#also vesemir. what the fuck. that man did not want more witchers

[wren-of-the-woods]

I hear you're where to go for Witcher fic recs! How about some with Geralt being protective over Jaskier? Shippy, if you can find any, but I wouldn't mind platonic! I just want Geralt to look out for his bard. Thank you for your time!

Hello!! Here's what I've got! There's a wide variety of settings and levels of angst, so hopefully there should be something for everone :D

As always, please feel free to add more recs or promote your own work in the notes!

~

Don't Leave Me by @geraskierficrecs (Rated M, 6.2k)

Jaskier’s hands tighten around Geralt before slowly losing their grip, spasming where they fall limp. “Ger--geralt--” “Don’t you dare,” he snarls back, “Don’t you dare try to give me your fucking goodbyes. You are not dying.” “S--silly man.” Jaskier’s smile is full of painful fondness. “Would you fight death for me?” Geralt swings him up into his arms and nearly weeps at the sound of familiar hooves running in his direction. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

If You Give a Bard a Lute by @ghostinthelibrarywrites (Rated T, 10k)

After Jaskier’s father disowns him, confiscates all his possessions— including Filavandrel’s lute— and kicks him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, Jaskier spends a long, hungry winter barely surviving. When he reunites with Geralt in the spring, his witcher is determined to get his lute back, even if it means recruiting his fellow witchers to stage a heist.

Wild Blue Yonder by @jaskierswolf (Rated T, 5.3k)

Geralt's bookshop is slowly falling apart and he's ready to give up when Jaskier wanders into the store

remember me I sing by @echo-bleu (Rated G, 3.1k - also includes Yennnefer)

Filavandrel's gift was so much more than a simple lute. It seemed fitting, that Jaskier’s soul would be made of wood and strings and beautiful sounds. The problem is that now Rience has his lute and is threatening to burn it if they don't hand over Ciri. And Jaskier has never told anyone that his very life is tied to his beloved instrument.

This Is How I Disappear by @stacyholmes (Rated T, 5.4k)

Jaskier keeps texting unknown number. Geralt keeps reading said texts without answering.

The Footsteps We Follow by thiswildheart (Rated T, 16.5k)

Look, Jaskier's got a lot going on. He's painfully aware that there are cataclysmic events happening and that the troubled teenager he knows might save the world or speed along the end of days. He's also in love with a man who's never even admitted that they're friends, which is almost as bad. Oh, and he's still working as the Sandpiper, only now a terrifying eldritch creature has entrusted him with the Song of the Seven to give hope to the elves and help them fight back against their oppression. It's probably the bravest thing he's ever done, but not everyone sees it that way. Luckily he knows some people who excel at last minute rescues. ... then he just has to figure out how to tell Geralt why so many people are trying to kill him. This is going to go great.

Getting Warmer (orphaned) (Rated T, 8.2k) 

Injured and freezing after a kikimora hunt gone wrong, Geralt and Jaskier must wait out a thunderstorm at the bottom of a cliff, huddling for warmth. It is here that Geralt finally confronts his feelings for the bard.

Jaskier and Mountains Just Don't Mix by C4t1l1n4 (Rated G, 3.8k)

Despite the other Witchers' positive reaction to Geralt's bard, Vesemir is reluctant to have a human stay with them at Kaer Morhen so Jaskier attempts to leave and ends up almost freezing to death on the side of the mountain. Hypothermia fic

Immediately, I Love Him (He's Doing His Best) by @hum-my-name (Rated G, 26.5k)

"In which Greg is some sort of guardian angel, I don't know" <><> A few days ago, Joey Batey did an interview in which he created a lovely little character named Greg. A few days ago, I decided to write a cute little thing about Greg and Jaskier being the best of friends throughout the years, with a dash of Geralt and Jaskier friendship as a treat. 13k words later, here we are. Enjoy.

Broken Mirror by happy_hermit (Rated G, 2.1k) 

To Geralt’s credit, he waits until they’re well away from Kaer Morhen to ask the question. He also waits until Yennefer and Ciri have gone to bed, which makes the whole thing feel a bit too calculated for Jaskier’s liking, which is to say that he doesn’t like it at all. “Where’s your lute, Jaskier?” Jaskier doesn’t quite flinch, though his heart does something of the sort all on its own. It is very much a wound that hasn’t healed; as is most of him, these days.

Echo by @kingthunder (Rated E, 29.5k)

Jaskier loses his voice the morning after a concert. As he and Geralt find new ways to fill the silence between them, they realize it isn't only Jaskier's voice that's been lost—and getting it back will bring them closer than they've ever been before.

If There's Any Sleep At Night by @smolalienbee (Rated T, 22.8k)

The mare is but a silhouette of a human and yet at his words something passes through her expression - whether it’s surprise, joy, fear, Geralt doesn’t know. But it’s clear that what he said has struck her in some way. (“She is not some mindless monster, Geralt.” He remembers Jaskier’s words.) A mare, also known as a mara or a zmora - a malicious entity, a bringer of nightmares and a demon of the night. An easy enough contract to fulfill, if only frustrating, or at least that’s what Geralt believes when he first sets out to hunt down one such mare. What he doesn’t expect is to be wrapped up in a tale of a wronged soul, of love and of joy.

Also, because I'm not above reccing my own fics, here's a few I've written!

Wash Away the Blood and Tears by me (Rated T, 1.8k)

Jaskier re-injures his fingers while distracting Nilfgaard from Ciri. Afterward, Geralt volunteers to help wash his hair. Or: In which Jaskier gets a bath and a nap, and Geralt gets a new role in the group.

We'll Build a Den Out of Pillows (And Get Drunk Again) by me (Rated G, 2k)

Jaskier gets sick. When Geralt asks how to help, Jaskier jokingly suggests that he build a pillow fort. He does not expect Geralt to take it seriously. Geralt takes it seriously.

~

If you want more, there’s a Protective Geralt tag on AO3 that I’m sure has many lovely works I haven’t read!

(You can also find my other reclists here)

[fangirleaconmigo]

Guys. I'm gonna be very real with you here. And I'm sure it will piss off a few people. So I'm not tagging it. You can rb if you want, but I'm not tagging it. This is for you to do with as you please.

Ok. Here it is. We don't know what happened behind the scenes. We don't. We truly don't. And please be real.

HCav (not using the full name because I don't want to put it in the search results) is a massive global superstar, gorgeous, rich, beloved, AND incredibly incredibly incredibly good at pr. He has legions of fans and more access to media than almost any other celebrity.

All he has to do is very tactfully, in a few interviews, refuse to compliment the writers and instead steer the conversation to his love of the books, and voila. When he leaves this show, everyone blames someone else. Like. I've seen like two people mad at him. That's it. And that is what he did. He is very very smart.

This is the man who managed to convince millions of nerdy fanboys that he is 'just like them' that he is 'one of them'. Do you know how hard that is for someone who looks like him? lol

It used to be that when Hcav was cast in something nerdy, they'd bitch. "He's too pretty" (they want to project hard onto the hero, and their ideal is a rugged man which they associate more closely with old fashion masculinity. They also always complain the opposite of the female lead...she's never pretty or hot enough. But that's a different convo.) But despite that, HCav has painstakingly convinced them over the course of several years, that he is 'just like them'. It's like...the miracle that he has pulled off is THEE pr accomplishment of this century.

I am not saying that HCav is not a nerd. I'm not saying that he doesn't work hard or take the material seriously. I'm saying that it is far too easy for everyone watching this unfold, to just call him Jesus, and vilify everyone else, all while have zero fucking idea of what happened behind the scenes.

"Yes but Des, we know it's the writers' fault, because the show writing does suck, and the showrunner herself says that Cav was always the one who tried to fit in passages from the books."

Yes. Ok. But the problem I have with the writing is never the details. It's the overarching plotlines. HCav knew her vision when he signed on. When he fought for that role. They had so many meetings. Netflix told her to carry out her own vision, that's what she said she'd do, and he knew that.

All I'm saying is, no matter what you think of the writing, he is not a passive victim here. He was not betrayed. It's just grown folks having differences. That's it! And he couldn't write that show. Him adding lines here and there is the easiest thing. Would he be able to write an entire season's worth of scripts? (It's harder than it looks. It takes years of honing that craft.) No. He wouldn't, nor would he want to. The pay cut alone would be so staggering I'm sure he would have to sell several ocean front properties.

"Yes, but Des, the former writer said that people on the show hate the books. Surely that drove him away."

Babes. The guy who said that is the one who wrote S2E2 AND Nightmare of the Wolf. lmaoooosob. I would rather have a writer on the show who critiques some elements of the books (THEY ARE NOT ABOVE CRITIQUE) but actually understands what a witcher is and what that means in context of class, and who understands their oppressions, than someone who thinks the books are perfect, but took from those books that witcher are....THAT. That Vesemir is THAT.

Secondly, again, we don't know what happened. Another staff writer implied on twitter that there was ego and abuse issues. So WE DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

The point is, it is sooooooooooo fucking easy when you've left to blame everyone else. That's petty as shit what that departing writer did, and like...it works! It is guaranteed to work and he knew it.

Which leads us to the most uncomfortable truth here, and that is that what that writer did and to a lesser extent what HCav did, is weaponize a multitude of these racist cishet white nerdboys who harass and loathe Anna and Anya and Mimi and all these woc. These people live in a constant abusive rage online, and the root of their rage is that the witcher is diverse and 'woke'. If you haven't been on twitter or reddit or youtube and seen the relentless vile open racism in the most organized and loudest elements that attack the writers and Lauren, then I envy you. It is a cesspool.

When that departing writer threw them under the bus, he knew exactly what would happen and who he would rile up.

"Are you implying that if you hate the writing, you're misogynistic and racist."

No. Obviously not. I have criticized the writing and I will probably continue to do so on occasion.

I've been accused of being a 'book purist' but I assure you I'm not. Just give me good writing. Just give me a good story. And keep the characters true to their spirits. And if that isn't what is delivered, I might write a post with critique in it.

But what I won't do is publicly pile on people, on human beings, for business decisions and deals that happen behind the scenes, people who have no control over this, no fame, and no way to defend themselves.

This is how it works.

The showrunner decides the plot of the season. The staff writers are assigned episodes. They write what they're told to write. A lot of these staff writers and writer assistants make near poverty wages (for people living in L.A. Dear god. The cost to live there is staggering).

What I'm not gonna do is publicly blame them for driving away 'poor little hcav' lmao this incredibly incredibly powerful, wealthy global superstar who makes his own fucking decisions and whose race and gender protects him if his money and fame didn't.

Were there creative differences? Probably.

Did he also walk out on a show instead of working it out because he got a better offer? Definitely.

And was he INCREDIBLY INCREDIBLY savvy about very gently and subtly throwing them under the bus in every interview in order to preserve his fanboy following and his reputation going forward?

YES

Because these studios know that if they adapt existing properties of these past comic books and novels and then they put a foot wrong, they will have legions of these toxic racist cishet white nerdboy fuckers review bombing, harrassing, stalking, making rape and death threats to actors, and if they get HCav they know that's not going to happen. The fanboys worship the ground he walks on. The fact that he delivers that to them is a HUGE plus in his favor. And then he also delivers the straight women. (and the bis, we won't leave us out, I did think he looked great grimy in a bathtub)

The issue is, back in the day, when these adapted properties (in the broader sense) novels and comic books were being published, 99% of English language publishing was run by white men and everyone else was excluded. If we are going to adapt them today, we can choose to uphold that white supremacy by continuing to exclude every other race from participating in the projects, thereby extending that white supremacy, and becoming agents of it, or we can cast the best actor for the role, regardless of race. And when that happens the backlash is swift. Because white people think only white people can be ethereal beauties (elves) they think only white people can be seductive, smoking hot sorceresses, they think only white people pilot space ships in the future and kiss heroic leading men.

It happened with Rings of Power, in Wheel of Time, in Star Wars, and more! Legions of racists and misogynists organize and make life a living hell for everyone else. They do not want to share their toys.

Yes, there is room for critique and dislike of these properties without being racist. I'm not talking about people who have real critique. (I have critique! I'm a mouthy, wordy bitch!) I'm talking about people who complain about 'woke' properties and who spew racial epithets at these beautiful talented actresses.

HCav never once that I saw stood up for the diverse casting of his female costars (Please prove me wrong and send me some interview where he did) and he could have. Again, I'm not demonizing him. He is focused and ambitious and stays in his lane and looks out for his career. But he does not go the extra mile for them. And he sure as shit doesn't need one more person (me) deifying him, trying to suck him off, and in the other breath, throwing all these women and poc under the bus for him.

