#'This is a job... for Vesemir!' Lambert you are so fucking stupid I love you

[teatitty]

Thinking about that scene in TW3 when Lambert puts on Vesemir's hat and does the goofiest impression of him ever this is how you know he's the youngest of the wolf bros

#the witcher books #the witcher 3 #he looks so stupid in it and it always makes me giggle #the hat looks way too big on him and I can't tell if thats bc of the overall style #or if its proof that vesemir has a bigger head asertert #'This is a job... for Vesemir!' Lambert you are so fucking stupid I love you

[yenn-atreides]

Like a flame (a Witcher story) - part IV

Pairing: Lambert x F! Mage reader

Warnings: mild swearing, Lambchop being Lambchop

Genre: fluff, angst, h/c

Read the previous parts here:

‘Y/N, can we talk?’

‘Piss off, Lambert…’ you muttered under your breath as you filled your bowl with stew.

‘What did he do?’ Geralt asked, his brow knitted into a frown.

‘Leave it alone.’ Eskel huffed, clearly regretting what he did.

‘I’ll tell you what he did, Geralt.’ you said. ‘Lambert here, got himself hurt on purpose so he could be the centre of attention.’

‘What!?’ Coën shouted, ‘Are you mental?’

You all sat down around the same table and Lambert made sure to sit opposite of you, he was desperate.

‘Idiot.’ Geralt grunted and hit the back of Lambert's head which caused the ginger witcher to curse under his breath.

‘Why would you do such a thing?’ Vesemir asked, he wondered whether his youngest son has lost his mind. Lambert didn’t answer and just kept trying to make eye contact with you.

‘He wanted to spend time with her.’ Eskel said, which caused Geralt and Coën to snort.

‘Yes and you helped him.’ you snarled, making sure the others knew he was complicit.

‘Unbelievable…’ Geralt grunted.

‘Exactly.’ you said and glanced over to meet Lambert’s keen amber eyes. They made you feel weak and caused your cheeks to flush but you kept a deadly glare. Your eyes could have burst anyone into spontaneous flames, and Lambert looked broken when he saw your fiery gaze.

‘And you still helped him, or who tended to him??’ Coën asked.

‘He couldn’t stitch it up himself, so yes.’

‘You’re soft.’ Geralt said and rolled his eyes.

‘Can’t we just leave it behind, princess? I told you I’m sorry…’ Lambert tried.

‘Don’t call me princess.’ you spat and angrily spooned some horrible stew into your mouth.

‘’You are both so stubborn!’ Coën sighed.

‘And you are all as stupid as you’re tall!’ you yelled and left. The food was disgusting and you didn’t feel like eating so you were more than glad to escape. You were absolutely livid, but also more attracted to Lambert than ever. You hated yourself for it, and even though he was an idiot and too horny for words, you still loved him.

———————————————————————

You had spent some time with Sage and Roach and it was already late when you came back inside. You had managed to slip out without anyone noticing so Geralt and Vesemir - the only ones who were still in the hall, were surprised to see you.

‘Y/N, what are you doing still up?’ Vesemir asked, ‘I thought you had gone to bed.’

‘I was with Roach and Sage.’ you said with a thin smile. ‘I gave them hay and water so don’t bother going out again.’ you added.

‘Hm.’ Geralt grunted, ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s fine. At least they don’t vex me.’ you huffed.

‘Lambert is sorry, you know.’ the white-haired witcher said, ‘He’s an arse but at least he’s sorry.’

‘That’s something…’ you said.

‘It’s a start.’ Vesemir smiled kindly.

‘Night.’ you said and walked towards the stairs. You crossed the laboratory and saw the mortar standing in the exact spot where you had put it down before Lambert. The leaves and twigs were only roughly crushed and just a few strips of cloth had disappeared. He had done a terrible job at patching himself up it seemed, too bad for him.

You walked up the stairs and saw Lambert standing in the hall, about to enter his room. He hadn’t seen you yet, and he was grabbing at his shoulder with a grunt: he was in pain.

‘I can hear your heartbeat, little witch.’ he said and turned around to meet you with a little smile. He tried his best to hide his agony but it was no use.

‘You’re hurting.’ you said with a calm tone.

‘Yes…’

‘And do you know whose fault that is?’

‘Yours, because you left me untended to.’ he snorted.

‘Fuck’s sake…’ you moaned and sped up to go to your room, you didn’t want to see him anymore.

‘I was only having fun, I’m sorry.’, he was almost stuttering now.

‘I know you’re sorry, but just let me be. I’ve had enough of you.’ you said, your voice had a slight bend in it. It made you feel ashamed, he could not, under any circumstances, find out that you pitied him. That was your problem: you yearned for him, you wanted him so badly it hurt. You walked past him and your side brushed him, and suddenly you felt his hand on your arm.

‘Please…, you can’t stay mad at me. No one can.’

‘You think you’re so irresistible, don’t you?’ you yelled. ‘And I definitely can, watch me.’. He was right, he was impossible to ignore. You opened your door and heard a ‘Night, Y/N.’ before you slammed it shut.

#witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #the witcher #toss a coin to your witcher #witcher geralt #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yenneferthewitcher #the cavillry #henry william dalgliesh cavill #henry cavill #lambchops #netflix lambert #lambert x reader #witcher lambert #witcher imagine #vesemir #witcher coen #kaer morons #kaer morhen #cirilla of cintra

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall. 

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume. 

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity. 

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?” 

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger. 

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare. 

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement. 

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

#geraskier #sickfic #geraskier sickfic #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #jaskier whump #winter at kaer morhen #wifey's prompts #comfy's prompts #anything for you boo #geraskier fluffiness #geraskier ficlet

[witchersjaskier]

For your Geraskier prompts!

I crave Jaskier and Geralt rough housing each other and everyone around them scared that Geralt is going to break this little bard but surprise Jaskier ends up breaking Geralts finger/arm/nose/anything.

(Could lead to Jaskier freaking out and taking care of Geralt as he laughs because it’s already healing)

“You fucking bastard!” the bard calls and throws himself at Geralt, surprisingly taking him down.

Vesemir would be more concerned if this wasn’t yet another time this happened, so he just settles down to watch Geralt and the bard roughhouse on the floor of the dining hall. Lambert and Eskel are halfway up from their seats, probably worried about the human, but he just shakes his head.

Jaskier, for all his frilly stupid clothes, can hold his own. Or well, hold Geralt downs.

It comes down to the familiarity with each others bodies and the bard seems to be a master of Geralt’s, knowing where to hit and dig his fingers in, finding weak spots and badly healed bones. Geralt is growing and Jaskier is laughing and a chair gets thrown across the room, making Vesemir sigh.

“Not my fucking doublet, you brute!”

Geralt laughs, a rare sound, and Jaskier growls, yanking at his hair until the Witcher lets go and he can weasel away, kicking Geralt in the side. The roll around happily, bruises already forming, curse words flying all around.

Eskel and Lamber just look shocked, though Vesemir isn’t sure if it’s Geralt’s laughter or the fact that the bard isn’t losing badly in a few seconds. Jaskier isn’t as strong as a Witcher but he’s fast and capable, twisting from Geralt’s grip, using his enhances senses against him, humming the whole time.

“How the fuck he ain’t already dead?” Lambert asks in a shocked whisper and Vesemir just smirks, taking a sip of his ale.

Geralt and Jaskier are now against a wall and the bard is holding a broken chair leg, digging it into Geralt’s left hip where a particularly large scar sits. The Witcher growls and throws his bard across the room, into the loose hay that lays there. They burst out laughing and Jaskier comes barging at the Witcher again, legs wrapped around his waist.

Vesemir catches the small kiss the bard presses against Geralt’s jaw and it’s enough to distract him for a second. Jaskier uses that time wisely, sending them to the floor and trying to pin him down.

It works almost too well because a small crack sounds in the air and they both freeze.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier whispers, scrambling from Geralt’s back. “Show me!”

The Witcher is rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing, will heal soon,” he grumbles but lets the bard look.

“I can’t believe you let me break your finger, Geralt!” Jaskier yells, though there’s laugher in his voice. Lambert and Eskel are chuckling already, probably thinking about holding this incident over Geralt’s head for decades to come, and Vesemir rolls his eyes.

“Good job, bard,” he calls, making them both snort.

It’s not the first of their little playfights and he doubts it’ll be the last, but it’s always entertaining to watch a bright bard pin his strongest son to the ground. Oh, the power of love.

#witcher #the witcher #jaskier #geralt #vesemir #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #kaer morhen #they're best friends and lovers your honor #sorry it's so late but #life

[witcher-trash]

Weekly (?) Witcher Fic Recs 11

Bubblegum and Botticelli (aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k) The security guard lounging against the wall pops his gum obnoxiously, smirking at Aiden’s scowl. “I thought they paid you off?” Aiden asks. “Oh sure,” the guard agrees, “new Ecosse drives like a dream. Thanks for that.” In which Aiden is a professional with a job to do and is under no circumstances going to fuck the security guard.

Dungeons and Dandelions (geralt/jaskier, mature, complete, 3k) Geralt and Jaskier need to get their shit together. They've been best friends since elementary school and they're clearly in love with each other. They just won't do anything about it.

Every Now And Then I Fall Apart (Ivo of Belhaven/Junod of Belhaven, mature, complete, 2k) When Ivo has a bad day and falls into his old damaging habits again, he finds unexpected help in a stranger.

If I Could Save Time In A Bottle (eskel-centric, teen, complete, 1k) Eskel spends some time taking contracts in Skellige in 1269. One brings up some memories he'd rather be spending time forgetting.

I love a good... (eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k) An evening of stitch and bitch. A risque encounter in the back of a car. Some softness and conversation afterwards.

Kneel (eskel/lambert, explicit, complete, 2k) Eskel had seen him around. The lean, bitchy witcher that spat in the face of all their institutions and traditions like he was better than all of them. He’d chewed out every instructor and loudly disparaged the brotherhood while eating from their shared table, drinking their ale, sleeping under their roof. The only time the little bastard ever fell silent was when Vesemir stepped into the grand hall, and even then silent was a generous description. Every witcher three tables over could hear Lambert’s whispered remarks. He might as well have stood on the bench and bellowed it so everyone could hear. Or: Eskel confuses jealousy with contempt and Lambert introduces him to his mile-wide humiliation kink.

Rain, Wind, and Other Things Best Avoided (aiden/lambert, teen, complete, 3k) “So Geralt went and did something stupid again.” Because every romance needs a lot of wine and a little hope.

When the Sunset Fell Into the Ocean (aiden/lambert, mature, complete, 3k) Lambert returns to his last day with Aiden again and again, never sure how to fix things.

#lamden #geraskier #eskel/lambert #the witcher #ivo/junod #geralt of rivia #aiden #lambert #eskel #jaskier #ivo #junod #fic recs

[wolf-and-bard]

Jotastic?! Who suggested Eskel got the spikes on his shoulder? Was it a monster inspiring him? Or did someone suggest? Or did he see this really canon-age-punk kid and got inspired?

Pandawesome! 💕 Because the last one turned out soft, this had to turn out sad, I'm sorry!!! I hope you like it anyway...

cw: angst, mentions of trial-related trauma, (possibly) unrequited feelings

---

Nights You Don't Remember (M, ~1.6k)

Eskel sits alone at breakfast, the other trainees around him merry and joyous as they chat about the upcoming day. He doesn’t have much to add, doesn’t want to do anything else than quietly eat his porridge. He knows the masters worry about him, think he’s behind in his development, but Eskel still needs time to process all this.

Kaer Morhen.

The witchers.

His newfound future.

At six, those concepts seem rather insurmountable.

Eskel sits alone at breakfast until someone slides into the seat opposite him and catches his attention with a wave so that Eskel looks up from his spoon, wary.

"You like crafts, don't you?" the boy says, cocking his head. His hair falls in long strands of orange-red so bright Eskel has a hard time looking at him for long. He doesn’t know the boy’s name even though they are so similar everyone in the keep remarked on it the day Eskel arrived.

"How," Eskel asks, then breaks off and shakes his head. The boy exposes a gap-toothed smile, and presses a lump of rock into Eskel's free hand. It's cool and smooth and Eskel is almost certain there is some metallic component to it. That much he remembers from his father's workshop, how to distinguish ore from plain rock. "How did you figure?" he finally manages.

"I saw you whittle a toy knight from wood and give it to one of the younger pups," the boy says, a little sheepish.

Eskel must know his name. They are in the same cohort, they have been attending the same classes. He's only been at Kaer Morhen for a month or so, but his memory is usually so sharp. Why can’t he remember?

"... I also overheard Master Vesemir ask you about the quality of your practice sword and you seemed to know a lot about that, so I thought... well it might be stupid anyway." Red creeps into the boy's impossibly freckle-speckled cheeks as he looks away, and Eskel's lip twitches.

"What's your name again?"

"Geralt."

"Thank you for this, Geralt, I know just the thing to make with it."

Geralt's head whips back around and his grin bursts anew. He gives the rock in Eskel's hand a pat, then skips away to where Master Rennes is collecting their class for their early history lessons. Eskel lets Geralt's unexpected gift slip into his pocket and gets up to follow him.

---

That night, Geralt and Eskel sneak out of the dormitories to search the sky for shooting stars. They find none, but in the way only young children can form attachments, they have become the best of friends by the next morning. Nothing will ever come between them, Eskel thinks once he's back in bed, the rock cradled close to his chest.

---

Eskel is afraid. He is so fucking afraid of the Trials, for his own life, for Geralt's, for everyone in their cohort. He is also afraid of what will come after, what life will be like. He knows the theory of it, he will make a good witcher his masters say, but reality looms greater than any beast or monster could and Eskel is afraid.

"I have something for you," Geralt says when he approaches Eskel out on the training grounds where he's been sparring with the dummy. It's the evening before.

"Hm?" Eskel puts down his sword and wipes the sweat from his brow. His stomach gapes with hunger, his body burns from all the effort he's been putting it through, just to get his mind off things, his heart is beating way too fast. Something the Trials will remedy, no doubt.

"Here." Geralt holds out his cupped hands which hold a great, grey ball of... rock. The very same rock Eskel still has on his nightstand. Eskel blinks, then bursts into laughter. "Hey, don't laugh at me. It's to help..."

"How is this going to help me survive the Grasses?" Eskel asks, but he takes the rock and he also takes Geralt's hand because he can.

"Well, I just thought... you might need some more. For whenever you decide what to do with it. It could be your activity while you... recover."

"Oh," is all Eskel says and Geralt squeezes his hand.

"Wanna spar?"

"Sure." The rock disappears into Eskel's pocket and they fight until day's first light.

----

Eskel holds the rock clutched tightly to his chest all throughout the Grasses and none of the masters have the heart to take it away from him, not when he starts screaming for Geralt the second they do.

He holds it throughout his recovery and throughout Geralt’s second set of Trials. He holds it until he muscles in his fingers give out and all he can do is lay there and wait.

---

"We made it," Geralt says as he slips into Eskel's bed. His hair is starkly white now, and his eyes burn a fierce yellow. His freckles have faded to invisibility. Eskel can't stand to look at him, can't stand to look at reflective surfaces either. They took away his Geralt, he is sure of it, burned him out of his body and left a bleached shell.

"You made it twice," Eskel murmurs and jumps when something cool is pressed into his palm. He glances down to find that Geralt has placed yet another rock there. The collection is growing. "Why?"

"Because they make you happy."

"Where do you get these anyway?"

They're not like anything Eskel has found in and around Kaer Morhen, nor even near it. He would recognize a proper ore, he is sure of it, even after all this time.

"A secret," Geralt says on a smile and snuggles into Eskel's side. He needs the comfort, the warmth, the affection. Geralt puts on a strong front, but Eskel can see right through it. Two Grasses should have reduced anyone to a lifeless husk and here Geralt is, still bringing Eskel those stones.

Maybe they didn't kill his Geralt after all. Maybe Eskel is the one that got lost.

---

The fourth rock appears magically in Eskel's backpack after his first successful hunt. Not immediately after, but within the week. Eskel treasures that one the most, but he also resents it. If Geralt could drop by to give him the gift, couldn't he have also said hello? Given Eskel a hug?

Eskel's been aware of his budding feelings for his brother-in-arms for a while now. He feels every day spent apart as keenly as a Nekker bite, though these dull with time.

Geralt... doesn't seem to mind so much.

---

Their thirtieth birthday is the last one they celebrate. It's an arbitrary date they picked, way back when, and they always do it together. Always did, anyway. They promise each other - drunk on ale and swaying arm in arm to whatever shanty Lambert and his friends are hollering through the keep's main hall - that they won't need such a stupid thing as birthdays to be grateful for each other's existence. That they'll stop counting the years behind them.

Eskel doesn't want to disregard the past, but he nods along.

"To the next thirty years and whatever lies beyond," Geralt says and slips his hand into Eskel's pocket. When he withdraws, the fabric of his breeches pull down, heavy with whatever Geralt placed in there. "Happy birthday, Eskel." Geralt briefly bumps their foreheads together, then withdraws to chase Lambert away from the ale barrel.

Eskel squeezes his eyes shut and his hands clench into fists, one as it is, one around the object in his pocket.

It's not just the last birthday they celebrate, it is also the last bit of ore Geralt will ever give him.

---

"What are those," Geralt laughs when they part after their mandatory welcome-hug, and points at the spikes that adorn Eskel's jacket. They weren't there last winter, and Eskel wasted an entire month on crafting them, perfecting them. Each one shaped out of the dozen or so rocks Geralt gave him over the years, that last one now half a century past, and Eskel finally decided what to make with them.

