quicksilverfox3: (Default)
“As the Witcher rides away!”

The last note of Jaskier’s newest song died away amongst thunderous applause, drinks slamming against tables as the men — not a single one of them battle hardened and wasn’t that a curious thing — celebrated Geralt’s previous fight. It left a strange taste in the Witcher’s mouth as he watched, tucked behind a pillar to avoid any unwanted contact. He was unwilling to leave Jaskier alone in a crowd of this size, given his habit of getting into trouble.

Jaskier’s gaze sought him out regardless of the shadows around him, as true as an arrow to the chest, and he grinned, face flushed with exertion and pride. Geralt couldn’t help but smile back, ignoring the hissing black voice in his mind that said it couldn’t last, this happiness, this stability. He remained where he was, every muscle tense as he watched hands slam onto Jaskier’s shoulders in congratulations, causing the man to sway on his feet, watching and waiting.

Run for all you know that’s coming )
quicksilverfox3: (Default)
Fandom: The Witcher
Word Count: 962
Summary: The Fool means infinite potential, new beginnings, new love. For Geralt, it means Jaskier.
On Ao3 Here!



“Draw a card Butcher?”
Geralt sighed, the noise rumbling through his chest, trying to dissuade whatever soothsayer or hedge witch was peddling their wares. He was bone-tired, but the remnants of the elixir still pulsed through his system. Everything was too loud, the sickening stench of old ale and unwashed bodies turning his stomach more than the blood and viscera that clung to his skin ever did. He wanted to fight, he wanted to fuck, anything to get rid of the relentless itch coiling through his skin.

He couldn’t do either. The monster, a myling - so small, poor thing, just looking for it’s mother as all children did - lay in its grave, at peace at last. Geralt could see it behind his eyes, curled up as if sleeping as the dirt rained down on it’s skeletal form.

but i just can't take the chance )
quicksilverfox3: (Default)
'Geraskier prompt: A close call for Jaskier in which Geralt thought he'd lose him awakens feelings he didn't know he had for the bard.'


“Jaskier!” Geralt roared, golden eyes already seeing the outcome and hating it. 




Jaskier was caught halfway between turning to see the creature, a kikimora, fangs bared and grotesque limbs raised to strike, behind him when Geralt’s shout reached him. Already he was falling, pushing himself sideways, a reflexive and desperate attempt to get away, eyes as wide as a rabbits staring down the maw of a wolf. But it wouldn’t be enough. 




Geralt’s mutations were both a blessing and a curse, but in that moment he hated them, hated them more than he could possibly say as the barb punctured Jaskier’s side and the coppery tang of blood filled the air. Jaskier screamed once, high and thin, body twisting even as he was thrown with the force of that stab, crumpling to the forest floor. The kikimora chittered, taking a single step towards the fallen Jaskier, spindly limbs clicking. 

hold your ground )

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