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My brain immediately went to getting caught in the rain and then getting warmed back up so how about Cozy prompt 1 & Geralt/Jaskier

obviously *you* don’t have to use “caught in a rain storm”!

Geralt is used to the rain. He gets rained on a lot, and usually there isn’t anywhere nearby to get out of the rain, so he doesn’t tend to bother to take a break unless it’s truly bucketing down. He just shrugs his oiled-wool cloak over his shoulders and pulls the hood forward so it shields his face and promises Roach a hot mash the next time they get to an actual stable.

He doesn’t think about it, the first time it rains after the bard joins him. He’s not used to having a traveling companion. The bard squawks when the rain starts, but the bard squawks about everything, from hangnails to pretty birds to the shade of the sky at sunset. It’s hard to tell which exclamations actually matter, and Geralt has to pay attention to the road and the possibility of monsters or opportunistic mercenaries or even potential dinner-hunting prospects, so it’s easiest to - not ignore the bard, but let his words flow in one ear and out the other and only really notice if they sound like pain or genuine fear.

He notices when the squawking dies away, though, and the bard subsides into an uncharacteristic silence. That’s enough to get Geralt to rein Roach in and look back to see if the bard has fallen into a ditch or something of the sort.

But no, he’s right there, a few paces away where he won’t get kicked if Roach spooks, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched and no cloak at all shielding him from the driving rain.

Ah. Hm.

Geralt knew the bard didn’t have much in the way of traveling gear, but somehow he didn’t really think about it, aside from noting that the bard’s boots are not really meant for long journeys and he’ll probably need new ones if they can find a decent cobbler who doesn’t charge through the nose. The fact that the bard doesn’t have a proper rain cloak didn’t really occur to Geralt.

Humans get cold easier than witchers. They get sick easier, too, when they do get cold.

The bard stops and peers up at Geralt through the draggling ends of his rain-slicked hair. “What’s happening?” he asks, clearly trying to sound eager and failing.

Geralt huffs and reaches up to unclasp his cloak, swinging it off his shoulders and leaning over - Roach makes a disgruntled noise but stands firm - to drape it over the bard, flipping the hood up to cover the bard’s head. It’s large enough to cover the damned lute-case, too.

The bard blinks up at him in bewilderment. “What?”

“You need a proper cloak,” Geralt grumbles, and settles back into the saddle, grimacing as the rain starts to trickle down the back of his neck. The bard curls his fingers into the edges of Geralt’s cloak, pulling it snugly around him, and gives Geralt a look of such blatant adoration that Geralt has the sudden and equally strong urges to go hide up a tree and to display like a courting peacock.

He doesn’t do either, of course. Instead, he urges Roach back into motion. There’s a town close enough that they ought to be able to reach it by sunset, and with a little luck there’ll be a decent rain cloak for sale that isn’t too dear.

The bard hastens to catch up, boots squelching in the muddy road, and as he takes his place at Geralt’s side again, he starts to babble happily about the beauty of the rain.

Well. That’s alright then.

Geralt tilts his head so his hair won’t drip directly down his back and lets Jaskier’s chatter wash over him like summer sunshine.

(Or HERE on AO3!)

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

Chapters: 2/12 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Gwent: The Witcher Card Game (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Aiden & Gaetan (The Witcher), Eskel/Gaetan/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Gaetan/Others, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Aiden/Coën/Lambert (The Witcher) Characters: Gaetan (The Witcher), Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Coën (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel (The Witcher), Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Essi Daven, Witcher Axel (The Witcher), Witcher Cedric (The Witcher), Egan | Auckes (The Witcher), Serrit (The Witcher), Damien de la Tour (The Witcher), Remus (The Witcher), Gezras of Leyda, Aelirenn | White Rose of Shaerrawedd, Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Omegaverse, Omega Gaetan, Polyamory, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Courting Rituals, size queen, false heat, Breeding Kink, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, More tags to be added, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex Summary:

Prince Gaetan had always been smaller than the other royals his age, shorter and skinnier too. But it never kept him from reaching for his desires and grabbing at them with both hands. He was everything his parents could want in an heir to the throne. Gone were the days where an omega couldn’t rule alone, that was never a concern, but Gaetan wanted love and partnership, not a lonely throne. He wanted an equal by his side, with a keen mind to advise him about what was best for the kingdom, and a strong body to satisfy him whenever he desired.

