Wildly Unlikely, but surviving anyway

but this then makes people go ??? are things okay at home??? because shane hollander who has had a few comments here and there over the years but has largely always been very professional and polite now pulls things out like "hey, if you wanna focus up on hockey and not your standup routine, that would be fucking great, thanks" and "worst part of playing with my husband? having to go home with him after he does something impressive, yeah. after that goal tonight, he's free to a good home if anyone's interested."

Jaskier is a viscount, and he inherits the estate shortly after meeting Geralt. He makes a few changes that first winter in Lettenhove, firstly being setting up a council to make decisions in his stead that will serve the people, made up of trusted advisors and peasants he can personally vouch for. Secondly, having no need for the coin himself, he insists that the majority of the collected taxes be invested into the education and support of his people, as well as put towards increasing the reward for the services of any witchers that need to be hired.

(Okay, so maybe he’s a bit biased, but he’s seen how much Geralt is paid on average to risk his life on contracts and finds it offensive that he can make double that some nights playing his lute in a warm, safe inn. It’s not right, and he refuses to encourage such backward practices.)

Jaskier returns the next winter, surprised to hear that he’s apparently gained new land and citizens. Apparently, the people of the neighboring estate practically begged to be taken in under the viscount, something about nasty lords who steal their food and money, and hearing that Lettenhove never lost loved ones to monsters.

Which was…not what Jaskier was planning when he put in the orders he had last year. But he should have considered the fact that most nobles were utter pieces of trash, really, and that it wouldn’t take long for word to spread that Lettenhove warmly welcomed witchers of all sorts. And he can’t exactly fault his advisors for sort of going to war with the nearby estate, especially considering it was a rather peaceful affair.

Apparently the lord paid his soldiers so pitifully that they simply refused to fight for him, and simply handed him over to be executed, his kin banished upon pain of death. Which, Jaskier thought was a bit extreme, until he heard exactly what the noble was spending so much coin on that he’d left his people starving.

Face pale and visage hard, Jaskier agreed to let his advisors do what they saw fit with those brought to them for punishment, on the grounds that adequate evidence was found condemning the guilty party.

And every year Jaskier returned, he grew less and less surprised to see that his once small estate had grown even larger. It got to the point, eventually, that Jaskier had to assign vassals to the farthest portions of his land. Not to mention he was forcibly plied with a xenovox from one of his mages—and since when did he have mages?—that he may continue to provide council and wisdom while on the Path for the other three seasons of the year.

It was rather annoying to have to do viscount work year-round, but he supposed if it was for the sake of his people, then it was a responsibility worth bearing. And while it did eat into his song-writing time, he found it wasn’t that much of a hassle to simply use the communication device when Geralt was on his hunts. The result was he wasn’t just sitting around bored while he waited for the witcher to be done anymore, and he didn’t come home in the winter to a mountain of paperwork. Really a two birds with one stone situation, if he thought about it.

And he was vaguely aware, in the way said bird adds twig after twig to make a nest, that he was accumulating a rather…large, amount of land. But what was he supposed to do? Start turning people away who were in desperate need of aid? Begin treating his own citizens like little more than cattle for slaughter, which is how most other nobles seemed to see peasants?

No no, there was really nothing for it. If those other lords wanted to keep their people, they should have been nicer.

Meanwhile, Geralt wasn’t completely oblivious that something had changed with his bard. He figured it had something to do with the new Warlord of Kerack, who had taken over enough of the kingdom for the king to have considered it an act of treason. He’d heard nothing definitive yet, but there were rumors of a war, of the king fearing his own soldiers would turn on him no matter how much money he promised them. Apparently, money didn’t do much good when it wasn’t enough to support the soldiers’ friends and families, who had suffered greatly at the cost of extravagant banquets and gaudy decor.

Geralt knew that Jaskier was some lower noble from the kingdom, and that he was likely worried about how his people would fair if the warlord targeted them next. The witcher also knew that while Jaskier didn’t care to live the life of a noble, stuck in a manor all day and being forced to sit through meeting after meeting, he did truly care for his people, if the eyebags and satisfied smile he wore every spring said anything.

Thus, Geralt was unsurprised when he had to defend the bard from more and more attacks, assassins and kidnappers intent on harming Jaskier, likely so that the warlord would have an easier time with taking over the man’s lands. After all, Jaskier had no (legitimate) children or siblings, making it far too simple for the warlord to control the bard’s lands as soon as he was gone.

Still, after the fourth attack in two weeks, by a particularly skilled group of hired mercenaries that almost got the better of the witcher, he decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t risk leaving the bard alone at this rate to take contracts, and he needed to know who he was dealing with to better protect his traveling companion.

So he used axii to interrogate the man he’d purposely left alive. Geralt actually gaped as the mercenary explained that he was hired by the king to take out Jaskier, who was apparently the very warlord Geralt was worried about harming the bard.

And Geralt was extremely pissed off that the bard had neglected to give him some very vital information about his identity, until a rather high pitched voice squeaked:

“I’m WHAT?!”

Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.

Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.

"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.

(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)

"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."

And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.

It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.

Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."

"A little. It's fine."

"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.

"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.

"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."

And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.

"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.

Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.

Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.

Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.

"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.

"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."

Ilya, after a moment, only nods.

It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.

At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"

And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."

And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.

The system intrinsically abuses poor people.

Jaskier is a viscount, and he inherits the estate shortly after meeting Geralt. He makes a few changes that first winter in Lettenhove, firstly being setting up a council to make decisions in his stead that will serve the people, made up of trusted advisors and peasants he can personally vouch for. Secondly, having no need for the coin himself, he insists that the majority of the collected taxes be invested into the education and support of his people, as well as put towards increasing the reward for the services of any witchers that need to be hired.

(Okay, so maybe he’s a bit biased, but he’s seen how much Geralt is paid on average to risk his life on contracts and finds it offensive that he can make double that some nights playing his lute in a warm, safe inn. It’s not right, and he refuses to encourage such backward practices.)

Jaskier returns the next winter, surprised to hear that he’s apparently gained new land and citizens. Apparently, the people of the neighboring estate practically begged to be taken in under the viscount, something about nasty lords who steal their food and money, and hearing that Lettenhove never lost loved ones to monsters.

Which was…not what Jaskier was planning when he put in the orders he had last year. But he should have considered the fact that most nobles were utter pieces of trash, really, and that it wouldn’t take long for word to spread that Lettenhove warmly welcomed witchers of all sorts. And he can’t exactly fault his advisors for sort of going to war with the nearby estate, especially considering it was a rather peaceful affair.

Apparently the lord paid his soldiers so pitifully that they simply refused to fight for him, and simply handed him over to be executed, his kin banished upon pain of death. Which, Jaskier thought was a bit extreme, until he heard exactly what the noble was spending so much coin on that he’d left his people starving.

Face pale and visage hard, Jaskier agreed to let his advisors do what they saw fit with those brought to them for punishment, on the grounds that adequate evidence was found condemning the guilty party.

And every year Jaskier returned, he grew less and less surprised to see that his once small estate had grown even larger. It got to the point, eventually, that Jaskier had to assign vassals to the farthest portions of his land. Not to mention he was forcibly plied with a xenovox from one of his mages—and since when did he have mages?—that he may continue to provide council and wisdom while on the Path for the other three seasons of the year.

It was rather annoying to have to do viscount work year-round, but he supposed if it was for the sake of his people, then it was a responsibility worth bearing. And while it did eat into his song-writing time, he found it wasn’t that much of a hassle to simply use the communication device when Geralt was on his hunts. The result was he wasn’t just sitting around bored while he waited for the witcher to be done anymore, and he didn’t come home in the winter to a mountain of paperwork. Really a two birds with one stone situation, if he thought about it.

And he was vaguely aware, in the way said bird adds twig after twig to make a nest, that he was accumulating a rather…large, amount of land. But what was he supposed to do? Start turning people away who were in desperate need of aid? Begin treating his own citizens like little more than cattle for slaughter, which is how most other nobles seemed to see peasants?

No no, there was really nothing for it. If those other lords wanted to keep their people, they should have been nicer.

Meanwhile, Geralt wasn’t completely oblivious that something had changed with his bard. He figured it had something to do with the new Warlord of Kerack, who had taken over enough of the kingdom for the king to have considered it an act of treason. He’d heard nothing definitive yet, but there were rumors of a war, of the king fearing his own soldiers would turn on him no matter how much money he promised them. Apparently, money didn’t do much good when it wasn’t enough to support the soldiers’ friends and families, who had suffered greatly at the cost of extravagant banquets and gaudy decor.

Geralt knew that Jaskier was some lower noble from the kingdom, and that he was likely worried about how his people would fair if the warlord targeted them next. The witcher also knew that while Jaskier didn’t care to live the life of a noble, stuck in a manor all day and being forced to sit through meeting after meeting, he did truly care for his people, if the eyebags and satisfied smile he wore every spring said anything.

Thus, Geralt was unsurprised when he had to defend the bard from more and more attacks, assassins and kidnappers intent on harming Jaskier, likely so that the warlord would have an easier time with taking over the man’s lands. After all, Jaskier had no (legitimate) children or siblings, making it far too simple for the warlord to control the bard’s lands as soon as he was gone.

Still, after the fourth attack in two weeks, by a particularly skilled group of hired mercenaries that almost got the better of the witcher, he decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t risk leaving the bard alone at this rate to take contracts, and he needed to know who he was dealing with to better protect his traveling companion.

So he used axii to interrogate the man he’d purposely left alive. Geralt actually gaped as the mercenary explained that he was hired by the king to take out Jaskier, who was apparently the very warlord Geralt was worried about harming the bard.

And Geralt was extremely pissed off that the bard had neglected to give him some very vital information about his identity, until a rather high pitched voice squeaked:

“I’m WHAT?!”

i hope that after the war the UA students got to, you know, actually get to be kids