A/N: This was my first ever Witcher fic over on Tumblr! Akela is about 16.

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier's first meeting, except with an added twist. Who knew The Witcher liked raspberries?

"Need a hand? I've got two. One for each of the, uh, devil's horns."

Akela turned in the saddle but Geralt stayed as he was, facing his path. "Go away."

"I won't be but silent back-up." The man – or was it more fitting to call him a boy? – that she recognised from the tavern was rushing up along the gravel, a bag slung over his shoulder. Already his personality was contrasting greatly to Geralt's, and she found it an interesting and welcome change. After all, when one spends too much time with a stoic Witcher as your only companion, the longing for something normal grows to be quite large…

"Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you're right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, Sir, smell chock-full of them." Akela rose an eyebrow from where she was sat on Roach, Geralt leading her by the reins. "Amongst other things," the bard continued, "I mean, what is that? Is that onion?"

The teen snorted not at all discreetly. "No, no, it's just him," she supplied. "He hasn't had a bath in weeks."

Geralt didn't move, far too used to her attempts to rile him up. The bard, however, turned his head up to look straight at her, grin pulling at his lips. "Really?" he asked as he hiked his bag further up his shoulder. "Geralt of Rivia doesn't bathe?"

Akela shook her head with a nonchalant shrug. "Only when forced. Perfect song opportunity, right?"

He made to clap back with something, likely in agreement with what she'd said, but the Witcher chose that moment to turn his head slightly to his right, a warning to them both, and though Akela only widened her smile at it, the bard knew far too little about him to properly interpret that look. "It doesn't matter," he instead decided to say. "Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny."

Akela scoffed.

"Heroics and heartbreak."

Geralt sharply lifted a hand before the girl could make another sound, and she bit her lip just in time to silence the splutters threatening to break. He continued walking. "It's onion."

The bard looked over at Akela and she rose a fist to her lips, eyes sparkling mischievously back at him. He grinned. "Right, yeah. Yeah."

It was silent for a little longer, the only audible sound being the clack of Roach's hooves on the pavement, the slight shuffling of feet as the bard tried to keep up, and the distant sound of people in the valley below. After a short while, however, Akela sat up straighter in the saddle. "Hey!" she said, garnering the bard's attention once more. "You could be his barker!"

His face morphed into one of excitement and he rose an arm to point a finger at her. "Brilliant! Yes, just brilliant!" he replied.

"Singing songs!" she suggested.

"Telling stories!" he added.

"Creating a legend!"

"Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the Butcher of Blaviken!"

"Ha! Perfect!"

He nodded in complete agreement, sticking his hands on his hips as he walked. "We are going to be great friends, you and I."

Geralt stopped, halting Roach and causing Akela to rock a little in the saddle. He placed the reins in his left hand and turned just enough to face the musician behind him. "Come here," he said, and despite simultaneously knowing what was about to happen and very much liking who it was about to happen to, Akela couldn't help it as her smile widened.

The bard was also smiling, though that was perhaps because he believed Geralt had found something of interest in his words.

Well. Interest, yes, but Akela doubted that was a good thing.

The moment he got close enough, Geralt balled his hand into a fist and punched him. Hard. In his testicles. The bard doubled over the exact moment he withdrew his fist and fell to the floor with no small number of moans and groans, hands clutching between his legs. Geralt watched for a second before turning his head up to look at the teen, face expressionless. "As for you-"

Akela gave him no time to finish before she all but leaped at him from the saddle, causing the both of them to fall to the floor. Roach, having had her reins abruptly relinquished, stepped back and shook her great head as though it were her version of an eye roll before leaning down to munch at the small tufts of grass at the edge of the path.

Meanwhile, Geralt recovered from the miniscule shock that Akela jumping at him had caused before quickly adopting an expression of complete battle-readiness and crossing his arms over her back. A second later he turned the both of them over so that she was lying beneath him and hovered over her, arms on either side of her body. Her feet were placed against his chest, pushing hard, much like her hands against his shoulders. Yet, he still didn't move. Understandable, really, considering he was a Witcher and she was, well, human. No matter how much he trained her, he would never be caught dead involving her in one of his hunts. Her self-defence was all that the hours he spent teaching her would ever be used on. That and… wrestling on the floor, apparently.

"You're a bully, Geralt!" Akela yelled, still shoving with both her hands and her feet while he simply lingered there, an irking hint of a smile on his lips.

"And you enjoy insulting me far too much."

"That's because you're so boring," she told him before gritting her teeth, pulling one of her legs back and then aiming a sharp kick in the exact place he'd punched the bard. Fortunately for him – though constantly unfortunately for Akela – he knew her far better than she knew herself, therefore he caught her foot before it could make contact and lay it and the other flat down on the ground before pinning them with his own legs.

"Maybe you just expect too much from me." He briefly shrugged, waiting for her response, blue eyes meeting amber. It was a staring competition for at least ten seconds, the only thing breaking the silence being the childish raspberry she blew at his face.

Geralt grimaced, face contorting into one of absolute disgust, but if she gave him a raspberry, who was he to deny her one back? He ducked his head quickly into the crook of his child's neck and blew against the unprotected skin, causing her to scrunch her shoulders up as much as she could while squeezing her eyes shut and screeching loudly. "GERAAAALT!" she all but screamed, hitting his rock chest. He blew another one for good measure, her shoves doing absolutely nothing to hinder him, and flinched as her shouts of laughter resounded in his ears before pulling away from her and staring down at her expression of drunken happiness, a giddy smile gracing her lips.

She opened her eyes and did her best to glare at him despite her look of happiness. "You're a dick, you know," she said with a residual giggle. "That boy's gonna write a song about this exact moment, and then the entire world will know that Geralt of Rivia is a big, old softie!"

One corner of the Witcher's lips turned upwards. "If I punch him in the face, he won't remember a thing."

"Uh, plea-please don't do that. Your punches hurt." He turned his head over his shoulder and bore his eyes into the bard's, who was standing a little way behind the both of them, leaning an arm leisurely against Roach's flank while the horse still munched away at the grass. Turning back, he gave Akela a look, to which she smiled at and quickly leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead, and then got off her and to his feet, reaching down a hand to help her up. "I promise I, uh, won't write a song. Of this moment, at least, like she said." He blabbered on like a mindless child as Geralt strode slowly towards him. "I'm not withdrawing the offer of my services, though! I mean, I can still write songs of your famed stories and tales and monster-hunts! How you and your girl and your horse- ow! Shit!"

He fell on his back as soon as Geralt reached him and shoved him to the floor. Akela shook her head in exasperation as he glared down at the bard. "Don't touch Roach."

And, as he lay there on his back, giving a nod to Akela when she smiled apologetically at him before Geralt helped her back in the saddle and gathered up the beast's reins once again, he had a second thought on his songs and stories.

Geralt of Rivia and his… whatever she was. Daughter or sister, he didn't know. But he'd heard the stories of this particular Witcher and this specific girl. All he was sure of – all he had just seen in the past five minutes – was that the baby Geralt'd found left out in the woods to die sixteen years ago had undoubtedly wrapped herself around what little heart he had, and he had been unable to give her up.

That would be a good thing to sing about… a good thing to give the world an insight on the so-called emotionless Witchers.

That was what would make a good story.