#guide eskel

[open--till--midnight]

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Continent - Chapter 1 - Time's Running Out

eskel x fem!reader

wc | 1.1k

summary | when a mage is accused of killing her king, she covers for his real killer and runs away from his kingdom, fearing the consequences of her friend's actions.

a/n | this chapter was kind of just a jumping off point, it needs to be heavily rewritten. im considering turning it into an oc story. but for now, this work is on hiatus

****

Your portals were becoming sloppy. With control of your magic decreasing, you were becoming uncoordinated. Your last portal had opened up within feet of a cliff edge, the next into a thick bramble, the thorns digging into your calves leaving more spots of blood on your clothes. And the water from a lake shore burned those abrasions before you fell face first into a stone wall. 

Your hand shot to your face, and there was blood when you opened your palm. With the same hand you attempted to open another portal, but despite the intense energy you put into it, nothing happened. So, you stumbled against the wall, trying to get a bearing of your surroundings.

The surrounding woods were thick, thick and dark and you could already hear the snarls of a wolf pack. But before you could reach for your dagger, the sound of a sword cutting through air was heard to your left and a white-haired man appeared from behind the stone wall. 

It was a witcher, but you couldn’t be completely sure, he looked older than you’d expected a witcher to be, but you had no reference to make that assumption. He dealt with the wolves with ease, wiping his blade on his sleeve before staring you down, keeping his steel ready. 

“And who might you be?” 

You stayed silent; your situation demanded secrecy. 

“Right, well I’m sure you wouldn’t mind coming with me then. Seeing as you have nowhere to run to, I would advise against resisting.”

The man gestured around the corner with his sword; you led, and he stayed close behind. You held your hand close to your chest, seeing if there was a possibility of escape, but you felt no magic, you had burnt out. 

“So, you’re a mage then?” 

You turned; eyes wide.

“The medallion, dear. Senses magic.”

The tip of his sword tapped your back, the pain kept you walking. Within minutes, a small castle was in full view, but your eyes were trained on the ground. The rocky terrain made walking difficult and the threat of the blade behind you kept you on high alert. 

The inside walls of the castle felt like a maze, but the man gave you orders, loud and abrasive. 

When you entered the large wooden doors to the keep, you felt the end of a sword collide with your skull and then nothing.

When you woke, dimeritium cuffs were shackled on your wrists and you were tied to a pillar in the middle of a large room. Your head pounded and your vision was blurry, but you could make out the figures of three men. One in red and two in black.

With your eyes closed, you listened. They were hushed, you could only make out a few words here and there, you couldn’t make out anything of substance, nothing you could use. 

You stank of blood and dirt and death. Your dark red clothes were now brown and sticking to your skin. The smell blew your cover when you gagged, tears rewetting your clothes. 

“And it appears she’s awake.”

The men stood from their spot at the table and made their way to you. From your seated position they towered over you, standing too close, staring too hard. You were terrified. 

Your wrists quickly became bloody too, as they struggled against the magic dampening cuffs.

“You’re not getting out of those cuffs any time soon.” This witcher had short dark hair and a scar running down the left side of his face. He enjoyed this; his smirk gave him away. 

The man in red glared at him before turning back at you, he still said nothing. The oldest shooed them away and crouched down to your level. 

“You want to tell us how you found this place?” When you didn’t answer, he continued. “This place isn’t easy to find, not even for us. It would do you good to answer me, dear.” 

You spat in his direction, only slightly surprised to see the blood mixed in. 

“I could help you, you know? You don’t look so good. Eskel is as good as they come with healing, he could help you. He’d be gentle if I asked him to be.”

Still, you stayed silent. You would die here if you needed to. There was no way to tell where these witchers’ allegiances lay. They didn’t need to know who you were, and they wouldn’t. You would escape before then, not that you knew how you were going to achieve that yet, but you would. You had to.

The old witcher left when the sun had set, only after moving you to a dark room. Alone. You would have to get through the dimeritium to be free. But you didn’t even know if your magic came back after the battle, and you had no way of knowing. 

Against your better judgement, you fell asleep, head hanging and body slumped against the cold, hard wall. 

One brave soldier came running toward you, sword in hand and mouth hanging open. He spat as he yelled, but the sound was soon cut short as you took him out with one clean and calculated spell. 

There was one last wave you needed to get to. Your best friend, your sister stood at your side. Her face split into a wicked smile before she ran.

The king stood in the center of the row, sitting on his horse with his sword ready in his gloved hand. Ten soldiers stood to either side, heavily armored and sneering. 

You were heavily outnumbered, two against twenty and the king. Nobody moved, and the battlefield was silent save the moans of a few wounded soldiers, clutching their bodies on the wet grass. 

A single soldier came forward, gripping his sword and lumbering towards you. You took him out easily, a single spell did the trick. The king stayed in place, letting his soldiers come at the two of you. When they were taken care of, you pulled your dagger and stepped closer to the king.

He gaudily swung his sword, making eye contact with you the entire time. But it didn’t do him much good when you shot it out of his hand, giving your accomplice the go ahead. She drew her sword. 

The king began to retreat, whistling for his horse. But he refused to turn his back, practically allowing her to drive her blade through the mad king’s heart. 

You woke to the heavy door creaking. It took your eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the lantern that peeked through the door. When you saw the witcher in red come in you opened your mouth to yell, but he quickly quieted you by clamping his hand over your mouth.  

****

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[dapandapod]

Bruises

I realized I forgot to post this on Tumbl! It's about 8,5k and written in one day in a fit of inspiration (helppppp) because I needed that sweet sweet Jaskier whump. Please enjoy this emotional hurt/comfort ish-fix-it of season 2. On Ao3 here

Jaskier never expected to see Kaer Morhen, especially not in the way he ended up seeing it.

The dwarves lead him and Ciri as far as they can, banter and cutting remarks following Jaskier at every step.

Sure, he gives as good as he gets; whatever he is dealt he makes sure to give back, if he can get away with it.

But you can only be hit so many times before it becomes a bruise, no matter how lightly.

And Jaskier is already sore, from years of barbs, from years of being told to “fuck off, bard” or “shut up, bard” or “you are so fucking loud,” and well. It hits harder when it is someone you consider a friend.

Especially when it turns out that friendship was one sided.

The little princess is full of resentment and anger, but trading banter puts a small smile on her face, so he lets her.

If the way to get friendly is to let her tease him, so be it. He knows she needs an outlet for her inner turmoil so it doesn’t fester, so he turns up the dramatics and plays along.

The second to last eve they spend with the dwarves, it suddenly becomes too much. He knows Yarpen isn’t a fan, he knows there is some truth behind his name calling and swearing. 

Ciri is sitting across the fire, sharpening a stick with the knife from her boot, looking for all the world like she isn’t paying attention to the conversation around her.

But then one of the dwarves calls Jaskier an ignorant, lazy, useless human, wondering what the fuck he is doing here anyway.

Maybe it is the ale, maybe it is the smoke stinging his eyes, or the years of putting up with it.

Jaskier doesn’t remember which one of them it was afterwards, and it doesn’t matter. His anger flares. He stands up, and the group goes very quiet.

“Have any of you asked me anything of my life? Have any of you bothered to ask what I was doing in a fucking prison cell, why I don’t have a lute, or where I went after you left that fucking dragon hunt with Geralt?”

There is complete silence, only the crackling of the fire and the night sounds of the forest.

“You might think I’m useless, and that I am lazy, and that I’m ignorant. But I don’t have to be here. I have people depending on me, yet here I am. Giving up responsibilities and comforts alike, all for someone who can’t even call me a friend, surrounded by people who clearly don’t want me here.”

He flexes his hands, feeling the blistered and burned skin strain, the pain clearing his head some.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” He finishes, picks up his bedroll and his pack, and settles on the outskirts of the camp, by the wagon.

Close enough to be safe, far away enough to get some peace.

It takes a few minutes for the muttering to begin, a few more until Ciri stands up too, and gathers her bedroll.

Until now, she has been distant, and he can’t blame her in the least. Now she settles down just a few feet from him, alongside the carriage.

It is colder here in the north, and neither of them had any kind of proper gear packed for their journey, unplanned as it was. He still drapes his leather jacket over her when he hears her chattering teeth, and settles on his bedroll with just a thin blanket.

~

Kaer Morhen is all big halls, high ceilings and hairy men. Hairy witchers. Lots of them too, and Ciri runs to greet them with a big smile.

They had found Eskel along the path, guiding them the rest of the way up. Ciri knew some of the way already, but only the paths closest to the keep, so it was a great relief having someone who knew what to avoid and what trails led them past ancient traps and monster dens.

The road was long, and Jaskier can’t believe Geralt thought he would make it here unscathed. Eskel seemed a little concerned as well when Jaskier explained his task, but said nothing.

Still says nothing, now that Ciri is surrounded by witchers, and Jaskier is left just standing there at the edge of the room. He is usually not one to hesitate to introduce himself, but he is tired, hungry, and frankly feeling rather neglected.

Eventually Ciri introduces him to the group, and it takes about three seconds after that to figure out who Lambert is.

Ah, ‘Lambert, Lambert, what a prick,’ indeed.

He is given dinner, a place to sleep, and is shown to the room where they keep a myriad of bathtubs. Lucky for him, there is already a fire going, making the room warm and toasty, and making it considerably easier to warm the water without any signs.

Jaskier can’t lie, he had been picturing hot springs, or anything pre-heated really, especially the shallow pool that had been built in the floor.

A quick toe dip later, and he is never stepping foot in that pool, ever.

His fingers ache when they come in contact with the heat of the fireplace, and he flexes them in an attempt to dispel the discomfort.

Sinking down into a tub at long last is heaven.

Dirt from far more than the road to the keep has had his skin itching, his hair stuck in a permanent curl around his ears, and he longs for his artistic dishevelment once more.

Sharing breakfast with the witchers of Kaer Morhen enlightens him about the many odd manners of Geralt of Rivia.

Watching the other witchers mess with each other explains so much. Unguarded food is immediately stolen, and if given the chance, someone will increase the temperature of their tea all the way to boiling, and then challenge each other to drink it, and so on, and so forth. Brotherly pranks, clearly, but the kind you need a certain set of mutations to deal with.

Jaskier only has his mixed heritage to keep him out of the worst of troubles that technically would be bad news for full humans, but nothing to keep him safe from this, so he steers clear.

Yennefer and Geralt join them that same afternoon.

Ciri runs into Geralt’s arms, and Jaskier remains at the table where he is challenging Coën with loaded dice.

Not until most of the others have gone to bed does Geralt finally approach him.

“Thank you for bringing her safely here.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long while, before replying.

“You’re welcome.” He says finally, and Geralt pats his shoulder. Weird.

~

After that first day, Jaskier approaches Vesemir while the others are busy.

The way he left things in Oxenfurt doesn’t sit right with him, and he is pretty sure Pricilla is going to assume he is dead if he doesn’t get a message to her soon.

He still has no idea how long he is supposed to stay in the keep, but he writes a carefully worded letter, assuring his safety and asking her to keep singing the Song of the Shore.

She will know what the coded song title means, and he has enough funds squirreled away to keep the entire Sandpiper operation going for a while longer, before he needs to find a way to beg his benefactor for assistance.

Vesemir gives him a long look, and Jaskier offers the letter he is holding, stifling a frustrated sigh.

“You are free to read it. I’m not trying to give away your location, just assure my safety of me and those I left behind.” He says, because he knows.

He spent years in the library of Oxenfurt, and he has read the old tomes that contain what little witcher history there is to find, as poorly depicted as it is. He knows about the sacking of the keep, understands the fear of it happening again.

It still stings.

Vesemir accepts his offer, and opens the letter, reading it over. His eyebrow climbs up his forehead, and he looks at Jaskier before putting it back into its envelope.

“I’ll have it sent.” He says, his mustache twitching when he makes a considering face. “Do any of the others know?”

“About the Sandpiper?” Jaskier asks, and Vesemir nods. “Yennefer knows. She was a part of the last group I sent off, before…” Jaskier stops and takes a breath. “Before. I know how and when to keep things to myself.”

Vesemir nods again approvingly, and takes the letter with him.

No one seems to have noticed the exchange, and Jaskier is left wondering if that is a good or a bad thing.

~

Things are a bit tense in the keep. Geralt still hasn’t seemed to forgive Yennefer for her betrayal, and Ciri seems to be more withdrawn lately.

Between witcher practice and chores, Jaskier tries to make himself as useful as he can be.

Which is not very, as it turns out, since he is not trusted to be in the lab anymore because of a tiny little tasting incident. Nor is he allowed to help with the patching up the keep. The library is Vesemir’s baby, and Jaskier is sure he is safeguarding secrets of the past there.

So Jaskier just… hangs around. Without a lute, he can’t play, and he probably wouldn’t be able to just yet anyway with his fingers still in their sorry state. The blistered skin has started peeling now, and new soft pink skin has started to show underneath.

He and Yennefer are getting closer, both of them evidently outcasts of a sort.

Especially since none of the other witchers make an effort to get to know them, nor is Geralt paying any kind of attention to either of them. She is the only one who really knows about the firefucker, and nobody has bothered to ask about the bandages.

If she had her chaos, she could have healed him, but she doesn’t, so instead she makes what ointments she can and watches him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t eat it instead of applying it.

~

Late summer is slowly becoming early fall, and Jaskier realizes that his window for leaving is ever shrinking.

He doesn’t want to leave, not really, but he has no idea what he's doing here. Geralt hasn't asked him to leave, but neither has he asked him to stay.

Their interactions are short and rarely between them alone.

A lot of it consists of Geralt being nearby when Jaskier is retelling funny stories of their travels, making Ciri smile and the other witchers roar with laughter and the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitch in an aborted smile.

They don’t treat him like the dwarves did, but they clearly don't know why Jaskier is here either, and it is frustrating to say the least.

They seem to appreciate his singing more than Geralt ever did, sure, but sometimes it feels like they use him to annoy Geralt, and sometimes Jaskier thinks it’s working…

Lambert is probably the worst. He is an asshole and excuses it by calling it honesty.

He picks up where Geralt left off after the mountain, poking at every visible sore spot until Jaskier is stinging. Jabs and jibes, poking fun at Jaskier to make the others laugh. Nothing he isn’t used to, but something that makes Jaskier feel uncomfortable when nobody steps in to stop him.

Ciri sticks close to his side after those nights.

She doesn’t say much, doesn’t try to defend him, and he would never ask her to, but she glares at Lambert and asks Jaskier to tell her another story, which he gladly does.

~

It’s been two weeks since their arrival, and he, Lambert, Coën and Geralt are gathered around the dining table. Most of the others have filtered out to their own tasks or downtime activities, but they linger, chatting and playing dice. Coën stays out of it, still not trusting Jaskier since the loaded dice incident, which Jaskier is immensely proud of.

For the first time in a long time, Jaskier is actually enjoying himself, and enjoying being next to his friend. Maybe, after all this time, Geralt has started to think of him as a friend too.

Until Lambert opens his mouth and ruins it all.

“You are not half as bad as Geralt made you out to be. Or maybe it’s because he made you leave your lute behind at the bottom of the mountain?”

Next to him Geralt stiffens, and Jaskier feels his jaw working.

