#geralt is a pine tree with two swords

[samstree]

“I’ll never marry,” Jaskier sighs woefully. “Unless…”

“Unless?” Geralt hums.

“You know, some friends make a pact. If they are both forty and unmarried, they just… you know?”

Suddenly, Geralt looks very very still.

Oh, this will be fun.

Jaskier smiles wickedly. “Of course, not applicable to my ancient witcher. When I’m forty, then. I shall be all yours.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier links their pinkies to seal the deal. “But don’t keep your hopes up.” He winks. “I’m very popular.”

Geralt’s hand lingers with warmth. He retracts it, looking away.

“Of course. Not hoping,” he stutters, voice soft. “Not at all.”

[kingeomer]

I Remember When You Were Here (Darling Please Come Home)

Geralt/Jaskier / rated teen / 1,401 words / ao3.

i wrote this back in december as a christmas gift for my darling @reveniemus. pining bard waiting for his witcher to return from war arrive at kaer morhen, anyone?

 Jaskier was stressed. Geralt had left him on the Path, handed him over to his brother like it was nothing. 

 “You two go on ahead. I’ll deal with this,” Geralt had said, checking his swords were securely fastened to Roach before he hoisted himself up onto her back, patting a hand over her neck once settled. Jaskier had opened his mouth to argue, insistent on following his witcher anywhere, only to be cut off by a hand gesture. 

 “You need to go, Jaskier. Any longer and the pass will be unsafe. Go.” Geralt’s tone left no room for arguments as he gathered up Roach’s reins, flicking gently to encourage her on. The witcher stopped close to Jaskier and leaned down, a hand brushing through shaggy chestnut hair. “I’ll be with you soon, Julek. I promise.” His voice was low as he spoke, amber eyes soft. Geralt turned to Eskel then, meeting his eyes before he spoke again. “Keep him safe, Wolf.” He waited for his brother to nod in response before he clicked his tongue at Roach, spurring his most faithful companion into moving.

 Jaskier had taken two steps to follow Geralt only for a hand to stop him, tugging him back. “Come, Bard. Best do as he says.” Eskel’s voice rumbled, eyes kind as he gently squeezed his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist. They watched as witcher and horse were lost amidst the leafless trees, leaving them alone in the cold wintry forest with nowhere else to go but onwards. 

 That had been two and a half weeks ago, and Jaskier’s anger, his bitterness, and his sense of dread had only grown worse.

 It had taken a week and a half to complete the trek, a hard climb halfway up a mountain with Jaskier’s strength sapping as it got colder with each passing day. They’d made camp as often as they could, Eskel casting igni to keep a fire going and wrapping the bard in as many layers as he could spare, well aware the journey was taking its toll on the human as he shivered in his sleep. 

 The last couple of days of their hike Eskel had had to carry Jaskier for stretches, cradling him like a child as he shuddered, extremities feeling like ice under the wolf’s hands. 

 Jaskier’s first day within the keep had been spent thawing out, buried under thick furs and woolen blankets in front of a roaring fire, with bowls of hearty stew and mugs of ale. 

 He woke up flushed warm the following day, sweaty under too many layers and skin prickly with the heat. Exploring the crumbling remains of the old witcher keep had calmed Jaskier’s mind a little that morning, a chill winter breeze and the fresh scent of snow and pine in the air relaxing, allowing him to catalogue his thoughts. 

 It was winter, he was in the legendary home of wolf witchers, and he was safe. He was safe, but Geralt was not. He was somewhere out there still, having foolishly taken a detour to help a family deal with a drowner nest close to their cabin. Jaskier had to hope Geralt was back on the path, taking the winding trail up through the snow and ice, else he might not make it before the weather conditions became too treacherous. 

 Melitele preserve him, but Jaskier would wring the bastard witcher’s neck when he finally showed his face. The last six days had been spent pacing the corridors of Kaer Morhen, chewing his nails down to the wick and snapping at the slightest provocation. 

 The Wolves refused to be scared off, however. Eskel would sit with him and chat quietly, keeping Jaskier’s mind busy and full with stories of his adventures. Lambert would tease him gently, poking and prodding him out of his shell and into performing some of his songs. And Vesemir, the leader of the pack, was ever ready with a warm hand on Jaskier’s back, a quiet word in his ear to comfort. He’d bring the bard food and sit with him saying nothing at all, simply sharing his presence. When they did have conversations, they’d be about Geralt, what he was like before Jaskier knew him, and sometimes about the boy he’d been before the trials. 

 Jaskier missed his Wolf dearly, though.

 The others were fine company in their own rights, but none were Geralt. Nobody compared to his wit, the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled, the warmth of his body curled around Jaskier on a cold night. 

 “Stupid, self sacrificing, noble hearted, moronic witcher,” Jaskier thought as he resumed his pacing in the grand hall. Everyone else was busy with chores, but Vesemir had taken one look at the bard that morning and instructed him to try and relax, a fond look in his eyes as he’d clapped a hand down on Jaskier’s shoulder almost too hard. 

 He’d spent most of the morning wandering the keep and, in Lambert’s words, getting in the gods damned way. Eskel had suggested he try to write, channel his energy into something creative, but he’d thrown his quill and an inkpot out of the open window of the library in frustration. So he’d gone back to pacing, and he was halfway convinced he was wearing a groove into the rugs scattered about the stone floors. 

 An interior door flew open suddenly and Lambert burst into the room, slightly out of breath as he ground to a halt. “Oh, there you are…” the redhead panted a little, flicking wavy hair from his eyes before he strode across the room, shrugging off his own fur cloak and draping it over Jaskier’s shoulders. The bard blinked up at him, confusion clear as day on his face. 

 “Been watching the walls for you. Couldn’t take your pining anymore,” Lambert started to steer Jaskier towards the huge double doors leading out to the courtyard. Despite his words, his tone and his actions belied a fondness for the smaller man. “Geralt broke through the tree line, should come riding in through the gates any minute now.” He finished, guiding Jaskier out into the bitterly cold courtyard. 

 He was almost here? Lambert wouldn’t lie, he was a prickly son of a bitch when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t malicious. 

 Geralt was almost home.

 Jaskier’s heart started pounding, his gaze focused on the heavy gates in the thick stone wall, waiting for it to—

 One side opened slowly as a hooded figure pushed their way inside, ladened down by a large sack on their back. Once inside, they lowered their hood to reveal familiar white hair, and Jaskier started to run.

 “Jaskier!” A voice called out behind him at the same time he shouted “Geralt!” and the witcher by the gate lifted his head in surprise, dropping the sack he carried just in time for Jaskier to throw himself at him, clinging to Geralt with arms and legs as he all but leapt into his lover’s arms.

 “You’re here!” Jaskier spoke into Geralt’s neck, arms tightening impossibly around the other man as if he’d disappear should he let go. Geralt laughed softly —Melitele’s tits, how Jaskier had missed that delightful sound— and wrapped strong arms around the brunet, holding on just as tight as he regained sure footing on the stone courtyard. 

 “I’m here, Julek. I’m here,” Geralt responded, cheek pressed to the top of the bard’s head as he breathed him in deeply. Jaskier lifted his head then to take in the witcher fully, a smile splitting his face for a moment before he closed the gap between them, lips seeking out Geralt’s for a desperate, breathless kiss.

 They broke apart to quiet applause as Lambert and Eskel descended on them, the youngest wolf whistling before he laughed. They both seemed to know better than to interfere, one gathering up Geralt’s belongings while the other led Roach inside, only pausing to clap Geralt on the back as the two men remained locked in a tight embrace, foreheads pressed together as they soaked one another in. 

 Finally, Jaskier let his legs slip from their place around Geralt’s waist, feet touching solid ground with strong hands supporting him round the waist. He smiled up at Geralt then, brushing calloused fingers through soft, tangled white waves fondly. 

 “Welcome home, Wolf,” Jaskier beamed, laughing as Geralt leaned in to claim his mouth in another deep kiss.

[dat-carovieh]

Because love does not exist here, in this garden there's no feeling

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: G

Wordcount: 1.8k

Tags: Emotionally constipated Geralt, Geralt has emotions, Pining, Unresolved Emotional Tension, 5 Times Witchers have no emotions and one time they do

Whenever Jaskier would play in a tavern, he would be showered with attention from so many people afterwards. And he always seemed to enjoy it a lot. This evening as well. While Geralt was sat in the back, drinking on his own, Jaskier stood in the middle of the tavern, chatting and flirting with various people at once. He was turning from one person to another, like an excited puppy, not able to focus his attention in one direction. Geralt didn’t like it. There was a cold feeling in his chest, while he watched his bard laughing at something the woman in front of him had just said.

Geralt downed the entire contents of his mug and put it back on the table. He waved the maid, who was serving the tavern and ordered himself a new drink. Jaskier’s hand now was slung around the hip of the woman. The other people who had been searching for his attention had scattered since the bard seemed to have found his favourite and now gave her his undivided attention.

She surely was the most beautiful woman in the tavern, Geralt had to admit, Jaskier definitely had good taste. They were both leaning against the bar counter, heads close together and giggling. He wondered what they were talking about. Geralt’s fresh ale arrived and he took a big gulp of it to fight the tight feeling in his chest.

Before Geralt had emptied his mug, Jaskier and the woman made their way to the door. Before leaving, Jaskier looked over to Geralt and gave him a little wink and a dirty smile. Geralt forced a small smile and Jaskier was gone. The Witcher finished up his drink and then went up to the room, he had rented for them both, which he would now probably use alone.

He was lying awake for a long time this night, wondering, if Jaskier would come back, but he didn’t, until he finally fell asleep. Jaskier would be back in the morning, sloppily dressed, his hair all over the place, with a wide grin.

Geralt was not jealous. He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions.

They had been on the road together for some time now. Jaskier was riding next to Geralt, strumming his lute and humming to the tune.

Geralt suddenly sat up straight in the saddle.

“Quiet,” he said and Jaskier shut up. He definitely had heard something but now it was silent, at least for a moment, then some men, bandits obviously, jumped out behind the trees next to the road, swords drawn. Geralt jumped of Roaches back and pulled his sword in the same motion. He could see, Jaskier also getting down from his horse.

“There is no need for a fight,” the bandit in front of them said. Geralt moved in front of the horses and he saw Jaskier doing the same. The bard was holding his own, smaller sword. He might be a musician, lover of the finer things in life, but he still knew how to defend himself. He just didn’t particularly like to fight.

“You are right, you can just crawl back into the hole you came from,” Jaskier snarled. Geralt gave him a quick glance, that was not how to talk yourself out of a fight. The man in front of them who was surely the leader laughed and gave the sign to attack. Geralt moved fast, faster than those bandits could look and before they had even reached him, two of them were dead. He could see Jaskier next to him, fight of two bandits, Geralt wanted to help him, but he was attacked from two sides at once. He managed to kill them quickly and turned to Jaskier, who was only fighting one now, the other one was already on the ground. But then Geralt saw another guy in front Jaskier with a crossbow and before he could react, the arrow had hit the bard in the chest and he went down. Geralt stormed to the shooter, separated the head from the body of the one who had been fighting Jaskier with a smooth motion while passing him and only seconds later, the shooter was also dead.

Geralt dropped his sword and ran to Jaskier. His heart was racing, he felt an ugly taste on his tongue, while kneeling down besides Jaskier. Luckily, he had only been hit in the shoulder and not the chest as he had thought. He was conscious and smiled painfully at Geralt.

“Good fight,” he whispered.

“Stay down,” Geralt instructed and got up, to get some supplies from Roaches saddlebag. He handed Jaskier a belt, to bite down on.

“This is gonna hurt like hell,” he said, grabbed the arrow and pulled it out. Jaskier made a pained sound that would have been a scream, if he had not bitten the belt. He was sweating and Geralt could see his eyelids flutter. At least while unconscious he wouldn’t feel the pain. Geralt opened Jaskier’s shirt to take a look at the wound. It was deep, like he would expect, but not big and the edges clean. He felt a lump in his throat, as he saw the amount of blood spilling from the wound, and the way, Jaskier’s skin had turned white. He got some thread and a needle. He had to stitch his own wounds before, so he somehow knew what he was doing. It would help with the bleeding and the healing.

When he was done, he lifted the limp, but heavily breathing body up and sat him down on Pegasus’ back. He walked along the horse, Roach behind him, looking for a place to make camp. Jaskier would heal, he would have problems moving his shoulder for a good while, but he would be fine.

Geralt was not scared. He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions.

---

They had made camp next to a clear looking mountain stream. Jaskier was unpacking the horses, who could really need a break from walking in the heat the whole day. Geralt was rubbing them dry. They had been sweating a lot during the day and absolutely needed a rub down. When Jaskier finished unpacking I let out a loud sigh, drawing Geralt’s attention.

“What a day,” he said and wiped the sweat of his forehead. “I should take a bath, since we already have a nice stream right here. It will be nice to clean myself and cool down.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, as he continued rubbing Roach dry. He heard clothes shuffling behind him and then splashes of water and laughing. He finished up and turned around.

“Geralt, you should also come in,” Jaskier shouted and got up from the ground where he had been sitting. The water was not deep, it didn’t even reach up to his knees. Jaskier was standing there, shamelessly naked, wet, with the bright sun illuminating his body. His wet hair was falling into his face and his eyes glowing in excitement.

Geralt couldn’t take his eyes of the bard. He has seen him naked before, but this time he radiated a glow of happiness, that nearly also got Geralt. There was a warm and relaxed feeling in his chest.

Geralt was not happy. He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions.

---

Geralt was alone. Jaskier had decided to stay in Oxenfurt for a while. He had been asked to teach some lectures and had agreed. Teaching had always been something Jaskier deeply enjoyed. So Geralt had left the town on his own after they had agreed on a spot to meet again in a couple of weeks.

It had been a couple of days and Geralt enjoyed the peace and quiet of not having a constantly chattering bard with him. Of course, he enjoyed it, why shouldn’t he? Only because he kept hearing the bard’s voice in his head? Or because he said something and was confused for a second when he didn’t get an answer? Of course not, it was nice, to be alone.

He slept next to the fire, alone. No one who would lie next to him with no regard for personal space because it was cold. No one cuddling up to his back, which actually felt kind of cold right now. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and closed his eyes.

Why was there something wet on his cheek? He opened his eyes again and wiped it away, but soon his cheek was wet again. Tears streamed from his eyes, he was not able to stop them.

Geralt did not feel lonely, he was not crying. He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions.

---

Jaskier was playing his lute, singing with all his passion. His colorful clothes stood out between the townsfolk who were dressed mostly in browns. Geralt watched him from their table. Jaskier didn’t stay in one spot, he danced around the tavern from one side to another, stood in front of people, smiled at them while he sung. He moved over to Geralt, gifted him with a bright smile, before he grabbed Geralt’s drink and allowed himself a mouthful of ale. Geralt would have not allowed anyone else to do this, but he was also sure no one else would dare. Jaskier sat down on Geralt table, briefly, leaning against the Witcher while singing about his last big adventure, before he jumped up again, and swirled around. Geralt couldn’t suppress the small smile on his face nor the warm feeling in his stomach.

It was hard not to touch the bard whenever he was close to him. And he was close to him often. Even though his ale was still half full, he ordered another one, because he knew, a thirsty bard would soon empty it without asking for permission.

It looked like Jaskier was glowing with happiness and a power that had to come from the music. Jaskier lived for it. Lived for the music and for the attention.

After a couple more songs, Jaskier slumped down next to Geralt and like expected, drank Geralt’s ale. He leaned to Geralt’s shoulder and smiled.

“This is so much fun,” he exclaimed. Without thinking he put an arm around Jaskier and pulled him closer.

Geralt was not in love. He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions.

---

Geralt was lying awake, his arm idly around Jaskier who had his back turned to him. The bed was small so they had to lie close together. For some reason, Geralt just couldn’t sleep. Jaskier started to move under his arm and turned around. His eyes opened a bit, looking at Geralt sleepily.

“Why are you awake?” he mumbled.

“Can’t sleep,” Geralt answered. Jaskier lifted his hand and gently stroked Geralt’s cheek with a little smile.

“You should sleep,” he said, eyes still only half open.

“I’ll try,” Geralt answered, mesmerized by these blue sleepy eyes.

“Good,” Jaskier answered, leaned forward a little and kissed Geralt lips, before he closed his eyes again. Geralt teared open his eyes, his heart was racing and there was too much adrenaline in his blood to fall asleep now. He pulled Jaskier closer and buried his face in the bard’s neck. Jaskier smelled like flowers, happiness and love.

He’s a Witcher and Witchers don’t have emotions. But maybe he did.

Read on AO3

[rebelhan]

yield

pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

word count: 5.2k

warning: 18+, explicit sex, unprotected sex (pls wrap it before u tap it), fluff, a bit of pining, sword fighting as foreplay... if u squint

a/n: this was just an excuse to put fighting with geralt and smut in the same story oops

masterlist

AO3 link

“You think you can take me?” The question is asked with an amused lilt and you can see the smirk playing on the Witcher’s face. Though his hand is on the hilt of the sword at his hip, as if he already knows your answer.

You juggle the question for a moment. Realistically, no. You could not take him. You were going to end up flat on your ass in a few minutes and you knew this. Though you also knew a duel with Geralt would only help you improve your own skills. So, not two minutes earlier, you had asked him tauntingly, “You up for a fight, Witcher?” That, and Jaskier had been sent off to fish in a nearby river so you were alone with Geralt. Being alone around him made your mind foggy in a way you didn’t know how to deal with.

Geralt wouldn’t have entertained the thought of saying yes to you had he not seen your skills with a blade first hand. The Golem he had encountered just under a month ago was quite the challenge, even for him. And of course Jaskier was of no help against the beast. Then you had appeared out of nowhere and slain the monster with your meteorite sword. When you had shyly asked to accompany him to his next destination, Geralt had already made up his mind to say yes before Jaskier begged him to agree.

It was twenty-eight days since that encounter and the three of you had been making your way through the lands, eliminating the monsters that plagued the towns you visited in exchange for coin. Geralt half expected you to end your journey with them at each inn you stopped at, but the next morning you were always ready to go, on to the next adventure. Geralt didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. You could take care of yourself and you pulled your weight, proving a valuable ally against beasts more than once.

So here you stood in this clearing of woods, the sun shining low in the sky. Instead of answering his question, you unsheathe your sword from its place slung over your back and point the tip of the blade at Geralt’s chest, a sly smile on your face.

You can’t even blink before his steel blade clangs with your own, the force of the vibration rippling down your arm. You duck as he slashes, his sword slicing through the air where you once stood. You stab towards him and he avoids it with a step to the side. When he jabs at you again, you spin against the blade, catching his sword with your own near his hilt. The sound it makes is grating and you know he felt that clash in his wrist.

You step away from him to catch your breath. He knows you’re winded. “Is that all you’ve got?” you goad, though you are the one panting. A low chuckle rumbles through his chest at the taunt; with the way you’re breathing, he knows there’s no bite behind it. He spins the blade once in his wrist while you fill your lungs and you charge at him again, hoping to catch him by surprise. The sound of your blades crashing together over and over rings through the air. It’s punctuated by the sound of your grunts, struggling with the force of each move. The birds have long fled the trees around you from the sounds of your fighting and the sun falls lower in the sky with each meeting of blades.

With the next jab, your swords lock together at the hilt. Between the cross of the blades, your face is near Geralt’s, close enough to see the vein protruding his forehead in effort. You push against his sword, groaning with the strain of holding him back. “Not strong enough to beat a human?” you jest, but the words are grunted out and you know you will lose soon enough. You may be a decent sword fighter, but your strength is no match for a Witcher’s. As you strain with the effort of holding him back, you take pride in the fact that he’s breathing hard, too. At least you weren’t making this easy for him. You weigh your options quickly, your arms are trembling and you know you can’t hold him off much longer.

Before you can maneuver away, the ground disappears from beneath your feet and you hit the dirt with a yelp, the impact knocking the wind out of you. Geralt had kicked a leg behind your ankles and sent you tumbling to the ground. He stands above you, the tip of his sword touching the fabric at the center of your chest. The smile on his face reaches his amber eyes. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for the words to end the fight.

You huff in annoyance. “I yield.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” he teases, throwing your words back at you. You can’t help the matching grin that falls on your face. He sheathes his sword again before offering you a gloved hand. You sit up, grabbing his hand, a retort on the tip of your tongue. But when he pulls you up, you stand with your torso against his, looking up at him. You’re close enough that you can feel the rise and fall of his chest and trace the specks of black in the yellow of his eyes. It’s like the wind has been knocked out of you all over again.

“What? No witty remark?” he asks, tilting his head closer to yours, just slightly. You feel the words rumble through his chest and it sends a shiver up your spine. Heat creeps up your neck and you’re not sure how much longer you can stand to be this close to him. The sly grin on his face tells you nothing. Either he doesn’t notice your dumbstruck expression and is content to tease you on the outcome of your duel, or he is entirely aware of the effect he’s having on you.

Your hand is still gripping his in a vice, unable to find the biting words you had planned to say. You’re lost in his eyes, the orange of the setting sun bringing out the same shade in his irises.

Then, just as suddenly, you hear Jaskier’s voice. “Oi! Look what I’ve caught.” You jump away from Geralt and miss the look of disappointment that flashes across his face. Jaskier seems to be blissfully ignorant of the position the two of you were just in, cheerfully gesturing at the net in his hand holding two fish. You move to pick your sword up from the where it had landed during your fall and resheathe it while Geralt and Jaskier start a fire.

