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wolves-and-dragons · 3 months ago

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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 2

Main Masterlist

Chapter 1

Synopsis: As the time draws near for the Lady of Larks to give birth, the witchers of Kaer Morhen begin to speculate who the father in question of this unborn child might be. Geralt, meanwhile, would rather spend this time reconnecting with his former lover and be there to support her in her time of need.

In flashes of the past, we see the budding relationship between the Lady Lark and Prince Daemon -however unstable it might be- begin to take root as she spends her days singing ballads for the prince's niece and her friend. Though the troubaritz has rejected Daemon's advances thus far, little does she know the extent a dragon will go to possess his much sought after treasure.

CW: Pregnancy, labor, dub-con, swearing Daemon being jealous and possessive. MINORS DNI

------------flashback: King's Landing, the Red Keep-------------

"What songs shall I play for you today, Princess?" you inquire of Rhaenyra, who had summoned you to her chambers to entertain her while she dined with her friend and lady Alicent Hightower.

"I would like to hear more songs from the Continent across the sea," Rhaenyra. "Anything specific?" you ask as you tune your lute.

"Anything with magic and monster perhaps," the princess answers, "do you know any ballads with more cursed knights." "Maybe not knights," you admit, "but I do happen to have written one about a cursed princess."

Alicent looked to Rhaenyra, clearly not comfortable with such a subject, yet Rhaenyra nodded in approval and you did as the princess bid.

So you sang of the tale of the striga and the witcher that saved her.

"That was beautiful," Rhaenyra praises, sipping her tea, "this witch chose to spare the princess rather than kill her. Sounds like an honorable man." "Not a witch, princess, a witcher," you correct. "What exactly is a witcher?" Alicent asks curious. It just occurred to you no one in this side have the world have probably ever seen a witcher, let alone knew what one was.

"A witcher is someone, a man usually, who hunts monsters for coin, my lady," you explain, "they are taken to this place somewhere in the Continent as boys and fed magic herbs that mutate their bodies that heighten their senses and allow them to use magic. They are trained to fight using silver swords along with the art of alchemy to allow them to make potions that aid in slaying monsters that roam the Continent."

"You say witchers are meant to slay monsters," Rhaenyra brings up, "yet the one in your song chose to spare this monster."

"As you said, princess, it was an act of an honorable man," you point out, briefly experiencing a flashback to the time you spent with the White Wolf.

After that, you continued to play a couple short songs until Rhaenyra had enough and dismissed you from her chambers. You nod and walk out, only to bump into what initially felt like a wall of bricks. Instead it was the one person you least wanted to see.

"What do you want, my Prince?" you ask, rubbing the bridge of your nose from where you bumped him. "I believe you were the one who ran into me, Little Lark," Daemon says, smirking as he usually did.

This was something that happened every now and again in the last couple months since you've been brought into the princess' service. Whenever Rhaenyra would call on you to entertain her and you would leave afterwards you would almost always run into Daemon who would just look at you with that characteristic arrogant look on his face. You were certain at this point he was doing this on purpose, but of course he would deny it each time, and this often led to you exchanging words of venom towards him. To your surprise, Daemon really never made much of an effort to retaliate.

You turn and leave, not wanting to waste your breath anymore on this man, but Daemon only stepped in front of your path, "What's your hurry, Little Lark?" he ask, making you turn your gaze away, really hating his pet name for you at this point, "perhaps I would wish you to entertain me this evening." "I'm here to entertain only the princess, your Grace," you point out, "you were not part of that deal."

"What if it was a different kind of entertainment?" Daemon asks, making your eyes widen when you saw his smirk grow even wider, and you realized what he was implying.

"I'm not a whore," you point out. "Of course not," Daemon agrees, "that would imply coin was exchanged for a moment of your time beneath the sheets, which would not be the case."

You scoff and turn your back, intending to walk away before you said or did something you would regret, but Daemon was faster and got in your way again, "please let me go about my own business, Prince," you say, teeth clenched at this point.

"I will after you give me a moment of your time, Little Lark," Daemon says, making you huff out in annoyance. "Fine," you cross your arms, wanting to get this over with.

Small smile on his face, the Rogue Prince takes a hand, placing it on the small of your back, gently pushing you towards his private chambers.

-------end of flashback: Kaer Morhen-----------

"Feels like everything is going well so far," Triss Merigold states after examining your baby bump. The sorceress had just moved into Kaer Morhen a few months ago at Geralt's request to help out with Ciri's gift, and she had also taken it upon herself to help you out with your pregnancy.

"When do you think this little one's going to come out?" you ask, placing your hands on your lower back. This baby had grown a lot bigger than you anticipated, and it was causing all sorts of pain at this point. You also found yourself needing to get up to make water more often, which was made inconvenient by how difficult it was to get up now.

"Hard to say," Tris admits, "but judging by the size of your belly, it should be any day now."

"Ugh, that day can't come soon enough," you grown, sitting down, "I swear this babe will pop out of my belly if it gets any bigger." Triss laughed at that, "I've yet to see that happen."

"Have you delivered a baby before?" you ask. "Not quite," Tris admits, "but I've supplied herbs and potions before to ease labor pains."

"Have...have you ever witnessed any difficult births before?" you ask.

"Is this something your worried about?" Triss asks. "I uh, well..." you looked a bit, "I didn't witness it, but the father of this baby, his sister-in-law she died in childbirth. It was a breech birth apparently and in order to save the baby, the maesters cut open the woman. She died from the blood loss." "Did they even give her any herbs or some kind of sedation?" Tris' eyes widen. "I uh, I don't think so." you shake your head.

"Oh, how barbaric!" Tris says in disgust.

"Yeah it was," you agree, "and it turned out to be futile as the babe only lived for a few hours after birth. It was a boy."

Tris takes your hand in hers as a gesture of comfort, "should this birth happen to be breech, I will use every spell I can to turn the babe. What happened to that woman is tragic. I'll see to it the same fate won't befall you."

"Thank you, Tris," you nod.

Right at that moment, Geralt walked in, "everything alright?" he asks. "As well as it can be," Tris answers. "Easy for you to say, you're not the one carrying this baby," you say, struggling to stand up.

Tris was about to help, but Geralt was faster and rushed to help you on your feet, "What a gentleman," you joke, "Is supper ready yet?" "Just set up in the dinning hall already," Geralt confirms, leading you to said hall.

You saw Eskel, Coen, Lambert, and Vesemir were already seated and eating. Ciri was nowhere to be seen, but this was a normal occurrence recently. The girl would train to the point of exhaustion sometimes and end the day crawling back to her room and falling asleep.

The other witchers had adjusted to your presence here the same way they adjusted to Ciri being here.

Although you would get questions, mostly from Vesemir, every so often about the baby and the baby's father. You couldn't really blame the old man; Kaer Morhen was an unusual place for a pregnant woman to hunker down and raise a child.

The old witcher, however, figured you reason was for protection, but how was he supposed to protect you both when he didn't even know who it was you were wanting protection from.

Geralt meanwhile didn't question you about your past dalliance with the baby's father. All he knew was that you were scared of this man to know of your child and you had sought the witcher out for help.

In truth, Geralt was happy to have you back in his life; he had often thought about you over the last few years, especially the memories of your intimate moments together.

Whatever you had done in between was in the past, there was no need to interrogate on such things.

Later that evening, when everyone had gone to bed, you had tossed and turned in your bed. It was so cold in here, colder than usual. You weren't sure if the pregnancy had something to do with it; you've heard most got hot when they were this close to the end.

Maybe it was the baby. You remembered what was said about dragons, that they prefer heat; perhaps the little dragon inside was using your warm as its heat source.

You stood up, knowing you weren't going to be sleeping anytime soon. You needed some warmth.

You walk to the one place you were sure to get it.

You knock on the door next to your room and Geralt answered it. "(y/n)?" he frowns a bit, confused as to why you were knocking at this hour. "I uh, I'm cold, I can't sleep because of it," you admit, "Is there room in your bed to uh..."

Geralt nods, knowing what you were asking and pulls you into his room.

He lays down and helps you lay down next to him.

"Just like old times right?" you ask as he drapes a blanket over you. "Old times didn't involve this," Geralt jokes, placing a hand on your bump. You turn to face Geralt, "this still feels good," you burying your face in his chest, "I feel cozy now."

It was quiet now. You started to feel lulled by the warmth the witcher provided, "I missed doing this with you," he hears you say right as you fall asleep.

---------flashback----------------

Once there in his chambers, Daemon took a seat at the table, pouring a glass of wine for himself. After taking a sip, he pours another one after glass and offers it to you. You accept, taking a fairly big gulp as this was the only way you could tolerate this man's presence.

He gestures for you to sit next to him, which you oblige.

"So, which is it? A song or a quick romp in the bed?" you ask sarcastically. "Maybe I just want to talk," Daemon shrugs. "What would you want to talk to me about?" you ask, taking another gulp of wine.

"Your songs perhaps?" Daemon suggests, taking a sip from his own glass, "particularly the one I overheard serenade my niece earlier."

"Oh, you heard," you realize, "I don't suppose you heard anything while eavesdropping on what was supposed to be a private conversation."

"Something about witchers," Daemon admits, "unlike Rhaenyra I have heard of them. I hear they snatch boys from their beds in order to produce more of their kind, and the magic that is used to mutate them also deprive them of their emotions. Where is honor in such a fate?"

"Those things aren't true," you tell him, "only reason people say that is because they haven't met many witchers, they simply despise what they don't know."

Daemon raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your passion in defending such beings, "speaking from experience?" he asks, "have you known many witchers?" "I've actually only known one," you admit, tongue feeling a little loose from the wine. "The one being from your song of the cursed princess?" Daemon asks. You said nothing, turning your gaze back to the wine goblet.

"You said he was an honorable man," Daemon said, leaning in close to you, "how can a mutant swell sword possibly be honorable?" "He slays monsters and save lives," you say, feeling very aware of how close you were to the prince. "You speak highly of this man," Daemon states. "He's...despite his reputation and rough exterior, he's a good man deep down who cares about others."

"Did he care for you?" Daemon asks, sense of jealousy creeping up in him, "enough to make a woman out of you?"

You backed away, "I really don't think that's any of your business," you feel your face heating up.

"Huh," Daemon says, not moving from his spot, "I've also heard witchers are notorious for being lecherous." "You're hardly one to talk about lechery," you lightly laugh, not being a stranger to Daemon's extramarital exploits. "Tell me, Little Lark," he continues, "did he seduce you? Did he force himself on you when he took your virtue?"

You knew then what Daemon was implying. Did he think you've never been with a man this whole time? Was that his plan for you? Was that why you intrigued him the way you did?

"Whatever he did to me wasn't anything I didn't want," you scoff, standing up and turning to leave, "And just so you know, prince, I may not be a whore, but I was far from virtuous long BEFORE I ever met him."

You weren't sure why you said that last part, but if Daemon was only interested in you because of your perceived maidenhood, hopefully this would be enough to drive him away and leave you alone at last.

Unknown to you, that only did the opposite. Now more then ever, Daemon was determined to seduce you and take you in a way that would make you forget this witcher or any other man that had been inside you before.

------end of flashback: Kaer Morhen, a few days later--------------

You lay with Geralt once again that night, his warmth comforting you. The last few days were uneventful, but at this point you just wanted this baby to come out right now and be done with all this discomfort.

You had Geralt had seem to have grown a little closer since your first night sharing his bed. The night before the two of you had even shared a kiss after reminiscing on some rather fond memories.

It really made you wonder why you had parted ways with the witcher in the first place.

This night, you moved and squirmed a bit, something that didn't go unnoticed by Geralt. "Is everything alright?" he asks, groggily waking up and rubbing his eyes.

"I uh, I'm not sure," you admit moving around some more due to sharp pains, "it hurts."

"Is it the baby?" Geralt lifts his head up, now alert. "Uh, maybe," you say, feeling another wave of pain rush through you, "Ah, I think I might be in labor."

"I'll get Tris," Geralt says, helping you sit up.

Over the course of the rest of the night, as your contractions started to become more frequent, you spent the whole time panting and crying and screaming and everything else in between. It hurt to sit so you elected to move around the room as much as you could, Tris got to work with the herbs, which she wasted no time administering. The herbs did indeed help, but you were still in pain from the contractions. Geralt was there to help you move around when you needed to.

As the time drew closer you laid on your side in the bed, screaming from the unbearable pain. Tris gave you more watered herbs and had Geralt help you sit upright so she could see what was happening, "looks like this baby is coming soon," she announces. "I change my mind," you say in between pants, "I don't think I can do this." "Well you don't exactly have a choice at this point, (y/n)," Tris says, "this baby is coming. When you feel you need to push, you better do so." "Please tell me it's not a breech," you say, praying it wouldn't be.

The time came to push, "it's not a breech," Tris announces, "I can see the head, you just need to push a little more." "I don't think I can," you say, exhausted from this whole thing. "Yes you can," Geralt encourages, "you're a strong woman (y/n), you made it all the way out here when this little one was still in you. You can handle this."

With a little encouragement from Geralt, with you holding onto his hand, you push once more, and then again.

Finally, the baby was out. And when you heard that little baby's small cry, you had never felt more relieved then you had your whole life.

"It's a girl," Tris announced, joy in her face. "A girl," you say, laughing a bit, "I gave birth to a girl. I have a daughter."

Tris took the babe away to be cleaned up while Geralt held you, giving you a small kiss on your temple, "you did well, (y/n)," he praises, "I knew you could do it." "I'm glad one of us thought so," you say jokingly, "Cause I wasn't sure if I could." Geralt chuckled at that.

"I'm sorry about the mess I made on your bed," you tell him. "Don't be," Geralt shrugs, "there's plenty more beds to go around in this keep."

Tris came back with your daughter wrapped up in a bundle. She hands the babe to you. "A babe with silver blonde hair," the sorceress comments, "how odd. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say Geralt here was the father of this child." "Geralt's hair is more white than blonde," you point out, "And if he was the father, this little one would probably have his eyes." "Her eyes are violet," Geralt notices, "blonde hair and violet eyes. She wouldn't happen to be part elf would she?" "Not quite," you admit, though there had been times if you wondered this girl would end up being part dragon. She had her father's traits, now part of you wondered if she would end up having his personality.

You wouldn't worry about that right now. Now, you would just focus on the little one in your arms.

The moment was cut short when you heard a knock at the door. On the other side was Vesemir, along with Eskel, Lambert, and Coen. "Oh, you lot heard me didn't you?" you realized. "I'm pretty sure the whole mountainside could hear you," Lambert jokes. "When you stopped, we figured the baby had finally arrived," Coen says, "so, boy or girl?"

"It's a girl," you tell them. "Ha! I knew it!" Eskel exclaims, "pay up, men," Coen and Lambert groan and each hand Eskel a small sack of coins. "You were taking bets?" you ask. "Not everyday an expecting mother comes to Kaer Morhen," Vesemir shrugs, "the lads wanted to make the most of it."

"What did you bet?" Geralt asks. Right on cue, Lambert and Coen reluctantly toss Vesemir another sack of coins his way, "you couldn't help yourself could you?" Geralt shakes his head. "You may find it hard to believe, wolf, but I like to have fun and gamble every so often, I'm not some stuffy old man," Vesemir points out, "besides, I never doubted. If the babe is strong as the mother, it was bound to be a girl."

"Thanks Vesemir," you say.

"What is the little brat's name?" Lambert grumbles, still sore that he had lost the bet. "Lambert, be nice," Coen scolds.

You look down at the baby. You had been thinking up names the last few months, but none ever really stuck out at you.

In this moment you thought of one that would suit this baby well, "Aemma," you say, "Her name is Aemma."

"That is a beautiful name," Tris says.

Vesemir had a certain look on his face, though no one else seemed to have noticed.

The witchers gather to get a close look at your daughter. "I'm assuming her hair and eyes match her father's," Eskel states. "Yeah, you can say that," you answer, giving Aemma a kiss on top of her head.

It was dawn when the wolves, excluding Geralt, left to give you some privacy so you could bond with your daughter.

