#though whether being found by a witcher like this is a good or bad thing for jaskier -- well. that remains to be seen; doesn't it? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jaskiersvalley · 3 years

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I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for you and your writing. In times where I feel bad, both you and your writing are always there to comfort me. I truly thank you for that.

(Sorry for how dark this is about to get. Bit of a TW and TMI, I apologise. You don't have to read this bit if you don't want to or are uncomfortable)

My sheep Speckles passed in my arms this morning, and as you can guess, it's been tears, pain, and guilt. But you and your writing have lessened that pain as to where I feel something other than sorrow. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being you. Thank you for writing.

Nonnie, I am so sorry for your loss. It sounds like Speckles meant a huge deal to you and life without them is tough right now. I can only hope that, with time, you'll be able to remember all the good bits of having Speckles in your life and look back on those memories fondly. If you ever want to share stories of Speckles or need a willing listening ear, my DMs are open.

It humbles me to no end that my writing has given you such comfort. And I can only hope that in continues to do so, offering a moment of reprieve, a distraction when you need it. Here's another little fic to try and help take your mind off things.

To Be Human

Winter and Kaer Morhen meant that the witchers who resided there could be themselves without the pressure of society. As Cahir followed Geralt up the path to the old keep, he couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Maybe there were less palatable traits that witchers held at bay in public. Perhaps they liked their meat raw or liked to scratch behind their ears with their feet rather than hands. Or, more sensibly, they could actually express their emotions, unleash their full strength and have opinions while being treated like equals. Either way, Cahir was just looking forward to a bit of stability in life, a bit of peace.

For the first two days it seemed like Cahir had been right. Though he had spent the majority of the first day crashed out on a straw stuffed sack that could almost be called a mattress. That evening he was collected by Eskel, inviting him to join dinner. It was a curious affair, part chaotic family reunion, part feast. Cahir could only marvel at how much food each witcher was working his way through. He and Jaskier were a little more restrained. Looking at the other four, Cahir had to wonder whether they spent the year half starved. It made his heart clench.

The odd thing was, Cahir was enveloped into the folds of the strange family. He was treated no different to any of the others, given a sword and the opportunity to train, delegated his own set of chores. Eskel seemed especially keen to spend time with him and Cahir couldn't deny that he was both flattered and very much returning the interest.

After a hard day of carrying buckets and sacks for repairs, Cahir fell into bed, not even thinking about dinner. Come morning he woke up late and found he'd missed breakfast but that was okay. There was a wonderfully large pot already bubbling away. By the time evening rolled round and Eskel appeared to invite him down, Cahir was famished. Once again the witchers ate more than Cahir had seen anyone consume in one sitting before. It was impressive but Cahir was no slouch either. He all but gorged himself after having missed a couple of meals. That night he slept like a log and he woke up refreshed in the morning. Ambling down to halls, Cahir was surprised to find it empty. Instead, he followed the sounds of training to the courtyard where the others were already playing around with swords and signs. Perhaps they trained before breakfast. So Cahir joined in with a grin.

Alas, after training they turned to chores. Cahir got to muck out the stables. It wasn't pleasant but he preferred it to hefting rocks around for repairs. Muscle ache wasn't something he'd had in a while but between the heavy manual labour and training, he was harshly reminded that it was very much a thing. The broom in his hands pressed on newly formed blisters. Despite being used to fighting, Cahir had grown accustomed to Nilgaardian swords. The ones witchers used were weighted differently and the grip sat just slightly wrong in his palms. So the callouses on Cahir's palms and fingers were useless, the new swords pressed and chafed the more sensitive parts and brought blisters to the surface. It made mucking out the stables a panful affair but he gritted his teeth. None of the others complained and he'd been taught better than to draw attention to weakness. Life in the army had prepared him for dealing with discomfort and knowing his place. Sometimes Cahir was even grateful for it.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Cahir was done with his chores. His stomach rumbled and his lips were dry. Hopefully they would have an early dinner. In the army food was served when it was ready. Snacks and the like were a rare treat that was bought by individuals when they had the money and access. Whether it was shared with friends was a whole different matter, and Cahir knew better than to ask. Still, when he saw Jaskier happily munching on some dried fruits, Cahir was sorely tempted. But no, he couldn't do that. Dinner would be soon anyway.

Only, dinner wasn't soon. Nobody even mentioned food. They played gwent, chattered and slowly, one by one, retired to bed. Temptation to sneak into the pantry was strong but Cahir resisted. He hadn't been given permission to go in there, the others had no way of obtaining more food other than if they went hunting. It wouldn't have been fair of Cahir to have more than what he was allowed.

Come morning, Cahir's stomach ached. It wasn't the longest he had gone without food, sometimes the army had shit luck and not enough supplies. But that wasn't to say he was fine with it. To silence the rumbling of his stomach, Cahir scooped up some snow when nobody was paying him any attention. It didn't really solve anything but certainly fooled his body into thinking it had something to digest at least.

Thankfully they had dinner that evening. Cahir felt like a starving man and shovelled food into his mouth until he was almost sick. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew it but he couldn't help himself. He didn't mean to be greedy and, when all things were considered, he still didn't come anywhere close to eating as much as any of the witchers.

There was no breakfast the next morning. By the afternoon Cahir was more than hungry again. Alas, there was no dinner. He tried not to be jealous of Jaskier who sat in Geralt's lap, snacking on some nuts.

It was an odd pattern to life. Cahir tried to get used to it but really struggled. He was no witcher, he couldn't keep up with all the activity and lack of sustenance. What made it all the more difficult was that Jaskier seemed to have free access to the pantry. Then again, he was a bard and a success in his own right, probably earned more in a year than Cahir had in his whole career with the army. So Jaskier no doubt contributed to the food stash, brought his own snacks and earned the right to eat as and when he pleased. It wasn't like Cahir had much he could contribute; no money, no resources, he couldn't even earn his keep by teaching fighting as the others regularly beat him. Sadly, Cahir couldn't even claim to have moral integrity or loyalty, those he abandoned when he carried out orders regardless of his opinions and when he defected. Really, all Cahir could do was help out around the keep as needed. So he kept mucking out the stables, mixing up mortar, chopping wood. He had taken to wrapping his hands to try and protect them. Alas, he had blisters within blisters and they were agony.

Hunger became a more consistent companion than the others. Eskel still sought him out but Cahir didn't have the ability to think extensively about what it could mean, whether it was flirting or just how Eskel was. The pangs of hunger and worries about being seen as weak clouded his mind completely.

One evening Cahir was desperate. Snow was falling, it was cold and yet they still trained, nailed wood over cracks in the walls and the animals needed tending to. Trying not to be greedy, Cahir looked around the table as the witchers ate with their usual gusto. Nobody was paying him much attention and he was only human, he was weak. The hunk of bread he snagged from the basket near him was sequestered away. Cahir could have sworn it gained weight and burned his thigh the more he thought about it. But he was so hungry between meals. Guilt gnawed away at him for stealing the bread yet he couldn't bring himself to put it back. He'd just eat less at the next meal, he told himself. And he'd work harder to make up for his greed.

Even though the next morning his stomach didn't hurt quite so bad, the shame and guilt made Cahir feel sick. But there was no denying that having bread before starting the day and just before bed really did help. It meant Cahir actually could dedicate his energy to deciphering that yes, Eskel probably was flirting with him. It was oddly nice even if Cahir didn't know how genuine it was. Still, when Eskel suggested they go hunting together, Cahir jumped at the chance.

In the morning, the last two bites of stale bread still tasted like bliss and Cahir pulled himself together for another day. Eskel had said that their departure would depend on the weather and, given that large snowflakes were whipping past his window, Cahir assumed they wouldn't head out that morning. He was right. It was no small relief as it meant that Cahir could go out the next morning, after a good meal. Alas, he didn't get a chance to snag more bread. Not that he would have dared to, going out hunting with Eskel meant likely zero privacy and the smell of his stolen food would have been too easy to detect.

Heading out with Eskel was rather thrilling. The world around them was white, the snow thick and crisp under their feet. Somehow Cahir hadn't anticipated they would venture quite so far. He had honestly thought they would be back by nightfall. So when they were more than half a day's travel from Kaer Morhen, Cahir was taken by surprise. Eventually though Eskel looked around and nodded.

"We'll set out traps. And make camp a little way over."

The cold made setting traps a little more tricky, Cahir's hands didn't want to co-operate all that well. But he did it and ended up huddled by a small fire Eskel had set up.

"I promise this isn't a sleazy attempt-" Eskel began with a small grin, "-unless you want it to be. But it will be warmer if we share a bedroll."

Part of Cahir had assumed this little hunting trip had been a ploy by Eskel for them to spend time together away from the others. Something that he both appreciated and was excited by.

"As much as I want it to be, I think if we did anything, my dick would be like an icicle. And nobody would enjoy that."

Snickering, Eskel nodded. It was how they ended up huddled under a couple of furs, Eskel incredibly warm against Cahir's back. All in all, it was nice. It was the most contact Cahir had had for a long time and he hadn't realised just how much he'd missed it until that moment.

The sun rose to find Cahir had turned during the night and had wrapped around Eskel, tucked close to his chest and under his chin. It made the awful hunger easier to live with in a way. Whether it was worth it or not wasn't really up for debate, it was what he had and he was going to be content with it.

Gathering their prey from the traps, Eskel grinned.

"I was thinking of snagging a boar while we're out here. If you want to gut the rabbits, save us having to carry their weight and have the mess at home."

It was something Cahir agreed to easily. He was already dreading the walk back, knowing his energy was going to be barely enough. If he'd had to hunt boar on top of that, who knew what would happen.

The walk back was miserable. Eskel seemed in good spirits as he led them, boar slung across his shoulders. It meant Cahir didn't feel quite so self-conscious for stumbling and being slow. At least Eskel had the grace to not keep going at an unattainable speed. So really Cahir only had himself to blame that they were not going at the pace Eskel had wanted. It meant that darkness descended around them and they walked the last hour or so by torchlight.

As they passed through the gates, Cahir had just one thought that kept him going; dinner. He was so hungry, had found a few icicles to suck on along to way to try and push through the hunger. Walking into Kaer Morhen, Cahir's heart plummeted. The hall was empty, there was nothing left on the table except Lambert's plate which he had a knack for leaving out. All the food had been put away though. Trying to hold back tears of frustration, Cahir coughed when Eskel playfully slapped him on the back.

"Ah, too bad. We'll get together in a couple of days."

A couple of days. Cahir couldn't last that long. Even now his hands were shaking, he felt a little dizzy. Another two days without food wasn't something he could survive. But it looked like he had no other choice.

That night he barely slept, the growls of his stomach were bordering on painful. Temptation was to sneak down to the pantry and have some leftovers. But Cahir wanted to be better than that. He didn't want to steal, not when he'd been invited to Geralt's home which was already such a generous gesture.

With the sun, Cahir got up. The stables needed mucking out before training in the courtyard commenced. He didn't do as good a job as he could have, it definitely wasn't up to his usual standards. But Cahir was so hungry, it was all he could think about. As he topped up the trough for the animals, he spotted an apple. Half of it was brown and bruised beyond being fit for human consumption. But the other half looked fine. Casting furtive looks around, Cahir snatched the apple before any of the animals could get to it. He felt like the lowest of the low, like scum for stealing from the animals. But he was so hungry. Biting into the apple, Cahir choked back a sob. It was so sweet and yet the he couldn't enjoy it. The apple sat heavy in his stomach.

There wasn't time to dwell on it though. Cahir needed to get going, the others were probably already warming up for training. Sure enough the courtyard was where the others were gathered. Eskel handed Cahir a sword with a shy smile. Taking it, Cahir tried not to look too glum.

Warming up was already an exhausting chore. Cahir was sloppy, going through the motions without anything more than the bare minimum. His arms shook as he lifted the sword, his blisters burned as the rub.

"Pups, two against one," Vesemir called. It gave Cahir a chance to sit at the edge of the courtyard, heedless of the cold wetness that seeped into his bones. His stomach churned. At some point Cahir had closed his eyes, listening to the clash of swords and laughter. It devolved into grunts and growls until Vesemir called out a loud "enough".

"Cahir, come play with me," Eskel called.

It was the last thing Cahir wanted but he wasn't going to refuse. With not inconsiderable effort he stood up. The world swayed and black patches appeared in his vision. Not that it was anything new, it had been happening for the last few days. But it wasn't easing. And the ringing in his ears was drowning out all sounds. The sword in his hand felt heavy, he couldn't lift it despite his best efforts, thinking he could feign his way to being alright. He needed to- he needed-

"Cahir!" Someone called his name. Cahir needed to reply. Needed to- "Cahir!"

The world went completely black and the last thing Cahir heard, or thought he heard, was the yell of "someone fucking catch him!".

Warmth was the first thing that seeped into Cahir's consciousness. He was on something soft, a fire crackled nearby. It was drowned out by shouting. Someone was really pissed off. By the sounds of it, it was Jaskier.

"-showed him the pantry? Or thought to feed him?"

"We thought he'd ask if he needed something." That was definitely Geralt's voice.

With a scoff, Jaskier growled. "This is Cahir we're talking about. When have you ever known him to ask for something for himself?"

"Why didn't you show him then?" Geralt was defensive, Cahir opened his eyes and saw how Jaskier's back was to him and a huddle of very hangdog witchers were stood facing him.

"Because this is your home. I'm a guest here too. I can't take such liberties with your winter sanctuary."

Something pained crossed Geralt's face. "It is your home too."

A hand splayed over Geralt's heart as Jaskier walked closer to him. "I love you, you're very sweet. And we'll talk about this later. But for now, we need to focus on Cahir."

Eskel's eyes flickered to Cahir and widened. "He's awake!"

Like the most protective of vultures, they all descended on Cahir. Hands rubbed his back, reassurances were rumbled. Ever so slowly and gently he was sat up, resting weakly against a broad, warm chest.

"Here." Vesemir crouched opposite Cahir and held out a bowl. "Some weak broth to help. Once you've got some strength back, I believe a tour of the pantry is owed."

Slowly, Cahir sipped at the warm broth. Thankfully it wasn't too much for his stomach to handle, it brought no pain from suddenly filling him. He didn't expect Eskel to stroke through his hair, helping keep it out of his face.

"if you'll let me-" Eskel rumbled, "-I'll join you at the table whenever you need to eat. I may not join you, but I'd like to keep you company."

It sounded quite lovely. Something settled in Cahir's chest that he hadn't been aware of before. Looking around at the concerned faces, maybe he'd been silly assuming things. But it felt like they'd all made mistakes. Thankfully, none of them were unfixable.

#eskhir #geraskier #eskel/cahir #eskel x cahir #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #eskel #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #geralt of rivia #jaskier #vesemir #the witcher #tldr: witchers don't need to eat every day but humans do

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officerjennie · 3 years

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Title: As the Clouds Whisp Overhead

Summary: Jaskier gets off on Geralt's soft thighs and tummy. Literally. Geralt relaxes back and lets him, enjoying the show. Weight gain spoken of positively. Pairing: Geraskier. WC: 3.5K+

CW: smut, brief mention of weight loss due to difficult times (past)

It had been a rather easy spring, all things considered.

Geralt lazed in the field, not really watching the clouds that drifted overhead, his eyes closed and breaths deepening into an almost meditative state. The smell of wine and cheese was almost drowned out by the wildflowers about them but it was still there, as was the scent of apples, salt, the road, and the lingering oils that Jaskier had insisted on wearing ever since he’d discovered Geralt’s nose was sensitive to the others that he used to reek of.

Said bard was currently shuffling their lunch about, putting most of it away for later, humming one of his newest tunes as he folded back up the blanket he’d apparently bought for just this occasion. Though they’d eaten plenty of meals without it or the basket he’d purchased at the market as well, Jaskier had insisted that a picnic was a special affair and deserved the right accessories to make it just right.

Geralt had just let him do as he wished, not worried about his friend’s coin purse - and not worried about his own, for once. Usually the end of winter spelled a time of heavy work for him but he’d lucked out on a couple of easy and well paying jobs right off the bat - so he thought a bit of down time wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.

The song on Jaskier’s lips was one he hadn’t quite finished yet. Geralt had already heard several different renditions of the first verse alone, lyrics tweaked here and there, the exact lilt of his voice changing back and forth as he tried to settle on what he believed would sound the best. And despite his occasional grumbling over the repetition it was a rather relaxing tune, one he didn’t mind listening to.

Beyond that, there was a sort of...intimacy that came with being trusted with Jaskier’s unfinished works. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t always his best around him, was able to fuck around with a song and riddle the air with curses of “bollocks” and “cock” while he tried and failed and tried again to make it just right. That Geralt could see him like this and not the perfected performance that he was to the rest of the world, the mask that was firmly in place right up until the moment he didn’t want it to be.

And that moment just so happened to frequently involve witchers, whether directly or indirectly. How many times had he gone feral on someone for just saying the wrong thing about one of Geralt’s colleagues? Just early that spring he’d jumped someone for spitting on the ground over Lambert’s name, and Jaskier hadn’t even met him yet.

Something like pride welled up in his chest at the thought, though it was a quiet thing. Jaskier should be more careful, he shouldn’t be fighting their fights - but it meant the world to him all the same that he wanted to. Especially for his brothers.

“You know, I’ve never been one for cheese and crackers as anything more than a snack, but that was simply delightful.” Jaskier’s voice came closer as he talked, and the flowers and grass were disturbed next to him as the bard flopped over at his side, quickly snuggling in when Geralt moved his arm to make room for him. “We’ll have to go back and ask again what the name of that cheese was. Never have I ever given so much thought to pairing and wines and all that stuff - my youngest sister was always more interested in that sort of thing, and really if I heard her say one more time that my palette wasn’t refined enough I might have had to hide frogs in her bed again.”

Jaskier settled in nicely at his side, slotting in like they were made for each other, fit perfectly together. He chattered away and Geralt mostly tuned him out, something Jaskier loved to fake hurt over though they both knew it was just that: fake. Over the years Geralt had perfected hearing what he needed to hear and simply listened to the tune of Jaskier’s voice, the song of his highs and lows, his sighs and breaths and every heartbeat becoming the song that was his bard.

Meditation came easier around Jaskier than it did anyone else. Even around his own family it was a struggle. Lambert was a little shit at the best of times and Eskel simply existed larger than he wanted to, and Geralt was always tuned into his brothers, paying attention to them because he knew just how limited theri time was together. But with Jaskier, he could rest, relax, simply let himself be like he’d never experienced with anyone else.

His arm rested at Jaskier’s back, hand loose on his side, barely hanging on and feeling his bard breath in and out as he spoke. Jaskier’s fingers tapped a rhythm where they were rested on his chest, though eventually they moved, sliding down to rest against his stomach and making Geralt hmm at the pleasant warmth they brought.

They’d stripped earlier to bathe in the nearby river and had mostly dressed, though Jaskier had forwent his doublet as Geralt had his armor. It was nice, being out in the wild, away from the faux sense of safety that inn rooms allowed them and yet still able to be this content without his armor on. Just their loose clothing, not enough to be considered decent in any sort of societal setting, simply existing and being and just…

Geralt was content, and he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Not in the slightest.

A breeze rustled the field about them, loose silver hair tickling his face though Geralt didn’t have the bother in him to brush it out of the way or tuck it behind his ear. The air smelled nice for once, no clogging dust on the wind, no rotting anything nearby nor farms to make his nose want to clog itself. Since the summer was still a ways off the sun wasn’t too harsh on his skin, his chemise enough to keep any possible chill away though it was warm enough in this part of the country, everything pleasant and not too much.

There was also a lovely set of fingers that had wormed their way under his chemise. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to push it up, had just scooted his hand underneath, and with very gentle circles had begun to rub patterns into the soft flesh there. It was enough to make Geralt melt beneath him, a soft hmm on his lips accompanied by a sigh as he felt his every muscle relax at the touch. The winter had been extra good to him, Eskel having returned with more coin than expected from his path which had meant more meat for their stews, and the lot of them had eaten extra well.

Jaskier had never shied away from letting him know exactly how much he appreciated it when he ate well. There had been a few times on their own path that food had been scarce, and despite witchers having an accelerated metabolism Geralt had always done his best to see after his bard first and foremost - so when times were tough his body showed it, and Jaskier had played his fingers raw when he saw the worst of it just to make sure the both of them could eat their fill.

But there had been no such worries or struggles yet this year, what with the good winter and the well paying contracts that had followed. Geralt’s stomach was full and soft, protecting the muscles and other important organs underneath, and the rest of him was showing the spoiling as well. His thighs had grown softer, somewhat straining against the material of his pants but it wasn’t quite uncomfortable yet - he knew well enough to keep his clothes somewhat baggy, to make room for the waxing and waning that came with the path. His chest, too, had grown softer, encouraging Jaskier to nuzzle into it at any given opportunity.

Those calloused fingers found some of the scars that ran across his belly, caressing them gently. Some stretch marks veined their way across his skin as well, hidden at the moment by his chemise but Jaskier felt his way across them all the same, giving off a gentle sigh as he snuggled in closer and traced his love wherever he could reach.

Geralt could not have thought of a more peaceful way to spend the afternoon. The clouds blurred as his eyes slid closed at the tender affection, his breaths deepening. Deep breaths in through his nose, smelling the wildflowers. A rabbit was nearby, chomping as quietly as it could on some grass, its hops barely whispers as it braved further away from its burrow. Geralt could hear the gentle chuffing of its babies hidden away, the call of a hawk overhead that sent the rabbit scurrying. The scent of budding trees, of a little mouse that had found some seeds to munch. The scent of his bard, his oils and shampoo and the hint of river on the both of them, and the growing scent of-

A snort brought them both a bit out of the peace, and Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to smirk down at the startled confusion growing on his bard’s face.

“Really?”

Those pretty pink lips pouted up at him as if Jaskier wasn’t fully aware of what was growing in his pants. Geralt made a show of raising one of his eyebrows, raking his gaze down, down his bard, straight to stare at his crotch just long enough to get his point across before flicking his eyes right back up.

It took a few seconds for his bard to catch up, Geralt watching the thoughts clear as day on Jaskier’s face, until red spread pretty across his cheeks and darkened the speckle of freckles there. Jaskier sputtered a bit and Geralt had to bite back a wider grin, starts to words that had no finish dropping between them before Jaskier cut himself off with a whine, ducking in to nuzzle into his chest and push the rest of his body closer.

“That’s not fair, Geralt - what, can you, I don’t know, smell it or something?”

Geralt didn’t respond to that, just reached up to tug a stray curl back behind Jaskier’s ear. His bard peeked up at him with another adorable pout jutting out his lower lip, his nose scrunched up as he waited for his ‘ridiculous suggestion’ to be shot down.

But it wasn’t shot down. And Jaskier frowned, and then he squeaked, climbing on top of Geralt to straddle him and poke a very firm finger straight into the chest he’d just been nuzzling.

“You and your- your entirely unfair witcher ways! Are you telling me you could tell all this time? Every time?” Geralt didn’t stop his grin this time and the indignation just grew, hand gestures growing wider. “That is- Geralt, how am I suppose to walk through life knowing you can smell my erection? How am I ever supposed to get up of a morning knowing my every waking naughty thought will be given away? Which yes is entirely too often but you’re entirely not fair, have you looked in a mirror in the past decade? Cruelty, unfair, entirely too sexy for your own good, for anyone’s own good-”

Jaskier went on like that, ranting like only he could, while Geralt eventually tuned his words out just to listen to the lilt of his voice. And the bard made a rather pretty picture himself, straddling him like that. His chemise was loose, showing off curls of dark hair that Geralt could run his fingers through for an eternity and never be bored of it. Broad tanned shoulders, a soft stomach barely hidden underneath his clothes, his pants a wonderful shade of green that fit in with the waking world around them.

A very pretty picture, but a noisy one at the moment. Geralt sighed but Jaskier went on, wildly flourishing his hands as if it was the end of the world that Geralt could smell his arousal. An arousal that had notably not died down, still pressing against the fabric of his pants, catching Geralt’s eyes and making him tilt his head in that way that Jaskier insisted was ‘adorable’ - though Geralt didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

His thigh twitched with a rather mischievous thought, and as Geralt’s gaze traveled back up to Jaskier’s face, cheeks still stained pink from his rather unnecessary embarrassment, he thought there perhaps that voice would do better singing for him than ranting about his dramatics.

He’d been called an asshole before, and Geralt had never disagreed with the label. But he was lucky enough that Jaskier for the most part never minded - and he greatly doubted Jaskier would mind his next movement.

As Jaskier waved one of his delicate looking wrists in the air, dandelion seeds drifting on the wind about them, Geralt shifted beneath him until he had room to lift up one of his thighs. Before Jaskier could catch his movement it pressed up into him, cutting his bard off with a gasp, his eyes fluttering as Geralt’s smile showed teeth.

