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moonlights-inkwell · 4 years

Text

And Me Wearing Your Clothes

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,992

Summary: A creature in the woods is killing village girls in the woods, but to keep you safe Jaskier volunteers himself, and one of your dresses as bait instead.

A/N: This one probably needs some level of explanation. So, Joey wears a dress on the cover of The Horror and The Wild, and it has lived rent free in my mind since I first saw it so I had to get around to writing Jaskier in a dress eventually. Also, I know I’ve used Little Miss as a pet name for the reader in fics before, but don’t know if I’ve mentioned that it’s because of the song Little Miss Why So, which the title is also taken from- Just in case anyone was wondering where the fuck I pulled that from.

There’s some mild smutty elements in this too. No explicit smut in this chapter, but this is gonna wind up being a two-parter anyway, so you’ll get the explicit stuff later. It’s worth noting that this is chronologically the first part of my whole series with Jaskier, at least so far- so sorry for any confusion.

When Geralt had informed you that there was a job in a village not far from where you had set up camp, you had been more grateful of it than you would admit out loud. Villages mean inns, taverns and a chance to sleep on something that isn’t dirt, but the way the white-haired man looks at you lets you know this won’t be as easy a job as you could hope for.

“Small village, no inns or taverns, less than a hundred and fifty or so people- less by the day.” He sighs and heaves himself off of Roach to sit on a felled tree by the fire.

“Less by the day?” You raise an eyebrow. Little places such as these tend to have smaller problems, thieving little creatures, the occasional Doppler; but Geralt’s words make it all too obvious to you that the diminishing population isn’t just because people are leaving for somewhere that actually has a place to drink.

“They say there's something in the woods.” He says, as if that’s all the explanation that you require. It takes a second of looking at him pointedly for him to realise you need more information than just that. “Sounded like an Aswang from what they said. Been snatching up local girls, sucking them dry and leaving the bodies to be found come morning.”

Talking to The White Wolf is a Sisyphean struggle; so often it's like drawing blood from a stone, but on the days he decides to speak you can barely understand what he's saying. Not for the first time, you consider simply pretending to know what he means, to act sage and wise, but think better of it all too quickly.

“The bloody hell is an Aswang?” A fair question in your eyes, but the man sighs. You think, on occasion, Geralt forgets that just a few years ago you were just a barmaid with a love of brawling, not some monster hunter with dreams of Glory. Not that there’s much glory in your hunts, just bruises and wounds, limps that last too long and perpetually sore back, even if the occasional song comes from it.

“A type of vampire.” He clarifies. “Dangerous. Normally have a taste for pregnant women and baby blood, seems this one has a taste for any woman it can get its hands on.” That makes your blood run cold. Travelling with the Witcher and his Bard has been the first time in your life where you’ve been free from the limitations of your sex, but the way those amber eyes are watching you now has you suddenly all too aware of yourself.

“A taste for women? Why, Geralt, that’s a very tasteful way of describing yourself in a brothel.” A voice pipes up from behind you, causing you to jump. Jaskier. You thought him still asleep, he'd slept poorly the night before, but if the tiredness lacing his voice is any indication, he's only recently been roused.

“Not now, Bard.” Geralt growls out, but the bard just chuckles and gets to his feet, leaves crunching underfoot as he walks up behind you and settles at your side, a hand pressed to your lower back. Warm, especially through the thin material of your blouse.

“Oh, Geralt, a smile won’t kill you.” He trills and in spite of how serious you know the situation to be, your lips turn up in a far too easy smile. It does just as quickly though, when you realise that Geralt is still looking at you.

“...You want me as bait.” It comes out less as a question and more as a statement as your own eyes meet amber. Geralt doesn’t say a word and you look down. It’s not meant as an insult, and you know that, but it stings none the less; hurts to be asked to be less useful on account of having a cunt. He's asking you to make yourself weak, it’s a request that should be seen as an honour, a few minutes of acting like something you aren't to spare the lives of those girls in the village, but instead it leaves a sour taste in your mouth- like talking a gulp of milk only to discover it's curdled on your tongue.

