#and Eskel finds a way to get Geralt to go to the great hall the next night

[redskull199987]

All the right Moves

Eskel x female Witcher!reader  Word count:2.4k warnings: canon typical violence, reader is injured, fluff at the end Summary:You´re on your way back to Kaer Morhen together with Eskel, as you run into a Leshy. You knew that something was wrong, as Eskel told you he wouldn't want to travel with you anymore…

Masterlist

You were hiking so fast, that you could feel your lungs burning inside your chest. Your throat dry from not drinking anything for hours. Your feet were begging you to stop, even just for a minute. But you knew, you couldn't. If you stopped now, he would be dead, once you reached Kaer Morhen. You just had to make it in time. If Eskel died, you would never forgive yourself. His words were still ringing in the back of your head.

“Leave me alone!”, he yelled, as he pushed you away from him. Confused, you looked at the Witcher, who was normally warm and understanding around you. All you had done was touch his shoulder carefully, asking if you could see his injury.“Eskel…are you okay?”, you mumbled, Confusion still written all over your face.

“Just fuck off.”, he cursed under his breath, turning away from him. 

You watched in confusion as he walked away from you, gathering his weapons. He didn't look back at you even once.

Your breath hitched slightly, as you could finally see the silhouette of Kaer Morhen on the Horizon. One or Two hours more and you would reach the old castle. It would be nightfall by then. You finally started to walk again, reaching into your pocket to find the potion, that was the reason why you were so late. You were sure that all the others had already arrived. Geralt and Vesemir probably worrying not only about Eskel, but also wondering why you didn't arrive yet. 

You desperately wished that you weren't so late. But it had taken you longer than expected, to find someone who knew how to make the potion you needed. If it weren't for a mage, who was a good friend of yours, who teleported you near the mountains, where Kaer Morhen was, you would´ve lost several days and Eskel would probably be dead already. But luckily, you were only half a day behind him, which luckily gave you enough time to save him. Or so you hoped. 

“Just fucking leave me alone!”, Eskel screamed at you, after you had finally managed to get a good look at his shoulder.“You´re infected, Eskel!”, you yelled, trying to grab his hand,”If we don´t do something, you will die!”“I am not going to die, so just leave me alone. I don't need you. I never needed you!”, he barked, looking at you with a stern expression. You were taken aback by his words. You knew that he didn't mean it, he didn't know what he was saying. But it still hurt you. 

 Before you could say something more, he was already mounting the horse and running off. You didn't try to follow him. It was worthless. You knew that he would be in Kaer Morhen after you found a potion that would save him. 

You looked at his back one more time, before making your way into the other direction, already knowing who you could ask for help.

A small sigh left your lips,as you finally reached the doors of the keep. You were about to push it open, as the medallion around your neck started shaking. Hastily, you made your way inside. This wasn't the first time this happened today. But this time it was much harsher. 

You didn't see anyone at first. The great hall was completely empty, but you could see plates full of food and tankards filled with ale standing all over the place. Someone was here not long ago. 

Your head shot up, as you heard ruckus coming from the laboratory, seconds later the sound of pots being smashed and tables thrown over. As you finally started running, you could hear a beasty groan. “Fuck.”, you grunted as you heard the voices of Geralt and Vesemir. And as you finally reached the designated room, you peeked through the open door. What you saw almost made you lose your composure.  

Right there, just a few meters in front of you, was Eskel towering over the other two Witchers. But he wasn't himself. Not in the slightest. He had transformed into a wooden beast, his face barely visible, but it was there. 

Mere seconds, after laying your eyes on him, you wanted to storm towards him, but a magical shield was blocking the door. You quickly drew your sword, as you saw what was about to happen. 

Eskel had managed to trap Vesemir, resulting in Geralt lighting up his sword to end it.

As fast as you could, you muttered a spell and lifted your sword. With all your power, you pierced it through the barrier.

You took three big steps, breathing in heavily, knowing that what you were about to do would knock the air out of your lungs. 

And only as you stepped in front of him, lifting your blade to meet his in the air, Geralt had finally noticed your presence. He looked at you perplexed, as your sword clanked against his, the metall hissing from the heat. “What are you doing?”, he asked, not even angry, but genuinely concerned. “You're not going to take him away from me!”, you claimed, as Geralt slowly lowered his sword.

“Please just trust me!”, you urged the white wolf. He only nodded at you, as you quickly turned around, grabbing the small potion from your pocket.

“Eskel?!?!”, you yelled as loud as you could. The beast-turned Man quickly turned around, upon hearing your voice. Vesemir, who had previously been choked, fell to the ground, coughing. “Take care of him!”, you ordered Geralt, who was able to quickly make his way over to the older Witcher, since Eskel´s attention was all on you now. 

“Here goes nothing.”, you muttered under your breath, as you felt a branch pierce through your shoulder. You yelped, as you were lifted into the air, more branches wrapping around your body. You were pushed against a wall, as Eskel leaned closer to you.

“Y/N”, he sputtered, his eyes scanning your form. 

“It's me, Eskel.”, you affirmed, slowly bringing the potion to your mouth to rip the cork off, “You´re going to be alright, my love. Don´t worry.”

Eskel was about to answer, but no words left his mouth, he was just staring at you. You quickly realized that this was your chance, as he was momentarily confused. You lifted your arm, as best as you could and threw the small bottle of potion right into his mouth. He choked on it for a second, not comprehending what had just happened. “I'm sorry in advance.”, you quickly mumbled, before lifting your foot and kicking him in the jaw, in order to make him swallow the potion. 

Your breath hitched for a second, as you didn´t know what was going to happen. Would it work? Would he live?

As you fell to the ground with a grunt, you were pretty sure that it was working. Grabbing your bleeding shoulder, you quickly backed off, as Eskel started to squirm around, an angry scream leaving his lips.

“Y/N?!”, Geralt yelled, as he tried to reach you, but Eskel´s branches were throwing a tantrum, swinging all around the hall.

“Please just work.”, you prayed, but suddenly, all movement stopped. The room was silent for a second, before all the wood surrounding you suddenly started  corroding. You watched with wide eyes, how all the branches coming out of Eskel slowly crumbled away all the way up to his body.  He had stopped moving for a second, but as you stood up and called out for him, the wooden exoskelett rumbled to life. You heard cracking and wood breaking and seconds later, you saw Eskel´s Human body falling out of what looked like a tree stump now.

"Eskel!", you gasped and leaped forward just in time to catch him. His body weight pulled you down with him. He was still unconscious, as you slowly turned him around, resting his head on your lap. Just now, you took a good look at him. His entire body was covered in dirt. Vines and leaves had grown in and around his clothes. The only thing untouched, was his Witcher medallion.

“He´s alive.”

You looked up at Geralt and Vesemir who were now standing in front of you. Vesemir was still leaning on Geralt for support, but apart from that he seemed fine to you.

“You saved his life”, Geralt added. All you could do was nod. Your emotions were slowly coming to the surface now and you realized that you could´ve lost him today. But here he was, laying in your arms unconsciously. 

"Come on.” , Vesemir  patted your shoulder, kneeling down next to you,”Let's get him fixed up. We´ll take care of this”, he lifted his hand to gesture around the completely destroyed room,”later, alright?”

You just nodded again, stepping aside, as Geralt and Vesemir proceeded to lift Eskel up to carry him to his room. As the other Witchers ran into you, you promised them an explanation , but for now, you needed to look after Eskel.

Your eyes kept falling shut over and over again, as you lay in a chair in front of Eskel´s bed. It had been a few hours since you managed to cure him from the infection. He hadn't woken up since. You tried to stay awake but sleep was gnawing at you, like a hungry aeschna.

“Sorry? Are you Y/N?”

Your eyes opened once more, as you looked over to the door to see who had come to visit you. A young girl was standing in the doorway. Her long blond hair was slightly disheveled and the bottom of her white dress was dirty and ripped open.

“You must be the child surprise.”, you stated, after getting up and bidding her inside.

“Cirilla of Cintra.”, she smiled, as she stepped inside,”Geralt sent me to give you this. He said it would help with your exhaustion.”

You looked at her curiously, as she handed you a small bottle of potion. You gingerly took it and inspected it´s contents. After recognizing the mixture, you quickly downed it in one sip. Mere seconds after, you already felt it working. Your eyes didn´t feel as heavy anymore and your limbs stopped aching a bit.

“Thank you Cirilla.”, you finally said and gifted the young girl a soft smile.  

She only nodded and was about to leave, as you gently grabbed her wrist. She turned around perplexed.

You cleared your throat once more, before finally speaking again:”Geralt told me that…that Eskel was a bit rude with you, upon arriving here at Kaer Morhen.”

“He wasn't exactly the nicest.”, she admitted after you finally let go of her hand.

“I want to apologize for his behavior”, you sighed, rubbing your neck,”He isn't usually like this. He didn't even let me touch him, after he was injured. This infection…it did something to him, changed him.”

Cirilla didn't say anything, but instead stepped closer to the bed, Eskel was lying in. She inspected him carefully, her eyes wandering over his exhausted body. 

“I really hope that he will wake up again. I would like to meet the real Eskel.”, she uttered and turned around to you with a smile. “Yeah, me too.”, you mumbled weakly. You were really missing your soft Witcher. The way he always smiled at you with his big eyes, the way his hands felt on your skin, his lips on yours, his gentle voice, as he mumbled sweet nothing into your ear in the early mornings. You just wanted him to wake up again.

“Hey?”, Ciri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She must have noticed how shaken up you were, “He'll be alright. You saved him, right?”

You only nodded, slowly petting her shoulder:”You should go to sleep now. It's late and you must be tired, after all this ruckus.”

“You should get some sleep too.”, she smiled softly before leaving the room. You threw one last glance her way, before the door finally closed and the room was silent again.

At least for a few moments.

Your head shot up, as you heard groaning coming from the bed. That could only mean one thing: Eskel was awake.

You quickly made your way over to the bed and you would be lying if you said, your heart didn't skip a beat. There he was. He was alive and well. His heartbeat going steady and his breath a little shallow, but also very much there. 

As he looked up and his eyes landed on you, you couldn't hold yourself back any longer. you stepped forward, kneeling down on the side of the bed, your arms pulling Eskel into a massive hug.

“Woah there, bug. It's alright, I'm here.”, Eskel affirmed, as you buried your face  in his shoulder,”I'm here with you.” 

“Yeah”, you sniffled, a few lonely tears rolling down your cheeks. You finally parted to get a good look at him. Frankly, he still looked unbelievably tired. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes and you noticed that he moved with a bit of discomfort. “What happened, bug?”, he suddenly asked you, now fully sitting up against the headrest.

“The leshy.”, you mumbled, reaching out for his hand. He gladly intertwined his fingers with yours. “It infected you, after we fought against it.”

“Fuck, I think I remember now.”, he hissed,”I'm so sorry. The things I said, I did. I was such an arsehole, wasn´t I?”

“Well, Ciri certainly thinks so.”, you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. But Eskel didn't laugh. Instead he lifted his hand to softly grasp your cheek. He gently wiped away your tears, but new ones were already coming, upon feeling his soft touch again.

“I am sorry.”, he said firmly,”Thank you for saving my ass.” “Of course.”, you assured,”I would do anything for you. I love you.” “I love you, bug”, Eskel mumbled, pulling you back into his chest. A small sigh left your lips, after settling against his body. You finally allowed yourself to rest, after so many hours of being completely on edge. Eskel was alive. You did, in fact, save him. 

“Rest.”, you heard him whisper into your ear, as he pulled you closer to his body. His warmth spreading welcoming you, after he pulled the blanket over you.

“You deserve it.”

[frostedwitch]

When Jaskier is left alone to his own devices in Kaer Morhen he plays with the fantastic acoustics of the old keep. He wanders the cold empty corridors and rooms with high stone ceilings, singing and listening to his notes echoing back at him. On long sleepless nights he can be found alone in the great hall, his melodies surrounding him like a ethereal sirens song.

[valdomarx]

And naturally the others notice Geralt doing his stupid "I shall sit here consumed with lust for the rest of the winter" thing and they make a bet:

Just how annoyed/horny will Geralt get before he just fucking Snaps?

Will be when Everard drags Jaskier into his lap and feels him up during dinner? Will it be when he gets edged in the baths by everyone and none of them allow him any release? Will it be when Eskel kisses him so sweetly that it leaves Jaskier shaking?

Who can say? But they all get some amusement out it when Geralt scowls at them all and tries to kick their asses during training.

Although they will admit that having someone touching them - during or outside of fucking - that doesn't reek of fear....it's nice.

geralt is upset when jaskier nuzzles up to eskel on their first night in the keep but it's fine, he understands, eskel is a first-class cuddler

he doesn't love it when jaskier follows coen around all day, begging to see his witcher signs and giggling about how big his igni is. but coen is the best sign-caster among them and jaskier has always been curious

and he gets downright mad when lambert accosts jaskier in the great hall, behaving like horny teenagers. it's just embarrassing, to be behaving that way

everard has a liking for bringing jaskier bowls of soup, and geralt can understand that because he likes to see jaskier well-fed too. but then everard starts feeding jaskier little morsels from his plate, and jaskier will lick the flavours from his fingers, and that's surely crossing a line at the dinner table

diever promises to show jaskier the alchemy lab, and that seems wholesome enough but geralt hears that there's hijinks going on with succubus venom and that seems frankly unsavoury

the less said about The Incident in the Hot Springs with vartok and tolbert and hemrik the better. geralt has very carefully and very deliberately put it from his mind entirely

and the most devastating blow, the absolute fucking final straw, is when yennefer starts boasting about jaskier's talented tongue in front of ciri, as if this pure young girl could stand to be around such wanton filth, never mind the fact she seems to find it hilarious

geralt, distraught, turns to vesemir as his last hope of solace.

turns out that vesemir is the one collecting the bets

(and he lets geralt know what he's been missing out on too. jaskier loves a silver fox.)

[inexplicifics]

Hello! I've been rereading your Wolfblood series for days (and your Accidental Warlord series for years), and I cannot express how happy and grateful I am for them. Thank you so so so much 💖💖💖

Please have this smol plot bunny as a token of my unending gratitude.

Sometimes I find myself imagining how it'll go if Milena of the Wolfblood verse swaps places with Jaskier of the Accidental Warlord verse, maybe due to a spell that went awry?

The chaos and the worry and the discoveries that'll ensue all around will be divine.

Consort Jaskier scandalizing everyone (or as scandalized as Wolfblood can get) and maybe teaching bard bach Jaskier how to get up to all sorts of mischief. The fact that he smells so strongly of Geralt and Eskel will surely not go unnoticed.

Cath fach Milena shocking and confusing the Warlord and his witchers with how she smells both of Aiden and Lambert. How she'll tell it to the council (and how the local Milena, Lambert, and Aiden will react) will surely be delightful.

I think both Milena and Jaskier would also delight in the differences of their worlds and how some things (like the love of their family) remain the same.

How or where they swap also has great potential for chaos. Maybe one moment Jaskier is performing for his witchers and the next moment cath fach is standing in his place, smelling undeniably of her lovers.

The reunions will be fantastic as well once they figure out how to return the displaced dimension travelers back to their homes.

Maybe wolfblood Aiden is the first through the portal, and he'll hug and kiss Milena right in the Warlord's great hall. Wolfblood Lambert not far behind.

It could also work the other way, with Eskel Amber-Eyed and the White Wolf tackling their well-missed Lark in the wolfblood's great hall.

This dimension travel story has been living in my brain rent-free for a few days now, but I'm not sure when I can actually flesh it out.

So if anyone wants to pick up this tiny plot bunny, go and run wild with it 💖💕

This is delightful! Worldswapping would confuse everyone, but probably not as badly as, say, canon characters ending up in either.

[open--till--midnight]

It says on your list that you're accepting requests, so I'd like to make one. A request with our dear witcher, Eskel, in which the reader wishes to participate in Kaer Morhen's battle against the Hunt to help him.

I'm Still With You, Now and Forever

eskel x gn!reader

wc: 528

a/n: This was supposed to be longer, I think I might do an after battle follow up though

With the information given to him by Avallac’h, Geralt was off to Skellige to find Ciri. Upon his departure, there was a macabre air about the great hall. The incoming gloom of an outnumbered battle put the mage and even the strongest of the witchers on edge. 

After a moment, and with a shaky breath, Eskel took your hand and led you out of the room. To you, it didn’t seem like he had an apparent direction. It became clear that you were right when you arrived on the other side of the keep. You stopped him before he could take you upstairs, fresh air would do him good. With every step, Eskel’s grip seemed to get tighter and tighter. Not that you minded, you needed the comfort. Once outside, he sat on the stone wall, legs hanging off the ledge. You mirrored him.

