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#the witcher TECHNICALLY counts but its the least canon
ars0nism · 2 years
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unstoppable force (gay people) vs immovable object ("run away with me" but it never actually happens trope)
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lambden · 1 year
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last week's fics got revealed for the witcher flash fic challenge, which means I can finally publish mine here! i chose to write about letho, gaetan, and geralt having a threesome on a roof while they're all smoking that Wizard Weed. hope somebody enjoys this other than me; rarepair hell is more fun with friends!
E, 5.7K, Letho/Geralt/Gaetan. Warnings for inconsistent mishmash of Witcher canons, consensual drugged sex, recreational drug use (weed), top Letho, and established Letho/Gaetan. if you want to know more about the specific consent warnings relating to drug use, i put additional details in the end notes on AO3. enjoy!
also on AO3 if you prefer!
-
Geralt’s first clue that something is wrong is that, by all appearances, nothing is wrong.
The town is lovely, if not noteworthy; on his ride in he sees verdant pastures with fat livestock grazing happily on plentiful vegetation. When he stops to harvest some extra herbs nobody calls out ‘thief’ or anything worse. In fact, everyone he passes greets him with either a smile or a nod, nobody seeming too bothered by the presence of a witcher. This bothers Geralt immensely.
He reaches the epicentre; a small town square that smells sharply of a spice or herb he doesn’t recognize. There are bards playing soft music and carts heaped high with pastries, fruit, and charms for tourists. Geralt, technically a tourist, looks over the charms— they are all crudely fashioned, whether woven or carved, and all depict the same… tiger… bear… jaguar, thing. He can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a warg or a big cat, only that its fur (?) is dark green and its expression is pleasant and wise.
Geralt grimaces, shaking his head at the shopkeeper. They grin and hold out one of the charms anyway. “For good luck,” they tell him.
Geralt can count on one hand how many times a stranger has wished him luck in recent memory. He frowns, tucking the charm away into a pocket of Roach’s saddlebags only because it has absolutely no trace of magic, and perhaps he could pawn it off later for something.
The next major clue that something is amiss in this hidden paradise is the empty noticeboard. Even a pleasant town like this should have at least a few complaints, if not contracts; even in perfect places dogs go missing and children get sick. But the board is bare, with no recent indentations from nails. Geralt’s frown only darkens.
“You,” he grabs a passing man by the shoulder; a lush, judging from his rosy cheeks and how his eyes hardly widen as Geralt holds him in place. But not the kind of drunk who might run around causing issues, just someone peacefully intoxicated in the early afternoon. He smells of wine and of that same indiscernible scent that lingers around the rest of the town square. “Why are there no contracts here?”
“Praise Sylva!” slurs the man. He doesn’t even shrug off Geralt, let alone throw a punch. Geralt, used to significantly harsher treatment from strangers, drops him in disgust. “If we did have any contracts, sure they would’ve been taken by the witchers what just came through here last… last week?”
This oddity, strangely, puts Geralt at ease. Maybe this town is only so peaceful because all its threats have temporarily been disbanded. While this means an empty coinpurse and stomach for him, it does bring him some temporary relief. “Oh?”
“Think they’ve been here since last week,” the man muses. “Two of them witchers, you know… One big fella. Biiiig fella. And one little bald one. Matter of fact, both of them bald… not like you!”
The drunk reaches out to touch his hair, and Geralt thankfully puts that terrible impulse to rest with a withering glare. “Where can I find these two?”
“Pub,” offers the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Geralt leans around him to see said pub; there are horses tied up in front, although none familiar to him. When he categorises all the witchers he knows by hair or lack thereof, it isn’t hard to deduce who might be travelling together— despite how often the pair of them complain about each other.
Sure enough, when he opens the door to the (pristine, tastefully decorated, lively but not raucous) tavern, Geralt sees two witchers sitting on the same side of one table. It’s like a terrible joke waiting for a terrible punchline. 
Already amused, he watches the ‘biiiig fella’ notice him first, and promptly deliver a sharp jab to his companion’s side; said companion lifts his head, sees Geralt, and then moves to put some space between him and Letho so quickly that he nearly falls right off the bench.
“Geralt,” Gaetan declares, a little too loudly. “I never expected to run into two witchers here! Shit, it’s like the beginning of a bad joke!”
Geralt takes a seat across from them, not bothering to hide his amusement. Letho looks amused too, although Geralt can only detect it because he knows the man so well; he quickly raises his cup to cover his smirk, but the damage has been done. Geralt exchanges a look with him, then turns back to stare at Gaetan. “I heard about the two of you, but I didn’t think there was any truth to it. You know how Cats love gossip.”
Before Gaetan can cuss him out in a hundred different languages or just pounce across the table and wrestle him to the ground, Letho brings up a broad hand and lays it on his companion’s shoulder. The change is immediate; the anger drains from Gaetan in an instant, and Geralt watches with a strange, curious hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Then Letho says, “Well, we’ve heard you haven’t been travelling alone either,” and Geralt’s frown returns with a vengeance. “Where is the little bird?”
They all know he doesn’t mean Ciri. Geralt grinds his teeth together, and answers anyway, “She’s with Yen.”
