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bowieandqueen11 · 3 years

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Soft Geralt Of Rivia Headcanons

Request: May I please request some romantic headcanons of what being the only person who Geralt of Rivia shows his softer side to, please? thank you!

Oh!My!Goodness! Can you hear me screaming I am BLUSHING!!!

If you enjoy, pleaseeee comment and reblog!!

(Gif credit goes to @darkewish, I do not own these characters or the Witcher, all rights/credit goes to its creators).

Geralt of Rivia has never known love. Not really. Not properly. Not before. But that’s okay with him, he’s spent most of his life believing it would break him if he did. Someone who is supposed to have no feelings knowing love? He wouldn’t know what to do with it, it would just split him apart.

The only kind of rugged, intense, fleeting and hard-fought bonds of love he has ever known have come from either Vesemir, Lambert, or the other Witchers at Kaer Morhen, or from local brothels during his travels across the Northern Hemisphere. With all this came an aversion, or a distrust of more intimate and personal forms of affection.

Ever since his mother had heaved off and left him high and dry in the middle of that dirt track, he refused to allow himself to trust any other humans other than the incessant Bard.

Yet one chance meeting cracked all those thorns piercing and entangling his once tender heart.

It all started in that wretched smelling bog, and with five yellowed, rancid claws gripping onto Geralt’s leg and dragging him down into the murky depths. Passing by on your horse on your way to Novigrad, you manage to rush down and grab underneath his left shoulder just in time to haul him back up. Throwing him back the silver sword that lay sinking into the mud on the edge of the patch, he splurts out water as he slays the Water Hag that runs screeching towards him.

Slipping onto him as he walks over to thank you and help you up, his eyes open in mild surprise as you rest your hands on his proto-pauldrons. At first you think the Witcher has fallen into a state of shock - he’s just staring up at you with dirt splattered thick white eyelashes, mouth dropped open as his mind tries to keep up with its whirring and think up something to say.

Before he realises it, and before his own shock can set in, he finds himself asking you to come with him.

Even more surprising, as your breath hitches and you try to move your leg so it’s no longer straddling his thick hips, is that you agree.

He does that Pride and Prejudice movie thing where every time after that, during the period after this but before he finally admits his feelings, when his heart starts racing unfamiliarly and hurts his breast every time he glances over at you, that he flexes his hand almost painfully every time he helps you up and down from your horse.

PEAK ROMANCE

He just hms hoarsely when you ask him if he’s ready to go, storming off to clamber back off to Roach as he tries to stop his brain from screaming. His fingertips feel like they’re on fire, and he doesn’t dare to clench them too hard. He wants to feel the wind burning against his skin, wants to feel every nerve alight as he etches the feel of you into the front of his memory.

When the three of you agree to help Villentretenmerth and join his team to find the green dragon which had landed in the mountains, he stays next to you at all times. He would lie next to you at nights, thigh bumping against yours as the groups sit around the campfire, listening to Dandelion hum from where he rests against a nearby mossy rock. At first you think he’s done it by accident, until it’s time for the three of you to rest. You lie down with your feet near the dwindling fire light, until you can make out the shadows of Geralt’s stern looking face in the dancing embers as he races to lie down next to you. Jaskier’s already asleep, curled up next to you on your left. and cuddled up with his lute in his arms, snoring. You face him as Geralt slowly unfurls himself on your right, breath nearly silent as he tries to hold it.

You try to get some rest, but you can tell he’s awake by the way his eyes burn into the back of your head, eyebrows furrowed in some unknown concentration to you. You’re about to ask him if he’s feeling alright, if he has something on his mind he’d like to tell you about, when you feel cautious fingers slide up your side until his hand has gingerly rested on top of your shoulder.

He finally admits his feelings after the business with the Djinn. It was just the caring way you help Jaskier, letting him grip onto you and holding him up with the upmost love even with blood frothing out of his mouth. The gentle reassurances as you stroke the hair back from his face and help pour some elixir into the side of his lips he can still breath out of.

He doesn’t know why it was this. He also doesn’t know how sudden, how frightfully, frightfully sudden the epiphany came, and how strongly too. But there it was, the pain in his chest that was finally pinching out the barbs and making him feel as if his heart was bleeding out. He just knows that this is what love is supposed to feel like.

And so he tells you. And he’s even more shocked when you take his hands, and tenderly kiss the back of his tired knuckles. You love him too.

To be honest, after that, he used to get irritated at the way Dandelion would go into each town, each inn or square they stop at to sing his new lover’s tale about how Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken has finally stopped being haunted by his past, from his monsters, and instead has found his soulmate. But when a rush of peasant women in Oxenfurt surround you to gush about how you’re even more ethereal than the tales make you out to be, the blush that rushes up to the tips of his ears makes him laugh for the first time in weeks.

His softer side predominantly comes out in private, although it’s begun to leak out into the everyday as well.

He’ll hold your hand under the table when the three of you stop off for food. Just letting it rest safely in his lap, stroking his thumb over your palm as he frowns at the new story Jaskier is animatedly trying to retell by throwing his hands about the place on the other side of the uneven table.

Even though he knows you’re a badass and can take care of yourself (and have saved his life on multiple occasions, as you love to point out), if you’re ever ambushed by monsters or bandits, his sword is immediately drawn and he’s lunging with his arm out in front of you straight away. Or, he smirks at you with that new mischievous glint in his eye as the two of you race over to save Jaskier from the new wraith he’s managed to annoy.

Geralt, for the first time in his life, can finally sleep when you’re with him. He’s never felt more safe, or more wanted, when he’s lying terrified and vulnerable by your side. He finds his heart calming down, though, when you twist yourself over and begin running the tip of your index finger down his nose and over the strong edges of his lips. His lips begin to twitch into a smile, giving himself away as you just take a moment to look at him and understand.

You couldn’t put a finger on it, how he looked so different lying there next to you. Completely bare, body and soul. But that was it. You’d never seen him look peaceful before. Sure, you’d seen him look happy before, when he was with Jaskier. But content? Relaxed? Like any other non-mutated human? Heck, you’d never seen him smile before he was with you.

He is like a furnace though, and sometimes you groan in defeat when you feel his thick arm and thigh roll on top of your body in the middle of the night.

The two of you bathe together often, just soaking and enjoying each other’s company in the warm, undisturbed water of the tub. The heavenly smell of lilac, honeycomb and jasmine surrounds the two of you in it’s slinking shroud, allowing you a moment respite to hide from the world and just trace the scars on his back as he tells you about how he collected each one.

You can feel the heat radiate off him though when your hands begin to climb down and fall to stroke over the scars littering his inner thighs as his back squirms against you.

You’re the only one he’ll allow to help him when he gets injured - especially when he’s attacked by Ghouls and sees Visenna. In a moment of respite, he falls to his knees in front of you after you finish tying the off-white cloth around the bite mark on his leg. He looks the most defeated you had ever seen him, so you do the only thing you can think of. You just take his head in the bracket of your arms, cradling his head to your stomach as his hands reach up to grip your elbows. Despite the chaos devastating the world, in that moment, there’s just the two of you as he nestles his head into your stomach and finally allows himself to breathe again.

He’s not a big talker, so Jaskier’s smirking and giggling earns him a slap in the chest when he catches Geralt staring at you with a tilted head like a little puppy, eyes glittering with that awestruck look and cheeks turning peach every time he hears you talk.

When the two of you inevitably fall into trouble, such as when you end up locked up in the cell in Cintra during the middle of a war, if he’s not spending his time trying to meditate he’ll lean down and kissing your forehead. He lingers for a moment longer than he would, still trying to learn not to be uncomfortable with letting the world see his affection, but just needing to feel for a moment as if fate will be on your side.

Sometimes when he’s just feeling like he needs to hide away from the world for a bit, you and Jaskier will ride him out to some nearby flowery field and just sit in the dewy grass, staring up at the clouds as Jaskier sings. Geralt wraps his arms around his knees and frowns down at the ground as you rub his back and place a stalk of lavender behind his ear, but he’s overjoyed on the inside. He’s still just scared to show it.

He allows you to braid some strands of his hair back. Before the two of you sleep after a long day’s ride through the Northern villages, he’ll rent the three of you a room in the local inn. Jaskier has already flopped down and passed out on his bed, quilt in hand and ink dripping onto the floor. You and Geralt, however, will spend a little longer just stealing some time to yourselves by the fire. He pretends not to enjoy it as he hums gruffly, sitting between your legs and tracing his fingers on your knees. But soon you look down and see that he’s fallen asleep.

That night is spent with him sleeping soundly on your lap as you stroke the fringe of his hair away from his heavy eyes.

You’re also the only person he’ll allow to pet Roach.

OOOhh boi, dressing him up in that silk trader outfit Jaskier chose for him before the wedding banquet. It’s all graceful, playful fingers dancing up the buttons that line his chest, swirling over his sweaty, hairy skin and feeling his heartbeat pound against their tips. Finally, as you reach down and tighten his belt, his squirming and the light frown that lines his face become too much until he can’t help himself any longer. Trapping you between his long legs, his feet kick you back until you’ve fallen back onto the bed, and he’s fallen over you.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow and tries to stifle a snort when the two of you come out half an hour late, with wild manes of hair and red makeup stains littering Geralt’s shirt collar.

