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ghosty-writes-23 · 1 year

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Incorrect COD Quotes Part. 2

!WARNING!: Suggestive (Slightly spicy) & dark humored content.

Ghosty's Notes: Some of these might be a little suggestive or contain dark humor, so you have been warned, V is my own female OC but can be read as x reader if you prefer that, also thank you so much for the recent support, I was a little hesitant to post these, but seeing how people have been liking them, I promise to make more in the future :)

Thank you for all the support, it means alot❤️

-Ghosty❤️

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V: *is watching Ghost workout with König* “They are so big and so dumb, and one day I'm gonna top them.”

Soap: “you and me both Lass.”

*both V and Soap highfive*

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Gaz: “I pull women”

Soap: “I pull men.”

V: “i’m gonna pull the fucking trigger in a second.”

Price: *is looking at V horrified*

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*V is in Price’s office after a successful mission*

Price: *pats V on the shoulder* “I'm proud of you kid.”

*Alexia play daddy issues by the neighbourhood*

V: *holds back tears and voices cracks slightly* “T-Thanks sir.”

Price: *processed to give her a papa bear hug gently patting her back*

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Task Force 141 men: *sees V covered in blood, laughing with an almost psychotic grin on her face*

Ghost: *looks at V with almost hearts in his eyes* “I'm gonna marry that woman one day.

Soap: *chuckles* “Not if I do it first.”

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V: *is being help captive by Valeria*

Valeria: *is standing inches away from her face* "tell me everything you know."

V: *giggles like a school girl and would be twirling her fingers in her hair, if her hands weren't tied to the chair* "your eyes are really pretty."

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*Task force 141 + V are at their local pub after a mission well done*

Soap + V: *are sitting at the bar slightly intoxicated*

Ghost + Price: *are playing a game of pool, but are keeping an eye on the two at the bar*

Soap: *finishes his drink* “I bet you can’t do a wheelie on your motorbike right now.”

V: *gasps and looked at him offended* “I will have you know sergeant, I bet I can, watch me.”

Gaz: *who is the most sober out of the three* “Guys, I don’t think that is a good idea.”

V: *is already pulling out her keys and is slightly stumbling to the door* “Oh please Kyle, what could go wrong.”

Gaz: *is slightly worried she is going to try and actually do it* “maybe you killing yourself for one.”

*Before she makes it out the front door V’s keys are suddenly pulled out of her hand*

Price: “I'm taking these until you are sober.”

V: *pouts but nods*

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*Both V and König are in his room, V has her legs resting comfortably on his broad shoulders as she brushes her fingers through his hair and König is cleaning his knife from his previous mission*

V: “How is your hair so soft?” *keeps running her fingers through it, pouting slightly*

König: *is thankful she can’t see his face at the moment as it would be the same colour as a tomato* “I don’t know.”

V: *smirks slightly to herself, deciding to tease him slightly and gives his hair a soft tug*

König: *lets out a groan like moan before looking up at her his eyes wide*

V: *is smirking widely before placing a kiss on his forehead* “Cute.”

König:

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Price: *takes the task force 141 men + V out on a camping trip*

Gaz: “how much further.” *is close behind Price*

Price: “not that far.” *steps over a fallen log*

V: *rests her head on Ghost shoulder as she is getting a piggyback, because she sprained her ankle standing in a rabbit hole, not even 20 minutes into the camping trip*

Soap: *decides to tease Ghost* “Do you want to switch there L.T, your looking a little tired.”

Ghost: *scoffs quietly under his mask before tightening his grip on V’s thighs slightly* “I’m fine.”

V: *starting humming a tune* “Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty”

Ghost: “You watched that TV show with Johnny didn’t you.”

V: *smiles wide and nods* “The song is catchy.”

*By the time they got to the campsite, the whole group was sing toss a coin to your witcher*

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❌Please don't repost, translate or copy any of my work without permission.❌

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artistsfuneral · 2 years

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But how would Jaskier react if he's the one that gets... jaskiered?

Like- It's early in the morning, he's spent a great night with a lovely lass in the sheets, both of them still asleep when Geralt comes back from a hunt, walking in on them and suspecting the worst. They are woken by an angry witcher noise, Geralt standing at tje foot of the bed with his hands on his hips, looking at Jaskier displeased. He says something along the lines of "Seriously, Jaskier? I thought we've talked about this," pointing at the lass who's scrambling out of bed and into her skirt. She holds the rest of her clothes to her chest, takes one last panicked look at Geralt and says "I had no idea, he's married!" before climbing out the window and running away, like Jaskier had to do so many times before.

