Visiting Marilka - Chapter 7
Title: Visiting Marilka
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Geralt stepped outside. He gave Jaskier one last look before closing the door behind him. The rain poured down, seeping between his neck and his armour. He sloshed through the puddles to the rear of the hut to check on Roach.
Roach eyed him disappointedly.
“I’m sorry this is the best I can do for you right now,” Geralt said.
Roach whinnied when lightning flashed, but Geralt knew she had suffered worse conditions in her many travels with the witcher.
“We’ll get out of here tomorrow,” Geralt promised. He patted her neck reassuringly and said, “I’m sure the Pankratz family will give you all the hay you can eat when we get to Lettenhove.”
The rain showed no sign of letting up as Geralt left Roach and returned to the front of the hut. The river ran parallel to the road, a good hundred yards away. He trudged through the woods, cookpot in hand. Blinking the raindrops out of his eyes, Geralt was surprised to see the remains of the old burn pile that the charcoal maker had left. It looked like previous visitors to the hut had raided firewood from the rotting pile. The remains would be a good source of more firewood if Geralt and Jaskier’s supply ran low. And Jaskier had suggested that they leave some dry kindling wood inside for the next travellers who might seek shelter in the hut.
“Jaskier…” Geralt hummed the bard’s name, taking time to savour the memory of their kiss by the stream.
Gods, Geralt was grateful for all that had transpired since he agreed to join Jaskier on his trip to Lettenhove. In the past week, Geralt had grown to refute everything he had once accepted as a fact about a witcher’s emotions. He hoped Vesemir would understand.
Geralt knew that the bard had always cared for him, but he had never considered Jaskier more than a friend. Indeed, there were days when Geralt struggled to think of Jaskier even as anything more than an annoying distraction. But now, since Geralt’s apology… since understanding how foolish he was to try to drive the bard away for his own good, it was futile. Geralt had not only reunited with Jaskier, but he came to understand that he had fallen in love with him.
Geralt pushed his way through the dripping branches on his way to the river. If he listened closely, he could hear the rushing water over the sound of the falling rain. Finally, he reached the water’s edge. The rain had soaked Geralt’s hair. Droplets fell from the ends of the strands when he bent low to fill the cookpot. He couldn’t wait to get back to the warmth of the hut and another night spent with his charming bard.
Jaskier’s flirting had slayed Geralt. The bard had taken command of his heart.
Geralt had never recognized being the object of Jaskier’s affection before. He still did not believe that he was worthy of love. But Jaskier was doing his best to make Geralt believe. And when Geralt considered the possibilities that became available if he believed… his future with Jaskier might become a happy reality.
“I’ll try to believe,” Geralt said. He carefully carried the cookpot, using both hands. He stepped through the puddles and over the wet mossy landscape.
“One hundred more steps,” Geralt said. He smelled the woodsmoke coming from the fire.
Raindrops fell into the pot, splattering onto the surface of the water.
“Seventy-five more steps.” Geralt was surprised that most of the water remained inside the pot.
Wet branches whipped at Geralt’s face as he made his way through the dense trees.
“Fifty more steps.” Geralt could see the outline of the hut through the rain.
Soon, he’d make some broth for Jaskier and they would spend the night sharing each other’s warmth.
“Twenty more steps.” Geralt’s brow furrowed with concern when he noticed that the door of the hut was open.
“Jaskier?” Geralt called.
Perhaps the bard went to get more wood.
Or maybe he felt the need to check on Roach himself.
But he wouldn’t have left the door open.
“Jask!”
Geralt’s witcher medallion buzzed to life. He dropped the cookpot onto the moss-covered steps and burst through the doorway to the hut.
“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered.
Geralt could not believe his eyes. There, standing on two tree branch legs, the creature took no notice of the witcher. Tangled roots that made up the creature’s arms ended in razor sharp claws. They hovered dangerously close to Jaskier’s face.
A leshen.
Water dripped from the leshen’s limbs. Its head bore a goat’s skull that gazed at Jaskier with sightless eyes. Thin branches, covered with leaves, sprouted from the leshen’s shoulders, although nothing about the leshen resembled any human anatomy.
Jaskier held a stick of firewood in his hand, his only hope of fending off a coming attack. His eyes pleaded for help from Geralt.
Raising a finger to his lips, Geralt motioned for Jaskier to remain silent.
The sour scent of the bard’s fear infuriated Geralt. How dare this creature invade their cosy quarters?
Unfortunately, the leshen dared with reason. Mankind had invaded territory that the leshen considered its own. The price for their invasion was Jaskier’s sacrifice, his fear, possibly his death, but not if Geralt had any say in the matter. The leshen would pay for making Jaskier shake with fear for his life.
Without a word, without barely a glance, Geralt’s silver sword leapt into his hand. Geralt had only the briefest moment to experience the relief that he had left his scabbards by the door.
“Leave him!” Geralt shouted, knowing the leshen would not understand his language.
It didn’t matter, the shout would serve its purpose of drawing the leshen’s attention from Jaskier. Jaskier, with his very human skin and bones that could not possibly withstand an attack from the creature.
“It’s me you want,” Geralt shouted commandingly, charging across the creaking floor toward the beast.
The leshen heard the witcher’s shouts. It turned from Jaskier.
“Gods, be careful, Geralt!” Jaskier cried.
Geralt swung his sword at the creature, cutting clean through one of the branches that grew from the leshen’s shoulders. The branch fell to the floor with a soft thud. Wet leaves shed raindrops onto the barren wood.
“Watch out! Behind you!” Jaskier yelled.
Geralt turned in time to see roots sprouting from the floorboards. The vine-like tendrils lashed themselves around Geralt’s legs.
The witcher made quick work of the leshen’s offspringing shoots, slashing them to ribbons with his blade. He rushed at the main body of the leshen and cut swiftly at its other inhuman shoulder.
The beast howled in pain as it made to stem the flow of sappy lifeblood from its seeping wound.
Geralt spun to land another blow, but the leshen vanished into thin air. Geralt raised his eyebrows at Jaskier, questioning whether the bard had been injured. To his great relief, Jaskier shook his head vigorously, allaying Geralt’s greatest fear.
Geralt’s chest rose and fell as he breathed hard. There was no time to take a potion that might enhance his fighting skills against the leshen. Instead, he would allow himself to be fuelled by the pure rage he felt when he considered its threat to Jaskier. The unfair tragedy if Jaskier were taken from him after all they had endured together was enough to make Geralt growl in anger.
They had made amends.
Geralt resolved to embrace the love he had for Jaskier.
The bard’s human life was short enough without the threat of a leshen to end it before Geralt got to tell Jaskier how he truly felt about him. Jaskier still had a couple decades left in him. And Geralt planned to make every moment of those next decades count.
Rain battered the hut, interfering with Geralt’s hearing. The dim room had succumbed to dusk, lit only by the red coals of the fire that Jaskier had kindled.
“There!” Jaskier shouted, pointing to the doorway. The rotting door still swung on its rusted hinges, but now the leshen materialized before Geralt’s eyes.
Geralt charged forward, slashing at the creature.
The leshen bared its claws, still intact, despite its injuries. It spun toward Geralt, slicing through the air as if in slow motion.
Geralt ducked out of the monster’s way, pirouetted, and ended up behind the beast. He advanced forward, slicing left and right, his teeth gritted against a growl. His medallion jerked wildly, echoing the leshen’s pain.
Bits of tree bark and snapped branches fell from the creature and landed on the floor.
Geralt was determined to prevent the leshen from disappearing again. It must suffer for the threat it posed to Jaskier and their quiet evening. Geralt raged toward the beast and swung his sword sideways, slicing the creature in two.
The upper half of the leshen fell when Jaskier bashed in the goat skull with his piece of firewood. The remaining tree branches and brittle limbs clattered to the floor at Geralt’s feet.
“Thank Melitele!” Jaskier said. He still held the log in his hands when Geralt went to him.
“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, taking the log from Jaskier’s trembling hands.
“No,” Jaskier nodded, falling into Geralt’s arms. “No, I’m just… it surprised me. I thought it was you, returning with the water.”
The log that Jaskier had used to fell the leshen dropped to the floor with a thud.
Geralt ran his fingers over Jaskier’s back, his hair, his face.
“I could have lost you,” Geralt whispered, pulling Jaskier close. He craved the acceptance that Jaskier had afforded him. There was no turning back to his stoic witcherly ways now.