“I meant the little songbird,” teases Letho, in that infuriatingly slow and deep voice that always cuts right to Geralt’s core. “The bards here are fine, but all they sing about is fucking Sylva.”
Desperate to get off the topic of Jaskier and to learn more information about this bizarre town, Geralt lunges on this. “What’s Sylva?”
Letho and Gaetan exchange a look that he can’t read, and then both turn to him. “You haven’t been to see Sylva yet?”
-
Sylva, as it turns out, is…
“A warg,” Geralt guesses. Letho and Gaetan, standing on either side of him, both shake their heads; he frowns. “No?”
“Tiger,” Gaetan says, as Letho tells him matter-of-factly, “Bear.” They lean around Geralt to glare at each other, and then Letho steps closer to the warg-tiger-bear thing.
What it is is uncertain, but a small amount chaos radiates from it. Geralt thinks, ruefully, of the charm he’d accepted without proper suspicion. The plant is massive, nearly the size of a real warg, but Letho moves towards it without hesitation. It looks similar to the sculpted bushes Geralt has seen in the gardens of disgustingly wealthy nobility, and in this lush rainforest a little outside the town, it nearly looks at home. Like a real creature slumbering in the woods, only instead of sinew and blood, one made of moss and dew.
Geralt tenses as Letho approaches the plant formation; Gaetan, either seeing his stress or feeling it through his witcher senses, reaches out to place a gentle, unasked hand on his shoulder. It’s exactly the same kind of tender physical comfort that comes easily to Jaskier, and it’s like no behaviour that Geralt has ever seen Gaetan display before. He can’t even think of any time he’s seen the Cat witcher touch anyone, except earlier when Letho touched him.
His palm is warm, and his pulse is slow but solid. The message is clear; relax. Ironic that a Cat is telling him to relax, and exponentially more ironic that Gaetan is that Cat. But Letho doesn’t seem worried about Sylva either, so Geralt doesn’t shove Gaetan off and, begrudgingly, relaxes.
“We thought it might be a sylvan at first,” Letho tells him. 
He uses ‘we’ as casually as anything, implying a new depth to their relationship. From what Geralt had heard (from Lambert, by way of Lambert’s Cat lover who Lambert adamantly denies the existence of) Letho and Gaetan had only been hooking up occasionally. Hate-fucking had been the word of choice. This is anything but hateful, and from how Letho describes their investigations as though they operate as a unit, Geralt would guess it’s more than occasional. 
He keeps quiet as the Viper continues; “You know. Sylva, sylvan… everyone in town swears by this big plant. Says it’s their god, it blessed their crops, their marriages, it brings them rain and shine when needed. We thought it might’ve been some benevolent spirit who chose this town. Easy pickings.”
Geralt thinks, sourly, of a town near Skellige that was similarly ‘blessed’ by a deity that had turned out to be a leshen. “Does it answer their prayers?”
“Not verbally,” Gaetan replies. “But they say Sylva brings love to the loveless, money to the destitute… There were no contracts when we got here either.”
“Hmm.”
“At first, we just intended to stick around for the night,” Letho continues. “Not often you venture into a nice place willing to host a witcher for free, let alone two. And Gaetan thought there was something else afoot, and couldn’t let it lie.”
The Cat shrugs. Geralt narrows his gaze, looking carefully at Sylva. He’d like to carve the big plant open and see what lies inside its branches; perhaps a godling with a penchant for animals has made their home there. But if Letho and Gaetan have already stayed here for nearly a week, they surely would have uncovered this beast’s dark secret by now. Hesitantly, Geralt prods, “And is there…? Something else going on?”
“Yes and no,” Gaetan says. “Nothing spiritual— the local herbalist witch fessed up on our third day here. She said she maintains the plant and casts spells of protection on Sylva; small things, so that it won’t rot or catch any nasty infestations. But over the years, a whole local mythology has grown around this fucking plant. They really think the beast watches over them.”
Geralt stares. How anticlimactic— once more, unbidden, he thinks of the bard and how disappointed he would be in this story’s finale. Then, to divert his thoughts from Jaskier, he quickly says, “So… she maintains the hedge so that the town doesn't lose its spirit? That’s all?”
“Well. No.” Letho leans down to pluck a leafy section from the mossy beast. Sylva doesn’t move or protest in any way, despite the amateurish protective wards, and Letho cups his bounty carefully in both hands. With the same smirk he wore earlier, he murmurs, “That’s not all.”
-
“Praise Sylva,” Geralt proclaims to the stars above, which swim around in his blurred vision. From the streets below them he hears a distant whoop of agreement; although it might have been a birdcall. He lifts his head to check but can’t see over the lip of the rooftop, and craning his neck is immediately uncomfortable, so he relaxes back down on the straw beside Gaetan. “Praise fucking Sylva!”
“Now he gets it,” Gaetan grins, nudging Letho with his elbow. The Viper is curled up behind the Cat, one possessive arm slung over his chest; Gaetan reaches back to put the small bundle of herbs to Letho’s lips, and Letho inhales heavily, his breath igniting it once more. 
The skies are peaceful and free of clouds, and only the lightest breeze bothers them. Geralt still shivers as he watches Gaetan hold the joint up to Letho’s lips. They had told him of a concentrate that the herbalist crafted with Sylva’s leaves and sap, but this seems like a more organic way to ingest the offerings of the forest beast. And inhaling the plant directly won’t do too much damage, since their tolerance is much higher as witchers.
