#gonna go look at more Jaskier Images to make me feel better

[dreamofbecoming]

so i have 2 windows in my bedroom, and normally they’re both open, but obviously open windows are a terrible idea in new york rn, so all the windows in the house are closed, right? except one of the windows in my room is in a really hard to access position, and on top of that it sticks, and the last time the smoke hit the city i physically injured myself closing/reopening it, and i didn’t really want to spend another 2 weeks healing from a wrenched shoulder, so i’ve boarded it up with the plastic trays i bought to keep plants on my windowsills in, but they aren’t quite the right size so there are two little slivers of screen still exposed bleeding poison into my air, and i’ve got the air purifier running but idk how effective it is when the room isn’t sealed and my head hurts and my chest hurts and i’m just having a bad time yall

[carinavet]

A while back, after The Witcher seasons 2-3 came out, I Liked a couple of its songs on Spotify. Specifically, a couple of Jaskier's songs. Well, after I did that, Spotify started giving me recommendations based on those Likes. In those recommendations, here was one band in particular that had a male singer whose voice kind of reminded me of Jaskier's honestly, but there was something about it that just ... I have never been more attracted to just a voice in my life.

Now, I like voices. I pay attention to voices. And this dude's voice ... isn't particularly special. But there's something about his voice and the way he uses it that makes me Feel Things that just a voice should not make me feel.

So I made the conscious decision not to look up a picture of this dude. Because if he was ugly I was gonna cry.

So for MONTHS I listened to this band on repeat. And aside from my particular feelings about this voice, they're a great band! There is also a female singer, and she is also fantastic, though her existence is somewhat eclipsed by my Feelings around the male singer. Overall they have this strange sort of fey quality about them, both in the style and in the fact that for some reason I cannot bloody remember any of their lyrics. (Seriously, I'll give a song a listen specifically to pay attention to the words and by the time I'm listening to one line, I've already forgotten the previous one.) Enough that it's a bit startling when there's suddenly a line that mentions a cell phone. And all this time I resist the urge to go looking for any information on them beyond the music itself.

And then one day Spotify recommends me a playlist based on their music, and there's a new band thumbnail attached. (Or, new to me anyway.) It's a slightly better picture of the two lead singers. And this is still a teeny little thumbnail image on my phone, still pretty indistinct, but ... it's more than I had before. And I sit and I squint at that picture for a while, and I go, ".....Fuuuuck, he might actually be cute."

So finally I break, and I decide to look up a music video of the song that got me into this band in the first place. So I pop on over to Youtube and type in the name of the band and the song, and sure enough, there's the official music video, and there's a thumbnail for it with a picture of the guy. And again, this is a small and indistinct picture, but again, it's more than I had before. And again, I squint at this picture for a while and go, "........Wait a fucking minute."

Guess whose band it is. Go on, guess.

I had a friend I'd told about all this months previous, and I had to immediately text her and be like "IT'S JOEY FUCKING BATEY! IT'S BEEN HIM THE WHOLE TIME! WHAT THE FUUUUUCK!!!"

(For those who don't know, the band is called The Amazing Devil. The song that got me into them is "The Horror and the Wild", but my current favourite is "Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious", and my favourite for his voice in particular is "Farewell Wanderlust".)

So anyway, all that's to say, I really like this music....👉👈

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - Learning the Hard Way

Lambert is one of those people who actually nice, but gods forbid anyone know it. He goes out of his way to be an absolute ar**hole to everyone, until he gets to know them better. Then he's still an ar**hole, just in a 'caring way'.

He just can't seem to drop the prickly exterior, even with people he likes. Not even with Jaskier. He actually likes Geralt's annoying Bard,

Of course he couldn't let them know he liked the Bard. That would ruin his image. It was hard though, especially after the first time he heard The Voice Crack.

Lambert spent many weeks taunting, teasing, bullying, and picking on Jaskier. But then he kind of stopped all that after Jaskier broke both his arms the following winter. Lambert felt kind of guilty about it since it had happened on his watch.

Of course, he pretended that he was only being nice to him because Geralt said he had to.

Lambert's prickliness got worse because he always seemed to make an a** of himself when he was around Jaskier. He blustered and bluffed, and snarked, but it always ended with his brothers laughing at him.

Like with the Love Bite.

And the whole Splinter Incident.

And Geralt laughing at him the first time Songbird made that stupid hand sign at him.

Lambert becomes even more of an ar**hole when he notices how protective Yennefer is of the Bard. The Witcher doesn't know why, but it annoys him that she seems so...close with Songbird.

One morning he starts in on Jaskier as he sat with Geralt and Aiden, waiting for Eskel and Coen to return from hunting. He starts out with his usual bullying, and Jaskier does his best to ignore it.

Then he starts making little comments insiuating that surely there must be something going on between Jaskier and the witch. Jaskier had glanced sharply at Geralt, and made a series of angry gestures. His eyes were oddly cold and hard.

Geralt made a few gestures back, then calmly sipped his ale. Lambert glowered. They were doing that thing again. It just p*ssed him off even more. He started insulting the witch, and Jaskier was practically vibrating with indignation.

Geralt just has this odd look in his eye, almost like he knows something, but he just hmms quietly and says nothing.

Jaskier made a smarta** comment because he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.

And before anyone could stop him, Lambert had hauled the surprised Bard across the table.

He should have known something was off when neither Geralt nor Aiden moved from the table to intervene. All Geralt said was "Lambert, you don't want to f**k with him. Just let it go."

Songbird can't fight, can't hunt, can't swing a sword...he's pretty much helpless. All he can do is sing and look pretty. What's he gonna do, Geralt? Stab me with a quill? Write a mean song about me?

"For starters, I won't give you any more Love Bites-!"

"Hah! Maybe I can get your precious sorceress to give me one instead!"

Geralt gave him one more cryptic warning "You really don't want to f**k with him. Especially about Yen,"

Lambert was to angry to care. He wasn't going to hurt him, just slap him around a bit and scare him a little.

Lambert started out with threats and insults, pushing him and slapping him about the head, getting a little more physically aggressive when Jaskier tried to joke his way out of the situation. He squeaked something about that d**n witch and what she was going to do if he hurt him.

Lambert let him know what he thought of his threat with a punch to the face, followed by a punch to the stomach. Then he let him know his opinion of the witch. Jaskier's eyes had gotten dark and he'd demanded that Lambert shut up.

Lambert had laughed, then boasted and bragged, and said a few things that he probably shouldn't have said with Geralt sitting a few feet away.

He could tell the little sh*t was feeling cocky because his Witcher was watching. He could tell by the way his eyes flashed and the way he'd started smiling at him. Lambert couldn't believe the audacity. The little b**tard was actually grinning at him!

Jaskier's voice was eerily low, almost a growl "Say one more word about Yen, and I will do worse than bury you, Lambert. I will write a song about you so savage that you will never be able to leave Kaer Morhen again!"

Lambert had seen red. He decided it was time Songbird learned his place. He snarled and shoved Jaskier to the floor. He kicked him once in the chest, held him down and growled all sorts of nonsense about the horrible things he was going to do to the witch while Jaskier watched.

Then Lambert made a very bad decision: he teabagged him.

Geralt and Aiden howled with laughter as Lambert suddenly started shrieking. There was no other word for the sound Lambert made when Jaskier bit him on the goolies, and didn't let go.

Lambert was still shrieking when Jaskier finally did let go, and there was a quick flash of steel before a line of searing fire replaced Jaskier's teeth, and then the Bard was knocking him flat to the ground.

There was suddenly a bloody knife at Lambert's throat, and Jaskier's face was inches from his, his mouth bloody and with too many teeth showing. There was an absolutely feral look in his eyes. It was like looking into the face of snarling wolf

Lambert didn't need to see the blood on the Bard's face to know the bite had broken the skin. And the blood on the knife...Lambert had a very unsettling mental image of his...boys...barely hanging on.

He was vaguely aware of Geralt and Aiden discussing something, but making no move to help him at all. The b**tards!

The Bard leaned down and snarled deep and ugly in his chest "You won't touch her! You won't talk to her! You won't so much as even look in her direction!

Lambert was stunned. That feral look had him frozen. And why the f**k did he have a knife??? Jaskier was a Bard. As far as they all knew, he didn't carry any kind of weapon, unless his lute counted as one. He supposed you could bludgeon someone to death with it in a pinch.

The trapped Witcher grabbed Jaskier's wrist and tried to twist it away, but stopped when that feral grin got wider and he felt the prick of a second knife in his ribs. How many of those d**n things did he have???

Lambert couldn't let Jaskier know he was scared caught off guard, so he bluster and spat "F**k that stupid witch, she's-!"

"Say something again! Say something again about Yen! Say something again, and see what happens!" Jaskier snarled, both knives pressing a little harder against skin.

Lambert didn't even dare swallow in case he accidnetally cut his own throat.

Jaskier.

A new voice sounded next to Lambert. Ah, Geralt had finally gotten off his a** and gotten reinforcements.

Yennefer had knelt right next to Jaskier, completely unafraid and gently touched his arm. "Julian, come away,"

Aiden *silently confused* Wait, his name's Julian??

Jaskier had blinked and wavered. Yennefer put her hand on his cheek, and turned his face towards her.

Julek...

Aiden *internally screaming* 'Julek'? F**k me, that's adorable!

Yennefer started playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, "Julek, look at me."

And like magic, the little sh*t went from feral b**tard to baby. The knives flicked out of sight and Jaskier's eyes turned soft again. He'd crawled off Lambert and leaned into the sorceress with a little "yEn..." letting her wipe the blood off his face, and check his bruises.

Ah, F**K! Not the Voice Crack! I should have let him cut my throat because now the witch is going to kill me!

Lambert's injury had definitely required stitches. Yennefer had healed him as best she could, but had mercilessly b*tched at him the whole time for cracking one of Songbird's ribs.

Geralt and Aiden made him promise not to tell Eskel or Coen about the Feral Bard Incident, and they promised to tell Eskel and Coen that Lambert was limping because he had injured himself in a training accident, instead of almost losing his balls to a Bard.

Wait, Geralt, did you f***ing know that he was going to go feral??

"As soon as you threatened Yennefer, Yes." And Geralt pulled off his shirt and showed Lambert the three knife scars on his upper body. "He gave me these by accident. Yen was sick. He was guarding her, and I startled him. "

Lambert looked at Aiden, who nodded. He agreed to keep the secret. And he'd been openly nicer to Jaskier from then on.

He'd learned the hard way not to f**k with the Bard.

[katecake]

Scars

I needed me a Jaskel Soulmate AU where Jaskier knows his soulmate’s a witcher, but he also knows it’s not Geralt. After wondering how that would happen, I finally came up w/ this!!

__

Imagine a world where soulmarks exist. While not exactly rare, they’re still fairly uncommon.

Little Jaskier’s soulmark is on the inside crook of his elbow. The face of a fierce silver wolf. For as unrealistic and stylized as it is, it’s still undeniably a wolf. His parents sneer at it. The servants and teachers are all uncomfortable when they see it. Little Jaskier, though? Oh how he loves it. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know its significance. But he loves it nonetheless.

Jaskier’s only five years old when he learns what a Witcher is. He’s only five years old when he’s taught to fear Witchers.

Jaskier’s twelve and he’s being held down as he begs and pleads and screams. He screams as the other boys bring a knife to his soulmark, laughing all the while. Because, what soulmate could a monster have than another monster?

Jaskier’s twelve when he makes the connection between his soulmark and Witchers.

He runs away less than a week later, wound still fresh, and ends up somewhere outside Oxenfurt. He decides to stay there, study there. The injury scars. He keeps it covered at all times with black cloth. Sometimes, it’s so tight it hurts. He never shows anyone his mark ever again.

