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lilsedge · 10 days

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The Judgement Day’s Girl pt 19

Warnings:

Taglist: @judgementdayfan1 @abbyandersonbicep @iwanttoberich420 @teenagedramaqueenlisa @simpin4pixels @imagandom @eleamrsk @crustyboypix @werewolfbansheelove @pawspurpaw @dmysterioblog @myletitiawright @neptune-lover @xndalynch @femkekiki @ambrehhlulz-blog @salry80 @lomlrhea @nightwonderer1 @ynbutbetter @hails-coleman @odessa-is-my-queen @jdnclaymoresbitch @ripleyswife @riverwritesstuff @plk-18 @imaslvtforeveryone @purplerose291 @shroomje @lilred91 @knightprincess @hellokittywh0re @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @eradicatedbythenightmare @wfn444 @yoursadneighbor @monkesmiles @mary-jinx @kay-17 @nepttunesoop @kagome2909 @riverina69 @babybatlover @zintraunholy @silentangel2002-blog @indistopic @gracy09 @m11022008 @hc-geralt-23 @p0is0nl0ve

Y/N walked into her apartment after the long plane ride home. The lingering unease remains. She attempted various methods to make it disappear.

She left her suitcase at the locked door. She didn’t want to clean any of it right now. The girl placed her phone on her coffee table and laid on the couch. Placing her throw blanket over her. The girl fell asleep immediately because of being tired from the plane.

The sound of shuffling echoed throughout the apartment. Y/N woke up and sat up very slowly. She didn’t want to move any more than this. The shuffling got closer. She saw a person in all black. All she could do was scream. The person immediately ran out the door. Y/N got up quickly. She had locked the door before she fell asleep. That person had a key.

Y/N no longer felt safe in her own apartment and it was scary. She immediately gets her laptop from her bag and starts looking for a new apartment. When a knock on the door makes its way to her ears. She stands up slowly, grabbing the one thing on the island, a fork. She looks through her peephole the best she can.

“What are you guys doing here?” She asks, opening the door.

“Why are you holding a fork?” Damian asks.

“Don’t answer my question with a question. Why are you guys here?” She asks again, gripping the fork.

“We want to talk,” Rhea says. Y/N moves to open the door more and moves herself to the side. Her arm goes up, silently telling them to enter. Once she closes the door, she quickly closes her laptop.

Dominik sneaks behind the girl and takes the fork out of their hand. He sets it on the island by her computer. She lets out a sigh and turns to the four.

“You wanted to talk, then talk,” she says. It might have been a bit filled with attitude, but she had a reason someone was in her apartment less than ten minutes ago.

“Watch your attitude,” Rhea says.

“Don’t tell my what to fucking do,” Y/N fires back. Y/N watches as Rhea goes to take a step closer, she grabs the fork off the counter again. Finn puts his arm around Rhea’s waist.

“Why don’t we put that fork down, darling,” Dominik says, stepping in front of his lovers. He puts his soft hand on Y/N’s wrist. He takes the fork out of her hand for a second time that night, but he doesn’t put it back on the counter. Instead, he puts it away.

He walks back in front of what he once called his best friend. It was evident to him that she was scared. Just didn’t know if it was about them or if something else happened.

“Guys, can I talk to her alone first?” He asks.

“Go ahead,” Finn replies.

“Come on,” Dom says, leading her to her bedroom.

He opens the door to her bedroom. A place he was familiar with. Once he closed the door, he couldn’t help but notice the room didn’t change. The pictures they had taken together were still hanging on the wall. The stuff he’d gotten her still where they were originally. Then his eyes landed on the girl. She was sitting on her bed, staring off into nothingness.

His mind wonders. What did his poor girl go through? He takes his time to make his way to her. He kneels down, knees on the fuzzy carpet by her bed. Hands make their way on the bed on either side of the girl.

“What’s going on?” Dominik asks.

“Nothing,” the girl replies.

“Look at me, please. I can tell when you’re lying and also when you don’t feel comfortable or even safe. Y/N I’m your best friend,” he says.

“Were,” she says.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“You were my best friend. Might I remind you that you left me? Dom, you left me when I was in a bad position,” she replies.

“I didn’t mean to leave you. I meant to leave my dad. At that specific moment, I failed to realize that I would also lose you. Y/N, I miss you and I’ll do anything in my life to get you back in it,” Dom says. The girl doesn’t reply. Her hands make their way to Dominik’s hoodie strings. He looks at her while she plays with them.

“Can you at least tell me what went down before we came here?” He asks.

“He came here,” she says. It was short, but Dom knew who ‘he’ was.

“Like he knocked on the door,” Dom says.

“No, he was in the apartment. I was sleeping on the couch and I heard noises and I saw a person in all black, but I knew who it was,” Y/N says.

“How did he get in?” Dom asked.

“He has a key,” she replies, “before you ask. I don’t know how he got one. I’m looking for a different place to live, though.”

“I don’t think you’re safe to live alone,” He says.

“I have no one to live with,” she says, letting herself fall onto her back.

“You can figure something out,” Dominik says. He pushes himself up and gently lies on the girl.

She lets out a light laugh. The girl didn’t think she’d ever laugh with Dominik again. She was afraid that she wouldn’t get to, and here she was. After a bad day, he was finally there to make it all better.

The two of them forgot all about the other three that were outside of the door. They forgot about the whole world. It’s just the two of them.

They heard a knock at the door. Dominik groans while getting off of his best friend. The girl sits up, smiling a proper smile. The boy opens the door.

“Are you guys done here?” Rhea asks.

Dominik looks back at Y/N and she nods at the guy. Dominik nods at them and opens the door fully. He puts his hand out for Y/N to grab. All five of them make their way to the living room. The girl sits down on the couch, making herself seem smaller than she is. Dominik notices this and sits next to her.

His hand slips into hers. It was perfect like a puzzle piece. He’d almost forgotten what was like to hold her hand after holding three other pairs. The girl looks up at Dominik and gives him a tight smile.

The other three make themselves at home. Sitting down close together on her couch. She reaches out and grabs the blanket to throw it on the back of the couch. The five of them sat in silence. This silence made Y/N more nervous than she was, so her free hand started tracing Dom’s tattoos. More specifically, her tattoo, he had gotten a tattoo for her that says ‘Princesa’. He got it, so even if they were far away, he could still think of her.

“So, we came here to talk to you,” Damian says.

“We’ve established that,” Y/N says, with the same attitude. Dominik squeezes her hand. She looks at him and he gives her a stern look. The girl immediately lets out a small sorry.

“We wanted to have a conversation about the past week,” Finn says. Y/N just nods along with what Finn was saying.

“First, we would like to apologize for how we acted when you came over to our hotel room,” Damian says.

“I’m sorry I even went to your room,” Y/N says, quietly.

“Don’t be sorry. It actually made all of us talk about the situation,” Dominik says.

“Actually, before you guys continue. My dad knows the situation between us because he booked my time off for me. He said that he still hates you guys, but I could talk to you guys,” she says.

“That’s what we kind of talked about,” Rhea says.

“We realized we can’t control who is in your life because we don’t want to be controlling. That’s not normally us. I personally think we were like that because we don’t like your father,” Damian says.

“I mean, it’s only fair. He doesn’t like you guys, you don’t need to like him. I want you guys to understand if you’re going to be in my life, my father is going to be in my life. He’s the only person who’s stayed with me through thick and thin and at one point in our lives it was only us two,” she says.

“And we respect that now. We can’t like everyone you like,” Finn says.

“Yeah,” Y/N nods.

“So what now?” Dom asks.

“I think whatever we have here with Y/N, if it stays as a friendship or turns into more. We just do it slowly,” Rhea says.

“Well, I do have something to say,” Dom says.

“What is it?” Damian asks.

“Can Y/N move in with us?” He asks in a pleading voice.

“Not right now, buddy. We are taking things slow,” Rhea says.

“Y/N can I tell the why you should move in with us?” He asks, whispering in her ear.

“Just say I’m uncomfortable, please,” she whispers back.

“Y/N is uncomfortable here,” he says.

“What do you mean, she’s uncomfortable?” Finn asks.

“I don’t want to really talk about why I’m uncomfortable, but I’m quite uncomfortable here,” Y/N speaks up.

“We will see what we can do,” Damian says.

“Hey Y/N, where is your bathroom?” Rhea asks.

“I’ll just show you,” the young girl says, letting go of Dominik’s hand and standing up.

She leads the older girl to the bathroom. Y/N expects Rhea to go to the bathroom alone, but she doesn’t. She pulls Y/N in there with her, turning the light on and closing the door. Her hand hovers over the lock. She doesn’t lock it; she wants Y/N to feel safe with her.

“I’ve missed you,” Rhea says.

“I can’t say that I haven’t missed you,” Y/N responds.

“Can I hug you?” Rhea asks in a whisper.

Y/N looks into Rhea’s eyes for a moment. Then just walks into her arms. Rhea immediately wraps her arms around the younger girl. Inhaling deeply, Rhea finally gets to smell her girl’s scent again. Rhea pulls back a bit. Not to get out of the girl’s hold, but to put her hands on the girl’s face. She just wanted to admire Y/N. Since they spent time apart, Rhea kept stalking Y/N on instagram just to look at her cute face.

“You’re so pretty,” Rhea whispers.

Y/N smiles big, “so are you.”

“Why did you guys not want to talk to me in the first place?” Y/N asks.

“I think it’s because we didn’t want you to get hurt. We’ve seen you hurt, and it was horrible,” she replies.

“But you guys doing that made me hurt more than my dad did,” Y/N says.

“I know love and I’m sorry, we’re sorry,” Rhea says, bringing the girl into another hug.

“Don’t tell the boys this, but my mom texted me one night before everything happened, like you guys betraying my dad and everything. She told me that she thinks me and you would make a great couple. That, of course, changed after all the stuff happened,” Y/N says, softly.

