#beloved caring asshole lambert

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

NEW HAVEN WARDS THOUGHTS. ok i have. many. primarily though i would love to hear what fucking. tide's pov of insane tidalwave situation is. or just like. nhw tide thoughts in general!!!! him!! he!!! ok ok gotta go put goats 2 bed brb

AHAAAA HAHA I LOVE YOUUUUUU TIDE LAMBERT. i love you tide lambert. i also am extremely delighted by the fact that you and whiskey both sent me asks at the same time indepenently asking me about tide and mark. awesome little bowl of seeds for me in my inbox. under the cut with you

i haaaaave so many emotions about nhw tide the more i think about him.

i am still so MASSIVELY undecided on the whole clone thing but i do feel so strongly about the endbringer thing i brought up one time. i dont remember the way they are in canon but i have a lot of thoughts about tide and his siblings and their "ages" (magma is the oldest, tide is VERY close second (theyre not twins, but theyre probably only a year or less apart so they are The Oldest as a unit to the others. magma still plays the "im older than you" card to tide though). whirlwind and seismic ARE twins and they have such middle child energy. shockwave is the youngest until elle and has a complex about not being the youngest anymore. elle is the beloved baby girl. trust me i have experience in this this is basically the way my dads side of the family is) . anyway im getting distracted. anyway. tide and magma being the oldest and also being given powers specifically to counter leviathan and behemoth. i have emotions about this !!!! (i actually still dont really know whether behemoth is specifically fire coded but he does sleep in volcanoes so let me dream until worm proves me wrong). so like. even if theyre not clones they still get the whole "i was created for a purpose and i feel like i have the weight of the world on my shoulders because of it and its my only purpose and without it im lost and i dont know what to do with myself"

anyway. thinking about. tidalwave first meeting or like. early stages of meeting or whatever. tide is fucking INTIMIDATING. hes REALLY powerful, and also including that thing i put in my one liveblog the other day about Sere- if tide Wasnt A Hero it could be a goddamn disaster because his powers have the potential to be so fucking scary and bad and dangerous. luckily he is also the worlds biggest softie. tide is marginally less emotionally repressed than mark is, so he's more willing to initiate things.

i constantly think about tide in the context of that one post thats like "i hate when people say it costs nothing to be kind. it costs so much. i mean i'll pay it but damn" (im so mad i cant find that rn but. nhw tide thesis statement) hes not naive!!!!!!!! he knows how awful and shitty the world and the whole cape system is. but hes trying so so so hard to do the right thing and help people. that fucking gets on marks nerves so bad. tide is Too Nice and he hates it. "why cant you be more of an asshole so its easier for me to hate you" etc etc etc.

ANYWAY. early tidalwave. tide looks at wavelength and immediately sees a difference between him and some of the other villains hes fought. theres this almost feral desperation to him. outwardly hes cold and calculating and brutal but like. just a little bit beneath the surface he is. like a cornered animal. he doesnt Want to be doing this, but he Has To. and tide can. really sympathize with that and understand that i think. Mark Also Hates This, He Does Not Like To Be Perceived. i imagine theres a lot of back and forth like "i understand" "how could you possibly understand"

they become sort of like unofficial rivals- tide knows how the hero system works and how fucking nasty things could end up for mark if he fights someone who doesnt care about what happens to a villain, so its always tide seeking him out (fight to maim, not kill. sorry that sentence lives in my mind forever now). tide maybe lets him slip away and escape way easier than he should. because he Gets It. he genuinely does want to help mark, not in an "i can fix him" way, but in more of an "i can see youre in a horrible situation and i dont want to kill you just because of that, so im helping in the small way i can without making things worse for you" way. mark knows hes doing this. they never talk about it. they talk more than people who are supposed to be intent on killing each other should talk. neither of them will ever say it out loud but. the human connection outside of their respective Situations is kind of nice. regardless of how fucked up the whole thing is. ill-advised hookups, unmasking, etc etc all of that. but They Dont Talk About It Ever. next day theyre back to trying to kill each other like nothing happened. tide maybe privately mourns this, but still never says anything about it. tide visits mark in the hospital because no one else will. tide tells mark about ashe because no one else will, even if he knows that will basically shatter everything between them (its not tides fault, why would it be, but mark is a very "shoot the messenger, ask questions later" kind of guy)

anyway. i think about them a lot

[witchersgoldenbard]

I have been called out

brought to you by the ever-lovely @deeplywornletters 💛

[blackberrywars]

Cabin - Aiden/Lambert

SFW prompt fill for day 1 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Beta’d by the utterly delightful @hellinglasses

Rating: T

Words: 2678

Pairing: Aiden/Lambert, Laiden

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Graphic Injury, Humans Being Assholes, Mentioned Past Sexual Encounters, Light Angst, Crying, Cutagens, Omega Lambert, Alpha Aiden

Summary: On the Path, there’s little room for comfort, softness, and safety, a rule that holds truer than most, even when Lambert needs those things the most. After they get turned away at their usual inn for Lambert’s heat, Aiden spends the next year making sure her baby wolf will never have to spend another season in a damp, cold, dirty cave again. Even if her hands get scraped to shit in the process.

