#their music fits geralt SO FUCKING GOOD

[teatitty]

My little headcanons of what I think some of the witcher characters are [IE: polish, english, danish etc] based on the vibes they give me and some of their name conventions

Geralt: Polish. He's the main character of the novels it just makes sense to me that he'd be the most polish of everyone

Vesemir: Slavic as fuck. I put him down as Serbian but you could make a good argument for any of the slavic countries really

Lambert: German. Based purely on vibes

Eskel: Nordic. I lean more to him being Danish if we want to get specific but you can put him anywhere so long as he's nordic. His name comes from an old norse word and I know Witchers like Geralt and Vesemir name themselves but I like to think Eskel kept his on lock

Coen: Flemish. He just seems belgian to me I can't explain it

Cirilla: Her name is likely of Greek descent, coming from Cyril, since Calanthe is also a name stemming from Ancient Greek, so Greek Ciri real to me

Dandelion: Welsh. I've said this before but Wales has a huge yearly festival where they celebrate the arts such as poetry and music so it simply Fits for him. He's capable of mimicking many different accents though

Yennefer: Yenn was a hard one to pin down but in the end I thought somewhere in the Southeast. Serbia, Slovenia, Bulgaria, Moldova etc she'd fit with any of those I think

Triss: She was relatively easy. Triss comes from Beatrice which itself is derived from the latin "beatus" and Merigold is Marigold which comes from middle english "mary + gold" so Triss is from england but she's Cornish <3 her and Dandy can be brittonic language besties

Regis: Hard as it is for me to say this that man is French as fuck

[littlestsnicket]

Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

this is a fun ask, lets see if i can come up with five. (spoilers: i did! some snickety and witchery snippets below the cut)

abandoned drabble

Jaskier is moping and it shouldn’t bother Geralt. It’s just… irritating, the way Jaskier can be loud even in complete silence. This is really for Geralt’s benefit. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and tosses a stick at the bard before he’s quite looked up. He catches it easily anyway. His expression shifts through anger to comical outrage anyway. 

“What’s that for?”

“Sparring.”

“Geralt, you do realize traveling unarmed is a deliberate choice on my part?”

“That’s a stick,” Geralt says flatly, and Jaskier frowns for a moment and then laughs

2. bit i cut from "in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard" because it didn't fit structurally/i didn't want to delve too too deep into any of the non-Ciri relationships and this would have needed a whole separate subplot to work

“You don’t have to forgive him.”

Yennefer didn’t respond.

“You’re not completely at fault, I don’t care what either of you think about this.”

Yennefer looked furious for a moment before she schooled her features into something calm and diplomatic. “You didn’t have to forgive him either.”

“Yes, I did,” Jaskier hissed, “because he was so obviously, painfully sorry, and then he apologized with actual fucking words, which last I checked he has absolutely not done for you. He has, in fact, seemed to be denying that he’s behaved unfairly in any way.”

Jaskier drew a deep breath and deflated a bit, “Sorry, I’m not mad… at you.”

Yennefer made a sobbing noise that she would have repressed if she could and found herself suddenly enveloped in a tight hug.

3. tiny bit from the klaus&lemony fic i have temporarily given up on, not sure if this will end up in the final draft

Klaus listened silently as Mr. Snicket awkwardly shuffled about in his seat for a long while before he peered over the top of his book.

“Mr. Snicket, your book is upside down,” Klaus said flatly. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Mr. Snicket closed the book and set it in his lap rather than flipping it the right way around. He peered back at Klaus over the cover of <title>, his expression somewhat expectant. Slowly, Klaus lowered the book, getting a good look at Mr. Snicket.

Mr. Snicket was wearing his customary button down shirt and slacks. In concession to the summer heat and the casual attire appropriate for one’s home, he had forgone a tie and was wearing a set of house shoes with no socks leaving his ankles exposed.

4. manic pixie dream jaskier (the jaskier/valdo fic i was possessed to write :D )

Valdo doesn’t say much of anything, just hums agreeably when Julian pauses in his stream-of-conscious observations. Valdo’s too distracted by the lingering tingle the touch of Julian’s palm had left against his own and the musical staccato of Julian’s voice to process much of what he’s saying. Julian makes some rambling but incisive comments about the band that Valdo would be hard pressed to recall the specifics of, but his full attention latches back onto Julian’s words as he begins to speculate in discomfiting detail about which of the locals at the next table would be most willing and mutually satisfactorily to get into bed with. 

“The one with the coppery hair must be a blacksmith’s apprentice. Look at the muscles in his neck...” Julian moves to stand and Valdo catches him by the wrist. He blushes—red and splotchy feeling, nothing like the soft flush that had entranced Valdo last term. He curls in on himself in pre-emptive shame, but Julian pauses, looking at Valdo inquisitively.

Valdo doesn’t move when Julian carefully disentangles his wrist from Valdo’s fingers or when Julian turns around on the bench to lean into the space between Valdo and the table, not quite touching him. He feels pinned in place like the exotic beetles he had seen through the door in one of the biology labs. 

Julian’s smile is sharp and nearly predatory, but not unkind. Valdo thinks he might have an aneurysm when Julian’s hand cups the side of Valdo’s neck. He lets Julian kiss him, too wrongfooted to do much of anything in return.

[and that is where i ran out of transcribing focus, the rest of the scene is in my notebook :/ ]

5. abandoned jacques&lemony fic from so long ago i don't even remember writing it, but i kinda like it. who knows, maybe this will get wrapped into the disastrous snicket siblings fic i want to write

I have always loved my brother and would drain the oceans of the world if it would keep him alive and reasonably whole, but he had a particular way—which I believe only younger siblings can achieve—of driving me up a wall. Currently, he was seated across from me, frowning slightly, his gaze fixed on the entryway of the restaurant as his fingers tapped noiselessly against the white tablecloth. I was confident, though unlike my brother I was no expert on the subject, that it was a pattern of tapping that would elicit a tune from the treble keys and bass buttons of an accordion. I wished he would sit still.

Lemony’s particular fidgeting reminded me of something I very much did not want to think about. Long enough ago that we were a great deal happier and my brother did not yet have a permanent crease of worry between his brows, we had made a regular practice of sitting at tables that were a great deal larger but otherwise very similar to this one with a number of other people. Lemony and Beatrice would play a game. It would start with Lemony tapping his fingers against the table as he was doing now. Beatrice would proceed to guess what he was playing. Inevitably, Lemony would inform her that she was wrong and Beatrice would continue to guess increasingly implausible pieces of music until she decided to accuse Lemony of cheating, and then Lemony would say something along the lines of “How dare you besmirch my honor. You don’t even know how to play the accordion,” and they would argue while Jerome looked distressed and Bertrand watched them fondly, occasionally making an interjection. To the untrained eye, these interjections seemed to be the sort of thing one would say to de-escalate a conflict, but I was certain Bertrand had been egging them on.

Eventually I would say something along the lines of, “everyone is staring, we shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to ourselves,” to which Lemony would respond very pointedly, “You don’t care about that.” And I would glare at him, and he would raise an eyebrow as if to say, “any argument you make will only serve to make me more certain of my suspicions.”

At least he was too polite to voice his suspicions aloud. If I was lucky, Beatrice and Bertrand would have begun to talk about something else and Jerome would begin to relax.

Mostly to derail my train of thought as safely as possible, I asked my brother, “What do you think?”

I had been telling him about my latest mission—to ensure that the remnants of the headquarters at 667 Dark Avenue did not fall into the wrong hands without revealing our organization’s interest in the location. I had hoped to discuss the matter with my brother has he, despite his insistence to the contrary, provided excellent insight into the mind and likely actions of one Esme Squalor, but I suspect he had not been listening.

Lemony schooled his expression into that of an insolent child, “You should tell him how you feel.”

“Tell who how I feel about what?” I responded cautiously.

Lemony ignored me, clearly believing I knew what he was talking about. He may have been right to do so.

“In person. Not in a letter he might not receive. He’d be pleased to see you.”

“That’s something, coming from you.”

This was a cruel thing to say, and I wished to take it back. I expected my brother to argue—explain that his circumstances had been more complex, or, possibly, simply walk away without a word as I was certain he was still angry with me about the role I played in making those circumstances more complex, which I was not sorry for as I would rather see my brother miserable than dead and I, still, even with the benefit of hindsight, could see no better alternative. Instead he let his gaze drift back to the entryway of the restaurant. I wondered if he was anxious or waiting for something specific or both.

“I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it,” he quoted. I didn’t know what to make of that. I knew the book about the girl who fell through a hole in the ground and found a world that was whimsical and strange had upset him a great deal as a small child.

[jaskierswolf]

It is not Jaskier dragging new pets home, despite popular belief. The white haired boyfriend, however, might have a bit of a hero complex.... (hehehe)

The Menagerie

Ship: Geraskier Rating: T Summary: In which Geralt adopts far too many animals, but Jaskier still loves him.

On AO3 _

Normally when new people met Geralt and Jaskier they made assumptions. Geralt liked to brood, well, no... more actually he was just painfully shy with low self-esteem despite looking like a god. Unfortunately, he also had possibly the worst case of resting bitch face that Jaskier had ever seen, and had never quite grown out of his goth stage. In contrast, Jaskier's emo phase had lasted all but a month back when he was fifteen and he'd quickly swapped the black hair and leather wristbands for floral shirts and as many rings as he could possibly fit on his fingers. He had, however, kept the eyeliner. It looked good on him. These days he just preferred a slightly lighter look instead of the thick black rings around his eyes. 

The point was when people entered their house and were greeted by no less than three dogs bounding into their laps, swiftly followed by a cat on their lap as soon as they sat down, they assumed that Jaskier was the cause. 

In reality, Jaskier was a little hopeless with living things. He could barely keep himself alive, and he'd never managed to look after even the simplest of plants.... let alone a whole menagerie of pets. Jaskier's forte... pun intended... was music. Where Geralt collected animals, Jaskier collected instruments. Between the two of them, their house was a mess and savings were none existent. All of Jaskier's royalties went on their hoards. 

It made for an interesting interview around his house. The door had opened, revealing the camera man as Jaskier had known it would, and the questions began. The interviewer was baffled. Due to Jaskier's success, he was sure that expectations of their house would be very different. Clean for one. And probably minimalistic, only filled with his awards and fine art beyond the bare essentials. What they had found instead was a mess of fur, cat litter and sheet music. It looked not unlike student accommodation from Oxenfurt, only much larger and way more pets. 

Jaskier couldn't complain. It was home.

Actually, no. Scrap that. He could absolutely fucking complain. 

His shoe landed in a pile of cat sick and he hopped from the living room straight into a pile of litter that had been kicked from the tray. 

"Geralt!!" He yelled up the stairs to where his husband was no doubt lurking in the office. "One of the cats has been sick!" 

"Clean it up then!" Geralt called back. 

Urgh. Yes. Definitely complaining.

It didn't take long to deal with the sick, but Jaskier ended up in a bit of a cleaning spree. After the mess was dealt with, he remembered the litter, and whilst cleaning up the litter he noticed just how much dog hair was lying around and sticking to his socks. Then the vacuum bag needed emptying and the bins had to be taken out, and three hours later, Jaskier collapsed on the sofa. 

The living room was looking spotless, or as spotless as it could be with a veritable zoo living under their roof. He was just about to pull out his laptop to check his social media, when Pegasus, the fat white fluff ball that Geralt had rescued last summer, flopped onto his lap, meowing loudly. 

Jaskier sighed. "I suppose you want feeding. You know you're on a diet, yes? The vet was very firm about that." In response, Pegasus just meowed again, widening his big blue eyes. 

Urgh. Jaskier hated animals. They were so needy. 

"Fine," he grumbled. "Come on then, shit legs."

The fluff ball was pulled into his arms and Jaskier trudged into the kitchen. Before he could blink, he was surrounded by dogs and cats... even Lark the Cockatoo had landed on his shoulder. 

"Oh for mother of-" he groaned, staring up at the ceiling as if that might help. "GERALT!!"

"Yes, dear?" His husband said from the doorway. Roach, a great mutt of a dog, was by his side, wagging her tail happily as Geralt scratched behind her ears. 

"Help?" Jaskier whined, pouting at his husband. 

Chuckling, Geralt crossed the room and pulled Pegasus from Jaskier's arms. He pressed a kiss to Jaskier's temple and then shooed him from the room. "I've got this. Go sit down."  He paused. "Thanks for tidying up." 

"No problem, my love," Jaskier replied, relieved that his pet sitting duties were over for now. He winked at his husband and blew a kiss. "Join me once you're done with the hoard?"

But Geralt wasn't listening. He was too busy cooing over the animals, already telling them stories from the actual zoo where he worked part-time. There was a big smile on his face and Jaskier melted. That was, after all, the whole reason they had so many pets. It was worth it just to see Geralt smile like that. Like there wasn't a care in the world. When they'd married, Jaskier had vowed to do anything to make his husband happy, and if it took running a rescue centre for neglected and forgotten animals to do that... then so be it.

[meepthemeeping]

Lambert's Wonderful Day! Modern AU

Lambert looked in the rearview mirror for the passage seat. He could see the client they were supposed to protect, downing more wine. She was a minor noble in need of security. She thought it was a good idea to run her mouth behind an up-and-coming goddamned gang.

"Looking sunny as ever, Lambert," Eskel hums from the passenger seat.

"Fuck you," Lambert says as he enters the parking lot. The noble wanted to meet up with some friends at a club named The Caravan.

"Hm, how ya like your new place?"

"It's a place, nothing too special." Lambert rolled his eyes.

"Ever since you moved there, you've been acting like someone shit in your mailbox," Eskel said as he readjusted the vest hidden under his shirt.

"Just an annoying neighbor," Lambert said, stepping out of the car. He wasn't sure why this Aiden guy bothered him so much. Yeah, his neighbor kicked his ass, but not on purpose.

"Hold on, I need to fix my eyeliner!" The noble slurred from the back. Lambert held in his groan as he sat right back down.

Eskel snorts and says, "An annoying neighbor? I'm not buying it. Now what is it?"

"I'm doing fucking dandy."

"Dandy people don't drink as much as you."

"Fuck-," Lambert bites his lip. It's none of his gods-damned business. He turns to the noble in the back, and she uses a credit card to stencil her eyeliner. "Are you done yet?"

"Yeah, let's fuckin' go!" She fumbles with the door handle a few times before nearly falling out of the car.

Eskel sighed. The noble had stammered into the club after she threw a fit like a toddler because a bouncer checked her ID.