“She really did?” Rhea asks. Y/N nods.

“I did have a crush on you then because of course that’s when I wasn’t with the boys,” Rhea chuckles. Y/N lightly laughs along with Rhea.

“That’s amazing because I also had a crush on you,” Y/N says.

“So those people were right. Whenever when we were in the ring together, there was sexual tension,” Rhea says.

“Guys, you good in there,” a voice sounds out, while tapping on the door.

Y/N jumped a bit. Rhea smiled at the girl. She opens the door and says, “yeah we’re good. I just got confused and needed her help.”

“Got confused, Rhea love. You were in the bathroom,” Damian says confused.

“Well, it’s confusing in here sometimes. I get confused when I’m drunk,” Y/N shrugs, surprised at herself that she could keep the lie up.

“Okay,” Damian says.

Y/N walks out of the bathroom after Rhea does. She walks a bit slower behind the two lovers to give her time to think about what’s happened in the past two hours. Someone broke into her apartment, well not really broke in, they had a key. The Judgement Day came over, Dominik made up with her and Rhea just confessed that she had a crush on her.

“Y/N,” she hears as Dominik snaps her back into reality.

“Oh, yeah?” She answers.

“What do you want to do?” Finn asks.

“Uh, we can just chill here,” she suggests.

“Yeah, I like that. We don’t have to do anything,” Damian says.

Y/N gets up and grabs the remote, handing it to one of them. She walks to her closest to get out more blankets so they could chill. She gives them the blankets and goes to her room.

Her mind is going wild, making her think that she’s going insane. The four in the living room must have missed her so much. That’s what they had to come to her apartment, but what if they came any earlier and saw the person who was in her apartment?

She didn’t stay in her room for much longer. The girl put her phone on the charger quickly and grabbed her favourite stuffed animal. Don’t judge her, it gives her comfort, and she needs that at the moment.

She makes her way back out to the living room and sits away from the rest of them. Not wanted to intrude on their cuddling time. They found a movie and waited for her to sit down before they started it.

“Hey that’s the guy I got you,” Dominik says.

“Yea, it’s a comfort thing for me now,” Y/N replies.

“That’s cute,” Finn says, causing Y/N to blush.

The movie was finally done and the four of them were all asleep, cuddling. There was one girl who couldn’t seem to go to sleep. She feared his return. Maybe this time does even worse.

“Hey girly,” she hears someone whisper. Y/N looks up and sees Rhea awake.

“Hey,” she whispers back.

“Come here,” Rhea says, lifting her arm off of Damian’s chest. Y/N gets up and moves herself in between Damian and Rhea. She lays there awkwardly, not knowing where to put her head.

“Lay your head on mami’s chest,” Rhea says, laughing.

“Okay, don’t get too full of yourself. I could still get up and leave,” Y/N chuckles.

“No, you’re not leaving,” Rhea says, as her grip tightens on Y/N. Since she last woke up, the girl was now feeling tired. Maybe it’s because now she felt safe. Her Judgment Day would protect her. They always protected their girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve decided to release it bc now mami is out injured for a bit and I’m upset :((

#wwe x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #dominik mysterio x reader #the judgement day #damian priest x reader #finn balor x reader #rhea ripley x reader

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januaryembrs · 1 year

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HEARTBEAT | Geralt x reader

Request: hellooo! if your still up for requests i'd love a geralt one please! perhaps reader is vary of horses (maybe even afraid) and he tries to help? <3

description: After learning your fear of horses, Geralt takes a gentle approach at teaching you to trust his companion, Roach.

Word Count: 1.1k

Trigger warnings: fear of horses? close proximity?

main masterlist

Authors note: I'm back finishing the last of the requests sent, I do so apologise for the wait I've been super busy over Christmas and hope to satiate you all soon!

“What’s wrong?” Came his rugged voice, knocking you out of the stressed reverie you were in.

“What?” You asked, half mindedly, “What do you mean?” You repeated, finally coming out of your thoughtful daze.

“You’re being strange. Have been ever since we left town,” You felt caught. Witcher’s were naturally observant men, something you cursed yourself for not thinking of before, now that it had come back to bite you in the arse.

And you had been acting strange. First it was refusing to mount the horse Geralt rode, Roach you knew her to be. You were tired all the time from walking the whole way to the next town while Geralt had the luxury of a steed, though you had brought the punishment on yourself you supposed. Then it was flinching every time the poor mare so much as whinnied, which she did so a lot when spooked by the monsters Geralt brought down. And now you refused to even sleep if she was too close to your bedspread.

When you had been in town, it was not so noticeable. You spent a lot of time at the inn you were staying at, away from the bay coloured mare, so Geralt had not noticed the odd habits before. But now the two of you had hit the road and were sleeping next to a campfire instead of a roaring hearth, it was much more apparent.

“I-” You cut yourself off as the words died in your mouth. Your face blanked for a moment, thinking long about how you were to explain the issue to a man who knew no fear.

Geralt slayed monsters for a living, monsters that knew how to kill and kill well. Some of the bodies he brought back were two, three times his already mammoth size, and he still managed to charge at them without any hesitation.

How on all the gods names were you supposed to tell him you were scared of horses?

“Spit it out, then.” Geralt grumbled in his brash manner, though you could see in his amber eyes he was veiling his annoyance over true concern. Perhaps you wanted to leave him, he had expected nothing less. The two of you had only been friends a matter of months, but everyone always tires of him and his lifestyle eventually.

He knew exactly what was to come out of your mouth.

I don’t want to know you anymore.

“I’m scared of horses,” His head whipped up to meet your sullen eyes. Your face painted that of deep embarrassment, avoiding his gaze and poking at the fire with a frown.

“What?” He bit, the confusion of the sentence clear as a bell in his tone. “What do you mean? It’s a horse.”

Your face flooded with heat that surely hadn’t come from the camp. The way he said it made it sound such a foolish fear to have. And it was, you supposed. Roach had never made any move to harm you or anyone else for that matter. But the idea of being atop such a muscled beast and giving her full control of whether she throws you off her or not made you frozen to the bone.

“No shit,” You snapped, though all rebellion died in your chest as you accepted the fact he was clearly judging your fear of such a harmless creature. “I know it sounds ridiculous, I just always have been scared of them, alright?”

Geralt pondered with a frown. Not even his usual ‘Hmm’ made an appearance, and so the two of you sat in silence. You feeling more foolish by the second, and him thinking fast of how to get through this problem of yours.

Until he stood up brashly, walking over to his furred companion. You thought for a moment he was going to leave you here alone, thinking he stood much better chances with someone who was not so cowardly. And how could you blame him? You would hate to be stuck with someone so fearful when it came down to such a hostile environment.

“Come here,” The behemoth man commanded, though he did so as gently as his rumbling voice would allow.

You stared after him, eyes flicking to his outstretched hand, following his figure up to the calm mare that seemed unbothered by her owner's close proximity.

You hesitated for a moment, before standing and following his orders. Slowly taking steps towards the two, Geralt caught the moment your breath died in your throat as Roach grunted as horses normally do. He saw the way your fingers clenched at your side and your step faltered.

He lowered his hand to calmly take yours in his large grasp, gently tugging you towards him and Roach despite the way he felt you resist.

“Geralt-” You protested, her long snout seeking out your new smell and blowing hot air in your face. You tried stepping away from her, but Geralt’s body encompassed yours and forced you in place. His one arm stayed holding your wrist easily, while the other came around your body to push her snout away from your face softly.

“She’s just curious about you, is all. She won’t hurt you,” Geralt tried to soothe you, feeling his strong heartbeat pressing against your spine. He began shuffling you forward under her neck with a strength you still tried and failed to resist against.

“Geralt, please,” The panic was clear in your voice. You didn’t like horses and never would, and this kind of close exposure to them may have worked for some but only made you more on edge.

“Just trust me,” He whispered in your ear tenderly, lifting your arm up to her muscled chest. Your hand met her soft fur, her skin quivering momentarily at the contact though she showed no sign of upset, and his large hands spread your palm out onto her own heart beat.

“Horses' hearts beat much slower than yours, did you know?” He murmured, keeping you tucked under her head and in front of him. You shook your head, feeling your own chest pounding at the proximity to such a beast. “Witchers hearts beat even slower than that,” His breath was close to your ear now, as was Roach’s on your opposite side. You felt as if you were being squished in between the two of them, their breaths synchronising as they rolled down your spine in equal parts heat and chill. For every other beat of Roach’s heart came Geralt’s reverberating strongly in his chest, and it was then that you realised what he was doing. They sounded the same, horse and man. Hearts beating alike, breath swarming your senses gently, no danger to be found.

If you should be worried about anything on your journey, it should be the monster-slaying beast that stood behind you that caressed your hand so kindly, and whispered in your ears that made your breathing stutter.

This time when Roach nickered in your direction, you felt little fear, atleast half of what you’d had before. There was nothing to worry about when you had a man like Geralt guiding you.

#stars' 1k follower shebang #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt fanfic #the witcher x you #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #the witcher fanfic #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill characters

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deandoesthingstome · 6 months

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Medieval Fantasy

Pairing: Witcher!Geralt x Reader

Summary: The offerings at this hotel, I swear.

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: 18+, NO MINORS, fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving, 69), p in v (cowgirl, missionary), monster fucking (right?).

A/N: I suppose, strictly speaking we're not fucking the monster, but he's still a treat, so enjoy!

A/N 2: (Edited) I do owe @augustsprincess a little thank your for an idea; I played it out during the group chat here, but I probably wouldn't have included it at all if not for you, so *smooches*

Fantasy Hotel Masterlist

Mike ordered a pizza from room service for the last hour of your reservation with him once he flipped the time switch. You sat cross-legged on the couch with him, munching happily while he narrated the ridiculousness of the rest of the scenes to your scary movie, making you giggle where you’d normally be hiding behind a blanket. You’d remember this night fondly for a long time. Mike’s easy going way had put you completely at ease once he noticed you were a little hung up on Walt.