“I have to get you out of here. You won’t be safe, I won’t be able to protect you.”

Your fingers ran over his rough hands, soothing him as best you could. Though, the effort would seem futile.

“You don’t really think I’ll just leave you here, do you? Come on, Eskel. Has there ever been a time where I wasn’t able to take care of myself?” There had been, most definitely, but your point was understood. You were entirely capable of holding your own in dangerous situations.

“This isn’t a hunt, y/n. Not a simple contract taken out on a monster. The Wild Hunt is- it’s…. We’re outnumbered by forces far greater than our own.”

“Exactly, we need as many people as we can get. There’s no question about that. And if you think I’m going to let you do this alone, you’d be dead wrong.”

“No, y/n, you’d be dead. I don’t think- I know I wouldn’t be able to go on if I lost you.”

“Yes, love, I know. But what if you die, what will I have left? We can do this together. I’m with you now and forever. And if we die, we die together. For Ciri, for Geralt.”

You would fight whether he wanted you to or not. It wasn’t as if you’d never ignored Eskel’s precautions before. You always told him it was his fault since he would never order you to do or not do something, you always had the choice. That didn’t stop it from upsetting him. But he trusted you, and he would do everything in his power to keep you safe, just as you would do for him. 

“I won’t be able to convince you?”

“Not a chance.”

He looked at you with a sad sort of fondness before drawing you into his lap. Your arms snaked their way around his neck as he held you firmly against him.

“My love, you’re squishing me.”

He mumbled an apology before slackening his grip a bit, still holding you. His face was still buried in your neck when you heard Lambert call out.

“I guess we should go now.” You whispered in his ear, not wanting the moment to end so abruptly. “We’ll make it through, love. I have no doubts about that.”

[longing-for-the-past-times]

Melting away - Lambert x reader

Word count: 1871

Request: Hello! Could I request a Lambert x fem reader fic? Remember the scene where the boys get drunk and dress up in Yen's clothes? I was thinking that the reader finds them first ,she finds Lambert's clothes and gets dressed with them and starts goofing around with the witchers. The rest is up to you .

A/N: So I have a headcanon that Lambert turns into a softie when he's with s/o so here you go. I hope you enjoy my approach on the subject!

P.S: English is not my native language so I'd appreciate if you'd dm me any grammar/vocabulary mistakes or inconsistencies that can be found in the text below. I did not proofread it beforehand.

***

"Some crimes are so terrible that they fill people with terror and offend the gods. The criminal's ill will and the cruelty of his deed conceive a curse that brings the archespore to life. The beast attacks innocent creatures hatefully, trying to take vengeance until justice is done."

      Squinting at Geralt's illegible writing, you massaged your temples, setting the griffin feather aside. You had offered to write down the witchers' notes in the Bestiary to express gratitude for being able to spend the winter at the Keep despite the burdensome circumstances. Two days in and your mind was filled with random creature names and what potions and oil blades should be used- it was not boring at all, but there was too much information at once.

Letting out a soft groan, you decided to go to the kitchens to get yourself a late-night snack. Vesemir had gone God-knows-where, taking Uma with him, and from Yennefer's bitter look when you'd last met her in the hallway, you knew Geralt and the boys had other plans. Which meant Lambert was involved too and no matter how much you'd want to cuddle with him and talk all your worries away, you could not deny him a night with his brothers. Nor did you want to.

So you took a detour to avoid the Great Hall, marveling once more at the architectural features of the crumbling Keep despite the terrible cold that was making you shiver violently. You decided on the spot that your shared bedroom will be the next destination and prepared yourself mentally for the endless flights of stairs, knowing that a lit fireplace and a not-so-warm bed would be waiting for you. Your level of clinginess was growing at the thought of it.

Once you reached the kitchens, you made a beeline for the makeshift wine cabinet, picking a dusty bottle of Erveluce and mentally praising Geralt for supplying you with it. Yawning widely you turned to head towards the bedroom, giving up on snacking when loud noises could be heard from outside the room.

'Eskel, you drunk, get out here!'

'Eskel, chop, chop'

'Eskel.... Eskeeeeeel'

Smiling to yourself, you shook your head. The three witchers were wasted. And considering their high alcohol tolerance, that meant something. Slowly opening the door and sticking your head out, you checked if they were gone and began strolling towards the bedroom, the wine bottle pressed tight against your chest. It was gonna be a long night.

***

Fifteen minutes later, you were sat in your wolf pelt-covered bed, bottle of Erveluce half-finished. Despite the warmth emanated by the huge fire, you were trembling with cold, pouting and whining loudly. Damn, you needed him so bad, no matter how wasted he was- to lay your head on his bare chest, carelessly dragging your fingers over the various scars, quietly enjoying the way his tender voice was transformed into vibrations that resounded deep into your core.

And it so happened, you also needed a change of smallclothes and, perfectly convenient, one of the chests containing your belongings was still downstairs. And perhaps if Lambert saw you, even briefly, he would join you to rest- or make you join in. Both options sounded good for the time being.

***

Wrapping yourself in a discarded wolf pelt, you grabbed the candlestick and ventured into the gloomy hallways of the Keep once more. While passing by a giant stone arcade with numerous sculpted details, you took in the almost full moon and wondered what Vesemir was planning. You hoped the old Witcher would succeed- you could not forget the pained expression on your beloved's face when Yennefer suggested reenacting the Trial of the Grasses. And all you could do was stand next to him and stroke his clenched fists with your thumbs while trying to meet his stare. It was natural that he would want to drink the night away after being forced to reminisce about such a dark time of his life.

But it was nicer to spend the rest of the night in bed, by the fireplace, cuddling both of you to sleep. And so you let your footsteps guide you to the main hall, slowly humming along to a catchy tune Dandelion played you once. It was a shame he was not at the Fortress to keep you company.

    Being half in a state of daydreaming, you did not notice the pile of discarded clothes, unceremoniously scattered all across the floor, until you tripped over it, stumbling on the stone floor. You muttered a string of curses, but the Toussaint wine had already gone straight to your head, making you unusually joyful and lightheaded. 

   Breathing in deep, as if it would help you get up, you could feel Lambert's strong scent of pine, leather, and blade oil. It made you even dizzier, if possible- in a good way as you started giggling and burying your face in the abandoned shirt. And then in the doublet. And then clutching the sword-strap.

   Dressing up in his clothes seemed like a brilliant idea, for the time being. You even shook your head in disbelief at not thinking of it earlier- it was the closest to being with him without actually being with him, which made a lot of sense in your semi-drunken state. So you did the most logical thing - stripped naked, discarding your clothes in the same chaotic manner, then quickly put on the breeches, along with his other clothing articles, inhaling in deeply at the raw scent of him. Letting out a silent sob of satisfaction, you grabbed his silver sword and tried to sheath it- needless to say, you started to make circles across the hall, struggling to maintain your equilibrium while holding the massive weapon and pointing it to your exposed back where its sheath could be found. After a couple of minutes, you realized your efforts were futile, which somehow filled you with indignation- surely of all the witchers in the Keep, one could teach you how to properly sheath a sword... right?

  Shaking your head in disbelief, you gripped the handle of the sword, loudly banging on the door then unceremoniously barging in. The sight that greeted you left you speechless: three broad frames dressed in feminine clothes were standing in front of a huge silhouette generated by two shining crystals. Your mind quickly supplied with the information that that must be the megascope, but your intoxicated brain could not figure out who the bulky females were. And what they were doing at Kaer Morhen. 

   In a moment, your blood turned into fire, coursing through the veins and loudly thrumming in your ears. You needed to defend the witchers, to make sure that Lambert and the others would stay safe in spite of their drunken states. And the sword you were clutching in your hand could prove more useful unsheathed.

   Letting out a fierce battle cry, you charged towards the one with the gangly silhouette, pointing the sword towards the exposed shoulders. Somehow, the person managed to hear you and turned around, moving with impressive speed and strength. The next thing you knew, you were pinned to the hardwood floor, both hands being held tightly above your head. Cursing loudly, you tried to kick your attacker with your feet, but Lambert's knee pads were weighing you down, making it difficult to move.

   'Get off me! I will not let you attack my Lambert!', you slurred vehemently, still struggling against the firm grip.

    Not being able to move, you glanced towards the person above you, several questions popping into your mind all at once. Did you miss Lambert so bad you could see his face plastered on top of a woman's? Or was that a doppelganger who enjoyed wearing frippery and reading his prey's thoughts?

          Your thoughts went silent when the being smashed its lips against yours, gripping your hands tighter and pressing its body against yours. That doppelganger may have had Lambert's face, but it could not replicate his hungry and passionate kisses. And you were right in the middle of one, closing your eyes and letting the taste of vodka and wine numb your senses and drive you into oblivion. 

  'What the fuck, Lambert? I thought we were supposed to invite the Lodge, not watch you getting laid with-... with-'

  'I trust you have an explanation for this. A very good one.'

   Yennefer's sharp voice cut through the thick air like a knife, rudely interrupting your kiss. Too dumbfounded to think straight, you held on tightly to Lambert's bare arms as he lifted you up, greedily checking you out. After a moment of awkward silence, it occurred to you that the three female-dressed figures were actually the witchers. Dressed in Yennefer's finest clothes. And completely wasted.

   'Go to bed. Now!'

   Geralt's stunned figure backed a couple of steps then staggered towards the door, meekly followed by Eskel. You couldn't help but notice that the dress he chose was too tight in the waist for him.

Lambert on the other hand... your significant other had seemed to really enjoy rummaging through the sorcerreses' clothes. His long blue dress seemed to be made of the finest silk, hugging him in places that made your imagination go wild.

'Am I to trust you will make it safely to your bedroom?' 

    When Yennefer turned towards you it was as if no alcohol had been in your system before. Releasing a deep breath, you opened your mouth in shock, but quickly closed it and nodded in approval. The raven-haired witch looked at Lambert, who was still too busy taking you in, pupils dilated and mouth half-open in awe.

  'My lover is wearing my clothes and... and looking like a dream...'

   His slur turned into something too incoherent as he placed both of his hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look into his eyes.

    You could swear you saw Yennefer's lips curl up into a smile before she left the room.

     'Pumpkin- I mean... my love...', he clumsily began, running his hands all over the armor you were wearing. His armor. 'You...you-'

   'Let's go to bed, peanut', you pressed his head to your chest, affectionately wrapping it in your hands. 'We may need to switch places for the night but-'

   Letting out a small purr he only reserved for you, he scooped you into his muscular arms, pressing a clumsy kiss on your neck. The adoration in his eyes was making you melt in his arms, humming in satisfaction at the warmth radiating from your bodies.

But it ended faster than it began when the witcher set you on the cold stone floor, intent on finding something. You glanced longingly in his direction, pouting and whining.

But he came back shortly after that, holding something in his hands. Crouching down in front of you, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead. He eventually backed down, putting something on your head and then making a show of checking you out:

'Let's go to bed, pumpkin', he whispered affectionately, rubbing his nose against yours in an intimate gesture. 'As one might say... it's a job for Papa Vesemir!'

[julek]

a humble offering to @west-moor and @kueble, for bringing this post to life. they’re very dumb, your honor. | read on ao3

It starts at dinner one night. 

They settled in a few days ago, bringing the ice cold from the mountains and the snow with them, after trudging up the Killer for two weeks. They sit at the wooden table and before them stands Vesemir’s famous roast, the one Geralt had told Jaskier all about. 

Geralt helps himself to some potatoes, and gestures to Jaskier’s plate. “You want some?”

Before Jaskier can nod, Lambert cuts him off. “Darling,” he says with a pointed tone.

Geralt turns to him, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “What?”

“You seemed to have forgotten you were speaking to your bard, there,” Lambert quips, and sits back with a knowing smirk. “Just wanted to help you out.”

Geralt blinks. “Uh.”

Jaskier notices the way he’s frozen in place, and gently touches his forearm, ignoring Lambert’s non-sequitur. “I’d love some, Geralt. Thank you.” 

“Uh,” Geralt repeats, and doesn’t take his eyes off Lambert as he fills Jaskier’s plate. “Sure.”

+

Jaskier pads into the kitchen the next morning, eyes still fuzzy with sleep and an old, worn woolen sweater hanging off his shoulder. Geralt looks up from his bowl of kasha and smiles. 

“Morning,” Jaskier mumbles, and sits down at the table. 

“Good morning.”

The shout comes from the pantry, followed by the unmistakable sound of pans and cups clattering. “Morning, honey!” 

Jaskier narrows his eyes, and looks at Geralt for help. He shakes his head. “Um. Hi?” 

Out of the pantry walks Lambert, hands full of baking ingredients, a flour scar crossing his cheek. “How’d ya sleep, sweetheart?”

Jaskier decidedly does not blush a bright shade of red. He doesn’t. “Well, that’s just— thank you, Lambert, for asking. I slept well, even though this keep’s freezing cold and my bed was entirely too big for one fragile bard such as myself.”

Lambert frowns. “What do you mean, too big? You’re not sharing with Geralt?”

Geralt chokes on his kasha, momentarily. Jaskier snorts and shakes his head. “No, I’m staying in the east wing.”

“Ah,” Lambert says, a wolfish grin on his face as he ties the apron behind his back. “That’s… interesting.”

He shoots Geralt a look that’s there a second and gone the next, and Jaskier would’ve missed it, if not for the developed skill of observing Witchers and their fleeting emotions. Still, it’s a look he can’t decipher, a mix of amusement and mischief. Best not to find out, he decides. 

“So, Lambert,” he starts, a touch louder than he should. “What’s that you’re making?”

+

Geralt had warned him, Jaskier thinks in retrospect, that Lambert was a bit weird. An acquired taste. And he is, Jaskier won’t deny it, but he’s also incredibly unpredictable — his gruff demeanor and rough disposition always, without fail, betray the sweet words that leave his mouth. 

He’d been brushing the horses down when Lambert ruffled his hair and called him dear. Geralt nearly dropped his sword one morning, when Jaskier walked out onto the courtyards and Lambert called out hello, sunshine. On their way to the library to get absolutely smashed, a gentle touch to his elbow and little bird. 

They’re all incredibly sweet, incredibly unexpected delicacies, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of them. Sure, Lambert isn’t horrible to look at in the slightest, what with the entire lean-body, scarred-face look he has going on, with the playful teasing and easy smiles he gets out of him. He’s objectively handsome, and funny, and kind, when he has to be, and Jaskier has let him know, many times. He hasn’t been exactly subtle in feeling his muscles through his linen shirts and sending looks his way whenever he’s said something salacious and tempting — signs so clear even the brother of one of the Continent’s most oblivious Witcher could read them. Which is why it’s so infuriatingly confusing, the fact that name-calling is all Lambert’s got for him. 

And it’s not lost to him at all, the way Geralt frowns and fiddles with his medallion whenever Lambert lets a honey-sweet pet name slip. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt stubbornly looks straight ahead, focused on absolutely nothing at all, nor the way his mouth twitches, almost, almost resembling a pout. 

It’s amusing, to say the least.

+

“Well, I’m off to bed, my wonderful friends,” Jaskier announces one night, after playing a few annoying renditions of Toss a Coin, until he got Eskel to break and beg him to stop. 

The wolves say their goodbyes, and just as Jaskier’s about to leave the Great Hall, Lambert calls after him. 

“Night, love,” he says, offhandedly, and continues his conversation with Eskel, as if nothing had happened. 

Jaskier scans the room, and his eyes fall on Geralt, who’s trying very hard to remain seated, even when his knuckles are white and his leg is bouncing wildly enough to propel him into the night sky. His amber gaze follows Lambert’s movements and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say Geralt was about to throttle his brother. 

“Hmm.” He murmurs. “Goodnight, Lambert. Goodnight, Geralt.”

Jaskier smiles sweetly and leaves the room at a leisurely pace. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on his back.

+

One particularly chilly afternoon, Jaskier’s leaving the library when he hears voices that carry through the hall. 

“Well? Gonna explain yourself?”

Oh, the middle-aged woman that lives inside Jaskier’s heart and loves to gossip jumps up and down in joy at the prospect of what seems to be a very interesting conversation. He slips out of the room and presses his back to the wall, even when he knows the Witchers could sense his presence. It’s more fun if there’s a risk to get caught, he reasons. 

Lambert’s voice is low, and Jaskier can hear his smug smile as he says, “Well, you weren’t doing anything about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Geralt’s voice echoes. 