You eat in silence, but Jaskier fills the quiet, prodding the two of you to approve of his new lyrics every few minutes. By the time you’ve eaten, the sun is long gone and Jaskier has the makings of two new verses. He has taken to singing them over and over again in the name of perfecting them. You glance up at Geralt across the fire as Jaskier is beginning to sing the same line for the seventh time. His gaze was already trained on you, his eyes glowing against the low flames of the dying fire. Your heart jumps into motion again and the heat of the fire suddenly feels suffocating. You give a half-hearted excuse about needing some rest and step away from the fire to find a flat area to get comfortable on for the night.

When you wake to the sun streaming in through the trees, the thump of your heart has not subsided. Your hand falls to your neck where the ghost of a pair of lips lingers. With a jolt, you sit up, mortified. You had dreamt of him. You shut your eyes tightly, willing yourself to forget, but it’s a mistake and the images of your dream flash behind your eyes. His hands wrapped tightly around you, ghosting your cheeks, running down the sides of your body. His lips on your chest, your neck, squarely against yours. His eyes piercing yours as pleasure overtook you. His hair, falling around your face as he leaned down and kissed you, your hands tangled in white mane with his head between your legs.

The heat returned to your cheeks and you furiously rubbed at your eyes, hoping to dispel both the offending images and the last remnants of sleep. A rustling noise pulls you from your thoughts and your eyes open to Geralt packing up camp and stroking Roach’s mane. It takes everything in you not to curl up into a ball and the thought of running away crosses your mind before you chastise yourself for being stupid.

The day of walking is uneventful. You keep a safe distance between yourself and the Witcher, necessary to keep your heart at bay. Though you’re consumed with your own feelings, you think you maintain an air of nonchalance successfully, especially if Jaskier’s indifference to the situation is anything to go by. The regular banter between the three of you is easy to fall into despite your thoughts being elsewhere. And when the sun beating down is too much and silence encompasses your companions, Jaskier never fails to sweetly croon, “Toss a coin to your Witcher.”

“O Valley of Plenty,” you follow without fail. It brings a smile to both your faces. Though Geralt walking behind the two of you only responds with a disapproving grunt, you can hear the smile on his face, too.

You arrive at the nearest town just as nightfall is settling in. The sole inn of the village is above a rowdy bar and though the three of you are weary from the journey, the promise of strong ale is too good to resist. You pile your things into the single available room before crowding around a table together, pitchers of golden liquid filled to the brim in front of you. Jaskier downs his first pint in the blink of an eye and his second and third go just as fast. While you’re still working on your first, Jaskier grabs his lute and leads the patrons of the bar in a drunken rendition of The Fishmonger’s Daughter. The crowd takes to him rather quickly and you’ve lost sight of him in the middle of the establishment, though his voice still rings out clear above the others.

Geralt looks out at him and though his gaze is steely, you swear there’s a hint of affection behind the hardness. You admire the straight line of his jaw over the rim of your glass, content to observe him while he’s distracted. Then his head twists towards you and you rush to move your gaze down to your drink, taking a hefty gulp and nearly choking on it in your attempt to pretend you weren’t ogling him.

You drop the glass down to the table with a thunk and dab at the ale that escaped your mouth with your sleeve. When you look back up, Geralt’s amber eyes are still fixated on you. It’s an effort to keep your voice steady when he’s staring at you so intently. “Penny for your thoughts?” you prompt him.

You’re met with his silence. Then he shrugs and his eyes flit about the bar, as if he’s deciding what he should reveal to you. “You’re not bad with a sword,” he says.

The heat flares in your cheeks. Was he thinking about the day before? Just as you had been? Compliments from the Witcher came few and far between and you dared to guess this was only the second one you had ever received, though it barely qualified.

“Though not as good as me,” he continues. The corner of his lip is raised. He’s teasing again. Whatever fluttering was in your belly is quashed by your indignation.

“I beg to disagree! You won because you’re stronger than me, that I’ll admit. Had you not been a Witcher I would’ve had you on the ground in seconds. And I was barely winded!” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, yes, but he had successfully baited your competitive nature. His face reveals amusement at the flare of your temper. He takes a generous sip of his ale before returning his attention to you.

His eyes are alight with mischief. Even before he opens his mouth, you know he’s about to say something meant to rile you up and get some reaction from you. Though, there’s no way for you to anticipate the exact words he utters.

“Your heartbeat said otherwise” The memory has blood rushing to your cheeks again. He pauses, waiting for your retort, and when none comes he continues. “Or maybe that’s just because you like me.”

Your chest seizes in shock. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, unable to come up with anything to defend yourself. Damn his Witcher senses. He hides his grin behind another sip of ale and you can’t meet his eyes anymore, your gaze drilling a hole into the wooden table. The tavern around you is loud and lively and Jaskier is still leading the crowd in some other drunkard’s song but all you can hear is your heart thumping in your ears.

Between Geralt’s piercing gaze and the small table, there is nowhere for you to run and you quickly calculate the fastest escape you can make to save yourself from any further mortification. With clumsy hands, you raise your glass and down what remains, clearing your throat at the burn. “I think I’ll retire for the night,” you say, your voice uncharacteristically meek. Although there is just the one room, you figure you can fall asleep, or at least pretend to be asleep, by the time Geralt is done drinking, and Jaskier will no doubt find himself in someone else’s bed for the night. If you’re lucky, maybe Geralt will make his way to a brothel and save you from the embarrassment of being around him.

Just as you get up and scrape your chair back, his voice cuts through your thoughts. “I think I will, too.”

There is no way out, you conclude. You’re fated to die of embarrassment tonight. As you make your way through the tavern towards the stairs, you spare a desperate glance towards Jaskier, but his eyes are glazed over in drunkenness and he is draped over the lap of a beautiful maiden: he will be of no help.

The hallway of the upper level of the inn creaks with each step you take. Geralt follows closely behind you as you carefully walk to the end of the hall where your room is. He is so close that you can feel the warmth emanating from his body, even through the clothes he wears. If you were to stop walking, he’d surely bump into you.

When you stop at your door and fumble with the latch, his chest is mere inches from your back. The proximity has every one of your nerves on edge. The bolt creaks against the wood as it slides out from the door frame. Before you can push the door to open it, Geralt’s arm comes up beside your head and does it for you, caging you between himself and the door.

Your mind clouds with lust at the simple action and you push forward into the room to give yourself some distance to clear your head. He enters behind you and you turn to close the door and bolt it when you find his chest at your back yet again. He places his hand over yours and you freeze. You’re sure the pounding of your heart is loud enough for him to pick up with his Witcher senses. When you fail to move, he gently pushes your fingers to help you bolt the door.

You pull your hand out from underneath his and spin around, your intention to duck away from him. But you find yourself trapped between Geralt’s body and the door at your back, his arms on either side of you to keep you in place. You can’t bring your eyes to his face, instead dropping your gaze to your hands which you clutch together in front of you. The question of what he’s doing flits through your mind, though you settle on the answer that he’s figured out you like him and he’s now enjoying teasing you and watching you squirm.

“Look at me,” he says quietly, though your combative nature is stronger than your embarrassment and you keep your gaze on your own fidgeting fingers as some form of protest.

“Look at me,” he repeats. This time, there’s something in his voice you can’t place. It’s a little gentler than you’re used to, the banter between you has always been abrasive. Regardless, you can’t seem to stop your body from listening as your head tilts up and your eyes find his. The stupid smirk is still on his face and that is enough to solidify the idea that he is making fun of you.

Your ears heat in anger and you huff indignantly, “Fine, I like you. There’s no need to be an ass about it.” There’s an angry line dividing your brow and you don’t cease the wringing of your hands until one of his hands leaves its place on the door to stop the motion.

He leans down, until there is but a hair’s breadth between the two of you. You hold your breath. Your eyes drop to his lips, and even as your heart is hammering in your ears, you’re still convinced that he’ll play out this teasing for as long as he can.

And then his lips are on yours.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders and one of his grabs at your waist. And even as you move your mouth against his, your mind is still racing. Just how committed was he to maintaining this ruse? And as much as you were enjoying this, at what point should you push him away and come back to reality?

Then, his tongue swipes at your lips, begging for entrance, and all thoughts fly out of your mind. He licks into your mouth and you are entirely consumed by how solid he is under your hands. His frame envelops you and you are pressed between his chest and the door. His lips leave yours to venture down the side of your neck and a whine involuntarily escapes your throat. You feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin at the sound and you fight through the pleasure that clouds your brain to push him away. He looks at you questioningly as you take a moment to catch your breath.

“All right, I think that’s quite enough of teasing me. Wasn’t it enough for you to let me die of embarrassment, you had to take it this far?” you ask him, jabbing a finger at his chest accusingly. His face morphs from confusion to amusement to incredulity in the span of a second.

“You’re as thick as a brick, woman.”

Your indignation is halfway out of your mouth before he slams his lips against yours once again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if you had missed something, but then his nimble fingers are at the ties at the front of your blouse and you can’t hold on to a single thought as the garment is loosened and his rough palm is splayed against the bare skin of your chest.

He grabs at your flesh and drags a coarse thumb over your nipple, drawing air from your chest in a gasp. That sound is enough encouragement for him to repeat the action and pinch the nub until it’s hardened. He gives the same treatment to your other breast before seemingly growing impatient. He pulls away to tug your blouse off completely and lets it fall to the ground. His gaze lingers on your heaving chest for a moment before traveling up to meet your eyes.

The yellow of his irises is nearly swallowed by his pupils in a darkened look you have never seen on him before. With a jolt, you register for the first time that your feelings may not be one sided. He holds your gaze while you allow yourself to process that thought. When you bring yourself back to reality, your brow is set in a determination Geralt only sees when you’ve got a steel sword in your hand and the taste of a fight on your tongue.

With renewed fervor, you surge toward him, a hand grabbing at the nape of his neck and crashing your lips against his. The kiss is desperate and bruising. He nips at your bottom lip as you claw at the material of his shirt, breaking away for a moment to tug the piece of clothing over his head. He spins you around, walking you back until the backs of your knees knock against the rickety frame of the tavern bed.

His teeth bite at your pulse point, eliciting a whimper from you. One hand makes quick work of the laces of your breeches and when the material pools at your ankles along with your undergarments, he presses against you until you fall onto the bed. You raise yourself onto your elbows and watch as he undoes his own breeches and takes them off. As he crawls on top of you, you’re caught between the embarrassment of holding his gaze and his arms that cage you in.

Geralt’s golden eyes scan your face, enjoying the way your wild eyes glance around and breath passes through your kiss bitten lips. He drops his head into the crook of your neck, pressing his lips against the dips of your collarbone. One hand trails your side in a feather light touch and comes to rest at the top of your thigh. A sharp nip at your skin has your chest arching up towards his, but his hand on your leg holds you down and he eases the reddening spot with a swipe of his tongue.

The hand lingering at your hip ghosts towards your center and he presses his thumb at your bundle of nerves. You suck in a sudden breath and you can feel his lips form a smile on your skin yet again, though the haze of pleasure is too thick for you to come up with a witty remark to wipe the smirk of his face. Two fingers at your entrance gather the wetness there and your body tenses in anticipation.

He suddenly raises his head to look you in the eyes. With a start, you realize he’s asking for permission. And when you nod yes to him, two fingers slip past your folds. His eyes shut in appreciation and he groans at the sensation of your warmth around his fingers. The sound comes from his chest and has wetness pooling at your core. He moves his digits in and out slowly, scissoring them gently. Each of your whimpers has a grunt falling from his lips, like he draws his pleasure from yours. His thumb presses circles at your clit, slowly increasing pace as your pleasure builds, spreading from your core to every inch of your body. He slips a third finger inside you and your hands find purchase in his white hair, tugging at the strands.

Your chest arches up, toes curling and thighs tensing, head falling back as you near closer and closer to the edge. And then his hand is gone. You groan at the loss of the sensation, having been so close to coming. A thin sheen of sweat coats your skin and when you open your eyes again, Geralt’s face is twisted into that cocky smirk that you are quickly coming to despise.

“I was so close,” you glare at him indignantly, though the quick rise and fall of your chest and the wetness between your legs gives you little leverage against him. He controls your pleasure and by the grin he sports, he is well aware of this fact, but he presses a gentle kiss to your lips in apology.

He leans back to stroke himself twice before he’s positioning himself at your entrance. This time, he asks you aloud, “Can I?”

You nod quickly, but he’s intent on teasing you at least a little longer.

“I need to hear you say it.” There’s mirth on his face but it’s overwhelmed by lust. He can’t hold back much longer.

Your response is breathless. “Yes.”

He enters you slowly, groaning with the feeling until he bottoms out. He pauses to let you adjust. Your eyes are screwed shut as you struggle to get used to his girth. When the sensation subsides you nod that you’re ready and he begins rocking into you.

His pace is steady and you meet each thrust with a raise of your hips. The pleasure slowly builds again and you feel warmth creep into every extremity of your body. His hands grab at your thighs and push them up until you lock your ankles behind his back, allowing him to hit a new spot inside you that has you babbling praises and curses alike.

His hips move faster, slamming against yours with each movement. The bed creaks rhythmically, though you barely register the sound amongst that of Geralt’s skin slapping yours and the guttural noises that fall from his throat. As you near the edge yet again, he snakes and hand between your bodies to flick tight circles against your clit, eliciting his name from your lips. 

“Geralt Geralt Geralt…" you mumble like a mantra, unable to form any other phrase as the coil in your gut twists tighter and tighter

And even in the throes of pleasure you recognize the glint in his eyes that tells you he’s about to say something to rile you up.

It’s a single word, grunted as a command.

“Yield.”

You comply, tumbling over the edge as every nerve in your skin is set alight. White flashes behind your eyes and a long drawn out whine escapes from your throat. Your thighs tremble around him as he moves through your release, chasing his own high. With a few quick thrusts, he spills inside you, your name falling from his lips in a gasp, spoken like a prayer.

He collapses above you, your chests heaving in harmony as the buzz lingers in the air around you. You feel his lips at your neck again, pressing a few breathless kisses, before he rolls over onto his back. His hair is a mess from the agitation of your hands and sweat lingers on his skin.

For a beat, the nerves return and you wonder if you should say something, or perhaps get dressed and make yourself scarce, but Geralt wordlessly tugs you to him until your head rests on his chest and pulls a thin sheet over your bodies.

“Sleep,” he says, and for once, you’re content to listen to him, falling into a slumber almost immediately.

You awaken to sunlight filtering in through the dingy window of the room. You lay in the same position you had fallen asleep in, save for the thin sheet now pooled at your waist. In the morning light, the memory of your actions brings heat to your face . You hastily decide that detangling yourself from the Witcher, getting dressed, and disappearing until it is time to leave is the best way for you to avoid the embarrassment of confronting your lingering feelings.

You’re sitting at the edge of the modest bed, tugging your breeches up your legs and overthinking how to avoid talking to Geralt, when his sleep laden voice promptly cuts through your frantic thoughts.

“Where are you going?”

You nearly jump from fright, but calm your heart enough to remain indignant. You twist towards him to find the man propped up on one elbow on his side, shamelessly observing your form. The sheet across his waist leaves little to the imagination and despite the previous night’s activities, the image still has you flustered.

You turn forward again to continue dressing and mutter, “Nowhere.”

“Turn around,” you follow, “I would like some privacy, please.” The ire in your voice is apparent and you focus on the feeling. At least while you directed your energy towards anger, you could avoid thinking about everything else.

“Why?” he retorts. “It’s not like I didn’t see it all last night.”

Your hands pause at the laces of your breeches as you process how difficult he is making it to avoid discussing what happened. “It was... dark,” you respond lamely.

“Did you forget I’m a Witcher?” There’s an amused lilt to his tone and sure enough when you turn around again his lips are raised on one side. You scowl at the expression and his grin only grows wider at your irritation.

Before you can decide between smacking the smirk off his face and begging him to leave you alone, he raises himself to sit and leans forward, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. His palm tenderly cups your cheek and you feel his thumb stroke the ridge of your cheekbone. When he pulls away, all traces of anger have left your face.

He rises off the bed to get dressed and the wood creaks with the loss of the weight. The kiss, though sweet and short, leaves you inexplicably giddy and you fumble with your blouse thrice before fastening it properly.

Geralt sits back down beside you on the bed to lace up his boots as you do your own. When you finish, he stands and offers you a hand, looking at you expectantly with golden eyes. The voice in your head screams through frantic thoughts to run away from that hand as fast as you can, but you ignore it. You clasp his work worn hand with your own and he pulls you up off the bed. He lets go momentarily, strapping his swords to his back and grabbing his belongings while you do the same with your rucksack. At the door to your room, he takes your hand and tugs you out into the hallway while your mind is still catching up to the feeling of your fingers interlocked with his.

You find Jaskier in the lower level of the inn, looking miserably hungover in front of a plate of eggs. He doesn’t register your presence until the two of you are standing right in front of him. The bard nods solemnly and rises from the table to leave, anything but eager to start the day’s journey. If he notices the hands clasped between yourself and Geralt, he says nothing. Though you suspect his Witcher song will have a new verse by dusk.

It’s your mistake that you hum the melody to Toss A Coin To Your Witcher that night at your campfire, even if you are bored out of your mind. Jaskier’s colorful new verse, featuring a rather suggestive description of yourself, has you chasing him around the clearing with your sword in hand. Jaskier begs for mercy while Geralt looks on in fond amusement.

--

thank you for reading!

[wherethewordsare]

Jay’s 500 Follower Title Event!

This title was sent in by the amazing and wonderful @dapandapod and as always, betad by the love of my life, @kuripon. Thank you both for all your love and support. 

Bit of CW: The following chapter will include smut. This one is just straight up angst and pining. (sorry not sorry panda). Long post! If you prefer, you can also read it here on AO3

You Could be my Unintended: Part 1 Nothing was ever simple when it came to traveling with Jaskier, Geralt thought as he ducked another sword, bringing up his own in an attempt to disarm their assailant. 

“Couldn’t just leave her be, could you?” he growled and blocked another blow, this one aimed for the bard’s head. 

“I did, Geralt! I swear! She wouldn’t leave me alone!” Jaskier gasped as he moved back, his own dagger in hand. 

The elves moved forward again, backing the two of them closer and closer to the edge of the ridge. One of their own lay behind them, not dead, but Geralt didn’t envy him the headache he would have. The elves snarled at him again and made to push in again. 

“Just give us the bard,” one demanded while the other made another sweeping pass to try to cut at Jaskier. Jaskier danced away from the blade easily enough but lost his footing, nearly crashing into Geralt. 

“Not a fucking chance,” Geralt snarled back, baring his teeth. His stomach roiled with something he wasn’t ready to name but he couldn’t help the way his arm stretched out protectively over Jaskier. They were too close to the edge of the ridge. If they stepped back any further, they would be in fae territory and Jaskier would be lost. The feeling in his gut only grew heavier. 

Jaskier was saying something behind him but Geralt couldn’t quite make it out before the smaller of the two elves lunged forward, spearing Geralt full bodied back into the bard and back through the barrier. His medallion hummed when they passed through, making his skin tingle. There was an oof and the clattering of Jaskier’s dagger tumbling away from him as he attempted to catch the full weight of an armored witcher. 

In the scuffle, the elf was kicked away and Geralt rolled off of Jaskier, pushing him back down when he tried to follow. He stood over Jaskier, blade drawn and blood pounding through his body. 

“You want my bard, you fucking come and try to take him,” he barked. Everything on this side of the barrier was too bright, too loud, too lush. He tried to focus on the elves following them through the barrier but he couldn’t help but feel there was something else in the wood with them. 

Geralt’s chest felt tight as he panted. He had said his bard. His. What was he thinking? Jaskier had never been anyone’s, certainly not his. Never would be. 

“So you claim this bard for yourself?” said a soft crooning voice from behind him. 

Geralt whirled around, crouching down as if ready to spring. Behind him stood a fair elven woman, her hair framing her delicate features, a look of absolute tranquility over her features. 

“You can’t have him.” The feeling in Geralt’s stomach swelled and suddenly he was overwhelmed with a sense of desperation. I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not to you. 

Something in the elf woman’s face shifted and she raised a fine eyebrow at him. “I see,” she said simply. It crossed his mind for all of a moment that she could see straight into his thoughts. He tried to close off his mind but he couldn’t concentrate long enough. 

“Witcher, don’t,” Jaskier said softly, careful not to use his name. His hand had come up at some point to rest on Geralt’s calf from where he was still prone on the ground. His face was open and soft even with a weeping cut above his eye and dirt on his clothes. 

It was then that Geralt had realized that his medallion hadn’t stopped humming after they had passed through into the fae lands. He was under the effect of some kind of magic. That had to be it. That had to be why every mark on Jaskier’s skin, every drop of blood that ran down into the hollow of his throat made Geralt want to set the whole place ablaze. 

“Well?” the woman asked again. Everything around them seemed to go perfectly still. Even the birds stopped their fluttering and the insects had gone quiet. 

“I claim the bard as mine,” Geralt said flatly. He didn’t lower his sword or move away from Jaskier. 

She smiled at him and his medallion nearly shook his ribcage apart as some kind of raw magic wrapped around them both. Everything was bright and warm for a moment and then everything had gone dark. 

~

Geralt woke up with a pounding in his head. There was something warm and heavy laying against his side. Whatever it was, it smelled like home and safety and… 

Jaskier.

