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janie_tangerine
Admittedly, he’s not… positive about it. Could be that he’s completely mistaken and he should have avoided this one contract, but when the townspeople in the village not only hadn’t chased him away at once but also hadn’t glared half as much as usual when they explained that since their lord got sick the land had been dry and unfruitful, and certainly some monster or some devil was behind it, and could he please see if he could do anything about it before it was too late for next year’s crops and they would all starve?
Something had sounded off, but... well. Geralt has been around for a long time, and since everyone converted to Christianity his life got fucking worse. Before, he’d find work at any given moment, now… most of the monsters he’s supposed to kill are seen as devil-sent or demonic, so people tend to take care of them (killing themselves in the process), so it’s an actual luxury that he would not be turned away and offered a contract, so he had accepted and headed for the lord’s castle.
Which had very well-warded. Going in proved impossible, and admittedly all of the land around it had been dead, all the few remaining trees black husks. Calling for a witch for help hadn’t been an option, they’re extremely scarce these days. So he had asked around the other villages. No one had turned him away there either; of course, since they’re all starving, too. No, the lord hadn’t been seen for months, not since he had been wounded in some battle, yes, surely the devil cursed him, they say, same as he cursed you, they don’t say.
Geralt, who has heard nonsensical Christian stories, had started to wonder if maybe they didn’t have a grain of truth in them. He had explored the are around the castle; if he was right, the remedy had to be close. He had walked around the dead woods and lands beyond both castle and villages for a few days, across what used to be a river that looks long dry, thankful that at least this job hasn’t seemed to involve anything out to rip him apart for now.
Until he found the chapel.
It’s small, out of sight and easy to miss; after all, most people would pass by a cave’s mouth and not many of them would notice the cross and the rough cup sculpted into the stone just outside. He’s quite sure he only saw them because of his enhanced eyesight.
He knows that one story. It’s about a king whose land dies until a true, virtuous, pure knight finds some kind of holy grail blessed by the Christian god and brings it back to him so he can be cured.
Such a knight should be destined for it.
Geralt has to laugh; surely whoever thought that one story couldn’t imagine that it would be him finding such an object. He’s also not entirely sure he’s right, but trying cannot hurt and he has to find some answer for the villagers, so he walks inside the cave. He doesn’t fall dead the moment he does, which would prove wrong most legends about his kind people seem to have latched on. Then he turns and looks ahead.
It’s an empty space, except for a slab of stone upon which there is a golden chalice. It’s simple, with no gemstones or intricate decorations, shining bright under a beam of light coming from an opening in the ceiling. He takes a step closer, a hand on the sword on his hip, figuring he will check this properly —
“Oh, finally you showed up!”
Geralt’s fingers curl around the sword and he immediately turns to his left, where he hadn’t seen anyone before…
Except there is someone now.
Someone who seems — because no way anyone who’d be waiting here is human — a young man, a head shorter than him, with bright blue eyes, soft chestnut hair and silken blue clothing, bare feet and a smile that doesn’t look like it belongs on a creature who wants Geralt dead. There’s a lute placed agains the cave’s wall, which is… not what Geralt would have expected.
“Well,” the man says, “one gets bored here waiting for the paragon of true fucking virtue. I had to pick up a past time.”
He’s definitely not human. But also… “Waiting for the paragon of virtue?”
The man shrugs. “I know, I know, what a bunch of nonsense, am I right? I mean, first I’m stuck here for centuries because that blasted cauldron of knowledge can’t be seen by any mortal man and I have a debt to her, then by the time I’m dying of boredom it turns out everyone has forgotten she ever existed because of that new cult, and before she stops existing because no one believes in her anymore she recommends me to wait for whom the new people said deserved that damned goblet, then she’s gone and I can’t even do my job properly. Christians, my friend, Christians.”
Geralt stares at the lute, then at the man who has a debt, apparently, now if he just knew with whom, then back at the chalice.
Cauldron of knowledge?
He groans. “You aren’t telling me that it’s Cerridwen’s —”
“I knew you were smart!” The bard smiles. “And yes, I’m exactly who you think I am, but I don’t go by that name anymore. It’s already a miracle I’m here because of my poetry. That means they can’t forget me, you know, I’d rather not tempt it. If I ever get out of here, I’m going with another name.”
Geralt can’t believe that this is happening. “You do know what I am.”
The bard shrugs. “You’re a witcher. So? Your kind was everywhere, back when I actually walked around courts. Always wanted to sing of a witcher’s adventures.”
“People aren’t usually… this excited about meeting one,” Geralt says, cautiously.