Read on AO3

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For the twentieth night in a row, Aiden can barely suppress a groan as she soaks her splinter-ridden hands in diluted Black Blood. It’s Lambert’s own recipe, saved over from last year —stronger stuff than she could ever brew herself— but the wounds have already healed over, sealing the wood pieces inside until she can dissolve them through her skin. She needs the potency. There’s more work to do. Her axe, pilfered from some asshole’s front yard, lays heavy across her lap. Not five paces farther stands the fruits of her labor. Barely eight by eight feet of rough-cut lumber with a floor of hard-packed earth, the little cabin has a strong frame and the kind of character only small, ugly, beloved things do. She grins. She’ll have to cut more logs tomorrow for the roof, soak them all in lye, and then add a rafter or three to support the results. Without Guxart’s tools, she can’t curve the beams, but if the damn thing doesn’t leak or fall down on them, she’ll be more than grateful.

It’s not Dyn Marv. It’s definitely not Kaer Morhen, not that she’s ever gotten to see it. But Lambert might just love it anyway, their own little shelter far away from anyone planning to bother them —Cat, Wolf, or human. Gods, fucking humans. Aiden tries not to put her anger on all the however-fucking-many people on the Continent, but her skin burns as the potion eats through the sealed wounds and into the splinters, and she doesn’t care enough to spare them. Especially not when she remembers last summer so well, when she can feel the pain and rage simmering in her chest. It hurts more than her hands do.

They hadn’t been prepared for rejection. Maybe they should have known better, after so long on the Path, but the little Nazairi inn had been a safe place (or as close to that as witchers got) for three wonderful years. Even longer, for Lambert before they’d bonded. Every midsummer, they saved up to rent a heat-room and spend a week in soft linens, where Aiden would take care of her baby at her most vulnerable. No monsters, no wild beasts, no people coming to bother them. The old man who ran the place, Azik, was always kind, offering them good food and not overcharging them for any of it, just absentmindedly rubbing his own scarred mating mark and handing them the keys with a smile. Said he remembered how it felt. To need somewhere warm and safe and comfortable.

Another year came and went, and they’d been more than happy to pay him a visit again, only to find him long gone. He was only mortal. Fickle, lovely, and mortal. His son, or so the bastard called himself, replaced him, told them to fuck off and find another inn, because he wouldn’t allow rutting mutants in his establishment —surely they’d put a curse on him. Nevermind that Aiden had been half-carrying Lambert, already half in pre-heat. Or that she’d offered to pay double. He had the same bowed lips as his father and none of his compassion to fall out of them. So, Aiden had to find a cave. Killed the poor bear inside, cleaned it as best she could, and laid out their meager amount of clothes on a bed of greenery and moss; the best nest she could provide, all while Lambert shivered with pain. It could have been worse. Her baby wolf had lived through worse: heats alone and heats unfortunately not.

She went back and killed the son anyway. Strangled him with a particularly strong vine from their makeshift nest and spit on his corpse on her way out. Lambert had their bags waiting when she returned, and Aiden couldn’t help but kiss her again.

Otherwise, she might not be here, surrounded by the stones and wood, having to rub her own aching shoulders after working well into the night, high off Cat and her own determination to get the little heat-house done before summer. She’d be traveling the Path with her baby wolf. Her omega. All day, they’d fight monsters and complain about random shit they encountered, be it the price of decent ale or a particularly rough patch of road. All night, they’d fleece humans at Gwent or make a disgustingly domestic camp together before fucking each other silly. Instead, Aiden’s alone. Alone and lonely, because she left a note for Lambert in their usual spring meeting place to meet her in summer instead, and she hasn’t seen her baby wolf in nearly a year.

Fuck, but it’ll be worth it. Guxart has everything she’s bought stockpiled in the caravan, ready for her to secret them away here. Soft cushions stolen from the inn in Nazair, furs treated by Kiyan’s expert hand, vibrant silks from Zerrikania, and a new courting gift, an alchemy kit set in silver. Aiden would give it —everything her omega could want or need. She’d feed Lambert sweet dried fruits and jams by the spoonful, fresh mushrooms from the forest cooked in the small ground oven she would build. All that and more, once she finished building the roof, insulating the walls, painting the inside, cleaning the debris, packing the dirt, laying the boards, and sleeping for a week. 

—

———

—

If Lambert trips over one more fucking tree root, she’s gonna rip her blindfold off and shove it down Aiden’s throat. The damn Cat had been dragging her along for nearly half an hour, and for all that she trusted Aiden with her life, the journey had put several expensive dents in her greaves. But she’s not really bitching about that. Aiden hadn’t explained anything to her before tying the cloth over her eyes, and frankly, Lambert had thought she would be having a much better time right now. Or at the very least less shitty than stumbling down a road and through the forest to fuck-knows-where.

Aiden had even dodged her kiss by the dick-graffitied signpost! And their reunion fuck! Her heart beats a little faster, and Aiden can hear it, and it’s just a little too humiliating to even acknowledge that this entire situation has her so anxious. She exhales, harsh and fast. Squeezes down on her alpha’s hand, partly to show her displeasure without actually having to say it out loud, partly to comfort herself, but even that’s different. Her calluses are all fucked up, thick in new places and softer where the old ones should be. It’s a stupid thing to care about. To worry about. Maybe Aiden found a hobby. More likely, they’re from whatever nebulous “work” she picked up that kept her away from Lambert in the spring. She cares anyway.

“Can I take this shit off now?”

“Not yet.”

“I swear on Melitele’s dripping cunt, if we are not there in fifteen seconds, I’m going to stab you.”

“You’ve never seen Melitele’s dripping cunt, so that’s not a very good swear. Also, we’re here.”