Finding both traits in the same alpha had turned out to be more difficult than planned. So a suitor’s ball was arranged, inviting every eligible alpha and beta their messengers could reach. Gaetan hoped to find the intelligent alpha he was looking for, with a fat cock to match.

———————————

Please enjoy the royalty AU omegaverse fic I’ve been working on for… almost a year. And please definitely enjoy the portrait of Prince Gaetan I commissioned from @churchofpossum​ thank you so much Possum for your wonderful work!

Thank you to the @continentcakeshop​ for cheering me on and reading along as I wrote and worked on this, I appreciate everyone’s support and cheering so much. And thank you to @angry-cajun-lady​ for always knowing how to massage my brain for worldbuilding. Thank you for helping me add so much to this world!

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Geralt wip🖤

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"I'm a simple witcher, Wolf. Don't fight dragons, don't fraternize with kings, and don't sleep with sorceresses. Unlike some."

- Eskel, The Scarlet Wolf

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That's not what you were thinking about😁

Oh, wait, seems it is.😈

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

RAWR STAR OF MY HEART! To say I've wiggled joyfully when I saw you had prompts, would be an understatement 😅

What about...

5. A kiss goodbye -- Lambert x Geralt?

(Lots of love from a castle ruin!)

5. A kiss goodbye

Lambert rolled to the edge of the bed and reached down to snag his shirt from the floor. A night spent with Geralt wasn’t anything to sniff at, but he had intel on a contract up for grabs just outside Vizima and he needed to get there before the good citizens of Temeria’s biggest sewer caught wind of the White Wolf. Lambert felt the mattress shift beneath him as Geralt rolled over. Rough fingers, featherlight in their touch, slipped beneath the hem of his shirt to touch the swell of his hip. “Leaving so soon?” Geralt’s husky voice barely audible beneath the evening’s hub-bub in the tavern below.

“Yeah,” Lambert said, rubbing the back of his wrist into his eyes. Geralt was a One-Nut Wonder usually—a marathon shag followed by an earth-shattering orgasm and then a snooze—but he had clearly been saving up for a special occasion. His witch must be knocking around nearby. “You snore worse than an asthmatic wyvern.”

“Wyverns can’t get asthma,” Geralt replied tartly. “At least I don’t fart like a troll.”

“If my ass offends you that much, then I’ll be sure to keep it to my damned self next time.” Lambert hopped to his feet, tugging his braies up to his waist. Oh yeah, the ache was still there. Nice and deep and thorough.

“Hmm, nah,” Geralt flopped onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. He made no move to get dressed himself, which, Lambert figured, was fair; he had paid for the room. Discounted rate, too. Geralt had probably saved the alderman’s daughter from some exotic curse guarding her virginity or some shit.

Lambert pulled on the rest of his clothes, pausing only to knot the top tie of his gambeson, before he leaned down to grab his bag and swords. “Lambert.” Lambert turned back and gazed down into two golden eyes. Geralt looked troubled. “Not something I did?”

Ah yes, Geralt’s chronic self-esteem issues. Lambert shook his head. “No. Just gotta work. Fuck was good.”

Geralt nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. With a heavy sigh through his nose, Lambert leaned down. He cupped Geralt’s angular jaw and tilted his head back just enough for their lips to meet in a soft kiss. It was a world away from the passionate teeth and wrestling tongues of several hours ago, but Geralt’s hand still swept beneath Lambert’s shirt to touch his skin as it had before. When Lambert pulled back, he sucked gently on Geralt’s lower lip. “‘Til winter then, pretty boy.”