“It means, you thick-headed idiot,” Lambert drags the words out, like he’s speaking to a child. If Jaskier’s quiet, he can hear the way Geralt’s blood boils in his veins. “That you’ve been walking in circles for too long. Jaskier’s here.” At the mention of his name, the bard perks up. 

“I know that, Lambert. I invited him. What’s that got to do with this— this sweet talking thing you’ve got going on? It’s weird. Creeps me out.”

“What? I can be decent when needs must!” Comes Lambert’s offended retort. “What I’m saying, pretty boy, is that he’s a good thing, the kind that Witchers never get to have. Not that you own him or anything— it’s just. He’s good, and he’s obviously waited for you to make a move, sometime in this past decade. He’s here, for fuck’s sake— in an old ruin in the middle of fucking nowhere, holed up with four Witchers and a goat, nothing else. Ain’t exactly a walk in the park.”

Jaskier stands very still, his heart beating out of his chest. 

“Hmm. I still— I don’t deserve him.”

Lambert laughs. “Well, too bad, then. You can’t come to me with that self-deprecating shit, I’m not Eskel. But, fuck, if you don’t deserve him, who the fuck does? Certainly not me, but— I need you to listen very closely— he won’t wait forever. He might even settle for me, if you don’t make a move soon.”

“Ugh.” 

“Yeah.”

Geralt’s footsteps echo down the hall, moving closer to Lambert, Jaskier thinks. 

“You’ll stop with the pet names, then?” 

Lambert laughs, again. “Absolutely not. It’s too fun seeing you get all hot and bothered.” He steps out of the room, thankfully, in the opposite direction, and calls out, “Don’t fuck it up!”

Jaskier lets out a breath and slides to the floor, gathering the new information in his brain. Geralt wants him. He wants him, and worst of all, thinks he’s undeserving — damn him and his humility. He lets out a laugh in disbelief. 

Geralt wants him. 

+

The next morning, when Jaskier walks into the kitchen, he’s greeted by a blushing Geralt. 

“Hi,” Jaskier says, an amused smile curling his lips, and sits down at the table. “How are you this morning, dear?”

Geralt pushes a bowl in his direction, a bit too strongly. “Good.” He coughs. “Uh, I’m good… Sugar face.” 

“Huh?” Jaskier stops mid-bite. He quickly regains his composure. “Um— that’s good, I’m glad, yeah.” 

Geralt grimaces, and an awkward silence follows. Jaskier digs into his breakfast with more enthusiasm than necessary, until Lambert walks in, firewood under both arms. 

“Lambert! Thank the Gods— I mean, uh, it’s so good to see you. It’s a bit chilly this morning, isn’t it? I’m sure you agree, what with coming straight from the great outdoors and such— I’m going to the library, if anyone needs me, uh, just,” he rambles as he washes his bowl, “just call. You know. My name. Jaskier the bard, ha— that’s me! Anyway, see you.” 

He makes haste to leave the kitchen, and as he walks down the hall, he hears Lambert clicking his tongue. 

“Fuck, Wolf, it’s not even mid-morning.”

+

Jaskier stays in the library until the sweet aroma of Vesemir’s stew reaches the room and his stomach rumbles pleasantly at the thought. Given the way he’d fled the kitchen, he wouldn’t be surprised if no one called him to lunch — they probably thought he was having some sort of stroke, with his word-vomiting and hurried escape. He’s just opened a new book when he hears a knock. 

“Come in,” he says, voice steady.

The door opens, and sure enough, Geralt’s standing at the doorway, a sheepish smile on his face and a terribly endearing flush creeping up his neck. 

“Hey, love,” Jaskier says, because it’s difficult to call him otherwise. “You okay?”

“Hmm.” Geralt walks over to his chair, and stands there awkwardly until Jaskier gestures to a bench next to him. “We’ll have lunch soon.”

Jaskier smiles. “I was just thinking about that. It’s stew, isn’t it? Oh, Vesemir spoils me so.”

“Thought you’d be hungry,” Geralt says, looking at his hands. “You left breakfast early.”

Jaskier pales, then lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh! Yes, well, I had suddenly remembered a book I just had to examine more closely, and—”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s looking at him now, and Jaskier closes his mouth, choosing to look back into his amber eyes and wait for whatever comes. Nothing does, for a while — they just stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak up. Finally, Geralt does. 

“I invited you up here, to spend the winter with me,” he rasps, “because I couldn’t bear the thought of not being close to you, Jaskier, I— I can’t stand it.”

Jaskier’s heart breaks a little. “Geralt.”

“I should’ve asked you to come up here years ago. I wasn’t brave enough. Thought you’d hate the idea.” He grimaces. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats. “When you asked me to come here with you— you have no idea what it meant to me, knowing you still wanted my company. I couldn’t have been happier.”

Geralt sniffs and gives him a weak smile, his white hair falling on his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, and gestures vaguely at the space between them. “The whole…”

“Calling me disgustingly sweet and somewhat alarming pet names?”

Geralt nods.

“I know, dear heart.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hands in his own. “I know, and I don’t expect you to.”

“I’d still like to call you something, though,” Geralt says, the tiniest hint of a pout on his lips. “Can’t let Lambert best me.” 

Jaskier snorts. “So it’s all about honor, then?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s about you.” 

And oh, he sounds so sincere, so open and fragile, Jaskier can’t find it in himself to tease him any further. 

“You know what I loved the most about traveling to Kaer Morhen with you?”

A tiny frown knits Geralt’s brow. “What?”

“‘T was when we stopped in those hamlets, the ones that aren’t even on maps,” he murmurs. “Where you gather your supplies, where people know you and call you by your name. You know why?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Because,” Jaskier whispers, bringing their foreheads together, “whenever they asked you about me, about who I was, your answer was always the same.” 

He’s my bard, Geralt had said to the horse trader when they bought a mule. My bard, he’d answered, when the chatty shopkeeper had inquired about the colorful fellow trailing after him. My bard, he’d said with a shrug and a fond smile, as Jaskier and the tailor entwined themselves in an argument about fabrics and the season’s colors.

My bard. 

“You always called me yours.” 

Jaskier closes his eyes when he feels Geralt’s lips on his own, a soft, gentle thing. They move slowly, simply exploring — when they part, there are kisses being pressed to his cheeks, his brow, the corner of his mouth and his jaw.

Geralt smiles at him, and Jaskier smiles back, aware that they probably look like two lovesick fools staring at each other, but far too gone to care. 

“I don’t need flowery names or honey-soaked terms of endearment,” Jaskier assures him. “Being called yours is more than enough.” 

Geralt presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Hmm. Can’t go around claiming you as mine, though. ‘S a bit archaic.”

“Mm. You’re right. Love of my life, my moon and my stars should be enough, then. Rolls off the tongue, even.”

Geralt growls. “Jask.”

“Dearly beloved— no, that’s too formal— I’ve always been fond of Angel, though I doubt I’ve earned that title.” 

Geralt kisses him again, and Jaskier half-suspects it’s less about the tender gesture and more about shutting him up. 

“I’ll think of more, you know. You can’t distract me with kisses forever.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Okay.” He pecks his cheek. “Bard.”

“Yours,” Jaskier says smugly. 

Before Geralt can open his mouth, the library door swings open. 

“Fucking finally, Geralt! We’re all so very happy for this revelation, way to go, and all that.” He clasps his hands together. “Now, you both need to get your asses to lunch, otherwise Vesemir will kick you out. Jaskier, baby, please be grossly in love with Geralt later.”

Geralt groans. “Fuck off, Lambert.”

He leaves with a cackle. Jaskier smooths out his doublet, gets up and holds his hand out to Geralt. He grins.

“You coming, sugar face?”

[wyvernsandwitches]

Through The Dark

My post-season 2, beginnings of Geraskefer fix it fic ft. emotions and apologies and lil smiles all round

(I very much view canon as a pick'n'mix sweet shop in case you couldn't tell by the number of times Eskel's name pops up in this lol (s2e2 who?))

Read on AO3

~

Admittedly, it’s only been a day since the whole shit show with Voleth Meir, but Jaskier is still feeling very much like a spare part, unwanted and not useful. After a much-needed bath that morning (well, midday really, he supposes; an early riser he is not), he’d asked Lambert and Eskel how he could help, unable to find Yennefer or Geralt, off somewhere with Ciri most likely. Lambert hadn’t even looked at him, had just stood up and walked away. Eskel had been kinder at least, giving him a sympathetic look and suggesting that maybe the library could use some organising. Jaskier knew an excuse to get rid of someone when he heard one. But that was fine, Jaskier had thought. He’d taken some bread and cheese and a bottle of wine up to the library and had spent the afternoon there, reorganising the shelves, which were, to be fair to Eskel, in a frankly shameful state of being.

Yennefer had come to drag him away at dinnertime, his hand clasped tightly in hers, the pair of them bickering all the way to the great hall. Geralt had given them an inscrutable look when they entered, hand in hand, and Jaskier had snatched his hand away reflexively, without really meaning to, which had sent him into something of a spiral because if he wants to hold hands with Yennefer then he damn well will and Geralt can go to hell because he doesn’t own Yennefer, but it’s too awkward now to take her hand back and besides, he thinks he’s offended her by snatching his hand away, which is the last thing he wanted to do, not least because he might actually have feelings for the witch, but also because she’s the only person in this damn keep who seems to be able to speak to him in full sentences without looking like it’s causing them some sort of pain, and why does everything have to be so bloody difficult? And so he’d left rather quickly after dinner and resumed his post in the library, which is where Yennefer finds him later that night after everyone else has gone off to bed.

Yennefer had spent the afternoon training with Ciri, trying to claw back some of the trust she so spectacularly lost. Geralt had been an ever-present bother, hovering around like some mother hen. She can’t really blame him, she supposes, not after what she did, but if he does it again tomorrow, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to bite her tongue. It’s been a hell of a day, she thinks on her way to the library, then laughs at herself. It’s been a hell of a fucking month, she thinks more accurately. And then add to that the bloody tension between Geralt and Jaskier at dinner… Jaskier pulling his hand from hers after reading whatever he saw on Geralt’s face. She swears if the two of them don’t get their heads out of their arses soon… Two days. She’s going to give them two days to sort themselves out, to fight, or fuck, or fall at each other’s feet, or whatever the fuck it will take to make them friends again. If not, she’s going to bang their heads together herself. She needs them both – however surprising that may be, especially with regards to Jaskier. She’s still coming to terms with it herself, but not being one to deny herself what she wants, she’s not going to deny it.

When Yennefer finds him in the library, the fire is burning low in the hearth, and Jaskier is sitting at a table a good twenty feet away, not on the comfortable settee by the fire, but in a hard backed chair.

“You shouldn’t read in the dark, you know. You’ll give yourself a headache,” she says as she enters the room. She doesn’t need to ask why. She’d noticed after dinner last night how he’d stayed away from the hearth. A wave of guilt had swept over her when she realised she’d forgotten his ordeal and she’d subtly sat down next to him, taking his hand in hers and letting her chaos heal what time had not yet been able to. He’d given her a smile and a look so full of feeling that she’d felt her reflexes warning her to run, to leave, warning her that this was dangerous territory, that those deep blue eyes could only make her more vulnerable. But she’d done her best to hush the voices, and instead had rested her head on his shoulder and allowed her mind to quiet, feeling a strange, lovely sort of warmth in her chest when he in turn had rested his head on hers.

“Already have actually. Although that could be because the wine has worn off,” he quips, without looking away from his book.

She strides over to him and he turns but she places her fingers in his hair and turns his head back around, and then he feels the dull ache in his head ease to nothing and a delightful warmth spreads through him, right to the tips of his freezing cold fingers and toes.

He lets out a rather unseemly moan. “Oh, that is divine. Have you always been able to do that, because that could have come in handy on the road!”

“It won’t last long,” she says as she rests her forearms on his shoulders. “Everyone’s gone to bed. Keep me company?”

“Trouble sleeping?” He tilts his head back so he can look up at her.

“Come sit with me,” she says.

“You come sit with me,” he says. He lets her evade the question; he would have evaded it too.

She digs her elbows into his shoulders, not with any real force but he still yelps and she laughs. “Come on, the settee’s comfier than these old chairs.”

He darts a look at the fire, fear evident in his gaze, but before he can say anything, before he can admit to the fear that leaves him feeling sweaty and off kilter and embarrassed, she waves a hand at the hearth and the fire dies, plunging them into darkness but for the moonlight through the windows. Then she waves her hand again and a sphere of light shoots forth from her palm, hanging in the centre of the room and bathing them both in a warm, steady glow, not unlike the light of a sunset.

He sends her a gentle smile in thanks and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now, bardling.”

“In your dreams, witch,” he grins and allows himself to be pulled to the sofa.

“My nightmares, more like,” Yennefer quips as she takes a seat on the other corner of the sofa.

They talk for nearly an hour, during which time Yennefer rearranges herself so she’s lounging across the settee, her head in Jaskier’s lap. Their conversation has slowed as she’s started to doze, and Jaskier is wondering how she can still look so elegant, sprawled across a settee on the edge of sleep.

“I’m going to leave in the morning,” he confesses.

“What? Why?” Yennefer’s eyes fly open.

“Come on, Yennefer,” he says, looking down at her with a sad, rueful sort of smile. “You know why.”

Yennefer sits up and gives him a look with a raised eyebrow that encourages him to go on. A greater man might be able to still his tongue and ignore that look, but not Jaskier.

“He– I’m not made for this. Monsters and fighting and politics? I’m just a bard–”

“Bullshit you’re just a bard! You helped those elves, didn’t you? And I’ve heard you gossip with that big mouth of yours. You know politics as well as any court advisor.”

“That’s very kind of you to–”

“I’m not being kind, I’m being honest. Why should I have any reason to be kind to you?” Yennefer gives him a haughty look, but her eyes are soft.

“He’s barely even looked at me, Yen. I can’t stay when he doesn’t want me here.”

“Forget him. He’s a bloody arsehole. You said it yourself, you’re better off without him!”

“Exactly! I can’t just stick around waiting for any little scraps of attention he deigns to throw my way. I said to myself when he left me on that mountain that I wouldn’t fall back into it… into him… that I would make him apologise before I even so much as gave him the time of day, and look what happened.”

She feels the anger swell inside her. Anger at Jaskier for leaving. Anger at Geralt for making him feel unwanted. Anger at herself for not being enough.

“So that’s it, is it? You’re just going to leave? I should have known.” She stands up, anger in her face that Jaskier doesn’t quite understand. “You’ll just fuck off back to Oxenfurt and pretend this never happened? Fuck Ciri. Fuck the world. Fuck Yennefer. Is that it?”

All at once realisation dawns on him, and Jaskier understands her anger, at least part of it. He stands, taking her elbows in his palms and the fond look on his face makes Yennefer – embarrassingly – want to melt a little.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg, my trusted friend, my immortal enemy, my drunkard wife.” He draws a reluctant smile from her at the last part. “As long as you wish me to be, I will always be here… to be your damsel in distress, or your Sandpiper, or… well, I know exactly how scary you can be so I’d rather not offer to be anything, not without some sort of binding contract in place setting out exact details, but…” He sighs and tips his forehead against hers, thinking all the while that she’s about to push him away, that this is too much, too intimate. But she doesn’t. She can barely admit it to herself, but she welcomes it. “If you ask me to stay, I will.”

And Yennefer knows without having to read his mind that he’s telling the truth. She knows that all she needs to do right now is tell him she needs him, and he would stay, for her. That truth is terrifying to her, but it makes her glow inside and sets her stomach fluttering. She wishes she was selfish enough to say the words. In the past, she would have been. But she heard his song, she saw the heartbreak in his face. The very same that she knows would have been mirrored on her own if she hadn’t built up so many masks over the decades.

So instead, she wraps her arms around Jaskier’s lithe waist and pulls him into her. His arms go around her shoulders and he squeezes. He presses his lips against her temple.

“Wait for me,” she says as she pulls away many moments later.

He gives her a quizzical look, not quite trusting his voice.

“Tomorrow. Wait for me in the morning. Don’t go down the mountain by yourself. If you still wish to go, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

He nods, gratitude evident on his face. She smiles softly, and the look sends warmth through Jaskier’s veins.

“I’m going,” she announces and steps away from him. “Are you staying up?”

Jaskier nods. “Just going to finish the chapter you so callously dragged me away from.”

“Good riddance then, bard.”

He grins at her. “Good riddance, witch.”

