#Vesemir lives

[cosmos-coma]

Prey of the Hunt- Chapter 10 (Final)

A/N: Happy final chapter!! Wasn’t sure I was gonna finish this for a hot minute since it’s been going on so long, but I thank you for taking this journey with me!

Pairing: Eskel x Reader

Words: ~1.8k

Warnings: Injuries, Unedited, Just fluff!

Summary: Spring has finally come and with it much softness and light.

______________________

“Ow, Ow, Ow…” you winced, grabbing Triss’s wrist as she reset your broken clavicle, a strained sigh leaving your lips as your arm finally rested somewhat normally again. 

“I know. Now hold still while I heal it up just enough to stay in place… then Ciri can wrap you up properly, okay?” Her hand gently pressed against your pained shoulder, radiating a soft orange light as healing magic seeped into your broken bones. She looked tired and you couldn’t blame her- everyone needed some form of healing and magic ended up having to be rationed out with the way it was beginning to take a toll.

The great hall had been completely transformed into a make-shit infirmary, with everyone either giving or receiving medical attention while a few others roamed around to check-in. Yennefer was laid up in bed, still recovering from the amount of energy the magical barrier used. Geralt and Lambert and Letho- despite the various cuts and bruises- were otherwise unharmed. The rest of the Lodge, though exhausted and worn remained physically unharmed. The rest of you sustained various broken bones, lacerations, and bruises but you knew you’d heal in time. 

“How are you two holding up?” Vesemir asked, already up and waking around on his shattered knee as he held his hand against the open wound on his arm. 

“Vesemir, sit the hell down. You’re injured!” Geralt shouted at him before you could respond, catching a vulgar gesture in turn. All of this let out a light laughter through the great hall, and you nodded to the older man.

“We’re okay, Ves. But you might need to force Triss to take a breather.” You said, breathing a little easier once Triss’s hands pulled away. “Thank you….” You added, squeezing her hand in thanks, “Go get some food, and sit down. No one is life or death anymore.” you assured. 

The fiery redhead only smiled tiredly and nodded, “Maybe you’re right… Gods, you sound just like Geralt.” she shook her head as she left, but you could see her still smiling. 

Ciri wrapped up your shoulder to support your healing collarbone and gave you a weak smile. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion- like a majority of the group- but guilt and blame rattled her heart and forced her to stay up helping the people that fought for her. You knew you couldn’t talk her into slowing down any, only Vesemir and Geralt could do that, and even they saw the desperate need within her to do this. 

“Thank you” you quietly said and immediately padded your way through your newfound friends to Eskel. “My beloved witcher…” you said with a small smile as you approached, “can I join you…?”

Ease spread through his body as he finally saw you all taken care of, and with a warm smile and a wave he patted the spot next to him. It took a few minutes to figure out how to lay together without hurting each other, but quickly you were able to settle in comfortably, a protective arm resting over your good shoulder. “I’m so glad you came back to me…” you whispered, just for him as you pressed soft kisses into his roughened knuckles. “I… well, I was worried I was going to lose you…” 

“So you ran shoulder first into a suit of metal armor?” 

“Don’t ruin the moment, Esk.” 

A light chuckle emanated from his notched lips before he groaned, holding his strained ribs, “Sorry… sorry, my bad.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, “You’re safe now and no one got too hurt, that’s what matters,” with great care you shifted about so you could look up at him, face lying just inches from bit own. “I love you so much, Eskel.”

His warm breath fanned out over your face as another soft laugh came from him, quickly followed by the sensation of his lips pressing tenderly against yours. The last of the residual tension ebbed away from your body as your lips joined, easily filling you with warmth and want instead. “I love you too, my dear… More than you know.”

-------

The birds sang the joyous song of spring as the months passed and the seasons changed. The keep had been pleasantly quiet after the battle, people leaving as soon as they got well enough. The sun had even started to shine brighter, turning the new grass plush and green beneath your feet. 

“Baaaa!” Lil Bleater yelled as she followed hot on your heels, hooves kicking wildly in the air as she went. Your laughter bubbled and leaped around the courtyard with you and easily filled the entire grounds. 

“I already gave you a treat! No more, Bleater!” You called back to her, hugging the basket of carrots close to your chest. “This is for Vesemir, not little hooved beasts!” 

She yelled in protest as she followed your twists and turns over the cobblestones, determined to win her delicious prize.

“Dear? Are you ready to go?” You heard Eskel call from the room's small window. You paused to grin up at him, a bright and lovely grin that betrayed nothing of the horrors you two had experienced just months before. 

“Not yet, I’ll- OH!” You yelped as Lil Bleater stood on her back legs, leaning on you to get closer to your basket of treasure. Shaking your head you gave her one last carrot to appease her insatiable appetite. “I’ll be up there in a minute, Esk!”

A low rumble of laughter lingered across the yard as he disappeared back inside the room. 

Once you were finally able to lose your trailing and finish your errand, you made your way up to your little shared room. Minimal bags were piled on the beds, ready to make their way on the path alongside you. Your helmet shimmered in the morning light in its place atop the fireplace, its scars pooling light. 

“Hey, I just have a few things I wanted to make sure I had. Then we can get going…” you smiled, rifling through your pack to take a quick inventory. Your already wide smile grew as you felt Eskel’s large hands wrap around you, followed by peppered kisses across your shoulders. “Yes, My beloved Witcher?” You laughed out softly, swaying back and forth playfully with him. 

You could feel his smile against your shoulder as you swayed, hiding his emotion away from the rest of the world. “I have something for you before we leave…” He mumbled into you before stepping back. 

You held your hands out as he dug around his pocket, closing your eyes so it can be a surprise. “You don’t have to close your eyes, Dear…” He said, shaking his head at your lovable antics.

“I know but it makes the surprise better..” you commented as you felt a dense weight settle in your hands, small, but not compact. As you opened your eyes a small metal viper head stared back at you, fangs bared and tongue out in a show of daring strength. It was held on a sturdy but ornate chain that you figure had to have been changed out by your witcher. 

“Is this… a Viper Medallion..?” You asked as you looked up at him, closing your hand around it in adoration. 

He only nodded. “I found it a few years ago on one of my contracts, the witcher before me didn’t get the chance to finish it and I figured his medallion should return to at least one of the schools…” He paused, smiling a bit. “I figured since you’ll be with me on the path you should have a medallion to keep you safe. You know how it works so I won’t over-explain it, but…” 

“But….?” you smiled up at him, knowing there was more to the present than he was trying to let on. Eskel always gave deep thought to his gifts, sometimes it was too deep for you to understand right away, but you always enjoy the sentiment. 

He fought the grin that pulled at his lips once more and continued, “ well… I thought the Viper school would be perfect for you. Their entire school is dedicated to destroying the wild hunt, they know everything they can about them. You fought so well that day, Y/n.. you deserved a token of your changed past.” 

Heartfelt tears threatened to rise, but you quickly blinked the sensation away as you looked back down at the heavy medallion in your hands. “Thank you so much, Eskel…. I don’t know if I could have gotten through this the same way without you.” you smiled as you slipped the necklace over your head, letting it rest comfortably on your chest.

“I love you too, Dear,” he said, watching the viper rise and fall with your breaths and jostle gently as you let out a small chuckle. 

“I’m glad you know,” you said, taking his hands into yours and giving them a solid squeeze. “Let’s get ready to go, yeah? We wanted to make it through most of the Blue Mountains today.” You said with nervousness hidden in the nooks and crannies of your voice. 

Your horses stood by the main gate, saddle bags packed and ready for the long journey ahead. Lil Bleater also stood there at the ready, not about to let her witcher leave without a genuine goodbye. 

“You guys have everything? Your bedrolls, potions, food?” Vesemir questioned, looking over your Horses. 