The hand at the base of your spine rises quickly and rests on the curve of your back as Jaskier seems to realise what you just said.

“Bait?” He sounds as incredulous as you feel. “For what?”

“Vampire.” Geralt says crudely, “It's it targeting women.”

“And you want to send Little Miss in there as bait?” Jaskier snaps back at him, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you'll be plucked away without a second’s notice. This, this concern is all too welcome, and you glance at Jaskier from the corner of your eye. His clothes are still crumpled from sleep, but he's pushing himself up to his full height as if he expects that to intimidate a Witcher. It’s a foolish endeavour, but gods how you appreciate it.

“She can handle it,” is all the response that is given, which only sends the man beside you into further ramblings.

“She can handle it? She could fucking die, Geralt!” His voice raises, and you're quite sure he’s forcibly making his voice lower to try and sound less emotional about this. “You want to send her in, I’m betting almost completely unharmed, to act as a lure for a blood sucking creature of the night!”

You should feel insulted, to be talked about as if you aren’t there, but now you’re far too focused on the hand resting on you to focus on much else. Early spring's chill is still in the air, making the bard seem warmer than be likely is; and which is the cause of the goosepimpling of your skin is a mystery. Since the bard and yourself started your... entanglement, even the lightest most mundane touch has seemed like lightning crackling through your body. Entanglement is one way of describing it. Really, all that has happened has been kissing- the sort that start as barely more than a brush of lips and don't stop until it turns to heavy breathing and you removing yourself from the situation before you can do something you may regret.

He's always been a mother hen, flapping about to stitch whatever wounds he can and forcing you to seek out healers when he feels it more extreme than a simple slice, but you've no doubt that this concern is coming from a more selfish place than simply wanting you safe. The grip of your shirt is all the confirmation you need.

“It only attacks women, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out slowly, as if teaching an especially slow child. “And unless you’ve a secret to share, Little Miss is the only woman we have.” The pet name comes out in a patronisingly saccharine tone that makes you turn your eyes to the ground.

“I would sooner go out there in a dress myself than let you put her in harm's way for no good reason!” Jaskier shouts back at him, sending your eyes up to meet the Witcher's, when you catch sight of something rare. A smile.

This is a bad idea.

Awful idea. Terrible. Quite possibly the worst idea that the three of you could have come up with, and the fact that Geralt is allowing it to go forward is a mystery.

Well. Not a mystery. Geralt, for all his attempts at stoicism and claims of emotionlessness, has a sick sense of humour: and a chance to humiliate the Bard who interrupts his silence with every passing second must have been more tempting to him than you ever could have anticipated. You, on the other hand, were less keen. Especially when informed by Geralt that Jaskier would need to borrow your only dress for this humiliation tactic. It had taken an hour and a half for it to be taken from you, and it was only really able to be taken because Jaskier had pulled you into a kiss unexpectedly, causing you to drop the dress to wind your arms about his neck. A genius manipulation, really. Should have seen it coming.

It'll never succeed though

Jaskier is perhaps more attuned to his feminine side than many men; His love of scented bathing oils and ointments for his hands, fine clothes and penchant for the dramatics spring to mind, but there's no way that he could be mistaken for a woman unless this Aswang has incredibly poor eyesight. Sweet smells and minor theatrics do not a woman make, even in a borrowed dress. You sit by the fire pit, poking, poking, poking at the burning logs with a long enough stick that you don’t risk your hands with each jab.

