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magdelanesingerin · 8 months

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I have my reasons why

This is a companion piece to @spielzeugkaiser 's Lovechild AU which continues to grab me by the throat and shake me around by the emotions. Especially after the recent update with Vesemir taking Jaskier and Milek to Kaer Morhen while Geralt was…indisposed, I found myself last night imagining all of the worst case scenarios that must have gone through Jaskier’s mind when he considered telling Geralt about Milek, and how those fears must have evolved over time. Soooo, THIS.

Jaskier is chasing Geralt’s retreating back down an impossibly long, whitewashed hallway.

“Geralt wait!”

The Witcher stalks on without so much as turning his head.

“I’m…I’m pregnant.”

The light seems to echo the throb of his panicked heartbeat once the words are free, pulsing brighter and brighter around him. Geralt stops and shakes his head, turning back just enough so that Jaskier can see the look of disdain on his face.

“I know,” he growls disgustedly. “I’m a Witcher, Jaskier. You think I couldn’t smell it on you? I knew before you did.”

“But…then why…Geralt…don’t leave me…” he stumbles forward but can’t get closer. The space between them stretches strangely.

“You and your bastard whelp aren’t my problem.” Geralt starts moving away again, and Jaskier can’t contain the words that burst out of his chest like a flock of birds, too loud and brittle in jagged shapes he can almost see fluttering through the air.

“It’s yours. The baby. It’s yours.”

Geralt turns slowly in the too-bright hallway, his face twisted in a snarl. The shape of him looks sharp and vicious outlined against the white walls. It hurts to look at him. He seems to grow to fill the narrow space until he looms over Jaskier like a mountain.

“Fuck,” he sneers. “I knew you were pathetic, Bard, but this is a new low. To lie to me about something like this to make me stay with you?”

“It’s not a lie. Not a lie. There was only you.” Jaskier tries to speak but his words fall out of his mouth silently and shatter on the floor without ever being heard. He wraps his hands protectively over the curve of his belly to shield it from the shards as they scatter.

“Witchers are sterile. It’s impossible.”

The white walls of the hallway fall apart and become the white sky of an open hillside, wind whipping around them as Geralt shouts at him, teeth bared, eyes wild.

“Why would you say that to me? Are you really that cruel and selfish? Of course you are, what else would you be! Haven’t you ruined my life enough?!”

Jaskier’s feet are suddenly scrabbling on a slope of loose shale and he feels himself start to fall.

He wakes with a sob, body curled uncomfortably into a tight space in the back of a wagon. His legs are cramped, his back twitching and screaming at him as he jerks to consciousness. He grits his teeth against the spasming muscles and tries to stretch what he can in the space allowed, cradling his rounded belly. He can feel his baby shift and kick, and rubs his palm over them soothingly.

continue on Ao3

#geraskier lovechild #spielzeugkaiser #a/b/o au #nightmares #stress dreams #jaskier #maybe I'll write something HAPPY for this verse at some point eh?#lol probably not

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oldandkinky · 2 years

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Wrote a little something based on @spielzeugkaiser s heartwrenching Lovechild AU, because I like to hurt myself, apparently.

CW: A/B/O, vomiting, torture, sad Jaskier, non-linear narrative, unplanned pregnancy

Also on AO3

The first time Jaskier has to pull off the road to go vomit into some bushes, entirely unprovoked by too much to drink or food that has gone off, he brushes it aside. It's a fluke. These things happen.

He keeps telling himself that right up until the sixteenth time, after the mountain, when he wakes up and immediately has to roll to the side of the cheap inn bed he's in to vomit onto the floor instead of the mattress.

After, he lies there, staring at the wall, the sharp scent of his sick in his nose and tears welling up in his eyes. For weeks, Jaskier has tried to ignore the obvious even when it was staring him in the face, but now… Well.

He rolls onto his back and, after a moment's hesitation, reaches down. His hand slips under his shirt, rests on his belly, above the place where he now acknowledges his child is growing.

His, and Geralt's.

After the mountain, Jaskier is a mess. He keeps telling himself that, surely, Geralt didn't mean those things, that he was just- overwhelmed, angry, sad, whatever.

He tries to justify it to himself, the way he has so many times before when Geralt was nasty to him. The Witcher has a lot on his plate, he'd tell himself, he didn't mean it, it was nothing personal.

But this time… Well, this time Jaskier can't convince himself. The things Geralt said to him on that cliffside were too close to the insecurities Jaskier has been harbouring all throughout their acquaintance, too close to his own guilt about bringing Geralt to Cintra, about the djinn. That's the only reason why he turns away, why he collects his things and makes his way down the mountain alone.

It doesn't make his heart hurt any less.

For a few months, nothing much changes in Jaskier's life. He goes to Oxenfurt, he teaches, he performs. It's all he knows, the one thing that offers stability right now.

He's tired, all the time now, and as the nausea and morning sickness fades, his belly begins to grow. He finds himself sitting in his bed often, stroking the little bump and singing softly, voice cracking as he sings despite the tears.

Jaskier has been on his own in one way or another since he was fourteen, but he has never felt this utterly and completely alone.

