#yes geralt is left handed in my mind
Photo
Title: Tonality [4]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics
The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat.
You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.
“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder.
Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?”
Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations.
“You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.
“You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.”
You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.
“No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”
The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand.
“My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple.
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king.
Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.”
You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.
“You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan.
“It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well.
“You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away.
And the dreams…
You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come.
Your father’s rotting face swims before you again.
Sugar sweet—
You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet.
“What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye.
“And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—
“I am apt to know trouble when I see it.”
The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial.
“Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings.
The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee.
“My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother.
“My Queen.”
“Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed.
“Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.”
To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next.
“We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”
Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.”
You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?
“I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.
“A most precious gift.”
“The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes.
“We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship.
“Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter.
Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”
“And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand.
“I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.”
“Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”
“Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure.
“As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—
“I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone.
“The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.”
—
The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom.
“You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky.
“I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder.
“Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.”
“No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully.
“I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.”
“Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?”
You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips.
“O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you.
“How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?”
“Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly.
“Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.
“Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.”
“Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest.
“How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter.
“My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”
“No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?”
“Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong.
“I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”
“And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”
“I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.
“Highness—”
“I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.”
“At once, My Lady.”
You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back.
—
“How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.”
You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them.
“I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling.
“The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow.
“What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt.
“Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.”
“A bird?”
“Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.”
You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself.
You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek.
Your face is wet with tears.
—
Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown.
“I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body.
It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams.
She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.”
“T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.
“Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow.
“What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively.
“A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside.
“Highness? H-His Majesty is here.”
Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods.
“I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild.
“Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you.
“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment.
“Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely.
The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close.
“I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.”
Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth.
The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall.
The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.
She’ll pluck out your eyes.
to be continued…
Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️
#henry cavill#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fic#henry cavill x reader#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt x you#geralt of rivia smut#geralt smut#geralt of rivia imagine#geralt of rivia fanfiction#geralt x y/n#dark fantasy#dark!fic#darkfic#boxofbonesfic#tonality fic
745 notes
·
View notes
Text
Not a man of many words
Summary: Geralt of Rivia isn't a man of many words, luckily words aren't what you need him for.
Content Warnings: smut, cockwarming in a bathtub (yes, IN A BATHTUB), biting, handjob, slights thigh riding/grinding, maybe a few curse words, kissing
A/N: I posted this a long time ago on my old account and I decided it was finally time to bring it back heheh
Word Count: 1500+
It was a quiet night. Soft yellow hues of candlelight surrounded you, as your mind slipped further and further away in the book you were reading.
The day had gone by quick, but it had been tiring nonetheless. You had sold a couple potions, some herbs, and a few flowers and plants too.
The smell of your homemade rosehip tea invaded your senses. You took pride in brewing your own teas and potions here and there. And the people in town paid you good money for your stuff.
You lived in a small village. The house wasn't the most spectacular but you thought it was absolutely perfect. Especially the garden.
You moved to take another sip as you were suddenly startled by a loud knock on your front door, almost making you spill the steaming hot beverage all over the slightly tanned pages of your book.
There was no need to be nervous, you knew exactly who was at the other side of that door. Even if you ever had any company other than him at this hour, you'd still recognize him from that harsh knock alone.
"Can I come in?" was all he asked, as soon as you opened the door and his golden gaze met yours. His voice was even deeper and raspier than you remembered.
He was covered in dirt, sweat and some dark crimson remains of what you guessed were dried blood.
You gave him a sweet look. To everyone else, he might look big and scary, but you could see beyond the broody exterior. And underneath and the blood and dirt and telltale of the emotionless best, you saw a kindhearted man in need of a place to stay.
How could you ever say no to that?
"Of course."
Taking a step back, you allowed the massive man to enter your home once again. No matter how long it had been, you always welcomed him just the same.
"Shall I draw a bath?" You asked. A question you both already knew the answer to.
All you heard was a rumbling "hmm" in agreement as he started dropping his things on your wooden floor and ridding himself of his garments.
You grinned, starting to fill the large tub in the middle of your bathroom with warm water and a mixture of bath salts and healing herbs. It looked more like a small, un-deep pool than anything else to be fair.
"Do you ever smile, Witcher?" you asked as you sat behind him, gently washing his muscular back.
"No." he grumbled, his usual frown still plastered on his forehead.
Slowly, you dragged a soaked piece of cloth over his enormous shoulders, when an idea popped into your head.
The scars that covered his wet skin glistened in the dimly lit room. They looked beautiful, just like any other part of him.
You felt his entire body tense when you pressed your soft lips on his skin. It made you giggle. You moved to kiss his back again, only this time the intimate gesture was followed by the feel of your teeth sinking into the damaged skin.
He hissed, glancing over his shoulder to meet your mischievous gaze.
You grinned at his annoyance, before sweetly soothing your fingers over the fading bite mark you had left.
Yet again, the Witcher stayed quiet. Turning his gaze forward again as he huffed out an aggravated breath.
"Grumpy old man," you whispered, propping your chin on his shoulder to leave a quick nibble on his ear.
Before he could shoot back a response, you wrapped your arms tightly around his torso, pressing your cheek flush against the bulging muscles of his back. You couldn't help but let out a satisfied hum at the feel of his hot skin against your face. This man radiated so much warmth that you were fairly sure if you'd filled the tub with cold water, it would have turned hot from his body heat alone.
Your hands slowly wandered his chest, following the trace of his chest hair all the way down his stomach. They dipped under the surface of the water, finding the treasure between his thighs. You gave him a small squeeze. Even though you couldn't see what was in your hands, you felt how big and needy he was for you. You hummed again. Relishing his warmth.
Intimate moments with Geralt were rare. Not because he wasn't capable of feeling like many people thought, but because he had a hard time expressing his emotions, being vulnerable, and letting people in. In all fairness, no one had ever cared enough about him to take the time. To dig deeper, tear down his walls.
Don't get it wrong, he knew how to fuck. No woman had ever been left unsatisfied by him. No, the fucking wasn't his problem. It was the soft and emotional stuff he had trouble with.
With your face still pressed tightly against his back, you could hear his heartbeat quickening in his chest as you slowly pumped the length of him. Lathering his back with soft kisses and nips. Occasionally grazing your teeth along his scars, nibbling on the sensitive skin until he was rock hard and throbbing in your hand. His rumbling groans vibrated against your cheek, traveling straight to your core.
Your movements were halted by Geralt's large hands wrapping around your wrists. A frown overtook your face, worried that you might have overdone it. But your worries were quickly put at ease as the large man turned around in your grasp, finally facing you and pressing his lips to yours.
It didn't take long for you to cling to him again, snaking your arms under his and wrapping them around his large torso as your legs did the same. You crawled into his lap, the water surrounding your worked in your favor as you half floated against him, linking your ankles around his waist.
Suppressing a chuckle, the Witcher finally spoke up. "Needy much?" he asked with a raised brow, looking down at the beauty that clung to his chest.
His comment didn't make you loosen up in the slightest, quite the opposite in fact. It just made you hold him even tighter, letting him know that you were in fact, needy for him.
"My god, woman! You're going to crack a rib if you hold me any tighter," he grumbled once more.
"Maybe then you'd finally stay a little longer," you mumbled quietly, but he still heard it. Moving his fingers to your face, he slowly lifted your chin up to meet his golden gaze.
A sudden shyness overtook you as you stared up at him, trying to hide your face in the crook of his neck but he stopped you.
There was so much he wanted to say, but you both knew words weren't his strong suit. So he decided to show you instead.
Mimicking your earlier movements, he dipped his head to nibble on your ear, leaving a trail of kisses down your neck to your collarbone. His large hands caressed your skin, everywhere they could reach. When his lips ghosted over your shoulder, he didn't hesitate to sink his fangs into the supple skin, earning a squeal from you.
"OW, you brute! That hurts!"
"Don't like the taste of your own medicine, Princess?" he asked as he kissed over the bruised flesh.
"I just like the taste of you." you breathed, hands wandering down again, eager to please both him and yourself.
Satisfied with the slight growl you got in response, you continued to pump his heavy length until he was throbbing in your grasp.
With his lips still hovering over the exposed skin of your neck, his hot breath left goosebumps in its wake. You were thoroughly soaked, and it wasn't just the deliciously warm water surrounding you. Slick covered your aching core, and you finally couldn't take it anymore.
"please..." you moaned as you ground yourself on his thigh, desperately trying to create some friction. "Geralt please, I need you. Need to feel you...please."
Well if he wasn't hard before, he certainly was now.
"Come here." was all he mumbled out before positioning you on top of his cock, pulling you down with ease, he slowly slid inside of you and you happily welcomed him.
You let out a sigh and he let out a groan, slowly sliding down his length until you were fully seated on him and you felt him, all of him, throbbing tightly inside of you.
Your eyes locked and there was a long beat of complete silence. The two of you just stayed like that for a while. Gazing in each others eyes, basking in warmth and unspoken adoration. The sweet smell of the bath salts lingered around, tangling with the faint scent of sweat.
You didn't dare to move, afraid to lose this intimate moment with him. But as you stared into his eyes, you were relieved to see a look of reassurance, telling you he didn't want to move either.
Geralt tipped his head slightly to press a long, slow kiss to your lips.
"hmm, I missed you." you sighed once he pulled away to take a breath. Your eyes fluttered open again and for the first time, you were greeted with a dopey smile.
"You do smile." You grinned at him.
"Only when I'm truly happy," he stated, and with that, he conquered the last piece of your heart, making you entirely his, 'til the end of time.
Taglist;
@metalbuckaroo
@princessayveke
@montsepliego
@scxrletrecsmarvel
@hopelesslyrogers
@eclecticpatrolroadlawyer
@tfandtws
@vicmc624
@ahahafudge
@enchantedbarnes
@wickedravyn
@pono-pura-vida
@amayaraestyles
@matchat3a
@fictional-hooman
@sebastianexplicit
#gummydummy19#fanfiction#fluff#smut#geralt of rivia fluff#geralt fanfic#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia smut#the witcher#the witcher smut#the witcher fluff#biting#teasing#bathing#henry cavill moodboard#henry cavill fanfiction#the witcher fanfiction
614 notes
·
View notes
Note
ahhhh Accidentally admitting that the other is really pretty, leading to both of them getting very flustered with Geraskier 🥰
Jaskier was not, nor would he ever be, jealous of a horse. Because that would be quite ridiculous, right? Silly, really. And no one in their right mind would ever attribute either of those things to him.
He was a very serious man. Definitely.
So no. He was not jealous of Roach. Even if Geralt had spent a good portion of the past hour doting on her, talking softly to her, brushing her down and sneaking her treats. All while he had been ignoring Jaskier's attempts at conversation. Granted, those attempts had included ranting about Valdo Marx, going off about the merrits of certain rhyme schemes and planning his outfit for the next ball he wanted to attend.
So maybe those hadn't been the most engaging topics for Geralt. Still. He could have at least given Jaskier one of those exasperated yet fond looks that Jaskier had grown so fond of. If he was being honest, those looks were the main reason why he talked endlessly about topics he knew were of no interest to Geralt.
But today Geralt had the audacity to ignore Jaskier completely in favour of Roach.
"You're the best," Geralt told Roach, as he combed her mane with his fingers. "Loyal and brave."
Jaskier's eyelid twitched.
"And now your coat is all clean again too. Your the prettiest horse in all the Continent again -"
"Yes, yes, we all get it!" Jaskier threw his hands up. "She's the perfect companion for you. Just as loyal and brave and pretty as you are. No need to rub it under my nose that she's a better companion than me."
Geralt looked at him, stunned. He stopped patting Roach and turned fully towards him.
"What?"
"Oh, come on. You've been going on about how great she is. Clearly, you're trying to tell me -"
"You think I'm pretty?" Geralt asked quietly and oh. Ohhh no. Oh fuck.
Jaskier felt himself flush.
"Uh... Well, I mean..." He stammered and trailed off into an awkward smile. "Nevermind." Abrubtly, he turned away and pretended to be very busy tuning his lute. "Just. Continue doting on her. Don't let me distract you. Just - ignore me."
He glanced at Geralt, mostly to see if his brilliant and subtle deflection had worked and - oh.
There it was. That look of fond exasperation.
Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. He watched with bated breath as a shy smile spread over Geralt's lips. Ever so reluctantly, Geralt turned his attention back to Roach.
As he picked up where he had left off and patted her on the neck, he said just loud enough that Jaskier could hear, "You know Roach, you and Jaskier really are the best companions I could ask for. You're both so loyal, brave and pretty."
#Thank you for the prompt!#Geraskier#Roach#Jaskier#Geralt#Sorry I might be slightly tipsy#So yeah idk how many mistakes there are in this#Or if it makes any sense#Also I wrote 5his on my phone so there's that too#My writing#Witcher
395 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Tavern Maid
I'm tempted to turn this into a (short) series if people are interested?
This is based off a cliched prompt from this list:
Help me I'm being hit on a bar, please pretend to be my fake boyfriend for a second.
Summary: Jaskier comes to your aid when some elves in your brother's tavern get a little too handsy for your liking.
Word Count: 1300~
Warnings: I mean, the elf is handsy and tries to proposition reader.
It was a usual shift at the tavern. Which, for you, meant that some patrons were getting a bit too handsy for your liking. You would never understand why people assumed that because you worked there that you'd like their advances. Quite frankly, you didn't give a fuck about tips, and you were only working here to help out your brother because his usual server (his wife) had just had a baby and he was short staffed. Still, this crowd was raucous. There was a group of dwarves in the corner, louder than most, but the real problem were the elves, with their wandering hands, blaming it on the fact that they were so much quicker than you and therefore unused to having to dance around a slow human.
You could feel the vein in your forehead throbbing as you scrubbed the sticky remnants of mead from the bar. You couldn't wait to go back to your house, take a scalding hot bath to burn off the unwanted ick that their gazes left on your skin.
A bard was strumming a tune in the corner, pulling most of the patrons into his performance. It was a nice, jaunty tune. Something about tossing a coin to a witcher. Now, there was a right beast, that. Witchers with their golden eyes and wild temperaments. You'd only ever met one, with his snow white hair. He'd been tracking some manner of a beast straight through your father's farm, and he actually seemed to care about the damage the beast had done to your father's crops. Some Geralt of Rivia or something like that. Hadn't seen him in years, but the bard's tune brought him right back to you as if he were standing in front of you.