He unfortunately didn’t know anything about how to get a hold of your missing object of desire.

You set the scene for the story pretty much as it was, but added more spook and gore, opting to split up the experience into two nights. One with live Mike, just barely slipping out the window before the parents came home from their Halloween night costume parties, only to be killed by the tow truck driver who showed up when his car, parked around the corner from the house, wouldn’t start. He was hung on the hook that should have hoisted his beater onto the truck. And one a few weeks later, when the heavy drag of the chains and hook across the attic floor led the heroine to investigate, only to be taken swiftly and with no mercy by her incorporeal boyfriend. Not rough, just urgent, insistent, longing for some other connection that would allow him to leave the vicinity of his undoing. If he could have taken her outside on the sidewalk without prying neighbor eyes, he probably would have.

You put the notice up after you posted. The next would be your last regular monster fucking post. You were taking a hiatus to work on your first novel.

sendmeanangel: and then Walter burst through the window, all wolfed out darkgothnightengale: while they were both fucking you??? sendmeanangel: yeah, and i can only think my subconscious was trying to not kill me when it chose August and Mike for that experience. I can’t imagine having anything else inside me while getting fucked by the Bull MNstrluvr: i would kill for a dream like that darkgothnightengale: well, did he take you away? sendmeanangel: i woke up!!! darkgothnightengale: and still no luck finding him? sendmeanangel: no. i found a guy who seemed like him, but he’s in Minnesota. Or was. It’s like his online presence is either non-existent or ended abruptly at least ten years ago MNstrluvr: another ghost lol! sendmeanangel: very funny. Mike was a lot of fun anyway. I needed that darkgothnightengale: and you’re still going back? sendmeanangel: i’ve never heard of a witcher. He just showed up on the site the other week and i bet he’s softer than he looks. I booked him at the same time i booked Mike, so it’s already scheduled and i could do with one more amazing adventure before i give it all up darkgothnightengale: i still don’t understand why. If you don’t have walter, what’s the harm? sendmeanangel: there’s no harm. Obviously i’m free to do what i want. But i think about him all the time. And i just think maybe it’s time for a break MNstrluvr: when you find him you should see if he’s up for booking a room with you so you can recreate that dream sendmeanangel: oh my goddddd!

“We certainly hope you haven’t been displeased with your experiences here,” the desk clerk asked gently.

“What? No! Everything’s been wonderful. Why do you ask?” you inquired, at a loss for what may have precipitated the comment.

“We noticed you hadn’t made another future booking yet.”

“Oh, that,” you stammered. ”I just…no, everything’s fine.” You fingered the edges of the card stock bearing the elevator code to get you to L2 and tightened your grip on your bag reflexively. Just a trick you used to bring you back to steady.

“Well, please. If there’s anything at all we can do for you…” You smiled and cast your eyes down so as not to betray your true feelings, but glanced up quickly to try to judge the meaning behind the next statement made with a hint of weightiness. “Anything at all.”

“Thank you,” you offered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The elevator opened to a small wooden hut, a place for your belongings and coat, a small wash basin filled with still steaming water and fragrant scents set on a wooden stand. You disrobed, dipped a washcloth in the water, and bathed yourself with the enchanting smells, then grabbed a linen towel to dry off before climbing into the outfit you’d selected for the fantasy. You slipped the silver dagger into the holster you’d strapped to your thigh and dropped your heavy skirt down over it before wrapping the cloak around your shoulders.

You had no idea what you were walking out into, only that if things got too hairy, as they absolutely could, he’d be there to save you. There to comfort you.

You stepped out onto a wooded path leading to a trail along a marshy bog, mostly full moon shining in the sky above you. You were never going to get over the mechanics of this hotel that made it seem like you were in at least five distinctly different places, some of which were outside, while still housed in the same building. But you were solidly on the side of possibility. Monsters were real. Magic was real. This hotel was real.

You carried a small basket of goods, as if headed to a market or maybe home from one. The path ahead of you seemed less than ideal and you began to wonder if you’d made a wrong turn. The churning and bubbling of the bog was lost on you as you looked around for another path that might lead to more solid ground, grateful for the light of the moon since a flashlight app was absolutely not happening, as your phone was left back in the hut.

Suddenly, a loud shriek sounded from the liquid and a large figure began to emerge, long twig-like legs reaching into the space above it as if searching for something. You dropped your basket and ran as soon as it became obvious the thing it was searching for was you. A moment’s respite allowed you to reach under your skirt and grab the dagger before you resumed fleeing away from the monster but suddenly a creepy crawly leg swept around you and it was all you could do to jump out of the way.

You stumbled when you hit the ground, but landed on your back, which meant you could stab up at whatever was coming at you and you did. The blade wasn’t long enough to do full damage, but some gore dripped down your arm as you registered a little casualty point and you pulled back and stabbed again as quick as you could, completely unconcerned with whatever came oozing out. It had to be better than being dead, you thought.

You heard another roar and the distinct slice of a finely crafted blade through the air and the legs that had you trapped were suddenly no longer attached to the larger body that was stalking you. It gave you time to move, scramble out of the way and find a spot to regroup. From behind the boulder you saw him. Leather clad, silver hair flowing, steel blade drawn and hacking through more limbs. As he spun for another attack, you glimpsed his dark eyes and shimmery, pale skin.

It was maybe not the time, but his ass looked great too.

“Little help,” the strained call came, as he flipped the beast over, tackling what you took to be the lower extremities. A smooth patch on the chest seemed like it was made for stabbing so you climbed onto the rock and jumped, landing right on top of the beast with your tiny blade finding a home in the furry goo.

One final, ear-splitting shriek and the deed was done. Your compadre stood and held out a hand to help you up and off the steadily shrinking body of the buggy creature you’d just slayed. You felt your feet touch solid ground as you looked up at the mountain of a man who stood before you.

“Alright?” he asked. “I think you got ‘im, but we should head out in case there are more. I don’t think tonight is the right time for this. We’ll come back tomorrow and finish the job.”

“What job?”

“Okay, sure. This wasn’t why you were walking alone late at night in a Krak infested bog? Are you telling me you weren’t hired to clear the area?”

“No?” you answered, unsure what the words coming out of his mouth meant. Was this what a witcher did?

“Were you hired for anything?”

“I’m really not sure what you mean.” You had to find a way to talk to this man coherently. You remembered your basket. “I was just walking back to town from a market. I think I got a little lost.”

“I think you got a lot lost. Can I help you find your way back? I’m Geralt.” His black eyes were ringed with dark circles, but in the moonlight, those looked like they were fading slowly.

You offered your name and a hand, which he shook, and you felt a line of heat rush straight through your arm, down your chest, and into your core. You gasped as the last of the shadows over his face and eyes dissipated, leaving you staring into amber eyes full of flame. The memory of lights piercing the shadows the other night flooded your brain. What if that wasn’t Walter, as you suspected? But no; the howling.

Geralt helped you locate your discarded basket, into which you stuffed your goo-covered corset and cape, eager to be free from the stench and hoping desperately that dry cleaning would do the trick when you were home. You mounted his horse, Roach, with his assistance and he led you into town. He made a beeline straight for an inn, dropping you off at the entrance with instructions to ask about lodging while he found boarding for his horse for the night.

“Oi! You’re late!” an oversized brute behind the bar exclaimed in your direction as you entered the tavern and you froze, unsure what part of the fantasy this could be. “Have ya lost control of yer legs suddenly? Bring the goods here. Now!”

You looked down at the basket with a realization that was confirmed by another shout.

“Yes. That. The basket. Now!”

You were about to begin the trek across the wooden floor to hand off your basket to the foul looking man, when a pair of comforting hands came to rest on your upper arms, holding you firmly in place.

“I think you have the wrong merchant. This basket of goods is mine,” Geralt’s deep and soothing voice growled. “And we require rooms for the night.”

Rooms? Was this not happening?

“Almost full tonight, Witcher. Only one room left.” You stifled a snort at the cliche of it all.

“We’ll take it. And I’d venture to say you’ll want to provide a meal and round on the house. At least one of your swamp monsters is already dead thanks to this one.” Geralt stepped you into the tavern and over to the bar where a key dangled from the innkeeper's hand.

“She took out a Krak?”

“Practically single-handedly.” There was something like pride in Geralt’s voice, and maybe a little admiration, though you definitely didn't handle that on your own. Still, you grabbed the key with a smirk and turned to find an empty table. Geralt followed once he’d grabbed two tankards of ale, and two plates of stew with bread were set down in front of you after a few moments of awkward silence, during which you took in the clientele. How was the hotel paying all these extras?

“Wolf!” someone called from the entrance and for a moment you thought they’d seen Walter. You looked around, but found nothing other than another sizable man clad in leather and steel making his way to your table.

“Lambert,” Geralt acknowledged him, and introduced you. “What brings you tonight?”

“Just finished up a town over and heard of another job. Looks like you’ve already taken it on. Finished so soon?”

“Hardly started. First kill’s hers anyhow.” Geralt nodded with what appeared to be reverence in your direction.

“Beginner’s luck,” you demurred. “I don’t think a small dagger is going to be of much use with the rest of whatever those were.”

“Looks like I’ll be headed out at first light alone then, to complete the task,” Geralt mumbled, with a comforting look at you before turning attention back to Lambert. “I’d welcome your assistance with this one.”

A barmaid approached to set another tankard of ale in front of your new red-headed table mate and you didn’t miss the way her hand traced over his shoulder and her eyes met his as she walked back toward the counter to continue serving other customers.

“It’s a good thing you’ve found your bed for the night, since we’ve just taken the last one,” Geralt grumbled with a hint of tease.