“Oh, fuck you—”

The slip of fabric falls from her face and Lambert can’t catch it, too busy staring at the structure in front of her. It could be a fisherman's shed, for its size, but all she can smell is cut wood and resin, the smell of the forest and Aiden beside her. She can’t see any scratches on the walls, or weathering on the roof. The paint looks new. Past the open door, where she doesn’t have to duck her head for once, a raised mattress covers the floor, with blankets folded in a stack atop it and cushions piled on the side, all of it absolutely perfect, arranged just the way she likes when she has the materials to make a nest for them. Aiden takes her hand again, rough calluses scraping against her skin, and oh fuck. Fuck. 

“Aiden…… you made this?”

Strong arms wrap around her hips from behind, and Lambert’s silently thankful. Her right knee wobbles with the effort of keeping herself upright, and her throat feels like it’s closing with every second she stares at the little cabin with its flat roof and pale blue walls and the beautiful, beautiful nest inside. Smug as anything, close enough for Lambert to feel the grin against her neck, Aiden replies.

“Mmhm. Surprise! I spent all winter saving up the coin, and all of spring getting materials and building it so I could fill it with every soft thing I could think of. I know you miss your furs in Kaer Morhen.”

“What? This is… fuck, Aiden, what did you do?”

A stab of guilt hits her in the chest. How much does all this cost, if Aiden spent two seasons saving up and building it? She reaches down for the nearest pile of fabric, a collection of silks that feel almost liquid in her fingers, cool and soft next to the dense furs beside them. They’re not like the ones in Kaer Morhen. Those furs are older than she is, dusty and tough, smelling like every other Wolf omega who’d used them before she got the leftovers after centuries of wear. Winters make for poor hunting, when the bears, wolves, rabbits, and foxes are all in their dens, and fuck knows she hates the cold. The rest of the year, she’s gone. Vesemir spends his time just trying to keep the walls from crumbling. Never in her life has she felt furs this soft, this expensive. Aiden’s arms squeeze tighter around her middle.

“Gods, how much do I owe you for this? Even just the furs, fuck! You put months of pay and work into this, and unless you stole the materials, these must have cost a fucking fortune!”

“Pfft. You don’t owe me a copper.”

“The fuck do you mean, not a copper? This is so much, and they’re my heats, it’s my own damn responsibility.”

When she tries to turn around to face her, Aiden just tightens her grip, pinning Lambert to her soft chest. A deep, rumbling purr vibrates through Lambert’s back, and she can’t help but relax the slightest amount, practically conditioned after years of this bullshit to know that sound means safety and contentment.

“I mean you don’t owe me shit. These past ten years, you paid for our weeks in the inn, and even if you hadn’t… baby wolf, you let me share your heats —that’s worth the cost and more. That’s a gift and so is this.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

The purring gets louder, but Lambert can feel Aiden’s exasperation like she’s the one being unreasonable.

“How could I not? You were miserable last year, no matter how much you tried to grit your teeth and tell me you’ve had worse.”

“I have. And I lived.”

“Not the point, little wolf. The point is that this year, you don’t have to deal with that filthy cave or worse, and that in my fucking opinion, you deserve a palace.”

“It’s too much.”

“Do you like it?”

It gives Lambert pause, that question, mostly because of course she fucking does. She looks around, double-checking to see if the little cabin wasn’t as lovely as she first saw it, but no, there’s the pillows and the furs and the paint and the calm, safe place that Aiden has built for her.

“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s for you. You’re mine, you’re my omega, and I made this for you. If you like it, then every last thing I bought and did was worth it.”

And hasn’t she thought the same thing a million times over in her head? Fuck Aiden for saying things so damn well. For having the words. She thinks it every time she buys Aidn’s favorite pastries even when the baker charges her double the price. Or takes the kikimore’s claws so Aiden doesn’t take the venom. Or leaves Kaer Morhen when the Killer is still snowed through, just to see her sooner. How much has she paid? For Aiden’s happiness, brief and lasting? They’ve been through this. She loves Aiden, and Aiden loved her first. From anyone else, Lambert would keep demanding the hidden price until they caved, but with Aiden…… there won’t be a debt to pay later down the line. 

She even squeezes Lambert just a little tighter, which does not fucking help the fact that she’s about to burst into tears. Her alpha built her a cabin with a nest inside, and it’s dry and safe and warm, far away from humans and monsters and fuck-all everything else that isn’t them. It has furs, and fuck her for knowing that, too. In the winters, when she deals with her heats alone, they’re all she has, but now she’ll have them in the summer too, with her alpha. Aiden kisses her shoulder over her armor, right above their bond-bite, and then the tears are rolling down her face. 

“Shit. Baby, why’re you crying? Do you not— “I love it. Alpha, love, I love it.”

“You do?” She loops around to Lambert’s front, blocking her view of the cabin which almost helps her stop crying, because fuck everything, she wants to sob just looking at it. “Oh, baby wolf.”

Aiden hustles her further into the cabin so they're both inside and shuts the door behind them, solid and protective. Properly inside, it’s dark and cool. A thick bearskin lays just by her feet, and Lambert kneels down to bury her hands in it, sighing at how soft it feels against her skin. She coughs, trying to clear her throat. Chokes, then tries again.

“You can tell me later. Just let me take care of you —it’s what I built all this for.”

So she lets Aiden take her bags. Allows it when Aiden peels off her armor, piece by piece stacked by the door until she’s in just her shirtsleeves and rough trousers. Tries to take off Aiden’s in return with shaking hands, and she lets her; even though it takes her twice as long as it should, having something to do with her hands finally stops the tears before they lay down on the bare mattress. Aiden takes her usual spot pressed tightly against Lambert’s back, tucking her head under her chin. It hurts, and her voice comes out gravelly and awful, but she talks anyway.

