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cas-kingdom · 1 year

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Luna Wolf

A/N: This has been long in the making, as in written sparingly over a few months, so it is a little choppy, but I missed posting stories about this duo. Please enjoy! (For the purpose of this fic—and our poor emotions—Eskel’s death comes a little differently than how it’s shown in the episode).

The italics indicate flashbacks to separate scenes in the second episode of season 2 (and one not in the show at all). Hopefully they’re easily identifiable!

Find the OC version of this fic here.

Title: Luna Wolf

Summary: Geralt finds you on the bleak path of revenge as you hunt the leshy that killed Eskel.

Words: 3518

“That wasn't our brother. Not by the end of it…

You saw nothing but the path ahead as you wove through the thick woods.

…And bitterness won't help us find what killed him.”

You whacked at a low-hanging branch with the sword gripped in your fist. Your jaw clenched so tight you could feel the bones grating against each other, hear the jarring noise reverberating in your ears along with the quickening thrum of your heart, but you didn’t care.

“Oh, I know what killed him.”

All you cared about was the monster you were following, and the feeling of metal sinking into its rotten flesh.

You rubbed the knuckles of your free hand furiously across your cheeks before the icy wind could freeze your tears. The moon was high in the sky, and you had been pacing after the monster’s invisible tracks for what must have been half an hour, unsure as to where you were going but certain you needed to be anywhere but Kaer Morhen. Your feet had taken you on this path, your mind fixed solely on the leshy that had killed Eskel.

“Come on, then.” Eskel stood back, his eyes lingering on Princess Cirilla of Cintra, as she had so eloquently just introduced herself, for the briefest of moments. He rubbed his hands together and looked expectantly between his brothers. “Where is she? Where is the pup?”

Lambert stuffed a roll in his mouth and spoke around it. “Last I heard, she was taking a shi—” You suddenly appeared with a painful kick to his leg, and he aimed the rest of his roll at your head.

“I was putting my stuff in my room, dickbert.” You picked up the bread, tossed it back at him, then turned to Eskel with the biggest grin you could muster. An understanding passed between you, one that had the witcher mirroring your grin before opening his arms wide. You felt a surge of excitement as you jumped forward and wrapped yourself around him. Your heart jumped at his noticeable hiss of pain, but he expertly covered it with a laugh and your joy caused you to momentarily push any apprehension away.

Eskel pressed kiss after kiss to the side of your head, resolving you to childish laughter he’d missed. “Time away from you has aged me, my Luna Wolf,” he said.

You grasped his hair, caked with mud and blood, and placed your own kiss on his cheek. “Well, you don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you.”

“Now, that’s a lie! Come here, you.”

There had been a moment at Kaer Morhen where you had felt whole. You had been home with Geralt and your family, safe and in a place where you could loosen your muscles without worrying about becoming the next monster’s food. Vesemir had been without serious concern, Lambert had been his usual sarcastic self, and Eskel had calmed every nerve you might have been harbouring with that single hug. The situation Geralt, and inadvertently you, had found himself in with his overdue Child of Surprise had simply not bothered you for a mere few hours as you made yourselves warm for the winter in the Keep.

You stumbled as your boot caught on an uprooted tree stump, and you stuck your arms out to steady yourself. For the first time in twenty absent-minded minutes of following tracks you couldn’t even see, your surroundings and your situation caught up to you. You stopped and the wind roared in your ears, the distant howl of a wolf mingled within it. Your loose hair flew viciously around you, slamming into your face, numb with cold, and scraping against your neck.

Once again, you reached up to wipe at your cheeks, finding that your hands were trembling. With cold or nerves, you weren’t sure. All you knew was that you wished to defeat it. That feeling of weakness. That—that horrid notion that you weren’t strong enough to protect those who had protected you for the entirety of your life.

With an angry snarl, you stepped over the tree and twisted your sword in your grasp, ignoring the wind and the numbness and renewing your desire to put your feet forward, one after the other, and kill something in need of killing.

“Who’s the princess?” Eskel broached the question as soon as he and you made it to the hallway and out of earshot of the others. “I mean, who is she really?”

You took his sword from his faltering hold, and he withheld any protest, rolling his shoulder back once the added weight was gone. You shrugged lightly. “A girl who’s lost a lot, I’ve come to realise,” you said. You and Ciri were no longer at odds with each other, and with your new truce came solidarity. You had accepted Ciri’s position in your relationship with Geralt. “She’s alright,” you added, “not at first. We didn’t get on, if you can believe it.” Eskel rose an eyebrow and his lips drew upwards in a knowing smirk. “Anyway.” At his obvious amusement you moved to walk backwards and in front of him. You eyed his shoulder. “Your arm. I know you’ve hurt it.”

Eskel frowned and slowed a bit. “Hm?” He glanced at the limb in question. “Oh, no, no. I’m fine. This isn’t my blood.”

You stopped suddenly and Eskel almost walked straight into you. Before he could voice his surprise, you reached for his sleeve. “Now, that’s a lie,” you cheekily echoed. Then, serious, “No monster bleeds red like that.”

“Have you become a nagger in the last couple years or is it just Vesemir’s influence—alright. Hey. Let me have a look at you instead.” He didn’t let you touch his skin, pushing your hands away before they could get beneath his shirt. Instead, he grasped your shoulders and plastered a grin on his face, pushing you far enough away so he could look at you properly. “Gods,” he gasped out dramatically, “you’re a woman now, aren’t you? We’ve finally reached the dreaded day, haven’t we?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his fingers as they went to jab at your stomach, though a smile pulled at your lips all the same. “Master of deflection,” you accused.

Eskel quirked a brow and draped an arm over your shoulders. He turned you so you could continue walking down the hall and leaned his cheek against you head. “I think I’ll have a party tonight, Luna. What do you think?”

The wind continued to batter your face and the sky had since opened to let the first drops of rain spill. You could feel your boots sinking into the damp ground and your heart was beating a mile a minute.

You fell so suddenly you had no time to reach out and break your landing. A winded breath left your lungs and you lay in the mud for a moment before readjusting your grip on your sword and using it to push yourself up. Once you got to your feet, your boot slipped, and you went down once more. Frustrated, dirty and completely overwhelmed, you grit your teeth and let out a scream before falling into exhausted sobs.

“What is that?” You stared at what could only be a leshy. You had never seen one before, had only heard about them during late night stories around the woodfire, but you stored images of all the monsters Geralt had conjured for you in your mind, and the monster in front of you now matched the leshy’s description.

But this leshy, or whatever it was, was oddly, frighteningly human-like. It moved in a familiar way, a weird thing to say for a monster, but this monster didn’t seem entirely that. All instincts in you were muffled for a moment as you watched it shift quickly around the laboratory.

Your grip tightened on your sword. You’d grabbed it before running to where you could hear the throes of a fight.

Geralt stopped attacking the monster in order to whip his head around at your sudden voice. An abrupt panic overcame his face at the sight of you there—you were a good fighter, of course you were, but no matter your age and experience, his panic would always be justified—but he was forced back into battle before he could order you away.

“The door!” Vesemir called. you darted out of the way of the doorway before Geralt could shove you out. He noted your cleverness with a very audible growl but aimed his magic at the opening nevertheless, sending a bolt of magic through to block it from the leshy’s escape. The leshy sent him flying straight after.

You sprung into action, crying out as you sped forward and attacked the scattered wooden limbs with vigour. The monster fought back as Geralt recovered, then focused its attention on all three of its opponents.

You had never fought with Vesemir before, and perhaps in another situation you might have taken notice of such a big thing, such a big accomplishment, but something was strange about this leshy. You weren’t even sure it was a leshy at all.

In a short time, you had the monster pinned.

“Eskel,” Vesemir said, peering up at it. “We need time. We can save you.”

It was then your mouth went dry.

You turned and closed your hand around a clump of soaked mud, pushing yourself up until you could get to your feet. You barely took one step forward before a hand grasped your wrist and you whirled around, the witcher instincts within you causing you to lash out with your sword at whoever had caught you. The clang of metal against metal resounded throughout the forest as your blade met Geralt’s. He had lifted it just in time, his other hand still wrapped around your own.

His face was a mixture of emotions you were too tired to decipher. Concern? Shock? Did the clenching of his jaw mean he was angry? It usually did, but the look in his eyes told you otherwise.

Slowly, Geralt lowered his sword, but he didn’t let go of your hand.

“Y/N…” he said, his words slow and his voice quiet. Deep. Something you could hardly hear above the noise of the growing storm.

You tugged on your hand, but his strength didn’t waver. Your nostrils flared and your vision bleared with tears as your emotions heightened tenfold. In a sudden flutter of frustration that you couldn’t quite place, you lashed out once more, giving Geralt barely enough time to shoot his sword up to block your hit.

“Y/N!” Geralt’s voice was strained as he struggled against the wooden arm pinning him to the wall. “You need to move!”

You panicked. You had been helping in the fight all you could, hitting at a branch when it got too close and stabbing at parts of Esk—the monster where you couldn’t quite hurt it. The rational part of your brain was screaming at you to do more. You could do more, you’d been taught to do more by the very people you should be helping in this room, but there was a bigger part of your mind that could only see Eskel. Because beneath the monster, there he was. He really, achingly, truly was.