“Thanks,” is all he says, shaking the dice in the cup one more time before slamming it down on the table a little harder than strictly necessary. Then he stands up and climbs over the bench, very fucking done with the entire conversation.

Behind him he can hear Coën berating Lambert, who pretends he has no idea what he said wrong.

Fucking asshole.

He doesn’t hear Geralt say anything, nor ask about the missing lute.

It’s not that cold out yet, but the air is fresh and crisp on his face when he steps out through one of the side entrances to the courtyard. Here and there witchers are milling about, but Jaskier wants to be alone.

He hurries to the main gate and across the bridge, seeking his solitude amongst the trees on the other side. Technically, it is a bit dangerous to go out alone, but Jaskier is pretty sure no little beasties would dare come close to a monster hunter’s keep in broad daylight.

“Jaskier.” Geralt calls after him, and Jaskier stifles a long line of swears. Still he lets Geralt catch up to him, even if he is decidedly not looking at the witcher.

“Lambert can be such a prick.” Geralt says when he has caught up. “He only wants to rile you up.”

Jaskier notices the clear lack of an apology in there.

“So I’ve noticed. And he succeeded,” Jaskier says shortly, flexing his fingers again.

A bad habit now, but it is better than picking at the sharp, hardened edges of skin that still cling to his fingertips as they heal.

Clearly, Geralt hadn’t thought through what he wanted to say, or he had expected this to be enough. It isn’t. He lingers, still standing there, waiting for… something.

“What do you want from me, Geralt?” He asks when Geralt isn’t saying anything, and turns to look at him. His… friend. The man he has spent far too many years believing he meant something to.

“... I wanted to see if you are alright.” Geralt says haltingly, and Jaskier finally snaps.

“Oh yes, I am clearly alright after being told time and time again that I am annoying, unwanted, useless, loud, and being told by your family that you had made me out to be all those things too, before they even met me.”

Geralt looks taken aback, but Jaskier is not done.

“I’m tired of this, Geralt. I am so fucking tired of this. Not once have you come to my defence, not once have you told them to fuck off.”

“You can hold your own.” Geralt says, frowning, and Jaskier spreads his arm in frustration.

“I can, of course I fucking can! I have to, since not even the man I thought of as my best friend considers me a friend enough to have my back!”

Again, the witcher doesn’t have a reply to that. Fucking figures.

“Leave me alone, Geralt. Before I say something I’ll regret.”

“...Don’t wander.” The witcher cautions him hesitantly, and thankfully returns towards the bridge.

Jaskier stays longer than what is probably advisable. He is just fuming, and he kicks a young tree, making yellow leaves fall down around him.

He could technically blow off steam by sitting down to write, but there would be an audience no matter where he goes in the keep, and he is also not very much in the mood for another Burn Butcher Burn.

That one has done enough damage already.

In the end, it is Ciri who ends up fetching him. She doesn’t say anything about his red eyes and tousled hair, nor the bruises on his knuckles.

“Dinner is ready,” is all she says, and waits for him to join her back across the bridge with the others.

Jaskier takes his dinner and chooses another table far from the big group. Predictably, Ciri joins him, but he didn’t expect Eskel to sit down with them, too. Nor Yennefer. Nor Geralt.

They talk amongst themselves, even if Ciri and Jaskier are the only one replying to Yennefer when she says something.

It makes him feel weird, considering their rivalry all these years.

He knocks their shoulders together and teases her, calls her the worst wife ever. It is worth it for the smile he teases out of her, but he notices Geralt pull in a sharp breath of air.

“What?” he asks, but Geralt says nothing, just stares down at his food.

That evening, Geralt walks Jaskier back to his room.

“I’m sorry,” the witcher finally says after a long stretch of silence that Jaskier refuses to fill. “For what Lambert said. And for what I made Lambert believe.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise. When there is nothing else, he turns towards his door.

“Sure. See you around, Geralt.”

But Geralt stops him with a hand around his wrist.

“Are you and Yennefer… really married?”

Of course. Of course that is what would be on Geralt’s mind. Another sore spot amongst the others on his bruised heart.

“Fret not, witcher, the sorceress is still unwed and free for the taking. She did get me out of a rather sticky situation, though, so if it’s all the same to you, I do consider her my friend and platonic wife.”

With that, Jaskier turns and closes the door behind him.

Fuck, that was not how he wanted this day to go. His eyes sting and he swallows many times and he clenches his fists to keep his emotions in line.

Maybe it is time to leave.

Maybe it is time to go back to where people need and want him. Where he can make a difference. Where he can matter. Where he is enough.

His eyes sting once more, and with a great sigh he heaves himself from where he was leaning against the door and pours himself a cup of water.

He’ll talk with Eskel in the morning. Or Vesemir. Find a way to leave that won’t inconvenience anyone any further.

~

Leaving is harder than he thought, mainly because now, all of a sudden, people seem to seek his company.

Yennefer keeps appearing, asking him for help with stupid things. Some of them, he realizes, might be a way to regain the trust she broke between her and Geralt, but he appreciates her company it all the same.

Especially since most of it includes making Ciri smile, some other parts of it to make Lambert’s life a little more shitty. Something he is all for, to be honest.

Jaskier is petty when he wants to be, and right now he is the Prince of Petty.

Geralt too, seems to have come to some conclusion. He bites back faster when Lambert becomes too much, or Eskel, or Coën for that matter. In Jaskier’s defence, even.

It’s… weird. Nice, but weird.

And it is tearing at the walls that he spent all summer building.

~

Jaskier writes another letter to Pricilla.

Vesemir had told him that he will accept no return letter, but there are some strings he could pull if it were really necessary. Since they are hiding from Nilfgaard in a keep deeply hidden away by time and nature, Jaskier respects the need for it, and continues writing his one sided letters.

He is rather used to one sided communication, after all.

~

When he finally thinks he is about to get Eskel alone, it is not by his own doing.

“I’m sorry, I found a journal without a name, and I looked through it to see who it belonged to.”

Well, fuck.

“Jaskier. You are putting yourself at great risk.”

“And others even more so, if I don’t.” Jaskier replies, knowing exactly what he is referring to. Eskel blinks, then nods.

“I need to go back, Eskel. Before winter comes.”

“It’s too dangerous. The pass will be open for a few weeks more, but you are a wanted man.”

This is news.

“What do you know?” He asks quietly, accepting his journal back.

“I have no idea how you got into the prison cell, but word’s spread that the White Wolf busted you out.”

Fuck.

“That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry.” Eskel says, and Jaskier pats his shoulder, but he immediately pulls his hand back with a grimace. How can one see the spikes on his shoulders, and forget that they are, indeed, spikey?

“Shouldn’t have done that. Why do you keep wearing spikes?” Jaskier says. “ Also, no fault but my own, I suppose, with the jailbreaking and all that. Actually, scratch that, are all witchers allergic to just bailing someone out? Or is it just a Geralt thing?”

Jaskier tries to lighten the mood, but his stomach is sinking and his hands feel clammy. Time to write another letter or three.

“Witcher’s are all cheapskates, I’m afraid,” Eskel grins, but then sobers. “Do the others know?”

Jaskier shrugs.

“They didn’t ask. Nobody asked.”

At the same time, Geralt comes around the corner and spots them, a frown forming on his forehead. Of course.

“Right. Well, if you would keep this to yourself, I’d be immensely grateful.” Jaskier says quietly, and this time Eskel pats Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I got your back, bard,” the scarred witcher says, ironically, and now there is a lump forming in Jaskier’s throat.

Great. Fantastic. Splendid. Amazing.

Without waiting, Jaskier takes off towards his room to hide his journal again. Not to avoid Geralt. Not at all.

~

The letters he puts together are swiftly given to Vesemir. His eyebrows shoot up again when he spots one of the names addressed.

“Not a friend I would have expected of you, Pankratz.” Vesemir says quietly. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

Jaskier knows. It is a high risk game for everybody involved, with him in the direct line of fire.

“They will have to make do without me for a while.” Jaskier says quietly. “Or so Eskel tells me.”

“Ah, yes. Might be good to lay low for a while. You are welcome to stay the season with us, if you don’t have anywhere else to go, but we expect you to pull your weight.”

Does he have anywhere? Is he really welcome here?

The way Geralt looks at him sometimes, he is not so sure.

“Thank you. Though I might need to make a trip down to civilization soon. Some more clothes, paper and a lute. What kind of bard am I without a lute?” He asks, half joking.

“It’d be better if we sent down one of our usuals.” Vesemir says, scratching at his beard. “A man like yourself is sure to stand out anywhere in these small settlements.”

Was that a complement?

“Was that a complement?” Jaskier says, smirking, and Vesemir huffs goodnaturedly.

“I can see them looking, bard. I have eyes. And ears.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier asks, frowning, but Vesemir turns to go.

“Write me a list of what you need, and I’ll see what we can do.”

~

Aubry and Coën leave only a few days after Jaskier had written his list. He doesn’t really expect them to find him a lute, but something stringed to play would be nice. It’s rather likely they would find a 4 stringed lute at most, nothing like the one he smashed over that guard’s head, nor like the one he got from the Elven kind that he keeps safely in Oxenfurt.

Frankly, he’s glad that he couldn’t bring one of his nicer instruments.

The temperature changes could crack the wood, if not treated carefully, and it would be hell to keep that many strings tuned. He is pleasantly surprised when there is a knock on his door, and Geralt steps in with a leather case.

“The boys found you something,” he says by way of greeting, and Jaskier stands from his desk to accept the offered case.

He can feel the corner of his mouth tick up, and he wipes his hands on his trousers first to rid himself of stray ink before he dares touch it.

He grips it by the neck, feeling the smooth wood even through the leather of the case, and the gentle sounds of the strings as they are pinched in his grip.

“Oh, hello there,” he whispers to it, and opens it reverently.

She has six strings and a little care package, and she is terribly out of tune. The wood is old, loved, worn out, and he can see clearly where her previous player liked to put their fingers, the lacquer worn or marked to help the unpracticed one.

“What a beauty you are,” he tells her, and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Geralt leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. It almost looks like he is smiling, but Jaskier won’t turn his head to look.

There is a nervousness in him, like when you get to know a new lover. Excitement, fondness, curiosity.

He sits down on the bed, lute perched in his lap, and attempts to tune it. He fishes out the little tuning fork around his neck, raps it on his knuckles, plucks the matching string, and starts adjusting it.

Geralt makes a face; it’s probably not a nice sound to sensitive ears, but he remains.

“Did you know, it's common lutes have as many as 12 courses?” Jaskier says, turning the peg until it feels right.

“Courses?” Geralt asks.

“Strings. Oh, I might need to get this little darling some new pegs eventually, and that string looks a little worn out. We will fix you up, love.” He coos at the lute, and he hears Geralt huff.

“Doesn��t yours have 13?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier looks up, surprised.

“They do, yes.” Jaskier looks down, and his hands suddenly feel a little clammy, his cheeks warm. “The most I have ever heard of is 35, which is ridiculous. One of my old masters in Oxenfurt has one with 19, but I find those are best suited for academic music, rather than music for the masses.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything else, and when Jaskier looks up, Geralt is smiling.

“What?” He asks, but Geralt just shakes his head.

“Just haven’t talked like this in a while. It’s nice.”

That… is not what he expected him to say. Truth be told, he is still a little hurt. He still hasn't received a proper apology from that outburst from Geralt on the dragon hunt, nor any kind of thanks for just dropping everything to come with him again.

“This is going to take a while,” Jaskier says hesitantly, when Geralt doesn’t say anything else, nor move. “Technically, I should look her over first, then tune, but ah, can’t blame a man for being excited, can you?”

Jaskier looks down, puts his tuning fork back inside his shirt, where it clinks against the ring, and puts both hands on his lute.

“I don’t mind. If you don’t mind me staying.”

This is so weird.

Geralt stays, and listens to Jaskier tuning his new treasure. It takes him almost twenty minutes to see that Geralt is holding another bag, most likely one with the requested clothing.

They will have to wait a little more, as Jaskier is getting into position and putting the lute strap over his shoulder.

His right hand already stings a little, the new skin not used to the sharpness of the strings. Jaskier plays a few scales to get to know her, and to get back into it. He plays a little ditty from his past, humming the familiar nonsense words of the warm up song of his early days in the academy.

They don’t know each other yet, but it feels good to play again.

Just because he can, and because he wants to show off a little, Jaskier decides to test her limits. An old lullaby, embellished by the academics and time, harmonies and contrast ringing out in the room.

He smiles, until his index finger stings, and he hisses and puts it in his mouth.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, sitting up straighter from where he finally was sitting on the chair by Jaskier’s desk.

“‘m good,” Jaskier says around the finger in his mouth. “Just a cut. New skin’s not tough yet.”

He takes the finger out, and inspects it. His fingers are red, and the small cut is bleeding a little more than it should. Even his cuts are dramatic, he hears his teacher say, an echo from a distant past in the back of his mind.

“...New skin?” Geralt asks, face blank, and Jaskier looks up at him. The good atmosphere in the room is changing, and for some reason Jaskier feels like it is his fault. It makes him feel a bit defensive.

“Yes, you know, after the old skin blisters after a bad burn? Haven’t played in some time either, so that probably makes it worse, I suppose.” Jaskier can’t help but prod, to see if Geralt will take notice.

“You didn’t tell me about the burn,” Geralt says, his mouth a thin line.

“You didn’t ask.” Jaskier says, laying both hands flat over the strings, looking at Geralt challengingly. Good mood is all but gone now, and he feels that old bruise makes itself known again. This time he is the one poking it.

“Usually don’t have to.”

“Maybe I got tired of our one sided friendship,” Jaskier says before he can stop himself. Fuck, that is not how he meant to say that.

By the looks of it, Geralt doesn’t take it too well either.

He stands up, staring at Jaskier as if he grew a second head.

“Tired?” He says, hands clenching and unclenching against his sides.

“When was the last time you called me your friend, Geralt?” Jaskier says, starting to get agitated. “When was the last time you asked me something, anything that didn’t directly relate to Yennefer, Ciri, or you needing me to do something? When was the last time you apologized, for anything you have said to me?”

Jaskier stands up and puts the lute down on the bed, lest he does something he regrets too. All the words are pouring out of him now, why risk breaking anything but his own heart?

“Maybe I grew tired of being the only one trying.” He grabs his handkerchief to stop the blood from his finger, clenching his hand hard around it.

“Why are you here then?” Geralt spits, and it’s like a slap.

“I ask myself the same thing every day,” Jaskier shoots back, finding himself taking a step forward. “Why am I here, when clearly nobody wants me to be?”

Geralt stares at him, and Jaskier can’t really tell what that expression is.

“Are you leaving?” Geralt asks through clenched jaws.

“Can’t. Apparently there are consequences for being broken out of jail. Especially when it happens to have been by someone like the White Wolf.”

This time, Geralt visibly flinches.

“Didn’t think about that, did you?” Jaskier says. “I was so glad you found me again, I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. I pretended we could start again, maybe you would want me by your side, walking next to you for once, not just trailing behind like some forlorn fucking puppy.”

Jaskier looks at his bed, looks at the oh so loved lute, that had seen so many sets of hands, every scratch and tear a part of a journey.

