#rawrkinwrites

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Partner and I are listening to Turandot over our eggs and bacon this fine Saturday morning, and my brain returned to its favourite headcanon of Eskel being able to sing. But instead of his usual husky, country singer-vibe, slap a set of Luciano Pavarotti pipes on that lad.

Let him be discovered by Jaskier when he and Geralt meet up with Eskel on the Path. It's been a year or so since they lost Vesemir, and they've been making an effort to see more of each other.

Eskel's vibrato fills some little woodland. Geralt has a stupid grin on his face, because this was the exact reason he wanted to track Eskel down. He won't sing in Kaer Morhen. Never has. But in the wilderness with no one for hundreds of miles but the birds? Eskel opens up.

Jaskier is absolutely stunned. He begs, and pleads, and grovels for more when Eskel stops abruptly upon seeing Geralt has a companion. Geralt is smug as fuck because he gets the double whammy of "I told you so" with Eskel and making Jaskier lose his shit. He sits back and basks while Jaskier gushes in words and phrases Eskel's never heard before.

By some kind of miracle, Jaskier eventually convinces Eskel to give a performance in Oxenfurt. The biggest issue? The most popular librettist in Oxenfurt, and thus the person that controls every music hall from there to Vizima, is Valdo-fucking-Marx. Eskel will have to give a private performance if he ever hopes of doing more than entertaining at the local docks.

Jaskier manages to get Marx to turn up by offering the opportunity to belittle Jaskier's lack of taste/talent/state of dress/face. Eskel steps up on stage and Marx rolls his eyes. He thinks this is going to be hilarious. Look at the absolute state of the creature--

And then Eskel starts. His voice fills the auditorium like it belongs there.

And Marx's mouth falls open, his eyes glistening, his fingers turning white as he grips the armrests.

Jaskier doesn't even try to hide his smirk.

Has Eskel had formal training? Where did he learn? Is this some kind of trick? A witch's spell? Has Jaskier drugged them all? Marx demands his answers and Jaskier gives them. Eskel is a rare marvel. One of a kind.

Marx demands Eskel for the opening night of his next performance. He'll pay anything. Anything.

Eskel's hesitant. It's not Witcher work. Not even close. But that amount of money would fix up Kaer Morhen's watchtower, and then some. So he agrees. He stays in Oxenfurt with Jaskier, attends all the rehearsals and the costuming. Every person involved goes through the same process of doubt and denigration before they hear Eskel for the first time.

Opening night rolls around. Eskel performs spectacularly well. Gossip is all abuzz at the interval and Jaskier receives several offers of patronage, but it's the closing aria that knocks the breath out of everyone. Eskel hits that tenor high C and the audience moves from stunned silence to standing ovation, drowning out the gods-be-damned orchestra.

Eskel does a circuit with Marx. His reputation explodes. Both as a novelty and a musician in his own right. The fact that he's scarred and broken adds the mystique; the whole "ugly duckling that can sing" rags to riches story. He doesn't really care, not like he's proud. When the circuit comes to an end, he heads home to the empty halls of Kaer Morhen as he does at the end of every year (despite saying he never would again, old habits, and probably some underlying shit he needs to work through).

He's never sung a single note there. Kaer Morhen isn't a place for music. It's a place of pain, memory, mourning and ghosts. Been even worse since... well, since Vesemir. But something takes hold of Eskel as he dumps his bags, brimming with fine shirts and beautifully made weapons, on the floor. He stares into the emptiness and pretends his fallen brothers are still there, with Vesemir sitting on the bench at the front, and he starts to sing.

As he hits that high C in the halls of Kaer Morhen, the acoustics of the cavernous grand hall carrying his voice higher, Eskel imagines the only standing ovation he ever cared about.

#rawrkinwrites #Eskel #Witcher Eskel #Jaskier #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #pavarotti #I am not at all musically inclined #don't @ me

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Geralt treats the inevitable chafing from Jaskier's random and unnecessary swim. Rated M for Manly Parts.

When Jaskier thrusts his coat and waistcoat at Geralt, he scrambles to catch them and then waits for the trews and boots that never come. Instead, Jaskier wades into the water, prattling away as he is wont to do, and Geralt stares in confusion.

It's not Jaskier's impressive physique that catches his attention. Why would it? They had travelled together for decades, and he had seen Jaskier in all states known to a healthy man in his physical prime. There was a reason so many young men and women fell happily into Jaskier's bed, and it had nothing to do with the many avian metaphors he used to woo them. No, Geralt’s confused because Jaskier had decided to bathe more or less fully clothed. His boots will squelch with every step, his britches will rub his thighs raw, and for the rest of the day, he will carry the odour of a damp dog.

Geralt, no stranger to an uncomely sweat rash between the thighs after a long day on the road, winces in empathy at the thought as Jaskier sloshes around in the water. Surely, it couldn't be some newly discovered sense of propriety? That felt entirely out of character. Perhaps Jaskier had a dose of the clap and didn't want Geralt to see the state of his loins? But Geralt would be able to smell the infection, even beneath the floral hints of Jaskier's cologne.

Geralt is so embroiled in his internal deduction, that he engages in the conversation on autopilot, taking each revelation with an even expression.

As expected, Jaskier trudges uncomfortably for the rest of the day, and is swearing colourfully by the time they made camp. "Geralt, I feel like I've walked all day with gravel between my legs," he grumbles, face twisted in an unsightly grimace as he peels his braies off.

They had paused only thrice on their walk, each time for Geralt to pluck a particular bloom or fungus that caught his attention at the edge of the road. Horse and bard both patiently waited each time, before resuming their incessant trundle onwards, Geralt’s harvest tucked safely away in a saddlebag.

Geralt hums, those very same saddlebags open at his feet, and glances around from his pestle and mortar only for a moment to glimpse Jaskier’s discomfort. Jaskier huffed. "Your bedside manner is as comforting and warm as ever." He flops onto his side, only to 'ahh-ahh' softly as his thighs touch together.

Silence fell but for the slop and grind of Geralt's quiet machinations and the last lonely birds in the canopies above. When he’s done, he shuffles over to Jaskier on his knees and places the bowl to the side of his sleeping mat. "For the rash," Geralt says.

"For the what?" Jaskier sits up, wincing as his legs shift.

"Your thighs," Geralt points, "they're raw. From wet clothes. This'll numb the sting."

Jaskier picks up the bowl, gives it one sniff and pulls a theatrically exaggerated face of disgust. "Revolting."

"The cure is often worse than the prevention," Geralt says, parroting back a lesson Vesemir had drilled into his head from day one. He was about to shut up and leave Jaskier to it, but he has to know. A quick glance at Jaskier's nethers confirms that they are healthy enough, of natural colour and proportions, if a little red from the chafing. "Jaskier, why did you bathe with your boots and britches on?"

"Brevity. Efficiency. They would rinse while my legs were submerged, I... didn't think. You know, my head is empty, silly, useless bard can't even apply his singular brain cell to bathing."

Geralt doesn't answer immediately. He turns away, leaving Jaskier to dip his fingers into the ointment and feel its consistency between finger and thumb. Jaskier’s hand hovers over his thigh, face screwed up in a grimace, breath held. Geralt glances back, and Jaskier lets out a frustrated sigh. "Devil take it."

"What?"

"I can't, I'm yellow, it'll sting," Jaskier says, morose. "An idiot and a coward."

Geralt's lips set, and he reaches for the bowl. His fingers are rough, but they’re clean. Vesemir has taught them to cleanse their hands before iatrochemistry, because all number of impurities can ruin a good brew; there’s no telling what has touched a witcher’s hands as the day progressed. Jaskier watches him, eyes wide and hawkish, but doesn't flinch away when Geralt's ointment-greased fingers hover near his thigh. "May I?" Geralt asks.

"You may," Jaskier croaks, lower lip between his teeth, a stitch in the middle of his brow.

Geralt’s as gentle as he can be, conscious of how weathered his hands are and how easily a stray callus could snag on tender skin. He leaves a thin, glistening layer over every inch of reddened, raised flesh, and minds each of Jaskier's soft gasps to map his route. He pauses when Jaskier has bunched up, the stinging pain at a crescendo despite the cool ointment acting quickly. The fire’s warm at Geralt's back and sweat beads on his neck, beneath his arms, but it does nothing to drown the scent of Jaskier’s so close. Geralt will have to tie his hair up before seeing to the maintenance of Roach's tack, and his attention is briefly rescued.

However, it’s entirely impossible to miss the plumping of Jaskier's prick, and Geralt’s careful to avoid brushing it with his knuckles as he works higher. It’s a perfectly natural response to a tender touch here, and Geralt’s kinder than to tease his friend for it when he’s in pain.

He can feel Jaskier's pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering and fast, and hear the soft pants of squirming embarrassment as he dips around the back of his leg; Geralt continues only until every inch of red is covered. "It's suitable for your intimates if needed, but they don't seem too bothered."

A'right, he couldn't resist a little tease.

As Geralt draws back though, Jaskier's hand darts out to take his wrist, "I should like to be better safe than sorry."

Geralt nods, intending to make a little more for a second application if that was the case, but it’s then that he glances up and catches Jaskier's stare. He knows that look. The lustful, wanton gaze of a man possessed by a deep-seated longing. Jaskier has levied it on many a buxom girl in the past, but... on Geralt? Geralt had never been arrogant enough to even think...

"I should also like, since you appear to be such a dab hand, for you to apply it." Jaskier nibbles his lip, hesitates, and then sighs, the same frustrated puff. Like he can’t quite find the words to express what’s behind that yearning gaze. Now that is entirely out of character.

Geralt turns his wrist in Jaskier's grasp to take his in turn, fingers resting over the hammering pulse on the soft under skin. He can see the flush in Jaskier's neck, and he would pass it off as the rising heat from the fire if it wasn’t for the way his blue eyes darted nervously. "Would it please you?" asks Geralt.

Jaskier swallows hard and fixes Geralt with a worried eye. "Only if it would please you too. That is important, Geralt. Important to me."

Geralt smiles. A small thing, for he knew how ugly his smiles were and he had no wish to ruin the moment. "It would." He pauses for a single beat, giving Jaskier a moment to withdraw his affections because it wouldn’t be the first time Geralt has misread a person’s heart. But when Jaskier’s lips part, his pupils blowing wide in the dim firelight, Geralt reaches forward with his lips and his hand in unison, capturing Jaskier's first gasping breath of pleasure all for himself.

#rawrkinwrites #geraskier #jaskier #geralt #fuck it #it's funny #and I'm sorry that my geraskier looks more like gerlion #I can't help it

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Chained

Rated: M.

Jaskier takes a date to a visiting circus and ends up rescuing a witcher. Warnings for canon typical language, and a more medieval approach to what was included in a circus.

Partly inspired by my rereading of "Freakshow: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit" by Robert Bogdan (1988) and "Spectacle of Deformity: Freak Shows and Modern British Culture" by Nadja Durbach (2009), thus the word "freakish" is used in the context of the spectacle presented.

Jaskier didn't much like the circus. The “oohs” and “aahhs” of the crowd felt contrite and the prevailing smell of animal dung, human odour and tar made his stomach roil. But the young debutante on his arm promised quite the whirlwind romance, with her ruby painted lips and dazzling sea foam eyes. Anthea. She was a stunning little starlet with the sweetest soprano, and she would sound ever so beautiful in the throes of passion. The things he did for love.

Jaskier took a deep breath of relatively fresh air as they walked through the Gate of Heirarch, dug deep to find the liquid amber courage still warm in his belly, and plastered on his most charming smile.

The front of house greeted them at the flap of the tent, his outdated ruff spotted with yellow sweat, mutton chops greased down over his face. “Welcome, welcome, sire, to the greatest show on the Continent,” the slimy chap proclaimed.

“A claim lofty enough to be touched by the gods. Let us hope they give you their blessing,” Jaskier said airily, and Anthea elbowed him with a soft giggle.

The front of house offered his most beguiling smile, his eyes almost coal black. “I assure you, sire, our performers are one of a kind.”

A young porter dressed in a threadbare scarlet doublet and hose showed them to the private box Jaskier had purchased. (Such a beautiful woman required a little extra effort, and greater privacy may assist in convincing her into his embrace a little sooner).

“I heard they have a witcher,” Anthea whispered, as if the general din of noise wouldn't drown her out even at a normal volume. Jaskier allowed his date that moment of wistful wonder before he patted her elbow.

“Hyperbole and rumour, I assure you. A living Witcher hasn't been spotted in some sixty years. They died out long before you were a twinkle in your father's eye.”

“Well, we'll see,” she replied, dismissive, and Jaskier sensed that he would have to agree with her next five claims to curry back a little favour, no matter how bland and inaccurate. Thankfully, he didn't have to entertain conversation for long, for the stage crew dimmed the bracketed torches and the ringmaster stepped into the light.

“Esteemed gentlemen, beautiful ladies,” the man tipped his cap to the nearest such lady with a wiggle of the eyebrows, aiming for charm and achieving an uncomfortable degree of lechery instead. “We, of the Temerian Tumblers, welcome you to our humble show. We ask that you keep your hands inside the stalls at all times for we are about to introduce you to some of the wildest creatures, the most wondrous performers, fearless acrobats and stunning beauties...”

Jaskier felt his interest drifting. He watched Anthea from the corner of his eye and pondered over the first verse of the ballad he would dedicate to her hidden depths. A substantial amount of creative license would be necessary, but needs must to maintain his reputation.

The show started with a pair of twin acrobats swooping through the air from a trapeze, performing flips and turns, defying gravity to the awe of the audience. A contortionist twisted through hoops of decreasing sizes, a fire-eater spat flames over the heads of the crowd, woolly mammoths rolled out on huge balls, with parrots opening cans and primates juggling clubs. Anthea was enraptured, grasping onto the railing at the front of the booth. In his travels, Jaskier had seen many things. Exotic, fantastical, mysterious. The show felt like a pale imitation of his lived adventures across the Continent. Such was the life of a man living a double existence.

The ringmaster started wheeling out the freakish and macabre; a bearded lady with three breasts, a set of dwarven twins attached at the hip, an elf with mottled skin like that of a leopard who scampered around like a beast. Jaskier felt a stab of disgust as the crowd jeered and “ooh-ed" at each poor creature that was presented to them.