“Unless you need my assistance with anything else?” Lambert’s tone was clear and they both turned their gazes slowly toward you.

It was a choice. You hadn’t asked for this, but you were being offered an option. Heat filled your cheeks and you cast your eyes down with a sudden shyness. Though two entirely different men, your dream from the other night was somehow presented to you on a platter, and yet…

“I don’t think I’m anything Geralt can’t handle on his own,” you replied, aware this was your call and no one else's.

With the sleeping arrangements out of the way, you spent the next hour or so enjoying stories of training and fighting. If your ears didn’t deceive you, several of their completed jobs seemed to include gratitude delivered by way of sexual favors, sometimes alone, sometimes together. They were cheeky and sly with the language, but the innuendos were there and you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about it.

You waived off another round of ale and professed you’d much rather find a tub of warm water to sink into for a bit. Geralt agreed and you both said your goodnights to Lambert.

Settled into the room, you were surprised to find there really was a wooden tub full of tepid water. A large cauldron hung over a roaring fire and you watched as Geralt used a rudimentary crane-like contraption to hoist the pot over the tub and dump its boiling contents into the water below.

“It’ll warm the water for a bit, so you should take advantage now, if you were serious.”

“It doesn’t look like there’s room for both of us,” you mentioned with a little sadness.

“We can take turns, just don’t stay in too long,” he replied with a mischievous smirk. “Do you need any help with your garments?”

With your corset already removed, all that remained was to unlace the heavy woolen skirt and lift the flowing linen gown underneath it over your head. Geralt was a huge help nevertheless and your body shivered as you imagined his fingers tracing every inch of you, not just your waist or the lucky bits of leg that received his touch as he bent to grab the hem of your dress.

He held your hand as you stepped into the tub and sat down, knees bent against your chest. How would he ever manage to fit himself in here? you thought. While you swirled the water around you, you watched as he turned away to unbuckle his leathers and disrobe as well. You were right about his ass.

You smiled a little to yourself at how comfortable getting naked with him was and then you smiled wider when he turned to face you once again, approaching you in all his glory and settling down onto a stool next to the tub with a washcloth in his hand.

Geralt offered to help you wash off, then dunked his hand into the water when you accepted. He ran the soft rag along your back, down your arms, across your chest. He took a few moments to run the soaked cloth along his body as well when the water began to cool much faster than you’d hoped, leaving no opportunity for him to sit in the tub himself. When he “dropped” the rag while dipping it back in the water for another pass, he didn’t hesitate to reach deeper into the tub, fingers searching the bottom for the cloth but finding your bottom instead. He leaned forward to complete the kiss you had asked for with a lick of your lips and smiled into your gasp when his fingers made their way between your legs.

“You know,” he started after pulling away from your hungry mouth, “I do feel as if I owe you a bit of gratitude myself.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Geralt?” you gently taunted with a fake bit of naivete.

“You were the hero tonight. You deserve a reward.” He stood from the stool, exposing his hardening length, and helped you to stand.

“And will you be my reward?” you purred, clasping your arms around his neck as he lifted you out of the tub.

“Gladly,” he replied, slipping his hands eagerly down your side body and around your thighs to wrap your legs around his waist. He captured your mouth again with a searing kiss as he walked toward the bed and deposited you on your back, legs splayed wide and waiting for him.

“Maybe you could finish what you started.”

He dove to the bed next to you and cupped your cunt with a rather large hand.

“This is just the beginning,” he promised as he bent two fingers and slipped them inside. He watched your face with intent as he pumped his fingers in and out, teasing more and more slick from deep inside you. He kissed you when he added a third finger, swallowing the moan that ripped from your throat.

You couldn’t control your hips if you wanted to, bucking up into his hand, trying to pull him in deeper, trying to find the grind that would let you explode. His lips on your jawline, his tongue on your neck, kisses on your collarbone before he nuzzled into you and whispered how good you fucking smelled from here already. All these words of praise and touches of desire sent you right over the edge with an urgent need to crawl back up and do it again.

He must have been expecting you to take some time to recover because he was off guard when you pushed at his shoulder and sent him to his back so you could sit up and swing your legs over his. Settled on his thighs with an eye toward his very large erection, you smiled and made clear your intentions.

“I want you, Geralt. All of you.”

“However you’d like,” he grinned back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other reaching to stroke himself.

“Fuuuuuuuhhhck,” you moaned, watching how he handled himself, sure saliva was probably dripping from the side of your mouth. “Kinda like that.”

You scooted back down his legs and leaned forward, eager to let him feed you the cock he was keeping hard for you. As with every other host, it was going to be impossible to take him all the way, but you were going to give your best effort on the parts you could reach. His hand motion shortened as your mouth took over servicing the head and a few inches of length. You let your tongue swirl around the tip and dripped saliva from your mouth to give both of you something to slide over.

Your pussy was still yearning for touch and since you didn’t need your own hands for the blowjob, you let one travel down your body and between your legs to trace along your folds. You rubbed two fingers over your sensitive clit, curling to dip them into your warm, wet opening a few times before returning to focus attention at the nub.

“I can help with that, if you’d like,” Geralt grunted breathlessly, the arm behind his neck reaching now for your body, prodding you to turn. While you continued to lave over Geralt’s prodigious member, you crawled around to find your knees on either side of his head and when you felt his hand smooth over your ass, you didn’t resist the pull.

You moaned around the cock in your throat while Geralt wrapped his lips around your pussy and licked his way into your slit. Eventually, he let go of his dick and wrapped both hands around your thighs, holding you close against his face and lapping in tandem with the bob of your head.

On more than one occasion you found you could not concentrate effectively on the head you were giving, since the head you were receiving was so mind blowing. You found you had to lift your mouth off his cock and beg for more, scream for him to make you come. When he did, you were able to return to pleasuring him, since he didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry to move you away. Instead, it was as if he were playing a game called ‘how many times can you come on this tongue.’

It became abundantly clear that you were never going to be able to return the favor. Geralt was not interested in coming down your throat, so when you felt like you couldn’t handle one more tender lick, one more urgent suckle, one more flick of the tip of his tongue on your sensitive pearl, you begged off. Pleaded for mercy.

“I’m not done,” he called from the other end of the bed. “I still owe you my gratitude.”

You peeled yourself reluctantly away from his cock and eased yourself around again, to lay alongside him, chest heaving and thighs shaking.

“I can’t fathom how one Krak deserves more than you’ve already given, but I’ll gladly take it, if only you’ll let me rest a moment.” You draped an arm over his chest and drifted your fingers through the dusting of hair you found.

“Perhaps some water?” he offered, reaching for a cup and the pitcher by the bedside. You shared the cool liquid, quenching one thirst while another still burned hot and needy.

“How long can you last? Surely I’m not that bad at oral.”

His laugh was so bright, it was as if the room was suddenly aglow.

“You are excellent at that. I just have a lot of practice not letting go until I’m sure my partner has reached the absolute peak. It’s a point of pride.”

He wasn’t arrogant about it, just matter of fact. He was here to serve.

“What if we simply waited until you were ready again? Surely that wouldn’t take forever.” You trailed your fingers down his chest, through the patch of hair at his abdomen, and onto his still rock hard length. Feeling how firm he was, letting your hand trace the veins, your thumb nudging the helmet of the head, you couldn’t help but be hungry for him again.

You found yourself straddling his thighs once more, eyeing his cock, begging for him to fuck you now.

“Do they have condoms in this time, wherever we are?” If an ancient Greek labyrinth had condoms, surely this medieval inn had them, too. You were still in the hotel after all. He chuckled and nodded toward the nightstand, where you found a plain wooden box that revealed what you were after when opened.

Geralt made to take the packet from you, but you resisted. “Allow me, please.”

You tore open the package and worked the rubber onto the tip, then rolled the sides down and checked the fit. You let him make a final adjustment, but when he leaned up as if to roll you over, you protested.

“I’m good right here,” you purred, grabbing ahold of his sheathed cock and lifting up to position yourself right above him. You set him at your entrance, still dripping from your several orgasms, and lowered yourself good and slow. You were getting used to the size of these men, but that didn’t mean the start didn’t require some care.

Your eyes closed almost involuntarily once you’d taken him to the hilt and you sat motionless for a moment, feeling your core loosen around him. You began a steady pulse, up and down, as you opened your eyes to see him staring up at you with desire. He rested his hands on your hips, neither speeding you up nor slowing you down, just feeling the motion, feeling you.

After a few more strokes, you grabbed his hands and slid them up your body, pressing the palms of his hands against your breasts and tossing your head back at the sensation. He was more than willing to continue cupping and squeezing without your guidance which allowed you to set your hands on his thighs behind you, providing even more leverage for your rise and fall. Now you sped up.

“Fuck, Geralt, this feels so good,” you cried out.

“I can make it better,” he countered, slipping his hands around your ribs and pulling you forward, chest to chest as he captured your lips once more. With his hands firmly holding your head in place, he began to buck up into you and when it seemed like it was going to be to much, he let his hands drift down your back and onto your hips again, to hold you place while he set a punishing pace, thrusting ever harder and deeper into your pulsing core until he finally exploded with a roar. It wasn’t your peak, but you weren’t complaining in the least. He’d fucked you through several tiny orgasms, each ebbing and flowing with ease. If there was nothing more, no additional gratitude the rest of the night, you’d be just fine.

But he was having none of it. He lifted you off and laid you to the side, urging you back against the head of the bed and lifting the covers for you to climb under. Once you were comfy, he left the bed to deal with the condom removal, grabbing an apple and knife from his bag on the way back. You sat and conversed while he fed you thin slices of sweet fruit, taking his own bites after every third for you.