Around this time Ciri had just woken up and was about to go to breakfast, but she noticed the door to your room was slightly open. She saw the bundle in your arms and realized you had given birth.

"Can I come in?" she asks. "Of course," you nod and the young girl came in, "I've never actually seen a newborn baby before" she admits as you pat a spot on the bed for to sit on. "Come take a look for yourself then," you pull the wraps back a bit so Ciri could see, "it's a girl."

"She's beautiful," Ciri says with a smile, "her hair almost looks like mine."

-----------flashback-------------

You awoke the next morning, sunlight shining in your eyes. You open your eyes, squinting, and turn away.

Your hand mindlessly stretched out and you felt something soft, almost like skin. Naked human skin.

Your eyes widen, now fully awake, and you sit upright. The sheet covering you fell off, making you realize you were naked. The person next to you was sound asleep and just naked as you were.

Looking over to see a curtain of silver blonde hair sprawled out on the pillow next to yours.

It was the Rogue Prince himself.

You could feel the panic inside you growing. You thought this had all been a dream, a dream that already been haunting your slumber every night for the last few weeks.

Since that time Daemon invited you to his chambers, the Rogue Prince took any chance he had to corner you, press you against the wall with his body. During those times, he'd put his lips to your ear, to your neck, pressing light kisses and speaking soft words as he did so. You wanted to fight him off, but for reasons unknown, you didn't. You would find yourself melting underneath him, especially when he would grow bolder and sneak a hand under your skirts to touch you, tease you.

You would push him away, but only after briefly experiencing a sneak peak of the pleasure he could give you.

You couldn't stand this man, yet he managed to make you feel good all the same.

One night, being last night, it was the final straw for you, for both of you in fact. He cornered you in the hall when you were walking back to your room after a night of singing to the princess. You pushed him away determined not to let him get the upper hand. You slapped him away, hurled insulting words at him, calling him a snake.

This had led to him grabbing your hair and pushing you against the wall.

Next thing you knew the two of you were kissing passionately.

You had placed your hands to his chest, intending to push him off. He deepened the kiss and soon your hands were clinging to his shirt, wanting more as he drank you in like a man dying of thirst. He pulled back when you needed air.

Then suddenly he had turned you around, and lifted your skirts while releasing himself from his breeches. Before you knew it, he was inside you and taking you from behind. You could only make a lusty moan in response, especially when Daemon snaked a hand around your waist and in between your legs to enhance your pleasure. You cupped his neck, pulling some of his hair as you did so.

Eventually, you fell over the edge and came, Daemon falling not far behind. The prince grunted and groan when he spilled his seed inside you, you being a panting mess when he finally pulled out, panting himself.

Your knees felt like they were going to give out.

That was when Daemon gathered you in his arms and carried you to his chambers, closing the door behind him, intent on making sure you would forget the men you fucked before him.

Which brings you to the morning after in Daemon's bed, naked and hating yourself not only for letting this man have his way with you but that you actually enjoyed it.

You quietly slipped out of bed and scrambled to collect your clothes.

"Wherever are you going off to in such a hurry, Little Lark?" you hear Daemon ask from behind you. You sigh, having hoped you wouldn't end waking the prince.

Yet there he was laying the bed, eyes open, tired smile on his face, and the sheets barely covering his hips.

Chapter 3

#house of the dragon #the witcher #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #triss merigold #witcher ciri #eskel #lambert #coen #vesemir #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower

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filthfichunter · 4 years ago

Note

A/B/O plus lots

There's a brief brief space of time between the Trials and when an Omega Witcher is fully sterile that omega Witchers can be bred. So, they get bred and knotted by every Alpha they can be. If they're lucky, they'll have a pup with a higher chance to survive the trials, or maybe even a full blooded Witcher pup.

Lucky for them, they're easy easy easy to trigger into heat and spend nearly the whole time in the throes of heat. Maybe up to two years, so two pups, if they're very very lucky

Alphas are always fertile, but only with their own "kind" which is omega Witchers but there's only that tiny gap to breed.

Ruts and heats still happen but they're not seeding fertile ground anymore.

Trial age is up to you, just wreck me some witcher boys. Breeding benches, Stuffed full, plugged up, fucked over and over and over. Screaming on massive cocks and knots and begging for more.

I tried to hit all the elements of the prompt Anon!! Plenty of A/B/O, breeding benches, and fucking 😉

You can find the full fic here on my AO3

Kaer Morhen's Puppy Mill

CW: Gangbang, Breeding, Overstimulation, Come Inflation, Boypussy, Alpha/Beta/Omega, Dubious Consent, Pregnancy Kink, Size Kink, Size Difference, Bondage, Hole/Pussy Spanking, Loss of Virginity, First Time, Knotting, Butt Plugs, Oral Sex, Frottage...like I fit the full kitchen sink in there. Marked as Underage, but no specific age is given. 🕊️💀 DeadDoveDoNotEat 💀🕊️

Let me know if you have a favorite line!!

Geralt came back to alertness when the knot locked behind the puffy lips of his tired cunt tried to pull free, still half full. His skinny thighs were shaking with the effort of holding himself up, even proped up as he was on the breeding bench. The Alpha just kept tugging free no matter how he whimpered around clentched teeth and asked for the other man to, "wait, please! Please!"

The knot pulled free with a sucking plop, the girthy cock slapping sloppily across pale pert cheeks, accompaning Geralt's keening wail.

There were similar noises from all around him as the few other Witcher initiates, young like him, omega like him, yet to face their first trials like him, were fucked and seeded.

None of them had taken a knot before, they'd been treated just the same as their Alpha and Beta fellow trainees until they had entered their breeding season.

Training and running and learning together, all things equal. He hadn't been concerned about things like kissing, or sex, or breeding.

That had changed when the Sorcerers came to prepare them for the season. Geralt and his fellow Omega's had been pulled from their regular lessons and made to sit through the most embarrassing workshops to get ready for their duty.

There were diagrams, playmating and the dissected reproductive system of what Geralt though must be a pig, but that Eskel had insisted was human.

It had taken almost a full fortnite for him to work up to wearing the medium sized plug. Eskel had been his heat week partner, both boys taking turns working through the stretches and calisthenics that were supposed to prepare them for their duty.

They'd shared sweet kisses as they frot against each other in their shared bunk, whispering about the Alaphs that had suddenly started trickling back in to Kaer Morhen early. Who they thought might sire a strong new brother for them. Who to avoid.

The potions they were injected with caused a fire to rise in their blood. They had to constantly help each other to alleviate the swelling. Horny pups, mouthing and licking, curled up together whenever they got the chance. Their bed sheets were starched stiff with their watery spend within the first few days.

The Sorcerers had staged a dress rehearsal for their breeding after they finished their special class. Calling it a dress rehearsal was generous since they'd all been naked for it. One by one with each Omega getting a turn they had been strapped bare onto a bench to get the fitting of their bindings correct, Eskel had held his hand the entire time. He hadn't pinched his butt, or rudely stuck a finger in him like some of the others had.

He could see across to where his brother Eskel was dwarfed by the largest man he'd ever seen, a Bear Witcher, visiting the keep for the two week peak each season that omega Witcherlings (that still might be able to fall pregnant) were benched, and fucked by any Witcher able to spare the time to properly bitch them.

The bear's knot must be absolutely huge, Geralt hoped if both he and Eskel did quicken with pups that they wouldn't have to carry such a large man's cub.

It would be a big cub as hairy as it's sire, more beast than man in size and bulk.

The potions they would take later in their training would render their wombs too toxic for a full breed Witcher pup to survive, for much of anything of humankind like themselves to survive gestation.

Other things would grow within his womb, but after his trials those things would only be the stuff of nightmares, a distant duty he wasn't prepared to think about yet.

He only had this small chance to fall pregnant with his own kind. To see them grow up alongside the other fosters and orphans of Kaer Morhen.

All be it with a better chance of survival.

Omega Witcherlings were rare, successful breedings of their young little wombs was rarer still, but the dwindling numbers in their ranks meant that the Brotherhood of Sorcerers needed to swell their pool of potential Witcher candidates any way they could.

Successful Witcher/Witcher full bred pups were, baring a physical injury, almost completely likely to survive their trials and transition into becoming a Witcher. Fewer changes were required of their bodies, immunity to the toxicity of the pure mutagens gifted to them by their Witcher bitch and sires.

He still had a full day and night left to get pupped with a new litter for his first cycle, and knew that even as full and tired and aching as his pussy and little omega cocklet were, there were still at least a dozen more knots in his immediate future.

Including the large bear Witcher.

Geralt hiccuped and tried to clench his tired muscles down, but both his holes quivered and stayed open.

His pussy was over full with the loads he had already taken.

His little ass didn't escape attention, fucked full with a regular deposit of nututrient rich magical slurries, pumped and plugged by those assisting in the breeding. Mostly that consisted of Omegas too far along in their training with wombs too poisonous to carry, or Betas curious or mean, intent on injecting themselves into helping out.

Every Alpha would have their turn to try. Their mutagen Alpha seed only able to catch in another Witcher, totally sterile in any other womb. The price they paid for their augmented mutant abilities.

He didn't like the potions.

They smelled earthy and dank, and no two large syringes of the stuff ever looked the same to him. His guts would cramp for an entire hour after each dose. But the mixture was a reliable way to hydrate the omegas, keep their bodies in a state of fertile heat, and it solved the problem of trying to feed their passed out bodies. They would stay bound to the breeding apparatus in the great hall untill they were pregnant, or the cycle ended.

The room felt like it was spinning, but the sudden clank and jolt was just the special hinge on the bench engaging, tilting the platform he was on forward and down. All he could see now was the floor immediately infront of him, and what little he could glimpse from his peripheral vision, bound tight as he was.

Mostly it was flashes of movement he caught, muscular buttocks flexing and thrusting against wailing writhing omegas, tender bellies being pet and coaxed to hold a little more. There were a few other omegas in the 'resting' position like him too, their little pussies and cocklets pulsing and quivering in the open air, Witcher seed drawn down into their heat ready fertile wombs.

Blood started rushing to his head as his weight was shifted against the straps holding him. Head shoulders and torso flipped forward nearly upside down. His hips and more importantly his womb would stay elevated to ensure the newest deposit of seed could have it's best chance of quickening in the depths of his womb. Gravity helping things along.

It was the only break he would get between knots. Once he was assessed by his current stud and his platform tilted back into the 'free use' position he would be back in service.

"Please, can I have a drink, please, just a small sip?” the boy whispered, voice breathy mouth dry after having spent the morning crying and moaning. The Witcher behind him, he didn't even know who had just come in him, fucked and knotted him, only seemed half interested in what he had to say.

"I-I just need water?" Geralt sounded scared and timid to his own ears, and he knew with their superior hearing that every Witcher in the room heard his childish pleading.

The hydrating suppository in his ass was no replacement for a cool sip of water on parched lips.

The last time he had made the request an older Omega had mounted his face, their cock had been like his own, small, only a mouthful, but it hasn't been what he needed. He had ended up with a cummy salty mouth and not the crisp refreshment he wanted.

He was ignored. The Alpha already surveying the other available omegas for his next fuck.

Geralt's red-rimmed puffy hole opened up a little bit, a small gurggling glug of white seed oozing out.

"Tighten up that loose hole, slut!” the man said spanking one of Geralt's quivering thighs with a sharp hit, eliciting a cry.

"Yes sir!" Geralt was mortified at his own squeak, but the sudden scare and flare of pain helped him tighten back up again, his head flopping back down against the platform, cheeks blotchy from the rebuke and the inversion.

Another quick series of spanks across his butt, caused him to tense up even more, his pert ass jiggling as each blow landed, pinking up his skin.

Geralt nodded quickly again, or at least tried to. “P-Please, I'll be good” he sniffled, knowing the faster there was another load in him, the faster this would be over. It’s not like he didn’t like being bred. But sometimes the men who fucked him were rough and Geralt so desperately wanted to be good. Well to be good, and to have something other than a cock in his mouth.

“Please Alpha, I feel so full...”

“Not nearly full enough little bitch,” a new voice growled, leaning down over him. He knew they could see everything with how he was bound, even his little belly, it's soft swelling a visual testament to how many loads had already been fucked into his pliant small body.

The new Alpha extended one finger, scooping up the wasted drop of cum that had slipped out of the little omega earlier and brought it back up to rub over the quivering muscle of his rim. Geralt yelled, pulling against his restraints with real desperation, “No! No, no, no! I can’t hold it in, please no!"

He thought the man would listen to him, would stop playing with his pussy, he was wrong. The rubbing became more insistent against the flushed oversensitive fluttering muscle.

Geralt wailed again, his lithe sweat slicked body wrecked with shivers, overstimulated, his little cocklet stiffening up against his will as he desperately tried to keep all of the virile seed inside.

He didn't want to be punished for losing any, not again.

Three broad fingers were plunged into his mouth, stretching his lips at the corners, stealing the moisture that was left, chaffing his tongue.

Three broad spit slick fingers thwapped down in quick heavy succession, three, four, then five times on Geralt's quivering hole.

The omega cried.

The Alpha Witcher smirked down at where fat tears were running down the pup's face.

"Don't you want to have your soft little belly full? Don't you want to be good for us, behave and you'll have a new little brother to play with."

"Yes, Alpha, please."

The boy's face was cherry red, all the blood having rushed to his head, out of sorts and overwhelmed from the heavy spanks to such a sensitive spot. The tears running down the pup’s face, were soaking his hairline, snot and tears and drool matting it, the poor little thing, but his little omega cocklet was still hard and he still wasn't trying to wriggle in his bondage.

"Such a sluty messy little puppy."

The Witcher considered playing with the boy there, tugging on his little cocklet and squeezing his balls until the boy begged for him to stop, or he got him to climax.

But that wasn't what this breeding was for.

Geralt hid his teary face down onto the platform as he felt it being tilted back and locked into position. He spread his knobby knees wider, light headed after having been upside down, ready to get filled again.

Wishing his rest had been longer between knots.

Still thirsty.

Across the way he could saw where Eskel was still knotted with the big Bear Witcher. From where he was Geralt could see where the other Witcher was punch fucking the full width of his still full knot into and out of Eskel's ruined pussy, all the packed up come being churned out of his belly, puddling on the floor beneath the bench.

Strong hands massaged his slick thighs evidence that Geralt hadn't been lucky earlier either in keeping all of the Witcher seed inside. "When I'm done, I'll fit you with a nice long plug pup, we'll make sure you don't spill a drop, does that sound good?"

The boy gave a wordless shrug of acceptance, what he wanted didn't really matter, but at least a plug would make keeping it all in easier for him.

Everything around him was heat and friction and fullness. He could hear the other omega's begging and moaning around him as his latest stud hilted deep into his over full pussy.

Was that Eskel moaning in pleasure?

This cock was maybe larger than the last, long enough that it was pummeling the walls of his insides. Occasionally it would hit his pleasure button inside and that was almost worse than the stretch of a knot pulled out too soon.

After a grueling series of rabbit fast thrusts, Geralt let out another yelp and tried to clentch down, tried to be tighter, to make the man come quicker so he could have a rest.

"Such a slut, that's right fuck your little cunt back onto my dick you greedy little thing."

Geral was rewarded eventually with a knot, and soft petting from the Witcher. Large hands moved down to cup his swollen abdomen, the skin heating up more, distending more from the newest load.

"Do you want to come bitchling? Should I rub your little cocklet for you?"

The omega shook his head, fingers clentching into fists where they were bound. "It hurts, I just want to rest, Alpha, Please, Alpha."

"You can rest once you catch. Do you think you are nice and pupped this time?'

"Yes Alpha"

"Good cub, the sorcerers will check you in an exam tonight, stretch your little pussy out with their magical tools and speculums and look up inside that cum dump of yours to see if you've been good."

The Witcher pushed down against the sloshing give of Geralt's belly, slipping a hand underneath where he rested against the bench to tweak a soft pink nipple.

"If you haven't caught, we'll just do this again and again, we'll keep you bound and stuffed here for the season, can't let your little womb lay fallow and empty pup!"