“That’s-” Jaskier pressed right down onto his thigh, his hands coming down to support him, and he didn’t waste any time in making it more enjoyable for himself. Shifting down, one hand placed on Geralt’s chest to support him, Jaskier straddled his thigh and slowly ground down onto it. A pretty moan escaped his lips and his tongue darted out as if to catch it.

It was a lovely show, watching as Jaskier pressed down onto him, sought out his own pleasure by rubbing against his thick thigh. Geralt pillowed his head on his arms and just watched, not moving his leg, letting Jaskier set his own pace and feeling pride bubble up in his chest at how pretty he sung for him. On a particularly rough grind Jaskier whimpered and rutted against him faster, making Geralt’s own cock twitch - but he wasn’t really in the mood for pleasure, so he ignored it in favor of the show.

Though he made for a beautiful picture, back lit by the sun and clouds, a pretty blue above that couldn’t quite beat the beautiful blue of his eyes, Jaskier wasn’t purposely looking good for a show. He didn’t touch his own skin like he did when he rode Geralt, didn’t skim his hands down his chest and stomach to show it off. Didn’t bite his lip or run and tangle his fingers into his curls. The emotions that crossed his face were not stressed or controlled, his noises slipped out without thought, his body moving without any purpose beyond pleasuring himself - and it made it a moment Geralt wanted to sear into his memory forever. That Jaskier could let go like this for him. That he trusted that Geralt didn’t mind, trusted that Geralt did not judge him for his desires. How human Jaskier allowed himself to be, imperfect and all the more beautiful for it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed on an exhale, his movements already shaking, his cock dripping enough precum that it soaked into the front of his pants. Geralt could almost feel it wetting his own. “Geralt I- fuck you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous, I want to-” his hips stuttered, breath catching on a moan, brown curls caught on the wind and dancing. “Can- can I get off on your stomach? Gods it’d be so soft, feel so good, I- fuck.”

That was something he’d never requested before. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, belying another twitch of his own cock, but he grunted out “If you must.” And he had to bite back a chuckle at how quickly Jaskier’s fingers went for the ties of his pants.

Jaskier’s cock was leaking profusely though that wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. It looked like it was aching from it, hard and red and angry when he fished it out of his pants and smalls, and Jaskier whined as he couldn’t help but stroke himself a few times. His hips bucked with it, a greedy and wanting noise slipping from between his wet lips - but then he was slipping down Geralt’s leg to straddle his hips, and his cock was pushed against the soft skin of his stomach.

It didn’t slide against him very easily. The precum leaking from the tip helped, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, holding onto his cock and gently rubbing it against him, jaw wide and loose like it was the single most pleasurable act Jaskier had ever experienced. Geralt cocked his head and tore his gaze away from Jaskier to watch his cock rub circles on him, precum dribbling faster and catching in the hair that curled white all over his abdomen.

Honestly, Geralt didn’t quite understand it. Wasn’t entirely sure what had Jaskier’s breath coming so fast, his heart beating so quick at rubbing against his soft stomach. But he didn’t really care. Jaskier’s hips jerked and he fought to keep himself reigned in, to keep his movements steady and slow, and Geralt just watched him and let him. Let him take this pleasure, smelling the arousal coming off of him in waves, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and body and heart. And Geralt memorized every little detail, from the flutter of his long eyelashes to the way his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, nails just at the edge of biting him.

Jaskier whimpered, long and shaking, when he came. It was desperate, his face scrunching up, eyes shut tight as if he was grasping onto the pleasure with all of his might. Geralt reached out to take hold of one of his hands, letting Jaskier clench his fingers as hard as he needed, bringing them up to brush his lips against the knuckles as Jaskier spilled all over his stomach.

His bard almost collapsed onto him, but Geralt moved him before that could happen, bringing him down with a shush at his further whimpers and letting him rest once more in the crook of his arm. And Jaskier came down slow, heartbeat eventually matching the rhythm of his deepening breaths, eyes still scrunched up tight as if he didn’t want to let go of what he’d been feeling.

When Geralt ran his fingers through his curls, they were damp with sweat. He hummed, not minding, just holding him close as he melted against him.

Eventually, Jaskier stretched, letting his arm flop against Geralt’s chest and legs tangle with his once more. He almost made an effort to open his eyes. Almost. Instead he frowned lightly, nuzzling into Geralt and as he moved impossibly closer.

“Want me to return the favor, love?” His words were light things that could have been carried off by the wind if Geralt’s hearing had been even slightly worse.

In truth, Geralt was turned on. How could he not be when Jaskier had ridden his thigh and stomach so beautifully? But he thought it over for a minute, the cool breeze tickling his face with a few stray white hairs, the scent of wildflowers coming back to him as the one of arousal dissipated.

“No,” he said finally, pulling Jaskier closer to kiss the top of his head. Despite the interest his body had shown he found he wasn’t in the mood himself, content enough to let Jaskier have his pleasure and leave it at that.

Jaskier just hummed, not questioning him further, and a small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips knowing there would be no hurt feelings over it. His bard’s fingers eventually went back to lazily tracing patterns into his skin, though he made a bit of a yucky face when they found the sticky mess he’d left of Geralt’s stomach hairs. Still they were both far too content to clean up just yet, not even wasting the energy to tuck Jaskier’s softening cock back away in his pants as they laid there, relaxed, enjoying the non-harsh sun and the clouds that lazed across the sky overhead.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier whispered into his chest after a time, and Geralt grunted, not even opening his eyes to look down as he responded.

“A bigger food budget.”

A moment later, and Jaskier’s laugh filled the field around them, sharp and uncontained, a laugh that was so far away from the performance he played that it drew a chuckle out of Geralt as well. That they could be themselves around each other, that they could be so carefree and human, was the most joyous thing Geralt had ever found in his long, long life - and that they’d discovered a new way to have fun was exciting, and Geralt was certainly going to take advantage of this new discovery. How could he not, when his reward was a well-pleased bard melting in his arms.

#why did I give this smut piece such a poetic title?#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #lemony #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #gerskier #and now back to writing the stuff I'm supposed to be working on

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asweetprologue · 4 years

Text

hematoma of the heart

Octoberfest 9: Wound reveal (whumptober #30)

Hitting the tree is more surprising than painful. A strange shock goes through Jaskier’s entire body when it happens, a litany of unspoken no no no through him as his side slams into the wood and he topples to the ground. For a moment he can’t see, can barely even think, just feeling a dizzying sense of wrongness that makes his skin buzz with anxiety.

Then, finally, the pain does come to him, bursting from his ribs. If his breath hadn’t already been crushed from his lungs, he would have wheezed at the intensity of it. He lies there for a long moment, curled into a protective ball and trying to get his chest to expand beyond the jagged feeling in his ribs. Through bleary eyes, he can see that Geralt is still fighting the fiend, twisting and rolling deftly around it. That’s good, Jaskier thinks. Gives him some time to sort this out.

The fiend hadn’t even really been paying him any mind, which was almost more embarrassing. Jaskier had gotten in the way, a bit, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that the fight stumbled its way so close to his hiding spot. Normally Geralt would never allow Jaskier to tag along to a fight this dangerous, but as usual trouble found them. Geralt had picked up the smell of the fiend on the breeze, and the noble bastard hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. His stubborn bravery and selflessness is one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the man, but at this exact moment he finds himself wishing that, for once, they’d just kept out of it.

After a long moment of lying still and trying to gather his wits, Jaskier slowly sits up. He leans his back against the offending tree and tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to draw the fiend’s attention or break Geralt’s stride. Mentally he takes inventory. Toes and fingers wriggle when he tests them, so that’s good. No pain in his neck, though it radiates out from his left side and across his back like a sunburst. When he sticks a hand against his shirt he doesn’t feel the wet, tacky sensation of blood, so aside from a few abrasions it looks like he’s escaped with his skin intact.

Jaskier knows his ribs are bruised, maybe even slightly broken, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s sword descends into the neck of the fiend, a hot spray of blood splashing across the ground and Geralt’s face. The second the beast falls to the ground, Geralt looks up and finds Jaskier’s gaze, his own eyes wild.

Jaskier realizes two things at once. One: Geralt is going to be livid if Jaskier was hurt during a fight, and there’s a very great chance that it will make him not want to take Jaskier on hunts in the future. He’ll say that Jaskier is at risk and is a risk himself, likely to cause Geralt to get distracted and wind up with one of them dead. Never mind that Geralt often needs help after a hard fight, might not be able to make it back on his own or just needs a hand patching up the worst of his wounds. Never mind that Jaskier hates being left behind, hates sitting in a cold, empty camp or inn waiting to see if Geralt will come back this time. Never mind that Jaskier’s entire supposed reason for being here is to get first hand experience of what monster hunting is really like, even if that maybe isn’t so much the reason he’s so dedicated to the Path anymore.

And two: Geralt will blame himself.

Jaskier decides, in the span of a second, that he’s not going to say anything. It’s not so bad, after all. How hard could it be to keep a few bruised ribs to himself?

In the time it takes for him to determine this course of action, Geralt is upon him. He doesn’t touch - Jaskier touches Geralt. Geralt does not touch back, unless it’s to manhandle Jaskier out of danger. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about why this is. Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense but unreadable as always, and Jaskier takes a steadying breath that makes his ribs ache.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost more of a grunt than a name. He’s only breathing a bit more heavily than normal, as if he’d just been on a light morning jog. “You alright?”

Jaskier nods, forcing himself to climb unsteadily to his feet. The movement is agony, his back screaming as his muscles shift and stretch. He bites his cheek, forcing himself not to gasp or wince. The pain isn’t sharp, just pulsing, which is a good sign. He thinks. “All accounted for,” he says to Geralt, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too strained.

With another human, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d have been able to get away with it. No one would be able to get thrown against a tree with such force and pop back up perfectly alright. But Geralt isn’t human, and over the years of traveling together, Jaskier has realized that Geralt knows fuck all about how much humans can withstand. He is both terrified of their fragility and entirely unaware of their limits. He grew up around witchers and has never stuck around any human beings long enough to figure out what really could hurt them. Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that maybe Geralt doesn’t touch him because he’s afraid Jaskier will break. But then Jaskier falls from a horse or gets punched in the jaw or stumbles over the side of a small ravine and Geralt will act surprised when Jaskier’s ankle is twisted or his face is bruised. The witcher just has no idea what will actually cause damage and what Jaskier can walk away from.

So Jaskier plasters on his most convincing court mask and gives Geralt a winning smile, and he knows he’s won when Geralt gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaskier watches his shoulders drop ever so slightly, his expression loosening just a fraction. Jaskier drinks up Geralt’s worry like a man drowning of thirst, but he’s still relieved when Geralt turns back towards the fiend. If Geralt knew he was really hurt, his tender concern over Jaskier’s well being would morph into guilt and anger, and that’s the last thing Jaskier wants. So he forces himself to follow after Geralt, and he doesn’t even limp.

Jaskier does not limp as they set up camp that night, or as he follows Geralt to town the next day, or over the course of the next week on the road. It’s probably making the healing process longer than it needs to be, he knows, but he’s in too deep now to back down. And if he winces occasionally when he’s getting up in the morning, stiff and sore and aching, or if he sucks in a breath to hide a yelp when someone brushes past his wounded shoulder in an inn, Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier changes when Geralt leaves for breakfast or to take a piss or to bathe and he thinks he does an okay job, overall, of hiding it. It hurts in another way, deep in his gut, that Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want him to say anything, doesn’t want him to know, but in another way he does. He really does. He wants Geralt to find out and be upset because he cares about Jaskier, cares about his well being and whether he’s in pain. He wants the full force of those golden eyes on him with total attention, those broad hands running across his flank to search for damage. Jaskier wants.

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down. Or maybe he’s just healing nicely, and so for a few hours Jaskier just… forgets. They’re in a tavern, stopped in a small town a week and a half away from the fiend encounter, and Jaskier is a bit drunk. He’s been playing, for the first time since he was thrown into that tree, and it felt so good he got a bit lost in it. The crowd was small but invested, lively and eager for entertainment, and Jaskier had been passed more than a couple of tankards. Geralt had watched it all unfold with mild amusement, matching Jaskier cup for cup but barely tipsy by the end of the night. Jaskier had stumbled up the stairs with Geralt close on his heels, likely making sure he didn’t tumble back down the steps. He isn’t that drunk, truly. Barely wobbling as he’d made his way into the room. But as he tugs off his boots now and tosses aside his doublet, he’s drunk enough that he forgets, for the first time in a week, that he’s got something to hide. He turns away from Geralt and unbuttons his shirt, yawning around some garbled sentence about how many ales he’s had. The fabric has barely left his shoulders when he hears Geralt make a strangled sound, and turns to find himself nose to nose with the witcher.

“Uh,” he says, articulately, and hisses as Geralt’s fingers come up to prod his side. Oh, right. Fuck. He’d been doing so well.

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asks, and his voice comes out as a low, warning growl that Jaskier feels in his toes. It’s threatening, he reprimands himself. Geralt is scary when he’s mad. Not hot. Scary. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier snaps back to the moment.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, too quickly. He’s trying to pull his shirt back up to cover up the canvas of blue-purple-yellow that’s scattered across his ribs and shoulder, but Geralt’s hands are in the way. He must be truly surprised, to break his own rules about personal space like this. “I fell, it looks worse than it is. Nothing to be concerned about, truly, I don’t even think my ribs took too much damage -”

“When?” Geralt says. His tone and his hands are demanding, pulling Jaskier’s arm up away from his body so Geralt can get a closer look. Jaskier feels himself flush under his touch, and he’s annoyed at himself for it.

“Uh, a - a week ago? Around then? It’s been a few days.”

Geralt looks away from the bruises, his eyebrows pinched together. His golden eyes are intense, searching Jaskier’s face for a lie. There’s a moment of quiet between them, Geralt thinking with his hand spread across Jaskier’s ribs, and then his face softens with surprise. “The fiend hunt,” he says, and then his face shutters into that expression, furious and guilty, that Jaskier was trying to avoid this whole damn time.

“I was fine,” he tries to say, but Geralt is already growling at him.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Jaskier?” he snaps. Gentle-rough hands push Jaskier down onto the one bed in the room. They’d decided to share, to save money. Always to save money. Geralt starts pacing, not an aimless trek but a journey around the room, pulling various supplies out of their scattered bags. “You could have died. What if your lung had been punctured? Or your kidney ruptured?” A jar and a roll of bandages are thrown down by Jaskier’s side, and the bard winces at the sharp movement. Geralt stops in front of him, fists clenched at his side, glaring down at Jaskier’s face. Accusation in every line of his body.

Jaskier sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide the wince as it pulls at his side. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. Geralt isn’t entitled to know of Jaskier’s every scrape and bruise. Yet Jaskier feels guilty regardless. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The fiend was there, so was I, I ended up fine! I’ll be better in another week or less.”

Geralt looks away, jaw clenching as he studies the far side of the room with intense scrutiny. Without looking back, he says, “You should have told me.”

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt turns and gathers up the supplies on the bed and sits down beside him. The lid of the jar pops off, releasing a cool, minty smell into the air. “Lift your arm up,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier does. He can only go up so far without pain, so he rests his forearm on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s bare from the waist up and Geralt is still fully dressed. It makes him feel off balance and short of breath, for some reason. A moment later Geralt’s fingers are smoothing lightly over his ribs, rubbing whatever salve was in the jar across Jaskier’s bruises. The gentle touch steals the rest of the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

Jaskier lets Geralt work on him in silence, the minutes stretching out silently between them. He’s not sure what to say - how to tell Geralt that he didn’t want him to be mad without sounding like a child, how to make Geralt feel less guilty without being patronizing. Jaskier never quite knows how to manage Geralt’s emotions, not like he does everyone else’s. A crowd, a pretty barmaid, a professor at Oxenfurt, all of these are easy to push and pull where he pleases. Easy to predict. Geralt… isn’t. He digs in his heels when Jaskier tries to lead him, closes himself off when Jaskier tries to get a peak under the mask. Geralt is, Jaskier thinks, perhaps one of the most complicated people Jaskier’s ever met. He knows that’s part of the draw. But it’s frustrating in moments like these, when Jaskier wants so badly to say just the right thing to make Geralt’s shoulders relax, to make the deep frown marring his lovely mouth loosen into a smile. He thinks he could figure it out, given enough time. If Geralt will let him.

When Geralt finally moves to face away from him, to attend to his back, Jaskier speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he forces his voice to be steady and firm. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to feel bad for not - That is, I don’t blame you. And I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Geralt's hands still on his back, his warm palm burning where it rests on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. It’s so hot in the room, sweat prickling against Jaskier’s brow, and Geralt’s hand doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you slow me down,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his breath on the nape of his neck, and he can’t suppress a shiver. Geralt must notice, but he doesn’t comment.

“You very much do,” Jaskier argues, irritated. “You remind me on a near nightly basis that if I’m not up when the sun is you’ll leave me behind. I don’t even bother to ask for a break anymore because you never fail to remind me that it’s my choice to be here. And it is, I know that. I’ll keep up, and if I can’t I’ll take my leave. You’ve made it quite clear that the onus of responsibility rests with me, and I accept that.”

From this close Jaskier can nearly hear Geralt grinding his teeth together. “Not at the expense of your health,” he says, and he sounds properly angry now. “Fuck, Jaskier, you can’t think I’d - That I wouldn’t wait, that I’d leave you behind when you were hurt. You could have fucking died, if it’d been more serious. You couldn’t have known that it wasn’t, right away. What if I’d woken up the next day and you’d choked to death on your own blood in your sleep? What if you’d -” He cuts himself off.

Now Jaskier turns to face him, shocked by the display of emotion, feeling Geralt’s hand shift across his back. Geralt looks away from him, hiding, but the expression that Jaskier catches on his face is… pained. As if it would truly hurt him, to see Jaskier damaged beyond repair. Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want you to take it personally.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his again, smouldering in the low light. Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’s a bit drunk, and they’re so, so close together. The space between them is warm, and Geralt’s hand slowly slides down his back to rest at Jaskier’s hip. “I always take it personally when it comes to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier breathes out shakily. Geralt reaches out with his other hand and gently grasps Jaskier’s elbow, making Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into his knee. “Tell me next time,” Geralt says. And then, “Please.”

Jaskier is powerless to refuse him anything in this moment, so he says, “Alright. I will. Just don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” Something tense releases in Jaskier, because Geralt is not frivolous with his words and a promise means something coming from him. He won’t leave Jaskier behind.

“Well good,” Jaskier says, and smiles easily at him. His side feels better now with the salve and the fuzzy layer of alcohol in his system, and every part of him touching Geralt is tingling pleasantly. It’s a lot of parts, he realizes giddily. He’s nearly in Geralt’s lap, held close by Geralt’s hands in something that’s nearly an embrace, and Geralt’s lips are right there. All Jaskier would have to do is lean forward just a smidge, press them together gently, soft as a feather -

Geralt’s eyes flicker to his mouth, and Jaskier flushes hot all over. Gods. Just a look and he feels undone.

But before he can do anything, Geralt is up and halfway across the room, tucking the jar away like nothing had happened. Jaskier lets out a breath that’s equal parts disappointment and relief. A moment later Geralt is back at his side, holding the roll of bandages.

“This will keep you from pulling them while they heal,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier obediently raises his arms up as much as he can. Geralt wraps up his ribs efficiently, and it does feel a little more stable. It will help him sleep, at the very least. Just before he wraps the light gauze around Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt leans in and drags in a deep breath.

Jaskier splutters. “Are you sniffing me, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt huffs out an amused breath against his skin. “Checking for infection. You don’t smell sweet, so you’re probably alright.”

“I smell plenty sweet,” Jaskier gripes. Geralt finishes the bandages, tying them off neatly. Jaskier feels compressed, a bit, but it’s for the best.

“You smell like ale,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “And the salve. And that lavender soap I hate.”

“You only hate it the first day I use it,” Jaskier points out. The smell is too strong for Geralt to abide by. Jaskier tries not to use it unless they’ll be apart for a day or so. He’d bathed with it the day after the hunt, hoping that the intensity of it would mask anything else Geralt might scent on him. Pain, or distress. Geralt had supported a pinched look of annoyance for a full half a day.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds annoyed and fond at the same time in equal measure, which Jaskier wouldn’t have said was possible before he met Geralt. The most complicated man he’d ever met. “You need to rest.”

“Up at dawn?” Jaskier guesses, shucking off his pants and settling under the covers. Geralt removes his own boots and pants and crawls in on the other side, settled between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s to protect him or to keep him from running off. As if he ever would.

“We’ll leave when you're ready,” Geralt says, snuffing out the candle flickering on the bedside dresser. In the darkness, Jaskier hears, “I’ll wait for you.”

For once Jaskier has nothing else to say to that, so he settled down into the covers and plans to sleep past noon.

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #whump #no. 30 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #october2020 #my work #fic #writing

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fangirleaconmigo · 3 years

Note

Hi! If your prompts are still open, would you consider perhaps Jaskel with them being soulmates? Hope you have a good day!

Hello dear! Once again, after saying I would answer these with 500-1000 words, I've written a full story arc of about 7500 words. Typical!

I started with this: In the books, Jaskier is extremely famous. What would the repercussions of fame be in a 'first words of your soulmate written on your arm' AU? How would people manipulate or weaponize it to get a piece of you?

What would it mean for a witcher, when so many 'first words' said to you are invectives?

And how would Jaskier and Eskel, with existences that seem at complete odds, navigate the cruelties of such a world, and fall in love?

Content Warnings: Brief references to past manipulative or coerced sex. Brief references of past self harm (to get rid of a soulmate mark). But it is a fully happy ending with loads of comfort.

It's Hard to be the Bard it's also hard to be the witcher, but that doesn't rhyme

As a rule, Eskel liked to keep things simple. Philosophy was for mages, who had nothing to do but plot and scheme. Ruminating never once helped a witcher.

However, there were occasional moments when he let himself drop down into his thoughts, despite his propensity for reigning in that sort of thing. And Eskel was right in the thick of one such moment.

He was in a Verden tavern, watching a man with a lute.

The man sang as he stepped playfully around the tables, soaking up the enthusiastic attention. He didn’t avoid the intense gaze of the crowd. He looked each of his admirers directly in the eyes. He drank it in like a desert flower soaked up the only rain of the season.

The man with the lute was handsome. Charming. He had a spare but lilting voice. Townspeople crowded in, hanging on his every note. Men sighed. Women cried.

But Eskel wasn’t thinking admiring thoughts. He was bewildered. Slightly perturbed. What did it feel like to be this man? To not pull away from such intense, focused attention? What was it like to have people habitually look at you with admiration instead of fear? To be the recipient of fevered lust instead of disgust?

Eskel couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He wondered if two people with such diametrically opposed experiences of living in the world could even be thought of as belonging to the same species.

But the longer Eskel looked, the more interesting the man became. It was like moving closer to a painting and picking out the red and white strokes that combined to make the pink. The singer had a fair youthful face that contrasted with his filthy mouth. He wore the most elegant ensemble Eskel had ever seen in an ordinary tavern, but his doublet lay open rakishly and an obscene thatch of chest hair peeked out.

On closer inspection, he was gorgeous.

Then suddenly, the man was looking him in the eye. He locked into Eskel’s gaze before the witcher could avert his eyes. Eskel froze, fingers hovering over the handle of his mug. He waited for the man to look away to more pleasing vistas. But instead, this confounding man broke easily into a wide, wild grin. Even the warbling lusty note he held couldn’t dim its shine.

Eskel smiled back, with no thought to what his own face looked like.

And then the man with the lute winked at him.

That small gesture sent a thrill of excitement up Eskel’s spine. But that was only the beginning. The spirit and the spark Eskel now saw in the man’s eyes grabbed him by the heart and screamed “Pay attention. This is important.” It was a chain reaction, like one of Lambert’s experiments. It ignited a buzz, which transformed into a lightness of being.

It was infatuation.

Eskel hadn’t felt that in ages. Maybe not since he was a youngling. He couldn’t help it. He chuckled.

Well look at that, you’re still alive, old man. He murmured to himself.

He knew that the wink was the totality of the connection he would have with this man. So he tucked it away in some recess that he could visit later. He would think of it again when he was alone and the world was quiet. No one could judge him for it, because no one would know.

A voice cleared.

The alderman had arrived. This was the part Eskel had been dreading.

“Eskel.” He said Eskel’s name the way one would point out a rotten fleck of cheese. Eskel had made an effort to bathe after his messy hunt and before meeting this man. He had used a fragrant soap and scrubbed until his skin was pink. He had flattened and spit down his hair until it gleamed. He had shaved around his scars so that he didn’t have scattered sparse hair on his cheeks.

He knew it wouldn’t matter. And it didn’t. But he had tried.

