#cahir fic

[lambden]

back with another flash fic challenge— the first one since spring of this year! I wrote some cahir/eskel in a very loose space AU. featuring a healthy dose of weird kinky wireplay and some characterization that I entirely stole from people who write cahir much better than me. enjoy!!

E, 5.7K, angst & smut but no actual smut, sci-fi AU Also on AO3!

The meal replicator emits a simple six-note song when it finishes its task, and Cahir glances over to carefully consider the small machine. People find the sound more pleasing than a routine electronic noise, even if it serves the same purpose and triggers the same chemical reaction in the human brain. Even though his brain is not wired to receive the same satisfaction, Cahir mimics the song. His voice is far from melodic but the noise still calms him— until the replicator beeps again, then he hurries to open its door.

Cahir carries his mug out of the dining hall, humming to himself. His own quarters are right next to Emperor Emhyr’s, a fact that embarrasses and satisfies him in equal measure. He understands that his proximity to the Emperor is only for convenience’s sake, but on lonely nights like this he likes to believe that Emhyr placed him there as a sign of trust. 

He places a hand against the Emperor’s door as he does every night but doesn’t knock, just holding his palm to the solid metal. Soon, upon his leader’s return to the space station , this door will be opened again and Emhyr will call on him for evening strategy sessions. And it will be soon; Cahir is sure of that.

Naturally, his own quarters are more modest than the Emperor’s. He has no paraphernalia from home or furniture with which to entertain guests, because his role on the station is not to host or provide entertainment. But despite the lack of a bed there is a small bedside table, and Cahir sits on the ground beside it now, humming the song of the replicator. 

His fingers curl around the hot mug until his pain receptors are almost activated, then he pulls back in time to avoid burning his skin. While Cahir has no taste for hot cocoa, or most human foods, he understands the appeal. The sweet smell and warmth are comforting, and the funny gelatinous marshmallows bobbing up and down in the hot liquid coax a smile out of Cahir for reasons he can’t entirely place. He only wishes that he had someone here to actually drink the cocoa.

But his role here is certainly not to complain. Cahir raises his chin to stare out the window, taking in the expanse of space outside. In the far distance stars twinkle at him; he wonders if those are the same stars visible from Vicovaro. His home planet, though windy with unruly weather, had always had the most beautiful sunsets. He and his siblings used to stay up to watch it; of course, they never slept anyway, but waiting out the long night was always more tolerable when you weren’t alone.

Vicovaro is a subject of internal conflict for Cahir, and thus he doesn’t like to spend much time thinking about it. He holds a great deal of nostalgic affection for where he was made, but he also recognizes that the planet was politically dominated by the Empire. Had Vicovaro been less pathetic, or boasted any military strength, perhaps they could have put up a fight against the invading forces. But Nilfgaard rightfully took over the planet of small manufacturing facilities and farms, and so Cahir’s greatest journey had begun.

He turns his thoughts away from his old planet and cups his hands around the hot cocoa once more. Despite the lonely stars, the skies are devoid of movement. Cahir watches for the distant white flame that he knows will arrive any day now, signifying the triumphant return of Emhyr’s ship. His Emperor will dock onto the space station, and he’ll find it just as pristine as when he left almost a month ago. No— even more pristine.

The hope soothes him. Cahir stays silent, watching the sky for the approaching ship. He hums the song over and over, until the station’s automated lighting system reaches its morning brightness. Still no light appears on any horizon.

Cahir gets up, stretching his limbs and lifting his arms over his head. Time to prepare for his regularly scheduled rounds. He retrieves the now cold cup of cocoa and heads back out into the hall. Almost as soon as the door shuts behind him, a small shuttle careens towards the station.

-

“If this is the last you ever hear from me, I want you to know I love you,” rumbles Eskel, his thumb jamming down the communicator button as he reaches around the dashboard to prepare for docking. “And also I want you to tell everyone that I died in a much, much cooler way.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Geralt snorts, his voice tinny through the ship’s speakers. “We’ve scanned this hunk of junk over and over for any signs of life and there’s nothing on any radar. No shields, only some outdated cloaking.”

Looking up at the massive space station, it’s easy to see what his brother means by outdated. Some of the outer panels are in dire need of repair and the engines obviously haven’t been maintained in decades. The landing bay doors are swinging open, beckoning him in. Eskel is reminded of a carnivorous plant waiting to trap its prey. He shudders, glaring at the station. “The lights are on.”

“But nobody’s home,” supplies Geralt. Eskel supposes he’s right; they would have picked something up by now. “Come on, it’s basically buried treasure without any guards. Grab as much as you can carry; hell, tow some vintage parts behind your ship. They won’t notice a thing missing. Vesemir said that no activity has been flagged here in a few decades.”

“Right,” Eskel says, still uneasy. “... Keep the lines open?”

“I’m here,” Geralt reassures him, even though he’s nowhere near here. If there really is a threat aboard this old vessel, his family will never make it in time to help him. Eskel lets go of the mic, instead reaching to secure his weapon in its holster. He braces himself for whatever awaits him.

He couldn’t have possibly braced himself enough.

The ominous landing bay welcomes him aboard, although all posted signage is in a language he doesn’t recognize. A quick scan reveals it as Nilfgaardian, and Eskel frowns, forwarding the translation to Geralt. Although they tend to have their fingers in many pies, Nilfgaard doesn’t spend much time on this side of the galaxy. Their efforts have been focused on Cintra and Redania, and on claiming old, long-uncontested territories and dwarf planets. Maybe a hundred years ago he would have been scared to sneak onto a Nilfgaardian vessel, but their empire is practically archaic now.

Following the translated signs for 'cargo hold’, Eskel keeps his wits about him and explores in silence. As far as he can tell, all the lights are automated and kept on a planetary schedule; it must be mid-morning back on Nilfgaard. But the elevators are surprisingly clear of dust and none of the lights have burnt out, so this station must have some mechanical method of maintaining itself.

The cargo hold yields no remarkable hidden treasure, save for an extremely unusual garden. Eskel has yet to remove his helmet or suit but the presence of plants is promising; he pauses to run a quick test of the air. It’s not dissimilar from Morhen air, and the pressure is lighter than he expected for a ship. 

Bemused but curious, Eskel kneels at the edge of the garden, photographing the plants. He can’t identify all of them but the ones he recognizes are harmless, mostly herbs and flowers. The garden is only a few metres wide and the plants are short instead of overgrown. Eskel reaches to one of the herbs, twisting the stem between his gloved fingers. The growth has been carefully clipped back. Maintained, just like the elevators and halls. His blood runs cold.

“Geralt,” Eskel rumbles, pressing down the button on his arm that will signal his brother. “I don’t think I’m alone here.”

