#geralt is about to learn or face the consequences

[dapandapod]

WIP Game

What is friendship/Not Enough 👀💕

Ah my friend, you picked the angsty one, hoo boy, I hope you are ready! ❤️ This is the fic where Jaskier puts his foot down, where Geralt has to shape the fuck up, because Jaskier can't be his friend anymore.

Happy ending though, I promise, but I am about to torture Geralt EVERY step of the way.

It was hard choosing a snippit, I only have a few pages and uh. I'm so excited to be done with this, I say, having completely gotten stuck on it. Defining and teaching friendship is kinda hard, isn't it? xD

And for that reason, I am very open for suggestions and ideas both, to spark ye old braincells and emotions! SO here! Have the opening scene, because yes, it sums it up well xD

“It’s not enough.”  Geralt blinks, stunned. “It’s not enough, Geralt. I have done what you have asked, I tried to be your friend despite you making it clear you didn’t want me to, and I suppose that is on me. But you hurt me, on purpose, repeatedly. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I need you’ is not enough. Where were you when I needed you as well?” Jaskier gives him two seconds to reply, but Geralt is dumbfounded, he has no idea what to say, what to do. The bard sees it, and decides he is not getting anything else out of this conversation. “There are a million songs about not knowing what you had until you lost it, Geralt. I will help you one last time, and then we go our separate ways.” Jaskier says softly, as if that would soften the blow in the least. Geralt stays by the table, the half eaten dinner still on the table when Jaskier gets up and leaves. All Geralt can do is watch him leave. The outburst was soft, but still there is a head or two turning as Jaskier picks up his lute and leaves the tavern. Their eyes turn to Geralt when the door shuts gently, and all Geralt can do is look down at the table, hands in his lap.

Is this my face as Geralt wallows in self pity and I inflict pain on everybody reading? Maybe, you can't prove anything ❤️

[thedemonofcat]

The peculiarity of a bloodline curse lies in the fact that the event responsible for the curse's origin often fades into the distant past, shrouded in the mists of time, with hardly anyone recalling its true origin. From a very young age, Jaskier was well aware of the curse that plagued his family, a truth imparted to him long ago. The curse had been transmitted to him from his mother, who tragically passed away when he was merely seven years old.

Jaskier's understanding of his family's history was limited to the knowledge that in the distant past, one of his ancestors, driven by a deep obsession with their own legacy, possessed immense power but committed a terrible act that led to a curse befalling their bloodline. As a result, all their descendants inherited this formidable magic, but with a harrowing price - every time they tapped into this chaotic power, a gradual erosion of their sanity ensued, eventually driving them to madness.

Jaskier faced a heart-wrenching ordeal as he witnessed his mother's struggle with the curse. She had always been a kind and loving presence in his life, delighting him with small magic tricks like making the piano play on its own, just to see him smile. However, the curse's toll began to show, and his mother started to transform. Her moods fluctuated wildly, swinging from euphoric happiness to uncontrolled rage at the slightest provocation. Paranoia crept in, leading her to believe that even the cooks intended to poison her. Tragically, one fateful day, Jaskier's mother succumbed to her suffering, ending her life by hanging herself.

In the aftermath, Jaskier's father remarried and had more children with his new stepmother. Jaskier couldn't help but feel that his striking resemblance to his late mother made it challenging for his father to face him, fearing that he might share the same fate in the future. The burden of being treated delicately by everyone took its toll on Jaskier, and he reached a breaking point. Driven by a desire to break free from the stifling atmosphere, he made the difficult decision to run away from home

Attending school at Oxenfurt brought immense joy to Jaskier's life, as he relished the opportunity to learn and acquire knowledge in every possible field. Being a traveling bard suited him well, considering the curse that burdened him; he knew it was unwise to have children. Nevertheless, Jaskier yearned to make his mark on the world, and he believed his songs could be his legacy. This aspiration proved fruitful as he embarked on a journey with Geralt, the White Wolf, and his reputation as Geralt's bard soared.

However, amid the adventures, there were moments when Jaskier contemplated sharing the truth of his curse with Geralt, revealing the inevitable descent into madness that awaited him in the future.

As fate would have it, Jaskier never found the right moment to confide in Geralt about his curse, and after the harrowing events on the dread mountain, they parted ways, leaving Jaskier to travel alone once again. Despite knowing the perilous consequences, Geralt's hurtful words pushed him to the edge, and Jaskier, no longer caring about the consequences, started using his magic, slowly feeling his sanity erode. It was both liberating and terrifying, an addiction he couldn't resist.

News of Jaskier's magical feats spread, and unexpectedly, Yennefer sought him out. They had a heartfelt conversation, and for the first time outside of his family, Jaskier shared the truth about his curse with someone. In the midst of this, Yennefer asked for his help in the upcoming battle of Sodden. Hesitant yet willing, Jaskier agreed, and through some miracle, they became friends as they fought together. Their combined efforts led to victory, with Jaskier's assistance bolstering Yennefer's fire magic that engulfed much of Nifflgaard’s army.

As Jaskier continued to use his magic, his descent into madness became more pronounced. Yennefer grew concerned about the influence of the brotherhood on him and contemplated taking him away, even if it meant facing the dangers of being hunted by time, just to save her friend before he was lost completely.

Meanwhile, during a chance visit to Lettenhove with Ciri, Geralt learned about Jaskier's family curse. This revelation spurred him into action, and along with Ciri, they set out on a mission to find Jaskier. Geralt's sole purpose was to prevent his Jaskier from succumbing to the foolish pursuit of power at the cost of his sanity. And perhaps, deep down, Geralt also longed to embrace his dear friend once they were reunited.

[thelostgirl21]

So, apparently, there's an actual short story called "A Little Sacrifice" where a Prince falls in love with a real mermaid in The Witcher's universe...

And Netflix is supposed to release an anime called "Sirens of the Deep", where Geralt and Jaskier get involved in the situation.

My question is: will this be happening before or after the events of Season 3?!

Because having a freaking Prince (Radovid) hearing Jaskier's songs, finding them "irresistible", and becoming heavily drawn to him as a result gives off crazy strong Prince/Siren vibes.

And metaphorically speaking, the whole song follows their story arc in Season 3 right down to the "twilit red horizon" (Redania's color is red, so is obviously blood and its association with death and murder...) and the Prince sadly immediately "sinking to darkest night" on his very first attempt to swim.

So, if Jaskier and Geralt had already met a mermaid and a Prince that had fallen in love with each other before the events of Season 3, and Jaskier had already written a whole ballad about it (that Ciri ended up learning) before he met Radovid, I'm thinking his own situation would have felt like such an insanely strong case of déjà vu!

[Note: In the short story, it's the Siren that swaps fin for foot, not the Prince. If the song is about "Sirens of the Deep", this means that either the ending of the short story has been changed...

... or something bad happened as a result of the mermaid's choice, and Jaskier decided to give them a different ending where the Prince attempts to become a mermaid, but finds himself sinking and needing the Siren's help (to embrace him and the choice he made, regardless of its consequences)?]

Otherwise, that means Jaskier composed that ballad with Radovid in mind in Season 3.

And then, on his travels with Geralt, winds up meeting an actual mermaid that fell in love with a freaking Prince - essentially facing the same dilemma he's been going through with Radovid - and probably would be going "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?! Is the world trying to fucking tell me something?! Unbelievable!"

I can already imagine the conversations...

Sh'eenaz: You couldn't possibly understand what it's like to -

Jaskier: Save it! I wrote a fucking song about it! And you know what? It was a pretty good one, too! Filled with plenty of symbolism and poetry... But you two just had to show up and turn it into a literal thing, didn't you? Now, each time people will be singing my song, they'll just believe it's all about Prince Aglobal -

Sh'eenaz: Agloval

Jaskier: Whatever! And forget I had already seduced a Prince with my songs, and been offered to go live with him in a castle before you two even met! Oh! And by the way, my Prince is now the King of Redania - the most powerful nation of the Northern Kingdoms - the only one that might be able to stop the Nilfgaardians! He's way more important than -

Sh'eenaz: So, did you accept?

Jaskier: Accept what?

Sh'eenaz: To give up the life you had before to be with him?

Jaskier: *Forgets all about his rant and lets out a heavy sigh.*. It's complicated... *Hesitates* I think I might have? Especially if Ciri had decided she wanted to go to Redania to unite it with Cintra, and become the Queen she'd always dreamed of becoming... But then, Ciri went missing, the Second War began, he actually did offer to come with me instead, but then his brother was brutally murdered and he was crowned King instead...

Sh'eenaz: So, he was willing to sacrifice his world for you?

Jaskier: I guess... I mean, I think he meant it...

Sh'eenaz: Well, at least you two breathe the same air, and you can both walk... And Geralt's mate, from what I've heard, is a powerful sorceress that knows how to create portals. It's not like you can't quickly travel between your two worlds when you miss your family, thanks to her, and he can't accompany you on those visits at times, too...

Jaskier: ...

Sh'eenaz: ...

Jaskier: Yeah, I think your Prince should definitely follow you at sea. Humans are idiots.

Sh'eenaz: Well, if he does, maybe you could write a ballad about us; make it one where a Prince falls in love with a dashing travelling bard, then chooses to renounce his throne to accompany him on his travels?

Jaskier: Yeah, you wait right here in your *motions at the bay surrounding them* little pond; I'll go see your Prince and either convince him to come here and join you, or grab and throw him right into the sea myself! After that, I've got a King to catch...

[littlestsnicket]

title: in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard (3/5)

word count: 4.2k

ciri learns something about what it means to be a mage and something else about what it means to be a bard, and then she tries her hand at storytelling

excerpt:

“Ciri, I know you’re there. Stop lurking,” Yennefer said. She sounded odd—not unkind or angry. Maybe strict was the best word for it. She turned around as Ciri stepped past the treeline onto the bank of the river. Yennefer was unabashedly naked and Ciri studiously kept her eyes on Yennefer’s face, hoping she wasn’t blushing. 

Ciri wasn’t attracted to Yennefer—the very idea was laughable—but she wasn’t blind. Yennefer’s figure was mind-bendingly perfect. And it wasn’t like with Geralt, where Ciri was objectively aware that many people found Geralt’s physique attractive; here, she could see it for herself.

“You’re filthy. There’s spare soap and a washcloth. Come join me,” Yennefer said with a flick of her wrist indicating the bathing supplies next to where her dress lay spread out on the grass.

Ciri stripped out of her clothes. She wasn’t ashamed of her body but she had a heightened awareness of her wiry build and the way her pale skin was mottled with livid bruises. It felt lacking in contrast to Yennefer’s, well, everything. But this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be a Witcher, to be able to fight. What the training had done to her body was a small consequence, and nothing compared to what she had been willing to sacrifice to undergo the mutagens. Ciri pushed her feelings aside, laid out her vest and trousers next to Yennefer’s dress, and took her shirt along with her to wash.

[on ao3]

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

"Much appreciated. Travel as long and far as we do, you taste every sort of thing and level of quality along the way. To say nothing of the repugnant potions we must drink. Experience either kills our tastes or raises their standards, one or the other. I like good food, so learned accordingly."

Eskel's deep, amused voice returned to the dark haired noblewoman, chuckling slightly under his breath as they both gathered their meals and took their places near the fire, digging in. By now, the light outside was dimming, nightfall arriving again gradually. At her mention of Geralt, and concern for the consequences on him, his amusement faded. He had considered as much as well already, before deciding to do what he had. He didn't know if Anna Henrietta would even find out he was the one who had taken off with her sister or not, but he had considered the worst case scenario and the consequences. Geralt was a hero, renowned all over Toussaint from what he had seen... its savior, and the Duchess had a great debt to him. He would be shielded from any repercussions, they would all land firmly on Eskel. Probably even the ones that should land squarely on Sylvia Anna, he was certain, given how her sister had looked the other way over her involvement with the Vampire attack. He would be accused of kidnapping a hapless noble lady, most likely, made a scapegoat. It was clear the laws were determined by the Duchess' tumultuous personal feelings... thus he was fortunate to be away from that land, and more so not to be one of her subjects, not that it would stop her from trying to blame it all on him. Even so, rubbing his scarred visage absently, he spoke up again gradually, smirking a bit grimly her way, between sips of his ale and spoonfuls of his stew, studying the attractive, if mysterious, woman.

"Destiny ain't been much kinder to Wolf than the rest of us, take it from me, who has known him the longest and best. He tends to complicate his own life more than it already is. When I see his life on the Path, I know mine could be worse. Couldn't imagine all that fame, get enough attention as it is being a mutant with this face. Probably for the best I never traveled with a bard to record my feats. That, and I hear enough music travelling as it is. Don't need it when I'm trying to sleep. And don't start me on Sorceresses. Sure he'll be fine, considering his standing in Toussaint after he played knight in leather armor, saved the day there. It's me who will likely not be able to go back. No matter, there are many places like that for me. May be able to go back within a generation or two, when the throne changes royal posteriors, and folk forget, as they often do. Started over so many times in different lands it's a second nature. And I always have Kaer Morhen Valley anyways. Nowhere else I'd rather be."

The Witcher conceded with a shrug of his silver spike covered shoulders. Kaer Morhen Valley was the one place untouched by time and people, ever reliable... and more importantly, it was land he owned, as the last Witcher out there. When not on the Path, he found he was settling into the role of Grandmaster and Keeper of a dead school better than he had thought he would. But then he'd had some experience learning how to do that from Old Keldar, out at the Griffin School of Poviss... even the far more devastated ruins of Kaer Seren were like a palace to the old man. Home was where the heart was, he supposed... even ruins could be worth more than the grandest castle, depending on the individual. He would have to pay another visit to Old Keldar, when they reached Kovir and Poviss... he wasn't about to waste such a long trip... especially with the possibility he wouldn't be able to return there for a long time, after what they would do to Stregobor and Eltibald was discovered, and the likely quick escape they would have to make. He wasn't sure what the old man would think, the grumpy, neutral old Witcher was also a Knightly Griffin School type... slaying monsters and saving or avenging ladies was part of his trade. He would approve strongly or disapprove strongly. There was no middle ground with him. He was silent again as he ate for a time, listening to her explain her reasons for doing what she was, what they were, viper eyes peering into the leaping flames of the fire, weighing her words, and his own thoughts. Then, yellow gaze looking to her blue pair again, with a nod, he lay them out for her, not sugarcoating it.

