#Eskels just trying to figure out his feelings okay
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Hello My Old Heart- Part 4
A/N: Wow, it’s been a hot minute since the last chapter, huh? This one was maybe a bit rushed, but I really wanted to get it out there! Hope you like soft-hearted sweet Eskel!
Pairing: Eskel x Reader
Warnings: fem!reader
Word count: 1k
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There are many things in life that are difficult for a Witcher; the trials, the path, the monsters… but the most challenging thing Eskel has done so far was leave you when that night ended. When he mentioned that he needed to move to the next town he could see the brightness in your eyes dwindle away as the real world came crashing down on you. You had urged him to stay the night, ‘It’ll be safer in the morning light’ you tried to argue, but he knew it would only make it harder when the time came.
The forlorn stare you held as he rode off had been replaying in his mind as he traveled and he couldn’t help but begin to dwell on all the ways you looked upon him. You had never looked upon him in fear or disgust, and for that small grace, he was thankful. However, sometimes, when he first surprises you at the door you look at him as if you were a flower seeing the sunrise after another dark night. But quickly after- well, it was almost as if you caught yourself and rethought what you were feeling. You would emanate a certain kind of sadness and… longing in your eyes that made your gaze that threatened to drain all the brightness out of you. He had spent collective hours over the last few months thinking about whether or not he had done something to you but, as far as he could remember your gaze had always held that glaze of grief.
As of now, It’s been a month since the Flower Festival. A month of hopping around from town to town in the lower part of the continent and trying to be busy enough to live without clouding thoughts. On this night, Eskel had made his temporary home in a bustling inn and tavern just outside Novigrad. The drinks were strong and his stew was warm but Eskel still let out a little sigh as he let his thoughts overtake him.
“Eskel that’s the third time you’ve sighed on my sandwich. You’re warming up the bread…!” Lambert complained from across the table. By pure luck, he and Eskel had happened to cross paths on a contract and decided to stick together for a few days.
“Sorry, I’m just…”
“Thinking about that Sorceress again? I swear on Melitele’s tits sorceresses are gonna be the death of you and Geralt…” Lambert grumbled into his pint and shook his head. “Then who am I gonna swindle in Gwent? Vesemir? Yeah, right…”
When Eskel didn’t immediately roll his eyes or return the jest to his younger brother, Lambert began to maybe grow a little more concerned. “What has you so caught up anyways? What makes her so different from any other? You’ve mentioned she heals, likes to read, has some sheep, but what makes her any better than those women over there?” He said with a motion towards the corner of the room. As far as the young Witcher was concerned, the majority of people will come and go and fill the roles of the ones before them as they went, but it is a rare few who create a role that no others can fill and he had yet to see it personally.
A pause filled the air as Eskel looked out over the rowdy tavern in quiet thought, “well she’s…” He started, before cracking a hint of a smile. “she’s got a bit of an odd and blunt sense of humor and she always seems very sure of herself when she moves. She loves her work, focuses on it like nothing else, and is more than happy to enforce the care that's needed.” He said with a short snort of a laugh, recalling how you had literally forced him to sleep the first day you met. Hell- he didn’t even think it had been 2 hours at that point.
“She has a special smile about her, and the conversation comes so easy, And it..” Eskel paused a moment and frowned, looking for the words that would carry the right sentiment. “The first time we touched it was like getting hit with Basilisk venom, but in the best way. Warm and tingling like it's eating away at you… but you don't want it to stop,” he finished and looked towards his younger brother who had his eyebrows raised.
The marred Witcher quickly shook his head and took a big swig of his cup. “I’m probably just talking stupid though, forget I said anything.” He said in an attempt to backtrack over his words. After all, Witchers weren’t supposed to have feelings, right?
Lambert slowly blinked and let out a sigh as he took in his brother's words, sandwich being set down so it wouldn’t get any warmer “Eskel… My dear brother, You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Eskel was silent for a moment as he waited for his brother to follow up with some snarky remark, but it didn’t come.
“I’m pretty sure you're in something people call ‘love’, Eskel…” he stated, his matter-of-fact tone and the statement coming as a bit of a slap to the face. “And just because I don't see a lot of point in it, doesn't mean you shouldn’t pursue it…” He continued. “You’re a good Witcher, Eskel… and, though I'll deny it if asked, you're a great brother too. so, maybe you deserve something nice once in a while….”
Eskel bit back a smile and the urge to rub it in, taking another sip of his drink instead. “So, you’re saying-”
“I’m saying you should go after her, dumbass! If you don’t tell her how stupid she makes you feel then she might just up and leave one day.” Lambert grumbled and took a more aggressive bite of his sandwich than necessary before continuing with a full mouth. “And don’t make me say it again. I know you heard me…. Asshole.” Even Lambert with a bit of a grin.
With the wise words of his brother, Eskel set off for you the next morning.
It was time to stop avoiding the subject and just say something. Even if you told him you hated him, that your heart had changed over the past month, he wouldn’t blame you. But… the hope that you might say yes is what kept his nerve. The thought that he, a scarred mutant with far too much blood on his hands, could possibly turn and see your smiling face every morning… it filled his heart with the same Basilisk Venom he had felt before.
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Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @dark-academia-slut @arcana-greenleaf
#i love using lambert as the guy whose really nice by calling people a dumbass#Lambert cares hes just not good at this feelings thing#Eskels just trying to figure out his feelings okay#and yours#eskel witcher#eskel#witcher eskel#eskel x reader#eskel x you#eskel x y/n#soft eskel#sweet eskel#Witchers have feelings#the witcher#The witcher fic#the witcher fanfiction#Lambert is a good sibling
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God though, reluctant single dad Vesemir. Vesemir who openly dislikes children, Vesemir who leaves a kid in the woods with the remains of his dead family even though he knows there's something else out there, Vesemir who refers to baby witchers as "abandoned little tragedies", Vesemir whose response to being told he's to teach them to fence is "Am I being punished?"
And suddenly he's the last wolf left. His whole pack is dead and he's got a litter of already-mutated pups to look after that won't get taken in anywhere else. He's completely responsible for the next generation, and children need so many things. He has to learn on the fly that it's not just feeding them and clothing them and teaching them to fight. It's getting up every night for Geralt's night terrors about the Trial and the Sacking, because he's five and he doesn't know how to self-soothe and nobody else is going to do it. It's watching Lambert hurt himself and the other boys in his rages, because he's so mad at the hand life dealt him and he doesn't know how to handle it, and having to figure out how to teach him to channel his anger some other way because that kind of blind fury will get him killed. It's answering a thousand and one "But why?" questions without putting a sword through Eskel because he wants to be good and that is a quality that needs nurturing even if it's annoying as fuck.
None of this is natural to him. He's not a kid person. He's grieving, too, for everyone he ever cared for and the trust he gave his father figure who betrayed him. He's sarcastic and impatient and he fucks up badly, so many times, with these lonely, traumatised little boys. He has to learn to apologise, and forgive, and love them even though he never wanted them to be his responsibility, even though they've basically taken his life from him - the adventuring, the monster-slaying, the coin and the women and the fame - because raising brats is a 24/7/365 job that keeps him tied to Kaer Morhen. He has to learn not to resent them for a life they didn't choose. He has to learn to make them feel like part of a family, because he can't afford to have them abandon Witchering at the first opportunity.
And somehow, it works. His pups grow up, and become Witchers themselves, and he sends them out into the world and breathes a sigh of relief every time one comes back safe. Grieves as best he can whenever one doesn't. Geralt makes him a grandfather, which is not something he ever thought he'd want even with a Witcher's long lifespan, but he loves the bones of that girl. He sees Geralt trying so hard to do better by Ciri than was ever done by him - he's not sure where the hell Geralt got that from, that soft streak that training never quite beat out of him - and the other boys rally round to help him raise his lion cub as a wolf so much faster than he thought they would, and he knows he did something right. And more than that, he's somehow managed to do away with some of the stigma the generations of Witchers before him passed down. Geralt isn't afraid to be gentle with Ciri. He's kind and understanding and supportive towards her, he has to be reminded not to prioritise her wellbeing over finding Leshen!Eskel, he's calm and patient and comforting when her trauma is playing up. It's such a far cry from the completely detached, "numbers game" attitude of the generations before Vesemir, and even from Vesemir's own attitude towards recruits as a young man. He's done exactly what his mentor asked him to do. He raised better, more scrupulous Witchers. He raised better men.
idk man I just have a lot of feelings about Vesemir after NOTW okay
#the witcher#netflix witcher#vesemir#nightmare of the wolf#breaking the cycle of intergenerational trauma my beloved#the witcher headcanons#the witcher meta#kaer morons
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The paint that was left in the pot
Geraskier, Geralt & Ciri, Modern AU (3K)
“Dad, do you think you could paint my nails?” Ciri asks him one afternoon, and Geralt is not too proud to say that he panics.
Or: Ciri gets her nails painted, but she’s not the only one.
ao3
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“Dad, do you think you could paint my nails?” Ciri asks him one afternoon, and Geralt is not too proud to say that he panics.
“What do you mean?” he asks in lieu of having to answer that. He hasn’t the faintest clue how to do nail polish; it most certainly was not covered in the Vesemir school of parenting. The only person he’s seen wear any is Yennefer, and he’s mostly convinced she just stares at her nails hard enough until they morph into the exact shape and color she wants.
“Well, the spring formal is next week, and all my friends are going to the spa today to get their nails done, but I know we can’t,” Ciri explains, and something heavy sinks in Geralt’s stomach. “And normally I’d ask mom, but since she’s away, I thought maybe you could do it.” She frowns, then, and her voice turns small. “It’s okay if not, you don’t have to or anything. Actually, it’s not even a big deal, nude nails are pretty in right now—”
That look on Ciri’s face, lost and wounded, is the surest way to spring him into action, and Geralt finds himself saying, “Of course I’ll do it,” before he can think twice about what he’s committing to.
Ciri should be able to go to the spa with her friends. She shouldn’t have to worry that it’ll cost money they don’t have to spare right now, or that there’s no one to drive her there because the car is still in the shop—but that isn’t the life they live, and Ciri has always been more perceptive than anyone her age should be.
The least Geralt can do is try to give her this one thing.
“Don’t you worry, my little lion. I have it covered,” he promises, feeling pretty good about it when she gives him a wide, brilliant smile and chatters for the next ten minutes about the exact shade of purple-blue that’ll match her dress.
With Ciri sufficiently occupied waxing lyrical about colors, Geralt pulls out his phone to sneakily search up how to paint nails for beginners. Of course, that’s when Ciri decides that she’s done enough talking and wants to put her words into action, taking him by hand and all but dragging him up the stairs to, presumably, where the nail polish awaits.
It turns out the exact shade of purple-blue she wants is not among the five-pack of basic nail polish Eskel bought Ciri for her birthday last year. Geralt eyes the colorful little jars with trepidation, surer than ever that he has no idea what he’s getting into. How does one transfer the paint from there to—he glances at Ciri’s hands, nearly squinting to see her tiny little fingernails, and cannot fathom how this can possibly work without some sort of magic.
Then Ciri picks out the bright lavender bottle and holds it out to him with a look of such hope in her eyes that the wait I don’t know about this on the tip of his tongue dies right there. He has survived boot camps the likes of which would make the military blanch, has seen any number of horrors in this world, has managed to keep all his limbs despite regularly spending time with the most terrifying person the world has ever produced (Yennefer)—he will not be defeated by one little jar of paint and ten (tiny, unbelievably tiny, were they always that tiny?) bits of keratin.
He takes the bottle from her hand, holding it up to the light. It’s actually a beautiful color, bright and lively like his little lion. If he can just figure out how to get it on her hand, he knows without a doubt that she’ll look incredible. As she deserves, for her spring formal dance.
(At least, he thinks it’s a dance. Jaskier told him it was a dance, and Jaskier tends to know about this type of thing)
“C’mon then, little lion.” He assumes this is the type of thing one does in the bathroom to avoid making a mess. “Let’s go paint your nails.”
Ciri follows behind him with a clear skip in her step, and he wonders whether she thinks he’s done this before, assumes he’ll just know how once he starts, or truly hasn’t thought that far ahead. In any case, she’s far too cheerful for someone about to have bright purple splotches all over her skin.
