While Eskel is the kindest and most polite Witcher, I think he’s also the loneliest. Unfortunately his scars don’t exactly bring in the admirers like his white haired brother’s does and his mild nature doesn’t really put him out there much.
That’s not to say he’d let it get the best of him though. Early on, before you guys have a true and defined relationship, he’d steal a couple touches. A grazing of his fingers as he reaches for something, an “accidental” knocking of each others knees under tavern tables, or a quick brushing away of dirt from your cheek.
The best though were sharing a saddle during long rides. Where- depending on how much sleep you got- you’d either ride behind him, your arms wrapped around his chest and staying there. Or, if you had been tossing and turning the whole night before he’d have you sit in front of him. This way he can have his arms most of the way around you, keeping you from falling off the side. If he was lucky you’d fall asleep to Scorpion’s rhythmic movements and lean back against his soft chest as you snoozed.
However when you got closer he became a little more confidence in reaching out for you, though he still likes the little surge of confidence and love he feels when he sees you reach out for him first.
But once your place in each other’s lives is more established he’s much more apt to slip his hand into yours as your walking or hold open the blanket in an invitation for you to join him under the covers.
In winter it’s 10 times worse. Eskel handles the cold perfectly fine, he’s learned how in his years growing up at the keep. But he also knows it’s the perfect excuse to pull you in closer to him, to spend those 10 extra minutes in bed just holding you that much closer.
Speaking of- the classic question: Big spoon or little spoon? Eskel is s big spoon man, his whole purpose in life his to protect and with you it’s only amplified, especially if you two are out on the path.
However, Eskel has discovered a great fondness for laying his head on your chest/stomach. Specifically when he can lay between your legs, his chest and head laying peacefully on top of you. Soft hums emanate from the mountain of a Witcher as your hands run through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp idly and picking out twigs and leaves. He loves listening to your heart beat in this position, Loves knowing that you’re here, you’re his, as if you’re a dream he’s still not sure if he’ll wake up from.
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Shout out to @janzoo and my wife for reading all my shit for me.
This all started in a conversation with my wife @mimicryoctopus where we were talking about how sweet and soft Geralt is and how AWFUL most people are to him. It blew up into a 1400+ word headcannon. I’d been playing the game and every random npc was saying the MEANEST things to him unwarranted, like honestly my feelings were hurt FOR him.
I just needed someone to show Geralt a SMIDGEON of kindness.
Like some mother figure just sees him eating a weak broth in the tavern because it’s all he can afford, not even any meat in it, and drags him home, gives him a proper stew. While he’s eating she digs out some of her husband/son’s things to give him.
And he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness, can barely remember what he’s supposed to do with the stew and he's so thrown. But eventually he lets himself be led to a chair by the fire, his bowl refilled twice and a mug of ale sat on a little table next to him. He thanks her, a little awkwardly.
When she comes out of the curtained off area that must be a bedroom and hands him some clothes he’s confused. She takes his empty bowl and puts them in his hands. They’re not new but they don’t have a use around here anymore and they’re still in good condition. He holds the rough fabric and asks how much she wants for them, because she must want something. His entire life, nothing is ever given to him, not even the amount of coin agreed upon for a job. She tells him letting her take care of him is all she needs, they’re a gift.
And he tries to argue but she firmly refuses to take anything from him, not even the few coins he has. She just refills his stew and ale and happily drapes a blanket on him, even though he’s right by the fire and puts out heat like a furnace.
She won’t take anything but Geralt isn’t blind and he sees the state of the little cottage. There’s holes in the roof that need fixing, the door is off kilter from its hinges. So he agrees to accept the gifts so long as he can do a few things in return.
She doesn’t want to accept the offer but she can’t fix these things herself and he’s just as stubborn in returning the kindness as she is. So she lets him climb on the roof to fix the tiles, straighten and repair the hinges and door. She warms water for him to wash with and takes to mending his ragged cloak so it isn’t so frayed.
He washes, changes into the new clothes and she takes his old ones to wash and repair. She’s thankful her husband was on the bigger side, his shirt fits comfortably over Geralt’s large frame.
He agrees to stay for dinner but says he’ll provide the meat and goes out hunting. Comes back a few hours later hauling a deer that he makes quick work of, stretching out and cleaning the skin so she can sell the hide, carving the meat and setting some to dry so it won’t spoil. He intends to leave most of it here for her, only taking enough with him to hold him over in case hunting is scarce between this town and the next. or in case the next town drives him out before he can even get a meal.
