#Gereskel

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

I think that Gereskel is so special because (to me) it is absolutely and 100% bound by canon. There are ways to fudge it in AUs but it always seems to fit strangely. They must be each other's entire cycle of firsts: first friend, first person besides your mum to see you cry, first person to hear you wake screaming at night and not hate you, first person you lose and grieve and mourn while they do the same for you. They're the empty space inside each other. They've both held funerals for the other. They're the last person on earth to know what color the other's eyes were before they lost them to the mutations. They're the almost and the maybe and the maybe again but without the benefit of time.

It's about the ache and the almost and the anyway and the maybe still. All that hope and all that centuries-long lack of the same. There will never be another like that even if there are others. You never forget your first best friend, your first love; you never forget your twin and you never stop loving them.

[parkranger-monster-fucker]

Please someone help me find a fic

Jaskier is fae I'm p sure and goes to kaer morhen with Geralt.

Geralt and Eskel ask him to help make gifts for each other, and Jaskier's dying inside bc he loves them and wants them to be happy.

Jaskier goes and makes them a picnic but goes into heat and gets found by a rotfiend I'm p sure, and Lambert tells them to get their heads out of their asses

[ooksaidthelibrarian]

Eskel had a wild suspicion where Geralt was headed, but he was far from sure. The only thing he knew was that Geralt was not headed to some wine tasting with Count Whatshisname.  Geralt has a secret, and Eskel wants to know

A Kind of Magic

Fandom: Witcher (Video Games) Rating: G Words: 1525

Read it on AO3

Written for Witcher Wheel of the Year 2023, the prompt was Theatre

[dreamingwitcher]

Fic rec!

soooooo I was browsing fanfic earlier today and came across this coffe shop Gereskel AU by @justhereforeskel ! This fic is particularly notable for its in-universe coffee shop and Eskels gentle and lovingly-detailed rumination over the past. If any of this sounds good to you I recommend you go check it out!

[the-butch-of-blaviken]

Sapko coming back with a new witcher book in a few days right as i’m getting the autumnal urge to play TW3 again, it sounds like i’m back in my witcher era

[blackberrywars]

WIP Poll Game!

Thank you so much @alllthequeenshorses for tagging me! I'm gonna make two of these, one for the witcher, one for the red lotus

The Rules: post your current WIPs in a 24 hour poll. Whichever gets the most votes by the end gets worked on! The number of votes is how many new sentences you have to add.

Taglist for you and anyone else if they want to play: @halehathnofury, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @t4tlambert, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide, @anonymousblueberry, @jayofolympus, @whyzowl, @yolki-palki

[hbfengxi]

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

[lenalawlipop]

Chapters: 1/7 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Vesemir (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Facials, Beards (Facial Hair), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bathing/Washing, Kaer Morhen, Bath Houses, Hot Springs & Onsen, Slow Build, Romantic Jaskier | Dandelion, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Emotional Labor, Emotional Baggage, Dry Humping, Oral Sex, Emotional Sex, Scenting, Scent Kink, Come Eating, Semi-Public Sex, Rimming, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Thirsty For Intimacy, Touch-Starved, Explicit Consent, Emotional Slow Burn, Not Canon Compliant, Porn with Feelings, Polyamory, Explicit Sexual Content, Canon-typical bathing, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher) Series: Part 1 of [PODFIC] An exaltation of wolves - round_robin Summary:

round_robin's summary:

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier's neck. “Next winter, come with me.” He sat up, hoping Jaskier might see the earnest request in his eyes.

Podfic of Soap, and the Scents of Home by @round--robin

Length (estimated): around 3,5 hours

Archive-locked since the original fic is, too

[witchertits]

WitcherTits Fic Directory! ⚔️

The Horror and The Wild's 3rd-anniversary lyric video!