“Vesemir has allowed me to stay through the winter. Unless you’ve all got something against that. Let me know, and I’ll be on my way.”

Jaskier wishes he wasn’t in his room. Wishes he could just leave. Instead, he has to stand there like an idiot and wait until either Geralt does, or opens his mouth, for once.

“I didn’t realize…” Geralt begins but trails off.

“That actions have consequences, Geralt? That words do damage too? Did you learn nothing from your entire Butcher experience?”

That is a low blow, and he knows it, but he doesn’t feel like being nice right now.

It’s remarkable that Geralt hasn’t blown up at him yet, which in itself is probably not a very high standard to hold anyone against.

“You are still bleeding,” Geralt says eventually, and Jaskier looks down to see that he’s dropped his handkerchief. The witcher bends down and picks it up, grabbing Jaskier’s hand along the way.

Jaskier is too stunned to protest, and Geralt lifts his hand enough to inspect the cut. It’s not bleeding much anymore, but from where it’s placed, it is likely open easily.

Geralt pinches the tip of Jaskier’s finger with the handkerchief, and Jaskier suddenly flashes back to another room, another time when someone held his hand.

It takes effort not to just yank his hand back, his pulse rising and his palms getting clammy again. Geralt looks at him from under his brow, concerned, but Jaskier pinches his lips shut.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?” Jaskier manages when Geralt breaks the stare to reach for some linen Jaskier has been using as bandages every now and then.

“What I missed this past year. How to be your friend. Where we go from here.”

Geralt makes a tight wrap around his finger, to the best of his ability. Not the best place for a bandage, but at least Geralt has experience.

“I can’t tell you where we go from here, Geralt. If you ask, I can tell you about the months since the dragon hunt, but the rest, you will have to figure out along with me.”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s hand in his for a moment longer, neither of them looking at the other. The witcher’s hand is not much larger than his. With a gentle thumb, Geralt moves Jaskier’s fingers, allowing him to see what the firefucker did to him.

“You and Eskel seem to get along,” Geralt says carefully. “Does he know?”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth tugs upwards in half a smile. Geralt is fishing, but Jaskier won’t say unless there is an actual question.

“Some. He found a journal of mine that I thought I had hidden.”

Geralt frowns and releases Jaskier’s hand. It drops to his side, and they both just stand there in the middle of the room, looking anywhere but at each other.

“You don’t usually hide your songs.”

“It wasn’t a song book.”

“... Can I see?”

Fuck it, why not. Whatever is happening in this room tonight will change things either way.

The new hiding place isn’t really a hiding place, just the drawer in his desk. He hands Geralt the leather bound pages, and Geralt opens and looks through it.

At first glance, it looks like his economic books. Taking stock of things bought and sold, to who and where.

Geralt glances up at Jaskier, who just nods at the book again.

Flipping a few pages, Geralt starts to make connections. When he looks up at Jaskier again, his face is carefully blank.

“You are the Sandpiper.”

“I am.” Jaskier agrees.

“You smuggled elves out of the big cities.”

“Indeed. Don’t worry, I have taken precautions for if I’m not around.”

If he should be discovered. If he were not to come back.

“Jaskier, you are putting yourself at risk.”

“And so are you, every time you take a contract. Don’t you dare tell me it’s not the same.”

“So it’s for the money?”

Jaskier sniffs, glaring at the witcher.

“No. It’s for the people who don't have anyone else to turn to. Because when they run out of elves, they will find new targets. You can’t tell me you took every contract for the coin, I have seen you accept contracts for half of your rate if they can’t afford it.”

“Is that why your fingers were blistered?” Geralt asks.

“No. That’s… something else. Something I’d rather not talk about tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Jaskier knows that if he does, he will spend the rest of the evening wondering if he gave anything away, wondering where Rience is, who else he is burning because Jaskier got away.

Geralt gives the book back, and Jaskier places it back in the drawer.

“Rest your hand, Jaskier. Heal before you play again.”

The room is strangely empty when Geralt has left.

Jaskier sits on the bed, staring at his hands for a long while, until he finally decides to look at what was in the bag of clothes that Geralt brought, and Jaskier promptly forgot about in favor of the lute.

Looking through it,it seems like Geralt might have added a shirt of his own to Jaskier’s new wardrobe.

He shoves it to the bottom of the pile.

Jaskier doesn’t make it down to dinner that night.

~

After that day, things slowly progress in small steps.

Everything goes to shit, however, when Voleth Meir makes herself known.

Ciri’s body moves at the possessing demon’s will, and she manages to stab three witchers badly before the alarm is raised.

Yennefer wakes him up, pulling him from a dream into a nightmare. She needs him.

Somehow they always need him.

The powers channeled through Ciri’s small body are strong, destructive.

Jaskier is hiding under a table when a large creature steps through a portal, a creature he has never seen before. It sweeps at the witchers, and Voleth Meir laughs with Ciri’s mouth.

It takes Yennefer tearing open her veins for Voleth Meir to finally let go, for Ciri to free herself from the snares her mind had been tangled in.

With a scream, Ciri, Yennefer and Geralt disappear from view through a portal.

Jaskier sees Lambert land on his back, leg bleeding badly after a swipe from one of the creatures still roaming. He pulls him to the relative safety of his table, and tears his tunic enough to wrap Lambert’s leg.

“Thank you,” Lambert grumbles as he gets his bearings, the commotion in the room making it hard to hear. Jaskier just nods, tying the makeshift bandage off.

Finally, it’s over.

And somehow, Yennefer got her powers back.

~

The days after are a mess. One of the stabbed witchers doesn’t make it, and Ciri has been hiding in her room, guilt ridden, making herself as small as physically possible.

Geralt tries to coax her out, but he still has too little time, too many things to sort out. With her newly regained magic, Yennefer heals who she can, focusing on major injuries until she almost exhausts herself completely.

All the while, Jaskier is left to his own devices. Again.

Not that there is anything he can actually do for them. He isn’t medically trained, nor does have magical abilities.

It leaves him wondering how he survived the whole ordeal at all, and while he feels lucky about it, there is also a morsel of guilt.

So Jaskier finds himself knocking on Ciri’s door. She is reluctant to let him in, but with some honey cake bribes, she finally relents.

This, he knows. This, he can help with.

A young girl, plagued with guilt and fear, struggling to get a hold of herself and what she did, he knows how to help her.

“Not what you did. What your body did, under someone else's control.” Jaskier reminds her between bites. “I might not have gone through what you have, but I know what it is like to feel helpless. Fear and expectations don’t mix well, especially not when a murderous witch is involved.”

They talk a lot, mostly Ciri actually, and maybe they cry a little. After they finish their stolen cakes, and Jaskier has sworn not to tell Lambert, Jaskier brings out his lute to let Ciri play.

It seems she has a basic knowledge, plucking out the chords of a famous love song.

Sadly, not one that Jaskier had written, but at least it wasn’t one of Valdo Marx’s. Which he tells her.

And then she proceeds to play one of Marx’s love songs.

When Geralt finally joins them, Jaskier is chasing a giggling Ciri, who is hugging the lute close, calling her a traitor and a terrible little child, cursing Valdo for tainting her poor, innocent ears.

~

The first day Ciri dares to join them for breakfast, she hides behind Geralt. Both Yennefer and Jaskier hover, ready to step in between if anyone has anything to say.

They don’t.

Lambert is the first one to approach, bandage and limp both gone, Jaskier notes. He sits opposite of Geralt and Ciri, slamming his plate down, his fork rattling down across the table.

“Hey, it happens. What is a little mind control between friends?” is all he says, then digs into his food with the worst table manners Jaskier has seen in a while.

The tension breaks when Jaskier starts berating him for it, and is met with a mouthful of food telling him exactly where he can stuff his manners.

Ciri smiles when Eskel settles next to her, bumping their arms together.

The others make a toast to the lion cub among the wolves, the one who finally found a way to shut Lambert up. Even if it was by challenging him to stuff his mouth full enough to almost choke.

~

The first snow falls not long after.

The last letter has been sent, the last visit to the village by the foot of the mountains has been made, and those witchers unwilling to be stuck for the season have left.

It is colder than a grave hag’s asshole, as Eskel declares one day, with Coën immediately wanting to know why he knows that piece of information.

“I am a man of science,” Eskel grins and winks, and Lambert almost spits out his mead.

Ciri and Yennefer are slowly bonding, their first lessons taking place by the giant lake below the keep.

Jaskier takes care of his lute, works on new material, and with Vesemir and Eskel’s help, looks for new routes for the Sandpiper to take.

Geralt finds him more often now, seeking out his company rather than just tolerating it.

For a moment, Jaskier had expected him and Yennefer to fall back into bed as soon as the air was cleared, but if they have, they never said.

Instead, Yennefer spends more and more time with Ciri, trying to work out ways to control her power when they realize just how strong the young girl already is.

Sometimes they all do things all together.

They go ice skating.

They lose a snowball fight, pelted until they yell for mercy.

Jaskier finally learns of the hot springs, much to his outrage.

“You mean I could have dipped into preheated water all along?!” he yells, waving his arms around dramatically, and is rewarded when Ciri snickers, and Geralt bites down a smile.

It makes something in his chest soar.

The walls from the past year are slowly being torn down.

Deliberately so, in fact.

Piece by piece, Jaskier decides to let Geralt in.

It’s not perfect. It’s painful and it’s terrifying to let himself be open to hope again, to trust that there is friendship this time.

~

When Geralt learns about the firefucker, he is gone for an entire day.

Jaskier has no idea where he went, and he is feeling terribly vulnerable after talking about it, hands shaking and heart racing. Yennefer finds him outside her workroom, and she pulls him inside, cursing Geralt all the way.

“Let him sulk,” she says. “If he can make a hardship his fault, he will. When he gets his head out of his ass, he’ll come back.”

Later that night, Jaskier hears Yennefer rip Geralt a new one for leaving like that, when Jaskier clearly was shaken up and shouldn’t have been left alone.

Ciri learns about the firefucker days after, and angry tears roll down her cheeks when she realizes what Jaskier went through for her, even before they met.

They sit on the bridge outside the gates, feet dangling over the edge. The air is cold enough for their breath to fog, and Ciri’s slightly damp hair to freeze.

Jaskier thumbs her tears away and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“The whole world could be at my heels, and I would do it all again to keep you safe.”

“Sometimes, I just want the world to burn.” Ciri whispers, and Jaskier tucks her into his side.

~

Geralt calls him his friend now.

It’s good.

Jaskier gets to borrow a horse, and they go out riding in the snow around the keep. They argue about whose turn it is to do the laundry, and who is the worse cook. 

When the window to Jaskier’s room breaks for reasons Lambert and Ciri swear up and down they know nothing about, Geralt simply moves him into his own.

The bed is wide enough for the both of them, which makes Jaskier think of who else might have shared it before him, but he pushes that thought down.

It has no place here, nothing to stand on.

They actually interact less after sharing a room, both of them needing their own space during the day.

They learned that after a vicious fight, where Geralt found all Jaskier’s sore spots once again and pounced.

“Do you ever tire of your own voice?!” he asked nastily, and that shut Jaskier right up.

He slept in the main hall for three days, until Geralt actually apologized.

After that first apology, the rest came a little easier.

They talked about what happened on the mountain. They talked about Jaskier’s past, and Geralt confessed that sometimes, since way before the dragon hunt, he thought Jaskier was only following him for the stories, for the fame it brought him.

It was Jaskier’s turn to apologize, for not seeing that, for not respecting privacy and boundaries set. He realizes he might have been blind to Geralt’s reactions to his songs, distracted with the fame their association granted them.

“But,” Jaskier says,”Not once would I have left you, even if you never lifted your sword ever again.”

To this, Geralt admits to how he always expects to be abandoned, or to be left behind.

“The thought of you leaving, or dying, it’s terrifying. I don’t think I could piece myself together again. So I left first.”

It’s like a kick in the chest, when Jaskier realizes.

That is the first night they actually sleep close on purpose. Geralt is a nasty little blanket thief, but Jaskier makes due by simply curling in close.

~

Midwinter comes, and a new year grows on the horizon. Darkness grants them a perfect view of the stars above, and the snow a blanket to let the world sleep.

Jaskier still is not allowed to join them on hunting trips, but he is getting good with a bow, under Vesemir’s sharp eyes.

~

Another sleepless night, another early morning, at the first light of dawn, when the first rays find their way through the dirty windows of Geralt’s room, that is when Jaskier dares to press a kiss to Geralt’s forehead.

Convinced that the witcher is asleep, he leans on his elbow, tracing a wild strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a quick kiss, dry lips against warm skin, making Jaskier’s entire body ache.

This is why he feared bringing down those walls. This is why he withstood the bruises, an armor to keep his heart at bay.

He doesn’t expect Geralt to open his eyes and gaze up at him. Doesn’t expect Geralt to wrap a hand around his neck and pull him down, pressing a kiss of his own to Jaskier’s forehead.

Resting against Geralt’s chest, Jaskier draws in a shaking breath.

“Ask me, Geralt.” He whispers into the dawning day.

“Do you love me?” Geralt whispers back, arms tightening around Jaskier’s back, pulling him closer.

“I do.” His voice wavers, eyes stinging. “Where do we go from here?”

“Wherever we want to. We’ll figure it out.”

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Do you…?”

Jaskier doesn’t dare ask. Too scared of the question, even more scared of the answer.

Instead of replying, Geralt rolls them over.

Now he is the one leaning on his elbows, hovering inches from Jaskier. They are so close, he can feel every breath Geralt takes, see the pulse jump in his throat.

Instead of replying, Geralt kisses him.

A surprisingly chaste kiss, lingering and soothing and earth shattering and heart wrenching.

“I do.” Geralt whispers finally, lips brushing together. “Whatever that will do to us, I do.”

~

Come spring and the first visit to the village below the mountain, Vesemir finds him with ten envelopes and a small box.

The box is a set of strings and pegs and lute varnish they couldn’t get before the pass closed this winter. Most of the letters are from Pricilla, updating him on what is going on in Oxenfurt and the Sandpiper network, all well coded.

Jaskier realizes he can’t stay anymore.

The world around them is growing ever more restless and chaotic, and the only way to be prepared is to be out there.

Parting with Geralt is harder than it ever was before.

Being alone is dangerous, but being with them is even more so.

He has an organization to run. Stories to tell. Lies to spread.

During the winter, Jaskier came to realize how he can make a difference. On the road, with a lute on his back, in inns and taverns, the way he always did.

As they part, on a crossroad that finally will lead them to part, they stand next to new Roach and Pegasus, arms wrapped around each other and foreheads pressed together.

“Ask me,” Jaskier whispers.

“Won’t you tell me?” Geralt whispers back, making Jaskier huff and smile.

“I won’t make it that easy for you, witcher.” He teases, and Geralt steals a kiss, humming softly into it.

“So I’ll have to come find you then, and ask you to tell me again.” Geralt mumbles against his lips.

Jaskier will hold him to that.

Words held back until they meet again.

The road is long, and full of dangers.

Jaskier hopes it will lead him to Kaer Morhen once more.