(Is that how nail polish is applied? You just…pour it over the skin and wipe off whatever isn’t on the nail bed? It’s the only technique that comes to his mind, although something about that doesn’t seem right. And he doesn’t want this purple substance and the chemicals it might contain to be all over Ciri’s skin, in any case)
Ciri sits on the edge of the bathtub and holds out a hand, peering at him with absolute trust in her eyes. He feels more unworthy of it in this moment than perhaps any before, but gives her the best smile he can conjure and studies the little bottle of purple like it holds the key to life itself. Right now, it all but does.
Well, first step first. Geralt twists the cap off the bottle, nose wrinkling immediately at the sharp, pungent smell. He hopes it doesn’t smell like that on the nail, too, or he might have to subtly avoid Ciri for the next several days.
Some of the mystery is revealed when he realizes the cap isn’t just a cap, but in fact contains a tiny brush on the end of it. Tiny—he sneaks another glance at Ciri’s nails, held out ready and waiting for him. Tiny enough to be fingernail-sized, in fact.
Oh, dear. He’s supposed to paint this, with that, on those?
“What’s wrong? Do you not want to anymore?” Ciri asks. She’s always been able to read him a little too well.
Geralt looks into her big, guileless eyes and sighs. You can always be honest with me, he tells her about once a week, and what kind of father would he be if he didn’t follow his own rules?
“There’s nothing I’d love more, I promise,” he says, because doing things for Ciri is what he does, and it’s the most important job he will ever have. “But to tell you the truth, I have no idea what to do.”
And that is how he stands in the bathroom doorway fifteen minutes later, watching Jaskier paint his daughter’s nails like he’s been doing this his whole life.
(Maybe he has? Geralt files that question away for later)
“Do you want any patterns on this, Ciri?” Jaskier asks her, sounding for all the world like he can make anything she wants happen. Looking at how neat and even he’s painted the purple, Geralt doesn’t even doubt it.
“Well—” Ciri hesitates, shooting him a guilty look, and Geralt understands.
“I’ll be outside,” he rumbles, wondering what kind of design she’d want to keep secret from him, but unable to deny her the privacy all the same.
He can’t deny her much of anything, really. She’s going to be a lot more dangerous once she realizes just how true that is, he’s sure of it.
They’re done in just a couple of minutes. He hears the squeak of the bathroom door open, then Jaskier telling Ciri to sit in bed and not move her hands for at least the next thirty minutes (“Yes, alright, I’ll put some music on so you don’t get bored. But don’t you even think about touching your phone, you hear me?”), the light patter of feet as Ciri heads to her bedroom, and then the steady beat that Geralt recognizes as the first song of Ciri’s current favorite album.
The volume is set low enough that all he can has to hear through the door is the low pulse of the beat, not the grating high-pitched whine of the melody, and Geralt is reminded once again of just how lucky he is to have Jaskier.
Jaskier, who can paint nails like a beautician and talks to Ciri like she’s his own and knows Geralt better than anyone ever has.
(Geralt knows, has known for quite some time now, that he will marry this man. The question is only when, and how)
Jaskier comes into the bedroom with his lips curled in a self-satisfied smile. “Nails are done. You’re going to love the design she picked out, just you wait.”
Geralt is sure that he will, if and when she decides to show him.
“She’s going to show you, don’t worry,” Jaskier says, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. One of these days, Geralt is going to figure out how Jaskier seems to read his mind about these things. “Just wants to wait until it’s all dry and done.”
“Thank you,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s hand and staring at the bitten-down nail beds. Jaskier has beautiful, musician’s hands, strong but nimble, clearly as adept with a brush as with a lute. He’s never seen Jaskier’s nails painted before.
“Oh yeah, coming over to my boyfriend’s house and spending time with his daughter was a real hardship.” But Jaskier squeezes his hand in acknowledgment, and Geralt knows he understands. Ciri is the most important thing in his life, and what’s important to her is important to him. Even something as seemingly insignificant as nail polish.
“I didn’t know you could paint nails,” Geralt says, because otherwise he might ask Jaskier to marry him right here and now, and he deserves a better proposal than that.
“Oh, yeah, I used to do it all the time. Stopped in uni once I really got serious about the lute—kept chipping my polish and getting upset about it. Eventually I realized I’d be saving myself a lot of unnecessary stress if I just didn’t paint them in the first place.” There’s something wistful in his voice, though, that tells Geralt maybe Jaskier misses it more than he lets on. Sure enough, he continues, “I’m glad you asked me. It was nice, to paint somebody’s nails again.”
He sounds so happy about it, this one tiny little thing, and Geralt thinks, if one small bottle of paint can bring both his daughter and his boyfriend so much joy, maybe—
“You want to do mine, too?” he asks before he’s really even thought the words through in his head.
Jaskier’s grin is blinding. “Oh my god, yes! Do you even know how incredible you would look with nail polish? I would be honored to do your nails, darling. Come, come, I’m sure one of Ciri’s colors would look amazing on you. Come on.”
Not dissimilar to Ciri, Jaskier pulls him by the hand back to the bathroom with a skip in his step, chatting the whole way. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the actual words, knows it’s mostly filler anyway, but lets the tone and cadence and familiar melody of Jaskier’s voice wash over him. He should ask Jaskier to move in with him, he thinks suddenly—there’s no other sound in the world he wants to hear after a long day at work, except maybe Ciri’s laugh.
“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, pushing him to sit on the tub’s edge just as Ciri did. “Bright pink, perhaps?” Jaskier holds up what is indeed a bright pink nail polish bottle, and Geralt immediately shakes his head. Jaskier huffs, though he obviously expected that answer by the way his grin only grows wider.
“Lime green?” Jaskier’s whole face is alight with teasing mirth.
Geralt rolls his eyes. If he remembers correctly, there was some sort of blue among the colors, and they’re both aware that’s what he’s going for.
Jaskier picks up the bottle of white polish and puts it to the side immediately, not even having to ask. There’s a clear one that he sets aside as well. Then he taps his finger twice on the only remaining bottle, a bright cobalt blue.
“Blue, then?” Jaskier’s tone says it’s more a rhetorical question than a genuine one, so Geralt stays quiet and watches Jaskier prepare.
He shakes the bottle up and down several times before twisting it open, just as he did with Ciri’s purple, then dabs a drop onto his left thumb, right beside the large purple splotch from testing Ciri’s color earlier.
Something about it warms Geralt’s heart in a way he can’t explain.
“Color okay?” Jaskier asks, holding out his thumb for inspection.
Geralt runs a finger down the side of Jaskier’s proffered thumb, careful not to get too close to the polish, and nods. It looks good on him. Really, really good.
Jaskier takes one of his hands. “Ready?”
Geralt hums, unable to speak.
With practiced ease, Jaskier dips the brush in the bottle, dabs away the excess paint on the rim, and brings it toward his hand.
Geralt’s throat tightens, and the ghost of a once-familiar panic wells up in his chest. The idea was a good one in theory, a great one, even, on Jaskier, but on him it’s—
He draws his hand back before he can stop himself.
It’s—there’s—he can’t—
He hopes desperately this is one of those times when Jaskier can just read his mind.
“Do you want me to start with your toes instead?” Jaskier asks softly.
Geralt lets out a shaky breath, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He should be better than this. What must Jaskier think, Jaskier who has never shied away from anything he wants, never thought for one moment to be anything other than himself, who lives and loves with his whole heart and paints his thumb without a second thought just to make sure the color is—
“Darling, come back to me,” Jaskier says, still in that soft voice. Geralt blinks, tells his brain to shut up, and looks at Jaskier. “There you are.” Every bit of teasing amusement is gone from Jaskier’s face, leaving behind nothing but kind, achingly kind sincerity. “I can start with your toes, if you want. Or we don’t have to do this at all. It was just a silly idea, there’s no pressure here. Nail polish isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay.”
There’s no judgment in Jaskier’s tone, in his expression, and Geralt knows that if he shakes his head now then they can be cuddling on the bed with this whole moment behind them in under a minute. Jaskier won’t bring it up again unless he does first, and it’ll be something they can laugh about together some day in be future.
But. He looks at Jaskier’s thumb again, the two purple and blue spots, and wants.
“Toes,” he says firmly.
Jaskier smiles, tiny and proud. “Alright then. Here, put your foot in my lap, that’ll be easier.”
There’s something strangely intimate about the whole thing, as Jaskier dips the brush back in the bottle, again dabs away the excess on the rim, and paints a stripe right down the center of Geralt’s left big toe. And then again, and again. He watches Jaskier’s hands instead of the color blooming on his toes—it’s easier to keep himself calm that way, to remember that this is something he’s allowed to want and allowed to have, that no matter whether it looks good or hideously out of place amidst his pale skin and monochromatic style, no one will mock him for it.
Besides, looking at Jaskier isn’t exactly a hardship. He’s clearly good at this, his fingers deft and sure, never spilling even a drop onto Geralt’s skin. His tongue pokes out adorably between his teeth as he works, too, the way it usually only does when he’s several stanzas deep into a new composition, and Geralt finds it incredibly endearing that Jaskier is taking this as seriously as he does his songwriting.
“All done,” Jaskier says sooner than he expects, moving Geralt’s feet from his lap to rest on the tiled floor.
Geralt looks down, finally, and his heart skips a beat. He can’t put a name to what he feels, looking at the little pops of color and realizing it’s him, those are his toes, delicately painted like he’s something precious. Something beautiful.
“You like?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can only nod, overwhelmed.
He likes. He really, really likes.
“I’m glad,” Jaskier says, and it’s gentle. He understands, Geralt is sure. Probably understands better than Geralt does, but as always, he’ll wait patiently for when Geralt catches up. “Alright, let me put on the top coat then.”
Geralt hasn’t the slightest idea what a top coat is or does, but watches Jaskier paint over the color with the bottle of clear polish and assumes it’s important.
“Fingers too?” Jaskier asks him when that’s done. It’s patient and level, noncommittal in a way that says as clearly as if he’d used the words, only if you want.
There’s a part of Geralt, one that’s only grown larger in the last twenty minutes, that wants to say yes, but he shakes his head. He isn’t ready for that yet, not quite.
“Thank you,” he says as Jaskier accepts that with a murmured okay and starts to put everything away. He can’t stop staring at his toes, flexing them a little to see the way the color catches the light. It’s—yeah. There’s a wetness building behind his eyes that he doesn’t understand, and something swirling in his stomach that he isn’t ready to name, but he knows that as always it’s Jaskier who brought him to this moment, led him to water like a horse and very gently suggested he take a drink.
“Of course, darling.”
It settles over him differently, today, the darling that’s been Jaskier’s favorite endearment for him ever since the beginning.
Geralt stands from the tub, walks the three steps over to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the sink, and lets himself look.
He’s the same and he’s different.
“Jask—” he stops. Even though he knows what Jaskier will say, asking takes a different kind of strength.
Jaskier lets the silence hang for a few seconds, but when it becomes clear that Geralt won’t find the words himself, he drapes himself over Geralt’s back, arms settling over his chest, and meets Geralt’s eyes in the mirror.
“Beautiful,” he says with a kiss to the shell of Geralt’s ear. “My handsome, beautiful man.”
Geralt looks at his blue-painted toes, and smiles.
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the gentle pain of change
"Are-are you alright?" Geralt scratches the back if his neck awkwardly, leaning against the stone mantlepiece that he had just finished stoaking and prodding, and now the logs roared with fire and flame, warming the chamber really rather quickly now that Eskel had patched up the windows.
His new ward looks up at him, her eyelids drooping as she takes stock of the large witcher.
"It's alright," her voice is tired. "Obviously, I'm very greatful to you all, happy to do my bit if you all help me learn how do chores and stuff. And being indoors with food and a bed is obviously far better than the road. But it'll take a bit of time to adjust to the cold, the wind. And-" she trails off, looking up at him, clearly trying to figure out the words to not irritate him.
"My brothers, Vesemir?" Geralt guesses. Ciri licks her lips, looks down, fiddles with the blankets. "It's alright, girl." He tries to lighten his voice. "They just need a few days to get used to you, you're the first human up here in a long while. And the way you look-"
"What? What about the way I look? What's wrong with it?" Ciri's voice is quick, her eyes big. She's not frantic, but she's certainly worried.
"Calm down, Ciri." Geralt huffs, walking over towards her. "It's nothing you've done or haven't done, nothing you've said or haven't said. Just-" he sits down on her bed. "You look like someone, someone who Eskel would rather forget. She was blonde, too, hunted and extraordinary." He shifts. "You remind him of her, that's all. I'll speak to him about it, its not fair to you to have him treat you wrong becaude of what she did."
