#dusky roach

[onenicebugperday]

@sketch-wolf submitted: I’d like some help with this one since no site on norwegian bugs had anything like it (so it might be a nymph??). apologies for the poor pic, it was too tiny and shiny for me to get a better one. but some additional details i could see with my eyes was it appeared to have at least one set of translucent wings folded over it’s dark brown body, said body had many segments, and it ended in two tiny tails. Location is south-east norway.

It’s a cockroach! Looks like a dusky cockroach nymph to me, and that’s the most common in your area. That species does not infest homes, just occasionally wanders inside. Harmless lil fella.

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Dusky Cockroach - Ectobius lapponicus

In a proliferating ecosystem, there needs to be ample detritivores to help cleanse the ground and remove decaying matter so that new life can flourish. Some of us may look down on them, especially since a few of these detritivores prefer the urban lifestyle and bring some bad habits with them, but overall these hardy insects are essential and do tremendous good. If you’re skittish about them, at least they prefer to hide in the darkness and keep out of sight. If disturbed, they can sprint quickly regardless of surface! For my observations, they can go over, under and scale plants thoughtfully despite their quick speed. And if there’s nowhere to run, the males can fly reasonably well to escape, and I speculate that females do the same (I have not seen a female Dusky Roach in flight). The former may have longer wings than the latter, but even the best flying Roaches prefer to run away from danger and the conceal their flattened bodies in any crevice or alcove of soil they can squeeze into. On the subject of males and females, while a majority of this post focuses on several male individuals crawling among the greenery, the first 2 images are a more important find. If there was any doubt that the two were distinct species, the finding of a mating pair should clarify that the slimmer, darker male and the rounder, amber female are both E. lapponicus. 

Remember that in the insect world it’s not unusually for there to be profound differences between male and female specimens. The differences could be so much so that to the uninitiated they appear to be 2 entirely difference species. One of my favorite examples to demonstrate this phenomenon are the winged False Honey Ant alates. One large, one small, and yet they still fit in the same colony! Leaders of Termite colonies (close relatives of Roaches) also have differences between them that could lead to the same idea, and yet they are likely to be the same specie. Unlike the more matriarchal Hymenopteran system, Blattodean colonies feature a Queen Termite and a King Termite,  and if you’re curious, I do recommend you search up both to see the differences for yourself. Besides specimen differences, the reason I mention all of this is that while Roaches don’t form colonies the way Termites would, they can form highly social aggregations that are a few steps away from eusocial. Dusky Roaches strike me more as the type to form aggregations and cooperate when need be, while other species are more gregarious and make collective decisions on where to travel to and/or find food. That behavior sounds very familiar...a certain type of beloved fuzzy, flying insect that cooperate for a common goal. 

Pictures were taken on July 9, 2022 near Kleinburg village with a Google Pixel 4.

[atomarium]

your ask box wanted an ask in it

do you like fish

Who doesn't

I like all kinds of fishes

Here is my top 250 fishes

1. Salmon

2. Tuna

3. Cod

4. Trout

5. Bass

6. Snapper

7. Mackerel

8. Halibut

9. Swordfish

10. Sardines

11. Haddock

12. Flounder

13. Mahi-mahi

14. Catfish

15. Perch

16. Tilapia

17. Carp

18. Pike

19. Anchovy

20. Herring

21. Grouper

22. Sole

23. Barracuda

24. Bluefish

25. Redfish

26. Wahoo

27. Pompano

28. Yellowtail

29. Rockfish

30. Bluegill

31. Walleye

32. Whitefish

33. Rainbow trout

34. Lingcod

35. Skate

36. Bluefin tuna

37. Striped bass

38. Marlin

39. Sturgeon

40. Eel

41. Butterfish

42. Wolffish

43. Opah

44. Tilefish

45. Drum

46. Tilapia

47. Gurnard

48. Threadfin

49. Monkfish

50. Opaleye

51. Triggerfish

52. Cutlassfish

53. Pomfret

54. Bullhead

55. Croaker

56. Tautog

57. Sheepshead

58. Wrasse

59. Parrotfish

60. Hogfish

61. Porgy

62. Permit

63. Amberjack

64. Bonito

65. Tilefish

66. Croaker

67. Hogfish

68. Mullet

69. Ribbonfish

70. Drum

71. Saury

72. Tarpon

73. Mullet

74. Bluefish

75. Garfish

76. Wels catfish

77. Gizzard shad

78. Bowfin

79. Stickleback

80. Freshwater drum

81. Sucker

82. Bullhead

83. Sculpin

84. Mooneye

85. Goby

86. Chub

87. Mudminnow

88. Dace

89. Silverside

90. Lamprey

91. Minnow

92. Darter

93. Smelt

94. Sunfish

95. Sturgeon

96. Shad

97. Sablefish

98. Greenland cod

99. Hake

100. Grenadier

101. Cobia

102. Tilefish

103. Pollack

104. Oarfish

105. John Dory

106. Swai

107. Largemouth bass

108. Atlantic cod

109. Kingfish

110. Wolffish

111. Skate

112. Arctic char

113. Goby

114. Lumpfish

115. Gourami

116. Gar

117. Codling

118. Butterfish

119. Blenny

120. Wrasse

121. Roach

122. Rainbow smelt

123. Peacock bass

124. Pompano

125. Pikeperch

126. Minnow

127. Leatherjacket

128. Jackfish

129. Halibut

130. Gurnard

131. Grouper

132. Grunion

133. Grunt

134. Greenling

135. Grayling

136. Gray mullet

137. Grass carp

138. Goldfish

139. Golden perch

140. Ghost carp

141. Garfish

142. Fusilier

143. Flathead

144. Filefish

145. Electric eel

146. Dogfish

147. Doctor fish

148. Dory

149. Dolphin fish

150. Dolly Varden

151. Dogfish

152. Drum

153. Dusky grouper

154. Dunkleosteus

155. Dusky shark

156. Duckbill

157. Driftfish

158. Dragonet

159. Dorado

160. Donzella

161. Dolphinfish

162. Dogfish

163. Dogtooth tuna

164. Dogfish

165. Dory

166. Dusky grouper

167. Dunkleosteus

168. Dusky shark

169. Duckbill

170. Driftfish

171. Dragonet

172. Dorado

173. Donzella

174. Dolphinfish

175. Dogfish

176. Dogtooth tuna

177. Eel

178. Emperor

179. Eleuth

180. Elephantfish

181. Eelpout

182. Elver

183. Escolar

184. European flounder

185. European seabass

186. European perch

187. Flathead grey mullet

188. European eel

189. Eagle ray

190. Eastern mosquitofish

191. Eastern little tuna

192. Eastern mudminnow

193. European minnow

194. European sprat

195. Emperor tetra

196. Emperor angelfish

197. Emperor bream

198. Emporer red snapper

199. Emperor sole

200. Emperor shrimp

201. Emperor scorpionfish

202. Escolar

203. False trevally

204. False cat shark

205. False scad

206. False trevally

207. False cat shark

208. False scad

209. Fantail darter

210. Fathead minnow

211. Fathead sculpin

212. Featherfin squeaker

213. Fingerfish

214. Fire goby

215. Firefish

216. Flabby whalefish

217. Flagfish

218. Flat loach

219. Flathead catfish

220. Flathead grey mullet

221. Flathead

222. Flathead sole

223. Flounder

224. Flying gurnard

225. Flying fish

226. Freshwater butterflyfish

227. Freshwater drum

228. Freshwater eel

229. Freshwater garfish

230. Freshwater hatchetfish

231. Freshwater shark

232. Frigate mackerel

233. Frill shark

234. Frostfish

235. Fuji fish

236. Finescale triggerfish

237. Four-eyed fish

238. Fringe-scale sardine

239. Fullscale sculpin

240. Fulmar

241. Fusilier

242. Galjoen fish

243. Gaper

244. Garibaldi

245. Garpike

246. Ghost fish

247. Ghost flathead

248. Giant catfish

249. Giant danio

250. Giant gouram

What is your favorite fish ? :3

[artnerd1123]

pbbbbtbtbtb doodles

molls (and co) requested by @vaaloirr

[erindodge]

Across the Ocean With an ocean in between, what awaits our beloved crew? Will they find their way back together?