The two of you are just lying in bed one night when he suddenly blurts out, ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me’.

And for once, as you smile at him and returns the gesture with more love in its look than you thought the world could muster, he’s not shocked when you accept.

#the witcher #henry cavill #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher imagine #geralt headcanons #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia headcanons #geralt of rivia x reader

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innocentbi-stander · 3 years

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hey so reading your drunk Jaskier and Geralt headcanons has me absolutely in stitches, but like partway through sometimes i forget they're supposed to be drunk while doing these things, and i'm just like "wow these guys grind chaos on the daily" like i'm crying i just assumed they did this shit perfectly sober 😭

hahaha you have me absolutely rolling on that but you cannot convince me that these beautiful fools don't 100% stew chaos even without the help of alcohol. It gets pretty boring on the road when there's nothing to do but walk and stare at the miles ahead, they have to make it interesting somehow....

- one time geralt bet jaskier he couldn't walk more than a mile on his hands and was absolutely shook to find that the bard not even took him up on the challenge, but by some ungodly power made it three (the poor people who passed them by in that time averted their eyes in fear of the witcher but would wonder the rest of their lives what exactly they witnessed)

-they like to play a fun game that has no name and no end game but to brutally tackle the other person at the absolute worst times, the more element of surprise the better. jaskier once fully rocketed geralt off his horse mid gallop and jaskier nearly lost his mind the time geralt tackled him offstage mid performance (revenge is coming, geralt)

- for all that geralt pretends to be 'mr. big bad witcher', questionable decision making is not limited to just being drunk, and geralt and jaskier together is a lethal combination of chaotic idiocy that would make yen tear her hair out

- there's the time they released an entire barns worth of horses because the local lord was such a prick he 'didn't deserve to have their magnificence'

- the time jaskier offered a mermaid they were supposed to be getting rid of tea and cookies in exchange for relocating and not only did it work, they had a lovely chat as well, fuck you geralt with your swords

- when they thought it would be funny to repaint the sign of the inn they had just been thrown out of with a series of insanely creative words that shall not be spoken

- sometimes on the path they make it a point to make sure whatever poor soul has the misfortune of passing them by has the most confusing experience of their life. some of their favorites involve reenacting soap opera level dramatics at screaming volume 'I SAW YOU SLEEPING WITH THE MILLER"S WIFE JASKIER!' *gasp*, speaking in absolute gibberish, or on one memorable occasion, straight up screaming

- another crowd favorite involves leaving increasingly concerning messages etched into the dirt (there are some wild rumors currently circulating about the activities of valdo marx and nobody will own up to the fact that their source was a message written on the side of a dusty path, but anything goes)

- jaskier once bet geralt he wouldn't show up to the gala he was playing at in a gown and was rendered appropriately speechless when the bastard did (it's not like anyone will believe the rumors being told)

- there's also the time they decided to switch places for the day and yen was incredibly confused when jaskier walked into the local inn, decked out in full armor, swords and weapons to match, followed by geralt in a bright blue doublet, more color than he'd probably ever worn in his life (if after a drink or twenty jaskier bet geralt to go up and sing a set of his songs, everybody in the inn was too far gone to remember it in the morning)

and thus we have sober boy shenanigans, part 2?

#the witcher #jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #bamf jaskier #the witcher jaskier #witcher geralt #the witcher yennefer #yennefer #jaskier and yennefer #non human jaskier #its not mentioned #but its always implied #elf jaskier #magic jaskier #gotta love these fools #jinxx answers

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

“Yup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm. Fuck.”

---

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Geralt gives one sharp nod. “Hmm.”

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

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

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

“Hot chocolate.”

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

“Where is Yennefer?”

“She went home,” Geralt shrugs.

“She isn’t your mate?”

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

“You smell like each other.”

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

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

“Anything else you’re curious about?”

“Why don’t you have more lights?”

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

So he makes a decision.

---

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

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

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

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

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

“Open them,” Geralt urges.

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

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

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

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

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

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asweetprologue · 3 years

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what I’m afraid to say

part two of a brand new train fic! we’ve been working on this one for a while, hope you enjoy!

part one | next

He keeps thinking about it, though. They spend a week in the little town that hired him to kill the cockatrice, half of it crammed into the healer's tiny hut. Jaskier's wound wasn't deep, but humans are so prone to infection and disease. Geralt hovers, until the owner of the hut shoos him away. She's an older woman named Madriga with gray hair pulled back against her head in a neat braid, and she reminds him so much of Nenneke that he goes with fairly little protest. Jaskier is still on bedrest, though he's recovered enough to protest the fact, so he can't follow Geralt out of the little hut like he probably wants to. Geralt lingers outside of the small home for a few minutes, not sure what he should do with himself. He still feels a tight knot of worry in his chest, and he knows it won't dissipate until Jaskier is well again.

He itches to do something, or maybe to say something. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the blood spreading out under Jaskier's fingers, and his teeth clench around the feelings that crawl up his throat. He doesn't think his tongue would be able to shape them all into words even if he tried.

But maybe he can twist some of those feelings into action, and Jaskier will understand them. He's always been good at that, always seems to understand what Geralt means even if he doesn't know himself.

He wanders closer to the center of the town, down the stretch of road that leads to the healer's hut. The day is warm and the late afternoon sun hangs low in a cloudless sky, a soft breeze blowing a burst of yellow flower petals across the dirt path. Geralt is offered a few scattered waves from some of the townsfolk as he approaches, a novel experience in and of itself. He's not sure if it's because they're grateful for his work, or if they just feel bad about Jaskier's injuries. His playing the night before the job had been welcome in the small town, and everyone loved Jaskier. They'd been more than accommodating while the bard healed.

The evening market is just getting set up as he approaches the square, and there's a young girl, maybe just on the cusp of teenhood, sitting with her elbow propped on her table. There are several trays of baked goods set out, and Geralt remembers how Jaskier had complained that morning about the plain porridge that he's been forced to eat alongside thin broth over the last few days. The healer had mentioned something about feeding him something more substantial for dinner, and that's something Geralt can help with. Relieved to find something he can actually do, some way to show Jaskier that he cares, he reaches into his coin pouch.

He makes a few purchases from the girl—a harsh haggler, to his amusement. He can't put the rest of his plan into motion until later, but he has some supplies to stock up on after the hunt anyways. He spends a while talking with the locals until he can barter for what he can. Restocking their road supplies is easy enough, and he even manages to find someone willing to part with a bottle of dwarven spirits. He's low on Cat, now, so he shells out the coin for it and then spends some time in the fields looking for berbercane fruit. It's the right season for them, and it's easy enough to spot the bright red fruits amongst the golden shafts of wheat.

Once the sun is just barely turning the edges of the grains white gold in the evening light, he makes his way to the tavern Jaskier had played at a few nights before. The barkeep recognizes him instantly, of course, and asks him when the young bard will be well enough to play for them again. Geralt shrugs; he doesn't know. Humans heal so slowly.

He's able to purchase a decent haul: a full loaf of rye bread, a clay bowl full of thick pottage, and another with baked parsnips, beats and onions. Along with the honey cakes he'd purchased from the girl, he thinks the spread will please Jaskier after nearly three full days of gruel. After a second thought, he picks up another trencher for their host, and then he bundles the goods in his cloak to carry back to the hut.

By the time he follows the dirt path out to the edge of the town and up to the hut, the shadows are growing long. It's late in the summer season, and the sun sets earlier and earlier nowadays. It's a harsh reminder that soon he will have to return to the mountains and bid Jaskier farewell for the winter. Though at this point the bard might be better off on his own, Geralt thinks darkly. If he's only going to get himself hurt, then maybe Geralt should just… let him go.

He opens the door to the hut perhaps more forcefully than needed, hearing it bump against the chair that sits behind it. The cot Jaskier is set up on is in the main area of the two room hut, and he looks up in surprise when Geralt steps through the door. Madriga is less impressed, only raising an eyebrow.

Geralt stands there for a moment, thrown by the new, exposed bandages on Jaskier's bare chest and Madriga's knowing stare, and then he hefts the bundle of cloth in his arms and says, “I, uh. Brought dinner.”

“Good,” Madriga grunts, getting to her feet. She hobbles over to Geralt—it's a miracle that she doesn't use a cane, he thinks—and takes the packaged food from him. “It's high time for him to get some solids in him.”

“One of the loaves is for you,” Geralt adds, moving automatically to help reposition the pillows behind Jaskier so that he can sit up more easily. The bard's eyes are bright when they find his, and Geralt looks away quickly, overwhelmed. “And there's plenty of stew. If you have need.”

The healer just nods, and shuffles over into the little kitchen area she has set up near the stove, pulling out a set of bowls from a chest in the corner. After a few moments she brings them the food and says, “I'll take mine in my room. Need to rest my feet. Make sure he doesn't spill on those new wrappings.” Geralt nods, holding the two bowls of pottage, and Madriga takes her own bowl and bread and closes the door to her bedroom behind her.