Geralt was easy to talk to. Not overly wordy, but happy to chat nonetheless. Although you wanted to ask questions about the hotel, you knew it would be wildly inappropriate so you stuck with the script for the scene. What would it take to clear the rest of the Kraks? How dangerous would it have been had he gone alone? What’s the most danger he’d ever gotten into? The most fun? How often, exactly, had he and Lambert been thanked simultaneously?

That question was designed to reignite the passion in the room. You weren’t disappointed. The mere telling of the experiences got him rock hard again and it was with delight that you let him take the lead the rest of the evening. Once he’d donned another condom after feasting on your pussy one more time, he took you on your back, legs wrapped around his waist so he could grab at them when he needed to open you wider or lift your leg over his shoulder to find that one final deep spot that had you panting his name and coming hard around him. He took one more lingering kiss, then pulled out and tidied up, joining you back under the covers for a final round of pillow talk before turning in for the night.

Somehow, with the knowledge that the physical part of the evening was over, the air in the room changed and the conversation did as well. He wasn’t overly concerned with keeping the topics to the scene, but you found yourself second guessing if you should ask anything at all about Walter. It seemed rude, even though Mike had been completely open about it. This stay wasn’t that one.

You’d booked an overnight and Geralt hadn’t needed to bend time for you, if that was even something he could do, so you had no direct in with a question about his possible gifts. You could maybe ask why Lambert had called him Wolf, since they were both from the same school. But in the end it was Geralt who brought up Walter, without realizing what he was doing.

“I lucked into this spot. The hotel had just lost one of their best hosts, and the guy was booked solid weeks out. They’re still trying to find another werewolf to take his room, but in the meantime they contacted me and set up this level.”

“How did they find out about you?” you asked, trying to keep your heart rate from spiking at the hint of information about Walter.

“The way they find out about any of us, I suppose. Word of mouth.”

“Do you know what happened to him? The guy before you?” You didn’t think you were holding your breath, but Geralt’s answer told you otherwise.

“Not a clue. I try not to get caught up in the gossip. Hey, are you alright? You look like you’re about to faint. That’s a real skill since you’re already laying down.”

You tried to take a breath and laugh it off at the same time, asking your next question with a feigned indifference. “There’s gossip in this hotel?”

Geralt’s laugh was infectious. “There’s gossip at every hotel, but this one's something else. I think the vampire is the ring leader. I try to stay away from it. Keep my head down. Take care of my guests. And I shouldn't have even said that. Please forgive me.”

It was obvious he wasn't going to give up much more information, if he even knew anything specific to begin with. You tried to stifle a yawn, but Geralt noticed and stood up to blow out the candles illuminating the room, leaving one small oil lamp burning. When he returned to bed, you curled up into his warmth. You felt a little bad about imagining it was Walt you were snuggled next to, but it didn’t stop you from drifting asleep with a smile on your face.

You opened your messaging app as you were about to step out of the cafe where you’d gone for a latte the next morning after dropping your bag at home.

sendmeanangel: you’ll never guess who showed up to get coffee this morning

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on-a-lucky-tide · 4 months

Text

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

"I'm going for it."

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

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

"Your funeral."

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

Eskel.

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

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

"You lost, Lambert?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#the witcher #tw3 #witcher eskel #witcher lambert #if you know what song inspired this you know

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sky-kiss · 7 months

Note

At this point I'm gonna need to make a binder/scrapbook with your fics and little stickers of Raphael, Joi and heart shapes.

May I please request a bathing drabble? Maybe with Tav and Raph in his Devil's Den room and he takes a bath not caring if she joins. And she does join and omg wait that feels nice Tav, what else those hands do?

Okay sorry I'm done. Enjoy writing the Geralt bath scene with RaphxTav!

In truth, he ought to have returned to the House of Hope hours prior. The debtors have had free reign of the place for the past fortnight, overseen only by Korilla on her occasional return and Haarlep more frequently.

If he's being honest, the prospect is horrifying. And yet, despite the existential dread that stems from his incubus dictating the new status quo in his Home, Raphael lingers on the prime material plane. His centuries of living fade, leaving him grappling with a near-boyish excitement. All his years of planning and expectation are coming to a close. Tav and her friends will deliver the crown. He will assume his place as the rightful ruler of the hells, an archdevil in truth. Everything will be as it should, and the anticipation chases a thrill down his spine.

So, he lingers in the Devil’s Den, surrounded by his mortal trinkets and silence. The contract is not signed, not yet, but that will change shortly. And he has a moment to simply exist. He cannot remember the last time he indulged. More than a century, at least.

The devil lounges in his pool, head tipped back against the side. Rose petals float on the surface of the overheated water, already in the process of wilting. They are lovely little things, scenting the air so sweetly, fading like the mortal lives that cross his threshold. He finds it a pretty analogy, poetically suited for his situation. Raphael closes his eyes. The images that greet him are pleasing for the first time in so long. He imagines Tav, a flush in her cheeks, dipping her head in deference as she offers the crown. He imagines his Lord Father, falling to one knee before him. Mephistopheles will admit he was wrong in his estimations, so wrong; his son has become so much more than his blood might have entailed.

He’s so lost in the fantasy that he doesn’t hear her enter. Unlike the other suites, the door to the Den is always unlocked. His wards threaded through the door, the flooring, and every inch of the building, and so he’s never felt the need. It's the true duality of a devil: ever cautious and never willing to turn away potential business.

Tav clears her throat. If she expects some sort of embarrassment at his nudity, she’s picked the wrong devil. He cracks one open to spare her a look and then shuts it. Raphael feels her gaze sweep over him, lingering on the expanse of his chest and his thighs.

“Yes?” he drags the word out.

To his surprise, his mouse does not recoil or flee in the face of his nudity. Tav crouches near the pool's edge, reaches out, and smooths a wet string of hair away from his forehead. Her nails tickled across his skin, bordering on gentle. “It appears I’m intruding.”

“Oh, my dear. You could never.” The devil grins. Raphael plucks a scarlet-colored washcloth from a bowl of scented water and holds it out to her. “Come. Make yourself useful.”

Her lips curl in that delicious way, a touch of defiance but never enough. She crouches by the edge, fingers curling around his wrist instead of taking the cloth. “I wanted to discuss business.”

“And I am more than amiable. But…” he indicates his state of undress. “Needs/must. Let this be a compromise. Business and pleasure.” It’s the second word chasing a poorly hidden shiver through her. Tav purses her lips. She takes the rag and tips his head back. Raphael clucks his tongue. “No, no, none of that prudery. It shall go far more pleasantly for both of us if only,” he snaps his fingers. It’s an admittedly dirty trick, toeing the line of outright manipulation, but the cambion has always been a bold player in the great game. He doesn’t strip her nude; that would be cheating. Instead, he trades her pragmatic leathers for a gauzy little number. Entirely sheer when it hits the water, but semantics are everything in his line of work. She’s still clothed.

And she fits so sweetly between his spread legs. Tav blinks at him, disoriented at the shift in positioning and temperature. Ever selfish, he traces the elegant line of her neck. “There,” he purrs. “Isn’t this preferable, mouse?”

“Ass.” The hint of color is too high in her cheeks to blame the water.

He chuckles, drumming a lazy beat against her shoulder. “Language. If you don’t watch that tongue, I’ll find another use for it.” Her eyes flare. She is a delightful little creature, his Tav. Raphael dips her hand in the water before moving it to his chest. “Now. The matter at hand. Speak as you work.”

She watches the rag's path across his skin, water sluicing down the exposed muscle. He’s softer in this body than his true form, a man securely in his middle-age, but he’s taken great pains to balance age and beauty. Muscle remains, though less defined, and the smattering of hair across his chest is more pronounced. Tav’s free hand comes up, pressing her palm flat against his sternum. She curls her fingers in the hair and presses them flat again.

Raphael arches a brow. “Your business, dear. Unless you’d prefer to table it?”

“Apologies. I…” Tav shakes her head. The fabric of her new gown drifts on the water; quite an angelic image, if he does so say, quite lovely. She steps closer. Bold or stupid, she considers their positioning a moment longer before seating herself on his right thigh. “The contract. I said I’d consider it and I have.”

She says this while sliding her hand back into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp, tugging lightly. It feels better than he wants to admit. “And have you reached a decision?”

“I have.” He can hear the damnable little creature's pleasure. Nails skate down his neck, over his shoulders, back down to his heart, and then the circuit repeats. She scrubs at a nonexistent smear of dirt on his bicep. “I do believe we’ll find our own way through. No deal.”

“What!?”

Tav laughs. She hooks an arm around his neck to keep him from dislodging her from her seat when he stands. She holds up a placating hand. “Teasing! I’m teasing! You said we were friends now? And friends…” She chews her lower lip. He has half a mind to drag her back to the house and toss her to the jailor. She pushes his chest, leads him into a seated position, and resumes her task. “It’s becoming increasingly obvious I can’t trust the Emperor.”

“Yes. Any idiot might have seen as much.”

“Don’t be prickly, devil. I’m on your side.” Tav sighs. “I’ll sign the contract. Better the devil you know and all that.”

“How rarely forward thinking of you, pet.” She makes a face. One that says she intends to argue. Raphael cuts her off in the simplest way. He traces her lower lip with his thumb, heated from the water. Her tongue flicks out instinctually, just a little thing, to taste his skin. “We’ll celebrate this illustrious partnership, mouse. But first…finish your task.”

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #asks #my fic #bg3 spoilers #bath scene bath scene bath scenes

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aramblingjay · 11 months

Text

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing #apparently the trailer inspired me and now i’m doing a bunch of geraskier writing?

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kingthunder · 1 year

Note

Prompt for Geralt and Jaskier: “God I hate you” & “Prove it.” I know you’ll make a masterpiece (like all of your work)!!💜

Rience plays with him. Rience hits him. Rience lights a flame, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and all Jaskier can do is burn.

