what if i forked over all the cash for that steam handheld just so. just so i could play tw3 in bed
what if i forked over all the cash for that steam handheld just so. just so i could play tw3 in bed
pt "1" | pt "2" | pt "3" of my wolf shifter au series
for @witcher-trick-or-treat, prompt: scream + spell
general wolf shenanigans, 'historical' in that i want you to imagine the wolves dressed like the peaky blinders, 896 words, warnings for blood and some violence, also on ao3!
The thing about chaos and magic is that none of it is totally sensible. Sure, it required a sense of balance, but there was no hard fast rule as to where that balance came from. Geralt had spent many lifetimes trying to make things make sense, and a part of him knew that it was far likelier that he would die before everything in his life made sense. Thankfully, he had his wolf pack and that if anything, would always make sense.
Which was exactly what he needed right now.
"I swear I heard someone screaming this way," Geralt insists as he leads his brothers down an alleyway.
"I swear to Melitele if you've lost the plot, you better tell us," Lambert says, his tone angry but his steps never faltering.
The three of them turn down an alleyway to find a young girl draped over a fallen form, the figure above her wiping at its mouth. Without hesitation, Geralt transforms, leaping over the screaming, weeping girl to pounce on the figure. As his sharp wolf teeth dig into their skin, Geralt realizes the true nature of the situation: they had just interrupted a vampiric feeding. Still, there is fear in the young girl's voice and Geralt lets that fuel him as he rips at the vampire's jugular.
When the creature is still beneath his paws, he turns to the girl, who has gone quiet as she watches Eskel and Lambert try to help her companion. Geralt doesn't realize how long he's been watching her until she looks up and locks eyes with him. He thinks he must look terrifying, covered in gore as a wolf with his fangs bared, but she seems to calm down the longer they keep eye contact. Geralt shifts into human form just as footsteps move towards the alleyway.
"Pavetta?" a voice calls out as an older woman and two older men come into view. "Oh, darling, what happened?" the woman asks, draping herself over the girl as two men run over to the figure Eskel and Lambert are trying to save. Even from where he sits, Geralt can tell that it isn't looking good for the figure, his heartbeat faltering and his breathing labored, but then one of the newcomers places his hands over the figure and there’s an ethereal glow surrounding the two of them.
"He's badly hurt, but he'll live," the glowing figure tells the other man, who turns to the older woman.
"Must he?" she asks, and Pavetta lets out a cry and gives her a look full of hurt. She sighs and squeezes the girl’s hand lightly. "Fine, Mousesack, stabilize him so we can take him home."
The man — Mousesack, clearly some sort of mage — nods before returning to the figure. The man beside him stands and turns to the three wolves with a serious look on his face. "Shifters?" he asks, and they nod in unison. "That," he says, pointing to the two women, "is Pavetta, the daughter of the town's mayor, Calanthe. You've done us a great service by saving her," he tells them, his eyes flickering over each brother.
"We heard screaming, so we had to try to help," Geralt says, nodding at the man.
The man seems pleased to leave it at that, but Pavetta pulls away from her mother and walks over to the four of them. "I owe you my life, and the life of my greatest love," she says, and Geralt barely catches the scoff coming from Calanthe before Pavetta continues: "I hope that you," she takes Geralt's hands before turning to lock eyes with Eskel and Lambert as well, "all of you, are able to find and keep your greatest loves one day, just as you have allowed me to keep mine." Pavetta says the words with such conviction that Geralt doesn't have it in him to tell her he doesn't believe in the concept of a 'greatest love.'
"Thank you," he says, Eskel and Lambert mumbling their thanks as well. Once the words are out of their mouths, an unseen force pushes them all back a few steps, putting them on the defensive, especially when Pavetta's mother stands.
"What just happened?" Eskel asks, flexing his fingers as he looks from his hands to Pavetta, then to Mousesack, who stood up right when the force had hit them.
"Duny?" she asks the mage, running to the figure's side when Mousesack nods.
"She cast some sort of spell, performed magic, without meaning to," he tells the wolves, turning to look at Calanthe, who is watching her daughter with wide eyes. "Did you...?"
"No, I — we had assumed since I had shown no talent in it that any magic had left our line," she says, a hand at her mouth as she watches Pavetta fuss over the man on the floor, Duny. "We need to get her home," she says, barely turning towards the wolves, “thank you again for saving my daughter."
Before they can answer, she's wrapping an arm around Pavetta and ushering her out of the alleyway as the two gentlemen help Duny follow behind them. The three wolves watch in silence as they climb into a black car and drive off into the night.
After a few moments of silence, Lambert turns to his brothers. "So what the fuck just happened?"
