First things first, if you are a queer-phobic, map, voted for trump, or support any type of bigotry, you are not welcome here.
I write for the witcher fandom! I started out as a geraskier writer and my current fixation is valdskier, but you’ll find an array of romantic ships/platonic ships here.
You may know me from my main: @persony-pepper. Here's my main blog’s writing tag if you’re interested!
My Masterlist 🌼
Other Info
My writing tag is here. | My a03 is here. | Asks and prompts are open!!
18 w geraskier for the prompts?? Congrats on the milestone!!
“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”
Gods, he’s exhausted. These things, they always happen when he’s tired, don’t they? When he’s dead on his feet and has barely two brain cells rubbing together under that white head of hair.
Jaskier beams up at him and Geralt narrowly dodges the brim of his straw hat. “Take these down to the car, will you, darling; I know the gas’ full, it’s always full after you take her out!” He winks and Geralt hides a groan. How’s he supposed to say no to that look?
“At least tell me where we’re going.” We. Always we, never one without the other. Jaskier grins brighter, pink-painted lips giving him an air of innocence. Bastard probably did it on purpose, to distract from the mischief shining in his eyes.
“It’s a surprise, Geralt! You can’t expect me to ruin it for you!”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“Nope!” Jaskier replies cheerfully and leaves the door to shove more bags into the trunk of their run down Nissan. “Hurry up, dear!” Geralt doesn’t think he’s spoken a single sentence without an exclamation point yet. It’s a long weekend, and he’d been looking forward to taking a long-break. He hauls the food and snack bag over his shoulder and picks up his suitcase. Jaskier’s packed for him. Likely packed long ago, should’ve known that he hadn’t been losing it when he’d noticed the steady decline in his drawers.
“Jaskier.” The suitcase thumps against the stairs as he guides it down, one hand held to his mouth as he chomps down on the cheddar popcorn. A man’s gotta refuel, he thinks a little wildly. He must look as crazy as he feels, hair frizzed and eye bags the size of craters. Still, the idea of being stuck with Jaskier for days— well, it’s a net positive. Especially when his lover looks so damn excited about it.
“Is that the last of them? No, we’re missing one, I believe; the socks bag, it’s by the laundry, I believe. No groaning, Geralt, come on!” Geralt groans. Loudly. Jaskier shuts him up with a kiss. Geralt has another vague thought about men needing refueling and kisses him deeper. “It’ll be fun. I have it all planned out.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” Jaskier agrees easily. He turns the car on, setting the ac at 76. “I promise to get you the best wine and roast though, keep my love fed.” He pats Geralt’s shoulder and Geralt takes the chance to press a kiss to his cheek.
“On the interstate?”
“They’ve got to have mashed potato at least.” Jaskier’s settling into the driver’s seat, eyes shining. Geralt feels his lips curve into the fondest of smiles.
“Worth it,” he murmurs. Jaskier cheers. Geralt hurries up the stairs to grab the sock bag before they’re off.
Headcanon: Jaskier is actually highly skilled with a sword (He's a noble after all, and he went to the Academy). He just chooses not to carry one. Not just because he feels it ruins his bardic image, but also he simply would much rather leave all the sword fighting to Geralt. (Still carries a dagger in his boot though, he knows better than to travel without something to defend himself.)
Gods I loved writing this.
Tags: mild blood kink, Geralt loves Jaskier, Jaskier loves Geralt, est relationship, kinky bastards, feral jaskier, trans Geralt, violence (you know how it is with bandits)
"Jaskier!" Geralt grunts as the bandit kicks him in the chest, driving the tip of his boot into the stab wound that pieces through the witcher, "Run!" Really, Jaskier would be a bit offended if he wasn't already raging. He snatches the sword from the ground, steel flicked out of Geralt's hand when bandit after bandit had attached after his witcher had stumbles back after taking down a nest of kikimore. They had had the audacity to stab his, /his/ witcher. Oh no, Jaskier thinks the fuck not.
The sword is beautifully balanced, and he'd take a moment to appreciate it if there weren't three screaming men charging towards him. Jaskier ducks and rolls to the side, footing easy as he parries and blocks, cutting through them easily.
He'd been trained with a rapier, but the blacksmith's daughter had known her way around a short sword and Jaskier had known the way around her skirts-- it's laughable, how easily the bandits fall under his blade. He's always underestimated, and true, he prefers it that way, ever the Humble Bard, but it's nice falling back into the rhythm of handling a sword, the power and high of felling man after man. The women seem to have been too smart to join this useless band of half-wits that had dared take on an exhausted witcher and a protective feral bard.