–

Jaskier’s twenty-three when he meets Geralt, and he immediately recognizes the medallion. It’s the spitting image of what his soulmark looked like. He feels some residual anxiety from meeting a Witcher, but has learned humans can be just as monstrous as they claim Witchers to be. The black strip of cloth on his arm is proof enough.

So he takes a gamble and follows Geralt. And he continues to follow Geralt for years to come. He learns everything he was taught was a lie (something he’s suspected since the moment that knife touched his mark). He makes it his goal to change the world’s mind about Witchers. And if he hopes, deep down, that if he continues to follow Geralt he’ll meet his soulmate? Well, that’s his secret fantasy.

–

Years pass and eventually Geralt invites him up to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Jaskier says yes in a heartbeat. He’s as giddy as he is nervous and babbles the whole trip up.

When they get there, Eskel’s the one to greet them at the gate, not that Jaskier notices. He’s too busy still babbling nervously about nothing at all and removing his packs from his horse. He struggles to hold everything as he goes over to the two, intent on introducing himself to this new witcher. Except when he finally looks at Eskel, his breath catches and he drops everything he’s holding. He can do nothing but stare, pale and shaky, at the scarred face in front of him.

He doesn’t register how the man shifts so he stands with his scars less on display. He doesn’t register Geralt’s defensive and angry tone. He doesn’t register the third, angry, man who threatens him for making his brother uncomfortable in his own home. All Jaskier can think about is the shape of those scars.

Lambert’s outright hostile to him, not that Jaskier blames him. Geralt’s also cagey and defensive. Even Vesemir, despite keeping the peace between the wolves and the bard, makes his disappointment of Jaskier clear.

It takes another two weeks before Jaskier manages to catch Eskel alone and apologizes. He wants to explain himself, but every time he tries, his throat tightens and the words die on his lips. So instead, he works to befriend Eskel in earnest.

The first time Eskel smiles at him, really smiles at him (an entire month later), Jaskier feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. The way Eskel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips curl awkwardly, the way his whole demeanor seems to light up. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. He can’t keep the dopey smile off his own face the whole day.

Eskel smiles more after that, and it seems to be enough for the others. Lambert’s no longer actively hostile and Geralt’s back to himself. Vesemir no longer looks at Jaskier with disappointment either. And if Jaskier scratches at the crook of his arm, that’s no ones business but his own.

Until, one night when Jaskier has long since stumbled off to bed, Lambert asks. It's just the three of them, Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel, still drinking in the kitchen.

“So what’s,” Lambert pauses to hiccup, “what’s with the bard’s arm?” He asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts squinting at the cards in his hand.

“That damn bandage of his,” he continues motioning at the crook of his own elbow. “Wears it when he– when he fucken bathes too.”

“Maybe it’s covering a scar,” Eskel offers, “or a weird birthmark.”

Lambert scowls. “He’s got plenty other scars.”

Geralt snorts. “And weird birthmarks too,” he adds thinking about the vaguely cock shaped birthmark Jaskier has on his shoulder.

Lambert grumbles as Geralt and Eskel continue playing their game of gwent.

“What if it’s a soulmark?” He eventually asks.

“Humans don’t present them as easily as we do,” Eskel says at the same moment Geralt says:

“Not a chance.”

The two stare at him, clearly wanting an explanation.

Geralt grumbles and downs what’s left in his mug. “Jaskier’s a hopeless romantic,” he explains. “Wouldn’t shut up for weeks when he saw mine. And then he wouldn’t shut up for the better part of a godsdamned year after we finally met Yen,” he pours himself another drink and downs that too with a shudder. “Believe me, if he had one, we’d know.”

A few hours later, when Geralt’s fighting to stay awake, Lambert slams his mug on the table. It startles Eskel and Geralt enough that they’re more awake than they were an hour ago.

“I wanna know,” Lambert growls.

“Then ask him,” Eskel says.

Geralt yawns. “He always changes the subject.”

Lambert nods vigorously as Eskel frowns. “Then leave it.”

“But I wanna know!” Lambert complains.

Eskel gets up. “I’m not doing this,” he groans. “I’m going to bed.”

Lambert calls him a bitch as he leaves and grumbles into his drink. He and Geralt continue drinking for a few minutes before Lambert asks, “You grab him and I pull that damn cloth off?”

Geralt, too drunk and too tired to think about all the times Jaskier’s flinched when grabbed by the elbow, nods.

It surprisingly takes them a few days to catch Jaskier alone. He’s confused when Geralt grabs him but otherwise doesn’t struggle. It’s not until Lambert pulls at his sleeve that he panics.

Jaskier thrashes in their grip the moment he realizes what they’re doing. Decades old panic grips him as he screams and begs for them not to hurt him.

Lambert and Geralt stay frozen as Jaskier fleas down the hall. Vesemir is there demanding to know what happened while Eskel runs past them to catch up with Jaskier. Lambert and Geralt can only stare in the direction Jaskier fled, the stench of his fear hangs heavy in the air around them.

Geralt knows what Jaskier’s fear smells like. It’s hard not to when Jaskier often gets too close to a monster, but he has never smelled of fear because of a Witcher before. Not when he’d first seen Eskel. Not when Lambert threatened to gut him right after. And not even when the snow had finally blocked off the path down the mountain and he was subsequently trapped in the keep with four unwelcoming witchers.

They don’t see Jaskier for a solid week after that. They know he’s still in the keep, they can smell him in the kitchen, in the baths, through the halls, but they don’t actually see him. Lambert’s on edge, quicker to anger, and Geralt’s quieter, more prone to get lost in thought.

They both try to apologize, in their own way, standing outside Jaskier’s door. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a sound. The only reason they know he’s in there is because his heart’s racing and he smells of anxiety and residual panic.

Eventually Eskel’s able to coax him out and he tentatively resettles into the routine he’s established for himself. Jaskier now has a constant underlying scent of anxiety to him. He smells of panic whenever someone focuses on his arm too long.

It all comes to a head one evening. Vesemir reaches to touch Jaskier’s elbow to get his attention. Jaskier flinches so hard he nearly throws himself into the hearth they’re sitting around. He doesn’t smell of fear, but his panic is palpable. Vesemir apologizes but Jaskier assures him it’s fine, even as Lambert storms away shouting abuse and Geralt slinks away miserably.

Eskel cracks that night. It’s late, the others have all gone to their rooms in their attempts to avoid Jaskier, and it’s just Eskel and Jaskier in the library. Jaskier’s leaning against him, fighting to stay awake as Eskel simply enjoys his company.

“What…” Eskel asks tentatively. “Happened to your arm?”

Jaskier tenses against him, heart rate picking up as his hand goes to cover the spot. He sits up slowly, stiffly, and Eskel immediately kicks himself. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

But Jaskier shakes his head. “No it’s okay,” he says weakly. “It’s stupid really. It happened so long ago, almost thirty years,” he laughs shakily, voice impossibly quiet. “But I guess I still get scared someone’s gonna finish carving off my soulmark at times.”

Eskel feels like he’s been punched in the throat. Soulmarks are special. They’re Destiny’s will. All Witchers have soulmarks. Something about the trials make them emerge, almost like Destiny herself is desperately trying to preserve their humanity. Eskel knows his own soulmark all too well. Four little yellow flowers floating down a stream painted on his ribs. At times, if he just focuses on the general shape, they look like music notes. He knows the mark ties him to Jaskier. It’s why Jaskier’s initial reaction to him hurt so much.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel says lamely, because what else can he say? He could demand the name of the people that hurt Jaskier, but that won’t repair the damage. He could go after Geralt and Lambert again for their stupid stunt, but they’re suffering enough as it is and Jaskier doesn’t really hold it against them.

Jaskier barely shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’ve… actually wanted to show it to you for some time,” he admits quietly. His hands shake as he rolls up his tunic sleeve.

Eskel catches his wrist, stills the movement. “Stop,” he breathes. “You don’t have to.”

Jaskier leans towards him, his forehead coming to rest against Eskel’s. “Please,” he whispers.

Eskel reluctantly lets go. He watches as Jaskier halting works the black cloth off. There’s red marks across Jaskier’s skin where the edge of the cloth dug in too tightly. But Eskel’s breath and attention is immediately stolen by the mark. He feels fury and an unimaginable sadness wash over him in equal measures.

It looks exactly like the wolf school medallion. Or it would were it not for the angry scars distorting the right side of its face.

Eskel runs a thumb over it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Jaskier shivers at the touch and Eskel can smell the tears the bard is desperately trying to hold back. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you when I saw you. It’s just…”

“The scars,” Eskel murmurs. “They’re identical.” He has a sick feeling that Jaskier’s mark was defiled the same day his face was slashed.

Jaskier explains himself fully that night, as he cries in Eskel’s arms. It feels strange to finally show his mark again after almost thirty years. He’s not sure if he’s scared or relieved or if its even good or bad. It just is.

The following morning, he’s understandably exhausted and spends breakfast tucked against Eskel’s side. Lambert and Geralt get to the kitchen and try to leave before the even enter it. Jaskier reeks of tears and misery and Eskel. Eskel asks them to at least stay for breakfast. Lambert still wants to run but seeing as how Geralt pitifully sits down, he refuses to be the only one that runs and sits down too. Breakfast is awkward with how exhausted Jaskier looks and smells, they’re both happy to go off and do their chores for once.

Jaskier spends most of the morning sleeping in Eskel’s room. When he emerges for dinner, it’s almost like nothing’s happened. He’s back to his loud and carefree self. The smell of anxiety is almost unnoticeable now. Vesemir claps him on the shoulder and Geralt’s less quiet.

Lambert’s still unsettled, though, still easy to anger and prone to snapping. He doesn’t believe the bard’s act for a second. That level of fear can’t just be forgiven that easily. It has nothing to do with the fact that it was his plan that caused that reaction and made his brothers upset.

His brothers and Vesemir tell him the bard’s fine. Even Jaskier himself assures him that it’s okay. He doesn’t believe it for a second. No amount of chattering with Geralt, or helping Vesemir in the library, or spending nights with Eskel will convince him.

But maybe seeing how Jaskier lets Eskel settle a hand over his arm helps. Seeing how Jaskier smiles all shy and happy when it happens helps. Seeing how Eskel returns the looks helps. Seeing how Eskel doesn’t shy away when Jaskier touches his scars helps.

Maybe seeing and smelling how happy the two are helps ease the guilt. Because what else could be under that black cloth than a scarred over soulmark?

[king-finnigan]

wingless thing

this is a oneshot that i was planning on turning into a full series at some point, but i never really had any ideas for the main storyline. so here it is, now; it’s an AU where everyone on the continent is born with wings. the only people who don’t have them are witchers.

Geralt sighs as he looks up at the tavern, built into the side of the mountain. There is no path up, no way to get there other than flying. Which wouldn’t be an issue for anyone else.

But unfortunately, Geralt isn’t anyone else.

He lets out an annoyed huff and Roach bristles softly, pushing at his shoulder with her nose. He pats the side of her neck, tangling his fingers through her brown mane. “Sorry, girl,” he mutters. “Gonna have to sleep outside again tonight.”

He doesn’t really know what he expected. Posada is full of mountains, of course people are going to build as high up as they can to get away from the creatures and monsters on the ground. Still, he’d been looking forward to a proper meal and a soft bed for the night, but it looks like he’ll have to make do with his bedroll and some dried meat. He always does.

He takes the saddle and reigns off of Roach and starts setting up camp – laying down his bedroll, gathering wood for a fire, checking his dwindling supplies. He counts his coin, finds out he’s still low on it and gold hasn’t magically appeared in his pouch since he looked this morning.