“You made me a nest.”

“I did.”

“It’s… fuck, Aiden, it’s perfect. No one around for miles, far from the road, and…… fuck.”

“Mmmm.”

Aiden purrs again, rumbling and so sweet. This time, she lets Lambert shift in the cradle of her arms, turning until she can look at Aiden’s handsome face, dark and scarred in the lowlight. She presses a kiss to the underside of her chin, and then another. Everything is soft and warm and good. Her alpha included, and maybe more so than the cabin and everything in it combined, burning like a furnace against her body.

“I like taking care of you, omega. And it really did suck being in that cave for a week.”

Lambert rolls her eyes, wincing at the dryness. She takes the levity for the out it is and presses another grateful kiss to Aiden’s neck.

“It really fucking did.”

So much so, that she’d already had another inn lined up. Nenneke knows the owner, a no-nonsense young woman involved in a considerable amount of elf-smuggling, who would gladly let a pair of witchers defile one of her rooms for a price. Not that she’d tell Aiden that now. Aiden had built her a shelter with her own two hands, and for all that she slightly resents the instinct that makes her find it so attractive, rewarding her alpha’s good behavior usually goes well for both of them. Lambert can keep her mouth shut on this. She won’t tell anyone about the hidden cabin. This little place is theirs now. Theirs and theirs alone: not for the Wolves or the Cats or the humans or the Path, and she’ll enjoy every second they have it.

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[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[inber]

Poke

A/N: Very silly drunken wolf fluff. Geralt and Lambert stay up at Kaer Morhen, drinking, talking, bonding. They decide to commemorate the night with matching tattoos. Content warnings for alcohol and stick-poke tattoos, and a tiny bit of angst about Aiden. 1.4K

“Y'just can't,” Geralt said, reaching for his vodka cup, “can't let 'em win, y'know? They wanna win. Those bastards.”

“Fucking bastards!” Lambert echoed, raising his own drink.

“We did it, though.” Geralt threw back more of the liquor, barely wincing as it burnt down his throat. “We avenged him. They paid, L'mbert.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lambert said, frowning at his hands. “We did, didn't we? Fuckin', we fuckin' wrecked 'em. Bastards.”

“Bastards!”

“I'm gonn', I'm gonn' see him again, Geralt. Aiden. Someday, when, when somethin' catches me off-guard. Reckon I'll see him again.” Lambert drank.

“Yeah.” Geralt lowered his voice. Poured more vodka for the both of them. “Not for a long time, though.”

“Nah.” Lambert lolled his head lazily, examining the hall table. “Where'd the chunky man go?”

“Eskel? In the corner, with Lil' Bleat--” Geralt hiccuped. “Lil Bleat--” Another hiccup. “Fuck, he fell asleep with the goat.”

“Hah!” Lambert peered at the lumpy, snoring form of his other brother, spooned warmly around his beloved pet. “Howcome he's the biggest, but he can't hold his drink for shit?”

“I 'unno.” Geralt said, sagely.

“Mmm.” Lambert swallowed another mouthful.

“Y'know, Lambert... Bertie...”

“Don't call me that, Gerry.”

“Okay, okay. Just, y'have us. I know it's not the same. I know they took... something you can't replace. But we're still your pack, yeah? We'll have your back. And, and you're an absolute shit. But—fuck it. I love you, little brother.” Geralt raised his gaze, locking it intently with Lambert's.

Lambert's jaw tightened. He blinked a few times in rapid succession, and then raised his shoulders in a weary shrug. “Yeah. You're right. I do have you assholes, I know that. I'm lucky.” His eyes flicked to the fireplace, skittish. “Love you too, wolfie. Y'fuckface.”

Geralt snorted, and the two of them drank in a silent toast.

“A'right, fuck this touchy-feely shit. Next you'll ask me to braid your fuckin' hair.” Lambert stood, slightly overbalanced to the left. “Wanna paint a moustache on Eskel?”

“Fuck yeah I do.” Geralt got up, draining his mug as he did so.

Together they ferreted about the library, laughing, rearranging Vesemir's 'system' – which Geralt maintained was just a fabrication – until they found a bottle of navy ink. Lambert discovered an old paintbrush amongst many quills stashed in a drawer. Then they crept back to the kitchen, shushing one another loudly.

Lil' Bleater looked up at them as they approached, suspicious, but Geralt offered her a piece of turnip left over from dinner, and the guard was thusly bribed. Eskel lay on his back, snoring obnoxiously.

“Careful—careful now.” Geralt whispered. “Don't drip it.”

“This isn't my first time, Geralt, shh.” Lambert dipped the brush in the ink, and with a surprisingly steady hand, drew one side of a large curly handlebar moustache.

Geralt pasted a hand over his mouth to contain his guffaws, and Lambert's second stroke was a bit wobblier, the younger witcher suffering from the giggles, too. Eskel didn't so much as twitch. The two of them stood back to admire their handiwork.

“Regal.” Geralt said.

“I think he'll like it.” Lambert agreed.

“Baah.” Lil' Bleater added.

Eskel hummed, curling back onto his side, pulling the goat closer. Geralt and Lambert scurried away, unwilling to push their luck. Upon exit, Lambert grabbed the jug of vodka.