Geralt and Jaskier stare at each other. Did that just happen?

#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt #witcher #geralt of rivia

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geraltofriviacollection · 11 months

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Chapter Seven

Paring: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Reader is thrown into the Witcher’s world. Will she survive?

A/N: I have not edited or proofread. Please do not repost, translate or copy my work without permission. Please leave comments! ❤️ “Absolutely not!” I almost shouted at Vesemir. I can see the slight glow on my skin at his suggestion.

“We have a chance to do something extraordinary. Do you know how long it has been since we had a new witcher? This could change everything with Ciri’s help.”

“How long exactly have you two been hatching up this plan? Hmm? There is something wrong with this and both of you know it. On a moral level to mutate children and not even have most survive the process is wrong. You are fucked in the head if you think I will let Ciri be a part of this.” I snarl at Vesemir. The room is getting warmer the longer this conversation goes.

“It's Ciri's choice if she wants to be a part of this.” Vesemir volleys back. I try to breathe as my vision goes red at his words. It takes a full minute before I am able to respond.

“I will be damned before I let you sacrifice more children to the cause.Tell me did you think how Geralt was going to feel at this news? I may not like it but you can bet all the rats in the keep that he’ll fucking hate it.” The tension in the room is thick as it settles in Geralt's opinion about all of this.

“Geralt will see the reason of this.” Vesemir says, but lacks a good amount of certainty.

“Fine!” I shout. “You will not do a single thing until Geralt has returned.” I tell him.

“Lass, I don’t think-”

“That was not a question, suggestion or comment. Vesemir, nothing will be done about this until he’s come home.” I grit out.

“I can make my own decisions.” I turn around to see Ciri standing in the doorway looking at us. “I don’t need your approval or Geralts to help them.” She says coming further into the room.

“Ciri, this is bigger than you-” I start but she cuts me off and turns to Vesemir.

“How can I help?” She asks, cutting me out of this completely.

“Have you ever heard of feainnewedd?” He asked her. “It’s an ancient flower that only glows in one place. Where elder blood is spilled.” He explains showing her the flower. She moves and goes to inspect the flower.

“These have been sprouting all over the training course, where I’ve bled” Shw whispers mostly to herself. “My grandmother..she hated the elves.” She says looking at all of us. I look over to Triss who is annoyingly quiet right now standing there simply reading Ciri’s reaction to this. Fucking interesting time for her mouth to be shut all of a sudden.

“Sometimes our deepest hate is for the things we can not change about ourselves.” Vesemir says. If I wasn’t so mad I might have enjoyed his imparting words of wisdom. Ciri sighs and moves to sit on the steps processing all of this. “Something bad is brewing out there. With a vial of your blood we could protect generations to come.”

“How are you so sure it will work?” She looks up at him.

“I’m not.” He plainly says.

“I’ll do it. On one condition. You have to test it on me first.” She says.

“Alright! That’s enough.I have entertained this for just about as much as my temper will allow. No one is testing anything. If we did you can be damn sure you would not be first in line for the weird juju kool aid.” I exclaim looking at Ciri.

“You aren’t my mother. I can décide my own fate.” She says not looking at me. A sharp painful flash runs through my body at her words. True her words may be but less painful they are not.

“You’re right. I’m not your mother but that does not mean that I don’t love you any less than if I was. “ I told her. “Have you thought about Geralt? Hmm? Why do you feel the need to push yourself to the edge?” I nearly shout.

“Because I am sick of being lost! Everything that I was told my whole life was a lie! And the people I love most in the world were taken from me before I could find out the truth. This might help me find a new truth.”

“Then let us help you find your way. I can’t change the past but I can help you or at the very least we can be lost together.”

“Maybe there is another way to find out where your powers came from.” I turn to see Triss standing in the doorway. Ciri’s eyes move from me to her.

“What do you mean? Like what you did with the myriapod?” Ciri asks her.

“Less scientific than what we did there. It’s called a dol dusza. The best translation of it is Valley of the Soul. It allows me to enter the deepest layer of your consciousness and allows me to uncover things that may be hidden there. Genetic memories that tell the story of who you really are. Where you come from.” Tris finishes explaining.

“Is this dangerous?” I ask Triss.

“No. It just requires that ciri and I trust each other.” I look over to Ciri and she looks at me. I nod my head in encouragement.

“All right then. I’ll do it.” Ciri tells her.

Vesemir and I cleared the table for Ciri to lay down on. Triss hops up to sit and Ciri places her head in Triss’s lap. I walk and place my hand on Ciri’s arm and she offers a small smile at me in acknowledgment. They begin with Ciri taking deep breaths and I watch as her body relaxes with every breath. Triss begins to chant in Elder the next thing I know we are all in a tavern of sorts with different people talking.