Geralt won’t even let you help him set up the trap, and all at once you’re reminded of your girlhood; how the boys in your little home town had allowed you to play knights and dragons with them, only to have you act as Princess. You had always hated it, sat stock still and aloft chairs stacked like a tower for hours while the boys would tumble around fighting each other, roaring and crawling, stabbing and calling in their presence until it was finally time to rescue you- always long after you had grown resentful of your place waiting. You wanted to nothing more than to pick up one of those wooden swords and take part properly, but every time you had asked you had been told that there are no female knights, only princesses. You would always run home to your mother to complain only to be tapped lightly on the nose and told what an honour it is to be picked as a Princess, and given a bowl of peas to de-shell for supper. It didn’t feel like an honour then to sit around feeling useless, and it doesn’t feel any better now. The only respite that comes is from the jabbing and stabbing of the logs.

“I think they’re dead, Little Miss.” Jaskier speaks in your ear, sending you to the ground in shock. The self-pitying had ensured that you hadn’t heard him coming, and he laughs. Chuckles that drip honey have you look up at the bard, ready to curse him for frightening you, but the words wither away on your tongue. Your lip trembles and you drink him in.

With you on the ground, he looks so much bigger than he already is but that isn’t what has you tongue tied, no, not at all; it’s the dress. It’s white, and you always thought it made you look sickly, but on him it’s almost otherworldly, like something you might see on a god, flowing in a wind you hadn't felt before he reappeared. It’s beautiful. He's beautiful. The fabric clings to his pectorals and tapers in at his waist and you realise something that has never struck you before: Jaskier is muscular. Not to the extent of Geralt, but muscular none the less, the muscles of his arms thickening as he crosses his arms across his chest, which only accentuated the sculpture of his pectorals and the dark thatch of hair visible from the plunging neckline of the gown. Tanned skin all but glows in the light of the flames, given richer colour by the stark and almost holy white gown, giving him the illusion of something more than just your bard; some manifestation of Apollo, youthful and beautiful, still grinning that boyish grin, looking for all the world both like he has spent his whole life lounging about and spent it in fields to develop those muscles. Logically, you know he must be muscular, spends his days walking across the continent, carrying bags and bedrolls and whatever can’t, or won’t, be carried by Roach but it catches you off guard. You've always considered him a dainty flower of a man, always singing, always strumming, but now you're confronted with the reality of the situation, Jaskier is all sinewy muscle and dark hair and truly, you’ve no idea how patterned doublets and a lute have kept this reality a mystery to you. He’s beautiful, always beautiful, but this is something else entirely. Beauty implies something entirely understandable. This is otherworldly, incomprehensible in how it makes both so much and so little sense all at once. Your throat is dry and you take a deep gulp of air and struggle to find the words to say and settle on a soft little,

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He smirks, eyebrow raising as he offers out a hand to you. “Does it not look nice? Do I not look like a delicate lady in need of protection?” He teases, skin around his eyes crinkling with his grin.

“You look better in it than I do.” Your voice comes out weak, and he smiles and tugs you to your feet once you take his hand. “Though you are perhaps the hairiest delicate maiden around here.”

“Don’t do yourself a disservice, Dear Heart.” He says tenderly and cups your cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He calls that space Your Kiss, as if a kiss is a part of your body rather than something people give each other. “You look beautiful in everything and anything- and nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at that, smirking slightly at the comment. “Not that I know what you look like naked! Not that I haven’t thought about you like that, unless that makes you uncomfortable-" He rambles, cheeks flushed a pretty sort of pink, so you lean in and peck his lips.

“It looks much better on you, Dandelion.” You say decidedly, settling on the balls of your feet. “Though I rather think it isn’t complete.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks and watches you as you scramble through your bag and pull free two small pencils before settling yourself on the ground and tapping on the log. It takes a second, but he does sit, eyeing the pencils like they might be weapons. “Are you going to stab those into my feet, so I walk in a womanlier way?”

“...Is womanlier even a word, Bard?” You tease, trying desperately to avoid the hand attempting to swat at your head for questioning his obviously superior understanding of language. “And no. Not at all, they’re cosmetics.”