And when you lie there awake / Every night love I soar T4T Geralt/Jaskier, E, 2.5k. Is it gay to fuck your clone? Is it gay to watch your best bro fuck their clone? NX canon, post-Blood-Origin. Every Night I Hear Them Howling T4T4T Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel, E, 8k. Jaskier is working on his latest novel and they fuck in the Kaer Morhen library. Wet (Come Take a Dive) T4T Eskel/Geralt, E, 4k. Improper use of witcher potions. The boys are on a hunt and things get wetter than anticipated. You Ain't a Drug But You Get Me So High Geralt/Jaskier getting together + S2 fix-it, M, 6k. 420 fic! Jaskier isn't settling in to Kaer Morhen and Geralt's brothers set out to make it right. Now with art from @aghxst One of my Favorite Pastimes Trans Geralt/Dandelion, M, 4k. Assassins of Kings era, Geralt saves Dandelion from certain death in Flotsam. Idiots in love. We're Drunk but Drinking, Sunk but Sinking Yennefer & Geralt TW3 djinn breakup fic but make it soft, G, 2k.

Art shop, international shipping available!

Witcher AO3 Benefit Zine 2023 (digital) and holographic sticker — all sales donated to the OTW!

Other links found here: https://witchertits.carrd.co/

If we’re mutuals, I’m open to requests to beta. Send me a message if you need an AO3 invite code! 💕

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I return briefly with a small dedication to @journeythroughunknownlands for their beautiful Gerskel bathing art. Warnings: Dom/sub undertones; mentions of sex.

Eskel returns every winter tightly wound, his thoughts all tangled up like old tack dumped on the stable floor. He hides it pretty well, or at least he thinks he does, applying his focus and remaining strength to the long list of chores that Vesemir hasn't managed to get to that year.

It isn't that Eskel is self-sabotaging. He just struggles to let go of the mish-mash of coping strategies that keep him safe on the Path, physically and mentally. On the surface, he's his usual jovial self, laughing and joking with Lambert. One afternoon, he shoves said young wolf into a snow drift after a particularly brutal insult about Eskel's face being scary enough to spook all the wyvern away early. Eskel laughs raucously through the resulting brawl and they drink themselves into a stupor that evening.

But Vesemir can see it. And Geralt can too. That shivering tension beneath Eskel's skin, the skittish way he turns at any loud sound, reaching hand closing on air above his shoulder; the fastidious organisation of his belongings and his militant application to warming up in the courtyard. Eskel doesn't feel safe. He needs reminding that there's nothing up here anymore. Nothing worth the time of the zealots and thugs that levelled his home. There is no burden for him to shoulder. He doesn't need to. No more than any of them.

There's no point pushing it in the first few weeks. Eskel will clam up and shrug it off. That big, booming laugh as he jokes his way out with a dry riposte shattering any hope of progress. Geralt bides his time. The comfortable bed and lack of action to keep Eskel occupied will wear him down enough to start faltering, to start dabbing at his scars, looking lost. A crack in the hardened armour. And only then does Geralt elbow him in the armoury one morning, "Bath tonight?"

It's not a normal bath. They bathe every night. Vesemir insists because it doesn't take long for the communal areas to start smelling like wet dog and stale sweat if they don't. But the routine is a quick and cursory scrub in a shallow tub before the cold gets to their nethers. This bath will be different.

Geralt spends the afternoon filling the largest basin with water. The communal one that used to be maintained by bastion boys and long rusted pipes. He hauls ass 'til the water is deep, and then he tips in salts and a few faint perfumes that he picked up from Ban Ard on his way up.

Geralt stokes the two big fires high, careful to replace all the firewood he's used from the yard to avoid Vesemir's bellyaching. By the time everything's ready, he stinks worse than Lambert after stable duty and has to peel his clothes off before climbing jnto the water, reheating it with a quick pop of igni. He lounges back, enjoys the lap of the water over his skin, the way sensitive scars prickle and muscles loosen. He almost misses Eskel's arrival in the doorway, but he can always feel Eskel's presence in the world around him. It's like a gods-damned earthly magnetism.

