#verse: the witcher / wolf of temeria.

[suresaint]

I would not have hesitated for a moment to precede or follow you into the fires of hell, if you had given the word. For my heart is not mine but yours.

@martyrsaiint.

[suresaint-moved]

“After this she with great pomp was conveyed to New Vizima, and there the ninth day of October was with all ceremonies accustomed, anointed & crowned kyng by the whole assent as well of the commons as of the nobility,  & was named Wolf of all Temeria, henceforth!” -- Anonymous  

[havenoffandoms]

Hello and congrats on 800 followers!!! Could I ask for an Eskel x female cat Witcher!reader with prompts 3 or 5? Thanks 😊

Hi anon! Thanks so much and thanks for this really fun combination of prompt. Here’s my little silly take on cat!witcher!reader x Eskel. Hope you like it. 

Send your prompt requests here.

Cat!Witcher!reader x Eskel: “it’s really not that complicated” (prompt 3) and “we could get arrested for this” (prompt 5)

“Would you hurry up, wolf?” you urge your travel companion as he struggles to pick a simple lock, “it’s really not that complicated, for the love of the gods.”

“You try and pick a lock in a tight space with little to no natural light,” you hear the witcher known as Eskel snide back. A guttural groan pushes past his lips as he tugs on the lock in his frustration. “Fucking thing!”

“Oh, get out of my damn way,” you snap at him as you squeeze yourself into said tight space, elbowing Eskel in the ribs as you wriggle up to where the lock is resisting the wolf witcher, “here, watch an expert at work.”

“Why am I not surprised that you Cat witchers know how to pick locks?” Eskel punctuates his words with a pointed eyeroll. 

“At least Guxart taught us some street smarts. What do you bring to the table, your theoretical knowledge of monsters? Your working knowledge of poetry? How’s that gonna help, you gonna bore the guards to death by reciting a couple of verses?” 

“Fuck you.”

“Make me,” you hiss in response, but your mood quickly brightens when you hear the familiar ‘click’ sound as the lock yields under your nimble fingers. You pull on it harshly and manage to open the trap door, your only escape out of these dungeons. “Hah! Where does that take us?”

“Sewers, judging by the stench,” Eskel remarks, his nose scrunching up in distaste. You can’t help but agree with your companion on this one. “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

“Let’s go, then.”

With the agility worthy of your namesake, you jump down yet another hole tight and land on your feet and hands. You keep this position long enough to assess your surroundings, your yellow-green eyes picking up every movement without needing to use a Cat potion. Unlike Eskel, who is probably downing one as you wait for him to follow you into the sewers. Once you are satisfied that there is no immediate danger, you rise to your full height and silently slip along the humid walls. You hear rats squeaking in the distance and scattering as the sound of Eskel landing next to you spook them. 

“Any idea which direction we should be taking, street-smarts?” 

“Well, the exit was north-west of our cell, so I’m gonna take a wild guess and say we should be heading that way,” you point in the direction you were referring to, “you got your swords?”

“Duh,” is all Eskel offered in response, “do you think so little of me?”

“Do you want an honest answer to that question? C’mon, we’ve wasted enough time waiting for you to drink that stupid Cat potion.”

You ignore Eskel’s grumbled response and take off without another word. You and Eskel have known each other for years. You first met on the path after he saved you from a particularly aggressive female wyvern. The beast was in heat and very territorial, and she did not appreciate anyone interrupting her mating rituals. There had been no contract on her head, you just happened to have the worst of luck. After Eskel saved you, he could hardly believe that he was not only standing face to face with a witcher from the School of the Cat, notoriously responsible for the creation of a famously vicious breed of emotionally-volatile assassins, but face to face with a female witcher no less. Your school often trained women, but very few of those were put through the trials and even fewer survived. You managed to beat the odds. You’re exceptionally good at what you do, which is why you and Eskel got along so well. 

After months of travelling together, and after a boozy night following a successful contract, you and Eskel became lovers. At first, it was purely physical, but as the months bled into years you realised that it was nice to have someone to go back to after an exceedingy shitty year on the Path. You started to miss Eskel after prolonged periods of not seeing each other and that’s when you admitted to yourself that it had stopped being purely physical a long time ago. You couldn’t let Eskel know, though. It would only get to his head. That’s why you settled for the tough love approach instead. It worked fine. Eskel had yet to run away.

