#I just have a lot of feelings about the witcher rock trolls

[cosmos-coma]

Sick Days- Lambert

A/N: This is my first ever Lambert fic! I had put off writing for him (as a central character) because I was never sure how to write him, but I like this one. Also apparently now that the snot is flowing so are the words lmao.

Pairing: Lambert x Reader

Word count: ~700

Tag warning: Language

Summary: Lambert takes care of you when start to get sick.

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You groaned and threw your arm over your eyes dramatically as you reclined back against Lambert’s chest. 

When you peeked out from under your arm and looked up to see his eyes still closed, ignoring you in favor of his meditative state. So you groaned again, louder this time, and flopped your hand “accidentally” against his face instead of your own.

“I heard you the first time.” He mumbled, swatting away your hand and finally opening his eyes. “What’s the problem, Honeybee?” 

“Well I- wait, that’s a new nickname; that's oddly sweet for you.” you said, your voice coming out quiet, raspy, and congested. 

“Yeah, I thought it would be fitting since you might be cute on the outside, but you pack a hell of a sting when you want to.” His face held a big stupid crooked grin that only devolved into laughter when you punched him in the shoulder. “But in all seriousness, what’s wrong? You sound terrible”

“I think I’m getting sick…would you mind getting me some hot water and honey…?” You asked, rolling over so you could lay chest-to-chest to chest with him, fingers coming up to smooth his hair back into place from its tussled state.

His laughter settled into a faint smile as he rubbed his hand down your back. “That’s all you want? You need to learn to ask for more, Honeybee…” He urged but nodded in agreement. “Yes, I can get that for you, but you gotta let me up if I'm gonna go anywhere.” He patted your butt like a drum before gently rolling you off to the side and getting up. 

“Thank you..!” you called as he headed out towards the kitchens, smiling to yourself. While he was out you re-stoked the fire and tried to clean up to the room to your normal standards, but you quickly began to tire and feel worse. Crawling back into bed you grabbed a book from beside the bed and patiently waited for your witcher to return, which… took a lot longer than you expected?

Just as you were about to hop out of bed and shuffle down the halls to look for him the door gently kicked open. “Lamb?” you asked and sat up more to see. 

“Yeah, it’s me…” he said as he walked in with a mug in one hand and a plate piled high with food in the over, even having to balance the toast with top with his chin to make sure it didn’t fall off the plate. 

You laughed as you watched him come in, your dry throat instead turning it into a nasty cough that sounded both wet and dry which you're not sure how that worked. You held up a hand as your shoulders shook with the force of it. “Ugh…” 

“Wow… you sound fucking disgusting. Almost like that time I saw a rock troll try to sit on a horse. That poor horse…” He snorted, sliding the plate and mug onto the little side table he had put in. 

“Shut up or I’m gonna cough down your throat, Lamb…” Your scowl served as a warning just as much as your words did. “I know you can’t get sick, but it's still gonna be gross…. Now, what’s all this? I just asked for water and honey..” 

“I know, but I wanted to get you more.” he shrugged nonchalantly, playing off this act of service as if it was nothing more than… well, grabbing a glass of water. “Plus since you're obviously sick you’ll need the energy so you get better faster and won’t complain so often.”

You could only grin as he climbed into bed with you, laying between your legs so he could lay his bead back on your chest, a position he loved but wouldn't allow his brothers to catch him dead in.

“Hey, Lamb?” you coaxed as your fingers caressed his cheek, loving touches running along the line of his jaw.

“Yeah?” 

“I love you…” you grinned. 

From above you watched Lambert's lips split into their own grin before turning his face up to you. 

“I love you too, Honeybee…”

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

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Love (I Can’t Forget)

Pairing: geralt x jaskier Warning(s): minor jaskier x other Rating: mature

Summary: Jaskier is quite enjoying his morning with the innkeeper's daughter when he hears the cry of a golem. He knows a contract has been put out for a Witcher and that everything should be perfectly fine. Only the contract put out was for a rock troll.

There are few things in his life that Jaskier regrets as much as his extensive knowledge of all things monsters. And not even the majority of the time, just right now on this particular day at this particular time.

He's been stuck in Hamm for three days on his way to Cintra to check in on Ciri. But there's a rock troll that's been blocking the only safe route out, chucking rocks at travellers and being a general nuisance. Rock trolls aren't much trouble otherwise, but this one is affecting trade and travel, so the town has put out for a Witcher. Judging by the chatter in town, the witcher arrived this morning. So, unable to leave and unwilling to go out and get involved with the Witcher and his business like everyone else, Jaskier has holed up with the innkeeper's daughter Penelope and he's quite enjoying himself.

Or, he was, until he heard the cry.

Because right now, he's quite happily trapped beneath layers of lace and silk, pinned between soft thighs, and all he can think of is that the contract was put out for a rock troll and that sound? that was a golem. Which means that right now, there's a Witcher thinking he's going up again a calm and peaceful creature and is very much not prepared for what he's about to find. And Jaskier is torn.

Because on the one hand, he doesn't want anyone getting hurt, especially due to miscommunication - intentional or otherwise. But on the other hand, the likelihood of Geralt being the Witcher called to deal with the problem is very high. And Jaskier doesn't want to see him.

It's been months now, close to a year since he last saw Geralt, having received no apology or even acknowledgement since the dragon hunt. Which is fine; Geralt's an asshole and he can travel alone if he likes, but if that's the way it's going to be, Jaskier simply does not want to see him. Ever again, if he can help it. But he also doesn't want to see him die.

"Fuck," he mumbles and Penelope giggles as he drops his head, hair tickling her thighs.

"Mmhm, I hope so."

Jaskier crawls out from under her skirts, running his hands up her thighs and doing his best to look apologetic. Because he is; he'd rather spend the entire afternoon making her come than face Geralt for even a second, but he can't sit idly by when the man he, regrettably, still loves could be in danger.

"I have to go," he says softly and she frowns. "I'm sorry and believe me, I would much rather stay here with you, but an old friend is in danger, I can't leave him alone."

"The Witcher?" she asks and Jaskier nods. She must have heard the cry too. "Isn't it his job to fight monsters?"

"Yes, when he's given the correct information, but that's not a rock troll out there." Penelope sighs but pushes her skirts back into place, tidying them.

"You'd better go find him then."

Jaskier dips down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips before gathering his things quickly and hurrying off to find the Witcher. He prays under his breath that it isn't Geralt, but even as he does, he finds himself looking for traces of the man. He knows Geralt's habits, knows where he'll set up camp - the people here aren't friendly enough to welcome a Witcher into their homes or even host him at the inn - and so Jaskier heads for the woods.

It takes him a remarkably short time to come across the meagre camp. Roach is tethered to a tree just a few feet from the fire pit and Jaskier's heart aches to see her. She dances excitedly and he swallows back a lump in his throat.

"Hey, girl," he whispers. "I've missed you too, but I can't stay, okay? Geralt could be in trouble." He gives her a quick pat, regretting that this will likely be their only chance to see one another.

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt's pack, rummaging through it. He finds the satchel of oils first, pulling them out until he recognizes the bluish hue of elemental oil. He sets it aside and continues looking for potions. Immediately, he finds swallow and thunderbolt sitting neatly in their sheaths and his heart clenches. He grabs them both and a third vial he hopes is white rafford's and tucks them all into his pockets, turning to hurry in the direction of the fight.

It's not hard to find them. The golem is loud and Jaskier follows the sound of its roars until he almost stumbles over a log in his urgency to get to him. Geralt rolls in his direction, dodging a blow from the beast, and when he sees Jaskier, his expression sours.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier?"

Jaskier stiffens, immediately defensive. He has to bite his tongue as he crouches down next to Geralt, still keeping one eye on the golem. It seems to have lost its target for now, but Jaskier knows that won't last long.

"Rude," he retorts, "considering I'm here to rescue you." He empties his pockets, listing off the supplies as he pushes them into Geralt's hands. "I thought you might need the assistance since a golem is a lot harder to talk down than a rock troll."

He's seething now, all the anger and hurt of the last year bubbling to the surface and it takes everything in him not to cry in front of Geralt. He's always been an angry crier and he hates it. But Geralt's head jerks up and a little bit of pride peeks through the anger. Because he does know what he's doing. He pointedly ignores it, eyeing a scrape on the side of Geralt's face that will need tending to later.

"Take the thunderbolt now," he says, "don't risk going at it again without it."

Geralt scoffs but he makes no attempt to take control of the situation, letting Jaskier continue. Jaskier focuses on the golem; there's no way Geralt can get the jump on it from here, so he'll have to distract it once he's ready.

"Oil your blade," he says and Geralt eyes him suspiciously, but he's already got the rag in hand.

Once he's finished, he keeps his eyes on Jaskier, no longer waiting for a command, but skeptical of what comes next. Jaskier knows he's realized something is up or else he would have just gone after the golem again, but he's waiting, he's letting Jaskier help.

"You're not going to like this," Jaskier says, rising to his feet, "but know that I'm only doing it for you."

He darts away through the trees and he can hear Geralt yelling after him, but it's too late. He ignores him, pushing on until he hears the golem turn its attention on him. This is closely followed by an angry fuck and Jaskier knows his plan is working.

Geralt still isn't at full strength, but with a distraction, he shouldn't have trouble taking the golem down. He just needs to keep it away from him without being killed until he has the chance. It's only then, that he realizes he didn't think his plan through all the way; once again, he was too concerned about Geralt's safety to consider his own and that's proved ill for him in the past.

