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jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

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Ok so this is an idea that's been plaguing me but couldn't find it in fic anywhere. Feel free to not write it btw, I just had to share it with SOMEONE. Anyway, imagine a de-aging curse that wears off gradually and in the process, the cursed individual gets older. Like, aging years in a night while staying mostly the same during the day. Imagine the angst potential of Jaskier meeting a pre-Blaviken Geralt who's chatty as fuck. Imagine him meeting Geralt who's just heard of the sacking of KM.

You. I love the way you think. Because this is an idea that I had been toying with about three fandoms ago but wasn’t writing at that point so it never came to anything. Now you come along and reignite the spark. Thank you for the excuse to write it!

CW for injury and past abuse (of the witcher trials kind)

If Only Every Day Was A Birthday

In the grand scheme of things, it was a dumb as fuck thing to do. A ring of toadstools had cropped up on the doorstep of Kaer Morhen one winter morning. Naturally, it was Jaskier who found it and decided that this was within his skill set to deal with, primarily in the form of charming the fae with his songs, charm and overall delightful existence. Even worse, it worked. The witchers watched him chatter away with their less than desirable guests, filling a whole morning with stories, songs, poetry and even a few cruder jokes. In the end, Jaskier talked about birthdays and how sad he was for his witchers that they had forgotten when theirs should be celebrated.

“We wish to reward you for your time,” the fae crooned, getting ready to leave.

“Oh thank you but I couldn’t possibly accept. I have everything I need to make me happy right here.” Jaskier shot Geralt a soft glance.

“Very well. Your reward can be transferred. May the birthdays be as good as you described.” Just like that, the fae melted back into their realm and the toadstools withered.

Looking around, nothing had changed so Jaskier shrugged. Maybe the fae were mistaken or their reward was something like a cake being delivered on a certain day. Cake was always good, Jaskier hoped it would be chocolate. If only the gift had been a simple cake. Nobody was any wiser until the next morning.

“What the fuck?!” Lambert’s shriek was heard throughout the keep and everyone rushed to him in a panic.

In the hall where they had a tendency to gather after dinner, there was a child sleeping in Geralt’s chair. The very chair he had fallen asleep on in fact.

“Where’s Geralt?” Jaskier asked, a sinking feeling in his gut.

The child stirred and blinked sleepily up at the men peering down at him. Brown eyes, brown hair but the features were familiar despite the changes.

“Fuck.”

Child Geralt was chatty as anything. He happily followed them all around, was inquisitive and playful. Jaskier watched him beg Eskel to throw him in the air again or for Lambert to spin him. Even Vesemir was approached with a request to read him a story for an afternoon nap. Maybe the fae were onto something, Geralt had needed a break from everything and if this gave him a chance to enjoy life, Jaskier wouldn’t dream of begrudging him a few days.

Only, it wasn’t just a few days. It was all fine for the first few days. Eskel especially seemed happy to dote on Geralt, carried him around on his hip and even showing him how to cook things in the kitchen. Truthfully, Jaskier was a little enamoured, especially when he walked into the kitchen to see Eskel had Geralt sat on the counter, a whisk clutched in tiny hands as it was licked clean diligently.

If only things could have been so simple. Nobody expected Geralt to wake up on the third morning in tears, crying out for his “mama” and rushing around the keep, trying to find her.

“It took him a while to settle here,” Vesemir said sadly. “He was loyal from a young age.”

Each day, Geralt changed a little, grew older. A tension settled around the witchers that Jaskier just didn’t understand. On the whole, after that one day of Geralt tearfully looking for Visenna, he seemed to settle. A little quieter but still bright eyed and eager to please.

Then Geralt woke up with a black eye, a gash across his arm and looking generally miserable.

“Training.” That was all Lambert had managed to grit out before he stormed out. “Means he’s about eight.”

A birthday a day. Jaskier swallowed at the realisation and the knowledge that it was his fault. He watched from the sidelines as Eskel patched Geralt up, brought in a cloth packed with snow to put over the bruising. In a way, Jaskier envied Lambert and the fact he could just storm off to deal with his emotions. It wasn’t a luxury Jaskier was afforded. This was all his doing and he wasn’t a coward to run from his mess.

The next day the bruising and the cut were gone. However Geralt was timid, especially around Vesemir, kept his eyes to the ground. The only one who could coax a smile from him was Eskel. Not even Jaskier’s singing and attempts to pull Geralt into activities seemed to do much. That night, Geralt went to bed and the others sat in a heavy silence around the hearth.

“He’s what, 10 tomorrow?” At least Lambert had come back but he was no less agitated. If anything, he seemed to avoid Geralt at all costs. “I really hope this spell wears off tomorrow.”

The spell didn’t wear off. A bloodcurdling scream signalled the fact Geralt was awake. As one, the witchers were rushing to the room he had been given considering he didn’t remember his own and Jaskier couldn’t face leaving what had been their shared room.

“Don’t go in,” Lambert had warned but it was too late. Jaskier had peered into the room and blanched. There was blood. So much blood. Eskel was sat on the edge of the bed, holding Geralt down who was crying red tears, fingers flexing, trying to fight off the grip so he could claw at his own face. A foot caught Eskel in the ribs and he grunted but didn’t let go of Geralt.

There was hope in Jaskier that maybe the pain would last maybe a few minutes. At worse, an hour. He was proven wrong when the gurgle screams and cries lasted into the afternoon. Not once did Eskel leave him. It was only as midnight came that silence fell across Kaer Morhen once again. That night, Jaskier stayed outside Geralt’s room, the sheets had been freshly changed from filth sodden to something cleaner. The Lambert had dragged Eskel to his room and Jaskier was grateful he didn’t have witcher hearing. Even his human ones could pick up on the dry sobs coming from the room.

In the morning, a yellow eyed but still brown hairs Geralt greeted them with his arm in a sling. As Jaskier made conversation with him, he could hear Vesemir’s murmur of “one down, four to go” and that was the most chilling thing Jaskier had heard.

Sure enough the next day was more choking screams. Eskel looked haggard and they didn’t even snap at Jaskier to get out. Even though Vesemir tried to give Geralt potions to numb him or even knock him out, they didn’t seem to work. Three days of torture. On the second day Eskel barked at Lambert to take over and he hurried out. Each night found not just Lambert and Eskel curled up but Vesemir and Jaskier also ended up in the pile. It wasn’t a pile borne of good moods and love though. Some nights Jaskier watched the witchers, they all looked lost in their own heads, hollow and haunted. It wasn’t a good look on any of them.

White hair on a young teenager looked odd. But Geralt didn’t seem too fazed by it, he looked almost proud when he next woke up coherent. He was also a lot more inclined to tussle with Lambert and Eskel, gleeful in their battles. Even when he woke up with broken bones, on one memorable morning a locked jaw, he still seemed in good spirits. On the surface, the others were too but more than once Jaskier had walked in on Lambert and Eskel looking downtrodden.

“I’d forgotten how bright he was,” Vesemir said, leaning against the wall next to Jaskier while the others were engaged in some kind of strange wrestling that seemed to end up with Lambert and Geralt teaming up against Eskel and tickling him until he was on his knees and laughing while begging for mercy. “The Path had not been kind to him.”

It was an understatement. Watching Geralt grow up and become a witcher was difficult enough. To see him each year, sometimes cocky and sometimes lean with a spark of fury burning through him was fascinating. Until he woke up sullen and quiet. Still a young man but so much more like what Jaskier knew.

“I should have been there,” Geralt murmured and looked at the other witchers. “We’re all that’s left.”

That evening was somber, Geralt leaning heavily against Lambert’s shoulder as they drank.

“It doesn’t get easier,” Lambert murmured darkly. “But you learn to live with it.”

The next day Geralt seemed better but the others were clearly suffering, unable to shake everything that each of Geralt’s birthdays was bringing up. And just when Jaskier thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

Things had been going vaguely okay in their own way. Injuries, aches and pains came and went. Until Geralt woke up and didn’t get out of bed. He was scarily thin, looking worn and in pain on a level beyond physical.

“Renfri,” Eskel had muttered and, without another word, slipped into Geralt’s bed, curled up behind him.

“The year the whole Butcher of Blaviken shit went down, Geralt didn’t come home for winter. Never did tell us where he went or what happened.” Lambert cast a look into the room where Eskel was holding a shaking Geralt. In the end, Vesemir brought them up food and drinks, a second serving for Geralt when he saw how emaciated he was. Everyone ended up curled together in Geralt’s bed that night, quietly grateful that Geralt did actually come back from that disaster.

Not that the next several days were much better. Gone was the cocky, confident Geralt. In his place was a ghost. He ate, he replied is spoken to but stayed out of the way. Lambert was the one to track him down to any hiding place and try to forcibly draw Geralt out.

“It’s what I wish I had done all those winters,” he admitted quietly in the dark one night.

When Geralt laughed about a week later, Vesemir looked ready to cry. He hurriedly excused himself to the kitchen and Jaskier followed.

“He’ll be back to his usual soon,” Vesemir said, trying to keep himself busy by starting on dinner preparations - only three hours too early. “It gets better from now.”

“What changed?”

“You came along.”

Sure enough, Geralt slowly blossomed again. Not at all like what he was, he was more thoughtful, much less likely to rise to Lambert’s asinine riling. But he was no longer a storm cloud haunting the halls of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier went from a terse “bard” to “Jaskier” to “Jask” and, in the end, he was “mine” which was a relief.

They lost track of the years, not like any of them knew exactly how old Geralt was. But the last few days of the spell were only trackable by the scars Geralt’s skin bore.

“Do you think it’s worn off?” Eskel asked one morning.

Geralt gave him a funny look. “What’s worn off?”

So probably not. It was another two days before Geralt sat up in the middle of the pile eyes wide and he growled.

“Fucking fae.”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #long post #cw: blood and injuries #cw: witcher trials #tldr: geralt relives all his (unhappy) birthdays

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wolf-and-bard · 3 years ago

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Jotastic?! Who suggested Eskel got the spikes on his shoulder? Was it a monster inspiring him? Or did someone suggest? Or did he see this really canon-age-punk kid and got inspired?

Pandawesome! 💕 Because the last one turned out soft, this had to turn out sad, I'm sorry!!! I hope you like it anyway...

cw: angst, mentions of trial-related trauma, (possibly) unrequited feelings

---

Nights You Don't Remember (M, ~1.6k)

Eskel sits alone at breakfast, the other trainees around him merry and joyous as they chat about the upcoming day. He doesn’t have much to add, doesn’t want to do anything else than quietly eat his porridge. He knows the masters worry about him, think he’s behind in his development, but Eskel still needs time to process all this.

Kaer Morhen.

The witchers.

His newfound future.

At six, those concepts seem rather insurmountable.

Eskel sits alone at breakfast until someone slides into the seat opposite him and catches his attention with a wave so that Eskel looks up from his spoon, wary.

"You like crafts, don't you?" the boy says, cocking his head. His hair falls in long strands of orange-red so bright Eskel has a hard time looking at him for long. He doesn’t know the boy’s name even though they are so similar everyone in the keep remarked on it the day Eskel arrived.

"How," Eskel asks, then breaks off and shakes his head. The boy exposes a gap-toothed smile, and presses a lump of rock into Eskel's free hand. It's cool and smooth and Eskel is almost certain there is some metallic component to it. That much he remembers from his father's workshop, how to distinguish ore from plain rock. "How did you figure?" he finally manages.

"I saw you whittle a toy knight from wood and give it to one of the younger pups," the boy says, a little sheepish.

Eskel must know his name. They are in the same cohort, they have been attending the same classes. He's only been at Kaer Morhen for a month or so, but his memory is usually so sharp. Why can’t he remember?

"... I also overheard Master Vesemir ask you about the quality of your practice sword and you seemed to know a lot about that, so I thought... well it might be stupid anyway." Red creeps into the boy's impossibly freckle-speckled cheeks as he looks away, and Eskel's lip twitches.

"What's your name again?"

"Geralt."

"Thank you for this, Geralt, I know just the thing to make with it."

Geralt's head whips back around and his grin bursts anew. He gives the rock in Eskel's hand a pat, then skips away to where Master Rennes is collecting their class for their early history lessons. Eskel lets Geralt's unexpected gift slip into his pocket and gets up to follow him.

---

That night, Geralt and Eskel sneak out of the dormitories to search the sky for shooting stars. They find none, but in the way only young children can form attachments, they have become the best of friends by the next morning. Nothing will ever come between them, Eskel thinks once he's back in bed, the rock cradled close to his chest.

---

Eskel is afraid. He is so fucking afraid of the Trials, for his own life, for Geralt's, for everyone in their cohort. He is also afraid of what will come after, what life will be like. He knows the theory of it, he will make a good witcher his masters say, but reality looms greater than any beast or monster could and Eskel is afraid.

