#witcher fic
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in the season 3 finale geralt gets beaten up so bad he becomes australian
#geralt of rivia#jaskier x geralt#geralt x jaskier#the witcher#witcher#witcher wild hunt#dandelion#yennefer of vengerberg#geraskier#jaskier#joey batey#henry cavill#liam hemsworth#jaskier hc#geraskier hc#witcher hc#witcher fic#geralt of rivia fic#gerlion#geraskier gif#yennefer imagine#yennefer#witcher icons#henry cavill geralt#henry cavill hc#henry cavill fic#liam hemsworth witcher
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Title: Tonality [5]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous Chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.
“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.
Your father is to be buried tomorrow.
You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.
“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.
“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.
Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.
“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.
“Please, mother—”
“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.
You cannot stop—
She will not let you.
You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.
“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.
“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.
“Now close his eyes.”
You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.
Perhaps I am mad, after all.
Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.
They stay.
“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.
At least, you try to.
The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.
“W-who is it?”
“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.
Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.
“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”
“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”
“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.
You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.
“You won’t need them.”
The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.
“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.
“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.
“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”
You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.
“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.
“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.
“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”
“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.
“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.
“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.
“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”
“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”
“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.
“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”
In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—
And then burnt their dreams out.
“What did it cost?”
“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”
Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.
But the witch might.
—
The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.
There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.
The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.
You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”
Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.
Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.
The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.
It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.
The thought spurs you onward.
The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.
You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.
The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.
The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.
“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.
“I—I am looking for—”
“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.
She is an elf.
It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.
“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.
“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.
“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.
The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.
“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”
“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.
“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”
Your throat tightens.
“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”
The stone stops.
“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.
“And what do you dream?”
“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”
“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.
“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”
“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.
“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”
“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.
“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.
“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.
“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.
“Please, I—”
“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.
“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”
“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”
“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.
“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.
It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?
Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?
Would he have even wanted to?
Perhaps I can just ask him myself.
The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.
It is by that grace alone that you see the man.
You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.
Nilfgaardian.
You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.
“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.
The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.
“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”
Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.
“No.”
“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.
“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”
“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.
“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.
“I’ve little stomach for lies.”
A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.
“Here, my Lord.”
The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—
No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.
As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.
The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.
“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.
“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.
The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.
“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”
Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.
“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”
The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.
“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”
“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.
“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”
“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”
He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.
“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.
“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”
Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.
“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.
He came for me.
Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.
“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”
In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.
“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”
Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”
You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—
A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.
“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.
“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.
“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”
You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—
The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.
Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.
“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.
I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.
Just for a little while.
to be continued…
#henry cavill#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fanfiction#geralt#geralt of rivia#henry cavill x reader#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt x reader#geralt x you#witcher fanfiction#witcher fic#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher#the witcher fandom#darkfic#dark fantasy#au#boxofbonesfic#Tonality fic
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This year I'm going to draw more fan art.
I love @jackironsides' Witcher Fics, so expect more. A Scientific Treatise on Witchering (Jaskier's no good very bad, oh my god it's been months)
I had fun copying little woodcuts and drawings from various sword manuals for this. The one with the Halberd and Sword is apparently a legitimate thing.
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geralt and jaskier get whacked with a spell which makes geralt...not so much a djinn as an indentured servant to jaskier with little to no willpower
jaskier spends the whole fic being so fucking careful not to give geralt any outright orders, geralt spends the whole fic being Very Confused as to why jaskier isn't (ab)using his power
it was probably meant to make geralt a slave to the mage but y'know...fanfiction-typical shenanigans
#is this anything?#i want to write this but again#*gestures at all the reasons why i haven't been writing*#the witcher#the witcher netflix#twn#witcher netflix#geralt of rivia#geralt#jaskier#jaskier the bard#geralt x jaskier#geraskier#witcher fanfiction#witcher fanfic#witcher fic#the witcher fic#the witcher fanfic#the witcher fanfiction
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consider:
professor!Jaskier, who teaches in the winter, and travels with Geralt in the summer.
it's winter, jaskier's got to oxenfurt in good time, his students are polite and attentive, and they've been going missing. not many, and not often, but alice didn't turn up to that guest lecture she'd insisted she'd be going to, peter hasn't turned up in a week, and catherine never came to that meeting the other day.
his colleagues think it's some monster. he has to talk them out of hiring a witcher, citing the fact that they don't know what it is, witchers don't take contracts on people, and, oh yeah, it's winter. the only witchers currently available for hire are the Cats, and it's incredibly unlikely that their caravans will stop by oxenfurt.
now, jaskier's been travelling with his beloved emotionally-constipated witcher for a fair few decades now. it might be a monster, some necrophage, or a werewolf. but it probably isn't. there's a reason witchers don't work in winter, and it's that monsters hibernate. and besides, the dates that the students went missing don't line up with any particular cycle, lunar or otherwise.
they do however, line up with the dates for a fae festival. now, jaskier isn't saying that the fae did this, but the fae did this.
so, he checks the next relevant date, sends a letter to yennefer, triss and one for when geralt hits the path again, as a precaution, because he's not an idiot, no matter how he likes to play the part.
he brings an iron dagger, enough food and water for 2 weeks, his best lute, his composition notebook, his path notebook, and, begrudgingly, some of valdo's less terrible works and a few of essi's latest ballads, because they have different styles of performing, and he waits outside that mushroom circle he found a few years back.
he hopes that they're only after some music to live their festival up.
(they are, thankfully, and, aside from all the word games, mind games, and actual games, it's fairly easy to get their leader to sign a contract with him stating that they will play at this festival and his festival alone, they may, willingly play at other festivals if they choose, that they're all free to leave after the allotted dates for the festival are up, and that this contract will be good for 1,000 years irrespective of any changes in leadership, with him personally, and that any changes to the contract must be verbally, and explicitly signed by all the people involved in the signing of the contract.
it's actually fairly entertaining.)
(yen and triss have a go at him later, of course, and geralt has him go over all the loopholes in his own contracts for their next five years on the path, supposedly to help him get the most money he can, but they both know it's so he doesn't accidentally leave a loophole in any other contracts he might make with the fae. but it's out love and relief, more than anything.)
#witcher fic#fanfiction#headcanons#headcanon#the witcher jaskier#geralt of rivia#yennefer of vengerberg#witcher yennefer#triss merigold#witcher triss#jaskier#witcher dandelion
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Another amazing commission from @swampcastle ! Exactly how I envisioned an upcoming scene from my fic “Stardust Blowing in the Wind,” You’re incredible, Cas!
#cahir x ciri#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach#cirilla fiona elen riannon#ciri#cahir#the witcher#ciri x cahir#witcher fic
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Imagine if instead of cats being terrified of witchers, they instead loved witchers? I can just picture Lambert just walking into a town with an army of cats that he’s gathered just to cause utter chaos. (Yes, he has tried to train all of his cats to attack people he doesn’t like. He gave up after a week). Every time, Eskel sleeps in a barn or stables he wakes up with a whole colony of stray cats sleeping on him causing him to often get up late since he doesn’t want to disturb their sleep. He also makes sure to feed them any chance he gets. Geralt would constantly lose his mind during hunts since kittens will start to pop out of nowhere wanting attention and he will have to kill monsters while protecting each cat. As for Vesemir, he busies himself with building cat trees for all the cats that wander into Kear Morhan and treat them as more of his children. He gave them all names and makes clothes, toys (Made with the purest of cat nip), and beds for all of them. Some of them even have small versions of the wolf medallions as collars.