Your train of thought is interrupted when you hear the familiar hiss of drowners in the darkness. You and Eskel simultaneously unsheathe your swords and brace yourself for an attack. One drowner sneaks up on Eskel from behind, but you notice it first out of the corner of your eyes and blast Igni in its face. In the meantime, Eskel hacks off the arm of another beast before running his silver sword through its abdomen, killing it with one powerful thrust. In the distance, you hear the echoes of more drowners heading your way. 

“Shit. We need to fucking hurry.” 

You run blindly through the labyrinth of underground tunnels. The truth is that neither of you knows where the exit is, or if there even is an exit. There has to be, you reason, the sewers always lead somewhere. Traditionally to a river, at least. There had to be an exit, or else the underground tunnels would be flooded and you would be swimming in shitwater by now. The fact that you aren’t is a fucking sign right? Right?

“There? You feel that?” Eskel suddenly speaks and instantly every hair on your body bristles in anticipation. 

“Feel what?”

“A draught.” Yes. You do feel it now that Eskel mentioned it. “Follow me. Turn to the left.”

You follow Eskel through the sewers, and to the relief of you both, you’re running away from the nest of drowners rather than towards it. Under any other circumstance neither of you would’ve shied from a group of drowners, but you were trying to escape and not draw more attention to yourself. Some other witcher, one that was preferably not wanted in Temeria, could take care of that one.

“We’re getting closer,” you say when your nose picks up the smell of fish and seawater, “we’ve almost made it.”

You and Eskel reach an opening several frantic minutes later, at once out of breath but also relieved that you managed to find your way out of those dungeons. It’s dark outside, which will help you and Eskel escape without raising too much attention, or so you hope. You both manage to exit the sewers soundlessly. Even Eskel with his impressive size manages to stealth his way past guards and civilians alike. Not as flawlessly as yourself, mind you, but you weren’t one to brag. 

Well, maybe a little bit, but there would be time for boasting later. 

“Hey look, there’s some horses there,” you tell him, your voice too quiet for any mortal ear to pick up but you knew Eskel could hear you loud and clear. 

“No. I need to get back to Scorpion.”

“Oh good gods - really? Eskel, we don’t have time for this. Scorpion is stabled near the city gates… at the other side of fucking town.”

“I’m not leaving Scorpion.”

With that, Eskel takes off in the opposite direction, leaving you to ponder whether you should follow him or go your own way and hope that your paths will cross again eventually. Fuck it, who are you kidding, you wouldn’t let that idiot risk his life for a stupid horse on his own. Well, if he gets caught you might just let him ride it out for a while… you know, just to teach him a lesson. 

You follow Eskel’s trail, making sure to remain unseen. Your hand reaches up and touches your witcher medallion, shaped in the form of a cat’s head, something you’ve done since the trials to ground you, to calm your nerves. After what felt like the longest fucking chase ever, you see Eskel pressed against the wall of the stables that you recognise as the place you two had left your horses in two days ago when you first arrived. Eskel peeks around the corner, checking for guards, and when he’s satisfied that he hasn’t been spotted he climbs up the side of the building at a surprising speed. You curse under your breath, but follow him up onto the roof of the building. 

“You know we could get arrested for this?” you tell him once you reach the top. Eskel raises an eyebrow, a mocking grin tugging at the scarless corner of his lips. Anticipating his smartass remark, you hiss: “I’ve just sneaked out of a dungeon, I don’t fancy another trip through those sewers.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take you long.”

“Me? Whatever do you mean, me?” Your eyes land on the chimney and its opening, too narrow for Eskel to fit through, but not too narrow to fit… you. Oh, the bastard was going to pay for this. When you turn to glare at your companion, all you can see is the protruding lower lip and the pleading eyes. 

“No…”

“Please? Scorpion means the world to me.”

“What about me?” you snap, forcing yourself to look away or risk falling for Eskel’s pretty face all over again, “don’t I mean the world to you?”