“Carlen,” he answered evenly. He kept his voice low, as was his habit. He had been told it sounded like barking dogs.

The alderman didn’t deign to sit. He stood beside the table and dropped a bag of coins. Even looking at it, Eskel knew it wasn’t enough. He picked up the bag and Carlen cocked an eyebrow.

“You don't trust me, witcher?”

He said it like it was absurd. Topsy turvy. Backwards.

“Just business,” said Eskel. He dumped the coins and looked up at Carlen. “This is half of what we agreed to.”

“I gave the rest to the other witcher,” Carlen insisted.

“Lambert took half. I get half.”

“He took more.”

No he fucking didn’t. Eskel knew Lambert would never short him. Carlen was a lying piece of shit.

Eskel hadn’t even responded when Carlen spoke again. “Don’t get upset!” he said theatrically, looking around at the tavern. Eskel instinctively surveyed the place too. The singer had finished his set and was putting away his lute. He was crouched on the ground. A ribbon tied his trousers together at the back. Even in his irritated state, Eskel noted the ridiculous, adorable bow.

“We all know how witchers get,” Carlen said to the tavern, which was now silent other than clinking of glasses. “We wouldn't want any trouble.”

Eskel knew what this was. It was a threat. Carlen was gambling that he could turn the crowd against him if he pressed. Eskel turned back to Carlen, calculating his risk. Calculating how much money he absolutely needed...how much was non negotiable to let him survive to the next job.

Eskel opened his mouth but then startled because suddenly, the singer was right next to him, a vision in teal. How had he moved that quickly? He positioned himself right between Carlen and Eskel. He took up space like a man who had never had to shrink to be found palatable. He placed his hands on his hips like he was a man who belonged anywhere he chose to be. He tipped his head back to look down his nose at the alderman.

“Carlen,” he said imperiously. “Surely you aren’t trying to cheat the man.”

Carlen shrunk backwards. “Oh well hello, Viscount Julian.”

Viscount. What was a viscount doing performing in a tavern? Eskel figured this Viscount Julian should be in court somewhere or enjoying his land. Of course the tavern was packed with an adoring crowd. Maybe he just liked the attention.

“Don’t hello Viscount Julian me,” he sniffed in Carlen’s direction. “Pay the man what you’ve promised him. Do you want witchers to deny us their services? Are you prepared to do battle with a beastie? Well I can’t imagine that,” he cackled mockingly. “You’d piss yourself the minute you were in any real danger.”

Carlen’s eyes hardened, but he was clearly outranked. “No, no, of course no. A mere misunderstanding.”

“I would hope so,” snorted Julian. He picked at his doublet, straightening the buttons, as though Carlen was beneath his notice.

Usually an outsized air of entitlement like that grated on Eskel’s nerves. But it wasn’t so bad when it was deployed in his defense. Most people assumed he didn’t need defending. And he didn’t need it, strictly speaking. But secretly, he liked it.

Julian looked at Carlen again but gestured at Eskel. “After all, how often do we get such brave, handsome men in this godforsaken town? Valiant men who have quite literally slayed monsters, like heroes of old. And that smell of--” Julian sniffed the air, “orange blossoms.”

Eskel’s heart sank as soon as he heard the word handsome, and it kept plummeting like a stone at the words ‘valiant’ and ‘hero’. This was all bullshit. Another performance. He knew he wasn’t handsome. He knew that for a fact. And no one thought that witchers were valiant. Useful maybe. But this was all way too over the top to be true.

Viscount Julian was mocking him.

Wasn’t he?

There had been times when women in taverns would dare each other to go talk to the monstrous man in the corner, as a test of courage. They thought Eskel couldn’t hear them chatter to each other before sending one over to say hello. It always made him feel sour inside. Humiliated.

This had to be the same.

Eskel clenched his fists, bunching up the knees of his trousers. His heart rebelled. This man had smiled at him so brightly. It had felt real. It had felt so real.

There was only one way to find out whether Viscount Julian was mocking him. He had to ask.

“Did Lambert put you up to this?” asked Eskel.

Lambert had been in here collecting his pay on the contract just before Eskel. He might still be around. Eskel leaned back to sweep his eyes around the tavern. He searched for Lambert’s smirking face. He didn’t find it.

He looked back at Julian, and was startled to see a stark transformation. Julian’s face had fallen. It had gone completely slack. It had just been full of verve and charm for Eskel, and righteous disdain for Carlen. Now he looked hurt, and stunned, as though Eskel had just slapped him flat across the face. Carlen didn’t notice, he was busy pulling out more coins.

Eskel panicked and ran through what he had just said. In retrospect it didn't make sense, of course. Lambert wouldn't have put Julian up to this. If Lambert had wanted Carlen put in his place he would have done it himself. And he wouldn’t have gotten anyone to mock Eskel’s looks. Lambert was an asshole but he wasn’t cruel. There was a difference.

But in the moment, Eskel had just instinctively grasped for someone to blame for a trick on him, and had come up with Lambert out of rote habit. And now Julian was standing before him, his eyes hardened into little blue points of wounded betrayal.

And Eskel had no idea why.

“Here you go, sir witcher,” smiled Carlen falsely. Eskel looked back at the alderman to gather his coins. The man dropped a second bag into his hands and turned on his heel. The doors of the tavern clattered in his wake. Eskel turned back to Julian, but he was gone.

He was up front again. A smile was back on his face, but it was brittle. It was nothing like before. The barkeep cupped his hands around his mouth and exhorted the crowd to “give a hand to Jaskier!”

Jaskier. Must be a stage name.

The crowd went absolutely wild. Eskel picked out squeals and shrieks from people who Jaskier honored with a wink. But it looked forced. Eskel felt slightly ill. He felt responsible for this reversal of moods. He shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers on the surface.

Eskel didn’t know why he cared so much, why his mind churned and guilt settled on him like a shroud. Geralt and Lambert always told him that he cared too much what other people thought of him. He knew they would advise him to leave the tavern. He had his money. And he hadn’t said anything rude or disrespectful. He had nothing to apologize for.

And yet.

Eskel hadn’t been offered a friendly expression all spring. Then, when he was greeted with a joyous open smile, Eskel had chased it away. Worse yet, he didn’t even know how he had done it. It irked him. He wasn’t going to be able to leave here until he found out. He lifted a finger to call over the server. His appetite had mostly withered, but he needed a reason to be at the table for the rest of the evening. The server ignored him. After a long wait, the proprietor himself came out to serve him. The server must have refused to help him. It was fine.

Eskel ordered his supper, then sat there as dusk settled outside. He nursed his pint. He clanged a spoon around in his soup. And he trained his witcher hearing on Jaskier, who sat with his back to him across the tavern at the bar.

Over the next hour, people approached Jaskier in an unrelenting stream. Apparently, he was a singer of some renown. Some people asked him for a song. Others wanted good wishes for their families. Some told him their personal problems in lurid detail. Some grabbed him and kissed his cheek. Others propositioned him in such obscene terms that Eskel’s ears turned pink. He wasn’t shy about sex, but he was uncomfortable with aggressive, public propositions.

Jaskier responded to them all in a practiced, cheerful tone. He laughed and squirmed subtly away from caresses. He smiled into cheek kisses. But Eskel could tell that by comparison to his earlier vivacity, this was pure performance. His mood was sour, but he was hiding it remarkably well. And he was throwing back pint after pint, growing intoxicated.

A protective instinct bloomed in Eskel, but he resisted it. Jaskier clearly liked fame, he must know how to handle it even when drunk.

Eskel watched carefully as the next man approached Jaskier. He had a doublet and trousers on that were similar to the outfit Jaskier wore. He smiled lasciviously. Then he said something quietly in Jaskier’s ear that made Eskel’s hair stand on end.

“Did Lambert put you up to this?”

Jaskier exploded. He slammed his stein down on the bar. “Put me up to what?? Who would put me up to sitting on my ass drinking ale? It doesn’t even make sense! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The tavern fell silent and tense.

Jaskier hopped down from the stool and almost stumbled forward onto his face. An empathy response made Eskel jerk forward but he stopped himself. He was too far away, even if Jaskier wanted his help. The man who had spoken tried to steady him but Jaskier yanked his arm away. He grabbed his lute and pulled it over his shoulder. Then he rushed towards the exit. As Jaskier passed Eskel on the way to the door, he kept his eyes trained forward, steadfastly avoiding looking at him.

Jaskier burst out the door and into the night. Several people jumped from their seats and followed him, whispering frantically to one other.

Eskel desperately wanted to know why that man had said what he said. He almost moved to go ask. But then he nervously glanced at the door. Those overbearing people were stalking Jaskier in his vulnerable drunken state. Alright, Eskel was stalking him too. But he was keeping a respectful distance.

Eskel pushed to his feet. He dropped a sufficient amount of coin onto the table and followed the trickle of people outside. Verden was no backwater, so the streets were wide and lined with shops all closed up for the night. The mercantile district was built close to the banks of the Yaruga so the air smelled of wet earth, fish, and tar.

He spotted Jaskier headed north in the direction of the docks. It was a bad idea. Generally, when one was drunk, one should avoid large bodies of water.

Eskel walked down the cobblestone street, keeping to the shadows. It was quieter outside and his ear rang slightly, adjusting from the loud noise of the tavern.

Two young men who had been tailing Jaskier, reached him and touched his shoulder to get his attention. Eskel was close enough that he could see Jaskier turn around. The streetlamp shone warm gold on one side of Jaskier’s face and the moon lit him soft and gray on the other. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His eyes were watery and his mouth was set in a grim line.

Eskel’s pulse quickened when he heard one of the men lean in and ask, “Did Lambert put you up to this?”

Jaskier flipped them off and took off further down the street.

The men gave up their mission, and turned back, only for Eskel to emerge from the shadows, glowering down at them. One of the men shrieked like a frightened child.

“Why did you say that to him?” gritted out Eskel.

The two men skittered backwards, eyes wide, stammering apologies. “I’m not the only one who’s tried it,” said one man, his round face pinched in fear.

“It can’t hurt to try,” said the other, holding tight to his hat as they scattered away.

What in the fuck did that mean? There were three more people behind Eskel who had come out of the tavern to follow Jaskier. He whirled around, stepped towards them, and growled. They all yelped and retreated.

Eskel surveyed the empty street in satisfaction. Then he hurried to recapture Jaskier. He calculated how close he needed to be to pull Jaskier out of the water if he pitched off the side of the pier.

But thankfully, Jaskier found a seat on a wide, squat, wooden beam safely away from the edge of the pier. He lowered himself carefully and raised his face to inhale the soft breeze cooling his face. The lapping of water and the chirp of crickets soon swallowed every other noise.

Eskel drew closer, debating what to do. Then he came to a decision. He approached and knelt beside Jaskier.

“Hello,” said Eskel gently.

Jaskier turned slowly to look at him. His bleary eyes focused, lit up briefly, then extinguished.

“Fuck off.”

There was no fire behind it. He sounded drained. He didn’t slur, but his words were fuzzy. Slippery. He looked back at the water and inhaled, as though he meant to block Eskel out of his mind.

“My name is Eskel.”

Jaskier rubbed his face then dropped his hands heavily back in his lap. “Th-blazes do you want, Eskel?” His face looked drawn, all efforts at jolliness had vanished. Eskel wanted to touch him to comfort him, but he knew it wouldn't be welcome.

“Why are people saying that to you? About Lambert?” he asked.

Jaskier chuckled bitterly. “You tell me. You said it too.” He stood up and walked to the edge of the pier. Eskel almost stood up, in order to be at the ready if Jaskier fell. But then he heard the telltale sound of him pissing in the water.

Jaskier returned to his seat on the beam and settled in, looking out over the water once again.

“Yes, but I know why I said it,” insisted Eskel, picking the conversation up where he left off. “I have a brother named Lambert. He likes to play tricks sometimes. What I want to know is, why did the others say it?”

Jaskier picked up a bottle sitting on the docks between his feet. Eskel hadn’t noticed it there before. Jaskier pulled out the cork and took a sip. Then he lowered it and licked his lips. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, it's true.”

Jaskier’s shoulders shook. He was giggling. But it wasn’t a nice giggle. It was bitter. “I really thought you were different. For just a moment.”

Eskel had thought the same about Jaskier. It had felt awful when that belief turned to ash, when he thought Jaskier was mocking him. He replied softly, “you don’t even know me.”

It was quiet now. The sounds that were left of the town were far away. There was only the ripples of water and the rustle of reeds. Each time they spoke, their voices broke the silence like a pebble in still water. It made their conversation feel intimate. Eskel supposed that should have been weird. They didn't know each other, and Jaskier didn’t trust him. But oddly, that was exactly how it felt. Intimate.

Jaskier shrugged. Eskel thought that meant “fine, don’t believe me,” and that the line of inquiry was dead. He opened his mouth to try a different tack.

But Jaskier cut in. “It was your smile,” he said. The words sounded like truth dragged up from the depths of his soul. “It was...utterly sincere.” Jaskier paused and pondered, his lips frozen mid utterance. Eskel waited until he continued. “I could feel it. I was drawn to it. And when Carlen came in, I saw you were a witcher.” He lifted the palms of his hands and shrugged. “So you were also brave, and a man who didn’t deal in bullshit. I admired you straight away.”

Eskel flushed. He had a hard time with compliments. But this was even worse, because Jaskier was using the past tense. These nice words were things Jaskier used to think of him.

Jaskier fiddled with the cork he had pulled from the bottle. “And when Carlen tried to cheat you, you were humble. Quiet. Like you didn’t want to be too big or too much. The fucker instantly took advantage of that. And it did silence you.”

Eskel couldn’t protest, because it was true.

“I relate to that,” said Jaskier. “Being afraid of being too much. Perhaps for different reasons. But I do. It was a small thing. But I connected with you.”

He threw the cork out into the water with a flick of his wrist. It made a soft plunk when it hit the surface, and it bobbed downstream. Jaskier took another sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Plus, you’re handsome. It made me stupid.”

He really did think Eskel was handsome, after all.

The wooden beams were digging bruises into Eskel’s knees, so he sat back and crossed his legs. Jaskier glanced at him, watching him getting comfortable. He raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t ask him to leave.

“Why did the others repeat my words?” He had to persist until he got an answer.

Jasker snorted. “It’s a trick.” He held out his arm in the moonlight and shoved up his sleeve. Up his forearm ran the neat line of his soulmate words in stark black against his pale skin.

It sounded absurd, but Eskel often forgot about the existence of soulmate words. He had gotten so practiced at blocking them out...pretending that they didn’t exist.

Lots of people didn’t put stock in them anyway. Believing in soulmate words was a leap of faith, like spending all season tilling new ground, or trying for a child. You hoped for the best. But sometimes the winter was harsh. Or the baby had a head too large for birth. Or you had terrible soulmate words. Words that were common. Words that were cruel. Or worst of all, words that were both common and cruel.

It was a mess, bordering on a clusterfuck. But now, looking at Jaskier’s forearm, Eskel was flooded with emotions so potent he had to concentrate on pulling in breath to slow his pulse. On Jaskier’s forearm sat the following words:

Did Lambert put you up to this.

Eskel’s heart pounded. His hand came up to his own arm, covered by his sleeve. He was almost a hundred years old. He hadn’t thought of his own soulmate words in decades. He had practically forgotten they existed. But now he made the connection.

His spirit eased. A fear he had been guarding and allowing to fester ever since he was twenty one, began to slip away.

Jaskier pulled his sleeve back down. “See, you seem genuinely surprised.” He shook his head slowly, eyes hollow. “And something inside me still fights to believe you.”

The light went on and Eskel understood. He hadn’t been overheard. Jaskier’s fans had already known the words on his forearm. The man in the bar, the people chasing Jaskier in the street, they had all been trying to trick Jaskier into believing they were his soulmate. Eskel had trundled right into an existing situation like a bull in a china shop.

“So, your fans have seen your words, I take it.”

“Fine,” said Jaskier. “If you want to play this, I’ll play it.”

He turned around and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The full force of his expressive doe eyes looked straight into Eskel. Fuck. He was even more beautiful under the stars. Eskel wanted to touch him. He didn’t.

“Tell me,” said Eskel.

“I have never been in a hurry to find my soulmate,” began Jaskier. He had the air of man who was going to tell a story with a beginning, middle and end. Eskel settled in. He was curious. Jaskier’s life sat in the starkest contrast to his own. He wanted to know what it was like, living under such different conditions.

“I wanted to fuck my way across the continent,” Jaskier continued, though he spoke softly now. “I wanted to enjoy every flavor of person. Life is short. And I do love the attention. But--” he raised a finger and tilted his head, “I am still a hopeless romantic. And people have found a way to---” his breathing stuttered, “--use it against me.” The last few words were so quiet, even sitting this close to him Eskel might not have heard were he not a witcher.

At some point this had shifted from shoving his story defiantly at Eskel, to telling it sincerely.

“How?” asked Eskel.

Jaskier lowered his eyes, seeming to build courage. It plucked at Eskel’s heartstrings. “Well, first it was my lyrics. You know how your words don’t come in until you’re twenty one? I was famous by eighteen. So I was out in the world, meeting new people every day, I had no idea what my words would be. So it was easy for them to write my lyrics on their arms. Ink them. Paint them.”

“Your lyrics? Of the songs you sing?”

“Yes,” Jaskier rubbed his forearm absently. “When I walk into a tavern or entertainment hall and begin a song, technically, those are the first words I say to the entire room of people. And there’s no instructional pamphlet. No rule book. Does singing count? It doesn’t. But I didn’t know.”

“So they would ink your lyrics on and claim they were you soulmates because you said those words to them.”

“Yes. And since I didn’t have words of my own yet, I had no way of knowing if it was true.”

“I see,” said Eskel.

“Do you?” Jaskier’s voice turned metallic, rage simmering below. The rage wasn’t for Eskel. It was directed at some memory. “Because the first time a man claimed to be my soulmate, I believed him. He had my lyrics on his arm. He said that I had locked eyes with him across the room when I’d sung them. I was young. Stupid.”

“Trusting.”

“Seeing my lyrics, words I had composed from my heart, on his arm, moved me. I thought it so romantic,” he said, in a tone mocking his past self. “It wasn’t until we were somewhere private, I was divested of my clothes, and I’d--submitted to him that my fingers slid down the sweat on his arms and the words smeared.”

The full reality of what that moment must have been like, dawned on Eskel. “What a piece of shit.”

“The soulmarks were fake.” His voice grew thick with the threat of tears. His vulnerability was almost painful to look at. But Eskel wouldn’t turn away if he didn’t. “The man had lied. Tricked me. I felt like an imbecile. Like an idiot. I may be a slut, but I still like to make my own decisions about who I have sex with, and under honest circumstances.”

Eskel ached in sympathy. He didn’t want to ask how far the tryst had gone before Jaskier knew he’d been lied to. He didn’t want to ask how he’d responded, whether he pretended he hadn’t seen and finished? Or whether he had pulled away and fled.

“Am I boring you yet?” asked Jaskier.

“No.”

Jaskier slid his hands through his fringe and tucked it behind his ear. “I thought I had learned my lesson. So when my words were ready to appear, just before my birthday, I had my mother sew loops onto my sleeves to hide my soulmate words. I didn’t want anyone to learn them and try again to take advantage of me. But one day, the string caught and rode up. Someone saw my words, and I didn’t realize it.”

“Fuck,” whispered Eskel.

“They had my lyrics. I had their words. I thought...I thought I’d found the one again. I fell right into bed with another liar. Another trick.” Jaskier’s throat closed and he fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” said Eskel. “I’m a witcher. People reject us. Hate us. But to have people use your body, to take a piece of it whether you want to give it or not...I don’t know what’s worse.”

“It’s not all bad,” said Jaskier, forcing some levity into his voice. “Most of the time I love fame. Wouldn’t choose anything else. But no rose is without its thorns.”

“I suppose so,” said Eskel. “But you don’t deserve that. No one does.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were brave.”

Jaskier looked doubtful.

“It’s brave to hope in the face of cruelty,” said Eskel. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Jaskier fiddled with his fingers. “Some of my fans are lovely, though. The first man who lied to me? He boasted all over town that he had taken me. That he had tricked me into fucking him. It didn’t go as well as he hoped. Not everyone admired him for it. In fact, a gaggle of adolescent girls, they call themselves Jaskier’s Angels,” a smile curled on his lips, the first real one to occupy his face since Eskel had spoken his soulmate words, “cornered him in an alley and thrashed him with sticks until he cried.

Eskel chuckled. Jaskier joined in. Soon they were both giggling. It wasn’t funny. But they laughed anyway. And it helped. Jaskier sat up and grabbed the bottle again. He chugged it this time.

“I have learned, Eskel,” he said loudly with sharp corners in his voice, as though telling not only Eskel, but the Yaruga itself, “That a pedestal is not love.”

Chug.

“It is just something to fall off of.”

Chug.

“I have learned, Eskel, that someone can be on you, and in you, all without ever fucking seeing you at all.”

Chug.

“I have learned, Eskel, that someone can have your name endlessly on their lips and never care to know who you really are.”

Chug.

Then he swept the bottle to the side in a grand gesture, looking at Eskel, increasingly unsteady. Then he sat in silence, again looking at the water, as the alcohol hit his system.

Eskel swallowed hard. The loneliness that dripped from Jaskier was so thick it felt corporeal. He knew exactly how that felt. He ached to do something, anything to assuage even a bit of it. To reassure him.

He settled for reassuring Jaskier about him. “If you want to check on my story,” he said, “you can ask Carlen. He paid my brother Lambert for the job and made a receipt in the town ledger. I’m a lot of things. But I don’t force people or lie to them for sex. I would never--”

He knew it sounded false. He stopped, letting the words trickle away. Jaskier didn’t respond. They sat in silence as Jaskier downed the rest of the bottle. Eskel watched his throat bob, and vowed to stay and make sure Jaskier got back somewhere safe.

“Where do you live?” he asked. Jaskier didn’t answer. He finished the bottle. Then he turned to face Eskel once again. He hadn't heard his question.

“S-sorry,” he croaked. “I s’pose I'm having....a bit of a night.”

And then he leaned over and vomited into the Yaruga.

Shortly thereafter, he laid down on the slats of the pier for a nice nap.

Eskel carried a snoring Jaskier back to the tavern, bridal style. His sweaty body curled against Eskel’s chest, tranquil and without defense. His fingers pinched periodically at the fabric of Eskel’s shirt. The lute dangled over his shoulder, gently thumping against him as he walked. The proprietor showed them to a modest room upstairs. Eskel settled Jaskier down on the cozy bed with a creak. He took off his shoes and stockings for him, but left the rest. Then he pulled the quilt over him and tucked it against his sides.

He was careful not to touch Jaskier unnecessarily, but he watched him sleep for a few moments. It was good to see him like that. Peaceful. Chest rising and falling.

He found a chair and pulled it out into the hall, closing the door softly behind him.

And he took up watch.

----

The next morning, by the time Jaskier stumbled downstairs to try to pay for his room, Eskel was already gone, heading north on his horse Scorpion. Pines towered above him and the wind was at his back.

He had slipped away as soon as he’d heard Jaskier groan himself awake. He didn’t know how much Jaskier would remember of the previous night. But he would always remember it. He would remember sitting on a creaking dock, listening to Jaskier entrust him with his story. It had been so different from his own, yet he had recognized himself in it. He knew what it was like not to be able to trust. He knew what it was like for people to see you as an object, not a person.

He had wanted to stay longer, maybe for breakfast. But if Eskel had stayed he would have been weak. He would have been selfish. He took a less traveled, dirt road out of town. Not that he thought in a million years that Jaskier would try to follow him. But he took precautions as a rule.

Still, he couldn’t help that his heart leapt to his throat in joy when about five miles out, he heard hooves pounding up the road behind him and Jaskier’s voice shouting his name. “Eskel! Eskel please! I’m still dehydrated. Don’t make me chase you anymore! Have mercy! Stop in the name of Viscount Julian!”

Eskel pulled Scorpion to a stop and turned around, a laugh burbling from his throat. Jaskier looked absolutely ridiculous and splotchy. He was disheveled. But the bright light was back in his eyes. He was smiling from ear to ear.

“I caught you!” He chortled when he was close enough for their horses to eye each other warily.

“Jaskier, what are you doing here? You look...”

“Like shit?” asked Jaskier, panting and running his hands through his hair. In the morning light, the firmness of his muscles, the broadness of his shoulders, were more apparent. Eskel’s body warmed, and he reminded himself that he couldn’t have this man. He shouldn’t.

“Let’s get down so we don’t have to yell at each other,” Jaskier suggested.

The both slid from their saddles and stood in front of one another. Eskel had no idea where this was going, but the full body relief he felt to be standing close to Jaskier again took him by surprise. “I was going to say, you look better. You look happier,” he said.