He takes special glee in slashing at the man who had stabbed and kicked his witcher, driving the steel sword through a kneecap before shoving it into his mouth, Geralt quietly watching as Jaskier pulls up and relishes in the feel of the bandit's skull snaps in half. Blood dots his face, red freckles of anything but innocent covering his face-- Geralt peers up at him in half-horror and half-pride as he takes in Jaskier's drenched clothes and the dripping sword in his hands.
Jaskier kneels by him, dropping the sword in favor of pressing his hands against the sluggishly bleeding wound (thank Melitele that Geralt had downed a healing potion for the kikimore before this shit had started). "You okay?" Geralt looks at him for a moment longer before he brings a hand up to cup Jaskier's bloody cheek, amber eyes boring onto blues. He leans up, weak as he is, and presses their lips together, moaning as he tastes the blood splattered over the bard's lips.
"Fuck," he mutters, squeezing his thighs together-- ever the sign of his witcher's arousal, and then promptly passes out.
Jaskier had a good, long laugh at that, and when Geralt wakes up later (and Jaskier has made sure he isn't going to hurt himself further or put himself in any pain), they fuck in a sea of blood.
I promised u I’d fixed it so here’s the rest of this thing I wrote for @conquihare’s beautiful soulmate art!
Part 2 starts from below the baby blue (second) page divider.
tagging a couple people who were into this: @peanitbear, @shitposting-for-the-soul, @hardrockerhippie, @wehyperfixatedtoohard, @itsthelittlethingsnlife, @pillage-and-lute, @selectivegeekwithstandards, @bygodstillam, @jew-flexive
Today will be the unraveling. Jaskier can tell; Geralt walks side by side with Yennefer, their hands intertwined. She looks like she hates him, and he looks like he loves her, and they’re a stupid perfect couple.
Jaskier, dandelion, weedling. He’d chosen it himself, as a reminder to stand proud when hurt, keep his chin up when he was plucked and thrown aside— oh, how hilarious.
How fucking hilarious. The patch of yellow burns on the inner side of Jaskier’s elbow, flame-shaped mark glowing yellow, glowing green. It’s fading; not much longer now, not much longer. Yennefer throws her head back, laughs and his soulmark dulls further.
That’s the thing with these accursed things— your soulmate takes too long to love you back? You lose your half of the soul, become hollow, and bitter. It’s not uncommon to drown, to die if the soulmark is lost; not having a soul turns people violent, inhuman, and rather death than hurt those that you love. Fantastic that Jaskier’s following them up the blue mountains, plenty of cliffs to throw himself off of, he supposes.
It burns. Do the soulless feel pain, he wonders. Does it burn or is he just going numb? Borch eyes him from beside him, something pitiful in his eyes as if he knows.
Geralt chose Yennefer. Destiny has always been a joke to him, and Jaskier thought that he’d cared enough for his soul to keep from choosing her— but how could he compare? She’s Yennefer; he’s just Jaskier.
The sun shines in the sky, his doublet glows red, and his soulmark burns under it all.
Geralt presses a kiss to Yennefer’s hand.
What does it matter.
Geralt knows love. Geralt knows love; it’s the hot brand of Visenna’s red hair as she turns away from him. It’s the soft flutter in his chest as Yennefer’s hand settles in his. It’s the harmony of Jaskier’s music in the air.
Geralt knows love. And Geralt knows that love is pain. Dangled just out of reach for him to admire from afar. Geralt knows love, and he knows that it is pain. The blue flame that flows in him flickers purple and then flickers blue. It cannot decide. He cannot decide. So fate chooses for him.
I promised u I’d fixed it so here’s the rest of this thing I wrote for @conquihare’s beautiful soulmate art!
Part 2 stats from below the baby blue (second) page divider.
tagging a couple people who were into this: @peanitbear, @shitposting-for-the-soul, @hardrockerhippie, @wehyperfixatedtoohard, @itsthelittlethingsnlife, @pillage-and-lute, @selectivegeekwithstandards, @bygodstillam, @jew-flexive
Today will be the unraveling. Jaskier can tell; Geralt walks side by side with Yennefer, their hands intertwined. She looks like she hates him, and he looks like he loves her, and they’re a stupid perfect couple.
Jaskier, dandelion, weedling. He’d chosen it himself, as a reminder to stand proud when hurt, keep his chin up when he was plucked and thrown aside— oh, how hilarious.
How fucking hilarious. The patch of yellow burns on the inner side of Jaskier’s elbow, flame-shaped mark glowing yellow, glowing green. It’s fading; not much longer now, not much longer. Yennefer throws her head back, laughs and his soulmark dulls further.