His eyes flew open and there in his arms, Jaskier was sleeping with most of himself tucked against Geralt while his one arm stuck out along the bedroll. It was completely bare. 

Fondness and panic warred inside him as he quickly but carefully unwrapped himself from Jaskier, having to untangle his legs. It wasn’t the first time he had slept next to him, but never had it been so… intimate.

He looked around for the elves that had been chasing them, for their packs, for anything that would explain what had happened to them and why he had woken up with a sleeping bard in his bedroll. 

“So you claim this bard for yourself?” The words echoed in his ears. There was a pounding ache behind his eyes as he tried to remember what had happened after that, but the only thing he could remember was the feeling of being happy.

He finally spotted Roach and their packs just beyond the line of trees that cinched in the clearing. He was going to grab their things and wake up Jaskier and they were going to get as far away from there as possible. 

Geralt looked back down at Jaskier and froze. When he had gotten out from the bedroll, the furs had fallen back, revealing Jaskier’s other hand. There, in bold dark lines were markings, like tattoos. Thick bands barely a hairsbreadth apart wrapped around his wrist. It reminded Geralt of the way his blade was beveled. The bands weren’t what made him freeze though. Around Jaskier’s ring finger was a wolf, small and sprinting, it’s head just below Jaskier’s knuckle. For something so small and fine, it was impeccably detailed. 

“I claim the bard…” Geralt looked down at his own hand, his eyes widening as his heart leapt into his throat “...as mine.”

Oh. Oh no. This couldn’t happen. Not to him and certainly not to Jaskier. Geralt thought he should leave. Run far and fast, try to outrun the thin bands, six of them that he did not have to be told were lute strings, and the buttercup that wrapped his ring finger in fine black lines. The fae had done something, some kind of trick that would tie the bard’s fate to his for the rest of his days. 

Fuck. He realized that it wasn’t just a matter of tying their fates together, but their lives. Geralt looked back over again at the marks around Jaskier’s arm, his finger. They were marriage bands. He had claimed Jaskier as his and they twisted his words in a way that neither of them could easily escape. 

Geralt knew that it had been his doing. The fae had looked into his head and knew that the magic needed that anchor. 

“Mm, Geralt?” 

He had still been looking at his own markings, the ones that made him Jaskier’s, when the voice snapped him out of his spiraling. 

“What happened? Did we win?” He sat up and groaned, bringing his hand up to cup his head. 

Geralt watched in horror as Jaskier froze, his eyes catching on the fresh marks on his arms. Jaskier turned his hand over and back again, his fingers spread as his eyes widened. Something like fear scented the air in a sharp spike. Any small hope Geralt had that Jaskier possibly, maybe would, if given the choice, not completely recoil at the idea fled in that moment. 

“You know what those are?” he asked, letting his own hand drop. Jaskier looked up at him with wide eyes and nodded. “We’ll find someone to remove them.” And then you’ll leave me, Geralt thought bitterly. 

Suddenly he remembered Jaskier on the ground, clutching at his calf as if to hold him back. He had told Geralt not to do it. He had known what was coming and he tried to stop it. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier looked away before Geralt could make out whatever emotion was flickering across his face. “I shouldn’t have talked to her. And now…” He lifted his marked arm as if in defeat. 

Geralt clenched his hand and turned away, marching back to Roach and their gear. He had to get them moving. He couldn’t just sit and watch Jaskier come to the realization of just what kind of monster he was now bound to. It was one thing to follow him around and sing songs and come and go as he pleased, but Geralt was willing to bet that Jaskier thought it something completely different to wake up and find himself practically married to one. 

Behind him, Jaskier slid from the bedroll and packed it before following. When he handed it to Geralt, his eyes locked onto Geralt’s wrist, his eyes going wide. For a moment, he thought it might have been wonder in his gaze but maybe that was just him punishing himself with a hopeless dream. 

He pulled away when Jaskier’s hand came up as if to trace the thin lines that now encompassed Geralt’s wrist. It was one thing to look down at his arm and know that even without the marks, even without the flower or the strings, they seemed to suit him perfectly despite their delicacy. But to have Jaskier see them, let alone touch them felt suddenly like too much, too intimate. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier stepped back, looking anywhere but at Geralt. That smell like fear trailed behind him, sour and unfamiliar. Jaskier had never been afraid before. 

They walked for what felt like ages almost in near silence. Geralt didn’t ride Roach, instead leading her by her reins on one side while Jaskier walked along her other.  Every now and then, he would catch sight of Jaskier’s hand swinging by his side, the silhouette of a wolf easily seen even at a glance. There wasn’t any chance Jaskier would want others to see it. They would see a bard with a wolf tattoo and they would know. And they would all think the same thing. 

That the bard belonged to Geralt, even if that would never be true. 

When they reached town, Geralt dug through his pack before he gave Roach over to be stabled for the evening. He turned to Jaskier and handed him gloves. He had hoped they would be subtle enough that it wouldn’t affect his playing but he wasn’t too hopeful. He was already planning on picking up extra contracts to make up for the loss of coin. It was the least he could do. 

He left Jaskier behind to get them rooms at the inn while he searched for a mage. There had to be a mage that would know how to take off the bands. His memory wasn’t what it had once been, too full of a lifetime and a half of monster hunting and loss to remember every little facet of lore. What he could remember, though, was that there was something about a potion that would take away the marks. The how of it was a bit fuzzier. The words “let the heart forget” stood out in his mind and he flinched. Maybe if the mage made him forget Jaskier, the bands would fade. Of course Jaskier would get to remember everything in perfect detail since it wasn’t his heart that had gotten them into this mess. 

The local mage had been no use, babbling on about “Why not try to enjoy the honeymoon before throwing in the towel". Geralt left with blood on his knuckles that hadn’t been his. The alderman had been far more helpful, supplying Geralt with a contract and a down payment. Forktails were dangerous on their own, but forktails that were mated and trying to nest just above where the farmers pastured their sheep were nearly impossible. 

The tavern door was ajar, a man standing just inside the frame behind several others. There was a bottle-neck of people blocking his way and he could hear why before he even reached the step. Jaskier’s voice rang through the air, a pounding tune thumped by at least a hundred feet within. 

Without thinking, Geralt rubbed at the marks around his wrist, smiling to himself. Even with the gloves, Jaskier managed to entice nearly the entire town into one building. He shouldn’t have been surprised, not really. 

The tone shifted suddenly and the stomping stopped with it as Jaskier’s voice, clear and high and sweet, crooned something new. It wasn’t something Geralt was familiar with but he could hear others inside picking up along with some of the lyrics before being hushed by fellow patrons. 

Geralt’s chest ached with it when he had no business hurting. There was something about a love held dearly, even at arms length. Jaskier wove a tale of loyalty and bravery about someone who would never know the singer existed, and certainly couldn’t love them back. Geralt wondered, his stomach souring, who could have grabbed the bard’s attention so thoroughly; yet Jaskier had never mentioned. Or maybe he had and Geralt hadn’t listened. 

He pressed in by the window and managed to catch a glance of Jaskier sitting on the bar, his face soft and wistful, between the shoulders of the tavern's patrons. There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire room. Geralt’s eyes moved down, his heart nearly stopping when he caught sight of his hands. They were bare, and the sleeve of the marked arm was pulled up slightly, as though he were purposely displaying them. He had to remind himself to not hope, not think too much about it. Of course Jaskier wouldn’t wear the gloves. They wouldn’t let him play. Of course his sleeves were rolled up a bit, it had to be stifling in there.

He rubbed again at his own markings and, for a moment, let himself believe that maybe he was the one in the song, the one that watched someone be loyal and brave but who would flit away from bed to bed at any moment. 

Geralt turned and made his way back to the stabes. He would just keep Roach company until he thought the coast was clear enough to make it up to his room without notice. 

Geralt didn’t remember falling asleep, and he certainly didn’t remember hearing Jaskier coming into the stall at some point. He had woken with a start at the gentle nudge to his shoulder. It was the fact that Jaskier’s voice and scent were familiar that kept him from drawing his sword. 

“There you are,” Jaskier said softly, tugging at Geralt’s cloak. “You missed quite a performance.” He reached somewhere beside him and the sound of a heavy coin purse jangled back. 

“You didn’t wear the gloves,” Geralt mumbled. Maybe he had needed more of a rest before running back out into a hunt. He felt sluggish and his shoulder ached from where he had been leaning against the wall. 

“I… no. I didn’t, I’m sorry.” Jaskier pulled away then and crossed his arms over his chest. There was that smell again, the one that Geralt thought might have been fear but now, as it cut through the bright warmth of a good performance, he could taste before the mood had suddenly soured between them. “I’ll wear them until you find a mage, then.” 

Geralt watched with a distant curiosity as Jaskier ran his fingers idly over the bands on his arm. He seemed to have caught himself doing it as well and tugged his sleeves down so Geralt couldn’t see them anymore. His own fist clenched by his side. He knew he wasn’t allowed to reach out, to touch those marks that had made Jaskier his, even if only for a short while. 

Jaskier cleared his throat, and took a step back, not looking up to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Ah, right. Anyway, they only had one room and the bed is yours if you want it. You’re the one who had to go trekking through the muck.” Jaskier smiled at him but it wasn’t nearly as bright as it usually was. 

Geralt wondered if being bound like this to one another was such a burden to Jaskier that even his smile was weighed down by it. A tightness gripped at his heart so hard he could have gasped with it. 

“I’ll be fine here,” he said finally when the silence had drawn on for far too long. “Good night, Jask.” Geralt made a point to settle himself down further into the straw of the stable, also refusing to look up. 

“Right then. Good night, Geralt.” Jaskier turned on his heel and stalked away, his arms still wrapped tightly around him. Behind him, that sour smell still trailed now cut with something like salt. It was not a usual smell for Jaskier and it only gripped Geralt’s chest harder.

[imnotwolverine]

The Wolves Return - Part 2

< Part 1  | Part 3 >

Summary: Evil is meddling in the woods and bad news hangs in the air.    

Word count: 2649 (9,5 min. reading) 

Disclaimer: 16+ - Thrilling, monster hunting and gore, minor injuries and a smidge of Geralt being a soft!dad 

--

And then the White Wolf came. Fighting till his knees gave out and weakened did he bleat; Shit, Fuck, Almighty! Is death worth this good deed?

--

It was a terrible idea to go out of Kaer Morhen’s gates in this weather, with his leg feeling like a lug. But Geralt was a man of principle. And evil was evil. Greater, lesser, meddling. It stopped him from having a quiet night in, and he wasn’t having it. 

Stepping out of the gate that crashed back in its lock, Geralt squinted into the flurry of snow. The footsteps he had seen here had faded as the stormy weather raged on. 

Removing the long silver steel from its scabbard, he let his golden eyes roam over the dangerous pines. Instinctively his free hand shot out to his medallion. The magical pendant was still warm from the firepit inside and it thrummed restlessly into his palm, indicating that a source of magic was near.  

‘Come out then.’ He demanded. But nothing came. A new flurry of snow came in instead and it was almost hard to believe that hours earlier the world had been green and somewhat peaceful. 

Unfortunately for Geralt it wasn’t just snow that had arrived. A heavy gust made him stagger. It was like someone had tried to push him over, the strength so odd that perhaps he had already found his magical perpetrator. 

Raising his sword, his free hand casted Yrden. The spell lit purplish blue fires in a circle around him, illuminating the radiant storm. That storm seemed to calm somewhat within the boundaries of his spell. It confirmed his assumptions that something strange was afoot, and yet he couldn’t place whom or what it was. Was it the woman? If so, were there more? Was this an ambush? 

What a way to die that would be. 

Looking left and right he sniffed the air. That same mixture of fresh pine sap and blood hung in the air. 

A scream. 

In a rush of whirling wind that crushed a tree branch up ahead, the woman came hurling at Geralt. Her skirts were ripped and somewhere in the past minutes she had lost her cape. 

Geralt steadied his breath, ready to strike. But as the woman came near he noticed that the winds around her were off. They were irregular, like a wall of mists chasing her down. 

‘RUN!’ She belted, eyes wide. 

Geralt did not run. He only raised his sword a little higher, head twitching to the side to take that ever important decision; attack or defend. 

The woman was a few footsteps away as he made his call. With a twirl he slashed down, hacking straight through succulent flesh. 

The woman froze, gulping as a frosted grey creature fell apart by her feet. 

‘Ah!’ 

‘QUIET.’ Geralt growled, eyes focused. The Yrden flames now cast a purplish hue over his pale features. Keeping his sword in one hand, his other was held out, ready to cast another spell if needed. 

The woman nodded. With her arms grasping around some undefined wooden object in her arms she looked around skittishly. The wall of magical winds was now encircling them, causing the temperature to drop even further. Icy breaths broke from their mouths and the pinetrees above their heads went berzerkers. Whipping wildly to and fro it felt like they would soon pick up their root systems and fly off. 

‘We’re gonna die.’ The woman cried. 

‘The fuck we aren’t.’ 

The woman stepped back to get her back closer to the Witcher. Geralt snarled. 

‘Don’t make this any harder woman.’ 

She let out a little breath but kept her complaints to herself. ‘Ha..typical this is.’ She whispered. 

The winds were now inching closer, investigating the curious sign that was losing its force. Without hesitation Geralt called upon it again. The purple blue flames rose higher and as they did another creature was caught in their wake. A demon-esque, mangled face without eyes or nose reached out its claws, howling. 

‘Foglet.’ Geralt growled, shoving the woman aside to make a clear path for his sword. With a fine sweep he mowed down the creature, slashing straight through its narrow body. 

What Geralt didn’t notice was the launch of two more creatures that came from behind. And unlike their fellow packmember, they weren’t quite so distressed by the magical barrier that Yrden cast. Howling in pain they lunged forward, taking both the woman and Geralt by surprise. 

Yrden’s light flickered as the woman was thrown to the ground, taking Geralt with her. Though the ghostly lights did not harm them, they did feel the cold return as they tumbled over the circle’s border. In moments another wave of slim limbs materialized, turning the blue-hued night into a true nightmare. 

Geralt struggled to get the monsters away from them. Claws raked through supple skin and in moments the fresh white snow beneath them started to fleck with drops of blood. And not just his. The woman screamed bloody murder as one of the grey creatures found purchase on her neck. 

Not that Geralt could care. 

Swinging his sword in wild abandon he pushed away the aggressors that were toppling over him. The white world became a blood soaked nightmare. Greyish limbs went flying and though cold on his skin, Geralt felt warm blood thrum in his ears as the thrill of the fight returned. Practised stances echoed through his limbs as he cut through the foggy air. Though he did have to admit that even the adrenaline couldn’t qualm the ache in his leg. With a protective stance he kept the weight on his good leg, hoping the creatures weren’t smart enough to topple him over again. 

A new windy cloud of snow came his way and he started hacking. 

It was enough occupation to move his attention away from the dying light of Yrden. A few flickers of blue lit the trees and swirling snow before all went terribly dark. 

The woman cried out again, though this time there didn’t seem to be terror within her. A snarl came from her vicinity, closely followed by a few damp thuds. 

Bones cracked. Monsters howled. And as the foglets fell dead by Geralt’s feet, so did the howls behind him. 

The woman panted. ‘So far for a warm welcome.’ 

Geralt turned, feeling the ache in his leg worsen by the second. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to make it back to his chair without making a complete fool of himself. In the dark stood the woman, the object that she had kept in her arms now falling apart in misery. A lute, that’s what it must have been. The strings curled broken around her bloodied hands. Her eyes were bewildered as she looked around in what must be pitchblack darkness for her. 

‘Hello?’ She stopped panting to swallow deeply. 

She couldn’t see him. 

Geralt felt his lip curl up, though he wasn’t sure whether he was smiling or grimacing. The thrill of the fight was slowly seeping away with the blood that was gushing from his shallow wounds. He had to take care of that soon. 

‘We don’t have visitors here.’ He finally said, allerting the woman. She held her breath and held her broken lute a little higher. The poor instrument was beyond repair. 

‘I’ve learned otherwise good Sir.’ She shuffled nervously, still not able to see him. 

Around them the storm had returned to a quiet snowfall. No stars were to be seen and little flecks of snow were starting to stack back onto the tree branches. In a few hours the paths to Kaer Morhen would become near impossible to cross by normal footfolk. And that was all fair and game, until you have a visitor at the wrong side of the tracks. 

Geralt sighed. ‘Visitor or not. Claim your business here.’ 

The woman huffed. ‘You’re my business.’ 

‘I am your business?’ 

‘The Butcher of Blaviken? The White Wolf of Rivia?! The--’ 

Geralt started walking off. Or better said: limping off. His leg was smarting so terribly that he already felt his head whirl after just a few steps. That, or it was the blood loss in combination with the biting cold. 

‘Hey!’ The woman heard his dragging feet and followed.

Every few steps Geralt could hear her slip and slide, but she was not one so easily dissuaded. 

‘I don’t do visitors.’ He growled, clenching his teeth. His vision was starting to swim as he laid eyes on the gates up ahead. 

‘Well then count me as an old-new friend.’ 

Geralt halted, but as he wished to tell the woman off he could feel the world starting to blur. The sharp jolts of pain from his leg were starting to numb -- bad sign. 

‘I don’t even know y--’ 

--

[In perhaps a dream] 

‘Now you take good care of him, okay?’ Ciri whispered to Roach. The horse wiggled her ears as they both kept a mischievous eye on Geralt. The spring sun was streaming warm light over Kaer Morhen’s courtyard as all inhabitants stood around to wish the young woman farewell. 

Meanwhile Geralt kept a small smile on his lips. He wasn’t really feeling happy, but he had to quell the less desirable feelings that were bubbling up inside him. Ciri was leaving. She was a grown woman now. This was a good thing. This was supposed to happen, right? 

He eyed Vesemir who seemed far more relaxed. Arms folded and hip leaning into the stair balustrade, he winked at Geralt. 

‘Hmmpf.’ Geralt huffed through smiling lips.

‘Now, now. You start sounding like me there, young man.’ Vesemir grinned. 

‘It’s not the same.’ 

‘Oh I think it is.’ Vesemir raised up as Ciri skirted up the stairs to jump-hug him. He chuckled merrily as he patted the back of her shoulder. 

‘Uncle Vesemir.’ Ciri swallowed, smiling and fighting back tears. 

‘Goodbye Cirilla. Return to us soon.’ 

‘I will.’ She turned and readied herself for the poorly kept tempest that was Geralt. 

Geralt awkwardly tried to keep his lips in a smile, but looked far more malicious and mad than happy. 

‘Geralt.’ Ciri mumbled, stepping in to press her head under his chin. Like old times their arms folded around one another, their noses turned to take in each other's scents. 

‘Cir-.’ Geralt’s voice cracked and he chose silence instead. Unsure where to look he looked at the blurry cascade of mousy blond hair that Ciri had started growing out the past year. She kept it braided most of the time and it would always snag with small twigs and branches as they roamed around the grounds and forests of Kaer Morhen. 

Her time of training was over. It was time for her to set out on The Trail and carry on the knowledge and skills he had taught her. It felt odd after all these years together. 

‘Hang in there old man.’ Ciri whispered, hugging him a little tighter. The sun burned hot on their skin and Geralt wondered if he was feeling her sweat or her tears. Either which it was, he held on tight just a moment longer. 

‘And tell Jaskier he cannot, I repeat CANNOT use my flute. Don’t want his spit all over.’ 

Geralt huffed. ‘Of all the things..’ 

‘What?’ Ciri leaned back and quickly dried a tear on her cheek. 

Geralt smiled. This time a real smile. Squeezing her back into his embrace once more he pressed a kiss on top of her head. ‘Come back whenever.’ 

--

A melody. Too happy for the way Geralt was feeling. Squinting hard against the ray of light that fell exactly on his face, he woke up from a fitful dream. The melody hadn’t been part of the dream though. As he looked around he found himself laying on a wooden bench with some animal skins propped up under his head. 

The music continued to flow through the large hall where the first light had arrived some hours ago. The air was fresh with the snow from outside -- the door had been opened recently. And there was a fire. Well-kept, warm, smelling of just a tinge of lacquer. 

A figure sat there, wrapped in a worn blanket, naked feet dangling from the bench. The woman. It all came back to Geralt as he pushed himself up with a grunt. His leg was feeling terrible, but his wounds were bound. His shirt had been removed, he noted, and replaced by a simple blanket. His arms and shoulders were wrapped in blood speckled bandages and he could smell the heady aroma of some herbs peaking through. 

‘Fuck.’ He groaned, sitting up completely. 

The music stopped and the woman looked over her shoulder. 

‘Look who’s alive.’ She said, getting up. 

Geralt’s eyes shot daggers at her. ‘You could’ve killed us.’ 

It was the first time since he saw her well and true. She had dirty blonde locks, which fell away from a messy braid. And her eyes were a striking cornflower blue. Her clothes, once quite expensive, were torn to pieces. Her face. Hmm her face. He was sure he didn’t know the woman and yet she tingled a familiar sense in him. 

Grunting Geralt got up from the bench. His body was aching like he had been pummeled in a fistfight with Eskel, and he couldn’t wait to dip into his stash of potions. Potions.. With a weary eye on the strange woman he moved his attention to the cellar door in the far back. It was open. 

The woman squeaked in delight. ‘Quite a collection you have here! Are there others? There are other Witchers right? My father always --’

‘WOMAN.’ 