Geralt opens his eyes and watches Eskel hesitate in the doorway. Eskel's gaze flickers from the fires, to the tub, to the salts still propped up on a side table. He fiddles with his fingers and the hem of his shirt. One last step, one tiny hurdle. "Gonna get in or admire me all night?" Geralt asks softly, careful to maintain the jokey lilt of their standard exchange. For now.

Eskel's eyebrows twitch up, and then he grins. There's no witty clapback but it has the desired effect. Eskel strips off, folding his clothes on a wonky old stool. Geralt's cock twitches to life at the mere sight of Eskel standing at the edge of the room, bronze skin highlighted in a flickering halo of candle and firelight. The thick pelt of dark hair, the pink scars criss-crossing over his arms, his chest, his plush belly. Those amber eyes that flash in the shadows as Eskel turns back to the bath. Eyes that were usually framed by crow's feet, smile lines, now worried, unsure.

"C'mon, Eskel," Geralt says, lifting his hands from the water to beckon Eskel towards him. One more step. One more decision. And then he would be safe. This was their way of turning the lock on the Path; Eskel's way to let the walls fall and his heart free. He had to let Geralt hold him. Had to pass the control over to someone he trusted if he was to let it go.

Eskel's legs barely cooperate as he negotiates the lip of the tub, and he stumbles through the water until he eventually drops to his knees. Geralt's legs flop open, and he gestures again, insistent. C'mon, just a little further, wolf.

Eskel crawls forward and finally, finally, melts against Geralt's chest. Geralt hears the first shuddering sigh as one of his mental anchors falls loose; feels the flutter of Eskel's eyelashes against the side of his neck as his eyes struggle to stay open.

Geralt encircles his broad shoulders and holds him close. The steam from the water has already dampened Eskel's hair, but Geralt buries his nose in it anyway. Eskel shivers, once, twice, until he is shaking gently in Geralt's arms; a year's worth of tension and pain unspooling into the water with each subtle tremor. Geralt feels something loosen in his own chest. He knows that this is as important for him as it is for Eskel. The tentative opening of his heart to care for a loved one, comfortable in the knowledge that he will not be rebuffed or scorned. Kaer Morhen is the one place now where it is safe for witchers to have feelings.

Geralt cups Eskel's jaw and tilts his head up. He searches for Eskel's mouth, kisses beside his eye, the scars on his cheek, and then his lips with deliberate care, worshipping each part. He can feel Eskel's heartbeat hitch, his breath catch in his throat.

Eskel struggles with kisses still, even after all this time. If he overstretches it hurts his face, so Geralt sets the pace and winds a wet hand through Eskel's hair. He can feel grasping fingers, a coiling tension return; Eskel's desperate to please, to earn his place in Geralt's heart. Like he earns his keep at Kaer Morhen, bearing the weight of the roof and the legacy on his broad shoulders. Their time together isn't about that. Geralt tugs Eskel away, brushes their noses together, and urges Eskel onto his back.

Eskel turns without a fuss, but it takes a little coaxing for him to lean back. As tentative about letting Geralt bear his physical weight as he is about the emotional. "Easy," Geralt whispers, as gently as he would to Roach when the roads are uneven. He and Eskel walk this particular road together every year, and even if Eskel still struggles with the potholes and rocky debris left behind by every contract, Geralt feels surefooted. He knows how to see Eskel safely home. His heart feels light with the glorious purpose of it; the responsibility of caring for someone so strong.

Eskel leans back, eyes flickering closed as Geralt's fingers brush up the arch of his throat. His own hands hover uneasily, searching for something to do, a use. Or perhaps just an anchor. Geralt reaches up and winds their fingers together, bringing Eskel's hand down to rest on his own thigh. "I've got you, Wolf."

Geralt feels rooted, settled, in a way he hasn't all year. He cradles Eskel against him and basks in the glow of trust, of love, as Eskel's body eases. Fitfully at first of course, each shuddering breath yielding a little more tension, until Eskel is blissfully heavy. Geralt traces the arch of his throat, the bottom of those scars; terrain more familiar to him than the uneven flagstones of the grand hall.