-

Two days from now, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis will have been on his crusade for a month. Cahir awaits the anniversary with nearly unbearable excitement, because he remembers his leader’s advisor, a rather unpleasant human named Vilgefortz, bragging about how the away mission would undoubtedly take little time under Emhyr’s command. ‘At most, a month,’ Vilgefortz had boasted to the gathered navigators and soldiers in the control room. No one paid him much mind, all bustling about to prepare for their imminent departure. But Cahir, the sole occupant of the station who would not join Emhyr on his journey, had clung to the words as religious humans cling to the words of their holy preachers. At most, a month.

And now, twenty-eight days after the departure of his emperor’s vessel, Cahir expects his arrival any hour now. He kicks into high gear— literally— and adopts a rigorously productive schedule. He cleans areas of the station that aren’t even on his cleaning docket, scrubbing the high ceilings of the command centre and carefully wiping down Commander Morvran Voorhis’ array of weapons. Cahir hums to himself all the while; he’s sure he sounds about as melodic as a half-dead robot bird built by a child, but he can’t help it. He wasn’t created to sing, but until his master’s return (at most, two days from now!) no one can stop him from humming.

Over the sound of his own voice he nearly doesn’t hear the footfalls from the open door. But his sensors are better than any human hearing, so Cahir whips around, rag in one hand and antique sword in the other. He half expects to see his Emperor silhouetted in the artificial light from the hallway, standing tall and strong and waiting for Cahir to come and kneel before him.

Instead, a stranger stands in the open door. Cahir’s system begins overheating as he struggles to process the sight before him. The stranger is broader than his emperor, and taller, wearing a bulky space suit and helmet unlike any technology Cahir has ever seen. In his hand is a gun that will not do much to immobilize an advanced model like him, but Cahir still shakes, afraid despite himself.

The big stranger stares through his visor. He doesn’t shoot, but he doesn’t lower his weapon, either. Instead, he speaks— it takes Cahir only a moment to translate the language. It takes him longer to try to wrap his mind around the soft, nearly kind timbre of the man’s voice. For the first time, Cahir sees his eyes: dark, and gentle. “Are you the only one on board?”

“Yes,” Cahir answers proudly, before realizing in a panic that he probably should have bluffed and said no. But he has never been expected to act in a forceful capacity, only as a cleaner— Emhyr’s most trusted cleaner, to be sure, and the last line of defense, but he isn’t exactly a security robot. He would have to download a whole new set of processes to even learn how to wield the scimitar in his hands. He clings to the blade’s grip anyway, hoping it will intimidate the stranger. “That is, I thought I was until just now.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man raises his other hand. “Are you… why are you here?”

“I work for the Emperor,” Cahir informs the stranger, who seems inappropriately unimpressed by this declaration. “Emperor Emhyr…? Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morv— ah. The White Flame Dancing On The Graves of His Enemies, I suppose, would be the translation in the common tongue. He’s on an away mission at the moment, so— I— why are you here?”

Beneath his helmet, the man’s face twitches. “There’s been no signs of life in this quadrant for a very long time.” His tone is still too kind. Cahir can’t remember the last human who spoke this kindly to him— he immediately distrusts it. “I’m a… um, mechanic. I was flying by and saw the lights, and I thought maybe you were stranded.”

“I am not— we are not stranded,” Cahir corrects. “We are cloaked. In fact, you should not have been able to board the vessel without our security system evaluating your threat level. How did you board?”

The mechanic blinks. “The doors were open.”

Were he human, Cahir might blush. He had opened the landing bay doors, but only because he thought a passing comet was Emhyr’s ship and he hadn’t wanted to delay the White Flame’s entry for even one moment. He should have known better than to leave them open; he curses, privately making a note to adjust his own impulses. 

“Well… that is because I saw you coming,” bluffs Cahir, taking a leaf out of Vilgefortz’s book and trying to copy his confidence. “And in order to properly prepare for the Emperor’s arrival in two days, I thought that I would enlist your services.” The mechanic’s gaze flicks to the scimitar in his hands and Cahir quickly replaces it on the shelf.

“Two days, huh?”

“Yes.” He wrings out the damp washcloth and places it over his shoulder. “Your arrival is well-timed, as I need someone to examine all the technology on board and ascertain that everything is up to date.”

Still watching him with that curious twist in his mouth, the mechanic asks, “Why not just examine the hardware yourself?”

“... I am not permitted to do that.”

“Alright.” Finally, the man lowers his weapon— only to holster it, and fold his thick arms over his broad chest. The thought occurs to Cahir that by human standards, this man would be considered very beautiful; the strange scars across one side of his face are all that mars his visage, and even those are a sign of worldly experience. What Cahir doesn’t like as much as his appearance is his persistence, and defiance, as he asks, “Well, what’s in it for me?”

“Is loyalty to the Emperor not enough motivation?” The stranger just frowns, and Cahir sighs. “Fine. What would you like? I cannot offer much.”

“I want to look at your hardware,” the mechanic says without an ounce of shame. Cahir’s internal fan picks up speed, and he hopes the man can’t hear it. “See if you’re up to date too.”

Such an offer would be considered unbelievably rude by most, and Cahir should tell the man to get right back in his spaceship and go back where he came from. But awaiting the crew’s return has unlocked a new loneliness in him, and despite this man’s size and weapons and unfamiliarity, he doesn’t seem… bad-natured. So Cahir finally relents, hissing, “No permanent changes.”

“Hey, no, of course not,” says the mechanic, raising his hands. “You can stay online and walk me through the whole thing, alright? I just want to help.”

“I need no help,” Cahir spits at him. “... Would you like a hot cocoa before we begin?”

“What?”

-

Seemingly forgetting the rag slung over his shoulder, the service bot cleans out a ceramic mug with another dishcloth. Eskel watches from across the dining hall, fascinated even as Geralt asks him question after question. “You’re fine? Nobody’s holding you hostage? You’re not in any danger at all?”

“Don’t think so,” Eskel whispers back. The android turns to glance in his direction, and he covers his mouth with his wrist, mumbling into his communication system, “I’ll tell you later, okay? But I’m good. Found something weird.”

“You and Lambert and all your weird discoveries,” gripes his brother. “You know what I do when I find something weird on a looting run? I leave it the hell alone and mind my own business. Have you ever heard of the concept? Minding your own business?”

“Gotta go,” Eskel mutters, and switches his comms off. He’s sure Geralt won’t be happy with him, but whatever’s going on with this bot is way more interesting than he’d expected. The android is still staring, so Eskel raises his voice to clarify, “Sorry. Just my brother checking in.”

“Oh,” the android replies in an odd voice. “You have a brother?”

“Two of them, actually.” Eskel takes a seat on a hard, unwelcoming bench; he guesses Nilfgaardians prioritize function over comfort.