“Yes,” conceded Jaskier, shading his eyes from the sun. “Last night was rough. But sometimes you need to cleanse your demons with whinging and whiskey.”

Eskel chuckled. “I get that. Have done it more than once.”

Jaskier smiled and it was the first time Eskel had seen him look...shy. If you’d asked him when he’d first laid eyes on Jaskier whether the man was even capable of looking shy he would have said no.

Be strong, you ridiculous witcher, Eskel thought to himself.

“I also benefited greatly from a patient ear,” Jaskier continued. “I benefited from the kindness of a man who carried me back to a room, then apparently sat outside my door all night and chased away several fans who wanted to wake me.”

Eskel’s had frightened a few people away. It had felt sort of good, actually.

“And you paid for my room out of your hard earned coin.”

Eskel felt awkward being at the receiving end of all this gratitude. He liked it, but it made his insides squirm. So he changed the subject. “Did you go by Carlen’s house?”

“I did. On my way here. I hope you don’t take it as an insult.”

“I’m grateful you did. I don’t want any doubt left between us.”

Jaskier stepped closer, and Eskel’s heart thumped in his chest. He could usually hear the other person’s heart and gauge it, but Jaskier was still out of breath from the ride, so his heart was already thudding. But his intentions were clear when he reached out and took Eskel’s hand.

Eskel let him. He revelled in the curl of Jaskier’s fingers around his own. His eyes even fluttered closed momentarily when Jaskeir squeezed him. He wanted this touch. He wanted more.

“Eskel, I think you are the best man I’ve ever met.”

There was no way Eskel could process that fully. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“You couldn’t have known,” replied Jaskier. “You innocently stumbled into my mess.”

Their clasped hands swung between them. Scorpion whinnied. Jaskier’s horse moseyed to the edge of the trail and sniffed around.

“What does your arm say, Eskel?” challenged Jaskier.

Eskel’s smile melted into concern. “Jaskier,” he pleaded. “You don't want to know. I’m not right for you. My life is hard and cold. I move from place to place, and sometimes I don’t even know when the next coin will come.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what is right for me?” Jaskier asked. His voice was gentle but there was the slightest edge.

Eskel thought about Diedre, and how he had tried to protect her from herself by keeping her out of his life, and how disastrous the consequences had been. He realized that this was similar. The thought that he was repeating a mistake distressed him greatly. Perhaps he needed to stop protecting people and start trusting them. Perhaps he needed to have a little faith.

Eskel looked above Jaskier’s shoulder, towards the horizon. He slowly pulled up his sleeve, turning his arm so that Jaskier could see his soulmark words.

Jaskier’s lips moved as he read them.

Fuck off.

They were the first words that Jaskier had properly said to him. Jaskier ran his finger over the bumps of scar tissue surrounding them. “What happened?” He looked into Eskel’s eyes with naked concern.

Eskel didn’t like talking about it, but Jaskier had shared his story. It was Eskel’s turn.

“People tell witchers to fuck off pretty regularly. And it would be weird to offer yourself up as a soulmate when they do.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. His shoulders slumped, looking distressed at the thought. "You deserve so much better than that, dear man."

This kindness caused Eskel to pry his heart open just a little bit more.

“Every day I am outside of Kaer Morhen, I have to prove that I’m a person, and not a monster. Trying to destroy the marks was my way of rebelling against a destiny that wanted me to hate myself. Against accepting a soul mate who I would have to convince not to hate me.”

Jaskier’s face pinched in sympathetic pain. He pulled Eskel’s forearm closer and pressed a kiss to the ridge of the burn scars running along the words. Eskel melted.

“I stopped when I got these,” he pointed to the scars on his face. “After that, I didn’t have the stomach for more scars. So I just tried to forget.”

Jaskier chewed his lip. His hand was warm and comforting in Eskel’s palm. “You know that’s not the reason I told you to fuck off,” he said. “It had nothing to do with you being a witcher.”

“I know,” said Eskel. “You thought I was trying to take advantage of you, like the others.”

“You have my deepest apologies, darling Eskel,” said Jaskier.

“You didn’t know. You stumbled innocently into my mess.” He repeated the same sentiment that Jaskier had offered him. “This might be weird, but I was relieved when you said my soulmark words. I had always assumed it would be the words of someone disgusted by me. Someone I would have to convince that I am a person. But it wasn't that after all. You and I, we just...had a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Jaskier reached for Eskel’s other hand. “Can we begin again? Shall I beg? I’m willing to beg.”

They stood clasping hands as though they were about to dance in the middle of the dusty trail. When Eskel didn’t answer him, he pressed again.

“I always pictured myself being dashing and romantic,” Jaskier said plaintively, “if I ever met my soulmate. I’m a poet, for fuck’s sake. I can do better than fuck off. If you give me a chance, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll write you a hundred poems.”

Eskel released Jaskier’s hands and took a step backwards, giving him an out if he wanted it.

“Jaskier, this life is bloody and dangerous. The life span is short. The food on the road is shit. The monsters are absolute cunts.”

Jaskier closed the distance between them, grasping his hands again. Butterflies fluttered through Eskel’s stomach.

“I’m hardier than I may seem,” he insisted. “And I happen to be looking for a change of scenery.”

“What about your music?” asked Eskel.

“Adventures and brave deeds make the best ballads.”

Eskel chuckled. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hope you aren’t used to winning arguments.” Jaskier grinned mischievously, and it was obscenely endearing. There was so much more to this man than first met the eye.

Yes, he had been imperious and entitled. But he had weaponized it to defend Eskel. And Jaskier’s breakdown by the docks had shown how trusting he still was, under it all. It was resilience. It was courage. It was hope. Eskel remembered hope.

“There are no beautiful boys and girls here,” he said.

“I am looking at the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."

Eskel blushed and smothered a smile. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded yet. He had to be sure that Jaskier knew what this would mean. “But every night you play, you get your choice of the partner. You can have anyone. You can taste any flavor.”

“But I am ready for something more. Something better. Someone better.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“I want to find out,” said Jaskier. “Please, Eskel. Grant me the chance to find out.”

The sincerity of his pleading gave Eskel the courage to drop the last of his defenses. He allowed hope to rush in like the tide. He pulled Jaskier against him and cupped his face in his hands.

And he kissed him.

Jaskier whimpered in delight and melted against him, fingers sliding up to rest against his neck. It was a kiss of promise. It was the beginning of a journey.

Eskel drank in his eager lips and the press of his warm, enthusiastic body. Then he pulled back to look at Jaskier closely, a smile tugging at his lips once more.

“Very well, Viscount Julian,” he said with a teasing flourish. “Would you like to crawl around in the brush with me and be menaced by a bloodthirsty bruxa? Because that is what comes next.”

“I would,” said Jaskier. “I do”

“Don’t you want to go back to get your things?”

“I’ll buy more. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

Pieces of Eskel mended at that. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him for several long moments, feeling their hearts beating against one another. Jaskier rested his head on his shoulder with a sigh, and ran his fingers up and down Eskel’s back.

Then they mounted their horses and rode off together, towards the first adventure of many.

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #the witcher fic #soulmate au

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hellinglasses · 2 years

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@blackberrywars my dear my darling I took a few days to reply cause I’m a certified Mess but by all means please Know I was ecstatic upon seeing this. welp, here it goes

10 fandoms, 10 characters, 10 tags

in no particular order of belovedness:

1. the witcher: it too is lambert. my ashdnoijskplfgeiotrsd. a sdbdiunfaodjpksapl, if you will. I want to wrap this baby in blankets even though he will probably bite my hand for the trouble I dared to inflict to him. I’ll cherish it when he does and then feed him ice cream.

2. our flag means death: it’s the angry little rat man for me. israel my beloved I want to give you head pats. I want to feed you soup. I want to drag you through horrible things and then surround you with Love, actually

3. the simarillion and holy hell what even to call this fandom assorted mess: maedhros. the first time I read from you my hear went sdugbuahjikoalbdsnmf and I have loved you ever since, even as canon whump you and yours so terribly and half the fandom will spit the dirt upon hearing your name. I wish I had it in me to actually write that fic to you.

4. good omens: aziraphale. I could never put into words how badly I love you and see myself on you, even as I don’t love all my parts I sure love yours. you’re kind, but aloof, loving but afraid, giving yet self-indulgent, feral but covered in just enough veneer one must work for it to perceive it, to perceive you. and of course, an entire bitch (affectionate)

5. clowntown: richie tozier, you utter shit, you desperate loud fucker. you passed me by when I first met you, a single line to my friends about how I liked the sweary one, but then, years later, fandom made me fall in love with you. I guard your insecurites as my own, but nonetheless your joy, found upon finally cherishing yourself amongst your found family of queer weirdos.

6. steven universe: pearl. you’re a powerhouse, sweetheart. I rember the days before the show progressed, how I used to think of this lowly servant who met the handsomest quartz soldier and how they fell in love and started a revolution hellbent in changing their world. a socialist revolution if you will, it was also the time I was just growing into my own and discovering that too. you still mean the world to me, beloved.

7. gravity falls: stan pines. I’m a mabel myself, and you’re still my favorite. you’re so full with love and loyalty, my darling, even as one must really look behind first sights. you’re entirely love, full to the bursting

8. scooby doo: daphne. for the longest time I couldn’t figure out whether I wanted to be you or gvdshabsnjikolpçfhdjioks. I would play pretend at being you before I had breakfast, tiny and dragging around bedsheets imagining it was the most incredible purple gown. I remember my mom telling me to just imagine, no need to make for more laundry.

9. hannibal: the primadonna himself. baby invented homoerotic muder as courting, being soft while covered in blood and also Pining, actually. random headcanon no one asked for but is getting anyway is that if they live or die after the cliff, that’s will’s choice to make. hannibal left alone for florence, and was miserable. let himself get caught because he couldn’t bear to leave without him again. he would be happy to just die by his side. after all, it’s beautiful.

10. the akallabeth (it’s not cheating if it can be found as a separate book, is it? bwejknqdiwjose): mairon. you might know him as sauron, an epithet meaning “the abhorred”, or even as gorthaur, “the cruel”. but that’s the name he gave himself, it means “admirable”, or even tar-mairon, meaning “king excellent”. babygirl has the range of the entire reputation album, as I sing along loudly to I did something bad and imagine it over and over as I picture the fall of numenor -- I never trust a narcisist, but they love me. can you imagine, arriving a despised prisioner, manipulating your way to giving counsel to the king, and then establishing yourself as the high priest of a religion in honor of your fallen husband? bitch is so messy and I am full of love.

well okay so I regularly talk to literally two people in this godforsaken site and one literally tagged me in this so I’m just gonna tag the other and then a bunch of beloved mutuals I keep seeing in my notes and hope they don’t mind me too badly so

@tediousdelusion, @soundfanatic, @marcato-meumew, @alllthequeenshorses, @sardonicsymphonic,

#a few notes on Thoughts I had writing this #god I wish I could write as good as those bbys deserve #me realizing I put both izzy and pearl into the list: oh #canon can die a violent death please and thank you #is it really repeating a fandom if the characters also shows in lotr but not really?#mutuals please know I think of you as friends and smile every time I see you in my notes but you can 100% ignore this if you want to okay #oh damn I have taylor swift songs assigned to SO MANY of these blorbos feel free to message me about it

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imnotwolverine · 3 years

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The Wolves Return - Part 2

< Part 1 | Part 3 >

Summary: Evil is meddling in the woods and bad news hangs in the air.

Word count: 2649 (9,5 min. reading)

Disclaimer: 16+ - Thrilling, monster hunting and gore, minor injuries and a smidge of Geralt being a soft!dad

And then the White Wolf came. Fighting till his knees gave out and weakened did he bleat; Shit, Fuck, Almighty! Is death worth this good deed?

It was a terrible idea to go out of Kaer Morhen’s gates in this weather, with his leg feeling like a lug. But Geralt was a man of principle. And evil was evil. Greater, lesser, meddling. It stopped him from having a quiet night in, and he wasn’t having it.

Stepping out of the gate that crashed back in its lock, Geralt squinted into the flurry of snow. The footsteps he had seen here had faded as the stormy weather raged on.

Removing the long silver steel from its scabbard, he let his golden eyes roam over the dangerous pines. Instinctively his free hand shot out to his medallion. The magical pendant was still warm from the firepit inside and it thrummed restlessly into his palm, indicating that a source of magic was near.

‘Come out then.’ He demanded. But nothing came. A new flurry of snow came in instead and it was almost hard to believe that hours earlier the world had been green and somewhat peaceful.

Unfortunately for Geralt it wasn’t just snow that had arrived. A heavy gust made him stagger. It was like someone had tried to push him over, the strength so odd that perhaps he had already found his magical perpetrator.

Raising his sword, his free hand casted Yrden. The spell lit purplish blue fires in a circle around him, illuminating the radiant storm. That storm seemed to calm somewhat within the boundaries of his spell. It confirmed his assumptions that something strange was afoot, and yet he couldn’t place whom or what it was. Was it the woman? If so, were there more? Was this an ambush?

What a way to die that would be.

Looking left and right he sniffed the air. That same mixture of fresh pine sap and blood hung in the air.

A scream.

In a rush of whirling wind that crushed a tree branch up ahead, the woman came hurling at Geralt. Her skirts were ripped and somewhere in the past minutes she had lost her cape.

Geralt steadied his breath, ready to strike. But as the woman came near he noticed that the winds around her were off. They were irregular, like a wall of mists chasing her down.

‘RUN!’ She belted, eyes wide.

Geralt did not run. He only raised his sword a little higher, head twitching to the side to take that ever important decision; attack or defend.

The woman was a few footsteps away as he made his call. With a twirl he slashed down, hacking straight through succulent flesh.

The woman froze, gulping as a frosted grey creature fell apart by her feet.

‘Ah!’

‘QUIET.’ Geralt growled, eyes focused. The Yrden flames now cast a purplish hue over his pale features. Keeping his sword in one hand, his other was held out, ready to cast another spell if needed.

The woman nodded. With her arms grasping around some undefined wooden object in her arms she looked around skittishly. The wall of magical winds was now encircling them, causing the temperature to drop even further. Icy breaths broke from their mouths and the pinetrees above their heads went berzerkers. Whipping wildly to and fro it felt like they would soon pick up their root systems and fly off.

‘We’re gonna die.’ The woman cried.

‘The fuck we aren’t.’

The woman stepped back to get her back closer to the Witcher. Geralt snarled.

‘Don’t make this any harder woman.’

She let out a little breath but kept her complaints to herself. ‘Ha..typical this is.’ She whispered.

The winds were now inching closer, investigating the curious sign that was losing its force. Without hesitation Geralt called upon it again. The purple blue flames rose higher and as they did another creature was caught in their wake. A demon-esque, mangled face without eyes or nose reached out its claws, howling.

‘Foglet.’ Geralt growled, shoving the woman aside to make a clear path for his sword. With a fine sweep he mowed down the creature, slashing straight through its narrow body.

What Geralt didn’t notice was the launch of two more creatures that came from behind. And unlike their fellow packmember, they weren’t quite so distressed by the magical barrier that Yrden cast. Howling in pain they lunged forward, taking both the woman and Geralt by surprise.

Yrden’s light flickered as the woman was thrown to the ground, taking Geralt with her. Though the ghostly lights did not harm them, they did feel the cold return as they tumbled over the circle’s border. In moments another wave of slim limbs materialized, turning the blue-hued night into a true nightmare.

Geralt struggled to get the monsters away from them. Claws raked through supple skin and in moments the fresh white snow beneath them started to fleck with drops of blood. And not just his. The woman screamed bloody murder as one of the grey creatures found purchase on her neck.

Not that Geralt could care.

Swinging his sword in wild abandon he pushed away the aggressors that were toppling over him. The white world became a blood soaked nightmare. Greyish limbs went flying and though cold on his skin, Geralt felt warm blood thrum in his ears as the thrill of the fight returned. Practised stances echoed through his limbs as he cut through the foggy air. Though he did have to admit that even the adrenaline couldn’t qualm the ache in his leg. With a protective stance he kept the weight on his good leg, hoping the creatures weren’t smart enough to topple him over again.

A new windy cloud of snow came his way and he started hacking.

It was enough occupation to move his attention away from the dying light of Yrden. A few flickers of blue lit the trees and swirling snow before all went terribly dark.

The woman cried out again, though this time there didn’t seem to be terror within her. A snarl came from her vicinity, closely followed by a few damp thuds.

Bones cracked. Monsters howled. And as the foglets fell dead by Geralt’s feet, so did the howls behind him.

The woman panted. ‘So far for a warm welcome.’

Geralt turned, feeling the ache in his leg worsen by the second. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to make it back to his chair without making a complete fool of himself. In the dark stood the woman, the object that she had kept in her arms now falling apart in misery. A lute, that’s what it must have been. The strings curled broken around her bloodied hands. Her eyes were bewildered as she looked around in what must be pitchblack darkness for her.

‘Hello?’ She stopped panting to swallow deeply.

She couldn’t see him.

Geralt felt his lip curl up, though he wasn’t sure whether he was smiling or grimacing. The thrill of the fight was slowly seeping away with the blood that was gushing from his shallow wounds. He had to take care of that soon.

‘We don’t have visitors here.’ He finally said, allerting the woman. She held her breath and held her broken lute a little higher. The poor instrument was beyond repair.

‘I’ve learned otherwise good Sir.’ She shuffled nervously, still not able to see him.

Around them the storm had returned to a quiet snowfall. No stars were to be seen and little flecks of snow were starting to stack back onto the tree branches. In a few hours the paths to Kaer Morhen would become near impossible to cross by normal footfolk. And that was all fair and game, until you have a visitor at the wrong side of the tracks.

Geralt sighed. ‘Visitor or not. Claim your business here.’

The woman huffed. ‘You’re my business.’

‘I am your business?’

‘The Butcher of Blaviken? The White Wolf of Rivia?! The--’

Geralt started walking off. Or better said: limping off. His leg was smarting so terribly that he already felt his head whirl after just a few steps. That, or it was the blood loss in combination with the biting cold.

‘Hey!’ The woman heard his dragging feet and followed.

Every few steps Geralt could hear her slip and slide, but she was not one so easily dissuaded.

‘I don’t do visitors.’ He growled, clenching his teeth. His vision was starting to swim as he laid eyes on the gates up ahead.

‘Well then count me as an old-new friend.’

Geralt halted, but as he wished to tell the woman off he could feel the world starting to blur. The sharp jolts of pain from his leg were starting to numb -- bad sign.

‘I don’t even know y--’

[In perhaps a dream]

‘Now you take good care of him, okay?’ Ciri whispered to Roach. The horse wiggled her ears as they both kept a mischievous eye on Geralt. The spring sun was streaming warm light over Kaer Morhen’s courtyard as all inhabitants stood around to wish the young woman farewell.

Meanwhile Geralt kept a small smile on his lips. He wasn’t really feeling happy, but he had to quell the less desirable feelings that were bubbling up inside him. Ciri was leaving. She was a grown woman now. This was a good thing. This was supposed to happen, right?

He eyed Vesemir who seemed far more relaxed. Arms folded and hip leaning into the stair balustrade, he winked at Geralt.

‘Hmmpf.’ Geralt huffed through smiling lips.

‘Now, now. You start sounding like me there, young man.’ Vesemir grinned.

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Oh I think it is.’ Vesemir raised up as Ciri skirted up the stairs to jump-hug him. He chuckled merrily as he patted the back of her shoulder.

‘Uncle Vesemir.’ Ciri swallowed, smiling and fighting back tears.

‘Goodbye Cirilla. Return to us soon.’

‘I will.’ She turned and readied herself for the poorly kept tempest that was Geralt.

Geralt awkwardly tried to keep his lips in a smile, but looked far more malicious and mad than happy.

‘Geralt.’ Ciri mumbled, stepping in to press her head under his chin. Like old times their arms folded around one another, their noses turned to take in each other's scents.

‘Cir-.’ Geralt’s voice cracked and he chose silence instead. Unsure where to look he looked at the blurry cascade of mousy blond hair that Ciri had started growing out the past year. She kept it braided most of the time and it would always snag with small twigs and branches as they roamed around the grounds and forests of Kaer Morhen.

Her time of training was over. It was time for her to set out on The Trail and carry on the knowledge and skills he had taught her. It felt odd after all these years together.

‘Hang in there old man.’ Ciri whispered, hugging him a little tighter. The sun burned hot on their skin and Geralt wondered if he was feeling her sweat or her tears. Either which it was, he held on tight just a moment longer.

‘And tell Jaskier he cannot, I repeat CANNOT use my flute. Don’t want his spit all over.’

Geralt huffed. ‘Of all the things..’

‘What?’ Ciri leaned back and quickly dried a tear on her cheek.

Geralt smiled. This time a real smile. Squeezing her back into his embrace once more he pressed a kiss on top of her head. ‘Come back whenever.’

A melody. Too happy for the way Geralt was feeling. Squinting hard against the ray of light that fell exactly on his face, he woke up from a fitful dream. The melody hadn’t been part of the dream though. As he looked around he found himself laying on a wooden bench with some animal skins propped up under his head.

The music continued to flow through the large hall where the first light had arrived some hours ago. The air was fresh with the snow from outside -- the door had been opened recently. And there was a fire. Well-kept, warm, smelling of just a tinge of lacquer.

A figure sat there, wrapped in a worn blanket, naked feet dangling from the bench. The woman. It all came back to Geralt as he pushed himself up with a grunt. His leg was feeling terrible, but his wounds were bound. His shirt had been removed, he noted, and replaced by a simple blanket. His arms and shoulders were wrapped in blood speckled bandages and he could smell the heady aroma of some herbs peaking through.

‘Fuck.’ He groaned, sitting up completely.

The music stopped and the woman looked over her shoulder.

‘Look who’s alive.’ She said, getting up.

Geralt’s eyes shot daggers at her. ‘You could’ve killed us.’

It was the first time since he saw her well and true. She had dirty blonde locks, which fell away from a messy braid. And her eyes were a striking cornflower blue. Her clothes, once quite expensive, were torn to pieces. Her face. Hmm her face. He was sure he didn’t know the woman and yet she tingled a familiar sense in him.

Grunting Geralt got up from the bench. His body was aching like he had been pummeled in a fistfight with Eskel, and he couldn’t wait to dip into his stash of potions. Potions.. With a weary eye on the strange woman he moved his attention to the cellar door in the far back. It was open.

The woman squeaked in delight. ‘Quite a collection you have here! Are there others? There are other Witchers right? My father always --’

‘WOMAN.’

The woman quieted, biting her lip. ‘Actually my name is --’

Geralt stepped forward with all the power he could muster, willing the strange woman to be gone as soon as possible. He could lock her up somewhere. He could throw her out. He could.. He clenched his jaw as he realised how rapid his heart was beating in his chest. Little beads of sweat were falling down his brow and before he could utter another retort at the woman he felt the clammy cold of unconsciousness crawl back over him.

‘Geralt..?’

Her voice swam like a breeze through his mind.

‘I’m going to be a father.’ Jaskier sighed, staring out at the dipping sun. The sausages they had roasted on the campfire were almost all eaten by him.

Geralt sighed. ‘You don’t know the trouble you’re getting yourself into Jaskier.’

Jaskier smiled dreamily. ‘And yet we wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Part 3 >

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @hell1129-blog @agniavateira @tillthelandslide @elinesama @maddyreads14 @aletheladyinred @moonlacebeam @kebabgirl67

#henry cavill fanfiction #the witcher #fanfiction #geralt of rivia #ciri #jaskier #kaer morhen #multichap

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thedarklightwithinus · 4 years

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Witcher Ways

A/N; I spent DAYS on this one. Had to do some research and whatnot. Geralt comes in at the end. Hope you enjoy. This is a daughter!reader.

Summary; In which Geralt took you under his wing when you were a child and taught you the Witcher ways.

Words; 4.1k

Pairing; Geralt x Reader

The gravel crunches under her boots as she walks. She made her way through the sparse village, keeping her eyes from straying to the villagers that were tending to their crops. The last thing she needed was to be accused of looking someone up the wrong way. The bruise on her cheek from her previous run in with a group of men who claimed she had looked at them funny was still healing. The same probably couldn't be said for their broken bones and cut flesh.

She had been meaning to pass through the village in order to reach a larger town. However, despite the village being so remote, it still had its very own notice board and though she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to the village.

Y/N tied the reins of her horse, Opie, to a nearby fence that had a pale of water and some fresh hay. She looped the reins, tugging on them once she had tied them to make sure the leather wasn't going to come loose and allow Opie to roam the lands at his will.

Opie himself seemed happy with where he was. He instantly began making a dent in the hay as Y/N smiled and spun on her heel. She subtly eyed the few villagers who seemed to, for the most part, ignore her existence. She welcomed it with open arms. It did make a nice change to be ignored rather than judged.