“And my swords, bombs, and medallion…” Eskel responded, scooping up Lil Bleater. “I already double-checked.” He gave Lil Bleater a gentle squeeze, smiling a bit at the way she happily nibbled on his hair.

“We’ll be okay, Vesemir. We’ll be back sooner than you know,” you assured. 

“Yeah, well… Just be safe out there. Don’t leave me with just Lambert and Geralt.” He grumbled, but you knew it was just him showing you that he cared.  You gave him a quick hug before climbing up onto your horse.

“We’d never be so cruel,” you said with a smile. 

He nodded, a tiny smile creeping into his expression as Eskel hopped up on Scorpion. 

“Are you ready, Dear?” 

Nervousness gripped your stomach again as you realized this was it- it was time to leave the comfort of the keep and make your way in the rough world. What would you face on the path? How would you overcome it? Will your decisions be right? You’ll never know. Small bits of courage rose in you as you remembered how hard it was to discover your new self. Surely nothing could be as hard as that.

You took a deep breath.

“Yeah, Esk… I’m ready.”

___________________________

Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @dark-academia-slut @weaponizedvirtue @madamemelancholysstuff

[jay-arts-t]

Posting a a little today but really like the whole bit the boys have over calling Vesemir old. They all just collectively agree “old man old man”

It’s even funnier when notw makes vesemir only 70, or really 60 something years older than them since they’re around 4-8 age group. And he only looks like he’s in his 20s-early thirties. I’m sure Lambert started it. One day he just asks “why are you so old?” And Vesemir is left shocked. He’s not that old!!! But then when they get back to Kaer Morhen and the boys are a bit older Geralt finally gets to ask all his questions about Kaer Morhen he couldn’t ask before.

“How old is Kaer Morhen?”

“I don’t know Geralt. Old.”

“Are you older than Kaer Morhen or as old?”

Vesemir throws his boots at him. Then that’s when the whole “*insert item* is almost as old as Vesemir!”

HE HATES IT.

When Ciri finally joins them, Lambert immediately teaches her the bit. She is RUTHLESS with her insults. Vesemir is giving her a history lesson in the courtyard since it’s nice out. The boys are fixing one of the walls in the background. He’s telling her about a war that happened around 600 years ago.

“Do you remember what it was like in that time? Since you were there?” Vesemir wants to crawl into a hole and die in it. The boys are basically toppled over in laughter. Lambert starts choking from laughing too hard. Ciri seems extremely pleased with herself.

It starts evolving further into “oh you wanna know about the conjunction of spheres? Oh I dunno, ask Vesemir he was there since before the conjunction.” And “what was it like when dinosaurs were alive, Vesemir?”

AND IT SOMEHOW SPREADS. He’s in a growing town in southern Redania with Geralt and they run into Jaskier. Now he’s never had the fortune of meeting him, but he’s heard plenty. He’s about to thank the poet for looking after Geralt until Jaskier goes “so I’ve heard you’re quite old! Tell me Master Vesemir, what was it like when kingdoms started to form? How did the royal families come to be in power?”

Vesemir is SEETHING. Geralt just smiles like the little shit he is.

[bifairywife]

yes, he's an elderly man that committed war crimes. he's charismatic. he's ruthless. he can break my neck with barely any effort. but he's also very sexy-

[syifrae]

[femmestuck]

gods help me im having a category 5 autism moment

[my-jokes-are-my-armour]

They both had their hands burnt by Rience...

[je-suis-problematique]

Chris and Raphael dating is basically like if you take two tops and tell them to fuck, only Chris is a service top so he's more submissive by default and most of his Top Energy™ comes from the fact he's traumatized and his trust issues prevent him from feeling safe enough to bottom. What I'm saying is that both of these motherfuckers have issues surrounding being vulnerable around other people so it's literally just going to be them trying to intimidate each other into submission until they will eventually get used to each other's presence and then they'll be more chill, OR until they establish a power dynamic which is comfortable for both of them. Chris is a Collared One so he's already below Raphael in status, even IF he's a mouthy Collared One with attitude problems that get enabled by Jerome – technically speaking, all Raphael has to do is pull rank on Chris and that'll do it. But for some reason Raphael is ALSO entertaining Chris' attitude problems and letting him run his mouth to a degree so what we have is a volatile situation where both of them are going head-to-head for control over each other.

$20 says Chris will end up submitting to Raphael as a tactical decision and then slowly work on convincing Raphael that it's not so bad to let Chris have some level of control in the relationship and actually Raphael kinda wants it. Chris' biggest kink is to dominate Doms.

– Vesemir

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 23

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I sprained my ankle.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The king shifts you off of him, lifting you with him as he stands. The tension is rigid in his grip. He steadies your bodies and helps you over the edge of the tub. Another pounding sounds at the door and his name arises again. 

King Geralt follows, splashing water on the floor in his expediency. He takes a bath sheet from the wardrobe and wraps it around you, not saying a word. Your heart races as you let him move you. You’re paralysed with the embarrassment of that moment. You’re about to be caught out in a perilous position. 

He urges you towards the bed and points you onto it. You hug the sheet around you and sit near the pillows. He pulls shut the canopy around you, blocking out the room behind the drapings. You sink down, horrified. He’s hiding you. As thankful as you are for his discretion it only reminds you of your own guilt. 

He coughs and his feet slap around. You hear another rustle of linen and your ears prick as he goes to the door. He inches it open with a creak, “Vesemir,” he greets flatly. 

“Ah, the king lives,” the gritty voice is more familiar without the barrier of the wood, “ah, and look at him, in his respite, enjoying the hot waters as his wife runs amok in my castle.” 

“Wife?” Geralt repeats grimly, “what is your meaning?” 

“Do you mean to keep my out in the corridors of my own home?” The man demands and slaps the door. “Boy--” 

“Eh,” the king grunts, “mind yourself.” 

“Don’t play proper with me,” the man scoffs and the door groans, letting him in. You can see shadows through the small slot between the curtains. You shy away, hoping whoever it is won’t look back. 

“Vesemir,” the king repeats, confirming the identity, “what is my wife about?” 

“Won’t you come see?” The man challenges, “her and her soldiers are raiding my cellar. I allowed one bottle and now I will be drunk dry. I serve the kingdom but I did not swear myself to spoiled summer welps.” 

“Mm,” the king growls as he moves beyond your sight, not that you can see very much through the narrow space. “I’ll tend to her--” 

“Certainly, you will or I will march her out with my ax.” 

“You needn’t go so far,” the king girds with a sigh as you hear the stiffness of leather. 

“When you marched south, I didn’t think it would soften you,” Vesemir rebukes, “you hide in a tower, soaking in steam.” 

“It has been a long road. We won’t be long here and I thought to wash,” King Geralt sneers defensively. “Even bears like you need a good scrubbing. You more than any, I think.” 

Silence. Tense and roiling. You crawl forward to get a better view of the room. You put your eye to the slat between the curtains and nearly squeak as the older man booms with laughter and claps the younger’s bare shoulder. 

“Aye, I probably do smell like the caves,” he rumbles. “And you always did smell like a horse, Geralt.” 

The king mutters again as he pulls a tunic over his head, the wet tails of his hair leaving speckles of water across the wool. You blink as the other man shifts and you see his profile clear. You know the man. It is the cook. Rather, not a cook at all but Vesemir, the lord of the castle. You're caught in surprise, staring through at him. 

As if drawn by your gaze, he glances over and you quickly retreat from the curtain, hoping you were not spotted. His tongue makes a noise against the roof of his mouth and he huffs. His sole scuffs as the king’s laces whip against his boots. 

“Geralt,” Vesemir intones with disappointment. 

