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alpaca-clouds · 4 months

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Why I have complicated feelings about the Witcher Games

I started my yearly reread of the Witcher books and it once again reminds me of how complicated I feel about the Witcher games. Because... well, they kinda focus a lot on the power fantasy over the story and characters.

Let me quickly explain: I read the Witcher books when they released in Germany and I loved them, because... it literally was the first time outside of manga that I ever encountered queer characters in media, which meant a lot to my queer little self back then.

However, when the first game came out I did not make the connection between the title and the books I read. Like, the names vaguely rang a bell to me, but I really did not make the connection at first when playing that first game.

Now, back then I was still in my late teenage stage, and so back then the entire "sex minigame" with the sexy card collection was funny to me. It was before my feminism arc, so to speak. I just did not think too much about it.

By the time however that the second game came out I had rediscovered the books. And I found that... It really icked me. The entire sex thing. And also that they made Triss all sexy, completely ignoring that in the book she had this big disfiguring scar over her chest which could not be fixed because of her ALLERGY AGAINST MAGIC REMEDIES! But no, the game ignored that.

It should be said, I have... complicated feelings about Yennefer, which probably has to do a lot with internalized misogyny. But yes, I always liked Triss a lot, while... Ah, I just always got annoyed a lot with Yennefer taking so long to be honest about her feelings in the books. But again, probably internalized misogyny, I am honest.

Now, I had a ton of fun playing both Witcher 2 and Wild Hunt. I did. But when I was there, reading the books again, I could not help but very much just headcanon that those were two very, very different things. Because... well, the Witcher games are a cishet male power fantasy, while the books are anything what.

Geralt in the books is disabled because of his injuries, and marginalized because of his status as a witcher. And while the latter is vaguely hinted at in the game, it never really becomes a main theme. Because it would of course go against the power fantasy of it. And his disability? Yeah, that gets just fully ignored by the games. He is just very fit and very... everything. He is a walking, talking male power fantasy.

And that does do his character dirty in my point of view. It really does him dirty. Because that is not what Geralt is or stands for.

There is also the fact that the game turns the "women wanting to fuck him" into a part of the power fantasy, while in the books this very much is about him being objectified and fetishized.

And again, Triss gets to be conventionally attractive and her feelings for Geralt get turned into this love story, rather than this very awkward and kinda tragic one sided love, that made Geralt feel shitty for leading her on.

And I cannot help but be very frustrated with it. Because... Look, the books are not perfect. They are not. But... Geralt is such a wonderful character in them. A character with a lot of nuance. And I just hate how the games kinda did away with all of that nuance, so that the character could serve a power fantasy for white cishet dudes.

#the witcher #witcher netflix #witcher books #wiedźmin #witcher games #witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #fantasy #high fantasy #video games #feminism #disability

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stillness138 · 6 months

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in the light of its 5 year anniversary, here's an updated version of my Thronebreaker powerpoint post. click to enlarge the images!

inspired by this post by @abstinencesymbol and this one by @dukeofdogs official website PT Adamczyk's youtube channel and Bryan Sola's artstation profile the awoo

#thronebreaker #thronebreaker: the witcher tales #the witcher #witcher games #what are the chances this breaks containment and lands in bg3 circles? bg3 fans you would love this one #either way happy birthday thronebabygirl

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thesleepy1 · 9 months

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Bun(s) In The Oven

A/N: What am I doing instead of sleeping? A) Working, B) Writing. or C) Waking Lord Cthulhu from his slumber so that he may reclaim the throne. If you guessed B, then you’d be correct! Hahaha, I really do need sleep. And they call me the Sleepy One! Anon Requested. (Also, I haven’t had the time to sit down and watch season three yet, so please no spoilers.)

Pairings: Eskel x Reader

Summary: You were supposed to have nine months to prepare. You were counting on those nine months. You were not a procrastinator by any means, but with something as important as having a baby you were going to make good use of all the available time to prepare for the arrival of your new baby. Nine months. Not six.

Or, “Could you write something for eskel when his significant other is in labour. I don’t know if he’d be chill and prepared or in total panic mode. Either wait I’d like to read it 😂

Word count: 930

Warnings: birth?