You wished he were. Maybe he'd do something to deter the elves. One of them, the one with the sneer and tight braid was elbowing the man next to him, gesturing with his head towards you. Great. You were about to be propositioned. He smirked at his friend, nodding vigorously before downing the rest of his ale and making his way towards the bar. You clocked it, and were hoping to avoid it, already rounding the bar to see to another patron.
Like the elves said, you were so much slower than them. His hand was on your hip, turning you into his chest. "Now, lass, where are you going?"
Clearing your throat, you attempted to push away, "I have a job to do."
He grinned down at you, drinking in your discomfort as his hand trailed lower, dangerously close to your ass. "I'm sure they can wait a bit."
"I suppose they can, but I'm sure my husband wouldn't approve of whatever you have in mind."
He laughed. "What husband?"
Damn that elf, seeing through your bluff. You spotted the bard taking a seat at the bar and nodded towards him. "That husband. Right, dear?" you asked, directing the question to the bard to get his attention. You'd said it rather loudly. You mouthed 'help' to him as the elf turned to address the bard.
"Is this one yours?" the elf asked, pulling you against his chest, his hand high up on your waist and his thumb dangerously close to the underside of your breast. You grimaced.
"Yes, that lady happens to be my wife, and I would appreciate if you'd take your grubby hands off her," he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand towards you.
You gripped his hand, your palms sweaty and allowed him to pull you into him. "Thank you," you murmured. He smelled of smoke and sage.
His hand cupped your cheek. "Are you alright, dear heart?"
He was good. Then again, as a performer, you weren't that surprised.
"I do apologize," the elf said, backing away. "I didn't realize she was spoken for."
The bard wrapped a protective arm around you. "Even if she wasn't, Sir, no means no. She shouldn't have to say it in elvish for you to understand." His tone was ice and he stared the elf down until he slunk back to his table, tail between his legs. He passed his mug to you. "Here, take a sip."
You raised a brow, but accepted it. It wasn't what you were expecting, the first sip coating your tongue with a warm mix of cinnamon and clove.
"It's a tea I got from a druid. It's supposed to help your voice and calm nerves," he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You can stop acting," you told him, handing him back his mug. You dug around in your pocket for a coin, trying to discreetly hand it to him for his trouble. "For your witcher," you teased.
He folded your hand back around the coin. "You don't have to pay me for doing the right thing," he said with a soft smile. "Somehow, I feel like I'd do so much more than merely this for you if you'd asked, dear heart."
His hand stroked the back of yours and you took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He was handsome, with short chestnut brown hair that swept across his forehead. But, it was his eyes that had you trapped in your place. They were the most beautiful blue you'd ever seen. You'd never been to the ocean, but you were sure in your soul that it would pale in comparison to the color of his eyes. You rested a tentative hand on his puffy shirt shoulder, feeling the way it deflated under the weight of your hand. He wasn't built with bulky strength like the witcher. He was lean, but you could still feel the taut strength of muscle under the fabric.
"My name is Jaskier," he told you.
You told him your name and he frowned slightly. "What's the matter?" you asked.
"'Dear Heart' suits you so much more," he said, the corner of his lips pulling up ever so slightly.
"No one else has ever called me that," you said, feeling your cheeks burn.
"Good," he grinned. "I want to be the only one."
"And will you write songs about me?" you teased.
"No," he admitted. Your smile started to slide from your face, so he quickly added, nodding back towards the elf. "I don't want to share you."
You swallowed, realizing that you'd been neglecting your patrons for a while. You started to pull away from him. "I should get back to work."
He grabbed your hand, holding it to his chest. "When are you done?"
"In about an hour," you replied.
"Would you mind if I walk you home?" he asked, stroking your hand.
"Why would a wife mind her husband walking her home?" you said with a smirk. "And, I suppose..." you said, tapping your chin in thought. You couldn't help yourself, he was so handsome and you were hoping he was feeling whatever was sparking between the two of you here and wanted to explore it, too. "There are some other things that husbands and wives do once they're home that I wouldn't mind, either."
His eyebrows raised into his hairline at that.
"U-unless that was too forward," you stammered.
He kissed the palm of your hand. "No, Dear Heart, you're right. We must do our duties." He winked. He held your hand until you pulled out far from his reach, and then he watched you the rest of the night, stepping in to give you a hand with carrying things if a customer started to get to handsy, reminding them that you were 'married' and therefore off limits.
At the end of the night you waited for him to pack up his things and fetch his lute from the table he'd turned into his makeshift stage. He came over, lute slung across his back, and dramatically offered you his arm. "Milady."
"M'lord," you said with a laugh, sliding your arm though his. You pulled him through town towards your house, marveling at how normal it felt to be like this with Jaskier.
42 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi! Do you have any favourite recovery fics??? Like Buck recovering from any one of his mishaps (or Anthony Bridgerton, or Matt Casey, or Mike Warren, etc) where they cover the process (the part that shows always skip where in one ep things are absolutely fucked and in the next they’re absolutely fine I’m looking at you and your rebar 9-1-1)
Thanks!!!
I have a TON of good recovery fics. Recovery fics are some of my favorite things to read! Especially really long ones where the character is recovering from a trauma. If you don't mind other fandoms I've got a ton of recovery fics to rec. Not a lot for Anthony Bridgerton or Mike Warren in terms of recovery fics for canon whump sadly. Actually there's not a lot of recovery fics for them period. But I hope some of these other ones will sate you!
The Witcher:
Hold On by CaptainRex_ika
It has been months since that day on the mountain, a day that left Jaskier alone.
Now, he finds himself a captive of Nilfgaard, who just want Geralt and that child surprise of his, and they believe Jaskier is the way to get the White Wolf's attention.
After all, he is known as the Witcher's Bard.
Jaskier believes that this time Geralt won't come for him...not after that day.
warming of a heart by Alexlively88
tws: A/B/O, past rape/non con, abortion/discussion of abortion, rape recovery
Killing a rusalka is just a normal day in Geralt's life. It's just his job. What isn't his job is rescuing abused omegas. He does it anyway.
Or, Jaskier is done with life. To his disappointment, life isn't done with him just yet.
If You Ask Me for My Fire (Just Watch Me Burn) by DigitalSaiyan
tws: past rape/non con, rape/noncon, rape recovery,
Jaskier has zero intention of sharing the degrading experience of getting tortured. Ever. He’ll bury the memories and someday they’ll be as scabbed over as Caingorn was.
Which had been completely, absolutely, fine. And the only reason that wound is bleeding a little now is because Geralt came out of nowhere—after the most humiliating experience of his entire life—and reopened it. But that’s fine because he’ll leave and return to the terror of his smuggling work and forget about Geralt all over again. There's nothing hard drink and the constant danger of execution won’t get his mind off.
There’s something therapeutic about fearing for one’s life that makes anything not of immediate concern go away. So yes, things were just fine before Geralt showed up.
Two years post-Caingorn, Geralt rescues Jaskier from jail and sends him with Ciri to Kaer Morhen. However, Geralt starts to suspect Jaskier is hiding serious trauma.
Panic Attacks by AllTheQueensHorses
Jaskier, captured by Nilfgaard and tortured for weeks, has panic attacks because no one knows where he is and no one is coming to rescue him.
Basically a giant whump fic with plenty of angst and hurt but no comfort until later.
Trigger warnings throughout the whole story for panic attacks.
Broken by GonEwiththeWolveS
In which Geralt finds out Jaskier was tortured.
Or, the self-indulgent hurt/comfort fic.
What am I, if not a bard? by Mi_chan
Geralt knows something happened to Jaskier. He doesn't know the details, but he knows he needs to do something to help the bard.
Jaskier is stubborn and refuses to talk to him. Geralt doesn't give up that easily, though.
~ Since the series totally downplayed Jaskier's trauma, here's the fix. The bard is hurting, he's scared and doesn't know what to do with himself, but Geralt is there, acknowledging his pain. ~
an incessant burning by 1derspark
“Jaskier,” Geralt prompted after a while. “Can you look at me?”
He shook his head and hoped that his mumbled "no" would be heard.
Geralt sighed but didn’t try to move him. His hand was running a comforting trail up and down Jaskier’s back. Eventually, he spoke again.
“Yen, she told me some things, but I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, and Jaskier could hear him swallow. A click of guilt in the throat. He reached over to Jaskier’s arm. When he didn’t startle or protest
Geralt took his arm. He rubbed a gentle finger over the wax burn. It was a barely-there thing, nothing to get all riled up about. But even having his arm exposed made Jaskier want to crawl into a hole.
(Or Jaskier’s newfound aversion to fire, and the comfort he deserves.)
Hand in Trembling Hand by PenAndInkPrincess
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers at last. Geralt shifts so he can look at him. “I’m sorry I’m…like this, now.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
(Jaskier has a hard path to walk while he's healing. Geralt and Yennefer help him with this part.)
Ted Lasso:
an excess of warmth or coldness by bartonbones
When Jamie is seriously injured during a match, Roy and Ted are reminded how much they care about him--as a son, or as a younger brother, or as an exposed nerve. Jamie is reminded what it's like to have people care when his face gets knocked in.
Lemons and Lavender by LivingProof
He peels his eyes open. Shit, they really must be giving him the good stuff, cause he could swear he knows that dark figure lurking in the doorway, where his old man came in a few minutes ago. He blinks a few times, waiting for it to vanish. It doesn’t.
“Roy?” he croaks.
He blinks again, and Roy…or whoever…is standing beside him, 'cept Jamie still can’t tell, cause he can only see his back, cause whoever it is isn’t looking at Jamie, he’s looking across the room. Towards that window. At Jamie’s dad.
“The fuck do you fucking think you’re fucking doing here?”
Yeah. That’s Roy.
Barn Raising by altschmerzes
After the locker room disaster in Manchester, Roy drives Jamie home. The chaos they find when they arrive at the house swiftly proves it is not a safe place to spend the night, forcing a change of plans and a reroute to Roy’s own home.
The following day Jamie experiences, in this order:
The most bewildering breakfast of his life, a penalty kick clinic with a seven-year-old, and an overwhelming display from his teammates that brings him face to face with the fact that not only has he been accepted back in Richmond it’s also possible he might be, in a way he can’t remotely process or understand, loved here.
The Same Story by altschmerzes
It would've been traumatic enough for Jamie's father to ruin Richmond's most recent victory in front of the whole team, but when the confrontation turns violent in front of a gaggle of reporters, the ensuing social media firestorm is even worse. Over the next two and a half weeks, Jamie will have to navigate the charges against his father, walk a gauntlet of publicity that he never asked for, and prepare to give the interview of a lifetime.
Sandman
Bones Don't Rust by not_whelmed_yet
The same capture & rescue fic everyone has written, but playing off two ideas:
- I wanted to see Dream’s physical recovery take long enough that he could begin his mental/emotional recovery before heading back to the Dreaming
- There’s a lot of ways to hurt an anthropomorphic entity without taking them out of their snowglobe
I will find you in your dreams by Salmaka
A story where Dream, confused and weak from his time in isolation doesn't make it back to the Dreaming but ends up in Hob's house instead.
To Learn to Breathe Again by ironlin
Upon returning back to the Dreaming, Dream finds himself struggling. Thankfully, Lucienne is there to help.
9-1-1
To Be Loved by Scribbles97
Buck knew he was spiralling, that the dread that had been shadowing him since leaving the hospital should have left when the doctor had given him the all clear. Yet, he can't help but feel like he's still missing something.
Eddie hadn't been able to give him the answers, but maybe Bobby could. Calm, dependable, reassuring, Bobby always had the answers and helped him through stuff.
Goosebumps by Princessfbi
Everyone kept telling Buck he was supposed to rest, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to do that when the cold was an incessant prickling under his skin.
Five Times Buck Struggled to Stay Warm After Being Struck By Lightning and Put Into A Coma and One Time He Didn't.
Don't (Wanna) Know Who I Am by altschmerzes
Buck takes a nasty fall out on a job, and when he wakes up, he can't remember anything. Not what happened, not who the people in his hospital room are, not even his own name. The next two weeks he spends being passed from house to house every few days, Chimney, Hen, and Bobby taking turns keeping an eye on him while he tries to remember his life.
The way back is slow and hard, and begs the question - who actually is Evan Buckley, and is he someone worth remembering? (Luckily, the rest of the 118 is there with an answer, if not to the first question, then at least to the second.)
Once Upon A Time
puppet strings by bewilderedmoth
Having technically died on more than one occasion now, having finally put all that trauma behind him and settled down in Storybrooke, August had hoped his troubles were long gone. When Gold returns to town in his quest to find the Author, hopes of a trouble free life in the sleepy town crumble away to dust.
(A whumpy re-write of August's torture in S4, Ep 16. Set within the 'mess is mine' universe, but not actually canon to that AU)
they are mine by Lil_Redhead
Killian is still trying to deal with his emotional pain after returning from the underworld and all he needs is a motherly touch. Takes place after 5B season finale.
Unforgotten by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable
Killian went through so much in his centuries of life, especially in the Underworld. Nightmares were to be expected. This is canon-compliant with my Undefeated story, and it will eventually be a part of a larger collection of works dealing with the aftermath of everything he's survived, and some he didn't.
You can take the boys out of Neverland by WinkyCutto
The Lost Ones don't like having to live by the rules and Henry and his family are about to find out that bringing them back to Storybrooke may not have been the best idea... Hook whump galore, you have been warned.
Superman & Lois
Path to Recovery by Beth4LC
It’s been a month since Clark lost his powers and there are still no clear answers to when he’ll get them back. In the meantime, he focuses on connecting with the members of his family.
Powerless by Beth4LC
Clark is home and recovering after Ally’s near-fatal attack, and he starts to adjust to his new reality.
Lucifer
Deal by hearmerory
Chloe didn't spend five years being best friends with the Devil just to let him go back to Hell. But recovery? Relationships? These are not things Lucifer has ever found easy.
