Oh! Yes, I have quite a few pieces I'm very proud of but here is one section in particular. I don't always do a lot of talking about my fic on main but I like writing soft romantic Geralt and Jaskier a lot.
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Geralt wasn’t sure how long he was drifting with the memories before Jaskier slid his arms around him and kissed his nape. Affection swelled in Geralt’s chest and Jaskier’s hands fanned across his sternum. He welcomed the touch immensely, particularly after the long week away in the rain.
Jaskier pressed his cheek against the back of his shoulder, hands sweeping down Geralt’s abdomen. His beard was a scratchy counterpoint to the silk robe that brushed his thighs.Â
“Finally run out of words?” Geralt asked with quiet humor; it was his familiar jab, like Jaskier’s incessant need to bait him about the white honey. Usually he asked the question when Jaskier was breathlessly fucked out.
Jaskier kissed Geralt’s shoulder in reply. He turned around and Jaskier swayed, moving like he did when he wanted Geralt to dance with him, albeit in a slower, more fatigue-ridden way. His fingers skimmed along the scars on Geralt’s chest that he’d once sung about, and all those he hadn’t.Â
Jaskier’s smile was small—the kind of smile he wore when he was focused and thoughtful—and his brow furrowed, softening the mirth in his eyes. He cupped Geralt’s face and gently kissed him on the chin and the corner of his mouth.
“To think that after all this time, I could still want you like this. Have you like this,” Jaskier said, letting go of Geralt’s face to sweep his hands across his shoulders and back with the reverence he had for the simple, intimate touches. “I could grow to be a thousand years and never tire of this.”Â
Jaskier leaned forward and kissed Geralt’s chest. His lips were dry and his beard tickled the divots of scar tissue where he whispered, “All the Spheres spin with envy that I have learned the shape, the taste of this love.”
Geralt exhaled slowly, his mind staggering from the words.
Jaskier was still fully clothed in the rumpled nightshirt and silk robe, wearing those mismatching socks, but he was naked in the poetry of his words, wearing nothing but his years. Geralt’s heart fucking wrenched.
“You can write that one down for me later,” Jaskier said, and that damnably coy smile lit him from the inside.Â
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stories we tell, memories we share, and the words we hold dear, aka the scribe fic, aka the one where geralt strips naked and transcribes jaskier's poetry for him. they're also very old, it's a happily ever after.
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omg. I fucking love it. Too much, perhaps. It comes out when I write Jaskier.
Fic titles: A Drowner's Dozen and A Beard for a Bard.
Alliteration in fic:
Jaskier licked his lips and shook his head. “You’re going to keep an old man waiting all night for a punchline? For shame, Geralt.” His eyes were wide with admonishment.
Geralt didn’t chuckle, but it was a close call. He made him wait just a little longer before he raised his chin and relented. “There’s no—”
“—honey in the white honey,” Jaskier finished quickly and inclined his head, looking too pleased with himself. “But why was it named as such if not for poetic license?”
Jaskier’s face slid into a stony seriousness that Geralt didn’t believe he would be able to hold for long with the way he was rocking on his heels, still ignoring the splatter of water on his socks.Â
Geralt shook his head and counted backwards from the count of five before he finally answered. He had learned enough over the years to know how much Jaskier appreciated the build of anticipation. “It was for the honeysuckle.”
“Suckle your honey,” Jaskier said triumphantly and took a half-step towards him, placing the cup of water on the desk and he was rolling his wrists when he shuffled away, his stride a little longer now, but altogether slower.
“See, it all works out. Nothing is off limits for my alchemy of affection,” Jaskier said and swept a draped silk arm about himself and Geralt, his elbow pulled in close, the gesture not as wide as usual. “Our literature of love.” He paused and leered at him. “This conjunction of cocks.”
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stories we tell, memories we share, and the words we hold dear aka the scribe fic where geralt is naked and writing jaskier's poetry. aka the one where they've had a lifetime of adventure and love and they live every moment of it when they're together.
[witcher fic]: stories we tell, memories we share, and the words we hold dear
fic on AO3 | 28k, Geralt/Jaskier. Post-Canon, featuring old Jaskier and old Geralt, chronic pain/disability, softness, poetry, lots of dick jokes, silliness, and Geralt getting railed by puns.
Summary:
Three decades after the war, Jaskier’s thoughts are faster than his aching hands can keep up, but Geralt has learned enough by his side to take up the quill for him.
excerpt:
“I beseech thee, o’ witchery muse. My dear new scribe,” Jaskier said and there was a rhythm without a melody as he spoke directly to the wolf doll. “Bestow divine inspiration from your ancient tome.”Â
Jaskier paused and dipped his chin at Geralt, his eyes dancing.Â
Geralt raised an eyebrow and Jaskier waved at the page with the doll until he began writing. Jaskier helpfully over-enunciated the words and began muttering under his breath, his gaze going unfocused, until he suddenly held the doll up like it was a revelation to behold.