#the witcher#witcher fanfiction#witcher fic#ficlet#witcher#witcher geralt#witcher eskel#eskel my beloved#eskel#eskel witcher#lambert#witcher lambert#papa vesemir#vesemir#the witcher fandom#witcher fandom#witcher au
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Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛
I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach
Read on AO3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams.
Not Jaskier.
It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice.
Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”
The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest.
“I’m afraid.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”
He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot.
Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town.
“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”
It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.
It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.
“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”
Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too.
The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-
And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth.
It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.
"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears.
The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.
“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!”
For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter.
They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.
The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone.
What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus.
The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.
**
The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.
He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty.
Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-
“In here, Geralt!”
In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own.
“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”
His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.
“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”
Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer.
“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway.
There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over.
The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.
“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.”
The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.
“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.”
“Jask. Stop.”
Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms.
He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further.
After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.
“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.”
“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster.
“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-”
He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.
Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.
“It had my voice.”
He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.
“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword.
“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay.
Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy.
“Did you know?”
A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.
“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”
The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.
“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart.
He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.
"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.
"For what?"
"I hurt you."
I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?
"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling.
Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.
Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying.
He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.
Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.
#Soooo this for sure got away from me lolol#Thank you so much for the prompt I hope this is okay!!!!!#Geralt x Jaskier#geraskier#geraskier fic#witcher fic#little fics#fic prompt#my brain does weird things when I ask it to write
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"Where'd you learn to do this?" Ciri asks, and Geralt's hands go still in her ashen hair.
He doesn't answer.
"Mousesack... he used to braid it for me," she goes on, sadness creeping into her voice. "When I asked where he learned, he said he would braid his little sister's hair when he was a boy, because his mum was too busy. Did your mother teach you?"
"No," he says after a while, resuming the task at hand. "Witchers don't have mothers."
"Oh. Do you mean like how I don't have a mum anymore, or--"
"I just don't. All right?"
There must be too much anger or bitterness in his voice; Ciri's response is a subdued, "All right."
She doesn't smell afraid, but he has hurt her all the same. She should feel safe with him. Kid's been through hell, and she's only curious. He distantly recalls being a curious child once, too.
Geralt forces himself to breathe deeply, to relax his tense muscles and carry on braiding her hair. His hands weren't made for gentle things. He has to focus.
"Who taught you then?"
Persistent girl, isn't she.
This strange reaction of his isn't about Ciri. Or even Visenna. It's about--
"A friend." There. Why had it been so hard to say the word? He doesn't know if he still has the right to call Jaskier that, now. "He used to braid mine, sometimes. Showed me how."
He thinks about Jaskier's delicate hands touching his hair as if it were finely-spun silk. The bard's fingers must have ached after playing for the inn's patrons all evening, but still he would wash the blood and grime from Geralt's hair without (much) complaint, combing all the tangles out with some kind of sweet-smelling oil before gently braiding it. Geralt, relaxed in a way he rarely ever got to be, was usually half-asleep by the time Jaskier finished his ministrations and coaxed the witcher to bed.
Had Geralt ever thanked him? Did Jaskier know how much those small gestures of care meant to him? How few people ever dared to touch a witcher with kindness, even fewer without the expectation of coin or something else in return? He doubts it.
"Is he dead?" Ciri asks, breaking his reverie. The bluntness of her question surprises him; it befits someone far older than her years. A child should not have had to witness so much death.
"No. He's... somewhere safe."
Although with the war... He hopes Jaskier truly is safe. Damn bard always has a knack for finding trouble. Geralt offers a silent prayer to all the gods he doesn't believe in. Please let him be safe.
"Must be nice," Ciri says, soft and tired.
Geralt finishes the last braid. He pats her shoulder, an awkward but sincere comfort.
"We should reach Kaer Morhen in a few days if the weather holds," he tells her. "Rest now."
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#cirilla fiona elen riannon#witcher fic#jaskier#the witcher netflix#just a little story taking place between season 1 and 2 of the show#inspired by me discovering new hairstyles in witcher 3 and having Thoughts#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fic
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Geralt.
Summary: Geralt saves you from vampires and you won’t stop rubbing your ass against him.
Trigger Warning(s): minors do not interact, smut with very little plot, cursing, violence, death, almost dying, chocking, unprotected sex, slight/lowkey breeding kink(?)
Word Count: 4.2k
A/N: My first Geralt fic :) Hope y’all enjoy!
Requests are open!
Winter had always been so harsh, too harsh for your liking. You watched your breath come out in white wisps and frowned. Though you had always enjoyed the white flurries descending from the sky, you much more preferred them from indoors. You must have been the biggest fool you knew to be out in this type of cold. But the rumors the locals fed you were far too interesting for you to ignore.
You needed the coin just as badly as you needed some warmth. And safe lodgings. This job would provide enough money for hot food in your belly, a new set of warmer clothes, and lodgings. All you needed to do was kill this vampire. But sneaking around in the woods lead you to a nest. With multiple vampires. If you survived, if you actually managed to kill this entire hoard, you’d surely demand more payment.
But that was the last thing to have on your mind. Not as one of the vampires snuck up behind you and took a good bite from you neck. You could feel the blood in your body being sucked out, could feel your limbs go numb as the vampire fed on you.
When you finally regained consciousness, it was in the dead of night. The hoard of vampires surrounded you, mouths practically watering as they examined your flesh and dripping neck. Your body ached and you couldn’t move your limbs. The vampire venom had almost taken over your body. In a matter of hours, you would be dead or one of them. You hoped it would be the former.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever would happen from here on out would lead to your death either way. Acceptance seeped through your body, and as you reopened your eyes, you heard the commotion.
A commotion that had no doubt been going on for a while now and had been drowned out by the pounding in your head. You watched has a white haired man tore through the vampire hoard, hacking them to pieces. You didn’t need to see the color of his eyes to know what he was. A Witcher.
You watched as he plunged his silver sword through the master vampire’s neck, then twisted it to hack the head off. The master vampire’s head rolled and stopped just in front of your face. That’s when you noticed you had been laying down. Had you fallen, or had the vampires tossed you to the ground? You couldn’t remember, but the aching in your body suggested the latter.
The Witcher walked towards you and kicked the master vampire’s head out of the way. “You’ve got vampire venom in you,” he said, his voice rich and raspy. “It needs to be removed.”
You knew what he meant. It would have to be sucked out of you. The Witcher knelt down, grabbing you under your arms and pulling you up to his chest. He placed a hand in the middle of your back and the other on the back of your head for support. His mouth was on your neck in a matter of seconds, suctioning the skin in his mouth and sucking out the poison. Your body tingled the more the Witcher sucked the poison out of you, and soon you were able to feel the full effect. A soft whimper passed through your lips as the last of the poison left your body and the only feeling left was this man intensively sucking on your neck.
As soon as you began to relish in the feeling of this Witcher on you, he pulled away and spat out your poisoned blood.
“The poison is gone,” he stated, then stood.
You attempted to stand as well, but quickly fell to your knees. The poison clearly had lingering affects…or was it the affect of this gorgeous man?