The club was dim, with numerous lights flashing along to the beat of the music. Sweaty bodies pressed against each other drunkenly, grinding and dancing. The scent was a blend of expensive liquor and a mix of colognes and perfumes that attempted to cover body odor. Geralt, the lucky fuck, gets to skip out on their merry adventure since it’s his week with Ciri. It was purely at the mercy of some unfamiliar god that the girl decided to cram herself into a booth near the back. There were seven exits: one in the front, two on each side, one on the roof, and one in the back.

This place had enough people around that it was easy to blend into the crowd. Hiding among intoxicated dancers and vanishing into the shadowy back area was far too easy.

He could already feel the monster of a headache he was going to have later form on the side of his head.

If the noble was telling the truth about that gang, chances are they're tracking her. He needed to keep an eye out for some weasley fuck named Jad and his members.

He got elbowed at least five times as he went to get water for the client. It took a grand total of 20 minutes for the bartender to actually give him the water.

"It took you long enough,” Eskel said when he finally returned. Lambert fought the urge to dump the water in his lap and handed it to his brother. "I didn't notice anyone that looked like they were from the gang."

"Good. Today might not suck balls."

"Her friends haven't shown up either," Eskel says as he looks back at the noble, face down on the table.

"And I get to go home earlier, fuckin' score."

Eskel made a pitiful attempt to get water into her system. She just slurred something incomprehensible before pushing the water away. After awkwardly crawling over Eskel, she decides to fumble her way to the dance floor.

"I'mma go- hiccup- dance." She doesn't wait for a reply as she pushes past Lambert.

"Lambert, go follow her; I'll call Geralt." Eskel pulls out his phone.

"Why do I have to fucking do it?" Lambert whines, already tired of the noble's bullshit.

Eskel just makes a waving motion at him. With a groan, Lambert tracks the client as he attempts to stay a few feet away.

Amidst the neon glow and thumping bass of the club, Lambert trailed the client through the sea of dancing bodies. As if sensing his frustration, the crowd seemed to conspire against him, pushing and bumping into him at every turn.

Despite his best efforts, he struggled to keep up with her. Every time he closed the gap, someone would stumble into him, forcing him to lose precious seconds. His jaw clenched with frustration, he continued to weave through the crowd, his eyes never leaving her.

Suddenly, a particularly aggressive shove sent him stumbling. He regained his balance just in time to see the client start dancing with an equally drunk girl. Determined not to lose her, he pushed through the crowd with renewed vigor, his frustration fueling his determination.

Annoyed, he tried to look casual. All seemed fine until a man started dancing far too close to her. He assumed it was some creepy asshat, but something was off. His eyes kept shifting around as he inched closer to the girl. That was when he spotted the gun slowly being removed from the area between his jacket and back.

The tackle Lambert had to deliver was painful. They pounded the glass dance floor hard, no doubt cracking it. There was a scream, and people began clearing a circle for the fight to unfold. Lambert had managed to get the man in a headlock to hold him far away from the pistol.

"Get the fuck off." The man says this while violently head-butting Lambert.

"Oh, you motherfucker!" Lambert shrieks, grabbing his sore jaw.

The man stands quickly on his feet before running towards the exit near the back. Pissed off and now bleeding, Lambert charged forth again, crashing both himself and the attacker onto the corner of the bar. With a disgusting crack, he could register his nose turning against the firm wood. Lambert could hear his brother sprinting to the scene, pinning the dazed man.

"Fuck, Lambert!" Eskel exclaimed, holding the attacker face-down on the broken floor.

Lambert could handle pain; he did enough idiotic shit in his childhood to prove that. He could worry about his nose later; he had to call the police while his brother handled the situation.

The night ended with a shittastic array of red and blue lights as the attacker was carried off. It turns out the client's so-called friends were plotting with the people she pissed off. Outside the club, he knelt and, without grace, lifted his nose and snapped it back in its proper place. When the wave of agony spread across Lambert's face, making his eyes water, he clenched his teeth.

"Damn," Eskel hisses at the sound, his brother's pain palpable. It wasn't until now he noticed the vomit staining his shirt; he had a pretty good idea who it was from. Grabbing painkillers from a backpack, he hands them to Lambert, who grumbles. "Are you sure you don't need to sit back?"

"Fuck no, my nose looks like it's made out with a brick. Shit like this only happens because all these dipshits believe they're bulletproof. Now, you enjoy dealing with that noble's bullshit; I'm going the fuck home," Lambert spits, marching off to call a ride. He wanted to go back and finish that series and forget about the whole night. Maybe get shitfaced in the process?

"Okay, Lambert! See ya," Eskel calls.

He teeters back to his apartment, finally sensing the weariness in his bones. The shower was nothing remarkable, but it felt incredible washing over his head. After managing to get a buzz, he lies on the couch. The only sound in the apartment was the documentary and the wind outside. He should be used to the quietness by now; he should appreciate it. Even after a few weeks here, it felt more and more noticeable. It was a festering, hollow silence that never went away.

Just another fabulous day in the life of Lambert.

[colorfulandblack]

In honour of getting though Witcher season 3 I would like to share with you my thought process while watching this show, not that anyone asked. Can you tell Jaskier is my fav?

Season 1

Me, seeing Jaskier for the first time: a baby! Must protect, already fave.

Me throughout the season: How are you still alive? And how are you not aging?

Me still at season one going through social media: oh, so you don't like Jaskier, huh? Square up bitch cos I'm coming for your ass. Also why the hell is he called Dandelion? Jaskier is a buttercup not a dandelion? Dandelion would be so fucking funny though [image of Sid and last dandelion of season vivid in my mind]

Me still on season one: ok I know we NEED to normalise closeness between two male friends but that's definitely gay, right? Like Jaskier just readies such dumbass bisexual energy and he so clearly is in love with Geralt

Me, during the mountain scene: Bitch, bitch, bitch how dare you [actually insert the Jaskier HOW DARE YOU picture] actually stops watching the show for like a week

Season 2

Me, immediately at the beginning: where's Jaskier? Where's my man? My child? Where's that idiot?

Me, after I see Jaskier: what have they DONE to you? But the songs absolutely slaps (talking about the whore song that was so funny)

The apology scene: Nope, nope, sir that's the most half assed apology I've ever seen

Overall season two: yes, yes serious matters and Jaskier is a comic relief but could you just try to give him some more screen time like bitch he's trying his best, he risks his life, he does some good, he loves Ciri and Geralt just fucking appreciate him! I know it ain't about him but for being Geralts friend for so fucking long I think he deserves some appreciation for his accomplishments from others characters, even a little

Season 3

Sees trailer: "Dear friend.." ahaha that's for Jaskier for sure! [Sees a blur of him] oh thank god he's in here!

Me, after seeing Jaskier: oh, god oh no. Why, why, WHY?! WHO they fuck took the game design?! Put it back I say PUT IT BACK!!!

Me seeing Radowid: *squints as he praises Jaskier, clearly flirts with him and actually appreciates him UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE* I want to trust you but that would be a mistake

Me, throughout the season: ah, so you finally admit that Jaskier is in love with Geralt who somewhat patched things up with Yen so you give Jaskier a new love interest, who is a man [icarly interesting image]

(listen I loved them this season but it felt like a weird sudden jump in their relationship and idk, by this season rocked I just wished they included Jaskier more and if canonicaly were not getting Graskier then fucking give him some screen time as a part of a family! He's great with Ciri!)

Also that Valdo scene was fucking HILARIOUS

Me when, suprise, suprise Radowid did a backflip: I knew it, why am I surprised, I knew it. Jaskier why do you have a TYPE?!

Final thoughts: Jaskier fits perfectly into their witcher family dynamics just give him more screen time! Please! also very curious about Radowid redemption arc although I'm not ready to let go yet, and also may I add the music, fantastic, don't care if it's periodic or not Joey my man you killed it.

It's clear that Jaskier has a type for like unrequited/getting hurt type of love or the writers just love whumping him which like fine but then make it fucking seen like by others? It takes a fucking plot device character in SEASON 3 to see it? like give me some fucking comfort as well you assholes.

Also super weird that they went with the game design and gradually changed it simultaneously ageing Jaskier. I mean why now? He hasn't aged in like a decade and then he suddenly did? Just keep him immortal will you?

Idk it's chaotic lads cos I just finished it and I think I've seen season 1 most times and the rest kinda blurs together so

[starshipblueberry]

I have to scream about The Witcher sorry.

I watched Season One when it came out as a joke because lol there was no way it could be good right? And then it was funny, and thoughtful, and sad, and funny! It was wonderful tongue in check story telling and you could FEEL how excited everyone was to be a part of it. The costumes. The music. The tension. The dialogue.

And it is all gone. Season 3, none of that remains. The costuming was non existent — Geralt didn’t wear armor even once — and Yennifer! Her makeup was orange, her clothes didn’t fit, they robbed her of all her pain and spite. They made her a mom without showing us any of the heartache involved in being a mom.

The dialogue. Like. What. Happened. Were there no writers in the writers room, just computers?!! Geralt said “alone at last”. Geralt. Of Rivia. (Did I mention his hair doesn’t move?) every line was a cliche, there was no passion, nothing. All the heart that Geralt had in season one and two is just gone.

And Jaskier. I. I can’t. It’s too painful. To have him be canonically bi is so fucking wonderful, and then… like who fucking framed that scene in the shed? There is no art, no storytelling. I wanted to cry.

Anyways. I’m normal about this.

[and-i-said-fewer]

HI THERE I SAW YOUR TAGS FREAKING OUT ABOUT ELBOW ON MY GERASKIER PLAYLISTS AND !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

little fictions is the only album I know by heart cover to cover, but I certainly enjoy the others!

SERIOUSLY THOUGH

WHENEVER I SEND ANYONE AN ELBOW SONG REC IN THE CONTEXT OF A CHARACTER THEY ALWAYS SAY THEYD NEVER CONSIDERED IT BEFORE AND I HONESTLY THOUGHT IT WAS JUST ME HAVING A NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS MOMENT

you’ve made my day

holyyyyyy shittt im so sorry i didn’t see this before but it’s only *checks watch* well over a month late !! (sorry.) but yEA my mancunian friend introduced lil american me to elbow and theyve topped my spotify wrapped (yes even above tad) the past two years lol their stuff means a lot to me and is also So Good

but fs like. again i would Not ever insinuate that elbow is Niche or Unpopular—literally played the olympics etc etc—but i do think that they aren’t necessarily in The Minds Of Fandom™️ very much. but MAN they have such a great discography and sm good songs it’s like *makes aggressive grabby claws at the air* so much potential!!!! overlooked!! unseen!! (yes i’m being dramatic. not sorry)

anyways if anyone who sees this listens to elbow PLEASE hmu i love talking abt elbow songs

aaaaannndd uuuhhhhh 👉🏽👈🏽 hopefully not beign too pushy but uhhh. if anyone here wants some fandom related recs……. i’ll just throw out a couple so i’m not being Too Much but:

hotel istanbul [listed as a non-album track under the seldom seen kid (bonus tracks version) album on spotify] - oh my god if anyone listens to One [1] song i write here PLEASE let it be this one. every time i scroll through geraskier playlists and don’t see this song i feel Robbed. to me it feels sooooo them but no one else knows about it and i lose my mind. idk if musically it fits everyone’s vibe check but Lyrically. holy fuck holy shit. like to my understanding it’s abt a guy who’s havin a shite day but this other person’s presence makes them feel better or smthn??? anyways it’s fuckinnnn haaghhh i’m- it literally goes “damn your eyes / so blue” LIKE????? i lose my mind over this song in geraskier context every time someone Please listen to it and tell me if i’m going insane or not

puncture repair [under leaders of the free world album] - man i love this lil guy sm. diff energy from hotel istanbul but i see this one as the quieter geraskier moments, the travelling together for 20 years. it’s so quiet, it’s so routine, it’s motions that are muscle memory, it’s care etched in creases, it’s thoughts traced through nerves for the thousandth time. also works from either pov i think

bones of you [under the seldom seen kid album] - i think?? this could be a yennefer song??? either abt istredd or just like her past life. also sonically i rlly like the vibe for her, dunno if anyone else’d agree w that tho

audience with the pope [under the seldom seen kid album] - ok honestly i dont know if this one’s very accurate since i wouldnt call myself an arbiter of quality yen&geralt vibes, but i do think of them when i listen to this song so,,? do with that what u will

anyway i have oodles and oodles of these but these ones that r like, supported lyrically the best ig??? sorta?? maybe not but yea ive got elbow-witcher song thoughts for Days but the other ones are maybe more vibes-based so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but if anyone’s intrigued…… i mean hmu

[yeraskier]

From the recent prompt list, help me I’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second. With either geraskier or yenskier please?

There’s a reason Geralt’s always hated going out. Weird shit always happens to him when he goes out.

Like right now, the pretty and bright-eyed man he’d been watching all night is currently rambling dramatically right to his face. But is he offering to take Geralt home like he'd been hoping the stranger would when he walked over? No. Because that’s simply not how Geralt’s life works. Instead…

“…and the sex was great, you know? But that man is such a prick. I’ve never met anyone more self-obsessed, okay? And he’s been looking in my direction all night like he does every other time we're here at the same time, and he’s so persistent. So, I figure if I have a gorgeous, and frankly huge, fellow like you by my side, he’s bound to leave me alone.”

Geralt blinks. Pretty Eyes is wearing his most charming smile. It’s quite convincing.

“So, will you do it? Will you pretend to be my date for an hour or so? Or just until he leaves? I’ll buy you endless amounts of beer.”

Well, it’s not quite how Geralt had pictured his evening going.

“I’ll do it.” It’s probably the worst idea he’s had in a very long time, but it’s worth it for the way Pretty Eyes ends up beaming.

And so, they spend the rest of the night in each other's company. He learns a few things about his date in the following forty-five minutes.

1) Pretty Eyes' actual name is Jaskier.

2) Jaskier is a musician with 107, 369 monthly Spotify listeners.

3) Jaskier likes to talk… a lot.

And Geralt usually hates that in a person. He’d probably have walked away from Jaskier by now. He probably should. He won't.

He likes the sound of Jaskier’s voice and the way he uses his hands to illustrate what he’s saying and the way his eyes light up when he speaks about his music and the way his laugh goes an octave higher whenever Geralt smiles at him.

He likes all these little things. He adores them.