“And now, the spectacle you have been waiting for,” the ringmaster bellowed. “A true rarity. A beast of unnatural magic and the evil machinations of scheming sorcerers...”

Jaskier leaned forward. Anthea cast him a smug glance that he ignored.

“I, your humble servant, present to thee, the terrifying, the beastly, White Wolf!”

The crowd collectively held its breath as an orchestral howl swept the arena, echoed by the voices of every porter and performer in the rafters. Dozens of hands banged drums and wooden beams, accompanying a cacophany of growls and snarls, building the expectation of the horrified audience. Heavy chains clanked in the tunnel, metal scraped on the floor as the creature dragged itself into the open. There was the crack of a whip in the air, and a hoarse shout of pain. Jaskier leaned so far forward he almost fell from the booth.

The creature that staggered into the lights of the ring was thin and haggard. His long white hair was tangled, his face covered in a matted beard. His body was emaciated and scarred, muscles wasted where they had once been lean and strong. This poor, pathetic thing couldn't be a witcher of fable. It was but a man. A man beaten and bruised by handlers who circled with whips and sticks. A woman below them shrieked before fainting theatrically, but Jaskier only rolled his eyes. Paid performer, no doubt.

“Fear not, dear guests. We have the beast well contained. We shall get him to demonstrate the power of the mutagens in his system, but no one shall be harmed.”

They shoved the witcher into the centre of the ring and one of the handlers passed the ringmaster a small box. Jaskier couldn't hear what the ringmaster demanded if the hollow creature that struggled to stand under the glaring lights, but the witcher must have been too slow, because seconds later he was on his knees, his hands at his neck. There was a heavy collar there and the witcher's entire body went rigid as the ringmaster gripped the box harder.

When the spasms of pain ended, the witcher lifted his hand and sent flames billowing into the air. What followed was a pitiful display of the Witcher's strength. He shattered a huge rock with telekinetic force and then lifted one of equal size on to his back; “the strength of ten men,” the ringmaster bellowed, and the crowd murmured their approval. The witcher trapped a pack of stray dogs in purple tendrils and deflected the stones hurled from the rafters with a golden shield.

Jaskier couldn't believe his eyes, but his heart ached. He'd read countless historical accounts of Witchers and their feats. They were capable of staggering bravery and protected thousands from the most ferocious beasts. True heroes of old, and yet here was one reduced to a mere shadow.

Whatever the final feat was intended to be, the Witcher could not do it. He staggered and then fell when the collar around his neck sent shocks of agony through his body. The ringmaster seethed and bellowed, but the Witcher collapsed under the weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles. The handlers appeared to drag him away. “The great White Wolf, ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd applauded as the ringmaster bowed, inviting his performers out with a sweep of the arm. Anthea leapt to her feet. Jaskier left the booth without a word.

***

Jaskier managed to get ahead of the crowd at first, but soon he was joined by throngs of gawkers pouring out to observe some of the wild beasts in their cages. Jaskier inspected each one he passed; lions, tigers, monsters and birds. But no Witcher. He circled around the tent and headed towards the staging area behind the tent, where the performers would gather in preparation. It was there he found his target.

The Witcher was sprawled on his side in the mud, new bruises on his naked ribs, his hose torn. The ringmaster stood over him, flanked by his thugs. “It's such a shame,” the man said. “I thought we'd get a few more shows out of him.”

“E’s done, guv. Death of the spirit. Death of the body follows soon after,” one of the handlers murmured. “Could always sell him to that matron like we did the other.”

“No, the novelty of that one was its huge endowment, its physicality, and its health. This one's a husk. We'll get more for its corpse if we trade it with the university.” The ringmaster sighed and swept a hand over his eyes theatrically. “Put it out of its misery.”

Jaskier pushed through the canvas barrier. “Wait! Hold up there, my good man.”

Three grimy faces turned towards him, and the ringmaster paused by the entry to the domed tent. “This area is out of bounds to the public. Full of dangerous beasts, you see.”

“Ahh, yes,” Jaskier plastered on his most winning smile, “he looks truly terrifying, dangerous. But I couldn't help but overhear that you intend to dispose of him.”

“Sometimes creatures expire. Age, injury. It's part of the industry,” the ringmaster said, guarded. “I assure you it will be done in the most humane manner.”

“And you intend to sell his body?”

“What is it you want, sir?” The title had taken on a disparaging tone, but Jaskier was not easily ruffled.

“I wish to purchase him from you. Alive, you understand. Exactly,” Jaskier fluttered his hands over the Witcher's body, “as he is. And, in payment, I offer my signet ring. Real sapphire gems, solid gold.”

The ringmaster turned, arms folded across his chest. Jaskier knee that look. Pursed lips, high eyebrows. The man was going to try and bargain him up. “Low price for our prize dog. Whets my appetite. Two hundred Crowns, and the ring.”

Jaskier laughed; a hollow, arrogant bark that he usually reserved for Valdo Marx. “My dear man. Your prize dog is half dead. He might expire before I can get him back to my residence. You will take the ring, and I won't pen a memorable little ditty about the Terrible Temerian Tumblers, their bearded lady wearing a wig 'pon her face, your dwarven twins tied together with rope.”

The ringmaster scowled. “No one would believe you.”

“I have dismantled reputations far greater than yours. Jaskier the Bard, at your service.”

Recognition passed over the ringmaster's face. His cronies may be illiterate, but he had probably read Jaskier's most recent poem about the weak chinned Count of Vizima and the impotence of the a local merchant who had prized his reputation with the fairer sex. Bard was a rather modest title for what Jaskier had achieved; he had used his sizable fortune to open every door possible, and his name was known in halls and ballrooms from Kovir to Ebbing.

“You take him as he is. We'll throw in his cage, the control device. Not fit for another beast anyway.”

“Most obliged,” Jaskier said, smiling tightly. “I will leave my address with your fine assistants here. I expect him to be delivered alive. No more bruises, no more wounds. My man will meet yours at the gates.”

Jaskier pulled an embossed business card from his doublet and passed it to the ringmaster with his signet ring. A life purchased for such a trifle. It left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, but neither he nor the Witcher could afford any hesitation. They shook hands to seal the deal and Jaskier afforded one more glance at the Witcher and saw him gazing back, golden eyes swimming with hopeless pain.

It was difficult to leave after that, but Jaskier knew he had to walk away with his back straight and his emotions in check. Anthea was long gone. There would be an angry letter sent to his address about abandoning a lady in the wilds of Novigrad, but he would ignore it. His mind was now fully occupied by the Witcher, with his haunted yellow eyes.

***

Zoltan met the couriers at the gates as Jaskier had said. The dwarf peered into the stinking cage with a wrinkled nose, and then guided them up the short gravel path to the stables. They passed Zoltan the device and showed him how to use it; the Witcher thrashed weakly in pain and fell unconscious. “Yes, thank ye, that'll be all,” the dwarf snapped, holding the black box gingerly between finger and thumb.

Jaskier had bought some odd things in the past. A cursed music box that reduced everyone who heard its song to tears, a colourful parrot that had escaped within an hour of arrival (its descendents could be spotted in the rafters of Heirarch Square), ancient statues and woven tapestries. He was a collector of oddities, but this was the first time he had bought a human. It left an ill feeling in Zoltan's chest.

When he opened the cage door, the Witcher didn't move. His eyes were closed, his emaciated body limp, and Zoltan had no trouble gathering him up and carrying him inside. The chains were heavier than the man they were attached to.

Jaskier had cleared a guest room and there was already a warm bath waiting for their new arrival. “I'll need t' get 'n 'ammer 'n chisel for these chains,” Zoltan said, depositing his reeking passenger on the rug before the fire. “Not sure about the collar. If magic's involved, we may need a mage."

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, leaving his post by the window. “Go get your tools. Freya's arse, he looks worse in the firelight than he did in the mud. Smells something awful.”

“Aye, he's got lice and ticks too,” Zoltan murmured. “Don't be gettin' too close lest you fancy delousin' with him.”

Jaskier watched Zoltan leave before he crouched down at the Witcher's side. He wanted to touch him, this living legend. He would be lying if he denied the well of fear in his stomach; he hadn't really thought this far ahead. The Witcher had shattered boulders with the power of his magic, had bound and choked wild dogs. Jaskier was a mere twig in comparison. “Who are you?” Jaskier wondered aloud, reaching out to brush the Witcher’s grey hair from his face.

The Witcher's eyes snapped open and Jaskier fell back with a squawk of terror. He wasn't the only one caught by surprise. The Witcher, barely strong enough to lift his head, clawed at the rug and then the floor, dragging himself to the corner of the room. The chains scraped on the floorboards and every movement looked like agony, but Jaskier was too afraid to intercept. He had brought this wounded creature into his residence, and now he was completely out of his depth. The Witcher gathered his thin limbs to his chest and turned his face away, making his body as small as possible.

“Hey, it's alright,” Jaskier said, hesitant. “We're not going to hurt you. You have my word. My--my associate, he'll get those chains off and there's a nice bath, and--and then, perhaps, some food?”

The Witcher didn't look up. His shoulders stayed hunched, his fingers curled to fists. Jaskier reached out only to see the man flinch as if he sensed his proximity. Zoltan appeared moments later, hammer and chisel in his hands, and grimaced. “Ahh, he's awake, woulda been better fer him to be unconscious fer this bit.”

“They’re not embedded...”

“Aye, maybe not, but look at the skin. Must be red raw under there, every blow's gonna shake him.”

“Well, he can't stay in them,” Jaskier said, suddenly feeling more than a little helpless. “Just... Do what you need to do. We'll go from there.”

“A'right, Witcher, easy now.” Zoltan approached slowly, but the Witcher did nothing more than shirk away further. When the dwarf lined his chisel up at the hinge of the ankle cuff, Jaskier held his breath. The first blow made the Witcher shout, frail limbs quaking, but he didn't lash out to defend himself. How broken must he be to not fight back? To accept whatever pain they wished to inflict?

It took three blows to remove each ankle cuff. By the time Zoltan reached for the Witcher's wrist, he was unconscious again and Jaskier moved forward to hold his arms up until the chains had fallen away. “What are we going to do?” Jaskier murmured, big blue eyes lifting to Zoltan, hoping the dwarf could whip out a solution as he always did.

Zoltan sighed, tugging thoughtfully on his beard. “First stage is a bath. Then... No idea.”

This was going to be harder than Jaskier thought.

#geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #canon au #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #wip #to be continued #rated m #rawrkinwrites

[on-a-lucky-tide]

After a decade of marriage, Lambert's not feeling particularly sexy or wanted. Eskel agrees to a little bit of roleplay.

Warnings: Eskel/Lambert, A/B/O (non-traditional), established relationship, smut at the end, roleplay, present tense. For my friends in the @continentcakeshop.

They've been mated for years, and Lambert is going through a "you don't think I'm hot anymore, do you? you're bored of me, aren't you?" phase, but he's not very good at expressing it. It comes out in fits and starts of temper, and a few barbed comments that leave Eskel feeling a little hurt.

Eskel's looking down at his giant boner and half-filled knot after another night when his usual advances have been rebuffed, not quite understanding where this has come from. Does he need to buy flowers? Chocolate? More dates? More sofa cuddles?

No.

Lambert needs to feel sexy again. He wants the thrill of the hunt, but he wants it to be Eskel. Needs it to be Eskel. In principle, Lambert can't stand knothead alphas who flaunt their made up superiority, but roleplaying it with the man he loves? Someone he trusts will never hurt him? Yeah. He wants that.

So, they agree to a little roleplay: sassy, unmated omega with attitude, picked up in a bar by a strong, dominant alpha that will seduce him and carry him off.

Eskel practices in a mirror. Lambert's whole initial attraction to him was that he was strong and kind; he'd never done the alpha posturing thing other than to strut around their bedroom during his rut, or when he's feeling particularly well fluffed. So, he needs to find a little bit of his inner knothead to get the act right.

They choose a bar downtown. Not too shady, but it's so off brand from their usual haunts that there's no chance they'll be recognised by anyone. Lambert puts on a tight pair of jeans, his nice boxers, and the douchiest, low cut top with the billowing armholes that will show A Whole Tit if it falls right. He tops it off with his usual unlaced docs and a leather jacket, and he's golden. Upon arrival, Lambert finds a prominent seat at the bar, orders The Most Expensive Cocktail because he has Eskel's credit card and Eskel said "treat yourself", slapping his arse with a wink before he left, so it's revenge, really. About half an hour passes, and Lambert has to see off an alpha that gets a bit too close (and doesn't take the mating bite poking out from beneath his jacket as a hint). Then a slight niggle of doubt sets in. This is stupid, right? Eskel probably thinks he's lost his last marble, the fucking barman's eyeing him like he's an escort (nought wrong with that, but Lambert knows a judgemental gaze when he sees it), and Lambert's about ready to leave...

...then Eskel arrives. He's gone all out. Lambert hasn't seen him wear that suit since Geralt's wedding. It's a three-piece number with a jacket that fits his v-shape perfectly. No tie though, his collar's open, and Lambert zones in on that exposed skin, his mouth watering. He's going to bite there. Right there, on that collarbone, and... Eskel straightens his cufflinks as he surveys his territory because it's fucking his now.

The alpha that tried his luck with Lambert earlier skitters out from Eskel's path like he's been struck, and Eskel doesn't even look at him. No, he's looking at the bar, honey-gold eyes fixed on Lambert, the corner of his lips tilted up in a wry smile. He plays it perfectly. Eskel's usually an excitable puppy when he sees Lambert after any length of time: big beaming smile, eye crinkles. Shit, if he had a tail, it'd be wagging.

But not now.

Now, he's a hunter stalking his prey, and Lambert presses his thighs together for... reasons. As Eskel moves between the tables, he makes the whole place look shabby. More people move out of his way, mumbling apologies. He wields his presence so effortlessly, and fuck, Lambert hasn't noticed it before. Eskel's always so accommodating; he holds doors open for old ladies, apologises to the damned cat on his lap when he has to get up to go to the toilet. Eskel is King Soft. Always has been. Lambert loves him for it. Lambert also wants to jump him in the club in front of everyone. He's so enraptured that he's still staring by the time Eskel reaches the bar next to him. He doesn't sit, but spreads his palms out and waits. He doesn't even need to draw the barman's attention; the beta runs over like he's on a string.