Geralt laughs quietly, thinking of how all this town’s problems were miraculously solved— not by a god, nor by anything posing as a god, but by an herbalist supplying the solution to all their maladies.
Gaetan and Letho both watch him, wearing matching soft expressions, as Gaetan takes the joint away from Letho to hand it back to Geralt. They’ve been lying on this rooftop for at least half an hour, and in that time the three witchers have moved very little. Geralt wonders if Letho has been holding onto Gaetan since they all first lay down. He notices now in clearer detail how close they are; their legs are pressed together. He wants to demand answers— how long have you been snuggling? How long have you two been travelling together?
He stays silent, his gaze snapping back up from their legs to meet Gaetan’s. The Cat looks amused, and brandishes the small bundle at Geralt. “Finish it off,” he insists, and Geralt does.
The plume of smoke that he exhales at the end of the bundle smells just like everything else in this town. He thinks, unwittingly, of Jaskier. Maybe he was wrong in his judgement earlier; maybe the bard would enjoy it here. Maybe, up on a rooftop like this, on a thick bed of straw, he and Jaskier could curl up together like Gaetan and Letho. 
He hasn’t been that close to Jaskier since the bard was younger and they would seek warmth from each other’s bodies on the cold and unforgiving Path. Back then, it had never blossomed into anything more intimate than what it was. Up here, assisted by the herb that keeps this place afloat, perhaps it could.
Geralt opens his eyes to see Letho and Gaetan still both watching him closely. Gaetan speaks all at once, almost as though he’s unable to stay silent any longer, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” Geralt lies calmly, rolling back onto his side to face the pair of them. He tosses the extinguished butt of the joint away from the straw pile, and lets out a heavy, deeply satisfied sigh. His face burns, his whole body tingles, and he wiggles his toes in his socks. Gods, he could use a nice long bath. “They have baths inside?”
Letho nods, but Gaetan retorts, “You don’t look too dirty; not for a witcher, anyway. That sorceress of yours finally teach you some basic hygiene?”
“She’s not mine,” Geralt rumbles. Once, the confession would have brought him pain to speak. Now he just utters it as plainly as he would any other fact. He and Yen haven’t belonged to each other in a long time; it’s better this way. She will never lose importance in his life, but the yearning that drove them both so mad has finally been put to rest. For her pleasure, Yen seeks out other, equally hygienic sorceresses now. And for Geralt’s—
Annoyingly, the Cat seems to read his mind. “That little bard, then?”
“Hmm.” Geralt stretches. “Don’t know what you’ve heard from Aiden, but it’s all a pack of lies.”
“Come on, Wolf! A handsome witcher like you, you really haven’t found anyone to make an honest man out of yet?” Gaetan scoffs. “I don’t believe that shit.”
“It’s not supposed to work like that for witchers,” Geralt speaks without thinking. Then he tenses; Letho and Gaetan are both silent and passive. If he struck a nerve, neither of them shows it. He apologizes regardless, “I’m not— not saying you two aren’t, uh, you know, just—”
“Bless him, he’s stammering,” Gaetan laughs meanly. He twists under Letho’s arm smoothly, without dislodging the Viper, and presses a kiss to his lips. Abruptly, the gnawing pit in Geralt’s stomach that has been bothering him since he walked into that tavern and saw them next to each other drops. Gaetan doesn’t pull away or make any attempt at hiding his affection; he kisses Letho long, and deeply, until finally pulling away only enough to whisper against his lips. Even if Geralt didn’t have supernatural hearing he thinks he would still be able to make the words out. “You never mentioned that the White Wolf was so shy, darling.”
“He wasn’t,” Letho mutters back. Geralt doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there; he can hear it in the sly, almost challenging tone. The Viper lifts Gaetan up onto his chest with nearly no effort; if Geralt wasn’t already lying down, his knees might buckle. Gaetan adjusts to his new position atop Letho immediately, bracketing the witcher’s thick thighs with his knees and nosing happily at his neck. Letho glances over, his yellow eyes finding Geralt’s. “He's the one who taught me that naughty Gwent game, decades ago in Velen.”
Geralt’s breath leaves him all at once. He remembers those nights in vivid detail, but he hadn’t thought Letho would recall their handful of dalliances; they had never slept together more than one night in a row, and they’d never been sober.
Then again, Geralt considers, none of them are sober right now. His traitorous, fearful heart thrums. Geralt has never been seduced by two people at once before.
Letho brings one hand up to cradle the back of Gaetan’s skull, dropping the other to the base of his spine, and it occurs to Geralt that the Cat is actually not scenting his throat but biting it. He catches the sharp scent of lust in the air, although it’s impossible to determine who it might have arisen from. His head swims in a way he can’t entirely blame on Sylva’s herb.
“If you don’t want to,” Letho says, slowly as ever, “all good. It’s been a long time since you and I fooled around; I’m sure you’ve changed. I know I’ve got a couple new scars.” A tremor or twitch distorts his otherwise restful face for a moment; Geralt’s pulse rushes. Gaetan must be biting along one of those scars now. Letho’s breath comes a little faster as he continues, “But I can’t stop him once he’s got an idea in his head. So either get over yourself and come over here, or go inside and take a nice long bath.”