Jaskier trembled under Geralt’s touch. “Oh darling witcher,” Jaskier said. “You’ll never lose me.”
Geralt slid his hands into Jaskier’s hair and pulled him into a kiss. Jaskier’s mouth was warm and inviting. His hands roamed up Geralt’s back, soothing whatever stress came from the fight with the leshen. Geralt shuddered to think that he could have lost this so easily.
“I thought you were concerned about getting my clothes wet again?” Jaskier asked with a grin when they gasped for air.
“My shirt-the one that you’re wearing, will dry soon enough if we hang it by the fire,” Geralt said.
“I’d have to take it off first,” Jaskier said, leaning in to nip at Geralt’s ear.
The wind-driven rain thrashed the hut door, left open in the attack. The fire sparked to life from the sudden gust of air.
“Take care of my shirt,” Geralt said, giving Jaskier a squeeze. “I have to finish my job.”
Jaskier nodded slowly. His hands went to the pearl buttons of the witcher’s black woollen shirt that had been warming him.
Geralt turned to the remains of the leshen and gathered the larger pieces of the slain monster. He hurled them out the door of the hut. They landed several yards away in a pit of sloppy mud. Thankful that all the water had not spilled out of the cookpot, Geralt retrieved the pot from where it had landed on the steps. He closed the door behind him with a kick of his foot and brought the pot to the hearth.
Jaskier approached Geralt. The black shirt that he held in his hands wasn’t too badly saturated. He clutched it to his bare chest and stood before the fire.
Geralt set the cookpot on the grate to heat. He tried to avoid looking at Jaskier for the moment so he could concentrate on the task of ridding the hut of the leshen’s remains. At least the branches could be burned as firewood. He gathered what bits of bark and twigs littered the floor and dumped them onto the fire. The flames flared up, painting the hut’s walls in golden light.
Geralt brushed off whatever detritus remained on his hands and addressed the bard.
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered his name with a tilt of his head.
“You returned just in time to save me,” Jaskier said.
Geralt took the shirt from Jaskier, who let it slip out of his hands.
“You did well, considering the danger posed by a leshen,” Geralt said, taking a breath and stroking Jaskier’s scruffy cheek with his fingertips.
Jaskier bit his lip. “Could there be more of them?”
Geralt shook his head. “Don’t worry. They’re solitary.”
“Thank the gods,” Jaskier said. A brief chill made him shudder, his nipples pebbled in the cold.
“Can you drag the pallet over to the fire while I get out of these wet things?” Geralt asked.
Geralt hated to ask the bard to do anything like performing a menial task, but his clothing was still soaked through and growing more uncomfortable by the moment.
“Of course,” Jaskier said, and went about moving the pallet.
Geralt arranged the shirt Jaskier had worn on a thin rope that had been mounted above the hearth for the purpose of drying wet clothing. The sodden cloak followed. He turned when he heard the scrape of the wooden pallet being dragged across the floor.
“Thanks,” Geralt said, unfastening the buttons of his own shirt. He watched as Jaskier moved the pallet into place before the fire. The muscles in Jaskier’s arms flexed as he nudged the pallet into the best position. Geralt could not tear his eyes away from the bard’s arms and his glorious chest.
“The bedroll might make this more passable as a mattress,” Jaskier said, hands on his hips.
“Agreed,” Geralt said, stepping toward the bard and pulling him close.
“I thought you were undressing?” Jaskier asked, slipping his hands beneath the wet fabric of Geralt’s shirt.
The scent of sage and bergamot wafted from Jaskier’s skin.
“Why, bard, if you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask,” Geralt muttered.
Jaskier laughed, his eyes bright with glee as he slid the shirt from Geralt’s shoulders. It landed, wet on the floor, like an old rag.
“Gods, you’re soaked to the skin,” Jaskier remarked, his hands roving over Geralt’s clammy chest.
Geralt couldn’t wait to get out of his wet trousers. He thumbed open the top button while Jaskier watched with lustful eyes.
“The bedroll,” Jaskier said, clearing his throat. “I’ll tend to that.”
Any apprehension Geralt may have experienced at being naked under Jaskier’s gaze was alleviated when the bard left him momentarily. He kicked off his waterlogged boots and unbuttoned his trousers the rest of the way.
Jaskier, still wearing his wet trousers and Geralt’s warm socks, strode across the room to where the saddlebags lay. He quickly unpacked the bedroll and rolled it onto the sleeping pallet.
Although Jaskier had seen Geralt naked countless times, the witcher hoped the bard wouldn’t be disappointed by all the scars on his battle-tested body. He caught himself thinking that Jaskier could have his choice of lovers and a mutant like him could never measure up to a lord or lady of the court. But Geralt pinched himself, remembering that any boundary that kept Jaskier from him was a product of Geralt’s own devising.
Jaskier had followed him for more than twenty years, devoting himself to Geralt because it was what he desired to do. No one told him it was impossible.
Geralt only had to imagine himself fitting perfectly into Jaskier’s life, transcending all a witcher’s boundaries… and it could be so.
Just like the son of a Count could become a travelling bard.
Just like a maiden could become the head of the king’s guard.
Just like a young girl could leave the only home she knew.
If only a princess born under the black sun could have imagined leaving Blaviken instead of challenging a witcher.
The robust fire warmed Geralt’s backside when he stepped out of his trousers, leaving them in a soggy puddle on the floor.
“That must feel so much better,” Jaskier said, bending to pick Geralt’s trousers. “We should hang these by the fire to dry.”
Geralt nodded in agreement as he watched Jaskier unfasten his own trousers. Clearly the leshen had interrupted the bard as he prepared to change into dry clothes. The tied bows at Jaskier’s waist had already been undone.
The room became too warm for Geralt as Jaskier stepped out of his trousers and braies. He hung both his and Geralt’s on the line to dry. Geralt watched as the firelight washed over Jaskier’s nude body. Gods, he was beautiful.
He’s mine, Geralt reminded himself. I can have the joy he brings to my life. I can have all of this.
“There,” Jaskier said, turning back to the witcher. “Now I can thank you properly.”
Geralt took Jaskier into his arms and kissed him. He loved the feel of the bard’s scruffy face against his own. The swirls of hair on Jaskier’s chest pressed against his own chest that was marred by scars that told of his life as a witcher. He leaned low and pressed kisses to the underside of Jaskier’s jaw, asking, “What for?”
“For saving me from the leshen, you gigantic beast-slaying hero,” Jaskier said, tapping Geralt’s chest in exasperation.
“You looked pretty fierce with that log in your hands,” Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s ear.
“I did manage to fell the creature with a single blow,” Jaskier said proudly.
“You did better than most damsels,” Geralt said conciliatorily, pulling the bard closer. His cock throbbed from all the kissing. And the scent of sage and bergamot intoxicated his senses.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Jaskier said, grinding his hard cock against Geralt’s hip, “I’m not a damsel.”
Geralt groaned with pleasure. “Oh, I’ve noticed, bard. I have most certainly noticed,” he said, gathering Jaskier in his arms and lowering him onto the pallet. The bedroll made for a little cushioning against the rough wood. They both landed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
A tiny part of Geralt’s mind needled at him. He feared that he would be awkward when compared to Jaskier’s other lovers. But Jaskier put his mind at ease, quieting any apprehension with his soft hands and lush mouth that made Geralt feel utterly wanted.
Jaskier slung a leg over Geralt’s hips and pulled him closer.
Their cocks brushed together, making Geralt gasp.
Jaskier grinned, his eyes glittering in the firelight.
Darkness had fallen during the ordeal with the leshen. Now the only light was that of their fire.
Geralt let his gaze rove over Jaskier’s face. He couldn’t get enough of the thrill that he was allowed to kiss Jaskier on his sweet mouth whenever he wanted. He hated the discomfort of the pallet though. Jaskier deserved a bed with soft sheets and plush furs. He ought to have rose petals strewn across his bedding and buttercups that glowed when they were kissed by a golden fire.
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asked, nudging Geralt with his bare foot.
“You’re so beautiful, Jask. I like to kiss you,” Geralt said, letting whatever words came to mind escape into the intimate space between them.
Jaskier soothed him, stroking his face, brushing his long white hair from his brow. “Just promise that you won’t push me away again,” Jaskier whispered. “Like on the mountain.”
Rain pelted against the roof of the hut.