“Cosmetics?” He repeats and watches you as you grab one of the pencils and a dagger, carving at the wood until it is sharp enough for you.

“You do understand women put products on their faces to look prettier, don’t you?”

“You don’t,” He snaps back at you, indignant that you would even question his understanding of the fairer sex. “You’re all bare and natural, and look all the prettier for it, like a rose.” A hand moves forward and cups your cheek, you can feel every callous and scar that riddles his skin. He’s trying to avoid you putting the makeup on him, but just for now, you allow yourself the indulgence. It’s only dusk. Geralt said that the plan won’t need to be enacted until close to midnight and he has yet to even return from his setting of the trap; a little time to take pleasure from something as simple as the man who kisses you having a hand on your cheek. “Beautiful, fresh like a daisy and lovelier than the month of May...” He continues, hand shifting a little forward so that his fingers bury themselves in your hair, causing you to lean towards him, head shifting into the touch- reminding you all too much of the little cat who used to come begging for scraps when your mother and you would eat outside in the warmer months. It’s a strange thing to catch your attention so, but now that the thought has entered your mind, you cannot help but wonder if your mother has been feeding the tiny little beast in your absence-

“Little One?” Jaskier says gently, snapping you free of your thoughts, you’ve no idea how long you’ve been thinking, but it was clearly long enough that the man before you has noticed it.

“...Yes?”

“I asked if I could kiss you.” Can I kiss you? Although you’ve never been someone with much interest in the romantics, you’ve never so much as kissed a man before you met Jaskier, you’re quite sure that men don’t normally ask if they can kiss you. Most that you’ve seen interacting with women simply crash their mouths on their partner’s, breeching their mouths with their tongues like they’re stabbing a creature that means them harm. But Jaskier asks. He means to ensure that you are always completely comfortable with his touching you, to make sure you know that if you have no interest in this contact that it will stop. He won’t push. It’s enough to make your lips turn up in a tiny little smile and you nod, leaning towards him and resting hands on his knees, lips puckered tight and eyes falling shut, and he chuckles. “Melitele, Dear Heart, relax your lips, you aren’t trying to pierce my lips with yours.” He lets his thumb glide across your lower lip, causing you, quite instinctively to relax your lips. “There we are.” A rush of pleasure overtakes you, making you shiver and heading straight to your core. Simple praise is all it takes from him to make you unsure of yourself, and want to do anything to please him, so when he pulls you up gently and settles you on his knees, you do so without complaint, and as if as a means of rewarding you, kisses you softly.

In the months since the two of you have begun this not-quite courtship you’ve grown more accustomed to kissing him than you ever would have anticipated. It happens so often that it’s almost strange to you. He kisses you as a means of waking you, kisses the back of your hand to reassure you, kisses the back of your neck when he passes you, hell; you’re more than a little sure he kisses you sometimes just to annoy Geralt. It feels so natural to you now, to have his mouth on yours, moving languidly like the rest of the world does not exist. He kisses like he’s afraid he might hurt you, all gentle touches and reassuring rubs of thumb against flesh. He knows that you’ve never so much as kissed a man before him and seems to take some pleasure in that- not in the kind of way that the boys at home seemed to when talking about deflowering some virginal girl, but in a way that he seems to enjoy teaching you something about intimacy, or at least this version of it. He acts for all the world like some sort of teacher, gently reassuring you when you go wrong and guiding you back on track, and you preen under the attention. He never pushes, never asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, and it’s far more appreciated than you will ever say, even if in the last few weeks you have found yourself wanting... more.