Ciri is baffled, but glad to have him on side about his strange brother.
"And the one with red hair?" She asks.
"He's just an arsehole. He'll be prickly for a few days, will probably be snide and sly. But something else will catch his attention soon enough and he'll get used to you being here. But if he goes too far, you tell me and I'll sort him out, okay, girl?"
"Alright," she says quietly, ducking down to hide her smile. He's a good man, she realises. Gentle and protective, even if he is gruff and grizzly.
"Uh-" He pauses. "Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Another blanket?"
Ciri shakes her head, her fingers trailing closer towards his hand. "No, thank you." She looks away, trying to find something to say. "Uh, and the third one? He's very imposing, don't want to piss him off. He looks like he could throw me off a snowdrift if I say the wrong thing."
Geralt snorts. "He's fine enough. Vesemir, his name is. He's the mentor of all of us. Uh, don't be a brat and do your chores and lessons and you'll get along fine."
Ciri's eyes widen. "Lessons?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Did you think that you'd just do chores all winter? You're hardly gonna have an easy life after-" he winces as Ciri does. It's a crushing reminder of what shes lost, everything and everybody thats been taken from her. "-but it'll do you good to know about monsters and swords, how to fly an arrow. We're witchers, can't teach you much else, but we can teach you to fight. Defend yourself."
Ciri smiles happily. "Thank you." She pauses. "Grandmother would never let me fight, wouldn't let me learn. I always wanted to."
"Really?" His eyes widen. "That's a surprise. She was a formidable woman, a force of nature."
She nods. "She was, it's something she and Eist always fought about. He wanted me to be just as much as a warrior as her, as much as a skelligan shield maiden. But Grandmother wanted to do all the fighting for me. So I could be a lady, like my mother." her voice trails and she feels the pain in her heart. Grandmother and Eist, her second parents who loved her and protected her and taught her, and who have been taken from her now. Taken just like her mother and father on that boat, the pain of loss is too great and now she has Geralt staring at her with big golden eyes, they're sad and sympathetic and now she has no reason to not think about Calanthe, Eist, Mouseack, Lazlo and Danek and Adon. There's nothing to distract her now and she can feel the tears slip down her cheeks.
Her breaths stutter and she covers her face as the tears stream down her face. She cries helplessly, until suddenly a heavy hand is in her hair. It lingers there for a moment, before running along the length. It's a grounding weight, and she sniffles as more tears come.
Thick arms wrap around her and she's pulled towards a broad chest. She helplessly cries as her face meets a damp cotton shirt. Her hands tighten around it, feeling messy hair get tangled in her fingers.
"Shh, its alright, Cirilla. I'm here, it's okay. It's all going to be alright. Let it out, girl."
#geralt and ciri#the witcher netflix#geralt of rivia#cirilla of cintra#fanfiction#witcherfanfiction#dadralt#ciri is his baby#geralt is the best dad#i love him
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okay but Jaskier going to Kaer Morhen and immediately seeing how prickly Lambert is and immediately becoming his number 1 protector, Eskel or Geralt make a joke that's a bit too biting and Jaskier's immediately puffing up and telling them to lay off (He does the same for them if Lambert goes too far too ofc) and Geralt just falls even harder for him bc Jaskier loves his baby brother so much
at first it pisses lambert off too, makes him even more prickly, because he's survived on his own this long, he doesnt need help, esp. not from a lil squishy human bard!! hiss hiss. but slowly he starts realizing that jaskier isnt infantilizing him, or cooing over him or being patronizing(or at the very least isnt trying to), that it's the way jaskier shows he cares, and he does the same for geralt and eskel in their own way. it's the difference between seeing someone as a pet project and seeing them as a person. and they've kind of just been accidentally talking past each other
and you know, it's kind of nice to have one more person in his corner, he doesnt have a lot of those. he still gets prickly about it sometimes, but it's nice knowing someone cares enough about him and his brothers to try
and geralt just watches them figuring each other out and feels his heart getting so BIG cuz its so easy to just write off lambert as a prick but there is more to him than that
#also as jaskier gets more comfortable w/ him they get into catty bitchfests with each other which they both love#jaskier has a lot of eloquence in his complaints that lambert thinks get a bit too flowery but are otherwise fun#and lambert always has some creative new curse that delights jaskier in its creativity#witcher tag#ogc tag
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💬 💬 💬 back at ya 😁
Oh dear, bold of you to think I can sum up that many things I really like in my own writing. But I'll try, I'll try.
---
"What are you looking for, Eskel?"
Eskel almost chokes on his beer. If that's what the other guy means by flirting, he's a little rusty.
"I don't know exactly," he admits, "all of this is new to me."
"All of it?"
Eskel shrugs.
"Well, part of it, it's... a long story. I've been told that in this bar, it doesn't matter what you look like. And I thought, maybe that's a good idea. Maybe that's what I want."
Letho furrows his brows as if he is thinking hard. Then he grins.
"Oh, because of your scar? That's what's new, now I've got it. Sorry. I thought maybe you were a virgin or something."
Now Eskel actually almost spits out his beer, and he laughs. He laughs so loud that he chokes and gurgles and laughs some more.
"Nah, I'm not," he finally replies.
"Okay, so you're a funny not-virgin who hasn't been out for a while," Letho says, and Eskel just nods. That pretty much sums it up.
"All right," says Letho. "So you want to get back in the saddle, huh? This isn't the worst place for it."
"What about you?" asks Eskel, looking at his beer bottle.
Condensation runs down it, a drop wetting his hand, but it doesn't dispel the warmth that has gripped him.
"Hmm," Letho says, lifting his massive shoulders as he grins, "I'm not the worst person for it."
Eskel gives him a look and thinks, yeah, you’re not. In a place where looks are not important, you are not the worst person. In fact, you may be the best.
(This is from Façade)
---
"Then explain this to me!" snorted Flynn, holding the paper up to Emhyr's nose. The latter looked at it, frowning. The paper was half torn, and obviously, someone had scribbled on it. Were those little hearts drawn next to Geralt's face?
It was confusing, but he calmly replied, "What's there to explain?"
"I beseech you. As if the Emperor of Nilfgaard had ever married a witcher. You, sir, are merely a cocky doppler who somehow managed to seduce the most beautiful witcher of the North. Fie, I say, fie!"
"I beg your pardon?"
Bewilderment was written exceptionally clearly on Emhyr's face, which anyone but Flynn would have acknowledged. He waved his sword in front of Emhyr's face, which cost the latter some of his iron restraint not to flinch.
"He's a good man," Flynn asserted, who could not have known such things and was, admittedly, relying on hearsay and storytelling. "Too good for a doppler, anyway."
"I assure you, I am not a doppler."
Emhyr should have known that reasoning and talking him into conscience would not work on a feline. However, he was perhaps spoiled by his security advisor, who had much less of the irrationality of many of his fellow witchers, though a touch more of their paranoia. As far as that was concerned, all things considered, Adan was probably an exception, while this witcher was an unfortunate rule.
"You are," Flynn insisted. "Denial is futile. Change back on the spot, show me your true face, you beast!"
(This is from the probably most funniest thing I ever did, "Die, die my darling")
---
Geralt dropped his shoulders and slid his fingers into the waistband of his pants. That it would be Eskel felt like a breach of trust. Not because they had been friends for so long. But because there was something that Geralt had never told him. He hadn't been a child for a long time, it was hard to be a child in this environment. He had done often enough what they all did secretly under the covers when they thought the others were asleep. But he had often thought of Eskel, of his sweet, austere face, his tall figure, his strong arms.
It was confusing, it still was, because it wasn't entirely clear to him what feelings were even okay. Those who had already gone through their trials, the survivors, had often come back changed. They were naturally tougher, but that affected everything, including their friendships. Feelings were no longer necessary, it seemed, rather a hindrance. Geralt was afraid of the moment when this would happen to him. Or Eskel, that might be even worse: if Eskel came back, one day, and looked at him without that affection in his gaze. Perhaps that was why he now dropped his pants without another word, as he had been told. If all these feelings changed one day, it probably wouldn't matter anyway.
(And this one is just from some filthy piece but... I like it!)
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Muck and Yuck
Prompt: "You're sleeping with me tonight" in order to keep her warm because it is freezing cold
Pairing: Eskel x reader
Word count: 933
TW: CPR, almost drowning, fucking drowners, Ummm I think I got them all if I missed any, please, let me know.
A/N: I am so sorry about the lapse in posting- 3 kids on spring break and then some family stuff that came up kept me busy and very tired. I am not writing this at 2 am, for once, but I hope you all still enjoy my sleepy ramblings.
as always, unbeta'd and all mistakes are my own until someone decides to take responsibility for them.
Water.
It always had to be water at the exact worst times. Drowners had been terrorizing the coastal town for months- and of course, despite the people of the town refusing to even house their hero, Eskel took on the contract.
Coin is coin, Kit.
Neither of you is paying attention, and he hears it just a moment too late. Before he can turn a scaly fist wraps around your ankle before pulling. You land on your knee with a yelp, curling in on yourself, hands shooting out grasping at grass, roots, Eskel before you're pulled again.
You barely hear it, the sound of the water rushing over your body, the slap of the water when you hit it hard. It takes a moment to recover, your ears ringing from the force of your head hitting the water. The water above you is murky and black- light doesn’t permeate well in a swamp you suppose.
You don't hear the way Eskel roars your name. You don't even see the drowners circling you.
Hit.
your head snaps forward making you gasp- water flooding your mouth before you can close it, hands wrapping around your hands around your mouth, trying to hide away what little air you could have left.
Slap.
The chill of scales grating against your skin makes your head spin, too fast making everything blur in front of you.
Another hit.
Lanky, pale limbs slam against your chest, knocking the air out of you. Your mouth hangs open as the murky liquid pours in as the lithe body snakes in front of you, opening its mouth slowly, large gleaming teeth pulling into what could be considered a sickening smile. You feel the weight of its hand wrapped around your throat before it all goes black.
Muffled sounds rouse you- fighting, screaming, splashing… and a voice.
You feel like you’re treading water, as if you can almost breach the surface but the sloshing doesnt stop- waves dragging you back down into the depths.
Warmth.
Warmth spreads from your hip before the chill settles into your bones once again, radiating from your back. The voice begins again, followed by warmth.
“Come… Kit… Need…” the words are muddled by the rushing of the water in your ears. “Make… kiss…. Fuck!”
Gasping for air, your body heaves as water is forced out. Coughing roughly, your shoulders continue to heave even long after the water has vacated, a warm hand rubbing circles against your back. Little they could do but support.
“That’s it,” the voice hums, Eskel’s baritone easing the tension in your shoulders as the coughs ease to slight gagging and groans. “You had me worried there for a minute” he admits, frowning. You nod, gasping for air a bit.
“I had myself worried there for a bit.” his touch is gentle as he moves from behind you, to allow you to settle into the spot, knowing it's warm for you. His eyes don't stray from your own, which is odd. So much direct eye contact makes you feel self-conscious.
“What?” you rasp at him, he clears his throat, looking away from you.
“Sorry,” he sighs, looking towards the darkened sky instead of back at you. “I uh, the water was ice cold” he hums, eyes flitting around, refusing to land on you. You nod slowly.
“Okay, and…?” he clears his throat.
“I had to get you out of your freezing clothes, Kit.” frowning, you look down at yourself, eyes widening in shock. You're in your smalls only, the cloth still damp and clinging to your figure, but you can't imagine him trying to go any further. He wouldn't.
“Oh,” he must have misread the tone because he starts to panic.
“I swear, I didn't look,” his eyes find yours again. “Haven't looked” his deep voice rising several octaves, the reddish tint you've come to adore painting his cheeks. Without another word, he offers you one of his shirts for “while yours dries” since yours is lying out next to the waterline. Sliding it on quickly you watch him visibly relax, eyes falling on you directly but freezing once more, a soft breath sucked in.
“Fuck,” he groans, moving to go kick the heads of the drowners into a pile for him to collect easier later on. You shiver, sighing as he comes back slowly.
Why does it always have to be water? Why do we always have to take these contracts?