"I have something for you," Geralt says when he approaches Eskel out on the training grounds where he's been sparring with the dummy. It's the evening before.

"Hm?" Eskel puts down his sword and wipes the sweat from his brow. His stomach gapes with hunger, his body burns from all the effort he's been putting it through, just to get his mind off things, his heart is beating way too fast. Something the Trials will remedy, no doubt.

"Here." Geralt holds out his cupped hands which hold a great, grey ball of... rock. The very same rock Eskel still has on his nightstand. Eskel blinks, then bursts into laughter. "Hey, don't laugh at me. It's to help..."

"How is this going to help me survive the Grasses?" Eskel asks, but he takes the rock and he also takes Geralt's hand because he can.

"Well, I just thought... you might need some more. For whenever you decide what to do with it. It could be your activity while you... recover."

"Oh," is all Eskel says and Geralt squeezes his hand.

"Wanna spar?"

"Sure." The rock disappears into Eskel's pocket and they fight until day's first light.

----

Eskel holds the rock clutched tightly to his chest all throughout the Grasses and none of the masters have the heart to take it away from him, not when he starts screaming for Geralt the second they do.

He holds it throughout his recovery and throughout Geralt’s second set of Trials. He holds it until he muscles in his fingers give out and all he can do is lay there and wait.

---

"We made it," Geralt says as he slips into Eskel's bed. His hair is starkly white now, and his eyes burn a fierce yellow. His freckles have faded to invisibility. Eskel can't stand to look at him, can't stand to look at reflective surfaces either. They took away his Geralt, he is sure of it, burned him out of his body and left a bleached shell.

"You made it twice," Eskel murmurs and jumps when something cool is pressed into his palm. He glances down to find that Geralt has placed yet another rock there. The collection is growing. "Why?"

"Because they make you happy."

"Where do you get these anyway?"

They're not like anything Eskel has found in and around Kaer Morhen, nor even near it. He would recognize a proper ore, he is sure of it, even after all this time.

"A secret," Geralt says on a smile and snuggles into Eskel's side. He needs the comfort, the warmth, the affection. Geralt puts on a strong front, but Eskel can see right through it. Two Grasses should have reduced anyone to a lifeless husk and here Geralt is, still bringing Eskel those stones.

Maybe they didn't kill his Geralt after all. Maybe Eskel is the one that got lost.

---

The fourth rock appears magically in Eskel's backpack after his first successful hunt. Not immediately after, but within the week. Eskel treasures that one the most, but he also resents it. If Geralt could drop by to give him the gift, couldn't he have also said hello? Given Eskel a hug?

Eskel's been aware of his budding feelings for his brother-in-arms for a while now. He feels every day spent apart as keenly as a Nekker bite, though these dull with time.

Geralt... doesn't seem to mind so much.

---

Their thirtieth birthday is the last one they celebrate. It's an arbitrary date they picked, way back when, and they always do it together. Always did, anyway. They promise each other - drunk on ale and swaying arm in arm to whatever shanty Lambert and his friends are hollering through the keep's main hall - that they won't need such a stupid thing as birthdays to be grateful for each other's existence. That they'll stop counting the years behind them.

Eskel doesn't want to disregard the past, but he nods along.

"To the next thirty years and whatever lies beyond," Geralt says and slips his hand into Eskel's pocket. When he withdraws, the fabric of his breeches pull down, heavy with whatever Geralt placed in there. "Happy birthday, Eskel." Geralt briefly bumps their foreheads together, then withdraws to chase Lambert away from the ale barrel.

Eskel squeezes his eyes shut and his hands clench into fists, one as it is, one around the object in his pocket.

It's not just the last birthday they celebrate, it is also the last bit of ore Geralt will ever give him.

---

"What are those," Geralt laughs when they part after their mandatory welcome-hug, and points at the spikes that adorn Eskel's jacket. They weren't there last winter, and Eskel wasted an entire month on crafting them, perfecting them. Each one shaped out of the dozen or so rocks Geralt gave him over the years, that last one now half a century past, and Eskel finally decided what to make with them.

Eskel opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt cuts him off before he can.

"These look like something Dandelion would put on his doublet and call it fashion."

Eskel's heart plummets. There are a million things he could say, he could explain, could confess, could... well. It would only make Geralt feel bad, wouldn't it?

"I, uh," he starts, then swallows hard, and Geralt's brow rises. "I did a job for a blacksmith who fancied himself a designer. He... insisted."

"They seem pretty useless to me," Geralt replies, then runs his fingers across them. "But I suppose that is beside the point."

I hate you, Eskel thinks then. I hate you for ever bringing me this damned material, I hate you.

I love you, Eskel thinks also. I love you for the way you used to think of me, I love you.

"At least not as useless as whatever Lambert's got going on," he says and that makes Geralt chuckle. He draws an arm around Eskel's shoulder, carefully avoiding the spikes, and together they make for the keep.

---

Eskel doesn't have the heart to pluck them off again. Not when he spent so much effort making them. He wears them as a reminder, and sheds them only on the day he leaves Kaer Morhen behind for the last time.

#the witcher #tw3 #eskel #geralt #gerskel #kaer morhen #vesemir #rennes #lambert #angst #cw trauma #trials #this got way too long for it being the background of eskel's armor spikes BUT i felt it was important to elaborate #also probably too emotional #sorryyyyy #brain wanted pain #unrequited feelings #don't look at the timeline too too closely

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of-toussaint · 2 years ago

Text

Metamorphosis, and other gifts

Chapter: 3/6

Rating: E

Words: 2.1k (chapter)/5.3k (total)

Relationships: Eskel/Salma

“You’re trying to take,” she says, not unkind. Her eyes rove his face. Peeling back what she finds there, ferreting out revelation. “I didn’t understand, before, why you’d come. But now I think I might. Just look at the hunger in you. Nothing so inhuman as we are can sate itself that way. What you need is a change of perspective.”

(read chapter 3 below, or on AO3)

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

True to his word, that first night, they talk.

Rather than leading, she prods him to walk in front of her (and it isn’t lost on him, how obviously she doesn’t want him at her back). Spiraling upward at the rear of the building, the staircase to which she directs him leads them to one floor, then another, then yet another. Behind, her hooves clatter and click on the wooden floorboards. Each landing opens onto a hallway, down which Eskel can see closed doors; the muffled conversation and other, more intimate sounds drifting from them hint at what they conceal. At every floor he sends a curious glance over his shoulder at her, but again and again she jerks her head upward, indicating that they should continue. Finally their climb ends, not at a landing as the previous floors had featured, but at a locked door.

She shoulders him aside, and draws from some cleverly-concealed pocket a black iron key. The lock gives a soft thunk as she turns it. Then the door swings smoothly open, without a single creak, and she beckons him in after her. Following her example, he ducks his head to get past the threshold, but once inside, he stands upright. And stares.

A garret runs the length of the building. Along the left side of the room the roof is flat to the center, the ceiling high enough for both of them to stand without difficulty, but from the centerline down to the right-hand wall it slopes steeply. On the far wall, one tiny window overlooks the street. He can see why she has this space to herself; unless any potential roommates were on very intimate terms, it would be too cramped to share.

And yet... this room is ideal for her, and she for it. Unbidden, his mind conjures images of throne rooms; of the lush salons and opulent leisure-chambers of royalty. This impression, he thinks, comes less from the décor itself (although her belongings are decadent—from the cut-crystal decanter half full of blood-red wine on her table, to the stand of baubles and jewelry glittering next to a mahogany armoire that all but scrapes the ceiling) than from the way she moves among it. As he watches, she crosses her arms and swishes her tail, twice, meditative. At length she sighs, then crosses the room to open a cupboard. Two goblets of milk-white clouded glass emerge from deep within. She returns to the table, sinking into one of the chairs beside it, and gestures for him to take the other.

“Pour,” she says, sliding the glasses across the table toward him. “And then tell me whatever it is you’re so eager to have me hear.”

Wine into crystal. He slides one glass back to her; keeps the other for himself. “I can’t simply want your company?”

“You don’t know me well enough for that.”

“I’d like to.”

“To what end?” she asks, watching him over the rim of her glass. “What could a thing like you want from a thing like me, if not the obvious?”

He cradles the glass between his hands, rolling wine across his tongue. Thinking in her presence is subtly harder than he’d expected it to be. The way she—smells? Almost the right word, but not quite; pheromones, perhaps, something more elusive than scent that prickles along the back of his throat. He inhales again, chasing the feeling. Searching for meaning.

“I just want to know more about you,” he replies. “There’s something—you interest me. Truly, that’s all.”

She raises a brow at him, curiosity and unease warring on her face. “What about me is so fascinating to you?”

I’m not sure, he almost admits. Then he catches himself. “It’s just odd,” he says instead. “To see someone like you here. Didn’t expect to run into a succubus in the city, but now I’ve met you twice in one day.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my kind; you must know we’re social creatures. There’s nothing so odd about it.”

“I know, I—maybe you’re right. Here I am, walking into your home and telling you how astonished I am to find you in it.” He chuckles. “I’m sorry. I’m making an ass of myself.”

This earns him a rueful grin. One that says: you said it, not me.

“I didn’t expect any better,” she jabs in return, but though her tone is dry, there is no malice in it. “Your kind has a talent for it.”

“My kind? Humans? Or witchers?”

“Do you think of yourself as human, then?” Underneath the needling—which seems to come to her reflexively—there is genuine curiosity in her tone. “That’s not what I’ve heard. They say your humanity is among the first things to go. That what’s left once a man is made a witcher is no closer to human that I am.”

Something curls under his ribs at her words, a mingled familiarity and rising nausea. He swallows it down and ignores it. “Human or not, I still have to eat. And drink.” He nods at the decanter, and this time she is the one to reach for it, refilling the wine in the glasses between them. “Is that why you live here? Must be convenient. For your...” He gestures nonspecifically at the whole of her, self-conscious at the thought of offending again, but not knowing how else to phrase what he wants to say. “... needs,” he finally settles on.

She wrinkles her nose at him. In the quiet that stretches between them, he can hear the settling of the house, the murmur of voices from below and the creaking of floorboards. “Convenient,” she says, eventually. “I suppose that is a word for it. One of many. Although not the one I’d have chosen.”

“What would you choose instead?” he asks. His tone aims for jovial. He feels anything but.

“Tolerable,” she snaps back. “A compromise. I require sustenance, as you so astutely observed. The patrons here desire what I want to give them—pay for the privilege of receiving it—and most of them go about it politely enough. Those foolish enough to be impolite once get no chance to do so a second time. I live relatively unmolested, here. My needs, as you call them, are met.” She eyes him, then, with no small amount of contempt. He isn’t sure what he’s said to earn such a look; isn’t even sure it is, precisely, about him.

“But?” he prompts, when her pause lengthens, and the quiet between them threatens to sour.

A breath rushes out of her, flutters a strand of hair near her chin.

“But—” she continues, “—I am an oddity here. You must have some sense of what it’s like.” The contempt drains from her voice as she speaks, leaving her faltering. Feeling her way through her words, fingers tracing over and over the rim of her goblet. “We’re built to give, my kind. Compelled to it—by biology and nature, compelled to give joy, give pleasure, and in the giving of it replenish ourselves. It is the great misunderstanding of my species. Were my partners unwilling, I’d starve as surely as though I had none at all.”

Her eyes turn up to his, then. “Imagine how that feels. To seek a place in the world, some space in which you might finally have a hope of belonging—a hope that perhaps your gifts will be appreciated. That you will be allowed to give them; you allow yourself to hope, perhaps, though you know you should not, perhaps this time your gifts will even be cherished. That you might find those who would wish to give to you, in return.

“Imagine that, witcher. And then imagine this: every day, those to whom you would give your gifts toss them back at your feet. They do this, because what you have to give? It’s shameful to them. Those to whom you might have given it freely would, instead, rip it from your hands. Because they do want it. And they hate themselves for wanting it. But most of all, they hate you for it, too.”

Deflated, she leans back in her seat. And yet even with the wind taken out of her, he reads defiance in the rigid set of her shoulders, the stormcloud crease of her brow.

When he speaks, he finds it easier to address the wine in his glass that that face full of roiling, complicated pride. “Maybe you were right,” he mutters. “I think I can imagine that. Too damn well.”

Strong brown fingers curve around his wrist. Her grip is formidable; under her skin, her muscles are bands of steel. The smile she flashes him is too full of pointed teeth to be joyful.

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

“I thought I would lose it when your hair turned white.”

Fourteen boys had undertaken the ordeal by his side. In individual cells musty with underground damp and the smell of old, old blood, they had as one downed their noxious decoctions and then been shut in. Only bars between each other; between themselves and the grizzled mage set to oversee their transformations; between themselves and the dark.