"Ain't kidding myself on Stregobor and Eltibald. The Black Sun is recurring, generational... I saw one myself, in 1210, camping in the forests of Caingorn. Didn't know what it was at the time. If I know anything nowadays, it's that cruel, ignorant mages are generational too. More like them will rise. What this is is justice, an accounting for these two's actions in my time and yours. Long overdue. We both got personal reasons for doing this... but I ain't pretending it won't happen again, one day. Another Black Sun. Another Council of Mages. More old fools and witches playing God because they've had a taste of magic. Stewed in it for too long. Locking girls up in towers. But I will content myself with their deaths, at least. The final two behind all this. High time I closed this chapter of my life. Been a long time coming. Almost seven decades."

@starwrittenfates

"Danger I can handle... even when it ends up taking a lovely and enticing form. The most dangerous things in this world often have them. Bruxa, for one personal example... at least before the claws and wings come out... the fangs I have less of a problem with... but I digress. Have so many stories you would develop grey hair by the time I was finished with just half of them."

The Witcher's deep, amused voice returned to her with a chuckle and wink her way, the old fang scars along his neck almost tingling at the memory, continuing to stir the now simmering stew and add in a few more spices. It was going good now, just about ready... his appetite was becoming ravenous. Yet when she spoke again, his viper eyes and attention returned to the noblewoman, considering her blue eyes and words carefully. Memories stirring of the Trials he had endured long ago... of Sad Albert, down in the laboratory... the sorcerers hovering over him, inserting tubes in him... chanting and casting their magic... inserting glowing yellow liquid filled syringes into his eyeballs, turning them from normal and blue to serpentine... one of the many reasons he had chosen not to bring Deidre to Kaer Morhen when he should have. One of his excuses and self justification for his chosen course of actions, one he thought about often. She would not have survived the process... and had been a Princess anyways, destined by birth for a better life and upbringing than she ever would have had at Kaer Morhen. Or so he had believed or fooled himself into believing... and had been wrong about. The Black Sun and the old fools of the Council... along with destiny, had seen to that. More likely, he had simply not wanted to be laughed out of Kaer Morhen by the old guard that had run the place before the pogrom for even suggesting she be brought to the school for training. It was a bitter thought and memory, among the many conflicting ones that he carried.

"You're better off as you are, poorly as destiny has treated you. Wouldn't have very long a life, if destiny tried to make you a female Witcher. Alzur, Cosimo Malaspina, Idarran of Ulivo and the other Witcher creators found that out the hard way over three centuries ago, in their early mutation experiments at Rissberg Castle and Kaer Seren. The mutagens and magical rituals of the Trials only work on pre pubescent boys... and even then, perhaps three out of ten times at best. The rest... the ones it doesn't work on... well. The less said the better about what happens to them... especially during supper. And even if they do survive, it means a week straight of agony the likes of which I have no other experience to compare it to... not even the way I ended up with this face. Burning all over... inside and out... and all while strapped down to a laboratory table. Unable to tell your own screams in the darkness apart from the other children's screams. And that's just what Witchers endure before the training begins. Without the mutations of the Trials, training or not, the first genuinely formidable monster a Witcher would face would also be their last."

Eskel reasoned slowly and calmly, remembering the times he had spoken to the others at Kaer Morhen about such things. He had objected to Leo being trained by Vesemir, making the same argument about the Trials... just as he had been skeptical of Ciri being brought to Kaer Morhen for training by Wolf. Being a Witcher was not a romantic title like being a Knight... in the old days you didn't just pick up a sword one day, learn some textbook monster knowledge and how to pirouette and be considered a true Witcher for it... Alzur's mutations were key to being a Witcher and surviving in such a dangerous life. Leo's needless death from a crossbow bolt he could not dodge or parry had proven that. It was not a role to be adopted on a romantic whim... as Geralt had done in regards to Ciri... and Vesemir getting likewise soft and attempting to do the same with Leo. Ciri's strange Elder Blood powers were likely the only reason she had survived some time on the Path. A true Witcher underwent the entire process, or the purpose, capability and role of a Witcher, of Alzur's vision, was diluted. He was a traditionalist, first and foremost, for very good reasons. Life on the Path was not a game or fairy tale, nor something everyone could be or should aspire to be. Destiny chose Witchers, people could not choose to be one. Of course Geralt had thought Ciri to be all of their destinies... Eskel remained skeptical of that claim... she had been Geralt's, certainly, as Deidre had been his own. A destiny he had betrayed... but his destiny nonetheless. At last, he sampled the stew again and deemed it suitably prepared, looking Syanna's way again and beckoning her closer to the fire and stewing pot, retrieving a bowl for her as he spoke up again. Glancing idly between the stew and her.

"Stew's finished. Come dish some up, let me know what you think of my cooking. Hopefully my meals are at least somewhat better at improving the mood than my dour stories. As for the Emperor, he cares and always had cared only for himself. His own power. As it is with damn near all monarchs outside Upper Aedirn. I would suggest that senile old puppet Usurper that killed his father, cursed and cast him out as a boy broke something in him a long time ago. And what they both did to the Viper School and its Witchers... well... seems he ended up taking more after the Usurper than Fergus."

@starwrittenfates

[jaskiersvalley]

Here and Now

CW: PTSD, flashbacks

Training was fun for the first time in years. Cahir didn't have to keep up appearances, didn't have to be perfect. If he was tired, sloppy, lost a bout, it simply didn't matter. Truth be told, he lost more bouts than won by a long stretch but that was to be expected when going against a witcher. But he was learning again, allowed to make mistakes, permitted to be a fallible human without consequences. Nobody challenged his authority, rode the momentary gloating fame of beating the White Flame's chosen one.

In fact, after all that had happened, it was during training that Cahir had laughed for the first time in too long. He loved the secluded freedom Kaer Morhen offered, along with the friendships that were motivated purely on the desire of his company rather than the favours and social standing he could offer.

That wasn't to say life was a smooth ride. Cahir couldn't bring himself to go into the armoury or the pantry, the rooms too small and the doors had a knack for slamming shut. The one time Lambert had tried to playfully ruffle his hair, Cahir forgot how to breathe, the phantom echoes of fingers pressing against his scalp and tearing through his mind wrenched to the forefront of his thoughts. That evening Lambert had gifted him a hat, saying it would give a bit more protection because he'd managed to weave dimeritium laced thread through it.

Apart from such small hiccoughs, things were fine. Cahir happily clashed blades with Eskel, the familiarity of the weight in his palm, the ringing of steel against steel, it was all a way to relax. When his body was tired his mind didn't have as much time to dwell on the past. It worked out just fine really.

So caught up in such thoughts, Cahir missed a parry and the world went spinning. There was a tight weight on his wrist as his sword went flying and he was forced to his knees, defenceless and restrained. Breath coming shallow, Cahir couldn't remember where he was or why. All he could think about was how his wrist ached behind his back, how he was helpless to do anything as he was knelt in front of an audience. Even if it was a different group, Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt were all watching and Eskel was behind him with a sword. The why of it all eluded Cahir but Eskel was a good man. And if he agreed that Cahir needed to be beheaded then it had to be a damn good reason. It wasn't as if anyone could call Cahir a good guy by any stretch of the imagination. No, he probably deserved it. All Cahir could think of was that at least it was Eskel. He was strong, had a sharp blade and was fair. At least he wouldn't make Cahir suffer by needing to take several swings to carry out the punishment. The last thing Cahir wanted to was to make it more difficult for Eskel. Not like there was much he could do but he tried. Bending his head, he gave Eskel a clear view of his neck and held his breath. He wasn't going to cry. That wouldn't be fair on poor Eskel.

For some reason, the blow never came.

The reason was pretty obvious as far as Eskel was concerned. They'd been fighting, he saw an opportunity and took it like so many bouts begore. But never before had Cahir crashed to his knees like that, rigid yet pliant in the worst of ways. The sudden drop in Cahir's heartrate was as terrifying as he shallow breaths and the haunted, distant gaze before Cahir's eyes scrunched shut. Somehow that wasn't even the worst of it. The sword fell from Eskel's hand as he saw Cahir bend his head, revealing the vulnerable part of his neck in a blatant invitation.

"Cahir?" Eskel's voice didn't shake as he slowly walked round to face Cahir. Kneeling down, there was no reaction to his presence except a fine tremor that ran through Cahir. The sour stench of terror permeated the air and Eskel's face fell. He didn't expect to be shouldered out of the way by Lambert who plopped down in front of Cahir without explanation.

"Okay, Cahir, buddy," he said as if it was an everyday conversation they were having, "I don't need you to talk yet but nod if you can hear me."

After a moment of tense silence there was a minute nod and Eskel tried not to think how that showed a bit more of Cahir's neck.

"Good. Again, just nod or shake your head. Do you know where you are?"

A hesitant nod followed by a shake of head. Cahir knew who he was with but not where and why. It was all a bit of a blurry haze.

"That's okay. You're in Kaer Morhen. Came here about two moons ago. Do you know who I am?"

"Lambert." Cahir's voice was a soft whisper, barely more than a breathless exhale.

"Good. I am indeed the asshole Lambert. Next to me is-"

"Eskel," Cahir cut in.

"Excellent." Slowly Lambert extended a hand along the ground until he was certain Cahir would be able to see it. "Can you tell me what's in front of you?"

There was a frown on Cahir's face as he squinted at the ground in front of him, arms still behind his back, head bent. "A hand?"

"That's it! Now, think you can follow it?" Slowly Lambert began to pull his hand back towards himself as Cahir tracked it first with his eyes then had to move his head. It was almost painfully slow, especially as Lambert began to raise his hand until it was next to his own head. But he smiled softly at Cahir who blinked at him in confusion. "There you are."

"What?" Cahir's arms fell limply to his side and he swayed, colour rapidly draining from an already pale face.

"You're okay," Lambert replied softer than the others had ever heard him before. "Just got a bit confused for a moment, lost in time. But you're here in Kaer Morhen, you're safe. What we'll do is take you to the kitchen, okay? Eskel will carry you. And we'll have a nice warm drink, maybe a small snack too. Okay?"

Still obviously confused, Cahir gave an obedient little "okay" which was all Eskel needed before scooping him up and holding him close to his chest. Murmurs of "you scared me" and "I'd never hurt you" were easy enough to hear. Lambert followed behind them and gave Vesemir a wry grin when their mentor fell in line with him.

"You were curiously well-versed."

Lambert shrugged. "Got a friend. He gets like that sometimes."

An eyebrow was cocked at Lambert as Vesemir read between the lines.

"Maybe you should bring him along next year. If he's such a good friend."

The grin on Lambert's lips turned into something truly happy and excited. "Maybe I will. It's been a while since Kaer Morhen had some pussy."

The smack to the back of his head was worth it though and Lambert laughed as Vesemir shook his own in mock disappointment. "Just bring your damn Cat."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

(You dont have to answer, I know this is the kind of rant that can bring harassment and leaving it on anon is suspect, so im sorry for that. I just wanted you to know there's at least one other person that agrees with your views and is glad the fandom isnt a monolith. Im just extremelly shy)

Finally watched season 2 and I've decided I'll keep shipping the good Gerlion-influenced Geraskier that lives in my head and disregarding Burn Butcher Burn and most of the canon dynamic and characters entirely.

Im glad I follow you! it's good to see other people agreeing that the song is... evil of Jaskier and tone-deaf of the writers (they do not seem to grasp that witchers are marginalized and what this means for them). It's also motivated me to read more of the books, since Ive only managed to get my hands on the first one but what you've posted about them has me intrigued!

Im also like. Realizing this is the Teen Wolf Experience again: There's very little analysis that can be done in-universe, bc low quality writing and weak characterization are at the heart of most of the issues the characters face and not like, Jaskier being evil on purpose/by accident as a character. It feels unfair to put the song and its consequences on him when there's not going to be consequences bc the writers have not realized it's anything but "and he's mad at Geralt so he wrote a song about it"?? If they'd been going for that it would have taken one line from Lambert to show that's why he's hostile to Jaskier! It'd be dumb that the guy has been doing this for 20+ years and still has to learn to be responsible with his songs so it'd feel ooc anyway if that was his Lesson to Learn This Arc, but whatever, they could have gone that direction. But it's not that, they just dont know what to do with him.

They dont seem to want to commit, either he's the stupid, harmless comic relief everyone shits on or a famous guy affecting witcher PR on the whole continent without asking them what they want. If he'd been mad enough to purposely incite hate towards Geralt he would not have folded after that apology, and if he wasn't that mad and the apology was enough he would maybe have written it in a fit but not?? Made it popular???

And it's not just Jaskier, they do this across the board. They dont know what to do with Geralt, or his relationship with Ciri, or Ciri and Yennefer, and how they're handling Witchers as a group is a mess. It's a shame bc they have a great cast and they have a story and lore and themes (and fan base) with strong bones ready-made, but Netflix has a bad track record doing adaptations do it's not surprising either

I think this can stand on its own, Non.

It's important to have different voices and opinions in fandom. There is always a place for it here if you need a chat about it.

I agree on the cast. They really are trying to present us a banquet when all they were given was ten quid and an out-of-date Greg's voucher.

[wren-of-the-woods]

Dance With Me (I Want My Arm About You)

When Geralt loses a bet to Lambert and is forced to take a dance class, he expects to spend the entire hour in abject misery. He does not expect to be taken in by the unexpectedly charming instructor.

Perhaps this won't be as much of a disaster as Geralt had feared.

2k, fluffy Geraskier meet-cute. Also on AO3!

~

Geralt lost a bet.

He should really know better than to gamble with Lambert. He had been so certain the idiot wouldn’t manage to talk to Aiden at all, let alone ask him out on a date, but somehow, Lambert had managed it. Now, Geralt was subjected to both his brother’s intolerable smugness and the consequences of his misplaced confidence.

Geralt had lost a bet, and that was the only reason he was here.

He glared at the door to the dance studio as though it was to blame for all his life’s problems. He’d had to do a lot of unpleasant things in his life, but at the moment none of them seemed to compare to spending an hour in a stuffy room, talking to annoying people, and learning a skill he had no intention of ever using again.