The wind whips by, another shudder shaking your frame, jaw tensing to keep from having to hear your teeth clatter interrupting your thoughts as you try to be angry at the tall man in red standing before you, brilliant golden eyes looking you over with a tenderness you try very hard to convince yourself isn't just reserved for you. You try to be angry, but the apologetic rumble that comes from his chest as he takes his cloak and settles it around your shoulders, a weak smile tugging at his scarred lips- all you can feel is relief.
He is safe. And the drowners…
Well, they're dead.
Eskel’s mouth is moving but you don't hear what he says at first. Blinking up at him, you cock your head to the side, humming in question. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly nervous- though his voice gives no indication.
“You’re sleeping with me tonight, Kit,” he pushes out. “The first chill is about to hit us.” he reasons.
“Yeah,” you nod, voice still a little strained. “Okay.” he relaxes as he starts setting things up for the night- fire first.
“Okay.”
--
Tag list: @errruvande @thesleepy1 @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @queenxxxsupreme @screechingdreamercollectorsblog @open--till--midnight @one-eyed-captain-kinky
@seidenbros @cosmos-coma
If you would like to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or ask or something.
#eskel x you#the witcher#eskel#eskel x reader#the witcher imagine#witcher eskel#eskel imagine#netflix eskel#soft eskel#basil eidenbenz#game!eskel x reader#game!eskel#netflix!eskel x reader#netflix!eskel x reader fluff#netflix!witcher#netflix!eskel
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Omggg! I had an idea it’s not very correct timeline wise…but maybe if you wanted to, could you write an imagine where the reader was tourtured together with Jaskier, but the reader is together with Netflix!Eskel or Netflix!Lambert, and Jaskier is like “fuck Geralt and… are gonna kill me”. But maybe it could work bc reader just have been telling Jaskier about their Witcher lover and Jaskier knows how Geralt is mad so he could imagine another witcher being fourious. +I think Geralt also would be mad that Jaskier got hurt bc of him.
Uh is this too complicated? You can totally not write this!! Sorry.
Have a great day!!!!! 🐺
A/N: Hi babe! I'm sorry this took ages to get out, but I hope you like it :) I put my own little twist on the episode where Jaskier is hurt by the fire fucker so I hope it's at least a little decent
Warnings: spoilers for s2, hurt!Jaskier, hurt!reader, nothing outside of canon for the show
Word Count: 2.2k
***
“Y/N? Y/N, darling? Wake up.”
“Jaskier…. Shut up.” You groaned, turning your head as you started to open your eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“My head fucking hurts.”
“Mine too. I think we were knocked the hell out.”
You tried to move your hand so you could rub your head but you found that you weren’t able to move your hands. Your eyes widened suddenly and you lifted your head.
The room was pitch black with the exception of a ray of moonlight shining in through a window to your left.
“Jaskier!”
“Just over here, darling.” He spoke from your right. You turned your head as far as you could to the right. From what you could see, he was bound to a chair behind you.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Yennefer? Is she here?”
“I don’t think so.”
You began to try to wiggle out of the bonds, but you didn’t get very far before there was something on the other side of the room that caught your attention. Someone snapped your fingers and what looked like a flame appeared, though you didn’t know what the source was.
“Well that’s unsettling.” Jaskier whispered.
You watched the very faint outline of a person move in the shadow.
“Uh, uh, look. We don’t have any money.” Jaskier spoke, his voice shaky. “I am but a, uh…. a humble bard and my dear friend here, she’s-she’s my traveling companion.
The floorboards creaked as the stranger moved, though you couldn’t tell if they were growing closer or further away until they snapped their fingers. The flame appeared closer.
“Or-Or if this is about your wife, your mistress, niece–,”
“Shut up.” You muttered to Jaskier, fearing he would be making the situation worse.
Your heart raced in your chest as you watched the figure. The next time he snapped his fingers, he was directly beside you.
You flinched, realizing the fire was coming from his fingertip.
Oh fuck.
“Look, if you’re just a really big fan, then please note that I am not willing to discuss the subjects of my work, its inspiration or characters, fictitious or otherwise.” Jaskier’s breathing was shaky as he spoke, though he tried to stay calm and stoic. “So why don’t you just show yourself, and we can have a nice chat, and you can tell me what you want from us?”
You strained to see over your shoulder what was happening.
The stranger- a man -was now in front of Jaskier. He placed one hand on the back of Jaskier’s chair and bent down to be face to face with him. He snapped his fingers, the heat of the flame lighting up Jaskier’s features.
“Fucking-! Fuck!”
“Shhh.” The man hushed him, clearly taunting the bard.
You pulled against the rope holding your wrists to the arms of the chair, desperate to get out and try to help your friend.
“Hello, Jaskier.” The man spoke finally.
***
You tried to move your fingers. They were numb, scorched from the mage’s magic. But you could feel a pain in your wrist and up your arm. You imagined it was similar to the same pain being cut open with a dull knife would bring.
“Y/N- Y/N, are you alright?” Jaskier choked out, his mouth full of his own blood.
Your eyes flickered over to him as you nodded your head. You couldn’t use your voice just yet.
He spat the blood off to the side, then leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
You kept your lips pressed together, unable to bring yourself to say anything. What if you were truly fucked? What if this was it?
The mage wanted information on Geralt, which neither you nor Jaskier were going to give up. You would take what you knew about the witchers to your death– which seemed to be very near.
Tears blurred your vision and your throat became scratchy.
“Jask, I-I’m-I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, Y/N.” He spoke your name gently. “Don’t-Don’t do that. You can’t. We can’t give up, darling–,”
“This is it for us.”
“It isn’t. It can’t be.” Jaskier firmly shook his head. “That lover of yours would fucking kill me if I let you die…. What’s his name? Tell me about him.”
You shook your head, blinking the tears away but all that did was make them fall down your cheeks.
“I haven’t even seen him since last winter.” You cried. The physical pain paled in comparison to the pain you felt in your chest from the thought of leaving Lambert without so much as a goodbye.
“And you’ll see him again, darling. We’ll make it through this.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, bard.” The mage spoke from somewhere behind you.
You stiffened up in your seat, blinking a few times to get rid of the tears in your eyes.
A hand found the back of your chair as the mage walked around you.
“Tell me about this lover of yours, Y/N.”
You clenched your teeth together as you glared up at him.
Did the mage know about Lambert? Your stomach churned at the thought.
“Do you think he’d want you to die like this?”
“Fuck off, you son of a whore!” You pulled against your bonds.
“Leave her alone!” Jaskier shouted.
Before anyone could say anything else, there was a crashing noise that came from the bar.
You turned your head, hoping to get a look at whatever it was, but you couldn’t see that far behind you.
“I knew I’d find you here.” Yennefer spoke, her words slurring. “You lazy lout.”
A part of you began to panic even more. She didn’t have her magic anymore, so there was no way she could deal with the mage. She’d end up dead too.
“Leaving me home alone to rot!” She hiccuped.
The mage stood up as he watched her, momentarily forgetting about you.
“Uh, uh…. This is my wife.” Jaskier told the mage. “She has nothing to do with this. Please let her go!”
“If you know what’s good for you, leave.” The mage said, irritated with her presence. “Now.”
There was a pause of silence. You heard a bit of moving around, but you couldn’t figure out what it was.
“If you knew what’s good for you, you’d shut the fuck up.” Yennefer hiccuped again.
“Have it your way.” The mage grabbed Yennefer and suddenly pushed her into a wooden column.
Now they were just outside of your peripherals and you could see exactly what was happening.
“No, no! No, please! Don’t hurt her! Leave her alone, please!” Jaskier begged, frantically gripping the arms of his chair. “She’s done nothing!”
You used the distraction to try to get your binds undone in any way possible. But this only seemed to cause you to rub your wrists raw.
The mage snapped his fingers, causing a flame to appear above his index finger.
Yennefer suddenly spat the alcohol she had been drinking at the mage, setting his face alight. He fell to the floor in pain, crying out.
As fast as she could, she undid both yours and Jaskier’s binds and rushed you out of the tavern.
***
“Who the fuck was that?” Jaskier breathed out, leaning against a doorframe.
“How should I know?” Yennefer looked back in the direction you three had run from. “You’re the ones he kidnapped.”
You leaned against the barrel next to you, your insides swirling around like a storm cloud.
“Oh what? You mages don’t all share an alma mater? You didn’t catch him at an alumni event?”
“You know, I was looking forward to a few more thank yous, perhaps some genuflection.”
You heaved and threw up on the ground. Whether it was from your nerves or the terrible pain in your hands, you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was both.
“Geralt.” You choked out, wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your tunic. “He’s-He’s after Geralt.”
“What?” Yennefer furrowed her brows. “Why? What does he want with him?”
“You know, I assumed it was to drink tea and eat crumpets and wax nostalgic over old times.”
“Jaskier.” You shook your head. You couldn’t catch your breath enough to be able to argue with them. Your chest was tightening and you couldn’t breathe.
“What’s wrong with her?” Yennefer asked.
“I couldn’t tell you. But maybe it’s the fact that we almost died not even three minutes ago!”
Yennefer put her hand on your arm, but you didn’t acknowledge her. You kept your head down, eyes closed tightly as you tried to remember how to calm down.
She tilted your head up, brows furrowed.
“What’s wrong, Y/N?”
“I-I just– I can’t–,” You shook your head. “Lambert. I almost…. And I haven’t seen him.”
“A panic attack.” Jaskier told Yennefer.
“It’ll be alright. Come on. We need to keep moving.” Yennefer put her arm around you to provide you with support.
***
After a confrontation with a group of men that resulted in Yennefer kicking one man in his bullocks, you and Jaskier were split up from the mage. When you found her again, she disappeared right before your eyes.
“Fucking hell!” Jaskier stepped away from the window, rubbing his brow with the heel of his palm. “So much for not having her magic.”
“I-I don’t know how much further I can go, Jask.” You told him, shaking your head softly. “My hands…. They hurt so bad.”
“I know, darling.” He looked up and down the alley. “We need to find shelter.”
“I need to get to Kaer Morhen.”
He looked at you like you’d just spoken an unfamiliar language.
“Kaer Morhen? That’s miles and miles away. A few weeks worth of traveling. We wouldn’t make it far in our state.”
“I was a healer decades ago. I-I know some magic, but not a lot. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything, I don’t know if it’ll work. But I can try to conjure a portal.”
“Try?” He repeated.
“Try. As in, it may lead to where I want it to, or it may lead to the bottom of the ocean.”
Jaskier chuckled, putting his hands on his hips.
“I don’t know if I like those odds, if I’m honest.”
“We don’t have any choice, Jaskier. We need to warn Geralt.”
A somber look came over his features.
“How do you know he’s at Kaer Morhen?”
“Winter is coming. If he isn’t there already, then he will be soon enough.”
“Are you sure this is safe to do, Y/N? I’d really rather not end up at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Neither would I.”
You took a deep breath as you looked around in search for something to draw energy from.
There was a pot of flowers near the door to your left. Hopefully that would be enough.
“Give me your hand, Jaskier.”
***
Ciri stared down at the bowl of stew in front of her. She sat at the same table as Coen, Lambert, and Geralt.
“It’s not going to get any more appetizing the longer you stare at it.” Coen told her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to keep your energy up.” Geralt said.
She sighed heavily.
With no warning, a portal opened above the table they were at. Having no time to react, the witchers and the princess could only watch as two people fell from the portal. One landed on the table while the other one rolled off into the floor.
“What the fuck!” Lambert shouted, jumping to his feet. He started to reach for the dagger on his hip when he realized it was you who had landed on the table. “Y/N, what the fuck?”
You groaned as you pushed yourself up on to one elbow.
“Jaskier!” You looked around in search for the bard.
“For fuck’s sake, I think I would’ve rather landed in the ocean.” He grumbled as he got to his feet.
“What happened?” Lambert held his hand out for you, wanting to help you down from the table.
“I-I can’t, Lambert.” You looked at your hands.
He followed your gaze, eyes widening as he realized you had been burned terribly.
He clenched his teeth together, turning his attention to the unfamiliar man that had followed you through the portal.
Lambert grabbed the front of Jaskier’s doublet, almost effortlessly hauling him to his feet.
“What the fuck happened to Y/N?”
“Lambert, let him go.” Geralt came to stand by his brother, golden eyes finding Jaskier. “He didn’t hurt her.”
“Geralt’s right, Lambert.” You got down from the table so you could stand beside Jaskier. “It was a mage. He hurt us both.”
Lambert let Jaskier go, growling in frustration.