Geralt shook his head snuffling back new tears.

He could feel it all throughout his body when the large Witcher hummed, pleased, thrusting and tugging at Geralt's rim with his knot.

"Good bitch.”

🕊️💀

----

Thanks for reading! And thanks for the prompt!

#dead dove do not eat #witcher prompts #cw fh writing #a/b/o dynamics #avengers a/b/o #kink bingo #cw witcher training

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srapsodia · 4 years ago

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“Make ‘em somethin’ more”

Thinking about purpose, costs, and internalizing harmful lessons.

#vesemir #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher: nightmare of the wolf #notw #nightmare of the wolf spoilers #the witcher spoilers #the witcher #the witcher fanart #my art #I HAVE MANY THOUGHTS. MANY THOUGHTS HEAD FULL #I really liked the movie and im adopting some of it as canon #like the reasons vesemir has to justify all the attrocities witchers do when training new 'recruits'#he fully believes in the cause and im like. YEAH YEAH THOSE ARE THE FUCKED UP BELIEFS I WANTED TO SEE #we are IGNORING the timeline stuff though cause it's dumb and too forced AND i want the cat school betrayal #cw blood

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

Note

I love your stories with the whole gang + Cahir! I can't help but think about one moment where they're all worried for one of their kin and it ends with some kind of dialogue with "You died!" "Temporarily, look I got better!"

You make my heart soar Nonnie! It makes me so very happy that you like the whole gang + Cahir. Especially because Cahir is a gremlin who has taken up residence in my brain a lot as of late. I’ve done the “died and got better” thing before, you can find that here. However, you’ve given me an idea for a slight twist to the whole thing.

CW: Temporary character death, blood, injury

It’s a Witcher Thing

Training at Kaer Morhen was quite terrifying. Jaskier was glad he was forbidden from joining he, he was certain he wouldn’t survive. He watched as they used their regular swords, clashed in fierce bouts and drew blood more often than not. The first time Eskel got run through with a sword, Jaskier was up on his feet, green in the face and had his hands clasped over his cheeks in shock. He didn’t expect Lambert to pull his sword free and whine about needing to clean it. Or for Eskel to run a hand over his wound and clap Lambert on the shoulder with a deliberately bloodied hand.

“Good job, Baby Wolf.”

Jaskier felt ready to fall down and Geralt at his side was helpful in getting him to sit.

“Don’t worry, it’s a Witcher thing.” Sure enough, by evening Eskel was tussling with Geralt again, only yelping when his injury was deliberately smacked in an underhanded move.

Things only got more interesting as Aiden joined the fray a few years later. He and Vesemir seemed to have a very tumultuous relationship where they expressed respect for each other by beating the other to a pulp. Jaskier got to witness Aiden all but pick Vesemir up and hurl him onto the ground - a move they’d all seen before. But this time there was an unfortunately placed rock which connected with the back of Vesemir’s head with a sickening crunch. While Aiden and Eskel roused him, Lambert lounged next to Jaskier with a grin.

“It’s a Witcher thing. You’ll get used to it.”

Sure enough, by the time Eskel accidentally slit Geralt’s throat, Jaskier barely flinched. He was more concerned with bitching at Eskel about getting the blood out of clothes and the spray that he’d created. That night though, he still kissed over Geralt’s healing skin and threatened to buy him a collar. For protection purposes only. Obviously. Geralt snorted at that, knowing they’d predominantly use it in the bedroom.

The year Eskel brought Cahir home, Jaskier was sworn to great secrecy about the endurance of Witchers. Not because of concerns, but rather because they were all horrible trolls and loved seeing the reactions of loved ones.

It all started off pretty good. Cahir was forbidden from training with them which had him pouting. Jaskier was proficient in protecting himself but he couldn’t hold up at all against someone who learned to fight in the army and was a battle hardened veteran. So, after a few rather disappointing bouts, they sat back and watched as Lambert dunked Aiden head first into a barrel. Pulling him out, it was like watching a wet, half drowned cat angrily chase a dog. Lambert seemed to be having the time of his life.

“I want to join in,” Cahir declared and got up, grabbing his sword. When it came to being stubborn, it seemed the Witchers had met their match because Cahir refused to leave the training area and the others couldn’t work around him either. In the end, Aiden stepped forward.

“I’ll give you a spin. Then we can team up against Lambert if you’re game.”

What followed was quite a thrilling fight, Cahir could just about hold his own against Aiden who didn’t look like he was going all that easy on him. In the end a truce was called and the two of them turned to face Lambert with matching smirks.

The game was on. Aiden and Cahir worked in tandem, to try and corner Lambert. Jaskier watched with large eyes, Geralt sprawled lazily next to him. The clashes of swords, grunts and shouts were all familiar and relaxing. Even Lambert’s victorious “aha!” was soothing until everything went horribly silent.

“Oh shit!” Looking at the trio, Jaskier could see Cahir take a step back hand around the hilt of a dagger that was flush against the soft underside of his chin. Blood dripped around it and he collapse.

Eskel and Geralt were in motion immediately, pulling the long dagger loose. It was AIden’s but obviously Lambert had managed to steal it, only to thrust it into Cahir, forgetting he was no Witcher.

The swearing and running around that followed was all futile, the dagger had gone too deep, through the roof of Cahir’s mouth and doing untold damage. There was nothing for it, a cover was draped over Cahir’s body while they silently set about building a pyre. Lambert looked miserable, Eskel heartbroken.

Aiden’s scream was blood curdling and had everyone running. Especially when the horror filled words of “he’s sitting up” echoed around them. Sure enough, Cahir was sat up, dried blood coating his neck, the sheet pooled around his waist.

“I thought this was a Witcher thing only,” Jaskier muttered to Geralt who looked just as perplexed.

“Maybe it’s a Nilfgaardian army thing?” Aiden asked as Lambert and Eskel dropped to their knees on either side of Cahir. They were gently probing him, pressing against the unblemished skin under his chin.

“No!” Cahir sounded absolutely offended by that idea. It had been a running joke to pester him about being Nilfgaardian. That never ceased to rile him up.

“Then what is it?” Vesemir asked, approaching with a silver tankard filled with water.

“It’s a Vicovarian thing.”

#geraskier #eskel/lambert/cahir/aiden #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #aiden #Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach #cw: temporary character death #cw: blood and injuries #tldr: witcher training can be lethal

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jaskierswolf · 3 years ago

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Lonely Without You

Geraskier floof! With alpha's nesting instead of omegas

CW: A/B/O, Omega!Jask, Alpha!Geralt, referenced sexual content

Jaskier’s heats had always been fun, especially at Oxenfurt, surrounded by beautiful people; alpha, beta and omega alike, he wasn’t fussy. A little slutty perhaps but no one can blame a bard in training for that… no. The problem Jaskier had was his pre-heats.

His pre-heats were really fucking miserable. They were lonely, and his nests were always lacking something he couldn’t put his finger on. So he wallowed in a fever, cramping and hungry and alone, until the heat triggered and all of that was trumped by unbearably horny.

When he met Geralt… everything changed

Well… not at first. The first few months were just business as useless, the alpha was a bit standoffish and brutish in the way that alphas were but he seemed to not hate Jaskier trailing along after him. Jaskier on his part was rather smitten but he respected Geralt’s boundaries as best he could, slipping up occasionally but fixing his mistakes as they learned to co-exist.

Until one morning, long before Jaskier felt any effects of his cycle… Geralt started acting incredibly needy.

They were bundled into the nearest town by the witcher. Coin was low but Geralt managed to secure a dry barn to stay in with Roach in exchange for a few quick drowner contracts along the river. Jaskier was told to stay put as Geralt worked, to rest and enjoy the peace. After months on the road, he was hardly one to argue. The straw was scratchy but warm and soft compared to their bedrolls. Overall it wasn’t too bad. He felt rather pampered.

By the first evening the barn had been transformed. Geralt had collected and washed more blankets than Jaskier had seen in his life, there were plates of hot food served to him by a very pouty alpha. Once the witcher was free of monster guts he threw in some old shirts, his cloak, even the medallion that he’d never taken off before. It all went into the stack of straw and blankets.

Jaskier was… confused?

The behaviour had come out of nowhere, his stoic friend turning into a perfectly doting alpha… and oh…

Geralt was nesting.

A trait found in single and unmated omegas.

Or… bonded alphas

Jaskier whined as he buried his face in Geralt’s shirt, the scent of alpha grounding him, making his heart beat more steadily. It was only then that he realised he was running a little hotter that day, his gut aching on and off… the early signs of cramping.

The witcher's keen senses must have picked up on the change in Jaskier’s scent, and their closeness over the last few months had triggered something adorable in Geralt. After years of being alone, Jaskier was being courted. His alpha had supplied food and shelter, and had even made him a brilliant nest filled with all the things they both loved. But Geralt still hadn’t set foot in the nest, he just glowered from a hay bale near where Roach was stabled, wiping down his swords silently, his eyes flickering between Jaskier and the door. Always standing guard, protecting him. The respect had Jaskier’s heart doing all sorts of flips and tricks in his chest. Not many alphas waited for an invitation, always assuming they were needed by the omega.

Ah, and there was the crippling loneliness. Now he was aware of what was happening, his body seemed to be catching up like lightning. Normally, Jaskier would curl around a pillow and wait it out until slick started gushing from him and he found a bed mate for his heat.

He didn’t need to wait anymore.

“Geralt?” He called to his alpha. “Will you hold me?”

Golden eyes snapped up to meet Jaskier’s gaze, a faint blush painting his pale skin. “Hold you?”

Smiling fondly at his best friend, Jaskier patted the blankets next to him. “A nest is rather lonely without company, and you did such a good job of building it.”

The alpha chirped, the noise settling into a contented purr as he stripped down to his smalls and tentatively laid down next to Jaskier. It was very sweet but Jaskier was less hesitant. He immediately pounced on his friend, curling up against his chest and nuzzling his neck. As Jaskier’s lips brushed against Geralt’s scent gland, the witcher started to relax, wrapping his arms around Jaskier and holding him tight.

It wasn’t the most luxurious nest that Jaskier had ever had, but it was the most perfect.

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

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #wolfie's witcher writing

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delusionalwritingsofagay · 4 years ago

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Requests: Open (Updating currently)

#G: General Audience - Safe for pretty much everyone! #CW: Content Warning - May contain sensitive topics. Please check additional tags and proceed with caution. #M: Mature - Mildly suggestive or contains adult themes. Not explicit, but not for kids. #E: Explicit - Contains graphic or explicit content (smut, violence, etc.). 18+ only, please enter at your own risk!

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - 911

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Alice in Borderland

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Arcane

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Baldur's Gate 3

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Call of Duty

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Criminal Minds

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - DC Universe

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Doctor Who

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Domina

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Game of Thrones

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - House of the Dragon

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - House MD

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - How to train your dragon

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Hunger Games

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Grey's Anatomy

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Last of Us

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Marvel Universe

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Merlin

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - My Hero Academia

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Peaky Blinders

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Pitt

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Riverdale

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Shameless

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Slashers (General)

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Star Wars

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Stranger Things

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Supernatural

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Teen Wolf

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Hobbit / The Lord of the Rings

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Originals

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Umbrella Academy

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Vampire Diaries

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Vikings

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Walking Dead

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - The Witcher

࣪ ִֶָ☾. - Twilight

Your Experience is Your Own: A gentle reminder that I'm not your parental figure. You are responsible for curating your own online experience. If you choose to engage with content (mine or anyone else's) that you end up disliking or finding upsetting, that decision and its consequences rest with you

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horsedadgeralt · 3 years ago

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finding life

I was whining on discord about how I didn’t feel inspired to write, so @witchersgoldenbard was kind enough to let me answer one of their asks. @little-piece-of-tamlin I hope you like it <3

wc: 542 tags: post season 2, hurt/no comfort, geraskier cw: none

ps. the prompt is from this prompt-list if you wanna drop one in my inbox :)

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, but Jaskier doesn’t even turn around. Instead he continues rummaging around his room, grabbing his notebook, a quill and some ink before stuffing them all into his bag.

Only then does he acknowledge the Witcher.

“What does it look like?” He sounds bitter, and the venom in his voice tastes sweet on his tongue.

“Why?” A one-syllable question. How typical. Jaskier wants to scream, but he’s too tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping.

A non-syllable answer. He grabs his bag and wants to walk past Geralt, but a hand grabs his arm and forces him to a stop. Jaskier sighs. He doesn’t want to do this, but he doesn’t fight it. He’s too tired.

“Stay.”

Jaskier blinks, his mouth suddenly very dry. Geralt is looking at him, his grip still strong. Gods how he wants to, stay and lean into the Witcher’s touch and give in and—

“I can’t.”

A lie, and a bitter one at that.

“Where would you even go? It’s dangerous to go down the mountain when there’s still snow.” Geralt has a point. He doesn’t know where he wants to go. But he needs to leave, needs to get out of this prison of a fortress the Witcher calls his home. There’s nothing, no one for him here.

In a past life, he would have forgiven Geralt. Forgiven him for the Mountain, for dragging his ass all the way to Kaer Morhen and then promptly ignoring him for weeks on end.

I need your help. For a moment, he had believed him.

‘Fool me once,’ Jaskier thinks and finally breaks free of the Witcher’s grip.

He’s almost out the door when he hears a voice call out to him.

“Jaskier, please.”

No.

He spins around so fast he nearly drops his bag and he raises a finger to point at Geralt.

“Don’t you fucking Jaskier me! I’ve told you before, that is not how this works. That is not how you can treat me, that is not how I will let you treat me, not anymore!” He’s shouting, and Geralt has the audacity to look surprised.

“You’re surprised? Of course you are, because in the time I’ve been staying, no, stuck here, you’ve not checked on me once. Surely Ciri’s training isn’t so intense that you can’t even check up on a— on me?”

The Witcher starts raising his hands defensively, and Jaskier all but wants to punch him in the face for it.

“You came to me for help. You broke me out of fucking prison for help. What for? Why did you do it when all I did during the huge battle,” He mimics quotation marks in the air using his fingers, “was narrowly avoid getting stomped on by several very huge lizards?”

He laughs, but it’s fake. They’ve been here too often, Jaskier pouring his heart out and Geralt just standing there, staring. He’s too tired.

“You know what I was thinking, underneath that table?”

Geralt weakly shakes his head.

“Surely it can’t end like this. Surely there must be more of life left for me. But this? This right here?” He waves at the space between them.

“That’s not life. Not anymore. So no, I don’t know where I’m going. But I know that it’s going to be where I’m actually wanted. So good riddance, Geralt.”

He doesn’t look back when he leaves the room, doesn’t wait for an answer.

As he is walking down the snowy path, he prepares himself for the tears to come.

They don’t.

tagging @cthulhusteve and @herostag ✨

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher spoilers #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #kathi writes

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aramblingjay · 3 years ago

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We were gods (we were kids) Geralt/Eskel, established relationship, hurt/comfort (4K) CW: Implied/referenced child abuse (Witcher training)

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

ao3

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

“He’ll come,” Vesemir says quietly, stepping up beside him to look out at the valley. The first dusting of snow has already coated the mountaintops white in the distance—Geralt doesn’t have long. “He always does.”

None of them have missed a winter in over a decade. They used to, back when the keep was bustling with Witchers and the absence of one or two hardly made a difference. No longer. Now, missing a winter means only one thing.

“I know,” Eskel says, because to think anything else is a one-way path to self-destruction. “Another day, maybe two, before the trail snows over. He has time.”

Vesemir sighs. He knows as well as Eskel that the trail could snow over as early as tonight. The window of safety ends when the mountaintops turn white, that’s always been the rule. “Come. It’s time for dinner.”

Eskel squints into the distance for a few seconds more, desperately searching for an approaching shock of white hair amidst the gloom, before turning away and following Vesemir back inside the keep.

Dinner is quiet. Geralt doesn’t normally contribute all that much noise when he’s here—even Vesemir speaks more than Geralt, usually—but his absence seems to suck every spark of energy from the room.