"Do you have children? A few little wolflings somewhere on the continent?"

They're curled up in their bedrolls, Geralt's arm slung over his waist. Sweat is still cooling on their skin, and Jaskier looks up at the clouds, dotted across the late afternoon sky like sheep.

Geralt grunts against his shoulder. His thumb is drawing circles onto Jaskier's ribs. "Can't have any," he rumbles. "Witchers are sterile."

Jaskier hums and twists to press a kiss to Geralt's forehead. "Pity," he muses, "we'd make some cute babies."

Geralt huffs, then bites the curve of his shoulder, and Jaskier stops thinking about children entirely.

The letter arrives a few weeks after Jaskier has stopped teaching. He spends most of his time in his flat now, writing or composing.

He's not hiding, he tells himself.

It's a summons, a letter from his mother. Word must have reached Lettenhove, rumours that the family disappointment has managed to get himself knocked up, just the way his parents feared all this time.

'Come home at once,' the letter says. Even in written form, his mother's instructions brook no argument.

Some nights, when all Jaskier has just enough coin to get enough to eat for Milek, when he remembers the look of despair on the boy's face as he watches yet another group of children at play, children that ignore him because he's a stranger and their parents told them not to play with his sort - meaning with a bastard -, when his own hunger drives him nearly mad…

Some nights, Jaskier hates Geralt.

He wishes he could bring himself to hate him on most nights.

He has never known agony such as this. Giving birth was nothing, nothing, compared to this. His stomach roils at the scent of burning hair, of charred flesh, and he screams his throat raw as the mage grins at him.

He wishes he could think of Milek as his skin sizzles and pops, but all that runs through his head is this: Geralt, please, save me, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt-

It's not Geralt who saves him. Why would it be?

"You should have come earlier," Father says, disdain on his face and in his voice.

In Jaskier's arms, Milek fusses. Jaskier is so, so tired. "I know," he says quietly. Father's lip curls.

"We'll find a wet nurse as soon as possible, then you can-"

"No. No, I'm- I'm not doing that."

He walks away, Father's outraged scolding ringing behind him. Jaskier doesn't care. He just wants to sleep, wants to be alone.

That's a lie.

He wants… He wants Geralt. It hurts, the memory of the venom Geralt spit at his feet still so fresh, but Jaskier can't help it.

He wants Geralt. He wants to show him his son, this beautiful little boy they made together.

But he can't. He doesn't know where Geralt is, if he's even still alive. Cintra has fallen. The princess has vanished. Yennefer is presumed dead after Sodden.

There's only Jaskier, and Milek.

Yennefer is so much smaller than him, unusually small for an alpha, but right now she may as well have Witcher strength, Jaskier thinks. She's all that is holding him up, that is keeping him from collapsing, and he resents her for it, somewhat.

He guides her to his flat, a dingy little thing over a bakery. Living there had been excruciating in summer, the ovens heating the small space unbearably, but it's been getting colder and now it's a boon.

Roselyn, the baker's oldest daughter, opens the door for them when Jaskier calls for her. Her eyes widen almost comically when she sees his hands. Yennefer sends her running for hot water and bandages with a few curt words, and Jaskier whimpers as she lets him sink onto a chair.

"I'll need your help," he mutters. Now that he's back home, that the terror is wearing off, that he can smell Milek, his chest is starting to ache.

Yennefer scoffs. "Of course you do, just wait for-"

She's interrupted by a whimper, and Jaskier curses when the let-down comes, milk seeping into his shirt. Ah well, it's ruined anyway, with blood and panic sweat, what's a bit of milk added to the mix?

Yennefer stills. Her eyes are wide.

He gets to his feet, ignoring how his legs wobble. Milek begins to fuss, and Jaskier drops heavily onto the bed. "I'm here, sweetheart," he murmurs, then looks up at Yennefer. "Could you…?"

She swallows visibly. Behind her, Roselyn enters, carrying a bucket of steaming water. Yennefer seems to shake herself. Then she gets to work.

The first time Geralt kisses him, Jaskier kind of wants to punch him.

Geralt kisses him, in the doorway of their little inn room, and then he turns away and leaves for a contract.

It's so typical.

He's a day out of Lettenhove when the cramps start. Jaskier had rented a spot on a caravan, which means it's slow going. There's a woman riding in the back with him, her and her three children. She has been giving him and his big belly sceptical looks the whole journey, and when she catches him wincing through one of the cramps, she calls the caravan to a halt.

"Bloody foolish thing to do," she scolds him as she helps him off the cart. "You oughta be at home with your mate, not traipsing around the countryside-"

Jaskier doesn't know what his face is doing, but it must give everything away, because she falls silent, her expression softening.

"Don't worry, lad," she murmurs as she guides him into the shade by the side of the road. "We don't need no alpha to bring this babe into the world, do we?"

Jaskier grimaces, and nods, and pants through the next cramp. She's right. He doesn't need an alpha.

He doesn't need Geralt.

He doesn't.

When Milek calls him papa for the first time, Jaskier cries.

