I love your 007 au! Would you consider writing something where Geralt is working and Jaskier is watching the photoshoot or fashion show but someone gets handsy and keeps flirting even though geralt said no. (Arrogant rich asshole who thinks he can buy anything, including a pretty model)
oh gods yes I love the 007 au. are you also the anon that sent me the other really good 007 prompt currently halfway finished in my Workbox google doc??
tw: someone gropes Geralt’s without consent, protective Jaskier, Geralt is very chill the entire time
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Jaskier leaned against the far wall, well out of the way of the bustling set, and watched as the makeup crew fawned over his delectable boyfriend. Geralt preened under the secret agent’s undivided attention, ignoring the pawing and rearranging his team was doing to his hair and outfit. He batted his eyelashes at Jaskier before sauntering onto the set and up to the director.
007 was unfamiliar with this particular photographer; he’d been to a few of Geralt’s shoots and knew at least a handful of his regular employers. This one... there was something off about the way he was looking at Geralt, eyeing him up against the set as if the gorgeous white-haired model was no more than a prop himself.
The authoritative older man flicked his wrist dismissively and Geralt took up his usual position at the center of the cameras, beginning to pose in ways that would best show off his impressive and ridiculously expensive outfit. Jaskier liked the tight-fitting, high-waisted blue trousers they’d chosen to deck his boyfriend out in, but he could take or leave the blue and green paisley-patterned top tucked into the waistband. The sleeves were too loose, more artistic and psychedelic than Geralt’s usual business-casual or athletic fare. It didn’t highlight nearly enough of the model’s perfect physique.
Perhaps it was Jaskier’s advantage, then, that more of Geralt was hidden than displayed. He was a rather jealous creature, after all.
“Hey!”
The secret agent’s eyes focused intently on yet another new figure; a haughty looking young man with dark curly hair had entered the room and was upraising Geralt up close. Too close. It was Geralt who had shouted in the first place.
Jaskier narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. Geralt shook his head and the agent relaxed again, coiled and ready to strike if the need arose. The dark-haired intruder spoke in a low, oddly nasal voice, “Who is this darling piece of man on your set, Jacques?”
“This is Domino,” the photographer introduced. Geralt had taken to using his old nickname during shoots to keep his personal life and relationship with Jaskier away various international villains’ prying eyes. “Domino, this is Emhyr, one of the designers’ sons.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Geralt smiled politely. It was tense and didn’t quite reach his eyes, Jaskier noted.
“And very lovely to meet you, Domino,” Emhyr was practically drooling as he spoke, “Are you free this afternoon?”
“I’m afraid not,” Geralt said. “Nor am I available at all, actually.”
“Disappointing.”
“Em, darling, can we please finish up this shoot?” Jacques finally spoke up. “I’m on a bit of a deadline, you know.”
“Of course,” the young heir winked. As he was going to turn away, he took the opportunity to smack Geralt directly on the bottom. “I wouldn’t want to keep the masses from seeing this, now would I?”
Emhyr had barely finished verbalizing his very stupid question before Jaskier’s hand was around his throat. The photographer rushed forward, his hands fluttering uselessly at his sides as he tried to figure out how to intervene without being injured. He tapped Jaskier’s shoulder lightly, his eyes wide and terrified: “Excuse me, sir, but what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“You don’t just get to assault my boyfriend like that without paying the consequences,” Jaskier snarled. He dug into his breast pocket and dug out his ID card, flashing at the photographer with a quick glare. “I’ll take this outside. Are you alright, babe?”
Geralt was watching him with wide, adoring honey-gold eyes. The model nodded shyly, a light blush warming the skin of his cheeks. “Thank you, love.”
“Of course, my sweetest treasure,” Jaskier practically purred. “Now, I’ll take this trash outside and deal with it; enjoy your shoot.”
Jacques gave him a relieved, thankful look as he hauled the entitled young heir out into the lobby of the studio.
“Now,” 007 began, his eyes narrowed nearly to slits as he held onto the ruffian’s scruff, “Let’s have a little chat about manners, consent, and bodily autonomy, shall we?”
Summary: My take on book Geralt's lifestory, as if he'd look like Henry Cavill his own life. Blaviken is based on the books too (where I'd say Renfri was kinda just as evil as Stregobor).
Timeline is all wrong, witchers are not hated per se, Kaer Morhen still stands.
Geralt is around 30 during Blaviken.