“Yeah,” Geralt nodded. “Stay out of trouble.”

“The fucking cheek,” Lambert grumbled, cuffing Geralt upside the head before he left. “Don’t go kidnapping anymore princesses.”

“Fuck you, Lambert.”

“Fuck you too, Snowball.”

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

Fractals, Butterflies, and Defence Spheres by @thiswaycomessomethingwicked

Cover + Typesetting done in InDesign

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Witcher Eskel

My PS5 photo edited shot.

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A young, horny Lambert sets his sights on an older hunk of Witcher beef. CW: age gap, flirtation.

"I'm going for it."

"Lambert, don't be a fucking idiot. They'll laugh at you."

"They might, but he won't. You miss all the chances you don't take, right?"

"Your funeral."

Lambert licked his lips and smoothed his hair back as he stood. He hadn't torn his eyes away from his mark for a single second since said man had swaggered into the hall a few hours before. This was the winter he'd do it. He was a man himself now, which meant he had every chance of bagging himself the hunk of good-lookin' he'd been coveting from the moment his dick had started getting hard at night and hair had appeared on his jaw.

Eskel.

It wasn't just that Eskel had two decades on Lambert or that he was becoming a seasoned witcher. No other Witcher in the keep compared. Sure, some tried. They might step toe to toe during drills or try to outflame Eskel's igni, but they never could. The only one that outmatched Eskel was his pale shadow, Geralt. They even looked a little similar. But cream puff was a fucking bean pole of a man, and that shitty headband...

N'aw, Lambert wanted big. He wanted heat, and honey eyes, and that thatch of dark hair he'd seen on Eskel's barrelled chest in the baths, and that huge fucking d--

"You lost, Lambert?"

Lambert blinked. Gweld, the ginger prick, was frowning at him, ale tankard halfway up to his mouth. The others had paused their card game; Clovis looked drunk, Geralt was slouched back trying to see Clovis' hand and Eskel was watching Lambert speculatively.

Watching, with those honey-coloured eyes that turned Lambert inside out. The words caught in Lambert's throat; shit, fuck, why was he so fuckin' stupid the moment Eskel looked at him?

He took a breath, conscious of Clovis elbowing Gweld with a chuckle, while Geralt looked over with a smirk.

Lambert found his words. He folded his arms, thrust his chest out, widened his stance and put on his best cocky smirk. "Was just wonderin' whether Eskel wanted some better company. You losers can't handle your beer at the best of times."

They laughed. Gweld elbowed Eskel who cocked a half smile, eyes rolling not at Lambert, but his friends, proving Lambert's point. Obviously.

"Is that right?" Geralt asked, amusement turning his narrow face bright with a toothy grin. Lambert had been told that as witchers matured they honed their sense of smell, could identify a man's emotions from his body language, the flush in his skin. Lambert knew Geralt had him sussed. "And what kinda company are you offering?"

"Geralt..." Eskel growled in warning, and it went straight to Lambert's groin. Fucking hells.

"Whatever he wants. I'm a man of many talents."

More laughter--"little man has game, shit; fuck, I'm chokin, too funny"--but Lambert wasn't put off. Eskel's eyes were on him, warming him like the sun. The lines around those eyes were wrinkled with mirth, and damn if that smile wasn't snatching the breath right out of Lambert's chest.

"Does your master know you're out?" Eskel asked, placing his cards face down. He leaned back in his chair and slung his elbow onto the back of it, knee turned out while a hand tapped at his drink.

Lambert tried to keep his eyes level and resist the urge to... look. Eskel's codpiece put on an absolutely fucking heroic effort, but it could only hide so much and that was when Eskel was soft. "What he don't know can't hurt him. No business of his who else is in my bed as long as I am."