“Ciri” I called out to her. She looks around as if she hears my voice. She turns around but looks right through me. I reach out a hand but it goes right through her like a mist. “Triss!” I called out. Tris never turns.

“Can you hear that?” Ciri asks Tris looking around trying to find the source calling for her..

Neither Tris or Ciri can see me, it seems.

Ciri sees the black knight and starts to hyperventilate. Triss manages to calm her by pulling Ciri to her. Children laugh while playing a game of knuckle bones. Ciri sees her mother sitting beautifully in a green dress.

“Would you like a story?” Pavetta Ciri’s mother asks, looking over at Ciri and Triss before looking at me with a smile.

“You can see us?” Says Triss.

“What’s wrong?” Ciri asks, looking at Triss.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.” Tris says with a frightened look on her face. Memories start to speak to Ciri. Looking around a dark hall opens up in front of us. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work at all.” Tris says as I follow behind them. Low murmuring of voices ensues.

Doors open and Ciri’s parents are speaking about Ciri. Little baby Ciri

“They would kill her if they knew.” Dad

“It’s a prophecy. Maybe it’s not true.’ Pavetta says stroking a small baby Ciri as she plays on the bed

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true, it only matters if the people believe it. And they will.” Man says, looking at his wife and daughter. He comes around the bed and strokes Pavetta’ s hand. “The boat’s ready. We can leave under the cover of darkness.” Pavetta nods once and looks back down at a small Ciri.

“This is it. This is the night that my parents died.” Ciri says softly. Pavetta turns and looks straight at Ciri. Triss gasps and tries to pull Ciri away. We all leave and an ominous voice calls out asking “What are you child? ……Cirilla.” It calls to her. The voices around us continue to whisper Ciri’s name.

A bright little suddenly appears before us. I see Ciri walk towards it as if in a trance. The space begins to change as feainnewedd blooms litter the ground as we enter into a forest. The sounds of a baby's cry can be heard in the distance at the lighting strings brightening the fog around us. We walk in the direction of the cry’s and the sound of humming begins to get louder.

A woman with pair hair like Ciri’s sits at the bottom of a tree humming to her crying child. The woman begins to tell the story of an elven warrior who was made to kill the human invader. As she tells the story she winces in pain, only then do we see the blood on her hands. Triss goes to the woman to help with her wound when the woman sets her child down and grabs triss by the throat. Triss calls out for Ciri as her feet dangle off the ground. I try to pull tris from her grip but my hands slide through Triss like I’m a ghost.

“You can not help us.” The woman calls out with many voices. “Child of elder blood, Child of wrath. The time of contempt is nigh. The world will die amidst frost and reborn of the new sun.Reborn of elder blood, of the seed that has been sown. A seed that will not sprout, but will burst into flame.” Her head turns back to Triss and begins to squeeze her again. I move to Ciri and try to shake her but all that I manage is a light push before my hands go through Ciri too.

Seven figures on horses come through the sky on horses and earth worldly voices cry out around us. I look back around trying to find something to stop this. I turn back to Ciri, determined to try one more time to snap her out of it. She looks at Tris being held by the elven woman and Screams Geralt's name.

I gasp as I sit up finding myself on the floor. I see Triss fall to her knees off the bed with her hand covering her throat. Ciri reaches for her and Tris flinches and screams backing herself against the wall.

“Something is ending. It’s because of you.” She gasp. “A seed that burst into flame. It’s you. You will destroy us all. I saw it.” She cries.

“Enough!” I shout trying to stand. I look at Ciri first. She looks terrified as she runs from the room. “Ciri!” I call out, but she just keeps running. I look back at Triss and see her still there weeping.

“Triss.” I say and she flinches. “Triss, everything is okay now. You’re safe.” I try to say in a soothing tone. I managed to wrap and arm around her, helping her from the floor. She starts to mumble somewhat incoherently. Once I got her from the floor. I am able to walk her down the hallway back to her room. I get her tucked into her bed and she just lays on her side eyes staring blankly at the wall. I gently tell her I will come back to check on her but she simply looks straight through me as if I am not even there.

I take off down searching the keep to find Ciri. I hear a shout that sounds as if it came from Geralt. I jog in the direction of his voice. When I enter the room Geralt is sitting at the foot of a bed Ciri is in and I see the vial in Vesemir’s hand. I look up at Vesemir and he looks to me and the room goes still. I feel the glow almost instantly looking at that vial in his hands. Ciri stands and leaves the room. I barely feel Geralt’s hand on my arm pulling me and I resist for a moment before I let him. He turns to look at Vesemir once more as he practically shoves me out of the room and we catch up with Ciri in the hall.

