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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

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So here we are. The Thor/Witcher mash-up romcom that NO ONE asked for or wanted. Thanks to my beta and good friend, @lokimostly - check out her amazing work.

Chapter 1

“What about a dating site? You know, it’s the 21st century, it’s not uncool anymore.”

Darcy Lewis glanced over at her best friend and confidante, the (happily married) Jane Foster, and shrugged. “What site besides the ones I’ve tried? Right now I’m pretty much only interested in "Given Up On Love dot com" - for cynical people.” She sniggered at her own joke.

Jane added more creamer to her coffee, sipped and winced - Darcy had many talents but coffee was not one of them - and rolled her eyes. “Being cynical is a choice.”

“But you gotta admit, if there was such a website, I’d finally manage to find someone as cynical as me. But with a dick. I mean, I’m open to experimenting, but-”

Jane took another testing sip. “Honestly, forget I said anything. It’s far too early in the morning for this level of information.”

Darcy smiled fondly as she put the finishing touches to her latest constellation portrait. She’d grown her business on Etsy, taking popular constellations and re-imagining them as animals, humans and abstract art. Over time, commissions had started coming her way, and after a stint at a craft fayre, things had taken off so much that she’d been able to give up her day job as an astronomy research assistant. She’d always been crazy about the night sky, stars, and starlight, but creating art from them was her true calling; what made her heart sing.

“I’ve dated so many losers at this point that I could give three-part seminars on what to look for. I’m fine being alone. It’s easier, and I get the remote to myself.”

“That is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard,” Jane said, staring into her coffee. It stared back at her, silently menacing and still tasting awful.

“Easy for you to say when you’re married to a guy who could probably bench press your entire house without breaking a sweat.”

Jane flushed at that and Darcy cackled. Her friend was too easy to tease. Sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

After Jane left, Darcy poured away the remains of the coffee - had it really been that bad? - and started assembling all her materials for the medieval fayre she planned to attend this coming weekend. She’d rented a tent to display her artwork in. Last year she’d had a lot of interest but pitifully few sales. The fayre organiser had offered her a stall for half price; she decided to give it another punt. If nothing else, the drive to the huge field area in New York State was easy, there were usually loads of stacked dudes in hero pants and tight shirts, and she knew from the website that one of her favourite street food places would be serving. Not a bad way to spend two days at all.

In the morning, she packed her little Fiat chock-full of enough clothes for the weekend, some food, and all the complete artwork she had available. She took paints and brushes too, sure she’d be bored at least some of the time. The car purred along the motorway and it wasn’t long before she turned into the stallholders’ car parking area, parking next to a beaten-up truck with a horse-box attached to it.

She popped her trunk and started gathering supplies.

“Fuck.”

Darcy stopped at the sound of the deep baritone. British? Definitely not American.

“Bring the horse, they said. He’ll enjoy a trip out, they said.” There was some more cursing in that spellbindingly deep voice, then, “Got something to add, Roach? Don’t- ah, fuck.”

Unable to still her natural curiosity, Darcy crossed around the front of the truck. The back of the horse box looked open and she peeked around the edge.

“Uh….. you okay in there?”

Perhaps one of the tallest men she’d ever seen looked around the neck of a horse at least eighteen hands high. The animal’s coat shone, but the look in his eyes was one of pure amusement. Darcy quickly saw why - there was a steaming pile of horse manure in the back of the trailer. Clearly fresh.

“He hates travelling,” the stranger said.

“Er… right.” She couldn’t move. He was freaking gorgeous. Broad shoulders, chest wide enough for her to curl up and sleep on. He wore a black shirt, partially unlaced and open at the neck. His torso tapered into leather trousers and calf-high biker boots. Pale hair, the colour of moonlight, was drawn back from his face and fell to his shoulders. Cheekbones she could cut herself on framed a strong jaw and amber eyes. “I’m Darcy, by the way?”

The handsome stranger eyed her speculatively. “Hmmm,” he rumbled.

“I know what you’re thinking, that it’s a boy’s name. Well, it isn’t. Technically it’s only been famously used as a last name, but-” She stopped short. Hot Stranger had turned away from her and was picking up a shovel, presumably to deal with the horse’s tangible response to travelling.

“Guys would literally rather shovel shit than speak to me. Wow,” she muttered, and turned to walk back to her car.

She rounded the truck to find her car where she left it - but not how she left it. Two spotty guys, no more than twenty probably, dressed in cheap nylon tabards were in the process of raiding her trunk. Her art was worth fighting for and she'd be damned if she let them have a scrap of her work. “Not on my watch, douche canoes,” she gritted out.

“Hey, bozos!” She yelled, rushing towards them. One of them looked up and the other one headed straight for her. Darcy knew a moment of fear and put her fists up, ready to defend her art. She had teeth and shoulders and knees and by God, a mom who’d taught her to use them and use them well. “Come and get it, asshat!”

The guy headed right for her stopped short, his mouth forming a perfect O as he looked past her shoulder.

“I.. ah… I…” he stuttered.

His friend looked up too, and dropped Darcy’s expensive bag of art supplies and gold leaf. “Holy shit.”

They ran off, empty handed. It looked as if the shorter one had pissed his pants. Darcy hoped it stained. She turned, surprised, and then her heart fell into her panties.

Hot Stranger stood behind her, looking ready for battle, eyes wild, mouth set in a grim line. His leather-gloved hands wielded a sword almost as tall as Darcy. The sun glinted off the long line of metal, reflecting on the line of little silver rivets sewn into his shirt. He looked like a medieval avenging angel, a knight protecting his maiden (not that Darcy was, in any sense, a maiden), the hero of a fantasy novel, about to storm a castle.

I’d let him storm my castle.

“Er… thanks,” Darcy managed. “I don’t know how to rep-”

“No problem.” He slid the sword into an honest-to-God leather scabbard mounted on his back, and looked at her with those strangely enchanting amber-ringed eyes. Then he nodded as if satisfied, and turned back to his truck. To resume shovelling shit, presumably.

Tagging: @hopelessromanticspoonie @flowerymoonlight @alienemilyyyy @lokimostly

#darcy lewis x geralt of rivia #the witcher fanfic #darcy lewis fic #ship darcy with all the things #who knows why I wrote this

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