The logs in the fire crackled, prompting Geralt to speak. He nodded, holding onto Jaskier gently as if he were as fragile as glass. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was so stupid.”
“It nearly killed me to be away from you for so long,” Jaskier murmured, pulling Geralt closer.
“I’ll never do anything like that again,” Geralt assured him.
“I believe you,” Jaskier said with love in his eyes.
Geralt mouthed promises into Jaskier’s neck.
Jaskier canted his hips forward, grinding his cock into Geralt’s thigh. “I need your hands on me,” he pleaded.
Geralt’s cock throbbed. He ached to touch Jaskier, his scent of arousal permeating the dreary hut. He let his hand rake through the hair on Jaskier’s chest, before sliding it over the bard’s taut belly.
“I didn’t realise all that we could have had,” Geralt said. Regret welled inside him when he understood that he had felt love for Jaskier all along, but he was too well-trained as a witcher, a mutant. He hadn’t dared to do anything about it.
“Touch me, for the gods’ sakes, Geralt,” Jaskier groaned.
“I didn’t realise you would let me have this,” Geralt said, taking Jaskier’s cock in his hand.
“You can have this,” Jaskier moaned, surging into Geralt’s grasp. “You can have me. You’ve always had me.”
The bard’s cock fit perfectly into Geralt’s hand. He brushed his thumb over the tip that dripped with Jaskier’s anticipation. Although the hut had grown dark, Geralt could see everything he wanted. Jaskier’s cock, pretty and perfect just like the rest of the bard. Geralt wanted to taste him, to feel the surge of Jaskier’s pleasure inside him.
Jaskier rocked his hips deliciously. Although the night promised more cold rain, the witcher and his bard felt nothing but comfort in their warm cocoon.
Geralt got onto his hands and knees, caging Jaskier beneath him. He kissed a trail down Jaskier’s abdomen, delighting in the feel of Jaskier’s hands in his hair. Gasping when his oversensitive cock brushed against the rough bedroll, Geralt felt as though he would come before he could give Jaskier very much pleasure.
At last, Geralt’s mouth found Jaskier’s cock and took him deep inside. Geralt relished the feel of Jaskier’s cock in his mouth, he sucked on the head of it and listened to Jaskier’s moans and little sounds of pleasure that filled their hut. He flattened his tongue and took as much as he could into his mouth, concentrating on drawing out Jaskier’s sensations.
“Oh gods, your mouth Geralt, I knew it would feel heavenly,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes.
Geralt drew off Jaskier’s cock and laughed. “You taste fantastic, Jask,” he whispered, palming his own cock to stave off his release. “But I don’t think either of us are going to last very long.”
Without further comment, Geralt sucked Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. His nose buried in the dark nest of hair at Jaskier’s groin, the scent of sage and bergamot overwhelmed Geralt’s senses because he knew Jaskier’s arousal was for him alone. The thought of it was enough to tip Geralt over the edge, his pleasure cascading through him as he spent. He had to stop pleasuring Jaskier for a time while he regained his senses, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. The bard kept up a stuttering rhythm with his hips as his cock jabbed Geralt’s chin repeatedly.
When Geralt could breathe again, he held the bard’s hips in place, stopping Jaskier from bucking too deeply into his mouth while he resumed lavishing Jaskier’s cock with attention.
After a moment, Jaskier’s fingers dug into Geralt’s scalp as he came.
Geralt did his best to swallow down as much of Jaskier’s seed as he could. He gently squeezed Jaskier’s stones in one large hand, milking whatever might have remained into his mouth.
“No matter,” Jaskier panted, out of breath as if he had just run a mile. He waved his hands at Geralt. “We have all the time in the world to find out the truth about a witcher’s purported stamina.”
Geralt crawled to the top of their bedroll and admired Jaskier’s dopey grin, his eyes half-closed in bliss. He wrapped Jaskier in his arms, accepting, finally, that he could have such happiness.
This was his.
Jaskier was his.
Even if he was a brat.
~
The night passed more quickly than Geralt would have liked. They woke and added fuel to the fire in the hearth in the form of firewood and fuel to their bodies in the form of teas and what food they had brought from Grabowa Buchta. They ate their fill and drank the tea, although a hot drink was no longer needed to keep them warm. The heat came from within them as they joined in the night with reverent touches and soft kisses, with murmured apologies and whispered promises.
By morning, the rain had finally stopped. They packed up the bedroll and donned dry clothing for the remaining day of their journey to Lettenhove.
Jaskier sped through his morning routine of applying moisturizer and inspecting his fingernails. A lutenist’s hands needed to stay in good form if he was expected to entertain an audience, even if they were members of his own family.
Geralt only had to catch Jaskier looking at him fondly as they packed to know that he needn’t have any regrets about their lovemaking. He did not look forward to meeting Jaskier’s family in Lettenhove as much as he did spending all the days thereafter with his beloved bard.
Even Roach seemed happy to leave her makeshift stall. The sun-streaked sky called to her after the previous slog on the muddy road where she was burdened with two riders. She stamped her foot eagerly when Geralt tacked her for the day’s travel.
By mid-morning the spires of Gors Velen came into view. They nibbled on a breakfast of steamed fish swimming in a thick gravy. Splitting a loaf of yeasty bread, still warm from the baker’s oven, Geralt and Jaskier spent as much time eating as they did sharing fleeting touches beneath the tavern tabletop in the seaport city.
Geralt’s only regret about what had grown between himself and Jaskier was that he hadn’t given in to the bard’s affections years ago. Stubborn and unwilling to surrender for any price, Geralt had followed the Path as diligently as any witcher who had come before him. He was grateful to whatever gods looked after him that he had taken the monumental leap and ventured off the Path long enough to accept the pleasure of Jaskier’s company. He had yielded enough to let Jaskier into his heart, no longer the stony immovable product of the Trials he had endured, but one as broad as the expanse of the spheres themselves.
“We’re going to need to hurry, if we are to make it to Lettenhove before nightfall,” Jaskier said, shaking Geralt from his thoughts.
Geralt reached for Jaskier’s arm and gave it a squeeze.
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asked with a wink. “I can tell your mind was elsewhere.”
“You’ll be home soon,” Geralt said, sliding his gloves back onto his hands.
Jaskier nodded appraisingly at the witcher. “And my family will be delighted to meet you.”
Geralt groaned. He could not imagine what the family who shaped the man he loved would think of him as a companion. He hoped he would pass whatever scrutiny they held for him.
The road from Gors Velen to Kerack was just as empty as the road from Grabowa Buchta had been. Although both stretches of road were similar in connecting two cities, Geralt knew that everything had changed. Now, they took breaks from walking with Jaskier laying his head in Geralt’s lap. Geralt reminded himself that he was allowed to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. To press kisses to his lips between bites of ripe red apple stolen from an orchard that lined the road. And that he was allowed to be loved in return.
The afternoon’s travels took them through the eastern part of Cidaris. Geralt laughed as Jaskier raged about Cidaris being the home base for his nemesis, Valdo Marx.
“That was the bard who you wished apoplexy upon?” Geralt asked, remembering the three wishes granted by the djinn, all those years ago.
“The very one,” Jaskier said. “He’s a hack, a plagiarist, and a two-bit performer at that. I have no idea how he was awarded the title, troubadour of Cidaris. Clearly the people here have no taste whatsoever. Let’s hurry on our way, lest we lose any of the refined culture we possess.”
“Hmm, apoplexy? That seems a bit harsh.” Geralt led Roach by the reins. He knew that she would not complain about having two riders on her back if the hour got late. He was as eager as Jaskier to reach Lettenhove, but it would do no good to wear Roach out in case her vigour became necessary.
“He’d be lucky to deserve such a swift death,” Jaskier said, waving his hands erratically. He followed at Geralt’s side, never complaining about his tired feet now that a visit to Lettenhove was well within his grasp.
“In all these years, I’ve rarely seen you so vengeful,” Geralt said, pausing to consider Jaskier’s state.
“Ah, I’ve always had a vengeful streak. A bit of sass, I’ve been told,” Jaskier admitted. “I must get it from my mother.”
“Remind me to stay out of her way,” Geralt laughed.
Jaskier dismissed Geralt’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “You needn’t worry about her. She’ll adore you as I do.”
Geralt stopped in place. He owed much to the woman who birthed Jaskier and made him the adventuresome lad he loved. “I hope so,” he said. He searched for something to hold onto and found Jaskier in his arms. He kissed him deeply while the bard’s hands trailed up and down his armour-clad back, soothing him, always reassuring him that all was well.