The Witcher grunted, and lifted you up, hauling you over a shoulder.
“H-Hey!” you protested, slapping the Witcher’s back. “Let me down!”
“You’ll crumple like an empty sack if I do,” the Witcher responded, placing you on the saddle of a nearby horse. “Don’t fall.”
You pursed your lips and huffed in annoyance. “Sure, it’s not like I was poisoned or anything,” you muttered.
The Witcher grunted once more. You rolled your eyes. What a man of many words. Said no one ever about this guy probably. Some guys talked too much, and some guys talked too little. This one apparently fell in the latter category.
You stiffened slightly as the Witcher hopped onto the horse behind you. He slid into the saddle with ease, his crotch pressed against your ass. You shifted to slide forward and the Witcher grunted once more and pressed a hand on your hip.
“Stop moving.”
You huffed. This Witcher was bossy. “Do you have a name? Or should I just call you ‘Witcher’?”
The Witcher sighed heavily behind you and urged his horse forward, his hand still on your hip. Quite a few moments of silence passed.
“’Witcher’ it is,” you mumbled.
Your stoic companion said nothing and instead steered his horse towards the village. No doubt to collect the money. This dampened your mood. You were really hoping to get some new winter clothes. You could always catch your own food and lodgings would never really be an issue. Not as long as you could fall asleep in a tavern and feign drunkenness. You shifted again. Thankfully, you were starting to regain feeling in your legs, and now unfortunately in your ass. This Witcher’s crotch was very close against you. Each time you shifted, you swore you could feel his cock stiffen through his leather pants. You shifted yet again.
“Stop,” the Witcher hissed, his hand tightening on your waist.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, feigning sweet innocence. “Does that bother you?”
“Obviously,” he said, annoyance dripping from his voice.
You smirked to yourself and stilled for a few moments. Only to move your hips again, this time purposely grinding your rear against him. The Witcher stopped the horse abruptly and grabbed your chin firmly with a hand. He forced you to look at him and you could feel butterflies in your abdomen as your eyes met his gold ones.
“You’re doing this on purpose. Stop. Moving.”
You smiled at the white haired man. “Doing what on purpose...? I’m sorry, I don’t believe you gave me your name.”
The Witcher rolled his eyes and let your chin go. He urged his horse to move forward once again and for the rest of the trip to the village you rode in silence. Despite grinding and rolling your hips against him a few more times. You knew he was affected by this, you could feel is now hard cock practically poking you through the fabric of his pants. But the Witcher did not react again. At least not how you wanted him to. The biggest reaction you managed to lure out of him was a long sigh, and even then you couldn’t tell if that was in annoyance or pleasure.
Finally, you arrived at the village. Residents exited their homes and looked through their windows to catch sight of the Witcher, but none stepped forward for any thanks or congratulations. The Witcher steered the horse towards the square, where a group of the townsmen stood waiting.
“Stay on the horse,” the Witcher said, though it felt like more of a command.
He swung a leg off the horse and landed on the ground with a feline grace. One of the townsmen stepped forward and tossed him a large bag of coins.
“At least you got the job done,” the townsman said. “This bitch couldn’t.” The townsman gestured his fat chin towards you, and you looked away. He was right. Those vampires had caught you fairly quick, and had it not been for the Witcher, you would have been their dinner.
The Witcher said nothing and turned back towards the horse. He stored the coins in the saddle bag and mounted the horse, sliding forward until he was once again pressed against you. He took no second look at the townsmen or the townspeople. Instead he urged the horse forward. You rode in silence for a while, exiting the town and silently trotting down the main road. You mustered up the courage to finally speak.
“Thank you--for saving my life,” you said, trailing a finger along the horn of the saddle. “Those vampires would have enjoyed sucking the life out of me.”
The Witcher grunted in response, but said nothing else. You didn’t know what else to say. Teasing him felt wrong and you knew at this point he wouldn’t tell you his name. For whatever reason. You sighed deeply. Why was the Witcher even allowing you to continue to travel with him? You would have thought he would have dropped you off at the village.
It now felt like hours sitting atop the horse with a very chiseled Witcher behind you. The silence was driving you crazy and all the trees were now blending together. Another deep sigh.
“Stop sighing,” the Witcher said. He sounded bored himself.
“I can’t sigh, I can’t move. Would you like me to drop dead?” you asked, your tone sickeningly sweet.
You turned your head as far as you could to take a look at the Witcher and smiled at him. You put all the sarcasm you could into that smile. You turned back around and shifted your hips. Your butt was growing numb.
When the Witcher didn’t respond to you, you decided to continue. “Where are we even going?” you questioned. “I thought you would have dropped me off at the village.”
“To the next village. I’ll leave you there,” the Witcher finally answered.
“How generous of you,” you stated dryly. “Yet you still won’t give me your name. I suppose Witcher will do...or White Wolf... I assumed that was you since, you know, you’ve got white hair.”
The Witcher grunted, but this time it sounded like he was amused. “We’re nearing the village,” he said.
And he was right. You looked forward and saw a village slightly bigger than the last nearing into view. In a matter of minutes you were both trotting through the village and looking around for an inn. Like the last village, the townspeople peered from their windows and doors at the Witcher. They kept their distance, but watched him like a hawk.
You shifted uncomfortably. You weren’t used to people staring at you, especially in such an untrustworthy, bad way. You instinctively sunk back into the Witcher until your back was fully against his chest. You kept your gaze forward and tried not to look to the people around you.
“I told you to stop moving,” the Witcher muttered, his hand returning to your hip with a tight grip.
His grip sent electricity up your spine. You stole a glance at his hand, and gods did you wish you hadn’t. His hand was littered with scars and you could see how calloused it was. And it aroused you, and you weren’t sure why. You wanted to feel his hands wrapped around your neck, caressing your breasts--
“We’re at the inn,” the Witcher said, interrupting your very, very dirty thoughts.
The inn was a small, brown building with a patch of wild flowers in the front. The hearty smell of the inn’s food filled your nostrils and your stomach grumbled. You let the Witcher help you off the horse and walked inside the inn.
“Two rooms,” the Witcher said to the inn keeper once inside.
The innkeeper shook her head, strands of her blonde hair falling into her face. “I’m sorry, we only have one room available.”
The Witcher grunted, then nodded and paid. Only one room available? You chewed on the inside of your lip. That probably meant only one bed, too. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. You weren’t scared. In fact, you were surprisingly excited. Being so close to a Witcher, doing these domesticated things with a supposed wild man—it was all so exciting.
“The dining room is off to the left. Here’s your key,” the innkeeper said. She placed a silver key on the counter and busied herself with some paperwork.
The Witcher took the key and went off to the dining room. You followed, not really having any other choice. Ideally, you’d want to bathe before eating, but that wasn’t really an option now. You followed the Witcher to a secluded table in the back of the dining room and sat across him. The tavern maid approached the table soon after and before you could order for yourself, the Witcher did. You frowned, but said nothing and just sat back in the booth.
This would moat likely be the most uncomfortable night you’d ever had, and you’d slept in the middle of the woods before. The Witcher wouldn’t speak to you, wouldn’t even give you his name, and now he was ordering for you as if he knew you? Money was certainly not the issue, he was just given a huge pouch of it for killing off the vampire horde. What was with this man?
“Say it,” the Witcher said, eyeing you.