“I also have two brothers,” volunteers the android. Eskel stares; he hadn’t thought that robots ever followed traditional family models, not unless they were brought into a human family to act as a family member. “And three sisters.”

“Are they… Nilfgaardian too?”

“No.” He sniffs— it is such a distinctly human action that Eskel can’t help but smile. “I was made on Vicovaro.”

“Oh, I’ve been there! Beautiful place.” Last time he visited Vicovaro, he got chased off the planet by the local police for looting an old cruiser for parts. But he’ll leave that out of the story, especially since the old tech could have been parts of this android’s siblings. “So you got drafted, then?”

The android meets this question with silence. Fair enough; it’s a little personal, even though he had been the one to offer information about his family, and to ask about Eskel’s.

Unfortunately, Eskel is starting to like this weird little robot. So as the android places the mug down in the vintage food replicator, he presses, “You don’t have to tell me your whole story, but we’re gonna get up close and comfortable pretty soon here. So we can at least exchange names, right?” This doesn’t get a response either, so he offers, “I’m Eskel. I’m from Morhen.”

“I have many names,” the android finally says. “CM-DAC-1268 is what you might— um, see.” Seemingly embarrassed by the reminder that Eskel is going to open him up soon, he twists away, watching the machine pour hot cocoa through the translucent door. “Back home, my maker gave us traditional Vicovarian names in the hopes that we would sell better. So my full name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. But please just call me Cahir.”

“Cahir,” Eskel repeats, committing the full name to memory anyway— as best he can. Cahir doesn’t turn back to face him, not until the hot cocoa is finished pouring. The replicator plays a jaunty six-note song, and Eskel chuckles. “Catchy tune.”

When Cahir finally spins around with the mug of cocoa in his hands, Eskel catches the hint of a smile on his face. Compared to the latest model of android, Cahir is plain— no bells, no whistles. But he’s pretty, and his light blue eyes shine as he carries the drink over to the table. Eskel might be in a little bit of trouble here.

-

The space station is equipped with a standard laboratory for android upkeep, but Eskel seems to find the place wanting. He keeps asking Cahir about items that he hasn’t heard of; probably a translational error, but it gets annoying. Finally Cahir paces over to the table and strips out of his uniform to prepare for the operation; Eskel lets out a gasp, and Cahir spins to look at him. “What?”

“No, no, nothing,” Eskel bleats, very much not looking at Cahir. “I didn’t think, um. Shit! Never mind.”

Cahir glances down at his own naked body, frowning. “Surely you weren’t expecting exposed circuitry. I was made better than that.”

“Yeah, clearly,” says the mechanic, his voice thick. “It’s fine, I just… I didn’t think they made, um… service bots with… all the parts.”

Slightly amused, Cahir tells him, “My creator didn’t know what I would be sold for. I’m equipped for several roles and functions.” Eskel finally glances his way, and his gaze roams over the length of Cahir’s exposed skin. Nervous goosebumps travel along his arms and thighs, and his system begins whirring a little faster. “Is that… is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” Eskel says quickly. “You’re beautiful, that's all.”

The words stun him. Eskel still has yet to remove anything other than his helmet, but judging by his broad neck and kind eyes and the shaggy hair that falls over his brow, Cahir thinks he’s rather beautiful too. But he’s never had any opportunity to return any sentiment like this, because it’s never been directed at him before. Puzzled, he frowns, and then proposes, “You should take your suit off too. I don’t want to be the only one on display here.”

“Ha,” Eskel huffs. He doesn’t immediately move to undress, though, fidgeting with one of the tools Cahir laid out. “You might not like what you see.”

Cahir’s confusion deepens. “Why?”

The man just stares, his own frown tugging down in the scarred corner. He doesn’t offer any further explanation so Cahir returns his stare. After a long, charged moment, Eskel reaches up to unfasten the top of his suit. He slowly pulls down a zipper to reveal his chest, and instead of the undersuit that Cahir had expected, he’s only clad in baggy shorts and a loose tank top. Some scars are visible under his clothing; their webbing stretches around his shoulder and pectoral muscle to his back. 

Cahir pays his scars very little attention, too wholly consumed by how broad his entire body is, even without the spacesuit. His arms and shoulders are tense but even if he wasn’t flexing his muscles he’d still be a good deal larger than Cahir. His stomach presses against the tank top and his shorts hang low on his hips, revealing a patch of hair that creeps down his stomach and leads between his massive thighs. His chest has thick, curly hair too. Cahir was not built to want. Inexplicably, defying science and his own system, he wants.

Voice shaking with obvious nerves, Eskel shatters the silence between them: “It’s a little cold in here.” A flimsy excuse, especially when he won’t meet Cahir’s wandering eyes. He reaches down to grab his suit where it’s gathered around his knees, and Cahir launches forward to stop him, touching the backs of his hands. Eskel stops, startled, and finally looks up at him. His eyes are the exact colour of cocoa.

“I can assist with that,” Cahir says. Eskel’s pupils balloon out until they nearly eclipse his irises, but he does not move away or push Cahir off. Carefully, Cahir scoots around him, heading for the temperature control panel on the wall. Eskel watches him go with a slightly amused expression that Cahir doesn’t know how to begin to understand, so he doesn’t worry about it. He raises the temperature, and somewhere deep in the station the heat kicks on. “I’m not used to hosting humans,” he explains. “Like I said, everyone else has been gone for a month; I suppose the settings are not exactly suitable for mammals.”

Eskel’s eyes are still dark but this gives him pause. He begins to say something before thinking better of it. “Here,” he mutters instead, kicking his suit away and carefully moving Cahir’s uniform to a chair. “Lie down,” he instructs, and Cahir does. 

The mechanic carefully drags his fingertips down Cahir’s sternum, looking for something— he doesn’t find it. Cahir frowns, trying not to shiver, and he reaches for Eskel’s hand. He pulls the mechanic over to the right place; the button to access his command centre is on his right side, around where the human liver would be. Guided by Cahir, Eskel finds it and presses down gently.

His chest cavity pops open— Cahir feels nothing, thankfully. Androids are never given pain receptors in their chests or backs to allow for easier access when they need hardware updates. Eskel still winces, his eyes bulging out of his skull. Cahir snorts softly. “I thought you were a mechanic.”

Distracted, and almost slightly guiltily, Eskel replies, “What?”

“I only meant that you should be used to this by now.” Cahir gulps, glancing at Eskel’s thick wrists. “Right?”

“I mostly work with ship parts, not robots,” he concedes. “But I… um, the models I have worked on have been. Different. Their chest opens up…” He raises his hands so that Cahir can see, and parts them down the middle. “Two doors, not one.”

“Two doors?” Derisively, Cahir snorts. “I don’t know how they do things on Morhen but I have yet to see an android with two chest doors.”