Look, for example, the difference with other properties. Like The Walking Dead. Andrew Lincoln literally never shuts up about how much he loves Danai being his 'leading lady'. And look at how Ewan McGregor took up for Moses Ingram. (not his leading lady, but his colleague) Just saying. It is possible. So.

This recast is weird.

It sucks.

But.

It's no one's fault.

It just is.

And we move on.

I got Joey Batey out of this. I got The Amazing Devil out of this. I got Madeleine Hyland out of this. I got the witcher book saga out of this. (I had only vaguely heard the names here and there but would have never read them otherwise) I got an amazing fandom community out of this that I will continue to write for and be a part of.

And I am not going to start screaming at working people in the streets for something they had little to no control over.

And lastly, "but you said Lauren has control over it, and surely she does get paid a ton of money. So surely this rich white lady isn't blameless in this. Surely she deserve the criticism she gets."

My guess is they are both grown ass adults who are fallible and are equally to blame. It doesn't help infantilizing or deifying him. And I can critique her work without vilifying her.

I can go write the Milva post I've been drafting for months being absolutely livid about her tweet saying Milva "embodies unrequited romance" without harrassing her. Please look at the difference here. IT IS ABOUT THE WORK. IT IS ABOUT THE STORY.

It is never personal. I would never make it personal. It's just different visions about fiction. And I would never pretend to know what happens in real life with real people behind the scenes.

And I know that no one who follows me on here is the kind of person who would harass her. At least I hope. I'm almost positive. So I'm not accusing anyone of anything. And if you hate the writing and the direction of the show you are entitled to that. I have done my own critical posts.

But again, I do not know what happened behind the scenes. So I'm staying in my lane. I've lived long enough now to see people get blamed and harassed for things and then we get documentaries twenty years later showing that people were totally in the wrong and just didn't know what happened behind the scenes.

So I will not be doing that.

And I will keep supporting Joey and Anya and Myanna and Mimi and all the people acting their little hearts out on the show. And I will keep talking about the books and writing my lil fics.

And when the show is over, I will probably follow Joey to whatever other projects he goes to. But I won't ever stop being a witcher fan or a TAD fan. That's a 'for life' thing at this point.

[podcastenthusiast]

Lambert and Vesemir's whole dynamic in Witcher 3 is So Interesting.

Like, Lambert carries a lot of trauma about his childhood and being a witcher, and he harbors bitterness and resentment toward Vesemir specifically--or at least the system he represents. Vesemir is the only authority figure left to whom he can express his anger, true, but he also was complicit in the Trials happening and Lambert, rightfully so, isn't forgetting that.

When they all watch Uma writhe in pain from the Grasses, Vesemir says he hoped he would never have to see another person go through that again, and Lambert asks bitterly, but understandably, "Then why did you keep the table?"

His anger is valid! There's a measure of betrayal in that. It's like if someone stabbed you, then said they would never harm anyone else, and you find out years later they still have the knife.

I don't know why Vesemir kept that table, but it wasn't out of malice. It's clear it holds no pleasant memories for him either. Vesemir himself was put through the Trials once, and he has seen countless boys die. He cared about them and he hurt them. Clearly he feels sorrow and remorse, if not regret. He's trying, now, to do right by those few who remain. He loves them, okay? He really does.

Like Lambert, Vesemir also seems unable to let go of the past, though. The crumbling fortress and the table are reminders of everything he's suffered and lost, as well as the suffering he caused and witnessed.

They argue about it--whether to move on from Kaer Morhen, etc. Lambert detests any reminder of what was done to him. He claims to hate Kaer Morhen as a whole, too, probably does somewhat-- but he always comes back.

Lambert might hate Vesemir a little, might loathe how he never questions a witcher's purpose or the tests they were subjected to.

But here's the thing: Lambert still loves Vesemir. So fucking much.

He looks up to him, even. Maybe wants to be more like him. He talks about Vesemir more than anyone else. Quotes his words constantly. Tells Yennefer to show the old man respect. He dresses up like him when the kaer morons get drunk together. His impression of him is spot on. He'd hoped to inherit his sword someday.

Lambert, who blamed Vesemir for the deaths of the other boys and his hated witcher path, still wanted his old mentor to have a better death than he got.

He mourns him. They were family.

And yeah, Lambert's own father was an abusive dick, and I'm sure there's some of that tangled up in his feelings about Vesemir, too. Loving adults who've hurt you when you were a kid is complicated. It's painful and hard even when you know they were hurt, too, long before you were born. Lambert never forgave him and I doubt Vesemir expected him to.

I think Lambert sought something from Vesemir. Maybe an apology or answers or paternal approval--I don't know. I don't think he knew exactly how to ask for whatever it was he needed, and I don't think Vesemir was ever taught how to give it either.

Is it fucked up? Yeah. They all are. The generational trauma runs so deep.

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 35

Chapter 34.5

Masterlist

6 years later

A/N: I know, I know, you probably want details, that's something I'll consider doing in bonus chapters, but for now I want to kinda speed things up a little.

The village was quiet at this time of day as it was most mornings, when a stranger walked in, face concealed by a cloak, which did little to conceal the silver sword strapped to the stranger's back.

The stranger walked into the tavern, placing a few coins down before the barkeep handed her a mug of Kaedweni ale. She took a sip of ale before pulling the hood of her cloak back to reveal her face. Some had to blink twice recognizing her to be a woman of at least twenty years or so, hair now colored a chestnut brown and shorten to past her neck but not quite to her shoulders. Her eyes were still a violet color. Some continued to stare as in this village it was somewhat unusual for a woman to be dressed as she was, in trousers and a male tunic, with leather finger-less gloves. If one looked close one could also see the silver medallion strapped to her side, one that sported the symbol of the three-headed dragon.

She may not be considered a picture of feminine beauty at this moment, but that still didn't stop one of the more drunken patrons from approaching in an attempt to make conversation. The young woman stiffened, trying to make this man take a hint that she had no interest, but the man didn't notice, more occupied with staring at her chest. "Why would you want to hide such treasures like that?" the drunken man slightly slurs, "I bet once off, these two would still stay in place." "Ugh, go fuck yourself," the woman huffs, turning away.

"Hey!" the man grabs her by the arm, "I'm talking to you, bitch! You should be grateful seeing how none of this lot would have you." The woman sizes the man briefly before making a small smile, like she was about to take him on his offer. The man leans in, but then his eyes widen in pain as the woman took the silver dagger strapped to her and stabbed him in the gut. The man fell over and the other patrons stare in shock. "I think he's had a few too many," the woman shrugs, turning to the barkeep, wiping the blood off her dagger, "you may want to cut him off." "Looks like you already did," the barkeep says, nodding in approval. The woman takes one last sip of her ale before asking her question, "you wouldn't happen to know if any sorceresses have passed along here recently have you?"

-----------Kaer Morhen--------------------

Vesemir had just finished gathering the tools needed to fix some support beams on one side of the keep when the doors had opened.

The elder witcher smiles to himself, knowing exactly who it was that entered, "Aemma," he greets, "welcome home."

Aemma takes her sword and sack and dumps it on the floor before taking a seat at the table. "Aemma," Vesemir scolds, "we talked about this. You leaving your things lying around like that. This place may little more then a ruin now, but that doesn't mean we can't keep it tidy and clean." "Sorry, uncle Vesemir," Aemma nods, sipping some vodka that was left in a cup on the table, "It has been a rather long day for me."

"Oh? How so?" Vesemir asks.

Aemma shakes her head, not really wanting to discuss the details, "Any leads I had were nothing more then dead ends," she mutters.

"...maybe the next lead will yield some fruit," Vesemir assures, handing the young woman a plate of bread and harden cheese and dried fruit. Aemma nibbles the bread before taking another sip of vodka. "Have you thought further?" Vesemir asks, "on what you would do with the information I had given you years ago when you first set foot on Kaer Morhen?"

Aemma stops eating, silent for a moment. "Do you still not believe me?" "...It's not that I don't believe you," Aemma admits, "I know what my father is capable of...I still can't wrap my head around that he could be capable of hurting my mother."

Six years ago, after Aemma found herself in the ancient witchers' stronghold, she had deigned to question Vesemir of how she knew her mother. She had sense to question if he knew her mother had brought to this place when she was kidnapped by the White Wolf, but Vesemir had told her a different story.

"Your mother was never brought here against her will," he had said, "if anything, it was the opposite. She sought this place willingly when she was still carrying you in her womb. Your father...he was the one who took her away from this place...on the back of his dragon."

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

At that time, Aemma couldn't wrap her mind around what she had learned. Not only did she learn that the Lady of Larks left her father willingly, but that Aemma was never born on Dragonstone at all; Kaer Morhen was the place of her birth. This was supposed to be the place where she was to understand her gift. She remember what Vesemir told her what he could recall: her mother coming to this place in the dead of winter, seeking refuge and a place to raise her unborn child, seeking refuge with the White Wolf. She learned the Lady of Larks and Geralt of Rivia were actually friends, more then friends at one point, and he was the reason why she came here. Vesemir told Aemma of the evening she was born here, how it was joyous occasion for all who had wintered here during that time, how most would pitch in to care for her as a babe...especially Geralt whom arguably did the most where he could to make her mother's burden lighter. The Lady of Larks was happy in this place...until the day Prince Daemon arrived on his dragon to take her away...both her mother, Aemma herself, and Ciri, whom had been staying in this place with Geralt when (y/n) first arrived.

Aemma had then deigned to question if anything happened when she was born, or if something happened when her father arrived, having recalled the visions. Vesemir could only recall what he remembered before he lost consciousness; Ciri calling out to (y/n) in distress when she witnessed the woman mounting her father's dragon with Aemma in tow. Ciri screaming, refusing to let them leave, and how the sorceress who was staying here, Tris, how she tried to subdue Ciri  but the spell had backfired. Vesemir had barely saw the impact the spell made with (y/n) and Aemma before his vision blacked out.

Aemma knew then that this is where her gift must've come from and when she told Vesemir, he didn't hesitate to tell her of the gift Ciri possessed. The best way to describe Ciri's gift, was one of a source of powerful and ancient magic, a gift that had been passed onto Ciri from the woman in her family; this gift was known as the Elder Blood. Based on what Aemma learned, both from Vesemir and from others she had encountered on the Continent before, this had to be the same gift Aemma possessed. She somehow acquired this gift that day when Ciri tried to stop (y/n) and her from leaving. The spell that backfired somehow transferred Ciri's gift to Aemma...or at least part of the gift as Aemma assumed her gift differed in that this so called Elder Blood had mixed in with her Valyrian Blood. She had asked Vesemir of this, but he did not know if that was the case.

If anyone could help her any further, then perhaps a mage could help her. Preferably the one who cast the spell in the first place, but Vesemir had no idea where Tris Marigold was hiding; even though she was last seen somewhere in Temeria likely serving the ruling king.

So, Aemma had spent the last six years following different leads to complete the three objectives she had in mind: finding her long lost uncle Jaskier, finding the sorceress Tris to help further understand what Aemma could potentially be capable of with her gift, and to find the Wild Hunt with the hopes of saving her mother. Before leaving, Aemma remained the first year in Kaer Morhen, where Vesemir had taken her under his tutelage in the ways of the sword and hunting monsters, necessary things to learn to better survive on the Continent, as well as learning to speak in the Elder language and identifying various herbs and plants.

Aemma surprisingly picked up the skills quite fast, though it had helped that she had read much about monsters back in King's Landing.

The rest of the time Aemma traveled across the Continent either on foot or horseback; she hadn't seen her dragon in this whole length of time and she never attempted to go back to Westeros. Even though she missed most of her family, she still felt there was nothing for her there anymore. She still would sometimes wonder what had become of them. She would wonder if the marriage between Aegon and Helaena had gone through and how it was fairing (terrible she thought knowing Aegon and his feelings towards his sister-wife). She thought of Baela and Rhaena and how they were fairing without her, especially Rhaena if she still had yet to claim a dragon. She thought of Cirillia and wondered if the she-dragon was flying somewhere in Westeros; was she still on Driftmark, or did she fly back to Dragonstone...or did she decide to fly back to King's Landing alongside Vhagar? Thinking of Vhagar would lead Aemma to think of Aemond; she would wonder how he was fairing since that night in Driftmark when he lost his eye. Sometimes she would feel guilt for the damage she unintentionally caused him, but then sometimes she would become angry for the cruel words he spewed at her when she tried to console him. 