When they drew apart to breathe, Jaskier met Geralt’s amber eyes. He seemed to observe their inhuman colour more than usual. Jaskier’s eyes squinted to confirm. “She’s always had a soft spot for those who are a bit different.”
“You think she’ll accept me because I’m a mutant?” Geralt asked. “She won’t have me run out of town for defiling her son?”
“Hah!” Jaskier shouted gleefully.
“Hmm,” Geralt muttered. “Probably not the first time you’ve been defiled…
“She’ll respect you because you’re a mutant.” Jaskier said with a nod. “But she’ll love you because you’re my mutant.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted as he kissed Jaskier again. He was a bit apprehensive about meeting Jaskier’s mother, but he trusted that Jaskier would defend him to her. To his whole family if necessary.
~
Night began to fall as they crossed the border into the Kingdom of Kerack. Jaskier promised that they only had to travel a mile or so beyond the kingdom’s borders to reach the Earldom of Lettenhove and his home. Geralt was grateful for the clear sky and the bright moon that illuminated the night. Time flew by for Geralt as he wondered what kind of reception Jaskier would get from his family. When he was certain that Jaskier wasn’t listening, he whispered aloud, practicing his most cordial offer of condolences and courtly greeting for Jaskier’s mother.
Roach’s hooves clip-clopped down the quiet cobblestone streets of the affluent earldom. Although darkness swathed the streets, Geralt could see down the long avenues that led to the square and beyond. Soon they turned off the main road and onto a country lane. Ahead of them towered the buildings of a large estate. In the moonlight, the residential villa stood three storeys high. Each window was illuminated by candlelight. A clocktower with a bulbous peak adorned the north side of the estate.
Jaskier caught Geralt staring. “I always thought it looked like a bit of a butt plug, myself,” Jaskier quipped.
It has been said that witchers do not blush, but Geralt was certain that his cheeks burned red.
“Let’s get Roach settled first,” Jaskier suggested. “My mother will keep us up all night talking, so it would be best to not leave Roach waiting for some fresh bedding and water.”
“I’m sure Roach will appreciate it,” Geralt said.
Geralt followed Jaskier to the long row of stables that adjoined the villa’s south gallery.
With a practiced manoeuvre, Jaskier swiftly unfastened the latch and pushed the heavy door open.
They stepped inside and wandered down the central aisle amid the soft neighs and whinnies that told of a dozen horses occupying the stables. Moonlight streamed through the narrow poured glass windows, casting the barn in a subtle glow that was broken by shadows. The scent of horse manure and leather tack gave Geralt’s senses a warm welcome. Jaskier soon found an empty stall for Roach and Geralt led her inside.
“I’m sorry, the stableboys must all be off duty at this hour,” Jaskier said, stepping into Geralt’s space and brushing his hair off his forehead. “If you want to untack her, I’ll look for a bale of hay and she’ll need water.”
Geralt grabbed the front of Jaskier’s crimson coat and pulled him in for a kiss. Warm blood ran through his veins every time they touched so intimately. His heart beat with a wild fury when he considered how different his life could have been if he had done this years ago instead. The only consolation was that he still had a couple decades of Jaskier’s life to make up for his hesitance.
Jaskier giggled against Geralt’s lips. “I love that you can’t keep your hands off me.”
“Thanks, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “Thank you for everything.” He let Jaskier go so he could find hay and a bucket of water for Roach.
Roach snorted loudly when Geralt stroked her neck.
“What’s wrong, girl?” Geralt asked. “Hard to imagine your witcher in love?”
Roach stood quietly. The soft sound of animals at rest and Jaskier finding a bale of hay came from across the barn.
Geralt unbuckled Roach’s saddle and rubbed at her side. “You love him too, don’t you?” he asked. The memory of Jaskier’s kiss made him sink into a meditative state. The relief at finally arriving at their destination loosened his tight control over his actions. He allowed himself to embrace the dreamy comfort that came from believing Jaskier accepted him. Jaskier loved him. Jaskier had convinced Geralt that he was a witcher who could feel.
Roach nickered beneath Geralt’s hand.
Water sloshed into a bucket from somewhere close. Jaskier undoubtedly filled a trough for Roach.
Geralt was startled back to awareness when he heard the crisp edge of steel as it slid from a scabbard.
Instinct took over.
Geralt drew his blade, but his assailant was quicker. Swords clashed in the dim barn as the pair sparred against each other. Geralt’s witcher medallion remained still, indicating that his assailant was indeed human. He caught a glimpse of smooth pale skin and dark tangled locks, reminding him of another swordfight that had changed the course of his life. His assailant couldn’t possibly be Renfri, but her ghost somehow lived in the skill of his assailant’s strikes and in the determination of the attack.
“Renfri,” Geralt muttered. He knew at that instant that there had been other options on that fateful day in the square. He simply couldn’t see them. He could have let Renfri settle her score with Stregobor. To fight him to the death was Renfri’s decision to make, but Geralt had taken that decision from her, instead pleading for her to leave Blaviken. Perhaps she would have won against the wizard. Or perhaps the day still would have ended with Renfri lying in a pool of blood and Stregobor declared a murderer.
Anything would have been better than the truth. Renfri’s death at Geralt’s hands was one of the greatest regrets of his life.
Geralt’s inattention allowed his assailant the advantage of speed, bringing him to a stalemate in an instant, despite the darkness in the stables.
“Stand down,” the assailant commanded, a blade pressed against Geralt’s neck. “Drop your sword.”
Jaskier flew into the stall. “Holy fuck!” he shouted, dropping a bale of hay on the floor.
“Julian?” the assailant did not loosen her grip on the sword, nor did she yield to Geralt who still held her at bay with his own steel.
“Melitele’s tits, Leo! Geralt is with me,” Jaskier yelled.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Leocretia dropped her guard and sheathed her sword. “Julian! It’s about time you got here!”
Geralt let his shoulders relax as he, too, sheathed his steel.
Jaskier threw himself at his sister and embraced her mightily.
The warrior stood nearly as tall as Jaskier. She was younger than her brother with smooth skin and no crow’s feet bracketing her bright blue eyes. Chestnut hair fell in long loose waves from the top of her head, cascading down her back, but the lower part of her scalp had been shaved close. An intricate pattern of runic letters had been shorn down to the skin. She was clad in leather armour, not unlike Geralt’s. The stain of tattooed letters crept across her skin from beneath her breastplate. Geralt had to agree that Jaskier’s description of his sister was entirely accurate. This warrior was undoubtedly the famed Leocretia Pankratz of King Osmyk’s guard.
“It’s about time you got here! Mother sent me outside because she thought she heard activity in the barn. Her hearing is not what it used to be. But imagine my surprise when I saw him fiddling with a horse,” Leocretia said, jabbing an elbow at Geralt. “How the fuck are you? I haven’t seen you in an age.”
“Good gods, Leo, we’ve been travelling since I received word about father. We were in Kovir at the time and after travelling separately for a day or two, we’ve joined up again,” Jaskier said, looking at Geralt with fondness in his eyes. “And now we’ve stopped at a half-dozen towns, including a blissful stay at my rooms in Oxenfurt. We mucked through the bad weather yesterday and finally we’re here.”
“Are you shitting me? You ought to be strung up for taking so long to get here. Do you only have one horse? You should have hired a carriage to bring you. For Melitele’s sake, you know you have enough coin in your stores to afford it. I’ll bet you stopped to play that infernal lute in a tavern or two. I know you, Julian, so don’t try to cover up your attention-seeking ways. In any case, you’re here now and mother has been anticipating your visit for days.”
Geralt’s head turned from one sibling to the other. He decided that if there were a contest for who could speak more words without pausing to breathe, Jaskier and Leocretia would be each other’s top competition. He resumed tending to Roach, removing her tack and spreading hay on the floor of her stall while the pair of siblings chattered at each other.
“And what are you doing with him?” Leocretia finally asked, jabbing a thumb toward Geralt.
Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt and proudly introduced him. “This is my dear… um… friend… Geralt of Rivia.”
Leocretia looked Geralt up and down. “He’s a witcher?”
Jaskier nodded eagerly.
Leocretia’s eyes flew open. “And he’s with you? Like with you?”
Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek.
Leocretia yelped. “Julian! Mother is going to shit!”