“And think of us while you do,” Gaetan chimes in, muffled by Letho’s thick neck. Without hesitation, the Viper reaches down to smack his ass; it happens so quickly Geralt nearly misses the motion. But he doesn’t miss the way Gaetan goes still for a moment, his whole body tensing up before he leans back against Letho’s palm, clearly eager for more.
Geralt gets over himself quickly. He rises up uncertainly on the bed of straw; both of the other witchers twist to look his way. When he crawls closer instead of standing, Gaetan blesses him with a rare, genuine smile. Letho nods, equally pleased, but doesn’t take his hands off of Gaetan. 
Maybe he has changed since their old hook-ups; even with the herb mellowing him out, Geralt feels strangely vulnerable up on his knees, looking down at the entwined pair. Quietly, he pleads, “Tell me where you want me.”
“Right there is perfect,” Letho rumbles. Without being asked, Gaetan clambers off of the Viper and over to Geralt. He rises up to meet him hard, kissing him like… well, it’s like no one Geralt has ever kissed before. He sinks into it, especially as Gaetan deepens their kisses, sliding his tongue shamelessly alongside Geralt’s. Geralt, to his great embarrassment, hears himself moan; then, because it feels so good, he does it again. The sound is unbelievably filthy, muffled by Gaetan’s clever tongue; Geralt sucks hard just to see the reaction and Gaetan, not to be outdone, groans into their kiss and reaches for the clasps of Geralt’s armour.
“Slow down, kitty,” Letho teases. Hearing that deep voice always does such dangerous things to Geralt, and now is no exception; he’s gratified to feel a similar response from Gaetan, whose hands still on Geralt’s chest although his mouth does no such thing. Geralt kisses back, chasing the sensation, until heavy hands come up alongside them, pressing them to lie down in the hay. “Slow down,” Letho urges. “Feel it out, first.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gaetan grunts, pulling back from Geralt slowly. As if it taxes him to do so. “You’ve already had him.” Geralt, still high, follows the heat of his mouth until he realizes that Gaetan is actually moving away. Then he leans back into the straw underneath him, slightly embarrassed to have been slow on the uptake. Usually witchers are two moves ahead of their partners in bed.
Gaetan doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he just doesn’t mind; his hungry gaze is still fixed on Geralt. Letho, kneeling beside them and watching Geralt with the same intensity, purrs low in his throat, “He’s wanted this for a long time, you know. Ever since I mentioned what you and I used to get up to, Wolf. It’s a big fantasy for him.”
“Shut up,” Gaetan whispers, in a tone that clearly indicates he wants Letho to do anything but.
Geralt reaches down to rub himself through his armour; two sharp amber gazes follow his movement. Under the moonlight, he feels like he’s performing for them. He walks that thought back quickly enough that it can’t do any damage, and asks Gaetan, “What are you waiting for?”
“Permission,” the Cat breathes. Geralt almost nods; but before he can give his tacit approval of anything and everything Gaetan wants from him, Letho nods, placing his broad hand on the back of Gaetan’s narrow neck. Geralt flushes with pleasure. Not his permission, but Letho’s. This is his first time feeling like an outsider during lovemaking; he’s sensing there might be a few firsts crossed off his list tonight, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.
Gaetan pounces, drawing his trouser fastenings free of his armour and then shoving the whole kit down and off. Geralt’s cock springs up, already leaking at the tip— maybe the herb was an aphrodisiac as well. Or maybe he just feels that good, half-naked with two attractive witchers in front of him, both intent on making him feel great. Gaetan lowers his talented mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt slams his head back down against the straw.
It lands with an unsatisfying thud, but looking up at the starry night is easier than watching the Cat devour him. The pressure, wetness, and warmth feel unbelievable anyway; Geralt stifles a moan as Gaetan sinks down, taking his length into his throat.
Letho is there, striking quickly as always— quick enough to take him by surprise. Geralt gasps as Letho grabs his head the same way he’d held Gaetan’s skull. The Viper’s fingers are likely large enough to do some serious damage if he wanted; he lifts Geralt’s head, and Geralt doesn’t struggle, too awed by his strength. “Look,” growls Letho, pressing his head down until his chin touches his chest.
Helpless, he looks. Gaetan bobs up and down on his length, sucking it in sloppily every time it nearly slips out of his mouth. The witcher’s slender hand is wrapped around the base, because— Geralt realizes with a jolt— he can’t fit all of it in his mouth. Geralt itches to reach down and make him try anyway, but he doesn’t want to have bad manners. He’s not the one in control here anyway. 
Letho’s fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, as though the Wolf is in any danger of running. He murmurs against his ear, “Should’ve made him drink a Killer Whale beforehand,” and Geralt’s cock pulses at the filthy idea. “Bet then he’d be able to take you without choking.”
“Fuck you,” Gaetan pulls off to angrily retort, and it takes great self-control to avoid coming all over his face. “I don’t need any fucking potion!”
To prove his point, and rise to Letho’s bait, the Cat lowers his mouth slowly until Geralt can feel his throat clenching around  his cock, and he can’t help but dribble a little. Gaetan, to his immense credit, doesn’t choke; instead he hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking Geralt off with renewed effort, until he’s taking him to the root every time.
