#Eskel didn’t know who Jaskier was

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

Eskel: YOU SAID YOU WERE A STARVING ARTIST!!!

Jaskier, sitting on the kitchen counter: yes! Starving for cock. Thank your brother for that.

Geralt: I told you I was a bottom before we started dating.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

“I mean, you’ve got to feel a little sorry for them really haven’t you?” Jaskier said from where he was mopping up the last of the evidence of the half dead rat Roach had thoughtfully decided to gift them (the first time it happened he’d shrieked in surprise before Geralt put it out of its misery with a matter of fact “Welcome to country living, city boy”). Geralt gave a non committal hum from where he was warming milk up for Ciri on the stove. The little girl sat colouring at the large kitchen table - too large for two, but that would change when Geralt’s brothers and any guests they decided to bring descended on them.

“I mean they’re just minding their own business like, Oh I’m a hungry rat. Please don’t kill me.” Here Jaskier put on a slightly squeaky voice and held up his hands in imitation of paws, still holding onto the mop, “And then wham one of the last things they see is Roach’s teeth coming towards them. So many teeth.” He gave the resident farm cat a critical stare and received a dismissive tail flick in response.

Ciri giggled at his antics which caused him to grin back at her in return. It always felt like a special sort of personal victory when he managed to coax a laugh out of the little girl.

Despite being together for six months, he was still being introduced to her as her father’s ‘friend’ (which was true enough, they wouldn’t be dating if they didn’t get along) and Jaskier was happy to go along with it. Geralt had explained without revealing too much that the little one had been let down by too many adults in her life already, himself included, and ‘boyfriend’ was maybe just a little too official sounding for the time being (and if he said his heart hadn’t broken a little for the five year old smiling at him from Geralt’s phone, he’d by lying), especially after the shit that had gone down with his ex. Geralt hadn’t gone into detail but from what Jaskier had gathered, the woman had had a hidden agenda in wanting to get back with Geralt and Ciri had almost gotten seriously hurt as a result. Geralt had blamed himself for jumping back into the relationship too quickly and so, any potential partners now had to pass what Jaskier had dubbed ‘The Ciri test’.  

He liked to think he’d passed the first portion with flying colours, the tiny blonde seeming perfectly comfortable with him in public places. Now they were dipping their toes into Jaskier staying in their home for longer periods, with Jaskier having graduated from the guest bedroom to sharing with Geralt the previous visit (the brunette wanting the ground to swallow him up when she happily informed her Uncle Eskel of ‘Daddy’s sleepover’ when the man had dropped by unexpectedly the following morning. Geralt had just shrugged and told him to be thankful it hadn’t been Lambert; who could and would, happily take the piss forever).

“Alright Ciri, put your things away and then go get your bedtime book. I’ll be in in a minute.” Geralt said, pouring the warm milk into a plastic My Little Pony cup.

“I want Jask.” Ciri declared form where she was trying to force the crayons back into their box by the (relatively small) handful, Causing both adults to stop what they’d been doing and stare at one another. This was new.

“You sure you don’t want daddy?” Jaskier asked, looking to Geralt for some sign as to what he should do.

“You do better funny voices. Daddy’s all sound the same.”

It took everything Jaskier had not to burst out laughing at that as he took in the minute eye twitch from the other man at that statement, “Geralt?”

Geralt nodded, “Mind if I stay and listen? You know how much I love The Gruffalo.”

Jaskier snorted and felt a surge of fondness. The lies we tell for our children.

It ended up being a joint effort, with Geralt guest starring as The Gruffalo “On account of you being so, well...gruff.” and admitting to a slightly too smug looking Jaskier and a mostly asleep Ciri that “Yes, Jaskier does better voices for everyone else. Especially Mouse.”

"Everything ok? You’ve gone all quiet on me.” Jaskier said from where he had his head in Geralt’s lap as they watched some mindless Netflix show. “I didn’t overstep did I?” He was suddenly frantic, his anxieties bubbling back up to the surface now that he didn’t have a performance and an audience to focus on, “I know you probably just said yes so things wouldn’t be awkward. I probably should have told her no and come up with an excuse but how can anybody say no to that face-“

“Jaskier. It’s fine, honestly.” Geralt said, rubbing his hands up and down Jaskier’s arm in a way he knew calmed him, “I’ve built up something of an immunity to Ciri’s puppy eyes. I would’ve said no if I had a problem with it. I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how I might have a question for Ciri.”

The next morning saw Jaskier seeing both of them off with a hug (also accompanied by fishing a stray cheerio out of Ciri’s hair which he had been too tired to question) before heading back to his city apartment and his job as a music tutor.

“Ciri?” Geralt asked, putting her school backpack by the door as he knelt down to help her button up her coat, “You know how Aiden is Uncle Lambert’s boyfriend?"

It had slowly been killing Jaskier not to check his phone as soon as the text notification came through but he was nothing if not professional and he would not check his phone when he was in the middle of a lesson. Thank the Gods he did wait as he was prettu sure he gave his retreating student a minor heart attack with the squeal he let out at Geralt’s message:

‘Ciri has been proudly announcing to her classmates this morning that Jaskier is her daddy’s boyfriend. Much disappointment from the single mums.’

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Eskel noted Geralt’s scent on the crossroads. There wasn’t a lot of overlap in their paths (with so few witchers left, the priority was to cover as much ground as possible, not seek company), but Eskel had chased a creature much farther west than he usually went.

After a long, difficult hunt, Eskel decided he deserved to spend a night in his brother’s company.

Only, as he’s following Geralt’s scent trail, he hears an unfamiliar voice. The voice is in the same direction as Geralt’s scent. But Geralt didn’t take people on hunts, did he?

Eskel finds the source of the voice at what could only be Geralt’s camp. A man in a multi-colored, unbuttoned doublet is cooing and chatting at Roach. Who, amazingly, tolerates the noise. She’s also letting the man braid her mane.

What the fuck?

Scorpion, having recognized Roach, announced their presence with a neigh. The noise startled the colorful man. The man spun on his heel, fumbling to pull out a knife at his waist.

That knife…that was a Kaer Morhen blade!

Upon getting a good look at Eskel, the colorful man relaxed and sheathed his blade.

“You witchers, always sneaking up on poor bards. I swear, one of you shall startle me into a heart attack one day.”

Though he griped, the colorful man looked cheerful as he approached and held out his hand.

“Jaskier the bard, master of the seven liberal arts, at your service. Who might you be, sir Witcher?”

He was baffled by the man’s sunny, fearless attitude, but he took the hand, saying, “Eskel of the wolf school.”

“How delightful! Do you know Geralt?”

“We consider each other brothers.”

“And yet he never mentioned you. That man,” Jaskier tsked, “He never tells me anything!

“If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t tell us much either.”

Jaskier went on to tell Eskel that Geralt was out hunting and would be back soon. The bard invited Eskel to make himself at home and join him by the fire. They simply must become acquainted!

As Jaskier went on, Eskel got a good whiff of his scent. It was familiar to him. It was something that hung on Geralt when he returned from the path. Not to mention, Geralt’s scent was all over this man.

Given all of these signs, Eskel could only come to one conclusion: this was Geralt’s secret lover. The only thing that could make it more obvious would be if they exchanged medallions, which was impossible because this man wasn’t a witcher.

Eskel wasn’t surprised that Geralt kept his lover a secret. He had always been a bit territorial. And getting personal details out of Geralt was like trying to pry an alligator’s mouth open.

How lucky he was to encounter Jaskier! They could fill each other in on the details Geralt was needlessly stingy with.

I'm a huge sucker for witchers-meeting-jaskier fics, especially when they come to the conclusion that Geralt is in love with his bard (because he is!) I love this, I love this, I love this!

[thedemonofcat]

One winter, After getting tired of Geralt moping around Kear Morhen, Lambert and Eskel does the only sensible thing.

Which is to kidnap Geralt’s bard to bring Jaskier to Geralt. So after teaming up with Yennefer, who’s there to teach Ciri magic. Eskel and Lambert portal their way to Oxenfurt

Except since neither one of them had ever met Jaskier before so, they didn’t know what he looks like.

And they kidnap the wrong Bard

[starfirewildheart]

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 3,936

Chapter 1

Ciri was trying to hide her chuckle at Geralt’s low growl but couldn’t keep quiet. The red spot on his forehead was already fading to soft pink due to his witcher healing powers. She’d been frightened at the goat-like creature that had jumped from the bushes at first because it looked like the demons she’d read about in books. Geralt had told it to go away but it shot a metal ball at him from a slingshot, catching the witcher in the forehead with a loud thunk. After a low growled “fuck” Geralt was off of Roach and had the little menace pinned to the ground. The entire scene was more than funny to Ciri and even though Geralt cast her a very frustrated glare she couldn’t help but laugh. 

This lifestyle was a far cry from what she was accustomed to as the princess of Centra and coupled with the loss and trauma she’d suffered she was glad for the levity. It had only been four days since she’d managed to find her protector and while she felt safe with him she was still uncomfortable with what being someone’s ‘child surprise’ meant. What were the implications of being a child surprise? Was she to be the Witcher’s mate when she got older? Was he just to be her guardian? What was expected of her? Was he now her owner? Could he sell her if he wanted to? Did she have any say in what was going to become of her? There had been no time to ask any of these things because it seemed something was always trying to kidnap or kill her. She’d seen Geralt fight several times in just the short time they’d been together and as reluctant as she was to admit it, even to herself, the witcher intimidated her greatly.  

Geralt had led them to a small town to get a room for the night. Ciri had never been more grateful for a hot bath and a bed. At dinner, she was introduced to the bard, Jaskier, who had been performing at the inn. She was surprised Geralt and Jaskier were friends as they were so different. They were like night and day. She wasn’t happy when her protector left her with the bard with a simple rumbled, “Stay.” She protested but he told her he had to take a contract and earn some coin if they were going to continue to eat. She sat at the inn for nearly a full day before he returned. He was covered in blood and muck and what looked to be entrails as he swept into the bar. The silence was deafening as he approached the mayor of the town and dropped a cloth bag containing a severed Endrega head on the table in front of him. The next morning he used some of the coin to get a horse for Ciri and they headed off, that was two days ago. 

Ciri finally worked up the courage to speak. “Where are we going?”

“Dorian.”

The witcher was a man of very few words and sometimes having a conversation was like pulling teeth. “Why?”

“Information.” Geralt wasn’t trying to be difficult but something was off. He felt a hum throughout his body. It was similar to when a monster was near yet not quite the same and he didn’t know what it was. It had him on high alert and he was trying to focus on their surroundings. 

“Can you speak in full sentences?” she huffed softly thinking he wouldn’t hear her.

“Yes, I can,” he arched a brow in her direction. “I may be a mutant but I am an educated one.” Geralt hissed and cringed; his shoulder and back felt as if they had been licked by fire. He could feel blood trickling down his skin and pulled Roach to a stop

“I didn’t mean to…” she blushed. “Geralt?” she asked worriedly.

He was off his horse and removing his shirt with a hiss. “Fuck!” The air felt electric and the pull he felt was even stronger. He wanted to run into the woods and find whatever was doing this. He looked up when Ciri came to him. “Hand me the kit in my pack.”

“What happened?” she gasped as she saw the large slash that went from his right shoulder down to his waist in a slight inward arc.

“I don’t know.” He laid out the kit and found the healing potion he needed. He poured half of it down his back on the wound itself, the sting making him growl then he drank the rest. “What the fuck is happening?” he wondered aloud. 

Ciri took one of the bandages, wet it from one of the water skins and started gently dabbing at the bloodll. Geralt tensed, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t but you can’t get to all of this to clean it on your own. What happens if it gets infected?” She took her hand and turned the witcher back around. She knew it was only because he allowed it but still she wanted to be of use. His muscles were rigid and tense the entire time she was touching him. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” He tried to hide the unease in his voice. He wasn’t used to someone caring for his wounds unless he was at Kaer Morhen. It made him uncomfortable. 

“There, finished,” Ciri said as she got the last of the blood off his skin. The wound was no longer open and bleeding but it still looked very red and angry. 

Geralt pulled his other shirt from his bag and quickly put it on. “We need to keep moving.”

They rode in silence for a bit before Ciri spoke again. “Has anything like that ever happened to you before?”  

“Quiet” he whispered as he pulled Roach to a stop again. The feeling was much stronger now. It was pulling him toward the forest. Whatever it was that was guiding him didn’t seem dangerous but he couldn’t be sure. His first instinct was to ask Vesimer but of course, that would have to wait until he saw him at Kaer Morhen. For now, he had to trust his instincts. 

A loud wolf’s howl ripped through the air and made Ciri jump. “Geralt!” 

“Stay on your horse. You aren’t in any danger,” the witcher assured her. He slid off of Roach and handed her reins to Ciri. “Stay close.” He walked farther down the trail, sword at the ready. The scent of blood and sulfur hit him before he saw the remains of the first body. “Wait here.” 