“Ciri, I need you to go pack your things.” Geralt tells her. She opens her mouth to say something but one look at my face and she nods and walks back down the hall. “What happened?” Geralt asks as he gently tugs for me to follow him to the great hall.

“You mean besides my almost committing murder?” He winces slightly at my barked question. I launch into a full accounting of everything he has managed to miss in the whole 6 hours he’s been gone. By the time I’ve finished, I’ve managed to calm significantly. “The reason we all think I’m here is to protect her but I’m scared for her, Geralt. It feels like with every step I’m pulling her away from the edge in the end I’m pushing her closer to it.” I express dejectedly placing my head in my hands. Geralt pulls my hands away from my face and pulls me into his arms.

“You are helping her, even when it may not seem like it. I am more grateful for it than you know.” He tells me.

“Thank you, Geralt.” I smiled at him. I pull away from him but even after his arms leave me his touch still lingers.

“You should get some rest and pack your things.” Geralt says turning to leave.

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“The Temple of Melitele in Ellander.” He says striding from the room. I freeze knowing that name. Knowing that this is where shit actually hits the fan.

Well fuck.

@freegardenbanananeck

#geralt of rivia #Geralt #the witcher #geralt x reader #geralt x you #Geralt and Ciri #geralt x y/n #geralt fanfic

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rookthorne · 7 months

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⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐀 𝐑𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝

It had been an ordinary day — nothing amiss, nor a cause for concern, not even the sudden appearance of soldiers in the local tavern. You should have known better, however, for fate had never left you in peace.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☽◯☾ Witcher!Bucky Barnes x Sorceress!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☽◯☾ 3.8k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☽◯☾ Dark themes, fluff, wound tending, implied torture and past character deaths

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☽◯☾ This has been in the cards for a long time, and I thought to hell with it, I want a new collection.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ☽◯☾ Nature Boy (Acoustic) by AURORA

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ☽◯☾ @anyfandomaubingo 𝗜𝟭— Witchcraft AU — Masterlist ☽◯☾ @rookthorne's Fright Night — Masterlist

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞'𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Village life was quiet. Peaceful and tranquil, but it stunk to the high heavens.

It was a place where you could venture and be somewhat at peace, taking stock of your craft and practising heartily. You supported the village in many ways, too – buying from the local farmers while trading herbs and ointments for all manner of things, from aiding the wounded and sick, to caring for their animals.

There were plenty of opportunities to socialise in the tavern, located in the main square, a crossroads where travellers, each unique, took a load off before they moved on.

You had to admit to yourself that nothing would beat your small cottage on the outskirts, though. And by the Sisters, you would have given anything to be back behind the wooden walls of your haven at that moment.

The tavern was loud, tremendously so, and full to the brim of Nilfgaardian soldiers and captains that barked orders, squabbled over their losses, and howled their misery.

A scuffle broke out by the main dining hall, and you rolled your eyes as you fidgeted with your tankard. “Idiots, the lot of them,” you murmured over the ruckus, and Rose, the plump and aged barwench looked up at you from her chopping board, a sly smile on her thin lips. “What?”

“Whip ‘em into shape, lass,” she said simply, as though you could click your fingers and bring them to heel – which, you could, but you did not need the village to know that. Not if you wanted to remain in this festering, livestock ridden, peaceful abode.

You grinned, a wolfish thing but full of wry humour. “Now Rose, that’s just not how a lady works in these parts, is it?”

It wasn’t. Not unless you wanted to be tried for witchcraft and sorcery – drawn and quartered, or hung from a post at the village entry. The fate that befit many of your sisters before you made a shiver ripple down your spine, and you grimaced.

“Lass, you best get,” Rose cautioned as she glanced over at the rowdy soldiers. The next words she uttered were from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want you getting caught up in their mess.”

Rose was the only sanctum in this damned place – aged, wise, and perceptive, she recognised the signs for what they were, and the cunning woman worked out that you were a sorceress within days. After all, it wasn’t normal for swallows, song birds, or deer to leap and bound after any normal villager; nor was it normal for wherever you roamed to spring new life, flora and fauna alike.

You glanced over your shoulder at the boisterous soldiers, and sighed heavily. “Yes, you’re right.” The stool scraped loudly, and Rose smiled at you, a bag outstretched in offering. “What’s this?”

“A gift, for the help you have lent me, love,” she said softly, a knowing glint in her eye. “Helga has never been better, and it’s thanks to you.”