It’s the reason why he came here in the first place. Usually, he doesn’t venture this close to the mountains – the buildings always high up and only accessible from the air – but there haven’t been a lot of monsters in the plains and forests lately, so he had no other choice but to head east.

He looks up as he hears wings flapping, watches with a barely-hidden scowl when a young man descends from the air, softly lowering himself on one of the branches of a tree at the edge of the clearing. His feathers are a light shade of brown, almost golden in the late afternoon light, interspersed by darker ones painting long stripes across his wings. The young man cocks his head, keen, blue eyes taking in the sight of Geralt sitting on the ground, wingless.

“What are you doing down here?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, his already thin patience running out quickly. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Setting up camp.” Apparently this young man either doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is, or he’s unable to pick up on them. “But why down here?”

Geralt glares at him, narrowing his eyes at those golden-brown wings. The young man merely raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. Geralt sighs. “I can’t get up there.”

“Up where? The inn?” Geralt nods, and the stranger finally seems to get it, his eyes flicking to where Geralt’s wings should be, his mouth falling open in a soft ‘O’. He appears to figure out a lot of things in the next few seconds, his face going from confusion to realization back to confusion numerous times.

Geralt sighs, lighting the fire with a quick Igni, the blissful quiet stretching out between them.

“You’re the Witcher,” the young man says eventually. “Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.” Geralt resists the urge to growl at the mention of that cursed town, his mind unhelpfully providing him with the memories of Renfri, of her blood coating his hands, of Stregobor cutting off her grey-and-white wings while the entire town chased Geralt away. He shakes his head to rid himself of the images.

Finally, the young man comes down from the tree, the tips of his wings dragging in the dirt behind him as he walks towards Geralt, extending his hand. Geralt doesn’t take it and looks away. Eventually, the young man gives up and sits down on the other side of the fire, big, blue eyes taking Geralt in, his brown feathers trembling slightly in excitement.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way.” Geralt doesn’t respond, but the young man continues regardless. “You know, I’m a bard. My lute is still up at the inn-“ he jabs his thumb up at the side of the mountain “-so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but it seems to me that you’ve got a bit of an image problem, Witcher. You know, I could be your barker-“

“No.”

“-spreading the tales of- of… Geralt of Rivia, the…” He seems to think for a few seconds, chin in his hand. “The White Wolf!” he finally exclaims, spreading his wings and arms dramatically, nearly knocking into Roach, who bristles angrily, taking a few steps away from the annoying and expressive bard.

Geralt looks at Jaskier for a few moments. “The White Wolf?” he eventually asks, voice flat.

Jaskier nods excitedly. “Yes! Because your hair is white and you don’t have any wings! I saw you pacing around here before I arrived, and I thought to myself ‘wow, this guy looks just like a wolf stalking its prey’, so there you have it! White Wolf! Do you like it?”

“No. Go away.” What the fuck does he need a barker for? He’s perfectly fine on his own. He’s managed seventy years alone on the path without wings, and he’ll manage a thousand more, thank you very much. Now all he needs is for this guy to fuck off and let him be so he can get some much-needed sleep. He’ll set out early again tomorrow.

Jaskier pouts a bit but gets up, luckily. “Alright, aright. I’ll leave you to it, then. Bye, Geralt.”

“Hmm. Bye.” He doesn’t look up from the fire, sees the flames dance in front of him as Jaskier flaps his wings and starts running, eventually taking off, up and up into the sky, towards the inn built into the mountainside. Once the sound of wings flapping has faded away, Geralt lets himself relax and eats a meagre meal of dried meat and a crust of stale bread. He falls into a restless sleep after that, his dreams plagued by black and white wings, speckled with blood.

---

He sets out early the next day, towards Dol Blathanna. A goat farmer had approached him in the morning, offering a hundred coins for a demon that kept stealing his goats. Geralt highly doubts that it’s a demon, but a job’s a job, and no matter how little money a hundred coins is, it’s better than nothing.

He saddles Roach and heads to the east. Before long though, he hears the sound of wings, someone flying towards him.

“Geralt! Hi!” Jaskier lands next to him, using his momentum to fall into step next to Geralt, Roach too slow and the branches too low to keep flying. He’s a bit out of breath, but his entire face is lit up with a smile that easily rivals the morning sun. There’s a lute hanging against his hip, Geralt notices.

“So, what are we hunting?”

Geralt scoffs. “We aren’t hunting anything. Fuck off.”

Jaskier pouts. “You know, you should really work on your people skills. I bet you’d get more contracts, then, though of course my songs will help. I mean, I’m almost getting the impression that you want me to leave!”

Geralt throws him an apprehensive look. “I do want you to leave. Go away.”

Jaskier huffs, his feathers puffing up slightly in annoyance. “No! No, you need my help, Geralt of Rivia. Unless, of course, you want to be forever known as the Butcher of Blaviken and a wingless monster.”

Geralt scoffs. “I am.”

“What? The Butcher of Blaviken or a wingless monster?”

“Both.”

Jaskier gasps, hand dramatically laying over his chest, wings stretching out, the tips bending forward a bit in shock. “You are most certainly not!”

“Well, I’m not a white wolf, either.”

Jaskier laughs softly, his wings folding behind his back again. “I assure you that you are. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you agree?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but feels something soft unfurl in his chest. “Hmm.”

The bard grins. “So you do agree! Of course you do. I’m right, after all.”

It continues on like that for a while, Jaskier chatting on and on, his wings almost equally as expressive as his hands, and he almost slaps an increasingly disgruntled Roach with them several times. Meanwhile, Geralt keeps quiet, only giving monosyllabic answers from time to time, keeping an eye out for this so-called ‘demon’. Eventually, he dismounts Roach, leaving her behind at one of the only trees visible in the plain of yellowed grass, the rich mountains no more than a silhouette behind his back. He continues on foot, Jaskier following closely behind, still chattering.

“Sorry, what are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence.”

“… Yeah, don’t really go in for that.”

Something rustles in the grass, and Geralt barely has time to turn around before something hits Jaskier square between the eyes. The bard collapses onto the ground, and the witcher walks towards him, finds a small, metal ball on the ground. He looks up when he hears footsteps, registers the dark silhouette of a person against the bright sunlight, and is promptly struck against the back of the head, his vision fading to black rather abruptly and violently.

---

He wakes up in a cave, hands bound by his side, something soft and firm and trembling pressed to his back. He frowns, confused, until he moves his head a bit and feels feathers tickling against his cheeks, the wings behind him puffed up in fear – except they aren’t his wings. Of course they’re not; he lost his a long time ago.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Jaskier says behind him.

Geralt grunts, starts struggling against the ropes that bind his wrists by his side.

“This is the part where we escape!” Jaskier exclaims, wings fluttering a bit in excitement, as if this is all just some big adventure.

“This is the part where they kill us,” he growls, still struggling against the bonds.

“Who’s they?” Jaskier’s wings contract in pain against Geralt’s back when a she-elf kicks the bard in the stomach.

Everything is a bit of a blur after that, getting his and the bard’s life threatened by the elves – easily identified as elves by their iridescent dragonfly wings – Jaskier’s lute getting destroyed, the elven king talking about the atrocities committed against them, and eventually letting the bard and the witcher go, even giving Jaskier a new, elven lute, the wood as shimmery and iridescent as their wings.

And before long, they’re headed back to Posada. Jaskier walks in front of him, strumming his new lute, singing a song of which only three words are true, give or take, his wings puffed up to let the soft breeze ruffle through the feathers.

Back in Posada, Jaskier offers Geralt to carry him up to the inn, which he resolutely refuses. There is a certain shame in having to stay on the ground while everyone else flies past, his differences pointedly underlined by his obvious lack of wings, but there’s something else entirely revolting about having to be carried up by a scrawny, little bard.

But instead of going back up to the inn alone, Jaskier stays on the ground with Geralt, practically stealing the Witcher’s spare bedroll.

“So,” Jaskier says, gently plucking away at the strings of his new lute. “What’s the deal with-“ he gestures at Geralt “-you know.”

He rolls his eyes. He’d much rather go to sleep right now than listen to the bard make redundant statements and ask vague questions. “No, I don’t know.”

Jaskier seems to hesitate, biting his bottom lip gently. “The wings,” he eventually half-whispers, as if it’s something Geralt’s sensitive about. Which he is, but he’d never show anyone that. “Where are they?”

“None of your business.” The light of the flames burns his eyes as he stares into the fire, and for a moment, he could swear he sees black and white feathers between the logs. For a moment, he’s still a boy at Kaer Morhen, looking on helplessly as they burn part of him, the barely-healed wounds in his back a constant, agonizing reminder of what he’s lost.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums, plucking a few notes on his lute. “I suppose not. But there are rumours, you know? Like that you have to eat your own wings to become a Witcher.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Jaskier scrunches his nose. “Yeah, figured that one wasn’t real. Also heard a rumour that it’s what gives you your magic-“

“We don’t have magic.”

“-but my nan’s friend’s uncle’s brother’s teacher lost one wing during the war, and he didn’t get any magic powers, so I suppose that one’s a lie as well. I also heard a rumour-“

“Go to sleep, bard.”

Jaskier pouts at him for a second but Geralt doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he lies down on his bedroll, turning his back to the bard.

After a few seconds, he hears the faint rustling of clothes, the quiet thud of the elven lute being placed into the old, worn case, the clicking of locks being closed. He waits, watching the light of the fire dance across the trees around them, as Jaskier’s breathing grows slower and deeper.

Only when he’s sure that the bard’s asleep, does he let himself relax slightly, wincing when he shifts- the motion pulling at scars he can never truly forget. No matter how many nights have passed since that day so many decades ago, the ache in his back never fades.

He slips into a restless sleep.

[waiting4inspiration]

Darkness before Dawn V: The Mage; Your Aunt

Summary: Still shaken after the mornings encounter with the spirit, you make a deal with Geralt to tell him everything so he can have a chance at protecting you even more. The Mage arrives, and it turns out to be someone you know.

Warnings: slight angst, fluff, strong language, ghosts, slight horror, scary themes magical elements, you’re gonna like the aunt

Word Count: 2,460

Darkness before Dawn Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist 

You refuse to leave your chambers for the rest of the day and Geralt refuses to leave your side. He makes sure you feel safe by sitting close to you as your eyes stare at the fire in the hearth. 

You do feel safe having him close to you, but you feel that if you keep your eyes fixed in one place, you’ll be fine. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. Right?

“You want to tell me what happened?” he gently questions, your head slightly lifting as you take in a breath. “I heard you asking the spirit what it wanted. It gave you an answer?”

Sighing, you drop your head between your shoulders and wrap your arms around your body. Geralt notices a shiver in your body and stands from his seat to retrieve a blanket from your bed. When he wraps the blanket around your shoulders, you jump in surprise and your head snaps around to look at him. 

With your gaze no longer on the fire, you glance around the room to make sure the spirit isn’t here. You sigh in relief to see that you’re alone with Geralt and you turn to look back at him. “It...said it wanted me,” you whisper, pulling the blanket tighter around you as Geralt sits in his seat again. He breathes in through his nose and folds his hands in front of him. “Nothing else. Just that it wants me. What’s that supposed to mean?” you question, frowning at him as you shake your head. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, a sad look growing on his face as you fall back in your seat. “What else happened?” he asks, your head dropping between your shoulders as you bite your lip. “The more I know, the more I can do to protect you.”

You know he’s right. But you’re not sure if you have the strength to tell him everything. Running your tongue over your lips, you turn your gaze to face him and breathe out a deep sigh. “I could feel him behind me, watching me the entire time,” you begin. A frown works on his face, but he doesn’t question anything, letting you explain what he wants to know. “Then, I saw him behind Charlotte and I watched… He…” you struggle to find the right words, the image of your sister’s bleeding neck still burned into your mind and it makes your shiver. 