"Whisky, hold the ice, and," Eskel's eyes slide left, "whatever this pretty thing's drinking."

Lambert didn't realise he was slurping an empty drink until Eskel ordered him another, at which point he slams his glass down and tries to lean nonchalantly on the bar.

Truth is, Lambert's completely out of practice and he isn't sure how this flirting thing goes these days. He can make a fart joke usually and Eskel will laugh, it's... that's just what marriage is. Fart jokes and memes, right?

He's panicking.

Because Eskel hasn't actually worn any cologne. He's freshly showered, all proper, but it's those pheromones rolling off of him that Lambert can smell, even over the saccharine tang of the cocktail the barman places down in front of him. Eskel hasn't moved any closer. He's not looming, not caging Lambert in, but Lambert's so very aware of him and can't now lift his eyes from the sugared lip of his glass.

"Got a name, pretty thing?"

How can Eskel talk like that? Where has that come from? It's the velvet rumble that Lambert's used to, but there's an edge to it that makes his insides go a little weak. Does he make up a name? He hasn't thought that far ahead. Eskel's too good. They agreed - drink, dance, out, bed - now Lambert's not sure his legs will work. "Lambert," he says, quietly at first, then a second time a little louder.

"Lambert," Eskel repeats, and he savours it, rolling it across his tongue like he can taste Lambert already. "Eskel, it's a pleasure." He offers his hand and Lambert should have expected what came next - the palm was up, after all - but he plops his own hand in Eskel's grasp like a puppy offering its paw, and damn near chokes on air when Eskel places a kiss on the back of Lambert's knuckles, those honey-gold irises almost drowned out by how big his pupils are.

Lambert had forgotten that this was about exciting Eskel too for a hot second there and is doubly relieved to see that Eskel is more than a little interested. Eskel does find him sexy.

This amazingly stunning alpha, with his huge shoulders, his confident stride, his suave rumble, finds Lambert attractive. Lambert feels the shiver run up his spine and takes his hand back slowly. The revelation has given him a little confidence, and he leans back on the bar, elbows propped up. "Little downmarket for someone so prim and proper, slumming it with the little folk?"

"Hoping to find a diamond in the rough," Eskel replies after another of those faint, wry smiles. "I didn't expect to unearth something so precious so quickly."

Fucking. Smooth. Rat. Bastard. Lambert's toes curl in his boots and he bites his lower lip.

"That pick up line work usually?"

"Doesn't matter," Eskel takes a sip from his tumbler and turns to rest his hip against the bar, "it's worked this time."

Oh fuck, because if Lambert can smell Eskel, then Eskel can smell him, and he was wet in his smalls from the moment Eskel sent the inferior alpha scuttling into the corner of the room with a glance. What a basic bitch. But it's Eskel, and he's walking omega-nip, isn't he? He always has been. And he belongs to Lambert. Or will. Usually, Lambert would shuffle his rear into Eskel's lap, demand love and affection, but he can't now. This is a Strange Alpha. He can't break the fantasy; Eskel's doing this for him. And it's... fuck, it's more fun than he had thought it would be.

"Arrogance. Not a very attractive feature," Lambert replies as airily as he can muster, but he has to grip his glass pretty fucking hard to steady his hand. "Might have been that guy who got me all hot and bothered." Lambert jerks his chin towards the corner of the bar where the previous reject lurked.

He feels Eskel expand. All Eskel does is shift a little, shoulders straightening, eyes narrowing, but he suddenly feels twice the size and Lambert breathes him in, eyes flickering. "And how did he do that?" Eskel's voice is far too level and for a moment Lambert almost believes he feels threatened.

"Laid on the moves, you know," Lambert replies, taking another sip from his cocktail. "I was going to head home with him, unless you can outclass his offer."

The music's low but loud enough to be heard over the murmur of collected voices. There are a few people dancing between the tables, a couple on the cleared space passing from the dance floor. It's late. Most of the patrons are just touching the boundary of "tipsy enough to not worry about looking like an idiot". Eskel doesn't like being the centre of attention; the scars, his size, a general dislike of people he doesn't know. But this version shrugs his jacket off nonchalantly and unbuttons his cufflinks. Lambert watches those thick forearms appear and wants to bite those too. He's so fixated on that familiar scar wrapped over Eskel's wrist that he blinks when Eskel takes his hand.

"Allow me to prove that I'm in a class of my own."

Lambert follows Eskel to the dance floor, watching in awe as the path miraculously clears before them. There's no weaving between tables, knocking drinks and stray elbows, for Eskel. The world bends to his whim. Lambert wants to bend to his whim. Eskel pulls him close, guides Lambert's hands to his chest and settles his own at Lambert's waist. This close, Eskel's scent is overwhelming, that exposed collarbone within range of Lambert's mouth. But those eyes are close too. Intense and bright; wanting and hungry. Liquid fire, Lambert thinks, as they sway together.

Lambert wants to ask whether Eskel's okay. People are watching them. The weight of each heavy gaze is a mixture of jealousy, curiosity and boredom. But Eskel's the most intimidating presence in the whole bar, and the space around them clears. Lambert knows if he asks then the spell will be broken. He scents the air anyway, tries to read his husband's face and eyes, and finds no discomfort. He relaxes into the hands cradling him, holds that intense gaze as one song melts into the next. There's no fear there, Eskel's ignoring everyone else, they're of no consequence. No threat. No interest. The focus of his entire world is Lambert, and Lambert feels dizzy with the thought.

Eskel lifts one of Lambert's hands and kisses the palm, the fingers, the wrist. He nuzzles over the soft skin there and holds Lambert's hand to his face before turning him. A slow spin leaves Lambert's back to Eskel's chest, warm lips finding the space beneath Lambert's ear. Such a light kiss steals his breath away, and he pushes back, encouraging. This is probably too fast for a realistic fantasy encounter, but it's Lambert's fantasy, damn it, and he suddenly wants his Hot As Molten Lava husband on him, in him, over him.

The slow tenderness is making him ache. The way that Eskel slides a hand down Lambert's torso, following the contours of his lean build, mere fingertips hooking just beneath his waistband. It's possessive, his fingers leaving an invisible brand of ownership everywhere they touch, and an offer. Lambert's sure that if Eskel demanded to mount him here, he'd drop and present in seconds; he feels lighter than air, grounded only by the searing heat of Eskel's body, and the soft rumble of an aroused alpha nosing over his neck.

Lambert tilts his head back against Eskel's shoulder, feels another warm palm marvel down the length of his body, and he realises that Eskel's displaying him to the other hungry eyes watching them. He's showing them a glimpse of what they can't have because Lambert's his now. Even in the fantasy of their encounter, Lambert's making all the right noises, moving in all the right ways. Eskel is showing off the beautiful omega he has enticed to him, and Lambert lets out a soft moan. He's that beautiful omega. The one that made Eskel's eyes go like that, made him want to stake a public claim for all to see. This amazing alpha, with his hot-as-fuck body and warm honey eyes wants Lambert. But it's not just that either, is it? Lambert knows how gentle and tender the heart underneath it all is. He lets out another wistful moan and rocks his hips back against Eskel's, feeling the hard length of his alpha's cock through his slacks.

"Don't be makin' noises like that, baby," Eskel says, his voice so low and husky that Lambert can feel it to his very core, "or I'll have to do somethin' about it."

"Yeah?" Lambert tilts his face to Eskel's neck, all but arched against him. "Then do something."

The challenge sparks something in Eskel and Lambert hears him growl. It's so low. Like a summer storm on the horizon; threatening, inevitable. Lambert wants it to wash over him and lets out another soft moan when he feels Eskel's teeth on his neck.

Mine.

Did Eskel say it? Breathe it? Perhaps he kissed the thought into his skin like a brand, and now Lambert knows it with every fibre of his being.

They leave the bar. Eskel snatches his jacket and throws some cash down next to his half-finished drink. His presence must have expanded even further because a cabbie appears from nowhere. Lambert sits astride Eskel's lap and devours him in the ten-minute (read: eternal, never-fucking-ending) drive to the hotel room that Eskel booked. His lips never leave Eskel's neck, and he leaves a bruising kiss on that exposed collarbone.

Lambert wraps himself around Eskel's chest and they stumble through the hotel lobby, past a mystified receptionist and harried concierge. As they get to their room, Eskel nearly kicks the door off its hinges in his haste to get Lambert into the room, onto the bed. The jeans don't last; the button pings off, the denim rips, but Lambert doesn't care. He's too busy scrambling at Eskel's belt, which might as well be a multi-layered Aztec puzzle box for all the luck he has getting it off.

Eskel's hands are everywhere; his lips, his teeth. Lambert winds his fingers in his hair and arches into him, babbling, pleading. And when Eskel finally gives him what he wants, their bodies moving desperately, furiously, Lambert crushes their mouths together until his lungs burn for air and the rest of his body glows with pleasure.

Their skin glistens with sweat, they tumble over the bed, kicking sheets and pillows onto the floor, desperate to taste and touch and have. Eskel pulls his head back, his hips pressed flush to Lambert's body, their foreheads leaned together and breathes, "Mine."

Lambert grins, throws his head back in ecstasy and rolls his body against Eskel. It's perfect, this is perfect. He feels wanted, and attractive - no, not attractive, fucking hot, like he's the finest piece of ass to walk the Continent, and he's won this beautiful, staggeringly good-looking alpha over all the others. Not a consolation prize. Eskel could have had anyone in that fucking club - alpha, beta, omega - they were all watching him. But he chose Lambert... would choose Lambert every time.

The perfect grind of Eskel's cock pushes him into an orgasm that makes his toes curl, his nails biting into Eskel's shoulders, and punches a desperate cry from his chest. When Eskel tries to drawback for another thrust, Lambert's legs tighten and he grips a fistful of hair to drag Eskel's ear to his mouth. "Mine."

Eskel moans, fisting the sheets, and comes. Lambert feels the pressure of his knot as his own body bears down on it. It's another thrill of pleasure and Lambert rocks onto Eskel's prick until they're both shaking and breathless. It's not the last time they make love. Lambert lets Eskel up for a drink of water but pins him down again barely half an hour later. The next few times are slower; they kiss the bruises and the scratches they left behind, and eventually fall asleep wound together, sated and exhausted.

In the morning, Lambert wakes to one honey-gold eye watching him from the pillow next to him. The corner crinkles when Eskel realises Lambert's awake, lopsided smile curling over his face. Lambert's husband is back; the soft-hearted goof with the fluffy hair and soft eyes. "Hey," Eskel rumbles.

"Hey yourself." Lambert stretches like a cat, feels all the aches in all the right places, and flops over onto his side to face Eskel. His alpha's studying him closely, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"How did I do?" Eskel asks.

"Well," Lambert begins, propping himself up on his elbow so that he can stroke the scruffy mop of Eskel's hair. "I don't know where you've been keeping that other dude, but he can visit again some time."

Eskel looks proud of himself and Lambert let him have the victory without teasing. Then that well-earned smugness melted into doubt; a frown tugs at Eskel's lips, and a ponderous hum leaves his chest. "Do you, uh... do you prefer the... um, the other guy?"

Lambert grins and tilts their foreheads together. "Nah. He's nice for a night. Couldn't imagine waking up to him every morning though. Be fucking exhausting."

Eskel sighs, relieved. "Oh thank fuck. I'm exhausted. I think those shoes gave me blisters, and do you know how much I had to suck my gut in to get that waistcoat to fit? Kreve's tits, I thought I was going to need shaping pants."

They both dissolve into hysterics, because the idea of Eskel in lady's shapewear is too much. He's enjoyed a few pints and more than a few full roast dinners since Geralt's wedding, but that's absolutely fine, because Eskel is exactly as he should be. Lambert wouldn't have him any other way.

#rawrkinwrites #Lambskel #Eskel #Lambert #Witcher Eskel #Witcher Lamber #modern AU #non-traditional a/b/o

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Major Character Death. Spoilers for the saga. The real consequences of Jaskier's "heartbreak".

"Burn, butcher, burn."

They say as they tie Eskel to the stake in the middle of the town square. The price of the contract was too high in the end. He had frowned when the alderman declined to pay him, and the ugly scars had twisted his broken face into an intimidating scowl. Eskel, tired and hungry, had been no match for the town guards and now he hangs his head, stripped of his armour, his medallion, and resigns himself to his fate. They'll bury what's left of him in a shallow grave and his loved ones won't even know he's dead.

"Burn, butcher, burn."

They scream as they beat Lambert to death in a tavern. He lost patience with his Gwent partner for yet another slur against him. One of the hundreds; one too many. Since that fucking song came out, it's all he's heard in every backwater shit-heap in which he's had the misfortune of searching for work. It's the last thing he hears as the final boot kicks him unconscious. He doesn't wake up. They leave his body for the necrophages.

"Burn, butcher, burn."

The sailor spits in Coën's face as the knife pierces through his back. He didn't even see it coming. All he did was smile at a pretty serving girl as she swayed through the tables. He was so taken by the daydream of what it would be like to hold her in his arms that he missed the flash of steel. His heart gives one final, fitful stutter before it peters out and his blood soaks the floorboards. His murderer won't face justice; he'll spend a day in gaol to sober up before he heads out to sea and about his life. After all, it was only a witcher he killed. They're all butchers. They all deserve to burn.

"Burn, butcher, burn."

The words echo in Geralt's head as he listens to the screams in the streets. He's just decided to retire. No more witchering. He'll settle in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. Just him and those he loves. But as he listens to the banshee cries of the murderers pouring through Rivia, he grabs his sword and heads out. Time to defend the innocent one last time. Time to get involved one last time...

...but butchers don't deserve happiness. They don't deserve a second chance.

We all know butchers deserve to burn.

#rawrkinwrites #spoilers #the witcher spoilers #major character death #geralt #geralt of rivia #coen #lambert #witcher lambert #Coën #witcher Coën #jaskier #burn butcher burn

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I’m having sad sub!Geralt thoughts today. This is part story, part musings. This could become something longer one day, but brain power is limited.

Warnings: smut, kink negotiation, use of safe word, good scene, bad scene, subspace, impact play, Geralt’s canonical issues with bodily autonomy/consent. With thanks to @frenchkey for tolerating my rambles this morning (and helping me form some coherence).

Geralt hasn’t experienced subspace for a long time.