“You open for me with a sigh, when I part your pages—those oh-so very steady thighs,” Jaskier said, spreading his hands wide, his face sliding into that broad, leering grin. The doll slipped from his fingers and Jaskier cursed as it tumbled to the floor. He sighed and Geralt watched him judging the effort it would take to retrieve it, leave it, or ask for help. All the options weigh heavily on Jaskier’s face. Geralt took the moment of Jaskier’s indecision to dip his quill in the inkpot, listening to any and all particular catches in Jaskier’s breath when he finally and slowly bent over to reach for it.
“Ah, hmm,” Jaskier said, glancing at Geralt, his nose scrunching.
“Pages and thighs,” he prompted and Jaskier’s face lit up. He would have snapped his fingers at Geralt if his hands hadn’t been hurting, but Jaskier gestured at Geralt with the wolf doll and nodded enthusiastically. Geralt smiled into his wine and turned to an empty page.
“Right, my source of knowledge,” Jaskier said and raised the wolf doll, peering into its button eyes. “Tome, book. My inspiration, my scholarly examination of a lifetime…Love how you open for me,” Jaskier said to the wolf. “Clenching tightly around my fingers. Now that is a massage.”Â
Geralt raised his eyes from the page and the amusement expanded in his chest. Jaskier was staring at him with that unrepentant look of horniness and humor. He had such a playful determination in making Geralt writhe and fall apart using nothing but his hands, no matter if he was murmuring quiet filth or gentle praise or was babbling silly, improvised lyrics while tipping him over the edge. But Jasker wasn’t the only one with that kind of power.
“My offer still stands. Don’t need to use my mouth tonight, my hands can be all yours. Massage wherever you want,” he said in a way to stretch Jaskier’s imagination in the same, indulgent way he spent stretching Jaskier open. Kneading for so long and so deep that Jaskier’s eyes glazed over, his thighs trembling like he carried the weight of the world.
“I look forward to it. Later.” He sounded almost dismissive except the upward quirk of lips gave him away.Â
Jaskier turned and looked at the bookshelves, becoming lost in thought. Geralt could hear snatches of ill-fitting rhymes under his breath.
He pushed the chair away from the desk, angling himself for Jaskier to have a better view and he parted his knees again.Â
Jaskier pursed his lips. “You can’t distract me, I’m focusing here.” He sounded like he didn’t mind being distracted one bit.
Geralt gave his cock a cursory stroke and then reached for the quill again, shifting the chair back so he could write. “I’m inspiring you,” he said and Jaskier’s eyes widened dramatically, his expression bordering on gleeful but he tried to cover up his excitement by lifting his chin thoughtfully.
“Hmmm,” Jaskier said and paused mid-step to face Geralt. “I’ll read you cover-to-cover until I memorize.” Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut and he hummed a simple scale, his eyes remaining closed. He raised his hand. His lips moved but nothing came out as he searched for the next line.Â
Geralt finished writing and dipped the quill in the ink, waiting for whatever impending filth or earnestness would follow. Jaskier opened his eyes and he pulled the wolf doll from the crook of his elbow, waving it like he was using it as a scrying tool to pull the words from the air.
“Every scar, every sentence of every story—and what’s between the lines. I’ll study every grumble, rumble of the heart,” he said.Â
Jaskier approached Geralt and stepped behind the chair, splaying fingers across his shoulders and wolf doll brushing his ear. Geralt bent over the desk and wrote, smiling when Jaskier fussed with the chain of his medallion.
“Translate every scowl and smile caught behind your lips,” he added once he saw Geralt had finished the previous line. He leaned over and pressed a laugh into Geralt’s hair and smoothed his hands along Geralt’s back. “Forever keeping me humble in this pursuit. My eighth liberal art.”
Feeling a sense of finality in the words, Geralt began writing down the line. Except for the cool touch of Jaskier’s fingers, Jaskier’s presence was warm, draped around him like a blanket.Â
Sinking into the process of capturing Jaskier’s thoughts was actually easier than Geralt had expected. He dipped the quill and went back over the line, carefully adding another layer of ink to fill out the letters. Jaskier made a happy sound.
“I always forget what lovely handwriting you have,” Jaskier said, petting his hair. By the time Geralt had finished writing humble, he wanted to turn around, bury his face in Jaskier’s neck and fall asleep wrapped around him. Jaskier had always played Geralt like an instrument, and that metaphor was very, very old and yet still very apt. Only now he had become his writing instrument, as evidenced by the quill Geralt carefully moved across the page.
He finished the line with a small, decorative flourish to the lettering—something he’d learned as a child from copying the old, falling apart bestiaries in the library at Kaer Morhen into new books to preserve the knowledge.Â
Geralt leaned back in his chair and parted his knees. Jaskier gave him a playfully speculative look that suggested they weren’t done yet.
Geralt reeled him in until Jaskier was standing between his thighs. “What have you learned from your studies?” he asked, running his fingers along the too-expensive silk, absorbing the artfully thoughtful expression Jaskier wore. He leaned forward to cradle Geralt’s face. Studying him.