#the witcher #geraskier #emotional hurt comfort #dapanda writes #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #slow build #geralt is learning how to be a friend #jaskier is very much unseen by all his important people #winter at kaer morhen #the witcher season 2 fix it #ish #i have a lot of feelings about being unseen in a group #being told you talk too much #jaskier deserves so much more than shitty friends #yennefer #lambert is a prick #eskel #yarpen #ciri

[thedemonofcat]

During an unusually lengthy winter at Kaer Morhen, they decided to host an Easter egg hunt, resulting in the most fiercely competitive hunt ever witnessed.

Lambert and Eskel engaged in intense fistfights over coveted eggs, while Aiden and Coen sprinted with fervor to claim them first.

Yennefer relied on her magic to summon eggs to her, while Ciri utilized the opportunity to hone her tracking skills, cunningly pilfering others' baskets.

Geralt took it upon himself to guide Jaskier to the eggs, as the bard grew despondent over his inability to find any.

Vesemir, the instigator, found himself somewhat regretting the chaos he had initiated.

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #geralt of rivia #joey batey #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher season 3 #the witcher season three #anya chalotra #the witcher aiden #the witcher eskel #witcher coen #the witcher lambert #papa vesemir

[dftea]

Ravelled and thinned

Accidental Warlord AU (@inexplicifics): Aiden/Sasha, hurt/comfort

[read on AO3]

And then it comes over him, an overwhelming wave of rage and vengeance, sweeping him away from Sasha and reality and everything good and beautiful in the world.

or

Aleksander is hurt on the training ground. Aiden loses it.

When the obstacle course explodes, Aiden only makes it halfway across the training ground before Sasha falls.

Shouts and Signs fill the air, as the Grassed trainees fling up their Quen shields to protect themselves and their humans from the falling debris. 

But they’re between him and his Sasha.

He doesn’t know how many he knocks down, how many feel the cut of his knife, but then he’s holding a blood-soaked Sasha in his arms.

There’s a jagged spike of metal through his sweet pup’s chest. He tries to form words, to shape Aiden's name, but all that comes out is blood.

He’s saturated in the smell of Sasha’s blood and fear.

And he cannot watch him die in agony, not like this.

He pushes Axii into Sasha’s head and watches him still, his face slack.

And then it comes over him, an overwhelming wave of rage and vengeance, sweeping him away from Sasha and reality and everything good and beautiful in the world.

When he comes back to himself, he is face down in the dirt of the training yard, Lambert pinning him bodily and a dozen Cat Witchers seizing hold of his limbs.

“–not going to fucking die, because Triss got to him fast. He’s going to be fine, Aiden, but he needs you to snap the fuck out of this, so you can–”

“I’m back,” he rasps, and feels the release of tension all around him. “I need…Sasha…”

“Let him up,” Lambert commands, and the others release him as Lambert drags him up to his feet.

“Did I…did I hurt…?”

“Cuts and bruises,” Lambert says, matter-of-factly. “Nothing that won’t heal in a few days. Now let’s clean you the fuck up so you can see Aleksander - he’s been asking for you.”

As he drags Aiden towards the keep, the Cats falling into a sort of honour guard around them, Aiden belatedly takes in the deserted training yard, the fading light.

“How long was I down?”

Lambert rolls his shoulders, subtly removing the stiffness. “Five, six hours.”

“You sat on me for six hours?”

“Fucking Axii wouldn’t take,” Lambert complains, steering him towards the hot springs. “Even when Eskel and the Griffins got involved. 

When they arrive, the baths are empty, and Lambert strips Aiden with ruthless efficiency before dunking him in the private pool. It’s barely body temperature for a Witcher, but Aiden feels half outside his body anyway, unable to process much beyond the cloying scent of Sasha’s blood surrounding him.

Lambert, Axel, and Cedric scrub him down until he smells like apples and the blood has all vanished with the magic of the springs. They also seem glad to have lost the lingering blood and dirt from their bodies, and Aiden numbly notes that some of those “cuts and bruises” are on them.

“I hurt you,” Aiden mumbles at Lambert, who shakes his head. 

“Nah, it won't even scar.”

His sweet pup will have a scar now, marring his beautiful body, because Aiden wasn’t fast enough. Because Aiden is too selfish to send him away to live in Wolfenburg or another safe town far from the fucking Cranes and their fucking obstacle courses.

Lambert pulls some clean clothes onto his unresisting body, before finally guiding him up to Sasha’s rooms.

The sitting room is crowded, more crowded than Aiden was expecting, with Livi and Dragonfly curled up in the chair by the window and the whole pride of Mantikittens surrounding Aren on the sofa. Mouse is pacing, muttering to herself, but no one tries to stop her.

It’s overwhelming, especially when all their eyes turn on him as he enters with Lambert and an entourage of Cats.

But then they smell relieved, that scent overwhelming the worry that feels palpable in the room.

“Milena and Triss are with him,” Livi says, offering a wobbly smile. “Triss says he’ll be fine in a few days.”

Aiden nods, still feeling like he’s in a waking nightmare, as Lambert pushes him towards the door to the bedroom.

The smell of blood is unmistakable, his sweet pup’s blood, but smothered by healing salves and the faint scent of Kitten’s tears.

She looks up as the door opens, moving aside as Aiden breaks free from Lambert to stumble to the bed.

“You’re all right,” Sasha breathes, and there’s more of that relief scent, wrapped up in the honey of his love for Aiden.

“You're not,” Aiden chokes out, the bandages around Sasha’s torso barely darker than his pale skin.

“I will be,” Sasha says, firmly, and he isn’t lying. 

“He will,” Merigold agrees, and she isn’t lying either. “You can lie on his right side if you like - you should rest.”

“Why are you being kind to me?” Aiden suddenly blurts out. “I lost my fucking mind - I could’ve killed someone!”

“Aiden,” Kitten says, softly, “it killed me to see Sasha hurting so badly. I can only imagine how much worse it was for you. Nobody blames you.”

“But they fucking should!” he says vehemently.

“Can we fight about this in the morning?” Sasha says plaintively, stifling a yawn. “I want you to hold me now.”

And he cannot deny his sweet pup anything, especially not when he’s lying there looking so fragile, when Aiden wants nothing more than to inhale his living, breathing scent.

“The potions for pain are on the cabinet,” Merigold says, as she goes to take her leave.

“Milena and I will be right outside the door,” Lambert says. “If you need anything.”

But Aiden is already crawling over the bed, light as only a Cat can be, before curling himself around Sasha’s uninjured right side.

He smells relaxed, free from pain - and not because someone forced everything out of his head in desperation.

“Forgive me?” he begs. “For the Axii.”

“Nothing to forgive, beloved,” Sasha says, and closes his eyes, sighing in contentment as he does most every night.

He isn’t afraid, Aiden thinks wonderingly. He still loves him and he isn’t afraid.

And maybe Aiden doesn’t deserve this trust, this love, but he won’t give up something so precious without a fight.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #accidental warlord au #aiden/sasha #aiden witcher #aleksander of velen #hurt/comfort #dftea writes

[essskel]

wait explain the haunted house post tags

are you talking about kaer morhen

sorry the curiosity is eating at me lmao

(this post for context)

Yes I was talking about Kaer Morhen! What follows is mostly speculation and personal headcanon:

So post tw3, I do see the tragic appeal of Vesemir (or any number of dead witchers) haunting Kaer Morhen, but I prefer not to think of Vesemir as a ghost, or at least a pained, sinister one. He was laid to rest with love, and he died fulfilling his devotion to his family. And maybe the other witcher spirits that remained were given a more full sense of closure after his funeral too.

So that leaves Eskel as the caretaker of Kaer Morhen. Geralt has his family, Lambert knows better. It’s just Eskel. He’s the last ‘true’ wolf witcher in the keep, not even a troubled spirit to keep him company, to rattle the doors and open the cubbards, not even the distorted voice of dead Vesemir to tell him what to do with himself, no one to guide him, no one to fill the silence.

Eskel himself is the ghost then. He’s the cold, silent, shape of a witcher that walks the halls of Kaer Morhen night and day. If you were to hike up to the castle, you might see his form in a window, you might hear his footsteps on the stair, see a flash of igni on a dark night. The age of Witchers is dead, the school of the wolf with it, all that’s left is Eskel, dragging around its corpse, muttering the names of dead men.

#happy halloween btw #I should make a real post abt this but what if it makes me cry . what then #eskel #witcher eskel #vesemir #tw3 #llwynbleidd #ask #double shot

[starfirewildheart]

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary:

sex, first time, tender, loving, hot, sex, be warned.

Chapter 10

Geralt and Naurel made their way back to the keep stopping along the way to kiss and tease each other. Once inside he took her hand and was about to start up the stairs when Vesemir put his hand on his chest stopping him. “You need to talk to Eskel, wolf, and work out the problem. I don’t know why the tension is there but it will only fester if it’s not addressed.”

Geralt did not want to have this conversation right now but respected Vesemir enough to listen. “I will try again but he…” Vesemir cut him off, holding a finger up in warning.

“I will tell you just like I told him. I am giving you one more chance to fix this yourselves but one more fight and I will bend you over the table in the dining hall and tan your hides just like when you were kids.”

Geralt could feel the heat in his face as a stunned embarrassment washed over him momentarily but he quickly composed himself. “I will try, I promise.”

Vesemir put a hand on Geralt’s should and smiled as he glanced at Naurel, whose hand was still clasped in Geralt’s then looked back at his charge. “You can do it later. Go,” he nodded his head to the stairs laughing when the two took off like teenagers.

Naurel was laughing by the time Geralt pulled her into his room only stopping when he kissed her. He pulled her cloak off and tossed it aside and did the same with his own without breaking the kiss. They swayed together like they were dancing until his hips came to rest against his small dresser. He sat back against the top of it and pulled her between his thighs as he reached for the buttons on her shirt. Her heartbeat was faster than a hummingbird and he could feel her trembling so he pulled back to look down at her. “Are you ok? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head but couldn’t look him in the eye. She was scared and didn’t know if she could tell him because she felt so stupid. “I want to, believe me. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

He pondered her words and how they didn’t mesh with her actions and came to a conclusion. “You’re afraid I will hurt you. Of course, it makes sense because I’m a witcher and I’m strong but I promise I will be easy with you. I will watch my strength when I hold you and..”

“Geralt, no.” She stepped back between his thighs and cupped his face in her hands. “I’m not afraid of you. I know that you would never hurt me and I trust you completely.”

The fact that she said those words with such surety made his heart quiver. “Then what's wrong?”

“I.. you…” she really wanted the floor to open up and swallow her right now.

“You can tell me anything, my love.”

“You’ve been with Yennefer and Triss and I’m sure a lot of others.”

“That was in the past. I love you and only you,” he reassured her.

She reached out and gripped in carefully, looking up at him through her lashes when he gasped. His eyes were lidded and glazed with desire and it spurred her on. Her experimental stroke was gentle and guarded not wanting to hurt him but he had other ideas. His large hand closed over hers adjusting the grip of her hand to a much firmer hold than she thought he’d like then he guided both their hands up and down the hard shaft. The veins below the skin felt like small ridges to her palm and on each downstroke, the wet, pink tip peeked out of the top. Something in her just had to know how it tasted so she gave the tip a small kitten lick. The moan he let out sounded heavenly and she wanted to hear it more.

Geralt forced himself to stay as still as a statue while she explored his body. He didn’t want to scare her and was trying to be patient and give her time to learn him. That was a task that was getting harder and harder by the second, literally. When he felt her tongue against his head he couldn’t hold back the moan and he nearly lost it when she looked up at him from between his legs. It was a sight he’d never get enough of. He had to grip the edge of the dresser when her mouth closed over him and she started sucking. Her tongue curled around his girth and sent a chill up his spine and a flame in his belly as she started moving her head. When she gently cupped his balls and rolled them in her hand he heard the wood of the dresser creek from his grip. “Fuck!”

Naurel continued sucking him getting brave enough to go deeper and deeper until she gagged herself. Making yourself puke on your lover was not in her planes so she adjust her depth and was quite enjoying her task. It wasn’t until she heard the wood of the dresser almost splinter that she paused and looked up at him, cock still in her mouth, in question.

“Fuck,” he moaned again at the sight and grabbed a handful of her hair in his right hand to anchor himself. “Don’t stop,” he urged. He was so worked up from all the sexual tension all this time that he was so close that he knew it would be better to go ahead and cum than he could take his time with her. His witcher libido never failed him. He’d be hard again in no time. It took all his strength not to give in and just fuck her mouth but it wasn’t long until he felt the coil in his belly and his balls start to tighten. Giving a gentle tug on her hair he panted, “going to cum” in warning. She didn’t stop and that was somehow even hotter. One last suck and he was shooting his seed in her mouth was a loud moan.

Naurel swallowed the bitter seed and continued sucking spurred on by the sounds he was making but they suddenly started to sound more pained than pleasurable so she let him slip from her mouth. The sight she was greeted with was the hottest thing she’d ever seen in her life and made her moan. Geralt, panting and boneless looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen anyone was a Geralt she needed more of. Getting to her feet she pulled him into a hug kissing his neck lazily while he recovered. It only took a few minutes before his grip on her tightened and he stood, spinning them so that she was now sitting on the dresser.

“You are amazing.” He grinned as he pressed his forehead to hers before kissing down her cheek and whispering, “My turn.” He kissed every inch of her skin as he bared it before standing back and admiring her for a moment. He held his hand out to her helping her down and then carrying her over to the bed. Once he laid her on the soft blanket he lowered himself over her. Kissing down her body he laved each breast sucking and teasing her nipples until she was breathless. He loved the way her body arched as he continued moving lower pressing kisses everywhere. Taking his hand he repositioned her legs so that they were spread and kissed the inside of each thigh,

Naurel had a sudden realization of what he was about to do and she quickly snapped her knees together causing him to move his head out of the way. “Umm, what are you doing?”

He grinned, “experiencing. Relax love,” he soothed and pushed at her legs again,

“Umm experiencing with your mouth,,,there?”

“Yes, if you will relax long enough. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“But umm…” she blushed wildly and gestured with her hands. “It’s umm all…”

“Wet?” He laughed when she blushed even redder. “I intend to keep it that way from now on. Wet and slick with your desire for me, ready to take me whenever the mood strikes,” he rumbled before delving between her legs and lapping at her folds.

She wanted to argue, to push his head away but his tongue was doing things that made her buck up against his face instead. His low humm of approval vibrated against that same spot and she couldn’t stop the moan that slipped out. Her legs seemed to have spread wider and lifted up of their own accord and Geralt took it as a good sign because soon she felt his blunt fingers joining his tongue. When the first finger slid into her it set off a sensation she’d never felt before. Everything seemed to drive her need to be filled, to get more touch, pressure, anything! She was a writhing mess by the time he had worked her up to three fingers and that burning coil of pleasure low in her body was taking on an entirely new feeling. It was like waves against the beach sending shock aftershock of pleasure through her as her body spasmed. “Geralt!”

By the time she clenched around him and coated his fingers in her release he was hard and dripping again as he pressed himself against the blanket for some friction. Once he’d coaxed her through her first orgasm he climbed back up her body. “I love it when you say my name like that.”

“That was…” she was breathless.

“Nothing yet,” he smirked and rubbed his hard cock between her wet pussy. “You ready love?”