They talk over dinner and late into the night. It’s the most he’s talked in years but he finds it easy with this woman who took him in and cared for him. Asks about her family and listens when she tells him how her husband was a farmer that got caught up in the war and died, her son married and half the continent away. He tells her what he can of the road, stories of monsters he’s killed and people he’s met. There aren’t a lot of fond memories, although he has a few that leave him chuckling. Mostly things he and another Witcher, Eskel, got punished for together back at Kaer Morhen when they were young. Most of his fond memories are winters at the fortress, about Vesemir, the closest he’s had to a father, about his brothers. And she listens with a smile on her face.
He avoids stories about the hardships as much as he can, glossing over rocky receptions and times he wasn’t paid. She knows this and doesn’t press. Wants this to be a nice evening for him.
It gets late, she offers him the bed but he quietly declines, happy enough with the blanket and floor. She puts what extra blankets she has on ground anyways, so it’s at least softer for him. It’s the best sleep he’s had in ages, warm, relatively soft and with a full belly.
He’s surprised at how sad he is to leave the next day but he only had enough to stable Roach for the one night. He retrieves her and returns to say goodbye. A first for him. And finds she’s loaded his bags with all she can spare. A jug of ale, plenty of the deer, a few potatoes. She’s rolled up an extra blanket that she insists he take, as well as any other of her husband's clothes she can find.
She pulls him in for a hug and whispers “Take care of yourself”. He wraps his arms cautiously around and says “you too”. Holds her a moment longer before letting her go and walking away. He looks back twice and she waves each time.
He decides he’ll visit, someday.
He does. At least once a year. Brings her game and repairs what’s falling apart. Hides coins he can spare around her house. She feeds him, mends his clothes, talks, listens, laughs with him. He brings her little trinkets, tells her she can sell them but he always sees them on the mantle when he visits. She takes to making him new clothes, always black, but she sometimes embroiders little things on the hems of his shirts that will get tucked in, it’s not for decoration, just for them. Just a show that she cares to take the time.
He’s furious when he finds out her son doesn’t keep in touch. She maybe gets a letter every few years with a brief update. She has three grandchildren she’s never seen and barely knows anything about. She stopped sending regular letters years ago since she never gets replies.
He finds out where he lives, pays him a little visit. He doesn’t threaten, not really. Just says it would be nice if he could write his mother more frequently. It would make them both very happy. Maybe visit. He knows the roads are dangerous, especially with children, but offers to escort them. Escorts her a few times. The happiness in her face when she meets her grandchildren is added to his small collection of good memories.
He starts sending her letters, starts receiving bundles of them in the last village before Kaer Morhen. Spends all winter rereading them and makes his way to her house first thing when the snow allows them to leave in the spring.
It’s the longest he’s stayed in touch with someone who isn’t one of his brothers.
He reluctantly brings Jaskier to meet her. He’d mentioned her a few times and Jaskier’s curious, been pestering him about this woman that makes him smile when he talks about her. He hopes Jaskier won’t be too much, too energetic, she’s getting very old. He brings extra meat to feed them all. He needn’t have worried, she delights in knowing he isn’t alone anymore. She’s heard the songs Jaskier’s been singing for years and she hugs him immediately, thanking him for all his hard work.
Jaskier’s energy is toned down but very welcomed and he’s enchanted with this woman that’s taken care of Geralt for so long. They gossip and gab for hours, lots of it about Geralt who sits there trying to look surly but inside he’s warm and happy that they get along. There’s music and laughing and they stay for a week.
Geralt finds out Jaskier visits even when they aren’t travelling together. Brings her stories and music from around the continent. Sends her letters and has her send her replies to Oxenfurt where he has friends to hold onto his mail. She makes him simple sleeping clothes, she doesn’t have the money to make him any of his usual fine things. Embroiders some handkerchiefs for him.
He treasures everything as if they’re made of the finest silks and brings her sweets and good stockings, a pretty shawl he came across at a market that my dear, you would look simply stunning in! He sings a few songs about the kind old lady who cares about strays and laughs when she smacks him for calling her old and her lovely boys strays.
She knits them both hats, scarves, mitts and even sweaters when she can get enough wool. Worries endlessly over them in the winter and they’re terrified every year that she won’t make it through. So they pool their money and when they visit in late fall Roach is pulling a cart with thick blankets and warm furs. They’ve bought her a splendid wool cloak, heavy and warm and as much dry goods as they could get their hands on. They spend a week making sure the house is in the best condition possible, no drafts or gaps, make sure nothing is amiss and stock enough firewood in the shelter to see her through into late spring when they can come back.