And Geralt could have happily spent the rest of the night listening to Jaskier go on and on about literally anything he could think of, but the man's words die out midsentence as his eyes focus in on someone behind Geralt.

“Gods,” Jaskier groans, “there’s the guy I was telling you about.”

Geralt doesn’t need any further instruction, he moves closer to Jaskier and fits an arm around the man’s waist like it belongs there. Jaskier practically melts under his touch, body sagging so he’s leaning into Geralt.

He could’ve thought more about that if the man they were putting on this show for wasn’t now standing before them.

“Jaskier.”

“Valdo,” Jaskier greets with a tight smile.

Valdo? Who the fuck names their child Valdo? Geralt doesn’t even try to hold back his snort.

Valdo glares at him but Jaskier’s smile loosens up. It’s worth it.

“Anyway, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight,” Valdo says.

Jaskier hums. “Well, that’s funny since I’m here every Thursday night. And you waved at me earlier.”

Valdo laughs and the noise makes Geralt grit his teeth. He's known the man for all of two minutes and already, he's one of Geralt's least favorite people.

"Right. Well, I suppose it's lucky that we're both here, then. What do you say I buy you a drink," the swine proposes as if Geralt isn't standing right there.

He pulls Jaskier closer so they're practically plastered together and aims a smug grin in Valdo's direction. "He's occupied, as you can clearly see."

Valdo looks like his head might explode. Good.

Still, the arse has the gall to look back at Jaskier and say, "you sure you wouldn't want to spend the night with me instead?" An endearing smile makes its way onto his face, and Geralt might have actually found this man attractive if he wasn't such an arrogant prick. And if his name wasn't so fucking stupid.

Geralt worries, just for a second, that Jaskier may decide to go with Valdo after all, but the musician rests a hand over the one Geralt has on his hip and squeezes. "I think I'm just fine where I am, thank you."

Valdo stares at them and goes as far as to eye Geralt like he's sizing him up. Geralt almost wishes he would actually try something.

He doesn't. Instead, he leaves with a scoff, turning on his heels to walk towards a woman on the other side of the bar.

They remain close until Valdo seems thoroughly distracted, but then Geralt lets go and Jaskier clears his throat. An awkward silence follows.

Geralt gets it, he’s served his purpose. He should just make a break for it now, leave before Jaskier asks him to go.

He sets his glass down. Jaskier’s watching him, he can feel it. The man is tracking his every movement which is making every movement very difficult to make.

Get it together. He’s just a pretty guy at a bar, and sure, he’s made you smile more tonight than you have in months. It doesn’t matter. Get it the fuck together.

Geralt clears his throat and detaches from the bar, barely giving Jaskier a final glance as he nods in his general direction— it might hurt less if he can’t see him, maybe— before walking off.

Or at least he tries to.

But he can’t exactly do that when there’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place.

Geralt turns back to face the musician with curious eyes.

“Listen, I know tonight may not have been the most ideal night,” Jaskier begins, “but I’ve been having a great time, and I think you have been too. And if I’m wrong, well, this will be truly embarrassing but it’ll be fine because at least I worked up the courage to do this. I just… I just want you to stay with me, just for the night, just a while longer. Or however long you feel like staying.”

Jaskier shrugs at the end of it like he didn’t basically just imply he wants to spend more than tonight with Geralt. Like that isn’t kind of a big deal considering the fact that they just met.

God, he’s insane. Geralt likes that.

“Can I kiss you?” It comes out unexpectedly but Geralt doesn't retract his words. He wants this. He hasn't wanted someone this much in a very long time.

Jaskier smiles. “Yes.”

Geralt closes the distance between them.

[rebrandedbard]

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

-

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

-

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

[jaskiersvalley]

Mobster Lobster

It all started with something as simple as Lambert and Aiden meeting in a club. The music was blaring, thumping out a beat and Aiden was living his best life. It got even better when he spotted an absolute hunk of a man dancing truly awfully but seemingly not caring. Of course Aiden had to approach, was delighted that the man was willing to dance with him. And, somehow, Aiden had never had a better time than when saying 'fuck it' to the social rules of the club and dancing like he'd always wanted to. It was thirsty work.

"Drink?" He yelled over the beat and mimicked the motion for clarity. They made their way to the bar and Aiden grinned. "My treat. I'm Aiden."

"Lambert!"

Well, Lambert was just the thing Aiden had always dreamed of with full lips, a resting bitchface and a lack of care about appearances if his dancing was anything to go by. All in all, it was perfect. Initiating conversation was a bit difficult but Aiden wanted to try.

"I'm a fitness trainer. What do you do?"

"What?"

Pointing at his chest, Aiden yelled, "trainer" before pointing at Lambert.

The confusion morphed into understanding. For a moment Lambert pursed his lips before shrugging and yelling back "lobster".

Now Aiden knew they were in a noisy setting and his audio processing was a bit funky on a good day. Still, he could have sworn Lambert had said he was a lobster. To be sure he yelled back "lobster?" and made the claw motion with his hands. Lambert nodded. Fine. A bit weird but maybe Lambert was a mascot? Or a non-furry furry. Either way, Aiden could live with that. He took Lambert home that night and had the best sex of his life.

Wanting to show some support to his maybe boyfriend, Aiden suggested a date somewhere he thought Lambert would appreciate. The aquarium. Before he even mentioned it to Lambert, Aiden had called up the place and made sure there were indeed lobsters there. He could be supportive, even if he didn't understand.

The date was a resounding success if measured by sexual gratification. Sure, they almost got kicked out of the aquarium because Lambert decided to try and blow Aiden in the corner of the eel section. It didn't happen for two reasons. Firstly, before Lambert even got further than dropping to his knees, more people came by. Secondly, eels were creepy as fuck and Aiden didn't think he could get off with those creatures staring at him. So caught up in these issues, Aiden didn't even question how Lambert had a knack for avoiding cameras and figuring out their blind spots. It certainly was a skill he exhibited over and over again.

One thing that did strike Aiden as odd was the time Lambert ordered lobster at the restaurant. To him it would have felt like cannibalism. Because at this point Aiden was certain that Lambert wasn't a lobster mascot for work. In fact, other than calling himself a lobster, Aiden had no clue what his boyfriend actually did. Delving into the depths of the internet for answers didn't help either. So Lambert was possibly an unemployed non-furry furry lobster enthusiast. Though he always insisted on paying, especially if it was his suggestion. Sometimes he picked rundown, out of the way drinking holes. Other times Aiden was treated to the finest dining experiences he could have ever imagined.

"So-" Lambert was bouncing on his toes, hands jammed into his pocket as he stood outside Aiden's door, "-we've been seeing each other for six months. My family's nagging me about meeting you."

A grin was forming on Aiden's lips. "Are you asking me to meet your family?"

"Technically they're the ones asking. I'm just the reluctant messenger. I'm quite happy with you being just mine."

Meeting the family was quite the experience. Aiden had never felt smaller than when he met Eskel, Geralt and Vesemir. Yennefer had an aura about her that made him feel tiny while Jaskier's personality was so big he eclipsed everyone. Then there were others, Ciri, Letho, Guxart, Gaetan, Fringilla to name a few. The most normal of the lot seemed to be Cahir who looked about as excited to be there as a fly in a freshly cleaned bathroom. Occasionally he muttered something to Eskel about being owed when he is proven right. Pay rises and holidays and better gear. Whatever that meant.

Aiden's world exploded. Literally. There was smoke, shouts and what sounded suspiciously like gunfire. It was all so disorienting, especially when the bulk of Letho swept Aiden up and deposited him behind an upturned table, nodding to Cahir who was bodily protecting Ciri. And had a gun in his hand. Aiden blinked. He must have had too much to drink. His ears were ringing. He was seeing things. Maybe he fell and hit his head because he wasn't seeing the family he just met in a full-blown gunfight with intruders who blew a hole in the side of the mansion they were meeting in. Letting out a hysterical little giggle, Aiden tried to wrap his head around the fact they were in a mansion, that Lambert's family was rich enough for such a thing.

"Don't worry, you'll live," Letho rumbled as if Aiden was some scared kitten. He wasn't. He was just losing his marbles.

As suddenly as everything went tits up, silence reigned just as quickly. Someone coughed in the smoke and Aiden craned his neck. The crunch of broken glass was accompanied by footsteps approaching their table.

"You okay?"

It was Lambert peering over the table, looking dishevelled, a cut on his forehead bleeding and skin grimy from the smoke. In the background Eskel seemed to be organising everyone, checking over injuries while Fringilla was on the phone and demanding clean-up. As soon as Geralt was over, Ciri was launching herself at him and Cahir stood from his crouch with a furious scowl.

"I fucking told you," he growled at Vesemir who stared flatly at him. Before anything more could transpire, Eskel snagged Cahir by the wrist and hauled him to kiss him into silence.

Nobody looked worried about the fact that some unnamed group just blew a hole in the wall and tried to...what...kill them all? Standing, Aiden saw bodies and blood strewn around the floor and he let out a strained giggle.

"I'm better than those guys." For some reason Lambert looked so proud as he laughed. But Aiden wasn't done just yet. "So what the fuck just happened?"

Once again Eskel shoved his tongue down Cahir's throat before the man could spew whatever he looked desperate to spout. It left Lambert to shrug.

"Just the usual. You know."

"No?"

"Babe," Lambert stepped closer and cupped Aiden's cheek with a bloodied hand, "this is my life, I told you. This is part and parcel of my job."

No he didn't. Lambert was a lobster. No matter what that meant, he'd said so himself. Lobster.

"No you didn't? How is this part of being a lobster?"

They stared at each other, Lambert's mouth moving silently before finally finding his voice. "M. As in mobster."

In the background there was a growl of "if you open your mouth I am shoving my cock in there to keep you quiet, you know I don't care about an audience" from Eskel but Aiden ignored it as his world started to spin. Mobster. As in gun toting, law breaking, dangerous mobster. A high pitched laugh escaped him.

"I thought you took it a little too well," Lambert sighed, hand falling away and taking a step back.

Fear made Aiden's stomach tighten. He knew Lambert's identity, his family's identities. That was a liability and mobster families didn't take kindly to those. Not to mention that Lambert was still Lambert. Just not a lobster.

"It's a bit of a shock to the system," Aiden hurried to say, trying to step over the table and stumbling a little. A strong hand gripped him and he nodded his thanks to Letho before staggering after Lambert. "But that's just how life goes. At least you're not a lobster, right?"

There was a small grin on Lambert's lips and he let Aiden take his hand, linking their fingers. Teasing, he asked, "So what exactly is a lobster?"

"I have no clue." A laugh was bubbling up in Aiden's throat. "I figured you were a fur free furry or something."

A laugh went up at that and Aiden ducked his head, a little flustered. Another set of feet approached them and he stared at the blood (and possibly more but he didn't want to think about that too much) splattered shoes. The hand squeezing his shoulder had him looking up at Vesemir who had a small smile of his own hiding under his moustache.

"Welcome to the family."

[mollymawkwrites]

Written for @whataboutthebard day 4

Title: Une Faim de Loup (A Wolf's Hunger)

Prompt: werewolves

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: faun!Jaskier, werewolf!Geralt, werewolf!Eskel, size difference, breeding kink, knotting, rough sex, intercrural sex, anal sex, rimming, oral sex, belly bulge, cum inflation

The forest is alive with laughter and song and the clash of antlers as Jaskier makes his way away from the festivities. Beltane has always been his favourite celebration, long before he was even interested in participating in the mating ritual. It honours everything his poet’s heart holds essential; music and love and beauty. It is a celebration of life, and Jaskier has always loved life with a passion, delighting in its every gift.

Any other year, Jaskier would fuck away the night with a pretty doe or a handsome buck, maybe even join one of the Countess’ famed orgies. Tonight, though, Jaskier doesn’t have a mind to party, to flirt and drink and find a partner to celebrate the goddess of love with, to delight in the pleasures of the flesh under her pale round eye until the sky lightens and a new day begins.

His mother would throw a fit if she knew how blatantly he is disregarding her most important rule: don’t stray away from the herd at night. He mentally promises her to be back before dawn, with an excuse as to why she hasn’t seen him during the festivities. She probably hopes he’ll come back with a serious mate this time. Her inquiries about his love life have been more pressing lately, and her disappointment when he inevitably answers he is not ready for that kind of commitment yet is harder to bear every time. It is part of the reason he does not have the heart to be his usual sociable, joyous self tonight, preferring the company of the moon and stars than that of his own people.

It is already late enough that as Jaskier leaves the circle of warm light cast by the bonfires and lanterns hung in the trees he passes a few entangled couples, some of them mating unashamedly in plain sight. Lustful moans and cries of ecstasy accompany Jaskier for a while, and though he tries not to get distracted, his body alights with desire, reacting eagerly to the pheromones saturating the air.

The neck of his lute hits the back of his knees every few steps, his hooves making nary a sound on the soft forest ground as he follows the whisper of a babbling brook to the little sanctuary where he composes most of his songs and poems.

Under the silver light of the full moon, the little clearing has an eerie quality to it. A fallen tree lies across a small spring, green, plush moss covering the bark, making for the most comfortable of pillows as Jaskier jumps over and sits cross-legged.

His thoughts straying back to the lewd couplings he witnessed on his way here, Jaskier palms his half-hard cock with a huff, the pink tip peaking out of its sheath. Maybe he will bring himself to a lazy orgasm later, but for now, his body’s responsiveness to the sultry atmosphere of Beltane night is another reminder of his growing frustration. The hassle of finding a partner doesn’t seem worthy; after fucking every willing faun of his age and a good number of the older ones, every option feels stale.

He’s always loved his herd, his family, and the forest around them, but he’s never thought he would be so bored of it by the time he’d reach adulthood. He knows every nook and cranny of these woods, and nothing, not even the stars reflecting on the rushing water underneath him, holds any surprise or wonder for him anymore. If only he was allowed to travel, to wander away for a bit, over the edge of the woods and into the world, but that is strictly forbidden by the herd. A faun must content themself with what they have been given, and sing only of love, and the generosity of the forest, and never believe that the world has more to offer than this.

Sighing, Jaskier swings his lute to his front and rests his fingers over the strings. As he deepens his breaths and closes his eyes, he flicks his ears this way and that to take in all of the sounds of the night, letting its natural melody guide his hands to create a music of his own. He strums his instrument barely loud enough to hear, so as not to disturb the family of boars foraging close by, and lets himself be soothed by the breeze cooling his heated skin.