Ciri was frightened but did as he told her. Somehow the witcher seemed to have a calming effect on her even though she was scared. 

Geralt walked farther away from the road into the woods and he saw a small camp. As he looked around the area he counted the bodies of about twenty Nilfgaard warriors littered on the ground. It looked as though they had been torn apart by animals and fed upon. They were in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. Suddenly he saw movement. Someone was alive. He rushed over to the prone body and knelt down. 

Naurel saw someone approaching but did not have anything left in her to fight with. This was the end for her and she was grateful for it. The pain was finally over she thought to herself as she saw a giant cloaked figure approach. Just as hands reached for her the world faded to black.

Ciri gasped when she saw Geralt running back toward her with a woman in his arms. An unconscious, bloody woman. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. There seemed to be a fight of some sort. Maybe with a beast or animal, I’m not sure. She is the only survivor.” He knelt on the ground lowering her gently so he could examine her. “Get my bag and bring me the bandages and my kit,” he ordered as he moved to unbutton the top of the woman's dress. 

 Ciri knelt down beside him to help and she had to look away from all the gore. “What would do something like that?”

“No beast that I know of,” Geralt growled. “This was done by humans.” He wiped away all the dirt and blood he could in an attempt to help her. “This is beyond my skill,” he sighed. “We need to get her to Lakeside. They will have a healer and with any luck, Triss will be there.” He knew the sorceress frequented Lakeside and stayed there with the healer a lot. She enjoyed the quiet and the herbs that grew by the lake. Geralt lifted the woman onto Roach and climbed up behind her. “We must ride quickly. Keep up,” he ordered as he urged Roach on. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Triss smiled as she heard people start whispering about the approaching witcher. One thing about a small village was that news of visitors spread like wildfire. She was anxious to see Geralt. It had been too long. Her smile faded however when she opened the door and saw the near lifeless woman in his arms. “Get her on the table, quickly.”

Geralt laid the woman down and helped Triss start removing her dress. He noticed among the wounds was one just like the one he got on his back before finding her. “Found her in the woods. She was the only one left alive out of about twenty Nilfgaardian soldiers. No sign of what or who did this though.” They stopped short of bearing her completely. No one noticed Triss's friend the healer slip out the door.

“These wounds are not from a beast or animal Geralt. A human; likely a sorcerer or mage did this to her,” Triss worried. She turned to the young girl that was with them. “Fill the tub with hot water. Use the tea tree oil and add some of the liquid soap to the left.” She saw Geralt arch his brow in question. “There are so many wounds the best way to ensure we cleanse them all is to put her in a tub loaded with antiseptic. Normally I wouldn’t because it will be incredibly painful but she’s unconscious.”

Geralt removed his armor and dropped it on the floor out of the way before tossing his shirt aside as well. As soon as the water was ready they rid her of the last of her clothing and he lifted her into his arms. Carefully carrying her the few steps over and lowering her into the water. The maiden’s eyes snapped open at the searing pain and she started to thrash about and struggle. Geralt grabbed her wrists in both his hands and held her still. “Shh, you’re going to cause yourself further injury. We are here to help you. My name is Geralt and this is Triss. She is a sorceress. She’s going to heal you.” 

The maiden’s mouth opened to scream at her to get away but the only sound that escaped her was a wheezing rasp. She wanted nothing to do with another sorcerer. Why couldn’t she just die? What had she done to anger the gods enough to make them let this happen to her? She could feel the restraints around her wrists and it took a moment to register that they weren’t metal cuffs but huge hands holding her still. For the first time, she forced herself to focus on the looming figure above her. Her emerald green eyes met gold and she slowly calmed down. She didn’t know why but all the fight drained from her as his low, growling voice soothed her and her eyes slipped shut again.

Ciri positioned another bucket of water under the woman’s hair as it draped over the back of the tub. She began scrubbing and picking muck and bone fragments out of her hair while Triss and Geralt cleaned her body. Ciri couldn’t help but stare at the witcher as he gently cleaned and cradled the maiden's arms and legs. She hadn’t seen the gentle side of him and it helped her relax to know he wasn’t always such a brute as he seemed. 

The snarl Geralt let out when he started washing her feet made them all jump. Triss quickly moved to see what he was so upset about. There were bruises and lash marks from a cane where the bottoms of her feet had been beaten raw. “It’s a war crime,” he growled in answer to Triss’s unspoken question. “They do it so the person can’t stand to run away. I haven’t seen anything like this since Falka’s Rebellion.”

Once she was cleaned Geralt moved her back to the table and Triss covered her breasts and pelvis with towels to preserve what she could of her modesty. “I can’t heal all of this,” she sighed. “I can heal the internal injuries, probably the broken bones and the worst of the burns but she is going to have a very long recovery.”

Geralt nodded, “do what you can.” 

“Girl,” Triss called to Ciri, who was now sitting in a chair by the fire. “I need to go out behind the cabin and collect all the wildflowers you can for me. I need the stems to be about this long,” she showed her with her fingers.  “Take those two baskets and that cloth bag by the door. As quick as you can.” Ciri nodded and ran out the door. 

Triss pushed up her sleeves and prepared for a long session of healing. “ Hold her so she doesn’t hurt herself more. Healing bones is extremely painful and the burns won’t be much better.” Several hours and most of the flowers in the village later Triss was passed out in her bed, exhausted and Ciri was asleep in the den.

Geralt sat beside the woman and kept the fire going in the kitchen. He put his shirt back on but was too tired to even bother buttoning it as he leaned back in one chair and put his feet up in another. He finally took the time to really look at her and study her features now that she was stable. Her hair was fire red, her skin as pale as his own, and her eyes almost crystal green. She was tall, with long legs, slender but muscular build. He could tell she was used to hard work be it on a farm or as a servant. She had several scars on her back and legs that looked like she’d been whipped and beaten throughout her life and he wondered where she’d come from. He took her small hand in his large one. “Who are you m’lady and what drew me to you?” he asked.

[tinyficbot]

The Slient Song. (Side A)

The precinct was buzzing, but it wasn’t because of a major break in a case or a high-stakes operation—no, it was something far more trivial yet somehow equally chaotic.

Jaskier. The name of the elusive, masked singer was on everyone’s lips, with the buzz around his upcoming concert stirring a level of excitement the department hadn’t seen in years. Even the seasoned detectives—hardened by years of crime scenes and stakeouts—couldn’t help but get swept up in the frenzy over tickets.

Lambert, who usually channeled his energy into busting criminals or chasing down suspects, was a jittery ball of nerves, bouncing from desk to desk, checking in on anyone who’d listen—or wouldn’t.

“You know what tonight is, right?” Lambert asked for the umpteenth time, stopping by Geralt’s desk and leaning in with a wide grin.

Geralt didn’t bother to look up from his crime scene report. “No idea.”

Lambert gasped dramatically, as if Geralt had just committed a grave sin. “How do you not know? Jaskier’s concert tickets go on sale tonight!”

“Never heard of him,” Geralt muttered, flipping through the coroner’s notes with a feigned air of disinterest.

That earned him a loud scoff. “You’re hopeless, Geralt. Completely hopeless.”

Geralt was about to respond when his phone buzzed with a new case update. Before he could check it, Lambert practically shoved his phone in Geralt’s face.

“Watch this. It’s his latest single—The Ballad of the Bold. It’s about the grit, the grind of police work. He nailed it, man. You can almost smell the coffee, the rain-soaked streets, feel the weight of the badge when you hear it.”

Lambert’s enthusiasm was impossible to escape. Geralt glanced at the video, feigning disinterest. “Looks fine.”

“Fine? Fine? This is art!” Lambert was on a roll now. “You need to expand your musical horizons, Geralt. I’m sending you more videos on the group chat—don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re properly educated before tonight.”

Geralt’s phone buzzed again, this time with notifications from the group chat. Lambert had sent a barrage of Jaskier-related content: performances, snippets of songs.

“Geralt, trust me,” Lambert said, leaning on the edge of Geralt’s desk. “When you hear him live, it’s like... I don’t know. Like hearing angels. But cooler.”

Before Geralt could muster a reply, Yennefer’s sharp voice cut through the noise. “All right, that’s enough fangirling for one day! We have real work to do, remember?”

Lambert straightened, trying to look serious. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered under his breath, though his excitement still buzzed in the air.

---

Minutes later, Lambert was leaning on Geralt’s desk again, refusing to let the subject drop. “Seriously, you’ve got to know who Jaskier is. He’s all over the place. Biggest artist in the country right now. You live under a rock?”

“Can’t say I do,” Geralt responded, scanning a file on witness statements from the previous week’s robbery case.

Lambert groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’ve got to be kidding me! How are you engaged to Julian and still don’t know anything about music? The guy has a whole room just for instruments!—Oh, speaking of,” Lambert said with a sly grin, “how’s it going with Prince Charming these days?”

Geralt’s continued sifting through reports, looking for inconsistencies in witness descriptions while signing casually with one hand: nosey prick.

Lambert’s head whipped around, and he pointed at Geralt, grinning. “I know that one! Julian taught me last week! Wait—aren’t you calling me an ass, though?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, then signed the actual word for ass.

Eskel, who had just walked in with a cup of coffee, raised an eyebrow at the conversation. “Is Lambert giving you trouble again?”

“Of course he is,” Geralt muttered without looking up.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Lambert added with a shrug, “you’re engaged to a guy who probably gets invites to all the fancy events, right? You’ve got to be rubbing elbows with some pretty big names.”

Eskel chuckled, settling into the chair next to Geralt. “I bet Julian drags you to all those high-society parties.”

Geralt's expression deadpan. “Not really. I’m more likely to be dragged to a charity gala than a concert.”

“That’s even worse!” Lambert said, throwing his hands up. “How are you engaged to a prince and still missing out on all the perks?”

Geralt finally lifted his eyes from the crime scene report. “He’s a Viscount, actually.”

“What? That’s not the point!” Lambert waved his hand in frustration. “Seriously, Geralt, my brother, with all your royal connections, you don’t have any special access? C’mon, Julian’s gotta know people. He’s got to.”

Geralt kept his expression neutral. “Maybe.”

That one word was enough to set Lambert off again. “Maybe? Maybe? Geralt, you’re killing me. Here we are, common folk, scraping together our hard-earned cash for concert tickets, and you’re just sitting there with access to the royal hookup!”

Eskel shook his head, amused by his brother’s antics. “Leave him alone, Lambert. He’s probably got enough on his plate dealing with royal family dinners.”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Wait a minute. That sounds a lot like... you do have access, don’t you? You’re just holding out on us.”

Before Geralt could respond, his phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t a work-related update—it was Julian.

Julian: How’s your day going? Roach has stolen my spot on the couch. She refuses to move.

A small smile crept onto Geralt’s face as he quickly replied: I’ll deal with her when I get home. Miss you.

Lambert, always sharp-eyed, caught the change in Geralt’s expression and leaned in with a wicked grin. “Is that your prince charming?”

Geralt shot him a glare, locking his phone. “None of your business.”

“It’s totally my business,” Lambert said, crossing his arms. “You’re living a fairy tale, man. The least you could do is let us commoners in on the royal perks.”

Eskel chuckled again, clearly enjoying watching Geralt get needled. “Don’t push your luck, Lambert. One of these days, Geralt might snap.”

Lambert waved him off. “Please, Geralt’s too chill for that. Besides, he likes it when we bug him. Deep down.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Yennefer’s voice rang out from her office again.

“Would you three get back to work already? The paperwork isn’t going to do itself.”

They all turned toward her office, where she stood with her arms crossed, looking every bit the intimidating boss. But even as she turned back toward her desk, Geralt caught something—the faintest trace of a song. And not just any song. It was unmistakable.

Jaskier’s latest song.

Geralt couldn’t help but smirk. Even Yennefer wasn’t immune to Jaskier’s charms, though he’d never let her know he’d caught her listening it.

---

As the clock neared quitting time, Lambert was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“I’m telling you, we need to be ready,” he said, pacing around the office. “The second those tickets go live, it’s going to be chaos. We’ve got to be quick.”

Geralt watched with amusement as Lambert rallied the other Jaskier fans in the office, coordinating their efforts like they were preparing for a tactical mission.

Eskel, standing by Geralt’s desk, shook his head with a chuckle. “He’s really serious about this.”

“You think?” Geralt replied dryly, watching as Lambert scribbled numbers and times on a notepad like it was a briefing for a stakeout. Lambert was treating this like an undercover op, mapping out when each member of the team would log in, their exact clicks coordinated like a synchronized takedown.

As they packed up for the day, Geralt casually asked, “You two doing anything for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Lambert shot him a look like he’d just suggested jumping into a volcano. “Are you insane? We’ve got a concert to get tickets for! Everyone’s gathering in the cafeteria to make sure we all get in.”