“Please,” she rasped.

The slide in was wonderful. Sensations were on overdrive and she was so tight against him that he had to stop a few times so he wouldn’t cum. He kept kissing her and using his other hand to tease her nipples as he pressed forward but by the time he was fully seated the moaned gasps had turned into whimpers. “Shh love, that’s it. You’re taking it so good for me, So fucking tight around me,” he moaned as he reached between them and thumbed her clit.

It was a painful sting deep inside her as Geralt continued to fill her beyond capacity. She could feel him touching things deep inside her that nothing or no one had ever explored before and she wanted more but it hurt enough that she didn’t know if she could. By the time she felt his balls touch below where he filled her she was softly punching at his shoulder almost ready to tell him to stop but then he touched her clit again and it caused her hips to buck. The sensation was one she needed more of so she bit her lip and took a deep breath. “Geralt, please.”

“Please what, love?”

Her eyes flew open and the raw, powerful look in his eyes told her he was barely hanging on as well. “Please, fuck me.”

He growled and pulled her right leg over his hip so that she opened up more then pulled his hips back slowly before pushing forward again. Her moans urged him on but when her hips started raising to meet his Geralt knew he was about to cum. Wanting to be sure she came with him he reached between them and started rubbing circles over that bundle of nerves. She was so far gone that it only took a few times before she was cumming again soaking his cock with her release. Her body squeezed him impossibly tight and shuddered around him and with a few stuttered thrusts he came deep inside her as he bit the junction between her neck and shoulder with a growl. They stayed wrapped up together, kissing as they came down from their highs before he carefully pulled out and laid down next to her. He pulled her so that she was pressed to his side with her head resting on his chest. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” she panted as she looked up at him. “I love you Geralt.”

“I love you too, kitten,” he beamed.

“We are going to do this lots,” she informed him.

“Humm,” he smiled as his eyes got heavy.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

@mollymal

@secretdreamlandmentality

@salvawhxres

@dizzybee03

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x reader #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #witcher fanfiction #the witcher netflix #the witcher

[flowercrown-bard]

Hi there ♡ Could I request a fluffy Jaskier/Eskel ficlet where Jaskier leaves little notes or poems on towns notice boards and Eskel collects them, following the trail until he comes across Jaskier again. It would be even sweeter if it was a first kiss fic.

Thank you ♡♡ feel free to tweak the idea however you like.

Thank you for the prompt!

word count: 2k

Witcher Wanted

Larger cities were a strange thing. Some of them were more progressive, more open towards the other and willing to treat witchers somewhat kindly. Other times, however, it was quite the opposite. More people meant a potentially bigger mob, should things go south. So when Eskel entered Novigrad, he wasn’t sure what to expect. He kept his shoulders hunched forward, so as to appear smaller and less threatening and kept his hood up to cover his scars. For the most part, people ignored him, which was better than he had hoped for. Still, the longer he went ignored, the more did the hole in his chest grow. It had been so long since he had laughed with his brothers, cuddled with his goat or melted at the sound of Jas-

No. He shook his head, stopping himself from finishing that thought. It was no use reminiscing of the times he had stumbled upon the bright-eyed bard, who looked at him without fear and did all he could to coax a smile from him, as if he didn’t even notice the way his scars would turn his happiness into a grotesque grimace. 

It was only when someone gave him a strange look, that Eskel realised that the memory alone had made the corners of his lips twitch upwards. 

He had to stop this or he would do something foolish - like abandon his usual route to head to Oxenfurt. Chances were that Jaskier wouldn’t even be there anyway. It was no use to dream about seeing him again. Eskel had to focus. There had been a reason why he had come here. Though big crowds could prove dangerous to witchers, they were also an easy target for all sorts of malevolent creatures. The year thus far hadn’t been kind to Eskel and chances were that he would find a well paying contract in the big city. 

He ignored his grumbling stomach and the ache of his tired muscles and led Scorpion to one of the notice boards. That was another thing about larger cities: There were multiple notice boards. If you didn’t find any interesting notes on one of them, you might be more lucky looking for more. 

Luck, for once, seemed to be on Eskel’s side. There, right in the middle of the first notice board he checked, hung a piece of parchment - expensive paper, flourishing writing. Clearly, the person who had written it, had coin to spare. And as it would seem, they were willing to use it to pay for a witcher’s service. 

Witcher wanted

If a witcher reads this, please come to the Bread and Butter Bakery, as soon as possible. Your assistance is dearly needed.

Eskel frowned, as he took the note off the board. He turned it around, to see if there was any more information on the back, but no. Nothing. No description of the monster plaguing the bakery, nor an estimate of what they were willing to pay for the contract. Well, maybe it wasn’t wise for a bakery to proclaim that something hairy or slimy was haunting the place where they were selling food. It was worth looking into. 

Eskel folded the parchment, put it into a pocket in his jacket and went off looking for the Bread and Butter. 

It didn’t take long to find. Soon enough, the scent of fresh bread and sweet cakes guided him towards the bakery. Eskel pressed a hand against his stomach to keep it from twisting painfully. Each step that brought him closer to the bakery made him more and more aware of how long it had been since he had last eaten. Hopefully, whatever plagued this place could be done with quickly and if he was lucky, it would pay enough for him to be able to indulge a little into the bakery’s wares. 

He pushed the door open and a little bell that hung above the entrance chimed merrily. A soft looking woman with red cheeks looked up. A strange expression crossed her face, when she took in the sight of Eskel, who made himself smaller. Her scrutinising gaze was uncomfortable, though not unkind. 

“What can I help you with?” The woman asked. 

Awkwardly, Eskel pulled out the slip of paper. 

“This says, you’re in need of a witcher?”

“Oh thank Meletile!” The baker wiped her hands on her apron. “I thought you’d never come.”

“Is the situation that dire?” Eskel asked, tensing. His eyes darted around the room and he strained his ears, but he couldn’t find anything wrong here.

“Dire?” The baker let out a strained laugh. “Dire, he says! Yes, it most definitely is.” Instead of elaborating, she hurried through the backdoor behind the counter, leaving Eskel lost and confused. After a moment, she came back, holding a bundle of something smelling like warm dough and honey. Eskel’s mouth began to water. His eyes went wide, when the baker thrust the bundle at him unceremoniously. 

“What -”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep these warm and fresh when I don’t even know how long I’ll have to do so?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Next time you place an order, you better specify a time.” 

Eskel was so dumbfounded, that he forgot to protest. All he could come up with was, “I have no coin.”

The baker gave him another strange look. “So? It’s already paid for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, now that these are finally off my hands, I need to get back to my other orders.” She left again to the backroom. For a moment, Eskel simply stood there, honey cakes in hand and more confused than he had been in a long time. But there clearly wasn’t anything for him to do here, so for lack of a better idea, he left the bakery. He carefully stowed the cakes into one of Scorpion’s saddlebags - but not before taking a small bite off one of them. He closed his eyes and could barely suppress a moan as the flavour melted on his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something as delicious as that. He almost ate the rest of the cakes right then and there, but he forced himself to go on. Best to get a room first, so he could sit down, rest his weary bones and savour the cakes fully. 

And in order to do that, he had to get coin first. So off to another notice board he went. And wouldn’t you know it, he found another note, written by the same hand and on the same expensive parchment. 

Witcher wanted

If a witcher reads this, please come to theFlourishing Florist, at your earliest convenience. Your assistance is dearly needed.

A creeping suspicion rose in Eskel, as he neared the small botany shop. People were going in and out, and not a single one looked unsettled at the least. No one - but the shop owner, who pressed a huge bouquet of dandelions into his hands, muttering something about how keeping such weeds around made him appear like some cheap amateur. 

Next, Eskel found a note proclaiming he needed to go to a tailor, who turned out to have been booked for the entire day, for the sole purpose of fixing any holes he might have in his clothing and provide him with a new pair of gloves.

After that, Eskel found a note that sent him to a stable, where there was a box ready for Scorpion. 

With each note he found, the harder it got to stop from smiling. He sped up his steps in his pursuit of the next notice board, when he caught sight of someone sitting by a fountain at the marketplace. The hunched over figure was clad in bright blue and hastily scribbling something down, while their tongue was sticking out in concentration. Eskel’s heart leaped in his chest and he made a strange sound that must have been louder than he had anticipated, for the figure looked up from their writing. Blue eyes widened when they landed on Eskel and the quill scratched across the parchment, splotching ink all over it. 

“No!” Jaskier scrambled to his feet. “You can’t be here!”

A pang went through Eskel’s chest at the words, but before his mind could spiral, Jaskier added, “I’ve not finished this one yet.” He waved the parchment through the air, making the still wet ink run slightly. “It’s taking forever to make all of these preparations and pay people off. You’re still supposed to be at the bakery eating! Did you not find that note yet?” With each word that was spilling from Jaskier’s lips, the warmth in Eskel’s chest grew. 

“I kept the cakes,” he said softly, though there were a hundred other things he would have rather said. He didn’t think he’d be able to find the right words for any of those things. “I wanted to make the most of them.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of red. “You liked the surprise then?”

At that, a laugh bubbled up in Eskel’s chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel the need to cut it off. He let it spill freely from his split lips. 

“Like it?” He repeated incredulously. “Jaskier, that - I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to. I just - well, I hoped I could give you a little happiness.” 

Jaskier made to scratch the back of his neck. Apparently, he had forgotten about the quill he was holding, for he accidentally drew a dark spot onto his cheek.

“You do,” Eskel said, perhaps too quickly. He swallowed and almost took his words back, but then he took a deep breath and a step forward. “The flowers, the food - everything. You have no idea what that means to me.” After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and wiped gently at the smudged ink on Jaskier’s cheek. “But the greatest happiness is finding you.”

Jaskier’s lips fell open into a silent ‘Oh.’

Eskel wanted to pull his hand away, but Jaskier leaned into his touch and suddenly breaking the contact was the hardest thing in the world.

“Then I suppose, I don’t need to finish this message?” Jaskier half-joked and waved the letter he had been writing. 

A smile tugged at Eskel’s lips. “You don’t,” he agreed and cocked his head to the side. “Though I’m curious. What would that note be for?”

“A room at an inn,” Jaskier said. He turned a shade darker and averted his eyes. Nervously, he picked at the edges of the parchment. “Though I suppose, now that you’ve found me, I could just invite you to share my rooms? I have a benefactor here and my rooms are big enough for two. You don’t have to - obviously, you don’t, I just thought -” “Jaskier.” Eskel caressed Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb and Jaskier fell silent. 

“Yeah?” “I would love to share a room with you. And as much time as you’re willing to give.”

“Oh. Good.” Jaskier’s tongue darted out and it looked like he was debating something with himself. Then, he glanced back at Eskel. “In that case, though…could I change the note?” 

Confused, Eskel simply nodded and let go of Jaskier, who turned around and quickly scribbled something onto the paper. He all but thrust it at Eskel and fiddled with his thumbs. Eskel’s breath caught in his throat, as he read. 

Witcher wanted. 

That was it. Not a single word more. In fact, all the other words that had previously been written, where crossed out. 

“What does this mean? Witcher wanted?” 

“Exactly that,” Jaskier said softly, uncharacteristically shy. “And not just any witcher. You. When I heard, you were in town, I - I just wanted to spend time with you. I want you.” He looked away and tugged at some strands of his hair that had fallen into his eyes. “If you want me too, that is.” “I do.” Eskel gently took Jaskier’s chin in his hand and tilted his head until their faces were only inches apart. “Believe me, I do.” Slowly, to give Jaskier enough time to pull away, Eskel leaned in. Jaskier did not flinch back. Instead, he flung his arms around Eskel’s neck and pulled him closer, capturing his lips and sealing his widening smile with his own lips. 

Tomorrow, Eskel might make a comment about how he now could see the appeal of big cities. For now though, there was not a single thought on his mind, other than that he was finally holding his happiness in his arms, and impossibly making Jakier happy in return. 

#sorry i didn't edit this #jaskel #jaskier #eskel #jaskierxeskel #fic #witcher #my writing #thank you for the prompt!

[shy-urban-hobbit]

I wrote a schmoopy sequel to this.

CW eye trauma

Lambert never thought he'd live to see the day he had a favourite scar. Although, he never thought he'd live to find love either and yet, here he was.

Sure, he had bigger, more impressive ones that he used for bragging rights - they all did- this one was different though.

For one, his brothers definitely wouldn't be pressing pecking kisses to it like Aiden was doing right now. Four long lines on his shoulder blade left by a lucky swipe from a ghouls claws, the other was always eager to slather affection onto what he'd dubbed "Their Scar" after it led to a pretty physical admittance of apparently mutual feelings between the two Witchers.

It was already faded to white - another decade or so and it will probably have faded completely - from how Aiden clawed at the spot in the throes of passion though it was tempting to think he was willing it to stay longer. Lambert could see it in his mind's eye as it ached with a dull, satisfying throb: The scar tissue raised pink and red as if it was fresh, the surrounding skin covered in shallower scratches that would already be healing. Oftentimes Aiden would hug the other from behind and press a kiss to it no matter how many layers were in the way, or rest his forehead there as they basked in the snatches of momentary peace afforded two travelling, mutant, monster hunters. If he didn't fall asleep to Aiden gathering him into his arms and stroking his fingers over it, the action lulling them both to sleep, he would wake with the others hand resting over some part of it.

It wasn't just when they were together. More and more often when they were separated, Lambert would run his fingers over it when he found himself missing his Cat, hand under his shirt in some semblance of a hug (he liked to imagine that Aiden was somehow aware whenever Lambert did this and his thoughts would drift to mischievous green eyes and a laughing mouth). And he was sure that every time they reunited it had grown more sensitive, more responsive to Aiden's touch.

Aiden ducked his head slightly as Lambert pressed a kiss to the thick, pink scar on his brow. The only part of his injury his lover allowed him to see and that was only because it couldn't be fully covered by the eye patch. The result of the effort of someone (he didn't have a clear memory of who. Some healer or hedgewitch who disappeared shortly after) having to cut the crossbow bolt out before seeing to the ruined eye and shattered socket as best they could. His Witcher healing providing little to no help, weak as he was.

"You don't have to." Aiden muttered, hiding behind his hair in an action reminiscent of the one Lambert had seen Eskel use too many times to count, "I know it's -"

Lambert shushed him by gently guiding his face back up and capturing his lips in a slow, loving kiss, "It's proof you lived, Kitten. You lived and they didn't. You gave them the best fuck you imaginable and then came back to me."

It was Aiden who initiated the kiss this time, arms wrapping around Lambert and gently caressing Their Scar through his shirt. Lambert's thumb mirrored the gesture, softly skirting backwards and forwards over the raised skin and the stiff fabric of the patch as he cupped the side of Aiden's head, "Always will, Pup."