His lips are wind-chapped but somehow soft, and press into yours so softly, hand curved around your cheek and guiding you to tilt your head slightly, so you follow his lead, reciprocating the kiss as sweetly as you can, winding fingers around his wrist to hold it in place. The kiss is chaste, with no sign of moving beyond just the plush push of lips on lips but still, this position makes it feel more intimate than it has any right to; sat on his legs, your own parted and on either side, and the dress makes it more intimate still. In his doublet and trousers, the only warmth you feel from him while kissing comes from his hands and face, but now with so much skin exposed it’s seemingly coming from all around you, seeping through the fabric beneath you, from the arms extended in front of you, from a heart beating so close but so out of reach. The fire roaring just behind you is hardly helping the situation. Jaskier hums softly against your lips, little more than a vibration, but it makes you smile. Even when kissing he makes noise; he cannot bare to be silent, relish in the sounds of nature, no, he simply must make noise. It’s lovely really, such consistency is hard to find, especially on the road, but Jaskier is consistent. It takes a little more bravery than it should to swipe the tip of your tongue across the seam of his lips and the movement seems to shock the bard, who ceases his kissing for just a second before opening his mouth slightly and dragging his tongue across your own. Normally you would wait for him to deepen a kiss but with him looking the way he does, and the overwhelming need developing between your legs, you cannot continue this lazy sort of kiss as you normally might. No. Now, you need something more than this innocence. So, you shuffle closer to him, legs tightening around his and both hands moving to wind around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your own bravery seems to have inspired some in Jaskier too, so he wraps his arms about your waist and pulls you even closer still, tongue lathering over your own before his teeth drag across it and then bites gently. It makes you shiver, letting out a quiet moan which brings a moan out of him too. Not too long after that he pulls back and heaves a deep breath while you pant, head tilting back.

“That was new.” He laughs, fingers tracing circles into your back.

“What can I say? That dress really does look good on you.” You respond with a chuckle before leaning forward again, this time to mouth at his throat. You feel Jaskier gasp before you hear it, the skin of his neck going taut beneath your lips.

“Dear Heart,” He starts, and the pet name does nothing but make your heart race, “If you don’t stop soon, we’re going to have a... well, an issue.” He stammers out, and you pull back immediately, eyes wide with worry. Had you been too intense in taking your own pleasure from this situation that you had missed some clear hint of his that he was uninterested in going further? He goes to such painstaking lengths to ensure your comfort and you feel like you’ve encroached on his.

“An issue?” The words come out shaky, and you try to shift yourself back from him, but he holds you still. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to upset you-”

“You haven’t. Gods, Dear Heart, I think you could stab me, and I would still thank you.” He says, still rubbing those reassuring circles into your back. “You’re just. You’re...” Jaskier stops and seems to deliberate his next few words, “You’re exciting me, that’s all.” That makes you blink. He doesn’t look all that excited to you, if anything he just seems to be riding the same high he always is after kissing turns a little more passionate, pupils blown wide and lips pink and plush from kissing, but he doesn’t look excited. Your confusion must be visible because Jaskier sighs, muttering something under his breath before his hand creeps higher toward your shoulder blades. “You’re making me hard.” He says, the words said carefully as if afraid he might upset you.

“Har- Oh. Oh!” Realisation hits you all at once and your eyes dart down to his lap, suddenly seeing the tent in the dress that certainly hadn’t been there when you first settled on him. It was mere centimetres away from your core when you were kissing him, and you hadn’t even noticed. It’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen someone be hard, even if it is completely covered up, and the knowledge that it was you who has done this to him fills you with pride. You’ve never really considered yourself the kind of person to have that kind of power over a person, you only ever really feel powerful in a fight, but the feeling overtaking you now feels like power. With nothing more than a mouth and tongue, you’ve affected him in this way. "I wouldn’t call that an issue.”