Down in that lab, the littlest sound echoed out into the darkness, bloating, swelling to obscenity.

The only consolation—if it could be called such, if he could bear to think of it as such (he had never been able to bear thinking of it otherwise)—was that the pain of his body being rendered into so much meat and potential had a singular dulling effect on the senses. For so many days, he was convinced he had died. This could only be hell, this torment; no being could experience annihilation so complete, and live. Yet his sight did come back to him, the first of his senses to do so, and in so doing forced him to consider the possibility that he was still, horrifyingly, alive.

Upon opening his eyes, he wished with every fiber of his being that he had been wrong.

Eskel would remember until his dying breath what he saw that day, when he had impossibly scraped out the gift of life in the face of the death which had taken so many others. Atop his cot he sweated, thirsted, howled his convalescence. While in silent procession past his cell door, he saw bodies carried up the stairs and into the light, destined for the pyre. Many were unrecognizable, and this was a blessing.

Some were not. This was, by far, the greater curse.

His own emergence into the light, when it came, was solemn. He had lived. An achievement of dubious honor. That first night, he found Geralt curled into a ball on his mattress, as though they were children once more. It was the night he learned how many bodies had been consigned to the flames, how few of them had returned from that darkness.

Two of fifteen.

He had known it wasn’t over, but he thought, at least, that the worst was past. He may have been a moth emergent, but at least he had survived the chrysalis. His last brother’s hands clutching at his own, grounding, a reminder: this is real. We live. We live .

They came for Geralt not three days later. It was an honor, they explained, berating them both as they tried to cling to each other.

He will be unlike anything that has come before him.

This behavior ill-befits you. You are warriors now.

An honor.

Eskel lay atop his mattress, alone, immovable and silent as the dead. Straining his newfound hearing.

This is hell, he would later remember thinking. They tell me I made it through, but who could prove it? Would the old me be laying here still, while he’s down there? No part of who I was survived.

Not in any way that matters.

Nothing of who he had been remained, he felt certain, nothing to which he could hold fast. And in so thinking, he felt himself letting it go.

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

#eskel #salma #eskel x salma #eskel x succubus #the witcher #fanfic #cw death #for the trial of the grasses

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akilah12902 · 5 years ago

Text

The Trials of The Grasses

So you want to know about the mutations Witchers undergo but prefer a text post? I have something for you.

The Trials of the Grasses is what boys undergo to prep their bodies for the mutagens.

Warnings for some really horrific shit; check the tags and be safe!

Before this all starts, the boys have been ingesting fantasy steroids for between 3-5 years. These consist of some unnamed mushroom and similarly unnamed herbs (usually in teas). Apart from the general benefits of steroids, these help to keep the boys from dying during the first stage.

The boys are strapped to tables with a shape for human bodies in them (which the boys and the Witchers call a “Sad Albert”) and given a drug, Hookweed extract, that helps prevent them dying from shock from the pain.

Three decoctions, called Mother’s Tears, Wildrye Juice, and Speargrass Sap, are brewed and administered intravenously; the potions actually have to be brewed on the spot because they’re so volatile they immediately begin degrading. Ingredients include Manticore venom, Forktail spinal fluid, the tongue of an albino Bruxa, mandrake root (which, in universe, is so toxic when fresh it can kill a regular man through fumes or skin contact), bryonia (which is also toxic; in real life people and livestock can be poisoned or killed by eating it), and ribleaf (which does not have an accompanying horror story).

These decoctions immediately begin to inflict massive cellular damage to the body, and I also suspect start to damage DNA as well. This is where the fantasy steroids come in, because the boys have to live through, essentially, what Scar from FMA does to people. The amount of time it takes until the mutagens can be introduced and guided by a mage to bind properly is usually 24 hours or more.

And then of course the mutagens have to take, in what's called The Trial of the Dreams.

The success rate of the Trials is approximately 30%.

Furthermore, it’s entirely possible for the Trials to cause nerve or brain damage, or various other physical traumas. (To say nothing of the mental ones!)

They do this when the boys are approximately ten years of age.

[Attached is an image of a file from Witcher 3, labeled “Trial of the Grasses Registry Tome”. It details the results of a set of Trials from before Kaer Morhen was built. There are five names listed, all between the ages of 8 and 10. Only one of the boys lived through the entire process; the others died of 1) heart failure upon administration of one of the decoctions, 2) multiple organ failure after having survived the Trial, 3) euthanasia due to extensive brain damage sustained during the Trial, and 4) cerebral hemorrhage after administration of one of the decoctions.]

I suspect that undergoing the mutations prior to puberty allow them to change a young Witcher’s body much more thoroughly than they would if they had already undergone puberty--and I also suspect they want to have the trainees working with their new strength and senses for as long as possible before sending them out on the Path.

Additionally, sometimes things will be changed up a little. For instance, Geralt took the mutations so well that they put him through the Trials a second time to mutate him further. He lived and so is rather extraordinarily tough and strong even by Witcher standards. The second set of Trials is what caused his hair to lose all pigmentation.

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jaskierswolf · 3 years ago

Note

For the fluffy prompts!!

Geralt learning some fancy braids to help Ciri with her hair🥺

Just some fun fluffy father daughter bonding 🥺🥺

Disclaimer... I've taken elements of s.2 but honestly I have no idea when this is set within the timeline. Don't think look too deeply into that.

I also wrote this ages ago and it was sat in my drafts. Sorry!

CW: None?

AO3

Having spent the day watching Ciri fall off the training course, her hair whipping into her face, Geralt knew something needed to be done. He was no stranger to the troubles of long hair but Ciri's ashen blonde hair was nearly twice the length of his. It was even longer than Lambert's when he did, on the rare occasion, wash it. The plait that Ciri was using to keep her hair off her face just wasn't working and it was distracting her from her training. Until she had a better technique and more practice, it was a potentially lethal distraction and Geralt refused to let anything happen to his ward.

But what to do?

If Jaskier were there then he would probably have some bizarre suggestion that would have the pair of them in a shit ton of trouble by the end of the day, one that neither Geralt's sword nor Jaskier's quick wit could save them from.

Maybe Yennefer would have been a better choice to ask, but she had returned to Aretuza with Triss to gain information about the ongoing war.

So it was just Geralt and his brothers. One of which had no hair... and two that really didn't give a shit about it. Still the four of them were gathered around the medallion tree, drinks in hand as they tried to brainstorm a solution. So far the only option they had was a more intricate braid, one that would keep the shorter hair pulled back along with the longer strands.... but how the fuck were they supposed to learn?

"Don't look at me," Eskel grumbled, his arm still resting in the sling as it recovered from the Leshen mutagens. There was still some bark flaking away from his face but he was nearly back to the warm and loving brother that Geralt had always known. "I can't even hold a sword."

"Don't need a sword to sit still and look pretty, idiot," Lambert chuckled, sharing a smirk with Coën. "We need to practise!"

"Why me?" Eskel sighed, running his free hand through his hair and then rubbing his shoulder. "Geralt's hair is longer."

"Well it can't be me, Geralt needs practice and Lamb Chop's hair is a mess," Coen pointed out.

With a sigh, Eskel agreed to let the other three witchers attack his hair, and so it became a routine. For the next few evenings after Ciri had gone to bed, Geralt, Lambert and Coen would braid Eskel's hair until they came up with a fancy braid that was worthy of a princess!

The next day after breakfast, Ciri stood up, already pulling her hair back into its useless braid, but Geralt stopped her, calling her over to him. The princess turned witcher in training rolled her eyes and sauntered over to him, arguments already falling from her lips. It made Geralt shudder as he thought back to his own teenage years, and he pitied his mentor. Vesemir had had four bratty and traumatised young boys to look after on his own, whereas Geralt was barely managing one girl even with the help of his brothers. Without saying anything, he pushed Ciri onto the bench, and started to comb his fingers through her hair.

Trial and error and taught them it worked better if the hair wasn't ratty, and it looked as if Ciri had been taking hair care lessons from Lambert. Geralt sighed, knowing that he probably should have brought a brush with him. He could practically hear Jaskier's complaining in his ears, but his fingers would have to do, and once he was happy the worst knots were detangled, he got to work weaving the strands just like he'd practised with Eskel.

Ciri's hair was longer but that made it easier rather than harder. It just took a few more strands to weave everything in properly as he finished the braids along the side of her head, and the longer plait at the back took more time to finish off, but eventually he tied it all off with Ciri's leather band. When he was done, he tapped her shoulder.

"There," he muttered. "All done."

With a furrowed brow Ciri turned to face him. There were tears in her eyes but mostly she just looked confused. "No one has done that for me since my grandmother..." she trailed off, swallowing as she averted her eyes. "Thank you, Geralt."

"You're welcome, Ciri," Geralt hummed and pulled the girl into a tight hug. "No excuses today though. I expect your best."

Scoffing, Ciri pushed him away. "I always give my best. I'm not Lambert."

And that was that, in a matter of moments everything had returned to normal, but Geralt looked forward to the next morning when they would sit together once more. There was nothing more important in the world than the family one found, and somehow young Cirilla had become a core part of Geralt's.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #cirilla of cintra #cirilla fiona elen riannon #lambert #eskel #coen #kaer morons #wolfie's witcher writing

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years ago

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Oh my god, I’d read and loved both of those fics but somehow never connected the dots and realized you were the author! Soft geskel taking care of each other and being vulnerable with each other in a way they can’t with anyone else is literally my absolute kryptonite, so thank you for reminding me to re-read both of those soon!

I’ve got my tissues and ice cream ready, hit with me with the dark and heartbreaking geskel trials era headcanons 💔

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. You are so sweet for saying that, thank you.

My Eskel, Geralt, and the Witcher Trials Headcanons

I am actually thrilled that you have asked this. I have spent so many hours over the past year and a half (!) lovingly crafting these headcanons, but have never quite had the guts to share them.

Sometimes one little push is all it takes. XD

I actually have a whole ass epic Geralt/Eskel fic, from kids to old witchers inside me. So these headcanons are essentially that longfic, some of which I have written out already in fic form on the ol gdrive. (so it is a long post)

So here are my never-shared-before but lovingly-crafted-during-extended-daydreams witcher trial headcanons for Geralt x Eskel.

CW: The inherent horrors of the witcher trials, but also some healing from trauma.

Arriving at Kaer Morhen

When Eskel first shows up at Kaer Morhen as a kid, the kids tease him for being barefoot, for not being literate, and about the common stereotype of mountain folks and incest. (Here is my post with my Eskel characterizations to explain all that)

Geralt grew up in Kaer Morhen from a baby (using the book canon here) so he already has a handle on things. He defends Eskel, and from that day on, Eskel just quietly and shyly follows him around with hearts in his eyes.

It makes Geralt feel amazing. He sees that helping people can make you valuable and important. It kicks off his desire to be a knight. (Of course he has value even when he isn’t serving people, but he doesn’t understand that yet)

Eskel is the single person who has seen him that way from the beginning. And of course, Eskel is genuine and sweet and straightforward, so Geralt is just as besotted with him.

Geralt takes him under his wing. He teaches him how to read. He is gutsy enough to make dry sarcastic comments to their instructors in Eskel’s defense if they come down on him for being behind.

I think about how when you’re a kid, if you are in a difficult/abusive/unhappy household, the sweet feeling of having crushes at school really do bring you happiness you can look forward to every day. It’s like a shining bright spot in your existence. So that is the way it is for them.

They choose desks that let them see the other. They try to get chosen for exercises that will put them together. They just drift towards each other in every way they can, like sunflowers turning towards the sun.

Preparing for the Trials

The trials are coming. Someone tells them that the trials will dim their emotional responses.

Geralt is looking forward to that. He has latched onto being a witcher as something he can use to save people. To have value. To be somebody. It is the only meager crumb of a dream he has, and it allows him to have hope that he can be worthy someday.

Eskel full on panics. Like panic attacks. If he loses his emotions, he will lose the one thing that makes his life worth living, and that is the happiness he feels when he is with Geralt. (I wrote a little ficlet here about it. It is the beginning of the longer fic I’ve been working on)

The Trials

Eskel goes first. It is the most horrible pain he has ever felt in his life. He thinks he is dying. He thinks he is dead. He prays for death. But he survives.

When Eskel wakes up, the first thing he does is vow to himself that Geralt will not go through that alone. Not after everything he has done for him. The one good thing is that this impulse means he has not lost his emotions.

So when it is Geralt’s turn, Eskel finds a crawlspace in the dirt under the laboratories and he hides under the floorboards. Geralt may not be able to see him, but at least Eskel will know Geralt is not alone.