“This was kind of you,” Jaskier says, accepting the bowl that Geralt offers him. A half of the loaf of bread sits in each of their bowls, and Jaskier immediately fishes his out to take a bite of the stew soaked rye. He makes an appreciative sound, his eyes fluttering closed, and Geralt is left staring. Finally he remembers his own bowl and digs in, barely tasting the dish as he sneaks glances at Jaskier. The window across from the bed casts them in a faint orange glow in the dying light, and a highlight across Jaskier's cheekbone casts his face into sharp relief. He's lost weight over the last few days, Geralt realizes. He moves a portion of his stew into Jaskier's bowl.

“You're mother henning,” Jaskier says around a mouthful, laughing a bit even though Geralt knows it makes his side hurt.

“Just want you back on your feet,” Geralt mutters, going back to his own bowl. Once they're both done, he reaches into the bundle of cloth and pulls out another wrapped package, the cheesecloth sticky to the touch. He's probably going to have to wash his cloak, but he can't care at the moment. “Here,” he says, pushing the package into Jaskier's hands.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, letting the cheesecloth fall open to reveal the honey cakes. “I love these. You remembered?”

Half a dozen responses hover on Geralt's lips. Of course, he wants to say, I remember everything, I'm always paying attention to you, there's nothing else. I care, I care, I care. Instead, he just says, “You rave about them every time we're in a town. Hard to miss.”

Jaskier's eyes crinkle up at the edges. He's so beautiful, even ruffled and covered in three days of sweat and old blood. Geralt aches to reach out, but he keeps his hands to himself until Jaskier offers him one of the honey cakes. He doesn't let their fingers brush in the exchange. “Didn't know you were listening,” Jaskier says, with a wry smile.

Geralt just hums around a mouthful of honey, and he burns with all the things he doesn't say.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher #the witcher #fic #fan fiction #writing #my work #train

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Text

Meet The Parents

Over on The Bog on Discord, there is a cursed Shrek channel. The idea for this fic was encouraged there and, well, 1.5k later, I have so many regrets, this is definitely what I'd call a shrekcident. All I can say is that writing Shrek and Fiona is really really difficult!

@dapandapod, @thecomfortofoldstorries and @fontegagrilledcheese I think you all asked to be tagged when this is up?

Meet The Parents

There had been several letters from back home, suggesting Jaskier return and brings his lovely travelling companion. It was, without a doubt, Jaskier’s mother writing the letters, she had always had a better grasp on courtly things than his father. Truth be told, it was no secret that the Count of Lettenhove absolutely hated ruling and would much rather spend his time out and about. There were several swamps in Lettenhove that he claimed needed his very dedicated attention. The fact Jaskier’s mother went along with him was no surprise. Despite her upbringing, she was quite fond of a swamp or two too.

“It’s another letter,” Jaskier sighed, flicking it into the fire in the inn. “I don’t understand why they are so insistent on me bringing you home. I mean, they’ve never been interested in previous love interests before. Probably because they’ve all held titles and had standards.” Geralt grunted, eyes fixed on the small alchemy set up he had going on the table. It didn’t deter Jaskier as he carried on. “Mother thinks you and father might get on well once you get past the initial shock of meeting.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being over the moon to meet a Witcher. Especially not one that their darling son is fucking.”

“Well, quite. Father had a couple of run ins with Witchers in his youth. Not all of them were pleasant. But I’m sure you can change his mind.” Jaskier hummed to himself as he thought. “Plus Mother was a cursed princess so you might find some common ground with her. And did I mention my uncle? I spent a lot of time with him growing up, he was really patient, letting me learn to walk by clinging to him. Anyway, he and his dragon-”

“Dragon?” Naturally Geralt perked up at that. “You should have started with that. We’re going to Lettenhove.”

Naturally Geralt had assumed the worst. As if anyone related to Jaskier would be able to keep a dragon against her will. His family was just too nice! But Geralt would learn that fact for himself in a few short weeks when they arrived at Jaskier’s ancestral castle. It was a castle, not a mansion, well kept, if a little more shabby than most. There were overgrown bushes around it and Geralt could have sworn the small of a sulphuric swamp drifted on the winds. They marched up the stairs, everything eerily quiet until the door burst open to reveal two menacing figures.

“Ogres!” Geralt shoved Jaskier behind himself, a snarl on his lips and ready to fight. “I believe this is the Count and Countess of Lettenhove’ residence. What are you doing here?”

“Witcher!” The male ogre spat. “Nothing good has ever come of your kind. You’re not making us move.”

From behind Geralt, Jaskier sprang forwards. “Mother! Father!” He embraced the ogres before being almost bowled over by a donkey. “Uncle!”

“You call this a greeting? This is how you say hello to your favourite uncle? What have I got to do before I get a hug from my favourite nephew?” The donkey looked to the side where the ogres were still staring and turned to see what the issue was. “That’s a Witcher. Oh, that’s your Witcher! That’s a nice Witcher.”

That seemed to pull Jaskier back into the moment and he stood up, clearing his throat. “Right, Mother, Father, Uncle, this is Geralt of Rivia. Geralt, my family.”

Vesemir would be so ashamed if he ever found out how Geralt reacted. All the years spent drilling manners into Geralt’s head were for naught.

“How?!”

“Well,” the donkey said into the stunned silence, “when one ogre loves another ogre and they’re into experimenting with potions-”

“Donkey!” Jaskier’s parents cried in unison before his mother continued. “Please excuse Donkey. I’m Fiona, this is Shrek. And to answer your question, ogres and humans had different anatomy. We got curious, had potions to change temporarily and, well, Jaskier happened during those three days.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to hiss, “Mother! Please don’t tell Geralt about your kinky sex lives.”

“Yes, Eskel told me about ogre anatomy and the differences in rather too much detail,” Geralt grumbled.

“Eskel fucked an ogre?”

“It was an orgy actually - though he insisted on calling it an ogre-y. Said he couldn’t get the mud from the swamp out of certain places for over a week.”

As far as first impressions went, Geralt didn’t think he could have done any worse. But he was being ushered in all the same, Donkey already chattering away about the inane things that had happened since Jaskier last visited. It left Geralt in the rather silent company of Shrek while Fiona led the way.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Shrek gritted out and Geralt hummed in acknowledgement which garnered a grunt in reply.

“Oh my word, you’re marrying your father,” Donkey cried at Jaskier, head snapping to look between Shrek’s retreating back and Geralt standing in the hallway as Fiona opened a door.

“Don’t mind him-” Whatever else she was saying went over Geralt’s head because he caught up with Donkey’s words. Just what was that about marrying?!

They stepped into the room and Jaskier let out a wail of anguish. “Mother! Two beds, really?”

“Just be glad Shrek let you even share a room. But I couldn’t talk him out of having Mirror on the wall.”

“Hello,” the enchanted mirror called. “Please don’t rearrange the room or do anything untoward, I really rather wouldn’t see those kinds of things.”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths. This was fine, he could do this, there was a dragon somewhere around and he was duty bound to make sure she was free. He regretted such a decision by the evening. There was indeed a dragon who lived at the castle but she refused to take a human form, far too happy and, of all things, in love with Donkey, enough to have a clutch with him Dragon-Donkey babies were terrifying, Geralt had ascertained, menaces, taking their temperament from their father while their mother gifted them with wings and the ability to breathe fire. Suddenly, Geralt understood why there were never any contracts in the area. The locals befriended every creature, monster and anything in between. And any they couldn’t? Well, ogres and dragons could easily keep things in check.

Once the shock of it all had worn off, Geralt could actually focus on eating. Other than Jaskier, there seemed to be no one who cared for things like utensils.

“Please, Mother, Father, at least try to have some manners?” Jaskier looked pleadingly at his parents. His only response was Fiona letting out quite the impressive belch before high fiving Shrek.

The sound of small, pattering feet caught Geralt’s attention. He looked at Shrek and Fiona before trying to find the source of the sound. This seemed like the kind of company that would appreciate his party trick with a fork. A hand around his wrist stopped him.

“Not the Three Blind Mice. They’re friends.”

Almost disappointed, Geralt settled back to finish his surprisingly hearty meal. It wasn’t the usual fair of courts, this was more about being filling and warm rather than showing off all the money that went into making tiny portions full of expensive spices. However, it certainly helped set Geralt at ease.

“So, when’s the wedding?” The small amount of peace was shattered by Shrek asking around a mouthful. It had Jaskier shrieking while the rest of his family watched him, frozen in place but not exactly surprised. More like they were patiently waiting for him to be done. Shrek shrugged. “I thought you were bringing your Witcher home to get married. Isn’t that how it usually goes in fairytales?”

“That’s only princes and princesses,” Donkey cut in. “You have a viscount. They don’t have to get married. Unless…?”

“I’m not proposing,” Geralt blurted out. There was a collective groaning sigh from the table, some of it relief, some of it disappointment and Geralt didn’t know just how offended he should be. He didn’t expect Jaskier to loudly but delicately put his cutlery onto his plate to make in clink pointedly.

“Good. Because I wanted to be the one to propose. On my own terms. In my own time. Mother, do you still have the ring? I think I will take it with us. Might eventually use it.”

Donkey gasped. “Not the One Ring?”