Unfortunately, he knew that Lambert would only be more irritating if Geralt didn’t do this, and even taking a stupid dance class would be better than facing the combined wrath of Lambert and his new boyfriend.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved the door open and entered the tiny building. The lobby was slightly stuffy and smelled strange. The walls were covered with framed pictures of dancers. There was a small sofa against one wall, a few chairs, and a table surrounded by stools in a corner. One of the walls had a large window into what appeared to be the actual studio, beneath which was a currently unoccupied desk.

Geralt found some paperwork sitting on the desk and managed to sign himself in, before awkwardly looking through the window to the studio and wondering where he was supposed to be. There were already a few people standing in the studio, talking amongst themselves. He didn’t particularly want to join them. That probably meant he would have to.

Just then, someone stuck their head past the door to the studio.

“Hi! Are you here for the swing class?”

Reluctantly, Geralt nodded. He was already irritated by the cheerfulness oozing off the other man. He wore a ridiculously bright blue shirt and dark red yoga pants. His hair was a floppy brown mess. He was still smiling widely, completely unaffected by Geralt’s grumpiness.

“Great! I’m Jaskier, the instructor. Come on in!”

With that, he disappeared back into the studio, leaving Geralt with little choice but to follow.

The room was large, rectangular, and mostly empty save for a small and dusty-looking piano in the corner. The floor was made of sturdy wood. One long wall was entirely covered by a giant mirror. Another wall had windows looking out on the street, but they were half-covered by the leafy bushes that grew along the building.

Geralt stood at the end of an awkward line of dance students as the teacher — Jaskier — stood in front and said perky introductory things. Geralt was only half paying attention. He’d only chosen the swing dance class because he could sign up for a single class instead of a whole semester. He doubted he could have been more uninterested if he’d tried.

At least he hadn’t been stuck with tap dance. He was not in the mood for buying new shoes.

Geralt was shaken out of his thoughts as Jaskier spoke, introducing himself to the class.

“Hello! My name is Jaskier. Usually I am here to assist a wonderful lady called Essi, but she’s sick today so I’m just going to do my best on my own. Bear with me, all right?”

With that, Jaskier began to teach. He walked them all through a few basic steps, patiently explaining everything. There was something called a rock step and then one called a basic. Geralt was only half listening, putting in the bare minimum of effort required to follow along. He only wanted to make it through the class. He had no interest in actually learning anything.

Then, apparently considering them ready to move on, Jaskier announced that they were going to try it with music. He went into a corner and fiddled around with something, muttering under his breath, until energetic jazz started playing from speakers somewhere above them. He straightened and grinned.

Suddenly, it was as though Jaskier began to glow. While he had been graceful before, now it was as though he had been infused with pure joy. His movements were happy and carefree yet perfectly timed with the music, almost as though he were a part of it. As he moved to the center of the room, he drew Geralt’s eyes without appearing to even try. He was entrancing.

Geralt watched, slightly dazed, as Jaskier smiled at them all.

“Ready?” he asked, turning to face the mirror.

“Yes,” someone said, and Jaskier grinned.

“All right, here we go!”

With a smile, Jaskier lead the class in repeating the motions they had been learning earlier, this time to the music.

“Rock-step, right, left,” he called as he moved, and the students did their best to follow.

Geralt, who’d always had a knack for physical activities, had little difficulty with the steps. It left him without much to do besides watch their instructor. Somehow, despite the extreme simplicity of the motions, Jaskier managed to make it look interesting.

They continued like this for a minute or two, then Jaskier paused the music again and returned to instruction mode.

“Right! Now we’re going to try it with a partner. Everyone who wants to be a leader, go to the left side of the room. Everyone who wants to be a follower, to the right. No pressure about the decision; you can always switch next time!”

Geralt went to the left. There was a moment of shuffling confusion as everyone relocated themselves. When they stilled, there were five people on the left side of the room and four on the right.

“Okay, then! I’ll be a follower,” says Jaskier happily.

Jaskier led them through the same steps once more, having the leaders reverse the steps so they used their right feet where they had previously used their left. Then he directed them to stand in two lines so that each leader was facing a follower. Geralt, mostly by accident, ended up facing Jaskier.

“Good! Now, pretend you’re standing in front of a mirror. Your partner is your reflection. We’re going to do exactly what we were doing earlier, only now we’re mirroring our partners.” Jaskier demonstrated, and they spent a few minutes practicing that.

At first, Geralt was worried that being across from Jaskier would result in Jaskier scrutinizing his every move. Soon, however, he realized that the other man was occupied with glancing around the room to check on the other students. Geralt, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring.

Jaskier’s every move was relaxed, yet he was perfectly controlled. He was truly a dancer. His outfit, while more than a little ridiculous, fitted his form well. His eyes were startlingly blue.

They continued like this for a few minutes before Jaskier called a halt and had them all switch partners, each follower moving to the next leader in the line. Despite himself, Geralt was disappointed to see Jaskier go.

Geralt’s new partner was an awkward woman who looked mildly terrified. It didn’t take Geralt long to realize that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. He hadn’t even been paying much attention, but even he had a better grasp of the concepts than she did. They passed an extremely awkward few moments attempting to dance together. He sighed a little bit in relief when they switched partners, before bracing himself for the next person.

They continued along those lines, Jaskier teaching them how to do the same steps while holding hands with their partner so they were dancing together. Then, after a while, it was once again Jaskier’s turn to dance with Geralt. Geralt was oddly happy about this, a fact which he thought it wisest to ignore.

“All right,” said Jaskier, clapping his hands, “Now it’s time for something new!”

He took Geralt’s hand and lead him out to the front of the room, so the rest of the class could see them.

“That was open position. Now, we’re going to learn close position!”

Geralt had only a moment to feel a surge of dread before Jaskier was motioning him closer.

“Leaders, hold out your hands like this.” Jaskier moved Geralt’s hand to the correct position to demonstrate. The entire class was now watching them. Geralt was suddenly glad that he didn’t blush easily.

“Followers, put your hand in your leader’s.” Jaskier demonstrated by placing his hand in Geralt’s. Jaskier’s fingers were long and lithe and calloused. His hand was pleasantly warm. Geralt hoped his own palm wasn’t sweating.

“Now, leaders, put your hand on your partner's waist.”

Oh no.

Jaskier smiled at Geralt encouragingly. “Go on. Don’t be shy.”

Jaskier had the gall to wink at Geralt as he guided Geralt’s arm around his back to set Geralt’s hand on his waist. Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, explaining his movements to the other students as he did so. Geralt wasn’t listening. His attention was entirely focused on all the places where Jaskier’s body touched his own. Jaskier’s hand was cool and lithe where it rested on Geralt’s, and his shirt was not nearly as unpleasant to touch as it was to look at.

Geralt’s every instinct was screaming at him to keep the touch light and impersonal, but it was difficult to manage when he was holding Jaskier’s waist. He felt an unpleasant mixture of mortification, horrible awkwardness, and uncomfortable awareness of the fact that Jaskier was actually rather attractive.

Then, suddenly, Jaskier was moving. Geralt immediately regretted not paying attention to the instructions as he scrambled to figure out what they were doing. Fortunately, Jaskier called out the steps as they went and it didn’t take Geralt very long to catch up. Before long, he and Jaskier were moving in tandem, back and forth across the room.

They danced together for a stretch of time that could have been mere seconds or eternity for all that Geralt knew. Then, all too soon, Jaskier called for the followers to rotate. Just like that, he was gone.

Another student came up to Geralt, and they started doing the same thing to music. The class continued in a similar vein for the next twenty minutes. By the time the hour allotted for the class was almost over, Jaskier had taught the group several other moves that they combined to create a simple dance.

By lucky chance, Geralt ended up with Jaskier as his partner for the last repeat of the dance before the class ended. Jaskier shot him a blinding grin before skipping to the corner of the room to start the music. Geralt couldn’t help a small smile in return. This was going to be fun.

Wait. That was a problem. Geralt had not meant to enjoy himself. He was here against his will. He had absolutely no desire to dance.

Somehow, it was difficult to remember this when Jaskier was in the picture.

Before Geralt had time to process any of this, Jaskier was back and counting off the dance. It looked like he would have to save the revelations to think about later. Geralt held out his hand, and Jaskier took it. They began to dance.

They were performing the same simple set of moves as earlier, but with Jaskier as his partner, it was as though everything was infused with a vigor that hadn’t been present before. Jaskier’s love for what he did was infectious, and Geralt couldn’t help but try to match his joyful energy. He danced across from Jaskier, spun him in a circle, they turned a few times, and then he had to bring Jaskier close to him.

Geralt’s hand went to Jaskier’s waist, as it was supposed to. Jaskier pressed close. The love song they were dancing to said something about beating hearts. Geralt wondered if he somehow fell into a romantic musical without noticing.

Jaskier’s every movement was nimble and precise, carefree and controlled. His body was pleasantly warm against Geralt’s. His touch on Geralt’s shoulder was light but confident, and Geralt could feel his competence and strength and skill in every movement Jaskier made beside him. He could feel each of Jaskier’s breaths, strong and measured, in and out, rising and falling beneath Geralt’s hand. As the person leading, he knew, he was supposed to hold firmly and direct Jaskier’s movement, but he found himself so distracted by the sudden intimacy of touching this lithe body that he nearly missed several steps and was off-beat for a long moment. Jaskier gently nudged him in the right direction. Most of Jaskier’s attention was on the rest of the class, assessing their level and where corrections needed to be made, so it seemed quite unfair to Geralt that all of his attention was wrapped up in the single person beside him.

Then, suddenly, the dance was done. Jaskier told everyone that they did a great job, and told them to clap to themselves. He joined the applause, smiled, and then the class was over.

Students began shuffling out of the door, chattering amongst themselves and collecting errant bottles of water. Geralt walked over to Jaskier before leaving, trying to make it look like he was simply retrieving his jacket.

“Thank you,” he said to Jaskier. “I had fun.” To his own surprise, he wasn’t lying.

Jaskier grinned at him. “Oh, good! I was worried I wouldn’t do as well as Essi, so I’m very happy to hear you enjoyed yourself.”

“You were great,” Geralt said honestly.

Before Jaskier could respond, though, Geralt’s embarrassment overcame him and he turned towards the door, muttering some sort of goodbye as he left.

Fortunately, Jaskier didn't seem to mind. He was smiling to himself as he did something with his music player in the corner, looking happier than he had before Geralt came up. Before Geralt was out of the room, Jaskier straightened to look at the students.

“I hope to see you all again soon!” he called, making eye contact with Geralt.

Geralt, despite himself, smiled. Perhaps losing that bet hadn’t been such a misfortune, after all.

Lambert was going to be so insufferable about this.

[batgurl1989]

How to Make an Announcement

Summary: Henry takes you to the market on your first public outing together as a couple.

Word Count: 1700

Warnings: none

A/N: This was a super vivid dream I had last night, and I couldn't resist sharing it. It has not been proofread, so all the mistakes are my own. If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know. I am also open to requests.

Taglist: @rmtndew @henrynerdfan @cynic-spirit @princesssterek @daddys-littlewhitegirl @diegos-butt

I gripped his hand tightly in my lap as we drove toward the open air market. Nerves were sending jittery butterflies into flight. His thumb traced soothing patterns on the back of my hand, but they did little to calm my thoughts. I felt like I was going to be sick, but knew it was all in my head. How had I let him talk me into this?

Oh right! Because it was Henry, and I was following his lead when it came to our relationship.

The pandemic had made dating easier. We had holed up in his house when the Witcher filming had shut down. It was easy to forget he was ridiculously famous, and I was basically a nobody when we were alone together with Kal in the house. But the lockdown had been lifted, and Henry decided it was time to venture out. Perhaps let the world in on our relationship status. Up until today, Henry had maintained that he was single. 

I wasn't anxious in the beginning to let the world know that I was with Henry. Sure my family knew, but they had kept it to themselves. It was hard to keep hiding the fact that I was dating Henry when I had been living with the guy for months. Mom was just happy I was happy, and I really was. Logically I knew when we became exclusive and then officially dating, that eventually, if I wanted to stay with Henry, his fans would learn about us. But that was the thing about the lockdown, there was no rush to announce it. No pressure from reporters on red carpets or in interviews. 

But today Henry woke up and decided it was time. Of course, if I truly didn't want to, he wasn't going to push me into this outing. But how could I say no to those blue eyes and charming smile that I had come to love so much? 

That didn't stop the worry from building up inside me, though. No matter how much I tried to fool myself, and how much I knew in my mind that this was for the best, my stomach had other plans. 

"You still okay, love?" Henry asked me, his gaze flashing over to me before turning back to the road. I plastered a smile on my face, trying to convince myself as much as him that I was fine. But the grip I had on his hand was giving me away. "I can turn around if you really don't want to do this."

"It's not that I don't want to." I nibbled on my lower lip. I had been trying to come up with the right words to explain my feelings, but so far hadn't. Taking a deep breath, I decided to just wing it. "Do you remember when you weren't famous? How it felt? The anonymity of it? That's what I have right now. And it's comfortable. However, since I want to be with you, I know I have to lose some of that. It's just hard to take the first step out of my comfort zone." 

Henry was quiet for a long moment after, though in reality it was probably less than a minute. I bit my lip harder, feeling the first bubbles of a freak out churning inside me as I watched him make his decision. 

"I want to go to the market with you." I blurted out before he could say anything. I gripped his hand harder if it was possible, worried that he would pull away from me. In my mind, I knew he wouldn't. Henry had always been hyper considerate; always a gentleman. He didn't want to rush me into anything I didn't want to do, but this was something I did want to do. "I promise, this is what I want."

"If you change your mind..." Henry let the rest of his sentence hang as he continued to drive us toward the market. I knew what he meant; one word from me, and we were out of there. 

When we pulled into the dirt parking lot of the open air market, Henry tugged a baseball cap on, covering what I lovingly called his pandemic curls. I didn't need a hat to help disguise me. No one here knew who I was, but I wondered how long that would last for. Henry opened the car door for me, offering me his hand. My grip on it was significantly looser than it had been on the drive. We were doing this, and it was going to be fine. Smiling up at him, we slipped our masks on and walked over to the bustling market.

The lockdown had been lifted, but there were still plenty of policies in place about social distancing and wearing a mask. Everyone at the market was abiding by these, so the stress of being in public was less than what it would have been in a grocery store. Vendors were all wearing gloves and masks, and no one was handling food they didn't intend to buy. I felt myself relax, and begin to actually enjoy being out of the house for the first time since the pandemic began. 