He doesn’t know what startles him out of his trance-like state. His brain his filled with music and it takes him a second to realise the forest has gone utterly silent around him. A bush ruffles nearby and Jaskier cuts the discordant twang of his lute with a flat palm over the strings, eyes open wide as his heart thrums against his ribs.

Whatever hides in those bushes, it is not the hungry boars, nor a hunting owl; he knows those sounds like he knows his own voice.

Everything is still for so long that Jaskier almost convinces himself that he imagined it, that the goblet of wine he drank before leaving the party is playing tricks on him. Until the moon is revealed from behind a cloud, casting a ray of silver light over the clearing. In the gently waving grass, two orbs glow, round and pale like twin moons fallen to earth.

Staring right at Jaskier.

The faun’s heart misses a beat as his body goes rigid, unable to do anything but watch and wait as the hulking form creeps closer, slow and low on the ground, glowing eyes never straying from Jaskier.

White-furred like a winter rabbit, it resembles a wolf except for its size and the rippling muscles of its massive shoulders. A few steps away from Jaskier, it blinks, and the pale moons of its eyes become warm, golden suns, their intensity utterly focused on the little, trembling faun.

Jaskier knows he should run, or scream for help. He also knows he would never make it alive if he did either of those things. There haven't been werewolves in these woods for longer than Jaskier has been alive, but every young faun has been told the tales of these merciless monsters that would snatch away naughty kids and not even leave bones to bury. Glimpsing at the sharp fangs protruding from the wolf’s mouth, Jaskier has no doubt these stories had their share of truth.

But the werewolf doesn’t act like he’s planning on ripping Jaskier’s throat off, though its breath stinks of fresh blood as it stops in front of him and rises to its hind legs, leaning closer. Jaskier is finally shaken out of his stupor and yelps as he scrambles backwards, almost falling off his perch. Holding his lute in front of him as if it’ll be any help as a shield, Jaskier closes his eyes, expecting the monster to bite his head off now that it has confirmed the faun isn’t just a strangely shaped log.

When nothing happens, Jaskier squints an eye open, finding the werewolf watching him with a curious tilt of its head. Slowly, it leans in, its large, clawed paws almost human-like in their shape, though Jaskier doesn’t doubt it could open his stomach with one swipe. Its gaze still locked with Jaskier’s as if gauging his reactions, the creature takes a deep inhale. Confused, scared to move even a finger, Jaskier lets himself be scented, wondering distantly if the werewolf is making sure he’s still fresh.

Apparently satisfied that Jaskier is not going to jump again, the creature pushes its wet snout under his jaw, warm, humid breath tickling his throat. Jaskier fails to hold back a surprised giggle, and the werewolf rears back to observe him again, its tail wagging tentatively.

Slowly, cursing his own terrible self-preservation instincts, Jaskier uncurls, pushing his lute aside. Keeping his eyes on the werewolf, he raises his chin, baring his throat and sending a prayer to the goddess — or any god listening — that the creature takes it as an invitation to continue its inspection and not to feast on Jaskier’s flesh and blood.

The werewolf seemingly understands as, once again, it leans forward, and puffs of breath brush Jaskier’s collarbone. It scents his armpits next, where Jaskier’s smell is the strongest, and the faun flushes bright red but doesn’t move, and then moves to his sternum, where it licks at the spot Jaskier spilled wine over himself earlier in the evening. This time Jaskier can’t keep himself from twisting away with a laugh. That doesn’t deter the creature, who continues its exploration, nosing at his soft stomach.

Emboldened by the werewolf’s peaceful behaviour, Jaskier raises his hand and pushes his fingers into the soft fur behind its ear. He scratches gingerly, and a pleased sound rumbles from the werewolf’s chest, before its snout drags along the trail of thick hair under Jaskier’s navel and buries its snout right between his legs, nudging his groin.

Jaskier yelps, curling forward reflexively at the unexpected stimulation on his sensitive prick, then pushes the large head away. “No! Bad!”

The werewolf goes willingly, though it doesn’t move far, staring at Jaskier with dilated pupils swimming in the gold of its irises. Its tongue lolls out the side of its mouth, drool gleaming over its fangs.

Flustered, Jaskier chuckles. “Guess you didn’t come here for my music, then.”

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the sarcastic look the creature gives him.

“Oh, well, don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier huffs. “I’m easy, but I’m not that easy. It takes a bit of seducing to get into my pants.”

This time, the skepticism in those golden eyes is unmistakable as they lower to the pink tip of Jaskier’s half hard prick, then rise back to his face.

“Well, what did you expect! Mating season has everyone a bit on edge,” Jaskier crosses his arms, pouting. “And anyway, I’m not arguing with you. You can’t even talk.”

Grumbling, the werewolf pushes away from the dead tree, taking its warmth with it as it leaves Jaskier alone in the clearing without a look back.

Jaskier stares after it for a long time, unbalanced, the remnants of adrenaline tingling under his skin. Well, he’d been wanting novelty and adventure. The goddess hasn’t disappointed.

Shaking his head, Jaskier slides his lute back on his lap and strums a few improvised chords, a song about moon-white fur and sun-gold eyes taking shape on his tongue.

It’s only a few minutes before a movement in the tall grass catches his attention again, and this time when he raises his head his eyes meet two sets of twin moons instead of one.

The white werewolf is back, and with it, a larger, dark brown one, staring at Jaskier with the same intensity, though it seems reluctant to come closer.

All fear forgotten, Jaskier discards his lute for good and slides down the dead tree, landing softly on the mossy ground.

“Did you bring a friend?” Jaskier asks the white werewolf as it trots up to him and nudges under his arm, sneaking behind him, its fur tickling the small of Jaskier’s back. On its four legs, the werewolf reaches just under the faun’s shoulders.

The other one observes them from a safe distance while Jaskier scritches at the white werewolf’s chin with cooing sounds, its eyes — a warmer shade of gold, almost amber — traveling from Jaskier to its friend, assessing.

Jaskier fails to muffle a gasp when it finally comes out of the shadows and the stark light of the moon puts in evidence the rough pink scars marring the right side of its face, narrowly missing one beautiful eye. The werewolf’s ears flatten at the sound and it stops, looking uncertain.

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxes softly, extending one hand in its direction. “I won’t bite.”

The werewolf huffs but resumes its careful approach, until Jaskier can feel the warmth of its breath against his fingers. With an encouraging smile, Jaskier uncurls them, brushing against the damaged skin ever so gently. He startles when a low whine rises from the werewolf’s throat, afraid he’s hurt him, but the creature steps forward, nuzzling into Jaskier’s palm.

Behind him, the white werewolf lets out a sharp bark, and Jaskier chuckles. “I’m not forgetting you, darling, I’m just saying hi to your handsome friend.”

The amber-eyed werewolf rumbles lowly and Jaskier grins, stroking its cheek, as the other one slips around him to bump its friend under the chin, catching its attention, before turning back to Jaskier and slotting its snout under his ear again, giving it a great, tickling sniff.

Emboldened by the demonstration, the dark werewolf bullies his way closer and starts its own inspection, scenting the faun more delicately than its friend, who playfully nudges at Jaskier’s ribs. The faun squeaks and laughs, swatting at him, fluttered by the intensity of their attention but submitting himself to it willingly.

Only when a large, scarred snout slots itself between his thighs again does he protest. “Goddess, you both have terrible manners! That’s not a way to behave!”

The dark werewolf pulls away with a bashful expression, amber eyes wide and apologetic, and Jaskier can’t find it in himself to admonish him. “It’s okay, sweetling. I’m not mad,” he reassures, petting the creature’s incredibly soft ears.

The two of them crowd him, the white one at his back and the bigger one nosing at his collarbone, and when a deep, husky voice rumbles, “Smell good,” there’s no mistaking where it came from.

“You can talk?” Jaskier squeaks, staring in disbelief at the dark werewolf.

It shouldn’t be that surprising, really, the werewolves always talk in the old wives tales, but because the white one hadn’t replied to him, he’d assumed they were just slightly more sentient — and incredibly horny — wolves. He’s feeling a bit foolish about how liberally he’s been petting them now, but given how the white one is currently purring under his hand he assumes they don’t really mind.

Instead of answering Jaskier’s — admittedly stupid — question, the dark werewolf licks a stripe up the side of the faun’s neck. “Taste good, too.”

Jaskier’s cheeks warm, the fire of arousal, which had been banked until now, flares bright and hot in his belly. There is something about being sandwiched between two very large, very intimidating apex predators that does it for him, apparently.

He shouldn’t even be surprised..

The white werewolf shifts behind him and Jaskier yelps as something wet nudges between his arsecheeks, prodding at his hole. He jumps forward as the dark werewolf rumbles a laugh. “Geralt also thinks you smell good.”

Jaskier moans and buries his face in the dark fur of the bigger werewolf’s collar, hiding his blush as he answers, “Well, maybe Geralt should get a taste, too.”

The growl at his back has the hair on his neck rising, and then a slick tongue is laving up his crack. Jaskier’s moan morphs into a sharp cry as teeth nip at his twitching tail. His hips buck forward and his cock fully slides out of its sheath.

“Careful, little prey,” the dark werewolf hums. “He might eat you whole.”

Behind Jaskier, a rough, gravelly voice grunts, “Eskel,” a warning and a demand for permission all at once.

The faun straightens up with a shaky inhale, boring his eyes into a serious amber gaze. Despite the teasing, threatening quality of his words, the werewolf looks uncertain, searching Jaskier for a sign of fear. His hand fisting into Eskel’s fur, Jaskier stretches up to plant a kiss on the werewolf’s mangled lip, flicking his tongue over the gleaming tooth exposed by the scar.

“I am quite a mouthful.” Jaskier grins. “It’ll take the both of you.”

Eskel’s pupils expand visibly, and that’s the only warning Jaskier’s gets before the werewolf descends on him, his tongue licking into Jaskier’s mouth into the messiest — and hottest — kiss the faun has ever been given. He gives as good as he gets, his short tail flicking excitedly, spreading pheromones of his own in the warm bubble of their embrace. Both werewolves roar ravenously at the scent of his need and a hot, hard cock slots itself between Jaskier’s thighs, smearing precome over the coarse fur of his legs. Geralt’s wide paws come to rest on the faun’s waist, almost spanning it entirely, the claws pricking his skin sending sparks up his spine. The white werewolf ruts against him and Jaskier whines into Eskel’s mouth, high and desperate.

“Fuck,” he pants, lowering his gaze and trailing a hand down his own body to squeeze at the tapered head peaking from between his thighs, wondering at the size of it compared to his palm. He whimpers, trembling at the overwhelming want coursing through his veins.

“Goddess, I need that inside me,” he mumbles as he pushes Eskel away from where he’d been licking and nipping at his freckled shoulders, bruises blooming already on the faun’s tanned skin.

Wriggling out of the werewolves’ embrace, Jaskier pads over to a thick patch of green grass, looking back at them as he kneels on the cushy ground and grabs one of his arse cheeks, spreading it as he holds his tail obligingly out of the way.

“Is one of you going to breed me, or should I take this somewhere else?” He asks archly when neither werewolf moves, staring at him with wide eyes and their considerable pricks hanging red and angry between their legs.

Falling back to his front legs, Geralt stalks forward, a predatory glint in his eyes, and Jaskier shudders with anticipation. The werewolf fits himself behind him again, paws covering his ass and spreading him further, rubbing his cock over the exposed crack.

Eskel joins them, kneeling in front of Jaskier, and the faun eagerly drops to his elbows licking his lips at the sight of the massive, drooling cock standing proudly from Eskel’s lap.

He’s going cross-eyed, wondering if he’d survive taking that monster into his throat, when Geralt licks a long, hot stripe from Jaskier’s balls to the base of his tail, dipping only briefly, teasingly into his fluttering hole. Jaskier shouts with mingled surprise and pleasure, pushing back with a plea for more when Geralt blows a cool breath over the wet area, sending shivers wracking through the faun’s entire body.

The werewolf indulges him, grabbing his hips and lifting them high, so high that Jaskier’s knees no longer touch the ground, and buries his snout into his arse, no longer teasing, his tongue lapping and prodding at Jaskier’s hole relentlessly.

His prick weeping precome over his quivering stomach, Jaskier whimpers and begs, head hung between his elbows as he watches the way Geralt devours him. It’s filthy and slick and intoxicating, and Jaskier’s body is burning up with it.

A large paw threads through his hair carefully, and his head is tugged back, met with the mouth-watering sight of Eskel’s cock bobbing just inches from his mouth. Even mindless with pleasure, Jaskier understands what is expected of him, and he lets his jaw fall open, not even trying to muster the coordination for a proper blow job but offering a slack, wet hole for Eskel to fuck.

The werewolf rumbles approvingly, rubbing the flushed head of his cock over Jaskier’s waiting tongue at the same time as Geralt finally breaches his hole.

“G— ah!” Jaskier gasps, and Eskel’s prick slips out of his mouth to slide over his cheek, leaving a wet trail. Eskel releases a low laugh and gives Jaskier a second to get used to the sensation of Geralt’s agile tongue licking at his inner walls.

When Jaskier’s breath has evened a little, he squeezes one of Eskel’s thickly muscled thighs and the werewolf takes his mouth again, thrusting deeper this time, though Jaskier can barely take half of it before choking around it.

“Fuck,” Eskel growls as Jaskier sucks and swallows as well as he can, and pride swells in the faun’s chest when he tastes a splurt of bitter precome.

Despite his girth, Eskel is gentle as he fucks Jaskier’s mouth, and the faun lets himself be grounded by the steady rhythm of the werewolf’s hips and the growing ache of his jaw as Geralt continues to open him.

Filthy sounds fill the clearing and Jaskier moans at the idea that someone from the herd might hear them. Let them, he thinks. Let them hear just how good I’m being fucked, how much I’m loving it.

It sends him spiraling faster than he can control, his prick slapping against his stomach and his hole clenching around Geralt’s tongue as the tension coils tighter and tighter in his balls.

He is standing just over the edge when Geralt pulls away from him, leaving him empty, the furl of his hole fluttering as saliva runs down his crack.

“Ah, f— fuck!” Jaskier yells as his hips thrust into empty air, seeking friction. The waves of pleasure recede, leaving behind frustration and unspent, buzzing energy. Whirling back, Jaskier snarls at Geralt, “You… asshole! I was almost there!”

The werewolf lowers Jaskier to the ground with a shit-eating grin, white fangs gleaming and heat simmering in his eyes, and Jaskier’s knees almost immediately give out when Eskel leans down to whisper in his ear, “Wouldn’t you rather come on his cock?”