“No!” Jaskier sounded exasperated. “We all know what happened to cousin Gollum with that one. I don’t have any wishes to lose my hair because of that. I meant Grandmother’s ring. I doubt Grandfather’s would be very useful.” He turned to Geralt. “Grandfather was turned into a frog. His ring is rather tiny as a result.”

Of course Jaskier had ogres for parents and a frog for a grandfather. He still took after his uncle the most by the sounds of things. Given how Donkey hadn’t stopped making noises, whether it was humming or popping his lips, it was incessant. Geralt felt he now understood Jaskier a whole lot better. And, when the time came, if Jaskier did offer him a ring, Geralt had zero reservations about the knowledge that he would say yes. But the wedding was going to be at Kaer Morhen, he was going to have to insist on that.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #shrek #donkey #fiona #the witcher #witchrek #tldr: jaskier's parents are shrek and fiona

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

Text

When It Pulls Me Under (Will You Make Me Stronger?)

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list

From the moment he sees the notice, Geralt is horrified. The description of the man is far too familiar, the details piercing through the thick protective walls he's been building around himself.

There is a group of men gathered around the signboard, picking up flyers and huddling around one in particular. A contract on a man possessed. It sounds like an old wive’s tale and most of the men are surely there to pick up an easy coin on what they think is a drunk roaming the town. Geralt knows better.

Demonic possession isn't common, but he's seen it before. He's fought them and sent them back to the otherworld they come from. Only this time, the man they describe, the one thought to be possessed, is Jaskier. Geralt is certain of it.

It's been months since they've seen each other, but the way they parted, Jaskier's whole demeanour, his expression- if he truly felt the way he looked on the top of that mountain, the way he felt, he'd be much more susceptible to possession.

And it's Geralt's fault.

He shoves through the crowd, grabbing the notice from a gruff-looking man with a black beard. A few of them shout and shove, but when they look up at him, all fall silent. One or two slink away, knowing they're no match for a Witcher, especially in this field, but most of them watch him in stunned silence. They reek of fear, and for once Geralt is glad for it. He doesn't want anyone getting involved and mucking this up. It's been a long time since their parting on the mountain and he can only hope the demon hasn't taken hold of Jaskier completely.

It's rare that Geralt has full faith in any notice or request for a Witcher, but as he folds the paper and tucks it into his jerkin, he's certain.

The request says to speak to the local blacksmith, so that's where Geralt heads first. He doesn't know what to expect, nor is he particularly looking forward to what he'll find, but he needs to know. Jaskier was- is important to him and if he can help in any way, he'll be happy to. Demons can and will eventually take over their host body, leaving the host all but dead, unable to move and think for themself, and Geralt would rather let the thing possess him than let that happen to Jaskier.

The blacksmith says exactly what Geralt was expecting; a foppish, well-dressed man with a bright smile. He'd killed four already in town, and there were rumours of cases in surrounding towns and villages as well. All people betrayed. Like Jaskier was betrayed by him.

He spends the remainder of the day gathering any information he can from the locals and rents a room at the inn. It's more for Jaskier once he's finished than it is for himself, but it gives him someone to keep his things when he's not needing them. And it gives him an excuse for a warm meal and an ale - not that he thinks he deserves either.

Because all of this is his fault. Four people are dead, likely more, and Jaskier risks losing his own life if he's not quick enough - all because Geralt fucked up so many months ago.

He never wanted to push Jaskier away. If anything, after losing Yen, he wanted to bring him closer, hold him closer, know that someone at least was still there for him. But everyone leaves eventually - Yen had only proven that - so why not make it sooner rather than later. Why fall further in love only to have him ripped away later anyway, if not by choice, then by the brutal mortality of a human.

He shakes his head, looks down at his stew, but he's not hungry any longer. Pushing the bowl aside, Geralt empties his mug and rises from the table. He has to get started or he'll lose his mind lingering here, even if there's not much to go off yet. He'll just have to wait.

The last murder took place just at the back of the grain farm, so Geralt sets himself up there, waiting. It's late before there's any sign of anything, and when he does show up, Geralt smells him before he sees him. He stinks of fear and betrayal and loathing and Geralt wants to run so he doesn't have to see the pain on his pace, so he doesn't have to face what he's done. But he knows better now. Jaskier deserves better. And he has a job to do. More people will die if he doesn't take care of this now.

Luckily (or not) Jaskier spots him too, sauntering over like he doesn't have a care in the world. Only Geralt can tell immediately that it's not Jaskier. The movements are too fluid for a human body, the way he holds himself just slightly off.

The demon approaches knowing full well who Geralt is, what he's there for, and it steps right up to him, the smug smirk on its face a mockery.

"Well, Witcher," it says in Jaskier's voice, "didn't expect to see me, did you?"

"You're not him," Geralt says calmly, keeping his voice as steady as he can manage. "You reek of your own plane, I'd know you weren't him in an instant"

"Oh, but I am," it purrs, "your bard is in here... somewhere, but he's sleeping. It's all me now."

Geralt grits his teeth. He knows that isn't true. His medallion trembles against his chest and he can smell the scent of ozone and sulphur but, he knows Jaskier is still in there. He's fought against demons who have completely consumed their host and they aren't like this.

"Get out of him," he warns, knowing full well there's nothing he can do. He needs to bring Jaskier to the surface, needs Jaskier to be the one to push the demon from his body. Any harm Geralt can do risks harm to Jaskier as well.

"I don't think I will," it shrugs. "I like this body. Everyone likes this body. It's so easy to get close to them, to lull them into a sense of security and then-"

"Enough!" Geralt growls, "I know what you've been doing with his body! I'm here to put an end to it."

"Mmm, sure you are. And how do you intend to do that without harming your poor, precious bard?"

He doesn't know. The last time they saw each other, Geralt was furious and Jaskier was... if he had to put a word to it, he'd say he was devastated. The last person he'll want to see is Geralt and without time to find someone he will react to... Geralt doesn't break eye contact. He has to try something.

It's a long shot, even for him, but he mumbles the beginning notes from memory; he's heard them often enough to know the whole damn song by heart. If anything could bring Jaskier back, it's his music.

But he hums a little and there's no response. Again, and there's no response. So he thinks back to a night he spent at a tavern, to a bright-eyed bard with curly blonde hair. She had announced the song as belonging to Jaskier, but Geralt didn't recognize it, but it was emotional. And he understood at once who it was intended for. Clearing his throat, he tries out the words,

"The fairer sex, they often call it-"

The demon laughs and mocks him, but Geralt doesn't relent, singing as much as he can recall from that night. And when he runs out of words, his chest aches and he moves instinctively, reaching out to grab Jaskier's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispers and the body under his hand jolts. It's so brief he would miss it were he human, but it happens, and when he looks up, there's clarity behind those blue eyes, recognition.

"Jaskier!" he exclaims and Jaskier's whole demeanour shifts.

"Geralt?" he asks, groggy, confused.

"Yes! Yes, it's me. Jaskier, are you-" there's a gurgling groan and Jaskier stiffens again.

"I don't think so," the demon's voice comes, taunting and sharp. "You had a chance. You left him, right? Your choice. So he's mine now." There's a choking sound and a growl that could rival that of a wolf and Jaskier's limbs loosen again.

Geralt reaches for him immediately and Jaskier slumps forward into his arms, panting.

"'S hard to fight," he mumbles and Geralt tugs him forward, helps him straighten up.

"How did you do that?" Geralt huffs, meeting Jaskier's eyes again as they stand up straight.

"Heard you," he offers a small smile, "knew you must have come to help. Geralt, I didn't mean to- I didn't want this-"

"I know. Jaskier, I know. It took advantage, it's my fault."

"No, I should have known better than to think you'd-"

Geralt doesn't think before winding his arms around him and pulling Jaskier into a warm embrace. He holds him close and presses his nose into Jaskier's neck.

"Not your fault," he mumbles. "I never wanted you to think you were unwanted, that I didn't care-"

"Geralt," Jaskier says, pulling back out of his arms, "what are you saying?"

Unthinking, Geralt leans forward, catching Jaskier's lips in a desperate kiss. His mouth tastes of sulphur and ash, but he pushes past that, feeling Jaskier soft and real under his hands. He's human, Geralt reminds himself, this can be expelled. And even as Jaskier pulls back again, a look of shock on his face, he seems brighter, his skin a little less pale.

"Geralt," he whispers, "what-" Geralt tips forward, their noses bumping together in the proximity.

"Can you hold it?" he asks. "You broke free from its hold, can you keep that control?"

"It's hard."

"I need you to try," Geralt breathes, shutting his eyes. "I can't help you, Jaskier, you need to expel it yourself."

"How?" he asks, panicky.

"Hold on to something. It was able to take hold because you were weak, right? Because of what I said?

"Geralt-"

"You need to be strong, find something and hold onto that, show it that it has no place in your body any longer. What helped you break free the first time?"

Jaskier suddenly goes very quiet, ducks his head so he's not looking at Geralt.

"I heard your voice," he admits, "and I've been hoping, gods Geralt, I've been so desperate to see you again, to make sure you're okay that nothing has finally-" he cuts himself off and Geralt nods quietly. He understands.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "hold on to me, then. Focus on me, on my hands, on my voice." He kisses him again and Jaskier lets out a soft sound, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck and holding him close.