At six months pregnant you were past the point of still coming up with names for your little one and were well into the process of setting up the nursery. In the beginning, there was fear that the baby would not survive. Miscarriages were common in the village you grew up in and a human pregnant with a witcher baby was unprecedented. Anyone pregnant with a witcher baby was unheard of. There was no way of knowing what to expect.

When you and Eskel had first learned of the little seed that was sprouting in you, you both laughed it off as some practical joke. It wasn’t until months later that you realized there was something going on. The bump proved that there wasn’t some prank being played on you. You were well and truly pregnant.

First there was denial. That was to be expected.

Then came the acceptance.

After that it was just full blown panic.

You were a bard for heaven’s sake. A baby was not on your bucket list. When you had first met Eskel and decided to tag along on his adventures, you did not realize that having a baby along the way was a part of it.

But after that…?

It was quite nice.

Sure it was unexpected and neither you nor Eskel had planned for it, but it really wasn’t a bad thing. The pregnancy didn’t stop you from doing what you loved. You still performed and sang to your heart's content. In some taverns you even made more coin. Some were from concerned onlookers and some were from others who got off at the sight of you. Either way, money was money.

And Eskel. Dear sweet Eskel. He grew to love you even more than before if that was possible. It was no worry of yours that Eskel didn’t truly love you. He showed it to you each and every day. But after the two of you had gotten over your panic, he became the most doting and kind and loving witcher possible. It could have been sickening if you didn’t enjoy every last moment of it.

So yes. You were past the point of panic and name searching. With something around thirteen more weeks to go, you were still working on adding things to the nursery. Most of the essentials were there already. Now was just time to decorate and fill the room with as many toys as you possibly can. No one was going to stop you, least of all Eskel.

If anyone were looking for the two of you, then they could find you in the nursery happily sewing up another stuffed animal or embroidering yet another piece of clothing. Eskel could be found doing the same. Despite his large frame, he had such a talent for needle work.

You were working on turning shorn wool into wool when you suddenly felt a wetness burst from you followed by intense pain. Before you realized what was going on with your body Eskel leapt up from his seat.

“I need to get a healer,” Eskel announced, his breaths coming in unevenly. “I can’t leave you here alone—someone needs to get the healer. Lambert! Geralt!”

That was another thing. Eskel’s brothers were there every step of the way. And they were going to be there for this step too, despite its premature timing.

“Are you sure? I—we still have weeks, don’t we?” you asked him, face grimacing in pain despite your disbelief. “We-we haven’t finished processing the food for stores or-or finished all the clothes—” You were cut off by an unbearable pain flaring from within. “Dear gods, heavens above. The little one is coming. The little one is coming!”

“Geralt! Lambert! Vesemir!” Eskel called out to his brothers. His voice boomed in the hallways, sounds bouncing off the stone hallways and carrying towards the other witchers in the keep. Before long, they came running to your aide.

“Healers. We need to go find a healer.” Eskel was firm. He left no room for argument. Lambert rushed out back the way he came. He was the smallest and fastest of the witchers. He would reach the town at the bottom of the mountain first and hurry back with a healer or two. Eskel had to believe that his brother would.

“Geralt,” Eskel began.

“Anything you need,” Geralt replied.

What happened next was beyond you. The pain was indescribable. You knew that you would not remember much of the process. At least, that was what the other mothers had told you. They said that the mind would forget so the body continued.

However, right there and then you were unbearably hurt. And you were vocal about it.

“Great saints above! Get—” you were screaming. It stung the witcher’s ears but you didn’t have a spare thought to care. “Get them out of me!”

“T-them?”

It was Geralt who faltered at that.

Years later you would all sit around a table topped with a hearty meal. Roasted elk, mashed sweet potatoes, and mead would be overflowing. Altina and Anna would be given cider that had not ripen into the sort that would make them dizzy and drunk. Everyone would laugh at the way that Geralt had stuttered at the prospect of two.