Buy as a Print || Ko-Fi || Illustration Portfolio Image Description under cut:

[Image ID: Full color illustration in the style of a movie poster or comic book cover. The two crews from Our Flag Means Death stand facing the viewer, arranged in a composition centering around Buttons steering the ship’s wheel in the center, with Oluwande, Stede, Ed, and Jim in the foreground.   In the background, a lighthouse rises above the group against a dusky blue sky and a huge orange moon. Stede and Edward stand back-to-back in the front and center of the image, looking determinedly back at each other. Stede is wearing a billowing white shirt, and Edward’s hair is loose and blowing in a slight breeze. Ed’s beard has begun to grow back, but it is not yet as long as it was in Season 1. Behind each man stands his crew, arranged in a symmetrical composition on either side of the image, as though on opposing teams. Stede’s crew is dressed in their usual attire, with Oluwande standing at Stede’s side, holding a spyglass in his hands, and gazing over his shoulder at Jim on the other side of the image. Roach is brandishing a cleaver and smiling.  Wee John, Black Pete, and the Swede all look intense. Lucius is not present.  Buttons stands at the center of the image steering the ship’s wheel with a wide-eyed, wild stare directly at the viewer-- hair blowing in the wind. Blackbeard’s crew are wearing their usual black leather attire, and Jim and Frenchie are wearing new black leather outfits to fit in with the aesthetic. Jim is standing at Edward’s side and brandishing a dagger. Frenchie stands just behind them, wearing a black leather biker jacket and worried expression. Izzy, Fang, and Ivan stand behind them looking serious and imposing.  End ID]

[tser]

Dusky Cave Roaches, making more Dusky Cave Roaches. Oh my!

Blaberus fusca (nomen nudum)

[artnerd1123]

GOOBERS ALL OF THEM AAAAA TYSM

okay take 2 asdlfkjn

2 Halloween Commissions for @artnerd1123 ! A few of their OCs, getting ready for the spooky season :3 Top: Dusky and Autumn Bottom: Tappy and Hendrix

If you like what you see and would also like a commission, look no further! All Halloween themed commissions are also 20% off until the 7th!

[thekrows-nest]

Get ready Winndy cuz I'm here to word vomit again >:] (No need to answer to this soon tho! Take your time I know I can just suddenly babble nonsense TuT) But basically! More angst! (Cuz when we're not horny or soft, we are sad). One of those nights Scarlet is supposed to not patrol, supposed to stay in the warmth and dusky scent of the brothel, but she actually isn't. She's strolling around the darkest parts of the red-light district, just like that fated day she and Krow had first met by bumping accidenrally into each other. Her lantern sways with her elegant steps, but it suddenly seems to falter for a second, leaving her in the dark. She pays no mind and keeps walking, still trying to make it work again and turns to a certain corner when the light finally comes back, only to almost bump again into someone she had known so well for the past months, heck maybe years. Except the situation was the complete opposite of that time, it was the same small person she met that day, Krow, but his hands painted in the blood of someone she couldn't recall anymore by the way the body was so brutally murdered. Her mind was blank, but she was clever and fast enough to understand he had done this. A lot started to make sense, so much, it was terrifying the way her vision of him had turned completely in a single second. She started to question herself a lot of things but the only thing she could mutter at the moment was: "...So are you going to kill me too?" [Or in summary, Dove OC finding Krow in the middle of killing huehiebeuebal OKAY BYEEEE] 💃💃💃💃🌸🌸🌸

Oho Scarlet encountering Krow whilst he's murdered someone? Lets see what I can do. *rubs hands*

CW: blood, gore, murder, overall some unpleasant subject matter.

Krow had been tailing after the man for a little while now, foregoing sleep more than a couple of nights in order to get his schedule down pat. He needed to, if he was to get rid of him efficiently. He was a regular to the red light district, which Krow could have excused, he didn't wholly care what business folks sought out here. But what he couldn't overlook was the fact that the man continuously coveted the affections of Scarlet. Krow was quite aware of what she worked as, too well, but it nonetheless bothered him when there were... other clients. Especially ones that were far too clingy, ones that ignored the fact that Scarlet was actually spoken for.

Tonight was the night, Krow had decided, and it was as good a night as any. Even with how lackadaisical the regulars of the red light district were to crime, he still wished to keep it as low of a profile as possible, and he had since observed that was how this roach of a man tried to keep it as well. From Krow's findings, he was a man bored with his life, despite having it all. He had a job that paid well enough, a cozy house, a caring spouse that patiently waited for him to come home and love him. He had everything one could truly what, and he was throwing it all away. So really, was it so awful of Krow to dispose of someone like him? Bastards didn't deserve these things, and least of all, Scarlet shouldn't be sullied by such filth like him.

On cue the man passed by the corner Krow had been leaning up against. He was clothed in an inconspicuous dark hoodie and pants, a black facemask obscuring his features, dark gloves on his hands, wearing boots that were a size larger than normal, just in case. Krow knew of the things forensics investigations looked for when trying to spot clue at a crime scene, and while the chances were low that this soon-to-be murder would draw out the authorities, he wanted to be cautious. And it's served him well so far. The man didn't notice as Krow had silently peeled away from the wall, following right after him, as he took his usual route to the brothel, going from one street, then taking a dip down an alleyway, as if that would make him somehow less suspicious of what he was up to. As the man walked, Krow quickened his pace, flipping out the butterfly knife with dexterous fingers to get ready.

The first plunge of the blade was quick, deep into his side as he buckled back, letting out a gasp that was quickly muffled from Krow gagging him with his free hand. He twisted the knife further into the man's flesh, pulling it out and twirling it across his fingers into a new position (Krow has long made murder another artform of his) and stabbed it in their side again. Normally, he might have been exercised some restraint, after all, hawking his victim's organs on the black market was another way he made some extra cash on the side. But not tonight. Krow didn't want anything of this man to remain in this world. He stabbed into him thrice more, releasing him to allow him to crumble to the dirtied ground. Surprisingly, he still tried to get away, only by crawling, but the fighting urge to want to live could have been commendable. Krow brought a heeled foot onto the man's back, stopping him in place, kneeling down against him and putting all his weight upon him, bringing the knife into his body again.

Over, and over, and over, Krow stabbed the man. His breathing was hard, heart hammering in his chest as he flipped him over, slashing at his face, cutting at his eyes, making him utterly unrecognizable, nothing more than a pile of dead meat.

The dark clothes obscured the amount of blood that covered him, yet Krow positively reeked of the iron scent of it. Slowly standing up, he pulled down his mask some in order to breathe a bit better, when he got the sensation of being watched. He turned quickly, knife at the ready. Nothing had quite prepared him for who had caught him in this worst of moments. A John, one of the working women, anyone would have been better.

Anyone but Scarlet.

Krow gazed at her in alarm, nearly losing his grip on the knife. She looked much like she had the first night they met, what seemed like so long ago now, with her dark sensual dress lit up by the flames of the old styled lantern she carried. Perhaps the worst of this though was not the fact Scarlet herself seemed surprised by this, or even terrified, it was unnerving how calm she was, her features bore this... quiet acceptance. The words that left her lips pierced through Krow, much like if he had used his knife on himself.

"Are you going to kill me too?"

His blood ran cold, and now he did lose his hold on the knife, it clattered against the concrete byside him, and he let out a small, sorrowful noise.

"D...D-Dove? I-- No, n-no. Y-you... y-you... t-this wasn't... I... No, n-never. Not you. N-never you." The words started tumbling out of him, on reflex he started to approach Scarlet, slowly, carefully, trying to show he was not a threat to her.

"I wouldn't... h-hurt you, m-my Songbird. N-never. I... I-I... not you. B-but... these..." he barely glanced behind to the corpse that laid prone, "t-these maggots that... masquerade as humans... I-I'm sick of them. S-sick of them hurting you, t-tarnishing you. I-I've just... b-been doing my part to... c-clean them up. T-that's all."

He stood before Scarlet now, the mask drawn down and resting under his chin so she could see his face. They still seemed to hold the kindness she had been familiar with. Yet there wasn't something quite right with his eyes, there was... the barest hint of the pupils being... green? But... was that just a trick of the light?

"P-please, Scarlet. M-my Dove. D-don't be scared. I... Everything... i-it's all to protect you. Because I love you. Y-you... love me too... d-don't you?"

She had to. He knew she must. It was a rhetorical question. Of course she did. But still, Krow wanted to hear the words for himself, he wanted her to say them, sing them. It would certainly make for a rather bleak night much better. Once she did, he would see to getting rid of that corpse, or at the very least, moving it. It wouldn't be hard to construe the scene to be something just a little different than what happened. After all, folks got hurt or killed here for all kinds of reasons, all the time. This could easily be written off as another person who couldn't pay up to one of the mobs, they made a message out of him, his body would get reported, then Krow and his work would come and legally dispose of him. Easy. Just as the others had been.