He trips over a root - a root! - and fumbles backward to keep out of the way, but he's expecting this to be the end. He shuts his eyes and braces himself, but just as he can feel the golem's breath on his skin, it lets out a cry and whips around to turn its anger on Geralt.

Jaskier cracks an eye open to see it swinging at Geralt, now caught up and wielding his silver sword. Jaskier sighs in relief and scrambles to get up, ensuring he hasn't lost any of the supplies he brought with him. He doesn't stick around to watch the fight, heart still hammering in his chest, instead finding himself a safe spot to look out for Geralt until he takes the golem down.

And he does, shortly now that he has the right supplies, dodging its blow and pirouetting around behind it to deal a deadly blow. The golem collapses, shaking the ground beneath it and Jaskier holds his breath as he waits for Geralt to emerge from the pile of rubble.

But he doesn't and Jaskier can stand the wait any longer so he rushes out to him. Geralt's eyes are open when he reaches him, but his eyelids droop and his breath comes in hot heavy puffs. Jaskier drops down next to him, careless of the mud and blood that soaks into his trousers.

"'M fine," Geralt mumbles, but he doesn't sit up or make any attempt to move and in Jaskier's opinion, that's not fine.

He hauls Geralt up into his arms, propping him up against his chest and pulls out the remainder of the potions he brought with him. Geralt scowls and bats his hand away.

"I didn't come all the way out here to watch you die," Jaskier tuts, "I was having a very nice morning and I'd appreciate it if I wasn't interrupted for no reason. Take the potion."

Geralt rolls his eyes like a petulant child and takes the vial from Jaskier's hand, downing it like a shot of liquor.

"See," he says, "fine." Jaskier wants to smack him.

"Get up."

It's a struggle to get Geralt to his feet and Jaskier suspects his physical injuries are worse than the exhaustion, a prospect that has his heart racing, much to his chagrin. Geralt shouldn't mean anything to him anymore and yet he can't keep himself from feeling sick at the thought of anything happening to him.

Geralt uses him for support, leaning on Jaskier's shoulders as they make their way slowly back to the camp. Geralt complains about getting the necessary proof that he killed the golem and Jaskier does his very best not to call him a fucking idiot about it. He promises, with as little irritation as he can manage, that he can return for it in the morning.

He sits Geralt next to the fire and as he crosses back to Geralt's bag to collect spare linen and salve, Roach nibbles at Geralt's hair, nudging him with her nose. Jaskier smiles softly at her worry, he can understand it well; Geralt all but left him for dead, and here he is pulling him out of danger and bandaging his wounds like nothing has changed.

When he returns to him, Geralt has two of the clasps on his armour undone, but he can't reach the third and he's frowning at it. Jaskier sets the linen down with the rest of his supplies and sighs softly.

"Let me."

Geralt remains silent as Jaskier unstraps his armour and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's bruised mostly, but there are a few fresh wounds including one that spans nearly his entire stomach. There are a few scars he doesn't recognize, too, and Jaskier doesn't want to think about what caused those.

He cleans his wounds first, then wipes down the rest of his torso, relieved to find most of the gunk on him is not actually blood.

Once he's finished his work, he leaves Geralt to get dressed and gathers more wood for the fire. He lights it with bits of flint from Geralt's pack and while the smaller branches begin to crackle, Jaskier sets about finding something for them to eat. He's never been very good at hunting - that was always Geralt's job when they travelled together - but he knows his plants and with what he still has in his pack, he fixes something up for them. Not that he feels much like eating.

It's not until Jaskier is about to leave that Geralt finally speaks. Jaskier is just on the edge of sleep, exhausted from worry and the effort it takes to be so close to Geralt right now and he very nearly misses it.

"Why did you do that?"

"What part?" Jaskier asks.

"Risk your life. For me."

"I had to. I couldn't just let you die because someone was too stupid to know the difference between a rock troll and a golem."

"I'm impressed that you knew."

Jaskier's stomach does a little flip-flop and he curses himself for being so weak. "I learned from the best," he quips. "But you should sleep. I'll come back to check on you in the morning."

There's a long silence as he gathers his things and then, "Stay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier's heart clenches.

He wants to. Gods, he wants to. To lie down next to him and look up at the stars like he always has and to fall asleep to the crackling of the fire and the faint sounds of Geralt breathing next to him. But he shouldn't. That part of his life is behind him now and Geralt made it very clear that he doesn't want him around. This was just a means to an end; he couldn't with any good conscience, let a Witcher die on bad information. Even if that Witcher is the same one who broke his heart on a mountaintop so many months ago.

"I miss listening to you sing while I rest," he says and Jaskier's legs shake under him.

"You.. do?"

"Mm, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone."

Jaskier stands still, unable to think through the rush of blood in his ears. He was angry and hurt and spiteful for a long time, but maybe it's time to let go of all that.

"Alright," he breathes.

He tries to remain calm as he can because he knows Geralt can tell when he's not. He can hear the sound of Jaskier's traitor heart and the way his breath comes just a little too fast. And he'll know what it means, the insufferable git. But in the end, it doesn't matter because Jaskier will always choose him over anyone.

He lays down in the dirt, folding his arms back to rest his head on - he's already covered in muck and Geralt's blood, what's a little more dirt? - and he sings. It's not an active choice, but he sings a love song. It's a lovely little tune, not one of his own, but one he's always been fond of, and as he sings, he closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the fire wash over him, remembering the nights when this was a common occurrence. Geralt is quiet, apparently genuine in his desire to hear him sing and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that.

When he finishes, he thinks Geralt is asleep and he settles as well as he can against the rocky ground. He's tired enough that he could fall asleep anywhere, but then Geralt goes and opens his mouth again

"I looked for you," he says, "at first." Jaskier doesn't know how to respond, but Geralt doesn't seem to want a reply and he continues. "I knew what I said was wrong and I knew I'd hurt you so I tried to find you. You must have made it down the mountain before me. I was angry about what happened with Yen, I didn't mean it."

"I know," Jaskier whispers and he does. He realized a long time ago that he was not the intended target of Geralt's rage, but it didn't help to heal the wounds and it didn't bring him back. He's not sure what else to say and his heart beats too fast.

"Come here," Geralt says softly, shifting slightly to make space for him under the blanket.

Jaskier moves to lie next to him and Geralt pulls him close, wrapping an arm around him. Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt's shoulder, burying his face so Geralt can't see the emotion it betrays. He smells off, tangy, like blood and it makes Jaskier's chest tight.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"I'll be fine."

It's not a good answer, but Geralt tips his head down, burying his nose in Jaskier's hair and it's good enough. Jaskier presses closer, allowing himself this small bit of comfort.

In the morning, he wakes with Geralt's cloak over him, but Geralt himself is gone. As he rises to his feet, Jaskier realizes that Roach is still there, grazing happily at the edge of their camp and that means Geralt couldn't have gone far. He doesn't know how welcome his company will be, so he waits for Geralt to come back, but when he doesn't Jaskier starts to worry and he goes after him. It doesn't take long to find him.

Geralt is sitting on the edge of the forest, looking out over the town though they're far enough away that no one looking would notice them. Jaskier drapes his cloak around his shoulder and sits down, just slightly behind him.

"I thought about you," Geralt admits, "just before you showed up."

"Oh."

"I didn't think I'd see you again. I didn't want to die knowing you hated me."

"I don't," Jaskier says a little too quickly, "hate you. I can't, I tried. I was angry at you for a very long time and I was hurt for even longer, but I could never hate you." I love you too much for that.

"I have a... habit of saying things to you that I regret. Twice now I've nearly lost you for good and our last words would have been unpleasant."

"Twice?" Jaskier asks.

"Mm. The djinn."

"Right." Jaskier doesn't remember much about the djinn incident - it was fairly traumatic for him - but he does remember Geralt wishing for peace and quiet and saying some awful things about his singing voice. He mentions it, a little of the bitterness bleeding through.

"I didn't mean that either," Geralt swallows, "you have a beautiful voice." That voice fails him now as his stomach twists into a knot.

"Why now?" he asks because that's all that will come out.

"I miss you. I miss your company and seeing you again," he sighs like it's the most difficult thing he's ever had to say. Jaskier forgives him for that because this is already more than Geralt has said to him in a long time. "It makes me realize I was wrong before." He pauses again and Jaskier waits, nearly breathless. "I didn't actually expect you to leave."

"Then what did you expect?" he snaps, "Geralt I've put up with so much of your shit and I've stuck by you despite it. But you told me you didn't want me, that I was a nuisance, that I-" he turns and Geralt is right there. His words stick on his tongue and his throat goes dry.

"You're not a nuisance," he says and Jaskier nods dumbly. He looks at him and he can see how hard this is for Geralt to even get out this much and it's better than he was expecting. Anything else they can work out later if Geralt was genuine about wanting him around. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak to offer a compromise, but Geralt interrupts him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says, "I didn't want to, I wasn't thinking."

"Geralt-"

"You're important to me, Jaskier. And you saved my life yesterday," his lips quirk just so and Jaskier stares for a moment, trying to figure out if he's really seeing this.

"You never were very good at taking care of yourself," Jaskier shrugs. "You should have someone to look after you. Someone who knows something about these monsters you hunt."