That’s the thing with these accursed things— your soulmate takes too long to love you back? You lose your half of the soul, become hollow, and bitter. It’s not uncommon to drown, to die if the soulmark is lost; not having a soul turns people violent, inhuman, and rather death than hurt those that you love. Fantastic that Jaskier’s following them up the blue mountains, plenty of cliffs to throw himself off of, he supposes.
It burns. Do the soulless feel pain, he wonders. Does it burn or is he just going numb? Borch eyes him from beside him, something pitiful in his eyes as if he knows.
Geralt chose Yennefer. Destiny has always been a joke to him, and Jaskier thought that he’d cared enough for his soul to keep from choosing her— but how could he compare? She’s Yennefer; he’s just Jaskier.
The sun shines in the sky, his doublet glows red, and his soulmark burns under it all.
Geralt presses a kiss to Yennefer’s hand.
What does it matter.
Geralt knows love. Geralt knows love; it’s the hot brand of Visenna’s red hair as she turns away from him. It’s the soft flutter in his chest as Yennefer’s hand settles in his. It’s the harmony of Jaskier’s music in the air.
Geralt knows love. And Geralt knows that love is pain. Dangled just out of reach for him to admire from afar. Geralt knows love, and he knows that it is pain. The blue flame that flows in him flickers purple and then flickers blue. It cannot decide. He cannot decide. So fate chooses for him.
For your angsty consideration: Valdo POV AU where Jaskier had the djinn wishes. (If you need a way out, please consider that djinn are well-practiced in not actually fulfilling the spirit of a wish.)
Okay, idk how this is gonna turn out with my valdo because in my timeline, they're already together when they go to posada, meet jaskier, etc. But um, you can write au of your own fan creations right? So here's what happens if valdo doesn't get it through jaskier's thick skull that he's been courting him all along....
Apoplexy. Don't know where it's from, or how, but Valdo's got Apoplexy. The painter turns his head, coughing into the crook of his elbow to get rid of the blood that pools in his throat. It's in his lungs, the bleeding, shrinking, it's in his throat, his stomach. He's rotting, inside to out.
Valdo dabs grimaces at the iron taste in his mouth, hands shaking as he dabs blue onto his small canvas. It's by his bedside, in the ratty apartment Oxenfurt Academy had managed to scrounge together for a professor unable to teach any longer. It's good enough. He won't live past the week anyway.
It's nearly time. Maybe it's not so awful, dying. Gods knows he hasn't felt alive since the day Jaskier left him, spiting and screaming. Death isn't so bad, not when he's already been dead for so long.
The colors in front of him take shape; brilliant blue eyes shine from beneath a mop of brown hair. His smile is glorious; Valdo's is bloody. It's good that his dying hands can still paint something, even if it's a pitiful rendition of the love of his life. His braid's a mess between his shoulders, neck bare of gold. He's already sold it, giving the money away to those who needed it; there's no one for him to give things to. Amma and Ma don't need to know, not when there's nothing they can do about it. He blinks away the tears that bubble up, tainting his vision red.
His hands shake too much now. Valdo's got to stop painting, lest he ruins what he's got but one more brush stroke. Just one more, against the peach of Jaskier's cheek.
Valdo sets the brush down, knowing it's the last time he'll pick it up. He chokes on blood and has no will to cough it away. Maybe he'll drown. Hopefully he'll drown. He lays back down on the bed, breath wheezing, and thinks about the wisps of Jaskier's song he's heard, thinks about his beautifully flushed face at the aftermath of a successful competition, thinks about his wondrous eyes glimmering under the hot summer sun.
He doesn't hear the door slam open.
He doesn't hear Jaskier's panicked shouts in his ear.
Finally. Lambert trudges to bed, carpet soft under his feet. The rug’s new, Geralt’s gift for the winter. If those assholes want theirs, they’ll have to wait till tomorrow; Lambert’s dead on his feet.
He scuttles closer to bed, leaning over it to make the bed when— oh.
“Fuck!! Oh— oh my God, oh my God,” he feels his soul leave his body, voice rocketing as he bounces back from the cursed thing under the frame. His foot fucking tingles, and his feet never tingle. “Guys, guys, guys, guys it happened, oh my Gods, it happened—”
Geralt and Eskel push past the wooden door, hair ruffled. They look entirely too calm, having slipped into what Lambert annoyingly calls big brother mode. “What, what?” He’ll never admit it, but he’s glad for it now as he hops around in shock. He can still feel the ghost of fingers against his foot, holy fucking shit.
“What’s happened?” Geralt choruses Eskel’s ask.
“It happened, something under the bed just touched me.”