Eskel would laugh the loudest. For he was the proudest of the fact. He was a father of two beautiful, healthy girls and he couldn’t be happier.

No one will bring up the fact that Eskel had almost fainted when Anna's head was crowning and the healer was still twenty minutes away.

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nex-has-gender-envy · 1 year

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Geralt of Rivia

wolfcut is named after Geralt, I stand by that

This design is very personal to fanfic series With a Conquering Air by @inexplicifics .

[I can't get it out of my head]

#I always imagined him with big fluffy white fur because Kaer Morhen is cold as helll #accidental warlord au #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia #With a Conquering Air #the Accidental Warlord and His Pack #jaskier x geralt #the white wolf #witcher games #i think i want to ilustrated some scenes from jt #fanart

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namedafterflowerstournament · 3 months

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Botanic Tournament : Main Bracket !

Round 3 Poll NNN

Jaskier, the character's name in the original, Polish version means Buttercup. Editors changed it into Dandelion in some English versions

(Buttercup, dandelion and apples)

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on-a-lucky-tide · 6 days

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Missing scene from Blood of Elves. Coën argues with Lambert about responsibility, nobility and their fate.

“I believe that. But I’m not gallant enough. Nor valiant enough. I’m not suited to be a soldier or a hero. And having an acute fear of pain, mutilation and death is not the only reason. You can’t stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can’t have. I’m a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to. If a Nilfgaardian parent pays me, I’ll defend Nilfgaardian children. And even if the world lies in ruin—which does not seem likely to me—I’ll carry on killing monsters in the ruins of this world until some monster kills me. That is my fate, my reason, my life and my attitude to the world. And it it not what I chose. It was chosen for me.” —Geralt of Rivia in the Blood of Elves.

Coën drew in a deep breath through his nose. The smell of pine filled his chest, mixed with the subtle fishy odour of the lake, and the sprawling bryonia clinging to the rocky outcrops at his back. The mountains around Kaer Morhen were peaceful and familiar in a way that made his chest tight and his eyes prickle; it reminded him of home. He didn’t resent the ache, but cherished it, for it was one of the few things he had left. A tenuous link to something he could never get back.

His head lolled back between his shoulders and he held that breath deep in torso for as long as he could, expelling it through pursed lips only when the ache became a tight pain. Splashing at the lake edge drew his attention and he watched through slitted eyes as his companion stumbled ungracefully through the shallows.

When Lambert had invited Coën to winter with him, Coën had accepted without hesitation, and had been most bewildered by the relieved grin on Lambert’s face at the time. It had been many years since Coën had wintered with other witchers, and Kaer Morhen’s hospitality had not disappointed. Lambert seemed to be bending over backwards to make sure Coën was included in every part of the wolf’s life here, and for that Coën was grateful.

“Ahh, just as bollock-shrinking cold as always!” Lambert crowed, before swearing as he stubbed his toe on a pebble buried deep in the silt and sand. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, but the mountains could be like that. When the skies cleared and the snows had cleared a little, it could almost feel like early summer, when the cool spring breezes stirred the first buds of wakening meadows but your cuirass became itchy and close.

Lambert flopped down on the threadbare tablecloth they had pilfered from Vesemir’s kitchens as a makeshift picnic blanket—Lambert’s words, said with a wry smirk as they had tiptoed out of the larder like errant trainees. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it out to dry. Not for the first time, Coën was struck by just how good-looking his companion was when the lines of anger and frustration had smoothed out, the shadows in his yellow eyes chased away by good sleep and good food. “Urf, fuck,” Lambert lifted his hips and pulled the damp cloth of his trews away from his crotch.

“Dunno why you didn’t take ‘em off,” Coën said lightly, tilting his head back again to bask in the warmth of the sun some more.

“Told you, not the type of tackle I tend to fish with. If you’d seen the teeth on some of the fish I get from here, you’d understand why.” Lambert shuffled some more and flipped to his front to grab one of the unopened bottoms of ale tucked in the shade of a large boulder. “No drowner spawn that I could find in the usual places. No idea about the far banks though, that’ll have to wait ‘til—,” Lambert waved vaguely towards the derelict old boat he had been working on half-arsed for the majority of the morning.