It would be another step closer for Krow finalize his Songbird being well and truly his.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

like a secret in your throat

y’all asked for whump. y’all got whump. title from “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” by my all-time favorite band, My Chemical Romance

whump, hurt/comfort with a happy ending!

tw: manhandling the bard, vampire transformations (side character), non-sexy biting, blood mention, canon typical injuries/violence

---

Geralt looked up from his mug of ale when he realized that Jaskier had stopped playing. Instead, the bard was chatting merrily away with a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak. The hood obscured most of the stranger’s face but Geralt caught the reflective glint of a bead or piece of metal braided into his matted black hair. An instinct tickled at the back of the Witcher’s head but Geralt couldn’t quite place the feeling. Something was wrong about this little tableau but he couldn’t figure out what it was; his medallion wasn’t reacting to anything in particular and Jaskier seemed perfectly happy, lost in conversation with the dark-haired man.

Geralt returned his gaze to his mug and let his mind wander.

Jaskier did seem perfectly happy to be without him on nights like these, when they were back in civilization and the extroverted bard could branch out and meet new people. That was the problem, in Geralt’s opinion. 

Lately the Witcher had found himself contemplating what life would be like on the Path if he decided to travel alone again. Winter wasn’t close enough for him to excuse himself and go North, but he’d developed a strange and uncomfortable dependence on the bard that he needed to be weaned away from. It wasn’t healthy for either of them. 

It wasn’t safe.

If he grew too close to Jaskier, then… 

Wouldn’t that be a weakness? Wouldn’t that be a vulnerability and a dangerous closeness? Geralt couldn’t risk forming a connection like that. He couldn’t allow himself to hope for something so organic and pure to develop between a half-monster and a youthful, bright-eyed bard; Witchers weren’t meant to get nice things. That was not his lot in life.

And yet…

Some mornings, when he only barely cracked his eyes open and used his heightened senses to peek across their campsite, he saw Jaskier looking back at him, a curious glint in those pretty blue irises. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint the emotion the bard’s face held; he was bad at that, and the uncertainty of the younger man’s feelings scared him. He could handle rejection, but acceptance? If Jaskier was as loving and openminded as Geralt thought him to be, it could prove to be a problem. Jaskier was too good for a Witcher. He didn’t deserve to be trapped by a life on the Path, dying too young because he was foolhardy and quick to fall in love.

The Witcher’s introspection came to an abrupt halt when the Jaskier in question appeared beside him, flushed and grinning. “Geralt, dear heart, are you ready to retire for the evening?”

“Are you asking me to bed?” the Witcher smirked, smothering the very real ache in his chest at the thought of curling up next to Jaskier like that. “Or do you need to borrow our room to entertain a guest?”

“Oh, no, I have no plans of that nature.” Jaskier’s already pink face darkened a shade and Geralt’s stomach flipped. “I’m actually rather tired. I was hoping to get some decent sleep tonight before we flung ourselves back into nature tomorrow.”

“Hmm. I’ll be along shortly. Don’t wait up.”

“See you in a bit then, dear heart.” 

And Jaskier disappeared up the stairs.

Unfortunately, the Witcher didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one watching Jaskier slip into their rented room with a longing expression on his face.

---

“We need to set up camp for the evening,” Geralt announced, bringing Roach to a stop and sliding gracefully down from the saddle. Jaskier loved the way his Witcher looked when he did that, like some kind of fairytale Prince or knight errant. The way his long, silver-white hair shifted and fluttered against his shoulders in the dusky light made him look more like a fantastical painting than a century-old Witcher; even with his scars and his pallid skin tone. 

The unconventionally enchanting sight made ballads stir in the most romantic corners of the bard’s busy mind. Words pooled and shifted behind his eyes, arranging themselves into neat rhyming couplets or quatrains. 

Geralt of Rivia, tall and fair,

With golden eyes and silver hair;

Whose glare could even douse the sun,

And send a Gryphon on the run.

The bard barely kept himself from sighing aloud as he removed his pack from across his shoulders and unfolded his bedroll and thin travel blanket. The material felt fragile between his calloused fingertips and he sighed forlornly,  “I’m going to need a new blanket soon.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. And I’ll get Roach some new reins while I’m in town,” the bard waved his hand nonchalantly, as if spending money was no big deal. It really wasn’t, all things considered. They would be able to travel far more comfortably if Geralt would allow them to stop in Novigrad and access his University accounts more often. Alas, Witchers are stubborn creatures. “I see the way they chafe her poor muzzle, Geralt, so don’t argue. If you really insist you can pay me back by letting me write a song about the color of your eyes.”

“My… eyes?”

“They’re rather pretty, dear heart, and I think the world could do with a ballad about how they glow when you turn your face toward the sun.”

Geralt felt the back of his neck grow hot and he glanced away, “Hmm.”

“Well, let me know what you think in the morning. I don’t need an answer right away.”

Geralt finished setting up a decent pile of firewood and brought it to life with an efficient burst of Igni. He glanced across the flames to Jaskier and grunted, “I’m going to catch us some dinner. Make tea.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier saluted, smiling. Geralt rolled his eyes, grabbed his crossbow, and disappeared into the darkening treeline. Jaskier began to hum as he set up their tea kettle and filled it with water from the waterskin. The humming turned to quiet singing as he measured out two mugs worth of tea from the sachet of dried leaves. 

Singing that was cut off with a sharp, sudden cry.

---

Geralt heard the bard scream once. Only once.

The sound punctuated the air before leaving an uncomfortable, grating silence in its wake. 

The Witcher took off towards their campfire without a second thought, allowing his instincts to take over and guide him safely back, the potency of Jaskier’s fear hung thick and sour in the air, growing stronger the closer he came to their clearing. When he burst back into view, chest heaving from the sprint, he widened his eyes at the sight before him:

The cloaked figure from the tavern had Jaskier wrapped in his burly arms. One large, long-fingered hand had immobilized Jaskier’s wrists by pressing them into the dip at the base of the bard’s spine, forcing his elbows out and pressing his chest even tighter against the stranger’s. 

Jaskier looked up at Geralt beseechingly through his dark, damp lashes. His mouth opened in a silent cry of confusion and pain when the man tugged at his wrists and forced his arms to bend awkwardly. The bard wriggled and strained against the stranger’s iron grip in an effort to escape but the man only snarled in irritation and jerked him back into place. “Bad bard. Stay put, little thing.”

Geralt took a slow step towards his swords, trying to reassure Jaskier with his expression that: Everything will be okay. I will get you out of this. I will protect you and keep you safe… somehow. 

Jaskier needed Geralt to pay attention and protect him from harm.

Geralt had failed.

The Witcher watched with wide, horrified eyes as the hulking man keeping Jaskier captive shifted slowly into a far less humanoid form. The baubles braided into his hair jangled and clinked as his nose elongated and his eyes widened. His arms lengthened to form clawed bat-wings and his face thinned and covered over with a layer of grey fur. Fangs burst forth from his gums and slid over his previously humanesque canines. His voice, which had been rasping odd little sounds in the Witcher’s direction, faded into an terrible shriek. 

A Katakan. 

A Katakan that had snuck in and out of civilization without Geralt so much as smelling it; one that had Jaskier pinned against its chest, the claws of its unoccupied hand sharp and dangerous as they hovered near the bard’s ribcage, ready to pierce but unwilling to waste precious blood unless absolutely necessary. It screamed again, even more shrilly. “Want him!”

Geralt dove forward and pulled his silver sword from its sheath. He swung it in an elegant arc and narrowed his eyes, “Let him go and I might let you live.”

The Witcher’s words were a lie and they both knew it.

The Katakan twitched its long ears in annoyance and hauled Jaskier even closer. It wrenched his arms painfully and the bard whimpered, blue eyes filling steadily with tears. Geralt’s heart seized wretchedly in his chest and he tried his best to ignore it; he couldn’t let his feelings distract him until Jaskier was safe. 

“I want him,” the monster rasped, readjusting the bard in its grip. It turned Jaskier around until he was facing the Witcher, releasing his wrists just long enough to pull his hands around to the front before capturing them again. It grazed its two long fangs against the column of Jaskier’s throat and trilled happily. “He sings so pretty. Talks so sweet. Bet he tastes sweet like he talks.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “He does have a rather pretty singing voice. I suppose that’s why I can’t have you killing him.”

“But he will sing for me,” the vampire shrugged. It shook Jaskier like a toy and the bard’s tears finally fell. He whimpered again when the vampire leaned close and told him: “Sing, little thing. Let me pull lovely music from your veins.”

Jaskier shivered visibly. He gave a few panting, strangled sobs as he slipped into panic, too frightened to move with the vampire’s fangs so close to his neck. He wanted Geralt to finally swing that stupid sword and get this over with. He wanted to curl up in Geralt’s arms and never leave for the rest of his life. He wanted to be taken to Kaer Morhen and hidden away in safety, fuck his music career and the rest of the world. He wanted Geralt to stay in his presence forever, never letting him out of sight again. He wanted…

Before he could finish his thought there was a sharp, piercing, all-encompassing pain at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.

A keening wail filled the air once. 

The vampire bit down harder, its tongue sliding against the skin of the bard’s neck in an effort to urge the blood to exit faster. 

