#witchertrashbag

Commission for @witchertrashbag.

"That’s it, darling,” Jaskier murmurs.  “You’re doing so well.”

Geralt breathes deeply. His shoulders are starting to strain from where his arms are forced behind his back, but the ache feels good, gives him something to focus on. The rope looped around his wrists holds him firmly in place but still allows him to move his fingers, and they flex as Jaskier brushes a hand down his side.

He can only imagine how he looks: sweat dripping down his naked chest, breath coming in short bursts, and achingly hard already, even though all Jaskier has done is pass rope in a few loops around him.

Normally he hates to be restrained, resents any attempts to curtail his movements. But when it’s Jaskier restraining him, it’s different. There’s something contrarily liberating about putting his fate into someone else’s hands, at least for the next hour. It makes his head swim with a feeling of lightness and lets the tense knot of obligation he carries deep in his chest relax into something soft and floating.

“Lift your head for me,” Jaskier says, quiet but firm, and Geralt obeys. “Lovely. I want to see your face.”

There’s a sort of embarrassment twisting in his gut at the thought of being so observed, of having Jaskier recognise how much he likes this. But there’s a thrill to it too, of being seen, being known, being accepted even like this. And Jaskier has never made him feel ashamed.

Jaskier passes another loop of rope around his torso before stepping behind him and looping it around his ankles as well. When he pulls the rope taught and knots it off, Geralt has to exert some effort to stay balanced on his knees on the cold ground.

Jaskier hums, apparently satisfied. He leans in close. “How are you feeling?” he asks, the words hot in Geralt’s ear.

“I -” Geralt’s mind is hazy and he scrabbles for an answer. He pauses, steadies himself. He wants to be good for Jaskier, and that means using his words. “Feels good,” he manages.

“Not too tight?” Jaskier tests the tension in the rope.

“No,” he breathes. “Just right.”

“Good.” Jaskier strokes a hand through Geralt’s hair, and Geralt tries to lean into it but he’s held in place by the ropes. It’s maddening and frustrating, but it’s also somehow like being held, like Jaskier has wrapped himself around Geralt all over and the ropes are just the manifestations of his touch.

Jaskier steps back and looks Geralt up and down, not hiding the hunger on his face as he takes in Geralt’s taught chest and tight trousers.

“Ready to begin?” he grins, sharp and beautiful.

Geralt's head thrums with anticipation and expectation, building up in layers over a hammering base of want. He wants more of this, he wants Jaskier’s hands on him, he wants Jaskier to tell him what to do and he wants to do it well. He so wants to please Jaskier. He so wants to be good.

Inspired by this post from @witchertrashbag about being aware of Geralt’s sheer bulk and I couldn’t get this visual out of my head:

@witchertrashbag

You know what? You’re both so valid. Folk after my own heart, you are

Jaskier is a man who finds beauty everywhere, truly, but there is a way to present oneself, and the picture before him ticks every one of his cardinal sins of Tinder photos. The fluorescent lights of the locker room cast an unpleasant ambiance, the mirror (it’s a gym mirror selfie, for god’s sake) is so hazy he can barely make out the (admittedly impressive) definition on those (huge, just really fucking massive) arms. The face is conveniently absent from the photo—whether from intentional cropping or just a complete ineptitude at photography is anybody’s guess—but the few sweaty wisps of pale hair falling on his shoulders indicate the presence of a man bun.

And then he sees the bio. It’s only nine words, but he’s got to admit, they pack a punch.

emotionally unavailable but i eat ass so there’s that

“Just my type,” Jaskier groans as he emphatically swipes right.

Delightful concepts, ma boi! I’m going with Geralt and Jaskier sharing clothes casually and unconsciously.

–

It starts off typically enough. Geralt and Jaskier share bags, cloaks, and blankets, the sort of things which are essentially communal when people travel together. Travellers can’t afford to be picky when it comes to surviving in the wilderness.

It progresses to sharing shirts when necessary. Even though Jaskier’s shirts are rather frillier than Geralt would chose for himself, they’re a damn sight better than wearing a shirt covered in selkimore guts. And even though Geralt’s shirts hang rather loosely over Jaskier’s shoulders, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Jaskier borrows his jerkin, sometimes, when his is wet from the rain. Not that Geralt’s is ever any drier, but Jaskier insists that it’s somehow warmer than his own.

It comes to a head when Geralt goes to meet Yen. When he walks into the hall of whatever castle she’s borrowed this time, her eyes go wide.

“Geralt,” she says, very slowly, “what are you wearing?”

Geralt looks down at himself. He’s wearing a very tight, very short, hot pink doublet with purple slashes.

He shrugs, and the fabric stretched across his shoulders creaks ominously. “I guess it’s Jaskier’s,” he says. “Must’ve grabbed it off the floor this morning.”

Oh, you wanna play, huh?

He’s not a fearful man by nature—his lack of fear gets him in trouble more often than not—but all it took was one memorable instance of waking up next to Yennefer of Vengerberg and nearly being gelded for his pains to instill in him a very sensible caution of sorceresses.

Ok, @witchertrashbag so I was initially thinking of this like a joke, but now I’m starting to come around to this ship. I’m definitely envisioning a Dom Mousesack and bratty Lambert dynamic between them. 

I’m kind of imagining Lambert going to Skellige for a contract. Lambert being lambert probably gets into a brawl with someone important. Mousesack helps drag the two of them apart, the lord definitely the worse for wear. Lambert’s bruises are already on the mend. 

Mousesack tells Lambert, “Someone needs to teach you some respect, Witcher.”

“And who the fuck is going to do that, you?” Lambert scoffs. 

Mousesack slowly checks Lambert out and drawls, “Maybe I should.” 

Lambert flustered, “Um.” 

“Cat caught your tongue, Witcher? I thought you Witchers weren't so easily intimidated.” 

Lambert ends up back in Mousesack’s room and ends up having the night of his too long life.