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #aiden/lambert #aiden x lambert #lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert x aiden #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert

[paper--moons]

Regressor!Geralt Headcanons

(with cg!Eskel)

When it comes to witchers and whether or not they experience regression, there is no discriminatory factor based on the School of their training, because it is the commonalities that they share that make regression quite common. These commonalities by and large are some form of trauma—the trauma of being taken from home at a young age, the trauma endured while undergoing the Trial of the Grasses, the trauma of being ostracized from most of society to slay monsters (which, again, slaying monsters isn't exactly a pleasant experience, but rather a matter of survival of the fittest). Whether it be any one of these events or a long life of built up stressors, that burden eventually becomes too much to bear and something has to give. Even for someone that the outside world has labeled a 'mutated freak' at best and 'inhuman' at worst. But witchers are secretive as a means of self-preservation, and while their lifestyle might breed trauma responses like regression they aren't going to key everyone else in on this little fact. Most deal with it alone, though back when there were more of them it wouldn't be uncommon to see glimpses of one helping care for another. That's the only reason Geralt has any sort of inkling about what starts happening to him not long after the Blaviken incident. He hadn't wanted to get involved either way, had tried to dissuade Renfri from her plans but she had been stubborn and he got caught up in a mess like always... Killing was no stranger to him, but he hadn't wanted to kill Renfri. And something about it was the last stone on the scale, creating an imbalance within him that was now tipping down heavily into 'small'.

It's little things at first, things that are easy enough to repress if he catches them—like the urge to chew on the leather ties on his gauntlets, or the urge to play with Roach when they're stopped at a stream. Witchers, perhaps as a result of the mutations combined with their survival instincts, are quite good at denying their regression until they are settled someplace safe for what they expect to be an extended period of time. For Geralt, that place is naturally Kaer Morhen. So when winter finally rolls around and he returns home the dam starts to crack after months of repressing everything small. But the old castle is big, and he thinks he can keep hiding most of any sort of tell just by keeping to himself. Until they convene for supper, that is. Then it becomes a lot harder to hide how clumsily he's gripping his spoon, or stifle the slight whine when he spills some of his rabbit stew down the front of his doublet. Vesemir huffs and mutters something about him being fussy, and Lambert snickers, but Eskel? Eskel looks concerned, having picked up on the fact that this isn't just some off day for Geralt but something else. And that's all it takes, really—Eskel has always been protective of Geralt, the two having been in the same group to go through the Grasses together and being close enough that many people thought they were related by blood. While he figures Vesemir has decided to assess the situation from a distance, Eskel believes he will fare better if he takes a more direct approach. Which is why he decides to rope Geralt into a game of gwent up in his room after dinner. It doesn't take much convincing either, as Geralt is happy for an excuse to head up early and not have a round of drinks with the others. After all, it's far easier to hide what's happening if he's just with one other person, right?

Wrong. He was very, very wrong. He gets proven wrong fairly quickly, too. They barely have their cards out when Geralt finds himself slipping quite a bit, though Eskel is nothing if not patient. He doesn't laugh when he makes mistakes concerning the basic rules of their card game, only gently reminds him of how to play. Nor does he laugh when Geralt starts to find the game too difficult, the cards too hard to read. No, instead he simply guides him to bed once he starts rubbing sleepily at his eyes, saying they can share like old times when Geralt hints that the journey through the halls of Kaer Morhen seems scarier tonight. The suggestion is all too easy to accept with his head starting to feel so fuzzy, and without thinking he burrows himself into Eskel's chest and sighs when he's pulled closer. It's achingly familiar, though they hadn't taken such comforts in each other in decades. Such things had become too childish for them both at some point. But all of those years fall away as Geralt lets himself relax and melt into the reassuring hold his brother has on him. For a moment he had feared that it wouldn't be as comforting as he remembered, but if anything it was better than it had been. There was nothing to fear come morning—none of the trials could hurt them now, none of the harsher older witchers either that Vesemir couldn't always steer them away from. No monsters for them to hunt nor man to hunt them. Knowing that this time was different was soothing in a way he couldn't have anticipated. Not to mention the fact that his senses were much more heightened than before, his ears far more attuned to the steady thrum of Eskel's heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

They don't really have to talk about it come morning—even if Geralt had not woken up regressed, there would still be a silent understanding between them of what had happened. The change in Geralt was plain to see, and with regression being common among witchers, well... Eskel doesn't mind that his little brother is considerably littler now and instead just gets them both ready for the day. It's not that big of a deal considering the kinds of things they regularly go through; if anything this is a nice break for everyone involved. So what if Geralt regresses? All that means is instead of helping Eskel tend to the horses that morning he wound up toddling around the courtyard behind Lil' Bleater, pointing out things with an excited albeit soft noise of delight (apparently, Lil' Bleater attempting to eat a rock was the pinnacle of entertainment for the little wolf). And he would have probably been content to continue to chase after the goat all morning had they not gotten called in for breakfast. Geralt is reluctant to leave the goat, and even more reluctant to see the other two witchers if the way he attempts to hide behind Eskel is any indication. What if they aren't as okay with him being...with Eskel taking care of him? But Vesemir doesn't seem surprised at all, only asking Geralt who he wants to help him with his breakfast so he doesn't make a mess like he had at dinner. Even Lambert seems alright with it, the extent of his teasing beginning and ending at the fact that he can now boast about not being the youngest out of the wolves—at least while Geralt is regressed.

As it turns out though, Geralt stays regressed a whole lot longer than he thought he would. Nearly the entirety of winter he stays small, with the occasional period of middlespacing. Perhaps it's the way his body compensates for having to put it off for so long, but Vesemir assures them all that this is completely normal for witchers. This not only eases any worries (and yes, even Lambert was concerned), but the extended time he spends small gives them all plenty of time to get to know little Geralt. After about a week they feel confident enough to say that Geralt seems to hover somewhere in the toddler years, probably at around four if they had to pick an exact age. They also start to learn a lot more about his preferences—this is not to say that they did not know any of them beforehand, but that Geralt is what some might call a picky kid. He needs his things a certain way, or he gets very upset! Things like having a schedule are important to how he functions, and while big Geralt can usually brush aside any deviations from what is expected of his day with annoyance, little Geralt struggles to deal with any major deviations. Accommodations are made accordingly however! Eskel sits down with Vesemir and Lambert so that the three of them can come up with a schedule that not only keeps Geralt happy, but also one that keeps them happy as as well. Mornings he spends with Eskel, tending to the animals. Afternoons are spent with Vesemir, helping sort Kaer Morhen's bestiaries before taking a nap (along with the older witcher, who also needs a midday nap). Evenings he spends with Lambert, toddling after him as he takes stock of their supplies and preparing things for the following day. But Geralt always goes with Eskel when it's bedtime. He just can't sleep through the night without his big brother there to keep away all the bad dreams and scary monsters!

The normality that his regression brings is perhaps the most unexpected thing about the whole affair. The winters at Kaer Morhen were already something softer than what the rest of their lives often entailed, but Geralt finds that his regression makes the season spent there almost...domestic. Without the usual pressures bearing down on them all, with his regression stripping away the need to tiptoe around certain sentiments, they can exist almost like a normal family if only for a time. And it's nice, to pretend. Pretend that this was what life was always like, that he had had a childhood not filled with training and mutations. Most people might say that childhood is the spring of their lives, but for Geralt it couldn't be any more different. Winter is filled with short days and long nights, which bring the soothing crackle of the wood in the fireplace. The smell of burning pine coiling around him, the ever-present heat it gives off permeating the space and seeping into his body and with it bringing peace along with its warmth. It felt much like his regression did—safe and familiar, soothing in a way that it had been for all of those who seek the "fire's" comfort. But the fire brings other creature comforts too. The long nights aren't lonely, quite the opposite; nights are spent keeping the fire company, filled with story and song, filling stews, the reassurance of curling into his brother's side, and the soothing touch of his father's hand as he smooths back his hair. The fire and his regression were one in the same, keeping the coldness of the world at bay. And Geralt could stay like that forever if only he did not have spring on the horizon.

Leaving in the spring is difficult. As the snow starts to thaw and melt away, so does the soothing haze of regression that has been all-encompassing for many weeks. But Geralt comes back up with a new clarity to his thoughts and with the burdens he shoulders feeling noticeably lighter. Setting out on the Path again is hard for him, but perhaps harder still for Eskel. How can he be expected to let his baby brother go out into the world to hunt monsters when a few nights ago he was afraid there might be one under the bed? But it has to be done. While they are apart and fall back into the witcher lifestyle, there are small indulgences made throughout the year. Eskel, in his travels, manages to acquire what he's certain will become treasured items: two books containing children's stories and a carefully stitched plush horse from a toy maker in Novigrad. It might have cost the entire bounty he was rewarded for slaying a cockatrice, but it will be well-worth the coin the next time he sees his brother. And for his part, Geralt slowly allows himself a few quiet nights where he middlespaces between hunts. His biology might not allow him to regress fully until he's bedded down someplace deemed safe with someone he can trust according to some instinctual part of his brain, but he can at least alleviate some of the need to be small and lessen the stress. It's small things, like allowing himself to spend some of his hard earned coin on any sweets that the inn he's holed up in may have on offer, or actually taking the time to find a warm bath house as opposed to just washing off in a cold river. The coming year may present him with many new challenges and struggles, but Geralt knows that at the end of it all rest awaits him—on the days where his regression threatens to overtake him, he can take comfort in knowing that his family is waiting for him come winter.

#sfw agere #the witcher #the witcher agere #geralt of rivia #agere geralt #eskel #agere eskel #moons hcs

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

2, 14, 28, ship of your choice!

2. “My head keeps spinning—oh wait, it might actually be my feet.”

14. “It burns!”

28. “I’m so tired.”

Here's some fluffy, vaguely post-season 2, vaguely alternate timeline where everyone is happy and alive at Kaer Morhen Geraskefer! CW for a very drunk (but happily so) bard.

There aren’t many quiet nights to be had at Kaer Morhen, what with the half dozen witchers, two sorceresses, a tiny menace of a former princess, and a larger menace of a bard inhabiting it this winter. But tonight, Yennefer is determined to have one. She has a book she borrowed from Eskel, which is turning out to be a mildly amusing adventure story. She has a bottle of wine Vesemir was kind enough to dig out of storage for her, which will taste decent if she drinks enough of it. She has a crackling hearth, a warm blanket, and a comfortable chair.

It’s the closest thing to peace and quiet she’s experienced in quite a while.

Until she hears the sound of loud, obnoxious singing in the hallway. Yennefer takes note of what page she’s on and sets down the book, just as the door flies open and Jaskier comes stumbling into the room, arms spread wide. “Yennefer, darling! I’ve missed you so!”

His face is flushed, his doublet is in disarray, and his eyes are glassy. Yennefer looks between him and Geralt, who is holding onto the back of Jaskier's doublet to keep him upright. “What did you let him get into now?”

Geralt looks aggrieved. “What makes you think I let him do anything?”

“He left me unattended with Lambert,” Jaskier says proudly.

"I take it Lambert gave you White Gull?" Yennefer asks, glaring at Geralt.

“He did!” Jaskier looks very pleased, like this is some grand achievement of his.

The amount of things that Jaskier has put in his mouth after explicitly being told that they might kill him will never fail to amaze Yennefer. She spares a thought to his poor parents who had to ensure that he survived toddlerhood. “If you die, bardling, it better not be in here.”

“He’s not going to die.” Geralt guides him to sit on the edge of Yennefer’s bed. “He just had a sip.”

Jaskier giggles and leans against Geralt’s side. “My head keeps spinning—oh, wait, it’s my feet! Geralt, why are my feet spinning? Is this some more interdimensional bullshit? Because if it is, I need another drink.”

“No, you don’t,” Geralt and Yennefer say at the same time.

“What are you doing here?” Yennefer adds, turning her attention to Geralt, since she doesn’t expect sensible conversation from Jaskier.

“He missed you.” Geralt tries and fails not to let his lips twitch.

“I wanted to say goodnight to my favorite witch.” Jaskier attempts to bat his eyelashes at her, which ends up looking like he has something in his eye. “And once I said goodnight to Triss, I figured you were right down the hall.”

Geralt and Yennefer exchange eye rolls as Jaskier chortles at his own cleverness.

Yennefer waits until the bard has stopped giggling before she says, “I’m always happy to see my favorite bard.”

“Aww, Yennefer.” His eyes go soft.

“I should portal to Cidaris to see Valdo tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s squawk echoes off the high stone ceiling of Yennefer’s bedchamber. He clutches his hands to his chest like he’s been hit by an arrow. “Spurned by the woman I love! The betrayal, it burns! Geralt, I’m distraught. Hold me.” He throws himself sideways, but misses Geralt entirely and nearly falls off the bed. Only Geralt’s witcher fast reflexes stop him from cracking his head open on the floor.

Geralt pulls Jaskier safely into his lap, peering around him at Yennefer. “Do you have anything to help him sober up? Otherwise, he’ll be hungover for days.”

“I don’t know.” Yennefer tries to look annoyed, but she can’t quite hide her amusement. “Then he won’t learn a lesson. Anyway, if he’s hungover, he’ll sleep all day. Think of how quiet it will be.”

Jaskier, who is busy nuzzling at Geralt’s shoulders, doesn’t seem to hear her.

“You’ve never seen him hungover,” Geralt says with the expression of a man reliving untold horrors. “It’s mostly whining and puking.”

“Fine.” With a put upon sigh, Yennefer crosses to the table where she keeps an assortment of potions. “Here.” She tosses a bottle to Geralt, who catches it deftly. “I brewed this to give to you if you take too many potions, but it should work well enough for a bard who can’t hold his liquor.”

Geralt uncorks it with his teeth and offers it to Jaskier, who leaves off trying to crane his neck so he can nuzzle the witcher’s pectorals long enough to obligingly take a sip.

“Blegh.” Jaskier makes a face. “I liked the White Gull better.”

“Tough shit.” Geralt presses a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “You’re never getting a sip of White Gull again.”

Jaskier makes a whining noise, sagging back against Geralt. “I’m so tired.”

Yennefer loves this ridiculous man so much and she has absolutely no idea why. That being said, she's more than ready to get back to her quiet, peaceful evening. She crosses the room to press a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, bardling.” She leans around him to brush her lips over Geralt’s. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt knows a dismissal when he hears one, so he turns his head to press a kiss to her wrist before he stands, scooping Jaskier up in his arms. “Come on, let’s get you to bed so Yenn can get back to her book.”

“Geralt, you cad.” Jaskier grins up at Geralt in what he clearly thinks in a rakish manner. “Carrying me off to ravish me?”

“You just said you were tired.”

“I’m never too tired to be ravished.”

“You’re going to be asleep by the time we get back to our room.”

“Am not!”

Yennefer watches them go, flicking her hand to close the door behind them. With a shake of her head, she settles herself back in her comfortable chair in front of the fire, takes a sip of wine, and picks her book back up.

A minute later, she hears Jaskier’s snoring from all the way down the hall.

***

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #geraskefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #ghost's writing #prompt fills

[ohgodsalazarwhy]

Another snippet from the Lambert fic

------------

The grip on his neck relaxed a little, a flash of uncertainty crossing Eskel's face before it went back to scowling. “What's going on with you, Lambert?”

“Gods you really don't get it,” Lambert breathed, sagging in Eskel's grip, even if it put more pressure on his throat. “This place makes you happy doesn't it? Makes you feel safe?”

Now Eskel was clearly confused. Worried. His expression was laid bare and Lambert savored that. He so rarely showed what he was feeling. Eskel was a good boy who hid he had feelings at all. He was a proper witcher, not broken like Lambert. He didn't respond for so long that Lambert thought he wouldn't, he was about to wrench free when Eskel asked quietly, “What does it make you feel?”