“They’re called rib plates,” Eskel tells him, his voice as gentle as his touch. “They’re quite common, actually.” He reaches down into Cahir’s wiring, picking up a fistful of crossed wires to examine it closely. 

Cahir’s breath hitches, and he abruptly regrets getting fully undressed. His body is immune to most physical reactions, but androids tend to react in other ways when touched— and Cahir’s insides have always been exceptionally sensitive. He considers warning the mechanic, just so that if Eskel glances down between his thighs he won’t be surprised. But before he can say a word Eskel carefully separates a bundle of wires, and Cahir bites back a gasp. 

Abruptly, the man stops. But his fingers are still tied up in Cahir, whose breaths are coming faster and harder now. “Does that… hurt?”

“Not hurt,” Cahir pants. “No! Definitely not hurt. It’s— I’m sensitive.”

“Oh.” Eskel swallows, hard. “Would you like me to stop?”

Violently, Cahir shakes his head. Eskel seems to get the message; he eases up a little, but the gentler touches just drive Cahir crazy. It’s like he’s riding the edge of satisfaction, and Eskel won’t just give him what he needs. He can’t focus on anything— not until Eskel pulls a stopper out of a port and plugs him into a smooth, small tablet. 

The wire is sleek, dark and thin and Cahir can’t feel it at all; he reaches to touch it, mystified. Eskel looks at him sharply, surprised, but Cahir doesn’t pull his hand away. He demands, “This one doesn’t feel like anything at all. Why?”

“It’s newer,” Eskel mumbles. “Usually, they don’t— um, usually androids aren’t sensitive the way you are. So hardware updates are a very routine process. If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have wined and dined you a little more, I mean; uh, that is to say, I, I feel, you know, sort of awkward.”

“Don’t feel awkward.” Cahir frowns, letting go of the wire so that he can hold Eskel’s wrist instead. The veins inside are a comparable size to the wire, except they’re pulsing quickly. His blood must be rushing— Cahir’s system speeds up at the thought. Then he realizes that Eskel can probably see the strain on his system performance on that little tablet, which, of course, only makes his fan run faster. “I like it,” he hastens to say. “It feels good.”

“Yeah. Fuck, I bet it does.” Nilfgaardians have their own curse words, and hearing something as common as fuck goes right to Cahir’s exposed anatomy. He leans his head back against the table, baring his throat; Eskel glances right at his neck, and swallows hard again. 

Once more, Cahir is overwhelmed by a wave of wanting. The desire does not fall in line with his programming, and doesn’t make any scientific, rational sense. But try telling that to his cock. “Touch me,” he begs, his eyelids sweeping shut. “Please, it feels… Please touch me, Eskel.”

“I want to,” Eskel groans, sounding almost pained. “You have no fucking clue how badly I want to. But I… I think something is wrong.”

A sudden sinking feeling erupts in Cahir’s stomach. Fighting off the dread, he opens his eyes to see Eskel frowning at the strange tablet. He props himself up on his elbows, trying not to jump to any fear-based conclusions before he sees the evidence for himself. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to overload you, so I’m going to say this as gently as I can,” Eskel tells him, unnaturally calm. It feels forced, and sets Cahir off more than if he’d just blurted out the bad news. But his chest door is still swinging open and he’s still connected to Eskel’s computer by a wire, so he’s helpless to do anything but watch as the mechanic pulls up a seat beside the table. “You said that you’ve been waiting on your crew for thirty days.”

“Twenty-eight,” Cahir corrects, his erection flagging instantly. “They said it would be a month, at most.”

“They were wrong.” Eskel flips around the tablet; on its screen is a list of tiny, bright statistics. Cahir sees the attribute ‘system date’ and the fact ‘actual date’, but the glowing numbers swim before his eyes and he can’t make any sense of it. Eskel sighs, but he doesn’t look away. The weight in his eyes is heavy, pitying; Cahir doesn’t understand why. “They’ve been gone much, much longer than that.”

Cahir’s mouth twitches downwards into a pout, and he blinks rapidly. “Thirty days,” he suggests.

“No.”

“A… a few months.”

“Cahir—”

“I can read it,” he insists, furiously, even though for some reason he can’t. It’s like his programming won’t let him process the information on screen; as soon as he has that idea, the sinking dread in his stomach solidifies into a stone. With horrid certainty, he knows that that’s exactly what’s going on. Still, he pleads, “They’ll be back soon. They promised!”

Eskel’s kind, brown eyes fill with tears, and Cahir can no longer bear to look at him. But he has no way to block out the sound as the human tells him, sadly but firmly, “That was ninety-three years ago, Cahir.”

Behind his eyelids he sees it all so clearly: the mission succeeding, Nilfgaard establishing a new trading port and taking control of another planet. They command other space stations, bigger ones; soon they have command over sprawling metropolises. Maybe someone challenges the Emperor and his empire— their empire succumbs. Maybe Nilfgaard grows and grows until it becomes an intergalactic power. A universal empire. 

Either way, they move on from the space station that they assigned a service bot— Emperor Emhyr’s most trusted service bot, but a service bot nonetheless— to maintain. They decide that the trip back to reclaim the station wouldn’t be worth the fuel. Not when the station’s only occupant is an antiquated android with no status and no ambition. His greatest drive above all, to serve Emhyr and happily await his return, had kept him occupied. They had ensured that it would; they had fucked with his internal clock. For him, it’s only been twenty-eight days. For everyone else, nearly a century.

Which means Emhyr is dead. A dull thrill races through Cahir’s system at that, which he instantly and violently denies and rejects. But it is— it must be the truth; the emperor is dead, his advisors dead, his commanders dead, his subjects all dead too. Except for one lowly, lonely robot; his only remaining subject. Not dead, but locked in purgatory. Abandoned but not wiped. Forgotten.

“That’s fine,” Cahir hears himself say, quite neutrally and levelly despite how badly his voice is shaking. “That is fine.”

He opens his eyes to see Eskel staring at him like he’s lost his mind, which he sort of has, really. “What?”

“You checked to see if I was up to date,” he says. “And obviously, I am not. That’s fine. I still have a mission; I still must keep the station maintained for when Nilfgaard returns.”

Eskel’s hand meets his, and their palms slide together. Humans are so warm— Cahir had forgotten. With tremendous, unbearable sympathy, Eskel says, “Cahir, they aren’t going to return.”

“They still may.” Cahir sniffs. “I cannot abandon my post just because of a programming error.”

“It wasn’t an error.” Eskel flips the tablet around. Unwillingly, Cahir reads it. The ‘system date’ and ‘actual date’ data are now accurate to each other, but underneath is another date that he has trouble processing. ‘Termination date’: six years and nine months from now. Cahir glances at Eskel for confirmation, and he nods, devastated. “They only insured this place for a century. When that runs out, they won’t care about maintaining it anymore, and you’ll go offline.”