Jaskier nervously chuckled, straightening his doublet.
“He certainly is a charming one, Y/N.”
Lambert turned his attention back to you. You didn’t let him get a word out before you threw your arms around him.
“I didn’t think I’d see you ever again.” You whispered.
“You’re shaking, bug.” Lambert slipped his arms around you, giving you a firm squeeze.
“I’m just so glad to see you.” You kissed his neck and then his cheek. You wanted so badly to fist his doublet, but you had to remind yourself of the injuries on your fingers.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. “Then we can talk about this mage fucker.”
Taglist will be reblogged because tumblr hates me :)
#netflix!lambert x reader#netflix!lambert#netflix lambert#lambert x reader#jaskier#witcher#witcher lambert#netflix witcher lambert#kacey answers
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Can’t Tell You What I Don’t Know
pairing: geraskier - halfway established?
Warnings: ooooo baybeee geralt has some issues and would benefit from a therapist, specifically: geralt being scared of thinking about the future and not having a plan for his life, no other warnings
____________________________
“Where do you see yourself in ten-fifteen years?”
Jaskier had asked the question dreamily, as if it were supposed to be as romantic as asking what type of desert they were going to share at a restaurant. He’d cuddled up close to Geralt, laid his head on his shoulder, and stared out the rainy window, actually expecting an answer. But Geralt had nothing. He just stared at his… friend? Boyfriend? Occasional lover?
“C’mon Geralt, humor me.”
With a shrug, Geralt gave the only answer he had, “I couldn’t tell you.”
Propping his chin on Geralt’s sternum to wink at him Jaskier practically purred, “You’ve got some weird goals then? I dig it. Lay’em on me.”
“No, not like that,” Geralt frowned, cursing himself as he felt his heart start to race, “I just don’t… have plans?”
“You don’t ever want to have your own house? Kids? Career plans?” Jaskier traced the edge of Geralt’s jaw while he spoke, a layer of concern under all of it.
He knew it was the wrong thing to say as he said it, but Geralt spoke anyway, “I mean, none of that seems even remotely possible so why bother dreaming over something I can never have?”
Jaskier seemed genuinely shocked. He sat up, propping himself so he was almost looming over Geralt and cupping his cheek in his hand.
“You are one of the smartest, hardest working, and sexiest people I know. That’s some bullshit. What happened to that ‘have my own ranch by 40’ you told Eskel?”
“I lied,” Geralt sighed, “It’s exhausting…” when Jaskier just continued staring at him he felt compelled to muddle through an explanation, “There’s a good range of bullshit that satisfies people. Generic stuff you know?”
“And you didn’t lie to me?”
“You’d know.”
Jaskier was quiet for a long moment, searching Geralt’s face for something as Geralt did his best to fight the bitter sting at the back of his throat.
“Why don’t you think about the future?” he whispered, brushing a thumb over Geralt’s bottom lip.
He didn’t want to tell Jaskier, wouldn’t have told anyone else, but with tears welling in his eyes he whispered his answer, “It scares me…”
And wasn’t that an understatement? Any time he’d made plans or had an idea of how he’d like his life to go it was shattered to pieces. After a certain point, he just stopped trying. Why continue opening yourself up for failure?
Wiping away the tears running into Geralt’s hairline, Jaskier looked close to crying himself as he spoke, “Oh sweetheart... but you’ve done so well! Look how far you’ve come. What about thinking about what you want? Is that less scary?”
Geralt would have laughed if Jaskier wasn’t so tenderly caressing his face and close enough to feel each other’s breath on their faces, “I don’t know what I want. I know what people want from me.”
Tears finally spilled over Jaskier’s eyes, “I want you to be happy. That’s all I’ll ever want from you.”
“Okay… I-” Geralt took a deep breath and let it out in a little defeated huff, “Yeah okay.”
“We can figure out what you want together, yeah?”
Geralt barely nodded before he surged up and trapped Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It was sweet and salty and the opposite of everything Geralt had expected from their Saturday afternoon, but as they kissed he tentatively decided he wanted Jaskier in his future.
#geraskier#geralt#geralt of rivia#jaskier#jullian alfred pankratz#the witcher#the witcher fic#the witcher ficlet#geraskier fic#geraskier ficlet#soft geraskier#soft geralt#dont look at me like that i had a heavy therapy session today#im not projecting i swear
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hellooooo I would like to request "telling each other how much they love them" with eskel please ♡
Till the stars run cold
A/N: I'm sorry this took so long! Also I know this is supposed to be a fluff prompt but I just wanted to make the concept a little unique for you! And I actually loved this a whole lot and if you want me to continue this with any extra prompts you only have to say the word and I am there!
Pairing: Eskel x reader
WC: 782
Warnings: gn!reader (no pronouns), unbeta’d, stress/anxiety
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Everywhere around you, bodies were rushing to prepare, numerous members of the lodge, all the wolves, and even a few druids pushed past and around as you worked in the main hall. Shoulders bumped you and mumbled “sorry” as people quickly moved past, all absorbed in their own tasks.
Kaer Morhen was preparing for a full siege; reinforcing the crumbling walls, stocking up on potions, traps, etc. before the enemy came. Every step, every breath was tenser than the last and it was starting to rattle you.
“Dear?”
You yelped as a hand touched your shoulder and your fist immediately extended as you turned, only to collide with solid leather armor.
“Oof! Yeah, that’ll do ‘em in just fine…” Eskel finished, his hand holding his stomach where you had hit him, though thankfully it wasn't quite enough to hurt through the armor.
“Oh, my gods! Eskel, are you okay? I’m sorry, I was just lost in my task…!” you said, turning to him with concern written in your eyes.
“No, it's okay. I just came to check on you. You seem like you've been a little… in your head lately...” slowly he brought his hand back to your shoulder and gave you a reassuring squeeze.
The sigh that moved past your lips hung around you like a smog of burden as more figures moved around your little scene. “It’s just- the anxiety just keeps building every day and there never seems to be a moment's rest. I just want the battle to come already so I can breathe again”. You rested your chin in your hand, as you glanced down at your work on the table before you. “But I'm not ready for the battle either…”
Eskel smiled softly, an expression of sadness more than anything, sadness that he’s pulled you into this life that you now must lead. “You’ll do great, Dear. You remember the plan right?” He asked as he took the seat beside you. “You’ll go up to the towers with the sorceresses and help out with your crossbow. That way you can keep an eye on me down on the ground.”
You laughed a bit now, the lightness ringing in his ears despite the heavy notes it was laden with. “Gotta switch up the routine every now and then….” your smile, a residual from the laughter, began to fade as everything came back to reality, reminding you of the situation at hand.
“Hey, Eskel..?”
“Yes, Dear?”
“I love you.” Your smile had felt just a bit easier after that quick interlude, after finally getting to just sit down with the one you loved and take a minute. Eskel’s expression softened as he watched your face change and your expressions begin to fade.
“Yeah? How much?” He was always too good at this, at knowing and helping you with exactly what you needed.
“Hm, let's see…” you started and we're happy to be lost in other thoughts, not in the people moving around you, not the potion bottles in front of you, just the handsome and loving eyes of the man before you.
“I love you more than… than the leaves love the trees they’re on.” your smile grew into a grin. “More than the lakes love the fish that give them purpose.” Your effortless kisses pressed against his knuckles. “More than a fire loves the log that gives it life….” You brought his hand to your heart, just to feel the beating in your chest permeate through him.
The way Eskel beamed as he listened made your heart skip a beat, the light inside of him shining out to only make him all the more lovely. “Well… I love you more than a sorceress loves to try and be mysterious.” You laughed. “More than Lil Bleater loves to cause mischief.” A kiss. “And I will love you with such ferocity until the universe dies and the stars run cold.”
Your elation was interrupted then by the booming vibrations of the warning call that spread across the keep. The time was now and your enemies were here.
“Everyone to their positions!” you could hear Vesemir’s voice call down the halls as he moved to the courtyard. “Eskel. Courtyard. Now!”
Eskel stood quickly as you grabbed your crossbow. “Wait-” you said as you grabbed his hand, forcing him to pause and look back at you.
“Yes, dear?” he asked, standing still with you, giving you his full attention despite Vesemir and his brothers yelling at him to go.
“Till the stars run cold?”
With a swift motion, he kissed your hand firmly and held it tight to his chest for as long as he could.
“Till the stars run cold.”
___________________________________________
Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight
#eskel x you#eskel x reader#eskel x y/n#Eskel#the witcher#witcher Eskel#vesemir#kaer morhen#kind of Angsty#but its a comfort ficlet I promise
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Hi Kate, might I suggest 8. “You do?” for Jaskier/Eskel (maybe Jaskier/Eskel/Geralt, I am not picky 😁) or 24. “Wow. Um, okay.” for Jaskier/Geralt from the Responses to “I Love You” Prompt List 👀
Thank you! I went with the second one. Here is some getting together Geraskier.
Teen, no warnings, 800 words.
---
Geralt shouldn’t be here. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves as he works up the courage to knock on his best friend’s door. Jaskier texted earlier, upset over his latest boyfriend breaking up with him, and Geralt couldn’t help rushing out to get him food and beer and try to make him feel better.
Because Geralt is a sucker who happens to be in love with his best friend, and we all know how that usually works out.
On top of everything, he’s soaked to the bone, because the sky had opened up on him while he was walking over from the Chinese restaurant six blocks away from Jaskier’s apartment. There’s one just across the street, but of course that’s not Jaskier’s favorite, so Geralt couldn’t very well show up with it.
Did he mention what a disaster he is?
He shouldn’t be here, but he is, so with another sigh, he brings the hand holding the food bags up and knocks on the door. He can hear Jaskier stomping around inside, probably dragging his whole bed to the door with him, and smiles despite himself. The door flings open revealing Jaskier swaddled in a giant fluffy blanket.
“Geralt? What are you doing here?” Jaskier asks, scrunching up his nose as he steps aside and ushers him inside. He looks way too adorable for someone who just had their heart broken. Though to be fair, Jaskier gets his heart broken every few months. Geralt has no idea why, because who would be stupid enough to send him away once they have him?
“I thought you might need me,” Geralt says, shrugging as he hands over the food bags. “I even got that weird unfiltered raspberry ale you like.”
“You’re drenched! Let me go find you some clothes. This is too much. You’re way too good to me,” Jaskier sighs and looks at him with those stupidly blue eyes and Geralt can feel his mind blanking on him. “Why are you so good to me?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” Geralt blurts out, before his mind catches up with his mouth. He’s nearing a full blown panic and stares at Jaskier, waiting for a response.
“Wow. Um, ok,” Jaskier mumbles, which is definitely not the reaction he’d been hoping for.
“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles before shoving the six-pack at him and bolting towards the door.
“Wait!” Jaskier shouts, dropping the food and the beer and rushing after him. He snags Geralt by the wrist and yanks him away from the door. “Shit, I’m sorry. That could have come out so much better. I...you are?”
“Yeah,” Geralt admits with a sharp nod. And this is it, this is the moment he’s been dreading for years. Jaskier will tell him he doesn’t feel the same and then he’ll never get to see him again. Sure, maybe they’ll have a few visits, share a few texts, but then he’ll shut Geralt out of his life like everyone else always does.
“Valdo broke up with me because he figured out I’m in love with you,” Jaskier tells him and Geralt’s breath hitches in his chest.
“You are?”
“Yeah,” Jaskier says, grinning as he pulls Geralt close and touches their foreheads together. Geralt closes his eyes and just breathes in the familiar citrus scent of him, still not quite sure this isn’t all a dream.
But then Jaskier tilts his head and presses a hesitant kiss to his mouth, and Geralt immediately starts kissing him back. He means to keep it chaste, but he can’t help licking at the seam of Jaskier’s lips, deepening the kiss as Jaskier clings to him. He tastes sugary - like he’s been drowning his sorrows in ice cream - and Geralt chases the flavor into his mouth.
Jaskier presses another soft kiss against his mouth, humming happily as he pulls back and beams at him. Geralt grins right back, so happy he feels like his whole body is lit up with it. He’d never imagined kissing him would feel this good, this right.
“You’re cold,” Jaskier whines with a giggle, and Geralt just rolls his eyes and hmms in agreement.
“You promised me new clothes,” he says. Jaskier steps back and looks down at the mess on the floor. Thankfully none of the food containers seems to have broken, but he still looks sheepish as he turns back to Geralt.