It turns out he was wrong. His trials were not the most excruciating pain he could experience. It is far, far more painful listening to Geralt scream and not being able to help him. When he hears Geralt call out for him, he comes up through the trapdoor and tries to free Geralt. He is caned and tossed back in his room. By then Geralt was delirious and fully in psychosis, so he could not have possibly seen that Eskel was there.

When Geralt wakes up, he sees Eskel, and the affectionate response in his chest confirms his worst fear. He failed the trials. He will be nobody and nothing and of no use to anyone.

He tries to put distance between him and Eskel, but it doesn’t help. He is chosen for a second round of trials, which he assumes is happening because he failed. Because everyone can see how he feels when he looks at Eskel.

Since Geralt is avoiding him, and avoiding smiling at him, Eskel thinks Geralt has lost his emotions. It breaks his heart, mostly because the idea of Geralt losing the things that make him happy, guts him. But he also just misses him.

And when Geralt is taken to his second round of trials, he resolves to be with him again.

They have blocked off the trapdoors, so all he can do is sit on the floor in the shadows outside the laboratories. He is farther away, but he is still there.

When he hears the screams this time, he just quietly cries.

When the door to the laboratory opens, they are not surprised to see Eskel there. They give him a delirious, fevered Geralt to carry back to the dormitory.

There are so many dead boys now, they are down to one dormitory for their year. They have been moved into the same room. Their bunks are right next to each other.

When Geralt awakes, he confesses to Eskel that he has failed again. He is a failure.

Eskel asks him how he knows.

Geralt confesses it is because of what he feels when he is with him.

Eskel crawls into his bed with him and they huddle together.

He tells Geralt that it is a good thing that he has his emotions. If Geralt lost his emotions, then Eskel would be alone. He begs him not to leave him alone. He would never leave Geralt alone, ever. He was even there during his first trial.

It occurs to Geralt. Was that psychotic delusion he had, of Eskel bursting out of the trapdoor real? Eskel tells him that yes, it was real.

Geralt finally understands. Eskel matters more than all of the theoretical people out there that he could save. He needs Eskel. Eskel needs him. That is important too. That matters.

They will both pretend they have lost their emotions and no one will send Geralt for more trials. And they will always have each other.

Post trials

For awhile they stay away from each other in public, and only spend time together in private in the dormitories.

But time passes and little by little, they see secret displays of emotions from other trainees and they realize that everyone still has their emotions. They have simply been trained to hide them better.

So slowly but surely, they are more open about their affection for each other. They sit next to each other at dinner again. They whittle together on breaks again. They try to be chosen for the same activities.

It is their way of quiet rebellion.

The instructors, hard men that they are, do not begrudge them this one comfort. Not now that they have their medallions.

Lambert

When Lambert is brought to Kaer Morhen, he instantly latches onto them. He starts following them around. Most normal kids (kids who had not been through the trials) might have ditched a younger kid. But they don’t.

They grow very protective of him.

They realize with dawning horror that no one is going to warn the younger kids about what the trials will really be like. That most of their friends will be wheeled out dead and blue and buried in a mass grave of tiny bodies. That they will feel the worst pain of their lives.

They try to get Lambert out before the trials. They arrange for him to escape.

When he realizes what they are doing...when they actually offer him the out...he refuses it.

His mother is dead now. He has nowhere else to go. And he couldn’t leave the only two people he has ever trusted in his life. He thinks they must be exaggerating the trials. They think he can’t do it. He can do it.

When he survives, he always sees Geralt and Eskel as the only two people who told him the truth. Who tried to help him. That is why he loves them for the rest of his life, regardless of what he thinks about Kaer Morhen.

Leaving for the Path

It comes time for them to leave for the path. They will be apart for the first time since Eskel came to Kaer Morhen.

Since Eskel spent the first part of his childhood in a normal home, he is the first to make that connection from what they feel to what his parents felt.

He decides to tell Geralt he loves him.

He lies awake the entire week leading up to it, trying to work out the perfect words to say. Trying a thousand different ways of saying it.

He chickens out every time, so he decides to write it down.

He slips the letter into Geralt's saddlebags the night before.

Geralt catches him. He tells him first that he loves him. They go further than they have ever gone that night, because they know the monsters could get either one of them their first year on the path.

They spend the night in each other's arms, and no one in Kaer Morhen has a thing to say about it.

Healing from the Trials

It takes decades. It takes the sacking of Kaer Morhen. It takes years and years for them to fully understand how vicious and cruel it was, what happened to them.

They talk about it sometimes, but don’t quite know how to process it. But one night, Geralt is reminiscing. There was a kid who was kind to him, and who disappeared after the trials. He remembers the kids name and some identifying characteristics. After all these years, he still misses his friend.

The next spring, Eskel asks Geralt to come with him on a job. But it is not a job. Eskel has spent the entire year tirelessly tracking down that witcher boy, that friend that Geralt missed.

In the books, Calanthe talks of the boys who are so injured or disabled or their minds so damaged by the trials that they cannot be witchers.

What Geralt and Eskel didn’t realize as children, is that they all didn’t leave for mass graves. Some of them survived but were deemed too damaged and were abandoned.

So they sit with that man in his cottage and talk late into the night. They drink tea and learn about how he has survived on his own. He learns about the sacking of Kaer Morhen, how the mages are gone from the place now, and how it now belongs to them, the witchers.

They invite him to come with them and he accepts.

So for the next few decades, they make it their mission, along with Lambert and Vesemir and Coën, to track down any remaining witchers deemed too damaged or disabled to be of use.

The ones that are impoverished or struggling, they invite to live at Kaer Morhen. Some are thriving and just never wanted to think about Kaer Morhen again. Some would never set foot back in the place if you paid them. But most of them are glad to be invited. They have watched everyone around them die of old age and they are glad to be invited back into the fold by their friends, who were also victims.

They build a new Kaer Morhen. It becomes full again with talking, laughter, communal projects, and even game nights.

They have spent their lives feeling the melancholy of people who are the last of their kinds. Suddenly, their world has expanded again. They not only understand how cruel the trials were, but they understand that they have the power to build something better.

When Geralt told Eskel he loved him all those years ago, and they shamelessly stayed together in the same bed for the night, they were the first witchers to openly express their love for each other.

Now they (along with Lambert and Vesemir and Coen) make Kaer Morhen a place of family instead of torture and science experiments. They bring in their first witcher girl, Ciri, and a child is shown love instead of torture.

Having thrown off the yoke of the mages, and having spent many years understanding what happened to them, and what they could do to rebuild, they redefine what it is to live as a witcher.

They also become the first witchers to ever be married to each other.

They get married out on the yard where they used to take their breaks to whittle together.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #eskel #geskel #geralt x eskel #ok it's less of a list of headcanons #and more of a fic #that i am writing #but #i hope you enjoy

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samstree · 3 years ago

Note

Reverse soulmates

The soulmate trope reversed: you carry the mark of person who will kill you.

An Orpheus and Eurydice AU, cw: MCD (duh)

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3]

Read on AO3

“Geralt will walk behind me?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t be able to hear him. Or touch him.”

“No.”

“How would I know he’s there?”

“You won’t.”

Blue eyes meet Geralt, the fear within roaring like a storm.

“If I look back—” Jaskier’s voice breaks.

“He dies, little songbird.”

The burn scar on the inside of Geralt’s wrist burns for the first time in a century, but he knows that it’s not the scar. It’s what’s hidden underneath.

A shape Geralt knows by heart. A single buttercup.

His mark is burning.

His mark is warning him of the end.

“You got a mark, wolf.” Vesemir points at the inside of Geralt’s wrist. “You are lucky.”

Geralt frowns, prodding at the yellow flower that appeared on his skin overnight.

“How is it lucky to know who will kill me?”

“Most witchers on the path don’t have the luxury of knowing,” Vesemir says. “They die when they die.”

The long white hair tickles Geralt’s eyes. He thinks he will tie it up when he finally leaves Kaer Morhen next year.

“Then I don’t want to carry it.”

Vesemir smiles with his eyes but not his lips. He does that when he’s amused by something Geralt says.

“Still running away from destiny, boy?”

Geralt frowns harder. He’s not a boy anymore, but Vesemir ignores him. Instead, the older witcher retrieves a small branding iron from the hearth.

“It won’t change anything. Even if you deny it,” Vesemir tells him.

Geralt nods anyway, and the iron presses into his skin.

It’s nothing compared to the trials, and the salve Vesemir applies later is cool and soothing.

Geralt meets his buttercup in a dingy tavern in Posada.

The mark is still there.

It’s always there.

Geralt falls, in spite of the mark.

In spite of himself.

“And where did this one come from?” Jaskier kisses the scar on Geralt’s wrist. “A dangerous hunt? A heroic rescue? A careless tobacco joint?”

It’s you.

“It’s destiny.”

Jaskier chuckles against Geralt’s skin, his lips moving up in a languid rhythm.

“Feeling poetic tonight, witcher? I thought it was my job.”

The warmth of Jaskier’s skin is so nice. Geralt relaxes under deft hands on his equally naked body, drawing out all kinds of happy sounds from him.

“My, my.” Jaskier kisses the corner of his mouth. “The White Wolf, at my mercy.”

“Hmm.”

“Have I told you how much I love the way you lay bare before me? A witcher with his guard down, his throat exposed.”

Geralt threads his fingers in brown hair as Jaskier sucks a bruise right over his pulse point.

“You can end me if you want, Jask—” The moan is cut off by a shudder.

“And you trust me not to?”

Cornflower blue meets Geralt in earnest. He can look into Jaskier’s eyes all day and never get bored.

“I trust you with my life.”

The smile Jaskier gives him is blinding.

It must be worth it.

In a way, Geralt has always known he trusts Jaskier a little bit more.

He just never expected it to be tested like this.

“You go,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You promise?”

The tears on Jaskier’s face are breaking Geralt’s heart. He wipes them away carefully.

“I promise,” he adds, “and you promise to trust I’m there?”

Jaskier hesitates.

It’s dark.

It’s so dark, but Geralt sees Jaskier right in front of him.

“I’m behind you,” he says, knowing Jaskier can’t hear him.

Geralt follows, his footsteps silent and his presence masked.

They’ve been walking for what could be hours, or years. His medallion never ceases to hum faintly at the magic. It’s dark magic too, vile, the kind that messes with your mind.

For a moment, Geralt feels coldness washing over him, like he’s being dropped into an ice lake. Like the world has abandoned him.

Like he’s alone.

Geralt knows he’s not, with his lover so solid in his vision.

But Jaskier doesn’t.

It makes sense that Jaskier is the one who crumbles. He kneels on the floor, shaking. A wounded noise escapes his throat.

“I’m here.”

Geralt tries to touch but all that slips through his fingers is cold air.

He watches powerlessly as Jaskier whimpers in pain, picks himself up, and carries on.

It gets more difficult after that.

Jaskier cries, wails, and curses. He hugs himself tight for one moment and shudders with rage the next. In the end, he quiets down. There’s no sign of distress except for the soft sniffles, the shivers that wrack his body, and the heavy slump of his shoulders.

Geralt’s name is by Jaskier’s lips, soft and reverent like prayer.

Jaskier is grieving already.

“I’m right here.”

The light is near. Geralt can sense it shimmering at the end of the road.

They are close, but Jaskier won’t make it. Or at least, what’s left of him will never be the same. Geralt’s buttercup should be full of life, but he’s now filled with despair. Now he’s broken.

And it’s ripping Geralt’s heart in half.

There’s no way to ease Jaskier’s pain, not when he can’t hear Geralt’s calling, not when there’s no reassurance to be offered, except—

The mark burns anew.

“Jaskier,” Geralt pleads. Somehow, this time his voice feels different, no longer muffled by magic. “Jaskier, turn around.”

They stop in tandem. The light illuminates Jaskier’s frame, making it so hard to see.

Slowly, excruciatingly, Jaskier turns back. A sob breaks out in relief.

“I’m here, you see?”

Geralt smiles, but he never gets to see it returned.

Pity, Jaskier’s smile is the most beautiful sight there is.

Darkness engulfs Geralt, but he feels no regret.

Not when he can make sure Jaskier is loved. Not when Jaskier knows he’s trusted until the end.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #reverse trope #orpheus and eurydice au #orpheus!jaskier #eurydice!geralt #soulmate #cw: mcd #cw: major character death #sorry it took me so long #i write very slowly #also help i'm running out of ways to write geralt being utterly in love

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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 years ago

Text

CW: Geraskier, captured Witcher, Witcher heat cycles, probably some other uncomfortable themes related to ownership, coercion.

"How is he? Is he awake?"

"Sleeping, sire. It was a difficult journey."

"Oh, yes, well... Of course. Were there any problems?"

"He tried to run and when we cornered him, he fought back..."

"If there is a single mark on him! I told you--I told you--he was not to be hurt, I--"

"We had no choice, sire. He's half beast, but--"

"But what?"