Eskel nodded. “It’s all hands on deck. No distractions.”

Geralt shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Julian’s cooking steak tonight.”

Both Lambert and Eskel froze, glancing at each other for a split second before Lambert blurted, “Wait—Julian’s cooking? Like, gourmet stuff again?”

“Yep,” Geralt replied, his tone casual. “Steak. Medium-rare. He’s got the whole thing planned out.”

Lambert groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Geralt. Why’d you have to throw that at me right now? I’m still dreaming about that fancy pasta from last week.”

Eskel chuckled, though even he looked slightly tempted. “We’ve got to stick to the mission.”

Geralt smirked. “Good luck with that.”

Lambert shook his head, muttering under his breath as they made their way to the cafeteria, while Geralt headed for home, already imagining Julian’s reaction when he told him about the day.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Number 9: pressing face against other's neck to hide from the world + the number that's a tender kiss to the crown of someone's head.

Pairing: Eskel x Jaskier.

Thank you and pretty please ❤️

“I’m fine!” Jaskier says as Geralt and Eskel deposit him on the grimy little straw mattress that this inn considers a bed. “Really, I appreciate the three of you rushing gallantly to my rescue, but I had the situation well in hand.”

“Bardling, you just spent a week in a dungeon.” Yennefer looks unimpressed.

“A very nice dungeon,” Jaskier says. “It had a chamberpot! You don’t get amenities like that in most Northern dungeons. I need to get arrested in Nilfgaard more often.”

“No,” Geralt, Yennefer, and Eskel say at the same time.

“Are you hurt?” Eskel looks him over, a frown creasing his brow.

“A few bumps and bruises.” With a wince, Jaskier touches his bruised stomach. One of the soldiers who arrested him had a kick like a mule. “But compared to the last time I found myself arrested, it was a dream. The guards actually liked my singing!”

“Well, Nilfgaard is a notoriously uncultured country,” Yennefer says.

“Missed you too, you dreadful witch.”

Geralt gives her a tired look. “Yenn and I are going to go check on Ciri. Can you stop him from getting into trouble for an hour, Esk?”

“I’ll do my best.” Eskel nods gravely.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on leaving this bed anytime soon!” Jaskier calls after them. As the door closes behind them, he turns to Eskel. “Have they worked things out, then? They seem far chummier than when we all left Kaer Morhen. I hope so. Please don’t tell her I said this, but I’ve grown quite fond of Yennefer.”

Eskel watches him with worried golden eyes. “You sure you’re okay, songbird?”

Under that familiar gaze, Jaskier can feel his facade start to crack. With effort, he keeps his bright smile on his face. “Really, I’m fine. I knew you’d find me eventually.”

Except, he hadn’t, because he thought that Geralt and Yennefer were hiding in some remote corner of the Continent with Ciri and that Eskel was walking the Path. He hadn’t expected any of them to know that something had happened to him until it was far too late.

“And there was no torture.” Jaskier wiggles his uninjured fingers to demonstrate. “No burning, no beating, no breaking of fingers. Everyone was quite civil, actually.”

They’d been waiting for someone to come to interrogate Jaskier. Whether it was the fire fucker or some other sadistic bastard, Jaskier thankfully never learned. The waiting had almost been worse than pain.

“And the food was actually quite good.” Jaskier is starting to hear the strain in his own voice. “Have you ever had olives, Eskel? I was skeptical at first, but I’ll admit, they grew on—”

Eskel closes the distance between them in two strides and sinks down onto the mattress next to Jaskier, pulling him into his arms.

Half-heartedly, Jaskier tries to push him away. “Love, I probably reek. I just spent a week in a dungeon.”

“You don’t smell any worse than this damn mattress.” Eskel’s voice is a familiar, soothing rumble.

“The sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Jaskier laughs weakly and tucks his face into the curve of his lover’s throat. He smells like leather and horse and the slow, steady beat of his pulse is wonderfully familiar. Burrowing closer, Jaskier tries to block out the memory of the past week—the fear, the uncertainty, and the crushing loneliness.

“I didn’t think I was going to make it out this time,” he murmurs into Eskel’s skin. “I didn’t think anyone would know to look for me. I figured you wouldn’t know I was gone until the winter.”

“Yennefer heard a rumor and she and Geralt came to get me.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Gods, does this mean I owe Yennefer my life again? Bring me back to the dungeon, Eskel, I can’t bear it.”

Eskel brushes a feather-light kiss across Jaskier’s forehead. “No.”

Jaskier tightens his grip on the front of Eskel’s shirt. “Horrible man.”

Eskel kisses him again, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s temple. “I told you when we left Kaer Morhen, if you needed me, I’d find you.”

Jaskier feels a lump rising in his throat and swallows it back. “That’s the second sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He starts laughing at his own joke, the sound odd and ragged.

Eskel kisses the shell of his ear. “You’re okay, songbird. I’ve got you.”

The laughter dies in Jaskier's throat and he closes his eyes, cuddling closer to Eskel, and lets himself think of nothing but strong arms around him and the familiar heartbeat under his cheek. That dark, dank dungeon with no company but the sound of his own singing is far away. Eskel is here and Jaskier is okay.

24 Touches Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Okay I know a lot about your cod fics but please please please tell me more about the Witcher one

From the WIP Ask Game

Ah, The Witcher! The fandom I was in before Call of Duty. If you've never read any of @inexplicifics writings, I highly recommend... all of it! But especially the Accidental Warlord and His Pack. This is a fanfiction of that fanfiction, a love letter to the best version of Eskel (in my opinion).

This scene takes place in the fanon hot springs beneath Kear Morhen. Sidah is a succubus who has come as an envoy to open negotiations between non-human, sentient monsters (Incubi, Vampires, Weres, etc) and the Warlord of the North. She and Eskel... knew... each other once.

CW: Public bathing, public sex (not described), my inability to skip to the smut without chapters of context

“Long day, Right Hand?”

The man gives a low chuckle. “You’ve thrown a bit of a loop into everything. Didn’t think we’d have to deal with non-human leadership outside of the elves and the dwarves.”

“We would hardly be doing ourselves any favors by drawing the attention of a warlord, let alone one leading every school of witchers,” Sidah laughs back. “After this, we will keep ourselves quiet again.”

“Oh, no, the Wolf is definitely interested in keeping ties,” Eskel says. “Our spymaster is actually insisting on it.”

Sidah hums to herself and kicks her legs a bit. “I suppose that’s reasonable. The mages are would like to engage in exchange of materials and skills.”

“Materials?”

“Blood, and other things,” Sidah says easily. “For help with potential healing salves and potions. Maybe even something to help manage a frenzied vampire or shifter.”

Eskel grunts, but says nothing. Sidah leaves him be, tips her own head back against the lip of the pool. For a time, they float there, in the relative silence of the springs. Somewhere, someone splashes quietly in on of the human safe pools. There is a couple in another pool having sex - Sidah feels their coupling caress against her awareness and shoos it away.

Eventually, Eskel says, “It is good to see you again.”

Sidah tips her head down to find the witcher’s amber eyes on her. She lets the thrill of it flow down her spine. Eskel’s eyes do not hold the same intense scrutiny, the weight of kings and gods, the way the Warlord’s do. But they know her, and look at her, into her eyes, like she has his whole attention.

“I confess,” Sidah answers quietly, “The climb up the mountain was made easier by knowing that you would be at the end.”

Eskel laughs a bit at that, and crosses the pool to sit closer. “Did I leave such an impression?”

Sidah smiles and closes her eyes. “Not many have sated me and been eager to continue.”

“How many?” Eskel taunts.

“Only you,” Sidah says easily, tipping her head to look into his eyes. “Only you, Eskel.”

“I did miss how you say my name,” he whispers as he leans in.

Sidah sighs into his mouth when their lips meet. The memory of the last time they kissed, over fifty years ago, had been something she held close to herself. It pales in comparison to the actual experience. His kiss hasn’t changed much. His lips are soft, bigger than those of many nords. His scars add just the little bit of texture that keeps his mouth from being too soft. He kisses her so maddeningly slow. His tongue flicks over the seam of her lips and she opens to him easily. He hums his satisfaction.

He also pulls away, too soon.

Sidah blinks her eyes open, lets herself drift backwards. Eskel’s eyes are considering, now, hot but guarded. His lust is warmer than the pool around them.

“Last we saw each other, I was on the path, alone.”

“And I was on the verge of death,” Sidah chuckles. “We’ve changed a lot, you and I and the world.”

“Yes.” He hesitates. “I’m not alone now.”

“You have the Warlord, and the consort,” Sidah agrees. “Jaskier wrote Sunlit Lover for you.”

“It was always Geralt,” Eskel says. “Last we spoke, you asked me who has my heart. It was him, it still is. And now there’s Jaskier.”

They’re both quiet for long moments. Sidah traces her eyes over his face and waits.

He breaks the silence again with a soft laugh. “I’m really not sure what to do now. I’ve spoken to both of them. They’re both pleased that I’ve… that we’ve…”

It’s easy to cup his cheek in her hand and sit up in the water to press her forehead to his. “You don’t turn your heart easily, nor your mind. I’m in no rush.”

[fandomtookoverlife]

EDIT: FOUND

Lost fic HELPPP

The Witcher Geralt/Jaskier - Geralt is magically reverted back to his basic instincts (supposed to be monstrous) instead is cuddly and very protective of Jask

If you don’t know this fic but like the sounds of it there are spoilers at the end of the post you shouldn’t read - you should however like and rb so they we may all find and read this fic bc I highly recommend it! (If only I had saved it😭)

Ok SO. it’s starts with Triss being very worried about people going missing and she goes to Geralt for help - they find out the people going missing are Witcher supporters when jaskier talks to a group of musicians (?) in a tavern, explaining to them why Witchers are not evil “he could kill us all” “yes he could but so can I, he doesn’t for the same reason I don’t” which is that it’s wrong but also Geralt wouldn’t want him to - the group explains that a friend of theirs who supports Witchers has gone missing

Being the ultimate supporter of Witchers jaskier goes in as bait to draw out the kidnappers/murders

Jaskier ends up getting their attention but also ends up getting kidnapped and locked in a cell. While in the cell he speaks with a musician+witcher supporter who is the friend of the other musicians Jask talked to during the investigation-

During the villains token monologue he reveals his hatred for Witchers and mutants and plans to show the world how evil that are by reverting Geralt back to his basic instincts- thinking when he lets lose the evil animalistic Witcher on the town geralt will massacre it

Jaskier gets thrown into the same cage as Geralt (now presumably murderous and primal) as the captors believe Geralt will rip him to shreds

Instead Geralt scoops jaskier up and cuddles him in a corner. Geralt, seeing jaskier is hungry, kills him some rats for dinner and jaskier has to politely decline much to geralts disappointment. Geralt, because he is leveled to his basic instincts, bring jaskier his lute to play after dinner as that is their nightly routine, he also tries to sexual advance on jask but when jaskier reacts he backs off continues cuddling

Yennefer and triss arrive to save them and she thinks that Geralt will try non consensual things w jask, bc she knows abt geralts feelings, so she tries to get Geralt to come through a petal with her without jaskier

Instead Geralt at the last second grabs jaskier and runs threw the portal where they end up in kear morhen with vesimir lambert and eskel

Yennefer leaves so her and truss can find a magical remedy and Geralt whisks jaskier up to his room on to his bed filled with furs and does not let him leave.

Eventually lambert comes to bring food to the two of them, since Geralt won’t let either of them leave his room, and Geralt now sees lambert as a rival since jaskier took food from lambert and not him (the rats)

Geralt becomes very protective of jaskier, almost to the point of violence, and eskel and lambert take turns watching over the two in geralts room, eskel sits inside but lambert mostly sits outside bc of geralts aversion to lambert getting near jaskier

Eventually Geralt gets restless and lures eskel into a fight, when they figure out the Geralt j needs some exercise they let him out of the keep, Geralt runs out of the keep, kills something and then come back to show jaskier what he’s killed like a cat showing off a mouse it’s caught.

When Geralt gets his cognitive function back he apologizes for his behaviour thinking he is an unforgivable animal who deserves Jaskiers hatred and disgust, as he spent the week hoarding jaskier in his bed and trying to kiss him.

Jaskier says that Geralt “stopping his sexual advances because he knew jaskier didn’t want it was not the argument Geralt thought it was” regarding geralts perceived unforgivable behaviour while under the influence

cue happy ending

Please someone know this fic I remember it being so good

[antebunny]

Witchers v administration

NOW

It’s a series of coincidences which finally tips Eskel off to the silent administrative war being waged on Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier bursts into his office one long afternoon when Eskel is slumped over his desk, wishing that every other Witcher didn’t run away gleefully whenever he approached them about taking his job or even sharing his duties. To date they have not recruited a human with the necessary skills or trust to take a shot at stewardship for all of Kaer Morhen. Eskel supposes it would be immoral to ask about kidnapping someone else’s steward, but they’ve done worse for less.