Jaskier isn’t quite the same afterwards. The non-essential parts of him have gone up in smoke and what’s left is this: he has found out in the most intimate way possible that when it’s time for hurting—when the very meat of him is black and charred and he can taste the smoke of his own fat on the back of his tongue—that even then he cannot redirect the hurt onto Geralt. He’ll take it all and fold it up inside him and keep Geralt safe, even though Geralt didn’t do the same for him.

He wants to be angry about it. He wants to scream his righteous fury to the skies. Hell, he’s been doing that for a year already, in every tavern that will let him through the door, insisting that he wants Geralt to burn, burn, burn for what he did to Jaskier’s heart.

Only he isn’t angry anymore. He’s burned enough for the both of them. He’s just tired and lonely and misses his friend and wonders, like pushing on a bruise, if Geralt misses him too.

He wants Geralt to miss him too.

Later, when everything has gone to hell and back and the dust has settled, Geralt comes to Jaskier’s room in Kaer Morhen.

“We can’t stay,” Geralt says. “I was trying to keep Ciri safe, but all I did was put everyone else in danger. I need to take her somewhere where she can be trained properly.”

Jaskier doesn’t know who Geralt means when he says “we.” It’s been weeks since they hugged through three inches of creaking leather and metal, and in that time he has yet to figure out if he’s still included in Geralt’s life or if the shapes they’ve been broken into don’t fit together anymore. He’ll love Geralt the same regardless, but he needs to guard his heart.

“I wish you the best,” Jaskier says, thrusting his hand out for Geralt to shake.

Brow furrowed, Geralt takes it. Then he turns Jaskier’s hand palm up and says, “What’s this?”

His thumb is running over the scars Rience left.

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier says.

“It’s something.”

So Jaskier tells him, because he could never really deny Geralt anything. His words are dispassionate, a simple recounting of events, but what he means is, I love you. What he means is, I’d do it again but please don’t make me. Describing the depths of his one-sided devotion, even in such dry terms, leaves him aching and raw, and by the end of it he can’t stop his chin from quivering.

He’s clenched his hand into a white-knuckled fist without realizing it. Slowly, Geralt unbends each finger. He presses a kiss to the middle of Jaskier’s palm and Jaskier’s nostrils flare with the effort of holding in a sob.

“Stop,” Jaskier says.

Geralt stops but doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand. He says, “Thank you for keeping Ciri safe.”

“Did a pretty shit job of that in the end, didn’t I?”

Jaskier’s chin is still quivering.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you like that again,” Geralt says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How was I supposed to do that?” Jaskier says helplessly. “Oh hello Geralt, nice seeing you after all this time, I know you hate my guts right now, but by the way, someone tortured me for information about you, just thought you should know, cheers, mate.”

“I don’t hate your guts.”

“Yeah, well you did a pretty good impression of it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not…good at feelings.”

“He’s sorry, he says. And no, you’re not. Good at feelings, that is—oh bloody hell.”

Geralt has started kissing Jaskier’s fingertips one by one. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs between each one.

“God, I hate you,” Jaskier says, whimpering. “You just do whatever you bloody want, don’t you?”

Geralt pauses and looks up at Jaskier, eyes troubled.

“Do you not want this?”

“I do,” Jaskier says. “Gods help me, I do, but I won’t give myself away so cheaply again, witcher. You have to want it, too. You have to really want it, with every poorly articulated feeling in that whole gorgeous body of yours.”

Geralt’s voice is rough. “I do.”

Jaskier cups Geralt’s cheek with his scarred hand and says, “Prove it.”

Geralt kisses him. It’s everything Jaskier has ever wanted and it’s not—quite—enough.

“Prove it,” Jaskier says again, breathing hard, his forehead rocking against Geralt’s. “Prove it,” he whispers, drawing back a fraction as Geralt’s lips chase his.

“I’m trying.”

“Not like that.”

Geralt pulls back far enough to look at him. After a moment of silence, Geralt says, “Come with us. Me and Ciri and Yen. Come with us. Then you can let me prove it every day. I’m tired of missing you.”

Jaskier smiles and finally lets Geralt kiss him again. Melts into it and kisses him back, warm and soft. He feels seen. Wanted. The hurt deep inside him dislodges itself and he thinks, for the first time in a long time, that it's possible to be happy again.

“That’s a good start,” Jaskier says.

#witcher #geraskier #fanfiction #prompt fill #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #i'm sorry i don't know where all this despair came from #whump the bard #physically and emotionally #my ask box is still open for prompts if anyone wants to send me one #my fic

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shy-urban-hobbit · 8 months

Text

Five times the Witchers learnt just how cat-like Aiden actually is

Biscuit making - Lambert

Lambert stared down at his friend, eyebrows raised in silent question as Aiden dozed lightly, plastered to Lambert so they were snuggled chest to chest in the small inn bed. He'd gotten used to Aiden purring in his sleep when the Cat witcher felt safe (and Lambert tried not to linger too long on how that made him feel) long ago but this…this was new.

The hands resting on Lambert's chest were rhythmically gripping and releasing the material of his shirt in tandem, the pinprick scratch of long, tougher than average fingernails just enough to feel through the fabric. It wasn't uncomfortable as such, in fact once he got used to it, when paired with the soft, barely audible purr it was actually quite relaxing.

Soon enough, Lambert found himself being pulled into sleep, either not caring or not realising that he himself had started letting out a steady stream of content rumbling of his own in response.

"Question for you, Cat."

Aiden didn't pause in lacing up his boots, "Ask away, Wolf."

"You know you were-" he clenched his fingers in imitation of the gesture, "I don't know - kneading - me last night?"

At that, Aiden did pause and Lambert had the feeling if he could blush he'd be bright red.

"I..shit. Sorry, I didn't even realise. I usually only do that around my siblings. I'll try to control it better."

"Didn't say it was a bad thing. " Lambert bumped his shoulder lightly against Aiden's, "I was just curious is all. I don't give a shit what you do, short of stabbing me."

Lambert tried to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest as Aiden let out a tiny purr.

Jumpscare - Eskel

Eskel hummed to himself as he bought in the last of the vegetables from the greenhouses for pickling. Glad to see that Aiden was already in the kitchen setting everything up and was currently busy with a keg of brine. Things had been a bit tense to start with when his little brother had rolled up with a Cat of all people but Aiden had made it very hard to not like him. If nothing else, he was always more than willing to lend a hand with chores - always a bonus when your home was in a near constant state of disrepair.

"Alright." Eskel said, dumping one of the sacks out onto the stone countertop, "That's the last of this year's crop. If we work quickly we should be done by-"

He was interrupted by a yowl next to him and if Aiden was an actual cat, Eskel would be inclined to think somebody had just stepped on his tail. Whirling around he saw no sign of the other Witcher. Until he looked up just in time to see Aiden hauling himself up to fully perch on one of the rafters, glaring at Eskel's haul.

"Eh...Aiden?"

"Get those things away from me." The Cat hissed pointing accusingly.

Now Eskel was even more confused, all that was there was a perfectly innocent pile of….

"You mean these?" He held up one of the cucumbers, causing Aiden to growl low in his throat in response. Eskel hastily dropped it again, "Ok, ok. I'll put these away for now and we can work on the beetroot instead. Ok?"

Aiden nodded but still refused to leave his perch until the offending items had been shoved back into the sack and into a cupboard.

Soundlessly, he grabbed a knife and began to peel and chop the beetroot.

"Cat thing?"

"Cat thing."

Zoomies - Geralt

Geralt couldn't sleep. Again. He was nowhere near desperate enough to go down the Djinn route again but by the Gods it was starting to get annoying. He just wanted one night where his mind wouldn't keep throwing up scenarios where he failed his responsibilities to Ciri, Yen, Jaskier, his brothers…he was just one man for fucks sake.

He decided to go check on the animals, Eskel had mentioned that the fence on one of the goat pens could do with repairs but it was already getting dark by the time he'd noticed. It was on the list for the following morning but his brother would be heartbroken if any of them had gotten loose and hurt in the meantime.

Turns out Geralt wasn't the only one feeling restless. As he entered the courtyard he caught sight of a figure seemingly in the middle of running laps along the wall. Too lithe to be Eskel or Lambert, too tall to be Ciri, it had to be Aiden. Geralt stopped for a second, unsure why until he realised. Aiden was moving fast.. too fast to be running it safely in the dark and frost. Even for a Witcher, that could be a broken leg or concussion at least if he fell.

As if the Gods had been reading his thoughts, Aiden lost his footing and soundlessly tumbled down onto the cobbles of the courtyard, landing in a heap. Only to bounce back up immediately as if nothing had happened and continue running laps at ground level instead.

Geralt felt his brow furrow as he continued watching, what the fuck?

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Aiden had come to a stop in front of him, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and eyes darting around ceaselessly as he almost seemed to be vibrating in his own skin and using all of his self control to stay still and talk.

Geralt hummed in response before gesturing to the wall "You do that often?"

Aiden looked slightly sheepish as if he expected to be reprimanded, "Only a couple of times since I've been here. The mutagens. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to combust there and then if I don't move , for some reason it's worse at night. I think there was something meant to make us nocturnal, at least partially anyway. If I were on the path I'd go hunting or just go run pell mell in the woods for a bit. Doing that on an unfamiliar mountain didn't seem like the smartest thing though. I'm reckless, not suicidal."

Geralt huffed a laugh, "Well, don't let me stop you. Just don't make us find you lying out here with your skull cracked open in the morning."

Aiden gave a mock salute before going to mount the wall again, "Remind me to tell you about Cat Trials. Trust me, a fall from this is nothing. You could always run a couple of laps with me if you want? It's just, you look as if you could use something to tire you out too."

Geralt shrugged. At this point, why the fuck not?

