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limerental · 2 years

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ficletober day 31 - geraskier with implied geraskefer

It's the night of the annual Halloween party at the Rivia-Vengerberg manor, and a host of supernatural creatures are about to arrive. Too bad Jaskier, the resident party planner and werewolf, forgot that tonight's a full moon.

And this is my last ficlet boys! No warning's for this one. It's just kooky goofy Halloween nonsense. Featuring the Witcher cast as varying creatures in a nebulously modern au.

Hopefully you've enjoyed reading my weird little ficlets this month as much as I've enjoyed pooping them out every day.

“Fuck,” Jaskier swore, cursing the Universe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

In a perfect storm of unfortunate events, the first guests attending his annual Halloween shebang hosted at the Rivia-Vengerberg manor were due to start arriving in under an hour, the party supply store down the street had had a woefully small stock of fake spider webs, leaving the house scantily underwebbed, Lambert had just called to say he would be late with the keg, the Spotify playlist he had made for the evening suddenly seemed like it was in the wrong order, and he had forgotten, in all of his planning, to account for the fact that tonight was a full moon and that he, Jaskier, was the resident werewolf.

More pressingly, he’d misplaced his favorite pair of fishnet tights.

“Geralt,” he called down into the basement, voice pitched louder than was probably necessary. “Geralt, are you still sleeping down there? It’s nearly evening. Time to wake up.”

He tiptoed down the stairs, not really wanting to invite Geralt’s ire if he had woken up on the wrong side of the coffin. The vampire had never appreciated his manor being the site of Jaskier’s annual party but tolerated it for reasons unknown.

In the basement, he crept past the hot water tank and pool table and assorted cardboard boxes to approach the stone coffin set on a raised dias at the back of the room.

The lid stood propped open, and the pale vampire was sitting up rubbing at his temples as though he already had a headache.

“Geralt, I can’t find my fishnets,” said Jaskier, and Geralt sighed. “Oh, don’t sigh."

“I didn’t sigh,” grumbled Geralt, sighing some more.

“I can’t possibly pull this Dr. Frankenfurter costume together without a good pair of fishnets. I’d just be a sad, goth drag queen rather than– Geralt, are you listening?”

“No,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six,” said Jaskier. “Pay attention, my friend. Fishnets.”

“I’d check Ciri’s room,” mumbled Geralt. He rubbed at his face a while longer, making no move to rise from the coffin. Jaskier immediately bounded up the stairs but paused at the top, dangling on the hand railing to poke his head back into the basement.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “and I forgot uh… it’s a full moon. May have slipped my mind during the party planning. So like. When I wolf out when the moon rises, don’t let me bite anybody. That would be a smidgen embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Nearly as bad as a few years ago with the ice sculpture.”

He ducked up the stairs before he could hear Geralt’s likely judgemental answer.

Truthfully, nothing could be as bad as the ice sculpture.

And, fortunately, he was a fairly tame terrifying creature of the night. Gnawing non-consensually on people’s flesh was not his thing, even when transformed into a mindless wolf creature.

From what he had been told, because no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier could not remember his monthly episodes, his wolf form was not much different than his human one, except with less vocal skills and slightly better dance moves.

Horrible taste in music though. One year, his wolf form had ruined his Spotify Wrapped by playing Nitty Gritty’s Fishing in the Dark for seven consecutive hours.

Jaskier entered Ciri’s room with trepidation. She technically no longer lived here, off on interdimensional time travel adventures doing whatever it was a teenaged girl with universe-hopping superpowers did, but it still felt wrong to intrude on her unnervingly pastel childhood bedroom. There were a great deal of unicorns and far less half-dissected dead rats than there had been when she lived here.

Geralt was right of course, and he found his fishnets flung over the back of her desk chair. He thanked his lucky stars that they were not hopelessly tangled, and he had not had to dig through a young girl’s underwear drawer. He had half-worried that Yennefer would emerge suddenly from a darkened corner just when he was wrist-deep in bras.