“Y/N!” That was Vesemir. Your head snapped to look at him. A branch was holding him by the neck, squeezing the very life out of him. You wanted nothing more than to cut the branch in half, but that was Eskel. It was Eskel. Your Eskel.

“Y/N!”

“Y/N!” Geralt had let go of your arm. He was taking quick steps back, forced to with the power in his child’s flustered hits. There was no fight in his own strikes. He was defending himself and nothing more.

“Hey,” he tried, “it’s me! It’s Geralt!”

“I won’t go back!” you shouted, gasping with the force of your own blows. “I’m finding the leshy and I’m going to kill it!”

Geralt’s brows furrowed and he stopped moving. He took your hits, blocking them from where his feet remained planted to the floor. “Everyone is worried for you,” he said.

“No! They all think I killed Eskel!” Your voice broke as you slammed your sword against his. “And I did!” Another. “I drove my sword through him! I killed him!” And another. “I killed Eskel!” Tears poured down your face and sobs spilled from your lips as Geralt took it all. “He’s dead, and it’s my fucking fault!”

At that, Geralt pushed against your sword with his own, twisting it harshly and so suddenly, in a way that had it falling from your grasp. You paused, exhausted, as it fell to the ground, clattering against the rock. Before you could pick it up, Geralt had grabbed you. He spun you around and held your back to his chest, his arms crossed in front of you, your wrists in his hands. You seemed to accept it quickly, succumbing to your emotion as you bent over his arms and fell into uncontrollable sobs.

Geralt dropped his head to speak into your ear. “We killed the leshy. Together,” he stated simply, loud enough for you to hear. The rain was heavier, tumbling through the leaves of the trees. “There is no blame, Y/N. We did what we had to, to save Vesemir. To save our home and the other witchers. And—” He gently lowered you both to the ground—“to save Eskel.”

“Give me your sword, Y/N!” Geralt had one hand on the leshy as it pinned him to the wall and the other trapped beneath him. He did not have the means nor strength to kill the monster alone, and you knew that. Still, as you went to do as you were told, wrapping your hands tightly around the hilt of your sword, you kne you didn’t have the strength either.

It was when you heard him choke that the strength finally found you. The sound of Geralt’s pain had you fleetingly forgetting Eskel. Instinctively, you lifted your sword so he could glide his free hand across the blade until it glowed. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“We’ll do it together,” Geralt said. He grasped the hilt and waited for you to grab his hand before you both pushed together. The blade pierced the leshy’s wooden hide with a spray of sunset sparks and the leshy screeched, dropping Vesemir.

You met the leshy’s eyes as it writhed and fell to the floor, and realised they were still his.

The rain soaked the two kneeling in the mud. As you fell limply against Geralt, he loosened his hold and turned you in his arms, pulling your head to rest against his shoulder. His other hand went to your back, keeping you against him. Impulsively, you curled your hands in Geralt’s tunic, holding onto the fabric for dear life as you buried your face into his shoulder.

Geralt tipped his face and rested his lips against the top of your head. He shut his eyes and ignored the feeling of water streaking down the back of his shirt. He had been searching for you for an agonising while, calling after you in the forest, following any footprints he could make out. Lambert had regretted his words the moment he’d said them but was too proud to have stopped you before you left the room. He couldn’t have known your first impulse would be to take up your sword and leave the Keep in search for the leshy, anyway. Geralt had, of course, but he knew you best. Knew where your anger could take you. He’d run after you the moment Ciri had told him she’d looked all around but couldn’t find you.

“Lambert didn’t mean what he said,” Geralt promised. “He was angry. We all are.”

You shook your head. “He was right.”

“No.”

“I should have pressed him. He was hurt. I could tell. I should have made him tell me.” Your words were muffled but loud enough for him to hear.

Geralt sighed as he stroked the lengths of your hair down your back. “No, Y/N.”

You seemed as though you might have said something more, but at the last second a pitiful noise escaped your lips instead, and you dropped your head against his chest. You grasped his shoulders and clenched the wet fabric of his shirt even more.

Noiselessly, Geralt reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a medallion. The rain immediately washed the rest of the red off. He ran his thumb across the wolf emblem before he took one of your hands and pressed it into your palm.

“This is yours,” he said quietly. “It was in his pocket. He made another. Vesemir and I found it before we buried him.”

You wore your original medallion, the first Eskel had made for you, around your neck. You hadn’t removed it since he’d put it there on your eleventh birthday. It wasn’t like the witchers’ medallions, of course, but the meaning was there all the same, every nook and carved line of the young wolf pup calming you each time your fingers ran across them.

Blinking to clear the haze, you brought the new medallion, its metal cold against your skin, up to your face. You stared at it for a long time. The wolf had grown. This was a full-fledged adult, its mouth roaring in the centre of the medallion, teeth on full display. A full moon shone behind it.

“He called you Luna Wolf because she is the leader of the pack,” Geralt said, knowing you knew but needing to remind you all the same. “As you have always been ours. He does not blame you.”

You could say nothing more as you closed your hand around the medallion and drew it closer to your chest. You turned your face further into him and hid yourself from the world.

Geralt, meanwhile, stared grim-faced at the path ahead. He had one hand on the back of your head, the other wrapped around you, holding you close to him. The rain was lashing down and he could feel you trembling beneath him, but he knew neither of you would be moving for a while.

He would find the leshy. He had decided on that probably around the time you had. You were connected in that way, a need for vengeance brought upon solely by a broken heart. He feared he’d taught you that. But he’d find it when you were sleeping, with a number of eyes on you to ensure you wouldn’t leave to follow him. He refused to let you. It wouldn’t achieve what you thought it would.

You finally crumpled in Geralt’s hold, your body slacking. You were a wolf pup all over again between the legs of your father, his arms around you, his head over yours, protecting you from more than just the rain.

“He does not blame you,” Geralt whispered again. “I swear to you, little one. He loved you more than life.”

You knew.

“What is it?”

“Shh.” Eskel put a finger to his lips and stretched his leg out to kick the door closed. The witchers were often up hunting at all hours of the night; they couldn’t afford to lose any lie-ins.

You put your own little finger to your lips in acknowledgement and shifted yourself under your covers, sitting cross-legged. Usually, it was you who woke the witchers on the morning of anyone’s birthday, your childish heart desperate to get the day of—typically lacklustre—celebrations started, but this morning, before the sun had even risen above the mountains across the Keep, Eskel had been the one to sneak into your room and wake you with the promise of presents.

“Open it and see.” Eskel brought his legs up and tucked them beneath him. He sat at the corner of the bed, a small grin on his face as he watched you unwrap his gift from the leaf he’d tied around it. He felt like an excited child himself, and he let himself sink in it. He had been waiting some time for you to spend your next birthday at Kaer Morhen, and the day had finally come.

You let loose a small gasp. You picked up the metal circle and even with the lack of light, the witcher could see the pure sparkle in your eyes. Your silence told him all. You ran your little thumb across the surface in awe before launching yourself at him.

Eskel let you push him back on the bed, laughing softly. He squeezed you then, relishing in your little arms around his neck. “Am I to take this as a sign that you like it?”

“My very own medallion!” you said in his ear. “I love it! I love it so much! I’m finally one of you!”

“Oh, little Luna. You’ve always been one of us. You don’t need a medallion to prove it.”

Yes. You knew.

Witcher Masterpost

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caedes12 · 25 days

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It's been awhile

It's been almost two months since I updated, but I had not written in longer than that. I wrote the first chapter right after I finished the first part of Kingdom Come (Once Burned is the first 'book').

I hoped that releasing the first chapter would put a fire under me and make me write but it turns out that didn't work.

BUT I AM NOW WRITING AGAIN.

Ideas are flowing and it feels GOOD.

I am hopeful to get a second chapter of High Water out by the end of the week.

#geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier x eskel #geralt x eskel #Kingdom Come #High Water #Once Burned

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kueble · 1 year

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Wild Mint

This is not what I planned on doing tonight, but @justhereforeskel deserves something soft.

Teen. Warnings: Chronic injury. 1,300 words.

Eskel/Geralt

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The stairs never used to be this steep. Geralt is sure of it. Any other night he would have been fine, but Vesemir had pushed them all so much earlier. Hell, he skipped a warm dinner to haul his ass down to the hot springs, and even soaking alone for hours hasn’t dulled the pain in his knee.

With a grunt, he leans on the railing and pulls himself up the stairs, doing his best to ignore how fucking useless he feels. His body shouldn’t be fighting him like this. He was a finely-honed killing machine - according to every human he’s ever met - and he shouldn’t be hobbling up the gods-damned stairs like this. But it’s hard to win a battle against his own body, especially when it’s this angry at him.

Thankfully Eskel isn’t here to watch him suffer.

By the grace of some long-forgotten god, Geralt makes it to his room without running into anyone. Everyone is probably deep in their cups at this point, and as much as he’d love to be down in the main hall with them, the throbbing in his knee says what a horrible idea that is. He’s tried to drown the pain away many nights like this and yet the pain lingers come morning.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, throwing open the door to his room while he tries not to judge himself. No sense in being maudlin at this point. He’s an old bastard, and his body just finally caught up with his age.