He only receives shrugs in response.
Seeing this nodification from tumblr made me smile. @nuggsmum I adore your stories and your writing style is beautiful. Definitely give them a follow.
So I guess I finally caved and decided to make a side blog to post my fics on and I wanted to open up for requests cause why not.
What I will not write:
• No ships that pair minors with adults
• Also nothing NSFW for minors
• Non con
What I will write:*
• Headcanons (SFW & NSFW)
• Imagines (SFW & NSFW)
• Ship One Shots (SFW & NSFW)
• X Reader (SFW & NSFW)
• Poly ship and x readers (SFW & NSFW)
• Letters (SFW Only)
*please note that if I feel uncomfortable with a certain request I may decline to write it
• MPHFPC (movie and currently halfway through the book series)
Miss Alma Lefay Peregrine
All The Children (SFW Only)
• Resident Evil Village
Lady Alcina Dimitrescu
Lady Donna Beneviento
Lord Karl Heisenberg
Lord Salvatore Moreau
Ethan Winters (Only in wintersberg and rose related situations)
• Dark Shadows (2012)
Dr Julia Hoffman
• Maleficent (2014)
Ally Mayfair Richards
Billie Dean Howard
Bette and Dot Tattler
Sally McKenna (Imagines, Headcanons and Letters Only)
Audrey Tindall (Imagines, Headcanons and Letters Only)
• Star Trek DS9
Lt Jadzia Dax
Doctor Julian Bashir
• Star Trek VOY
Captain Kathryn Janeway
Seven of Nine
• The Worst Witch (2017)
Ada Cackle (Imagines, Headcanons and Letters Only)
Dimity Drill (Imagines, Headcanons and Letters Only)
• The Goldfinch
• Harry Potter
All Characters (Minors SFW Only)
• The Witcher
• BBC Merlin
Come What May - Chapter 8
Fleeing through the woods wasn’t easy. They moved as fast as they could, narrowly avoiding tripping over roots as they ran between the dense trees. Yennefer was struggling to keep up. They’d had almost no food or water during their time in captivity and it was taking its toll. Even with his mutations was feeling the effort needed just to keep going. There had been dimeritium in his cuffs, preventing him from using his signs to escape. It hadn't had as strong effect on him as it had Yennefer, but it still left him feeling a little drained. He couldn't imagine the effect it had had on her, draining her almost completely. But they couldn’t stop, not while the alarm bell could still be heard above the shouted orders from the Nilfgaardians.
Read more on ao3
get some rest
Regis: As one of the people tasked with keeping you alive I really have to protest this.
Geralt: Duly noted, now get on the sled.
Hi y'all! I went to edit a post and accidentally deleted it, so here we go again! Thanks to @comfyswitcherblanketfort and @thewolfandthefox for beta reading! Enjoy :)
CW: Eating Disorders and Body Image Issues but with a hopeful ending
A03 Link here
Jaskier grinned as yet another audience applauded yet another great performance. With a final wink at the beautiful woman sitting at the center of the room, he descended from the stage ready for a tasty meal and a refreshing ale. It was hard to be a bard, especially in the city of Oxenfurt.
Quickly making his way to the bar, he ordered one plate of the dinner and an ale. Once the bartender had nodded in acknowledgement, he went to find a seat. There was only a single seat in the corner. It was that or sitting with one of his fans. Jaskier made a beeline towards the secluded seat before another person in the crowded tavern could take his place.
A seat in the corner. Jaskier snorted in amusement as he took a seat. Maybe he had been traveling with Geralt for too long if the witcher's habits had begun to bleed into his own. Funnily enough he couldn’t find it in him to care. They had separated as usual at the end of the fall. Jaskier had noticed the oncoming chill and reluctantly followed Geralt further north to their traditional spot where they left each other during the winter. It had seemed harder that year to leave his companion and Jaskier could’ve sworn that Geralt’s hug had lingered longer than usual, but they had eventually left down different roads on the split path. Now Jaskier was enjoying a winter teaching the brightest new minds at Oxenfurt University and spending his nights performing and warming beds of beautiful maidens and handsome men.
(Well, less of the latter lately, his mind always returning to Geralt at such inopportune moments, but that was normal. Wasn’t it?)
He was dragged out of his thoughts by a familiar, lyrical voice. “Jaskier. Still playing at small taverns?”
Jaskier gritted his teeth and turned towards the source of his burgeoning headache. Valdo Marx, his sworn enemy. If only those damned djinn wishes had been his. Then he wouldn't have the misfortune of seeing the bastard every winter.
(His hatred was completely justified and completely unrelated to finding Valdo cheating on him during their last months of school. He was not over that.)
