The Song of Geralt

by Descarada

Summary:

Geralt has taken potions to suppress his sex drive since he was a child. (In this AU, they require witchers to do this. Just come with me on this.)

However, one day, he gets the wrong potion and is suddenly, desperately, painfully aroused for the first time. Jaskier can help with that. It also provides a moment under the stars where they can confess their true feelings.

It is yearning and soft and if I did my job well, achingly tender.

Notes:

• Translation into Русский available: Песнь о Геральте by SpiritHallows

So I read The Song of Achilles and this is what happened. This is in the first person and experimental and out of my comfort zone. Yet I loved writing it. Let me know what you think.

He thinks I cannot hear him.

Restless. Rutting. Grunting softly behind the crackling of the dying embers.

But I hear him. I see him too.

He is pressed onto his stomach against his woolen bedroll. The firm swell of his ass lifts into a patch of moonlight, his back arching as though he has an ache he cannot reach. I blink to clear the campfire from my eyes. My hands shift under my cheek where they pillow my head for sleep.

He thinks he is hiding.

He is a brilliant man, my friend. He knows all fifty subspecies of winged reptiles. He knows how to brew potion out of bramble. He knows the movements of the stars and the speed of the wind.

But he has a chink in his armor.

It is me.

He loves me I think.

It is only the flicker of a thought. It settles on me occasionally, when I catch him looking at me with a softer expression than he means to convey. The flicker dies within moments when his mouth presses back into a hard line and he turns his head with a snort.

Maybe I imagine it. Maybe he doesn’t love me at all.

But I am not imagining this. He is whining. It is a reedy desperate sound hovering just beneath his breath. I roll quietly onto my back and I lay, eyes blown wide, looking at the moon. I silently call upon the moon goddess. She has no reason to listen. I am not her supplicant. I worship at the altar of Geralt of Rivia.

But I call upon her anyway. She is the only god here. I beg her to ease whatever suffering he has endured that makes him think he cannot call out to me.

I yearn to touch him.

But more than that. I want him to know that he can be touched. That he can writhe before me, vulnerable and naked, and that I will never harm him.

He could snap me like a dry twig of course. But that isn’t the kind of safety he lacks.

I think I hear his next breath start with the sound of my name.

J—

Ja—

My heart leaps to my throat and I freeze, still as a stone. I cannot afford to make any noise that will compete with his. I cannot miss it if he calls for me. But he breathes again and it is only the sound of air pulling into the warmth of his barrel chest.

I could sleep on his broad, scarred chest for the rest of my days, riding the vibrations of his grunts, moans, and chuckles into paradise.

But I have never lain on his chest. He has let me hold him before--once when he was injured and once when he was drunk. It was quiet. And sweet. And it closed gashes in my soul. There was no moaning. No sighing. Just an embrace.

It was more than enough.

But this is moaning. And I want to be a part of it.

I blink and I ask the moon again to tell him. Tell the man on the other side of the dying fire that he can call to me.

It is safe. I am safe.

A moment passes.

“Jaskier.”

He says it so quietly, that had I not been listening so intently between the crackling of the embers and the trill of the whippoorwill I would not have heard it.

I have never moved so quickly in my life.

I knock my pillow onto the dirt in my haste.

I do not care.

I kneel next to him, eyes shining, trying not to overwhelm him with my naked want. But his want matches mine, and then some. I look at him and his cheeks and neck are blotchy and flushed. His bare scarred shoulders are heaving. His eyes are wild.

He swallows and his gaze flickers down. It gives me permission to look. My eyes drop to his waist. His hips.

Oh.

I have never seen him like this. I often wonder why not. We have traveled intimately together for almost a year. I am occasionally forced to hide an ill timed erection or wander out into the woods to relieve my tension.

He never does.

We have shared beds and I have awoken more than once with my body excited and pressed to him. I have always skittered back, genuinely ashamed. He has always waved it off.

It’s natural, he says. Biological function. But his body has never responded in kind.

But now his hewn form lies before me, sprawled out on his bedroll on the forest floor. He is sheeted in sweat and his heavy cock is apparent under the thin linen of his underclothes.

I already know it is the prettiest cock I will ever see. Because he is the most beautiful man I will ever see. My mouth waters and I reach out an eager hand to touch it.

He flinches.

Cold horror grips me.