He kisses him like he's dying for it and Geralt thinks grimly that it's an apt comparison. But he'll take it. He'll do anything to get this thing out of Jaskier, to have Jaskier back at his side like he used to be. To maybe be given a chance for what he really wants.

He puts all of his energy into kissing Jaskier, running his hands over his body, proving to him that he cares, that he's here now even if he hasn't been. That he's coming back to take him away from this darkness. His hands slip under Jaskier's doublet, tangling in the soft linen of his shirt and he clings to him.

Jaskier makes a soft sound and presses forward fitting against him like that's where he belongs and Geralt wants so badly to believe that he does. That all of this can be fixed, after all. Fingers slip into his hair, tugging lightly and Geralt can't help the little groan that escapes him, but it only seems to push Jaskier on.

Jaskier draws back, nipping at Geralt's lip and when he pulls back completely, he's panting, his cheeks flushed and bright with colour.

"How do you feel?" Geralt asks and Jaskier tips forward, brushing his lips against Geralt's neck.

"Good. Stronger than I have in months. Geralt, I have a thought. What if... if you're what I need to fight it off what if you- if we-"

"Anything," Geralt hums, "anything to get it out of you."

Jaskier leans in, pressing his lips to the shell of Geralt's ear. "Fuck me," he whispers and Geralt nearly stumbles at the request.

"Jask-"

"I need you," he whispers, "Geralt, I want you. I've always wanted you and you- you can give me that now and I'll never bother you again, but please."

"Okay," Geralt huffs, "okay, but not because I need to. Jaskier, I... want you, too. That's why I'm here, now."

"Say it again," Jaskier whispers.

"I want you."

"Mmm. Again."

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats, slipping his hands down to the small of his back and tugging him forward, "I love you. I want you. I will do anything to get you free of this thing." He lifts him off his feet and there's no hesitation. It feels like Jaskier's body would appear to anyone else that he's alone in it now, but Geralt knows better. He knows Jaskier can't keep this up forever, that the bond between them is the only thing keeping the demon at bay.

Geralt finds a spot near the treeline and kneels down in a patch of clover. He tugs his cloak off and lays it out as well as he can, spreading it out with one hand before laying Jaskier down on it. It feels somewhat like handling a bomb, afraid that one wrong move could shift Jaskier's control and he could lose him again. Geralt may be what he's clinging to to pull himself back, but he's also the reason Jaskier was so low in the first place. He thinks, briefly, that it's a good thing his emotional stability is not what's keeping Jaskier safe or they'd be fucked.

Jaskier settles himself and reaches up for him, fingers slipping around his neck and Geralt moves over him, dropping onto his elbows. He noses at Jaskier's neck, kissing behind his head and down to the crook of his shoulder, gently lifting his shirt and doublet out of the way as they interfere. His heart is pounding and he's never felt so out of his depth with Jaskier before, but he can't fuck this up. If he fucks this up-

Soft hands come to settle on his face and he's aware of Jaskier's voice, but it's foggy, like a dream. Geralt's body moves as though on its own, working open the clasps on Jaskier's doublet and lifting the shirt up over his head. He runs his fingers through dark chest hair, stopping over a freshly healed scar. It snaps the last of his focus and Geralt curls his hand into a fist, pressed firmly over Jaskier's head.

He doesn't realize he's trembling until Jaskier pushes him up, rolls him onto his side.

"Hey," he breathes, and Geralt's eyes snap up to his. "Hey, it's just me. It's... quiet right now, thanks to you." Jaskier climbs onto him, straddling his thighs, and for a split second, Geralt is terrified he's fucked up, that the demon is in control and this is Jaskier's revenge on him.

But his medallion only lightly shakes against his chest and Jaskier's touch is soft and reassuring. So Geralt steadies himself, allows Jaskier to undress him and tries to focus on the touch of him. But he should be doing more, he should be- He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud until Jaskier interrupts him with a pointed kiss that lingers longer, Geralt suspects, than intended.

"You don't have to do anything," Jaskier breathes against him, "it, er- it's actually better being able to touch you. I- well, Geralt you must know that I've wanted you."

"Yeah..." he replies slowly, "Jaskier, I-

"Shh," Jaskier hums, "if you really think this will help, let's just get rid of this thing first."

Jaskier reaches down with one hand, easily pulling Geralt's trousers open and slipping a hand inside, wrapping around his cock. It feels good and he's thought about this more times than he can remember, but he can't settle, and even Jaskier's hand around him, fingers slipping up the length of him, fails to get him hard. He squirms and bucks, trying to get his body to cooperate, to no avail.

He feels the shift when it happens, like a shudder in the air and he knows Jaskier is slipping. His medallion shakes and Geralt pulls Jaskier's hand from his cock, settling his hands on his sides.

"It's not your fault," he whispers, "it's not you."

"Geralt, you don't have to-"

"I know. I want to, I just- I don't know what's wrong."

"You're in your head," Jaskier says simply, "you're always so... locked up up there. Maybe we shouldn't."

Geralt shuts his eyes and pulls Jaskier against him. Jaskier settles and Geralt pushes one hand up his spine, curling around the back of his neck. The other moves down, following the same line toward his lower back to cup his ass. He pushes Jaskier's hips forward and there's a soft little groan against his neck and he can feel the press of Jaskier's cock, hard against Geralt's hip.

"I still want you," Geralt whispers. The words feel stilted on his tongue, but there isn't time for him to worry about how he sounds or what Jaskier thinks of him because he's not the one at risk here. He reaches into the pouch on his thigh, fumbling with the bottles until he finds the one he's looking for.

There's not a lot of oil left, but it's the only one he has that he would risk putting on Jaskier's skin. Tentatively, he pushes Jaskier's trousers down, slipping his fingers between his cheeks. Jaskier's breath catches and Geralt can hear the thudding of his heartbeat, smell the scent of arousal drifting between them, but he's so worried about fucking this up. Jaskier's life could be in danger if the demon gets hold again.

"Okay?" he asks and Jaskier hums his confirmation into his neck, nosing under his jaw. Geralt hurriedly uncorks the bottle, and slicks his fingers, pushing back again and Jaskier shudders as they brush over his hole. Even Geralt shudders at the touch and he presses forward eagerly.

Jaskier opens for him easily, allowing two fingers inside him quickly. He fumbles to get his trousers undone, letting his cock slip free and peek out, rubbing against Geralt's skin. Pre-come eases the way as he rocks his hips in time with Geralt's fingers and Geralt's cock stirs.

Jaskier shifts, lifting himself to push back onto Geralt's fingers and then settling again so his cock sits alongside Geralt's. His hips twitch hard as Geralt's fingers brush his prostate and Geralt groans at the sensation. He readjusts his own position, shifting his torso so he can press deeper, bumping against his prostate with every thrust.

He keeps a steady pace going, one hand remaining on Jaskier's neck to brace him, even as Jaskier slumps against him, rutting mindlessly and nipping at his neck. He looks beautiful like this, feels incredible, and Geralt should be able to muster more than a twinge of arousal, but all he feels is scared.

Scared that this won't work, that he's taking advantage, that once this is done - if it is successful - Jaskier won't want anything to do with him again. He uses that emotion to push through, fucking into him until Jaskier's thighs shake around him and then, with a quick thrust, Jaskier's coming.

He shakes and shudders, hips jerking erratically and Geralt holds him with one hand, fucking him through it with the other. He's aware of Jaskier whispering in his ear, but he's too focused on the medallion, now shaking violently against his chest.

Then, just as abruptly as it started, it stops and Jaskier slumps.

Geralt holds his breath, withdrawing his hand and wrapping both arms around Jaskier's shoulders. He listens for a pulse, for the sound of breath and for a moment, there's nothing. Geralt shuts his eyes. He doesn't believe in any gods, nor destiny, but he pleads to them now, not to let Jaskier be taken from him, not for his words, not for his mistakes.

Just when Geralt thinks he's lost him, Jaskier inhales sharply against his neck, gives a soft grunt of protest and shifts to get comfortable. He doesn't wake and Geralt doesn't let him go, clinging tightly to him.

Jaskier doesn't wake until late that evening. They're back at the inn and Geralt's had a bath drawn and food brought up for them both, but he hasn't been able to eat. He'd cleaned them both up in the field, dressed Jaskier as well as he could manage and brought him back here. Since then, he's been pacing the room. For hours. When Jaskier stirs, Geralt nearly jumps out of his skin. He's at the bedside in an instant, on his knees next to him.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asks, confused. He's still a little woozy and Geralt doesn't know how much he'll wind up remembering.

"I'm here."

"How did I-" he eyelids flutter a little, "Geralt, did we-"

"Shh, relax. I'll tell you everything after you have a bath and something to eat." He reaches out, resting a hand on Jaskier's chest and Jaskier's hand comes up to cover it, slipping his fingers between Geralt's. His eyes fall shut again.

"You didn't get to come," he mumbles and Geralt huffs a laugh despite himself.