The witch had yet to show herself today, though he knew she was somewhere in the house because someone kept adding My Chemical Romance songs to his trial run of the Halloween playlist blasting through the bluetooth speakers in the living room.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier called, nearly face-planting down the ornate grand staircase as he tried to pull on his fishnet tights and scurry down them at the same time. “Quit looming in the shadows like some gargoyle and help me with my corset!”

The witch materialized without a sound before him, and he did trip down the last few steps into the faux cobweb-strewn foyer, sprawling on his ass on the blood-red rug. If he did not know that Yennefer dressed like Morticia Addams every day of the year, he would compliment her Halloween costume. As it was, he scoffed at her lack of creativity.

“Come on, Yennefer, you could at least mix it up a little,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he leapt to his feet. “You of all people should fully embrace the Halloween spirit. Wear some jewel tones or something. At least one color.”

“I’m an immortal witch who lives with a vampire and an idiot werewolf in a secluded, haunted manor on a hill,” she said. “Every day is Halloween for us.”

“It’s not really haunted, is it?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any ghosts.”

“Haunted by your irritating presence."

"Yennefer. Help. Corset."

“Turn around,” she said and began to lace and tighten his corset with sharper tugs than strictly necessarily. “Isn’t it a full moon?”

“Yes, yes, I forgot the moon phase. No need for everyone to bitch at me about it.”

“I’m certainly not bitching,” she said. “Wolf man you talks far less. I could do without the leg-humping though.”

Jaskier made an apologetic gesture.

"Don't lie. You love the leg-humping."

Yennefer scoffed.

When he got drunk enough, he was prone to humping Yennefer’s legs even in man form.

Ciri was the first of the guests to arrive, spiling through a shimmering portal into the middle of the living room. She was dressed as the Thirteenth Doctor, and a unicorn stepped through the portal behind her, wearing a Dalek eyestalk covering the slender horn on its forehead.

Jaskier considered reminding her that this household had had a firm “no horses allowed inside” rule since the infamous Roach in the attic incident, but he wasn’t actually certain if unicorns counted as horses or were just vaguely horse-shaped. Ciri glared at him like he had brought it up anyhow. It was probably rude to accuse a sentient being of being a horse when they weren’t, and Jaskier was nothing if not a considerate and gracious host.

Living with several people who could either read his mind or knew him so well that they didn’t have to was just inconvenient.

Not long later, Eskel arrived dressed as a lumberjack with enough casserole dishes of assorted food to feed dozens of people, holes cut in the lumpy beanie on his head to accommodate his curved succubi horns, and Lambert showed up only a little late with the keg, wearing a leather jacket and cuffed jeans, grinning as impishly as expected, given his nature. His sharp, little teeth glinted, and his hair was slicked with grease around the pointed nubs of his horns.

“No poodle skirt?” Jaskier called, grateful for the arrival of the beer but unable to avoid giving his least favorite of Geralt’s weird brothers at least some shit.

Lambert flipped him off. His forked tail casually snagged a pigs in the blanket from one of the platters Eskel was arranging.

“I’ll be the one laughing tonight, Wolf Boy,” he said. “How’s that moon feelin’?”

“I have another hour at least,” said Jaskier. “It’s barely dark out. Speaking of, where the hell is Geralt? He’s not going to hide away in that creepy little crypt of his all evening. He’s supposed to stop me from using anyone as a chew toy.”

“What are you supposed to be anyway? A sad, goth drag queen?”

Jaskier gasped in scandalized affront, just as another My Chemical Romance song began to play from the speakers, and he hurried off to fix his playlist once again.

Triss Merigold showed up bearing several bottles of wine in a blush-pink Playboy bunny costume that clashed horribly with her red hair, and his flagrant ogling of her exposed bosom was cut short when the very scary Philippa Eilhart stepped up to press a hand to her lower back. She was wearing tufted wolf ears and sharp fangs, plus a bright red cape, which he personally felt was a bit derivative of yours truly but was not about to open his mouth to comment and risk being turned to ash.