Geralt huffs a soft laugh but says nothing, meeting Jaskier's eyes and holding his gaze. He tips his head to one side and Jaskier can feel the breath catch in his throat because Geralt is so close and it's been so long. He doesn't move, afraid to disturb the peace between them, but Geralt leans in, closing the space between them and cupping Jaskier's face in his palm. Their noses bump together, then Geralt's lips brush against his own so faintly he thinks he imagined it. But when he doesn't pull away, Geralt kisses him properly, leaning into it. Jaskier lets himself be drawn forward, lost in the press of Geralt's lips against his own. He hums softly as an arm winds around his waist, bringing him closer, and when Geralt breaks the kiss, he presses their forehead together.

"I know it's not fair," he breathes, "to ask you to come back after the things I said to you, but I want to make amends. Tell me how to fix this."

"Come back to the inn with me," Jaskier breathes, "I'll talk to the innkeeper, get you a room - or you could stay with me?" he's still a little hesitant, but this is Geralt. "We can talk about what comes next after a bath and some supper."

"Will you join me?"

"In the bath?" Jaskier stutters and he can see the flush that creeps across Geralt's cheeks.

"I didn't mean -" he starts, before glancing down at Jaskier's muddy trousers. "But if you want-?" Jaskier barely remembers to breathe, but he settles himself.

"Supper first," he says, "then we'll see about a bath." Jaskier smiles at him and Geralt smiles back, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself looking forward to whatever comes after.

[wolf-and-bard]

So, I wrote a Lambert x Aiden thing because of a conversation I had with @littoraly-art, so here we go. It’s hurt/comfort, but very much on the angsty side.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: explicit language, (brief) mentions of self-harming behaviour

You can also read it on AO3 if you want to

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The hunt didn’t go according to plan. Lambert underestimated the amount of ghouls that would crawl out of that shithole and fought them well into the night, dodging and striking, dodging and striking for hours on end. They chased him through the forest and branches whipped at him. More than once, did he narrowly escape their bites and when they were dealt with and he stumbled back to light a bomb in the nest, he wasn’t fast enough on the retreat. His ears still ring and white spots dance at the margins of his vision. Lambert only notices that he’s overdosed on Thunderbolt when he’s already back at the inn he booked for the night, two ales down, and his muscles are still taut, ready to strike, while his sense of self-preservation has plummeted. Fuck. His fingers shake as he gestures for another drink. Sweat gathers at his collar, at the small of his back. He wants to sleep and rest, but he won’t be able to, not with the residue adrenaline.

“Lambert?” someone says and Lambert hunches his shoulders. Maybe if he hides his face, he won’t be recognized. But Aiden’s already emerged from the crowd and, anyway, he would have smelled Lambert the moment he set foot into the building.

“It is you!” Aiden saunters over, all neat bun and scandalously tight gear, his brown hair looking almost black in the downcast light of the inn. His smile is brilliant as he takes the chair opposite Lambert. Takes Lambert’s hands and inspects them for wounds before bringing them to his lips. “Hey, there, pup,” he murmurs against Lambert’s knuckles. Lambert’s heart does skip a beat, but with that comes a flare of anger. Aiden doesn’t get to be lovey and cheerful when Lambert wants to crawl out of his own skin. He hums something indiscernible.

“What is it? Talk to me.”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, really? Alright, if that’s how you want to play it,” Aiden says mockingly, letting Lambert’s hands go. “What? Oh, yes, it is good to see me, isn’t it? How I am? I’m so glad you asked. I managed to haggle a big fat fee on a rock troll couple that were mating up in the mountains and causing avalanches and now I’m drowning in coin. Pretty crazy, right? If I made it okay? Aww, sweetie, there’s no need to worry. Haven’t got a scratch on me. You wanna hear more about it? No, of course it isn’t too much to ask, I will happily oblige.” 

"Just... leave me alone," Lambert cuts in, and lifts his tankard to veil his face. He's good at hiding his emotion, but in the face of whatever this is and with the day he's had... well, his boundaries are more than probed.

“What? So, you can give yourself a sorry hand-job and cry yourself to sleep? No, sir, that would be incredibly pathetic and a crime against humanity.” Aiden smiles and before Lambert can keep drinking, he’s snatched the tankard away and emptied it himself. Great. Now there isn’t even that to hide behind. Lambert likes Aiden, he really does. On most occasions, he’s so overjoyed to see him that he doesn’t recognize himself. Aiden makes him feel… too many things to think about right now. Today though, Lambert’d rather be alone.

“None of your business.”

"Fine, have it your way" Aiden says with a good-natured shrug and, humming, stands. He makes a beeline for the nearest table full of average-to-handsome soldiers with the Temerian blazon on their chests, and slams a hand down on the table. His hips are cocked out, his smile sly, exposing overly sharp canines. They all look up at him with varying degrees of surprise, realisation. “Any of you boys down to fuck a mutant?” Lambert's blood runs cold, he’s had enough of this. He hurls his empty tankard across the room, angling just so he doesn't hit anyone - though no guarantee on the rebound – and leaves.

His armour, clothes and swords are scattered across the small room he rented by the time he makes it into bed, wearing only thin cotton smallclothes. He sits not two minutes, contemplating whether to go asleep or order himself more alcohol to dull the edge of his frustration even further, when Aiden comes into the room, no knock, no courtesy.

“Aren’t you off sucking flaccid cock? Or are you already done the whole lot of them?” Lambert spits, and crosses his arms over his bare chest. Aiden’s eyes darken and he shuts the door behind himself, forceful enough that it rattles, then slips out of his own armour and boots without much ceremony. “Go get your own room, asshole.”

“You know what? Go fuck yourself,” Aiden replies in a measured manner. All his earlier aloofness is gone, replaced by a gravity Lambert has a hard time looking at. Aiden sorts both their stuff into neat piles, then takes Lambert’s swords to the corner chair. Lambert stares at his own knees, but he can hear every tiny movement of Aiden’s hands as he cleans Lambert’s swords, inspects them for chips, pulls out a whetstone to restore their edge. The amount of care this alone conveys almost brings tears to Lambert’s eyes. Aiden could be deep-throating handsome soldiers right now, but instead he’s here, doing for Lambert what he doesn’t have the energy left to do for himself.

When he’s done the swords, Aiden does the same to his own pair, then examines the two sets of armour plating for tears or gashes that need mending. He lines up both chests of potions and counts out what’s missing, takes notes for ingredients. It’s a normal routine, only that usually, each witcher does it for himself. Lambert feels a mixture of embarrassment and affection heat his cheeks, but he doesn’t look up, not yet. Only when Aiden finishes with a soft exhale and wanders over to the bed which dips under his weight, does Lambert uncross his arms. Dares to take a peek. Fuck. He shouldn’t have. Aiden’s pupils are wide in the starlight that falls through the single window, the moon painting him in blues and silvers. Some of his hair has escaped his bun and his lips part on a sigh that expose his teeth. He’s a fucking vision, too gorgeous to be sitting here.

For once, there is quiet, so rare with the two of them. If Lambert lets go of consciousness a little more, it almost feels like a dream. If it were, he would reach out, draw Aiden onto his lap, lose himself in the familiar glide of their bodies against one another. As it is, the silence hangs by a thread and Lambert cuts it, edges fraying into dust between them.

“What,” he barks and Aiden sighs again.

“The only cock I want to suck is yours, idiot. Flaccid or not.

“Is that so?”

“Yes? I thought I had made that abundantly clear.” Aiden has. There have probably been more blowjobs than nights they shared a bed, altogether. And maybe that’s the problem. Aiden might not seem it now, but one day Lambert’s cock will not be enough to make up for his mouth.

"Why were you so obnoxious then?" he asks.

"Because you need to learn not to push me away, Lamb. I'm here, I understand, I'm yours." Three quick sentences that puncture Lambert like barbed arrows. I'm here feels like sparks of an off-kilter Igni that eat at his fingertips. I understand goes right to his gut and makes him feel like he is out on the rocky sea, in a rickety boat all by himself, at the storm's mercy. I'm yours is the lightning that strikes then and short-circuits his nervous system into small spams. He takes a deep breath and the soft kiss Aiden places on the corner of his mouth when he leans over helps quell the panic. "I can't change how I am," he says. Prickly, loud-mouthed, mean.

"You really aren't... no, that's not gonna work, is it? C’mere." Aiden crawls over the bed and settles next to Lambert, draws him against him, his strong arms wrapped firmly around Lambert's bare chest. Lambert's head is throbbing lightly, heartrate kept accelerated from the alcohol, but he deflates a little. Notices the small vial with almost clear liquid Aiden is holding between his index and middle finger. “You didn’t drink it, did you?”

Lambert shrugs. So, maybe he forgot to take the White Honey, fucked-up as he was. So, maybe he didn’t want to take it, stay fucked-up a little longer. He has days like this, where the lingering toxicity of the potions stokes some dark flame deep inside of him, kindled by his hatred for what he is, what he has become. Lambert isn’t prone to self-harm, but this, well. This he is prone to and Aiden is seeing right through him. Fucking cat, fucking.... is this love yet?

“I didn’t.”

“So, do it now.” Aiden uncorks the bottle with one hand and his grip on Lambert tightens so that he would have to struggle to escape it. For a moment, Lambert thinks about refusing. He wants to wallow, dammit, he wants to pity himself and maybe have Aiden pity him too. “Don’t think about it, pup. You can bullshit your way around other people, but not around me,” Aiden continues and holds the vial to Lambert’s lips. Lambert snatches it away and empties it in two long drags. Immediately, his vision sharpens and his lungs clear. His muscles stop trembling and his heartrate settles into its normal, mutated rhythm. “Better?”