In return she makes them baked apples and squash soup, pours them ale all night. She presents them with their new clothes and they agree to call everything early solstice gifts.
On their last night they roast nuts by the fire and Jaskier surprises them both by mulling wine. Geralt didn’t know how he’d gotten his hands on the sugar and spices but the drink was delicious. They talked and laughed and ate until the wee hours of the morning when she couldn’t keep her eyes open and they shooed her off to bed. Geralt added another fond memory to his now surprisingly large collection.
Geralt never says it out loud but he thinks of her as family.
A/N: This was an anon request from like literal decades ago. I’m so sorry it’s taken this long for me to get around to it. I’ve just been so out of it. However, I think I would like to return to this practice. I love writing fanfics. I’m glad that I have found the motivation and inspiration to write again. Thank you for your kindness.
Pairings: No pairings.
Summary: You had entered this profession out of necessity but it has served you well throughout the years. The wealth you have amassed, the faces you have met along the way, these were the things that made up a good life.
Or, “Geralt, Ciri, Yennefer, and Truss react to reader being a rogue. Rogues devote as much effort to mastering the use of a variety of skills as they do to perfecting their combat abilities, giving them a broad expertise that few other characters can match. Many rogues focus on stealth and deception, while others refine the skills that help them in a dungeon environment, such as climbing, finding and disarming traps, and opening locks.When it comes to combat, rogues prioritize still over brute strength. A rogue would rather make one precise strike, placing it exactly where the attack will hurt the target most, than wear an opponent down with a barrage of attacks. Rogues have an almost supernatural knack for avoiding danger, and a few learn magical tricks to supplement their other abilities. Some rogues are known to be thieves or assassins.”
Word count: 1,516
Warnings: Violence, language, blood and gore,
Geralt
“Why live a life like this?”
You stopped in your tracks, hands frozen around the blade that was trying to pick the lock on the viscount’s door. This passageway was only used by a few servants and the occasional delivery boy. However, there shouldn’t have been anyone at this time of night. You made sure of that. Everyone had gone to bed, a storm making the night come earlier.
Rain pelted down upon you now. Your dark cloak absorbing the water and keeping you relatively dry. No one should have been able to even hear you.
“What choice do I have?” you replied to the voice that came at the opening of the alleyway. Your back was still turned to him. Your hand stilled on the blade and the lock.
“He’s a good man, the viscount. You wouldn’t want to rob a man like him.”
“A good man?” You chuckled, the sound barely carrying in the storm. Thunder sounded in the distance but neither of you flinched. It was cold out.
“Yes.” The figure took a step closer. When lightning lit up the sky for a breath of a moment, you could make out the man who spoke to you. A Witcher.
“No man with this much riches or titles can be truly good.” Your hand moved quickly and soon the lock fell to your feet.
“He tries his best with what he has. Please, I ask this of you. Turn around today. Perhaps you will get to see the goodness he is capable of if you merely gave him the chance. Make a friend of him even.”
You laughed again, the sound a croaking, unpleasant one, even to your own ears. “I’ve never meant a bodyguard that talked down his opponents before. The viscount must be paying you crumbs if you’re not even willing to put in the work to stop me.”
“Jaskier doesn’t like unnecessary bloodshed. If he were here tonight, he'd open the door for you. But while he’s away, he’s asked me to take care of his home. There are people in there he wishes to protect.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“I know you aren’t. Otherwise, you would have tried to end me already. So I will ask this of you again. Walk away tonight.” The Witcher moved closer. This time you could properly make out his swords and armor. This was a fight you would not win.
“Next time, then?”
“Another time, yes.”
Ciri
“You’re a spy, aren’t you?”
If you had been anyone else, your smile would have faltered. Seeing as you’ve been a maid in the palace for weeks now, you’ve gotten quite good at plastering on a face. It was much easier to disarm someone when all they thought of you was the person who hung the laundry out to dry. It was easier when they thought that was all that you were capable of.
“Little old me, your highness? I wouldn’t make for a good spy. I just wash the sheets.” You made sure your smile reached your eyes as you adjusted the basket on your hip. The necklaces you’ve managed to slip away were hidden under dirty rags, but it never hurt to be careful.
The young princess looked up at you with a scrutinizing gaze. “Then why were you in front of my grandmother’s door last night?”