Silence and another heavy breath. You don’t know from which man. The chair scrapes as the king stands. 

“It isn’t to mind,” King Geralt insists, “I will fetch my queen and put her back in her chamber.” 

Vesemir growls, “I do wonder why she might act so, with such a loving husband.” 

“Enough. It isn’t your concern.” 

“Not as yet, but the king’s business is everyone’s concern. Especially of those who marched on his behalf for a summer’s kingdom and a summer’s queen.” 

“You did not march,” the king rebuffs. 

“Eh, do not,” Vesemir warns, “I do not lecture, I warn you. You are a king now, mm, not a boy playing at tourney knight.” 

“I am aware,” King Geralt snips, “tell me what you are aware of, hiding away in your vultures’ pit. These winter lords wanted home to their families, so I made it so. I agreed to marry that... traitor’s daughter and what have I got for it but a headache? You need not make my skull pound any harder, Vesemir.” 

“Oh yes, your father was no fan of politics either. Nor did he play them well. Perhaps you might take another lesson after him,” Vesemir rebukes, “that turncloak’s daughter will not be any more amenable should she learn of her husband’s follies.” 

“She cannot see past her own nose,” Geralt straps his sword over his back. 

“You are hard to miss,” Vesemir insists. 

“Let us go to the cellar, I tire of your reproach.” 

“Ever obstinate, my liege,” the lords tuts and shakes his head, turning for the door. 

You angle to watch them go, the door shutting heavily in their stead. You let out a breath and hug your legs to your chest. You look up at the canopy and the looming bed frame. And so it begins, you sit, trapped by the king’s deceit. 

⚔️

After some time, you dare to step beyond the canopy. You dress and sit at the table; the chamber growing still as the water cools and stagnates. The fire crackles to embers but you’re too fraught to think to feed it. You stare at the door. The longer you wait, the more your doubt threatens to consume you. 

There is no dial or no sunlight to gauge how long but it is longer than you anticipate. You grow restless and rise, pacing as you twist your palms against each other. Is it the queen the keeps the king? Or something more dire? 

When at last you hear movement on the stairs, you can’t help but hide against the wall. The footsteps hammer up and the door bursts open from the other side. At first, you fear the worst. Perhaps your mind has made it all a bit too extravagant but in a manner, you long for it to end, one way or the other. 

King Geralt storms in like a gust of wind and snow. The wood snaps against stone as he blusters across the floor and kicks a chair. It cracks against the table and the armrest splinters. You curl your fingers into your apron and sway.  

The king grabs the edge of the table and overturns it, sending the books and plates atop it to the floor. He circles like a rabid wolf, stomping and seething, growling as his anger simmers up his throat. He stops as if struck and goes to the bed, tearing back the canopy. His chest puffs as his brow furrows. 

“Treasure...” he breathes. 

You shudder, “your highness.” 

He turns and sees you, his shoulders easing. He closes his eyes and his jaw locks. He pushes his hands over his hair as he calms himself. He opens his eyes against and drops his arms. 

“Did I frighten you? I didn’t mean to,” he slowly comes closer, “you know I could never harm you.” 

“Yes, your highness, I only meant to be out of the way,” you utter. “Something is amiss?” 

“Mmm,” he hums through his nose, “that is a way to say it.” He takes your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing your knuckles, “my wife has not been a very gracious guest. Lord Vesemir’s hospitality quickly wanes. The storm won’t be much longer before we can depart...” he doesn’t look happy for the fact, “and we would be best to do so quickly.” 

“Is that not good? Aren’t you happy to go home?” You ask. 

His expression softens, “little maid, of course. I cannot wait to show you it all but... I hoped we might have some more time before that. The road is not easy.” He exhales and raises your hands, kissing each, “I must let you go for now. I have acted hastily and there are still matters to attend to. The war I started still roils in the air.” He shakes his head, “I have foes to harry as yet.” 

You blink, “what do you mean?” 

“Never you worry,” he lowers your hands, “I’ve only one mission for you, little maid.” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“You will return to the queen’s service, yes? You will tend to her as you always have but you will watch and you will listen. Every lord, every lady, ever single vermin that keeps her company, I want to know of,” he sneers.  

“Your highness? Why--” 

“Do not ask why. I require it, that is all you need to know. For our safety, you must do this,” he clings to you, “treasure, I know you are a loyal creature, it is what first drew me to you, but that woman you serve wouldn’t know loyalty if it crept up her skirts.” He lets you go hesitantly, “she is still a traitor’s daughter.” 

Your lip trembles and you quickly still it. He is asking you to play spy. On Jazlene. On your queen. His very own wife. But why? She is foolish, she is a drunkard, but she is harmless. 

“You swore yourself to your duty, didn’t you?” He arches a brow. “The king comes above all. Regardless of house, of master, you serve me.” 

“I will serve as I swore,” you grit out, injured by his tone. 

That same day he was gentle and now he is steely and demanding. He toys with you. He only means to use you in whatever way the moment calls for. It is not grand revelation but no less painful. 

“Do not be sombre, treasure, in due time,” he rasps. He backs away and puts his back to you, “go, before I let my heart get the best of me. Should you stay longer, I might never let you leave.” 

“Your highness,” you bow and walk to the door. 

“The knight awaits you. He will take you to the queen.” 

“Thank you,” you stand in the doorway. 

“Wait,” he calls to you and follows after. You turn to find him with cloak in hand, “you will need this.” 

You look down at the cloak. You take it without protest. Even if it is tainted, he isn’t wrong. You will face the cold soon enough and you wouldn’t fare long in your wool and linen. You thank him and he sees you through the open door, closing it as you descend. 

As you come to the bottom, you find a shadow awaiting you. It isn’t Bryce. The figure is broader and his white hair shines in the torch light. You step off the bottom step and bend your neck. 

“My lord,” you greet the castle lord. 

“Maid,” he returns dully, “so it is the little dove that coos as the king.” 

You keep your head down, turning it away in shame as you purse your lips. It is your first lesson in judgment but not an easy one. 

“I didn’t expect you so much as you didn’t expect me. Sir Bryce has allowed me your time but he warned me he would be back,” he explains. “I only wanted the measure of the king’s fancy. I’ve known him a very long time so it is curious to me that he has put himself in such a... circumstance.” 

“My lord,” you whisper, throat crackling. 

“Hmmm,” he gives a thoughtful hum. You languish in his silence as he looms in the flicker of lanterns. He pushes away from the wall and steps closer. “You are not offended, but guilty. There is no presumption in you, dove. You do not take insult from what I say, you only take on the onus of the king’s desire.”  

He leans in and brings his hand under your chin, forcing your head up. He looks at you, examining you like some riddle. His wrinkles deepen as the shadows make caverns of his eye sockets. 

“I see it clear,” he remarks as he pulls his hand away. “I remember the dove who treated cook no lesser than lord,” he stands straight and crosses his arms, “I see no difference between her and you. Yes, I was not mistaken before, but I believe our king is. He does not know you though he believes he does.” 

“My lord, I serve the king.” 

“You serve your queen,” he counters, “you are of the summer, just like her. So how do you choose?” 

You stare at him and your eyes sting. Can you choose? 

“It doesn’t matter which one, either would clip your wings,” he lets out a gray breath. “Dove, I will keep your peace. I hold no malice for you, no, I pity you.” He puts his hand to his chest, “while you are under my roof, you will have whatever you need. I will have that soldier find you a proper chamber. For yourself, and should you want, you will have the pick of my pantry. What little delights you might have, I would enjoy them while you can.” 

“Thank you, my Lord, but that is very much for a maid.” 

He touches your cap, his fingers lingering on the linen, “summer dove... I told you these winds were too cold for you.” 

“I must go to the queen,” you plead. 

