#Geralt finds Jaskier Jaskier He says the name holding far to much in it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years

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Lay my curses out to rest

This was originally supposed to be my fic for the "Party" prompt for Witcher Summer Camp, but it spun wildly out of my control, so here we are a week and 15K words later. You can either read it below or here on AO3.

Rating: M

Warnings: canon-typical violence

Word count: 15K

Relationships: Jaskier & Yennefer; Geralt/Yennefer; Geralt/Jaskier; Pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Yennefer is delighted when she arrives at the estate where she’s been hired to provide entertainment for a Midsummer party and finds Geralt there. She’s less delighted that he’s accompanied by his blithering twit of a bard.

But when she refuses to help the marquess undo a family curse—a curse that will kill anyone who meddles with it—the marquess and his sorceress lover seek to gain leverage on her. Except it’s not Geralt they target; it’s the blithering twit of a bard.

***

When Yennefer arrives at the Marquess de Fellston’s estate and finds—among the bustle of servants preparing for the Marquess’ Midsummer celebrations and the guests arriving—a stablehand leading a familiar chestnut horse by the reins, a warm glow of anticipation settles in her chest. Yennefer knows little of horses, but the way the stablehand cradles the hand not holding the reins to his chest and the nervous way he keeps glancing at the horse tells her that she knows this particular beast—and its owner.

She tamps down on her girlish swell of excitement. In the year since Rinde, she’s run into Geralt a half dozen times. She shouldn’t feel giddy just at the thought of seeing him again; it’s unbecoming of a sorceress of her age and life experience. There’s a reason she never used to keep lovers for more than a night or two, not since Istredd. But there’s something about Geralt that she just can’t shake.

Smoothing down her skirts, she makes her way towards the estate, dodging around servants and guests. The marquess’ estate, which is located on a cliff overlooking the sea far below, is constructed of bleached stone that seems to sparkle in the sunlight. It almost hurts to look at, so Yennefer averts her eyes in time to see a lanky, exhausted-looking middle aged man hurrying towards her.

“You’re Lady Yennefer?” he asks.

“Piotr, I presume.” She’s exchanged a half-dozen letters with the marquess’ steward over the past fortnight as they arranged the particulars of the three-day long Midsummer party. She’s here to provide the entertainment, both during the festivities and afterwards.

“A pleasure.” He bows over her hand perfunctorily, then straightens up. “We were hoping you would arrive yesterday.”

“I was delayed in Gors Velen.” Another lead in her search to regain her womb that proved fruitless, but Piotr doesn’t need to know that. “My apologies.”

“It’s no bother,” Piotr says in a tone that indicates that it was indeed a bother. “There’s just much to do before dinner tonight. We have upwards of forty guests arriving today, with twenty more arriving in the morning, and there’s the matter of the enchanted lanterns and the swans—”

“All spells I can cast within minutes, I assure you.” Yennefer can’t quite keep the irritation out of her own voice.

He blinks at her owlishly. “Of course. Imogene of Hagge recommended you highly.”

It takes Yennefer a moment to place the name, because she hasn’t thought of Imogene of Hagge since she left Aretuza. Imogene was a few years below her and Yennefer never cared much for the girl, who she found an empty-headed, simpering suck-up. “Imogene recommended me?”

“She’s a close personal friend of the marquess’ family. She’ll be arriving tonight.”

Which begs the question of why the marquess is paying Yennefer an exorbitant amount to enchant lanterns and swans and host a magical orgy at the conclusion of the festivities when he has a family friend who would presumably do it for free. But Yennefer isn’t one to turn her nose up at coin, so she smiles and says, “How delightful. I look forward to seeing her again.”

“Excellent,” Piotr says. “Now, if you’ll come with me, I can show you to your room and then we can get started with the preparations for dinner.”

“Of course.” Yennefer falls into step beside him and he leads her down a corridor and up two flights of stairs to her guest chamber, a luxurious room with a stunning view of the ocean and the courtyard below. She’s admiring the view when the sound of lute music floats upwards.

Yennefer lets out a long sigh. She should have known that if she saw Geralt’s horse, that meant that Geralt’s other uncultured, bitey beast would be in attendance. It’s not like Geralt would willingly attend a three day long Midsummer celebration on his own.

Glancing downwards, she sees Jaskier, dressed in an eye-scalding shade of green and sitting on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, serenading two giggly young noblewomen with a saccharine love song. As if feeling her eyes on him, Jaskier glances up. To Yennefer’s immense satisfaction, he’s so startled when he sees her that he bungles a chord. Face flushing, he returns his attention to the two dewy-eyed young women.

Behind Yennefer, Piotr clears his throat. “Lady Yennefer, if we could…”

“Of course.” Yennefer steps back from the window. She has a party to prepare for. She’s sure she’ll see plenty of Geralt’s bard in the coming days, whether she wants to or not.

***

Jaskier finds Yennefer while she’s in the ballroom, enchanting lanterns to glow different colors. She’s so focused on the task at hand that she doesn’t realize he’s coming until she hears a bray of, “I thought I felt the chill of a demonic entity in the air. What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” She doesn’t turn at his approach. “I should have known when you were in residence when I saw party guests bleeding from their ears.”

“Oh, you can’t blame that on me. Proximity to pure evil tends to do that to people.” Jaskier leans against the wall in front of her, grinning in that way that tells her he thinks he’s being far wittier than he is. It’s a typical expression for him.

“What are you doing here, bardling?” Yennefer enchants a lantern to glow a soft blue and puts it down on a table, where a servant immediately whisks it away to be hung in the proper place. “And is Geralt around, or has he finally seen sense and told you to fuck off?”

“I’m here to provide entertainment for the festivities, of course,” he says. “And the marquess hired Geralt to deal with a nest of harpies that have been mauling the occasional fishermen nearby. You haven’t been swooping around, menacing sailors, have you?”

“No, but I did hear some chicken-like squawking from the courtyard earlier.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. With some proper vocal training, your voice may not sound like the screams of a thousand damned souls.”

“I can’t imagine you have much experience with proper vocal training, bardling.”

Jaskier puffs up like an outraged peacock, chin jutting out stubbornly. Yennefer isn’t sure what Geralt sees in this ridiculous little lordling who has followed him around for nearly two decades. Jaskier is silly, vain, a terrible flirt, and far too sure of his own talent. She can’t imagine he’s much help to Geralt on the Path, given that he reportedly faints at the sight of blood and once managed to catch himself, rather than a rabbit, in a snare. She’s heard he’s a good lay—though the opinions of sheltered, bored noble wives must be taken with a grain of salt—but there are plenty of good lays out there and most of them are far less of a bother.

“I’m surprised to see you, Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “I would think the longest day of the year would be terribly trying for blood-sucking creatures of the night.”

“I’m here to provide entertainment,” Yennefer says.

He frowns at that. “You’re not hosting the orgy I've heard rumors about, are you? Only, I was looking forward to that.”

“I am.” She smiles benevolently. “Don’t worry, if you manage to stay out of my way for the next three days, I won’t give you the ears and tail of an ass to match your personality.”

“I think I’ll refrain,” he says. “There will be other orgies not orchestrated by denizens of darkness.”

“And other orgies that have lower standards about whom they admit.”

Jaskier draws himself up in offense, then catches sight of someone over her shoulder. His expression immediately softens. “Geralt! I have a new contract for you. The castle is under attack by a terrible beast with cloven hooves and horns.”

Behind Yennefer, there’s a sigh. “Hey, Yenn.”

Yennefer turns to find Geralt behind her, his armor crusted with dried saltwater and worse things. There’s a strong odor of dead fish in the air and the satchel in his hand is dripping on the marble floors. The servants who pass shoot him dismayed looks. Jaskier brushes by Yennefer, then hesitates, like he’s debating between pulling Geralt into a passionate embrace to prove a point to Yennefer or sparing his doublet. He compromises by leaning forward, keeping a foot of space between his and Geralt’s bodies while he presses a single, chaste kiss to the witcher’s lips.

“How was the hunt, darling?” Yennefer hears him murmur.

Geralt’s lips curl into a little smile. “Uneventful. Harpies are dead.”

“And you’re not hurt?”

“If I say yes, can I get out of this party?”

“You’re upright, so no.”

“Then I’m fine.” Geralt sighs theatrically, meeting Yennefer’s eyes.

Yennefer is surprised by how strongly she wants to close the gap between them and kiss him, saltwater and ichor be damned. Something in her always seems to settle when she’s in Geralt’s presence. If she were the romantic type, she would say something ridiculous like it’s because she feels at home when she’s with Geralt.

Luckily for everyone, she leaves the dramatics for Geralt’s bard.

“What are you doing here, Yenn?” Geralt asks softly, his gaze warm and intent on her face.

“I’m here on the marquess’ behest,” Yennefer says. “Enchanting lanterns and swans for the decorations.”

“And hosting the enchanted orgy.” Jaskier sounds aggrieved.

“Hm.” Heat flares in Geralt’s gaze.

Yennefer has the sudden and childish urge to stick her tongue out at Jaskier like a little girl.

“Master Witcher.” Piotr comes rushing up, looking even more stressed than he did when he greeted Yennefer earlier. “I was expecting you in my office, not…” He gestures around at the party decorations. “Please follow me, sir.”

Geralt looks a little surprised, like he’s just realizing that he brought a dripping bag of harpy heads into a ballroom. “Of course.” To Yennefer, he adds, “Will I see you later?”

“If you’re at dinner tonight, most likely.”

“I’ll be there.” His lips quirk into a smile before he turns away.

“Oh, of course.” Jaskier bustles after Geralt and Piotr. “When I ask you to be social, it’s all, ‘I’m a witcher, witchers don’t attend nice parties, Jaskier, because we’re dark and broody. Look at me brooding broodily in this corner.’ But when she asks you…”

Yennefer snorts and shakes her head, turning back to the lanterns so that no one will see the smile she can’t quite contain.

***

About an hour into the dinner that’s kicking off the Midsummer festivities, Yennefer has ascertained that the Marquess de Fellston, a stocky, florid-faced man in his mid-to-late forties, doesn’t have a single thought in his head that doesn’t pertain to horses, dogs, or wine. He at least has decent taste in wine, which is the only thing that keeps a smile on Yennefer’s face while she listens to him blather on about his prized stallion. She’s higher up the table than she would have expected, seated directly across from the marchioness. There’s an empty table setting to her left, which no one has commented on.

It’s a warm, humid night, made bearable only by the cool breeze coming from the ocean, which makes the enchanted lanterns hanging above them sway softly. The swans that Yennefer spelled to be utterly docile and to sing beautifully gambol around, their white feathers glowing in the blue, pink, purple, and green lights. It’s a lovely set up, which almost makes up for the fact that Lord Szimon is an utter bore.

Jaskier and Geralt are far down the table, seated among a cluster of noblewomen, whom Jaskier appears to be attempting to charm out of their skirts. Next to Jaskier, Geralt is doing a poor job of concealing his misery in a silver doublet that complements Jaskier’s bright blue ensemble. Every time Yennefer glances their way, she catches one or both of them staring at her. Whenever she catches Jaskier’s eye, she flashes a smile that shows all her teeth, knowing it will scare him shitless. Sure enough, he flushes and looks away.

“Do you have a horse, Lady Yennefer?” Lord Szimon asks Yennefer.

She takes another sip of her wine. “No, I’m afraid not. I find portaling a more reliable form of transportation.”

She doesn’t have to look down the table to sense Geralt’s incredulity at that.

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” The marquess chuckles, then looks up with a smile. “Ah, Imogene, you made it!”

“Apologies, my lord,” a girlish voice says from behind Yennefer. “I lost track of time. Hello, Yennefer. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Yennefer turns around in her seat. When she knew Imogene of Hagge at Aretuza, she was a tiny, sandy-haired thing with a freckled face. Now, Imogene is a petite, delicate-boned woman with hair that’s more gold than sandy and a dewy complexion that’s completely devoid of freckles. With her unnaturally large, bright blue eyes and rosy, heart-shaped face, she looks almost doll-like.

Imogene sweeps over to kiss Yennefer on both cheeks, enveloping her in the scent of vanilla and lavender. “It’s been far too long.”

“Has it?” Yennefer wants to ask, because she never had the impression that Imogene liked her any more than she liked Imogene when they were in school. Instead, she asks, “What brings you to Fellston? Last I heard, you were in Verden.”

“I’m an old friend of his lordship and his family,” Imogene says. “I’ve taken a leave of absence from Verden to help out with a family matter.”

Well, Yennefer supposes that explains why she was hired to deal with the party when there’s another sorceress in residence. Imogene seems to be otherwise occupied.

“But I’ve been so looking forward to catching up with you since Szimon told me he had hired you.” Imogene lowers herself into the chair next to Yennefer, not seeming to notice her slip up. At her use of the marquess’ first name, the marchioness goes thin-lipped and gestures for a servant to pour her more wine. It’s the first sign of emotion Yennefer has seen from the marquess’ wife all night.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to since Aretuza,” Imogene says.

Yennefer smiles wryly. “I’m sure all the interesting bits have already made their way through the Brotherhood rumor mill.”

“Oh, I don’t listen to gossip.” Imogene waves one dainty hand, if she wasn’t the most gossipy little snitch Yennefer had ever met in their Aretuza days. “Though I would love to hear why you left Aedirn so suddenly. Especially with how hard you campaigned to be sent there instead of Nilfgaard. Poor Fringilla’s never recovered from being spurned so publicly by Virfuril, you know.”

Yennefer’s gaze flicks down the table. Geralt is watching as Jaskier tells some story that involves a lot of dramatic hand gestures. Only the fact that he has his head cocked slightly to the side, a furrow in his brow, tells Yennefer that he’s most likely listening to her conversation, not Jaskier’s.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell.” Yennefer takes a quick sip of her wine. She won’t entertain Imogene and the marquess with a lurid tale of assassins and dead queens, especially not with Geralt listening. She doesn’t want him to learn of her greatest failure this way. “But tell me what you’ve been up to, Imogene. How fares court life in Verden?”

Luckily, some things haven’t changed—Imogene is still only too happy to talk about herself. As Imogene launches into some tale about the Verdeni king, Yennefer tunes her out as easily as she tuned out the marquess’ babble about horses earlier. The only thing she can’t tune out is the feeling of Geralt’s gaze on her.

***

After dinner, Jaskier begins to perform. Despite her barbs to the contrary, Yennefer has to admit that his voice is decent. If it belonged to any other performer, she might even say ‘good.’ His mellifluous voice floats across the garden as couples dance together, the lanterns swaying above. The musical swans have been herded away by the servants, but the occasional stray feather still floats across the grass. Yennefer can feel Geralt still watching her as she moves through the crowd. She’s wondering how she could dance with him without drawing too much attention when a hand touches her shoulder.

She turns to find the marquess standing behind her. “My lord,” she says, dipping into a curtsy.

“How are you enjoying the festivities, Lady Yennefer?” he asks.

“They’re delightful.”

“You outdid yourself with the decorations.”

“I’m so glad they’re to your liking.”

“If I could have just another few moments of your time.” Lord Szimon glances around. “I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you in private.”

Yennefer smothers a sigh. She should have known that it was too much to ask to be paid a king’s ransom to enchant some lanterns and host an orgy. Of course there would be some complication that he wants to discuss with her privately—be it an inconveniently pregnant mistress or an heir that bears a startling resemblance to the steward (not that Piotr seems like the type to carry on a torrid affair with the marchioness, but one can never be sure.) Or he’s about to make a pass at her and she’s going to need to turn her employer into a snail.

“Of course, my lord,” she says. “I’m at your disposal.”

Across the garden, she catches Geralt’s eye. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and she gives a single shake of her head. If the marquess is up to something, Geralt and his swords won’t solve the problem. She’s almost relieved when she sees Imogene detach herself from the lordling she’s been dancing with—smiling prettily and apologizing all the while—and cross the garden to join Yennefer and the marquess.

“I thought we were going to wait until after the party tonight, Szimon,” she says, taking the arm the marquess offers her.

“Time is of the essence, my dear.” Lord Szimon pats her hand. “There’s no use delaying.”

“Delaying what, my lord?” Yennefer asks.

“It’s easier to show you,” he says gravely. He suddenly looks much older and more tired than he did at dinner, without a single trace of the jovial man who yammed about his horses and his hunting hounds.

Yennefer follows Imogene and Lord Szimon as they lead her from the gardens and across the sprawling grounds of the estate, until the sound of Jaskier’s singing fades into the distance. No one says a single word. Yennefer can feel her patience waning as they walk through the gates of a graveyard, past rows of marble tombs. As they approach a tomb with a statue of a woman gazing up at the sky serenely, her hands clasped to her chest, atop it, Yennefer stops in her tracks. Malevolent magic emanates from the tomb.

“You feel it?” Imogene asks.

“How could I not?” Yennefer swallows back the urge to back away. “Marchioness Lizbeth Henrietta Karoline Piotrski Demaz de Fellston,” the name on the tomb reads. Tiny animal bones—birds, squirrels, rabbits, and rats—litter the ground around it. Yennefer wonders if one brush against the marble of the tomb was enough to kill them.

“My great-grandfather’s first wife,” Lord Szimon says. “She and my great-grandfather were married for nearly twenty years, in which they tried and failed to conceive a child. When she caught a chill and died one winter, my great-grandfather remarried the day his year of mourning was complete. My grandfather was born nine months later.”

Yennefer hums noncommittally. It’s a common enough story.

“Lizbeth’s sister, Lillian, was an Aretuza-trained sorceress,” Szimon continues. ‘She accused my great-grandfather of having had Lizbeth killed.”

“Did he?” Yennefer asks.

Lord Szimon looks affronted. “Of course not. By all accounts, he was a good and honorable man.”

Yennefer manages not to laugh at that. “I take it Lillian didn’t agree?”

“She cursed my family,” Lord Szimon says. “She told my great-grandfather that his family line would die out within a hundred years. He didn’t take her seriously, but he, my grandfather, and my father all only had one child each, and all died before their fiftieth birthdays, either from illness or accidents. I’ve been married to dear Gertrude for twenty years now and the gods haven’t blessed us with a single living child. I fear the curse is behind it.”

“How long has it been since the curse was cast?” Yennefer asks.

“It will be exactly a century the day after Midsummer,” Imogene says softly. “In three days, the marquess’ family line will die out forever. We fear that means that Szimon…” She trails off, looking at the marquess worriedly.

Yennefer had a feeling the answer would be something like that. “And Lillian? It’s been ninety-nine years. She may be willing to let go of old grudges and undo the curse.”

Lord Szimon grimaces. “When I was a boy, my father contracted a witcher to kill her, thinking that would undo the curse. The witcher brought us her head and my father dropped dead of a brain bleed right in front of him.”

“Some curses die with their caster,” Yennefer says. “Others only become stronger.”

“So Imogene has told me.” Lord Szimon smiles wanly at Imogene.

“Curses of this nature always have an anchor of some kind.” Imogene nods to the late marchioness’ tomb. “We believe that the anchor for this curse is the statue of Lizbeth.”

Yennefer glances up at the serene statue. “Then you need to destroy it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple,” Imogene says. “Take a look.”

Yennefer has no desire to take a look, but she also refuses to look like a coward in front of Imogene. Tentatively, she takes a step forward, reaching out with her own chaos to examine the dark magic encasing the tomb. It feels like sticking her hand in what she expects to be lukewarm water and find it boiling. With a cry, Yennefer stumbles backwards. The marquess puts a hand on his back to steady her, but she shakes him off.

“How many mages have died trying to destroy that statue?” Her voice wavers as she forces herself to remain upright.

Imogene doesn’t bother denying it. “Three. And I was nearly the fourth.”

“And I suppose you were hoping I would be the fourth instead?”

“There must be a way around the spell,” Imogene says. “Surely a mage of your skill could manage it.”

“Is that what you told those three dead mages?”

“None of them had half the skill of Tissaia de Vries’ favorite student, Yennefer.”

Yennefer’s lip curls. “Flattery won’t convince me to die to undo this curse. Neither will goading me. We’re not girls at Aretuza anymore and this isn’t a game of Truth or Dare.”

“You’ll be compensated for your troubles.” Lord Szimon looks lost. All the color has drained from his face. Yennefer gets the sense that she was his last hope and she would feel sorry for him in any other circumstances.

“I have to be alive to collect my payment,” Yennefer reminds him, forcing her voice to gentle. The marquess seems like a bit of a fool who cares too much for horses and lets his head be turned by a pretty sorceress, but he doesn’t deserve to die for the sins of a great-grandfather he never knew. “I am truly sorry, my lord. When the very act of trying to undo the curse would kill anyone who attempts it before they can succeed, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Of course there’s something to be done.” Imogene’s dollish features go hard and cold. “For the right price, anything is possible.”

Yennefer bares her teeth into a smile. “If you truly believe that, Imogene, then it seems you learned nothing in your time at Aretuza.”

Lord Szimon steps between them, putting a conciliatory hand on Imogene’s arm. “It’s alright, my dear. We knew it was a long shot.” To Yennefer, he adds, “I understand. I suppose I was hoping for a miracle. A childish hope, I know.”

Imogene visibly collects herself, her sweet smile returning. “Of course. My apologies, Yennefer. I was… overcome.”

Yennefer nods her acknowledgement, but doesn’t offer either of them any comforting words. Platitudes won’t save the marquess’ life and his family line. If Lillian’s words were true, nothing will.

***

“What did the marquess want earlier?” Geralt asks much later, watching with sleepy eyes as Yennefer pulls on her dress.

“He wanted assistance with a family matter.” She turns so he can see her lace up her dress in the front, enjoying the way his gaze tracks the movement of her hands. “Unfortunately for him, what he wanted me to do can’t be done.”

“And how did he take it?”

“Well enough.” Seeing the concern in his expression, she adds, “He didn’t threaten me, if that’s what you’re worried about. He doesn’t strike me as the type. And I think he knew it was a long shot before I even got here.”

“Lots of people can become the type to make threats if they feel cornered,” Geralt says.

The show of concern would make Yennefer bristle if it were coming from anyone but Geralt. “All the threats in the world won’t make what he wants possible and he seems to realize that. The only danger from this weekend is that I may portal myself into the sea if he keeps talking about his damn horse.”

“What’s wrong with talking about a horse?” Geralt looks wounded.

Instead of answering, Yennefer leans forward and kisses him, slow and sweet. When she pulls away, she says, “He strikes me as about as dangerous as Jaskier. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“You never know.” Geralt’s lips twitch. “Jaskier can be dangerous. He managed to knock out a bandit once. Accidentally, but he says it still counts.”

Yennefer snorts and goes to look for her shoes.

“You could stay the night,” Geralt says carefully.

Yennefer pauses in the middle of pulling a shoe on. “Won’t your bard object?”

“He’s off with some baroness. I doubt he’ll be back tonight.”

Yennefer glances around the room. It’s a good deal smaller than her guest chamber and without the ocean view, but it’s still a perfectly serviceable room, with a comfortable mattress and a window overlooking the grounds. Geralt’s armor is drying in the windowsill, along with a buttercup yellow doublet of Jaskier’s. Toiletries are scattered across the bedside table, along with a few empty potion bottles. A pair of Jaskier’s smallclothes lie on the ground and his notebook is open on the table, one of Geralt’s gloves used as a placeholder. Everywhere she looks, there are signs of a life spent together.

She should have invited Geralt up to her room, but it seemed impolitic at the time to traipse through the hallway together. She’s not ashamed of her relationship with Geralt—whatever it may be—but she has no desire to have it become the center of party gossip.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, realizing that he’s still waiting for the answer. “I believe there’s boating in the morning. Will you be there?”

Geralt snorts derisively. “Unfortunately. Though I don’t know what the marquess wants with a witcher on a sailing expedition.”

“Possibly to fight off all the sea monsters that Jaskier wakes with his high notes?”

Geralt’s lips twitch.

“Why accompany him if you detest these things so much?” Yennefer asks. “A three-day-long party must be your nightmare.”

Geralt shrugs. “It was important to Jaskier. And I just felt like I should be here.”

“To stop him from losing his balls to a jealous husband?”

He lets out the long sigh of a man who has had to deal with far too many jealous husbands and Yennefer laughs, eliciting a smile from him.

Geralt stands to cup her face in his hands, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Yennefer casts a pointed look at the rumpled bedsheets. “What about that told you that I wasn’t happy to see you?”

His lips twitch. “Don’t want to get in the way of your work here.”

“Enchanting swans and administering magical aphrodisiacs? How could you interfere with such important job duties?” She brushes a kiss over his lips. “I’m always glad to see you.”

“So am I.” The words are so softly and earnestly spoken that they make something inside Yennefer clench.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” she says, kissing him one last time before she turns to go. He doesn’t try to convince her to stay again, but she feels his eyes on her back as she slips out of his room and makes her way down the hallway, back to her own bedchamber. For a moment, she considers turning around and spending the night in the warm circle of his arms, but she shakes the thought away. She doesn’t want to spend the night in the room he’s sharing with Jaskier.

When she reaches the staircase, she finds Jaskier coming down the stairs, humming to himself. He hasn't noticed her yet and he's wearing a tiny smile, either reminiscing about whatever lady's bed he just left or anticipating the witcher's bed he's returning to. His chemise is unlaced indecently low, showing off a good deal of chest hair and a livid love bite on the hollow of his throat. His hair is rumpled, like someone has been running their fingers through it, and his eyes are sleepy and content. It's a rare, unguarded moment, without the bard's usual winking pretension, and Yennefer suddenly wishes she hadn't seen it.

And then he looks up, catching sight of her at the foot of the stairs, and the mask slides back into place. “Yennefer! Fancy seeing you here. And so far from the sewers, too.”

Yennefer doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. “Tonight’s paramour grew tired of you already, I see.”

“Ah, Agnes.” He claps his hands to his chest. “A true jewel. We spent several hours of brilliant passion together and would have spent more, but her betrothed’s father is a generous sponsor of Oxenfurt Academy, so it seemed wise for me to not be seen leaving her bedchamber.”

“Naturally." Yennefer brushes by him and starts up the steps. "How fortunate for her that she was spared more of your company.”

“And you’re slipping out early,” Jaskier says, falling in behind her. “I thought I was going to have to sit in the hallway and listen to you yowl. I do hope that your quick departure doesn’t mean Geralt has been turned to stone under your gaze?”

She glances dismissively over her shoulder. “No, it means I grew tired of looking at your smallclothes strewn across the floor.”

“Would you rather see them on me?” He waggles his brows.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. The bard usually doesn’t have the nerve to stare a little too long, never mind flirt. “I would sooner lose my eyeballs to a flesh-eating fungus.”

“Probably for the best. I would hate to end up with another knife to my balls.”

“The night’s still young.”

“Yennefer, you flirt.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes.

Yennefer pauses at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing, bardling?”

“Walking you up to your room. Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

She snorts indelicately. “You’re about as much of a gentleman as Geralt’s horse.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Roach is the picture of good manners and chivalry when she knows she’ll get a carrot out of it.”

“I have no need for your chivalry, bardling,” Yennefer says. “And I’m more than capable of walking myself to my own room.”

She turns and starts down the hallway, thinking that will be the end of that conversation. To her consternation, Jaskier follows.

“It’s occurred to me,” Jaskier says. “That Geralt does things for me that he doesn’t want to do all the time.”

“Well, I know he does you regularly.”

“And he damn well enjoys it, thank you. I mean, he comes to parties like this and bardic competitions and the like. He hates it all, but he does it because it’s important to me. And you’re important to him.”

“Do you have a point, or do you just relish the sound of your own voice?"

“Both can be true, Yennefer," Jaskier says primly. "It seems that if Geralt is willing to subject himself to noble parties and dancing for me, then I should be willing to subject myself to your company for him."

"What?" Yennefer turns on him. He's smiling at her magnanimously, like a prince who just bestowed a single copper on a street urchin and will spend the rest of the day feeling like Lebioda himself.

"Geralt is very fond of you," Jaskier says. "I'm not sure why. In fact, I'm quite concerned that you may have scrambled something when you took control of his mind and forced him to commit a hanging offense. But I digress. Geralt cares for you, I care for Geralt, and it's Midsummer, a season of joy and charity. So I'm willing to put aside my completely rational dislike for you, Yennefer, and attempt to be your friend."

Yennefer stares at Jaskier. Jaskier smiles back at her beatifically. With a sigh, Yennefer turns away. "Goodnight, bardling."

"Most people do like me, you know," he says, softly, like it's a secret. "You would too, if you got to know me."

"Would I?" Yennefer whirls on him and crosses the scant distance between them, enjoying the nervous way his throat bobs at her sudden proximity. "And what is it they like about you? Is it the songs filled with jokes about cocks and breasts? The doublets that you seem incapable of buttoning up correctly? The entirely unearned arrogance?”

He smiles broadly, though there's a flicker of something that may be nervousness in his eyes. "You have two more days to find out."

"Geralt cares for you, though I think that may be evidence of too many blows to the head. Out of respect for that, I haven't portaled you to the middle of the Korath Desert and left you for the vultures. That doesn't mean I have any desire to be your friend, bardling. This is one sacrifice you don't have to make for love."

For a moment, she thinks that Jaskier might actually be hurt. But then he ducks into a little bow. "Ah, I suppose it's probably for the best. Too much time in your company and you may drain me of my youth and beauty."

"I think I'm about a decade too late for that, bardling."

"Oh, Yennefer." He smiles sweetly. "I would ask if I'll see you at breakfast, but I don't think the kitchens here serve the tears of the innocent."

"Nor do they serve stale bread that's been shoved into pants."

His jaw drops. "Geralt told you about that? That swine."

Yennefer doesn't tell him that Geralt never told her anything of the sort. Jaskier, wide-eyed and eighteen, fumbling nervously as he said, "You wouldn't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting," is a memory that always makes Geralt smile. She's heard him think of it every time he watches Jaskier eating a piece of bread. His thoughts are always particularly loud when he's thinking fondly of his bard.

“Just go back to your room, Jaskier.” She takes the last few steps to her room, resting her hand on the doorknob. “Geralt will be pleased to see you.”

She can picture it—Geralt sitting up in bed when he hears the familiar tread of Jaskier’s steps in the hallway, the little smile that will curl his lips when the door opens and his bard comes sauntering in. Jaskier will throw himself dramatically down on the bed, no doubt complaining about how unbelievably cruel Yennefer was to him, and Geralt will run his fingers through his hair and hum occasionally to show he’s listening.

Jaskier gives her a strange look and she wonders if her expression has revealed too much. “Sleep well, Yennefer. I take it the marquess has provided a lovely coffin for you to sleep in?”

Yennefer steps inside and closes the door in his face.

***

Yennefer gives out tonics for hangovers at breakfast the next day, which nearly all the guests partake in. Lord Szimon, who looks distinctly worse for wear after what Yennefer imagines was probably a sleepless, anxious night, takes two doses of tonic for himself. Jaskier doesn’t take one, even though Yennefer overhears Geralt urging him to take one.