----------------

Upstairs atop an old tower, huddled next to a lit brazier, the two witchers gazed at the cloudless wintery night, fur-rugged to ward off the chill. Above them, the stars ignored their inebriated gawking, winking at one another in a celestial code that neither man could ever hope to decipher. For a time, they passed the vodka between themselves in silence.

“I've seen this same sky... same stars... for so many nights.” Geralt muttered.

“Me too. Not as many nights as you, y'old fuck, but... yeah. Fuck.” Lambert took the jostle Geralt delivered, grinning. “Not much changes. But like, everything does.”

“Fuck.” Geralt said, processing that. “That's so true, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Not, not us though. Not Kaer Morhen. World down there,” Geralt pointed, “might be batshit crazy, but, but we can always come home.”

Lambert's eyes shone in the lowlight. “Can we?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

“D'you promise?”

Geralt grasped Lambert's shoulder. “Doesn't matter where y'are in, in the Continent, brother. I'll bring you home.”

Lambert blinked hard. Then he squeezed Geralt's hand firmly. “Same goes, brother.”

The wind teased the fire, dimming it. Between them, words went unspoken. Witchers fell, that was a given, but not all keeps sought to bring their kin home. Lambert's lips trembled, and Geralt knew he was thinking of Aiden. Had the Cats brought him back to rest?

“Y'still got the ink.” Geralt blurted, noting the jar in Lambert's grasp, desperate to break the tension.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Lambert shook the liquid.

“Eskel's gonn' be, gonna be pissed.” Geralt grinned.

“Teach him to hold his drink!” Lambert snorted, still examining the back-and-forward list of the ink in the bottle. “Hey, Geralt?”

“Yuh?”

“Y'ever gotten a tattoo?”

“Lots of times.” Geralt said, shrugging. “They heal quick, but only last a year or two. Skin pushes the ink out after awhile.”

“The beauty of mutagens.” Lambert said, sarcasm on the edge of his voice. He thew back a gulp of vodka, handed it to Geralt, and then began fumbling in his pocket. “Let's do tattoos.”

“Wuh?” Geralt squinted.

“On each other. Matching ones. C'mon, it'll be... a memory. Of this night. For a lil' bit, anyway.”

“Huh.” Geralt's tongue-tip peeked out as he thought. “A'right. We'll need, need sharp... pokey. Things for poking.”

“I got these two knives. Real fine tip.” Lambert missed the opportunity to make a joke about poking, producing the small weapons.

“Good 'nough. Put the ink down.” Geralt examined the narrow blade. “What should we do?”

“Wolves.” Lambert said, jutting his chin. “Obviously.”

“M'kay. I'm gonna do it on your arm. Gimmie.”

Lambert shrugged his fur off, and rolled his sleeve up. Geralt got to work, dipping the blade, beginning the dot-work process. Lambert grunted when the blade nicked his skin, but got used to the sensation quickly.

“I can reach your hip from here. Pull your shirt up.” Lambert coated his own knife.

Geralt did as asked, and for a couple of hours, they worked in silence, stopping only to wipe bloodied ink away, or to take another drink. Towards the end, Geralt found the lines getting a little blurry, and his mind slipping. Despite the pinch of Lambert's needling, Geralt found himself leaning on his brother harder and harder. He didn't remember losing consciousness.

-----------

“Geralt! Lambert! Where the fuck are you two? I'm gonna stick my boots so far up your asses, you'll be having leather for breakfast!”

Geralt jerked awake, groaning at the instant protest from his head. He was... in Lambert's room? The younger man still snored beside him. He only flailed awake when Eskel burst through the door.

“Nice 'stache.” Geralt noted, voice gravelly.

“This ink isn't fucking budging, you twits.” Eskel growled, wiping at the curly masterpiece on his face.

“Oh, quit yelling.” Lambert groaned. “We improved your face.”

“What the fuck is that on your arm?” Eskel asked, pointing.

Lambert looked down. On his bicep, a poorly drawn wolf howled up at a moon. “It's a tattoo. Hey, it's pretty good, Geralt!”

Geralt beamed, laying on his back. “I know.”

“It looks like a deformed chicken.” Eskel said.

“Don't be jealous. I can do one on you.” Geralt said. Then he remembered his hip, and half-sat up, pulling his trousers down slightly.

The word 'WOFL' stared back at him. Geralt blinked stickily. He scrubbed at his skin. Then he snarled.

“Lambert, you fucking ass!”

“What?” Lambert rolled over. “What did I do? I gave you a wolf!”

“Who the fuck taught you how to spell, you clod?” Geralt licked his thumb and scrubbed at the tattoo, which didn't budge.

Eskel began to laugh. His handlebar moustache creased as he doubled over, the thunder of his cackling filling the room. “Oh, that's too good.”

“You did.” Lambert said, huffily. “You taught me how to spell, you and Eskel.”

“Fuck me.” Geralt flopped back onto the mattress. Then he laughed, too; the three of them giggled like teenagers, stupid and hungover and variously inked.

“C'mon, fellow wofls,” Eskel said, “let's go fry something in too much butter for breakfast.”

[thearvariblues]

The Bard and The Wolf - Chapter Three

(AKA Geraskier in the Metal Band AU you didn’t know you needed)

Just to catch you all up before I post the next chapter. In this one, Jaskier gets drunk and does something incredibly stupid. You go, Jaskier!

You can also fins this fic on AO3 if you want.

The masterpost for this fic can be found HERE

3 – When a Humble Bard...