Between the mask and the hat, not many people recognized Henry. And the ones that thought he looked familiar didn't say anything. It was hard to tell for sure that it was him. Sure he had been posting to Instagram while wearing a mask, but the hat seemed to throw people off. We went up to several vendors, buying fresh veggies and bread for the house. No one seemed to realize who they were selling their goods to. 

I watched Henry in awe. He seemed to be enjoying his rare moment of anonymity along with me. He probably didn't get many opportunities like this anymore. Between being Superman, Sherlock, and now Geralt, he touched on so many different fandoms that it was hard to find someone who didn't know him. I hadn't been with him out in public before, so I never realized how differently he cared himself when he knew the world was watching. Of course, he was still ridiculously polite and considerate. It wasn't so much how he acted or what he said that changed. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was different, but there was something. 

He caught me staring at him, a smile twinkling in his eyes. Wrapping his free arm around me, he guided me toward the edge of the market, where there was less of a crowd. He pulled out his phone, and opened the camera to selfie mode. 

"Are you ready?" Henry asked, as he held the phone away from us, angling it so that we were both in the frame. 

"Definitely." And I wasn't lying. I finally felt ready to take this next step. I looked up at him, so he could see how serious I was. His hand on my hip squeezed, pulling me closer. I knew if it wasn't for the masks, he would have kissed me. 

He popped his hat off, his curls a wild mess in the breeze. I laughed, and that was when he decided to take the picture. I caught a glimpse of it as he pulled his phone toward himself to get a look at the picture. We both looked happy even with our masks on. My eyes were crinkled and you could tell I was laughing. 

"That one is a keeper." Henry tilted the phone so I could see it better. It hit me in that moment. I was dating Henry Cavill, and with a push of a few buttons, the world would know too. And I wasn't scared. I was happy our secret would be out. He typed up a caption, and tagged the market to drum up some business for them, before tucking his phone back in his pocket. "Ready to head home?" 

"Only if you are? Did we get everything we needed?" I didn't want to rush us, and I was enjoying being out with him perhaps a little too much. 

"We can keep looking." Though he said we could stay, he took us back to the car. Popping the trunk, we unloaded our arms of the food we had already bought. I turned to head back to the market, "But first."

He pulled me to him with one arm, while he pulled my mask down. He pulled his mask down, kissing me deeply. His tongue explored my mouth as I melted against him. It suddenly didn't matter that we were in public, putting our relationship on display. When Henry kissed me like that, the world faded away, and I knew only him. My favourite book series popped into my head whenever this happened. One day you may kiss a man you can't breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence. Henry Cavill may just very well be my Barrons. 

He finished the thorough kiss with a few quick pecks before he pulled away. He slipped his mask back up over his mouth and nose as I did the same. Turning we went to go back to the market. I spied a few people near their cars, mouths wide open staring at us. They knew who he was. Henry hadn't put his hat back on, in fact I think he left it in the car. And he had just had his mask pulled down. 

"Busted." I giggled quietly, nodding subtly to the people who were still staring. Henry laughed, pulling me tight to his side as we continued into the market for a second round.

By the time we got home, his Instagram was blowing up with questions about my identity, and what kind of relationship we had. Were we just friends? Did I work with him? Henry and I cuddled up on the couch with Kal to flick through some of the comments. Henry had learned not to read them all in one go as he had many followers. But as he scrolled through, I noticed one person saying they saw us kissing in the parking lot. I guess his fans knew now what I was to Henry. 

He loves me.  

[mordoriscalling]

The Shrike and the Lark

Inspired by the Warlord AU by @inexplicifics and @greyduckgreygoose’s fic “the heart is a winged beast”. Jaskier and Renfri are disaster twins ruling Creyden. When the Warlord of the North knocks at their door, Queen Renfri and King Julian are at an advantage - they know him. As in, they know him.

Creyden, 1237

“I cannot wait to let him know that we know,” King Julian murmurs, “Just imagine the look on his face when he realises.”

Queen Renfri chuckles. It’s a sound both amused and sinister; those who stand near the two thrones on the dais shift nervously upon hearing it. This reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the people in the room. The court of Creyden has long learned to be attuned to the slightest changes in their Queen’s temper – her mood can switch dramatically in a blink of an eye, with formidable consequences.

Perceiving the possible threat, the subjects tense. The stifling air of the throneroom grows unbearable but the two monarchs do not give any indication of noticing it. Instead, they carry on with their hushed conversation.

“I doubt you’ll see much of his surprise,” Queen Renfri replies to her brother, “from what I remember, he’s a man very capable of keeping his composure.”

“I’ll say!” King Julian laughs.

The King’s laughter is a beautiful melody, like the twinkling of silver bells. It rings out in the great room, soothing the nervous atmosphere like a balm. For the courtiers, guards and advisors present, the good humour of the King is a heartening sign. Julian doesn’t show an ounce of fear – nor does Renfri, for that matter – as if he wasn’t at all affected by the fact that they are awaiting the Warlord of the North himself.

The fearsome White Wolf is to arrive within a few minutes. It’s a diplomatic visit; the Warlord expressed a wish to negotiate an agreement with the two rulers of Creyden. Creyden’s recent conquest of Kovir and Poviss enlarged the country's territory and the White Wolf, strangely enough, seems to want to settle the matter of Creyden’s further expansion in a peaceful fashion.

“You speak wisdom, my Queen,” King Julian agrees with an easy grin. “But alas, we made a mistake by not talking about it sooner. What a shame! Imagine how much we could’ve teased him!”

Renfri’s lips quirk up in a rare, gentle smile. “You’re not going to spare him this discomfort now, are you?” she asks, her tone brimming with amusement.

Julian beams and replies, “You’re as accurate in your judgement as ever.”

The Queen’s smile turns sharp. “You flatter me, my King,” she says, “What is the motive of such high praise?”

“Must there be a motive?” King Julian retorts, “Can’t a brother compliment his sister with nothing but familial affection on his mind?”

The moment Queen Renfri opens her mouth to answer, she’s interrupted by a swishing sound coming from the centre of the throne room. There, a portal is forming, which signals that the Warlord and his entourage are about to appear.

When the White Wolf steps out of the magical circle, there is no fanfare. Everyone goes dead silent as they behold the infamous witcher. His clearly powerful body, strong features and strange, golden eyes amount to a commanding presence.

The White Wolf is followed by a dozen more witchers. All of them appear similar to their lord in some ways – their frames scream strength, their scowls warn not to go near them. Just like their lord, they are dressed head to toe in armour, the two swords strapped to their backs.

A single woman joins the suite – a lady dressed in a beautiful gown, black and white. After she walks out of the portal, the gesture of her hand closes the magical circle behind her. The sorceress then takes a place at the White Wolf’s left, while a witcher with a scarred face stands at his right.

The whole group doesn’t move or speak. King Julian and Queen Renfri chose to get up from their thrones, their hands joined in a sign of unity.

Quite a sight they make, illuminated by the light of the sunset falling into the room through the tall windows. The royal twins, born under the Black Sun, are pleasant to look at, with their wide eyes, pouty lips and elegant noses. Their facial features are not greatly different, but the similarities seem to end there. Queen Renfri, dressed in reds and golds, is a severe, imperious figure, while King Julian, wearing blues and silvers, has an aura of cheerfulness and charm.

It’s a captivating opposition – the Shrike and the Lark, so alike and yet not similar at all. Two little birds, veiled in legend, notorious in their own specific ways.

King Julian leads Queen Renfri down the dais. Holding hands, the two monarchs approach the White Wolf and his pack until they stand face to face with the Warlord himself. The gesture speaks volumes of their amicable attitude, which raises eyebrows both among the Creyden people and the White Wolf’s entourage.

The Queen speaks first.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she greets, “welcome to Creyden.”

“Welcome, White Wolf,” King Julian adds with a smile, “and welcome, White Wolf’s people. We rejoice to host such fine guests!” The pleasure in his tone rings true. “Allow us to invite you all to a welcoming feast.”

The Warlord’s visage remains unchanged at this warm reception, his expression stern and watchful as he inclines his head. “My thanks,” he replies, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating through the quiet of the room. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Queen Renfri,” he goes on, “And you, King Julian.”

The statement is met with murmurs of confusion. The two rulers of Creyden pay it no mind.

“I’m glad to renew our acquaintance as well,” the King answers, in a way strangely playful, “It’s my hope that my sister and I will form even closer ties to you in the future.”

If that is not enough to deepen everyone’s surprise, the Queen declares, “It’s my wish too. A profitable alliance could be built on the foundation of the friendship that binds the three of us.”

The crowd breaks into furious whispers – it was not known that there exists such familiarity between Geralt of Rivia and Renfri and Julian of Creyden.

The Warlord does not seem pleased to have this fact revealed; he stares at Julian and Renfri, his eyes narrowed. The twins only smirk in identical manner, not perturbed by the dangerous glare in the slightest.

Finally, the White Wolf answers, “A promising thought.”

The growled out affirmation is perhaps the most unexpected of all. Even the King and the Queen appear taken aback by it, but only for a moment. When the Warlord steps away, the twins get ahold of themselves. King Julian takes Queen Renfri by the hand again and the two monarchs start heading out of the throne room, leading their subjects and guests towards the hall where the feast is to take place.

“Has my mind conjured it up,” King Julian whispers, for the ears of his sister only, “or did he just say yes to us propositioning him in front of everyone?”

“So it seems,” Queen Renfri replies, just as quietly.

Julian’s only answer is a noise of bemusement.

“Look at that,” Renfri drawls. “The clever Jaskier, a master bard, has been outwitted.”

“Hush, sweet Hiacynt,” Jaskier grits out, “I’m merely thinking –”

“How much does that hurt?”

In response to the Queen’s jest, the King tightens his grip on her hand until his knuckles are white. Queen Renfri shows her displeasure with this by stepping on his toes.

Soon, the twins are shoving each other, not quite like unruly schoolchildren but also not discreetly enough. One of their advisors trailing behind them has to clear her throat to make them stop.

Read the rest on AO3

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

More Than You Bargained For

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list prompt: incubus

Eskel is fresh out of Kaer Morhen when they first meet. He's nineteen, hormonal, and alone for the first time since he can remember and he doesn't know what to do with any of that. So when he takes a contract on an incubus, he's going in blind with no ideas of what to expect.

He's young and bright-eyed and every lesson he's had has taught him monsters should be killed, so when he finds the incubus, finds him sentient, he doesn't know what to do. His instincts tell him not to harm him, but people have been dying and he has to protect them. He's a Witcher, that's his job.

"I was wondering when one of you might show up," the incubus mumbles, not even bothering to turn around and look at him. He's cooking something, Eskel can smell it, or maybe he's preparing a potion - it doesn't smell like food, per se. "I wasn't expecting them to send a child," he scoffs.

"I'm not a child," Eskel shoots back. He takes another couple of steps forward and the incubus turns abruptly.

"I haven't invited you in."

Eskel stops, but he keeps his arms crossed over his chest, determined not to show weakness. But he's out of his depth. A ghoul attacks on sight, nekkers swarm, archespores wait for the right moment, but they attack without hesitation. The incubus is just... standing there. Eskel doesn't say anything because he doesn't know what to say, but he looks him over.

Objectively, he's handsome, Eskel supposes. He's got a strong build, muscular arms and chest that are only made more prominent by the white lines marking on his skin. From here, Eskel can't tell if they're part of his skin or some sort of ink - tattoos maybe. He likes them though, finds himself following the way they curve down his body - right to the thin scrap of fabric covering his groin.

Eskel's mouth goes dry and he abruptly averts his eyes.

"Oh," the incubus hums, "that's interesting." He comes closer and Eskel doesn't stop him, lets him walk right up and turn Eskel's chin to look at him. Eskel is confident he could fight him off if he needs to, so he doesn't see the trouble in letting him come close. "You're here about the missing people, aren't you? I didn't kill them, Witcher. You do know what an incubus does, right?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"Then you know it's better for me if I don't kill my 'victims'." He leans in close, sniffing at him, but Eskel holds his ground, doesn't let him see how it affects him. But Eskel can smell his own arousal and he knows enough about incubi to know that the incubus probably can, too.

"I fucked them," the incubus admits, "but I didn't kill them. It was two men and a woman right? I prefer men, haven't fucked a woman in years. And the men? They were alive when they left, and satisfied."

A shiver runs down his spine and Eskel measures his breath.

"But that was weeks ago now," the incubus continues, his implications perfectly clear. "They tell stories about Witchers, about your mutations. Say you can go for hours, is that true?"

"Dunno," Eskel mumbles, "never tried."

He thinks back to his days at Kaer Morhen with Geralt. They fucked and they fucked around, and they did it a lot, but it never lasted long. It was always stolen moments, tucked away in some lonely corner or in bed after hours, having to keep quiet or face the consequences.

They never had long and it was never worth trying to extend their dalliances once they'd come. And sometimes, one or both of them didn't get to. But he's heard the rumours of heightened stamina and he can go longer in a fight than any trained soldier he's come across, so maybe there's something to it talk.

"Oh, but you'd like to, wouldn't you? Maybe we can come to an agreement, Witcher." Hands rest on his hips and Eskel's breath catches on a sigh. "I can take care of you, give you something you crave, hm? And in return I'll be satisfied, I won't have to lure out any unsuspecting victims for a while. What do you say?"

Eskel doesn't know what to say. He takes a short breath, considering it far less than he should before whispering, "can I touch you?"

"Oh, I certainly hope so."

The incubus leans in, pressing his mouth to the join of his neck and shoulder. Without any pre-empt, he wraps his mouth around him and bites down, fangs breaking the skin. Warmth rushes through Eskel’s veins and he feels lightheaded. His vision blurs slightly and his head swims. The incubus takes both hands, guiding him back toward a low bed in the corner of the cave. Eskel blinks and the figure before him blurs into the image of Geralt.

"Oh," not-Geralt hums, "you see someone, don't you? Tell me who it is Witcher."

"'S Eskel, you know that. Don't call me Witcher."

"Sorry, Eskel, tell me who you see."

He's a little foggy, doesn't understand the question, but Geralt is beckoning to him, pulling him down toward the bed, and nothing else matters.

It's not until later that he learns incubus venom is a hallucinogen, that it makes you see the person you want most - a tactic to boost your arousal. Eskel thinks on that for a long time. He loves Geralt, and they have a good time together, but he doesn't know that he loves him like that. Or maybe he does and he's just confused.