Chirp - Jaskier

"Melitele's tits, it's cold. I mean, it. Is. COLD." Jaskier proclaimed as the two of them closed the door on the snow storm they'd just left, moving to hang his cloak and hood by the fire in the great hall, "I swear, if you and Lambert ever decide you're heading South for the winter I'm coming with you. Geralt can freeze his tits off up here alone, he'll survive. Unlike me. "

Aiden said nothing, although the bard had been around enough Witchers by now to know his companion was probably silently laughing at him as he removed his own cloak. Jaskier tsk'd at the snow clinging to Aiden's hair and moved to brush it out without thinking. The Cat let out a small but clearly audible "mrrrp" and momentarily pushed into the hand before he caught himself. He turned to face Jaskier, who was grinning at him like both Yule and his birthday had come early.

"Oh, well. That is just precious! " He exclaimed, clapping his hands together excitedly like a small child who's just been shown a magic trick, "Oh my dear, if all Cat Witchers make such adorable noises I may have a new favourite school. Do you all do that or is it just some of you? Purring's a given, every Witcher I've met purrs to some degree or other."

Aiden caught Coen's eye, the other Witcher flashing him a smirk which said 'You're on your own'

"That's it, I've decided! I'm making it my mission this winter to find out just how cat-like you are!"

"Do that and I'll hide your lute up in the rafters." Aiden said with no real heat, the Bard trailing after him asking questions about tables and glassware, distracted (for now) from the coldness of the Keep.

If I fits… - Vesemir

Vesemir basked in the quiet. There were perks to being one of the first ones to wake in the mornings. As much as he loved having his boys back safe and sound for the winter, after months alone the constant noise could become a little overwhelming at times, making these moments of quiet solitude all the more precious.

He made his way to the laundry room with an armful of bedding he'd found which probably hadn't been washed since the previous winter if the stale smell was anything to go by. No matter.

He quirked an eyebrow at the closed laundry hamper. He was certain he'd opened the lid earlier unless old age and senility were finally starting to get to him. Dumping the dirty sheets on the ground to free his hands he lifted the lid again.

And was greeted by Aiden blinking sleepily up at him, disturbed by the sudden brightness. Vesemir briefly took a moment to try and figure out what manner of contortion he'd used to cram himself into a space the boys had struggled to fit in even as adolescents before catching Aiden's eye. The two held eye contact as Aiden tilted his head in silent question, still half asleep. Vesemir wordlessly lowered the lid again in response before walking away shaking his head. It was too early for his boy's antics.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #aiden centric #witcher aiden #witcher lambert #lambert #lambden #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt #witcher jaskier #jaskier #witcher eskel #eskel #witcher vesemir #vesemir #aiden/lambert

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solcorvidae · 4 months

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I've been thinking about how Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt all deal with the trials and how it shapes them into the people they would grow to become.

Lambert remembers his past. He is angry, upset, bitter, and vindictive. He's got this fire in him that is only stoked by the pain and suffering forced upon him. He remembers the boys who did not make it: the hell they all had to go through, and he has a complicated relationship with Vesemir that surrounds it. Lambert does questionable things that Geralt is bothered by in his grief and anger. Geralt calls him out for killing in cold blood, needlessly and mercilessly.

Lambert avoids Vesemir at Kaer Morhen and mocks him when he is not around. He may come off as childish and like an asshole, but Lambert knows what he feels. Lambert doesn't lash out because he can't control his emotions or because he doesn't understand the path of least resistance. He knows. He chooses to avoid conflict with Vesemir at Kaer Morhen by keeping out of his way. He knows he can't control his emotions effectively if he is face-to-face with him for too long. He knows, and he isn't stupid.

Lambert talks to Geralt about the trials and the injustice of it all. He probably looks up to Geralt, hoping his brother feels just as angry about it as he does. He went through the Trial of the Grasses twice for Christ's sake! Why is he not more angry? Why is he so apathetic?

And Geralt brushes him off time and time again. Such is life, is his attitude. We all went through it, he says. Geralt can't be upset because there is nothing he can feasibly do about it. He didn't choose to be a Witcher. He wouldn't have chosen this life. He would have some other job somewhere else, just like he told Regis. He can't change the past. He can't go back and fix something he never had control over in the first place. Besides, they can’t inflict the trials upon a new generation of kids, not anymore. It’s in the past now, so why dwell on it? What’s done is done and thank god no other kids have to suffer the way they did. It’s over. It’s time to move on.

Geralt doesn't enjoy fame. He tells Eskel this in To Bait a Forktail. Geralt is the famous twice-grassed White Wolf. He is The Witcher. The famed Geralt of Rivia. He has expectations piled upon him the size of mountains. He's got to be the perfect Witcher, he's got to be a loyal brother, a lover, and a best friend… Geralt had expectations put upon him that set him aside from the rest since he was a kid. He hates it. Underneath the banter and the wit, Geralt accepts that this is his life, but that doesn't mean he likes it. He tolerates it because it is his reality and nothing more. If he thinks about it for too long… maybe it will consume him.

"You remember her?" he asks Eskel about his mother.

Unlike Lambert, Geralt hardly knows what it means to live another life. He doesn't have that following him like it does with his brother. What little he remembers is not enough to erase the apathy drilled into him at such a young age. Maybe he has a more strict moral code than say, Lambert, (or if you want to bring in the other Witcher schools, most of the Cats and the caravan) but that doesn't make him the most ethical person on the Continent. How could you be? After all that he has endured, the things he was taught? Where do you draw the line? He kills monsters, but like in Velen, it's hard to see where the line's drawn in the sand.

Humans are monstrous too.

Eskel, however? Maybe he's jealous. He did everything right, why shouldn’t he be? He is superiorly skilled in magic, one hell of a good Witcher. He has a reputation for it. Maybe he's not as kind as your average person, but he gets the job done. He's got a more relaxed demeanour than his brothers which reveals itself in his reputation. He's reliable. He is damn good at what he does. So why does Geralt get all the attention? The fame? He clearly doesn't want it.

While Lambert got turned into a vindictive prick and Geralt became a quick-witted nihilist, Eskel? He's exactly who he should be. Why shouldn't he be praised for it like his brother? Why should he be forced to bend over backwards to accommodate people and keep up with his reputation? For what? His skills? Ha! He lives in the shadows of Geralt who's notably a good Witcher, but he's not quite as good as Eskel.

Eskel was beaten shaped into the man he is today because of the trials, his training, and everything else. Should he not get credited for that too? Why does someone who doesn't even want his fame get all the recognition? Genetic predisposition? Shouldn't his hard work be given more consideration and praise? Thank god Geralt survived the hell of being subjected to two rounds of mutagens rather than one, but why should that overshadow the efforts, the time, and the sacrifices that everyone else around him has made? Eskel is exactly the man that they intended him to be by the end of it all. He is an efficient hunter, he is outstanding with signs, and he works diligently for his reputation. He did everything right. He does everything right. Why is that not enough?

TL;DR: Lambert, Geralt and Eskel handle their traumas in different ways. Lambert gets vengeful, Geralt gets apathetic, and Eskel gets borderline jealous. (And it breaks my heart)

#this probably doesn't make as much sense as it does in my head but I tried to write it in the most coherent way that I could #this has been gnawing at me since last night I needed to get it out of my head because its eating me alive #the witcher #the witcher 3 #geralt of rivia #eskel #lambert #eskel witcher #lambert witcher #eskel tw3 #lambert tw3 #meta post #witcher meta #sol rambles #sol scribbles

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witcher-and-his-bard · 1 year

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Love Letters

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): none Rating: general

Fic Summary: Jaskier writes down all his feelings in a letter he never expects Geralt to see - only for Geralt to arrive shortly after, snowed out of Kaer Morhen.

For @jackironsides 💜

My beloved Geralt

Dear Geralt

Geralt, my love

No matter what he writes, it sounds wrong. Too intimate, too casual, too... much in one way or another. Jaskier hasn't even gotten past the introduction and he already wants to give up on the letter. It feels so easy over the summer, when he and Geralt spend long, muggy days walking side-by-side. Jaskier sings and Geralt rides, and occasionally, Geralt will even sing along with whatever he's playing.

Now, in the dark of his room at the academy, those feelings feel dull and distant. Not Jaskier's feelings, of course, but the potential reciprocation. These days, he finds himself thinking about Geralt's relationships with Eskel or Lambert, or even Vesemir. He wonders how different those relationships are to the one he shares with Geralt. Maybe those gentle things Geralt says to him in the comfort of their shared inn rooms are just things Geralt would say to anyone.

Ugh. Jaskier flops backward in his chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He wishes there was an easy way to know these things, and for the first time in a long time he finds himself envying Yennefer. She could just read Geralt's mind, she could just know. And Geralt? He can smell emotions or something like that; at least, he always seems to know when Jaskier is upset about something. Maybe he took the wrong path in life. Maybe he should have tried to get into Ban Ard and become a mage. Surely there is some chaos in him, enough, at least, to be able to read minds.

Briefly, Jaskier considers contacting Yen. They've had a better relationship as of late, and she might be able to give him some insight, if nothing else. But he doesn't want to drag her into something that isn't really any of her business. Not because he's afraid to tell her, but because she might not want to know. She's happy now - travelling with Triss and Istredd last he heard - but there might be some leftover feelings there and he doesn't want to bring up Geralt in a romantic setting if he doesn't need to. Plus, he doesn't want to feel like more of a burden than he already does.

Jaskier looks down at the half-started letter in front of him and angrily crumples it up before blowing out the candle and shoving his chair back. He flops forward onto folded arms, looking out into the blue of the night sky, speckled with snow. Normally, he would take comfort in a view like this, but tonight, it just reminds him of how far away Geralt is.

Is it even worth beginning a relationship when they spend so much time apart? Would Geralt even be interested? Even if he was madly in love with Jaskier, would that be enough? What's the point when you have no one to cuddle with and watch the snowfall? But then maybe Geralt would want to visit some winters if they were more.