“Well— well— they— well—” Cahir rereads the date over and over. “They might come back then. In six years and nine months.” Even to his own hearing, he sounds desperate.

Eskel squeezes his hand. “But if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll have served my purpose.” In his mind, the White Flame extinguishes itself.

To his credit, the man actually considers Cahir’s wishes before gnawing on his lip, and finally shaking his head. “I… No, I… I can’t. I’m not going to leave you to die here for no good reason! Listen, I’m not— I haven’t worked with vintage parts before, so I don’t know how to fix this. But I have contacts, and they probably could find a way, alright?”

The room suddenly seems smaller than it ever has before. Eskel’s hand in his is warm, like the hot cocoa he makes to hold every night. It takes him a millisecond to compute that he must have made over thirty four thousand mugs of cocoa. What a ridiculous waste of Nilfgaardian resources— he bankrupted his own empire without even knowing it. And all so that he could cradle something warm in his palms and stare out the window for a light that would never, ever come.

“I’ll come with you,” Cahir agrees, surprising them both.

Eskel launches forward to hug him— in doing so, his chest presses against the exposed bundle of wires, sending a thrill through the android’s system. After a moment of trying to get his synapses back in order Cahir hugs back, awkwardly and probably incorrectly. But Eskel doesn’t complain about his technique, just holding him tightly and muttering under his breath, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank fucking god.”

Cahir doesn’t believe in any god, and doesn’t know anyone else alive who does. But Eskel’s zeal inspires a similar fervour in him, and he grips the human tightly in response. “And in six years and nine months,” he breathes into Eskel’s bare shoulder that tastes of sweat and salt, “you’ll bring me back here?”

After a heavy pause, Eskel nods against his throat, and releases him. “If that’s what you want.” 

It is the first time in Cahir’s life that any human has ever acknowledged what he might want. He makes a note to treasure the memory forever.

#cahir fic #eskel fic #eskel #cahir #eskhir #eskhir fic #my writing #flash fic challenge #tagging this is so difficult with my stupid broken keyboard omggg #also i am fully in rarepair hell. rorveth coming to u all soon

[powerofadyingsun]

Another amazing commission from @swampcastle ! Exactly how I envisioned an upcoming scene from my fic “Stardust Blowing in the Wind,” You’re incredible, Cas!

#cahir x ciri #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri #cahir #the witcher #ciri x cahir #witcher fic

[jawanaka]

7, 29, 30 for the writers ask! (Mostly cause I want to make myself feel better about all my ideas that won't see the light of the day 😂)

Hahaha, its all good

7. How many ideas for fics do you have right now?

Counting or not counting WIPs? I think about four that are not down on paper, at least if we count ideas that I'm somewhat serious about.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Have a cut Dandelion cameo from Swallow:

As the princess prepared to face down a queen, Morvran, meanwhile, was facing down a buffoon. He was of course no stranger to buffoons. Nilfgaards nobility, merchant guilds, senate and even military had their fair share: as, had he come to learn, did the northern kingdoms. This particular buffoon was, according to a prodigious intelligence file that Morvran had taken care to peruse beforehand, named Julian Alfred Pankratz and held, or at least had once held, the title of Viscount de Lettenhove. The man was also a graduate of the norths most prestigious university and, apparently, a man of letters and poetry famed in every court of the northern kingdoms. He also styled himself after a pestilent weed and operated Novigrads most (in)famous cabaret. His hat and clothes were of garish purple coloring and his head held the most ridiculous combination of a goatee and puffy bereft that Morvran had ever had the misfortune of setting eyes on. In short, a buffoon. Unfortunately for Morvran, the man known as Dandelion was, on the viceroys personal request mind you, contracted to organize and provide the entertainment for the feast. Which is why the man was currently parked in his office and was already in the process of quaffing a fairly decent wine that Morvran had hoped to save for a better occasion, instead of being thrown into the mud outside the gate were Morvran would have dearly liked to deposit him.

30. Ask anything!

Ya forgot to ask something :P

But because I'm a fair and benevolent writer, and becase its you, have a slice of the Ciri/Cahir WIP I might even finish one day (if you bribe me sufficiently):

He is a strange one, the smallfolk agree, the lord of Darn Dyffra. Younger then most lords, unfailingly polite when you met him riding on the roads between the olive groves and vineyards, attentive to the needs of his people and a fair man all round. Yet he is also distant, if not exactly cold and you may as well catch him daydreaming, sitting in the shade of a plum tree or on one of the walls separating the fields from the rocky lake shores. Curled black locks waving slowly in the wind as his horse happily munching son spring grass, eyes blank as if seeing something else, far beyond the stony and green hills of Vicovaro. Some say he was always like this, those times you saw him after his old father forced his nose out of whatever romantic nonsense he had found in the castle library. Others say it was the war that changed him, the burning and slaughter at Cintra, where he led a the first forlorn hope that breached the gates. Other say no, it was on his way home after the emperor dismissed him. Cahir does not particularly care what they think, or at least so he tells himself. He is too busy, he tells himself, too busy being the man of the household (his mother and sister laughs at him when he claims this) too busy getting to know the intricate runnings of the family holdings. This is fact not true: his father left the estate a well oiled machine, run smoothly by a dedicated team of clerks and lawyers, with his mother being far more capable then him in the running of the affairs. And his siblings does not seem to have caught up to his new and lofty status: mourning their father they may be but surely that is no reason to give their older brother any more respect then he is due? Which, in the way of younger siblings everywhere, is precisely none.

#asks #my writing #witcher fan fic #dandelion #morvran voorhis #cahir #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach

[andordean]

Hereby I'm officially committing to "The Ghost Of You" sequel.

#cahir x ciri #cirilla of cintra #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #fic: the ghost of you

[astaldis]

For the ask by anonymous (Marina): Emhyr fucks Pikachu 

Chapters: 1/1    Words: 1,348 Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Pikachu (mentioned) Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, The Hansa | Geralt's Company Members (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Crack Crossover, don't take this seriously, for Marina, Humour, very mild smut, Pokemon

Summary: On their travels through Riverdell, Jaskier finds a strange egg. It is just about to hatch, but what the hell is it? And what the fuck does it have to do with Emhyr var Emreis?

#witcher monster mayhem 2024 #tiny monsters #this is not a chicken egg #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the hansa #the hanza #Jaskier #emiel regis rohellec terzieff godefroy #geralt of rivia #Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach #pikachu #emhyr var emreis #crack fic #crackship #emhyr x pikachu #geralt's hansa #very mild smut #humour #pikamhyr

[railroad-migraine]

I saw that you are open to Cahir fics, so I have come to deliver (well, request)

I don’t have anything specific per say, but I’d love to see something enemies to lovers with him. Thank you so much!