*

Yennefer finds Geralt in Ciri’s room, after accidentally disturbing Eskel, who kindly points her to the right room. Geralt is asleep in the chair next to Ciri’s bed but as Yennefer pushes the door open, he wakes and is on his feet in an instant, looking for a threat, sword extended.

She casts a quick charm over Ciri so she won’t be disturbed by their conversation and then says, “Put your bloody sword down. Come with me.”

Geralt makes no move toward her, but he lowers his sword. “What’s this about?” he asks gruffly.

“Jaskier,” she says.

Yennefer can see his hand tighten on his sword.

“What about him? What’s wrong?”

“He intends to leave in the morning. I thought you’d like to know so you can go and grovel at his feet and see if he forgives you.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You and I may be on the outs right now, Geralt, but I do not wish to see you fuck up your… friendship with the bard. Which I can assure you, you will do, if you let him leave. Have you even talked to him since you’ve reunited?”

“Of cou-“

“I mean really talked. Have you asked him why he was in prison? What the trouble was that he got into? Have you apologised for anyof the hurt you’ve caused him?”

Geralt feels the familiar guilt return to gnaw at him again. “I’ve been busy… Ciri… He deserves better than this, Yen. Maybe it would be better if he left.”

“By the gods, if you would just communicate Geralt, you’d save us all a bloody headache! No, it wouldn’t be better if he left, and yes, he may well deserve better, but that didn’t stop you from dragging his sorry arse back into your life. You made that decision by yourself, so you need to fix it.”

Geralt has the decency to look a little chastised. “You’ve never got on. I thought you’d want him gone.”

“You thought wrong,” Yennefer says with a thunderous expression that brooks no argument. “Come.” She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, her dress flowing behind her. Geralt takes one long look at Ciri, to check she’s really still there, still her, and follows Yen.

“Has he told you the trouble he got in, in Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asks as they make their way through the cold corridors, their footsteps echoing.

“He said you saved his life.”

“And I suppose you never asked for more details?”

Geralt hms.

“Of course not.” Yennefer stops in her tracks and looks at him. It isn’t really her place to be telling Geralt this… but that’s not exactly stopped her before. If it will get the two idiots to talk, if it will force Geralt into taking the opportunity to fix things with Jaskier, then it is worth breaching Jaskier’s confidence in this small way. “I found him bleeding, bound to a chair. He was tortured by that mage, Geralt. To find out information about Ciri… about you.”

Geralt feels his heart skip a beat and Yennefer notices that his grip tightens on the sword that is still in his hand. He lifts it slightly, almost unconsciously, as though he would storm off right now to find the fucker and cut him down.

“That’s why he needs to stay,” Yennefer says, and continues to the library. Among other reasons, she does not add. Best not to complicate things too soon. “So… Fix. It.” she demands when they reach the library, and shoves Geralt bodily through the door, before slamming it shut behind him.

*

The library glows with light like a sunrise, a ball of light hovering near the ceiling, and it’s warm, even without a fire. Jaskier is on his feet as soon as Geralt stumbles in, his book hanging forgotten in his hand.

“Geralt? What’s the matter?” Jaskier asks and eyes Geralt’s sword. There is no fear in his eyes, not fear of Geralt at least, but there’s a wariness there where there never used to be.

“You were tortured?” Geralt asks. “Because of me?”

Jaskier feels colour rush to his face, and he wants to wave his hands and make a quip, divert Geralt’s attention to something else, but he’s tired, so very tired. And really, didn’t he want to talk to Geralt about this? Hasn’t he been waiting for Geralt to ask? For Geralt to actually look at him, to see him?

So, he clears his throat, feeling awkward, and says, “Yes.” He finds he can’t meet Geralt’s eyes, so he doesn’t see the pain that flashes across them.

Geralt had always thought that leaving Jaskier, not going back to find him after Caingorn, had been for the best. He’d told himself it would keep Jaskier out of harm’s way, that it would ensure his safety, and, rather selfishly, that it would cool the flood of feelings Geralt had for him. A fresh start would do them both good. How wrong he’d been. He may have been able to tamp down and ignore his feelings when they were apart, but as soon as Yen had uttered his name in Ellander they’d come flooding back, mingling with the feelings he had for Yen, and confusing him all over again.

Fuck it, he thinks, and strides to Jaskier, ignoring the clanging noise his sword makes as he drops it to the ground, ignoring the thought of any damage to it. Some things are more important. He throws his arms around Jaskier and pulls him in, chin resting on Jaskier’s shoulder. It takes Jaskier a moment to really process what’s happening. A small part of him wants to push Geralt away, but he sighs, drops the books, and hugs Geralt back.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s throat begins to burn as his eyes fill with tears. Before he can stop it, a sob wrenches its way from his chest. Geralt pulls him in tighter and rests a broad hand on the back of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder and cries, fisting his hands in the back of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt doesn’t say it’s alright, or shush him, or even attempt to pull away, which Jaskier is grateful for. Instead, he holds Jaskier as he cries, and part of Geralt wants to cry as well, wants the release of the emotions he’s constantly bottling up. Although he can already tell that being around Cirilla is helping with that. He knows it’s a habit he can’t afford to pass on to her.

Jaskier gets his breathing back under control after a few moments and as he pulls back slightly, Geralt asks in a soft voice, “Show me?”

Jaskier looks at him, blue irises rimmed in red, and holds his hand out between them. Geralt takes it gingerly, almost reverently, in both of his, examining the puckered skin.

“Yen had a go at them yesterday when she got her chaos back, so they’re healed at least, but she said there wasn’t anything she could do just yet for the scars.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt says, rubbing his thumbs absentmindedly against the soft skin on the back of Jaskier’s hand.

“It’s fine, Geralt. It’s not your fault,” Jaskier demurs.

“Not just–” Geralt cuts himself off with a noise in the back of his throat, and he looks up at the ceiling, as if for strength, before looking back at Jaskier earnestly. “For all of it,” says Geralt.

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth tilts up in a small smile. He feels as if he could cry again, but he doesn’t. “So sentimental, witcher,” he jokes, but he’s glad for the apology, said to his face and with some real feeling behind it this time.

“Yennefer said you’re leaving tomorrow?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier huffs and puts his hands on his hips. “And the witch has the gall to tell me I have a big mouth!” he says with a roll of his eyes, but there’s a newfound fondness in his voice that Geralt is still getting used to. He doesn’t know what is between them now, or what changed it, and it makes him feel glad that they’re getting on, but also rather envious – of which one of them, he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Stay,” Geralt says, his voice raw.

“Pardon?” Jaskier isn’t quite sure he’s heard correctly.

“I know I have a lot of making up to do, and whatever path we’re headed down now with Cirilla will be tough but… Stay,” Geralt repeats. With me, he does not add.

“And do what Geralt? I’m useless.”

Geralt is about to protest but Jaskier continues.

“I can’t fight those things. I’m just a bard, Geralt, you know this. What help could I possibly be to your princess?”

“Jaskier.”

“Her own grandmother banished me from court, so my talents clearlyweren’t enough to compensate for your actions. What makes you think they’ll be enough now?”

“Jask–”

“I don’t have any magic, or- or any mutations. I don’t even have a bloody lute! Nobody needs me. Nobody needs–”

“Jaskier!” Geralt interrupts, voice raised. “I do. Ineed you.”

Geralt thinks for a moment that maybe he’s got through to him; Jaskier’s eyes fill with hope and his mouth quirks up on one side, but as soon as it’s come, it’s gone again.

“Of course. You need me to babysit your child surprise while you and Yen are off fighting the big bad–”

“No, Jaskier. I want you here. I–” Geralt growls, at himself more than anything, failing to get the words right. “You made my life better,” he forces out.

Geralt summons all his courage, ready for Jaskier’s rejection, and takes a step closer, just on the edge of his space. He reaches out and takes Jaskier’s uninjured hand in his. Jaskier looks into his eyes, shock evident on his features, and then quickly away, down at their feet.

“If you want to go back for your own reasons I won’t stand in your way. But don’t leave because you think you’re useless, or not needed here. You have use, Jaskier. You’re wanted here. I want you here. Yen wants you here. As soon as Ciri gets to know you, I don’t have any doubt that she’ll want you here too.”

Jaskier feels a warmth return to his chest. He lifts his watery gaze to Geralt’s. “That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Geralt winces. “I’m sorry if that’s true.”

Jaskier squeezes his fingers. “My count puts that at three apologies in one conversation? I see having a daughter really is having an effect on you.” He gives Geralt a mischievous grin, and it’s so like old times, so like the Jaskier before it all got fucked up – before Geralt fucked it all up – that it sends a bolt of electricity through Geralt, urging him forward to wrap Jaskier in his arms once more.

Jaskier huffs a laugh and hugs him back. Maybe Geralt’s indifference really was because he was so worried about Ciri. He’ll give him the benefit of the doubt at least.

“It’s going to be hard, isn’t it? Whatever comes next… protecting Cirilla?” Jaskier asks when he pulls back. Geralt leaves a hand clasping his neck, so Jaskier leaves his hands by Geralt’s waist, clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

Geralt nods. He has no idea where they’ll go next or when. With so many people after Ciri… he spoke about it briefly with Yennefer last night, but they didn’t reach any conclusions.

“Lots of travelling?”

Geralt nods again.

“Cold?”

“Skellige is a possibility.”

“And it’ll be dangerous?”

Geralt winces, and nods again. As much as he doesn’t want to put Jaskier in harm’s way, it appears from recent events that Jaskier’s relationship with Geralt has already done so. At least if he stays, Geralt will be there to keep him (mostly) out of trouble.

Jaskier grins. “How could I say no to such an adventure?”

Geralt is still for a moment and then Jaskier watches as he smiles – actually smiles – and gives him that fond look that made Jaskier fall in love with him all those years ago. He swallows and takes a step back.

“But are you sure you want me with you? You do remember how much I complain, don’t you? And the singing?”

“I’m sure I can put up with it,” Geralt smirks.

“Well, you better had! No more being mean about my music anymore, mister!” He punctuates that with a poke to Geralt’s chest, but then his face falls. “Well, just singing and spoons until I can get my hands on another lute.”

“Your lute? From Filavandrel?”

“Yes, she’s gone,” Jaskier says with a deep sigh. “Cut down in her prime by that fucker that…” Jaskier’s eyes go a little wild and he takes a deep breath.

Geralt searches for something to say. If he ever sees that fucker again, he’s going to kill him. “Eskel is an excellent woodworker. I don’t think he’s ever made any instruments before, but I could ask him for you. Just so you’d have something in the meantime.”

Jaskier’s face lights up. “I’d love that, Geralt. Of course, I’d need to find some keys and strings but–”

“I’m sure I could scrounge something up for you,” Yennefer says as she sweeps into the room. “If I am to understand you’re staying?”

“Did you listen to our whole conversation, witch?”

“Only the interesting bits, and they were few and far between.”

“I assure you, all my conversations are very int– mmpf!” Jaskier is silenced by Yen’s hand over his mouth.

“Shut up, bardling,” she says with a smirk at his indignant expression before she slowly takes her hand away.

“There’s better ways than that to shut me up, you know,” Jaskier says with an overexaggerated wink.

“Oh, don’t tempt me, bard,” Yennefer says, her eyes filled with mirth. “But it’s late. And since this appears to be… if not sorted, at least on the way to being so, I will retire for the night. Husband mine,” she says, relishing the look of confusion on Geralt’s face and the adorable smile on Jaskier’s (she’ll think about when exactly she started thinking of him as adorable later, after some sleep). “My room is closer than yours and I’m rather exhausted so if you want me to keep this up, rather than you having to use the hearth, you can stay with me,” she says, waving at the glowing ball of magic.

Jaskier is shocked into an uncharacteristic silence by her offer.

“See, I do know other ways to shut you up,” she quips, and just as he regains enough composure to retort, she adds, “Geralt, you’re welcome too, of course. I think we’re all in need of a good night’s sleep.”

Yennefer chuckles at the looks on both of their faces, somewhere between surprise and confusion and want.

“Don’t overthink it, boys. It’s simply an offer of a warm bed and not waking up alone. That’s all it needs to be,” she says and with a brazenness she hasn’t felt in a while, she leans up to press her lips against first Geralt’s cheek and then Jaskier’s. She glides towards the door, the scent of lilac and gooseberries trailing behind her, even here.

Jaskier quickly recovers himself and Geralt’s not entirely sure how Jaskier has managed to process this all so quickly when Geralt himself is still stuck on husband mine. “It would be my pleasure to warm your bed, my lady,” Jaskier pronounces with an extravagant bow.

Yennefer wrinkles her nose and says, “Ugh, don’t make me regret the offer.”

Without missing a beat, Jaskier corrects, “It would be my pleasure to warm your bed, my terrifying, tyrannical witch of a wife?”

Yennefer grins and Geralt notices her eyes light up in a way he’s only seen directed at him before. It sends a rush through him to see the gaze directed at Jaskier and he’s much too tired to try and parse out why. “Much better,” she purrs, as she pulls the door open.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, apprehension evident in his voice.

The hopeful look that Jaskier sends his way – all wide blue eyes and a soft smile – makes Geralt’s heart leap. He looks at Yennefer, her violet eyes piercing, and she looks like she’s trying to hide a smirk.

Geralt feels as though he may have tripped into another universe, or else he’s stuck in a dream. Is this really something they’re offering? To him? He doesn’t deserve this. Out of habit, he’s about to decline, to deny himself this gift. But then he hears Yennefer’s voice in his head, his own thoughts going a little muggy. If you turn him down now, you’ll never have him, she says. His reflexes immediately respond that he doesn’t want Jaskier, not like that, but Yennefer raises an arch eyebrow, unbelieving, and the lie sounds flimsy even in his own head.

“Hm,” he says and nods, and Jaskier beams at him, looking happier than he has done in some time, and Geralt is reminded of just how infectious Jaskier’s happiness is, when he feels a smile creep on to his own face.

[rebrandedbard]

If you are still writing 14?

Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.

14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol

Robbed Blind

Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?

-

She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.

He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.

“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.

Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.

Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.

He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.

“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”

He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”

She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”

“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”

Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”

Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”

She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.

“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.

-

“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”

Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”

Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”

“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.

Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”

Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.

Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”

“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”

Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”

Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.

“They’re brothers.”

Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”

“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.

“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”

Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”

“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.

“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”

-

They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.

Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.

She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.

“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.

Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.

Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.

And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.

“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.

He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.

Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”

It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.

Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”

“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.

The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”

Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?

“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”

Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”

“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.

“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.

“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.

Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”

He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.

It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?

The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …

Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”

He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”

They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.

Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.

“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.

When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.

“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”

And Geralt let his hand fall away.

Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.

He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.

Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.

The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.

Geralt took his hand gently.

Jaskier squeezed it back.

“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”

Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.

Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”

She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.

“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”

He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”

Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”

Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.

“Vese—”

Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.

“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”

Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”

“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”

Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”

A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.

“Ciri,” he breathed.

Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.

“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”

All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”

“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.

“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”

He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”

He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.

Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.

Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”

Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.

Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”

“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”

It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”

He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”

There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.

However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[flowercrown-bard]

Started out rocky, now they’re both cocky

(Part 3 of the rooster!Jaskier series, but it’s not necessary to read the other parts. All you need to know is that Jaskier is a rooster and he’s here to cause chaos)

word count: 3378

content warnings: innuendos, use of the word “cock”

part 1  part 2

AO3 (here Jaskier is called Dandelion, bc I think this has more game!Danelion vibes)

Jaskier had often imagined what it would be like to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen. In his mind, there had been no doubt that he would sweep into a deep bow, announcing his presence to the witchers residing there with a confident grin and eloquent words.

Alas. As fate – or, in this case a very insistent Geralt – would have it, Jaskier was unable to do either of these things. His words had been replaced by crowing, charming someone with a smile was most definitely impossible if one had a beak and an ugly lappet beneath one’s chin. And as for sweeping into a low bow – well, it would look rather silly if a rooster were to bow and he was beneath making an idiot of himself. That’s what Valdo Marx was for and he would not lower himself to that imbecile’s standards.

A less obvious, though no less important reason why Jaskier was not going to present himself the way he normally would have, was simple: To do so, he’d have to stop letting Geralt carry him. Though, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t so certain anymore, whether Geralt was carrying him because why wouldn’t he carry his dearest friend? Or if he did it so he could have a hold on Jaskier and prevent him from running away and wreaking havoc again.

Which was, of course, preposterous and also rather hypocritical of him. After all, the whole reason why Jaskier was here in the first place – and in this undignified form at that – was so he could fulfil Geralt’s wishes and use his unique talents and talons to destroy the room of one of Geralt’s brothers, a task that he was more than willing to take upon himself.