Your frown deepened and your eyes narrowed. “Your hospitality is non-existent. You don’t tell me your name, your command me around, and you order food for me as if were courting?” you hissed, crossing your arms on your chest. “On top of everything else, you’ve barely spoken a word to me. Why did you bring me here?”
The Witcher arched a brow and you could see a corner of his lip twitch with amusement. “It’s safer to leave you in this village. Those other townsfolk look like they weren’t too happy with your services.”
Embarrassment creeped up your neck and you clamped your mouth shut. The Witcher continued, “I’ve bought you a room to stay in for the night and food. That’s hospitable.”
You bunched your brows in confusion. “You’d asked for two rooms, I thought—”
“I’m leaving after my meal.”
You frowned. “I think it’s only fair if you stay. You’re the one who’s done all the hard work.” You shrugged. “I just almost died. If anyone deserves to rest it’s you.”
The Witcher grunted. “Compelling argument.”
You smiled to yourself as the food arrived. He had ordered the same thing for the both of you, a stew with bread that smelled delicious. You dug in to your plate, moaning contently at its flavor. It was as good as it smelled.
After your meal the innkeeper showed you to the bathing room, and you graciously accepted to go first. A towel was left for you on a table inside, and you were instructed to leave your clothes in a basket to be washed. You took a long time in the bath, using their lavender scented soap to scrub off the dried blood and dirt from your skin. A hand trailed up your shoulder and tenderly soaped the area of your neck where you had been bitten. Where the Witcher had sucked the poison out. Your fingertips brushed along the wound, the two holes tender, but healing. It had felt good to have the Witcher’s mouth on your skin, to have him suck on the most sensitive part on your neck. You knew it was only to save your life, but the moments where the pain had turned into an intense pleasure plagued your mind and made you ache. You hadn’t been touched like that in so long. Not since you left your own village. Sleeping with the Witcher would be hard when all you wanted to do was mount the man and ride him until tomorrow.
You sighed and braid your hair. It was about time you finished your bath. You rinsed yourself off and stepped out to the tub, wrapping the towel around your body. Well, as much as it would go around your body. The towel was a little too small, leaving a small gap on the side to expose your hip and thigh. Thankfully, it was just long enough to cover your bottom, but one wrong move or gust of wind would have it on display. You walked stiffly to where your room was supposed to be and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” the Witcher called.
“It’s me,” you answered. “Let me in its getting cold.”
You heard surprisingly light footsteps come to the door and the lock being turned. The Witcher opened the door and stepped aside for you to enter. You thought you noticed his eyes trail down that open gap in your towel, but when you looked to him he was taking off his boots. Your stomach fell with disappointment.
“Did the in keeper bring any spare clothes?” you asked, surveying the room.
“No.”
Your heart stilled. “Am I supposed to sleep naked?”
“Unless you have spare clothes of your own to wear.” The Witcher stood and made way to the door. “I don’t bite.”
That was the problem. You wanted him to bite. You wanted him to grab your ass and bite down on the sensitive part of your neck and fuck you until you couldn’t walk.
You looked at the bed in the middle of the room. It was big enough to fit the two of you, but you would be very close. Probably touching type of close. And you didn’t think the Witcher had any spare clothes either.
In a corner of the room, right next to the head of the bed and night table, stood a full length mirror. Adjacent to the mirror on the neighboring wall also stood a decent sized wardrobe. Perhaps there would be some clothes there? The only problem would be this towel. It couldn’t wrap around your body fully, and if you let it go it would fall. You decided to discard the towel. If the Witcher came back, you’d just run under the covers. And he’d get a nice view. You smiled to yourself once more. You weren’t aiming to seduce him, but if it worked….
You cleared your throat and took a deep breath. Now was not the time to indulge in thaws thoughts. You opened both doors of the wardrobe. Nothing. You bent over to open the drawer at the bottom, but it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck. You pulled again and it opened just enough to stick your fingers in. You tried to pry it open that way, pulling on the drawer with one hand while the other pushed the wardrobe. It finally came out just as the door opened. You grabbed whatever was in the drawer and covered your body with it.
“What are you doing?” the Witcher asked, closing the door.
You heard his footsteps as he walked inside the room and you turned around.
“I was looking for clothes,” you answered. “I found this.”
The Witcher raised a brow. “A curtain? What exactly were you planning on doing with that?”
You looked down at your new find and saw that it indeed was a curtain. A thin, sheer, white curtain that hid absolutely nothing. Your ears grew hot, a blush spreading across your cheeks.
“Nothing I suppose,” you mumbled. You cleared your throat. “Turn around so I can get into bed.”
The Witcher’s other brow raised. “If you want privacy, the curtain’s not exactly covering much.”
You pursed your lips. “Well, Witcher, would you like me to disrobe completely in front of you?”
The corner of his lips turned upwards and gods if you weren’t aching before, you surely were now. He smile was criminally beautiful.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” the Witcher confessed.
And that was when you noticed that, like you, he was nearly naked. A towel similar to yours was being held against him. It didn’t wrap around him, instead he held it against his abdomen so it could only cover his cock. His cock that was now fully erect. Your eyes lingered there, then trailed upwards, following the hair that stopped at his bellybutton, then up to his very toned chest. His chest, like his hands, were littered with scars. A scar ran from his collarbone across his chest and to his ribcage. Your eyes flickered to his, the gold color darkening to a honey as the Witcher drank in as much of you as he could.
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest as your grip on the curtain loosened. The material slid down your body and pooled to the floor. You watched as the Witcher’s jaw tensed and he tossed the towel aside. His cock was thick and long, the tip already glistening with his precum. He strode forward, his hand grabbing your ass and pulling you roughly against him. His other hand gripped your chin and he pressed his lips against yours forcefully. His lips moved with yours passionately, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip. You moaned softly and tangled your hands in his hair, pulling softly. His cock brushed against your thighs as he bent forward to place both hands under your thighs. You jumped up, letting the Witcher pick you up. You wrapped your legs around him and deepened the kiss. He tasted heavenly, the remnants of the stew catching your tongue as it swiped along his bottom lip.
The Witcher grunted and placed you on the bed gently. His trailed his kisses down to your jaw, then to your neck. Gods, yes, this was what you wanted. You tilted your head to the side to expose more of your neck as the Witcher swirled his tongue over your wound. You gasped softly, tugging on his hair.
“All night,” he mumbled against your neck, “your ass has been driving me crazy.” The Witcher grabbed your ass firmly with both hands and you softly moaned. “You have been driving me crazy.”
“Gods,” you moaned, tugging on the Witcher’s snowy locks.
“Geralt,” he mumbled. “Not the gods.”
Geralt? Was that his name? You moaned once more as the Witcher—Geralt—sucked lightly on your neck. His hands slid from your ass to your thighs as he pressed them down against the bed. Your legs spread far apart now, you jolted as Getalt’s cock rest against your neglected clit. He rocked his hips slowly, the tip of his manhood rubbing gently against the apex of your thighs. You whined and tried to buck your hips for more friction.
“When I bury myself in you, I want you to call out my name, not the gods,” Geralt commanded, pulling back slightly. He placed his hands on either side of your hips. “Understood, dove?”