Eskel pressed his lips together to smother his smile while the others guffawed. More was said but Lambert didn't really hear; he was too focused on keeping his heart from beating out his chest and appearing suave.

Eskel hummed. "Aren't you a little young to be lookin' for that kinda fun?"

"Worried you won't be able to keep up, old man?" Lambert felt momentum. He could do snark, he could meet Eskel on this well worn ground, toe to toe, and the way Eskel's head tilted to the side and his eyebrow rose. It wasn't a no, right? He looked interested. Amused, but he didn't dismiss Lambert outright.

Gweld slapped Eskel on the shoulder with a bark. "Eskel here's got stories that'd make your balls shrivel up into yer belly, lad. I don't think he's a good choice for yer first ride, best drop your ambitions."

"Fuck off, Gweld," Eskel said, but there was no heat to his words. Just wry amusement.

Geralt snorted into his drink and Clovis made a vulgar gesture with his hand, but before Lambert could respond a familiar voice barked through the hall and sucked all the building sexual tension into a vacuum. "Lambert, get your arse to bed, you missed roll call!"

Lambert clenched his teeth, shoulders lifting towards his ears. For fuck's sake...

Three of the witchers in front of him groaned in mock empathy. "Oof, tough break, Lambino. Cock blocked by Vesemir," Gweld said, shaking his head while Geralt and Clovis snickered. "Don't worry, we've all been there. Ain't that right, Gerbear?"

Geralt guffawed in protest and smacked Gweld on the shoulder. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match on the floor, one which Gweld was definitely going to lose. Eskel watched them briefly before he looked back at Lambert. "Another time perhaps," he said, toasting Lambert with his ale. "G'wan, before he decides the target dummies are a little light on straw."

Lambert grunted, frustrated, but stalked away. He'd made inroads, and the way Eskel's eyes had shone, and that crooked grin. Eskel hadn't outright rejected him, hells, he'd--well, that smile... Eskel didn't smile at everyone like that.

Lambert laid in bed with that smile behind his eyes and a hand under the sheets, determined that it would be Eskel's instead of his own by winter's end.

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

Something wicked this way comes... ✨

And how do you think, who's hiding beetween the trees? (Funny and stupid ideas are also welcome!)

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

Lambert returns to the bar and tries again. Another part of Architect!Bert and Barman!skel. Part 1.

CW: mutism, Lam-butt is cringe.

Lambert had a late conference call with a contractor in Japan the following evening and grabbed a pot of noodles from the takeaway on his way home. He told himself it was easier than going out of his way for his usual dinner at this time of night, and the bar would be crowded by drunks anyway, and his reluctance to go was absolutely nothing to do with making a tit out of himself in front of the new barman. The noodles ended up cold and in the bin, and his mind wandered away from the schematics on his desk to the mental schematics of a broad shouldered, scarred hunk of hotness.

Fixations weren't anything new. Lambert was used to them. From the six months in secondary school when he had become obsessed with jazz music to the point Vesemir caught him planning to shoplift a saxophone, to the year he raided religiously on World of Warcraft every night to the detriment of his social life. His brain craved dopamine and latched onto anything that could provide it. Eskel was a big, handsome shot of it; novel, interesting. Like a fucking laser pen to a tomcat. It would pass.

Lambert’s next two trips to the bar went much the same as the first, but without the foot-in-mouth moment of being an absolute prick to someone who definitely didn’t deserve it. Lambert watched Eskel work, desperate to talk, but too worried about being a dick again to open his stupid mouth. Aiden ribbed him for it out of Eskel’s earshot, muttering something about steak and thirst, or—an attempt at wit and humour that left Lambert scowling, his skin prickling with a deep awareness of being in Eskel’s presence. He couldn’t explain it. It was more than the pleasant hum caused by a good saxophone solo.