Word count: 2698
Author’s notes: Planned as crack, turned out more serious. Please criticize :)
@geraltwhumpweek
...
They loved to call him pretty.
Other wolves.
People in the villages.
Partners he took to bed, smiling and tracing his face features.
And as much as it should have been great to be considered beautiful, it was a big obstacle in his life.
All the kids brought to Kaer Morhen underwent the Trials. Trials of Grasses took place as soon as they got strong enough.
From the "before" Geralt remembered lots of food. That it was nice and cozy to sleep among the other kids, even though many kicked under the blankets or snored, catching runny nose in the cold castle corridors. He remembered there were many of them, so many they had huge kid tables, and that they were washed in groups by adults who promised to cut their hair if they continue to complain about the process.
He remembered thinking his mom will return and take him back. Same did the others, telling stories about their parents. How they loved them and read stories to put them to bed.
It was a blur.
Geralt didn't remember much.
The white hair, the heightened senses, quickened reaction and constant hunger - all of it came after the Trials. But he was sure his face stayed the same. His hands looked just as they looked before too, and the scars on his knees were still there, even though he wasn't sure how he got them. He also didn't feel like he himself changed in any way.
When he lost all memories so terrible his mind couldn't stand to keep them.
When common big beds became smaller, and suddenly there was only a handful of them sitting at the table.
When they made them eat sickening mushrooms and drink strange juice before they were allowed to eat normal food.
When he started his life as a witcher.
And it wasn't all bad. There was a lot of training. They learned how to fight, how to survive, how to recover. They studied all the creatures big and small, writing, reading and some manners.
He was ten, when he woke up with hair gone all white at the roots, paler skin and sense of smell so sharp his head got dizzy.
Some teachers treated them harshly. Others knew how to make studying exciting.
Autumns were the best time of the year. Traveling wolves returned home, bringing sweets and stories, laughter and tons of food, more than Kaer Morhen's fields and gardens could ever provide.
It wasn't until he turned fourteen that he got called pretty for the first time.
Extra Trials meant he had to be better. Meant he was better at many things, mastering challenges faster than others. It was all fun and games until the other
boys started to hate him for it.
"Ksemir! Hold your stance! You're doing it again!"
They were sparring with training blades, circling each other in the yard. Geralt huffed his hair that started falling out of the tail onto his face, and waited while the teacher explained things again.
"You cannot do that. You just cant, you don't have enough speed nor strength to pull it off. You should be staring less at the adults' training. Concentrate on what I'm telling you. Hey! Are you even listening?"
Ksemir was, indeed, staring at older wolves, dancing with proper swords further from them. Varin, the second fencing instructor who prepared to the Trial of Medallion, screamed at them every single time they made a mistake, and Geralt silently wished to stay fourteen for a little longer. Vesemir was on the Path this year, taking his time off teaching, and they had a replacement, Lestek. He was trying to kick some sense into Ksemir, but failed because of young age and compassion.
"Geralt did it but a minute ago!" another boy screamed. It was Ivur. Geralt didn't like Ivur and Ivur didn't like him back.
"You're not listening again. Geralt is faster, he can do that without getting hit. For the rest of you, it's too risky, hence, don't fucking do it!" Lestek was getting angry.
Geralt raised an eyebrow to Ivur and shrugged.
"Why is he always so fucking special?!"
"I'm not special, you just suck at fencing," Geralt got offended.
"Oh excuse me, and you suck at making potions. Do you think you'll stay this pretty long if you don't know how to treat your wounds?" Ksemir pointed back.
"What?" Geralt knew he looked fine, but what it had to do with anything? Why call him that as an insult?
"He's not gonna be a witcher, he's gonna be a whore like his mother. Look, he even grew his hair like a girl," Ivur jumped over and tried to jerk the tail Geralt's been growing for several years to be more like Vesemir. Vesemir was swell and ladies liked him a lot.
"Kids, shut up! What are you even talking about? Ivur, sit back!"
Geralt didn't pay any attention to that, stretching out to hit Ivur in the face.
It was ugly and quick. Ivur managed to rip off some of Geralt’s hair and received a slap across his cheek and nose.
"Look, he even fights like a girl!" Ivur cried out with a nosebleed.
Geralt got even angrier. And his head hurt. He threw his blade without looking in the direction of Ksemir and rushed away, heading to the tower.
"Geralt, come back at once. You're grounded!"
"Fuck off!"
Maybe he was pretty. Maybe he was special. He didn’t ask for that, nor he asked to be grouped with Ivur and Ksemir today.