The woman quieted, biting her lip. ‘Actually my name is --’

Geralt stepped forward with all the power he could muster, willing the strange woman to be gone as soon as possible. He could lock her up somewhere. He could throw her out. He could.. He clenched his jaw as he realised how rapid his heart was beating in his chest. Little beads of sweat were falling down his brow and before he could utter another retort at the woman he felt the clammy cold of unconsciousness crawl back over him. 

‘Geralt..?’ 

Her voice swam like a breeze through his mind. 

--

‘I’m going to be a father.’ Jaskier sighed, staring out at the dipping sun. The sausages they had roasted on the campfire were almost all eaten by him. 

Geralt sighed. ‘You don’t know the trouble you’re getting yourself into Jaskier.’ 

Jaskier smiled dreamily. ‘And yet we wouldn’t have it any other way.’ 

--

Part 3 > 

--

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[samstree]

For the reverse trope ask: the soft character comforting the tough character after a trauma

Piece Him Back Together

Part of the reverse trope series.

When Geralt gets kidnapped, it's up to Jaskier to rescue him. Some truths about a witcher's worst weakness come to light.

(geraskier, 2.1k, hurt/comfort, geralt whump, mutual pining, competent jaskier, love confession, mild blood)

read on AO3

"Shit, shit, shit..."

Jaskier lets out a string of curses all the while balancing the weight of two fully grown men with stumbling footwork. He desperately tries to keep Geralt up with a hand on the small of his back but fails to stop the injured witcher from drooping with each step, until, at last, both of them wind up in a heap of limbs by the road.

Geralt lets out a pained grunt and Jaskier scrambles with apologies.

“Fuck, sorry.” The bard shifts Geralt’s bulk with all he can muster and finally settles him on a patch of soft moss under the tree. The witcher hisses as his back hits the bark rather heavily. “Shit, I’m so sorr—”

“You already said,” Geralt interrupts him but there’s no anger in his tone.

“Still. I am.”

Jaskier retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to dab at the mess of blood at Geralt’s temple, wincing when he finally sees how bad the blow is. Blood oozes from the gash, slower than a moment before. The fabric is soaked through and the skin there is still tender.

It’s all witchers’ weakness.

The temple. A blow to the head.

It messes up all their senses and coordination, leaving them in the most vulnerable state. If Jaskier had reached him any later, this might have done Geralt in.

Jaskier lets out a distressed sound at the thought.

“Stop fussing. We need to go.” The witcher, against all odds, remains level-headed.

“No, it’s all right. I knocked out all the guards and servants, along with the duke and his mage.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head for a better angle to press the handkerchief down on the wound. “I may have given the two of them a little more than the recommended dose. The lady at the apothecary warned me about the risk of choking with much sleeping potion, urgh, like I give an ounce of fuck if they die a gruesome death or not. It’d be a favor to the town.”

The venom surprises even Jaskier himself, and Geralt lets out a meaningful hum.

“Rest assured, my dear. No one will be looking for us today.”

Up close, Jaskier can feel Geralt scrutinize him intently as if to burn a hole into his face. He meets the amber gaze, the dark pupils still a little blown wide from the shock, but there’s also something akin to relief flowing in those beautiful eyes.

He revels in the silence, observing Geralt in return for further signs of hurt, but finds none.

The witcher relents first, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So you drugged an entire castle?”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Jaskier teases. “The White Wolf, saved by a humble bard and forever impressed by his wit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up, oh mighty witcher. I’m sure you only needed the rescue because those villains took advantage of your only weakness.” The bard adds his usual dramatic flair into the last two words.

Geralt blinks. Something shifts in his expression, his breathing picking up and his eyes darting everywhere. If the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher is flustered, which makes it all the more confusing.

“Mocking me, are you?” Geralt drops his gaze and tries to shy away, but the bard holds him in place with the other hand. Under Jaskier’s palm, the frame of the witcher’s ear is heating up.

“How am I mocking you? Geralt, even you must admit witchers aren’t all-powerful beings.” Jaskier frowns. “They messed up your head. I know all your senses get muddled when you’re like this. Seriously, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What are you talking about?” the witcher snaps his gaze back to Jaskier, a puzzled crease deep between his brows, which only makes the bard scoff with amusement.

“The head wound, of course. How did they get you? An ambush and a blow to the head, I’m assuming.” Jaskier explains. “How else did you get yourself into a dungeon and dimeritium cuffs? What, are you telling me you walk into their trap voluntarily?”

He rolls his eyes at the offhanded joke but the silence from the witcher leaves the mood heavier. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a denial of what he just said. Geralt is staring at him with an inexplicable look on his face, and these looks are hard to come by these days. Jaskier prides himself in being the best on the continent at reading his witcher, and he has no inclination to break the streak.

“What happened then? Talk to me, Geralt.”

Jaskier removes the handkerchief a little. The gash has stopped bleeding, so he ties it around Geralt’s head carefully to keep the wound shielded, at least until they can wash it properly. His hands stay with Geralt afterwards, waiting for him to open up.

“I—” Geralt purses his lips before continuing, golden eyes meeting the bard in earnest. “They didn’t ambush me, Jask. I walked into that castle unarmed by choice.”

“What?” Jaskier’s jaw drops.

“It’s because—” the witcher scowls. “Because I thought…that they had you.”

It’s like a lightning strike, where their skin connects tingling all the way from the tips of Jaskier’s fingers to a warm pool of fuzziness in his stomach. The air is suddenly too hot so Jaskier decides to put more space between them.

“Oh.”

Geralt chases him ever so slightly before settling back with resignation, his eyes still bare and vulnerable, as if he just revealed the darkest secret when it is only the sweetest thing in a horrible, horrible way.

“A whisper of you being held hostage and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember to check the truth. Couldn’t waste another second.” Geralt hovers a hand near the bard’s face before retreating to his side. “You were right that they got me because of my one weakness, Jaskier. Just not the one you assumed.”

The pounding in Jaskier’s chest is jumping out of his throat. He’s sure he will die within the next minute if he doesn’t speak to ease this ache in his heart.

“Oh.”

He ends up saying dumbly.

“It was too late when I noticed the absence of you. Your voice, your heartbeat, your scent. Nothing. You weren’t in that castle or the cells. All I could hear was silence and all I could smell was blood.” Geralt draws a shuddering breath. “I hoped, when they kept me in the dark, that they were lying about ever having you. That you were nowhere near that damn place instead of—”

The witcher swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

“Instead of,” Jaskier adds for him, “they’d already killed me.”

The tension hangs between them. The bard sits back on the heels of his feet and finds himself at a loss for words for the very first time in his life.

Geralt might be the only person who can force Jaskier through so many firsts in his life. His first time writing a hit song, first time smashing into someone’s face with a lute, first time saving a witcher’s life, and perhaps, first time murdering two evil overlords obsessed with collecting witchers for experiments.

Hmm, it’s not like Jaskier regrets any of these.

Geralt reaches out again, tentative and patient like he’s approaching a spooked horse. This time, Jaskier takes pity and meets him halfway, his thumb rubbing small circles at the sword callouses that he adores so much.

“Say something,” Geralt pleads.

Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat and sniffles to ease the congestion in his nose, his vision blurring in desperation.

“It’s the most words you’ve said in one sitting, Geralt. You’ll have to allow me a moment to figure out what you are saying and, most importantly, not saying.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s you, you know? There’s always something you are holding back and that is often the crux of it. I thought I got good at reading between the lines, but this is…overwhelming.”

With the enhanced healing kicking in, Geralt is looking much better by the minute. The blood dries and crusts over and his eyes almost shining in the daylight, or is it just the emotions within them? Jaskier can’t tell.

“Maybe I can help you. With the hidden words.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s fingers reassuringly. He tilts his head in the most endearing way. It happens to be that particular head tilt that Jaskier treasures with his life, the one that manages to always take his breath away.

“I love you, Jask.”

The warm pool of fuzziness in Jaskier’s stomach turns into a bottomless pit, and he’s falling.

And soaring.

“I love you.” Geralt smiles sadly. “In the dark of that cell, it became…ever so clear and so loud that I couldn’t deny it anymore. I love you, in spite of myself. Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and places the barest touch of a kiss there, his lips chapped but oh so gentle. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp and the tears roll down uncontrollably. The next thing he knows, he’s buried deep in Geralt’s embrace. The sobs choke in his lungs like a dam has been broken.

“I—” Jaskier is amazed to find that their roles have reversed. The witcher has expressed everything but the bard becomes mute. So he takes up Geralt’s role gladly and replies with actions.

Jaskier’s lips are pressed everywhere he can reach: the soft, warm skin of Geralt’s neck, the sharp of his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. He disregards the grime and dirt and kisses Geralt’s uninjured temple, the single most fragile part of a witcher’s body—barring their heart, so it seems. He tucks away a strand of white hair and kisses Geralt’s temple one more time, tasting the salty tang of tears.

When he pulls back, Geralt’s smile is blinding.

He hears Jaskier, even though—

“I still don’t know what to say,” Jaskier croaks, sniffling hard.

The bard rests his hands at the nape of Geralt’s neck and loses himself in the sunlit golden honey, his favorite color in the world and the most beautiful dream that’s ever come true.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Geralt wipes away the wetness on Jaskier’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Master Jaskier, poet, minstrel, professor… Stumped for words and forever impressed by a witcher’s love confession.”

He mimics Jaskier’s phrasing and the bard can’t help but chuckle despite the tears and snout, his hand swatting at Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier knows he must look so absurd, laughing and crying all at once, but it’s the last thing in the world that matters.

Geralt loves him, and—

“You got hurt because of me.”

The remorse licks up, along with the urge to protect and to care. The sight of Geralt limp and bloody, bound by the wrists in a dark cell is something Jaskier never wants to relive again.

“I don’t care, Jask.”

“I care.”

“Then make it better.”

So he does. Geralt never wavers as Jaskier captures his lips and pours everything he cannot voice into the kiss, drawing a contented moan out of the witcher.

“Does it still hurt?” the bard whispers between one breath and the next.

“A little.”

Jaskier resumes his work and cards deft fingers through silver hair, careful not to nudge the handkerchief. His nails ghost over Geralt’s scalp and scratches gently until a purring sound rumbles deep in the witcher’s chest. The bard giggles proudly.

“Now?”

“Keep going.”

Geralt traps Jaskier between his strong arms devours him with passion, the heat of his body solid and calming.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as a protector, except at this moment with his witcher arching into his every touch and producing those heavenly sounds. The world is too bent on hurting Geralt, too eager to take and take and take from him.

A bard is not a fighter. Jaskier cannot stop monsters from tearing through armors or crossbows fired with ill intent.

But a bard is a lover. What Jaskier can do is heal, is piece Geralt back together with gentle words in the dark and soft lips on the thin skin at his temple.

“How about now?”

They are panting in tandem, the gold of Geralt’s eyes dreamy and out of this world.

“Still dizzy.”

“That’s from all the kissing, you oaf.”

But Geralt begs wordlessly with those wide, puppy-like eyes so openly, and Jaskier’s already non-existent resolve breaks into a million pieces. He kisses Geralt until the witcher melts into a puddle of purring mess, sun-warmed and pliant.

And he kisses Geralt more.

Again and again.

---

Thanks for the prompt. I kind of just rolled with the concept. The twist looks a bit obvious from the beginning, but feel free to tell me what you think. <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @dapandapod @artisanbaguette @birdsflyhome

Please tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[ao3feed-geralt-jaskier]

by wherethewordsare

It was then that Geralt had realized that his medallion hadn’t stopped humming after they had passed through into the fae lands. He was under the effect of some kind of magic. That had to be it. That had to be why every mark on Jaskier’s skin, every drop of blood that ran down into the hollow of his throat made Geralt want to set the whole place ablaze.

“Well?” the woman asked again. Everything around them seemed to go perfectly still. Even the birds stopped their fluttering and the insects had gone quiet.

“I claim the bard as mine,” Geralt said flatly. He didn’t lower his sword or move away from Jaskier.

She smiled at him and his medallion nearly shook his ribcage apart as some kind of raw magic wrapped around them both. Everything was bright and warm for a moment and then everything had gone dark.

Words: 2901, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Elven Characters

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Accidental Marriage, fae magic probably doesn't work like this, but it's for plot reasons, Just Roll With It, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, in a way? - Freeform, yeah we're gonna go with hurt comfort, they're hurting rn, but chapter two there's comfort, soooo, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Outdoor Sex, Sex Against A Tree, snark as a love language, cause i wrote this so of course there is, i know what im about people

[sweetpickolwarrior]

The Three Times You Didn't Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 1)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

TW - canon-typical violence, description of fighting, blood, gore, swearing, sexist language, description of injury, descrioptions of anxiety/panic attacks

Fic summary:You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing.

Chapter Summary: The first time Jaskier and Geralt heard you sing. This was not planned. Tis a big deal for you.

Jaskier had grown used to Geralt's constant pining for silence, his rumbles of discontent and years of “shut up” and "fuck off" while he plucked away on his lute and let melodies fall from his lips. Though he knew that under all the furrowed brows and bitter growls, the witcher appreciated him.

Truth be told, coin had often been halved, quartered or suddenly 'stolen' away from lords, knights and nobles alike rendering them incapable of paying the witcher even after monsters had been slain...that is until the ballad had started to follow him like flies after shit. Since then, some noblemen would actively seek him out for any twig crack in the woods to then invite the trio to a throwaway dinner party so they could show off the white-haired champion if they caught word of him within three towns.

Naturally, he resented the very idea of lingering about these people any more than he already had to, being talked about, sung about, danced about, treated like some sort of trophy workhand for these tittering idiots. And of course, Jaskier leapt at the opportunity to perform for the more rosy-cheeked, satin clad crowd, and you often just went along with whoever won the squabble, enjoying either a night of Jaskier singing atop a table in a tavern or atop a table in a banquet hall. (Though the latter often left you with a heftier rattle in your pouches and warm beds, baths and linens for a few more nights.)

How you would have wanted that a few months ago.

About six months earlier

It was bound to happen sooner or later, travelling with two men and often having to settle for a bed on the ground. Not that you often minded, but that night, after a longer than necessary altercation with a couple of alghouls, you had crashed into your bedroll, not bothering to clean the blood off your face let alone off your arrows and out of your clothes.

You woke that morning to aching bones and a musty stench you wanted to be rid of as soon as possible.

The grass was dewy and sweet-smelling as you turned to the other side, letting the sun stroke your cheek good morning. You saw roach tied to a nearby tree and had concluded that your companions had wandered to the next town for supplies. You had been running low on a good few essentials for a while now and were grateful that your companions had let you slumber away, knowing you didn't fuss too much over anything they would get from the market.

You opened your pack and grabbed two lumps of soap before heading to the river that had lulled you to sleep that night. The first, a dry lye soap made simply and quickly, good for getting "blood, shit and grit out" as Geralt so elegantly put it. And the second, still wrapped in wax paper, the last few crumbles of a soft, fragrant lavender soap you had made yourself. You had saved so many dried flowers from where you could, hung and dried them on the side of your satchel, scraped the bottom of vials clean for drops of various oils into your little bottle, olive, sunflower, even a little of Jaskier's special coconut oil. Cooking a soap over the campfire was a waste of wood in Geralt’s eyes, but you could tell the soft scent calmed him as it wafted through the air that night.

You smiled to yourself as you finally stepped into the river, the edges warmed by the kiss of the sun.

You peeled off your trousers and walked further in, letting the water lap at your thighs growing used to the cold quickly. Rubbing the soap into your trousers, you watched as the blood slowly swirled out in front of you and saw as your fingers started to go from angry splotches of red and black back to that natural, warm brown. Your shirt stuck to your skin and hair, caked crimson. After all this time, you still could not believe how much things bled. Your mind flashed back to the alghouls from last night as your fingers worked through cleaning your formerly beige overshirt.

It should have been easy. Just two. You were only there to watch how Geralt wielded his sword for a few, usually weak opponents. His silver sword heaved thick strokes through the air, his feet danced around his opponents and you let your arrows loose from afar, aiding your friend as another got too close for your liking. The specially made silver tips slicing through skin and bone, causing a shriek. It turned and caught another arrow in its shoulder, bounding toward you. Frantic, you simply held out your next arrow in your hand, ready to impale it as it drew near enough. But you froze. Was this one of the ones you had to get in a specific place? Drive it through the heart? The head? Why was it still running? Surely two silver arrows should have been enou-

shhhlllck

Geralt unseamed the creature through it's abdomen from behind and drew his sword up and through it’s head as its blood gushed over you and the last few gurgles escaped what was left of its throat as it crumpled before you in a horrid mess.

"You're too slow up close. It would have had you."

He was right.

As talented as you were with a bow and arrow, able to get a man in the eye from half a field away, your experience with close combat was laughable. Usually, you had time to think, plan out your shots, you didn't even have to deal with blood until you retrieved your arrows. You probably would have had your face ripped off. Or your throat torn out. Or something.

You place the sopping shirt next to your trousers on the bank and scurry back with the lavender soap in your hand. Once you've thrust yourself back into the gentle river almost chest level, you start to hum a soft tune, trying to ignore the murky red all over, instead focus on the light scent of lavender and the gliding of the soap through your hair. You close your eyes and let your mouth fall open, a melody plucked from a memory now dull and faded, the sound clear and bright.

Losing yourself in the rises and falls in the melody, voice opening and notes falling out as your muscles remember what it is to have sound flow and gush from your belly out into the world. No body, no mind, no cold, no blood-

All of a sudden, a loud brightly coloured heap burst through the foliage and breathlessly plunged into the river, flailing erratically. You attempt to preserve your unmentionables with your hands, your lilting voice turning to shrill yelps. You submerge yourself lower, shoulders barely peeking out over the disturbed waves. In contrast, the intruder, exploding out of the water as frantically as he fell in, spluttering and coughing “Y/N! You can - cough - sing! You can sing!! - cough -”

Oh, thank the Gods.

“JASKIER! GO AWAY!”

“But Y/N! -cough - You sounded lovely! I-”

“I’M NAKED JASKIER FUCK OFF!”

Jaskier slapped his hand to his eyes immediately and scrambled back up the bank, stumbling as he managed to regain his footing and ran off, his back to you whilst still covering his eyes.

You had not expected them to be back so soon. Truth be told you had not known how long they had been gone when you woke but then why hadn’t you heard them coming back?

Not focusing again. Fuck! You know you can’t afford to get lost in your own head again, stupid girl. What would have happened if it had been someone else hearing a-

He heard. Geralt too probably with his enhanced senses.

Fucks sake.

It had just been so long since you had let your voice be free. You hadn’t let your companions hear you so much as hum on your travels as you were sure that it would make you come across as a silly little girl. With Jaskier it was different. He is a poet, a bard. He had been studying it for many years whereas you had pipe dreams growing up like every other lass in the village. You sang in school with a wide smile and a voice that rang like a bell, you sang on holy Fridays with fingers interlaced and the plume of your mothers rouge on your cheeks. Nothing compared to the grand halls and festivals that Jaskier would perform at. Gods you hoped he wouldn’t speak of it again. You were sure that they would take you even less seriously now.

You’ll show them

Just go back to camp and pretend it didn’t happen. Say there was a girl wandering nearby and Jaskier should go and chase her before she is lost to the woods forever.

If this carries on, get yourself killed or someone else hurt. You know that Geralt can’t let that happen. He’ll probably drop you off in the town and wish you luck because you’ve become more stress than your skills are worth. You get it, you do.

It will just be so hard getting used to being alone again.

Your head is spiralling again. You need this to stop. You think of the meditation that Geralt showed you. You can't meditate, you're still naked in a river! Tears escape your eyes as you just can’t organise your thoughts into any kind of action. You can't run naked through the woods, you can't turn up in your sopping wet clothes, you’re no help on hunts, you’ve let your biggest comfort turn into your biggest embarrassment because you just can’t think straight.

“Y/N! I - I’m not looking! I have your clothes you left them back at camp”

You look up to see Jaskier was inching closer, eyes covered by one hand, your dry pair of clothes draped over his other forearm. He was inching closer, his toes probing to see if he had gone too far. Once his foot had felt the sploshy bank he stopped and held his arm out. You were sure that he had not heard you cry but you didn’t want the lump in your throat to give it away. You rose out, plucked the clothes from him and he promptly scampered off, one hand still across his eyes for some reason. You let out your breath, finding it had slowed due to holding it in for so long. You wrung out your hair as much as you could before flinging your trousers and shirt on with shaking hands. You were sure you could sleep right on into the next day.

At camp

Jaskier had fumbled back to camp, drenched and squelching till he could hear the soft wooshing of roach’s breath. Geralt was sat, sorting the things they had brought from market.

----------

Jakier was stumbling giddy from when he had first encountered the river, his mind rushing as he made his way through the trees.

That voice! Hesitant, yet rich and full and resonant. Thick with the weight of being tied inside her chest, it would take some practice to let her voice flourish and fly like he knew it could, but that was no matter! With his brief but busy year being a professor at Oxenfurt under his belt, he scoured through the plethora of exercises and scales that he had stored away. Her warm tone, he thought, would contrast beautifully with his chipper and airy voice.

In his head flashed scenes of the two writing together, performing together, studying together. Jaskier, Poet of the continent accompanied by-

“What did you do Jaskier”

The voice came firm and gruff, as opposed to the often exasperated or gentle (rarely was there anything in between) tone his witcher friend usually employed when he was addressing the bard.