Bringing your hand up to your neck, lightly touching your skin as you look back at the fire in front of you. “He cut her throat,” you mutter.

Geralt watches as you trace an invisible line on your throat, like a cut. “Spirits can’t harm us-”

“Only me,” you stop him, looking back to him as you hug your body. “And even though she’s treated me like shit, she’s still my sister. And seeing her throat being cut like that…” you trail off, shaking your head and you bring a hand up to touch your face. 

He thinks of your words, how you said that the spirit wants you. And he pieces these two things together. “It’s trying to torment you. Whatever it wants from you, it’s trying to upset you,” he mentions, your head slightly shaking as you drop your hand to your lap. 

You look back at him, tears slightly lining your eyes and you try to fight them. “So, I’m supposed to just ignore it?”

“No.” Geralt’s quick to reply, his answer making you turn slightly to face him and raise an eyebrow in interest. “Whatever it’s doing, how it torments you can be a sign to what it wants from you. If we know what it wants, it can be a clue as to how to break this curse,” he explains, unfolding his hands and sitting back in his seat. 

You nod, his words making slight sense to you and you glance down to the pendant on his chest. That wolf charm on the chain. “You haven’t dealt with many spirits, have you?” you quietly question, recalling the tales Jaskier has told you and all that you’ve heard of Witchers. But remembering the part where Geralt said that that veil prevents spirits from harming anyone. 

He chuckles, making you lightly smile and relax in your seat. “Not ones like this,” he mentions, lifting his gaze up to you, glad to see that there’s a smile on your face. “The most recent was a Djinn.”

“The one that Jaskier claims almost killed him?” you question, feeling the mood around you start to lighten. And staring into those golden eyes in front of you seems to make you forget how you were feeling a few moments ago. 

Humming with a smirk on his face, Geralt glances to the fire when a log breaks in half. “You know, he planned for us to meet,” he whispers.

“I know,” you chuckle, shifting slightly forward so you sit on the edge of your seat and end up slightly closer to him. “I’ll bet you the only reason he’s not here right now is to give us a chance to get to know each other better,” you mention, earning an agreeing grunt from him as he carries on staring at the fire. 

You take in his features, the shape of his face, his jawline. The scar just by his eyebrow. He wasn’t too bad on the eyes when you first saw him, but now being so close to him, the way the light from the fireplace is cast on his face; he’s almost breathtaking. 

Feeling you staring at him in silence, Geralt turns his face to you. And you quickly turn your gaze to the fire again, not wishing for him to catch you staring. He’s about to speak, say something about how Jaskier might have done something right by introducing him to you. But he finds himself at the silhouette of your face. 

Clouds have come in and cover the sun, slightly darkening the room and sending a chill through the air; hence why the fire was lit and why he wrapped a blanket around you. 

But the orange light against your face has him speechless. 

You can feel him staring at you. A light blush grows on your cheeks at that knowledge and you drop your head to stare at your lap. It serves you right for staring at him...

“Princess.”

Hearing a breathless whisper close to you, your head snaps up and your eyes land on the figure you found standing beside the fireplace this morning when you woke. The woman with the bruised neck. 

Only, she doesn’t stand in the spot she stood this morning. She kneels before you, close to you and her hands reaching out to yours. Seeing her so close makes you jump back and Geralt to reach for his sword. 

“Listen.”

“Wait,” you whisper to Geralt, holding up your hand when he aims an attack to where your eyes stare. The woman looks to Geralt before looking at you again. You glance down at the woman’s hands that she holds out in front of you. As you go out to place your hands in hers, she pulls them away and shakes her head. 

“Permission.”

You frown at her, not understanding what she needs permission for. But before you can even ask her that, the door swings open and pulls your gaze away from the ghost in front of you as well as Geralt to turn around. 

“There’s my lovely niece!” You’d know that shrill sounding voice anywhere; your father’s sister and your aunt who gave up her royal title to be a Mage.

Turning around to look at the ghost again, you stare into nothingness in front of you. She’s gone again. You look up to Geralt who turns back to face you and you give him a small head shake when he glances to the spot you were staring at a second ago. 

Your aunt notices the stiffness of the Witcher beside you and your shocked expression. With what she’s been told, she has an idea of what happened. “Was it here?” she asks, her voice soft and cautious as she walks over to you.  

“No. It wasn’t him,” you whisper, standing from your seat and pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Aunt Ida. You’re the Mage the Chapter sent?” you question, changing the topic and holding out a hand to her to greet her. 

She smiles sweetly at you and places her hands over yours. “I volunteered to come. And I’m glad I did,” she states, her eyes moving about you like she’s inspecting the air around you. “There’s a lot of dark energy around you.”

“Baring in mind that she had been attacked not too long ago,” Geralt states, catching your aunt’s attention and making her head turn towards him. 

Ida chuckles as she walks past you, takes in a deep breath as she hums in approval and her eyes skimming over the Witcher in front of her. “And you must be the Witcher protecting my niece, Geralt of Rivia,” she muses, bringing her arm over in front of her to rest her elbow on as she lifts her hand up to frame the side of her face. 

Geralt grunts and shifts on his feet. “I think introductions can be done at a later time. Who can say when this spirit attacks again,” he quickly mentions, glancing over to you when he catches your head turning back to the fireplace. 

Your aunt hums and turns back around to face you quickly, breaking your stare and making you stare at her as she walks forward. “Yes. We must be quick. Whatever is haunting you will sense what we are about to do and it will try to stop us,” she mentions, winking at you before briefly nodding to the Witcher behind her and giving you a secret approving thumbs up. 

You roll your eyes at her and drop your head to hide the blush on your cheeks. You don’t even want to think about how she might try to play ‘matchmaker’ with you and Geralt. 

She walks towards the bed and places a hand on the frame. “We’ve been attacked at night?” she questions, turning her head over her shoulder to catch you and Geralt both nodding. “I doubt it will be the only time that happens.”

“Really?” you say, disappointed that last night wasn’t just a once-off thing. Ida nods her head, making you sigh sadly and glance down to your hands folded in front of you. 

“When we are asleep, we are most vulnerable to the energies around us. And with the veil being broken with you,” she begins, but she doesn’t have to carry on with her explanation. 

You nod your head at her words and look over at the bed, a small memory of being strangled flashes through your mind and it makes you shift on your feet as a cold shiver runs through your spine. You can still see that face in front of you, you can still hear it’s breathy groans as it presses down on your throat. And the thought of it makes you bring your hand up to touch your neck. 

Geralt notices your uneasiness and steps forward to stand at your side to give you a sense of safety. He can feel how the tension in your body disappears the moment he does. Even if you don’t realize how much you relax next to him. “The circles?” he pushes, breaking the moment of silence in the room. 

“This is where the most powerful circle will be so that we don’t have it trying to pull you out by your ankles,” she says, meaning for it to be a joke but your eyes go wide at the thought of that maybe happening. “Maybe it’s not the right time for jokes,” she mutters, looking back at the bed and taking a few steps forward. “Alright, let’s get to work.” She holds her hand out to you and calls you forward. 

Looking up to Geralt, he gives you a reassuring nod and a small smile. You take in a deep breath and walk towards your aunt, place your hand in her and making her look up at you. She smiles and wraps her hand around yours, squeezes it tightly and looks at the ground underneath your bed. 

Then, she starts to speak incantations in a language you’ve never heard of before. A white light starts to glow from her hand that she has pointed to the ground. The light has a slight purple tint to it. 

As markings start to burn into the floor, you gasp at the sight and hold on tighter to her hand. Remembering her words that the spirit might try to stop her from doing this, your head snaps up to look for the spirit that has attacked you. 

Instead, you see the woman again, standing slightly behind Geralt with a relieved look on her face. Then, her head snaps to the side and her body goes rigid. She looks back at you with terrified eyes before moving forward behind Geralt. You expect her to appear again on the other side of Geralt after she’s passed behind him. But she’s gone again. 

Then you hear a loud shriek somewhere, but you can’t place it. It makes you think of the dream. Of the tomb you were trapped in. Of the spirit-

Ida sighs and stops enchanting, breaking you from your thoughts and making you look back at the circle around your bed. There’s an illumination light in the markings, that same purple-tinted light you saw from her hands when she was casting it. 

“Right, next one,” she breathlessly says, turning to move on. 

“Did that take a lot out of you?” you question, noticing her breathlessness and slightly tired posture. 

She waves you off and gives you a smile. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got your father waiting for me to give me whatever I want when these circles are complete,” she giggles, making you smile and look to Geralt. “Come on, then. We have to get to the library.”

“Actually, I have a request,” you quickly say, stopping in your tracks. Your aunt turns around to look at you, waiting to hear what your request is with a smile on her face. “For another circle,” you add, just so she knows what it is you’re asking for. 

Glancing over your shoulder to where your painting station is for a second tells Ida all she needs to know. And when you turn back to her, you find her already walking forward and rolling up her sleeves to prepare herself for her next move. “Definitely.”

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[jaskierswolf]

The Howling of Wolves pt.2/3

TW for the whole story: Angst with happy ending, kidnapping, mentioned previous child abuse, mentioned torture (but off page), Major character injury and recovery, canon typical violence

Previous

Jaskier gasped awake as a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over his head. “Oh bloody hell, fuck that’s cold.” He spluttered through mouthfuls of water.

His hands were bound in cuffs that were chained to the wall. The metal almost burnt his skin meaning they were laced with dimeritium. He was all too familiar with dimeritium handcuffs, they had been a staple of his childhood during the experiments of his youth. Just to be sure he tried to let out his magic and shift. It would be idiotic not to try, but sure enough he barely felt a ghost of his magic over his skin.

At least who ever had taken him had allowed him to keep his clothes.

There was an unsettling itch just below his skin which he hadn’t felt in months which was bothering him.

How long had it been since he shifted? Not since before Geralt had gone off on his werewolf hunt, perhaps even a few days before that. Not long enough for him to be feeling like this though. It was normally at least a couple of weeks before he started to feel cramped in his own skin.

Fuck. How long had he been unconscious…

Unless whatever was in that dart had messed with his magic more than he thought.

“Geralt?” It was a long shot but he had to ask, at the very least he could work out whether his boyfriend was in danger.

“Your witcher isn’t here, petal.”

Jaskier’s heart sank and he felt a dizzy panic hit him like a giant.

“No.” He whispered.

He couldn’t be here. Not now, not again.

“Now, is that anyway to greet your mother, Julian?” His mother stepped out of shadows, and people wondered where he got his flare for the dramatics.

“Well, I would say it’s lovely to see you, mother, but I am currently chained to the wall.” He held up his bound hands as if to prove his point. “So really I’d rather be on my way and out of your hair, if you don’t mind.”

She laughed. “Oh dear boy, the cuffs are for your own good.”

He snorted. “Oh yeah, heard that one before.” He muttered.

“If we can just work out how to cure you then everything will be ok. You don’t need to be a monster.” She cooed, the same shit that she’d been spewing for years before his escape.

“I am not a monster!” He snapped. “Geralt knows that.”

“That witcher is no better than the beasts he slays!” His mother shrieked. “I only ever loved you, darling. Why must you fight me?”

“Loved me?” Jaskier scoffed. “You hate my very existence, or do you just hate the reminder that you cheated on your husband, that you’re stuck in a loveless marriage?”

“Gag him!” His mother ordered and Jaskier’s chains were yanked hard. He fell back against the floor.

“Hmmph!” He protested as one of the servants tied something around his head.