With a breath of release, she set off for the small notice board that was stationed on a small piece of green grass. She came to a stop when she had made it, her eyes racking over the three pieces of torn parchment that were pinned to the board.

The first was asking for honeycomb to be brought to a herbalist along with a short set of directions to her house.

The second, manual labour.

The third caught her attention almost instantly.

It had been scribbled hastily, the ink slip and sliding all over the parchment from where it had been written in a rush. The edges were torn as though the writer had ripped it from a larger piece of parchment. She skimmed it, getting the gist of what was being told in seconds.

Her brow rose. A ghost, apparently.

Y/N lowered the parchment and took a look around her. Her head tilted for a moment as she took in what she could of the small amount of men who were tending to crops and the women who were holding baskets full of seeds.

She could tell that they were all worried about something. Whether it be that of the ghost or something else, she couldn’t be sure.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she set off for the man called Buemir using the directions he had scribbled down.

A left.

The next right.

Follow the path until you come to a large cherry bush.

Take a left and follow the trail until you come to a hut.

That’s where I shall be.

Do hurry. Please.

Buemir

Y/N shoved the parchment into one of the pockets in her leather trousers, moved forward and raised her balled fist. She knocked the chipped wooden door twice, pushing the door open when she heard someone call out for her to come in on the other side.

Before she entered, she eyed the doorway with a raised eyebrow. The occupant has decided to decorate said doorway with a vine of assorted berry’s. How he had managed to keep them alive was beyond her.

With a shake of her head, Y/N moved further into the hut.

Y/N stopped a foot away from the doorway once she had moved further inside. She took a look around, taking in the large stacked shelf’s that’s were littered with bottles and bowls.

Her eyes moved around as she looked at the jars that were on another wooden shelf that looked as though it wasn’t bolted to the wall correctly.

The hut itself was split into two room that was sectioned off by a partial wall. Before she could take in anything else, her eyes were drawn to what must’ve been Buemir. He was lazily sat on a stool that was up against a crooked table. A tankard sat on said table before him.

“Can I 'elp you?” He asked.

“You can.” Y/N began, taking the spare wooden stool out and sitting opposite the man. “Can you do me a favour?” She reached into her pocket and held up the parchment he had pinned to the notice board. “Describe this ghost for me?”

Almost as soon as she had asked, the mans face paled considerably. He visibly gulped before he leaned onto the table as though trying to get closer to her. “It’s awfully scary.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. If she didn’t have such good hearing, she probably wouldn’t have been able to catch a word he said.

“I’m sure it is... What I mean is, what does it look like?” She tried again, trying to gain the knowledge she needed in order to figure out what the creature actually was.

It took a moment for the man to open his mouth. He rubbed at his chin, clearly thinking his words over as he looked around at his belonging's.

“It... It looks like a woman.” He said, reaching to grab his tankard. Y/N wasn't sure what it was filled with but from the smell, she'd guess Ale. He took a large gulp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before he continued. “Wearing a dress... All rags as though fresh from the grave. It’s skin falling off it’s bones. And it howls... Like it’s sufferin’ real bad.”

Y/N frowned, leaning back slightly as she took in what he had said. She watched him take another shaky gulp. “It doesn’t sound like a ghost to me.”

And it didn’t. She had never seen a ghost that looked as though it’s skin was falling off. More or less, a ghost looked like an imprint of ones past selves.

“Perhaps a Wraith...” Y/N mumbled, more to herself than to Buemir.

“Please, Miss.” He tore her from her own thoughts. “If you don’t get rid... If you don’t take care of it, it’ll come kill me.”

“How can you be so certain it’ll kill you?” She found herself asking, still finding it difficult to fathom that of other people’s feelings. Scared was something she had long since felt. “Don’t answer that... I’ll sort it. Now, let’s talk payment.”

“P-Payment?” Buemir stuttered, staring at her as she raised a brow and nodded. “Y-You Witcher’s a-are all the same.”

“Witcher’s?” She questioned, leaning forward slightly. “What do you mean by that.”

“You may n-not be one, not a mutated o-one I mean... You hold yourself l-like one.” He seemed to stutter much more than he had been when talking about something that supposedly was out to kill him. "I've seen a Witcher. A proper 'en. You h-hold yourself the same."

Y/N merely raised her brow. After a few moments of staring at him, she shook her head. "So... Where is this so called ghost?"

Buemir seemed eager to go into great detail about the whereabouts of his ghost. His hands moved as he talked away, his words almost jumbling together from how fast he was talking.

Y/N picked up the key words she needed. She was almost certain it was a Wrath by the time he had finished telling her where it was located. It made sense seeing as the location he had described was the nearby unofficial graveyard. A short walk would take her to the Wraith in less than ten minutes.

It was no wonder the people of the village seemed so on edge with it being that close.

"I suppose you want your coin now." Buemir grunted, downing the rest of his Ale as he eyed her.

"I'll come back for the payment once it's sorted." Y/N told him, pushing herself to her feet. She moved towards the door, pulling it open before looking over her shoulder. "Word of advice, If someone want's paying before they get the job done, don't bother paying them."

With the said, she left the hut and pulled the door closed behind her.

The sigh that escaped Y/N's lips was slow; Almost as if her brain needed that time to process what Buemir had told her.

She took a moment to take in the surrounding area, allowing the sun to shine down on her before she set off towards the notice board once more in order to see where the herbalist who needed honeycomb was. If she was to get rid of the Wraith, she'd need to purchase some herbs from her.

As she walked, she thought about all the things she had been taught about Wraith's. The familiar deep voice filled her head.

"Wraith's are nasty business, Y/N. On their own? manageable. In large groups? deadly. We were taught back at Kaer that they're completely immune to the shock of Samum, though they can be stunned. That's no use to you though. Your best bet is to brew up a concoction."

She had yet to deal with a Wraith on her own. More often than not, she was the help when it came to getting rid of the wretched things. However, she had spent many years reading from books about all types of creatures. The Wraith was one that had stuck with her since she had first read about them at the young age of seven.

She had learned that Clerics and scholars had been debating whether spirits do in fact journey to another world after death since forever. Both groups, however, agreed on what happened when a spirit remained in our world after their body breathes its last breath; They transform into Wraiths.

Y/N made it to the notice board in record time. She read the parchment that told her how to get to the herbalist before she set off in the direction the woman had wrote that she lived.

As she came up to a hut that was sat on the cobbled path, Y/N noticed a middle-aged woman who was picking at a bush, placing her findings into a small cloth bag she had on the ground beside her.

Looking down to the parchment she had taken, Y/N scanned for a name before she looked up at the woman. "Sibyl?"

The woman looked up, her brows knitting together as she scanned the area. In seconds, her eyes landed on Y/N who waved the parchment at the woman.

"That's me, aye." The woman, Sibyl nodded.

Her face lost it's annoyance as she stood from the ground, grabbing her bag and made her way towards Y/N, a polite smile on her face as she moved. Y/N found herself returning the smile.

"I'm sorry to disturb you and unfortunately, I don't have any honeycomb on me... I was wondering if I could purchase some herbs?"

Sibyl didn't seem to disappointed that Y/N didn't have the honeycomb she wanted. "Of course. I bid you warning though, I'm running low on stock. I plan to take a trip in the coming days. What is it you're after?"

"Arenaria and Saltpeter." Y/N winced, knowing how difficult it was to come by the first.

Sibyl hummed making a face as though she was trying to remember something. "I have the Saltpeter... Arenaria, not anymore. I used the last just yesterday."

"Ah, that's just my luck." Y/N muttered, shaking her head before forcing a smile. "Saltpeter, can I take three loads?"

"You sure can."

Y/N followed Sibyl to her door and stood in the open doorway as the older woman moved around her chests and shelfs.

"Why the Saltpeter?"

"Moon dust." Y/N replied, watching Sibyl look through her jar collection. "I have the quicksilver solution. I just need the Saltpeter."

"The Arenaria was for Specter oil?"

"It was." Y/N nodded. "I'll have to do without."

"You need me to mix it up for you?" Sibyl asked. She made her way back over to Y/N with a jar full of Saltpeter she had measured out into three separate quantities.

"No." Y/N smiled, pulling out her coin purse and shaking a few out. "I've got it."

"You take care of yourself." Sibyl said, reaching up and patting Y/N's cheek almost in a motherly fashion.

With that said, Y/N spun around and set off away from the hut. She walked along the cobbled path away from the small village and towards where Buemir had told her the Wraith was located.

Once she had made a decent amount of distance between her and the village but not close enough to the Wraith to be detected, Y/N lowered herself to the ground. She pulled the rucksack from her back she had grabbed from Opie and emptied it's contents to the ground. She picked up the Quicksilver solution before shoving everything else back into the rucksack.

Before she began mixing the two components, she took a look to the sky. Y/N predicted that sundown would be an hour away. Perfect.

With a sigh, she began making the moon dust, mixing one part Saltpeter to two parts Quicksilver solution.

The allergenic reaction to the silver found in Moon Dust can be very useful in preventing a Wraith from becoming intangible, forcing them into a fair fight.

She had always been taught that the danger comes when a Wraith vanishes, becoming immaterial and invisible. Most often a Wraith will choose to reappear directly behind its target and strike quickly, violently, and repeatedly. With the moon dust, she wasn't going to give it a chance to vanish.

Though she would've liked the addition of Specter oil, she wasn't about to beat around the bush. Bear fat was easy to get. Arenaria, not so much.

She was hoping that the Wraith was one of the ones that had a tendency to drift and wander aimlessly. It would give her the opportunity to confront said Wraith without the need to try and keep track of multiple ones. From the way Buemir had spoken, she was certain it was just the one.

Y/N rummaged through her rucksack once more when she had made the three batches of moon dust. She pulled out three glass vials, popping the lid and filling the vials with the moon dust. Once she had achieved that, she insured it was closed correctly.

Holding the vials in her hand, she pushed herself to her feet. Y/N lowered her rucksack into the nearest bush before she set off North from where the small village was.

She kept her feet light despite not seeing the Wraith. The last thing she wanted was to give away her presence before she had a chance to locate the Wraith and use one of her moon dusts.

Y/N dropped slowly to a crouch when she heard that of a gargle. Though she had heard it plenty of times in her life, it always sent a shiver down her spine. She breathed slowly, eyeing the clearing before her with narrowed eyes.

A sickening scream filled the air around her as the Wraith glided across the semi-green grass. It moved lazily slow.

It looked exactly how Buemir had described it. Y/N briefly wondered how close the man had got for him to get a good enough look at the thing.

Y/N breathed out slowly, her arm moving gently in order to pocket two of the three vials. Once she had done that, she gripped the third in her hand, bringing it back and lining it up with where the Wraith had come to a stop, it's back turned to her.

After another deep breath Y/N threw the vial, hard. It smashed close to the Wraith, the mixture beginning to smoke as it enveloped the Wraith completely.

In seconds, the ghastly screeching began as the Wraith flayed for a moment. It caught its bearing quickly. Y/N stood up straight, pulling her sword out.

She held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon; always levelled with the nose, just as he had taught her. As the Wraith set on eyes on her, it screeched once again as Y/N grinned, waiting for her moment.

The Wraith glided to her, unable to transport itself closer due to the moon dust. It screeched as it did so, it's arms raising as though ready to strike. Y/N didn't give it a chance. Her blade flashed as she brought it over her head and hummed a low, swift tune when she brought it down right as the Wraith was about to take a swipe at her.

Her sword sliced the Wraith deeply. Y/N was quick to roll out of the way of it's arm. She sliced at it's back, bending backwards when it took another swipe at her.

She continued the motion of bringing her sword down and rolling out of the way of it's swipes until she had cut the Wraith a good few times.

The Wraith screamed loudly, it's body shaking from anger as it began using both hands to swipe at her.

Y/N dove out the way and pivoted backwards. She brought her sword down once more, catching the Wraith along it's arm.

It was as she was jumping backwards that her ankle caught against a clump of stones. She stumbled, keeping her balance and insuring she didn't fall to her ass. However, her moment of distraction proved deadly when the Wraith managed to take a good swipe at her. It knocked her to the ground in seconds, her sword flung to the side.

Y/N coughed, grasping at the ground as she groaned, trying to catch her breath that had been knocked from her. She lay on the ground winded for a moment.

Her eyes widened when she saw the Wraith above her, screaming down at her. She forced her body to roll across the grass when it brought it's clawed hands down. She coughed, still trying the catch her breath she she crawled to her sword.

Before she had a change to reach the weapon, the Wraith behind her let out a harrowing scream. It screamed and screamed before suddenly, it went quiet.

Y/N frowned, looking over her shoulder at where the Wraith had been. She eyed the black smoke that was disappearing, indicating the Wraith had been slayed. Her eyes moved from the smoke to that of an all to familiar blade that was being held by an even more familiar man.

She coughed, letting herself fall to the ground in order to finally catch her breath now that the threat was gone.

Once she breath freely, Y/N gripped her sword and spun onto her back. She sat up, glaring at the figure who was smirking at her. Y/N mumbled under her breath, raising the sword and pushing it back into its baldric. "I had it."

"Sure you did."

"I did!" She exclaimed, rubbing the dirt from her hands. "I had it sorted."

"Until you didn't."

Y/N glared at the man, rolling her eyes as she continued to sit on the ground, crossing her arms across her chest. "What're you doing here, Geralt?"

Geralt of Rivia smirked at the clear tantrum she was having. He had though she had grown out of them long ago. Clearly, it was hard to tame the wild wolf. Not that he was surprised.

"Have you been following me?"

"C'mon, Y/N." He chuckled, shaking his head as he sheathed his own silver sword and crossed his arms across his chest, mimicking her own. "I taught you well. You would've known if I was following you."

She didn't say anything for a moment, merely looked him over for any difference in him than the last time she had seen him. "True... That still doesn't explain to me how you're here though?"

"Saw Jaskier in Novigrad."

"At the Inn?" Y/N asked. It was where she had last seen the Bard.

"Mhm." Geralt grunted, moving towards her and holding his hand out.

Y/N sighed as she uncrossed her arms gripped his large hand. He pulled her up, smiling as he looked down at her.

"Jaskier said something about you moving North. Followed the road until I came to the village." The pair walked side by side back to where Y/N had stored her rucksack. "Spotted Opie and knew you were close."

"Don't tell me you sniffed me out." Y/N grumbled.

She had always hated when he had done that when she was a child. All she would want to do was be alone so she could sulk about whatever had gotten her told off that day. Geralt always seemed to sniff her out of hiding no longer than an hour after she had left.

"Guilty." Geralt chuckled, patting her shoulder as though he related to her issues. "Spotted you mixing up the moon dust... Made me proud."

"Proud?" Y/N's eyes widened slightly.

Though she knew Geralt was proud of her, it wasn't often he voiced it. In fact, she could name the times he had done on a single hand. He had never been good with words before she entered his life. Though he still wasn't good with them when she was in his life, he was better. At least, that's what others said.

Geralt nodded. "You remembered that using your sword and striking doesn't always mean results. Moon dust was a good call... You were doing good too. Just need to watch your feet more. You were never good at that."

"Well, thanks." Y/N rolled her eyes, grinning at the white-haired man. "I need to collect my payment and before you ask, I'm not splitting it. I did most of the work."

Geralt grunted, smiling at the back of her head as she set off for her payment. "You deserve it." He called as he followed after her.

"Perhaps you can have one coin." Y/N called back. "Or I'll buy your next meal, how's that?"

"Trying to repay me for the last meal I bought you?"

"Which one?" Y/N turned, walking backwards so she could look upon Geralt's face. "You basically raised me, Geralt. You fed me and kept me clothed. I don't have enough days in my life to ever repay you for that."

"And you don't need to." Geralt shook his head, looking suddenly more stern than he ever had. "Never. Though you don't have my blood in your veins, you're my kid. As close as it gets."

"Geralt of Rivia, people never believe me when I tell them you're a sweetheart." Y/N sighed, shaking her head. "Thank y-"

"Don't." Y/N already knew what he was going to say. "There's no thanks needed... Let's go get your coin. We should make it back to the Inn before dusk."

"Last one to the village has to clean the blades."

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #the witcher masterlist #geralt #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #daughter reader #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x y/n #witcher x y/n #witcher x reader

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Note

Hello!! 💕 Just wanted to let you know that I love your "Jaskier has always smelled of blood" au. It means a lot to me 💛 I feel like it brings some kind of awereness to the issue and I'm really gratefull for it. Thank you 💕

Nonnie, thank you so much for your kind words. That AU is one that I spent a lot of time mulling over and debating whether to write it or not. But given the fact that it means a lot to you, it was most definitely worth it. There is actually another topic that has been on my mind a fair amount that is as heavy as that AU, which is what happens when a suicide attempt doesn't succeed. Hopefully you won't mind if I write that as a little thank you for your lovely ask.

CW: Suicide attempt (overdose of Witcher potions)

Love wasn't meant to be part of a Witcher's life. That was what Eskel had always been taught and he accepted it as his lot in life. When he was younger, he had raged against it, tried to defy the truth. He attended parties, wooed and seduced wherever he went. Love never stuck but at least his lust was sated. Then Deidre happened and Eskel had a new reality to get used to, one where he was seen as monstrous, hideous and repulsive. Those were just Lambert's teasing words, trying to exaggerate and poke fun at the situation. Not that it helped. Suddenly, Eskel could only attend masquerade balls where his face was hidden from view for fear of upsetting humans. It was either that or finding hungry and desperate succubi who valued his Witcher enhanced attribute more than his visage. It didn't stop Lambert from cracking jokes.

"You don't have a succubi problem, you just have a succuebae. Get it? Before anyone else!"

It was easy for Lambert to say, brothels still took his coin if he wanted it. Though, by the sounds of stories, he didn't need to frequent such places, not when he had a Cat Witcher travelling with him and eager to share all aspects of the Path, not just the pay for contracts. Still, Eskel couldn't begrudge Lambert, he'd always had a shit lot in life. If he could buck the rule about love, good for him, he deserved that slice of happiness.

Then Geralt had to go and find himself a bard who was devoted to him. Eskel could smell the pining on Geralt over winters and then love when Jaskier finally spent the winter with them. That was fine too. Much like Lambert, Geralt also deserved someone to love and share his life with. Even multiple someones when Yennefer arrived and had no need of a room of her own.

It was fine. Eskel could be happy for them. He wasn't jealous, didn't feel like he'd been cheated out of anything. Those were thoughts he turned away from every night when he pulled his covers tight around him and pretended he didn't wish it was the warm embrace of a lover, probably much like the other two had.

Things got worse when Eskel started getting left out of things. There were games that the happy couples played in the evenings, something about how well they knew each other. It was raucous and fun by the sounds of it. Eskel stayed in the kitchen, cleaning because it wasn't a game he could play. The double dates looked fun, going out on rides. Once Yennefer even opened up a portal for them to spend a night away for some romantic getaway. The bard about Eskel bringing Lil Bleater had stung more than he cared to admit. Slowly, Eskel was forgotten. Vesemir had his books, was content with those and the letters he seemed to send. If Eskel was lucky, he'd end up like him. But Eskel didn't want to become Vesemir in his old age. Not even Vesemir really, not when Eskel didn't even have friends to exchange letters with.

The bleakness of it ate away at Eskel for years. Each time he returned to Kaer Morhen without a travelling companion, without someone to write to, he felt like a failure. To the point that he tried drinking, tried fisstech, anything to forget, even if just for a little while. Nothing worked though, every time reality caught up with him. There was only one solution he could see, one where there was no tomorrow to wake up to. It wasn't a rash decision, Eskel didn't immediately act on those thoughts. But his mind was made up and with that came a sense of relief. He had a few things to get in order, to figure out but there was now an end in sight, a way out and on his own terms.

One last winter he made the trek to Kaer Morhen. He had a tidy pack of coins, some truly excellent Gwent cards and a large stash of potions he had brewed up. All in all, he looked like he had a good year on the Path. Nobody needed to know that all his external riches were a façade for the poverty of his heart.

His plan was a simple one. It wasn't like a Witcher left a will or anything like that, his measly belongings got scavenged when he didn't return from a contract. That wasn't what Eskel wanted, he was going to make sure all his belongings were going to go to the person he wanted them to end up with. Which was why he started with Gwent. He played Geralt and, slowly but surely, lost all his best cards. Eskel prided himself in how he could play so well that they others believed he was having a bad run. Couple it with drinking some of Lambert's brew, it was an uproarious night full of laughter, friendly slaps to his back and loudly declared sympathy for his poor, alcohol addled brain.

Once the good Gwent cards were gone, Eskel switched out, claiming he needed someone lesser to play because Geralt was just too good. As predicted, Lambert took great offence at being called a worse player and shoved Geralt out the way. Eskel bet money, a nice pair of gloves and, in an almost unheard of turn, Scorpion.

"I needed to leave you with things to barter with for the rest of winter," he told Lambert with a smile. "Because I'll be winning it all back in the coming weeks, with interest on top."

The laughter that went up at that was nice. Eskel was satisfied all the worthwhile things in his possession had found good homes. Vesemir had already taken the spices and seeds he had returned with, along with the small mountain of foods that would keep them well fed over winter. What Eskel didn't expect was the hugs and pats to his back as they got ready to get to bed.

"It was nice to see you smiling and laughing again," Jaskier commented.

"This was like the old days," Lambert agreed, rubbing his knuckles over the top of Eskel's head viciously.

Aiden clasped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze with a smile. "Good to have you back."

It wasn't like Eskel had ever left, he had been there all those years, it was the others who didn't want him. It didn't matter now though. They'd had one final night together, it all went well. Eskel waved goodbye to them all, heart heavy but also light. He couldn't have asked for a better final evening.

Back at his room, he sat down on his bed and looked around. There wasn't much left. The furs and throws were all down in the communal areas, he'd migrated those down over the last couple of weeks. His armour wouldn't fit anyone and it wasn't suitable for reworking for the others. It would be the perfect thing to wear to his funeral pyre so he pulled it on one last time, taking a deep breath as the familiar scent of worn leather enveloped him. All the potions he'd brought back with him were lined up on his bedside table. He knew what he was doing. The others would understand, maybe even take it as the gift he meant it to be. He wouldn't be the odd one out anymore, the loner who brought the group down by hanging onto their coattails. They could have their double dates, their romantic getaways without having to worry about him or feeling guilty for leaving him behind.

The first potion was Cat, he downed it, feeling the world shift into larger clarity in the darkness of his room. It didn't sit heavy in his stomach, three potions were fine to take, four was when the toxicity began to affect him. Though Eskel was a large man, he could probably deal with about six potions before he became ill. It was why he had fifteen little bottles lined up, one worse than the other in terms of toxicity. Next, a Maribor Forest slid down his throat, followed by a Lapwing. They were all conflicting potions, making his body shake. Brock tasted foul but it was still better than Rook which made Eskel's heart pound. Taking a break, Eskel settled back on his bed, head spinning. He could feel his whole body shaking with unspent energy the potions teased out of him. It felt horrible, his stomach roiled. Without his attention on some creature and the fight for his life, Eskel couldn't help but focus on the way his joints seemed to itch, his muscles tingling.

Five potions weren't going to be enough. Reaching for another bottle, Eskel knocked back two Thunderbolts in a row. He gagged but pushed on, head swimming. Virga at least tasted a little better. It was wiped out by the Nekker Warrior Decoction. The world was fuzzy, Eskel whimpered a little as his muscles seized and cramped and his stomach ached. He'd rarely taken enough potions to even flirt with the edges of toxicity, to deliberately do it was agony. This wasn't how he'd expected it to go, he thought he'd take them, lie back and go to sleep. Pain was not part of the deal but he would shoulder it, this was his choice. A couple of the empty bottles clattered to the ground as he reached for the next one. Most of the Black Blood went down his chin as he spluttered. Leaning against the headboard, he closed his eyes, willing the wooziness to go.

Maybe to took more potions, maybe they were dreams, he didn't know. What Eskel did know was that he woke up in his bed, the sun shining bright in the sky. Head pounding and stomach churning, he could smell stale vomit in the air. Rolling onto his side, he threw up over the edge of his bed. Breathing shaky, Eskel coughed miserably and spat to clear the bitter taste from his mouth. Judging by the state of his floor, it wasn't the first time he had thrown up but it was definitely the only one he could remember. Flopping back onto the bed, Eskel covered his face with his palms and choked back on a howl of frustration. He couldn't even kill himself properly.

The problem was, Eskel had no plans for what to do if he failed. He'd been so certain that he would go to sleep and never wake up again. At a loss, he fell back onto habits and routine. He was already dressed in his armour which was acceptable clothing to go downstairs for breakfast. Nothing heavy, he couldn't face the idea of eating anything. But a drink of water would do him good. Stumbling into the kitchen, he grunted a greeting at the others who seemed to be having lunch. Of course they didn't notice he hadn't gotten up for breakfast. Either that or they just didn't care.