Eskel opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt cuts him off before he can.

"These look like something Dandelion would put on his doublet and call it fashion."

Eskel's heart plummets. There are a million things he could say, he could explain, could confess, could... well. It would only make Geralt feel bad, wouldn't it?

"I, uh," he starts, then swallows hard, and Geralt's brow rises. "I did a job for a blacksmith who fancied himself a designer. He... insisted."

"They seem pretty useless to me," Geralt replies, then runs his fingers across them. "But I suppose that is beside the point."

I hate you, Eskel thinks then. I hate you for ever bringing me this damned material, I hate you.

I love you, Eskel thinks also. I love you for the way you used to think of me, I love you.

"At least not as useless as whatever Lambert's got going on," he says and that makes Geralt chuckle. He draws an arm around Eskel's shoulder, carefully avoiding the spikes, and together they make for the keep.

---

Eskel doesn't have the heart to pluck them off again. Not when he spent so much effort making them. He wears them as a reminder, and sheds them only on the day he leaves Kaer Morhen behind for the last time.

#the witcher #tw3 #eskel #geralt #gerskel #kaer morhen #vesemir #rennes #lambert #angst #cw trauma #trials #this got way too long for it being the background of eskel's armor spikes BUT i felt it was important to elaborate #also probably too emotional #sorryyyyy #brain wanted pain #unrequited feelings #don't look at the timeline too too closely

[reinvent-and-believe]

Hi :) Dialogue prompt 44, Eskel + Geralt?

Dialogue prompt 44 - “I still remember the way you taste”

Wow anon. You get me. You really get me.

Firstly, what a perfect prompt. Secondly, sorry it took me 2+ months to actually write it! And thirdly...I added Jaskier. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ask for that, I can’t keep him away. Geralt/Eskel is still the primary focus here, but in the context of established Geraskier and with Jaskier still very much involved. This accidentally turned into something like 7.5K of Jaskier and Eskel soft-domming the hell out of Geralt. So, uh...enjoy?

CW: rough sex/soft feelings, undernegotiated kink, nonexplicit references to teenage sexuality, brief discussions of internalized homophobia

—

“Really should be playing for coin.” Geralt grins as he clears his cards after his second victory of the night and shuffles his Nilfgaardian deck.

Eskel curses under his breath.

The witchers sit in a pair of ancient wingback chairs with worn, faded upholstery that might have been crimson in a former life, drawn close to the hearth, a small end table between them holding their Gwent cards and pints of mead. Jaskier sits perched on the arm of Geralt’s chair, his legs draped casually across his lover’s lap as he brushes soft white hair through his long fingers, humming softly to himself.

“Wiping the floor with me like that is its own reward.” It’s a grumble, but a good-natured one. Most everything Eskel does is good-natured, from what Jaskier’s seen. He appreciates that about the witcher.

It’s a fairly usual night at Kaer Morhen.

Well, as usual as a night at Kaer Morhen can be. After years of only vague, grunted acknowledgements of wintering in the mountains, Jaskier had been shocked and delighted at Geralt’s unexpected invitation when beset by an early first frost traveling through Kaedwen. “Winter’ll come before you reach Oxenfurt,” he’d justified brusquely, mindlessly tracing circles into the warm skin of Jaskier’s back as they huddled together on the inn’s musty straw pallet, but when the bard kissed him softly and told him he’d be delighted to see his home, the deep wrinkles on his forehead relaxed into something open, peaceful. They arrived a few weeks later, just before the snow drifts made the mountain pass nigh unbreachable.

Just being in these cold halls, rich with history and joy and pain, feels akin to the unsettling mystery of watching someone observe a religious sacrament, something Jaskier can only view from the outside, can never truly understand. But after upwards of a month sequestered in the remote keep, they’ve established something of a routine. Vesemir retires to the library after dinner most evenings. Every four or five days, Lambert gets restless and disappears into the surrounding mountains to hunt for a few nights.

(The first time Jaskier had been mortified, sure that he’d driven him away. “It’s just Lambert,” Geralt reassured him. “Bastard’s not well socialized.”

“And you know it’s bad, coming from Geralt,” Eskel added, but there’s nothing but fondness in his genial smirk.)

So most nights it’s the three of them whiling away the hours before retiring to their chambers. Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind; while Geralt clearly cares a great deal for Vesemir and Lambert, it’s only when they’re alone with Eskel that Geralt’s guard seems to vanish entirely. They catch up on jobs they worked throughout the year, drink together, occasionally reference shared history, although always briefly. In his years of friendship with Geralt and the years of something more, Jaskier has always been the one to keep the conversation going, an unending prattle that Geralt rarely interrupts, but here, Jaskier finds himself listening more often than not, observing the quiet, unassuming intimacy between the two witchers. Here within the walls of Kaer Morhen, here in Eskel’s warmth, Geralt is loose and comfortable and safe in a way Jaskier has rarely seen him in over a decade spent together on the Path.

Jaskier smiles at Eskel, a little too brightly, perhaps, but he doesn’t mind. He’s far from drunk, but between Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist, the easy comfort of Eskel’s presence, the roaring fire before them and the honey-sweet mead, he feels pleasantly warm all over. “Eskel,” he starts as the witchers draw for another round, “you’ve known Geralt longer than anyone else in the world. Well, Vesemir excepted, of course.”

He hums in affirmation. “S’pose so. What about it?”

“That being the case, I think it only fair that you indulge me in some dirt.”

Eskel looks at him blankly.

“Come on, dirt! You must have plenty, you’ve known each other for, what, at least five hundred years now?”

“At least.” Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s obnoxious shit-eating grin at the exaggeration and plays a third spy card in a row, easily blocking the punch Eskel aims at his arm.

“Come now, Eskel, please? I’m sure you must have loads of dirt you’ve just been dying to, well, to unload! Let’s unlock those memories, boys, and tell me the greatest Kaer Morhen scoop of the past century.”

Eskel’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not sure you really want those memories unlocked, bard,” he says gently.

Jaskier’s breath catches. The last thing he wants is to spoil the relaxed evening with whatever cruelties spark the haunted looks he’s caught a few times during his stay. “No, no, of course not those kinds of memories,” he amends. “None of the witchery sort. The fun things, silly things! Come on, it can be anything. Embarrassing stories, charming anecdotes, stupid pranks you pulled on each other, youthful indiscretions—wait, no, what did I say?”

Both witchers suddenly seem preternaturally focused on their Gwent cards.

A delighted grin slowly creeps onto Jaskier’s face. “Youthful indiscretions?” he repeats, noting how Geralt looks almost sheepish. “I was joking about that one but by all means, I love a good scandal! I simply must have all the details, the tawdrier the better.”

“No scandal,” Eskel answers easily. “There’s nothing…”

“Oh ho ho no, my friend, I’m afraid I’m a bit too well acquainted with Geralt’s non-expressions to let this pass quite so easily.” He’s practically bouncing with excitement in Geralt’s lap, which earns him a glare, but not a very heartfelt one. The most delicate shade of pink has taken up residence in the tips of Geralt’s ears, the apples of his cheeks. Jaskier kisses him lightly on the nose. “What youthful indiscretions, Geralt?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk upward. “Nothing as obscene as you’re dreaming up,” he mutters drily. “Dumb kid stuff.”

“Just a little healthy competition in the training yard.” Eskel’s smiling, but he’s watching Geralt carefully. “Everybody loves an incentive.”

Jaskier leans in conspiratorially. “Incentive?”

Eskel shrugs, placing a commander’s horn to double his ranged combat cards. “You know, loser jerks the winner off, that sort of thing. ‘Course, you dose up a bunch of horny teenagers with a couple times the regular helping of hormones, and, well, things tend to...escalate?”

“Of course.” Jaskier shifts and inadvertently rubs against the line of Geralt’s cock, which seems to have taken a distinct interest in the conversation, no matter how disinterested its owner tries to look behind his cards. “So, to the victor goes the handjob, eh? A noble endeavor.” He squirms again, very advertently rolling his hips in just the right place this time. The heavy arm around Jaskier’s waist slips down to stroke casually at his thigh. He stops himself from preening at the unexpected rift in Geralt’s composure, but only barely. “Was this all the young men in your—class? Cohort? Uh, battalion? What do you call it?”

“Hands caught on with some of them,” Eskel acknowledges. His eyes, all blown-wide black pupils rimmed with thin rings of gold, track every minute movement of Geralt’s hand on the bard’s thick thigh, straining beneath deep indigo satin. “But a few of us progressed to mouths. Thighs.”

“I’m sure that was delightful,” Jaskier breathes. He threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging gently on a lock. “So you partook in these escapades, did you, darling?”

Eskel snorts. “Partook,” he parrots, eyes flickering teasingly to Geralt. “Like he wasn’t the one casually suggesting it every time we hit the training yard.”

“Oh please, do tell.” The fire crackles in the hearth before them. By all the gods, there’s nowhere Jaskier would rather be than here, caught in this sparking current between the two witchers.

“Geralt’s the best fighter.” There’s a hint of a growl in Eskel’s gentle voice Jaskier’s never noticed before, low and hot and dangerous. “Always been the best with a sword since the first time he held one. But once we started messing around, didn’t take long to notice I was winning more than usual. After a few weeks I was beating him just about every time we fought.”

“Gods,” Jaskier breathes.

Eskel licks his lips. “Don’t act surprised, bard,” he says softly. There’s a new, intoxicating heat in his gaze. “The whole castle’s heard you two. You seem pretty familiar with Geralt’s taste for cock.”

Geralt’s arm slips tight around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him harder into the ever-more insistent press against the bard’s arse. He palms brazenly at Jaskier’s cock, but his eyes don’t leave Eskel, his face collected, calm. “Still remember the way you taste.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Eskel’s hand drifts to mirror Geralt’s, grinding roughly against his codpiece.

Jaskier plants a hand on the chair’s back, twisting around enough to pull Geralt into a heated, messy kiss. “Gods, you’re stunning, you know that?” he moans against his lips, tangling a demanding hand into that long white hair. “Gorgeous, shameless thing, throwing fights you were perfectly capable of winning just to get a good dicking, was that the way of it, love?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker closed, accompanied by an aborted, keening noise in his throat.

“Which was all fine, until Vesemir called him out for holding back in the middle of the training yard.” Some of the teasing quality drains from Eskel’s voice. “You know Geralt. Being berated in front of the whole school by your mentor for your piss poor performance is devastating anyway, but for Geralt?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” he admits quietly. “That was a shit day. Halfway through his lecture I swore off sex forever. Nothing kills the mood quite like Vesemir’s disappointed face.”

Jaskier kisses his temple. “Glad that didn’t last, love.”

“Didn’t last long at all,” Eskel chuckles. “Pretty sure you had my dick down your throat in the back of the stables twenty minutes later.”

Geralt’s wry grin serves as confirmation. “It’d been a rough day. Sometimes you need a little consolation.”

Jaskier looks between the two, looks at the soft smiles on both of their faces. The sheer eroticism that was all-consuming a moment ago lingers, shifting into a background pulse as this gentle, familiar openness emerges.

They love each other.

Jaskier feels an overwhelming rush of relief, suddenly, of gratitude, to know that even with all the cruelties Geralt has faced over the past century, he’s had this easy warmth to come home to nearly every winter.

But love isn’t something readily acknowledged, let alone expressed, for Geralt—if anyone knows that, it’s Jaskier. So he smiles disarmingly and goes to work.

“How right you are, Geralt!” he says brightly. “Everyone needs a consoling touch now and then. What about after you left training? Any consolation during chance encounters on the Path? Or when you returned for the winter, perhaps?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt stares at the floor, nor the hunger that flashes in Eskel’s eyes before he looks away, too. When he speaks, it’s measured again. “It didn’t continue past training.”

“What a shame. Well, during training, then, what about fucking?” he asks blithely.

Geralt’s the first to find his voice, a defensive grunt. “Wasn’t like that.”

Eskel leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Well, it was, of course,” he says slowly. “A hand or a mouth in the dark you can write off as just getting your rocks off. You start talk about fucking…” He shrugs stiffly. “It starts to mean something. Starts to say something about you.” He’s quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. “You get told a lot of things when you’re a kid. Think we all understood pretty clearly how it’d be if anybody found out. So you start coming up with reasons why it’s not like that, why you’re not like that. To make it easier.”

Geralt hasn’t spoken, but he clings a little closer, leaning his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Takes time to sort through it all,” Eskel muses. “I think most of the stuff they taught us, Vesemir and the others...most of it came from a good place. They wanted us to survive, and part of that means not making yourself any more of a target than you already are. Doesn’t mean it didn’t fuck us up even more, though.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on Geralt. “I’m proud of you, Wolf,” he murmurs, a little sad smile on his lips. “Never thought either of us’d get to have this.” He gestures briefly at Geralt and Jaskier entwined in the chair, a twinge of something that might be yearning flashing through his eyes before he looks away, taking a drink.

Geralt plants a small kiss on Jaskier’s shoulder, holds him a little tighter. He wants to comfort Eskel, the bard understands suddenly, showering Jaskier with all the tender physical assurances he doesn’t feel he can give Eskel. And Eskel, with his sweet, melancholy smiles, his gentle percipience, his quiet understanding...he deserves everything Geralt wants to give him and more.

“It seems to me,” Jaskier begins in a delicate singsong, “that we have some unfinished business here.”

“How do you figure?”

“I feel this competition has not been followed to its logical conclusion. Not reached its full potential. You’ve played for hands, mouths, thighs. It seems that the natural progression should be playing for arse next. Winner takes the loser, as it were.”

Silence.

Jaskier wonders, briefly, if he’s made a mistake; but, he reasons, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He barrels on. “I think that the two of you want each other, quite a lot. Now, now, we’re being honest, Eskel just made that lovely speech, so save your protests, both of you. I think you want each other but you don’t know how to have that without the competition.” Jaskier gesticulates widely to emphasize his conclusion. “So compete.”

Eskel’s quiet for a moment, taking a deep breath as he meets Jaskier’s gaze. “Wouldn’t ask that of you,” he says finally. “The pair of you’s got a good thing here. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Oh, darling.” A surge of affection rushes through him as he takes in the Witcher’s concerned eyes, the hesitant posture, the look of astonishment at the endearment directed towards him. “I don’t think Geralt will love me any less for having loved you,” he says softly, leaning forward and placing a steady hand on Eskel’s forearm.

“We fuck other people,” Geralt adds helpfully.

Jaskier squawks in indignation, and Geralt’s mouth twitches in silent laughter. “Yes, Geralt, thank you for that ever so romantic assessment. So there you have it, Eskel! We fuck other people, no conflict there.”

Eskel’s looking back and forth between them, a small, slow smile breaking through. “It’s a little late for a sparring match,” he says. It’s not much of a protest.

Geralt shrugs casually. “Up for another game of Gwent?”

Golden eyes lock, a challenge. Eskel wets his lip and reaches for his cards.

Geralt gently steers Jaskier back onto the arm of the chair with a quick kiss to his shoulder, reaching to pull the forgotten box of his various decks into his lap. He packs his Nilfgaardians away carefully, muses over the cards, then reaches for the forest green deck.

And Jaskier may be no expert when it comes to the intricacies of Gwent strategy, but he’s watched Geralt play enough to know that Scoia’tael is his most neglected deck, the one he’s least likely to use in tournaments, the one he’s spent the least time building up.

Fuck.

From the way that Eskel’s gaze trains on Geralt’s big hands shuffling the sparse deck, a hungry, wrecked gleam reflecting in his golden eyes, he’s noticed, too.

It doesn’t take long, this Gwent game.

Geralt isn’t playing poorly, not really, he isn’t blatantly throwing the match, but the low-powered deck can’t compete with Eskel’s Northern Kingdoms and its unstoppable siege cards, its seemingly endless supply of spies. Even after Eskel passes the second round in a show of sportsmanship, there’s no real suspense.

Anticipation, on the other hand…

Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt languidly, tucking his chin over his lover’s shoulder to watch the game. “Geralt,” he coos, “it’s looking as though you may lose this one.”

“Hmm.”

“What a shame, I know you must be dreadfully disappointed by the prospect of taking his cock.” He’s staring shamelessly now, eyes running over Eskel’s sinewy arms, wide shoulders, broad chest, muscular thighs. “Gods, I bet he’s proportional, isn’t he. Big all over.” His breath is a warm tickle on Geralt’s ear before he begins lightly kissing the sensitive skin of his neck. “I bet he’s bigger than you, isn’t he, love?”

Geralt looks up from his cards, considering. “Girthier,” he concedes lightly.

“I can only imagine.” He sighs, musing with the tiniest of pouts. “You know, if you’d told me when we arrived at Kaer Morhen that one of us would wind up in bed with the gorgeous Eskel before winter’s end, I never would have dreamed you would be the one with that honor. Actually, I’d have put good coin on it being me.”

Eskel drops a scorch card in surprise that knocks out his own 24-point ballista.

“That counts.” Geralt shoves the card towards Eskel’s discard pile. “And you’d’ve lost your coin, bard. He never would have fucked you.” He shrugs off Jaskier’s offended whine. “Would’ve seen it as betraying me, even if you’d explained.” He’s studying Eskel carefully. “He felt guilty enough already, and all he’s done is look.”

Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze, taking in the deep flush, the heavy breathing, the slightly abashed expression. “Have you been looking, dear Eskel?”

Eskel wets his scarred lip. “Looking respectfully,” he clarifies with the smallest of grins.

Jaskier laughs, delighted. He’s been uncharacteristically modest in his dress since arriving at Kaer Morhen, adjusting the biting chill of the drafty halls, but between the fire, the inferno of Geralt beneath him, and the strong rush of arousal, he’s plenty warm now. He slips his doublet off casually, dove gray shirt open halfway to his navel. “Look to your heart’s content, darling. Respectfully or otherwise.”