“Yes, go,” he backs away, “I will send your soldier to you.” His lips go crooked as his eyes narrow thoughtfully, “I’ve known Sir Bryce a very long time. That man alone is the best army you could have at your back.” 

“He is kind, sir,” you say. 

“Is he now?” Lord Vesemir scoffs, “well, maybe one day, I might remember him as such. Do not let me keep you from your duty.” 

He stays by the wall and you step around him. You don’t look back as you march forward, the cryptic conversation follows you through the corridors. There was something unsaid in his voice, as if he knew something you don’t. One might take it as him making a joke of you, but you don’t see that man laughing over such grave matters. 

[lassieposting]

Okay so

In the last ep of S2, we see Jaskier asleep in a room at Kaer Morhen. There are three interesting details about this scene.

The room actually looks somewhat lived-in compared to the empty, spiderweb-ridden rooms Ciri explores in an earlier episode. Jaskier hasn't been at Kaer Morhen long enough to have a lived-in guest room.

When Yennefer gets him out of bed, we see him grab his coat, which is lying next to a mostly-empty bottle of booze. He also asks Yen if she's making a hangover cure, because he feels like shit. He wasn't drunk when Geralt asked him to take Ciri home, so we know that his first night at Kaer Morhen, he got white girl wasted.

He's mostly dressed in bed. Like, he's still got his boots on, even. The only thing he seems to have taken off is his coat. But he's not shivering or curled up like he's very cold. He seems quite comfy.

This makes me think five things.

Jask met Geralt's family for the first time and promptly got blitzed with them. That's why he's the only one in the keep with a hangover - they can't get drunk on his booze.

What do Jaskier and the Witchers have in common to talk about? Well, Geralt, of course. Not only do Vesemir and the boys get a detailed rundown of every amusing anecdote Jask has from his 20+ years travelling with Geralt (along with a heaped helping of Poetic Drunken Yearning - gods, where did Geralt get this walking bag of feelings?), but Jask also gets treated to Every Embarrassing Thing Baby!Geralt Ever Did.

The room looks lived-in because it's Geralt's. Everyone was too busy drinking and spilling tea to think about making up a guest room for the bard. So when Jaskier finally passes the fuck out, and Vesemir tells Lambert to find him a bed to sleep it off in, Lambert goes "Eh, close enough" and sticks him in Geralt's. Geralt's twink. Geralt's problem.

This is also why Jaskier is still almost totally dressed, boots and all. Lambert is so not going there: he's a Witcher, not a nanny or a nurse. He drops Jask on the bed, flings a blanket over him and calls it a day.

At some point post-S2, Geralt is going to wake up in a cold sweat at like 3am and realise that leaving his bard unattended with his family was a Terrible Idea and they definitely swapped stories and he's not going to hear the end of it from anyone for a really long time

[fangirleaconmigo]

Geralt x Jaskier Geraskier First kiss, friends to lovers

Geraskier Dancing

When Geralt of Rivia was a child, he begged Vesemir to teach him the kind of dances they performed at court. The answer was always no, but he kept trying.

After the trials, when Vesemir seemed so affected by his eyes, Geralt would widen them and look up at his tutor, pleading.

After all, Geralt thought, what if he rescued a fair maiden, and she demanded that he accompany her to a party? Perhaps she would drag him, giggling and flushed, onto the dance floor. He would be her noble savior, and she would be his grateful maiden.

He didn’t tell Vesemir his reasoning of course. He said that it might be important for royal courts, with kings in them. Wouldn’t it be best if he could fit in? Fencing was similar to dance, so surely Vesemir could handle teaching it.

Vesemir sighed and gave him the same speech he always gave.

"Geralt. You are not training to be a knight. Put that out of your mind. You are a professional. A working man.

Further, you are a mutant now. You will not be greeted with gratitude. You will be lucky to be greeted with the cash that you are promised."

Geralt felt stubborn. Furious. But he knew when to drop the subject.

Vesemir would pat his shoulder and offer him a sweet bread. His eyes always held regret.

Geralt understood him now. After years of hard lessons, he understood. When he thought back on his youth, he felt like a dolt.

The women he saved were traumatized. He was meeting them during the most terrified, violent moments of their lives. They screamed, bled, and threw up. And they all ran. With his bloody sword and ashen skin, he looked little different from the monsters he fought.

At least to them.

And yet?

He still learned how to dance, despite having given up the dream.

It started with Jaskier of course, like most misadventures and novel undertakings. The young bard had just shown up in his life one day and sort of just...never left.

His enthusiasm, energy, and optimism infected Geralt's life, as did the handsome twinkle in his eyes.

One night, after several glasses of wine they shared their most ridiculous childhood dreams. Jaskier admitted that he wanted to publicly rub his success in his family's face, to make their rejection sting less. So Geralt admitted that he'd always stupidly wanted to woo a grateful damsel on a dance floor.

He thought they were just talking nonsense, so he was startled when suddenly, Jaskier was on his feet, woozy and holding out a hand.

"C'mon. Lesgo." Jaskier jerked his curly, disheveled head towards an empty spot on the tavern large enough maybe for one large man.

Geralt refused at first. It was silly. Besides, They were both men. Who would lead?

But Jaskier simply grabbed his hand. When they touched, Geralt found that all of his resistance dissipated like a magic spell. He found himself standing and allowing himself to be dragged. And after they moved a few tables, he found himself touching the small of Jaskier's back and swaying with him.

Why didn't it feel odd? It should have felt odd.

It probably felt fine because they were alone.

They always danced alone.

They would be in a bar that was emptying out, the last drunkards stumbling home. Jaskier would be inviting, leaning against him, words slightly slurring.

Geralt selfishly loved him like that, not because Jaskier would lose his inhibitions, but because Geralt would. Plausible deniability.

"No one is here, Geralt. You won't ruin your fearsome rep--rep--pox on it. People won't see you." Jaskier waved dismissively as he dragged him.

The bard's lips grew pinker when he drank, and his cheeks flushed when they danced.

So Geralt let himself be led into the middle of empty bars, dance halls, and sometimes even just under the stars near a campfire.

"Y'need this for" *hiccup* "d'plomacy." Jaskier tugged him this way and that.

Despite the slurring, Jaskier always moved gracefully, like a swan. He'd sing to himself, lost in the music, touching Geralt with surety, guiding him. His body would be warm and little puffs of his wine soaked breath would drift towards Geralt. The witcher would inhale and try to control the surge of something primal in him awakening from a terribly long slumber.

Jaskier always led.

"I thought you were teaching me to dance with ladies," Geralt complained playfully one night. Jaskier was leading him in a lazy circle under some street lanterns on an abandoned street. Trash and litter was everywhere, left over from the spring festival. Their feet crunched on discarded candy wrappers as they moved.

"I am," Jaskier huffed indignantly, eyes hazy. "You must charm these noble ladies. It's not easy, you know. You must practice."

Geralt bit the side of his mouth trying not to smile. He didn't want to ruin the moment. He was so close to Jaskier, the closest he ever got to stand. "But I'm not learning to lead."

"Oh, s'fine. You'll just," Jaskier gestured, twirling his hand in a circle, "turn it all round." Then it was a rolling motion. "Flip it. Change it backwards. You know what I mean. They'll love it."

It was quiet for a moment, Geralt turned his head and crept closer, so he could secretly smile to himself.

"You already complain they simper around me," he murmured near his friend's ear. "You want to make it worse?"

Jaskier snorted loudly. "They're just trying to get to me, Geralt, you know that. Price of fame!!"

Then he spun Geralt, and all the while, Geralt grumbled, purposely moving stubbornly. "I don't twirl, Jaskier."

Jaskier was wobbly and dismissive. "Y'doing great."