“You just said your head was hurting,” Geralt tells his bard from the other end of the table. Yennefer wouldn’t be able to hear them without magical assistance.

“Yes, but I have a long day of performing ahead of me and I don’t trust her not to have put something in it to ruin my voice.”

“Why would I waste magic on something so unnecessary?” Yennefer asks him telepathically, making Jaskier squawk and drop the butter knife he was just using to spread marmalade on a scone. Geralt gives Yennefer a quelling look, though his lips twitch in amusement.

After breakfast comes the sailing, which the marquess begs off, claiming a queasy stomach. The rest of the nobles pile into a pair of large sailboats captained by local sailors. Yennefer calls dolphins to swim alongside the boats, leaping and twirling in the water to the delight of the guests. Jaskier is there, providing background music on his lute while a pretty little redhead who must be his baroness from the night before gives him cow eyes. Geralt stands at the railing, keeping an eye on the horizon for any sign of trouble, though Yennefer sees him stealing fond looks at Jaskier.

Imogene joins Yennefer at the stern, an absurd hat perched on top of her golden ringlets. “I feel like I should apologize for last night,” she says.

“Whatever for?” Yennefer barely spares her a glance, focused on the dolphins leaping out of the water.

“I was needlessly unkind.” Imogene leans over to peer at the dolphins. The hat must be magically affixed to her head, because it doesn’t go flying into the waves. “I’m sure you would help if you could. I just hoped you would see something I hadn’t, that maybe I’m too close to it and so I’d overlooked something obvious.”

“There’s nothing to overlook. The curse is very powerful and very simple. You try and undo it, you die.”

Imogene nods grimly. “Szimon is… very dear to me. It will be terrible to lose him.”

“I’m sorry.” Yennefer is surprised that she means it, just a little. She doesn’t like Imogene, but she doesn’t wish her grief.

“I’ve known it was coming for years,” Imogene says. “And now the day I’ve been dreading is nearly upon us and I find that I’m not ready at all.”

“It’s hard to be ready for something like this.”

Imogene sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Up until last night, I hadn’t even let myself consider that we wouldn’t find a way to fix the curse.”

Yennefer has nothing to say that will be helpful, so she stays silent.

“Love makes us foolish,” Imogene says with a wistful little smile. “I’m sure you know how that is, Yennefer.”

Yennefer glances over her shoulder and finds Geralt watching her and Imogene, his expression impossible to read. The wind is ruffling his long white hair and with the sea and the blue sky behind him, he looks like the romantic hero of a ballad. Jaskier is watching Geralt, a look of unabashed tenderness on his face as he croons a love song.

“No,” Yennefer lies. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

***

Yennefer spends the rest of the day on alert, just in case Imogene recovers from her brief moment of being almost sympathetic and decides to heap some unpleasantness on her. It never comes. When they return from sailing, there’s a luncheon, followed by a tour of the marquess’ portrait gallery and a ride around the grounds. That evening, there’s dinner and dancing in the atrium. It’s a cloudy night, but Yennefer has enchanted the glass ceiling to sparkle with stars, so bright and vivid that they look close enough to touch.

In addition to Jaskier playing, there’s a band, which gives the bard opportunities to mingle with the other guests. Yennefer watches him dance with a matron who is easily twice his age, flirting outrageously until the woman is smiling and blushing like a schoolgirl. Yennefer will never understand how many people are charmed by the bard’s peacocking. His flirtations are clumsy and overwrought, and yet they seem to work on a surprising amount of his targets.

“Having fun?”

Yennefer startles at the sudden appearance of Geralt at her side. She didn’t even notice his approach. “I’m bored out of my mind. You?”

He snorts. “What do you think?”

Yennefer looks at him sideways. Tonight’s ensemble is a deep blue with gold embellishments that match Jaskier’s own doublet. “You didn’t enjoy the festivities today? Sailing? Gazing at portraits of the marquess’ long dead ancestors?”

His lips twitch. “The ride was fine.”

“Your beastly horse bit three other horses and a viscount.”

“She bites a viscount at least once a week. She’s used to it.” Geralt casts a pointed look at Jaskier.

“He’s a viscount?” Yennefer frowns as Jaskier dips the matron dramatically.

“The Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Yennefer pauses with her glass of wine halfway to her lips. “Lettenhove is one of the wealthiest holdings in Redania.”

“Hm.”

“And he’s a bard?”

“Says the noble life isn’t for him.”

Yennefer watches Jaskier, shining in his golden doublet, looking entirely at home among the fine lords and ladies on the dance floor. “Your bard makes no fucking sense, Geralt.”

Geralt snorts. “Tell me about it.”

Yennefer takes a sip of wine as the song ends and Jaskier bows low to his dance partner.

“You’ve been watching him all night,” Geralt says.

Yennefer turns to him. “Pardon me?”

Geralt’s face is inscrutable. “And you were watching him on the boat.”

She feels caught out, even though she knows she hasn’t done anything wrong. “I’m simply making sure that he doesn’t ruin the party with his buffoonery.”

“Hm.”

“Unless you want me to read your mind, you’ll have to decipher your hums for me.”

“You two would probably like each other if you tried,” he says.

Yennefer laughs, short and sharp. “Leave the jokes to your bard. They suit him more.”

“You have more in common than you think.”

Yennefer briefly considers never letting this man into her bed again, then remembers the marvels his tongue is capable of. “Like what?”

“Beautiful, stubborn, passionate about the things you care about, a fondness for Est Est.” Geralt nods to the glass of wine in her hand.

She takes another sip, because she’ll need it to get through this conversation. “Everyone whose taste buds haven’t been ruined by witcher potions has a fondness for Est Est.”

Geralt shrugs, as if conceding the point. “I just think you’d both be surprised if you got to know each other.”

“The most surprising thing about Jaskier is how absurd he can be on a daily basis,” Yennefer says acidly. “Part of my role during this party is to make sure that everything goes smoothly. Given Jaskier’s tendency to stick his cock where he’s not supposed to and cause diplomatic incidents, keeping an eye on him is just good business.”

Geralt hums again—most days, she finds his hums endearing, but they are getting on her nerves right now—and glances back towards the dance floor. “Ah, fuck.”

With a suspicion that her point in being proven, Yennefer follows his gaze and says, “Fuck.”

Jaskier is dancing with Imogene, smiling down at her a little dazedly. Imogene is wearing a deep purple dress with a plunging neckline and silver detailing that looks like stars. She’s peering up at Jaskier through her lashes, smiling prettily. The marquess, who is seated at the table and appears to be entirely ignoring his wife, is watching them with a furrow in his brow. He doesn’t seem angry, not yet, but he doesn’t look entirely happy.

“I’m starting to think your bard must have a magical ability to find the worst possible person for him to fuck and immediately start trying to fuck them,” Yennefer says.

Geralt nods. “He’s been fucking me for a decade.”

“A rare moment of good sense,” Yennefer says, surprising both of them. The song starts to draw to a close and she hands Geralt her glass of wine. “I’ll handle this.”

“Yenn—”

“Don’t worry, Geralt, I’ll make sure his balls stay attached.” Yennefer crosses the dance floor, weaving around the swaying couples. She reaches Jaskier and Imogene just as the last notes of the song play. “Bardling, it’s almost the end of the night and you owe me a dance.”

Jaskier blinks at her stupidly. “What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have the time,” Yennefer says with a pout. “I’ve been looking forward to this all night.”

Imogene laughs, high and tinkling. “Oh, we can’t disappoint dear Yenna. It was a pleasure to chat with you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks between them like a rabbit that’s found itself caught between two foxes. “The pleasure was all mine, my lady.” He presses a kiss to Imogene’s hand.

She dips into a curtsy. “Enjoy your dance.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says carefully as Imogene slips away.

“Shut up and start dancing.” The music starts up again and the couples around them start to dance. Of course it’s a Toussainti-style dance, one of the ones where the partners have to practically be entwined together through the song. Yennefer was hoping for a nice Skelligan stomping dance, which would only require the occasional touch of their hands.

With visible trepidation, Jaskier puts one hand on Yennefer’s waist while taking her hand with the other. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or threatened right now.”

This close, it’s impossible to ignore how much taller the bard is than Yennefer. She always pictures him as a much smaller man than he is in reality. Just another thing to add to the long list of the ways in which he’s irritating. “Bardling, I mean this as a genuine question, but are you really enough of an ignoramus to get cozy with your employer’s mistress, who is a sorceress to boot?”

Jaskier makes an outraged noise. “I wasn’t getting cozy with her, Yennefer. She asked me to dance. We were having a very pleasant conversation until you—”

“She was toying with you, like a griffin with a horse,” Yennefer snaps. “She wants something from me that I can’t give her. I don’t know what she thinks dancing with you would accomplish, but strategy has never been Imogene’s strong point. There’s a reason she was sent to Verden, where nothing more exciting than the occasional attack by dryads happens.”

“Or perhaps she’s enjoyed my music, sees how dashing I look in this outfit—don’t roll your eyes like that, witch, you know I look good—and wanted a dance with a handsome, talented man.”

“Then why was she dancing with you?”

Jaskier laughs as he twirls her around to dip her. It occurs to her that he could drop her if he were feeling petty, but he doesn’t. “Thank you for swooping to my rescue so heroically, but I had no intentions of doing more than dancing with Imogene tonight. For one, I already have my arrangements for this evening worked out.” He casts a pointed look at the redheaded baroness. “And for another, I know by now that sorceresses are far more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Have you?” Yennefer spins around to press her back to his chest. One of his hands comes to settle on her torso. When she turns her head, she can feel the silkiness of his doublet against her cheek. “You seemed to be enjoying your dance with her quite a lot.”

Jaskier clears his throat. “Well, she is delightful company and was very complimentary of my music. It is nice to know that some sorceresses can appreciate the arts.”

“When you start producing art, I promise I’ll appreciate it.” Yennefer breathes in hard through her nose, reminding herself of her objective. Jaskier smells of honeysuckles. “She may seem sweet and smiley, but she’s as cutthroat as any of us who graduated from Aretuza. If she wants something from you, then you need to be careful.”

To her relief, the dance requires Jaskier to turn away from her. They dance back to back for a moment, the back of head pressed between his shoulder blades.

“And what about you?” Jaskier asks.

“What about me?”

“You saw me dancing with a sorceress who you suspect of having ill intentions towards me—though if we’re being honest, I think you may just be projecting—and you rushed over here to my rescue, even though you haven’t been shy about how much you dislike me. So, what exactly do you want from me, Yennefer?”

They turn again to be face to face, one of Jaskier’s hands settling on Yennefer’s waist while she rests a hand on his shoulder. There’s barely a hair’s breadth of space between them.

“What would I want with you?” Yennefer asks, annoyed with how far she has to look up to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Surely there’s a way to spell him shorter. She’ll have to look into it.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” His eyes drop to her lips. “Because I can’t think of a single other reason you would come rushing to my rescue.”

Her mouth is dry. Now that she thinks of it, she doesn’t think she’s had any water in hours. “I did it for Geralt.”

“Magnanimous of you.”

“If keeping you breathing keeps him happy, then I’ll do what I can until you inevitably get into trouble that no one can get you out of. Like fucking the wrong sorceress.”

“Oh, please.” Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Like she’d be any match for you.”

Yennefer blinks, taken off guard by his easy confidence in her. She knows that she could cast circles around Imogene, but Jaskier has no way of knowing that. When someone clears their throat loudly, Yennefer realizes that she and Jaskier have stopped dancing, holding up the part of the dance where the dancers are supposed to promenade around the dance floor, spinning together. The other dancers shoot them puzzled looks as they move around them.

Jaskier laughs, sounding a bit strained. “Toussainti dances are far too complicated for my taste. Who can keep track of all those steps?”

“The Toussainti, allegedly.” Yennefer releases his hand and steps back. “Just don’t be stupid, bardling.”

He flashes a tight-lipped smile. “I think it might be too late for that.”

Yennefer turns and stalks away as the last notes of the song plays. Geralt is waiting exactly where she left him, still holding her glass of wine. His eyebrows have crept up so high that they’ve nearly disappeared into his hairline.

She takes the glass of wine from him and downs it in one gulp. “Meet me in my room in twenty minutes.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s eyebrows suddenly creep higher.

“Don’t even start,” Yennefer tells him and sweeps away, party forgotten.

***

Geralt comes to her room as instructed and they fuck against the wall hard enough to send a painting crashing to the floor. Afterwards, she fucks him with a wooden cock until the headboard begins to creak ominously under his grip. They don’t talk about the marquess, Imogene, or his damn bard, which is exactly what Yennefer needs from him.

She thinks about asking him to stay, but she doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth before he slips from the room and returns to his bard.

***

The next day is relatively uneventful, given the busy day before. Besides a hunting expedition in the afternoon, which Yennefer isn’t expected to join, there’s nothing to do until dinner that night and the orgy afterwards. She appreciates the opportunity for a few hours of rest; she slept restlessly the night before and is feeling groggy today. The heat and humidity of the day isn’t helping.

She was contemplating inviting Geralt to spend a lazy afternoon in bed with her, but when she seeks him out, she finds him saddling up Roach.

“You’re going hunting with the others?” she asks, surprised. A hunting party with a band of nobles who can most likely hold a rapier doesn’t sound like Geralt’s forte.

Geralt wears the expression of a man being marched to his execution. “There have been sightings of a pack of wolves in the area and the marquess is worried it’s wargs. He wants me along for extra security.”

“What about Jaskier?”

“He gets to stay here, the lucky bastard.”

Yennefer snorts. She’d like to lean in to kiss him, but they have an audience in the stablehands who are rushing about, saddling up the nobles’ horses. “Look at the bright side. There could be a warg attack, which might cut things short.”

Geralt’s lips quirk into a smile. “It’s not like you to be an optimist, Yenn.”

“I do try.” She brushes her fingers along the curve of his wrist. “At least there’s tonight to look forward to.”

The look he gives her is full of heat. “You’re going to participate tonight? Figured you’d just sit back, like you did in Rinde.”

“There was no one in Rinde I wanted to participate with.”

“Hm.” He also looks like he wants to kiss her, but he holds back. “Guess this party isn’t that bad then.”

“You just need to get through hunting with a bunch of nobles first.”

He grimaces. “Once spent two days trapped by an overly friendly rock troll. This can’t be worse.”

“You underestimate nobles.” She lets her hand brush his one last time and returns to the castle.

***

Yennefer gets an entire two hours of peace. She’s taking a nap in her chambers when a rap on her bedroom door has her jerking awake, disoriented.

“Lady Yennefer?” It’s Piotr, sounding even more harried than he usually does.

“Just a moment.” Yennefer takes a minute to smooth down her hair, adjust her dress, and make sure there’s no drool on her cheek—sorceresses aren’t supposed to drool or get bedhead, after all—before she goes to open the door.

Piotr stands in the hallway, wringing his hands. “Apologies for the interruption, Lady Yennefer, but you’re acquainted with Jaskier the Bard, correct?”

“Unfortunately.” Yennefer already dislikes the direction this conversation is taking. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve been trying to locate him for an hour,” Piotr says. “His lordship has hired a troupe of dancers to accompany Jaskier’s singing this evening. The dancers are here to rehearse and Jaskier is nowhere to be found.”

Yennefer frowns. “And he’s not in his room?”

Piotr shakes his head. “The last anyone saw him was at breakfast. Could he have accompanied the hunting party?”

“I doubt it.” Yennefer remembers all of Geralt’s stories of Jaskier growing faint at the sight of blood. “He’s not much for hunting. The baroness, the redheaded one, is she around?”

“Lady Agnes?” Piotr blinks owlishly. “She and her grandmother skipped the hunting expedition. They’re in the gardens, I believe.”

“Good,” Yennefer says. “I’ll look into it.”

Piotr looks so relieved that she worries he’s going to start weeping on her. “Thank you.”

Yennefer heads down to the gardens, where she finds Lady Agnes sitting on a bench while an elderly woman throws morsels of bread to the ducks that float in the pond.

She wastes no time with niceties. “Have you seen Jaskier?”

The baroness’ eyes go wide for a moment before she darts a glance at her oblivious grandmother and adopts a look of offended dignity. “The bard? I’m not sure why I would.”

Yennefer barely manages not to roll her eyes. If the girl wants to sneak around behind her betrothed’s back, she’s going to need to get better at lying. “You don’t have an angry father or brother who may have found out what you’ve been getting up to the last two nights?”

Agnes’ face turns a mottled red. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Yennefer wants to shake her. She forces herself to smile. “I don’t care who you’ve been bedding, my lady. That’s none of my concern. My only concern is if Jaskier is either being buried in a shallow grave as we speak or is somewhere facing the threat of imminent castration.”

“Of course not.” Agnes looks back at her grandmother, who is humming one of the songs Jaskier sang last night as she feeds the ducks. “I’m only here with my grandmother as a chaperone, and her mind isn’t what it used to be. She wouldn’t notice my… dalliances if I were having them right in front of her.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer says and turns on her heel without another word, returning to the castle. Could Jaskier have gotten into genuine trouble? Or did he just find a sunny corner to compose somewhere and fall asleep? But that would be unlike him. The bard might be a feckless fool, but he wouldn’t have earned his reputation as a bard if he slept through rehearsals and vanished on his employers.

“Fucking hells, Jaskier,” she mutters to herself as she starts up the stairs. She’s going to have to check Geralt and Jaskier’s room, just in case Piotr missed something. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

She doesn’t notice anyone behind her until cool fingers press to the back of her neck and chaos jolts through her like a lightning bolt. Yennefer just has a moment to think, of fucking course, before everything goes dark.

***

Yennefer comes awake with a gasp. She looks around wildly to find her wrists shackled in front of her and the statue of Marchioness Lizbeth towering over her, smiling serenely up at the sky.

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” Imogene’s girlish voice says. “I didn’t want this to be necessary.”

Someone whimpers in response.

Yennefer sits up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Imogene stands in front of her, well away from the cursed tomb, flanked on either side by two burly men with swords. These aren’t the polished, uniformed castle guards, but men with the bearing of trained mercenaries. On his knees in front of Imogene, a sword at his throat, is Jaskier. He’s bound and gagged, wearing the buttercup yellow doublet that she saw drying in the windowsill of his and Geralt’s room the other night. Blood stains the gag and the neckline of his doublet. There’s an ugly bruise on his cheek and his nostrils are crusted with dried blood.

“Yennefer,” he says through his gag, blue eyes enormous with fear.

Yennefer snarls and throws out her hands, a spell on her lips. Nothing happens.

Imogene smirks and nods to the shackles around Yennefer’s wrists. “Dimeritium. We’ll remove them if you cooperate.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Yennefer demands.

“I hoped that coin or compassion would sway you, but you’ve forced my hand,” Imogene says. “Destroy the statue to break the curse, or your lover dies.”

Jaskier cries out against the gag and Yennefer glances around to ascertain that Geralt isn’t kneeling nearby with a sword at his throat. “What are you talking about, Imogene?”

“Don’t play stupid.” Imogene’s lip curls. “It doesn’t suit you. I saw the bard walk you to your room the other night. I saw the love bites you left on his neck and smelled your perfume on his sheets. I saw the way you looked at each other when you were dancing last night. I know what you are to each other.”

Yennefer can’t help it. She tips back her head and laughs like she hasn’t laughed in years. When she’s able to breathe again, she says, “What you know wouldn’t fill a thimble, you ninny.”

Imogene’s mouth drops open in a little o of outrage. “You—”

“Does Lord Szimon know you’re doing this?” Yennefer assumed that the marquess wasn’t the type, but it wouldn’t be the first time she miscalculated.

“Of course.” Imogene sniffs.

“But he doesn’t have the stomach to do it himself? He needs to leave you to do his dirty work?”

Imogene’s face turns red with anger. “It would draw too much attention if we both missed the hunting expedition.”

Yennefer tries another tactic. “You’re making a mistake. What do you think Geralt will do if he returns from the hunting expedition and finds that you’ve taken his bard? They used to call him the Butcher of Blaviken for a reason. Do you need a demonstration of why?”

The mercenary with his sword to Jaskier’s throat throws Imogene a nervous sidelong look.

Imogene smiles prettily. “The witcher won’t be a problem.”

The smugness in her expression sends a wash of cold fury through Yennefer. “What did you do?”

“Let’s just say that he’s going to suffer a terrible accident on the hunting expedition. It’s unfortunate, given what useful creatures witchers are, but necessary.”

Jaskier makes a wordless noise of anguish and Yennefer feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Swallowing back her growing fear, she meets Imogene’s too-blue eyes and says levelly, “If a single hair on Geralt’s head is harmed, I promise you, there isn’t a single place on this Continent where you’ll be safe from me. If he’s dead, then so are you.”

Trepidation flashes across Imogene’s features. “If you make a single move against me, then the bard is dead.”

She’s right, Yennefer knows. Even if they remove the dimeritium cuffs, Imogene could snap Jaskier’s neck before Yennefer manages to cast a single spell. “I already told you, Imogene. There’s nothing to be done. If I could break the curse, I would, but I’ll be dead before I finish my attempt and your curse will remain unbroken.”

That dollish face shows not a single flicker of mercy. “I believe that if you start undoing the spell around the tomb, then I’ll be able to finish what you started.”

Yennefer barks a laugh. “So I die and then you get the glory of undoing the curse yourself?”

“It’s not about glory for me, Yennefer.” Imogene’s mouth works. “It’s about love. I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand, if you’re about to let the man you love die on your behalf.”

“The bard is nothing to me,” Yennefer bites out. “He’s not my lover, he’s not my friend. He’s nothing but a pest.”

Imogene’s lips pinch together. “Fine, then. Kill the bard.”

Jaskier chokes as one of the mercenaries grabs his hair, jerking his hair back, while the other draws back his sword to strike. He stares up at the sky with shock and terror, chest heaving with his frantic breaths, bound hands trembling in front of him. Yennefer isn’t trying to read his mind, but an image pops into her mind as if he’s screaming in her head. It’s Geralt, standing in the doorway of the room he’s sharing with Jaskier, looking immensely put upon.

“I’d rather get eaten by wargs than watch a bunch of lordlings use their hounds and falcons to hunt and take all the credit.”

“Don’t be silly, Geralt. Their servants use the hounds and falcons to hunt and the lordlings take all the credit.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, no, but there might be a warg attack to give you a break from all the nobles. And you’ll get to spend time with some new horses. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

In the memory, Geralt smiles. “The marquess does have some fine horses.”

“There you go! Ignore the nobles, lavish attention on the horses.”

“That would make Roach angry.”

“Roach is far too sure of her place in your affections. Some uncertainty would be good for her.”

There’s so much love in the memory, so much longing, grief, and terror. If Geralt has fallen victim to Imogene’s trap because Yennefer underestimated her and Lord Szimon, then she owes it to him to keep his bard alive. And if Geralt did survive and he returns to find that Jaskier has died because of a stupid misunderstanding, it will crush him. Yennefer can’t let that happen.

“Stop!” she shouts.

The sword arcing towards Jaskier’s exposed throat pauses mid-swing. Jaskier sags, shoulders shuddering.

“I’ll do it,” Yennefer says through gritted teeth. “I’ll most certainly die in the attempt, you’ll fail at your attempts to finish my work, and this will all be for nothing, but I’ll do it.”

“No!” Jaskier yells through his gag, startling all of them. “No, Yennefer, don’t!”

Yennefer is taken aback. She expected Jaskier to beg for his life, to plead and cry for mercy. He’s always struck her as a consummate coward, always ready to hide behind Geralt at the first sign of danger. But despite the terror in his eyes, he keeps going.

“Don’t do it!” He shakes his head vigorously and the gag slips down over his chin. “Yennefer, you know that when you’re done, they’ll just kill me anyway. Just run. Find Geralt and—”

“Enough,” Imogene snaps and one of the mercenaries drives the hilt of his sword into Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier’s head snaps around with a pained cry.

Fury rises up in Yennefer, hot and sharp. “Do not fucking do that again,” she tells the mercenary, who takes a step back from her, eyes going wide.

“Yennefer, please.” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “Don’t die for me. You don’t even fucking like me. You’ve never showed even the tiniest inclination for self-sacrifice before, so why would you start now?”

Imogene seizes him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. “Bard, if you say another word, I will have my men cut your tongue out.”

Jaskier looks up at her, eyes bright with defiance. “Just to clarify, will I still get the rest of my payment for the party? Because if you cut out my tongue, I really can’t be held responsible if I can’t fulfill my end—”

She shoves the gag back into her mouth and whirls on Yennefer. “I’m going to take your chains off now. Remember, if you try anything, we’ll kill the bard.”

Yennefer meets Jaskier’s gaze. He doesn’t cry out, but he shakes his head, eyes silently pleading. She looks away from him and holds out her bound wrists to Imogene. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

Yennefer flexes her hand as she stands in front of the tomb, looking up at the statue. The woman in the statue looks impossibly young, her expression smooth and untroubled. She has her hands spread out, palms facing upward, like she’s trying to catch something falling from the sky. Mindful of the tiny animal bones surrounding the tomb, Yennefer doesn’t touch it as she circles around it, examining it from all angles.

“Come on, Yennefer,” Imogene says. “Let’s not take forever. I’d like to change before dinner.”

Yennefer grits her teeth. “It will take however long it takes.”

“I hope you aren’t planning on stalling for time. That won’t end well for Jaskier.”

“And this will end well for him otherwise?”

“Of course,” Imogene says. “If you do what I say, he’ll be free to go. We’ll even pay him extra for the trouble.”

Jaskier snorts loudly.

Yennefer can’t help but share his skepticism, but there’s nothing she can do but try to survive the curse breaking so she can get him to safety. And then hopefully find a still-living Geralt and save him too. Tentatively, she reaches out to the curse with her own chaos, shuddering as it immediately starts to suck at her magic. That’s how it will kill her, she knows. It will eat through her chaos and then her life force, leaving her a hollow husk just like the little bones on the ground. Behind her, Jaskier whimpers. She can’t tell if the sound is from pain or fear.

She’s not sure why she does it. Maybe in what’s probably the last moments of her life, she decides that the company of an irritating bard is better than being alone. “You know, if you refrain from being obnoxious, she might let you live,” she tells him silently. “Imogene isn’t a natural-born killer.”

Jaskier recovers from his shock at the voice in his head quickly. “Yenn, don’t do this. You don’t even like me. I’m pretty sure you loathe me.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“Then what, for Geralt? He wouldn’t want you to do this either.”

Yennefer says nothing.

“Yennefer, seriously.” He sounds desperate, even in his mind. “If you die for me, I’m going to have to write a nice song about you. Don’t do that to me.”

He’s trying to joke, but the thought is too laced with dread for it to be effective.

“You can just change the lyrics of the one about the violet-eyed she-demon who eats men’s souls. That will do nicely as a funeral dirge.” Yennefer grits her teeth as the curse fights her. Already, she can feel her knees wobbling under her. “Since when do you care if I live or die? I would think you’d be glad to get rid of me. Less competition for Geralt’s affection.”

Jaskier is deep in thought for a moment; she can feel his conflict. Yennefer doesn’t look into his mind. Finally, he tells her, “I never disliked you because Geralt loves you. He and I have always taken other lovers. It’s just that sometimes I think he loves you more than he loves me and it makes me want to curse you with an unfortunate skin condition.”

Yennefer swallows. “He doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

She doesn’t want to put it all into words, so she shows Jaskier. She shows him the way that Geralt watched him last night while he danced, the softness around the witcher’s eyes that he shows so few people. She shows him the way Geralt always picks up scented soap for Jaskier whenever he passes through a market, even if he has to go out of his way to get it. She shows him the way he shakes his head at street musicians, always finding them wanting compared to his bard.

“You’re always near the forefront of his mind,” she tells Jaskier. “He’s always thinking of funny anecdotes he’ll need to tell you, or thinking about how you would love a pastry he’s eating if you were there with him. You have a life together.”

She tries not to add the, “A life that doesn’t include me,” but she fears it slips through her mental walls.

Jaskier sighs audibly. “He thinks of you all the time too.”

He shows her the way Geralt closes his eyes, breathing in deeply whenever they pass a lilac bush. He thinks of Geralt’s eyes tracking a dark-haired woman through the crowd, his expression falling when she turns around to reveal a pale, heart-shaped face with dark eyes. He shows her Geralt, his hair slick with his sweat and his eyes out of focus, clearly under the effects of some horrible venom, calling out her name while Jaskier clutches his hands and tries to soothe him.

“It took me years to get him to call me his friend.” There’s such exhaustion in the thought that Yennefer can’t help but feel a swell of pity. “And barely a year after knowing you, he’s in love with you. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s just lust, bardling.”

“You can look into his mind. You know that’s not true.”

“Just because he thinks it’s love doesn’t mean it is.” Blood trickles from Yennefer’s nose and the hands hovering in front of the statue tremble. It takes her a moment to remember that they’re her hands.

“It won’t last,” she adds. “It never does. He’s not the first man to believe himself in love with me. They eventually realize that I’m not the dream woman they’ve put on a pedestal and they turn on me.”

Istredd, Virfuril, so many others. It’s happened time and time again. But she knows it will hurt most of all when it’s Geralt turning on her.

“Geralt’s not like that. When he cares about someone, he doesn’t just stop. He tries so hard to act like the big, tough witcher, and it’s entirely nonsense.”

Yennefer tries to laugh, but she doesn’t have the breath for it. “Anyone who’s seen him with his horse could tell you that.”

“You know, I think you’re right. I’ve spent all this time worrying that it’s you he loves the most when in reality, it’s Roach who is the threat.”

“I’m less interested in biting your fingers off.”

“To her credit, she’s never held a knife to my balls. Though I think that’s more because of a lack of opposable thumbs than a lack of desire.”

Yennefer can feel the curse starting to weaken under the force of her magic. Maybe this will work. Maybe she’ll be able to get both of them out of this alive.

Her vision is starting to go blurry. The statue is suddenly much taller. With a jolt, she realizes that she’s fallen to her knees.

“You can still run,” Jaskier tells her, sounding desperate. “You can still save yourself.”

For the first time, she glances back at him. He’s still kneeling there, face pale and eyes too wide and bright. There’s a sword at his throat and Imogene stands directly behind him, certainly ready to use him as a human shield if Yennefer tries to attack her.

Suddenly, Jaskier cries out in agony, back arching in a way that human backs aren’t supposed to arch. Yennefer sees Imogene holding out a hand and demands, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re distracted, Yennefer,” Imogene says icily. “I can tell the two of you are communicating when your focus should be entirely on the curse. Should I remove the distraction?”

“If you kill him, you lose all the leverage you have on me.” Yennefer’s voice doesn’t come out as forceful as she’d like. She’s having trouble focusing on Imogene. “And I will kill you.”

“So then I won’t kill him. Maybe I’ll just break his back. He’ll never walk or hold a lute again, but he’ll live.”

Jaskier moans, face screwed up in pain.