His brother’s turn to his bed, and Lambert follows behind, brave and stupid with them by his side.
“Dude, there’s nothing—”
“There’s nothing under the bed, Lambert.” Lambert feels his heart leap into his throat as Eskel steps closer to the frame… “Come on, what’s—” and Lambert watches in horror as Geralt feels around under the wood—
“AHH OH MY GOD!” Fuck fuck fuck, no, fuck this, Lambert hops away, Geralt screaming as he jumps out the door. Eskel hops away from he bed with them, eyes wide with the same horror and panic—
“Hang on, I got a shoe, I GOT A SHOE!” Lambert’s well out of the room as Eskel charges the bed with one of Lambert’s night slippers, fear and murder in his eyes as he tries to slap the hideous creature under Lambert’s bed he can’t see.
Vesemir snickers, sticks a hand out to grab the leather shoe, and cackles as his oldest son runs screaming from the room.
76. “No, don’t cry, don’t do that to me.” 88. “Only you could get injured making a bowl of cereal.” | Oh my god pancake 🥺🥺🥺🥺| Cw: depression, loss of motivation
Today’s a shit day. Jaskier can already tell as he bundles up in a hoodie, and tugs leggings up and over his hips. His hair’s a mess and he doesn’t bother brushing his teeth as he turns on the coffee machine.
He doesn’t care, everything can rot. Can’t deal with it, not today. He wants to grab his coffee and climb back into bed. Fuck it, it’s too dark out and he’s too tired.
“You look like shit today.”
“Feel like shit.” Geralt doesn’t look up from his pancakes. Honey, fork, knife. Too much effort; Jaskier grabs the cereal and a bowl.
And watches numbly as it slips out of his fingers and shatters next to his feet. Geralt swears from behind him, turning off the stove before wrapping a gentle hand around Jaskier’s arm to guide him away from the shards of ceramic.
Shit day had been an understatement. He feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes and oh, doesn’t that make him feel all the more shit somehow. “You okay?” Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who stares down at the floor. No, he’s not okay, everything is awful and—
he feels tears slips down his cheeks, itching, cold, and wet. Geralt says nothing for a moment. Then he holds Jaskier to his chest, cupping his form against his so Jaskier can sob into his ratty sweatshirt.
“Call in from work. Let’s get pizza and rewatch something, maybe the second Twilight movie, you hate that one the most.” His hand rubs up his back, comforting a warm; Jaskier nods into his chest. He calls home sick from work and spends the day holed up with shitty pizza and shitty movies. It ends up being kinda great.
henlo there pepper! I hope you're having a good day (and if not, I hope tmr is better :)
but! not the point! for the writing prompts, would you be up for #19 for valdskier? I feel like that one sentence has a certain vibe of ✨shenanigans✨ that oozes valdskier.
💚
Thanks for the prompt fishy! | 19: “The paint’s supposed to go where?” | Here’s some more body painting au. Specifically, this is the first time Valdo uses Jaskier as a canvas.
The canopy of trees sway above them, shielding supple skin from the sweltering heat. Nonetheless, they’re both flushed pink and red, cotton shirts wavering idly in the occasional mild breeze.
“Darling, I’m bored.” Valdo drags his eyes away from the woman with the bright red hat, his love infinitely more interesting than any people-watching. Jaskier pouts down at him, and Valdo smiles back. He’s got one leg slung over the other, and he stills the lazy side-to-side swing of his legs to give Jaskier his full attention.
Class is out for the weekend, and they’d planned a nice picnic at one of the trees along the outer-walls of the busy academy. Now, the wine’s run out, the murukku all gone. The vegetables remain untouched, as they will remain till one of them takes it upon themself to give it away to a neighbor. They both hate celery with a passion.
The crinkle of paper adds to the chattering quiet. An unfinished songs lays scribbled on the page. Valdo’s own sketchbook and paints remain unopened; he’d been content to bask in the sun, head rested in his lover’s lap.
One of Jaskier’s palm rubs over Valdo’s chest, hand slipping beneath the thin material of his shirt to thoughtlessly feel the soft of his skin. Valdo still places a hand over the back of Jaskier’s through his shirt, and Jaskier allows him to lead it out and twine their fingers together.
Held by his face, Valdo kisses the back of his lover’s hand; Jaskier hums quietly.
“I’ll paint you, then,” he says after a moment. Jaskier’s smile grows fond.
“Again, darling? I can’t blame you, though, I am a supreme and prime model, aren’t I?” Valdo laughs, nipping the side of Jaskier’s hand before he sits up.
“I’ll paint on you, I meant.” Jaskier perks up significantly and Valdo unpacks his paints and brushes. “A heart, ‘cause you’ve got mine whole.” And he’s dragged into a kiss, impassioned and loving.