Jaskier is only spared from sprawling to the ground like a newborn foal by the strength of Geralt’s grip over his hips. “Well, get on with it, then,” he snaps, though his voice comes out breathy and unstable.

Eskel’s dark chuckle raises the hair on Jaskier’s nape, and the werewolf looks over his head to speak to Geralt. “Give our needy little prey what he deserves, wolf.”

As if he’d only been waiting for the permission, Geralt throws the faun over his shoulder and stands up with a deep growl, crossing the few paces back to the dead tree and sprawling Jaskier on top of it, belly down. The moss is comfortable enough and Jaskier whines as he bucks his hips, his impatience rekindled by the pressure on his groin.

Geralt stops his movements by covering the faun’s body with his, snarling into Jaskier’s ear. When the faun stills, panting and whimpering low in his throat, Geralt straightens and spreads Jaskier’s cheeks again, the wet tip of the werewolf’s cock rubbing into his entrance.

Resting his flaming temple on the cool, dewy moss, Jaskier meets Eskel’s eyes, the werewolf watching them both as he strokes his own cock with languid swipes of his clawed hand, almost matching the pace of Geralt’s rutting.

Just as Jaskier is drawing the breath to request the werewolf stop being such a fucking tease and get on with it, Geralt pushes in in one long, hot slide, forcing the faun to open around him without a pause for him to get used to the intrusion. It burns, and Jaskier chokes as he struggles to get enough air in his lungs, but still Geralt doesn’t stop until his hips meet the back of Jaskier’s furred thighs.

Resting his sweaty forehead over the plush green moss, Jaskier takes a shaky inhale, breathing around the sensation, willing his body to relax. When he feels like he can take Geralt without splitting open, he turns his head on the side, gazing at Geralt over his shoulder.

“Come on then, what are you waiting for?”

A wild look fills Geralt’s amber eyes and Jaskier wails as the werewolf pulls out almost completely before slamming back into him, the faun’s body sliding forward with the force of his thrust. He has no time to recover as Geralt fucks into him again and again, Jaskier jostled this way and that, trying to get a good grip on the dead tree but only managing to rip chunks of moss.

Geralt remedies the problem by grasping Jaskier’s flailing arms, pulling them behind his back and holding them in a lock with one large paw, while the other rests on his left hip. With the added grip, Geralt can pull him back on his cock with each deep thrust, and Jaskier wails at the relentless drag of the burning shaft over his inner walls. His hooves hover over the ground, and he has no leverage or any sort of control over the situation, a powerless prey to the ravenous creature ravishing him.

Geralt fucks him without grace or finesse, rutting into him like the mindless animal Jaskier would have believed him to be an hour ago. As it is, Jaskier is going cross-eyed with intense, all-consuming pleasure, drool slicking his lips. The rough friction of the moss over his sensitive prick has him crying out again and again, along with the broken moans slipping from his lips every time Geralt finds his prostate with an abrupt thrust.

Jaskier reaches the edge fast but then he can’t seem to fall, the desperation building inside him with every drag of Geralt’s cock glancing over his prostate. He can’t touch himself and he can’t arch his hips to give Geralt’s ploughing a better angle. No amount of begging seems to sway the werewolf, who keeps on rutting and grinding and fucking without obvious rhythm. He’s stuck, Geralt taking his pleasure inside Jaskier’s body without much regard for Jaskier’s own, but it’s the most aroused the faun has ever been.

Geralt’s thrust become choppy and erratic after an unknown amount of time. Jaskier feels loose and like he’s ready to snap at the same time, and he doesn’t immediately notice the growing bulge bumping against his hole every time Geralt slides inside him. The confused sound that escapes his lips turns into a surprised shout when it pops inside, stretching him even wider. Geralt snarls, drooling over Jaskier’s sweaty back, and pulls out again, the knot — and Jaskier’s eyes go wide as he realises what it is — making a squelching sound as it pops out.

It catches on Jaskier’s rim with every thrust now, growing larger and larger as Geralt approaches his peak, growling and snarling like an enraged beast, his claws tearing chunks out of the dead tree, splinters flying around them and falling to the ground. Jaskier is mewling with it, scared and eager for the knot to stretch him, fill him, wreck him.

Fangs prick at Jaskier’s freckled shoulder, grazing his skin in the ghost of a bite, and finally, Jaskier spills with a shout, clenching hard around Geralt’s knot, preventing it from slipping out. Geralt howls, thrusting another couple of times before he reaches his own peak, grinding against Jaskier’s ass as his cock pulses load after load of come deep inside him. It pushes Jaskier’s stomach to rub against a pool of his own semen, smearing it all over himself, but he’s too out of it to protest, mouth gaping, twitching with the last waves of his orgasm.

Geralt’s movements weaken, his cock still milking come into Jaskier, and the werewolf whines as he licks Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Good boy,” Jaskier slurs, face smooshed into the moss, his entire body tingling.

Gathering him in his arms, Geralt lowers them to the ground, propping himself up against the fallen tree, Jaskier cradled on his chest. The faun cries out as the shift in position jostles the knot inside him, and Geralt pets his sides apologetically.

“How long will it take to go down?” Jaskier asks when his sensitivity has receded a little, burying his face into Geralt’s neck, breathing in the warm, musky scent of his fur.

“Not long now,” comes Eskel’s voice from above him, and Jaskier turns his head to find him close, watching the both of them with warm amber eyes. Jaskier shivers, both from the weight of that gaze and the cool breeze over his damp skin, and the dark werewolf crawls closer, enclosing the faun between his and Geralt’s bodies. Eskel noses at Jaskier’s chest, the faun wriggling weakly when the wet snout brushes at his nipples. A long, warm tongue laves over his stomach, and it takes Jaskier’s come-addled brain several second to understand Eskel is lapping at the seed smeared over him.

Jaskier keens when Eskel’s attentions turn to his spent cock, licking at the tip to tease out the last droplets of come, and when the faun pushes his head away, the werewolf noses his way down his sheath and balls to where Jaskier and Geralt are still tied. Geralt’s knot is only now starting to go down, deflating slowly, and Eskel laps at the semen that leaks out of Jaskier’s hole. When Geralt finally slips out, a rush of come following it, Eskel replaces it with his tongue, curling inside Jaskier’s abused hole.

The faun sobs at the sensation, both soothing and too much, but submits himself to Eskel’s thorough cleaning. When the werewolf is satisfied, he rises, fitting himself between Geralt and Jaskier’s open legs. His large, heavy cock rubs in the crease of Jaskier’s hip as he leans down to nose at his neck, and then further to nip at Geralt’s ear affectionately when the white werewolf lets out a needy rumble.

He pulls back, straightening up, his paws coming to spread Jaskier’s thighs further, and watches where his cock slides against Jaskier’s, teasing his prick out of its sheath again. Mating season always does wonders on the faun’s stamina, and he’s never been so grateful about it.

“Please, Eskel, I want—“ Jaskier whines when the werewolf doesn’t do anything to move things along, his gaze locked on their weeping cocks. One large paw comes to trap them together against Jaskier’s stomach, and the faun gasps, though the friction is far from enough to do anything else than taunt him.

The werewolf rumbles, his gaze dark, and when Jaskier lowers his eyes to see what he’s looking at, he almost comes all over himself.

Eskel’s cock slides over his flat stomach, the tip reaching almost all the way up to his navel, and Jaskier keens at the thought of it inside him, tearing him apart. His impatience rekindled, he hooks his ankles behind the werewolf, pulling his hips flush against Jaskier’s backside and demanding, as archly as he is able to when he’s burning up with want, “Are you gonna put that thing inside me, big boy, or do I have to find someone else to breed me full?”

The werewolf’s fangs flash in the moonlight as he smiles, a dangerous, predatory glint in his eyes. Still, he is gentle when he hikes Jaskier’s hips higher with an arm wrapped behind his back, almost folding him in half, cradling his head in his broad palm. Underneath them, Geralt purrs lazily, content with his head resting on Jaskier’s shoulder to observe the proceedings.

With the last of Geralt’s come slicking the way, Eskel slides in a slow, smooth glide, coaxing Jaskier to open for him as the faun tries to relax. It’s the largest cock Jaskier has ever taken, and it fills him to the brim, but his body welcomes it, needs it. Every one of his nerve ending sings, and Jaskier gasps wetly as Eskel bottoms out.

Pulling out slowly, until only the tapered tip of his cock stretches the rim of Jaskier’s hole, Eskel breathes huskily, “Good?”

Jaskier has to remember how to form words, mouth gaping open as he stares sightlessly into the starry sky, but he manages to answer after a moment, eager for Eskel to fill him again.“Y— yes, very good, Eskel, fuck— please, move, I need it—“ Jaskier’s pleading is cut off with a sharp cry as Eskel complies, sliding home again.

The werewolf builds a slow and steady rhythm, so controlled in contrast to Geralt’s earlier mindless rutting that Jaskier mewls in confusion. He would try and fuck himself back on Eskel’s cock to encourage him to go faster, but Geralt’s paws are on his hips, preventing him from doing anything else than writhing helplessly.

A weird sensation in his stomach makes Jaskier lower his eyes, and he gasps at the sight that greets him. With every deep thrust in, a small bump appears in Jaskier’s lower belly, his skin stretching over the tip of Eskel’s cock. One hand comes to cradle the bulge like a precious thing, mesmerised by it, and Eskel growls wildly, possessive and as desperate as Jaskier is feeling.

The press of his hand makes the sensations even more vivid, and Jaskier pants at how Eskel seems to touch the deepest parts of him, hoping he isn’t drooling over himself. With how boneless and desperate he feels at the way he is being used, he really can’t be sure.

Underneath him, Geralt shifts and whines, slowly getting hard again, his dick rubbing against Jaskier’s lower back. Mad with desire, Jaskier hears a stream of pleading nonsense spill from his lips, begging for more even though he feels like he’s going to explode at the slightest touch.

One of Geralt’s paws leave Jaskier’s hips and soon after Jaskier can feel the nudge of his cock against his hole, where Eskel is still thrusting rhythmically. The faun cries out in both arousal and alarm, wanting Geralt to slide in next to Eskel even though he knows there is no way for him to take it. He finds himself hurtling fast towards his peak as he imagines the both of them knotting him.

Eskel growls and snaps at Geralt, the two of them fighting for control, for the right to Jaskier’s body, while the faun is jostled, limbs weak and unresponsive, between them.

The dark werewolf gets the upper hand and Geralt grumbles but submits, his cock slipping to Jaskier’s lower crack again. Eskel licks into the other werewolf’s mouth, affection filling his amber eyes, and Geralt accepts it begrudgingly, though Jaskier can feel the jump of his cock at the sloppy kiss.

Impatient, feeling petty at being ignored by the two werewolves while one of them is buried hilt deep into his ass, Jaskier moans and mewls exaggeratedly, blinking wide, wet eyes at Eskel. “Please, Eskel, I need you… I need more…”

It does bring the attention back on him, though Eskel’s smirk is knowing, and he chuckles when Jaskier curses him as he pulls out entirely, leaving his hole gaping open, empty and clenching around nothing.

Jaskier screams in frustration, his hooves kicking in the air, trying to land a blow on the infuriatingly smug werewolf, but Eskel catches his ankles in one paw, tugging him closer.

The faun allows himself to be manhandled with a pout until the werewolves settle into a new position, Eskel and Geralt kneeling in front of each other while Jaskier hangs suspended between them, his back against Eskel’s chest and his knees hooked over Geralt’s arm.

Again, Eskel’s cock breaches his hole as the werewolf lowers him into his lap, the new angle pushing a raw whine out of Jaskier’s lips. The werewolf resumes fucking him with his ever steady thrust, and Jaskier loses himself to it, head thrown back on Eskel’s shoulder, until something pokes at him and he opens his eyes with effort to see the head of Geralt’s cock peeking from his thighs. Thrusting in and out, wetting Jaskier’s fur with precome, Geralt drags his cock over the faun’s balls as he uses his thighs like he did his hole.

Between the paired sensations of Eskel’s cock splitting his ass, hitting his prostate every time, and Geralt stimulating his prick as he fucks Jaskier’s thighs, it’s not long before the faun peaks to his second orgasm, pushed out of him with a cry.

Eskel gentles his thrusts, avoiding Jaskier’s oversensitive prostate, but neither he nor Geralt stop completely. They drag their own pleasure out of Jaskier’s body for what feels like hours to the almost delirious faun, a pliant ragdoll for them to fuck their seed into.

When finally Eskel locks up and comes, grinding into Jaskier until the faun’s stomach bulges the slightest bit, Jaskier sobs in relief. Geralt follows soon after, popping his knot in the tight clench of Jaskier’s thighs, covering the faun’s torso with stripes of hot come, matting his fur and pooling into the hollow of his throat.

Before it has even time to cool, Jaskier slips into an exhausted sleep.

*

Blades of sun-warmed glass caressing his skin wakes Jaskier a few hours later. Smiling at the tell-tale scent of sex that clings to him, he stretches languidly with a jaw-cracking yawn, deciding against opening his eyes just yet.

He snakes a hand down his torso, bypassing his still-sensitive cock to prod at the tenderness of his puffy hole. All traces of come and sweat and dirt has been washed away from his body, but when he plunges two fingers into himself, he finds he’s still wet there, marked with the evidence of last night’s incredible coupling. With a self-satisfied sigh, he brings his sticky digits to his mouth, cleaning them with lazy licks.

A soft but heartfelt “fuck” startles him and he opens his eyes to meet a familiar golden gaze in a not-at-all familiar face.

The man looking down at him has long, tangled white hair and smells distinctly of wet fur. He seems as surprised and confused as Jaskier is feeling, but before the faun can speak up, another voice calls from the direction of the little stream.

“Ah, you’re finally awake, little prey.”

A very naked and very wet man with brown skin and a mean scar across his right cheek walks towards them, droplets of water sliding enticingly down the soft lines of his body.

“Eskel?” Jaskier squeaks, his throat suddenly very dry.

The tanned man nods with a smile as he crouches down next to him, amber eyes soft and warm. “How are you feeling?”

“I— good, thank you,” Jaskier stammers, blushing a deep red as a twinge in his core reminds him of just what exactly he let those two handsome men do to him a few hours prior.

“Here, drink some water,” Eskel hands Jaskier a flask filled with fresh spring water. “You should eat too. Geralt picked some berries while you were asleep.”