Eskel obeys, eyes raking over the bard’s flushed neck, the dark curls on his chest, the taut trousers doing little to disguise his erection. When he speaks, his voice is husky, grating. “If I win, will you be joining us?”

The breath catches in Jaskier’s throat.

He glances down at Geralt. They’ve always been welcome to take other lovers; it’s only practical, since they sometimes travel apart for months at a time and both have a few long-standing arrangements they’re loath to renounce. But they’ve never welcomed someone else into their bed, explored another lover together. Shared.

Geralt’s staring up at him, eyes questioning, hopeful.

Jaskier flits out of his embrace to situate himself easily in Eskel’s lap. “I thought you’d never ask.” He brushes a dark lock of hair out of the witcher’s eyes, tilts that strong, square jaw toward him with a single clever finger. “May I?” he asks, and when Eskel nods wordlessly he draws him into a soft kiss.

Eskel’s lips are slow and gentle, his kiss courteous, restrained in a way that threatens to break Jaskier’s heart. “Relax,” Jaskier whispers against him, “you’re not the first big scary witcher I’ve encountered.” He plants a teasing peck on the corner of his mouth before pulling away and shifting to take stock of the cards in Eskel’s hand. “So how is it looking? Oh.” He giggles helplessly, glancing across the table at his lover’s somewhat dazed expression. “Oh, Geralt, you are fucked.”

Their matching groans at his word choice are nothing short of intoxicating.

“Finish him off, darling,” Jaskier purrs, a hand drifting down Eskel’s sturdy chest. “Then we can play.”

--

Jaskier drags Eskel unabashedly into the bedroom, kicking off his boots as he goes in a practiced maneuver that might have otherwise proven disastrous. He tugs off Eskel’s padded jerkin, leaving him in a thin cream-colored shirt that Jaskier balls his fist in, pulling the witcher towards him in a breathless, giggling kiss.

Geralt trails slightly behind them, taking off his boots in silence. Jaskier can feel his eyes on the two of them as they part, not jealous, not upset, but unsure. Never one to shy away from tension in the bedroom, Jaskier reaches a hand toward his lover, beckoning him close, close enough to touch, and then he steps back to watch the moment unfold.

As if by instinct, Eskel moves to the side in an evasion of Geralt’s approach, where a sword would glance off him, had one been swung. Golden eyes lock as they circle automatically. It’s a dance. A witcher’s dance, dangerous and calculated, each move precise, graceful, deadly. It’s the most arousing thing Jaskier’s ever seen in his life.

And then Geralt shoves Eskel.

It’s just a light push to one shoulder, no real weight behind it, but the effect is instantaneous. Eskel pins him to the cold stone wall, the full weight of his body pressed into him, his hands trapping Geralt’s wrists tight. They’re both panting, hard, and when Eskel shoves his leg roughly between Geralt’s thighs, he’s met with Geralt rocking savagely against him.

“Like a bitch in heat, huh, Wolf?” Somehow, the words aren’t demeaning in the warm gravel of Eskel’s voice; instead, they’re fond, appreciative. Reverent.

Geralt bucks against him again, a cut-off, desperate growl from the back of his throat, and Eskel buries his face at the juncture of the neck and shoulder and bites the scarred flesh.

Geralt immediately goes limp and compliant against him, capitulation written into every line of his body. He stays that way as Eskel releases his bite, nipping lightly then nuzzling into the skin.

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath at the sight of his lover so docile, so malleable. They’ve certainly explored such games before, power dynamics and what have you, and he’s known Geralt to drift into a gentle haze of submission on a handful of occasions when he felt particularly safe, but he’s never seen this immediate, intentional surrender. It’s breathtaking.

Eskel releases Geralt’s wrists, still kissing at his neck as he slides his hands down his sides. “Good,” he murmurs against skin, “being so good for me, Wolf. Don’t worry, gonna take care of you.” He tugs the black shirt from Geralt’s trousers, slips a big hand to stroke the bare skin at the small of his back. “Gonna fuck you so good. That what you want, sweetheart?”

“Fuck, Eskel.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck.” His eyes flutter shut as Eskel’s hand moves to pull him forward by the curve of his arse, grinding their hips together roughly. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Mmm.” Eskel pulls the shirt over Geralt’s head and tosses it aside. “What about your boyfriend? What do you want from him?”

Geralt’s eyes shoot open, casting about frantically for a moment as though disoriented. “Jaskier?”

“I’m here, love,” he says, rushing to his side and pulling him into a soothing kiss. Geralt relaxes again in Eskel’s arms.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Jaskier continues, running his thumb reassuringly against Geralt’s cheekbone. “Do you want us to take you to bed, love? Let us work you over between the two of us, wring out every drop of pleasure we can?”

Eskel still supports Geralt’s weight, but he’s shifting, opening towards Jaskier, creating a space for him. Geralt pulls the bard in, kissing him desperately and tugging off his shirt, and Jaskier clings to them both.

He drinks in the sight of Eskel in the firelight, lips red and parted, eyes hooded beneath dark lashes. He cradles his smooth cheek with a gentle hand. “My, but you are just unreasonably handsome, aren’t you?”

Eskel freezes for a split second before flinching away from the touch, turning his scarred face to the safety of the shadows.

Before Jaskier can react, Geralt places a hand on the back of Eskel’s neck, drawing him in and massaging the flesh lightly. “He’s not mocking you.” His voice is soft and steady. “Or lying.”

After a moment, Eskel meets Geralt’s gaze, holds it silently for a moment before his shoulders relax, a rueful smile twitching on his lips. “Just got shit taste, huh.”

Geralt returns the grin. “He is with me.”

Jaskier splutters with indignation that’s only partially feigned. “Well, excuse you both, I happen to have exquisite taste, thank you very much!” He reaches out, his hand hovering over the scarred skin, a question in his eyes. Eskel takes a breath and turns his face into Jaskier’s touch.

He runs his fingers lightly over the hardened scar tissue, mapping the uneven terrain in caresses. Eskel’s eyes flutter shut. “I can’t speak for the rest of the world,” Jaskier murmurs. “I can’t imagine how cruelly men have treated you. But I do think you’re beautiful, Eskel, truly.” He pauses, glancing at Geralt. His gaze is fixed on the pale fingers and scarred flesh, concern writ large in his golden eyes. Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, how he ever thought his witcher inexpressive. “And I do believe Geralt thinks so, too.”

Geralt startles at the mention, but he leans in, resting his forehead against Eskel’s.

The intimacy of the position strikes Jaskier. Wasn’t like that, Geralt had immediately defended at the slightest implication that there was anything more than the occasional illicit orgasm between them. It’s not the first time he’s seen his dear witcher deny himself affection, connection, especially when it comes from another man, so he can’t help wondering how deep that denial may have run. “Geralt,” he asks softly, “have you and Eskel ever kissed?”

Geralt shakes his head, his eyes shut.

“I think you should.” It’s barely more than a whisper.

A moment of stillness stretches between them all, the two witchers looking at each other wordlessly. Eskel is the first to move. He carefully cradles Geralt’s face, eyes searching before he leans in, capturing his lips gently. It’s slow, hesitant, a meticulous exploration before Geralt moans against him, big hands threading through dark hair and pulling him in harder.

Jaskier moves deftly, slipping behind Eskel and threading his arms around the witcher as he plants reverent kisses down his neck, hands roaming luxuriantly across the hard body. Nimble fingers find the laces of Eskel’s trousers, untying them but making no immediate move to remove them, drawing the roughspun cotton of his shirt from the loosened pants so he can slip beneath to bare skin. He worships every inch of that broad torso with callused fingertips. Eskel is every bit as muscular as Geralt but built differently, thicker and wider and more pliable beneath Jaskier’s curious hands. An appealing layer of fat cushions his hard abdominals like a gambeson; strong, flexing pectorals have the give of flesh beneath his grasp. It’s an altogether delightful body, Jaskier thinks in warm contentment, belonging to an even more delightful man who Jaskier would be delighted to be absolutely railed by.

But that isn’t tonight’s objective; no, not with Geralt panting so beautifully, head thrown back against the stone wall as Eskel sucks a blood red mark on his collarbone. The finesse between them has vanished, replaced by the desperation of a century’s delay. Eskel paws at Geralt’s waist, nearly ripping the buttons from the fabric in his haste to get a hand down the front of the tight black pants, his other hand bracing him on the wall beside Geralt’s head.

Geralt is quick to return the favor, freeing Eskel’s cock from the codpiece, shoving the trousers roughly down his thighs, sinking to his knees.

Jaskier tries in vain to enjoy the sight from over Eskel’s shoulder, but the cream-colored shirt billows loosely enough around his body to veil Geralt. Yanking the offending garment off, Jaskier tucks his chin over the witcher’s shoulder and watches as his lover pumps Eskel’s cock in a pale hand, leaning in to lap greedily at the head before stretching his lips obscenely around the ruddy flesh.

When he speaks, Eskel’s voice is a hoarse wreck. “Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes.” Geralt growls in the back of his throat and takes him further down. “Fuck, Wolf.”

Jaskier snakes a hand down Eskel’s hip to his groin. He circles the base of his cock in a sure grip, grasping the thick shaft and moving in concert with Geralt’s shallow bobbing. Eskel inhales shakily, reaching the hand not buried in white hair back to anchor himself onto Jaskier by the back of the neck, arching into the bard’s embrace.

Jaskier pulls him into a messy kiss. The careful restraint has evaporated into something rough, strong, unleashed. Jaskier loses himself in the kiss, the racing tattoo of his rushing blood making the groan from Eskel something he feels more than hears.

Geralt bats away the bard’s hand jacking Eskel, and when Jaskier glances down he sees Geralt sinking down the thick shaft until his nose is buried in the dark hair at the base.

Eskel rips away from Jaskier’s kiss, breath ragged. “So good at that, shit.” His head falls back on Jaskier’s shoulder, eyes closed. “Used to choke on me when you tried,” he grunts. “Remember? Almost got us caught with your coughing a couple times. But you weren’t ever satisfied unless you tried.”

Jaskier massages at his chest, relishing the little gasp as he rubs a nipple. “He’s had plenty of practice since then. Haven’t you, love? Love swallowing cock, don’t you?” Geralt’s hands grasp Eskel’s hips roughly. “He wants you to fuck his face,” Jaskier says, planting a kiss on Eskel’s temple. “You wouldn’t deny him, would you?”

“Fuck.” Eskel complies, releasing Jaskier to anchor both hands in Geralt’s hair. He pistons forward experimentally, shallow. Geralt tugs at his hips until he’s set a brutal pace, the muscles in his thick body straining as he fucks him with abandon until there’s nothing else, nothing but slapping flesh, labored breathing, and pleased, desperate, muffled moans.

Eskel pulls abruptly back, holding Geralt off him by the hair.  “Fuck, Geralt, enough. Don’t wanna come yet.”

“Want you to.” Geralt’s voice is a raw rasp, his eyes red-rimmed. He nuzzles at the juncture of his thigh and groin, sucking at the sensitive flesh between words. “Want you to come fucking my throat. Come again later.”

Eskel pushes him away firmly, discipling his voice into something deep, reproachful, but with a surprising touch of tenderness cutting the sting of his words. “Listen, little cockslut, I said not yet.”

Geralt whimpers, but he withdraws, sitting back on his heels and awaiting further instruction, eyes fixed on the other witcher.

Eskel steps back from both of them, shoving his trousers the rest of the way down and stepping out of them before he looks at Geralt. “Up, Wolf.”

Geralt scrambles to obey.

Eskel pulls him into a kiss, praises spilling out against his lips. “So good,” he says. “Pants off.”

Once Geralt’s naked Eskel pulls him close, hoisting him easily into his arms as strong thighs wrap around Eskel’s waist. Eskel kisses him, holding him effortlessly. It’s a rare thing, Geralt not being far and way the strongest in a room at any given time, and to see him so evenly matched, see him carried about and manhandled as though he weighs nothing at all, is quite an alarming, appealing experience.

“Wanna take you to bed.” Eskel nuzzles against Geralt’s neck, his words barely audible. “Wanna be inside you, Wolf.”

“You did win the game,” Geralt grunts.

Eskel’s brow is furrowed when he pulls back. “Fuck the game, Geralt, wanted this as long as I can remember. It’s not just a game.” He carefully smoothes the messy white locks away from his face. “Wasn’t ever just a game.”

Geralt nods slowly. He holds Eskel’s gaze as he tilts his head, closing the space between them to brush his lips again Eskel’s. “So take me to bed.”

And he does.

Eskel lays Geralt out with an expression of sheer reverence. He crawls between his legs, slotting their bodies together, taking them both in a firm grasp before he leans down to capture Geralt in a sensuous kiss.

Jaskier observes the writhing pair silently as he makes necessary preparations. He rids himself of his trousers and smallclothes. Folds the discarded clothes and sets them neatly on a chair. Retrieves the oil from the chest at the foot of the bed. Stalls.

Because they are beautiful together, their touches familiar yet entirely new. There’s an unmistakable sense of scale between them, a history that Jaskier is loath to disrupt, a tale spanning a century in which Jaskier is barely a footnote.

“Jaskier.”

They’re still entwined, all muscled, scarred limbs curving around each other like one flesh, but they’re both looking at him. Eskel’s face crinkles into a crooked smile. “It’s a big bed, bard. Plenty of room.”

And there is. So much room in Geralt’s outstretched arm, curling immediately around his lover as he slips in bed beside them. In Eskel’s astute gaze as he runs a hand down Jaskier’s back and squeezes his hip reassuringly, pulling him into a nigh unbearably sweet kiss. In the way the three of them move together, exploring, discovering, building a gentle rhythm all their own.

“Have you ever fingered him?” Jaskier asks, his words nearly lost in the velvet-soft skin he’s thoroughly lavishing.

Geralt’s breath catches, though whether it’s at the question or the warm mouth on his balls is anyone’s guess.

“No,” Eskel says, his hand carding through the bard’s hair. “Show me what he likes?”

Jaskier reemerges to kiss them lightly, first Geralt then Eskel. “I’d be delighted.” He sits up on his heels, pulling Geralt with him. “Up, love.” He turns to Eskel as Geralt turns over to settle wordlessly into place. “Hands and knees is best for opening him up. He tends to get overwhelmed otherwise, don’t you, darling?” He kisses Geralt’s scarred shoulder, petting his arms, his back, his sides, nodding with a bright grin when Eskel’s hands join his in their caresses. “You can open him up when he’s lying on his back, but only when he’s absolutely relaxed and he’s already gotten off once. Otherwise he’s self-conscious, can’t lose himself in the sensation.” Geralt is already—perhaps unconsciously—rocking his hips ever so gently back towards him. A wave of warmth spreads through Jaskier as he rubs at the small of his lover’s back. “Eager for us, aren’t you, Geralt?”

A breathless grunt is the only answer.

“It’s all right, love, we’re going to take care of you.” He uncorks the oil, leaning down to nip lightly at the swell of Geralt’s cheek as he pours some into his palm. Cold. He warms it in his hand, rubbing vigorously. Eskel’s eyes track each movement. Silent, the bard holds out his lubricated hand. Eskel hesitates for a second then swipes his fingers through the mess until they’re dripping, coated thoroughly.

“Touch him before you touch him there.” It’s a rush, hearing the professorial tone of his own voice, seeing the witcher scramble to follow his instructions. Using his dry hand, Eskel pets the expanse of skin, running his fingers indulgently through the pale hair on his thighs, his arse. “Good.” Jaskier’s voice resonates deep in his chest, a low, soothing murmur. “Acquaint him with your touch. Let him know where you’re headed. Then when you’re both ready…” He takes Eskel’s wet hand by the wrist and guides it. “Just a finger. Start up here, down, down and past, and then up again. Again. Circle his rim, give him some lovely pressure, get him nice and wet but not in, not yet, not until…” He laughs as Geralt cants his hips back toward them with a desperate moan. “There we are. Now you can press in, just a little—oh, you’re being so good for us, love, taking his finger so well. Thicker than mine, isn’t it? What a treat.”

It’s too much, too arousing and too heady and too intoxicating, seeing hefty sword-callused fingers prodding carefully at the flesh Jaskier had seen stretched around his cock only this morning. He reaches out, an oiled finger lightly stroking the taut rim before slipping in effortlessly alongside Eskel’s.

A keening sound almost like a sob is muffled as Geralt rests his forehead on the bed, a full-body shiver running through him.

Eskel pats at his thigh. “Your boyfriend’s back here trying to kill me, Wolf.” He shoots a look of wonder at Jaskier before he leans forward, kissing the slight dimple at the small of Geralt’s back. “Hadn’t even thought about how good you’d look speared on us both ‘til right now.”

Geralt shoves back against them hard, pants as he fucks himself back on their fingers until Eskel adds another. “Not tonight, though,” he growls. “Tonight that hole is mine.”

“Gods, Eskel.” Jaskier pulls him into a breathless kiss. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” he murmurs against scarred lips. “The way he can’t help seeking out more. Fuck, but he’s going to look so stunning on your cock. How do you plan to take him? Like this, let him whine and cry and shove himself back on your prick as hard as he can? Or have him ride you, watch him desperately take his pleasure as he stuffs himself full of you? Or…”

“Fuck, Geralt, does he always talk this much?” Eskel’s other hand shoots to the base of his own cock, giving himself a few rough strokes.

“Always,” a muffled rumble confirms. “It’s hot.”

Jaskier beams.