“Language, Wolf,” Eskel calls out, and Geralt nearly trips over himself trying not to look shocked. How bad does his pain have to be for him to not notice the second heartbeat in their room. He runs a hand over his face and tries to think of an excuse to be alone, to not show his faults.

“Just tired is all,” he whispers, and one look at Eskel lets him know his lover isn’t buying it.

“Please, I know you,” Eskel scuffs. “Could tell how much damage that last tumble did the second you rolled on your bad knee. Let me take care of it.”

“No need,” Geralt says gruffly, because he’s not some spoiled maiden. He’s a fucking witcher, and that should matter. His body should listen to him, damnit.

“Let me rephrase that,” Eskel says softly, “let me take care of you. You’re allowed to have a bad day, especially with a knee like yours.”

“No, I’m not,” Geralt argues, his tone harsher than he likes. “Witchers don’t get bad days. Fuck, I shouldn’t even have a bad knee. Things like that get you killed. Probably should have died from this fucking injury in the first place. Wouldn’t be in so much pain if I had.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and listen to me,” Eskel growls at him, stomping over the room to stand in front of him. “You want me to be dead? Because it’s hard for any creature to live without its heart beating in its chest. And that’s you. You’re my heart, asshole, so let me take care of you and we’ll both feel better for it come morning.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Geralt whispers, but he’s smirking as Eskel takes him by the shoulders and guides him over to the bed.

“Not what you told me last night,” he says, chuckling as he starts to undo Geralt’s laces. “No funny business tonight, though. You’re going to let me massage your bad leg, coat it in that horrible mint salve that will have us both tingling for days, and then I’m going to make sure you don’t move for the rest of the night. You can fuck me once you can kneel on the bed without cringing,” he says, laughing as Geralt shakes his head and gives in.

He should have known there was no hiding this, not from Eskel. They’ve been living in each other’s pockets since they were kids, and there’s never been a secret between them. Well, not since that awkward first year on the path full of missed connections and ridiculous pining. No, they’re on even ground nowadays, and life’s better for it.

He wants to say something sappy, something his bard would put in a flowery song, something that would stick to his tongue and sound honey-sweet, but that’s not how they work. They don’t need pretty words to know how they feel. He can hear it in the slow beat of Eskel’s heart, in the warm heat of his gaze as they lock eyes. They both know how much love is there.

So instead, he lets Eskel strip him down and help him into a soft pair of nightclothes. He sits on the edge of the bed like a good boy while Eskel gets himself ready, slurping up the still-warm bowl of stew Eskel shoves at him with a pointed look. Got it. No more skipping meals. By the time his bowl is empty, Eskel is dressed and the fire has been properly stoked. He sets the bowl on their bedside table to become tomorrow’s problem and sprawls back against their pillows.

“Isn’t it much easier when you let me boss you around?” Eskel asks, grinning as he crawls onto the bed and sits by Geralt’s thighs. He uncaps the jar of salve and the stinging scent of wild mint fills the air.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Geralt snorts, but he offers a wide smile and gestures down at his injured knee. “Do your worst.”

“How about I do my best instead?” Eskel whispers, and Geralt has to turn to look at the fire because his chest suddenly feels too tight. Emotions are always closer to the surface - just waiting to bubble up and flow out of him - when he hurts like this.

Eskel works in silence, but it’s a comfortable one. Eventually Geralt turns to watch him work, his body going limp under Eskel’s strong hands. His tanned skin looks so harsh against Geralt’s milky complexion, but they fit together so well. He loses himself in the warm movements, letting Eskel drain the pain from him. He knows it will never really go away, but he’s able to ignore it once Eskel finishes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, barely a sound at all, and Eskel just smiles at him. His scar pulls at his lip, his tooth poking out, and anyone else would find it offputting, but it just looks like home to him. Eskel nods before getting off the bed to put the salve away and wash up in the basin by the fire. Geralt feels so relaxed he could fall asleep any second, but he forces himself to stay awake until Eskel comes back.

“Too lazy to get under the covers?” Eskel teases him, rolling Geralt so he can tug the furs out from under him.

“What can I say? You’ve got good hands.”

“Good mouth, too,” Eskel tells him, and Geralt rolls his eyes in response.

But then he’s moving, leaning in to capture Eskel’s mouth in a gentle kiss. There’s no heat behind it, but his body lights up just the same. Even after all these years, every time they touch sparks something deep inside of him. Shoving that down, Geralt turns his face and presses a softer kiss to Eskel’s scarred cheek.

“Love you, too,” he mumbles before rolling over onto his side. As expected, Eskel follows him, curling up against his beck and throwing a heavy arm over his hips. The last thing he feels is Eskel’s breath against the back of his neck.

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SFW Tags: @halerune @mayastormborn @dani-dandelino @jaskierswolf @littoraly-art @tothedesert @dapandapod @theweirdlynx @tedrakitty @sharinalein @theamazingdevilgivesmehope @iamaqt314 @silvermintnightprincess @rockysstupidity @live-long-and-trek-on @hayleynzlive @holymotherwolf @thesynysterunknown @rebard-main @larawrmonster @gryffinqueen-blog @lovelyscot @fangirleaconmigo @mothmanismyuncle @fontegagrilledcheese @thestarkwinter @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @allthequeenshorses13 @221birl1823 @strippiluolamies @concussed-dragon @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @clarebear66 @feral-jaskier @j-u-s-tmyself @hayleynzlive @thisislisa @firefly-party @officerjennie @theshapeofcool @flawney @viking1919

If you’d like to be added/removed, let me know. Thank you!

#my fic #eskralt #geskel #geralt x eskel #eskel x geralt #the witcher #tw3

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hbfengxi · 2 years

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and you’ll save all your dirtiest jokes for me // and at every table, i’ll save you a seat // lover

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher netflix #eskel #gereskel #geskel #i had them for literally two minutes #kaer morhen #eskel the witcher #i miss them so bad #geralt the witcher #geralt x eskel #witcher 3

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beli-heart · 9 months

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tw // bite mark , alcohol use

✨Server Exchange gift! Mini comic! 3 pages!(page number on bottom of each page) (Text from pages written below!)

Geskier, non/traditional a/b/o (alpha Eskel, omega Geralt, alpha Jaskier), hurt/comfort.

Summary: Jaskier first sees them in a tavern, bonded mates Geralt and Eskel. After years traveling on the path together he realizes he loves them both, but they’re already bonded so why would they want him too, he thinks. He hides his feelings away till one day Geralt drunkenly confesses that he and Eskel are in love with him. Everything else falls into place.

This is my first comic and honestly I didn’t have a clue what I was doing half of the time. Lol, still I’m really proud with how it turned out. Took me a month to complete and I had loads of fun! Also, this was the first time I draw game version Eskel, so I’m glad I had multiple chances to draw him! Also also, there’s a fourth(4th) page that is nsfw which can be found on my twt. :3

Text reads:

Page 1, Jaskier says,

“I saw them and knew, but… why would they want me?”

Page 2, (drunken confession),

- Geralt “Jask…I’m ‘n love with you.”

- Jaskier “Geralt, you’re drunk, and that’s a cruel joke.” “Eskel, dear, w…” (gets cut off by Eskel)

- Eskel “Julek, he’s not joking. ••• We’re in love with you.”

- Jaskier “You-what” “I didn’t think…” “Your love me?”

- Geralt “Yes, Jask. Do you…”

-Jaskier. “My dear witchers, I’ve always loved you both.”

Page 3, Jaskier says,

“Silly witchers.”

#the witcher #geskier #traditional watercolor #geralt of rivia #eskel #jaskier #fanart #the witcher fanart #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x eskel #geralt x eskel #traditional art #twn #beliheartart

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kuwdora · 1 year

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Transplanted Heart (Uprooted Remix)

Eskel/succubus, Eskel/Geralt

remixing The Heart Entire by @brighteyedjill

I saw Jill's one-sided Eskel/Geralt fic in the @smubbles-etc remix pool and immediately got inspired. Wrote 5k in like three days. So it's no longer a drabble but definitely going the remix route with Leshy Eskel! Also going a very different direction than my other Leshkel series. Currently posted 2/6 chapters.

Major character death (off-screen), hurt/comfort, Wolf brothers bonding over monster nerdery. Love confessions, first time, plenty of angst, suicidal ideation, more hurt/comfort. Mild spoilers for the events of the witcher books.

“Some loves are planted too deep to uproot without also pulling out the heart entire.”

🌳💚🌳💚🌳💚

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, let alone see you like this,” Maja said, eyeing him with a combination of sympathy and fascination. Eskel was no longer the witcher she had lain with. He was a mutated leshen with abilities that surpassed even the Queen that had originally infected him.

Eskel had always visited Maja before he returned to Kaer Morhen. She’d been so good at helping him burn off the lust, it made it bearable for Eskel to be near Geralt for the winter. Had less worry about accidentally revealing his feelings for his Wolf. He knew Maja would help him now, regardless of what he’d become, but he figured he ought to give her enough context to understand what he needed—and why.

It’d gotten too complicated. He missed it when things were simpler.