“Imogene, stop.” Yennefer tries to lurch to her feet, but she can’t. She crumples to the ground, barely managing to catch herself before she falls into the tomb. “Listen, you twat, I’m trying my hardest and I nearly had it before you started making threats. If you’d like to kill us and take over, be my guest, but then you’ll die finishing what I’ve started and we’ll all be dead.”

Imogene’s jaw works, but she releases Jaskier from the hold of her chaos. He sags into the grass and curls up into a ball, heaving with pained breaths.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer thinks.

Jaskier raises his head from the grass to look at her. His eyes are blazing with tears as the mercenary lays his blade against his throat.

“When this is over, you owe me a song,” she tells him and turns to throw everything she has at the cursed tomb.

***

Yennefer can tell that she’s dying. She can feel her heart stuttering erratically in her chest, her lungs working too hard to suck in too little air. She hurts like she hasn’t since the Ascension, her body suffused with a bone-deep agony that won’t let up, not even for a moment. She won’t be conscious for much longer, she knows. She would welcome unconsciousness if it didn’t mean failure. The curse is breaking apart under her magic, but not quickly enough. She’s dying far faster than the curse.

Behind her, Jaskier is yelling through his gag, still begging her to stop. Imogene has given up on trying to threaten him into silence.

Yennefer wonders how long it’s been. She wonders if it matters. She wonders if Geralt still lives. Maybe if he’s dead, his spirit is here somewhere, watching her fail his bard.

Behind her, there’s a howl of pain. Yennefer wrenches herself backwards, away from the tomb, and turns around. The mercenary who had his sword to Jaskier’s throat is clutching at the bloodied stump that was once his hand. Said hand lies in the grass a few feet away with the mercenary’s sword abandoned next to it, another, far finer sword sticking out of the ground.

If Yennefer were the crying type, she might burst into tears of relief. She’s not the crying type—nor does she have the energy left to cry—so she gasps, “Geralt.”

The second mercenary turns and charges Geralt comes vaulting over one of the nearby tombs, his silver sword in hand and a grimace of pure fury on his face. It’s a pathetically quick fight before Geralt decapitates the man with one swing of his sword and turns to face the surviving mercenary. Sobbing with pain, the one-handed man snatches his sword off the ground and lurches towards Geralt. Geralt backhands him so hard that teeth fly from his mouth as he goes to his knees, then drives the hilt of his sword against the mercenary’s temple. The man crumples, unconscious.

With a snarl, Geralt whirls on Imogene.

“Don’t come any closer!” Imogene shrieks, one hand wrapped around Jaskier’s throat as she hauls him backwards. Jaskier lets himself be dragged across the ground, eyes wild with panic. “I promise, witcher, I will kill him if you come near me.”

Geralt freezes, his eyes flicking between Imogene, Jaskier, and Yennefer. “If you hurt him, you won’t leave here alive.”

Imogene bares her teeth. “I’m just trying to save the man I love, but I wouldn’t expect a beast like you to understand that.”

“You have no idea how well I understand that.” Geralt glances over at Yennefer. She must look truly pathetic, because horror flashes across his face.

Imogene takes advantage of his moment of distraction, raising her hand to throw a spell.

Yennefer snarls and throws her own hand out with the last bit of strength she has left. Imogene shrieks as she’s lifted off the ground, jerking away from Geralt and Jaskier. She flies through the air, kicking and screaming, and lands against the cursed statue with a resounding crack. Both Imogene and the statue crumple to the ground. Imogene stares at Yennefer blankly, her eyes vacant and her neck hanging at an impossible angle.

“Yennefer!” Geralt comes rushing towards her. He must have cut through Jaskier’s bonds, because the bard stumbles after him, yanking the gag out of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Yennefer tries to say, but words aren’t working right now. Her cheek is pressed to the grass, but she has no conscious memory of deciding to lie down.

“Hey, Yenn.” Geralt gathers her head into his lap. His hands are shaking. “Hey, you’re okay.”

“I’m not a fucking horse, Geralt,” she wants to say. Much to her consternation, words continue to not work.

“What happened?” Geralt asks Jaskier.

“Cursed tomb.” Jaskier grabs Yennefer’s hand, pressing his fingers to the pulse point on her wrist. “Imogene tried to force her to undo the curse, even though it was going to kill her. Fuck, I told her not to, Geralt.”

Geralt’s jaw works. “You’ll be okay,” he tells Yennefer. “You’re both okay.”

Yennefer opens her mouth to tell him that she knows that, thank you, but then darkness begins to cloud her vision. The last thing she’s aware of before unconsciousness steals over her is the fact that the cloud of malevolent magic from the tomb is gone.

***

Yennefer wakes to a horse chewing on her hair.

“Ugh.” She tries to push away its snout, but her arms are too weak. “I will turn you into a coat.”

“No, she won’t Roachie,” Jaskier calls. “Keep up the good work, girl. You’re doing great.”

“I have room in my wardrobe for two coats, bardling.”

“I have to say, your threats are more… threatening when you’re fully conscious.”

Yennefer leverages herself up onto her elbows to glare at him. “I’m conscious enough to skin you alive, you—”

“Jask, stop giving Yennefer a hard time.” Geralt appears out of nowhere, tugging Roach away from Yennefer’s hair.

Jaskier sniffs. “Fine. I suppose she did save my life.”

“A mistake I won’t make again.” Yennefer rubs her bleary eyes and forces herself to focus on her surroundings. Jaskier is sitting on the other side of a crackling campfire, lute slung across his lap. It’s full dark and they’re in the middle of the woods. Around them, insects hum.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt crouches down beside her, handing her a waterskin.

“Like shit.” She accepts it gratefully, taking a long sip. When she’s drunk her fill, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and asks, “Where are we?”

“About two miles east of Fellston,” Geralt says.

“That close?” Yennefer doesn’t like the idea of being within easy riding distance of the marquess' estate.

“Didn’t want to ride any further, not with you unconscious. And they’re too busy at Fellston to send guards after us. The marquess is dead.”

“What?” Yennefer remembers the sudden absence of the curse. “How?”

“We didn’t get the full story,” Jaskier says. “Because we only stopped by the estate long enough to grab our things and get the fuck out of there. But it sounds like the marquess noticed Geralt leaving the hunting expedition, must have realized Geralt was onto him, and came galloping back to the estate to warn his lady love. Only, he got thrown from his horse and broke his neck instead.”

Yennefer lets out a hoarse laugh, letting her face drop into her hands. When she looks up, she finds Geralt and Jaskier both looking at her with concern. “It was all for nothing. Jaskier and I nearly got killed, and the marquess would have been dead and the curse completed before I managed to undo it.”

“I’m not crying any tears for him.” Carefully, Geralt tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I could tell he was up to something as soon as we left on the hunting expedition. He was nervous, kept trying to keep me distracted.”

“I’m glad,” Yennefer says. “Because there was a trap for you somewhere along the route. You were supposed to die in a terrible accident.”

Geralt doesn’t look particularly surprised by that revelation, just resigned.

“We’re all alright.” Jaskier strums a chord on his lute. “That’s what matters.”

Geralt hums in agreement, looping an arm around Yennefer’s shoulders. She leans her head against him, letting her eyes fall closed. He smells unpleasantly of horse and onions, but he’s alive. She can feel his witcher slow heartbeat beneath her cheek.

It would be a perfect, peaceful moment, if not for the damn bard.

“There’s a song in this, I think,” Jaskier muses aloud. “Tragic lovers who know their days together are numbered because of a generational curse. But their love becomes something dark and eventually, their attempts to undo the curse get both of them killed. It’s almost romantic that they probably died within minutes of each other, don’t you think?”

Yennefer sighs. “They don’t deserve one of your songs, bardling.”

“Yennefer, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “Just for that, I’m going to make the song I’m writing for you my best work yet.”

Yennefer’s eyes snap open. “You are not writing a song about me.”

He shoots her a shit-eating grin. “You asked me to.”

“Yes, because I thought I wouldn’t be alive to have to listen to it.”

“It’s too late.” Jaskier strums a few notes on his lute. “It’s already well underway. It just needs a few more stanzas and maybe some fine-tuning.”

“Bardling, I swear on all the gods—”

“I’m sorry, Yennefer, I can’t hear you over the sound of my composing.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer growls. “Please remind your bard of how mortal and easily killed he is.”

“Geralt, please remind the witch that there are people who pay me hundreds of crowns to write songs about them and she should be honored to be getting one for free.”

“Free? I nearly died for you, you pissant.”

Geralt starts shaking under Yennefer’s cheek. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s laughing at them.

“Going to go catch something for dinner." He drops a kiss on Yennefer's forehead and rises to his feet. He's still laughing, eyes crinkled with the kind of unabashed mirth Yennefer rarely sees him display, until he disappears from sight in the trees.

Jaskier and Yennefer stare after him. Finally, Jaskier asks, “Is he alright? He didn’t hit his head during his valiant rescue of us, did he?”

“Not that I noticed.” Yennefer shakes her head. “And I don’t think Imogene hit him with a spell.”

“No, I don’t believe so. He’s been acting perfectly normal up until now. Perhaps he’s just overly tired.”

“That must be it.” She studies the bard, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the ugly bruise on his cheek, and the rubbed raw skin around his wrists. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” His answering smile is far too wide. When he sees she’s unconvinced, he sighs. “I thought that I was going to watch you die and then they were going to kill me too to get rid of the witness and that Geralt was either going to die alone in the woods somewhere or come back to find us dead.” His voice cracks. “Fuck, I was scared shitless.”

“So was I,” Yennefer admits.

Jaskier puts his lute down to scrub a hand over his face. “Thank you for not letting them kill me. But next time, just let them kill me. Don’t nearly die for me again.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “Next time, I will absolutely let you die.”

He looks at her with an expression that’s far too serious for his normally ridiculous face. “No, you won’t.”

She feels strangely exposed under his gaze. “I saw the way you looked at each other when you were dancing last night,” Imogene said when she was issuing her ultimatum. “I know what you are to each other.”

That makes one of us, Imogene, Yennefer thinks. Jaskier is an arrogant, pompous, vain peacock of a man who loves the sound of his voice far too much. He’s a bother and a pest. He’s utterly insufferable.

He also begged Yennefer to save herself, rather than save him. The sight of a sword at his throat scared her like nothing has in a long time.

“What you said earlier,” she starts to say.

Jaskier grimaces. “In my defense, I thought I was going to die. We’re all allowed to be a little melancholic when faced with imminent death.”

“Geralt does love you,” Yennefer tells him before he can get overly dramatic. “You make his life better by being in it. I don’t know how or why, but you do.”

A tiny smile flickers across his face. “So do you. He smiles more since he met you. Sleeps better too. I also don’t know how or why, but you seem to bring him peace.”

Yennefer’s throat feels too tight. She looks away.

“He needs both of us,” Jaskier says. “I think the loss of either of us would hurt him greatly.” He pauses. “My loss would hurt more, of course—”

“Bardling.”

“I’m sorry, Yennefer, but I’m feeling very warm and fuzzy towards you right now and it’s making me uncomfortable. They did hit me quite hard in the face back there. Maybe I’m concussed. Maybe my brain is bleeding and I’m dying.”

“A brain bleed could only be an improvement for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Yennefer laughs. A moment later, Jaskier joins in. They laugh for a long moment, the sound bouncing off the trees around them, for far longer than the conversation called for.

Finally, Jaskier calms down enough to ask, “Was Geralt right? Are you and I destined to be friends?”

“Gods, I hope not,” Yennefer says, only half-lying. “But if he is right, we can never tell him.”

“Well, of course not. He’d be insufferable.” Jaskier taps a finger against his lute. “That being said, if we are friends, I’m going to have to write you more than one song.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I’m afraid it is. That’s just how I show my love for my friends.”

“I take it you don’t have many friends, then?”

“Rude and uncalled for, witch. I didn’t say all the songs had to be complimentary.”

“That’s a lovely lute you have there. How would you like it if I turned it into something more useful? Like a carrot for Roach?”

“Don’t you… you wouldn’t dare… Geralt!”

***

Yennefer falls asleep not long after eating the squirrels Geralt brought back for dinner, regrettably before she works up the energy to turn Jaskier’s lute into a carrot. When she wakes, the fire is banked, the night has cooled considerably, and Geralt and Jaskier are asleep next to her. Yennefer is curled against Geralt’s side with her head on his shoulder, one of his arms wrapped around her waist. On Geralt’s other side, Jaskier snores loudly, the sound barely muffled by the fact that his face is squished against Geralt’s bicep.

She studies both of them for a moment, feeling far too full of two many things. Tomorrow, they’ll have to get far from Fellston. Conversations will need to be had. She’ll have to find a way to distract Jaskier from his songwriting goals. Perhaps by feeding him to a wyvern, though that would make Geralt grumpy.

Jaskier snorts and reaches across Geralt, his hand settling on Yennefer’s waist. She goes still. His hand is a heavy and strangely familiar weight. She can feel the rasp of his calluses through the thin fabric of the chemise he leant her to sleep in. It’s odd, she thinks, that he would reach out for her in sleep, like her presence comforts him.

She shrugs his hand off. A moment later, he grumbles in his sleep and his hand lands in the same spot.

Yennefer sighs and cuddles closer to Geralt, resigning herself to dealing with clingy bards for a night. She can always kill him in the morning.

***

She doesn’t kill him in the morning.

***

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving comments or kudos on AO3.

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek

#the witcher #pre-yennskier #pre-geraskefer #jaskier x yennefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #ghost's fic #ghost's writing

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seidenbros · 2 years

Note

How about 9 and Geraskier for the dialogue prompts? 💚

Wreeeeeen 💚 Oh this is such a good prompt, and I had a vision first, BUT then I turned it around again and came up with something entirely different, so there's still that other idea for the prompt in my head. I enjoyed this so much, so I hope you'll enjoy it as well 💚

Prompt: “how did you even get up to my window? my room is on the second floor.” “romeo finds a way, juliet.”

(I’m always happy to receive requests, so if you want to, send some in. If you need inspiration, here are some prompt lists )

Pairing: Geraskier

Warnings: lots of fluff, maybe a little angst

Word count: 1637

________________

Romeo & Juliet

“You are getting married tomorrow. End of discussion!”

“But father-”

“No! I've had enough of your antics. This marriage has been arranged for you and you will get married. It is your duty.”

“But-”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz!”

His full name from his mother's lips was enough for Jaskier to clamp his lips shut and not say a single word anymore. So far, she'd been quiet, had listened to the interaction between her husband and her son, but it was enough. Her head was pounding, and she couldn't take any more of this loud conversation.

“To your room,” hi father said, rubbing his temples with both hands before he walked over to his wife to check up on her.

Jaskier stood there for a moment, wanting to say something else, but h knew that this wouldn't end well, so he decided to do as he was told and go to his room. What was there to do for him right now? As soon as he tried to walk out the door, guards would be there to hold him back, and that would make the night even more miserable for him.

Once in his room, he made sure to slam the door so that his parents could maybe hear it – probably not because of the size of their home. He threw himself on his bed, buried his face in the pillow and screamed until his lungs hurt. He was twenty-one, he should be allowed to make his own decisions, but apparently not here. Where he was the heir of the family throne, which he didn't even want. His parents had allowed him to go to Oxenfurt, to do his studies, but only if he came back to fill his rightful place. Jaskier had agreed, but back then he hadn't known what it meant to be free. Oxenfurt had given him that possibility. He'd travelled a bit, had met wonderful people, and he'd even fallen in love – with the wrong person. Not in his own opinion, but in his parents eyes.

Of course, he'd told them about Geralt, that he was a Witcher, but that he made him happy. None of that was of interest for them. He didn't even know whether it was because Geralt was a Witcher or because they'd already arranged Jaskier's marriage years ago. It didn't matter in the end, because one way or another: They didn't approve.

He'd left Geralt two months ago, had gone back home in hopes of convincing his parents to let him go, to let him live his own life. He wasn't made to be caged in by these walls, to live a life by the rules that were set here. He didn't want the throne, wasn't made for it, but his sister was. She was perfect and she wanted it – at least that's what she'd told him.

They'd talked all through the night, where Jaskier had told her about Geralt, about their meeting, their first kiss, and how much he loved this man. She'd smiled all the time, had hugged him and told him that they'd find a solution... that was a week ago and so far, there was no solution in sight. He didn't want to give up hope, but by now, it was becoming increasingly hard to believe in some kind of miracle.

He didn't come out of his room for dinner, because he didn't want to face his parents, like a sulking teenager. Trust his sister to take care of him, because she sneaked something into his room, before her parents called her again. Jaskier was nearly starving because he'd already skipped lunch to spend some more time in the garden, so he was more than grateful her.

Usually music always managed to cheer him up, but even picking up his lute didn't manage to uplift his mood. With a sigh, he put the instrument aside, when he heard something at his window. First, he thought, it was just his imagination, but then he heard a tentative knock again. Grabbing the candle from the side of his bed, he walked up to the window and opened it, only to be greeted by honey golden eyes and white hair that he'd missed running his fingers through.

“What... How...”

Jaskier was lost for words, not sure if he was even seeing right, or if that was some kind of dream he was having right now.

“Hello Jaskier,” Geralt said with smirk, climbing through the window.

“But... How did you even get up to my window? My room is on the second floor!”

“Romeo finds a way, Juliet.”

Normally, Jaskier would have laughed at this comparison, but Geralt captured his lips in a kiss and everything was forgotten. Jaskier practically melted against the love of his life, tangled his fingers in Geralt's hair to keep him as close as possible, wanted to savour this moment, because he knew that it wouldn't last long.

“Ready to go?” Geralt whispered against his lips, once they separated again.

“What do you mean?” Confusion clouded Jaskier's face.

“Do you want to get married to some stranger tomorrow?”

“Well... no of course not.” Because he loved Geralt and not the person he was supposed to meet for the first time tomorrow and marry immediately. But he'd tried to convince his parents, had tried to make it clear to them that he wasn't happy like this. “Wait, how do you even know about this?” Jaskier had tried his best to push this aside, had told Geralt that he needed to go home to talk to his parents about his plans, about the man he loved, but not that he was supposed to get married.

“Certainly not from you.” There was a hint of disappointment in Geralt's voice, because he wished that Jaskier had been honest with him, had confided in him, but what mattered in the end, was that he was here now. “Your sister sent a message to me. She figured that they would watch you closely, but she could do what she wanted. And she knows that you're not happy, so she wanted to give you a way out.”

“She's really something.” Jaskier shook his head smiling. If it was possible, he loved her even more now. “I wanted to write you, I wanted to go and search for you, but they didn't let me out of here.”

“I know... I know you don't want this. You're a free spirit and you need to be out there.”

“I need to be with you!” That was more important for Jaskier than being free, though he knew that he was free with Geralt by his side, that he'd never be caged in by him.

“That's what I wanted to hear,” Geralt said with a smile, before he leaned towards Jaskier to kiss him once again. When he heard noises in front of the door, though, he stiffened and listened intently. There were quiet voices, but they were walking away again. Still, Geralt didn't want to waste any more time. “So... ready to go?”

“And you're sure this is safe?” Jaskier walked over the the window and looked down in the darkness, swallowing hard, because if he fell down, everyone would hear him scream in pain, he was sure of it.

“Safer than staying here.” Geralt was already making his way out of the window, but he looked back at Jaskier once more. “I'll make sure you won't fall. I'll keep you safe.”

That was everything Jaskier needed to know, so he followed Geralt out of the window. Carefully, they climbed down. Geralt had to steady Jaskier twice, but they managed to get down unharmed.

“Jaskier!” he heard a voice from above, from his window and froze in place, before he turned his head to look up. Relief flooded him when he saw his sister's face in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight. “You forgot this.”

She waved his lute before she carefully lowered it as far as she could, but then she had to let it fall. Geralt caught it before Jaskier even had a chance to react. He could never leave without his lute, they all knew it, but in that moment, Geralt had been the most important thing, and Jaskier would have followed him anywhere.

“I love you, you know that?” He called up to her, and his words were met with a smile, but she quickly shushed him.

“Get going! But visit me!”

“I will.” Tears were brimming in his eyes as he turned around to leave with Geralt. He'd miss his sister, he always did, when he was gone, but he'd come back. For now, he had to look out for his own happiness, and the person that made him happy, was the one holding his hand right now, leading him away from the place that he'd once called his home.

“Are you okay, Jaskier? With this?” Geralt had to make sure when they reached Roach, who immediately sought out Jaskier's touch. She'd missed the bard as well.

“More than okay.” Jaskier's smile soothed Geralt's worries. “I'm happiest when I'm with you. No matter where that is or if we sleep on the floor in the forest. As long as you're there...”

Geralt needed no more words, just another kiss that lingered a little longer than necessary on his lips. If Jaskier did in fact get married on day, it was to this man and no other, no matter what his family thought about it. As Geralt had established earlier: They were Romeo and Juliet, and they belonged together, just hopefully alive for years to come, instead of dying for one another.

#Geraskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher imagine #geraskier imagine #staffi writes #prompt fill #romeo &juliet

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Note

Prompt idea: Geralt gets a contract for a monster that has been sighted nearby. When he tracks it down, he is surprised to find mothman!Jaskier who (much like actual mothman) has an ass that won’t quit.

I just want you to know that Mothskier now lives in my head rent free 24/7. I love him. I would die for him. This is my new favorite emotional support au.

2k-ish words - please feel free to shove comments through the bars of my enclosure, I would really like that

art by the ever-wonderful @mawbwehownets, whose drawing of Mothskier made me legit cry.

tw: mild injury, brief blood mention, strangers to lovers

---

“So what you’re saying,” Geralt raises an eyebrow slowly, curious, “Is that you need me to catch a monster that’s half man and half moth?”

“Yup.”

“Alright,” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. The frustrated Witcher takes a slow breath to calm and center himself, before he ends up botching the entire contract-writing process. Humans tend to grow attached to the strangest monsters sometimes, and apparently this mysterious local being was no different. “Let me get this totally straight, so there are no mistakes or misunderstandings. You want me to capture this man-moth and get it out of your woods, but you don’t want me to kill it?”

“He’s called the Mothman, and he’s pretty damn stubborn about sticking around,” the aging farmer corrects Geralt with a little frown. Then his expression shifts and he smiles in a way that seems almost apologetic. “We were hoping you could find a way to relocate him without hurting or killing him, Master Witcher.”

“That’s completely possible, if he isn’t attached to this specific patch trees by any magical or biological means. You said his natural habitat is just… the forest?”

“As long as there's an abundance of pine around he seems pretty happy. Before he came to live with us, Mothman lived in a heavily forested area up the coast; or at least that’s what the historical records and local mythology seem to indicate.”

“That’s actually pretty helpful information to have on hand, I’m impressed,” Geralt nods. “Alright, Mr. Stevens. I promise to relocate the poor thing without killing or maiming him, and I’ll be sure to take him somewhere far enough away that your crops won’t be in danger. Thanks for calling me first instead of just going straight to an extermination service.”

“Honestly, Master Witcher,” the farmer sighs and readjusts his dirty baseball hat, “If it weren’t for the mischief he’s been getting into lately, we would have let him stick around until spring. I hate to admit it to a man as strong and stern-faced as yourself, but the poor creature is almost… adorable at times.”

“Well that’s a first,” Geralt chuckles, honestly amused by the situation he’s found himself in. “A monster being referred to as ‘adorable’ rather than ‘terrifying’. I’ve never heard such a thing in my many years of life.”

“Then you’d better prepare yourself, Sir Geralt. He’s got a pair of big blue puppy-dog eyes that’ll knock you on your ass if you aren’t careful. And that’s coming from a man who raised three daughters with dimples.”

“Hmm. Fuck.”

---

Geralt knows enough about moths to come up with a plan he thinks will work.

Before he heads into the woods to find and capture the poor wandering creature, the Witcher takes a detour through the lighting section of the nearest Lowe’s.

---

Unfortunately for Geralt, the farmer was right about the power of Mothman’s puppy dog eyes, which are big and blue and begin to water as soon as the Witcher’s net knocks him to the ground. The creature lies in a whimpering tangle of limbs beneath the heavy, magically enhanced restraints. Geralt takes an opportunity to look at what the locals called "a cryptid".

Mothman has a long, lithe body that's covered in a light layer of grey-brown fur, but his hair resembles that of a human’s, falling over those enormous blue eyes in a lovely chestnut fringe. When Mothman sees the swords on Geralt’s back he cries out in panicked recognition and tries to pull his arms up far enough to shield his face. The lamp Geralt used to lure him into the clearing is still bathing him in a pool of yellow light; it’s almost pretty for a monster, Geralt notes.

As the Witcher takes a step forward, the cryptid squeaks and buries his face against his own shoulder. His entire frame is trembling.

“Hey there, shhhhh,” the Witcher murmurs quietly. He drops into a squat and holds both hands up to show Mothman that they’re weapon free. Tears are now falling freely down the creature’s surprisingly human face; whoever or whatever this is, they are likely some kind of Fae. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just want to get you back through the veil.”

“Liar,” Mothman huffs. His voice has a surprisingly musical quality to it and Geralt is now sure of his Fae parentage (or grand-parentage).

“I promise I’m not lying,” Geralt reassures him, slowly crawling forward. When he reaches for the nearest corner of the net, he feels all of Mothman’s muscles go tense. “I’m going to lift this up and I am going to restrain you, but I swear that I’m not going to kill you. I wish to cause as little distress as possible. Is that alright, Mothman?”

The creature hisses and yanks his foot back away from where Geralt’s hand had nearly touched it. “Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Geralt glances up, raising an eyebrow.

“My name is Jaskier,” the Fae repeats, glaring up from between the sections of woven rope that make up the heavy net. “Not Mothman.”

“My apologies, Jaskier,” Geralt bows his head. He words his introduction carefully, in case this thing can manipulate his name like others of his kind: “You may refer to me as Geralt.”

“That’s your real name,” Jaskier states. The Witcher’s head snaps up.

“How did you know?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier sticks his tongue out as he mimics the sound Geralt made earlier. “Not telli-AH! Stop! Oh go- gods, stop! Please!”

Geralt drops the short section of rope he’s trying untangle from around Jaskier’s ankle and snaps his eyes upwards, already searching for damage. “What’s wrong!?”

“My wing!” Jaskier bawls. His scent spikes out through the clearing, sharp with panic and pain. The creature’s chest begins to shake more violently than before, his shoulders shuddering with the rising force of his sobs, “It’s t-t-torn! Oh gods, my wing! Sir Witcher, p-please!”

Geralt freezes, his gaze settling on the torn section of Jaskier’s large, furry wing. It’s a nasty wound near one of the joints, a faint trickle of barely-luminescent blood has already dried around the edges. Jaskier tries to flutter it a little and screams in agony when the muscles shift too suddenly, shrilly enough that Geralt needs to cover his hypersensitive ears. The Witcher's heart crashes down into his boots; based on the way the shivering Fae has gone pale and silent, the pain is too much for him to process. He’s gone into shock.

A torn wing is exactly the kind of thing Geralt had promised the farmer (and the collective of townspeople he represented) wouldn’t happen to the peaceful moth creature if they hired a Witcher instead of an exterminator. He sighs and gives the strange being another once-over. “Everything's alright, Jaskier. You’re going to be alright. I’m so, so sorry that you've been wounded. We’ll get you out of this net and get you something for the pain, but it’s going to hurt a little to untangle you. Stay still, don’t struggle, and it’ll be over soon.”

“J-Just kill me,” Jaskier pants. He’s continuing to hyperventilate and Geralt needs him to calm down before he passes out. The Fae reaches a hand for the dagger at Geralt's waist and the Witcher twists out of reach with a frown. Jaskier sobs again, fingers still seeking, “I might n-n-never fly a-again so just k-kill me!”

“Breathe with me, Jaskier,” the Witcher instructs, forgoing patience and cutting through the net with that same dagger. He scoops Jaskier up into his arms, ignoring the keening sound at the back of Jaskier’s throat when his wing is jostled, and rushes the Fae to his truck, tucking him into the passenger’s seat and wrapping him in a large, fluffy blanket. “I’m taking you to my friend. She’s an expert at healing magical creatures and I'm certain that she'll get your wing fixed in no time.”

Jaskier doesn’t give an answer. When Geralt looks up into the creature’s face again, the injured Fae has already passed out.

---

Jaskier moves with all the grace of a newborn foal as he explores the room Geralt has provided for him. His wing has been inspected, treated, and bandaged by a rather scary sorceress named Yennefer, who glared at the Witcher the entire time she was caring for him. She had also taken one of Geralt’s old t-shirts and cut an enormous hole in the back for Jaskier’s wings to fit through. The shirt’s bottom hem falls to the middle of his thighs and the thick black material is softer than anything he’d ever felt before.

He hears a knock on the door and calls out, “It’s open!”

Geralt enters slowly, bearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a mug of tea. “I brought you some last minute supplies and - uh… I brought you some tea. Yen always likes some before she goes to sleep and I figured since this was a new place and new places can be scary that I should-”

“Thank you,” Jaskier interrupts, smiling shyly. His antennae twitch happily as he takes the offerings from Geralt's hands and the Witcher watches them with wide eyes. Jaskier carefully sets the pajamas and the tea on the nightstand before turning back to look at Geralt. “I will… see you tomorrow?”

Geralt gives one sharp nod. “Hmm.”

“Goodnight,” Jaskier sing-songs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as Geralt exits.

From the other side of the closed door, Jaskier’s superior hearing picks up the Witcher’s final whisper: “Goodnight, Jaskier. I will always be sorry for causing you pain.”

The next morning he meets Geralt at the breakfast table, refreshed and ready to learn about the human world. He’s summoned a glamour in order to hide his more Moth-like traits, the only things that remain of his true nature are his wings and antennae; his fur is gone and he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and that same old shirt. The Witcher offers him a bowl of fruit and mug of something sweet-smelling. Jaskier glares into the mug with a slight pout to his lips before finally asking, “What is this?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Jaskier takes a sip and his antennae flutter, twitching happily as he swallows the best drink he’s ever had in his long life. He eats a strawberry from the bowl and slowly works his way through the hot chocolate, eyeing Geralt warily as the Witcher moves through the familiar kitchen to make his own breakfast.

“Where is Yennefer?”

“She went home,” Geralt shrugs.

“She isn’t your mate?”

“N-No,” Geralt sputters, turning to stare at the nervous young Fae. “Why would you think that?”

“You smell like each other.”

“We spend a lot of time together,” Geralt shrugs again. “Good friends, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier mimics his host for a second time. Rather effectively by the annoyed twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Just wondering.”

“Anything else you’re curious about?”

“Why don’t you have more lights?”

“Huh?”

“Lights,” Jaskier gestures around the minimalistic layout of Geralt’s open-concept kitchen/living room and its distinctive lack of lamps. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward against the dark marble countertop. The pout has gone from 'slight' to 'full-bore' and Geralt is clinging desperately to his braincell with how cute it looks. “It’s no fun.”

“You really like lamps, don’t you?” the Witcher replies, mouth dry. Jaskier huffs and takes another sip of his hot chocolate, antennae flickering back and forth in irritation. Geralt bites his lip to hide a smile; it’s too fucking cute, which is an odd thought for a Witcher to have.