“Oh,” you breathed. Helga, a heifer that supplied the tavern with milk, had been under the weather and ill producing any product. An afternoon in her pen with soothing words and concoctions had done her wonders, if you guessed by the churning of butter and flagons of milk. “You didn’t have to-”

“Nonsense.” Rose pushed the bag into your hands and you were helpless but to accept. “Take it and enjoy them–hell, you are the only one here that is grateful for my food, let alone eat it without complaint.”

A smirk pulled at your lips, and you slyly took a few steps back. “You say that as though you don’t eat your own cooking…”

“Get,” Rose snapped, brandishing a wooden spoon at you. “And I don’t want you back here ‘till tomorrow!”

“Have a good night,” you called, laughing as Rose kept the spoon trained on your retreating figure.

The night air was pungent with the stench of livestock manure and stale beer, but the undertones of crisp herbs and soft flowers filled your senses, overburdening the rot with life that you controlled at your fingertips. The very gift of life hadn’t been given to all those of who practised, it was a rare gift that the fates bestowed upon you, much to your chagrin.

To give and to take the life essence of another was both a blessing and a curse – for when you took a life, one that was burdened with pain, it weighed on you heavier than the world on your shoulders. To give life, breathe the karma into something that would have otherwise been damned, it gave you a purpose.

It was why you trained to be a healer, one that excelled in the craft of mending wounds and curing ailments. No one ever questioned how you were so adept and proficient in your work, either. You were thanked profusely and you were given gifts, then forgotten about until the next villager or animal needed your help.

You supposed that time would run out soon enough. The soldiers of the Eternal Flame and the captains of the Nilfgaard forces never rested – borrowed time was the curse of healing, because for all that you healed and helped others, the closer they loomed.

And leaving the putrid village, the one you had grown to both love and loathe in equal measure, filled you with a bitter sadness and a tainted joy. Rose, Helga, the elderly spinster that was your neighbour, the small children down the lane — what would they do without you?

You continued to wander down the lane, avoiding the puddles of mud and piles of mess, when the small cottage you called home came into view. The shawl over your shoulders tightened across your shoulders in your grip, and a sigh of relief fell from your lips.

Home – where you could drop the facade and recharge after sharing the presence of drunkards and fools all evening.

Suddenly, a small meow came from the bushes along the edge of the lane, and you smiled at the sound. “Shani, little one,” you whispered, kneeling on the verge of dirt and grass. “There you are. Come.”

White fur shone under the warm light of the torch a little ways away, and then piercing blue eyes peered through the brambles – bright and curious. “Hello, Shani–come on, let’s get home.”

She complied, and with a huff and a sneeze, she pulled herself out from the leaves; fur ruffled and streaked with dirt. You couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in your chest at the sight of her – days had gone by, and you suspected the fearless feline was starving for both food and affection. “Did you clear out the barn for Darius, little one?”

A chirp was your answer, and you nodded. “Right then. A hard working woman such as yourself deserves a treat. I bought you some fish from the market.” Tail high in the air, you watched Shani trot away towards the front door of your home, a steady stream of purrs and chitters along the way.

The welcoming heat from the fireplace engulfed your whole being as the door to your cottage swung open, and the strong scent of herbs and potions followed soon after. “Home sweet home,” you hummed, taking a moment to hang the shawl from your shoulders up onto the hook in the entryway.

It was a simple home. A small kitchen lined with many shelves and cupboards, all of which were full to the brim with spices and fruits, scattered the walls and space. To the left of the entryway there was a small seating area with a bookshelf lined with hypothecary books and beastaries of all shapes and sizes.

Behind a small cloth in the furthest corner in your cottage, however, in a separate bookshelf, lay a forbidden tome of Witcher magic – knowledge acquired only from the long lineage of mages in your family tree.

Decades, even centuries ago, it was said your lineage worked closely with the monster slayers in the prime of the Conjunction of Spheres – where horrors that blurred the line of reality and dreamscape ventured into your world and left it ravaged, torn, and broken.

For years your grandfather-grandfather’s worked on trials and concoctions to create the ultimate saviour, for which they had succeeded. And they would have stayed successful if fury hadn’t consumed the men that had been turned into weapons against their will.

Retribution and revenge had become their way once they rose up and took back what they were owed – their own lives.

You hadn’t blamed them, if you were honest. Taken and enslaved against their will, forced through the most painful and excruciating trials known to humanity at the time, and then forced into more trials of combat with hellish creatures for which less than half survived.

It went against every fibre of your morality to even think of the abhorrent practices of your ancestors, and with that final flash of guilt, you turned towards your chambers – they of which were opposite that corner of shame.