Geralt really did learn during those nights. But they never spoke of it in the morning. Those nights were sacred and untouchable lest they shattered in the light of day.

But one day, they finally, truly paid off.

Geralt wanted to run and tell Vesemir. He'd been right. He had needed to learn the skill after all.

Because one spring day he rescued a beautiful young woman, and she was grateful. She was lovely, truly. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, caressing her delicate waist.

She had been menaced by a werewolf and run screaming into Geralt's arms, invitation to a ball at the ready. It was just like in his youthful dreams.

The werewolf wasn't such a bad guy to be honest. His name was Gil. And he wasn't so much menacing her as he was trying to say hello and simultaneously coughing. But it was an unpleasant sound to be sure. It was a hacking cough.

Geralt had intervened, having been sent there on an errand by Jaskier. The witcher took Gil aside to speak to him. The werewolf was moving on, anyway. He'd just come to see a picnic of beautiful women that Jaskier had told him about, thinking he would say hello.

Geralt wanted to shake Jaskier. Gently of course. To tell his friend that yes, he had needed help with dancing, but certainly did not need help with finding ladies to rescue. They were lying about everywhere there were monsters. Jaskier wasn't around though, he was nervously flitting around at fittings and lute tunings, preparing anxiously for the dance.

It was silly of course.

And to be honest, the young woman hadn't needed much rescuing. Gil's nose was still sore where she had hit him with her bag.

But nonetheless, when she'd seen Geralt she'd sighed and pretended to be quite helpless.

Geralt carried her to safety on Roach, and she had invited him to a dance that night. They were in Lettenhove, and the dance would be packed with nobles. It was the perfect setup.

Geralt got ready with trembling fingers. He laced on his best armor and slicked down his hair. His stomach was weak just to think of it.

When Geralt arrived, the maiden was there in a stunning gown. She arrived breathlessly, ready for her dance. She batted her eyes and curtseyed.

Geralt bowed slightly, and led her onto the dance floor. After a few moments, her raptured attention began to cool. She was well educated and polite, but Geralt caught her regretful glances towards the handsome young nobles in the corner.

He didn't blame her. He was not a small man, and he was stepping on her toes.

The bloom was very quickly off the rose for the young maiden.

"I'm sorry. My mistake." Geralt muttered at every wrong turn.

If you had asked Geralt as a child, whether the disappointment of a maiden would sting, he would have imagined so.

But it didn't. This was not what he had come for. This was not why his stomach had done somersaults as he had laced on his armor. It was because this party was not just packed with nobles, but very particular nobles from a very specific family.

Geralt glanced up to find him.

Jaskier stood off to the side, close by, clutching a glass of wine, and staring daggers at his cousin across the room. His cousin was a handsome man, if you went in for that kind of thing, though not as handsome as Jaskier. But he was holding court with several ladies.

Geralt excused himself with the relieved young lady who tried to look as though she were not fleeing.

Geralt came up behind Jaskier, and touched his back.

Jaskier did not jump or startle. He must have known Geralt's touch and scent by now. He simply turned and smiled.

"You're here!" Jaskier looked behind him. "And Juliet?"

Geralt shrugged. "I never actually learned to lead."

Jaskier's face fell. "I'm sorry, I-" he looked mortified, "-I don't actually know how to teach dance. I only know how to dance. I was just-"

Geralt cut him off by pulling him into his arms with an 'oof'.

Jaskier startled, leaning eagerly into the embrace. But then he remembered himself and looked around cautiously.

"I don't care if they see," Geralt whispered. "I want them to. Let the miserable bastards gossip until their throats are sore."

The widest, brightest grin he had ever seen blossomed on his handsome bard's face. "Well then." Jaskier straightened his shoulders and cleared a catch in his throat. Let me do this properly."

The bard gently detangled himself from Geralt's arms. Then he bowed at the waist and held out a hand. "Geralt of Rivia? May I have this dance?"

Geralt nodded and straightened his jacket. "You may, Viscount Julian of Lettenhove."

Jaskier held his hand with both of his, but he shook his head and whispered. "No. Viscount Julian is theirs. I am Jaskier. I am yours."

Geralt's heart melted. He did not know how to cope with that, so he just nodded.

The music fell silent, and a new song began.

The witcher and the bard were the first couple out on the floor. It may have started as a way to help Jaskier rub his success in his family's eyes. But almost instantly they forgot all about that. They lost themselves in the movement, the laughter, they only saw each other.

But Jaskier's family saw. His mother. His father. His envious cousins. They all saw that he was loved. That he was talented, famous, and loved.

Geralt didn't think a whole lot about Vesemir that night.

He simply danced. And when the last note on the last song died out, he touched Jaskier's chin. His love's eyes lit up with hope. Geralt didn't want to draw out the suspense, so he pulled him in for a kiss. It was tender and they were sweaty, their hearts beating in their chests.

It felt right. And not because they were alone. It was because they loved each other.

When Geralt visited Vesemir during the winter, he brought up his childhood dream. He would tell the old witcher that he understood now.

Love wasn't something you earned through daring acts. It wasn't something you extracted from terrified women as the price for their safety.

Love was a bard who tried his damndest to fulfill your dreams at the expense of his own.

Love was taking him in your arms and fulfilling his.

Well, Geralt tried to say all that. Perhaps it didn't come out the way he meant. Perhaps he stumbled over his words and grunted some.

But when he pulled Jaskier into the room to introduce him to Vesemir, the old witcher understood.

[podcastenthusiast]

"Here should be safe to set up camp," Geralt says, scanning the treeline with his eyes in that odd witcher way. Like he's seeing much more than a mere mortal could.

"Thank the gods," sighs Jaskier, who's been really starting to regret skiving off those physical fitness courses at Oxenfurt.

"Get a fire started while I tend to Roach."

"Oh Geralt, I'd love to, I would. Truly it's colder than a sorceress' shapely—"

"Jaskier."

"Well, as they say: you can lead a bard to timber, but you can't make him—"

"Just do it, Jaskier."

"I don't know how! All right? I've never built a fire in the middle of nowhere before! It's not one of the seven liberal arts, and I much prefer my fires stoked by comely barmaids in taverns."

Geralt looks at him for a long moment. It's a complicated look—frustration and amusement and a hint of regret. Mostly it's a look that says Jaskier is an idiot for joining him on the Path.

"Right," Geralt says slowly. He begins building the campfire himself.

"I imagine they teach wilderness survival to baby witchers at witcher school."

Geralt looks at him again and there's something different in his expression. The ghost of a smile? Jaskier doesn't quite know how to read it.

"Kaer Morhen," he says. "And yeah. Something like that."

"Oh?" Jaskier has to rein in his enthusiasm, his curious questions. Geralt so rarely reveals anything personal about himself or his past. Not that Jaskier has been forthcoming in that regard either. They live in the moment, day by day, but some context would help his creative process.

Besides all that, he genuinely wants to get to know Geralt a little better.

"Vesemir took me out into the forest one day. Gave me a knife and left me there for a month."

There is no bitterness in his words. If anything, the witcher sounds...almost fond. Nostalgic. Proud of his younger self for overcoming the challenges his mentors set before him.

It takes a moment for the true meaning of that to sink in and, once it does, Jaskier is horrified. His own parents weren't great, but even they would never simply abandon him.

"He just— like as a test— what—?"

"Real eloquent, bard. I doubt he had any choice. Probably wasn't even supposed to give me anything."

"How old were you?" he demands, unsure if any answer will make this revelation less abhorrent.

"Six? Seven? Maybe eight. I don't know." Geralt makes a gesture with his fingers and the pile of wood beneath his hand sparks with flame. "Not old enough to have learned Igni yet."