Jaskier is talkative. It’s a constant buzz of sound—‘my dear’, ‘sweet Geralt’, ‘very lovely’—and he expects noise in return. Feedback. Geralt is so focused on making the right sounds and facial expressions that he gets very little out of the scene beyond an orgasm at the end. He’s left feeling unfulfilled and a little hollow.

Yennefer is closer to what he needs, but she’s harsher and sometimes lacks patience with him; her understanding of his boundaries is negligible. She enters his mind without asking to monitor him and he spends the entire time thinking the thoughts she wants to see. She’s adventurous and a lot of what they try tests Geralt’s boundaries in ways he doesn’t like. Just a little more. Just a little longer. She wants everything.

It’s frustrating, because he loves them both. With all his heart. But they’re not the right fit for that part of him. They’re not what he needs. He convinces himself it doesn’t matter. He’s lucky to have them at all. They could do so much better. He can go without that kind of gratification as long as they’re happy.

Somehow, he starts talking about it with Eskel one night. It’s winter. They’re drunk. It doesn’t take much these days—they must be getting old. Eskel listens, his head tilted to the side, and at the end he just hums. “I know it’s been a long time, Wolf,” he says, “but how about me?”

Geralt is pretty sure he misheard, but Eskel repeats it. He has experience. Many years of experience. He has two puppies, a sub and a pony on the leash at the moment. Geralt is surprised and speechless. They decide to discuss it more in the morning and end up asleep on the bearskin in front of the fire. Vesemir dumps a few blankets on top of them and leaves them to their hangovers.

Eskel sits Geralt down that afternoon with a piece of paper. At the top, he has written two words ‘Wants’ and ‘Needs’. They’ve known each other for so long that Geralt’s surprised they can’t just… talk about it.

“You have issues with consent and your own desires,” Eskel explains. “I need you to begin workin’ through that if we’re doin’ this.”

Geralt agrees to give it a go. He can think of some things, surely. Eskel leaves him to it for the day. If he thinks of something, all he has to do is note it down in one of the columns. By the time the sun sinks below the mountains, he has… one thing. I want to come.

Eskel looks at the list with narrowed eyes. This is clearly worse than he thought. Geralt’s shoulders sag in disappointment, but Eskel sits down next to him and picks up the quill. “Do you need to feel safe?”

Geralt blinks. Eskel waits. The silence stretches. After a while, Geralt nods.

“Words, please.”

“Yeah, I—yeah.”

Eskel writes it down in the ‘need’ column. “We’ll dig down into what that means in a bit,” he says, “do you need correction and-or discipline?”

Geralt thinks about it. He doesn’t need it. But the few times Yennefer disciplined him for infractions were nice—he was punished justly and they moved on. It brought him catharsis and he didn’t have to worry about it. “I want it,” he replies. Eskel diligently adds it to the column.

They go through a long list. Each time, Eskel waits patiently for Geralt to reach a decision and then adds it to the appropriate column. Once it’s complete, he goes back to the top and focuses on what each one means for Geralt. What does it mean to feel safe? It’s not a question that Geralt has ever been asked, but as he thinks about it, he realises that he needs to trust Eskel not to mock him, to keep this private, that the mere act of discussing is making him feel more secure in… whatever this will become.

Once they’ve done that, Eskel goes back to the top and explains his own. He needs Geralt to tell him if something hurts when they haven’t discussed it; he needs Geralt to talk to him after and allow himself to be cared for; he needs to be able to touch Geralt, skin-to-skin. He wants to hear Geralt enjoy it, but understands that everyone’s pleasure sounds different; he wants an opportunity to correct Geralt and to give him an opportunity to be of service.

Geralt realises that he never really knew what Yennefer or Jaskier’s wants and needs were; he had always assumed or learned as he went.

Eskel gives Geralt another piece of paper the following morning. It has four new words on it. ‘Hard limits’ and ‘soft limits’. Eskel has to explain what they mean and only gives Geralt a few hours to contemplate this time; he knows there won’t be anything in either column without his assistance. They sit in the weak winter sun and Eskel goes down a list of kinks. Everything from impact play to oviposition; breath play to orgasm denial.

Geralt puts impact play into soft limits; he doesn’t want blood in his bedroom. He puts watersports into hard limits along with humiliation and name-calling. He’s not sure about cbt, so they put in soft limits as something they could experiment with carefully. As he did the day before, Eskel adds his own.

Eskel gives Geralt a few days to look down the lists and make sure nothing’s missing. They agree on safe words—Eskel uses “thunderbolt”, because it’s his least favourite potion, and Geralt decides on “Roach”… because he associates her with safety, and he always calls for her when he’s hurting or in danger. Eskel smiles at that and is kind enough not to make any equine jokes.

Geralt isn’t surprised to see that they match up in a lot of things, but Eskel is a damn sight fucking kinkier than Geralt ever gave him credit for. He has to ask what klismaphilia is and goes rather red at the explanation. Eskel won’t use knives and he doesn’t like choking. Both linked with extreme violence. Geralt understands, but can’t help but be a little disappointed at the latter.

A few more days pass, and they negotiate a scene. It combines some light bondage and spanking. Eskel shows Geralt a paddle he has stashed away in one of his bags; it’s sturdy, wrapped in black leather. Geralt goes hard at the thought of it and agrees without reserve. “Do you want sex?” asks Eskel as they sit at the dinner table. Geralt nearly snorts wine out his nose.

“Isn’t that a given?”

“No.”

Geralt isn’t sure what to say, except, “what do you get out of it if we don’t?”

Eskel pulls out their wants and needs list, pointing to each item in the ‘needs’ column. He’s patient. Jaskier would’ve grown bored by now and Yennefer would roll her eyes in exasperation at how slow he was. Geralt isn’t sure what to say—if he says yes, then will Eskel force himself to do what he doesn’t want to? And if he says no, will Eskel get bored? He swallows. “What do you want?”

Eskel sighs. He clearly didn’t want to lead the conversation, but makes the judgement call to do so now. “I would like to,” he says, searching Geralt’s face. “Penetrative. A well marked arse turns me on.”

Geralt goes redder than Eskel’s gambeson. Yeah, that sounds pretty fucking good, actually. They agree to sex and Geralt spends the late afternoon in the springs getting clean.

The scene goes well. Geralt enjoys the impact of the paddle against his arse, and even more so when Eskel bends him low and the impact catches the back of his balls. He makes sound—willingly, without forcing himself. He pulls against the leather straps around his wrists and shoves his face into the bed. Eskel marks him up perfectly. The only sounds he makes are quiet puffs of effort, and once or twice he checks in—asks for a colour. It’s an odd system, but Geralt understands it. Red, amber, green. It’s green right up until Eskel touches his burning skin and calls an end to it.

Geralt is shaking. He’s drawn out and highly strung, his cock is a hot rod of iron beneath his belly. “Sir, please,” he blurts out before he can stop it. Eskel pauses and for a moment Geralt fears he’s done something wrong.

“Just my name for now, Geralt,” Eskel growls. “No more ‘sir’. Confirm you understand by saying yes or no.”

Geralt presses his lips together. “Yes.” A soothing hand strokes over his lower back and the tension eases instantly. Not ruined. Forgiven.

Geralt has never enjoyed the push of a cock so much in his life. He knows receiving isn’t the inherently submissive part and has had many partners in the past who have bossed him around just fine with his cock in their arse, but the act of being filled by Eskel after the impact of the paddle is transcendent. He spreads his legs, enjoys the dual burn of taking just-a-little-too-much-prick and the press of Eskel’s fingers into his bruised skin.

Eskel fucks him hard, but he doesn’t rely on his size to do the work for him. Geralt can feel the talent in the ripple of Eskel’s body; the way he targets Geralt’s prostate and then eases off to prolong the peak. By the time Geralt comes, he’s wrecked. He forgets himself and tries to leave once the restraints are removed—Yennefer prefers the bed to herself after a scene, and Jaskier doesn’t like fluids on the sheets.

“Geralt,” Eskel says firmly and Geralt freezes in place. “Here. Now.”

Geralt slinks back. He feels like he’s on a cloud; his limbs are heavy, his eyes unfocused. Eskel’s big arms wrap around him and pull him onto the bed. “Stay,” his deep voice commands. The next thing Geralt feels is the brush of a warm cloth around his intimate areas and the touch of cool salve on his ass. Eskel inspects his wrists, his palms, and then curls around him like a giant bear settling for hibernation.

A few hours pass and Geralt stares into the middle distance. His mind is calm, his body so heavy, and he allows the world to wash over him. He knows this feeling. It’s the beginning of subspace. He ruined it by getting up, but it was there, well within reach.

“You tested one of my boundaries.” Eskel starts the conversation when Geralt’s eyes are focused and he’s had a sip of water.

“What?”

“I look after you when we’re finished,” Eskel says, “that’s one of my needs. A non-negotiable one.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt tries to curl away, but Eskel won’t allow him.

“You need trainin’. I’ve got the patience and the inclination. Want to continue? And if so, anything you didn’t like?”

Geralt can’t quite believe it. He did something wrong. Broke a rule. But Eskel’s still here, still willing to invest the time and the effort. Geralt nearly bites his proverbial hand off.

It takes time. Eskel teaches Geralt about boundaries. When Geralt grabs Eskel’s hand and presses it to his throat during one scene, Eskel calls it off instantly. Geralt panics while Eskel takes a moment to centre himself again, before sitting on the edge of the bed to talk about it. Eskel doesn’t leave him, not even for breaking a rule. They negotiate an appropriate punishment—Geralt realises he really does like c-b-t, even if the tears stream down his face by the end.

They try sensory deprivation. Complete removal of all senses. It goes wrong. Geralt feels muffled. Detached from the world. Like he could scream until his lungs burned but no one would hear him suffering. He hates it. Hates feeling like nothing. Completely untethered from existence; meaningless and transparent.

He tries to push through because the occasional brush of Eskel’s fingers remind him he’s still alive. This is what Eskel wants. Geralt needs to be good. His comfort doesn’t matter in the long run. Eskel will continue, he’ll ask for a little longer. There’s no point. Geralt’s here to serve, he’s here to be of use—but soon that’s not enough.

He cries out for Eskel, and then for Roach. He’s in Eskel’s arms within moments, his eyes uncovered, his ears and nose unplugged. He buries his nose against Eskel’s neck and breathes him in until his chest aches. Safe. Eskel respected his boundaries. He didn’t make Geralt endure. He didn’t continue through Geralt’s discomfort. The tears fall freely and Geralt tries to turn his face away. Eskel doesn’t let him. He kisses them away, strokes his hair, holds his hand. They stay together until Geralt’s grounded again.

They talk. Eskel coaxes Geralt to explain what went wrong and when. He doesn’t scold Geralt for pushing himself, because he needs honesty in the future. There’s no false praise—no ‘darlings’ or ‘sweethearts’—just the comforting weight of Eskel’s hand and the deep throb of his heartbeat. That’s all that Geralt wants. It’s all he needs.

Geralt finally gets it. It washes over him in a wave of dizziness. He’s safe with Eskel; he doesn’t need to perform. He doesn’t need to be anything but himself. This man knows him better than any other; he could have conducted a scene without their lengthy preamble but his knowledge of Geralt was the very reason that he didn’t. Geralt needs to feel listened to; he needs a feeling of agency over his own pleasure and to be able to trust his partner to fulfill those needs. He needs to be able give consent and take it back; he needs to understand the boundaries and be sure that they will hold. He needs to feel safe.

In their next scene, Geralt finds subspace. “I knew you could do it,” Eskel whispers gently, “I’m proud of you.”

Geralt basks. He’s never felt more fulfilled.

#rawrkinwrites #kind of #Geralt #Eskel #Eskel/Geralt #Eskel x Geralt #D/s relationship #negotiation

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I know you don't write Jaskier much anymore, but could you maybe do something with Eskel being kind? After S2, I am so sad.

Hey, Non. You know what? Yeah, I can do you something. One book/game canon Eskel coming right up. I've set it in the Trust No Kings universe, so I hope that's okay. If you haven't read it, a brief summary: Jaskier turns up at Kaer Morhen and makes a really bad first impression. Eskel doesn't trust him because he's another upstart noble in fancy clothes set to take advantage of people like him—or so he believes! Jaskier tries to fix the issue by offering intimate relations; Eskel doesn't take this well. This is Jaskier trying to make the effort to heal a bit of the hurt...

Jaskier knew he had to fix this somehow. When he woke the morning after Eskel's apology, he felt a sickening weight in the pit of his stomach and a creeping niggle beneath his skin. The kind of feeling that settled in when one was very much aware of being in the wrong. The scratch-scratch of an unsettled issue, the uneasy queasiness of a temporary truce.

But how did one fix such a slight? Jaskier had to confront decades' worth of deeply ingrained distrust. Fear. When Eskel looked at Jaskier, he didn't see Geralt's best friend, a lively and verbose troubadour with a flighty heart full of song. Eskel saw a Viscount in expensive silks and linens, with the ear of other nobles and history of... well, Jaskier didn't really want to consider what Eskel believed him capable of.

Over breakfast, Jaskier sparred with Lambert, exchanging barbed comments about the weather being especially dismal this year, especially given the calibre of the current company. He tried not to stare at Eskel, who ate his watered-down porridge silently at the far end of the table. Geralt kept glancing over too, a crease forming in the centre of his forehead, lips tilted in a thoughtful frown. Something was wrong. Eskel was usually most ebullient at mealtimes, with warm mead in his belly and plenty of food to hand, but he sat lost in his own head and barely registered his companions. In fact, Eskel didn't look up at all until Vesemir barked at him to help with the dishes, at which point he swiped up his half-finished bowl and fled to the sink.

Jaskier wasn't the only one feeling that sense of uneasiness then.

Rather than rush in headfirst, Jaskier resolved to watch and plot from afar once more. He had to approach this differently. If Eskel believed all his actions to be self-serving and manipulative, then he had to find a way to show genuine interest. While Jaskier had hoped he could grow close to Eskel, Geralt's first and most enduring love, and find a level of intimacy that they could nurture into something more in the coming years, he'd settle for something akin to friendship. Warm acquaintance. Anything but this uncomfortable civility.