Moonlight filtered in through the small windows and casted long shadows over the wooden floor as you settled into a comfortable chair for some night time ready. The flames of candles placed about the room flickered and danced as you read, the book in your hand completely enrapturing you. The soft touch of fur under your fingers was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Shani was purring contentedly, sleepy from a belly full of fish, when she suddenly perked up – the movement so fast it knocked your book from your hands. “Little one, goodness–what is it?”

A shuffling sound came from outside, and you stared at the door, the sudden feeling of flight or fight pulling you deep, deep from your instincts. The skin of your palms crackled and glowed an amber that lit up the corner of the room you occupied, and your eyes — once dull and entirely human — flashed crimson with magic.

It had been so long since you had needed to tap into your more aggressive stores of magic. People left you well enough alone, and creatures, both monster and predatory, were put off by protective runes. It would not be a beast.

Trespassing on a Sorceress’ lair was a fatal mistake. If this truly was a vagabond, or heaven forbid, a bandit, they would pay the ultimate price.

Hoofbeats sounded along the stoned path of your cottage, and you heard a low nicker of worry. The sound disarmed you, and your gaze flickered between the arched back of Shani, and the front door.

The gift of communicating with animals had served you very well in the past, you remembered. Cautiously, you opened your mind – the current of thought flowing from it to the creatures around you.

Unheard by any humans, you barked a loud command. “Halt!” It echoed off the walls, bouncing from animal to animal, its effect instantaneous.

The horse, strong and proud by the assurity of its steps, came to an abrupt stop. The ensuing silence was interrupted by a low groan of pain, the clink of metal, and creak of worn leather.

“Fuck,” a deep voice hissed. “Keep going, Alpine.”

Human. And a man, by the sound of it, and he was in agony — the currents of pain he emanated were anything to go by. Another curse of being a healer with an acute touch.

An almighty crash sounded just outside your door, and you stiffened.

“Goddammit,” the voice cursed, followed by the sound of dragging feet. “You brought me here, Alpine? Of all the places you could have–? What’s a peasant going to do-” There was a pause in his accusations. He moaned lowly in pain, then, “Don’t you fucking look at me like that, you nag.”

The quip almost made you laugh, if it wasn’t for the bubbling fear deep in your guts.

A sudden bang on the door made you jump.

“Who’s there?” you yelled, clenching your fists so the energy that flowed from them crackled and burned the air around you. Before the man could utter an answer, you heard them fall to the floor once more, followed by a guttural groan of pain.

The whinny of fear from the horse forced you into action, and you hastened to the door – if it were a trap, you could dispatch of the intruder with a snap of your fingers, but something spurred you closer. To hear such distress from an animal fractured your soul, and you made it your purpose in life to stop suffering; not prolong it.

Iron and sweat was all you could smell in the air as you neared the door, and you prayed for strength, summoning it from within. The power of it made your eyes burn in your sockets, but it tempered your fear – if the intruder were to see you were a powerful Sorceress and one to not be trifled with, you could both leave this encounter unscathed.

The door creaked open, and you gasped, “By the Fates!”

The slumped figure of the intruder looked up at you from the ground, his face streaked with blood, mud, and some kind of purple liquid that seeped down his jaw and neck. The leather and chained armour plates over his shoulders and chest fared no better.

His eyes, unnaturally bright and with dark slits for pupils – this was no ordinary man, you realised quickly. “You’re a Witcher,” you breathed, your hand covering your mouth in shock. “What in heavens-”

“Alpine brought me to you,” he rasped, and a trickle of blood fell from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t fathom why-” A wet cough interrupted him, and you watched, horrorstruck, as his gloved hand came away from his mouth covered in blood. “I need shelter to heal,” he continued, his voice strained with an onset of pain. “I will pay you–just, I need to-”

You eyed the swords on his back with apprehension, but you were no monster, silver would not work on you. Steel, however, would. The tales of the butchers that still roamed the Continent fresh in your mind, the warnings against engaging with a rogue Witcher still blared through your rational mind.

But he was hurt.

Witchers, while not immortal, were hardy brutes. It took a lot to take one down, and once in a state of near death – like the man seemed to be before you – they were rumoured to become frenzied in a last ditch effort to take as many down with them.

It was not a fate destined for a Witcher, to die cosily in his bed.

“You will not hurt me?” you asked quietly, the crackling of your palms drawing the icy gaze of the stranger. A look of recognition flashed through his taut expression, and you knew your secret was exposed.

He shook his head. “No.”

You glanced up at the horse that stood watching a few paces away, the once white coat of the steed bloodied and filthy with grime. Their gaze met yours, and it screamed of a plea to help, to help my human.