Geralt’s frown is belied by the pretty pink flushing his cheeks as he offers Jaskier a handful of plump wild strawberries, and the faun accepts them with a tentative smile, his stomach rumbling accordingly. The tart taste of the berries bring water to his mouth, and he jumps a little when Geralt noses at his neck, sniffing, much like he had done in his wolf form.

“Fuck, Esk,” the man groans. “He smells like the both of us.”

A possessive arm snakes around Jaskier’s waist and he lets himself be pulled flush to Geralt’s sun-kissed body, holding back a smirk. “That’s not really surprising, given that you came all over me, as well as inside.” And damn, if Jaskier doesn’t feel smug about it.

Both men groan and Eskel tips forward to cover the faun with his body, biting his lips and licking into his mouth, while Geralt’s fingers slip down to prod at Jaskier’s hole. The faun hisses, and the men immediately pull away, worry and uncertainty written into their eyes.

“As much as I’d love going another round with you two looking like this,” he encompasses their glorious nakedness with a flourish of his hand, “I don’t think I’ll be up for the challenge for at least a day or two.”

Eskel and Geralt exchange a long, meaningful look as the white-haired man lowers his head to nibble at Jaskier’s freckled shoulder, and Eskel huffs, shaking his head good-humouredly. “We’re heading south for the summer to meet our brother. I think you’d like him, and he, you. I mean, if you… were keen on accompanying us.”

Glee bubbling in his chest at the thought of adventures and songs and lots and lots of mind-blowing sex, Jaskier brushes a sweet kiss on Eskel’s flushed cheek. “Oh, darling. Just try and get rid of me now.”

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

Can I request some more autistic/adhd Geralt? It’s too soft I love

oh absolutely. sorry it took me a minute to fill this prompt but... life hard, author tired

modern au this time, if you want some in canon you can hit me up again with more prompts :)

tw: Geralt deals with some negative symptoms of ADHD and makes a new friend at the gym!

---

Geralt frowned. "I don't want to go, Eskel."

"C'mon dude, please? I need you there to be my spotter... and my wingman."

"Take Lambert."

"Nah, girls like him now. They think he's some kind of Tik Tok sexyman."

"Never say those words in that order to me again. Please."

"Fine. If you agree to come with me tonight."

Geralt did not want to go to the gym. He was tired from working all morning and his medication was starting to wear off; he'd been on Zoom for seven straight hours hashing through the details of the Zoo's grand re-opening at the end of the month with the new director of operations. He was braindead and over-stimulated and grumpy. He wanted to drink something uncharacteristically fruity and alcoholic and hit the hay early.

But he was a good sibling, and good siblings helped out when they had the opportunity. So Geralt grabbed his gym bag, refilled his water bottle, and followed Eskel out the door.

---

Geralt was going to scream.

He needed to go. He needed a minute alone to breathe and process things. Not even a low-dose Ritalin could save him now because he was already on the road to a complete meltdown and he was still stuck at the fucking Planet Fitness.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a soft voice asked from his left side: "Hey, are you alright?"

Geralt's eyes snapped to the stranger's face. A pair of blue eyes were gazing at him with concern and - not pity, but definitely something similar. Empathy, maybe?

"No."

"Do you want to go outside and grab some air? Or we could go sit over by the yoga mats, it's pretty empty right now."

"I don't know you."

Geralt realized how rude and brusque he sounded immediately after the words left his mouth, but he was being honest. He had no clue who this twunk - because no straight man wears a hot pink crop top to the gym unless they're rushing a frat - even was.

"I know," the man smiled, unperturbed. "But I get the same way sometimes when the world gets to be too much. You're breathing wrong and your eyes don't seem to be able to focus very well. Do you need some water or juice?"

Geralt felt very silly and very small, but he managed to ask: "If it wouldn't be a bother, may I have some juice?"

"Yeah," the twunk grinned. "My name is Jaskier, by the way. Right over here..."

Jaskier led Geralt to a quiet corner of the gym and slipped two pouches of Capri Sun from his tie-dyed bag. "How did you know?"

"I have the same problem," Jaskier winked. "ADHD, right?"

"Mhm."

"Haven't eaten anything substantial today, have you?"

Geralt realized that he hadn't eaten anything other than a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast before work and felt very silly once again. "How could you tell?"

"The thousand mile stare," Jaskier answered truthfully. He finished his Capri Sun and tossed the little foil pouch into a nearby trash receptacle. "Respect the pouch! Anyway, it happens to me during class sometimes and my students always remind me to have a snack or take a few sips of my lemonade."

"You're a teacher?"

"Professor! I teach a few English and Music History classes at Oxenfurt, but mostly I'm a member of the research faculty."

"Cool," Geralt smiled. "I'm the head zookeeper over at Kaer Morhen Public Zoo; I'm a monster specialist and I do a lot of their wild animal and monster rehab."

"That's so awesome!" Jaskier declared. "What's your favorite monster?"

Geralt opened his mouth to release a long string of facts about Wyverns before biting his lip and shaking his head. "I don't want to get into that right now, I'm sure you have other places to be."

"I really don't," Jaskier leaned back, crossing his legs in front of him. "And I love hearing people info-dump."

"Me too," Geralt smiled again, more shyly this time. "Anyway... I love Wyverns."

---

"See you tomorrow!" Jaskier beamed, waving as he made his way across the parking lot. "Can't wait to talk more about those endangered Endrega species!"

"Yeah," Geralt waved back. "And about your thesis!"

"Who's that?" Eskel asked, bumping shoulders with his brother.

"I made a friend. Also we're going to Arby's right fucking now because I haven't eaten all day and I'm starving."

"Aye, aye," Eskel nodded. Then he grinned salaciously at his brother and wiggled his eyebrows, "They have the meats."

"Dork."

Geralt leaned the passenger seat all the way back and let his eyes stay closed during their ride to the fast-food joint.

[jaskierswolf]

Of Banquets and Bards

My definitely a month late exchange fic for @damatris in @thewitcherbog holiday exchange! At least the physical present arrived on time?

Geraskier at a banquet. Friends to lovers, a sprinkling of fake dating.

On AO3

CWs: Geralt is a little overwhelmed at the banquet with moments of implied sensory overload.

_

Banquets. Geralt fucking hated them. They were too loud and he was surrounded by people that both feared and despised him. Sometimes they were mandatory for the quests and contracts he had in order to survive, to keep moving forward, but gods, they were a royal pain in the ass. The music was always too loud, and there was a never ending swirl of chatter and noise that made his skin crawl. Then there were the colours. Nobles just fucking loved colours. Logically, he’d known that. One didn’t travel with Jaskier for almost a decade without realising that bright clothes were their preferred choice of fashion, but Geralt always forgot that fashion didn’t always mean... coherence. Banquets were filled with a whole rainbow of outfits and it hurt his eyes, making his head throb within the hour of arriving.

But he still went.

He would grumble and roll his eyes as he was forced into whatever ill-fitting outfit was chosen for him, by Yen, Jask, or whatever poor royalty needed his help. The problem was that Geralt always struggled to deny those in need. He was never able to walk away, or as Jaskier said… he always got involved.

Which was how Geralt had found himself at yet another banquet that he really really didn’t want to be at, with a splitting headache and an almost irresistible urge to flee into the night. People kept touching him. It was horrifying. It wasn’t as if they meant to touch him, but it was so fucking busy that he just couldn’t get away, not even when he was plastered up against the wall. If it wasn’t for Jaskier then he would have fled to the courtyard for some air, but he hadn’t managed to find a good excuse to keep Jaskier safe for the rest of evening yet, so he had to stay and watch him. Already he’d noticed a couple of nobles shooting daggers into Jaskier’s back when the bard wasn’t watching. The last thing he needed was a dead bard.

He tried to ignore the crippling pain in his heart when he imagined Jaskier’s body broken in his arms. Over the last few years, the easy friendship that he still denied at every turn had melted into something else, not more necessarily… just… different. It was embarrassing enough to finally admit they were friends, but the thought of Jaskier finding out about his crush was, no. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. So he pushed down the heartbreak of Jaskier’s hypothetical death, and growled at anyone who came too close to him in a futile attempt to get some space.

If he could just get two minutes he’d be fine; just a moment to breathe, to close his eyes and just breathe.

“Fuck,” he growled, pressing his fingers to his forehead. It felt as if a djinn had torn up the inside of this skull and shot electricity through his veins.

“Witcher!” Some strange little man came flying up to him, stinking of vodka and at least three different perfumes. “I- I…” the man hiccupped, “I need a favour!” The words were slurred and the man poked him in the chest. It wasn’t hard, especially against a witcher, but without his armour, everything just seemed… worse.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“I’ll give you coin!” The man cried, arms flailing wide and almost hitting Geralt in the face. “Lots of coin!”

Taking in the man’s clothes, bright but with more than one repair at the seams, Geralt just sighed. “I’m not interested.”

“But-”

“No coin. No contract.”

“But… my wife!” The man whined, gripping at Geralt’s arm and simply not caring that the witcher was growling at him. “She’s… she’s missing.”

All it took was another sniff of the perfumes surrounding the man, cheap and floral… and ones favoured by the whores at the local brothel. It wasn’t unpleasant, but given Geralt’s already overwhelmed senses, it made him want to hurl. Instead, he bared his teeth a little and yanked his arm away from the idiot’s grip.

“Maybe if you stop spending all your coin in brothels, she’ll come home, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“You! How very dare you? I’ll have your head for this witcher!”

Geralt snorted. “Join the queue, now… fuck off.”

With one last haughty look, the man finally scarpered, no doubt to fetch the guards, but Geralt wouldn’t leave the banquet unless he was absolutely certain that Jaskier was safe without him. He snarled as he pushed away from the wall, stalking through the crowd, flinching with every touch against his arms, back, shoulders. It was almost too much, but the single thought of Jaskier kept him going. If there was any way to get through the blasted banquet it would be because the bard needed him, it gave Geralt a purpose, a reason to survive the damned thing.

Glancing around the room, Geralt tried to focus his senses, drowning out the rest of the noise until he could just see, hear and smell Jaskier, but there were too many colours, too many gossips, too much perfume. It was like he’d been dumped into one of his worst nightmares, and there was no escape.

Sniffing the air, Geralt continued pushing through the crowds, following the sound of the lute and desperately trying to scent Jaskier’s honied chamomile perfume without any luck. With every push and pull of crowd, Geralt felt his heart race a bit faster and he grew evermore frantic.

“Come on, Jaskier,” he growled to himself, dodging away from someone’s lingering hands and doing his best to ignore the call of his name.

The bard’s songs had done wonders for his reputation and his purse, but fuck if Geralt didn’t miss the days where people didn’t recognise him on sight. Yes, the Butcher of Blaviken moniker hadn’t been easy, but it wasn’t quite as obvious as “White Wolf”. There weren’t many other witchers with long white hair and, apart from Vesemir, but he didn’t spend as long on the path as the other wolves. So really, it was just Geralt, and it made him a target for people with problems, or any fans of the bard.

Recently, Jaskier had started a trend of signing his name on copies of a novel he’d written about Geralt and Yennefer’s friendship. The story had been twisted into a romance for “the sales, Geralt,” and now wherever Geralt went people wanted to know about his torrid love affair with the sorceress and his fated last wish. Even worse was that Jaskier’s ‘autograph’ idea as he’d called it, was starting to catch on and Geralt had lost track of the times he’d had bits of parchment shoved under his nose. It was really quite incredible the influence his bard had on the Continent, but Geralt couldn’t help but be a little proud of him. Gone was the eighteen year old bardling that had been begging for scraps of food, and in his place was a fully fledged troubadour.

Over the years Jaskier’s career had just exploded, starting with Toss a Coin, that infernal song, and growing into softer ballads, raunching ditties, novels, poems, and even plays. He no longer needed the tales that Geralt provided, and was quite capable of surviving the Continent in the years when they were parted, but for some reason Jaskier had stuck around, even when Geralt growled and grumbled at him. They were friends, equals, but Geralt still couldn’t tell him.

The truth burned in his soul, clawing to get out, but Geralt kept it chained tightly in his own heart. Jaskier had spun a romance for Geralt and Yen, there was no way he would do that if Geralt’s feelings were requited, no matter how much Jaskier had flirted with him in the early days of their friendship.

“Fuck,” he snarled, massaging his temples to try and get rid of blinding headache.

It was all too much. Make sure Jaskier was safe and get out. That was the plan.

Then he heard it. The all too familiar cry of pain.

“Shit!” he pushed through the crowd faster, not caring about anyone who was booted from his path with more force than necessary. “Jaskier!”

“Geralt!” came the reply, and with his voice to focus on, Geralt was finally able to pick out Jaskier’s scent from the crowd, soured with fear. “Help!”

Okay, so maybe Jaskier was only mostly capable of surviving on his own, but Geralt didn’t mind. He liked that despite Jaskier’s fame and countless options for friends and lovers, he still needed Geralt, and still chose Geralt over any mercenary or bodyguard.

“Get off!” Once again, Geralt reached for a sword that was safely tucked away in the room he was sharing with the bard for the evening. He sighed, and slipped on his wolf knuckle duster from his pocket instead. Of course, he could handle the lord easily without it, probably without the need for violence, but unfortunately for the pompous git, he had chosen to attack Jaskier when Geralt was already out of patience.

“Oh look, Pankratz, your guard dog has arrived,” the slimy bastard sneered, keeping his steel dagger close to Jaskier’s throat.

“He’s my best friend, you- you… whoreson!” Spitting in the man’s face, Jaskier struggled in his grip.

What was it Geralt had said about Jaskier having no sense of self-preservation?

“Let him go,” he growled, debating on using axii but with the dagger so close to Jaskier’s throat, Geralt couldn’t risk the blade slipping under the sign. As it was there was already a trickle of blood dripping down the bard’s throat.

“I don’t think so, witcher. He fucked my wife… and then my brother! The man’s a cad. No one is safe from his prick.”

“Ah- well, I- I should probably cut in here,” Jaskier stammered. “Actually, your brother fucked me. My prick had nothing to-”

“Jaskier!”

“Shutting up.”

There was a pitiful whimper as the man growled, another crimson bead pooling under the steel. “You’re idiots, both of you.”