“Better,” Lambert agrees sulkily. He tosses the vial aside and sinks back against Aiden.

“You’re really stupid sometimes, you know that?” Aiden says with a sharp edge to his voice, but he noses at Lambert’s ear, under it, breath hot over the skin of Lambert’s throat.

“You’re the one that’s stupid…” Stupid for caring for me. Stupid for still being here.

“Will you stop it already? I’m trying so hard to be patient and you keep pushing me away. Did you forget who I am? What we share?”

“I didn’t,” Lambert says. He is weak and tired. He lets Aiden tug at his chin and half-turn him for a kiss that lingers even after their lips part for breath.

“Then drop the farce. Fuck, I don’t know what to say to you,” Aiden whispers against his mouth, chasing each word with a kiss to Lambert’s lips, the corners of his mouth, his nose. “I love you, Lambert, I love you so fucking much, but I can’t keep prying you out of your shell. Don’t you trust me?”

I want to love you too, Lambert thinks.

With my life, Lambert thinks.

You’re the best person I’ve ever met, Lambert thinks.

But he isn’t ready for that yet and so he settles for the next best thing: “I’m sorry.” The rest of it he pours into their next kiss, one that feels frozen in time for how slow and indulgent it is, the world reduced to the drag of their lips and the scratch of Aiden’s canines, the stuttering of his breath. Lambert wriggles around until he straddles Aiden’s lap with his thighs and frames Aiden’s tanned face with his scarred, pale fingers. Even paler next to his lover. Aiden fucking glows and Lambert is less a man, more a phantom next to him.

“Fuck, puppy, you’re so beautiful, do you know that?” Aiden gasps when they part once more. His hands are splayed over Lambert’s upper back and they are both half-hard against one another, but Lambert doesn’t feel like sex. He feels like curling up and having a good cry. He feels like kissing Aiden again, and so he does.

“And here I am, trying so hard to hide it so you peasants don’t feel bad about yourselves,” Lambert says, on instinct more than anything else. He wants to slap himself, this is exactly what Aiden meant, isn’t it? But Aiden laughs, the fucker, a clear sound that sets loose something fluttery inside of Lambert. Shit. It is love. “I thought the scar would have done the job.”

“Joke’s on you, I adore the scar.” Aiden presses his lips to the bottom of it and drags them along, skipping Lambert’s eye in favour of nuzzling his forehead. It’s ridiculous. It tickles. Lambert laughs and hides his face in Aiden’s neck. Aiden sighs and his hands wander up to Lambert’s head, cradling it. “Promise me something, pup?”

Anything, Lambert thinks. He grunts.

“Allow yourself this. I don’t need you to fall onto your knees and profess your love in some grand gesture, but… don’t shut me out. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you.”

Lambert falls asleep like that, tucked against Aiden’s chest and he wakes in the morning facing the sunrise with an arm slung around his bare torso and Aiden’s nose pressed against the nape of his neck. He allows it to last.

[jaskiersvalley]

Ugh I love your fics so much 😍 I’ve read them all, most of them more than once, and I log on every day just to see if you’ve posted a new one 💕 They always make me so happy, especially the fluffy ones ❤️ You are a lovely writer and I adore you 🥰 Also, “oh what a hairy valley it is” makes me giggle every time I see it 😂 Thank you so much for blessing us with your wonderful writing 💗 I hope you are well and send you love and good vibes always 🤟🏻

This message has actually kept me writing more times that I can say. It’s been sat in my inbox for a good long while because I didn’t want to lose it. But it is only right that I say thank you in the only way a stranger on the internet can and write you something to express my gratitude to you, Nonnie.

Lambert’s Laws

If anyone had ever asked Vesemir who he credited with the successful survival of his wolves, he wouldn’t have taken credit. No, he would have said they’re alive because of each other. Right from a young age, Eskel and Geralt had looked out for Lambert and each other. Without them, Lambert wouldn’t have survived. Not that anyone was expecting him to live through the Trials but there he was, full of mutagens and bitterness. It was definitely the other two that pulled him through the worst of it and, to that day, still kept him going.

It had all started off when Geralt and Eskel got back from the Path and Lambert pestered them for stories. He was still reckless, struggling to meditate and snapping at anyone who even looked like a figure of authority. In a way, some things never changed but Vesemir had learned to navigate the prickly nature well enough over the decades. That was beside the point though. What was important was the parchment that was on Lambert’s wall, held up by a mysterious substance Vesemir didn’t want to ask about. Last he checked, there was no glue readily available for trainees to use so Lambert either stole some, made some or used something else. Vesemir wanted to think about exactly none of those options. The parchment held a list. It had started off with just one cardinal rule.

Lambert’s Law

Do not fuck a rock troll.

It was sensible advice, on one level, Vesemir approved of such a law. However, he couldn’t figure out how that had become a law that needed to be noted. When carefully probed over dinner, he watched as Eskel’s face went carefully blank while Lambert and Geralt snickered. It was the first time in his life Vesemir was disappointed in Eskel. And it was a use of witcher healing he never wanted to consider.

For a couple of years, that single sentence adorned Lambert’s bedroom wall. Then, another line was scrawled on.

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Images of sword fighting with feet sprang to Vesemir’s mind when he saw that. When he dared broach the topic, Geralt was far to quick to reply.

“Yeah, sword fighting with feet, obviously.”

Lambert brayed nearby. “Or armpits, or backs of knees or- Hey Geralt, what else can you clench?”

Paling a little, Vesemir decided not to think about it. But, in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep, he did try to hold a sword between his (clothed! He had respect for his sword.) butt cheeks. It was a miserable failure and he had to admire Geralt for being able to hold a sword up like that. As he mulled it over, his hand brushed suggestively over the pommel. Staring at it, Vesemir put it to the side, internal monologue a solid loop of “nope, nope, nope”.

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Bards bust balls.

That last one was added by Jaskier the first winter they met. Nobody quite knew what had happened. But it involved a lot of howling (Lambert), aggressive lute strumming (Jaskier) and the application of copious amounts of snow to the crotch (Lambert. Rumour had it, he even had tears in his eyes.).

Three cardinal rules Lambert seemed to live by. It seemed to do the trick and even the other two appeared to take those laws to heart. Even if Eskel decided that just because a rock troll was a bad idea, fisstech and a succubus wasn’t (once again, Vesemir was disappointed in Eskel. But that was no longer a new feeling). It was all quiet until Aiden came along. He took one look at the list and burst out laughing.

“You’re missing a couple.”

Vesemir watched in despair as Aiden took Jaskier’s quill and gleefully began to write.

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Bards bust balls.

Don’t eat griffin steak.

“Lambert, what happens when you eat griffin steak?”

The reply was a mumble and Aiden cupped a hand to his ear expectantly. Lambert rolled his eyes. “You get the shits. And you vomit. At the same time.”

If that had been it, Vesemir would have despaired, maybe given a few cookery tips over winter and left it at that. However, Aiden was far from done.

“That’s right, you get violently ill from both ends. Next law, collars for what?”

“Collars are for animals only.”

“That’s right pup,” Aiden beamed. “Unless you have someone to look after you and make sure it isn’t too tight.” That got scribbled on the sheet too.

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Bards bust balls.

Don’t eat griffin steak.

Collars are for animals only.

By that point, Geralt, Eskel and Jaskier had also crowded by the door to watch Lambert’s humiliation. He had teased and annoyed enough over the decades about their mishaps, revenge was sweet.

“Pretty berries...?” Aiden prompted.

“Are not tasty berries.”

Eskel hid his guffaw into his elbow and Geralt forcefully patted him on the back. 

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Bards bust balls.

Don’t eat griffin steak.

Collars are for animals only.

Pretty berries are not tasty berries.

Finally, Aiden seemed satisfied and he stepped back. However, Lambert was grinning as he took the quill.

“Hey Aiden.” Attention drawn, Lambert pulled a ball of twine from his pocket and showed Aiden before casually rolling it under the bed. Everyone watched as Aiden squeezed his eyes shut, body tense and trembling. Lambert smugly added the last law.

Lambert’s Laws

Do not fuck a rock troll.

A sword’s pommel is for hands only.

Bards bust balls.

Don’t eat griffin steak.

Collars are for animals only.

Pretty berries are not tasty berries.

Balls of twine are not prey.

The battle was lost and Aiden launched himself under the bed with a chirruping growl. That was quite enough and Vesemir sighed. It was just as well Kaer Morhen no longer created witchers. He had more important things to do than run after younglings. Like trying to make sure his three remaining idiots survived. Cooking lessons were definitely on the agenda for that winter.

[ahh-fxck]

For the Two-part Drabble Game: Geraskier, Situation 25, Sentence 24. Have fun and thank you ☺️

25 - Being somewhere you’re not supposed to be

24 - “I never want you to feel like you’re not good enough.”

All right, here you go @elliestormfound! Thanks for the ask! This was a fun little piece to write, I hope you enjoyed it :) Here is the link to the story on ao3

Geralt flexed his fingers, sore from hanging on the ladder after so long. Below him, a river of detritus and sewage boils around the foot of the ladder. Above him is the closed lid of one of the access points, which he’d been forced to duck into at the last minute as he was running to escape an angry crowd. It had hardly been his fault that they hadn’t wanted to pay. Once the man he’d presented his bounty to had started shouting, it hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather. And once the first rock had been thrown, he knew it was time to make a swift exit. 