There was an irritating air of mystery around Eskel. That was it. Lambert could see the intelligence and character lurking behind his eyes, like a lion napping in the sun, fierce and sharp but happy to bask lazily as the antelope gallivanted around it. The sun. Yeah, those eyes, not quite the piercing white yellow of the sun, more a deep, honey-gold that reminded Lambert of the foil packets that came with expensive coffee; the kind that made you feel warm and comfortable on your cushioned window seat while it poured with rain outside. And Lambert would have sworn blind he could hear Eskel humming sometimes; a low, soft rumble carrying a familiar tune, but barely audible beneath the bass of the bar’s music system.

Even while he was at work, Lambert’s mind kept drifting to Eskel. During one particularly laborious meeting, he ended up sketching a quick outline of Eskel’s face at the corner of his designs before he even realised what was happening. He scrunched it up, threw it in the bin, only to extract it for his portfolio before he left for the bar that night. It was a good likeness and—just shut the fuck up and stop judging him, alright?

Eskel was working that night, of course, and greeted Lambert with a wave of the hand. Lambert’s whiskey was on the bar before his arse found the stool, and he cleared his throat. “Hey, Eskel, I… uh. I think we started off on the wrong foot. I’m… what I said, that wasn’t… that wasn’t… cricket.”

There were those glittering eyes again. Glittering. Yeah, that was amusement. Lambert hid his scowl with a swig of whiskey and prodded the beer mat in front of him. His mac and cheese arrived within fifteen minutes, the bacon still sizzling on the surface, and he tried again. “This is weird for me, alright? Sal and I, we used to chat shit all night. He was a blockhead, but he was good company. He knew stuff, you know? Kind of stuff you only learn—” Lambert waved his hand vaguely at the door, “—out there.”

Eskel’s gaze dropped briefly, and Lambert was worried he’d managed to upset him, for real this time. When Eskel looked up, he tilted his head in apology. Lambert chewed on the inside of his cheek, which seemed to prompt a flash of inspiration. He leaned down from the stool, arse cheek balancing precariously on the edge, and yanked his notebook free. “How about writing? You can write, ye—? You know, forget I just asked that.” Lambert felt his ears warm, but Eskel didn’t seem to be offended. The same soft shine, the head tilt. He reached for the pencil that Lambert had placed beside the pad, and wrote two words, ‘Sounds good.’

Lambert grinned. “I’m… uh, Lambert. I shoulda introduced myself earlier, but… you already knew my dinner order, most interesting thing about me, really—the dinner part.”

Eskel looked thoughtful before he plucked up the pencil again and scratched a question. ‘What’re the drawings for?’

“Boring shit,” Lambert murmured, nudging the tightly bound scrolls with his toe. “I’m an architect. Residential. You know, houses, flats.” Of course, he fucking knew what residential meant. Lambert felt the heat under his collar again and took another fortifying sip of whiskey.

‘Can I see?’

“You want to see a bunch of angles and pencil scratches?”

‘Yes. Don’t have to if you’re shy.’

“I’m not fucking—all right, move the bowl—”

Lambert stooped down to snatch up the first scroll he came to and then hesitated… his passion project was a mere inch to the left. And that was the most impressive, wasn’t it? Eskel didn’t need to know that no business in their right mind would fund something so extravagant for the poorest in society. It was an easy flex. Lambert tugged the scroll free and unfurled it on the bar. He weighted the edges down with his bowl and half-drunk tumbler of whiskey and glanced up at Eskel for his reaction.

Usually, people puffed their cheeks out in confusion at the architectural scribbles and mumbled some vague comment of appreciation. But Eskel examined it for a long moment, head tilting to and fro. When he picked up the pencil, Lambert held his breath as if awaiting the verdict of a shareholder, and—

‘Reminds me of the KAEC.’

Lambert’s jaw metaphorically hit the bar. “You know about the KAEC?”

‘I’ve been there.’