He looked good. His dark brown hair was still lucious, although a few grays had started to speckle themselves along his temple. His face was still as handsome as the day they had met, the absolute bastard. It was quite unfortunate that such lovely looks were tarnished by the rest of his personality.
“What do you want, Valdo?”
“Oh, nothing,” Valdo replied, gesturing to the bar wench walking past for a drink. “Just wanted to congratulate you on another excellent performance in another mediocre tavern.”
Jaskier scoffed, already scanning the room to find another seat when Valdo’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “I’m serious. Why do you bother playing in such small establishments? Your name has become quite famous, even with the simple ditties you write to pander to the masses. Why not try for better? Too scared you aren’t up to the task?”
It took all of Jaskier’s self-control to hold himself back from punching Valdo in the face and breaking his pretty little nose. As satisfying as it would be, he would rather not have his students spreading gossip about two esteemed professors coming to blows in a tavern. Instead, he took a deep breath and calmly replied, “I enjoy what I do, Valdo, and as you have noticed my name has spread far and wide, wider than yours in fact, so why don’t you just fuck off.”
The faux-friendly smile on Valdo’s face slid off his face, suddenly replaced with a scowl. “Fine. I was just trying to help. Doesn’t matter anyways, not as if you’d be welcomed in a court.”
Jaskier knew he was being baited. Valdo knew him too well and knew all of his buttons, but damned if he didn’t want to know what the other bard meant. Hell, not wanted, needed.
“Just what exactly are you implying?”
Valdo snorted and gestured towards his person, as though that would make things clearer. When Jaskier continued to look at him blankly, the other man rolled his eyes in exasperation. “The current trend among the royals is to be lithe and pretty.”
At those harsh words, Jaskier let out a tiny gasp, but Valdo kept going. “Sure, you’re easy on the eyes, but you’ve gotten fat, darling. I mean, you’ve always had a big head. It’s not surprising that the rest finally caught up to you.”
Jaskier felt his eyes burning with unshed tears as he glared at Valdo. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is, Jules.” Jaskier shuddered at the use of his old-nickname, hating the memories it brought rushing forward, but he stayed still and listened to the onslaught of words. “Guess you’re losing your edge. Happens to everyone eventually. I’m just glad I left before it happened.”
Jaskier watched speechless as Valdo got up from the table with a smirk. “Goodbye Jaskier. I hope things start to turn up for you.” Without another word, Valdo disappeared into the crowd.
Time lost meaning after that. Jaskier could've sat there for a few seconds or twenty minutes, but he was yanked back to reality when the waitress placed his ale and stew in front of him. With a grimace, he nodded at the young woman, waited until she walked away and then pushed the bowl away. He wasn’t hungry anymore.
Rising up from the table, he gathered his belongings and left the tavern. Later on he would wonder how he had gotten back to his rooms, but soon enough he was standing in front of the mirror he had purchased years ago from a vendor across town.
He didn’t like what he saw.
Valdo was right. How hadn’t he noticed?
His once slim stomach curved out even though he had forgone dinner for the evening. It wasn’t too large, but there was definitely more there than he remembered, and that didn’t even start on the rest of his body.
How did this happen?
Jaskier started thinking back on his eating habits for the past few months. It had been a difficult year on the path, monsters being few and coin being rare. He and Geralt had spent several nights with limited rations. Although things had been tight to begin with, Jaskier had divided the food so Geralt always had more. He was a witcher. The mutations had given him a faster metabolism and without enough food he could die. Either starvation or a monster would get him if he weren’t alert, and Jaskier had decided that he couldn’t let that happen. Not to his witcher.
When he’d gotten back to Oxenfurt he had been thin. Too thin. It seemed that in the two months that had passed he had created another problem.
Jaskier turned sideways, pinching at the layer of fat spreading over his stomach while worrying at his lip. He’d been so hungry, but he’d obviously gone overboard. What would Geralt think?
The witcher would hate this. Not only would this impede the amount of coin he could coax out of an audience, but Geralt was also proud of his own physical fitness. At this rate, Jaskier would be lucky if he could get out the door come spring. This needed to stop before he was unable to follow Geralt on the path.
Face drawn in determination, Jaskier covered the mirror with a sheet and set off to bed. He would start his new regime in the morning. A few skipped meals, some exercise and he’d be good as new!
Roach huffed as Geralt led her through the city gates of Oxenfurt, as displeased to be in the city as Geralt himself. Between the noise and the smell, Geralt found it difficult to keep his head about him in the bustling crowds. He would only step foot in it for two reasons: a contract and Jaskier.