“Now, shall we begin?” His mother knelt down and cupped his cheeks. He saw his own eyes reflected back at him. There had never been any doubt of who his mother had been. His eyes were the spitting image of hers.

It had taken him a long time to learn to love his eyes.

“Hmmph.” He grumbled and rolled his eyes at her, shaking the cuffs on his hands. He’d never been very good at keeping his hands still.

She stroked a finger along his cheek and he tried to turn away.

How had he ended back in this hell?

He just hoped Geralt would find him soon.

___________________________________

The witchers of Kaer Morhen had gathered in a dingy looking cave. Geralt was pacing irritably across the entrance of the cave. It had been weeks since Jaskier’s disappearance. He’d tried to track his partner on his own but whoever had taken him had been too good so he’d sent messages to his pack and waited, impatiently for them to arrive at a fairly central location.

Lambert had been the last to arrive. He’d turned up with another witcher in tow, a blond blue-eyed witcher from the School of Cat. On any other day Geralt would have teased his redheaded brother about finally finding a friend who could tolerate him… but today his focus was on Jaskier.

“Wolf, you are making us all seasick with all that pacing.” Vesemir said in a calm voice.

Geralt snarled at the oldest witcher. How could he be so calm when Jaskier was missing?

“Jaskier is missing, possibly dead, and you are worried about getting seasick!” Geralt snapped.

“Hey.” Eskel punched his arm. “You’re not finding anyone like this. Getting pissed at Vesemir won’t help Jaskier, Geralt.”

Geralt groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to find him.”

Eskel pulled him into a hug and he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. They’ll regret taking one of our pack. I promise you.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder them all.” Lambert agreed.

Geralt looked at Lambert over Eskel’s shoulder and scowled. “No. Whoever did this, they are mine.”

Lambert laughed darkly and nodded. “Alright, White Wolf. You have a deal.”

“No.” Vesemir said firmly. “We do not take revenge. We get the pup and we get out.”

“But Vesemir!” Lambert whined.

“We kill to defend ourselves, nothing more.” Vesemir’s voice left no room for arguments.

Geralt scowled and picked up his swords. “Let’s get moving.”

“Do we actually know where we’re going?” The blond witcher drawled as he pushed himself off of the wall. “Because it seems like not one of you actually has a plan?”

Geralt glared at the newcomer and his fingers itched to reach for his sword. He wouldn’t hurt Lambert’s friend but normally they would greet new witchers by sparring or wrestling, especially if they were being welcomed into the pack of wolf school witchers. Jaskier had gotten a pass, partly because he wasn’t a witcher and partly because he could turn into a fucking dragon. It also helped that Geralt had vouched for him.

Lambert had vouched for Aiden but Lambert didn’t have a good history of choosing friends, and Geralt didn’t trust Aiden yet.

“Don’t even think about it, you bastard.” Lambert snarled.

“You gave Jaskier concussion.” Geralt pointed out.

Lambert had the audacity to laugh. “Fair point, sorry Aiden, he gets a free hit when all this is over.”

“Idiots.” The cat witcher muttered. “All of you. Remind me again why we’re friends?”

“Because I’m pretty?” Lambert suggest.

Eskel snorted.

“Oi!” Lambert growled.

“Can we please focus!” Geralt snapped. “Jaskier is missing! I don’t care if Lambert’s pretty or not.”

“Yeah but…” Lambert protested.

“You’re gorgeous, darling, but the White Wolf has a point.” Aiden winked at Lambert who spluttered and went bright red.

“Right. Yup. Ok.” He muttered and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What did you say that man called him?” Aiden asked, peering at Geralt with cool blue eyes.

Geralt frowned. “Julian.”

Aiden nodded. “Then I think I can help you, if you’re willing to trust me, dog?”

Geralt glanced at Lambert. His cheeks still matched the colour of his hair and he was scowling angrily at the world, but he nodded. The nod was barely perceptible even to Geralt but it was enough. Lambert trusted this new witcher and he was Geralt’s only hope right now to finding Jaskier.

He reached out his hand and Aiden grasped it tightly as they shook on it. “Help me.” Geralt all but pleaded.

“Alright, listen up dogs.” Aiden grinned, his fangs shining in the firelight.

____________________

Jaskier groaned as he was pulled to his feet. How long had he been here now, stuck in his old bedroom as if he’d been sucked into one of his nightmares?

His skin itched, his bones ached and he felt like he was on fire. The metal cuffs cut into his skin and his once cream shirt was now yellow and covered in splatters of blood.

The last time he’d been here, his family’s attempts at ‘curing’ him had been based on working out the limits of his abilities and where they had come from. This time his mother, without the help of mages, had decided to starve his magic instead. He  woke up shivering each morning and it was instinctive to him to try and shift but every morning he let out a pitiful cry and fell to the ground sobbing.

He was stuck.

He couldn’t breathe.

He had begged his mother to take off the cuffs, to allow him to shift. He’d promised he wouldn’t shift into anything dangerous or try to escape but he needed.

Gods he needed.

He ached.

But his mother just pulled him to her chest and stroked his hair, whispering that it would pass and that he was just experiencing withdrawal following his time with the witchers.

The witchers.

Geralt.

Where was Geralt?

Why hadn’t he come?

He’d been sure that Geralt would find him.

And it all hurt so damned much.

“F-fuck!” He stammered and curled up into a ball on the floor.

At least before his room had at least tried to resemble a bedroom. Now it was just a stone cold prison.

He felt sick to his stomach. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could survive. He needed to shift. They knew that. They knew they were killing him in this crazy plan to cure him.

But he needed to survive.

He had to.

For Geralt.

For his pack. His family. His heart.

He had to survive.

____

Next

[regrettablewritings]

Modern!Jaskier x Reader Ship Meme

Prompts taken from this ship meme

Which one texts like a straight white boy?: Of course it would have to be our resident white boy. It isn’t even that he necessarily means to, there’s just an embarrassing amount of overlap between the messages a straight white boy tends to text, and those of your rising star boyfriend. You’d look more into it if it weren’t for the fact that you know there’s no actual malice in it, and because it’s just so sad that it’s funny. If one were to go into the photos saved on your phone, they would’ve surely come upon an entire album of screenshots you’d taken over the years, from when Jaskier would be on tour without you to when he’d just be resting at home while you were out at work. Things like: “Wat r u up to 2nit, cutie? ;)” “I’m probably just gonna play whatever’s on my Watch Later backlog on youtube until I conk out.” “Wild!!! anyway wat would u do if i was there rn~?” Or “Do u miss me? :(” “Of course I do ya dingus!” “Ok....Can we do a quickie over videochat?” “Jas i’m at the store.” “The point still stands.” Or “Watcha thinkin bout? ;)” “About how The Great Gatsby becoming public domain means there’s nothing stopping anyone from making a drag show interpretation called The Gay Dragsby.” “Aaww w/o me? ;)” “...” “WAIT NO I THOUGT YOU’D SAY YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT ME SHIT NO.” “BUT ACTUALLY DO GO ON IM KINDA INTERESTD.” If it were anybody else, you would’ve blocked them. But this wasn’t anybody else. It was your Jaskier: Your foolhardy, constantly horny, but never-short-of-loving Jaskier. And besides, not for nothing, at least they were something you could get a laugh out of.

Which one cried during a fucking Disney movie?: Once again, Jaskier is the guilty party. It’s no secret that he’s the more emotional of the two of you -- he wore his investment in Titanic with pride, after all. But it is a secret that the particular Disney movie to make him cry was Hercules of all things! Not Bambi, not The Lion King, not even Beauty and the Beast, but goddamn Hercules! (On another note, he also cried to Coco. But that barely counts: Literally everyone and their mother has cried during Coco. The only difference here was that Jaskier could relate to being a young man so in love with music while coming from a family that discouraged the pursuit of it.) This isn’t a knock on anyone who enjoys the movie, mind you, but let’s be honest: Out of the Disney animated canon, Hercules isn’t exactly the most . . . emotionally cathartic or heart-string-plucking of the bunch. But just because it didn’t go out of its way to create a crying frenzy doesn’t mean that it’s lacking in some humanity. It is, after all, still a Disney film. The problem is, Jaskier can’t even quite express why it made him cry the night you both decided to watch it. Maybe it had something to do with a young man most people took as a joke trying to achieve greatness? And to be fair, “Go the Distance (Reprise)” and “A Star is Born” differently when you’ve done some growing . . .

Who put a goddamned fork in the microwave?: It only happened once, but you’d never let him live it down. You like to joke that you’d left him to his own devices for just fifteen minutes so that you could take a shower -- of which was completely true -- and that was all he needed for things to go downhill. Nobody wants to think they’d be in the wrong for trusting a 20-something year-old to not be his usually somewhat distractable self. But that particular day, said 20-something year-old decided to occupy that little spot of time to himself with TV and a plate of leftovers. And normally this would’ve been fine and dandy. But normally, Jaskier would’ve just waited for the food to heat before searching for something to watch. It shouldn’t have been too big of an issue that it went the other way around that day, but apparently it was. As much as he wanted to (which honestly wasn’t by much), Jaskier just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the images flashing on the TV. The baby blues were set on the screen the entire while -- up until he heard a faint popping. Followed by a sound he normally only heard in a cheesy sci-fi movie. The problem was, he wasn’t watching anything even remotely science-fiction-y . . . All you were doing when you exited the bathroom was going to grab your lotion. That was literally all you had any expectations for. What you hadn’t expected to come upon was your boyfriend, hollering and diving over the sofa in order to scramble into the kitchen and stop that strange, not-good-sounding sound. Suffice to say, you had to put your shower on hold; it simply had to wait for you to finish fussing, then again for you to finish laughing your ass off. And again because if you entered the shower still laughing, you’d probably slip and break your head open and then Jaskier would have to deal with another possible emergency caused by himself.

Who does the silly hands-over-the-eyes “Guess who?” thing?: You can both be guilty of it, but Jaskier without a doubt does it more. Sometimes he’ll emerge from “his cave” (aka the little nook in the apartment where he likes to mess around and write lyrics or arrangements) on a break and catch an unsuspecting you sitting on the couch or at the dinner table. Other times, it could just be when he comes back from running some errands or doing a quick interview at the local radio station. You don’t mind it much . . . Especially since you can get a rise out of him by purposefully guessing the wrong person. (“Hmmm . . . Could it be . . . my mail-order husband? Boy, that was quick. And all the way from Russia, too . . .” “Uh, no.” “The milkman, finally accepting my invitation to commence a torrid love affair?” “Okay, you know damn well -- ” “Or better yet: My hopes and dreams have manifested, oh, Waluigi, could it really and truly be you!?” “What in the absolute fuck --”)

Who puts their cold hands/feet on their partner?: Because it’s usually himself who presents as being the more mischievous of the two, and because he tends to run the warmest, it always shocks Jaskier when you decide to play dirty and put your cold limbs all over him. Is it childish? Yes. But are his reactions to the sudden feeling of icy flesh hilarious? Also yes. You love to creep up on him when he’s tuning his guitar or scribbling down lyrics, or just minding his own damn business by trying to actually turn in relatively early for once. You love even more to watch him jolt and release the most high-pitched yip a man of his build could ever even joke about making. You’ll still be laughing about it as he scowls at you, cursing your “ghoul hands” and demanding to know if he’s dating a corpse at this point. Of course, no matter how peeved he might be, you can always count on one other thing from his dramatic reactions: Him huffily grabbing your hands into his own and rubbing them warm, or him forcing a park of fuzzy socks on your feet. And just for extra measure, you can be sure that he’ll spend the rest of the night holding you close or cuddling you -- “For exchanging bodily heat purposes,” he will always reason.