Gods, he wants that more than he can even properly comprehend. The idea of falling asleep in Geralt's arms feels like the height of romance. Already, Jaskier treasures the moments he falls asleep listening to Geralt's voice, even if he does feel a bit bad about it in the morning. Despite himself, a dopey smile spreads across his face at the thought. He misses Geralt more than he can say while they're apart in the winter. It's only a little into the season and already the long, dark winter feels endless.

Jaskier inhales deeply, sighs, and sits up to write. He's determined to finish this letter, even if it never reaches its intended audience.

Geralt,

I know it's barely been a month since we parted, but I find myself longing again for your company. Teaching is hectic as always, and my students love a tale of your heroism. I know you don't consider yourself a hero, but I do. Though lately, I find myself recalling different moments from our travels. I find myself thinking of the evenings after a contract has been completed and paid. I think back to the ale or tea and the stars hanging low in the sky. The way the firelight flickers on your face. I miss that. I miss the way your hair falls in your face when you take it down to sleep. I miss how stubborn you are about that awful headband. And I regret to tell you now that I've grown... rather fond of it, actually.

Rather rarely do I find myself at a loss for words, but they escape me when I try to nail down all the things I feel for you. I know I am a mere mortal, doomed to die years or even decades before you, but given the chance, I would happily live out the rest of my life at your side. Perhaps even in your arms.

I know love is not a word you use often, but the way I feel it could very well become something so all-encompassing. I can't promise that love is how I feel now. I find myself mixed up in a way I've never felt before. That's not to say that I don't love you, because I do. As a friend, as a companion, as something more. Perhaps one day, even as a lover. Even if you don't feel the same, I want you to know that you are deeply cared for in every way one person can care for another. I don't mind if you don't want to see me again, so long as it is your wish, and one borne out of intention rather than fear. Because although I've never spoken the words, I've longed for you for days and weeks and months and years, silently staying by your side. Perhaps one day you will have me there on purpose - despite, or maybe even because of, my feelings for you.

Until then, I remain yours, as always.

Jaskier.

Jaskier looks over the letter once more and, feeling an uncomfortable swell of emotion, folds it neatly and tucks it into an envelope that just reads Geralt. He's only just finished hiding the evidence when there's a knock at his door.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Sorry to interrupt so late," the voice on the other side of the door says. Jassa, Jaskier thinks, his assistant at the university. "You have a guest."

"A guest?" Jaskier asks, perplexed. Who on earth would brave this weather just to visit? The only guests he normally has are students or his fellow professors, either of whom would just come to his room and knock themselves.

"He says he's a friend. Geralt? I think," Jassa says.

Jaskier's heart somersaults.

"Right," he says, "of course. Send him up. I'll leave the door open."

"Certainly," Jassa smiles. "I'll send him right up. Have a good night, Professor."

"And you," Jaskier finishes, barely aware of what he's saying.

What is Geralt doing here? Of all the years they've known each other, he's never once come to visit over the winter, so why now? Jaskier turns around, leaning on the door, and is struck by the state of his room. For the last two days, he's done nothing but lie around and sulk, and it shows. He absolutely cannot let Geralt see his room like this.

Given he has roughly four minutes, maybe a few more if Geralt stops to talk to Jassa before coming up, it's not going to be easy. So Jaskier starts with the worst of it: the clothes and things laying all over the bed and floor. There is a surprising amount of mess considering Jaskier is the only one residing in the room, but he manages to get the worst of it tidied before the knock at the door. A final glance tells him only the desk and table are still cluttered, but that much is acceptable so he crosses to the door.

As he pulls it open, Jaskier is struck by Geralt's smile. He always is when they haven't seen each other for some time, but this feels more. Maybe it's because he's been considering his own feelings lately, but looking at Geralt, here and in person, makes his legs weak.

"Hi," he says shakily.

Geralt gives him an odd look, but it quickly turns into a half-smile and he steps into the room when Jaskier moves aside.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he says gently, "it's no trouble to find a room at the inn if-"

"Not at all," Jaskier interrupts. "I'd be happy to host you if you're staying.”

"I had hoped to," Geralt says.

"What brings you?" Jaskier asks.

"The route to Kaer Morhen was snowed over by the time we arrived in Kaedwen," he explains, "I thought this might be the best place to stay."

Part of Jaskier is delighted at the thought, though when he considers it further, Oxenfurt is further than any of the other places Geralt would be more than welcome to stay over the winter. There's no good reason for him to have travelled all the way to the coast, when surely Yen would have taken him in without question. Their relationship may not be romantic anymore, but Jaskier knows there is still a deep love between them. And he's happy for it, which makes it all the more confusing why Geralt is here. He thinks to ask, but reconsiders.

"Please," he says, remembering his manners, "make yourself at home. I can have a bath poured if you're tired? Was Roach properly cared for? Shall I call for supper-"

"Jaskier," Geralt says gently, "Roach is fine. A small meal would be nice, but there's no rush. Right now I'd just like to relax."

Of course, Jaskier thinks. He must have been travelling for weeks if he first attempted the path and then had to turn back. Jaskier had left him just north of the Pontar, between the mountain ranges, so that must have been-

"Jaskier?" Geralt asks, cutting off his train of thought. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," Jaskier assures him. "Just wasn't expecting company and I'm not prepared for it- Not that you're not welcome!" he corrects quickly, and with a little too much vigour.

"Perhaps you're the one who needs a rest," Geralt says, half-teasingly.

"Just to get my head on straight," Jaskier assures him. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable and I'll go fetch something warm for you to eat."

Jaskier slips from the room, only stopping one he's far enough away that Geralt won't hear him. He stops and sighs, pressing a hand to his chest as if to stop the mad beating of his heart. Surely Geralt has heard it already and he’s given himself away, but he was hardly expecting to be visited like this out of the blue.

He takes another few calming breaths before continuing on down to the kitchen. He's close with the chef - with most of the staff if he's honest - and has more than once helped him out of a sticky situation with less-than-edible herbs, so his request for a private supper is granted with a smile. In the meantime, Jaskier makes his way back up to the room, holding his breath for a moment before opening the door.

Geralt is standing over the desk in the small room, mumbling quietly. As Jaskier approaches, slipping up behind him, he realizes Geralt is reading the poetry he'd been working on. Jaskier has never been so relieved to know how little Geralt thinks about his poems, as these ones are nearly explicitly about him, the only relief being that his name is not used. Wolf, he uses once or twice, but it's a metaphor and Geralt always says he doesn't care for flowery things like metaphors.

"This is... lovely," Geralt says, though he sounds a bit off as he does.

"Thank you," Jaskier says quietly, slipping around to Geralt's side to see which one he's reading.

"You- your narrator sounds sad."

"Ah, yes. Been a bit of a downer lately, I suppose."

Jaskier tries to laugh it off but Geralt turns to look at him, something like concern in his expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh nothing's wrong," Jaskier assures. "I've just not been feeling myself."

"Can I help?"

Jaskier is taken aback by the blunt suggestion and his head jerks up to meet Geralt's eyes.

"I'm not sure you could, love," he says gently.

"If someone has hurt you-"

"No," Jaskier says quickly.

"You reek of heartache," Geralt says bluntly.

"Right. Well." He considers for a moment before deciding against lying to Geralt. "Unrequited love, I'm afraid."

"How do you know it is?"

"Unrequited?" Jaskier laughs, "oh, my darling, he'd have to be the stupidest man alive not to know. Or perhaps the most oblivious. I'm sure he would have said something if he felt the same."

"You haven't," Geralt counters.

"Right, well- He wouldn't want someone like me, surely."

"Perhaps he feels you think the same of him."

Jaskier had considered that option, but it seems unlikely.

"Either way, it's best just to tell him. I'm sure he'll be flattered if nothing else."

The mere suggestion of it makes Jaskiers stomach turn and he nods slowly. Thankfully, at that moment, supper is delivered to their room and he is spared the thought of confessing his feelings - out loud - to Geralt.

His relief is short-lived as supper is finished shortly, but he makes an excuse about taking the dishes away and dashes out the door with them. Jaskier wants to cry. He can't believe he's gotten himself into a mess like this and he can only hope Geralt doesn't continue to bring it up.

He's so distracted thinking about it that it seems like seconds before he's standing back in front of his door. He hesitates before opening the door, keeping his eyes closed until the last possible moment.

When he opens his eyes, Jaskier's heart jumps into his throat. As Geralt turned to see him, a piece of paper had fallen from his hands and Jaskier can't take his eyes off it. He'd been so preoccupied worrying about the mess when Geralt showed up that he'd forgotten to hide the letter. And it was addressed to Geralt, he had every right to read it, but-

"Jaskier?"

Jaskier scrambles across the floor, reaching for the letter, but Geralt catches his wrist, holding him still.

"Is this just another one of your poems?" he asks quietly.

Jaskier shakes his head. There's no use denying it.

"It's… me. I'm the one you were talking about earlier."

Jaskier half wishes he could fall through the floor and never have to finish this conversation. Sadly, despite how hard he wishes, the floor refuses to open up beneath him. He nods.

"I want to hear you say it."

Jaskier's tongue feels heavy in his mouth but he manages, "I don't know what to say. I don't want to make any big confessions I can't live up to."

"Then how about this?" Geralt says.

He leans in, taking Jaskier's face in his hand, and softly presses their lips together. For a moment, Jaskier forgets to breathe and has trouble believing this is real at all. But when Geralt pulls back again, he's smiling, his cheeks a faint shade of pink. Jaskier's first thought is that it's quite a pretty colour on him before he presses forward and kisses him again.

"Yeah," he breathes, barely pulling away to speak, "I think that's a good start."

#rex writes #i just barely managed to sneak in a fic in January #first one of the year #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher

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