And sometimes she thought of her father, wondering what he was up to. With the Lady Laena long past, would he have sought a new wife and maybe have sired more children? Sometimes Aemma contemplated returning to confront Daemon and have him fully confess the truth of what had transpired between him and the Lady of Larks. But knowing Daemon, Aemma knew she wouldn't get anything concrete from him, not until she heard the full truth and he could no longer hide. Still, even though Aemma knew her father had lied about her place of birth, and lied about (y/n)'s 'abduction' she still wasn't ready to believe that Daemon was capable of cruelty towards the woman he once proclaimed to have loved. Maybe her mother didn't love Daemon and that was why she left, and maybe the Rogue Prince became jealous and sought to bring Aemma and her mother back to Westeros so as to become a proper father to his eldest child.

Either way Aemma wasn't sure if she would even be able to handle the truth when it finally comes to light, not after all the years she spent believing her father's lie.

All these thoughts would circulate in Aemma's mind once or twice during her travels. She would find leads and follow them wherever she could; sometimes it would lead her to bandits, sometimes to monsters, and though Aemma's sword skills have saved her life during those moments, she still bore the scars as proof of her endeavors.

And whenever a lead was exhausted and the road led to a dead end, Aemma would return to Kaer Morhen, both to restock and to rest for the next quest. She had grown to care for this place, even more so then she would have expected given that this was the true place of her birth. She loved to explore Kaer Morhen in its state, and she loved to listen to the stories Vesemir would tell of this place from when he first came here and after the sacking that took place nearly a century ago. Aemma had also grown fond of Vesemir as he treated her as if she were his own daughter. He had been there for her when she was still grieving for the loss of her stepmother, for losing her best friend, and he would be there to listen to her concerns and hopes and everything in between. He always had a room prepared with a wooden tub filled with near boiling water for whenever Aemma returned, food and drink in hand and the fire going to warm her bones.

Coincidentally Aemma had yet to meet any of the other witchers who would winter here like Lambert or Eskel as Aemma would be out on her quests during that time.

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

In the present, Vesemir brought some hot boiling water in a bucket towards Aemma, "there's a wooden tub set in your room as usual," he states, handing the young woman a sponge, "perhaps you'll want to wash the dirt off your hair." "It's not dirt," Aemma deadpans. "Could've fooled me," Vesemir snorts.

Aemma rolled her eyes, feeling through her hair; she had just put in the brown dye several days ago, but it had been a little longer since she actually washed it. Perhaps it would be time to give her hair a proper scrubbing.

Once in her room, Aemma stripped out of her travel clothes and slipped into the boiling tub, wetting her hair and watching the dye wash away to reveal her silver blonde hair. She sighed a bit, knowing she would need to begin the dying process all over again; this was something Aemma had taken to doing several years ago as it helped to keep her from standing out. It felt weird at first when she looked in the mirror for the first many times, but after a while she became used to it as it didn't feel she was looking at a complete stranger.

Once her hair was washed and rinse, Aemma laid back into the tub, wanting to soak in the hot water for a little while longer. She looked to the floor where her clothes had lain. A lifetime ago she lived in a castle and wore silk dresses that could come in any color she wished and a wide assortment of jewelry whose cost could feed the orphans of Flea Bottom a hundred times over. Now she dressed in peasant leathers and ragged tunics and trousers that have seen better days. And the simple bath that came with no salts or oils was something Aemma had to adjust to. This life was a far cry from what she knew living as royalty, but the young princess had managed to adapt and now she found contentment in the simplicity of the bare essentials.

Once the water became more tepid, Aemma finally got out and wrapped a towel around herself, looking in the mirror to see the brown washed off to reveal her Targaryen hair. Aemma had to blink twice to realize it was still her; when she first started this, it had taken time for Aemma to adjust to her new look, not just the new color, but also the new length of the hair which, previously went past her waist, had then been shorten to barely below her ears. It had grown some over time to nearly reach her shoulders but not quite.

The edges of her hair were bothering her so Aemma took a knife and shorten the length by a mere inch. It looked better to her and she proceeded to color it once again. During the process Aemma recalled this was a custom people did in Tyrosh. A Tyroshi noblewoman had once been considered to marry into the Targaryen line at one point, though she couldn't remember who, but the lords did not approve of her custom of dying her hair green and purple as it was seen as unbecoming for a lady.

Once done Aemma put on her small clothes and laid in her bed; at this point she had grown accustomed to hardness of her rickety bed and the thin blanket which did little to conceal her warmth. She would rest for now in this place, just for the night anyway.

On the morrow she would leave once again, much to Vesemir's dismay.

Tomorrow, Aemma would set off for another lead, one that would take her to the heart of Temeria, most likely in the midst of its ongoing civil war between the Temerian king and one of his nobles. 

Chapter 36

[theleakypen]

Fic Writer Interview Game

Thank you for the tag (almost 2 years ago) @gusu-emilu!

I am tagging literally anybody who sees this and wants to play :D

name: Puck

fandoms: multifandom! although Untamed/MDZS continues to be my main

two-shots: I never understand this question but it looks like it means to rec your own two-chapter fics so here we go: Stories More Beautiful Than Answers (CQL, Mianmian gets to meet Jin Ling post-canon) and Rhûnlanders (I published it as a series of 2 separate fics, but it's basically 1 thing: Songxiao in Middle Earth - Xiao Xingchen is an Elf and Song Zichen is a Man, both from Rhûnland so they're still Asian)

most popular multi-chapter fic: Obviously Yunmeng In-Laws (my and @iamwestiec's CQL modern AU groupchat fic which had bafflingly runaway success) has to be the answer to this. But if we're only going by ones written solely by me, it's But, After All, I Am A Wen (incomplete Wen Qing canon divergence wherein she actually takes and uses the comb Jiang Cheng gave her to commit treason and save her family's lives)

actual worst part of writing: having the fucking brain space to fucking write, fuck. it's been really hard bc i have so many other obligations and they eat my brain so even if i have ideas i can't get them to turn into prose :(

how you choose your titles: in order of likelihood: first, quote from the fic itself; joint second place, something kinda descriptive of the fic or lines from a poem or song

do you outline? not generally. I did outline my multichapter Wen Qing fic bc it's so much more ambitious than anything else i've ever worked on and I occasionally do something resembling in an outline in the doc of my one shots when i know what happens in the sections but don't have the prose yet; it's usually, like, a series of bracketed statements.

ideas you probably won't get around to, but wouldn't it be nice? oh god so many lmao. i have an entire channel in my writing discord that is just these ideas. One idea I have is a Songxiao no eye transfer AU because BSSR doesn't open the mountain back up to XXC and how they have to deal with that. Also I have yet to write any Witcher fic but I've been playing Witcher 3 and I really wanna write a Vesemir POV fic that's 5+1 "5 times Geralt sent some random-ass stranger to Kaer Morhen and 1 time he came home" inspired by all the times in Witcher 3 when you can help someone and then be like "Oh yeah you'd be welcome at Kaer Morhen"

spicy tangential opinion: not that spicy but i wish more people would comment, especially on the smaller/less popular fics. i see your kudos! it makes me happy! but i'd love to know your thoughts if you have any!

callouts @ me: none of my self-callouts are writing-related, it's all just - clean your room, go the fuck to sleep, you're not a teenager any more and your body hurts less when you do basic life maintenance tasks. (honestly i'd probably also write better/more if i did basic life maintenance tasks so it counts lol)

best writing traits: Westie once said I'm good at making soft things hurt and I hold that compliment close to my heart <3

[pherryt]

I was tagged by @loki-is-my-kink-awakening

Rules: Pick five fragments from your unfinished WIPs and then tag five people to keep it going. Let’s have fun with it and help each other shape those fragments into published fics!

I had a hard time picking spots that I could TRY to keep short... I also have far more then 5 open wips right now. oops?

Witcher/One Piece

“These mountains are infested with them,” Eskel admitted. “The weather isn’t the only reason to get inside.”

“And you willingly live here?” Chopper asked, aghast, even as he got moving. Behind him, he could hear Sanji grumbling at Zoro not to get lost through chattering teeth.

“It discourages visitors,” Eskel grunted. There was more that he could say but… he was tired, and in pain.

Something howled and Chopper said dubiously, “I guess…”

Witcher/Sharing Knife

(Note, Fawn is talking to Jaskier here. The rest of the scene established that but this is out of context)

“You ever see Lakewalker groundwork before?” she asked, trying not to wince at the foul smells emanating from Geralt and the armor they were removing. Perhaps it was the smell of whatever it was that he had killed? Or perhaps it was the poison? Though she supposed it could be both. That or he hadn’t had a bath in a long time. She wrinkled her nose. That was an unpleasant thought.

“While I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Fawn, and wish it were under better circumstances, I – and I can’t believe I’m saying this, Geralt would never let me live it down if he heard me – hardly think this is the time for idle chit chat.”

Fawn blinked in astonishment, uncertain how to take that. One of her tasks as Dag’s assistant was to ease the minds of the farmers, who were afraid of Lakewalker magic, and explain what all Dag was up to while he did it.

Lost Boys (One Piece/Ranma 1/2)

(basically Zoro and Ryoga getting so lost they pass through other fandoms)

“C’mon, let’s catch up with Sam and Frodo,” Zoro said. Ryoga gave him a narrow look. “What, did you want to make friends with the orcs? They look like they’d try to eat you first. Or did you just want to wander around aimlessly for a while?”

Ryoga huffed, then jumped on Zoro’s shoulders again. Looking around quickly, Zoro tried to remember which way the other two had gone.

“Uh, this way, right?” He pointed to the left of the mountain. Ryoga bit his right ear and Zoro pointed in that direction instead. “That way?”

Ryoga nodded.

“Right.” Then went straight towards the mountain instead.

Incubus Jaskier

Vesemir hadn’t expected the bard to look so defeated, so… fucking resigned, his shoulders slumping once more.

“So, a Witcher,” he sighed. “Suppose it was inevitable. Here to kill me?”

Vesemir shook his head and stepped closer to the wary - and now confused - bard.

“You’re… not here to kill me?”

“And why should I?” Vesemir asked.

The man laughed, but it wasn’t musical the way it had been during his show. It was flat and short and pained. He raked his hands through his chin length hair.

“Uh, because I'm a monster and that’s what Witchers do?”

Supernatural/Old Guard

Cas sighed. “We are not your enemy.”

Yusuf spat at the ground. “You live in the halls of the people who captured me and my family, for no other reason than that we were different. They separated us and tortured us when they could not kill us. You think me an idiot?”

“Whoa…” Dean blinked at the man. “You’re saying the Men of Letters did this to you? You were a prisoner?”

“That is what they called themselves,” Yusuf conceded. His eyes narrowed at Dean, calculating. They shifted back to Cas, then behind them, towards the exit. “Are you not of the same?”

“Eh… we acquired the title… and the bunker,” Dean waved a hand around at the place he was daring to call home.

@xianvar @unforth @hopelessly-me @li-izumi @shatteredhourglass @treefrogie84 - no obligations to play but if you’d like to :D

[merulanoir]

So given the news about Cavill leaving The Witcher, would you be willing to give a little review of S2? I watched season 1 and thought it was fun, if hard to follow and possessing some definite flaws. I gather you didn't like S2 lol, so what happened? Should I watch season 2, if only to enjoy the trainwreck, or does it just suck in a bad way?

Sorry it took a while to respond!

SO

First, s2 is definitely bad-bad. Not bad as in fun to watch, but badly written, badly adapted, and completely missing the point of almost all the characters.

They straight up flushed the book plots down the toilet and wrote something that on its own would be middle-quality fantasy stuff. As it is supposed to be an adaptation of the books, it's fucking awful. :D Baba Yaga is there. The elves can't get pregnant or something. Fire magic is super forbidden for a reason that's never really explained. Yen loses her magic and then goes and kidnaps Ciri from Ellander. There are some kind of monoliths that also act as portals for NEW Conjunction monsters to spill through (because Ciri broke one in s1). Eskel turned into a leshy. Vesemir wanted to take Ciri's blood to bring back witcher mutagens. Lara Dorren was apparently a bio-engineered super soldier created by the elves. The temple of Melitele was a textbook example of a fantasy-orientalist temple. Nenneke apparently taught Geralt how to use witcher magic.

Idk man, don't ask me how that's supposed to work.

I haven't seen the two last eps yet because in my desperation to escape the torture I broke my dental brace Monday night when I was watching it with @therealmontilyet (ok just kidding the brace broke on its own but it did mean I had to go and see a dentist.) My expectations were so low, and Lauren & Co managed to limbo-dance without once touching the bar.

I forgot where I was going with this. If you want to watch it, I recommend pirating the season so as not to give the showrunners any indication you want them to make more of the series. Cavill leaving is just a cherry on top of this disaster.