Still, it would have been much appreciated if Geralt had made sure that the other witchers welcomed him as well, or at the very least knew who he was, instead of ignoring him mostly while they greeted Geralt. Truly, it was a marvel that the witcher who welcomed Geralt at the gate didn’t pay any special attention to Jaskier. Not that he needed the attention per se, but it would have been nice and, well, there was a reason why he wasn’t used to people ignoring him. He was a delight! And no one could tell him that the sight of Geralt warming his hands by burying them in the feathers of an exceptionally beautiful and sophisticated rooster wasn’t a sight worth being paid attention to.  

Filled with righteous indignation, Jaskier fluttered his wings and pecked a little at Geralt’s fingers, when he had been ignoring Jaskier way too long – not that any amount of ignoring Jaskier would have been acceptable - in favour of talking to the fetching witcher wearing red leather. Eskel, if Jaskier wasn’t mistaken, and as everyone knew, he was never mistaken.

The action earned him a small tightening of Geralt’s arms around him that had him squawking indignantly, but at least, Eskel now looked at him. Jaskier did his best to preen and exude an air of sophistication. For a blissful moment it seemed that he had indeed thoroughly charmed the witcher. Eskel’s face lit up, he reached out and –

“Sir!”  Jaskier tried to shout, but his voice contorted his outraged outcry to a crow.

How- the audacity of – what did Eskel think gave him the permission to just pet Jaskier as if he was but an animal? Oh, how dare he…

Oh. Oh. No, actually, it was quite a nice sensation having strong hands caress his head and down his feathered back as gently as a lovesick poet would run their fingers over a flower. Quite nice indeed. He could get used to this.

To his shame – but really, who could fault a bard for seeking a little innocent pleasure in being touched by a handsome man? – Jaskier leaned into the touch. Thank all the gods that he hadn’t been turned into a cat, or else he might have had to suffer the indignity of starting to purr under the well-deserved attention.

For a brief, blissful moment, all was perfect. Until -

“He will get along well with Lil’ Bleater,” Eskel said. “You think we can put them into the stable together?”

And that was just – no! Oh no no, dear witcher. A pretty face and a soft touch would not be enough to save him from Jaskier ‘s outrage.

Expectantly, Jaskier turned his head to Geralt, his most beloved friend, the man who had rescued him countless times from the clutches of those who meant him or his reputation harm. Surely, now would be the perfect time for Geralt to come to his aid once more and defend his honour. Certainly he would –

“Hmm.”

Oh that bastard! This was no disagreeing or scolding hum. This hmm, accompanied by a sly smirk and a mischievous twinkle in Geralt’s eyes was very decidedly not the support that Jaskier was looking for.

Jaskier nipped Geralt’s fingers again, but that only served to make the witcher grin even wider. Together with Eskel, Geralt walked through the gate and towards the entrance hall, giving Jaskier a shit-eating grin when they passed the stables and making a comment about how in there, no one would hear the rooster’s morning crow.

He better just be teasing. As tasteless of a joke as this was, Jaskier might find it in himself to forgive Geralt for the threat of making him sleep in a stable with a goat.

As they walked, Geralt kept petting him absentmindedly, which was admittedly nice. Jaskier could live with being used as a glorified hand-warmer, if it came with the luxury of being carried around and getting pressed against a strong man’s chest.

Even better than that, though, was the look the old witcher, who Geralt greeted with the name Vesemir, gave Geralt, when they met him in the great hall. The way his eyes wandered from Geralt’s face down to where he was stroking his rooster marked him as a man who had lost all faith in Geralt.

A younger witcher with slicked back hair, who must be the infamous Lambert, the very reason why Jaskier was here, snickered behind Vesemir’s back.

“Looks like I’m officially the superior brother now,” he said with a grin. “The only one whose best friend isn’t a farm animal.”

“Your best friend is a cat,” Geralt deadpanned.

“A handsome cat that would claw your pretty face off if he heard you taking shit about me.”

Lambert’s grin looked infuriatingly smug. Jaskier didn’t know this cat they were speaking of, but one thing should never be questioned: He was the farm best animal friend. Even if he wasn’t really an animal or – he shuddered at the thought – living on a farm. But how dare Lambert imply that a cat could be better than a rooster? He gave Lambert his best menacing glare, which fell rather flat, considering he was a damned bird, currently snuggling against Geralt.

As was to be expected, which didn’t mean Jaskier didn’t take offence to it, Lambert ignored him. “What’s his name anyway? I sure hope it’s not Roach.”

If he had been able to snicker, Jaskier would have done so. Lambert might be a cock – oh, who was Jaskier to judge such a thing? – but it was nice to see that the bard wasn’t the only one who would relentlessly tease Geralt for his inability to come up with good names.

“Eskel has his Little Bleater,” Lambert added, his grin turning downright devious. “So, pretty boy, you have…a Little Cock?”

Little? Little?

The gall of that man! Jaskier was anything but small, thank you very much. But then again, Jaskier couldn’t shame a man for showing such a great understanding of wordplay, especially when he used his talents to tease Geralt.

Oh, who was he kidding? He liked Lambert.

Between his unexpected appreciation for the youngest witcher and the urge to make himself seem bigger than he was, Jaskier nearly missed Geralt’s answer. It was exactly the sort of reply one would expect. Except…Geralt did not correct Lambert regarding the fact that Jaskier was an animal.

Now, here’s the thing. Jaskier loved his witcher with all his heart. Geralt was his best friend in the whole wide world and he would never exchange him for anyone, as much of a smug bastard as he could sometimes be. But by the gods, why oh why, did Jaskier ‘s best friend have to be a man who didn’t have the presence of mind to just, oh, I don’t know, tell his family that the rooster he was bringing with him was a cursed human? There was no doubt that Geralt had told his brothers and father of Jaskier before, for how could he not? Jaskier was a great subject to talk about. Surely, Geralt couldn’t be worried about them not accepting him in their midst.

A quick glance at him – Jaskier preferred not to think about how strange a rooster turning his head nearly upside down and giving a stink eye must look – made it quite clear that he was, in fact, not worried at all. Instead, Geralt was up to something.

Jaskier glared at him, as if staring might let him read Geralt’s thoughts, provided Geralt knew how to use his mind to think.

Perhaps his plan was to give Jaskier the best possible way to get attention by only introducing him once he was back in his dashing human form? Oh, that would be marvellous! After all, if there was one thing Jaskier was good at – well, there were numerous things, of course, but we shall ignore that for the sake of the dramatic – it was making an impression. He had to commend his friend for being so thoughtful as to grant him such an opportunity, unless…

Oh, Jaskier knew that look on Geralt’s face. He was having far too much fun with this. A suspicious amount of fun even. It would almost make one think that all this had never been solely about Lambert’s room at all. If Jaskier hadn’t known any better, he might even be inclined to think that Geralt was taking delight in letting Jaskier stay cursed.

Well. If that was the case, Jaskier would make sure that Geralt would delight not much longer in that.

He let out an ear-piercing shriek that had Geralt flinch and unfortunately squeeze him a little uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” He asked, as if he didn’t know fully well the magnitude of what he was doing.

Before Jaskier could answer, well, whatever equivalent of answering he could do in this form at any rate, Lambert spoke up again.

“Jaskier?” He cooed. “How sweet. You miss your bard so much that you call your rooster by his name? Who would have thought the White Wolf could be so soft-hearted. Watch out or Roach will get jealous if she learns that you found a new love.”

“Lambert,” Geralt growled, though whether he was defending his own reputation as a stoic, brooding loner – ha! As if anyone could look at him and believe him to be such a thing! – or if he was outraged at the thought that anyone could take Roach’s place in his heart, Jaskier couldn’t tell. It was likely a mixture of both.

“Oh, so you don’t miss your bard?” Lambert lifted an eyebrow. “Is it perhaps just a certain bodypart of his that you miss? I guess then it would make sense why you gave his name to the cock.”

Lambert turned away from Geralt before he could come up with a reply, but before he had his back fully to Geralt, Lambert caught Jaskier’s eye and he winked.

Oh. Oh ho ho, he knew. That sly bastard. Evidently, Lambert was the only witcher who knew how to use his brain and seen through the curse and Geralt’s admittedly poor attempt at making it seem as if the extraordinary and overall splendid rooster was but a normal bird and now Lambert was fucking with Geralt.

And – now, listen. Jaskier had been looking forward to destroying Lambert’s room. There was nothing like joining forces with a friend to mess with someone who annoyed them. Well, the biggest pleasure Jaskier knew came from proving once again that he was more talented than Valdo Marx, but that was a given, so it shall not be mentioned further. The point was that Jaskier would have done as Geralt had asked of him.

But now, with this new knowledge that Lambert apparently shared the same ambition as Jaskier to become the biggest nuisance he could be, he couldn’t possibly work against him. Jaskier could recognise a kindred spirit if he saw one. Reading people and recognising his own greatness in others was one of his countless talents. The last and perhaps only time he had met such a kindred soul before, had been in his first year at Oxenfurt at the admission exam, when Valdo Marx had immediately singled out Jaskier as the one who could be the biggest threat to his career. As loathe as Jaskier was to admit it, he too had recognised a certain talent in the other bard and they had both decided to make it their lives’ mission to not let the other top them.

Jaskier had not regretted that decision a moment in his life, but even he had to admit that said rivalry was the reason why he was now a rooster and delightful as that could be, he could have done well without it.

So, he would not make the mistake of antagonizing a congenial person again. At least not know. Who was to say what the future held? The important part was, that for now, for once in his life, Jaskier was going to be the bigger person.

He waited until the moment was right, a feat greater than any he had ever faced before. As virtuous as he was, being patient was not one of Jaskier’s strong suits. Still, once night had fallen and Geralt had thankfully not made true of his promise to put him in the stables, he snuck out of Geralt’s room, searching for Lambert’s instead.

Lambert, of course, was already waiting for him, a cocky smile on his face and his arms crossed in a way that meant business.

He greeted Jaskier with the fateful words “You gonna help me mess with Geralt?” and obviously, there was only one possible answer to that.

It was thrilling having an ally in his mission to create chaos and take revenge on those that had slighted him. And, oh, how Geralt had slighted him!

The first step of their however-many-steps-they-would-get-away-with-plan was simple: Jaskier was supposed to take a nap. In Geralt’s bed. Specifically, in his hair, creating a nest out of it.

Now, Jaskier was no craftsman for any craft that didn’t involve the spoken word, but he did so love to make himself comfortable. So that was what he did. Snuggling into Geralt’s hair and masterfully rearranging the strands with his beak until they could well and truly be considered a mess.

And then, as always, Jaskier woke Geralt up in his new favourite way. One would have thought that Geralt would have gotten used to Jaskier crowing into his ear at the top of his lungs. But no. Geralt grimaced and grabbed his pillow to throw it at his tragically underappreciated companion. The feathers flying through the room were not only those from the pillow.

So naturally, Jaskier started complaining. Loudly. Loud enough to, as a completely arbitrary example, signal a different witcher whose room was down the hallway that their plan was in motion.

Before Geralt could find another pillow to throw at him, Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s breeches that the witcher had unceremoniously dropped to the floor the past night and dragged them towards the door.

Cursing, Geralt chased after him, wearing nothing but his underthings. Had Jaskier been alone, he would have gotten caught, no doubt, but the door flung open just in time for him to dash through and just before Geralt could reach him, Lambert, who had been lying in wait, scooped Jaskier up and ran down the stairs and outside, cackling like a hen, while Jaskier let out a triumphant crow that was somewhat muffled by the breeches still firmly held in his beak.

Geralt was catching up to them quickly, but Lambert and Jaskier had one rather obvious advantage: There were two of them.

Lambert dropped Jaskier unceremoniously, leaving him to flutter his wings to land somewhat elegantly – oh, who was he kidding? He plummeted to the ground like a stone - and they dashed into two different directions. For a precious moment, Geralt stood there frozen to the spot, surely contemplating which menace would be able to cause the greater chaos, if he didn’t catch him: The rooster with a godcomplex or Geralt’s little brother in possession of opposable thumbs.

Geralt, once more was forced to choose the lesser evil, but here is the thing: As it was so often the case, there was no correct choice to make.

While Lambert ran back to Geralt’s room to cause who knew what chaos, Jaskier ran towards the stables, and be it only for the dramatic irony.

Geralt must have chosen to follow Lambert and Jaskier was almost insulted, but it gave him the chance to take his time, pushing open the door to the stables and dragging the breeches inside. Just a little revenge for all the times that Geralt had made fun of Jaskier when he had been forced to run out of town without his breeches, since they had to be left in a lover’s rooms.

He dropped the breeches in Lil’ Bleater’s corner and watched with smug satisfaction as the goat immediately began munching on the breeches happily. Jaskier gave her a proud look and had they both been human, he would have kissed her hand in thanks. As it was, he was rather fond of his beak and he would not risk hurting it by kissing the goat’s hooves. Still, Lil’ Bleater lived up to her name, giving a happy little bleat that Jaskier chose to interpret as thanks for the delicious meal. How polite of her.

Who knew. Maybe they would become friends after all.

From somewhere in the keep, Jaskier could hear a bang and then a shout of disgust and had he been in possession of his luscious lips, would have made them split into the biggest, most self-satisfied grin, when Geralt’s voice continued cursing loud enough to be heard even where Jaskier was. To be fair, Geralt had probably opened the windows of his room. At least that was what Jaskier would have done in his stead to escape what Lambert had done to his room.

Well. Served Geralt right. No one could accuse Lambert of unoriginality and Jaskier was nothing if not petty.

Of course, the bomb that Lambert had set off wasn’t another moon dust bomb. Where would be the fun in that? No, Lambert and Jaskier had agreed, as much as a rooster and a witcher could agree, that they would be gracious and bring Geralt closer to what he loved the most: The sweet sweet smell of his cherished Roach. In this case, the smell of what Roach left behind, when she had eaten a lot.

There were more steps to their genius plan of creating chaos in the keep, one of which involved a fork, a strategically placed axii and the backside of whoever pissed Lambert off the most, and naturally there were endlessly more possibilities for improvisation.

Sadly, the other witchers, roused by the mayhem and possibly even the stench coming from Geralt’s room, didn’t seem to appreciate Lambert and Jaskier’s combined genius and they made sure to break the curse on Jaskier as soon as they got the change.

Now, there was only one fundamental flaw in that: For some unknown reason, the witchers hadn’t considered the fact that Jaskier’s personality hadn’t changed when he had become a rooster. They had no idea what they were in for, now that Jaskier had opposable thumbs again.

This would be a fun winter indeed.

[jaskiersvalley]

Omfg, I've read through just about all of your stories and they are incredible! You write with such a passion and every story just feels like it should be cannon between the characters! Especially Silver Tongue, Silver Hand and the Yennefer/Geralt/Jaskier add on, it just hit ALL the feels for me. Thank you for sharing 😁😍

Your words never cease to flatter me <3 Writing has become my life so I'm glad you enjoy it so much. I've got a little more in the way of feels for you but it's more Eskel flavoured.

The whole Lil Bleater thing had started out as a joke well before Lambert's time. He'd heard about it from the others. It became a bit of a tradition to keep an eye on the path at the start of each winter to see the burly Witcher with a goat on a tether. It was always a white goat with brown markings and everyone treated it like it's the same goat that has spent over a decade by Eskel's side. To Lambert there was a certain amount of comfort in seeing Eskel and his goat coming up the path. For all the uncertainty of their lives, that sight was a constant. So even when he became a Witcher, Lambert was one of the first to get back, just to see Eskel and his goat return.

There was no time to watch for Eskel the year of the sacking. Lambert had returned to a smouldering ruin and a few bewildered Witchers who were trying to make sense of what had happened. All hands on deck to try and salvage what remained of Kaer Morhen and to honour the remains of the dead they found, Lambert couldn't linger by the parapets to watch. Too much work and not enough people made it impossible. He was almost glad he wasn't there when Eskel ambled in, that he didn't have to see the way his face fell and took in the devastation around them. But that dinner Lambert sat next to him, shoulders pressed together.

It took a couple of years to get Kaer Morhen back into the shape of something habitable. Most of the keep was out of bounds but the courtyard, the great hall, the kitchens and a few rooms were salvageable. Not that there were many of them left who wanted rooms. Each year fewer and fewer Wolves came back until it was just Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert. Plus Lil Bleater. She was there every single year, frolicking around and causing mayhem. Lambert had no idea how Eskel did it, always finding a goat that was as much of a menace as it was a delight.