There was another high, piteous cry for help and then... 

The world went black.

---

When Jaskier opened his eyes again, the world was even darker than it had been before; mostly because the light from both the moon and their campfire was being blocked out by the broad plane of Geralt’s chest, which Jaskier found himself cradled against almost… lovingly. Above him, he heard the Witcher murmuring: “Jaskier, please. Please wake up, Julek. Come on, bard, I kn-”

“G-Geralt?” he managed to croak. He followed it with a very eloquent, “Hunh?”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher sagged with relief, pressing his forehead against the bard’s and breathing in deeply. He tightened his arms around Jaskier, pulling him even closer as his frown disappeared, “Melitele be blessed, you’re alive!”

“Should I not be?” Jaskier asked. He tried to sit up on his own and winced when a bright burst of pain flared out from his shoulder.

“The Katakan- You were bleeding so much and I-” Geralt was, as always, at a loss for words. Jaskier waited patiently, still feeling drowsy and half-alive, and allowed the Witcher to gather his thoughts. His neck ached and his left arm tingled fiercely every time he tried to flex his hand on that side. 

“Did it… Am I a vampire now?” he asked. The absurdity of the question broke Geralt from his confusion.

“No,” the Witcher answered swiftly. “You’re still very mortal-” a hand swept through Jaskier’s hair, calming him further “-And unfortunately still very fragile.”

“Are you going to beat yourself up over this for the next week and somehow twist it around until it’s all your fault?”

“Hmm,” Geralt looked away. Jaskier was still being held so very tenderly in his arms, laid across the Witcher’s lap like some kind of swooning maiden. He rather liked how close he was to Geralt and hoped to stay that way for just a little longer. The Witcher surprised them both by letting a full sentence slip into the air between them, “I don’t like seeing you hurt, Jaskier, especially not when… when I was close enough that I could have prevented it from happening at all.”

“Your medallion didn’t give you any hints about this thing back at the inn when I was talking to him? He seemed completely normal, if a little monosyllabic. I’m used to monosyllabic, anyway,” the bard joked, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It didn’t work; Geralt lifted his head and stared into the fire, his brow already furrowed as he slipped into his private realm of self-loathing. Jaskier was still laying across his lap, his neck and shoulder giving off pulsing aches with every beat of his heart. 

Eventually the Witcher spoke again, his voice low and full of frustration. “Katakans are different, they don’t- they don’t set off my medallion the way other creatures do, and they can disguise themselves as people. They can move and talk like people; you saw it transform.”

“I did,” Jaskier grimaced. “And it wanted me to sing while it drank my blood.”

“You didn’t do very much singing,” the Witcher grumbled. “You screamed twice and fainted. It nearly dropped you.”

“If I remember correctly,” the bard smiled playfully, “Someone said my singing was too pretty for me to die.”

“Hmm.”

“It was you, Geralt. You said that.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier tried to sit up again and nearly passed out from the pain that screamed through the entire left side of his body. “I- Geralt, I-”

“What’s wrong, Julek?” the Witcher asked, adjusting the bard until he was more comfortably enclosed in Geralt’s arms, his back leaning against one of Geralt’s bent legs for support. Geralt’s other leg was straightened out before him and Jaskier let his calves fall atop the Witcher’s thick thighs. They looked like a painting, with Jaskier reclined as he was and Geralt looking at him like that.  

“Everything hurts, dear heart. My whole left side feels aflame.”

“It’ll burn like that for a day or so,” Geralt shushed him. “You bled quite a lot, you were bitten, and you hit the ground pretty hard.”

“You didn’t catch me?”

“I was a little busy beheading your attacker and keeping you from becoming a member of the undead,” Geralt scoffed. “Pardon me for not carrying you to safety first.”

“Well since you let me get injured, you have to kiss it better to gain your pardon,” the bard insisted. Geralt’s eyes widened comically and his hand clenched where it was resting on Jaskier’s lower back. 

“It’ll- It would hurt if I kissed your wound,” Geralt replied shakily, trying to escape while he still could. Jaskier wasn’t about to let him. Not again.

“Then you’ll just have to kiss my lips instead.”

“Jaskier?”

“Hush, Geralt. I know how you feel about me, and I feel much the same about you. Let’s skip the words bit, because I know that’s not your favorite, and get right to the kissing.”

“Oh, uh...” The Witcher allowed himself to smile. It was a soft, nervous thing but it made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Jaskier felt himself fall even further in love with his darling Geralt. “Alright.”

Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s head carefully, tilting his own chin down, and brought their lips together slowly. The bard’s lips were soft and plush and warm beneath his own, giving just slightly but not wilting beneath his touch. It was better than anything he could have imagined. When they pulled apart, Jaskier frowned. 

“Was it bad?” Geralt asked automatically, more nervous than he had ever been with another lover. 

“No,” Jaskier shook his head. “I just don’t think I’m healed yet. I may require another. Or several more.”

“Well, if the patient thinks it’s necessary,” Geralt grinned, leaning forward again. Jaskier pulled himself up a little to meet him, ignoring the lances of hurt in his arm. “I suppose...”

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

*

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

*

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

~

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story! 

tags: @whereismymonsterlover 

[wherethewordsare]

Fire Lizards and Flirting

I wrote some self indulgent fluffy nonsense cause i’ve had a shit week. This was supposed to be a drabble... tell me how I ended up with over 1400 words. 

I just wanted Geralt to do science... enjoy?

------

Geralt preferred the field work to the lab work. He hated sitting there, plugging numbers into the sheets, having to answer emails, and dealing with the office supervisors. So when the chance to do the ecological survey along a particular stretch of the Appalachian came up, he moved heaven and earth, and four reams worth of documents to get the assignment. 

He and Roach had pulled into the empty lot at the head of the trail, early that morning. Roach gave a soft “boof” as she knew what came next. 

“I know, I know. I’m moving as fast as I can.” Two giant paws pressed against his shoulder followed by another boof as Roach’s whole body seemed to vibrate. “You don’t think I’m excited too, huh?” Geralt rolled his eyes as he climbed out of his truck, moving just in time as Roach leapt the center console and bounded out the door. 

Geralt let the huge dog make her little circles around the truck, her whole back end wagging as she did. This. This was exactly why he preferred field work to being in the lab. He answered to no one but an overly affectionate great dane. 

The trail was easy enough, sloping down towards the river with lazy winding cut backs. He made note of the small rivulets that cut down the side of the hill and stopped a few times to check out the rot in logs, taking samples when he remembered to. He was nearly to the river, the sound of water over rocks steadily growing louder when he realized that it wasn’t the only sound. 

He called Roach to him, having her walk closer as they made their way down to the bank. Geralt had seen some pretty strange things in his years of ecological study, but the man standing in the center of the river with what Geralt would bet good money on was a lute, strumming softly was something he still wasn’t sure he was seeing. 

Roach saw him too though. Giving an excited bark, she took off, splashing into the water. The man that had been standing on a smooth rock turned quickly in surprise; too quickly. Geralt watched as he lost his footing, tumbling down into the water, Roach bounding after him happily.

“Shit, fuck, damn, fuck! ROACH!” Geralt was dropping his pack and peeling out of his over shirt as he ran in after the dog and the man who had fallen. He was sitting up now, the water shallow in this stretch,  pushing a soaking mop of hair out of his eyes, spluttering as Roach attempted to climb into his lap. 

“No no no… Oh no, I am so sorry. She is… harmless! But… very… Roach, down! Very friendly. Far too friendly.” Geralt tried to wrestle the dog away from the sopping musician who, in the struggle, slipped back into the water, coming up coughing.

Not coughing. Laughing. Hard, his head tilted back as he looked up at Geralt, striking blue eyes blinking away river water. “Sir… I believe you’ve lost control of your horse.” 

“Uh.. great dane, but close enough.” 

On cue, Roach gave a happy boof and sat on the rock that she had just knocked the man from. 

“Proud of yourself, are you?” Geralt grumbled affectionately. “Please excuse her. She was raised by wolves.” He offered down a hand and tried not to get completely lost in those eyes. 

The man took his hand and let himself be pulled up from the water, giving his head a shake. “That’s okay. No better cure for the blues than a lap horse in the middle of nowhere followed by a tall handsome stranger.” He flashed Geralt a smile that was competing with the sun to be the brightest thing lighting up the riverbed. “Did you call her Roach?” The man tilted his head as he shook water from his lute. 

“It’s a fish.” Geralt said flatly, scowling. 

“Jaskier.” The man, Jaskier, held out his hand chuckling softly. “That sweet girl is an absolute queen and you named her after a fish.” Jaskier was having a go at him but there wasn’t anything unkind about it. 