"It's Different Now"

-> Cahir x GN! Reader

Notes: Lovedddd writing this. Arguing, confession of feelings. Typical enemies to lovers.

~ Poet

The double doors to the keep are opened as you approach, the cool evening air hitting your face the you step out. But you don't falter, don't hesitate, and push on despite the Black Knight hot on your heels.

Cahir, slightly winded from already chasing you through gardens and hallways, briefly nods to the guards stationed in heavy armour before quickening his pace. There's a sneer on his face the moment he spots you duck into the stables, but he swallows his pride and follows you anyway. He won't let you leave so easily.

He is a human shadow, trailing behind you and maneuvering around stable boys and loose riding equipment hanging from hooks. He narrowly avoids being swatted by an opening stall door or being tripped up by a handler. You, far more confident and sure in your end goal, hastily brush away the hot tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

"Cahir, I do not wish to discuss the matter any further-"

"Of course, because it's so like you to run away when matters become inconvenient," he snarks. His scowl disappears as you remove a saddle from a post and strap it onto your waiting mount. The horse - a gift of thanks for your service to the White Flame, and your escape from this conversation - snuffles at your shoulder comfortingly as you fasten and tighten various buckles. Cahir stands a few feet away, his frown deepening when you continue to avoid his eye. "Surely you do not think this is fair to either of us?"

"Things are different between us now. End of story." Your expression is stony as you mount, as neutral as you can keep it while your heart is breaking.

You both have been stationed together for far too long. So many tactics planned, journeys taken, squads trained. All while you stood by his side, simmering in feelings unbeknownst to you were affectionate, interpreting them as a mutual disdain for each other, and mourning for what could have been. Too long you waited, and it's damn time you leave this place and found love elsewhere.

No, no it's not fair to either of you.

But not everything you have endured has been fair.

The reins are tugged out of your grip. You gape down at the Knight, an unspoken question in the air.

"And what if I don't want this story to end?"

You momentarily forget the situation you're in, a pained expression morphing across your features, your steely composure crumbling under his gaze. He wets his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and grips onto the reins tighter, knuckles going white. "Allow me to make a proposal."

You snort, emotion welling up in your throat as you blink back tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. "Marriage is the last resolve I thought you'd suggest-"

"Not that sort of proposal," he bites back in frustration. Oh, how his face is flushed, and it shames him that he feels so warm at the mere idea of eloping. Your eyes bore into his, and he manages to find some strength within him to continue. "Not yet, at least."

Not yet.

A promise. Something that could be possible, maybe not tomorrow, but one day. Hope twists and gnaws within you, despite how much you want to hate it.

"I suggest," Cahir offers, "that this story of ours has a few more chapters in it yet. I think we should turn to a new page, and find what's to be."

Your horse whinnies impatiently, and suddenly paws at the ground in frustration - eager to go, you assume. You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, and coo softly in an attempt to comfort your faithful animal, promising an evening gallivant no matter how this confrontation ends. In the corner of your eye, Cahir steps closer to where you are mounted.

"We've seen the worst of each other, yes? And yet," he gestures vaguely, an exasperated smile on his face. "We still refuse to abandon whatever it is we have." The tension between you is palpable, ready to snap. "I... care for you, if you can believe that. I shouldn't, but I do. And I want to do this right - I want to care for you the way you deserve."

The seconds tick by, achingly slow.

Despite pauldrons weighing down your shoulders and the armour fitted across your torso, reassured by your strength and accomplishments, you cannot help but feel stripped bare under the intensity in his eyes.

You consider batting away his hand when he reaches for your own, or even spur your horse so that you race away from him and this place entirely. But the heat from his hands bleed through the soft leather of your riding gloves and you grip his fingers tightly on instinct. After so long, so much waiting, and quiet yearning for someone who knew you at your worst and you theirs, you do not want to let him go.

A shadow of a smile is exchanged between you, like a secret in the back of the stables. You steadily dismount while he hovers beside you, a newfound softness in his tone when he speaks once more.

"If you'll let me... I want to show you the best of me. It's only fair to the both of us."

#the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher imagines #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #the witcher x reader #witcher #witcher x reader #witcher cahir #witcher fic #witcher imagine #cahir #cahir imagine #cahir x reader #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach x reader #the witcher netflix x reader #the witcher netflix #the witcher netflix imagine

[moonlightpirate]

Masterlist

This is getting long so time for the keep reading cut!!!!

Return to The Madding Crowd

Chapter 1: The Storm

Chapter 2: A Fall Day

Chapter 3: To Love or Not to Love

Chapter 4: Proper Lady

Chapter 5: The Letters

Chapter 6: The Wedding Ball

Law of Destiny

Chapter 1: Stuck in Cintra

Chapter 2: The Journey Home

Chapter 3: Wide Awake

Chapter 4: Love and Dreams

Chapter 5: Damsel in Distress

Joey Batey and Jaskier

Secret Worlds series

The necklace

Together again

Dancing Under The Stars

Inkpot Gods

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Meeting the Lettenhoves

That Unwanted Animal

Part two Meeting the Lettenhoves

Adam Warlock

Goldilocks

Chapter 1: Thunderstruck

Valentines Day One Shots

Someone To Say

Madly

West Side Story

Somethings Coming

#reader x joey batey #my fic post #masterlist #secret worlds #fluffy fic #tw: mentions of sex #genderless reader #reader insert #joey batey #geralt #yennefer #the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier x reader #adam warlock x reader #adam warlock #adam warlock x female reader #adam warlock x guardian!reader #guardians of the galaxy vol. 3 #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #emhyr var emreis #original character #radovid #radskier #jaskier #far from the madding crowd #william boldwood #female reader insert #alternate universe #west side story 2021

[statisticallymorelikely]

Cahir tore his glare away from Ciri and looked down at his wrist, where he wasn’t sure what to think. On his wrist was a cute little flower, drawn in black marker. Each line was pristine, and if he saw the flower anywhere else, he’d compliment it. But it was on him. A flower wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. “What is it?” Gallatin laughed. “It’s a buttercup. Little yellow flowers you can find out in the forest. They’re poisonous.”

Buttercup Tattoo by OneofWebs

#gallahir #cahir #gallatin #the witcher #the witcher netflix #witcheredit #fic rec #rec list #shout out to the one person carrying this ship in ao3 #their angst fics #CHEF KISS #suggest you all read those as well #ive never been into a pair quite this rare #au edit tag

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 6

twn cahir/emhyr

Pledging Cahir's loyalty anew does not end with a kiss to the Emperor's knuckles. content warning for past underage sex and grooming (12y/o cahir) and present dubcon explicit blowjob and canon-typical yuckiness ft. reference to underage incest

When beckoned to, Cahir goes to his knees. 

The marble of the conquered Cintran throne room is a dull chill through his threadbare trousers. He knows he is staining the cool white with dried earth from his humble rags, and he bows his head against the shame of it, allows the tumble of his filthy hair to obscure his sight.