Geralt felt his heart warm at the thought of his bard. It was necessary that they parted during the winter, the trek to Kaer Morhen being too harsh for Jaskier and the city being disagreeable to himself, but this winter apart had been too much. Although he originally had tried his hardest to push Jaskier away, the bard had stayed and become someone that Geralt cared for deeply. Perhaps too deeply if his dreams were anything to go off of.
His need to see Jaskier had compelled him out of Kaer Morhen at the soonest opportunity, pushing through the melting snows with a single-minded goal: find Jaskier. Soon he realized that his plan was not well-thought when he arrived at the inn and found that Jaskier wasn’t there. At first he had assumed that the bard had finally grown tired of him. Geralt wouldn’t blame him after the rough year they’d had before they parted ways. As they had given their traditional hug, Geralt had noted that Jaskier’s slender frame was downright bony. Jaskier deserved to live in a place where he wouldn’t have to worry about food or whether a monster would try to eat him or not. Somewhere safe from the backlash of prejudice against witchers. Somewhere away from him.
After a few hours, Geralt had realized how early in the year it was. Jaskier wasn’t due to meet him in the tavern for at least three more weeks! With a flicker of hope in his chest, Geralt had saddled up Roach and ridden for Oxenfurt.
That had been a week ago and that flame of hope was still flickering. Jaskier would be here. He had to be.
He was dragged out of his thoughts by someone clearing their throat. Fuck. From his experience this could only mean two things: someone wanted to start some shit or it was one of Jaskier’s fanboys. Squaring his shoulders, he turned around and faced the person who had disturbed his journey.
Stood in front of him was a young boy, probably around the age that Jaskier had been when they’d met in Posada nearly two decades earlier. He had thin, blond hair and wore a matching blue doublet and trousers. Based on the lute he carried on his back, Geralt would bet that the boy was training to be a bard. A fanboy then.
“E-Excuse me?” The boy stammered, looking terribly nervous. Honestly, Geralt was surprised that he hadn’t run away in fear yet. “Are you Master Jaskier’s witcher? Geralt of Rivia?”
Geralt sighed, resigning himself to an interrogation of Jaskier’s song material. “Yes, I am.”
The boy’s eyes widened, but not in fear. If Geralt weren’t mistaken, he would say the boy was looking at him with...hope. That was a first.
“Mr. Rivia, sir, are you here to help Master Jaskier?”
With those simple words, Geralt’s body tensed, sensing the dangerous implications surrounding them. “Jaskier needs help?”
The boy looked away, staring at the ground as he played with the hem of his sleeves. He nodded. “I-I think he does. We are all worried about him. He seems...tired. He claims that everything is fine, but he almost fainted in class yesterday and we all think he’s sick!” The boy clasped a hand over his mouth, almost as though he were trying to keep the onslaught of words back, but for once Geralt didn’t want silence. He needed to know what was wrong with Jaskier.
With a slight growl, Geralt tightened his grip on Roach’s reins, noting that her ears were perked up and pointing towards him. She could sense that something was wrong. Sometimes she was better with emotions than he was.
“Where is he?”
“He should be in his office. His office hours go until four.”
“Take me there.”
As the boy led him down the winding streets, Geralt let the increasingly horrifying possibilities rush through his head. Maybe Jaskier was just sick with the flu. Those type of illnesses were terrible for humans, but with proper care something could be done. Or perhaps he had forgotten to sleep again! There were times when the bard got so caught up with writing his songs that he forgot to sleep. Maybe he had just been hungover.
Or maybe it was something serious. Geralt hadn’t laid eyes on his bard for nearly four months. A lot could happen in four months, especially to a fragile human. He shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have left Jaskier at that crossroads.
The boy pointed up to a stairwell. “His office is up there. Please help him. He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had.”
Geralt looked down at the youth, his large doe eyes pinned to him with hope and trust. Even more reason for Geralt to get to the bottom of this.
He reached into his pouch and took out a few coins. “Take Roach to the university stables. Tell them that Master Jaskier has asked for her to be stabled there.”
Without another word, Geralt turned and made his way up the stairs. He had a bard to find.
Any hope Geralt had that the youth had been exaggerating was gone the moment he opened the door.
The man who sat in front of him was barely recognizable as the bard he traveled with. He was pale, taking on the chalky complexion that Geralt’s skin took when taking his potions. His normally meticulously styled hair was lank and had lost its shine right along with his eyes. He seemed...duller.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed upon his entrance. “You’re nearly a month early, what are you doing here?”
As Jaskier rose from behind his desk, Geralt’s fear grew. His bard was skeletal. He’d thought Jaskier was thin when they’d parted ways for the winter, but this was worse. It looked as though the other man hadn’t eaten in weeks and Geralt’s heart sank.