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Geralt stepped outside. He gave Jaskier one last look before closing the door behind him. The rain poured down, seeping between his neck and his armour. He sloshed through the puddles to the rear of the hut to check on Roach.
Roach eyed him disappointedly.
“I’m sorry this is the best I can do for you right now,” Geralt said.
Roach whinnied when lightning flashed, but Geralt knew she had suffered worse conditions in her many travels with the witcher.
“We’ll get out of here tomorrow,” Geralt promised. He patted her neck reassuringly and said, “I’m sure the Pankratz family will give you all the hay you can eat when we get to Lettenhove.”
The rain showed no sign of letting up as Geralt left Roach and returned to the front of the hut. The river ran parallel to the road, a good hundred yards away. He trudged through the woods, cookpot in hand. Blinking the raindrops out of his eyes, Geralt was surprised to see the remains of the old burn pile that the charcoal maker had left. It looked like previous visitors to the hut had raided firewood from the rotting pile. The remains would be a good source of more firewood if Geralt and Jaskier’s supply ran low. And Jaskier had suggested that they leave some dry kindling wood inside for the next travellers who might seek shelter in the hut.
“Jaskier…” Geralt hummed the bard’s name, taking time to savour the memory of their kiss by the stream.
Gods, Geralt was grateful for all that had transpired since he agreed to join Jaskier on his trip to Lettenhove. In the past week, Geralt had grown to refute everything he had once accepted as a fact about a witcher’s emotions. He hoped Vesemir would understand.
Geralt knew that the bard had always cared for him, but he had never considered Jaskier more than a friend. Indeed, there were days when Geralt struggled to think of Jaskier even as anything more than an annoying distraction. But now, since Geralt’s apology… since understanding how foolish he was to try to drive the bard away for his own good, it was futile. Geralt had not only reunited with Jaskier, but he came to understand that he had fallen in love with him.
Geralt pushed his way through the dripping branches on his way to the river. If he listened closely, he could hear the rushing water over the sound of the falling rain. Finally, he reached the water’s edge. The rain had soaked Geralt’s hair. Droplets fell from the ends of the strands when he bent low to fill the cookpot. He couldn’t wait to get back to the warmth of the hut and another night spent with his charming bard.
Jaskier’s flirting had slayed Geralt. The bard had taken command of his heart.
Geralt had never recognized being the object of Jaskier’s affection before. He still did not believe that he was worthy of love. But Jaskier was doing his best to make Geralt believe. And when Geralt considered the possibilities that became available if he believed… his future with Jaskier might become a happy reality.
“I’ll try to believe,” Geralt said. He carefully carried the cookpot, using both hands. He stepped through the puddles and over the wet mossy landscape.
“One hundred more steps,” Geralt said. He smelled the woodsmoke coming from the fire.
Raindrops fell into the pot, splattering onto the surface of the water.
“Seventy-five more steps.” Geralt was surprised that most of the water remained inside the pot.
Wet branches whipped at Geralt’s face as he made his way through the dense trees.
“Fifty more steps.” Geralt could see the outline of the hut through the rain.
Soon, he’d make some broth for Jaskier and they would spend the night sharing each other’s warmth.
“Twenty more steps.” Geralt’s brow furrowed with concern when he noticed that the door of the hut was open.
“Jaskier?” Geralt called.
Perhaps the bard went to get more wood.
Or maybe he felt the need to check on Roach himself.
But he wouldn’t have left the door open.
“Jask!”
Geralt’s witcher medallion buzzed to life. He dropped the cookpot onto the moss-covered steps and burst through the doorway to the hut.
“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered.
Geralt could not believe his eyes. There, standing on two tree branch legs, the creature took no notice of the witcher. Tangled roots that made up the creature’s arms ended in razor sharp claws. They hovered dangerously close to Jaskier’s face.
A leshen.
Water dripped from the leshen’s limbs. Its head bore a goat’s skull that gazed at Jaskier with sightless eyes. Thin branches, covered with leaves, sprouted from the leshen’s shoulders, although nothing about the leshen resembled any human anatomy.
Jaskier held a stick of firewood in his hand, his only hope of fending off a coming attack. His eyes pleaded for help from Geralt.
Raising a finger to his lips, Geralt motioned for Jaskier to remain silent.
The sour scent of the bard’s fear infuriated Geralt. How dare this creature invade their cosy quarters?
Unfortunately, the leshen dared with reason. Mankind had invaded territory that the leshen considered its own. The price for their invasion was Jaskier’s sacrifice, his fear, possibly his death, but not if Geralt had any say in the matter. The leshen would pay for making Jaskier shake with fear for his life.
Without a word, without barely a glance, Geralt’s silver sword leapt into his hand. Geralt had only the briefest moment to experience the relief that he had left his scabbards by the door.
“Leave him!” Geralt shouted, knowing the leshen would not understand his language.
It didn’t matter, the shout would serve its purpose of drawing the leshen’s attention from Jaskier. Jaskier, with his very human skin and bones that could not possibly withstand an attack from the creature.
“It’s me you want,” Geralt shouted commandingly, charging across the creaking floor toward the beast.
The leshen heard the witcher’s shouts. It turned from Jaskier.
“Gods, be careful, Geralt!” Jaskier cried.
Geralt swung his sword at the creature, cutting clean through one of the branches that grew from the leshen’s shoulders. The branch fell to the floor with a soft thud. Wet leaves shed raindrops onto the barren wood.
“Watch out! Behind you!” Jaskier yelled.
Geralt turned in time to see roots sprouting from the floorboards. The vine-like tendrils lashed themselves around Geralt’s legs.
The witcher made quick work of the leshen’s offspringing shoots, slashing them to ribbons with his blade. He rushed at the main body of the leshen and cut swiftly at its other inhuman shoulder.
The beast howled in pain as it made to stem the flow of sappy lifeblood from its seeping wound.
Geralt spun to land another blow, but the leshen vanished into thin air. Geralt raised his eyebrows at Jaskier, questioning whether the bard had been injured. To his great relief, Jaskier shook his head vigorously, allaying Geralt’s greatest fear.
Geralt’s chest rose and fell as he breathed hard. There was no time to take a potion that might enhance his fighting skills against the leshen. Instead, he would allow himself to be fuelled by the pure rage he felt when he considered its threat to Jaskier. The unfair tragedy if Jaskier were taken from him after all they had endured together was enough to make Geralt growl in anger.
They had made amends.
Geralt resolved to embrace the love he had for Jaskier.
The bard’s human life was short enough without the threat of a leshen to end it before Geralt got to tell Jaskier how he truly felt about him. Jaskier still had a couple decades left in him. And Geralt planned to make every moment of those next decades count.
Rain battered the hut, interfering with Geralt’s hearing. The dim room had succumbed to dusk, lit only by the red coals of the fire that Jaskier had kindled.
“There!” Jaskier shouted, pointing to the doorway. The rotting door still swung on its rusted hinges, but now the leshen materialized before Geralt’s eyes.
Geralt charged forward, slashing at the creature.
The leshen bared its claws, still intact, despite its injuries. It spun toward Geralt, slicing through the air as if in slow motion.
Geralt ducked out of the monster’s way, pirouetted, and ended up behind the beast. He advanced forward, slicing left and right, his teeth gritted against a growl. His medallion jerked wildly, echoing the leshen’s pain.
Bits of tree bark and snapped branches fell from the creature and landed on the floor.
Geralt was determined to prevent the leshen from disappearing again. It must suffer for the threat it posed to Jaskier and their quiet evening. Geralt raged toward the beast and swung his sword sideways, slicing the creature in two.
The upper half of the leshen fell when Jaskier bashed in the goat skull with his piece of firewood. The remaining tree branches and brittle limbs clattered to the floor at Geralt’s feet.
“Thank Melitele!” Jaskier said. He still held the log in his hands when Geralt went to him.
“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, taking the log from Jaskier’s trembling hands.
“No,” Jaskier nodded, falling into Geralt’s arms. “No, I’m just… it surprised me. I thought it was you, returning with the water.”
The log that Jaskier had used to fell the leshen dropped to the floor with a thud.
Geralt ran his fingers over Jaskier’s back, his hair, his face.
“I could have lost you,” Geralt whispered, pulling Jaskier close. He craved the acceptance that Jaskier had afforded him. There was no turning back to his stoic witcherly ways now.