You nodded, biting your lip in anticipation. Geralt lined himself with your entrance and without warning buried himself to the hilt. You had no chance to adjust as he pulled all the way out, then slammed back into you. As commanded, Geralt’s name was the only name on your lips. You called his name like a prayer, calling onto the god within you to show no mercy on your puffy cunt. He moved again, this time pulling your legs above his shoulders and thrust ravenously in you. He kept the pace, a hand sliding to your throat and applying light pressure.
Geralt grunted loudly as your prayers turned to screams of pleasure. One of your legs slid off his shoulders with the force he was using to thrust into you. Instead of placing it back, he pulled you closer to him with his free hand and circled your clit with a thumb.
The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming. Your climax rolled through your body and you screamed Geralt’s name. His thrusts grew sloppy as he pound into you. His hips stilled his against yours and he came with a roar. His fingertips dug into your skin, and the feeling of his seed spilling into you nearly made you cum again.
You both stilled, your heavy breaths the only sound in the room. Geralt pulled out of you, his cum mixed with yours dripping down and out of your battered cunt. He lay next to you on the bed, both of your legs hanging off the edge. You just stared at the wooden ceiling, watching the shadows the candle cast dance along the surface. Was it selfish of you to want Geralt all to yourself? He was a Witcher. They took no wives and had no children. At least that’s what you were told. You wanted to know Geralt more, in all intimate ways possible.
You turned your head to the side to face him and smiled tiredly. “If I had known you were going to fuck me this good, I would have rubbed my ass against you more earlier.”
Geralt chuckled, his abdomen moving up and down with the sound. He pushed himself up with an elbow and hovered slightly over you.
“Clearly I didn’t fuck you good enough if you’re still able to talk,” Geralt stated, his free hand moving to your stomach.
You smirked. “No, I don’t think you did.”
Requests are open!
#geralt of rivia#geralt#geralt imagine#geralt imagines#geralt x reader#geralt x female reader#the witcher#witcher geralt#witcher fic#roach#roach the horse#geralt and roach#geralt smut#geralt imagine smut#smut
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title: in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard (5/5)
word count: 6.1k
the gang cooks a turkey while Yennefer and Jaskier are drunk; Ciri has a crisis and bonds with Jaskier; Jaskier leaves for Oxenfurt
excerpt:
“Oh! Hello! It’s Geralt and Ciri!” Jaskier exclaimed needlessly. Yennefer was struggling to right herself. Jaskier held a hand out to help her, somehow managing to make it worse.
“Are you drunk?” Geralt asked. He looked genuinely angry.
“No.” Jaskier said, very decisively, before he looked at his hand and frowned.
“Maybe…” he continued and paused again to look at Yennefer who stared at him with wide eyes. He looked back at Geralt and smiled winningly despite Geralt’s stormy expression. “Yes. Yes, we are definitely very drunk.”
Ciri seriously considered melting back into the forest, but her going missing would only make Geralt scared on top of whatever it was he was feeling about Jaskier and Yennefer.
“May I have some?” she asked instead.
Jaskier scrunched his nose up in a comical attempt to think through the haze of alcohol. “Are you old enough to drink? No. I shouldn’t ask you that... not when you have such an incentive to lie. Is Ciri old enough to drink?”
[on ao3]
#the witcher#witcher fic#twn#ciri#cirilla fiona elen riannon#jaskier#yennefer#geralt#mayo writes fic#AAAAA i can't believe it's all posted!!
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Keeping You Warm
Pairing: Jaskier x reader
Summary: Sad bard turns up soaking on reader's doorstep during a storm, so they offer to give him a bath to warm him up. Comfort and cute bath fluff ensues
Warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff! Nothing explicit but it does get a bit steamy... Maybe a little angst but not really.
Words: 2159
A/N: I wrote this ages ago but forgot to post it. Hope you enjoy!
He was the last person you'd expected to see tonight, especially not looking like this. Dripping wet, brown fringe plastered onto his delicate face, soft blue eyes staring sadly down at you. He shivered, numb fingers trying in vain to hold his soaked doublet closed across his chest, which was heaving with ragged breaths of exhaled steam.
Behind him, rain mercilessly tore up the muddy ground, the light from the lantern by the front door casting odd shadows on the shimmering ground.
A puddle formed on your doorstep as you stared in disbelief at your old friend.
"Jaskier? What are you doing here?"
He attempted a smile, opening his mouth to respond, but was suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit, doubling over. You rushed forward, reaching for his shoulder and guiding him inside, pulling the door shut behind you.
"S-sorry..." he muttered shakily. He managed a smile as his eyes met yours. "It's good to see you."
You beamed back at him.
"It's good to see you too, Jask." You threw your arms around him, squeezing him tightly as he wrapped his own arms around you, firm hands pressing into your back. You relaxed in his embrace, smiling into his shoulder. He really was soaked, and the brush of his fingers through your shirt felt like ice. You finally pulled back.
"What the hell were you thinking, being out in that storm? You could have frozen to death!"
"Yeah, I know. I just... Needed to see you. And my weather forecasting skills are unfortunately lacking."
You sighed. "Well, at least you're here now. Come on, let's get you warmed up."
You pressed a kiss to his cheek, the warm touch of your lips making him blush slightly, obvious against his cold, paled skin, and led him by the hand towards your crackling fireplace.
"We'll get you out of those wet clothes, and then run you a bath," you said, looking him up and down to determine which of your garments would best fit him.
"So keen to get me undressed?" he smirked. You punched his arm.
"Don't flatter yourself," you winked.
"You'll freeze to death if you stay in those soaked clothes."
You turned to leave the room, but Jaskier quickly reached out and took your hand in his own, pulling you back and staring deep into your eyes.
"Thank you," he said, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly against your fingers, traces of playfulness wiped from his face, replaced with a genuine appreciation for your actions.
You swallowed.
"You're welcome, dear heart," you whispered.
***
You returned with a blanket just as Jaskier was pulling off his shirt. His doublet was neatly folded over the back of a chair by the fire, and his boots lay discarded on the floor. You approached the shirtless bard, eyeing his exposed form. He was still quite skinny and slender, skin soft and chest covered in a thick coat of dark hair, but he appeared fitter now, more muscular.
"Here. Wear this until the bath is ready," you smiled encouragingly, moving towards him with the large blanket outstretched and indicating a chair nearby. He sat, and you leaned in to wrap the blanket around his still shivering form, feeling his warm breath on your face as you pulled it over his bare shoulders. He wriggled cutely in the chair, getting comfy, his movements prompting you to giggle.
"What is it?" he asked, oblivious to the effect he had on you. In response you simply leaned closer to him, resting your forehead against his. You both closed your eyes, and he sighed at your touch.
"I've missed you so much, Jask," you whispered, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek.
"I didn't realise how much I needed you in my life until you left," you admitted.
"Don't worry, love. I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice a low rumble. You made the mistake of opening your eyes, and were met with an intense electric blue gaze, which was locked on your own. Your eyes flicked down to his party open lips, tantalisingly close, and suddenly you kissed him, quickly, strongly and filled with longing.
Then you came to your senses - you'd just kissed your best friend. The two of you had always been close, but this was something different.
"Oh. Oh god, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I-"
He silenced you with a passionate kiss of his own, letting the blanket fall away as he pulled you closer with an arm around your waist and a hand on the back of your head. He moaned into your lips, eventually pulling away.