“Trapped,” Lambert grit out, dragging the honesty out of him like a man desperately trying to suck venom from a bite. “Sick. Broken. Tortured. Take your pick.” There was such pleasure and agony in saying it out loud, in telling Eskel of all people. Some sick part of him wanted Eskel to look down at him, to see how fucked up he was and hate him for it. Another part cowered like a child, fearing the lash.

Eskel's touch was painfully gentle as he moved his hand from Lambert's throat to his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. He didn't say anything, he just brushed his calloused thumb back and forth under Lambert's eye as he stared at him. There was no pity in his gaze, that might have pushed Lambert over the edge, but instead he saw understanding bloom on Eskel's face. Lambert had to avert his eyes, it was like looking directly at the sun.

He said nothing, just slowly guided Lambert with the hand on his cheek to the chair he'd been sitting in. It was still warm from his body heat when Lambert nearly fell into it. “What-” he grumbled but Eskel shook his head. Lambert fell silent like he'd been put under a spell.

Slowly Eskel sank to his knees before him. Lambert's heart nearly jumped out of his chest when Eskel's hands slid up to his lap, but they took his hands and clasped them together in the warmth of Eskel's own. He swallowed his heart back down, too tired to feel disappointment. “Try to get some sleep, I'm right here,” Eskel said, his voice as soft as the rolling of distant thunder. “I won't go anywhere.”

“It's not going to make a fucking difference,” Lambert growled, even as the warmth from Eskel's hands seemed to travel up his arms and into his chest.

“Just try, just close your eyes,” Eskel said.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled, even as he obeyed. Lambert let his head fall back against the plush back of the chair. Had this chair always been this comfortable? Had it always felt like it enveloped him like clouds until he was sinking down down down.... Eskel's hands, their warmth and pressure, kept him strangely grounded even as he began to float away.

It was the middle of the day when Lambert opened his eyes again. Pale winter light was coming through the high library windows. A fire crackled in the hearth, and kneeling on the floor, right where he'd been before, was Eskel with Lambert's hands held firmly between his own. He was clearly meditating because the moment Lambert shifted his eyes snapped open, fully alert and awake.

Lambert didn't know what to say, if he hadn't needed that so bad he might have been miffed at Eskel being right. Eskel grinned, his golden eyes wrinkling up at the corners. “You look half as ugly already.”

#Lambert #Witcher Lambert #Eskel #Lambskel

[eskelsgirl]

What a lovely way to burn

Teaser Main pairing: Geralt/Jaskier, Eskel/Original Female character, Side pairings: Lambert/Aiden Tags: Liberties with Lore, canon what canon? Enemies to lovers -sort of kind of? post mountain break up, Nilfgaard is after Jaskier again, after barely escaping with his life and a mysterious companion Jaskier must find a way to Kaer Morhen to warn Geralt and his child surprise.

The tavern was packed, townsfolk coming in from the cold to enjoy a drink, hoping to warm themselves against the harsh weather. A man hid in the corner of the tavern, the hood of his cloak drawn up, covering his stolen clothes. He had to abandon his fancier clothes, which were stained with blood, a mix of his own and others. A plate of meager food was already scarfed down, and the man counted out the last of his coin. He needed more food, but he also needed to get out of Redanina. He was close to the Kaedwen border and needed more coins to achieve his goal. Cornflower blue eyes searched the room. His companion had left him some time ago looking for supplies and perhaps a guide. Just as the thought ‘she’s abdomen me’ comes across his mind, a woman joins him at his table. His companion.

“You need to sing,” she tells him in a hushed tone. The hood of her stolen cloak was down, and her long brown hair was revealed. “I can’t,” the man replies in a pained voice as if saying those few words had burned him. If I sing, they will know.” The woman reaches across the table, gently laying her hand atop his. “Jas- Julien, we need the coin. We will never pass the border without it, and the longer we stay, the more danger we will be in.” “Like you said, we are nearing winter. The townspeople have no coin to give.” Julien argues that, and yes, he did try to steal more than clothes from these people. He tries to stand up, but the woman’s grasp keeps him there; her delicate hand brushes his scared fingertips. “Kass, I can’t.” “Trust me,” Kass whispers and the ache in his hands lessens enough for him to play a song, maybe two, on the lute. “One song is all we will need.” With dread and understanding that his companion was right, Julien stands up, leaving the cloak with her, and grabs the lute. It’s not his lute, not the one Filavandrel gave him all those years ago. He waits for a lull in the crowd, a moment of near quiet to grab their attention. He doesn’t look like a bard anymore; he couldn’t rely on flash clothes or gimmicks for this one song. So, he had to pull deep to get what they needed. “I hear you alive,” He says in a raspy voice; he wrote it after the mountain and can’t help the memories that come with this song. “How disappointing

I've also survived, no thanks to you

Did I not bring you some glee

Mister, oh, look at me Now, I'll burn all the memories of you.”

While the man sang, his companion worked her magic, not enough to weaken Julien further but enough to keep the people generous. It helped that he was talented, to begin with, and the people were in desperate need of a distraction. Julien worked for the crowd, bringing them in with the chorus, and soon, coins were flying.

The woman tried not to connect with Julien during the song. She saw the emotion on his face; not even his facade could deceive her; they were too close. The sorrow the bard felt was too much, and while the song was not presented as a ‘sad’ song, Kass knew the truth. She knew how deeply the bard felt about his witcher.

Kass was right; one song was all they needed. It wasn’t much coin for two people to split, but Julien was used to less; he could make it stretch. Julien felt weak and lightheaded after his play. He felt a sharp pain on his side, and one of his wounds reopened. He didn’t remember doing anything too strenuous during his performance, so maybe Kass’s healing magic wasn’t as strong as they thought.

Julien stumbled back to the table, hand pressed on the wounded side. Thankfully, there was no blood, but it felt like there should be. Kass was at his side, throwing the cloak back over him and ushering him out of the tavern, their coin purses now heavier.

The nilfgaard horse they had also stolen was still there, and no stable hand in sight. The stall was not an ideal place to perform magic, and Kass had already spent too much energy on the brief healing she performed on Julien’s hands. But she feared internal bleeding.

#geraskier #witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #Eskel #Witcher Eskel #Eskel x oc #geralt x jaskier

[bethdutten]

something sweet

Eskel x princess!reader

Part 1

An arranged marriage between the Witchers and a princess seemed cruel to Eskel-- especially if he was the one she had to marry.

notes: ok I got off track with my other stuff but anyways here have insecure eskel being adorable and perfect. part 2 will be smut!

I’m so sorry.

Those words echoed in Eskel’s mind all night as he stole glances of you out of the corner of his eye. The music was jovial and loud, family and friends and nobles laughing the night away and dancing filling every corner of the castle. It should have been a joyous night—a wedding that permanently forged an alliance between two of the strongest families.

Except Eskel was the one you had to marry, and he was only too well aware of how this was only the beginning of your nightmare.

Tomorrow, you’d go with him and his brothers back to Kaer Morhen, locked away for the rest of your life, a princess trapped by her dragon.

I’m so sorry.

You took a sip of your wine, letting out a sigh quiet enough that only he could hear above all the noise. You were radiant today— an angel, glowing and so far above him it almost seemed a crime that he was the one who got to have you. Even if it wasn’t real.

At the ceremony, your hands were so small in his, soft and gentle in a way his could never be, try as he might. He couldn’t look at you as he repeated the words of the priest, not wanting to see the fear or, gods forbid, the disgust, in your eyes. He was adamant he stood in the right side of the altar, despite breaking tradition, so he could face the priest the entire time and spare you a glance as his scarred face.

When it came time to exchange the rings and seal the partnership with a kiss, he was surprised to find his hands were the only ones shaking. You must have been resigned to your fate—no longer fighting, but accepting of the losing hand you had been dealt.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Eskel hesitated to turn to you, not ready to give you a full and terrifying look at what you had just been chained to for life—

You reached up with your left hand, new wedding ring glinting off the candle light, cupping his face with the softest touch he has ever, in his entire life, felt. You guided him to look at you, palm resting over the scars that made most humans ill, and leaned up to kiss him. Your lips were warm and gentle, only pressed against his for a moment, but your thumb brushed against the notch at the corner and he had to suppress a shudder before you dropped your hand and gave him what could almost be described as a coy smile before you turned back to the priest.

You were too good for him. Too good for anyone. And as he glared over at Geralt and Lambert, who were luckily spared from most of the human interaction and huddled in a dark corner, he once again wondered what he could do to make it up to you. To make your life a little less miserable than it would inevitably be, being married to a monsterous witcher.

“Are you alright?”

Eskel startled, turning to you. You had a look of concern on your face, and he had to stop himself from making a very undignified noise when your hand came out to rest on his thigh.

“Uh— yes, I j-just, uh— no. No, no I’m fine.” Gods, he couldn’t even speak around you. Thank Melitele for little mercies, that today was the first time you met and you didn’t know how much of an ugly, intimidating, stupid mess he was before, or you would have definitely refused this coupling.

You still looked worried, no doubt by the fact he couldn’t get a complete sentence out. But you finally nodded, retracting your hand and Eskel had to hold back a whimper at losing a caring touch once again. It was the first time he was getting consistent and gentle attention, and he was already drunk on it after a few hours.

“Well, let me know if you need to get out of here. I wouldn’t mind escaping, either.”

Eskel’s heart dropped, although he really shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone wants to escape him. Why would his own wife be any different? He nodded, throwing one more glance at his brothers. “I could leave, yes.”

“Oh, good,” you breathed a sigh of relief, finishing the last gulp of your wine then standing. Eskel tried not to let his hurt show, but it must have been clear. Your face was etched in worry, and you only had to lean down slightly to press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Maybe you just need some rest… shall we retire to our quarters for the night?”

Eskel felt his mouth drop open in disbelief, but he quickly shook out of it, clearing his throat. Our quarters? Surely, you didn’t—

“That—that sounds lovely, princess.”

You gave him a look, looping your arm around his as he stood and tugging him along away from the crowd. “You don’t need to call me that, we’re married, I hope that puts us on equal status now.”

Swallowing, Eskel nodded, the warmth from your hand on his bicep even through his jacket making him shiver. “What should I call you then?”

You snorted, leaning against his side more heavily. “Hmm. My name, maybe? Or something sweet, whatever you’d like.”

“Sweet…heart?” Eskel felt dumb just saying it out loud, but all the blood that should be going to his brain was being dispersed other places and he couldn’t say he was at full mental capacity right now.

You laughed, and the sound made his heart clench. “Yes, I would like that very much, my love.”

Oh no, Eskel though. I’m fucked.

—-

The quarters held a large bed, with enough room to fit three witchers, and little else. It was clearly a honeymoon suite of a sort, but if Eskel could blush, he would.

You began pulling out pins from your hair the moment you closed the door, groaning as the elegant hairstyle you’d had done for the ceremony unraveled. You glanced shyly over your shoulder at where Eskel was left standing awkwardly by the doors. “Do you think you could…?”

Eskel moved forward, nodding, willing to do anything you asked of him. You reached behind and tugged at the ties for your dress. He got the hint— carefully pulling the string from its loops, slowly loosening your dress until you let out a breath.

“Finally,” you said, then proceeded to let your wedding dress drop unceremoniously to the floor and Eskel thinks he may have actually died during that last griffin fight, and by some miracle he was in heaven instead of hell.

“The hooks are harder,” you murmured, backing up a little more towards him until he got the hint. With shaky hands, Eskel undid your bodice, the silky chemise underneath being revealed more and more as he went.

When he was finished, he had just enough blood supply to his brain to quickly turn as you dropped that too to the the floor, giving you some privacy as you changed from your wedding dress undergarments to your sleep clothes. He heard the rustle of bedding, thinking it was finally safe to turn, and was met with a sight that would have taken any man out at the knees.

You were draped on the bed artfully, a see-through robe hanging off your shoulders with the blankets pulled back and only a small section of the sheets covering your legs. Your lingerie was red, almost the exact same shade as the jacket Eskel wore on the Path, and left little to the imagination.

Mouth dry and cock suddenly harder than the steel of his swords, Eskel asked, “What… what are you doing?”

The seductive and almost—hopeful?— expression on your face faltered, but you just shifted slightly on the bed, the robe slipping down further. “I’m waiting for my husband to come to bed on our wedding night.”

You… what? Eskel was not prepared for this. He in no way expected to even be ever sharing a room with his wife, let alone sleep in the same bed with her, sleep with her—

“You know I can’t— I can’t… can’t give you children, right?” Eskel gritted out, loath to explain that if you were doing this because you thought this marriage was to combine bloodlines and solidify the alliance with children, that would never be a possibility.

You frowned, self-consciously tugging the sheet further up your body now. You’d expected Eskel to already be on you, not arguing his way out of this. “I know. That was explained to me. I just— I thought you’d want to…”

He saw the moment you recognized your mistake, dawning in your eyes. You hurriedly tugged the robe tightly around your body, although it did little to hide much. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed, I—“

“No!” Eskel didn’t want to see you in distress, at least not like this. Not when he could avoid it. Having you scared and repulsed to be with a witcher, that is what he was prepared for. Not his beautiful, perfect, gentle wife throwing herself at him and thinking she was being rejected. “No, that’s not—“ He nervously scratched at his scars, trying to think with his head and not his cock here. Did you think you had to do this? Did you really look at him, and feel attracted to that? He couldn’t be so lucky.

He glanced at you, making yourself smaller on the bed as you tugged a pillow to your chest, covering more of your body. He swallowed, his own lust clouding his thoughts, but he wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t force himself on to you, ever. Just because you were his wife, didn’t mean he was entitled to anything.

Slowly approaching the bed, he gave you time to refuse him before he sat down on the edge by your side, anxiously plucking at a stray thread in the blanket before he glanced up to meet your eyes. He wanted you to see him up close— inhuman eyes, scarred face, size even other witchers hesitate to get near. He didn’t want to frighten you, body language vulnerable and open.

“Sweetheart.” It sounded strange coming out of his mouth, but not unwelcome. You peeked up at his, cheeks colouring slightly, and he thinks he could get used to that. “I need you to… tell me. What you want. Tonight, or any night. I need to… hear you say it. Because I don’t want to read something wrong, and make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

You frowned, your grip on the sheet loosening slightly. “Oh. You just— you just prefer me to tell you want I want?”

Eskel nodded, licking his lips. “Witchers may not be human, but we’re not mages, either. I can’t read minds.”

There was a pause, and then you snorted, tossing your pillow at him. “You idiot, I want you. I’ll tell you however often you need. Gods, Eskel, I thought I made that very clear.” You gestured to your lack of clothing, and Eskel cracked a smile despite himself, the words repeating in his head.

I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded, giving him a look he’d never seen before, then you leaned back against the headboard and slowly parted your legs wide. Your panties were lace, and when you reached down and tucked a finger in the gusset between your thighs to pull the fabric to the side, evidence of your arousal clung to the small amount of fabric, clear and sticky,

“Maybe you need to see, too.”

Maybe Eskel isn’t so sorry after all.