Sighing, you looked back down at the man sprawled at your feet. “Inside,” you commanded. “If you cannot manage, I will bewitch you.”

“I can manage,” he gritted out, his jaw clenched.

You blinked and stepped back into your cottage, guard still up as you watched him falter and sway to his feet, the lack of noise suspicious, though upon closer inspection, it looked like the Witcher was biting his tongue – if he hadn’t already bitten clean through it. His build was massive, bigger than the lumberjacks and hunters of your village, and if he wasn’t bleeding all over your floor, you would have called him handsome.

“Where are you wounded–is it deep?” you asked, pointing at the cot just visible behind a curtain. It was where you treated villagers, normally. The Witcher limped past you, his bulk still swaying with each step. “Is that even your own blood?”

“Yes,” he snapped, brows furrowed. “I will not be here long.”

You considered him a moment, and you frowned. There was no way that he would wander out your door by sunrise, not if the Witcher’s renowned ability of regeneration and healing were true – it would take him days to recover from this alone. “You are not going anywhere.”

The look in his eyes startled you into silence. “And what do you propose? You are a Sorceress that is beyond protective of her lair, and I am a Witcher. We cannot and will not coalesce–not if your damned cat keeps staring at me like that.”

Shani hissed and moved closer to your ankles, the bristle of her fur felt even through the fabric of your gown. “For a Witcher that has faced dragons and other beasts-”

“There is no such thing as dragons,” he hissed, glaring at you.

You couldn’t help the quirk of your lips. “Alright. For a Witcher that has faced many a beast in the wilderness and gotten his fair share of coin for it,” you said, eyeing his expression that morphed into something impassive. “You seem awfully afraid of a cat.”

“Just-” He licked his lips and gingerly sat down on the cot. “Look, I will not linger. As soon as the sun rises, I will be gone, and you’ll have a fat purse of coins for your trouble. Deal?”

A pregnant pause echoed louder than the roar of a troll, and you found yourself growing impatient. “Fine. But I will clean your wounds before you retire. Alpine-” The snort at your open window gave you pause, and you looked over to see the white steed peering in from the outside. “Hello, beautiful,” you whispered, and the horse looked at you, their eyes soft.

“Alpine is… She is tricky,” the Witcher sighed. “The bloody mare can be steadfast against a pack of ghouls and alghouls, but as soon as she senses distress from a nearby human or even me, she becomes a mother hen. It is infuriating.”

“She is just doing her job,” you said, still looking at the mare. “A steed that cannot stand suffering, but yet, she carries a butcher on her back. The irony.”

You glanced at the Witcher to gauge a reaction, and you were not wrong to do so – a pinched expression, as though the mention of the title of the rogue Witchers pained him even more than his still weeping wounds. “I am not one of them.”

“Really?”

“No, I am not–believe it or call me a liar, a fool,” he said determinedly, gripping the edge of the cot so the leather of his gloves creaked. “But I cannot–will not allow myself to become a monster. Not after all I have seen and done, and by the Fates, I have seen enough and inflicted enough pain for my lifetime.”

Moments passed as you stared at him, the silence echoing loudly against your ears, until, “If you no longer wish for me to be here, please allow me at least a moment to catch my breath. Fates know when I will be able to stop next.”

“No,” you cut in, crossing your arms. “You will lay on that cot once I have done what I can, and you will rest. I cannot turn down a being in pain. And while you are not human, that doesn’t mean you deserve to suffer.”

Icy eyes met yours, and you could have sworn you’d seen a smile on his lips. It was then you noticed that his hair, while coated with grime, was actually a mix of typical silver – an attribute caused by the mutations that your ancestors created – with black streaks.

You decided to table the question for later, and you turned to fetch your satchel of salves and ointments from the other room.

“I did not realise this was a Sorceress’ cottage,” the Witcher ventured suddenly. “You seem so detached from the village–though I am glad Alpine brought me here. At least, you look strong enough to overpower if you were to decide to attack or kill me.”

A scoff left your throat before you could master the impulse, and you shook your head. You fussed about in your shelves for bottles and jars, when you heard the wet slap of soaked armour hit the wooden floor by the cot, and you asked over your shoulder, “What monster caused this?”

“Archespore,” he replied. “I was trying to get a group of children that were foolish enough to play in the woods safely back home, when it sprung from the ground.”

“By the Fates,” you said again. “Were they okay?”

“Yes, they ran for the village when the ground shook.”

“At least they were unharmed,” you whispered, and the Witcher hummed an agreement. “You did not tell me your name, by the way.”