He hangs there, listening carefully to the sounds of the street above. Below him, the water rushes and gurgles, stinking its way out to the sea. Above, he can still hear the occasional angry voice raised in protest.

From below him on the ladder, feet inches above the sewage, floats a voice. “Are they gone yet, Geralt?”

“Not yet,” Geralt growls quietly down at his companion. “Be quiet.”

“All right, it’s just, we’ve been here for hours and my limbs feel like they’re going to fall off, and it stinks something horrible in here.” Jaskier complained, shifting the lute case on his back. “Did we really have to flee into the sewer?”

Geralt peers down at him in the darkness.

“Fine. Next time I’ll let you lead us away from the angry mob,” he replies drily.

Jaskier grumbles, shifting again. “Are they gone yet, Geralt? My arms are killing me.”

“No,” Geralt grumbles. “They’re still searching the market.”

“Should we try finding another exit?”

“Do you want to wade in monster infested sewage?”

“Oh Melitele, there’s monsters in there?” Jaskier gasped, climbing up a couple of rungs suddenly. It put his head near Geralt’s calves. His dirty pants frankly didn’t smell any better than the rest of the sewer, but at least the supposed monster infesting them was a known quantity.

“Don’t stick your ankles in the water and you’ll be fine,” Geralt points out, unimpressed. He shifts his feet so that he doesn’t accidentally step on Jaskier’s fingers. They fall into an unhappy silence, suspended between the sewage and the angry people in the market above.

Jaskier is silent for a long moment, then he asks in a muffled voice, “Geralt? Why are people so awful?”

Geralt goes still, cocking his head to the side as he takes that in. He falls into a long silence, which grows heavier and heavier with each passing moment. When he answers, his voice is quiet.

“They’re just scared. I’m different. It’s not their fault.”

Below him, Jaskier gapes, then puffs angrily. “That’s crap and you know it!” he hisses quietly. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met, and if they can’t see that they’re bloody blind.” His fingers tremble on the ladder, his muscles screaming as he demands they continue to hold him in this unaccustomed position.

“Lot of blind people, then.” Geralt notes mildly, then ducks down away from the lid at the top of the ladder, gesturing for Jaskier to be quiet. Overhead there is a boiling murmur of voices, shuffling footsteps. After a while, they move off.

“Well, that bloody jeweler better get ready for fame. Yorik the Pig-Fucker has a nice ring to it,” Jaskier seethes quietly into the yawning silence left in the wake of the people moving away. “And I’m going to write a hell of a ballad about how you took care of his troll problem, too. Geralt’s jaw tightens, and his hot golden eyes rake over Jaskier below him in the darkness.

“I talked the troll into finding new territory, Jaskier. There’s nothing epic about that.”

“Tell that to my new ballad,” Jaskier mutters grumpily, shifting his legs to try to ease their stiffness. Geralt glares down at him, but the glare slowly softens.

“Why?” he asks, examining the bard as best he can from where he’s standing.

“Why what?” 

“The songs? The...” he grimaces in distaste. “Following me?”

Jaskier looks back up at him thoughtfully. He’s asked this before, but every now and then, it comes up again, as if he can’t wrap his head around the idea that Jaskier likes him. Jaskier licks his lips, taking an uncharacteristically long moment before replying.

“People go out of their way to tell you that you’re not enough. That you’re bad, or scary, or stupid. None of that is true. I sing because I never want you to feel like you’re not good enough.” 

Above him, Geralt sinks into silence, his throat closing. Jaskier’s words made him feel sore inside, uncomfortable. The human didn’t seem to understand exactly what he was, even after years of traveling with him. Even after sharing his bed. Hard to identify emotions boil inside of him, and he shifts uneasily.

Jaskier watches him from below, his own heart sinking. Geralt was the least easy person to say kind things to that he’d ever met, and it bothered him deeply. Someday, though. Someday, his Witcher would finally hear him without flinching.

At the top of the ladder, Geralt listens as the voices finally begin to disperse. He glances down at Jaskier, who is shivering miserably beneath him. His own muscles are sore from holding the same position for hours, he can only imagine what kind of pain his bard is in. Nevertheless, he waits until the sounds of the market have dispersed entirely and the scent of night wafts down from the access point before he moves again. Beneath him, Jaskier gives an exhausted whimper as Geralt shifts and climbs up a few rungs to peek out from below the cover.

The rush of relatively fresh air is a relief to his desperately sensitive nose. It might still stink of urine and horse dung, but at least it hadn’t spent miles rolling atop a river of sewage. Gulping in the fresh air, he surveys the street. Finally, it’s empty. Quickly as his sore muscles will allow, he scrambles out of the sewer, then reaches back down to help Jaskier. The bard swallows another whimper as he begins to climb, his stiff muscles screaming.

“Geralt! Put me down!” Jaskier complains as Geralt begins to jog up the street, staying close to the shadows where he can.

As soon as Jaskier is in reach, Geralt leans down and fists the back of Jaskier’s doublet, dragging both him and his lute carefully out of the sewer. He deposits them on the cobbles and helps Jaskier stagger upright. The hours of standing suspended have taken a toll on his human companion, who winces as he flexes his legs and looks around the empty street.

“Back to Roach?”

“Hmm.” Geralt agrees. He watches the bard stagger a few steps, sighs, and heaves him over his shoulder in one easy movement.

“Be quiet. We need to get out of here. You can barely move,” Geralt grumbles, picking up his pace. Thankfully, at this time of night the city is far less crowded, and he is able to make his way to the outskirts with relatively little interference, bard slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Jaskier bubbles and puffs with irritation, but much to Geralt’s relief, remains relatively quiet until he sets him down some time later. Jaskier staggers, but by now at least a modicum of feeling has returned to his legs, and he rights himself quickly.

He goes to the Witcher, grabbing his arm gently. Geralt turns to face him, expression unreadable in the darkness of the alleyway near the inn. Jaskier regards him seriously, then reaches up and gently tucks some of Geralt’s hair away from his face.

“You are special to me. You know that?” He asks, fingers lingering softly on Geralt’s dirty cheek. Geralt regards him in the darkness, his golden eyes catching the little moonlight and glowing with it. His face remains stony, but Jaskier can see the little muscles in his face, especially at the corners of his eyes soften into a vulnerable look of confusion. Jaskier can see it because he’s known Geralt for so many years. Stepping closer, Jaskier cups his cheek, pressing his chest lightly against the Witcher’s armored body. He smells awful, they both do, but at least in the fresh air it’s bearable.

“And one day, you might even believe it,” Jaskier says with a soft smile, tilting his head to the side as he regards his handsome Witcher in the moonlight. Then, he leans up and presses his lips to Geralt’s, eyes sliding shut. Geralt stiffens, then hesitantly leans in to deepen the kiss. Jaskier hums a soft note of happiness. Someday would come soon enough. For now, he would just have to show the Witcher exactly how special he was... as soon as they’d both had a bath.

[polyfacetious]

kingofdirtandnothing said: Freezing

“Not to question the actual witcher in all his...witcher-y knowledge. But don’t you think it’s a bad idea to hunt for an ice troll during the winter solstice?” Jaskier’s breath is a pale puff of air in front of him, his every step encased in the crunch of deep snow.

“Geralt?” The witcher is a few leagues ahead, his dark armor hard to miss in all this white. He doesn’t answer.

“...Although, I guess, the good people of Skellige wouldn’t be having troll problems in summer, would they?” Jaskier gets a grunt in response, this time. But then, perhaps it was the wind, or a falling rock. Geralt woke up in a particularly surly mood today.

“Is the black wardrobe a strict must in the witcher order? Don’t you think it’d be better to blend in with the snow? Geralt?” No answer, just more snow crunching. “Honestly, I know you didn’t want me to come, but must you keep acting like I’m no—“

“Quiet.”

They may not have traveled together for long, but Jaskier has by now learned the difference between Geralt’s ‘shut the fuck up, Jaskier’ voice, and his ‘there’s a monster close by’ voice.

So, Jaskier goes quiet, and when Geralt motions at him sharply, he hurries to the edge of the snowed-in path, to hide behind a...well, a larger mound of snow.

Geralt stands alone in knee deep snow, his sword raised and his golden eyes searing and bright in an otherwise pale and blue world.

Jaskier’s breath trembles with terrified anticipation, his heart a panicked drum between his temples as he looks around for any sign of whatever alerted those sharp witcher senses.

The ice troll barrels out from under a snowy hill with a roar that Jaskier feels down to the bone, and Geralt meets it head on.

His silver sword gleams in the icy air—covered in ogroid oil from the moment they left the inn this morning—, and chinks like steel on steel against the beast’s hard skin. Or perhaps, steel on ice—as the blade cracks through and Geralt earns himself another angry roar.

The troll yanks his arm back to swat at the witcher, but Geralt is faster, a swivel on his heel that’s barely hindered by the snow, before he thrusts the sword against the beast’s barrel chest and pushes on with a roar of his own.

It should be ridiculous—a man of Geralt’s size having any effect on a troll’s weight. But the monster cries out, stumbling back towards the outcrop of a deep ravine. Stone and snow immediately begin to crumble beneath its weight, and the bard breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s a mistake.

Jaskier should’ve known better than to allow any sense of victory to take root, as the troll’s hand lashes out with surprising speed and grips Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt!” He cries out, watching in horror as both troll and witcher fall out of sight, with only the whisper of snow, the crumbling of rock, and the fading roar of the beast to prove they were ever there at all.