Eskel said Ivur was jealous because he himself was ugly as shit, and his mother actually was a whore. Eskel also told Geralt he did sometimes act like he was better than all of them.
It took him time to think it over - during the punishment was as good as ever. He decided he wanted to be not only better, but the best. Learn potions. Learn to braid his hair so no one would be able to touch it. Learn to fight so good no one will ever get in his reach.
Felix got back the next autumn. They had sex on the very night he returned, and it was so much better than jerking off alone. Felix kissed him and fucked him and called him pretty. And Geralt didn't mind, because Felix was beautiful too. He maybe fell in love with him, lighting up with a smile every time he spotted familiar red hair in the halls, and that love lived in him for several years. They stilled called him pretty and special. Felix rubbed his nose over Geralt’s neck and asked “so what?”
"You'll make it. They trained you well, didn't they?" Felix said, and Geralt believed him.
Trial of Medallion only left four of them alive. Ivur died. Geralt didn't feel sorry.
They started to study signs after that, their medallions humming on their chests warm and pleasant. Eskel suddenly turned out genius at it.
Geralt forgot about potions and started to spend more time in the library, reading Monster books and History. He copied the stories about knights on their writing classes. Kaer Morhen only had so many books in the library because witchers wrote them themselves, page after page. Geralt did it well enough they even let him copy a small bestiary with drawings.
He trained more. Got good enough they let him enter their annual fighting contest, with witchers of all ages competing in front of others. He had learned enough potion recipes to survive. How to help wounded people and wounded witchers. Funnily, he also got excellent at scything, making sure Kaer Morhen's horses always had enough grass for the winter.
The first time he's been to a contract with a mentor, it went well. The first time he went to clean a wyvern in the mountains, he came back with not a drop of blood.
When he turned seventeen, Geralt met Felix. He had no idea why they never spoke before. Felix was five years older and has already spent his first year on the Path. They spent evenings on the castle walls, talking about everything, starting with the stars and ending with the upcoming Trial.
He could not make a Quen just as steady as Eskel's, but his Heliotrope worked well, and it's not like there were many bruxas out there.
With a newly chosen name (sadly not the one he wished for), he was ready. Or so he thought. Because aldermen had different opinion.
"Alderman Mislaw? You've written you have harpies nesting nearby. I can..."
"Do they have girl witchers too, now? Get out of my sight! Thank god a normal witcher already took care of them."
Maybe he had to break his nose of something.
"Sorry, what?"
"I'm here about your contract. It says you have a wraith. I can help."
"Sorry, boy, I guess I wasn't clear enough. Get the hell out of here."
"But it's a wraith. You need a witcher for that, I know how to deal with them. You are the contract issuer, right?"
"And a witcher we'll wait for. You are no witcher."
"I am! You see my medallion?"
"I don't care who they give those to these days, but you look younger than my son, and he's fifteen. Get out and stop wasting my fucking time."
The son was taller than Geralt and had a small beard. At fifteen. Kids these days...
"I've killed a cockatrice just a mile away from here. Is there a reward for it?"
"A cockatrice?"
"Skoffin? Kurolishek? I don't know how you call it, but it's there, too big to carry here. I have its feathers and claws with me, if we could just walk..."
"You say you killed our skoffin? Sorry lad, don't believe you. He's a tough one, our skoffin. And you should better go ask for a place in a brothel. All better than to try and portray a witcher. Feathers, huh. I can take those from my chicken and say I killed a skoffin too!"
He had to buy a horse. Absolutely had to. Or get better knives, suitable for ripping off cockatrices' heads.
It took time, but he got there. Started to be recognised around Kaedwin. Used connections other witchers had, spreading their tale about people the same way people talked about them. Geralt had a good reputation and almost felt he became a bit of a knight from those tales he loved once.
And Blaviken stayed that way. Even with the massacre that happened on the market, people were safe. Stregobor left, Renfri was dead as well as her henchmen. People will bury them, clean the blood off the streets, forget it ever happened and live their life in peace, as earlier.
But it all changed so much after Blaviken. So much he never thought it could.
Blaviken used to be a nice place. A place with friends, with good folk who were friendly on the streets and treated wounded witchers well. Caldemeyn, the alderman, knew him thanks to several contracts and always made sure he had a place to stay. It was a peaceful town. No serious monsters around.
There were no real monsters in the world. Only the ones created by humans and humans themselves.