He returns to the incubus, lets him bite him again. He sees Geralt.

In the winters, he returns to the keep. Sometimes he fucks Geralt and sometimes he doesn't, but every spring he returns to the cave and every time, the incubus is waiting for him.

It's been close to a decade that Eskel has been going back to the cave. At one point, he was worried about losing out on the contract because he never killed the incubus, but that seems like a pointless concern now. He may have lost out on a few hundred gold, but he's come to like this incubus - Florian, he's called - and he looks forward to his yearly visits.

Sometimes, they'll fuck for hours, but sometimes Florian will take him to bed as soon as he arrives and they'll spend hours afterward just lying in bed talking. Florian will go on and on about his herbs and elixirs and Eskel likes having someone to bitch about his brothers to. It works and it's good. And it's a distraction from Geralt.

Then, one spring after the sacking, Eskel comes to a startling conclusion.

The last few years at Kaer Morhen have been difficult. This year, he almost didn't go at all because the ghosts lingering in the halls are too much for him to bear. The feeling isn't the same as it once was and Eskel doubts the sense of community will ever return to Kaer Morhen. It's cold, it's lonely, and as much as he loves seeing his brothers and Vesemir, the absence of the rest of them hits hard. They say time makes everything easier, but he's not so sure this time. So more than ever, he's happy to have Florian to return to in the spring.

Eskel is worked up in more ways than one when he leaves the keep. He feels like he's going to crawl out of his own skin between the sadness, the guilt and the sexual frustration. Geralt doesn't come to him anymore and Eskel doesn't want to push those boundaries. They're all grieving and he understands that, but it's hard for him to cope with because his time with Geralt was always an escape for the two of them and now he doesn't have that.

When he gets to the cave, he hesitates, peering around to see if Florian is there. He doesn't see anyone and he doesn't want to intrude, but just as he's about to leave, there's a warm pressure against his back.

"Eskel," Florian hums, "you're early this year."

"Couldn't stand it up there any longer. It's too quiet, too lonely."

"You missed me," Florian guesses and yeah, that too. "Come," he whispers, "get out of those clothes and lie on the bed. I'll be back in a minute."

Eskel does as he's asked, stripping out of his clothes and climbing onto the bed without hesitation. When Florian does return, he's smirking and he crawls up to straddle Eskel's hips. He's hard already and when he grinds his hips down, Eskel realizes with a start that he is, too.

Florian nips at his collar bone and Eskel wraps his arms around his shoulders, tugging him close. They rock together, picking up a quick rhythm and Florian's mouth moves to his neck. It's always like this the first time, quick and hard; they've both been waiting for it and Eskel groans as his cock slides against Florian's.

There's pressure against his neck, the familiar sensation of a bite and Eskel shuts his eyes. Lately, he dreads opening them to Geralt's image leaning over him. It feels a lie, like he's betraying Florian somehow by seeing someone else when they fuck and it's becoming uncomfortable.

Sometimes, he can keep his eyes shut, can imagine Florian above him instead, but a particularly sharp twist of Florian's wrist has his eyes fluttering open again. Above him, he sees nothing but Florian’s dark eyes and plush lips and he grins.

"Thought you were gonna bite me," Eskel teases, running a hand up Florian's chest.

"Mm are you that preoccupied? I did bite you, not that I need to the way you keep showing up so needy for it." Eskel barely hears him because if Florian bit him, he should be seeing Geralt. It should be Geralt's form looming over him, not dark skin and white swirls.

Eskel reaches up tentatively, tracing the lines that slide low down his torso, the one that eventually comes to an end at the base of his cock. Florian looks down at him, following Eskel's fingers with his eyes and Eskel can pinpoint the moment he realizes.

Florian's eyes snap up to meet his and Eskel forgets how to speak. This isn't how any of this is supposed to work and he doesn't know what to say.

"Eskel, do you- see me?" Eskel says nothing and Florian persists. "Unless your Witcher friend has scars that perfectly match my markings, I'd say you do." When Eskel says nothing again, Florian hums thoughtfully. He sounds almost sad. "Eskel, do we need to talk about this?"

"No," Eskel says a little too quickly. Evidently, Florian disagrees.

He moves from between Eskel's legs to lie next to him on the mattress, leaning on his elbow to look at him. Eskel winces. He's been waiting for this to fall through; it always seemed too good to be true, and for it to linger as long as it has is surprising already.

"Eskel do you... if you're seeing me now and not him-"

"Yeah," Eskel agrees softly. "Yeah."

To his utter shock, Florian leans over and kisses him. It comes as such a surprise that Eskel forgets to respond and when Florian looks down at him again, he must look stunned.

"Eskel," he says softly, "I'm not angry, I'm not upset. I'm surprised, but I- I care about you," he lifts a hand to smooth up Eskel's stomach, setting above his sternum. "This isn't about the sex for me anymore. If I wanted to, I could fuck anyone, if I needed to. But I'd rather wait it out when I can until you come back."

"You shouldn't, you could-"

"I'm careful, I know my own limits, Witcher. And you are so good to me, my sweet."

Eskel jolts at the name, looks up at Florian where he's still leaning over him. "Sometimes seeing you is the best part of my year, It's so hard lately and I," he manages to meet Florian's eyes if only for a moment, "I look forward to seeing you."

"I love you," Florian breathes, tipping Eskel's chin so they're face-to-face again. "I'm not afraid to say it. You're a good man, Eskel and I know you didn't come back here those first few times for you. And you didn't do it because of some promise because you fulfilled your part of the bargain that first night."

Eskel can't find the words to properly express every feeling bubbling to the surface, so he wraps his hands around the back of Florian's neck and pulls him down into a passionate kiss. It's uncoordinated and sloppy but it's so much more than ever before and before he can even think, Florian is climbing over him again, kissing him hard and sliding a hand down his torso.

He wraps a hand around Eskel's cock, tugging firmly, and Eskel's eyes roll back as he jerks into the touch. He's still hard, still aching for it, but the interruption had preoccupied him and now his arousal is hitting him with full force. He rolls his head back, hands slipping into Florian's hair and he groans. Florian cocks his head and looks at him before smiling and shifting down the bed.

Eskel misses the loss of him, but then Florian's mouth wraps around the head of his cock and any other thought goes out of his head. He runs his fingers through Florian's hair, aware that he's mumbling but only vaguely aware of what he's saying. Florian takes him right to the base, something no one but another Witcher has ever succeeded in doing and Eskel is unbelievably close to coming right then and there.

Abruptly, he tugs Florian up and kisses him again. He doesn't want this to be over just yet and he knows that realistically, they could go on for hours like this, until Eskel's worn out and physically incapable of coming again, but this feels different. This feels important in a way he's never felt before, not with Geralt, not with anyone.

He hauls him up and draws him close, burying his face in Florian's neck.

"Could I," he breathes, "I'd like to fuck you tonight."

Florian jerks back and stares down at him in surprise. For a moment, Eskel thinks he's overstepped; they've never talked about doing it the other way around, though they've done just about everything else. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Florian interrupts.

"You'd want that?" he asks and Eskel nods.

"Yeah. For a while now."

"Didn't think you'd want to," Florian shrugs, "especially seeing as there was someone else."

"There was never anyone else, not really. I saw him but it wasn't him, it was only ever you."

Florian smiles at him and dips down to kiss him, cupping Eskel's cheek in his hand.

"You're a sap," he teases, but his grin only spreads further. He moves to slip down again, kissing Eskel's neck and down his chest, but before he can get too far, Eskel stops him.

"Let me, tonight," he says, "how often do I get to pleasure you?"

Florian just laughs. "That's not the way it works. I feed off your energy, there's no reason to treat me special."

"I can think of many," Eskel counters, "but mostly, I just want to." He presses a hand to Florian's shoulder, pushing him back against the bed.

Eskel presses in against his side, sliding a hand down his chest and wrapping around the base of Florian's cock. He grips him firmly, strokes up to the head keeping an even pressure around him, then pushes back down to the base. Florian groans under him and shifts his hips, pushing into Eskel's grip, but Eskel holds him steady, earning a whine of frustration in response.

He leans over him, kissing Florian’s jaw as he moves his hand again. He nips at the skin, moving down to his neck to suck a mark into the stripe there. He loves the pale strips of skin that curve and swirl over Florian's body, always pays them special attention even if he's the only one who notices. He licks and sucks at the skin as he works his hand over him, always squeezing tighter around the head of his cock. It gets progressively better and better reactions, so he doesn't see a reason to let up.

Florian shudders under him and Eskel hums against his skin. As Florian squirms under him, Eskel works his hand quicker, he reaches down, rolls his balls gently in one hand before slipping up the length of his cock again. And Florian moans. He wraps his arms around Eskel's neck, pulling him into a burning kiss. He nips at Eskel's lips, fingers digging into his scalp and he clings tightly. Then, abruptly, he pulls away and throws his head back with a groan.

Florian comes, arching off the bed. He spills between them and Eskel slips his fingers through it, using it to ease the way as he strokes him through it. Florian writhes and bucks under him, pressing up into the tunnel of his fist and he's shaking by the time he finally stills.

His breath comes in hot pants and Eskel leans down, kissing his chin and his jaw and, lastly, his mouth. He lingers there for a moment until Florian hums and presses him up.

"Didn't realize you were so good with your hands," he grins, "should take advantage of that more often."

"Didn't give me much of a chance. But it's only been what? Twenty years? And you should give me a chance. And will, if I have anything to say about it."

Without hesitation, Eskel climbs over him, pressing between his knees and pushing them apart. Florian looks up at him questioningly and Eskel grins, nuzzling against his hip.

"I want your mouth," Florian groans, "Eskel, darling, please."

"Mmm, don't you want to come when I fuck you?"

Florian lets out a breathy laugh and reaches down to cup Eskel's jaw. "My beautiful Witcher," he pants, "I will happily come ten times tonight if you're willing."

Eskel just stares at him, dumbfounded. "You-"

"As long as you keep it up, I'll keep it up," Florian winks and Eskel just stares at him. All this time and Florian rarely comes more than once, more intent on getting Eskel there as many times as possible. "I don't need to. I rely on your energy, but it could be fun." Eskel smacks his hip playfully.

"I can't believe you've been holding out on me this whole time," he huffs.

Florian opens his mouth to argue, but Eskel just smiles at him and kisses his chest, fingers trailing down his sides as he moves until he reaches the tip of his cock. He flicks his tongue at the head, pressing a featherlight kiss to it before slipping around him and sliding right to the base.

Beneath him, Florian grunts and arches off the bed again. He's oversensitive, but Eskel doesn't let up, sinking all the way down on him and swallowing around the head of his cock. He loves the way he squirms, loves finally being able to give back something Florian has given to him for so many years. Yes, he's been present the whole time, giving as well as he gets, but he's never been solely responsible for Florian's pleasure and it's a rush.

His own cock throbs under him, untouched and aching, but he ignores it for now. He doesn't need to come yet, they have time for that in the next hours, but right now his attention has to be on Florian.

He sucks him down hard, reaching to cup his balls as he slides back up to the head, tongue pressing under the head and earning him a low groan. Above him, Florian moans and grumbles, one hand tangles in his own hair, the other clasping Eskel's shoulder like it's the only thing grounding him in reality. If Eskel's doing his job well enough, it is.

Eskel slips his hand lower, pressing back behind his balls and Florian groans, hips jumping so his cock bumps the roof of his mouth.

"Fuck," he groans, "Eskel-" Eskel pulls off his cock, pressing a line of kisses down to the base.

"Shhh, I know what I'm doing. Promise I'll make it good for you." He shifts down the bed, groaning as his cock drags against the sheets, and buries one hand in the hair on Florian's leg.

He pushes his leg up, hooking it over his shoulder and ducking back down to nose at his balls. Floran groans and shifts, but makes no attempt to stop him and Eskel readjusts him, giving him better access to his hole. Without hesitation, he licks a stripe over him, slowing his tongue as he slips over his hole and Florian's entire body seizes.

"Oh."

"Okay?" Eskel asks.

"Yeah. Please-"

"Anything you say," Eskel hums. He ducks down, resuming his ministrations. His cock aches and he presses his lips into the mattress, pressing the tip of his tongue against Florian's hole.

Fuck, he wants him so badly. He presses his tongue into him, imagining that tightness around his cock, pushing as deep as he can manage without prepping him first. His impatience wins out quickly and he reaches up, slipping one hand through the come on his stomach, and using it to slick Florian’s hole, pressing against him gently. Florian groans, pushing his hips back.

His enthusiasm pushes Eskel forward and he presses fully into his up to one knuckle, licking around the intrusion. He's been thinking about this for years, wanting to split him open on his cock, to see Florian come apart under him, because of him. He's seen him come more times than he can count, but to be the cause of that, to fuck him properly until he's mindless with it- fuck, the thought alone has him aching.

He works his tongue in alongside his finger, thrusting with both at once as Florian squirms and mutters at him. He gets his fingers tangled in Eskel's hair again and it's all Eskel can do to keep from pushing into him immediately and fucking him quick and hard.

He reaches beneath him, wrapping a hand around his own cock and squeezing hard, it does little to ease the need, but he rocks into it slightly, moaning against Florian's hole with each little shift of his hips.

"Eskel," Florian grunts, "fuck Eskel I'm gonna come."

"That's it, darling, come for me." He barely gets his tongue back inside him before Florian's jerking hard and coming again, his cock completely untouched where it sits against his hip.

Eskel gives a few more thrusts before withdrawing and climbing up over him. He slips off to one side and wraps Florian in his arms, rolling them both onto their sides as he kisses him. Florian lingers, pushing back when Eskel means to pull away and he winds up half on top of him, their legs tangled together.

Eskel rubs his back gently before slipping down over the swell of his ass. He pushes back between his cheeks, pushing two fingertips into him immediately. Florian groans and rocks his hips, rutting against Eskel's hip. He's slick with his own come and it makes it easy for Eskel to shift just so until they're pressed together, sliding together with each thrust. He shuts his eyes and nuzzles into Florian's neck, kissing his throat and humming against him.

His finger press deeper and he thrusts gently, giving Florian a chance to adjust to him, but he rocks his hips and pushes back onto him like nothing, his soft moans muffles against Eskels chest. Eskel rolls him onto his side to get a better angle, pressing fully into him with both fingers.