He needed to get Eskel on his own too. Because every time Geralt was near, Jaskier could see Eskel glancing across, looking for cues in body language and facial ticks. Geralt probably didn't even realise Eskel was following his lead, oblivious to the way his best friend and lover was scrambling desperately to please him. But that was Geralt, wasn't it? Woefully unaware of his own importance to those around him. Jaskier needed Eskel alone. But not somewhere he felt cornered. Certainly not his quarters, or in the kitchens. Outside, maybe. But not the training grounds or while they were heading out for meat. Those were the spaces Eskel shared with Geralt, Lambert and Vesemir, spaces in which Jaskier wasn't yet welcome.

Jaskier spent those few days while he waited for an opportunity to talk with Eskel just listening. He could listen. He was a good listener. He listened to Eskel hum an old folk song while he scrubbed laundry, swap tawdry jokes with Lambert edged in a quiet, unassuming wit that made Lambert's characteristic scowl melt into a lopsided grin. When Eskel was with Geralt, he communicated in soft touches - the elbow, the small of his back, a nudge of the foreheads together, a deep and longing kiss - and subtle in-jokes. Jaskier needed to learn this language. He needed to learn Eskel's language. But for that, he needed to practice.

So, that was how Jaskier ended up standing just inside the barnyard door. Halfway between inside and outside, with an empty bucket in his hands because he rather felt he should be holding something to appear like he intended to be there for a purpose other than to speak with Eskel.

Said witcher was muttering quietly to the busy flock of hens clucking and gurgling around his ankles. He called them 'dames' with a quiet, affectionate lilt to his tone as he lifted their hefty, feathered bodies in search of eggs. The single cockerel in residence was dubbed 'pecky fuck' when Eskel thought no one was listening, a name that the creature was currently justifying with gusto as it pecked at Eskel's ankles in search of feed.

"Quite the attitude, that one," Jaskier said, tilting the bucket.

Eskel looked up, nudging the cockerel away with the toe of his boot. "Yeah. Thought of maybe renamin' him Lambert." He hesitated with a palmful of dried corn, and Jaskier watched his throat bob as he swallowed. "Was there somethin' you needed, or...?"

"Oh!" Jaskier's back straightened and he looked at the bucket in his grasp as if seeing it for the first time. "Yes! Geralt needed, uh, some..." he looked around the stable quickly, hoping to spot something useful, and... "oats."

"Oats?"

"Yes, you know, umm," Jaskier turned the bucket over and over, "for... cake."

They both knew the pantry had oats for baking. The oats in the stable were fit for Roach and Scorpion alone, and Eskel glanced at the heavy bags hanging the stable wall with a pensive look on his face. Jaskier stared at him with his lips turned in, half begging for a little bit of mercy with widened eyes; he'd made himself look even more a fool. His olive branch may be mangled, metaphorical leaves falling off and bark cracked, but it was still a plea for peace.

Eskel dabbed at his scars and Jaskier's heart sank. He knew what that meant. It was a universal Eskel sign for 'I'm uncomfortable'. Jaskier turned to leave, but Eskel reached out before he could cross the threshold. "Wait, lemme... come an' help me finish here, and we'll go get the right oats."

Jaskier felt his heart leap into his throat. He was being trusted with a chore. One of Eskel's chores, which were always completed in a certain way; tidy and efficient. Jaskier put the bucket down and practically fell over his own feet to get to Eskel's outstretched hands, both of his own cupped to accept the fistful of grain. He stood for a quiet moment, eyeing the bustling hens around Eskel's feet.

Eskel cleared his throat. "You need t' spread it."

"Do I just... sprinkle? Like this?" Jaskier tipped the grain into one palm and took a pinch. He sprinkled it near some hens and then blinked as Eskel... chuckled. A real one; the deep, quiet rumble of genuine amusement he spared for those quiet chats with Lambert.

"S'a barn floor, not a Novigrad bathhouse," Eskel quipped, scarred lips quirked up in the beginnings of a warm smile. "Here, close your fist, an'—"

Eskel reached inside the large sack at his hip and dropped a fistful of grain in a roughly even semi-circle around them. The hens clucked happily, pecking at the floor as they bustled into each other.

"Ah, yes, but it is a fine stable floor, exquisite, truly—what?"

"'M not gonna bite you, Jaskier," Eskel said, rubbing thoughtfully at the deep rivets on his cheek. "You're nervous. You don' need to be."

"You can smell emotions?"

"I can smell your sweat." Eskel raised an eyebrow, and Jaskier tried to surreptitiously sniff at his own armpit when Eskel turned away.

"I—I suppose I'm nervous because I don't want to worsen the impression you have of me, I want to—to prove that I'm worthy of Geralt," Jaskier said, fingers flexing against his palms as he yearned to fill his hands with something to hold. An anchor. His hands needed to be doing something. "That I'm worthy of your friendship."

Eskel paused mid-hen lift. The bird between his big hands clucked quietly, head tipping, feathers puffing around his fingers. Jaskier knew he'd struck something—a nerve, perhaps? Another one. Instead of opening his mouth, he kept it closed, waited. Eskel lowered the small hen, with its feathery feet and sweet speckled pattern, and reached for one of the eggs in her nest. "You don' need to prove anythin'—"

"Ah, ah." Jaskier shifted forward a little, hands outspread. "You see, I do. You go quiet when I'm near, you—you behave like I could lash out with a knife at any moment if you're too—," Jaskier stopped before he said it: if you're too 'you'. Eskel was—was Eskel worried about—?

"'M sorry I've made you feel—"

"Eskel, I don't need more apologies," Jaskier sighed, rubbing a palm over his chest as his heart beat against his ribcage. "I would be very grateful for a... a chance to prove myself. To earn your trust. One more chance."

Eskel turned the small egg over in his huge hands. Jaskier could imagine what those hands would feel like on his skin; stroking his cheek, touching his elbow, carding weathered fingers through his hair. And Geralt between them both. Their shared, unerring lover helping smooth the way for the fragile, tentative affection blossoming between them. A pipedream, perhaps.

One thing Jaskier had learned through his observations was that Eskel was a man of action, over words. That was his language. One with which Jaskier was still not familiar. But he translated Eskel's next actions well enough. The witcher plucked the bag of grain from his belt and placed it in one of Jaskier's flexing hands. Jaskier let out the breath he'd been holding and offered a tentative smile. A smile that was returned, if only faintly. Eskel only smiled and laughed with loved ones. Jaskier was... well, he only had a foot in the door. His second chance.

They worked together to feed the rest of the hens. Eskel filled a basket full of small, feathery eggs and Jaskier bustled between the hens, feeding them as evenly as he could. They clucked and gurgled and pecked contentedly.

Surprisingly, it was Eskel that broke the silence. "Were you serious? About the oats?"

"Oh, no, I... panicked."

"Ah, shame, I make a mean oat cake," Eskel hummed.

"Oh! No, I mean, yes, yes—I would love to taste your oats."

"Would you now?" Eskel said, one eyebrow high as he headed out the barn door.

"Well, I..." Jaskier trailed off as he spotted the glint in Eskel's honey-hued eyes before he ducked into the courtyard. That had been a joke. Eskel had joked with him. He hadn't done that yet. In fact, Eskel only joked with Lambert and Geralt. This. This was progress.

Bolstered by his achievement, Jaskier bid the Dames of Kaer Morhen adieu and followed Eskel into the wintry afternoon air. If the way into Eskel's confidence was to fumble through as many chores as he could, then he was ready to roll his sleeves up and get stuck in.

#rawrkinwrites #Witcher Eskel #Eskel #Jaskier #Trust No Kings #geraskier #Geralt/Jaskier #mentioned Eskel/Geralt #future Eskel/Jaskier #Jaskel

[on-a-lucky-tide]

All my friends are on a Bombard kick, and I got inspired.

Tags: selkie-ish AU, magical curses, beginnings of 'enemies to lovers', Jaskier is a dickhead and has a lot of growing up to do; side character death.

Lambert stared at the troubadour, his mouth slack, his eyes burning with barely contained fury. Lithe, spindly fingers held his pelt tightly, clutched to a chest embellished with silk frills and glossy buttons. His feet wouldn't move because he had been ordered to 'stop'. It was such a vague fucking order. Stop. And the curse always interpreted such commands in their worst light. Sure, stop didn't mean his heart would stop beating, or his blood would freeze. But stop did, ap-fucking-parently, include the rise and fall of his chest. His vision edged in grey and orange before his captor remembered himself.

"Oh, yes, sorry, how forgetful of me, uh…" the troubadour cleared his throat, "you may breathe, but you will not harm me or allow me to come to harm, physically. You can move now. Move all you like."

Lambert tried not to give the arsewipe the satisfaction of a gasp, but he sucked in a huge lungful of air and staggered. As his vision cleared, he lifted his head to level a fierce gaze on Jaskier. "Henselt will have your balls for this, then feed them to you while you're choking in a noose."

The troubadour looked perplexed. "How would that–'' he shook his head, long pheasant feather fluttering over the puffy sleeves of his shoulders, "nevermind, it doesn't matter. Anyway, you would fell every guard that attempted to come near me. Not allow me to come to harm, remember?"

Lambert's jaw creaked as he clenched his teeth, fingers twitching at his sides. There was a knife in the back of his belt. He wanted nothing more than to ram it through the fop's stupid face. He couldn't so, instead, he lashed out with his only other weapon. "So what now, numb nuts? You have my pelt. Want me to go and slit the throat of a man you cuckolded?"

"Nothing so pedestrian," a flap of one hand, the other clutching Lambert's pelt close, "I have a far bigger target in mind."

Lambert's eyes narrowed. "If you order to me to assassinate a king, I'll be sure to tell them who had their hand in my fur when I got the idea." It wasn't unheard of. A few hundred years ago, there had been a spate of political assassinations. Kings sending Witchers after each others crotch goblins to destabilise the kingdom. It had devolved into a clusterfuck and a treaty had been signed at Loc Muinne–the Witcher Accords. No monarch would use their Witcher for anything other than to protect their personage. And yes, that didn't include pre-emptive strikes. Lambert was glad. He didn't much have a taste for murdering kids, even shitheels like Henselt's brats.

"Oh pssh! Not that big. No. You will come with me to Oxenfurt where you will not hurt or harm me, either on the journey, or while there, and then you shall slay one Valdo Marx, slanderist and imbecile."

Lambert rolled his eyes. He should have fucking known. The troubadour had arrived in court two months ago. He introduced himself as Jaskier, with a bow so low that his nose, in addition to the poncy fucking feather on his beret, brushed the floor. Henselt had quartered his last jester for spying, so Jaskier had slotted right into the bloody hole left behind. He was pretty good. A few shanties snuck out in between the courtly ballads. If it was for his penchant for sleeping with every hot-blooded creature on two legs, Jaskier might actually have been fairly tolerable. Voltehre had joked that Lambert was just jealous he hadn't got his dick wet yet. Asshole.

"And then what? You going to post the pelt back to Henselt with an apology letter and a bouquet of flowers?"

"Do you think he would accept such an offering?" Jaskier shot back, lower lip jutted, petulant. "No. I intended to hand it to you. A life for a life, a debt for a debt, I believe that is the motto of your kind, is it not?"

Lambert hadn't been expecting that. He paused long enough for his cynicism to correct the spark of hope that dared flicker in his chest. "Yeah, right."

"I mean it!" Jaskier said, his brows knitting together. "Upon my honour, I shall set you free."

"And why doesn't that fill me with confidence?"

"You'll see. Now, fetch your belongings. You speak to no one, do you understand? Not until we are safely at the border into Lyria. Meet me in the alcove behind the stables."

"Where you fucked the nursemaid last night?"

"Yes."

Lyria. Lambert knew it well. The King of Lyria and Rivia had Geralt and Gweld. Lambert had been hoping to whatever cunt of a deity that liked playing with mortals that the recent diplomatic situation between Kaedwen and Rivia cooled off. The last thing he wanted was to meet Geralt on the battlefield. It would be the first time they had seen each other in fifteen years; Meve didn't bring her Witchers to many official events. She preferred to leave them at home, keeping an eye on her brats.

Lambert headed off to his sparse quarters and gathered the few belongings he had. A battered old journal written by the bastard that had trained him, his sketchbook, his bestiary and his two clean shirts. With his pack and sword on his back, he met Jaskier. The bard had fashioned Lambert's pelt into a cloak, with a bronze clasp at his throat like some fucking parody of a hunter. Maybe he was. Wasn't he wearing the pelt of a wolf, after all? Jaskier flapped his hands once his lute was secure, "Right, you take the dappled one, I'll take–"

"Lambert?"

The blood in Lambert's veins ran cold. Voltehre. Fuck, fuck. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't fucking be here. He was meant to be out hunting with Henselt. Lambert could smell the copper tang in the air–deer blood–as he turned. He locked eyes with Voltehre just as his partner of twenty years realised what was going on. Someone other than the King had Lambert's fur. Someone was trying to steal him. And what did your best friend do when he saw you in danger? He reached for his fucking sword. No, no, no, no!

Let no harm come to me.

Jaskier's eyes widened, his words froze in his chest, garbled by fear and shock. The curse took hold. Voltehre was a quick draw, but Lambert was quicker. He always had been, ever since they had sparred as children in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, training to be the perfect bodyguards. Voltehre had always preferred books to fighting, although he could throw a mean right hook in a tavern brawl. In another life, he would have made a great scholar, perhaps even a fucking bard. It didn't matter now. The throwing knife whistled through the air and lodged itself in the only fatal gap in Voltehre's armour. His throat. His steel blade didn't even leave its sheath.

The copper smell intensified and Lambert choked. He watched in mute agony as Voltehre crumpled to the floor, Jaskier's orders ensuring he said not a word. Voltehre's hands scrambled at the hilt sitting between his raised collar, his crimson-stained lips opening and closing as his lungs filled. His blood trickled into the crevices between ancient flagstones, staining the straw and framing his golden curls in a macabre halo.

"Lambert–on the horse, get on the horse! They're coming. We need to go!" Jaskier's voice was shrill, and he shoved at Lambert with shaking hands. Clearly he didn't have quite the appetite for murder as he had indicated, because Lambert could see the terror in his eyes.

Lambert felt numb. His body obeyed even though his mind was paralysed. He swung into the saddle and spurred the unruly beast into a gallop. They cleared the gates in moments. Lambert made himself twist to look back at his friend, witnessing the last fitful twitches of his leg as life drained away. When Lambert turned back to face the green slopes beyond the castle walls, he stared at Jaskier's back and urged the sorrow into anger.