When the White Flame sinks his hand back through the fallen curls, Cahir almost forgets himself and protests.

Not as a plea to stop, to refrain from a painful tug, but as a worry that the oily stain of him will besmirch the Emperor’s brightness. The kiss he pressed against unblemished knuckles had felt enough like an inkblot, like a smear of blood on pale linen.

Which is a horrifically foolish worry. This man has more blood on his hands than any on the Continent. 

But to Cahir, the White Flame is not a man, he is–

The hand in his hair does not tighten harshly but curls against his skull and bids his head to tip back instead. He feels limp as a babe too new to hold up its own neck. 

Above him, the Emperor glows like a figure stepped down from a frescoed ceiling. He is gold and black and alight with fire, and Cahir knows he would crawl on his belly across sun-scorched earth merely to reach out and touch the hem of his cape.

Some moments, he has suspicions that the White Flame can peer impassively into his thoughts.

Not as a sorcerer does but as a god. 

When his hair is released, Cahir fights the sudden slack give of his muscles, and by the time he’s recovered, the Emperor has crossed the room to occupy his stolen throne. He beckons with a curl of his fingers but frowns when Cahir makes to rise. His eyes are coal-black, lit like a smoldering cinder.

Cahir crawls.

When he finds an armored boot with hands shambling before him, he bends low to kiss it. His breath fogs the burnished surface, and he thinks how the weight of a kick from these boots could shatter a jaw.

The boot moves aside, and he thinks again that his mind has been cracked open for this being to peruse each thought as though leafing with disinterest through a book.

But the boot does not strike, only moving aside to widen the span between his spread legs. A clear invitation for Cahir to fit himself between them.

To kneel here feeling the heat of the Emporer’s thighs against his shoulders returns him to boyhood. To a body slender and small enough to fit here without brushing either thigh. Dwarfed to further smallness by the looming presence of his master’s eyes on him. 

It had filled him with elated terror. 

The thought of his Emperor’s attention wholly fixed on him, a grubby orphan boy, for even a moment. 

Twelve winters, he’d been. Voice not yet dropped and trembling even higher with fear. The voice that soothed him and offered instruction had been deep and cool as running water.

The throne room is silent.

Cahir can hear the spoken demands even so, echoing back across the years. His fingers do not tremble as they had then. It is muscle memory. Finding the ties to loosen the decorative codpiece. The linen beneath soft and skin-warmed and the skin beneath the linen hot as a brand fresh from a fire. 

Fingers pet through Cahir’s limp hair, and he bows forward in quiet deference, opening his mouth around the familiar weight of his master’s erection. It confounds him as it always does that the taste is simple sweat and salt and not honey-warm ambrosia. 

He recalls that first taste as a boy, how the fullness of his mouth had felt as though it brimmed thorugh his whole body. White light piercing his limbs and his belly and his mind. 

It is harder now to sink into that bright and simple devotion. He is old now and tired. He can no longer fit so easily into the White Flame’s lap, held there and cherished. He is stained with disloyalty. 

And if he listens closely as his lips work over the crown held just so in his mouth, suckling, he can hear the masculine groans and sighs of a man, only a man, and for a moment, Emhyr var Emreis is not gilded in light and holy. 

He is the stain, not Cahir. He is the blackness that marred a young boy's entire being and burned out any thought but the ones that yearn toward him.

He is no mind reader, no god. He can predict each of Cahir's movements so perfectly only because the clutch of bloodied claws had hollowed a young orphan to a vessel easily filled by him. 

Now filled too full of him, overflowing, or grown worn with age like a thinning wineskin, soon to burst.

Soon to be replaced, he knows, feeling the truth spill down his throat like a fatal poison, with the daughter they seek so fervently. 

#twn #this one's yucky!!! #cahir x emhyr #my fic #ficletvember

[disdaidal]

A Touch of Cinnamon, part 2 | Roommates/Modern AU, Rated E

Finally regaining their composure, they stopped, unable to focus on drawing anymore. Cahir played music on his phone and reached for his secret stash hidden inside his small work desk. With a mischievous eyebrow, he smirked at Gallatin, whose eyes instantly lit up.

They listened to the music on Cahir’s phone while smoking weed. Passing the blunt back and forth between each other, their fingertips touched again, creating the same jolt of energy. There was a desire to hold hands; their bodies were so close yet far apart.

The ceiling above them slowly spun around and around. Gallatin chuckled and blinked his eyes, then shook his head, trying to shake away the dizzy feeling. His bleary eyes finally landed on Cahir, who had his eyes closed and his head tilted back.

read on ao3

#gallahir #gallatin x cahir #cahir x gallatin #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #cahir #gallatin #the witcher #my writing #took me so long to edit this but it's finally out #hope you like it :3

[rqnniez]

Yennefer✨

#witcher #witcher fanart #witcher fic #witcher books #witcher 3 #witcher yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #cahir x yennefer #yennefer x tissaia #geralt x jaskier x yennefer

[powerofadyingsun]

Chp 5! It has arrived.

Read it here.

#cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cahir x ciri #ciri #cahir #fic: stardust blowing in the wind

[horsegirlcahir]

okay well. @nothingbutvainfantasy this is probably not at all what you wanted but i had feelings about cahir and also about horses and also about cahir and horses.

Dheran catches him.

It's a stupid thing, foolish and childish, a shameful reason to be brought before his grandfather. Dheran doesn't tell their father then, and Cahir never knows if he ever tells him; Ceallach goes along with the old ways as expected in public, but inside his own home, his wife's Northern influence holds more sway.

It isn't that Dheran is trying to get him into trouble. Cahir knows that. He's only trying to help. In Nilfgaard, only children and girls name their animals, not soldiers.

("Llwyna," he had said, trying the name out, foreign and strange in his mouth, for Nilfgaardian comes from the Elder Speech but he is seven years old and only just beginning to grasp their differences. The filly had snorted and nudged her head into the hand stroking her velvety nose, nuzzling into his palm. Dheran had been in the stables. Cahir hadn't seen him, hadn't been paying attention.)

Gruffyd aep Dair, huge in his intensity, summons him to his sitting-room, asks him what it means - she-fox, Cahir says very quietly, hands behind his back, she's red, like a she-fox - and praises him on his knowledge of the Elder Speech. The little chestnut is gone by morning, and her stall remains empty until spring.

Cahir pretends not to notice, and when the reins of a mouse-grey yearling are handed to him as the weather begins to grow warm, he never once says her name - Dryw, he thinks, like the ones that nest outside the kitchens - aloud.

-----

He takes the black stallion out of stubbornness and spite at twenty-one, because Ifan and Gwilym laugh when he stakes his claim. He's a beautiful creature, well-built and gleaming like jet, without a fleck of white to be seen, with amber-golden eyes the size of apples.