“Of course,” he says, his tone growing softer, “and I’m sure if the situations were reversed, Scorpion would do the same for you.”

“Urgh, fine!” you eventually relent despite the absurdity of Eskel’s last comment, “but you owe me for this.”

To this day you don’t know how you and Eskel didn’t get caught sneaking a massive war stallion out of the stables, nor how you two managed to escape the guards at the city gates. It certainly made for an interesting story that winter when you and Eskel travelled back to Kaer Morhen.  

Lambert relentlessly teases you for ‘growing too soft’ and ‘being wrapped around Eskel’s little finger’, but when you see the open adoration written plainly on Eskel’s face as soon as he and you retreat back to his room, well, you simply don’t find it in yourself to truly mind all that much. 

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

If you’re taking prompts: “you could have warned me!” Fluffffff please and thank you!

Thank you so much for the ask! I am so sorry this took so long! I had forgotten this was in my drafts 😂 

Welp, here you go now! Enjoy all 2k fluffy jealous goodness!

@jask-jaskier-jaskiest

Prompt: “You could have warned me!”

---

Geralt is not a jealous man.

He's not.

He just doesn't like it when people still think Jaskier’s old reputation true—back when the bard was young, free, unapologetically loving, and Geralt still hadn’t quite realized the reason for the swaths of warm in his chest whenever Jaskier smiled at him.

Their relationship is fairly new; their dynamic is still a little stilted as they try to figure out the unspoken boundaries and each other’s wants. It has been smooth sailing mostly. 

But fuck, can Jaskier’s old reputation be annoying.

Past and newer lovers are as taken with the bard as Geralt is. It's ridiculous that such a fumbling, awful-at-flirting bard has men and ladies fawning over him.

It's worse when he's teaching at Oxenfurt.

Geralt can't count on both his hands the number of times he's seen students try and fail to flirt with their professor. Most students know to back off, especially when Geralt is within radius. They are well-aware of the famed tales of The White Wolf and his bard, Dandelion.

So, it’s quite a shock when this one particular student just would not leave Jaskier’s side, even when Geralt starting hovering around the pair.

“Professor, I was wondering if you can help me with my piece? I was having trouble with how the tempo would match with the wor—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, catching up to the both of them. The bard beams, and Geralt—as always—softens. “Geralt! You’re here early.”

“I’ve been here for the past twenty minutes.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. Well, uh, just give me a few more minutes then we can go off, okay?”

Geralt grunts. The student, a pretty blond boy with bright green eyes, does not even look in his direction. Geralt tries his best to hide his grimace. 

Jaskier had once berated him for scaring off his students during one of his visits. To be fair, it was satisfying to see the group of young eager students nearly shit their pants at his looming figure.

They don’t quite believe that a man—whose trademark is being flamboyant and loving every thing that existed on the Continent—would be utterly and mutually smitten with a man who was practically his opposite—whose trademark is his surly frown and golden cat eyes.

“Professor, do you think we can schedule an appointment? A one-on-one consultation if you’ll allow it.” The boy’s eyes are bright, lively and a touch devilish. Everything that reminds Geralt of eighteen year old Jaskier. And Gods only know how much of a handful that young man was. 

Geralt had lost count how many times he’s had to end a tavern fight that Jaskier started. In the first year they started travelling together.

“Of course. However, that would mean you would have to wait a couple of weeks since I am going on the road,” Jaskier says, friendly and helpful and completely oblivious to the glint in the kid’s eye.

Geralt grimaces when the kid even takes it a step further, placing his hand on Jaskier’s bicep.

(It’s not like Geralt can really blame him. Jaskier is not at all scrawny.)

“That won’t be a problem at all, professor.”

Fucking hell.

The kid is practically moaning out Jaskier’s title.

And somehow, the bard still grins.

Geralt wants nothing more than to leave, right about now. At this absolute moment. But there is no way in any world is Geralt going to leave Jaskier here.

He wishes he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble with the school that one time—when he insulted one of the other professors for stealing one of Jaskier’s songs. 