The rest of the Coven of Sorceresses, or whatever they called themselves, appeared one after another. There were several among them dressed in sexy witch costumes, which seemed nearly as uncreative as Yennefer, who technically had refused to participate.

Fringilla Vigo had apparently missed the sexy part of the memo sent by the group and was dressed in full stereotypical wizard regalia, complete with moon and stars cape, pointy hat, and long faux beard. She got tipsy on Merigold’s wine very quickly and kept accidentally smacking people with her oversized wizard staff, giggling girlishly.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called into the dark basement. “The party’s in full swing, you know. I could transform into a significantly hairier fanged beast at any moment. Geralt, are you busy moping? Is this because the unicorn is allowed in the house and Roach isn’t?”

“I’m not moping,” said Geralt, decidedly moping in his coffin. “I’m meditating.”

“Your brothers brought beer. And those tiny biscuit-swaddled baby hot dogs you love so much,” said Jaskier. “Regis just showed up. He’s dressed as Dracula again, which… come on, does no one have even a small shred of creative integrity anymore? I know he’s a different flavor of vampire than you, what with the whole ‘doesn’t burn in the sunlight and isn’t allergic to garlic’ thing, but it isn’t that a bit of an offensive caricature? He’s talking with a really bad Transylvanian accent. That should be my gig tonight!”

Geralt’s inability to eat garlic bread was really, horribly, desperately sad to Jaskier, so he brought it up in conversation as often as possible, just so that Geralt knew he hadn’t forgotten that Jaskier was incredibly supportive of his depressing garlic-related plight.

“Go away, Jaskier,” said Geralt. Rather than go away, Jaskier took a running jump and vaulted himself into the coffin with his friend, only poking him a little in the shins with his tall, heeled boots.

“Are you having a case of the Mondays?” he asked. “Are you in blood withdrawal? Is it really the unicorn? I can ask it to leave but it does have a four foot sword on its forehead, so if it stabs me right to death I–”

“It’s not Ihuarraquax,” said Geralt. “Or blood withdrawal. Or… it’s not even Monday, Jaskier.”

“As previously-stated, I rarely have any clue what day of the week or month it is, Geralt.”

“I’m just not feeling up to partying tonight.”

Jaskier snapped his fingers.

“Case of the Mondays, it is.”

Geralt stared at him with a miserable expression.

It was not much different than his usual look, but after years of strange, supernatural friendship, Jaskier considered himself a connoisseur of Geralt’s varying moods and quirks. Most werewolves and vampires did not prefer to spend any length of time in each other’s presence, but even Jaskier’s wolf form was unusually attached to Geralt. It was often him he ended up using as a chew toy, after all.

“You mind if I stay down here for my shift?” Jaskier asked.

"You'll miss your party," said Geralt, his voice almost a whisper.

"Naw," he said. "I'm already going to miss it. Wolf me would probably spend the whole night line dancing again or something."

For a while, they just sat facing each other in the coffin, staring, and Jaskier dropped his chin to rest on his folded knees. He knew he must look as moon-eyed and dopey as usual while getting a good look at Geralt, but that was hardly his fault.

They called it puppy love for a reason.

Without consciously doing so, Jaskier's breathing slowed to match Geralt's even breaths, and he had the fleeting thought that maybe the vampire was faking a bummed out mood to draw him down here, where a relaxed, meditative state would ease the inevitably painful trauma of his transformation.

It didn't suck sometimes. Living with a house full of creatures who knew him so well.

Through the narrow slats of the basement windows, the moon rose bright and full in a crisp, black sky.

Over the thumping bass of a colorful gathering of drunken misfit supernatural creatures, a wolf began to howl.

#my fic #the witcher #the end!!!!!#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #this is just so silly babes

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