"It doesn't matter," Geralt breathes, leaning in and tentatively laying his head on Jaskier's stomach. "You're okay and that's all that matters." Jaskier's free hand curls around to push his fingers through Geralt's hair and he sighs softly.

"Later then," Jaskier says, "you can join me in the bath and I'll make you come."

#geraskier #demonic possession #monster march #spicy #nsft #rex writes

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valdomarx · 4 years

Text

Geralt and Jaskier visit a brothel together, requested by me

It’s been a long few weeks in the wilderness, and for once it’s as much of a relief for Geralt as it is for Jaskier to arrive in a town with a comfortable inn. Nature may have its bounties, but the body has its needs. Alas, the contracts have been poor of late, and by the time the room and bath have been paid for, both of their purses are light.

There’s enough money for a decent meal or for a trip to a brothel, but not both. Geralt contemplates this dilemma.

“We could share,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt snorts. “One portion of food barely feeds me at the best of times. I’m not going halves with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean dinner. We could share a girl.”

“Hmm.” Geralt considers. That would indeed be cheaper, and there would be enough coin left over for a basic meal for each of them as well. The thought of both satisfaction and food wins out over any qualms he has, and he nods.

Jaskier brightens, and hustles him off in the direction of the local brothel.

He lets Jaskier do the talking once they arrive. It seems easier that way. Jaskier explains what they want and arranges payment with the madam, who recommends to them a highly accommodating lady by the name of April who resides upstairs.

When they head to her room, they find April to be a sturdy brunette with lovely wide hips and a cute dimpled chin. Taking in the pair of them standing in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow. “Both at once?” she asks, not in the least bit shy.

“We come as a package deal,” Jaskier jokes, which sets Geralt’s teeth on edge.

“Two charming gentlemen,” she smiles beguilingly. “My lucky day.”

She leads them inside, to a bedroom filled with worn red velvet fabrics and the damp, musky smell of sex. They kick off their boots at the door, because it seems only polite, and while Geralt is wondering if there is some sort of etiquette to this sharing business she takes him by the hand and toys with the laces of his shirt.

“How about I start by getting this off you, handsome?” she asks, and he hums his assent. She pulls off his shirt and sucks in a quick breath when she sees his scars. She’s professional enough to cover it, but not fast enough to fool Geralt’s heightened senses. She touches each mark curiously.

“How did you get this one?” she asks, running her fingers over a jagged, red scar curving over his shoulder. Geralt is used to that question from bed partners. He doesn’t even mind it much.

“That one was from an ekhidna,” Jaskier butts in. “Caught him when he was out on a lake gathering buckthorn.”

Geralt glares at him. This situation would be much easier to deal with if Jaskier would keep his mouth shut for once.

The girl gives Jaskier a inquisitive look. “You know all his stories?” She walks over to Jaskier and runs a hand down his chest, catching on the buttons of his chemise and undoing them one by one to reveal a thatch of dark hair. Geralt averts his eyes.

Jaskier preens. “I should think so. I’m the one who made him famous.”

The girl giggles. “Maybe you can tell me what he likes then,” she says, looking back at Geralt from under her lashes. Her hands are still on Jaskier’s chest.

“I reckon I have an idea,” Jaskier says, and something about that sends a shiver up Geralt’s spine.

“Good,” the girl says, sliding the chemise off Jaskier’s shoulders. “It’s hard to tell with the strong and silent type.” She smiles at Geralt as she says it, though, so it doesn’t feel too much like a criticism.

“Do you think he’d like to go first, or would he prefer to watch?” She’s playing with the strings on Jaskier’s trousers now, teasing them around her fingers, the blue fabric bright against her rosy skin.

“Oh, he wants to watch,” Jaskier says, with absolute surety. Geralt’s eyes fly to his, because what the fuck, Jaskier, but he finds Jaskier grinning like this is all perfectly delightful and not gearing up to be the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to either of them.

“That work for you, big boy?” she asks, and Geralt doesn’t really know what to do other than nod. She indicates a chair in the corner of the room. “Make yourself comfortable, if you like.”

Unsure why this situation has made him so meek, he settles in the chair as he’s told. From here he can’t really help but get a full view of the bed.

April pushes Jaskier on to the bed with some force and he goes willingly, laughing. She climbs onto him and buries her face into his neck, where Geralt knows from prior observations that Jaskier is sensitive. He squirms beneath her attentions, cheeks flushing, hands running up her sides and over her breasts which are spilling out from her top.

Geralt can see glimpses of her hands as well, first opening Jaskier’s trousers, then pushing them down and wrapping around his cock. Jaskier groans and Geralt can smell his arousal, sharp and spicy, making his own heart beat pick up in sympathy.

She sits back to remove Jaskier’s trousers completely, which he tries to help with a gets a playful smack for, and then she’s pushing him down again and bending to lick stripes up his now clearly hard cock. Geralt doesn’t know where to look.

When she swallows Jaskier’s cock down in one go, Jaskier arches his back and Geralt's attention is drawn to the long, elegant line of his neck, the tight cords of muscle running out to his shoulders. Geralt fidgets in the chair, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

It's because of the girl, obviously, that he's feeling so on edge. She really is very pretty, and watching a pretty girl sucking cock would get any man going, wouldn't it?

Geralt finds his fingers playing through his trousers without him meaning to, although April notices from the corner of her eye.

"You can take care of yourself while you watch," she says, pulling off with a wink. "We won't mind, will we?"

Jaskier looks at him with a smirk. "We won't mind at all."

Geralt scowls, feeling strangely put upon. But if that's what’s expected... He unlaces his trousers and sighs in relief when he wraps a hand around his aching cock.

As April gets back to work, Jaskier strokes a finger down her cheek, and Geralt is struck by how tender his is, even when he has no need to be. Most men couldn't be less interested in the comfort of a whore they're with, but Jaskier cares about everyone, it seems, even someone he'll only see for one night.

When she gets her hands involved, Jaskier throws his arms above his head and twines his fingers into the headboard. Geralt's mouth goes very dry, for some reason, at the sight of Jaskier stretched out and braced for pleasure. Geralt spits in his hand and works himself over, carefully not thinking too much about it.

What's somewhat disconcerting is the fact that Jaskier keeps looking over at him, his eyes darting back to Geralt while a woman sucks his cock. The first time it happens Geralt's breath hitches, and he thinks he should really tear his gaze away from Jaskier's face and focus at the action, so to speak. But something in the way Jaskier bites at his lip, head thrown back in gratification, has heat racing under Geralt’s skin. He works himself harder, faster, eyes on Jaskier and discomfort with the situation rapidly eclipsed by desire.

When Jaskier's breath becomes more irregular and more gasping, April pulls off again. "You want to finish in my mouth or inside my pussy, sweetheart?" she asks.

"Your mouth is a joy and a delight, which I would be honoured to continuing appreciating," Jaskier says, effusive as ever, and she gives him a sweet smile.

"As you like." She turns to Geralt. "Maybe now you'd like to join us, love?" She pushes her skirt up over her wide hips, showing off the curve of her arse. Looking at him, she reaches behind herself, sliding a finger over her wet lips and dipping it inside. "You wouldn't leave me so bereft, would you?"

Geralt is nothing if not chivalrous, and he does appreciate being given clear instructions. So he stands from the chair and walks over to the bed, hand still on his cock as he takes in the view.

Jaskier is lying on his back on the bed, with April on all fours over him. And she's in the perfect position for Geralt to stand behind her and line up his cock with the inviting slick of her lips, swollen and rosy.

As he enters her it's like warm, wet velvet enveloping his cock, and by gods, he's missed this.

He sets a slow, languid pace, not wanting to be too demanding. The only issue is that from this angle, he can see the curve of her hips and the soft lines of her back, leading up to her dark hair. But he can also see Jaskier, spread out beneath her, all long limbs and firm muscle, face slack with pleasure as she takes his cock into her mouth. It's... distracting, that's what it is.

There’s nowhere else he can reasonably look though, so he stares down at the pair of them as he fucks her, noting the little shivers that pass through her body and the way Jaskier twitches when she swirls her tongue.

When she pushes back to meet Geralt’s thrusts, urging him to go faster, he doesn’t fight it, letting himself be led. She takes Jaskier down with even more enthusiasm as well, and soon Jaskier’s pants become whines and his hands grip more tightly to the headboard. Geralt watches, fascinated, as Jaskier trembles and arches, making a series of filthy noises that spark something deep and primal inside him.

When Jaskier tenses and comes, Geralt can smell it, the salty tang of his seed flooding the air even as April swallows it down like the professional she is, and it’s overwhelming and intoxicating.

He thrusts into her harder, his control fraying, eyes drawn to Jaskier who sighs and stretches on the bed, soft and smiling, hair flopping in his eyes. She moans encouragements and Geralt allows himself to let go, to give in to what his body wants, drinking in the view of soft skin and a broad chest and long, dark hair and blue, blue eyes.

It really doesn’t take him long after that. His fingers flex against her hips and with a few final thrusts he’s coming inside her, shuddering as his release races through him, unwinding his tense muscles and flooding his body with a feeling of gasping satisfaction.

He lets himself luxuriate in the feeling for a few seconds, eyes scrunched shut, blood racing through his veins, limbs heavy.