Who had that embarrassing reality TV marathon?: You both are guilty of it, actually. The question should really be, who is the least shameful about it. As with most things regarding a lack of shame, it was, of course, our dear Jaskier. Being a musician with a growing following, the little attention whore just can’t miss out on an opportunity to show himself off to his awaiting public. A rising star with relatability and a taste for trash? People eat that shit up! So you’ve learned to be less surprised every time he decides to liveblog himself watching things like Love Island or any of the 90-Day Fiancee spin-offs. In fact, in more recent times, you’ve come to join in with him, adding your own corresponding Tweets and commentary. Though don’t be too shocked once he starts holding polls and letting the public decide what show the two of you should watch next.

Who laughs more during sex?: You do, completely through Jaskier’s own efforts. Jaskier’s always had a pretty lax view of sex. This didn’t change when he met you, of course, but how he specifically portrayed that laxness did undergo some metamorphosis. Before, the entertainer was much more intent on his bedroom experiences being a display of power and an ability to please. Something dramatic and to be taken seriously. He still sees the importance of satisfaction in the bedroom, mind you, but with you, he can’t help but feel more . . . comfortable. With you, it’s a little more okay if he accidentally makes a dumb noise that in no way can be salvaged as sexy. With you, it’s a little more okay if he struggles to get his or your pants off, or if he struggles with removing your bra. And with you, he’s come to find that he’s a lot more okay with sharing a giggle or being a little more loose about things. It’s fine if your fingers tickle him or if he struggles to think of something proper dirty. But it’s even more fine if you think something he says or does makes you laugh, but not in a way that discredits his efforts. When you laugh, it shows that you’re comfortable with him. Comfortable enough to be with him, and be truly vulnerable. So do forgive him if he can’t help but run his fingers up your sides in a tickling fashion, or sloppily string together an innuendo. He simply loves how golden your laughter sounds, even in the throes of passion, intermingled with sweet whimpers and pleas of his name. How the heave of your chest and rippling of your tummy bumpily sync in with the rhythm of his thrusts . . . He just wants to see your smile, your genuine mirth, and bask in it with you. Besides, it serves as excellent song inspiration for him . . .

Who is the little spoon?: It depends on the sway of the day, really. As a whole, you both take turns without much thought simply because you tend to just fall into your positions. Some days, you just happen to lay into him in a way that makes you the little spoon. Other days, he conks out next to you in a manner that most could consider would make you the big spoon (or jet pack). Neither side really fights how it plays out unless one or the other may feel small and vulnerable, or just plain tired and in need of comfort. You often find yourself playing the role of the more dominating position during those first few days after Jaskier returning home from either a quick tour, or after finishing a long week of hours upon hours in the studio, or whatever kind of press-related nonsense his management team told him he needed to do. For as much as your boyfriend loved the spotlight, the truth was he was still quite capable of burning out and needing time to himself. Or, at the very least, just time with you. Even if that means he’s asleep for most of it, with you clinging to his back as he drifts off into a much-needed sleep. He makes sure to return it tenfold when you need just the same. Sure, your occupation may not be of the same nature as his own, but that didn’t mean you were in any less need of his cuddling. In fact, with him being gone as often as he was, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel almost guilty for not always being able to provide you with the basic comforts of being a constantly present boyfriend. Hence why the moment he would see your fatigued body crossing the threshold of your apartment, he would be all over you, ushering you into a quick shower, followed by a quick and simple dinner or snack, and capped off with him cuddling about you from behind. It didn’t matter if you’d come home right in the middle of a writing frenzy, or even if he’d been in the middle of searching for a breakthrough with an arrangement -- for as vain and bullheaded as Jaskier could be, he knew he owed you at least this much. You already put up with so much of his nonsense; this was quite literally the least he could do, both for you and for himself. Besides, he who was he to fight against the feeling of you wiggling closer into his hold, to deny himself the sound of your soft breathing as you lay yourself vulnerable to him? The fact of the matter is that he simply isn’t. He couldn’t be. Maybe in the beginning when things were still so unsteady and uncertain, but never now, when things had become so . . . well, what he could only describe as being “the both of you”. The both of you, molded and entwined, never wanting to let go. Never planning on it, either.

[unwhithered]

Ok ok so imagine this: what if jaskier refused to leave when geralt shouted at him at the top of the mountain? Sure he may have hidden behind the dragon for a moment but then he gathers his courage and is all "you are NOT allowed to talk to me that way, after all these years I've dedicated to you and kept you from going mad from loneliness and all the effort I've put into repairing your image! I am the greatest good you are ever gonna get!" and he just badgers geralt into apologizing.

“Uh. Right then. I’ll just...I’ll go and get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt.”

Jaskier turns and starts to leave, his shoulders slumped in defeat. A great gaping darkness opens itself in his chest and threatens to suck Jaskier in and never let him up as he walks away from the greatest muse, the greatest friend, the greatest love he has ever known. Gods above, it hurts. Aches so bad that Jaskier trembles as he stumbles toward what remains of the hunting party, and tears prick at his eyes.

Behind him something slams against the ground and Geralt curses, loud and long and creative in a way he wasn’t when Jaskier first began traveling with him a decade ago. 

Jaskier slows, then stops. Has it really been a decade?

A decade of his life, following this Witcher around the Continent? Singing his praises and bettering his reputation? Traveling beside him, living beside him, laughing beside him? Sometimes even coaxing a laugh out of the Witcher himself.

Anger boils up suddenly at the realization that he has spent a third of his life at Geralt’s beck and call, only to be dismissed like a begging dog or an unsatisfactory servant. Spinning on his heel, Jaskier marches right back to Geralt, who is...

Well, the way Geralt is cursing to himself as he cleans his sword in rough, uncaring swipes can only be described as throwing a fit. Jaskier doesn’t let the unexpected show of emotion throw him off.

“You know what?” Jaskier bites out, just below a shout. His fists clench at his sides as he glares at Geralt. “You know what, Geralt? Fuck you. You don’t get to chase me off like a stray dog. You don’t get to speak to me like that. Not even when that witchy bitch has broken your heart. Not ever, in fact, you ungrateful ogre of a man!”

“Jaskier--”

“Oh no. I’m not done yet, Geralt of Rivia. Butcher of Blaviken. Because that’s who you were to the world, when we met - but I never saw that. I’ve spent a decade of my life - my fucking short, miserable, human life - telling your story, making the world see the same man I see when I look at you. You don’t get to make me wrong now by acting the brute. I won’t let you waste my life’s work just because destiny fucked you over one too many times.” Jaskier is screaming by the end of it, his voice echoing off of the mountain side. He doesn’t care who hears him. Maybe Geralt will feel some fucking shame for once if the whole damn mountain hears what an ass he is.

“Jaskier, shut up,” Geralt shouts right back.

“Oh go fuck yourself, Witcher.”

“I am trying to say I’m sorry, your insufferable bag of air, but you won’t shut up long enough to hear it!”

“Oh,” Jaskier huffs, the wind going out of his sails. His shoulders slump once more. “Well...I suppose that’s alright, then.”

[agoracactus]

Pt4.5 - the village of Blatta

this is a short (hopefully) story happened before you met Jaskier.

cuz i forgot to write this segment. and cuz im too busy to finish my long chapters in a week, and didnt wanna keep ppl waiting, if theres ppl waiting (hopefully lmao)

Pt.1  Pt.2  Pt.3  Pt.4

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader

Word Count: 1931

Warnings: lack of proofread, language, blood, death

Summary: im giving up on this part completely, names and summary, my two nemesis

§

You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your feet, having a silent debation inside your head.

“You’re up?” Geralt pushed open the door, saw you sitting at the bed, “Good, it’s getting late, we should keep moving.” “Oh, ok.” you nodded, stood up to grab your bag.

You came across this nice little village last night, and everyone was surprisingly friendly and welcoming. People invited you to their house and share food with you. Some even offered you their beds so you can have a good rest. To be honest the hospitality scared you a little, you were used to people being mean for you’re traveling with a witcher.

Walking out of this shabby wooden house, the sun was warm and bright. Couple of folks greeted you with a smile. The village looked busy, people were walking around preparing for something looked like an event, excitement floating in the air. You returned the greetings, feeling flattered.

“Oh! You are leaving?” a woman was holding a basket full of dead chicken under her arm, blood seeped through the woven basket and dripped to the ground. “What a pity! The festival is around the corner, you should stay! We love having guests! There’s going to be a feast!” You sneaked a glance towards Geralt, he seemed to have no interest at all in this feast, “Thank you for the kind offer, but we need to go now.” you tried to be as polite as you can. Not every day you get to meet someone who’s nice to you.

“Hey, um, maybe we should consider staying for a few more days?” you suggested, watching Geralt handed out an apple to Roach. “No, we need to head south, that’s what the contract said.” “Yeahhh but, it’s a feast! Feast means food!” you tried to persuade him, “We could use some free food! People here are nice- How many times did you actually receive a warm welcoming from others?” “You can stay all you want, I have a job to do.” he gave you a stern look.

You bit your lower lip, looked back over your shoulder at the small village.

“You know what, maybe I should.” you finally made your decision, “I’m staying.” Geralt stopped to look at you, didn’t understand what you were up to this time. “I’ve been thinking about this for, quite a while now... Now that we came across a lovely place, people here are friendly and welcoming... Maybe it’s time that we part ways.”

He didn’t reply.

You couldn’t tell how he felt about this.

“Don’t get me wrong, I really like traveling with you... It was fun, the adventures... And you were nice to me... But I feel like you’d rather travel alone- I mean, I get it, I’m just a weak-ass human girl, who is better stay behind when you hunt instead of getting in your way... And sometimes I get you- us- into trouble-” you realized you started babbling, so you stopped to take a breath in. “What I’m trying to say is, you are such a nice person that you probably don’t even notice that I’m just taking advantage of you... And I don’t want that. So I’m breaking this little group up. For our best interests.”

“Very well.” he untied Roach’s rein. “...That’s it?” you frowned, “You’re not gonna say something?” “I said ‘very well’.” “...” you rolled your eyes behind his back, “...Well, I guess that’s it then?” “Mmm.” Geralt hopped onto Roach. “It was nice meeting you, witcher.” “You too.” he nodded his head. “Take care, ok?” “Farewell, y/n.”

§

“Have some soup sir, it shall warm you up.” the merchant handed the witcher a wooden bowl. The witcher thanked him. Everything was quiet except for the slight crackling from the fire.

“Where are you from?” “Sodden, sir.” “You’re going north?” “Kovir, got some business to do there.” “Still got a long way then? There’s a small village on the way to replenish if you follow along this way.” “Small village? The village of Blatta? No sir! No one should ever go anywhere near that place, especially during this time of the year.” “Why?” “Those who travel frequently on this path all know the village of Blatta. It’s the village of worshipers of the Dark Lord. They hold a grand festival in name of their vicious god every year around this season, using the blood of their livestock to attract monsters, making sacrifices of children and young women and any outsiders who happened to come across their way and call that a ‘cleanse’- Where are you going sir? It’s not safe to travel in these woods at night- Sir!”

§

He was late when he arrived at the village.

There was no light in any of the houses, all the doors and shutters were closed. The pungent smell of blood was drowning him. Several dark shadows were squatting around, he could hear the sound of munching, slurping and the nasty noise coming from their throat. He took out a small tube, uncork it with his teeth, drank it all up and jumped off of Roach. He took a few steps forward with the momentum, took out his sword and carefully approached.

The faint light from the moon was not a problem to his witcher eyes, he slowly walked closer to the necrophages, formed a sign with his fingers. Flame bursted out from his hand. The monsters screamed and ran away into the woods.