He kisses him hard, and they slot together perfectly, rutting against each other as Eskel works him open, fucks him with his fingers. Florian squeezes around him and Eskel just thrusts quicker, harder. He gets a third finger into him and Florian moans into his mouth.

"Please," he groans, "Eskel I can take it, I want your cock."

"Yeah," Eskel breathes, "come on my fingers and I'll fuck you all night."

Florian groans, arching off Eskel's chest and shifting his hips back. Eskel withdraws and slides a hand down his thigh, burying his fingers in the thick hair and tugging his leg up over his hip. They rock in tandem and Eskel gets a hand between Florian's thighs, slipping into him again. Like this, he has a better angle and he can reach Florian's prostate properly. He angles his fingers toward it, bumping against it with every thrust.

When Florian comes this time, he kisses Eskel hard, biting his bottom lip and sucking hard. He whines and bucks when Eskel pulls out again, but Eskel doesn't hesitate before pressing the head of his cock against him and thrusting in. He pulls him close so he can get deep, thrusting hard into him.

Florian is tight around him and the pressure makes him dizzy after denying himself so long. He holds himself back because he knows he can get another orgasm out of Florian before he comes himself. He pushes his fingers through the hair on his thighs again, tugging a little as he pushes deep.

His breath comes hard and Florian pants against him, neither able to catch their breath as they rock together. Florian's hands are on his neck and his face and his shoulders, grasping at whatever bit of him he can reach and Eskel presses into his arms. They're flush against each other when he comes, buried deep and shuddering. He presses his face into Florian's shoulder, taking deep breaths, but he keeps going, thrusting into him until Florian's shattering apart in his arms, whining and moaning Eskel's name.

Eskel waits to catch his breath before slipping out of him and wrapping himself around Flor. He's still hard, but he's exhausted, emotionally more than anything, and it feels like more effort than it's worth to get up and clean off. Florian presses up close, getting a hand between them to brush his fingers up the length of Eskel's cock.

"My turn?" he asks. Eskel just huffs a laugh and takes his hand, sliding it around his neck.

"Maybe later," he hums, "right now, this is nice just like this."

[dapandapod]

The evil mission

:))))))))) Ciri science time

Prev      -       Next

Ciri: Geralt! GERALT! Emergency!

Geralt: What?! What is it, child?!   *drawing sword* *doing signs* *he is so ready*

Ciri: Help me! Hurry up!   *runs quickly down a corridor*

Geralt: *full of confusion* *runs after anyway* *like a ninja though*

Ciri: In here! In Jaskiers room!

Geralt: *skids to a halt* *SUSPICIOUS* *WHAT DOES THE CHILD KNOW?*    Hmm.

Ciri: Hurry! Before he gets here! It’s important!

Geralt: Hmm. *that means fine* *puts away three knives and takes off his brass knuckles*

Ciri: On the top of the shelf? Do you see it?! *yes she still make sit sound urgent* *because*

Geralt: Is that a cookie jar? Are we stealing Jaskiers cookies? You know he protects those with his life?

Ciri: Yes and yes! Now please please please give it here!

Geralt: Alright   *today child is going to learn the consequences of her actions* *unleash the bards fury*

Ciri: OH NO HE IS COMING! HIDE!! *shoves Geralt and cookie jar into the closet* *slams them shut*

Jaskier: … uh….. Hello Ciri?

Ciri: *leans against the closet doors* *you know, like when you are trying to hide something by looking like you are not hiding something*     Hi!

Jaskier: Can I… help you?

Ciri: YES! Yes you can! I need to ask you something.

Geralt: *inside the closet* *oh shit* *

Jaskier: *outside the closet* *oh shit*

Jaskier: Ask away.

Ciri: Are you in love with Geralt?

Jaskier: kjdfahfk CIRI!     *yes he did a verbal keyboard smash* *it’s called indignant bard noises* *this is how it’s pronounced*

Geralt: *LKJFDKHSF CIRI!!!* *this is upset and dying witcher noises* *but on the inside* *because he is hiding and NOT about to walk out now thank you very much!*

Ciri: But you always look at him with those eyes! And you always touch him. And say nice things to him. And hug him. And you got jealous when Aiden sat in his lap. And you almost passed out when Geralt said-

Jaskier: Alright I get it!      *blushing big time* *dragging a hand over his face* *uugh shit a child found him out but not the man of his affections* *embarrassing*

Geralt: *fuck o fuck o fuck o fuck o fuck o fuck o fuck o fuck*

Ciri: So?

Jaskier: ……………………………………………………………………… Yes.

Ciri: *smiles sweetly* Wanna know a secret?

Geralt: *OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT*

Jaskier: *does not trust this child* *at all*      What?

Ciri: Geralt is trying to steal your cookies. He is in the closet right now.

Jaskier: HE WHAT!

Geralt: TRAITOR! *zooms out the room with cookie jar under his arm*

Jaskier: My… my cookies.

Ciri: Yes, focus on the cookies. Good night Jaskier :)

Ciri science and the Idiot Syndrome

On Ao3

[wordsablaze]

5 Times Witchers Were Too Asexual For This

…and the one time Jaskier firmly got it through their lovable and yet ridiculously thick skulls that a little confusion here and there doesn’t change how much he adores them.

A/N: self-indulgently inspired by the sheer amount of times i've mentally gone "aha nope, i am too ace for this" - happy ace week <3

-

1 - Geralt

Geralt can never comprehend how Jaskier gets into so much trouble.

He’d always thought the worst kind of threats came from mages and their ridiculous games of illusion and power but travelling with Jaskier makes him reconsider because it’s genuinely concerning how many people have death wishes on his behalf.

“Who is it this time?” Geralt asks, folding his arms and promptly cursing at himself for doing so as it proves he can be just as dramatic as the bard he’s trying not to concede to.

Jaskier grins, clearly picking up on the same thing. “It doesn’t matter, my dear witcher, because you already know you’re coming with me!”

“I do not!” Geralt argues, unfolding his arms and glaring.

“Oh come on,” Jaskier scoffs, winking at him, “we both know you’re already trying to figure out how to get out of wearing the clothes I’ve already had made for you.”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier…”

But said bard has already left the room to return downstairs and as the sound of his lute travels through the inn, Geralt groans to himself.

He’s still groaning to himself when he’s dressed in three different shades of blue but he and Jaskier arrive at the feast the next day. He hadn’t bothered to ask what the occasion was so he just settles in the corner and watches as Jaskier weaves his way between everyone, biting down the part of his heart that yearns to be right by Jaskier’s side.

Hours pass before he’s forced to move, spotting a rather tall stranger crowding Jaskier against a wall and feeling the subtle scent of fear radiating from them.

“-idn’t mean to, I swear! I’m certain you can also appreciate the beauty of-”

“My wife?” the man interrupts, practically spitting anger.

Jaskier laughs nervously as Geralt makes his way over, clearly stalling for time. “You must believe I had absolutely no inkling that she was betrothed and while I’m aware my apologies will not undo our actions, I implore you to perhaps-”

“Jaskier. There you are.” Geralt says, glancing between him and the angry husband.

“And who are you?”

At that, Jaskier bristles. “Were you not listening to my performance? I just sang about-”

“A Witcher. What, did he also sleep with your… uh…?” the man falters, clearly deciding that he’d rather not offend someone who carries around swords.

Geralt and Jaskier share an amused look before Geralt shakes his head. “My bard was cursed with… irresistible urges… by a mage. You can’t blame him for it.”

He’s almost certain Jaskier will grumble about this particular excuse for days - to which he’ll remind him that at least it’s not the one where he was kicked by an ox - but the angry husband seems to buy it, throwing him a pitying look.

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Yes, well, it’s not something that one should sing about publicly, is it? You know how troublesome rumours can be…”

The man nods understandingly before leaving, at which point Jaskier punches his arm. “Geralt, you prat!”

He shrugs, a tiny smirk on his face. “I wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Jaskier seems to consider this before humming, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Geralt’s cheek. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply before Jaskier has slipped away to continue performing but really, it goes without saying that although Geralt doesn’t understand Jaskier’s actions half the time, there’ll never be a day where he doesn’t want to protect him from the consequences.

-

2 - Eskel

Eskel can never predict when the scent of watermelon will fill the air.

It’s a strange scent that he thinks should probably please him but for some reason only serves to surprise him every time it radiates from Jaskier at seemingly random moments.  To his credit, Jaskier tries his best not to make it too obvious or slip away before it becomes too overwhelming but sometimes it catches both of them by surprise and there’s no avoiding it.

He and Jaskier have been travelling north for a few months when they reach a town that Jaskier seems to recognise, immediately elbowing him. “Eskel! Eskel, darling, this is the town I was telling you about with that absolutely magnificent tailor!”

Eskel hears the question without Jaskier having to ask and smiles. “Yes, we can make a quick detour.”

Jaskier grins, squeezing his hand in thanks as the two of them continue walking. As expected, Jaskier launches into a comprehensive description of every doublet he’s had made by this one specific tailor as they make their way there, Eskel only really half paying attention.

“Jaskier!” someone calls out excitedly.

“Mikhail!” Jaskier calls right back, waiting until Eskel nods in amusement before letting go of his hand and embracing the man who must be the tailor.

Leaning against a wall, Eskel watches as the two of them start discussing the latest fabric patterns and shapes of buttons - he’s not even remotely interested but if Jaskier can learn how to take care of goats for his sake then he can stick around during a discussion about fashion.

And anyway, it’s a rather nice workshop, quiet and calm in comparison to the rest of the town. He doesn’t mind waiting, focusing on the sound of Jaskier’s excited voice as he lets his eyes close, one hand on the hilt of his sword just in case.

It’s only when he hears Jaskier gasp and the cool scent of watermelon fills the room that he opens his eyes again, raising an eyebrow automatically. Jaskier glances over to him immediately, clearly about to explain, but Mikhail whispers something to him and he reddens, biting his lip.

“Really? Buttons?” Eskel asks, equally as confused as he is amused.

Jaskier just shrugs. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you later?”

Part of Eskel wants to know what in Melitele’s name Jaskier finds so appealing about buttons but also, he really doesn’t. He’s learned from experience that sometimes - almost always, actually - not knowing certain things about Jaskier is better for both of them.

“Don’t get in trouble, bardling,” Eskel warns as a way of politely taking his leave.

“Love you too!” Jaskier calls after him, and not that he’ll admit it if asked but Eskel doesn’t stop smiling even after the scent of lust fades away entirely.

-

3 - Lambert

Lambert can never figure out why Jaskier flirts with almost everyone.

Not that he has anything against Jaksier’s flirting and the way it seems to plant warmth inside his chest but really, it seems pointless to flirt with so many strangers. And yet Jaskier does it the same way he breathes, which is to say he does so without really thinking about it. And every time, Lambert watches as he trades carefully constructed compliments in exchange for food or wine or coin or literally anything else.

“Lambert? What are you frowning about?” Jaskier asks, flopping into the space across from him.

When Jaskier raises an eyebrow, he only frowns harder. “I’m not frowning,” he lies.

Jaskier snorts. “And I’m a witcher.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with a sword if your life depended in it,” Lambert retorts.

“Depends what kind of sword,” Jaskier replies, stealing a potato from his plate.

He tries to think back to a single time where Jaskier has successfully beaten anyone in a swordfight but when his memory draws a blank, he frowns again. “You’re bloody useless in fights unless we give you daggers.”

He doesn’t realise that Jaskier is trying really hard not to laugh until he does exactly that, almost choking on the potato before shaking his head. “Sorry, sorry, just- gods, you witchers are so adorable.”

“Adorable?” Lambert echoes incredulously, seemingly destined to frown for the entire evening. “Like f-”

“Jaskier!”

“Fabiann! It’s been too long!”

Lambert grumbles under his breath but tunes out their mindless flirting out until Jaskier abruptly stands and coughs pointedly. “Lambert, I’m afraid I might need to leave for a little while.”

What?

Oh.

It doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out that for some reason, simply talking to someone is apparently far too appealing for Jaskier to handle.

“We leave at dawn,” Lambert reminds him.

Jaskier blows him a kiss before grinning and leaving with Fabiann. Sighing, Lambert turns back to his plate only to find that he doesn’t have any potatoes left. For some reason, that annoys him far more than the bard’s departure.

He ends up turning in early but the other patrons are too loud and he hates every second of each minute that passes. That is, until the door to his room opens and lets in not only the one person who won’t be punched for entering without knocking but also the soft scent of lavender.

“Are you still awake?” Jaskier whispers.

After a moment, he hears Jaskier sigh before the bed gently dips behind him and one of Jaskier’s arms settles on his waist.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” Jaskier murmurs into his skin, shifting even closer.

Only because Lambert can’t stand the subtle guilt in the air - they’ve talked about this but the bard stubbornly refuses to continue feeling bad - does he place his hand over Jaskier’s and feign a yawn. “Shut up, Jaskier.”

“Adorable,” Jaskier replies, kissing the back of his neck before pulling the blanket further onto them both and proving that okay, maybe he can accept that adjective under very specific circumstances.

-

4 - Vesemir  

Vesemir can never understand why Jaskier loves Kaer Morhen so much.

He loves the place more than anything himself, of course he does, but there’s always a lingering bitterness in each room, a lingering reminder that the walls had once been witness to pain and sorrow and heartbreak.

Jaskier doesn’t see any of it.

Instead, he fills any room he walks into with music and smiles and displays of affection that Vesemir hasn’t seen witchers indulge in for decades. It takes a few visits but soon enough, he’s on the receiving end of those displays as well and it's just as beautiful as it is surprising.

He finds himself loving the keep more when everyone smells of happiness and training sessions are filled with laughter instead of grumpy insults but those are aspects of life that he’s almost certain only a witcher can appreciate and as far as he knows, which is pretty far thank you very much, Jaskier is not a witcher.

“Who stole my salts?” said bard yells, jolting him out of his musings, “I know you can all hear me! Give me back my salts, you handsome thieves!”

Vesemir chuckles to himself as he hears the telltale sound of Jaskier running through the halls, no doubt going to fail in locating his bath salts because he’s almost sure he smelt them in the springs yesterday. He goes back to reading, ignoring the general noise of Jaskier hunting the others down in the name of bathing justice until the bard bursts into the library, flushed and breathless.