In the weeks after Lucifer's return from Hell, he and the humans, angels and demons who surround him find out how long, hard and traumatic those roads can be.
Crystals by OkamiShadou98
After seeing Lucifer's scars, Chloe searches for the truth about her partner and his shadowed past. In doing so, she comes face to face with the psychological demons he shields himself from. Recovery is a long, twisted road for the Devil and his Detective. Eventual Deckerstar.
The Man From Uncle:
Agents, Missions, and Hospitals by Tallihensia
Getting hurt on a mission is enough to make a partner’s blood run cold. The aftermath and recovery, though, is almost as bad. Caring and trust makes it better.
The Martian:
Waiting in the Sky by midnightradio
Mark is back on the Hermes but getting rescued isn't quite as easy as it seemed. Fighting for your life is easy, but living with what you had to do to survive is harder.
I Win, Mars by chuckisgod
You didn't just have to save him. You have to put him back together, too.
Ares 3 was in time to save Mark's life, but not quite his mind. The Hermes has hundreds of days of space travel before they all get back to Earth. It's a ship running without maintenance, and the primary engineer has the world's most severe case of PTSD. What happens? Canon-compliant.
Just Keep Going by chuckisgod
"And this is how this story ends. The story of Mark Watney is the story of a man who was stranded on Mars, and instead of giving up he did everything he could to make it back to Earth, because that's the point."
What would being abandoned on an entire planet do to someone? A window into Mark's emotional state on Mars. A sincere attempt to stay true to the real-life health effects of solitary isolation.
Life on Earth by watneykingofmars
A series of drabbles and one-shots about Mark Watney readjusting to life on earth.
Avatar the Last Airbender:
Hearth and Home by lets_support_frogs
After his Agni Kai, Zuko flees the Fire Nation without Iroh or his crew. He finds himself stranded, alone, and injured in the Earth Kingdom when taken in and raised as a healer and farmer by an Earth Kingdom couple. He finds new ways to use his bending and to influence in the changing of the war with new understanding of himself, his bending, and the war. As someone with new perspectives and influence he is able to provide a greater understanding of being a teacher, warrior, and friend when meeting the gaang.
or
Where Zuko gets to recover before using anger to protect himself when he is adopted by a nice Earth Kingdom family
#fic recs#whump#recovery#fanfics#mod's fic recs#mod replies#ask#mod post#i know i'm forgetting some but i'm going blank again#i read too many fics lol
107 notes
·
View notes
Text
I'm playing TW1 again and I have thoughts about this tiny little sequence in the Chapter 2 quest "Memories of a Blade", which amounts to the only mention of Coën in the game.
When undertaking this quest, Geralt is investigating the origin of the silver sword he was given to slay a cockatrice; he mistakenly believes that it might be Berengar's sword since he knows the other witcher to have been in the area. A conversation with Thaler, from whom the sword was confiscated by the guard, will lead him eventually to speak to the Gardener outside St. Lebioda's hospital in Vizima. This man used to be a mercenary under Pretty Kitty, but has since retired and works as a gardener, and had lost the silver sword at dice poker. When interacted with, he will begin any conversation with "Look how they grow!", referring to the plants in his garden. The player can then initiate the quest dialogue with option one, "I'm more interested in silver swords".
GERALT: I'm more interested in silver swords.
GARDENER: I knew one of you would come by eventually.
GERALT: You lost it playing dice?
GARDENER: I was sure I'd win. Beware, the sharp one plays well.
GERALT: Where did you get this sword?
GARDENER: Five years ago, there was a battle near Brenna. When the dust had settled, our men had beaten the Nilfgaardians. We ceased to call ourselves an imperial province that day.
GERALT: You captured the sword during the battle?
GARDENER: Yes, it was witcher Cöen's [sic]. A strapping fellow and a rare breed. Not very talkative, mind you.
GERALT: Like most of us.
GARDENER: I gave my word the sword would find another witcher. As he lay dying, he mumbled about teeth and destiny. Then he laughed -- at his own death.
GERALT: Yet you lost it gambling?
GARDENER: I kept it hidden for five years. I lost hope I'd ever run into another witcher. Miss Shani knew Cöen [sic]. She works at the hospital.
GERALT: Thanks.
GARDENER: Good luck on the path!
The quest will lead you to speak with Shani, then Zoltan, but neither will provide further information on Coën, aside from Shani mentioning that he died on her operating table -- Shani's dialogue is to provide her backstory as a medic at Brenna and to mention Rusty, and Zoltan simply assesses the quality of the blade to ensure that it is a witcher blade of good workmanship. It has no further significance to Geralt, who, without his memory, has no idea who Coën is and has more pressing matters to deal with than to look into the past of a man who died five years ago (according to the somewhat off-kilter game timeline, anyway). But it's the only mention of Coën in the games, and I find that it's a very interesting way to manifest his presence.
I think it is reasonable to tie Coën quite closely to his sword on a symbolic level, if one considers his appearance in the novels where he not only trains with Ciri, but his prowess with a sword is unrivaled even by the other witchers to the point where she believes that he may be the best swordsman in the world. Additionally, the fact that he fought at Brenna at all means that he offered his sword in the service of the Northern Kingdoms, and when he dies, he is identified by his peers as a "master swordsman" rather than as a witcher, despite the fact that they know of his nature. As such, Coën's sword is a very important possession for him to leave behind.
And from there, there is a connection to Lambert, left unsaid. To go beyond the simple fact that Coën was Lambert's friend, someone dearly loved who was close enough with Lambert and his family to get on with the other wolves and stay a winter at Kaer Morhen, the importance lies with the sword. As with any witcher, Coën wouldn't have much in the way of worldly possessions to bequeath onto someone else in the event of his prophecied death. But he does have his swords, which are established as symbolically important to him. A steel sword could be taken up by any warrior capable enough to use it, but a silver sword belongs in the hands of a witcher, and that is what Coën asked for on his deathbed, for his silver sword to be given to another witcher. While it's very possible that this is meant in a general way, that he just wanted any other witcher to take it up, to avoid the sword being wasted, broken, or dismantled for its composite parts, it also strikes me as possible that he could have intended it for a specific witcher.
Lambert is one of the instructors for Ciri when she's first learning the swordplay and acrobatics associated with being a witcher. Lambert is the one in the first game to provide the instructional descriptions of the Fighting Styles for Geralt to regain his swordplay competencies after losing his memories. And there is another bit of dialogue in TW3 that really emphasises both Lambert's connection to Vesemir, the swordmaster of Kaer Morhen, and the idea of swords as inheritance, as a manifestation of closeness:
LAMBERT: Knew the old man couldn't live forever. Huh, even told Eskel that when it came time, I'd get his sword. Fits my hand perfectly, you know.
Which is a heartbreaking notion in and of itself upon which I could expostulate, the symbolism there in the fraught relationship between Lambert and his father figure reduced to something as simple as a hilt that fits two hands perfectly. But if this is the inheritance that Lambert wants, it makes it all the more pertinent that Coën desperately wanted his silver sword to make it into the hands of another witcher. Lambert, the son of a swordmaster, wants to take on a sword as a memento of someone he has lost, and Coën, the master swordsman, left his sword behind. Even if Lambert were not the specific intended target of the sword, he would have possibly or even likely known Coën well enough to fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be.
And yet Coën's sword never makes it home or into the hands of someone who would value it, like Lambert would, this last memory of his dear friend. Geralt makes use of the sword during his time in Vizima, and then it is lost, replaced by the gifted Aerondight. And so Coën is lost with it, never mentioned again.
#rambles#the witcher#the witcher games#lambert#coën of poviss#shoutout to the dog that wandered through some of these screenshots what a good boy#anyway i am back on my tw1 bullshit#coën my beloved#it makes me so sad that he's never mentioned again#especially with the creation of aiden in tw3#like#lambert has already done this#he has already found a good man that he considers a dear friend#and then lost him brutally#and yet they don't mention coën at all in 'following the thread'???#wack#like geralt knows this about lambert#he knew coën too#and yet there is not even the slightest reference#i mean in tw1 it makes sense for geralt to not lend much significance to the name of a dead witcher#he has no memory of coën#but by tw3???#he has his memory back he must remember#and to join lambert on his revenge quest for aiden#where lambert has again lost someone very dear to him and does not have anything by which to remember him#there is no reference at all to the fact that two years ago geralt literally owned coën's sword#i mean i get that they might not want to be so specific because like seven people total have played tw1#but at least mention my boy coën#come on#as an aside i do think it is nice that even though coën is barely mentioned he is remembered fondly
69 notes
·
View notes
Text
Biting- Geralt x Vampire!Reader
Description: Your friend Geralt helps to quench more than just your thirst for blood
Word count: 1,673
A snarl sounded deep from your throat, and hissed passed your fanged teeth as Geralt tried to approach you once again.
“I just want to help you, y/n.” He explained gruffly, as he sat back down on the rough ground of the dark cave with a huff.
“A Witcher wanting to help a monster. Seems to go totally against what you are.” You smirk over to your friend, a joke you often make at his expense.
It was rare, if not totally unheard of, for a Witcher to befriend a monster, and yet that’s exactly what happened with yourself and Geralt.
He’d one day been tasked to hunt and kill you, but after finding out that you had only attacked that town because of the vile men that lived within it, he decided to spare you.
Most of your kind feasted on easy prey, innocent people who can’t defend themselves. You decided long ago to use your need for blood to help defend those innocent people, only going after those who deserve it.
“You know with how old you are and how long we’ve been friends, you think you would have thought of a better joke.” He chuckles deeply at you.
“And I would have thought with how old you are, you would have grasped the concept of ‘no’ by now.” You snap back at your friend.
Your head rested against the cave wall as you closed your eyes, trying hard not to focus on the sound of Geralts heartbeat, or his intoxicating smell. It had been too long since you had fed and you were starting to notice. Geralt had offered to let you drink from him, but you couldn’t hurt him.
Geralt had spent the last hour trying to convince you to drink from him, whereas you had spent that time convincing yourself that it was his blood you craved and not the way his skin would feel against your body. Geralt was a friend and you couldn’t cross that boundary with him, no matter how badly you craved to.
You must have been focusing a lot harder then you thought, because the next minute you felt Geralts hand on yours. As your eyes flung open, they glared into the witchers eyes.
The deep red of your eyes and the dangerous look you wore would normally scare anyone, but not Geralt. In fact if anything, it made him more bold. His hand left the top of yours as it made its way slowly up your arm, to gently cup around your neck.
It felt as though you were paralysed, locked in place by his intoxicating scent. Your rational and animalistic mind fighting a battle of wills as his head bent down to whisper in your ear.
“I can smell that it is more than just my blood that you crave.” Geralt whispered seductively in your ear, his other hand now rubbing up and down your inner thigh.
Your self control was bending but not broken, that was until he began to press hot and deep kisses onto your sensitive neck. With feel of his intoxicating kisses on your sensitive skin, and his scent so close, your control fully snapped and you became ravenous.
Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, you pushed him against wall, landing aggressively in his lap as you now straddle his large thighs. With a hand in his hair, you pull his head back to expose his strong neck.
Geralt knew that in your hungry and desperate state that you’d be stronger than him, and honestly he seemed to like it.
“Is this what you wanted, Witcher? Wanted me to lose my composure? To hurt you?” You growled closely in his ear, accentuating your point by tugging at his hair harder and beginning to grind into his lap.
“Yes.” He sighed out, a cheeky smile both in his voice and on his face.
“Are you sure?” You ask seductively, but also as a way to really check this is what he wanted, as you sharp fangs began to lightly trace his neck.
“Mhmmm, I trust you, y/n.” He confirmed breathlessly.
Trying to prove his point or maybe just to get you to hurry up, he put one hand on your ass, to guide your grinding. Whereas the other carded through your hair, pushing your face closer to his neck.
Chuckling into his neck at his obvious excitement and mutual arousal, you began to lightly lick and kiss his neck, wanting to tease him for as long as you could.
With both of your heightened senses, you could both smell just how desperate the two of you were. The strong scent of his arousal and the delicious blood pumping through his body was driving you half mad, but you could hold off just a little longer if it meant teasing the Witcher.
“Y/N, stop teas-“ Geralt was promptly cut off as your fangs bit into his neck.
The feeling of your hot bodies pressed together and the delicious blood finally reaching your mouth, made a fire erupt all through out your body. Once that first drop touched your tongue it was all over.
Your whole arm wrapped around Geralts head, pushing it into your breasts as you began to hump and grind against his growing impressive bulge. You were like a woman possessed, pushing yourself further against him, not being able to get close enough to his body for your liking.
Finally breaking away from his neck, you let out a desperate moan as you began licking and pecking at his wound. You were fed but it still wasn’t enough.
Grabbing him by his white hair once again, you push his head back and away from your breast. Now looking at his face, you see it set in a dazed and dopey smile, hooded eyes looking into yours.
“So tell me, Witcher. Did you just want me to drink your blood or did you want to help me with my other cause of desperation too.” You whispered hotly against his lips, teasing him with an almost kiss.
“Well that’s what friends are for.” He smirks at you.
His once and usual manly stoic look was now wiped away, and instead a lust drunk smile of a boy takes its place. Geralt would not give up control to anyone, but in this cave and with you, it felt like there was no better way.
Smirking and looking into his eyes, you hungrily capture his lips in a searing kiss. The kiss was hungry and desperate, his hands digging into your ass as you begin to unbutton his trousers to release his hard and desperate cock.
Freeing his cock and pulling away to stand up, leaves him grunting in protest.
“So you don’t want me to ride your cock then?” You taunt him as smirk cheekily, beginning to undress yourself.
Geralt quickly began to behave as he watched your little show you began to put on him for him. Each item of clothing revealing more skin that Geralt desperately wanted to lick, kiss and touch.
“Yeh that’s what I thought.” You wink as you straddle his lap once again.
Taking his impressive cock in your hand, you stroke him a few times before lining yourself up with him.
Geralts head is pushed against and the cave wall and his eyes are closed, enjoying every ounce of pleasure that you’re giving him.
“Look at me, Geralt. I want to see your face as I sink down onto your cock.” You gently order, shifting your hips to tease his sensitive head.