“G-Geralt…”

Time was running out. Geralt knew he had to find a solution quickly, and regrettably violence would probably only see the bard dead in his arms. Sighing, he put his knuckle duster away, and before he could think too hard on it, he pulled his medallion out of his shirt. Next to the snarling wolf pendant was a ring, the fancy kind nobles used to seal letters. There were buttercups imprinted on it, and really Geralt shouldn’t have it at all. It had always been his intention to return it to the bard after he’d found it left on the floor when clearing up the last of their belongings in a tavern, and slipped onto the medallion’s chain for safekeeping until he was able to catch up with Jaskier.

Except he’d kept it.

It was nice to have something to remind him of Jaskier whilst they were separated, especially during the harsh winters at Kaer Morhen. So even when Jaskier had whined about losing his precious ring, Geralt had kept it close to his chest.

And now he had a good chance to exploit it.

“Hands off my husband, or you’ll have all the wolves of Kaer Morhen at your door,” he growled, presenting the buttercup ring to the lord.

Jaskier stammered a bit at the sudden declaration, blushing brightly as his eyes widened. There was a rush of… affection, in the bard’s scent though, so Geralt wasn’t too concerned, although he did have to fight his own blush, the rumours about the mutagens stripping them of emotions be damned.

“Husband?”

“Yes.”

“But- but… my wife?!”

Geralt shrugged. “We have an open relationship, but Jask doesn’t sleep with people who are married. So maybe you should be wondering why your wife didn’t tell him?”

“And his brother is definitely single!” Jaskier chimed. The glare Geralt shot his way did nothing to silence the idiot, but luckily for both of them the threat of a keep of witchers after him had been enough to scare the wits out of the lord.

The dagger dropped to the floor and Jaskier was pushed into Geralt’s arms. “Take him. If you want a whore for a husband, that’s your problem, witcher. Just leave me be.”

Geralt steadied Jaskier in his arms, holding the bard around his waist as he stumbled forward, spluttering and red faced. The bitter stench of fear still clung to him, but it was sweeter now, faded, blooming into something warmer. Honied chamomile wafted around Geralt, and he felt a calm wash over him as he was finally able to lose himself in Jaskier’s scent, the steady fluttering beat of his heart. Jaskier remained melted into Geralt’s embrace for too long, and on any other day Geralt might have pulled away, throwing his guard up and securing his treacherous heart back in its cage, but it wasn’t any other day. They now had a cover story and a role to play. Jaskier was his husband for the night, and Geralt wasn’t so sure he was ready to drop the act, so he let Jaskier cling to him as he regained his composure.

“You okay, Jaskier?” he murmured softly, his thumb brushing the cut on the bard’s neck. It wasn’t deep, and it would probably stop bleeding in a matter of seconds, but it was still a reminder that Geralt had failed.

The one job he’d had that evening was to keep the bard from falling into harm’s way, but Geralt had been too overwhelmed by all the noises and colours and smells, that he couldn’t even manage that. The White Wolf, the witcher that had survived not just one, but two sets of mutagens, the reluctant hero of the Continent… all his experience and talent in slaying all manner of monsters, and he couldn’t keep his best friend safe for a few measly hours.

A pompous lord had bested him.

And Geralt hadn’t even had the opportunity to punch the idiot in the face. With a sigh, he pocketed his knuckle duster, chasing after the lord to hit him now would only cause more trouble, no matter how tempting it might me… the man had spilled Jaskier’s blood and every part of Geralt yearned to take his revenge. A broken nose wouldn’t look out of place on the whoreson’s face.

Luckily for him, Jaskier needed Geralt more than the witcher needed his revenge, even if the blood taunted him as he smeared it away with his thumb. Jaskier sighed, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s chest, fingers clinging to Geralt’s side as if he were afraid to let go.

“Yeah, yeah. I think so. Close call,” Jaskier whispered back, shaking slightly in Geralt’s arms.

It felt natural to reach and run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, just like he would with Roach whenever she was spooked. Geralt didn’t mean to, but as Jaskier started to hum, he had no regrets. Slowly, Jaskier seemed to regain strength, the sweet undertone to his scent getting more prominent with every breath as the bitterness faded away.

“You’re safe now,” Geralt hummed.

“Why yes I am husband…”

Shit. The way that word made Geralt’s heart flip was unreasonable. No wonder he’d let Jaskier get hurt - love had slowed him down. Witchers maintained the lie of no feeling for a very good reason. It opened them up for attacks, blinded their reasoning in battle…

Made them stronger.

Fuck knows, it made them stronger. Geralt knew he would move mountains for Jaskier, if only the bard asked, which is why he’d kept Jaskier at a distance. If the idiot didn’t realise how much Geralt would do for him… then he wouldn’t ask, and Geralt would be saved the embarrassment of the truth. The banquets were bad enough.

“Don’t,” he grumbled.

“But, my darling husband, dear heart, you saved me.”

“Stop it,” Geralt groaned but it was too late. Jaskier had draped himself over Geralt, dramatically swooning in his arms and sighing wistfully. “You’re no damsel in distress, Jaskier.”

“You take that back!”

“Please stop.”

“I make a beautiful damsel in distress, husband.”

It was an easy banter, and one that Geralt didn’t need to think about, a routine they’d had for years already, and hopefully would have for many more to come. Geralt tried not to think about Jaskier growing old before his eyes.

Fuck.

It was too much.

Everything was too much.

Even with the familiar timbre of Jaskier’s dulcet tenor, and the warmth of his sweet floral scent… the banquet was too loud. The feelings racing inside of him were too loud.

Loud.

Loud.

“Geralt?”

His eyes snapped up at the sound of his name, finding comfort in the soft cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes. The bard’s hands were cupping his face, calloused fingers stroking his cheek.

“Geralt, are you okay?”

“I need air, you should be safe now,” he grunted, shaking free from Jaskier’s grip before attempting to stumble to the door through the too busy crowd, but Jaskier’s hand caught his wrist.

“Let me get my lute, witcher. We can go.”

Geralt frowned. This banquet was important to Jaskier, something about debuting a new song at court, but he saw nothing but sincerity in the bard’s eyes. Jaskier really meant it. The peacocking minstrel who had previously only cared about fame and fortune in his youth, was giving up an opportunity… for Geralt. He swallowed, ignoring the thundering of his heart or the way his mouth went dry, and then nodded with a grunt.

In reality it didn’t take long for the bard to retrieve his belongings, but to Geralt it felt like an age. His head was still spinning, and no matter how hard he tried to keep track of Jaskier’s movements, his friend melted into the crowd and out of sight. The moment Jaskier was gone, Geralt felt like the world began to close in on him once more. His heightened senses were a saviour in many a circumstance, but at a banquet it felt like slow suicide.

Until, a hand touched his arm.

Chamomile, cornflower blue, a soft peal of melodic laughter.

Jaskier.

It was time to go.

The silence of their shared bedroom had never felt so blissful. It was better than a steaming hot bath, although Jaskier ensured Geralt could enjoy that luxury too. He sank under the surface, closing his eyes and letting the water drown out the remaining noise, faint hustle and bustle from the inn below. He wasn’t sure how long he spent under the water, holding his breath far longer than any human, but when he resurfaced, Jaskier was by his side. The bard had a book in his hand, a pair of glasses perched on his nose as he flicked through the pages.

“Better?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, and when Jaskier put aside his book, moving closer to the tub, Geralt didn’t complain. Even the gentle touches to his hair didn’t feel overwhelming as Jaskier slowly began to massage his scalp. Geralt’s hair didn’t need washing, but the sensation was still pleasant, and he felt himself drift into a meditative state as the bard worked.

By the time the water had gone cold, Geralt felt like a new man. His muscles were relaxed, and his head no longer felt like it was going to explode. Jaskier had retreated once more to the bed at some point in the evening, lounging on his stomach as he continued to read. The glasses should have made Jaskier look old, but Geralt found he rather liked the way they framed the bard’s face. It made him impossibly even more handsome, and as he wrapped the towel around his waist, Geralt couldn’t help but reach out to hold his medallion… or more accurately, the ring that lay beside it.

“So…” Jaskier hummed, without looking up from his book. “Husband?”

“It worked.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, yes, yup, it worked, but really, dear witcher. We got fake married, and I didn’t even get to kiss my husband,” Jaskier purred, his blue eyes finally catching Geralt’s in a heated gaze.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“You- you want that?”

With a ridiculously soft smile, Jaskier scoffed. “Only since forever, you dear, oblivious fool. How long have you had my ring?”

It was Geralt’s turn to blush now, and blush he did, his cheeks heating up beneath his damp hair. “Couple of years.”

“Couple of years?! Geralt!”

“What?”

“Oh you… you fool!” Jaskier’s book was abandoned, and the bard was in front of Geralt in a heartbeat. Before Geralt could respond, Jaskier’s lips were on his in a desperate kiss. It was easy to melt into the kiss, sink into the feelings he’d been denying for far too long.

They needed to talk, Geralt knew that much, but for one blissful evening, he was happy to lose himself in the loving kisses of the man he loved so dearly.

_

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @damnbert @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire @trickstermoose67 @alllthequeenshorses @skai6 @karolincki @eya-trying-to-function @stonedstargazer666 @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @hot-multifandom-mess

[asweetprologue]

Nili’s Benchmark Geraskier Fic Rec List

hey yall! I officially hit 750 followers (a few days ago, I blew past the benchmark without even realizing!), which is... insane. I truly can’t believe that so many people over the last year have enjoyed my presence in this fandom enough to continue to follow my work. you guys are so great and I love you all so much, so I decided to put together a gift for you!

this is a list of my favorite geraskier fics from the fandom, which I have been putting together over the last year or so. a few of these are big in the fandom, but a lot of them are smaller pieces that I feel deserve more attention! I have provided ao3 and tumblr links where I could find them, as well as ratings and summaries. Most of these are canon!verse because I’m not personally a big fan of modern au’s, but there will be a few of those scattered throughout as well. I’ve divided the fics into two sections: oneshots and multichapter. See the list below the cut!

Being in this fandom truly has gotten me through the pandemic in a big way and I have made so many good friends while here. thank you all for validating my weird obsession with these characters and enabling me in these trying times <3

Oneshots

all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) | M | 7517 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions Of Violence | @xdandelionxbloomx

Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.

Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.

Another fascinating addition to the mythology of the Witcher. Jaskier’s slow rediscovery of himself is so well done here. One I’ve come back to again and again. 

As Fast As Love Can Go | T | 9628 | @bygodstillam

There are Faeries in the Wood.

That's what everyone said, at least, not that there was any solid proof. Jaskier had tried, more than once, to find some. Just a hint somewhere, of a real story, of real magic. But all anyone seemed to have was stories.

Jaskier was determined to find proof. He wasn't expecting to find a witcher in the process.

Fascinating fic with some really interesting worldbuilding, and a fresh new take on True Love’s Kiss. Also with some great art by @hehearse!

beautiful, he stirs up still things | T | 2575 | @alittlebitmaybe

“You’re not asking me to dance,” says Geralt.

Jaskier turns his palm up on his knee, offering it. “I think you’ll find I am.”

Just them dancing. This is a lovely sort of pre-relationship dynamic. So soft.

Dialogue Prompt | NR | 2932 | @reinvent-and-believe

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

Geralt gets Jaskier a gift, which prompts some confessions.

Even a small love | E | 22,272 | WARNING: Rape/Non-Con 

“Well,” Jaskier replies distractedly. “Lots of things want to strangle you.”

“You don’t.”

It isn’t a particularly troublesome accusation, or even necessarily an accusation at all.

This is one I read early on in the fandom, and it really stuck with me. The dynamic between Jaskier and Geralt is perfect, and the misunderstandings between them feel so realistic. The non-con is not extreme, but do mind the warnings. 

For the Space of a Heartbeat | T | 2021 | @drowningbydegrees

As it turns out, falling into bed with your very best friend who you are privately very much in love with isn't nearly so nerve wracking as waking up with them the morning after.

Just sweet, morning after discussions. I love to see them talking for once.

Greensleeves | T | 10,414 | @rebrandedbard

When Geralt crosses paths with Jaskier in the spring, the world is dressed in green. Quite literally. Everyone everywhere is wearing green, and it all comes down to a song Jaskier has written that, to his mortification, has become popular throughout the Continent. It's torment, being forced to preform the song over and over again and have his heart broken anew. But who is this Lady Greensleeves the people say Jaskier is so maddeningly, heartbrokenly in love with? At the baron's wedding party, Geralt is determined to find out.

This is one of my personal faves - there’s just something about Jaskier’s feelings being put on blast while Geralt remains totally oblivious that I think is so very them. And the resolution at the end is delightful.

I Don’t Wanna Fall (If It’s Not In Love) | E | 13,902 | @writinglizards

The first time it's out of desperation. Things get rapidly out of hand from there.

OR the building of a relationship through mutual wank sessions.

I love everything Ashley writes, but this one was the first fic I read by her and it still has a warm place in my heart. I also highly recommend It’s Been A While (makes me cry every time) and Tell Me Honestly

Like a Storm, Like a Flood | T | 1065 | @valdomarx

Jaskier is leaving for the winter, and Geralt can't bear the thought of not seeing him for months.

It was soooo hard to pick only one fic by George, but this one is so soft and sweet and yearning I just had to go with it. This is really just about Geralt finally hitting a breaking point and saying enough is enough.

one flesh | E | 10,763 | WARNING: MCD 

“Well, then. I’m a ghost.” Jaskier spread his arms grandly. Geralt held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his head and laughed. Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “Do fill me in on what’s so funny.” It wasn’t funny. It was just so - ridiculous, the things Geralt’s fucked up brain would invent. This had to be the last nail in the sanity coffin, it just had to be.

Or: Jaskier is a ghost, and Geralt is a mess.

Jaskier dies and comes back as a ghost to haunt Geralt into taking care of himself. Geralt does not handle this gracefully. This fic is so sad and heartbreaking, but the ending is so sweet.

to render it transparent | E | 23,901

Geralt wakes up warm, peaceful, and utterly content, which is how he knows that something is severely wrong.

Sigh. This fic. This is a time travel fic - Geralt ends up in the future living with Jaskier on the coast, just after the mountain. It’s slow and beautiful and extremely bittersweet, all about how we choose to love people despite how much it can hurt us.

With All the Continent A Stage | M | 4745 | @greyduckgreygoose

Later, Geralt learned that the play was four hours long. Four hours long. It didn’t feel like it. Most of it passed by in a fever dream of ominous music, dance-fighting and dryads in gossamer leaves, swinging from hoops attached to the ceiling. Yennefer made an appearance, played by Priscilla in a glittering negligee. She sang a song to Geralt about putting him “Under Her Spell”, and they had a sensual dance number which was made a little strange by a sickened Jaskier (played by Jaskier) coughing loudly in the background.