"What's your trick?" he had asked one evening while they were giving the stables a thorough clean. Lil Bleater as getting her nose into everything, from trying to drink from the filthy bucket to stealing Lambert's brush.

"I ask her nicely." Which was timed perfectly with Lil Bleater backing up to charge at the straw bale that Eskel had been trying to spread out in a stall. It drew a tired "Bleats, please!" from Eskel which went merrily ignored. Lambert didn't even bother trying to hide his snicker.

It was always nice when it was the same goat two years running. There had been one time Eskel had the same goat for three winters and that one had been the goat to end up on its back, carried around like a baby. Vesemir grumbled when Lambert had given the goat a bonnet but otherwise left them to their own devices.

The year Eskel got home with barely healing wounds down his face had been hard. That time Lil Bleater was a quiet goat, much more likely to demand cuddles than get up to mischief and Lambert had never been more grateful. He hadn't been able to get through to Eskel, nobody had. But the stupid goat did what none of them could and offered companionship. Never before had Lambert felt he was indebted to a goat.

Not every year was sunshine and roses. The year Lil Bleater got into the alchemy ingredients was a dark one. But she was a Witcher's goat so got a suitable send-off on a pyre. By the time Eskel returned with her successor the following year, the door had a new lock on it, high up and it definitely needed opposable thumbs to open it.

Worst though was when Eskel was running late. He should have been there a week ago by Lambert's calculations. He kept an eye on the path to Kaer Morhen and watched as a lone figure approached. No horse, no goat, no pack, nothing. And emaciated Eskel stumbled home.

"No Bleats?" Lambert asked rather than interrogate Eskel on just what happened. He wished he hadn't enquired though, not when Eskel's face twisted into something pained and a hand rubbed over his stomach.

"I was desperate."

Understanding didn't make it any easier and Lambert simply nodded. He what he could of his to Eskel, spare shirts, potion bottles, boots, anything a Witcher might need on his travels. Winter just wasn't the same though. It wasn't just the fact that Eskel was withdrawn and silent, eerily still when hugged. Something was missing, that spark of life that Kaer Morhen cradled each winter was gone.

There was nothing for it, Lambert knew what he had to do. As soon as the weather permitted he was out the door and headed into the wilderness. Within the hour he spotted what he'd been looking for, a herd of wild goats. As soon as they spotted him they were scattering and catching one was nigh on impossible. The couple of white ones with brown spots bounded off into the undergrowth and only a pure black one watched him with disdain from a distance. It was going to have to do, Lambert didn't have the time or the patience to hunt down and capture another one. When he hunted, he never did it with the intent of zero injury for his prey. Slowly, he approached the goat and cast axii as soon as it was within range.

"Stay," he ordered and the goat stayed. Getting a leash on it was quick work and Lambert remembered what Eskel had said to him all those years ago. On a whim he added, "Be nice for Eskel."

The goat trotted along, occasionally nibbling at the leash if Lambert wasn't walking at a decent speed. They managed to get back to Kaer Morhen and marched into the kitchen.

"What have you got there?" Vesemir asked, staring at the black goat whose tail wiggled at the attention. At the table Eskel stared at them with a blank expression.

Marching over, Lambert thrust the end of the leash at Eskel.

"Lil Bleater."

For the first time that winter, Eskel's lips flickered into the ghost of a smile. He took the leash and held out a hand at the black goat.

"Hello there. I've missed you."

Stepping back, Lambert watched and barely flinched when a hand squeezed his shoulder.

"You did good," Vesemir murmured. "Thank you."

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Locked Out

winter prompts day 10 ❄️ lost in a storm

 If Jaskier was a stupider man, he'd be confused about the sheer amount of times he and Geralt seem to be getting stuck places together. But he and Geralt had been the first to arrive and these things only started happening after both Eskel and Lambert had reached the keep. Jaskier can put two and two together and come to the conclusion that none of this is an accident.

Unfortunately for him, Jaskier also knows why it's happening. Witchers can smell all sorts of stupid, inconvenient shit, one of the more prominent (and most inconvenient) of those being the changes in human emotion. Meaning that if Jaskier wants to keep his feelings to himself, he has to try very hard to do so. And he discovered almost as soon as the other Witchers showed up that he is terrible at it. The only conclusion he can come to is that between the four of them, they've come to the (albeit correct) conclusion, that Jaskier is hopelessly in love with Geralt, and set themselves to the task of getting together.

What they don't know, is that Geralt barely tolerates Jaskier at the best of times and getting them together is a lost cause. He wants to confront them about it, but he rather likes the time he gets to spend alone with Geralt, whether they're cooking or cleaning or chopping wood. Geralt is different up at the keep than he is on the Path and Jaskier likes this friendlier, more open side of him. So, as long as no one is getting hurt (himself notwithstanding) he decides there's nothing wrong with their little game. They think they're solving a problem and Jaskier gets to spend some time with his friend in a place that's comfortable for him.

Then, one day, they're all gathered in the main hall. Vesemir has long grown tired of Geralt and Lambert's bickering and has retired to his room or the library or wherever it is he goes when he's had enough. Jaskier is once again left alone with the younger wolves and Aiden and he's enjoying the conversation, but he finds himself tuning out more and more often tonight, wondering what it was like to grow up in a place like this.

He knows it was very different then, that there were many more Witchers who called Kaer Morhen home, but he doesn't dare ask more than that. He's gleaned enough from the little bits and pieces from Geralt to know that his childhood was not a happy one and if he's happier here now, Jaskier doesn't want to stir up bad memories.

Jaskier doesn't realize he's staring at Geralt until Lambert nudges him. He shales his head and turns around to a very smug look.

"Aiden's gonna grab drinks," Lambert says, "why don't you and Geralt go get more firewood while we settle up in here." Jaskier nods obediently, casting a quick look in Geralt's direction to see if he suspects anything. Geralt just sighs as he rises to his feet. Jaskier follows suit and traipses after Geralt toward the large doors.

They've only been outside a couple of seconds when Jaskier hears the doors click shut behind them and the sound of the lock being slid across. He spins on his heel immediately and Geralt takes a few steps back, pressing on the door, to no avail.

"You can come back in when you figure your shit out!" Lambert calls through the door. Jaskier can hear them mumbling afterward, but it's too quiet to hear properly. Geralt sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Idiots," he mumbles and turns back to Jaskier. He seems surprisingly calm, but Jaskier feels immediately guilty. This is his fault. He shouldn't have let the game go on for so long and now they're stuck out in the cold until, well, until Lambert and his cohorts decide that they've figured their shit out - something Jaskier knows won't happen.

Fuck. He should have talked to Eskel when he had the chance. He knows Eskel would have listened, that he wouldn't want to force Geralt into something he's uncomfortable with. He might have even talked to Lambert and Aiden about it, gotten them to call it off as well, but Jaskier had been greedy. He had wanted too badly to spend time with Geralt that he hadn't considered things might get out of hand, and now they have.

All at once, he realizes the only way to solve this is to own up to his own feelings. Maybe it will make Geralt uncomfortable for a little while and maybe he won't want to travel with him any longer, but it's his fault for not saying something earlier. Now, it's the only thing he can do to fix this.

He turns to try to explain to Geralt, but when he does, Geralt is smirking back at him.

"Bastards," he mumbles, "what do you say we beat them at their own game?"

Jaskier, stunned, just looks at him.

"I-" if that's what Geralt wants, how could Jaskier turn him down considering this is his fault. "Alright, what do you have in mind?"

"Find somewhere to hide out until they come looking for us," Geralt smirks. Jaskier finds himself at a loss. Ever since coming to Kaer Morhen, he's been continuously surprised about how much fun Geralt really could be when he was comfortable enough to let go. He finds himself agreeing without even thinking through what a terrible idea this could actually be.

"Come on," Geralt says, "we'll head up to the old watchtower and watch them from there."

It's a great idea in theory. In practice, Jaskier will be oblivious to whatever Geralt is watching and he's already wondering why he agreed to this. They barely make it down the hill before it starts to snow and Jaskier sighs to himself. He doesn't quite understand why he's feeling so bad about all of this because Geralt seems to be having a perfectly fine time with it and regularly Jaskier would be thrilled to (team up) with him, but tonight, he's still feeling a little guilty about everything.

A part of him is even hoping Geralt will turn around when the snow starts, but he doesn't and it only starts to snow more heavily. Jaskier does his best to keep up but finds he's falling behind and eventually gives up when he loses sight of Geralt altogether.

"Geralt!" he shouts and for a moment there's no response. Great, he was stupid enough to keep playing along with this and now he's going to die for it, lost and frozen in the middle of fucking nowhere.

He drops to his knees in the snow and is almost immediately hauled back up to his feet. Geralt's arm wraps around his shoulders and suddenly Jaskier is being walked forward through the snow. He has no idea if they're going in the same direction or if they've turned around, but he trusts Geralt to keep him safe.

He doesn't know how long they walk before coming upon a partial structure, half-buried in the snow. Jaskier is pushed inside and Geralt follows shortly, brushing the snow off of himself and then Jaskier. Before he can stop to consider his options, Jaskier is being tugged down into Geralt's lap and bundled up in his arms. He squirms but Geralt holds him close.

"Just... let me warm you up. You're nearly frozen." Jaskier wants to point out that it's Geralt's fault he's nearly frozen, but he's feeling more miserable than bitter.

Reluctantly, he lets Geralt hold him and hopes that he's considered warmed up sooner rather than later. He relaxes into it after a moment, but he's hyperaware of every place they touch. Geralt's hands are warm and comforting, but when they slip under the hem of his shirt, Jaskier pulls away.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I can't let you do this."

"Do... what?" Geralt asks. The expression on his face is a combination of hurt and confusion and Jaskier hates it, but he knows this is for the best.

"Treat me like this," he mumbles. "It's my fault we're in this place."

"Jaskier, I wasn't going to force you through the snow-"

"I don't mean here in this little shack, Geralt. I mean locked outside the keep in the first place." At this point, Geralt looks at him like he's speaking a whole other language and Jaskier sighs. His shoulders slump and he braces himself, but he supposes it was bound to come out at some point. It's been twenty years, after all.

"You know what they're doing, right?" Jaskier asks and Geralt shrugs.

"Being idiots."

"No." Jaskier pauses, but he can't bring himself to look up at Geralt. He's imagined telling Geralt how he feels time and time again, but he never expected it to be an apology. "Geralt they're trying to get us alone together on purpose. Because of my- because of the way I feel about you. Witchers can smell feelings or whatever, right? And I'm not as good at hiding it as I thought I was, so they've obviously figured it out. And I know they're just trying to help, but they don't realize that you don't-" he chokes on the words He's thought they dozens of times, but knowing Geralt doesn't feel the same and saying it out loud are two different things.

"Jask?" Geralt says softly and when Jaskier looks up, he's moved closer and he's smiling softly at him. "Is that why you think they're doing this?" Jaskier nods and Geralt sighs and shuts his eyes. "Jaskier, come here."

"Are you sure?"

"Jaskier."

"Okay, okay." He shuffles closer again, letting Geralt's arms wind around him. He tries not to press into him, but the hut is cold and Geralt is so warm and he smells wonderful, like leather and smoke and home and Jaskier is so worried about being so close that he doesn't realize Geralt is talking until he rests his chin on Jaskier's head.

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Uh. Yes?" Geralt sighs and does something that Jaskier can only assume is nosing at his hair.

"I didn't know about your... feelings. I thought they were just fucking with me." His arms close in a little tighter and Jaskier is too confused to fight against it. Geralt chuckles softly and Jaskier is fairly certain he's actually imagining things when he feels soft lips press against his head. "If I'd known you were amenable, I would have kissed you a long time ago and gotten them off our backs."

At that, Jaskier is certain something is wrong. Geralt doesn't just say things like that. He pulls out of his arms, turning to face him.

"Are you sick?" he asks and Geralt tips forward, swiftly closing the space between them and catching Jaskier's lips in a soft kiss.

Jaskier's mind goes entirely blank and he forgets what he's supposed to do with someone's mouth against his own. Then, Geralt's thumb comes up to brush against his cheek and when Geralt deepens the kiss, Jaskier moans softly and his reflexes take over, leaning into the kiss and wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulders.

Without hesitation, Geralt winds his arms around his waist, hauling Jaskier up into his lap and leaning back against the wall. The kiss seems to last an eternity and no time at all and when Jaskier pulls away it's only because he's abruptly aware that he still needs to breathe.

"Oh," he breathes and Geralt smiles at him, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair back behind Jaskier's ear.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time."

"Me too. I suppose this means we'll have to thank the other?"

Geralt chuckles as he curls a hand around the back of Jaskier's neck and draws him close for another kiss. "Not a chance."

[pillage-and-lute]

Hi, this is a Monday Evening Prompt: How about Jaskier coming to Kaer Morhen and bringing little presents for all the wolves? Could be his first visit or not. Have a nice evening!

Hi Petrificustotaluss! I really did some worldbuilding here.

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Geralt could smell the anxiety rolling off of Jaskier in waves all the way up to Kaer Morhen. The bard was practically vibrating out of his travel cloak. On the few stops on their way up the mountain he didn’t sing, choosing instead to pluck repetitive tunes on his lute. 

Their last stop before the keep was in a cave, long used by witchers returning home. This last haven before home always brought out something deep and maybe even proud in Geralt’s chest. 

The cave was not large, but deep enough that the weather didn’t permeate. Geralt lead Roach to the back, where centuries of hooves had worn a groove, and threw her blanket over her. Jaskier rubbed her nose affectionately, looking around in wonder, despite the fading light.

Geralt began setting a fire in the ring of stones left behind by one of his brothers. Two slashes were carved into the side of a larger stone. Lambert then, a sign left for whichever of his brothers cam behind.

Fire flared and Jaskier gasped. Every witcher who had stayed in the cave, since its presence had been discovered, had carved their name into the wall. Jaskier stepped immediately to the back of the cave, tracing names almost worn away with trembling hands. 

Geralt took his hand and guided his fingertips and his feet closer to the mouth of the cave. Jaskier brushed his thumb over the V in Vesemir. 

“Your name...?”

Geralt found it for him.

“I couldn’t read yet,” he whispered, when he found the marks he sought. “You know how the letters switch in my mind. Eskel told me what to carve.” 

The names were right next to one another and Jaskier pressed one hand against them, as if he was trying to reach into the past. 

“Lambert’s is here,” Geralt said, voice almost a whisper. It felt appropriate here. 

Jaskier traced it gently, too. 

They sat down to eat without much talking, unusual for the bard, but this much history could be oppressive for anyone. There were drawings among the names and Jaskier kept glancing at them. 

After dinner they huddled together, backs against one of the walls.

“That one,” Geralt said, pointing to the back of the cave, “That’s the first version of the wolf on my medallion.” He had smelled the anxiety rising on Jaskier’s scent again, and hoped talking could keep it at bay. 

“There,” he pointed again. “That’s Gawain of Ymlac’s  name, almost faded. He’s famous, bards wrote about his fight with a knight, Bertilak the Green.”

“I know the story,” Jaskier said, eyes wide. “But the way it’s always told, Gawain is a knight.”

Geralt shook his head. “Gawain was considered one of the best of us, but he was no knight. Bertilak visited here too, but he could not write, few could in those days.”

“So his name isn’t here?” Jaskier sounded disappointed.

“It is, the rough carving of the tree, beneath Gawain’s name, is his. It was the sigil on his shield.”

Jaskier’s eyes were so round he looked like a child at Yuletide.

“There,” Geralt pointed, “is the name of another famous visitor. I wonder if you know him.”

Jaskier stood and walked over. “Here?” he asked. “Taliesin, I’ve never heard the name, was he from another witcher school?”

“No,” Geralt said, walking to Jaskier’s side. “A sorceror and a bard. I think you would know him better by another name.” He couldn’t resist the dramatic pause. Jaskier looked up at him, hanging on his words.

“I believe they call him...” Jaskier leaned in. “Merlin.”

“Never!” Jaskier cried, hopping back. “Geralt you’re pulling my leg!”

“I am not,” Geralt said. “He wrote notes in some of the books in the library.”

Jaskier was no longer nervous, hopping about in excitement. 

“Which ones? Do you know? I have to read them all. Geralt can you think of the stories!”

Geralt chuckled. 

“This one,” he said. “Is Aiden’s signature.” It was hard to read, the rock was soft, but carving was still difficult work.

“Lambert’s friend?”

Geralt nodded. “From the cat school. I think you’ll like him.” The pair of them would probably manage to burn the keep down.

Jaskier looked around him with a stunned grin. Geralt pulled out the heavy work knife he kept at his thigh and offered it to Jaskier, hilt first.