Taking his hand, Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Geralt. Well, she swims much better than some musicians I’ve seen. I think it’s apt.” He had to bite the inside of his lap to stop from grinning wide at Jaskier’s overly dramatic noises of shock. 

“I will have you know, I am a fine swimmer when I haven’t been snuck up on.” Jaskier puffed his chest up but the effect was immediately ruined when his teeth began to chatter. 

“Shit. Let’s get you dry.” 

Geralt helped Jaskier to shore, carrying his lute and reaching into his backpack for the absorbent towel he always carried for when Roach got into water. She would have to drip dry this time. There was a stretch of open grass along the bank and Geralt decided it was as good as any place to stop for lunch. 

“Why are you out in the middle of a river with an actual lute? I haven’t seen one of these since college.” He handed the towel and the lute to Jaskier who began to work the towel over the soundboard with practiced fingers. 

“Well if you must know,” he seemed to wince. “Getting over a bit of heartbreak.” Geralt’s face must have done something because Jaskier just shook his head, huffing. “Oh nothing like that. There was a competition and I was robbed, is all.” He scowled at nothing in particular before giving a put upon sigh. “Honestly, there is no accounting for tastes these days.”

Geralt bit down on the inside of his lip again, looking away to hide the amused raise of his eyebrows. “Well from what I heard before Roach took you out, you sounded great.” He looked down just in time to see the dark tail retreat under a flat rock by their feet. “Would you care to meet a Desmognathus ochrophaeus?” he reached down, one hand cupped as the other lifted the rock. 

“I… bless you?” Jaskier tilted his head, confused. 

“Or the Allegheny Mountain dusky salamander. It’s why I’m out here.” Geralt gave him a small smile as he opened his hand, revealing a sleek little body with beady little eyes. “I’m surveying indicator species in the area and picking up some water samples.” he held up the wriggling salamander gently between his fingers, turning it this way and that as he checked for signs of sickness while holding it up for Jaskier to see. 

As he held it up, it turned its head, biting down onto Geralt’s thumb. “Ah, shit.” Geralt laughed as he pulled a notebook out. “Got a fighter on our hands. That’s a good sign too.” He knew he was doing that thing Eskel was always getting on him about with the critters. Roach laid out next to him, her tail thumping heavily on the ground as she huffed. 

Jaskier was looking at him with his head tilted and his eyes soft. “And why is that?” Geralt was used to people mocking him for his enthusiasm for this job. There were very few things he found himself able to really talk about admittedly. But there was nothing but curiosity and a fondness that had Geralt suddenly a little self conscience. 

“Well most of these are common as crickets,” Geralt indicated the salamander with a tilt of his hand before releasing him back into the grass, “so they’re usually easy to find if you know where to look and if they’re healthy, then the river usually is too.” 

“So you just walk around the woods all day with your horse-dog, cooing at fire-lizards and knocking poor unexpecting gentlemen into rivers. For science?” Ah there was the teasing. Geralt found he didn’t mind it terribly.

“Amphibians. I’m not sure why they’re called fire-lizards. They’re neither made of fire nor are they lizards.” Geralt went digging into his pack, fishing out a couple of apples. He turned to find Jaskier pulling his shirt over his head and he nearly dropped them on the ground. 

There was something about the line of his shoulder that made Geralt want to throw himself into the river. 

“They sleep in logs.” Jaskier said, wringing out his shirt. He gave a small shiver and tilted himself so the sun fell across his back. 

“I… what?” Geralt knew he sounded distracted. He was distracted. 

“Back in the days before central heating, in the winter people would bring in firewood. The salamanders would be asleep in them and wake up from their winter naps to find their little hiding places on fire. What would you do?” Jaskier laid his shirt over the log between them, reaching down to tug off his sneakers. “So all they would see were these little lizards appearing from the flames and running around. It just kind of stuck, I guess.” He was twisting his socks up when he looked over at Geralt. “What?”

“I… who are you again? I find you, in the middle of nowhere, there’s no other car in the parking lot, in the river, with a lute…” In the back of his mind, Geralt remembered the old stories about Fae his father would tell him and his brothers. 

“Well, if you must know,” Jaskier turned to him fully, smiling. “My mother, and only my mother calls me Julian. My friends call me Jaskier, and my students call me Mr. Pankratz.” He squinted up the path that Geralt had come from and hummed. “You took A lot. There’s a second parking lot from over there,” he pointed down the bank on the other end to where Geralt could see the start of a cleared path. So, promise, not a witch or ghost or what have you.” The teasing was back and it went along with the kind of smile Geralt could get used to. 

Fuck. Might as well…

“And… What do your dates usually call you?” he was busying himself with rummaging for a water bottle. 

Jaskier laughed, his grin growing wide. “Why don’t you ask me and find out.”

@jaskierswolf @artistsfuneral @thetinymm

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Dusky Cockroach - Ectobius lapponicus

While not as glamorous as the Eastern Black Swallowtail Butterfly, these scampering insects showcase the differences between males and females of this specie. The Dusky Cockroach has been examined on this blog before, with 2 individuals found during 2 separate visits to Kleinburg. For this post however, the multitude of insects found on the metal railing of the bridge and among the foliage where found locally in my neighborhood. The bridge itself was nestled over a stream in a wooded area so a lot of these insects running around made sense. Distinguishing between male and female Dusky Cockroaches is very straightforward as they are differently morphologically: males are longer and thinner with darker coloration on the thorax while females are wider, more compact and a more orange-brown color. Both possess wings, but during the photography, the males were more eager to use their wings but would never fly far away, just further down the bridge. Perhaps they were all searching for mates on this bridge?

While Roaches have a negative reputation for the germs and grime they can bring into a house, there’s little reason to panic over this specie. Ectobius Roaches prefer the forests and the soil over an urban environment. Crawling around the woods, they are quite handy as detritivores and decomposers. It was a surprise to find one in the garden (Pictures 1, 7 and 9). It chose to remain in the shadows beneath the leaves, only emerging to sprint away when my shadow covered more ground and it dropped onto the soil. While not of much concern as mentioned earlier, I’ll be checking that area come summer thoroughly to see if this specie decides to make this yard its home. A new specie introduced to an ecosystem may cause changes and observance will determine if the changes are beneficiary, neutral or negative. These Roaches are no stranger to being observed as the Ectobius Roaches found in North America were all introduced from Eurasia. Their activity seems neutral over here, so that’s a relief.

Pictures were taken on June 8 and 14. 2020 with a Google Pixel 4.

[filthfichunter]

Might i request underage, incredibly tight someone being trained to fuck by Vesemir/Eskel/Geralt. Maybe Vesemir training every boy in "fencing". Or Geralt and Eskel training Lambert or Jaskier. Belly bulge, cum inflation, overstim and any others you'd like. Breeding bench is hot af.

Dub-con into fuck yes more - con is good. No fully non-con tho please.

Okay okay, so we've established that I wouldn't know a short fill if it fell into my lap and introduced itself right??

CW for: I think I only managed to fit underage (Jaskier the year before he heads off the Oxenfurt, so however young you'd like, musical savant? Rebellious barely legal teen? Up to you), and training an incredibly tight hole, inflation, distended belly, punishment inflation, anal beads, coercion, dub-con and spanking... But everything else is totally in whatever imaginary coda I hope this inspires for you of what happens next!

Geralt wakes the bard by sliding his cock into Jaskier's mouth, pushing his hips forward until his white wiry pubic hair hides that cute nose. The kid is practically choking on it before he even fully wakes up and realizes what's happening. Startled sleepy cornflower blue eyes meet slitted cat eyed pupils. 

There is a brief pause. Geralt hilted waiting to see if he'll need to reinforce the lessons he's been teaching the bardling the last two weeks. For Jaskier that brief moment slams forward with a burst of adrenaline  as he finally wakes all the way up. A gurggle, gasping in air through his nose, as he desperately tries to get a deep enough breath, spots starting to form at the edge of his vision.

He's woken up this was every morning since the first. 

The now familiar taste and smell and discomfort calms him, and he forcefully reminds himself that it's all part of the deal he struck even if he didn't know all that he had apparently agreed to.

Geralt's hips forcefully rock, disrupting his airflow, triggering the gag reflex that hasn't quite been trained out of him yet.

The young man's eyes start to tear up even as he relaxes his throat and begins sucking.

"Good, work. Your throat is golden, the perfect little fuck sleeve." Geralt chuckles at his own joke and begins fucking his  bard's face, enjoying the way the kid's throat flutters, spasming around his girth. It doesn't take him long to come, it wasn't an over exaggeration, Jaskier's throat is tight and wet, tongue flicking over his length. He hauls Jaskier up out of his bed role when he's finished, kissing him filthily, licking his own cum out from between slick friction swollen lips.

Agreeing to let the bard follow him along the Path has been one of his smarter decisions of late. When the gangly youth, cocksure and so very pretty, had approached his table Geralt had decided to ruin him.