[difeisheng]

Halfway through Season 2 now, and so far my only incentives I've found to continue are Yennefer, Jaskier, and in an unexpected turn of events, Cahir

[thearvariblues]

Sing Me a Song

“You Geralt of Rivia’s bard?”

Jaskier looks up from his notepad and grins at the man who’s just sat at the opposite side of the table.

“Technically, I used to be,” the bard says, taking a sip of his ale. “We had a tiny misunderstanding last year. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine, though, I’m just giving him some time to cool down and wallow in self-pity.”

Jaskier frowns, because his brain has finally caught up with his mouth and informs him that even though the man who asked the question is very pretty (and he is – a bit short, but lean and clearly very agile, brown-skinned, with dark, wavy hair and stunningly unnatural green eyes), he also has got two big, scary swords strapped to his back, way too many scars and has, in fact, only one green eye, the other being covered by an eye patch, presumably missing.

And then there’s the Cat school medallion on his chest.

As Geralt would say… fuck.

“Unless you’re here to kidnap me and torture me to lure him into a trap. If that’s the case, I’ve never met a Geralt of Rivia in my life. Also, if you harm a hair on my head, he will hunt you down and kill you, very slowly and painfully. Just a heads up,” Jaskier smiles, utterly failing to sound at least a little bit threatening.

“Thanks for the warning,” the Witcher laughs. “But I actually need you to write me a song.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid this bard already has a Witcher to praise,” Jaskier protests, shaking his head firmly.

“Ugh. Who says I want praise?” the man says, making a face. “I just can’t seem to find a friend of mine, so I need to make him find me.”

“With a song? Do I look like a fucking pied piper?” Jaskier smirks.

“A little, yeah.”

“Fair enough. What’s in it for me?”

“What do you think is going to happen once Geralt hears that his bard has found himself a new muse?” the Witcher grins.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, chuckling. “Oh, but that’s good.”

“Are you in, then?���

“Absolutely. And, uhm… What did you say your name was?”

“By the gods, where are my manners?” the Witcher laughs. “I’m Aiden.”

*

Geralt places two tankards of ale on the table and sits down with a grunt.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting old, Wolf,” his brother Lambert smirks and promptly pulls one of the tankards closer. “Because that almost sounded like Vesemir when he’s trying to get up from his chair.”

“You’re so fucking funny,” Geralt murmurs.

“I know, right?” Lambert grins, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind his ear. “So, how’s life on the Path without your beloved bard?”

“Not my bard.”

“So pretty fucking terrible, eh?” Lambert chuckles.

“Fuck off, Lambert.”

“You’re being very nice and friendly today, you know?”

“I bought you a drink. So shut up and… drink.”

Lambert shrugs and for once does what he’s told. Within a few seconds, half of the tankard’s content vanishes.

“If it’s any consolation, life without my Cat is also pretty fucking unbearable,” he says then.

“Hm.”

“Oh, really, Geralt? You’re using your famous hm against me? Me, your brother?!”

Geralt groans.

“By the gods… Why can’t I just run into Eskel for once? Why does it always have to be you?”

“You’re just lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky. Yeah.”

Lambert rolls his eyes and focuses on his ale again – until the local bard grabs his lute and starts playing a slow, romantic ballad. Lambert growls.

“Fuck, I hate that song!”

“Why?” Geralt blinks, because he’s never heard the song before, and to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t really sound that bad.

“A brown-skinned woman with dark hair who’s seemingly killed, then comes back to life already plotting her revenge, only to find out that her lover’s already avenged her? Always reminds me of Aiden.”

“Aiden wasn’t exactly… A woman, was he?”

“He also hasn’t come back to life, as far as I know,” Lambert mutters.

“Who wrote it?” Geralt frowns, listening carefully. “It sounds like Jaskier’s work.”

“Some Master Dandelion. Never heard of him, but it seems he’s very popular now.”

“Hmmm…”

“Oh, not again!” Lambert groans.

“It just… It really does sound like Jaskier’s song.”

“You just fucking miss the bard, Geralt, that’s all.”

“No. No, I actually think…”

“That might be exactly the problem,” Lambert says and places his empty tankard back on the table. “The second round’s on me.”

*

“Seems like your plan’s not working as intended,” Jaskier comments. He’s spent weeks traveling with Aiden, and they still haven’t even heard about another Witcher trying to find them.

“I’m aware,” Aiden mutters, chewing his dinner without even noticing its taste – which is, honestly, probably for the best. “Could you be, like… less subtle?”

Jaskier shrugs.

“I suppose.”

“Fine,” Aiden nods. “Do it.”

*

“It’s a man now,” Geralt frowns, listening to the song he’s heard countless times already. “That’s new.”

“Looks like Master Dandelion might like to, uhm, dual wield,” Lambert snorts.

“It still sounds like Jaskier’s work.”

“Does Jaskier like to dual wield?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dreamily.

“All the more reason to apologize, then, eh?”

“Oh, shut up, Lambert…”

*

“Still not working!” Aiden groans. He’s been waiting for three months for his Wolf to find him, and to no avail.

“I could, you know… Try something more obvious,” Jaskier offers.

“Please.”

*

“It’s a cat now,” Geralt blinks. “Dark-skinned, dark-haired… cat.”

Lambert sighs.

“Yeah, I hate those fucking metaphors.”

*

“I’m starting to think I should have just… kept trying to find him,” Aiden sighs, staring out of the tavern’s window.

Jaskier, cheeks still flushed from his performance, downs his ale and shakes his head.

“Don’t give up hope just yet,” he says. “I’ve already made a few changes to the song.”

“Oh, have you?” Aiden smirks. “Does it now say Lambert, I’m alive you moron, stop hiding and fucking find me?”

“Well, not yet… But almost.”

“Great. I can’t wait to hear it.”

*

Lambert is staring at yet another local bard singing the fucking ballad. He doesn’t even blink. Geralt is getting a little worried that his brother’s brain might have actually exploded.

“It says a Cat Witcher now,” he says, hoping it would get a reaction out of Lambert.

The redhead finally blinks. That’s probably good.

“A Cat Witcher who comes back to life only to find out his Wolf lover has already avenged him,” Geralt adds.

Lambert blinks again.

“And you know, I’m almost sure that this Master Dandelion is just Jaskier’s new alias.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Lambert mutters when the song finally comes to its end.

“Which one of them?” Geralt smirks.

“Both of them!” Lambert growls. “I swear to gods, if I find out your stupid bard stole my Cat…”

“Excuse me, madam,” Geralt says to the innkeeper who’s just brought them their dinner. “Where did your bard learn this song?”

“That sappy ballad?” the innkeeper frowns. “From this Master Dandelion himself. He passed through the town last week with a Witcher.”

“And Master Dandelion…”

“You know the bard that calls himself Jaskier? It’s him with a fancy hat on,” she smirks.

“About this Witcher,” Lambert growls. “Does he look like in the song?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Kind of small for a Witcher, and almost too pretty, you know, but we had a little griffin problem and he slayed that beast like it was nothing, so…”

“I’m so gonna kill them both,” Lambert murmurs while Geralt has to try very hard not to chuckle.

“Would you happen to know where were they heading?” he asks.

“I would,” the woman says and looks at the Witcher expectantly.

“I see,” Geralt sighs. “You have another monster problem, don’t you?”

“Well. It turns out the griffin probably had a mate…”

“Of course it fucking did,” Geralt nods and picks up his fork. He simply refuses to deal with this with an empty stomach…

*

Jaskier critically eyes the clothes he’s picked for tonight’s performance.

“What do you think, Aiden?” he asks his companion. “Isn’t the purple a bit too much? It’s a small town, after all. Wouldn’t the steel blue look better?”

“I don’t know, I like the red one best,” Aiden shrugs from his spot on the bed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Reminds you of Lambert’s hair,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “Melitele’s tits, I wish he’d find us already, because this is getting really–”

As if on cue, the door of the room slams open and a big, red-haired man walks in.

“You fucking bitch!” he yells when he sees Aiden.

The dark-haired Witcher beams and gets to his feet.

“Lambs!”

“Oh. Okay. That was fast,” Jaskier nods.

Lambert growls and grabs Aiden by the collar.

“Asshole!” he hisses. “I fucking mourned you!”

“Oh, honey, that’s so sweet,” Aiden smiles.

Lambert pushes him against the wall, so hard that Aiden grunts.

“I cried for you!”

“In my defense, it wasn’t exactly my fault,” Aiden smiles.

Jaskier inches towards the door.

“I guess I’ll just… leave you two to it.”

Needless to say, Lambert ignores him completely.

“I fucking avenged you!”

“Yes, that was very kind of you,” Aiden grins, utterly unaffected by Lambert’s angry face so close to his own. “You saved me a lot of trouble.”

Lambert groans, buries his face in Aiden’s shoulder and sighs deeply.

“You fucker,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I missed you too, puppy,” Aiden smiles, wrapping his arms around Lambert.

Jaskier, who’s already standing in the doorway, places his hand on his heart and takes a deep breath.

“Oh,” he whispers. “I shall write the most beautiful ballad about this… Ow!”

He’s unceremoniously dragged out of the room and this time it’s his turned to be slammed against the wall by a big, angry Witcher – but this one is white-haired and dressed all in black.

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, his face brightening up.

“You won’t write a fucking thing,” Geralt growls.

“Is that so? May I ask why, dear heart?”

“Because you’re mine. My bard. And if I ever find out you’re writing about another Witcher again–”

“Then what?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head. “But before you answer, I’d like to remind you that I am not yours anymore, as you have made it quite clear on the mountain that you are not interested in having me as a companion–”

Jaskier is effectively shut up by Geralt’s lips pressing against his with determination that makes it absolutely clear that Geralt hasn’t merely lost his balance and happened to be falling in Jaskier’s general direction.

“Mine,” he growls.

“Well,” Jaskier sighs, slipping his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “When you put it like that… Fuck the mountain, I suppose.”

“Fuck the mountain,” Geralt agrees. “But I’m sorry. For what I said.”

“Apology very much accepted,” Jaskier laughs. “I’d ask you to fuck me, but I’m afraid my room is currently… occupied.”

Lambert’s loud moan only confirms Jaskier’s statement.

“Hm,” Geralt hums. “Do you think this tavern has a bath? I think I still have some griffin blood in my hair from last week.”

“Oh,” Jaskier purrs. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure I could get some chamomile oil…”

They hear another moan, this time Aiden’s.

“What are we waiting for, then?” Geralt grins and grabs Jaskier’s hand. “Come on, bard. We have some catching up to do…”

[queenxxxsupreme]

Absolutely love your writing!

I am a sucker for Netflix!Lambert so i was hoping you could write someting for him. Like the reader comes to Kaer Morhen with Triss to help with Ciri, and also reunites with Lambert, something cute 😄.

A/N: Hi babe! I have had this finished for a while and I thought I already posted this specific fic.... but I don't believe I have.... So if someone recognizes it as something they have seen before, please let me know! I will redo your (anon's) request and make a new one!

***

“Have you ever thought of letting the poor girl bathe, Geralt?” You said. Ciri turned her head to you, scowling.

“I bathe!”

“It surely doesn’t look like it, darling.”

“Kaer Morhen isn’t exactly accommodated for princesses.” Geralt told you.

“Bathing isn’t just for princesses, you dimwit.”

The White Wolf let out a sigh, adjusting his grip on the boar that he carried over his shoulders.

“Oh, Y/N. I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure you have.” You fixed the way your cloak wrapped around your body in an effort to retain as much body heat as you could. The wind was chilling and snow was beginning to fall.

“Who’s come this winter?” Triss asked from her place to your right.

“I suppose all that’s left of us. Vesemir, Coen, Eskel. Just the usual.”

“And Lambert?”

“He–,”

“He’s there.” You spoke over Geralt, keeping your eyes focused on the path ahead. “I’d know if something happened to him.”

“Keeping your eye on him?” Geralt raised a brow in your direction.

“I have to. He’s an imbecile and a moron. If he gets himself killed, I don’t want his corpse to be rotting in an alley or field for months until we find him.”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

“I find it a little difficult to be optimistic about the same man who once tried to fight an entire clan of nekkers without elixirs or his swords.”

“I remember hearing about that.” Triss looked over at you. “Lambert said he was dared to fight them without any weapons.”

“I believe he was drunk when he accepted the dare and even more drunk during the fight.”

You nodded softly, letting out a sigh.

***

“I brought dinner.” Geralt announced as Triss opened the door to the keep for the group following behind her which consisted of yourself, Cirilla, and Geralt.