When they take control of the castle and its stables, the beast is ill-tempered and half-mad. The stablemen in this far-flung, forsaken end of the Empire seem to only have known their trade so far as whips are concerned, and the first time Cahir sets a hand on his neck, the stallion very nearly takes a chunk out of his forearm.

If he had sense, he would leave it be; after enough beatings, even a royal mount will accept its new place as a plow-horse, and someone will be able to make use of it. But Ifan and Gwilym and the others are watching -

And the stallion shies away from his hands when he sets a bridle on its brow, quivers faintly when he brushes it down with a handful of straw. He could, he thinks, find another mount that requires less of him, and leave this one to its fate.

He loses the stallion four years later, on Thanedd, with everything else.

-----

The colt dances with terror when he approaches, paying no mind to his soft words or his open, extended hands. Its reins are wrapped around a low-slung tree limb, tied well - no accident - and tell Cahir precisely what happened, as though the colt itself is speaking: they tied me here and never returned, though they said they would. They left me, they left me, they left me.

He isn't a colt, really, Cahir thinks later, watching the horse bury its face in a feedbag that he had backtracked half a mile to take off of a dead man's half-burned wagon, his horses long fled. There's barely anything at the bottom, but the colt gets every crumb and gnaws on the burlap beside. A yearling, or a little under; he still has the gawky, gangly look of a colt, but he's well on his way to his adult size, which Cahir suspects will be quite respectable.

"Where did you come from," he asks quietly, and the colt glances at him sidelong from its patch of mostly-dry grass. "Were you some child's? You're certainly no warhorse."

Despite that, the colt is old enough and large enough to ride; if he had been in his officer's armor, it would be different - but he isn't, and likely won't be again. He'd taken clothes from an overturned carriage barely a mile from where he had been freed from his coffin, ill-fitting but good enough to fit his purposes; they're largely wool and linen, barely noticeable to a horse, and he has very little else that could be a burden.

He'll find tack in the morning, he thinks, stretching out on his newly-pilfered bedroll, luxuriating in his newfound ability to do so, and with luck the colt won't shy from the smell of his dead brethren. A saddle and a bridle - even just a bridle will do in the short term - and something to eat for the both of them. Then they'll catch up with the Witcher, the two of them, together.

Cahir falls into a restless sleep, and when he dreams, he dreams of ashen hair and golden eyes and fire.

#text #mine #flash fic #cahir #this is all 100% headcanon so i'm sure i've got dates and places wrong

[major-trouble]

Death March of a Marionette

Oh hey I updated this thing today. Feel free to comment/kudos if you like that sort of thing.

#the witcher #my writing #lambert #valdo #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #fan fiction #fan fic writing #nearly there

[andordean]

Intro Post Is Here

I promised myself I would make an intro post with my fic list when I hit a followers milestone, and lo and behold, the time has come to make good on that promise. 

(Breathe in. You got this, Dor. Ok, here we go.)

Welcome, friends. If you followed me sometime in the last year and a half, here’s a funny story for you: I used to write Witcher fics (a lot even, at one point) (and I pray I will write again, though at the moment brain be words what no speaky English). (But I digress.)

What you can find on my blog: shitposting, sarcasm, salt—and Ciri. A lot of Ciri. (Often tagged as: "brat <3". No reason.) Also, many Ciri pairings. We support most Ciri pairings in this house.

What you can find on my AO3: Also a lot of Ciri in different pairings, or sometimes in multiple pairings, as (a) I am a multishipper and (b) Ciri is bi and can do no wrong and (c) has two hands and a hatred for cages and also (d) poly/open relationships are the new love triangles and we need more of them, actually.

Specifically:

"Blood Ties" verse, aka Queen of Cintra verse (aka mammoth), or a 100k words novel in three parts about what happens if neither witchering nor ruling the empire (nor dying, I guess) fully satisfies our girl's ambitions. (Answer: let’s go and shake up the geopolitical landscape of the post-TW3 Continent, reclaim your throne, piss off Dijkstra in the process, make new allies and enemies both, grow and heal, get what you wanted, find indulgence, and also love. Ships aplenty, including some nobody else thought of. Just saying.)

"Broken Pieces" verse, or what happens if Cahir survives, but somewhat fails to move on (he tries), and Ciri fails to be indifferent (she also tries). (Answer: witchering shenanigans, but also some family reunions, Ceallach being a Smart Cookie, Geralt being the Daddest Dad, Ciri being a brat, but also right, but also needing a reality check and to get her head out of her ass. Spoiler alert: happy/bittersweet ending. It’s Witcher-verse, after all.)

"Splinters" verse, or what happens when the author develops a brainrot. (Answer: modern!AU with the main theme being: everyone is thirsty for Cahir/Eamon’s hands. Banter, pinning, thirst, smut, and more banter. Past that comes back to bite everyone in the ass, heartbreak, and a happy ending. Always a happy ending. And Angouleme being the Best Gremlin.)

“The Ghost of You”, or what happens when Ciri gets Ideas, and tries to use Cahir to get what she wants. (Formerly known as the Cancel WIP. Mind the tags with this one; set during LotL, unhealthy coping mechanisms aplenty, trauma and PTSD galore, leading to the first steps of healing. It’s always, always about healing with these two.)

“Sing To Me In The Dark”, or what happens if Cahir finds himself in Kaer Morhen to help defend it from the Hunt. (Answer: the author wants to know too. Although the author mostly knows, but brain no speaky English, see above.)

“Hunter’s Moon”, or what happened in Beauclair during the hansa stay there, from the point of view of a certain succubus. (Answer: a certain vampire attempting to be a smartass, not always succeeding; smut and banter, and more smut. Also, a heartbreak.)

If you like any of the above and tell me about it, chances are I’ll be making you a birthday gift the following year.

In the meantime, enjoy the shitposting, the salt, the sarcasm—and Ciri.

#intro post #my fics #fic: blood ties #fic: broken pieces #fic: the ghost of you #fic: splinters #cahir x ciri #ciri/tankred #ciri/cerys #ciri/regis #cahir/ciri #brat <3 #cirilla of cintra #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #emiel regis rohellec terzieff godefroy

[astaldis]

@febuwhump @badthingshappenbingo

A sure way how to acquire Rope Burns

Illustration for Chapter 3 At the End of their Rope of the Witcher fanfic Long, long way

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Cahir

He stumbles. The sudden jerk from the tautening rope knocks him over and he falls, crying out with agony as he is dragged along behind the horse by his arms, the rope around his wrists burning painfully into his flesh.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday5 #rope burns #the witcher #art #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #dragged by a horse #cahir whump #sketch #digital art #the witcher fanfiction #cahir #illustration #fic illustration #bad things happen bingo