Peeling away from the wall, his eyes look both desperately and hungrily into your own. Both begging you to use him and asserting his dominance all at once.
“Good boy.” You cheekily coo as you begin to sink down onto his cock.
You both seem to moan in unison as you hold each others gaze, both of you being filled with immediate pleasure and relief. It takes a moment to get used to his size, but once you are and you’ve properly bottom out, you begin to move immediately.
Grinding into him quickly turns into bouncing, causing Geralts hands to fly to your breasts. He groans as he takes one in his mouth and his other grabs at your ass.
You continue to bounce and use his cock for your own pleasure, drawing moans from both of you. Geralt feels blessed to be used in such a way by such a beautiful woman. His mind filled with nothing but how tight your pussy feels and how good your tits feel in his hand and mouth.
The cave is filled with both of your mixed moans and grunts. The sound of skin slapping onto skin getting louder and louder and you bounce faster and faster.
Pulling Geralt away from your breasts by his hair, you place his hands on your hips. His strong fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as your breasts bounce deliciously in his face, leaving him staring at your form, hypnotised by your beauty and power.
“Fuck! Geralt! You feel so good! Such a good fucking boy.” You praise as your fingers come down to play with your clit.
Geralt can’t help the way his moans become almost animalistic, as your pussy clenches around his cock. Grunts and groans leave his beautiful parted lips and echo around the cave as you both reach your end.
“Fuck, Geralt, I’m so close!”
“Me too. Fuck! Cum with me, sweetheart.” He grunts out in response.
You were wound so tight and from just those words alone, you couldn’t hold on much longer. The tension in you snapped as you came with a loud roaring moan, your head flying back.
Geralt took a tighter hold of your hips as he thrust into you powerfully, finishing only seconds after you.
Panting deeply with sweat covering both of you, you push your forehead against his as you both catch your breath.
“Maybe I should come to you when I’m thirsty more often.”
#Geralt#Geralt x reader#Geralt imagine#Geralt of rivia#Geralt of rivia imagine#Geralt of rivia x reader#the Witcher#the Witcher imagine
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
Feral Instincts Ch.9
Pairing: The Rogue's Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)
WC 1224
Warnings: (non-explicit) group sex times in the woods, (explicit) shower sexy times. other than that, nothing major
@mclsquared , @brattymum96 , @ouroboros113 , @peaches1958 , @summersong69 , @eldarwen333 , @omgkatinka , @identity2212 , @lucypaulette , @teamfan7asy , @ms-betsy-fangirl ,@pagina16ps , @enchantedbytomandhenry , @foxyjwls007 , @nofoolywang , @margauxmargaux07 , @mrsevans90 , @ilikemilkchocolateh @peyton-warren , @lizzystuffsthings , @raccoon-eyed-rebel , @km-ffluv , @cavilllover , @deandoesthingstome , @write-r-die , @livisss , @miss-rebel-without-applause , @kebabgirl67
Some kind of restraint snapped in them at the revelation and they took turns with her, Geralt first, then August, then Sy, then Walter. She welcomed them with open arms, clinging to them as their bodies moved in hers, her eyes rolling back as they filled her. Their kisses were possessive but passionate, taking her mouth as skillfully as they took her body.
She lost count how many times they brought her to shattering climax, how many times they spilled themselves inside her, their teeth latched onto her shoulder. All she could feel was them, in her body, her mind.
The sun had risen by the time they were sated and they shed their skin for fur, Stephanie following them back to the cabin. The front door opened as they approached, Mike looking exhausted as he was probably up all night waiting for them and she felt a twinge of guilt. She went up to him, pressing against him and running her body along his.
"Steph?" He asked, running his hand along her fur. "Holy shit, you're gorgeous, sweetcheeks." She nuzzled under his palm before pulling away from him and heading up the stairs.
The shower was more than needed as she washed the forest and their carnal activities from her skin. The claw marks on her arm had completely vanished, nothing but an unmarred expanse left behind.
"Mike." She whispered and heard his sharp intake of breath from his room, heard him get off his bed, the bathroom door opening a moment later.
"Sweetcheeks?" He asked.
"Come here." She said simply and heard him take off his clothes, the shower curtain pulling back briefly as he joined her. He stared down at her with dark eyes as her hands ran over his chest, moving over the muscle she found there before she held his hips, pulling him closer and making him gasp.
"You're not an Omega, are you." He already knew the answer, could feel it.
"No." She said, shaking her head.
"What do you want, my Alpha?" He asked, his voice carrying a kind of reverence he didn't have for the others.
"You." She said simply, "I want you." Holding the back of her neck, he kissed her, pressing her against the shower wall as he pushed his tongue past her lips. Picking her up, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he reached between them, adjusting slightly before he pushed into her to the hilt. She was still sore from the others, but her eyes still closed at the feel of him. He didn't give her a moment of adjustment, starting to move, panting against her skin as he worked inside her. "That's it. Yes, Mike." She whispered, her hand pressing to the wall above her head. "That's my good boy." He gasped at her words, surging inside her harder.
"Say that again." He pleaded.
"My good boy." She said and he pulled her down into a kiss, grunting against her lips.
"Fuck." He whispered, looking at her as she rested her arms on his shoulders, her body moving with every rock of his hips. "Yes, my Alpha. My beautiful Alpha."
"You're gonna make me come." She said, her eyes closing as her head fell back. "Make me come, my sweet boy." He didn't falter or change the speed and depth in which he moved in her and soon she was gasping and shaking in his arms, her legs tight around his waist.
"Please." He begged, "May I come in you?"
"Yes." She gasped, "I want to feel you." His hips sped, his breath coming in sharp pants and he buried himself in her with a shout, twitching inside her. He gave her a few more thrusts of his hips, drawing out his orgasm and she guided him into a kiss that he fell into with abandon.
Stephanie slept in Mike's room with him, holding him as he wrapped himself around her, their skin pressed together. The howling was a constant in the back of her mind, but it was an afterthought, something she could ignore or tune out. She felt a slight tug from time to time that woke her, but she ignored it, going back to sleep.
It was midday by the time Mike woke, reaching for her but finding her gone. Opening his eyes, he blinked through the light streaming in through the window to see her standing there, dressed, her back to him.
"Steph?" He asked and she looked over her shoulder at him briefly.
"Hey." She said and he pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes.
"What's up, babe?" He asked and she sighed.
"I can't stay here." She said and that jolted him to full awareness.
"What?" He asked, "Steph, you--"
"I'm an Alpha, Mike. I know the guys made it work between them, but I'm not…I shouldn't stay." He got out of bed, going to stand next to her at the window.
"I'll come with you."
"No, you're staying put." She said and it felt like she drove a knife into his chest, it would have hurt less if she had. "I'm not taking you away from your brother, Mike."
"But I want to go with you." He said, "You're my Alpha."
"No, I'm not." Stephanie said, "Just because we had sex doesn't mean I have any claim to you. Had sex with the others, too, before we came back. Multiple times. It didn't mean anything. It was just biology and primal urges, nothing more, nothing less."
"Please, Steph." Mike said, his voice breaking a little, "If you're leaving, please take me with you." She turned to him, reaching up and brushing away the tear as it fell from his eye. "Don't abandon me."
"I'm not abandoning you, Michael. I'm keeping you with your family. They were your pack long before I got here, I don't have any right to take you away from that." She said, and he sobbed slightly as she pulled him down into a kiss.
“Sy!” He yelled out and the door opened a moment later, Sy not even blinking at Mike’s state of undress. “Tell her she’s not leaving. Or tell her I can go with her if she does.”
“Mike…” She sighed.
“You’re not going anywhere, doll.” Sy said, “Ya hear me?”
“Sy, I--I’m an Alpha, Geralt said so.” She said, “And I don’t have the history you guys have, I’d just fuck things up.”
“Bullshit.” He said.
“I’m not your responsibility anymore, Markus.” She never used his first name and it made him blink at her in surprise.
“No, you’re not, bein’ what and how you are, if Lewis tries to get at you, I fully expect you to tear his throat out. You don’t need our protection anymore.” He admitted, “But you’re not leavin’. You’re a part of this pack, Steph, you’re home.” She didn’t know why that shocked her into silence, or why it made tears well in her eyes, but Mike pulled her to his chest, holding her as they spilled over. She felt Sy come up next to her, placing his hand at her low back and she slowly but surely composed herself.
“Don’t think this means you can tell me what to do!” She said, still sniffling slightly as she looked at him.
“Couldn’t before, fat chance of bein’ able to now.”
#henry cavill#august walker#walter marshall#geralt of rivia#hellraiser mike#captain syverson#feral instincts
81 notes
·
View notes
Text
something sweet
Eskel x princess!reader
Part 1
An arranged marriage between the Witchers and a princess seemed cruel to Eskel-- especially if he was the one she had to marry.
notes: ok I got off track with my other stuff but anyways here have insecure eskel being adorable and perfect. part 2 will be smut!
I’m so sorry.
Those words echoed in Eskel’s mind all night as he stole glances of you out of the corner of his eye. The music was jovial and loud, family and friends and nobles laughing the night away and dancing filling every corner of the castle. It should have been a joyous night—a wedding that permanently forged an alliance between two of the strongest families.
Except Eskel was the one you had to marry, and he was only too well aware of how this was only the beginning of your nightmare.
Tomorrow, you’d go with him and his brothers back to Kaer Morhen, locked away for the rest of your life, a princess trapped by her dragon.
I’m so sorry.
You took a sip of your wine, letting out a sigh quiet enough that only he could hear above all the noise. You were radiant today— an angel, glowing and so far above him it almost seemed a crime that he was the one who got to have you. Even if it wasn’t real.
At the ceremony, your hands were so small in his, soft and gentle in a way his could never be, try as he might. He couldn’t look at you as he repeated the words of the priest, not wanting to see the fear or, gods forbid, the disgust, in your eyes. He was adamant he stood in the right side of the altar, despite breaking tradition, so he could face the priest the entire time and spare you a glance as his scarred face.
When it came time to exchange the rings and seal the partnership with a kiss, he was surprised to find his hands were the only ones shaking. You must have been resigned to your fate—no longer fighting, but accepting of the losing hand you had been dealt.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Eskel hesitated to turn to you, not ready to give you a full and terrifying look at what you had just been chained to for life—
You reached up with your left hand, new wedding ring glinting off the candle light, cupping his face with the softest touch he has ever, in his entire life, felt. You guided him to look at you, palm resting over the scars that made most humans ill, and leaned up to kiss him. Your lips were warm and gentle, only pressed against his for a moment, but your thumb brushed against the notch at the corner and he had to suppress a shudder before you dropped your hand and gave him what could almost be described as a coy smile before you turned back to the priest.
You were too good for him. Too good for anyone. And as he glared over at Geralt and Lambert, who were luckily spared from most of the human interaction and huddled in a dark corner, he once again wondered what he could do to make it up to you. To make your life a little less miserable than it would inevitably be, being married to a monsterous witcher.
“Are you alright?”
Eskel startled, turning to you. You had a look of concern on your face, and he had to stop himself from making a very undignified noise when your hand came out to rest on his thigh.
“Uh— yes, I j-just, uh— no. No, no I’m fine.” Gods, he couldn’t even speak around you. Thank Melitele for little mercies, that today was the first time you met and you didn’t know how much of an ugly, intimidating, stupid mess he was before, or you would have definitely refused this coupling.
You still looked worried, no doubt by the fact he couldn’t get a complete sentence out. But you finally nodded, retracting your hand and Eskel had to hold back a whimper at losing a caring touch once again. It was the first time he was getting consistent and gentle attention, and he was already drunk on it after a few hours.
“Well, let me know if you need to get out of here. I wouldn’t mind escaping, either.”
Eskel’s heart dropped, although he really shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone wants to escape him. Why would his own wife be any different? He nodded, throwing one more glance at his brothers. “I could leave, yes.”
“Oh, good,” you breathed a sigh of relief, finishing the last gulp of your wine then standing. Eskel tried not to let his hurt show, but it must have been clear. Your face was etched in worry, and you only had to lean down slightly to press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Maybe you just need some rest… shall we retire to our quarters for the night?”
Eskel felt his mouth drop open in disbelief, but he quickly shook out of it, clearing his throat. Our quarters? Surely, you didn’t—
“That—that sounds lovely, princess.”
You gave him a look, looping your arm around his as he stood and tugging him along away from the crowd. “You don’t need to call me that, we’re married, I hope that puts us on equal status now.”
Swallowing, Eskel nodded, the warmth from your hand on his bicep even through his jacket making him shiver. “What should I call you then?”
You snorted, leaning against his side more heavily. “Hmm. My name, maybe? Or something sweet, whatever you’d like.”
“Sweet…heart?” Eskel felt dumb just saying it out loud, but all the blood that should be going to his brain was being dispersed other places and he couldn’t say he was at full mental capacity right now.
You laughed, and the sound made his heart clench. “Yes, I would like that very much, my love.”
Oh no, Eskel though. I’m fucked.
—-
The quarters held a large bed, with enough room to fit three witchers, and little else. It was clearly a honeymoon suite of a sort, but if Eskel could blush, he would.
You began pulling out pins from your hair the moment you closed the door, groaning as the elegant hairstyle you’d had done for the ceremony unraveled. You glanced shyly over your shoulder at where Eskel was left standing awkwardly by the doors. “Do you think you could…?”
Eskel moved forward, nodding, willing to do anything you asked of him. You reached behind and tugged at the ties for your dress. He got the hint— carefully pulling the string from its loops, slowly loosening your dress until you let out a breath.
“Finally,” you said, then proceeded to let your wedding dress drop unceremoniously to the floor and Eskel thinks he may have actually died during that last griffin fight, and by some miracle he was in heaven instead of hell.
“The hooks are harder,” you murmured, backing up a little more towards him until he got the hint. With shaky hands, Eskel undid your bodice, the silky chemise underneath being revealed more and more as he went.
When he was finished, he had just enough blood supply to his brain to quickly turn as you dropped that too to the the floor, giving you some privacy as you changed from your wedding dress undergarments to your sleep clothes. He heard the rustle of bedding, thinking it was finally safe to turn, and was met with a sight that would have taken any man out at the knees.