Vesemir turned to face the small party that entered the dining hall.

“More than that.” A fond smile came to Vesemir’s face as he approached Triss, his eyes flickering between you and the redhead. “My child, what a surprise.”

As the two greeted each other, your eyes focused on the red haired witcher just behind him.

“Ah, hell. Who invited the fucking mages?” Lambert crossed his arms as you approached him. He did his best to stand stoic and stone faced, but the smile that crept across your lips seemed to break him. A smile of his own came out beneath his beard.

“I think Lambert’s got you beat for the prettiest red curls at Kaer Morhen, Triss.” You looked over your shoulder to tease your friend but before you could even look back at Lambert, he was wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off of the floor.

You laughed as he squeezed you with enough force to nearly break your bones.

“Prettiest my ass.” He set you back on your feet.

“I wish you ladies had come sooner.” Vesemir spoke, taking your attention away from him. “We all could have used you.”

“Hopefully we still can.” Geralt said. Your eyes fell on Ciri, offering the girl a smile when she looked at you.

“I’ll go and dress for dinner. I assume you’ll all want to wash up as well?” Triss began to cross the room.

Coen scoffed, looking at Lambert.

“Let me rephrase that for Triss. If you don’t wash, you don’t eat.” You looked from Coen, to Lambert, then to Geralt. “Understood?”

“Fucking shit. Are you going to lash us if we don’t listen?” Lambert’s hand fell from your back.

“Oh, I wouldn’t give you the pleasure, darling.” You smirked just a little. “Now go prepare that boar. Ciri and I will make sure the kitchen is ready.”

“What?” Ciri furrowed her brows. She looked to Geralt as if he’d get her out of kitchen duty.

“You don’t want to argue with her.” The White Wolf shook his head.

“Last one who tried turned into fiend food.” Coen added with a chuckle.

“Come along, princess.” You began to lead the way to the kitchen.

Lambert followed you first, moving ahead to push the door to the kitchen open for you.

He didn’t even give you two seconds to enter the kitchen before he was grabbing you by the waist and pulling you in for a kiss.

You couldn’t help but laugh against his lips, your hands coming up to hold on to his broad shoulders. His facial hair tickled and scratched your skin, but you didn’t mind. You actually missed the feeling. It was a pleasant reminder of your witcher.

But the moment didn’t last long as Cirilla entered the kitchen. You pulled away from Lambert, pressing your hand against his chest.

“Princess, wash your hands up and find some dishes in the cupboard, would you? I’m not sure if anyone’s showed you, but the dishes are in the cupboard over there.” You pointed across the room.

“We have dishes?” Ciri raised her eyebrows.

Lambert chuckled.

“How was the Path?” You asked him, your eyes flickering down to the medallion on his chest.

“Long and fucking annoying. I really wish you’d join me.” He spoke quietly, briefly eyeing the princess just to make sure she wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on your conversation.

“I have my own duties to tend to.” You gave him a little smile. “You know that.”

“I know.” He grumbled, bringing his hand up to hold your hand that rested against his chest. “Just sometimes wish I had ya around to keep me company.”

The door to the kitchen opened again and in walked Coen and Geralt. Geralt carried the boar across his shoulders.

“What are you doing with that in here?” You pointed to the slain animal. Geralt placed it down on the table in the center of the kitchen with little ease.

“Butchering it so we can eat it.” He answered you very matter of factly.

“Not in here you aren’t!”

“It’s cold as fuck outside!”

“Oh come on, Y/N! Afraid of a little blood?” Coen teased.

You glared at him.

“Fine. Butcher the beast, then I want the entire kitchen scrubbed top to bottom.”

“Ha!” Lambert barked out a laugh.

“That includes you.” You told him.

“Who’s really in charge here? Her or Vesemir?” Coen muttered to Geralt as the latter began to cut into the boar. “Y/N, have you asked Lambert about that new scar on the side of his neck?”

“What?” You turned your head to look at the witcher.

“Piss off, Coen!”

“What the hell did you do, Lambert?”

“Got into it with a nasty wyvern without my sword.” The witcher grinned as though it was something to be proud of.

You opened your mouth to say something, but found that you were too stunned to speak.

You took Lambert’s chin and turned his head so you could inspect the scar. It was nasty and jagged and made your stomach churn from what could have happened, what nearly happened.

You shook your head, rubbing your brow. You could feel a headache beginning– and you had only just arrived at Kaer Morhen.

“See, Geralt? An absolute imbecile.”

Geralt nodded as if he agreed, a little grin playing on his features.

“How is it that you’re able to keep track of Lambert’s whereabouts if you two aren’t together on the Path?” Ciri curiously asked you.

“He wears a talisman that allows me to hone in on his location whenever I’d like. It also detects his life force, so if his heart were to cease beating, I’d know.” You moved away from Lambert, knowing you needed to help get dinner started and it wouldn’t happen if you stayed near him.

“Spying on me?” Lambert placed his hands on his hips. “You sorceresses and your tricks.”

You smiled, glancing over to him.

“Oh, darling witcher. I thought you enjoyed my tricks.”

“Well that depends on the trick.”

“Keep it clean.” Geralt interjected, nodding in Ciri’s direction. “She doesn’t need to hear any of that.”

“I don’t need to hear any of that.” Coen shook his head.

Taglist will be reblogged because tumblr hates me :)

[havenoffandoms]

Hey congrats on 900 followers! Would I be able to request the touch starved prompt from your list with the pairing Aiden/Lambert please? Love all your writing!

Hello!! Thanks for requesting this prompt and this pairing! I’ve been on a right Lambden kick recently, so I felt inspired. I hope you like it! 

Prompt 13: Touch-Starved

Pairing: Aiden x Lambert

Warnings: None

Prompt List

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together. Being stabbed to death in his sleep comes to mind, or having Aiden go all batshit crazy if Lambert dared to beat him at Gwent. Lambert has heard many rumours about Cat witchers in his long life. Cats are batshit crazy. Cats are emotionally volatile. Cats are backstabbing sons of bitches… literally and metaphorically. Cats are bad. Cats are evil, etc, etc. All these rumours circulated in Kaer Morhen long before Lambert even set foot in that ramshackle castle. He was too young to have witnessed the Tournament, but he heard the older witchers talk. Later in his life, when only a handful of wolf witchers were left after the sacking, Eskel gave Lambert a more detailed account of the Tournament.

“The Cats betrayed us, went on a rampage. Killed many wolf witchers in the process. Geralt and I lost many friends that day,” Eskel told him one evening, when the oldest surviving wolf was too far in his cup to notice that he was oversharing. “Radowit’s court mage Astrogarus promised the Cats monopoly on killing monsters within Kaedwen in exchange for attacking the Wolves during the tournament. Turns out Radowit was a backstabbing motherfucker himself. He ordered his soldiers to shoot all of the remaining witchers of both schools in the arena.”

“Lemme guess,” Lambert spoke, his own speech slightly slurred, “pretty boy saved the day?” 

Eskel shook his head. “Fled. Mousesack helped him escape the massacre. Poor bastard never forgave himself for abandonin’ our brothers, but what choice did he have?”

Don’t get Lambert wrong. He’s not saying that Aiden is harmless, far from it. The guy’s lethal with his swords, deadly with a pair of daggers, not to mention a stealthy and clever thief. Aiden is mercurial, hot-tempered and a bit feral when he wants to be, and his morals are at best dubious. Whereas wolf witchers had their emotions beaten out of them at a young age, cat witchers feel too much, too strongly. Lambert’s witnessed Aiden flip tables when peasants beat him at Gwent, but he’s also witnessed the Cat shed a tear after bringing the news to a mother that her son did not survive the ghoul attack two villages down the road. 

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but the Cat had never ceased to surprise him. The most unexpected trait Aiden has displayed to date is his insatiable need for physical contact. It’s not like Lambert hates being touched - he’s only human, albeit a mutated one, but still human. He enjoys a hug as much as the next person, especially when said hug comes from one of his brothers (or, dare he say, Vesemir) at the end of a long and difficult year on the Path. Lambert has also never begrudged a bed partner a post-coital cuddle session. Aiden’s need for physical contact is… on a whole different level. 

The first time it happened, Lambert almost shoved the Cat off him and sent him packing, until he realised that Aiden was not only hugging him, but clinging onto him. His sharp nails were digging in the soft material of Lambert’s shirt, the fabric creaking in protest under the firm grip. When Lambert looked down, he noticed the pinched eyebrows and tears trailing down Aiden’s face. It wasn’t until a broken sob pushed past the Cat’s lips that Lambert reluctantly returned the embrace, arms wound tightly around Aiden’s trembling body. Aiden eventually settled in the safety of Lambert’s arms, his features softening as he sank back into a peaceful slumber. 

Neither mentioned the previous evening’s impromptu cuddling session, but from that moment one, it was like someone had flicked a switch. Aiden came up with every possible fucking excuse to touch Lambert. Their hands would always accidentally graze each other when they packed up camp, or tacked up the horses. Aiden would bump shoulders with him when they were travelling on foot. If they sat next to one another in a tavern, Aiden would press his leg against Lambert’s, and if they were facing each other, a tentative foot would gently nudge Lambert’s shin and linger there. It’s not like Aiden was trying to hide his intentions, either. They rarely paid for two rooms anymore, because even if they did, Aiden would always end up in Lambert’s bed anyway, arms wound around Lambert’s body like a koala clinging to its mother.

Lambert doesn’t hate Aiden’s need for physical proximity, he’s just… confused by it. Aiden rarely takes any lovers to bed, even though he clearly craves physical intimacy. Lambert is more than happy to cuddle with Aiden, especially when they are forced to sleep under the stars and the early autumn frosts begin to settle over the region. It saves them from lighting a campfire, which may attract the wrong kind of attention to them. That’s all that’s ever transpired between the two, though… cuddling. Lambert enjoys the cuddling as much as Aiden does, but for Aiden it seems to be about more than mere enjoyment. The Cat simply refuses to go without physical intimacy which at times can be… alright, it can feel overbearing, but Lambert’s not about to complain, not when most humans turn away from him in disgust and contempt when he tries to chat them up. 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Aiden almost develops a form of separation anxiety. He refuses to let Lambert out of his sight, going so far as to follow the man everywhere, and that’s the moment when Lambert snaps. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, his tone hiding none of the irritation he feels at being tailed by this overgrown tomcat. Aiden stops dead in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at Lambert’s words. 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve been following me since this morning… I have errands to run and it’s hard to do that when you’re breathing down my neck!”

Lambert instantly regrets his words the minute they leave his mouth. Aiden’s shoulders visibly sag at Lambert’s comment, his content expression melting into something sadder and the sight tugs at the wolf’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways. Aiden averts Lambert’s eyes shyly, the tip of his ears turning a pretty shade of pink as embarrassment washes over him. Lambert heaves a sigh. Way to act like a fucking dick. 

“Sorry, Aiden. I… I didn’t mean to sound like an ass, but-”

“It’s alright, I… I knew this moment would come eventually.”

“What are you talking about?” Lambert asks, a confused frown etched on his face. Aiden doesn’t look at him when he replies in a voice far too small to belong to the lethal, cocky witcher Lambert has come to know over the past few months. 

“You’re gonna ask me to leave for good. I get it. I… I’ll go back to the room and pack my things.” 

As Aiden turns around to leave, Lambert’s hand shoots out and grabs a hold of Aiden’s wrist. Before Lambert’s brain has a chance to catch up, he finds himself pulling Aiden into a nearby alley, away from prying eyes of judgemental humans meandering the stalls of the midweek market. Aiden looks so unsure now, so vulnerable like this, and it makes Lambert want to wrap the Cat up in warm blankets and cuddle him and forget the world for a while. Instead, he settles on pressing Aiden’s back against the wall and draping himself around the Cat witcher as much as he can. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Lambert breathes in the air pocket between them as he locks eyes with Aiden, “you’ve just been… especially clingy recently. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aiden averts his eyes once again, but Lambert is quick to grip the other man’s chin and force Aiden to meet his gaze. Even that simple touch pulls a small hiss from Aiden, whose eyes flutter shut as he relishes in the feeling of Lambert touching him anywhere. Lambert purses his lips, eager for an answer. 

“Aiden-”

“Winter is around the corner,” Aiden whispers, his tongue darting out to lick his suddenly dry lips. Lambert’s frown deepens. 

“And?”

His question is met with a pointed eye roll from Aiden. 

“And… wolves return to their dens for winter, don’t they? I was just… enjoying the last few weeks in your company before you leave and never come back.”