"I speak Elder, can juggle, play any instrument given to me, crowds have wept to hear a song from my golden throat, and  I am willing to both sing your praises and provide entertainment on our journey, should you allow me to but follow you on your nobel path this season!"

Jaskier had taken a bit of an unauthorized gap year.

"You decide to run away from home then? Someone looking for you no doubt" the Witcher had asked for forms sake, assuaging what little moral reluctance he still held, having already decided that he'd be taking the lithe twink up in what he'd offered and also what he hadn't. 

"Hmmmm"

It had been easy to see that Jaskier wasn't an actual bard or performer, not dressed in the expensive but sedate clothing, only a small rucksack  and case holding his belongings, and presumably his lute.

"I didn't run away from home sir Witcher! I am merely gathering inspiration and experience before I start my formal bardic training in the Fall!" 

"Which isn't to say that I am untrained now, merely in search of material to fule my enterance audition, you are the inspiration I seek!!"

Jaskier had thought it was a grand plan. 

Now he found himself naked gummy eyed from a fitful uncomfortable rest, breath stale from sleep and cum, reluctant to acknowledge that this hadn't been the plan. 

His cock was half hard from morning wood, jaw sore, belly still uncomfortably full from the previous evenings training, starting another morning with his Witcher.

Less time limping along after Roach was always welcome.

"Give me a show bard!" Geralt smirked, "You still haven't held up your end of the bargain and we can both agree that I have been attentive in your training, let's see if you'll disappoint again this morning"

"Thank you Geralt, for being so patient." Jaskier always tried to apologize early on, it saved him from dealing with a red bruised ass all day if he could keep from having to be corrected until at least after their lunch time stop. 

Geralt smirked enjoying the insincerity. Jaskier had started out so reluctant, and confused about his role, but after that first two hard days acclimating had learned to at least give the appearance of acceptance.

He's been working on Jaskier, getting him ready to service all of the appetites of a Witcher."Hands and knees, spread your legs wide, hump the ground, let's get you spent and loose"

Already used to such instructions Jaskier dropped getting into position. Geralt enjoyed seeing that ass jiggle infront of him as the boy dropped down into position for their morning lesson.

"I've been patient, little buttercup, but maybe what you need is a push." A solid clap, more noise than real violence echoed the clearing, Jaskier's hips rolling more fluidly, the fingers of his hands dug into the sod above his head beyond the bedding as Geralt's hand fell down twice emphasizing his threat.  

The lightly furred cheeks of the boys ass looked like a perfect peach, round, lightly furred with a hint of dewy sweat as Jaskier chased the coarse friction of the bedroll beneath him. His cock  hung vulnerable between his thighs thrusting hard  down drawing frustrated grunts.

His belly was taut and swollen beneath him, sloshing from last night's lesson training him to take more volume into his guys.

It was just plump enough that Jaskier couldn't get enough stimulation on his straining erection.

 It was never enough alone to get him off. "Hm. Your little hole is winking at me again!" The pads of Geralt's finger ran over the dry dusky starburst, "feeling shy this morning?" The rim clenched tightly around the thick rope that disappeared into a swollen hole. The friction and lack of moisture after having worm the training device all night causing the whimpers and thrusting to gain a bit more desperation.

The rope ran deep into the boy's asshole, connected to a series of graduated beads. The last bead large enough to retain the heavy expanding potion Geralt had funneled into Jaskier to aid in his training the night before.

Jaskier wasn't allowed to remove them, or empty his straining belly for the day until he'd come first.

It was his own fault.

His virgin hole had been so tight that Geralt had to punish it for refusing to cooperate. 

That first lesson, dispensed only an hour after they first met had done double duty.

Geralt forcing three of his fingers into Jaskier's mouth finger banging the back of his throat to help him get used to satisfying the Witcher with his mouth, and then those slopping spit slick fingers had reached back and smacked down on his hole, three quick spanks, then back into his mouth.

They had repeated the activity until Jaskier stopped thrashing and had eventually cum frosting against Geralt, held prone over the Witchers lap for the first time.

His hole had been too tight, from fear and anxiety the first time Geralt tried to fit the head of his cock inside. No amount of pressure was going to work, so instead of casting him aside Geralt let him know they'd work up to him fulfilling this role in their party through regular training.

There were only two anal beads that first night, liberally greased up with some salve from Geralt's pack. The beads had been small, easily thrust in and out of his asshole. 

He had cum so hard that first night he had blacked out, waking up warm, and sated Geralt's spend coating the inside of his thighs where he'd taken his own pleasure from Jaskier's unresponsive body, pinked up thighs splashed with white seed.

Every couple of days Geralt would add more beads, bigger beads getting Jaskier ready to take his cock, making do with the boy's mouth, hands, and his thighs as they worked to stretch his hole large enough to be able to take Geralt.

Attitude just brought more discomfort so it hadn't taken long for Jaskier to give in. Geralt was very handsome, and his cock was intimidating enough that he'd been grateful not to have had to take it without all of the prep work they had done together

There are a dozen heavy carved stone beads up Jaskier's ass. They bump against each other clacking and vibrating, a property of the mineral they are made from.

 With little tugs to the rope Geralt is able to peek the surface of the largest bead out of the younger man's hole. "Looks like a hungry mouth Jaskier, gobbling up almost everything, who knew my boy had TWO such hungry mouths, bear down, gape that tight little pucker" 

The bead pushes further out of his hole, stretching the rim as it starts to push out. Jaskier rim looses color under the strain a white band of stretched muscle straining.

When Jaskier isn't able to push it any further himself he earns a quick series of slaps to the meat of his ass, cheeks bouncing hard and going even pinker.

They've been working at stretching Jaskier out every evening. First on Geralt's tongue, then moving on to any number of other tools that the Witcher happened to have on hand.

The night before Jaskier had been placed on his back, nearly folded in half with his knees near his ears arms wrapped around each ofnhis own thighs holding himself open and exposed. Geralt used a funnel and inflatable tubing to deposit a potion into Jaskier. 

The tubbing had been made from pig bladder, and while it had only started out as thin as one of his own fingers it had expanded, filling him so deeply and fully that his own belly had soon blocked his view from his awkward position. 

He'd been so relieved to have the tubing pulled free that he hadn't known to brace for the potion itself expanding. An intimidating amount of slimy lubricant had filled him. 

Jaskier had passed out last night with his distended belly rocking back and forth jostled by Geralt thrusting to completion once again between his thighs.

Today's position was equally uncomfortable but at least once Jaskier came he'd be able to rest his sore belly.

Geralt rearranged the prone figure infront of him. Pushing Jaskier's legs even further apart tilting his pelvis back, putting a deep curve into the bards lower spine, everything is on display.

It only takes a little pressure before Jaskier's hole opens up and he can push his middle finger in deep, pushing the anal beads deeper. He gently pets around Jaskier's rim, barely pressing the tip of another finger in, stroking the skin around it with his other ones.

Geralt moves up to a second and third finger quickly. Picking up speed, jostling the anal beads, setting them to click against each other and vibrate up against the boy's prostate. Agitating the liquid locked behind.

As soon as it feels like Jaskier is close, walls fluttering erratically, Geralt yanks his fingers and then the beads out.

The rim of Jaskier's ass blooms and clentches rapidly as each bead is wrenched free, the thick lubricant sealed behind them exploding out. 

Jaskier tripped over into a punishing climax, overwhelmed, spent and lax after all of the stimulation.

Jaskier's unconscious body twitched and his hole spasmed.

Geralt fed three of his fingers back into the unconscious body.

Even as the sound of rhythmic squelching filled the clearing the Witcher was applying the slick dripping from Jaskier to his reawakened erection.

There's enough slimy lube that the bardling feels wet inside, like a pussy but, even after their first grueling session of the day, so much tighter.

But finally not too tight.

He'll wake Jaskier up already impaled on the thick girth of his cock. Geralt can't wait to fuck the hole he's had so much fun training. He could have had the kid bouncing on his cock the first day, but after having lived as long as he has he knows the value of drawing pleasure out. 

He can't wait to further bruise that peach ass by slamming into it with his hip bones, finally hilted deep all the way into the space he'd painstakingly carved out for himself.

Jaskier doesn't know that he won't be starting at Oxenfurt in the fall. 

Geralt is extending his boys gap year and taking him with him back to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

He did after all promise to bring that years entertainment for his fellow Witchers.