He slips his finger nimbly from Geralt’s stretched hole, drizzling a little more oil where Eskel begins to tease a third before Jaskier reclines on the bed, lying his head on the pillow where Geralt’s buried his face. Gently, he tilts the witcher’s chin toward him, taking in the wrecked breaths, the serene, softened gaze. He runs a warm thumb over Geralt’s lips before following it with a tender kiss.

He runs a hand over the muscled abdomen, down the sharp angles of the juncture of his hips, the pale coarse hair at his groin. Geralt’s softened some in the excitement of penetration, as he’s wont to do. Jaskier cups that lovely, familiar cock, rubs against him with just the pressure he knows his lover needs to coax him gently back towards hardness.

A breathy, high-pitched whimper that barely sounds like it could come from the same throat as Geralt’s usual guttural utterances breaks through the hazy atmosphere. “He’s ready for you,” Jaskier murmurs softly, reaching to squeeze Eskel’s unoccupied hand.

Eskel drapes his body over Geralt’s, covering his back and shoulders with fiery kisses as he rocks against him soothingly, fingers still buried deep as they rut together. He turns his face toward Jaskier, a heady desperation in his eyes. “Can I take him on his back?” he begs. “Don’t want to...to overwhelm him. But…”

Jaskier plants a reassuring kiss on Eskel’s cheek.

Geralt whines piteously as fingers slip from him, but he follows the gentle hands guiding him onto his back.

“Love,” Jaskier whispers, soothing fingers massaging his scalp, “are you with us?”

Geralt takes a breath, as though opening his eyes to meet Jaskier’s takes tremendous energy. He nods.

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

Geralt leans into his hand at the praise, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Stay with me, Geralt. Do you need a break?”

“Need Eskel.”

Eskel, kneeling between his legs, surges forward to capture Geralt in a careful kiss, gripping his shaft as he lines himself up. “Oil?” he pants, and Jaskier slips a wet hand between the two bodies to coat the thick, twitching cock liberally. “I’ve got you, Wolf,” Eskel whispers, sinking slowly into the pulsing tight heat, Jaskier’s oiled fingers lingering, anointing the site of their union.

The electric energy swells, inundating them, sweeping them into its current. The rough, slow grind as the witchers find a rhythm. Meandering callused fingertips dancing across scarred skin. Oil and precome and sweat mingling as they slide together. The earthy, sharp smell of the fireplace meeting musk and heat and desperation. Goosebumps covering warm flesh against luxuriant soft furs.

Geralt comes with a harsh cry from nothing but the movement within him and the insistent rub of Eskel’s abdomen against his cock.

Eskel fucks him through the aftershocks gently, bringing himself to a stuttering halt as Geralt trembles beneath him. He pants against Geralt’s neck. “Fuck,” he swears, kisses messily at the sensitive skin, “so beautiful, Wolf, feel so good under me.”

Geralt lets out a long breath.

“Had enough?” Eskel whispers against him.

Blissed out, relaxed, all loose limbs and satisfaction written in every line of his body, Geralt grins, his eyes suddenly clear, kissing Eskel as he rolls his hips pointedly back onto his cock.

And with this second wind it’s different, Geralt’s haze melting into something far more vocal, more demanding. “More,” and “fuck, Eskel,” and “hard,” and “won’t break me, Eskel, fuck,” and movement and manhandling and Geralt back on his hands and knees, Eskel burying himself hard and fast and too much, it’s got to be too much, Jaskier’s sure of it until “don’t hold back, please, please I can take it.”

A hand reaches out to grab roughly at Jaskier’s hip, dragging him in place before Geralt, his back against the headboard. “Please,” Geralt moans, mouthing frantically at the base of his cock, his drawn-tight balls, “need you too.”

He threads his fingers through sweat-damp white locks as Geralt hungrily sucks him down. The harsh, accelerating thrusts from Eskel rip through Geralt, slamming him further onto Jaskier’s cock and it’s so much, the delicate arch of Geralt’s back, the loud slapping of skin against skin, the strange unifying sensation of the three of them melding into one, the tight fluttering of Geralt’s throat milking the head of his cock, the way Eskel’s whole body seems to convulse, the choked-off howl as he chases his climax, the way he shakes as he collapses forward onto Geralt...

The adoring light in those stunning amber eyes as Geralt looks up at Jaskier through thick lashes, the way his hand sneaks up to hold onto his lover’s as Jaskier’s breath hitches, coming with a cry as Geralt swallows around him.

They topple gracelessly into a breathless tangle of limbs. Geralt groans piteously as Eskel unsheathes himself, leaving the bed swiftly, and Geralt hates feeling empty while he’s still coming down so Jaskier finds himself trailing long fingers to his messy hole, pushing the escaping come back into him, massaging and plugging him gently and running a soothing thumb over the stretched rim as they trade languid, exhausted kisses.

Eskel watches them from the beside with a look that might be wonder. “You two are a handful,” he chuckles softly. He climbs back onto the bed, wiping away drying spend from Geralt’s stomach with a warm, wet cloth that drags down, down between his legs, down to where Jaskier extracts himself one finger at a time, cleaning him with attentive care.

Geralt smiles up at Eskel lazily before pulling him down into a quick, filthy kiss, nipping at his lower lip. “You like us, though.”

“Hmm.” Eskel pulls away enough to grab a cup of water, tilting it to Geralt’s lips, careful not to spill. Then he offers it to the bard, reaching over to pet his hair with unexpected tenderness. “Thank you, Jaskier,” he says. “For sharing him with me tonight.”

“Should be me you’re thanking,” Geralt yawns, shifting around until he’s nestled comfortably on Jaskier’s chest, ear pressed soothingly above his heart. His eyes flutter shut as Jaskier traces aimless patterns on his warm skin. “Arse you were fucking happens to belong to me.”

Eskel snorts. “You sure about that?” He blocks the sleepy, playful swat aimed at him, taking the cup back from Jaskier and setting it carefully on the bedside table. He looks down at Geralt, already halfway to sleep on the bard’s chest, and rolls his eyes fondly. “That didn’t take long.”

“Well, in his defense, you did work him over pretty thoroughly,” Jaskier murmurs. He reaches out, tracing the muscles in Eskel’s scarred upper arm gently.

He leans into the touch, looking down for a moment. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, his eyes are unspeakably bright. “Thank you. For tonight.” There’s a reverent rasp in his voice. “And for being good to him.”

Geralt’s breathing has evened out as Eskel slips out of bed, rifling through the discarded clothes.

“Bloody witchers, gods save me,” Jaskier sighs, flopping a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Geralt always used to try to slink off into the night after sex, too.” He catches Eskel’s gaze and extends a long hand towards him. “It’s a big bed, darling.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, something like awe blooming on Eskel’s exquisite, kind face as he nods, climbing back into the bed and molding his body carefully against Geralt’s back, a square hand finding Jaskier’s and squeezing.

And though it’s the dead of winter, Jaskier doubts Kaer Morhen’s ever felt quite so warm. He drifts into a peaceful sleep.

#the witcher fic #geraskel #geraskel fic #geralt x jaskier x eskel #geraskier #eskralt #sexy gwent #WHEW okay hope you enjoy! #my fic #asks

[nightshade-blues-journal]

The Date or Love Amidst the Corpses

A short sort of continuation of The Ard Carraigh Funeral Home. More notes than fiction.

This is a Modern AU where, as Vesemir said, any idiot with a gun can buy silver bullet and shoot down drowners, but nekkers are the work for a witcher.

As a side note, Lambert's cookbook is centuries old and contains traditional recipes from all over the Continent.

Geralt knows Jaskier isn't human — he recognises when Jaskier uses glamour, but he also knows that nothing malicious can get onto their property, so he isn't worried about Jaskier's precise nature.

As soon as the last wake of the day is over and done with, Geralt hunts down Lambert, who initially tells him to fuck off and to not even breathe on his cookbook. Eskel, witnessing the exchange, says to just google easy snacks and be done with it.

"Yeah," Lambert adds, "if your boy toy likes your stupid mug enough to go on a date, he's not doing it for food."

Geralt, of course, doesn't want to risk it, and eventually, Lambert relents and gives him some tips on what to do in exchange for a month of grave-digging (they take turns with that part of the job).

Geralt and Jaskier do go to the shore. It's a brisk spring night with a clear sky, but just as Geralt sets a cooler onto a picnic table, his phone pings with an alert: local PD sent out a notification about alghouls hunting around the western cemetery, which happens to be close enough to where Geralt and Jaskier are. Duty calls and all that, so Geralt makes his excuses and offers to drop Jaskier off in the city, but Jaskier won't have it.

"Oh, no! I'm coming with you! Such an opportunity to witness a witcher at work doesn't come often."

So after some protests that fall on deaf ears, Geralt agrees because otherwise, Jaskier would have just followed him anyway. Since Geralt doesn't go out after dark without a silver sword and keeps an emergency supply of potions on hand basically always, he drives them straight to the cemetery (he has a motorcycle of Temerian make, fast and sleek, but not the newest model).

There, Jaskier gets to watch from a safe distance as Geralt cuts down two alghouls, but as the third is about to jump on the witcher, Jaskier sneaks up on it instead and stabs the alghoul with a silver dagger before it can hurt Geralt.

Making a gurgling sound, the alghoul drops dead. Geralt whirls around, breathing hard. His sword is raised for a strike. Jaskier drops the glamour, becoming visible. Geralt stares at the alghoul's corpse at Jaskier feet, then at Jaskier. He lowers his sword.

"What?" Jaskier asks. "I couldn't just let this foul creature hurt you."

And all Geralt is actually thinking is, Wow. Sexy. Hot. And a mental equivalent of grabby hands.

"I don't suppose we can pick up where we left off?" Jaskier says. He licks his lips, giving Geralt a slow once-over. "I've worked up quite an appetite."

And while having their first kiss amidst the stinking to high heaven corpses is neither romantic nor is it particularly sane, it works for them just fine.

#geraskier #the witcher #fae!jaskier

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

Nanny

Commission for the ever-wonderful @depressedstressedlemonzest ! I hope you enjoy this, my love! Even though it got away from me a bit, eh heh heh. *sweats* Commission info is in my about page!

CW: ableism

~

Geralt did not know what to expect regarding the nanny he had contacted. He had been open to it being anyone, as long as they weren’t a creep.

He would never in a million years have expected his one-night-stand for two days ago to end up on his doorstep.

Geralt and Jaskier stared at each other, equally stunned. Finally, Jaskier cleared his throat and said lamely, “So you’re the Mr. Rivia who emailed me?”

“Yes,” Geralt got out stiffly.

“Daa-ddyyyy!” Ciri wailed from the living room. “Hungry!”

Geralt grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “Please come in,” he said with no enthusiasm. “I have to get Ciri her lunch.”

Jaskier nodded and followed him inside the small townhouse.

Ciri was stomping inside her pen, making frustrated noises. As soon as Geralt lifted her out, she beamed and threw her arms around his neck. “Hungry!” she yelled again, right in his ear.

“Of course, love,” Geralt agreed, rubbing her back soothingly as he took her to the kitchen. “What would you like for lunch today?”

“Ramen!” Ciri squealed, bouncing in his arms and tugging his hair. Geralt didn’t even flinch. He was used to it by now.

So he put Ciri in the high chair, started the ramen, and only remembered Jaskier when Ciri asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Julian,” Jaskier replied. “And you are?”

“Ciri. That’s my daddy!”

“I noticed!”

Geralt’s mouth tightened as Jaskier and Ciri chatted. They were already on their way to being friends. Not good. If he decided not to hire Jaskier, Ciri would be upset and cry. But it would be better to not hire him. Right?

It had been a very good night when he shared Jaskier’s bed. He’d especially liked how Jaskier had--

Geralt swallowed hard and poured in the ramen noodles. They had both decided to end it there. It was a bad idea to let Jaskier stick around. He was too… bright, and loud, and frankly annoying. It didn’t matter that his terrible flirting was entertaining, or that he was a great singer, or that he obviously knew how to befriend children. Geralt would probably get pissed enough to throw him out in a week.

Ciri crowed with laughter and Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. She hadn’t laughed like that for anyone other than Geralt since Yennefer left.

With his heart sufficiently aching from Ciri’s excitement, Geralt turned away from the stove and walked to the table. Jaskier was already teaching her that stupid song about the spider and the water spout, and how to move her hands to the words. They were both grinning, as Ciri tried to sing along. Geralt wanted to say something, but she was happy, so he got a juicebox from the fridge and set it in reach for her, then retreated to the counter to watch them.

“Do you like ramen?” Ciri asked Jaskier, her green eyes wide with fascination.

“I do,” Jaskier replied, still smiling. “It’s one of my favorite foods.”

“It’s mine too!” Ciri said gleefully, waving her arms and knocking over the juicebox. Geralt lunged and caught it, and set it on the tray of the highchair again. “I like chicken ramen best! Daddy makes the best chicken ramen!”

Jaskier glanced over to Geralt, looking thoroughly amused. Geralt reddened in embarrassment. “That’s wonderful, wee,” Jaskier told Ciri. “Do you eat it often?”

“Every day!” Ciri crowed proudly.

Jaskier’s smile faded a little, but then he brightened it again. “Wow, it must be really good.”

“It is!”

Geralt looked down at the floor to hide his shamed expression. It was a good thing Ciri liked ramen, cold cereal, and canned soup; Geralt hadn’t had the money to buy fresh food since the lawyers stripped Geralt of his income from Vesemir’s estate. Unemployment payments were barely enough to pay the mortgage, the utilities, and Ciri’s diapers. Anything extra came from odd jobs around the city.

But he simply could not afford to leave Ciri alone, not when he needed to find a full-time job, and none of the daycare centers would accept a child of a Witcher. So--a nanny.

Ciri and Jaskier kept talking, and Geralt kept feeling more and more horrible, as Ciri told Jaskier all about her and Geralt’s playing every day except the days after he drank too much, and visiting Lambert and Eskel for dinner (they had insisted on at least feeding them, though Geralt refused their financial help), and her mommy sending her presents in the mail. At least, Daddy said they were from her mommy.

Geralt turned away at that point. The presents were not from Yennefer. They were what he could buy with scraped-up savings. He didn’t want Ciri to think Yenn had abandoned her, and to never remember her fondly.

The ramen was done. He drained it, put half a packet of seasoning in, and brought it to Ciri, along with her favorite spork. She squealed in delight and immediately began eating. Geralt’s stomach ached. Fuck, had she been hungry all morning? Was that day’s breakfast not enough? They didn’t have much cereal left, and he wasn’t sure he could afford more when the next check came in, oh fuck, he was going to have another panic attack--

“Please slow down, love,” Geralt managed to say, stroking Ciri’s hair gently. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Ciri grumbled, but slowed. Geralt sat at the table across from Jaskier, and waited for the reprimands. Everyone reprimanded him when they got to know how he was raising Ciri. It was why he never told anyone about her unless pressed.

He was shaking. His chest hurt, especially his lungs. Why did he feel so light-headed?

“So,” Jaskier said, breaking through Geralt’s fearful thoughts. “I’m assuming the interview can happen now?”

No, absolutely not. Jaskier should leave, and swear not to report Geralt for neglect. Instead of saying that, Geralt nodded mutely.

“Innervu?” Ciri asked with her mouth full.

“An interview is where a person asks another questions, usually about their work,” Jaskier told her.

“But Daddy doesn’t work,” Ciri replied, confused.

Jaskier’s face flickered sadness before he shut that emotion away. “No, he’s going to ask me questions.”

“Ohhh.” Ciri nodded wisely and continued eating.

Geralt swallowed hard. Questions. He’d had a list of questions, hadn’t he? On his phone? He pulled his phone out of his pocket and navigated through his various note and writing apps until he found the one where he kept questions for professionals like doctors and lawyers. There, the list for the nanny. He opened it and slid it across the table to Jaskier.

Jaskier picked it up and read the first question out loud. “Do you have education related to caring for children? Actually, yes, my major in college was childcare. I’ve kept up to date on research and techniques, especially for younger children. How long have you been a nanny? About eight years, now; the first child was about ten and was sent to boarding school a year later, and the second child was a pair of twins. They were delightful, but I have very little training for special needs children, so I pointed their parents towards one of my colleagues who is trained. Do you know sign language? A little. I can converse in it, but I’m not an expert.”

Geralt listened hard as Jaskier worked down the list of questions, and grudgingly decided that Jaskier was a good enough fit. There were probably better nannies, but Geralt would never be able to afford them. So, when Jaskier handed the phone back, Geralt nodded and forced himself to say, “Good.”

“Daddy,” Ciri said suddenly, putting her spork down and reaching for him. “Breathe-hugs.”

Geralt obediently stood and picked her up, and hugged her tightly, facing away from Jaskier a little. Breathe-hugs. He kept forgetting his breathing exercises, but hugging Ciri helped him remember to calm down. This was only the fourth time that she had offered breathe-hugs before he thought of them. It made him feel terrible, that he leaned on her so much. But she was also the only thing still holding him to this shitty world.

He shouldn’t use his daughter as an anchor. He really shouldn’t.

After several deep breaths, he was calm enough to put her down again, and sit. He swallowed hard and said, “Thank you for answering my questions.”

Jaskier was frowning slightly. “You’re very welcome,” he replied. “Are you alright?”

Geralt nodded. “Do you have questions?” he asked, hands tightening on his elbows.

“Ah, yes, a few. Do you have any kind of steady income?”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “I get my unemployment check every month.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and frowned more. Then he asked cautiously, “How much will you be out of the house?”

“I… don’t know,” Geralt confessed. “I’m starting an internship on Monday, but I’m still not sure if I have a schedule yet.” That pained him worse than knowing the position was given to him out of pity.