“Letho,” Geralt chokes out, a warning meant for both of them. But Gaetan doesn’t pull off, and the Viper doesn’t move to make him do so. Letho’s deft, thick fingers creep through the loose ponytail still holding Geralt’s hair up, and he tugs— not hard enough to really hurt, but firmly enough that the stars in the sky fall right into Geralt’s vision and then shoot through his cock down Gaetan’s throat.
He comes for a long moment, and the other witcher sucks him down through all of it, swallowing up Geralt’s spend like Letho told him to. Perhaps they have a code; perhaps they don’t need one. Geralt gasps, loud and clear into the night. It is a small mercy that no one hears— even in a town so forgiving and welcoming, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate their beauty sleep disturbed by a bunch of high witchers getting it on above the local inn.
When he comes back down to reality, brain still addled and blood still rushing, he sees Gaetan moving around him to kiss Letho. Geralt turns his head so as to properly watch, figuring it’s his turn to enjoy the show. But Letho just bites Gaetan’s lip hard enough to make him gasp once before pushing the Cat away again. “He’s not done with you, Wolf,” rumbles the Viper. “Just reminding me how you taste.”
“Fuck,” says Geralt, his softening cock making a valiant effort to harden again. He reaches down to carefully, gently roll his balls in his palm, and Gaetan, watching closely, licks his lips. Weakly, the Wolf mutters, “You two will be the fucking death of me tonight.”
“Praise Sylva,” Gaetan teases, blowing a kiss in Geralt’s direction. Geralt reaches up half-heartedly to try to catch it, reflexes slowed by the excellent orgasm and the remainder of the herb.
All three of them chuckle at that, and then Letho bends down, still laughing softly, to give Geralt a real kiss. It feels so natural and right that his heart swells; he can’t remember why he ever stopped seeking out the company of the other witcher. And he’s feeling just relaxed enough to actually share the sentiment.
Softly against Letho’s mouth, Geralt whispers, “I missed this.”
Letho smirks and kisses him once more. “Me too,” he rumbles. “Hope you’re ready to go again, Wolf; I brought along a special toy to open you up so you can take me. Just like the old days.”
The special toy in question happily replaces Geralt’s hand on his balls, honest-to-fuck purring as he rolls them between his fingers and then slides his slick hand lower. He must have oiled his fingers while the other two were distracted; clever fucking Cat. 
Geralt gasps into Letho’s mouth, and then again as Gaetan breaches him with two digits. Letho chases the noises and draws more out, sucking on Geralt’s tongue. He kisses the same way as Gaetan does; Geralt supposes that makes sense, given that they must practise with each other.
Then the Viper pulls back, rummaging through the bag Geralt failed to notice before. He retrieves another sprig of the plant, tearing off a long leaf with his thumb and starting to crush the mossy flower into smaller pieces with his palm. Geralt stares closely as Letho rolls up the bundle of herbs one-handed, and the witcher mistakes his fascination for apprehension. “Don’t want it?”
“Don’t need it,” Geralt confirms, and then, a second later as Gaetan crooks his fingers inside, “but, but, fuck! Might feel nice…! Shit, Gaetan, anyone ever tell you you’re fucking good with your hands?”
“Just wait ’til you feel my cock,” Gaetan laughs. His fingers twist again, hitting the same sensitive spot that makes Geralt’s head spin; no smoking required. He slides in another finger and it barely stretches him. “Take a hit, Wolf. Might help you relax a bit.”
“Funny, you telling me to relax,” Geralt huffs, even though— shit, had he already said that? He manages his best frown even as he practically fucks himself on Gaetan’s long, skilled fingers. It feels different than when he’s been fingered in the past; he’s more on edge. Maybe that’s because of Letho’s hot presence next to him. Geralt wonders if anyone has ever seen him get fingered before.
Maybe once— at a brothel in Novigrad— there hadn’t been proper partitions between the rooms but instead fluttering curtains— between sweating through his shirt and trying not to make too much noise he swore he saw bright blue eyes fixed on him from the next room—
“Give it to me,” Geralt demands, roughly. Letho and Gaetan laugh, but not unkindly. Smoothly enough that it’s clear he’s done this many times over the last week, Letho casts a small Igni and lights the blunt, heavily inhaling its thick, strong smoke. With the same smooth motion and in the same instant, Gaetan pulls out his slick hand. Letho bends down, cupping Geralt’s jaw with broad fingers, and blows smoke into his open mouth— just as Gaetan finally slides into his ass, teasing Geralt with just the tip of his thick length.
“Ah, sh-shit,” Geralt coughs, surprised. Letho doesn’t let him up, and Geralt inhales most of the hit without coughing again. His lungs fill with the hazy smoke and his mind blissfully clears. Gaetan pushes the head of his cock in and out of Geralt, seemingly enjoying himself as he pants every time it catches on the entrance. Geralt chokes out, “You’re bigger than the toy.”
Gaetan shoots him a brilliant, beautiful smile, then rewards him for the praise by reaching down to pick up Geralt’s knees and sink into him fully. Geralt pants at the stretch, finally breaking a sweat; Letho, caring as ever, brushes the hair back off his forehead. “You’re being so good for him,” promises the Viper quietly. “He’s going to make you feel so nice.”