Eskel felt large and hulking in her cozy home. He was self-conscious about his desiccated, half-broken branches and scorched bark. That didn’t seem to deter her. She approached him, reaching for the nearest branch, and Maja touched a small pink blossom that had managed to survive the storm of his grief.

“A lot’s happened.” It was the understatement of the century.

They sat near her fireplace and Eskel began recounting the story while she finished her dinner. He told her of the leshen queen he’d come across on the Path that infected him. The agony of the transformation and the confusion that ensued. Geralt had nearly cut down Vesemir to protect Eskel and had defended his right to live. The fear and pity of his brothers and Vesemir was almost worse than death, except Eskel had lost his purpose. He wasn’t a witcher anymore, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He’d been halfway down the mountain when Geralt caught up to him.

“He asked you to stay for the season,” Maja said.

“Yeah, he did.”

“How did it go?”

Eskel he draped some of his branches near the fire. Close enough to burn himself. “I’d already lost my body, my purpose. What else did I have to lose?”

Maja was silent for a long moment. “Did you lose your heart?”

He used one of his branches to grab Maja’s drink and he drained the last of the spirits.

Heartache unfurled in Eskel’s body, fresh and icy as spring thaw. It almost would have been better if he had stayed away, taken himself into exile and left his old life behind. He could have lived with that pain of being without Geralt. He had lived with that pain his whole life.

“Eskel.” Her voice was soft. She was misunderstanding his silence.

“Geralt knew me, he was there for me like no one else had been, and no one will be again. I told him… I told him everything.”

Maja’s look of surprise was refreshing, and Eskel cracked a sad smile. “Bet’chu didn’t see that one coming.”

“Not at all,” she said, and touched the small blossom again. “What happened?”

read chapter 2 on ao3

#geralt x eskel #geralt/eskel #eskel #twn eskel #leshkel #the witcher netflix #geralt #chapter 3 will feature BROKILON i'm so excited y'all have no idea #i love my tree boyfriend #my fic #leshkel fic #my witcher fic #heyooo remembering to crosspost old fic here on tumblr #though technically this is new and i'm still editing the rest #but still!! posting things! here! there! everywhere. finishing things. what a notion.

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glwstic · 1 year

Text

Rec List 3: The Witcher

- That Uncertain Season by gremble

The only downside to living in Kaer Morhen, under the White Wolf's explicit protection, is that Jaskier cannot find anyone willing to risk the warlord's ire by taking him to bed.

Oneshot, 9,611 words

- Long Live the King by stockholm_syndrom

Geralt placed the crown on his head before kneeling at his side, and the weight of it felt heavy on Jaskier’s brow.

Jaskier’s path to becoming king, takes place five years after the fall of Cintra.

10/10 Completed, 47,450 words

- nights without sleep and days that burn by ruffboi

There was no madness in the eyes looking out from behind lank white hair, close enough he could reach out and brush it behind the witcher's ear.

"Are you bound to defend and serve me?" Julian asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes," the wolf growled, low and rumbling and nearly inaudible.

-----

Prince Julian of Kerack, when he came of age and was officially named his father's heir, was gifted four bound and controlled witchers by the king of Kaedwen: the last four wolves of Kaer Morhen. Julian would prefer to accept the gift and set them free, but is forbidden from doing that on pain of their deaths. So instead, all he can do is apologize and treat them decently.

This simple, compassionate act sets off a series of events that will irrevocably change his life, his witchers' lives, and the lives of everyone living in the Northern Kingdoms

10/16 Incomplete, 60,917 words

- No Modesty Among Thieves by RebrandedBard

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

Oneshot, 1,989 words

- Tight Spot by CatLovePower

“Told you...” Geralt said, his voice rough, as if talking hurt, “to stay… with Roach.” “What? No, Geralt, this wasn’t a hunt,” Jaskier babbled. “We’re in Kaer Morhen. Did you hit your head? Actually scratch that, of course you hit your head, the whole tower crumbled on us…”

Oneshot, 5,055 words

- Wasting in the Wings by RebrandedBard

After arriving in Kaer Morhen with the child surprise, Jaskier finds himself isolated from the wolves. He doesn't know how to act, who to be. He doesn't know what his purpose is in this strange place. Without even his lute, he has nothing. Geralt asked for his help bringing Ciri to the keep, but now that it's done, what further use is he? How long will it be now before he is turned away? As he waits and wonders, he is found wasting in the wings.

10/? Incomplete, 55,823 words

- Little Birds Before They Learned to Sing by kimikocha, Rose (RoS13)

In the aftermath of the White Wolf conquering the rest of Redania, Jaskier thinks he's prepared for any eventuality as he sets off toward Lettenhove.

He's wrong.

Oneshot, 10,776 words

- Into the Light Out of Darkness by inexplicifics

The Warlord of the North and his council have finally decided to conquer the rest of Redania - but one of Milena's old friends throws their best-laid plans into disarray.

It turns out Vizimir of Redania has been keeping more secrets than anyone ever dreamed.

5/5 Complete, 20,042 words

- Hold On by CaptainRex_ika

It has been months since that day on the mountain, a day that left Jaskier alone.

Now, he finds himself a captive of Nilfgaard, who just want Geralt and that child surprise of his, and they believe Jaskier is the way to get the White Wolf's attention. After all, he is known as the Witcher's Bard.

Jaskier believes that this time Geralt won't come for him...not after that day.

28/28 Complete, 116,258 words

- one wrong word and it all may come crashing down (for the fates are devious by heart) by Volts

There was Geralt, his face pulled into a familiar snarl. There was Yennefer, standing guilty and hurt, like something had been ripped from her - more so than she had in Oxenfurt even - with a sword to her throat.

Jaskier paused. Behind him Ciri had already mounted the giant black horse. The dwarves were already piling into their cart.

Geralt had said he was going to slay a monster.

(“Leave the sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!”

“She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.”)

“No. Hang on a moment!”

Didn’t Geralt say that Voleth Meir fed on desperation and pain?

And Yennefer was fucking desperate.

When Geralt held a sword to Yennefer’s throat, Jaskier stepped in.

Oneshot, 3,011 words

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underpreparedbard · 1 year

Text

✨Masterlist✨

My AO3: @likeasexygoose

Ko-Fi: @underpreparedbard

Requests are currently: CLOSED

Quiz Competition Details

Fandoms I write for: The Witcher, Merlin (BBC), Firefly/Serenity, Star Wars, Sand Castle

My fave ships: Geraskier, Yennskier, Geraskefer, Jaskier x Eskel, Jaskier x Lambert, Geralt x Eskel, Geralt x Lambert, Jaskier x Priscilla, Lambert x Aiden, Merthur, Merlin x Gwaine, Merlin x Lancelot, Merlin x Morgana, Morgana x Gwen, Mal x Inara, Mal x Zoe, Mal x Kaylee, Kaylee x Jayne, Reylo, Captain Syverson

Multi-Chapter Fics:

Blue Eyes Burn Red - AO3

Rience finally discovers a way to get revenge on Jaskier. The secret is elder blood.

Chapters: 3/?, word count: 2,702 - currently ongoing

One Shots:

We’ll Get You A New One - AO3

Jaskier is ambushed at camp while Geralt is hunting. What could they possibly take from him?

Word count: 867

For You - AO3

Geralt has been working contracts non-stop and can barely keep himself upright. Luckily he has his bard to take care of him.

Word count: 1,095

I Saw You Staring - AO3 | Tumblr

While bathing in a stream, Geralt discovers something about his companion. Just how dark could Jaskier’s past really be?

Word count: 988

It’s Quiet - AO3

Things have been going smoothly for Geralt and Jaskier for a while. What could go wrong?

Word count: 918

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quizzes:

Guess the lyrics - Burn Butcher Burn

Guess the lyrics - Toss A Coin To Your Witcher

Guess the lyrics - Song Of The Seven

Guess the lyrics - Whoreson Prison Blues

Guess the lyrics - Her Sweet Kiss

Guess the lyrics - The Golden One

Guess the Lyrics - Ride Of The Witcher

Who said what? Witcher edition - part 1

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julek · 2 years

Note

Julek, hi! #59 on the kissing prompts for Gerskel, if it takes your fancy.

#59. kissing your lover's wounds after having bandaged them up read on ao3

The sun is dipping low, melting into the hills that shimmer gold against the pale pink sky. The vineyard stretches across the fields like a soft blanket, embroidered in dark greens and rich browns, covering the earth with ease. A gentle breeze rolls in, a sign of the impending autumn days that will follow, ruffling the old willow and its leaves, fighting to hold on a little longer.

Geralt watches it all from his chair on the porch, much like he does every afternoon.

There's something about life in the countryside that makes him feel grounded; waking up with the sun every day and going on about his routine feels different than it did when he walked the Path, somehow. There's no sense of extreme urgency, no feeling of dread as he reaches the larger cities, not a shadow of doubt or question as to whether he'll find refuge before winter swallows the roads, winding and tiresome as they grow. None of that, no — here he feels safe, knowing there'll be food on his table every morning and a warm bed every evening, there to greet him, to feed him, to shelter him. He feels connected, both to the earth and to himself, his own life, his own body. His very soul, if Dandelion was right about any of that.

He wonders if it's what he was supposed to feel like, all those years; if, by chance, retirement meant reaching what his mentors had taught him would only ever be found in the throes of duty.