"You're dressed ready for war," Lambert joked but the smile on his face froze when Eskel looked at him. "Woah. You look like shit."

Geralt was out of his seat and grabbing Eskel by the chin, giving him a close inspection and a less than subtle sniff. Whatever he detected had him tensing up and glancing to Lambert who looked alarmed too.

"Let's get a bit of food in you," Geralt rumbled and guided Eskel to the table where Aiden's face turned stricken. Even Jaskier and Yennefer looked solemn, their usual rivalry nowhere to be seen. In fact, everyone seemed intent of giving Eskel the attention he didn't crave.

From the doorway, Lambert called, "Geralt" and stepped back. But the clink of bottles in his hand and the hushed, hurried conversation gave away the fact Eskel's dirty secret had been found out.

"I'll go clean the room but he's not going back there. Not alone," Lambert growled. The others around the table didn't even bother pretending they weren't listening in.

Vesemir's footsteps approached and Eskel wished fervently that the potions had done the job. Especially as he listened to the conversation.

"What's going on here?"

"It's Eskel he-" the clink of bottles followed again, Lambert no doubt showing Vesemir the evidence of Eskel's shame.

"I see." Vesemir rumbled softly and walked into the kitchen. He sat down next to Eskel, not saying a word. However, he squeezed his shoulder and swapped out the tankard of water for a warm tea, adding a dash of honey to it. "Geralt, get a Golden Oriole from the cupboard."

Eskel could only watch as it was added to his tea, heart sinking. Nobody said anything. Not even when Lambert returned, looking a little green in the face. He sat down, squirming in the silence.

"Are we not going to say anything about it?" He asked in the end. "We can't just pretend it never happened."

"We won't," Vesemir replied, voice warm but also full of warning. "But there's a time and place for everything. Right now, our priority is the physical. The Golden Oriole will help. Then Eskel will go and have a lie down in front of the fire to sleep and let his body heal."

It was so much easier to follow Vesemir's instructions than have to think for himself. Eskel hadn't thought he'd see the sun again, hadn't thought he'd have to worry about things like daily chores and ways to spend the long hours of a day. At some point he must have finished his tea because the mug was empty but Eskel didn't remember it. He was ushered towards the pile of furs and throws from his room and he sank into them, exhausted already. He was only half awake as he heard the conversation around him while a throw was carefully draped over him.

"How could he do this?" Geralt hissed, sounding angry for the first time. "Why would he do this to us?"

"I'm sure we'll find out." The reply from Vesemir was soft and calm. "But what we need to focus on is helping him realise it was a good thing he didn't succeed."

"What if he tries again?"

"We have to hope he doesn't. He won't be alone for the next few weeks, we'll take turns keeping him company. And hope that we can do enough to make him want to stay." Vesemir was oddly calm and resigned. "I've seen others do this before. We can only hope to counter the darkness that has befallen his mind."

Lambert joined the quiet conversation. "But he seemed so happy last night. In fact, he's been the most at peace in years. I thought he was getting better."

Even half asleep, Eskel could understand the words, appreciate the thoughts behind them. But he didn't know if the plan would work. He doubted the others would understand or would be able to do anything to help him. After all, they still had their partners, lovers and each other. All Eskel knew for certain was that if he tried again, he'd do something with an assured outcome. He just hoped the others would understand.

#eskel #background geraskefer #background lambden #geralt of rivia #lambert #vesemir #cw: suicide attempt #tldr: eskel sees no way out

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

To give without knowing (6/ ?)

Content warning: brief reference to minor injuries, brief mention of blood

word count: ~4k

Read on AO3

previous / next

Geralt had never liked Jaskier's singing. No, that wasn't it. Not really.

Though Geralt knew next to nothing about music - a fact Jaskier kept lamenting whenever he asked for Geralt's input- he could recognise a good voice and pleasing melody. And oh, Jaskier's voice was good - beautiful even. There was nothing more soothing than sitting by a campfire in the evening, free from the noises of a bustling city and listening to Jaskier sing.

If Geralt was being honest with himself, Jaskier didn't even need to sing; even his chattering was beautiful, so full of life and excitement that Geralt hadn't thought someone walking the Path would be able to experience. Even if the Path didn't drain Jaskier of the joy, Geralt surely would, of that he had been certain.

And yet, it hadn't happened. No yet at least. If anything, the opposite seemed to be the case. The longer Jaskier stayed with Geralt, the more songs he wrote and tales he told. Geralt couldn't pretend not to feel a tingling warmth in his chest whenever Jaskier's eyes lit up while he was giving voice to the endless thoughts racing through his mind that were put there by his time spent with Geralt. So no, Geralt didn't dislike Jaskier's singing. Still, there was no denying that it did something to Geralt that he didn't like.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what exactly it was that was bothering Geralt. Jaskier was singing about him. That in and of itself would have been bad enough, but inexplicably, it was made worse by the fact that the man Jaskier was singing about in a sense wasn't Geralt, not really. The man Jaskier thought worthy of song was damn near perfect. Admirable. A hero. A friend of humanity. And that couldn't be further from the truth of what Geralt truly was. A hero wouldn't ask to be paid for their deeds and they would make the right choice if forced to choose between two evils. A friend of humanity wouldn't be despised by humans and the gods knew that humanity would be happy to see Geralt disappear from the surface of this earth forever. The perfect man wouldn't be littered by scars. He wouldn't scowl and curse. No, the perfect man would have a kind face and a charming smile. He would have shining blue eyes and know how to use words to win the hearts of everyone who looked at him. Geralt couldn't be more different than that.

He couldn't be what Jaskier made him out to be in his songs. He couldn't be what Jaskier wanted him to be. And that was the problem. Geralt couldn't listen to Jaskier's songs without grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, knowing full well that what Jaskier pretended to see in him was a lie. Everyone who bothered to take a look at Geralt knew. Geralt knew. And most importantly, Jaskier knew. There was no way the bard actually believed that there could ever be a chance of Geralt being the man he adored and praised with his songs. So when Jaskier's songs started changing, started deviating from the heart- piercing topic of that ideal Not-Geralt, Geralt should have been happy. This was what he had always wanted, wasn't it? For Jaskier to stop spreading lies - whether they were about the monsters Geralt hunted or about Geralt himself.

And maybe he would have been happy, if there hadn't been this painful knot twisting his insides every time Jaskier's songs of adventures were replaced by ones about soft feelings and yearning.

It would have been fine if those very same feelings that Jaskier described in his songs weren't welling up in Geralt more and more whenever he looked at Jaskier, though he knew not why. It made no sense. Geralt wasn't supposed to understand what Jaskier meant when he spoke of never wanting to be parted from the one he sang about or how he wanted nothing more than to hold and be held.

Geralt shouldn't understand and yet he did. That, however, Geralt could ignore and so he did. He averted his eyes whenever Jaskier sang and he pretended that his heart wasn't doing strange and unreasonable things in his chest when Jaskier's voice swelled to a crescendo that made goose flesh cover Geralt's arms. But of course it couldn't be that easy. Of course ignoring those strange feelings wasn't enough to battle the ache in his chest. It would have been fine, if Jaskier wasn't feeling those things because of someone else. Someone with "blazing eyes of liquid fire/ that wake in me burning desire" and "hands so gentle and so strong/ my foolish heart can't help but long".

For a reason that Geralt didn't dare explain, he felt a piercing spike through his heart every time Jaskier spoke of this new beloved of his. Geralt had no right to feel this way. For years he had been able to listen to Jaskier gush about his lovers without batting an eye. So what had changed? Why did Geralt want to find whoever Jaskier was yearning for and - and what? Tell them to fuck off? Tell them that they should stop talking to Jaskier even though that obviously made Jaskier happy? Or would Geralt tell them to end Jaskier's misery and just confess their love to him? Because surely they were in love with Jaskier. And if they were even half as wonderful as Jaskier described them, half as kind, caring, selfless and generous, they would be perfect for Jaskier. And wasn't that the worst part? That somehow Jaskier had finally found someone who was exactly what he had always wanted Geralt to be and that Geralt could never hope to live up to? It would be better for everyone if Jaskier's love would be returned by his unknown beloved. Then he would stop singing about Geralt altogether, would maybe even stop travelling with him and Geralt would finally be rid of this ache in his chest. If Geralt were selfless, if he were kind he would offer to leave Jaskier himself, because surely it was Geralt hovering over Jaskier's shoulder and glowering at everyone coming too close to them that ensured that this beloved never approached Jaskier.

But Geralt wasn't kind. And so he didn't even ask Jaskier who this beloved of his was, in hopes that soon Jaskier would forget all about them and stop singing about them. He didn't. Not a single performance of Jaskier's was completed without at least one song about this mysterious and infuriatingly perfect person. Not even when it was just Jaskier and Geralt sitting at their camp fire and Jaskier was singing softly to himself - not to Geralt, as much as Geralt wanted him to.

What used to be soothing for Geralt quickly became its own kind of torture. Had Geralt thought that he didn't like Jaskier's songs about himself, he had been sorely mistaken. This was so much worse than any lie Jaskier could tell about Geralt. After weeks of listening to Jaskier yearn for this stranger, Geralt finally snapped. "Can you stop singing for one minute?" Jaskier's lute gave a sharp twang as Jaskier's fingers fumbled. Red tinged his cheeks and when Jaskier's eyes found Geralt's, the insecurity in them made Geralt's chest tighten. "You still hate it?" Jaskier finger twitched. "I thought after all those years you would have gotten used to it." Geralt's jaw worked and he had to look away from Jaskier's dejected face. He wanted to take his words back, make them into something other. Something kind. But Geralt wasn’t someone who found the right words. He wasn’t what he himself wanted to be. "I don't hate it. Just...play something different? About something different?" Just like that Jaskier's face lit up. "There is something I've been working on! I wanted to play it for you once it's finished, but I guess I can show you now. It’s not perfect yet, though, so… I don’t know. Don’t be too critical of it." For you. The words echoed through Geralt's mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Jaskier had sung about Geralt, despite Geralt and he had tried to get Geralt to sing with him, but never had Jaskier actually sung for him. "Don't worry." Geralt's voice came out choked. "I'm sure it will be fine." More than that, whatever Jaskier was going to sing, it would be perfect. Because it was for Geralt. Not that he could say that out loud. All he could do was avoid Jaskier's eyes as he began to play again, lest that feeling that Geralt had tried so hard to repress would return in full force. And so Jaskier began to sing. Not about his beloved and not about Geralt - at least not as far as Jaskier was aware. Because what left his lips was a song about the gifts of the fae.

Geralt stilled as he listened. Those words about beautiful craftsmanship, about kindness, about the feeling of safety and affection for the gifter couldn’t be a lie. Why would they be? Jaskier didn't know that Geralt was the one giving him those gifts. He had no reason to lie about what he felt. He truly did think the figures were marvellous and worthy of song, even though this tune was addressed to the fae. Geralt didn't know how to feel about that. It wasn't - he had made those animals, so they weren't beautiful. They were creation made by the clumsy hands of one who only knew how to hurt with his hands. And yet Jaskier sang about the figures as if they were the most beautiful thing in the world. And Jaskier was admiring the fae for making such wonderful things, he was thanking and loving them for it. Geralt didn't know whether the knot in his stomach was something ugly or something more beautiful than any witcher should ever be able to experience. When the last notes rang through the air and the only sounds were once again those of the forest, Roach’s soft snores and the crackling fire, Geralt found himself wishing the song would continue. "So, what do you think?" Jaskier said with a smile that came painfully close to masking his lingering insecurity. It would have fooled Geralt if he hadn't spent years witnessing all of Jaskier's various smiles. "Three words or less?" "Play it again?" Jaskier's smile changed, became something brightly burning that set Geralt's chest ablaze. As Jaskier's fingers picked up the tune again, Geralt knew with an unshakable certainty that this feeling, whatever it was, could never be anything ugly, not if it was for Jaskier. As Jaskier sang once more of the magnificent gifts he received, Geralt was overcome with a strange wanting.

Beautiful. That was the word Jaskier kept using. When he described Geralt fighting in his lie-filled songs and now as he was talking about Geralt's carvings. Geralt wasn't beautiful, never would be. Not like Jaskier was. Not like Jaskier's mysterious beloved was. Geralt couldn't change the way he looked, couldn't rid himself of his scars, his inhuman eyes or the frown lines on his face. Not that a change in appearance would ever be enough to make Geralt into the hero Jaskier sang about. But there was one thing he could do. He could give Jaskier the gifts he deserved. He could make them more beautiful. When Geralt had only been carving for himself it hadn’t mattered what the results looked like, but now that he was doing it for Jaskier he wanted - needed- it to be good.

The next time they came across a town Geralt, bought the tools he needed; a chisel and more carving knives than Geralt had even known existed. The sudden lighter coin purse grated at his nerves after decades of refusing to buy anything but essentials just in case he would run out of coin soon, but as he set to work, he knew that this purchase wasn't one he would regret, even though the new tools were so unfamiliar that Geralt accidentally cut his own flesh more than once in the beginning. He hadn't been sure what animal to carve next, but when he cut off some wood of a white pine, his fingers moved in their own. Carving a wolf out of the lightest wood he could find wasn't very subtle, but Geralt couldn't find it in him to care. It just felt right to do this and it wasn't as if Jaskier would ever realise that the gifts came from Geralt. As observant as Jaskier could be when he needed to be, he often only saw what he wanted to see. And never in a hundred years would he want to see the gifts as coming from Geralt. Whereas Geralt had spent a couple of hours on his previous figures at the most, he now put all the time and effort he could into whittling the wolf. He needed this one to be perfect.

It was obvious that Jaskier was getting impatient. Clearly, he was waiting for another gift. There was no other explanation for the way Jaskier got more and more irritated with time, despite how often Geralt distanced himself from Jaskier to secretively work on the wolf to get it to perfection as fast as possible. Geralt had thought that taking Jaskier to a town with a grand market the bard had been excitedly telling him about, would appease him and for a while it had seemed to work. The closer they got to the town, the more Jaskier's eyes shone when he told Geralt about the wonderful things one could see and buy there. All of the excitement vanished when Geralt told Jaskier to take his time when he would go there. "What do you mean when I go there?" Jaskier asked with a frown. "I mean I'm not coming." "But I thought -" "I have things I need to do. On my own. So take as much time as you want." It should have made Jaskier happy. Without Geralt's impatient comments about picking a doublet already he would have much more fun, without Geralt looming over him, Jaskier might find people that more pleasant to be around than him, maybe even a new lover. But instead of enthusiasm at the thought of being able to experience the market with all the time he could want, Jaskier's face fell. "Yeah, I...Okay. Alright. I won't bother you. See you later, Geralt." With that Jaskier left and Geralt was left wondering what he had done wrong. Whatever it was, he would make this right. There was nothing like a pretty gift from the fae to bring Jaskier joy again. Safe in the knowledge that Geralt would have at least a couple of hours to perfect the wolf, Geralt set to whittling again. If his hands hadn't been covered in calluses already, they surely would have gotten littered with blisters. He was so fixated on his work that he almost didn't hear the floorboards in front if the inn room creaking. What Geralt heard were unmistakably Jaskier's steps. Geralt cursed and his heart dropped. Why was Jaskier back already? It hadn't been nearly enough time for him to explore the whole market and it had been nowhere near enough time for Geralt to perfect the wolf figure. The handle of the door was pushed down and Geralt had just enough time to let the wolf and the tools disappear in his bags before Jaskier strode into the room. "That's it," Jaskier announced in an unusually stern voice. "You are going to take a bath and you are going to relax and not think about whatever it is you keep thinking about?" Geralt blinked at him. "Jaskier, what are you talking about?" "I don't know." There it was again, that frustration that had edged its way into Jaskier's voice for the past couple of days. "I don't know what I'm talking about 'cause you won't talk about it. I don't know what's wrong and I don't know how to make it right again." Geralt brows drew together. "Nothing' s wrong." "Oh yeah?" Jaskier's lips pulled into a mirthless smile. "Because you have been tense and clearly worried about something. You keep finding excuses to get away from me and I don't know if it's something I did or if maybe you want me gone or -" "I don't," Geralt interrupted sharply, his heart skipping a beat. "It's got nothing to do with you." Except for the fact that Jaskier was too good and Geralt wasn't good enough and Geralt had to fix that. Jaskier's eyes softened and he came closer. "I won't make you tell me if you don't want to." He put a hand on Geralt's shoulder and squeezed a little. "But I want to help. So... A bath? That's something you like, isn't it? Something that always helps you relax?" Geralt grunted in affirmation, though it wasn't exactly the truth. Yes, Geralt did bathe a lot when he could afford it, but not necessarily because it was relaxing. When he had first started out on the Path, cleaning himself of the blood and stench of death had been an impossible to ignore need. It had been only recently that Geralt took to bathing even when there weren’t monster guts to be washed of.

Now that Geralt thought about it, he had begun taking baths for the simple enjoyment of it, not long after Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side. The revelation alone was enough to quiet Geralt's mind as he stripped out of his clothes and sank into the bath Jaskier was preparing for him in the meantime. He let out a contented sigh as he was engulfed in the hot water, the faint smell of something sweet and vaguely familiar surrounding him. For some unknown reason it eased the tension in Geralt's muscles. It wasn't exactly like the smell of home and safety but it was damn close to it. "What is that?" Geralt asked as he leaned his head back with closed eyes. "Oh, those are new bathing oils. I bought them earlier." "Hmm. They are nice." "I know," Jaskier said and Geralt could hear the smugness in his voice. "They’re the same smell as my favourite perfume." Geralt's breath hitched. He took another deep breath and sure enough, it smelled like Jaskier. Or at least like the perfume he wore most often. There was still something missing. The scent of Jaskier’s happiness that often followed when he was wearing this scent. "I didn't think your favourite would be something so subtle," Geralt said, a smirk quirking the corner of his lips. Teasing Jaskier was easier than to think about why his scent made Geralt think of home. "Ah, well..." Geralt could hear Jaskier shuffle about. "By pure coincidence, it's also the one perfume that you once told me you liked because it didn't assault your delicate witcher-nose." Despite the playful tone there was a hint of embarrassment in there. "Hmm. Still like it. It's nice." Jaskier released a shuddering breath that sounded almost relieved, but that couldn't be. Jaskier had no reason to have been anxious of anything. "Yes, right. Good." Jaskier's footsteps came closer. He hesitated. "May I?" Geralt didn't need to open his eyes to see what Jaskier was asking permission for. He did it anyway. He cracked his eyes opened and cranked his neck to look in Jaskier's eyes. Geralt nodded and without a hint of hesitation Jaskier placed his hand on Geralt's shoulders, kneading the muscles until not an ounce of the tension was left and Geralt became soft beneath Jaskier's ministrations. As Jaskier massaged soap into Geralt's hair, he began to softly hum. It was Geralt's song. The one about the fae. The one he had sung for Geralt. "You know," Jaskier said when the song came to an end. "Whatever it is you are so worried about, it's not worth spending so much time on. Not if you clearly lose sleep and get anxious over it." But it was. It was for Jaskier. And it was something Geralt did because he liked doing it. How could it be a bad thing to want it to be perfect? "I don't like seeing you like this, Geralt. You claim to take time for yourself, but whenever I come back, you're just more tense than before. I am worried." That wasn't... That wasn't what Geralt had wanted. He had wanted the opposite. He wanted for Jaskier to be happy. This was all wrong. Geralt swallowed thickly and turned around in the tub. Jaskier's hands lifted off his head and Geralt caught one of them, holding it in a light grip. It had been too long since he had held anything other than his blades or the block of wood he had given shape to.

It felt nice. He wanted more of it. He wanted to never have to miss this feeling of Jaskier's hand in his again. "How about we go to that market of yours tomorrow?" Geralt asked. "Together?" The smile Jaskier gave Geralt was bright enough to rival the sun. It was the smile Geralt had wanted to put on Jaskier's face by giving him the wolf. How... Why was Jaskier beaming at him like this now? Geralt hadn't given him anything, had done nothing to earn Jaskier's happiness being directed at him. Jaskier squeezed his hand. "I would love to. Thank you Geralt."

The market was bustling and as they pushed their way through the crowd, Geralt could feel the weight of the imperfect wolf in his bag, taunting him, telling him that he should have spent this time carving it to perfection instead of wasting time like this. The taunting voice was overshadowed by Jaskier's excited chatter as he pulled Geralt from one stall to the other. They had to hold hands to not lose each other in the crowd. Despite the fact that they were holding onto each other, every couple of steps Jaskier turned around as if to see if Geralt was still there and when he found his eyes, he would send Geralt that same joyful smile that Geralt wanted so much to keep on his face. The noise of the market was deafening and people were shoving Geralt in a way that couldn't be mistaken for accidental and yet, despite everything, Geralt found himself returning the smiles. Watching Jaskier's eyes widen in delight whenever he caught sight of something he liked made Geralt forget all about the figure in his bag. It wasn't until hours later when they were walking back to the inn and Jaskier was inexplicably still holding onto Geralt's hand that he remembered. When Jaskier eventually let go of Geralt's hand to show him the new hat he had bought - as if Geralt hadn't been present when he had gotten it - Geralt took the chance to take the wolf out of the bag - always mindful of Jaskier and making sure he didn't notice anything- and dropped where he was sure no one would find it until Jaskier and Geralt would take the same route the next morning to get out of this town. He had been right. When they took the same road again, this time accompanied by the click-clack of Roach's hooves, Jaskier stopped in his tracks and bent down to pick up the figure, caressing the almost white wood reverently. He looked at the wolf as if he couldn't find a single imperfection on it. No beaming smile stretched his lips and no cry of surprised joy left him, instead there was a softness in his eyes that made it impossible for Geralt to breathe. "What a perfect gift," Jaskier said quietly. "My darling witcher, it would seem today is going to be just as wonderful a day as yesterday was." Geralt swallowed. "Yesterday was wonderful?" His voice came out hoarser than he wanted to. "Why of course. I got to spend it with you. And yes, I know we spend every day together, but I mean in a fun way. It's been too long since we did that. I think the last time was at the lake." Geralt's heart stuttered in his chest.

The lake. Geralt had dared to hope that Jaskier didn't remember the lake. Didn't remember how Geralt had held him close in the water as if he had been allowed to do so. If Jaskier remembered, then why didn't he pull away now? Why had he held Geralt's hand yesterday as if Geralt hadn't crossed Jaskier's boundaries before? It didn't make sense. Unable and unwilling to give voice to any of those thoughts, Geralt cleared his throat and latched onto the first thing that came to mind to distract both him and Jaskier. "So you like this fae gift?" Jaskier let out a laugh at this. "Are you really asking? Of course I love it. If I weren't determined to love all of my little lucky charms equally, I would be tempted to say that this one might be my favourite." Geralt felt a swell of pride burning in his chest. "I... I hope it brings you luck." "How could it not? It's a wolf. The perfect protector and companion as far as I'm concerned." "You think so?" “Sure. But I might be a bit biased." Jaskier threw a glance at Geralt out of the corner of his eyes, the familiar mischief glinting in them. "After all, I have a soft spot for wolves."

---

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#geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt #jaskier #witcher #witcher fic #fic #fanfic #my writing #wood carving

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itsclydebitches · 3 years

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Some of my friends in the RWBY FNDM actually said people don’t forgive their friends for betraying them (Jaune killing Penny) but will forgive strangers betraying them (Em killing Penny). Uh…NO. Being close and attached to someone leads to bias. People are more willing to see someone they don’t know as evil for hurting them BECAUSE THEY DON’T KNOW THAT PERSON. They said this as an excuse to why RWBY will be pissed at Jaune. NOPE! (1/2)

I think it can go either way depending on the person, or in this case the character. People aren't so uniform that they'll have a single, predictable response to someone's actions depending on whether they're in the "friend" or "stranger" category, to say nothing of the complexities of figuring out when one moves from one category to the other. (Is Ozpin the beloved and respected headmaster they look up to, or a virtual stranger whose age and power makes him someone the group never would have seriously connected with? The fandom is divided.) But that connection (or lack thereof) can go in either direction. It might make it easier to forgive them, or it might make it seemingly impossible. I've been replaying Witcher's Blood & Wine where Anna Henrietta is so relieved to have her sister back that she's blind to the horrors she's committed - love make forgiveness an inevitability. I'm also rewatching Criminal Minds where Reid is furious with JJ for keeping Prentiss' secret from him, specifically because they're so close and JJ was the one to comfort him over Prentiss' "death" - love makes forgiveness that much harder. And it's the same with strangers. If someone you're less close to commits a horrible act, you might respond with pure disgust because who are they to you? Nobody. They're defined only by that one action. Or, their distance might make it easier to forgive them once you have gotten to know them a bit, simply because the action didn't, at the time, feel personal. You know the version of them now, the one that "counts," the one you're emotionally attached to. I don't think it's an either/or situation here, where there's a correct answer of "Yes characters will get angry if they're close to the person in question" or "No characters will be less angry if they're close to them." It depends on the individual, the action, the circumstances, the state of mind of the person trying to grant forgiveness, and a hundred other, smaller factors. If Yang did something horrible, would Blake be less willing to forgive her because they're so close, or more willing because they are? That depends on a whole range of things from "What exactly did Yang do?" to "Has Blake eaten and slept and generally not been stressed out of her mind lately, making her less likely to lash out?" It, to be blunt, comes down to good, nuanced writing.