"We mentioned the girl and he--he stopped straight away, threw down his swords, and knelt in the mud."

"He--he just gave up? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Jaskier turned to the window, his eyes unfocused as he peered into the inky black of the mansion garden. He could make out the rough outline of the perimeter wall, and the gnarled claws of the naked trees against the greyish tint of the sky.

He hadn't really thought this through. Not entirely. It had always been his dream to travel the world and meet exotic heroes, but fate had intervened with his father's untimely death and a raft of siblings to care for. As the eldest, they had trapped him with threats and ultimatums.

But now the house was empty, his mother had passed on, and he was left with a huge fortune and nothing to spend it on. He could hit the road but he had become somewhat used to his creature comforts, and his joints would no doubt catch a cold, or something equally as arduous.

That didn't stop the itch beneath his skin. The ache of some yawning gap yet to be filled.

The answer had come in a new fad. Exotic or supernatural concubines for the adventurous and wealthy. Most visited special parlours where they could access a wide array of humanoids; succubi, werewolves, even a Drowner if you were so inclined, but those with refined taste secured their own pleasures.

Jaskier had always wanted to meet a Witcher. Heroes of old, valiant monster slayers with mutated abilities. And now he owned one. Purchased from poachers that specialised in hunting the most dangerous beasts for a huge sum.

He had never expected them to be *successful*, and his mind raced with the next steps...

"And, the uhm, the heat cycle, you know..."

His guest shifted a little uncomfortably. "From what we know it only happens when the potions are out of their systems," he paused to scratch the greying whiskers of his beard, "it's the toxins, messes them up, makes them infertile."

Jaskier's ears perked. "And it's... It's all reversible?"

The poacher shrugged. "Look, witchers are rare. What we know is in the leaflet we have you, but even that's... vague. They were always secretive. Trial and error."

Jaskier nodded slowly. "And is he... is he dangerous?"

"No. The brand will keep him docile. He won't be able to hurt you even if he wanted to."

"If?"

The poacher shrugged one shoulder this time as he turned away. "Doesn't strike me as particularly... violent. He didn't fight maliciously, and he tried to run rather than kill us all. Doesn't... fit what we thought. But don't trust him, you never know. Good evening, sir."

The poacher dismissed himself and left Jaskier in the oppressive silent. He held his breath and strained his ears, hoping to pick up even a breath of noise from his bedroom next door, because, of course, he had told them to drop the witcher off there. It was the comfiest, warmest, quietest place on the estate, and he wanted the witcher--Geralt, Jaskier reminded himself--to feel safe.

Geralt.

Jaskier wandered to his desk and picked up the pamphlet by his inkwell. He had read it a thousand times while he waited for Geralt's arrival. He knew witchers ate raw food, that they were resistant to disease and sickness, that they were strong and could use rudimentary magic. Witchers had cycles of heat where they wanted to fuck and nest and eat and fuck some more. That's why they wintered in big keeps far away from civilisation. Or used to, before--

Jaskier gazed at the wall between him and Geralt and let out a long breath. One little peek wouldn't hurt. He would leave Geralt to rest and fold himself onto the narrow couch by the fireplace, but just... One glimpse.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the household, there were two peepholes tucked behind a painting of Jaskier's great-great grandfather. The torrid old codger had used it to spy on his wife with her young lovers. But Jaskier tried not to think about following in those particular footsteps as he pulled over a chair and shifted the wall covering aside.

The holes were fairly discreet and the resulting view was somewhat obscured. The room was dark but for a small, sputtering candle on the nightstand and the stream of silver moonlight through the parted curtains. Perhaps the light was why the bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled where a body had been placed upon them, but they weren't untucked nor the pillows disturbed.

Jaskier bit his lower lip as he glanced at the door--locked door--and then across at the window, still secure. It was only a small flicker of movement that alerted him to Geralt's presence, tucked into a shadowed corner to the right of the window.

He was slumped against the wall, his knees tucked to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. Trying to make himself appear small, Jaskier thought. He was barely moving, his shoulders rising and falling in incremental amounts the only indication he was breathing.

And then, suddenly, two gleaming eyes looked up. They caught the sheen of the moonlight and blazed briefly gold as they stared straight at Jaskier. Jaskier squeaked and almost fell from the chair. There was no way Geralt could see him. Not from there.

Geralt seemed to stare for an eternity, two glowing eyes unblinking and intense, and then they were gone. The witcher gave an audible sigh and appeared to fold further into himself, his bare feet disappearing from the moonlight to shirk into the shadows.

Jaskier climbed down from the chair shakily and wrung his hands. What had he expected? An ethereal creature to be snuggled in his bed? Perhaps stretched out and naked, or--

Foolish. Of course Geralt would be frightened. His swords had been taken from him, the back of his shoulder branded with a sigil that would be playing havoc with his thoughts while it settled. Geralt would need time, wouldn't he? And food, yes, maybe some new clothes, a nice bath, some time to rest.

Jaskier climbed onto the couch by the fireplace and pulled the waiting blanket over his body. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would make his introductions.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #tw3 #the witcher netflix #just in case

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mollymawkwrites · 4 years ago

Note

Geralt/Eskel/Jaskier: Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen and Eskel/Jaskier get their shit together first (communication skills!!) and Geralt comes to a Realization - dp/spitroasting - the turn of seasons, contrast of bright/dark, warm/cold

... this took way too long and I am so sorry about that. As an apology, here’s more than 5.5k of feelings, pining and misunderstandings, with a sprinkle of smut (as an apology, and not at all because I have zero self-restraint). Thank you so much for the lovely prompt, I hope this lives up to expectations 💖

I’ll post the link to Ao3 in the replies when this is beta’ed, sorry if there are any big mistakes!

CW: post-Mountain break-up, smut, Geralt’s Canonical Self-Loathing.

Falling in love with Eskel is the easiest thing Jaskier has ever done.

It happens slowly, but with a certainty that Jaskier has rarely felt before. Like sinking into a feather mattress, silk sheets caressing your skin.

It was never that easy with Geralt. Jaskier fell in love with him fast, sure, but he also fell hard, had to pick himself up afterwards, bruised and bloody.

The first day he arrives at Kaer Morhen, two weeks after his rescue from Nilfgaardian spies, Jaskier is miserable. The trek up the mountain has been hard on him, but harder even was his underwhelming reunion with Geralt, who barely acknowledged him, grunting that he'd be safer in Kaer Morhen before leaving Jaskier to decide by himself what he wanted to do.

His heart aches with two years of missing his best friend, finding he misses him even more now that they’ve been reunited. He'd always told himself he didn't hold any hope of his relationship with Geralt ever evolving into something more, but getting his heart broken on the top of a mountain had made him realise he'd somehow managed to fool himself too.

So he's prepared to spend a winter avoiding his former friend, though Geralt would probably not even call him that, holing up in whatever drafty room he's been attributed, and then he'll find a new name and dye his hair a different colour and hope it's enough to fool the Nilfs. It's a hard choice to make, renouncing the name he's made for himself, the reputation he's built over twenty years of hard work and songs he's still proud of today. But it's all tied too tightly to Geralt, and neither him nor his heart will survive it. Maybe, if Jaskier the Witcher’s bard is forgotten by everyone, his heartbreak won't be so obvious.

That pathetical plan is countered as soon as he steps foot in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt's brothers and mentor introduce themselves to him. They are similar, yet so different to the Witcher he's known for more than half his life.

They welcome him, if not with open arms, at least with warmth and smiles and, in Lambert's case, snarky banter Jaskier takes great pleasure in reciprocating.

Eskel doesn't draw his attention much at first. The dark-haired Witcher is friendly, tugging Geralt in a bear-like embrace as soon as they've passed the gates, and shaking Jaskier's hand with a kind, genuine smile Jaskier can't help but return.

But over the next couple of weeks, Jaskier spends more and more time with the amber-eyed wolf, discussing music and poetry and history as they execute their respective chores. After only a few days, Eskel is the one who searches him out when Jaskier is helping Vesemir in the kitchen or feeding the chickens in the courtyard. He shows him around the keep, more than the customary tour Vesemir gave Jaskier on his first day here. Eskel is full of stories from his childhood in the keep, and he is not greedy with the details. Jaskier can sense the underlying grief when the Witcher talks about the boys who didn't make it in the Trials, but Eskel doesn't linger in the sadness and makes sure to tell Jaskier all about his and Geralt's most imaginative antics.

The Witcher's company is a delight, and a nice distraction from Jaskier's heartache. When he can't take Geralt's silence and avoidance anymore, he seeks Eskel and his warmth, bathing in the man's attention. After a month, he finds himself dreaming of tanned hands and dark hair as much as pale skin and silver strands.

At first, he feels guilty about it. Eskel does not deserve to be someone's second choice. What he deserves is unconditional, untainted love.

But as days pass, frost a little thicker on the blades of grass in the courtyard every morning, the mountains losing their warm autumn colours to shades of blue and grey, Jaskier and Eskel gravitate towards each other until they collide, softly and without a sound. It happens so naturally, Jaskier almost thinks he’s dreamt it when he wakes up one day at dawn, and instead of his freezing room, he opens his eyes to a broad, golden-skinned chest. His cheek rises and falls with the slow breaths where it rests on one plush pec, a pool of his own saliva glistening in a smattering of dark hair.

He hasn’t felt that relaxed in years, and only part of it is due to the frankly fantastic post-sex bliss he’s still basking in. There is no anxiety, no second thoughts. Eskel made sure to make his intentions clear before they fell into bed together, shocking Jaskier into silence with how open with his feelings he was. The bard still can’t help but compare how completely different Geralt and Eskel are.

They agreed to take things slow, to enjoy each other for the winter and then see where things take them. Jaskier knows he’s falling in love with Eskel, but it doesn’t feel scary. He won’t be alone once the time comes to make a decision.

It takes another week for him to move into Eskel’s room completely. They don’t bother hiding their new… entanglement, to the others. No secret can be kept in a keep full of Witchers, and neither Eskel nor Jaskier cares to pretend.

Lambert gives them shit, to no one’s surprise, and Ciri squeals in delight, the gossiping princess resurfacing for a few moments. Vesemir claps Eskel on the shoulder, before reminding all of them that they have chores to do.

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier didn’t expect him to jump in joy, he’s not sure the Witcher is even capable of such displays of emotion, but the white-haired Witcher doesn’t even look at them, only ushers Ciri outside to the training grounds.

Over the next few weeks, Jaskier only sees him at supper. He’s gotten used to avoiding Geralt, to keep out of his way, but until then they would still meet in the hall when the weather was too bad for the Witchers to train outside, or at lunch when they would accidentally come in for a bite at the same time. Eskel and Geralt spend a considerable amount of time together, and Jaskier would often find them together doing whatever repair was needed, but these days, when he manages to escape his chores long enough to seek his lover for a stolen kiss or a quick fuck, Geralt is nowhere in sight.

When Jaskier asks his amber-eyed wolf one evening after they retired to their room, Eskel confirms what he already suspected.

“I haven’t seen him in a while, no,” the Witcher rumbles softly, a hand tracing arabesques on the bare skin of Jaskier’s back. “He goes hunting alone almost every day. He does that, sometimes, when he’s upset, though I’m not sure what it’s about, this time.”

Jaskier hums, pensive. His heart clenches at the thought of Geralt avoiding his own family. Guilt creeps on him, its long, sharp claws burying themselves under his ribs. How dare he come to Geralt’s only home, his only place of peace and acceptance, and claim a place in his brother’s heart? He’s done a shit job of fulfilling Geralt’s wish of having him out of his life, hasn’t he?

A strong arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him closer to the furnace of Eskel’s body.

“What’re you thinking of that makes you smell so sad, songbird?”

Jaskier smiles at the endearment. His wolf is generous with his affection, and Jaskier is selfish. He wants it all. But does he have any right to it, if he is taking it from Geralt?

“Do you think it’s because of us?” He asks, turning his head to rest his chin on Eskel’s sternum. “That Geralt is keeping to himself, I mean.”

Eskel frowns pensively. “I… don’t know. I suppose, in a way. But I think he’s mostly wallowing in his own self-loathing.”

“When isn’t he?” Jaskier teases.

The Witcher huffs, a sad half-smile tugging at his scars. “I was afraid he’d be jealous, or upset, hoping maybe it’d help him pull his head out of his own ass, but I’m afraid it’s buried even deeper than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t want to get between the two of you, but I know Geralt. He ain’t gonna do anything about it, and then he’ll regret it once it’s too late.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “Eskel, there’s nothing between me and Geralt.” Well, that’s not quite true. “I wanted there to be something, for a very long time, but… well, turns out I was the only one wanting it. If anything, I thought I was the one getting between the two of you.”