You were draped on the bed artfully, a see-through robe hanging off your shoulders with the blankets pulled back and only a small section of the sheets covering your legs. Your lingerie was red, almost the exact same shade as the jacket Eskel wore on the Path, and left little to the imagination.
Mouth dry and cock suddenly harder than the steel of his swords, Eskel asked, “What… what are you doing?”
The seductive and almost—hopeful?— expression on your face faltered, but you just shifted slightly on the bed, the robe slipping down further. “I’m waiting for my husband to come to bed on our wedding night.”
You… what? Eskel was not prepared for this. He in no way expected to even be ever sharing a room with his wife, let alone sleep in the same bed with her, sleep with her—
“You know I can’t— I can’t… can’t give you children, right?” Eskel gritted out, loath to explain that if you were doing this because you thought this marriage was to combine bloodlines and solidify the alliance with children, that would never be a possibility.
You frowned, self-consciously tugging the sheet further up your body now. You’d expected Eskel to already be on you, not arguing his way out of this. “I know. That was explained to me. I just— I thought you’d want to…”
He saw the moment you recognized your mistake, dawning in your eyes. You hurriedly tugged the robe tightly around your body, although it did little to hide much. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed, I—“
“No!” Eskel didn’t want to see you in distress, at least not like this. Not when he could avoid it. Having you scared and repulsed to be with a witcher, that is what he was prepared for. Not his beautiful, perfect, gentle wife throwing herself at him and thinking she was being rejected. “No, that’s not—“ He nervously scratched at his scars, trying to think with his head and not his cock here. Did you think you had to do this? Did you really look at him, and feel attracted to that? He couldn’t be so lucky.
He glanced at you, making yourself smaller on the bed as you tugged a pillow to your chest, covering more of your body. He swallowed, his own lust clouding his thoughts, but he wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t force himself on to you, ever. Just because you were his wife, didn’t mean he was entitled to anything.
Slowly approaching the bed, he gave you time to refuse him before he sat down on the edge by your side, anxiously plucking at a stray thread in the blanket before he glanced up to meet your eyes. He wanted you to see him up close— inhuman eyes, scarred face, size even other witchers hesitate to get near. He didn’t want to frighten you, body language vulnerable and open.
“Sweetheart.” It sounded strange coming out of his mouth, but not unwelcome. You peeked up at his, cheeks colouring slightly, and he thinks he could get used to that. “I need you to… tell me. What you want. Tonight, or any night. I need to… hear you say it. Because I don’t want to read something wrong, and make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
You frowned, your grip on the sheet loosening slightly. “Oh. You just— you just prefer me to tell you want I want?”
Eskel nodded, licking his lips. “Witchers may not be human, but we’re not mages, either. I can’t read minds.”
There was a pause, and then you snorted, tossing your pillow at him. “You idiot, I want you. I’ll tell you however often you need. Gods, Eskel, I thought I made that very clear.” You gestured to your lack of clothing, and Eskel cracked a smile despite himself, the words repeating in his head.
I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.
“Really?” he asked.
You nodded, giving him a look he’d never seen before, then you leaned back against the headboard and slowly parted your legs wide. Your panties were lace, and when you reached down and tucked a finger in the gusset between your thighs to pull the fabric to the side, evidence of your arousal clung to the small amount of fabric, clear and sticky,
“Maybe you need to see, too.”
Maybe Eskel isn’t so sorry after all.
#eskel#eskel imagine#eskel x reader#eskel smut#eskel fic#Witcher fic#netflix!eskel x reader#game!eskel x reader#a little bit of both but mainly game eskel honestly
345 notes
·
View notes
Text
In a matter of minutes, the sky turned from blue to grey to nearly black. They'd felt the increasing wind before which had made them hurry their steps, but they were not able to escape the thunderstorm that was rolling on.
“Jaskier, we need to hurry if we don't want to get drenched,” Geralt said through gritted teeth.
“You know, we would get to the next inn in time if we were actually riding on a horse.” Jaskier looked at Roach, who seemed to give him a glare, but that was probably just his imagination.
“You know we can't.” As much as Jaskier wanted to protest, he knew that Geralt was right, because Roach was already carrying enough weight at the moment, and they needed all of that. It wasn't like they could just abandon everything just to get to their destination. It wasn't even freezing cold, Jaskier didn't mind the rain at all – he loved the summer rain actually – but he knew how much force a storm could have, how much destruction lightning could leave behind.
Before they know it, the rain set in. Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the wrist and pulled him towards the trees to seek shelter from the downpour. In the distance, they could hear the thunder, but they couldn't see the lightning yet, because of their surroundings.
“So, you want us to stay here until this is over?” Jaskier quirked an eyebrow at Geralt,
“Don't tell me you want to go out into that downpour and get completely drenched? Are you mad?”
“You do know who you are talking to, right?”
“Yeah, you are mad...” Geralt shook his had half in amusement, half in exasperation. Before he could do anything, Jaskier stepped out of the shelter the trees were providing and into the rain. It smelled sweet and earthy, like the typical summer rain, which made Jaskier smile, even ad the rain made it's way through his clothes and onto his skin. “We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” Geralt watched Jaskier stand there, already completely drenched.
“Yes,” Jaskier yelled over the sound of rain, a brilliant smile on his lips, as he tilted his face up to greet the rain. It felt amazing, it always did. He couldn't really say what it was about the summer rain, but it almost felt like it was cleansing his soul. For a moment, he simply stood there, enjoying the rain on his skin that cooled his body down after they'd been walking in the sun for hours. Slowly, he turned his face towards Geralt again as the rain was lessening. “You do know that lightning striked trees rather than flat land, right? So I'm actually safer here than you are over there.”
“I'm good here.”
“What's that, my dear Witcher?” Jaskier smirked, turning completely towards him, cocking his head to the left. “Are you afraid of a little rain?”
“That's not a little rain.” Geralt looks Jaskier up and down, his bright blue doublet now a couple of shades darker due to the water.
“So you are afraid,” Jaskier kept on teasing, but he looked up at the sky again, closing his eyes. It was already getting a bit lighter again, but the rain remained. There was still thunder and lightning all around, but still a bit away from them.
“Say that again.” Jaskier heard Geralt's voice close to his ear now, before he felt the Witcher's hands on his upper arms. The bard gasped when he opened his eyes and was suddenly nose to nose with Geralt. Still, he couldn't help but smirk.
“Scared, Witcher?”
“You wish!”
His words make Jaskier's smirk turn into a smile. His hands reach up to cup Geralt's face before he presses his lips to the Witcher's. He'd kissed a lot of people, but he'd never kissed anyone in the pouring rain before. Something that was so romanticised that he had to try it himself, and... it did live up to what he'd expected. More than that actually. Geralt's grip on his arms loosened, and instead, he dropped his hands to Jaskier's waist, pulling him closer. Seems like Jaskier wasn't the only one enjoying this kiss in the rain. They only parted when they both needed to come up for air. Staring into each others eyes, they both started chuckling.
“Maybe, we should keep going now to get to that inn... get out of these clothes, hm?” It was Jaskier's suggestion this time, because as much as he enjoyed standing in the rain, kissing Geralt in the rain, he liked being warmed by Geralt's body next to his in a comfy bed even more.
“You just want to get me naked, don't you?” Geralt asked, trying to suppress the smile that was about to break out on his lips.
“Maaaaaybe.” Jaskier pulled Geralt towards him for another quick kiss. “Can you blame me?”
No. No he could not, because he wanted to get Jaskier out of these wet clothes as well. To keep him from catching a cold of course.
Inspiration from this list
#scared Potter?#You wish!#your writingdoesn't match up to others#I'm not creative enough#Let's get to creative writing#staffi writes#how to get yourself out of thinking and generally thinking everything sucks?#yes you write a drabble because fuck it#fighting with#no matter who reads this or doesn't read it#it helped me get into this again today and get myself out of having not so nice thoughts#geraskier#geraskier fi#geraskier drabble#geralt of rivia#jaskier#jaskier x geralt#geralt x jaskier#the witcher drabble#the witcehr fanfic
289 notes
·
View notes
Text
True Colors
Rated T, Geraskier, DnD, getting together, coming out, fluffy fluff stuff. Ao3 link. Enjoy!
"Ok, your turn, bard," Geralt asks him, smirking. "What are you gonna do?"
Jaskier smirks back at him, very smugly, looking at Geralt and leaning in just so.
"I'm gonna roll for Vicious Mockery, let the bard save the day again, huh?" He grins, rolling the dice between his fingers… Long and slender fingers that have their nails polished with the rainbow’s colours and that are not distracting Geralt at all.
The whole group gasps when the dice stop rolling and…
"No fucking way!" Lambert yells, hands flying to his head.
"Holy shit YES!" Exclaims Eskel at the same time.
"Fucking bard and his stupid good luck with the dices!" Laughs Aiden.
The dice is showing them a natural 20. Perfect score. When Geralt talks again over the laughs and yelling of their friends, his voice is full of emotion and he talks faster than ever.
"Dandelion the Bard looks at the Elf King dead in the face and he starts singing solemnly, casting Vicious Mockery while strumming his lute. Dandelion?”
Jaskier improvises a rhyme and a silly tune for the delight of his friends.
Geralt can’t hide his own smile, his best friend is gorgeous like this, just having fun while playing DnD with a bunch of misfits; Jaskier could spend his time with someone much better than them, any girl of their class would be delighted to be in a date with Jaskier, and yet…
“He thrust every elf/
Far back on the shelf/
High up on the mountain/
From whence it came/”
Jaskier sings with a deep, rich voice, and Geralt wants to be annoyed by his antics… But the game is still on.
Lambert and Eskel snort and Aiden just shakes his head, smiling and leaning over Lambert.
“The Elf King looks at you and draws his sword, but your Vicious Mockery…”
“And my amazing Nat20.”
“And your impressive Nat20, yes… Are too strong for him and he falls on his knees, dropping his sword… Aiden, roll for acrobatics! While the bard was singing and melting the King’s brain, you’ve been surrounded by elves: three warriors and two archers…”
—
To eat the greasiest pizza after their DnD session is a sacred tradition… A sacred tradition that his brothers are now ignoring in favour of, well, get laid, Geralt supposes.
Eskel left them in a hurry, arguing that he had a date with Triss, his long-live crush, and that he wanted to impress her at the Arcade, and soon after, Lambert and Aiden left together, no explanations given, Aiden had just smiled at them shyly and waved his hand in goodbye.
Leaving Geralt alone with, well, with Jaskier.
That is not a problem itself, Jaskier decided long ago that Geralt was his best friend and somehow, that he was Geralt’s best friend too. At first, Geralt was baffled by the whole thing: a stray kid, adopted along with two other boys by a single father, leaving almost in the middle of nowhere, they all were misfits, outcasts… and the brightest, loudest, happiest kid Geralt ever known just decided that they should be best friends.
That was ten years ago, give or take. Geralt can’t remember the exact moment when he thought about Jaskier as his best friend, after trying once and again to scare the younger boy away.
And now… Well, now Geralt was feeling rather odd around Jaskier. Not angry at him, nor upset. But… suddenly shy, everytime he found Jaskier looking at him, or worse, blushing whenever Jaskier casually touched him in the arm or whatever.
Being alone with Jaskier is both thrilling and terrifying, and Geralt feels tense and hot all over his body watching the boy licking his fingers clean after finishing a portion of pizza. His lips glisten under the dim light of the shitty pizza joint they both love.
“Geralt, dear, you’re staring, do I have something…?” Jaskier says, and licks his lips. Geralt follows hungrily the path of his pink tongue lapping those full, pouty lips.
“N-no, you’re ok, I was just…” Geralt stutters.
I was just wondering how it would be if I kissed you, his not-at-all-helpful mind supplies. Jaskier is still looking at him, smiling fondly, and Geralt feels petrified by those bright, ice blue eyes.
“This pizza is not that good to render you speechless, Geralt,” Jaskier laughs. “Or are you thinking about my Nat20 again?”
Geralt snorts at last, looking away to avoid Jaskier’s natural spells.
“Huh, Jaskier, that was just luck,” Geralt teases.
“Knowing how to play and they call it luck,” Jaskier replies, shrugging and smiling. “It was, as you said yourself, impressive.”
Geralt shrugs too.
“Well, ok, it was, are you happy?”
“Very.” Jaskier’s smile widens and Geralt… Geralt wants to make Jaskier very happy again, he just doesn’t know how to. So he changes the topic.
“Hey, what’s with your fingernails?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier eyes widen in fear and he looks at his hands like he hadn’t realised that they were there the whole time.
“Oh fuck, I just forgot about them after…”
“Hm?”
“I-I need to go! I’m sorry!”
Jaskier stands up and takes his backpack and rushes to leave, almost bumping into a young couple in his run.
“What… Jaskier! Wait!”
-
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
Jaskier had forgotten completely about his stupid rainbow nail polish after the gig; it had been the first year that he was able to perform at the Pride and he was so freaking happy to be able to play and sing for an audience like him.
He was still floating about it two days after, and he arrived to Geralt’s place to play DnD without realising that his nails were still proudly showing the rainbow flag.
And now he was running away from his best friend, scratch that, running away from the love of his short life, and feeling the tears running down his flushed cheeks.
He was still inside the closet for his dearest friend. Of the Morhen boys, Eskel was the first one to know, basically because he found Jaskier crying his heart out when Geralt started dating Yennefer, a girl from his class. So Jaskier confessed his love for Eskel’s brother then, and Eskel held him tight until he stopped crying.
That happened two years ago, when Jaskier was just fifteen and was still discovering his own body and feelings. And boy, he discovered how much a broken heart hurts.
Then, not long ago, was Jaskier who stepped in to find Lambert and his very dear friend Aiden making out in the Morhen’s green-house. Lambert and Aiden were petrified in fear and Jaskier had to confess himself and to promise them that he would never get them out and that he would help the younger boys to hide their romance until they were ready.
That was how Jaskier found in the younger of the Morhen brothers a fierce protector and a dear friend.