When he opens his eyes he sees Jaskier looking right at him, studying his face intently. His heart is still racing and the warm, dozy sensation of orgasm makes him feel strangely vulnerable. He quickly looks away, something like guilt flicking through him, then pulls out and offers a polite hand to April. She thanks him with a saucy grin and stands to rearrange her skirt.

When Jaskier rolls off the bed and goes to fetch his clothes from the floor, April touches Geralt gently on the wrist. "Will you be staying long in town?"

"Leaving tomorrow. Duty calls."

She nods, understanding. "If you're ever back in the area, look me up," she says with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. "I'm always happy to have repeat customers." She casts a glance at Jaskier and speaks in a low voice. "Though perhaps next time my presence won't be necessary, hmm?"

She looks at him like that's significant. Geralt has no idea what she could possibly mean.

#geraskier #the witcher #my writing #sometimes u gotta write the fic u want to see in the world ya know #geralt and jaskier's brothel adventures

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dapandapod · 4 years

Note

31. The cold sharp smell of snow, dealers choice for characters?

Ahaha, ahaha sorry, I meant for this to be short! 1343 words later ahaha. I also meant for it to be either fluffy and angsty, but look, we got some of both!

Thank you so very much for this prompt, it absolutely made my day so much brighter, hope you enjoy!

Send me a prompt?

On Ao3 here <3

Things are coming to an end. Again.

Geralt hates hates hates it, the way that the leaves turn rust and gold and the wind start to show its fangs.

Not because they are heading towards darker times. Not because it is getting colder, not even because how his elbow aches from that one time it broke badly.

He hates it because he knows what he must leave.

During the summer his path often crosses with his friends. He meets Triss as he takes a break at whatever court she is at at the time. He meets his brothers sometimes, coming together to fight a royal griffin or just make a local tavern a great deal richer. He meets Yennefer all the times, their paths entwined that is both pain and pleasure.

But the one he looks forward to the most, is the one accompanied with a lute.

Jaskier spends a few weeks at the time with Geralt every year. Most of the year actually, if circumstance allows it. And as soon as the leaves fall, so does Jaskiers smiles.

They both know it is time to part.

Geralt has spent many a winter adrift, but never together with his friend. Probably more than a friend, if he is honest, and Geralt prides himself with lying to no one but himself.

This year is particularly hard. Because Geralt is finally realizing that he actually is lying to himself about how he feels for the bard.

Lying to yourself is one thing, but lying to your friend is completely another.

But Jaskier never asks, because there is nothing to ask about is there? But he wants him to ask, oh how he wants him to. It drives Geralt up the wall, to see their parting coming but doing nothing about it.

So he watches Jaskiers smiles falter, and dreams about making it stay.

He feels the ache right into his core, even before they part.

The emptiness that comes when he leaves the bard behind.

Jaskier watches his witcher.

There is something about the fall that makes Geralt sad, and Jaskier is not sure how to help. His brow furrows, his sighs are deeper, drawing further and further away.

Something small, dark and terrible in the back of Jaskiers head tells him Geralt is tiring of him. That he is too much, that he is driving the witcher away. Because away the witcher goes, every year without a fail. After the leaves fall, before the snow comes, Geralt leaves him behind.

It is that time of the year again, and Jaskier makes a decision. Rip off the band aid, let it bleed for a while.

“I'm leaving tomorrow.” He tells Geralt. The witcher looks stunned, opening and closing his mouth before choosing his words.

“Fine.” is all he gets, then Geralt walks out into the woods.

He is gone for hours, and it hurts. But it is better this way. Better to not wear out his welcome.

Because something is different this year. Geralt looks at him for long moments at the time when he thinks Jaskier isn’t paying attention. Jaskier always pays attention.

Geralt has started touching him more. Not anything big, but a hand on the shoulder here, a pat on the back there. It sends him into flutters every time, it’s hard not to fall straight into that sweet trap his mind is snaring him into. That maybe Geralt cares. Maybe Geralt wants him around.

But fall comes, like it does every year, and Geralt prepares to leave. Draws back.

So it is time to protect himself.

The next morning he sets out, leaving Geralt back at the camp, Pegasus reluctantly taking him towards the nearest inn.

Geralt is half a day away when it happens.

He breaks. His heart beats violently, his hands start to shake and his breaths is coming fast.

Jaskier left him.

No.

He can’t take it.

Not this time. Not ever again, if he can help it.

When he turns Roach around she is eagerly taking them back from where they came. Geralt's elbow aches, his heart aches, he feels so lonely it hurts.

He hates hates hates this.

Jaskier rents a room above the tavern. He will stay for a week and preform, earning some coin for the road.

He unpacks some of his doublets, going through them to see what needs mending.

Just one, he notices.

The others have Geralt's precise stitches on them, and fuck, what is he doing?

Why? Why did he leave?

What if Geralt never comes back for him?

He takes the stitched up doublet and presses it against his chest, as if he could bring Geralt closer. Bring him back.

There is a commotion downstairs, but there always is in places like this, so he pays it no mind. He focus on the sharp sting in his eyes, the tightness in his throat.

Then someone is at his door, pounding hard.

Through the wood he can hear protests, the barkeep very much disliking whoever it is.

“Master witcher, this is most irregular!” He shouts and oh.

Jaskeir throws the door open, doublet still clutched to his chest, and there is Geralt.

They stare at each other, both breathing hard.

There are red blotches on Geralt's cheeks, his fists clenched at his sides. He seems unharmed, but his eyes looks like someone tore out his heart.

“Geralt.” Jaskier breathes, and the spell is broken.

Geralt lunges forward, hugging Jaskier close, kicking the door in the barkeeps face. He is stil complaining but Jaskier can’t care about it for a moment, because his heart is doing kickflips in his chest, his throat so tight it hurts.

His arms are stuck between them, Geralt pressing him close with an arm around his back and one hand on the back of his head.

His nose is cold when he burrows it into the side of Jaskiers neck, and Jaskier draws a jagged breath.

Wriggles to free his arms and the doublet fall at their feet when they come free and he hugs him right back.

“Come with me.” Geralt says to his neck. “Come home with me.”

Jaskier breaks.

His heart beats violently, his hands start to shake and his breaths are coming fast.

“I’ll go anywhere if it’s with you.” He sobs, he feels his chin wrinkle and his can’t see through the tears, but Geralt makes a sobbing sound too, a wet chuckle, and oh.

They stay the night at the tavern.

Geralt only leaves to make sure Roach is stabled next to Pegasus. And in the morning, they leave together.

Towards the mountains.

The air is crisp up here. The sky clear, the sun bright.

They arrive early at the keep, it’s looming walls promising a safe haven of the darkness that is to come.

Jaskier can’t stop smiling, and it is the best decision Geralt ever made. Grabbing his hand, taking a jump.

He shows Jaskier around, all the dizzying paths and empty halls.

They stop on top of a tower, looking down at the land below. There are no leaves up here, only pine needles. Rolling green hills up and down the mountainside. Jaskiers teeth are clattering, the wind running straight through his clothes despite the cloak Geralt draped over him.

So Geralt stands behind him and hugs him close.

With Jaskier leaning against his chest, far above the world, the cold, sharp smell of snow reaches him. The clouds are forming up in the distance, dark and angry. The cold pinches his cheeks, his breath fog.

He kisses the back of Jaskiers head, the bard humming in response and gripping his hands.

“I always hated fall.” Geralt confesses. “I hated having to leave.”

“I always hated watching you go.” Jaskier replies, snuggling closer into the embrace. It is very cold up here, and it is only going to get worse.

“Next time, I’ll follow you. Wherever it might be.”

Jaskier presses Geralt's gloved hand to his lips, and despite the cold, Geralt is burning like a thousand suns.

#the witcher #sensory prompts #tho i strayed a little #as per usual #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #pining!geralt #pining #angst and comfort #fluffy things ahead dont you worry #i love my boys #just gotta torture them some first #geralt of rivia #kaer morhen #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier the bard

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exoploring · 5 years

Text

You're the reason for those teardrops on my guitar---

The faint music from the local cafe is cut off by a car door shutting, and with it every noise from the outside world is muted, leaving a long, stretching silence, even as the car engine is turned on and the gps pings, setting its coordinates to the local middle school. It's rare to find a car that is silent these days. Maybe they're filled with loud music, or chewing of food, or the bickering of family members or friends, or any other type of noise. Not just silence - plenty of stretching silence. But that's how Geralt wanted it to be in his car and thats how it stayed, usually.

Sometimes he would turn the radio on to listen to the local news, to hear about the traffic conditions and such. Sometimes there would be conversations between him and Yennefer, his ex-wife-now-bestfriend when he brings her to and fro her office branch when she visits. Sometimes Ciri would have a story about school that just cannot wait to be told so she just goes dad, dad you wont believe what happened today (and no, it doesnt remind Geralt of anyone from his past, no, not at all). And sometimes, he will never admit it to anyone, not even himself, but when hes alone he would hum.