I have made him recoil from me. Have I presumed? I would never knowingly attempt to breach his well guarded walls. Too many people have done so already with violence.

Children in our world aren’t given many choices. Eat your greens. Join your father in the shop. Marry the daughter of our ally. But he was given no choices. His walls were obliterated. Violated. His very body was taken from him. It was poisoned and fumigated and built to serve someone else’s purpose. To kill.

I know this.

So while I might cajole the serving girl or charm the farm boy, I never ever press on Geralt. Not with charm. Not with reason. Not with feelings.

Not with anything.

Not on him.

Never.

I yank back my hand, heartsick.

But then I feel his strong fingers grasp my wrist.

“Stay,” he says, hoarse and quick.

I still and I search his face for a sign. He doesn’t know how hard he is squeezing me. I do not care. He can crush my bone to ash, as long as he is touching me.

“What would you like me to do, Geralt?” I ask. I savor his name as I always do, my voice caressing each syllable, not rushing either one.

He looks at me pleading. “I—“

He rolls his hips again. I do not take the bait this time. I do not reach for him, though I want to. Oh gods how I want to.

“I don’t know,” he finishes. He sounds embarrassed.

“It’s alright,” I say. “I can lie here. You can do whatever you like to me.”

His smile is thin. He is preoccupied, despite his ardor.

“Or nothing at all,” I continue. “I can just be here.”

“I do want something,” he insists.

My eyes adjust to the shadows and I see that his white hair is plastered to his neck and his lips are glistening. I picture sliding my tongue up his neck but I stop myself. He licks his lips and squeezes my wrist tighter.

He is usually keen, and I am usually carefree. Or at least I play at carefree. I have that luxury.

But now I am keen, and he...well...he is floundering. I want to grab him and pull him to shore. But he has flinched. I will never make him flinch again. He must do this himself. He must say what he wants. I wait for him to say that he wants me to hold him. Or to fuck him. Or to fuck off.

He doesn’t.

He says something that I do not expect.

“What is happening to me?”

I think it is a seduction, but when I soak in his expression I see that he is begging. I cannot understand what he is asking. It is the question of a child. He is a man of almost a hundred. He knows his own body. I am at a loss. So I attempt a rakish, seductive joke. I blow at the tendrils falling into my eyes and hope that they flop back gracefully.

“You are desperately aroused Geralt. Sexually frustrated. Who could blame you, sleeping next to a handsome, famous, poet night after night?”

He makes an irritated noise at the back of his throat. But he is aroused. It is unmistakable. Powerful lust strains at his seams. I want to summon it. Coax it out with my lips and my fingers. Blow on it like hot coals until it is raging in my arms.

“This has never happened to me before. Witchers can’t. We don’t.” He says urgently, as though arguing with his body.

I raise my brows and allow myself to look down again at the outline of his thick cock tenting the fabric of his braies. “It seems as though you can.”

Then the meaning of his words slam into me. “Wait. You have never...been...?” I gesture at his erection. “Hard? In your life?”

He shakes his head wordlessly. He rearranges his shoulders on his pallet and I think it is to prevent the arch of his back. He arches anyway and the pull of thick muscles rippling under his golden skin warms me. My body cannot help itself. It sees his feral lust and it wants to tear away and meet it. Desire unfurls in my stomach and my own cock stirs.

“No,” he says and his voice is husky and confused. “We aren’t supposed to. We take potions to stop it when we are children. And I never have until...until...”

“You never said,” I whisper. But there is still so much I don’t know about Geralt’s mysterious order of witchers and his childhood. I do not take offense that he has not told me. It is a dark subject.

“But how?” His voice strains.

I am significantly more capable of thought than he is at this moment. He is experiencing the lust and pain of an adolescence just bursting into puberty. It is the time in one’s life when desires are so uncontrollable they are more like a jail sentence...when a stiff breeze and a wayward thought have you spilling semen on your fist.

I know this, but I suppose he doesn’t. And it must be orders of magnitude more powerful after being pent up in his body, suppressed for almost a century. “Geralt,” I say, “Didn’t someone new make your potion today?”

“Yes,” he says, seizing on the obvious. “Yes! But that means. That means they made it wrong. Or gave me the wrong one.”

“We can get you the right potion tomorrow.”