“Fuck—“ Jaskier hisses, running from his thrice damned hiding place to fall to his knees at the edge of the ravine.

“GERALT!”

His voice echoes hopelessly all around the mountain pass, and when no answer comes, neither from the monster, nor from the witcher, Jaskier makes a decision.

Digging through the pack he convinced Geralt to let him carry, he pulls out the witcher’s silver chain, and a short dagger. Rope would’ve been best, he thinks, but—still better than nothing.

With only his harried breaths for company, Jaskier secures the chain to the sturdiest tree at the edge of the cliff, and pushes all reason and logic aside to start making his way down the steep ravine, using the chain to hold onto, and the knife to help keep purchase on the icy rock.

It all goes more or less according to plan, though he still takes a graceless tumble down the last third of the way, falling against the solid body of a—

“—that’s a dead troll. Oh, Gods—Geralt!” He calls out, scrambling to his feet to move away from the enormous corpse and look for the witcher. “Geralt!”

With no answer, and no witcher in sight, Jaskier entertains the horrible notion that the troll might have fallen on top of Geralt. But before he can even consider trying to move the big, ugly thing, he hears a cough.

“Geralt?” Jaskier stumbles further down, and feels his heart fall to his feet. “—Geralt!”

The witcher landed in the freezing river, the lower half of his body under the quiet current trickling down beneath a thin layer of ice.

“Oh, Gods, please, don’t be dead, please, don’t be dead, don’t you dare be fucking dead—“ He all but falls to his knees at the witcher’s side, yanking off his glove to feel for Geralt’s pulse with trembling fingertips.

He waits, biting his lip, and trying to listen past the panicked drum of his own heartbeat.

There! It’s weak, and terribly slow—slower than usual—, but it’s a pulse!

Jaskier crawls over to take hold of Geralt from under ridiculously muscular arms, and pulls him out of the river with no little struggle.

It’s too wet down here, there’s no way he can build a fire, and he can’t climb back up the ravine with the witcher on his back.

“Fuck—!” His voice breaks as helpless panic and fear begin to truly sink in, and Jaskier continues dragging Geralt to the body of the troll. Dead, horrid eyes stare blankly at him as he gently places the witcher down, and Jaskier brushes wet strands of hair from Geralt��s pale face.

He’s paler than usual, his lips already blue, and the rusty color of blood in his hair. He’s also not shivering. And Jaskier knows that’s not a good sign.

Witcher heartbeats are impossibly slow. That makes them particularly vulnerable to the cold.

Jaskier doesn’t know how he knows that—perhaps something Geralt mentioned, on one of his rarer, informative days—, it doesn’t matter. He has to get him warm.

“Why couldn’t you have fallen in a nice mound of snow?” He scolds the witcher uselessly, and looks desperately for any source of warmth they can use. He sees no caves, no place to keep the cold at bay. Only bare trees, a frozen river, and a dead troll, Geralt’s sword still embedded in its chest.

“Eugh.” Dark blood has seeped into the ground around the felled beast, a puddle of black gunk that seems to have melted the snow around...

—Oh.

“Alright, Geralt. You’d better not yell at me when you wake up—you needed a bath either way.” Jaskier mutters to the unconscious witcher as he steps over him to reach the dead troll.

Putting his glove back on, he takes hold of the sword embedded in the ice troll’s ribcage, gripping it with all his strength to dig it further in. The monster’s sternum gives with a sickening crack, and Jaskier feels his own stomach contents roil as he continues cutting along the troll’s front. From chest to navel, until a (hopefully) witcher sized gap has been carved.

“Right.” Jaskier tosses the sword aside, trying his best to breathe through his mouth. But the heat coming out of the beast’s innards is actually trailing with steam — this might just work. “Okay, now for the fun part.”

Taking a deep breath, he digs his hands into the troll’s guts, pulling out a half digested—yeah, he’s not going to look at that—something, and a whole lot of innards to make room for Geralt.

The heat of the troll’s blood is seeping through the sleeves of his coat, and it helps him regain some of the feeling in his hands as he crouches down in front of Geralt, patting his cheeks.

“Come on, Geralt, you can’t die like this. What kind of a song would this make? The white wolf freezing to death in some Gods forsaken ravine? That’s shit.” He takes hold of the witcher once more, picking him up under his arms to drag him closer to the troll, “Whew! You’re heavy. Should lay off the stew for a little while.”

In the end, he gets Geralt inside the troll feet first, shaking with exertion by the time he manages to lift his ridiculously toned upper half and shove him completely inside the beast.

Panting, Jaskier yanks blood soaked gloves off and reaches in to feel Geralt’s pulse—still weak, still slower than usual, but still there.

“Good. Good, good.” He whispers. Now he just has to make sure the wind doesn’t freeze up the troll’s insides before Geralt comes to. Looking helplessly about, Jaskier makes a decision.

“You better wake up soon, Geralt.” He scolds with a weak laugh, and shrugs out of his coat, fitting it over the witcher like a blanket of sorts, or a stopper against the wind. “I’ll be needing that back in a bit.”

It’s hard to tell the time when the skies are this grey, but Jaskier is mostly sure they’ve got a few more hours of daylight. Plenty of time for a witcher to recover.

“But you...you rest, now. I’ll just...I’ll take a little breather.” His teeth are chattering from the cold seeping into his bones, and Jaskier lowers himself down to curl up against the troll, just by Geralt, his hands held to his chest in vain attempt to protect them from the ice.

Hopefully some of that monstrous heat will still make it to him.

“You’ll see.” A hard shiver rakes up his spine, and Jaskier wraps his arms tightly around himself. “We’ll be alright.”

His body feels heavy, and before long, the shivers stop coming altogether. It’s the troll’s heat, he thinks to himself. It must be working. Surely, that must be why.

“See? What’d I tell you? Good as new in no time.”

But for now, he’ll just...he’ll just take a little nap.

“I’ll see you later, Geralt.”

The weight of the cold wins over, and Jaskier feels his attention wane, exhaustion falling over him like a heavy blanket.

He closes his eyes.

He won’t open them again.

Not in this lifetime.

[roach-of-rivia]

About Cyberpunk's controversy

Important: Im going to give my opinion here, so i ask you guys to kindly respect it and i invite you to open my private chat and i will gladly and respectfully debate about it with you.

The begginig

The last CM of the Cyberpunk Twitter account made a joke about assuming someone's gender.

("Did you just assume their gender?")

Personally, I don't find it offensive. I enjoy dark humor as hell.

Also, here in my country, Spain, there are some ppl going mad about the gender pronouns stuff. At a point that is so ridiculous even trans people laugh at them. So it's kind of a meme here.

Next

This person was fired, and i really disapprove this decision.

None should ever be fired bc a joke. This was a joke made with good intentions. This person wasn't meant to hurt trans ppl. Although, I understand it was made in a inappropriate situation.

So, I wouldn't have fired this person, but instead make them to apologize and be more careful next time.

The end

CdPred apologized for that and now here's another person controlling the account .

Ps: even if it was a bad joke, one person (and more a CM) doesn't represent the whole team.

Now, about the racist accusations towards The Witcher 3.

The skin colour of npcs

They're white bc the games happens exclusively in Nordic countries.

And in the medieval ages.

So, why there aren't black ppl in the game?

There are, but why so few? Bc these countries (which would be Poland-Germany for Novigrad, Velen and White Orchard, Italy(?) For Toussaint, and Iceland for Skellige) are very very far from Africa and the southeast of Europe (I mean countries like Turkey, in which ppl have mostly brown skin).

So:

There's multiple times we are asked where are we from, and if we answer "Kaer Morhen", we will always (as long as we are outside Novigrad/Velen and White Orchard) get "That's so far away!" As a reply.

So, despite of being from the continent we are told we come from far away lands.

Now imagine: how would it be for ppl from Africa (for example) to get from there to Toussaint? (Which is the one most to the south) In world full of danger, like monsters or bandits; a world in which even white ppl are racist to other white beings just bc they're shorter (dwarfs) or have long ears (elfs), how a black or brown person could survive? Or worse, who would want to go there?

So, of course bc climate there can't be black ppl growing out of nowhere.

Not only climate changes between maps; accents, customs, music, npcs tasks, clothes, swords, armors...and animals does too.

Why are animals important here? Bc as we humans change our bodies in order to survive better in different climates, animals do too.

So, it's not like CD Pred ignored this.

They acknowledged it both with animal and human npcs.

We find different type of wolves, bears, rock trolls and horses in Skellige we can't find anywhere else. (Plus, sirens can only be found there)

There are unique monsters (Archerspores, Shaelmaars, Silver Basilisks, Wights, Giant Centipedes, dracolizards, scurvers, and all the expansion vampires) animals (panthers, peacocks, pheasants) and even plants (like the tulips) in Toussaint.

As in each map there can only grow certain species of animals, happens the same with humans.

And that's the reason why "there aren't" black ppl.

The actual black ppl in the game

There are several dark skin characters.

-By the fault, we encounter a black succubus as protagonist in a secondary quest in Novigrad.

-In the dlc

°Hearts of stone: (SPOILERS AHEAD) We get captured by a group of ofiris (One mage, at least 5 ofiri warriors and the dead prince).

Then, near Olgierd's mannor, we get to meet an ofiri merchant and an another ofiri mage (I'm not sure if he was really a mage..)

°Blood & Wine: In Madragoras party we get to see another Ofiri magician.