“Songbird, there hasn’t been anything but friendship between Geralt and I since before you were born.” Sadness clouds Eskel’s eyes for a second, and the piece Jaskier has been missing clicks into place.

“You and Geralt were together?” He asks, voice tight with emotion.

“Not sure we can even call it that,” a bitter smile twists Eskel’s scars in a painful grimace. “We found… comfort, with each other, when nothing else could give us that. But it hasn’t been like that in a very long time.”

“Why?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder, almost dislodging Jaskier from his position. “People change, songbird. And when you live as long as we do, well… you can’t expect things to stay the same forever. I’m glad we stayed as close as we are, despite him not wanting us to be anything other than friends anymore.”

The Witcher kisses the crown of Jaskier’s head and flicks his wrist, snuffing out the candles, a clear sign that the conversation is over. Jaskier doesn’t push, conscious this is a sensitive subject, but that doesn’t keep him from staring in the darkness for a long time after Eskel’s breaths have slowed and deepened, troubled by this new facet of the two men he loves.

Geralt’s reaction makes more sense now, why he would act so uncomfortable around Eskel and Jaskier now that the two of them are a thing. If Geralt still has feelings for his friend, then… seeing Jaskier, the man he hates and despises, whom he holds responsible for his every trouble (quite unfairly, in Jaskier’s opinion, but still), taking his place in the arms of the man he’s been in love with for longer than the bard has been alive… well, Jaskier can understand why he’d be upset.

There’s just a tiny bit of pettiness coming from the selfish, ugly part of him, that sings at the idea. Geralt broke his heart on that mountain top, isn’t it simple justice that Jaskier breaks his heart in turn?

But that line of thought is quickly smothered by guilt, and, more upsettingly, love. He’s loved Geralt for half his life now. No matter how hurt he might be, all he wants is for him to be happy. Or as happy as a self-loathing Witcher can be.

And it’s so obvious that Eskel loves him, too, now that Jaskier thinks about it. There’s a softness in his eyes and the corner of his mouth when he looks at Geralt that isn’t there when he’s around anyone else, an ease and a trust that Jaskier used to attribute to long term friendship but can only come from two bodies knowing each other intimately.

Jaskier can’t put himself between the two of them, can’t bear the idea of robbing both men of the little happiness they can find in a world that doesn’t accept them. And if he was Geralt, he would probably let Eskel down gently, taking himself out of the way and hoping the other two would get their shit together and talk, but he’s not, and if there’s a way that the three of them can find even a little satisfaction in this mess, then he’s going to try his best and make it happen.

He only hopes Geralt will listen to him.

It takes him a few days to work up the courage to approach the sullen White Wolf, and then another two to catch him alone, one night after dinner.

Unsurprisingly, he finds him in the stables, brushing down a Roach who seems more interested in nipping at Scorpion’s flanks than in the brooding Witcher in her stall. A wave of fondness overcomes Jaskier at the familiar sight, and he has to shake himself to remember what he’s come here to do.

“Geralt,” he says, softer than he intended. The Witcher doesn’t startle, but he tenses visibly, his grip on the brush turning white-knuckled. Jaskier lets out a trembling sigh, his resolve the only thing keeping him from turning away and finding shelter in Eskel’s arms to cry his heartache away. “We need to talk.”

Geralt doesn’t gratify him with an answer, like maybe if he ignores Jaskier long enough the bard will go away. How he didn’t learn that doesn’t work in the twenty years they’ve known each other, Jaskier has no idea.

“It’s about Eskel.” That, at least, has the merit to catch Geralt’s attention, the Witcher turning his head just enough to peek at Jaskier from the corner of his eye.

“He told me, about… about the two of you. What you were to each other.”

Geralt sucks in a harp breath. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

And Jaskier can see this is a lie even with the Witcher turning his back to him. His heart clenches, for his best friend, despite everything that happened, and his lover, who have not allowed themselves to have what they both so visibly crave. “It does, though. It does matter. I’m not… I have no wish to keep you from each other, Geralt. I… I love him.” Jaskier chokes out, and something painful flashes in Geralt’s eyes. “And I… I…” he almost lets himself say it, bare his heart for Geralt to see, but he’s gotten too used to protecting himself, to hiding his most shameful truth. “I know you do, too.”

Geralt hangs his head between his shoulders, face hidden in the shadows, the warm, low light of the oil lamp he brought with him playing in his pale hair. “You’re making him happy. The two of you… you’re good, together. I am glad you found each other.”

“Are you really, Geralt? Because you’ve been avoiding us for weeks. It’s hurting him.” It’s hurting me, Jaskier doesn’t say, because none of this is about him. “Listen, I… I know you don’t want anything to do with me, I got that loud and clear, but if there’s a way… for us three to… to find satisfaction, then maybe…”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

Jaskier exhales, nerves making his throat tight. “You know I don’t believe in exclusive relationships,” and Geralt doesn’t, either; Yennefer and him both had lovers on the side, it was no secret between them. “If you and Eskel wanted to… start again where you left things, I see no issue with that. I want him to be happy, too. I… I want you to be happy, Geralt. You’re still important to me, even after everything.”

He’s said more than he wanted to, and Geralt doesn’t even deign to look at him. That’s so familiar it hurts. Jaskier smiles, an ugly thing full of regrets and unspoken words, and turns on his heels. He’s done his part. It’s up to Geralt to make a choice, now.

“Jaskier,” a broken voice says as a hand wraps around his wrist. He startles, and turns to find Geralt watching him with pleading eyes. It’s such an absurd sight, it leaves him speechless for a minute, and Geralt takes it as an encouragement to speak. The Witcher clears his throat. “I don’t… You’re…” the way he interrupts himself in obvious frustration, brow furrowed and lips thinned, is almost endearing. “You’re important to me, too.”

Tears swell in Jaskier’s eyes, and he tugs at his wrist to free it. Geralt lets him go without resistance.

“Please don’t lie to me, Geralt. I can take the hurt, I can take the rejection. But I won’t take the pity.” He almost spits the last sentence, and a surge of bitter satisfaction warms his painful heart at Geralt’s flinch.

“I’m not, I swear. I… I’ve missed you, Jask, I’ve missed you so much.” His voice is husky, weighed by shame and regret, and Jaskier has no doubt he is saying the truth. Geralt is a lot of things, but a good actor is not one of them. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought about what I said to you after the dragon hunt. None of it was true, I… I was furious, but it wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.”

When Jaskier let himself dream of this moment, while walking down of the mountain or in the dark of the cell the Nilfargiaans kept him in, he’d imagined how he’d make Geralt grovel, how he’d tell him about every little thing Jaskier had ever done for him, to make his life easier, to show him how he could find happiness even on the Path.

As it is, Jaskier only stares at Geralt for a few seconds before tugging him into a crushing embrace. “Fuck, I’ve missed you too, you stupid Witcher.”

Geralt makes a wounded noise but lets himself be engulfed in Jaskier’s arms, tucking his nose in the hollow of his throat. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, warm breath humid against the bard’s skin. “I wanted to come looking after you, but I had to make sure Ciri was safe…”

“I am glad you did,” Jaskier says, petting the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck. “But why didn’t you say anything once Yennefer brought me to you? Geralt, we climbed up those damn mountains together. It’s been two months since we’ve been here. I thought you didn’t… that you didn’t want me here.”

Hands twist in the back of Jaskier’s thick woolen cape. “I didn’t know how to. While we were still on the Path I was worried about Nilfgaard catching up to us, about keeping Ciri and you fed and safe, and I thought this could wait until we were here. But then…” Geralt makes a frustrated noise so familiar it has Jaskier smiling in the crown of his head.

“Words were hard to find?”

He feels more than he sees Geralt’s nod. “And once you and Eskel became… involved, you seemed so much happier. I thought I’d only make things worse, and that you deserved to move on. To… forget about me. But I do want you here, Jaskier. If I had any right to it, I’d want you by my side always.”

A breath catches in Jaskier's throat, and tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Those are words he's dreamt of hearing for so many years, and he's finally hearing them now, in a stable smelling of horseshit and hay. It's so simple, so mundane, and yet he can barely bring himself to believe this is truly happening.

And maybe it's because he is stunned, or maybe because he's done hiding, but suddenly it feels so important that he says the truth.

"Geralt, you… you must know…" he pulls back, putting just enough distance between them that he can see Geralt's suspiciously red-rimmed eyes, that he can see how the Witcher reacts to his words. "I would have followed you anywhere, until my feet could carry me no more. You know that, right? I've never been subtle," he laughs wetly. Geralt is looking increasingly confused, like he has no idea what Jaskier is talking about, and that just doesn't make sense.

Making a frustrated sound, Jaskier twists his hands in the lapels of Geralt's thick winter coat, tugging him forward slowly so the Witcher can stop him if he wants.

But he doesn't, and their lips meet, harshly enough that Jaskier hopes it'll carry his meaning even through Geralt's thick skull.

It must work, because next thing he knows, he is being ravished quite thoroughly by an enthusiastic Witcher, a hand at the back of his head and another at the small of his back, under the hem of his cape. A thumb rubs circles at the base of his spine, and he's slowly melting into a puddle of contentment, his only thought a constant stream of this is happening, oh my fucking gods this is happening.

There's little time for the realization to set in, though, as a draft of cold wind fills the stables, and a soft "oh" pushes Jaskier and Geralt to separate.

Just outside of the circle of light cast by the oil lamp, Eskel stands watching them, eyebrows drawn up in surprise. Jaskier's guts clench in guilt and he steps away from Geralt hurriedly. "Eskel, it's not-" what you think, he doesn't finish, because that is a lie, and Eskel deserves better than lies.

But there's little else Jaskier can say to justify how Eskel just found him, kissing his best friend and former lover passionately in the middle of the night, when he should have been back in their shared bed an hour ago.

He knew he'd fuck up somehow. That's so classic.

The three of them are silent for a heartbeat, the horses shifting in their stalls the only noise in the cramped space, and Jaskier wants to cross the space between Eskel and him so badly, but he knows he doesn't have the right to, and it's killing him.

Just when his agony reaches a peak, Eskel's mouth curls at the corner, softness blooming in his eyes. "I see you've gotten your shit together," he says. " 's about time."

This is so completely out of what Jaskier expected him to say that he doesn’t manage to find a suitable answer. Surprisingly, Geralt is the one to talk next.

“I’m not going to take him from you,” he says cautiously.

“I know,” Eskel grins. “I know that if I asked you you would never even look at him again.”

Jaskier spares a glance for Geralt, and a pit opens in his gut at the acceptance he finds in his eyes.

“But that would make the three of us miserable,” Eskel adds. “And I won’t do that to Jaskier, or to you.”

“Eskel, what are you saying?” If his soft-hearted Witcher is suggesting what Jaskier thinks he is…

“I don’t see why things between us should change, songbird, if you wished to spend some nights in Geralt’s bed. Of course, if you two want to be exclusive to each other,” the first glimmer of doubt insinuates itself in Eskel’s kind voice, but he keeps speaking bravely, “then I will not impose myself.”

“No!” Jaskier says, a little too loud, his hand shooting up to grip at Eskel’s wrist. Roach nickers irritably in her stall at the disturbance.

“I… I mean, if both you and Geralt are amenable, there is space in my bed for the two of you.”

Eskel’s dark eyebrow arches. “Don’t you mean in my bed?”

But his hand closes around Jaskier’s reassuringly, warm and soft as he looks at Geralt. “What do you say, Wolf?”

And Geralt is watching them both with equal part fear and want in his eyes, like his deepest desire is just in reach but he isn’t sure if it’s not going to burn him at the first touch. Jaskier extends his free hand, and he can feel Eskel tensing infinitesimally beside him, careful to keep a relaxed posture, but as worried as Jaskier that their white-haired Witcher is going to bolt out the door to a more familiar loneliness.

Geralt surprises them both by taking Jaskier’s hand with an air of firm resolution, crossing the space between them slowly until he stands close enough to share their warmth. Eskel raises his left hand, cupping Geralt’s jaw with infinite softness. Jaskier can see in his eyes the same pride he is feeling himself, at their white wolf’s bravery.

The air leaves Jaskier’s lungs in a rush when the two men’s lips meet like they weren’t ever meant to part. The contrast of Eskel’s golden skin against Geralt’s milky one is the most beautiful work of art he’s ever been given to see, and the tight heat in his lower belly tells him he wants to see more of it, now.

The two Witchers kiss for a long minute, Jaskier watching them with naked hunger and want, but for once not in a hurry to claim the attention back on himself. He makes an involuntary noise when Eskel nips at Geralt’s lower lip playfully, and two burning golden gazes turn on him. It’s so intense, so heavy, that another breath leaves Jaskier with a wheeze. A grin is spreading on Eskel’s handsome features, and Geralt’s eyes sparkle with interest.