Jaskier’s ear wide grin faltered as Geralt towered over him.

Knowing the flirty way of Jaskier and seeing him dripping before him, hearing the shout of “IM NAKED” and honing in his ear, he was presently hearing the soft gasps of Y/N, he could not help but draw himself to conclusions, knowing that human men, even those whom one trusted could turn to be worse than the monsters in his quests. When the fathers and trusted lovers of innocent women could turn as quickly as the page of a book, what was a loose and often unashamed bard that he happened to know for a few years?

He grabbed the young man by his soaking collars

“What the fuck did you do”

Somewhere between a growl and a roar, the words seethed from Geralt as he heard Y/N’s sharp breaths mix with sobs she was trying to silence.

After that night, he knew his small friend would need some time. They had both been exhausted, his head pounding from the potions he had used, he didn’t speak much to her apart from some abrupt criticism after the last alghoul was taken care of. He didn’t know much about teaching or guiding, or comforting for that matter, but he figured letting her sleep in would do no harm and he had bought some apples for her to feed roach. That helped him. The thought that she should be thrust from one horrid altercation to another at the hands of his first companion filled him with rage. These thoughts raced through his head while he attempted to decipher Jaskier’s words through this sudden wave of protectiveness.

Jaskier was chuckling, almost about to pat his massive friend on the head like an overreactive hound,

“I fail to see why you’re so wound up, dear witcher. I simply sought to find the source of the singing, and it turned out to be Y/N! Marvellous isn’t she?”

“Why are you wet.” Geralt demanded.

truth be told, he was so used to hearing Jaskier’s voice or lute, he simply dumped the noise into that category. Thinking back, it was different. Still musical, but different. Jaskier’s sound seemed to sit on the wind and flit and glide like a bird while this new sound was earthy, full, round, blending with the flow of the river and almost raw, coarse and slightly unsteady like a horse that had run for the first time out of market.

“I was simply mesmerised, Geralt. " he sighed, sagging slightly in the bigger man's grip " I was convinced it might be a water nymph, that I might catch it, steal some ideas for melody and- and then let the poor thing go of course, but”

“Why is she crying Jaskier”

The girl’s sobs had subsided slightly, but her breath was shuddering and shallow. He knew when she got like this, it was hard to get back down. He had expected it sometime today but usually, he could smell the fear rising, notice the scrunching up of her small frame, and make sure the trio were alone, quiet, ready.

“Crying? Whatever do you mea-”

The focused and worried look on Geralt’s face clicked in Jaskiers’ head and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him

“Oh gods, shit. Shes alone. What do I do Geralt? Can you hear her?”

The stream came pouring out his mouth as he paced around the camp, his eyes landing on a pile of neatly folded clothes.

“ Jaskier go back and give them to her. Slowly. She’ll come back in her own time”

Geralt listened intently while Jaskier went to return the garments. It surprised him that the sound of his younger companion trying to catch her breath like it was a feather in the wind was the same person who had made such a pleasing sound not very many minutes ago.

It stopped.

He couldn’t hear her breathe, but Jaskier was calm. He heard the rustling of clothes and the damp footfall of the bard returning. He turned his attention back to her again. He was afraid that after the episode, holding her breath would cause her to topple back into the river. Stupid. He should’ve thought of that beforehand. She didn’t. Strong lass. He heard her breaths less shallow as her hair dripped and her clothes were back on.

He was reassured now and started to take out the apples from the small fruit sack.

“Well if she was crying, she isn’t any more” stated Jaskier, almost reassuring himself that his clumsiness couldn’t have hurt his friend.

He proceeded to look for his woollen blanket, laying it out carefully, waiting for his friend to return.

A/N

Thank you so much for reading! Its the first time I've started writing after a long time, if you have any constructive criticism please leave it in the comments :)

I've started a new AO3, Tumblr page and page on Fanfiction.net which will hold my fics too. same username :)

I am very pernickety when writing which is why it's been hard for me to upload anything in the last few years and why it might take a little time for me to upload new chapters but please stick around :D

PART 2

mwah x

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Strange Side Quests

Geralt of Rivia x (f)reader

- reader is part of my Of Monsters and Men series

Summary: After some fortune teller had given you two a tarot paired with directions to a town. You find yourselves on a new adventure, but is the coin worth it?

Warning: blood and gore, fluff, slight smut mention, reader being a smartass, Geralt loving reader unconditionally up in here; also reader is half human half vampire. Enjoy!

Kicking a rock across the beaten down path until the tiny grey object flies into a nearby bush. You let out a dramatic huff in boredom, how you almost wish Jaskier was traveling with you now to fend off the silence. Then maybe this trek to Vizima wouldn't be so tedious and lengthy, oh if you only knew where that bard had traveled off to. On second thought, maybe you don't.

The surrounding area is forest on both sides, tall trees with leaves turning colors of reds, oranges, and yellows as autumn calls them home to the earth. A brisk wind causes your long dark coat to flap against your legs while you walk side by side with Roach.

The day is bright and beautiful, evening it is with puffy white clouds that scatter across the large blue sky. You absolutely love this time of year on the Continent, and how else would you rather spend your traveling time then with a smelly mare and a Witcher all to yourself.

"We should look for a place to set up camp." Says Geralt, "Looks like it's going to be a cold night."

"For you." You can't feel the cold, however, he does.

Geralt hums, "Then perhaps we could find a way to keep warm."

"A fire usually does the trick. Also no worries, you can use my blanket and coat to keep warm, I'll just sleep naked under the starlight." You add with a telling smirk, eyes glancing over at Geralt who shares a knowing look with you.

"Y/N, you speak dangerously."

You smile, "These are just simple words coming out of my mouth. Solutions to your chilly night problems so my dear Witcher does not feel like an ice sickle. Nothing more."

He snorts, "Yes and the sky is red."

"It could be." You laugh, "I knew a mage once who could turn the clouds green. It was quite something to witness and it was definitely real."

"Well green clouds will not prevent me from shivering if we don't find a place to set up soon."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." You mutter before giving him a wink and shifting into a pack of bats, flying off down the trail in search of a suitable place to set up camp. Somewhere far off enough from the trail where a fire cannot be seen by any unwanted prying eyes, and somewhere that's flat enough.

In no time at all have you located a spot under a thick pine tree not too far away from where Geralt is still riding. Leaving the place at once, you find Geralt again before changing back into your original form to better lead Roach to the area. Thankfully making camp doesn't take too long, because before you even knew it darkness had begun to creep into the valley and away goes your light and the last bits of the suns warmth.

Blanketing the woodland in pitch blackness with lack of even a tiny sliver of moon, nothing but dark sky and earth. Luckily with being half vampire and all, you're able to see in the dark just fine as you would in daylight, the world just appears as cool blues and greys with lack of firelight. So here you are now, on stick duty to keep that fire glowing so Geralt doesn't get cold and start whining about it.

With arms full of dry sticks, you start heading back to camp without incident until you take a step into the firelight that's illuminating a small glow around the tiny camp. A silver sword is sent mere inches from your face, you stiffen before sending a raised brow at the golden eyed man behind it.

"I presume you thought I was a monster and haven't all of a sudden decided it's time to cut down your dearly beloved...Correct?"

Geralt immediately brings the sword to his side, face flashing with annoyance for himself, "Correct. Maybe I'm still a little jumpy after last night's debacle."

You set the pile of sticks next to the fire, "Oh right, that one drunken dipshit who walked right into camp looking for somewhere to piss. Fucking idiot couldn't tell his left hand from his right."

"Next time we don't camp next to merchants no matter how nice they are, I honestly thought you were about to cause a murder." Teases Geralt as you sit down across from him, "You were very close."

"And let's not forget about you huh." You add, tone light and playful, "As soon as that fool stepped out from the trees you had your fists at the ready. I was very impressed. Quite the fast reflexes you have...like a rabbit.....a big one."

He simple rolls his eyes, "I wasn't expecting it.....clearly."

"No, and clearly you're still a bit tense."

Geralt tosses a stick in the fire, "Apologies my love, I didn't intend to point a sword at you."

"The silver one at that." You point, "My arch enemy of human weaponry. The cause of my kinds pain and demise, besides the sun of course...and werewolves."

"Silver." Says Geralt, "For monsters, which you are not."

You tilt your head, raising a brow at him, "My red eyes say otherwise. Maybe subconsciously your inner Witcher is always ready to take me out. Hence why you snatched up your silver blade and not the steel one."

Geralt shakes his head at your teasing, "It's what I was cleaning when I heard you walking back..."

"Ah! So you knew I was walking back, and yet you still drew your sword on me." You point a finger at him, before setting it down while your brows furrow, "Was that a test?"

"A test?"

"Yes. Did you do that deliberately to see if I would do something about it, the sudden sword in my face?" You ask, knowing he did it accidentally though you're having too much fun egging him on about this.

"Well we weren't training, so no."

"Are you certain?"

Geralt blinks slowly before muttering a blunt, "Yes."

You lean back onto your hands, "Yeah alright......so, cold yet?"

"Not at the moment, but I'm sure I'll be soon enough."

You smirk, "If only you were half vampire like me, oh the worries of men are lost to the wind with my life. I have not a care in the world with who I meet or where I go, it's the world who is cautious about me passing through it."

"I am writhing with envy." Replies Geralt bluntly, voice obviously sarcastic.

You nod, "Understandable. You're not as fast, strong, or cunning as I, thankfully you have your fighting skills and bodily muscle to keep you alive. Also you are an incredibly attractive man, but that only gets you so far." You send him a wink.

He forces himself not to crack a grin, "What's that cunning to say about you? Your half vampire, in love with a Witcher. That's quite the predicament wouldn't you say?"

"It is. But who was the one who fell first for the other here? A Witcher is supposed to slay all monsters. Aren't I part monster?"

Geralt's expression turns oddly serious and sentimental as he looks into your gaze, "You are still no monster to me."

"Well, I think I like that answer." You add, "I must have just found the right Witcher when I needed him most."

"Maybe you're right."

You let out a laugh, "You're allowed to say destiny. The word is not going to slap you in the face like an angry whore for speaking it this once. Destiny Geralt. Destiny."

He doesn't say a thing for a long moment until he finally shrugs before saying, "Fated circumstance."

You cackle with laughter, falling onto your back as you hold your stomach from laughing so hard. Geralt just shakes his head at you, smile apparent while you try and regain yourself.

"Fated circumstance?" You repeat, "My gods you're something else.....and all mine."

He smiles at that before glancing from the bunched up blanket next to him then back to you, "Were you serious about sleeping naked?"

"Only if you'll indulge me for some physical pleasure. Just a little."

He raises a brow, "A lot?"

"A lot works too." You nod, standing up on your bent knees as you take off your shirt, "Just keep that sword over there, I don't fancy getting burnt by that silver shit before I climax. Kind of ruins the mood."

He sets his shirt on the grass, "We wouldn't want that. Not at all." ——

Crouched down by a burnt tree off to the side of the path, you poke at the crispy squared chunks of bark that break and crack when your dagger touches it. From behind, you can hear the thump of Geralt's boots against the grass as he dismounts from Roach.

His footsteps approach, as do the mares. Geralt's dark boots stop at your side. "Feels like magic."

You purse your lips together and hum, "A mage practicing fire magic perhaps? That's supposed to be banned..who's to say anymore, some mages do as they please with little regard for others. Hmm, all I smell here is burnt wood and squirrel."

"I was hoping you'd say it was just a storm."

You stand to face him, "It was just a storm."

He gives you a deadpanned stare, blinking slowly, "Lets just find wherever this tarot leads us."

"Oh that thing! Right." You mutter before walking around to Roach's side pack and pulling out the tarot. "This here." The tarot shows a shimmery red background with four rocks floating in a circle around a wooden staff and two purplish white lighting strikes printed on opposite corners of the card. Whatever the hell any of that means.

Geralt's golden eyes trail over the mysterious markings, "The name that woman gave us what was it again? Vizla...Vezlo...Vizeth...something like that I think?"

You shake your head at him, "Well it's certainly a good thing I'm here. None of those were even remotely close."

"Alright then what's the name?"

"Vizima."

"I was close."

"Knowing the actual name would get you far, knowing a variation of the name would get you five leagues in the wrong direction."

Geralt shakes his head at you, "Alright then, do you remember what that old fortune teller told us?"

Flicking the tarot, you nod, "The old fortune teller said we must head to Vizima in search of the towns only mage where we will get all our questions answered." You add with a dramatic flair of your hands, “Then she made her windchimes move on their own, however I cannot do that nor do we have windchimes.”

"She didn't say where this mage is, now did she?"

"First off, if I was to say a random name would you have believed me?"

Geralt opens his mouth but pauses for a moment as his brows furrow in thought, "Depends on how convincing it would sound."

"Well it doesn't matter because the cranky old bird didn't say shit about where this so called mage of Vizima is. So, all we gotta do is ask around which shouldn't be too hard if the place only has one mage."

"Right. This town can't be that big if its in the middle of a forest."

"Right. Easy hunting." ——

"And don't be comin' round here you fuckin' red eyed pointy toothed bastard!" Shouts a bearded round faced tavern owner as he spits onto the mud, "We ain't tellin' you not a single thing ‘bout that mage or his whereabouts in the north end!"

You lend the potbellied man a humored grin as you nod, hands folded behind your back, "Ah wonderful, so it's a he and he roams the north district somewhere around that area huh, very good." You send the angered man a wink, "You have been so inadvertently helpful so thank you and your kind heart for that very very much."

He scowls before glancing at the two biggest men standing in the small market crowd off to the side, they nod in silent mutual understanding before walking towards you. Unsheathing a sword each, faces dirt smudged and less then friendly.

You raise a brow at them, "Oh well come on now I'm just a defenseless woman trying to get some answers." They keep walking, you take a step back, "Okay guys must we do this? I mean I didn't even bring my dagger, can I at least have a stick?" You ask before the curly haired one swings his sword at you.

In a blurred flash have you practically disappeared from his grasp while he swings at nothing but air. Both him and his blonde friend whip around to face your smirking face. You give them a wave, "I really don't see how killing me will do any good. I’m fantastic if you haven’t just noticed and Geralt would miss my lovely face and even lovelier lady par..”

Blondie circles the blade in his hand threateningly, "No one bothers our mage. That's the rules."

You throw your hands to the air in bewilderment for how this whole interaction is going, "Made by who? The mage?" The blonde begins running towards you, he swings but you're gone in a flash. Standing casually off to his right, "That's not very social of him. How's he going to meet anyone new?"

"He don't like meeting anyone new." Grumbles the curly haired man as he takes a bold step forward, "And we don't like outsiders. 'Specially a half demon like yourself." He spits onto the muddy ground in disgust yet again.

You grimace, "Unnecessarily rude. You kiss your mother with that jabbering pie hole you call a mouth?"

He chuckles darkly, "Don't have no mum." They both start taking cautious steps closer, intent to kill apparent.

"oh that's nice, guess no one's going to cry if you're bleeding in the dirt then." They don't have a second to speak as you've already thrown them to the mud covered marketplace. Swords flung across the matted sludge as they both groan and moan in pain.

You turn to face the man who summoned them, his eyes are wide as he locks gazes with you, you take a step towards him while he takes a step back. You stop and tilt your head at him, "Where is the mage? Exact location in this shitstick of a town and you'll keep your cock for another day because don't worry." You hold your hands up, "I don't like to kill people, however I will maim and cut choice body parts off."

The man points left, "N-north district, tallest house there, you can't miss it."

You smile, fangs prominent as you show off your pearly whites to the nervous man, "Now that wasn't so hard." You then give a little nod, "Good day." You add before walking off to find your wandering Witcher, and by the scent of him he's a little ways past all the popular taverns.

When you finally spot him by a stall selling all sorts of shiny nick nacks and beautiful jewelry, he's standing there trying to understand a dwarven man speaking in the thickest accent from wherever he is you've ever heard. By the looks of it all, Geralt's nod getting anywhere.

Approaching his side, you set a gentle hand upon his right armored shoulder when he gives you a warning look until he realizes it's just you. You hand him a grin, "Making friends are we?"

"No." He grumbles out.

"Buying me something pretty then?" You tease, "Something big and sparkly for a royal lady of the court, a stand out admirable gem. Fit for a princess.." You lean in to whisper, "..which is what I am. I believe I deserve it, by law and by my blood." You are the daughter of the vampire queen after all, however that doesn't get you far with this type of crowd.

Geralt raises a brow, "And what would you do with a.." His golden eyes wander over the table of jewelry then to the hanging necklaces as he reaches a hand out to hold one dangling from a hook, "...one of these?"

"Wear it. What else would I do with it?"

He lets it go, "Alright. Oh I had forgotten, we don't have the coin."

You press a finger into his leather armored chest, "You don't have the coin."

He smiles a pursed lipped grin at your theatrics, you're just stalling to find that mage since you have a deep rooted love/hate for them in general. Geralt removes your hand from his chest, "Another time." He says before looking at the dwarven man, "Not today, we have somewhere to be."

"Oi yuh relvy? Wecha beva couym ack." He rambles with a nod. Both you and Geralt wander elsewhere, leaving the jewelry stand to round a corner and talk to one another somewhere quieter.

The two of you face each other, "You found where the mage lives didn't you?" Implores Geralt as your brows furrow.

"Did you understand a single word that guy said?"

He takes your hands with his in an attempt at getting you to focus, "Y/N, I know you found where the mage lives."

"How would you kn.."

"That vendor was exclusively selling silver jewelry."

You open your mouth to speak but stop and look off to the side, "oh." Your eyes wander around the vendor lot until you face him again, "Hadn't noticed."

He holds back a grin, "Now where is the mage?"

Your face falls as you then show off a scowl, "He is located in the north district, yunno only big pointy tower in the whole section? Oddly resembles an erect penis, that one?"

Geralt snorts, "Yes I remember seeing it."

"I like to think every mage held up in their prick tower is a reflection of their own personal attitude...which is they're all pricks and we cannot trust them." You point, "Most of them at least."

Geralt nods, "Yes. Now let's go find this prick. Shall we?"

You cross your arms and look from him to the path ahead and then back to him again, "Fine. But you're knocking." ——

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You stand off to the side, arms crossed defensively while your snowy haired Witcher knocks on the giant mahogany door covered in vines, using the doors metallic gargoyle head to create such ruckus. Staring back at him with its two dark beady stone eyes and ugly little face, you wish to punt this doorknocker into a pond.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Geralt releases the gargoyle head and takes a step back, soon the twisted vines guarding the massive door move like snakes before receding from their post up into the doorways overhang. You can hear footsteps on the other side when they halt abruptly at the entrance way, whoever it is remains unseen. The door shimmers a sapphire hue before rippling colors of lapis lazuli as a blurred body forms from within.

Out pops a tan skinned elven boy, glancing curiously between the two of you with his big opal eyes that flicker with every color of the rainbow. "I am Fyrn of the Nimnar Valley. Welcome Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher....and Y/N of Alcatraz, daughter of the Vampire Queen. He has been expecting your arrival."

Both you and Geralt share a mutual look as you then take a threatening step forward, "Does this he of great mysterious title have a name?" The eleven boy simply smiles, he nods, fingers folding together as his eyes trail from Geralt to you.

"He does. But only he can tell you. Now please, come with me." Directs the elven boy Fyrn as he then disappears into the enchanted door. Fucking mages and their magic entranceways.

"Ladies first." Teases Geralt as he points a hand like a polite butler. Setting a hand upon your hip, you tilt your head at him while he simply shrugs, "I knocked first."

Shaking your head at him, you push him back when he makes an attempt to go forward so that you disappear first into the shimmering door of sapphire. Geralt just holds back a laugh while he follows you through the magic door.

After a brief trek to the mages chambers on the second floor, Fyrn knocks on a door of pure oak with strands of gold woven in clusters here and there. Nothing is heard on the other end until he speaks a word in elvish, only then does the door open. He ushers you both inside and just like that does he vacate the area.

Leaving you and Geralt in a giant study filled high with books to either side and a ginormous stained glass window on the center back wall depicting a beautiful woman with wings of black webbing spread behind her. She stands on a bed of skeletons, one arm filled with roses as the other holds delicately a dagger resembling yours.

All around her are colors of purples, blues, reds, and blacks; footsteps are heard on your right, you turn to see the owner. A man as tall as Geralt stands in long robes of dark reds and blacks though his body is noticeably leaner. Hair black, beautiful and long, eyes the color of fire embers he smiles at the two of you warmly. You take notice of an obsidian staff in his right hand, you immediately tense.

The mage rests a hand on his heart before directing it towards you two as a form of greeting, "This is a good day indeed. I have awaited your arrival for many moons and countless suns, I am glad you are here at last." Speaks a soft velvety voice, this mage looks more like a pretty elf then anything human.

"Why has our tarot brought us here?" You ask, "What do you want?"

He smiles, "I will tell you shortly. In the meantime I believe I owe you my name...I am Saraphim of Vizima, mage to this lovely residence and all her people within." Lovely people may be a stretch.

"Very nice." You interrupt, "Now, the reason for us being here? Why the fuck did some fortune teller say Vizima and this here tarot shows us these sticks and shit? Also why us?" You ramble when he brings his hand up to shush you.

"A Witcher knows how to handle a magical situation out of my grasp. However a creature such as yourself can kill it like a deadly adder....especially someone with your kind of gift." Says the mage Saraphim knowingly, "You have what is needed to kill a certain kind of being where it stands, and save countless life in the process."