The irony of it makes him smile.

"Deep in thought, Wolf?"

Geralt turns, even though he heard him coming from a mile away. Eskel stands at his side with a small smile, all broad lines and soft features, and Geralt allows himself to take him in for a little while.

Eskel makes him feel grounded, too. Standing there in his work clothes (so different from his armor, which he hung up some time ago, and only comes out every few months), worn and well-loved, his brow shining with sweat. His hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at Geralt, because he'll never let go of his juvenile hairstyle, no matter how much Geralt teases him for it. His skin glowing golden brown in the dying sunlight, tanned from weeks of working the fields, sunrise to sundown. His scars, glowing light pink like ridges drawn on the land right after the harvest, healed and forgiven.

"I am," Geralt replies, leaning down to grab the small wooden box where they keep their healing supplies. "Come here and show me your arm."

Eskel clicks his tongue in protest but goes anyway, pulling a chair next to him. He injured himself working on the fields a day before, a too-sharp sickle and a thoughtless movement resulting in a big gash on his forearm, which Geralt lovingly and long-sufferingly stitched up and bandaged, after, of course, lecturing his lover on his carelessness.

“It’s fine,” he says, even as he extends his arm so Geralt can unwrap the bandage, dirty and damp with sweat. “It’s healing normal.”

“Hmm.”

The wound is, as Eskel put it, healing correctly. After all, Geralt would be embarrassed to call his needlework sloppy, and Eskel, being the Witcher that he is, withstood the stitching with calm and grace. There’s a little blood dotting the cut, and Geralt dabs it away gently with a cloth, cleaning the wound thoroughly.

Part of him knows he’s, perhaps, overreacting. It is a small wound, after all, clean-cut and simple, and Eskel could care for it on his own. But there’s no need for it, now, he thinks as he dips the cloth in antiseptic. He can be gentle, can wash away the pain with his hands now, can bring relief and comfort to the one he loves.

Even if there are no more gaping wounds from a kikimora, no more deep gashes from a griffin’s talons, no more arachas bites to be endured.

Even if it is just a scratch to the skin, he wants to tend to it.

He can take his time.

Eskel is quiet beside him as he works. He must know, indulging Geralt like this. Perhaps he has the same thoughts, every once in a while. Perhaps he, too, thinks life is precious every time he holds it in his hands.

Geralt lets the injured arm rest on his lap for a moment, reaching down to grab some spare bandages and a small pair of scissors. Slowly, he starts wrapping Eskel’s forearm with the clean linen, making sure it’s not too tight nor too loose, covering the wound until no red skin can peek out and risk an infection.

He looks up at Eskel when he’s done, and without a word, brings his hand to his lips, pressing a small kiss into his skin.

“All done,” he murmurs, Eskel’s eyes warm like honey on his. “You may return to your tomfoolery now, old man.”

“Thank you kindly.” A grin, toothy and wide. “However could I repay you?”

The sun is almost gone all the way now, the last of sunlight flickering through the trees.

Geralt looks at their joined hands, and squeezes.

“Sit with me a while.”

And it’s easy, like nothing’s ever been. Like he believed nothing should ever be.

“That,” Eskel says, moving his chair a little closer with an old-man groan Geralt will tease him about later, “I can do.”

It's easy.

#mywriting #thank you so much for the prompt and your patience! i really hope you like what i came up with <3 #geralt x eskel #geskel #gereskel #gerskel #so many ship names #geskel fanfic #fluff #injury mention #blood mention #answered #on-a-lucky-tide

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aramblingjay · 2 years

Text

We were gods (we were kids) Geralt/Eskel, established relationship, hurt/comfort (4K) CW: Implied/referenced child abuse (Witcher training)

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

ao3

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

“He’ll come,” Vesemir says quietly, stepping up beside him to look out at the valley. The first dusting of snow has already coated the mountaintops white in the distance—Geralt doesn’t have long. “He always does.”

None of them have missed a winter in over a decade. They used to, back when the keep was bustling with Witchers and the absence of one or two hardly made a difference. No longer. Now, missing a winter means only one thing.

“I know,” Eskel says, because to think anything else is a one-way path to self-destruction. “Another day, maybe two, before the trail snows over. He has time.”

Vesemir sighs. He knows as well as Eskel that the trail could snow over as early as tonight. The window of safety ends when the mountaintops turn white, that’s always been the rule. “Come. It’s time for dinner.”

Eskel squints into the distance for a few seconds more, desperately searching for an approaching shock of white hair amidst the gloom, before turning away and following Vesemir back inside the keep.

Dinner is quiet. Geralt doesn’t normally contribute all that much noise when he’s here—even Vesemir speaks more than Geralt, usually—but his absence seems to suck every spark of energy from the room.

Even Lambert barely gets halfway through a crude tale from the Path before falling silent, huffing with a shake of his head and shoveling more food into his mouth to disguise the sudden pause.

“It’s strange without Geralt here,” Lambert says eventually, giving voice to the elephant in the room. Or not in the room, as it were. He’s still chewing so it comes out sounding more like a collection of m’s and f’s smashed together, but Eskel understands him just fine.

“He’ll be here,” Eskel says, because there is no alternative he will accept. “He’ll be here, I know it.”

Witchers don’t do pity, and neither Lambert nor Vesemir give him any now. Lambert just nudges the potatoes in his direction, an autumn-time luxury they rarely indulge in after the winter settles in fully, and Eskel scoops out a bowlful to make the most of it while he can.

Geralt loves potatoes, and he’s always devouring as many spoonfuls as he can his first few weeks in the keep. They fight over them, usually, stealing bites off each other’s plates—and one memorable time, straight from each other’s lips, prompting Lambert to make exaggerated gagging noises and Vesemir to frown reproachfully (but Geralt smiled like the sun itself, and Eskel has never tasted a sweeter potato before nor since).

Today, the potato crumbles like ash in his mouth, and he leaves most of his bowl untouched. Perhaps, if Geralt makes it back tonight, they can finish it together.

It’s a wistful thought, but there is no place for wishes in Kaer Morhen.

He goes to bed early with a murmured good night, and the unfinished potato grows cold on the table.

Eskel half-rouses in the middle of the night, and instinctively reaches to the left for Geralt’s warmth. When his fingers brush against nothing but cold air, he wakes faster than a young trainee roused from bed by an icy pitcher of water, heart racing as much as it can for a Witcher.

His body knows the feel of this bed, these furs, that gentle heat coming from the fireplace. This is Kaer Morhen, which means Geralt should be—

Then he remembers. Witchers don’t cry, not really, but there’s a foreign pressure behind his eyelids and a tightness in his throat that’s familiar from years ago, when he stood over Gweld’s mangled body and realized there were only four Wolves left in the world.

Maybe only three, his traitorous mind supplies before he cuts off that particular vein of thought.

Geralt’s armor from last winter is still in the room, draped over the chair by the fireplace. Eskel remembers how they left in a rush, spring thawing the frost and opening the mountain trail a few days earlier than expected. I’ll put it away next year, Geralt said with a little quirk of his lips, as sure as a sturdy oak in a breeze that he would return.

Eskel is sure, too. He is. But it’s harder to believe in the dead of night, surrounded by the empty chill of being the only occupant in a bed made for two.

He glances over at the window. A sliver of moonlight illuminates the falling snow outside, and the flakes are beautiful, small and soft and gentle the way the first real snow of the season always is.

Each one is like a blade straight to his heart.

Eskel doesn’t cry, but only because he can’t remember how.

Something changes in the air the next morning, and he barely nods a greeting to Lambert in the main hall before dashing out the front gates, eyes scanning the horizon back and forth.

A thick layer of snow covers the ground like a fluffy white blanket, gleaming enough to be almost painfully bright under the sunlight. Picking Geralt out should be easy enough, the man has never worn a color other than black for nearly as long as Eskel has known him. Since the Trials, his mind offers helpfully, as if he needs those images flashing before his eyes again.

But there is no black blob moving amidst the white. Only a brown one, larger than a man, and faster than one too—even a man as enhanced as Geralt.

Roach.

Eskel starts toward her in a dead run, barely noticing the way his feet sink several inches into the snow with each step. “Lambert!” he calls, not bothering to shout, knowing Lambert will hear him anyway. “Lambert, it’s Roach!”

Roach, and not Geralt. The possibilities tumble through his head, each one worse than the last. Geralt, dead on the Path, somewhere Eskel can’t reach until after the spring thaw. Geralt, tossed off the side of the mountain on his way up the Killer, every bone in his body broken in a different direction. Geralt, paler than ever, lying in a pool of his own blood in some stinking tavern while the humans laugh around his corpse.

He’s moving so fast he nearly collides into Roach when he reaches her, just barely managing to grab her reins to steady himself. She still has her reins, at least. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

“Hey, girl.” Roach sniffs at him, whinnying and bucking his hand when he tries to stroke her head. “I know. I know I’m not Geralt.” It helps, knowing she’ll sense his stress if he reveals any, helps keep his voice calm and his heart steady when all be wants to do is rage and break something. “Where is he, hmm?”