“I’m not people. By the way, you can call me Jaskier. I mean, that’s the name I would go with. Actually, you should absolutely help me getting out. I think it would be mutually beneficial.”
“… How?” Geralt asks. If this job ends without violence, it will be all gained.
Jaskier glances up and down at him, flashing a smile. “See,” he says, “that prophecy is… what it is. That chalice can only be held by a true paragon of virtue and so on, I cannot leave here until the land is fertile again, which cannot happen until someone finds this place. Except that each single other knight that ended up here died the moment they touched it, because of course they’re all full of themselves and righteous faith these days, and they all decided I was an angel. Can you even fucking believe it.”
Geralt doesn’t know if he’d say that. Surely, given that the man is the first person he’s met in years that didn’t spit at his feet first thing, he’s inclined to think he certainly is better than most.
“Honestly, I’d absolutely bet on you being the right one for it, just because I can just feel that you’re not full of yourself and can’t care less for being all righteous faith and no fun. Also, there are more pleasurable ways to fulfill it.”
“The prophecy?” Geralt asks, not following.
Then the bard is right in front of him, hands grasping Geralt’s shirt. “The point is making this land fertile,” he winks. “That old thing refused each single person who kept on chattering about holding their virtue closely.”
“Are you propositioning me?” Geralt blurts, not knowing what to do with it. No one — witchers barely got propositioned back in the day. To this day, it’s a miracle if he finds a couple of whores each year that will have him, most of them are terrified he’ll turn them into devils.
Jaskier about grins wide enough to show pearly white teeth. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re a sight for sore eyes…”
“I’m not —”
“I’m not blind, you’re not going to tell me that such a proposition offends God’s wishes and you’re my ticket out of here, it’s only fair that I show you a nice time. Or you can try to drink that or bring that to whichever’s the last lord of these lands. I would be disappointed, but I’ll accept either way.”
Geralt still isn’t sure about this, nor about being propositioned by someone who has just implied being the most famous bard of his times, which were centuries ago.
Still —
“What if I accepted?” Geralt asks, hoping he doesn’t regret it.
“Best thing I’ve heard in centuries,” Jaskier says, and a moment later his mouth is on Geralt’s, pushing him towards the stone, and oh, Geralt can’t help thinking, Jaskier is good at this. His mouth is wet and hot, his tongue is skilled, his hands are cradling Geralt’s so, so gently in comparison to the fire in that kiss, and before Geralt knows it they’re tearing away their clothes and Jaskier’s mouth is trailing over his jaw until he bites down a little behind his ear; Geralt moans loud enough that anyone outside could have heard.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, “you’re good.” His hands roam over Geralt’s naked sides, his shirt is on the ground, then his fingers are undoing the laces in Geralt’s trousers and oh, he hadn’t felt this hard in ages, and this is different from that last time he was with a whore because Jaskier obviously means it; when they’re both naked not long later Jaskier pushes him back gently on the stone. Geralt’s back hits the chalice; it crashes to the ground, but he’s too busy kissing Jaskier back to give a fuck about the damned thing, and when Jaskier’s rough fingertips push inside him after he spits on them he moans loud, louder than he has in years, and after Jaskier has two fingers up inside him he tells him to get it over already —
“I’m not a brute, you know” Jaskier says, smiling down at him again; then he’s going at it slower until Geralt thinks he’ll die out of waiting this long, but he’s gentle as he does, his mouth going over the scars on Geralt’s chest before another kiss as Jaskier finally, finally gets his cock inside him and then he pushes, slow, then out and inside him again; before Geralt knows, he’s screaming in pleasure, forgetting about the stone, the golden chalice on the ground and his contract as Jaskier is muttering something about writing a lot of songs about him when they leave; for a moment he thinks who ever would do such a thing, but then his blood is running hot and the light from the hole in the ceiling seems so much brighter. Jaskier is saying that he’s close and so Geralt pulls him closer with his legs as Jaskier gives one last push and comes inside him, and Geralt follows suit, unable to hold on any longer,
(he doesn’t notice that the ground is glowing, that the land outside is turning greener, that flowers are blooming in the newborn grass)
and then they’ve crashed to the ground, both naked, covered in come and breathing hard and fast, and Jaskier’s smiling at him, sweeter than anyone else ever has —
“Well, I can feel it. It’s broken.”
“What, the curse? Good,” Geralt groans. “I have payment to collect.”
“I think, I’ll come with you. Always wanted to write a poem about a witcher.”
“All right,” he says, his chest feeling warm at the prospect of someone actually going with him out of choice —
“But,” Jaskier says, “We can go for another round first.”
Then his mouth is on Geralt’s again, and… he can absolutely do that.
He’s very glad he took this job, after all.