The KAEC—or King Abdullah Economic City—was an architect’s paradise. A complete flop, of course. With a target population of two million by 2035, it was currently a ghost town of just seven thousand. But it was meant to be one of five sustainable mega cities built in Saudi Arabia, aimed at placing the country in the top ten investment destinations. It was the kind of sprawling vision that could manifest when money was no issue, with some of the most cutting-edge structural designs and engineering in the business. It had been Lambert’s dream to go and visit, but the company kept him busy, and he used his holiday to go look after the old man, you know. He’d get there, eventually… “Really?” Lambert croaked.

‘Yeah. About 10 years ago.’

“Why—? How—? What did it look like?”

‘Big.’

Eskel didn’t smile with his mouth, but the way his eyes shone like that, Lambert knew he was being grinned at. Lambert huffed and folded his arms across his chest, his own eyes narrowed.

Eskel wrote again, ‘Sorry. It was quite something—‘ he tore the page off to start another, ‘—I’ll bring some photos next shift’.

Lambert’s lips quirked in one corner. The first glimmer of a smile. “Sounds good. You know, I think I’ll treat myself to a dessert. One of those tall, chocolate-y fuckers that’ll give me early onset diabetes.”

‘One tall chocolate fucker coming up.’

Turned out that Eskel couldn’t only make a good mac and cheese, pour a good Godfather, but he could also make an absolutely cracking sundae

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Lambert’s stuck in a rut. His life’s going nowhere and his dreams never seem to leave the A1 architectural drawings he carries around in his rucksack. He has Aiden’s bar, his respectably placed outer London apartment and his Japanese Peace Lily. That is… until he meets a tall, silent bar tender with shoulders like the Qinghai-Tibetan plateau and eyes like twin suns.

CW: mutism, war injuries, Lambert running his mouth. Set up of a longer work which has never seen the light of day, but I like the opening a lot.

Lambert had been visiting the same shitty, rundown bar since graduating. Three years bachelors, two years postgrad, twelve months running after a middle-aged racist with a caffeine addiction—internship—and then five years of… this. No one prepared you for the heady heights of listless adulthood; that odd grey area between being a cutting edge, aspiring young whippersnapper and a washed out, lonely old man with seven cats. Lambert was staring down the barrel of thirty simultaneously wondering where the fuck his life was sprinting off to and what the fuck he had even done with it to begin with.

Every night he pulled a late one at the office labouring over his distant dream of sustainable, affordable housing for the working class that wasn’t a lifeless block of concrete. You know, the kind that drew inspiration from the hallowed corridors of nineteenth century Newgate prison. The kind of place that leeched the life and happiness from every one of its occupants until they were as grey and empty as their home. Someone’s community was meant to be at their heart, something that defined them. Like the roots of a tree—you know, the person being the… tree. Look, he was never so good at conceptualising his vision in words. He’d sooner draw you a fucking picture. Which is where we were fucking at right now.

Lambert had become an architect on the back of a dream he’d had sitting on a swing set in the condemned children’s playground at the very centre of his council estate. Half the kids he’d known had given up because life was grey, drugs were easy, so what’s the fucking point, right? If only they were faced with more than the grey—

That dream had driven him through his studies like a man possessed—by a demon comprising of an unhealthy amount of Monster and a stubborn, spiteful drive to succeed—followed by that tedious twelve months as a gopher, but now he was here… or there, or whatever spatial demonstrative you wanted to fucking use, he didn’t know what to do. The dream had shuddered to a halt. Red tape, politics. The kind of thing that stood fast in the face of an outsider. Because he would always be an outsider. Something—something—attitude problem.

The same thoughts gathered like a storm cloud over his head as he trudged down the steps to Aiden’s. Both the name of the place and the owner, because Aiden straddled the line between new money glam and old east end rust in a way that was both tackey and unique. He managed to pull it off somehow. Lambert threw himself down in his usual stool, dumping his satchel full of drawings at unceremoniously at his feet, and thumped his forehead on the bar. “Usual, Sal.”