Geralt grumbles, "Enough with the riddles and mysteries tell us what you want and why our tarot led us to you?"

"There is a rival mage hiding like a coward in the ruins of Vaska three miles east of here, she has stolen a prized artifact of mine and to protect herself has created a golum. If you kill this stone monster I will reward you greatly, and if you are able to kill the mage I will reward you tenfold." Presents Saraphim as he wanders to the center of the room to open up a book laying on a large table holding other various magical type trinkets and other things.

"We'll do it."

He raises a brow at your quick words, "As I expected so."

"Now answer us this." Says Geralt, "How are we to properly kill this creature? They can't be killed by simple swords and arrows."

"No. No they cannot." His ember eyes trail over to you, "You know who this winged woman is?" He looks up at the stained glass.

Your eyes study the colorful piece, "I assume you're going to tell me."

He chuckles lightly, "She is the Vampire Queen, your mother."

"Her hair is longer." Why are you not surprised?

"So it is. I have heard stories of her, fantasized about walking in her court and claiming a title of mage of Alcatraz, being by her side." He says breathless, eyes turning back to you as he snaps back to reality, "Those were just childish fantasies of course. A court of vampires would be no good company for me, so here her beauty remains...and here you stand. Most certainly a close image of her greatness."

"Well I'm certainly not going to fuck you if that's what you're thinking."

Saraphim's eyes widen in embarrassment, "Oh no, no, you misread me my dear princess. I simply admire your mother's great influence and power...you see, I admire the beings of your kind. They are exquisite creatures who walk this Continent, the rulers of the night, beings of beauty and power." He takes a step forward, "And you, you are the most powerful of them all. Half human, half vampire, you walk like a wolf amongst sheep. Never to be broken by the sun.."

"Yes yes I'm very flattered, and a tad weirded out. Now what do you actually want of me?"

Saraphim takes a step back, "May I see your tarot?" You nod before quickly fishing it out of your leather gauntlet and handing it to him. "You see here? The lightening bolts, yes?"

"Hard to miss." Mutters Geralt, feeling a bit more protective over you even though this mage means no ill intent for you. Nor does he appear to be attracted to you.

"Yes good. Well, as it turns out. In order to destroy a stone golum crafted by a witch, wizard, or mage...only lightening magic can do what is necessary."

Geralt's brows furrow, "We don't posses such power."

Saraphim points to the lightening before handing the tarot back to you, "The gift I was speaking of earlier, Y/N's dark gift.." He gives Geralt a quizzical look like this white haired man knows a thing, the Witcher simply hums while the mage nods at this, "..every vampire or dhampir is born with a dark gift. For some it is taking the form of a beast, perhaps manipulation of a humans will, or to read the minds of others. For Y/N here, she needs no magical training..."

"Lightening." Geralt's eyes are on you in a second, "How could I have forgotten?"

You shrug, "I never need to use it.....well apparently until now."

Saraphim smiles, "Precisely. Now can you two do this for me is the final question I ask? After all that I have said?" ——

Throwing a pine cone in the air as you walk beside your Witcher and Roach, you catch the thing once again, completing your rhythm as you go. An almost annoyed scowl marked onto your features while you take a second to breath from your ramblings about the unfriendly tavern goers and the mage. Who has summoned you two for this quest.

You throw the pine cone into the bark of a tree, "Can you do this for me? He says, can you do this because I'm too much of a lazy little fuck to do it myself. Oh, my pretty robes, oh no ahh dirt get it away from me." You add dramatically, flailing your arms like a fearful maiden as you regain your composure, "What do we look like? A courier service for monster hunters?"

Geralt laughs from atop of Roach, "He wants this done for the safety of Vizima, these old ruins are sacred ground to them. And anyways, we need to kill the mage and bring back the artifact."

"He can kiss my ass."

Geralt hums, "He was kind, and seemed to have good intentions."

"He's a loner obsessed with vampires."

"Everyone has a quirk."

You throw him a look, "Yeah alright and what's yours oh great and mighty Witcher who doth know it all?"

"You tell me." Counters Geralt with a friendly smile, enjoying when there's a given moment to challenge you.

"Hmm. Let me see here, oh I know, for one you talk to that horse whenever I'm elsewhere. Oh and you always pat down your bed before laying down..ha like a cat.....and you always stand a bit in front of me when you think I need protection."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Clearly I can handle myself, however I find it adorable so I don't mind." You admit as he shys away with a small grin, golden eyes trained to Roach's leather reins in his gloved hands.

"Hey I think we're at the ruins." He looks up to find an opening in the woodland, a large overgrown field with massive broken chunks of grey stone placed methodically about. Like they are a far off memory of castles long ago.

He clicks his tongue for the mare to halt, "I believe you're right." He then slips from the saddle to stand next to you, "I'll tie her up and then we'll find this damn golum."

You nod before slipping into the woodland in search of some viable sign that a golum is indeed here and not just a dramatic fabrication of a paranoid mage. You walk over some roots jutting out of the earth before kneeling behind a square hunk of stone covered in patches of moss.

In no time does Geralt find himself crouched down next to you, sword out and ready while his golden eyes scan the area ahead. It's not anything too out of the ordinary by any means, the ground is large and open with knee high grass. Stone placed around like they could have been either religiously settled there or are the aftermath of hundreds of years of abandonment.

There is not a place around where a suitable house for a hidden mage could be found. Geralt nudges your side, "Can you see anything I can't?"

"No."

"Smell anything odd?"

"Besides Roach all I can smell is grass and bird shit." You mutter, "Let's get a closer look. Maybe Saraphim was fucking with us just so he could meet me."

"Maybe." Says Geralt as he looks to you, "Have you ever seen a golum?"

"No, just gargoyles. The two are very different though even if they're both creatures of stone." You add, "However I don't think golums can be reasoned with." You stand and jump over the stone edge as Geralt follows suite.

You stand in the knee high grass with him a few feet away by your side, sword at the ready while his eyes trail over the ruins. You look over at him, "I'm going to take a look around, give me a minute and I'll tell you what I see." The Witcher gives a mutual nod as you shift into a pack of bats.

The dark winged creatures flap and squeak as you navigate your way through the old ancient ruins. You fly quickly past downed trees, more field, and a plethora of other ruins with a single one imprinted with a strange marking on it. Revealing a pyramid with two sticks coming out of the top making a v towards the sky. Whatever the hell that means.

Geralt waits patiently where you left him, eyes and ears cautious for trouble as he spots your pack of bats flapping through the ruins headed for him. Soon does the pack lower for the ground as a black mist engulfs them resulting in your beautiful face greeting him yet again.

"See anything?"

"Nothing of any significant but a weird rune I've never seen before. Other then that I really am starting to believe that mage was fucking with us." You mutter before picking up a rock, "I mean, we should have seen a golum by now right? They're made of stone, sticks, and magic..not to mention are fucking huge. How the fuck have we not seen one yet!" You shout in frustration before launching the rock into a large boulder.

The grey object explodes, leaving a small dent in the stones side from the force of your supernatural strength. Geralt drops his hand to his side, "Maybe shout that louder next time."

You scowl at his sarcastic tone, "Alright Witcher what do you got?"

He leans the sword against his shoulder, "Saraphim told us a bit more if you remember.."

"I do.." You pause as your gaze diverts from his, "..maybe I don't because I was too interested in his collection of troll skulls."

Geralt hums, "Well he said in order to wake a golum who's asleep, which I'm assuming is in our best interest here, it must be shot with lightening. A lightening rod and a storm is in order for this to occur, however we are lucky enough to have you."

"Right. Right I knew that, I remember now..it's all coming back to me." You nod as he gives you an unconvincing look, "Now where is this golum huh? So many boulders and ruins here, a stone beast can't be that difficult to find. It's literally a tall humanoid made of stone! Fuck this!" You shout, deep irritation flowing through your body as your fists clench.

Geralt sheathes his blade before walking over to rest a hand on your shoulder, "Maybe the one stone with the rune is our golum. Lead us there and that's where we'll start."

You take a breath, "Alright. It's this way." He follows your lead until you stop at the huge boulder appearing rather unassuming in the grass.

He stands off to the side while you ready your stance a couple yards away, "This better be the fucking golum." You grumble before closing your fists and opening them again to purple flashes of lightening crackling in your palms.

Geralt hides halfway behind an old tree as he watches you bring your hands together before yelling and throwing your arms towards the boulder. Lighting kisses the air as it crackles across the short distance to the stone before crashing into it.

Stone breaks and flies away from the point of impact as you call more lighting to the area for a couple seconds more until you close your fists again, dissipating away the lightening. Breathing a bit heavier now, you tilt your head curiously at the unmoving boulder of rock.

You turn to face Geralt across the small grassy field, "What do I have to do to wake up this damn golum! Tickle it?" You open your mouth to speak more when a crumbling sounds from behind you.

Geralt's golden eyes widen as he steps into the opening, you twist around to watch as a ginormous stone golum creaks and crumbles to life. Standing at around three elk high; the monster appears humanoid with its big stone body. However it's facial features must have been half-assed in the crafting process, as it's face is a pebbly mess.

Whatever it has for sufficient eye sockets trains itself onto your puny form, the stone snorts a dusty mist of dirt as it takes a single step with its huge boulder of a leg. The ground practically shakes as you take a cautious step back, the golum stops and stares down at you.

"Uh Geralt." You mutter nervously, "What do I do now?"

"It can only be killed by a lighting strike."

"Just one?" You swallow as the golum studies if you're friend or foe.

"Three strikes."

Your face falls as you turn your head to then glare at your Witcher, "THREE? THREE FUCKING STRIKES?" You can't help but shout. He's about to answer you when a groaning roar pierces the air, you turn to face the golum. Anger clear on its big ugly face.

The stone beast takes another thundering step forward, man sized arm swinging down towards you right after to wipe your tiny life from this plane of existence. Anticipating this, supernatural reflexes have you standing next to Geralt as the golums huge paw swats nothing but tall grass where you once stood.

The Witcher gives you a double take when he realizes you're right next to him, "Y/N?"

You give him a glance, "What?"

He nods towards the grumbling golum of confused angry stone, "Kill it." You send him a bewildered look as the stone humanoid starts walking closer.

"And what are you going to be doing? Sitting back on a bed of flowers as a forest nymph feeds you grapes naked?"

"Preferably yes."

You shake your head at him as the blundering golum raises its arm to kill you two, in a blurred flash is Geralt and yourself safely atop a tall overturned boulder. "Fine then you handsome cunt I'll do it myself, stay here and don't get killed." He feels the ghost of a kiss as your body materializes into a pack of bats.

In seconds are you swarming around the annoyed golum while he raises his heavy rocky arms to do some damage. Not making any apparent contact with a single bat, the golum becomes even more enraged and roars. Put off by the sudden belching scream of lion-like fury, you vacate the air before materializing on the ground a few feet away.

"Look here you fucking piece of birdshit! Hello there! That's right pay attention to me, just me." The golum takes a step towards you, "That's right, let's go. You and me!" He throws a hand up just as you launch a crackling burst of lightening straight into his center chest. He yells mightily, staggering back like a drunken fool.

Geralt watches from a safe distance as you jump with excitement, he's subconsciously smiling at your theatrics when you land another blow to the pissed off golum. Then just like that do you throw a bolt of electricity straight through the stone monsters stomach. It groans miserably, holding its hollowed out tummy as it then breaks apart where it stands.

Smiling victoriously down at the crumbling stone, Geralt finds himself by your side, "Nicely done." He praises with a genuine grin at your impressive feat.

"Yes I know." You teasingly boast, "Now lets find that fucking mage."

A stick snaps. Out from the woodland does a woman with tangled grey hair step into view, a staff of ebony in her left hand. Eyes of light blue almost glow as they trail from Geralt to you and back again. She smiles grimly, "That was my guardian. Why have you strangers come into my territory?"

"A mage has sent us in search of something you have stolen." Answers Geralt truthfully.

A flicker of hatred flashes through her pale eyes, "Saraphim." She hisses with malice, "And he has sent me two hunters to do his bidding. Clever, last time he sent a party of mercenaries that didn't last longer then a wolf's cry. Nonetheless you will not leave this place with the Neh'tza sephira."

An enchanted stone? That's what the mage in Vizima wants, whatever gets you coin then.

"Hand us over the magic rock and you keep your life."

She scowls at you, staff pointing in your direction, "I think not you undead halfbreed."

Your crimson eyes darken, in a blurred flash do you disappear before halting all movements a few feet to her left. Your hair and clothing sways when you stop to look at the mage. She stands there, eyes wide in shock as a waterfall of blood flows out of her slit throat. Her staff falls to the earth.

She sputters and gags, gasping for breath that never comes while her hands try desperately to stop the bleeding. It seeps through her fingers as you clean your dagger in the grass. Geralt races to her side, "Where is the sephira!" He shouts as she falls to her knees.

He kneels down as she smiles a sick grin, blood still trailing down her neck and hands as it stains her clothing and the grass below. She gargles on broken words of hatred while you walk over to his side. She eyes you fiercely. You point the tip of your blade at her temple.

"I'll make it a quick passing if you tell us where it is. Point to it if you must." She simply slumps to the ground, hands still around her bloody throat as she chokes on laughter.

You unsheathe your dagger before kneeling down to rip off a piece of her clothing's fabric, standing once more, you drink in the scent. Blinking, your eyes gaze up at the woods to find an aurora of her scent leading the way. Perfect.

You glance down at the dying mage, "Sorry about that.....and uh, don't haunt this place or I'll have to kill you again." She smiles a bloody grin up at you before releasing her hands from the slice in her skin. Blood oozes out, the sweet scent causing you to almost drool. She knows what she's doing.

Geralt, eyes flickering between the two of you quickly stands to grab your forearm, "Y/N. Let's go." Your eyes snap up to meet his, "Lead the way." He says, doing all he can to prevent you from ripping the mage to shreds from a sudden spell of bloodlust.

You swallow, "Right. The magic rock." Leading him away towards the forest as your vampiric instincts fight internally within you to stay and feast. Gods the things you do for coin. ——

Bursting through the doors of Saraphim's study, he jumps, dropping a book onto his desk before whipping around to see what all the commotions about. Once his ember irises fall upon your self assured face and that of Geralt's, he relaxes once more.

"You two have survived." He says almost surprised, "This is most fortunate news. Do you have what I asked?"

"Do you have our coin?"

He nods, "Of course." Eyes set to the elven boy by the door, "Fyrn retrieve our friends gold they have rightly earned." The opal eyed boy bows respectfully before disappearing down a hallway.

Saraphim looks expectantly at the two of you, "May I see this object for myself, I must know it is safe and true."

"You mean this magical rock?" You hold up a black sack, undoing the tie as you pull out a rock with a peculiar rune engraved into it. "It's not much but stone."

His eyes light up with excitement, "So you have." He takes a couple steps forward before hesitating, "May I?" He asks.

You hold out the rock, "Please. We've dealt with enough rocks for awhile, I don't care why you needed this and I certainly don't care for an explanation into whatever the fuck this artifact does for you." He takes the rock as you cross your arms, "We'll be satisfied with our coin and gladly to never cross paths with you ever again."

"Very well, I will not bore the lady dhampir and her Witcher of Kaer Morhen any longer then necessary." Agrees the dark haired mage as his elven apprentice walks into the room, "Oh good, Fyrn would you give them their dues."

The elven boy hands each of you a sack of coin, big enough to fit nicely in the whole extent of your hand. You throw the sack up, catching it soon after as you then shake the sack to hear the distinctive jingle of coins. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." Says Geralt, "It was a pleasure to meet you Saraphim, but we must be going now. Good day."

"Yes, good day and goodbye." You add with a wave of your hand, feet already leading you towards the door.

"Safe travels." He calls after, though you've already made it down the hallway.

What a trip that was.

-

Tagged:  @seninjakitey  @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1@haleypearce​ @diegos-butt​  @a-girl-who-loves-disney​ @beck07990​

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Welp, this is a thing now, I guess. Also: he’s a Scarlet Tiger Moth.

Geralt crept through the towering pine trees, keeping his body low to the ground. The air smelt of tin, thick and humid around him. There was a storm brewing beyond the treeline.

He gripped his silver sword in one hand, poised to strike. The trees grew so thickly here, that he could be ambushed at any moment. His other hand was curled, ready to form a sign at a moment’s notice if something burst from the trees towards him.

The alderman who’d given him the contract had warned him that the beast only came out at night. Foolishly, he’d agreed to see it off that evening, forgetting that he hadn’t restocked his alchemy supplies and so would have to forgo the dose of Cat he’d usually take on contracts like this.

The oppressive darkness was proving to be more problematic than he’d anticipated. The villagers had been very hesitant with their descriptions of the monster. As it only came out at night, moving swiftly, all they had were vague stories of a large, black shape, huge wings, glowing eyes. It wasn’t a lot to go on. All of them had insisted it could fly, and Geralt suspected the creature was a kind of griffin, perhaps, or a draconid. In the darkness, it could be anything.

It hardly mattered. He was to hunt the beast down, and either relocate it - if it could be relocated - or kill it.

The trees above him shook. The pines were so tall here that he couldn’t see the tops, especially in the darkness, and he was struck with the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched. The smell of tin was growing sharper, paired with something else - something earthy and musty, almost like dust.

Shit. He’d never be able to get the contract done if he couldn’t see the fucking thing. He twisted his hand, and Igni burst around his fingers, illuminating the forest.

There was a sudden flapping, the trees shaking, and he was showered with pine needles. Something was tumbling down towards him through the trees, something huge, and he ducked out of the way, rolling across the leaf litter, Igni sputtering out and leaving him in darkness once more.

He swore under his breath and got to his feet, his sword still clasped in his hand. He peered around. The forest was still and silent once more - although that lingering musty smell was clinging to the air. Far away, he could hear thunder rumbling.

Geralt focused all his senses onto that smell. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, unpleasant - there was no lingering trace of blood or rot, just age and soil, warmly mingling. It was all around him, stuck to the trees nearest where he’d been standing and heading upwards, higher than Geralt could reach. He listened for signs of movement - creaking branches, or even a shadowy heartbeat - but could hear nothing.

He paused. The creature, whatever it was, could have killed him easily. It had swooped on him from above and could have simply ripped his head off or taken a chunk from his throat. But it hadn’t. It had the element of surprise and had wasted it, scurrying away back into the darkness as soon as it had appeared.

The darkness…

Geralt flexed his fingers, cautiously. He took a step back, pressing his back to the wide trunk of the nearest tree, ensuring a firm grip on his sword, and then - after a moment’s hesitation - he stuck out his arm and summoned Igni once more.

Flames licked around his hand, lighting up the trees around him and casting weird, flickering shadows into the forest beyond. Three, two, one…

There was a crash from above, and another shower of pine needles rained down on him. The earthy smell became nearly overwhelming, but still he didn’t move. He could hear a scrambling, scratching noise from high above, and the bark shuddered beneath him. And then - a heartbeat. Faint, but alive. Geralt steeled himself, keeping his eyes fixed forwards, unmoving. The scrambling grew louder. He was drowning in the smell of dust.

And then something drifted, slowly, onto his outstretched arm. Powder. Little particles of dark yellowish powder dusted across his armour, bright against the black leather.

He took a single, calming breath, and looked up.

Straight into a pair of glowing, red eyes.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. The creature stared past him, fixated on the light emanating from his hand. He moved his arm, and watched as the creature tracked the movement with its head. Slowly, focusing on maintaining the sign, he edged away from the tree, turning so he could properly look at the thing clinging to the trunk.

It was watching him - watching the light - with its unblinking red eyes. And then those eyes snapped to Geralt's, and the beast's face moved, illuminated by the fire, revealing a grinning mouth bustling with sharp teeth. Slowly, without breaking Geralt's gaze, it twisted from the tree till it stood in front of him.

It was a man. Or at least: man-shaped.

Man-shaped apart from the huge black wings that sprouted across its shoulders like a thick cape. In the light, Geralt could see that its wings were marked with yellow and white spots. Its body was very much like a man’s - although it was as broad and sturdy looking as Geralt himself - but its skin too was black, with light, soft-looking fur starting around its torso and spreading up around its face and head, long enough to look almost like hair. Its legs were red, and in the dim light they looked almost carapaced.

Sprouting from its head were two long, slightly curled antennae.

It took a step forward.

"Why, hello," it drawled.

Geralt nearly dropped his sword. "You can talk."

The thing smiled. "I'm sorry, am I not supposed to? Deepest apologies." Its - his - voice was clear and lyrical, far removed from the growl that Geralt had been expecting. He smiled again, showing off his fangs, and titled his head to one side, peering at Geralt. "So… they sent a witcher for me, did they?"

"You stole their livestock. And attacked two villagers."

"Steal a few cows and suddenly they're sending armed mutants for you," the creature folded its arms across its chest. "How very typical."

"And the two you attacked?"

The creature ruffled. "Is this the part where you pretend to listen to my side of the tale and cut me down while I'm distracted?"

Geralt scowled. “If I was going to cut you down, I’d have done so already.”

“Is that so? I commend you on your self-control, witcher.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t attack them?”

“This is my forest. I was here first. I was simply… seeing what they were up to.” He laughed, his wings ruffling. “And, dear witcher, what were they up to. Very scandalous. They spotted me, you see, and panicked…” he shrugged, and more dust fell from his wings to the leaf-strewn floor. “They ran. I would not recommend running through this forest in the dark, witcher. So many hidden roots…”

“They injured themselves trying to get away from you?”