The witcher looked down. All the bodies had their wrists and ankles tied up, dried animal blood mixed with their own congealed in their hair. It seemed like the villagers poured the blood of their livestock onto these poor lives and left them here to be devoured by the necrophages.

To his relief, he didn’t see anyone resembling your feature.

He heard something inside the house. He turned and saw pairs of eyes peeking through the crack of the shutters. The witcher felt anger quietly rising within him. He held tight to his sword, picked up his pace to follow the trace of the monsters into the forest.

§

You were hurt, you couldn't tell where exactly you were hurt due to the burning sensation spreading across your torso. But you didn’t dare to slow down.

You tripped against a rock and fell hard to the ground. The pistol in your hand almost misfired with your finger held tight against it. You tried to get up, but your limbs were weak from the pain.

All you could hear was your heartbeat and heavy panting.

You thought you lost them. The monsters. But you couldn’t lose the sight of the screaming children. You shook your head to get rid of the image before it brought up more traumatizing memory, and struggled to get up.

You knew you were lost in this forest, every direction looked the same, and the dim light of the crescent moon was not helping. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, felt the moisture there which you couldn’t tell if its sweat or blood. You took a few deep breaths to steady your heart and picked a random direction, quietly walked towards that way, praying to whoever’s out there this is not the way back to that horrific village.

§

The witcher was panting heavily. Standing in the middle of a pit which was full of the bodies of the creatures he just slew, on a bed of human bones and pieces of cloths. The stench of rotten flesh and the necrophage was piercing through his nose to his brain, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes glancing around frantically around the once-monster-nest.

There was a snap of the twig behind him, sounded like thunder in this deadly silent woods. He turned around sharply, wielding his sword, ready to strike out.

You were at the edge of the pit, eyes wide, face pale as a sheet. He saw cuts above your eyebrow and on your arms and legs, and smelled dirt mixed with blood and sweat.

“Oh my god...” you said under your breath, staring at him. He realized what he looked like now, under the influence of his potion. He instinctively turned his face away.

“Geralt...” you jumped down the pit, ran to him with effort, and threw your arms around him. Geralt stiffened. “Are you hurt?” you quickly released him, pulled back to look at his face, then gave a quick scan down his body--- but you couldn’t tell with the limited moonlight, so your eyes shot right back at his face, “Geralt?” “...No.” he stared right back at you, and didn’t see what he was expecting in your eyes.

“...I’m so glad I found you...” you hugged him again. He now realized you were trembling. He put his hand on your back, “You’re safe now.” You nodded against his leather armor, didn’t care it smelled like shit.

You released him once more, “Let’s get out of this hell hole shall we?” trying to make a joke, but failed with your now shaking, choked voice. He nodded, sheathing his sword, “Maybe next time find a better village?” You let out a nervous laugh, took his forearm to climbed out of the pit.

[dreamscapefics]

heyooo, welcome to the kink-fest!!! do you think you could write something about Geralt knotting Jaskier's mouth? And it's too big to get out, so they have to stay like that for a bit, Jaskier with his jaw stretched painfully wide, occasionaly choking on it? Non-con preferred. Thank you

First time writing knotting haha. I hope this is to your liking, Anon. Thanks for sending this prompt!

Tags: non-con, coercion, breeding kink, knotting, aggressiveness, choking

~*~

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt growls, interrupting Jaskier mid-rant about something unimportant.

Jaskier glares at him. “Well, that’s just rude! I was getting to the good part about me obliterating my nemesis at the-”

Geralt interrupts him a second time with a groan. “Fucking shut up, I don’t care.”

The bard’s mouth falls open into an o, and Geralt notes how pretty he looks like that when Jaskier brings his hands to his hips.

“Make me,” Jaskier shoots back.

Geralt arches a brow at him, cock stirring in his leather pants as the image of Jaskier on his knees and taking his cock like the slut they both know he is comes to the forefront of his mind. Geralt blinks and turns thoughtful eyes on the waiting bard with a hum.

He did say to make him, so I’ll make him, Geralt thinks.

He stands up from the fallen log he’s been perched on for the last two hours, the blazing fire the only thing separating him from his prey. When Geralt starts to advance on Jaskier, the bard visibly startles and takes a few steps back. One quick whiff and Geralt smells the confusion and arousal on him, causing his dick to harden further.

“Geralt, what are you- hey!” Jaskier yelps when Geralt wraps a hand around his throat, his grip firm but not bruising as he pushes the bard further until his back collides against a tree. “G-Geralt, what’s going on?”

“I told you to shut up but you said to make you,” he says casually. “So I’m making you, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

One hand still on Jaskier’s throat, Geralt lightly squeezes it while his other hand goes to unlace his leather pants. His nose picks up the spike of Jaskier’s arousal, fear adding into the mix of confusion. Geralt pushes his pants down past his thighs, exposing his stiff cock and heavy balls, the base of his member starting to swell.

Jaskier’s gaze immediately zero in on Geralt’s huge cock, blue eyes widening as the bard wets his dry lips and gulps audibly. The smell of confusion disappears as the implication of what Geralt intends to do dawns on Jaskier, and the frightened expression on his face when he looks back at Geralt says everything.

“Now wait a minute,” the bard stammers, implores. “You can’t really expect me to-”

With a growl, Geralt forces Jaskier on his knees, the hand on his throat moving to take hold of his head and pull it back. Tears are starting to gather on the corners of Jaskier’s eyes as he continues to plead for Geralt no, please, Geralt, not tonight, you can’t ruin my throat when I have that competition to--

But Geralt ignores his pretty begging and guides his cock to enter Jaskier’s mouth, coercing the bard to part his lips until Geral enters his tight heat with a loud groan. Jaskier chokes when Geralt starts to sink his length in him, his thick cockhead stretching the bard’s mouth oh so prettily the strain in his jaw hurts to look at. Using his other hand to grasp the side of Jaskier’s head, Geralt evens his stance and starts to thrust in earnest, his knot starting to swell the more it’s stimulated.

“I know you want this,” Geralt grunts, his voice like gravel. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you peeking at my cock whenever I stripped. Can smell the arousal on you every time, just aching to get a taste.”

Fuck, his bard would look so fucking beautiful with Geralt’s knot in his mouth. At that thought, he resolves to see it through. He ignores Jaskier choking, tears and snot leaking from his eyes and nose as Geralt continues to rut into him like an animal. He adjusts his hold on Jaskier, shifting them until Geralt is grasping both sides of his head. Jaskier has a tight hold on his hips as Geralt starts to move his head in a steady rhythm, pulling out until the tip and then dragging the bard’s head to take him once more. He keeps this up for several minutes, Geralt’s eyes closed as he groans in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“You take me so well. So fucking perfect, your mouth was made for me. My little cockslut.”

“I bet you can take my knot.”

At that last proclamation, Jaskier moans around his cock, the vibration making Geralt groan as he forces another inch into his mouth. Jaskier starts thrashing, hands slapping at his thighs in an attempt to break away.

“Stop moving, you’re going to take everything I fucking give you,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier closes his eyes and sobs around his cock before he slumps in defeat. Satisfied, Geralt pulls away until his cockhead remains inside the wet heat. He purrs and thumbs the corners of Jaskier’s stretched mouth, bruised red and a mix of saliva and precome dribbling down his chin. He sinks back in and quickens his pace, hips snapping back and forth as Geralt continues to abuse the bard’s mouth and throat like a fucktoy.

“Should’ve done this years ago,” Geralt comments, smiling wolfishly when Jaskier’s teary, glazed eyes meet him. “Look at you, Jaskier. Fucking gorgeous like this, taking my cock so perfectly. Even better than a paid whore.”

Then he adjusts his hold on the back of Jaskier’s head and slowly drags him back down his length. He ignores Jaskier choking and continues to bury his length further until he can feel the tip nudge the bard’s throat. Even then, there’s still a bit left to go, and Geralt forces the last inch past the tight stretch of Jaskier’s sloppy mouth. He lets out a loud, broken moan when he feels his knot press inside.

“Fuck.”

Geralt pulls away, is gracious enough to give the bard a few moments to breathe, before he repeats the motion again. When he feels that Jaskier has adjusted to his size, Geralt picks up the pace once more. Every time he draws his cock out, he also pulls Jaskier’s head back, and when he pushes back in to the hilt he drags the bard’s head to meet him halfway. Geralt loses track of time, drunk on the feeling of having his cock buried in a hot, tight channel. His knot has swelled considerably, and he knows that if he wants to knot his little cockslut’s mouth then he’ll have to do it in the next few minutes.

His rhythm starts to falter, his knot popping in and out of Jaskier’s mouth with a painful squelch. Geralt gives a few more thrusts before he drives his length down Jaskier’s throat, groaning in satisfaction when he feels his cockhead hit the back of the bard’s throat. With a loud pop he pushes his engorged knot past the wide stretch of a fucked out mouth as Jaskier’s body spasms with broken sobs and panicked moans when Geralt’s knot locks in place. A few shallow thrusts later and Geralt cums down Jaskier’s throat with a howl, thick ropes of cum painting his walls and filling his little cockslut’s belly with his seed.

Geralt shifts one hand from his head to wrap around Jaskier’s convulsing throat, and he purrs in delight when he traces the outline of his cock there with sword-calloused fingers. And Geralt continues to cum, knot somehow growing a fraction bigger as his cockhead is stimulated by Jaskier’s spasming throat.

Geralt looks down at Jaskier: face red, mouth stretched obscenely wide and jaw painfully strained from how long Geralt has been fucking him, using him to his pleasure.

“So fucking gorgeous, Jas,” Geralt breathes out, his voice wrecked and dripping with want for the man kneeling before him. “You’re never gonna go another day without my cum. Gonna keep you well-fed, little slut.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes and makes a high keening noise, and the vibration sends another wave of cum to shoot down his throat. Geralt feels pride swell in his chest when he glimpses the bard’s belly, slightly swollen with his seed. Further down, he sees an unmistakable dark wet patch on the front of Jaskier’s pants.

Oh, yes. He likes that view, indeed. The little cockslut filled with his cum, stretched wide on his cock.

Geralt smiles wolfishly. “Next time, I’m gonna fuck your tight ass and breed you like the bitch you are.”

Jaskier sobs but gulps down every drop of cum Geralt feeds him.

~*~

A/N: I’m pretty proud of myself for finally writing an aggressive Geralt 😂 Hope you enjoyed reading!

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 6

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Nothing horrible or gory this time! A/N: LOVE YOU ALL! Thanks for giving me the energy to keep writing <3 Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever - I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

6 – Grow or pay

...   Geralt   ...

The two men wake at the crack of dawn to the scent of porridge and sweet tea, and Jaskier clambers across the Witcher’s still sore body to get to the morning meal though he dutifully refrains from touching any of the indulgences – at least their host has some influence on the bard. Geralt is differently slow in his movements as he follows suit.

“How’re you feeling?” [Y/N] asks as she enters from the kitchen with a loaf of bread cut in perfectly equal slices.

Physically better. “Hrm...”

A kind of silence the Witcher has learned to dislike fills the room, allowing the growl from Jaskier’s stomach to sound clearly...though with no effect. Their host is waiting for a more fulfilling answer.

Fever’s gone, would be a possible answer, Geralt ponders. A slight ache, but I’ve had worse. Yet it is only partially true as the hollow longing is expanding the cavity in his chest whenever [Y/N] talks. Or moves. Or...is.

“The...venom’s no longer a problem,” is the closest he can get.

“Good. Then eat.”

She joins them and Jaskier happily chases the awkward silence away with boisterous praises of the meal.

...