“Hello Eskel! Do you know where Letho is?”

Eskel jerks off the desk and makes eye contact with Jaskier, who brings a bright splotch of baby blue to his drab brown and gray office. The bard beams with that typical vaguely affable air of his, expecting a response.

“Egremont,” Eskel recalls, after a moment of hard thinking. “I think. Or maybe Flotsam. With…Aubrey. Maybe.” He drops his head into his hands. “Fuck. I don’t remember. Ask Dragonfly.”

“Already tried, she’s out,” Jaskier chirps. He waves a hand around the stacks of scrolls and documents piled around Eskel’s office. “Don’t you have it written down somewhere?”

The whole idea of having joint patrols was to protect Witchers. No one can simply ambush a lone Witcher anymore. No Witcher can simply disappear for months with no one the wiser. It turns out this good idea is a bit more difficult in practice. Witchers don’t coordinate very well, you see. There’s no written record of who is on a patrol to where with whom. 

“No,” Eskel summarizes.

“Oh. Rats.” Jaskier frowns and lingers in the doorway, puzzling through other potential people to ask for whatever it is he wants to bother Letho about.

Eskel makes a mental note to see about putting together actual patrol schedules, even as he mentally cries tears of blood over the idea of coordinating hundreds of Witchers and getting all of them to follow the damn schedule. He really needs an assistant. Or a new job.

Then the patrol schedule promptly gets forgotten as Eskel gains several new crises all at once.

“Eskel! They found out about the black dye!” Cenna, their head laundress (seamstress? It’s unclear what her official job title is, everything about Kaer Morhen’s organization is unorthodox) sneaks under Jaskier’s arm and plants her hands on Eskel’s desk.

“Who found out about what?” Jaskier calls from behind them.

Cenna sweeps her honey brown hair behind her neck, picks a path to pace around the office, and explains: “The black cloth dye. There was some sort of monster that had, erm, black innards and we could never get the stains out of the clothing. Then we started dyeing cloth with it deliberately, and Vasilisa sells it in Novigrad. Ever since she quit one of your Witchers has been dropping it off with her. She sells it all in about a week. Makes a killing in the market. No one else has black dye that strong. I suppose no one else ever thought of using monster guts.”

Jaskier processes this infodump, and the implications of Cenna’s original statement, only slightly faster than Eskel. “So someone found out that it comes from Kaer Morhen?”

Instinctively, Eskel’s mind comes up with best and worst case scenarios, and whether they threaten the safety of Kaer Morhen. Best case is that someone caught a glimpse of the Witcher leaving Vasilisa with bolts of black cloth, and spreads the news. Worst case scenario is that someone’s traced the line of production all the way back to Kaer Morhen, in which case they don’t know where the leak occurred. 

“Yes! We don’t know how,” Cenna reports, confirming Eskel’s worst fears. “Vasilisa says that all of a sudden there were whispers that the black cloth came from Kaer Morhen, and it was made with the blood of virgins or other some such nonsense. Vasilisa gave everything she earned from it to us, so she is not losing a source of income, and she says that in Novigrad it is easy to stay anonymous. So she is fine. Only I worry, how did someone find out?”

That’s Eskel’s worry as well. It seems too much of a coincidence to believe that out of all the new, exotic products popping up in a huge costal city like Novigrad, the only one subject to Witcher rumors is the only product that’s actually being made in Kaer Morhen. 

“That’s not good,” Jaskier notes, a damper on his usual cheer. “Can’t you sell it somewhere else? Cidaris or Vengerberg?”

“Yes,” Eskel answers slowly, but their original problem remains unsolved. 

Somehow, somewhere, someone discovered that the black cloth sold in Novigrad’s markets is made in the home of the Witchers. Eskel can’t even begin to fathom how that can be used against them. Jaskier is a perfect example of how the humans’ blind fear and desperation to get one of their own inside Kaer Morhen makes them stupid. 

Quietly, Eskel sets aside the matter of the patrol schedules. He’ll have to focus on this black cloth dye issue until–

“Eskel, a problem!” 

For the third time that afternoon, someone barges into Eskel’s office with a problem. It’s Triss, her curly red locks framing a lovely face and a concerned frown. She knocks twice on the doorframe, even though she can clearly see that Jaskier and Cenna have already come in and left the door wide open.

“Not a very troublesome problem,” Triss elaborates as she steps into the office, catching the worried faces of her friends. “But you know how I had to find a suitable soap scent from Kovir?”

Jaskier had complained long and loud about the lack of soaps in Kaer Morhen’s hot springs. What’s the point, he’d said to anyone who would listen, of having these lovely hot springs, if one isn’t even allowed to clean oneself? Finally, Geralt explained that the enhanced senses of Witchers also led them to dislike most soaps, as they all were meant to smell of something to humans, be it rose, bergamot, or jasmine. 

Only, Witchers weren’t supposed to have preferences when it came to something as silly as soaps, or weaknesses, and certainly not sensitivities. So it was a very long time before Jaskier was told, and a fair bit of time afterwards before Triss discovered a way to capture what she calls “blue smells” in a soap. Eskel doesn’t know the details, other than she found something suitable in Lan Exeter and has been bringing it back to Kaer Morhen ever since. 

“They must’ve taken it elsewhere,” Triss continues, miffed. “I thought we brought plenty of customers, but apparently they can find more elsewhere? I’m sure I’ll find something new, but I thought I should warn you that until then, we’ll be bathing without soaps.”

On a regular afternoon, Eskel would accept this unquestioningly. So some vendor decided to move from Lan Exeter to another location. There’s nothing noteworthy about that, especially considering that the subject matter is soap scents. 

But today, missing soap scents after losing the black cloth dye trade seems a bit too perfectly aligned. Geralt, self-hating pessimist that he is (he’s getting better about it though), would probably still think it’s just the natural bad luck of the Witchers. Eskel, on the other hand, is more inclined to think–

“ESKEL!” 

The last person to muscle into Eskel’s tiny office is a Witcher, Bojmir of the Crane School. The sheer size of him forces everyone else out of the doorway and properly into the office. Eskel observes their little group with an outsider’s eye and privately finds amusement in their arrangement. 

Cenna, an ordinary, almost middle-aged woman from Aedd Gynvael, with an eye for fine fabrics and a talent for bending them to her will. Triss, a sorceress who despite her trade is the only one trusted to heal Witchers. Jaskier, a Redanian nobleman by birth and bard by passion, who somewhat recently gained the unique and unconventional title of White Wolf’s Consort (also by passion). Finally, Bojmir the Serin, looming over the rest at almost seven feet tall, scratches three fingers through his braided beard. He started growing it out after moving to Kaer Morhen, and someone, probably one of the seamstresses, taught him the value of braiding hair. 

Bojmir eyes the rest of the people in the room. It’s an unusually suspicious move, and Eskel makes a mental note to bring it up later. For now, he just gestures for Bojmir to spit it out.

“Elante’s been found out,” Bojmir says.

Elante, the White Ibis, also of the Crane School, is one of the few Witchers to quit the Path entirely after the schools joined together. He always had a penchant for playing around with potions and elixirs and a love of liquor. Moving to Kaer Morhen facilitated his interest like nothing else, but Elante still joined his brothers on the Path. It was duty, and it was the only life he knew.

Then one of the cooks introduced Elante to brewing, and someone in Jaskier’s extended family was looking to get rid of an unwanted vineyard, and before Eskel knew it, Yennefer enchanted a ring for Elante to hide his mutations from humans, and he was out of Kaer Morhen. Elante set up shop in Jamurlak, on the White Wolf’s side of the Buina river, and opened the White Ibis Brewery & Pub, because all Witchers have a terrible sense of humor.

Last Eskel heard, Elante had invented some kind of fermented lemonade which nearly everyone in Kaer Morhen was going crazy for. All of Elante’s first customers were Witchers, before he gained popularity with the people of Jamurlak. They still stop by and visit him from time to time, mostly in disguise. Just because Elante walked away from the Path doesn’t mean he walked away from his brothers.

“How so?” Jaskier prods.

Bojmir shrugs his massive shoulders. “He said there were rumors of a monster near Jamurlak and he went to take care of it in secret, ‘n ever since then people’ve been eyeing him sideways. Then some woman started asking questions and she hasn’t done anything but she smells like she’s hiding something.”

And they all have a good (or bad) idea of how badly people would like to get their hands on a Witcher. 

“Fuck,” Eskel summarizes. 

First the mysterious discoverer of their black cloth dye trade, then their supplier for soap scents disappearing, then this debacle with Elante. Speaking of schedules–though Eskel has totally forgotten about making patrol schedules–they don’t know how long Elante has been on someone’s radar for, only when he decided to tell the next Witcher that stopped by.

So much for a lazy afternoon. 

“Someone’s waging war on us,” Jaskier concludes, concerned in that devil-may-care way of his. “Politely. But still.”

A polite war. Targeting the one glaring weakness of the Witchers: administration. 

THEN

No one has ever managed to spy on the Witchers. Ever since it became known that the White Wolf and his army of mutant monsters had taken up residence in Kaer Morhen, that old stone castle hidden high up in the mountains, in between their conquests, countless kings, sorcerors, spymasters and the like have tried to get a person on the inside. Not one of them has succeeded. Every disguised “washerwoman” seeking refuse, every trained courtesan, every “traitor” hoping to join the Witchers, every single mage-spy has been turned away at the door.

Their survival is perhaps more embarrassing, to the warlords and spymasters to whom these spies tell their stories. The Witchers do not kill these attempted spies any more than they let them in the doors. Somehow, every single one of them is simply turned away at the door, while others are allowed in, never to return. 

Because it is not secret that some people are allowed in. An old stonemason, who harbored Witcher sympathies long before the White Wolf started his bloody campaign, disappears with the pair of Witchers who came through his town. A local laundress, seeking out the trio of Witchers who came trudging through the town’s tavern, leaves with them all too happily. Somehow the impenetrable walls of Kaer Morhen open for these ordinary people, and not for the spies of Redania, Poviss, or Kovir. 

It is Malia’s job to somehow do the impossible and get a spy into Kaer Morhen. 

Which is not to say that she will be venturing up the mountain, or attempting to get a spy of her own into Kaer Morhen. That demonstrably doesn’t work. Instead, Malia will be attempting to get to one of the ordinary people who leave. 

[eggcompany]

Julian, On My Knees Part 2

“Oh fuck- alpha-” It was faint. Muffled. Followed by some thuds from the wall in front of Geralt’s large desk. 

The alpha slipped his headphones off to hear it clearer. He’d been working on some spreadsheets, calm music keeping him focused. It was hard to ignore it though, his computer screen wobbling when the wall was knocked. It was harder to ignore when he could hear the little sounds. 

“Oh fuck- damnit- please alpha. Gods, so big” It was Jaskier, that voice all small. 

Where was he? In the closet? Had to be in the closet with how it seemed only inches away from Geralt, the only place that didn’t get soundproofing, the doors were soundproof but not inside the closet. 

“Oh alpha, fuck, where is- ah!” Jaskier whimpered, letting out a sigh before there was some tussling. Geralt was about to get up and ask if Jaskier was okay but then there was a moan. A high, whiney, and ending in a hiss. 

Geralt could only imagine what was filling the omega to make him make such a noise. It made the alpha’s breath get caught for just a second. Just enough for Geralt to really dial in for the next round of huffy noises and knocks against the wall in a rhythm, easy slow thuds, working up but smooth and even. Geralt’s mind was flooded with images of the omega fucking himself, filling himself, making himself cum mear inches away. It made him dizzy, burning up under his collar, heat radiating under his desk. 

Geralt put his headphones back on. He put them back on, cranked up the volume and sternly decided to ignore the wobbling of his computer. 

The next time it happened he pulled the desk away from the wall. 

Each time he was sat at his desk, working or reading or doing anything else and started to hear those thuds and knocks, he put his headphones back on and cranked them up. He just pretended not to hear, not to know what Jaskier was doing inches away, pretended his palms didn’t itch to touch, that his blood didn’t rush around to unsightly places. He treated Jaskier the same, Jaskier was an adult man who had needs, just like Geralt himself. He was entitled to take care of his needs in the warmth and safety of his own home. 

Their routine kept going, Jaskier got a new job at a flower shop and had a steady schedule, Geralt won an award at work and introduced Jaskier to his brothers. 

‘You guys do not look alike.’ Jaskier had said, peering at the two alphas. They seemed nice enough. The red headed one seemed a bit… jumpy. 

‘We’re not that kind of brothers, Julian, more like brothers in arms.’ Geralt explained and the older one nodded, the jingle Jaskier had become accustomed to ringing in the air. 