Hum pop songs, 80s rock, country songs, maybe mumble rap a little. Because while he may like silence the world is filled with lots of noise, lots of music and some of them latch on. And sometimes, on those rare occasions when he feels tired to the bone and achingly alone after a long day at the ranch, he would hum songs the public has never heard of. Unreleased versions. Private covers that are, in his memories, sprinkled with laughter. Drafts to hit songs that play on repeat on all the radio stations. Those covers he would always hold dear to his heart, and he saves them for the occasions when he lets himself dream and think of

what if

"DAD !"

"What?"

Geralt is startled out of his deep thinking and he looks at his daughter who he went to pick up from school. His daughter just raises an eyebrow, out of exasperation with just the right tinge of "can we get a move on" (he doesnt know whether she got that from her mom or Geralt, but it works) and he drives his car out of the driveway of the school back home.

There is a shine in Ciri's eyes and he knows that it would be one of those car rides wherein Ciri would not be able to wait until they get home to tell her story over dinner so in the first intersection wherein they have to stop, he says his signature "hmm" to let Ciri know that he is listening (when it comes to Ciri he always tries to) and Ciri immediately begins to talk about her day. Geralt hmms and nods to show that he is still listening to his daughter's story, silently catalouging everything that the girl is saying. And then she gets to talking about her lunch period, and she becomes extra enthusiastic. Geralt's interest is piqued as Ciri's talking speeds up, the way she would usually talk about her favorite things like vloggers and such.

"And everybody's talking about my favorite singer now, especially after the release of his album!"

"Hmm"

"So many people were singing or humming along to the radio, coz his songs are playing everywhere-"

A nod

"And Ive been a dandy, thats the fandom name by the way, for a long time! After all hes been through Im just so proud of Jaskier-"

A large honk interrupts Ciri as the car dangerously swerves. Ciri gasps in shock and Geralt's grip on the steering wheel tightens as his face matches the color of his hair. Really, Geralt doesnt know what his expression must look like, but after muttering a soft apology for spooking Ciri, Ciri remains silent on the ride home while gazing at her father with concern. When they get home Ciri mutters an apology depsite not knowing what made her father react that way, and Geralt dismisses the apology, stating that she didnt do anything bad -he just remembered something, yeah, thats all, i'll call you for supper. With a quick hug Ciri goes to her room to do her homework and Geralt sets to cooking supper for both of them.

Much like car rides, Geralt prefers the kitchen to be silent as he sets about his tasks, cooking a usually therapeutic activity for him, and noises would usually be limited to when Ciri or Yennefer would help him out. Today, he looks at the old radio on the countertop, innocently gleaming under the lights, not at all aware of the storm its causing inside Geralt, of the onslaught of regret and remorse that never really disappeared, just dimmed in the background.

And they did say that emotions make a man act differently, act illogically, and while all signs would say that Geralt should save himself from the pain, from listening to his heart that is both aching to hear that voice and to forget it at the same time, Gearlt still reaches out. The static as he adjusts the radio to a station sounds to his ears like

What if

And he gets to a station and

"From a new rising star in the music industry, here is Jaskier's song 'The Well' from his album 'Sincerely'"

And the song plays on and on and on, and it feels like an eternity and a moment to Geralt, whos clinging to the radio like its a lifeline, a vice he cant quit, and the radio croons

Well I walk the line and I stood by my man

The ring of fire burned me in my hand

Beneath the neon moon I’m in the light

Tell me do I ever cross your mind

No you don’t throw wishes to the well

No you don’t go kissing if you tell

No I won’t come running at the ringing of the bell

No you don’t throw wishes to the well

And the last note echoes in the kitchen and Geralt turns off the radio. Again, all is silent in the kitchen. He thinks of coasts, of whispered wishes, of camping nights, of distant church bells. And he allows himself a single tear. And another. And another.

And he cries.

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shmosnet2 · 5 years

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Netflix’s The Witcher is a dark, funny, and faithful adaptation of the fantasy series

Image: Netflix You learn nearly everything you need to know about The Witcher hero Geralt (Henry Cavill) a few minutes into the first episode. The titular witcher — a work-for-hire monster hunter with some helpful superpowers — is first seen in a swamp, nearly killed by a giant spider monster, beaten and almost drowned. In the next scene, Geralt heads to a local pub for information on his next quest, only to be subjected to ridicule and scorn from villagers who are scared of his supernatural nature. Ultimately, he’s saved from a barroom brawl thanks to a helpful young woman, who very quickly becomes a romantic partner. The Netflix adaptation captures the enigmatic hero perfectly. He’s struggling to survive in a world that hates him, stubbornly sticking to a moral code that forces him into dangerous situations. He’s gruff and sarcastic, always down for a fight, impossibly charming, and frequently irresistible. It’s a premise that worked well in book and video game form — and now it’s one of the best series on Netflix. This review contains light spoilers. The Witcher is based on a series of fantasy novels from Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, which reached a new level of global popularity thanks to a series of video games. 2015’s The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, in particular, propelled the franchise to blockbuster status. Every iteration follows Geralt, part of an ancient and dwindling line of monster hunters known as witchers. They’re mutated from a young age to be stronger and faster, and the process also gives them limited magical abilities and prolonged life spans. Geralt is a gunslinger type, moseying into a town in trouble, slaying the inevitable magical beast, collecting his pay, and moving on.

Image: Netflix In this way, The Witcher is different than most fantasy stories, including obvious contemporaries like Game of Thrones. It does have the elements of a vast epic tale — including plenty of political machinations and lots of warring kingdoms — but at its best, The Witcher is like a fantastical detective series, with Geralt investigating dangerous magical creatures and inevitably being pulled into much bigger conspiracies. The structure feels true to the spirit of the series What makes the new show work so well is the way it seamlessly blends together these two types of storytelling. There is an interesting overarching story. In addition to Geralt, the show also follows Ciri, a young princess with mysterious powers who is on the run from a rival kingdom, and Yennefer, a fiercely independent sorceress with grand ambitions. Viewers follow along as their three paths inevitably intertwine. But instead of the serialized approach favored by prestige television, for much of its runtime The Witcher has more of a “creature of the week” structure. (This changes in the final two episodes as the season rushes towards a conclusion that very clearly sets up the second season.) Each episode — many of which are based explicitly on short stories from the books — tasks Geralt with solving a different monster-related problem, whether that’s a princess turned into a beast, or a vengeful djinn who has cursed his best friend, the bard Dandelion (who primarily goes by Jaskier in the show). The structure feels true to the spirit of the series, while also making it work well for television. It also means that the show demands a bit more from viewers. Events in The Witcher don’t always unfold in chronological order, and there’s no explicit indication of whether you’re watching a scene in the past or present. Instead, you have to sort out the timing based on contextual clues: a line about an event you’ve already seen, or how close two characters have become. (Figuring out the timing isn’t helped by the fact that witchers and sorcerers barely age.) It took me a few episodes to get a solid sense of things. This also means The Witcher benefits from repeat viewings, where you can pick up on small details you may have missed the first time. The most important part of The Witcher, though, is Geralt himself. I’ll admit: I was nervous after seeing the initial photos of Henry Cavill in a Party City-esque white wig, but he absolutely nails the role. His Geralt is the exact right blend of scary, sexy, and sarcastic. Even his gravelly voice is perfect. The wig may look strange at times, but ultimately it doesn’t distract from what makes Geralt interesting. You even get to see him in multiple bath scenes.

Image: Netflix As a TV show, The Witcher is particularly refreshing in an era full of nihilistic fantasy stories inspired by Game of Thrones. Yes, the show gets brutal at times. The wonderfully choreographed fight scenes are extremely violent, as is one very particular and hard-to-watch magical transformation. It’s a show where — shock! — the bad guys are usually humans, not monsters. What makes The Witcher feel different, though, is in the details. These stories aren’t full of people being awful for the sake of it; they’re making choices based on love or survival, and then things go wrong. What makes The Witcher so compelling is how it delves into these gray areas, exploring why people do what they do. By the end, you’ll have some measure of sympathy for almost everyone, no matter how irredeemable they might seem at first. ‘The Witcher’ has a sense of humor Crucially, The Witcher has a sense of humor. It’s not all dark and dire. Jaskier (Joey Batey) frequently plays the comedy relief, following Geralt around despite not being welcome, in order to turn Geralt’s exploits into song, sometimes breaking the fourth wall in the process. “There I go again,” he says at one point, “just delivering exposition.” When he meets the witcher for the first time, the bard tells him “I love the way you just sit in a corner and brood.” Meanwhile, Geralt’s quietly sarcastic nature is on full display. He can cut through any situation, no matter how awkward or horrible, with a frustrated “fuck.” And one of the show’s most dramatic sex scenes is accompanied by a playful jig and gawking onlookers making jokes. The Witcher could’ve very easily turned out wrong. It’s not hard to misinterpret what it is that actually makes the series interesting, but the TV adaptation gets it. The Witcher is funny, intense, and uncomfortable, and it balances out those disparate emotions almost perfectly. Yes, it stars Henry Cavill in a bad white wig, but you’ll forget about all of that as soon as he starts talking.

https://ift.tt/2sKqu0y . Foreign Articles December 20, 2019 at 03:40PM

#. Foreign Articles Netflix’s The Witcher is a dark #funny #and faithful adaptation of the fantasy se

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