Her ears flick at the hmm, before she whinnies again, clearly used to it coming from a very different voice. Geralt’s deep baritone is Eskel’s favorite sound in the world, and clearly Roach has a fondness for it as well.

“Shh, I know,” he says again, hearing Lambert’s frantic footfalls approaching behind them. “Where is he, Roach? Where is he?”

“Eskel, what the fuck,” Lambert hisses, clearly having arrived at the same conclusion he has. “Geralt would never be separated from her, not by choice.”

“Maybe he sent her ahead,” Eskel tries, only half believing it himself. Geralt wouldn’t abandon his horse without reason, as surely as he wouldn’t abandon Kaer Morhen herself.

“If you really believe that, you’ve got more shit for brains than I thought,” Lambert all but growls. “We’re going looking for him, right?”

Eskel stays silent. He doesn’t want to damn them yet.

Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on his surroundings, tuning out the sound of Lambert coaxing Roach toward the stables, the howl of the wind, the feel of the snow beneath his feet, every bit of useless sensory information he doesn’t need. He feels like a baby Witcher again, newly mutated and barely able to control his new abilities, desperately seeking an anchor point against the relentless stimulation.

His anchor point was always Geralt. Nothing ever felt more natural.

He uses that now, searches for even the faintest tingle to suggest Geralt is somewhere in the vicinity.

Eskel opens his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Nothing.

Well.

“Search around the keep, and tell Vesemir what’s going on,” Eskel says, coming to a decision. Not that it was any kind of choice at all. He’d rather get caught in the next snowstorm and slowly lose each of his limbs to frostbite than sit warm in the castle knowing Geralt might be out there somewhere. “He can’t be far.”

Lambert scoffs. “I’m not some child you have to protect. If you’re heading down the Killer, I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s a suicide mission.”

“He’d do the same for me. What kind of shitty brother would I be if I didn’t—”

“Lamb, listen to me. Vesemir can’t lose all three of us on the same day, okay?” Eskel lets the raw desperation bleed through his voice, and Lambert relents, nodding. His scowl doesn’t waver, however. If anything, it sharpens.

“You bring him back,” he says, in a tone that they both know to mean dead or alive, by any means necessary.

Eskel nods. “If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t come looking for me.”

Then he runs toward the Killer, ignoring Lambert screaming, “What kind of last words are those, you stupid fuck!” behind him.

It’s late evening, about half a day’s walk down the Killer, when he sees something. A drop of blood on a leaf, dark and inky against the white-speckled green. He’s far enough down that the snow hasn’t fallen quite as heavily here, and it makes spotting a blood trail harder.

But he isn’t a Witcher for nothing, and he uses every sense he has, every bit of tracking he had beaten into him in training, to follow the blood speckles through the undergrowth. This part of the Killer has a little clearing off to the side, he remembers, and it’s usually a good place to rest before undertaking the last leg of the journey. Maybe…

He hardly dares to let himself hope. He hopes all the same.

The blood trail leads him straight to that very clearing, and there, passed out against a gnarled stump, is Geralt.

He nearly shouts for him, but the sound dies in his throat when he sees the pool of blood surrounding his lover, turning the dirt beneath him midnight black.

To use one of Geralt’s words—fuck.

Time passes in strange leaps for the next several hours, stretching and shrinking from one minute to the next. He remembers falling to his knees beside Geralt, patting him down to find the source of the bleeding. He remembers the stench of Geralt’s blood, how it roils his stomach in a way that the copper-tang smell hasn’t for the better part of several decades. He remembers seeing the gaping wound in Geralt’s side, visible through a similar-size tear in his armor, remembers the dawning horror of his realization that only a human blade could have made a cut with such clean, deadly precision.

He remembers very little after that. Just the weight of Geralt on his shoulders. An endless babbling litany of words streaming from his mouth, begging and pleading and praying to gods he can barely even name. And pain, sharp and aching in every muscle and bone, with each step he takes.

The thought of stopping never occurs to him. The sun slips down over the horizon, its last few rays painting the sky brilliant purple, and he pauses just for a second to marvel at the beauty of it before soldiering on.

Step. Step. Step. Another step. Another step. Step. Step. Another step.

This is just another Trial.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

One more step. Step. Step. Step.

One more Trial. Then he can finally be a Witcher—

He collapses at the foot of a gate. Is Vesemir here? Vesemir might let him sneak down to the hot springs for a quick soak. He passed this one, he thinks. He can’t wait to tell Geralt.

Eskel wakes to Lambert’s face staring down at him. It’s a fine face, one of three he wouldn’t punch on sight, but two inches from his nose is a little too close for comfort.

“Lambert, what the hell!”

Lambert grins, leering even closer for a moment before finally stepping back. “Eskel! Took you long enough, you bastard.”

He sits up and tries to put together a timeline from the fuzzy bits and pieces floating in his head, but everything feels disconnected. One piece towers above the rest. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, remembering the clearing, the blood. There’s very little after that, but the faint heartbeat thudding in his ears tells him everything he needs to know. It’s Geralt’s—he knows it the way he knows the warmth of the sun, and no injury in the world will keep him away.

Lambert eyes him warily. “You remember who you are? Where you are?”

What kind of question is that? “Yes. Where is he—infirmary?” He tries to brace his weight on his arms in preparation for getting out of the bed, but a firm hand to his chest stops him, pushes him back down. Eskel feels like a chastened puppy—but also, normally he’d have more than enough strength to shake Lambert off.

“And when you are?”

“The hell do you mean? How long was I out?” It occurs to him that days or even weeks could have passed since he found Geralt in the clearing.

“Just a few hours. But you were all sorts of shit about the Trials muttering when we found you at the gates. Thought we had another amnesia situation on our hands.”

The mention of Geralt’s amnesia still sends tendrils of panic down his spine. “I’m fine, Lambert, but you won’t be if you don’t let me up right now.”

Lambert, the master of empty threats himself, rolls his eyes but complies, taking his hand away and moving several steps back for good measure. Eskel wobbles for a moment before the strength comes back to his legs and he finds his footing.

“Good?” Lambert asks, stepping away. There’s a shadow in his eyes that Eskel doesn’t like.

“I’m fine. Come on.”

Lambert leads him across the keep, and Eskel realizes after the first few turns through winding hallways and staircases that they are indeed heading toward the closest thing Kaer Morhen has to an infirmary. Every step pulls at something in his feet that tells him he’s not done healing yet, but Geralt’s heartbeat gets louder the closer they come, and that’s all it takes to keep him moving.

“Vesemir’s with him,” Lambert says once they’re outside the room. When Eskel hesitates at the entrance, Lambert laughs, sharp but amused. “Don’t be an idiot. Pretty boy woke up just before you did, and the first word out of his mouth was your name. Barely even cared I was there.” Lambert sounds as put-upon and fond as he’s capable of, which is to say not at all, but Eskel understands.

“Thanks, Lamb,” he says quietly.

Lambert just pushes him in the back toward the door. “Go.”

He goes, opening the door with his breath held fast in his chest.

Geralt is sitting up on the cot surrounded by a pile of Kaer Morhen’s thickest furs, hair askew around his face, paler than the moon in the dead of night, torso wrapped with bandages that must have once been white and now are pink. But his heartbeat is strong in Eskel’s ears and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are that familiar brilliant yellow, and fuck, it’s so good to see him. So good to see him alive.

“You shouldn’t be walking around yet,” Vesemir tuts from a corner, but Eskel has eyes for one Witcher alone.

“Wolf,” he says, the word torn from his throat, and surges forward to the cot.

“Good to see you, Esk,” Geralt rasps, like smooth water over cobblestones, and oh, how Eskel has missed the sound of that growly, gravelly voice.

Geralt leans forward just a little as Eskel approaches, as much as his bandages will probably allow, and Eskel meets him the rest of the way, dropping to his knees beside the bed and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. The bitter bark smell of sickness and healing hangs around Geralt like a cloud, but underneath that is still the same musk that Eskel has known his whole life, and it settles him like nothing else can.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Vesemir says. They don’t pull away from each other, but Eskel tracks Vesemir’s movements out of the room by the scrape of his chair as he stands and the rattle of the door as he closes it behind them.

“Shouldn’t have come down the Killer for me like that,” Geralt says once they’re alone.

Eskel does pull away at that, to give Geralt his most scathing and unimpressed look. There are a million things he could say, a million lectures Geralt needs to hear about taking care of himself and self-sacrifice and being a right idiot, but they have a whole winter ahead of them to worry about that, so he keeps it simple. “Shouldn’t have gotten yourself stabbed then.”

A shadow passes over Geralt’s face. Eskel recognizes the look—and hates it even more on Geralt than he did on Lambert.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Geralt shakes his head, and Eskel takes it to mean we’ll talk about it later let’s just have this moment together, because he’ll pry it out of Geralt eventually. There are no secrets between them.

Right now, however, there are more pressing things to deal with.

“Will it hurt you if I—” He doesn’t even get through the sentence before Geralt is lifting the corner of his furs in invitation.

There’s barely enough space on the cot for one full-grown Witcher (he knows why, knows who these cots were used for all those years ago, though the reminder hurts all the same), but that’s never stopped them before. He settles beside Geralt with his head on Geralt’s shoulder and sucks a kiss into the side of his neck.