"You've got no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he smiled, brushing his fingers along your cheek.
"Me too," you whispered, pulling him closer, warm lips back on your own.
***
Jaskier sank beneath the steaming water, groaning with relief as the weight was taken off his aching muscles. He sank down lower beneath the bubbles, closing his eyes and sighing.
"Just how long were you riding to get here, Jask?" you asked, turned away from him as you gathered a collection of soaps and scents from around the room.
"Oh, I don't know. A week? Two weeks? Don't worry about it."
You spun around, brow creased with concern.
"Don't worry? You were alone, without protection, on the road for two weeks. For what? To see me? I'm not worth the risk, Jask. You should have waited for Geralt."
"He was... busy, and like I said, I needed to see you - and you are absolutely worth the risk, dear heart." He did his best to look sweet, pouting and staring right at you with his intoxicating blue eyes. It worked.
You shook your head, unable to mask your smile as you moved over to the bath, setting the soaps down on a nearby table. You smeared shampoo onto your hands and moved closer to the bard.
"What- what are you doing?"
He pulled back as you reached towards him.
"What do you think I'm doing? I'm washing your hair."
He glanced uncertainly at you, swallowing nervously.
"It's alright, really. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Just go take care of yourself. Besides, the greasy look rather suits me, don't you thi-"
You swiftly leaned in, kissing him gently.
"I knew that would shut you up," you smirked. "Now, please," you whispered, "let me look after you for once."
He nodded slowly, and you kissed him again, before pulling away to sit on a stool positioned behind him. He gratefully sank back against the edge of the bath as you buried your hands in his soft brown hair, massaging in the soap. Jaskier hummed in satisfaction as you rubbed your hands against his scalp, forming a foamy layer over his hair.
He began to sing softly, occasionally sighing deeply as you passed your fingers through his hair. You poured warm water over his head to rinse the soap through.
"How does that feel, love?"
"It's wonderful. Thank you." he reached behind him to grab your wrist, pulling it around and placing a soft kiss on your hand.
You wrapped your other arm around him, one either side of his head, and leaned forward, burying your face in his shoulder from behind as you slid your hands down onto his partially submerged chest.
He hummed as you rubbed his chest, stroking a finger along his collarbone and enjoying the soft hair beneath your fingertips. You began kissing his neck, pressing your lips into the hot, sensitive skin and drawing a series of whimpers and little moans from the bard. He tilted his head, exposing more of his neck as you continued.
"Don't stop," he begged softly as you began to pull away.
"Patience, love." You shuffled your chair around to the side of the tub, before reaching towards Jaskier, turning his head to face yours. He groaned as your lips collided once more. You slid a hand behind his head, pulling him into you, and squeezed his shoulder with the other. His tongue darted greedily into your mouth, and you moaned. When you finally separated, he kept his eyes closed, lips parted, savouring the memory of your touch.
You stroked his face and he smiled, slowly opening his eyes. "We should do that again sometime," he sighed.
"How about now?"
***
Jaskier had finished his bath, which included lots of kissing, and even more touching. Now that your feelings were out in the open, Jaskier couldn't seem to keep his hands off you, rubbing your back, stroking your face, tracing his fingers - or lips - along your arm. You'd insisted on taking care of him, washing him with plenty of soaps and scents, gently massaging the mixtures into his soft skin as he hummed happily, eyes closed. As reluctant as he was to have someone take care of him for a change, he clearly enjoyed it.
Now, you were cuddled up in bed, beneath heaped blankets, bodies pressed tightly together. Jaskier lay almost on top of you, one leg thrown across your thighs, his bare chest pressed against you and his arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Thank you, love."
"For what?"
He hesitated, pouting, searching for the right words.
"For caring. I don't usually... Well, not many do. Care about me, that is."
You sighed sadly, and kissed him gently.
"You deserve to be cared for, Jask. More than anyone I know. I see the way you spend so long looking after everyone else, making sure everyone's okay, but... no-one ever seems to return the favour."
He looked away, lowering his gaze, but you noticed his cheeks reddening and his eyes sparkling with fresh tears.
"I-" he croaked, unable to find the words. He'd clearly given this quite a bit of thought before you'd brought it up.
"Hey," you whispered, "It's okay."
You reached up to stroke his cheek, before gently turning his head to face you again. You met his deep blue-grey eyes, the flickering light of the fire reflected in them. Gods, were they gorgeous. Intoxicating.
"I love you, Jask."
He managed a smile.
"And I adore you."
His lips met yours again, and he squeezed you tighter, moaning into your mouth. You ran your fingers down his exposed back, making him shudder and increasing the array of sounds coming from his mouth.
When he finally pulled back for air, you took the chance to flip him onto his back, and lay on top of him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, running your hands over his chest as you deepened the kiss, feeling him exploring your mouth with his tongue and humming contentedly.
"So good for me... I don't deserve you..." you muttered praises against his lips.
Jaskier shuffled backwards, sitting up against the headboard as you settled in his lap.
You continued to kiss him, leaning over him to grasp his face in your hands and pressing your lips down into his.
Jaskier broke through the moans escaping both your mouths as he began to sing pieces of his newest song, snatching at the words between ragged breaths and passionate kisses. You laughed against his lips, prompting him to sing more, almost moaning out the words as you tugged playfully at his silky brown hair, twirling it in your fingers. You finally pulled back, and he tried to follow your lips with his own, eyes still closed, outlined with delicate lashes set against flushed red cheeks. You sighed at the sight of him, so desperate for your touch, but stopped him by running your hands down his chest. You pressed a quick kiss to his nose, which he scrunched as your lips made contact.
"You're so beautiful, Jask," you said, gently caressing his face, his features appearing almost elven in their candlelit beauty.
He looked up at you with eyes full of an equal amount of adoration. His gaze managed to make you weak, as always, and you gave into those big blue eyes, returning your lips to their place against his smile.
***
You lay on your back once again, the crackling of the fire and Jaskier's soft breathing creating a beautiful melody in your ears. He lay on top of you, and you could feel the vibrations of his breathing against your chest. You snuggled comfortably beneath his warm, heavy body. His arms were wrapped around you, and the blanket lay strewn across him, leaving the smooth curves of his shoulders and back visible in the dim light. You stroked his hair as he began to fall asleep, utterly exhausted, but stubbornly continuing to sing under his breath, despite being so tired.
Managing to place a soft kiss on your lips as he was drifting off, he breathed a soft "thank you, my love," against your skin, before relaxing in your arms and settling into a deep, contented sleep.
#jaskier x reader#jaskier#the witcher imagine#jaskier imagine#jaskier smut#reader x jaskier#y/n x jaskier#jaskier fic#jaskier pankratz#julian alfred pankratz#the witcher#dandelion#jaskier x reader smut#jaskier x y/n#jaskier x you#jaskier x gn!reader#dandelion x reader#dandelion fic#jaskier fanfic#witcher fic#witcher fanfic#julian alfred pankratz viscount de lettenhove
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WHEN THE NIGHT HAS COME AND THE LAND IS DARK
.
Sometimes, on cold nights—and even some not-so-cold nights—Geralt wakes abruptly in the forest with something tickling his cheek and bothering the inside of his nostrils.
Jaskier's hair is like silken web; soft and fine, and fucking irritating when it tangles itself in your eyelashes like dandelion fluff caught in tree sap.