“What do you think, Wolf? Do you think the two of us will be enough to satisfy our little bard?”

And oh, Jaskier does so want them to try.

Jaskier often prides himself loudly and brazenly of his carnal exploits as an Oxenfurt student and travelling bard. He’s had sex with numerous people of all genders and races, sometimes several at the same time, and has been praised for being a generous and enthusiastic lover.

Never has he been so overwhelmed after only a few minutes of foreplay.

There’s a cock down his throat and fingers in his arse and he’s trembling all over. Eskel is soothing him with a palm to his side, murmuring praise as he pushes three thick, oiled fingers to Jaskier’s prostate.

Geralt is brushing a hand down his cheek, feeling his own cock through the stretched skin. Jaskier sucks and licks with single-minded focus, moaning and wiggling when Eskel executes a particularly well-aimed thrust.

“Look at him, asking for more even when he’s stuffed full,” Eskel smugly says to Geralt as he gives a sharp slap to the bard’s arse. Jaskier yelps and jumps forward, Geralt’s cock hitting the back of his throat. He chokes and gags but doesn’t relent, breathing through his nose expertly. Geralt wipes the tears from his cheeks, the tender motion in stark contrast with his curses and animalistic grunts. It’s a contradiction Jaskier is quickly becoming addicted to.

He's so focused on his worship of Geralt's glorious cock he doesn't notice Eskel's fingers slipping out of his hole before they are replaced with the fat head of his prick. He gasps, letting Geralt's hard length slip out of his mouth, resting his temple against his hip as he breathes through the intrusion. He still hasn't gotten used to Eskel's girth, the stretch leaving him drooling and dazed every time.

They're all still as Jaskier accommodates it, testing the sensation with little clenches of his arse that have Eskel grunting and squeezing the plump flesh of his cheeks.

"'m good, you can move," Jaskier mumbles in the dip of Geralt's hip, and Eskel pulls out to execute a few shallow thrusts, getting the both of them used to the new sensations.

When he picks up speed, a hand threads in Jaskier's hair, pulling him to look up and meet a painfully tender gaze. Geralt holds him with one hand, the other grasping his own cock and guiding it back into Jaskier’s begging mouth, smearing a trail of pre-come on his cheek on the way.

It's easy to lose himself into it after that. He is full, warm and content, and he wishes he could stay that way forever, pinned between his two lovers, pleasing them with his wet mouth and his tight arse. Used for their pleasure alone.

He's only human, though, and his stamina can't compare to two Witchers'. He spills almost as soon as Eskel gets a hand on his cock, his wails muffled by Geralt's.

Geralt is caring enough to let Jaskier breathe as he comes down, cradling the bard’s face in his hands, but Eskel doesn't pull out. They've talked about each other's boundaries at length, he knows Jaskier can take more.

He's brushing his thumb where Jaskier and him are connected, hole fluttering with the last spasms of his orgasm. Jaskier whimpers at the sensation.

"Damn, you always get so loose and sloppy when you've come… do you think you could take the two of us like this?"

Jaskier's chest swells with a sob at the thought, arms trembling where they struggle to keep him up. The fingers around his jaw squeeze lightly, demanding his attention, and he meets Geralt's gaze once again.

"Answer to Eskel, pretty lark," Geralt rumbles. "Is it too much? Do you want more?"

"Yes," Jaskier manages to slur. "More, please. I want… I want both of you."

Geralt's pupils expand impossibly larger, and he bends to kiss Jaskier languidly.

He's a very thorough kisser, grunting at the taste of himself on Jaskier's tongue. Tears well up in Jaskier's eyes as emotion seizes his heart. Finally, he thinks, finally, I get to have him.

He shouts in the kiss, breaking their connection, when Eskel's thumb slips along his cock in Jaskier's hole.

The stretch is intense, even with how relaxed Jaskier is from his climax, and his arms give out, his face squashing into the mattress with a moan.

Geralt chuckles above him before gathering the weak bard into his arms, shuffling them so Jaskier is propped against his chest, while Eskel keeps opening him from behind.

It’s too warm there, pinned between his two Witchers, but Jaskier doesn’t have any complaint. Geralt resumes kissing him to distract him from the almost too intense stretch, and it works. When his breath grows too ragged, Geralt frees his lips and lets him rest his head against his shoulder for a second, lungs expanding with deep gulps of breath. Geralt and Eskel talk in hushed voices, but he can’t focus on what they’re saying, his every thought gathering around the point where he is stretched wider than he’s ever been around Eskel’s cock and fingers.

He is manhandled without difficulty, until he is straddling Geralt’s lap, Eskel still buried hilt deep in him, Geralt mouthing at his neck, two pairs of large hands roaming his sides, his back, his stomach.

“You ready, songbird?” Eskel rumbles in his ear, the low timbre of his voice piercing through the thick fog in Jaskier’s fucked out brain.

The bard nods into Geralt’s shoulder, whining pitifully.

“Did you actually manage to fuck words out of him, Eskel?” Geralt says with a hint of humour, squeezing Jaskier against him affectionately. “Might have to give you a medal for that.”

“Hm. What about a kiss?”

Jaskier smiles groggily at the sounds of intense making-out next to his ear, turning his head to admire the view. Geralt and Eskel truly are gorgeous together, skins lit by the candles, sweat beading on their foreheads, a drop rolling down the crease of one of Eskel’s scars to where his lips join Geralt’s. Their kiss is all teeth and tongue, playful and nipping, fighting for a control none of them truly cares about. It’s a sight Jaskier hopes to be graced with every day of his life from now on.

But for now, impatience is making him clench and grind around Eskel, who breaks his and Geralt’s kiss to grunt. “We haven’t forgotten about you, songbird, don’t worry.”

He cups Jaskier’s cheek in his hand to meet his lips, tasting of Geralt and himself.

There’s a new pressure at Jaskier’s entrance and he gasps in Eskel’s mouth when he realizes it’s Geralt’s cock pushing inside him. The three of them moan in unison when it gets past the ring of muscles and slides besides Eskel’s prick. They stay still, panting for a few moments, until Jaskier garbles a “move” and Eskel complies, taking the lead. Geralt, carrying most of Jaskier’s weight, is slower at the beginning, but picks up speed, moving in counterpart to Eskel, never leaving Jaskier empty even for a single second. They hit his prostate with every thrust in, overwhelming him so quickly he’s only a ragdoll between the two of them after only a few minutes of the same treatment.

Eskel and Geralt lavish his throat and shoulders with soft bites and soothing licks, meeting for a kiss over him once or twice.

Jaskier comes quickly, his cock rutting against Geralt’s toned abs, the friction barely enough to have him tip over the edge, coating the rippling muscles in thick white come. Eskel follows him rapidly, his thrusts growing erratic until he spills deep into Jaskier’s ass, whispering his name reverently in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Geralt joins them after a few more thrusts, grunting his release into Jaskier’s collarbone, goosebumps breaking over the skin of his back.

The Witchers’ softening pricks slip out of his ass and Jaskier hisses at the sudden chill of emptiness. A dribble of come drips from his sensitive hole, gaping and fluttering, and Eskel takes a sharp intake of breath at the sight, fingers coming to brush the abused flesh. Jaskier whimpers in protest, too tired to move, and Geralt shushes him with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

They bring him down to the mattress, arranging his limbs comfortably. One of them - Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes to check which - gets up and brings back a rag to clean him up and a waterskin, bullying him to drink even though all he wants is to lie down and sleep.

Finally, they all snuggle up together on the bed that is slightly too small for three grown men, the room stinking of sex.

There will be a lot to talk about, tomorrow when they wake up, but for now Jaskier buries his nose in the crook of Geralt’s neck, Eskel plastered to his back, both their hands meeting on his chest, over his slowly beating heart. Content. Warm. Jaskier drifts off with a smile on his face and a new song in his mind.

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #geralt #jaskier/eskel/geralt #geraskel #my writing #prompt fill #nsft #greyduckgreygoose

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marvelthalia · 4 years ago

Text

Historical and Period Fantasy Drama Watchlist

Historical Dramas With Some Grounding In Real Life

Starz' Spartacus 4 seasons

HBO’s Rome (Caesar and Emperor Augustus) 2 seasons

ABC’s Empire (The Rise of Augustus but really really inaccurate) 1 season

Domina (The rule of Augustus and his wife Livia)

Netflix’s Barbarians (Romans vs Germanic tribes in Germania) 1 season

Netflix’s Roman Empire (Commodus, Caesar and Caligula) 3 seasons

Sky Atlantic’s Britannia (Romans vs Celts in British Isles) 2 seasons

Netflix’s The Last Kingdom (Danes vs Saxons in British Isles) 4 seasons

Netflix’s Marco Polo (Mongol Empire) 2 seasons

Knightfall (Knights Templar) 2 seasons

Netflix + BBC’s Medici (The Medici family in Florence) NB Netflix has the seasons listed in a weird order so start with S3, then S2, then S1.

Poldark (Post American War of Independence Cornwall) 5 seasons

Downton Abbey (Pre and Post WWI England) 6 seasons and 2 movies

Peaky Blinders (post WWI England) 5 seasons

Netflix’s The Liberator (WWII) 1 season

BBC’s The Trial of Christine Keeler (1960s England) 1 season

Black Monday (1980s America) 2 seasons

Fantasy + Very Obvious Fictional Period Dramas

BBC’s Troy Fall of an Empire (Trojan War) 1 season

BBC's Atlantis (who fucking knows) 2 seasons

Netflix’s The Witcher (generic middle ages times) 2 seasons

BBC’s Merlin (King Authur times, 12th century-ish) 5 seasons

Netflix’s Cursed (Gritty King Authur but with major twists)

Netflix’s The Letter For The King (generic middle ages time) 1 season

Marvel’s Agent Carter (post WWII America, linked to the MCU) 2 seasons

Pennyworth (post WWII England, linked to the Batman mythos) 2 seasons

HBO’s Lovecraft Country (Segregation Era America) 1 season

Time Travel Shows

DC’s Legends of Tomorrow (CW’s DC Universe) 5 seasons

Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD (Marvel Cinematic Universe) 7 seasons but only Season 7 is time travel related.

NBC’s Timeless 2 seasons

Netflix’s Umbrella Academy (1960s-90s America) 2 seasons

BBC’s Doctor Who (All of time and space) 13 seasons of New Who

PS this is live action shows only rn but I might add some movies, Animation and anime later.

To Be Watched

BBC’s Harlots

Vikings

The Caesars

I, Claudius

Xenia

Hercules

The Tudors

Gunpowder

Frontier

The Great

The Last Czars

Rise of Empire: Ottomans

Victoria

White Queen

Warrior

Kingdom

The Borgias

TURN: Washington Spies

The Right Stuff

comment any other good shows I should watch eventually. Also can someone tell me if Knightfall S2 is better or worse than S1

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

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The Haunting of Kaer Morhen

Another fill for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo. This time Lambert gets to suffer.

Prompt: Comfort After A Bad Day Title (optional): The Haunting of Kaer Morhen Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Lambert/Eskel Rating: M Content Warnings: Witcher Trials, child abuse Summary: No ghost could haunt Lambert as badly as his own memories.

Winters were never fun. Lambert hated going back but it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go in the freezing snow. Witcher or not, nobody could survive out in the cold, especially not while hungry and injured like Witchers tended to be. Plus, Kaer Morhen was where Eskel was over winter and Lambert would suffer through anything just to have a few precious months in those arms.

Usually Lambert could get through the repairs, the training, the arguments. Those at least were real issues that drowned out the memories that clamoured to be at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to wallow in the past. It was easier to try and forget why he hated Vesemir so much, to drown his incessant thoughts in moonshine with the others than have words play on repeat in his head each time he saw the old man.

Some days were worse than usual though. And on those days Lambert was unbearable. He picked fights with everyone, even Eskel. During training he fought dirty. At meal times he was an ass to the point he was asked to leave the table. It was better that way, he didn’t have the courage to be alone so needed to be forced into solitude. At least, until Eskel turned up to stare at him in disappointment with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s gotten into you today?”

Lambert shrugged and looked away. He couldn’t admit to being weak, to not being able to shut away those memories and echoes of words. Everywhere Lambert went in Kaer Morhen, he was confronted with some fragment of his past. In the corridor he could feel the phantom pinch and pull to his ear as he was dragged from class for being disruptive. In the kitchen the backs of his hands stung at the memory of being rapped across the knuckles for daring to try and sneak a snack at a forbidden time. Out in the stables Lambert felt the cold from being constantly on punishment chores, mucking out the horses. He was never dressed warm enough and the cold made his bones ache, fingers left numb and clawed from where he’d held the broom too tight.