He can picture it, too, so vividly. Curse his dammed artist's imagination. Geralt, just a kid, alone and scared and definitely cold—because no one bothered to teach him how to start a fire.

"Stop it," the witcher snaps.

"What?"

"Looking at me like that. I'm fine. I was fine back then. Wasn't so bad at all compared to the Grasses. Vesemir came back for me like he said he would. I survived the trial—no, I didn't just survive; I exceeded all expectations, which is why they..." The witcher trails off. Takes a breath.

All of that... It's quite a lot of words for Geralt. Honest words, even.

It's his job to talk, to sing, to commit the most painful and difficult experiences to beautiful poetic verse. But Jaskier doesn't know what to say to his friend right now. Surely he has to say something.

"Geralt..."

"Don't waste your pity. Save it for the ones who didn't make it through. I did."

"Okay," the bard replies, careful and tentative. He isn't a brave man, nor a particularly kind one. But Jaskier considers himself an honest fellow so he adds, "Just because you made it through, you know, that doesn't mean what happened to you was all right, Geralt. Children aren't supposed to be left alone to fend for themselves."

The witcher laughs—a humorless, wretched sound. He doesn't say anything at all to that. Which is okay, really; Jaskier just needed him to hear it.

There is a long silence. The fire crackles. Jaskier absently strums his lute.

"You're gonna write a ballad about this, aren't you," Geralt says after a while.

"No!" Maybe. Yes. He won't perform it.

"Hm."

The fire crackles.

Quite out of the blue, Geralt tells him, "I befriended a wolf back then."

"What? You're joking!"

"Witchers don't have a sense of humor. Common knowledge."

"Common misconception. Most people are just stupid. No, hang on, stop distracting me—You had a pet wolf?!"

"Not a pet," the witcher corrects, smiling faintly. "Fangtooth was her own wolf."

"Fangtooth?" Jaskier repeats, struggling to contain his amusement. "Not Roach?"

"No."

"Forgive me, but that's adorable."

"I was just a child. I wanted to stay with her in the wilderness. Be a wolf, too. Or a knight." He shakes his head dismissively. Silly childish dreams.

"But you didn't," Jaskier says. And feels stupid for saying something so obvious.

"Too late for that," Geralt replies without reproach. "I was already a witcher."

"As a child, I wanted to run away and join the circus," the bard offers.

"Of course you did."

They're quiet for a moment then. Comfortable, shared silence. Just the sounds of birds and forest creatures, and Roach contentedly eating grass. The fire crackles.

"Geralt, will you teach me to light a fire? Without witcher magic, obviously, since I don't have any."

"Why?"

"Because...well, because I could be a more useful traveling companion. Like Fangtooth must've been."

"...Fine," Geralt agrees after some thought.

It is a skill he will be very grateful to have on freezing nights in the coming years, especially whenever the witcher is too injured or ill from those dreadful potions to help set up camp. He will try not to think of the child Geralt once was, subjected to horrific tests of his ability to survive all on his own.

Except he hadn't been on his own back then, not completely. And he isn't alone anymore, either.

[teatitty]

So who wants to hear my headcanons regarding the colours of Witcher eyes and how the exact gold shades vary from person to person and Geralt's are the most intense because he went through the trials twice and Vesemir's look rusted over where he's lived so long

[panur]

AU where Geralt gets his wish when he asks life to take Jaskier off his hands: Geralt gets isekai'd to an AU where Jaskier never met him and thus didn't spend 20 years cleaning his reputation and those of other witchers/nonhumans by extension

some headcanon highlights of this AU (feel free to use or discard):

this world is Awful, the way they treat Witchers in general (and Geralt in particular) is HELLA bad. Refused service and entrance in more than half the towns he enters and being paid poorly if he gets paid at all, people terrified and hateful towards him

He finds out Pavetta jumped off a tower after her mother had Duny killed (guess you're finally free of that child surprise, Geralt...)

Calanthe has become an unhinged warmonger having nothing to lose, particularly against elves, who are even more decimated than usual

Eskel was killed as result of witcher propaganda getting MUCH worse after the raise of the white flame + the whole Blaviken thing

Vesemir is a shadow of himself, living alone in Kaer Morhen, not having talked to anyone for years

Lambert moved permanently with the cat caravan and blames Geralt for Eskel's death

less witchers in general (with a lot having died or retired since continuing in the current conditions is unsustainable) means a lot more monsters, particularly Necrophages and Wraiths

Yen is disfigured and severally weakened/borderline disabled after getting majorly cursed from eating that infant dragon's heart + several botched attempts at making it better (maybe they can use the djinn to fix the timeline?)

#it's free real estate prompt just tag me so i can read

[queenxxxsupreme]

Rare Encounters (Jaskier x f!witcher!reader)

A/N: hi guys…. I finished Fallout the tv show and it gave me that urge to write that I haven’t had in a while. Now fingers crossed that it works for the long run. Once I can get a good feel for the Fallout universe, my ass will 100% be writing fallout fics 😂

Warnings: nothing outside of canon

Summary: Jaskier meets his first female witcher.

“I swear, you all live like fucking pigs.” You grumbled as you picked up the empty tankards and bowls.

“Oh, just relax, Y/N.” Lambert spoke from across the room. He sat at a table with most of the other wolves as they told stories and carried on. “No one cares what this place looks like.”

“I do, as should you.” You placed the dirty dishes on to the end of one of the empty tables. “Who is going to be doing dishes tonight?”

All of the wolves diverted their eyes away from you.

“Oh come on, boys. It’s just dishes. You’ve done worse, I’m sure of it.”

“I’d rather gut an ekimorra than do house chores.” Coen shook his head.

“Alright. Well then, I’ll just choose for myself who will be the lucky one.”

“When are ya goin’ to get eaten by a cockatrice or something, Y/N?” The redhead wolf teased. “All this nagging you do is–,”

With a flick of your wrist and a sign of aard, Lambert was sent backwards off of the bench. You grinned just a little.

“You fucking–,” He signed aard back at you the second he was on his feet, but you were quick to sign quen, blocking his attack.

“Don’t start that this early in the winter, Lambert.” Vesemir scolded him as he moved to sit next to Coen.

“Me?” Lambert raised his brows. “She’s the one who started it!”

The doors to the keep opened, bringing in a rush of cold wind. You looked up to see Geralt, a man, and a girl walking in.

The wolves fell silent as Geralt pushed the hood off of his head. A fond smile came to his lips.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Lambert stood to his feet and took a few steps towards his brother. Coen followed.

“We thought you were dead, or lost.”

“Not yet.” Geralt embraced Coen first and then Lambert.

All the other wolves soon took their turn greeting their fellow witcher.

“Y/N.” He said your name fondly. “Glad to see you didn’t let Lambert get you killed on the path.”

“I about killed her myself a couple times.” Lambert glared at you. “She’s like having a second Vesemir around, except some how she’s worse!”

You gave him a shove away from you, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the last time I spend time with you on the path.” Your words were directed to Lambert while you gave Geralt a hug. “Now I have to spend the entire winter in this gods damned keep with him too.”

“Have you seen Eskel, Geralt?” Lambert returned to his seat.

“He’s not here?” Geralt furrowed his brow.

“Haven’t seen any sign of him.” Coen shook his head. “Usually he’s one of the first one’s here, but hasn’t made it this year.”

“Hmm.”

“Wolf. You’re home.” Vesemir was the last to greet the White Wolf.

“I had to make a few stops.” Geralt looked back to the girl and the man to his left.

Your eyes fell on her. Your medallion had trembled when she first entered the room and even now, you could still feel the chaos radiating off of her. She seemed curious, bright eyes taking in every witcher around her. Then she looked at you. You held her gaze, lifting your chin just a little in acknowledgement.