(—But it was entirely worth it when Jaskier let out the biggest, up-roaring laugh of his life—) 

Because then he’d still be able to scare this kid off with minimal chastising.

The kid’s face pinked, and he leans in to Jaskier’s ear and—

“C’mon, Jaskier. Roach doesn’t like to wait.” Jaskier squawks when he’s practically manhandled back to Geralt’s side, his thick arm winding around his lithe waist. 

“But—” 

“I don’t like to wait,” Geralt grumbles, lips near Jaskier’s neck, voice dangerously low; Jaskier has to fight the urge to shiver. He can’t quite fight the redness in the tips of his ears.

“Geralt,” he mumbles, impish smile on his lips, “you’re awfully impatient.”

“I am. It’s been a week since I saw you.” And what a long week it was. First, Geralt had to deal with alghouls that had practically kicked out an entire village’s populace. Then, he had to manage the tempers of two prickly sorcerers, with the threat of being turned into a frog at his throat.

Truly, Geralt has been craving nothing but Jaskier’s presence. But it’s difficult in the winter, because the bard is adamant on keeping his yearly Oxenfurt teaching tradition.

This week would only get worse if he had to endure another second of inappropriate one-sided teacher-student flirting. 

Speaking of which...

Geralt looked over his shoulder to glare at the kid with narrowed eyes, baring his teeth. There’s a thrum of satisfaction when a flash of regret and fear runs over the student’s face, and he turns on his heel in the opposite direction.

He knows he didn’t have to do that. But Gods, he couldn’t resist.

He tightens his hold on Jaskier, revelling in the bard’s laboured breaths, the sweetness of lust enveloping Geralt’s senses. He wears a half-hidden proud grin as he drags Jaskier out of the school, disinterestedly noting all the stares they’re getting.

*

Only when Geralt has completed a drowner contract does Jaskier question him. They’re not yet out of Temeria by the time night falls, since Geralt had come across a noticeboard that was basically begging for a witcher.

Jaskier had just finished untying the knots on Geralt’s blood-caked armor, both ready to tuck in soon, and is now sitting flushed to Geralt’s side, playing a mindless tune as he stares at the witcher from the corner of his eye.

The bard does have to wait for a while for the words to come, considering he’s doing his gaze lovingly at Geralt ritual for the night. But once they do, Jaskier says, “Can you indulge my curiosity for a moment?”

Geralt stops in his sword sharpening, eyeing Jaskier, and grunts.

“Why were you acting all... weird today? Back at Oxenfurt, when I was talking to Stefan. What was wrong? Did I do something? Did you do something?”

The witcher purses his lips, darting his gaze away as if he were shy.

“Come on, Geralt. I won’t laugh, I promise.” Jaskier is more than patient when Geralt grits his teeth, a ball of suppressed thoughts and emotions; it’s much easier to coax things out of Geralt, even if it does take a few sugar-coated attempts and easy smiles.

His eyes remind Jaskier of a cat when he keeps looking around, as if he’s trying to find an excuse to avoid this conversation.

Eventually, like always, Geralt can’t quite hide away from Jaskier like he used to, and he faces the bard.

“That kid. Stefan.” Jaskier nods, even if he has no idea where this was going.

“He kept—” Geralt screws up his face. The campfire brings out the heat in those golden eyes. “He kept flirting with you. Touching you.”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands and threads their fingers together. “Got a little angry. Protective.”

Jaskier blinks.

“Wait. Me and Stef—wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwait,” Jaskier sputters, “you think that my student was flirting with me?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but the fond curl to his lips diminishes the effect. “As if you don’t notice the line of admirers at your office door everyday.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, gapes for a moment, narrowing his eyes; then he tilts his head, jaw closing with a click. “Tha—That’s true. I suppose. But come on.”

Just as he had promised, Jaskier doesn’t laugh, but he desperately wants to. 

“Stefan? Really? Okay, I get what you mean, but I swear it’s not because he’s attracted to me. Not in the slightest.” Jaskier smiles softly, hand coming up to stroke the line of Geralt’s jaw. “Sort of a funny story, actually.”