Geralt’s whole body softens in response, just as he knew it would, and Eskel takes the opportunity to press himself even closer, melds them together like two halves of the same whole. They were never meant to be separated.

(Perhaps one of these years, one of these decades, he will find the words to ask if Geralt feels the same)

A red-purple spot blooms over Geralt’s skin, and the sight of it stirs the coil of heat in his stomach. Witcher healing means it won’t last long, will likely have faded before the sun comes up again, but it isn’t the mark that matters, only the claim. Mine.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what happened,” Eskel says, because the image of Geralt bleeding against that tree will never leave his mind for as long as he lives. “We are going to talk about it.”

“Hmm.”

The little sound nestles deep in his chest, and Eskel can’t help that his irritated huff comes out mostly fond. “Yeah, alright. In the morning.”

“Hmm.” Geralt snakes an arm along his back until his hand reaches Eskel’s hip. Eskel feels those familiar fingers curve around his hipbone, jutting out from the skin like it always does after a lean year on the Path. He curls in toward Geralt, draping his own arm across the most uninjured expanse of Geralt’s torso he can find, and sinks into him, trusting Geralt to hold his weight like he can trust no one else.

All the breath in his lungs rushes out at once, and he closes his eyes. They’re home.

Morning dawns gray and dreary, snow falling in thick sheets outside. Eskel wakes in the arms of his beloved, their limbs tangled together like cubs in a wolf pile, and feels nothing but joy.

Let the snow fall. It matters not, now, when all his family is safe in the keep.

“Awake?” Eskel asks, though he can tell by the rate of Geralt’s breathing that he is.

Geralt makes a quiet noise of assent, the very beginnings of a purr. Sleeping together does wonders for them both.

“You should rest more. You’ll heal faster.”

“I’m healing just fine. Besides, you’re beautiful in the morning.”

I wanted to watch you wake up, is what he knows Geralt means, and Eskel huffs. “I’m still filthy from carrying your hide up the trail.” He’s well aware that the beauty Geralt speaks of runs far deeper than skin, but even now, even with Geralt, sometimes it’s easier to lighten the mood than to bask in being loved so wholly by another.

“We can always—”

“Not yet,” Eskel interrupts, knowing exactly where that’s headed. There were winters he was certain Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen solely to use the hot springs. “Not yet, you know that.” The sit still and rest gene is lacking in all of them, but Geralt more than anyone.

“I’ve trained with worse injuries than this,” Geralt whines, petulant. Eskel can recall any of a dozen times he saw Geralt forced to train until he collapsed when they were children, ashen and limping from half-healed wounds but nevertheless expected to stand his ground, and knows it’s true. “A quick soak is nothing compared to that.”

“You have never had a quick soak a day in your life. Besides, we don’t do that anymore.” There’s a dark bitterness in his voice that Eskel doesn’t bother to hide. With only four Wolves left, brutality has finally given way to caution—but Geralt knows full well his thoughts on the death and loss that came first.

“Some people say baths are healing, Esk,” Geralt murmurs, but it’s soft, a complaint more because this is the only place he can voice one (warm in the belly of Kaer Morhen, tight in Eskel’s arms) than because he actually minds.

Eskel wants to say something funny, like stop taking medical advice from your bard, but instead what comes out is a half-broken sound low in his throat.

Geralt’s arm tightens around him.

“Say it again?” Eskel asks, begs. There is no shame between them, not anymore, and it’s been a year since he heard the diminutive, a year since he’s been called anything other than Witcher at all.

The steady rise and fall of Geralt’s chest never stutters, but Eskel can sense the shift in his mood all the same. He waits for Geralt’s words, however, knows it takes longer to find them when he’s still armored in the nonverbal shell he uses for the Path. The wait is usually worth it—Geralt is unbelievably eloquent when he chooses to be.

Eskel counts four, five, six Witcher-slow beats of his heart, before Geralt speaks.

“I am yours.” The simplicity of the statement, delivered not like a love declaration but like some fundamental fact that future generations of Witchers might find scrawled in a journal of universal truths, takes his breath away. “And you are mine.”

“Wolf—”

“Shh, my turn,” Geralt huffs, nosing along the shell of his ear, and Eskel lets out a half-strangled groan when Geralt nibbles a little on the earlobe. It’s been entirely too long.

“Esk,” Geralt says right into his ear, so soft it’s more air than sound.

“Esk,” Geralt says by his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye.

“Esk,” Geralt says over his collarbone, sucking a bruise into the skin like Eskel did for him.

“Esk,” Geralt says to the tip of his nose, the corner of his jaw, the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Esk,” Geralt breathes over the bow of his lip, before finally, finally, leaning in for a kiss.

For the second time in as many days, Eskel finds a heavy pressure behind his eyelids. But this one feels like honey and starlight, sweet and warm and bright, and he knows for certain he would be crying from pure joy if he could.

He is more than aware he can’t, another in a long list of things the mages took from them, so he pours everything he has into the kiss instead, hopes Geralt can feel the tears on his teeth, on his tongue, even if they will never drip down his cheeks.

“My wolf,” he whispers, pulling away just enough to form the words, and kisses Geralt’s smile right off his lips.

Nowhere else in the world are they allowed to be soft like this, and he tries to make the most of it every winter. Once, they were nothing more than little boys in love, too young to even understand the meaning of the word but no less certain of each other for it. Sometimes, on long nights on the Path when he goes to bed hungry and cold, if he goes to bed at all, that innocent child feels far away enough to have been from another lifetime altogether.

In this moment, as he tucks a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear just to see him smile again, that little boy in love feels close enough to touch.

#the witcher #geskel #geralt x eskel #*writing #*fic #written mostly for me and perhaps the two other people on here into this ship 😅

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witch-and-her-witcher · 2 years

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geskel + 6 + 33 + 68

bodyguards + feelings denial + misunderstandings | T | knight!geralt

Sir Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, White Wolf, and Right Hand of Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia is seeing red as he storms from the throne room. He has just been informed that the Witcher Eskel has been hired to "better service the Queen."

"Geralt."

The steady, disinterested tone registers and in the next breath Geralt has whipped back around on his boot heels, court appropriate cape snapping with his movements.

"It's Sir Geralt to you, Witcher," he grounds out from a clenched jaw, prideful anger spearing him forward until he has the Witcher backed against the darkened hall's wall. "I don't know how you managed to weasel your way into court and the Queen's graces, but if you intend to black mail me -"

"It's a curse threatening Queen Meve," Eskel cuts him off. His expression is no longer disinterested, but it isn't fear that lights those amber eyes as they drift down to assess the lack of space between them and then back up to Geralt's face. "I pieced it together after you left the inn."

Geralt searches the Witcher's face for dishonesty, a hint of a lie. His brows knit together, unwilling to accept he jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Why didn't you come directly to me with that information then?"

"I wasn't given a choice when I arrived, some courtier or whoever brought me to the Queen right away." Now, Eskel's eyes dart to the side, his low voice quieter than before. "Besides, I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me after ..."

After Geralt drunkenly spilled his frustrations with the current threat to his lord's life he couldn't get a handle on to the kind eyed Witcher at the inn. After he then let Eskel fuck him into the early morning hours, but parted with threat to his life never to breathe a word of what had happened once sobriety and the weight of Geralt's indiscretions had hit in the morning light.

The facade of the White Wolf returns, blood cooling in the face of his own mismanagement of the situation, past and present. Eskel's kind eyes from that night return to meet his gaze as Geralt steps back. Internally, his mind is ablaze with how to dig himself out of the hole he continues to shovel deeper, but his tongue knows the proper response suited of the Right Hand.

"I apologize, I was too hasty in my conclusions. Your expertise cannot be dismissed because of my own ... Follies. If the Queen has deemed your service necessary, you must have produced ample evidence." The intensity of Eskel's gaze is stirring something in the pit of his stomach Geralt doesn't want to face. "Let us reconvene once you've had time to part take in whatever hospitality you require."

"Geralt -"

"I must take my leave, I will send a squire for you when I'm ready." Geralt spins on his heels once more and carries himself as quickly down the hall as manageable in a professional capacity.

Yes, he'll send a squire for Eskel once he's had time to retreat to his chambers and - relieve himself, of the complicated entanglements coursing through his veins and pooling in an indiscrete location. Geralt will not, cannot, allow himself to make the same missteps again.

---

Ah, I'm in love with this concept and want to write so much more of it. 😍 Thank you, Maureen, for the prompt!

Feel free to request more from the trope writing machine meme ~

#trope machine writing meme #geskel #geralt x eskel #knight AU #witcher fan fic #my writing #geralt of rivia #eskel #something-more #gereskel

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cas-kingdom · 2 years

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'Geralt was beginning to think he should never have introduced Akela to the other witchers'. xx

Geralt was beginning to think he should never have introduced Akela to the other witchers. Of course, he was three years, a lot of love, and a slight case of separation anxiety too late in remaking that decision, but the thought regularly crossed his mind when he returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter each year.

“What’s that bitter look on your face for?” Lambert asked. He sounded genuine, seemingly disregarding the fact he was holding a pocket knife in one hand and a fistful of blonde curls in the other as he stared at Geralt in utter confusion.