As the final piece of the puzzle slots into place, understanding dawns on Lambert. He pulls away from Aiden and the small whimper the loss of contact triggers does not go unnoticed. Something old and fragile aches in Lambert’s chest as the meaning of Aiden’s words sink in. Aiden isn’t just worried about being separated from Lambert for a few months, but he’s worried that Lambert will never come back.The wolf links his fingers with his Cat’s, squeezing softly as he leans into Aiden’s space and rubs his bearded cheek against Aiden’s jawline. The latter quickly melts under the soft ministrations, the soft content rumble deepening into a continuous purr as Lambert nuzzles the crook of Aiden’s neck. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” 

“Yeah, right,” Aiden snorts in response, “cause you’re so good with feelings and shit.”

“Not everyone’s a sappy sentimental bitch like you are,” Lambert teases gently, earning himself a half-hearted slap up the back of the head. “I don’t have to go back to Kaer Morhen this winter.”

Aiden tenses, his soft purring stopping abruptly as he takes in Lambert’s words. Lambert continues to rub his cheek against Aiden’s jaw, his neck, his cheek… wherever he can reach, the action meant to soothe the brewing storm in Aiden’s mind.

“It’s your home,” Aiden offers weakly, “I don’t want… I… it’s your home.” 

“I can send a letter to the old man. Let him know I’m alive. We could find a den somewhere else… an attic somewhere, or an abandoned castle.” Lambert nuzzles the spot right behind Aiden’s ear, earning a pleased hum from the Cat. “Or you could come with me.”

“Sure. Cause that’s gonna end well…” 

“That’s settled then. I’m spending winter with you.”

Aiden pushes Lambert away, their eyes meeting once again but this time, Aiden searches for any trace of a lie in Lambert’s amber gaze. He finds none, because Lambert is one hundred percent honest in his offer. He would ditch Vesemir, Geralt and Eskel for a year to spend it with Aiden… and the thought should scare him more than it does, truthfully. He’s only known the Cat for a few months, and yet… well, maybe Lambert was dreading the winter as well. How about that? It’s not like he felt equally anxious about leaving Aiden, it’s just… fuck off. 

“You mean that?” 

“Mhm. Fair warning… I hate the cold. If I’m spending the winter with you, you’ll have to find a way to keep me warm or I will bite your head off.” 

In Aiden’s defence, he does keep Lambert warm all winter long. Their cuddling finally turns into something more, and from the moment Lambert and Aiden cross that fateful line there is no going back. Aiden becomes insatiable, always seeking Lambert’s body in some shape or form, never letting the wolf out of his sight again.  Lambert may have been apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but it turns out that all his worries were for nothing. Turns out Cat witchers are still crazy, and feral, and mercurial… a tad possessive as well, something Lambert doesn’t hate... but they’re also the cuddliest sons of bitches on the Continent. 

Lambert can live with that, he thinks. 

Request a prompt.

[jaskiersvalley]

Witchers didn't have daemons, that was a known fact. They were terrifying in their solitude, unfeeling and unaffected. Monsters made to fight monsters, they didn't need part of their soul for that. What the general public didn't know though was that the daemons weren't imprisoned somewhere, nor were they dead. The mages had figured out a way to separate daemon from child and force it into the most unnatural of shapes, another human. It meant two Witchers from a single child and the best part was, neither child nor daemon felt any connection to their counterpart once the process of the trials was complete.

In an effort to make sure full separation was certain and not even a sentimental link remained, daemons and children were separated and trained in different schools. Lambert had arrived at Kaer Morhen, still tripping over unfamiliar human feet and seething at being separated from his human. Over the years he tried to remember his human but, like all Witchers, they were given new names when they got their medallions and Lambert didn't think Luca still went by that name, nor would he be the scrawny kid Lambert remembered him as.

Whenever Lambert met another Witcher, he couldn't help but wonder whether it was his Luca that he was meeting. Though he wanted to believe that there would be a spark some kind of recognition there. He had been a little relieved when he met Letho and there was nothing there between them.

Of course Geralt had to be the first one to find his daemon. The smug bastard had found a bard who told people his daemon was a flea which was just like him; unnoticeable until he causes a nuisance. Most pitied him but Geralt had seen through the charade. He watched the bard without a daemon, curiosity and caution allowed him to permit Jaskier to tag along. The story tumbled out eventually.

"My great grandparents bought me. I was some kind of freak novelty some merchants were selling."

That was all Geralt had needed to hear and he was all but dragging Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen in the winter. Nobody had expected Vesemir's face to close off completely.

"I remember you!" Jaskier said in way of greeting. "You were a dick."

"Julian." The reply was terse and tight.

Lambert got a front view seat to seeing Geralt's face flit through more emotions in one second than he usually did in a whole year. The embrace was tight, Geralt's nose buried in Jaskier's hair.

Jealousy trickled through Lambert's veins. For all he knew, his human was already a dead Witcher. There was no link between Witcher and daemon, the trials severed it all completely so when one died, the other didn't even notice, let alone die from it.

"Why isn't he a Witcher?" Eskel asked, eyes glued to the happy reunion.

"Kaer Morhen needed money. Your cohort, the daemons didn't become Witchers. We sold them to the highest bigger."

Lambert didn't expect Eskel to punch Vesemir across the jaw but he was sure as shit glad he saw it. It meant he didn't need to do it on behalf of Geralt and Eskel. For the first time though, Lambert had an optimistic thought.

"It might mean he's living a happy life somewhere. I mean, look at Jaskier. He's had it better than us."

That was a topic that came up repeatedly over the next few weeks. They dreamed up all sorts of fancy lives Eskel's daemon could have lived, the wonders he would have seen. Through it all, Lambert bitterly wished his daemon could have been anything but a Witcher. Alas, Vesemir rapidly disillusioned him from that idea.

"He's become a Witcher, probably dead by now. And if you met him, you'd probably wish he was."

"Is that so?" Lambert drawled, emptying his tankard with a disappointed sigh. He couldn't believe it was empty again.

"You suffered the same shit fate I did. Your human was trained by Cats. Guxart turned into an utter dick."

The words were muttered darkly and Lambert tried not to take it to heart how much hatred Vesemir oozed. It made him all that much more determined to not go the same way as the bitter old man. Instead, he turned to Geralt with a leer. "So, is it gay or is it masturbation to want to get off with your own daemon?"

To say the table erupted in uproar was an understatement. Geralt was scowling somewhat fierce, arms crossed over his chest in protest. It only egged Lambert on further.

"I think it's incest," he declared with a shit eating grin. "Technically it's part of your family because you have the same parents."

"It's masturbation at most." Geralt was growling and glowering. "Because the daemon was still part of you."

Through it all, Eskel stayed rather quiet. It was only when the other two looked to him for opinion that he leaned forward, propping himself up on the table with a serious crease to his brows.

"I think-" the words were low and measured, "-that as long as everyone involved consents, it's fucking hot is what it is."

"The only thing it is," Vesemir finally butted in, "is a disaster waiting to happen. You don't want to meet your counterparts. Trust me."

Except that only made Lambert all the more keen. He wanted to both prove Vesemir wrong and also have what Geralt and Jaskier seemed to be hurtling towards. So, come spring, he set out with the intent of fulfilling one contract only. It was one that he would pay himself for in emotional fulfilment. He was going to find every Cat he could until he found Luca.

He met Gaetan along his travels who laughed in his face and said he was much more into snakes than wolves. That was an encounter Lambert was more than eager to cut short because he did not want to think about how Letho and Gaetan were oddly complementary. It was also another jolt of bitter jealousy, another Witcher and daemon had been reunited while he was still out there looking for his own. Assuming Luca had survived.

Meeting Guxart was a bit of an accident and Lambert wished he'd not encountered the old Cat. He growled and hissed about his stupid daemon who would probably have turned into a useless pigeon if left alone. There was obviously no love lost between them and Lambert desperately hoped he wasn't going to have the same fate.

Third time lucky, as the saying went. Lambert had trailed the new Cat for a few days, learning his habits and watching him work. There was no ounce of recognition or familiarity. But then again, the last time Lambert saw Luca, they were being dragged away from each other, foreign hands on his rapidly shifting body so his eyes could barely adjust enough to see the screaming, tear filled face of his human. It was quite possibly the worst last image he could have had of Luca.

Satisfied that the Cat wasn't someone Lambert wouldn't want to associate with, he approached in the evening when the campfire was still bright but slowly settling.

"I was wondering when my shadow would make himself known," the Cat said easily enough, barely glancing up from where he was whittling something.

The last two times Lambert had tried to be careful with exploring the idea of the Cat Witcher being his human. He was tired and cut straight to the point.

"Luca?"

By the fire the man froze. It was only luck that meant Lambert could hear the shuddering exhales of someone trying to keep up the façade of calm and collected. Finally, the man set his carving aside and stood with an easy smile that felt like a thousand lies.

"I go by Aiden." It wasn't a reply and Lambert knew it.

"I don't remember my name," he admitted softly, desperately hoping he wasn't about to make an utter tit of himself. "People call me Lambert. But I'm looking for my Luca."

He didn't expect to suddenly have an armful of Witcher clinging to him like their very lives depended on it.

"It's really you!" Aiden sounded close to tears. "You never did have a single name, usually going by Idiot, Pain In The Butt, Menace and so many other equally flattering names."

"Guess that never changed," Lambert laughed wetly. He held Aiden close, wishing he could feel as he used to when they were connected. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

It was just that start of something Lambert never thought he'd have. Easy companionship, shared disdain for the whole Witcher thing, stories upon stories of contracts gone well, gone wrong, or just plain gone. By the time winter rolled round, Lambert was firmly of the opinion that he and Aiden would travel together, fuck the Path and all the teachings about it being lonely. If Geralt could have his bard then they sure as hell could have each other.

Getting to Kaer Morhen, Lambert gleefully had an arm slung around Aiden's shoulder, introducing him to the rest of his family. He especially delighted in the flaring of Vesemir's nostrils as he took in the situation.

"Cats and Wolves don't mix. You of all people should know that."

"And you should know it's my life's mission to prove you wrong, old man," Lambert shot back.

Perhaps the most curious part of the whole winter was that Geralt was already back with not one, but two guests. Jaskier was a known quantity and Lambert greeted him warmly. The other though was a near silent man who watched them through eyes that looked way too old for his body.

"This is Cahir," Geralt said when the man didn't even introduce himself. "We'd heard rumours of a Nilfgaardian without a daemon and went to investigate."

"Not a Nilfgaardian," Cahir grumbled with a half-hearted glare.

It took Lambert a moment to figure out just why Geralt would bring such a man back before his eyes widened in delighted realisation.

"You think that-"

"Mhm."

That was the extent of their conversation because Lambert was cackling in delight. He looked Cahir over with a newfound interest. Young, like Jaskier but so very different in behaviour. As much as they'd wondered about Eskel's daemon's fate, this wasn't one they'd predicted.

Three days later Eskel was leading Scorpion into Kaer Morhen's courtyard. Lambert and Aiden were all but bouncing with excitement, not wanting to miss the moment Eskel met his daemon. In their opinion Geralt was drawing things out and making it less fun by not having them all meet in the stables. Instead, Eskel was allowed to venture into the kitchen in the company of Lambert and Aiden who were vibrating in anticipation.

"Eskel," Geralt greeted him with a warm hug. Jaskier and Cahir were behind him, even Vesemir had ventured out to see what the outcome would be. "It's good to have you home. Allow me to introduce you to Cahir."

The two looked at each other with guarded gazes and Eskel gave a terse nod. It was as anticlimactic as fuck. No recognition, not interest, nothing. Just a slow once over which, if Lambert had thought about it, was pretty much a mirror image of each other, equally considering and closed off.

Despondent, he dragged Aiden off, helping lay the table for a shared meal. Vesemir was quick to follow, there was no way to tell whether he was disappointed or relieved by the lack of drama. Geralt and Jaskier wandered out, oddly deflated. Not two seconds later there was an almighty crash from the kitchen and they were all racing back. Only to turn right around and flee after a glimpse of Cahir pinning Eskel to a wall and kissing him like Eskel was the last gasp of air for a drowning man.

"So, are they?" Jaskier asked, glancing towards the kitchen. Something else crashed and thumped but it was best not to investigate.

After a moment it was Vesemir who tiredly said, "Does it matter? It doesn't seem like they much care."

All in all, Lambert didn't think he cared either. Cahir and Eskel seemed happy enough in their new acquaintanceship, trying to figure out their past could wait, if they even wanted to explore it. Though Lambert had a hard time imagining Cahir as a goat. Over the years he'd heard Eskel lament enough about how his daemon preferred to take the form of a goat.