“Pray tell,” Geralt practically purred, softening in the palms of Jaskier’s callused hands, eyes heavily lidded.

“How would you prefer it, in verse or in normal speech?”

“Normal speech would do just fine,” Geralt huffs.

“Twas the first day of last year’s winter term, and I was merely feasting upon my lovely, lovely, sandwich—a sandwich that you made, actually. Full of delicious meats and amazing vegetables that you had lovingly cut just for me, a sandwich I had the magnificent honour of eating.”

“I thought I said normal speech.”

“It is,” Jaskier says, puffs of his laughter on Geralt’s cheeks. “I was just celebrating the fact my boyfriend made me a sandwich.”

Geralt’s shoulders shake, eyes warm with affection.

“And it was the most curious when a man I had never met before, blond with forest green eyes—”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“—came up behind me and started to recite one of my poems—by heart!”

Geralt frowns, but Jaskier smooths the lines away with gentle strokes of his thumbs.

“I was about to thank him for the recital, but I turned around and gods, he had the reddest blushes I’ve ever seen.” Jaskier laughs under his breath. “He had thought I was his girlfriend, who I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting. She’s very tall, taller than me even. I think she might be part elf.”

“So, what does that have to do with the flirting?”

“After that, he made a point to recite my other poems as a joke, especially the old bad ones I’ve written. The flirting just added to the experience.”

Geralt is staring at him now, eyes a little more awake. Under his hands, Jaskier can feel the gradual increase in temperature on the planes of Geralt’s scruffy cheeks—even if he can’t see the red, Jaskier knows Geralt is blushing from embarrassment.

Geralt hums, then rumbles; his eyes go down and then all of a sudden, Geralt is curling forward and leaning into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, hiding his face away. Jaskier doesn’t stop his laugh this time, hands automatically sliding in Geralt’s hair and over his shoulders, his lips on the witcher’s temple.

“You could’ve warned me,” Geralt grumbles, pulling Jaskier into his lap to fully embrace the bard. Jaskier only snorts.

“You could’ve warned me before carrying me out there like the brute that you are. I can only imagine the types of rumors that are cooking up in there now,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing the witcher closer to his chest. 

Gods, he’s missed this.

Geralt hums, low and warm, but a touch despondent. Jaskier frowns, hand swiping down the witcher’s spine. “Darling, if you’re uncomfortable with the flirting, I can just ask him to stop.”

“It’s yours and Stefan’s thing.” Jaskier doesn’t need to look at Geralt’s face to know he’s missing the twinkle in his eyes.

“Geralt, my dear witcher, you come first. You know that, right?” He presses his lips on the crown of Geralt’s head, grimacing when he smells the sea-salt and coppery blood from the drowners.

“I know that this is new. For both of us. The last thing I want is to screw it up with you without me knowing. So, tell me when something is bothering you. I promise I won’t laugh the next time.” Geralt’s shoulders shake with mirth. 

It’s only a flurry of silver and pale skin before a pair of long-missed lips seal his. Jaskier strokes a finger along Geralt’s jaw, not missing how easy and pliable the witcher becomes when he does so. 

It’s soft, sweet, with a touch of longing. It’s only been a week since Geralt’s last visit, but neither can ever get enough of each other. It’s only by sheer stubbornness of wanting to keep the other party happy do they resist jumping each other’s bones at the moment.

They breathe in each other’s air, foreheads pressed flushed, and Jaskier sighs reverently—much like a damsel would when in presence of her prince—melting in Geralt’s embrace.

“I don’t care if he flirts with you,” Geralt says eventually. “If only I get to read your older poems. 

“Oh Gods, I’d rather eat my own shoe than let you see those,” Jaskier groans. “A lot of them were about pining after a certain golden-eyed man. Quite pathetic.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt teases, nose brushing against Jaskier’s, “maybe Stefan and I can bond over that. We’d ambush you in the middle of a lectures, start reciting your verses.”

“I shall never forgive you,” Jaskier threatens, but his next words are muffled by bursts of laughter when Geralt digs his fingers into Jaskier’s sensitive sides.

“Whatever you say, bard.”