‘Oh… You guys all have those silver medals?’ Jaskier asked, having already talked to Mister Rivia about his fancy necklace. 

‘Yeah, we earned those when we were your age.’ The eldest witcher said with a smile and Jaskier laughed loudly, he had no idea how old Mister Rivia was but it sounded awfully funny. 

‘Gods, that makes you sound old, Eskel’. Geralt said, facepalming as he shook his head. 

Jaskier liked the two other alphas, he liked knowing about Geralt’s friends. 

They were happy, they watched TV shows at night, Geralt didn’t mind dragging drunk Jaskier back to bed when he just made it inside the door, Jaskier liked pretending he didn’t notice Geralt taking naps on the couch after he covered the alpha up with a blanket. They liked each other’s company, liked their privacy too. 

Which made Geralt feel even worse when one day, it was a stormy day in the spring, he didn’t put his headphones on when those knocks started against the wall. 

He listened. 

He listened to the thuds and the sweet whines and sounds that were all filtered through guitar calloused hands. He closed his eyes, focusing on the way Jaskier’s breath hitched up, how he called for alpha, how at the very end, Jaskier got silent like he was holding his breath before letting out a sob and cried quietly. 

It was overwhelming, it made the alpha feel like he’d run a mile. And it was like he’d gotten a release too. He hid away in his bathroom, turned on the shower to hide his own grunts as he tugged himself to completion. It was the best release he’d had in… well since Yennefer left. He felt good because omega felt good too, he always loved knowing omega felt good too. Another reason he and Yennefer would never work out as Alpha and Beta, Geralt needed an omega to make purr and whine. 

And he kept listening. It was… therapeutic almost. It made Geralt happy to know he was the alpha of the house again. That he made the omega feel safe. Jaskier didn’t need to know, the omega was happy. Geralt only felt the guilt when he was washing his own cum off his hand, before walking into the living room and seeing a smiling, content omega. And even then, the fresh scent of a baby wipe couldn’t hide the honey scent that Jaskier gave off after a nice orgasm. 

Then one day, the day Jaskier’s heat was going to start, Geralt heard a knock at his bedroom door. It was timid, the first knock was light like he was thinking of turning away but threw himself into the second knock. 

“Mister Rivia? Can-Uh I um- Will you- Can we-” Jaskier sputtered out through the door before Geralt pulled it open. 

Jaskier’s knees buckled a bit at the tall alpha standing in the doorway in just his pajama pants and glasses. 

He liked Geralt in a way that made him feel all stupid in his head, it wasn’t a burning want to fuck, it was more than wanting to make the alpha happy. He guessed it was because Geralt went through those weird changes that came with being a parent. The change of smell and the different hormones that got released. 

Jaskier craved it, stole the smell from the couch cushions, the throw blankets on the recliner chair, the dirty coffee mugs in the sink. Wherever he could get a whiff of that smell, he was drooling for it. And standing in front of him smelling like safety and comfort with his big broad, hairy, beautiful torso on show, Jaskier felt like fainting. Especially with one of those huge arms still thrown to the side on the open door only making the veins, the muscles, the spattering of scars look all the more attractive. 

“Yes Julian? It’s early.” Geralt asked, holding back a yawn as he watched Jaskier space out. It only took Geralt a moment to realize he was in a state of undress, which only made him tick with pride. Jaskier shook his head a bit, shaking himself back in focus and the increasingly more inappropriate thoughts away. 

“Uh um, can I have a hug? From you. To help me.” Jaskier bit out when Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. He swallowed, already nervous but only losing his will. 

“Why?” Geralt asked, wanting to know if this was one of those hugs Jaskier wanted when he was drunk and actually wanted him to be carried to bed, or something else like those quick little hugs Jaskier gave when Geralt brought him lunch at the flower shop or drove him home in the rain. 

Jaskier looked away as his face burned, it was embarrassing. Geralt was house alpha and nice but he was older and mated already and it was so not cool to have such a huge enormous crush on him… but his heat was starting and he was getting all weird, wires crossed and stuff. Geralt would understand. 

“I’m gonna go into heat and I have bad anxiety and hugging you, an-um-an older alpha like you, could help. It’s silly, nevermind, it was rude to-” Jaskier said and turned away to hide back in his room but Geralt was wrapping his strong arms around the boy in a tight embrace. Jaskier froze for a second, gasping. But then felt like melting, he’d always just given Mister Rivia a quick squeeze, but now? He felt each thump of the alpha’s heartbeat, his warm skin, he could feel the alpha’s cheat hair through his own thin nightshirt. It was incredible, he couldn’t help but lean into it, taking in the alpha’s scent, his warmth. 

Geralt could feel the tension melting from the boy's muscles with each breath. It made something rumble within his own chest, knowing Julian felt safe enough to relax into the embrace. He liked the soft little sighs, almost directly in his ear since they were nearly the same height, the powdery smell Jaskier always had clinging to his skin before his heat.

“Thank you, Mister Rivia” Jaskier breathed out and wrapped his own arms around the alpha, lax and loose around his trim waist. He couldn’t help but lean against Geralt’s solid body, he was so warm. 

Geralt couldn’t help but focus in on Jaskier’s hands where they landed on the small of his back, rough and calloused, strong, and freezing cold. But he couldn’t care, couldn’t make himself pull away, just stood there holding the omega in his bedroom doorway. 

“Thank you, Mister Rivia. I feel a lot better. I-I really appreciate it, I’ll definitely make it up to you!” Jaskier said as he pulled away, smiling wide enough the edges of his eyes crinkled a bit. Geralt grunted, unable to push out a word without reaching out for the omega again. Jaskier headed back to his room, the powdery scent turning sweeter with each step until the door was shut behind him. 

And Geralt waited. He sat at his desk reading the same sentence over and over again. He knew he should put his headphones on, should go out, should leave the flat. But he was just sitting and reading at his desk, not his comfy chair or in bed, at his desk. He was finally about to get up, shame welling up inside of him, embarrassed he was snooping on his own flatmate, his friend, one of his best friends at that. 

Till those thuds and sounds of the omega climbing into the closet. Geralt couldn’t help as he closed the book and let his forehead rest against the desk, shame filled him but those little huffs Jaskier was already letting out. He let his eyes fall closed, focusing in on each sound, mere inches away. 

“Oh Mister Rivia… alpha… I need it- I can take it this time. I know I can.” Jaskier said to himself like he was willing  himself up, giving himself courage. 

Jaskier had pulled himself into his nest, pulling his blankets around him, getting comfy as he could on the pallet he’d created. His hands were shaking, still feeling each inch of Mister Rivia’s skin, his hot breath, his scent. Jaskier was already rushing towards his heat, a warm ache rolling through his hips. He had his knotting dildo in his hand, the small soft little thing it was. He had everything he needed to get there, to knot himself to the scent, the feel of a proper alpha. He just had to actually.. Do it. 

“I can do this. I can take your knot. I can do it.” Jaskier whispered and squeezed his eyes shut, picturing up an alpha, oh his alpha, his brain supplied easily. Mister Rivia bare and warm, that stunning little smile he does when he’s teasing Eskel, all trouble and risk, and his hands. 

Jaskier reached down to feel his damp hole, his cock attempting to give a twitch. He just touched the outside, rim still loose from the night before, having snuck one of his regular dildos into the shower. He was loose, wet, mind full of images of his alpha. 

Geralt kept listening, pushing himself closer to the wall, catching each word, each whimper. He let his own hand sit on the top of his thigh, not touching his swelling cock, but close. 

“I can take a knot. Omegas like knots, I can take a knot.” The omega whimpered and then there was a lot of quiet huffing and panting. He could hear Jaskier shifting around, knees knocking the walls, shouldering around. Geralt wanted to touch the wall, be just a little closer, wanted to lay a hand on Jaskier’s back to settle him. 

Then Jaskier gasped, a high whine, not quite one Geralt had heard before. It was singsongy, carrying, like the ones Jaskier usually let out. 

“Oh Mister Rivia please please please please” Geralt stared at the wall. Blinking. He reached out, let his hand lay on the wall. Jaskier sounded… like he was begging. Not sweet begging of ‘oh more! Give me more alpha!’ but begging like when he begged Geralt to hug him after drunkenly puking in the kitchen sink. 

“Mister Rivia please, I can take it. I can do it. God that hurts. Damnit. Okay okay okay I got it. I can do this. I hafta.” Jaskier was blubbering, voice watery and broken. It hurt Geralt, made something in his chest ache, like a broken rib, but then the harder Jaskier cried it turned into a sharper pain. Each sob, each gasping breath, it was like stepping on broken glass. 

He left his bedroom, standing in the living room, staring at the omega’s door. He didn’t know what to do, his hands itched to pet the omega, to calm him, settle him, make him stop crying. But his devilish body… it wanted something else. His cock throbbed in his pajama pants, he knew he was letting off a scent he always kept in, his heart was beating fast in his chest, entire being begging to go give Jaskier something good to heat on. 

He was shaken from his fevered thoughts by a yelp. 

“Fuck! Damnit!” It was louder, Geralt would be able to hear it if he was away from the shared wall. And of course he’d be concerned. So he walked up to the door, stopping a few feet away, wanting nothing more to pull the door open and get in. 

“Julian?” He called out, hearing some movement, the closet door calmering open and something falling to the floor. 

“Sorry Mister Rivia, I stubbed my toe. I’m okay! Don’t worry!” Jaskier said back, having just thrown himself out of his nest. His legs not working from the need and refusal of a knot. He reached for his bed, the towel he’d slept on. 

“Alright. If you need anything, text me. I’m going to the gym.” Geralt lied. He needed to walk down to somewhere private to jerk off and then walk off his knot. He grabbed his sweatshirt from the coat hooks by the front door and barely waited for an answer from the omega. It would be worse to wait and be caught with a clear view of his situation in his pants. 

“Oh okay Mister Rivia! Have fun! I’m gonna nap, I think.” Jaskier lied as he used his towel to wipe his teary face. He was just thankful Mister Rivia hadn't walked in on him struggling to get the smallest little knot into himself. 

He sat there on his floor for a good long while, letting himself cry. He just felt ashamed, ugly, worthless. He couldn’t even get a knot in with the help of an alpha. Couldn’t even stop himself for crying out for a mated alpha, his best friend, his guide, his- 

Jaskier cried harder, his heat making his head so mixed up, he cried harder because Mister Rivia wasn’t ‘his’ anything. 

“Hi Mister Rivia! Um  I had to go to the clinic and they gave me some meds and stuff but I have to keep them cold but right now I need to clear a space in my fridge in my room so I put them in the fridge out here. I'm sorry. It takes up a lot of space, I promise I’ll have it out of the way by tomorrow. I just don’t feel well enough to move and reorganize everything today.” Jaskier said in a flurry as he saw the alpha for the first time in a week, his heat having made him sick after. His face burned up, not only from embarrassment but also from the fever that was working through him. He couldn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, the thought of the alpha seeing the huge jug of enema solution stuffed in the back of the fridge was mortifying. Having the alpha know what Jaskier was going to have to do to himself. 

Geralt had been making himself a mug of coffee, needing the pick me up from the meeting he’d just finished downtown. 

“The bottle that you hid behind your milk and creamer?” Geralt asked, having already noticed the medicated bottle, glancing at the label out of concern. It wasn’t a big deal, omegas got congested and Jaskier had heating issues anyway. Enemas were pretty average, Geralt didn’t think anything of it other than a swift ‘oh poor puppy’. 

“Yessir, and please don’t go in my bathroom. I have stuff on my sink and it’s so embarrassing.” Jaskier said, hands coming up to cover his face, he was sure he’d burst into flames. Geralt patted his shoulder comfortingly, looking into the omega’s eyes. 

“I’m going to go to my friends to play cards and drink tomorrow night. I’ll be gone from about five till late, if I come home before morning at all.” Geralt said, hand heavy on Jaskier's shoulder. Understanding in his voice, knowing it would help Jaskier relax if he was out of the apartment for his little medicine treatment. 

The omega huffed and smiled looking up at Geralt through his lashes. His chest just swelled with something, something that made him relaxed. Something that made him feel warm in a different way, love, his brain supplied unhelpfully. 

“Thank you Mister Rivia. That- you’re such a good housemate. It’s really a stressful time for me and you’ve really been helping me. Thank you. I um, I got a tub of ice cream and you’re fully welcome to it! It’s good stuff, it’s super chocolatey too. I-I know you like that. Too.” Jaskier offered and patted Geralt’s hand where it was still on his shoulder. It was warm and strong and perfect and Jaskier’s head started to supply more ideas.  

“That’s generous Julian. Make sure to eat dinner. Something other than toaster pastries.” Geralt said and moved to go back to his room. An easy feeling rolled over him, the stress from the day of work, the phone calls, the meeting that was for shit, everything just washed away by a few words from the omega. 