All the while, Jaskier hadn’t seemed to notice Geralt’s panic, instead catapulting himself into his arms. Geralt swallowed as he felt how frail his friend felt beneath his clothes. This was worse than he’d thought.
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, gently pushing the bard away from him. “What happened?”
Jaskier frowned, his confusion palpable as he wrinkled his nose. “Whatever do you mean, Geralt?”
Geralt took one delicate wrist in his hand and rubbed his thumb along the translucent skin. “You’re far too thin. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
There was a moment of silence where Jaskier looked at him in shock, but that expression was soon replaced with hurt. The bard yanked away his arm and Geralt was shocked at how little strength Jaskier had used. Maybe that was all the strength he still possessed.
“Don’t mock me, Geralt. I never thought you’d be this cruel.”
Geralt watched in mounting confusion as the bard turned his back on him, walking back towards his desk. “I wasn’t. You look ill, Jaskier.”
The bard scoffed, shaking his head as he lowered himself back into his seat. “I know I look awful, but to be fair I thought I had a few more weeks to make myself more presentable.” Geralt gawped at Jaskier’s words, but before he could chime in, Jaskier started to ramble.
“I know, I know, you don’t have to say anything. Trust me, I’ve heard enough about my figure as of late and I’m well aware of the problem and making strides to fix it. Just a few more weeks and I’ll be good as new. The diet isn’t working as well as I’d hoped, but—”
The bard fell silent instantly, his jaw clicking shut as his wide eyes stared at him.
Geralt took a moment to organize his thoughts, but even with time he knew that Jaskier’s words wouldn’t make sense. He had to be missing something.
“Jaskier,” he said softly, speaking as though his friend were a spooked horse. “I don’t think you’re seeing yourself properly.” His words brought a scoff to his friend’s lips, but Geralt spoke before Jaskier could start another monologue. “When was the last time you ate?”
He watched as Jaskier stood and drew his shoulders back, pulling himself to his full height. Normally, Jaskier could appear somewhat threatening due to his tall stature, but with his emaciated body he seemed more like a scarecrow than a threat.
“I—I don’t know. Recently enough. What does it matter, Geralt? I’m just trying to make sure that I look the part of a bard. Don’t you understand?”
Geralt grit his teeth, fighting back biting words that would only make the situation worse. He knew that his temper often flared at inopportune times, but this was important. Jaskier needed him. “I don’t understand at all. Can you explain?”
Jaskier sighed, collapsing into the chair beneath him as though his previous outburst had sucked what little energy was left. “What is there to explain? Valdo Marx told me what no one else had the guts to say.”
Marx. Jaskier had spoken of the other man a few times, but only recently had Geralt found out that they had once been lovers. It had been a night two years before. Jaskier had had too much to drink and had told Geralt all about his hatred and love for the other bard. If Marx had said something negative, Geralt knew that his friend would internalize it.
“What did he say?”
Geralt watched as Jaskier’s bottom lip started to wobble and his eyes began to redden with unshed tears. This was bad. Very bad.
“H-He said that I was getting fat and that it wouldn’t be too long before no one would want to watch me perform. It’s the f-fashion to be thin nowadays, don’t you know?”
As understanding of the situation began to dawn on him, he watched in horror as Jaskier smiled through the tears that were now streaming freely down his sunken cheeks. “B-But don’t worry! I have it under control. I’m almost there and when I meet my goal I’ll be able to help provide for us as we travel, just in case we have another bad year.”
Geralt moved across the room in two strides, kneeling beside his friend in a way he wouldn’t for a king. Jaskier needed him. Sadly his students had been right. He needed help.
Jaskier’s eyes widened as they roamed over Geralt’s body and Geralt took the opportunity to speak freely. “Jaskier, what Marx said was untrue.”
“Let me finish. Words are difficult for me, but give me time.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jaskier nodded his assent and leaned back into the chair. Geralt noted how the chair’s frame dwarfed his friend, making him appear frailer than before. It was terrifying to see.
“It was untrue. When I left you for the winter you were far too thin. We were on the brink of starvation when we parted ways. The winter is a time for rest, to recuperate our bodies before we walk the path once more come spring. I came here hoping to find you healthy and happy, but the first person I encountered told me that you were sick and that you had fainted in your class yesterday.”
Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but Geralt pinned him with a glare that had him leaning back in defeat.
“People listen to your songs because they are catchy, not because of how you look.”
That seemed to be the end of the bard’s patience because he rolled his eyes. “Please, Geralt. Being pretty is basically a requirement of being a bard. It does matter.”