He looks at me again and sighs. His hand finally releases mine. I shake out my wrist and return it to my lap. His hand is now flat against his own cock, and he is bucking against it.

“But I need help now,” he breathes, frustrated.

“I can help you,” I say. “I may not be a warrior but I have my gifts.”

He drops his head back and looks at the sky. “Because I am a killer and you are a lover?” He asks, avoiding my gaze.

“Because you are a wonder and my hands were made to touch you.”

He snorts softly. “Poet,” he says.

“Guilty as charged,” I respond.

“You always say that poems need not be true,” he says. He is still wary.

“But some are,” I say. “And this one is. My hands yearn to touch you. More than they yearn to strum my lute.”

His eyebrows rise and he is looking at me now.

“They want to touch you more than they want to stuff honey cakes into my mouth at the spring festival,” I continue, encouraged by the hope that has blossomed in his eyes.

I grip my hands tightly in my lap so that I do not reach for him and make him flinch again.

He has to reach for me.

The night air is cool and I shiver. He responds.

“More than they want to grasp the waist of the black haired serving girl two towns back?” he asks. His eyes flutter closed.

He cannot bear to look at me in case the answer wounds him. But I will not wound him. This is easy to say. It is the clearest, most inarguable truth. “Far more than that.” I say. “More than anything.”

A smile hovers at the corner of his mouth. His eyes open and he yanks me by the collar of my tunic. I fall over him. My lips are on his. They are pliant and greedy. I have always wanted this.

I press into his lips savoring them, smiling into his breath. He scrambles for my hand and brings it to his cock so that he is rolling into me now, only thin fabric between us.

He whispers to me. “I flinched because I was surprised. But I want you to touch me. I just don’t know what I want. This is new to me.”

I pull back gently, only far enough to look into his eyes. He looks at me warily as though he has been waiting for this moment.

“Does this mean that you have never had sex before?” One does not need a hard cock to have sex, so this is a separate question entirely.

“Yes,” he says. “That is what it means.”

My head tilts against its will and I gaze at him. My chest fills with the profundity of the moment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he demands.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like,” his brow knits together in an approximation of anger. He clenches his hand, the one that is not skittering over his own body, “like I am a maiden. Like I am—- precious.”

He tries to sound angry, that much is clear. He has done the necessary gestures. The furrowed brow. The clenched fist. The gestures he makes when he stomps into our room and says “you’re taking for fucking ever, Jaskier, we’re going to be late.” Or when he looks around the campsite and barks “where the fuck are my swords?”

But he doesn’t sound angry at all. The word precious has fear clinging to it. It is a choke. It is almost a sob.

“Darling,” I say. I have never called him darling. I call everyone else darling. But not him. I hide behind the two full syllables of his name. But only moments ago, he moaned mine. So in return I call him darling. “You are most certainly not a maiden. But I must inform you that you are indeed, without a doubt, precious.”

“I once snapped a wyvern neck with my bare hands,” he huffs.

It is precious.

I slide my hands up his flanks, letting my fingers drag. I dip down again and capture his lips, nibbling and licking. My cock grows heavy, I can feel it. But I ignore it.

He whispers again. “Will you fuck me or will I fuck you?”

I grin and nuzzle his neck luxuriating in the rub of his stubble. “Oh darling. There is so much more to it than that.”

“How would I know?” he asks, petulance in his voice. The fact that he is now rutting against my hip softens the effect of his grousing. A breeze eases into the clearing and blows a leaf onto his face. I brush it off and my fingers linger on his temples and cheekbones. Then I hook my fingers on the waist of his braies.

I say the words I most want to know.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

His lips fall open and he nods.

“You must say it,” I reply.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, yes, now please fucking do something.”

I slide off his braies. His narrow solid hips and thick curving cock are sights to behold. I lick my lips.

“You too,” he urges, tugging at my tunic. I strip quickly but before I can put my hands on him again I am caught off guard. He is looking at me hungrily.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.”

I wink mischievously and draw my hands down my own torso. I allow my hand to settle around my cock and he swallows audibly.

I consider what I shall do to him first. I think that fucking him is too much to begin with. I try to remember the last time I had sex with someone inexperienced. It does not help. My mind cannot hold even a glimmer of a memory of anyone else. Not with him splayed before me. So I focus on him.