“Yessir, goodnight Mister Rivia” Jaskier called out. As Geralt shut the door he looked back at the boy who was starting to rummage around the cabinets. 

“Goodnight Julian.” He said quietly, just glancing at the boy’s neck, the peachy blush of his mate glands. Geralt shut the door and sat at his desk, head in his hands. 

“Fuck”

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Jaskier and Lambert learn they have more in common than first thought.

CW historical abuse, child abuse, beating.

Jaskier silently ground his teeth in agitation as Lambert kicked off again, saying something about the little Lordling not liking hard work when Jaskier collapsed at one of the long tables after spending the couple of hours before dinner helping them repair one of the walls (typically, the three Wolves hadn’t even broken a sweat). People underestimated how thick a skin you needed as a Bard, but even Jaskier could only take so much and Lambert was relentless. Geralt had imparted the usual, trite advice of ‘ignore him and he’ll get bored’. Unfortunately, whilst Jaskier may have succeeded in keeping his mouth shut in the name of civility, his emotions were doing all the talking for him and the scent of Jaskier’s hurt and annoyance only seemed to spur Lambert on. If the sneer on his face was any indication, he could tell the Bard was nearing the end of his tether.

“Give it a rest Lambert.” Eskel growled warningly, “It’s been four days. If Jaskier’s not had enough of your shit by now, the rest of us have.”

“Not my fault. Maybe next time Geralt should bring somebody who didn’t have such a spoilt, cushy upbringing.”

And there went the remnants of Jaskier’s self control. He stood up quickly enough to tip the bench, turning to Lambert with a snarl of his own. The Wolf smirked in return at having finally gotten a reaction.

“Let me show you how cushy I had it.” Jaskier scoffed. Before any of the others could react, he turned his back and lifted his shirt. The tension in the room switched from uncomfortable to stifling as the Witchers took in the sight of the Bard’s bare back. Raised scars from both whip and belt crisscrossed his flesh, some of them showing the outline of a buckle.

“My father wasn’t a very nice person.” Jaskier said dryly, “First time he took his belt to me was because I was laughing too much. I was six.”

Geralt felt a wall of ice slam into his gut as he thought back on all the times he’d told Jaskier to shut up, manhandled him. That time he’d actually punched him....

Jaskier lowered his shirt, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll be in my ivory tower.”

“Jaskier-“

“Don’t. Just...don’t.”

As soon as Jaskier was out of sight, Eskel rounded on the youngest Wolf, “You never learn. You always have to take shit too far.” He snarled.

“How was I to know?” Lambert bit back, “Geralt, you’re the one who’s been travelling with him for years. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

“I... didn’t know.” Geralt said truthfully. All things considered, it was rare he saw the bard shirtless and when he did, Jaskier always made sure to stay facing Geralt. Even here at Kaer Morhen he was always the first one in and the last one out of the hot springs, “He never put his back to me.”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

“Not turning your back is one of the first things they drilled into us here, so no.”

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

Jaskier sat at the top of one of the more stable towers, swinging his feet idly in the open air below him and occasionally swigging from the half bottle of wine he’d retrieved from his room on the way up.

He was half aware of someone sitting next to him, spite and petulance making him continue to stare ahead rather than turn to see who.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his mystery companion spoke up.

“My old man was always careful not to leave any lasting marks. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by our own clumsiness.” Lambert said, taking a swig of his own bottle.

“Hmm, mine was determined to make sure the lessons stuck. Apparently I was a slow learner.”

“He still living?”

Jaskier shook his head, “Died not long before I met Geralt. Yours?”

“Died decades ago, probably. I swear, if I knew where he was buried - if he was buried. It’d be more than he deserved - I’d go and piss on his grave.”

“I actually did that. It’s not as gratifying as you’d think.”

That startled a laugh out of Lambert, Jaskier giving a small chuckle back.

“To arsehole Sires.” Lambert said with mock solemnity, holding his bottle out to Jaskier.

“May they enjoy eternity in the deepest pits of Hell.” Jaskier replied with equal gravity, knocking his own against Lambert’s in a toast.

They sat drinking and watching the sun disappear behind the mountain tops, each of them lost in their own memories. When the night time chill started to descend, Lambert silently offered a now slightly tipsy Jaskier a hand up. Jaskier wordlessly accepted.

[inkformyblood]

some monster hunter you are (The Witcher, Eskel x Lambert x Geralt; Geralt x Jaskier)

Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt go to a bar after a hunt and they meet Jaskier. [Modern AU, Modern Witchers, AroAce Eskel, Established Relationship] Eskel checks the soles of his boots, dragging the edge of his nail along something that could’ve been mud or blood or any combination of the two, and swings his legs up onto the table. Lambert, without looking, still barely even breathing since they first slumped into the narrow booth, swipes at the tailing end of his lace, twisting the narrow cord around his fingers. It’s as effective as a leash and Eskel huffs back a snort that still tastes like ichor no matter how many drinks they have worked their way through. He draws his boot back, tipping his foot to avoid the bottle balanced on top of the pile of empty cans and a handful of discarded glasses, and shoves his foot onto Lambert’s lap instead. The other man is solid, barely shifting with a grunt at the impact. 

He begins to untie Eskel’s lace, drawing the cord tight before redoing it. “What?”

The air itself is sticky to say nothing of the floor beneath their booth, a cloying sweet scent that invades every pore and would keep them humming at an uneven keel for the next few days until the rest of the potions bleed out of their systems. Eskel braces himself against the low slouch of the booth seating, decades of barely-wiped down grime clinging to his palms. He’ll scrub them raw in the bathroom later, trying to scour down to his clean bones without too much damage. He doesn’t need much height to peer over the teeming crowd, they’re already built tall and broad and that natural inclination had only been enhanced over the years, and he could see Geralt in the pitch black after his eyes had been plucked out. Eskel isn’t attracted to people, not in that way, not really, but he knows that Geralt is beautiful the same way he knows the sunset is compelling and sometimes all he needs is to sleep for a day and fuck someone until the knot in his belly is gone. It isn’t a relationship, not in the conventional sense, they’re far too close for that simple word to apply. They just are . 

“Someone’s chatting to Geralt.”

Lambert snorts, tugging the knot on Eskel’s laces tight. His movements are mechanical, the same actions a thousand times over executed the same way every single time, and he finishes with a tap to the middle of Eskel’s calf. “And? People do talk to Geralt for some reason.”

It is his silver hair, Eskel thinks. Somehow natural through the same potions that lengthened their teeth and burned their irises gold from the inside out and Geralt walks away with silver hair that draws every desperate soul in a two thousand yard radius to fling themselves at his feet. Sometimes literally. The man at the bar seems much the same as any other drowning idiot who looks at Geralt and sees a human life preserver instead of the rocks the lighthouse warns them away from. He’s different in that he looks like he could take a punch, possibly already has from the broken capillaries just starting to darken over the curve of his cheek that gleam in the low light, and he leans towards Geralt to try and immolate himself on the Witcher’s presence. His hair is dark, brushed back away from his face by some kind of product that smells nice. Like apples. Eskel breathes in deeply, filters out the tang of sweat and fear and far too much alcohol and bad decisions, and finds this man beneath it all. There’s plenty of mistakes lined up along his shoulders, a healing cut on his hand and another on his lip, but he’s interested, sharp and hot and focused on Geralt. 

“This one is different,” Eskel murmurs, digging his heel into the meat of Lambert’s thigh. It’s a silent request, barely needing to be preceded by an action but they’re close, not quite family, not quite lovers, and what would he be if he didn’t take the opportunity to irritate Lambert? Lambert scoffs at him, swiping at the carefully balanced bottle and tips the remnants into his mouth from an arm-span away. The liquid is, somehow, pink. Lambert pushes himself onto one foot, the muscle in his thigh tensing as he does so. His hand falls, bottle still clutched between two fingers, to keep Eskel’s boot wedged in the seam of his thigh.

“That little thing?”

“Not little is he?”

“Solid.” Lambert kisses the back of his teeth, the beginning vibrating along Eskel’s jaw before it lowers into a normal register of sound. Geralt glances over at them. “Fuck, is he blushing?”

Fuck. Shit. Is he? Eskel pushes himself upright once more. Geralt’s gaze meets his, pointed like the pretty slip of a dagger Geralt carries in his boot, a matched set for the one that Eskel carries at his thigh and Lambert has tied around his neck like an oversized pendant. His eyes are still dark with the remnants of the potion, but the main colour is robbed by the expanse of his pupils, blown wide with interest. The colour on his cheeks wouldn’t be noticeable by anyone human, it is too subtle for that, but to Eskel’s eyes, the pink hue bleeds over Geralt’s cheeks, stretching from his hairline to jaw and dripping over his shoulders. He’d bet his pay from this job that the pink extends further, stopping somewhere over the planes of Geralt’s chest.

This night just got fun . 

“Isn’t he off the posters?”

Eskel slants his gaze back at Lambert, tracking Geralt’s reluctant twist back to the man out of the corner of his eye. No. Not reluctant. Protective. His hackles are already up in defence of this man, this stranger, and the barrage of teasing Eskel and Lambert will unleash over him the moment he slinks back to their booth, company pulled along in his undertow or not. Lambert tips his head towards the far wall, his grin tight and starving. Eskel follows his indication, blinking once, twice, to clear the flickering spots from his vision as his eyes focus on the twisting dust motes before he can adjust and make out the posters. It is the same man although somehow more muted in print and ink than he is in person, a certain sparkling essence about him that doesn’t translate to a still image. “The amazing and astounding Jaskier on his debut tour,” Eskel reads, carefully sounding out the blocky print. 

“Amazing and astounding seems like a stretch.”

“You called a milkshake amazing the other day.”

Lambert closes his eyes, the tip of his tongue poking out as he grins in bliss. There is something strangely canine about his expression, a dog lounging in the sun, it’s tongue hanging free from jaws stuffed with too many teeth, and Eskel bites back a laugh. He shoves his boot into the line of Lambert’s hip instead and the other man shifts with a groan, his eyes snapping open and away to the bar.

“That man is touching Geralt.”

No. No, he couldn’t be so ignorant of every instinct flattened into his brain and braided into muscle and bone. Humans were taught to ignore the itch of discomfort at the back of their thoughts, the sinking hollow in their stomach that something wasn’t right whenever they encountered something like the monsters the Witchers had been made to kill, but they listened when those same instincts screamed about the Witchers themselves. They were necessary, but not wanted. Something for humans to flirt with the concept of and retreat at the first opportunity, entranced and repulsed in equal measures. 

Eskel pushes himself up again. Lambert is right. The man, Jaskier if the posters are to be believed, has curled himself into the barely-there space in front of Geralt, one hand playing with the delicate cocktail umbrella from his other drink and the other laid on Geralt’s forearm. Eskel blinks. Jaskier’s hand hasn’t moved. 

“He is.”

“He isn’t pulling away.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Neither is Geralt.”

“No.”

Eskel settles back into the booth, shoving his knuckle into his mouth and setting his teeth against the shattered topography of his knuckle. He breathes out through his nose in a slow hiss that doesn’t settle the snarl building in his chest, a brief burst of steam to keep a pressure gauge from tipping into the red. “Well, think we should go and introduce ourselves?”

“Yeah.” Lambert tips his head back, cracking his neck and Eskel winces, grinding his boot hell against Lambert’s thigh again, just because. “Let’s go say hello.”

[samstree]

(more on sober!jaskier)

Geralt sneaks into their room nearly on tiptoe. The night is dark and quiet enough that any tiny creak of the floorboards makes his heart flutter. Luckily, the fireplace burns dimly, so he doesn’t need to light the oil lamp and make any more noises.

The scent of the strong white gull clings to his clothes, his hair, his breath. He doesn’t want to wake Jaskier like this, with every part of him reeking of alcohol. The only problem—the world just won’t stand still.

Geralt blinks hard against the swaying of the floor. His hand slips on the handle, and the door shuts loudly.

“Geralt?”

Fuck.

He freezes like a child being caught.

The lump on the bed moves, and then there is the vague shape of Jaskier sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“Um…” Geralt finds his throat inexplicably dry.

“You are back,” Jaskier says, voice deep from sleep. “Had a good time?”

“Good.”

Geralt doesn’t move. The door frame digs into his back uncomfortably.

“Good, then, that it was good.” Fading embers illuminate Jaskier from one side, his hair messy and smile soft. The blankets pool on his lap, warm and inviting. “Lambert and Eskel? Also good?”

“Also good.” Geralt nods.

“We are saying the word too many times,” Jaskier teases, patting the space next to him. “If all is good, you should come to bed now. Can’t let your brothers hog all your time. Your bard misses you too.”

A distressed sound escapes Geralt’s throat. He breathes through the dizzying rush in his head and closes his eyes for a second.