“Mmhm, and when’s that then?”

“Fuck knows. Between Geralt’s princess and Vesemir bellyaching about the west wing falling down on his head, dunno when I’ll get back down here.”

Coën opened his eyes, squinting into the great expanse of unclouded blue above. Cirilla. Sweet child, mischievous and bright, despite all the trials and loss she had faced. And yet, the shadow of destiny loomed over her, ever present and threatening. Coën had hoped that, with Triss’ arrival, they might have felt slightly more sure of her path forward, but the magess’ presence seemed to have brought new tensions to the fort. The wolf witchers had invited her in, and yet not a single one seemed to trust her intentions, except old Vesemir, who seemed relieved to have someone take a little responsibility from his shoulders; the girl was beyond even the old wolf’s knowledge.

Geralt appeared somewhat exhausted by her and Coën sensed by her advances that there was a history there that Geralt did not wish to revisit, Lambert was confrontational and ice cold, even more so than usual, and Eskel was the most peculiar of all. He was beyond polite, magnanimous, quick to take the knee and open doors for the magess, scurrying around the castle at her beck and call; if Lambert hadn’t told Coën which way Eskel’s appetites leaned, Coën would have assumed it to be flirtation. Yet, it had been Eskel that had gazed at Triss with distrust and apprehension when they had discussed her whisking Ciri away to her Chapter as in days of old.

They had called Triss out of desperation, but not a single one of the wolves were willing to let her take Ciri from them. They were guarded, protective, Lambert perhaps most of all. He treated Merigold with open disdain, dismissing all pleas from his brothers and master to remain civil. Coën surmised it might be more than a distrust of mages in general, but he hadn’t found the opportunity to probe further.

“None of you trust, Triss Merigold. That much is obvious. But Ciri’s peculiarity worries you. Would it not be best for Triss to take on the burden? To let her take the child with her to Aretuza or wherever destination she has in mind?” Coën asked.

Lambert didn’t answer immediately. They had spoken some of the school’s previous experience with such a girl, but the conversation had been stilted and tight, like it was a source of pain and shame. Coën found out little of the girl’s fate, only that she had left her mark on one of Lambert’s kin. Lambert sighed. “N’aw, she’s just another lost kid. Nothin’ new, nothin’ special.” He didn’t look up as he said it, focusing instead on a blade of grass. “As I said, we’ll teach her the sword, let her grow big and strong, and she’ll be like any other warrioress out there.” He flicked the blade of grass away and drew a swig of ale.

“You don’t believe that. I know you too well, Lambert of Kaer Morhen, you may lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You care for the girl, I’ve seen it. You wouldn’t drive her so hard if you didn't, and you would not see her whisked away by the magess. And yet you know there is more to her—”

Lambert rolled his eyes, settling them upon Coën’s face with one eyebrow quirked towards his scruff of dark hair. “It doesn’t make a difference either way. What can we do? Train her to be one of us, but without the poisons. This—that—“ Lambert waved over his shoulder vaguely southward, towards the majority of the Continent, “is so far beyond us, so fuckin’ bigger, we’re just witchers. We fight monsters, that’s it. We don’t get involved, no matter what Merigold might want. No matter the moralistic fuckin’ rants she wants to have over our own fuckin’ mead in our own fuckin’ keep. Arrogant bitch.”

Coën winced and fell silent, giving Lambert’s anger time to settle to an even ebb again. Such was the way with Lambert; whereas the older witchers of the keep seemed to have suppressed their emotions to the point of ambivalence, Lambert’s raged all the fiercer as if out of spite. It was one of the things that Coën admired so ardently about him; the way he took on the world unapologetically and refused to succumb to its darkness. When Coën sensed the turbulent waters had settled, he continued. “You agree with Geralt, then. That there is no side for us to take in this conflict in the South, no greater good for us to fight for.”

“The only greater good for us is coin,” Lambert murmured. “Come spring, we should head south and we can clear up in the wake of the armies. Wade through the shit and the corpses to find the monsters. It’s what we’re built for.”