Jaskier trembled under Geralt’s touch. “Oh darling witcher,” Jaskier said. “You’ll never lose me.”
Geralt slid his hands into Jaskier’s hair and pulled him into a kiss. Jaskier’s mouth was warm and inviting. His hands roamed up Geralt’s back, soothing whatever stress came from the fight with the leshen. Geralt shuddered to think that he could have lost this so easily.
“I thought you were concerned about getting my clothes wet again?” Jaskier asked with a grin when they gasped for air.
“My shirt-the one that you’re wearing, will dry soon enough if we hang it by the fire,” Geralt said.
“I’d have to take it off first,” Jaskier said, leaning in to nip at Geralt’s ear.
The wind-driven rain thrashed the hut door, left open in the attack. The fire sparked to life from the sudden gust of air.
“Take care of my shirt,” Geralt said, giving Jaskier a squeeze. “I have to finish my job.”
Jaskier nodded slowly. His hands went to the pearl buttons of the witcher’s black woollen shirt that had been warming him.
Geralt turned to the remains of the leshen and gathered the larger pieces of the slain monster. He hurled them out the door of the hut. They landed several yards away in a pit of sloppy mud. Thankful that all the water had not spilled out of the cookpot, Geralt retrieved the pot from where it had landed on the steps. He closed the door behind him with a kick of his foot and brought the pot to the hearth.
Jaskier approached Geralt. The black shirt that he held in his hands wasn’t too badly saturated. He clutched it to his bare chest and stood before the fire.
Geralt set the cookpot on the grate to heat. He tried to avoid looking at Jaskier for the moment so he could concentrate on the task of ridding the hut of the leshen’s remains. At least the branches could be burned as firewood. He gathered what bits of bark and twigs littered the floor and dumped them onto the fire. The flames flared up, painting the hut’s walls in golden light.
Geralt brushed off whatever detritus remained on his hands and addressed the bard.
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered his name with a tilt of his head.
“You returned just in time to save me,” Jaskier said.
Geralt took the shirt from Jaskier, who let it slip out of his hands.
“You did well, considering the danger posed by a leshen,” Geralt said, taking a breath and stroking Jaskier’s scruffy cheek with his fingertips.
Jaskier bit his lip. “Could there be more of them?”
Geralt shook his head. “Don’t worry. They’re solitary.”
“Thank the gods,” Jaskier said. A brief chill made him shudder, his nipples pebbled in the cold.
“Can you drag the pallet over to the fire while I get out of these wet things?” Geralt asked.
Geralt hated to ask the bard to do anything like performing a menial task, but his clothing was still soaked through and growing more uncomfortable by the moment.
“Of course,” Jaskier said, and went about moving the pallet.
Geralt arranged the shirt Jaskier had worn on a thin rope that had been mounted above the hearth for the purpose of drying wet clothing. The sodden cloak followed. He turned when he heard the scrape of the wooden pallet being dragged across the floor.
“Thanks,” Geralt said, unfastening the buttons of his own shirt. He watched as Jaskier moved the pallet into place before the fire. The muscles in Jaskier’s arms flexed as he nudged the pallet into the best position. Geralt could not tear his eyes away from the bard’s arms and his glorious chest.
“The bedroll might make this more passable as a mattress,” Jaskier said, hands on his hips.
“Agreed,” Geralt said, stepping toward the bard and pulling him close.
“I thought you were undressing?” Jaskier asked, slipping his hands beneath the wet fabric of Geralt’s shirt.
The scent of sage and bergamot wafted from Jaskier’s skin.
“Why, bard, if you wanted me naked, all you had to do was ask,” Geralt muttered.
Jaskier laughed, his eyes bright with glee as he slid the shirt from Geralt’s shoulders. It landed, wet on the floor, like an old rag.
“Gods, you’re soaked to the skin,” Jaskier remarked, his hands roving over Geralt’s clammy chest.
Geralt couldn’t wait to get out of his wet trousers. He thumbed open the top button while Jaskier watched with lustful eyes.
“The bedroll,” Jaskier said, clearing his throat. “I’ll tend to that.”
Any apprehension Geralt may have experienced at being naked under Jaskier’s gaze was alleviated when the bard left him momentarily. He kicked off his waterlogged boots and unbuttoned his trousers the rest of the way.
Jaskier, still wearing his wet trousers and Geralt’s warm socks, strode across the room to where the saddlebags lay. He quickly unpacked the bedroll and rolled it onto the sleeping pallet.
Although Jaskier had seen Geralt naked countless times, the witcher hoped the bard wouldn’t be disappointed by all the scars on his battle-tested body. He caught himself thinking that Jaskier could have his choice of lovers and a mutant like him could never measure up to a lord or lady of the court. But Geralt pinched himself, remembering that any boundary that kept Jaskier from him was a product of Geralt’s own devising.
Jaskier had followed him for more than twenty years, devoting himself to Geralt because it was what he desired to do. No one told him it was impossible.
Geralt only had to imagine himself fitting perfectly into Jaskier’s life, transcending all a witcher’s boundaries… and it could be so.
Just like the son of a Count could become a travelling bard.
Just like a maiden could become the head of the king’s guard.
Just like a young girl could leave the only home she knew.
If only a princess born under the black sun could have imagined leaving Blaviken instead of challenging a witcher.
The robust fire warmed Geralt’s backside when he stepped out of his trousers, leaving them in a soggy puddle on the floor.
“That must feel so much better,” Jaskier said, bending to pick Geralt’s trousers. “We should hang these by the fire to dry.”
Geralt nodded in agreement as he watched Jaskier unfasten his own trousers. Clearly the leshen had interrupted the bard as he prepared to change into dry clothes. The tied bows at Jaskier’s waist had already been undone.
The room became too warm for Geralt as Jaskier stepped out of his trousers and braies. He hung both his and Geralt’s on the line to dry. Geralt watched as the firelight washed over Jaskier’s nude body. Gods, he was beautiful.
He’s mine, Geralt reminded himself. I can have the joy he brings to my life. I can have all of this.
“There,” Jaskier said, turning back to the witcher. “Now I can thank you properly.”
Geralt took Jaskier into his arms and kissed him. He loved the feel of the bard’s scruffy face against his own. The swirls of hair on Jaskier’s chest pressed against his own chest that was marred by scars that told of his life as a witcher. He leaned low and pressed kisses to the underside of Jaskier’s jaw, asking, “What for?”
“For saving me from the leshen, you gigantic beast-slaying hero,” Jaskier said, tapping Geralt’s chest in exasperation.
“You looked pretty fierce with that log in your hands,” Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s ear.
“I did manage to fell the creature with a single blow,” Jaskier said proudly.
“You did better than most damsels,” Geralt said conciliatorily, pulling the bard closer. His cock throbbed from all the kissing. And the scent of sage and bergamot intoxicated his senses.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Jaskier said, grinding his hard cock against Geralt’s hip, “I’m not a damsel.”
Geralt groaned with pleasure. “Oh, I’ve noticed, bard. I have most certainly noticed,” he said, gathering Jaskier in his arms and lowering him onto the pallet. The bedroll made for a little cushioning against the rough wood. They both landed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
A tiny part of Geralt’s mind needled at him. He feared that he would be awkward when compared to Jaskier’s other lovers. But Jaskier put his mind at ease, quieting any apprehension with his soft hands and lush mouth that made Geralt feel utterly wanted.
Jaskier slung a leg over Geralt’s hips and pulled him closer.
Their cocks brushed together, making Geralt gasp.
Jaskier grinned, his eyes glittering in the firelight.
Darkness had fallen during the ordeal with the leshen. Now the only light was that of their fire.
Geralt let his gaze rove over Jaskier’s face. He couldn’t get enough of the thrill that he was allowed to kiss Jaskier on his sweet mouth whenever he wanted. He hated the discomfort of the pallet though. Jaskier deserved a bed with soft sheets and plush furs. He ought to have rose petals strewn across his bedding and buttercups that glowed when they were kissed by a golden fire.
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asked, nudging Geralt with his bare foot.
“You’re so beautiful, Jask. I like to kiss you,” Geralt said, letting whatever words came to mind escape into the intimate space between them.
Jaskier soothed him, stroking his face, brushing his long white hair from his brow. “Just promise that you won’t push me away again,” Jaskier whispered. “Like on the mountain.”
Rain pelted against the roof of the hut.