“So I did. How about I run and grab you some sweats and then we salvage dinner and you let me cuddle up with you on the couch like I’ve always wanted to?” Jaskier suggests, and fuck if that doesn’t sound like a perfect evening.
“Glad I bought cans,” Geralt huffs, but they’re both grinning as they get to work. He has a feeling his cheeks will hurt from smiling by the time the night is over.
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Lambden headbutting/nuzzling, anyone? warning: slight sexual innuendos
Lambert was...confused. It wasn’t an emotion he felt often, and certainly not one he enjoyed feeling, so he tried his best to push it down and act natural. Of course, Aiden was a witcher; if anyone could see right through Lambert’s emotional walls it was him. He was nice though. He gave Lambert a pass, continuing on with the conversation as if Lambert hadn’t just frozen in place, hadn’t turned away to hide his blush.
It was all Aiden’s fault really. They were sitting in front of a fire, nestled close together with their knees touching ever so slightly, chowing down on cooked rabbit. Aiden had brought a small pouch of mixed spices on the road, something he’d acquired in Toussaint after the winter, and for once their dinner wasn’t bland. Lambert had told something close to a joke, maybe too gruff and sarcastic, but Aiden still laughed hard and then...and then. He leaned over into Lambert’s personal space and nudged him with his head. Maybe nudged was the wrong word. He nuzzled, lingered there for a minute with his forehead against Lambert’s bicep. And then he was gone, offering up a witty retort. And Lambert was left to try to remember how to swallow, lest he choke on rabbit.
It became a thing of theirs. On the road, when they were walking peacefully and Aiden was standing close; as they sat by the fire at night; in their room at the inn, when they laid down for bed. Those were the nights that had Lambert crawling out of his skin, when Aiden would turn to face his back or chest (whatever was right in front of him) and nuzzle his bare skin. It sent prickles down Lambert’s spine. He laid awake longer than normal those nights, listening to the wind against the building mingled with the soft, calming sound of Aiden’s slow heart beat. Trying to figure out what it all meant, or if it meant anything at all. Maybe it wasn’t that deep.
“Come with me,” Lambert whispered one night when Aiden curled up against his chest, half asleep. It probably wasn’t the best time to ask but Lambert was significantly less brave when it came to matters of the heart. Aiden stirred, unusually bright green eyes fluttering open to look at him.
“What was that, pup?”
“Come with me to Kaer Morhen. Winter with me.”
A lazy but fond smile stretched across his plush lips. “You really mean it? You want to introduce a bastard Cat to your brothers?”
“Fuck ‘em, it’s not about them.” It was mostly true - he couldn’t deny that the idea of his brothers approving of Aiden made his heart swell, but if they didn’t like Aiden, that was their problem. “It’s about...us.”
“Us?” Aiden smirked, quirking his eyebrow.
“Our friendship!” He said quickly. “We always meet up in the spring, and it’d be easier if I didn’t have to search for your sneaky ass.”
“You search for me, do you?” He was definitely fucking with him now, and Lambert shoved him gently.
“Quit dodging the question, kitty cat. Are you coming or not?”
“You tell me,” Aiden purred. He cackled at the blush that crept over Lambert’s cheeks. “Yes, of course I’m coming. About time you asked.”
“Okay. Well, that’s - okay.” Lambert willed his heart to settle down. Aiden silently curled up against him again, conversation over, and Lambert tried not to think much about it. Aiden flirted with everyone. On one memorable occasion he got so drunk he even flirted with a chair. It was just who he was. It meant nothing.
Then Aiden wrapped an arm around his waist and softly nuzzled his cheek back and forth over Lambert’s heart, making soft sighing noises until he slowed and eventually fell asleep.
Lambert didn’t sleep at all that night.
——
As expected, his brothers hadn’t been overly excited about meeting Aiden. They hadn’t been rude, at least, and if they stared at the two with curiosity Lambert chose to ignore it. His growing feelings for Aiden aside, he didn’t want Geralt and Eskel’s assumptions to make his friend uncomfortable.
Vesemir was less pleasant, displaying only as much politeness as was necessary to not piss Lambert off, but even he had a certain look in his eyes when Aiden got too close, too physically affectionate with Lambert. It wasn’t judgemental exactly. It still made him itch. Did he need to wear a sign that read “we’re just friends you fuckers”? He was strongly considering it.
“How do you tolerate the cold?” Aiden said one night after dinner. They sat around the hearth, a warm fire blazing, and even that didn’t seem enough for the Cat. He was used to traveling in warmer areas. Lambert could relate - the keep was often far too cold for his liking.
“At least you’ll be under your furs soon,” Eskel offered. Having bonded over which monsters they’d fucked in the past, they seemed on better terms. Geralt silently passed Aiden a bottle of liquor to warm him up.
“It’s cold there, too. Big empty bed with nobody to keep me warm,” he grumbled, downing a shot and passing the bottle back with a nod of thanks.
“Why don’t you sleep with me?”
Lambert regretted the words almost as soon as they left his mouth. Geralt and Eskel both shot him looks, and even Vesemir, half asleep in a chair, raised his eyes curiously. Lambert could feel his cheeks burning.
Aiden ignored them all. “I’d love to, pup. You’re a furnace.” He stood and stretched, shirt riding up to reveal brown skin and a soft, dark trail of hair that disappeared below his waist line. Lambert pointedly looked away, aware that all eyes were on him. Lambert stood with him.
“Let me go grab my furs and I’ll meet you in your room.” Aiden leaned over and nuzzled him like he always did when they parted, whether for five days or five months. It was his thing. He flashed Lambert a gentle smile and left without another word.
“Well fuck,” Geralt snorted. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lambert snapped.
“Come on Lambert,” Eskel sighed deeply. “You’ve done a good job playing dumb until now, but you can’t hide it any longer. We all know what that head bumping thing means.”
Except they all didn’t. Lambert was thoroughly confused. It must have shown all over his face because Eskel sighed again and looked toward Vesemir.
“Can you please tell Lambert what the headbutting thing means for Cat Witchers?”
“Yes, please tell me,” Lambert threw his arms up, frustrated. “Clearly I’m missing something!”
Vesemir sighed, too. Why was everyone sighing at him? “To keep a long story short, headbutting and nuzzling are ways that Cat Witchers show their love. Sometimes it’s in a familial manner, but more often it’s...romantic.”
Lambert stood in the middle of the room, jaw dropped, brain short-circuiting.
“He...what? No. No, Aiden is like that with everyone. I mean, fuck, he’s flirted with everyone in the room apart from Vesemir! I’m not special.”
“Nuzzling isn’t flirting,” Vesemir said matter-of-factly. “It’s an expression of love. And he hasn’t done it to anyone but you.”
Fuck.
——
“You love me,” Lambert breathed into the still air. It was cold, and he instinctively pulled Aiden closer. It was hard to do; they were already pressed so close together that Lambert could feel the firm curves of Aiden’s body warming his.
“I do. What made you finally realize it.”
Lambert shrugged, Aiden’s head bobbing with him. “The nuzzling thing. Vesemir told me what it meant.”
Aiden lifted his head to get a good look at Lambert, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You mean you didn’t know? Fuck, and I thought I was being so obvious!”
“What can I say, I’m thick.”
Aiden let his eyes roam over Lambert’s body where the blanket was slightly raised. “I’ll say.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Lambert laughed, pulling Aiden down on top of him. To his great pleasure Aiden took that opportunity to nuzzle his face, cheeks rubbing together in an electrifying combination of stubble and warm skin. He stayed like hat, cheek pressed to Lambert’s and breath on his ear, for a long while.
“I love you too,” Lambert said softly. Aiden started purring for real this time, a gentle and soothing rumble, and Lambert let it lull him to sleep.
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If you are still writing 14?
Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.
14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”
wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol
Robbed Blind
Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?
-
She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.
He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.
“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”
“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.
Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.
Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.
He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.
“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.
Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”
He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”
She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”
“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”
“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”
Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”
Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”
She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.
“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.
-
“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”
Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”
The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”
Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”
“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.
Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”
Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.
Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”
“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”
Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”
Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.
“They’re brothers.”
Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”
“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.
“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”
There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”
Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”
“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”
Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.
“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”
-
They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.
Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.
She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.
“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.
Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”
“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.
Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.
And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.
“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.
He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.
Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.
‘If life could give me one blessing…’
“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”
It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.
Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”
“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.
The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.
Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”
Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?
“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.
Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”
Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”
“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.
“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.
“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.
Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.
Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”
He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.
It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?
The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”
Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …
Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”
He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”
They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.
Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.
“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.
When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.
“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”
And Geralt let his hand fall away.
Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.
He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.
“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.
Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.
The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.
Geralt took his hand gently.
Jaskier squeezed it back.
“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”
Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.
Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”
She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.
“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”
He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”
Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”
Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.
“Vese—”
Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.
“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”
Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”
“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”
Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”
A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.
“Ciri,” he breathed.
Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.
“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”
All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”
“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.
“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”
He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.
“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”
He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.
Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.
Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”
Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.
Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”
“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”
It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”
He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”
There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.
However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.
-
Send me a drabble prompt!
#my fic#drabbles#witcher#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#cirilla fiona elen riannon#lambert#eskel#vesemir#I'd tag aiden but he's really only mentioned in passing#ew I came back to look at this and the scene breaks did not transfer over#fixed it now
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I loved your fic about witchers being afraid of moths so much. I suffer mottophobia as well and the thought that witchers feel the same is nice. So thank you!!!
Nonnie, I'm so pleased you liked that story! Phobias of any kind can be so stressful, I hope moths don't bother you all that often. While I don't have another phobia story for you, I have something a little different that I hope you enjoy.
CW: Panic attacks
It had taken Aiden several years before he broached the idea of wintering together. He knew Lambert went to Kaer Morhen each season and didn't want to be rude by inviting himself to the Wolves' den. But he also didn't want to make Lambert have to choose between seeing his family for the season and accompanying Aiden to the Caravan. Really, he need not have feared because as soon as he brought up the topic of winter, Lambert was jumping at the chance.
"Want to go to the Caravan?"
Just like that, they spent three years wintering with Cats. Lambert fit right in, helping with life on the road without a hitch, messing around, teaching tricks and learning new ones in equal measure. He cooked, did repairs and was as accepted into the Caravan as a stranger could be. It made Aiden wonder whether he missed the pack feel of his own family of Wolves.
"This year-" he said with some hesitance late one summer, "-why don't we go north? Kaer Morhen has probably missed its youngest Wolf."
If Lambert's expression was anything to go by, he didn't agree. "Does the Caravan not want me this year?"
"What?" Aiden scoffed at the notion. "No! I thought you knew they all dote on you. I just thought you might want to spend a season with your family. You met mine..." Not that he'd ever say it out loud but Aiden wanted to meet Lambert's family too, he didn't want to be a shameful secret.
The terse "fine" sounded anything but fine. However, Lambert refused to discuss it any further and, come winter, he led them north. By the time they got to the bottom of the mountain Lambert was tense, quiet and anything he said was cutting. It wasn't the Lambert Aiden knew at all. But he reasoned that maybe Lambert was nervous about bringing a Cat home. The higher up they got, the faster Lambert's heart beat. Perhaps it was the excitement of coming home after so long, at least that was what Aiden told himself. He figured once they were done with the dangerous path up to Kaer Morhen then Lambert would relax. He was wrong.
They made it into the warmth of the halls and what followed was the most uncomfortable introduction Aiden had ever endured. Lambert stopped, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the other three.
"This is Aiden. You break him, I break your necks." With that, Lambert stomped out, bristling and grumbling under his breath. Hastily, Aiden followed after a quick wave that the three Witchers looking suitably non-plussed by it all.
What was strange was that Lambert didn't settle. He was a fountain of bitter remarks, sarcastic quips and brash aggression. Aiden couldn't make heads or tails of it. The others didn't react, didn't seem like they even wanted to try and calm the situation. In the end Aiden couldn't stand by anymore and cornered Eskel, demanding answers.
"What do you mean?" The thing was, Eskel genuinely seemed confused. "That's just Lambert for you. You've known him for years now, surely you're used to it."
But Aiden wasn't. He hadn't seen Lambert like that before, so on edge. "No," he replied in the end. "This isn't how I know him. His heart rate's high, he's callous, spikey, lashing out. That's not the Lambert I know."
The look Eskel gave him was one of strange reproach. "The mutagens didn't fully take with him, his heart's always been faster than a normal Witcher's. As for the rest, I don't know what swamp water you drink to block it out but that's Lambert in a nutshell."