“Paid internship?”

“...No.”

“Oh.” Jaskier tapped his finger on the table and bit his lip, then nodded firmly. “Well! I think we’ll suit well enough. What do you think, sir?”

Geralt blinked, then blurted, “I do too.”

“Excellent.” Jaskier beamed at him. “I’ll be by tomorrow morning to start.”

~

It was three weeks later and Geralt was a wreck.

Jaskier had started right out with telling Geralt that penning Ciri for most of the day was a terrible idea, and then showed him how to childproof the house.

“Pens are fine if you’re trying to train a puppy,” Jaskier explained, “But children aren’t puppies. She needs room. She needs to explore the house.”

“My father put me in a pen,” Geralt said hesitantly. “I turned out fine.”

Jaskier gave him an unimpressed look. “Nevertheless, Ciri isn’t you. Give her space to play.”

Ciri hadn’t known what to do without her pen, until Jaskier convinced her to play hide-and-seek. Then they had both run all over the house, hiding and laughing and exploring. Geralt’s heart was in his mouth the whole time, as he tried to make sure Ciri was safe and unhurt. The pen had been as much to keep her safe as it was meant to keep her where Geralt could find her.

After that, Jaskier went through the kitchen and declared that he was going to buy some frozen food and fresh veggies.

“Those are expensive,” Geralt blurted, alarmed.

Jaskier shook his head. “Not all of them. Bring Ciri, and I’ll show you the good deals.”

Geralt did not have a car safe enough to drive Ciri in. The one he used to drive was on its last legs, and so he usually either begged a ride from Eskel or took the bus with her. Jaskier frowned a little, and asked, “How long have you had that car?”

Geralt shrugged. “About twenty years,” he said.

So they took the bus, and Jaskier let Ciri sit in his lap and play with his necklace, which held a silver pendant shaped like a lute, with gold designs inlaid on it. They talked about animals, and Geralt kept his head down. The shame from being stared at like he was some sort of creep for having a daughter still roiled in his gut and made him nauseous.

Grocery shopping was strange, because Jaskier kept pointing out things that were cheap and Geralt had to tell him, over and over, in front of other people, “I only have fifty crowns, I can’t afford to spend it on only one week of food.”

Jaskier somehow negotiated him into buying some potatoes, and wretchedness settled on Geralt when he realized he wouldn’t have enough money to buy Ciri a present for two or three months. She had plenty of toys, though, surely she wouldn’t mind?

“Daddy, why are you sad?”

Geralt hugged Ciri closer and kissed her forehead. “I’m not sad, love.”

The internship was more draining than any other job he’d ever had. Everything was too loud, too fast, too hot, too much--but he had to do this. He had to be hired. Because he needed money for Ciri.

Jaskier kept Ciri company, and taught her songs, and bought her workbooks with her favorite cartoon characters. Most evenings, Geralt showered, changed clothes, and then slumped wherever they were and watched. It hurt, honestly, that she was so much happier with Jaskier. But, well, Jaskier was a better person in general.

And then on the third week of everything, Geralt completely broke down.

It was while he was making dinner. His nerveless fingers dropped the butter and the spoon, his knees buckled, and when he was crouched on the floor, rocking on his toes, he let himself whimper a little. He could not cry; he would not cry in front of Ciri. She didn’t deserve to see him be weak like this. But gods, he wanted to sleep, sleep forever, vanish from this planet and become nothing, so he would never feel or hurt or cry or disappoint or scare again.

A large, warm hand settled gently on his back. “You can go lay down,” Jaskier said gently beside him. “I can finish dinner. Go lay down, Geralt. It’s okay.”

So Geralt went to his room, and shut the door and laid down and let himself sob. Worthless, useless, couldn’t even keep a fucking internship long enough to be hired--

He must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes it was late at night. He sniffed, wiped his scratchy eyes, and got out of bed. Maybe there were some leftovers in the fridge. Probably not. Ciri had been eating so much lately, and her energy had gone through the roof. Geralt had to keep cutting down on his own portion so she would have enough. Was that why he was so exhausted and achey lately?

When he reached the kitchen, he blinked.

Jaskier was at the table with a laptop, looking grim. He had papers all over the table, and a thick notepad that he wrote in every few seconds. He looked up at Geralt in the doorway, and managed a tired smile. “Hey,” he whispered. “There’s food in the fridge. Ciri wanted to leave everything, but I convinced her to eat some.”

Geralt nodded and got the leftover soup and fried potatoes out of the fridge, not even bothering to heat them up before spooning some into a bowl and sitting down at the other side of the table to eat. He hurt. But because he wanted noise, any noise, to keep his thoughts away from the evil place in his head, he looked up at Jaskier and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Researching unemployment laws,” Jaskier answered, tapping a few keys and then scribbling on his notepad. “It’s illegal to pay you so little when you have a child. Did you know you’re supposed to get two thousand crowns a month?”

Geralt gaped at him. “Whuh… the lawyers told me I could only have eight hundred,” he replied, feeling another surge of confusion and self-hate boil up in his chest. “Because my brothers have jobs.”

Jaskier looked up sharply, and he looked livid. “They were basing their calculations on your brothers’ incomes?” he demanded.

Geralt flinched, and nodded. “They--they have custody of me,” he explained. “Because a judge ordered when I was nineteen that I have to have a guardian.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to gape. Then he asked, much more gently, “If they are your guardians, why don’t you live with them?”

“Because…” Geralt frowned, trying to remember. “Because the homeowner’s association forbade my brothers from taking me in. So they gave me money to buy this house, and moved to a new apartment. But when I bought the house, some attorneys came by and claimed I was violating court orders, so they took my inheritance.”

“That’s illegal!” Jaskier burst out, aghast. “Why would they do that?”

Geralt’s head was pounding and his breath was getting shorter. He didn’t like thinking about that year. He didn’t like it all. It was a clusterfuck of despair and confusion and terror and he didn’t want to think of it. “I don’t know,” he said, and his voice shook. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pried. But now we have some idea of what to do.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you’re being discriminated against, mistreated, and refused the help you need. So.” Jaskier steepled his fingers and grinned, eyes glinting fiercely. “We’re going to tear these fuckers apart.”

~

A year later, Geralt hated the memories of the confusion and rage of dealing with laws and lawyers and people casually threatening to take Ciri away from him if he didn’t shut up and go away. He hated them with the fury of the planet’s molten core.

But outcomes had been good.

His payments were raised to the legal amount. He was allowed to go to therapy and job training without being threatened. Ciri had new clothes and a new bed and new favorite foods. And Jaskier was not annoying anymore. On the contrary, he had become something much, much better.

Jaskier was still only the nanny. But Geralt had a plan, and it involved the engagement ring he bought on the one-year anniversary of hiring Jaskier.

#Geraskier #Geralt x Jaskier #The Witcher #OOF I could be convinced to expand on this

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Subtext, by Calvin Klein

happy birthday @stinastar!!! I know it’s not the prompt you wanted, but I’ll write that too. :) Thank you so much for being awesome and so so sweet!

Legally Blonde au - modern - fluffy pre-getting together

depending on the comments I get on this, I might post a second part

tw: Geralt’s tragic backstory (foster care mention)

---

Geralt approached Jaskier slowly and kept his hands firmly in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans. “What’s up-” he noticed the bunny ears poking up from Jaskier’s fluffy brown hair and added “-doc?”

The young law student looked up at Geralt through teary black lashes and let out another soft sniffle, his lips wobbling unattractively. Geralt hurried to drape his zip-up hoodie over Jaskier’s bare shoulders and take a seat on the wooden bench beside him. 

The worried teacher’s assistant rubbed his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms through the material, trying to warm him up a little better. “Why are you dressed as a Playboy bunny, sitting on a bench in the middle of the night in this terrible New England weather?”

“I made a terrible mistake in coming here.”

“What?”

Geralt had never heard Jaskier sound so utterly defeated. Usually the student was bright and bubbly, congenial to a fault even when he made mistakes or answered incorrectly during class discussions. The charming brunette seemed to pull bucket after bucket from a nearly endless well of positivity; until now, apparently. 

As he sat beside Geralt on the worn wooden bench, wearing the tight pink leotard and little wrist cuffs, practically glowing in the yellow-tinged lamplight, he seemed too ethereal to be real. Even as he shivered and sniffled, Jaskier looked too gorgeous to be human. Seeing him in such a distressed state was a little unnerving, like bumping into an old teacher outside of school or accidentally seeing your neighbors kissing through a window. It felt wrong. 

“I followed the love of my life to this stupid fucking university and now he’s going to marry some fancy, well-bred blonde woman like his parents wanted and I’m going to flunk out of these classes with nothing to show for my time here and my parents are going to-”

“Hey,” Geralt interrupted, taking one hand from his pocket to place on Jaskier’s trembling knee. “It’s going to be okay. Breathe, Jaskier.”

“Right. Breathing. Yeah.”

“Are you… okay?” 

Jaskier looked at him again and Geralt flinched away from the obvious hurt in his watery blue eyes. Of course he’s not okay, he’s sobbing alone on a cold bench in the middle of Halloween night. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I’m not good with words but- Wait... are you saying you came to school because of a man?” 

“Y-Yeah. You could put it that way, I guess.”

Geralt yanked his hand away from the younger man’s knee and scooted backwards, away from the man he’d just been admiring. “Oh my god, that has to be the absolute stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You came all the way to Oxenfurt University’s prestigious and award-winning Law School to hunt down a husband?!”

Jaskier looks taken aback. Startled and bewildered and sad, like a much smaller child rather than an adult man with a degree and a half. “Are you mad at me!?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Geralt laughed humorlessly. He shook his head, swiping one hand over his face on his way to tuck in a stray strand of white hair. “I worked two jobs to get myself through college. I was doing full-time classes and pulling sixty hour weeks at the bar and the grocery store; I don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep since I graduated high school. I certainly don’t know the meaning of the word vacation anymore... and you came here to follow some- some guy that you liked?”

“We’d been together for three years before he suddenly dropped me to pursue a degree in fucking bitter looking women, to be completely fair. And I managed to get a good enough LSAT score to qualify for admittance, so it’s not like I’m totally incompetent.”

“No,” Geralt nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I guess that’s true.”

“No guessing involved,” Jaskier spat, tired and angry and flustered. “It is the truth, plain and simple. I deserve to be here and I will be successful.”

“Hmm.” 

“Well why are you here, then, Mr. Grouchy T.A.?”

“I grew up in foster care and let me tell you, from experience, that the system is shit. If I had been forced to remain a foster child for any longer than I was, I probably would have become a match-happy little delinquent like my youngest brother, Lambert. Luckily my third foster parent, Vesemir, adopted me legally and made me his son. He already had one adopted son, my older brother, Eskel, and after me there was Lambert.”

Jaskier took a moment to contemplate Geralt’s story, pulling the sweatshirt closer around his shoulders and burrowing down into the neckline in a way that sent butterflies swirling through Geralt’s stomach rather unexpectedly. Then the younger man smiled at him, pearly teeth glinting in the light of the streetlamp. “That’s… that’s a little sad and a little sweet. It makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“The sadness and the sweetness,” Jaskier repeated, grinning a little more shyly than before. Geralt wasn’t sure, since it was so dark and he was so skeptical, but it almost looked like Jaskier was blushing. “Like you. Sweet, kind, caring, but a little melancholy. Anyway, I should be getting back to my dorm. I need to study.”

“I want my sweatshirt back,” Geralt said, standing and offering Jaskier a hand up. He wobbled to his feet, still wearing a pair of dangerously high black stilettos. Geralt knew this outfit would haunt his dreams for the next few weeks and cursed Hugh Heffner’s lingering spirit. 

“If you’re lucky,” Jaskier replied, and click-click-clicked his way into the darkness. 

Geralt honestly wasn’t sure he’d mind if Jaskier decided to keep it… maybe someday he’d wear it to class. And didn’t the thought of that send something odd and new and terrifying swirling in Geralt’s gut.

---

“Where are we going, exactly?” Geralt asked, eyeing the giddy brunette before him. Jaskier batted his long eyelashes at the grumpy T.A. and gave his sweetest pout.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Well then don’t stop now!” 

The excitable young law student laced his fingers with Geralt’s and pulled him through the large glass doors and into the mall. When at last his eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the shopping center he asked: “What is this place?”

Jaskier grinned, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “A department store.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and took his own deep breath, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “What is that smell?”

“Love,” Jaskier replied.

“What!?”

“Love,” the student repeated, pointing at a sign with his free hand. It was large and pink and read LOVE, BY CHANEL in black block-letters. “There’s Love in the air.”

“Terrible joke, really,” Geralt teased. “But really, Jaskier, why are we here? You have plenty of clothes for court; I know because I’ve been in your closet and seen them firsthand.”

“We’re not here for me,” Jaskier elbowed his mentor and study partner gently in the side. Their hands were still interlaced in a way that made Geralt’s heart thunder dangerously against his ribs; love really was in the air, it seemed. Jaskier continued breezily, unaware of the older man’s roiling internal conflict. “I’m taking you shopping so that you have the proper outfit to wear when accepting Stregobor’s partnership offer.”

They had reached the men’s business section and the brunette released Geralt’s hand in order to dig through the racks of clothing. He was elbow deep in Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, hunting for jackets in Geralt’s size. “Jaskier, I can’t afford this kind of-”

“Hush,” Jaskier replied, waving his hand dismissively in his direction, letting it go limp at the wrist. “It’s a gift. No! Not a gift, a repayment.”

“I didn’t give you anything…” 

Jaskier looked up from the selection of suits he’d been inspecting and shot Geralt a dangerous glare. “You most certainly did give me something, Geralt Roger Eric du-Haute Bellegarde! You looked past my bubbliness and my pink blazer and my previous degree and treated me like a person. You supported me and encouraged me without asking for anything in return so this is what I’m giving you.”

Geralt took a step towards him and sneezed. “What is that smell?”

An attendant appeared as if from thin air, a little glass bottle clutched in her hand. “It’s Subtext, by Calvin Klein!”

“It’s not really my thing,” Geralt frowned, closing the distance between himeslf and Jaskier as he made his apologies, “But thank you, regardless.”

“Let me know if you gentlemen need anything!”

Geralt stepped close enough to feel the heat of Jaskier’s body, still not brave enough to initiate touch. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jaskier grinned again. 

Geralt considered the feelings that were stirring in his heart, driving through his veins, branching out through his mind so that all he could focus on was Jaskier... 

It might be a problem, he thought, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. But it can be dealt with another time. 

#legally blonde #legally blonde au #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #happy birthday stina #pre slash #legally blonde the musical #geraskier fluff #preslash #pre getting tgoether #getting together #bouncey's endless au collection

[advena87]

Kaer Morhen shenanigans (but mostly Lambert’s) part 8

Here is: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 and Daily Lambert

also Keira & Lambert’s love story, Aiden & Lambert’s love story and… this.

.

Eskel: Can I keep this goat?

Vesemir: No.

Eskel: Why not? She’s so cute, I named her Lil’Bleater.

Berengar: Because she’ll hurt and annoy everyone.

Vesemir: And she will destroy everything.

Eskel: But you basically just described Lambert!

Geralt: He has a point. If we can keep Lambert we might as well keep the goat. She can't be worse than him.

Vesemir: It's hard to argue with this logic…

***

*brekfast*

Lambert: Give me a vodka on the rocks. 

Geralt: Lambert, it’s 7 in the morning. 

Lambert: And a piece of toast. 

 *a moment later*

Geralt: Eskel, we just ate. Why are you making pancakes?

Eskel: They’re for Lil’Bleater.

Berengar: Why are you making pancakes for goat?

Eskel: She doesn't know how.

***

Lambert: Um, guys?

Berengar: What now?

Lambert: Can animal breathe inside a washing machine while it’s on?

Berengar:

Geralt:

Eskel:

Eskel: Where’s Lil’Bleater?!

*a moment later*

Berengar: *leaning against a wall with Geralt while they watch Eskel try to catch Lambert *

Berengar: Amazing.

Geralt: This is the worst chase I’ve ever seen in my life. How has Eskel still not caught him?

Berengar: Lambert is pretty fast, and if he caught him, he would probably kill him. Tbh I don’t think Eskel really wants to touch him. You never know where he’s been.

Lambert: Eskel, calm down! This goat was stinking, someone had finally wash her!

Eskel: YOU CAN RUN BUT ILL STILL BE IN YOUR NIGHTMARES!

***

Vesemir: I can’t believe how drunk you are!

Lambert: I am not drunk.

Vesemir: Yes you are!

Lambert: I am not!

Vesemir: Can you tell the time?

Lambert: Yes *turns to point at clock* I am not drunk!

Vesemir, pointing out of a window: Lambert, do you see that over there? Running between the trees?

Lambert, confused: No, I don't. What is it?

Vesemir, now looking directly at Lambert: It's my patience for your stupid drunk shit, running away from me again!

***

Berengar: Wow, I really like this new, abstract, surrealist, post-modern painting of this depressive and tormented person.

Lambert: Dude, that’s a mirror.

***

Berengar: The fact that I exist literally pisses me off sometimes.

***

Vesemir: What are the signs of teenage depression?

Geralt: Why are you asking?

Vesemir: Berengar was doing laundry earlier and he dropped a sock and I heard him say “why has the god forsaken me”.

***

Vesemir: Where's Berengar? I've been looking for him all day.

Eskel: He’s been in the shower.

Vesemir: All day?

Eskel: Pretty much. He takes really long showers when he gets depressed.

Vesemir: Well, when do you think he’s going to come out?

Eskel: I don't know. He took a chair in there.