“You are pretty,” Geralt blurted out. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that, and if Jaskier’s expression were anything to go by the bard had not been expecting him to say it. Geralt took a moment to gather his courage, knowing that there was no going back after this, but if it helped Jaskier then it would be worth it.
“You’re beautiful. Always have been. There’s no worries there, Jask, but what you’re doing now isn’t healthy. You look closer to a corpse than yourself. Do you understand?” Jaskier looked confused, repeatedly running his tongue over his lips as he often did when thinking over a perplexing problem. “But I looked in the mirror. I looked horrible, Geralt and I—”
“Do you trust me?”
Jaskier’s eyes shifted back towards him and he nodded slowly. “Of course.”
“So you know I would never lie to you about this?”
He nodded once more.
“Then believe me when I say that you aren’t seeing yourself correctly. You need to eat, Jask.”
A palpable tension rose in the room as Geralt waited for his friend’s answer. The seconds passed as Geralt thought over his words. Had they been good enough? He was no student of language like Jaskier, but this was important. This had to work.
“You really think I’m pretty?”
That wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected tears and accusations flying through the air, but not such a simple question.
Geralt nodded. “Always, but I will say I like it better when you are healthy, and this isn’t healthy.”
Suddenly his arms were full of what little there was of Jaskier. Geralt smelt the salt in the air from the tears that were running down Jaskier's face and felt the damp spreading onto his shoulder, but that was fine. As long as Jaskier was okay, Geralt didn’t care about his clothes.
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t believe you, but I know you wouldn’t lie about this.”
“I wouldn’t,” he replied simply.
They stayed in that position for a long time, the sunlight dimming in the sky until it was nearly dark, only breaking apart when Geralt started to feel shivers run through Jaskier’s body. He immediately placed Jaskier back into his chair and found a blanket to place over him.
“Thank you, Geralt. I’ve gotten awfully chilled lately.”
Geralt decided not to mention that it was a side effect of starvation. They could talk about specifics later. For now, they needed to plan for the spring, and Geralt was certain that Jaskier would not like what he had to say.
“Jask, I’ve been thinking. I think it’s best for you to stay here throughout the summer.”
The smile that had found its way back into Jaskier’s face slid off in an instant. “No. No, I can come with you! I can walk, same as always.”
Geralt shook his head sadly. “No you can’t. You nearly fainted teaching a class. The path is far less kind than a classroom, you know that.”
Jaskier stood up slowly, still wrapped in the blanket and walked forward. “But we’ve only just found each other again!”
“I know. That’s why I am going to stay with you.”
A smirk worked its way onto Geralt’s face as he watched Jaskier’s anger morph into confusion. “What? No, you can’t, what about the path?”
“You’re more important to me.”
Jaskier’s face filled with understanding at those five words, as though he had finally solved a puzzle that had been eluding him for some time. Perhaps he had. “I can say the same.”
Geralt smiled. There would be hard days, of that he was sure. This would not be an easy recovery, but Jaskier trusted him and possibly even loved him. The rest would fall into place, of that he was certain.
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Forehead kisses for @flowercrown-bard
The whetstone grates against the steel sword, the sharp sound ringing through the woods, making Geralt frown with annoyance. He is so focused on the task at hand that he fails to notice footsteps approaching. By the time Jaskier’s bright doublet and open collar come into view, it is already too late.
Soft lips land between Geralt’s eyebrows, popping wetly, and Jaskier pulls away with a smug grin on his face.
Geralt blink. Did the bard just…kiss him on the forehead?
“You were frowning, my dear,” Jaskier says cheekily, biting at his lower lip. “It’s a deadly condition if not treated in time. A forehead kiss is the only cure. Don’t you know?”
Geralt blinks again, his brain not processing anything. Jaskier leaves him with a chuckle and goes back to Roach. The sword still lies on his knees. For a moment, Geralt has all but forgotten what he’s doing. He can even sense the shells of his ear heating up.
“Shit,” he curses quietly.
For the rest of the day, Geralt finds his eyebrows light and relaxed. He touches that place from time to time, finding no physical proof of the kiss. Of course not.
He will never tell Jaskier how much he thinks about it though.
Jaskier is chewing on his quill again. He does that when inspiration is hard to come; it must be one of those days.
The candlelight in their inn room is so weak it must be hard to read his notebook, because Jaskier is squinting hard, his brows furrowing adorably.
No, not adorable. Geralt does not find the bard adorable at all. If anything, Jaskier is the most unbearable person Geralt has ever known, with his constant singing and praising and…following Geralt on the road, making the days not so quiet anymore.
Still, not adorable, but it’s still a frown.