But Geralt…
Jaskier couldn’t get out in front of Geralt. He’s his best friend, more than that, Geralt is more important to Jaskier than anything else, Jaskier doesn’t want to lose him, and…
And it’s not like Geralt will reject him because of his sexual orientation, no, Geralt has never showed a hint of hate towards the queer community; no, Jaskier is afraid that if Geralt knows about Jaskier being, well, gay or bi or pan or whatever, Jaskier is still discovering that… Jaskier is afraid that Geralt will know about his feelings for him.
Jaskier is barely able to hide his love for Geralt now, shielded by Geralt’s wrong assumption about Jaskier being straight. The moment Geralt realises Jaskier is attracted to men too… Geralt will know. And Geralt will politely say to him that his love is unrequited. And then Geralt will stop being his friend just as he’s stopped being friends with Yennefer after their break up, and Fringilla before Yennefer, and Keira before Fringilla… Geralt doesn’t believe in being friends with those that want him.
Jaskier can’t have that.
Jaskier would not let that happen.
“Jaskier!”
Geralt is running after him, and fuck, he’s fast.
“Geralt, please, I need to go!” Jaskier yells back at him, people avoiding them and watching them in confusion.
“Ok but.. I’ll call you later to check that you’re safe at home…” Geralt says loudly, and when Jaskier looks over his shoulder to look at him, Geralt is not running anymore, just looking at him with the saddest expression ever.
Jaskier stops running too.
He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, his backpack is heavy and tugs at his shoulders, and his lungs - used to sing for hours - hurts with the need to scream and cry.
He’s so tired.
He looks at his coloured nails again, the rainbow flag he’s so proud of seems like it’s making fun at him, now. But no, he’s the one making fun of the flag, he’s the one hurting himself.
June is the month to be proud of who we are. June is the month to be honest.
If Geralt doesn’t want to be his friend because he has feelings for him, well, then maybe Geralt is not his best friend after all.
It’s going to hurt, Jaskier knows it, but this constant lie is hurting him too.
Jaskier turns back to where Geralt is standing, his pained expression doing things to Jaskier’s heart. The extremely blond boy is just looking at him with concern and hope and by the way Geralt is clenching his fists, Jaskier knows Geralt wants to reach him.
“Geralt…” He whispers, his voice breaking. A lump in his throat is threatening him with more crying.
“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt says instead. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m so sorry, I never wanted to upset you.”
Geralt takes a step closer to Jaskier, and good lord, why is everything so difficult? How can they be in this situation now? They argue a lot of times, for a lot of things, but Jaskier has never felt this scared before, nor has seen his friend this sad because of him, apparently.
“It’s not… It’s not your fault… It’s… Can we please go back to your house?”
-
Geralt drives them back home, in silence.
He adores silence, it’s so difficult to find a moment of peace in his house, with Lambert being always a mouthy bastard and arguing about everything, and Eskel’s constant chattering and teasing and… And with Jaskier.
Loud, noisy Jaskier, always talking about fucking everything, always singing or humming for fuck’s sake. Jaskier, who is unable to be silent for more than five minutes, the boy even talks during his sleep, always with so much to say to the world.
Now, Jaskier is not talking, nor humming. He’s just sitting by his side during the short ride to Geralt’s house. And Geralt hates the silence.
His best friend has his eyes red and puffy, silent tears running down his cheeks, and Geralt is doing his best to just don’t reach and wipe them away gently and to promise Jaskier that everything is going to be fine, even if Geralt can’t understand what the fuck is happening.
Once at home again, Geralt leads Jaskier to his room and rushes to prepare tea for both of them. When in distress, prepare tea. Drink it, and then carry on. That’s what Vesemir says.
“Thank you,” says Jaskier with a soft, broken voice. It’s so wrong, Jaskier should be always happy, singing and chirping and…
“It’s a rainbow flag,” he adds, stopping Geralt’s thoughts.
“”What?”
“My fingernails. I painted them like this for… the Pride,” Jaskier explains, but he sounds off, scared even. Scared of what, Geralt doesn’t know.
“Hm,” he answers, with a lack of something better to say.
“I… I played there, with Priss and Essi, for… for the Pride concerts, we applied and they… wanted us there…”
“That’s great!” Geralt exclaims and startles Jaskier, who clings to his cup tightly. “You three have been doing great with your band, of course they wanted you there! Why didn’t you tell us? We could have gone!”
Somehow, to say that, to… to offer Jaskier his support, makes Jaskier sobs harder, and Geralt wishes to know what to do.
"What? Jaskier, what…?"
"Geralt, it was the Pride!" Jaskier whines.
"Yeah, you just said that."
"Do you know what it is… Do you know what the rainbow flag means?" Jaskier asks, looking at him with panic in his eyes.
Geralt looks at him, at his pouty lips now wet, and back again at his glistening, weeping blue eyes.
"Hm," Geralt needs a moment to think about something that is not kissing Jaskier. It's not easy, the need to comfort his friend and to reassure him is too strong. But he manages.
Rainbow flag. Yeah, that rings a bell, he has seen that flag, somewhere. He thinks Aiden, Lambert's best friend, has some stickers and such with it, and other flags with different colours.
Oh.
Oh.
"Yes, yes of course I know what it means, Jaskier," Geralt answers, feeling delirious. I just didn't want to hope.
"And?" Jaskier asks, expectantly. "Geralt, it was not a simple gig, we weren't there just because, but because Priss and Essi and I, we are… I am…"
Geralt kneels in front of him, and lets his hands rest on Jaskier's lap.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Geralt asks softly. "Were you afraid of me…? Did you think that I would… that I wouldn't want to be your friend anymore?"
Jaskier nods slowly, more tears spilling from his eyes.
"But not for the reason you think," Jaskier cries. "I know you would accept me as I am, but…"
Geralt's heart is breaking, watching his friend crying, sobbing hopelessly and thinking that Geralt could ever stop being his friend, for any reason at all… That's just absurd, because Geralt… he… He's in love with Jaskier and…
And Jaskier doesn't know it.
"Jaskier… Julek… it's ok, I'm here," Geralt promises, taking Jaskier's tea off his hands and hugging him, as tight as he can. Jaskier clings to him, sobbing.
"You'll hate me!" Jaskier cries, grabbing his shirt, and Geralt just… just can't.
"Never," Geralt reassures him.
"You'll hate me because I love you!" Jaskier yells. "And you push away all of your ex girlfriends, so why would I be different?"
Geralt freezes then, still holding Jaskier.
Jaskier loves him.
Jaskier loves him.
Flirty, flighty, social butterfly Jaskier, the boy who decided to be Geralt's best friend.
Bright, loud, noisy, wonderful Jaskier.
"It's… quite different," Geralt says at last and Jaskier snorts.
"It is, Jaskier, because… Because I…" Geralt takes a deep breath. "I love you too."
The last part is just a whisper, reverent, contained. It's a truth that he's been avoiding for years.
Jaskier squirms until he can lock his blue eyes with Geralt's own.
"You mean… as a friend?" He asks.
Geralt smiles at him fondly and shakes his head slowly before leaning in, his eyes flicking from Jaskier's eyes to his lips.
Jaskier's breath is warm against Geralt's lips, his skin is wet and a little clammy after all the crying and sobbing.
"Geralt…" Jaskier whispers, breathless.
"May I?"
Jaskier closes his eyes slowly, leaning in until he can find Geralt in the middle.
Their first kiss is chaste and shy and, well, not how Geralt would have imagined, not with Jaskier crying in fear and rushed confessions, but it's perfect, because it is Jaskier who is kissing him back.
Geralt reaches for Jaskier's hands and threads their fingers together.
"You had no idea what the rainbow or the Pride mean, right?" Jaskier asks, smiling wide, with his forehead resting on Geralt's shoulder.
"I thought you simply liked the…, what's it called? The colourful aesthetic." Geralt answers, shrugging, making Jaskier chuckle.
They stay like this for a while, Geralt studying Jaskier's painted nails and caressing his hands softly.
"You could paint mine," Geralt offers.
"Geralt…"
"Maybe for the Pride next year?" Geralt asks, hopeful. "I.. I could go there and see your gig…"
Jaskier kisses him again, less chaste, more hungrily, and Geralt can't suppress the growl that rises from the deep of his chest.
"I'd love that, my dearest."
-
“Ok, ok, Eskel, your turn…”
Jaskier can’t help but to look at Geralt in awe while he leads the party through the Dungeon; Geralt always seems happy and free during their DnD sessions, but lately he seems… resplandescent.
Geralt glances at him and smiles knowingly while Eskel keeps talking, and Jaskier’s heart does a somersault under his golden gaze. Gods, Geralt is going to be the death of him, and now that Jaskier knows his taste, his hunger, the caresses of his hands…
“Hey, bard, wake up!” Lambert exclaims. Aiden is basically sitting on his lap, laughing softly. “Do your bard wiles!”
“C’mon, give us another Nat20, bard!” Eskel cheers.
Jaskier chuckles.
He takes the dice and rolls it over the table.
By his side, Geralt smiles at him, wide and unguarded, his hands at either side of the Master's screen, and every one of his fingernails are painted with the colours of the rainbow, to match Jaskier’s own hands.
“Ok, dice, gimme a Nat20!”
71 notes
·
View notes
Text
We build our castles
"There! It's finished," Jaskier announced proudly and got up.
Geralt watched as he dusted the sand off his knees, but some of it still stuck to his legs, where they were still wet. He had rolled the legs of his pants up, when he had waded into the water to search for the prettiest sea shells, but the hems had still gotten wet and were now clinging tightly to his legs.
"Hey," Jaskier said, snapping his fingers to get Geralt's attention. "As much as I appreciate you ogling my legs, I need you to look at what I made."
With a fond roll of his eyes, Geralt looked at the sandcastle Jaskier had build. It was adorned with sea shells and dark pebbles he had found. Jaskier had complained endlessly about Geralt not helping him search for more and how Geralt didn't know how to have fun. That wasn't true though. Geralt had a great time watching Jaskier hop around, whenever a wave lapped at his trouser legs and he hadn't been able to stop smiling whenever Jaskier had found a particularly pretty shell and called out to Geralt with a grin on his face to show him his newest treasure. So yes, Geralt did know how to have fun. For him, it simply involved watching Jaskier be happy. Lucky for him, that he had found out years ago that being around him was what made Jaskier happy.
"So?" Jaskier nudged him a little with his toe. "What do you think?"
"Hmm," Geralt said, mainly to watch Jaskier groan in fond exasperation. The bard dropped down in the warm sand next to Geralt again, grabbed a handful of sand and half heartedly tossed it at him.
"You're terrible. I tell you, one day, I will live in a castle just like that and then -"
"Would be a bit small for you," Geralt teased.
"Oh, now you can speak." Jaskier huffed indignantly, but his eyes crinkled at the sides in mirth. He let himself fall backwards, heedless of the sand that would get stuck in his hair. Maybe later Geralt could brush it out for him.
"Do you even want to live in a castle?" Geralt asked. "Feels a bit restrictive for your lifestyle."
Jaskier blinked up at him. He had to squint against the sun.
"I don't know. Right now? Absolutely not. What kind of friend would I be if I left you to roam the Continent alone." He closed his eyes and hummed contently. "In a few decades, however? I can imagine settling down. Maybe not in a castle necessarily, thought it would have it's perks. But maybe a cottage. Or I could open an inn and be much nicer then all the grumpy innkeepers who charged us double for getting monster guts on their floors."
Geralt snorted at the thought of Jaskier becoming an innkeeper. He would be terrible at keeping the business alive.
"Would I get a friend-discount if I were to stop by at your inn?"
"Absolutely not!" Jaskier said, "You'd live with me at the inn, of course. Or the cottage. Or..."
"Or the castle," Geralt finished for him. He dug around in the sand, until his fingers found a small sea shell. He placed it on top of one of the crumbling towers Jaskier had build.
"Or that," Jaskier agreed softly.
They fell into a comfortable silence after that. At some point, the sand of the castle got too dry and the towers crumbled fully. Some other parts of it were washed away in the waves.
Jaskier didn't seem to mind. He had that look on his face that he always got when he was daydreaming.
Geralt closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. Blindly, he reached for Jaskier's hand. Without hesitation, the bard weaved their fingers together.
Summer wouldn't last, Geralt knew. In only a few weeks, autumn would paint the trees red and then it wouldn't be long until winter too fell upon the land.
"We don't have to wait decades," Geralt said after such a long pause that he wasn't sure if Jaskier still remembered what they had been talking about.
"Hm?" Jaskier looked up at him with a grin. "You want to give up witchering and open an inn right now?"
"Absolutely not," Geralt deadpanned. He looked down at their linked hands. "But I have a castle - well, more like a keep where we could live together. At least until spring. And only if you're willing to share it with my family."
Jaskier didn't reply, but his eyes lit up as if he had just gotten the inspiration for the greatest ballad.
"I would love that," he said, giving Geralt's hand a light squeeze. "I would love that very much."
248 notes
·
View notes
Text
Author's Note- Another Desi imagine!!! I hope you all like this.
Thank you and Enjoy your reading!
Mistakes Are Common
Sebastian Stan x Desi!Reader
Summary- One small mistake and the process starts again...
Tag List- @shopping, @bbgmonsay, @lastwandastan, @eudximoniakr, @girlnred, @hc-geralt-23, @minaxcarter, @tonystarksbitch, @moon-light1415, @hermosa4285, @narcy, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @instabul, @b-tchymoon
GIF Credits to @speckled-jim
Punches were being thrown left and right, pants and breathy shakes audible as necessary comments were spoken.
She smirked as she landed the perfect punch on his side, making him growl like an enraged animal. The reply of the punch was a series of precisely placed punches and jabs, which she dodged rather easily.
"It seems your skills have rusted with time," she said smirking as she landed a kick on his knees. Another grunt of pain was heard, making the smirk widen.
"Come on, old man. I know you can do better," she taunted. She felt her combat boots' heel meet something hard, tilting her head back to find her back lightly meeting the wall.
She felt a heavy thing collide in her left side, realizing the reality a bit too late. A hand wrapped around her neck, pressing her into the wall hard and lifting her up.
"What happened now?" A voice came, sounding a bit restrainted. "How about... you help me?" She asked, gasping for air as she clawed at the metal arm. A groan was the voice's response.