It wasn't. Aiden knew Lambert, spent years listening to his steady heartbeat, relishing when they fell in sync most nights. He'd seen the kindness and patience Lambert had out on the Path and at the Caravan. There was no mocking for getting footwork wrong, no calling the other person an idiot with a scoff. Nor had Aiden ever seen Lambert pace before, a restless tracing of a path between window and door of the bedroom. The growled "don't touch me" sounded full of threat, so much like a dog trying to prove he could really hurt an opponent in an effort to stave off an actual fight. Seeing Lambert like that hurt and Aiden didn't know what had provoked the change.
Things got worse when they were making repairs to Kaer Morhen, trying to undo all the damage the sacking had done. With the parts they inhabited secure and warm, Vesemir directed their work to the dungeons, salvaging what they could. Smoke stained books and scrolls along with bottles that contained the dregs of potions were pulled from partially collapsed rooms. Lambert was exceptionally acerbic, sniping at everyone including Aiden. It was all ignored until he snapped at Vesemir, "so what's the plan here, old man? Going to open up the torture chambers again to get your rocks off?"
"Another word from you and you'll be running the Killer twice before each meal," Vesemir growled, grabbing another thick book covered in ash and rock debris.
Throwing his hands up, Lambert stormed off, muttering about how he'd rather run the Killer night and day than suffer this idiocy. Nobody seemed to care that his breath had hitched and heartrate was rocketing higher. Well, Aiden cared. Seeing as none of the others looked interested in following Lambert, he took it upon himself.
"Best to leave him," Eskel called after him. "He'll probably destroy a few training dummies in a fit of rage and then calm. Ignoring him leads to the fewest injuries for all."
Not that Aiden cared. He followed the sour scent that Lambert had been coated in all winter, maybe even before that. True to Eskel's prediction, he was in the training yard but he wasn't decimating dummies. Instead, Lambert was staring blankly off into the distance, muscles locked into a tense hunch.
"Lamb?"
His name seemed to jerk Lambert out of whatever thoughts he'd gotten lost in. Whirling, he rounded on Aiden with a snarl. Not rising to it, Aiden held a arm open and stepped closer, inviting Lambert into a cuddle. His heart broke a little when Lambert reared away, spitting with rage. "Don't touch me!"
Truthfully, Aiden didn't have to, he could see the solid lines of muscles, coiled tight. Everything about Lambert screamed to be left alone but he couldn't, not when there was something so underlyingly wrong. If Aiden didn't know any better, he'd have said that anyone else behaving like Lambert was having a silent panic attack. Maybe Aiden didn't know any better. He'd rarely heard Lambert speak of Kaer Morhen or the others, and when it did it wasn't with fondness. Around them was destruction, every stone imbued with memories of a hard life. Aiden knew that the instructors were harsh, often punishing Lambert with a cane or deprivation as he grew up. Vesemir had been one of those men and Lambert had to face his tormentor on a daily basis. They'd been digging up the dungeon where the trials had been administered, pulling what they could on how to recreate the them. Each crumbling wall was another layer of memories of the sacking, of a life Lambert hated but had no idea how to leave behind. When the misery was the only thing he knew, the only steady thing in his life, it was easier to cling to it rather than embrace the terror of the unknow.
Keeping his distance, Aiden nodded. "It's okay." It wasn't but he had no idea what else to say. They were going to have to get through winter, it was too late to head down the mountain. But as soon as it was safe, Aiden was whisking Lambert away from it. He wasn't letting him face the traumas of his past again and again. It wasn't healthy to rip open those wounds, to come face to face with living memories each time he saw Vesemir and Kaer Morhen.
When Aiden stepped in again, Lambert didn't scuttle away. Instead, he was stiff as a board in Aiden's arms, quivering with pent up emotions. Slowly, Aiden rubbed his back, tried to urge him to relax into his hold. Ever so gradually Lambert did, letting Aiden take a fair chunk of his weight as the shaking got more pronounced. Without a word, Aiden held him, gave him the quiet and the space to finally fall apart. It made him wonder whether, in years gone by, Lambert would allow himself to break apart each night in the privacy of his room. Now, with Aiden there, had he been trying to hold it all together, no space safe enough to let his emotions out? Shuddering at the thought, Aiden held Lambert tighter. Come next year, they were going to spend winter with the Caravan again. Never again was Lambert going to have to face the haunting wraiths of his past. Not if Aiden could help it.
#lambden#lambert/aiden#lambert#aiden#the witcher#cw: panic attacks#tldr: lambert has silent panic attacks at kaer morhen
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Locked Out
winter prompts day 10 ❄️ lost in a storm
If Jaskier was a stupider man, he'd be confused about the sheer amount of times he and Geralt seem to be getting stuck places together. But he and Geralt had been the first to arrive and these things only started happening after both Eskel and Lambert had reached the keep. Jaskier can put two and two together and come to the conclusion that none of this is an accident.
Unfortunately for him, Jaskier also knows why it's happening. Witchers can smell all sorts of stupid, inconvenient shit, one of the more prominent (and most inconvenient) of those being the changes in human emotion. Meaning that if Jaskier wants to keep his feelings to himself, he has to try very hard to do so. And he discovered almost as soon as the other Witchers showed up that he is terrible at it. The only conclusion he can come to is that between the four of them, they've come to the (albeit correct) conclusion, that Jaskier is hopelessly in love with Geralt, and set themselves to the task of getting together.
What they don't know, is that Geralt barely tolerates Jaskier at the best of times and getting them together is a lost cause. He wants to confront them about it, but he rather likes the time he gets to spend alone with Geralt, whether they're cooking or cleaning or chopping wood. Geralt is different up at the keep than he is on the Path and Jaskier likes this friendlier, more open side of him. So, as long as no one is getting hurt (himself notwithstanding) he decides there's nothing wrong with their little game. They think they're solving a problem and Jaskier gets to spend some time with his friend in a place that's comfortable for him.
Then, one day, they're all gathered in the main hall. Vesemir has long grown tired of Geralt and Lambert's bickering and has retired to his room or the library or wherever it is he goes when he's had enough. Jaskier is once again left alone with the younger wolves and Aiden and he's enjoying the conversation, but he finds himself tuning out more and more often tonight, wondering what it was like to grow up in a place like this.
He knows it was very different then, that there were many more Witchers who called Kaer Morhen home, but he doesn't dare ask more than that. He's gleaned enough from the little bits and pieces from Geralt to know that his childhood was not a happy one and if he's happier here now, Jaskier doesn't want to stir up bad memories.
Jaskier doesn't realize he's staring at Geralt until Lambert nudges him. He shales his head and turns around to a very smug look.
"Aiden's gonna grab drinks," Lambert says, "why don't you and Geralt go get more firewood while we settle up in here." Jaskier nods obediently, casting a quick look in Geralt's direction to see if he suspects anything. Geralt just sighs as he rises to his feet. Jaskier follows suit and traipses after Geralt toward the large doors.
They've only been outside a couple of seconds when Jaskier hears the doors click shut behind them and the sound of the lock being slid across. He spins on his heel immediately and Geralt takes a few steps back, pressing on the door, to no avail.
"You can come back in when you figure your shit out!" Lambert calls through the door. Jaskier can hear them mumbling afterward, but it's too quiet to hear properly. Geralt sighs and rolls his eyes.
"Idiots," he mumbles and turns back to Jaskier. He seems surprisingly calm, but Jaskier feels immediately guilty. This is his fault. He shouldn't have let the game go on for so long and now they're stuck out in the cold until, well, until Lambert and his cohorts decide that they've figured their shit out - something Jaskier knows won't happen.
Fuck. He should have talked to Eskel when he had the chance. He knows Eskel would have listened, that he wouldn't want to force Geralt into something he's uncomfortable with. He might have even talked to Lambert and Aiden about it, gotten them to call it off as well, but Jaskier had been greedy. He had wanted too badly to spend time with Geralt that he hadn't considered things might get out of hand, and now they have.
All at once, he realizes the only way to solve this is to own up to his own feelings. Maybe it will make Geralt uncomfortable for a little while and maybe he won't want to travel with him any longer, but it's his fault for not saying something earlier. Now, it's the only thing he can do to fix this.
He turns to try to explain to Geralt, but when he does, Geralt is smirking back at him.
"Bastards," he mumbles, "what do you say we beat them at their own game?"
Jaskier, stunned, just looks at him.
"I-" if that's what Geralt wants, how could Jaskier turn him down considering this is his fault. "Alright, what do you have in mind?"
"Find somewhere to hide out until they come looking for us," Geralt smirks. Jaskier finds himself at a loss. Ever since coming to Kaer Morhen, he's been continuously surprised about how much fun Geralt really could be when he was comfortable enough to let go. He finds himself agreeing without even thinking through what a terrible idea this could actually be.
"Come on," Geralt says, "we'll head up to the old watchtower and watch them from there."
It's a great idea in theory. In practice, Jaskier will be oblivious to whatever Geralt is watching and he's already wondering why he agreed to this. They barely make it down the hill before it starts to snow and Jaskier sighs to himself. He doesn't quite understand why he's feeling so bad about all of this because Geralt seems to be having a perfectly fine time with it and regularly Jaskier would be thrilled to (team up) with him, but tonight, he's still feeling a little guilty about everything.
A part of him is even hoping Geralt will turn around when the snow starts, but he doesn't and it only starts to snow more heavily. Jaskier does his best to keep up but finds he's falling behind and eventually gives up when he loses sight of Geralt altogether.
"Geralt!" he shouts and for a moment there's no response. Great, he was stupid enough to keep playing along with this and now he's going to die for it, lost and frozen in the middle of fucking nowhere.
He drops to his knees in the snow and is almost immediately hauled back up to his feet. Geralt's arm wraps around his shoulders and suddenly Jaskier is being walked forward through the snow. He has no idea if they're going in the same direction or if they've turned around, but he trusts Geralt to keep him safe.
He doesn't know how long they walk before coming upon a partial structure, half-buried in the snow. Jaskier is pushed inside and Geralt follows shortly, brushing the snow off of himself and then Jaskier. Before he can stop to consider his options, Jaskier is being tugged down into Geralt's lap and bundled up in his arms. He squirms but Geralt holds him close.
"Just... let me warm you up. You're nearly frozen." Jaskier wants to point out that it's Geralt's fault he's nearly frozen, but he's feeling more miserable than bitter.
Reluctantly, he lets Geralt hold him and hopes that he's considered warmed up sooner rather than later. He relaxes into it after a moment, but he's hyperaware of every place they touch. Geralt's hands are warm and comforting, but when they slip under the hem of his shirt, Jaskier pulls away.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I can't let you do this."
"Do... what?" Geralt asks. The expression on his face is a combination of hurt and confusion and Jaskier hates it, but he knows this is for the best.
"Treat me like this," he mumbles. "It's my fault we're in this place."
"Jaskier, I wasn't going to force you through the snow-"
"I don't mean here in this little shack, Geralt. I mean locked outside the keep in the first place." At this point, Geralt looks at him like he's speaking a whole other language and Jaskier sighs. His shoulders slump and he braces himself, but he supposes it was bound to come out at some point. It's been twenty years, after all.
"You know what they're doing, right?" Jaskier asks and Geralt shrugs.
"Being idiots."
"No." Jaskier pauses, but he can't bring himself to look up at Geralt. He's imagined telling Geralt how he feels time and time again, but he never expected it to be an apology. "Geralt they're trying to get us alone together on purpose. Because of my- because of the way I feel about you. Witchers can smell feelings or whatever, right? And I'm not as good at hiding it as I thought I was, so they've obviously figured it out. And I know they're just trying to help, but they don't realize that you don't-" he chokes on the words He's thought they dozens of times, but knowing Geralt doesn't feel the same and saying it out loud are two different things.
"Jask?" Geralt says softly and when Jaskier looks up, he's moved closer and he's smiling softly at him. "Is that why you think they're doing this?" Jaskier nods and Geralt sighs and shuts his eyes. "Jaskier, come here."
"Are you sure?"
"Jaskier."
"Okay, okay." He shuffles closer again, letting Geralt's arms wind around him. He tries not to press into him, but the hut is cold and Geralt is so warm and he smells wonderful, like leather and smoke and home and Jaskier is so worried about being so close that he doesn't realize Geralt is talking until he rests his chin on Jaskier's head.