I decide that I want him to feel my fingers and my tongue at once. It will be better than a few yanks and it will also be gentle. “Onto your hands and knees, Geralt,” I instruct him.

Excitement flashes in his eyes and to my surprise he clambers up quickly. I notice him wobble and I reach to make sure there are no pebbles under his knees. The bedroll is thick but not so thick they won’t bruise.

This must be perfect for him.

I kiss the small of his back as I push aside a pebble. I see goosebumps prickle up his arm. I retrieve oil. I want my fingers to glide across his skin. I want them to feel like velvet on his responsive body.

This must be perfect.

He waits patiently, obediently. His thighs tremble but he stays quiet.

“Head on the pillow,” I say, and he lowers his head as though in prayer. His white hair spills across the dark fabric. His chest is pressed close to the ground. His back stretches and tapers up to his impossible round ass, presented to me like a gift.

Am I writing this story? I wonder. How else could this be?

Geralt is naked and eager, ready to give me everything. Trusting me with his heart and his body.

Am I inventing this moment?

Am I a god?

I cannot be a god. No god can write a ballad like I can.

I remember that I called upon the moon goddess and in case she is real I mutter a thanks. Geralt speaks again and it is quiet so I strain to hear.

“Are you...going inside? Me?” He stutters. I slide my hands onto his hips.

‘No. I will taste you and touch you,” I say. When I am done, you will decide what else you want.”

He nods against his pillow. I squeeze his ass and part him. He sucks in a breath. I drink in the sight of his tight pink hole in the night air.

“You are gorgeous,” I say and my voice sounds thick with honey.

I hold him open as best as I can with one hand. With the other I reach between his legs. I thumb along his body, caressing and pressing, fingers sliding and slipping. I wrap my hands around his heavy erection which is hanging like ripened fruit between his muscular thighs.

I groan at the feel of it. My fingers are barely able to close around its girth. He shivers. I dip down and press the flat of my tongue against him as I tug. He twitches and claps a hand over his mouth as a wail escapes his lips.

I lean over his back and gently pry away his hand.

“I want to hear you,” I say. “Let the nymphs in the wood hear as well. Let’s make them wild with desire at the sound of your rumbling voice.”

I can only see the side of his face. His mouth is open but it looks like a smile. I dip my head down again. I lick him. I kiss him. I swirl my tongue until he is slick and shining. Then I stroke him sure and tight. He falls apart in my hands and shouts as he comes on the bedroll beneath him. He is heaving like waves and he says my name.

“Jaskier.”

I place my tunic onto the bedroll so he can drop boneless down onto something dry. I lie beside him and pull him into my arms. He burrows into me, hiding his face between my temple and the pillow.

“Was I supposed to finish that quickly?” he rasps into my ear.

My cock is aching, but I can wait. “Since this was your first time,” I answer, “it is a miracle you lasted as long as you did. But I suspect that your body will recover quickly. And whatever you want tonight, I will give you.”

“Alright,” he says. “And what I can do for you?” He runs his fingers down my chest.

I am silent because there is nothing I do not want.

“Fuck me,” he says in a burst of generous bravado.

“Hmmm,” I say. It is certainly tempting. But I will not overwhelm him. “Why don’t I use my fingers first. See if you like it?” I suggest and I press a soft peck to his lips.

“Alright,” he agrees.

He moves to turn over but I stop him.

“Onto your back, Geralt,” I say. “I must see your face the first time you are breached. It will be a glory. At least one blessed mortal should witness it.”

He narrows his eyes at me like he does when I make some majestic pun. “You are teasing,” he says.

My eyes sparkle. “I am,” I say, patting his hip. “But I also mean it.”

He settles onto his back and I kneel before him. I grip behind his knees and spread his legs, keeping them bent. I pour more oil onto my fingers. I drop kisses up his thighs and caress his hipbones before I slide my hand between his buttocks.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

He tenses and squeezes his eyes closed. I chuckle and sit back on my ankles. I withdraw my hands to rest on his knees.

His eyes fly open. “What?” He demands. “Why did you stop?”

I look at him tenderly. “This is not a seige, darling. You invited me in.”

He releases a breath, chuckling with me. Then he realizes something and cuts his eyes at me. “That sounds like the beginning of a ballad.”

I raise my hands. “I am not writing a ballad, Geralt. I only mean, the more you relax, the better this will feel.”