She said the man's name as she clawed his hand.
And that was the mistake. Wrong name. She was supposed to say Bucky but what came out was Seb.
Sebastian let out an airy chuckle, carefully placing her down on her feet. Laughter from the crwe filled the studio. The loudest of them belonging to Robert, Chadwick and Sebastian.
"I hope you are recording them," Sebastian turned to the cameraman, grinning ear-to-ear. Just the opposite of what he was a few moments ago. "Yes boss," the cameraman replied with a salute.
"I am sorry," (Y/N) mutters under her breath, taking a deep breath. "This is the sixth time, (Y/N)," reminded Joe, trying hard not to chuckle. "Fifth," (Y/N) said defensively, folding her hands in front of her. "Of course, babe," Sebastian said teasingly with a smirk.
"Sebastian," Robert said, mimicking (Y/N) as he made a pout and continued, "come and give me a kiss." (Y/N) could feel herself glaring as she felt embarrassed. "Seb baby," Chadwick joined Robert, placing his hands on Robert's shoulder and making a smooching noise.
"Chup yaar," (shut up guys) (Y/N) whined, her mother tongue slipping out softly. "What was that?" Robert and Chadwick asked at the same time, tilting their heads to the side.
(Y/N) felt her face burn with embarrassment, turning to face Sebastian. "Shut up, guys. Let the girl live," Sebastian said with a chuckle, wrapping his hands around her waist and hugging her.
"You will get your chance of whining my name when I wrap my hand around your neck at home, darling. Let's give Russos their shot and be done, so we can go home early," Sebastian whispered, winking at her.
"Main maar dalungi tumko," (I will kill you) she replied, voice barely audible as she hid her face in his neck in embarrassment. "You have already killed me, my love," Sebastian said, smiling dreamily. Placing a kiss on her head, rubbing his nose against hers.
"That's enough, guys. Let's do this from the top," Anthony announced, smiling pityingly at (Y/N). "Oh yes. So that (Y/N) can whine our metal man's name again," Robert said with an eye roll. "I will not mess it up this time," (Y/N) said with determination.
Hums of approval met (Y/N)'s determined statement. She looked up, praying to the God to help her. "I would not mind you saying my name again," Sebastian whispered, making (Y/N) growl and punch him in his chest.
Sebastian let out a laugh, making the Russo Brothers roll their eyes in annoyance. "That's enough, guys," Anthony said. "Let's start from the beginning everyone. Take your positions all." And with that everyone made their way to their initial positions.
#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan x desi!reader#sebastian stan#desi reader#desi tumblr#desi tag#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#captain america civil war#captain america cw#robert downey jr x reader#chadwick boseman
77 notes
·
View notes
Note
number two and slash or number 27 with modern witchers and geraskier? For the newest promöts ? immensely enjoyed any modern witcher ff you written!
27. Randomly face-timing just to see their face/hear their voice
Geralt stumbles back to his truck, a bruxa head clutched in one hand. Wrapping it in a towel, he tosses the head in the bed of the truck and climbs into the driver’s seat with a groan. His bum knee is acting up and his back aches from where he was slammed against the wall by the bruxa’s scream, but he’s unharmed, save for a few scratches.
The only problem now is that Cat, Black Blood, and Tawny Owl course through his veins, leaving him teetering on the edge of toxicity. If he drives the hour home now, he’ll get blinded by headlights and will probably run his truck off the road. He grabs a White Honey from the glove compartment and downs it, then tosses aside the empty bottle and lets his head fall back against the headrest. All there’s left to do is wait for the White Honey to do its job.
Even over the low rumble of the engine, he can hear sirens in the distance, the hooting of an owl, a car with a fucked up muffler passing by, the buzzing of the streetlights. It all grates on his sensitive hearing. Gritting his teeth, he retrieves his phone from his cup holder and video calls Jaskier. The phone only rings twice before his boyfriend appears on the screen. Geralt only looks at the phone long enough to see that Jaskier is well, standing in their kitchen and wearing one of Geralt's own shirts, before the light of the screen gets to be too much and he closes his eyes, tipping his head back.
“Hi, love,” Jaskier says, his voice wonderfully soothing, even through the phone. “How was the hunt?”
“Bruxa’s dead.”
“Well, I figured. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you actually not hurt, or are you not hurt in the sense that you’re going to arrive home with half your arm hanging off and tell me it’s just a scratch?”
Geralt’s lips twitch. “Actually not hurt.”
Jaskier makes a noise that indicates he’ll believe it when he sees it. “How many potions did you take?”
“A Black Blood, a Cat, and a Tawny Owl.”
“Did you have White Honey on hand?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” Jaskier echoes in the tone of someone remembering all the times he’s rifled frantically though Geralt’s things for White Honey and found only empty bottles. “Need to wait a bit before you drive home?”
Geralt nods. “Should be able to leave in about an hour. I’ll be home in two.”
“I’ll be up.”
“You don’t need to wait up for me.”
“I don’t mind. I never sleep well when you’re not here anyway.” Geralt hears the sliding glass door open and imagines Jaskier stepping out onto the back porch, probably with their cat, Roach, at his heels.
“Don’t you teach in the morning?” he asks.
“Yes, but if I show up to class with bloodshot eyes and messy hair, it just increases the tortured poet persona, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.” Geralt can hear Roach purring; she must have jumped into Jaskier’s lap. Even with his eyes closed, he can picture the two of them perfectly, Roach kneading contentedly at Jaskier’s thigh while Jaskier strokes the spot between her ears that she likes.
“My students already think I’m terribly dashing and exciting since I’m the one who travels the Continent with a witcher.”
“Teenagers are notoriously poor judges of character.”
“I’m going to tell your teenage daughter you said that, you lout,” Jaskier says with a huff.
Geralt snorts. “Go ahead. I’m not afraid of Ciri’s wrath.”
“Oh, now that’s a lie.”
Geralt can’t argue with that. “Tell me about your day.”
Jaskier doesn’t need to be asked twice. “Well, you’ve never believe what Dr. Vladimir—that’s that asshole from the Philosophy Department I was telling you about yesterday—is up to now.”
Geralt lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him, as steady and familiar as the sound of his own heartbeat. Everything else—the sirens in the distance, the buzz of the streetlights, the hum of his truck’s engine—fade into the background. He still has to wait for the White Honey to neutralize the other potions, but the wait feels so much more bearable when he has Jaskier here with him.
Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt/jaskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#ghost's writing#prompt fills
143 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Viper: Rewritten
Chapter 7
Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 8
Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader
AO3 - I highly recommend reading it here, as I am more likely to post on ao3 and not update here in the future as the story progresses
Warnings: blood, gore, fighting
Word Count: 4509
Masterlist
Tired patrons meandered through the tavern, searching for breakfast before their hard days’ labor. The bustling and merriment of the night were traded in for half-lidded eyes and quiet exchanges. Jaskier, despite taking forever to wake up, seemed to be the most energetic of anybody else there. However, you were truly the most awake.
“So,” Jaskier said, “where to?”
“What do you mean?” You looked at him over the rim of your tankard as you took a drink.
Your expressions were muted; surrounded by strangers and townsfolk that could turn on you at any moment, you never gave anything away. Yet Jaskier could see the hints of emotion in your eyes, so adjusted to reading Geralt after so long. He knew your cold neutrality was a barrier, and through the carefully laid bricks he could see the curiosity in your question.
His fingers rubbed against each other as his nerves caught up to him. He wasn’t shy by any means, but since Geralt yelled at him, his mind seemed to always find ways to second guess himself. He wasn’t sure if he should be asking questions; if he could. But you didn’t shut him down. You didn’t give any hint at all that you may have been annoyed with him. He had to cling to that.
“Well, I’m sure you’re going to be traveling around, looking for monsters and things to kill, and, uhm,” his fingers fiddled with the handle of his tankard, “well, I need a guide to Oxenfurt. If you’re heading that way, that is. I don’t wish to…” He watched your eyes trail to the side, brow furrowing slightly as you thought. “Impose.”
“Are you looking to winter there?”
He nodded, emboldened by the question. “Yes! I have a little townhouse there, and usually the University hires me to lecture. Talk about my adventures and,” he gestured, “heroic deeds.”
You nodded slowly as you tried to picture a route from Hengfors all the way through Redania. “It’ll take a month to get there, if the weather holds up. We can follow the Braa river west until we hit Tridam and head south from there.”
“You’ll really take me with you?” His eyes lit up. Without even knowing it, he leaned forward over the table, as if being closer would reveal more truth in your slitted eyes.
“Of course, Jaskier,” you answered easily. You allowed yourself a barely-there grin, easily missed by the other patrons. “That’s why you’ve got Adhara; so you can keep up with me.”
He huffed a laugh, relaxing back into his chair. “You won’t regret this, Viper. I promise…” His shoulders fell. His eyes got a distant sort of look to them, and his smile dimmed, as if he only just realized what he was about to say. He swallowed. “Things will be different.”
-
Jaskier was nose deep in his journal, mumbling to himself as he scratched out words and rewrote descriptions.
On your way out of town that morning, you’d passed by the town notice board, and hidden under Gwent challenges and requests for eggs, lay a contract for a nest of Drowners. Simple work for good enough pay. Enough to make back for the cost of breakfast, anyway.
The fight with the Drowners had passed by so quickly - and the bard had never before been allowed to be so close to a fight - that he had rushed to get down every single thought he had in the moment. Unfortunately, now he was left with the terrible endeavor of translating his own words. He’d been at it for almost 30 minutes now. On the rare instances he wasn’t chattering away, you gave him silence to work.
Except, for the last 30 minutes, you’d had to keep Bayard at a steady pace right beside Adhara to keep her from trialing off the path. She was well-trained and obedient, but Jaskier barely had a hand on the reins in his eagerness, and the nearby river looked perfect for a dip.
You cleared your throat, and after a moment Jaskier realized it was to get his attention. Bright eyes stared at you like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You smiled. “How was your first Drowner experience?”
He chuckled airily and at last tucked the journal and pencil back into his pack. The question was rhetorical, he knew. It was obvious to anyone the event had tickled the artist within him, and he knew you’d been aware of his mad scribbling. Still, he grimaced playfully. “I didn’t realize they were quite that ugly,” he joked.
You huffed a laugh. You were free to do so, by now miles away from the judgemental eyes of townsfolk. Jaskier enjoyed seeing this side of you. It was a breath of fresh air after Geralt’s forever stone-cold exterior. “Wait ‘til you see a Rotfiend.”
His hands held tighter to the reins, eyes searching for an explanation. “A Rotfiend?” he enunciated. “What’s that?”
“They’re horrid,” you scowled. “Imagine a walking corpse, bloated, with skin sloughing off. Where one is found, more are sure to follow. They build their nests on old battlefields - anywhere there’s lots of death, really. The worst part, though, is when they die.”
Jaskier leaned toward you, trying to get as close as possible, as though it would provide him with even more information. He was always eager to learn, even as his face curled in disgust. “What happens?”
“They explode.”
He centered himself in the saddle, scoffing. “Now you’re just messing with me.”
“No, I’m not!”
“They explode?! Like-” He motioned his body exploding, starting from his chest and leaving him in an outward burst. “Explode-explode?”
You nodded.
He shook his head. He refused to believe something as vile as you were describing did something like blow up. “You’re messing with me.”
“They do! They explode and release clouds of poisonous gas!” A wide grin spread across your face as you tried explaining the monster to the bard. You couldn’t remember smiling like this since your time at Gorthur Gvaed. “The good news is one explosion can set off any others close by. One after another, all bursting into red clouds. I once had five of them die that way.”
Your head snapped to the side as a twig snapped. It was too far away to have been one of the horses. Jaskier didn’t notice as you pulled Bayard to a sharp stop, trotting on ahead. “Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Jaskier. Stop.”
Like a flip was switched, you were a Witcher once again. Yellow eyes scanned the forest edge like a predator searching for lunch. The rippling of water was the only sound.
All at once, you realized what was wrong. The birds stopped chirping. How long ago had they fallen silent? You were so caught up with Jaskier- You cursed yourself for making such a stupid mistake.
Before you could absolve yourself, you were falling off Bayard’s back. You screamed as the harsh impact sent shock waves through your spine. Bayard startled and reared on his hind legs, scaring Jaskier’s horse into doing the same. The bard couldn’t get a hold of his mare’s neck fast enough. He swore as he fell on his back right beside you.
He turned, ready to help you fight off whatever was attacking, whatever was scaring your horses, but he was stopped in his tracks by the arrow sticking out of your shoulder. Bright red pooled around the wooden shaft. The archer had found a gap in your armor. The only barrier the projectile had to pass through was your undershirt, now somehow darker as the blood stained it.
You clutched at your shoulder, digging your fingers into your arm as your mind screamed for you to rip it out. Get the arrow out. Get it out of your arm. It took all your willpower not to listen. You writhed against the dirt road and fallen leaves.
Bandits poured from the forest edge. A few broke off to calm the horses and prevent them from bolting. Two dragged Jaskier up to his feet by his arms and held him there, no matter how much he wriggled or fought back. Another, possessing an air of power and control, chuckled as he leaned over you.
“It’s not easy to get the jump on a Witcher,” he cackled. A muddy boot pressed down on your shoulder. You cried out through grit teeth. “But getting the jump on a Viper? That is, truly, something special.”
You grabbed the dagger at your hip, covering the handle with blood. The end of a longsword met your throat before you could drive it into him. He tsked, shaking his head. “Drop it, or we start breaking that one’s fingers.”
For a moment, Jaskier wasn’t sure what you’d do. He watched with a racing heart as you glared up at the bandit. Your fingers tensed around the hilt. One of the men holding him wrenched his hand free, grabbing hold of his fingers. And for a moment, you stared at him. Only for a moment. As brief as a whistle. And the dagger was dropped to the ground.
“A wise choice,” the bandit commended. He removed the blade from your throat, but pressed harder on your shoulder. You squirmed under his boot, a scream ripped from your throat. “Nilfgaardian scum.”
-
Anger boiled in your soul, like a bubbling pot of stew over a fire, ready to overflow. When the adrenaline subsided, all you had left was your rage.