“Yeah,” Geralt gasps. With his bare legs held up by Gaetan, who’s barely flexing, he feels untethered from the earth and even more vulnerable than before. The herb takes effect quickly, and while it feels wonderfully different from any witcher liquor or fun potion, he has to briefly fight off the strange sensation of floating up into the endless starry sky.
Then he becomes conscious of his own socks, his ankles softly rubbing against Gaetan’s sweaty back with every push inside. Straw pokes into Geralt’s back underneath him, where his armour and shirt have rolled up out of the way thanks to all the motion. The slight itchiness calms him, but also annoys him.
Then, finally, after what feels like forever, Letho has a hand in his hair and pulls it so slowly that it feels tender. “So pretty,” coaxes the Viper, and Geralt obediently turns to him. Letho has lost his pants too; Geralt nearly laughs at the three of them only in their shirts. Like witcher initiates fooling around late at night, too scared to fully undress and get caught.
Geralt isn’t scared at all. He reaches up to place a hand on Letho’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. The Viper gets the memo, and he disrobes faster than any human could. Geralt stares in wonder, and Gaetan’s pace slows; he still fucks Geralt but now it feels like he’s hitting deeper and deeper every time. Geralt groans, unable to restrain the noise, bouncing with every thrust forward, and Letho says, “Cat, how you doing? Feel as good as you thought it would?”
“Better,” Gaetan mumbles, adjusting his grip on Geralt’s legs. “Way better. Fuck, Geralt, thank you.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Geralt gasps. “Thank you, asshole.”
“Had to repay you somehow,” the Cat whimpers. Geralt turns to face him as sharply as he can, and when he sees Gaetan smiling down at him his nerves are instantly set at ease. This wouldn’t have felt as good if it were just repayment, or a favour to a friend; Gaetan genuinely wants this. His hands are shaking as he holds up Geralt’s knees, a surefire sign that he’s close to his release. When he tries to speak again, he stutters through it, “Gonna— gonna come in you, alright?”
“What a gentleman,” teases Geralt breathlessly, even as Gaetan rocks him with every thrust. Mimicking what the Cat had said earlier, he turns to look at the Viper. “Bless him, he’s stammering. Letho, I never thought your bitch would be so shy.”
Gaetan swears a string of broken curses and pushes deep inside Geralt, filling him— it feels hotter than fire, and he groans just as loudly as Gaetan. Then Letho, with a few pulls that almost look lazy in counterpoint, strokes himself off and, before anyone else realizes he’s about to, comes all over Geralt’s face.
“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, reaching up to wipe dripping come off his chin. Before he can clean any of it off, Gaetan lunges, lowering himself onto Geralt without pulling out. The movement and closeness makes Geralt gasp again, and he doesn’t stop breathing hard as Gaetan licks over his face and jaw shamelessly. “Fucking gods damn, you two,” Geralt mumbles. Then, because he’s in a fucking amazing mood, and his cock is still hard as hell, he dares to push it further; “I thought the plan was for Letho to come inside me too?”
“Plan hasn’t changed,” Letho grins, in a crooked sort of way that makes precome leak out of Geralt’s already red, sore cock. It smears against Gaetan’s stomach and Geralt struggles to find his breath, still grappling with the weight of Gaetan’s cock inside him. “Night’s still young, Wolf.”
-
In the morning— the late, late, very late, technically the next morning, for clarification— the three witchers walk out of the inn, freshly bathed and full and content. None even bear a limp to betray how they so defiled the roof of the good, friendly, spiritual town. No one passing seems bothered at all with the presence of a witcher, let alone three.
As they pass by the farms on their way out of town, a stablehand who beat his hangover with Sylva’s help yesterday recognizes Geralt. He claps delightedly at the sight of the trio, paying little mind to their intimidating armour or six swords. “Wow! That’s not something you see every day!” cries the man. “Three witchers walk out of a town— gods, it’s like a bad joke!”
The shortest of the witchers, wearing a Cat medallion on his chest and a face-splitting grin, throws back over his shoulder, “Yeah, you should hear the fucking punchline!”
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isaacathom · 1 year
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anyway i had thoughts about what 'home' means to my ttrpg ocs
For Naielle, she would answer quickly and confidently. Her home is her house back in the Sylvian Empire, on the grounds of the university her family run. And if you didn't know anything about Naielle, and didn't stop to wonder why she's here if she knows exactly what home means to her, then thats an easy answer.
But it's not. Because while it is true, Naielle isn't lying when she says that, she also knows its a lot more complicated than that. Cause like, sure, thats home. Can she be there? No! She's been exiled from the country for a count of treason she did technically commit, she KNOWS that her mothers fucking pissed about the entire thing and would be extremely unhappy to ever see her again, that it'd just be ungodly awkward even if she was legally able to go back. It's more the idea of a home, frozen in time at some point before her exile, which she knows won't be like that when (if) she goes back.