“I…” Geralt hesitates. “We were drinking. A lot.”

“Oh.”

“Thought you’d be asleep by now. Didn’t mean to be drunk around you.”

“It’s okay,” Jaskier says, though it sounds like a lie.

Even years after Jaskier put down the bottles and never picked them up again, there is still that tension within him. When he’s in a tavern, or a banquet, where wine is poured and refilled freely. He never speaks of it, but it’s difficult. Geralt can tell, the tightness of his shoulders and the reservation in his eyes. Jaskier is lonely in company like this, when he’s the only one who cannot drink.

Geralt never wants him to feel lonely again.

“I got carried away.” Geralt winces, blinking to sober himself up, but the white gull is strong. Even his fast metabolism can’t do much within minutes. “I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

“Wait, no,” Jaskier calls out. He doesn’t need to raise his voice for Geralt to stop in his tracks. “There is no need. Just come here.”

Jaskier shifts on their bed, hugging his knees. There is a certain vulnerability in the way he curls into himself, a particular gentleness. And Jaskier is always the most convincing when he’s gentle.

So Geralt has to oblige.

He moves while the room swims before his eyes. It’s hard to find his balance but he manages. He ends up sitting at the edge of the bed, not touching Jaskier, turned slightly away for the stink in his breath.

“I know you don’t like it when I drink,” Geralt says.

Jaskier blinks, confused. “When have I said that?”

“You don’t need to. I can tell when people are drinking. You look…lonely, even in a crowd.”

Geralt suddenly finds his hands the most interesting thing. He wriggles them in his lap, the sensation of his skin strange.

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s fingers are cool against Geralt’s cheek and soothing when they tidy the loose strands at his temple. “But you see, you are not people.”

“Hmm?”

When Geralt looks at Jaskier, there is only patience in the way his head tilts, and only amusement at the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, it can be hard when I’m surrounded by those who are less understanding,” Jaskier explains, the movement of his hand not stopping. Geralt leans into his palm, letting Jaskier cup his cheek. “But there’s them, and there’s you. You are not the same.”

“I’m not?”

Perhaps Geralt does get slower when affected by alcohol, because Jaskier’s eyes are crinkling beautifully like he thinks Geralt is being silly again.

“No, you are not. You never fill my cup along with yours and pressure me to drink. You never use drunkenness as an excuse to be rude to me. You never make me feel bad for staying sober, for not being fun enough.”

“I’d never,” Geralt says, nearly feeling offended at the idea.

“No, you’d never,” Jaskier continues. “On the contrary, you are the one to take away the cup forced into my hand and save me from those impossible situations. You defend me, but not with your swords. You protect me, just by being there.”

“It’s all you ask. Of course I’m there.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand in his. “So you are not disappointed?”

Jaskier’s smile is laced with a hint of melancholy, his eyes casting low. “How can I? I’ve long since forgotten how it feels like to be disappointed in you,” he answers. “And it’s my fight. I’ve never asked you to charge into battle for me. Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean I expect you to do the same. I understand it’s different for you—for everyone, really. Besides, you haven’t seen your family for months. You deserved the fun.”

“We did rather have fun.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand in reassurance, his chest now lighter.

“Was it Lambert’s homebrew again?”

Geralt’s lips stretch into a lopsided grin. “It was.”

“My, my, you must still have quite a buzz.” Jaskier returns with an equally big grin of his. “It’s okay. I like it when you are tipsy, with all the easy smiles and free cuddles, and you let yourself get giddy when I call you sweet names. I know your soft side, dearest, but even I don’t see it often—oh yes, just like this.”

It’s really the dearest that does Geralt in. Of all the sweet names, it’s the one that makes Geralt preen. His bard is easy with his affections, throwing dears and darlings to all who are close to his heart, but then, there is Geralt.

Dearest.

Perhaps he is different, after all.

Suddenly, his cheeks are hot for entirely different reasons. He looks at Jaskier’s knowing expression and can’t help feeling too proud.

“I am, aren’t I?” Geralt finds himself giddy indeed. “Your dearest?”

“Yes, you are,” Jaskier sighs softly before leaning in to press a kiss on Geralt’s cheek. “You are also very much drunk, so take off your clothes and get under these covers. I am not going to undress an uncooperative witcher all by myself, thank you very much.”

With that, Geralt lets out a contented hum and follows Jaskier’s directions. Despite his words, Jaskier still helps him, their limbs bumping awkwardly when Geralt nearly trips over his trousers. He squirms when Jaskier’s touch becomes ticklish on his tingling skin.

“Alright, just lie down,” Jaskier says, throwing his hands up. “Not tickling you when you are giggly already.”

“I’m not giggly,” Geralt insists. He sinks into the comfortable bed and drags Jaskier on top of him, nearly falling asleep just like this.

“Not giggly. Just happy,” Jaskier agrees, his fingers running through Geralt’s hair. “Happy, and dear to my heart.”

With his eyes closed, Geralt quietly corrects him, “the most dear.”

“Yes, the most dear, the most special,” Jaskier whispers as if revealing a secret. “It’s you. Only you, my dearest, my best person.”

“And you…” Geralt slurs his words, drifting off. “You too…”

He needs to tell Jaskier how dear he is tomorrow, how strong he is underneath all the gentleness. Jaskier must know already, that Geralt is in awe of his strength with every day that passes, every small milestone, every anniversary.

He is in awe when Jaskier is simply here, leaving his haunted past behind.

For now, Geralt is content just being tipsy, half-asleep, and dearest to his bard.

[starfirewildheart]

Chapter 11

Geralt looked out the window at the still falling snow in the presunrise hours. The colors seemed more beautiful today than he ever remembered. He heard Naurel start to move and went to her. Sitting beside her on the bed he leaned in for a soft kiss. “How do you feel?” The new lovers had spent the rest of the day and the entire night in his room exploring each other.

She stretched and smiled up at him, eyes still sleepy. “Wonderful.”

“Not sore? I didn’t hurt you did I?” His strength always concerned him when touching humans but especially with her because he’d lost himself in the pleasure a few times.

“Sore in some places but nothing bad.” Running her hand over his arm, “Stop worrying love. You didn’t hurt me, I promise.” He relaxed a bit and she sat up pressing another kiss to his mouth. “Are you ok? You’re up early.”

“Aye, perfect,” he smiled. “As much as I would love to stay up here for a month you need food and water to replenish and we should give your body some time to rest.”

She pouted at him but the grumbling in her stomach made her realize he was right, as usual. “Fine, if we have to.” She got up and started getting dressed still blushing softly as he watched her.

Down in the dining hall, a few of the witchers were already having their breakfast when they arrived. Geralt got their food and led her to a table where Ciri, Coen, Jaskier, and Lambert set. Once they were seated she suddenly became nervous. They, well she, hadn’t been very quiet last night. What If they heard her? Geralt placed his hand on her thigh having picked up on her increased heart rate and she wrapped her own arm around his bigger one almost hugging it to her. She picked at her porridge, thankful when a conversation started.

“What’s the training agenda for today?” Geralt asked Ciri.

“Lambert said something about a training platform for witchers,” she answered proudly.

Lambert had the good sense to sort of cringe knowing that Geralt would likely not approve. “I just thought it would be a good way to learn some defense. If you think it’s a bad idea we can do something else.”

Ciri’s huff didn’t go unnoticed but Geralt acted like he didn’t hear her. “She’s chosen you and Coen to do her training. I won’t get in the way of that. Naurel and I will be practicing today.” He looked down the table at Ciri, “Please be careful. The course is made for a witcher who’s more advanced in their training. When they fall and break a limb or split their skull we can put them in the laboratory and give them elixirs to heal them. You do not have that ability.”

“Gonna practice with the straw people again?” Lambert teased Naurel.

“Probably,” she nodded. “I’m sure it’s sort of like practicing with you though, the straw just doesn't talk back and crack stupid jokes.”

Coen spits his water across the table laughing. “Good one!”

Naurel reached over and shook his hand with a huge grin on her face. “Thank you.” Having started to relax a bit more she loosened the death grip she had no Geralt’s arm some and started eating. “What are you doing up so early Jaskier? You usually sleep till midday.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he eyed her.

“Oh no, are you still hurting?” she asked, concerned for her friend.

“A bit but that’s not why I couldn’t sleep.”

“The cold?” Geralt asked as he took a bite of bread.

“My room is next to yours and you,” he looked at Naurel, “Are not quiet my dear. And you,” he pointed at Geralt, “How do you go so long?!” Ciri started giggling and the other witchers joined in teasing them and moaning mockingly.

Naurel’s face flamed red as she buried her face against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt however just laughed good-naturedly at their friends. He’d intended for them to all know that she belonged to him. Last night left no doubt. After a few minutes of teasing Vesemir and Eskel came in. He’d heard them teasing the pair and was laughing too. “Enough,” he rumbled. “You’re just jealous because your brother is making those noises with his girl and not by himself.”

Geralt gave a grateful look to the old witcher before lifting Naurel’s head off his shoulder and kissing her softly. It wasn’t lost on him the Eskel went to an empty table and didn’t join them. She finally spoke again to ask Vesemir a question. “What is the cooking schedule here?”

“Each person takes a day cooking all three meals,” he told her.

“I would like a turn if that’s agreeable. I feel like I need to be contributing in some way.”

“Yes! Of course! Please! It has to be better than Lambert’s” Came several replies from all the witchers. She laughed.

“You don’t have to but If you want to, it would be most welcome,” Vesemir told her.

“I’d love to,” she beamed. “Someone let me know when it’s my turn.”

“Tomorrow,” they all said in unison. She laughed and continued talking before heading out to work on her sword training.

 

It was getting late in the afternoon when Geralt saw Lambert and Coen approaching with a bloody, frustrated Ciri in tow. They all sat near him watching Naurel hit the straw dummy. He looked over at Ciri, “Going to survive?”

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” she frowned as she rolled her shoulder. Stupid human body and its human limitations.

“You beat the strawman yet?” Lambert teased Naurel.

“Why don’t you spar with her and find out?” Geralt suggested.

Naurel and Lambert said “Huh?” at the same time.

“Spar with her, not you?” Lambert verified.

“Yes, I will coach her, nothing more,” Geralt nodded.

“Come on little girl,” Lambert said excitedly, grabbing his sword.

Naurel was looking at Geralt like he had grown another head as he approached her. “He’s going to kill me!” she whispered.

“Do you trust me?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Start out with the blocking moves I showed you. When I want you to switch to offensive strikes I will call them out.” He kissed her head, “You can do this.”

“Yea,” she shook her head no at the same time causing him to chuckle. “Just remember if he kills me we can not do a repeat of last night witcher.” All of them laughed, damn witcher hearing.

Naurel did everything exactly how Geralt had shown her and made her practice on the dummy a thousand times and to her surprise, she managed to block all of his attacks. He’d been easy at first but by the end, there was some force behind his blows. “Strikes,” Geralt called out. “Keep your form, your arms are dropping.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel roared and launched an attack.

Geralt shoved Naurel to the ground away from them so that she wasn’t hit. Both men landed punches and kicks hard enough to draw blood instantly. Witchers fighting was scary to watch especially when you were in love with one of them. She felt the tears spilling down her face as Ciri ran to her and helped her to her feet.

The other witchers finally got the two separated after several attempts. Coen noticed that Eskel’s eyes were black indicating he’d taken an elixer before coming outside. He’d planned this attack. Distracted by his thoughts Eskel was able to shake free and storm Geralt again whose arms were still being restrained. No one had time to react as Eskel kicked Geralt as hard as he could between the legs with his elixir enhanced strength. Everyone let Geralt go and tackled Eskel to the ground. Geralt fell forward, curled over unable to catch his breath, and finally threw up in the snow.

Naurel and Ciri ran to him trying to help him however they could. Naurel grabbed a handful of clean snow and wiped his face and neck until he was able to catch his breath. She had to balance herself when he leaned all his weight on her pressing her face against her neck. “Shhh, love try to breathe,” she encouraged rubbing his back.

At this point, Vesemir had come out and ordered them to take Eskel to the dining hall before kneeling beside Geralt. “Wolf,” he placed his hand on his back feeling how hard he was still trembling. “We need to get you inside so I can tend to you. It’s going to hurt when we stand you up but it has to be done.

Geralt nodded because he couldn’t speak and felt strong arms around him lifting him up. He was sure his balls had ruptured, it felt like they had been hit was an anvil. Unable to hide the grimace as he was moved he griped Vesemir and Coen’s shoulders in a bruising grip. He was grateful that they went no farther than the dining hall because he didn’t think he could have stood much more even letting out a whimper when he was lowered down on some furs that had been placed near the fire.