Eskel's body warms, responding to Geralt's scent and heat with arousal. It ebbs and flows in the peacefulness, neither of them too concerned with finding a peak, an end. They have all winter for that. This is about being, about existing together in precious quiet. No expectations, no weight to bear but to trust and be trusted. Such a thing was as easy for them now as breathing, with Eskel relinquishing the last of his unease into the water and Geralt gladly holding them both. Geralt knows Eskel's floating, can feel every change of pulse, every twitch, every sigh. His entire world is the man in his arms and he revels in it, high on the precious burden that is his to carry. A burden he dreams of all year that no one else trusts him to carry; Eskel would call it a burden, after all, but Geralt sees it as a gift.

They doze, they drift together...

Later, they'll make love in Eskel's bed, with teeth and laughter and furious passion, joking and teasing as ruthlessly as they did in the training yard. But for now, they are content to bask in the peace and sanctity of each other.

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Examining my predelictions for ships after that poll made me think about herongraystairs for the first time in over a decade and realizing that my catnip really is codependent tragic childhood friends to lovers with too much shared trauma and no happy ending. I eat that shit with a spoon every time it's presented to me.

[julek]

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

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

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

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

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

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

The irony of it makes him smile. 

"Deep in thought, Wolf?" 

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm.”

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

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

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

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

He can take his time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geralt looks at their joined hands, and squeezes. 

“Sit with me a while.”

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

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

It's easy.

[ohciq]

two drops of water

[bittersweet-mojo]

What’s the matter Wolf? Miss me?

[the-butch-of-blaviken]

a fic written from Geralt's perspective right after the remains of the Wolf School find him at the beginning of TW1 where he has to be around all these people he knows are important to him but he can't for the life of him remember who they are. And that man called Eskel he's supposed to have grown up with is acting distant and weird every time Geralt talks to him and no one will tell him why

[blackberrywars]

For the Flash Fic Fest, could I request a Witchers-are-supersoldiers Modern/Sci-fi Secret-Mission AU?

Prompt would be: “Geralt has seen many, many things in his very, very long lifetime. He has never, as his partner Jaskier points out, seen Agent Eskel dance a waltz.”

Please have as much freedom with it as you’d like

EDIT: Available on AO3 and now with beautiful, spectacular art by @whyzowl

—  —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —

Geralt has seen many, many things in his very, very long lifetime. He has never, as his partner Jaskier points out, champagne glass tipped just so, seen Agent Eskel dance a waltz.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Geralt has seen Eskel dance in a dozen other ways: bouncing along to the hum of an army radio, two-stepping on the beat of a vinyl record, bopping his head to the tunes of a digital age. Even when they’re on duty, Eskel has never danced like this, at least not where Geralt could see it. Most of their relevant assignments involve dark clubs with overwhelmingly loud bass speakers, and the kind of dancing he does in those…… Geralt already knows damn well how Eskel can thrust his hips. So does most of the club, by the time he’s through. So he shouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t be, if only Eskel weren’t so obviously good at it.

Across the ballroom, the man dances like a high-society socialite instead of a once-redneck soldier. His long legs follow through every step, turn, and reversal. Every turn emphasizes the broad expanse of his shoulders as he spins his partner away and back again. Each flourish raises the back of his red waistcoat, exposing the thick, round curve of his ass. But even if he didn’t have all the features Geralt has spent so long admiring, Eskel’s grace nearly topples him from the little alcove he and Jaskier had escaped to, ostensibly, have sex and definitely not spy on their fellow agent. The big Wolf moves with a fluid elegance he’d never had when fully human, in complete control of every step. He supports every pace of waltz, turns his partners’ mistakes into embellishments, and manages to make even a simple box step look like ballet.