He blinks at you, lips slightly parted and he looks you up and down. For the first time, you wonder if he’s thinking of other trysts, where it was him in shirt and trousers on top of some woman in a dress who is falling apart at next to nothing. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth, but the feeling of power is more overwhelming than any insecurity.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Little Miss.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’ve never seemed interested in... progressing.” He’s being careful not to say anything he thinks might offend you. Jaskier is never one to mince words, but your virginity seems to have him somewhat uncomfortable when it comes to what language to approach sex with. You aren’t a child, and used to work in a tavern, you’ve heard all too many terms for sex; shagging, fucking, making the beast with two backs, a labour for Venus, but Jaskier calls it Progressing. Like it’s travelling, moving from one destination to another, from kissing to something else entirely. It’s quaint coming from a man who you’ve heard sing songs about receiving hand-jobs. “I don’t want to push you into anything you might not be comfortable doing, Little Miss, I don’t want you to feel pressured by me or this or anything-”

“I’m interested in progressing.” You cut him off, a little too eagerly. “Truly, I am. I just. Haven’t done anything like this before. So, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, you know. I couldn’t just... I don’t know. Ask you to take my virginity.” Jaskier chokes a little at the words.

“I wouldn’t be taking anything.”

“But I do want you to.”

“I don’t mean in terms of... not wanting to. I do. Melitele’s tits, I’d crawl over shards of glass just to put my mouth on you, Darling. I just mean, I wouldn’t be taking anything from you. There’s nothing to take. You would just be someone who has been intimate instead of someone who hasn’t. You don’t lose anything.”

Your heart, something in the back of your mind says coyly, you’ll lose your heart to him if you allow yourself to be breeched by him, he’ll take it unknowingly and not be able to give it back to you. Each step, each breath, each blink and each song, he will have your heart entirely and there will be nothing you can do to have it returned. He’s had so many lovers before, it’s unlikely he’ll give his heart to you in return for you giving him your own- and it won’t be because he’s cruel or unfeeling, it will be because Bards give their heart to anyone who hears their song, and there isn’t enough of it left for you. He’s entirely enough for you, but you will never be entirely enough for him.

“If I lose nothing by it then why are we discussing it instead of... progressing?” You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from saying shagging. Fucking. Anything but this dance around what it is that the two of you clearly want.

“Because I want you to understand.” He says, and it sounds like a plea. “I want you to know that you don’t lose a thing, and I want you to be doing this because you want to do it, not because you feel like you ought because I’m hard or because you feel you owe it to me. I want you to do this because you want this, and because you want me.”

Because you want me. It makes you falter for a second. Of course, you want him, you wouldn’t kiss him if you didn’t. Your heart aches at the thought of someone kissing or sleeping with him and not wanting him, using him and discarding him afterwards.

“Of course, I want you, Jask.” Your voice is little more than a whisper.

“I mean it, Little Miss. If I do this, I won’t want for another person in my life, I won’t be able to not think of you, and if you’re doing this out of obligation and not because you want me, it will kill me.” He continues, the hand on your back moving up still until it’s buried entirely in your hair, twisting and feeling about your scalp like the answer to every question he will ever ask is written in your hair. “If this is only for once, I cannot do it. It would kill me to know how it feels to be inside you, to feel at one with you, and know you don’t ever intend to do it again. I care far too much for you to do a thing like that.”

“Jaskier...”

“I admit, I have a... reputation for leaving a string of not-quite-crying lovers behind me, but I cannot add you to that list. I won’t. And I refuse to spend the rest of our days together writing melancholic songs about how I want you, desire you, crave you, only to know you only have eyes for others, I would sooner-”

You can see by the impassioned look in his eyes that he has so much more to say, but can’t bear to hear anymore, for fear of fooling yourself that the beautiful man in front of you loves you. So instead, you reach down and wind your fingers around his member and relish in how his words choke to a halt and he lets out a sweet sigh.

“I don’t want to sleep with you once either, and your former lovers and I have nothing in common. For one, I’m not married, and two, I want you Jaskier. Not reprieve from some small pricked husband. I want to have sex with you because I want you, I care about you.” I love you; your mind screams the words you don’t dare say. It’s enough though. Enough for Jaskier to smile and move both hands around your waist once more and gently lay you on the floor beside the fire, hair fanning out like a halo among leaves and grass.