Geralt stared between his brother and the little girl sat on the floor, chewing on a medallion, surrounded by more hair than was left on her head, not that she looked to care at all.

“She had curls,” Geralt said slowly, eyes lingering a little reminiscently on the child before snapping back up to glower at Lambert.

Lambert frowned darkly. He wouldn’t let anyone criticise his work, and he proved so with the clicking of his jaw and the hand—scissor included—that came to sit against his hip. “Your point?”

“Now she doesn’t,” Geralt stated the obvious. He bit his tongue to refrain from provoking Lambert and took one large step forward until he could kneel beside Akela and sift his hand through her hair...or lack thereof.

Lambert scoffed. “She has loads of hair. Don’t be fucking dramatic.”

"I thought we agreed to lower the profanities when the baby’s around,” Eskel said matter-of-factly once he’d entered the room. There was an irking grin on his face as Lambert stuck a middle finger in his direction.

“Fuck off. Geralt thinks I haven’t done a good job with her hair.”

Eskel stopped beside Lambert and looked at Akela, still munching on the medallion. True to Lambert’s words, Geralt did seem to be as distressed as his witcher-persona would let on, ruffling the child’s hair this way and that, brushing off cut pieces on her shoulders and shaking the stray strands that had escaped into her tunic.

Lambert had...done an interesting job. They’d all agreed that Akela had needed a haircut, her beautiful curls growing to such a vision-obscuring length that she’d toddled into a wall just yesterday, but Geralt had unwaveringly insisted that it be a trim. Nothing more, nothing less. Just enough to return her eyesight.

The witcher was far too attached to Akela’s mighty mane, having heard from someone once that most babies’ curls lost their bounce and strength as they grew older. Even with Lambert’s barber skills, Akela still had a good amount atop her head, but apparently that was not enough to tide Geralt over.

“It looks fine,” Eskel said with a small shrug, assuring both Lambert and Geralt.

Lambert grinned. “See! I’m wasted at Kaer Morhen. Should be going around charging people to cut their hair. Isn’t that right, brat, huh?” He dropped the scissors and bent down, swinging the giggling girl up into his arms and leaving Geralt stooped below.

Once Lambert had left, proclaiming he was going to show the others his handiwork, Eskel put a hand between Geralt’s shoulder blades, the both of them silent for a mere second before—

“Would you like a moment to mourn, brother?”

Geralt scowled and batted Eskel’s hand away as he stood to his feet. He pressed his lips into a thin line at the sight of the hairy massacre below, breaking his gaze only when Eskel laughed and clapped him on the back, pulling him away in the direction Lambert had gone.

“It’s just hair, Geralt,” he said, “it’ll grow back.”

Geralt hummed. “Let’s hope Lambert has the same optimism when I cut his off while he sleeps tonight.”

Witcher Masterpost

send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five, except i don’t know when to stop writing so i guarantee there’ll be more than five

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caedes12 · 11 months

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This fic is currently 185 pages in word and STILL not done. Sometimes I think to myself... whyyyyy?! But then, it is too fun not to.

Hope you enjoy this extra LONG chapter!

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Aiden/Jaskier | Dandelion, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Vesemir (The Witcher), Triss Merigold, Emhyr var Emreis, Priscilla (The Witcher), Shani (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Threesome - M/M/M, Slow Burn, Not Canon Compliant, but canon ish?, taking season two and adding sprinkles to make it mine, Eskel is not like the TV show obviously, Geralt will learn to speak eventually, hm, Polyamory, no beta we die like men, Torture, Psychological Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, but not NOT human, Spoilers, Artistic Liberties, Jaskier would be proud Summary:

Jaskier volunteered to leave the safe house to get information to help Ciri despite everyone advising against it. But they didn't understand, he needed to leave. But Rience found him and took him to a Nilfgard black site to get information on her. He wouldn't cave to the torture. If only he could escape with his new friend and witcher cell mate. Perhaps, he can finally find himself useful. Useful enough to help Ciri, to stop Nilfgard, and maybe find a bit of peace along the way.

#witcher #jaskier x geralt #geralt x eskel #eskel x jaskier #geralt x jaskier x eskel #ao3

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luteandsword · 1 year

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Hewwo you beautiful, wonderful, amazing beast

Could I mayhaps request “ hurt me all you want, i won’t let you break me. ” and “ oh, you’re going to be a fun one to take apart. ”

I'll leave the characters up to you for this one

Thanks in advance!

Remembering when you used to send me prompts and it makes me very soft <3

Anyway here's what I have for you today!

Basically, a Phantom of the Opera! AU, where Geralt is the Phantom and Eskel is Christine. Wordcount: under 1k.

This fic contains: Nebulophilia, which is arousal induced by fog, steam, dry ice, or smoke. It can be linked to one's perception of risk, which can heighten sexual arousal.

It also contains: Dubious consent, mask fetishism, and theatrics of all kinds.

Fully clothed, Eskel slipped into the hot water of the bath, reclining in his cave of wonders.

His mind was full of the strange stories Vesemir had told him-- stories about the theatre, about the man who stalked its catwalks, moved through the walls of the building like a spirit.

Eskel shivered as he recalled Vesemir's wide eyes when he spoke of the phantom's yellow eyes, his white hair that catches the light-- and the mask which hid half of his scarred, deformed face.

His eyes were getting heavy-- and it was late, the clock about to strike two. Eskel sighed, but did not get out of the tub. He enjoyed the feeling of the wet clothes against his body, moving up and down with the water in the bath.

And it was then that he looked up, and realized he was not alone.

There, in front of him, stood a man. Tall, broad shoulders, a cloak of fine black silk draped over, and a tuxedo-- Eskel sucked in a breath when he saw the mask over the man's face.

The man's eyes pierced him, freezing him to the spot, yellow and vibrant.

"Sweet nightingale, I have heard you sing from behind curtains, from up in the rafters, and I feel as if I know you, or I must know you. What is your name?:" The man asked quietly, not moving an inch.

"Eskel." Eskel replied, and the Phantom stepped forward, a single step.

The step reverberated through the room, and Eskel rose from the bath, water dripping down his body.

The Phantom's eyes snapped to his body, and then back to his face.

"You have never stayed here so late, not alone. What do you seek here, that only the night can offer you?"

"I... I don't know," Eskel stammers. "All I want to do is be able to sing."

The Phantom stretched out a hand to him, and Eskel took it. It was firm, and warm, and he stepped out of the bath.

"Then let me show you. I can show you so many beautiful, wonderous things, Eskel." The Phantom said, his grip tight as he pulled Eskel closer.

"What sorts of things?" Eskel murmured, feeling dazed at the touch of the other man.

The Phantom lifted his arm, and twirled him, and Eskel went willingly, spinning like a ballerina, before he was turned once, and brought into the Phantom's chest.

His back to his chest, Eskel signed, as the Phantom's arms draped themselves around his waist, his lips brushing the hollow of Eskel's ear.

"The beauty of the night..." The Phantom said, and his hands gripped Eskel's hips, lifting him off the ground.

"The music, of the night," the Phantom whispered, and then Eskel was flying, pushed through the air by an unseen force.

Eskel gasped in delight, as he was drawn through the door, through backstage, to the stage.

"Oh, you're going to be a fun one to take apart." The Phantom whispered, but when Eskel looked, he was not there. Eskel flew alone, up into the rafters, the glory of the theatre setting his heart ablaze.

"Let me sing! I want to sing!" He cried out into the empty seats.

"Be my little bird, only mine?" The Phantom replied. Was he backstage? Where was he?

An unsettling feeling sunk into Eskel's chest, and he turned to go backstage, to look for him.

He was met with a wall of fog-- it cascaded, and broke over him, and then, he could see nothing, only the dim grey of fog underneath the lights.

His breath caught in his throat, scanning the roiling grey, searching for the Phantom.

"I will be-- I'll be your bird," he croaks. "But at what cost?"

"At the cost that no one else will ever have you, that only I shall bend your mind and body to my will."

Fear exploded inside Eskel, and he ran-- but there seemed to be no end to the stage. No end to the fog.

He was trapped, and he began to panic. The fog blinded him, but it heightened his senses.

He could feel his shirt against his body, his breath in his chest, could hear the theatre roof creaking in the storm outside.

"And what will is that?"

"That you sing for me every night after you perform, and that you stay with me. You will stay, won't you?"

Strong hands grasped his shoulders and Eskel cried out, fighting against the touch.

But they did not relent, and he fell against the Phantom's chest.

It was a relief to hide from the stifling fog, which made his cock twitch in his pants. The fear, the arousal, it combined in his veins, and he grasped the Phantom's shirt desperately.

Eskel was overwhelmed-- he would do anything for the Phantom.

"Rise," the Phantom commanded him, his cloak swirling, as he stepped away from Eskel.

Eskel scrambled to his feet, his eyes scanning the masked face. It gave him a tug in his gut, much like the fog.

"Come," the Phantom said, and Eskel followed him, his vision and his desire, into the fog.

Their fingers brushed, and Eskel lunged forward, to reach out for him.

(my askbox is open for prompts!)

#louwrites #geralt x eskel #eskel #geralt #the witcher #witcher fic rec #my writing #promptsforlou

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