(End of SPOILERS, you can now continue reading)

So in total we have: 11 brown npcs.

What I like about Hearts of stone: it feels well implemented, it feels right with the dlc theme (as we get introduced to ofiri sabers thanks to Olgierd). It feels like true diversity.

We we get to chat with the ofiri merchant, one of the first things we say is "You are so far away from Ofir". He even tell us about the beauty of his land.

It feels really nice talking to him, it's a very interesting and friendly chat. That's why is so cool, bc is a unique character, with a unique story line (also they have unique accents and facial features).

Summary: the npcs are very aware of distance between 'maps'. That's why it is not racism, it is following the world's logic.

If it were racism, Hearts of Stone would be a lot different.

Also, one of the important members of the (CD Pred) team is a black man so..

What does this have to do with Cyberpunk?

There were a lot of ppl calling CD Pred racists bc of this TW3 matter.

Now that Cyberpunk trailers and gameplay has been revealed, we can see all human races mix together in the same city.

Why? Bc in the future (or even now) it's completely normal and logical to be npcs of all skin colours and genders.

This shows that CD Pred aren't racists, they just make logical (and high quality) worlds and eviroments.

One matter solved.

Now, the transgender ad controversy.

First of all, I don't find offensive at all, the opposite, I think is good that trans ppl are shown in games as normal as cis ppl.

Also, the artist explained why their penis is so visible: they wanted to show how corporations sexualize and milk to the last drop everything, they wanted the ads to be as much aggressive as possible. The wanted to give players the feeling that corporations control everything, even us. (You can find out more googling for interviews)

So it is not transphobic.

It make offend some ppl, but it wasn't meant to be offensive.

They also let us customise our character the way we like (like the sims), it can be as you want.

CD Projekt Red isn't a transphobic or racist studio!

Thanks for reading me.

Ps: I'm sorry if I have grammatical mistakes, this is not my main language.

Update:

If you still believe they're transphobic after this.. then i dont know what would make you change your mind..

Tweet here

[pomegranatebitch]

not to be dramatic but i would die for any of the rock trolls in Witcher 3

[riviae]

Have u written anything on how u think Regis and lambert would get along?

ahh i actually have this post (x) which is how i imagine a regis & lambert meeting would go. it basically amounts to lambert getting his ass kicked by regis in a one-on-one match bc lambert /would/ try & fight regis imo.

but i’m totally down to expanding upon their interaction(s) & i feel like i’ve neglected lambert in a lot of my characterization/hc posts so here we go: 

so lambert gets his ass kicked while eskel & geralt watch from the side

regis midway thru ‘gently’ throwing lambert into a thorny bush: “i detest violence, but sparring is alright in small doses.” 

lambert somehow only ends up w/ a few cuts & bruises, having to give up when regis’ claws are poised mere centimeters from his throat. 

afterwards, regis tends to lambert’s wounds even tho he could have just chugged a potion & gotten rid of ‘em that way. while bandaging the wounds, regis rambles about things he’d seen & experienced. 

surprisingly, lambert listens. regis is a good storyteller, after all, & when was lambert going to get to hear a tale from a higher vampire again? 

before he knows it, he’s been listening to regis for at least 3 hrs... which is a feat bc even when lambert was training to be a witcher he wouldn’t listen to vesemir for longer than 10 minutes (also i lowkey have a headcanon that lambert & regis have adhd, but that’s an explanation for another time). 

it does take lambert awhile to warm up to regis compared to everyone else tho... given his uhhh personality, for lack of better words. in the beginning, lambert goes out of his way to avoid regis. they’re like oil & water basically, but eventually lambert’s curiosity about higher vampires in general forces him to at least ask regis a few questions whenever they pass each other in the keep.

anyway, lambert is a lot less.... tactful compared to geralt & eskel when asking about higher vampire stuff. but regis doesn’t really mind--lambert, for as ‘prickly’ as he is, doesn’t push for more info when he notices that a question he’s brought up has made regis uncomfortable or sullen. he might be a dick, but he isn’t a monster. 

lambert isn’t really one to lounge around or read or philosophize, so if he’s looking to hang out w/ regis, it usually involves an activity. so far he’s taught regis how to fish the ‘witcher way’ (aka throwing bombs into the lake and picking up the fish that float to the surface alskjdfs), they’ve played gwent together, and they’ve also continued to spar. lambert has gotten much faster/agile in training w/ regis, something that actually saves his life the next time he heads out on the path & runs into a trio of bruxae. 

so yeah, while regis may not be as ‘close’ to lambert as the other wolf school witchers, this has more to do w/ lambert & his issues w/ letting ppl in. he still pushes ppl away/isolates himself as much as he can & his mood can turn sour at things that might seem minor to others (but that’s unfortunately what childhood trauma does). lambert genuinely sees regis as a friend after getting to know him well, but acts as if he’s fed up w/ regis’ ramblings/monologuing even tho he’s definitely not. 

if anyone were to ask lambert his opinion on regis, it’d probably be something like: “he’s the only blood-sucking freak i can stand to be around.” (unlike geralt, lambert isn’t a big fan of most monsters, as we can see in tw3 w/ the rock trolls, for instance. he’d rather just complete his contracts and get paid than worry about annoying things like his own motives or ethics.)

however, at some point during a sparring match, lambert gets in a lucky hit w/ his sword. regis appeared just as lambert drove his blade forward, impaling the vampire in the chest. despite /knowing/ from regis’ stories that something as minor as a single stab wound wouldn’t kill him, lambert promptly freaks out. a litany of “shit, shit, shit, sorry, shit, shit, shit,” echoes out as he scrambles to automatically press his hands against the wound to stem the bleeding. when regis grabs one of lambert’s wrists, promptly ready to give the man a stern talking-to (”haven’t you listened to a word i’ve said since we’ve met, lambert?”), lambert takes it as a sign that regis is, instead, desperately asking for help. he cuts off whatever regis was going to say by ridiculously trying to get regis to bite down on his exposed forearm, practically attempting to open the vampire’s jaw manually. regis, the chest wound now completely healed, pushes lambert’s arm away and sits up before launching into a full-on lecture. still, the gesture itself was appreciated tho and regis doesn’t forget it. 

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #330

Top Ten Things I Liked in E3 2018

Okay, so E3 already feels like ages ago. But I think it was a really good show this year. There weren’t really many shocking new game announcements, I suppose, but there were a lot of things announced that were very interesting. I think it was a great show for feeling optimistic about the future of the industry, and there were just lots of games that looked cool.

So with the usual preamble about this inevitably being a bit Xbox-centric, here are my ten highlights from E3 2018.

Microsoft opens its wallet: a common criticism of MS has been their dearth of first-party content. This looks to be rectified with the addition of five new or acquired developers. Playground Games is welcome but unsurprising given their focus on Forza, but the real icing on the cake was the addition of the terrific (and historically quite Sony-positive) Ninja Theory. I’m currently playing, and being wowed by, Hellblade, so this is quite exciting.

The kiss heard around the internet: I’ve not played The Last of Us, but I’ve thought for a while it looks great. The trailer for The Last of Us Part II looked just as great. But it was the astounding character animation and, especially, the kiss that really impressed. The fluidity of the animation, the quality of the modelling and post-processing, and especially the acting, really raised the bar in terms of game cinematics. And the fact that it was sweetly progressive was an added bonus.

Me being totally right about Doom: I called it! A sequel to Doom 2016! Not called Doom 2! It looks like a contemporary update of Neolithic Doom 2, just as Doom ’16 was an update of Doom ‘93.

Microsoft trolling Gears fans: all of the Gears news was welcome, even though I’ve not got round to Gears 4 yet. I even like that they’ve dropped the “of War” part of the title. But the biggest thrill for me was when they announced Gears Pop; not because I’m inherently wedded to the concept (although if it’s half as good as the Travellers’ Tales Lego games, it’ll probably be good fun); no, it was imagining the anguished cries of hyper-fanboys as their precious franchise was turned into kiddie fodder. MS applied a soothing balm shortly thereafter with the announcement of a for-real Gears 5, of course, but for a blissful moment I thought they were going to leave it rest at the toy tie-in casual game. At least Gears 5 stars a woman, so there’ll be a certain lunatic fringe of fandom that will remain irrationally annoyed.

Doing whatever a spider can: the PS4 Spider-Man game looks amazing. I’ve not got a lot else to say about it. It looks exactly like a game I would very much enjoy playing, even if I’m not keen on the redesigned Spidey suit. Pity I don’t have a PS4, really.

Star Wars Episode III.05: I like the two Titanfall games, so whatever Respawn do will be on my radar. I like Star Wars, too. And one of my favourite periods of the universe is – true story – the prequel era. I like the idea of the Jedi being sort of like Western marshals, rocking up somewhere relatively lawless to sort shit out. Coupled with the tragedy of Order 66 and the fall of the Republic, Jedi: Fallen Order sounds like it’ll be right up my hyperspace route. I just hope it’s more Dark Forces than The Force Unleashed. And, y’know, it’d be nice to have had a trailer, or artwork, or something beyond a title…

Cyberfont: confession: I’ve never played a Witcher. That’s right. I’ve never Witched. But I like big RPGS, even if I never have the time to play them nowadays. So Cyberpunk looks to be in my wheelhouse. But most of all I love the aesthetic: the future as imagined in the 1980s. And I especially love the font in the title. So hopefully it’ll be great, and hopefully I’ll play it.