He looks almost guilty as he spots Vesemir. “Apologies, Vesemir, I didn’t mean to intrude. I was merely- well, you most likely heard everything, right?”

When he nods, Jaskier glances around again, a small grin blooming on his face. “Does that window overlook any training grounds perchance?”

Vesemir sighs. “No, you cannot attempt to throw something at them from the window.”

Jaskier has the audacity to pout but judges his tone well enough, making his way over to the window anyway. It’s only when the unmistakable scent of arousal appears that Vesemir somewhat regrets his decision; he looks over to Jaskier, who seems torn between wanting to flee out of embarrassment and wanting to continue staring out of the window for the rest of the day.

“I- I don’t really have an explanation for this but uh, witchers?” Jaskier manages, gesturing outside to where Vesemir knows the other three are probably mid-brawl.

“All I wanted was to read in peace, Jaskier.” Vesemir pinches the bridge of his nose, closing the book.

Nodding quickly, Jaskier places a hand over his chest. “I swear I won’t even think of entering the library for… for a whole week! Yeah, I can do that, I’ll make sure to stay as far as possible for as long as you like but just um, could you maybe not hold this against me, please?”

Vesemir wants to explain that he couldn’t possibly hold Jaskier loving his boys against him but he’s pretty sure Jaskier knows that and is just nervously rambling so he walks over and gently claps the bard on the back of his head. “As long as you’re not stupid enough to jump into a fight just because you’re attracted to it.”

“No promises,” Jaskier replies, winking.

-

5 - Kaer Morhen

Kaer Morhen can never shut its doors to Jaskier.

And really, none of the resident witchers would want to do anything of the sort since they love bringing their bard home for the winter and they love having a non-witcher around because he brings comfort with him. Unfortunately, he also sometimes brings about immense exasperation.

Nobody’s complaining, of course, because they’d rather die than disrespect one of the few people so openly welcome at the keep, but that doesn’t stop them from sometimes needing to walk out of the room to avoid punching something or someone.

Naturally, a bunch of wolf witchers walking out of the room wherever Jaskier confuses them is utterly hilarious to anyone else who visit.

Especially Aiden.

He and Jaskier get on remarkably well, much to Lambert’s relief, and it only ever takes a few days for the rest of them to get used to the scent of Cat once again. They never get used to the way the two of them interact though, trading words at rather worryingly high speeds. It’s usually not a bother until Aiden starts showing off his swordsmanship.

“Wait, you’ve never done that last one before!” Jaskier exclaims, closing his journal as he leans forward, his eyes wide.

Aiden grins. “Glad you noticed, I learnt it last season.”

Lambert throws an apple at him, scoffing. Aiden simply catches it, taking a bite before throwing it to Jaskier, who may or may not loudly yelp as he receives it.

“Show off,” Lambert grumbles, folding his arms.

Taking a moment to bow, Aiden turns back to Jaskier. “Want to see the rest of my sword tricks?”

Jaskier chokes on the bite he’d taken of the apple but nods even as he coughs, ignoring the concerned looks he gets from the wolves. He gets about halfway into the apple before Aiden’s movements are just a little too smooth and intricate for his heart to handle. Well, not just his heart.

“For gods’ sake, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, swiftly standing up and making his way out of the room.

“I’m not to blame here!” Jaskier calls, trying his best not to think about everything he’s practically being baited into thinking about.

Eskel is the next to sigh. “You think too loudly sometimes.”

Aiden watches in utter bewilderment as both he and Lambert make their exit too, the two of them grumbling about wanting to eat in peace. He turns to Jaskier with one eyebrow raised.

“They’re not fond of when I smell like sex to them,” Jaskier explains sheepishly, “and I’m pretty sure it’s a wolf thing.”

There’s a slight pause before Aiden nods slowly. “That explains a lot actually. Why didn’t I pick up on that while travelling with Lam?”

Jaskier’s not sure if that’s meant to be a rhetorical question or not so he takes a chance. “I’d be surprised if you did, they feel bad about it so they act as if they’re allergic to discussing it.”

Then something seems to occur to Aiden and his eyes widen comically. “Wait, all the wolves?”

Catching on immediately, Jaskier goes red. “I’ll have you know, Vesemir was somehow the easiest to communicate with about all this.”

“You’re crazy,” Aiden laughs, bounding over and taking the apple back despite Jaskier’s half-hearted protests even as he decides to respect the bard just a little bit more.

-

+1

Jaskier can never guess when he’s going to have a crisis.

He wishes he had some witcher-like ability to detect trouble before it arrives but alas, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the power to stop himself panicking and he doesn't have the power to prepare for every possibility and he doesn’t even have his witchers and by the gods does he yearn for their presence.

But he’s not selfish, he isn’t going to ask them to accompany him to bardic competitions because a city full of bards being bards is most definitely too overwhelming for them. He’s sure they’re more than happy killing drowners and bruxae and wraiths and who knows what else wherever they are but he’s certainly not happy.

Although that’s a lie, of course he is.

He loves being around his fellow bards - some more than others, of course - and he loves that they can effortlessly switch between discussing chords, sharing the latest court scandals, and making fun of one another’s love lives. What he doesn’t love, however, is being alone at the end of every day.

“I hate this room,” he mutters to himself as he flops onto the bed.

“No you don’t,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier is loath to admit that he jumps so badly he literally falls off the bed.

“There’s that grace and dignity we all love,” Eskel teases.

“What the he--eyy!” Jaskier manages as Lambert all but tackles him, sending them both back to the floor he’d just picked himself up from. Neither of them move to get up though.

“There is a perfectly adequate bed right beside us, if you would kindly give me a moment to recover from your pleasant but wholly unexpected arrival!”

He hears Geralt and Eskel laugh and the next thing he knows, he’s sandwiched between three witchers on the bed that’s mercifully large enough to accommodate all four of them. He’s almost entirely certain Priscilla had something to do with that upgrade and makes a mental note to thank her later.

“You smell sad,” Geralt says eventually, frowning.

Jaskier sighs. “I’m not sad, my dear, I’m just worried that three of you won’t enjoy your stay here, what with all the… bardic watermelon.”

Eskel’s arm around his waist tightens. “We don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

Jaskier’s face scrunches up as he tries to make sense of that and Lambert, who’s curled up in front of him, snorts. “You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles.”

“Take that back, I am not!” Jaskier argues, pouting. Before he can be totally distracted, he manages to turn his entire body around so he’s now facing Eskel and Geralt. “Are you going to explain what I’m meant to be minding?”

Surprisingly, Geralt finds his words first. “Just that… that we can’t always help you. We can’t be what you need or what you want and-”

“I am going to stop you right there before I end up punching you,” Jaskier interrupts, his voice a strange mix of cold and loving.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Lambert supplies reassuringly, now from behind him.

Jaskier groans, butting his head against Eskel’s in frustration. Not even particularly hard but Eskel looks so confused that Jaskier ends up wiggling out of their cuddle pile and glaring at three of them when they sheepishly sit up.

“Did the lot of you trade all your marbles to get here?” he asks, folding his arms.

Lambert opens his mouth to reply but Eskel clamps a hand over it, correctly assuming that they’re not meant to answer that.

“I won’t lie and tell you I’ll only say this once because I will gladly repeat it whenever any of you act like you’ve forgotten but, my loves, I do not care. I do not care if you don’t enjoy all the same things I do and I do not care if your desires are different to mine. The only thing - and you must believe me for I would never ever lie about this - that I truly care about is you. All three of you.”

“But we don’t always know how to take care of you,” Geralt whispers, his voice filled with enough emotion to rival half of Jaskier’s ballads.

“Don’t you?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head to the left. “Tell me this, Geralt: why are you here?”

“You don’t like being alone after important performances,” Geralt replies without missing a beat.

Jaskier grins at him before turning to Eskel. “And you?”

“You deserve to have our support,” Eskel says softly, as if it were a common truth.

Lambert shrugs when Jaskier turns to him. “Why would I let you get drunk alone?”

Waiting until they’re done being amused, Jaskier glances between the three of them. “Don’t you see? You already know exactly how and when to take care of me. I can manage what little you can’t and I am more than happy with that because I am more than happy with you. Each of you. Just as you are. Do you understand?”

“If we say yes, will you stop being so bloody dramatic?” Lambert asks, definitely not swallowing an obvious lump in his throat, definitely not.

“We understand,” Eskel adds before Jaskier can reply, a soft smile on his face.

The four of them settle into their cuddle pile once again, Geralt reaching over Eskel and placing his hand on Jaskier’s waist as he whispers, “Thank you.”

Jaskier wants to laugh because he honestly can't see how his gorgeous, kind-hearted witchers continue to think they're not the most perfect bunch of people on the continent despite the flaws they actually have and the ones they only think they have, and he has no idea why they can't see that if they're lucky to have one of him loving them, he's thrice as lucky to have three of them loving him.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Jaskier whispers back.

-

credit to that one post i can’t find atm about what lust smells like to witchers as well as @cloudspeck for giving me names for minor characters !! also, sorry for the canon divergence / ooc vibes but i just wanted some fluffy ace validation, yaknow? 

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier

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

Secrets of Midnight: Babes in the Woods

In which our love interests meet for the first time and their fates become irrevocably entangled...

---

Geralt smelled him and heard him long before the clumsy, foppish boy came into view. He was trembling in the chill of early autumn and his eyes were as panic-stricken and tearful as a lost fawn’s. The cursed Count softened for an instant but only for an instant. Only until he smelled the boy on the wind, strongly this time, and he recognized the de Lettenhove blood pumping underneath his pale skin. 

The boy, for he was barely a man if he was still attending the nearby university, was limping; he favored his non-dominant foot strongly and he hissed through his teeth whenever his foot snagged on a root or fallen branch. 

You could use this, some small part of his mind suggested. It was a dark thought, something truly evil in a way that Geralt had never considered being evil before, and the ex-Count grimaced. You could pay that sorry Redanian traitor back for his treatment of you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; you could ruin the Viscount’s son, ruin his family’s reputation, and still be none the worse off for your efforts. What does it matter, Geralt? You’re already banished from court.

So, with the Angel on his shoulder mysteriously absent and his conscience sufficiently tamped down into silence, Geralt stepped into view of the young man. 

“Who goes there?” the ex-Count asked, glaring down his nose at the wounded student. 

“J-Julian, Milord,” the boy answered. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue Geralt had ever seen. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and he lost his breath for a single, heart-rending second; the Count had never been so caught up in the glory of one solitary color before. Is this what God had felt like when he held his finished work in his hands for the first time? Had he been as lost to Julian as Geralt currently was? The boy cocked his head to the side and his blue fawn-eyes pierced the Count in a new and terrifying way. 

“What brings you here?” he managed to ask.

“My friends have - ah!” he’d tried to gesture in the direction of his friends but he’d lost his balance and his weight had shifted atop his ankle again. He hissed through his teeth and dropped to a crouch, stabilizing the limb with both hands while he breathed through the pain. 

So Julian had experienced pain before and he’d learned to cope with it. Curious.

“Let’s get you laid down,” Geralt suggested, “And then you can tell me how you came to be lost on the lands of my estate.”

Geralt carried the young man all the way back to his crumbling manor house and marveled at how light Julian felt in his arms. Was he really so slight or was it another side effect of his monstrous curse? The enhanced senses he had adjusted to already, but improved strength? That was decidedly new. When the odd pair finally reached the house and pushed their way through the front door, Geralt made his guest comfortable. He laid Julian down on a chaise lounge before the sitting room fire and placed a bolster cushion beneath his injured ankle. “May I feel you for a sprain, Julian?”

“Are you a doctor?” the smiling boy inquired, reclining back to rest his head against the gold silk pillows. Sitting there in front of the fire, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink from exertion and nervous excitement, his brown hair mussed and shining in the low light, his sparkling blue eyes boring into Geralt’s...the boy might have truly been a portrait of Cupid brought to life. “Can you diagnose what ails me?”

Geralt eased into a more romantic mode of conversation, grateful for the easy opportunity to flirt; he hadn’t been well-known for his way with women at court. He prodded and poked and felt across the bones and tendons of Julian’s ankle, recognizing a sprain when he felt one. It was an easy fix, just bed rest and elevation for a few days until the muscles healed up.  “You’ve sprained your ankle, Julian. I wouldn’t suggest taking a walk in the woods at twilight anytime soon.”

The young man startled and his eyelashes fluttered sweetly. “But Milord, I must return to my dorm! My friends will wonder what’s become of me.”

“Where were your friends when I came upon you?” the Count questioned, laying a thick woolen blanket across Julian’s lap. The boy blushed brightly yet again and Geralt marked it as another success. 

“They spun me around a few times and all ran off in different directions. I was dizzy, of course, and I tried to follow Paul, but he was long gone by then. When Stephan called for me I went to follow his voice and tripped, twisting my ankle terribly. After that there was no keeping up; the sun was starting to set and I was beginning to grow worried for my safety when you rescued me. Thank you, by the way. You have a lovely home.”

“No need to lie to me, little fawn,” Geralt chuckled darkly. He stood from his place beside the settee and paced before the fire, gesturing around as he spoke. “I know exactly how rundown this place looks, Julian, I was a great Count once. The curtains here are moldy, the tapestries are moth-eaten and holey, and the mattresses have rotten all to Hell. This is the only hearth in the manor that I’ve gotten fully cleaned so far; I apologize for the mess. I was moved here rather suddenly, you see, and haven’t had the time to fix everything up yet.”

“Moved? As in, you did not choose to move but were translocated nonetheless?”

“To be blunt, little fawn, I was banished,” the Count drawled. He shot a quick glare in Julian’s direction and the young man withered beneath it. What had he done to anger his host in such a way? Was he safe here any longer? Should he try to run? If he did run, would he make it any farther than the doorway? The edge of the dirty elf-made carpet? Then the glare dropped away for a split second, revealing a flash of genuine pain and confusion, “Someone else at court wanted my job. They cursed me and hid me away from the world in order to take my place. They coveted power so much that they threw my entire life away without a second thought.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Julian cried, holding his arms out towards his host. The confused Count stopped his pacing and turned to face the teary-eyed young noble. “Come here, Your Grace, and let me give you a hug.”

“That...wouldn’t be appropriate,” Geralt frowned. Julian deflated and let his arms drop back to his sides. His hands moved to fidget in his lap and he flushed yet again, embarrassed. 