Tonight, he would mourn his friend. He would hide his tears in his jacket. Tomorrow, he would start counting the days until his freedom.

A life for a life.

#bombard #lambskier #jaskier #lambert #jaskier x lambert #jaskier/lambert #enemies to lovers #introduction #storing it here #rawrkinwrites #the witcher #the witcher games

[on-a-lucky-tide]

This is for @witcher-trash. You know why, sweet. Don't let 'em get you down!

Primary School teacher Coën Griffiths is much beloved by his Year 5 class. His Teaching Assistant, a greying lady by the name of Marlene, retires after forty years of service at the school. Her replacement couldn't be more radically different. Lambert Morhen looks like he would be more at home working in a PRU than a Primary School, with two scars down his face, dark hair and a stern frown, but he quickly proves himself to be organised, highly intelligent and efficient.

The kids fall in love with him quickly. They appreciate his no-nonsense attitude as much as they love his jokes. He can explain things in a way they can understand. Suddenly, numbers aren't as scary and words aren't too difficult. Lambert wins over the most difficult child in the class in two weeks; the one that throws chairs and gets overstimulated, whose parents haven't attended a single parents' evening since he arrived three years ago. Coën walks in to find that child sounding out his phonic sounds at Lambert's side. All Lambert does is encourage him, nudge him, tap the page when the child's attention wanders. When parents ask their children why their TA is so grumpy, the kids are quick to correct them: Mr Morhen isn't grumpy, he's just sad sometimes. He never told them anything, but kids just know, y'know?

Coën and Lambert head out to the pub some evenings after all the marking's done (a rarity in itself), and Coën learns more about Lambert. He was taken into care at a young age. Without his foster father, he would have amounted to nothing. So, rather than use his engineering degree to earn a six figure salary, he decided he'd give something back to those who mattered most. Kids like him. It was difficult not to be fond of the scowly, warm-hearted grump after that.

But Coën's favourite afternoons are those when they pack the literacy books away and Lambert takes the music lessons. He pulls out his acoustic guitar and every child grabs their sheet music to sing along with him. It's on one such afternoon as they sing "How Far I'll Go" from Moana that Coën realises that his feelings are blossoming into something beyond a friendly fondness. He might be falling in love.

The kids? They notice.

The first "Mr Morhen Hearts Mr Griffiths" piece of art appears a week later. They did finger painting and Lambert has been given a splodge of black hair, while Coën gets his trademark knitted vest and shirt. Lambert and Coën stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at it on the drying rack, neither of them talking for some time.

Coën clears his throat. "Would you, uh, like to go to dinner with me?"

Lambert hums thoughtfully, one eyebrow quirked to his peaked hairline. "I'd like that."

#rawrkinwrites #Coën/Lambert #Coën #Witcher Coën #Lambert #Witcher Lambert #modern AU #teacher Coën #teacher Lambert #rated: t #I want to do more with this #cause people being gross about the way game Lambert looks #breaks my heart

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A/N: Jaskier stumbles across an amusing log in the back of Lambert's journal detailing their sexual encounters.

In many ways, travelling with Lambert was much like travelling with Geralt. Their journey compromised of an endless series of stops at settlements in search of work, with plenty of eulogising and wild camping in between. The key difference, really, was that Lambert didn’t have the penchant for suffering that Geralt had.

Lambert didn’t go without if he could help it, didn’t suffer fools and certainly didn’t disguise his opinions behind dry, discreet witticisms. If an alderman was foolish enough to inconvenience Lambert, he was very fastidious in communicating his displeasure, usually with plenty of creative insults and expletives peppered throughout his diatribe.

Some might disregard Lambert as blunt and crass; an itinerant asshole without depth, finesse or merit. Jaskier knew differently, of course.

He had observed Lambert’s skill and intelligence firsthand on more occasions than he could count. Not to mention his inestimable emotional intelligence. He could read a room or take the measure of a man in a single glance, and he was potentially the funniest person Jaskier had ever met. It was no surprise then that when Lambert propositioned Jaskier brazenly after a bawdy evening setlist, Jaskier fell into bed with him without a second thought.

And then continued to fall into many different beds in varying different positions for several months afterwards.

They fell into a very easy companionship, sharing food, beds and saddlebags in addition to each other’s bodies. It was as Jaskier packed one morning that he saw Lambert’s journal. He knew its content, of course. Sketches of monsters, shopping lists, notes about towns and sometimes stickmen with big dicks and tits.

Lambert had worked for an hour the previous evening on a sketch of a large leshen he had killed the day before (for which he was currently collecting the payment). Jaskier flicked open at the bookmark to admire the witcher’s work, slim fingers tracing the outline of the creature and then tapping the stick figure with a huge member in the corner.

He didn’t intend to pry, but as he flicked the journal closed, he saw a title that made him pause. In the space of a heartbeat, he opened the back cover again.

‘Sex Log’.

He should… really put the journal back. But he couldn’t look away.

‘02/09 Reverse knight, had to stop due to dick pain. Finished off with hand. J.S. 6/10.’

Jaskier snorted into his palm. This was about them. This was their sex life. He remembered Lambert slipping out and then Jaskier had accidentally sat on his prick at a bad angle. They had laughed about it at the time and Lambert had insisted on giving him a happy ending. Oh, this was… he… no, he had to see more. He kept reading.

‘05/09 Gave blowjob, likes balls tugged, but teeth a no. Sensitive. Doesn’t want me to cover my face J.S. 7/10.’

There was a little gap in dates. Jaskier recalled that they had parted ways for a few weeks around that time.

‘06/10 Used toy, really loosened him up. Fist next time? J.S. 8/10.’

‘15/10 Screamed. Snot everywhere. Used the last of the lube. J.S. 11/10.’

‘23/10 Stable floor. Got backache, but angle was good - upright, leg at shoulder. J.S. 7/10.’

‘27/10 Against the wall. Commented on beard rash. Get cream in next town. J.S. 8/10’.

Jaskier was so engrossed in the journal that he missed the drum of heavy boots on the stairs and the door clicking open. “Freya’s sagging tits, I thought that pissant would never stop talking, I…” Lambert paused mid-stride and his gaze dropped to the journal in Jaskier’s grasp. “Are you seriously reading my fucking diary right now?”

“Lambert, I…” Jaskier’s cheeks hurt from how broadly he had been smiling and tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. “You keep a log of our sexual encounters?” He had never seen Lambert look flustered, but his neck was flushed, his cat-like pupils narrowed, and Jaskier leapt back as Lambert lurched for the journal. “Ah ah! The cat is out of the bag, my dear friend.”

“Don’t be a cunt, give it back.”

“I haven’t finished yet.” Jaskier scrambled over the bed, but Lambert was too quick. Before he could wriggle free, Jaskier was hauled beneath Lambert’s body and pinned to the lumpy pallaise by the bulk of his muscular companion. He stretched his arms above his head, but Lambert flattened him and snatched the journal from his hands.

“It, you… why were you snooping through my shit?” Lambert growled, sitting on the edge of the bed with the journal clamped tightly shut on his lap.

“It wasn’t deliberate, Lambert, oh, it’s - … why on Melitele’s green earth, do you log our sex life? It’s certainly not for masturbatory material. It reads like a ship’s weather log!” Jaskier couldn’t help the titter of amusement and Lambert elbowed him with another warning growl.

“It’s… you, stop fucking laughing or I’ll set it on fire and throw you down the well outside.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, it’s just so very…” Jaskier turned his hands over in the air before his chest but couldn’t find the words through the bubble of amusement threatening to burst from his mouth.

“At Kaer Morhen, they teach us to keep a log early on so we can… so, uh, so we can improve the service,” Lambert mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his short-cropped hair.

“So you can improve the service,” Jaskier repeated, enunciating every word because he couldn’t quite believe they had fallen out of Lambert’s mouth in that precise order. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed, exasperated or sad that Lambert had applied the same ordered intelligence he used for his profession to their relationship. “Lambert. You think you’re doing me a service?”

“No, that’s… stop putting words in my mouth.”

“That exact word actually came out of it.”

Lambert grunted and bashed the journal into his forehead. “I’ve not had a… a steady partner for a while, alright? I need to make sure I’m keeping it interesting, spicy, that you’re enjoying it, or you’ll fuck off, won’t you?”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighed, his mirth dissipating like spilt water on a summer’s day. Ahh, yes, the intergenerational trauma that was so endemic amongst the witcher population. Lambert feared abandonment as much as Geralt did; he worried about being good enough to keep Jaskier around. “Lambert, I wouldn’t leave you for being unimaginative in bed. My dear, I would see it as an opportunity. Why, inexperienced partners, obviously of mature age, are something of a… um, interest of mine.”

“I’m not inexperienced.”

“I never said you were.”

“Really? Because that exact word actually--.”

“Alright, alright,” Jaskier nudged Lambert with his shoulder, “but you don’t need to concern yourself with keeping track. I’m quite satisfied, more than satisfied, in fact. I do have one question.”

“Hm?” Lambert raised an eyebrow, still a little tense in the shoulders.

“What does J.S. stand for?”

Lambert went a little red in the ears but hid it by scratching at his beard as he stood. “S’the Jaskier Scale. One means you hated it, ten means you really liked it.”

“Oh,” Jaskier exclaimed, allowing a little humour to creep back into his tone. “And how do you reach your measurement?”

“You’re a prick.”

“I know, but you want to tell me, I can tell.”

“Noise, mess and shakes,” Lambert listed them off with a finger each, “the louder you are, the more you shake, the amount of mess you make, the more you enjoyed it.” He turned to their bags, mostly packed but for a few stray items, and began to lash them closed with more force than strictly necessary to tighten a strap. "Noise is swearing, poetry, moans and everything in between. You squeaked once, I wasn't sure whether that was a good or bad thing so erred on the side of caution. And you are a messy fuck, like, everywhere... you get fucking everywhere. I'm not complaining, it's hot as fuck honestly. And you shake uncontrollably when you orgasm, and you have this.. this look..." Lambert trailed off.

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed several times. He wasn’t sure where to start. That would explain why Lambert had noted the volume of snot after their experiment with his fist. “Is that a scientifically accredited method, or…? Oh, stop scowling at me. Lambert, I’m flattered.” He slid from the bed and wrapped his arms carefully around Lambert’s waist; there was still enough room for the witcher to wriggle away if he needed a little space to sulk, but he didn’t.

“Yeah?” A tentative question.

“Of course,” Jaskier pressed his nose into Lambert’s hair, his lips just shy of the soft fluff above the collar of his gambeson, and breathed in a deep, contented sigh. “I can’t think of any other lover that has ever been so concerned with my enjoyment. All my previous encounters have been very… one-sided. Alas, to foster a reputation like mine, you must be a giver, not a taker, and most are quite content for it to be that way.”

Lambert turned in Jaskier’s arms and squinted at him. “You have shit taste in fuck buddies.”

Jaskier sucked air through his teeth in mock apology. “I’m afraid so.”

“Lucky for me really.”

“Quite.”

Lambert studied Jaskier’s face carefully and then glanced at the bed. Jaskier felt the embarrassed tension dissipate in his arms, Lambert’s body relaxing into its usual insolent slouch as he got comfortable in Jaskier’s embrace. “I haven’t made an entry this week.”

“You’ve been rather busy hunting that leshen,” Jaskier nodded sagely, “but it would be a shame to leave such a glaring gap in your log. Incomplete data, very sloppy science.”

“Very. Would really put a dent in my progress.” Jaskier only caught a glimpse of Lambert’s smirk before their lips were pressed together. He cradled Lambert’s bearded chin in his palms as they staggered towards the bed, Lambert pawing open the complicated ties of his doublet and hose with passionate hunger.

Their session scored a definite ten on the Jaskier Scale.

#rawrkinwrites #Jaskier #Lambert #Jaskier x Lambert #Jaskier/Lambert #Lambskier #the witcher #cw mention of sex #Bombard

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Geralt/Eskel or Lambert/Eskel - first kiss?

18. First Kiss.

It was Eskel’s idea. No, wait… it was Geralt’s idea. Hmm. Eskel wasn’t sure, actually. All he knew was that they talked about it for the first time on the roof of the western turret. What if they never kissed anyone? The instructors had already told them that the world saw them as heinous and bestial, much like the monsters they hunted. Eskel knew he certainly didn’t want to kiss a forktail or a gravehag, so he really didn’t blame the humans for being wary.

And what if they were lucky enough to attract a dame, then what? Without practice, it would be like kissing a dead fish and said dame would run a mile. That simply wouldn’t do. “We need to practice,” Geralt said, wise beyond his years. The white that was growing out through his auburn hair certainly made him look older, so Eskel was sure to remind Geralt that Eskel had at least six months on him according to Master Barmin’s records.

“Yeah, but on who? None of the girls at the temple will. They think we’re boys still.”

“We’re men now,” said Geralt, puffing out his skinny chest. The overlarge shirt he was wearing slipped off one of his slim shoulders and he hastily pulled it back. "‘S’fine. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

“Still,” Eskel hummed, wrapping his arms around his upraised knees, “doesn’t leave us with any options ‘sides the rattin’ terriers, the horses or our fists.”

“Hm.” Geralt fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “What about each other?”

Eskel blinked and took a moment to study the tree-studded horizon. He hadn’t even thought of that. “You’d wanna kiss me?”

“‘Long as you wash your mouth,” Geralt said, shoving Eskel lightly in the shoulder and receiving a cuff in return. “Need to do some research first.” This was a new monster they were hunting; a fresh sword drill to practice. A new skill entailed a few hours of study first; every witcher knew that.

“Alright. We’ll do some research, then we’ll practice.”

They left the rooftop and snuck into bed before Master Dorian could spot them skulking through the halls. He was ancient—probably older than Barmin—and his ears had been damaged by a siren at some point, so it wasn’t too difficult. The following day, they completed their chores and rushed around the orienteering trail set up by Hemminks, before committing themselves to several hours of research on the library. They scuffled in the hallway to decide who would approach the librarian with the reference ‘kissing’. Finding anything in the records without his help would be nigh impossible. It was Geralt who ended up face down on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back, so it was Geralt that sidled up to the desk with his request scrawled on a piece of paper.