The logs in the fire crackled, prompting Geralt to speak. He nodded, holding onto Jaskier gently as if he were as fragile as glass. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was so stupid.”
“It nearly killed me to be away from you for so long,” Jaskier murmured, pulling Geralt closer.
“I’ll never do anything like that again,” Geralt assured him.
“I believe you,” Jaskier said with love in his eyes.
Geralt mouthed promises into Jaskier’s neck.
Jaskier canted his hips forward, grinding his cock into Geralt’s thigh. “I need your hands on me,” he pleaded.
Geralt’s cock throbbed. He ached to touch Jaskier, his scent of arousal permeating the dreary hut. He let his hand rake through the hair on Jaskier’s chest, before sliding it over the bard’s taut belly.
“I didn’t realise all that we could have had,” Geralt said. Regret welled inside him when he understood that he had felt love for Jaskier all along, but he was too well-trained as a witcher, a mutant. He hadn’t dared to do anything about it.
“Touch me, for the gods’ sakes, Geralt,” Jaskier groaned.
“I didn’t realise you would let me have this,” Geralt said, taking Jaskier’s cock in his hand.
“You can have this,” Jaskier moaned, surging into Geralt’s grasp. “You can have me. You’ve always had me.”
The bard’s cock fit perfectly into Geralt’s hand. He brushed his thumb over the tip that dripped with Jaskier’s anticipation. Although the hut had grown dark, Geralt could see everything he wanted. Jaskier’s cock, pretty and perfect just like the rest of the bard. Geralt wanted to taste him, to feel the surge of Jaskier’s pleasure inside him.
Jaskier rocked his hips deliciously. Although the night promised more cold rain, the witcher and his bard felt nothing but comfort in their warm cocoon.
Geralt got onto his hands and knees, caging Jaskier beneath him. He kissed a trail down Jaskier’s abdomen, delighting in the feel of Jaskier’s hands in his hair. Gasping when his oversensitive cock brushed against the rough bedroll, Geralt felt as though he would come before he could give Jaskier very much pleasure.
At last, Geralt’s mouth found Jaskier’s cock and took him deep inside. Geralt relished the feel of Jaskier’s cock in his mouth, he sucked on the head of it and listened to Jaskier’s moans and little sounds of pleasure that filled their hut. He flattened his tongue and took as much as he could into his mouth, concentrating on drawing out Jaskier’s sensations.
“Oh gods, your mouth Geralt, I knew it would feel heavenly,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes.
Geralt drew off Jaskier’s cock and laughed. “You taste fantastic, Jask,” he whispered, palming his own cock to stave off his release. “But I don’t think either of us are going to last very long.”
Without further comment, Geralt sucked Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. His nose buried in the dark nest of hair at Jaskier’s groin, the scent of sage and bergamot overwhelmed Geralt’s senses because he knew Jaskier’s arousal was for him alone. The thought of it was enough to tip Geralt over the edge, his pleasure cascading through him as he spent. He had to stop pleasuring Jaskier for a time while he regained his senses, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. The bard kept up a stuttering rhythm with his hips as his cock jabbed Geralt’s chin repeatedly.
When Geralt could breathe again, he held the bard’s hips in place, stopping Jaskier from bucking too deeply into his mouth while he resumed lavishing Jaskier’s cock with attention.
After a moment, Jaskier’s fingers dug into Geralt’s scalp as he came.
Geralt did his best to swallow down as much of Jaskier’s seed as he could. He gently squeezed Jaskier’s stones in one large hand, milking whatever might have remained into his mouth.
“No matter,” Jaskier panted, out of breath as if he had just run a mile. He waved his hands at Geralt. “We have all the time in the world to find out the truth about a witcher’s purported stamina.”
Geralt crawled to the top of their bedroll and admired Jaskier’s dopey grin, his eyes half-closed in bliss. He wrapped Jaskier in his arms, accepting, finally, that he could have such happiness.
This was his.
Jaskier was his.
Even if he was a brat.
~
The night passed more quickly than Geralt would have liked. They woke and added fuel to the fire in the hearth in the form of firewood and fuel to their bodies in the form of teas and what food they had brought from Grabowa Buchta. They ate their fill and drank the tea, although a hot drink was no longer needed to keep them warm. The heat came from within them as they joined in the night with reverent touches and soft kisses, with murmured apologies and whispered promises.
By morning, the rain had finally stopped. They packed up the bedroll and donned dry clothing for the remaining day of their journey to Lettenhove.
Jaskier sped through his morning routine of applying moisturizer and inspecting his fingernails. A lutenist’s hands needed to stay in good form if he was expected to entertain an audience, even if they were members of his own family.
Geralt only had to catch Jaskier looking at him fondly as they packed to know that he needn’t have any regrets about their lovemaking. He did not look forward to meeting Jaskier’s family in Lettenhove as much as he did spending all the days thereafter with his beloved bard.
Even Roach seemed happy to leave her makeshift stall. The sun-streaked sky called to her after the previous slog on the muddy road where she was burdened with two riders. She stamped her foot eagerly when Geralt tacked her for the day’s travel.
By mid-morning the spires of Gors Velen came into view. They nibbled on a breakfast of steamed fish swimming in a thick gravy. Splitting a loaf of yeasty bread, still warm from the baker’s oven, Geralt and Jaskier spent as much time eating as they did sharing fleeting touches beneath the tavern tabletop in the seaport city.
Geralt’s only regret about what had grown between himself and Jaskier was that he hadn’t given in to the bard’s affections years ago. Stubborn and unwilling to surrender for any price, Geralt had followed the Path as diligently as any witcher who had come before him. He was grateful to whatever gods looked after him that he had taken the monumental leap and ventured off the Path long enough to accept the pleasure of Jaskier’s company. He had yielded enough to let Jaskier into his heart, no longer the stony immovable product of the Trials he had endured, but one as broad as the expanse of the spheres themselves.
“We’re going to need to hurry, if we are to make it to Lettenhove before nightfall,” Jaskier said, shaking Geralt from his thoughts.
Geralt reached for Jaskier’s arm and gave it a squeeze.
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asked with a wink. “I can tell your mind was elsewhere.”
“You’ll be home soon,” Geralt said, sliding his gloves back onto his hands.
Jaskier nodded appraisingly at the witcher. “And my family will be delighted to meet you.”
Geralt groaned. He could not imagine what the family who shaped the man he loved would think of him as a companion. He hoped he would pass whatever scrutiny they held for him.
The road from Gors Velen to Kerack was just as empty as the road from Grabowa Buchta had been. Although both stretches of road were similar in connecting two cities, Geralt knew that everything had changed. Now, they took breaks from walking with Jaskier laying his head in Geralt’s lap. Geralt reminded himself that he was allowed to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. To press kisses to his lips between bites of ripe red apple stolen from an orchard that lined the road. And that he was allowed to be loved in return.
The afternoon’s travels took them through the eastern part of Cidaris. Geralt laughed as Jaskier raged about Cidaris being the home base for his nemesis, Valdo Marx.
“That was the bard who you wished apoplexy upon?” Geralt asked, remembering the three wishes granted by the djinn, all those years ago.
“The very one,” Jaskier said. “He’s a hack, a plagiarist, and a two-bit performer at that. I have no idea how he was awarded the title, troubadour of Cidaris. Clearly the people here have no taste whatsoever. Let’s hurry on our way, lest we lose any of the refined culture we possess.”
“Hmm, apoplexy? That seems a bit harsh.” Geralt led Roach by the reins. He knew that she would not complain about having two riders on her back if the hour got late. He was as eager as Jaskier to reach Lettenhove, but it would do no good to wear Roach out in case her vigour became necessary.
“He’d be lucky to deserve such a swift death,” Jaskier said, waving his hands erratically. He followed at Geralt’s side, never complaining about his tired feet now that a visit to Lettenhove was well within his grasp.
“In all these years, I’ve rarely seen you so vengeful,” Geralt said, pausing to consider Jaskier’s state.
“Ah, I’ve always had a vengeful streak. A bit of sass, I’ve been told,” Jaskier admitted. “I must get it from my mother.”
“Remind me to stay out of her way,” Geralt laughed.
Jaskier dismissed Geralt’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “You needn’t worry about her. She’ll adore you as I do.”
Geralt stopped in place. He owed much to the woman who birthed Jaskier and made him the adventuresome lad he loved. “I hope so,” he said. He searched for something to hold onto and found Jaskier in his arms. He kissed him deeply while the bard’s hands trailed up and down his armour-clad back, soothing him, always reassuring him that all was well.