Bayard and Adhara anxiously stamped their feet across the camp as gruff men pulled off their packs and saddlebags. You could practically feel the way Jaskier tensed when they grabbed his lute. Thankfully, they did little to harm it aside from tossing it onto a pile of potion ingredients they had no use for.
Blood dripped languidly down your arm, leaving a warm, sticky trail in its wake. The arrow held back the majority of it, like a dam holds back water. Having to keep your hands behind your back, clasped in place with no doubt stolen shackles, however, pulled at the wound, allowing enough to slip through to worry Jaskier.
He glanced around the camp. The leader of the group watched his underlings ransack your stuff, searching for anything valuable. They wouldn’t find much other than your money. Jaskier didn’t know whether to be grateful or worried for this.
When he determined the bandits were far enough away, he ducked his head closer to yours. Your snake eyes hadn’t left the leader since you were captured.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
As though snapped back to reality, you blinked and finally looked at him. It was not in a casual, carefree way. You did not look at him like he’d just come back from a night bar-hopping and performing for coin. There was so much fire behind your eyes. When you scanned him over for any hint of injury or harm to his person, all he could think of was the way you defended him atop the mountain. When you turned from yelling at Geralt and ushered him away; the way the anger had taken several minutes to actually fade from your body, despite the soft smile you wore. You did not answer his question.
“Did they hurt you?”
He shook his head. Where relief should have been was a hole, filled to the brim with guilt. He wasn’t hurt. He was perfectly fine, aside from the fear that spiked his heart rate and picked at his fingers.
But he could have been. He could have been hurt. And it’s all your fault.
“Hey!” The sharp shout startled Jaskier into leaning back away from you. The leader crossed the camp quickly, sneering down at you. “No talking.”
You stared silently up at him, defiant. He began to step away, foot turned toward the horses, but he stopped. A wicked grin pulled at dirt-covered cheeks. He chuckled, all too pleased with his realization.
“Boys, we didn’t just catch a snake,” he beckoned. The others stopped what they were doing, dropping your things and gathering around to hear what their leader had to say, like sinners in church hoping for their priest to provide them with salvation. The leader knelt down in front of you. His face was inches away, and his breath reeked of tobacco and ale. His voice changed to a low hiss. “You’re Nilfgaard’s prized Viper.”
A murmur arose between the underlings.
“You’ve got a pretty price on your head.” A gloved hand reached out and touched your cheek. You jerked away from the touch. “Just the head, mind you.”
The hand trailed down your throat until it brushed against the silver of your medallion. The snake engraved on it seemed to pull back, prepared to bite the finger, but it was only a trick of the light that scattered through the canopy overhead. He stared into your eyes as his hand wrapped around the metal, and in one quick tug, the string broke. An emptiness replaced the ever-present weight.
“Of course, you won’t be needing this anymore, eh?”
He chuckled as he stood up, briefly scraping the edge of the medallion across your cheek just to see you flinch away. His eyes only glanced over Jaskier. The bard’s popularity was lost on the bandit. For that, you were grateful. To them, he was just another bard, not one of the most famous, who traveled with the White Wolf and sung songs of Witcher glory.
The leader turned. With a wave of his hand, the rest of the men went back to work. Wood and grass was piled up in the center, and soon enough a fire was crackling away. They pulled out the dried meats from your bags and they tore sections off of a loaf of bread, and they sat laughing amongst themselves around the fire as the sun grew lower in the sky.
Jaskier sighed mournfully. He scowled as he watched them rip chunks from the jerky with their teeth and slosh ale between bites of bread. He only looked away when he heard your cuffs clinking together.
Your fingers felt around the metal, feeling out where it was locked, where the chains attached, and which was weaker of the two. You watched the group, but you weren’t staring at food like he’d been. When a bandit glanced over, your fingers stopped moving. As soon as he looked away again, you felt around more.
Jaskier, as soon as he realized you were trying to be sneaky, looked away. His eyes darted between the group.
Ducking your head, you whispered to the bard, “I need a distraction.”
“What kind of distraction?” The question came out more anxious than he intended. He didn’t fancy the idea of being bait, but you’d both been stuck here for hours and he was more than ready to get as far away as possible.
You ran your fingers along the chain again. It was sturdy, but all you’d need is one broken link. The real issue came with the execution. “I need 2 minutes.”
He sighed. He didn’t fancy getting beat up for an escape, either. But he nodded anyway. He’d entertained worse crowds, surely he could draw their attention long enough.
With some effort, he pushed himself up to his feet. His legs were numb from sitting on his knees so long, pricks and pins sticking him every stumbled step over to the fire. He grinned widely despite the situation.
“Gentleman!” All conversation died, replaced with glaring eyes and grotesque sneers. “You seem to have done quite well for yourselves out here. It would be my honor, as Jaskier the bard, to sing a song to your greatness!”
Some of the thugs chuckled. “You’re gonna sing us a song?”
He nodded. Their eyes all followed him as he circled around the group, pulling their attention further away from you. As soon as they were no longer faced that way, a dim orange light emitted from behind you. “I could sing for you all through the night and morning! Or until that one,” he gestured his head to one of the thugs that swayed in his seat from ale, “falls over, leastaways.”
They all laughed. The ones closest nudged the drunkard playfully. They all fell quiet when the leader uncrossed his legs and sat forward. Cracked lips curled around browning teeth. “Go on, then,” he encouraged. Yet something lingered beneath the words, as a snake slithers unseen under bushes. Something dangerous. He stood and paced around Jaskier, standing too close behind him. The bard swallowed as hot breath touched his ear. “Sing for us, little bird.”
With little time to think of all the songs in his repertoire (most of which revolved around a Witcher), the first song that didn’t deal with a White Wolf slaying beasts heroically was the song he sang. And though without a backing instrumental or the assurance that they would know the song and join in, Jaskier endured. For the few seconds he got to sing it, that is.
“Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger. Come quell-”
A gloved hand grabbed his hair and pulled hard enough he almost fell to the ground. As it was, he was bent over backward trying not to have his hair ripped out. The leader leaned over him. “Not that fucking tripe.”
With another sharp tug to his hair, Jaskier was flung to the ground by the horses. He winced as he landed hard on his shackles.
From across the camp, sharp yellow eyes watched helplessly.
“Try again.”
A rough sigh passed the bard’s lips like a huff. He was just as powerless as the Witcher he traveled with. The thugs watched as he floundered. His lips formed half-thought lyrics, before he stopped himself. His heart raced as he sang the next song.
“The fairer sex, they often call it-”
You watched as though in slow motion as the leader swung his leg in an arc, rubber sole catching Jaskier across the cheek. The momentum sent him to the ground. Their laughter burned your ears as they watched on. With his hands still clasped behind him, Jaskier fought to get away from the crowd. His cheek was pink, though not twinged by the humors of alcohol. And from a small cut beneath his eye fell a drop of blood.
You saw red.
In one final burst of Igni, you felt the chain break apart. It glowed red as you forced yourself to stand. For a moment, everyone was too distracted bullying Jaskier, until you cut off one of their heads with their own sword.
The fear in the leader’s eyes was worth all the pain. Had you been a wild beast, you would have relished in their terror. Soaked in the way they stepped back, tried to find a way to get their weapons, try to figure out an escape. But you weren’t. And all you could think of was getting Jaskier out of there.
“Touch him again,” you hissed, “and I will ensure no god will recognize you when I am finished.”
Clinging to the last of his confidence, the leader scoffed. You could hear the waver in his voice. “You’d kill us all, for what? A bard?”
“In a heartbeat.”
All color drained from his face. He shoved his men forward to fight while the coward grabbed Jaskier and dragged him backward into the trees for protection.
Truthfully, you didn’t remember most of the fight. You recalled your injured arm becoming useless halfway through. And you distinctly remember a sharp, burning pain along your spine the more blows you took and the more men you felled. By the time the last grunt had fallen to your stolen sword, you were covered in gore and viscera.
You stepped lazily over bodies as you crossed the camp, one arm limp and the other hanging from exhaustion. The sword was heavier than your daggers, and required a completely different fighting style than you were trained in. Even at a disadvantage, you’d wiped out the entire camp so quickly you would have been praised back at school.
“Not one step closer!”
Your feet stopped at the edge of the campfire’s glow. Just beyond, back pressed up against a tall oak, was the bandit leader. Jaskier was trapped in his hold with a knife pressed to his throat. He tried not to squirm under the threat to his life, but the fear radiated off of him so thickly you could smell it through hints of vanilla.
“No closer or the bard gets it!”
You almost chuckled. “You’d kill your only bargaining chip?” You took a step forward. “Really?”
The blade pressed tighter against his neck. “I’ll do it, I swear!”
For a long moment, you both stared, studying each other. You watched the way Jaskier swallowed his whimpers down. The way the bandit’s gloved hand trembled. The silver glistening in his pocket.
“What do you propose?”
He blinked. “Drop the sword.” Your fingers tightened around the hilt. “Drop the sword and I’ll let him go.”
Jaskier thought for a moment you would refuse. The blade caught the firelight as you contemplatively shifted its weight in your grasp. He hated how shocked he felt when you did finally drop the sword. And the relief as you kicked it away from yourself.
The bandit waited a moment to ensure you weren’t trying to pull a fast one over him. Then, he lifted the knife from your bard’s neck, and shoved him forward. You grunted as you caught him, as he stumbled into you roughly. You held onto his sleeve when he gathered himself, stepping away from you, and watched over his shoulder as the cowardly leader ran away.
Jaskier sighed. It was shaky, filled with relief and disappointment. “You’re going to let him go?”
“That wasn’t part of our deal,” you answered lowly. Jaskier felt untethered when you released him and swept up the sword you’d kicked away. At the edge of the treeline, you used your whole body to gather the momentum, and threw the sword at the retreating figure. It spun through the air and landed on its mark. The bandit collapsed to the forest floor. “Stay here.”
The command was quiet and held no real power behind it, but Jaskier complied nonetheless. He watched from afar as you stepped clumsily over protruding roots.
The leader, gasping in agony, clawed his way along the ground. His gloves were hastily removed and chucked aside in hopes of gathering more traction. He screamed as the sword in his back was ripped out carelessly. A boot kicked him onto his side, and another forced him to lay on his bleeding, gaping wound. Blood stained orange and brown leaves indiscriminately.
“Mercy!” he cried. His face contorted into a gross facsimile of the man he once was. Tears clouded his vision and poured down his dirty cheeks. His hands clasped in prayer. “Mercy, please!”
You aimed the tip of your blade at his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed against it. “You hurt my bard,” you reminded him. Your voice was quiet; a mere croak of what it usually was. But the threat it carried remained as powerful as if you screamed it. “You ransacked our horses, ate our food, stole my medallion.” You twisted your grip on the blade so your palm faced you. The sword stood straight up against the hollow of his neck. “I have no mercy left to give.”
Steel sheathed itself within his neck. You watched remorseless as blood pooled in his mouth, and as he coughed and choked on it. Taking his life was all too satisfying.
With a groan, you reached down and plucked your medallion from one pocket, and the key to your cuffs from the other. You used the trees for support as you stumbled back to the camp. Jaskier met you at the treeline and pressed his body into your side to keep you upright. You held onto his sleeve again.
“Are you alright?” he whispered. He didn’t wish to take his eyes off you, even as you turned him away so you could free him from his shackles. As soon as they were off, he was facing you once again and holding you by the arms to support you.
You couldn’t find the words to answer him. Were you? Half your body was numb; the other half burned something fierce. You felt no remorse taking so many human lives, but guilt festered like an open wound when you spotted the blood on his cheek. Without thinking, you raised a hand and brushed it away.
Jaskier stayed by your side, holding you up, as you shambled toward the horses. “Need to move on,” you muttered. Were those spots in your vision? “We can get a few more miles down the road if we-”
“You’re bleeding, Viper.” He pulled you to a stop. “You’re covered in blood - I’m covered in blood.”
“You barely got a splatter on you.”
“The sun’s already beginning to set and there’s fire and food aplenty here. We should stay and rest, not charge off into the night!”
You shook your head. “Monsters’ll smell this blood. Ten minutes, tops, we’ll be fighting off rotfiends and- and everything else.”
Irritated, he looked around the camp. He really didn’t want to sleep surrounded by corpses, but you! He’d watched the fight. It was messy and sloppy, and you’d definitely be bruised in a few hours. He wasn’t entirely certain you hadn’t broken anything. Surely it would be best to patch yourselves up first?
You didn’t wait for him to argue any more. Bayard saw you approaching and met you halfway. Without a command, he laid down so you could easily mount him. Jaskier begrudgingly helped you settle in the saddle the bandits neglected to remove, and he watched as Bayard stood as carefully as he was able to avoid flinging you out the seat.
You fought to keep your eyes open as you watched Jaskier find something to step on so he could mount Adhara. Your body screamed and begged for rest. For the pain to end. But you couldn’t sleep. You refused to, when Jaskier could still be in danger from the monsters that lurked in the dark woods. No. You’d ride a while longer, and then you could rest.
Barely tugging the reins, you guided Bayard from the wooded clearing. Low hanging branches scratched against your face, but you couldn’t find any part of you that really cared. You could hear Jaskier grumbling as he pushed the branches aside.
As you neared the road, the sound of trickling water returned. Oh, the things you’d do to slip right into that cool river. Horse hooves clopped mutedly against the dirt road. Every step rocked you gently. Dark spots overwhelmed your vision, and finally your eyelids closed. Jaskier screamed your Viper moniker as he watched you slide limply off your horse once again, and collide with the hard ground below.
---
Tag List:
@writeawaythepain
@sleepyqueerenergy
@adozenforks
@plaguedoctorsnake
@solomonsimp
@cool-ontherun-world
#fanfic#fanfiction#the witcher#the witcher fanfic#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fic#jaskier x reader#jaskier#jaskier the bard#witcher jaskier#the witcher jaskier#x reader#gender neutral reader#x gender neutral reader#gn reader#x gn reader#cross posted on ao3
13 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
jenniebmusic
Jennie B
moontaart
Moontaart
translatesongsandarias-blog
Translate Songs & Arias
gijoe-forever
G.I.Joe Forever
mralexsan
MrAlexSan