[artnerd1123]

when in doubt, doodle silly things 

[angst-fairygodmother]

May I requesr reader x the witcher? Reader has a major anxiety attack over something and Geralt tries to calm them down. They end up passing out in his arms (partly from being exhausted, partly from hyperventalating). He makes sure that they don't fall. Their skin is clammy and pale. Their pulse is fast. Geralt keeps an eye on their pulse and is relieved when it starts to slow down. When they wake up, he comforts them. Fluffy ending please. (Sorry if its too specific) Thankyousomuch !!! 🥺🥺🥺

A/N: Anxiety and panic attacks are such...unique responses to stressors that it’s a struggle to capture what they’re like for someone else, but I hope this was something at least akin to what you were looking for. Word Count: 1429 Content Warning: anxiety attack descriptions

You had been travelling with Geralt for long enough that the monsters didn’t seem to faze you anymore. It didn’t matter how fearsome or horrible they seemed to be, you stared them down unflinchingly as you fought beside your witcher friend. And though he would be the last to admit it, he had come to rely on your stoic presence watching his back.

That reliance was precisely why neither of you were prepared when it struck. A griffin had swooped low over the road, shrieking, its great flapping wings nearly knocking you to the ground with the force of air. And then, as quick as it had dropped out of the sky, it was gone again like it had never been.

“Shit,” you heard Geralt mutter, his amber eyes scanning the skies in case the creature came back.

Eventually, he seemed satisfied and you moved on, but you couldn’t get the vicious leonine creature out of your mind. Every shift of cloud that blocked the sun, every rustle of the trees in the forest to your left, every skittering of rock on the slowly rising hills that you rode through was the griffin coming back. And it had proven itself not only powerful, but fast. There would be no way to react in time, no way for Geralt to draw his sword even with his witcher reflexes, let alone you with your ordinary human ones.

“Geralt,” you called to your travelling companion, your stomach clenching. Familiar with the signs, you knew what would come next and tried to minimize the damage even as your mind grew fuzzy. “Can we stop?”

“We still have a few hours of light,” he said absently, not even glancing back over his shoulder at you. “At the very least we need to find somewhere less open.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth and throat feeling desert-dry and tight. Blood rushed in your ears loud enough that you barely heard your own trembling voice.

“No, Geralt. We need…I need…”

‘Where had the air gone?’ you found yourself wondering as spots of black and sparkling light danced across your vision.

It was as if iron bands had clamped tight around your muscles and your lungs, squeezing tighter and tighter by the second.

Geralt’s face suddenly appeared, wavering in front of you, mouth moving though you couldn’t hear the sounds he made.

And then there was nothing.

~

Geralt had always been pleasantly surprised by your calm and practicality, especially in comparison to his previous travelling companion. You never complained, never hesitated, could take care of yourself. Which was why he’d been surprised by your request to end a day’s travel early, enough that he was keenly focused for signs you weren’t showing him that you might have been hurt. When you started to insist again on stopping, he half-intended to leave you in the dust, an old habit seated in fear of how someone might react encountering him on the twilight road or in a dusky wood. Instead, his sensitive hearing caught on the hitch in your pulse and he pulled Roach to a quick halt so he could check on you.

He only had moments, spent trying to ask you what was wrong as he took in your deathly pallor and pupils blown wide before you collapsed and he lunged forward on instinct to catch you. Gently cradling your upper body, he lowered the pair of you to the ground and laid two fingers gently on the pulse point of your neck. He could hear the way your whole body sped up, taut and poised on the edge of something, adrenaline overtaking you, but it was easier if he could actually feel and count the beats of your heart pumping your blood.

At this stage, there wasn’t much he could do but watch over you until you woke, and he hated himself for it. He should have seen that something was wrong sooner, should have sensed that you weren’t okay and done something instead of trying to brush you off. Gently, he brushed sweat-soaked hair from your face as you lay in his arms.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

~

The sun was beginning to set behind the distant trees by the time you stirred. Your pulse had normalized earlier, and there had been no signs of other travelers or that the griffin might return, so Geralt hadn’t been worried and decided to just let you rest until you came too on your own.

Disoriented, you sat up slowly, feeling an ache in every inch of your body, but especially in your head, which you clasped between hands rested on your knees with a groan.

“Finally,” Geralt’s soft, gravelly voice said, off to your left.

You turned slowly to face him, puzzled and tired.

“What happened?” you asked.

“You fainted. As for why, you tell me.”

A hot flush crept across the back of your neck and up the sides of your face, embarrassment at what you perceived as your failure to keep up and at the obvious concern and warmth in him. His posture was hunched but not in a way that made you feel closed off from him, as he usually did, and his face was gentle, amber eyes watching you for signs of further distress.

“I don’t…I guess…I let my own mind get the better of me, and I…panicked a little?” you offered with a shrug, trying to dismiss it like a one-time situation rather than something that occurred, if you were being honest, rather often but which you usually managed to keep under control, or at least secret, until you were away from him and free to break down on your own.

“Because of the griffin?”

You were surprised that he was taking the time to ask the obvious questions.

“Yes, I guess. The monsters that fly are all a little more…intense than ones that don’t and this one was so fast and graceful. The thought of being caught out in the open, or anywhere, by it…was too much.”

“Do you…have these kind of…attacks often?”

“No,” you lied again.

He gave you an incredulous look, one that said you were handling things too well for them to not be a familiar song and dance. Still, he didn’t push.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“I’m…okay now. Better. Just tired, and sore. I…if you want to keep moving for a while longer I should be fine.”

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll stop here for the night, and get moving early in the morning to make up the time.”

“Geralt, you don’t have to do that. I can handle it.”

“You’re allowed to have limitations, Y/N. And I’d rather you rest now and be well than push yourself too far and make things worse.”

“Right, I guess it would slow you down more in the long run.”

“That’s not…” he sighed, moving until he was kneeling right in front of you, towering over you. “It’s not just about efficiency.”

“What do you mean?” you frowned, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and privately Geralt found himself amused and rather taken in by the expression.

“I care about you,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me if I didn’t. And today, when I thought something was wrong…more wrong…”

He suddenly turned away, jaw clenched as he fought internally over how much to tell you. With a dawning realization and a soft smile, you gently reached up to place the tips of your fingers on his cheek and turn him back to you.

“It’s okay to have been worried, or even scared, Geralt.”

As you spoke, the witcher leaned his forehead against your own, eyes shut. You weren’t sure whether the gesture was one of affection or resignation, but you imagined he probably heard the way your heart leapt from it either way.

“I’m fine, I promise. I will consent to camping here for the night if that will make you happier.”

He let out a long, relieved breath that he no longer had felt like he had to fight you for your own wellbeing, or admit the depth of his feeling.

The two of you sat like that for a while, each breathing the other and finding calm and peace in their proximity, until finally, he rose and set about preparing a camp as if there had been no exchange. You smiled, he was not a man of words, but you knew anyway, and were glad of it, that he was there for you and cared for you, and for now, that was enough.

[geraskierficrecs]

litcherally anything where geralt is being mean to jaskier and then is guilty when it actually upsets the bard bc he doesn’t think before he speaks :( and then making up for it and realizing how all these things he’s said over the years have weighed on jaskier and JUST TRYING TO BE BETTER AFTER THAT. tysm i love ur writing

Get ready to hurt.

______________________________________

It happens so suddenly that Geralt finds himself stunned and stumbling like a soldier in his first battle.

He’s surrounded in a field full of growling, snapping ghouls trying to kill the fucking massive alghoul in the center when he hears it.  Unmistakable despite the unexpectedness.

“Geralt!”

Jaskier’s voice is high on adrenaline and foolish courage as he rushes into the fray with his Geralt’s spare sword held high. He slashes at the ghouls who turn toward the noise, managing through luck or skill to hack off the head of the first and shove another away.

Geralt curses viciously--torn between the need to protect the damn fool and the logic of killing the alghoul first.  

The beast decides it for him, slamming one hand into Geralt’s chest and leaping to close the distance between itself and Jaskier.

Jaskier turns--blue eyes wide and frightened--and takes the hit on his side, falling beneath the onslaught of a monster of nightmare and legend.  He disappears beneath the weight of it.

And Geralt sees red.

He feels his hands grip onto the oily, slick, and rotting skin of the next ghoul and yanks its head loose in one vicious pull.  His sword moves in a violent arc through the next, clearing the way to the alghoul with almighty purpose.

He can’t get the image of Jaskier’s expression out of his mind.

It drives him to madness as he roars and slams his weight against the alghoul--the last of the monsters left in a field of blood and viscera.  The beast shrieks, bloodied jaws reaching for his throat, but Geralt is beyond caring.  His sword is too large for such close conflict so he lets it fall to the grass, rolling with the rotting creature as they struggle bodily for control.

His hand slips low and finds the familiar hilt on his thigh.  

He thrusts upward, blade moving like an extension of himself.  High and sharp and cutting deep--

He feels the wet pull of muscle giving way beneath his fingers and snarls into the face of the beast above him--

A twist, and then it goes still, face frozen in a permanent maw of agony.