“So what if I do enjoy a nice lamp or five in my living space?” Jaskier argues. "I'm a Moth of taste."

“No matter,” Geralt laughs quietly. “Finish your drink before it gets cold.”

---

Jaskier stays with Geralt for a few weeks while his wing heals, and for a creature whose sole interest seems to be fancy light fixtures, the Fae becomes a source of light in Geralt's own world. They go to a nonhuman friendly second-hand store to find Jaskier some more clothes and Geralt discovers the cryptid's love for oddly patterned shirts in bright colors. Jaskier chooses several to fill out his closet, as well as a sweater two-sizes too large in deep black (Geralt tries his best not to attach any meaning to this choice), a few pairs of pants, and a jean jacket that he declares, "Can be altered."

They watch movies together and make food together - Jaskier is always incredibly impressed by the way the automatic coffee maker works, and how easily Geralt can control the flames of the stove. Jaskier also follows the Witcher along on less dangerous hunts and helps bandage him up after worse ones, always there with a smile and a little kiss over the cleaned-up wound.

“It really is magic,” Jaskier always insists, lips pink and shining from licking them as he concentrates. "It makes you heal faster."

Geralt realizes one night - two weeks into Jaskier’s stay, as he leans against the doorframe and watches the strange creature’s even breathing - that he has gone and done the stupidest thing a Witcher can do: fall in love with a pretty, temperamental young Fae. Head over fuckin’ heels, actually.

So he makes a decision.

---

The next evening, after the dinner dishes have been cleaned and put away, Geralt herds Jaskier down the hall to the guest room. Those entrancing blue eyes blink up at him in obvious confusion. “Bedtime already?”

“No, not quite. I just- I made you… uh…”

“Do you have a surprise for me?” Jaskier asks, used to the Witcher's issues with verbalizing.

Geralt nods, relieved and thankful for the Fae’s steadfast understanding. “Do you want to cover your eyes or should I just open the door and show you?”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Jaskier smiles, covering his eyes with both hands. Geralt finds it adorable, as Jaskier always is, and allows himself a matching grin as he swings the door open. The ceiling light is off but Geralt has built a blanket fort at the center of the room and surrounded it with fairy lights of all colors and sizes. Inside the blanket fort is a mass of blankets and pillows; Jaskier has the odd habit of building nests - Geralt jokingly calls them cocoons - and sleeping in those on the floor instead of on the very comfortable mattress the Witcher has provided.

“Open them,” Geralt urges.

Jaskier pulls his hands away and Geralt watches as his pupils go huge and wide. Jaskier's face breaks out in the sunniest, most blindingly happy smile Geralt has ever seen. He turns and throws his arms around the Witcher, his wings fluttering behind him and his antennae twitching and flicking above his head. He tries desperately to speak but only manages a half-snuffled little “I’m-” before bursting into tears of joy.

Geralt just holds him, letting his arms fold carefully around Jaskier’s waist, just beneath his wings.

"I just wanted you to know that, if you wanted to stay, there would be room for you. Your room, if you want it."

"I do," Jaskier smiles, burying his face in the Witcher's neck. "I'd love to stay. I'd love nothing more than to spend my days going on adventures with you."

"Well then," Geralt gathers all of his courage and presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jaskier's head. He's met with happy spasms from the antennae so he does it again. And again. Moving from the top of the Fae's head to his cheeks and then his mouth - pretty and pink and pouting and so worth the trouble. "I suppose we can get started on our next adventure tomorrow."

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valdomarx · 4 years

Text

A Marriage of Convenience

Octoberfest romcom tropes day 1: fake dating

Jaskier pushed his ale aside and broke the wax seal on the letter. As he read the contents, his face pinched into a frown.

“Anything important?” Geralt asked, glancing up from his soup.

Jaskier chewed his lower lip. “Not really. It’s from my family.” He took a breath. “They’re going to disinherit me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What did you do this time?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Nothing, thank you very much! But it’s my 35th birthday next month, and the stipulations of the Lettenhove family will are quite clear. If the oldest son isn’t married by the age of 35, inheritance passes to the next married cousin.”

“Very keen on weddings in Lettenhove, are they?”

“Rather less keen on unmarried bachelors, actually.”

Geralt grunted. “That’s too bad. I imagine a viscount’s fortune could have come in handy for you.”

“Oh, I don’t care about the money.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just,” he sighed. “I have younger sisters who rely on me for support. If the inheritance goes to cousin Edward, he’ll turn them out without a penny to their names.”

“That’s unkind.”

“It is.” Jaskier slumped. He was glad to have left Lettenhove and its court intrigues behind, but the thought of his sisters being at the mercy of his greedy cousin was unconscionable. He knew too well all the terrible things that could befall a woman alone in the world.

“This will,” Geralt said, stirring his soup absentmindedly, “does it have any rules about who you have to marry?”

“No. Any old wedding will do. But it’s not like I’m going to find anyone willing to tie themselves to me in the next month.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll marry you.”

Jaskier choked on his ale. “You?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he broke off and mopped the sweat from his brow. Because I’ve been in love with you for decades. Because I’ve fantasised about you saying this in a million different ways. Because having to pretend it’s real is going to break my heart.

Geralt reached over the table and patted his hand. “It’ll just be pretend,” he said, as if that were in any way reassuring. “This is a problem easily solved. Let me help you.”

Jaskier sagged. This was going to be a disaster.

“This is going to be a disaster!” Jaskier paced anxiously around their room. “There are so many ways this could go horribly wrong.”

Geralt sat on the bed counting bundles of herbs. “It’ll be fine.” He was infuriatingly calm. “We’ll head to Lettenhove, have a quick wedding, get your family off your back, and be on our way. It’ll only take a few days.”

“But,” Jaskier kept pacing. “We’ll have to. You know. We’ll have to do couple things. There are certain… expectations of a newly married pair.”

Geralt got to his feet and placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, stopping his anxious traipsing. “We’ll manage. Can’t be any worse than fighting drowners.”

Jaskier looked into amber eyes and felt his heart turn over in his chest. “Everyone will expect us to be holding hands, and kissing, and gods know what else. And you can’t do that.” He sighed. “You don’t even like men.”

Geralt leaned in closer, close enough that strands of his silver hair tickled Jaskier’s cheek. “I like men just fine,” he said, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then Jaskier did something terribly foolish. His body moved before his mind, his feet stepping closer, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck. He kissed him, hard, and to his astonishment Geralt kissed him back hungrily, lips parting to allow Jaskier to taste him fully, tongue exploring, hands roaming, and by the time they broke apart Jaskier was flushed and breathing hard.

“See?” Geralt said, his deep voice sending a shiver up his spine. “We can do this.”

Jaskier wrote to his family to tell them the good news, and he and Geralt wasted no time in heading off to Lettenhove. The journey was long but nothing they were unused to. They traveled by day, slept under the stars by night, and Geralt even picked up a few quick contracts to help pay their way.

It was comfortable, and normal, and Jaskier could almost forget about what he was about to put himself through.

At least, until they reached the outskirts of Lettenhove and they heard the whoosh of an incoming portal. The ground shook, the air rippled, and through the rent in reality stepped Yennefer, terrifying and beautiful as ever.

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to come up with a snarky reply as she swept past him and went to Geralt. He stood back and watched the two of them, powerful and dazzling together, each other’s equals in capability and composure.

He had never had a chance in this competition, he thought bitterly. He would be pretending with Geralt, while she had his heart for real.

Jaskier was left at camp while Geralt and Yennefer went off to do... whatever it was they did together. (He could guess what that was.) He spent a cold, lonely night with no one but Roach for company, berating himself for feeling so hurt by something he knew from the beginning was nothing but a ruse.

With their arrival in Lettenhove proper, there was nothing to do but face his family. The brightest spot of his day was walking into the estate and having his sisters squeal and jump on him just as they had done as children.

He stopped laughing and caught his breath long enough to introduce them. “Essi and Priscilla, this is Geralt.” My husband to be, he thought, and something twisted inside him at that. “Geralt, these are my troublesome sisters.”

Essi dipped her head and Priscilla performed a theatrical bow. “We were wondering if Jaskier would ever settle down,” Essi said with a sly smile.

“But seeing how handsome you are, I can’t blame him!” Priscilla replied, and the two of them broke into fits of giggles.

Geralt, for his part, took them with good humour. Where Jaskier had been expecting him to be dour, he smiled indulgently and took each of their hands in turn and pressed a kiss to their knuckles, resulting in another uproar of giggling.

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier said quietly as they made their way to the room waiting for them.

Geralt inclined his head. “Have to make a good impression on the future in-laws,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking upward in amusement.

The rest of his family were predictable as clockwork. Cousin Edward was sour, his father was distant, and his mother was simply relieved to see him married off as was proper. Geralt sat through all of it with more patience and good grace than Jaskier would have thought him capable of.

The day of the wedding itself passed in a blur. With such short notice the ceremony was terribly paired down by noble standards, but still, there was the formal breakfast, the dressing in formal garments, the journey to the temple outside of the city, the clamour of priestesses and officials and his family, the exchanging of rings, the reading of texts, and of course the formal dinner.

Jaskier barely remembered any of it. Looking back, the only thing that stuck out in his mind was the feeling of Geralt’s hand clasping his own during the handfasting. And the way that, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed over the course of the day, Geralt’s hand would find his own and give a comforting squeeze.

Finally the ceremonies were complete and they were left in peace in their chambers, the two of them alone for the first time all day. Geralt’s hair had been braided into two slim plaits running either side of his face, though by now they were starting to become mussed. He’d even put on a shirt of dark blue silk as opposed to his standard uniform of all black. The effect was quite stunning.

As the door closed, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped and he breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

Geralt cupped one cheek tenderly. “You good?”

Jaskier exhaled, letting the anxiety and stress of the day slowly unwind. He looked into Geralt’s warm eyes and felt, for once, safe and unjudged. “I’m good.”

Geralt brought their lips together, soft as could be, and Jaskier’s knees shook. He grabbed Geralt’s forearms to hold himself upright and, desperate for some sort of control, some sort of meaning, he pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss.

This was a bad idea, he was aware, but Geralt felt so good in his arms. He ran his hands through silky silver hair like he’d always wanted to, he pressed himself close to that muscled chest he’d spent more time than he should have admiring, and he moaned unrestrainedly when Geralt picked him up, locking his legs around his waist.

This was a terrible idea, he knew, but Geralt carried him over to the bed with firm, confident steps, and the temptation to touch, to hold, to kiss was overwhelming. This would only lead to heartache, but he was weak in the face of love, as always.

Geralt laid him out and took him apart with soft lips and careful fingers and a wicked tongue, and it was everything he’d been dreaming of for years, and yet so much more intense than anything he could have imagined. Geralt was dazzling beneath him, warm amber eyes and pale scarred flesh, beautiful and kind and more than he could possibly deserve.

Nuptial celebrations in Lettenhove were mercifully brief, and with the ceremony completed and recorded to the satisfaction of the genealogists, they were free to depart.

There were, however, some customs which could not be avoided.

“You’ll be honeymooning nearby?” Jaskier’s mother asked, with the understanding that this was not a question.

“Actually, we thought -”

“They’ll be staying in my cottage, won’t you?” Priscilla interjected. She’d availed herself of her position, such as it was, to secure a tiny ramshackle cottage on the Kerack coast. It wasn’t opulent but it was, thankfully, far from prying eyes.

Jaskier gave her a tiny nod of thanks and she winked.

“A cottage?” His mother’s lip turned up in distaste. “How quaint.”

“And there’s ever so much to pack, so we must be on our way -” he excused himself with a bow, tugging Geralt behind him.

Out of the view of their parents, Priscilla and Essi set upon him with hugs and kisses, thanked him for saving them from the horrors of cousin Edward, and packed up an obscene quantity of cheeses and wine to take with them.

By the time they departed the estate, Jaskier was even smiling.

It was quiet and calm on the coast. The cottage overlooked the sea, rolling and tempestuous, and had just enough space for a kitchen, a bed, and a bath. They had everything they needed, even a stable for Roach outside.

Even though it was only for a few days, Jaskier imagined Geralt would be bored and unhappy, feeling trapped in a place so small. But he seemed content: riding along the coastline in the morning, brushing Roach out, going fishing in the afternoon, preparing the catch for their evening meal.

Jaskier showed him his favourite spices and how to prepare the fish with butter to make it rich and indulgent, and in the quiet moments he wrote poetry or simply sat on the battered chair on the porch of the cottage and watched the waves.

Geralt returned to the cottage with a net bulging with fish and a smile on his face. He’d been doing that more recently, Jaskier had noticed, smiling in a way that seemed natural and unforced. He even left his armour and swords in the cottage and waded down to the sea in just his trousers and shirtsleeves, disarmingly casual.

It was comfortable, almost domestic.

And it was a torment, showing Jaskier a tiny glimpse of a life he’d never have.

Their last night on the coast, Geralt cooked the remainder of their provisions into a feast, poured the best wine they had, and set a fire in the hearth. He piled up blankets and pillows, laid down their warmest furs, and pulled Jaskier into his arms in front of the flames.

“Thank you,” he said, dotting kisses in a line up Jaskier’s neck, “for taking such good care of me.”

Jaskier fidgeted unhappily. “You’re the one doing me a favour,” he reminded him. That seemed important to remember. This was a favour from a friend, nothing more.

Geralt hummed against his neck, the vibrations rippling against his skin. “I can see some advantages to me,” he murmured, continuing his line of kisses up Jaskier’s jaw and toward his lips.

Jaskier, stupidly, allowed Geralt to turn him around, hands delicate around his waist, allowed him to bring their lips together. He allowed a kiss, soft at first, and then another, more intense, moaning into Geralt’s mouth.

“Can I interest you in an early night?” Geralt purred in his ear, and everything in Jaskier’s body said yes, and everything in his mind said no.

Eventually, his mind won out and he pushed Geralt away.

“No,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry, Geralt, but this was a terrible mistake.”

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Geralt’s sad expression. He was hit by the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Geralt’s voice was so soft behind him. “It’s okay, Jaskier. Whatever it is. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I won’t do it again.”

Jaskier deflated. He turned to face Geralt, watery eyes and all. “That’s not the problem. I don’t want you to stop. I want this to be real.”

Geralt stood carefully still. “What do you mean, real?”

Jaskier took a breath, tried to imagine how to explain himself, how to convey what he felt. “I’m in love with you!” he snapped in the end. Not his most eloquent work, but perhaps his most honest.

Geralt tilted his head. “I know,” he said. He looked down at the ring on his finger. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The point?” Jaskier exploded. “The point!” He couldn’t stop himself from waving his arms as he ranted. “Oh, sure, I’m certain that the ideal marriage is between one person who’s hopelessly in love and one person who’s indifferent and besotted with another. I’m sure Yennefer will be delighted when she hears about this whole situation.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m in love with Yennefer?”

“Yes! Obviously!”

He paused, obviously weighing his words. “That night when she visited us outside Lettenhove, she wasn’t surprised by the news. She told me congratulations, and that it had taken long enough. I think she knew long before I did that I wasn’t in love with her, not really. My heart already belonged to another.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “You mean… You and her, you’re not...”

Geralt shook his head. “What she most wants is something I can’t give her.”

“And you?” Jaskier asked, dreading the answer.

Geralt took his hand. “What I most want,” he stroked his thumb over the ring around Jaskier’s finger, “is something I already have.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt. It was almost too much. It was overwhelming. “You really love me?”

Geralt smiled softly. “I really do.”

Jaskier threw himself into Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “Tell me again,” he said, because he was needy.

“I love you,” Geralt said, kissing down the side of his face. “I love you,” he said, lacing their fingers together against the furs. “I love you,” he said, their bodies moving together, finally free to feel with the intensity they had been hiding for so long, their scents mingling together with the fresh salt tang of the sea.

The sun shone brightly and the wind whipped their hair as they packed up Roach the next morning. Jaskier paused to admire the view one last time: The rolling waves, the steep cliffs, the shingled beach.

Geralt slipped his arms around his waist from behind and dropped a kiss just beneath his ear.

“What does our life look like now?” Jaskier asked, eyes on the waves.

He felt Geralt’s smile against his hair. “Much the same as before,” he said. “With perhaps a few improvements.”

Jaskier turned then and kissed him fully, no need to hold himself back, taking Geralt’s hand and running his fingers over the ring there.

“Ready to head back to the Path?”

Geralt smiled, and Jaskier would never tire of that. “Ready if you are,” he said with softness in his eyes, “husband.”

#this just in: i am secretly soft #squeezing this in before midnight #geraskier #lesdemonium #thank you for the prompt inspo!!#octoberfest #the witcher #my writing

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write-ur-wrongs · 3 years

Text

Facing Your Demons

Jaskier x Reader 1785 words

TW: implied sexual assault, seeing an abuser in public, panic attacks, and references to trauma. I did my best to avoid explicit details but tread carefully.

A huge thank you to @bubblegumfanfics for trusting me with this request - I hope I’ve done it justice :”)

Request: Something where the reader was a*saulted in the in the past and has a flashback or she sees her ex that did it and Jaskier ends up comforting the reader, telling her how much she means to him (accidental love confession? Maybe? I love those) while Geralt is dealing with her ex. The reader says she feel the same way but she can't give Jaskier anything sexual because it makes her uncomfortable. But jaskier says he'll be with her regardless and that he loves her and if she ever wanted to try he will oblige and if she doesn't like it he'll stop

It was only one contract, meant to last no more than a fortnight. It should have been an easy in-and-out arrangement; your client got nervous, enlisted a Witcher’s help, and you agreed against your better judgement to stay on and split the earnings. While you’d dealt with this type of apparition before, you were tired, and figured it wouldn’t hurt to work alongside someone tailormade for the trade.

It was only supposed to be for the one job. It should have never gone on like this. You should have never allowed yourself to be charmed by the Geralt’s friend, the bard. You shouldn’t have grown comfortable working alongside Geralt, earning twice the coin by doubling your work. Hell, you should have refused to travel with them while working that first contract. Because maybe if you’d done that, you wouldn’t have found yourself so heavily linked to the pair of them.

Maybe if you’d had kept your distance, you wouldn’t be where you are now.

And you so desperately did not want to be where you were now.

Cowering in the dank, stuffy corner of this horrid tavern, trapped between Geralt’s gargantuan frame and Jaskier’s far-too-close body, you were stuck looking the devil in the eye.

Okay, don’t be dramatic, you thought desperately, clinging to whatever silver lining you could get your trembling hands on to stay afloat, you haven’t actually looked him in the eye.

But still, you’d seen him, and the memories you’d spent so long trying to scrub away were worming their way back into the forefront of your mind, traveling down your body like furious snakes. Each memory burning with venom over everywhere he’d touched you.

“Hey, Y/N, you alright?” Jaskier asked, reaching over to lay a comforting hand on your arm.

At the contact, however, you recoiled so violently away from him that you practically slammed yourself into Geralt. The combined sensation of Jaskier’s warm, calloused fingers on your arm and Geralt’s broad, hard chest against your shoulder sent blaring alarms of panic through you. Everything was too loud; everyone was too close.

You jerked your knees up in an attempt to curl yourself into a ball but ended up slamming both knees, hard, under the table. Surprised by the sudden ruckus, Geralt swore loudly beside you as Jaskier yelped, jumping back as his beer spilt and splashed across the table and onto his lap.

Both knees were now throbbing angrily, your head felt as if it had been filled with cotton, and your mouth watered dangerously as panic-induced nausea crashed over you. I can’t be here, a voice screamed inside your mind, I can’t be here with him.

“Y/N, what the hell-” Geralt started, stopping short when he finally saw the state you were in; the pallor of your skin paired with your wide, vacant eyes were horrifically familiar. It was something he’d seen in the faces of traumatized villagers whose lives were ruined by war, and in soldiers who’d just seen their comrades killed.

Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes over your head and knew that they were thinking the same thing.

Without speaking, Jaskier pushed the table away from you as Geralt scooped you up and began marching steadily towards the exit. Once outside, Geralt gently set you down on a bench as Jaskier materialized by your side with a cup of water.

You’d been so focused on the devil’s face that you’d barely registered the change of scenery, but when your back hit the cool rock wall behind the bench, you were pulled back to reality. Startled, you blinked back unshed tears and let your eyes focus on the two concerned faces before you.

Your breathing slowed, and as you were coming too you heard Jaskier as Geralt whether he should splash the water he’d brought onto your face.

“N-no,” you breathed, feeling more grounded with every passing second, “please don’t.”

Geralt hummed knowingly and smacked the bard upside the head, scolding him for his ridiculous proposal, eliciting another yelp from Jaskier. “It was just an idea!” he hissed defensively, earning only a vacant stare from you and a glare from Geralt.

Frustrated and inexplicably jealous to see Geralt assume the dominant protective role, Jaskier knelt in front of you and scanned your face for a sign. His brows furrowed as he watched your lips mumble something inaudibly. “What is it?” he encouraged you gently, resting a hand next to you on the bench, but decisively not onto you.

“I can’t be here,” you said, barely above a whisper, “I can’t be here with him.”

Jaskier looked back at Geralt inquisitively, as if assuming he’d know you better since he got so defensive earlier. But when Geralt shrugged unperceptively in response, Jaskier felt strangely vindicated and turned back to you confidently.

“Be here with who, love?” he tried, meeting your eyes and doing his best to communicate non-verbally that you could trust him.

“The devil,” you murmured, your eyes finding the man over Jaskier’s head, through the tavern’s window.

The two men turned to follow your gaze. Upon spotting the man they assumed to be devil – a pompous soldier, gesticulating wildly as he held audience in the tavern – their eyes met briefly, eyebrows quirked, before coming back to you.

“You mean, that ridiculous ass?” Jaskier asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“The one in red? you asked.

“That’s the ass,” he replied, eyes sad as a tentative smile played at the corner of his lips, hoping you’d mirror the act.

You nodded silently, eyes meeting his fleetingly. “We, um, I mean he –” you broke off unable to continue, your eyes now closed as memories washed over you like acid.

“You were… together?” he tried, looking back to Geralt for support but getting nothing back but a non-committal shrug.

“I was, I mean he – um,” you swallowed thickly before going on, “we were.”

“And it was bad?” Jaskier was whispering now, meeting you at your energy.

You hesitated before responding, and that brief moment of silence broke Jaskier completely as he imagined the worst.

“It was,” you replied finally, meeting his eyes head-on, “not consensual.”

What happened next happened quickly.

Geralt swore loudly, his hands closing into tight fists as Jaskier swore in a way you’d never imagined him capable.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called over his shoulder, saying his name more like a command, begging his friend to take action.

“Way ahead of you, Jask,” he replied, already stalking his way back into the tavern.

When the tavern door slammed shut behind Geralt, Jaskier sprang to his feet before tentatively sitting by your side. His hand hovered over yours momentarily before he thought better of it and brought his hand back to rest on his own lap. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“I can’t,” you choked out, putting your own hand over his, surprising both of you.

“That’s alright,” he breathed, placing his other hand over yours lightly, “you don’t ever need to think about it ever again. Geralt is taking care of it.” As he spoke, he swung a leg over the bench and turned so that his body faced yours squarely.

“But Geralt doesn’t get involved in human conflict,” you said, swiping at the tears that had managed to fall as you tucked a leg under yourself to angle yourself in his direction.

Jaskier’s eyes flit momentarily to the tavern’s window before quickly coming back to meet yours. “No, but he does kill monsters,” he assured, “and specializes in demons.”

“Do you think he’ll kill him?” you ask quietly, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

“Hard to say,” he tried to answer, but was interrupted by loud crash followed by shouting coming from within the tavern, “but, huh, I think it’s fair to say you won’t ever need to worry about him again.”

You nodded lightly, trying and failing to hold Jaskier’s gaze. He was looking at you with such intensity, with a warmth you definitely didn’t think you deserved. “Don’t look at me like that, Jask.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, bringing his eyes down to your still-intertwined hands. “I just hate to think of anything bad ever happening to you. I wish I could have known you then… that I could have protected you, that I could have,” he hesitated, considering his next words carefully, “that I could have loved you the way you deserve to be loved.”

“Oh, Jask…”

“No, no, darling, you don’t need to say anything. Please don’t feel obligated,” he blurted out, immediate regret burning at his cheeks, “I’m so incredibly stupid and selfish! I’m so sorry I-I just, seeing you like this it just, argh! I shouldn’t have said it-”

“Jaskier, please,” you interject, placing a feather-light hand over his chest, the pads of your fingers ghosting over the flesh exposed at his collar, “it’s not that. I’m… honestly I’m glad you said it.”

“Yeah?” he asked timidly, looking up at you through his thick lashes.

“Yeah,” you breathed, “I think I feel the same way… about wishing I could, know your love. Be able to love you, freely.”

“Yeah?” he murmured once more; eyes hesitantly alight with hope.

“Yeah,” a teary laugh escaping your lips. “But Jaskier, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to, you know, love you in the way you need.”

“Y/N, hey,” he cooed, your confession bolstering his confidence, “all I need is to know your heart. Knowing you love me is enough.”

“Jask, I don’t think you’re understanding me –”

“My sweet girl, look at me,” he pleaded, bringing his head down to hold your gaze through the curtain of your tear-soaked lashes, “so long as you’ll have me, I’ll be by your side. And I promise you, nothing will happen unless you’re ready and you want it. Nothing.”

“Yeah?” you ask, your eyes scanning his for any hint of mal-intent or deception but finding only earnest adoration.

“Hell yeah,” he whispered, bringing his forehead to rest against yours.

Just then, Geralt immerged from the tavern and wiped his blood-soaked blade against the tall grass as he spoke. “We’re leaving.”

“Way ahead of you,” you parroted in a small voice, letting Jaskier pull you to your feet, before you ran to your horses.

You didn’t feel ready to ride out yourself, so you hopped behind Jaskier as Geralt led your horse behind him on Roach. As you put more distance between you and the tavern behind you, you found yourself growing ever calmer. Until finally, with your arms wrapped tightly around Jaskier’s waist and your face pushed between his shoulder blades, you took your first full breath of the evening and realized, incredulously, that you knew you were going to be okay.

#the witcher #the witcher series #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfiction #jaskier x reader #jaskier x y/n #jaskier fanfic #jaskier fanfiction #Jaskier #fic recs #dandelion #geralt of rivia #witcher geralt

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dapandapod · 3 years

Note

20 with geraskier but Victorian au and they're meeting in front of jaskier's parents

20. formal hug

YES Darling Jjay, you are absolutely right!! I have greatly enjoyed writing this, and a sincere thank you and sorry to my lovely @kuripon for helpig me beta read this, it was so very much needed <3

Please enjoy my very self idulgent way to get a formal hug!

Send me a hug prompt?

On Ao3 Hug collection here

They are not supposed to know each other like they do.

They are not supposed to have spent time together out of sight of a chaperone.

They are barely supposed to know each other.

But in their childhood, they have spent many nights running away from formal gatherings, birthday parties, anywhere with a crowd where they can escape unnoticed, as only children can. In their teen years, they were supposed to avoid each other at the gentlemen's clubs, racing events, and even in school.

New money and old money don’t mix well, Vesemir likes to say. And Jaskier’s father is of the opinion that his boy can do better than the social circles that Geralt comes from.

Despite it all, they became close friends. Now, as young adults and with marriages waiting for them at the end of the year, they spend as much time together as they possibly can get away with.

Which is not much, but Geralt enjoys listening to Jaskier strum the lute, and Jaskier is always suitably impressed with Geralt’s skill with a sword. Having a family consisting of mostly military officers will set certain expectations for you.

Geralt doesn’t want to get married.

Well, he does, but he doesn’t want what Vesemir and Tissaia are planning for him; a cold, loveless relationship. He wants what Jaskier is talking about. Friendship, at the very least, and respect, but he wants the spark too.

He knows he is greedy, but looking at Jaskier, he senses that spark, and he wants it. Wants it so much it hurts.

Today is the big day. Geralt is a strange mix of worried and excited for getting introduced to his parents' chosen one.

On one hand, that spark he feels when Jaskier is around is what he wants, craves, longs for. On the other hand, the promise to have someone at his side, and hopefully find affection for, for the rest of his time is appealing. Very appealing.

There has been lots of time spent with the Vengerberg family. The young lady Yennefer’s name is on everybody's lips, and she and Geralt have been getting along well on the outings. Her guardian, Regis Terzieff-Godefroy, has been encouraging the match. And Geralt wouldn't… mind, per say.

It just isn’t Jaskier.

They sit in stiff silence, the carriage pulled by Geralt’s two favorite horses, Roach and Pegasus. The neck of his collar feels too tight, and the top hat that Tissaia insists he wears rests on the seat next to him.

“Nervous, my boy?” Vesemir asks when Geralt can’t stop fidgeting with his sleeves. A habit he picked up from Tissaia, who always keeps everything neat and tidy.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me who you picked.”

“Come now, Geralt, if we told you, you would have told Lambert, and then the entire town would have known,” Tissaia chastises.

Geralt pouts, but he knows she is right. It is a wonder, really, that his family doesn’t know how much Geralt and Jaskier have been seeing each other, considering Lambert has been his go-to cover. Maybe it is because Lambert has been using the same cover to go meet his Aiden.

The rest of the ride is silent, until Geralt recognizes his surroundings.

They are closing in on the Lettenhove estate. He tries not to let his surprise and excitement show but he can’t help to sit a little straighter. Out of the corner of his eye, Tissaia smirks.

The carriage comes to a stop, and outside the doors stands the entire Lettenhove family, Jaskier and his three younger sisters, his mother, (who has looked away more than once when Jaskier has snuck away), and his father, looking rather constipated.

“What…?” Geralt asks faintly, hope and nerves and confusion and a tinge of fear at being found out mixes in his chest, collides, fractures, builds. “I thought I was going to meet…”

“You are.” Vesemir smiles.

They can’t mean one of Jaskier’s sisters. Geralt doesn’t know what to do. He knows he is supposed to get out, to help Tissaia out, to spout pleasantries, to act as if he is just now making their acquaintance, as is proper.

It takes all his self-restraint not to just rush forward and pull Jaskier into his arms. All of it.

He helps Tissaia down, he gets properly introduced, as if they haven’t spent years in each other's company already, and he greets all of Jaskier’s little sisters with gentle smiles.

Their two families join in a stroll around the gardens, deliberately letting Geralt and Jaskier walk a little ahead of the others.

“Is this… do they really mean to have us engaged?” Geralt finally dares to ask.

“I think so. I must confess, Geralt, I might have been pestering my father about it.”

Everything in Geralt tingles, that spark exploding in a way that he feels all the way out in his fingertips. It translates to one word.

“Oh.”

Jaskier laughs, as if he has been holding a tense breath for a long time.

“Oh good, or Oh bad?” Jaskier asks, his mouth is smiling but his eyes are worried.

“Good,” Geralt breathes. “Definitely good.”