It wasn’t the first time an adolescent witcher had sought out this kind of reference material apparently, and the librarian stood with a sigh. At least it wasn’t a request for outright pornography. The initiates usually stole that from the Witchers. He pulled some manuscripts of old fairytales from the archive and set the boys down before the fire to read. A storm was rolling in and the temperate in the library would drop lower as the evening progressed. Eskel and Geralt took notes on every kiss they could find, sketching a few examples from the illustrations. They talked occasionally, giggling at certain references, but were otherwise wholly focused on their mission. By the time the candles sputtered out, they had several pages of carefully organised research.

The library was only their first stop. They hung around outside the baths where some of the path Witchers got a bit amorous with each other, and were chased away more than once with a slipper or a belt for being ‘little lechers’. Geralt managed to steal some pornography from Vesemir of all people—a staggering betrayal that Eskel had to comfort him through for an hour—but they couldn’t get much information from it because they were too busy laughing, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Oh, how your voluptuous form doth stir up my fuck,” Eskel crooned to the ceiling, arm outstretched in his best approximation of an Oxenfurt-trained poet.

“Thrust, thrust, good fellow! Doth my ass not beckon?” Geralt cawed back.

Gweld opened the door to the dormitory and shook his head as he strolled past. “You two are fuckin’ weird.”

Geralt threw a pillow at him. The brawl lasted until Eskel sat on them both, recalling more lines from Vesemir’s porno. They decided to keep it.

By the end of the week, Eskel and Geralt felt ready for their kiss. Eskel wasn’t sure why his belly felt odd, or why he spent twenty minutes trying to organise his hair so it looked less like a bird’s nest. He washed his mouth out three times too, chewed on some mint, and then decided the taste would be too overpowering, so washed his mouth out a fourth time. The rest of their dormitory were out drinking in the Grand Hall, trying to get invited to dice games with the older Witchers, which meant their room was empty. Geralt arrived a few minutes later and threw himself down on Eskel’s bunk. “Right, let’s do this.”

“Yeah.” Eskel left the mirror, smoothing his hands over his hair once more, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “So, we… we hold each other’s faces, and—”

He reached forward, touching Geralt’s jaw with hesitant fingertips. It was stupid. He had touched Geralt a million different ways—wrestling, helping with injuries, washing—but this felt different somehow. Did Geralt have the same tightness in his chest, Eskel wondered?

Geralt shuffled closer, pink tongue darting over his lips, and lifted his hands to Eskel’s jaw. His touch was like lightning and Eskel fought to keep his eyes open as the sparks arced through his body to fizzle deep inside him, joining the butterflies flapping around his belly. They tilted their heads the same way twice—“go left,” Eskel said—and then their mouths were touching. It felt a little awkward. Eskel had forgotten all the notes, because, for some reason, holding Geralt like this was making him feel a little dizzy. But Geralt hadn’t. He sucked gently on Eskel’s lower lip and then tended gently to the upper. It gave Eskel a little confidence, and he remembered one of the knights had slipped their arm around his lady’s waist, so he did that.

Geralt made a soft noise—it sounded okay, so Eskel held him a little tighter—and closed his eyes. Their kiss deepened and Eskel’s head emptied of everything but the touch of Geralt’s lips and the warmth of their bodies pressed together. He decided then and there that he never wanted to kiss anyone else. No dame that he’d just met would feel like this. It was like… like holding another half of himself for the first time. Eskel had thought it would be weird, kissing your best friend, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Of course he wanted to kiss Geralt—enjoyed kissing Geralt—he loved Geralt.

They had to part eventually. Breathing while kissing was something they hadn’t factored in. Lips a touch swollen, faces flushed red, they sat back. Geralt’s eyes glistened and Eskel was pretty sure his were too if the ache behind them was anything to go by. Geralt leaned in and tucked his nose beneath Eskel’s jaw, nuzzling at the light graze of stubble there. “If we keep practicing, we’ll get real good.”

“Yeah,” Eskel breathed, wrapping Geralt in a tight hug. “Those… uh, those dames don’t stand a chance.”

“Right,” Geralt hummed, curling his fingers in Eskel’s shirt. Neither of them were much thinking of kissing any dame.

#rawrkinwrites #kissing prompts #Eskel #Geralt #Witcher Eskel #Geralt of Rivia #Eskel x Geralt #Eskel/Geralt #Gerskel

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Okay, completely unironically though, do you have any thoughts about which Witcher is most likely to ACCIDENTALLY almost set half of Kaer Morhen on fire?

Eskel.

Ah-ha! You thought I'd say Lambert, didn't you, Anon? But Lambert would have set things on fire deliberately. I feel like teenaged Eskel was very much an accidental arsonists. And here's why.

We all know that Eskel is gifted with magic. Or rather, we have extrapolated from his tingly magic hands and a lil' bit of game lore that he is the best at Signs. His control, his power. All unmatched. Now, imagine a young, idiotic teenager learning that he can conjure actual fire with his hands.

The instructors always start them with quen, helitrope... maybe yrden. You know, the Signs that protect and bind. They can't hurt themselves with those. But Eskel's impatient and competitive with Geralt. He watches one of the instructors cast igni, memorises the pattern, and then practices. And practices. And practices.

Eventually, he gets it. A little shimmering flame in the palm of his hand. He must show Geralt. Eskel strides into their shared dormitory, chest puffed, chin up. "Lemme show you what I can do, peasants."

Geralt, Gweld, Frank, Gardis. They all gather around. Eskel casts igni.

Awe. Shock. Jealousy. Begrudging respect. Some of the boys try it, but they haven't got the right finger shape or the right focus. They make Eskel do it over and over again. The flame gets slightly bigger each time as he gets cockier.

Unfortunately, Frank skipped out on dusting duty, and when Gweld flops down on his bed and snatches a dusty copy of the bestiary to sulk with, the resulting cloud of dry skin, adolescent dandruff and miscellaneous human debris tickles Eskel's nose and he sneezes.

Half way through casting igni.

It's like feckin' dragon fire. A huge cone of flame. The boys hit the deck, hands over their heads, but it's too late. The curtains are on fire. Geralt shrieks, grabs a decanter of something, but before Gweld can bellow not to throw his fuckin' alchemy project on an open flame, Geralt's turns their small, moderately chaotic fire into an actual blaze. The beds are toast. The tapestries poof into ash.

There's shrieking. Screaming. Frank has no eyebrows. Gweld throws more furniture at it in hopes of keeping the fire in one place rather than have it spread around the room. (What the fuck, Gweld?)

The noise draws the attention of the instructors who appear and manage to contain the fire with a liberal application of water and quen. Eskel and Geralt, sooty, hair singed, stand in front of Grandmaster Barmin, who pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

"Why is it always you two?"

Geralt opens his mouth for a smartass reply. Eskel stamps on his foot and the sass turns to a yelp. They get potty duty for a week, so their dormitory ends up smelling of burned wood and the shit of a hundred men. The mages give Eskel the side eye, but Rennes, Vesemir and Barmin stay their hand. He went through enough with Geralt. And you don't fuck around with Chaos under their damned roof. The dragon of Kaer Morhen gets to continue training without interference. Oh, how Eskel hates that fuckin' nickname.

#rawrkinwrites #Eskel #Geralt #Gweld #Frank #Gardis #when their instructors get to EFG on the register there is a long suffering sigh #young witchers

[on-a-lucky-tide]

The many names of Julian "Jaskier" Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove

Buttercup

Jaskier (Polish, French, Portuguese, Romanian, Spanish); лютиче (Bulgarian); vėdrynas (Lithuanian); лютик (Russian)

Because the buttercup is so closely intertwined with children, the symbolic meaning is understandably synonymous with this theme.  Although there are variations, quite often the flower is said to represent joy, youth, purity, happiness and friendship.  It can also mean playfulness, cheerfulness and sunshine. Be warned, buttercups are also highly toxic and should not be consumed.

Dandelion

Dandelion (English, Turkish); タンポポ (Japanese)

The meaning of dandelions varies depending on where you are in the world. For example, in Japan, dandelions represent courage because they grow anywhere and everywhere. In Europe, they symbolise hope for the future as well as faithfulness and love. They can even be viewed as symbols of a free-spirited soul, of innocence, and of playfulness. Dandelions are often thought of as a symbol of hope and resilience. The dandelion is able to survive anything from harsh winters, pollution, drought or being stepped on. They can quickly bounce back from adversity and continue to grow.

Marigold

Marigold (Czech); невен (Serbian)

In modern western culture, marigolds symbolise positive emotions and energy. Commonly referred to as the ‘herb of the sun’, we associate the flowers’ fiery yellow, orange, and red hues with the warmth, happiness, joy, optimism, and good luck. Yet, the marigold's meaning also symbolises darker emotions such as jealousy, grief, despair, and mourning. Many cultures also associate marigold flowers with resurrection and the practices of remembrance and honouring the dead.

Ranunculus

Ranonkel (Dutch); Ranuncolo (Italian); Blyskáč (Slovak)

As claimed by a Persian legend, a beautiful nymph caught the heart of a young Persian prince. He sang to her night and day to express his admiration. However, for that reason, the other nymphs became so tired of listening to him sing, so they turned him into a ranunculus flower.

Other Names:

Delphinium - Rittersporn (German); Riddarsporre (Swedish): also known as larkspur or the "knight's spur", they represent cheerfulness and goodwill, as well as being a plant of protection. They're used to communicate encouragement and joy, as well as remembering loved ones who have passed. This emphasises Jaskier's role as the narrator and recorder of Geralt's deeds. Deeds he recounts long after Geralt is gone.

Lovage - любисток (Ukranian) - known as "small love/lust stick", it was promoted in the medieval period as a natural viagra, which links to Jaskier's love and passion for... anything with a pulse.

#rawrkinwrites #Jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #the many names of Jaskier #I apologise for any mispellings #please do send me a message with corrections #flower meanings #Geraskier #Geralt/Jaskier #Geralt x Jaskier

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Eskel's struggling to make ends meet as a single father. He cuts back on everything, but he stills ends up in front of a cashier without enough money in his account to feed his daughters. Luckily, a brightly clothed stranger steps in...

Warnings: past character death (implied, not explored); single dad Eskel; poverty; potentially second-hand embarrassment? But no one should be embarrassed for this. It happens. A lot of us have been there.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your card was declined,” the cashier said, her heavily lined face drawn in a tight, pitying smile that barely concealed her underlying impatience. The queue behind was stretching into the stationery aisle and this was the second of Eskel’s cards she’d rung up. “Perhaps you could ring your bank? There might be a mix-up.”

Eskel’s teeth clenched at the back, his jaw twitching. “Gimme a sec,” he grunted, pulling his phone from his back pocket. When you lived below the bread line, you counted every penny. There was no being caught short. There were no frivolous purchases and no expense unaccounted for. Eskel had a scant few megabytes left on his phone contract before he would have to stick it out in a technological black hole for the next week. He used them to check his bank balance.

Eskel glanced down at Ciri. She stood on the other side of the trolley, her fifteen-year-old hands gripping white-knuckled on the bar, and she offered an uncomfortable frown as he ignored the ogling eyes of the patrons around them. They had left Angie at home to enjoy the last few days of their Netflix subscription; the last bastion of their old life to hold out until the bitter end.

Eskel had cancelled everything. Every subscription, every nicety.

When they had foreclosed on the house and he had to move what remained of his small family into a dingy council flat, he had promised himself they would keep something. Anything to remind them that they were still living, not just surviving. But when the bills had started piling up, and Angie had started needing school uniform after kicking about in the playground with the boys, and Ciri had needed new bras and…

Ten pounds.

A lump formed in Eskel’s throat. One part shame, two parts misery. Shame that he couldn’t provide his daughters with the life they deserved, and the misery? Knowing that a year and a half ago he wouldn’t have even thought twice about twenty-five pounds worth of groceries in fucking Aldi. And now he was standing at the front of a puffing, wrist-tapping queue trying to work out how he was going to feed two teenage girls on ten quid, while still having the energy to work his two jobs, only to cash the cheque at Cash Converters and lose ten per cent of it straight away.

Eskel looked at the contents of the trolley and then dragged his gaze up to Ciri. Her eyes glistened even as she rolled her lips into her mouth. It wasn’t the going without that upset her—no, Ciri was too good for that, too mature, well beyond her years—it wasn't the fact that she couldn't have the latest Stephen King novel or the branded crisps in her lunchbox, it was watching the father she loved struggle in the middle of a crowded budget supermarket, knowing there was nothing she could do to help. Fuck, she shouldn’t have to even think about it, she…

“Excuse me,” called her a mellifluous voice from behind a stocky builder in a yellow high-viz, “will you just—yes, thank you, god, have a shower, yes, excuse me, ma’am!”

A startling figure emerged from the mire of grim faces watching Eskel’s predicament with morbid fascination. It was the too-tight skinny jeans and designer that caught Eskel’s attention first. It was such a stark contrast to the washed-out, austere poverty of their surroundings, not to mention Eskel’s faded jeans and red checked jacket.

“Here,” the new arrival proffered a card at the cashier, whose eyebrows had lept towards her neatly permed hairline. “It’s on me. All of it.”

Eskel swallowed, fingers clenching around the edges of his phone. The screen went dim and he felt his eyes burn again. A lesser man might have tried to decline out of some ill-placed pride, but the thought didn’t even occur to Eskel. He waited for the man to change his mind, to glance at the contents of their shopping and decide to whisk the offer back. In fact, Eskel waited so long in his disbelief that his saviour offered a wry smirk. “You know, usually, this is where you start packing manically before she lobs them off the end of the belt.”

“Oh, uh.” Eskel blinked back into focus and shuffled around the end of the counter so that Ciri could move the trolley. The stranger helped them pack and Eskel noted the can of deodorant, travel toothbrush and box of Weetabix that followed.

By the time they were outside, Eskel had gathered some of his wits back. He wasn’t usually one to shock easily, but no stranger had ever extended such kindness in his direction and acted as if it were nothing. Eskel left Ciri to lift the bags into the boot of the car and jog-walked to the stranger as he climbed into an old Peugeot. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” the man paused long enough to dump his three items on the passenger seat before standing up, forearms propped on the top of the open door, “get everything you need?”

“Yeah, I… look, thank you, I’m… I’m grateful.”

“Don’t sweat it,” the man shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be there with just me, let alone with a kid as well.”