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

The older man steeled himself for what he had to do. Julian seemed like a nice boy, a perfectly pleasant nobleman all things considered, but this wasn’t just about Julian. This was about a corrupt family with incredible and unchecked power, running around at court and pulling the King’s strings, uncaring of the consequences beyond their own fortunes. Geralt had to teach them a lesson.

He slid back to a kneeling position beside the couch and took one of Julian’s busy hands into his own. He brushed his lips against the back of the young man’s knuckles and whispered softly, the way blue-blooded men had been speaking to empty-headed young women for hundreds of years, letting the skin of his lips tickle against the back of Julian’s hand with every syllable, “Take your rest here for the night, little fawn. I wouldn’t dream of letting any further harm come to you.”

And the boy did exactly as Geralt had intended: he fainted dead away.

[jaskiersvalley]

Holy shit, I’ve read so much of your work without knowing who you are— on both Tumblr and AO3. Well, I’m very glad I followed a link to your profile because now I can tell you I love your work!! And I’ll finally be able to thank you for it!

You are far too sweet. Usually I tend to stick to a corner of fandom and not venture far so I’m glad you have followed a link to my profile :D There’s some really exciting Big Bang and Reverse Big Bang pieces coming on AO3 soon and I like putting short ficlets on here. And this one is especially for you!

Winters at Kaer Morhen were tough. Lambert was always to one to loudly grumble about how terrible it was. Not just the memories that haunted the long hallways and empty rooms, there were other things that made winters awful. Four witchers were locked together high up in the mountains when they were used to roaming, being solitary and dictating their own schedule. The sudden change was a culture shock and often resulted in growling disagreements for weeks on end. Usually, they re-learned how to coexist and have company again just in time to leave for the year, only to rinse and repeat the pattern. It didn’t get easier as the years went on.

If that had been the only problem, maybe winters wouldn’t have been so bad. Alas, there was more at play. Bitterly cold nights and only marginally less cool days packed with physical labour took their toll. But they needed to work, to chop wood, hunt and collect herbs. An idle witcher was a bored witcher and those were dangerous. Plus, if they were busy then there was no time to argue outside of training which they had to do to keep in shape. The worst though was the pain. Old injuries and aches were made worse by the cold. But there was nowhere else safe to winter. If people saw them at their weakest, when the cold bit through scars and sank its teeth cruelly into long since healed injuries, they wouldn’t trust a witcher ever again. Part of a witcher’s ability to get paid was in the myth that they were untiring, immune to such human things like aches and pains. So it was safer to hide away for the worst of winter, to suffer with those who knew what it was like.

In the hidden corners of Kaer Morhen, no human could see when Lambert’s knee gave way from the time a pegasus kicked him. Or the consequent hip problems he’d developed thanks to the knee healing badly. Eskel would help pick him up from the floor and settle him by the fire without a word. There was no room for sympathy in their world but they could still be compassionate. In turn, Vesemir would cook stews and soft foods on the days Eskel’s jaw seized up and he could barely open his mouth for more than a drink. And Lambert would take Geralt’s wood chopping duties on the days his elbow couldn’t bear the weight of an axe. There was a reason Vesemir stayed at Kaer Morhen almost year round. The older a witcher got, the more injuries they lived with and winters were more difficult. He knew that Geralt and Eskel were starting to feel their years when they arrived back sooner and left later, trying to avoid the trip up and down the mountain when riddled with so many aches and pains.

The letter from Lambert one year was both disappointing and a relief. He wasn’t returning for winter that year, something about having an invitation in the south. That year, winters were much quieter without his constant bitching. Instead, the other three suffered in silence which was almost worse. There was no snapping and snarling, the old keep was plenty big enough that they could avoid each other and nurse their hurts in absolute privacy. It was the loneliest year.

On the Path, it was pure chance that Eskel bumped into Lambert who looked much better than expected. He even managed to smile at Eskel.

“Come with me next winter, I’ll show you something amazing.”

The offer was one that caught Eskel off guard. Never before had Lambert been one to share, hoarding his stash of soothing creams and warm water skeins as if his life depended on it. Such an offer was made ever more curious when a cat witcher sauntered out of the woods, looking rather pleased with himself. He gave Eskel a once over and grinned.

“We’ve got room for you, big guy, bring the rest of your pack too.”

That winter, it was just Eskel and Vesemir at Kaer Morhen. They’d heard from Geralt to say he was going with Lambert and taking Jaskier with him too. The winds howled through Kaer Morhen and Eskel’s teeth chattered even as the scars on his face prickled from being so close to the fire.

In the spring, Geralt was at the bottom of the mountain looking rested and healthy. A bard was by his side looking tanned and spoiled.

“Meet me by the Theodula pass at the end of the year. We’re bringing Vesemir too.”

The year was harsh, new injuries, a badly set shoulder that Eskel had trouble with in the spring meant he was dreading winter. When it came time to decide which direction to turn, Eskel faced the north, he couldn’t risk the chance of Vesemir spending the year alone even if they weren’t much company for each other over the cold months. Dutifully, Eskel headed towards Kaer Morhen. At the bottom of the mountain, a vaguely familiar figure greeted him.

“Lambert and Geralt owe me. You need to head south, Wolf.” It was the cat witcher. “Vesemir is already half way there, Geralt had Jaskier sweet talk him into finally abandoning the old crumbling tomb.”

Without much choice, Eskel turned Scorpion around and Aiden accompanied him. The further south they headed, the warmer the weather got. They passed through Aedirn and Lyria into Sodden and Toussaint. Not that they stopped there which surprised Eskel, Geralt had always daydreamed about the place. Instead they carried on to Geso, Maecht, Etolia before entering Vicovaro. There, Aiden seemed perfectly at home, stripping out of his armour in the sweltering heat. A little more modest, Eskel allowed himself to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. They approached a sprawling mansion and Aiden hopped off his horse.

“Honeys we’re home!” he hollered. Eskel watched as the door opened and Lambert bounded out, seemingly full of energy. Behind him was another man, following with a little more dignity.

“Welcome home,” the man greeted Aiden with a kiss that was easy with well established familiarity. Lambert pulled Aiden in too with zero care for what was considered polite. Ignoring the two, the man turned to Eskel. “Welcome, I’m Cahir. You’re welcome to spend the the season here. From what I heard, Kaer Morhen hasn’t been the best of places to rest after a tough year.”

Understatement of the century, Eskel thought. He didn’t have much choice but to accept the seeming generosity of a stranger. One that Lambert apparently bedded, as did Aiden. And Geralt trusted too at that. From the doorway, Vesemir appeared, looking a little out of place still and Eskel could well and truly appreciate that.

As the weeks passed, it became easier. There was no cold, no worries about needing food and supplies in a hostile environment. Even the aches and pains that plagued them during the winter seemed to be held at bay. It was winter but Eskel could enjoy a crisp apple without his jaw locking, could chew even tougher meats and not freeze with agony of each move. The novelty of it put him in a good mood and, looking around, he could see the others in a similar state.

“From now on,” Cahir said one evening, a glass of wine in hand and Aiden’s feet in his lap, “I want you all to consider this your safe haven. Winter here and stay here all you wish. If you need a place to recuperate, you’ll always be protected here.”

It was a most generous offer, one that Eskel didn’t think could be a serious one. Nobody wanted witchers around, especially not if they weren’t on contract. Yet there was Cahir, seemingly comfortable with not only two witchers in his bed but three others in his home too. As time passed, Eskel learned that maybe he had been a little wrong. It was a serious offer for sure. And Cahir’s bed was big enough not for just two, but three witchers. It was something Cahir, Lambert and Aiden took great joy in proving to Eskel over and over again.

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

hmmm how about 24 and/or 41? :3c

24. you’re my ex but i think i still have feelings for you / 41. overhearing they have feelings for you

post-s1, geraskier, past yenralt, implied yenskier if u squint, break up & make up situation, angst with a hopeful ending

cliche prompts~!

—

there’s a tight feeling in his chest, a pressing weight on him as a rush of feeling overcomes him when he sees jaskier standing at the entrance of kaer morhen.

their eyes meet for the first time since the mountain, and geralt thinks they’re even bluer than he remembers. perhaps it’s the light of the afternoon sun dappling in beams over the keep, or just that old adage of absence making the heart grow fonder, but his breath is stolen as he looks at his bard once again.

not your bard, he reminds himself harshly, dropping his gaze but unable to look away for long, not after so much time apart. not anymore.

he watches those blue eyes go dim with a fresh wave of pain and heartache as they land on him, and then go wide when he sees geralt’s companion.

“jaskier!”

ciri rushes forward from his side, and jaskier drops to his knees, arms open to catch her in a hug. he presses his face in her hair the same way geralt had back in the forest where they found each other, holding something so indescribably precious in his arms.

the aching of his own heart intensifies.

“oh, sweet girl,” jaskier is murmuring to her, holding her tight while she buries her face in his neck. “i’m so glad you found him. it’s alright, it’s alright. you’re safe now.”

he’d forgotten jaskier spent many winters after that disastrous engagement banquet back in cintra’s court, watching their little lion cub grow up. one of us should be there for her, he’d told geralt once, a look in his blue eyes geralt hadn’t been able to place.

he thinks now it might have been something like understanding, something like resignation. always picking up the slack abandoned by geralt in matters of destiny.

he’s always done more than geralt deserves of him.

those blue eyes that always make him feel simultaneously like he’s drowning and finding air after being underwater for too long find his again as jaskier stands up, hands still on ciri’s shoulders, and then jaskier turns away without a word and leads her into the keep.

the clenching in his chest cinches tighter and geralt feels another piece of his heart crack and splinter, chipped away by his own doing.

yen’s gaze, from where she stands beside him, burns into the side of his head. “you’re a real piece of work, geralt of rivia.”

with that, she moves away and heads into kaer morhen, and he watches yet again as the two halves of his heart leave him behind, one slightly mended by necessity, the other still raw and bleeding.

.

he avoids jaskier for the first several weeks as winter sets in in earnest. it’s—more difficult than he expects. kaer morhen is large, but not large enough to keep geralt from being in the same space as jaskier, and he finds himself leaving rooms right after entering them when he sees his—not his—bard sitting at a table or curled in a chair, lute in hand, his voice warm and soft and gods, he’s missed it. missed jaskier.

but he messed it up on that mountain. he fucked up the one good thing life had seen fit to bless him with—how could he have ever called jaskier a curse—and he’s not sure it’s something he can fix.

so he avoids jaskier to avoid having to face the consequences of his mistakes. of this mistake in particular.

it doesn’t last.

he’s been trying to ignore the burn of jealousy in his veins when he catches yen with jaskier, both of them with their heads together and smiling and laughing together like old friends. yen had said she and jaskier had worked through their differences and come to an understanding sometime in the time between the mountain and now, but she’d never offered the details of their relationship.

the urge to put himself between them and pull jaskier away, to crowd him against a wall and hide him from her gaze and focus all of that blue-eyed attention on himself is strong, and it takes a great amount of his carefully learned and honed control to keep it in check. he hates the envy spreading in him like toxins in his blood.

he finds himself lingering outside the door to the room jaskier was given, hand poised in the air as if to knock or push his way in, wanting to, wanting to be let back in, but never going through with it. he listens instead, from the hallway, to jaskier singing softly or muttering nonsense to himself as he goes about his nightly routines. it’s familiar, calming, something he did on the road with geralt, and geralt feels something in him settle knowing jaskier hasn’t changed much at all.

occasionally, he’ll be talking to someone—ciri, usually, or yen, or eskel or lambert—and geralt burns with the desire to be the one he talks to, to be given the honor of keeping him company, even if he’s proven he’s not worthy of jaskier time and time again. he wants jaskier back, but he’s not sure jaskier wants him anymore.

it’s a night like this, geralt lingering beyond the door and listening in, that something in this self-imposed stalemate between them finally shifts.

jaskier is with yen tonight, and geralt thinks, later, wryly, that it was probably some kind of omen from destiny. their voices are low murmurs, occasionally interspersed with laughter, but it turns quiet and somber at some point over something he didn’t catch. at first.

“i used to think i knew him,” jaskier says, confesses it like a dark secret. he sounds so terribly sad it makes geralt want to run himself onto his own sword, because it’s his fault. “that i knew, no matter what words he did or didn’t say, that i knew what he was trying to say, what he was actually saying. now...now, i’m not sure i ever did.”

you did, geralt thinks, jaw clenching. you knew me better than anyone. no one else had ever bothered to know me like you did.

“for someone so smart,” yen muses, “he’s very stupid.”

it makes jaskier laugh. “he is. it’s part of his charm.”

“if you think stupidity is charming.”

“well obviously i did.”

did. but not anymore.

“obviously.”

it’s quiet between them for a moment, and geralt strains to hear anything from beyond the thick door separating him from the one who had become his everything without him even realizing it until it was too late.

“sometimes i wonder if there’s something wrong with me,” jaskier murmurs, and geralt’s heart twists. no, there’s not. you’re perfect. you were always too good for me. “something not quite right inside me. i mean,” he laughs again, but it sounds pained this time, worn out and tired, “why else, even after everything, would i still love him this deeply?”

geralt’s breath leaves him in a rush, like he’s been punch, or tossed into a wall by a beast.

“love makes fools of us all,” yen says. “it’s a curse—but also a blessing. if you’re into it. personally, i prefer a good bondage kink, but to each his own. martyrdom does it for some people, i hear.”

geralt pictures the way jaskier might try to hide a smile in her hair at the attempt at a joke. he always tried to hide his smiles when he didn’t want to admit geralt had said something funny, dry as it was.

he wants that back, wants that easy friendship, that easy love jaskier gave to him so freely.

“i want him back,” jaskier says then, as if he can hear geralt’s thoughts from the hall. “he was never mine, but i want him back anyway.”

i was always yours, geralt thinks. i just hadn’t realized how completely you had me until i forced you to let go.

he can’t listen to any more—he’s scraped raw at the confession, at the depth of jaskier’s love for him even after how he’d treated him, at his own realization. as quietly as he can, he walks away from jaskier’s room, though not without feeling a pull back to the door, back to his bard.

not your bard, he tells himself again. then amends, but maybe he would be again, if given the chance.

geralt returns to his own room, checking in on ciri as he goes, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease knowing his child surprise is sleeping safely close by. his resolve is set:

he’s got an apology to give that’s long past due.