Jaskier’s smile is bright, warm, and Geralt can’t help but to reach out and link their arms together.

The small connection feels incredible as Jaskier’s hand tracing little patterns on Geralt’s arm, out of sight from their families.

As they part, Jaskier pulls him into a careful hug. A proper, formal one, holding back and hiding everything that is between them. Geralt can’t look away, can’t stop looking behind them long after the carriage has brought them far out of sight from the Lettenhove estate.

“I thought you had made arrangements with Lady Vengerberg,” Geralt says finally, looking at the couple in front of him.

“Not all connections are made for politics, my boy,” Vesemir says, smiling, taking Tissaia’s hand.

“Yennefer expressed a wish to pursue her studies,.” Tissaia says, smiling back at Vesemir as he brings up her hand to his lips and kisses it. “The Lettenhoves are not a bad match. And it helps that you seem to have a certain... connection to the young lord already.”

Geralt feels himself blush, and he looks out the window.

It would seem he’ll get his spark after all.

#the witcher #geraskier #victorian au #getting together #ish #getting engaged i guess #secret friendships #geralt x jaskier #vesemir x tissaia #geralt of rivia #julian alfred pankratz #vesemir #tissaia #yennefer of vengerberg #heavily inpired by pride and predjudice in that one scene #im sure you know it #geralt wears a top hat #hug prompts 2021 #dapanda writes

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Text

@chubbykatsudon allowed me to ramble on a little about reverse A/B/O when Omegas are the ones who rules society while Alphas are locked away because they're too dangerous, too violent to hold a responsible role in life. Thank you for making me feel so welcome in your inbox at all times. <3

As the first Omega child of Lettenhove's ruling family, there were expectations on Jaskier. He would wed another Omega of equal rank and, together, they would find an Alpha that was already broken in and as tame as their money could buy. Lettenhove came with some reinforced rooms fot to hold an Alpha. Allegedly Jaskier's sire had been one of the more gentle Alphas, content to sate heats and never asking for more than given.

Naturally, Jaskier had to defy all expectations and he hit the road like some common Beta. Even worse, he found himself not just an Alpha, but a whole pack of them. To make matters even more humiliating, they were Witchers. Sterile, useless Alphas who were not good for anything other than throwing at brutish monsters that terrorised the good folks of the Continent. Despite predictions, gossip and even ill-wishers, Jaskier had never been happier. He gladly gave his status and name to any Alpha Witcher who needed it. Even offered his collar to make their travels easier as he couldn't be beside them all at the same time. Though Jaskier never wanted to play favourites, he most often travelled with his first Alpha, Geralt. He was always so gentle when Jaskier's heat came, reverent at being allowed to help when he'd been raised to believe that no Omega would even look at him with anything but disdain.

There was a contract near a village, the description was rather hit and miss, leaving Geralt unable to determine just what kind of creature they were dealing with. All they knew what that it stole livestock, broke into houses and scared a Beta maid almost lifeless. She had sworn up and down that, whatever it was, it was large, black, stinking worse than anything she'd encountered before and shrieked at being seen before fleeing. It left Geralt stumped but he dutifully set out to track the creature. Thrilled at the prospect of a new creature giving inspiration for new ballads, Jaskier tagged along.

"Could it be a demon? Or an imp?" He asked, trailing after Geralt with a skip in his step. "Or maybe a cursed creature? Just imagine! You could break the curse and it would make for such a romantic ditty!"

"Hush!" Geralt growled and Jaskier giggled. He'd never found the growls of his Alphas to be intimidating and time did nothing to change his view. However, he did fall silent, scenting the air and finding it acrid with something he'd never really smelled before.

They emerged in a clearing, one that quite obviously was home to something. There was a paltry shelter covered with a stolen sheet, a firepit and the remains of a goat. Jaskier couldn't help but be grateful that it wasn't Eskel with him on this particular contract.

"Hello?" Geralt called out, peering towards the shelter. What Jaskier didn't know what that he could hear the rapid heartbeat of someone in there, combined with the sour smell of fear. "We just want to talk."

It was quite obvious whoever had made a home there was the one responsible for the village's woes. Jaskier nodded towards the tent in question and Geralt nodded. Even mouthed "Alpha" at Jaskier, quite certain that whatever it was, it was or at least once had been, human.

"Can we help you?" Jaskier asked softly, moving towards the tent. He crouched down to peer in and, with no warning, a figure burst out, sending Jaskier sprawling before trying to dash past. Unfortunately Geralt was in the way and the man bounced off him, landing in an ungraceful heap on the ground.

Winded, Jaskier sat up and watched as the man cowered before Geralt. When he stood up it got so much worse and, three steps closer, Geralt actually stepped between Jaskier and the man, warning him off.

"You poor thing," Jaskier sighed. "We mean no harm."

Such words fell on deaf ears and each time Jaskier tried to approach, trying to calm the Alpha with his scent, it had to opposite effect. At least with Geralt the man was submissive, allowing himself to be pulled upright and scented even if he trembled so bad, Jaskier was scared he'd fall down.

"Nilfgaard," Gerlat declared. His eyes landed on the Alpha's neck and a growl built in his chest. A violent bonding bite had left the skin heavily scarred and where the collar had sat was rubbed raw. "Force bonded. Where's your Omega?"

It was unheard of for a bonded Alpha to be far from their Omega. Usually, if they were allowed out, it was on a leash in Nilfgaard.

"Dead."

Which explained a lot yet nothing at all. If an Alpha's bonded died, they usually died too. Or were put down because the loss of their bonded drove them beyond saving. Maybe Nilfgaard didn't want to get their hands dirty and deal with yet another body. Their bloody and violent war had left many behind already. It was much easier to cut an Alpha loose and let others deal with the consequences of a grief maddened Alpha in their midst.

"You're far from Nilfgaard."

"Even further from Vicovaro." At least the Alpha could speak beyond single words. "I don't want to go back."

Sensing it was an opportunity, Jaskier smiled and stepped closer, saying, "Then you don't have to. It's as easy as that."

All his good intentions were misread and the Alpha hunched his shoulders, head dipped as if expecting a strike to come. He didn't relax, muscles tight with terror.

"Jaskier, give him some space." Geralt easily slipped between them again, unable to figure out just why the Alpha was so petrified of an Omega. Then again, looking at his neck, Geralt didn't have to imagine. "You've been causing the villagers a lot of problems, you know that, right?"

A mute, shamed nod was his answer.

"I've been hired to take care of the problem." Submission had many forms and Geralt had seen them all over the course of his long life. He never wished for anyone to be so scared of him that they pissed themselves but there he was. The Alpha before him looked ready to fall down and bare his throat and belly, any kind of domination had been probably beaten out of him. It made Geralt's job that little bit harder. "I don't kill without sense. Will you let us help you?"

Jaskier couldn't hold back anymore, he walked closer. "Please, Alpha. Let us offer you what we can."

The Alpha went crashing to his knees as Jaskier got closer, head back and throat bared even if the whites of his eyes were showing in fear and breaths came in short, harsh puffs. Immediately Jaskier backed away, hands up. "We won't hurt you. I won't touch you without your permission."

His words didn't seem to make a difference and Geralt made shooing motions at Jaskier. "Go back to Roach. We'll follow shortly."

Pouting only a little, Jaskier turned, trusting Geralt to know what was best. The only kinds of Alphas Jaskier had encountered were ones that were touch starved and desperate for any scrap of attention and kindness. An Alpha who shied from an Omega's presence was a new challenge and one that Jaskier wanted to very badly to take on. His pack couldn't bond, healed too quick for any such bite to take. It would be no hardship to take an Alpha who had alrady been claimed and cast aside. Bonding, while a romanticised dream, wasn't the be all and end all of pack relationships.

Soon enough Geralt approached with the other Alpha a few steps behind him, nervously clutching at a bag.

"Omega, may I present Cahir for your polite inspection?" He turned to Cahir. "Cahir, I present my Omega, Jaskier. He won't approach without your say so."

Message received, Jaskier waved from where he stood and tried to send a reassuring smile. "Welcome, Cahir. My Alpha brings me the most delighful companions to meet. Share our travels and camp for as long as you find comfort in it." The paltry amount of belongings in the bag couldn't have been much more than a change of clothes, probably stolen from the washing lines. "What's ours is yours."

"Thank you, Omega."

The honorific was nothing more than a trembling whisper and Jaskier nodded. "Just Jaskier. We don't abide by the demands of society."

Clearing his throat, Geralt drew attention back to himself. "I was thinking to head to Kaer Morhen a little earlier this year. If the Pack so wills it, Cahir will join us for the season as a visitor."

Mind already racing ahead, Jaskier nodded. He could see Cahir benefitting from Eskel's gentle approach. And perhaps even Lambert's brutal honesty might help bring Cahir out of his shell a little. Grinning, he agreed readily. "A fine idea. It would be nice to welcome the rest of the Pack home this time. I like the idea of greeting them with the same affection and readiness they usually have for us."

There was no doubt about it, winter was going to be an interesting one.

#geraskier #witchersexual jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #reverse a/b/o #omega jaskier #alpha geralt #alpha cahir #tldr: alphas are hated by society

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

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Stranded and Geraskier? 🧜‍♂️

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): non-human anatomy, tentacles (in every possible way), choking/breathplay Rating: explicit

Summary: While exploring a cave, Jaskier gets trapped by the tide, but the inhabitant is more than happy to find a way to help him pass the time.

I took this idea and ran with it! Thank you for the opportunity to write octo!Geralt, I've been wanting to for a while now <3

There is a reason they say the northern end of the beach is off-limits, but Jaskier has always been inquisitive and rather terrible at following instructions, so it's no surprise that he ends up there anyway. He's been staying on the coast for a while now and while he always loves coming back, he's feeling a little restless lately. So he's taken to taking strolls along the beach in the early morning or the evening while he's not performing, but today he has the entire day free, so he's come a little earlier than usual to try and settle himself.

But the usual route isn't doing anything for him today. The sand is still soft and warm on his feet and the waves still crash rhythmically on the shore, but he just wants something new. So, when he reaches the end of his normal walk and comes to the gated off area at the northernmost end of the beach, he slips past the gate and continues. Nothing immediately jumps out at him as dangerous, so he just strolls along, shuffling his feet through the sand.

The beach is usually quiet, but right now there isn't another person in sight and Jaskier revels in the silence, humming to himself as he goes along. When he comes to the point, he follows the tapering beach around to a point and beyond it, there's a little more land that leads into a rocky outcrop. He can't get past it, but he could climb up it and sit in the sun, looking out over the ocean.

He wades through the water where it rises to midway up his shins before reaching the other side, but when he reaches the stone ledge, he spots what looks like a cave. And he can't just not go look at it. So he takes another quick peek just to ensure no one else is around and hurries toward the opening in the rock. The sun above is bright, but the overhang of rock offers some relief from the heat, so he takes his time.

The entrance is, in fact, the mouth of a cave and Jaskier grins to himself, slipping inside. It's not deep, but at the back there is a drop-off and a tunnel that leads further. He walks forward steps around the gaping hole in the ground, careful to keep his footing as he aims for the tunnel. It's dark, but he can still see a little - well enough to continue on for the time being - and up ahead there's a faint glow that piques his interest.

So he doesn't stop when the light starts to fade, just heads toward the glow at the back of the tunnel. It's some ways down, but he does eventually come out into another cave with a smooth rocky floor and another tunnel leading off. But what interests Jaskier more than anything is the plant life. It grows on the walls and ceiling and it glows.

It lets off a faint bluish glow and Jaskier leans up to inspect it. Some of the plants grow little purplish flowers, but most of them resemble moss or vines and Jaskier would be inclined to call them plain if they grew in a forest and weren't luminescent. But they are and he's fascinated by it.

He spends more time than he should inspecting all the different types of growth - there are at least four distinct plans he can see all growing together - and it's not until the light from the opposite end of the tunnel begins to fade that he realizes he should turn back. He has a performance tonight and he'd like the chance to bathe and change beforehand.

He slips from the room he's in, heading back through the tunnel, but the ground beneath his feet slopes downward and he doesn't realize until water splashes around his ankles. It startles him at first; there was no water on the way in, but as he reaches the main cave, he realizes what has happened.

He's spent too long exploring and the tide has come in around him, too far now to walk out the way he came in. And Jaskier is a good swimmer, but water swirls dangerously where the hole in the ground is, pouring quickly into, it and he's not a strong enough swimmer to keep from being sucked down. Even as he considers it, the water swirling around his feet rises higher and his only option is to turn back the way he came. Which is not a great option, but he doesn't really see what else he's supposed to do.

But he turns around and heads back through the tunnel. The incline is more than he remembers, and judging by what he knows of the tides - very little - he thinks he should be safe to hide out here until it goes back down again. He finds a bare patch of wall and drops to the ground to lean against it, sighing softly as he listens to the water rising in the tunnel. It splashes against stone and Jaskier shuts his eyes, focusing on the calming sound of it. Maybe the time will pass more quickly if he can just have a little nap.

But the more he listens, the more he hears and there's a slick, sliding sound he's been assuming was seaweed caught in the current, but when he focuses hard enough, he can hear something not unlike breathing. His eyes flash open and he scans the room but sees nothing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, there's a shadow.

Jaskier's heart races because he knows the kinds of things that live in the sea; sirens, drowners and any number of animals that would be happy enough to eat him alive. So he presses himself against the wall and keeps quiet.

Something long and thin slips over his foot, curling around his ankle, and Jaskier's eyes flash open. He hadn't even realized they were still shut, but when he looks up there's a person in front of him, or at least he looks like a person. But as he comes closer, Jaskier realizes he only looks human from the waist up. Below the waist is a mass of dark tentacles, sprawled out all around him and propelling him forward.

Jaskier shudders at the sight of him, but as he approaches, the fear dissipates a little, replaced with intrigue. The man - if he can be called that at all - doesn't seem angry or upset and he has a friendly enough expression. He slips closer, sinking lower so he's face-to-face with Jaskier and it becomes clear that he's just as curious about Jaskier as Jaskier is about him.

"Uh, sorry," Jaskier mumbles, "I didn't mean to intrude, I just ah-" one of the tentacles reaches out, tipping his chin up and sliding across his jaw. "I just got trapped-?" His voice rises at the end like a question, but the creature just cocks his head at him.

"The tide," he says and Jaskier nods. He's got a beautiful voice, deep and rough and in any other situation, incredibly sexy. But while Jaskier isn't discriminating in his choice of partners, he's still feeling rather trapped.

"Mmhm."

"It won't go down again until morning. Unless you can hold your breath for a long time, you'll have to spend the night."

"Oh." Jaskier is caught off guard by the lightness of his response and he looks up at him. "You don't mind?" he asks and the creature just smiles at him, an odd sort of smile that makes something in Jaskier's stomach flip.

"Stay," he says, "it'll be hours before the tide is low enough for you to leave again."

"You're not going to eat me?" The creature laughs and slides a little closer, peering at him.

"No. I've never had a… human in my home before. I'm certainly not going to kill you." He chuckles softly and swishes away to the other side of the cave, but Jaskier is caught on the sound of his laugh, a warm, welcoming thing that he'd like very much to hear again. And, well, he has all night.

"Sorry," he says, rising to his feet and following the creature to the other side, "I don't know what - who - you are."

"Geralt," he says plainly, "I'm a cecaelia. We've been here longer than most, but many of us don't come so close to the surface, so you wouldn't have met many."

"Haven't met any," Jaskier confirms. "We're told to stay away from the creatures who live in the sea." Geralt lifts an eyebrow at the word creature, but doesn't say anything about it. Jaskier makes a mental note not to repeat it.

"And you," Geralt prompts, "what's your name, human?"

"Jaskier," he huffs and I get the point. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes, unless you count the fish who filter in and out with the tides."

"You must get lonely."

Geralt gives him a look that from anyone else he might consider flirtatious, and it stirs something inside him that he quickly tamps down. This isn't the time to get turned on. Especially not by someone who's not human.

"Occasionally. I'm used to being alone."

Jaskier isn't sure how to respond to that, so he lets the conversation drop. He wants to assure him, which is a strange compulsion because he doesn't even know Geralt. Two hours ago he couldn't have cared less about a man living on his own in this cave. But now…

He looks him over, following the line of his body from his strong jaw and thick chest down to the mass of tentacles that never quite seem to stop moving. Even when Geralt is still, they shift under him like he's trying to settle, though he seems calm. More like an unconscious motion, maybe. But Jaskier is fascinated by them. He wants to touch, to feel, but he knows well enough to keep his hands to himself when unwanted, so he switches focus.

"So what's it like living down here?" he asks, looking around the cave as though he hadn't spent ages exploring it already.

"Quiet," Geralt says tiredly, "peaceful. But that's not what you want to talk about, is it? You can ask," he hums.

"I just-"

"Jaskier, we have all night down here together. Ask."

"Do they ever stop moving?" he blurts and heat creeps into his cheeks at the abruptness of it, but Geralt just chuckles softly.

"When I sleep. When I'm relaxed."

"Then what's wrong, now? If you're not relaxed."

"I have… questions of my own."

"Okay," Jaskier says, "ask away."

"Can I… touch you?" he asks and Jaskier's breath catches.

"If you like. I have nothing to hide."

Geralt shifts forward, reaching out to brush a tentacle under his chin again, tipping his head up and moving it side to side. It feels like an examination, like the time he fell ill and had to be taken to a healer, but Geralt's touch is much softer, much more delicate than that.

"I've never met a human before either," he says conversationally, "you're… softer than I expected."

"Softer?" Jaskier laughs, "how so?"

"Your… skin looks thick and rough, but it's soft, smooth." He presses the tip of the tentacle against his cheek, pressing in gently. "Like a jellyfish," he adds and Jaskier laughs again.

"Is that bad?"

"No," Geralt hums, tilting his own head as he turns Jaskier's. "I like it." Another tentacle curls around the back of his neck and Jaskier breathes deeply, trying hard not to think too much about the touch, about how it feels like a lover's touch.

He's had countless lovers slip a hand around his neck to pull him closer and he leans in without thinking, letting Geralt have full control over him. Geralt grins and smiles knowingly at him, sliding the tentacle from his neck to his shoulder and down over his chest. The tip of it slips into the gaps in Jaskier's shirt, poking at the buttons holding it closed.

"Why do you wear these?" he asks, not looking up from his exploration. "Don't they get in the way?"

"No," Jaskier shakes his head and hates to admit that he sounds a little breathless. "They keep me warm. I'd freeze in the cold weather without clothes. And they keep me covered. It's not polite to walk around naked all the time."

"For humans," Geralt amends and Jaskier nods. "I'm not human." Jaskier chokes on the implication, but Geralt just meets his eyes questioningly.

"You can take it off, if you want."

Geralt doesn't need to be told twice. He fumbles with the button at first, but when he brings up a second tentacle to push at it, he has much more luck. Jaskier wants to tell him he could just use his hands, but there's something fascinating about the potential of having those tentacles on his skin. Once the buttons are undone, Geralt shoves the shirt back off his shoulders leaving it half-tucked into his trousers.

He frowns at Jaskier's chest, running his tentacles over his skin. Jaskier gasps when he brushes over a nipple and leans into the touch instinctively. He draws back just as abruptly, gasping as he realizes what he's doing. He doesn't have a chance to apologize before Geralt's touch lightens. He doesn't pull away, but he tips his head at him.

"Should I stop?" he asks, but the tone of his voice implies that he doesn't want to.

"I just- Geralt you don't know what you're doing."

"I do," he hums, "this part of you, I understand. It feels good for you?"

"Yeah. Do you- do you want to make it feel good?"

"If you'll let me," Geralt hums, "I've always been… intrigued by you, by humans." Jaskier grins and pushes forward, sliding one hand down the length of the tentacle exploring his chest.

"Can I touch you, too?"

"Of course, I'd like that."

"You realize what you're offering, right? Not that I'm opposed, but I want to make sure we're both on the same page, here."

"Jaskier," he hums, "we have all night and I'd very much like to fuck you if you're amenable."

Jaskier's skin prickles and he lets out a little groan. Maybe he should feel weird about Geralt wanting to fuck him just because he's human, but he's vibrating at the thought of it already.

"Please," he whispers and Geralt moves immediately.

He wraps one tentacle around his waist, hauling him in and holding him close. He tugs the shirt from Jaskier's trousers, chucking it aside as Jaskier straddles him, careful where he puts his knees so he doesn't hurt Geralt. But Geralt keeps him off the ground, hovering slightly so Jaskier's front presses against him firmly, but so he only barely touches Geralt's tentacles or the webbing between them.

Jaskier presses himself forward, conscious of the fastenings on his trousers as he grinds against Geralt's torso. Tentacles wind around his hips and chest and thighs, slipping against his skin then pausing to suck at it. It sends shivers up his spine and goosebumps break out over his skin. The feeling is so foreign, the feeling of suction all over his skin, but it feels good and he leans into it.

Geralt's hands settle on his shoulders, slowly sliding down, and Jaskier glances up to meet his eyes. Geralt's have grown dark, but there's still a sliver of gold around his pupils and Jaskier finds himself entranced by it, how it shimmers and almost glows even in the low light. He touches Geralt's face, traces the line of his cheekbones and runs his thumb against his lip.

"You're beautiful," he whispers and Geralt's hands slip to his waist, pulling him up against him. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Jaskier leans in and Geralt meets him halfway, kissing him hard and nipping his lip with teeth sharper than they ought to be. Though Jaskier supposes he doesn't have much for a frame of reference when it comes to cecaelia. He deepens the kiss, letting Geralt's tongue slide into his mouth, thinner and more pointed than his own. He licks into him, fingers digging into his skin as he grips his thighs, and Jaskier just holds on for the ride.

All his experience with other people means nothing when faced with Geralt and he's feeling a little out of his depth as he's laid back against the stone floor again. Geralt breaks the kiss long enough to squirm in between his thighs and then reaches down, fumbling with the clasps of Jaskier's trousers. He gets them undone and shoves them down his legs, immediately getting his tentacles back on his bare skin.

"Oh," Jaskier gasps, "oh, that's good, Geralt."

"Feels good?"

"Very. Keep going."

Jaskier shuts his eyes as Geralt's tentacles slip between his legs, brushing against his balls before squeezing around his thighs. Geralt hums and gets his arms around Jaskier's waist, sliding one hand down over his ass.

"Tell me what to do," Geralt says, tilting his head to kiss Jaskier's jaw, "tell me what feels good."

"Anything," Jaskier hums, "just touch me."

"Like this?" Geralt asks, sliding a tentacle around his torso and Jaskier nods, eyes fluttering as suction cups catch on his nipples. He moans softly, reaching out to run his hands up Geralt's chest and Geralt pushes into the touch. "You like that, too?"

"Yes." Jaskier revels in the surprising warmth of his skin, soft and smooth over firm muscles and he slides his hands up over his shoulders, pulling Geralt close to kiss him again. He sighs into his mouth and Geralt deepens the kiss, pressing further against him.

He's got Jaskier almost completely bound now, wrapped tightly and held just above his lap, but he moves forward, tipping him back and laying him on the ground. Abruptly, all of the tentacles around him are gone and Jaskier is left alone and suddenly cold on the ground, but it doesn't last long. Geralt slides up over his thighs, settling himself there where he has full access to Jaskier's body.

He runs tentacles over his chest and Jaskier stretches out, pushing his arms up above his head to give Geralt better access to him. His touch feels good, like a massage. Geralt doesn't hesitate to touch anywhere, pushing his thighs apart and sliding between them, sliding up around his balls as another curls around his cock, squeezing experimentally.

Jaskier gives a little whine and Gerakt's eyes flash up to meet his. He does it again, harder this time and Jaskier squirms under him. Geralt's eyes go wide and he grins as he slips his tentacle up the length of him and Jaskier nearly chokes because he's doing it on purpose now. The arm around his balls squeezes a little too and Jaskier tenses up immediately, expecting pain, but it's… good. He shudders a little as his thighs spread further and then Geralt's squeezing again, wrapping around him.

It's not something he's ever done with anyone before, but Geralt has no idea what he likes and doesn't like, or even what feels good for humans, so he's exploring. And evidently, Jaskier is learning a thing or two, also.

Geralt moves on, sliding back up his stomach again and Jaskier shudders as they slip over his hips, over the sensitive skin just above his cock. He wants to let Geralt continue his exploration, but he wants the pressure around his cock again, wants to fuck into the heat of him. Geralt's skin is thicker and rougher than his own, but it's smooth and it feels good against his prick and he just wants.

"Geralt," he whispers, "come here." Geralt cocks his head and leans forward over him. He runs his hands up Geralt's chest, slipping over his shoulders and around his neck to tug him down.

He nips at Geralt's lips, nuzzles at his neck and rocks up against him. He's hard already Geralt's skin just feels so fucking good against his heated cock. He jerks again, pushing up hard and tangling his hands in Geralt's hair. He slips one hand out of Geralt's hair and wraps his hand around Geralt's tentacle and pulls it down between them, sliding it alongside his cock until Geralt gets the idea and wraps around him.

"You like this?" he asks and Jaskier moans softly, rolling his head back as he lets out a breathy yes.

Geralt makes a thoughtful sound and squeezes firmly, eliciting another moan and he seems very pleased with himself. He strokes him a couple of times, slipping right up to the head and sliding around him as he goes. It's intoxicating and Jaskier doesn't know if his own hand will ever be sufficient again, after this.

But Geralt still delights in finding the new things and he slips away shortly, slipping up to play with Jaskier's nipples again and Jaskier just groans. Geralt perks up, grinning at him.

"Do you want this?" he asks, slipping over his aching cock again. Jaskier nods and Geralt strokes him exactly twice before winding down around his thighs and squeezing.

"Geralt," Jaskier groans, "please."

"What do you want?" he asks, a smirk spreading across his face. Jaskier could kill him, the bastard. He's toying with him.

"You know what I want."

"Do I? Remind me."

Jaskier groans and grabs for the tentacle again, wrapping it around himself and thrusting up into the coils. He moans softly, dropping his eyes shut and slips his hands around the coiled arm, keeping it tight around him.

"Seems like you've got it under control," Geralt teases, but before Jaskier can even argue, he's leaning down over him, nipping at his collarbone and squeezing around Jaskier's cock.

"Oh, Geralt, please."

His hips buck hard and Geralt coils and uncoils around him and it's a delightful feeling like nothing he's ever felt before. Jaskier whimpers and his hips jerk up into the loose coils, immediately aching for the touch again. But Geralt seems to have lost his taste for teasing now and holds tight around him, ensuring Jaskier's entire cock is engulfed by him, jerking abortively up into the grip of him.

And Jaskier could cry with how good it feels, the rough slickness of Geralt's skin creating a burning need that spreads through him and he's gonna come in no time like this, but he doesn't even mind. Because after he comes, he gets to touch Geralt, to figure out all the little things that turn him on and he looks forward to it with delight.

Geralt pulls him back to the present with a sharp bite to the join of his neck and Jaskier cries out, jerking hard into his tentacle.

"Sorry," Geralt hums, already licking over the mark, but Jaskier shakes his head.

"Fuck, don't be. Do that again."

Geralt lifts his head to look at him then tentatively lowers his head, brushing his lips against the skin of his neck before kissing him. He nibbles lightly at his throat and sucks softly before nosing under his jaw and biting down hard on the side of his neck. Jaskier gasps and moans and his cock jerks as he comes hard, still encompassed by Geralt's body.

Geralt continues with the slipping, almost like wringing a cloth, and Jaskier is breathless and gasping, already swelling again under the touch by the time he pulls away.

"Fuck me," he breathes, "Gods, Geralt you are incredible."

Geralt hums, but his attention is clearly diverted and when Jaskier looks up, he's playing with the come on his chest, slipping the tip of one tentacle through it and lifting it up to sniff at it. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, but then Geralt's putting it in his mouth, flicking his tongue out to taste it and his gut clenches. That… should not be as hot as it is.

Geralt grins down at him and climbs up over him, pressing something warm and wet against Jaskier's cock as he settles himself.

"You look good," he hums, "when you come." Jaskier just groans and presses up against Geralt's underside. He gets a little gasp in response and grins to himself.

"What is that?" he asks, "do you- how do cecaelia fuck?"

Geralt doesn't answer, but shifts again, pressing harder down against Jaskier's prick. It catches on something and Geralt lifts himself just a little, keeping himself steady as he maneuvers Jaskier's cock inside him without so much as touching it.

His eyelids flutter and he moans softly as he sinks down on him, fully engulfing Jaskier's cock and clenching around him.

"Feels fuckin' amazing," Jaskier huffs, though that might be the sensitivity talking. He's not used to coming and immediately being (mounted) afterward, but he's not complaining.

"Mm," Geralt affirms, "it's been a long time since I've taken something inside, but-" he groans as Jaskier shifts his hips and drops forward, leaning on his elbows. "Fuck me," he whispers before leaning in to kiss Jaskier's neck. "Please, fuck me."

Jaskier doesn't need to be told twice. He slides his hands down, settling on the swell of what would be Geralt's hips and holding him down. He rocks into the tight heat, eyes rolling back as Geralt clenches continually around him, and nuzzling against his head.

"Gods," he breathes, "fuck Geralt, does this feel as good for you as it does for me?"

"Feels good," he huffs, "really, really good." He bites at Jaskier's skin and shifts himself forward before sliding down fully on Jaskier's cock again and rising up to sit on him.

Jaskier glances down, running his fingers down Geralt's waist and pauses when he reaches a bump. Geralt's breath catches and Jaskier presses more firmly against it, massaging the spot until Geralt lets out a low, rumbling moan.

Beneath his fingers, the skin parts and Jaskier pulls back abruptly, but Geralt reaches out, pulls his hand back against it.

"Please," he mumbles, "it's been… a long time since anyone has touched me like this."

Jaskier lets his fingertips trace the seam, slipping just barely inside when Geralt shudders. Geralt keeps a firm hand around his wrist, holding him there and Jaskier is intrigued as to what feels that good. He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Beneath his fingers, something slips free from the slit, thick and red and very much dick-like. He flicks his eyes up to Geralt's, holding his gaze as he wraps his fingers around the head of it. Geralt groans and his cock slips further out, slipping into Jaskier's palm. Jaskier curls his hand around him, stroking evenly until Geralt's fully unsheathed and Jaskier's fingers can no longer press into the slit at the base of him.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods, rocking up into his fingers and back onto his cock. "How come no one touches you like this?" He can't possibly imagine fucking someone like Geralt and not wanting to touch every inch of him.

"I haven't seen another cecaelia in years," he breathes, "and it's not as good on my own." He flexes his hand showing off clawed fingers and Jaskier nods, understanding.

"How do you touch yourself normally?" Geralt licks his lips and Jaskier follows the motion with his tongue, rolling his hips up into him. Geralt raises a tentacle, wiggling it at him.

Jaskier reaches out with his free hand, wrapping his fingers around it, lifting it and running his fingertip along the lip of the suction cups as Geralt holds it aloft. It shivers under his touch and Jaskier grins as he looks up to see Geralt's face pinched up in pleasure, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"Does that.. do you like that?"