Coën huffed. “You sound like a cultist reciting a mantra you don’t even believe yours—“

“Where’s this goin’? Out with it. I’ve had enough of politics, euphemisms and bloody philosophising from Merigold this winter; I don’t need it from you too.”

Coën gazed over the lake to the far bank where a mist hung unnaturally among the trees. Foglets, no doubt. The recorded voices and shapes of hundreds of trainees that had perished in the mountains. Souls that were never given the opportunity to realise their potential, to breathe free air beyond the confines of the brotherhood. “I’ve been thinking more on those orphans Triss spoke of. How she works to prevent them from being orphans in the first place, whereas we’re just there after the fact to pick up the pieces.”

“You let her get into your head,” Lambert shook his, adjusting his trews once more, nose wrinkled in discomfort. “She was just trying to take a cheap shot. Get a knife in your ribs and twist.”

“What if she’s right? We may be mutants, but can’t we rise above? Become more? We are worth twenty Cintran soldiers. Having witchers fight on the side of the North, we—we could turn the tide of this war, we—“

“Delusions of grandeur.”

Coën’s blood ran hot with anger. While he admired Lambert’s sass and sarcasm when it was directed at others, he didn’t much enjoy being the target of it. Such dismissal bit at him, and he didn’t much want to examine why it hurt so very much. “So we stand by and watch the world burn so long as we line our purses, how very noble. We pick over the corpses of children like graveir, thugs and mercenaries with yellow eyes.”

“I never pretended to be otherwise,” Lambert snapped back. “You seem to think we owe this world something. We don’t. You think they’d care if us mutants fought at their side? You think they’ll give you a fuckin’ medal? Accept you back with open arms? Write stories and songs about you? Grow up. You’ve got yourself all wrapped up in those fairytales you read to Ciri.”

“And so what if they don’t? It’s not about that—it’s about doing the right thing, it’s—“

“There is no right thing. There is survival. There is getting through another pissin’ year and getting back here. Drinking with the people who actually give half a shit about whether you live or die. That’s it!”

Lambert was shouting now, his eyes furious, and Coën’s belly had tied itself in knots. Defensively, Coën raised his own voice, shoulders bunching. “For you, maybe. But I’m done with it. Maybe I want to become more! Rise above. Maybe I want to fight for something meaningful, defend the innocent, protect the—“

Lambert’s eyes narrowed, his fist tightening around his bottle, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Throwing your life away won’t bring them back, Coën. Get your head out your arse. They’re dead, and you’re alive. Foolish sacrifice for those who don’t give a shit about you is just that, foolish. You’re a witcher, not a hero, stop trying to be more than you were made to be.”

Lambert’s words cut sharper than any knife. His lip lifted in a sneer of what looked like contempt, but there was an unnameable hurt in his eyes. Coën couldn’t parse it, he couldn’t even begin to, because his own anger and hurt was making his head ache. “Then perhaps I am a fool,” he snapped, rolling to his feet and snatching his shirt from the grass. “And as my foolishness seems to vex you so, I shall relieve you of my presence.”

“Fine! Why don’t you scurry off to Merigold? I’m sure she could tell you exactly the best way to piss your life away on her crusade.”

Coën stalked away and didn’t look back. He found Eskel weaving baskets with Ciri in one of the stillrooms and sat with them. The older witcher studied him closely, one of his large hands pawing at the scars on his face om thought, but he said nothing.

The rest of the winter passed much the same as before, but Lambert was no longer open and jovial in the evenings. He festered by the fire, muttering darkly about the cold and throwing an occasional scathing remark in Merigold’s direction, only to be chastised by Eskel, Vesemir or both. He drove Ciri just as hard—harder, when Triss wasn’t looking—and picked fault with everything she did.

Coën found her sitting by the fire one evening, picking dejectedly a the scabs on her hands, and staring into the flames. He brought her a blanket and hot mug of juice. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“Half an oren, and we’re talking!”

He thumped her lightly on the shoulder as he sat at her side, and she heaved a sigh. He pressed gently. “Come, a burden shared is a burden halved. Talk to me.”