On these particular cold (and not-so-cold) nights, Geralt wants to grunt loudly and swear and push Jaskier roughly from Geralt's space on Geralt's bed roll because what the fuck, bard?
He never does though.
Not even this time, as Geralt awakes to that mass of brunette spiderwebs in his actual fucking mouth, with one of Jaskier's surprisingly muscular arms and a long shapely leg wrapped tightly around Geralt's midriff as if the cretin is some sort of tentacled ocean dweller. Oh, and, for fucks sake, the idiot bard's stupid slackened, drool-covered face mashed right into the crook of Geralt's neck.
Half blowing, half spitting Jaskier's hair from his mouth, Geralt balls his fists and grits his teeth and sighs, heavily.
With the moon fat and high in the inky sky and sounds of the wild all around them, he will try once more to find sleep.
Closing his eyes again, Geralt pointedly ignores how Jaskier smells of lavender and forest ferns. He shuns the way Jaskier's soft, rhythmic snores play their easy tune in his ear. He takes no note of Jaskier's even heartbeat and how the sound of it is a welcome comfort in the dead of night, pays no heed to the shallow breaths leaving Jaskier's mouth and the way each exhale warms more than just the spot underneath Geralt's jawbone, and he doesn't spare even a bit of attention for the way those smooth lips with their perfect cupid's bow feel on the skin of his throat as Jaskier mutters the sweetest song lyrics from his dreams.
As sleep finally does pull him under, Geralt also most definitely does not take to heart the way the idiot bard makes everything better.
.
(from my deleted witcher blog behonesthowsmysinging)
#reposting old stuff from deleted blogs my beloved <3#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geraskier#geraskier fic#the witcher#witcher fic#ficlets#fic#fanfic#aonb writes#all-or-nothing-baby
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Geralt: "No, wait, you deserve for this to be done the right way–"
Jaskier: "Fuck 'the right way.' Either kiss me like you mean it or don't."
#first geraskier kiss#geraskier#the witcher#witcher#witcher netflix#the witcher netflix#twn#geralt#geralt of rivia#jaskier#jaskier the bard#witcher fic#the witcher fic#the witcher fanfic#witcher fanfic#the witcher headcanon#witcher headcanon#the witcher hc#geraskier hc#geraskier headcanon#witcher hc
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Emhyr wakes up to a hangover from hell and a blaring cellphone, and immediately wishes for death. He is feeling absolutely shit.
He has to keep an arm over his face as he reaches for the phone blindly.
“Hello,” he croaks.
“...It’s 11 in the morning.” Geralt says on the other side, in lieu of greeting like a normal fucking person.
“What do you want?”
“Are you home? Ciri said you had a work thing last night, and if I just woke you up-”
“I’m home. Does Cirilla need a change of clothing?” He had told his obstinate child the weather would be too warm for winter wear this weekend, but her head was quite hard. If he was feeling slightly better he might be feeling vindicated at this moment.
“Yeah. I'll be over in fifteen.”
___
Emhyr is waiting on the porch as Geralt finally makes his appearance. He had barely made it to his position at the top of the steps, and was just contemplating attempting the descent when he catches Geralt’s judgemental expression through the windshield. Fuck that, he decides, as he plops the bag of clothes down next to him, resolved to make Mr Well Adjusted climb up the stairs his goddamned self if he wants to be super dad so bad.
He is well aware of what he must look like in that moment, but he is quite convinced that Geralt should be grateful he has at least managed to greet him freshly showered (he’d spent ten minutes under the water leaning with his head against the wall), with a towel around his waist and a bathrobe on his back.
As Geralt comes sauntering up the driveway, looking mean and fit and totally sober, Emhyr takes a fortifying drag of his cigarette. He has to close his eyes as he expels the smoke, since the sight of the rapidly moving white particles past his face might just have him give in to the temptation to ruin Geralt’s day by vomiting all over him.
“Ciri said you quit.” the dickhead rumbles.
“It shall be our little secret.” Emhyr answers in the most condescending tone he can manage in his impaired state. He points to the bag at his feet, and is rewarded by a flash of irritation on Geralt’s face.
As the other man stomps up the steps, Emhyr experiences a moment of regret for not just tossing the bag at him, when he sees Mr Fitness' eyes linger on his soft belly. Instead, he affects the unbothered, and leans his arm on the banister next to him, trying his best to look self assured despite still very much feeling like shit. He maintains the pose until Geralt gets back into his hideously dilapidated vehicle.
__
In the perfectly serviceable and actually quite well maintained truck, Geralt frantically reaches for his cellphone as he takes up his place behind the wheel. He struggles to pull his eyes away from the half naked man now sashaying to the porch couch to drape himself over it, porno style.
“Yen,” he says, as the woman in question picks up his call, “I swear to GOD Emhyr is trying to seduce me. Can you believe that!!??”
#traditional art#the witcher fanart#the witcher 3#the witcher#emhyr var emreis#emhyr#duny#emperor emhyr#modern au#witcher au#Geralt#geralt of rivia#emhyr x geralt#geralt z rivii#witcher geralt#Emhyr: suffering and miserable#Geralt: “Thats hot”#Geralt is me coded fr#witcher fanart#Witcher art#witcher fanfiction#Witcher fic
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Jaskier finds out about Geralt’s enhanced senses months after meeting him. He is outraged. But it works out just fine in the end. Rated teen and up. First kiss.
🚨 now on AO3!! 🚨 the AO3 version is a filled out and shined up version of the one below.
—-
“You’ve been reading my mind?!” Jaskier shrieked.
“No,” groaned Geralt, “it’s not like that.” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose, regretting every choice he had made in his life that had led him to that moment.
“How could you?! You never said!!”
Geralt opened his eyes, hoping to end the conversation with a glower. He leaned back against the closed door of their shared room. It was an awkward angle for a glower, but he made it work.
“Ohhhh ho ho, I don’t think so, Geralt.” Jaskier raised an indignant finger. “Don’t even try your little angry face. I do not give a single shit.”
Geralt sighed. “Stop that.” He gently but firmly removed Jaskier’s finger from where it shook in front of his face.
Jaskier sucked in a breath, ready to launch into a tirade. But when Geralt grasped his hand, he stuttered to a stop. A flush crept across his cheeks.
Geralt sensed the window of opportunity and leaned in. “Jaskier, to be fair,” he tilted his head forward and employed his best I’m trying to be reasonable here face, “a drunken mouse could tell when you’re lying.”
Jaskier wheezed shakily. “Rude!” It was an outrage. But Geralt hadn’t released his hand yet, which was scattering his nerves. “You leave Gordon out of this. He’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Gordon- Geralt blinked, momentarily stumped. “—nevermind.” He finally let go of Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier exhaled.
“Look,” Geralt continued, “It’s not mind reading. Its feelings. And normal, non mutated people can tell what others are feeling too. Can’t they? You can tell how people feel. Can’t you?”
“That’s different.” Jaskier crossed his arms and hunched forward. He had just been performing, so he had a sheen of sweat and a post-performance glow, despite his sour mood.
“Is it?”
“Yes!”
“It isn’t though. Think about it. How can you tell when someone is angry?”
“Well, Geralt, you can tell I’m angry because I am telling you that you are an asshole.”