He tipped his head. “I don’t attack humans.” He paused, then added pointedly - “Not unless they attack me first.”

Geralt lowered his sword. “I’m not human.”

The thing smirked. “What a coincidence,” he said. “Neither am I.”

He stuck out a hand, and Geralt could see that his arm too was fur-lined, the palm of his hand and the skin of his wrist almost scaly, like a snake. His too-long fingers pointed into short, sharp claws.

“Jaskier,” he said. “And you are?”

Geralt’s lips pressed into a tight line. The thing - the creature - Jaskier - rolled his eyes. At least, Geralt thought he did. It was hard to tell, without pupils.

“I’m not fae,” he huffed, “just interested. If you do decide to kill me I’d like to know the name of my murderer, after all.”

Geralt paused. The creature was buzzing with magic, that was true - but no more so than any other creature he encountered on the path. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, Jaskier’s eyes widening.

He stuck out his hand.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier smiled, and his mouth was filled with terrible, pointed teeth.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

He appeared to mean it.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I came across a quote on tiktok of all places, but I cant get the idea of Jaskier saying it to any of the witchers out of me head, and I'm really hoping you'd be up to taking a crack at it. If not that's fine, I'll be happy just pass in the thoughtful feels it provokes. "And if I asked you to name all the things that you loved, how long would take for you to name yourself?"

Jaskier worked out pretty quickly that the Witchers love their friends and family fiercely. But how can he show them the beauty within?

Lambert said he ‘fucking loved’ many things. He fucking loved Geralt and Eskel. Hugged them openly when he was drunk while calling them blowhards and oafs, rubbing his knuckles into their head and putting huge, wet kisses on their cheeks. He fucking loved beer, and a new sword, and comfortable boots, and a warm fire, and Jaskier’s saucy poetry, and Aiden, and a successful hunt, and Ban Ard, and the south—because it was warm—and so many other things.

And he meant it. Lambert was an emotional man. Not a criticism. He wore everything on his sleeve. An open book. You knew exactly where you stood with Lambert in the very first instant he met you. Many didn’t like that. They were used to dealing with others like themselves; their emotions, their opinions, hidden behind a veneer of polite banality. Not Lambert, though. He felt unabashedly, and showed it, including his contempt, his anger, and his self-hatred. Because if there was one thing Lambert didn’t ‘fucking love’. It was himself.

Jaskier noticed how he avoided looking in mirrors, was probably a little rough when seeing to his injuries—needles jabbed, bandages lashed tightly, deep gashes scrubbed violently—used the same soap he used for his laundry on his hair, face and skin. He didn’t allow himself even small luxuries; he slept in the wilderness even when he had enough coin for a room, good food and a bath. 

As the years went by, Jaskier grew close to Lambert. He found in him a kindred spirit. Someone who he could sit next to and raise eyebrows at the other two, drink with until they could barely walk, and scream bawdy Skelligen ballads on the top of a mountain until they were both hoarse. And if they fell into bed with each other sometimes for a really good, feral, passionate tryst? Then Jaskier wasn’t going to complain about that either. Yet, he just couldn’t shake the concern. If Lambert couldn’t love himself, could he really ever accept love from others? He was so besotted with Aiden—pined, yearned, fawned over—but when Aiden returned those affections he always looked a little nonplussed. As if he wanted to ask, are you sure?

So, one spring, when Jaskier found himself travelling at Lambert’s side for a few weeks, they sat around the campfire. Lambert had purchased a new whittling knife, and he was carving himself a new chess piece for the collection he was building at Kaer Morhen. This one was a Rook. “Hmm, I love a good knife. Look at that cut,” he showed Jaskier briefly, “fucking perfect.”

Jaskier smiled, thumb running down the top two strings of his lute. “You know, you should make a list.” 

“Eh?” Lambert glanced up as a curl of pruned wood fell to the floor at his feet.

“Of all the things you love. We could use a scale from ‘fucking love’ to ‘like mostly’. It’d wrap around this tree here about a hundred times, I bet,” Jaskier tapped the big old oak they’d settled beneath. 

“Ha, yeah, then we can do a second of all the things that piss me off and it’ll be four times as long,” Lambert chuckled, leaned to the side to grab the bottle of dwarven ale he was steadily working his way through.

“Hmm,” Jaskier smiled up at the glittering stars, and then tilted his head towards his Witcher companion. “I wonder, how many reams of paper—how many pots of ink—would it take before you wrote your own name on that first list?”

The whittling stopped. The incessant ‘shtk, shtk’ of metal on wood faded into silence. Lambert stared at the slowly forming game piece in his hand. For a while, Jaskier didn’t think he would answer. He’d pretend he hadn’t heard despite the absurdity of such a lie. “I love all the things I do ‘cause I have a choice in it.”

Jaskier didn’t say anything, he sat up to indicate he was listening, and Lambert sighed heavily through this nose. 

“I can choose to—,” he ground his teeth. “I can choose to love beer, and chess,” the new playing piece waved in front of his face, “but I never got a choice in me. Who I am, what… I became. When I look in the mirror, all I see is this fucking…” He didn’t have the words, so trailed off. “Truth is, bard, I wouldn’t be on the first list. I’d be on the second. First thing. In bold. Underlined. There isn’t anythin’ here to be loved.”

 The whittling continued. More furious, focused, and Jaskier watched Lambert’s face while he carefully constructed what he wanted to say next. “Then you must think us all fools,” he said finally. “All of us who love you.” 

Lambert swallowed, but he didn’t look up.

“One day, my dearest wolf,” Jaskier kicked his long legs out across the bedroll beneath him. “One day you will look in that mirror and see the man we do. The one that deserves all the love our hearts have to give. And you know what will happen? That first list? Of all the things you love? It’ll get longer, and longer, while the second will crumble into disuse.”

Lambert grunted and focused on his task. It would take more than a single conversation to change Lambert’s perspective on himself, but that was the point of loyal family and friends, wasn’t it? They’d keep repeating the same fucking mantra until they were blue in the face and beyond. And one day—one glorious day—you might even begin to believe them.

[narniaandplowmen]

The Wild Abandoned

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Also on AO3

6773 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply

Complete

When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all.

CHAPTER 1 - The Wild Abandoned

Animals following him wasn’t that unusual, all things considered. Most creatures were curious about this strange, not-quite-human being travelling through their territory, but even when Geralt fed them the scraps of his own meal none of them had followed him for - Geralt narrowed his eyes and mentally tallied. For five days, at least. Of which Geralt spent only three asleep, deciding to hurry his travels as his coin ran out. He had heard rumours of Posada looking for a Witcher, and - although he hated himself for it - he hoped none had shown up yet. He did not have to check his purse to know there was only one coin left in it, nor did he need to check his supplies to know they were dwindling. Geralt sighed as he heard the creature following him speed up to catch up with the chestnut mare. Whatever it was, it would be scared away as soon as he arrived in Posada. If there was any lesson Geralt had learned over and over and over again during his time on the Path, it was to never get attached.

In Posada, he met a bard named Jaskier, and his life changed.

Two decades later, on a mountain, half the continent over, his life changed again.

When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell.

He knew the smell of humans lingered, but five days, an equal amount of baths in the Gwenllech and three un- and repackings of his supplies later, Geralt could still faintly smell the bard’s distinctive, pinewood, autumn leaves and wolve’s fur smell, although the flowery perfume he usually masked it with was gone.

Geralt tried to blame his surroundings for creating the smell, but he knew there were no pine trees to be found for at least a hundred miles.

It was still the middle of summer as well.

He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.

* * *

He knew it was still too early to arrive in Kaer Morhen, so although this far North wasn’t his usual territory, he took whichever jobs he could get. The benefit of breaking out of his usual stomping grounds was, aside from the fact that the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’-legend was not tied to his name, that Jaskier’s joyful catchy kind annoying songs hadn’t reached the area either. A group of drowners, two frighteners, a wreight and a cockatrice later, he could almost forget what happened on the mountain.

Almost.

It wasn’t till the beginning of October, after the wreight but before the second frightener, that Geralt noticed he was being followed. The animal seemingly attempted not to get noticed, timing his footsteps at the exact rhythm of the latest Roach, a horse with a surprisingly consistent walk. Geralt did not know how long it had been following him, but that night he purposefully didn’t finish the rabbit he had hunted and roasted, throwing the bones with plenty of meat in the bushes behind him, in the general direction of the sound of softly padded paws touching the forest floor.

The next day, the bones and meat were still there.

The sound, however, was gone.

He tried not to let the overwhelming silence bother him.

Three days later, Geralt was almost convinced his offer had scared the creature away. Either that, or the pouring rain had caused the animal to give up on his curious pursuit, and find shelter somewhere in the cavernous mountains. The resulting floods paid Geralt’s next meal and shelter as he took care of the drowners plaguing one of the small Northern villages. They pay had been small, but the citizens thanked him for arriving so quickly. For a moment he feared that the villagers would burst into an all-too-familiar song, but instead they told him a neighbouring place needed his help as well.

After fighting the second freightner, the now-familiar sound of the animal’s steps returned. So did the rains, and Geralt decided to cut this season short and turn his meandering route into a direct journey to Kaer Morhen, the closest thing to a home he knew, except for- No. The closest thing to a home he knew. Geralt stared at the deer-made path ahead of him and banned all thoughts from a certain bard out of his head.

* * *

The creature, whatever it was, kept following him. If his medallion hadn’t stayed silent, Geralt would almost be worried. It was far away from its own territory now that the towering, deciduous-treed and cavernous Dragon Mountains had been replaced by the equally towering but pine-treed, steep-cliffed Blue Mountains. The creature hadn’t accepted a single offer of food, or shelter, or warmth. Not even when Geralt, silently cursing his own idiocy, had called out into the forest that the food thrown away was intended for this mysterious pursuer.

Geralt almost considered travelling the long way so he would pass through the planes, simply to see if the creature would follow, would allow himself to be seen, but that morning he woke up covered in a thin layer of snow.

He saddled Roach, saw his latest offering of food was once again ignored, and hastened his journey towards Kaer Morhen.

The creature followed, even during the treacherous journey towards the Witchers’ Castle.

Geralt almost resented the idea of wintering inside, since the creature would surely leave before spring.

‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive,’ Geralt had called into the dark two nights before arriving home. ‘You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’

His reply, as usual, had been silence.

The next day, the creature followed still.

* * *

‘Geralt! You’re uncharacteristically early,’ Vesemir greeted him at the gate.

‘Stayed North this time. I- I was already on my way back, simply hurried my way when the snow started.’

‘You were on your way back? Did that bard of yours finally take that teaching position Oxenfurt has been begging him to accept?’

Geralt placed his bags on the stable floor a little more violently than needed.

‘He’s not my bard. And I don’t care what he is doing right now. It’s not my concern.’

That evening, after a bath in the hot springs and a nice bowl of soup eaten next to the safety and warmth of the fire, the entire story came out, and Vesimir’s heart bled for his young pup.

* * *

Geralt didn’t mention the strange creature that had been following him until Eskel arrived two weeks later, mentioning that he had been followed for the last days of his journey home.

He wasn’t jealous at all when Lambert, arriving five days later, reported he had seen a wolf-like creature from a distance. Nor did he find an excuse to leave the dinner table to train his frustration away when Lambert said he had even fed the creature, for it looked haggard and ragged.

* * *

They didn’t speak of the creature till mid-December, when the three men went out into the snowy wilderness to hunt for fresh meat.

The creature was still there, following them from a distance.

‘If that thing ate every living thing on the mountain, we might not catch any prey at all,’ Eskel wondered aloud after two hours of fruitless searching.

‘Well, it clearly didn’t eat every living thing on this mountain,’ Lambert replied, to a frowning Eskel.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we’re still here.’

‘I would barely call you ‘living’,’ Eskel retorted, steadying his stance just in time for Lambert to pounce on him.

‘Shh guys!’ Geralt hissed, focussing on a sudden burst of sound in the forest. A running predator, a fleeing prey,  breaking branches, noises rapidly going louder until CRACK a frightened deer broke through a frozen bush, leaping over Eskel, a panicked cry as the Witcher grabbed her leg and pulled her down.

‘It does feel pretty unfair,’ Lambert mused as they dragged the carcass back to the castle. ‘This isn’t our prey, we stole it from that wolf. Should we, like, leave a part of it as some sort of thanks?’

Geralt ignored his two brothers but did hold out his bloodied sword when they decided to leave a part of the animal behind.

The next morning, the Witchers were woken up by a loud howl. When Geralt looked outside, he saw a bloody trail leading from the forest to the castle gate, where their offering was returned. ‘Looks like we didn’t steal its prey after all.’

* * *

The knowledge that, outside of the thick, stone walls, there was some creature looking out for them, made it a strange winter. From the brief glances in the dark evening, they had concluded it must be a wolf, but no reasoning for its seeming loyalty could be found. There was no magic, no curses or spells, no laws of surprise offered to pregnant wolves that could explain the presence of the animal. It didn’t seem to want shelter, and offered food was only touched occasionally. Any attempts at luring it out of the forest failed, as the wolf seemed to know when they were watching.

Geralt didn’t attack his brothers more aggressively during their training when the only consistency they could find was that the wolf didn’t seem to want to accept anything from Geralt, nor show itself when Geralt was nearby.

He also didn’t resent Vesemir when he told them one morning that he had seen the wolf prowling around the castle, and that when he had spoken to it, it had sat down and listened, its head slightly tilted and bright blue eyes surprisingly intelligent.

And that spring, when he travelled south and heard the creature following him, he most certainly didn’t feel relieved.

That was, not after he heard the news that the famous bard Jaskier had gone missing, hadn’t been seen in almost a year. Rumours were that the last time he was spotted, was in the presence of a certain white-haired witcher.

His arrival in larger cities was met with thrown rocks and angry insults.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be called a butcher and a murderer.

It was yet another reminder never to get attached.

The first coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he carefully made his way down the mountain was his internal surprise that he wasn’t crying. In all the songs of heartbreak and rejection, there were tears, heartbroken cries of anguish and dramatic falling to the knees. But the reality was that Jaskier was empty. Completely and utterly empty. For once he was devoid of words, devoid of song, devoid of poetic descriptions, laughs, chatter, of everything that made him the apparently so burdensome travel companion as he was.

The second coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he gathered his stuff from the inn and made his way into the forest was that he was lucky he never showed his more useful side to the Witcher. If he had, his broken heart would now most likely be literally torn to pieces. Geralt didn’t kill monsters, only if they hurt others.

And isn’t that what he did?

* * *

It took him half a day to find a body of water large and still enough to reflect his entire length. On the edge of the cave’s pool, lit by a hole in the ceiling letting in the midday sunlight, he started taking out his belongings, dividing them into three neat piles of ‘keep’, ‘toss’ and ‘hide’. The cavern itself gave ample opportunity for ‘hide’, and whatever he deemed unworthy of keeping was tossed in the ice-cold water. Whilst he waited for the stillness of the water to return, he methodically packed the rest of his belongings, taking in each item with precision.

A spider building his web in the opening between the light bright world of the insects and the darkness of the cave the eight-legged creature preferred, looked down at the strange man below him. He seemed to stare into the water for an eternity, before the form shifted, turned, and ran.

* * *

He didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all. Sure, there were quicker ways to reach the undiscovered regions north of Haakland, but those weren’t safe. Passing through planes and cities in this shape would certainly cause his end.

Jaskier told himself that travelling as a human would only slow him down.

He told himself that he couldn’t perform with this emptiness inside.

He knew that was nonsense, he knew he could act, pretend, and nobody would notice.

He followed Geralt anyway.

* * *

It was almost as if the past two decades hadn’t happened. It was almost as if he was still a young wolf, on his way back home after receiving his education, following a mysterious rider smelling of adventure and death and destiny.

Like last time, it took Geralt an embarrassingly long time to notice his presence. Unlike last time, he had gotten quite good at timing his footsteps to match that of Roach’s. And unlike last time, Geralt had thrown meat and bones in his direction.

Jaskier refused to eat. He could take care of himself, without being a burden.

He made sure to take a different route that night, knowing the direction in which Geralt was headed. He was practised with catching up to the Witcher by now, he was almost surprised that he had been able to find the man at all. If he was the cause of all of Geralt’s suffering, you’d think someone with Witcher training would be able to avoid him.

Then again, you’d think someone with Witcher training would know what he was.

* * *

After fighting a lost garkain without Geralt noticing a thing, Jaskier decides to follow the man for the Witcher’s own safety.

He does not allow himself to think about why Geralt is so out of form that he doesn’t notice a garkain following him for a full day, or the fight happening less than fifty miles from his camp. Instead, Jaskier blames the rain for Geralt’s sudden ineptitude.

He rejoins Geralt after he exits the village where he, according to two children playing witcher-and-monster a little too far into the woods, has defeated a freightener. He ignores every offering of food the Witcher throws in his direction. Not even when the man stupidly yells into the forest that the food was meant for him. There are enough squirrels and rabbits to hunt himself.

He never allows the Witcher to see him.

* * *

They are about a two-days journey away from Kaer Morhen when Geralt addresses him again. ‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive. You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’

If Jaskier were human, he’d laugh. ‘What do you think I am doing,’ he thinks instead. ‘Where do you think I am going? My territory is not where you finally noticed me following you. My territory is here, with you.’

It’s that last thought that makes him halt. His territory isn’t the Haakland’s mountains anymore, it isn’t the pack he left behind, nor is it Oxenfurt, nor is it any court he has performed at. His territory for the past twenty years has been Geralt.

But Geralt’s territory has never been him.

He follows Geralt to the top of the mountain and then makes his way down to await the Witcher’s brothers.

* * *

Eskel notices he is being followed after an hour. Lambert after fifteen minutes. As some sort of price, he allows the Witcher to see him, for just a bit.

He graciously accepts the offered food. He stays on the mountain, unable to leave his territory.

He knows it’s pathetic, he knows he should leave, he knows he will easily be able to take up the position as Alpha and lead his family through Haakland and beyond.

He stays near Geralt anyways.

* * *

It is well into December when he hears three pairs of footprints and silent banter echo through the forest he has now gotten to know so well. The Witchers, out for a hunt. He shrugs, listens where they are headed, and turns to run the other side.

He follows them, of course. And when he sees a lost deer that could feed him for the next month to come, he chases it towards them.

He wastes his precious energy that night dragging their pitiful offering back to the castle’s gate. An Alpha takes care of his pack, not the other way around.

He only eats from their offered food thrice. Twice out of politeness, and once because he is desperate. There isn’t much game and the mountain is cold.

* * *

He doesn’t approach the castle when he knows Geralt is watching. He knows the others have seen glances of him, and he secretly wonders if Geralt is frustrated that he is the only one who hasn’t. He wonders if Geralt has even noticed that he is the only one who hasn’t seen him.

In mid-February, during a particularly bright night, Vesemir talks to him. It’s mostly stuff Jaskier already knows: about who and what the Witchers are, about their history, about their home. But it is also things he doesn’t know. Vesemir tells about Lambert’s love for a Witcher from a different school, about Eskel’s insecurities regarding his scars, and finally, right before dawn starts to break, Vesemir tells him about Geralt. About how he most tortured of the children adopted into in Kaer Morhen managed to find joy on the Path in the shape of a brightly-coloured bard, who followed him and cared for him relentlessly for twenty years. About how he could finally let go of the heavy burden of his responsibilities, how he could finally see it as a joy rather than an oppressive fate. About how he realised the mortality of this human bard when he visited a village just as the little boy whose life he once saved was being carried to his grave by his grandchildren. About how all of the Witchers learned to never get attached. About the danger of the wolf being there, for it is clear the inhabitants of the ancient castle are getting attached to his weird loyalty.

That spring, Jaskier follows Geralt on the Path. He is his territory, after all.

Jaskier is too forgiving. When Geralt exits the first big city with wounds and quickly forming bruises, he is once again reminded the rest of the world is not.

[pressedinthepages]

Retreat

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Lambert/Aiden

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n:  It’s @sometimesiwrite Margaret’s birthday!!! In the spirit of such a marvelous occasion, I wrote this thingy!

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: language

Modern AU. Lambert brings Aiden home for the first time.

    “So... what’s with the gate?” Aiden’s eyes darted around as Lambert stuck his hand out the window, punching in the code for the keypad. 

    “This place is centuries old, we’re lucky it was still standing when Vesemir inherited it. He spends most of the year here, doing repairs and maintenance and shit. He doesn’t want kids sneaking up here, so. Gate.”

    The metal gate creaked and groaned as it opened, yawning wide enough for their car to fit through into the shadows of the trees overhead. “Listen, Aiden, I know I told you that it’s kind of an...odd place to vacation, but-” Lambert mumbled as light filtered in through the pine needles, but was cut off as their destination suddenly loomed into view. 

    “Holy fuck,” Aiden breathed, leaning forward in his seat, “You didn’t tell me that you guys lived in a CASTLE?!?”

    “Well, I-”

    “No no, shut up. I need to take this in. This is insane, we’re staying here?”

    Lambert glanced over at Aiden, his green eyes shining with the frost glancing off the windshield. His dark curls were tucked up into a navy blue beanie, though a few tendrils escaped to drift down over the scar atop his nose. He wore a form-fitting brown leather jacket that emphasized his lean shoulders and his cheeks flushed pink from the warm air inside of the car.     “Yup. Old family home, tucked up in the mountains. Fuckin’ gorgeous sunrises, though we have to cut our own firewood ‘cause there’s not any heat.” The tires crunched over gravel as they drove over the bridge leading into the keep.