(Jaskier invites Geralt to a musical production inspired by his own life.)

Jaskier basically writes Geralt a love letter in the form of a four hour long play. Geralt is an idiot about it.

Multi-Chapter Fics

A Lover’s Lament | M | 25,364 | @somedrunkpirate

So,” Jaskier begins, as casually as he can, “you are telling me, that in theory, if I were to be in love with someone — anyone — that person could well be in terrible danger?”

Of all terrible and ridiculous things that have threatened Geralt’s safety, Jaskier’d never thought that loving him might be what will get him killed.

I honestly can’t count the number of times I’ve read this fic. The monster is so interesting, and the mythos of it fits seamlessly into the world of the Witcher in my mind. Jaskier being so afraid that his feelings are going to put Geralt at risk, clearly unable to see that Geralt is going through the exact same thing. I think about the scene with them looking at each other almost daily. 

A Pair of Gloves, the Scent of Roses | M | 24,134 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence

In the bustling days before the Midsummer festival, Geralt is sent into the countryside to deal with a monster - with Jaskier once again by his side. But the bard has not forgiven him, and while he's not hiding his contempt for the Witcher, he is recalcitrant about revealing his true motives for joining him. As the hunt turns into a desperate mission to save an innocent man and the monster is not what is seems to be, Geralt learns a few new things about his old friend and decides to finally attempt to mend the rift between them...

This is one of my favorite’s in the fandom - it feels so believable, the world is so rich and the oc’s are convincing and charming. Geralt and Jaskier feel so honest here, stumbling around each other but still drawn together. Beautiful beautiful beautiful

Bearing the will of the flower | NR | 11,449 

The way Jaskier sees it, his hobby of following a witcher around was always pretty likely to get him killed.

The fact that it's happening now because the witcher in question doesn't love him, he thinks as he coughs up crumpled flowers, hardly makes a difference.

My favorite hanahaki fic in the fandom. I’m such a sucker for these, and these two idiots being so incapable of talking about their feelings really makes them prime candidates. 

Food of Love | T | 22,488 | @wallatile-qvibbler

I brought a dead princess back to life through the power of song is the kind of thing that would have got an eyebrow raise even from the stone-faced Geralt of Rivia, so it's a good thing he and Geralt will probably never see each other again.

(or: the one where Jaskier channels magic through his songs, and it almost never goes as expected.)

This is a Jaskier and Renfri centric fic, which wasn’t something I knew I wanted until I read this. Jaskier is a bard which in this AU comes with magical powers, but it feels so well integrated into the universe that I wish it was just... how the Witcher is. Renfri is so good here, and even though Jaskier and Geralt barely even interact you can feel the tension and love between them. Cannot recommend highly enough.

friends and allies of the witcher | T | 10,312 | @theamazingbard

Yennefer crawls over to her newest cellmate. They’re curled up on their side. Breathing, but only just. She’s not sure what she’s hoping for when she turns them over. Still isn’t when she sees that it is indeed Jaskier.

“Shit."

Yennefer and Jaskier each suffer in more ways than one at the hands of Nilfgaard.

Yennefer and Jaskier get capture by Nilfgaard and tossed into a cell together. Exactly what I want out of season 2 honestly. Their interactions are gold.

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope | E | 45,188 | WARNING: Rape/Non-Con | @lesdemonium

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier's mother with Jaskier's obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the "gift" became more of a curse.

You know I’m not gonna make a rec list without listing Zoe’s Ella Enchanted au. Need I say more?

Silver and Copper | M | 56,139 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence | @kaer-cuan

Geralt is just supposed to pass through the quiet Lettenhove area. He's not anticipating being begged by its people to help save their viscount from a curse that keeps him from daylight. Lord Jaskier, they call him, and he's likely dying.

As Geralt struggles to untangle the ugly web of history that has lead to the increasingly complicated curse, he finds himself spending more and more time with the strange young viscount and wondering just what he might have been before the curse, and who he might be after. But things are not always as they seem, and as the curse tightens its grip on Jaskier, Geralt is forced to face the fear of failing yet another person whose choices were stolen from them.

Or-

Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

This is a fic that haunts me. It’s very scary in parts, and mind the tags - there are some very heavy themes here. But it’s beautiful and touching, and Jaskier feels very true to himself even though his origin is so different.

we could be married (and then we'd be happy) | E | 50,222 | @a-kind-of-merry-war

Jaskier reached into his pocket, fingers grasping around the little box. He pulled it out with what he hoped was a romantic flourish, flipping it open to reveal the simple gold band inside. “Geralt,” he said, confidently, cooly, like this wasn’t terrifying, “Will you marry me?”

Geralt and Jaskier fake marriage proposals to get free deserts and shit but it goes tits up when Vesemir catches them in the act. Not knowing how to fess up, they go along with it for a while, which is hell because they’re both pining like mad. As I said, I don’t love modern au’s, but it’s merry so of course this one had to end up on my list.

~

And that’s it! 20 fics for you, and hopefully you can all find one or two you haven’t read before. There are a lot of people and fics that I didn’t include in this list only because I was trying to not put a million down (which I could). I highly recommend anything by @wherethewordsare, @julek, @contemplativepancakes, @witcher-and-his-bard, and @inber, as well as those linked to fics above, and I’m sure there are others I forgot to mention. Yall have truly made being in this fandom worthwhile <3

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to. 

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows. 

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets. 

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later. 

Then came The Witchers. 

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see. 

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live. 

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly. 

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus. 

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person. 

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings. 

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again. 

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. 

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived. 

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off. 

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands. 

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming. 

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train. 

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable. 

It was surreal. 

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time. 

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent. 

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck. 

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either. 

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications. 

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.” 

[lothlaer]

Proposal: Jaskier's got a fist clenched painfully hard one time when he's really really hurt and Yen has to force his palm open so she can tangle their fingers together and try to keep him from hurting his own hand. And they're both kind of like "oh" at some point idk 😳

Anon this apparently awakened something in me, so thank you for expanding on my post and giving me the inspo to write (checks notes) 1.7k. Hope you enjoy whatever this is!!! 

Pre-yennskier, description of blood and injury, 100% hurt/comfort. Read on AO3

“Stop fucking moving,” Geralt hisses, pushing down hard on the hips beneath his hands to still the man’s squirming.

A choked off, muffled whine dies in Jaskier’s throat, his lips pursed tight enough to turn them pale and thin. He’s panting through his nose, clearly in agony, and too out of it to understand that moving will only make this worse.

Yennefer spares the witcher a glance, noting the anxiety and fear that’s obvious on his face, in the tension across his brow, the frantic not-focus of his eyes that flick between the bard’s half-delirious expression and the gaping wound at his side.

She’s done all she can to heal him, sealed up the torn and leaking insides that they all know would have killed him if they hadn’t been here – that still might kill him if they can’t stem the blood loss and prevent infection. She thinks of it like this; clinical, sensible, because she has to.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is quicker than it should be, his breathing equally fast, panicked and pained and shallow. She keeps her ear trained to its frantic rhythm, notices how Geralt’s heart thumps faster than normal too, almost human, almost matching hers. She’d laugh at the symmetry of it all, if it were funny. She’s sure Jaskier would write a poem, if he knew, but she won’t ever tell him. 

He stills a little under the pressure of Geralt’s hands, though still struggles. He probably can’t help it by this point, too confused and the pain too intense to allow much rational thought. Geralt can’t work if he keeps kicking, shifting his hips to try to escape the discomfort.

“Yen,” Geralt growls, and she’d tell him off if she thought it would help.

She tells him off anyway, growling his name back as she presses her weight onto the bard’s chest, keeping him pinned. She watches his face, stares at the lines of tears down his temples, wrung out from his scrunched eyes.

The tight seam of Jaskier’s lips splits open, a deep groan and hitching sob forcing its way out as Geralt flushes the wound. He shifts again, and it’s only then that Yennefer notices his hands. The one nearest her grips at her skirt, tugging it towards himself, the other clenched tight enough at his side that the whites of his knuckles stand out even against his bloodless skin.

She reaches for it before she can think about it, dragging his hand over his chest, looking at the way he’s digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything as she fits her thumb under his, prying it open like the hinge on a rusted box. There’s no treasure within as she does the same with his fingers, forcing them loose enough that his reflex to clench releases, each digit unfolding only to reveal deep indents in his skin like faint purple mouths.

She slips her fingers between his, taking the pressure into her own grip, resting their joined hands over his heart.

He blinks up at her, eyes wet with tears, then lifts his head to look down at himself.

“Don’t look,” Yennefer snaps, pointedly leaning forward to block the vivid red of Geralt’s hands from view.

She knocks her knuckles against his breastbone, drawing his attention back, and he focuses in on the press of their skin together.

She thinks that if he had enough blood left in his body to do so, Jaskier would be blushing. She feels heat rise in her own cheeks in sympathy. His lips part on an inappropriately dreamy sigh, and she realises she’s stroking her thumb back and forth over his clammy skin, then swiftly stops.

Yennefer checks his expression and discovers his eyes on her again, a long moment dragging on as she finds herself unable to look away, their faces closer than she realised and his short breaths puffing against her skin. She’s horribly aware of their entwined hands, the unpleasant sensation of drying blood and mud between them, the frantic heart mere centimetres away, trapped beneath only by fragile human flesh and bone.

Between another aborted cry of pain and a feeble attempt at another kick, Jaskier lets his head fall back to the ground, gaze swimming and dizzy as he stares up at the canopy of the trees above them, his grip tightening to the point of pain as the joints in Yennefer’s hand compress.

She loses track of time for a while, her knees and back aching from being folded over for so long, the quiet and sometimes unpleasant noises coming from Geralt working opposite her the only way to gauge how long they’ve been here, alongside the warbling beat that still echoes against her eardrums. It’s not like his usual music.

She looks back to his face after some time, catches his eyelids fluttering.

“None of that,” she scolds, loud enough to jerk him back into wakefulness.

She turns her head to look at the wound, relieved to find it closed with stitches, no longer sluggishly leaking blood down Jaskier’s side. He’s still covered in it, soaked into his shirt and the trousers covering his propped-up legs, even on the blanket they’ve thrown over him.

Geralt looks up and the relief is clear on his face; they’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes flick to Jaskier’s hand in hers, looking pointedly at where he’s still gripping her dress too, then walking away with a mutter about getting bandages.

Yennefer finds herself alarmingly embarrassed, and withdraws her hand.

Jaskier doesn’t complain, his fingers falling loose and curled where she leaves them.

Geralt returns quickly, begins packing the injury. Jaskier jerks again, then they begin the agonising process of winding bandages around his waist, having to manoeuvre him upright enough to pass them under his back.

By the end he’s even sweatier and paler than he was before. His noises of pain throughout have been quieter than Yennefer was expecting, the usual volume and raucousness of his voice muffled and contained. It’s simultaneously impressive and irritating – men, she thinks.

He groans long and low nonetheless as they shift him sideways onto a bedroll and prop another bag under his knees.

“It’s done, it’s over,” Yennefer finds herself saying quietly while Geralt resituates the blanket.

She wipes a tear away from Jaskier’s cheek with the backs of her fingers, and tries not to overthink the action in the seconds afterwards as his sobs subside.

He’s trembling, either from pain or shock or the cold, and Geralt wastes no time getting him water with some herbs mixed in. He drinks greedily, water spilling out around his mouth until the witcher urges him to slow.

Geralt lays him back down, calls his name softly until his wobbly attention wanders back to them.

“All better?” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, eyelids already half-mast.

Geralt lays a wet cloth over the bard’s forehead and holds his palm on it, steady and reassuring, long enough to lean over and catch Jaskier’s gaze.

“Good enough,” he says, beginning to wipe away the sweat and dirt from Jaskier’s face in gentle strokes.

“Bastard,” Jaskier mutters, eyes falling closed. He only settles for a moment before jerking awake, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Yen?”

He looks around blearily, waving an uncoordinated hand out – seeking her presence, Yennefer realises. She reaches for him, grasping his hand in hers. His gaze snaps to her, and softens.

“Okay?” he asks.

His skin is cool, his heart still racing.

“You’ll be pissing us off with your usual obnoxious poetics within a day, I imagine.”

He frowns at her and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he swallows dryly, “you okay?”

Yennefer opens her mouth, ready for a witty retort to manifest, but all that emerges is the escape of a surprised breath. She thinks of the way they’d been standing side by side when the attack had happened, the way the bard had fallen against her and brought her to her knees in the grass and mud, last autumn’s shed of rotting leaves compacting beneath her hands. The drip of red blending against the dirt. Her stomach twists, then releases.

“Rest, Jaskier.”

He still stares at her.

“I’m fine, you fool.” She squeezes his hand again, thinks of the indents on his palm. “Rest.”

He does, finally, slipping easily into something deeper than sleep. She knows she and Geralt will have their senses fixed on the pump of his blood for days yet, and that it’ll be a while before his body replenishes what he’s lost.

For now, the steadiness of his pulse and his breathing will have to be enough, even if they remain unnatural and fast.

Yennefer realises she’s been staring for a while when she notices Geralt bringing a bowl over, his hands and arms already washed clean of the mess from the past hour.

“Wonderful timing,” he says dryly, shaking the red-tinged water off his fingers with a couple of quick flicks.

“For what, witcher?” Yennefer says shortly, her nerves strung thin and dangerous.

Geralt snorts. Yennefer glares.

“For a realisation.” He smirks at her, smug.

“Fuck off,” she spits, not turning away quick enough to miss the way the man’s smile widens further.

She draws her hands away from Jaskier, his grip limp now, and washes her hands too, surprised to see the ripples on the surface from where she’s shaking. Geralt comes up behind her, his hand falling to her shoulder, and they both look down at the bard. The porcelain tinge of his skin is unnerving, his eyes bruised, and dirt and leaves still cling to his hair. But he’s alive, alive, and the knots in their chests release.

She thinks about leaving now her job’s done, the unpleasant warmth blooming somewhere in her gut making her want to run away, to flee from whatever the bard’s pain and gaze and hands have triggered in her, the feeling snapping sharp like a wire under her skin.

Geralt squeezes her shoulder.

“Stay with him.”

Yennefer feels the words rumble through her, less than an order but more than a suggestion. Her heart leans into it, giving way so carelessly to harmonise with the rhythm of his.

She stays.