You turned to continue cleaning up the mess the wolves left behind as introductions were made between Geralt’s guests and the wolves.

“And who might she be?” Jaskier asked Geralt as you picked up an empty pitcher from the table the wolves sat at.

“Y/N here is the maid of the keep.” Lambert answered for you. His eyes followed you as you moved around the table, a little grin playing on his lips. “Helps keep everything all nice and clean for us men.”

You launched the pitcher at his head. He dodged to the side, nearly pushing Coen off of the bench in the process.

“You’re going to get yourself into trouble this winter, Lambert.” Vesemir warned him.

“This is Y/N.” Geralt introduced you properly. He and his guests took a seat at the table with the rest of the wolves. “She’s our sister.”

“Sister?” Ciri repeated, furrowing her brows. “As in a witcher?”

“It would seem that way.” You confirmed with a slight nod and a sigh.

“That’s absolutely amazing!” Jaskier exclaimed. “A lady witcher.”

“I think calling her a lady may be overselling it.” Coen snickered.

“Yeah, she ain’t no lady.” Lambert added.

You moved to lean in between him and Coen, reaching for an empty plate. As you were turning away from the table, you made sure to purposefully smack both of the wolves in the head with the plate.

“Fuck!”

“Why don’t you boys make yourselves useful and go do these dishes before they get out of hand?” You placed the bin of dirty dishes down in front of Coen.

They grumbled but decided not to fight it. If they did dishes now, they wouldn’t have to do them later. Or so they thought.

“You’ve never mentioned that you had a sister, Geralt.”

The White Wolf grumbled in his chest as he looked at his bard. It was a warning. He knew very well how Jaskier was with the opposite sex.

“Geralt doesn’t like to do such a thing.” You settled with sitting at the end of a bench at one of the tables. “I would take away all the spotlight from the grand White Wolf. If word got out about a lady witcher, why, the White Wolf wouldn’t be so exciting, now would he?”

Geralt rolled his eyes at you as he moved to the table that had a jug of ale and mugs. He poured himself a mug and then returned to sit across from you.

“If it wouldn’t be too much, I would absolutely love to hear more about you.” Jaskier sat down just beside Geralt. He leaned against the table with both hands and his voice oozed with excitement. “You see, I am a bard by trade. Perhaps you’ve heard some of my work.”

You gazed into his blue eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of your scarred lips.

“You’re a brave soul, bard.”

He smiled a bit bashfully, cheeks flushing light pink.

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Geralt told him. His words made Jaskier’s smile drop.

“What? Of-Of course it was!”

“It was more of an observation, bard.” You said. “Not many could come to a witcher’s keep and ask a witcher to share her war stories just moments after meeting her.”

“Jaskier has no fear.” Geralt sighed.

“Well, I-I wouldn’t say that. I have plenty of fear.”

You smiled a little at the bard.

“How was the Path this year?” Geralt changed the subject. “I can’t imagine spending the whole year with Lambert was pleasant.”

“Oh, it was anything but pleasant.” You let out a small breath, scratching your fingertips over a groove in the wooden tabletop. “I’d rather have my eyes gouged out with spoons than spend that much time with him.”

Geralt chuckled a little.

“Y/N!” You heard Coen shout your name from the kitchen. You turned your head to the side, listening closely to what was going on.

Geralt furrowed his brows a little and tilted his head. He could also hear the roughhousing going on in the kitchen.

“Ah, fuck.” You grunted, pushing yourself to your feet.

“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asked you.

“My brothers are fools. Excuse me, bard. Princess.”

Jaskier watched as you crossed the room and disappeared behind a heavy wooden door. He didn’t realize he had been staring for too long until the White Wolf grumbled.

The bard turned his head to his traveling companion, brows falling and lips pressing together in a line as he found the witcher glaring at him.

“What?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You get that same look in your eye when we go to banquets. That same look has gotten you nearly killed for bedding the wrong woman.”

“Geralt! Have a little faith in me! That is your sister for crying out loud! I-I would— I would never—,”

“Unfortunately, I know you too well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier found himself looking back to the door you had disappeared through. A sheepish smile crossed his lips.

“She is rather stunning, isn’t she?”

“Jaskier.”

“It’s a compliment!”

Geralt shook his head.

“She will rip you to pieces.”

“Isn’t that the hope?” Jaskier grinned.

“Gross.” Ciri scrunched her nose up. She had been so quiet that Jaskier almost forgot that they were in the company of the young girl.

“Sorry, Ciri.”

***

You carried a mug in one hand as you left the kitchen. It had been a few hours since Geralt and his guests had arrived. By now, night had fallen on Kaer Morhen. Lambert was preparing a late dinner for everyone. Coen and Vesemir were fixing a fallen shelf in the library. Ciri was in the library reading through a few books to pass time.

Geralt and Jaskier were just getting back in from checking on the horses.

“So I see you changed your mind about your Child Surprise.” You spoke. Your voice reverberated off of the walls.

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Cintra was overtaken by Nilfgard. She has no one.”

“Well, now she has us.” You took a seat on a bench but kept your back to the table. Geralt and Jaskier sat the same way, with their backs to the table just across from you.

A door across the room creaked as it was opened. Being that the door was behind you, you had to turn your head and your upper half to be able to see Vesemir.

“Where’s Ciri?” Geralt asked him.

“Left her in the library. She seemed rather interested in an old beastiary.” Vesemir poured himself a mug of ale.

“To think we have a princess here in the walls of Kaer Morhen.” You shook your head, finishing off the last bit of your drink. “This winter is going to be an interesting one.”

“She isn’t the first princess here.” Geralt said. Your eyes met his briefly before you looked away.

“What does that mean?” Jaskier looked to Geralt for an explanation.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Vesemir took a seat next to you. “All that matters is we don’t try to kill each other this winter.”

“Lambert is at the very top of my list.” You told him. “The first chance I get, I’m going to suffocate him in his sleep.”

“Y/N.” Vesemir scolded.

“Where do you hail from, Y/N?” Jaskier asked you.

“Ard Carraigh, though that was more than a lifetime ago.” You looked down at your empty tankard.

The sound of the horses out in the stables made you turn your head towards the door. You furrowed your brows, unsure of what had them stirring.

“Something’s bothering the horses.” Geralt grunted.

“I will go see to it.” Vesemir sighed as he stood to his feet.

“Do you want one of us to come with you?” You asked him.

“No need. I don’t think it’s that much of a concern.”

You watched the old witcher leave through the heavy front door.

“I should go check on Ciri.” Geralt thought out loud.

“There can’t be too much she’d get into trouble with.” You said. “Nothing up there other than rats the size of a foal.”

“You’d be surprised with Ciri. She can find trouble out of thin air.” He stood up. “Don’t stir up any trouble while I’m gone, Jaskier.”

“You have too little faith in me, Geralt!”

The White Wolf rolled his eyes but said nothing as he walked away. Your eyes followed him until he disappeared through a door that led to the rest of the keep.

“How long have you….” Jaskier trailed off, unsure of the right words to use. “Have you been a witcher long?”

“Are you asking my age, bard?”

“No, no! I’d never ask a lady such a thing.” He chuckled nervously. “I assume that if you have been a witcher for very long, I would have known about you. Or heard about you at some point in time.”

You stood up and moved seats, choosing instead to sit beside the bard. He shifted in his seat, clearly nervous by your sudden close presence.

“It’s been decades since I came here to Kaer Morhen.” You looked upwards to the high ceilings. “Before the sacking.”

”What was it like? Before the- Before the sacking?” Jaskier turned his head to you. He admired your side profile, blue eyes mapping out your facial features. The curve of your nose down to the shape of your lips.