"How is that possible, Jaskier?"

Yennefer is in a chair beside the bed, watching him with a look of shock on her face. She's not a healer, she told him earlier, but her magic was just enough to take off the worst of his injuries. Now, his hands are cleaned and salved and bandaged, and he's holding Milek close as he nurses.

"I don't know," he murmurs. He has thought about this so often, has tried to figure out how it could have happened. No answer has presented itself.

"Witchers are sterile," Yennefer says, but he can hear the doubt in her voice.

"I don't know," he repeats. "I swear it's the truth. It… It would be easier if it wasn't."

Yennefer doesn't accept his offer. Jaskier is at once relieved and crushed by it.

Relieved, because Milek is his. He carried him, nourished him, brought him into the world.

Relieved, because Milek is all he has left of Geralt.

But the terrible weight of it all is pressing in from all sides, and he doesn't know how he is going to survive.

Jaskier has changed. He knows part of it is age catching up to him. There are lines around his eyes, his mouth now, his skin grown softer.

But the loose skin of his belly isn't down to age.

Milek is watching him curiously as Jaskier pokes at himself after his bath, his little curly head tilted to the side.

"Papa?"

"Hm?"

"Was I really in there?"

"Yes, honey."

Milek looks up at him, eyes so wide and full of wonder. "Can you put another baby in there? We could throw stones."

There's a terrible ache behind Jaskier's breast, and later, when his beautiful little boy asks, "Where's daddy, papa?", it burns as hot as it ever did.

Time should have cured him of this yearning, but it hasn't. He doubts it ever will.

When Milek is seven, Jaskier looks up in the tavern he's playing in one day and his heart nearly stops. Across the room, there's an unmistakable head of white hair.

He meets yellow eyes, and it's like his stomach drops out beneath him. All he wants to do is run.

Somehow, through sheer force of will, he finishes his song. His hands are a good excuse to stop playing, the scars making it hard to play for as long as he used to, and he collects his meager coin and hopes that he can duck out of the backdoor before Geralt catches up to him.

A hand on his arm, oh so familiar, stops him dead in his tracks.

"I apologise," Geralt says quietly, in that tone Jaskier recognises as the one he usually uses for children and horses and spooked survivors. "I don't mean to intrude, but… I couldn't help but wonder if, maybe, we know each other?"

This is a cruel joke. It must be, except Geralt isn't the type. Maybe it's a doppler, that would make sense-

"If I'm mistaken, I'm sorry, it's just that I lost my memory and-"

Jaskier turns on his heel, gapes up at him. It's unmistakably Geralt, he realises. There's a new scar, cutting through his left eyebrow and over his cheek, but Jaskier would know his scent anywhere.

He wants to cry. He wants to slap Geralt, to yell at him, wants to fall into his arms and never let him go again. He wants to take him to the shitty little inn room where Milek is waiting, wants to finally, finally, introduce his son to his daddy-

Geralt looks at him without a trace of recognition, and Jaskier swallows thickly.

"No," he says, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "I'm sorry. I don't know you."

He turns away, and Geralt lets him go.

He doesn't know who took him. For someone who has tried to stay out of all of the bullshit happening on the continent for the last couple of years, Jaskier has amassed an astonishing amount of enemies.

He's not scared. Not really. Not for himself, anyway.

No, he's scared for Milek. He's only thirteen, all alone with no clue where Jaskier went.

He curls up on the filthy ground of the cell they tossed him into and tries to hold back his tears. They argued, just before Jaskier was grabbed. He doesn't even remember what about, just that he was so, so angry and so was Milek, and they yelled at each other, and what if that was the last things they said to each other?

What if he never sees his son again?

When he hears about the female Witcher that has started taking contract, when he hears about her ashen hair and green eyes, he's torn between relief and anger. It's a familiar feeling after all these years.

Cirilla must be sixteen now, almost a woman. Older than her mother was on that fateful night. The last time Jaskier saw Cirilla, she was barely out of swaddling clothes. It feels strange to think of the girl as a woman.

She's a Witcher now, or as close to one as she can be. That means that Geralt did find her, that he raised her, trained her. It's a weight off Jaskier's chest. Resisting one's destiny is never a good idea.

But it brings flashes of the old anger back. Why could Geralt raise her, and not his own son?

"You kept him a secret," Yen reminds him gently one night, and Jaskier deflates, all at once.

He did.

It was the right thing to do.

"Time for bed, baby," he urges when Milek rubs his eyes again. Predictably, the boy shakes his head.

"'M not tired!"

He never is, like all children. Jaskier bribes him with a story.

"Your daddy saved me," he murmurs, stroking the boy's soft hair as Milek cuddles into his side. "He made a deal with a witch, one that could have hurt him terribly, just to save me."

Milek hums and takes his thumb out of his mouth, just long enough to ask, "Because he's a hero, right, papa?"

Jaskier smiles, and ignores the burning in his eyes. "Yeah, baby. Because your daddy is a hero."

#oldandkinky #oldandkinky omegaverse #geraskier lovechild #spielzeugkaiser #oldandkinky pregnancy

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