Even Lambert barely gets halfway through a crude tale from the Path before falling silent, huffing with a shake of his head and shoveling more food into his mouth to disguise the sudden pause.

“It’s strange without Geralt here,” Lambert says eventually, giving voice to the elephant in the room. Or not in the room, as it were. He’s still chewing so it comes out sounding more like a collection of m’s and f’s smashed together, but Eskel understands him just fine.

“He’ll be here,” Eskel says, because there is no alternative he will accept. “He’ll be here, I know it.”

Witchers don’t do pity, and neither Lambert nor Vesemir give him any now. Lambert just nudges the potatoes in his direction, an autumn-time luxury they rarely indulge in after the winter settles in fully, and Eskel scoops out a bowlful to make the most of it while he can.

Geralt loves potatoes, and he’s always devouring as many spoonfuls as he can his first few weeks in the keep. They fight over them, usually, stealing bites off each other’s plates—and one memorable time, straight from each other’s lips, prompting Lambert to make exaggerated gagging noises and Vesemir to frown reproachfully (but Geralt smiled like the sun itself, and Eskel has never tasted a sweeter potato before nor since).

Today, the potato crumbles like ash in his mouth, and he leaves most of his bowl untouched. Perhaps, if Geralt makes it back tonight, they can finish it together.

It’s a wistful thought, but there is no place for wishes in Kaer Morhen.

He goes to bed early with a murmured good night, and the unfinished potato grows cold on the table.

Eskel half-rouses in the middle of the night, and instinctively reaches to the left for Geralt’s warmth. When his fingers brush against nothing but cold air, he wakes faster than a young trainee roused from bed by an icy pitcher of water, heart racing as much as it can for a Witcher.

His body knows the feel of this bed, these furs, that gentle heat coming from the fireplace. This is Kaer Morhen, which means Geralt should be—

Then he remembers. Witchers don’t cry, not really, but there’s a foreign pressure behind his eyelids and a tightness in his throat that’s familiar from years ago, when he stood over Gweld’s mangled body and realized there were only four Wolves left in the world.

Maybe only three, his traitorous mind supplies before he cuts off that particular vein of thought.

Geralt’s armor from last winter is still in the room, draped over the chair by the fireplace. Eskel remembers how they left in a rush, spring thawing the frost and opening the mountain trail a few days earlier than expected. I’ll put it away next year, Geralt said with a little quirk of his lips, as sure as a sturdy oak in a breeze that he would return.

Eskel is sure, too. He is. But it’s harder to believe in the dead of night, surrounded by the empty chill of being the only occupant in a bed made for two.

He glances over at the window. A sliver of moonlight illuminates the falling snow outside, and the flakes are beautiful, small and soft and gentle the way the first real snow of the season always is.

Each one is like a blade straight to his heart.

Eskel doesn’t cry, but only because he can’t remember how.

Something changes in the air the next morning, and he barely nods a greeting to Lambert in the main hall before dashing out the front gates, eyes scanning the horizon back and forth.

A thick layer of snow covers the ground like a fluffy white blanket, gleaming enough to be almost painfully bright under the sunlight. Picking Geralt out should be easy enough, the man has never worn a color other than black for nearly as long as Eskel has known him. Since the Trials, his mind offers helpfully, as if he needs those images flashing before his eyes again.

But there is no black blob moving amidst the white. Only a brown one, larger than a man, and faster than one too—even a man as enhanced as Geralt.

Roach.

Eskel starts toward her in a dead run, barely noticing the way his feet sink several inches into the snow with each step. “Lambert!” he calls, not bothering to shout, knowing Lambert will hear him anyway. “Lambert, it’s Roach!”

Roach, and not Geralt. The possibilities tumble through his head, each one worse than the last. Geralt, dead on the Path, somewhere Eskel can’t reach until after the spring thaw. Geralt, tossed off the side of the mountain on his way up the Killer, every bone in his body broken in a different direction. Geralt, paler than ever, lying in a pool of his own blood in some stinking tavern while the humans laugh around his corpse.

He’s moving so fast he nearly collides into Roach when he reaches her, just barely managing to grab her reins to steady himself. She still has her reins, at least. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

“Hey, girl.” Roach sniffs at him, whinnying and bucking his hand when he tries to stroke her head. “I know. I know I’m not Geralt.” It helps, knowing she’ll sense his stress if he reveals any, helps keep his voice calm and his heart steady when all be wants to do is rage and break something. “Where is he, hmm?”

Her ears flick at the hmm, before she whinnies again, clearly used to it coming from a very different voice. Geralt’s deep baritone is Eskel’s favorite sound in the world, and clearly Roach has a fondness for it as well.

“Shh, I know,” he says again, hearing Lambert’s frantic footfalls approaching behind them. “Where is he, Roach? Where is he?”

“Eskel, what the fuck,” Lambert hisses, clearly having arrived at the same conclusion he has. “Geralt would never be separated from her, not by choice.”

“Maybe he sent her ahead,” Eskel tries, only half believing it himself. Geralt wouldn’t abandon his horse without reason, as surely as he wouldn’t abandon Kaer Morhen herself.

“If you really believe that, you’ve got more shit for brains than I thought,” Lambert all but growls. “We’re going looking for him, right?”

Eskel stays silent. He doesn’t want to damn them yet.

Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on his surroundings, tuning out the sound of Lambert coaxing Roach toward the stables, the howl of the wind, the feel of the snow beneath his feet, every bit of useless sensory information he doesn’t need. He feels like a baby Witcher again, newly mutated and barely able to control his new abilities, desperately seeking an anchor point against the relentless stimulation.

His anchor point was always Geralt. Nothing ever felt more natural.

He uses that now, searches for even the faintest tingle to suggest Geralt is somewhere in the vicinity.

Eskel opens his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Nothing.

Well.

“Search around the keep, and tell Vesemir what’s going on,” Eskel says, coming to a decision. Not that it was any kind of choice at all. He’d rather get caught in the next snowstorm and slowly lose each of his limbs to frostbite than sit warm in the castle knowing Geralt might be out there somewhere. “He can’t be far.”

Lambert scoffs. “I’m not some child you have to protect. If you’re heading down the Killer, I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s a suicide mission.”

“He’d do the same for me. What kind of shitty brother would I be if I didn’t—”

“Lamb, listen to me. Vesemir can’t lose all three of us on the same day, okay?” Eskel lets the raw desperation bleed through his voice, and Lambert relents, nodding. His scowl doesn’t waver, however. If anything, it sharpens.

“You bring him back,” he says, in a tone that they both know to mean dead or alive, by any means necessary.

Eskel nods. “If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t come looking for me.”

Then he runs toward the Killer, ignoring Lambert screaming, “What kind of last words are those, you stupid fuck!” behind him.

It’s late evening, about half a day’s walk down the Killer, when he sees something. A drop of blood on a leaf, dark and inky against the white-speckled green. He’s far enough down that the snow hasn’t fallen quite as heavily here, and it makes spotting a blood trail harder.

But he isn’t a Witcher for nothing, and he uses every sense he has, every bit of tracking he had beaten into him in training, to follow the blood speckles through the undergrowth. This part of the Killer has a little clearing off to the side, he remembers, and it’s usually a good place to rest before undertaking the last leg of the journey. Maybe…

He hardly dares to let himself hope. He hopes all the same.

The blood trail leads him straight to that very clearing, and there, passed out against a gnarled stump, is Geralt.

He nearly shouts for him, but the sound dies in his throat when he sees the pool of blood surrounding his lover, turning the dirt beneath him midnight black.

To use one of Geralt’s words—fuck.

Time passes in strange leaps for the next several hours, stretching and shrinking from one minute to the next. He remembers falling to his knees beside Geralt, patting him down to find the source of the bleeding. He remembers the stench of Geralt’s blood, how it roils his stomach in a way that the copper-tang smell hasn’t for the better part of several decades. He remembers seeing the gaping wound in Geralt’s side, visible through a similar-size tear in his armor, remembers the dawning horror of his realization that only a human blade could have made a cut with such clean, deadly precision.

He remembers very little after that. Just the weight of Geralt on his shoulders. An endless babbling litany of words streaming from his mouth, begging and pleading and praying to gods he can barely even name. And pain, sharp and aching in every muscle and bone, with each step he takes.

The thought of stopping never occurs to him. The sun slips down over the horizon, its last few rays painting the sky brilliant purple, and he pauses just for a second to marvel at the beauty of it before soldiering on.

Step. Step. Step. Another step. Another step. Step. Step. Another step.

This is just another Trial.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

One more step. Step. Step. Step.

One more Trial. Then he can finally be a Witcher—

He collapses at the foot of a gate. Is Vesemir here? Vesemir might let him sneak down to the hot springs for a quick soak. He passed this one, he thinks. He can’t wait to tell Geralt.

Eskel wakes to Lambert’s face staring down at him. It’s a fine face, one of three he wouldn’t punch on sight, but two inches from his nose is a little too close for comfort.

“Lambert, what the hell!”

Lambert grins, leering even closer for a moment before finally stepping back. “Eskel! Took you long enough, you bastard.”

He sits up and tries to put together a timeline from the fuzzy bits and pieces floating in his head, but everything feels disconnected. One piece towers above the rest. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, remembering the clearing, the blood. There’s very little after that, but the faint heartbeat thudding in his ears tells him everything he needs to know. It’s Geralt’s—he knows it the way he knows the warmth of the sun, and no injury in the world will keep him away.

Lambert eyes him warily. “You remember who you are? Where you are?”

What kind of question is that? “Yes. Where is he—infirmary?” He tries to brace his weight on his arms in preparation for getting out of the bed, but a firm hand to his chest stops him, pushes him back down. Eskel feels like a chastened puppy—but also, normally he’d have more than enough strength to shake Lambert off.

“And when you are?”

“The hell do you mean? How long was I out?” It occurs to him that days or even weeks could have passed since he found Geralt in the clearing.

“Just a few hours. But you were all sorts of shit about the Trials muttering when we found you at the gates. Thought we had another amnesia situation on our hands.”

The mention of Geralt’s amnesia still sends tendrils of panic down his spine. “I’m fine, Lambert, but you won’t be if you don’t let me up right now.”

Lambert, the master of empty threats himself, rolls his eyes but complies, taking his hand away and moving several steps back for good measure. Eskel wobbles for a moment before the strength comes back to his legs and he finds his footing.

“Good?” Lambert asks, stepping away. There’s a shadow in his eyes that Eskel doesn’t like.

“I’m fine. Come on.”

Lambert leads him across the keep, and Eskel realizes after the first few turns through winding hallways and staircases that they are indeed heading toward the closest thing Kaer Morhen has to an infirmary. Every step pulls at something in his feet that tells him he’s not done healing yet, but Geralt’s heartbeat gets louder the closer they come, and that’s all it takes to keep him moving.

“Vesemir’s with him,” Lambert says once they’re outside the room. When Eskel hesitates at the entrance, Lambert laughs, sharp but amused. “Don’t be an idiot. Pretty boy woke up just before you did, and the first word out of his mouth was your name. Barely even cared I was there.” Lambert sounds as put-upon and fond as he’s capable of, which is to say not at all, but Eskel understands.

“Thanks, Lamb,” he says quietly.

Lambert just pushes him in the back toward the door. “Go.”

He goes, opening the door with his breath held fast in his chest.

Geralt is sitting up on the cot surrounded by a pile of Kaer Morhen’s thickest furs, hair askew around his face, paler than the moon in the dead of night, torso wrapped with bandages that must have once been white and now are pink. But his heartbeat is strong in Eskel’s ears and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are that familiar brilliant yellow, and fuck, it’s so good to see him. So good to see him alive.

“You shouldn’t be walking around yet,” Vesemir tuts from a corner, but Eskel has eyes for one Witcher alone.

“Wolf,” he says, the word torn from his throat, and surges forward to the cot.

“Good to see you, Esk,” Geralt rasps, like smooth water over cobblestones, and oh, how Eskel has missed the sound of that growly, gravelly voice.

Geralt leans forward just a little as Eskel approaches, as much as his bandages will probably allow, and Eskel meets him the rest of the way, dropping to his knees beside the bed and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. The bitter bark smell of sickness and healing hangs around Geralt like a cloud, but underneath that is still the same musk that Eskel has known his whole life, and it settles him like nothing else can.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Vesemir says. They don’t pull away from each other, but Eskel tracks Vesemir’s movements out of the room by the scrape of his chair as he stands and the rattle of the door as he closes it behind them.

“Shouldn’t have come down the Killer for me like that,” Geralt says once they’re alone.

Eskel does pull away at that, to give Geralt his most scathing and unimpressed look. There are a million things he could say, a million lectures Geralt needs to hear about taking care of himself and self-sacrifice and being a right idiot, but they have a whole winter ahead of them to worry about that, so he keeps it simple. “Shouldn’t have gotten yourself stabbed then.”

A shadow passes over Geralt’s face. Eskel recognizes the look—and hates it even more on Geralt than he did on Lambert.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Geralt shakes his head, and Eskel takes it to mean we’ll talk about it later let’s just have this moment together, because he’ll pry it out of Geralt eventually. There are no secrets between them.

Right now, however, there are more pressing things to deal with.

“Will it hurt you if I—” He doesn’t even get through the sentence before Geralt is lifting the corner of his furs in invitation.

There’s barely enough space on the cot for one full-grown Witcher (he knows why, knows who these cots were used for all those years ago, though the reminder hurts all the same), but that’s never stopped them before. He settles beside Geralt with his head on Geralt’s shoulder and sucks a kiss into the side of his neck.

Geralt’s whole body softens in response, just as he knew it would, and Eskel takes the opportunity to press himself even closer, melds them together like two halves of the same whole. They were never meant to be separated.

(Perhaps one of these years, one of these decades, he will find the words to ask if Geralt feels the same)

A red-purple spot blooms over Geralt’s skin, and the sight of it stirs the coil of heat in his stomach. Witcher healing means it won’t last long, will likely have faded before the sun comes up again, but it isn’t the mark that matters, only the claim. Mine.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what happened,” Eskel says, because the image of Geralt bleeding against that tree will never leave his mind for as long as he lives. “We are going to talk about it.”

“Hmm.”

The little sound nestles deep in his chest, and Eskel can’t help that his irritated huff comes out mostly fond. “Yeah, alright. In the morning.”

“Hmm.” Geralt snakes an arm along his back until his hand reaches Eskel’s hip. Eskel feels those familiar fingers curve around his hipbone, jutting out from the skin like it always does after a lean year on the Path. He curls in toward Geralt, draping his own arm across the most uninjured expanse of Geralt’s torso he can find, and sinks into him, trusting Geralt to hold his weight like he can trust no one else.

All the breath in his lungs rushes out at once, and he closes his eyes. They’re home.

Morning dawns gray and dreary, snow falling in thick sheets outside. Eskel wakes in the arms of his beloved, their limbs tangled together like cubs in a wolf pile, and feels nothing but joy.

Let the snow fall. It matters not, now, when all his family is safe in the keep.

“Awake?” Eskel asks, though he can tell by the rate of Geralt’s breathing that he is.

Geralt makes a quiet noise of assent, the very beginnings of a purr. Sleeping together does wonders for them both.

“You should rest more. You’ll heal faster.”

“I’m healing just fine. Besides, you’re beautiful in the morning.”

I wanted to watch you wake up, is what he knows Geralt means, and Eskel huffs. “I’m still filthy from carrying your hide up the trail.” He’s well aware that the beauty Geralt speaks of runs far deeper than skin, but even now, even with Geralt, sometimes it’s easier to lighten the mood than to bask in being loved so wholly by another.

“We can always—”

“Not yet,” Eskel interrupts, knowing exactly where that’s headed. There were winters he was certain Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen solely to use the hot springs. “Not yet, you know that.” The sit still and rest gene is lacking in all of them, but Geralt more than anyone.

“I’ve trained with worse injuries than this,” Geralt whines, petulant. Eskel can recall any of a dozen times he saw Geralt forced to train until he collapsed when they were children, ashen and limping from half-healed wounds but nevertheless expected to stand his ground, and knows it’s true. “A quick soak is nothing compared to that.”

