#major-trouble

“What is that?”

Geralt’s bard is staring at him in horror.

Eskel flinches out of habit but quickly forces himself to calm down. There’s no reason that Jaskier would react to his scars like that, not when he’d met him a few days prior and paid no such mind to the disfiguration, jabbering brightly instead about how Geralt’s told him so much about you, Eskel, I just know we’re going to be the very best of friends!

(Eskel had looked to Geralt, bemused. Since when does Geralt tell anyone so much about anything?)

Before Eskel can parse the bard’s horrified expression, Jaskier strides to his side and places three feather-light fingers on his collarbone. “Whatever happened to you, darling? This looks dreadful, it must hurt something awful. I’ve a salve of arnica in my pack, I’ll have to fetch it for you.”

Eskel feels warmth flood his face at the tenderness of the fingers on the deep mottled bruise, the earnest concern on Jaskier’s face. He seems to be awaiting an answer, Eskel realizes suddenly, so he says, “Had a tussle with a couple of wraiths the night before I headed up. Got shoved chest-first into a sarcophagus. Not my greatest night.”

Jaskier tuts sympathetically, pulling the loose shirt collar back and over his shoulder to better assess the bruising. Behind him, Geralt leans against the doorframe, a strange, soft smile on his face, one Eskel’s rarely seen since they were boys.

“Now you stay right here and I’ll be back with the arnica. Geralt, can you help him get this shirt off?” Jaskier flits to the staircase, darting up three steps at a time.

Eskel stares at the floor. He can feel the slight pressure from the fingertips linger.

Geralt laughs, not unkindly, as Eskel pulls the thin shirt over his head. “I’d say you get used to it, but...”

The silence hangs between them until Jaskier returns with his usual gusto, brandishing the rich, golden substance in a squat glass jar. “Here we are,” he says, dipping into the medicine before he brings a gentle hand to Eskel’s bruised chest. He massages him carefully, delicate fingers rubbing the salve into the discolored skin of his neck, collarbone, and shoulder.

Eskel blinks furiously at the unexpected moisture welling in his eyes.

Jaskier glances to meet his eyes, but instead of mockery or worse, pity, he answers with a soft, knowing smile. He plants his left hand on Eskel’s unbruised  shoulder, ostensibly to ground himself as he works on the other, but the overwhelming feeling of warmth that floods through the witcher knows that it’s for his benefit, as well.

He lets the bard continue his ministrations, unnecessary as they may be, and doesn’t question it when the touch lingers, just skimming the area with gentle, affectionate fingers.

ah yes, HERE’s the request you got

A Little Hush

Author: limevodka 

Beta Reader: MajorTrouble 

Artist: Adevinecomedy 

Rating: T

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 22,296

Pairing: Eskel/Geralt/Lambert

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Toussaint (The Witcher), Minor Original Character(s), Case Fic

Summary:

Lambert and Eskel are spending the winter with Geralt in Toussaint - more sun, wine and sleep than they've had in years and yet they find themselves bored. When a minor Baron seeks help with a curse that's killing his servants and destroying his crops, they find themselves tangled in a mystery that is deeper than expected.

Written for the WBB2021

😂 i mean i’m not ashamed of my writing style or anything like that, i know what i like personally and try to emulate it

"Look, Geralt." Jaskier holds his hands up. "Are you looking?"

Geralt doesn't even glance at him, or the intricate cradle he's woven between his fingers. The string is a dusty blush colour, of a silky weave. Jaskier found it in the back of the cart, perhaps destined for market before the driver was carried off by some long-toothed beast. It makes for a good plaything to pass the time before the next town.

"No," Geralt grunts. He has the leather of the reins wrapped around his own bare fingers, which is its own lovely sight, even if it involves none of the skill of what Jaskier's accomplished.

Jaskier holds his hands closer to Geralt's face. The string is so fine that it appears to shimmer in the sunlight. He knows Geralt has excellent peripheral vision; if he's not seeing it, then it's because he wills himself not to. "Don't be obstinate. Just look."

Geralt doesn't. His eyes stay fixed on the thin, thoroughly empty road ahead of them and the ears of the dun and the bay horses pulling the car.

"I'm driving," he says.

"As if you can't put your mind to two tasks at once," Jaskier scoffs. He holds his hands further apart, to increase the tension on the weave, showing off the pattern. He hasn't woven string on his fingers since he was a boy. He's impressed with how well he remembered one of the more difficult patterns he'd concocted. "Pull over and look, if you can't handle the reins and the beauty of my work at once."

Geralt snorts, like a beast himself. His mouth pulls in the way that means he's annoyed. "If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for the next week." His voice is a growl, meant to deter anyone who'd fuck with him, but Jaskier stopped being afraid of that voice years ago.

"Oh, is that so?" If Geralt is growling, then Jaskier is purring. He wishes he could put his chin in one of his palms, but that would stress the string too much.

"Yes."

They go over a pit in the road, jostling in the cart. Jaskier keeps his hands up and still, but his belly swoops with warmth.

He leans in, close to Geralt's stiff, ticking jaw, to whisper, "Then I’d have you pull over and look."

The cart lurches to a stop, horses whinnying, dust swamping. Geralt turns to Jaskier, but he doesn’t look. He drops the reins to seize Jaskier’s wrists, dragging him out of the cart to the side of the road. Somehow, without looking, he keeps the correct tension on the string binding Jaskier’s fingers together, so the weave stays stable until Geralt throws Jaskier’s hands down. He takes Jaskier’s shoulders instead, spinning him, pinning his chest to the side of the cart.

There’s enough space between the cart and Jaskier’s belly for his hands to fit. His wrists ache from holding the position and Geralt’s hold on them. He hears Geralt ripping at the strings holding his own breeches closed, and then feels him fumbling at the buttons on Jaskier’s trousers. His fingers are unkind and rushed. At least he can move them though, and at least he uses them for a good purpose, hauling Jaskier’s trousers to his knees.

He puts them in Jaskier’s mouth next. They taste of dust and leather, and one of the nails is ragged, catching on Jaskier’s tongue. It hurts a little but that only serves to make Jaskier’s mouth water more. He means to suck on Geralt’s fingers, make a production of it, but the fire burning in his belly must be in Geralt too, because Geralt draws them out after only a few searching passes over Jaskier’s dripping tongue.

Trying to widen his stance with his trousers hobbling him, so his hard cock has space between his thighs and he can take what’s coming to him better, Jaskier swallows the saliva Geralt left in his mouth and says, “You haven’t even looked yet.”

“Well,” Geralt growls close to his ear as he pushes two of his spit-tacky fingers into Jaskier’s arse, “then you’ll have to keep it pretty until I do decide to look, won’t you?”