the time. He doesn’t want to leave this town in the morning and not see Jaskier again until Kaer Morhen.

“Come with me tomorrow,” he hears himself saying.

Jaskier, whose hands were tracing a pattern on Eskel’s stomach, goes still. “Where to?”

“Was going to travel around Kaedwen, picking up contracts until it’s time to go to Kaer Morhen. You could come with me, unless you and Geralt had somewhere you were planning to go.”

“No! I just…” For once, Jaskier seems lost for words. “I didn’t think you wanted to travel with me, Eskel. And who could blame you? Last time we met up on the Path, I nearly got killed.”

“That wasn’t your fault.” Eskel presses a kiss to his collarbone. “None of that was your fault. I never asked you to come with me before because I didn’t want to come between you and Geralt. You two have been traveling together for a long time and—”

Jaskier kisses him fiercely. “Geralt is my best friend in the world, I love him like a brother, and I cherish the time I spent with him. But we’ve known each other for twenty years, Eskel. We can’t spend all of our time together! Honestly, after two or three weeks in each other’s company, we usually get in a fight about something stupid and he drops me off in the nearest town.”

Eskel blinks. “Oh.”

Jaskier rests his head against Eskel’s. “I would love to travel with you, my love. For however long you want me.”

“I’m always going to want you, songbird.”

“Well then,” Jaskier says softly. “You’re always going to have me, then.”

***

The red shirt smells like Jaskier again, like honeysuckle and chamomile, like home and safety and love. Jaskier wears it to sleep every night as he curls up next to Eskel, his arm around Eskel’s waist and his head on his shoulder. And when they are apart— so that Eskel can go on a particularly dangerous hunt or Jaskier can meet up with Geralt for a few weeks— Eskel keeps it close, comforted by the scent of the bard he loves and knowing that it’s only a matter of time before they’re back together again.

***

Tag list: @maya-the-yellow-bee @kueble @buttercupsanddandelions

#the witcher #jaskel #jeskel #eskel x jaskier #eskel/jaskier #eskel #jaskier #my writing #my fic

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