It was a bad idea to check the comments before the rehearsal ended. It was a bad idea to check the comments at all, as he realized the moment he did it.

“Oh, cock,” he muttered, staring at the little screen. “Well. I know I said it was gonna be a shitstorm… but this is even worse than I expected.”

Renfri raised her head from her guitar and Geralt stopped fidgeting with his microphone. “What is it?” the man asked and turned his impossible amber eyes to Jaskier.

“Oh, nothing. The jury is in,” Jaskier smirked. “Apparently I’m just a common twink who’s forced Yennefer out of the band, slept my way in, and I’m not even worthy of licking her boots, let alone taking her place. And that’s one of the kinder comments.”

He blinked. He won’t cry, he just won’t. He knew it was going to be hard, that Kaer Morhen’s usual audience wouldn’t exactly welcome him with open arms, but… This was really bad. Really fucking bad.

He sighed and shook his head.

“Right. I suppose that’s it, then. It was a nice experiment, but you should probably find a… female singer.”

“Give it to me,” Geralt growled and snatched Jaskier’s phone from his hand. “It can’t be that… Fuck.”

“Basically,” Jaskier sighed.

“Can I see?” Ciri asked.

“No way!” said Jaskier and Geralt in unison.

“Oh, hell,” Renfri muttered, taking a look at her own phone. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how you spell fairy… And who the hell even uses the word fairy anymore?!”

“Our fans, obviously,” Lambert muttered, looking over Renfri’s shoulder. “Jesus. They’re vicious. I mean… I don’t even want people like that to be our fans, does it make sense?”

“Geralt?” Eskel said, and all the eyes in the room turned to the white-haired singer who looked like he was about to crush Jaskier’s phone to pieces.

“I really didn’t want to do this,” he sighed. “But I guess there’s no avoiding it, right? Fine. Fine. I’m gonna call Yennefer. Tomorrow.”

Jaskier felt himself nodding, but it was as if the body belonged to someone else. He couldn’t believe what was happening – for the second time in a fucking week. And of course it was. This had been a crazy idea from the very start. But he allowed himself to believe that it would work out in the end, because he clicked so amazingly with the band…

“Jaskier,” he heard Geralt say to him. “Jask.”

He blinked and tried to focus.

“What?”

Did Geralt seriously just call him Jask?

“I’m not gonna call her to come back. You will leave this band over my dead body. But Yennefer is a PR expert, and it was her who took care of our social media,” Geralt sighed. “What? Did you think I would beg her to come back just because a bunch of assholes on Facebook want me to? Yeah, if someone’s only reason to come and see our band was an opportunity to stare at my ex-wife’s tits, well… good riddance.”

“My words,” Renfri nodded. “Don’t worry, buttercup. We’ll sort this out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Jaskier sighed. “Would you… Would you mind if I… I’d really like to go home, if I could. I’m not in the mood for… Just not in the mood.”

“Jaskier,” Ciri said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. But I’d like to be alone tonight, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Geralt nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you the plan. Okay?”

“Right. Thanks,” Jaskier said and managed a tiny smile. “You’re a dear heart.”

He quickly started to pack his things, so no one would notice his trembling hands.

*

One hour and three glasses of gin and tonic later, he made a decision.

He sat up on his couch and tried to find a tiny voice of reason, the last remnants of his sobriety, just something that would stop him from doing what he was about to do – but to no avail.

His laptop was lying on the coffee table and he opened it and went to make more gin and tonic.

This was either an absolutely brilliant idea, or a truly terrible one.

Well, he was going to find out soon enough…

*

Geralt was having a really shitty morning. He couldn’t sleep at night. He was mad at their so-called fans for being so mean to Jaskier. (Seriously, how could they? Geralt knew Jaskier wasn’t exactly the type that screamed metal singer, but he was so sweet – being mean to him was like kicking a puppy, for fuck’s sake!) He was mad because thanks to them, he would now have to call Yennefer – and he’d promised himself that this time, he would stay away from her as much as possible.

He was mad at himself, because maybe he should have listened to the band and Ciri. Perhaps if he was in the photo with Jask…

“Geralt! Geralt!” yelled a voice, and then Renfri barged into the kitchen, holding a tablet in her hand. It startled Geralt so much that he dropped his coffee mug in his lap. Luckily, the coffee was already getting cold, but his morning got much shittier nevertheless.

“What is it?” he growled.

“Look what I’ve just found – and guess where? On our very own Facebook page, shared by us!”

“Great. But what is it?”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt… It’s a video, can’t you see? From Youtube.”

“What video?” Geralt frowned.

“Jesus Christ, what have I done to you...” Renfri sighed and tapped on the screen.

*

The video started with Jaskier sitting on his couch, wearing the same black trousers, black T-shirt and vest he’d been wearing to the rehearsal the day before. His hair was all ruffled, his face was flushed and he was smiling stupidly.

He was so cute Geralt had to bite his lip so he wouldn’t smile himself.

“Hello, hello,” Jaskier said. “My dearest… Witchlings? Witchitas? Witch… Witcherlings! Yeah, that sounds great. Hello, my dearest Witcherlings. As you may have noticed, this is Jaskier, the brand new singer of your beloved Kaer Morhen.”

Idiot, Geralt thought. They already hate you, and you go and call them “Witcherlings”?

“You’re probably thinking: Christ, is he drunk?” Jaskier went on. “And no, I am not. I’m merely slightly tipsy. The important difference is that when you’re tipsy, you’re able to post stupid videos of you yourself, but when you’re drunk, you need other people to do it for you. But since I am indeed on my way to drunk, we should probably hurry this up a little. Cheers to you, my dears.”