Which is why the Jaune situation is... complicated. And sadly, RWBY doesn't do well with complicated. Free of the rest of Volume 8, my mind says the group has to be mad. How can they not? Even if Jaune had a 100% solid reason for killing Penny with no possible way to blame him - which, let's be frank, he doesn't. The guy has a healing semblance and just took her word that it was useless - it's not in our nature to approach a tragedy with that level of logical maturity (especially not after the crazy level of trauma that's been going on: Salem, battles, falling to their "deaths."). You don't have a friend admit they killed another friend and immediately go, "Oh yeah. Makes sense. Had to be done. No worries!" and move on with your life. You at least start with some anger, whether it's rational or not, deserved or not. People harbor anger over deaths that we know, realistically, are not the fault of another person involved, we resent people who survived over others even though we know they had no control over it, and we even hate ourselves for hating that person, because we know it's not fair and we're feeling it anyway. If we have all that complexity tied up in deaths that are unambiguously not the fault of the person in question... what do you do with the guy who straight up agreed to an assisted suicide? Gave up on healing or retreat? Was the one to drag his sword across Penny's throat? The fandom recognized that scene as something intensely complicated, made worse by ineffectual writing. We knew, the second it had finished, that Jaune was not an easily categorized innocent here who should be treated solely as a victim of horrible circumstances. There's a very good reason why the fandom went, "What the fuck, Jaune" because this entire situation is so. messed. up. I'm not saying all this to paint Jaune as some irredeemable monster or anything, but rather to highlight that there should be a huge range of emotions coming off of this action. Whether we the audience or the characters decide what he did was the right thing or not, Jaune's actions are still objectively horrifying. He killed Penny. Was it necessary? Given RWBY's shoddy writing, idk, but that's not the point for an initial reaction. The point is, "How would you respond if you found out Friend A helped Friend B commit suicide, right after you'd worked so hard to keep Friend B alive, after she'd already come back from the dead?" The answer should be, "Uh, not well. Not well at all."

But this is RWBY. There should have been a range of emotions to Jinn's vision in Volume 6, but there wasn't. There should have been a range of emotions to Penny's resurrection, but there wasn't. There should have been a more persuasive reason for Jaune to kill Penny, a better job of stripping away other options, but there wasn't. Arguably, Penny shouldn't have died at all, not after being brought back, getting the Maiden powers, being made human... but she was. This situation is already a mess but then, as you say, anon, we have Emerald on top of it all. I mentioned above that it's "Free of the rest of Volume 8" that the group should be mad at Jaune, but obviously that's not how the story goes. I can't separate Emerald from the rest of this and yeah, it looks ridiculous for the group to have a long arc of hating Jaune after they forgave Emerald in, what? An hour? We can talk about that context all we want, but at the end of the day, Emerald's actions were too horrific to shrug off as they were and Jaune's action is also too horrific to shrug off. RWBY has, once again, backed itself into a corner. What the story actually needed was for Emerald to get a full redemption arc, allowing the group to process, grapple with, and learn to forgive her past actions through apologies and new actions to demonstrate growth, so that they could then later do a modified version of that with Jaune, one tailored to his character, their characters, and this new situation. The story needs the group to be mad at both of them because both did things that would generate different types of anger. But because Emerald was granted laughter almost immediately upon arriving at the mansion, yeah, it would read as absurd for the group to go through a whole arc of learning how to forgive Jaune... even though Jaune's actions arguably do need some kind of forgiveness arc. The situation is screwed either way. If the group forgives him quickly it's, "Really? He killed Penny and that's it? No one is going to struggle with that? That's absurd!" and if the group doesn't quickly forgive him it's, "Really? You'll insta-forgive the woman who has been trying to kill you for years, but won't grant the same thing to your friend who only took that action with good intentions? That's absurd!" And if the focus is on Jaune being mad at himself, we're right back to where we were in Volume 4: Jaune mourning a redhead in his life and getting too much focus. I really don't think there's a good solution here, which (as my more recent posts speak to), we're seeing more and more as the series goes on. The more material we get and the more shoddily that material is written, the more we're going to see future situations where we go, "I don't like any of the writing options here, because of something that happened in a previous volume." RWBY has created a situation where the group very much deserves to be angry - or at the very least conflicted - over Jaune's actions, but because it's following on the heels of Hazel, Emerald, and their own horrific choices across Volume 7 and 8, any anger will feel hollow, hypocritical. But isn't that what we're left with? We've been here since the beginning of Volume 7 when Ruby repeated Ozpin's secrets and the story never acknowledged that either she's as bad as he is, or he's not as bad as they believed. We've been watching a show built on that hollow hypocrisy for at least two years (longer, really) and it's just getting worse the more the story introduces sensitive material and then doesn't appropriately follow up on it.

#suicide tw #death tw #rwby #rwde #mymetas

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 3 years

Text

A Simple Plan

My seventh fic for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo and the third and final fic of the Yenskel Trilogy is up! You can read it below or find it here on AO3!

Prompt: Date Night

Pairing: Eskel/Yennefer

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Summary: Now that they’re safely at Kaer Morhen, Eskel tries to figure out a way to woo Yennefer properly. He enlists Jaskier’s help, which may end up being a mistake.

***

In the past twenty years or so since the series of calamities that decimated the Wolf School’s ranks, winters at Kaer Morhen haven’t changed much at all. They used to be boisterous affairs, with dozens of witchers reuniting after eight months on the Path, swapping stories and White Gull, with dozens more trainees underfoot. These days, winters are quiet, dominated by the same routine year after year. Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, Coën, and Eskel spend approximately four months holed up in the crumbling keep, trying to keep the building standing, drinking far too much White Gull, and whiling away their evenings playing Gwent. There’s rarely any excitement, unless a forktail wanders too close to the keep, and that’s how they all like it.

At least, until this winter, where suddenly, the keep has found itself home to a bard, a sorceress, and an exiled princess… to mixed results. Everyone likes Ciri, because she’s twelve, and they may be a group of assholes, but they’re not the type of assholes who are going to be cruel to an orphaned little girl who has survived the kind of horrors that no child her age ever should. Jaskier hasn’t given them an option about whether or not to accept him; after only a week in the keep, he gallivants around like he’s been there half his life. Eskel will admit, he makes dinners much more entertaining. Plus, he makes Geralt happy, and that’s more than enough to earn him his keep.

As for Yennefer… well, that’s been an adjustment for everyone.

Geralt is still awkward around his former lover, with the two of them circling each other like a pair of territorial griffins. Coën is cautious of her, surprising no one, given the tragic results of the conflict between Kaer Seren and the Brotherhood. Lambert and Vesemir clearly don’t know what to make of her, though Vesemir does try to be welcoming. And Eskel is driven to distraction whenever she’s in the same room as him, which isn’t always a good thing in a crumbling keep full of easy ways to hurt oneself.

“Eskel, focus!” Vesemir calls as Geralt’s blade comes perilously close to catching Eskel across the belly.

Eskel is focusing. He’s focusing on the smell of lilac and gooseberries floating down from the tower overlooking the training yard, where Yennefer and Ciri are sitting together. He’s focused on the soft murmur of Yennefer’s voice and the steady thrum of her heartbeat. He’s focused on the memory of kissing her until his lips were numb the week before.

Perhaps he’s not as focused as he should be.

Geralt cocks an eyebrow as Eskel centers himself and strikes a defensive pose.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Eskel grumbles, jerking his chin at the Jaskier-shaped lump on the edge of the training yard. It’s hard to tell if there’s actually a bard there, or just a half dozen cloaks piled on top of each other. “You’re just as bad.”

“You’re doing great, my love!” the pile of cloaks calls. “Keep it up!”

Geralt sighs.

“How can you tell, bard?” Lambert asks, not looking away from his sparring match with Coën. “Can you even see under all those cloaks?”

A long-fingered hand emerges from the cloaks to make a rude gesture in response.

Eskel shakes his head and turns back to Geralt.

“Ready to try again?” Geralt asks and Eskel lunges.

***

“You’d think they’d get enough of sword fighting during the year.” Ciri peers down at the sparring witchers with interest. “Shouldn’t they be taking a break? Geralt told me that they winter here to rest.”

Yennefer makes a noncommittal noise. From what she’s seen so far, there’s little rest to be had at Kaer Morhen; the witchers spend their days either sparring or working on repairs around the keep. She supposes that’s still probably more restful than life on the Path. At least there are no beasts, hateful villagers, or Nilfgaardian soldiers to contend with.

“They’re fast,” Ciri says. “Do you think I’ll be as fast as they are?”

“Unlikely, since you’re not going through the Trials.”

“Can I go through the Trials?”

“No. I don’t know the details, but I don’t think they can make witchers that way anymore.” Yennefer watches as Geralt and Eskel circle each other, their movements fluid and graceful. Eskel looks significantly better than he did when they arrived a week ago; his wounds from his beating are entirely healed and he's regained his strength. “Besides, you won’t need to go through the Trials, not with your powers. You’re as formidable as any of them already.”

“But I can’t control it.” Ciri sighs.

“I couldn’t control my powers either, when I first got to Aretuza,” Yennefer says. “Control comes with time and practice.”

“Is that what you’re going to teach me?”

Yennefer nods. “Having a power like yours is no good if you can’t control who you use it against. It will take time, but we’ll get you there.”

“I don’t know if I have time.” Ciri suddenly looks much older than a twelve year old should.

If Yennefer were a naturally comforting person, she would reach out and smooth the hair out of Ciri’s face. She would know exactly what the girl needed to hear to be reassured. But Yennefer doesn’t know how to be comforting. The closest thing she’s ever had to a real parent was Tissaia de Vries, for fuck’s sake. “We have all winter, at the very least. We’re safe here.”

“I know,” Ciri says, though she doesn’t look like a child who feels especially safe.

Eskel looks up at the tower, his eyes meeting Yennefer’s. His lips quirk into a shy little smile and he raises a hand in greeting. Geralt takes advantage of his distraction to tackle him into the snow.

“See?” Yennefer asks Ciri dryly. “With fierce warriors like those about, Nilfgaard doesn’t stand a chance.”

Ciri giggles. It’s a sweet sound that they don’t hear nearly enough. “Eskel deserved that. You should never worry about your audience during a fight.”

Something she undoubtedly learned from her grandmother. “Maybe you should be the one teaching them how to fight,” Yennefer tells her.

Ciri smiles a little sadly. “My grandmother did teach me sword work, though she said it was a skill I’d never have to use. She always said her life’s work was making sure I would never have to take up arms to defend Cintra.”

In a way, the queen was right, Yennefer thinks grimly. There’s nothing left in Cintra for Ciri to take up arms to defend. When she picks up a sword, it will be to defend herself and nothing more. “By the time we’re done here, you’ll be able to fight with swords and with magic. Nilfgaard won’t know what hit them.”

As Yennefer watches, the young princess visibly composes herself, smoothing her features into a cool, confident expression that Yennefer is sure she learned from her grandmother. “Where do we start?”

“Why don’t you tell me about what you can do?” Yennefer asks.

***

By the time they make their way inside from morning sparring, Eskel has been thoroughly defeated by every single one of his fellow witchers, including old Vesemir, who hardly ever joins in with sparring anymore. He chooses to blame his poor performance on the fact that he got beat to hell by Nilfgaardian soldiers not two weeks ago and then had to climb a mountain before he was fully healed. It had nothing to do with being distracted by Yennefer.

He’s heading up to his room to grab some salve for his many bumps and bruises when he rounds a corner and is hit by the scent of lilacs and gooseberries. He stops in his tracks and Yennefer comes down the stairs, accompanied by Ciri.

“Hi, Eskel!” Ciri says brightly. He doesn’t consider himself all that great with kids, but Ciri seems to like him well enough.

He smiles at her with the unscarred side of his mouth. No sense traumatizing the kid any more than she already is. “Enjoy watching sparring?”

She nods. “Vesemir says it will be a long time before I can join in.”

“You could probably duel Lambert,” Eskel says. “Think you could keep up with him.”

From somewhere in the keep, too far away for Ciri and Yennefer to hear, he hears Lambert call, “Yeah, fuck you too!”

“I need to go find Geralt,” Ciri says. “He says we’d start training today.”

“He’s down in the still room with Vesemir,” Eskel tells her.

She hurries off, leaving Yennefer and Eskel facing each other. Eskel is very aware of how sweaty and disheveled he is after sparring, while Yennefer looks like she’s ready for court, as per usual.

“Hey, Yenn.” It’s not the most charming opening line, but well, Yennefer has known Eskel long enough to know that those aren’t his forte. If she wanted charming opening lines, she should go for Jaskier.

A small smile curls her lips. “How was sparring?”

“You saw how sparring went. I got my ass kicked.”

She doesn’t shame him further by disagreeing. “Ciri is looking forward to teaching you a thing or two this winter.”

Eskel snorts. “In my defense, I was distracted.”

“Oh?” She arches an eyebrow. “I can understand why. What with Jaskier standing there, wearing every cloak in the keep.”

Eskel’s lips twitch. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You decided to have your morning chat with Ciri outside in subzero temperatures just for fun?”

“It’s hardly any warmer outside the keep than in.” She lifts one shoulder into a delicate shrug.

He can’t argue with her there.

“But,” Yennefer adds, her gaze flicking up and down. “I did enjoy the show.”

Eskel wonders if this is the part where he’s supposed to kiss her. He wants to desperately. They haven’t kissed since the passionate one they shared on their first morning at Kaer Morhen and they’ve hardly seen each other, except for at mealtimes. Eskel is afraid to push this farther, afraid of ruining things. He wants to do this right. The problem is, he has no idea what right is. He doesn’t have much experience with romance.

He clears his throat, face feeling hot. “Glad to entertain.”

There’s an awkward best of silence, where Eskel searches his brain for something to say. Yennefer looks equally discomfited. Eskel wonders again if she’s waiting for a kiss, and then remembers that he’s sweaty from training and certainly not fit to be kissing beautiful sorceresses right now.

“I smell,” Eskel blurts out.

Fuck, that was not what he wanted to say.

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I, uh, should go clean up.” Eskel bobs his head in a nod. “Good talking to you, Yenn.”

“You as well,” she says, looking somewhere between amused and puzzled.

Eskel hurries away before he can say anything else foolish.

***

Yennefer isn’t sure how the hell people do this. It’s not that she’s a blushing virgin— far from it, in fact— but she has no idea how to navigate the ins and outs of this kind of slow dance with another person. She’s always been the type to decide that she wants someone and go for it, no hesitation, no questions asked. She’s not used to wanting. For the last week, she’s thought of just showing up at Eskel’s door late at night and pulling him into another one of those astonishing kisses, because a week of this has been torture and she can’t imagine doing this for months.

But as much as it pains her, she knows that she wants to do this right. And doing this right means clearing the air with Geralt. The two of them have either been avoiding each other or behaving with scrupulous politeness when they’re forced to interact— mostly because Ciri is always in the room. But Yennefer wants to get past this awkward flirting stage with Eskel to the point where she can get her hands all over that beautiful body, and if that means talking to Geralt, then so be it.

She steps outside— and really, she doesn’t know why the witchers always train outside in the freezing cold when the great hall is plenty big— to find Geralt guiding Ciri through some slow, meticulous movements with a sword that looks far too big for her. Ciri has a look of utmost concentration on her face, with a little furrow between her brow. Yennefer can tell that Geralt is aware of her presence from the way his nostrils flare, but he doesn’t take his focus away from Ciri.

It’s Ciri that looks up, smiling at the sight of her. “I talked Geralt into teaching me how to use a sword.”

“I can see that,” Yennefer says, lips curling into a soft smile of her own. “I suppose the keep full of witchers didn’t have a princess-sized sword?”

“This is the princess-sized sword,” Geralt says.

“Of course it is.” Yennefer forces herself to look into Geralt’s slit-pupiled yellow eyes. “We should talk.”

Geralt’s face doesn’t betray if he’s surprised or distressed by this. It took her years to learn to decipher his tiny facial expressions and now a year of separation seems to have undone all that. “Alright. Ciri, keep practicing the moves I taught you. And no swinging that sword around. You might cut yourself in half.”

Ciri makes a huffy noise, but nods.

Geralt and Yennefer retreat to the edge of the training yard, close enough to keep an eye on Ciri while still granting themselves some measure of privacy. Yennefer leans against the low, half-crumpled wall that surrounds the perimeter of the training yard and looks out at the beautiful mountain view.

“It is lovely up here,” she says. “I’ll give you that. Even if it’s cold as balls.”

Geralt shrugs. “You get used to the cold after a while.”

Yennefer doesn’t like the idea of her being here long enough to get used to the cold, but someone needs to teach Ciri to control her powers and it’s unlikely to happen in the winter.

“I didn’t think Ciri would be happy here.” Geralt looks over at his child of surprise, expression softening. “But she seems to be settling in well.”

“She’s a resilient child.”

“She has to be, after everything that happened in Cintra.”

Yennefer only saw a slice of the devastation left by Nilfgaard’s advance through Cintra into Sodden, but it’s enough to make her ache for the little princess. “Jaskier seems happy here too.”

“He is.” Geralt’s face softens even further. “Didn’t think he would be, not when he’s used to wintering in Oxenfurt.”

“Well, he’s followed you to less pleasant places than this, I’m sure.” Yennefer doesn’t add, “Like to the top of the Dragon Mountains.”

They stand in silence for a long moment, watching Ciri.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt finally says. “I didn’t know what the djinn wish would do, but I still should have told you.”

Yennefer can feel over a year of hurt and rage bubbling up. “Yes, you should have.”

“I didn’t know how it worked.” Geralt is quiet for a moment. “Didn’t think about it, to be honest. I should have known that the running into each other over and over was because of the wish, but I don’t think I wanted to know. I just thought we got lucky. Had I known, I never would have…” He trails off with a frustrated noise, like he can’t put all his thoughts to words. “I’m sorry.”

The Yennefer of a year ago probably would have shouted at him. She would have let the grief and anger overflow until it covered the entire damn mountaintop. But she’s tired. She’s walked across half the Continent. She’s watched children blown to bits. She burned half a squadron of soldiers to ash. She was stabbed in the stomach by one of her oldest friends. She’s seen kingdoms devastated by senseless conquest. The hurts of a year ago feel so small in comparison after all that.

“I forgive you,” she says.

Geralt looks as surprised as she is by those words. “Oh.”

Yennefer offers a small smile. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say that will punish you more than you’ve already punished yourself.”

He grimaces in what looks like agreement.

“The djinn bond is gone,” Yennefer tells him. “Whatever happened to my chaos at Sodden Hill, it seems to have severed it. As my chaos returns, I keep waiting for it to come back, but it hasn’t.”

Geralt nods. “I know.”

“I don’t…” Yennefer trails off, because to pretend that what she feels for Geralt is entirely gone would be a lie. She still finds him beautiful; she has eyes, after all. A little part of her will always love him, she thinks, but she no longer feels that desperate, all-encompassing pull towards him. “It’s different now.”

“It is.” He hesitates, then asks, “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

He sounds very young and very uncertain and her heart twists in her chest. “No, Geralt. There were a lot of good times in there.”

Geralt visibly relaxes. “You’re still important to me.”

“And you to me.”

They stand there in companionable silence for a moment, watching Ciri.

Yennefer takes a deep breath. “You should know—”

“I know that you and Eskel are involved. You two aren’t subtle.”

“Unlike you and the bard, who are the souls of discretion.”

Geralt snorts. “Eskel is a good man.”

Yennefer can’t stop the fond little smile from tugging at her lips. “He is.”

“Be good to him,” Geralt says. “I wasn’t.”

Yennefer thinks of Eskel’s crooked, sweet smile, the warmth in his eyes, how gentle his hands are whenever he touches her. “I will be.”

***

Eskel is just finishing up with fixing a crumbling step leading up to the North Tower when he glances out the window to see Geralt and Yennefer at the edge of the training yard, standing close as they talk. As he watches, Yennefer turns to smile up at Geralt, a glint of mingled humor and sadness in her eyes. There’s a familiarity to the way they stand together, the awkwardness that’s hung between them in the weeks since they found each other in Kaedwen seeming not gone, but diminished.

Something in Eskel’s chest tugs. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. He understands that Yennefer and Geralt have years of history together and he believes Yennefer when she says that there’s nothing between them anymore. It’s a sense of urgency, like maybe he’s running out of time to make his move. Maybe he’ll say or do something wrong— or just not do anything at all for too long— and Yennefer will realize that he’s no White Wolf.

Okay, maybe he’s a bit jealous.

He finds his feet carrying him aimlessly through the keep. He has nothing to do for the rest of the day and he was hoping to seek Yennefer out and maybe spend some time with her, but she’s clearly otherwise occupied. Now he’s not sure what to do.

Eskel rounds a corner and runs smack dab into Jaskier. The bard yelps and reels backwards; Eskel is just able to grab him and his lute before they both go crashing to the ground.

“Sorry,” Eskel says, handing the lute back to the bard.

“It’s quite alright, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” Jaskier checks over the lute for scratches. “Are you alright, Eskel?”

“Fine.”

“It’s just that you look a bit…” Jaskier gestures at his face and Eskel bristles before the bard says, “Geralt-like.”

Eskel is bewildered. He and Geralt used to be told that they looked alike when they were small boys, but even before the Trials leeched Geralt’s hair and skin of color and Eskel got his scars, they’d grown out of that. “What?”

“You’re just scowling quite ferociously. It reminds me of my beloved, if very grumpy, White Wolf.”

Eskel makes a noncommittal noise, then remembers. Jaskier is a bard. He knows romance better than anyone. “I need your help with something.”

“Oh? This wouldn’t have to do with the lovely Yennefer, would it?” When Eskel doesn’t answer, a grin spreads across the bard’s face. “It does, doesn’t it? Excellent. Eskel, I knew this day would come. Please step into my office.”

Jaskier’s “office” turns out to be what remains of the Kaer Morhen library. Half of the library collapsed in the sacking and the hole in the ceiling has been precariously bricked over. The books were mostly salvaged from the rubble, but they sit in haphazard piles around the room. Geralt mentioned that Jaskier might try to make some order from the mess this winter, but Eskel sees no signs of progress.

“So.” Jaskier sinks down into one of the dusty armchairs. “What seems to be the problem, Eskel?”

“There’s no problem,” Eskel says a touch too defensively.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow. “So, you’re here to wax poetic about her beauty and grace?”

“You know, I think I’d be better off asking Lambert for advice.”

“Do you want to mortally offend her so badly that she turns you into a slug?”

Eskel drops down into the chair across from Jaskier. “Good point.”

“So tell me, my friend.” Jaskier leans back, steepling his fingers like a wise old man about to dispense some advice to a beloved grandchild. Eskel is probably older than his grandfather. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Yennefer and I…” Eskel struggles for the right words. “Right after we got to Kaer Morhen, it seemed like we were making progress. The problem is, I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve never done this before. With Geralt—” He breaks off, realizing that Jaskier might not know that he and Geralt used to be lovers, but the bard shows no surprise. “We were young and horny. There was no courtship, just hands under the covers late at night. And since then, there have only been whores and the occasional one-night fuck. There hasn’t been anyone that I cared about sticking around afterward.”

“So you want help wooing her.”

“I guess.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve been successfully wooing beautiful people for over two decades now and—” Jaskier sees the look on Eskel’s face. “Ah, I know that witchery expression. It’s the ‘get to the point, Jaskier’ face. I can tell you and Geralt grew up together.”

Eskel sighs at him.

“Yes, yes, I’m getting to the point. As majestic as Kaer Morhen is…” Jaskier spreads his arms out. “There’s little space for romance here. You all eat together. You spend your mornings training together, your afternoons fixing walls together, and your evenings drinking White Gull and playing Gwent together. So the first thing is that you need to get Yennefer alone. There are plenty of unused rooms here. Find one and clean it up so the two of you can have a nice, romantic dinner, just the two of you.”

“Everyone will know what we’re doing.”

“Of course they will. You’re witchers and you’re all incorrigible gossips.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I would normally say you should get her flowers, but there are none of those to be found on a Kaedweni mountaintop in the winter. She does have a sweet tooth and a fondness for apples.”