Your attention was shifted to him. It was then that you noticed he was practically staring at your lips. You smiled a little, causing him to look up at your eyes. His cheeks turned pink and he chuckled nervously.

”My-My apologizes.”

”It was nothing grand.” You answered his question as you rose to your feet. “I need more drink. Would you like to come with me?”

”Yes.” Jaskier answered a little too quickly.

He followed behind you like a puppy. You looked over your shoulder to him, the twinkle in your eyes making his heart race. Gods, you were a beauty.

You pushed the door to the kitchen open but before Jaskier could follow you inside, Lambert and Coen were coming out.

“What are you doing, barker?” Coen asked.

“Just— I was just—,”

”Leave him alone, Coen.” You called from just inside the kitchen. Jaskier couldn’t see you because of the wall the two large witchers were forming, blocking you from him.

The boys laughed, their boisterous voices echoing throughout the room. Lambert clapped his hand down on Jaskier’s shoulder as they passed him. Jaskier was just a little confused.

”They are, uh, quite the pair, aren’t they?”

”A pair of jackasses is what they are.” You shook your head.

“Big brothers are like that. I have four.”

”Sounds horrendous.” You poured a second mug of ale and passed it to the bard. “Do you have any other siblings?”

”An older sister and a younger sister.”

”Seven children?” You raised your brows as you leaned against the wooden counter. “Yikes.”

”Yeah.” He chuckled lightly. He leaned against the counter beside you. “Always had a big family.”

”I was one of the last witchers to ever be made, so I suppose I’ve only ever had older brothers.” You took a sip of the ale. ”Couldn’t imagine it any other way. They irritate the piss out of me, but they’re my brothers.”

”They are good men.” Jaskier nodded. “Albeit, annoying. But good men.”

You found yourself gaze at the barker. He was stunning. Warm skin, dark curly hair, even darker eyelashes, and bright icy blue eyes that contrasted his features so nicely. He was a pleasure to gaze at.

The door to the kitchen opened and there stood Geralt.

Jaskier hurried to move, taking a step to the side to put space between himself and you.

“Ah, Geralt!”

The White Wolf offered a low grumble before he looked to you.

”Eskel is home. He doesn’t look good.”

“Is he okay?” You furrowed your eyebrows together. Your drink as discarded on the counter as you hurried to leave the kitchen.

”Vesemir has him in the infirmary.”

You slipped past the witcher and hurried away.

Geralt waited until your footsteps had disappeared down the staircase. Then he turned his attention to Jaskier. He crossed his arms over his chest, appearing even more intimidating than usual.

“Oh, come on, Geralt! Don’t look at me like that!”

”Y/N is—,”

”She is your sister! And you, you are my closest friend!” Jaskier moved to stand in front of Geralt. He placed his hands on Geralt’s biceps and attempted to shake the man but Geralt didn’t budge. “I wouldn’t dream of ever crossing you like that—,”

”Jaskier.” Geralt almost rolled his eyes. ”Get your hands off of me.”

”She is rather friendly though.” Jaskier clasped his hands behind his back as he slipped around the stocky witcher to leave the kitchen. “Very chatty too. Unlike you, you cranky old man.”

Geralt turned around to watch his friend as he started to walk away.

“Jaskier.”

”Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier turned on his toes to face him.

”Just be careful.”

The bard didn’t know what to expect, but that wasn’t it. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side just a bit.

“Uh, o-okay, Geralt.”

[kittenofdoomage]

In case you missed it...

I'm currently posting a fic a day over on Ao3 for my Tropetober A-Z event on Patreon last year. It's a different character every day from different fandoms, mostly smutty (you know me). All red underlined links lead to AO3, please read the warnings on individual stories 😘

The fics:

A: Alpha/Beta/Omega - Winter Nights

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) You’re an Omega who lives at Kaer Morhen, unmated but belonging, almost like a pack Omega to the Alpha Witchers; Geralt, Coen, Lambert and Vesemir, though the elder Witcher is long past any need for you. Geralt is close to rut when he returns, and seeks you out.

B: Bodyswap - Worth The Wait

(John Winchester x fem!reader) Some supernatural beings don’t want to hurt anyone, they just want to prove a point.

C: Character Death - The One Good Thing

(Negan x fem!reader) You waited so long to have him back, and he’s waited so long to get back to you, now you can be happy again… right?

D: Dark fic - On Our Terms

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) A sorcerer out for revenge leaves you in a dangerous position, and you’re not sure you’re going to make it out of this one.

E: Enemies To Lovers - Trapped

(Bucky Barnes x fem!reader) An incident on a mission leaves you and Bucky trapped in a vault. Being sealed in a relatively small space is a problem on its own, but you’re faced with another dilemma; you absolutely hate Bucky Barnes.

F: Fake Dating - Keeping Up Appearances

(John Winchester x fem!reader) You haven’t heard from John in three months, after he abandoned you, but now he needs your help on a case. Are you willing to ignore your feelings to help him?

G: Glad To Be Alive - All Is Not Lost

(Negan x fem!reader) A sequel to "The One Good Thing" which was letter C of Tropetober.

H: High School Sweethearts - Bittersweet

(Steve Rogers x fem!reader) In any time or place, she'd love him.

I: I Don't Want To Ruin Our Friendship - Mistakes

(Bucky Barnes x fem!reader) She took a chance and it broke her heart - can Bucky fix the mistake he made?

J: Just Friends - Nightcap

(John Winchester x fem!reader) She’s sick of correcting everyone, and alcohol loosens the tongue.

K: Kiss Of Life - Near Miss

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) Geralt saves your life, then reminds you to never nearly die again.

L: Love Potion - A Wee Favor

(Dean Winchester x fem!reader x Sam Winchester) Dreams can come true.

M: Mates - Crossed Paths

(Alpha!Geralt Of Rivia x Omega!fem!reader) Destiny put them in each other's way for a reason.

N: New Old Flame - Always Yes

(John Winchester x fem!reader) They came so close to something special, only to have it torn away; is there any hope left for them now?

O: One True Love - Backseat Lover

(Dean Winchester x fem!reader) He's been keeping a secret from her, and when they're stranded alone for hours, he finally has to come clean.

P: Please Don't Leave Me - Vigil

(Bucky Barnes x fem!reader) He's halfway through a mission when something he can't fight happens.

Q: Queen Size Bed - Never Have I Ever

(John Winchester x fem!reader x Dean Winchester) Drinking can lead to all sorts of decisions, luckily, these are good ones.

R: Roommates - Sleepless

(Bucky Barnes x fem!reader) Turns out, the solution to the problem was there all along.

S: Soulmates - Runaway

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) You run away from the life your parents want for you, and finally find your soulmate in the most unlikely of places.

T: Time Travel - Time Breaks All Things

(John Winchester x fem!reader) - A misstep on a case puts them somewhere they didn't expect to be, and they're not sure if there's a way home again.

U: Unresolved Sexual Tension - Seize The Sam

(Sam Winchester x fem!reader) Dean "Matchmaker" Winchester strikes again.

V: Virgin - Life Lessons

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) The night that Geralt learned his most valuable life lessons…

W: Werewolf - The Wolf Moon

(Henry Cavill x fem!reader) A night of camping leads her right into the arms of fate.

X: Xenafication - Rough

(Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader) Something changes you, and Geralt isn't sure it's a good thing.

Y: You Can't Fight Fate - Ships In The Night

(Dean Winchester x fem!reader) She keeps running to avoid heartbreak but she's breaking all the same.

Z: Zombies - Full

(Negan Smith x fem!reader) She knows she shouldn't, but the problem is, she wants to, real bad.

If you do check any of the fics out, please let me know what you think 😊

[aramblingjay]

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

-

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

-

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

-

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

-

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

-

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

-

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.