*a moment later*

Vesemir and Eskel: *knocks on bathroom door*

Berengar: Who is it?

Eskel: It's us, we just wanna talk.

Berengar: How many of you are there?

Vesemir: Two.

Berengar: Then talk to each other.

***

Vesemir, calling Lambert: Hello.

Lambert: What?

Vesemir: Lambert, you should identify yourself when you answer the phone.

Lambert: Sorry.

Lambert: *thick sarcasm* The Kaer Morhen keep, major disappointment speaking.

Lambert: Better?

Vesemir: *sighs in defeat*

***

Lambert: Hey guys- Why are you all standing on table? Are you playing a game?

Geralt: Yeah, we’re playing “we saw a young arachnomorph in the castle and don’t know where the fuck it went”.

Lambert: *scrambles onto table*

***

Lambert: I’ll think of a plan, I’m the best at plans.

Eskel: No. You’re not.

Lambert: I am! Name one bad plan I’ve come up with.

Eskel: Blowing up the rock troll in the castle tower.

Berengar: Starting a bar brawl because you forgot your wallet.

Geralt: Ritualistically sacrificing Eskel.

Eskel: Putting Lil’Bleater into the washing machine.

Geralt: Throwing bombs inside the castle.

Berengar: Take fisstech and go hunting for a Water Hag in brothel.

Geralt: Ooh, so that's why they kicked you out of there!

Lambert: …

***

Vesemir: I'm disappointed

Lambert: And I'm tired of hearing this shit. You're disappointed? Let's think about it: Brengar has depression and suicidal thoughts, I have drinking problem and anger issues, Eskel's best friend is a goat, and Geralt is a slut.

Geralt: Wait, what?

Lambert: And tell me Vesemir, whose fault is that?

Vesemir: It's not your job to question my parenting methods.

Lambert: Why not? I find some of your methods highly questionable.

Geralt: I'm not a slut!

***

Geralt: Ok Lambert, we need you to distract the guards.

Lambert: Right.

Berengar: What are you gonna do?

Lambert: I'm gonna kill them. That ought to distract 'em.

Geralt: I said distract them, not cut them down!

Lambert: There is just no pleasing you sometimes.

Gerlat: Lambert!

Lambert: FINE. I'll take care of it. No killing, I promise.

*Lambert leaves*

Geralt: What do you think Lambert will do for a distraction?

Eskel: He’ll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That’s what I would do.

*Building explodes and all the horses fled*

Berengar: ...or he could do that.

Geralt: …

Geralt: Fuck. It’s time for Plan B.

Berengar: We have a Plan B?

Geralt: No, but it’s time for one.

*meanwhile in another part of town, Vesemir on a date with countess Mignole*

Vesemir, to Mignole: Hah, look at those idiots getting chased by guards.

Vesemir: Wait.

Eskel, Geralt, Lambert & Berengar: *yelling in the distance*

Vesemir: SHIT- THOSE ARE MY IDIOTS

 *later*

Vesemir: I can’t come today, sorry.

Countess Mignole: Why not?

Vesemir: Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Berengar are all in the hospital.

Countess Mignole: Oh my, what happened?

Vesemir: Varying degrees of idiocy.

***

Eskel: With all due respect Geralt, have you lost your fucking mind?

Geralt: That's with all due respect? And since when you use the fuck word?

Eskel: You took advice from Lambert?!

Berengar: It’s called hitting rock bottom, Eskel.

Geralt: It's called following Vesemir's directions. He always said: „In the unlikely event that you encounter something that is not covered here, find a man named Lambert of Kaer Morhen, get his advice, and then do the opposite.”

Eskel: But you did exactly what Lambert told you!

Geralt: Because it was good advice.

***

Vesemir: Eskel wants to become a witcher when he grows up to kill monsters and help people in need. My other son, Lambert, wants to be a porcupine so he can stab people with his butt.

***

Vesemir, before the young witchers set off on their first independent journey: Eskel, you should look after Lambert.

Eskel: What do you mean? He's a witcher now.

Vesemir: That doesn’t mean he actually knows what he’s doing.

*later on the path during dinner*

Lambert: Okay, guys, who wanted the macaroni and bees?

Eskel: ...

Gerlat: You mean cheese?

Lambert, struggling to keep the bowl covered: That does make more sense, actually.

Eskel: I'm starting to understand what Vesemir meant.

***

Lambert: Your existence is confusing.

Vesemir: How so?

Lambert: Your presence is so fucking annoying, but the thought of anything bad happening to you upsets me.

Berengar: It's called Stockholm syndrome.

Lambert: Ah yes, another issue on my long, long list.

Berengar: I think you may also have PTSD.

Lambert: Yeah I have PTSD.

Lambert: Proficient Talent for Sucking D-

Vesemir: WE ALSO need to talk about your use of humor as a coping mechanism.

***

Vesemir: Everyone always asks me how I handle running the witcher school.

Vesemir: The truth is, I don’t. I have no control over them whatsoever. This morning, Geralt called my name, and when I showed up to see what was going on, Lambert shot me in the throat with a slingshot.

.

#kaer morhen shenaningans #Witcher #witcher 3 #witcher 3 wild hunt #tw3 #wild hunt #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #lambert #witcher lambert #eskel #witcher eskel #berengar #witcher berengar #vesemir #witcher vesemir #papa vesemir #lil'bleater #countness mignole #vesemir x mignole #wiedźmin #incorrect witcher quotes #incorrect quotes #incorrect witcher

[snowfea]

What about spy!Jaskier and knight!Geralt?

Both working for the same queen, Calanthe, and both loving the little princess so much

Jaskier didn't mean to become a spy, it just... happened. One day he was performing at an inn, twenty years old, and the other he was thirty and had prevented so many attacks on queen Calanthe that he'd stopped counting. Nobody knows he's from Cintra, he's just a bard from Lettenhove. Oh, he's not exactly famous, but one has to make sacrifices when working for Cintra. One of these sacrifices is not being able to shut Valdo Marx's mouth when he says that he's the best bard of the Continent; sure, he might be, but Jaskier is more important than Valdo will ever be.

So Jaskier goes on the road, plays at inns, listens to the farmers and innkeepers talk about bandits and people who don't seem to belong, and then he goes and makes sure that these people aren't a threat. If they are, well. He has ways to alert the crown, and then these people are dealt with. If they aren't menacing and were just victims of farmers’ bigotry, he leaves them alone.

Geralt, on the other hand, very much knows how he became a knight. Did he want to? Don't ask him. No seriously, you'd better not. His job is to protect the crown, Calanthe, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. He's doing it for Pavetta first, and then when she was born, for Ciri.

Geralt doesn't have many friends, except the people that he considers his brothers (in arms, but it's more than just that): Eskel and Lambert, who aren’t knights in Cintra. His trainer, Vesemir, raised them together and made them perfect knights, before sending them off in the world as they were meant to be. Geralt knew how to kill a man before he learned how to shave.

Twice a year is held the Security council; Jaskier, as the queen's best spy, is here. Geralt, as the queen's best knight, is too. The first time they meet, Geralt can't fucking understand how someone like Jaskier can be an efficient spy, until later that night during the banquet. Jaskier is playing - he needed a cover and a bard can't refuse to play for the Queen of Cintra, now can he? and if he isn't seen during a few hours, well, let's just say he's in charming company. It's only because Geralt is watching him closely that he notices how the bard looks over the room, taking in every face, observing people's reactions, that he understands. People are careless around bards, some treat them a simple background noise. Nobody pays attention if the bard is drawing closer, close enough to hear a secret conversation. Geralt is admirative.

Meanwhile Jaskier takes one look at Geralt and thinks, woah. He can see the muscles and the way the knight knowingly looks around him, always making sure that no one is an immediate threat to the queen.

So what they both have in common is that they love Ciri. Ciri, the little princess, who has her mother’s hair and her grandmother’s eyes. Jaskier would do anything for her, and so would Geralt.

So when Nilfgaart attacks, when Jaskier comes back to Cintra because he knew this would happen, he had told them, why had they not listened, why didn’t Calanthe take the threat seriously and his only goal is to save little Ciri, to keep her safe, to protect her from the soldiers, he almost attacks Geralt when he sees him next to Ciri.

There’s a short moment when both of them look at each other, before recognition lights into Geralt’s eyes. “Bard” he says. “Knight” replies Jaskier.

And Ciri cries into Geralt’s shoulder as they ride into the night, leaving behind them Cintra burning, leaving behind them the only home they ever knew.

Except- Geralt brings them to Kaer Morhen. Well, not before accusing Jaskier of treason (“You knew about the attack” “Why yes, I did, but it doesn’t matter now” “Of course it does, because all of this could’ve been prevent-” “Don’t you know, Geralt? I told them, I made sure to tell them, and yet here we are”)

Somewhere along the way Jaskier learns to love Geralt, and it’s not a surprise to him when he realizes he’s in love. Not a surprise, but Jaskier is angry at himself. He had promised himself to never fall in love, because his only duty was to protect Cintra. But now Cintra has fallen, and his loyalty goes to Ciri and Geralt and the weird family they make; surely he can allow himself to be in love. Not that he’ll do anything about it.

Meanwhile Geralt realizes he’s doomed, because the blue-eyed spy is actually a ray of sunshine, despite everything he’s seen and done. He makes Ciri laughs after a nightmare, sings to her about happier times without making the memories bitter, braid flower into her hair. Geralt finds himself liking Jaskier.

Jaskier is taken by Nilfgaard before they reach Kaer Morhen. And Geralt is torn, is fucking torn between saving the man he loves and making sure the princess is safe. In the end, he chooses Ciri. He’s never been more conflicted in his life, and every step away from Jaskier feels like stabbing himself with his own swords.

Ciri knows this. She’s not stupid, and she’s aware of the love the two men came to have for each other. She sees it in the way Geralt puts Jaskier’s bedroll close to the fire, in the way Jaskier cleans Geralt’s armor for him, in the way they bicker and argue but smile when the other isn’t looking. She tells Geralt to go and save Jaskier. It’s a direct order from his queen, she adds with a sad smile, he can’t disobey.

Geralt fucking bolts to go and save Jaskier. Which he does. Spying may not be his thing, but he manages to gather intel and knows where Jaskier is. They don’t know he was Calanthe’s top spy. They just think he’s a bard who helped the young princess to escape.

Jaskier won’t say a thing. Oh, he talks plenty, but never about the princess. Tells his captors about history chapters he learned when he was at Oxenfurt, about how the Viscount of Forestier had an affair with his maid and was very much in love with her, but Nilfgaard never learns a thing about where the lion cub of Cintra is. Jaskier holds to that as he endures their torture.

After Geralt saves him, they continue to go towards Kaer Morhen. Except now Jaskier is on Roach with Ciri, and Geralt walks beside them. He won’t hear any complaint.

They’re together now. Ciri suspects it happened when Geralt saved Jaskier and saw him hurt and yet so defiant, but she can’t know for sure. She does know that now, they sleep close at night – well, Jaskier sleeps next to Geralt while the knight guards the camp, and Jaskier plays with Geralt’s hair when Geralt’s asleep.

Kaer Morhen is not how she expected it to be. It’s… in ruins. There are more knights (and really, she’s sure they’re not knights, she’ll have to dig in the library to find out), and she soon learns their names: Vesemir, who’s like, Geralt’s dad, she assumes; Eskel and Lambert, his brothers. Aiden and Cohen, the first one Lambert’s “best friend” (just like Jaskier is Geralt’s best friend, she thinks, and she sees from Eskel’s grin that he knows what she’s thinking about)

She learns to fight, to fight for her life and for the life of others. But she also learns how to play the lute, and Jaskier makes sure she continues to sing. And together, with Geralt and Jaskier and all the other “knights”, they’re a family. An odd one, but a family.

Geralt and Jaskier learn that you can live for yourself, and decide that what they truly want to do is live for themselves together.

#geraskier #The Witcher #Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt #Ciri #I apologize for any mistakes #English isn't my first language and it's midnight here #geraskier fic #mine

[afterhoursfic]

what about eskel as the kaer morhen's sex toy? eskel doesn't get enough dick while he's out on the path and the other wolves (including vesemir, maybe) are happy to have a few nice warm holes to use whenever they feel like it, whatever eskel's doing at the time. and it's not like he has a problem waking up full of cock.

All plot and little porn makes jack a dull boy but oh well. Honestly, I’m in love with this idea and don’t have the proper words to say so but Eskel as nothing more than a hole for his brothers to use is perfection.

I’ve also added Vesemir, there’s no explicit fucking between the two but he just gives Eskel a helping hand here and there.

.

Normally, when he found himself on the last stretch up to the gates of Kaer Morhen he felt the stresses of the past year slowly melt away almost as if it was taking a deep sigh before he could finally relax. This year was different though, instead, his body felt tight and uncomfortable, itchy almost and no matter what he tried he couldn’t make that feeling go away.

He knew the cause of it, of course, It had been just over a year since he last shared a bed, or hell even a hand with someone, and the winter months would only add to that growing timeline. To some, it was a stupid thing to get worked up over but in all that time he had never been truly satisfied, his hand barely took off the edge and often left him feeling worse than before, couple that with almost every brothel kicking him out on sight and having to hear his brothers forays under the sheets meant he was in for a shit few months.

Sure it had never been easy to find a partner, even less so after he got the scars that littered the side of his face but there was always someone who wanted to try their luck with him, to brag about the fact they took a witcher to bed, and yet it seemed his luck had run out.

When he finally passed the gates to the keep he only spared his brothers and Vesemir a quick nod as he settled Scorpion in the stables, if they noticed anything was odd they didn’t say it, but he could feel their eyes boring into him all the same.

After that he eagerly made his way back to his rooms, ignoring Lambert’s attempt to goad him into a game of Gwent, and giving a grunt when Vesemir announced food would be ready in an hour. Once he was behind a closed door he first went to his trunk and dug through it until he found the wooden cock, he’d bought on a whim decades ago now.

It wasn’t the first one he’d owned but he quickly learned not to take it out on the path with him between the monsters that always seemed to damage his belongings and the people who liked to kick him out of towns when he came back from a job, sans his bags, he decided it would just be easiest to leave it here, the worst that could happen would be if Lambert found it and paraded that bit of information.

Now though all he wanted was to get off, to try and ease the edge off, and so he quickly stripped before he almost tore his bag searching for the small vial of oil. In record time he had two fingers slicked and pressing into him, only doing himself the barest courtesy of prepping himself before he was slicking up the wooden cock and pressing it into him.

It felt good for all of a second, to have something other than his fingers pressing into himself, but it still wasn’t a real cock and even as he began to fuck himself and aimed it towards his prostate, he felt little relief. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied by the end, but he was here now so may as well come, so with one hand fucking the dildo into himself and the other stripping his cock he soon came with a groan and sure enough, he just felt worse afterwards, unsettled almost, and it was only by tossing the wooden cock into the corner of the room that stopped him from destroying it with a blast of igni.

He could feel the frown on his face as he got up to grab a cloth to clean himself before dressing again, could feel the way his muscles bunched up under his skin, coiled tight as if ready for a fight and he knew he had to watch himself tonight lest he gets riled up at his brothers and lash out them before Vesemir forced him to say what afflicted him. He definitely did not want to be having that conversation with any of them, especially as he pictured Lambert’s grinning face.

Dinner was a tense affair, for him at least, offering nothing but grunts here and there as his brothers spoke a little of their own adventures over the past year, apparently, Geralt and Lambert had worked a job together and not only that but Geralt had met an interesting woman by the name Countess Mignole, who Vesemir had had a dalliance with in the past and even got chased out the woman’s window when caught. Any other time he would probably enjoy his brother’s ribbing of their mentor but now all he wanted was the privacy of his room, in fact, he only stayed as long as his food and drink lasted before he bade them farewell and went left for another very unsatisfying hand job before he went back to bed.

The next couple of weeks weren’t any easier on him. During training he lashed out, normally so controlled and level-headed, now he let his emotions get the better of him by constantly using aard to fling his brothers, and one time Vesemir, across the courtyard just to feel something satisfying, and it was satisfying the first few times, but that soon lost its appeal, not that he stopped doing it though.

Of course, he was chastised, most of their training was supposed to be without signs and even then they were only used to disarm and throw each other off, nowhere close to genuinely hurting one another, but watching Geralt, the famed white wolf be thrown back against the keep’s wall definitely helped him.

Mealtimes were no better, most of the time he could skirt by the others to pick up a bit of food from the kitchen, ignoring their lingering stares and attempts at conversation as he just wanted to eat and get on with the day. Dinner though he couldn’t avoid and would often watch his brothers, well mostly Lambert, get exceedingly drunk on his shitty vodka and bragging about the men and women he bedded, and how more than half of them had come to him begging he takes them to bed.

He wasn’t jealous, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but whenever the conversation turned his way it usually ended with him telling them to fuck off before he stomped off to his room. Okay so maybe he was a little jealous.

It all culminated one night when he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did, and was filled with the sort of energy that was slowly making him crazy so that he was ready to tear down the walls of this keep just to get rid of it.

He wasn’t that stupid or desperate, yet, and so he simply picked up his sword and headed down to the courtyards, the faint light of dawn beginning to peek over the castle walls as he struck his sword down against the first training dummy.

He watched it crack and fall apart under his sword in a matter of blows and soon moved onto the next one and the next until a shout rung out behind him.