"Geralt nods silently," pressing the tentacle more firmly into his grasp.

"What if I-" Jaskier starts and Geralt's eyes go wide as he slips his palm along the underside of the tentacle and brings the tip toward his mouth.

The limb twitches toward Jaskier's mouth and as he wraps his lips around it, the rest of the wriggle around him. Jaskier sucks it into his mouth and Geralt groans. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing that should feel good, but he likes having his fingers sucked, so he assumes it's something similar to that.

He winds his tongue between the cups, tracing the shape of each of them before taking it as deep as he can, sucking hard. Geralt groans, withdrawing a little before pushing back between his lips and Jaskier hums around him. He lets Geralt take control, leaning back on one elbow, one hand still slipping against his hip as he rocks.

From here, he has a perfect view of Geralt's cock, jutting proudly from his body as he fucks himself on Jaskier's cock. He's slick and dripping and Jaskier aches to get his mouth on him, to suck him off and make him come in his mouth. He squirms with the desire, sucking hard on the limb in his mouth instead and Geralt jerks forward hard.

He surges forward, keeping Jaskier's cock buried inside him as he winds tentacles around his arms, pushing them up above his head and holding them there. His hands slip down over them until they reach Jaskier's, twining their fingers together and using him as leverage to rock back onto him.

Jaskier squeezes tightly, even as sharp claws press into his skin. Heat swells within him and he knows he won't last with Geralt riding him like this, but he gives in to it, clearing his mind of everything but their bodies moving together. His head falls back, but instead of hitting the hard floor, the blow is softened by another tentacle, slipping up to cushion him.

"Can I-?" he asks and Jaskier doesn't even wait to hear what he's going to ask before nodding enthusiastically.

Beneath him, two more tentacles wrap around his thighs, squeezing tightly and pushing them apart. A third slips between, pressing against his balls and then slipping back behind, into the cleft of his ass. Jaskier squirms and rocks against it, pushing himself further into Geralt's cunt. He groans around the tentacle still in his mouth and Geralt presses against his hole and that's all it takes for Jaskier to tip over the edge.

He shakes through his orgasm, still sucking on the tentacle in his mouth, though his finesse fails as Geralt continues to rock onto his cock. Pleasure zips through him and he squeezes hard around Geralt's fingers, holding him tight as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him. He's still shaking as Geralt clenches around him and it's so fucking good Jaskier can barely breathe.

Geralt withdraws the tentacle in his mouth and bends to kiss him, slow and soft despite Jaskier's breathlessness. It's a little uncoordinated, and Jaskier pants against his mouth, but a warmth spreads through his chest as Geralt's tongue slides against his own. He hums against him and Jaskier just lets him lead, his eyes dropping shut.

"You're beautiful," Geralt breathes as he draws away. His lips drag against Jaskier's skin and Jaskier shudders as goosebumps pop up in the wake of Geralt's mouth.

"You didn't come," Jaskier mumbles, slipping his hands into Geralt's hair. "Wanna make you come."

"And you will, but I think you need a minute or two." He wraps a tentacle around Jaskier's cock and stroking slowly. But Jaskier is soft, though it feels good when Geralt touches him again.

"Dunno if I'll get hard again," he says but he's already feeling it, the first tendrils of pleasure swirling in his gut. And he knows he can get hard again, has done it in the past, but he's already a little overwhelmed and he doesn't know if it's gonna happen tonight.

But Geralt isn't worried about that. He strokes him again, slips up and rocks against his soft cock, kissing his neck and chest and squeezing his nipples between his fingers. Geralt is persistent and it doesn't take long before Jaskier's cock swells again under his touch. Geralt shoves a hand down under himself, squeezing Jaskier's cock and kissing his mouth.

"Want you to fuck me," Geralt hums, nipping at his lip. "Wanna feel you."

"Fuck." Jaskier drops his head back as Geralt's fingers slip up over the head of his cock, his thumb pressing teasingly into the slit. "Fuck. Yeah, okay."

Geralt tugs him up and slides off of him, turning around and bending over to lean on his elbows. He sticks his hips up, moving his tentacles to the side so Jaskier can fit in between them. He does, running his hands over Geralt's hips and down his back. Tentacles wrap around him, holding him and pressing him lightly forward, slipping up over his shoulders and suctioning to his skin.

From here, Jaskier can see his hole properly and he rubs against the ridged entrance, circling it with his fingers before pushing inside. And Geralt groans at the intrusion, dropping his head shut and pushing his hips up further.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods.

Encouraged, Jaskier slides his fingers inside, eased by Geralt's own slickness. He works into him easily, feeling around inside and thrusting gently. Geralt groans softly, encouragingly, and Jaskier works in a little quicker, adding a third finger without any effort. He fucks into him until Geralt is panting beneath him, tentacles clenching around him and twitching.

It feels good to be able to make him feel good and Jaskier delights in the little popping feeling of suction cups against his skin as Geralt lifts his arms and replaces them, squeezing around his limbs. He moans loudly as Jaskier's pace increases and as he squirms, Jaskier realizes how close he is and he's determined to make him come with just his fingers. So he rubs into him, feeling around until he hits something that makes Geralt gasp.

He grins, dipping down to kiss Geralt's spine as he brushes against the mound again.

"Like that?" he asks.

"Fuck. Yes."

"Wanna come on my fingers?"

"If you'll still fuck me."

"Of course, my darling. I'd be delighted to fuck you. Take you apart and make you scream on my cock."

"Yes," Geralt whines, "fuck, Jaskier."

"Mmhm," Jaskier hums, "soon darling, come on."

He slides his free hand around, slipping around the base of Geralt's cock. He slips his fingers into the slit, pressing into his cock before wrapping around it and stroking slowly. Geralt bucks into the touch, gasping and moaning and with a final thrust as Jaskier presses against that spot inside him, Geralt comes.

Jaskier pulls his fingers back, now completely slick and he slides his hand over Geralt's hip, still stroking his cock even after Geralt shudders under him. Geralt seems perfectly content to fuck into Jaskier's fist, but Jaskier is impatient now, his cock hard and aching between his legs.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking a couple of times before pressing himself against Geralt's entrance. He's still sensitive, but it feels good and as he rubs himself against the slick skin, the sensitivity gives way to pleasure.

"You feel good," he mumbles, "want you. Fuck."

"Come on," Geralt encourages. He squeezes around his thighs, nudging him forward and sucking at his skin. "Wanna feel you."

Jaskier groans and pushes in, pulling Geralt's hips against him. He curses softly as Geralt wiggles his hips and pushes deep, keeping himself steady. One tentacle slips up around the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging lightly and Jaskier snaps his hips forward hard, pulling a low groan from Geralt.

"That's it," Geralt coos, "I know you want to come again, hmm?"

Jaskier just groans as he rolls his hips forward, letting Geralt adjust before thrusting harder. And it does feel good. It feels so good and he wants more of it. He fucks into him quickly, pushing his hands down Geralt's back and pulling back again.

A tentacle slips between his cheeks, grinding against his hole but not pushing in and Jaskier rocks back onto it, groaning loudly. He's surrounded on all sides, bundled up in Geralt's limbs as he fucks him and he loves the firmness of the tentacles around him, of the warmth and slickness and he groans as his cock throbs inside him. The one around his neck teases, slipping up to press at his lips, pulling his bottom lip down and pressing between them.

The limb tightens a little, slipping around his throat to push between his lips and Jaskier barely manages to groan out a soft harder, before his mouth is otherwise occupied. Geralt seems to get the idea though, tightening his grip on his neck just a little and Jaskier's eyes nearly roll back in his head. He fucks forward almost absently, focused on the suction cups clinging to his throat and the firm weight of it around him.

And fuck, it feels amazing.

He pushes harder, changing his angle to try and hit that same spot from before and when he does it's gloriously clear. Geralt slumps against the floor, arms stretched out in front of him, whining as Jaskier aims for the same spot again, rutting ceaselessly into him. His head is foggy with lust, enhanced by the slow intake of his breath and he's creeping close before long. But he doesn't want to stop, can't bring himself to stop.

He sprawls over Geralt's back, getting a hand around his cock again and playing with the tip. He slips his fingers around and inside, drawing back to the base and pressing into his slit and Geralt whimpers delightfully with each touch.

"Gonna come-" he mumbles and it's all the warning Jaskier gets before Geralt's jerking into his hand and coming all over him. He shudders and pushes back, and as he clenches around him, Jaskier follows, coming hard and dropping against his back.

The limb around his neck slides away and he inhales deeply, mumbling softly against Geralt's bare skin. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the scent of him, surprisingly strong for someone who lives most of his life presumably in the ocean. He listens to Geralt's heartbeat under his head and smiles softly to himself.

But he doesn't have much time to relax, only enough to catch his breath before Geralt is squirming under him, wriggling free and bringing Jaskier up to lie on his chest. He runs his hands through his hair, holding him gently around the waist with two tentacles and he just looks at him. His eyes are still dark, but they're soft and fond and it's too much, so Jaskier buries his head in Geralt's neck. He already struggles with becoming too attached to people too quickly, the last thing he needs to do is wind up falling for a cecaelia who he has no hope of continuing a relationship with.

But when Geralt kisses him, he shuts his eyes with a soft sigh and it doesn't feel wrong. It should feel wrong, he realizes, sleeping with someone who isn't even human, but he supposes Geralt is more like an elf in that sense. Elves are basically human, just slightly different. Half-elves are a thing, as are quarter elves, so why should Geralt be any different.

Evidently, Geralt thinks he's thinking too much, because he pulls himself up into a sitting position, drawing Jaskier up into his lap. He's still kissing him, but he wraps his arms around his waist this time, letting his tentacles slip down to wrap around his legs, smoothing along the skin and coiling around him. As long as he lives, no rope or bond will hold him quite as nicely, as securely as Geralt does now.

Jaskier deepens the kiss, licks into his mouth despite the heaviness spreading into his limbs. His eyes are heavy and he's not sure he could get up on his own, but he doesn't want to stop, doesn't want Geralt to let him go. Not yet. So he continues kissing him, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck and running fingers through still-damp hair.

But Geralt clearly has other plans and when Jaskier feels the tip of a tentacle pressing up between his cheeks again, he can't even find it in himself to say no.

"Don't know how good I'll be," he hums, ducking to kiss the side of Geralt's neck. "'M tired."

"We can stop," Geralt says, but Jaskier shakes his head before Geralt can even pull away.

"No," Jaskier breathes, "I just- I don't know if I can make you feel good."

"You do," Geralt hums, leaning in to meet him halfway in a too-soft kiss. "Being inside you feels good, you sucking on me feels good. You feel good."

The probing tentacle presses a little more firmly, and it's dry, but Jaskier isn't complaining. Geralt pauses.

"You're not slick?" he asks and Jaskier shakes his head again.

"No, men don't- you gotta use something, it doesn't happen naturally."

Geralt hums thoughtfully and then the tentacle is slipping away and Jaskier is disappointed for a moment before it reappears, sliding smoothing against his skin before pressing in. He's slick this time and it takes Jaskier's sex-addled brain a minute to realize Geralt used his own slick and that does something to him that he can't quite explain. Geralt pulls him in close and Jaskier whimpers as the tentacle presses into him, sinking deeper than any cock has ever reached.

He holds his breath, waiting for the pain, but there's none, even as the thickness of the limb stretches him open. Geralt touches him softly, and then another tentacle is pressing at his hole and Jaskier can only whine into Geralt's chest. The second one doesn't push as deep, pressing right up against his prostate and Jaskeir doesn't think he can come again tonight, but as Geralt bumps against him, his cock twitches against his thigh.

"If we had more time," he mumbles, "I'd like to see how many can fit." Jaskier nearly loses his mind at the words so calmly spoken, and he wants to tell Geralt that he would absolutely be willing and happy to try that, but right now keeping his body upright is hard, so he just moans against him again.

"Can I fuck you?" Geralt asks and Jaskier huffs a laugh.

"'S that not what you're doing?"

"I mean with my cock," he hums, "I'd like to fuck you properly."

"Gonna have to discuss how you fuck properly if this isn't it," Jaskier mumbles, "never been so fucking full in my life." Geralt rocks up against him, breathing shakily as their cocks rub together.

"It'll be good," he breathes.

"Not saying no," Jaskier huffs, "I want you every way. Just not sure-" he gasps as Geralt thrusts deeper into him with the second tentacle "-how it could be better than this."

Slowly, carefully, Geralt slips out of him, using the same tentacles to wrap around his own cock, guiding it to Jaskier's hole as Geralt'shands slip up his back to steady him.

"Good?" he asks and Jaskier nods, shifting to adjust to the new sensation. Geralt's cock is smoother than the tentacles, thicker at the tip, and tapered and cool. When he pushes into him, Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck, holding him and shifting slowly to adjust. It's the temperature more than anything, but he likes the feeling of it inside him and he warms up soon enough.

He can't imagine how hot it is for Geralt, but it's hard to read his expression, just wide-eyed and staring as he sinks into him. As he settles another tentacle slips up his back and around his neck. Its grip remains loose, but it prods at his lips and Jaskier opens to him easily. Geralt pushes into his mouth, fucking his mouth with short, shallow thrusts as a third tentacle wraps its way around Jaskier's cock, leaving him completely engulfed.

His mind swirls with mindless thoughts of pleasure as Geralt fills him fully and wraps his way around him. He has very little movement, but he doesn't feel trapped. Instead, he just feels pleasantly held as Geralt moves under him, thrusting into him with slow, languid thrusts.

His cock is angled just so that it hits his prostate with the first thrust and doesn't stop, continually bumping against it until Jaskier is breathless and completely limp in his arms. And when Geralt dips down to kiss him, brushing damp hair out of his eyes, he's panting. He looks good like this, all dark eyes and parted lips, putting all his energy into holding Jaskier up and fucking him and Jaskier can't find the words to properly describe how Geralt makes him feel.

Then, just as he doesn't think he can get any more full, as he doesn't think he can take much more, a tentacle presses around his rim, sliding around the girth of Geralt's cock where it's buried within him.

"Please," Jaskier finds himself mumbling, "please, Geralt, I need it-"

"Shh," Geralt whispers, his voice unsteady as Jaskier squirms against him. "Let me take care of you." The tentacle presses in, winding around Geralt's cock inside him and shifting steadily.

He's so full he can hardly think, so overwhelmed and oversensitive and he can't do anything but cling to Geralt's shoulders and bury his face in his neck.

"Please," he whispers, "gonna come, please-"

He didn't think he could but his cock aches, throbs with the need to come. He needs it so bad it hurts and all he can do is grind up against Geralt as best he can in his bonds.

One of Geralt's hands comes around to hold the back of his neck and the other slips to his chest, thumb rubbing over his nipple and Jaskier very nearly comes right there. He whines and whimpers, writing amongst the mass of tentacles and Geralt kisses him hard, pinching his nipple and Jaskier thrusts into the coil of his tentacle, crying out as he comes.

Pleasure tears through him, bordering on pain as Geralt continues fucking into him, but it's so good, too good. The tentacle slips from his mouth, sliding back to cradle his head as it drops back and Geralt leans in to kiss him. He's twitching around him now, his cock snapping into him until Jaskier's seeing stars and then, with a groan against his parted lips, Geralt thrusts deep and shudders, pressing Jaskier tight against his chest.

After a moment, he continues rocking lightly, gently leaning Jaskier back so he can look at him. His expression is soft and he pulls a tentacle to take the place of his arm as he runs his fingers down Jaskier's chest.

"Feeling okay?" he asks and as Jaskier just groans softly in response, Geralt chuckles. "We've still got a few hours left until the tide is out far enough for it to be safe for you."

"Geralt," Jaskier huffs, "you're incredible, but I can't-" Geralt laughs again, dipping forward to kiss him.

It's soft and gentle and for a moment, Jaskier lets himself be drawn in, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck. His cock brushes up against him and he whines at the sensitivity, but Geralt shifts, laying him down on the ground and slipping off to the side.

It's cold without Geralt around him and he feels suddenly very alone, but Geralt gets a hand on his hips and pulls him closer. Jaskier cuddles in, rolling onto his back with one leg slung over Geralt's.

"It's been a long time since I've had company," Geralt says, "do you mind if we just… talk?"

"That sounds lovely," Jaskier hums, "I don't think I'm up for a whole lot more than that tonight," he turns his head, flashing a grin at Geralt and earns himself a kiss for it. It worries him a little, how easily he responds to Geralt's affection, how readily he gives himself over to him. His mother always told him he'd end up hurt because of it, but he never fully understood what she meant before, but he thinks he might now.

"What would you like to talk about?"

Geralt asks many things about where he lives and what it's like there, how far it is whether Jaskier is happy there. Jaskier is happy to tell him anything he wants to know, but as time goes by, he starts to nod off, worn out from being fucked so thoroughly. Geralt just pulls him in and curls around him as he drifts, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair.

When Jaskier wakes, Geralt is still there, breathing softly against him, though not asleep, and it only takes a moment to realize Geralt is the one who woke him.

"The tide is out if you want to go," he says softly, fingers coming up to slip through his hair.

"And if I don't?" Jaskier mumbles, shutting his eyes again and turning to throw his leg over Geralt's again, pressed against his chest.

"It'll be a while before the next tide-" he starts but Jaskier cuts him off with a grin, leaning up to kiss him softly.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay."

"Mm," Geralt hums, lacing his fingers with Jaskier's, "and why is that?"

"Because I like it here. I like the beach, I like the company. I'd like to get to know some of them better." Geralt scoffs, but when he rolls his eyes, his expression is fond.

"I wouldn't be… opposed to that, either."

"Good," Jaskier grins, "because I'd very much like to do this again sometime."

#geraskier #octo!geralt #mermay 2021 #rex writes

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pillage-and-lute · 4 years

Text

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 2)

Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

Just three days after the first installation and 4,000 words? That’s right baby! Because I run on validation and whew! Y’all provided. The courting gift scene based on a recommendation from @tempered-char. Also with a hint of Geralt’s Delicate Sensibilities, as inspired by @valdomarx +Thicc Eskel as a bonus

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“Come in.”

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door.

Geralt wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. From what he’d seen of the world he wasn’t so sure he believed in love at all. He could imagine, however, that if he were a painter or a poet he could have fallen in love right there.

The room was a tiny, dusty study, and standing in front of the window was, presumably, Julian. The light haloed him, dust mites floating down. Grey-blue doublet and slightly darker pants brought out clear, bright eyes, rimmed with thick lashes.

He had a rounder jawline, the sort that was in style with painters at the moment. It leant a softness to his face. Maybe that was the fact that he was...nineteen? Geralt couldn’t remember.

He realized he was staring and bowed. It was awkard, still holding his gift and the gift from the countess. He looked up, Julian was smiling.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lord Julian,” Geralt said. “I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Geralt, and please, call me Jaskier,” said the young man. He stuck out his hand. Geralt quickly shifted the gifts to one hand and shook.

The hand was soft but not uncalloused, at the fingertips and base of the thumb. Long fingers, good for playing the lute that sat, gleaming and well cared for, in the corner.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, tasting the name. It was a good name, bright and pretty and a deadly poison if treated incorrectly. “I have a gift for you, and her ladyship gave me a gift but I haven’t opened it yet.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sat on a plush chair, gesturing Geralt to one opposite. “I have my own gift for you,” he said. “Father and Amaria didn’t think I could get my own courting gifts.”

Geralt decided to give up on subtlety. He wanted answers and he hoped this young man, Jaskier, was willing to give them.

“They want rid of you,” he said. It was a question but without the inflection at the end. “Enough to marry you off to a witcher.”

Jaskier sighed. “Just father, Amaria doesn’t have much to do with anything these days.”

“She seemed...” Geralt trailed off, not wanting to be disrespectful.

“It’s all about heirs,” Jaskier said, standing and beginning to pace. “Suitable heirs, which I’m not.” He sent Geralt a bitter little smile and flopped back down. “My father is not a nice man, you see. He’s never taken kindly to disagreements, and to him there’s only one ‘right’ sort of man. Men like him, manly and strong who kill first and don’t bother asking questions later. I questioned him, maybe three years ago, I didn’t think he should raise taxes again. He doesn’t forgive that sort of slight.”

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on knees and stared at the ground for a second.

“I think he’d decided long before that, but he wants me struck from the family tree.” Jaskier looked up at Geralt. Some of his confusion must have been showing on his face.

This world of heirs and court intrigue was far from anything Geralt knew, and seemed more complicated than necessary.

“Follow me,” Jaskier said, rising and stretching out his hand again. “You can leave the gifts, we’ll be back.” Geralt set dow the gifts and hesitantly stretched out his hand, unsure if the gesture was figurative or if he was actually supposed to take it. Jaskier took him gently by the wrist and led him from the room.

“The halls are a maze,” he said, letting go a coridor later. “Follow close behind me, you could get lost.” Geralt did so. He couldn’t imagine anything more embarassing than having a footman fetch him from one of these little stone tunnels.

They emerged in yet another dusty hall, lined with tapestries. Jaskier stopped in between two, and in front of a large, painted wooden panel. It had a tree.

A family tree.

“My father,” Jaskier said, tracing his finger along dusty, painted branches. “Finds it very important that the next Earl be his direct blood, and also his kind of man.” He looked at Geralt significantly. “That meant ridding himself of Amaria’s sons from her first marriage, by the laws of our country, he could have been heir. That also means getting rid of me.”

This explanation did not help Geralt’s bafflement. Jaskier sighed again, although he didn’t seem to be doing so at Geralt.

“Amaria had two sons, both manly and well suited to my father, but not his direct blood. And they were older than me, set to inherit the role of Earl first. They met with horrible accidents.” A shadow passed of Jaskier’s boyish face.

“Strange coincidence, how a large rock managed to tumble from the ramparts on to Isak not even a week after the same thing happened to Tomas. Especially since there’s not rocks up there. I checked.”

“Your father,” Geralt said, a little numbly. “Had his stepson’s murdered.” He knew nobility could be nasty but still... “And we’ve made a deal with him.”

Jaskier patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry too much about it, Father mostly doesn’t do too much harm these days, and Filip, that’s my half brother, seems like he’ll turn out okay. Then again, he’s only seven.”

“Is he going to have you killed?” Geralt asked, knowing as he did that the Earl was trying, by way of marrying Jaskier to him.

“Not exactly. I don’t know if it’s because I’m blood or just because another ‘accident’ would look suspicious, but there’s an easier way.” Jaskier pointed to a name circled in blue. “That’s my aunt Matylda, father’s older sister. She got married, which officially makes her part of her husband’s family tree, not ours, and she can no longer inherit,” Jaskier paused. “If she weren’t already a woman, I mean.”

“But we’re both men,” Geralt said. “I could just as easily become part of your family tree and then your father’s problem.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “In theory, but of course that isn’t how he played it. I’ll be an honorary witcher, and my name,” here he tapped some fine script. “Will be circled in blue and removed from the line.”

They both looked at the tree, looming darkly for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offered, although he supposed it wasn’t worth much.

“I’m sorry too,” Jaskier said. “You shouldn’t be roped into all this.”

Geralt privately considered that, yes, while he would have preferred to avoid all this intrigue and politics, Jaskier didn’t seem too bad.

Jaskier led him back through the stone rabbit warren that made up the bowels of the castle.

“Is her ladyship...like that, because of the death of her sons?” Geralt asked when they paused at the top of a staircase.

Jaskier cocked his head sadly, and then continued walking. Aftr a few more paced he said, “Yes, mostly. She wasn’t always...present, I suppose before but when they died so close together, and in such an awful way-- there’s nothing nice about a block of stone dropping on you from four stories up--something broke. She’s a nice lady, just happier living in her head, I think. Maybe she goes somewhere else, where her boys and her first husband are alive, I hope.”

They arrived back at the study without another word.

They sat.

“I, um.” Geralt said. “Hmmm. I got you,” he proferred the package, not knowing what to say and begging Jaskier to save him from trying to figure it out.

Jaskier took the package and pulled the string so that it fell open. The doublet slithered out. Vesemir had sent a letter asking for measurements as soon as Geralt had told him the idea.

“It’s basilisk leather,” Geralt said. “Witchers, um, our Path, it can be dangerous, so you should have this.”

Jaskier held up the fabric, watching the colors, deep blue and green, shift across the slick material. Privately, and for no reason Geralt could really guess at, he was very pleased, both that the doublet was in what seemed to be Jaskier’s colors, and also at the awe struck look on his face.

“It’s as light as silk,” Jaskier said, passing the fabric between his fingers. “And you said it’s leather?”

“Basilisk leather,” Geralt said. Monsters. They were talking about monsters, which he knew about. Thank the gods. “It’s like armor, and it won’t burn or get wet, water just runs off.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as basilisk leather,” Jaskier said, holding the doublet up. “Where did you get it? It’s incredible.”

Geralt coughed modestly, and tried not to puff his chest. “I killed the basilisk. Making the leather needs different skills than normal tanning, it’s more like potion making.” He remembered that most people knew little about witcher skills and needs. “All witchers know some alchemy, and we make potions for combat so I...I tanned it. My brother Lambert drew up the design, I don’t know much about clothes.”

The tailor had nearly cried when they’d presented him with the fabric, exclaiming about it’s luster and the ‘glorious smooth hand’, whatever that meant.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face anxiously. It wasn’t a courtly gift, no crown of pearls or whatever nobles expected, but it had taken him two months to turn the basilisk skin into leather. It would have taken him half the time but he’d had to do it on the road. Lambert had fussed about the design for almost a week too, and it had been Eskel’s idea to ask for the buttons to be little black pearls like that.

Vesemir had smiled at the team effort, calling it the wolves gift to their new pup.

Jaskier looked up at him, face like a sunbeam.

“Can I try it on?”

Geralt just nodded, and looked away modestly as Jaskier divested himself of his previous doublet before buttoning the basilisk leather.

He twirled, and in the light from the window the fabric seemed to glow, shifting and turning with each movement.

“And it really will keep me safe?” he asked, looking down at himself, beaming.

Geralt nodded. “It would take a battle axe a dozen tries to pierce it.”

Jaskier smiled at him again, and it made Geralt’s stomach tingle, although he had eaten some suspect meat on the ride to Lettenhove. Then Jaskier threw his arms around his neck.

Geralt wasn’t old fashioned. He could move with the times, whatever Lambert said, but manners had been stiffer sixty years ago and Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his ears going red.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier said, pulling back. “Thank you.”

Geralt shrugged uncomfortably. Jaskier smelled like soap and some sort of oil. Linseed maybe, probably for the wood of his lute.

“I have a gift for you, it’s not as lovely, but I hope you like it.”

Geralt carefully took the package. It was wrapped much prettier than his had been. “The countess already...”

“That was from her,” Jaskier said dismissively. “And maybe even from Father, although I doubt it, he wouldn’t waste money on me. But this gift is from me.” He sat forward eagerly. “Go on, open it.”

Geralt wasn’t about to refuse that eager, open expression, so he pulled at the ribbon, feeling rather like a bear trying to tie a shoelace.

The bright paper just fell away and there was a stiff paper box. He opened that too.

Three glass bottles sat inside, nestled in paper. The paper was only there to keep them from clinking because as he pulled one out he saw the telltale dark sheen.

Brimstone glass. It was unbreakable. Sometimes witchers carried their more noxious potions in it but rarely, it was frighteningly expensive, usually only mages could afford it.

“How?” he said. How did you afford it? How did you know it existed? Did you know witchers use potions? He looked up at Jaskier, who looked nervous.

“Are they alright?” he said. “Only I won them off a sorceror in a pub. He told me they were indestructible and threw one at the ground to prove it. I thought they’d be useful...Was it a trick?” He looked so upset at the prospect.

“These, Geralt said, “Are Brimstone Glass, they are indeed indestructible and very, very useful.” Jaskier’s face split into a grin again.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. It didn’t seem like enough, but if he hugged the lad like Jaskier had him he would kill him.

“Should I open the box from the countess?”

“Do,” Jaskier said. “I want to know what it is.”

The latch flicked easily under Geralt’s hand and the lid popped open.

Jaskier gasped.

“It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I don’t remember her well, but I remember her hands...”

It was a beautiful ring, opal, if Geralt was any judge, but Eskel knew stones better than him. Silver wound around the stone, with smaller gems studding the setting to either side.

“I will use it in the ceremony,” Geralt said, offering it to Jaskier. “If it fits.”

“It won’t fit,” Jaskier said sadly. “Mother had very small hands, but it’s a nice thought.”

Geralt looked at the ring and Jaskier’s left hand. “Try it?”

Jaskier did, sliding the ring onto his finger easily. He looked at it in amazement.

“Amaria must have had it enlarged,” he said.

“A good gift,” Geralt said, although not sure who the gift was really for.

There came a polite knock at the door, interupting the moment, whatever sort of moment it was.

“My lord, it is time for supper.”

Damn.

Jaskier slipped the ring back into the box and Geralt looked away as he changed into his regular doublet. He didn’t look away fast enough and caught a scandalous glimpse of collarbone and soft chest hair where the chemise got pulled down a little. The air felt a little stuffy suddenly.

The gifts, and Geralt was proud to see that Jaskier folded the doublet carefully back into the paper, although nothing could have harmed it, were handed to a footman to be taken back to their respective rooms.Geralt offered Jaskier his arm, like he’d seen the nobility do, and then Jaskier led him to the dining hall.

To his relief, the hall wasn’t packed. They were what Lambert would call ‘fashionably late’ (and what Vesemir would call a reason for three extra laps) and all the guests were seated. A table held Lady Amaria and a man who must be the Earl, although there was little visible resemblance to Jaskier. They were seated with perhap half a dozen other nobles, as well as a red headed boy of about seven, Filip, probably, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. There was another table of presumably more minor nobility, and then a small table with the wolves, two seats still empty.

All eyes turned to look at the pair. Jaskier bowed deeply, and since his arm was still linked with Geralt’s he was made to bow too, or else risk having his arm pulled from its socket. Then they made their way to the smallest table.

Geralt pulled out Jaskier’s chair for him and saw Vesemir’s approving nod, as well as Lambert’s smirk. He didn’t see the swift kick Eskel delivered below the table, but caught the way Lambert’s eyes watered suddenly, and smiled at his brother in thanks for the retribution. Then he sat.

“Julian,” Vesemir said, reaching over the table to shake hands. “I am Vesemir, Geralt’s teacher. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“I am happy to make your aquaintance, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier said, and Geralt was impressed that he only winced a little bit as Vesemir inadvertently crushed his knuckles in a grip that could moor a boat. He did, however, gently shake out his fingers under the table once he’d been released.

“If you please, however,” Jaskier continued as if nothing had happened. “I prefer my nickname, Jaskier.”

“Jaskier it is, then,” Vesemir said, moustache twitching up at the corners. Geralt suspected he was thinking the same as he had done. Buttercups, pretty and poisonous.

“You were educated at Oxenfurt, is that correct?” Eskel said.