“Huh, might be some apple jam somewhere.”

“Perfect! Make her a romantic dinner and some dessert, get her alone so the two of you can talk without a bunch of gossiping witchers on top of her. But this is important: remember that Yennefer is a lady who spent thirty years at court. She’s accustomed to the finer things in life. If there’s a bottle of good wine somewhere in this keep, take it out. If there are any books of poetry, memorize them. Gentlemen make a show of it when they’re wooing ladies of the court. Don’t be afraid to show her how much you care.”

Eskel’s head is starting to hurt. He can’t imagine Yennefer as a gently bred lady, but she did spend years in Aedirn’s court. He’s sure she got used to a certain standard of living there, of men who were handsome and gallant and always knew the right thing to say in order to charm her. Perhaps Jaskier is right.

“What kind of poetry are you thinking?” Eskel asks.

He doesn’t know whether to be reassured or alarmed by Jaskier’s answering grin.

***

When Yennefer goes down to dinner the day after her conversation with Geralt, Jaskier practically trips over his own two feet intercepting her in the doorway. “Eskel was hoping you could help him with something in the old classroom down the hall.”

Yennefer eyes him dubiously. “Help him with what?”

Jaskier blinks guileless blue eyes at her. “Something.”

She gives him an unamused look. “How have you survived so long working for the RSS?”

His jaw drops. “I… I don’t… you must be… the what?”

“For fuck’s sake.” She turns on her heel and stalks down the hallway to the old classroom, which she’s mostly avoided. From the little bits Geralt told her about witcher training, it doesn’t sound like a place with much in the way of pleasant memories. She pushes the door open; it groans, as if unused to such liberties being taken with it. “I was told that you wanted my—”

She breaks off when she sees the scene inside the classroom.

There’s a wooden table in the middle of the room, draped with a tablecloth that was probably once white, but is now closer to gray. Half of the table is festooned with lit candles. On the other side of the table, there are two bowls of stew, two goblets of wine, a loaf of bread, and what looks like some kind of cake spread out. Eskel stands there, cheeks flushed and hair a little damp, like he just got out of the bath, looking at her with wide eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

Yennefer steps inside, letting the door drift shut behind her. “Hello, Eskel.”

He swallows audibly. “We haven’t had much of a chance to spend time together, just the two of us, since we got here, so I thought we could…” He gestures to the table.

Yennefer waits for him to finish his thought. When he doesn’t, she prompts, “Have dinner?”

He nods. “Thought it might be nice to eat with just the two of us.”

A mealtime not surrounded by witchers sounds lovely, so Yennefer lowers herself into the chair across from him. “What brought this on?”

Eskel shrugs, settling down in his own chair. “We haven’t seen much of each other since we got here. I’ve missed it.”

Her lips twitch. “You miss sleeping outside in the freezing cold or being huddled on lice-ridden straw pallets?”

“Since I was with you? Yes.”

Yennefer doesn’t know what to say to that, so she takes a sip of the wine and nearly chokes when she ends up with a mouthful of vinegar. “Where did you get this?”

His brow furrows. “Varin’s stash.”

“Who the fuck was Varin?”

“Old fencing instructor. He was a mean son of a bitch, but he knew his booze. Made it himself.”

“Did he age it in a chamberpot?”

“Can’t be that… oh, fuck.” Eskel takes a sip and makes a face like someone who just bit into a lemon. “That tastes worse than Black Blood.”

Yennefer pushes her goblet away. “It seems Varin was a mean son of a bitch who also didn’t know how to properly store his wine.”

“He drank it so fast, he didn’t need to.” Eskel shakes his head. “Sorry, Yenn.”

“It’s no matter.” Yennefer takes a bite of the stew, which is luckily a vast improvement over the wine. “This is good.”

Eskel nods. “Vesemir’s a good cook.”

“A skill he didn’t pass on to any of you,” she says, remembering the many, many charred rabbits they ate during their travels.

He smiles crookedly at her. “I’m a damn better cook than Geralt.”

“Geralt doesn’t even eat his food with a knife and a fork, so that’s not saying much.” Yennefer doesn’t want to talk about Geralt right now. Eskel must not either, because they lapse into silence.

When they’re done with their stew, Eskel says, “I heard you like apples.”

Yennefer glances towards the cake. “Where did you get apples on the mountain?”

“There was some apple jam in the pantry. Want some? Baked it myself.”

“I’d love some.” Yennefer holds out her plate for a piece and takes a bite. She just manages not to spit it out. “Eskel?”

He makes an inquisitive noise, cutting off a piece of his own.

“Did you put sugar in this?”

“No, I figured the apple jam would be sweet enough.”

“Do you do much baking?”

“Not really.” Eskel takes a bite of the cake. “Well, fuck.”

“It’s better than the wine,” Yennefer offers.

“Not by much.” Eskel drops his fork, then reaches across the table to take her hand. He freezes, looking mildly panicked.

Yennefer isn’t sure what to do with this. Eskel, who was tortured by Nilfgaardian soldiers a few weeks ago and barely blinked, now looks like a man being led to the gallows.

“Love is like a pear,” Eskel says in a rush, then mutters a few more words under his breath.

It takes Yennefer a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Is that one of Jaskier’s poems?”

Eskel nods, shoulders slumping in defeat. “He tried to get me to memorize the whole thing, but I’m shit at that kind of thing.”

“Why are you trying to memorize Jaskier’s poetry?”

“He thought it would be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Said it would be romantic.”

“Everything clicks into place. “Eskel, was this all Jaskier’s idea?”

“Yes.”

Yennefer closes her eyes. “Did you really take romantic advice from the man who took twenty-three years to successfully get Geralt into bed?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Eskel, Jaskier is a talented bard and reasonably good-looking— though if you tell him I said either of those things, I will deny it— but anyone he gets into bed is despite his attempts at seduction, not because of them. Trust me.”

“I thought bards would be good at this kind of thing,” Eskel says a little helplessly.

“Everyone does. I think they spread the rumors themselves.” She covers his enormous hand with hers. “What’s this about?”

Eskel glances down at the table. “I saw you with Geralt earlier. I wanted to make sure that I don’t miss my chance.”

Yennefer knew perfectly well what she was getting herself into when she fell for another witcher. She has no one to blame but herself. “I wanted to talk to Geralt because I felt like I needed to clear the air with him before you and I could finish what we started last week.”

“Oh,” Eskel says. “Is the air cleared?”

“As it’s going to be. The djinn bond is gone. He and I have no more attachment to each other.”

Eskel’s face flits through a series of emotions. “So, the two of you…”

“Surely you can’t have missed him and his bard rutting against every surface of the keep? Even if Geralt and I wanted to rekindle what we had, he most likely wouldn’t have the time or the energy.”

Eskel’s lips quirk. “Well, when you put it like that…”

He trails off as Yennefer stands up to round the table. She slides into his lap, reveling in his little gasp of surprise, and kisses him. It’s only the third time they’ve kissed, but the contours of his mouth are as familiar as if this is all they’ve been doing in the weeks since they met. His hands cradle her back as he pulls her more securely into his lap and she has to hike up her skirts to straddle him properly, eliciting a groan from him.

Yennefer nips at his lower lip. “None of this is necessary, Eskel. You don’t have to court me. People usually don’t.”

“They should,” he says hoarsely. “I wanted you to know that you matter to me.”

“You have many times.” She doesn’t know how to put it into words how much it means to her that he tried. The wine may have been shit and the poetry laughable, but he put in an effort, which is more than anyone has done for her in a long time. “But I don’t need poetry.”

“Neither do I.” Eskel shakes his head. “No more poetry.”

“Or baking. Though I am amenable to wine when it doesn’t taste like piss.”

“You ask too much.”

Yennefer laughs. “And next time you want advice on how to get me into bed, just ask me.”

His cheeks flush, but his eyes are intent on her face. “Then how do I get you into bed, Yenn?”

“You take me upstairs right now and get all these damn clothes off.”

There’s nothing shy about the smile Eskel gives her now; it looks downright wolfish. “Think I can do that.”

***

Eskel has always been a simple witcher with simple tastes. He doesn’t get involved with politics or bed dangerous, glamorous people. He lives his life on the Path, killing monsters and earning coin. There’s no glamour or drama to it; it’s just who he is. But he doesn’t feel like a simple witcher as he carries Yennefer of Vengerberg up to his bedroom and lays her down in his bed. There’s nothing simple about the noises Yennefer makes as he hikes up her skirts to press kisses between her thighs or the way her back arches when she finds her pleasure. There’s nothing simple about the way she gasps his name when she’s riding him.

Their first coupling is quick and furious, with Yennefer riding him with quick, efficient thrusts as they let the weeks of tension between them finally bubble to the surface. But the second time is slower, almost leisurely as Yennefer lets him take the lead, lets him take his time mapping every inch of her body with his mouth and hands, learning what makes her squirm beneath his touch. He thinks he could spend an eternity like this, with Yennefer sprawled out in his bed, the entire room spelling of lilac and gooseberries and sex.

The third time is full of laughter, with Yennefer waking Eskel in the middle of the night with a hand sliding down his belly. They kiss in the dark, fumbling with the blankets that have tangled hopelessly around the two of them in the dark. Eskel nearly falls out of bed at one point and it’s worth it for the way Yennefer’s laugh rings through the room.

It’s nearly dawn when they finish fucking for the fourth time. Yennefer falls asleep in Eskel’s arms nearly instantly, her head pillowed against his chest as she breathes deeply and evenly. She’s unbelievably beautiful, with her silky black hair spread out across the pillow and her smooth, unscarred skin next to his scar-riddled body. She looks human in her sleep, with those violet eyes closed and her lips parted slightly.

Eskel presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her a little closer, listening to the sound of her heartbeat until he too drifts off to sleep.

***

Yennefer wakes content and warm, with strong arms wrapped around her and her cheek pillowed on the swell of Eskel’s pec. She’s never been one for cuddling, but she may have to reevaluate that, because this is a lovely way to start her day. When she opens her eyes, she finds Eskel already awake, watching her with soft golden eyes that seem to glow in the bright morning sunshine coming in through the window.

“Good morning,” she murmurs.

“Morning.” He presses a gentle kiss to her lips.

They spend several minutes trading lazy kisses, too sleepy and sated to start anything else.

“Want to head down to breakfast?” Eskel asks after a while.

Yennefer nods. “I hear there’s apple jam.”

“Ah.” Eskel grimaces.

She groans.”Don’t tell me you used all the apple jam in that awful cake.”

“As soon as apples are in season again, I’ll pick you every single one I can find.”

She shakes her head at him, then goes to magically fill the bucket of water he keeps for washing up.

“Huh.” Eskel sticks his finger into the water and seems pleasantly surprised to find that there’s nothing terribly wrong with it. “I see you’re getting your chaos back.”

“It’s vastly improved since we got here,” Yennefer says. “It seems exhausting myself traveling and sleeping in terrible inns was not conducive to recovery.”

They both wash up and head downstairs, where they find Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri, Lambert, and Coën all gathered around the table in the great hall, eating breakfast of porridge, dried fruit, and jerky.

Yennefer pins Jaskier with a look. “Really, bard? Poetry?”

The bard blinks up at Yennefer in a “who me” sort of way. “What’s wrong with a little poetry?”

Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest and scowls down at him. “Perhaps it would have been effective if it had been decent poetry, and not your tripe.”

“Tripe? How dare— Geralt!”

Geralt does not look up from his porridge, just shakes his head as if to say he’s not getting involved in this.

“Whatever the bard did, it clearly worked.” Lambert looks between Yennefer and Eskel with a raised eyebrow.

Yennefer stares right back at him, refusing to be embarrassed. She knows that the witchers at the table can all tell what she and Eskel were up to all night; they can probably smell it, if they couldn’t hear the night before. Ciri, luckily, seems oblivious, or maybe she’s just choosing to ignore it.

“Don’t think it was the poetry.” Eskel puts a hand on her back. “No offense, Jaskier.”

“None taken.” Jaskier sniffs. “I know it was through no fault of the poem, but the lack of appreciation of finer things that some people suffer from.”

Ciri pats him on the arm, which seems to mollify him. Yennefer rolls her eyes, but is in too good a mood to tell the bard to fuck off. As she and Eskel sit down side by side, she sees Geralt and Eskel exchange quick smiles. Next to her, she feels Eskel relax a bit. Her own relationship with Geralt may be a thing of the past, but she’s glad that this thing between her and Eskel won’t damage the witchers’ friendship.

“So,” Lambert says, eyeing her assessingly. She would bristle, except she’s fairly certain his gaze is borne of simple curiosity, rather than anything more lascivious. “I guess this means you’ll be sticking around for a while.”

“I was already going to stick around for a while.” Yennefer takes Vesemir’s offered bowl of porridge with a nod of thanks. “Someone needs to train Ciri how to use her powers. While the rest of you have the sword work well in hand, that’s not all she needs to learn.”

Eskel nudges her. “That’s the only reason you’re staying?” His tone is light, but there’s a real question in his eyes.

“Of course not,” Yennefer says briskly. “I’m also staying for Lambert’s delightful company, of course.”

That gets a roar of laughter from Coën and Jaskier, a chuckle from Vesemir, and a good-natured eye roll from Lambert. Yennefer reaches under the table to squeeze Eskel’s thigh gently. He covers her hand with his.

“To Lambert.” Eskel raises his mug in a toast. “Finally contributing something to the keep.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Lambert says with no real heat behind the words. “I’ll remember that when you’re too busy daydreaming to pay attention to sparring later.”

Coën leans across the table, smiling. Yennefer can tell he’s still a bit nervous of her presence, but he seems to be willing to make an effort. “Esk, did you really try to recite poetry?”

Eskel throws Jaskier a dark look.

“What?” Jaskier groans. “It seemed like a good idea at the time!”

“Did it?” Geralt asks mildly, earning an offended gasp from his lover.

With a shake of his head, Eskel launches into the story and Yennefer sits there with his hand warm against hers, feeling truly at home for the first time in a long, long time.

***

#the witcher #yenskel #eskel x yennefer #eskel/yennefer #eskel #yennefer of vengerberg #my fic #my writing

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juuls · 4 years

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Juulna’s ‘Hold Onto Your Sanity’ Fic, Book, and Music Recs for the 2020 Dumpster Fire... Part 3!

So you just crash-landed behind enemy lines in a war you know barely anything about except that your role seems infinitesimal and insignificant, and dumped into a year, 2020, that already seems fifteen years too long.

Before you drown your sorrows in some fantastic scotch or wine coolers for days (or weeks)… I have a proposal.

That you step back from the flames, tune things out for a bit, and try to forget about the outside world for a while (but don’t forget to vote or I will be very sad at you!).

These fics are meant to take you out of your head (I’m including more plot/story-minded fics than PWP) for the next few weeks or months as the world goes to hell (even more) but of course there are some bits of solid angst in these as there is wont to be in many a fic. Check the tags, read responsibly, don’t like-don’t read, ship and let ship, and please do leave a kudos and maybe even a comment! :)

This is PART THREE.

Check out here for Part One and most of the Marvel fic recs, along with a selection of book recs too. :)

And here’s Part Two, which has the bulk of my Star Wars and Game of Thrones recs, along with Spotify playlists!

Part Three is this one here, all about the Potterverse.

(Not yet complete) Here’s Part Four, filled with even more shippy goodness from all over the Star Trek universe. So. Many. Ships. :D

(Not yet complete) Part Five is Witcher, Man From UNCLE, Stargate: Atlantis and SG-1, Sherlock, Hannibal, and Doctor Who.

(Not yet complete) Part Six will probably be all for my newfound love of Supergirl, along with some Game of Thrones and Marvel ships I skipped, because I gotta stop somewhere with all these recommendations or I’ll be at it forever. Seriously, how much of this stuff have I read!?

But I think we all need some distractions from the world these days, eh? Or something to console us other than internet rage and a barrel of ice cream and/or hard alcohol.

Potterverse

I’ve chosen to pick fics (mostly) off of AO3 for their easy reading access, though HP fics’ golden years were on sites like fanfiction.net and other independent archives like Sycophanthex and others which have closed their doors over the years, sadly. Some of these fics date back to almost 20 years old, or more, amazingly!

For fics on fanfiction.net, I highly recommend using this link (FicSave) to epub/mobi converter rather than dealing with the frustrating app. It functions like AO3′s built-in download button.

SSHG/Sevmione

Rec assistance by @perrydowning

Second Life by Lariope

Phantom of Hogwarts by Good_Witch

Romancing the War by Pubella

The Poison Garden by turtle_wexler @turtlewexlerwrites

A Light in the Fog by turtle_wexler

Pride of Time by AnubisAnkh

The Savage by MagdatheMagpie

Snape’s Story by Tbird1965

Recognition by jezzie (krith)

Tedium of Time by oneredshoe

Tango by Desert_Sea

Sense and Insensibility by Desert_Sea

Time Mutable Immutable by Grooot

The Twenty by Leyna Rountree

For the Only Hope by ausland @run-with-me-to-the-sea

Bundle of Joy by LadyTuesday

Our Hands Tied by multilingualism

Choose Something Like A Star by TeddyRadiator

Mistress of the Stacks by Ms_Anthrop

A Derailed Train of Thought by Ms_Anthrop

Antiquities by stormcorona

Watch Over Me by @snapeslittleblackbuttons

Dropped Down into the Unknown by @q-drew

Delicate Transitions by @morbidmuch

Lay Me Low by TeddyRadiator

The Savage by MagdatheMagpie

Another Dream by @dragoon811

A Chance For Happiness by @corvusdraconis

Breath of the Nundu by corvusdraconis, Dragon_and_the_Rose

Just to Be by Amarti @amarti-writes-stuff

Hinge of Fate by Ramos

Forged in Flames by @mswhich

Days in the Sun by bluespring864

Making sure the boy who lived, actually does by Hold_en @hold-enwrites

The Problem With Purity by Phoenix.Writing

One Step Forward, Two Decades Back by corvusdraconis

The Headmaster’s Wife by Mrs_HH @propertyofseverustsnape

The Master, the Warden, the Headmaster, and the Deputy by mak5258

Cloak of Courage by Wendynat

Hermione Granger and the Intended Vessels by ShawnaCanon

Augury and Ardor by SnapeySnax

Before the Dawn by snarkyroxy

The Love You Take by Subversa

His Draught of Delicate Poison by Subversa

and sooooo many more if you want them just ask, this is both mine and Perry’s oldest ship lol

Gramander (Original Graves x Newt)

A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage by Anonymous

take a deep breath (and let it go) by lincesque @tumbloncat

Roar by @elenothar

Matchmaker, Matchmaker by @prosodiical

Dearly Beloved by prosodiical

Basic Instincts by @manic-intent

Promised by Miss_Lv

Plan G by Aate

Heat of the Chase by argentoswan @wannahearaboutmycats

Newt Scamander’s Guide to Getting Things Done by arthureameslove

Against all Odds by Maril

Where I Belong by Mishafied

He Wants To Say, “I Love You, Nothing Can Hurt You” by @obsidionwingsofmidnight

Arranged by Miss_Lv

death of a bachelor by gudetama (elementary)

The Graves Identity by Mishafied

you make me feel this way somehow by gudetama (elementary)

The Nature of the Beast by AntiGravitas @absolutelynogravitaswhatsoever

The Knights, the Newt, and the Rose by @yinyangswings

The Wizard’s Cat by @natecchi

The Color of Boom by gypsiangel

Signalling Theory: Blue Coat by @obaewankenope

Flame by @esamastation

And The Tag Read Simply: “Pretty” by @funkzpiel

Aren’t You Gonna Arrest Me, Officer? by JoyBurd

a little bit lost by shortbread @shortbread-fanfiction

Dramione

Rec assistance by @cuthian

Seven Times by kerri240879

Her Beauty and the Moonlight by BrilliantLady

The Fallout by everythursday (orphaned and only available on AO3 now, but complete)

The Eagle’s Nest by HeartOfAspen

Turncoat by elizaye @imnotleavinherewithoutyou

The Virgin Conundrum by AkashaTheKitty @akashathekitty

Bad Faith by Morrighan256

Isolation by bexchan @bex-chan-blog

The Serpent, the Witch, and the Broom Closet by bitchywitchy

Silencio by AkashaTheKitty

All You Want by senlinyu @senlinyu

Static by galfoy @heymanticore

What the Room Requires by Alydia Rackham

And We All Fall Down by @rumaan

Ambition’s End by Hanako A

Wait and Hope by mightbewriting @mightbewriting

Rewriting Destiny by mayawrites95 (mayarox95)

Chronos Historia by In_Dreams @indreamsink

A Muggle-born Magic by Musyc @willhavetheirtrinkets

Hunted by Bex-chan

A Second Look by @riverwriter

The Nietzsche Classes by Beringae

This Too, Is Sacred by HeartOfAspen

Bite First, Ask Questions Later by Daredevilsinthedetails, Kaylessi

Nocturnus by In_Dreams @indreamsink

Broken by @inadaze22

The Green Girl by Colubrina

Lady of the Lake by Colubrina

Rebuilding by Colubrina (really just anything written by @colubrina)

Presque Toujours Pur by @shayalonnie

Can’t Change the Way I Am by @nauticalparamour

Law and Marriage by DragonGrin (formerly TeenTypist)

The Tower Window by @xodramaqueenox

Unexpected by Emara88

Something Old, Something New by Kate Dessi

Suppressed Emotions by hopelesslydevoted.xx

Silver Blood by @freyaishtar

When the Day Met the Night by @bex-la-get

Harmony

A Marauder’s Plan by CatsAreCool (Rachel500)

A Step to the Right by CatsAreCool (Rachel500)

Eighth by lorien829

The Catalyst by lorien829

Harry Potter and the Isle of Mists by lorien829

Knife’s Edge by Celtic55

The Black Book by mosteveryonesmad

Awakening by SweetShireen

The Sword and the Snake by bartonfink1974

Dispelling the Silence by Indygodusk

One Year Later: Return to Hogwarts by Twilight’s Inferno

DraHarmony

Fourteen Thousand Galleons by @frumpologist

The Invitation by hot_elf @hot-elf

Love Love Love by MissELY @misselylux

Changing Scenery by aethling

East of Eden by msmerlin @ms-merlinblack

Turn Back Time by Dazeventura6

Foxfire by @setissma

Come Together by @nuclearnik

The Soul of the Wolves by LR_Earl @fanficbylrearl

Running From Lions by tryslora @tryslora

An Unexpected Family by ladyroxanne21

The Prophecies by jamcreynolds

Drarhinny

Reconstruction by @aldersprig

Fell From the Sky by BrandonStrayne @brandonstrayne (I really love this one, and not just as a Canadian.)

Demons From the Past by pottermum

Drarry

Rec assistance by @newtypeshadow

Rarely Pure and Never Simple by birdsofshore

Aural Gratification by birdsofshore

Lost Among and Falling by @bafflinghaze

The Corruption Sequence series by beren @berenwrites

Sentinel ‘verse series by elyssblair @elyssblair-blog

Date Blindness by dysonrules

Starts With a Spin by Maxine @serasarahhhh

Temptation on the Warfront by alizarincrimson

Paradigm by dysonrules

Here’s The Pencil, Make It Happen by ignatiustrout

Draco Sodding Malfoy by Shewhxmustnxtbenamed @shewhomustnotbenamed

Pieces of What by Jadwiga

Found, Not Lost by inspiration_assaulted

Shared Detention by DadIWriteGayPorn

Dirty Little Secret by Writcraft @writcraft

19 Years by shilo1364 @whimsicaldragonette

Morning Suns & Coffee Runs by laugh_a_latte @queer-coffee

Reus Una by purplepen76

Between Ink and Blood by Candamira

Ginmione

Distractions by @morningsound15

Cissamione

(This seems like it’s a bit cracky, but there’s some good ones, I promise! I sorta stumbled ass-backwards into this ship but really enjoy some of them.)

One Step Left by Cysteine @cysteine

Extinction by @rubikanon

Blinding Light by @16-pennies

Somebody Loved by beforeyouspeak

...

There. This is much better, isn’t it?

So my challenge to you, if your world is falling, burning down around you in flames... is this:

...if you feel yourself getting anxious or depressed, whether from the news or being cooped up in isolation or bored or on the verge of tearing your hair out or jumping off that roof or grabbing something to go after the dictator-of-the-week.... pause, take a breath, open up this rec list, close your eyes and pick something, and let chance take you somewhere hopefully far away. Let yourself be transported.

Oh, and don’t click on this Google Drive link. Really, there’s not 30+ GB of data on that Drive I’m sharing. Shame. There totally aren’t tens of thousands of books, as many audiobooks as could fit, and a large collection of fanfiction downloaded from AO3 in there. (Also, not all fics have been shared to that folder yet; I’m working on it a little at a time as I download more.)

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