Geralt lays still for a moment, panting, before he shoves the carcass off of him and gets to his feet.  His heart is still pounding a vicious rhythm in his chest thanks to the adrenaline and potion he’d downed before wading into the fray.  He scans the impromptu battlefield desperately, terrified of what he’d find.

Then, a groan and a small shift of movement.

Panic and terror gives way to anger as Jaskier slowly gets to his feet using Geralt’s sword as a crutch.  He turns--his face streaked with mud and oily blood--and beams at Geralt.

“Well, Geralt, I think we really proved--”

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” Geralt’s voice is whip quick and carries the same sting.  He sees Jaskier’s expression falter, but he’s near seething now.  “I told you not to come near this area.”

“I know, but you didn’t come back when you said and I--”

“What?  You thought you would be able to come in and save me?” Geralt’s sneer felt as sharp as the ghoul’s hunger.  “Did you really think you would be anything but a gigantic pain in my ass here?”

Jaskier’s voice trembles slightly and he leans more heavily against the sword.  “Geralt-”

“The only thing you are good for is crafting lies to charm women into your bed and getting on my last damn nerve--neither of which is any good here!” Geralt paces away from him, trying to blow off some of his frustration by kicking on of the corpses.

“Please, I--”

“What, Jaskier?  How could you possibly think that I would be glad to see you rush in like a damn fool just to get yourself included in the next stupid ballad you--”

Geralt’s words give way to horrified silence a moment after Jaskier fell unconscious on the ground.

He runs forward, ignoring the mud soaking into his clothes as he pulls Jaskier up against his chest.  The bard is pale, completely limp in his grip.  The stolen sword falls to the ground from lifeless fingers and Geralt feels his fury drain away so quickly he is breathless.

“Jaskier,” he calls, shaking the man.  “Jaskier, wake up.”

Nothing.  

The only sound he hears is the echo of his vicious words and the heart beneath his palms beginning to slow...

_____________________________

The bite is high on the chest, just above a dusky nipple and the heart that continues to pulse weakly.

The sight of it makes Geralt feel a cold sweat creep down his back.  A ghoul’s bite is poison for human, Vesemir’s voice murmurs from his memories.  Better to kill the poor creature than to let it make the change.

Just the thought of using one of his blades to slit Jaskier’s throat makes him turn and vomit bile and  regret onto the grass.  

There are more injuries littering Jaskier’s body, but Geralt knows that it is the bite that will doom them both.  Already black lines filled with poison are spreading away from the cutting--taunting Geralt with their inevitability.  This close to Jaskier’s most vital organs, it might only be a few hours before the bard would draw his last breath and awake a monster.

Unless...

Geralt’s hands shake as the reach for the knife at his side.  It’s still caked with ghoul’s blood and he pauses to wipe it clean meticulously.  He reaches out and cups one of Jaskier’s clammy, cold cheeks and whispers,

“Forgive me.”

And begins to cut.

_____________________________

Jaskier’s wakes--wild and glassy-eyed--after Geralt makes the second incision.

The ghouls blood stinks like rotten pus and burns like acid as it drips sluggishly from each carefully placed cut around the bite.  His mouth is bloody from coaxing the black liquid free and his hands are forced to pin Jaskier flat against the earth as he works.

The bard screams, high and agonized.  His eyes fix on Geralt mindlessly and tear carve pale trails through the dirt streaked across his face.

“Please--no!  Don’t!” he begs, “Geralt, please!”

Geralt grits his teeth, feeling his own eyes burn at the betrayal in those blue eyes. “I have to get the poison out.”

His knife digs deep once more, the line jagged as Jaskier arches bodily in a weak attempt to escape the pain.  He thrashes, wild as an animal caught in a trap, and sobs.

“Please, Geralt.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  Please, I’m sorry.”

The bard babbling cuts off with another scream as more blood gushes from the wound.  His body seizes and Geralt is forced to lay bodily against his in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself more. 

Geralt’s heart is made of ice and stone as he sees the last of the darkened and sickly blood run clear of the wound.  His hand clenches around the slick handle of his knife and he takes a deep breath.  The scent of poison and rot has faded now beneath the acid sharp scent of pain radiating from the sobbing bard.

He takes a breath and tells himself he deserves this suffering.

His hands trace the sigil Igni as he looks over the trembling man beneath him, face turned away from the Witcher and teeth chattering in agony.

He waits until the blade is red hot before he presses it firmly against the bite.

Jaskier’s scream sends the birds into flight.

__________________________

There are no towns close enough to risk moving the bard nor does he have some hidden trick that will summon a mage or a healer to his side.  It is the first time since the mountains of Cairgorn that he has wished to see Yennefer, if only for her ability to heal what he seems incapable of not destroying.

Jaskier is still in his arms as Geralt carries him out of the woods and down a game trail that takes him to the trapper’s cabin that had started the mess.  There are scratches and blood along the walls, but the door and windows are still intact.  The bed stinks of old sweat, but Geralt finds fresh sheets laying limp and forgotten on the clothesline outside.

He makes the bed quickly, the unfamiliar task sped by the sight of Jaskier lying silently on the ground nearby.

The silence, he decides, might be the worst of it.  It gives him plenty of time to remember the cruelty of his voice and the hurt he seemed to spew at Jaskier at every opportunity.  Somehow, he always manages to lash out against the only person who has ever remained loyal and devoted even after seeing the worst parts of him.

But this, this might be the final blow that brings Jaskier’s endless faith to its knees.

Geralt tries to tell himself that he could watch Jaskier leave him if it meant the bard would survive this.  

It is little comfort.

____________________________

Geralt stands watch over the too-still body for three days before he begins to hope that Jaskier might live.

He’s barely left the small bedside except to call for Roach and bring water and food for the bard.  He washed away the blood and mud until Jaskier looks soft and young--so damn young--and almost peaceful.  If you ignored the red, angry burns across his chest.

The scars are brutal--far more fitting for a Witcher than a bard.  He winces when he thinks of what Jaskier will say when he sees them.  The vanity and snobbishness of the courtiers Jaskier plays for is foreign to Geralt, but he would  strip the skin from his bones to keep Jaskier from feeling their scorn or pity.  

Geralt has ruined so much of the man laying pale and broken before him.

He leans his head against the mattress, feeling his eyes burn once again at the reminder of what he had done.  Jaskier could have died with Geralt’s sneering and mockery still echoing in his ears.  He would have believed every bit of the poison the Witcher spewed in place of real emotions and to avoid the concern he truly felt.  It proved what Jaskier had been trying to disprove all along:

Geralt was a monster.

_____________________________

The Witcher wakes to hands carding through the tangled strands of his hair.

For a moment, his mind is at peace, enjoying a rare moment of calm with Jaskier--

Geralt’s head snaps up so quickly the bard jerks in surprise, wincing as the gesture irritates the wound on his chest.  Geralt feels his body tremble faintly and his voice is raw with emotion when he speaks. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier gives him an awkward smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Ah, yes.  Sorry for waking you.  It just, it looked like you were uncomfortable.”

The bard’s voice is raspy and rough from the screams Geralt will hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life.  He stands quickly and grabs a cup near the water pitcher to press to Jaskier’s lips.  “Stay still,” he says, “You still need to rest.”

“Must be bad if you stayed,” Jaskier answers with a trace of bitterness.  Blue eyes flick to Geralt and then skitter away to focus on the fingers toying nervously with the sheets.  “You don’t have to, you know.  Stay, that is. I know I shouldn’t have distracted you like that.  You don’t owe me anything--it was my fault.”

Geralt’s throat goes tight and he falls to his knees beside the bed.  He grips Jaskier’s hand like it’s made of glass, pressing his forehead against his palm.  Tears drip unnoticed down his cheeks and his voice trembles, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Geralt...”

The Witcher shakes his head when Jaskeir starts to speak, determined to release the words that had been swirling in his mind since he’d seen Jaskier charging into battle.  

“I should never have said those things to you.  It’s just--I thought you’d died when that alghoul turned on you and it was easier to be angry than be scared. Then you nearly died right after I said all those horrible things, and I--”

Jaskier’s hand shifts against him, coaxing Geralt’s chin up until he was staring at the bard while tears dripped down his cheeks.

“I would never survive losing you, Jaskier.  Not now, not decades from now when we’re both old and slow.  I will never forgive myself for all the scars and the pain I’ve caused you and I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to leave me for it.” Just the thought made his stomach twist in knots.  “But if you give me a chance, I will spend the rest of my life making up for every horrible thing I’ve said to you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright with an emotion that Geralt is too terrified to hope for.  His fingers tighten around Geralt’s jawline until the Witcher raises up on his knees to close the distance between them.

“Ready to start making it up to me?” he purrs and leans forward to swallow Geralt’s sigh of relief with his lips.