“Yes, in the fine arts, although I specialized in music composition and lute performance. I didn’t catch your name...?” The most delicate question mark was added to the end of the statement. Eskel blushed, Jaskier wouldn’t know it, but Geralt could see the back of his neck reddening.

“Eskel,” he said quickly. “And the asshole who’s snickering is Lambert.”

Jaskier didn’t look even a little intimidated by either of Geralt’s brothers, which was impressive, because Lambert could scowl like it was a contest and Eskel, although only an inch taller than Geralt, was naturally hugely muscled in a way even the mutagens hadn’t managed for Geralt. His chest and arms looked like they’d withstand a siege weapon.

Jaskier turned a smile on Lambert, who was sputtering indignantly at Eskel’s entirely fair description.

“I’m told you helped with my beautiful courting gift,” he said. Then he turned the smile on all of the wolves. “A team effort I imagine.”

This stunned all three brothers, and made Vesemir smile. Lambert shrugged uncomfortably. For all his prickliness, he couldn’t take a compliment.

“Eskel’s idea for the buttons,” he muttered, and Geralt knew he’d been entirely won over.

“The buttons are beautiful,” Jaskier said, smiling warmly at Eskel now, who looked like he’d rather be facing a mountain troll.

“Was Vesemir that got your measurements,” he said, looking down at the tablecloth. Jaskier beamed at the whole table then.

“Truly a team effort, thank you all, it’s beautiful and I cannot wait to wear it.” With that the whole table was well and truly won over by Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t help but brag a little.

“Jaskier gave me Brimstone Glass bottles as a courting gift,” he said, and preened slightly under the others’ slightly jealous noises of amazement. Jaskier flushed a very pretty pink.

“I just thought they’d be useful,” he said, although his smile was pleased.

Serving girls entered the hall with trays and the chatter in the hall expanded excitedly. A plump young woman set a tray down at their table and Eskel hummed in appreciation.

“It smells delicious,” he said. She smiled at him, looked him up and down, and then winked.

“Oh doesn’t it just, I could just eat it all up,” she said, not looking at the food even as she lifted the cloche from the appetizers. Then she winked and disappeared back into the kitchen. Another girl appeared and filled the goblets but the witchers hardly noticed for laughing at Eskel’s face.

“Seems Mabel took a liking to you,” Jaskier said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Through his own laughter, Geralt watched Jaskier’s father glaring at their table. Good. The old fuck could choke on it, he didn’t look like he’d ever laughed a day in his life.

“Careful though,” Jaskier was saying. “She looked ready to take a bite out of you.”

“But,” Eskel gestured, baffled to his face.

“Oh pish,” Jaskier said, taking a swig of wine. “Nobody cares about that sort of thing, do they? Plenty of ladies around here like a few scars, makes men look rugged and dangerous.”

“Rugged?” Eskel rubbed his hand over his face, contemplating.

“Definitely,” said Jaskier, nodding. He took one of the appetizers. Geralt moved a few to his own plate and slowly their little table descended into a quiet contentment. The appetizers were good, hors d'oeuvres , Geralt remembered Lambert telling him once. They were little bits of paste, meat and vegetable mostly, inside pastry casings.

He smiled when he noticed that he and his brothers were all looking between Jaskier and Vesemir to make sure they hadn’t missed any manners. Eskel swiped Lambert’s elbows off the table.

Eventually the appetizers were replaced with soup. The saucy kitchen girl, Mabel, Jaskier had called her, made a positively salacious remark to Eskel. Something daring about him licking everything clean. Eskel smiled faintly and turned redder than the beet soup.

“You should flirt back,” Jaskier said, once Mabel was gone. “If you’re actually interested, I mean.”

“It’s not that I’m not. Interested I mean,” Eskel squeaked. “But I can’t offer her anything, no marriage or security.”

Jaskier looked at him. It was definitely a look, although not a nasty one. “She asked you to lick her clean and you think that was an invitation to marriage?”

“I wouldn’t want to defile...”

“Oh shut up Eskel, sex doesn’t defile anything. It’s natural and normal and if you think it some how ‘decreases the value’ of a woman than you aren’t the man I thought you to be.” Lambert cut in. “Have some fun, maybe she can remove the stick you’ve lodged up your ass.”

“You’re right, of course,” Eskel said. But now Jaskier was looking worried.

“It won’t be a problem, right?” he asked Geralt. “That I’m not, um a virgin, I mean?”

“No,” Geralt said, probably missing the mark on reassuring, but doing his best. “Unless you mind that I’m not one either. And there is no fidelity clause, and no consummation, you needn’t sleep with me, and you’re free to see other people.”

Jaskier looked at first relieved and then impish, licking the soup from his spoon in a way that made significant parts of Geralt’s brain go numb. “I dunno,” he said, leaning towards Geralt and bumping him with a shoulder. “I can’t imagine consumation with you would be such a chore.”

Melitele’s great gauzy veil, this boy would be the death of him.

There was a pause between soup and the main course, but when Mabel picked up the dishes Eskel leaned towards her and asked if he’d licked it clean enough, to the woman’s obvious approval.

They sat and chatted, Jaskier, Eskel, and Vesemir debated over some old literature that Geralt had never heard of, and then they were interuppted with a cough.

The earl stood, face like stone, beside their table.

They rose. Vesemir bowed.

“My Lord,” he said. “It is a pleasure to make your aquaintance. I am Vesemir, of the school of the wolf.”

Lord Pankratz inclined his head. “Greetings, Master Vesemir,” he said. “I wish to discuss some of the terms of the contract with you.”

He snapped his fingers and a footman brought him a chair, without waiting for Vesemir’s response.

The wolves sat, feeling wary. Jaskier was looking down at his hands, shoulders shrunk in.

They sat in suspense as Vesemir and Lord Pankratz hashed out details of the legal protections. The main course appeared and the earl stood, and bowed.

“Why don’t we continue this after desert,” he said, smiling smoothly. And it was a very smooth smile. Like an oil slick.

Dinner after that was subdued, despite Eskel returning Mabel’s flirtations. Jaskier looked down at his plate most of the time and the witchers picked up on his unease.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt whispered.

“I don’t know, but he’s planning something, and I don’t like it.”

Then coffee was served after dessert, and the Earl de Lettenhove sat at their table again.

“Now, for what I really wanted to discuss, I know political marriages can be...challenging,” the earl said in a voice like a snake. “But I wanted to make it clear, should either member express a wish to anul the marriage, the contract will become void.” Here he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I couldn’t bear for my dear Julian to be unhappy, you see. He’s high maintainance I know, but I wish him the best.”

The earl smiled a despicable little smile. “Now, I think you two shouldn’t really see more of each other before the wedding, yes? Bad luck and all.”

The earl then hauled Jaskier away by his collar.

“What a cunt,” Lambert said.

“I figured that was in the contract anyway,” Geralt said. “Isn’t that normally how it works?”

Vesemir nodded. “Indeed, it’s how these marriages go. But I expect the earl is betting that the two of you wont be able to stand eachother, and so he gets rid of his son and doesn’t have to help witchers all in one go.”

“Yes, Jaskier explained things.”

And then Geralt told his family what Jaskier had told him. The suspicious accidents, the laws, the family tree.

“I agree with Lambert,” Eskel said. “What a gigantic fucking cunt.”

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What’s with my thing about clothing descriptions and fancy cloth? I’m a fashion design major, that’s what.

We’ve got answers about Amaria, and the reason for the engagement, but what’s the wedding going to be like? oooh, cliffhanger, but not too much so I hope it makes up for last time when I was so bad to you all.

Tag List! @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam@sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest@innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna

@ailorian @toothhurtyam I’m having trouble adding you, I can’t tag if this is a password protected side blog or if you have Allow Blog to Appear in Search Results off, I think.

#geraskier #the witcher #arranged marriage #arranged marriage au #its part two y'all #and the earl is a slimy sob

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samstree · 2 years

Text

The Dizzying Height

Geralt is taken apart in a blindfold

(1.3k, explicit, read on AO3)

The sea rumbles in the distance, the waves lapping at the shore. A storm is brewing somewhere far away, Geralt can smell it.

The air is damp at the coast, salty. It cools the fabric covering Geralt’s eyes, its silky touch comforting like an anchor on a stormy night. It’s an anchor he needs, a grounding point as his body sways with the waves. He’s floating.

“You are hardly floating, dear.” Jaskier chuckles at his unaware comment. His kiss lands between Geralt’s brows, just above the blindfold. His lips are warmer than the silk. “It’s just a hammock. We’re not going anywhere.”

Geralt hums, squirming on the sturdy swinging bed they purchased upon coming to this coastal town at the beginning of summer, when he thought he’d be spending a lot of time reading on it.

“Get on with it,” Geralt breathes. When Jaskier is busy kissing him, his hands are not where they should be.

“So impatient,” Jaskier teases, and shifts his weight, tipping the bed to one side. “Just relax, love. Relax and let me take care of you.”

A cork pops, and the scented oil is undoubtedly coating Jaskier’s fingers, the sound wet and sticky. There are hints of light through the dark fabric of the blindfold, but Geralt barely needs sight to know what is happening. He can picture the subtle upturn of Jaskier’s lips, the wind in his hair, his blue eyes, darkened against the sky.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasps as a finger breaches him, massaging gently, teasing, playing.

“That’s it. Let me hear you.” There’s a smile in Jaskier’s voice, proud and enticing, so Geralt obliges, letting out another pleased hum. “Beautiful.” Another kiss lands on Geralt’s chest, right underneath a sensitive scar. “Beautiful witcher.”

The quiet moans become whines in Geralt’s throat, his breath hitching whenever Jaskier’s finger curls just the right way. His mouth dries in the salty breeze, and he bites into his lips. “Fuck, Jaskier. I—fuck.”

“Beautiful sounds too. I should leave the singing to you one day.”

Jaskier adds another finger, and suddenly it borders on being too much. Without his sight, the sounds of the sea surround him, and every prickle of the sea air is heightened on his bare skin. The air in his lungs smells only of the salt and sand and sunlight, not Jaskier.

Geralt’s back arches off the hammock, his eyes snapping open under the blindfold, searching, and searching. He cannot find Jaskier as pleasure crashes through him like the tides taking away the sand.

“Jaskier?” He reaches out and finds his hand caught safely in another, their fingers locking on instinct.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Jaskier slows down the rhythm of his fingers, his other hand guiding Geralt back to the hammock and the small pillow beneath his neck. His palm presses on the back of Geralt’s hand, placing it on his sternum, holding on tightly. “I’m right here.”

“Yes.” Geralt can’t help the relief in his exhale. “You are here.”

“Overwhelmed?” Jaskier says. “Too fast? Slow? The sea too loud?”

He asks so seriously as if the sound of the ocean can be altered at Geralt’s request. Jaskier might just try. He’s ridiculous like this.

“Just…hold me,” Geralt answers finally.

Jaskier’s promise comes in the form of another kiss and the warm press of his body against Geralt’s side. He keeps opening Geralt up with the utmost patience, drawing out slow, languid sounds from him, unraveling him under careful hands. He stays close, so Geralt is always aware of his love.

“Look at you—well, you know what I mean,” Jaskier whispers as he deems Geralt ready and retrieves his fingers. Geralt can no longer speak anything coherent, just a string of murmurs that resemble Jaskier’s name. A hand strokes up and down on his side, soothing him. “It’s just me, alright?”

“Want you,” Geralt whines. “Want you now.”

“You are safe. Just focus on me, love,” Jaskier repeats his reassurance as the bottle of oil is opened again. Geralt tunes his hearing towards the shudders in Jaskier’s breathing as he palms himself. He can barely move a muscle, his body loosened and pliant under Jaskier’s attention.

When Jaskier sinks into him, it’s like the storm building up to a release, the tension coiling tight as the clouds gather for the first drop of rain. Geralt’s toes curl as his senses narrow down to the hot, needy pleasure in his gut.

“Jaskier,” he pleads. “I can’t see you—let me hear you.”

A groan rumbles in Jaskier’s chest as he bottoms out, his hand still clutching Geralt’s on his chest. “Geralt,” he calls out without any real purpose. “Geralt, my love, Geralt…”

“Jaskier,” he echoes, as Jaskier begins to rock into him with the same rhythm of the booming of the waves. “You. All I feel is…you.”

The bed beneath them sways gently, muddling Geralt’s senses, disorienting him as the world fades away. With his eyes covered, it’s not unlike lying on a small boat and letting the current take them where it pleases—they should try that before summer ends, have Jaskier fuck him at sea.

“Jask, I’m—I’m close.” Pleasure builds in Geralt’s core, and the hand held under Jaskier’s palm is ready to break away, to reach down. Jaskier beats him to it and strokes Geralt once, twice before he comes in the warmth of nimble palm and fingers, his head throwing back in the process.

“That’s it,” Jaskier murmurs as he strokes Geralt through the intensity of his climax. “So beautiful when you come under me like this, better than all the paintings in the world. Shame you can’t see for yourself.”

The world goes to white despite the darkness in front of Geralt’s eyes, and that’s when Jaskier reaches his own orgasm, his forehead dropping to Geralt’s shoulder as he comes long and hard, filling Geralt up perfectly.

“Jask—”

He wonders if one can drown on dry land, drowning in love like this.

The puffs of breaths against Geralt’s skin slow down as Jaskier catches his breath and pulls out. He cleans up the mess gently as oversensitivity lingers, careful to continue kissing and touching Geralt everywhere. Being taken apart under the sky like this, it leaves him feeling vulnerable, exposed, but it’s only Jaskier.

It’s okay if it’s only Jaskier.

“So good,” Jaskier murmurs as he settles himself on Geralt’s chest as a nice blanket, their limbs tangling together. Fingers tug at the blindfold around Geralt’s head. “Want this off now?”

He shies away, stopping Jaskier’s motion and jostling the hammock slightly. “Leave it, for now.”

Jaskier tucks into the crook of Geralt’s neck and nods without a word, and they just lie there, swinging to the occasional sea breeze and listening to the waves and the storm in the distance, their slowing heartbeats adding to the peaceful mixture.

“We should be closer to the sea,” Geralt muses with his eyes closed, kissing the drying sweat on Jaskier’s hairline, tasting of salt. “It has a nice sound.”

“There are no trees closer to the sea, dear. You know that.”

“Hmm.”

They doze together comfortably, with the other person pressed close to fend off the slight chill in the air. Geralt breathes in Jaskier’s scent, mixed with happiness and sex.

The blindfold has one more effect on Geralt that he could not anticipate—he now misses Jaskier. He did not know it was possible.

He smiles into the next kiss, and lets the longing build up in his chest, simmering with want and softness. And when Jaskier eventually wakes from his nap and unties the fabric behind Geralt’s head, it feels like coming home.

There Jaskier is. A smile on his lips, wind in his hair, and his eyes—blue against the sky.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #explict #established relationship #blindfolds #hammock sex

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 3 years

Text

Without You

Prompt: Meeting after a long time apart

Pairing: Jaskier/Yennefer (background Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer)

Rating: M

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture; Presumed character death (no one is actually dead); Heavy drinking

Summary: Jaskier barely copes after word spreads that Yennefer has perished at Sodden Hill. But when Nilfgaard sets their sights of him, help comes from an unexpected place.

This was supposed to be a Wuv the Bard fic for @whataboutthebard, but it grew a whump, so I had to recategorize it. You can read it below or here on AO3.

The day before Oxenfurt’s winter term starts, Jaskier learns that Yennefer of Vengerberg perished defending Sodden Hill, going out in a blaze of glory that took an entire squadron of soldiers with her. It’s a death worthy of the most terrifying, wonderful woman he ever met, and he thinks he might be sick just thinking about it. He drinks far too much mead and sleeps through the first day of classes. It’s lucky that the dean is a friend and had met Yennefer when she visited Jaskier at Oxenfurt two winters before, because that’s the kind of infraction that could get a professor dismissed.

The news comes only days after Jaskier learns that the entire Cintran royal family, including little Princess Cirilla, was butchered during Nilfgaard’s invasion. Jaskier knows that Geralt was heading to Cintra to try and get to the princess before Nilfgaard did, but he has no way of knowing if Geralt also died in the invasion. He has a horrible feeling that if Princess Cirilla is dead, Geralt is too. There's no way his witcher would have let harm come to his child surprise while there was still breath in his lungs. He lays awake at night and tries not to imagine both of his lovers consumed by flames.

It’s a small comfort that Geralt came to see Jaskier in Oxenfurt before going to Cintra. They had the chance to apologize to each other for the stupid way they both acted during the dragon hunt and make amends for years of careless words and crossed boundaries. When they fell into bed afterwards, it almost felt like it had that first time, nearly two decades before.

“Let me come with you to Cintra,” Jaskier whispered afterwards. “I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I don’t want you anywhere near Nilfgaard. Or Calanthe, for that matter.”

“I can help. Calanthe won't listen to you, but she might heed me.”

"No," Geralt said firmly. "I won't risk you, Jask. Not for anything.”

Geralt was gone before Jaskier woke up the next morning. Jaskier is sure that his lover knew if he had stayed to say goodbye, Jaskier would have talked him into letting him come to Cintra, but that didn’t ease the sting. At least they had had a goodbye of sorts the night before.

But Jaskier never got a chance to say goodbye to Yennefer. He never saw her again after the dragon hunt, something that keeps him awake nearly as much as the thought of her burning up with her own power. If she died hating him…

Jaskier is so furious at himself, for not doing everything in his power to hold onto Geralt and Yennefer. He’s furious at Yennefer for walking away, not just from Geralt, but from him too. He’s furious at Geralt for pushing her away and for running off to Cintra and leaving Jaskier alone. Sometimes, he’s even furious at Princess Cirilla for drawing Geralt away, though that’s the kind of thought that only hits him when he’s deep in his cups. He’s not proud of it.

There’s nothing he can do to abate the well of grief and fury and desperate despair within him. He can’t even bring himself to sing about it.

***

He’s surprised that it takes a month for the dean to call him into his office. Sebastian and he have been friends since their schoolboy days and when Jaskier looks at the other man, he sees how his life could have turned out if he had done what his parents wanted him to do: marry a respectable woman, find a steady, stable job, have a few children to carry on the family name.

“Julian,” Sebastian says. “You know I consider you a friend.”

Jaskier’s head is pounding. He was at a tavern the night before when a bard began singing a ballad of the Fourteen of the Hill, as they’re calling the mages who perished at Sodden Hill. There was a verse about each of the Fourteen, and when she got to Yennefer’s name, Jaskier had to leave the tavern. He’s tried to write a dozen songs about Yennefer in the past month, and hasn’t been able to compose more than a few lines. That another bard, one that didn’t even know her, is the one telling her story hurts more than it should.

Sebastian’s expression is painfully kind. Jaskier would rather him be cruel. “But your conduct this term has been unacceptable. Being late to classes, not showing up for classes at all, coming to class reeking of alcohol—”

“I haven’t come to class drunk.” That’s one line Jaskier would never cross.

“But you have come to class hungover. You’re hungover now, aren’t you?”

Jaskier looks away, unable to meet his old friend’s eyes.

“I know how much she meant to you,” Sebastian says softly. “And I know you’re hurting. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I’ve gotten complaints about you from students, parents, and your fellow professors. This can’t go on.”

“Are you asking for my resignation, Sebastian?”

“Not yet.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m reassigning all your classes for the rest of the term. Take a couple of months to get your head back on straight. If you can pull yourself together by the spring, we can discuss you resuming teaching. If not…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to elaborate. Jaskier swallows. “I’ll pull myself together.”

It’s what Yennefer and Geralt would have wanted.

***

Jaskier is going to allow himself one more night to wallow in his grief and self-pity, he tells himself as he sits at the corner at his second-favorite tavern that night (the proprietor of his first favorite is concerned about the amount Jaskier has been drinking and refuses to serve him.) As he sits there, huddled in the shadows, he thinks of the first time he saw Geralt, brooding in the corner like the tragic hero of a storybook. Geralt would surely have something smug to say if he saw Jaskier brooding tragically. Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut at the thought of the little smirk on Geralt’s face.

“I love the way you sit in the corner and brood,” he would say in a terrible imitation of Jaskier’s voice. He always made Jaskier sound so much more high-pitched than he really is.

“Cheeky bastard,” Jaskier mumbles into his ale, startling the barmaid who’s clearing mugs away from the next table over. He offers her an apologetic smile.

Several hours and three ales later, the proprietor of his second-favorite tavern shows him the door. Luckily, the proprietor of this third-favorite tavern wouldn’t notice if he stripped naked and drank himself to death while singing Skelligan sea shanties in the corner, so Jaskier staggers down the road towards that fine establishment. He starts to hum to himself, but the only tune that comes to mind is “Her Sweet Kiss,” and even thinking about that song causes something sour to curdle inside him.

He stumbles over his own two feet and nearly falls, but a strong hand seizes him by the upper arm, keeping him upright. Beaming, Jaskier turns to his rescuer.

“Thank you, my fr—”

A hand slaps over his mouth. Jaskier only has time to register the pale, watery eyes of the hooded man in front of him before two fingers press against the underside of his chin and darkness overtakes him.

***

A bucket of cold water to his face rouses him an indeterminate amount of time later. Jaskier jerks awake, gasping. For a moment, he’s disoriented and outraged, until he registers the chains binding his wrists over his head and his ankles together. When he looks around, he finds himself in some kind of cellar, mostly empty except for a few crates and many cobwebs. And the three men standing in front of him.

“You’ve slept long enough, bardling,” the man in the middle, a weaselly, pale-eyed thing with a canny expression Jaskier doesn’t like, says.

Bardling.

“If you don’t stop humming and let me sleep, bardling, I’ll turn you into an eel.”

“Get over here and kiss me, bardling.”

“Harder, bardling. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaskier whispers, voice trembling.

The pale-eyed man laughs unpleasantly. “You’re not the one making demands here.”

Jaskier tries to draw himself up to his full height the best he can when he’s trussed up like a goose. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Rience,” the man says and Jaskier has the horrible thought that surely he wouldn’t be so open with his identity if he expected Jaskier to live through this encounter. “The names of my compatriots don’t matter.”

The other two men, who are both scowly and muscular in a way that makes Jaskier think of either mercenaries or soldiers, make no indication of whether or not this offends them.

“What do you want with me?” Jaskier demands.

“We’re looking for someone,” Rience says. “Two someones, actually. I think you might know where they are. Geralt of Rivia and Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. If someone is asking after Geralt and Cirilla, does that mean they’re alive? Does that mean they’re together? Did Geralt get to her in time? He recovers himself enough to say, “Princess Cirilla perished in Cintra, or so the rumors say. As for Geralt of Rivia… I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“Wrong. He visited you here in Oxenfurt right before Saovine.”

Jaskier swallows hard. “Ah, yes, I’d completely forgotten about that. How silly of me. In my defense, it’s been a very long—”

The sensation of a hand tightening around his throat hits him, but none of the three men are touching him. Jaskier gasps and sputters, drawing a laugh out of Rience and one of the soldiers. Eyes watering with lack of breath, Jaskier struggles against his chains. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that they’re just going to kill him and leave his body in this cellar to rot.

And then the pressure on his throat releases and Jaskier sucks in a sweet lungful of air, not even minding that it’s stale.

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” Rience asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not privy to his plans.”

“You’ve been his friend and lover for decades. Surely he told you where he was planning to take the girl.”

Geralt didn’t need to tell Jaskier. Knowing that the contents of his own mind aren’t safe from a sorcerer, Jaskier does everything in his power to not think about Kaer Morhen. “I don’t know.”

Rience steps close enough that Jaskier can smell his sour breath. “I can tear your mind apart, you little shit. I can dig through your thoughts until I know every single thing the witcher ever told you. But I’d much rather you tell me willingly. It’s the only way you’re going to walk away from here alive.”

“I don’t know anything,” Jaskier whispers.

Rience sighs. “I was hoping you’d be difficult. It’s more fun that way.”

When the first punch comes, Jaskier closes his eyes and thinks of Geralt and Yennefer.

***

The beating isn’t all that bad, all things considered. Yes, Jaskier is fairly certain his nose and several of his ribs are broken, but they haven’t brought out blades or braziers yet. Yet. When Rience and his lackeys leave him alone in the cellar, Jaskier sags, letting his shoulders heave with his pained breaths. If the chains weren’t holding him up, he would crumple to the ground in despair.

Jaskier is just a bard. He’s not a witcher or a sorceress. He’s not trained to withstand torture. He will break, he realizes. He will tell Rience everything he knows, no matter how hard he tries to stay strong. And then Rience will kill him and Jaskier’s last act on this mortal plane will be to betray the man he’s loved since he was eighteen.

Tremors wrack Jaskier’s body as terror and pain overwhelm him. It’s not fair that he learned that Geralt is alive at the same time that he’s about to lose his own life. It’s not fair that he’s going to be used against the love of his life in such a horrific fashion. It’s not fair that he’s going to go to his grave without ever seeing Geralt again and that Geralt will lose both him and Yennefer.

Jaskier is alone in the cellar for a long time, long enough for him to feel every ache and pain.

From upstairs, there’s a thump and a long, loud scream.

Jaskier’s head jerks up. Do they have another prisoner here? Who else in Oxenfurt could they have targeted to get to Geralt, or is their other victim some poor bystander that they came across? There’s another agonized scream, this one cut off, and Jaskier starts to shake harder. He doesn’t want to die. He’s so, so afraid of dying, of everything that makes him him being snuffed out, leaving only an empty husk of flesh and bone. But even more terrifying is the thought of all the hurt that will come first, of the crying and bleeding that he’ll have to endure before Rience ends things.

Footsteps sound of the stairs and Jaskier’s head jerks up to see a hooded figure descending into the cellar. They’re smaller than Rience or either of his compatriots, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Jaskier swallows around the knot of panic in his throat as the newcomer approaches him, their features obscured by the hood and the shadows of the cellar.

“I don’t know anything,” he says hoarsely. “You can do whatever you want to me and I still won’t know anything.”

The newcomer draws back their hood at the same time that Jaskier registers the smell of lilacs and gooseberries. He makes a punched-out noise at the sight of violet eyes that he didn’t ever think he would see again.

“A pretty illusion,” he tells the face of the woman he loves, voice trembling. “But Yennefer is dead. She died at Sodden Hill and you can wear her face all you want, but I still won’t know anything.”

“Jaskier—” the illusion starts to say.

Jaskier laughs as loudly and obnoxiously as he can when he’s trying not to breathe in too deeply. The scent of the false Yennefer makes him want to cry. “And you’ve already gotten it wrong. She never called me ‘Jaskier.’ No, I was ‘bard’ or ‘bardling’ or ‘you fucking idiot—’”

“For fuck’s sake, bardling. Pull yourself together!”

Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut. Strangely, it’s the harshness of her tone that convinces him. If Yennefer were to offer sweet words of comfort, to coo over his injuries and tell him that it would all be okay, then he would know for sure that the person standing in front of him wasn’t his sorceress. No mage trying to manipulate him into spilling his secrets would expect him to be comforted by the exasperation in her expression.

“Yenn?” he whispers.

Yennefer steps closer and he sees that she obviously hasn’t had a good time as of late. Her face is thinner and her nose has been broken at least once. Her hair is more bedraggled than he’s ever seen it and her dress and cloak clearly belong to a taller person; they drag on the ground behind her. There are dark shadows under her eyes. When she raises a hand to make the chains around his wrists and ankles fall away, he sees that there are hideous burn marks marring her own wrists.

Without the chains holding him up, Jaskier collapses into a heap on the ground. Looking up at Yennefer in disbelief, he says, “You…”

“Not here.” She grasps him by the shoulders and the next thing he knows, he’s being yanked through a portal.

***

It’s not the first time Yennefer has visited Jaskier at his faculty lodging in Oxenfurt. Two winters ago, she replaced his perfectly serviceable bed with an enormous, glorious feather mattress with silken sheets and a goose down comforter and they spent three days in the glamoured bed, lost in each other’s bodies. Now, she sits on the edge of his perfectly serviceable bed, wearing one of his old chemises and carefully avoiding looking at him as he wipes the blood and fear sweat from his face with a basin of water.

“You’re hurt.” He glances at the bruises dotting her legs.

She lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “Not badly.”

Jaskier nods, swallowing hard. He wants nothing more than to sink into her arms. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated; touching her was the most natural thing in the world. But that was before the mountain and the cruel, senseless things they said to each other. So he keeps himself on the other side of the room to mitigate temptation.

Outside, someone shouts. Jaskier flinches, even as the shout turns into laughter.

“Rience fled with his tail between his legs when I threw a fireball at him,” Yennefer says. “And his men are dead.”

“Imagining fleeing from a fireball. Fucking coward.” Jaskier splashes more water on his face. His hands are shaking. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“Geralt and the child surprise—”

“Safe. I’ve been having dreams about them. They’re at Kaer Morhen with his brothers.”

Jaskier lets out a long, slow breath of relief. When he first learned about the djinn wish that binds Geralt and Yennefer, he was so jealous and furious to learn that they have a bond that he’ll never come close to matching. Now, he’s just relieved that Yennefer can tell him that Geralt is alive and that he got to Cirilla in time. “Thank the gods.”

“I saw what Nilfgaard left of Cintra. Gods had nothing to do with it.”

Jaskier turns to face her, taking in her hollow eyes. “Where have you been? I heard you’d died at Sodden Hill. I…” He breaks off, because he feels pathetic admitting the depths of his grief this past month, the way he nearly drank away his career and his life.

Yennefer’s jaw clenches in a way that reminds him of Geralt, not that she would appreciate the comparison. “I was taken by Nilfgaard’s mage, Fringilla, right after the battle. I spent a month in captivity. They thought they could use me to lure Geralt out, that our connection would alert him to my predicament.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “Oh, fuck. Yenn…”

She shakes her head sharply, like she’s trying to shake off his sympathy. “When that didn’t work, they were planning to find you and torture his location out of you.”

Wincing, Jaskier touches his ribs. “Yeah, I figured that.”

“Fringilla put a spell on me that kept me docile,” Yennefer says softly. “It stopped me from wanting to escape and the dimeritium cuffs did the rest. But I heard her giving instructions to Rience. I knew the kind of man he is, how much he enjoys inflicting pain.” She touches the bump on the bridge of her nose almost absent-mindedly and Jaskier is suddenly flooded with the burning urge to track Rience down and eviscerate him. “I realized what he would do to you, bardling, and that knowledge broke through the haze. I had to get to you, no matter what it took.”

Jaskier can’t be on the other side of the room from her anymore. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he crosses the space between them, dropping down to his knees in front of her and taking her hands in his. They feel so fragile, her fingers thin and riddled with small cuts. “Yenn, I’m so sorry. The mountain—”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “I thought you were dead and the last conversation we’d ever had was a fight because I was too stupid and jealous about the djinn bond to see that you were hurting and—”

Yennefer pulls one hand from his grasp to cup his cheek in his hand. “That explains all the empty liquor bottles.”

Jaskier laughs without humor, feeling tears slipping out from behind his closed eyelids and down his cheeks. “I thought you were gone and Geralt too. I thought I lost both of you.”