He shakes his head slowly but amusement plays on his face. “Alright. Let’s try again,” he says.

I settle my hand on his stomach. “Breathe,” I say. He breathes and I thumb the curly trail of hair below his belly button.

His thighs fall open and I ask again.

“Are you ready?”

He nods, full of anticipation. I press only one finger. He is so tight.

“How does it feel my darling?”

He wiggles and purses his lips. “Odd.”

“Bad odd? Or good odd?” I ask.

He tilts his head. “Good odd.”

“Good, good. Clench down a bit, then let go,” I say.

I feel him tighten around me and I think I will have a heart attack picturing my cock buried in his tight heat. But I cannot get ahead of myself. If he doesn’t like it then we will stop.

“Yes,” he says. “Better. More.”

I slip in a second finger and he exhales and presses his ass down against the blanket. I dribble more oil and work him open until he is a babbling mess of pleasure.

“Do you want to try?” I ask, when his body is lax and his eyes have misted over in bliss.

He clutches my wrist, fingers still buried in him.

“Yes.”

I nudge apart his legs and stroke his cock as I line myself up. He is hard again and he shoves up into my fist. He is whining too. It is sweeter and more affecting than any song I have ever written.

I press in minutely and his eyes widen. His pupils are blown so dark that they no longer look feline. They are marbles of anthracite.

I am gentle but insistent. I press in as slow as a summer afternoon. I give him time to adjust. To breathe. He is straining again, but this time from excitement. His mouth has formed into a perfect ‘o’ as his eyes flick from my face, to where I am disappearing into him. The cords of his neck are pulled tight and between his breathing is airy laughter.

“Fuck,” he utters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He is so stunning and it helps distract me from my own unhinged urges. I cannot unleash myself. When I am fully seated I sigh long and loud.

“You are so tight, so slick,” I say. “You are amazing.” I stroke his legs and his chest, as I tell him how gorgeous he is. How stunning his body is. How lucky I am.

I pull back then thrust. He is so tight it sucks my breath from me. But with time he grows more soft and open. He urges me on.

“I am ready,” he says. “Harder,” he says. “Please, please, Jaskier, please. I need you.”

His words free my own desperation. Soon I have his legs hooked under my arms and I am thrusting into him, pressing our sweaty torsos to one another. I am panting and kissing his drooling slack lips.

“Oh darling. Oh fuck. Oh Geralt,” I chant as I slap into him. His pecs jiggle and I cup them in my palms and fuck him harder.

I cum like a shot inside of him and he spurts untouched with both of us shouting into the night. I clean him with my braies. We give up on his bedroll and move to mine. We snuggle close, my leg thrown over his, his arms wrapped around me. We are toasty and murmuring and happy.

“What did you think?” I ask.

He hums into my hair.

“Is that good?” I ask him. I know what his hums mean but I still want him to say it.

Sometimes I am an asshole like that.

“It was perfect,” he says.

We fall asleep tangled in my bedroll, rising and falling together, tumbling into dreams.

When he wakes me up some time later with his cock pressed to me, I rouse quickly and lay flat on my back, urging him to straddle my shoulders. Despite my exhaustion I perform admirably and I swallow everything he gives me.

When he wakes me again it is still the dead of night and I stroke him to orgasm with my eyes half closed. I tell him if I do not wake next time, he is more than welcome to use my slumbering body however he sees fit.

I think he does, because when I awake in the morning I am a bit crusty on my hip. He looks sheepish but I laugh and tell him I am more than happy. He grins and pulls me onto his chest. I kiss his nipples and stroke his fur and he squeezes me tight. We listen to the morning birdsong for a while, then he clears his throat.

“Should I get my potion today?” he asks. “Even though it means I will not want to do this again?”

“I do not have an opinion,” I say.

He frowns. “You do not care?”

“It is the opposite,” I say. “I care the most. I care about you deciding for yourself and being glad with your choice. It is the only thing that matters, love.”

He quiets and I realize what I have said. I place a kiss on his jaw and I ask him. “Is it alright that I call you love?”

He turns to me. My words have given him courage. “Did you know that I love you?” He asks.

“I suspected,” I say lightly. “Well, I harbored hope.”

He nods. It tumbles out again. “I love you, Jaskier.”