Geralt pretended he didn’t notice the sarcasm. “Exactly. Or because your arms are crossed.” He gestured at Jaskier’s arms where he held them tight against his chest. Under Geralt’s scrutiny, he released them and laid them back at his side.
“Or, because your lips kind of-“ Geralt gestured at his own lips, wiggling his fingers, “puff up.”
Jaskier blinked in surprise. He brought his fingers to his lips. “Puff—?”
Geralt swallowed hard. “You know. They. Pout. Stick out. Look kind of…” his voice trailed off.
“Kind of what, Geralt,” Jaskier deadpanned. “My lips look kind of what.”
“The point is,” Geralt said strenuously, suddenly feeling the need to mop his brow with a sleeve, “my heightened senses are the same. It’s just putting together physical clues. I can just…add a few clues to the list.”
Jaskier narrowed his eyes dubiously. “Like what, exactly.”
“Um.” Geralt looked around as he gathered his thoughts. “Heartbeat. Pupil dilation. It’s not mystical I just don’t have to stand close to see your eyes or press my ear to your chest to hear…” Geralt’s eyes dropped to where the generous thatch of chest hair peeked out from Jaskier’s open shirt. He tended to unlace everything after a performance to “air himself out” and he traipsed around like that, driving Geralt to mad. “…your heartbeat.”
Geralt cleared his throat with an awkward hack and refocused on Jaskier’s face.
“Ok, and what else?” demanded Jaskier.
Geralt shrugged. “I can smell more.”
“Like sweat? If someone is nervous?”
“Yes. And pheromones.”
Jaskier yelped and stood up stock straight, startling Geralt. “Pheromones?? You know it when I’m horny?!?!”
Geralt frowned. “Sure.”
He said it casually as though it weren’t the single most humiliating thing that anyone had ever said.
Jaskier began to flail again and the register of his voice crept up to one better suited for dogs. “You absolute rat fucking bastard I am never speaking to you again!”
Geralt rolled his eyes and groaned dismissively. “Yes, Jaskier, like everyone else on the continent, I know that you’re horny literally all the time. Who cares?”
Jaskier jammed his hands on his hips. “I care. Because that means you know that whenever you are close enough to scent me, I am horny.”
“Right. You’re always horny.”
Jaskier’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Do you really not see how those two things are different?”
He was standing close. So close. Geralt couldn’t think. And if he were being honest, he was extremely grateful that Jaskier could not scent lust. He tried to focus, replaying his words, and comparing them to what Jaskier had said.
“Wait for it…” said Jaskier with a voice so dry it could rival Geralt’s legendary sarcasm.
Geralt’s eyes widened in shocked realization. His jaw fell open, and his lips parted with a soft pop. “You feel. For me? No. That’s not true.”
Jaskier sang about sex and love. He wrote about sex and love. And people threw themselves at him at every performance. Geralt had always assumed that the warm, percolating, barely restrained desire that clung to the bard was just a permanent condition. And if it had been in response to any individual, it would have been for the fetching young farmboys and pretty infatuated barmaids. Not for him.
Too late, Geralt realized that his frozen expression of shock could also be taken as one of horror.
Jaskier slapped his arms against his side. “See what I mean? This is fucking humiliating. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?” Geralt blurted out.
“Anywhere but here.”
“When are you coming back?” he demanded.
“Never.”
Before he could stop himself, Geralt slapped a hand on the door. “Stop. This isn’t fair.”
Jaskier let go of the handle and turned the full fire of his furious blue eyes on him. Geralt almost took a step back.
“It isn’t fair, Geralt?!”
Geralt almost backed down. But he didn’t. “No. I can’t help that I have these powers.”
It was true. It wasn’t fair. It’s not like he’d chosen to have enhanced senses. And it’s not like there was a guidebook for when to notify your best friend that you knew far more about him than he realized. Also. He didn’t want Jaskier to leave. He just didn’t. Jaskier could not leave him.
Not over this.
Right?
“Let’s talk fair, Geralt,” Jaskier shot back. “You know everything I feel, and I know fuck all about how you feel, because you never tell me anything. It’s an unequal friendship Geralt. And I hate it. I feel so…exposed.”
Jaskier spun again and yanked at the door handle. He actually got the door open a crack.
“Wait!” Geralt almost shouted. The desperation in his voice shocked the both of them.
“What? What, Geralt?”
Geralt stammered and scratched the back of his head. His eyes slid away. Jaskier huffed and turned again to leave.
Geralt’s hand shot out, seemingly of its own accord. Jaskier looked down at Geralt’s hand curled gently around his bicep. This was the second time tonight he had touched Jaskier for no good reason tonight. He couldn’t think to hard about that right now. He began speaking fast, pushing the words out before he could take them back.
“Youcouldlistentomyheartbeat.”
Jaskier pushed the door closed with a click, and thankfully he was still on the inside of the room. Geralt heaved a sigh of relief.
“What was that, Geralt?”
“Alright. Ok. Um.” Geralt looked at the floor. “Say you…listened to my heartbeat. And you stood close enough to me to see my pupils. You would have the same information I would have.”
Jaskier sucked in his cheeks and considered for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Alright.”
He took a step into Geralt’s space.
Geralt hadn’t thought this one through.
Fuck.
He could feel the warmth of Jaskier’s breath agains his neck.
“So. You can see my pupils, right?” he breathed.
Jaskier hummed in the affirmative. His heart thudded furiously. That fetching flush was back on his cheeks, the one that made his eyes stand out, making them an even more powerful a force on Geralt if that was possible.
He felt the same way about Geralt. He had said it. Out loud. Geralt inhaled and found the courage to reach for Jaskier’s hand again. He dragged it to his chest and with both hands, pressed Jaskier’s palm to his chest.
“And that’s my heart,” he said stupidly. He tried to cover it with a joke. “See, I have one after all.”
Jaskier’s lips curled into a devious smile. He tilted his head. “We still aren’t even, Geralt.”
“No?”
They were almost pressed against each other now, chest rising and falling together. This went leagues beyond something just good buddies would do. But it was anyone’s guess how much further it would go tonight.
“No.” He flicked his eyelashes up and caught Geralt’s gaze. “I still can’t scent your lust. So how,” he brought his second hand up to press against Geralt’s chest, “am I supposed to know when you’re feeling desire?”
Geralt hooked his fingers in Jaskier’s waistband and with a firm yank plastered him against his chest.
“Can i just. Show you?”
Jaskier whimpered and nodded. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s knees going weak. So he wrapped his arms tight around his waist, and he kissed him.
They kissed soft and tentative at first. Then they grew desperate and searching. Geralt cradled his face and pressed his tongue between his lips. It was a long time coming, so neither had any intention of leaving it at one polite kiss. They kissed until they were both out of breath, and they staggered closer to the bed. When they finally pulled apart, Geralt asked
“Are we even now?”
Jaskier smiled primly. “I’ll let you know.”
And he dragged Geralt into bed.
——-fin
——————
I am rewatching Daredevil and the scene where Foggy finds out about Matty’s enhanced senses is SO emotional and SO beautifully written and acted.
And since Geralt has enhanced senses, that made me think about how Jaskier would react finding out that way. So I indulged in a little alternate canon fun.
Xo
#the witcher#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geraskier#Geralt x jaskier#witcher fic#descarada writes#descarada writes geraskier#my fics on ao3
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