“No, Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “You haven’t lost either of us. No matter what happens between Geralt and me, you won’t.”

Jaskier can’t hold back the tears anymore, so he buries his face into her lap and lets himself weep, letting out the grief and the terror and the pain. She doesn’t offer verbal assurances— if she did, he would really think this was a cruel trick of Rience’s— but she cards her fingers through his hair as gently as she would if they were lying in bed together. Jaskier cries until his eyes are sore and dry, but doesn’t lift his head from her lap. Part of him feels like the moment he stops touching her, she’ll vanish.

“I wore myself out portaling here and fighting Rience,” Yennefer says. Her voice would sound perfectly calm, if not for the faint tremor. “But tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do about your ribs. And then in a day or two, we can portal to Kaer Morhen to join Geralt.”

Jaskier lifts his head to meet her eyes. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think Kaer Morhen is the one place Nilfgaard won’t find us,” she says. “Once Rience stops smoldering, he’ll be back. I won’t leave you here for him to find.”

Jaskier shudders at the very thought. “But you and Geralt…”

“If it will keep you and Cirilla safe, we’ll figure things out.” She brushes his tears away with her thumb. “We can worry about Geralt and me after we’re safe in Kaer Morhen, bardling. Or as safe as anyone is in a crumbling old ruin.”

“At least I have you to stop the ceiling from collapsing on me.” He offers her a watery smile.

Her returning smile is a small, almost unsure thing. “You say that like I wouldn’t be the one bringing the ceiling down on top of you.”

“Ah, Yennefer.” Tentatively, he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “There’s the sweet disposition I missed so much.”

“Did you hit your head during your ordeal?”

“Most likely, yes.”

Yennefer squeezes his hand and pulls him up to sit on the bed next to her. “I missed you too, bardling.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and rests his chin on the top of her head. “Thank you for coming for me. I didn’t think anyone would.”

Yennefer leans against him, letting out a shaky little breath. “I’ll always come for you. So will Geralt. I’m sorry you doubted that.”

Jaskier puts his arms around her, the awkwardness of their separation pushed to the side, and lets himself hold her like he hasn’t in over a year, like he thought he never would again. Tomorrow, they’ll have to have a longer talk about the dragon hunt, the djinn wish, and Geralt. Apologies will need to be made and conversations about the future had. They’ll have to make their way to Kaer Morhen to reunite with Geralt and meet his child surprise. They’ll have to figure out what to do now that Nilfgaard is after both of them.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, Jaskier just wants to hold the woman he loves and forget everything else.

***

#the witcher #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing #what about the bard #whump the bard

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lilith-of-rivia · 4 years

Text

The Bard’s Sister

Geralt X Reader

Part 2

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Masterlist

Summary: Geralt of Rivia and his long time travel companion Jaskier find themselves in Jaskiers home land. A place Geralt had not only never seen nor heard of. Jaskier is ready to reunite its his family after traveling and exploring the world for 20 years. The one person he missed the most was his baby sister (Y/N). Who he hadn't seen since she was 5. The journey is long, but the pay off is grander then they would ever be able to predict. This is still part of our introduction to the main characters and their personalities in this story. Next chapter will be more about (Y/N) and Geralt. I know I am trash at summaries.

I would like to state that I do plan on adding a pregnancy in the future to this story. (I know Geralt is steril. Just bare with me and the story line I’ve created) I just wanted to let eveyone know because I would hate for someone to get attached to the character and story only to have a plot line they do not like for themselves. I know not everyone like pregnancy plot lines but I’m such a sucker for dad!Geralt.

Trigger warnings: Cursing

Pairings: GeraltxReader JaskierxSister!reader

Word count: 6,369

(Changed from 3rd to 1st person)

The sun was high in the sky, it was nearly two in the afternoon. The garden below the large windows of the castle was shining brightly. The birds chirping, children playing in the river that ran through the center of the city. Life was good. The sun was shining a little brighter today. It was because Jaskier was finally home.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed him till he was back. After breakfast, we walked around the castle’s courtyard. He and Geralt introduced me to their horses. To my pleasant surprise, Roach took a particular liking to me, as did her owner. He was nothing like the rumors. There were many times that I traveled out of our borders into the western part of the continent, and every time people had nothing but cruel fowl things to say about the poor witcher. Sure he wasn't perfect, but no one was.

“Would you like to see my studies?” I asked as we walked down the long corridors that lead to three separate staircases. I glanced between the two men that were on either side of me.

“Your studies?” Jaskier asked looking down at me. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I told you in my letter that I’ve been working with a man over the last couple of years. He has trained me well. But I have many books, drawings notes all sorts of stuff that I’ve written about the world outside of our home.” We approached the base of the three staircases.

“I’ve never seen a castle so big in my life.” Geralt’s sultry voice flooded my ears once again. I couldn’t help but smile up at him. He was so polite. He never turned his nose at us. I knew he didn’t have a very positive history with others like us. Yet he sent no judgment towards myself or my parents. He just listened, followed, and learned. I had never met someone so open to the world yet so closed off that the same time, and we’ve barely even begun to get o know each other.

“Our mines are some of the richest you’d ever see in your life. From coal to diamonds. Nearly 85% of all ores get mined and sent out to the rest of the continent.” I started walking up the staircase on the far left, the stairs led up a long corridor that was open and bright, the mountains that shielded us from the rest of the world in perfect view. Both were still by my side. I stopped at the first picture that hung on the wall.

“That’s my great-great-grandfather, he only recently passed but he started all of this.” I looked towards Geralt. He was listing intently, his eyes on me as soon as I looked in his direction. I knew Jaskier knew our history so I wasn't too worried if he was paying attention or not.

“He came here from Termieria with his 6 younger brothers. The mines here had been closed for many many years. The town was completely deserted. There was a serious necrophage problem that no one wanted to deal with, so they just up and left. Leaving the plentiful mines full for someone else.”

“Necrophages?” Geralt questioned his eyebrow tiling in curiosity.

“The people who inhabited the lands before we did, had not known of the creatures. Didn’t properly bury the dead. My grandfather wrote in his journal that when they got here the streets were lined with bodies that had been drug out of their shallow graves, crypts had been broken into. His best guess is that a flue came before the people fled, killing many in a short period.” I started walking ahead of the two men, down the hall towards my room. I pushed the door open walking in placing my books on the night table as they followed in slowly behind me. Their eyes wandered over every inch. Jaskier started wandering through the room looking at every picture on the wall. Most of them were sketches, mostly of him. Or the people he sang about in his ballads. He grabbed one off the wall and laughed softly.

“Who is this supposed to be?” I walked over to him and laughed softly, my cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.

“That, that uh was my first sketch of Geralt.” The sound of his name got his attention, he was trying to be polite and not snoop. Although I didn't care if he wanted to look around. He walked away from the door over to Jaskier and me. He lingered behind me, very close behind me. I could feel his body heat on my back and his warm breath on my face as he peered over my shoulder at the parchment Jaskier was holding.

“How old were you when you did this?” Jaskier asked.

“Eighteen, maybe nineteen. It was after your first balled about your adventures with Geralt that started to spread like wildfire. I went to a tavern one night with a friend and someone was singing it. I was intrigued by the song and asked them who they sang about. I was told they didn't write the song, our very own Prince had. So I listened to them play it over and over. I asked around the and so see if people knew what the famed witcher looked like. I got conflicting answers from nearly everyone I asked.” Geralt reached his arm over me, his hand gently brushing my arm, sending chills down my spine. His hand grasped the paper as he looked at it closely.

“They got the hair color right. That was about all. Some people have some very wild depictions that I drew, but none in any seriousness.” The particular one they were examining was nothing like Geralt. They got everything wrong but his hair color. Many people said he was a scrawny young lad with the strength of thousands of men, making him easier to blend in with the crowds. Granted this was very early on in my brother and the Witcher’s adventures together so not many people had paid close attention to the witcher.

“You drew what people described?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, some people tried to pay me but I told them to give it to the needy. I traveled with Serena for a couple of weeks right after I turned nineteen, we didn't venture far past the mountains but it was enough.” I couldn't help but frown at the memories of the people in the towns scowling and sticking their noses in the air when I asked about the Witcher and my brother.

“Can I see the other ones?” Geralt’s question took me by surprise.

“I don’t know…”

“Oh come on, you're very talented (Y/N), let him see them,” Jaskier said and shoved my shoulder playfully. I smiled softly at him but shook my head.

“It is not that I’m self-conscious of my work, it’s the depictions of Geralt outside of our Kingdom, for the most part, were cruel and inaccurate beyond belief. I only drew them because I was wasting their time asking questions. I honestly don't know why I kept them.” I nervously rubbed the back of my neck, the idea of Geralt seeing those ugly, horrendous, depictions of himself made my stomach turn. He didn’t deserve the hate he received. I never understood why people despised Witchers the way they did. I only experienced it outside of our kingdom. For some reason, whether it be our pure lack of monsters or the abundance of sunshine, my people seemed happier. Less judgmental than the outside world. I was grateful to live in such a kind and caring place, but it does get rather dull after a while.

“I’d still like to see them.” Geralt said softly as he handed the parchment back to me. I sighed slightly uncomfortable with the idea, I took the parchment and hung it back up on the wall.

“Let’s make a deal,” I said turning to them both.

“Oh boy.” Jaskier teased.

“I’ll show you the drawings if you let me paint you now, so I have an accurate model. Not just words.” Geralt’s eyes looked over me, his arms crossing over his chest. A small smirk formed over his lips as he watched me intently.

“If you want to draw me so bad, just ask dove.” The nickname nearly threw me off my feet. My heartbeat quickened at a rapid pace and I couldn't even look him in the eye. Jaskier snickered and pulled out a chair by my desk. He was enjoying this way too much. I cleared my throat swelling thickly.

“T-that I uh..” I had never been one to not have words. According to my parents, I talked too much. Just like my brother. Yet here I was gobsmacked and wordless. I grumbled under my breath moving to the desk Jaskier was sat at and made him move. He got up and I sat down. I opened the top hatch of the desk, lifting out folders and files of archives. Some containing spells, some more drawing, history of the continent, and even monster facts that I knew I wouldn’t ever need. I placed the folders on the floor. Jaskier grabbed a few and moved to my bed plopping himself down kicking his feet up. My head snapped over to him as he put his dirty boots all over my fresh linens.

“Jaskier. If you don't get your boots off my bed, I will castrate you.” I warned turning back around rummaging some more. I heard him kick off his shoes. Geralt chuckled behind me.

“Fiery are we.” He teased but I ignored him. Finally, at the bottom of all my work, I found the folder. I held it up to him, not wanting to watch his face as he looked at the disgusting depictions of himself.

“Thank you, dove.” His lip was right next to my ear. I felt frozen.

I couldn't tell if it was genuinely just a flirt or if this was directed to me. Sure I had heard the rumors of the witcher and his many women of the night, including the sorceress Yennefer. But this seemed different. I snapped back to reality when he let out a low chuckle. I turned around and stood up, peering over his arm to see what one he was looking at. This one was particularly nasty. His eyes were slanted like snake eyes, large fangs protruded out of his mouth, and his hair was a crazy mess. His eyes were blood red, his nose crooked from supposedly being punched so many times. His face was littered with so many scars he had scale-like skin. I remembered the man who gave me that description.

“I met this man in a tavern in Solveiga, it’s the furthest I've ever been from home.” Jaskier stood up walking over and looking at the drawing Geralt was studying carefully. I didn't know why he was spending so much time on such a cruel piece.

“He said you came through a few winters prior, he and a bunch of the townsmen had gathered some coins so you'd get rid of a Striga. I knew was lying the moment he opened his mouth.” Geralt looked up from the payment, his eyes meeting mine.

“Why do you think he's lying?” I took the folder from him, and just as I expected the parchment below the picture he was looking at was full of my notes. Every time I traveled and spoke to people about it. My brother or his companions took incredibly detailed notes, I never wanted to forget anything. I took the parchment out before handing him the folder back. I began to read the notes:

“This man takes me for a fool. No more than some silly girl. While he sits here and tells the tale of the Wolf he seems to be forgetting the incredibly important fact about Strigas, they only hunt during a full moon. He keeps saying that the beast was hunting their people every single night, slashing children, men, women, animals, every night for months. He’s using it to fuel the people's hatred of the witcher. He’s attempting to claim that they sent for him as soon as they knew of her presence. Claiming the witcher waited nearly three months before coming to discard the beast.” I flipped the page over scanning the meticulous notes.

“He said the beast was killed on a new moon, he said he remembers it so vividly because of the lack of moonlight while he escorted the witcher to her crypt. I may not be a witcher, but I am not stupid. The man is trying to make matters worse by lying through his crooked yellow teeth. How dare he tarnish a name for the sake of his prosperity.” Geralt chuckled at the last part making me look up at him, he had an amused smile on his face, his eyes twinkled as he looked at me.

“Why are you laughing?” I tilted my head to the side slightly and he just shook his head, putting the folder of parchment into the desk. He knelt and began picking up the rest of the folders neatly placing them inside the desk where they came from.

“Because you got so mad that someone lied about me, yet you at the time were not even sure I was a real thing-“

“Person.” I quickly corrected him. His eyes glanced at me, he didn't move his head as he continued placing my papers where they belonged.

“What?” He asked.

“You called yourself a thing, you're not a thing Geralt. You're a real living breathing person.” His eyes found my own again. My heart raced as he studied my eyes. I had never seen anything so beautiful. His eyes were like hot pools of gold and honey. The complexity of the colors was mesmerizing.

“And I wasn't only mad that he was lying about you, I was mad that he was lying in general. About something anyone could disprove if they just picked up a book on monsters.” I noticed the parchment with the drawing he was just looking at was on my bed. I grabbed it to put it back on the desk. Geralt's strong hand gently grasped my wrist stopping me. His other hand gently grabbed the parchment from my hand.

“I’d like to keep this one if you don't mind.” I looked at him shocked.

“Why that one?? Of all the ones I've done you choose one of the most inaccurate and the crudest?” It made no sense to me. Why did he want that? Was it some fun game of his to think he was just some stupid monster?

“Because it shows your talent in a way the others don't. And besides, you got my nose perfectly. No one can do that.” I sighed heavily not liking the idea of him possessing such a cured drawing that was drawn purely on lies.

“Fine. Keep it.” He smiled vicariously. I’d let him keep every single one if he smiled like that all the time. The smile quickly vanished when Jaskier came back over with the first file he took. The one he had been studying was full of my notes on herbology and alchemy.

“You are incredibly smart (Y/N), I felt as though I was reading Yennefer’s notes.” A huge smile spread across my face at his compliment.

“Thank you, Jax.” Geralt was now walking around my room, hands tucked under his arms as he studied the drawing and notes hanging on the walls. Some drawings were of monsters, some of the random people I’d met on my short travels, some maps I’d drawn up so I’d remember where I wanted to go when I had the chance.

“Your talent is very wide-ranging, little dove. I have to say I’m very impressed with your knowledge.” That blasted nickname nearly kicked me off my feet again.

I looked out my window noticing the sun was getting lower in the sky.

“If you'd like to get new clothes I’d suggest we do it now, it’ll be dark soon and the shops close earlier in the week.” Gertrude turned to me, nodding his head.

“Please. These pants are so tight I’m afraid I may lose my legs.”

We walked down the street. The sun was close to setting in the sky. The cool air kissed my bare chest as we walked. It was a comfortable silence between the three of us. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable in silence. I hated the quiet with most people, it left room for negative thoughts, negative energies. Most times when it was unbearably quiet when I was present was because I was shut down from talking by the people around me. I know they meant no harm, I knew I had a lot to handle at times. I was just lonely. Board. I only had a few true friends. Most of the people I grew up with were married and with children now. I spent a lot of time alone, I liked being alone. It gave me space to think about the world. The world outside my small one.

We approached the seamstress, walking through the wood door. A small bell rang in as we entered. Hildi walked out from the back, a bright smile on her face. She was a sweet older woman, not much older than my mum. She had been running this shop for as long as I could remember. She was the best seamstress in the country in my opinion.

“Princess (Y/N)!! What a lovely surprise!” She walked around the counter and hugged me softly. Her hands-on the sweater I was in. She made it for me many years back for a birthday gift. She always had the best gifts. Full of love. I did adore the woman. Her attention turned to the men next to me. Her eyes grew bigger, her hand gently coming up to her chest.

“My gods. The rumors were true. Jaskier!! How wonderful it is to see you again!!” Her hands wrapped around my brother who hugged her back. I couldn't tell if he remembered her or if he was just being nice. As she released him she looked at Geralt who was visibly tense, scared that she may try and hug him.

“You must be Geralt of Rivia!” He nodded.

“Rain!! Get out here!! And bring me my Witcher’s guide!!” Geralt's eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the book. He shot me a glance and I just smiled. A few moments later Hildi’s daughter Rain appeared. She was my age. We knew each other in school. She was never nice to me. Picked on me. Would make jokes about Jaskier not being around. I never told anyone, in fear people would think I was nothing but a stuck up princess. Her presence made me uneasy. I slowly took a small step back, inching closer to my brother. Rain’s eyes landed on Geralt. I could practically see the drool pooling in her mouth.

“Gods save me.” She moaned out. I had to fight off the urge to cringe at her outward burst.

“The tales are true then?” She looked directly at me.

“So maybe you weren’t lying all these years.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes.

Hildi was very blind to her daughter's cruelness. After her husband passed away it was just her and Rain. She’d do anything for her. I understood that. She was a devoted mother and wife. I knew how heartbroken she was. She walked to Rain and took the book from her hand and grabbed a quill that had been dipped in ink. She turned to Geralt, a very soft smile on her face.

“Would you sign this for me?” His eyes bulged out of his head.

“Y-you want me to sight your book?” I held back a giggle at his shock. He truly wasn't used to being appreciated.

“Yes, please. If it is not too much to ask. Your stories were what got me through my husband’s death. Had it not been for the ballads and tales of your great bravery I may have not made it through.” Geralt’s shoulders softened at her words. He nodded his head and walked over to the counter. She opened the book to the first page and he scribbled down his name before giving her a soft smile. She gently placed her hand on his arm and squeezed.

“You are truly a great hero here Geralt. If our country had a mascot, you'd be it.” Jaskier chucked lowly at her comment making me swat the back of his he’d. He hissed in pain and looked at me. I glared at him.

“Do not ruin this for him,” I whispered.

Hildi turned her attention back to me and smiled.

“What can I do for you today my dear?”

“Well as you can see, Jaskier has a sore taste in fashion and also doesn’t understand sizing. I was hoping you could fit them in some better, more comfortable garments. Maybe a set of nice clothes for my party as well?” She gleamed. She hurried around her counter, grabbing a piece of parchment and measuring tape. She came back around and wasted no time in messing the two men. I sat down at a table by the window and watched as she rummaged through somethings in the back of her store.

“So you're like a real witcher?” Rain’s voice caught my attention. She was leaning over the counter, her dress pulled down, the cleavage of her breasts on clear display as she dumbly curled her blond hair in her fingers.

“No. I'm a fake one.” Geralt said back unamused.

“But like are the rumors true?” She asked leaning even further over the counter. She was trying so desperately hard to get him to look down her dress. But he was simply uninterested. I felt my heartburn with envy. I hated that it did. He wasn't mine, he was nowhere near it. But the thought of him looking at her like that made my blood boil.

“Rumors about what?” He took a step back from the counter slowly making his way over to where Jaskier and I were.

“Ya know. About your huge cock.” Jaskier and I both choked on our spit. My hand flew over my mouth to keep my laugh in. It was a good thing her mother’s hearing wasn't all that great. Geralt looked visibly uncomfortable. He sat down in the chair next to me, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Jaskier and I were both trying to get ourselves under control after her question. She was completely unfazed. She thought she was hot shit.

“Common witcher. Tear me apart. Show me the real monster you can be.” That sentence made my grip on the chair so tight I thought I could’ve broken the arm in half. I probably could have if I did not have any self-control. I’m much stronger than I look.

“Do not call him that.” I hissed. My teeth were clenched so hard I was sure I was breaking them. Her eyes flicked over to me. She looked me up and down trying to size me up.

“Call him what? A witcher. Honey are you dumb. That’s what he is.” In a second I was inches from her face. I could feel my blood pumping thru my veins.

“Do not ever call him a monster again.” I was a bit shocked at how mean I sounded. I had never been this angry with her before. I wanted to punch her stupid smile in more than anything.

“(Y/N)..” I heard Jaskier’s voice behind me. He was very close to me. My hands were balled in fists at my sides. My knuckles were turning white with how angry I was.

“I promise you, studying princess, he's been called worse.” She smiled cheekily at me and her hand came up and she attempted to pat my face like I was a dog. My reflexes were much faster than she realizes. I grabbed ahold of her wrist in an intron grip. I began to squeeze and bend her wrist back away from my face. Her face contorted in pain. She wasn't expecting me to be as strong as I was.

“I said-'' I squeezed harder, and she gasped slightly as she tried to pull her hand away. “Do not call him that.” I threw her hand away from me before turning around and walking by the window. I hadn't realized both Jaskier and Geralt were standing behind me.

Moments later Hildi came out completely oblivious to the scene that just took place. She had a cloth sack filled with clothes and placed them on the counter.

“Alright, dearly that’ll be 45 coins.” She said as she wrote down the total in her book. I stood quickly pulling the amount from my coin purse and putting it in her hand. I smiled at her as best I could, Jaskier grabbed the bag of clothes.

“If something doesn’t go right, bring them back.”

“Thank you Hildi, very much.” Geralt said a charming smile on his lip. He gently shook her hand kissing the top of it.

“Thank you, Geralt. It was a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger.” She patted his cheek as a mum does. I turned on my heels and walked out of the shop. The cold air hit my hot face. My blood pumped slow and hard through my veins as the anger disappeared from my body. Jaskier came out of the shop and threw his arm over my shoulders leaning into me.

“Thank you.” He whispered lowly, Great not being very far behind us as we walked to the castle.

“For?”

“Defending him. Many people don’t realize how much he’s heard throughout his lifetime. I’m glad I’m not the only one who wants to help.” I turned to him and smiled. I leaned into his side hugging him gently before, turning around walking backward as I looked at Geralt.

“If you would like, I’ll show you both to your rooms, and you can change. We can then have tea in the garden and I can draw you.” A soft smile graced his lips, his eyebrow rising softly.

“You seriously want to draw me?” I nodded my head and stopped walking, but he didn’t. He kept getting closer and closer till he was a few inches from me.

“Yes, Geralt I do. You have a special spot in my heart, not just because I believe you are a true knight. And many people are just too scared to admit that, but also for keeping my brother safe all these years. You deserve to feel appreciated.” His features softened as his eyes searched my face before settling on my own eyes. His hand gently came up and he moved a small piece of hair from my face.

“A deal is a deal, little dove.” I felt as though my soul was being sucked out through his hand. Every fiber in my body wanted to pull him closer to me, to show him love, and tenderness. Something I knew he never actually had.

“Good, follow me,” I said with a smile.

After I showed them to their rooms; my brother’s old room not far from my own, and Geralt’s which shared a wall with my room, I went down to the garden. My easel, charcoals, and paints were set up on the table as they came down from changing and freshening up. Geralt looked more beautiful in clothes he could breathe in. his attire was so simple yet he made it look like the finest silks and jewels. It was a soft cotton button-down, it was loos on him, his pants were tight, but in a way that allowed him to move and feel free. I could tell by the way he walked he felt much more comfortable and in his element.

“You look like you feel better,” I said with a smile. Even Jaskier changed. A white shirt. And some black pants. He looked as he always did when I was a kid. The obscene choices in fashion were only adopted after he left home.

“I do.” I plainly said, a small smile on his lips. He and Jaskier sat down and I poured them tea. They both snacked on a few fruit tarts while I began sketching the background of the garden. allowing them to eat and not have to sit still just yet.

“So...while I draw maybe you could both share a story?” I glanced behind my paper and looked at the two. Jaskier smiled and leaned back into his chair fixing his hair and popping open a few buttons for the portrait.

“What story do you want to hear?” Geralt asked. Leaning back, his shoulders relaxing, a small piece of hair fell from the bit that he had tied back. It looked deliciously messy. It made him look disheveled, nearly like he was right out of bed.

“Wait!” I yelled and grabbed his hand gently, pulling his hand back softly.

“I like it. Keep it.” his hand went back down to his leg to rest. His eyes watched me for a few minutes. I studied their faces beginning my base sketches.

“What story shall we tell her Geralt?” Jaskier asked as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back to the sky, the last of the light kissing his skin.

“We could tell her about the Djinn?” Geralt said back, glancing at Jaskier before looking back at me, a coy smile on his face.

“A Djinn?? I’ve only ever read myths about them. You encountered one?” My curiosity was blossoming, the urge to get more details about the creatures I had been taught about.

“Geralt here was going onto day gods knows what on no sleep. He was beyond grumpy.” Jaskier tilted his head back up and looked at me with a smirk.

“The git said my singing was like a pie with no filling!!” I couldn’t hold back my laugh. It was much louder than I wanted, not very ladylike at all.

“Oh… I may have to steal that one.” I said in between giggles, whipping my eyes.

“I was hoping to use a wish from the Djinn to help me sleep. But unfortunately, your brother got in the way.” As Geralt spoke I moved into his details on his face, my eyes traveling all over his beautiful face. From the way, his brows arched to the cute little dimple on his chin. His face was beautiful. Some scares were prominent enough that I could see them if I looked hard enough he had one on his cheek, it looked newer than all the others, the skin being a bit lighter than the rest of his skin.

“What did he do this time?”

“He decided that because I told him I no longer appreciated his singing that he would take the Djinn away from me till I took back what I said.”

“And let me guess, you didn’t take it back?” I glanced at him from behind my easel, he was watching me closely, his eyes slanted like he was studying a pray.

“No. No, he didn’t. And I almost died!” Jaskier shouted dramatically causing my eyes to drift from Geralt over to him.

“Don’t be dramatic Jaskier,” I mumbled, putting down the charcoal I had been using. Now turning my attention to the paints I had in front of me. I started mixing the colors Id need for Geralt’s skin tone.

“No, this time he’s right. He did almost die. Unfortunately for Jaskier, he refused to let go of the vase the Djinn was in. While we tugged on it, the lid came off. Maybe the Djinn knew I was a witcher and its curse wouldn’t work on me, or maybe it was just annoyed at Jaskier. Either way, it attacked him.” My eyes were focused on the painting, brows furrowed as he spoke. I waited a moment for him to continue but he didn’t.

“I’m listing Geralt, please continue,” I said my eyes moving to his, the colores pooling in my head as I prepared for what pigments id be using to paint them.

“I don’t want to interrupt.” I shook my head a soft smile on my face.

“I will,” Jaskier said as he sipped his tea, looking at me.

“The Djinn attacked my throat. Made it swell, I was coughing up blood.” My painting stopped as I looked at him. My stomach sank a little as he spoke. I knew Jaskier had been put in harm’s way before but hearing the first-hand accounts made my stomach ache.

“Geralt took me to an elven healer that wasn’t too far from where the river bed was. Unfortunately for me, he couldn’t help me. But he knew of a mage that could help.” My hand started to paint again, filling in the sketch with colors on Jaskier’s face as he spoke.

“We can skip over those details Jaskier.” Geralt huffed crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why? Don’t want my baby sister knowing that we had to sit threw an entier orgey just for you to speak to the mage?” Jaskier snickered looking away from me to his friend,

“Jaskier, shut up.” Geralt grumbled. His eyes avoided my own when I went to look at him.

“An orgey?” I had heard the word but hadn’t ever fully understood what it was.

“What’s that?” I questioned looking at my brother. His head fell back as he cackled.

“Oh dear sister how you’ve been so sheltered from the world.” My cheeks flushed red at his words.

“Jaskier don’t be rude,” I mumbled grabbing a fine liner brush from my pile. Adding some final detail into Jaskier’s blue eyes.

“It’s when a very large group of people get together in one room and have sex.” The blood rushed to my head at his words. I could feel my ears turning red. My brother was right. I had been sheltered about sex in my family. I didn’t have friends who I could talk to it about, and never really had anyone in my life I was willing to have sex with.

Unlike many women my age I never viewed my virginity like a sacred rose that no one could touch, I just wanted it to be lost to someone who deserved it. No someone I was forced to allow to deserve it.

“Oh look at how red she is.” Jaskier snickered standing up and poking my sides. I smacked his hands away glaring at him. He was now able to see the nearly completed painting. All I had left was my Geralt’s eyes and some details in his hair.

“Gods (Y/N), this is amazing.” He whispered his hand on my shoulder. I smiled softly, swallowing the spit that had gathered in my throat thickly.

“Thank you, please sit down and continue your story.” Jaskier did as I asked.

“The mage was Yennefer. She helped me. Saved my life. The mage and I may not get along, but I do owe her my life.” I smiled softly as he spoke of the mage I had heard so much about.

“I’ll be sure to thank her myself if I ever come across her,” I said with a smile. My attention turned back to Geralt who didn’t look please at the topic of our conversation. His eyes were on his leg that bounced slightly. He was anxious.

“Geralt love, I cannot see your eyes. That’s nearly all I have left.” At the sound of my voice, his head tilted up so he could look at me in the eye.

I smiled sweetly at him. I broke eye contact as I added in the different hues of orange and a bit of red. Some gold flecks showed themselves in his inner iris. The depth of the color was so enchanting. I could paint just his eyes forever. I finished with his hair after a few minutes of silence. Both men just enjoying the warm afternoon air. They both looked relaxed, peaceful, safe even.

“I’ve finished, boys,” I said whipping my hands on my apron. I stood up and turned the easel around to the two. They both sat up straight, eyes wandering all over the painting.

“You, my dear sister are beyond talented.” Jaskier mused looking at me, a bright smile on his face.

“We both are.” I smiled at him. Geralt was still examining the painting, his eyes flicking over every inch of himself. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not. It made me nervous.

“I know the hair isn’t perfect. I’m still trying to get the brush technique down-”

“It is perfect.” Geralt interrupted me, a smile on his face as he looked at me.

I smiled back at him, my heart beating a little quicker.

“Can I keep it?” Geralt asked.

“Seriously?” I asked him.

“Well, actually it’s probably best you keep it. I don’t have a home, so I wouldn’t want to ruin it…” I smiled softly, taking a step closer to him.

“I’ll keep it safe but if you ever have a place that you want to keep it, ill get it to you,” I said, softly stroking the stray strand of hair behind his ear. His face tilted up as he looked at me.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night boys,” I said gathering my items in my hands.

“What about dinner?” Jaskier asked.

“I’ll grab something from the kitchen, I’m quite tired. I need a bath. I’ll see you both in the morning.” I said hugging Jaskier goodnight. I turned to Geralt, courage surging through my veins. I bent down and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Goodnight Geralt.” His cheeks turned a very, very soft shade of pink, but only for a moment. Our eyes locked again.

“Good night, dove.”

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