“I think Lambert hates me, thinks I’m weak.”

“No,” Coën said quickly. “He loves you. Very much.”

Ciri blinked at him in surprise. “But he berates me every day. I disappoint him with everything I do. I need to get it right, I need—“

“Princess, Lambert is harshest to those he loves the most.”

“Well, he must absolutely worship Triss…”

Coën winced. “Ah, yes, no, perhaps there are exceptions, but…”

Ciri sniffled and turned her head away, one of her small, broken hands lifting to her face. He placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Come, there’s no need to hide your tears.”

“He’s right, I am weak…”

“No.” Coën lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “When I lost Kaer Seren, I cried for many days, and when I thought there could not possibly be a single tear left, they kept coming. Do you think me weak?”

“No, you’re so strong. You can shoot an apple from the air at a billion miles away! You make Lambert sweat in fencing and you can do ten backflips in a row, and—”

Coën smiled crookedly. “Your emotions aren’t something to be overcome, they are part of you. They make you stronger.”

“I need to get this right, I need to get strong, I need to kill him. I need to avenge them all. I need to—“

“And you will,” Coën said. “But Cintra was not built in a day, and its lioness is still a cub with a lot of growing to do. You must give yourself time. Strength is something that is forged through hardship, through failure. It will come.”

She gave him a watery smile and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I will get strong, Coën. I’ll listen to everything he teaches me, everything you teach me, Geralt, Eskel… I’ll get strong enough that I can protect people. Save people, you know, just like you do.”

“Yes,” Coën said, smiling. “You will be the greatest of us. Now, drink your juice. It’s past bedtime and Lambert wants me to teach you the crossbow tomorrow.”

“He does?”

“I found him stuffing targets only an hour ago.”

She squealed with excitement and downed her juice. He carried her to bed shortly after, tucking the heavy furs around her narrow frame. But that night sleep wouldn’t reach him; he listened to the others snore as he stared at the ceiling, thinking of orphans, monsters and war.

Come spring, he would head to the front, Coën decided. He could not stand by. He would rise above. He would become more.

#the witcher #witcher lambert #witcher coën #cirilla fiona elen riannon #blood of elves #missing scene #witcher books #witcher games #coën/lambert

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kseshakalinka · 8 months

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I finished reading the fourth book on The Witcher 🍂

#artists on tumblr #my art #art #the witcher #witcherdaily #witcher netflix #witcheredit #witcher 3 #witcher ciri #witcher cirilla #ciri #princess cirilla #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cirilla of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #witcher games #ciriedit #ведьмак

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uniebog · 3 months

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Geralt discovers gay people

#my art #wiedzmin #wiedźmin #witcher 2 #witcher games #vernon roche #the witcher #witcher 3 #iorveth #the witcher fanart #the witcher games #witcher fanart #iorveth x roche

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52849ki1lian · 7 months

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Yen & Geralt.

I kinda f- up Yen’s hair, but that’s okay.. gotta get over it

#artists on tumblr #art #sketch #drawing #my artwork #Witcher #witcher books #witcher games #witcher wild hunt #illustration #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt x yennefer #geralt z rivii #geralt #yennefer

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calyxestra · 2 years

Photo

#queen meve #reynard odo #meve x reynard #thronebreaker #witcher games #fanart #wip follow-up #clip studio paint #lineart is filbert brush ; color is round mixing brush

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keodraws · 11 days

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idk man, felt like drawing him

#jaskier #dandelion #the witcher #the witcher fanart #the witcher games #witcher #witcher games #witcher fanart

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church-of-roche · 1 year

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This Rorveth meme but make it „Embrace of the Night“ version by @definitely-not-iorveth 🦇🩸 Go check out his fic if you haven’t already!

Credit for the idea goes to @chamomilecaptain , take a look at her blog as well!

Art by me 👹

#rorveth #iorveth #vernon roche #iorveth x roche #iorveth x vernon roche #Witcher 2 #the Witcher #Witcher games #my art

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thesleepy1 · 1 year

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Held Tightly, The Fire Burns

A/N: @eddyofthetruth requested this fic ages ago. I’m sorry it took so long to get out. I hope this fic brightens your day. :) As for the fic, I try not to have gendered descriptions when writing but it's a little harder to avoid in these situations. Just assume that the reader is intersex and has all the parts.