Regret came the next morning at breakfast when Eskel and Cahir appeared at the table, seemingly indifferent. If the rest of them hadn't see the two almost violently making out in the kitchen before disappearing to a bedroom, they wouldn't have guessed anything had gone on between them.

"Hey Geralt," Eskel called, face passive. "You know the difference between a goldfish and a mountain goat?"

"A mountain goat could live in Kaer Morhen but a goldfish couldn't?"

Eskel rolled his eyes. "No, a goldfish mucks around a fountain."

"And a mountain goat fucks around a mountain," Cahir finished the joke. He and Eskel high fived without looking at each other. Lambert only smacked his head on the table when Cahir continued, "And I am no goldfish."

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall. 

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume. 

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity. 

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?” 

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger. 

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare. 

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement. 

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (arranged marriage Au)

Part 1 is here, finally! Title a reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Read it on Ao3 HERE

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Vesemir’s slap hit Geralt firmly on the back of the head. Two seconds previously Geralt had been complaining about his upcoming, politically motivated marriage to some nobleman’s son. 

“It’s a good thing, lad. Other witcher schools would kill for something like this,” he said. Geralt knew it was right, legal punishment for those who shortchanged or attacked witchers. It set a precedent, and apparently the earl was very influential. It could change things.

“And there isn’t a fidelity clause,” Eskel said. “It doesn’t have to be more than a sort of partnership.”

“No consummation requirement either,” sniggered Lambert from the other side of the campfire. “You don’t even have to fuck the bugger if he’s ugly.” This earned him a sharp elbow from Eskel. 

“What I don’t understand is what they get out of this,” Geralt said. It had been bugging him. 

“Ah,” Vesemir said, looking uneasy. “It seems that the payment is...taking the viscount off of the Earl’s hands, officially. It seems he’s something of an embarrassment.”

The unease in Vesemir’s voice was subtle, but after so many decades with their teacher, the wolves of Kaer Morhen knew the slight variations of tone and expression. His discomfort was twofold, first, the obvious implication that the Earl was sending his son to live a dangerous life alongside a witcher in order to...deal with him. A death sentence, from father to son. The second was that Geralt, already saddled with a political marriage, was also to be saddled with a nuisance of a husband. 

“But why me?” Geralt knew he was whining like a child, but he couldn’t help it. It was three days to Lettenhove, and then they’d be there at least a week for the wedding and he’d have to act courtly. 

He wasn’t good at courtly.

When he thought about it none of them were. 

“It couldn’t have been me,” Eskel said, a little shyly. He was right. Eskel believed his scars were horrible, made him unlovable and undesirable. Geralt didn’t buy it, but nobles could get a bit stroppy about appearances. And if they humiliated Eskel because of his scarring...no, Geralt wouldn’t let that happen.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Lambert said, mouth full and rather cheerfully. No. It couldn’t have been him either, no manners and no filter, they’d be at war with the entirety of Lettenhove within a day.

“And I’m an old man,” Vesemir said. He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have. Older though he was, he was still three times the warrior of any young human man walking about these days. But from what Geralt had heard, and it hadn’t been much, the Viscount was young, not quite twenty, and it wouldn’t be kind to marry him to someone so much older than himself. Geralt reflected grimly that he was nearly four times the youth’s age.

Three days of riding passed far too quickly for Geralt’s liking.

Chateau de Lettenhove loomed. It was a fairytale castle built by a man expecting a siege. There were high, rising towers with huge windows and artful buttresses, but to the trained eye of the witchers, it was a fortress. The towers had carved, decorative arrow slits, the windows all had iron grates over them, wrought like lace, and the buttresses could be easily used as defensive positions. All in all, it was a castle that growled, albeit genteelly.

They were greeted first by a footman, and then a line of servants increasing in rank, until a very snobby servant, likely the head housekeeper from the way all the maids scuttled away from her, brought them to an anteroom. At this point courtesy dictated that she bade them sit down on one of the lavish sofas. She did not. She chose instead to turn up her nose and sweep away.

The four witchers remained standing, not looking at one another. Geralt could feel Lambert stewing about the obvious slight beside him. He reached out, still staring straight ahead, and tweaked Lambert’s ear. 

This was about to result in much brotherly retribution and probably a brawl when the housekeeper returned, followed by another woman.

“His lordship the Earl of Lettenhove is attending to vital business,” the housekeeper said, tone of voice implying that the arrival of four witchers who were muddying her nice clean floor were certainly not vital. “I present, her ladyship, Countess Amaria Elizaveta de Lettenhove.” 

The countess curtsied, it was a polite little bob, and she smiled a little dazedly as the witchers all gave their best attempt at courtly bows. A small but significant part of Geralt’s brain was panicking, and it dealt with this new form of terror by imagining that the school of the wolf, seen from the outside plying their newly practiced bows, must look like a line of seagulls vying for a dropped crumb.

Vesemir stepped forward and, in a rather more suave gesture than Geralt had been expecting, took the Countess’ hand and bowed over it. Two bows seemed excessive to Geralt, but since it seemed to indicate that Vesemir would be taking over the speaking for now, he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up. 

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Vesemir said, straightening and releasing her hand. “May I introduce the school of the wolf. Eskel is--”

The countess had waved a limp hand. “Plenty of time for that at the feast, deary,” she said, smiling dreamily. There was something in her eyes that was a little absent, possibly more than a little if her calling Vesemir ‘deary’ was anything to go by. Geralt looked the countess over. He had been given to understand through the brief letters from the Lettenhove estate, that this wasn’t the viscount-Julian, the letters said-’s mother, but rather his step mother. She was a petite lady with mousy hair and rather absent blue eyes. Her dress was obviously of very fine material, rose pink and probably silk, although Lambert would know better than him, but a simpler cut than Geralt had expected. 

His examination, done in a split second, decided that she wasn’t an immediate enemy, but probably not a terrible useful ally. 

“I’m to give you this courting gift,” here she proffered a small but beautifully carved wooden box. “And to show you to your quarters.” She smiled again, and it was warm, but still vapid.

“Custom usually dictates that the fiancé give the courting gift,” Vesemir said, cautiously taking the box.”

“My husband wanted someone else to present it,” she said. “But your grandson can give his gift in person when he meets Julian. Now what...” she trailed off, not even noticing Vesemir’s slight sputter at grandson. “Ah yes, your rooms, right this way please.”

She got lost on the way to their rooms and a shaking footman showed them up to a suite, then kindly took her by the hand and led her away.

They sat, silent, in the nice but not lavish quarters. Four beds in curtained alcoves off to the side, and in the middle a room with a table and chairs, and a sofa and more comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. It was already blazing and the witchers stared into it for a minute.

“That was strange,” Eskel finally said, and the others just nodded.

“Should I have insisted on giving her our courting gift?” Geralt said after another pause. “I thought they were usually given in person.”

“I think you’re fine,” Vesemir said. “If they broke that tradition they can hardly fault you for doing the same.”

Lambert, sprawled across the sofa, said, “When’s dinner?”

“I think I’m supposed to meet Julian first,” Geralt said. “Someone will probably come get us. 

“When we meet Julian you mean,” Lambert said, sitting up. 

“No, I’ve been thinking about that and I want to meet him alone.”

Vesemir nodded, “Sensible, we don’t know how he will react to one witcher, let alone four.” Then he smirked, although not unkindly, at Lambert. “You will be introduced and have a chance to be nosy later. At dinner perhaps.”

They unpacked their belongings, potion bottles and swords looking out of place along the old but nicely carved furniture. After days of tension on the road as Geralt wound himself tighter and tighter with anxiety for his...wedding, yes his wedding, now this pause was jarring. Eskel tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look.

Geralt turned around to give Eskel room to work.

On the Path, witchers are rarely, if ever touched. Certainly not in a friendly way if the other isn’t being compensated. It wasn’t therefore, unusual for the wolves of Kaer Morhen to be tactile with one another. Not hugging and cuddling sweetly, but rough housing and wrestling ending in exhausted dog piles. But Eskel had a gift, he had magic hands, literally and figuratively, and he carefully oiled his hands while Geralt took off his travel stained shirt. 

Geralt sunk into himself, half meditating as Eskel dragged the tension from his shoulders and beat the knots from his muscles. It wasn’t a relaxing massage, but it always left him feeling like liquid, if slightly bruised. When it was over and the liquid feeling had left him, or at least subsided enough that his knees could hold him, he stood, clapping Eskel on the shoulder in thanks.

Then came the hard bit.

Geralt needed to be courtly. He scrubbed the bits he could with water and a cloth from a little washstand, but he hoped he could have a hot bath later. Afterwards Vesemir advanced on him and battled the dirt from underneath his fingernails with a stiff brush before attacking his hair with a comb. Geralt sat on the ground like a child, his brothers looking on in amusement as Vesemir sat behind him on the couch and teased the tangles from his hair. He was making faces, he knew, but Vesemir wasn’t gentle, and he hadn’t detangled his hair in some time.

Scrubbed raw, with his hair floating around his shoulders like a silver cloud, Lambert presented him with a doublet. 

It was black, which was good.

That was the only good thing about it. It was most likely a very nice, extremely fashionable doublet. Lambert might take delight in embarrassing Geralt, but he didn’t mess about with clothing. The issue was that it was attention grabbing, it was subtle in a way that seemed to play itself down while actually drawing every eye. It was black, in the same way a raven’s wing was black, every shimmering shade shifting as the fabric moved.

And he would be wearing it. 

He did wear it. 

His hands shook as he buttoned it up. 

He was just examining himself in a slightly tarnished hand mirror when there was a sharp knock at the door. The footman let himself in right after and bowed swiftly. 

“I am to escort the witchers of Kaer Morhen to meet Lord Julian.”

“Just the one witcher,” Geralt said. Vesemir pressed his courting gift, and the little carved boxed nestled on top, into his arms.

The footman didn’t seem to care and simply turned away, leading Geralt through hallways that all looked the same and down two very winding staicases, the second of which was so narrow his shoulders actually brushed the walls. They stopped outside a plain wooden door. The footman bowed and smiled. It looked, Geralt couldn’t help but feel, rather cruel. Then he left. Geralt knocked softly on the door, feeling very large in the narrow, low ceilinged hallway.

Eskel had told him once of a myth he had read, about a beast, half man half bull, hidden away in a maze. Geralt felt like such a beast, too large and rough and probably going to barge in and do everything wrong.

“Come in.” 

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door. 

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Oooh I’m naughty for leaving it there, but it’s almost 2000 words already. @llamasdumpsterfire here it is at last, I hope it lives up to expectations.

[darkverrmin]

The Road to Kaer Morhen

The first year Geralt and Jaskier become a couple, Geralt wants to bring his lover to Kaer Morhen. Spending a whole winter apart seems unimaginable now, since they've grown so close.

Unfortunately, a day before they're supposed to leave north, they have an ugly fight. Jaskier is pissed and decides to leave for Oxenfurt on his own. Geralt is pissed, too, and doesn't stop him.

The road to Kaer Morhen is longer and colder than what Geralt remembered it last year. And much more lonelier than he expected it to be.

***

Geralt tells his brothers and Vesemir about Jaskier. It happens naturally. He tells them about their relationship and their fight the day before Geralt left and how he misses his bard.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him for getting into that bar fight" Geralt told his brothers one night while they were drinking. "It was a dumb and dangerous thing to do, but he just wanted to protect me. He always wants me to feel more... Loved. Fuck, I shouldn't have let him leave to Oxenfurt".

Eskel nods, humming quietly. "Why won't you write him a letter? Tell him you're sorry and how you feel".

Geralt blinks at him. "I don't know... Doesn't sound like a good idea. I don't have his skills, I'm terrible at writing".

"You don't need skills" Eskel frowns at him, taking a sip from his tankard. "Just be honest with him".

"And how will I deliver him the letter, while we're here?"

"I have a magic bird" Lambert jumps in his seat, grinning. "A mage gave it to me after saving a city from a bunch of Bruxas. It can deliver your letter to Oxenfurt".

Geralt sighs and Eskel smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. "Great, now all you need to do is to write it".

***

Geralt writes the letter.

Half through it he already has no idea what's he writing. It's just a bunch of sappy nonsense.

Oh gods, he misses Jaskier.

He finishes the letter with the words "I'm sorry, Jaskier. I miss you. And I love you. I want to make this work".

It seems a little stupid to say he loves him for the first time like this, writing it in a letter, but Geralt can't deny it anymore.

He loves Jaskier and he wants to make things right between them.

They send the letter to Oxenfurt using Lambert's magic bird.