“I see what you’re doing.” Geralt notices the twitch in [Y/N]’s arms at the nearness of his voice and the light grasp on her shoulder.

More food is wrapped and divided into the three satchels. “Your eyes work, still.”

The Witcher could swear that there is a muffled snicker from outside the open window and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with Jaskier later. But for now, he turns the vexing woman by the elbow only to be met by a steely glare.

“What makes you think you’re gonna need one?”

“Not gonna share with you.”

Shrugging free of his lose grasp, she busies herself with the packing again and pointedly ignores the irked hum escaping the broad man. As satisfying as it is to chastise the woman as well, something placates the White Wolf this time – or maybe he has accepted that it will cause him less grief not to argue with [Y/N].

“We won’t slow down for you,” he mumbles halfheartedly before grabbing what few possessions he has and heads out to wrangle Roach.

...   Reader   ...

You know you won’t have to, ass. As if prompted by the thought, your gaze travels to thebackside of the receding figure which sadly holds wonders equal to those of his front, and there is little comfort in the knowledge that everyone with eyes would admire such a view.

...

Nothing is out of place once the last few things are packed and you have changed from bare feet and skirt to boots and leather trousers. Still, it is with anxiousness in your chest that you bar your little home and hide the (mostly symbolic) key to the door under the thatching by the window.

Ready.

At least Jaskier and Roach seem to appreciate the notion of your company, the sweet mare coming over to nudge your shoulder as though waiting for you to lead – a gesture the owner hardly misses judging by the rolling eyes you glimpse before he turns and sets a brisk pace towards the mountains.

You have looked at the jagged range for years, knowing that travelling into the thinner air and towards the monsters there are dangerous beyond reason. I’m going there now. Yes, your parents would not recognize their own daughter: the inkling of a plan would keep any sane person safely at home. But how long will the cottage, the village, get to remain in peace if what Geralt tells is true? As opposed to the other inhabitants of the small community, you trust the Witcher’s words and know that his success when confronting the looming threat is vital for the protection of your home. Perhaps the entire kingdom of Nilfheim.

It is easy to find logical arguments to follow the travelling duo (trio, if counting Roach). They will require your aptitude in healing, by draughts or bandages. Your luggage is weighed down by near all of the remaining contents from your stores as well as the simple tools used for the trade.

The pace is comfortable, perfect for hours on the narrow road until the inclination becomes steeper. Above, the blue sky sports one to two fluffy clouds as contrast to the black silhouette of an eagle soaring the updrafts with elegance. Perhaps the serenity should invoke a certain despondency...however, it is the thrill of breaking free ofyour bonds that fills you.

“Well, I for one find this arrangement perfect,” Jaskier offers with a grin and a gleam in his eyes. His fingers are already caressing his lute. “This will make for quite a tale! Have you heard my latest success?”

“You did perform it at the inn.”

The bard’s face lights up with a broad smile which transforms the gush of reminiscing babbling into something adorable rather than bragging and you allow him to chatter on, happy for the distraction his words bring. Well...at least until the tale spins into the sweet memories of the kind of conquests his success has brought.

Strumming a gentle melody, he worships the physicality enjoyed in soft candlelight: carefully describing the movement of lips over heated skin; beckoning images of hands caressing curves and breasts; instilling the rhythm of hitched breathing within you even as you are walking there on the narrow mountain road.

Fixing your gaze ahead, it is nothing but a frantic hope to block out Jaskier’s words and undo the effect they are having on you. Fuck. Right there, a handful of paces ahead, walks Geralt. Suddenly, it is his hands you envision as the bard brings suppressed longings to life.

The beating of the white-haired man’s pulse under your fingertips as his hips rocked into you and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of hips and thighs.

Not going there! Nope! Nuh-uh! With a mental force worth any ounce of pride, you manage to push the thoughts from you mind. Head down, eyes scrutinizing the bumpy path for insects or pretty stones – anything to avoid paying attention to Jaskier’s adoring soliloquy.

...  Jaskier  ...

No blow is too low if the goal is to make those two fools see each other! Stubborn, blind, denying idiots. I’ll make them admit their feelings. They’re meant to be!

[raggedy-dxctor]

Hello!! Can I please request a Jaskier fic where the female reader and Jaskier are together as a couple, and she is feeling insecure about herself, especially when she has a nightmare. So Jaskier being the sweetheart he is, comforts her, by hugging her and giving her soft kisses, while wiping her tears and braiding her hair, telling her that she is beautiful and makes him a better person. Just thought it would be a cute idea!!

I'l never leave you, honey | Jaskier

Nightmares had been the only thing on her mind as of recent. She had hoped no one had noticed and luckily for her, only Geralt had. Geralt may not have great people skills but his ability to analyse body language and heart rate increase and decrease was truly something to be admired and envied.

But one thing she failed to notice was Jaskier's knowledge of the situation. He had known that something was wrong months before Geralt, but didn't bring it up because he was afraid it would damage your tough image. She, as a witcher, greatly valued the walls that she had built around herself to make herself seem less vulnerable. In reality, she were more vulnerable than an ordinary human, but Jaskier was the only one that knew the full extent of it.

The nightmares were riddled with images of Jaskier leaving her for prettier, more confident women. Women that weren't constantly glared at when they walked through town, women that weren't spat at when they walked into a building. Women that could give Jaskier a life of happiness and fulfilment, rather than a journey of danger and risk. Little did she know, those journeys and risks were one of the reasons he fell for her.

So one night when Y/n jolts up she is suprised to see Jaskier already awake, waiting for her to wake up. When he heard her fast paced breathing and rustling of the blankets from where she had jolted up, he spun around and offered her a comforting smile. She instantly knew that he had somehow found out about her nightmares. "How did you know- was it geralt?! my god i'm gonna kill him!" She growled, her amber eyes flaring up in anger, she calmed down instantly when she heard Jaskier's soft chuckles from beside her. "You really thought i wouldn't know? Honey, i've known for three months" He explained softly, placing a hand over hers.

To say the least she was stunned, she had been having these nightmares for exactly three months and two days and Geralt had only found out just over a month ago. Jaskier knew instantly that something was wrong and Y/n just felt an overwhelming feeling of relief and adoration. "Tell me about them?" He suggested calmly, nothing but comfort radiating from his voice and he massaged the back of her hand "I got injured by a really strong Kikimora and it temporarily paralyzed me... you left me for a more capable and prettier women that didn't constantly put you in danger" The female witcher choked out, tears rolling down her face. Unable to look at her lover, she looked at the ground in shame.

Jaskier lifted her chin up and stared into her eyes lovingly. "I would never leave you for another woman. No matter what danger we go through, we'll go through it together. I'll always be here for you, buttercup. Besides you've changed me into a better person and i can never thank you enough for that" He smiled, placing a soft kiss on her cheek and interlacing their fingers. Y/n offered him a weak grin, squeezing his hand. "I'll stay up while you fall asleep if you want, it would put my mind at ease as well, if i'm being honest" He suggested, causing Y/n to sheepishly stare at the ground. "Do you mind?" She questioned, looking back up to Jaskier to see a genuine look of relief and happiness in his eyes. "Of course not! Goodnight, love" He smiled, stroking her hair as she rested her head on his lap. "I love you, Jask" She muttered, her voice tired and weak.

"I love you too, honey" He replied, his soothing voice paired with him currently braiding her hair gently caused Y/n to sink into a calm, undisturbed sleep. Jaskier only closed his eyes when he heard soft snores coming from Y/n, signalling that she had fallen asleep.

MASTERLIST

29.02.20

[terresdebrume]

Witcher of the rings - Snippet 7

Previous snippets: In the tag

Note: Me: a’right, I’m pushing these things out a little toof ast so I’m gonna let them know I’ll be queuing them from now on so I won’t overwhelm the dashes.

Me: *falls into a rut and doesn’t write anything for days*

Me: Or I could do that

Ping list: @formerlyknownas-delight @theheirofashandfire @somedrunkpirate​

(As always, let my know if you want on or off the ping list^^ )

Boromir doesn't say anything not utilitarian for the first three days. He probably thinks he's being very considerate, what with all the ring business and whatnot, but it barely takes half that time for Jaskier to feel like he's going to burst. He manages, heroically, to hold out for another day and a half before he finally has to ask:

 "Are you planning on brooding the entire journey to Edoras?"

"I do not brood," Boromir replies, accent more pronounced and sullener than it ever was while they were traveling with the fellowship.

 Jaskier, of course, snorts at that. Boromir, contrary to another tall and muscled man Jaskier could name, takes it with some humor and lets the right-hand corner of his lips lift, even for the briefest moment. Jaskier smiles.

 "Listen," he says, forcing himself to be careful, "I've learned the harsh way that there is such time as too soon to joke about a situation, so I won't tell you to cheer up or make light of your predicament—"

"That is very considerate of you," Boromir says, eyes focused on the rabbit they're cooking.

 Jaskier doesn't miss the way he glances at his swords, laid down purposefully out of his reach, but he doesn't call attention to it. Instead, before he can think better of it, he blurts out:

 "Don't forget to tell Geralt about it when we see him again."

 Boromir's eyebrows rise up his forehead, and Jaskier winces.

 "Long story," he dismisses. "My point is, I realize you're not exactly at the top of your spirits right now, and I understand why. We both know that you taking the ring from Frodo would have had disastrous consequences."

"To say the least," Boromir mutters, gloomy.

 He's right, so Jaskier ignores the instinct to joke and nods. He does also move to sit closer to Boromir, though, and bumps their shoulders together, then winces when he’s forcibly reminded of Boromir’s armor.

 "A spell is a spell, Boromir," Jaskier says at last. "And the fact that you were compelled—"

"Seduced," Boromir corrects, and Jaskier puts steel in his voice when he insists:

"Compelled. Just because the ring used some of your mind against you—"

"If I hadn't been weak," Boromir starts, but Jaskier raises his voice to cover his words:

“Oh, boo hoo! Shame on you for loving your countrymen and wanting them safe! What’s your next crime going to be? Rescuing puppies?”

 Boromir snorts, and Jaskier beams, not a little bit of pride worming its way into his chest. It isn’t complete self-forgiveness on Boromir’s part: it’s too early for that. It’s still progress, and Jaskier bumps their shoulders again—slower this time.

 “I don’t think you’re weak. I think you care a great deal and the ring knew how to exploit that, but that’s on its spell, not on you.”

 Boromir hums, more doubtful than contemplative, but at least he doesn’t seem to plunge back into self-recrimination, which is a good start. He doesn’t look all that cheered up, though, and while Jaskier was serious about not ordering Boromir to cheer up, he’s certainly not about to go to sleep without at least trying to help him relax a bit.

 “Speaking of your countrymen,” he asks, keeping himself as soft as he can manage, “do they have any song you’d care to share with a humble bard like me?”

“You would not understand the words,” Boromir points out. “And I do not possess Aragorn’s talent for infusing images into my voice.”

“Oh, pish posh,” Jaskier replies, causing Boromir to burst into surprised laughter—he quiets quickly and looks almost embarrassed afterwards, but Jaskier leans in and tells him in a conspirator’s tone: “between you and I, I think that particular talent is kind of creepy. I’d rather not have anyone put things in my head, even if they’re just images of pretty hills and golden whatnots.”

 Boromir, lips pressed together against an obvious smile, nods in mock solemnity.

 “I suppose,” he says after a while, “that I could explain the topic of the songs well enough, if you would welcome my ordinary singing.”

“My friend, after three days of quiet I’d take a pig’s singing,” Jaskier snorts, “I’m sure you can beat that.”

 Boromir, when he clasp him in the back, sends Jaskier to his knees in the dirt, but they end up laughing at it together, and Jaskier ends up going to sleep with a strong sense of success.