Pairings: Eskel x Reader

Summary: You were not nervous. It wasn’t like it was your first time or anything. You knew that Eskel had more experience than you but he wasn’t going to make fun of you…right? You don’t know what you’re doing. Why did you even agree to this? (Cause you love him and have been thinking about him shirtless since you first met him.) It’s fine. Everything is fine. You won’t fuck up and ruin everything.

Or, “idk if you do anything nsfw so feel free to ignore but if you do!! would you consider writing something eskel x reader (either netflix or book i love them both) where its the reader's first time? idk i just feel like he'd be so kind and patient (//ω//) have a nice day! <3

Word count: 1,634

Warnings: NSFW, oral sex, marking, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, slight pain kink,

Eskel sat with you in the library. A fire was crackling in the fireplace. The cracks and sizzles of the damp wood filled the large room with noise. The smell of dry, old books and burning pine relaxed you further in your seat. You could feel it in your bones, the deep seated sense that everything was as it was supposed to be.

That thought did nothing to quell the fluttering of your heart.

You had talked about this for days. Eskel did not want to force you into anything you weren’t ready for. He was patient. More patient than you probably deserved, going back and forth on the decision. You just didn’t want to mess things up. Traveling with Eskel was the best part of your life and ruining that would absolutely destroy you.

“Are you sure?” Eskel asked for the utmost time. It was private in the library. At first you had suggested that your first time should be in a bedroom but when you and Eskel actually went to try, the anticipation was scarier than anything. The library was the next choice. It was intimate without having any other connotations. For all the others in the keep knew, you and Eskel were simply reading by the fireplace. No one batted an eye at the extra furs Eskel had laid on the floor or the pitcher of water he had brought along with you.

Though the other witchers were sharp. They likely knew what the two of you were planning. They were just kind enough to leave you alone.

“I’m fine, Eskel.” You assured him with a hand on his bicep. Heat was already coating the apples of your cheeks. Even now you could not blame the fire for it. This close to Eskel, you could see all the curves of his face. He looked as though he had been carved from marble and polished by a gentle river. Your hand went to cup his jaw, thumb stroking the stubble there. “It's unfair how you look so good. How could anyone even attempt to compete with you?”

Eskel’s hand went over your own, pushing your palm to his lips. His face was marred but his kisses were feather-like brushes of the skin. “And yet you have my eyes every moment of the day.” His mouth moved down your hand, your wrist, your arm. When he reached your collar bone you felt the faint press of his teeth. “Is this alright?” he whispered into your skin.

You let out a simple whimper in affirmation and another when his teeth pulled at the skin. His mouth sucked markings onto you. His hands were all over you, on your hips, your waist, and up higher. You were helping him remove your tunic before you even realized that he was slowly lowering you onto your back.

Eskel moved down your chest like a man starved. You could hear your heart beat out of your ribcage. You knew he could hear it as well. It seemed to spur him on, the way your heart skipped when he bruised the skin on your chest. His mouth made you desperate, writhing on the furs beneath you. Your hands couldn’t get enough of him, fingers in his hair and nails digging into his back. When the texture of fabric under your palm got too much to handle, you pushed at his shirt until he got the clue and removed it.

The two of you were in nothing but your trousers now. The tent between his thighs and the press of the engorged flesh against you had heat swirling in the pit of your stomach. “Could I—” Eskel was panting too hard to get the words out. His hand tugged at the hem of your trousers instead.

“Please, I need to feel you as well,” You begged him, pulling him in for a kiss. “I need them off.”

Eskel could not deny you anything if he tried. He was an ever devoted servant, quickly tugging down your trousers and smalls before doing the same to himself. His cock sprung free from its confides and you couldn’t help but gulp. He was large, cock thick, and curved slightly to the side. You had no idea how it was going to fit inside of you.