Sal wasn’t his real name. His real name was Derek. But everyone called him Sal because of the time he’d stepped in for the chef, cooked the Friday night chicken curry and given everyone salmonella. Environmental health nearly had a fucking field day but, much like many of Aiden’s licensing and business woes, the matter had cleared up mysteriously overnight.

The glass tumbler settled gently on a place mat in front of Lambert’s head. He heard the pop of the cork and the slosh of expensive whiskey—he’d worked his nuts off for his salary, so he could drink it away if he wanted to, thank you very fucking much—and then nothing. No greeting. No, “‘ello mate, what’s the story?”

Lambert lifted his head to rip on Sal and ask if someone had half-inched his tongue out his ugly mug, only to almost fall from his stool in shock. The man standing before him wasn’t Sal. Nothing like him in fact. Easily clear of six feet with a few inches to spare, a scruffy mop of dark hair and a face like someone had tried to pry out his teeth with a claw hammer. There was a gap in his lip, twisted scars all the way up the side of his face to his eye and ear. Angry, red. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Lambert said, mouth running away with his thoughts before he could marshal them.

The barman didn’t even flinch. His fingers tapped on the side of the bottle, hazel eyes dropping to the fifth he’d just poured, and Lambert realised he was waiting for some kind of acknowledgement that the drink was satisfactory. Lambert tore his eyes away and tried to bury the squirming, uncomfortable feeling that came with making an absolute cunt of yourself in front of someone new. “Yeah, cheers. Uh… add it to my... tab, uh—” Lambert glanced up and caught sight of a name badge, “—Eskel.”

There was another badge next to it. Light blue, with dark letters printed in Arial font. ‘I can’t speak, but I’m a good listener’. Lambert stared at it for a moment, fingers tapping on cool glass. “Can’t speak, huh? That because of—” Lambert gestured at his own face and Eskel nodded, “—right, bummer.” Eskel nodded again, but Lambert could swear he was being laughed at. Those hazel eyes glittered with something, and it wasn’t unshed tears at being so cruelly gawped at. Well, that was a fucking relief. “Yeah, I guess bummer is the understatement of the century.”

Eskel tilted his head and ducked his chin, with a quirk of the eyebrow.

“So, if you know my drink order, you know I have mac and cheese, with crispy bacon bits, and a side of onion rings.”

Another nod. Lambert squinted.

“You know, I’ll… uh—is Aiden out back? Fucker owes me a pony from the last—”

Lambert didn’t get through his excuse before he was sliding from the stool and hot footing it around the rope barrier to the back room. The corridor leading to Aiden’s office always smelled of industrial strength disinfectant and drunken regrets, and Lambert rubbed at his nose as he pushed through the door.

“Please, come in, not like I’m up to my bollocks in paperwork,” Aiden murmured, ensconced behind a teetering pile of brown folders and a box-shaped computer monitor from the early noughties. He was in his late-thirties, with wisps of grey hinting in his neatly groomed beard. Sharp green eyes left the lines of neat print on off-white paper for barely a second to acknowledge Lambert’s presence. “Shit week?”

“About a six on the shit-o-meter,” Lambert replied, gaze sliding sideways as the pinball machine to his left squealed and trilled. Gaetan, short, with a clean-shaven head, docs and a cut-off denim jacket, grumbled irritably as he missed out on beating Lambert’s high score. “Alright?” he asked and received a grunt in return. Gaetan was just shy of twenty years Aiden’s junior and oozed ‘younger brother complex’ from his every pore.

“Six isn’t bad.” Aiden sighed and threw his pen onto the table. “So, what’s the rub? Bacon not crispy enough?”

“What happened to Sal?”

“He finally bought that ticket to Marbella. Him and the missus flew out last night on the red eye.”

“That selfish prick,” Lambert growled. “Not even a by your fucking leave.”