“You’re more of a romantic than I am,” Jaskier says. Valdo think that Jaskier’s enough of a romantic to be perfect.
A heart. Valdo takes his lover’s hand into his own, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder now. Jaskier fingertips are callused; so are his, he thinks sillily. The charcoal outline is easy enough to sketch, as anatomically proper as a couple rounded triangles and two cylinders that sprout from the top of them can be. Jaskier watches, legs kicking as he hums. Likely something to do with his newest composition. Valdo thinks it’s beautiful already.
Jaskier shudders at the first stroke of paint. The brown is beautiful against his skin, like the wavering form of firewood through flame, and Valdo mixes in deep red til it tinges more rust-red than chocolate-brown. He drags the paintbrush with gentle, sure strokes, like painting make up onto a lover’s lips. Like painting a heart onto the back of their hand.
“Good?”
“So good, my love.” The words leave Jaskier in a rush, like he’s breathless. The sun no longer burns into the air around them, clouds giving poor Oxenfurt some reprieve. Valdo barely notices as he traces the outlines of the heart with a thin brush and black paint.
A final touch of white, highlighting, animating, and Valdo washes his brushes and wipes off his hands before pressing a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s wrist. He moves carefully; Jaskier doesn’t move at all.
“It’s beautiful, darling,” he breathes. He flexes his hand just barely, and the heart pumps a beat.
“All art is beautiful it’s painted on a beautiful canvas, en thangam.” Jaskier’s expression is so soft and adoring. Valdo feels a deeper blush creep up his face.
He looks back to his hand, flexing it carefully to watch the realistic painting beat, and looks up Valdo after a moment.
“Let me paint you.”
Valdo smiles, and thinks fondly at how much of a disaster this is going to be. He hands Jaskier his paints and brushes, and Jaskier takes his wrist into his lap. He opens a precariously balanced bottle of purple and gets to work.
Valdo hunches over his desk, fine, frizzy tendrils of hair falling out of his loose braid. He underlines the line once, muttering it under his breath to memorize before circling it and saying it out loud.
It’s a murmur is accompaniment to Jaskier’s snores. Valdo hums in thought before crossing out a note; it’s not on the test, he doesn’t think. He makes sure to vaguely remember it anyway. Jaskier shifts, and Valdo adjusts them.
His lover’s straddled on his lap, lax with heavy sleep. Valdo grips him closer to his chest, one arm wrapped across Jaskier’s back to keep him to him. Another erases the note he just crossed out.
“Mm, -ald, v—” Fuck, shoulders are killing him. No shame in taking a break, right? He buries his nose into Jaskier’s hair, scenting the coconut he slathers it in the night before he washes it.
“I’m right here, darling,” Valdo whispers. Jaskier seems to calm down, face smoothing out as he sleeps back into deep sleep. He trusts him so much, trusts Valdo not to drop him, trusts him not to let him fall or let him go. Valdo leans back, and Jaskier falls forward onto his chest. He drools away at the shoulder of Valdo’s chemise. His poor love must be so exhausted, his own finals having ended yesterday. Valdo’d known as soon as he’d see the manic flush on Jaskier’s face; the crash would be all-encompassing. He’d had to carry his darling back to their room after the competition.
Now, Valdo presses a kiss to his temple and sets his eyes back on the notes. One arm’s still slung across Jaskier’s back to keep his crumpled and loose form from falling off him, and the other, smeared with charcoal, rubs down his lover’s side. Jaskier makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a snuffle. Valdo’s learnt over the years that it’s an approving, appreciative sound. It’s adorable, doubly so when Jaskier denies making it once he’s awake.
“I’ve gotta get back to it,” he murmurs, and Jaskier makes a wounded little wheeze-snort when he moves to grab the stick of charcoal again. “I’ll be here when you wake, darling, I’ll have this done by then and I’ll be yours.” Valdo pats his lover’s shoulder with the arm that supports him and Jaskier wiggles slightly before his jaw falls open and the loudest snore Valdo’s ever heard escapes him. Laughter is difficult to contain but he manages it.
He trains his eyes on his page of notes again, memorizing the concepts in front of him. Jaskier sleeps deeply against Valdo’s chest, secure.
Guuuuurl, for the dialogue prompt 15. Stay? Eddie x Venom pleaseee?
You call me parasite.
Eddie hums, coffee piled with chocolate, sugar, and whipped cream. It’s a compromise, as awful as it tastes. He looks up from the paper when Venom doesn’t defend their beloved chocolate.
“Yeah, I do, bud. Why?”