“Kids.”

“Kids, hmm. Okay.”

Eskel reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “I get paid in a week. Can pay you back, for all of it.”

“There’s no need. It’s… what? Twenty quid?”

Eskel pressed his lips together and tried not to let the flippant comment cut too deep. It was well-intentioned from a man who had just allowed him to feed his daughters for one more week. “Please,” Eskel swiped through to his contacts and pulled up a new entry, “I insist. Gimme your number or an email. Can always PayPal it across.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?” Eskel looked up and was met with another of those mischievous smiles.

“My name. And you are?”

“Eskel,” he said and got the distinct feeling he was being appraised as Jaskier’s head tilted to the side.

“I’d prefer to meet in person if that’s okay?” Jaskier plucked his phone from his back pocket, thumbs fluttering over the screen with learned precision.

“Yeah, sure.”

“How about at that new place in town on Saturday? Zoltan’s.”

“The craft beer place?” Eskel figured it was plenty public and, judging by his current apparel, Jaskier probably had a prior arrangement there. He could pop out, grab the cash from Eskel, and his friends would be none the wiser. “Uh, sure.”

“Okay, number?”

Eskel read his own out and received a text message barely three seconds after finishing. A winking smiley face. Eskel saved it under ‘Jaskier, Aldi, £25.00’ to remind himself of what he owed and tucked his phone away. “Thanks again.”

“A bargain as far as I’m concerned. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

Before Eskel could ask what the hell that meant, Ciri called him away. Jaskier ducked into his car and soon the non-descript silver Peugeot was passing them by on its way to the exit. Eskel dropped into the driver’s seat and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. The tightness that had seized his chest in the supermarket had finally loosened; the fear of having his children go hungry because he wasn’t a good enough father dispersed.

“Did you give that man your number?” Ciri asked innocently.

“Mhm,” Eskel buckled into the driving seat as he shifted the car into reverse and tucked his hand behind her headrest. “Gonna pay him back after I get paid on Saturday.”

“He’s quite good looking.”

“He’s too old for you,” Eskel replied without missing a beat.

Ciri glowered and then rolled her eyes. “I meant for you, dumb arse.”

Eskel cast her a sideways glance as he pulled out of the car park, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel. He may be tired, but he wasn’t blind. Jaskier had been exceptionally good looking, but a glance in the rearview mirror quickly blunted Eskel's hope. The gym membership had been one of the first casualties, and Eskel could count on one hand the number of times he’d eaten in the last week. He went hungry quite willingly so that Ciri and Angouleme could eat. So, gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes (and that was before a discerning eye reached the pitted wreckage of his face), Eskel wasn’t exactly ready for the dating scene.

“Yeah, I’m outta his league.”

“Hmm,” Ciri sank back into the seat, elbow braced on the door, jaw against her knuckles. “Whatever you say, smooth operator.”

Eskel smirked, shoved their Bowie CD into the radio and sang “Heroes” with Ciri all the way home. They had dinner tonight, and Eskel had learned over the last eighteen months to celebrate the small victories.

#rawrkinwrites #Eskel #Ciri #angoulême #Jaskier #Dadskel #pre #Eskel/Jaskier #Eskel x Jaskier #Jaskel

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Rated: T. Hints of Eskel/Lambert if you squint, Ciri misses her old home, the witchers dance.

Another midwinter storm in Morhen Valley meant another dreary afternoon crowded around the fireplace with the castle's residents, and Ciri couldn’t be more bored. It was worse than any Cintran diplomatic dinner and Vesemir didn’t allow drills inside the castle unless it had been three days. It felt like an entirely arbitrary rule with an arbitrary limit to it, but Lambert had told her not to question the old man’s peculiarities. This was his keep, so they obeyed his rules.

She gazed out of one of the long windows. It had been snowing solidly for five hours; huge, fat flakes fluttered down, whisked into an erratic frenzy by the occasional gust of wind, and she was reminded of the glittering ballroom gowns the ladies of the court used to wear for their debutante presentations. “I miss dancing,” she said, her chin propped against her palm.

Jaskier the bard, who had been scratching idly at his notebooks for the better part of the afternoon, looked up. “Dancing, Princess?” he asked, using her formal address with genuine intonation, as opposed to Lambert who used it whenever she whined too much. At least it was better than the way he said girl.

“Yes!” She threw her hands up. “Dancing. You know, with pretty ladies, music, when everyone has rosy cheeks and they’re a little breathless. At my last ball, grandmama let me have some wine, and…” she trailed off. The accidental reminder of what she had lost scrubbed the wistful light from her eyes. The witchers gathered around the fireplace—all five of them—exchanged troubled glances.

Jaskier tsked. “Alas, dear one, I’m afraid there shan’t be any of that here. Why, I invited your dear adopted father to many a ball and he always stood in the corner, glowering. Ooh, big scary witcher. And you know what he said when I finally bullied it out of him? ‘Witchers can’t dance.’ Well then, there you have it. Uncivilised, the lot of them.”

Vesemir looked up suddenly, his thick, bushy brows knitted together in consternation. “You said what, boy?”

Geralt squirmed. Ciri’s ears perked, interested at the prospect of a little drama to lift the dull greyness of their dreary afternoon. Geralt cleared his throat. “I didn’t feel it appropriate at the time—"

“You know damn well Papa Vesemir taught us to dance,” Lambert cut in, sliding out from the bench where he had been laboriously sewing a tear in an old shirt, “and you were pretty fuckin’ good, if I remember. Ol’ snake hips.” He placed a palm over his stomach, extended an arm, and swayed his hips in his best imitation of a rising cobra. Ciri chuckled and Coën smiled indulgently from his post, cross-legged, by the fire. Even Eskel, the quietest of all the wolves, glanced up from where he was cutting candles into a wicker basket.

“Sit down, Lambert—” Geralt tried, but he knew there was no use. Lambert didn’t like it when Vesemir felt slighted. As much as he railed at the old man himself, he was very clear that he and the other wolves of Kaer Morhen were the only others allowed to berate, chastise or otherwise upset Vesemir.

“Watch and weep, bard. Fuckin' uncivilised. The first part of the lesson is that you need to dress for the wooin',” Lambert informed Ciri, and whipped a floppy grey felt hat from inside his jacket.

“Lambert—” Vesemir growled in warning.

“Chill your bunions, old man. I’ll put it back. Not a crease.” Lambert slicked a hand over his hair before placing the hat upon his head. His fingertips swept across the brim, and he struck a defiant pose, hands planted on his hips. "Perfection."

Jaskier folded his arms across his chest and Geralt sighed into his mug. Ciri giggled, thoroughly on board with any and all of Lambert's shenanigans. "Yes! Perfect. What next?"

"Next, you need to find yourself a damsel," Lambert explained. "Gotta go for the prettiest young filly in the room." He eyed each of them in turn, weighing his options. He pulled a face at Vesemir, flipped Geralt off, spat his tongue out at Jaskier, winked at Coën and finally, with great ceremony, strutted over to Eskel. One arm tucked behind his back, he bowed low, sweeping his hat from his head. "Milady."

"Are you takin' the piss?" Eskel said.

"I'm deadly serious." Lambert straightened his back and restored the hat to its place of honour 'pon his brow. He offered Eskel a hand, palm up, fingers loose and beckoning. "May I have this next dance?" His voice dropped comically low, eyebrows wiggling beneath the hat brim.

Eskel sighed, long-suffering and tried, but took Lambert's hand, his candles discarded. "Fine, but I'm leadin'."

"No you're not," Lambert said brightly, yanking Eskel to his feet. The big witcher grunted as he made contact with Lambert's torso, rolling his eyes as Lambert placed his hands where he wanted them. One of Eskel's settled on his shoulder, the other clasped in his hand. "Bard. Do your job. Music."

Jaskier, in good spirits enough to not make a quip at such a surly demand, grabbed his lute from the table and twisted the tuning pegs. "Requests?"

"Waltz of the Silver Lilies, No. 3," Lambert said without hesitation.

"Oh," Jaskier blinked in surprise, "an... excellent choice."

Geralt smirked into his mug. Jaskier began to play.

Ciri's eyes lit up as she watched her uncles sweep around the table. Their steps in perfect time, their bodies twisting and weaving as if they were made for the ballroom, not the battlefield. She chuckled again as she caught snatches of their conversation beneath the music as they argued like an old married couple: "by Vesemir's hairy crack, let me lead, Eskel", "you're going to step on my feet", "they're pretty hard to fucking miss", "your weight transfers are off", "in my defence, there's a lot of fucking weight to transfer".

Despite their grumbles, they were perfectly synchronized. Better than any of the loveliest couples in Cintra. They turned, and pirouetted, and swayed, and dipped. Ciri could see the fondness in Eskel's eyes as he gazed down at Lambert and the unadulterated joy in every craggy line of Lambert's face. They had probably learned this around training. A way to perfect their dexterity and poise without risking broken bones. Perhaps they had filled the Grand Hall with dancers; she imagined a glittering chandelier, an old witcher on a fiddle and another on a harp. Hundreds of young witchers stumbling, and learning, and getting better until they grew into their skinny, unwieldy limbs.

She could almost imagine herself to be back home... well, until Lambert said something that got Eskel's goat and he received a solid punch in the gut. Just hard enough to make him wheeze.

It took a matter of seconds for the whole thing to devolve into a wrestling match on the floor. Eskel trapped Lambert in a headlock against his chest, but Lambert reached up, pulled his hair and bit his arm. They scuffled until Vesemir slammed his knitting down and grabbed one of his discarded shoes from the floor to beat them apart. "This happened every time while they were learnin'," he grumped, and jogged over to end their scuffle. "Undisciplined, unruly embarrassments, the both of you."

"Ow, fuck, fuck," Lambert rolled away from Eskel, hands over his head, and Eskel kicked at him petulantly one last time.

Coën shook his head and exchanged a fond glance with Ciri. They both knew that Kaer Morhen was better than any Cintran ballroom. She missed the dancing only because she missed what came with the dancing; time with her grandmama and Eist. What she had now could never replace them, but she could cherish it just as much.

She left the table and settled on the rug at Coën's side to play cards. Eskel and Lambert gravitated together as they did every night, Lambert's head on Eskel's belly, Eskel's hand somewhere on Lambert - his forearm this time - and Geralt chatted with Jaskier as afternoon melted into evening, while Vesemir dozed off in his armchair.

Just another midwinter storm in Morhen valley.

#rawrkinwrites #ciri #geralt #eskel #lambert #vesemir #kaer morhen #jaskier #the witcher #Coën

[on-a-lucky-tide]

hey i'm so excited you've opened your requests! Would i be able to get #14 and Lambden? np if not :)

14. A kiss good morning

[One warning: reference to drunken sex the night before. It was enthusiastic].

Lambert was in a strange bed.

This wasn’t unusual. In fact, it happened to him a respectable amount, thank you very fucking much. But he didn’t really remember getting into this one. Not at first. His consciousness stirred with all the energy of a salted slug. The throb in his temples and the twinge in his hips brought with them bleary recollections of the night before.

Cards. Dice. Yeah, that was pretty standard. Ale, some cider—oof, yeah, added some Gull to that, which explained the thumping headache.

Lambert shifted on the lumpy pallaise and a dull, familiar ache throbbed in his pelvis. Oh, oh. Yeah. He remembered the size of the dick that had kept him company into the early hours. But the face attached? Nothing. Fuck, where did Aiden go when he headed off with Mystery Dick? Probably scored a decent tumble with one of the serving girls.

With a groan, Lambert rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. The woodgrain was coarse under his plans and he took a moment to steady his head before he looked up.

Huh. Aiden's swords were propped up in the corner like they were when they shared a room for the night. It was cheaper, you understand. If they weren't allowed in the communal room and were forced to shell out for a private one, then doubling up just made sense.

His bags were there too...

Lambert flopped onto his rear to sit against the edge of the bed and put his hand on a shirt. Not his shirt. He lifted it close to his face and the familiar woodsy spice of Aiden's scent curled through his senses. And even without it, Lambert would recognise that shoddy stitch work anywhere.

A memory hit him like a brawler's fist. A vivid physical recollection that sent sparks through his entire body. His palm on Aiden's chest, Aiden's at his waist. Then his lips tingled. Lips. On his. Aiden's... Aiden's lips.

Lambert's eyes blew wide in panic. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd slept with his best friend. Broken a golden rule: don't ruin a good thing by making it messy. And stuff tended to get messy when either his dick or heart were involved, and...

The door creaked open and familiar bootfalls drummed on the creaking floorboards. "Morning, sunshine," said the equally familiar drawl. "I brought fuel for the fire in your pa--what's that look for?"

Lambert was staring at Aiden with wide eyes. "I..."

"Oh, oh no," Aiden dumped the paper bags on a nearby shelf and knelt down at Lambert's side, "no regrets, not letting that happen, I promised you last night."

"Did you? Because all I remember is how good your dick and lips felt," Lambert blurted out, and then scowled at Aiden's triumphant grin. "So, now what?"

Did their friendship end? Did it all fall apart? Did Lambert fuck up the one good thing in his life?

Aiden considered Lambert with a tilted head, one thumb stroking over that unkempt beard. When Lambert's chin tilted into his palm, he smiled. "Now," he stood and collected their breakfast, flopping back at Lambert's side, "we eat breakfast."

"Aiden..."

"Lambert," Aiden said as he pulled a fresh bagel from its grease paper and passed it over. "We play the game as the pieces fall. Not everything needs to be planned meticulously down to the finite detail. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay right here, for as long as you want me, and hell, even beyond because you have the finest ass I've ever fucked."

Lambert punched Aiden on the shoulder and then took a large bite out of his bagel so he didn't say something stupid like 'good, because I love you'.

Unbeknownst to Lambert, he had already said it. Tears brimming in his eyes; a drunken, emotional confession. And Aiden had said it back. He would probably remember halfway through the day as his brain pieced last night together. The hard part was convincing sober Lambert that his heart was safe, but Aiden could be patient. Lambert was worth it.

Aiden leaned over and placed a kiss on Lambert's stubbled cheek, before digging into his own bagel. He pretended not to notice the wide, bewildered eyes trying to absorb every inch of him.

#rawrkinwrites #Lambert #Aiden #Lambden #Aiden/Lambert #kissing prompts