    Aiden’s hand shot out and grasped onto Lambert’s arm. “No heat?! And you didn’t maybe, think to tell me at some point? Lambert, I knew you were an idiot, but I can’t beli-”

    “Calm your tits, I was kidding,” Lambert chuckled as he threw the car into park. Aiden pouted over at him, his lower lip sticking out and his eyes narrowed. Lambert leaned over the center console and pecked him on the lips before undoing his seatbelt. “C’mon, you grump. Let’s bring all of this shit in.”

    The cold air nipped Lambert’s nose in a burst as he swung open his door. He shivered and popped the trunk, grabbing his one duffel bag and throwing it over his shoulder. Aiden appeared at his side and grabbed his luggage, setting it on the ground and pulling up the handle. “You got the wine?”

    “Yeah, I’ll grab it,” Lambert reached in for the bag that was almost the size of his duffel bag. Filled to the brim with various bottles of wines, this was to be their offering for the winter potlucks. Everyone brought something each year, and Lambert was always in charge of wine. 

    Aiden’s luggage left two little wheel tracks in the frosty grass as the two of them walked up the courtyard. The great oak doors to the castle were closed, likely keeping in as much warmth as they could. They reached the top of the stairs and Aiden grabbed Lambert’s hand, squeezing lightly to stop.

    Lambert looked back at him, his golden eyes soft in the setting sun. “Don’t worry that pretty little head,” he murmured, squeezing Aiden’s hand and pressing their foreheads together. “They’re going to love you.”

    Aiden swallowed thickly and shut his eyes for a moment, letting Lambert’s calm wash over him. “It’s gonna be fine.”

    “Mhm, and we get this nice big ass bed all to ourselves…” Lambert smirked, adorably crooking his head to the side. 

    “Does the room have its own fireplace?” Aiden smiled as he blinked his eyes open. 

    Lambert nodded, “Sure does, and enough furs to keep the whole of Skellige warm.”

    “That’s a lot of furs.”

    “C’mon, let’s go in, you big softie.”

    “Wait!” Aiden pulled Lambert back to him and pressed their lips together quickly. Lambert let out a surprised “mmph!” before melting into him, chasing his lips when Aiden broke away.

    “Okay,” he breathed, fixing Lambert’s coat on his shoulders, “now I’m ready.”

    Lambert smiled and pulled open the doors, ushering him in before slamming them shut behind them. He took Aiden’s free hand, feeling the welcome thrum of his heart beneath his skin as they walked through the quiet halls to the main living area. 

    They didn’t get far in, however, before Lambert was nearly tackled to the ground by a whirlwind of silver hair and flailing limbs. “Uncle Lamb!”

    Lambert laughed as he set down the bag of wine before wrapping his arms around Ciri’s waist. “Hey, pipsqueak. Keeping your old man on his toes?”

    “Always, gotta make sure he stays fresh.” Ciri smiled, her teeth still a little crooked from where she refused to wear her retainer a few years back. Now, just shy of 16, she was a hellion for her father, her mind much too large for the world around her. 

    “Please,” Geralt grumbled from the couch, glancing over at the two, shit no three, of them. He clearly did a double-take at Aiden, but offered no further comment on their newest arrival. “I can still run circles around you on the Comb.”

    “Uh-huh,” Eskel called from the kitchen nook where he and Vesemir were sorting through the pantry, “I’d like to see that. What’s it been, 8, 9 years since you got up on that thing?”

    Geralt hummed as Eskel walked in, his gaze immediately drawn to Aiden. Lambert cleared his throat and scratched at the back of his neck. “H-hey Vesemir? Would you come in here, please?”

    The old wolf’s brows raised at the shakiness (and politeness) of Lambert’s voice. He dusted off his hands and moved into the living area, finding his family with a new face smack dab in the middle of them all.

    “Well,” he shrugged, “I’m here.”

    Lambert nodded, “Yup. Sure are. Ah, this,” he grabbed Aiden’s hand again, holding on for dear life, “is Aiden. He uh, he’s a Witcher too, a-and he’s...fuck, he’s my boyfriend.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, even Ciri, who was nearly vibrating with excitement. Vesemir stepped forward, resting his hand on Aiden’s shoulder and boring his eyes deep into his soul. Shit, don’t back down, everything’s fine, he’s just trying to protect his son, fuckfuckfuckfuck- 

“Good, welcome to the family.” Vesemir turned back to the kitchen, leaving everyone in a somewhat shocked silence. Geralt sipped from his mug, glancing up to Eskel. The two of them did their weird fuckin ‘talk without talking’ thing back and forth before Eskel leaned down and grabbed the wine.

“We’re glad he’s found someone he can count on,” Eskel smiled sincerely as he pulled out the bottle on top. “Toussaint?”

Aiden cleared his throat. “Y-yeah, that one’s my favorite.”

Eskel nodded thoughtfully. “Good, we’ll drink tonight. Gotta have a good welcome party.”

Geralt stood up and snatched the bottle from Eskel, squinting at the label, “Hey, this one’s my vineyard’s!”

Aiden’s jaw dropped, “Your vineyard?? Gods, Lambert! Why don’t you tell me anything?”

Lambert shrugged, “Have to keep some things a surprise.”

Ciri peered up at Aiden, her bright eyes calculating as she met Aiden’s. “What kind of swords do you use?”

Aiden was...taken aback by that question, but only floundered for a heartbeat. “I-well, I typically use short swords, though I carry throwing daggers too.”

“Fuck, that’s awesome!”

“Ciri, language,” Geralt growled, though he fell on deaf ears.

“Can you teach me to throw daggers? Please, Uncle Aiden?”

Geralt sighed as Ciri continued to beg, Aiden’s eyes shining a bit at having already earned the most glorious title in the keep. 

“Tomorrow, kid,” Geralt pulled Ciri’s elbow, leaving them with a smile, “let them unpack. They’ll be here all winter.” 

Aiden listened to the receding footsteps as he looked over at Lambert, who was still tightly holding his hand. “Well, that went pretty good.”

Lambert leaned down and captured his lips, still cold from the chill and so darn soft. His hands snaked up around Aiden’s neck as he held him close, desperately pouring himself into him. “You’re amazing.”

“We’re gonna have a great winter,” Aiden smirked, wrapping his arms around Lambert’s waist and pulling him back into his embrace. 

[kell-be-belle]

The Metamorphosis

Summary:  Following his second trial, Geralt notices something strange happening to his hair that leaves him feeling unsettled. As a new reality sets in, Geralt finds himself grasping to keep hold of the person he was, but fighting against the change is like swimming upstream. The young witcher must let go of the dream of the life he could have had and learn to live with realiy of the one he has now.

Ao3

Eskel is the first to notice the change. They are in the bath house, scrubbing themselves of the sweat and grime collected from that afternoon’s training session, when he traces a circle around the crown of Geralt’s head. Geralt looks up at his brother with an arched brow, clusters of soap bubbles bursting weakly on his temples. They smell faintly of pine.  

“Your hair,” Eskel comments vaguely. It has begun to grow shaggy; curling boyishly around his ears. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time it had been cut. Sometime before his second trial, he supposed, which meant a few months at most. Between his recovery and subsequent reintroduction into training, there hasn’t been much opportunity. Not that Geralt was complaining. Haircuts were often handled by Vesemir and the witcher’s prowess with a sword in no way extended to that of its far more domestic cousin. He left most boys looking like hastily shorn sheep. 

“Look,” Eskel asserts, pointing to one of the mirrors by the stack of washing basins. Geralt douses himself to remove the last of the soap and pads across the room. The soles of his bare feet make a wet slap against the stone. He swipes an open palm against the mirror, exposing a strip of the glass beneath the steam to bear his reflection. Nearly two summers have passed since Geralt survived the Trial of the Grasses and still the preternatural gleam of his eyes in the haze makes something squirm inside him. 

Focusing on the task at hand, Geralt tilts his head this way and that in attempts to discern what Eskel had seen. All appears normal. As normal as things could for a burgeoning witcher. Geralt’s hair is a deep copper, like the rust on a blade left by the battlefield. A coin forgotten in a pocket. Memories of his mother are scarce, but he can distinctly recall the color of her hair. Red, not unlike his own, but a much more violent shade. When she walked, it had shimmered behind her like a trail of fire. The mythical firebird given human form.  

Geralt tips his head forward, pushing his gaze so far up it makes his eyes ache in their sockets, but at last he sees it. There, sprouting from the crown of his head like a star burst, is a patch of grey. No, not grey. Silver? He tilts his head further forward, pushes his gaze so much that he can see the ascending curve of his own lashes.

No, not silver. 

White. Ashen and blanched as the bark on a birch tree. Fallen snow. Milk in the pail.  

With a hand braced against the slick glass of the mirror, Geralt turns to Eskel in search of resolution. Between the effects of the trials and the more general physical changes of a boy of fourteen, Geralt had grown somewhat accustomed to his ever altering appearance. His cheeks had lost much of their youthful fullness along with their color. His nose had been broken enough times to knot with a permanent crookedness. His muscles had begun to swell under the stretch of his skin; a combination of the relentless training and the transition into maturity. Geralt was no longer the child he had once been. That child had been abandoned on the roadside. Literally and figuratively left to the wolves. He understood that much of him had changed and that much still would, but there had to be some limit. A line drawn in the sand that warned to step no further.

Eskel looked at Geralt helplessly, his mouth a hard line across the expanse of his jaw. Of course he had no explanation. He and Geralt were the same, afterall. Unwanted children left with no option other than to persevere. Sailors thrown overboard and beaten mercilessly by the waves. Eskel carefully rearranges his features and comes to join Geralt beside the mirror, pressing a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. “Perhaps talk to Vesemir?” he offers hopefully, though the quaver in his voice is still detectable. He is afraid and doing his best not to show it. The prospect of speaking with Vesemir soothes him marginally, but dread still slithers like a serpent in Geralt’s belly. 

Eskel takes Geralt by the wrist and leads him to one of the pools, promising there is nothing an extended soak in the warm, sulfuric waters couldn’t help. Geralt severely doubts that, but Eskel has always been the more optimistic of them. He hopes- perhaps even prays, but to which gods, he does not know- that, that optimism won’t be misplaced.     

***

Vesemir had had no explanation for the change in Geralt’s hair. He consulted with the Council of Masters who in turn consulted with the mages who also had no explanation. No other witcher had undergone the secondary trials and lived to be observed. A side effect, they theorized. Geralt was observed meticulously in the following weeks and when nothing else concerning emerged, they went back to overlooking him. They moved onto some other novelty, other design, other torture.  

Geralt’s hair is now shoulder length. A curtain he has taken to hiding behind. The white has grown out to cover the majority of his scalp and upon a quick glance, it looks as though he’s wearing some sort of cap. He has thought about cutting it, but every time he thinks of Vesemir’s scissors razing through the rust colored ends he feels his throat tighten. For the time being, he can still pretend that things are as they have always been. The color that flashes at the corner of his eye is still familiar. 

There is, however, a problem with pretending.  

Geralt cannot stand to look at himself in the mirror. Cannot stand the reminder of reality. He goes to great lengths to avoid facing his own reflection in polished blades and sets of armor; puddles after the rain and the empty plate at the end of meals. The bath house has become his only place of reprieve. The steam on the glass keeps his reflection obscured. Here, he is only the impression of a person. A ghost. Just another of the hundreds of spectres that haunt the halls of Kaer Morhen. 

While he can avoid his own reflection, Geralt cannot escape the scrutiny of his peers. The other boys whisper about him as he sits perched upon a stool, scraping the blood and dirt from under his fingernails. They whisper about him constantly. On the training grounds, in the dormitories and dining hall. It is an incessant humming like cicadas in the lush summer trees. They must know he can hear them; the trials have heightened their hearing, afterall. Perhaps that is why they do it. Perhaps they want him to hear just so they can watch the way he curls in upon himself; watch the shuttering of his yellow eyes. Fresh blood mixes with the dried on Geralt’s fingertips where an old wound is reopened by his fierce and careless scrubbing. 

Geralt feels numb to it.    

Eskel pads up beside him, jovial as ever. He slaps Geralt heartily between the shoulder blades, tawdrily commending him for his performance on the Killer. Geralt smiles sheepishly, gives his brother an affectionate shove. Their love is warm and rough. A caress from calloused palms. He knows that Eskel is distracting him, though he can’t say his praises aren’t entirely misplaced. Geralt has found himself faster these days; stronger and more reactive, too. He is rising through the ranks like smoke to the sky. He will be top of their class soon. Pride swells small and buoyant in Geralt’s chest like a tentative flower blossoming under the ministrations of the sun. 

A flower swiftly trodden under the careless traveler’s boot.  

“A freak, even for a witcher.” In the cavernous expanse of the bathhouse, the words of the other boys bounce off stone and mist. Omnipresent. “More monstrous than the rest of us.” Their yellow eyes gleam in the haze and he is surrounded by them. A pack of wolves on the hunt. Geralt is closing in on himself again, protecting his most tender parts. “Perhaps one day he himself will need to be slain.”  

Geralt hastily douses himself to clean off the worst of the grime. He cannot stand to stay in the bath house a moment longer; not with all the wolves waiting to devour him. He rushes back to the changing room; to the nook where he had stored away his tunic and trousers. His skin is still damp as he tugs on his clothes and the rough cotton drags against him like hungry fingers. It makes his stomach turn. 

“Wait, Geralt!” Eskel is there, a towel wrapped loosely around the circle of his hips. A sliver of the pine-smelling soap is still clutched in the cage of his fingers. “Ignore them! Their insults only mask their jealousy.” Eskel is probably right, but still Geralt burns with shame as if soaked in pitch and set alight. It consumes him like a forest fire. 

A dampened hand clamps down on his shoulder as Geralt moves to turn away, and in the maddening din of his thoughts, he lashes out. He whirls and shoves his brother away with uncontrolled force. The antithesis to the raw tenderness they had shared mere moments ago; that suddenly seems like a lifetime ago. It is brutal and savage. The desperate strike of an animal trapped. Eskel is sent crashing back against the line of alcoves; the air knocked from his lungs in a hissing rush.

Horror strikes cold and fierce in Geralt’s chest as he realizes what he has done and for a moment he is frozen. His hands clutch uselessly in the folds of his tunic. He wants to apologize, but the words gather thick in his throat like molasses. The shame reignites within him with the ferocity of a dying star and he is burning, burning, burning. It will incinerate him. Not even his bones will remain; only ashes from which nothing will be reborn. Geralt turns and rushes up the stairs from the bath house, his boots slipping on the damp stone and sending him to his hands and knees. He crawls from the depths like the pitiful creature he is and does not look back. 

*****

When his senses returned, Geralt regretted his actions towards Eskel. The guilt gnawed in his belly as deep and raw as hunger. He apologized in the best way someone like him could, which wasn’t much. It was nowhere near the apology that Eskel deserved. Eskel, however, seemed to think it sufficient enough and smoothed over the event with an easy smile and good-natured insult. Things shifted back into place, but still they felt changed. It was like a pot broken and fastened together once more. The water still held, but the cracks remained. Geralt feared one day the cracks would open anew and send everything they ever shared spilling out.

He tries not to think about it.     

Geralt’s hair now stretches down the center of his back; the sheaf of it swings loosely between his shoulder blades. It hangs about him like a veil. A perverse vision of a blushing bride. The white has surmounted his head; his natural rust clinging to the ends like a brush dipped in paint. When the boys whisper of him now, it is not longer with thinly veiled jealousy, but overt pity. Geralt is sight to behold.  

He escapes the main keep whenever he has the chance. 

Vesemir is beside Geralt now, puffing away at the stem of his pipe. He and Geralt are perched along the eastern curtain wall of the outer keep. It has long served as a refuge where the two often came to unwind in companionable silence. Kindred spirits. Dusk is forging ahead and with the setting sun the valley below is ablaze in shades of scarlet and ochre. The silhouettes of the Blue Mountains loom against the darkening sky like sentries great and ancient. 

“You’re going to have to cut it,” Vesemir rumbles into the silence, exhaling the smoke from the pipe. It smells of foriegn spices and is lost almost instantly to the wind. 

Geralt moistens his lips in a bid to gain time to think of his response. “It does not hinder me. I have begun tying it back.” A weak excuse and certainly not what Vesemir meant, but he can think of nothing else. 

Vesemir snorts, “Don’t play dumb, Geralt. It doesn’t suit you.” Geralt fists clench where they rest against his thighs. The elder witcher was a shrewd one, indeed. “You will not advance until this business is finished.” Vesemir is rustling through the pack beside him, but Geralt keeps his eyes trained on the sinking sun. Though weakened, the rays of light still piece through his sensitive eyes like needles. Adjusting the size of his pupils would be a simple solution, but Geralt feels no inclination to do so.

The rustling ceases and Vesemir holds the retrieved item out to Geralt. He takes his eyes off the sun and looks. In Vesemir’s palm lay a dagger. It is simply embellished by leather wrappings with a blade whose edge shines molten in the dying sun. Geralt’s heart leaps into his throat and feels himself choke around its girth. He looks at Vesemir desperately, but there is an unyielding in the witcher’s yellow eyes. 

This is not something he can help with. This is something Geralt must do on his own. 

With trembling fingers, Geralt takes the dagger from Vesemir’s hand. His palm is moist with sweat and the leather feels tacky in his grasp. He turns it over in his hand, momentarily catching his reflection in the high polish of the blade. It is not much more than a sliver, but even that is too much to bear.  

Weak. Pathetic. Monstrous.  

That is what all of this boils down to. That is the thing that tightens his throat and clenches his heart. Geralt’s hair is more than just that. It is the last connection to his humanity. The last connection to the person he once was; the person he could have been had he only the chance to become him. It is the last piece of his mother and though he loathes her, he still yearns for her in the way all young boys are wont to. Cutting his hair feels like surrendering. Giving up. Resigning himself to the fact that this is now and forevermore the life he will lead. 

A witcher. A mutant. No home or family; just an infinite stretch of lonely road with nothing at the end.    

Geralt had been taken so young he hadn’t even had the chance to dream of the things he wanted for himself. Nothing beyond the grandeur of adventure and heroics he supposed all little boys dreamt of. If given the chance, what would he have wanted? A modest life in a modest village? A home with a crackling hearth and a companion to keep it warm? Honest work and the mouths of young ones to feed with the coin earned? 

What did it matter? Those were things no longer for him. They never would be.   

Vesemir’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. It is not a gentle touch nor an affectionate one, but it has a weight and warmth that is grounding. It calms the tempest of Geralt’s thoughts; weakens them to a dull roar. “There is no going back, Geralt. The only way is forward.” It is not the thing that Geralt wants to hear, but he knows it is the thing he must.  

Geralt grasps the dagger firmly in one hand and with the other gathers a section of his bicolored hair. He pulls the strands taught and his scalp pinches with the force of it, but that is his intention. 

He wants for it to hurt.

Drawing in a deep breath, Geralt leaves himself no more time to dither. The blade glints momentarily in the light as he pulls it through with rough, halting cuts. Despite the sharpness of the blade, cutting through his hair proves more difficult than expected. The world could have ended and been rebuilt anew in the time it takes him to finish. As he renders the last strands, Geralt is panting heavily; lungs constricted by a combination of effort and emotion. Most of his hair has been scattered by the wind, but a clump remains clutched in his fist. The blood of a wound staunched, but not yet clean. It takes some effort for Geralt to uncurl his fingers and allow the final remnants to blow free, but eventually they, too, are carried away on the wind to places unknown. Vesemir hums satisfactorily beside him and returns to smoking his pipe unperturbed. Geralt appreciates it. 

There is a sense of relief in this final surrender and it mingles bittersweet with the already existing ache in Geralt’s heart. There is nothing left of the person he was before and with that change has taken root. At last, there is finality. There is no going back. As Vesemir had said, the only way is forward. 

The metamorphosis is complete.

A/N:  Look, I just have so many feelings about young Geralt. I want to dive deep into that inner psyche and explore the things that shaped him into the grumbling witcher we know and love today. Hair can be such a personal thing and having it changed against your will seems so profoundly traumatizing (which is in no way related to my own rapidly greying hair despite being in my mid twenties).

[wherethewordsare]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Elven Characters Additional Tags: Accidental Marriage, fae magic probably doesn't work like this, but it's for plot reasons, Just Roll With It, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, in a way? - Freeform, yeah we're gonna go with hurt comfort, they're hurting rn, but chapter two there's comfort, soooo, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Outdoor Sex, Sex Against A Tree, snark as a love language, cause i wrote this so of course there is, i know what im about people Summary:

It was then that Geralt had realized that his medallion hadn’t stopped humming after they had passed through into the fae lands. He was under the effect of some kind of magic. That had to be it. That had to be why every mark on Jaskier’s skin, every drop of blood that ran down into the hollow of his throat made Geralt want to set the whole place ablaze.

“Well?” the woman asked again. Everything around them seemed to go perfectly still. Even the birds stopped their fluttering and the insects had gone quiet.

“I claim the bard as mine,” Geralt said flatly. He didn’t lower his sword or move away from Jaskier.

She smiled at him and his medallion nearly shook his ribcage apart as some kind of raw magic wrapped around them both. Everything was bright and warm for a moment and then everything had gone dark.