“Hmm.” Jaskier ran a thumb across Geralt’s eyebrows and pushed his hair back. He closed his eyes. They didn’t need to be open for Jaskier to read him.Â
read the fic on AO3
@rhubarbdreams @dragneto @seventfics @wannastayugly i think my fic might be up your alley. ❤️
oh my god these are all so good! So I guess I will start with 1 & 2 for the Fanfic Day Meme
Hello to this meme ask from a million weeks ago. Let's! Go! (finally)
What is your favorite fic you have under your belt?
Well until I finish anything else, it’s still going to be stories we tell, memories we share and the words we hold dear, aka the post-canon Scribe Fic. Aka the one where Jaskier’s hands hurt and he asks Geralt to write poetry that he dictates to him. Geralt is naked while doing this for his old bard.
What is your favorite snippet of dialogue?
I already shared a few of my favorite Scribe Fic snippets over here. Let me give you another snippet from the Scribe Fic.
(p.p.s. special shoutout to @castillon02 who listened to me write whole story paragraph-by-paragraph for a year and helped see me through my mess of feelings. and three rewrites.)
--
Geralt looked up and Jaskier was sighing as he sat down on the couch, spreading his arms above his head in a stretch, crossing his ankles and propping the wolf doll on his thigh. The fondness in Jaskier’s expression seemed to be clearing the tangents in his mind.
Jaskier opened his mouth to speak and licked his lips. “If it’s my quill and your inkpot,” Jaskier began, gesturing at himself and at Geralt and leaned forward. His gaze was direct, perched on the edge of seriousness, those snowy brows arching in mirth. “Then it would be your pestle to my mortar. Juxtapose our prose.” Jaskier waved an open palm. “So it goes.”
He was so accustomed to the ways Jaskier took things too far when he got carried away that the urge to poke him was reflexive.
Geralt nodded. “Needle dick and fat cock. Got it,” he said.
Jaskier kept grinning and waved again. “The metaphor grows a life of its own. It practically writes itself.”
“I’m the one doing the writing,” Geralt pointed out and dipped the quill again.
“Then write down something about grinding out a concoction of pleasure. You never found my girth wanting, so don’t you dare and try to tell me differently,” Jaskier said.
“I was juxtaposing,” Geralt said and Jaskier’s laugh was sharp and bright.
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Emma: For the love of god kid, get the hell out of here. How intimidating can the Dark One be when her son is standing right next to her?
Henry: Ma, you need to come home.
Emma: I don't need to do anything, kid. That's one of the perks of being a villain, you know? I don't care about anything or anyone, and considering the fact that I'm having way too much fun, that isn't about to change.
Henry: ...But we miss you.
Emma: Who misses me? My parents who couldn't wait to put me on a goddamned pedestal, or that ass of a pirate who did the same damn thing?! You don't miss me, you miss what I was. A hero, the Savior, a happy ending. For the first time since I came to this hellhole of a town, I finally can be whatever I want to be, without having to answer to anyone. So I'm sure you'll forgive me for not giving a rat's ass about whether or not anyone misses me.
Henry: ...I was talking about me and mom. Her and I miss you.
Emma: ...Regina... she...
Henry: All she does is worry about you. Not the Savior, you. And so do I.
Emma: I'm not... I'm not going back, kid.
Henry: Fine. But just so you know, mom and I don't see you on that pedestal. You're just Emma to the both of us and you know it. And all we want is to have her back. Because we love her. She's part of our family.
Emma: I don't have a family.
Henry: If you came home tonight, I promise that you would. Just... come over for dinner. You don't have to stay, just... BE with us for a while. You belong with us.
Emma: How dare they? Where the hell do they get off thinking that they can get away with talking to you like that right in front of me?
Regina: Well, I'm quite certain that your reaction just now to them doing exactly that will deter them in the future.
Emma: I should arrest them and let them spend the night in the cells. Teach them not to mess with my family.
Regina: Really? You're going to arrest all seven of them?
Emma: What, you don't think I can do it? I have some pretty powerful magic under my belt, let me remind you. I was the goddamned Dark One.
Regina: You know that's not what I meant. Look at me. As sweet as it is, I don't need you to defend my honor to those half-wits. If I really cared, I'd have destroyed them back when I was Queen. I don't need the approval of a few dwarves. What they think of me is irrelevant. I know my value. The only approval I care about is yours and Henry's. What do you think of me?
Emma: (wrapping her arms around Regina) That you're amazing and beautiful and smart and sexy and a million other things. Seriously, don't get me started, I'll go for hours.
Regina: (smiling) You're very sweet for someone who used to be the Dark One.
Emma: After all the crap that was going on in my head, I've learned to appreciate sweetness when I feel so inclined.
Regina: Mmm. And are you still inclined, because I wouldn't mind hearing you tell me that I'm sexy again...
Emma: I can do more than just tell you, my Queen...