Eskel must have seen the hesitation on your face because his soft tone before gentler, “We could stop now if you’d like. We don’t have to go farther.” There was a vein that ran the whole length of his cock and you would have given anything to feel it against your tongue at that moment.

“Please Eskel, I want you so much it's killing me,” You whined, knowing the sound would only make him hasten. “I need you inside me.” You reached above you, blindly searching for the vial of oil you had stashed there earlier.

Eskel guided your arms back down. “There’s no rush.” He lowered himself down your body before settling himself between your thighs. His hands were curious things that wanted to know everything there was to know about the flesh of your skin. His mouth was no different, pressing kisses to your inner thigh before taking pieces of you in. You knew that there would be marks there in the morning, perhaps even longer by the way he took his time to nuzzle against you.

“Eskel, Eskel,” You gasped in between moans. He was so close to where you needed him yet so far. You could only take so much more of his teasing torture. “I need—I need you—” You were shamelessly desperate.

The witcher met your eyes between your legs. He hummed in question from deep within his chest, head tilted in innocent acknowledgement. Eskel knew damn well what you wanted. He just wanted to hear you say it. You knew that if you did not tell Eskel what you wanted, what you truly desire, he would not touch you where you needed him to.

It would drive you mad.

“Eskel, please,” You began, head pressed back against the furs. “I need your mouth on me. I need to feel the press of your tongue against my skin.”

Eskel had the nerve to chuckle at your wanton state. The witcher would be the end of you.

Eskel grazed your opening with a brush of his finger. “Here?” He asked with false innocence dripping from his tongue.

“Y-yes,” You could barely get the word out. “Right there, please.”

You had not noticed when he poured oil onto his fingers. He slid a finger into you easily, one of his was the size of two of your own. You could feel your walls stretch to slowly accommodate him.

Eskel moved only when you gave him a nod of confirmation. He began at a leisurely pace, thrusting his finger in and out of your entrance. When your moans filled the library, he slid in a second. Soon, all you knew was Eskel and the burning heat in your stomach. Neither hurt you but you could not forget the ache and desire if you tried.

“E-enough.” Your voice was quivering. Sweat was already dripping down your neck and Eskel hadn’t even properly entered you yet. You pulled at his arm, removing his fingers and tugging his body closer. “Please, Eskel. I’m ready.”

Eskel chuckled from deep within his chest. He may have opened you with all the time in the world, but you could see the effect it had on him. His cock was a heated red, precum slicking the uncut tip.

“Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“I will,” You promised. “But really, darling. I want this.”

Eskel took your face in his hand and kissed you. His tongue slipped into your mouth but before you could truly get lost in it, you felt his tip line your entrance. He had slicked his cock with the remaining oil but still you clenched your eyes at the feeling of him. Eskel was by no means a small man.

You took him inch by blissful inch. When he had finally bottomed out, you had pulled him into a tight embrace. Your nails dug into his shoulders, crescent shaped indents where you could not contain yourself.

“You’re so tight,” Eskel groaned, eyes shut tight. “Feels good,” he murmured into your ears.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him as tightly as he was holding you. “You can move, darling.” You pressed kisses into his jaw. “Such a wonderful witcher. You make me feel so good.”

Eskel smiled and began thrusting into you. Neither of you wanted it rough. There would be time for that. For now, you basked in each other’s presence whispering words of praise and encouragement. There would also be time to build up your stamina. You barely had time to warn Eskel about the coils under your skin coming undone.

You drew blood from his shoulder when you came, back arched like a feline. It was a bliss you had never felt before. A feeling you had only read about in books. There was nothing compared to the real thing.

It did not take long for Eskel to follow. Your walls tightened around him. He could only manage a couple more shallow thrusts before stilling and spilling into your channel. You had never seen him so out of breath, sweat dripping down his brow.

“My beautiful witcher,” You sang, wiping the sweat from his face. “That was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Eskel grinned like a Cheshire cat. He seemed quite proud of himself at having made you release first.

“Can we do it again?” You chuckled, blushing at your own words.

Eskel kissed you a hundred times and promised to do it a hundred more. “As often as you like.”

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