The worst though were the hot springs. Usually initiated were put through the Trials in the spring and summer so the Witchers who were out on the Path wouldn’t have to hear the screams or deal with the bodies. But Lambert wasn’t so lucky. He had been down in the hot springs, trying to find a dark corner to hide because all the Witchers who’d returned were large, loud and scary. Lambert didn’t like them, the way they laughed and brawled. He didn’t expect Vesemir to burst in, livid and grab him by the wrist.

“This is the last prank you’ve pulled!”

No matter how much Lambert protested, he was dragged down into the basement all while Vesemir spat vile words about how he’d had enough of Lambert. That his father had been right all along but not even a good beating could right him. All through it, Lambert was bewildered, he’d not pulled any kind of prank. His wrist ached from the crushing grip Vesemir had on him and the way he was thrown onto the table winded him.

“Only the best survive the Trials,” Vesemir had growled as he strapped Lambert in. “I’ll be glad to bury your corpse. Not even a pyre because you’re no Witcher. Useless runt.”

Those were the last words someone said to Lambert before his world dissolved into screaming agony. But just before he lost himself completely, he just about heard someone come in and say, “We found the culprits. It was Eskel and Geralt.”

Those memories haunted Lambert. Nobody even wanted him to survive the Trials, not even he himself. Which he’d only been put through early because Vesemir had assumed he had been guilty of some prank or other. Lambert never did find out what the prank was but he knew Eskel and Geralt were the reason he was strapped into the chair and tortured. Not that he ever told them. By the time he was finished with the Trials the others were out on the Path again. Nobody knew whether Lambert was smaller and less bulky because he had always been small for his age or whether because the Trials were administered during the winter.

The impatient huff from Eskel drew Lambert back into the present. He looked up at his partner, the love of his life and the one who condemned him to his Trials. There was nothing he could say to explain it all anyway, that he had ghosts that no exorcism or ritual could banish. So he shrugged again.

“It’s just as well I love you,” Eskel grumbled as he stepped in and pulled Lambert into his arms. “Your sullen antics aren’t your most charming feature you know.”

When Lambert didn’t reply, Eskel wrapped tighter around him and rocked them. “You feel chilly.”

That was despite the fire burning in the room and the fact the keep had been relatively warm of late. It had Eskel sighing. “Why don’t we go South next year? Geralt mentioned something about Touissant and a vineyard there. Might be nice to have a warm winter for a change.”

Lambert nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. A winter away from all the ghosts sounded wonderful. He couldn’t explain it though, couldn’t give his thoughts the right words to explain it all. Instead, he buried his face against Eskel’s chest and breathed hard as a hand stroked down the back of his head and neck.

“We’ll have a warm winter, Baby Wolf,” Eskel promised. “And whatever has its icy claws sunk into you will yield to the sun and the love you’ll bask in.”

It was going to have to be enough for that winter. The promise of something better for the following one, assuming they all survived the Path for another year. Quietly, Lambert tried to force himself to relax. For the time being, he had Eskel keeping him safe, chasing away the memories. That was going to have to do. Lambert hoped it was enough to tide him over one more winter in an old keep full of his memories.

#lambskel #eskel/lambert #lambert #eskel #vesemir #the witcher #sugar and spice bingo #cw: witcher trials #cw: child abuse #tldr: lambert has good reason to have vesemir

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professorjaskier · 3 years ago

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Override My Programming (2/2)

Hi y'all! I never anticipated continuing this AU, but I was inspired for @thewitcherbog's AU week. Thanks to @sulkyshengshou for beta reading my work! If you have fun plot bunnies for this AU, send me an ask! Hope you enjoy :)

CW: minor talk of blood and injuries, the Trials and Geralt being a self-loathing bastard

Part 1 here, A03 here

“Geralt, look out!”

The witcher lurched to his right just in time to avoid the second griffin that had appeared out of nowhere. Earlier in the scuffle, the first griffin had clipped his forehead, sending a shower of sparks flying throughout the woods and loosening a wire. As the fight dragged on it became harder to concentrate and now there was a second griffin.

This was not his day.

A scream to his left jarred him out of his daze, drawing his attention towards the noise.

Jaskier.

The young werewolf —musician, he could hear Jaskier gently correcting him— had been following him for a month so far. Surprisingly, his programming hadn’t kicked back in, so the werewolf was still alive. Geralt was uncertain why that was the case, but for the time being he wasn’t pursuing answers. He often convinced himself that the reason why Jaskier appeared to be an exception to the rule was unimportant, but the truth was that he quite liked the companionship. Most people would scoff at that, claiming that witcher’s couldn’t feel emotions, but no matter how often Geralt repeated that lie to himself, he knew it to be false.

He’d been human once. Maybe a small part of him still was.

Shit, the wire in his head must be faultier than he’d thought. Not only was he imagining emotions again, but he had forgotten about the griffins.

The griffins.

Turning his gaze towards the scream, he saw both monsters swooping down towards Jaskier who was looking at them with panic alight in his eyes. This was the first time that he’d smelled terror on the young man.

He didn’t like it.

With a growl, Geralt leapt into the air —utilizing the steel reinforcements around his joints to bolster his height— and beheaded both with one fell swoop.

As he broke his landing with a roll, Geralt could tell that he was in trouble. The world around him began to fuzz in and out, sparks flying out of his wound more frequently than before. He’d overextended himself.

A broken witcher was as good as dead.

“Geralt!”

He heard Jaskier running towards him, the smell of werewolf pervading the area around them. Although the smell of monster’s usually bothered him, Jaskier’s specific scent did not. In fact, he felt the whirring in the back of his mind slowing. Others would argue that was the result of his circuits shutting down due to the stress his body was undergoing, but what did they know? Half the “facts” circulating about witchers was incorrect.

His eye twitched as Jaskier slid into place next to him and said, “Gods, Geralt, what the hell were you thinking? Two griffins! You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“Cyborgs don’t die. They shut down and are then repaired or left to rust.”

Geralt frowned at the crease forming between Jaskier’s eyebrows. The werewolf smelled distressed. Was there a threat still in the area?

“Cyborgs are also part human,” Jaskier replied, his words sounding as though they were forced through his throat. Was the musician getting sick? Geralt didn’t know how to deal with illness in organic organisms. He had faint memories of catching cold before The Trials, but he hadn’t been sick in decades. It was just another facet of humanity he had lost throughout the years.

“Geralllltt. Earth to, Geralt!”

The cyborg looked up, finding Jaskier’s face much closer than it had been moments before. He moved fast.

“What can I do to help?” the younger man asked as concern danced upon his face.

“Bag,” Geralt managed to say, the words coming out slower than he had intended. They would have to act fast to avoid a full shutdown. Of course that event was reversible if they could find someone knowledgeable in witcher physiology and programming; however, people who specialized in that were far and in between. It would be less of a hassle for Jaskier if the werewolf could fix him now.

“Alright, I have your bag,” Jaskier murmured, holding said object in his hands. Geralt hadn’t noticed the other man moving, but that was unsurprising. He was losing time. “What now?”

“My kit. It has wiring equipment. Do you know anything about wiring?”

“Errrr sort of. I took a computer building class for my science requirement in college.”

“Hmmm that’ll have to do.” Geralt wasn’t enthused to let this young werewolf anywhere near his circuiting, but Jaskier had proven himself to be trustworthy so far and unfortunately, he didn’t have another choice. He did not have the functional capability to fix himself at the moment. “Can you see the damage?”

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s eyes roamed over his face, taking in every detail that would be necessary in patching him up. “Yes, I think I see the main issue. I can fix that and that should make it possible for us to get back to our hotel.”

With that, Jaskier sat beside him and began to clean off the blood blocking the circuitry in his forehead.

As they sat there, Jaskier focusing on the task at hand and Geralt trying to stay awake, the musician broke the silence. “Soooo, this is an awful lot of wiring. What’s it all for?”

Geralt shuddered as old data filled his memory banks, depicting the horrors that were his training and creation at Kaer Morhen Labs. The pain and suffering that he had undergone— all buried beneath programming and nerve blockers. Looking up at the werewolf, he found himself biting his tongue. He would usually give the facts in their entirety, numbly watching as the recipient of the information blanched in horror, but he found that he did not want to see that look on Jaskier’s face.

He didn’t want Jaskier to see him as a monster.

Geralt cleared his throat— something he did not need to do, but found it made him appear more human. His clients were less perturbed when he adopted little nuances that made him appear less synthezoid. “When I was a child, I was taken to Kaer Morhen Labs. There, they put me through a series of trials that made me into a witcher.”

Geralt flinched as he felt Jaskier’s hand twitch against his skin. “Wait,” the young man whispered in horror, “are you telling me that you were a child when they did this to you?”

“Hmmm,” he replied, already wishing that he hadn’t brought up the topic.

He heard Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath. “I always thought that you had been built from nothing! Or at least if you had been turned into a witcher that you’d been a consenting adult at the time, but you— how old were you?”

Geralt looked up, finding his new companion’s face filled with despair. He hadn’t wanted that. Why had he even spoken of his past? That was against regulation. It must be the wire the griffin knocked loose.

“I don’t remember. That was over a century ago.”

Geralt watched in distress as Jaskier’s eyes began to water. The witcher’s eyes widened in panic at the sight. He was used to people crying when they saw him, but not for a person crying for him.

“Jaskier—”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize how fucked up it was.” The werewolf blinked quickly, an action that Geralt had seen organic organisms use to get rid of tears. It apparently worked, because Jaskier soon grabbed his tools and went back to work.

There was silence as Jaskier used his travel soldering to reconnect wires. For once the silence became too much for Geralt and he did something uncharacteristic of his programming— he spoke first.

“The labs are gone.”

Geralt felt Jaskier’s hands pause before continuing in their ministrations. “What do you mean?”

“They were destroyed in a raid about two decades ago. They can’t any more of us.”

The witcher was unsure why he was giving this information. When the labs had been destroyed, a pit had opened in his stomach, looking at the pieces of circuitry and limbs that had been strewn across the floor. It was the closest he had ever felt to anguish. At least that was what he imagined that emotion felt like.

Maybe he wanted to reassure the young werewolf that those horrors would never be repeated again. Emotions were hard, especially when he wasn’t supposed to have any.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Jaskier murmur, “it must be lonely.”

Geralt blinked, feeling the circuits in his head begin to run a little faster. Jaskier was doing a better job than he’d anticipated. His odds of a full recovery rose with every moment.

“Witchers don’t get lonely. Cyborgs don’t have emotions.”

“Bullshit. You have plenty of emotions.”

Geralt looked up at the werewolf, ensuring to keep his face a blank slate.

He apparently failed at his task. “See? You’re confused right now. That’s an emotion.”

A growl passed through the witcher’s lips as he glared at the werewolf. “That’s not an emotion. That’s my database trying to compute all the data that I have of our interactions and coming up with no logical answer of what you mean. You’re illogical.”

“Oooo that’s definitely annoyance! Almost anger! Those are definitely emotions.”

Geralt huffed, knowing that the werewolf was possibly on to something. Only possibly.

“Besides,” Jaskier continued, “I don’t think you’re a normal witcher.”

Geralt stiffened under Jaskier’s observation. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, first off you didn’t kill me when you smelled me. I’ve met your kind before, and they usually try to off me the second they catch my scent. We sat in the same tavern for hours before I approached you and you paid me no mind. Just let me finish playing my set.”

“Perhaps my olfactory circuits had blown.”

“Perhaps,” Jaskier replied, fixing the last circuit into place with a flick of his wrist. Suddenly, Geralt’s systems were back up and running at near full capacity. “Or perhaps you just didn’t see me as a threat.”

Geralt stood up, working out the kinks in his spine instead of looking the werewolf in the eyes. The young man knew too much and was possibly not as foolish as the cyborg had first thought. He was completely illogical and Geralt wanted to know more.

“Feeling better?” Jaskier asked, his head tilted as a smirk stretched across his lips.

“My systems are running satisfactorily. There is a high probability that we will make it back to the hotel before the other damage spreads.”

Geralt watched as Jaskier chuckled under his breath. He liked watching the young werewolf laugh. It was...nice.

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you Geralt?”

His programming told him that Jaskier didn’t actually wish for the question to be answered, yet another peculiarity of the musician’s. Strange.

“Come on, let’s go. We can get some nice dinner. I feel like a rare hamburger.”

Geralt followed, letting Jaskier ramble on about his plans for the evening.

He might be illogical, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Let me know if you want to be added or taken off my tag list:

@comfyswitcherblanketfort, @kuripon, @dapandapod, @officerjennie, @jaskierswolf, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @bi-aragorn, @fontegagrilledcheese, @alllthequeenshorses, @stonedstargazer666, @tears-of-a-fool

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #jaskier #witcher fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher fic #the witcher fandom #geraskier fanfic #geraskier #cyborg #modern au #minor injury tw #lindawrites

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