Geralt has been planning his revenge for months. Jaskier needs to be taught a lesson and know better than to mess with him. He could not focus on anything for a whole day! What a nightmare!
With a few quick strides, Geralt finds himself standing right in front of Jaskier and taking away his quill and book by force. Before Jaskier can react, Geralt is already tilting his face up and kissing him right over the frown.
Geralt realizes his mistake very quickly, because he’s…lingering.
The soft skin under his fingertips, his lips, the way Jaskier gasps, it’s all unexpected. Geralt stays for a second too long and pulls back too slowly.
Jaskier remains rooted to the chair with Geralt still towering over him, and his blue eyes are blown wide, softened, the crease between them completely gone. And then, Jaskier smiles.
It’s more blinding than the sun.
“Why thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, a blush painting his cheeks beet-red, his heart pounding loudly. “You know the trick too?”
But, Jaskier is supposed to be embarrassed, not happy.
“It’s—” Geralt’s voice comes out way too low and he swallows hard. “It’s the only cure.”
The inn room is suddenly too stuffy and there’s Jaskier’s happy scent everywhere. It’s even worse with the warmth on his face. Geralt has to leave Jaskier sitting there, blushing and grateful, and take a walk around town. Maybe two.
Geralt loses another day.
To a...forehead kiss.
Inktober day 24 Forgotten deity. So for the last week of this inktober I’m also going to be following the prompts from @witcher-trick-or-treat I thought Geralt fits the theme of forgotten deity pretty well especially when combined with spell the prompt from witcher trick or treat. I used Geralt’s face and medallion from the Netflix show and the armor from the game. I’m so incredibly proud of how this turned out especially the fire!
Geralt of Rivia
Hey remember when I said I was going to write an Old Guard AU and then dropped off the face of the earth? It’s finally complete! Read it here.
Here’s a(n angsty) teaser:
Geralt’s mouth opened in a soundless scream that Jaskier felt echoing soundlessly beneath his ribcage, rattling behind his bones and sending his heart into a sympathetic rhythm.
His fingers scrabbled against the metal edges of the coffin, endlessly searching for an escape that wasn’t there. It was a mark of the strength resting within the Witcher that he continued to fight despite the countless times he’d already failed. His bleeding fingers continued to pry at the faint line that his broken memories still connected to the life he’d once had in the sunlight far beyond his reach.
If he looked through the narrow cuts in the lid of his coffin, he could imagine seeing the brightness of the sun reflected against the waters above him. With his final moments of life, he always seemed to return to that faraway promise of salvation, pressing himself as close to the open waters as he could manage within his tomb.
His lips would shape the name of the man who continued to search for him endlessly though no air was left to carry his pleas to the surface. Golden eyes fixed themselves once more to the sky above as life slowly faded away...
Jaskier waited for the torment to start again, just as it did every night.
He waited for Geralt to open his eyes and begin the battle once more.
No more visions filled his mind with color and pain. For the first time in recent memory, there was nothing but the silence of his own, empty mind.
There was only one reason for the dreams to stop.
Please. Don’t go.
Jaskier woke up with a gasp, feeling like something had ripped apart in his chest. He thrashed against the thin blankets still covering him, feeling his lungs fill with panting rasps that aren’t powerful enough to chase away the panic and desolation.
“Geralt.” The word is as much a plea as it was a lament.
There was only one reason for the dreams of Geralt drowning in Cahir’s coffin to end.
⚔ Inktober 21' - 21 Fuzzy
Fuzzy as in crazy hair. Also fuzzy as in feeling drunk.
I was too tired to draw at the weekend. So here is a rather late entry.
part 1 part 2 part 3
Geralt. Geralt! Where are you going?
Lambert is nine, maybe ten years old. Clinging, as much as anyone can cling, to the wall of bare rock. Geralt is older than Lambert, but not today.
The steps under his feet are slippery, slick with moisture. The tunnel wall is, too. It smells of forest. He looks back over his shoulder. Lambert is encased in a patch of dim light, many steps above.
I’ll go with you.
Where? Geralt asks.
Where you’re going. Out. Or further down.
When Geralt turns back around, Ular is looking down at him with his pale grey eyes, thin hands clasped over his belt buckle, every finger ringed. He reaches out to curl them into Geralt’s sleeve and walks, further down. The light behind them, that framed Lambert, blinks out, and the darkness comes close. It crackles, and howls, and bites.
You, Ular says, are more witcher than any of the others. You are our masterpiece. Our White Wolf.
(It really is dark, and there really is a forest. The night and forest both are a blanket up a mountain slope.)