Jaskier raised his glass full of some clear, sparkling liquid. Geralt had no idea what it was, but it definitely wasn’t water.

“Now,” Jaskier said, taking a sip from his glass. “I think we can start this with a little AMA session. Here on my… trusty phone, I have a few questions you guys have posted on our Facebook, and I’m going to try and answer them now. Question number one: Where did they even dig out this pretentious twink? Well, I could object to being called a twink, since I’m definitely too old and tall and fat for that, but whatever. The answer is, they found me on the pavement outside their rehearsal room. I mean, I was standing there, I was having a shitty day, Geralt and Renfri saw me, invited me in for a drink, I played a few funny songs for the band and Geralt’s daughter Ciri, and then I went home. The next thing I know, Geralt calls me that they’re looking for a new singer, and they want the singer to be me. So, to sum it up… The pretentious not-twink is basically a stray they found on the street. Funny, eh?”

This time, Geralt didn’t even try to stop his smile.

“Question number two!” Jaskier announced. “Does this twink – holy shit, I really need to change my style, don’t I? – really think he can replace the sexiness that is Yennefer? Answer – no, I don’t. I could never fit in her dress. But I can buy my own dress if you insist. I’ll do it, if it makes you more comfortable. If you want to see some cleavage on stage, I mean, I can totally give you that!”

He pulled the neckline of his T-shirt a little lower to show more of his plentiful chest hair and Geralt could hear Renfri snort.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Jaskier muttered. “By the way, guys, I swear this is not some tiny, helpless animal I’ve taped to my chest, it’s, unfortunately, all me. Right, question number three. So you wanna tell me they kicked out our feminist queen Yennefer, only to fill her place with some half-brained male… Come on, guys, there’s so many more insults than twink! Be original! I mean, you could say twat, cock, moron, idiot, milksop… Be imaginative! But back to the question. As far as I know, Yennefer wasn’t kicked out, she wasn’t forced to leave, it was her decision, and hers alone. She left the band, she wasn’t interested in coming back, they needed a new singer.”

Jaskier shrugged and took a mouthful of his drink.

“I mean… Come on, I was as shocked as you are when Geralt called me they wanted… me. Because… Yeah. I’m not a gal, that much is obvious. In fact, I was convinced that it was just a stupid joke, but no. And truth is, I guess we just… We just clicked. With the band, I mean. They’re dear hearts, all of them. Eskel, he’s a great guy, a great musician. Lambert, he’s… Yeah, Lambert’s a dick, but a dick you can’t help but like, you know? Renfri, oh, my dear darling Renfri. She’s a total sweetheart, always supportive, and if you can trust what Geralt says, she’s one of the main reasons why I ended up being in the band. And Geralt? Oh, our grumpy wolf who mainly communicates in grunts. You can never be sure what he really thinks, but he took me with him to his D&D group, he didn’t kill me during the evening, and he even saved my poor little bard’s life! That means something, guys!”

Geralt grunted and rolled his eyes. Renfri chuckled.

“Right, where was I?” Jaskier frowned. “Oh, question number… was it four or five? Never mind. Guys, do you think Geralt’s gonna sleep with this little cocksucker – see, you can be more original with your insults! – as he did with Yennefer? Oh, yeah, absolutely. Just because I’m bisexual – yes, that’s right, I swing my lute both ways – and so is Geralt, we’re definitely gonna bang.”

“Oh dear God,” Renfri whispered as Geralt groaned and closed his eyes. “He’s just outed you.”

“Question number… The last question,” Jaskier continued. “Whose cock did he have to suck to even get in? Well, everyone in the band, of course. Renfri included. We’re all here for equal opportunities, right? But I might have done Geralt twice, I admit. Just to make absolutely sure I’d get in, you know?”

He winked at the camera and finished his drink.

“But let’s get real now, guys,” he sighed. “I get it that some of you… well, most of you aren’t sure about this whole… change. To be honest, I’m not completely convinced myself. We’ve only just started rehearsing, and we’ve got a gig next week and I’ve been freaking out ever since they told me about it! But I know I already love them all, I love playing with them, and I really want to try to make it work. So I’m only asking you to give me a chance to convince you that I’m good. That I really fit in with the band, even though I love bright colors and weird music and quirky accessories and I honestly don’t think Manowar are any good...”

“Do you think he knows you hate Manowar with a burning passion?” Renfri asked.

“Shut up,” Geralt growled.

“And I gotta tell you,” Jaskier went on. “This band is just awesome for my creativity. I swear that I haven’t been this inspired for months, maybe even years. I’m already working on a new song, and I’ve got those… snippets and bits of others lying all around, see?” He lifted a piece of paper with a few lines and a drawing of a wolf on it. “And you know what? I could play you that song I’m working on, what do you think? It’s inspired by that evening Geralt took me with him to his D&D group. Wait a second.”

He jumped up, knelt on the couch and bent over the backrest. His T-shirt rode up and Geralt could clearly see the hem of bright purple underwear poke out from underneath Jaskier’s pants. He heard Renfri snort once again.

Then Jaskier straightened and promptly sat back. Geralt expected him to hold a guitar, but boy, he was wrong.

“Yeah, it’s a lute,” Jaskier grinned. “And yeah, I can totally play it. And I’m gonna play you a song about the time my darling, innocent bard met the mighty White Wolf. I start alone, like this...”