“You have never had a quick soak a day in your life. Besides, we don’t do that anymore.” There’s a dark bitterness in his voice that Eskel doesn’t bother to hide. With only four Wolves left, brutality has finally given way to caution—but Geralt knows full well his thoughts on the death and loss that came first.

“Some people say baths are healing, Esk,” Geralt murmurs, but it’s soft, a complaint more because this is the only place he can voice one (warm in the belly of Kaer Morhen, tight in Eskel’s arms) than because he actually minds.

Eskel wants to say something funny, like stop taking medical advice from your bard, but instead what comes out is a half-broken sound low in his throat.

Geralt’s arm tightens around him.

“Say it again?” Eskel asks, begs. There is no shame between them, not anymore, and it’s been a year since he heard the diminutive, a year since he’s been called anything other than Witcher at all.

The steady rise and fall of Geralt’s chest never stutters, but Eskel can sense the shift in his mood all the same. He waits for Geralt’s words, however, knows it takes longer to find them when he’s still armored in the nonverbal shell he uses for the Path. The wait is usually worth it—Geralt is unbelievably eloquent when he chooses to be.

Eskel counts four, five, six Witcher-slow beats of his heart, before Geralt speaks.

“I am yours.” The simplicity of the statement, delivered not like a love declaration but like some fundamental fact that future generations of Witchers might find scrawled in a journal of universal truths, takes his breath away. “And you are mine.”

“Wolf—”

“Shh, my turn,” Geralt huffs, nosing along the shell of his ear, and Eskel lets out a half-strangled groan when Geralt nibbles a little on the earlobe. It’s been entirely too long.

“Esk,” Geralt says right into his ear, so soft it’s more air than sound.

“Esk,” Geralt says by his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye.

“Esk,” Geralt says over his collarbone, sucking a bruise into the skin like Eskel did for him.

“Esk,” Geralt says to the tip of his nose, the corner of his jaw, the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Esk,” Geralt breathes over the bow of his lip, before finally, finally, leaning in for a kiss.

For the second time in as many days, Eskel finds a heavy pressure behind his eyelids. But this one feels like honey and starlight, sweet and warm and bright, and he knows for certain he would be crying from pure joy if he could.

He is more than aware he can’t, another in a long list of things the mages took from them, so he pours everything he has into the kiss instead, hopes Geralt can feel the tears on his teeth, on his tongue, even if they will never drip down his cheeks.

“My wolf,” he whispers, pulling away just enough to form the words, and kisses Geralt’s smile right off his lips.

Nowhere else in the world are they allowed to be soft like this, and he tries to make the most of it every winter. Once, they were nothing more than little boys in love, too young to even understand the meaning of the word but no less certain of each other for it. Sometimes, on long nights on the Path when he goes to bed hungry and cold, if he goes to bed at all, that innocent child feels far away enough to have been from another lifetime altogether.

In this moment, as he tucks a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear just to see him smile again, that little boy in love feels close enough to touch.

#the witcher #geskel #geralt x eskel #*writing #*fic #written mostly for me and perhaps the two other people on here into this ship 😅

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dancingwiththefae · 3 years ago

Note

Perhaps 3 for the dialogue prompts? <3

Thank you Wren! I wasn't sure what to do with this prompt but once it hit me I got a little carried away with it. I tweaked the prompt slightly to fit the speech patterns of the characters, hope you don't mind

3. “sorry, my 12-year old self is just kinda freaking out on the inside right now.” Ciri is feeling homesick lately. Jaskier decides that throwing a ball at Kaer Morhen is the perfect way to cheer her up. Also on AO3

Cw: none

wc: 1.4k

----------------------------------

Something was up with Ciri. Geralt had noticed it first. She was quiet, he had told him one evening. More quiet than usual. Her training was going well. She was making good progress. But the spark was missing. Honestly, Jaskier hadn’t noticed anything. He’d been too busy just trying to get through winter at Kaer Morhen without annoying the other witchers too much. Easier said than done. He assured Geralt that Ciri was probably fine. Maybe she was just tired, or she’d had on off day.

“You worry too much,” he had said with a fond expression. He supposed that the witcher was still adjusting to fatherhood. But then everyone else started to notice it too. Yennefer complained about her not paying attention to her lessons. And Jaskier, who always delighted in making her laugh at his fanciful tales and songs struggled to get so much as a smile. Asking around he discovered that she hadn’t confided in anyone or indeed acknowledged that there was anything wrong. She was just…distant.

So, Jaskier decided to give her the little push he thought she needed. He loaded up a plate with all the leftovers he could steal from the kitchen and some warm milk and honey – a peace offering. With a careful balancing act, he knocked at her door. It creaked open after a moment. Ciri face went from surprised to suspicious as she took him in through the crack in the door.

“May I come in?” he asked hesitantly, “see I would stand here longer but I’m worried I may drop something.”

She silently opened the door wider and stepped away. He quickly followed her into the room. He set the plate down by her bedside and offered her the milk. She took it, eyed it for a moment and then took a sip. She let out a small pleased hum. He took that as a win.

“What do you want?” she asked shortly.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner so I thought I’d bring you something.” It wasn’t a lie, but he was pretty sure he’d be immediately chased out if he were to get straight to the point. “I’m risking Vesemir’s ire by bringing you this by the way. You know how he can be.”

She shrugged in agreement and tentatively picked at her plate. The bard stood a little awkwardly in the room, not sure how to proceed.

“So,” she said around a mouthful of bread, “what do you really want?”

There really was no other way to go about it.

“Well.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I’ve noticed recently that you’ve been a little…down. You don’t have to tell me but- Well, I mostly just wanted to ask if you were okay?”

He prepared himself for her to blow up, To have a cup thrown at him and be demanded to leave her alone. But it didn’t come. Instead, Ciri’s face screwed up.

“I miss Cintra,” she whispered.

Of course. He kicked himself internally. It would be stupid to think that it could be anything else. She had gone through so much in her short life. And she didn’t deserve any of it.

“Oh, Ciri.” Without knowing what else to do, he opened his arm for her and was quickly thrown off-balance by an armful of crying teen. He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin as she sobbed. He let her stay there for as long as it took. It wasn’t until she was almost falling asleep in his arms that he left, tucking her into bed and wishing her goodnight. He couldn’t bring back all she’d lost. No one could. But he could think of something to cheer her up.

The next morning, before Ciri came down for breakfast, he let everyone know his plan.

“A ball?” Geralt arched a brow. Yennefer snickered behind him.

“Yes, Geralt, a ball! A celebration with music and merriment where we dress up in our finery and dance the night away!” It didn’t seem to be convincing him. He tried another tactic. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice as he spoke. “Ciri is missing her home. We can’t bring her old life back but…we can bring the spirit of it to her.”

The witcher sighed. Jaskier smirked. He knew he’d come round.

“For real?” Lambert piped up, “a bunch of witcher’s dressed as nobles? You’ve said some ridiculous things, bard, but this might be your worse yet.”

Jaskier folded his arms and pouted.

“No, no, don’t try that on me.” He wagged a finger at him. “Fuck it! Fine. It’s those eyes. Like a puppy.”

When Ciri entered the hall she was greeted to the witchers shifting the tables from the centre of the room with Jaskier dictating and Yennefer stood beside him looking very amused at the spectacle.

“Sorry what’s going on?”

“A ball!” Jaskier cheered. At Ciri’s bewilderment he continued. “Surely you remember those? Those witchers haven’t turned you totally feral have they?”

The girl’s eyes scanned the room, taking it all in.

“Even Lambert?” she smirked.

The bard chose to ignore the huff that came from him.

“Especially Lambert. But first, you need breakfast and to get ready. You and I might have had dance lessons instilled in us from an early age but this lot need a brush up. I expect you back here in an hour.”

She nodded and rushed off, accompanied by Yennefer who insisted on helping her pick out what to wear. An hour later and they were ready.

“Now,” the bard began, “let’s go over the basics. Ciri, you’re with me. Yennefer, you’re an old haggard witch, you must remember this from your court days? You’re with Geralt.”

“Thin ice, bard.” She gritted out as she dutifully walked over and took Geralt’s hand.

“Lambert, you’re with Coen-“

“-don’t worry Lambchop, I know how to lead”

“-And Vesemir….”

Vesemir held his hands up.

“Oh no, I’ll leave you all to it. I’ll go to the pantry and see what we’ve got for tonight.”

“Excellent!” The bard exclaimed as Vesemir left the room in a hurry, “then let’s begin.”

He guided them through a fairly basic folk dance. The kind he had learned as a child. Ciri must have been taught it too, because she took to it beautifully. Lambert and Coen seemed one step away from wrestling instead of dancing. Art wasn’t for everyone, he supposed. Geralt and Yennefer took to it quickly, too. He said as such.

“Dancing and swordsmanship aren’t so different,” Geralt replied as he spun Yennefer.

When the lesson was over, he sent the witchers out to find anything that could be used to decorate the hall while Yennefer and Ciri left. They returned with cloths for the tables, draperies and candles. Most were a little threadbare and motheaten but it didn’t matter. They quickly got to work while Jaskier ran through a few songs for the evening. His fingers slipped on a few notes.

“Relax,” Geralt chuckled, pulling up a chair beside him.

“I know,” the bard laughed lightly, “I think twelve year old me is freaking out a little bit. These things were such a big deal. Suppose that feeling never left me. I just want it to be perfect.”

“It will be,” Geralt assured. They looked out at the room. Vesemir had worked his magic in the kitchen, doing a lot with a little. The candles kept the place light while the sun set outside. It wasn’t a whole lot. It wasn’t Cintra. But it had heart. He stood as the door opened.

“Ah! The guest of honour has arrived!”

Ciri gasped. Delight lit up her face. Geralt stood too and walked to her. He’d changed into a clean shirt and even combed his hair. He gave a mock bow.

“May I have the first dance?” he asked.

Ciri laughed and curtseyed. The sound echoed throughout the room like the most beautiful song.

“You may.” She accepted his hand and let her lead him to the centre of the room. Jaskier took his place and began to play. A light, upbeat tune. Easy to dance to. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he watched the pair of them dance and twirl together. This was only for tonight. They all knew that the horrors were not yet over. But as long as they had each other, they could conquer anything.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #ciri #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #found family #faye writes

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chaptersinprogress · 3 years ago

Text

training & smile | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri & geralt | no cws

"Geralt!" Ciri cried as she threw herself at the witcher.

Geralt caught her with the slightest grunt and swung her around in a circle, eliciting peals of gleeful laughter. He gently lowered her back to the ground, keeping an arm around her back.

"Did you see?!" she asked excitedly, clinging to him with her arms around his waist. "Did you see me, Geralt?! I did it! I managed two pendulums at once!"

Lambert sauntered over.

"That she did," he drawled. "Not bad for a witcher princess!"

Ciri stuck her tongue out at him and Lambert pulled a face back at her.

"I did see," Geralt told her, smoothing his free hand over the windswept blonde strands that had escaped the leather tie pulling her hair back.

"Praise me, Geralt!" she demanded as she stared up at him with wide eyes that he could never deny. "Praise me!"

Geralt smiled down at her and folded her into a tight hug, making her giggle and squirm as she tried to wiggle out of his hold. He playfully pretended to bite her and snarl, Ciri pretending to bite and growl back while being interrupted by bouts of laughter.

He finally loosened his grip enough for Ciri to wiggle out of his arms and down to the ground like an eel. She huffed and straightened her clothes, then pouted at him.

"Geraaaaalt," she whined. "Praise me!"

Geralt hummed, as if deep in thought, but at her widened eyes, folded like a deck of cards and wrapped her back up in a hug.

"Well done, Ciri," Geralt whispered, then pressed his lips into her hair. "Well done."

Ciri lit up and threw her arms around his neck to hug him back tightly. Geralt indulged her for a long while before finally pulling away.

"Come on," he said, ruffling her hair. "I'll carry you inside pick-a-back."

"Yes!" Ciri cried gleefully and hastily clambered on, plastering herself to the witcher's back.

Lambert strolled ahead of them, then shot them a playful smirk from over his shoulder.

"Last one back is a stinky bloedzuiger!" he yelled and then bolted off.

"Go, Geralt, go!" Ciri hollered.

And Geralt was off like an arrow, Ciri yelling and swearing as the witchers raced to make it inside.

Sheer luck had Geralt and Ciri skidding into the hall first, courtesy of Lambert tripping right as he was about to reach the threshold.

And so Ciri had an absolutely magnificent time the following two weeks calling Lambert a stinky bloedzuiger at every opportunity, Lambert reacting with the appropriate amount of outrage and snark.

He and Geralt were the only ones who knew that Lambert had faked tripping.

And they would take that secret with them to their graves.

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wolves-and-dragons · 3 months ago

Text

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 37

Main Masterlist

Chapter 36

Synopsis: Face to face with the man whom the longest time was the antagonist of her mother's story (as told by her father), Aemma is caught in state of conflict in what she should do concerning the witcher. Geralt struggles to remember his past as he comes face to face with the young woman who is supposedly the daughter of the Lady of Larks.

New foes work behind the scenes to force the Targaryen princess to become a pawn of their long planned plot for revenge.

CW: strong language, memory loss, violence, death by assassination, abduction by forced drugging, talks of revenge.

---------------Temerian dungeon a few weeks later-----------

"The Targaryen princess seemed to recognize you right away," Roche addresses an imprison Geralt, "the look in her eyes, it was almost as if she'd seen a ghost the moment she turned to face you. But you on the other hand...what is your relationship to the princess, Geralt?" "That I don't remember," Geralt admits. "Well it appeared you were one of the people she was looking for in her solitary quest," Roche says, "something about you being connected to her mother, the Lady of Larks. I never would've guessed..."

"How do know her?" Geralt questions. "I had the very high honor of meeting her years ago," Roche explains in his usual sarcastic way, "my men saved her from these bandits. Then, I had the very displeasure of meeting her father as well as the dragons."

"Go on, then," Roche insists, "finish the rest of the story. If I remember correctly, after your little confrontation with the princess she disappeared to meet with the sorceress Triss Merigold."

"She did," Geralt confirms, "but then she rejoined us in the monastery. She had some questions she wanted to ask me..."

---------Meanwhile in King's Landing-----------------

In the small council chambers, a meeting was held. Present for the meeting, apart from the small council members was Queen Alicent and the Hand of the king. The king himself was not present,. In fact, Viserys hadn't been present for any of these meetings for the last few years or so, around the time when his health had taken a sharp decline, to the point where the king barely leaves his chambers for most of the day and had become dependent on Milk of the Poppy to keep the pain at bay.

The meeting was about to conclude, before a servant knocked and enter the chambers. "Beg pardon your Grace, my lords," the servant addresses, holding a scroll in his hand, "this message is addressed to his Grace the king...or at least we think it is." "You think it is?" Otto raised a eyebrow at that statement.

"The uh...the message, I'm afraid is written in a different language," the servant explains, "it came from the Continent, but no one here appears able to speak it."

"...maybe there might be one," Alicent suggests, "send for Ser Ivan. Maybe he might be able to translate the message for us."

The servant bows and goes to do such. Otto had the rest of the council members dismissed in the event this was something that needed to be kept under wraps from the rest of the Keep.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?" Ivan speaks, lightly bowing. "I have," Alicent nods, handing Ivan the scroll, "this message came from the Continent. As a Continental yourself, I am hoping you have retained what languages you may have learned there so as to translate this message. For the Hand, for your queen...and for your king." Ivan looked to Alicent and to Otto and nodded as he unrolled the scroll, thankful that learning to read and write was also part of his knight training.

He recognize the language as it was one his mother had taught him before she died, and it was the language of his father's people. "Well? What does it say?" Otto questions, noticing the worrying looks on Ivan's face. "Oh, forgive me, Lord Hand," Ivan says before he translates the letter.