When they drew apart to breathe, Jaskier met Geralt’s amber eyes. He seemed to observe their inhuman colour more than usual. Jaskier’s eyes squinted to confirm. “She’s always had a soft spot for those who are a bit different.”
“You think she’ll accept me because I’m a mutant?” Geralt asked. “She won’t have me run out of town for defiling her son?”
“Hah!” Jaskier shouted gleefully.
“Hmm,” Geralt muttered. “Probably not the first time you’ve been defiled…
“She’ll respect you because you’re a mutant.” Jaskier said with a nod. “But she’ll love you because you’re my mutant.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted as he kissed Jaskier again. He was a bit apprehensive about meeting Jaskier’s mother, but he trusted that Jaskier would defend him to her. To his whole family if necessary.
~
Night began to fall as they crossed the border into the Kingdom of Kerack. Jaskier promised that they only had to travel a mile or so beyond the kingdom’s borders to reach the Earldom of Lettenhove and his home. Geralt was grateful for the clear sky and the bright moon that illuminated the night. Time flew by for Geralt as he wondered what kind of reception Jaskier would get from his family. When he was certain that Jaskier wasn’t listening, he whispered aloud, practicing his most cordial offer of condolences and courtly greeting for Jaskier’s mother.
Roach’s hooves clip-clopped down the quiet cobblestone streets of the affluent earldom. Although darkness swathed the streets, Geralt could see down the long avenues that led to the square and beyond. Soon they turned off the main road and onto a country lane. Ahead of them towered the buildings of a large estate. In the moonlight, the residential villa stood three storeys high. Each window was illuminated by candlelight. A clocktower with a bulbous peak adorned the north side of the estate.
Jaskier caught Geralt staring. “I always thought it looked like a bit of a butt plug, myself,” Jaskier quipped.
It has been said that witchers do not blush, but Geralt was certain that his cheeks burned red.
“Let’s get Roach settled first,” Jaskier suggested. “My mother will keep us up all night talking, so it would be best to not leave Roach waiting for some fresh bedding and water.”
“I’m sure Roach will appreciate it,” Geralt said.
Geralt followed Jaskier to the long row of stables that adjoined the villa’s south gallery.
With a practiced manoeuvre, Jaskier swiftly unfastened the latch and pushed the heavy door open.
They stepped inside and wandered down the central aisle amid the soft neighs and whinnies that told of a dozen horses occupying the stables. Moonlight streamed through the narrow poured glass windows, casting the barn in a subtle glow that was broken by shadows. The scent of horse manure and leather tack gave Geralt’s senses a warm welcome. Jaskier soon found an empty stall for Roach and Geralt led her inside.
“I’m sorry, the stableboys must all be off duty at this hour,” Jaskier said, stepping into Geralt’s space and brushing his hair off his forehead. “If you want to untack her, I’ll look for a bale of hay and she’ll need water.”
Geralt grabbed the front of Jaskier’s crimson coat and pulled him in for a kiss. Warm blood ran through his veins every time they touched so intimately. His heart beat with a wild fury when he considered how different his life could have been if he had done this years ago instead. The only consolation was that he still had a couple decades of Jaskier’s life to make up for his hesitance.
Jaskier giggled against Geralt’s lips. “I love that you can’t keep your hands off me.”
“Thanks, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “Thank you for everything.” He let Jaskier go so he could find hay and a bucket of water for Roach.
Roach snorted loudly when Geralt stroked her neck.
“What’s wrong, girl?” Geralt asked. “Hard to imagine your witcher in love?”
Roach stood quietly. The soft sound of animals at rest and Jaskier finding a bale of hay came from across the barn.
Geralt unbuckled Roach’s saddle and rubbed at her side. “You love him too, don’t you?” he asked. The memory of Jaskier’s kiss made him sink into a meditative state. The relief at finally arriving at their destination loosened his tight control over his actions. He allowed himself to embrace the dreamy comfort that came from believing Jaskier accepted him. Jaskier loved him. Jaskier had convinced Geralt that he was a witcher who could feel.
Roach nickered beneath Geralt’s hand.
Water sloshed into a bucket from somewhere close. Jaskier undoubtedly filled a trough for Roach.
Geralt was startled back to awareness when he heard the crisp edge of steel as it slid from a scabbard.
Instinct took over.
Geralt drew his blade, but his assailant was quicker. Swords clashed in the dim barn as the pair sparred against each other. Geralt’s witcher medallion remained still, indicating that his assailant was indeed human. He caught a glimpse of smooth pale skin and dark tangled locks, reminding him of another swordfight that had changed the course of his life. His assailant couldn’t possibly be Renfri, but her ghost somehow lived in the skill of his assailant’s strikes and in the determination of the attack.
“Renfri,” Geralt muttered. He knew at that instant that there had been other options on that fateful day in the square. He simply couldn’t see them. He could have let Renfri settle her score with Stregobor. To fight him to the death was Renfri’s decision to make, but Geralt had taken that decision from her, instead pleading for her to leave Blaviken. Perhaps she would have won against the wizard. Or perhaps the day still would have ended with Renfri lying in a pool of blood and Stregobor declared a murderer.
Anything would have been better than the truth. Renfri’s death at Geralt’s hands was one of the greatest regrets of his life.
Geralt’s inattention allowed his assailant the advantage of speed, bringing him to a stalemate in an instant, despite the darkness in the stables.
“Stand down,” the assailant commanded, a blade pressed against Geralt’s neck. “Drop your sword.”
Jaskier flew into the stall. “Holy fuck!” he shouted, dropping a bale of hay on the floor.
“Julian?” the assailant did not loosen her grip on the sword, nor did she yield to Geralt who still held her at bay with his own steel.
“Melitele’s tits, Leo! Geralt is with me,” Jaskier yelled.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Leocretia dropped her guard and sheathed her sword. “Julian! It’s about time you got here!”
Geralt let his shoulders relax as he, too, sheathed his steel.
Jaskier threw himself at his sister and embraced her mightily.
The warrior stood nearly as tall as Jaskier. She was younger than her brother with smooth skin and no crow’s feet bracketing her bright blue eyes. Chestnut hair fell in long loose waves from the top of her head, cascading down her back, but the lower part of her scalp had been shaved close. An intricate pattern of runic letters had been shorn down to the skin. She was clad in leather armour, not unlike Geralt’s. The stain of tattooed letters crept across her skin from beneath her breastplate. Geralt had to agree that Jaskier’s description of his sister was entirely accurate. This warrior was undoubtedly the famed Leocretia Pankratz of King Osmyk’s guard.
“It’s about time you got here! Mother sent me outside because she thought she heard activity in the barn. Her hearing is not what it used to be. But imagine my surprise when I saw him fiddling with a horse,” Leocretia said, jabbing an elbow at Geralt. “How the fuck are you? I haven’t seen you in an age.”
“Good gods, Leo, we’ve been travelling since I received word about father. We were in Kovir at the time and after travelling separately for a day or two, we’ve joined up again,” Jaskier said, looking at Geralt with fondness in his eyes. “And now we’ve stopped at a half-dozen towns, including a blissful stay at my rooms in Oxenfurt. We mucked through the bad weather yesterday and finally we’re here.”
“Are you shitting me? You ought to be strung up for taking so long to get here. Do you only have one horse? You should have hired a carriage to bring you. For Melitele’s sake, you know you have enough coin in your stores to afford it. I’ll bet you stopped to play that infernal lute in a tavern or two. I know you, Julian, so don’t try to cover up your attention-seeking ways. In any case, you’re here now and mother has been anticipating your visit for days.”
Geralt’s head turned from one sibling to the other. He decided that if there were a contest for who could speak more words without pausing to breathe, Jaskier and Leocretia would be each other’s top competition. He resumed tending to Roach, removing her tack and spreading hay on the floor of her stall while the pair of siblings chattered at each other.
“And what are you doing with him?” Leocretia finally asked, jabbing a thumb toward Geralt.
Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt and proudly introduced him. “This is my dear… um… friend… Geralt of Rivia.”
Leocretia looked Geralt up and down. “He’s a witcher?”
Jaskier nodded eagerly.
Leocretia’s eyes flew open. “And he’s with you? Like with you?”
Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek.
Leocretia yelped. “Julian! Mother is going to shit!”
~