Yen cards her fingers through his hair. Everything is blurry, shifting, like a mirage. He can’t be sure where they are. He recognises nothing here but her touch.
But she must be angry with him for something, because she yanks at his hair, scratches his scalp with her nails, which are sharp. He feels the skin break. The bath water turns crimson.
Yen, he says, pleading.
Hush, she answers. Hush, my love. Her voice is so gentle, he can’t make sense of the harshness of her minstrations.
(The last downpour was torrential. The witcher’s hair is plastered to his skull, streaked with diluted blood and dirt, but still milk-white underneath. There are men standing nearby. One of them has seen him before, years ago, he thinks it was in Vizima. Another of the men, the youngest, is giddy with the revelation. A witcher. A mutant. A freak of unnature. Stuff of pitch-dark fairy tale. White Wolf: a legend. The young man pulls back the witcher’s eyelid to see the yellow of his iris. Then he grabs a fistful of his hair and shears it off.)
He is quite conscious for a moment he won’t remember later. It’s been a week since the pogrom, but he doesn’t know that. The sun blinks through scraggly treetops overhead, and the terrain is steep. His skin is parched, caked in blood and dirt, burning. He can barely move. His body is shaking and doesn’t obey him much anymore. The pain his nesting in him. He knows, briefly, that he’s delirious, feverish with infection, drained and burning up. He wishes he would burn faster.
After nearly four decades, they’re still talking about it. Almost no one who lives in Blaviken now even remembers it, and yet they all remember it. Every child remembers him. He listens to them as he wanders through The Golden Court, looking for a vacant seat. They come together here every night, every night of the year, without fail, and they talk about it, about what he did. They don’t see him. He is a ghost. It breaks his heart that he won’t die, here. He’ll live on for a long time, forty years more, eighty, four hundred. He will forever live here as a monster.
(This is just a dream.)
Let’s find another one.
The sun is pale, washed-out yellow. Geralt looks up at it and wonders if he’s forgotten the time of year. It is hotter, usually, in early summer, even this far north. The sunlight is always thin, but it warms like it does everywhere else. He is cold, frozen to the bone.
He looks. Eskel is crouching next to him. Between them, on the ground, the earthenware jug, and the bumblebee, straining against the length of string, buzzing frantically. Up up up away away away—thud. It crashes, crawls, takes flight. Up up up away away away. Thud. Away away away.
We should untie it, he says.
Eskel stares at him. We can’t. You know that, don’t you?
We just have to undo the knot.
His friend frowns, upset. What are you talking about?
(This, too, is just a dream. The cold is the only thing that’s real. Although there may be bumblebees, somewhere.)
Ciri shakes him awake.
She sits across from him, and she’s spattered with blood. He tries to reach her, reach out to her, but he can’t move. He can’t speak to her.
She sits there and she’s barely ten, running from the rest of her life into the forest of Brokilon, the ancient trees looming around her. She wears the garb of the dryads, but she has a sword, not a bow and quiver.
Another time, she holds a crown in her hands and she talks to him about how she waited and waited and he never came for her. His child of destiny.
I thought it’d be for the better, he wants to explain.
I’m not going to be a princess, Ciri says. I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox them.
In her hands, she holds a cup. The waters of Brokilon, perhaps. His memory of who he is seems to him a small price to pay for anything, but particularly for water: he is unspeakably thirsty. But Ciri fades away into billowing darkness.
She comes and goes. Sometimes, he simply loses her, in a change of light or a tumble of his consciousness. More often, he watches her disappear.
When she wakes him next, something burns on his face, and she is wreathed in smoke, or mist. They are at the Tree of Tidings of Good and Evil again, and he remembers her saying, Let’s not part like it was forever. It’s just six days. Now, she is watching the leaves fall, a flurry all around them, all paper and written on. Yennefer’s summoned me, she says. You know I have to go, don’t you?
He knows it. Yen has told him. Ciri is safe in my care, she said. Forget about her.
(You know how this goes: the enchantress is a hallucination and of course, so is the girl. She is far away from this ragged mountain trek, and the ground beneath her feet is level and smooth. The day they parted at the Tree of Tidings of Good and Evil: six days ago, and then twice as many again. The witcher doesn’t know that, but that’s neither here nor there. Sharp rock is cutting up the side of his face and he can’t see. It may be night, or something else. He knows Ciri, Cirilla, his child surprise, is alive. The only thing he can still feel that isn’t agony, is this: her beating heart.)
Just a quick doodle I did of the. Wolf and his shadow. Inspired by @inexplicifics great story Accidental warlord and his pack. I know my drawing needs work. 🤔 I haven't drawn in forever thank-you for giving me inspiration.