But it'd be able to get Naielle to admit that. If she had to, she'd swap her answer from her childhood home to the house of her fiancee, but she would not move it out of the empire. In spite of everything, she considers that home. Like, she's been in Welvarend for nearly two decades, has been on this expedition fleet sent by Welvarend for a half year, you'd think she'd have some loyalty to that country to consider it home? And yet the moment the fleet admiral is like 'hey go steal gunpowder so we can have a weapon against the sylvian empire, who are objectively being greedy shitheads' Naielle goes haha! no. Now thats more complicated anyway but she fundamentally considers herself to be Sylvian, whatever that means. That it's not about the government, but the people, and the land, or whatever. That's home. Her current address (the house of a cousin) is a house, sure, maybe a home, but not her home.
Whether she continues to think that as time goes on, and especially if she gets a chance to do a little teleporting 1-2-3 and visit her fiancee very sneaky like, that's up in the air. But she currently considers the Empire home.
Florian's in a... similar-ish boat? At least when it comes to an allegiance to a home that's broader in scope that just 'physical building'. He's a loyal Temerian boy. Temeria is his home. That's very unfortunate given he's living in the canon of the witcher 3 and haha! lol.
But when it comes to something more specific, he wouldn't be able to give an answer. Not without a significant amount of prodding, and a few leading questions, or just pissing him off enough that he gives up and just says something to get you to go away. Because while he has an "address", a "place of residence", he hasn't been there in at least 4 years. And, unlike Naielle, that is by choice. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants nothing to do with the place, or the people there. He's seen enough of those interior walls for a fucking lifetime.
He figures at some point he would have to go back, if only to tell anyone who cares that he doesn't want to be the Count after his father kicks the bucket, but he's also half figured he'll predecease his father on account of profession, so he hopes he doesn't have to.
But then what is home to Florian de Kasimir? There's no place that suffices. While he's loyally Temerian, is that the place or its people? A vibe? Can a vibe keep you warm and fed? What does it mean for Temeria to be his home, especially when it is being crushed under the heel of an empire, and when he knows he can't do anything about that?
So he wouldn't be able to give an answer. Because he thinks of a home as a place. A physical location, safe from the elements, where you want to be. And there's no permanent location that satisfies those requirements for him. Which is where it becomes necessary to prod him, to guide him towards a recognition that home needn't be a location - it can be a person, or several people.
At which point you can, eventually, get the answer that if he must say that somewhere or someone is his home, then it would be wherever his friend Zeke goes. Because Zeke's one of the people who never gave a shit about who he was and why, only what he did. Zeke's his fucking guy. I can't even tell you if Florian means that romantically or what, because he would have a lot of difficulty articulating that and would probably just default to 'brothers', not that he knows what that really means lmao. Florian would find the entire discussion deeply frustrating. Too heady and high minded for him, he'd think.
Zimri... well, Zimri's complicated, but not because of how they'd answer the question. Because for Zimri is really simple - Lepidstadt. Their home is Lepidstadt, up in northern Ustalav, in a little bookstore nestled into a busy street. Their home is the book wagon their family would take on a circuit through the country side to visit the many small towns. Their home is with their family :)
Which raises a very important question - why the fuck aren't they there?
And the issue is that Zimri doesn't know the answer to that question, due to amnesia. Zimri hasn't got any clue what motivated them to leave Lepidstadt and come south to Thrushmoor, or what motivated them to buy and then close a bookstore, despite owning their own shop being something they want. Zimri hasn't got a fucking clue what's going on.
But what are they gonna do about that? Nothing. They're off on a quest to save the world. And hopefully, in the course of that quest, they can wrench some of the answers back from the person who took them.
What do they assume is going on? Not sure. Zimri probably assumes that something came up at home - maybe financial difficulty forced some changes, an opportunity came up for Zimri to strike out on their own that they took in order to help everyone out? And then with the bookstore closure, well, context suggests that Zimri decided working for Lowls was more important than the bookstore, which they find... hard to believe, personally. Zimri can't really square that one away. Maybe it was financial, the business wasn't good enough but Lowls paid well enough to keep the candles lit, as it were. Sure. But they would like to know what actually happened, what they were actually thinking as these situations arose that forced their hand.
Which will be fun. Especially since I know what the answer is to why Zimri left Lepidstadt.
And the best part is I don't think Zimri's answer to where home is would change with that knowledge.
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itsclydebitches · 4 years
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Title: Mightier Than the Sword
Fandom: Witcher
Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)
Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier 
Word Count: 2,568
Where to read it: Below or on AO3 
A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍
The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.
One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.
“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.
Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.
For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.
The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.
“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”
“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”
“Does this metal look fake to you?”
Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.
“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.
As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.
...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.
“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”
If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.
Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.
Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.
He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.
“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.
The woman smiled. “I know.”
Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.
The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.
“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.
Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”
“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”
But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.
Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.
A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.
Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.
“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”
He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.
“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”
Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.
“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”
Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.
He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.
“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”
Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”
“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”
If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.
He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.
The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.
It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.
Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.
Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.
Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.
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janiedean · 4 years
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fic writer tag game
tagged by @randomingoftherandomness ty!!!