***

Two weeks pass and Geralt still doesn't get a reply from Jaskier.

He's not sad.

Not at all.

Jaskier just probably needs time to think.

***

Three weeks after sending the letter to Oxenfurt, the brothers notice someone approaching the gates of the keep, while they're training in the yard.

They see a hooded figure riding a beautiful, white stallion.

Who the hell would be coming all the way to Kaer Morhen during the winter?

Vesemir joins them in the yard, staring ahead at the fast approaching rider.

Lambert unsheathes his sword as the rider stops at the gate, dismounting his horse.

"Who the hell are you?" Lambert snarls at him, taking a step forward, sword in hand.

The hooded man raises his hands in the air, taking a step forward also. "Hi. Calm down. I come in peace. I'm here looking for someone".

The man pulls down his hood and Geralt's jaw drops to the ground. Jaskier still doesn't notice him, as he's speaking to Lambert, who's already lowered his sword.

"I'm looking for Geralt" Jaskier says, brushing the snow from his hair. "I assume you're one of his brothers".

"Lambert".

"Jaskier. Pleasure".

They shake hands and Lambert points him to Geralt, who's standing a few feet behind him, still in shock.

"Geralt!" Jaskier beams and runs into his Witcher's arms. Geralt holds him in a tight embrace, swinging him in the air once.

Jaskier giggles and pulls back to kiss Geralt. Geralt kisses him back, unbothered by Eskel's and Vesemir's stares and smiles and Lambert's gagging sounds.

Jaskier breaks the kiss first, to murmur against Geralt's lips. "Got your letter. Gods, Geralt, you can't make a man cry like that".

Geralt chuckles and kisses him again, softer this time. "I missed you".

"I missed you too, dear. I'm sorr-".

"No, don't. I'm the one who should be apologizing".

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly, smiling. "Can we just agree that we both acted like idiots?".

"I guess I'm okay with that".

Jaskier laughs and kisses him again. "I love you, too, by the way".

Geralt grins brightly and holds Jaskier so tight, he's afraid he might hurt him.

"Come meet my family. By the way, how the hell did you get here?"

"Oh, that reminds me! Here's you bird!" Jaskier rushes to his stallion and unties a small cage from the saddle. "When this magnificent creature came to Oxenfurt, his right wing was severely injured. I couldn't send him back. I took care of him on the way here, he should be fine now".

Lambert accepts the cage from Jaskier with a "thank you" and a small smile.

Jaskier looks at Geralt. "Sorry it took me a while to respond. Your keep is pretty far from civilization".

"Jask, again, how the hell did you get here? The road to Kaer Morhen is hard and dangerous. Did you find a mage and used a portal?"

Jaskier shrugged . "Uh, no... I just came here on my horse".

Four pairs of eyes stare at him in disbelief.

Jaskier blinks at them. "What, like it's hard?"

***

Bonus: Eskel leans in to whisper at Vesemir "I like this one. Can we keep him?"

[gods-no-longer-tread-here]

I was thinking about an amazing fic wherein Geralt locks himself away in his own mind, leaving nothing but the wolf, and also one of my old friend’s fluffy h/c fics where a heat-crazed omega and an alpha who refuses to have sex with heat-crazed omegas cuddle for like 2.5 days straight, and also ace week. So. Here is this.

words: 1,737 characters: Geralt, Jaskier, Lambert, Roach, Eskel and Vesemir mentioned summary: Geralt forgets to take his meds (inspired by my own personal experiences with forgetting meds for longer than a week), and gets cuddly. Jaskier’s fine with it because it amuses him.

~

Geralt was acting strange.

Then again, he wasn’t a human, so his actions weren’t really supposed to be familiar. That made Jaskier happy, to be honest. He’d had enough of trying to puzzle out other humans; Geralt was just as complex, but far more straightforward.

But still, this fussing was out of character. He was so particular about hunting and buying food, and insisted on getting Jaskier a thick wool cape, and seemed hyper-aware of the changing seasons. Finally, Jaskier decided he wasn’t naïve enough for this.

“Geralt, why are you doing this?”

Geralt, half asleep and curled around Jaskier protectively, mumbled, “Winter soon. Gotta keep you healthy.”

Jaskier grinned, and squirmed over onto his back. “My dear, not that I’m complaining about your care, but why now?” he asked, booping Geralt’s nose.

The Witcher scowled and said, “You’re my mate. Have to take care of my mate.”

Jaskier’s heart tripped.

Geralt must have heard, because he suddenly became very awake, staring at Jaskier with wide eyes and a set mouth. Jaskier breathed in and out slowly; there was no point hiding his immediate reaction, but he should at least try to stay calm.

“Do Witchers see mates the same way as us humans?” he asked.

Geralt didn’t move for an agonizingly long moment. Then he said softly, “No. Mates are… they’re people we… you won’t betray us.”

Jaskier stared back. And then he grinned, and snuggled against Geralt, rubbing his nose on his Witcher’s collarbone. Said Witcher relaxed, wuffled in contentment much like a big, lazy dog, and wrapped Jaskier up tight in his arms.

“Mates are people you trust not to hurt you?” the bard hazarded, unable to stop grinning.

“Yes. Go to sleep, now.”

“Oh, alright.”

~

A month later, as they were beginning their ascent of the mountains, Jaskier decided that Geralt had been lying.

As soon as they had left the last human village, Geralt’s human habits began to fade into more animalistic ones: instead of cooking the few plump rabbits he was able to hunt, he portioned them out and ate the organs while Jaskier cooked the meat. He insisted on finger-combing Jaskier’s hair every night (which the bard quite liked). His movements became smooth in the way of a predatory animal, not a man with predatory mutations. Roach began to snort and sidle at times, trying to keep her distance.

And Geralt didn’t even pretend he wasn’t coddling Jaskier like a delicate maiden.

It was very odd. And yet, Jaskier didn’t really mind. Geralt wasn’t smothering him; he was simply far more attentive than ever before. More attentive than he was with Yennefer, even.

Jaskier’s breath catched, and he cleared his throat to hide the noise, trudging up the narrow path behind Geralt and in front of Roach. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about her--not when he was going to spend the winter with his dearest friend.

Geralt suddenly turned, stared at Jaskier, and then whined as his face melted into a look of worry. If he’d had wolf ears, Jaskier thought, apropos of nothing, they would be upright and shivering.

Jaskier smiled. “I’m alright, my dear,” he said. No matter how softly he spoke, the cold stone of the mountain caught the sounds and threw them into an echo as if he had shouted. “I was thinking of something, that’s all.”

Geralt closed the distance between them in three fluid steps and wrapped his arms around Jaskier, whining and sniffing the bard as if his scent would give away his thoughts.

Jaskier felt his heart grow warm again. “I’m alright,” he repeated, leaning into Geralt’s embrace. “I’m with you, aren’t I? I’m always alright with you.”

Geralt made a wolf-like noise of happiness, and then kissed Jaskier. When his mouth opened in surprise, the Witcher’s tongue slid in and licked the inside--and not in a sexy way.

“Ew!” he shrieked, wrenching back. “Geralt, you brute, what are you doing?”

“My mate,” Geralt rumbled. It was the first time he’d used recognizable words in nearly a week. He was also smiling, so fondly and sweetly. “My pretty mate.”

Jaskier’s cheeks heated immediately, and he pressed his face into Geralt’s neck. “Alright, you win. My… my mate.”

Geralt hummed in deep contentment. After several moments, they untangled from each other, Geralt licked Jaskier’s lips, and they continued their journey.

The cold of winter was setting in painfully fast. While much of the coast was quite pleasant, Jaskier had spent many years in Lettenhove shivering through storms and snow that killed at least three people every winter--but usually more. He knew what to expect from sharp cold; he’d just never been in a place this dry and cold.

They were only a few days away from Kaer Morhen when the air pressure changed so quickly that Jaskier’s ears popped twice. The dry feeling that had seeped into his every orifice vanished as the first snowstorm began to brew; he breathed in deeply and grinned at the moisture that sank into his mouth, nose, throat, and lungs. Now this was the kind of winter weather he was used to.

Geralt growled and hustled his mate and horse along as fast as was safe.

Jaskier barely had time to feel relief at the sight of the trail leveling out before the snowstorm opened and everything became a white-and-grey blur. He and Roach both stopped in their tracks, and he called out, “Geralt?! Geralt, where are you?!”

A dark form hulked into his personal space and embraced him. It smelled and felt like his witcher. Jaskier clung to him, and tried not to think about the day he had joined a rescue attempt to find the last fishing vessel in the middle of a wild storm. There had been sirens. The sailors used a horn to drive them away; Jaskier had panicked and started singing, and the sirens had fallen silent.

He wasn’t allowed on the ocean after that, and he was very glad.

But this wasn’t the ocean. He had never realized how much he trusted solid boats and salty water before he became so acutely aware that one misstep would send him tumbling through nothing.

Geralt hoisted Jaskier up in one arm, took hold of Roach’s reins, and continued on the path.

It seemed like a thousand years before hands tugged at his cloak, and Geralt snarled viciously. Jaskier clung tighter, and did not raise his head until they passed into a space that wasn’t windy.

“Ger’l?” he whispered.

Geralt rumbled reassuringly and nuzzled under Jaskier’s hood to lick his ear; the warmth of his tongue shocked the bard’s cold skin. “Safe,” Geralt said, and set him down on his feet.

Jaskier smiled, and promptly collapsed.

~

“He won’t take his medicine, not until his mate is awake.”

“That’s so stupid! Doesn’t he want to be able to think?”

“Yes, but he’s not Geralt right now. He doesn’t have a human mind. I told him he needed to get better at making it himself…”

Jaskier opened his eyes the barest crack, and tried to make a noise. He couldn’t. He was so tired and foggy.

Almost immediately, someone was kissing his face, and licking it, and giving tiny puppy noises of joy and worry. He smiled, and opened his eyes wider.

It was Geralt, of course, looking absolutely delighted. Jaskier reached up one shaky hand and booped his nose.

“Hello, darling,” he said.

“Hello,” Geralt replied.

~

There were three other Witchers in the keep: a tired father, a calm and kind elder brother, and a pissy baby who was only a few years older than Jaskier. They stayed far away from him, although they were courteous, and provided him with food since he couldn’t leave his nest by the fire due to Geralt constantly lying on top of him and acting like a love-sick puppy. Jaskier began to worry about that merely an hour after he woke.

Four hours after he was awake, the pissy baby brother approached with a tray holding two pottery cups. He set it down near Jaskier and ordered, “Give him the blue cup, it has his medicine in it.”

Jaskier looked at the cups. One was green and the other was a soft purple. “Ah… those are green and purple.”

The Witcher stared at him, then at the cups, then back at him. “What?” he said blankly.

“This one is green,” Jaskier pointed to said cup, “And this one is purple. Which one is blue to you?”

The Witcher pointed silently, and Jaskier nodded, picking up the cups carefully and handing the “blue” one to Geralt, who cocked his head curiously.

“It’s just a drink,” Jaskier told him soothingly. “It will help us both feel better.” He sipped his own and tasted spiced cider, which made him hum in appreciation. Geralt downed his drink in three quick gulps, set his cup back on the tray… and then yelped and rolled off of Jaskier, thrashing and howling.

“Geralt!” Jaskier tried to lunge for him, but the other Witcher held him back. “Geralt! What did you do to him?!”

“Gave him his medicine that he hasn’t been taking for probably three fucking months,” the Witcher said tersely. “Watch him.”

Jaskier never took his eyes off Geralt, heart pounding with fear. After a few minutes of thrashing, his wolfish sounds melted into human curses, and when he laid still, panting harshly, Jaskier strained towards him again. “Geralt!” he cried, reaching for him.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, frowned, then looked absolutely terrified. Before Jaskier could ask, he was up and out of the room.

“Geralt?” Jaskier repeated softly.

“He’s just embarrassed,” the youngest Witcher grunted, letting go of Jaskier. “Drink your cider. He’ll come back when I leave.”

So Jaskier drank, and the Witcher left, and after a whole three minutes, Geralt slunk back in and sat beside Jaskier. After a moment, the bard lunged and squirmed into Geralt’s lap, hugging him tightly.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“I licked you,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed merrily and kissed him. “Yes, you did. You also played with my hair.”

“And called you my mate.”

Jaskier paused. “Well… yes. Was that a mistake?”

Geralt shrugged and wrapped his arms around Jaskier. “Dunno. Do… would you mind if… are you alright with that?”

“Yes, my dear, I am very alright with it.”

“Oh. Good.”

And then Geralt snogged him senseless.