“To get the sheets.” And perhaps the crown.
“At night?”
You nodded.
“Why?”
“That’s when I was told to, your highness.”
“By who?”
“Mildred, your highness.”
“Who’s Mildred?”
“She’s the head laundress, your highness.”
“Why have I never heard of her?” The princess circled you not unlike how a vulture circles a carcass. For such a small thing, she was a terrifying sight.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know of every member of the castle, your highness. There’s many rooms in this fortress and many sheets to launder. We laundry maids don’t tend to have our name remembered.” Or our faces. It's been days since the real laundry maid for this part of the palace disappeared and no one has batted an eye.
“Well what’s your name then?” Her voice turned softer. More unsure of itself. It was an odd thing to hear. The little Lioness of Cintra rendered uncertain.
“Serafin,” you lied without hesitation, adding a bow to seal the deal.
“Serafin,” she tested your alias on her tongue. A smile slowly appeared on her face. Once again, she didn’t seem sure that it should be there. “I won’t forget you.”
“How kind of you, your highness.”
Yennefer
“I could kill you where you stand.”
“What’s stopping you?” You were old now. Not old enough to stop taking, but old enough to consider the possibility.
“I want to understand why you’re here. What is it that you want? How did you even manage to make it to Aretuza without anyone noticing?”
You smiled at the ageless mage. Geralt had told you about her. You’ve never imagined that you’d one day meet her. She was shorter than you had imagined but nonetheless intimidating. She had a power about her that seemed to radiate from her skin, from the very breaths she took. Even the air around her seemed to smell distinctly of fruit and flowers as if the creation and chaos were one in the same with her.
“I wanted to meet you.” Wanted to see if what Geralt had said was true.
She laughed, a sound that was without mirth. “Meet me? What for? I can’t grant you endless powers or ceaseless wealths. I can’t give you back your youth either if that’s what you want. I’m a mage, not a godling.” She smiled and it did not reach her eyes.
“Oh, I have no use for those things these days,” you told her honestly. You met her gaze and hoped to convey all that you truly meant through them. “I just wanted to make amends of sorts.”
“Amends? You have done me no wrong. I’ve never even met you.”
You nodded to her. “I am sorry for that. I wished to have known you better. I think we could have been good friends.” You and her were similar. Geralt had been right. You would have made good friends.
She seemed taken aback by that. “What use would I have for an old rogue as a friend? Do you even remember how to pick a lock anymore?”
You chuckled, unable to help the way your face twisted into a grin. “I got here didn’t I?”
Triss
“Unbelievable.” Triss rolled her eyes. “A rogue.”
“Clever eye,” you praised the mage who had caught you trying to pull a slight of hand. The springs of her purse were wrapped around your index finger. You almost had it too but old age was finally catching up to you. Gone were your days of stealing jewels and coins and shiny things.
“Really? Stealing from a mage?” Triss looked at you like you were a child. Perhaps, compared to her, you were.
But unlike her, your time on this plane was finite. You had lived a long life. Far longer than most of your profession. Your days were filled with adventure and stories. Yet, those stories could not compare to the ones that Geralt told you over fires and flames. The tales of his companions stuck with you through the years and before going off to meet your maker, you wanted to meet all of them. They were such a colorful bunch. Such difficult people to find.
Yet here she was, Triss Merigold.
“You’re just like he said you’d be.” You took her in. Walked around her. Swung the purse back and forth on your finger. She carried herself in a way that was not dissimilar to the other mages you had met. It was though all of them were scared, to whatever degree, of something they thought their powers would protect them from.
“Who?” Triss asked you, a single brow raised with the question.
“The Witcher.”
“Geralt?”
“I’m not close with the others,” you remarked. “Though I would have loved to have been. Alas, perhaps in another life.”
“Are you here to beg for your life?”
You laughed. “All mages think like that, don’t they?”
“I’m nothing like Yennefer.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Her expression was clear as a spring pond with freshly melted snow.
“I never said you were.”
“Oh, give me back my purse and bug off!” She grabbed at the purse at your fingertips and you let her. The pouch fell into her hand with a clink of the coins against each other.
“Is that a spell you could cast on me? I bet that would be useful. No one would suspect a fly on the wall.” You shrugged your old shoulders. “But that would be too powerful a spell, wouldn’t it? I bet even Yennefer couldn’t do it.”
“If it’s a bug you want to be, I may be able to help.”
Geralt was right. His friends were the things of fairy tale and legends. And you were about to become one yourself.