AO3 name: janie_tangerine
Fandoms: asoiaf/got (currently active regularly), the witcher (sticking to reading/writing fic for now but I’m planning on being somewhat active in that sense), dark tower/iron fist/bastille day/deadwood (not active because there’s no audience at any given time for three of them and with IF I need to be in the mood but like... I can become active in a moment if there’s the need xD), spn/lost/mcu that’s not IF/tvd (probably not going there anymore but it’s been a nice ride and might revisit I MEAN I REVISITED WITH TVD SO), various others I can write for occasionally which are all on the fandoms and ships page
Number of fics: 477 on ao3 but if I crossposted the lost/spn fic I have on lj that I still haven’t managed to import we’d be at 600 at least not counting the stuff I wrote on tumblr that I should crosspost but eh a lot
Fic I spent the most time on: lmao some flowers bloom dead, that’s because I still haven’t finished it
Fic I spent the least time on: anything under 2k was probably written in twenty minutes tops
Longest fic: sticking to ao3, in the darkness on the edge of town (asoiaf, jb, 102k hahahahahahaha)
Shortest fic: in which Robert Baratheon really, really hates pigeons (asoiaf, robert & ned + ned/cat, 568 words)
Most hits: I'll be the frosting to your cupcake, wench (asoiaf, jaimebrienne) which is at 54431 and I’m still in complete awe of it
Most kudos: five people who didn’t believe Ned Stark for one second about Jon’s paternity and one who did (asoiaf, ned + jon + various others) which is at 3437 and I’m honestly flattered that many people found it that funny xD
Most comment threads: and give all the love that you have in your soul (asoiaf, jaimebrienne + jonc/rhaegar & omc) at 216, understandable as it was like eight chapters spread over six months of me agonizing over how much I hate writing timetravel XD
Most bookmarks: more like the man you were meant to be (asoiaf, jb + jaime & cat, jaime & jon, jaime & ned & various others) at 1367 which I’m v. glad about that fic fluff I’m 100% proud of xD.
Total word count:  3806645 (with good peace of everyone who ever told me I was snobbish towards fanfic back in the day xD)
Favourite fic I wrote: I don’t wanna pick favorites because honestly they’re all my children but if I had to pick one it’s in the darkness on the edge of town for various reasons which we can sum up in I wouldn’t change a word of it and that usually doesn’t happen X°D
Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: there’s a few I’ve wanted to sequel and I def. need to finish sfbd (one day) but like atm your best bet is that I’m going to add part three to that series I somehow started where geralt likes wearing dresses and more opera singers au xD rewrite... not really because I don’t have the patience for it, if I don’t like something enough to share/I know I can rewrite it I don’t post it xD
Share a bit of a WIP or a story idea you’re planning on:
I haven’t technically written shit these last two days and I should rectify but for sharing ideas... I need to do part four and five of her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you ie the jaimebrienne witcher fusion as in I need to find a way to rework the last wish so I can have yennefer!catelyn in it with some sense and I also want to have pod being the resident child surprise but I can’t have it like in canon for obvious reasons so I’m still plotting, also AGAIN I SHOULD FINISH SFBD AND THE TARG TELENOVELA NOW IF ONLY MY CRACK MUSE CAME BACK FOR GOOD (but for the targ telenovela it’s all on here under its tag lol) and I could do a bit more of the soulmates hearts thing but I should see, anyway since I want to give you a WIP too let me see ah well have part of the next sfbd chapter that has been in the works since nanowrimo 2018 which one day I’ll hopefully finish kdslg have at it
“Lannister,” Robb interrupts, “I think everyone knows. If you want to say he’s your son —”
“Fair, fair. Well, before I left, he wasn’t… relishing his position, so to speak,” he sighs. “Actually, he was downright hating it. Cersei pretty much always ignored his existence but now she can’t, of course, since she thinks she can rule through him, and as much as she never really let me near him if not for the bare necessary…”
“She didn’t?”
“She figured someone might have asked starting questions if I had any relationship with any of them,” he says, and now he sounds bitter, as if he rues having let her. “I — he really has no stakes in this war and he didn’t even want that position.” He takes in a breath. “The lady and I, we might have discussed what to do after this is over.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Going back to her island for a while, take a well-deserved rest, and other things that you really don’t need to get concerned about. But I was wondering, after we’re done in King’s Landing, would you be amenable to send Tommen there if we come with you to the Wall, until we come back?” He’s staring at Robb with tired green eyes that for once don’t seem to be making fun at him or anyone. “I know it would mean —”
“I don’t think it’s undoable,” Robb tells him, if anything because he can hear that he sounds as if his sister didn’t let him have a relationship with Tommen, maybe he wants to, and if he wants to bring him to Tarth where he’s supposed to go following the woman he loves or so it seems, it’s not hard to imagine why he’s asking this. “He’s young and he hasn’t been anything like Joffrey as far as we know, we can just say that if he gives up any claim on the throne he can go with you, as you would be his closest relative willing to house him, and I highly doubt a Targaryen king would want you in his guard. But you were planning to leave it anyway, weren’t you?”
“His Grace is very perceptive,” Lannister says, sounding relieved. “Very well then. I — thank you,” he says, and then he turns on his back and leaves the room as well.
Robb sure as the seven hells had not foreseen this turn of events, but he’s not going to be the person complaining about it.
“If he is thanking you I guess anything might happen at this point,” Theon says after neither of them speaks for a long moment, and Robb has to laugh at that, some. It was funny, after all.
aaand tagging let’s see @lodessa @lordhellebore @vanessawolfie @uniwolfwerecorn @myrxellabaratheon and if you’re a fic writer and wanna do it consider yourself tagged u__u
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