Aiden shrugged and tapped morosely at his keyboard. Most of Aiden’s employees were itinerant in some way; students looking for a quick buck at the weekend, job-hoppers still searching for their calling and lazy schmucks looking for an easy ride only to realise that bar work was hard going. But Sal had been a permanent fixture for the last ten years, always dreaming about a ticket to the sun, and then wasting his pay packet on the horses or weekend jollies to France for cheap box wine.

Lambert rubbed at his beard. “The new guy. He for real?”

“Eskel?”

“Yeah.” Lambert yanked a rickety old chair over from the wall and sat on it backwards, arms folded beneath his chin. “Looks like one of Emhyr’s goons used him as a scratching post. ‘I can’t speak but I’m a good listener’?”

“He’s former forces. Not sure which. He’s… uh, part of that new government initiative. Veterans’ Strategy Action Plan.”

“Thought that was meant to put them in prisons and healthcare and shit?” It wasn’t unusual for Aiden to get involved in charity cases. Despite his feeble attempts at cultivating a fearsome reputation, he was a soft touch with a heart of gold. There wasn’t an AA programme, drug rehabilitation scheme, ex-con reform schtick or fresh start for young offenders’ initiative that he wasn’t involved in. Something about giving back to the community, or doing right by his dad, or something. Everyone had their dreams.

“Eskel’s… uh, he’s got some shit goin’ on in his head, you know. What he went through was hard. He’s happy to do some security on Saturday nights, knows how to pour a good Godfather, so he’s a decent gamble.”

“Shit going on in his head?”

Aiden narrowed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “You know that’s confidential, and I’ve already told you too much. Fuck off and eat your dinner, I’ve got shit to do. I’ll join you for a quick one before you leave.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and left the office, pausing only long enough to bid farewell Gaetan and receive another grunt in reply. By the time he returned to the bar, Eskel was placing his mac and cheese on a neat place mat next to his whiskey. Lambert paused at the corner, taking a moment to admire the line of Eskel’s waistcoat around his muscular frame. Not too shabby. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having some new eye candy around the place. Eye candy that didn’t talk back. Winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

“He was busy,” Lambert informed Eskel as he sat down at the bar. Eskel afforded him another nod, with a quirked brow, and then turned back to wiping down the pint glass in his hands. Lambert picked up his fork and focused on wolfing down his dinner as quickly as humanly possible. He watched Eskel work discreetly, looking up only when Eskel’s back was turned or his focus elsewhere. Lambert watched his forearms flex as he restocked the fridge with bottled cider, the fold of his shirt collar beneath the rugged line of his jaw with its light peppering of dark stubble. It was because Lambert hadn’t been laid in—

He began to run the numbers and it was just so fucking depressing he stopped—

—which was why he was hyper focused. New slab of man meat. Yeah. It had absolutely nothing to do with the meandering thoughts set a-wanderin’ by Aiden’s vague comments. What was the ‘something going on’ in Eskel’s head? What did his voice sound like? What had happened to his face? What did he like to do at the weekend, and did it involve lube—?

It was too awkward. Every time Lambert opened his mouth to talk, he knew he’d get that same calm look, perhaps the eyebrow, and in the end, he said nothing.

Aiden appeared an hour later—for Lambert, it had been an hour of pretending to play Candy Crush on his phone while watching Eskel go about his duties—and they shared a beer, a few giggles, and then Lambert headed home to his empty apartment to water his Japanese Peace Lily. No, it wasn’t a fucking euphemism. Vesemir said he couldn’t be trusted with another living thing. Not even a goldfish. He couldn’t even cook (although Lambert argued that those two things definitely didn’t fucking correlate, and boiling pasta definitely counted as cooking). He laid in bed that night and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Eskel and his quiet, calm eyes.

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

"Would you care for a little tone for the journey, Master Witcher?"

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

之前的。。。

[perfecttimemachinestranger]

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