“What?”

“Well you need to carve your name, don’t you?”

Jaskier’s eyes filled. “Really?”

“Of course, someday someone will point out the name of Jaskier, the Continent’s famous bard.”

Jaskier grinned bashfully. He sat at the wall of the cave and scratched out his name. It was slow going for a human, without magic or mutant strength, but he did. Then he began a new carving.

Geralt didn’t ask yet, but restocked the fire and waited. 

At last Jaskier pulled back, there was the carving from Geralt’s medallion, a lark, and a flower. 

Geralt felt his chest tighten, but in a warm way. 

That night, beside eachother in their bedrolls, Jaskier tossed and turned.

“Stop,” Geralt said. “Sleep, it will be alright.”

“The ground is hard,” Jaskier said. 

“They’ll like you,” Geralt said. “You’re my-” friend, he wanted to finish. The word couldn’t seem to break from between his lips. 

“Bard,” he finished lamely. “They know that, they’ll respect it.”

Jaskier gave a little twitch that was maybe a shrug under the layers of fabric.

“They’ll see what I see,” Geralt said.

“A fillingless pie?” Jaskier said jokingly. Some of the anxiety had gone, though. 

Geralt huffed. “Everyone knows the crust is the best part, anyway.”

He rolled over and went to sleep. 

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

They arrived at the gates of Kaer Morhen midmorning the next day. Jaskier was looking around in awe, taking in the crumbling architecture. 

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Geralt was about to respond but was tackled into a snowdrift by his younger brother.

Geralt laughed and tossed Lambert off him, only for Eskel to join the fray, the three of them scrapping and laughing, rolling about the courtyard. 

Vesemir pulled them apart by their collars. Then he nuzzled Geralt before gruffly ruffling his hair. “Welcome back, lad,” he said.

Jaskier was looking on wide-eyed, but Geralt didn’t have time to explain the odd greeting because Eskel was next. 

His brother gave him a rib shaking hug and roughly grated his cheek along Geralt’s, snuffling a little as he took in his brother’s scent. 

Lambert, still a pup, didn’t wait his turn and butted his cheek agains Geralt’s other one, then delivered a bit of a nip to Geralt’s ear. He pulled back looking a little embarrassed, but the brother’s understood, sometimes the wolf instinct was a little strong.

“Um,” Jaskier said. Four pairs of golden eyes turned to look at him.

“I’m Jaskier, Geralt’s bard...should I greet you like a wolf or....?” He stuck out his hand awkwardly.

“A handshake is fine, lad,” Vesemir said, taking the bard’s offered hand. Geralt watched Jaskier almost not wince as his fingers were, accidentally, ground together. “The wolf is just a little stonger in winter for my boys.”

Geralt noticed that Vesemir’s nostrils still flared as he took in Jaskier’s unfamiliar scent, but didn’t say anything.

Eskel and Lambert both somewhat sheepishly shook the bard’s hand. Then the little party unloaded Roach and continued into the great hall.

Jaskier gratefully warmed his hands at the fire before sitting at the table with the rest of the witchers. He began digging in his pack.

“I, uh, I brought gifts,” he said, pulling out packages. “Since I’m your guest and all.”

Vesemir huffed good naturedly “still put you to work, guest or no,” he said.

“Of course,” Jaskier said. He looked around. “I have one for Aiden too? Is he here?”

“Eavesdropping,” Lambert said. A witcher slunk around a doorway and sat next to him, not even bothering to look ashamed. He was of a leaner build than the wolves, more wiry.

Aiden extended a hand to Jaskier, who took it politely. 

“I’ve heard good things,” he purred. 

“Thank you.”

“Heard you’ve tamed Pretty Boy.”

Geralt snarled, mostly playfully.

Jaskier smiled. “I get him to take a bath once in a while, I’m not sure it counts as tame.” It got a chuckle from Aiden, and Geralt felt his sanity slipping away already as he pictured their friendship. 

“Um,” Jaskier said, proffering a package to Vesemir. The old wolf took it with a nod and pulled at the rough twine. 

“Candles,” Vesmir said, looking at the slightly misshapen lumps in front of him. Four of them, in waxed paper, and an odd color, a pale, pale green. Geralt realised it first, but Vesemir said the name before him.

“Strydwen wax,” he said approvingly. “Burns without smoke or heat. Never goes out or melts away. Thank you.” 

The ‘thank you’ was said with a resonance that Geralt had never been able to master. It sort of took up place in your chest and stayed there. Jaskier fairly glowed with it.

“For Eskel,” he said, handing another package over. 

Eskel smiled at him and pulled apart the wrapping to reveal a large, leatherbound book.

“Poetry,” Eskel said delightedly.

“Newly published by a former professor of mine,” Jaskier confirmed. Eskel examined the cover.

“You studied under Rumi?” Eskel looked impressed.

“Six semesters,” Jaskier said ruefully. “He isn’t an easygoing grader.”

The final two gifts were dispensed at the same time, and Lambert and Aiden tore into their packages to find twin daggers, balanced for combat, not throwing. 

Lambert admired the round stone set into the end. Geralt, trained in the same school, figured he was picturing bludgeoning someone with it.

“Twist it,” Jaskier suggested. Lambert gave it a go.

The stone on Aiden’s dagger glowed faintly. 

Aiden twisted his and Lamber’s glowed, both fading after a few seconds.

“To communicate?” Aiden asked.

Jaskier nodded shyly. “I thought...for when you separate on the Path.”

Lambert grinned at him, his smile all teeth. “It’s perfect, I’ll annoy him with it constantly.”

The table descended into cheerful bickering and Jaskier sat back, smiling. He looked at Geralt and a furrow laid itself on his brow.

“I should have given you a gift.”

Geralt looked at his cheerful family, thought of a song that made witchers’ lives easier like a magic spell, a companion. He thought of a cave full of stories, with his and Jaskier’s carved together.

“You have.”

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Some history notes! Because I’m a nerd! Gawain of of Ymlac and Bertilak the Green are of course a reference to the Arthurian legend of Gawain and the Green Knight. 

Taliesin is also a reference to Arthurian legend, being a famous 6th century Welsh bard, one of the first bards we know of who told the tales of Arthur (although many of the stories are based in pagan sun god myth). Over centuries, the name Taliesin sometimes appears in Arthurian legend as another sorcerer, a wise sage, a poet, a demi-godly figure, or another name for Merlin. I picture Jaskier’s story sometime much later becoming something like Taliesin’s on the Continent.

Jaskier’s former professor is  Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, a 13th century Persian poet.

Also, I couldn’t resist having our wolves greet eachother as such. It’s too cute and I’m taking this headcanon as canon. Permanently.

[westmoor]

none go hungry

Jaskier isn’t sure what woke him, or why he’s awake at all.

Daylight is a late visitor this far north, and only days have passed since the turning of the sun, long hours of darkness tend to blend into each other.

The dying smoulder of the hearth suggests the morning is approaching, but still some ways away - Jaskier can not imagine anyone being awake at this time. 

Footfalls past his door prove otherwise.

Abandoning the safe warmth of his bed seems a wholly foolish endeavour. But curiosity wins out in the end - it’ll be the end of /him/ someday - and he unweaves his mind from sleep and limbs from furs and blankets, mindful to pull on the thick woollen socks Geralt had gifted him upon arrival before putting his feet on the floor.

Although he is wearing every layer within reach, by the time he gets to the end of the now-empty hallway with a sneaking suspicion whoever passed by did so in the direction of the courtyard, he regrets their scarcity.

It’s too early.

And far too cold.

He hurries to catch up, as fast as he can without snuffing the light.

It’s not Geralt, which rules out a quarter of the available suspects and makes him all the more curious.

The front hall is also empty. Unsurprising considering the noise-maker’s head start, but unexpected due to the implications and sure enough: There’s a drift of powdered snow across the floor, not given enough time to melt.

Heading out now, in the snow and the cold and the dark, improperly dressed and alone, is beyond reckless. 

All the best things in Jaskier’s life so far have been brought by recklessness.

The courtyard is cold and clear, full moon high in the sky and the snow, fresh that afternoon and now frozen to a crisp and shimmering, lights the grounds from below. There is some sort of poetry, he thinks, in how the darkest days of the year seem to make the brightest nights.

His little candle is useless at a distance, but after the closed-in dark of the keep, the open-air moonlit dark of outside renders it unnecessary. Scanning the layout of the outer buildings he soon spots his mark: The broad line of Eskel’s shoulders stand out starkly in the white.

For the first time since rolling out of bed, he faces a real dilemma.

Witchers are a guarded breed, that’s a lesson well learned. Weeks of shared meals and close quarters have whittled away at their defenses and helped him find a place among them, but next to Lambert, predictable in his unpredictability, and Vesemir, inherently venerable, Eskel has been the greatest challenge by far.

Not because he isn’t friendly. Rather the opposite. Eskel, it seems, has found a way to forge politeness into armour. 

The dilemma is this: Either to respect the distance the other man has placed between them, or seize this opportunity to sate some of his curiosity with both hands and run with it.

It’s not much of a dilemma.

He mouths a thanks to the gods for the width of Eskel’s bootprints as it allows him to step in them, but curses them for the distance he has to traverse. He’s not even halfway across the yard when the latch on the stable door is flicked open with a crack and he forces himself not to run despite the frost starting to melt through the knees of his breeches. 

But when he finally reaches the stables, he stops just short of entering.

Eskel has left the door half open and lit a couple of the hanging lamps - for the animals’ benefit, presumably, as a Witcher would hardly need them - and is unwrapping something in his hands.

Jaskier hovers in the doorway, suddenly realising he didn’t have an entrance planned.

He won’t need one.

“You should come inside,” the older wolf interrupts, “Geralt will have my head if I let you freeze to death out there.”

Not needing to be told twice, Jaskier has the door shouldered shut before he can even think of a retort, rubbing his hands together to stave off the oncoming shivers. He feels the need to make a peace offering, even if the words had held no hostility.

Belatedly, the bard realises he must’ve heard him following before they even left the keep.

“I heard you passing by on the upper floor,” he starts, “and as this strikes me as a rather ungodly hour to be tinkering about outdoors, I figured I should come and see if you were- what are you doing?”

While Jaskier has been talking, Eskel has opened what now turns out to be a prepared package, and is breaking a loaf of bread into evenly sized pieces. 

“We used to do this.” He is portioning out carrots now, the horses stretching long necks over the dividers to bump noses against his arms in expectation. “My family. Before I came here. We didn’t have much, but no creature should greet the new sun on an empty stomach.”

This sudden well of insight into a man who up until this point has been as guarded as a Cintran stronghold takes him by surprise, and that’s probably why, when given the chance to mine it, the only word that slips his lips is “Why?”

That makes Eskel pause, a winter apple in hand. He seems to ponder the answer, as though the question, however obvious, is one he himself has never thought to ask. 

In the end, he just shrugs.

“It’s important.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s lip catches between his teeth and it’s not lost on him, the early hour or the silence of the stables, the fact that Eskel comes out here to do this alone while everyone else is safe and warm in their beds.

“Well. Can I help?”

For the first time since entering the stables, Eskel turns fully to look at him and if the light had been just a little poorer he might’ve misread the shadow cast by his scar as a sneer. But it’s plenty to see the smile that brightens those ever-so-serious features, and lamplight reflects in eyes already touched by gold, and Jaskier grins back.

Later, when the sun finally climbs above the ridge of mountains enclosing their haven, he will help him hoist a sheaf of grain - the last of the autumn harvest - into one of the great pines within the walls and watch yellow tits and sparrows flock to it. 

But for now, Jaskier accepts the fodder from hands much rougher than his own, and turns to fill the bucket in Roach’s stall.

[bamf-jaskier]

Who the Fuck is Eskel?

If you have ever gone on The Witcher tag on Tumblr, I’m sure you’ve seen dozens of blogs dedicated to this guy named Eskel and for people who have just seen the show you might be wondering - who the fuck is this guy? 

Hi, I’m Aaliyah, and this is Part 5 of my WTF Series - a crash course in subjects from The Witcher Books. 

Post under the cut

Let’s jump in by talking about what books Eskel is in. He’s only mentioned in one line in The Last Wish, The Tower of Swallows and The Time of Contempt. He has a flashback scene in Lady of the Lake and the only book where he plays a heavy role in is Blood of Elves. 

For all you Eskel Stans out there, this is good news, because it looks like S2 of the show is going to be taking some cues from Blood of Elves and we do know Eskel is going to be appearing so these scenes might be showing up in some form or another in the show. 

We first meet Eskel in Blood of Elves when Geralt is first bringing Ciri to the keep:

“Who comes?” Ciri heard a menacing, metallic voice which sounded like a dog’s bark. “Geralt?”

“Yes, Eskel. It’s me.”

“Come in.”

The witcher dismounted, took Ciri from the saddle, stood her on the ground and pressed a bundle into her little hands which she grabbed tightly, only regretting that it was too small for her to hide behind completely.

“Wait here with Eskel,” he said. “I’ll take Roach to the stables.”

“Come into the light, laddie,” growled the man called Eskel. “Don’t lurk in the dark.”

Ciri looked up into his face and barely restrained her frightened scream. He wasn’t human. Although he stood on two legs, although he smelled of sweat and smoke, although he wore ordinary human clothes, he was not human. No human can have a face like that, she thought.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” repeated Eskel.

She didn’t move. In the darkness she heard the clatter of Roach’s horseshoes grow fainter. Something soft and squeaking ran over her foot. She jumped. “Don’t loiter in the dark, or the rats will eat your boots.”

Still clinging to her bundle Ciri moved briskly towards the light. The rats bolted out from beneath her feet with a squeak. Eskel leaned over, took the package from her and pulled back her hood.

“A plague on it,” he muttered. “A girl. That’s all we need.”

She glanced at him, frightened. Eskel was smiling. She saw that he was human after all, that he had an entirely human face, deformed by a long, ugly, semi-circular scar running from the corner of his mouth across the length of his cheek up to the ear.

“Since you’re here, welcome to Kaer Morhen,” he said. “What do they call you?”

“Ciri,” Geralt replied for her, silently emerging from the darkness. Eskel turned around. Suddenly, quickly, wordlessly, the witchers fell into each other’s arms and wound their shoulders around each other tight and hard. For one brief moment.

“Wolf, you’re alive.”

“I am.”

“All right.” Eskel took a torch from its bracket. “Come on. I’m closing the inner gates to stop the heat escaping.”

Couple things here. First, for all the game fans out there, Eskel’s scar in the books is VERY different. It’s not the lightening-like claw marks that go over his eye but instead it goes from the corner of his mouth to his ear. This is interesting because it really parallels in my mind Ciri’s scar she gets later on that extends from under her eye to her ear. 

Also, the little reunion between Geralt and Eskel, so sweet. The line about Eskel in Last Wish establishes that they were close friends so here is the snippet just to give more backstory to the two of them: 

“Once, years ago, when a little snot-faced brat following his studies in Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Settlement, he and a friend, Eskel, had captured a huge forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug with a thread. They were in fits of laughter watching the antics of the tied bumblebee, until Vesemir, their tutor, caught them at it and tanned their hides with a leather strap.”

Childhood friends and brothers is just so damn great. Actually, speaking of brothers, it is stated in Blood of Elves that Geralt and Eskel actually look very similar and are often mistaken for brothers such as in this scene from Triss’s POV. 

Eskel stood next to Geralt, resembling the Wolf like a brother apart from the colour of his hair and the long scar which disfigured his cheek. And the youngest of the Kaer Morhen witchers, Lambert, was there with his usual ugly, mocking expression. Vesemir was not there.

“Welcome and come in,” said Eskel. “It is as cold and blustery as if someone has hung themselves. Ciri, where are you off to? The invitation does not apply to you. The sun is still high, even if it is obscured. You can still train.”

“Hey.” The Enchantress tossed her hair. “Politeness comes cheap in Witchers’ Keep now, I see. Ciri was the first to greet me, and brought me to the castle. She ought to keep me company—”

This really interests me because Ciri is very young child when she meets Eskel and she is very terrified of him and intimidated. Which makes sense, she is very traumatized. But, when Triss meets Eskel she only makes a short note of his scar and focuses more on his resemblance to Geralt and commenting on the lack of politeness. It just goes to show how different characters perceive people differently. A child’s perspective of a warrior is not going to be the same as a Mage’s. 