---------------Temeria: La Valette castle, present time-----------------

Aemma stood where she was, speechless and feeling all sorts of mixed emotions as she stared into the eyes of the man who was supposed to be the bane of hers and her father's existence. The man, she had been told had taken her mother away from her family.

The White Wolf...Geralt of Rivia...the Witcher....

Aemma clung to hilt of her sword, not sure what she should say or do. All those years in her childhood and adolescence she had dreamed of this day. She had dreamt all different kinds of scenarios of what she was going to do, what she would say, how she would've made the white hair witcher confess his crimes before she plunged her mother's silver dagger into his heart and before feeding his corpse to Cirillia. There had even been a scenario where Aemma would've burned his body herself before offering it to her dragon as she had believed then that he was not worth the honor of being burned with dragon fire.

But now, given everything she had been told, contrary from sources that were not her father, Aemma had never imagined a scenario where she would've just talked to the man...and ultimately spare his life and absolve him of the crimes he may not have actually committed. Aemma's hand began to shake, and she struggled to keep it under control.

"You...you're....you're him...Geralt of Rivia."

Foltest and the Blue Stripes stood there as the standoff continued, not sure what to do, and were curious as to how this was going to go down.

Aemma pulled out her dagger, somewhere in the middle of wanting to carry out her plan and fighting against it. Geralt stood there, feeling confused. This young woman knew him...but he didn't; even in his visions of the Wild Hunt, this individual was never present. Yet, she did look familiar, though Geralt couldn't figure out why.

"You...you know my mother," Aemma accuses, bringing the witcher's mind back to reality, "where is she? Where is my mother? What did you do to the Lady of Larks?"

Once again, the present company exchanged looks at the mention of that name, some even whispering among them. "Princess Aemma?" Foltest speaks up, "did you say your mother was-" "The Lady of Larks!" Aemma ignores the Temerian king, keeping focus on the witcher, "what did you do to her?! Answer my question!"

"...I'm sorry," Geralt shakes his head, "I don't know what you are talking about." Aemma stood there, speechless, eyes wide, unable to understand it all. This man was a prominent figure in her mother's story...yet he did not seem to know this, "you...you don't remember her?" A single tear escaped the princess's eye, not able to comprehend that it was such a possibility.

In a fit of rage, Aemma charged at Geralt and pushed him down. The witcher, though surprised as anyone else, did not bother to defend himself, even when Aemma had the dagger at his throat. "What the fuck?" she hears Roche's voice.

"No! No! NO!" Aemma cries out, "you don't get to DO THIS! YOU DON'T GET TO FORGET MY MOTHER! NOT AFTER EVERYTHING SHE'S BEEN THROUGH! WHAT YOU'VE PUT HER THROUGH!!"

"I'm...I'm sorry," Geralt speaks in a regretful voice, "I don't-" Geralt suddenly had a vision of the past. It was back to the that time in Rivia, when he and (y/n) had supposedly died during the pogrom. They were taken to another place to some island, thanks to the help of...Ciri, yes, that's what happened. It had been paradise, though he could see (y/n)'s face, the sadness in her expressions; even during moments of happiness, she had this longing to return and reunite with...

The vision then turned to (y/n) being taken away from him...the Wild Hunt...they took her away from Geralt, and he needed to go and bring her back.

The moment of contemplation was cut short when Foltest's voice boomed, "Aemma, stop this madness!" the kings demands, "the witcher is with me! Whatever grievance you hold against him, you shall not harm him!"

"You can't forget her!" Aemma sobs out as more tears escape, "you just can't...I need to know where she is...I've waited so long for her to come back! I..." She dropped the long forgotten dagger as she pulled back and continued to sob. Geralt was at a loss about what do and the rest of the party had some awkward looks, not sure to console the poor woman. The witcher looked at Aemma, "your mother...(y/n), that was her, wasn't it?"

Aemma looked at the witcher again, nodding, "you remember?" "No...at least, not the parts you want me to remember," Geralt says standing up and helping Aemma to her feet, "It's a long story, and one I can't quite put together. But I do have some memories of (y/n)..."

A portal suddenly pops up and a woman with red hair comes out. "Geralt," she says, "you're alright and...who is this?" she turns to Aemma. "This, Merigold is princess Aemma from Westeros," Foltest announces, "I'm sure you know of that place." Triss' eyes widen the moment she heard that name, "Aem...Aemma?" She approaches the young woman, "Aemma, is...is it really you?" "Yes?" Aemma frowns at the woman in confusion. A smile on her face, Tris pulls Aemma in for an embrace, "Oh Aemma, it really is. My, you really have grown up, you look just like your mother." "You knew my mother? Wait who are you?" "Triss Merigold," Triss tells her, "I'm a mage, I serve the king." "Triss?!" Aemma's eyes widen, "I've...I've been looking for you," she says, "I have questions."

Triss nods and excuses herself and Aemma and escorts the young woman into a portal so the two can talk.

--------------meanwhile---------------

"The plan has been set into motion," the witcher of Gullet assures the Scoia'tel commander, "soon, the pieces will fall into place and Foltest will be out of the way."

"I know you have no wish for gold or anything else," Iorveth says, "but there is a change of plans." Letho raises an eyebrow at that. "Scouts have reported a new piece has been added to this game," the elf explains, "A Targaryen princess from Westeros. I don't know what you know of that place, but my people still hold grudge against the ruling family there for personal reasons. Do what you will to Foltest, and whoever will try to protect him, but I want you to bring me the girl. Alive. We need her as leverage. Whatever price you wish, we shall grant."

Letho was silent for a moment when he thinks on this, "keep what you have. The deal still remains. I will bring you the princess."

Unknown to the Woodland Fox, the presence of princess Aemma Targaryen had also become personal to the witcher.

--------------somewhere away from La Valette Castle---------

"How do you know me?" Aemma asks of the mage, "I...I don't remember us ever meeting before." "I wouldn't expect you to," Triss tells her, "you were just a baby. I met your mother when she first came to Kaer Morhen. I helped her through her labors when she fought to bring you to this world." "You...you helped deliver me as a newborn?" Aemma realizes, "but my mother...she came there on her own? Or was she forced to?" "What exactly were you told of your mother, Aemma?" Triss asks. Aemma looked away a bit before she answered, "my father...he used to tell me I was born on Dragonstone. My mother was later abducted by the witcher, by...by Geralt. He took her away from our family, and there was nothing father could do to bring her back."

Triss scoffed at that, something that didn't go unnoticed by Aemma. "Sorry," the mage says, "it's just...after seeing what your father was capable of, I have a hard time believing he couldn't have done anything to bring your mother back. Especially with the trouble and determination he had to take her away from Kaer Morhen the first time around." "He took me and my mother back to King's Landing from Kaer Morhen," Aemma says, "Vesemir told me, I uh, I found myself back at that place six years ago. I met the old man there, he's been training me with the sword and...he told me what happened when my father arrived on Caraxes. I...I want to know the truth, that's why I'm trying to find my mother, to rescue her from the Wild Hunt and hear the whole story from her."

"What do you know of the Wild Hunt?" Triss raises an eyebrow, wondering what a Westerosi would know of these beings that were considered Continental lore. "I...I've seen visions of them," Aemma explains, "I have this gift...it's similar to that one gift Ciri has." "Ciri?" "I've seen her in my visions," Aemma explains, "Ciri chasing after the Hunt. Vesemir also told me what happened to me, the spell, the one you used to subdue Ciri when she lost control of her powers."

Triss' eyes widen when she realized what happened, "Aemma, Ciri's gift...the spell, it must've transferred her powers to you." "I think so," Aemma confirms, "but it's not quite the same. I don't know why that is the case. That's why I wanted to find you. You were the sorceress who cast the spell, maybe you could tell me."

"I...it's been years, Aemma, but I shall do my best to find out what," Triss assures, "but with everything I have to do right now for King Foltest, it will have to wait. Until then, is there anything else you wish to know?" "The witcher," Aemma says, "he...why doesn't he remember my mother? How is that even possible?" "Geralt has amnesia," Triss explains, "he was abducted by the Wild Hunt along with your mother. He managed to escape, but it came at the cost of his memory. I've been working at trying to restore but...it's been difficult. He has dreams of the Wild Hunt every now and again, but nothing before that. I can't quite restore what isn't there, it's like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

Aemma sighed, "he's the only other person apart from my mother who could tell me the truth of my parent's relationship. I just want to know, I need to know for certain, without a doubt that everything my father told me was the truth...or all a lie." Triss placed a hand on Aemma's shoulder, "I don't exactly know what their relationship was," she admits, "but...I don't think it was a happy one, Aemma. When you find out, you may not like what you'll hear." Aemma looked to Triss, "you know something, do you?" "I...all I know is your mother was determined to get away from him," Triss says, sadness in her tone, "your father...it seemed he was dead set on keeping her close. A bird in a cage, you mother would say, that's how she felt when she was brought back to King's Landing or Dragonstone, or wherever in Westeros you father placed her."

Aemma felt her stomach turn, not wanting to believe it, not wanting to believe her father would treat her mother like that. But she knew her father could be quite possessive of what he felt belong to him. He didn't part with his possessions lightly, be it his dragon, his family, or anything that was part of the Valyrian ancestry.

"She did everything she could to come back to you," Triss tries to console, "she loved you very much. That's why she left in the first place." "Was...was she afraid my father would try and harm me?" "I don't know," Triss shakes her head, "I believe there may be more to this story then meets the eye, more then what your mother has chosen to disclose when she was still around."

Aemma stood up, "I need to talk to Geralt. When this conflict is over, you will help me?" "Yes," Tris nods, "I shall help you understand this gift you possess as well as help Geralt with his memory. We'll uncover the truth together." "One more thing," Aemma says, "My mother had a brother. I need to find him too, maybe he could provide insight to my parent's relationship." "Jaskier?" Tris realized, "Well last I checked, he was in some small fishing village in Aedirn. Once all this is over, I'll create a portal to take us there. You'll get to see your uncle again Aemma, I promise."

"Thank you, Triss." "It really was good to see you again, Aemma," the mage tells her, "I wish it was under different circumstances. You really do look so much like your mother. She would be proud to know what you have accomplished."

"I'll know for myself when I see her again," Aemma nods.

--------------------

Aemma walked out the portal Triss opened up for her, leading her to the monastery where Foltest had just received information on the whereabouts of his children. The king, Roche, and Geralt were about to head back to the castle when Aemma ran into them.

"You again?" Foltest states. "I have no intention of attacking the witcher again, your Majesty," Aemma assures, "I only wish to speak with him." "You can do that once I have reunited with my children," Foltest assures, "until then, he stays with me."

Before any protests could be made, the gold dragon that attacked them previously and had abducted Aemma had returned, swooping down, separating Roche from the rest of the group. Geralt helped Foltest to cross the bridge as the dragon chased them down. Aemma ran up and pulled her sword out to confront the dragon. The dragon surprisingly stopped in its tracks. "Lykiri, zaldritzes, lykiri!" Aemma speaks, not sure if she could even command this dragon, or if the dragon even understood her. The dragon stood its ground, merely staring at Aemma. Perhaps it did understand her. "Jikagon qrīdrughagon!" Aemma demands, feeling a little more confident, "Jikagon qrīdrughagon! Henujagon īlva mērī! (Go away! Leave us alone!)"

"Is she actually speaking to the dragon?" Foltest looked back, "Fuck me, Roche was right about her lot. Inbred dragon tamers, they are."

The dragon stared, then it growled, and charged once again. Aemma turned and ran, knowing it was not a good idea to reason with this dragon anymore. She ran to the end of the bridge and jumped through the door. The dragon tried to grab her again, but Geralt stepped in and stabbed the dragon, causing it to pull away, and the door closed. The dragon fled, roaring in agony as it did so.

"You saved my life," Foltest says, "both of you." "I was only vying for time, your Majesty," Aemma insists. "That language you were speaking to the dragon," the king says, "What was it?" "Valyrian," Aemma answers, "the language of my ancestors." Foltest nods and gestures for her and the witcher to follow.

Aemma kept her eyes on Geralt during this time. "How much do you remember of my mother?" she questions. "I...I see visions every now and again of (y/n)...her and the Wild Hunt." "Triss told me," Aemma nods, "she said she's trying to restore your memory. Can you promise me something then?" "What is it?" Once you remember...when you remember my mother. I want you to tell me everything. I need to know the truth. About you, about her...and about her relationship with my father. I don't want anything to be held back." "...I promise then...princess Aemma," Geralt nods.

Aemma still held on to some hope that her mother and father were happy together, but if what Tris told her was the truth, and if Geralt was the one who tried to help her mother get away...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of children playing and laughing, seemingly blissfully unaware of what had just occurred outside.

Twins, they were, Boussy and Anais. Foltest's children by the Baroness La Valette.

The children stopped playing the moment they see the king along with Geralt and Aemma. They run to hide behind another man that was present, a blind monk by the looks of it. Foltest has Geralt and Aemma stay behind so the man could greet his children without scaring them. Anais was first to approach, running to her father and embracing him. Boussy was a little more hesitant, but the monk insisted and the boy approached the king as well.

"What exactly is their relationship?" Aemma asks, feeling curious. "They're Foltest's children by the baron La Valette's wife," Geralt tells her, "the Baroness and Foltest had...some kind of disagreement between them, hence the reason for this civil war." "She was married to another man?" Aemma realized, "so they're...oh." "Foltest has already declared them legitimate," Geralt tells her, "he hopes his son will succeed as king someday."

Aemma felt glad that was the case; being bastard born herself, she could relate somewhat to the situation. Her own father was married when her mother and him coupled and conceived her in the process after all. She could only hope they won't be treated as pariahs, that the king will protect these two from slander as her uncle protected her cousin's sons.

It may have been Aemma's imagination, but when she saw the monk look up, she almost thought he was looking towards her specifically. She brushed it out of her mind when Foltest sent his children to the other room, insisting Boussy wash his face so the others outside won't see that the boy had been crying; he is to be a king after all, and kings don't cry.

Once the children were out of sight, the monk placed a hand on Foltest's shoulder, "Sire, let us pray." "They must look like the royal children that they are," Foltest insists as he walks past the monk. "Hmmm...they have your eyes sire," the monk whispers as he removes the wrappings around his eyes to reveal the gold irises that were similar to Geralt's.

Aemma walk to approach the king, hoping he would give the order to dismiss Geralt so she and him could talk properly over what he did remember. But little did she know, the monk snuck up on her from behind and covered her mouth and nose with a chloroform soaked cloth, causing her to pass out. "Apologies, princess," the monk, who was actually Letho in disguise says as he approaches the king, "this has become personal."

It all happened so quickly. The tall, bulky witcher pulled out his dagger and slit Foltest's throat, blood spilling out. Geralt ran over, having realized earlier that the monk was actually an assassin, but it was too late. The deed was done. Letho threw the king's body at Geralt before he pulled off his monk robes and grabbed an unconscious Aemma, slinging her over his shoulder.

Geralt ran after the man, but Letho jumped over a window and seemingly fall to his death. Geralt stood at the window, seeing no signs of Letho or Aemma down below, it was almost like they disappeared.

Geralt then ran to see to Foltest, who laid dead as the blood pooled around. The Temerian soldiers showed up, crossbows armed and pointed at Geralt, believing he was the one who committed this horrendous act. No way to escape, and no one to vouch for him, Geralt was left with no other option then to turn himself in.

-------------King's Landing: several weeks later-------------

Ivan read through the letter once more time before he translated for the Queen and the Hand:

To the King of the Seven Kingdoms across the Great Sea,

Your family's wrongdoings have gone on long enough these last twenty years. Twenty years of no peace, and no accountability. But that finally ends now. The Aen Seidhe call for justice for the dozens of brothers and sisters that were needlessly murder by dragon fire at the hands of Prince Daemon Targaryen.

We have one of your own in our custody, the princess Aemma Targaryen. She resides with the Scoia'tel in a secret encampment outside of Flotsam in Upper Aedirn. She remains unharmed and alive, and her maidenhead has not been defiled, and will remain this way for as long as we will it.