Keeping the British big end up: is a big end part of a car? I think so. Let’s just go with it. Anyway, I like that the new Forza is set in the UK. That’s pretty cool. I loved how Project Gotham represented London, back in the day, so the possibility of driving round landscapes I actually recognise is tantalising. I wonder if any cities will be recreated? It looks like it’s the whole of the UK, doesn’t it? Not sure exactly how it’ll work. Do you do a ten-minute road race from London to Edinburgh? I mean, I’d be down with that.

That shark game: Maneater is an open-world RPG with skill trees where you play a shark eating people. I tend to find underwater games a little irritating, but with this one I’m hoping for some utterly bananas Goat Simulator-style shenanigans. And possibly a Jason Statham cameo.

The future: several companies, from Microsoft to Bethesda, openly acknowledged the next generation is coming. Several more, from Sony to EA, showed games and concepts that strongly suggest hardware beyond what we’re currently using. This is, in all likelihood, the last E3 of this console generation; next year and beyond, whatever we’re playing on at the moment, the talk will all be of PS5s and Xbox Twos. But I think we’re in a pretty healthy place. All three big console manufacturers are doing well, with three different approaches (traditional marketing and big exclusives for Sony; a software-first policy for MS; and just being the weird cousin for Nintendo). It looks as though – and this may be optimistic – anti-consumer tactics are suffering in the wake of recent loot box scandals and the like. Representation could always be better but it’s pleasing to see more female and POC leads, and big companies essentially telling the whingers to get on board or get lost. There’s a new, and very pretty, Halo game on the way. Crackdown 3 might finally come out. Fable is strongly rumoured to be in development. Despite the lack of a Perfect Dark, it feels like a good time to be a gamer.

[jaskiersvalley]

just read thru ur whole blog instead of finishing my midterm that i forgot about that was actually due on march 17 and can i just say thank u i don't think i've ever enjoyed hours of procrastination this much 💕💕 (also rip in absolute pieces to the fact i actually have to work on my midterm now)

*Looks at calendar* Well, it only took me a month and a half to get to your ask. I do hope your midterm went okay and you managed to get it finished! While I’m super flattered that your procrastination involved my writing, I’m also feeling a little guilty for distracting you. In honour of the time lost and as thanks for your lovely ask, please have some time related angsty shenanigans.

CW for injury and character death (which is rectified through implication and screwing with time).

Time had a funny way of working. The war was in full swing, Jaskier traipsed after Eskel, writing songs about witchers and their deeds. But Nilfgaard had been gaining ground, there were whispers of a witcher with a child surprise that was taken from him. When winter came again, Jaskier couldn’t go to Oxenfurt, he’d been outed as a spy for the resistance and had a considerable bounty on his head. With nowhere else to go, Eskel offered him sanctuary at Kaer Morhen. He’d been there once or twice before, was familiar with Lambert and Vesemir. They often spoke of another, Geralt of Rivia. Sometimes they were fond, other times they cursed him.

This winter was different. A portal opened up one afternoon and a haggard looking witcher staggered through with a sorceress in tow. They snapped and snarled at each other, obviously tied by destiny against their will.

“Geralt,” Vesemir rose from his seat and looked over the two new arrivals. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Cirilla wants revenge.” Geralt coughed. “She thinks witchers stole her childhood. She wants to obliterate us all.”

There were murmurs from the others and they were all clamouring to get more information. In the end, they settled with some drinks so Geralt and Yennefer could explain. Jaskier listened raptly, sat next to Eskel and looking to him from time to time.

“Cirilla is hellbent on destroying and conquering. Nilfgaard had taken her from us.” Geralt looked utterly world weary. More so than a witcher usually did. Jaskier would know, he’d spent enough time with Eskel to pull him out from a mindset of exhausted self-loathing. It looked like Geralt could do with someone too.

“Yennefer and I were too busy arguing, at odds over where Cirilla would serve best. She wanted Aretuza, I thought Kaer Morhen. Anywhere but Nilfgaard would have been okay. But Cirilla had enough. After one too many arguments, she slipped away one night and went to Nilfgaard, probably to spite us. She now rules with an iron fist and has a thirst for vengeance.”

When Geralt broke off, Yennefer picked up, “There is no winning. She’s collected all manner of allies from rock trolls to dragons. The resistance is dying if not dead already.”

“So you came here to die?” Lambert spat, angry.

“We came here for help,” Geralt corrected sharply. “Yennefer and I weren’t enough. But we found a way that might change the future.”

“What could another witcher do that the White Wolf couldn’t?” Eskel asked.

“Nothing.” It was Yennefer who cut in. “But your bard might be what we need. At every key moment in time that Aretuza had been able to discern before it was obliterated, he was doing something significant. Not enough to change the tide of the war. We think that in a different timeline, where he is the court bard of Cintra, he will be able to influence Cirilla. I can create a time stone, he can pick a moment in time to jump back to and try and change this whole mess. The key objective is to ensure Cirilla likes witchers and sorceresses.”

If anybody had asked Jaskier, he would have called bullshit on the whole thing.

“We’ve seen how he worked wonders with witchers in the public, his songs about the Scarred Wolf and his deeds are sung across the Continent.” Yennefer finished. “I will make the stone and have it ready for tomorrow afternoon. So I will ask that we have a decent meal this evening as it shall be my last.”

Silence filled the room before Vesemir nodded. There was no other choice. Contracts were thin on the ground, people were turning against witchers once again and it seemed that Nilfgaard was coming to Kaer Morhen. That night, they ate and drank as much as they could, knowing that it would be their last.

Yennefer retired to a room. There was no fond farewell between her and Geralt but a slight grudging respect. That night, the witchers stayed up late, staring silently into the dying fire, making peace with their lot.

By morning, Nilfgaard was advancing on the keep, humans and monsters alike bore down the path.

“We’ll need to get Jaskier to the eastern clearing,” Geralt said. “Nothing else matters. Lambert, Eskel, you’ll take flank, Vesemir, you’re rear and I’ll take point. No matter what, we get the bard to the clearing with the stone.”

Everything was left behind in the keep, nothing to weigh them down, not like they were going to have anywhere to go from the clearing anyway. It was a dead end and no escape. In a way, it was brave of them to assume they would make it as far.

When Geralt left to retrieve the stone, he looked grim. It was in a bag, glowing red through the material.

“It’s all of Yennefer’s chaos and time granted to her. Don’t waste it.” Geralt shoved it at Jaskier. “We need to move out. Now.”

There was nothing left to do but go. As agreed, Jaskier was in the middle, hemmed in by four witchers. They started off at a light run, determined to get as much distance covered as possible before Nilfgaard caught up.

It started with small attacks. Forktails and dragons trying to pick them off. At least their swords and signs could fend against the worst, even if Lambert cursed at the burns that ended up covering his arms when caught by surprise from the side.

The creatures were gaining on them, while the witchers could pick up speed, Jaskier was a human and had much more severe limits. He panted and gasped even as Eskel tried to urge him on.

“Keep going we’re almo-” His words were cut off with a grunt as a leshen stepped out from the trees, caught him in his midriff and sent him crashing through the woods. Jaskier turned in time to watch a pack of werewolves jump at him, tearing him apart without mercy.

It was a lot harder to run when tears were blurring his eyes. Almost thirty years by Eskel’s side and this was the unfitting end. Jaskier wanted to stop and cry but Geralt was moving on while Lambert and Vesemir took posts just behind and to the side, completing a triangle.

The clearing wasn’t too far now, it couldn’t be. To Jaskier it had felt like they’d been running for hours. From ahead, there was the whistle of arrows and he ran harder. A thump from behind and Jaskier turned, letting out a strangled gasp.

“Don’t turn around. Keep going.” Lambert snarled as he took rear post, Vesemir lost behind them with arrows riddling his body.

Up ahead, Jaskier could see the clearing and he pushed harder, knowing that some kind of rune circle would help him with the time stone. Someone grabbed him from behind and all but threw him into the clearing. He landed with a pained cry and watched just in time for a dragon to snatch Lambert while another attacked Geralt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled. He was on the ground, blood coating half his face, matting his hair. “The stone. You have to!”

With trembling hands, Jaskier pulled the stone out. He could see Lambert’s broken body not far from Geralt and he sobbed. All he had to do was think of Cintra and then he’d be pulled back in time to the point where he could fix things. Because this wasn’t the end he’d hoped for, neither for himself, nor his witchers. The whole continent was a ghastly, tyrannical place. Soon there wouldn’t be anywhere that was free of Nilfgaardian brutality and oppression.

“Please,” Geralt begged and Jaskier looked him in the eyes, watched as he lay there, not even trying to evade the soldier who raised his sword. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jaskier still heard the sound the blow made. He didn’t want this. Clutching at the time stone, he wished and wished hard.

The world shifted around him, years fell away, aches and pains along with old injuries disappeared. Jaskier opened his eyes mid song, in a tavern. He was eighteen again, a whole life ahead of him. It wasn’t Cintra, that was for sure. Some backwater settlement on the edge of the continent. Looking around while singing, he tried to figure out what he was doing in such a shithole. As he spun, he spotted a figure in the corner, alone and brooding. White hair, armour, nobody going near him. He’d recognise Geralt anywhere. Finishing his song and being pelted by bread, Jaskier took a breath. If this was his mission, he’d accept it. Eskel had been a wonderful travel companion but time obviously thought he was the wrong witcher if they wanted to survive Nilfgaard’s attempts. Jaskier took a deep breath, thinking “well then”, it was time to make things right.