“That’s enough, wolf” He turned to hurl a snarl towards Vesemir but at the sight of the older witcher, of the stance that brooked absolutely no argument, he bit his tongue and instead dropped his sword to the floor, a mistake clearly as he heard Vesemir’s scowl “That’s no way to treat your weapon, wolf, have I taught you nothing”

With a put-upon sigh, he bent down to pick up the blade and didn’t bother to look up as he started to walk back to his rooms to try for the hundredth time to get some sort of relief until he felt a hard hand on his shoulder, a touch that practically branded him even through his clothes and he hated that his knees felt just a little weak, gods when was the last time he had been touched.

He doesn’t even fight it when Vesemir forces him to his knees, just settles on his knees, face cast down as he waits for his punishment. What he doesn’t expect though is a gentle hand lifting his head up and the almost assessing gaze from the other witcher before Vesemir hums to himself and tilts his head in question “When’s the last time you were fucked?”

He doesn’t bother answering, just clenches his jaw and stares back up at Vesemir, which is answer enough apparently as the older witcher just frowns down at him “I’ll leave the boys to it, they’ve been clamoring to get into bed with you since you arrived”

That gets his attention. Sure the three of them had slept together before, when the days were dark and cold and the nights even more so and they needed a brother’s warmth to take the chill from their bones, but it had been years since they’d done anything together, at least for him. Ever since he’d gotten the scars stretching across his face he’d kept to himself, saw the way people flinched and pulled away from him, and he couldn’t bear that from his brothers.

The thought was pushed aside when he felt a pressure at his cock and he looked down to see Vesemir’s boot against the line of his cock, hard against his breeches for gods knew how long and he couldn’t help the moan that broke free as he thrust against the pressure once, and then again and again until he humping Vesemir’s boot, the only thought of moremoremore until he felt a gentle hand card through his hair and it was that that did him in, that had him come with a shout and caused a sizeable wet spot to stain the front of his pants until he was left panting and limp.

The next thing he knows he’s inside the great hall and is being handed off to Geralt and not much longer he’s in a bed with far too many hands pulling at his clothes, turning to see Lambert behind him, but he can’t even say anything before he feels a finger circling his rim before pushing in.

It’s as if all the air leaves him then and all he can do is hold onto Geralt in front of him as he’s fucked on two, then three, then four fingers. He comes again as a fifth finger teases his hole and it earns a chuckle from his brothers.

He whines when he feels the fingers pull out, but he can’t even comment when suddenly he’s being moved onto his front, on his elbows over Geralt with his ass up before Lambert slides into him. His groan is cut off when a forceful hand in his hair is pulling him down and suddenly his mouth is full of Geralt’s cock, barely able to stop himself from choking on it.

Between the two of them, they figure out a rhythm so that he’s either sinking down onto Geralt or pushed back onto Lambert, filled from both ends for the first time in decades, and he’s almost shameful to say how much he missed this, how much he missed being fucked and moved around as if he were nothing but a hole.

He could feel his mind go hazy with it, just let himself relax as he let them use him how they pleased, whether that was by forcing his mouth onto their cocks until they stretched the back of his throat and left him gagging and struggling for air, or using all the strength and stamina they possessed to fuck into his ass for hours until he was an aching, come-filled mess, and even then begging for more.

He’d lost count of how many orgasms he’d had, only knew that a hand hadn’t touched his cock once and yet it was still hard and flushed red, even as another dry orgasm shook through him and wring out another orgasm from both Lambert and Geralt with muttered swears about what a needy slut he was, how he wanted to be their breeding bitch for the winter and couldn’t go a minute without a cock in him.

In dispersed between the moments of brutal fucking that left him a weak, begging mess, were softer moments that were somehow worse, that would have tears at the corner of his eyes if he were able when Geralt slowly fucked into him, oh so careful and gentle as he pressed small kisses along the scars on his face or when Lambert had him pressed face down into the mattress and slowly rolled his hips into him, a comforting weight at his back as he promised to look after him, that they were all he needed.

It was sometime in the early morning when they finally retired to sleep and for the first time in months, he felt relaxed, comforted now that he was surrounded by his brothers, and fell into a restful sleep.

He had half expected that to be it, that they would help him that once to take the edge off, to make him himself again for the rest of the winter lest he physically tear the walls down, and a part of him hurt at the fact but when woke up to an empty bed he didn’t dwell on it.

He took a moment to admire the bruises and scratches littered on him, even the ache that seemed to stretch across his whole body when he stood up before making his way to the kitchen for food and then probably back to his own bed for some more much-needed rest.

That plan was derailed as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Vesemir working over the stove making some sort of stew for dinner, whilst Geralt and Lambert sat at the small table, Lambert finishing off his breakfast before they all turned to look at him.

The next thing he knew Geralt was up and pushing him back onto the table, quick hands removed his trousers and two fingers pushed into his swollen rim still leaking their come from only a few hours before. He couldn’t keep back the moan in the back of his throat before suddenly Geralt pulled his fingers out to be replaced by his cock.

That’s how he found himself being fucked over the breakfast table, his brothers chatting amicably with each other whilst he was reduced to a desperate wanton mess under Geralt’s hands. He was only half-hard by the time he felt Geralt come into him, how he still had anything left was a surprise to him but he was left panting and whining for more when the other witcher pulled out of him, but he wasn’t left long when he felt Lambert move by his head.

Lambert’s breakfast seemingly finished he was shifted on the table until his table was hanging off of one end and soon Lambert’s cock was teasing at his mouth and with a hum, he began to suck down the younger witcher’s cock. So focused on just how good it was to have a cock in him first thing in the morning, he jumped when he felt rough hands pinch at his nipples, the mix of pain and pleasure sending a shiver through him as he heard Vesemir chuckle above him, but that didn’t stop the older witcher until he was coming with a shudder with Lambert’s cock so far down his throat he was struggling to breathe.

There was a passing remark from Vesemir to clean up whatever mess they made as he left, and then it was just the three of them, Lambert finished soon after with a growl and he was promptly settled back onto Geralt’s cock, now sat on the bench whilst he ate breakfast, and when down pushed face-first onto the table and fucked within an inch of his life before he and Geralt were coming together with a shout.

The following weeks had the same pattern, namely the three of them using them however they wanted, well mainly Geralt and Lambert.

Occasionally Vesemir would find him and offer his boot for him to hump or a hand for him to fuck into, one time he was even given a pillow to rub his cock against whilst he was kneeling between the other witchers legs, yellow eyes boring into him the whole while and after offered a gentle hand and a kind word before being sent on his way.

His brothers were more forceful, insistent in their need, namely, they’d push him against any surface they could, sparing a couple of fingers to prep him, not that they needed it given how often he was on one of their cocks, always open and dripping come. It didn’t matter what he was doing, whether it was reinforcing the walls around the keep, or repairing the fence around the stables.

Normally he could hear them coming and was able to at least move to a somewhat softer surface before he was shoved face-first to the ground and his clothes all but torn off of him. Not that he had any complaints, he was the most rested he’d been all year and there were truly no words to describe how good it felt to be wanted and craved, to be woken up with Lambert cock’s fucking his hole, all the while telling him how good his hole felt clenched around his cock, how desperate he was for them all, that they could bend him over anywhere and he’d beg to fucked like needy bitch he is.

It’s when Lambert calls him a pretty, little cum dump that he comes, only his brother is long from over and instead, he’s shushed back into sleep whilst Lambert continues rocking into him and when he wakes in the morning he can feel the come spill down his thighs, but he’s only given a minute to admire it before Geralt is pushing him onto his back and forcing his legs wide so that he can push his own cock into his hole.

He almost mourns the end of winter. Whilst he’s itching to get back out on the path he’s not looking forward to leaving his brothers, to go through another year of villager’s ire and even less of their coin, but especially without the feel of his brothers fucking him like they’re desperate for him. It’s not that he’s obsessed, well maybe a little, but now that he’s had a taste of being nothing but a hole to be used whenever someone wants now, he needs more like it’s a physical ache.

So when Geralt asks for his help on a big contract he’d heard about on the way up to the keep, how can he refuse when it means he gets even longer to be nothing more than a cock dumb hole meant to be fucked.

#afterhours cw dubcon #afterhours cw overstimulation #afterhours cw exhibitionism #I don't know any other tags to use #eskel is a hoe

[sleepyxcoffee]

@thewitchersecretsanta gift for @youkaineko !

Ultimately, this was all Master Varin’s fault.

It hadn’t, Vesemir explained, been mandatory for young witchers to hold a degree until 1990, when Master Varin had returned after spending six years obtaining a Bachelor’s in Chemistry whilst still doing all his… witchering. He had proclaimed the experience “eye opening” and “a good way to get to know humans” and some other bullshit Geralt didn’t fully understand.

Geralt had succeeded in evading the Trial of Uni, as he and Eskel had taken to calling it, for a grand total of two months after his Grasses, until Vesemir had all but scruffed him and dragged him to a computer with UCAS opened up. His only solace in the whole situation was that he and Eskel were applying to all the same universities.

Except then Eskel got a full scholarship to the University of St Andrews, which the trainers weren’t letting him pass up on, and Geralt… didn’t get a place at St Andrews.

Which was how Geralt had ended up at Edinburgh instead. It was still Scotland, at least, so it wasn’t that far from Kaer Morhen over on the Shetland Isles, or Eskel in St Andrews. It was a city, which was… less than desirable, but Geralt could work with that.

He could.

What he wasn’t so sure he could work with was the fucking disaster of a man he had ended up flatmates with. The others seemed alright - Shani and Priscilla gave Geralt his space, and didn’t bother him too much. They didn’t seem to mind that he was a witcher either.

Jaskier, on the other hand…

The best part was, Geralt hadn’t even met Jaskier in the flat. For the first half of his first semester, Room 4 in Flat 12 of College Wynd had remained blissfully unoccupied. Shani and Priscilla did their own thing - Shani was rarely in the flat anyway, being a medicine student with a ridiculously full schedule - and Priscilla spent most of her time doing her theatre society things. The girls were at least kind enough to not throw any parties in the flat, after the time Geralt had nearly murdered Priscilla with a glare for doing so.

No, Geralt met Jaskier outside the dean’s office, of all the possible places.

It was November, and Geralt had heard of some strange, possibly vampiric, activity occurring on the outskirts of Edinburgh, thanks to a contract for a witcher put up by the Metropolitan Police. Unfortunately, he was also the only fully trained Wolf witcher situated anywhere near Edinburgh, and he’d be damned if he let a passing Cat or Griffin or anyone hop in and take the kill. Remus had passed through last week, but he was all the way down in Yorkshire by the time the reports came in. The UK was large, and the Wolf School was only a hundred or so members strong. They didn’t have enough witchers to permanently station anyone in cities, their witchers instead roaming up and down the country.

Also unfortunately, Geralt had about five different assignments due the next week, but the police were getting antsy, nobody could find the stupid vampire, and nobody could even identify it. Geralt had wanted to just get up and leave to take the contract, but Vesemir insisted he had to go ask the dean for permission to miss his classes first, and also for an extension on his assignments, because Melitele knew Geralt might take a while.

So, much to his annoyance, Geralt had ended up sitting outside the dean’s office during one of his free periods, fidgeting and playing with his medallion and his hood pulled over his distinctly white hair, shadowing his cat-slitted eyes. Just because everyone knew he was a witcher didn’t mean he wanted to put himself on show.

Then a tall, slim man wearing a frankly ridiculous red raincoat over an even more ridiculous yellow crop top and absolutely horrifying high waisted jeans and incredibly impractical Ugg boots (it was Scotland, how were his boots not soaked through?) sat down next to Geralt.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully, in an obnoxiously posh accent. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Hmm.” Who named themselves Buttercup in another language?

Jaskier laughed. “Hmm. What an excellent name. I love how you just sit there and… brood.”

Geralt turned pointedly away from him.

“Come on, you can’t keep a man with…” Jaskier waved his hands wildly, “...a screwdriver in his pants waiting.”

That caught Geralt’s attention. “What?”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. Say, what are you here for?”

“Absence request,” Geralt said shortly.

“Right, those, yeah,” Jaskier laughed again and sank down in his seat. “I’m uh - well, I may or may not have stabbed my flatmate with a screwdriver while I was putting together this thing from IKEA?”

Geralt stared at him.

Jaskier’s arms flailed again, and he made an odd sound. “He’s okay - unfortunately - he just ended up bleeding a little and started screaming and our RA walked in, and, yeah, I’m here now.”

There was a moment of silence. Geralt… didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for sinking further into his chair.

“...so, uh. What do you need leave permission for?”

“Job.”

Jaskier made an interested sound. “Ooh, cool! I should get myself one of those. What’s your job?”

“Killing monsters.”

“Huh?”

Geralt was saved from having to answer further when the dean opened his door. “Geralt Rivia!” he called. Geralt stood and pulled back his hood.

“Here,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier gasped and leapt to his feet. “Oh my god, I know you! White hair, yellow eyes - you’re that witcher! Jerald Rivia!” Geralt speed walked into the dean’s office. He gave Geralt a confused look, but stepped aside to let Geralt in anyway. “Jerald - hey, wait, that’s how you say your name, right - wait, don’t leave! Hang on! I’m sure you have a treasure trove of stories -”

The dean shut the door, and Geralt sighed in relief. “What was that all about?” the dean asked. Geralt shrugged. “Right. Well then, Geralt, what did you need to see me for?”

Once the dean had granted Geralt his leave with minimal fussing (scary witcher eyes worked wonders), Geralt brushed straight past Jaskier to return to his dorm room, despite Jaskier’s attempts to reach out to him. He had a vampire to track.

***

The vampire, as Geralt now knew two days later, was a katakan. And not just any katakan - an old, experienced katakan who had left Geralt sore, out of Black Blood, and highly toxic. The smarting in his leg told him Swallow or even White Raffard’s was probably called for, but the white hot throbbing of his veins told him White Honey was a much better idea.

Geralt groaned as he stumbled into the flat. Shani and Priscilla were, predictably, asleep - it was four in the morning, after all, but there was a third heartbeat coming from the kitchen. Instantly on high alert, Geralt kept one hand on his steel sword as he opened the kitchen door.

Dancing in front of the countertop was… Jaskier? What was the strange man from the dean’s office doing here? He was dressed in shorts and a loose T-shirt, and, humming, put a metal bowl in the microwave.

“Stop!” Geralt exclaimed. Jaskier yelped and dropped a fork - which had, God help him, been going into the bowl. “What are you doing?”

“Geralt! Is that any way to greet your new flatmate - sorry for getting your name wrong, by the way - hey, what are you doing -” Geralt shoved past Jaskier to yank the bowl out of the microwave and slam it onto the counter. It contained… what might have been mac and cheese. “What are you doing - you’re getting monster guts everywhere!”

“You can’t microwave metal,” Geralt snarled. “It’ll blow up.”

Jaskier blinked once. Twice. “Well. Ah. Thank you for letting me know - you’ve just saved our flat. A true hero. Say, what are you covered in?”

“Katakan.” Geralt stepped away from Jaskier and shrugged off his swords. Jaskier’s eyes trailed them curiously.

“Katakan. So, that’s, what, a type of necrophage?”

“Vampire. Their true form looks like a giant mutated bat but they can disguise themselves as humans, and their healing is slowest when the sun is highest. Violent. Nasty.”

“You don’t say,” Jaskier mumbled, eyeing Geralt thoughtfully. “And what about you? Why are your eyes all… black? Is that your witcher true form or something?”

Geralt… had nearly forgotten about that. He pulled out a White Honey from his belt pouch and chugged it. Immediately, the warmth spread through his veins, and he felt the toxins clear. “Witcher potions. Too much is toxic for even us.”

“Oh wow, your eyes are going back to gold.” Jaskier peered at him curiously, then made a face and leaned away. “You reek. You need a long hot shower. I refuse to live with that stench.”

Geralt’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. “You live here? Since when?”

Jaskier scratched his head awkwardly. “Since, well, yesterday. Because I stabbed Valdo Marx, who completely deserved it by the way. Unfortunately, he’s fine.”

...Geralt suddenly felt unreasonably worried for his safety.

He was pleased to learn, however, that the screwdriver stabbing asides, Jaskier proved to be a surprisingly good flatmate. Sure, he seemed to be completely nocturnal, but he was quiet enough at night and didn’t make a mess. He talked a lot, but after the first five times he tried to engage Geralt in conversation, he left Geralt pretty much alone. Having lived at Kaer Morhen, that was all Geralt could ask for. Jaskier even tried to arrange flat bonding sessions, which turned out surprisingly well and meant Geralt actually spoke to Priscilla and Shani, even though one session had resulted in Geralt needing to Aard the oven.

The story had Lambert and Eskel cackling when Geralt told it to them over the winter break. It was supper time, and the three were sitting together sawing at hard meat which was probably at least a year out of date with their dinner knives. Things never did go well when it was Gweld’s turn to cook. At least this time there were no magic mushrooms.

“How do you fuck up cookies that badly?” Lambert wheezed.

“You made bread explode once,” Eskel reminded him.

Lambert waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but that was on purpose.”

Just thinking of the incident made Geralt groan. That had been interesting to explain to Vesemir, and Rennes had been distinctly displeased. Poor Lambert had spent the rest of the week waking up an hour before dawn to run laps in the frigid Shetland air.

“Compared to you, my university’s been fine,” Eskel said. “I haven’t had to take any contracts. Monsters don’t seem to like St Andrews.”

“The Trial of Uni is really fucking stupid,” Lambert grumbled. “The world already knows we’re freaks. Why rub it in our faces?”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Eskel replied evenly. “Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

Eskel sighed. “Talkative as always. But really, Lambert, it’s not as bad as some people -” at this, Eskel threw a pointed look halfway across the Great Hall at Clovis, who even more pointedly ignored him - “make it seem.”

“It’s no worse than Kaer Morhen,” Geralt agreed. “Up for a round of Gwent?”