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Uh. Yes?" Geralt sighs and does something that Jaskier can only assume is nosing at his hair.
"I didn't know about your... feelings. I thought they were just fucking with me." His arms close in a little tighter and Jaskier is too confused to fight against it. Geralt chuckles softly and Jaskier is fairly certain he's actually imagining things when he feels soft lips press against his head. "If I'd known you were amenable, I would have kissed you a long time ago and gotten them off our backs."
At that, Jaskier is certain something is wrong. Geralt doesn't just say things like that. He pulls out of his arms, turning to face him.
"Are you sick?" he asks and Geralt tips forward, swiftly closing the space between them and catching Jaskier's lips in a soft kiss.
Jaskier's mind goes entirely blank and he forgets what he's supposed to do with someone's mouth against his own. Then, Geralt's thumb comes up to brush against his cheek and when Geralt deepens the kiss, Jaskier moans softly and his reflexes take over, leaning into the kiss and wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulders.
Without hesitation, Geralt winds his arms around his waist, hauling Jaskier up into his lap and leaning back against the wall. The kiss seems to last an eternity and no time at all and when Jaskier pulls away it's only because he's abruptly aware that he still needs to breathe.
"Oh," he breathes and Geralt smiles at him, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair back behind Jaskier's ear.
"I've wanted to do that for a long time."
"Me too. I suppose this means we'll have to thank the other?"
Geralt chuckles as he curls a hand around the back of Jaskier's neck and draws him close for another kiss. "Not a chance."
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The Love We Have
Part 4/5 - AO3 - Previous - Next
Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.
Ship: Geraskier
Rating: T
CW: Mentions of sex and implied sexual content
_______
“What?!” Geralt stared at Jaskier, who had one hand on his hips and the other flailing through the air like a wet fish. The last hour had been a whirlwind of emotions and Geralt was struggling to keep up. First, Eskel and Lambert’s teasing over Jaskier, which had practically given away his true feelings, and then Jaskier running off to his room, stinking of fear and regret… now this? Whatever this was supposed to be.
“We’ll tell the others that I was just being dramatic, I’m a bard after all,” Jaskier explained, a picture of nonchalance as he flicked his hand in the air, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s inner crisis.
They stared at each other, both stubborn as mules, neither willing to back down, until Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have got to be joking.”
“Nope!” Jaskier trilled, popping the ‘p’ and winking at Geralt as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The bard’s mood swings were difficult to keep up with on the best of days but Geralt felt like he was stuck in a storm, not too dissimilar to the burst of magic that Pavetta had created all those years ago. He couldn’t move forward. He couldn’t move back. No, he was just a boat on the waves, being pulled by the currents of Jaskier’s tide.
“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled, not quite believing that he was about to agree to this. “Fine. How do we do this?”
Jaskier glanced at the bed. “Is it squeaky?”
“What?”
“The bed? Is it squeaky?”
This was ridiculous, but it was too late to back out now. He’d started this after all, dragging Jaskier all the way up this godforsaken mountain, to a crumbly keep in the middle of a harsh winter. The least he could do was let Jaskier have his fun. He would just have to hope that he didn’t get aroused and make it awkward for both of them. Well, Geralt supposed he could just blame it on the circumstances and weather the inevitable teasing from the bard. “No,” he admitted.
“So… how much will they be able to hear?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head, his hand still resting on his hip in a way that was just so entirely Jaskier.
“What?”
“Gods, Geralt. It’s like blood from a stone! Vesemir said witchers have good hearing. So our conversation now? Is that safe from prying ears?”
Geralt frowned, focussing his witcher senses. The extra set of mutagens had given him an edge over the others and from their room he could just about hear a faint murmur of voices but he couldn’t make out any words, or even who was talking. So he nodded. “We’re fine.”
“And what if we start shouting?”
“Less fine.”
Jaskier smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his tongue flicked out between his teeth, dragging along his lips slowly. Geralt was entranced. The air grew heavy between them and Geralt felt as if Jaskier was trying to seduce him for real, not for some silly game to trick the other witchers. A heat pooled in his core as Jaskier’s eyes roamed over his body, the same way they did when Jaskier was trying to lure some unexpecting fool into his bed.
Only now Geralt was the fool.
And it was working.
“What about moaning?” Jaskier purred, closing the gap between them, his hands splayed on Geralt’s chest. The bard’s gaze kept flicking down to Geralt’s lips, his fingers trailing along the crevices of Geralt’s heavy jumper.
Geralt swallowed, his mouth feeling too dry. What the fuck was Jaskier trying to acheive? The idiot had definitely said pretend to have sex… hadn’t he?
“Jask,” he murmured, a low warning. This had gone on long enough, and Geralt’s control was beginning to crumble. He wanted nothing more than to take the bard into his arms, to kiss that stupid grin off his face. To wreck those pretty lips that had teased him with every lick for years, with no idea of how badly it was affecting him.
“Yes, darling?” Jaskier whispered, standing so close that his breath was tickling, warm against Geralt’s skin.
The sweet scent of arousal was wafting off of the bard in waves, making Geralt feel heady, and the world seemed to fade around them until it was just the pair of them. It reminded him of their first kiss, a trial unlike any other in Geralt’s life, one to see whether they’d even have a chance of pulling off this crazy scheme, just because they hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter.
Because Geralt hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter. Every year they separated, Geralt felt like he was leaving a little more of his soul behind until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Rather than admitting the truth to Jaskier, and actually confessing his feelings, he’d been a coward. So they were pretending to be in love. Chaste kisses, fake touches, lies.
It was all lies.
By gods, he wanted it to be real.
He took a deep breath through his mouth, trying to clear his head of Jaskier’s scent. “How do we fake it?”
Jaskier’s flirtatious facade dropped, for barely a second but Geralt still saw it. He knew the bard too well to miss the subtle change in his expression, but Jaskier was an expert, a trained actor, and he masked his mistake well. For anyone else it would have worked. He plastered a grin on his face, clearing his throat as he stood back away from Geralt. Ringed fingers patted awkwardly on Geralt’s chest as the distance grew between them. “Fake it, yes. Well, I was. I was thinking some jumping on the bed, moaning, grunting, maybe some dirty talk,” Jaskier laughed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that was completely ridiculous but unbearably endearing, and Geralt wanted Jaskier back in his space. The distance was too much.
And then an idea struck him. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, tilting his head and smirking at the bard. “Won’t work.”
“Oh yeah, and how would you know?”
“I told you, we can smell it.”
“Smell… sex?”
“Yes.”
Jaskier’s eyes went wide, a bright pink flush colouring his cheeks. His mouth dropped open as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Ah. Right then… well, umm. We don’t. We don’t have to…”
“They’ll wonder why, you said yourself,” Geralt murmured, once again closing the gap between them, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and running his thumb through the bristles of stubble on his jaw. The bard seemed to freeze under his touch, staring back at Geralt, his mouth dropped open, and that crackling spark between them was back, licking across Geralt’s skin. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat, a flicker of anxiety squeezing in his chest. It would be hard to explain this as just friendly banter should Jaskier reject him now.
“You want to?”
Geralt tilted his head. “Do you want to?”
Jaskier barked a laugh, his fingers flexing and coming back to gripped at Geralt’s clothes. “Only if you want to. Oh for Melitele’s sake!”
The bard crashed their lips together in a kiss, his fingers cupping the nape of Geralt’s neck, holding him close. Geralt moaned into Jaskier’s mouth as his lips parted, allowing Geralt’s tongue to slip against his. One of Jaskier’s hands trailed down Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until the bard’s fingers gripped Geralt’s arse, pressing their bodies together. Arousal and lust filled the air around them in a cloud, sweet and intoxicating, more addictive than any drug. Geralt groaned into the kiss, breaking their lips apart so Jaskier could breathe, but never letting his lips leave Jaskier’s skin that was warm and salty on his tongue. He pressed kisses along Jaskier’s jaw, nuzzling his nose into the bard’s neck as he breathed in that delicious scent, sweet chamomile and an underlying musk. Jaskier whimpered, the sound creating a quiver of vibrations in his throat, tingling against Geralt’s lips.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, the name; a prayer as it rolled off his tongue, a whisper in the otherwise silent room. Geralt had never heard his name said in such a reverent manner, like he was all that mattered in the world. It was almost too much.
Witchers don’t feel.
Witchers can’t feel.
Witchers can’t fall in love.
Well, it seemed Geralt hadn’t gotten that memo when he was going through the trials. He loved, and he was so in love with this idiot that was in his arms.
Love.
Sweeter than honey.
Jaskier’s scent.
Geralt pulled back with a start, staring frantically at the bard as if he could figure everything out just by looking in those gorgeous cornflower blue eyes. It was no use, Jaskier was pouting up at him, confused and a little hurt, but there was no trace of love… not that Geralt knew what he was looking for. People looked at him with horror, fear, occasionally lust but never love. Would he even be able to tell?
“Geralt?”
“Fuck.”
Jaskier cupped his cheek, blue eyes searching and panicked. “Geralt, what’s going on? I’m not Yennefer, I can’t… I can’t read your mind. You need to talk to me, please.”
After taking a long breath, Geralt closed his eyes. “I-I… fuck.”
Jaskier’s fingers on his cheek moved, brushing a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ears, and there was a soft press of lips against his, gentle and grounding. Before it could get heated, Jaskier pulled away, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, and Geralt covered Jaskier’s hand with his own. The mood shifting from something hot and burning to something all the more intense, intimate. “It’s okay, dear heart, I understand.”
“But--”
“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, his breath hot against Geralt’s lips, and he said it so confidently, without any fear. There was no way those words could be taken any other way. Jaskier was in love with him.
Jaskier was in love with him.
Actually in love with him.
They were alone, no need to pretend or act or lie. This was all real, and Geralt suddenly understood why people said they were on top of the world. He felt invincible, with this delicate flower, so mortal and breakable, by his side. He could take on the most fearsome of monsters and be absolutely fine, as long as Jaskier loved him.
And that made him feel unreasonably angry. All the lies he’d been fed as a child. Love was a weakness to be exploited.
No.
Love was his strength, his greatest weapon.
“Geralt, darling…” Jaskier’s voice, low and warm like a summer’s day, snapped him from his thoughts. “I adore you but, but… can you let go?”
Geralt growled, blinking as he focussed back into the room. His fingers were digging into Jaskier’s hips, and judging by the look on the bard’s face, he was hurting him. “Shit, sorry.”
Thankfully, Jaskier just laughed, a beautiful musical sound that made warmth blossom in Geralt’s chest. “Oh darling, what is going on in there?” A long finger tapped Geralt right in the middle of his forehead, and then Jaskier placed a hand on his hip and cocked his head, a pout playing on his lips.
“Hmm, pondering on the subject of love.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” Jaskier giggled. “We shall make a poet out of you yet, witcher! And what is it about love that has got you all grumpy and scary face?”
“Witchers don’t love,” Geralt repeated the familiar words, though now they felt empty and bitter on his tongue.
Jaskier scoffed. “And yet… only significant others are allowed to Kaer Morhen? That’s still a load of bollocks, you know. As if our decades-long friendship isn’t more important than a quick summer fling.”
“But you love me.”
“Ah yes, but… oh shush. You know what I mean, Geralt!”
Geralt chuckled. “Hmm.”
“You. are. Terrible!” Jaskier snapped, clearly starting to spiral into one of his moods, but Geralt had a better idea. He scooped Jaskier up into his arms and over his shoulder in one swift movement. “Oi!”
“You talk too much.”
“And yet, you love me,” Jaskier trilled happily “Now, take me to bed, witcher. I think we’ve both waited long enough.”
Geralt chuckled, throwing Jaskier down onto the bed. The bard squeaked as he bounced on the mattress but soon regained his composure, tongue slipping between his lips as he gazed up at Geralt with a smirk. He looked beautiful, clothes already a mess and his hair tousled from their kisses and his own habit of messing it up when he got anxious. His cheeks were still a little blotchy from the earlier tears but there was no denying his beauty… almost elf like in his elegance. Geralt felt like he could stare at his bard for hours and never grow bored of the sight, but he was allowed to touch now, and that was just too tempting. Years of restraint, and now the chains were broken. He crawled onto the bed, resting between Jaskier’s spread legs and pressed their lips together, slow and lazy.
They had all night after all.
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier pankratz#kaer morhen#fake dating#wolfie’s witcher writing
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