“You didn’t even know.” She nodded in what was now a calm, concerned and gentle reproach. “You’re pathetic guardians. She’s ashamed to tell you because she was taught not to mention such complaints to men. And she’s ashamed of the weakness, the pain and the fact that she is less fit. Has any one of you thought about that? Taken any interest in it? Or tried to guess what might be the matter with her? Maybe her very first bleed happened here, in Kaer Morhen? And she cried to herself at night, unable to find any sympathy, consolation or even understanding from anyone? Has any one of you given it any thought whatsoever?”

“Stop it, Triss,” moaned Geralt quietly. “That’s enough. You’ve achieved what you wanted. And maybe even more.”

“The devil take it,” cursed Coën. “We’ve turned out to be right idiots, there’s no two ways about it, eh, Vesemir, and you—”

“Silence,” growled the old witcher. “Not a word.”

It was Eskel’s behaviour which was most unlikely; he got up, approached the enchantress, bent down low, took her hand and kissed it respectfully. She swiftly withdrew her hand. Not so as to demonstrate her anger and annoyance but to break the pleasant, piercing vibration triggered by the witcher’s touch. Eskel emanated powerfully. More powerfully than Geralt.

“Triss,” he said, rubbing the hideous scar on his cheek with embarrassment, “help us. We ask you. Help us, Triss.”

Now, if you can’t tell, Triss’ favorite is Eskel. This scene is also implies that Eskel is more magically powerful than Geralt which Is very interesting. But Triss is an Eskel stan, in fact a couple lines later Triss thinks to herself: 

Vesemir hawked again. But Eskel, dear Eskel, kept his head and once more behaved as was fitting.

“Of course,” he said casually, smiling. “We understand and clearly we will postpone your exercises until your indisposition has passed. We will also cut the theory short and, if you feel unwell, we will put it aside for the time being, too. If you need any medication or—”

Eskel definitely has the older sibling energy where he ends up in charge sometimes and knows how to keep a cool head. He’s also the most aware of societal norms of behavior which is why Triss likes his so much. She really respects people who know how to move in society. 

There’s also this scene in Blood of Elves where Eskel is drinking and offers Triss some:

“White Seagull.”

“What?”

“A mild remedy,” Eskel smiled, “for pleasant dreams.”

“Damn it! A witcher hallucinogenic? That’s why your eyes shine like that in the evenings!”

“White Seagull is very gentle. It’s Black Seagull that is hallucinogenic.”

“If there’s magic in this liquid I’m not allowed to take it!”

“Exclusively natural ingredients,” Geralt reassured her but he looked, she noticed, disconcerted. He was clearly afraid she would question them about the elixir’s ingredients. “And diluted with a great deal of water. We would not offer you anything that could harm you.”

I think it’s very funny how secret The Witcher keeps all their potions and elixirs. Whether it’s mushrooms or potions, they gotta keep those secret drugs locked down tight. Also the fact that Eskel is the fantasy equivalent of high every night? Love that for him.  

Eskel really is the peace-maker of the group. He’s not a push-over by any means but he is definitely more willing to play along that any of the others. When Triss is talking at night, Eskel is really the only one listening and engaging, even if it’s very half-hearted. 

In the evenings, consistently and determinedly, Triss guided the long conversations held in the dark hall, lit only by the bursts of flames in the great hearth, towards politics. The witchers’ reactions were always the same. Geralt, a hand on his forehead, did not say a word. 

Vesemir nodded, from time to time throwing in comments which amounted to little more than that “in his day” everything had been better, more logical, more honest and healthier. 

Eskel pretended to be polite, and neither smiled nor made eye contact, and even managed, very occasionally, to be interested in some issue or question of little importance. Coën yawned openly and looked at the ceiling, and Lambert did nothing to hide his disdain.

And he is really the only sort-of listener to Triss’ stories and retellings of events: 

This time it was Triss who began to yawn and stare at the ceiling. This time she was the one who remained silent – until Eskel turned to her with a question. A question which she had anticipated.

“And what is it really like in the south, on the Yaruga? Is it worth going there? We wouldn’t like to find ourselves in the middle of any trouble.”

“What do you mean by trouble?”

“Well, you know…” he stammered, “you keep telling us about the possibility of a new war… About constant fighting on the borders, about rebellions in the lands invaded by Nilfgaard. You said they’re saying the Nilfgaardians might cross the Yaruga again—”

“So what?” said Lambert. “They’ve been hitting, killing and striking against each other constantly for hundreds of years. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already decided – I’m going to the far South, to Sodden, Mahakam and Angren. It’s well known that monsters abound wherever armies have passed. The most money is always made in places like that.”

“True,” Coën acknowledged. “The neighbourhood grows deserted, only women who can’t fend for themselves remain in the villages… scores of children with no home or care, roaming around… Easy prey attracts monsters.”

“And the lord barons and village elders,” added Eskel, “have their heads full of the war and don’t have the time to defend their subjects. They have to hire us. It’s true. But from what Triss has been telling us all these evenings, it seems the conflict with Nilfgaard is more serious than that, not just some local little war. Is that right, Triss?”

Once more, Eskel is the peace-maker of the conversation and he brings it back around to what Triss originally said and also points to her expertise. Basically, Eskel is not really a fan of verbal conflict. 

This is actually the last line we see Eskel in a scene outside of the flashback in Lady of the Lake. After this, Triss, Geralt and Ciri head off. It is important to note that near the end of Blood of Elves Ciri says this about Yennefer:

The lady magician knew a surprising amount about a witcher’s sword and “dance.” She knew a great deal about the secrets of Kaer Morhen; there was no doubt she had visited the Keep. She knew Vesemir and Eskel. Although not Lambert and Coën.

Yennefer used to visit Kaer Morhen. Ciri guessed why – when they spoke of the Keep – the eyes of the enchantress grew warm, lost their angry gleam and their cold, indifferent, wise depth. If the words had befitted Yennefer’s person, Ciri would have called her dreamy, lost in memories.

So clearly Yennefer is also friendly with Eskel and knows him. I love the idea that Yennefer regularly visited Kaer Morhen before Ciri came into Geralt’s care and I would literally cry if they did a flashback sequence in S2 of Yennefer visiting Geralt in Kaer Morhen. 

The flashback sequence in Lady of the Lake with Eskel goes like this: 

The fire in the huge fireplace went out. A gust of wind from the mountains whistled through the crevices of the walls and screamed through the improperly closed shutters of Kaer Morhen, Home of the Witchers.

“Damn it!” Eskel said, standing up and going to the cupboard. “Seagull or vodka?”

“Vodka,” Geralt and Coen said with one voice.

“Sure,” interjected Vesemir, hidden in the shadows, “Yes, of course! Drown your stupidity in vodka. Damn fools!”

“It was an accident…” muttered Lambert. “She had already mastered the comb…”

“Shut your big mouth, you idiot! I don’t want to hear any more! I warned you, if something happened to that little girl…”

“Enough,” Coen interrupted him, softly. “She sleeps peacefully. Deep and healthy. She will wake up a bit sore, but that’s it. About the trance, and what happened, she will not even remember it.”

“As long as you remember,” said Vesemir, panting angrily. “Cabbage heads! Pour for me too, Eskel.”

They were silent for a long time, listening intently to the howling gale.

“We will need to call someone,” Eskel finally said. “We will need to bring a sorcerer here. What is happening to the girl, it is not normal.”

Eskel is one of The Witcher who really pushes to call Triss in order to help with Ciri’s trances. Also, once again this guy is hitting the drinks. 

So yeah! That’s Eskel in the books. Based on how in the non-canon wedding short Asaps wrote where he ended up having Triss and Eskel get together, I think his hints of them having a connection in the books is very intentional and if The Witcher wasn’t such a god damn tragedy and Triss wasn’t mooning over Geralt, I’m willing to bet they would have gotten together at some point. 

Eskel is the peace-maker of the family and is the best at recognizing the norms of “polite society” (or at least noble society) and while Ciri might have been scared of his appearance, it isn’t enough to phase Triss who is considered rather vain. In fact, she seems to respect Eskel the most out of the Witchers. Just imagine a dark-haired, scarred Geralt and BOOM, you got yourself an Eskel. 

[softnoblecyno]

Bad Reputation (pt. 4)

part 1, part 2, part 3, and finally part 4 (you are here!)

Jaskier/Eskel, ~1.4k, rated T, no warnings

i wrote this for the @thewitcherbog fic train event! my partners are @kueble, @professorjaskier, and @wolf-and-bard! this fic is so wonderful, i loved reading and writing it! thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoy!

here on ao3

—

“Let me go!” Jaskier yells and squirms, trying to peel Eskel’s arms off his waist. “He deserves it!” Eskel doesn’t budge. He carries Jaskier away from the commotion and gossiping, taking them to a bench on the edge of the Great Hall where there’s less people. Despite how excitedly all of the guests had rushed to watch Jaskier’s fight up close, they now give Eskel a wide berth. They stare at the two friends with wide eyes, their attention split between a witcher they are fearful and curious of, and an apparently revered professor currently held off the ground in the witcher’s arms. Eskel can feel each and every one of the guest’s gazes like needles poking into his skin.

Behind them, Eskel can hear the man that Jaskier jumped raving, “Some professor he is! What if Julian attacked a student like that?” Eskel’s gut churns uncomfortably. Jaskier came here to upkeep his standing with the university and show he’s a good influence. Instead, because of Eskel, he looks… rash. Violent. Why does he care so much about what that man was saying? Turmoil swirls in Eskel’s chest. His grip around Jaskier tightens.

“Eskel! Put me down!” Jaskier shouts again and slaps at Eskel’s arms. He doesn’t hit very hard— Eskel knows he could try harder to get away, or actually hurt him. But he doesn’t. The show of trust would usually make Eskel bashful. Now it makes him… uneasy.

“No.”

People are staring still. Eskel’s shoulders crawl up to his ears. Jaskier struggles for a moment longer and then goes limp, a whine leaving his lips. They reach the bench and Eskel sets Jaskier down before sitting next to him. He glances at Jaskier, chest tight, but Jaskier doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s glaring daggers at the man he attacked, even all the way across the hall.

“Jaskier.”

His friend still doesn’t look at him. 

“I mean, who does Valdo think he is?” Jaskier huffs, unprompted. His usually soft cornflower blue eyes are hardened with rage. Eskel’s heart twists in his chest. “He doesn’t know anything about me, or— or Geralt, and he doesn’t know fuck all about you!” Jaskier stands, rash and twitchy; Eskel lurches forward to catch him, but Jaskier doesn’t rush back to fight. He only paces. It’s more stalking than pacing, back and forth like a caged tiger. His gaze switches between Valdo and the horizon, agitated and erratic. Eskel has never seen Jaskier like this.

“Why would you do that?” Eskel asks, voice tight.

Jaskier finally turns to him, his face stuck in a scowl. “Because! Valdo was saying all these- these resolutely untrue things—”

Eskel cuts him off, shaking his head. “I heard what he said. Why would you attack him? You’re never that aggressive.”

“You’ve never been around me when he’s the topic of conversation, clearly,” Jaskier snorts. “Agh, he just— he always riles me up. It’s like I can’t control myself whenever he’s brought up, and today he was there in person and-”

“Jaskier.” Eskel levels the bard with a serious look, conflicted. “You told me that you’re here to keep up appearances, but you just threw yourself at a man. Why the fuck would you do that?”

Despite the circumstances, Jaskier’s expression softens. Eskel’s heart flutters in his chest. ���Isn’t it obvious?” He’s still trying to work out what Jaskier means by that when Jaskier grabs his hand. “I just… Valdo implied that I was only with you because Geralt isn’t here, and then he called you ugly— a blatant lie— and I… I…”

“You attacked him because he pointed out my scars?” Eskel’s scratching at them before he fully realizes he’s doing it.

Jaskier smiles at him fondly. “I hit him because he insulted my close friend, and you don’t deserve that.” Eskel shies away from Jaskier’s gaze, his cheeks warming.

“It’s my fault, then,” Eskel drops Jaskier’s hand, not meeting his eyes. “That your reputation was sullied.”

“What?” Jaskier reels back, then hurriedly sits beside Eskel on the bench. “No, Eskel, of course it’s not your fault—”

Eskel’s thoughts race. His gaze drifts up to the party, and watches the guests dance on the floor, carefree… He stands abruptly, spinning to face Jaskier with a smile. “Let me make it up to you,” he says, offering a hand to Jaskier. A blush rises high on his cheeks, but he fights through it, meeting Jaskier’s gaze unwaveringly. “May I have this dance, Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. Even through the noise Eskel can hear his heart beat faster.

“To mend your reputation,” Eskel backtracks, forcing down any awkwardness he feels. “Some skillful dancing should impress the university, sway them back in your favor.”

Jaskier seems to break out of whatever stupor he had fallen into. His lips split into a wide grin. He takes Eskel’s hand and stands, fingers sliding into Eskel’s palm.

“Why, of course,” Jaskier purrs playfully. “I could never refuse you.” He leans in close and whispers his next words to Eskel like they’re a secret. “Although, to be honest, I couldn’t care less about my reputation.”

Eskel turns his cheek and doesn’t notice he’s scratching his scars again until Jaskier stops him, his hand curling around Eskel’s wrist. He guides Eskel’s hand to his lips, kissing it gently. Eskel can’t find anything to say, gaze locked on Jaskier’s.

“Come on,” Jaskier says, meeting Eskel’s eyes again with a warm smile. Eskel can’t do anything but nod.

As Jaskier leads them back into the crowd, Eskel becomes stressed. Strangers’ gazes burn into him again. He’s about to tell Jaskier to forget it, to sit down and get the attention off of him but Jaskier stops and faces Eskel. The bard tugs him close with one hand around the back of his neck, pressing them together so that Eskel can feel Jaskier’s chest rise and fall with each breath. Eskel can’t hide the way his breath hitches with the proximity.

“Relax.” Jaskier’s breath washes over Eskel’s skin as he tucks his face into the witcher’s shoulder. “Dancing is supposed to be fun.” He squeezes lightly at Eskel’s hip, rubbing his thumb back and forth.

For a long moment Eskel is frozen in Jaskier’s arms. Then Jaskier starts to hum along with the band, his voice lilting and familiar. Eskel melts, allowing Jaskier to sway them back and forth to the leisurely beat.

They stay together, perfect, for two songs. Jaskier tenses up, then, imperceptible to anyone but a witcher; Eskel is about to ask him what’s wrong when—

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” Jaskier murmurs, tucked into Eskel’s neck. “I wasn’t trying to. I meant to…” He fumbles over his words, then settles on, “I wanted to protect you, is all.”

Jaskier’s serious demeanor and the way he’s speaking carefully does something strange to Eskel. He doesn’t understand what there is for Jaskier to protect him from, but it obviously matters to Jaskier. Eskel drops his cheek against the top of Jaskier’s head, ignoring the continuing flutter in his chest. He knows what it means, and now isn’t the time for it. There will never be a time for it.

Jaskier goes quiet and loose against Eskel at the contact. Eskel closes his eyes, feeling off-balance. You can’t have this, he reminds himself. “I know,” He says, and he means it.

Eskel expects Jaskier to stay close, but instead he pulls back, tucking a hand behind Eskel’s ear and tilting him so their gazes meet. Eskel’s heart rabbits uncomfortably fast, but he doesn’t dare look away from Jaskier. “I’ll always protect you, Eskel.”

A lump rises in Eskel’s throat. You can’t have this. You don’t get to have this. “I’m a witcher, Jask.” He leans into Jaskier’s hand and as it slides to cup his jaw, and can’t stop his gaze from flicking to Jaskier’s lips. “I don’t need protection.”

“Not from monsters,” Jaskier concedes. Eskel’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt. “But if I can protect you from rude comments, or— or from any sort of discomfort at all, I will. I will always want you to be happy and safe.”

The world stands still.

That sounds… significant. He can’t pin down exactly why until his eyes wander to Jaskier’s necklace, resting against his chest. The cobalt glass reminds Eskel of how he feels about Jaskier; he brings Jaskier gifts because Jaskier is always on his mind. Always. He wonders what memories the necklace brings to Jaskier’s mind— will it remind him about his reputation being ruined? Or about risking it to make sure Eskel felt… safe.

Eskel’s gaze widens. He realizes, suddenly, that Jaskier might care about him the same way he cares about Jaskier. Why else would he risk so much, or say these things? And if Jaskier feels the same way, then…

Eskel wraps his arm around his waist and captures Jaskier’s lips in his own. 

Jaskier makes a high, surprised note in the back of his throat, and lifts onto the balls of his feet, pushing into the kiss. He hums, pleased, and deepens the kiss.

Jaskier surrounds him, and all Eskel can sense is love.

thank you for reading!!