Geralt trailed away, deeply affected by the turn of events. He didn't care about Stregobor's fate. He didn't care that Caldemeyn despised what he had done. But Renfri, the Shrike, and her choices... He only had himself to blame, really. Blame the hope, the belief he had in people. He trusted her to leave town, trusted her to step back and be reasonable. And now he had blood all over his hands, hers and of those murderers, she brought with her.
It wasn't his fault. She had her chance to leave. She was the once making the wrong decision.
Roach got left in a nearby village. He walked there, buried in his thoughts, happy that all the potions and possessions were there, and that he had a paper about that donkey will be returned with him. Getting problems in the village as well would have been a nightmare.
It felt like a dream. The cozy evening they had a night before with alderman and his wife, Marilka asking stupid questions five-year-olds asked. The sex. The morning, the realization.
Snow was late this year, so he made it in time. The castle met him with familiar noise, hugs, warm bathhouse, cellars full of grain and wine, and children, jumping around in excitement. His story about what happened only got one reaction: advice to stay the fuck away from humans, Geralt, when will you learn. It was home, warm evenings, the silence of the land covered in snow and nights not so silent. When the spring came, he almost forgot about it, pushed far enough away not to think.
Eskel, Emir and Geralt left together. They took a contract together too, taking care of a huge and mad troll near Ard Carraigh, and split up, deciding to meet in several months in Tridam, to make a run for Kovir with its never-ending gold.
It was a good year. Until Geralt got to Tridam, as planned.
Roach, his good old Roach, smelled familiar and grounding. Geralt explained the donkey cart situation, thought about everything for a moment, collected his stuff and rode away, now to Holopole instead of Yspaden. After Blaviken, he wanted to spend the winter home.
The nickname followed him from a town to town. Ironically, he was now known as a Butcher in the northern part of Nothern kingdoms, the areas surrounding Kaer Morhen. In Temeria, Lyria and Cintra people didn't care much. Maybe Vesemir was right all those years ago, and saying he was from Rivia was indeed a good choice. He now spent most of his time further and further from home, avoiding the villages who's managed to learn the word of mouth. Only fifteen years later he passed by Blaviken, heading up to Kovir. Rode his horse cautiously and listened carefully to people murmuring around.
"Geralt! You're here too. Come over, join. Lech, this is Geralt, Geralt, Lech is a genius in gwent. You need to play with him. I lost twice already, and his cards aren't even good! Come."
It was good to see Emir again. The Path was lonely, but with other witchers around, it was easy to feel included. Normal.
Lech was already drunk and sent Geralt a wink.
"How bout strip gwent?"
Geralt smiled, unsure of what to answer. He set his saddlebags down, planning to sit down next to Emir on the bench, when someone pushed him forward. The push was strong enough that the table shattered, making Emir's ale fall on the floor.
"What the fuck," Geralt muttered and turned around.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? I payed for that!" Emir raised to stand.
"We don’t want him here."
"What do you mean?" Geralt held Emir's shoulder.
"I mean, we don't want your kind here!" the man, who appeared sober and pissed, spit on the ground between them. It attracted attention and the tavern turned almost silent, deafening after the noise it usually produced.
"What do you mean, our kind?" Emir has met some witcher-haters, but he wasn't in the mood.
"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to him," the man pointed to Geralt. "He killed half a village in Blaviken. Everybody knows that. A witcher with white hair. He's a monster! A butcher!" the man screamed.
The murmur around got louder.
"Hey, it's my brother you're talking about! Geralt is a decent man!"
"But I haven't... I killed the Shrike. Blaviken was safe," Geralt muttered.
"I've heard that too!" a woman from the crowd screamed suddenly. "My son was there, he helped to bury the bodies. It was a massacre!"
One by one, food started to hit them. The man pushed Geralt again, and suddenly the whole tavern became a pitfall. Geralt grabbed his bags and squished through to the exit door, followed by Emir screaming out blusters back. They had to run to their horses, axiing them and as many people around as they could, and abandoned the Tridam on full gallop, hearing the screams thrown their way.
"This is the Butcher of Blaviken," the village boy whispered to a girl who looked like his sister.
"Are you sure?" the girl whispered back.
"Yes. It's him. White hair, you see, pale as a witcher, and the two swords."
The girl's eyes went round as she blushed.
"Oh. I just didn't expect him to be so pretty."
Geralt hid his smile by lowering his head. Well, maybe it wasn't a curse after all.
There was a man standing behind him with a determined look on his face.
