artistsfuneral

It's a dirty trick, illegal in some countries, but Radovid is an alpha prince so no one is stupid enough to dare argue. For a moment it feels like Jaskier's fate has been set but he's a clever one. And as soon as the bell sounds Jaskier runs straight into the forest and towards the thick bramble bushes. No horse would ever go through the thorns that are scratching him up left and right as he fights the thicket. But he doesn't doubt that Radovid would turn to burning the whole forest down, were he able to sense Jaskier just beyond its borders, so the omega continues on.

God be good. God be good. God be good.

I exist. I exist. I exist.

Stay with me. Stay with me. Please, stay with me.

This is it. This is how I die, how I die, how I die.

Jaskier looking at his witchers and hearing every little, silent prayer. They don't know that they're doing it but he listens anyways.

Give me strength. Gods, give me strength. Give me strength.

Come back to me. Come back, please come back.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you so much.

All they have and all they need stuffed into two cars. On the road for months. Driving from one motel to another, looking for a place to call their own again. Geralt is reaching his limit. He needs a break. In the distance he sees the flickering sign of a 24/7 roadside diner. Geralt signals for Eskel to stop and together.

Quietly they divvy up the money between them. Eskel stays with their sleeping family and Geralt heads into the diner. The pack's scent is strong inside and for a moment he hesitates. But the hunger and need for coffee are stronger than the fear of running into other werewolves.

The diner is mostly empty. Two truckers are sharing a booth in the far back. One has fallen asleep next to his coffee, the other also doesn't look much more awake.

A woman in her mid thirties is sitting at the counter, flipping through magazines with a distant look in her eyes. Someone is singing in the kitchen. Geralt leans against the counter, eyes drifting over the menu on the wall, silently calculating how much money they'll have left after this. Maybe if he only takes a small coffee for himself....

A young man comes out of the kitchen, apron tied around his hips, plate in hand, happily singing along to whatever song is playing on the radio. Geralt's eyes widen as he smells the familiar scent of werewolf alpha.

Setting up an HQ, finding out who he can trust and maybe making some mistakes along the way. He would have needed insiders, people who were willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause. In the beginning he'd definitely had to go on missions himself. Scout out the area, bribe the night watch to let him through, teach the growing number of followers how to make sure they wouldn't be discovered.

it's the perfect mix of 2k light angst, 2k hurt/comfort, 2k smut and about 1k casual aftercare, Lambert gets called 'baby' every three paragraphs because I said so and I wrote it for @hailhailsatan so you know it is going to be soft and fluffy on the inside!

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