Jaskier moved Ciri out of the line of sight to give Geralt some privacy as they laid his head in Naurel’s lap and stripped him. He had to be restrained while he was examined for damage but thankful after a few potions and elixirs he was no longer fighting them. Naurel dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and wiped his sweaty brow and face unable to do anything else to help while Vesemir and Coen worked. Once Geralt was treated and covered with a blanket Vesemir said something to him that was too soft for Naurel to hear before standing. Geralt turned with a pained grunt and wrapped his arms around Naurel’s waist hugging her as he rested his head on her.

Vesemir was livid when he stormed across the room to Eskel. The yelling echoed through the room like screams off a mountainside but Naurel didn’t think Eskel looked repentant at all. She smiled as Ciri came and curled against her side close to Geralt and ran her fingers through his hair offering comfort the only way she knew how as well. The yelling went on for over an hour before Eskel was sent to his room for the night because Vesemir was too angry not to hurt him during punishment at the moment. Eventually, everyone scattered about talking softly or going to their rooms. Thankfully Geralt had calmed enough to meditate and help his healing.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

@mollymal

@secretdreamlandmentality

@salvawhxres 

@dizzybee03

[bastardofmothman]

If I love you then I love you too much

Tags: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Dreams and Nightmares, the reincarnation au no one asked for but I really really really wanted, Alive Aiden, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Alternate Universe - Modern setting

...          

Lambert wakes up sweating, panting, tears drying on his face, on the verge of whining but he won’t admit that.

Another restless night in the making as he plays over again experiencing a loss so great his chest continues to ache in wakefulness. He wishes he could remember the name of the asshole that keeps dying in his dreams so he had someone to blame instead of thinking about black curls and green eyes and feeling like he wants to cry.

Lambert lays back down, willing the mistiness in his eyes to dry down, preparing to spend the rest of the night staring at his ceiling trying to convince his lungs that just because a figment of his subconscious isn’t breathing doesn’t mean he can’t.

Lambert almost managed to convince himself he doesn’t see the eerily familiar face staring at him from the end of the tasting bar as he serves the other patrons, desperately hoping Eskel will take care of him so Lambert doesn’t have to get any closer to those green eyes. Green eyes he knows have flecks of gold in them. Won’t have to wonder how soft those curls are, how they’d look ruffled. Won’t have to remember exactly how that warm skin looks after death.

Eskel doesn’t even seem to notice him. That or he’s ignoring him because he sees how intently the man is staring at Lambert. Which is probably exactly what he’s doing because Eskel is a hopeless fucking romantic and Geralt, the useless fuck, isn’t here because his partners insisted he needed a day off to spend with them and his daughter. If Lambert didn’t know for sure Ciri was at a friend’s house he’d be less pissed off about it but he knows the lecture Vesimir would have given him if he’d denied Geralt a night off on one of the busiest nights of the week.

He should have known better than to hire his brothers after the massive layoffs. Fuck loyalty if they’re both not going to be available and doing their jobs when he needs them. (He doesn’t really think that, in fact he’s sure he would get along with strangers less but it’s still annoying as shit and he’s supposed to be the annoying one, not the responsible one with his own distillery and a thriving customer base.)

The man is still staring.

Lambert finally cracks, he’s served everyone on his end of the bar and is out of excuses. He sees the man sit up and flush when he realizes Lambert is heading his way.

“What can I get for you?” He asks gruffly as he turns red from being stared at so openly.

“Can I get two house flights for our table?” The man says a little too breathlessly. Why is he so flustered? Lambert is the one who’s been having dreams about loving him so much he wanted to die with him.

“Coming right up.” Lambert turns away to prepare the flights, the man turns and heads back to his table.

When he delivers the flights the man is still staring but Lambert turns away and heads back to the bar. He refuses to acknowledge the ache in his chest or the blush still staining the tips of his ears.

…

He keeps seeing him, the man with the green eyes, dark curls, and a feral grin. 

One time he gets rather impressively tipsy and leans across the empty bar to stage whisper “I know this is the worst pick up line but I swear I’ve seen you in my dreams.” He starts to reach towards where Lambert’s hand is resting on the counter top as he says this.

Lambert pulls away, “I’m calling you a cab.” He states before walking away. It takes forever to get there, what with how rare a callable cab line is nowadays and all the while the man sits there and grins at him.

He comes in the next week, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry about last time, I did mean it though. Name’s Aiden by the way.” Lambert can’t help it, can’t keep looking at him, at Aiden. He storms away.

…

Why can’t he just leave well enough alone?! Is there a brain in there under that dark halo of curls? There doesn’t seem to be because no matter how many times Lambert refuses to continue the line of conversation, refuses to take the bait, refuses to acknowledge how flustered he gets under the other man’s gaze, Aiden just. Won’t. Leave. Him. Alone.

The worst part? Lambert doesn’t even want him to. When he finally lets up and starts responding, Aiden's eyes light up  and he smiles like Lambert’s given him a gift, even when Lambert can’t resist being a snarky, sarcastic asshole. Luckily Aiden can dish out as well as he can take it. Neither of them bring up the dreams again. At least, not for a while.

…

Lambert has to ruin every good thing that happens to him, and like it or not Aiden’s company has gone and turned into a good thing. He craves it, he looks forward to seeing Aiden’s tall, lanky form walk in through the door, even catches himself missing him when Aiden doesn’t come in on his regular night a few times.

Lambert ruins every good thing that happens to him. He’s sure this will be no different.

…

“Do you remember when I said I’d meant it, seeing you before?” Aiden asks one day.

Lambert absolutely remembers. Remembers it vividly. Remembers dreaming about holding Aiden’s dead body in his arms and screaming to a raining sky with his entire being vividly too.

“Not a clue, I don’t pride myself on remembering the ramblings of drunks.” He lies through his teeth, resolutely wiping at the counter and refusing to meet Aiden’s eyes, hoping it plays off like him not caring instead of avoiding it.

“Hey!” Aiden responds indignantly, having taken the bait. “I’ll have you know that I am not a drunk, I am simply a connoisseur of fine liquors such as those served at this establishment which, by the way, are swiftly draining my bank account.”

“Not my fault your favorite is the one that took me the longest to perfect and takes the longest to age.” Lambert says offhandedly while wiping out glasses still warm but damp from the back. It takes him a minute to realize Aiden is staring at him again, god he’s always fucking staring at Lambert with this soft look in his eyes and that stupid attractive smile on his face. Except not this time, this time he looks a little surprised.

“Wait…you created this?” Oh…whoops. Lambert guesses he forgot to mention this is all his at some point, but he doesn’t pride himself on presenting as the owner, he works here, he puts in the effort. He just also perfects every single product his distillery makes. “You’re the reason I can taste heaven on earth?! Oh I want to live inside your brain.” Lambert has to bite his tongue to keep from telling Aiden that he already does, and it doesn’t end well for him most times. There are the rare good dreams, the hazy beautiful ones where they’re together and relaxed and fucked out and happy. Those dreams almost make the risk seem worth it, but Lambert has experience with making high risk decisions and despite his thriving distillery he knows how they end. It isn’t worth it. It’s not worth having to feel that pain again.

Aiden's too busy gushing to circle back around to his original thought. Lambert hopes he never does.

…

Lambert rarely gets the things he hopes for. He hadn't even hoped for his distillery to stay open. Just resolutely kept working at it all the while berating himself for putting this much effort in.

The only thing he's hoped for lately is that Aiden keeps coming back and never fucking brings up dreams about them again. Lambert can't bear the idea that it wasn't just him. Can't bear the idea of repeating how it ends.

“I’ve seen you in my dreams, you know, even before we met.” Aiden ventures on another day, completely removing the question aspect from his statement, likely having figured out Lambert’s misdirection from last time. 

“Aww, you don’t have to lie to tell me I’m pretty.” Lambert bluffs, trying for a different type of misdirection, the fun one that ends in them blatantly flirting back and forth but never goes anywhere because he just can’t let it. This is enough, it has to be.

“Lamb c’mon, I’m trying to be serious here, don’t you think that means something?”

“It means you’re using current information to fill in the memory of your dreams is what it fucking means.”

“I know you saw me staring the first time I came in here.”

Aiden has him there. Backed into a corner.

“Aiden, I can't talk about them.”

“Have you had dreams about me too?” Dreams, nightmares, and everything in between, but Lambert isn’t ready, he doesn’t think he ever will be. He knows it’ll all be over if he opens his mouth.

“If I answer you will you drop it?”

“For now.” That’s the best Aiden is going to give him and he knows it.

“Yes.” Lambert whispers.

“The plot thickens. So anyway as I was saying I think America made a big mistake with horses, like, they look like plastic toys, what is the purpose?” Aiden has this talent for going directly backwards in a conversation seemingly without a tell that he’s interested in another topic. Lambert notices how his nose crinkles and his eyebrows lift but says nothing while Aiden goes off on his frankly terrifying amount of knowledge of horse breeding practices.

…

Aiden brings up the topic a few more times over the next months, pulls bits and pieces out of Lambert because Lambert just can’t give him a complete no. 

"So what has happened in your dreams?" Aiden ventures one day.

"A lot, usually there's rain." And blood, lots of pooling blood.

"Oooh, I don't have a lot of ones with rain. Unless your dour mood counts when it's raining on my parade. Don't worry, I've always been good at taking it in stride. I think you only ever really upset me in one, but we had fantastic make up sex so I won't hold it against you." Aiden doesn't even blink at being so forward but Lambert can see the soft flush to his face and knows it took more than Aiden's letting on to bring it up. He isn't sure if it's the reference to the fight in their dreams or the reportedly amazing make up sex but Lambert decides to throw him a bone. And flirt a little.

"We have pretty fantastic non-make up sex too."

"Laaaamb, you flatterer." They're both blushing like teenagers instead of adult men.

"Leave it alone, Aid." Lambert states, effectively cutting this off from where it's spiraling, and the conversation moves onto less treacherous topics.

And then one day it comes to a head and the moment it’s all ruined is at Lambert’s doorstep and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

…

Aiden follows him outside, “You can’t.” He states, voice filled with anger, “You can’t, you can’t, you never fucking can why won’t you just tell me! I know you have feelings for me and you know I have feelings for you and we both know about the dreams so why can’t you talk to me?!” He yells.

“Because I just fucking can’t, okay!” Lambert shouts, it echos off the neighboring buildings.

“But why not!? Why can’t you just tell me why you have that fucking stick up your ass about this? I just want to talk and you keep pushing me away every time I get close to you.” 

Lambert takes a deep breath, he can’t do this, he can’t fucking do this and he can feel traitorous tears in his eyes and he takes another deep breath ready to start the screaming match again-

“I can’t go through losing you again.” It comes out soft and broken, his voice cracking. “I can’t fucking do it again.”

Aiden takes a cautious step forward, and then another. Slowly getting into Lambert’s space one step at a time. He reaches out and his hands shake as he brings long fingers carefully up to Lambert’s face and gently directs Lambert to look at him. 

“Lambert I’m not going anywhere, they’re just dreams, nothing’s happened to me in them-”

“Yes it did!” Lambert snaps and pulls away, crossing his arms across his chest to create some distance, “I had to lose you over and over and fucking over again before we even met. I had to watch you die before I even knew you. You say you know how much you fucking cared about me before we met, so did I! But I had to lose you and I just- I can’t fucking do it again Aiden.”

Lambert’s breathing heavily now, he can’t make the words stop, can’t make the tears at the edges of his eyes stay put, “I don’t know if I’d survive it this time, I’m not even sure I did last time because I never had any dreams about what happened after, only about losing you and not wanting to stay in this shitty world anymore when the best damn thing to ever happen in my life was gone!” Lambert sobs on the last word. He doesn’t know if knowing will save Aiden this time but he has to try, the only thing he knows is that last time they were in each other’s lives and maybe if he can change that he can save Aiden maybe he can–

Aiden is holding him. Gently running his hands up and down Lambert’s back until Lambert uncoils his arms and hugs Aiden back, and then Aiden grips him tightly and starts swaying them back and forth. He’s trying so hard to be gentle but Lambert can feel the tension in how tight Aiden is holding on, like he’s afraid of losing something right now.

“Does the risk of it happening again really mean we don’t deserve to try and be happy? That they don’t deserve us trying again?” Aiden whispers, sounding not far from the edge of tears himself.

“Then it’s all up to destiny and she’s a stubborn bitch-tit of a phenomenon.” Lambert mutters, Aiden chuckles at him, still gripping him tightly like he’s afraid if he lets go Lambert will be gone and they’ll never come back together again.

“Maybe destiny was trying to keep them apart and we’re just too stubborn, did you ever think of that?”

“That’s not the encouragement you think it is.”

“Maybe not.”

"Aiden, I–" Lambert pauses, tries to gulp his heart down from his throat back to where it belongs. "I'm scared. I want you so much and I'm scared of it."

"Me too, wanna be scared together?"

Lambert thinks for a moment. "Yeah," he says cautiously, "yeah I think I do.

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