“I love you too,” I respond. “I am yours, body and soul, for the rest of your days.”

He grumbles at that. “Must you always outdo me with poetry?” But there is affection and giddiness in his voice.

I shrug. “It is my nature.” I am growing hot with the sun rising so I throw off the blanket.

He speaks again and I have never heard him like this. Vulnerable. Doubtful.

“Will you still love me if I take my potion and we never do that again?”

“I will,” I say. My love for him is a fact. It is like gravity.

“What if I do not take my potions, and my urges never settle? What if I want it all the time like last night? What then? Will you still travel with me?”

“Geralt,” I say. I turn his chin so that he is looking at me. I am a professor sometimes so I speak as though I am instructing him. “No matter what you choose, I will follow you anywhere. I will follow you into the darkest depths of the underworld. I will follow you into the iron mists of purgatory.”

He nudges me. “I’m only going to Gors Velen. There is a contract out for a bruxa.”

“There too,” I say. “I will even follow you to Gors Velen. You can’t get a decent glass of wine there. How is that for love?”

“I don’t know yet what I will do,” he says. He searches my face but I do not worry. He will not find anything but love.

“That is fine too,” I say.

We lie a bit longer. I can hear Roach whinny. It is almost time to drag ourselves up and feed her. I open my mouth to speak but he stops me.

“Jaskier,” he asks.

“Geralt,” I respond.

I wait as he gathers his thoughts or his courage. I do not know which one.

“Why do you love me?” he asks. “If I am a killer and you are a lover?”

I take my turn to think for a moment. I know that so much hinges upon my answer.

“That’s a terrible story, Geralt,” I finally say.

“It is not a story, Jaskier, it is a question.” I can hear him knit his brow. Soon he will realize that I’m being theatrical again. I’m being a professor again.

“It is a story,” I insist. “But it is a terrible one. It is only the beginning. And no one wants to hear only the beginning of a story.”

He realizes what I am doing and he rolls his eyes. His exasperation is a badge of honor. If I could string it onto a chain and hang it around my neck I would do so.

“What do you mean?” he asks. He humors me because he wants the answer.

“Saying I am a killer is like saying Once upon a time there was a killer, and then falling silent. Now I am waiting with bated breath for a story and you have let me down.”

“Fine,” he growls. “How would you tell it?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” I say with a flourish.

He rolls his eyes again. That is another point in my favor.

“I would say, that once upon a time there was a killer.” I grow serious now. I can hear his heart with my ear pressed to his chest. “And even though his body was captured and violated and forced to fight, he only killed to protect. And even though he was abandoned and alienated, he still loved. He loved deeper and fiercer than anyone I had ever known. His heart was so tender that he traveled a continent to protect a little girl he barely knew.”

Geralt listens, still as can be. He is barely breathing. I continue. “And he doesn’t just kill. He tells terrible stories.”

I know that a crooked smile is on his face.

“And he tells terrible jokes but that doesn’t stop him from laughing the loudest at them. And he studies and reads and whittles wood. He can brew a potion to heal or to intoxicate. Also his ass is a walking work of art, which he must know, because he tortures his bard by wearing the tightest trousers made by human hands.”

I feel his chest vibrate with a chuckle now.

“He is a protector. And a brother. And a friend. And I love him with everything that I am.”

I finish and I hope it is enough. He squeezes me tight.

He thinks I cannot hear him—the stuttering of his breath as he tries to smooth it and hold it steady. He thinks I cannot feel the hot tears sliding onto the pillow above me.

I no longer need the moon to intercede.

I raise my head and I kiss him.

It will be this, forever. I know it.

He is a brilliant man, my friend. He knows all fifty subspecies of winged reptiles. He knows how to brew potion out of bramble. He knows the movements of the stars and the speed of the wind.

And now he knows that he is loved.

Notes:

Alright. Friends. My loves. If you read my work you know this is a different style for me. I read The Song of Achilles and it grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. I still have a book hangover. Basically what I tried to capture was the soft longing. And the warrior who is expected to kill and the man who loves him for so much more than that. And I tried out the first person present on my favorite bard.

If you like it and want to give it an assist on tumblr here it is
The Song of Geralt

 

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LovelyRita1967 who writes sexy, sweet Geraskier (and Eskel/Lambert, and Letho/Eskel, just go look) romcoms and

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