He took a deep breath and began to sing.

“When a humble bard

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

Along came this song

When the White Wolf fought

A silver tongued devil

His army of elves

At his hooves did they revel

They came after me

With masterful deceit

Broke down my lute

And they kicked in my teeth

While the devil's horns

Minced our tender meat

And so cried the Witcher...”

Jaskier opened the eyes he’d closed… When exactly? Geralt had no idea.

“And this is when Geralt joins in, with that mighty growl of his, going...” Jaskier scowled and changed his voice to a deep growl: “He can't be bleat!”

“That was good,” Renfri muttered. “If you ever piss us off–”

“Shut up.”

“And then,” Jaskier continued. “We sing the chorus together, and it goes like this…

Toss a coin to your Witcher

Oh, valley of plenty

Oh, valley of plenty, oh

Toss a coin to your Witcher

Oh, valley of plenty...”

Jaskier stopped playing then, and laughed.

“And that’s all I’ve got so far, I’m afraid. Consider this an exclusive preview, since you’re the very first people to hear this song. So far, I’ve only played it for the spider that lives above my fridge, and he’s even worse at giving his opinions than Geralt is. I really hope you liked this song and that I haven’t made you start hating me more than you already did. And since I’m out of my gin and tonic, let’s wrap this up, so I can go and make more. Farewell, my dearest Witcherlings. I love you all.”

Geralt kept staring at the screen for quite a few seconds after the video had ended. He would have kept staring for much longer, but Renfri decided to whistle right next to his ear.

“Wow,” she said. “That was… something.”

“Yes. Something,” Geralt muttered. “Gods above.”

“Any idea how it got posted to our page?” Renfri asked.

“I thought it was your doing,” Geralt frowned. “But no, it doesn’t make sense. You were as surprised as I was.”

“Definitely wasn’t Eskel,” Renfri continued. “He’s got trouble switching his smartphone on.”

“Lambert could have done it.”

“He would have called you first, dying of laughter.”

“Well, that only leaves… Fuck,” Geralt muttered, rising to his feet. “Cirilla! Cirilla, get up and get your ass over here, now!”

*

Jaskier was having quite a lovely dream. He was running through a meadow full of wildflowers, laughing, singing, the birds were chirping and bees were buzzing around him…

He scowled and scrunched up his nose.

No, it wasn’t the buzzing of the bees, it was something… something else…

He raised his head from the pillow and moaned. An angry dwarf was busily banging the inside of his skull with a tiny hammer. The room was spinning around him. And the buzzing just wouldn’t stop…

“Aw, cock,” he muttered, blindly reaching for his phone. That, that was the source of the irritating sound. He grabbed it and cracked one eye open.

Geralt. Oh, no. The video. Oh, fucking hell, no...

The phone stopped vibrating, but started again in a few seconds.

Jaskier took a deep breath and answered it.

“Hello,” he said, desperately trying to sound cheerful and not like he was about to throw up any second. “How is my favorite white wolf doing today?”

“Your favorite white wolf sincerely hopes you’ve got the worst hangover of your life, and if you happened to die from it, I wouldn’t object.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said.

“If you mean Ah, so you’ve seen it then, the answer is yes, I have.”

“Look, Geralt, I can explain...”

“Explain why you didn’t wait for me to contact Yennefer to sort this mess for us? Explain why did you send the link to the video to my daughter to share it for you?”

“Oh, I hope you weren’t mean to Ciri. She only did it because she loves me so much. And she thought it was funny.”

“I wasn’t mean to her, I’m saving that for you. By the way, do you realize you outed me?”

“I what?!” Jaskier yelled and sat up. Which was a mistake, as his stomach immediately betrayed him. He dropped his phone and sprinted to the bathroom.

*

“Jaskier?” Geralt said to the phone, but from the other side, he heard nothing but silence. “Jask!”

“What happened?” Renfri frowned.

“I think he may have died for real,” Geralt muttered. “Jask?”

“He’s probably just hugging the toilet very tight,” Renfri chuckled.

“He sounded like shit. I should go and check if he’s alright.”

“I think he’ll live, Geralt. He may wish he didn’t, but he will.”

“It won’t do the band any good if one of your singers dies of alcohol poisoning,” Ciri said.

“Nah. He would have already been dead,” Renfri replied.

“I’ll go and check on him,” Geralt sighed. “Ciri’s right. He’s an idiot, something could happen to him.”

“I didn’t say he was an idiot...”

“And how do you even know where he lives?” Renfri asked.

“I dropped him off after D&D. Stop it with the eyebrows, Renfri! I know the building he lives in. I have no idea what his real name is, so–”

“Pankratz,” Ciri peeped. “Julian Pankratz.”

“I’m not gonna ask how you know that,” Geralt sighed. “But thanks.”

“I could go with you,” Ciri offered.

“No way in hell, Cirilla. Renfri, will you take care of her while I’m away?”

“Yeah, sure,” Renfri shrugged.

“Excuse me, I don’t need anyone to–”

“And remember, no phone and no computer, Cirilla. I’ll be back as soon as I make sure the idiot’s gonna survive.”

“Don’t forget to change your pants!” Renfri called. “You wouldn’t want him to see you with your lap full of coffee stains!”

Geralt grunted and strode out of the living room in a way that made Renfri almost feel sorry for Jaskier.

Yeah… almost.

“Well, that was that,” Renfri smirked. “What do the comments say, by the way?”

Continue with Chapter Four