A long silence passes; Eddie feels the symbiote shift, their bond betraying their restlessness.
I’m not a parasite. They pause, sinking down the spaces between their ribs to slip behind their left kidney. They’re hiding, nervous.
“It’s a nickname, V. Like darling, or sweetheart.”
It’s not the same as parasite, they mumble.
“It isn’t?” Eddie sets down his paper and takes another gulp of his too-sweet coffee for them. Venom doesn’t reply, bundling into a tighter ball of goo and maintaining his silence.
“Talk to me, dude, what’s wrong?”
Venom idly pokes their kidney and twists tighter in on themself.
I take care of us.
“Mhm.”
I’m not... I’m not a parasite. I take care of us.
Fuck. “Oh, buddy.” He hadn’t realized the connotations— as if Venom had been using them, using him. “It’s not that, V. Can you come out here?” A tiny blob of black situates itself on his palm, milky eyes blinking up at him miserably. “I was being silly, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it like that.” Impossibly, more of the blob retreats into his body, hiding from him.
What did you mean? Their growl is so timid, voice so unsure. Eddie— maybe you’re better on your own. And the last of the blob bubbles back into his palm, pooling at the back of his inner arm. Should leave.
Panic is very sudden to grip him. Eddie feels his stomach lurch, the thought of being away from his symbiote painful to think about. “You take such good care of us,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, don’t go— fuck. I need you. Stay. With me.” There is no Eddie without them, and there is no them without Venom.
He balls their hand into a fist, wishing he could see his symbiote again. He feels Venom climbing up the rings of his ribs and settling at the best of his sternum, unsure.
Promise? Don’t want to be parasite.
“You’re not. You’re my most important—” and Eddie finds that he has no word to finish that sentence. “Everything. My most important everything, V.”
Venom says nothing, likely has no words to use, but slips down into his heart; their contentment is answer enough. Eddie takes another sip of their coffee, one hand rubbing over the left side of his chest. Venom basks in the warmth.
Needs more chocolate.
Eddie laughs and adds more chocolate. He turns his paper to the next page and doesn’t stop rubbing over his heart.
@persony-pepper my little egg suggested that if Yen was taller than him, Geralt would lose his damn mind and be so in love with her and i wholeheartedly agree
Rated M for implied smut; it’s nonexplicit and is only mentioned.
-
The bar’s floor creaks as he walks through the establishment, coin pouch nearly empty. He’d hoped there’d be a contract here, but— no luck. Geralt sighs deeply and seats himself on a barstool, waving at the barkeeper for a drink.
“Wanna get drunk off my ass.” He grunts as he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable wood digging into his ass. “And it’s gotta be on cheap wine.”
“Trouble with a lass? Or did your enterprise go under?”
Geralt shrugs. “Neither. Just a part of the job.” Being a witcher is four parts misery through and through. “What’ve you got?” He sets down his meager coin pouch; the barkeep eyes it up and brings him a jar that smells mostly of vinegar and certainly nothing like wine. Better than nothing.
He’s deep into his third cup, well on his way from gloomy to brooding when he smells the scent of lilac and gooseberries. Such a sweet scent, always accompanied by the smell of acrid magic that makes the hair on his skin stand up. He looks around, masking the wildness of his eyes with a squint. He’s always too desperate to see Yennefer.
Geralt catches her eye from a table in the back, her long hair flowing idly despite the air-less room. Her eyes are lined with kohl, eyelids dark blue and lips painted so perfectly he aches to kiss them. He’s not seen a more beautiful sight than the sorceress, doubts that he ever will.
He’s drawn to her, not violently, not like before when they’d bring town to dust with their passion. It’s more of a gentle tug now, a want, a wish. Yennefer waits for him, her gaze even. He takes her in; there’s something different about her. He’s not sure what.
“Yennefer,” he sighs. A relief, a return to his love at long last. “How have you been?”
“Busy. You look like you’re all bones.”
“I am,” he chuckles, “you look well.”
“Loc Muinne sends its blessings.” Geralt raises a brow, bringing a fork and knife to the steaming chicken Yennefer’s conjured for him.
“Magic?” Yennefer nods, crossing one leg over the other.
“Teaching, taking time off.” Knowing Yennefer, she has a greater motive but if that’s all she’s willing to share, Geralt won’t press. Likely, it’s another hunt for her fertility. Geralt looks down at his plate, wishing he could hold her hand from across the table.
Instead, he nods, and tells her about his latest contract. She listens with a small smile as he describes the shitty fight, a small grin splitting her face when he’s spit up from the vile creature’s mouth like rotting food. A dimple pokes into the corner of her cheek and his eyes are drawn the birth mark upon her upper lip. Geralt would tell stories for lifetimes if it meant gazing upon her happy face for so long.