Naturally, Geralt won his round against Lambert, and then his round against Eskel, and Clovis, and Gweld, and Aubry, and Remus. He then promptly lost fifty pounds to Vesemir, but he at least had a few new cards, which was enough to please him. Unfortunately, Gwent had fallen out of fashion with humans sometime in the last century (the joys of having ancient instructors), so Geralt would have to wait until he met another witcher to play another round.

He returned to Edinburgh in high spirits. Aubry had offered to drive him and Eskel back to university, seeing as he planned on working his way down to Wales anyway. The car ride was long, but Geralt entertained himself with even more Gwent and bugging Eskel. Eskel returned what he got, and more than once Aubry had to remind them to not start sparring in the backseat of his car.

“I’ve had her for twenty years,” Aubry complained. “I refuse to lose her to a pair of rowdy green witchers.”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt was the first to return to his flat. The term didn’t start for another week, but witchers could hardly afford to lounge around all winter, what with the amount of monsters in Great Britain. Geralt didn’t have his own car, and so he was dependent on older witchers driving him back to university, seeing as he didn’t want to walk nearly four hundred miles.

The benefit of returning to university early, however, was that he had time to take on a contract. Someone had called Kaer Morhen just before he arrived to report “strange supernatural activity” in an abandoned flat. Geralt allowed himself a night’s rest, then set out to the apartment with his two swords.

It turned out to be a noonwraith, and that on its own would have been simple enough; noonwraiths were annoying little buggers, but they were manageable. No, the problem was when Geralt belatedly realised there was an alp in the basement.

The ensuing fight was hard and bloody. In the end, Geralt came out on top, but not without a wide range of injuries which left him on the ground wheezing. Eventually, he mustered the strength to take some potions and stagger back home, but not before texting Vesemir to let him know the contract was done. The contract giver would transfer money to Kaer Morhen, and Vesemir would send him his share. All in all, it was a clean system.

Geralt managed to stagger back to his flat. It was nighttime, and not many students had returned, meaning the streets were still relatively quiet. Those who did see him gave him a wide berth, murmuring and pointing, but Geralt ignored it. He just wanted to get home. A hot bath sounded excellent - then he could treat his wounds.

Unfortunately, Geralt discovered upon his return that someone else had arrived. He cursed his luck as he closed the door behind him. There was a suitcase in the front hall, and the kitchen door was propped open by a chair. Geralt could hear a man humming. Jaskier. Great.

Perhaps he could sneak past without Jaskier noticing - 

“Hello? Who’s there?” Jaskier called, and Geralt winced.

“Just me,” he called back.

“Ah! Geralt! How was your - Melitele’s tits, what the fuck happened to you?” Jaskier exclaimed. He dropped the piece of toast he had been holding and rushed to Geralt, hovering next to him. “Do you need the hospital? Should I call 999? I’m calling 999 -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said forcefully. “I’m a witcher. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Jaskier said fretfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call 999?” His hand hovered over the phone in his pocket.

“I’m sure. They don’t know shit about witchers.” Geralt started limping to the bath.

“Wait. Let me help stitch you back up, at least. I’ve got a first aid certificate.”

“Dunno what good that is,” Geralt grumbled, but he grabbed the first aid kit off the wall and threw it at Jaskier anyway. He stepped into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes and armour - he could deal with that later. Geralt stood under the spray of hot water, wincing as it ran over his wounds.

He decided to forego the soap and shampoo, instead gently scrubbing himself down to get rid of the blood and dirt. The noonwraith had been in that house for a long time, and with folks too afraid to go inside, it had become unbearably dusty. When Geralt came out of the bathroom, dry and dressed, he found Jaskier had set up the first aid materials on the dining table with a chair pulled up next to it.

“Sit down, Geralt,” Jaskier said, and Geralt did just that.

***

Jaskier was a quick study, and Geralt soon became grateful for his help, even though he refused to admit it. Sometimes, Shani, who was a med student, had to help with treating Geralt’s wounds, although she often complained he was better off going to A&E. Geralt reiterated that there wasn’t much A&E could do for him - his potions were enough.

Every week or so, Geralt would sit in the kitchen reading through his course work while Jaskier helped stitch him back up. He was chatty as ever, but at least he got things done.

“Come with me to open mic night, Geralt, Essi and I are performing,” Jaskier would say (and Geralt did attend open mic night, lurking in the corner), or “have you seen Professor Rejk’s new tie? It’s hideous!” (and no, Geralt had not, but he made a special point of paying attention to Professor Rejk the next time he saw him).

It was an easy relationship, one akin to the bond Geralt shared with Eskel, and yet completely different. Jaskier chattered nonstop, but he didn’t make Geralt talk, and he knew when to leave a question alone. It was companionable and comfortable, and for Geralt that was enough.

***

In March, a bug started spreading across campus. Geralt’s classes shrank in size as students and professors alike ended up bedridden with a horrible cold. He thought nothing of it - he was a witcher, after all, and witchers were functionally immune to human diseases.

Poor Jaskier, unfortunately, was only human, and he did manage to get sick. It all started when Priscilla caught the bug from Essi (who had caught the bug from Valdo, who had caught the bug from a music professor). Jaskier spent his free time caring for his friend, and by the time the week was up, Priscilla was good as new, and Jaskier was sneezing nonstop.

“You look terrible,” Geralt told him one morning when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast. Jaskier lifted his head to sneeze at Geralt, then set it down back against his arms. Geralt wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting,” he said as he pulled the egg carton out of the fridge. “Want breakfast?”

“Yes please,” Jaskier said, sounding very congested. “I don’t want to go to class.”

“Then don’t,” Geralt said simply. He took the frying pan out of a cupboard and set it on the hob, switching it on.

“You know what, maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Jaskier eyed the eggs wistfully. “Can I have scrambled eggs?”

“Hmm.” Geralt retrieved a bowl from the drying rack and cracked in several eggs, then whisked them. He added milk and salt to the bowl, and oil to the frying pan. Jaskier watched with hungry eyes as he cooked the eggs.

“Best roommate ever,” Jaskier declared as Geralt placed a plate in front of him. Geralt hummed and served up his own eggs.

“Where are Shani and Priscilla?”

“Morning run,” Jaskier said between mouthfuls of egg. The two ate in companionable silence, broken only by Jaskier’s coughs and sniffles.

“Go back to bed,” Geralt said when they finished eating. He gathered their plates and filled the sink up.

“Will you bring me tea?” Jaskier asked teasingly.

“Hmm.” Geralt put on the kettle, and Jaskier laughed in delight.

“You will! I knew you were a big softie all along!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt said, hiding his smile. “Go back to bed.”

“I’ll be waiting for my tea,” Jaskier said in a sing-song voice. “Best flatmate in the world, bringing his invalid friend tea.”

“You’ve got a cold, not the plague,” Geralt grumbled, scrubbing their plates clean.

“You never know! Anyway, are you heading to class?”

“Hmm. I’ve got a contract after.” Putting the frying pan in the sink to soak, Geralt dumped a teabag and an unholy amount of sugar into a mug. He poured in hot water and passed the mug to Jaskier, who took it gratefully.

“I’ll be here to stitch you up after,” Jaskier said lightly. “Anyway, off with you, or you’ll be late. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. See you later.” And as Geralt walked out the front door, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had found a second home.

#the witcher #my writing

[vagrantblvrd]

That While You Were Sleeping AU where Jaskier falls in love with the guy with white hair and gold eyes commuting to work every weekday because have you seen him?

He either had to give up on traveling the world himself for his music and whatnot to look after his parents or it’s a job he works while working on his music to help pay the bills and whatnot.

Possibly flirts a little with Geralt who is amused by it, but also clearly in a relationship because have you seen him? And also he’s heard snatches on conversations Geralt’s had on his phone as he goes by and anyway, it’s harmless flirting really.

But then the muggers and saving Geralt’s life and the lol hilarious misunderstanding of everyone thinking they’re engaged that somehow never gets explained so shenanigans. (Perhaps it’s an in-joke and stress and worry and he’s not thinking when he says it and anyway, someone should be with Geralt until his family gets there, right?)

But then he meets Geralt’s utterly charming, utterly handsome brother Eskel and is like oh.

Geralt’s daughter Ciri knows Jaskier isn’t engaged to Geralt because the everything between Geralt and Yennefer that’s been going on for literal ages?

But like the rest of their wacky little family she likes Jaskier and thinks it’s kind of hilarious and also has eyes and sees the soft little ~romance taking place between Jaskier and Eskel?

Like, really.

Everyone knows Geralt and Yennefer are a romance of the century and whatnot, and kind of suspect there’s something off about the whole thing because hm, but they like Jaskier too much and anyway, anyway, who even knows with the kind of drama that is Geralt’s life on any given day?

(Also, Lambert knows for sure and Ciri has threatened him with...something in order for him to keep his silence even though he, too, think Jaskier and Eskel are stupid cute together. Vesemir probably knows too but he’s just Very Tired of his family’s antics and doesn’t want to get dragged into things.)

Shenanigans and soft little moments and suchlike before Geralt wakes up and is just “Who the fuck are you?” to his supposed beloved and idk, okay, I just really loved the movie when I was younger and it’s all kinds of hilarious to me to envision it but with idiot witchers and a bard and so on and so forth.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#witcher nonsense #jeskel #eskel/jaskier #eskel x jaskier #while you were sleeping au #because it's hilariously adorable to me #idk #¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #technically not a fic #vagrant fic

[advena87]

Kaer Morhen shenanigans (but mostly Lambert’s) part 9

Here is: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 and Daily Lambert

also Keira & Lambert’s love story, Aiden & Lambert’s love story and… this.

This time I will give you tired Papa Vesemir and bring closer the relationship of Berengar and Lambert as the oldest and youngest brother (don't judge me, I love both of these salty&bitter witchers).

this one is dedicated to @queenxxxsupreme

.

Vesemir: I hope you're not doing anything foolish.

Lambert: I hope you're not hoping to hard.

Vesemir: Minus 5 points

Lambert: What?

Vesemir: I began to score your behavior. When you're on 100 points, I'll make you a witcher.

Lambert: Cool, whats my score?

Vesemir: -1298

***

Lambert: Do you think sand is called 'sand' because it's in between the sea and land?

Berengar: Lambert, it's fucking 3 am. Can we please just go to sleep?

*silence*

Lambert: *starts laughing for no reason*

*Geralt and Eskel start laughing*

Berengar: Why are you all like this?

Lambert: Can I ask you a weird question?

Berengar: Oh fuck, here we go again.

Lambert: Don’t you think “DO NOT TOUCH” is one of the scariest things to read in Braille?

Berengar: Okay, what the HELL goes on in your head?

***

Eskel: Who knew getting in trouble would be so hard?

Berengar: I gotta give you credit, Lambert. You make it look easy.

Lambert: Years of practice.

***

Lambert: I saved your life! Twice!

Geralt: Because you put it in danger! Twice!

***

Lambert: Sorry I'm late.

Eskel: What happened?

Lambert: Nothing happened. I just didn't want to come.

***

Berengar: What's this on your search history?

Lambert: Porn?

Berengar: No, no, above that.

Lambert:...

Lambert: Tutorial how to boil water...

Berengar: You fucking moron.

***

Eskel: Has your dream always been raising a new generation of witchers?

Vesemir: It doesn’t really matter now, my dreams were shattered years ago.

Eskel: Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How many years ago?

Vesemir: How old is Lambert again?

***

Geralt: Lambert, we decided that if Vesemir's ever in a coma, you're the one who has to decide to pull the plug.

Lambert: Pull.

Geralt & Eskel: ...

Berengar: See? I told you he would do his job.

***

Eskel: Do you believe me?

Vesemir: Eskel, you’re the last good person on this planet. I’d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

Geralt: Oh my god, that's enough! Vesemir, why do you always favor Eskel?

Vesemir: I will explain it to you by example. Tell me boys, what do you consider your best quality?

Eskel: I'm a real people person.

Berengar: I don't answer stupid questions.

Lambert: I can speak bullshit.

Geralt: My profile. Oh, and I guess my butt, too.

Vesemir: …

Vesemir, sighing: So next question: where do you see yourself in five years?

Eskel: On the Path

Geralt: Brothel.

Berengar: Dead.

Lambert: Prison.

Vesemir: And you have the audacity to ask me why Eskel is my favorite?

***

Vesemir: Berengar, for the last time, when someone threatens to kill you, the correct response is not, ‘Then do it, pussy.’

Berengar: Old man, with all due respect, I’m gonna completely ignore everything you just said.

***

Eskel: Lambert, are you sure this is safe?

Lambert: I never said that.

Lambert: But, you know what they say - go big or go home.

Eskel: For once, please, I’m begging you, go home.

Lambert: I’m going big.

***

Lambert: Geralt, what's the signal for "Vesemir’s coming?"

Geralt: Uh... Dippity-doo.

Lambert: DIPPITY-DOO!

***

Lambert: So, we go inside, beat the crap out of them and-

Geralt: I don't know, don't you think we should stop using violence as a way to solve our problems?

Lambert: ...

Geralt: ...

*both burst out laughing*

Lambert: Oh my God, Geralt. Don't scare me like that. For a moment I thought you were actually serious.

Geralt: *still laughing* Yeah, sorry.

***

Vesemir, holding up two photos: Here are two pictures. One is your room, the other one is a garbage dump. Can you guess which is which?

Lambert, pointing at one photo: That one's the dump?

Vesemir, slamming photos on table: They're BOTH your room!

***

Berengar: Everyone has a gay ‘cousin’ in family.

Lambert: I don't have a gay cousin.

Berengar: I'm gonna give you a minute to think about that.

Lambert: *gasp* I AM the gay cousin!

Lambert: But wait.

Lambert: I’ve been thinking…

Berengar: That sounds dangerous, but continue.

Lambert: What's your sexuality?

Berengar: Money.

***

Vesemir: So Lambert is gay-

Lambert: Bisexual.

Vesemir: -Eskel likes goats-

Eskel: Succubi.

Vesemir: -and Berengar is dead inside.

Berengar: Well, that’s true, but it's not related to my sexuality, old man.

Vesemir: So Geralt, tell me please, do you have any lady you like?

Geralt: Oh, no, I just like to date around.

Lambert: *coughs* Slut! *coughs*

Berengar: Bless you :>

Lambert: Thanks :>

Vesemir: ...

***

Vesemir: How could you do this?

Lambert: I don't know. It's like bad things always happen to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Vesemi: Lambert, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass!

Berengar: Lambert, you're like an Alzheimer's victim in a whorehouse.

Vesemir: What?

Lambert: Excuse me, what the fuck?

Berengar: You're constantly surprised that you've been screwed and you don't want to pay for it.

Vesemir: It's a vulgar analogy but surprisingly accurate.

***

Eskel: You know, it wouldn't kill you to talk to Vesemir once in a while.

Lambert: We don't know that.

Berengar: Lambert, you can't quit being related to somebody. Believe me, I've tried. But I also wish there were a better way to deal with Vesemir.

Lambert: There is, but we're both too pretty for jail.

***

Vesemir: From now on we have a no-swearing policy in Kaer Morhen. You will have to pay for every swearword.

Lambert: Seriously, Vesemir, what the fuck?

Vesemir: Aaand you have to put a oren in the swear jar. You said "fuck."

Lambert: ...

Lambert: Tell you what... here's twenty. That should cover me until lunch.

Vesemir: Lunch is in half an hour! And you have to follow the rules like everyone else!

Lambert: Berengar, can you get me out of this shit?

Berengar: That depends. Are you willing to live in Zerrikania for a few years?

Lambert: Yeá.

***

Geralt: OK, I don't mind the good-natured brotherly punching, but you didn’t have to twist my nipples.

Lambert: You're lucky I didn't rip them off and feed them to you!

***

Vesemir, about Lambert: Look at him. How is it that he can kill eight people in a minute with four sword blows, but he can't pee without hitting the shower curtain?

Berengar: Fortunately, killing is a job skill and peeing is not.

Lambert, laughing: Dude, I love you!

Vesemir: How did you come to be his authority?

Berengar: I’m depressed, demotivated, bitter pessimist, without hope and prospects, but even I see something good in him. Unlike you. Do the math, old man. We are what you have made us.

Vesemir: Excuse me, I didn't hear any complaints when I was raising you when you’re kid.

Berengar: Really, the teenage drinking and constant running away wasn't a slight tipoff?

Vesemir: Oh, you were just a little drama queen, Berengar. And let's not forget, you always came back.

Berengar: Kinda hard to get steady work when you're nine.

Lambert, sobbing:  Dude, I love you!

***

Sometimes it stops being funny. It's not like I think Vesemir was a bad father to them deliberately, but if we think about what homes these kids came from, that they were forced to become witchers, that they were mainly brutally trained and subjected to Trials (which were extremely difficult and painful. It’s pure trauma), it's hard to talk about happy childhood. I'm afraid there was pathology in Kaer Morhen. These children were raised by witchers who focused only on making killing machines from them. Looking at Berengar and Lambert, we can see what wounds he left on them. Geralt is also hard to call a ray of sunshine. I believe Vesemir loved these boys, looked after them as much as he could, but I can't believe he was a good father. How was he supposed to be, how could he know, since he was shaped in the same way. I think we can use the term Adult Children of Witchers here.

.

#witcher #witcher 3 #tw3 #kaer morhen shenaningans #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #witcher lambert #witcher eskel #witcher berengar #witcher vesemir #vesemir #papa vesemir #lambert #eskel #berengar #witcher brothers #wiedźmin #incorrect witcher quotes #incorrect quotes #incorrect witcher