#eskel #eskel imagine #eskel x reader #eskel smut #eskel fic #Witcher fic #netflix!eskel x reader #game!eskel x reader #a little bit of both but mainly game eskel honestly

[kueble]

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

---

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

[bonniebird]

Jaskier x Reader

Requested by anon​

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Jaskier smiled as he saw you in the crowd. He was performing with a few local musicians who, upon finding out that he had come to town with Geralt, had asked him to join them at the tavern.

It had been so long since he had last seen you. He thought about you often and if he was honest the reason he had run into Geralt a few months ago was that he had followed a rumour that you were in a nearby town. Unfortunately what he was following was a beast that Geralt was after, a shapeshifter that had taken on a form similar to yours.

As his performance ended and everyone slowly flowed out of the tavern into the night, Jaskier made his way over to you.

“(Y/N). Where have you been?” He asked. You smiled and hurried to hug him before he answered. From his seat across the tavern, waiting for Jaskier, Geralt watched the embrace. It looked as if you’d knocked all of the air out of Jaskier.

“Everywhere!” You gasped and pulled his hand. He let you guide him to the table with Geralt and the rest of the night was spent with you relaying fanciful adventures, some of which Geralt knew for a fact were exaggerated for Jaskier’s benefit. Especially one of your stories about Yennifer capturing a werewolf with magic and banishing it after it spent several full moons stalking you. He’d been requested to deal with it when it broke free.

“It was the size of five Roaches!” You finished your last story with exaggerated bravado. 

“That’s incredible! And you got away by yourself?” Jaskier asked, scribbling quickly at the paper on the table in front of him. Geralt looked up at the ceiling and focused on the rafters so as to not point out that Eskel he found that very creature and it had been no taller than you. Still larger. Just not as massive as you were describing.

The night slipped slowly away into the early morning and Jaskier had pulled all of the tales he could from you. Geralt had dozed off and woke slowly as you suddenly got up. 

“Well! I should get going. If I make it to the next town over by noon I’ve been promised work for the week. That’ll pay enough to get to Sabrina. I promised I would help her.” You smiled and got up, waving at them as you left. 

“It always empties my heart when we bump into (Y/N) and they have to leave.” Jaskier said wistfully as he leaned out of his seat to watch you vanish out of the tavern doors. "Only love could hurt like this."

“It always empties my pockets of coin. (Y/N) never pays for what they drink.” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier tags:

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#jaskier x reader #jaskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #bonniebird

[starfirewildheart]

The Wolf and the Flame

Chapter 4

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 2,992

Chapter 4

Naurel got out of bed as soon as she was positive that Ciri and the others in the next room were asleep. She sat down by the fire in the small fireplace to warm her freezing body. Thoughts and emotions battled in her head and heart until she wanted to scream for them to stop. Should she tell Geralt she wanted to be left here? Run for it and not say anything? That wasn’t an option really because Geralt kept saying they were connected in some way and he needed to understand why. The sky was starting to lighten just before the sunrise by the time she’d made her choice. She’d heard Geralt yelling then storm out slamming the door shortly after she had gone into Ciri’s room and hadn’t heard him come back. If she was lucky she would be able to slip out unnoticed.

She made it out of the Inn without incident only because the witcher was still gone. Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding she headed to take care of some business. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when she had completed her deeds. “Thank you for letting me ride you,” she said softly to the paint horse whose reins she gripped in her right hand. Roach and Ciri’s gray mare Lady were both on her left, leads being held together. She smiled when Roach nudged her with her nose as if to say ‘good job’ for talking to her new mount. “I’m not a good rider. I’ve never ridden without Geralt,” she admitted. “I’m still not physically healed but I promise to do the best I can and to get you treats whenever possible.” They had arrived at the Inn and she latched Lady and Roach’s reins to the hitching post before turning to her horse and trying to get in the saddle. It caused her too much pain to try and lift her weight into the stirrup and it also made her angry at herself for not healing faster. Damn her body and her weakness. How was she going to do this without help because if Geralt knew she was still hurting this badly he’d insist she ride with him so he could protect her and she wasn’t about to take his attention from his mate so soon after their reuniting.

Biting her bottom lip she looked around for something to help when her eyes settled on the building across the street with a raised porch. Guiding her horse over she positioned her so that she was sideways next to the wooden structure then climbed the steps and approached the horse that way. She didn’t have to lift herself off the ground but throwing her leg over took her breath for a moment. Her horse wickered and huffed but stayed still. “Good girl,” she praised and scratched her neck. “Now let's try this whole moving thing huh?” Naurel clicked her tongue and gave the mare's sides a small tap. “Oh gods!” she softly squealed as they started moving. Deciding it would be good to experiment now instead of in front of everyone she pulled the reins to the left then to the right and was quite proud of herself when a sudden voice nearly caused her to fall.

“Where do you think you're going?” Geralt demanded as he grabbed hold of the halter on her horse. He was pissed that she was leaving but he’d suspected it would happen after last night. Yennefer and Jaskier both promised to keep an eye out for her until he returned. Looks like they did a magnificent job.

“Nowhere,” her voice was soft but sure. “I mean I did go somewhere earlier but now I’m here.” His look was anything but impressed or amused so her forced smile faltered but she continued. “It’s going to be snowing soon so I got a warm cloak and boots and now that we have new companions I figured I should have my own horse. I know roach is special but I don’t think even she can carry three for long.” His eyes never left her like he was searching for the least bit of dishonesty.

“We need to talk about last night.”

She shook her head and held her smile. “No, Geralt, you have nothing to explain. Ciri told me how you thought Yennefer died at Sodden. How you searched for her until the witch told you she died. How sad you were at the news. You did nothing wrong.” It was me who fucked up, she said to herself.

“No,” he growled and put his hand on her thigh. “Naurel, I care for you. I’ve never felt the way I have since I found you.”

Her heart thundered in her chest and she knew he could hear it. A tear slipped down her cheek as she reached out to cup his jaw  in her hand. “I know whatever it is that was done to me, whatever magic that is on me is drawing us together. I promise you that I’m not running Geralt. I told you I’d go with you to Kaer Morhen to see if anyone could help and I will keep my word. Hopefully Vesimer or one of your sorceress friends can figure out how to fix me and you can have your life back.”

He knew the hurt was deep for her because it was just as bad for him so he didn’t push. At least he had her promise that she wouldn’t run. He turned his head, placing a soft kiss on her palm. “You’re wrong about my feelings Naurel but I’ll take what little hope you can give me for now. I don’t like you riding your own horse, you are still too weak and I’m afraid your wounds will open up again.”

Before she could protest the door of the Inn opened and their other companions came running out. Jaskier looked relieved to see Naurel safe. “I’m sorry, it was Yennefer’s watch,” he explained to Geralt.

Ciri handed Geralt his things as she breathed a sigh of relief at seeing Naurel. When she woke up and her friend was gone it made her heart ache. She climbed up on Lady and prepared herself for another long day in the saddle.

“Can I ride with you?” Jaskier asked Ciri. “Geralt won’t let me ride with him,” he shot the witcher a look.

Ciri chuckled, “Sure as long as Lady is agreeable.” Jaskier jumped up behind her and Lady didn’t protest.

Yennefer came to stand beside Geralt between Roach and Naurel’s horse. She touched the red head’s leg while giving her a look of mock sympathy. Naurel spurred her horse forward and rode away from them. Geralt sighed and shook his head at Yennefer. “What the fuck are you playing at Yen?”

“I feel asleep. I was tried. It worked out because she’s fine,” Yen explained.

He glared at Yen but spoke to the redhead. “Naurel,” he called out a warning, his tone stern.

She turned the horse back and rode toward him slowing as she passed. “Never out of sight. I remember your rules witcher. I’m just trying to get a feel for my horse.”

“Go that way,” he pointed to the north. “I need to pay the farrier then we will head out.”

“I paid him when I bought the horse from him this morning,” she told him, then rode off northbound before he could question her.

They rode till late afternoon mostly listening to the bard tell stories about his adventures with Geralt and Yennifer and the occasional song here and there pretending there wasn’t an uneasy tension in the air. Naurel was pretty sure that her head was going to explode. Geralt had reluctantly let Yennefer ride behind him and they rode beside Naurel most of the time, the witcher' eyes always watching her even though she’d assured him she was fine.

Naurel was trying to focus on the road ahead instead of the pain or the way Geralt’s eyes never left her when she noticed Ciri ride around to the other side of her effectively pinning her between them. She wondered if her riding was that bad because she thought she was doing well for her first time alone.

“Where did you get the money for the horse,” Yennefer asked, trying to distract Geralt. She bit back a smile when she caught Naurel’s glare but pushed on. “I mean Ciri told us how they found you near death with nothing. Or were you hiding your wealth from them?” she asked accusingly.

“I would never do that,” Naurel growled angrily. “I can be accused of a lot of things witch but being a thief or a whore are not one of them.” She knew Yennefer was insinuating she’d whored herself out for money and it provoked a rage in her that she didn’t like. The most severe beatings she received in her life were because she’d run from slavers or owners when they tried to force her into the sex trade. “I sold my necklace to the innkeeper. I had asked him if there was a jeweler in town and he asked to buy the locket himself for his wife.”

“You sold your locket? Why?” Geralt was angry and confused.

Naurel shrugged. “It was just a locket. I’ve had it since I was three and it wasn’t doing anyone any good hidden away.”

“But it was your only tie to your past,” he sighed. “To help you find who your family was.”

“It was a stupid dream. I was orphaned either by choice or necessity. I’ve been nothing since I was three. I'm sure that’s not going to suddenly change because of a small piece of gold. Besides, it just made me more vulnerable if someone were to attack. Now I have nothing worth their time or attentions.”

“So you were just a slave girl?” Yen asked, intrested in the woman's past and where she was from.

“Yennefer,” Great growled in warning.

Naurel shook her head but forced a smile. “Yes, I was just a lowly slave. I have no worth, no fortune, no talent, no usefulness really but I guess destiny wasn’t done with me yet.

“Destiny is for frightened people who can’t think for themselves. You make your own lot in life, your own choices that lead you where you end up. That is one thing Geralt and I agree on wholeheartedly. Fuck destiny.”

She thought about it for a moment and realized that Yen was likely right. If she had been stronger or better at something or just been a different person she would have likely been a different person in a different place. If she’d just given in to the demands of the guards maybe she wouldn’t be here now. She frowned when she felt Geralt’s hand on her left arm and Jaskier’s on her right.

“It’s time to stop for the night. Yennefer get down, Jaskier, hold her,” Geralt inclined his head toward Naurel.

Naurel frowned as Ciri reached out and took the reins from her. “What are you doing? I don’t need anyone to hold me. Why are we stopping?” She hissed when Geralt pulled her down into his arms. “Put me down.”

“No. You are wavering in the saddle barely able to hold yourself up. The fact that you don’t realize it tells me just how bad it is.” He sat her down on the blanket Ciri laid out for them then sat behind her. He opened his kit then started to undo the back of her dress to check her wounds.

“How can I help?” Jaskier asked as he knelt beside them.

Geralt frowned at the blood soaking the bandages on her back. “Bring one of the water skins,” he told his friend.

Jaskier grabbed the waterskin Yennefer was getting ready to drink from and took it to Geralt. He knelt over one of the witcher's legs just in time to catch Naurel as she fell forward, too weak to hold herself up anymore. “Easy,” he soothed as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“I’m ok. We can keep going,” she insisted even though she was losing the battle to stay upright.

“Yennefer, start gathering wood for a fire. Ciri, start setting up so we can heat some water,” Geralt ordered. His anger was getting the best of him. He didn’t understand why Yennefer was acting this way. He just knew he had to get her out of his sight for a few minutes or he was going to snap.

“Bossy witcher,” Yennefer sighed but went to gather wood.

“That’s bad Geralt,” Jaskier said as he looked at Naurel’s back. “I thought Triss healed her.”

“She did heal the worst of it.” He shared a concerned look with the bard and focused on his task. Once he’d examined every injury including her hip and leg he laid her back on the blanket with his cloak folded under her head then went to the fire to start mixing herbs into a tea to help with the infection.

The sun had long set and the stars were shining above the trees. Everyone was gathered around the fire eating some cured pork that they had gotten on their stop in town. Naurel groaned when Geralt lifted her upper body and sat behind her again. As much as she didn’t want to she couldn’t help but lean bodily into him for his comfort and warmth. “Drink this,” he said as he held the cup to her lips.

She took a sip and started coughing. “By the God’s it tastes like a frog's ass,” she sputtered.

Everyone laughed, even Geralt, which shocked the hell out of Jaskier. He’d never even seen the witcher smile. “Drink,” Geralt chuckled.

“No,” Naurel shook her head. A low rumble in his chest and a commanding “Drink,” made Naurel shiver and comply. How the hell did he do that?

“Um,” Jaskier spoke up, “How do you know what a frog’s ass tastes like?”

This time Naurel choked from laughing. “I don’t but it’s low to the ground, wet and slimy and covered in dirt so I assumed.”

Geralt put the cup aside when it was empty then ran his hands over her arms. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s the ice in my heart,” she teased and she could feel him shake his head. After a moment she got to her feet.

“Where are you going?” he stood with her.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she told him. He took her arm to guide her. “Umm, no. You are not going with me to pee.”

 

“You are not going out there unprotected,” he argued.

She reached out and pulled the dagger from the belt on his side. “Now I’m protected. If I need you then you will reach me quickly, you're a witcher.” She walked past Ciri who was about to stand, “You aren’t going with me either princess. There are some things a lady needs to do alone.” She heard Geralt’s displeased growl as she walked away from the fire and knew he didn’t like it but he stayed put.

She went a bit farther than she intended but something seemed to be watching out for her because she found what she was looking for. There was a large willow tree and the withered husks of carvacrol plants near a small stream. The water had mostly iced over but still trickled in places. The weather had already caused the willow sap to draw back deep into the tree and the plants were long dead but she needed them if she had any hope of hiding her pain from her companions. Kneeling before the tree she took Geralt’s dagger, sliced across her left palm, and allowed the blood to drip on the tree and the plants below. “ I call upon Sylvestris deus, keeper of the forest. I take only what I need and will heal your tree after. Please allow me this,” she pleaded. She felt when energy left her body and went into the tree and flowers. It was energy she really couldn’t spare but she convinced herself it would be ok. The tree bark brightened and the flowers below bloomed purple. Carefully she harvested them, cutting the bark into small pieces and putting it all into a pouch that she had in her cloak before rubbing her still bleeding hand over the wounded tree and watching as it knitted back new, fresh bark. She quickly washed her hand and the dagger in the stream knowing she’d been gone too long. Geralt was going to kill her. Sure enough, when she was halfway back he was searching for her and he wasn’t happy. She held her hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I don’t move as fast as I should right now. It took longer than I intended.”

He was relieved she was ok so he let it go this time. “I’m just glad you are safe,” he pulled her to him and hugged her.

“Geralt, I won't do anything stupid. You don’t have to focus so much of your attention on me. I know you have other responsibilities.” She hated worrying him so much and was afraid that his attention would be focused on her and something would happen to Ciri.

“You aren’t a responsibility,” he told her as he leaned in and kissed the top of her head before he led her back to camp.

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