“I. I had intended this to have a more romantic location.” He admits to you as he parts your legs and settles on his knees in the space he has made. “Some inn, where I could strew some petals about, draw you a bath, sing a song.”

“I don’t need petals or poetry or baths.” You smile at him, but he shakes his head with an affectionate smile,

“It’s not about need, Darling, it’s about what you deserve. And you deserve to be treated like a princess.”

“In that dress I rather think you’re more the princess out of the two of us.” Out of the dress too. You’re rougher than any woman should be, and if your mother could see you now, you’d be pulled by your ear off to be told how good and proper ladies dress and behave- you find yourself covered in monster gore more often than you would like to, and have taken to wearing darker colours so that the dirt on them doesn’t show quite as much, but Jaskier with his sweet voice and fineries? He’s a crown away from being a prince, the sort who appear in every story you were told as a child who could fix any maiden’s problems with a kiss that would end in happily ever after.

A cough draws the both of you from each other and you turn your head to see Geralt and realise the light purple sky of dusk has been replaced with the near pitch of somewhere closer to when your plan needs to take place. He looks as uncomfortable at finding you as you feel at being caught. You feel like a child whose mother has caught you doing something they expressly told you not to do, and the fear of whatever comment he shall make keeps you from laughing at the mental image of Geralt dressed as some mother, in a drab old dress and dirtied up apron, flour dusted about his face, still world weary and with his swords strapped to his back.

“...Aswang will be here soon.” The Witcher says, and you’re grateful he’s decided not to address what he had walked in on. “We need our... beautiful woman to be wandering in the woods.” He gestures with a movement of his head to Jaskier to come towards you, and the bard does, albeit slowly, remove himself from the spot between your thighs. Geralt’s stoic face might be enough to fool most people who don’t know him, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. He’s glad he called Jaskier’s bluff on the dress, this story will never make its way into a song for the sake of Jaskier’s ego but will be brought out by Geralt at any and every ball that he is dragged to from now on. His fictional tale of the Bard being castrated by an unfortunate kick to the bollocks by an Ox as a child will now be replaced with an honest account of the esteemed bard Jaskier having volunteered himself- seemingly at random- to serve as bait in a dress for a very dangerous beast. You think he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the dress, but Geralt very clearly sees it as funny. Men are strange. It’s just a dress, and a dress that makes him look far more attractive than any fine suit or set of armour ever could, so what is so funny about it. The Witcher says your name and you look up at him and nod. “Stay here.”

“But-”

“Hopefully the ‘fair maiden’ is enough to get the Aswang. If it sees an actual woman, it’ll attack it and not try to attack him. I’d prefer not to have to carry your corpse back to your village. It would be a long journey.” He’s being facetious, at least you hope, but you nod anyway. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

“Stay here, it’ll all be over soon.” Jaskier tells you, smiling that disarming smile he uses to try and charm more coin from locals.

“But the memory of you in a dress will live on.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smirk from his face, which makes Jaskier’s face morph between anger and confusion quickly before settling on incredulousness.

“No one is to hear of this Geralt. Geralt! Do you hear me? No. One. Geralt!” His protests increase as the White Wolf begins to trek back into the thicket of trees, Jaskier following behind him and shouting all the while.

“Jaskier!” You call to him, and the complaints die as he turns to face you. “Please, please be careful.”

“I promise, Dear Heart. I will be fine.”

Somehow, you don’t quite believe him as he disappears into the trees to join Geralt at his trap, leaving you alone with only the fire and the moon for company. Eyes turn up towards the full, round beacon of light, the only break in the darkness overhead with no stars to join her. You aren’t religious, and don’t believe in worship or prayer but now, tonight, you close your eyes and breathe deeply. You trust in the moon more than you trust Geralt and Jaskier not to take any unnecessary risks,

“Please keep him safe for me. Please.”

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier smut #the witcher imagine

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