[witcherfic]

brothebro June 03, 2020 at 01:12PM

by brothebro

Julian is old and so terribly tired. His muscles need more and more time to recuperate after each hunt, his joints ache days before a thunderstorm hits, his scars itch and pull horribly every time he so much as does a wrong movement. And that is only to be anticipated.

He’s lived for so long. So long. He’s been here since the beginning, since before the Witchers were called Witchers the first time. Since all their order was, was a few monks in Temeria that agreed to be mutated in order to drive off the hordes of monsters plaguing the lands. He was there when Kaer Morhen was built; in fact, he helped build all of the Northern keeps. He’s trained countless of Witchers, he’s witnessed more than he’d like, perish in the hands of monsters, elves, humans.

Words: 6704, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of Witcher!Jaskier ficlets

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Eskel (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Tissaia de Vries

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir

Additional Tags: Gratuitous Swearing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Ye olde Witcher Jaskier verse, no beta we die like the wyvern, Jaskier is the grandad of the wolf school, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Angst, Growing Old, Swordfighting, Some Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans

[suresaint]

*intense staring intensifies* 

[suresaint]

Philippa: Here? Zelda: We can be quick... just try and keep quiet -- it’s a library.  Philippa: It’s you I fear disturbing the silence.

@martyrsaiint.

[suresaint]

sticks her head out from beneath a LARGE pile of hay " darling this is humiliating are you sure I can't just eat these villagers? you could sleep in whichever house your heart desires. . . "

@monstriiss

Zelda sat upon the pile of hay with the fur of her cloak tucked tightly around her neck. It was a horribly cold night, but she had slept in worse places. At least the barn gave them shelter from the rain and wind, and the hay would provide enough padding that she would not wake up with an aching back.

“What if my heart does not desire a house?” She answered with a smile. The tip of her nose was red from the sharp winter air. “What if my heart desires to sleep in fodder with a beautiful woman-giant instead?” Zelda brushed the straw from Drathenia's hair, then leant down to kiss her forehead. “There are worse places to find myself. Have you ever heard of a Two-Copper Hangover?”

[suresaint]

Zelda would absolutely fall for the “magical island with beautiful women (sirens) who keep you there in a lustful daze for hundreds of years without you realising” trick and if she ever snapped out of it she wouldn’t even be mad about it.

[suresaint]

Zelda: I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

@lwiamatka

[suresaint]

If I had to caption this master piece by @monstriiss, it would be: 

“SLEEPY TIMES WITH YOUR GIANT MAN-EATING, PREHISTORIC CRETACEOUS MILF MONSTER NO-NIPPLES GIRLFRIEND.”

[suresaint]

zel smelling like smoke from a camp fire and the crisp cold autumn air. also like sweat a bit

[suresaint]

zelda’s whole existence revolves around women she’s a lesbian. like if she could have a titty in her mouth always then she would. not a day goes by where she doesn’t think about kissing women and worshipping their bodies. thank u

[suresaint]

Zelda: Hey, look, finally got some colour back into those royal cheeks of your’s. Looking healthy. Calanthe: Thanks to you, and the others. Of course. Zelda: Just in time for your voyage to Skellige. Calanthe: Yes...

@lwiamatka

[suresaint]

young zel climbing a rock just to carve the words “this is very high” into it so many feet off of the ground, and then hundreds of years later archaeologists are like “wow whoever this person was was correct this is very high.”

[suresaint]

❛ you carry a sword, yet you are not a knight. ❜ ( from alex bc i will FORCE her into some medieval witcher verse for the THRILL of it)

@velvetipped​

“All kinds of folk carry swords,” said the witcher. “You’d do well to remember that.” She did not look up from the campfire until she had fed its flames with more firewood. When she did, she gave the woman a sympathetic look and extended a gloved hand. 

Her eyes fell upon the weeping cut spanning the length of the woman’s forearm. The red was stark against the white of her skin. It looked deep, and she wondered how it had happened.

“Will you let me look at your arm?” Zelda asked. She wasn't entirely sure the woman had realised she was injured yet. She was too focused on wielding a tree branch as a weapon. “I’m not that scary, am I?”