He switches partners every other minute, always with a new pair of arms draped around him. Every single one is dressed for the theme: something vaguely renaissance, with all the accompanying ostentation, but all Geralt can focus on is how they touch Eskel. A dark-skinned hand nestles against his gloved one, pale fingers rest on his muscled arms, a diamond bracelet shines against his billowy white sleeves. None of them are the target, but Geralt catalogues them anyway. There’s Marizia Izle Álvo, an heiress with three paramours and a fortune built on cryptocurrency. Julienne Moulak, a biomedical mogul whose empire of steel and blood extended back before even Geralt’s lifetime. Neseyo Zeftir, a stunning beauty who had won several global pageants with her generous curves and penchant for environmental philanthropy.

They all touch Eskel with casual, flirtatious hands. They look at him, and even the shyest ones still have a hunger that Geralt can nearly smell, practically peeling Eskel out of his tight leather pants. The band keeps playing —cellos and drums and flutes and trumpets— but Geralt can barely hear them, not when another social-climber stumbles into Eskel, tucking his fingers into that deep collar, running through the brush of coarse chest hair. Not when a handsome woman steals him away for another waltz without so much as a by-your-leave.

Geralt takes a deep breath.

And another.

And one more.

None of them seem to work, and he welcomes the press of Jaskier’s cool hand in the center of his back. It doesn’t make his already uncomfortable pants feel any less tight, but it does make him turn away from the spectacle for a moment to see Jaskier’s own expression. He looks like he wants to eat Eskel alive. Geralt must look the same. In the space of another breath, Jaskier downs the rest of his champagne, setting the glass down just a bit too deliberately.

“My darling man…” Jaskier turns to him, eyes enormous, “How would you feel about retrieving Don Juan down there and cutting this night short? Lambert already has the information we need.”

“Agent Jaskier, that would be highly unprofessional.”

“Who’s gonna notice? Come on. For our part, we kept the target distracted, and I want to go home. Not that my night hasn’t been lovely, but I think I drank too much champagne. And my feet might hurt. And I might spill wine on these beautiful silk tights.”

“Point taken.”

“No, really. All manner of ailments and accidents could occur where we all have to go home. Immediately.”

Geralt laughs under his breath and turns away to the exit, but Jaskier plasters himself to his back, whispering in his ear.

“Don’t trip.”

Don’t trip. Instinctively, Geralt wanted to bristle and protest: who was he, that socialite with his stupid ploy to fall into Eskel’s strong arms? But he could barely register his legs underneath him as they walked him back down the staircase and into the ballroom, could barely control the movements of his eyes as they searched the floor for a head of dark hair and broad shoulders. He scans the floor and comes up short. By the east wall, he sees Julienne throwing back a heaping glass of red wine. Closer to the entrance forum, he sees the handsome lady dancing just as gracefully as before, but not with Eskel. Looking back at the stairs, the countess is sneaking away with a gorgeous blonde at her heels. He climbs back onto the first step, hoping for a better view when a familiar hand taps his shoulder.

Geralt turns, and there is Eskel. Eskel with his hair slicked back to show his flushed face, his smile made coy by the gap where his fangs shine through. Eskel in expensive, tailored clothes, golden lapels framing a deep gash, showing the obscene planes of his collarbones and plush chest. Eskel in waltzing shoes. Eskel, who has his hand outstretched and his torso bowed like a gentleman. Eskel with his low, soft voice —Dance with me, Wolf.

Geralt trips.

But Eskel catches him, pulling him close for an especially slow number. And while Geralt doesn’t know a damn thing about waltzing, Eskel apparently does, and every step feels effortless with those gloved hands around his waist and wrist. Jaskier, and all the promises waiting at home, can wait. At least for one waltz.

—  —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —   —

I really hope this meets your expectations @whyzowl it was super fun to work on, even if it took me a while. I know I didn’t focus too much on their supposed mission, but seeing your drawing Eskel’s outfit here, I couldn’t not make Geralt’s feelings about it a focal point.