The firelight flickers low against her shiny hair, burning idly in her eyes. “Let’s go upstairs?” he suggests. He aches to touch her in the privacy of a room, reacquaint himself with the soft warmth of her skin. Caught in his longing, he notices her smirk a moment too late— Geralt watches with parted lips as Yennefer rises, and rises, and rises.
Geralt knows he looks like a fool. His lips are parted, breaths heavy and shoulders pulled back as he looks up at his lover. She tilts her chin up, head cocking. Geralt feels as if his knees are about to give out from underneath him.
“Yennefer…” he sounds so breathless, awestruck as she towers over him with a smile. “Please.” He has no idea what he’s asking for but Yennefer knows the answer anyway. Knows him too well. Too perfectly well.
“Let’s go upstairs, Geralt.” She pushes past him, past an entire head taller than him and Geralt thinks he might faint. Belatedly, he realizes he’s swooning and quickly follows her up the rickety stairs. Her step in front of him only serves to make her taller, the tips of her hair brushing the base of her ribs. Her curls look shorter for the sheer fact that her legs are so much longer. Geralt feels his throat go dry. If he’d wanted her so desperately before, he’s beyond desperation now.
“Yennefer,” he groans. The room’s door’s kicked shut as he’s pressed to the wall; her violet eyes shine in the firelight. Her brown skin glows, and Geralt is so blessedly glad that his lover holds him to the wall. He feels his knees come out from under him, head beginning to spin with a rush of blood. “You’re—”
“Yes; spell gone wrong.” she mutters against his lips. Geralt presses his lips to hers, desperation suddenly consuming him. “Knew you’d like it,” she chuckles. It’s such a delightful sound that he’s momentarily distracted, looking up at her with eyes that must be so sickly soft.
“Missed you,” he murmurs. Yennefer smiles at him and Geralt feels the world blur as he’s thrown on the bed. They’ve done this before, her strength contending with a witcher’s, but her height makes Geralt’s heart beat so rabbit-quick as she towers over him. Her arms come to bracket him, black hair cascading off her shoulders and brushing against his chest. Her lips come back to his and clothes are promptly shed with hurried hands.
Later, Yennefer slips into the space beside him, violet eyes soft in contentment. Her legs intertwine with his, so much longer and his dick makes a valiant twitch for another round. He’s too content to move, though , stomach full and Yennefer by his side. He wants to hold her. Wants her to hold him.
Yennefer shifts, eyes half-lidded, and wraps an arm around Geralt’s waist before tugging him to her chest. The love-struck expression on Geralt’s face had never gone away, but it comes back with such full-force that Yennefer chuckles and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“You’re looking at me like the sun, Geralt.”
“More like you’re a million stars and I’m a poor man on a horse.” Yennefer blinks at him and a small smile pulls at her lips.
CatShifter!Jaskier and poor Advice Columnist/Witcher Geralt
Tags: nudity but in a casual oh yeah i’m naked oh well let’s cuddle, fluff, humor
Written for flashfic whoo; thank you to @resident-beekeeper, @astaticworld, @king-finnigan, and @the-third-bard for helping me out w/ this one.
On A03 here.
“Stop it.”
The ball of fur writhes furiously by his hand.
“Jaskier, I said stop.” Geralt wonders how life keeps throwing him the slimiest, most rotten of bones.
“Ow! Fuck, no biting!” Jaskier snaps his jaw and turns away to curl in on himself. Geralt goes back to typing. The article’s due by the weekend and it sadly will not write itself. When he’d signed up to be a journalist, Geralt’d figured they’d just have him writing the monster and or pet forum. Easy work.
Sadly, he’d been hired as an advice columnist, an agony aunt. Even sadder, Jaskier refuses to turn back into his human form today.
He’s distracted by a soft paw rubbing against the back of his hand. Pitiful, pitiful eyes look up at him, ears flattened and oh no. Geralt takes a deep breath and steels himself. “No, I already gave you all of my salami.”
Jaskier gives him the dirtiest look with his startling blue eyes and Geralt makes a note to check his shoes for surprises before he puts them on. He shifts on the bed, sitting with his legs criss-crossed underneath him.
His flatmate... Geralt should’ve known. The rent was too cheap and the ad was only looking for nonhumans. Geralt should have known, but Lambert had done a background check and he hadn’t said. It’s no excuse; Geralt should’ve known that there was something up with the shit-eating grin on Lambert’s face when he’d given him the go ahead.