Produce us Prince Daemon, have him brought before us to confess his crimes and see to it that justice will finally be served and that our fallen brethren will at long last be put to rest. Only then shall we see fit to release the princess Aemma afterwards. You have two months to complete this task; should you delay, we shall have the princess brought back slowly in pieces. If you doubt our threats, you will find a lock of her hair attached to this letter, so you know we are telling the truth, for we know it is the dhione's nature to doubt the words of others.

Make haste, for some of my comrades wish to carry out justice already by silting Aemma's throat, and I cannot hold them back for much longer.

-Iorveth, Commander of the Scoia'tel

Chapter 38

#the witcher #house of the dragon #hotd #geralt of rivia #the lady of larks #triss merigold #letho of gulet #iorveth #the witcher 2

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spilledbutter · 3 years ago

Text

Summary: Geralt just wants to do his job and go home. Jaskier has other plans.

Or: The monster-hunting AU no one asked for.

Jaskier/Geralt | Rated: T | WC: 3k | CW: mention of carcasses

------

Geralt was not having a very good time.

This godsforsaken trip had started with Vesemir giving him a tip. Apparently, there were rumors a leviathan had been spotted in the area (“I have it on very good authority, honestly, wolf,”) and Vesemir’s very-good-authority had traced the beast to the coastal city of Novigrad. Geralt wasn’t particularly thrilled to be sent out to do the dirty work that was bestiary expansion, but was reminded quite smugly of the favor he’d owed the old man (“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that time with the selkimore guts and Ciri’s prom dress, Geralt, I swear to god I’ll tell her that it wasn’t Lambert’s doing,”), and so here he was.

The perils of being a modern day witcher were many, not the least of which included this new wave of humans who seemed to think witchers were Fascinating™ and that monsters were something akin to animals in a zoo, harmless and cute. In truth, the creatures which previously skulked on the fringes of civilization had only become more dangerous over the years as they’d learned to camouflage themselves to survive. Humans, simultaneously, had become more bold and less afraid with the invention of smartphones and the internet; they often moved right into the metaphorical backyards of monsters in search of adventure and likes on their posts, or whatever the fuck. Which, ultimately, meant more danger for them as they proved the reason behind their short lifespans, but also more tolerance for the witchers who dealt with their almost entirely self-imposed problems.

Fortunately for Geralt, it meant he and his brothers had consistent business at Wolfe Brothers Extermination Co. He, Eskel, and Lambert were typically sent out to complete the contracts, although they all dabbled in one specialty or another in addition to doing the grunt work. Lambert, an expert alchemist and professional pain in the ass, brewed all of their potions. Eskel, with the strongest chaos of all of them, created sign-specific training to strengthen their magic. Geralt, for his part, was the best fighter, and designed grueling personal training routines to keep them fit. Vesemir, although semi-retired in his advanced age, was instrumental in keeping them sharp on the battlefield, forcing them to train with various weapons, along with usually being in charge of all field research. That being one of the reasons Geralt was so grumpy to be out here at all, as it was not his fucking job.

Internally rolling his eyes, he returned his focus to his work. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get the fuck out of here. He crouched to inspect the rocky shore beneath the cliff he was standing on, witcher-sharp eyes keen on his surroundings. Scanning the embankment, he found a promising clue below the bluffs of what looked to be the skeletal remains of a large sea creature. He was just about to climb down to investigate further when the damning sound of human voices drifted to his ears. Dammit all.

“---And these cliffs are the exact site a leviathan was recently spotted! Now, for those of you fine folk who don’t know, a leviathan is a sea serpent resembling a crocodile who lurks deep beneath the waves you see far below us.”

Geralt glanced up, put out at being distracted, at the animated voice of a man leading a group of starry-eyed humans closer to the cliffs. He was around Geralt’s height if he had to guess, with soft, chocolate brown locks falling just past his ears. He carried himself confidently, leading the fawning group around as he regaled them with tales Geralt would bet his best sword were entirely false. He was of a leaner build, although with a sturdy layer of muscle hiding underneath his foppish clothing. Clothing that, now that Geralt paid attention to it, resembled a peacock. A very handsome peacock. The unbidden thought was shoved down with the strength of the leviathan he was hunting. What the fuck.

The other man’s melodious voice filtered into his awareness again as several members of the tour group paused to snap pictures on their cell phones. “Leviathans are quite rare these days, most of them having been killed off centuries ago. Although, my dear friends, it’s possible we might encounter one on this very day! My colleague, Valdo, is the one who spotted the beast just the other day and–”

“You’re wrong, you know.”

Geralt hadn’t realized he’d spoken or walked a few paces closer to the group until a dozen pairs of eyes were staring right at him. Fuck. He usually kept far away from people unless it was for a contract, preferring the company of himself, his family, and his truck, Roach (lovingly named after his childhood pet fish, although he would never share that damning bit of information with a soul, so help him gods).

“Excuse me?” The singsong voice from earlier directed its singular fury at him, now all wound up in indignant righteousness. “I’ll have you know we’re the most reputable monster tour company this side of the Blue Mountains, so you can take your feedback and shove it, you--you–whoever you are!”

Geralt noticed, belatedly, that the man’s eyes were the same blue as the water crashing onto the shore below them, stormy like the Skelligan sea with annoyance. He wondered absently if they were the clear blue of a summer sky when the man was in better spirits. Shut the fuck up, Geralt, you absolute dumbass.

He cleared his throat. “Name’s Geralt. I’m, uh, I’m a witcher.”

The tour group erupted in a cacophony of gasps, the cameras of the dozen or so cell phones now aimed directly at him. They fired off questions rapidly about his job, the leviathan, hunting monsters, and a number of other things he couldn’t be bothered to parse from the general noise of it all.

“Oh? And Mr. Witcher, surely you’ve encountered a leviathan, then, and can tell these lovely people more about them than I can?” The other man looked affronted, crossing his arms petulantly.

“Uh. It’s just– leviathans weren’t all killed off, like you said. It’s more likely they went into hiding. They have natural thermal resistance and can adapt to a variety of environments. They’re also, uh, kind of immortal. So it’s more likely we’re all too stupid to find them than that they’re dead.”

There was dissatisfied murmuring amongst the other man’s group, one of the women in it turning her nose up at their tour guide as she remarked in a snotty voice, “Well, Jaskier, sounds like the witcher here might be a more useful tour guide. At least he has experience. Perhaps you should talk to your company about taking him on in your stead.” She tittered with laughter at her own insult.

And at that, the man spluttered, seemingly at a loss for words. Not wanting to lose the attention of the rest of his audience, however, he turned the charm back on like a lightswitch. “Now, my dear audience, although our good witcher here–Geralt, excuse me–most likely has plenty of experience, it doesn’t sound like he's had any luck spotting the leviathan today either. If I could reclaim your attention, I can show you exactly where a nest of drowners was slaughtered just last week. If we’re lucky, the bones will still be there!”

And like children flocking to a shiny, new toy, Geralt’s unwittingly captive audience began to wander off in the direction the other man–Jaskier–directed them. Jaskier, for his part, aimed one more fuming, aquamarine glare at Geralt before veritably stomping off after his group.

Geralt was left on the cliffs, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and slightly–guilty, was that the feeling?-- as he stared after the other man.

Well, shit.

—

It was a while later that Geralt meandered back towards his truck, slightly muddy from his stumbling trip down the cliffs to investigate the carcass he’d seen earlier, but no closer to validating the tip off Vesemir had given him. The bones had belonged to some sort of marine animal, yes, but it was impossible to tell if it was killed by a leviathan or simply a shark. So much for very good authority…

Geralt was still internally grumbling about the waste of time as he reached the car park. He startled in surprise when he heard the same musical voice from earlier and looked up to see Jaskier wrapping up for the day.

“Alright, lovely people, please remember to give us a good review if you liked the tour today! We at Oxenfurt Oddities would be happy to host you again anytime!”

That slightly-guilty feeling crept back up his throat at the sight of the other man, and Geralt felt like he should– say something. Apologize, maybe. He hadn’t meant to mess with the other man’s work, he’d just meant to–well, he wasn’t quite sure, honestly. But either way, apologizing was the right thing to do. At that thought, he straightened his spine and hung back a few paces from the group as he waited for them to disperse.

The moment the last person had shuffled off to their car, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped slightly and he let out a heavy sigh, moving to card a hand through his hair in a seemingly frustrated gesture.

Geralt stepped closer, not wanting to startle the other man, and gently cleared his throat.

Jaskier jumped anyway, turning to Geralt with wild eyes which soon narrowed when he recognized who was behind him.

“You! And just what, pray tell, can I do for you, oh witcher-who-can’t-mind-his-own-business? You almost ruined my tour today and my boss would have truly had my head if those people wanted a refund!”

“Uh… Sorry–about that, earlier. I didn’t mean to… mess things up for you. Was just trying to be, uh… factual, I guess?” Geralt cringed at his own stilted apology, not knowing what marbles he must have lost in deciding it was a good idea to approach Jaskier again.

There was silence as the other man stared at him, still with suspicion in his eyes, before he turned his nose up with a huff. “Well. I appreciated the information, nevertheless. Will give me more material to work with in the future. But you, Geralt… owe me, I think.” Jaskier’s eyes twinkled with a mischievous light as he turned his face back towards Geralt.

Geralt realized with a not-quite-minuscule amount of relief that the unintentional slight must have been forgiven if the other man felt like teasing. He still wasn’t sure why it mattered to him.

In response, Geralt grunted, feeling he’d done his part and mostly ready to get away from this conversation and his confusing feelings. “Not much to pay you back with.”

Jaskier, eyes twinkling even brighter, now as midnight blue as the darkening sky above them and shining like stars plucked from within it, gave a pleased chuckle. “Do you like fries?”

Geralt felt the non-sequitur like a punch in the gut, his eyebrows furrowing. “Do I… like fries? Like… potatoes?”

At that, Jaskier gave a genuine belly laugh, throwing his head back in glee. Geralt swallowed thickly, enjoying the sight of the smile on the other man’s face more than he’d care to admit, feeling the pleasant flutter of butterflies in his belly. He gave himself a mental shake. What is wrong with me?

“Yes, Geralt, fries. There’s a diner about a half mile down the road, I am dying of hunger, and I think you can repay your debt to me with some more factual witcher stories,” he teased again, and with a grin on his lips, Jaskier started off, presumably in the direction of his vehicle. He turned back to look over his shoulder when he realized Geralt wasn’t following. “Are you coming or not?”

Geralt shrugged, wordlessly, before moving in the direction of his own truck. There were worse ways to spend an evening, he supposed.

—

The diner was empty, save for the waitress who kept staring at him–in either awe or terror, he couldn’t really tell. She hadn’t bothered them other than to take their orders, which Geralt supposed he should count as a blessing.

Jaskier sat across from him quite contently with a plate of fries as promised, along with a large chocolate milkshake. The other man was even prettier up close, with an aristocratic nose, strong jaw, and long-fingered, elegant hands. His apparent attraction to the other man was distracting, so Geralt unceremoniously turned his attention back to his burger.

“So,” Jaskier drawled, popping another ketchup-covered fry in his mouth, “Tell me everything.”

Geralt blinked, “About what, specifically?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “The leviathan, obviously. Or another monster, I don’t care. I need details, Geralt, and it seems like you’re teeming with them if your show earlier was any indication.”

Geralt rubbed his chin in a thoughtful gesture, thinking of what he could tell him. “Well. Leviathans are… big. Monstrous, even.”

“Yes, Geralt, I gathered that,” Jaskier again rolled his eyes.

“They can crush a man easily in their jaws and have prehensile tails. They can also communicate with other marine animals and bend them to their will.”

Jaskier’s eyes were wide across from him, his mouth gaping open at the new bit of information. He took out a battered-looking notebook from his bag, food forgotten, and began to scribble in it. “See, this is what I’m talking about! You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?”

Geralt wryly observed he was already writing. He gave a soft huff that might have been a chuckle, not feeling the need to respond.

“That’s about it, really. They’re big and powerful and you don’t want to fuck with them, should you ever come across one. Which I highly doubt you will as they are, indeed, quite rare.”

Jaskier stopped writing with a pout, putting his pen down. “Really, that’s all you can tell me? What do they look like, other than vaguely crocodile-ish? Are they intelligent? Do they really do Vulcan mind control on other sea creatures?”

Geralt took a thoughtful bite out of his burger, raising an eyebrow as something occurred to him. “I can answer your questions. But,” he trailed off, taking the time to finish his food. “This is a bit of a one-sided relationship, wouldn’t you say? I can’t give away all our secrets for free.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what had come over him, really, but found himself intrigued by the other man. Absurdly, he found himself wanting to spend more time in his company, not the least reason of which had to do with too blue eyes, a winsome smile, and a mischievous streak. If he gave everything away now, the other man would be gone just as quickly as he’d come. Just the idea of that bothered him.

“Oh!” Jaskier seemed genuinely surprised by his ultimatum. “But what could I offer you? I’m just a tour guide as a day job, really, I don’t have much to offer by way of money.” He tapped his fingers against his glass as he thought.

“I am a musician, so, I could–I could… write you a song? Maybe something about your… roguish good looks? Winning personality?” Jaskier gave a cheeky grin and a wink at that, the bastard.

The suggestion caused Geralt to smirk, thinking of the absolute fresh hell of teasing Lambert would unleash on him if that ever happened. “Melitele’s left tit, you will.”

Jaskier sucked noisily at his milkshake, still pondering, before he suddenly brightened. “Oh! I know! Geralt, how’s business lately?”

Jaskier’s trains of thought were like whiplash, a slap to the face every time. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever keep up. “Uh… fine?”

Jaskier was nodding as he gesticulated wildly, fry in hand, getting dollops of ketchup everywhere. The waitress glared balefully at him but he didn’t seem to notice. “Witchers are hired via contract, yes? Although you’re lovely to look at, I can’t imagine with your surly demeanor you’re any good at advertising–but I am! Imagine all the contracts!”

Geralt and the others did fine for themselves, really. The family business, started by Vesemir, was old school and was still run that way. They didn’t engage on social media or have followers or any of that absolute nonsense, had never seen the need. People knew what witchers were, what they could do–if they needed them, they would find them, right?

But… The shop did need a new roof and some other repairs which the old man had been putting off, stating he couldn’t justify the expenses. And Geralt would always take the opportunity to put away more money for Ciri’s college fund, if ever she decided to go.

Mulling it over but ultimately having already decided, he looked over at Jaskier, catching the other man’s hypnotizing eyes with his own. “What could you do, then? Make a… website for us?”

Jaskier, for his part, snorted quite inelegantly. “No, dear man, I won’t make a website–what you need is social media presence, you need content–you have to engage people and remind them that witchers are out there, ready to help with all their horrific, monster-related problems!” Jaskier was almost feral in his excitement at this point, carried away by the fantasy of it all. “I could easily run accounts for you–”

“It’s a family business.”

“Yes, of course, alright–for the family business. We’d post a little story about a contract, share some photos of you looking positively menacing (you do a very good job of that, by the way), direct them to the business, and voila! Customers!” Jaskier looked pleased as punch with himself, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly. “All I ask in return are stories and maybe to tag along on some of your hunts.”

“So? What do you say, Geralt, the almighty witcher? Partners?” Jaskier held out one ring-adorned hand to shake.

Geralt looked down at the offered hand, considering. His family could always use the money, he knew, but that wasn’t really it, was it? Life was… not boring, not really, but routine. He woke up, he went to work, he took contracts, he went home. Ciri didn’t really need him, these days, the almost-adult she was. The monotony of it all was comforting, usually, but Geralt almost longed for the days when going out and hunting monsters felt like an adventure.

As he looked into the crystalline pools of the other man’s eyes, a hopeful smile curving Jaskier’s pretty lips, he thought to himself that this might just be the start of his next one.

He grasped Jaskier’s hand in a firm grip, a half-smile curving his own lips. “Alright. Partners.”

(1/?)

#geraskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fics #jaskier x geralt fics #julian alfred pankratz #geralt #geralt of rivia #witcher #witcher fanfiction #the witcher #asi writes #jaskier #wip

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roughentumble · 3 years ago

Text

i wrote a little ficlet! geralt gets himself sick on too many potions, and doesnt have any white honey to fix it, so he has to purge his system. jaskier takes care of him afterwords.

@hale-of-stiles-heart just because i feel like she'd like being tagged

cw: emetophobia

now on ao3

~*~*~

the air is damp and earthy. it surrounds geralt, thought not in a way that he registers.

geralt is a conciousness floating in space.

he gasps for breath, lungs burning, air fogging white in front of his lips, but he can't feel any of that yet. a beast lays before him, slain, blood sluggishly draining out into the dirt below, creating mud as black as pitch. if he is injured, he cannot feel it, but his leg doesnt respond correctly when he takes a jerky step forward. that doesnt matter-- he doesnt register his legs. he pushes forward, trophy knife in hand, and grabs at the creature. already partially decapitated from his killing blow, all he has to do is finish sawing away at the skin and flesh and connective tissue left behind. his body does this automatically. he doesnt need to feel his hands for this.

once the head is seperated, though, his fingers refuse to close properly around the fur, he cannot lift it. his hands-- when did he start having hands again?-- shake. numb, they tremble and refuse to clasp. he'll have to come back for it in the morning, loathe as he is to leave evidence of his hunt behind.

he'd brought white honey, for after. but as he reaches down for it, the past comes back to him in flashes-- falling. the sound of glass. liquid, but not the rain-- he'd fallen on his hip during the fight and shattered all the vials strapped to him. he'd taken all the others already, but the white honey is gone, and his body is overcome with toxicity. tremors wrack his frame, a dull ache creeping into his conciousness, and in lieu of another potion to ease the symptoms, he has to purge himself of the poisons before he succumbs to them.

his fingers taste like dirt and metal as he shoves them against the back of his throat. there is the faint ringing of pain, and his knees will regret the way he collapsed onto them in the morning, but he has no presence of mind to be gentle, nor the coordination to acheive it. he has to swallow air along with his fingers' efforts, as he's never had much of a gag reflex, and it makes the whole endeavor that much more painful, debasing. he clings to the nausea, though, forcing his body to listen.

it burns. it burns like fire, like acid, burns worse than it did going down. it isnt just bile, it's every toxic, caustic poison in his stomach, scraping its way past a torn-raw throat. it isnt the color of vomit, but he hardly expected it to be, and once it starts it's as though it never ends. some bodily instincts even witchers cannot be trained out of, and he chokes and coughs and gags as more and more is pushed out of his system. his system panics and his throat slams shut, swallowing more air in the process and starting the cycle anew, until nothing remains at all. his mouth, his nose, his throat down to his stomach, all are alight with pure pounding seering pain as he gags for the last time, stomach concave from the spasms and the emptiness.

he stays there as he remembers how to breathe. slowly his body is remembering pain, but only in fits and starts.

he hasnt made a mistake this bad in... a very long time.

he sits back on his feet and tilts his head to the sky, lets little pinpricks of sharp coldness remind him of his face, it's shape, waking up his skin. it's been drizzling for a while, and now the beast is dead, the sound brings with it a gentle calm, pattering against treetops and grounding him in his body. his hip aches, his leg throbs, his fingers still wont close, but his world is too fuzzy to catalogue the whys of any of these pains. perhaps its toxicity-- perhaps something else. worst of all is the throbbing in his skull, the fire in his respiratory system.

he cleans his blades with slow, deliberate strokes. he only cuts himself once, despite the continued tremors, and as he watches red well up it doesnt seem to be overly deep, which he counts as a positive.

it must be an hour still before he makes it back to camp once more, gait uneven and eyes unfocused. he's better than this-- he's supposed to be better than this. as good as dead in his shambling, and so vulnerable. still it rains on, and the sound against the tarp they'd set up before he left is sharper than it is against any of the natural features of the woods. he follows it like a beacon, to find the fire long snuffed, and jaskier dozing in relative dryness.

he rouses when geralt stumbles into a nearby tree.

the moon is high and bright despite the patchy cloud covering, and jaskier squints through the dark as he snuffles awake, examining geralt's form. "oh, you're back! that's good, that's good, i... are you alright? it's just, you seem a bit hunched there. it's-- what is that on your face?" geralt reaches up, wipes away bile with the back of his hand. any joviality drains out of jaskier as he takes in geralt's state.

he scrambles to his feet, and only hesitates for a moment before running his hands over geralt's heaving chest, his trembling limbs. he must have flinched at the sound, or else jaskier is truly just that scared for him, because he doesnt say much else as he takes in the sight of his ragged witcher.

"right." he says firmly and he turns around to rummage through roach's saddlebags. what it is he's gathering, geralt doesnt know-- his pupils expand and contract as his body fights to purge the potions in his veins, and it makes his vision waver in and out, darkness expanding and receeding. he closes his eyes against it.

after a moment, geralt feels a gentle hand in his, and opens his eyes to see jaskier's slung a bag over his shoulder. "c'mon now, let's go get you cleaned up." he speaks in low, gentle tones, though no attempt at gentleness hides the seriousness, the concern beneath it. geralt blinks at his tugging hand, mind slower than it ought to be, before finally pushing off from the tree to follow where jaskier leads.

he's patient, allowing geralt to limp and stagger as he needs. they arrive at a creek, not far from camp, that geralt had shown him the way to earlier that day. it's surreal, seeing it at night, being the one led to it instead of the other way around. the slick rocks glint wet and dark and alien in the moonlight.

jaskier's hands are unpracticed with geralt's armor, he's watched it be removed but he's never paid attention. geralt allows him his fumblings, though, still in the process of returning to his body. still in the process of trying to breathe how he ought to. if he had the presence of mind for it, he would wish that his damned hands would still. as it is, its just an unnamable base urge, a feeling tickling at the back of his mind.

jaskier gets geralt stripped down to his clothes, and then out of his clothes entirely, not a word or even suggestive wink the whole time. it's the kind of nudity that's born out of necessity, and jaskier treats it with the gravitas that its earned. geralt knows that he should fear being vulnerable, weak and exposed with no way to defend himself beyond pure, uncoordinated instinct... but he is being touched so gently. jaskier holds him so steady as the water is worked through his matted hair, as the burning bile is washed off his chin. it's... nice. to be taken care of. to be cared for. to trust.

trusting this much should feel like a shock, but instead it feels like a warm blanket on a cold night. like an embrace. it settles over him, and he sinks into it, the throbbing in his head easing just a bit as he lets jaskier take care of him.

geralt's eyes are unfocused, but he notices jaskier's trousers are soaked through past the knee, just stepped right into the water without a second thought. the drizzle has dampened his fringe too, and it sticks to his forehead. he doesnt say a word, though. just keeps rinsing away the worst of the grim that clings to geralt's skin.

he begins patting geralt down for injuries. geralt's still too potion-numb to react, so he doesnt come away with much, but his hands falter on geralt's hips-- specifically the left side, where the bottles had been. "there's-- there's something under the skin. i- i have to pull it out." he sounds a bit faint, but geralt just nods in understanding. whatever it is, it's big enough for jaskier to grasp with his fingers, and he only gags a bit as he pulls it down and out. he holds the bit up to his face, brows furrowed as he examines it. "is this glass?"

well. at least some of the white honey had gotten into his blood, even if it was only a few drops.

jaskier throws it away from them, onto the other side of the river. which isnt best practices, but geralt isnt well enough to say anything about it. "let's rinse your mouth out, now, darling." he says gently, bringing geralt's awareness back to the burning pain in his mouth. the water is cool and sweet as he brings it to his lips-- too sweet. it almost tastes honeyed, after the seering sour of his own bile. he does what he needs to-- sips, swishes, gargles and spits until the water comes back clear and the fire starts to ebb, and through it all jaskier holds back his hair.

still, fire rages between his eyes, and he presses his palm against the spot as he groans. "is it your nose?" jaskier asks, rubbing between his shoulder blades soothingly. "here, i brought something-- we'll need to scrub it very thoroughly afterwords, maybe just buy a whole new one in fact, but--" he digs through the bag and produces the little teapot that was part of his camping set. "i figure we could use this to... flush the area out." that definitely makes him look a bit green in the gills, but he fills it with cool water with determination.

it's a disgusting process. even geralt would admit that. he tilts his head back obligingly, though, offering himself up to jaskier's care.

it burns just as much as the vomiting had, and he coughs and splutters, lashing out blindly as he turns his head to the side. gagging, coughing, something moves inside him, and he chokes on air as he gags violently. finally, into the palm of his hand, he expels a lump of congealed phlegm, yellow and green and streaked with blood. he touches the side of his face. he's bleeding inside. jaskier gags when he sees it, desperately trying to keep himself together, but he gasps when he comes to the same realization geralt has.

they repeat the process until the water comes out clean. his face aches, his throat feels like someone's taken a battering ram to it, and his nose won't stop running(but it's clear instead of vaguely pink like it had been a minute ago, which is reassuring). somewhere along the way, though, the burning had stopped. whatever residual potions trapped in his system have been cleared out, no longer burning a hole through him, and his breathing begins to even out. jaskier murmurs reassurances, though none of them register, exhaustion dogging geralt's mind.

he's moved once more. a towel dries him as much as possible, and then is secured around his waist by gentle hands. his feet are coaxed into shoes of some kind, though they arent his boots. somehow jaskier carries geralt and his gear back to camp, though geralt's in and out for the few minute long journey.

the rain's stopped, he thinks as he tilts his head back and stares at the empty sky.

jaskier putters around camp when they return, and geralt leans against a tree as he waits. he's coaxed over to his bedroll, and then into clean clothes. his feet are removed from the shoes, and put in clean socks. jaskier gets up to do something, and geralt stares at the shoes.

theyre nice. fancy. they're... jaskier's. something he wears to events. a little stretched out, now geralt's used them. he gave up his fancy shoes, so geralt could keep his feet clean on the walk back to camp. a complicated swell of emotions rises in geralt's chest as he examines the intricate beadwork on the shoes jaskier might never wear again, green and metallic against spring green fabric and a soft cream color inside, and--

jaskier moves them out of geralt's sightline as he tidies up. "really, geralt, what would you have done without me?" he says.

collapse down into his bedroll and pass out, is the answer. and he wouldve been fine, in the morning, more cognizant and able to fix his pains then.

but it wouldve hurt more. it wouldnt come with gentle fingers brushing his hair out of his face. it wouldn't come with love and trust like a warm, warm blanket. he lets out a shuddering sigh.

"let's get some food in you, then you can sleep." jaskier presses some dry rations into geralt's hand, and the heel of a bread loaf. geralt eats them slowly, methodically, coming back to himself in pieces as his aching, spasming stomach is filled just enough to fend off the worst of the aches. a sip from the waterskin to wash it all down, and jaskier helps him lay down.

shuffling sounds fill the lean-to, and jaskier moves his own bedroll next to geralt's. gods help him, the silly little bard puts his own roll between geralt and the entrance, as geralt does when jaskier is ill, as if jaskier has any hope of defending him. he puts the beds so close the edges touch, and curls his fingers around geralt's arm as he lays down, hugging him close.

"sleep well, my dear." he says softly, and for the first time in a long time, as unconciousness slowly claims him, geralt feels nothing but peace.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #whew! it's been a while since i wrote something but i just got the bug w/ this idea. idk.#hope yall like it!#warnings that its perhaps a bit grosser than my usual fare tho i do think i couldve gotten more involved w/ my descriptions #witcher #geraskier #witcher fanfiction

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jaskierswolf · 3 years ago

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A Lazy Morning

For Day two of Soft tummies week in @thepassifloradiscord (a collaboration with @officerjennie)

Rating: T Ship: Gerlion Prompt: Lazy Morning

CW: Mention of weight gain, scars,

AO3

If there was one thing in life that everyone should be allowed to have, it was a witcher to cuddle in the mornings. Dandelion would fight anyone who argued with him, and by fight, he meant he would write a scathing ballad about anyone who tried to argue. That morning in particular he was quite happily laying on his husband’s chest, boneless and humming a little ditty to himself as he practised his finger stretches on Geralt’s arm. The witcher was still asleep, his expression peaceful, his eyelashes brushing against his cheeks.

It was a warm summer morning, the light breaking through the windows in Dandelion’s Novigrad house, catching on the pollen and dust in the air, making the room look almost magical. But there were no enchantments at play. It was just the sunlight and an ordinary day. Yet it was perfect. They were staying in Novigrad for a year, a break from witchering, that had been the plan. Geralt was getting older and he’d had a challenging few years, what with saving Ciri from Nilfgaard and recovering from a near fatal injury in Rivia. It hurt Dandelion to think about his husband getting older, slower, and maybe the next time he got hurt it would be the last. So he’d pleaded with Geralt to at least consider retirement, or a vacation of some sort.

The scars on Geralt’s chest taunted Dandelion, a reminder of the day he’d almost lost his best friend. He sighed and kissed the skin beneath his lips. It was chaste, without any heat or passion, just a gesture to show his love. Geralt snored quietly, not stirring despite Dandelion’s movements. It was a testament to how much his witcher had been able to relax over the last few months, since they’d returned from Kaer Morhen. Geralt didn’t feel the need to keep one eye open anymore, not when he was with Dandelion, and that made Dandelion feel all warm inside.

“I love you, darling,” Dandelion murmured into Geralt’s chest, kissing each of the circular scars, jagged and deep. “I always have.”

“Shut up, Dandelion.” The words were slurred but affectionate.

Grinning, he looked up to meet his witcher’s eyes. Geralt was gazing back down at him, a faint and sleepy smile on his face. He was beautiful, and for the first time in his life since Dandelion had known him, he wasn’t half-starved and dehydrated. The thick muscles were now hidden under a lovely layer of fat that jiggled when Dandelion poked it. Geralt’s cheeks had filled out and he no longer looked gaunt and pale. All things that Dandelion had just assumed were witcher things had vanished the longer they stayed in the luxury of the city. Without the training and the contracts and the digging in pockets for scraps… the more Geralt had started to look, well, more alive.

And Dandelion had fallen more and more in love with his best friend day by day, until he couldn’t hold it in anymore and years of pining and suppressed feelings came tumbling out. It had been a blessing from Melitele herself that the feelings were requited and by early spring they’d been handfasted. Geralt’s brothers from Kaer Morhen had even been able to stay in the city long enough to celebrate with them.

The memory warmed Dandelion through and through, from the tips of his ears to his toes, and he couldn’t resist placing another kiss on Geralt’s chest, moving lower to the soft swell of his stomach. Geralt hummed under the touch, the beginnings of a purr starting to rumble in his chest, the muscles rippling beneath Dandelion’s lips as he nuzzled against the skin.

“Beautiful,” he sighed.

“I’m n-”

“Beautiful, Geralt. I won’t allow any arguments on the matter.” The words were punctuated with more kisses to Geralt’s stomach, and Dandelion smiled as Geralt’s fingers threaded into his hair, brushing a curl from his eyes. “I love you.”

Geralt hummed his agreement, never really one for words, but it didn’t matter. Some people showed their love in other ways. Just because Dandelion showered praise and poetry on his husband, it didn’t mean he expected it in return. It just meant that any words Geralt did use meant more, and that suited Dandelion just fine. Letting out a melodic peal of laughter, Dandelion peppered Geralt’s stomach with more kisses until his witcher had had enough and rolled them over, capturing Dandelion’s lips with his own. The day was still young, but neither witcher nor poet had any intention of getting out of bed any time soon. It was a lazy morning and it was perfect.

#the witcher #geraskier #gerlion #geralt of rivia #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier pankratz #geralt #wolfie's witcher writing

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years ago

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Here and Now

CW: PTSD, flashbacks

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

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

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

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

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

For some reason, the blow never came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eskel," Cahir cut in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were curiously well-versed."

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

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

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

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

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

#eskhir #eskel/cahir #eskel x cahir #eskel #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #lambert #vesemir #cw: flashbacks #cw: ptsd #tldr: cahir has a flashback while training

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