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Geralt grunted. “I can’t believe I let you do this.”
The bard, shimmering with pride, smirked. “A bet,” he said, cocking his chin out with a toothy grin now beaming on his face, “is a bet, my dearest Witcher.”
The White Wolf stared into a distant point in their tent.
The four of them – Jaskier, Yen and Ciri – have been traveling for days now, traveling to a distant kingdom’s four day long feast filled with celebrations for Beltane, all in hopes to find a mage that Yen had only heard of while still a student at Aretuza.
The mage, as she heard, was one of great and vast knowledge. She’d spent decades studying magic and learning of its nature, but the kind of magic that Ciri possessed was a new one – as new as Elder magic could get. Therefore they sought out the mage, not only so that he could possibly teach Ciri about the nature of her powers, but also so that Yennefer herself could study and understand it to appease her hunger for knowledge.
If he were asked, however, about his current predicaments, he would need to be drunk – soaked in alcohol, fermented even, if possible.
It happened around the middle of the second week in their travels - four weeks being the time it would take them to make their travels without using portals - when they’d all been exhausted, hungry, hadn’t showered in days after riding in the soul-scorching sun and moist air.
Jaskier’s bright mind birthed a plan when Ciri mentioned the upcoming celebrations of the arrival of spring – in the very next village they came across, he would perform a beautiful ballad about Lada, the goddess of spring, and one of his travel companions would accompany him, dressed as the goddess.
They instantly agreed that it would be too dangerous to put Ciri in the eye of the public like that, so the choice came down between Geralt and Yen.
Like fuck will I parade around a village dressed up in a frilly dress and flowers. I would eat my own shit before I did that to myself , Yen proclaimed.
Geralt, much like the goddess, did have fair hair, so Geralt came into another idea: they would make a bet amongst the two, and whichever one lost would take one for the team and dress as Lada.
On that fateful day, Geralt of Rivia agreed to take upon the bard’s bet – what was the worst that could happen, at that point? They were dead tired, smelling worse than a banshee’s crotch, hungry for real food and not questionable meats that Geralt and Yen would procure through their means; surely, it couldn’t be worse than it already was.
The Fates seemed to love him as much as he loved the taste of rotten fish, for now he’d found himself sitting down at Jaskier’s cot, next to a small basket of wildflowers.
“I would pay you with good money to get out of this,” he grunted through clamped teeth. In response, Jaskier yanked on a strand of the white hair and Geralt cursed.
The smug little shit repeated, “ A bet is a bet .”
Geralt snorted and closed his eyes. This was ridiculous. This was the last time he would ever accept a bet from anyone ever, be it the last he does –
“Besides,” Jaskier added, “you’ll be playing a god! It’s an honorable role, if anything. Imagine if I’d had you play a Chernobog with all those black leathers of yours – you sure do stench like one, my love.”
“ Lada was a woman ,” he snapped in response, moving around to make himself more comfortable for this torture; Yaskier slapped the back of his head with a poppy, the red petals falling into the witcher’s lap.
Jaskier sighed at the ruined flower.
Him and Ciri had picked a whole basket of them, though, so it wasn’t the end of the world. He reached for a lavender flower while saying, “Then we’ll just have Yen charm your tits into bigger ones – fuller ones, actually. Your tits are enormous, you probably could breastfeed a smaller boar on each one. Have you ever had anything suck on them?”
Geralt swooped in with his arm, and before he could even duck, Jaskier had found himself grabbed by his hair and bent over the witcher. He was staring at those buttercup yellow eyes as he said,
“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll have you sucking on –”
The leathers of the tent parted, and Geralt let him go instantly; what the gods gave Jaskier in his beautiful voice and many talents, they made sure to take from his balance – instead of welcoming himself on his feet like a cat, he defied laws of motion and magic alike, falling straight into Geralt’s lap.
He looked up to see Geralt’s nostrils flaring, those yellow eyes looking straight ahead; only then did he remember that they were no longer alone.
Yennefer’s eyebrows were high, but the surprise didn’t meet her eyes.
“Have I interrupted a lover’s quarrel
again
?”
Jaskier grinned, leaning onto Geralt’s chest – his head ended up at the tits; songs would be written, but until then – “Hello, witch. Turned any men into stone by looking at them yet?”
Her eyes narrowed and a honeyed smile curled her lips, “None, but it’s only the afternoon. Would you like to be my first one of the day?”
Geralt heaved a sigh, pushing the bard out of his lap. The little ass hit the floor with a thud and a face of utter betrayal welcomed him once he looked down.
“First he nearly rips my scalp out,” he mumbled to himself as Geralt walked towards Yen, “then he nearly shatters my tailbone.”
Geralt turned to look at him with his eyebrow raised; by that time, the bard had somewhat composed himself again, squatting near his cot. Somehow he got a poppy petal stuck to the side of his head.
“You wound me greatly, Witcher,” he shook his finger at the mountain of a man, and Yen chuckled.
Even Geralt smiled as the mage asked, “Was that what he did last night as well, or were those yelps of pleasure I heard?”
Jaskier’s cheeks were suddenly matching the poppy petal as the witcher shook his head, recalling the events of last night – events that included Yennefer as well; the yelps were most definitely sourced in seemingly endless pleasure.
Geralt turned to her, his arm looping around the smell of her back. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, reveling in her scent – the lilac and gooseberries the closest he’d ever come to whatever beautiful afterlife there was.
Most witchers were little different to the monsters they were made to destroy; such solitary creatures weren’t bred to be able to love someone romantically, but each time he’d gaze upon her lilac eyes, he’d found himself questioning his creation altogether – there was something human, something innocent still within him if he would give his heart to this mage and her devious smile.
He admired her beauty as he asked, “How did the training go?”
Yen smiled, truly now. “The bad news is that it is going slowly –” when Geralt raised his eyebrows and blinked slowly, easing his lips into a smile, “Alright, she is progressing beautifully and rather quickly, just not at the rate I’d like.”
Yennefer of Vengeberg was a perfectionist if he ever knew one.
His eyebrows knit together. “And the good news?”
“We have charred lamb for dinner.”
When the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Jaskier shouted,
“SHE BURNT MY BELOVED NESSIE?!”
Nessie, may she rest in eternal meadows, was his newfound pet goat. He’d won it at an auction after nearly selling himself to a foreign lord, though that was a story for another time.
Yen peeked out from behind Geralt’s broad chest and nodded. “To a crisp. The girl might be a decent learner of magic, but she’s a damned good cook – there’s not a single hair left on it.”
He squealed, suddenly ignoring the scalp and ass pain, as he ran out of the tent with his hands at his cheeks. Inaudible and horribly sorrowful, drawn-out monologues ensued from outside of the tent, and the two couldn’t help but laugh.