The ginger cat burrows under his wrist, tail flicking idly as he reads what Geralt’s got on his screen. Jaskier adores Geralt’s job, the dirty drama he gets on a daily basis soothes his flea-ridden soul.
This week’s question is an especially wonderful one.
Dearest White Wolf,
My partner is a doppler. I, of course, have no problem with this— I love them with my entire being, I could wax poetic on their beauty, inner and out. But dating a doppler does come with its issues. Namely, I keep forgetting their latest face. Now, it’s a spooky thing waking up to a face you don’t know. I thought I was giving them a kiss good morning, but when I opened my eyes, it was a face I’d never seen and I yelped before promptly falling off the bed.
Now, my partner won’t stop laughing at me for it. They take one look at me before bending over in laughter. They’re beautiful when they laugh, I love them incredibly, but I would like to cuddle them without having them shake in barely-contained laughter behind me. Just for one night.
Please advise, Wolf. I await your answer.
Yours,
Touch-Starved
Jaskier yowls from beside him, clicking his teeth at the screen where Geralt has one awful sentence written.
Dear Touch-Starved,
I am sorry to hear that.
Thank you,
White Wolf
The cat chitters at his reply, no doubt adding embellishments and cooing over the nature of Touch-Starved’s relationship but it’s in Cat and Geralt, luckily, does not speak it.
“Will you shut up if I give you scritches?” Jaskier yowls before tilting his chin up. His tiny head presses into Geralt’s giant hand as he pets his flatmate. He continues to type with his left hand with his friend successfully distracted.
Dear Touch-Starved,
I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their face
Thank you,
White Wolf
His hand is very suddenly attacked by a blur of orange and claw.
Dear Touch-Starved,
I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their faceakdfhadsf
Thank you,
White Wolf
Geralt is a monster hunter by profession (the writing’s a side job, to pay the rent and the like) so he does not yelp. When Jaskier will inevitably make fun of him later, he will deny it because he is a monster hunter by profession and Jaskier’s accusations are untrue because he did not yelp.
He picks Jaskier gently, cupping his legs and furry ass as he brings him to face level. “You’re a bastard,” he tells him, voice even, “Please let me work, bastard man.” Jaskier, impossibly, rolls his eyes and hops out of his hands and onto his head. He makes a nest of it and settles down comfortably. Geralt rolls his own eyes and turns back to his work, praying for a text from Vesemir. Where was a kikimora-that-wants-to-eat-you when he needed one?
The document stares at him.
Dear Touch-Starved,
I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their face. Set it onto the lock-screen of your phone.
Thank you,
White Wolf
He stares back. Jaskier’s tail brushes against his ear. It’s good enough, time to move onto the next one. It’s a miracle they pay him for this shit; something about his straightforward, gruff answers keep his readers entertained.
Jaskier meows from his perch, before hopping down onto his lap. “What, am I not giving you enough attention?” He scratches behind his friend’s ear and rubs his hand down his back and up his tail. “I don’t know why I put up with you, stinky bastard man. You're an awful, stinky bastard man, I don't know why I do.” The shapeshifter yowls and pounces on him; Geralt very suddenly finds himself flat on the bed with a naked Jaskier on his chest, scowling down at him.
“I do not smell!”
Geralt throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, contemplating his life briefly. He looks up again at his friend, his brown hair mused and his blue eyes annoyed. “You’re awful, get off of me.”
“Not until you admit I don’t smell! I may be a small furred animal at times, Geralt,” he pokes a finger into Geralt’s breastbone none too gently, “but I do not smell.”
Geralt groans, long-suffering. “You’re right. You don’t, now get off of me.” Jaskier looks at him a moment longer.
“No, I don’t think I will.” His eyes shine. He lays down, resting his cheek against Geralt’s chest, and settles in. “It's quite warm here.” Geralt could push him off if he wanted to. He considers it briefly and doesn't.
“You’d be warmer if you put clothes on.” Jaskier peers up at him, brows scrunched before his face smoothes out as if just now realizing the feeling of his air-chilled iron nips press against Geralt's chest. He contemplates, shrugs, and settles in again.
Geralt flutters his eyelids in annoyance even if he doesn’t mean it much, and pulls his duvet over to cover his friend. He closes his laptop with his big toe and wraps his arms around his friend’s waist.
Jaskier makes a happy noise and snuggles into the warmth.
The doppler issue can wait until tonight. Geralt shifts and settles in for an afternoon nap with his dumb shifter friend.
I’ve decided to do mermay this year (after wanting to since the beginning of time) but I don’t have time to write something each day, so I made a list! Send me a prompt and a pairing (pairing list can be found here) and I’ll see how many I can get to in a month 💙