The cot creaked as the Witcher moved, and you appeared in the doorway to find him placing his swords on the rickety wooden chair by the bed. “Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you drawled, placing the satchel on the cot. “Strong name. Where are you from?”

“I don’t remember,” Bucky mumbled.

“Well then,” you sighed, sitting beside the Witcher. “You better put up with my ravings as I tend to your wounds.”

Bucky huffed and rolled his eyes, but turned away from you so you would have better access to his back – the skin was bloodied and torn, but underlying all the wounds lay scars. Each raised line of skin told a story, a gruesome tale, but you were fascinated with how the scars grew in number closer to his left shoulder.

The skin was mottled and puckered, angry with lines and lumps of white, shiny tissue that had healed so jaggedly you suspected this was not an accidental inflection — no, this was torture induced, brutal, brutal torture.

Whip lines cascaded down his flank, and your fingers itched and twitched with the compulsion to heal. It wouldn’t work, though, the skin far too damaged and long healed over, as mangled as it had done so.

A heavy sigh made your shoulders sag, and you reached out to touch a still weeping wound, the crackle of your magic filling the air until you stopped to stare at the side of Bucky’s head, who was determinedly avoiding your eyes.

Miracles were something gifted by the Fates, and just this once, you had no way of mustering the strength to ask for one — Bucky had suffered enough. A ritualistic ceremony would only cause the Witcher more pain and anguish.

“Your scars tell a tale many do not live to regale, Witcher,” you whispered, awestruck with the possibilities as your fingertips danced over his bare skin. “One day, I hope the pain of them no longer burdens you.”

Silence was your only answer, so you soldiered on – salve and ointment in hand.

can you guess which was my favourite line to write in this whole fic?

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #rookthorne's works

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dravenxivuk · 10 months

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Witcher Rinah, School of the Manticore

ArtFight attack on @justanartsysideblog

#artfight #artfight 2023 #artfight team werewolf #witcher lass #witcher oc #witcher ocs #my sketches #my art

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labyrinth-runner · 5 months

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The Tavern Maid

I'm tempted to turn this into a (short) series if people are interested?

This is based off a cliched prompt from this list:

Help me I'm being hit on a bar, please pretend to be my fake boyfriend for a second.

Summary: Jaskier comes to your aid when some elves in your brother's tavern get a little too handsy for your liking.

Word Count: 1300~

Warnings: I mean, the elf is handsy and tries to proposition reader.

It was a usual shift at the tavern. Which, for you, meant that some patrons were getting a bit too handsy for your liking. You would never understand why people assumed that because you worked there that you'd like their advances. Quite frankly, you didn't give a fuck about tips, and you were only working here to help out your brother because his usual server (his wife) had just had a baby and he was short staffed. Still, this crowd was raucous. There was a group of dwarves in the corner, louder than most, but the real problem were the elves, with their wandering hands, blaming it on the fact that they were so much quicker than you and therefore unused to having to dance around a slow human.

You could feel the vein in your forehead throbbing as you scrubbed the sticky remnants of mead from the bar. You couldn't wait to go back to your house, take a scalding hot bath to burn off the unwanted ick that their gazes left on your skin.

A bard was strumming a tune in the corner, pulling most of the patrons into his performance. It was a nice, jaunty tune. Something about tossing a coin to a witcher. Now, there was a right beast, that. Witchers with their golden eyes and wild temperaments. You'd only ever met one, with his snow white hair. He'd been tracking some manner of a beast straight through your father's farm, and he actually seemed to care about the damage the beast had done to your father's crops. Some Geralt of Rivia or something like that. Hadn't seen him in years, but the bard's tune brought him right back to you as if he were standing in front of you.

You wished he were. Maybe he'd do something to deter the elves. One of them, the one with the sneer and tight braid was elbowing the man next to him, gesturing with his head towards you. Great. You were about to be propositioned. He smirked at his friend, nodding vigorously before downing the rest of his ale and making his way towards the bar. You clocked it, and were hoping to avoid it, already rounding the bar to see to another patron.

Like the elves said, you were so much slower than them. His hand was on your hip, turning you into his chest. "Now, lass, where are you going?"

Clearing your throat, you attempted to push away, "I have a job to do."

He grinned down at you, drinking in your discomfort as his hand trailed lower, dangerously close to your ass. "I'm sure they can wait a bit."

"I suppose they can, but I'm sure my husband wouldn't approve of whatever you have in mind."

He laughed. "What husband?"

Damn that elf, seeing through your bluff. You spotted the bard taking a seat at the bar and nodded towards him. "That husband. Right, dear?" you asked, directing the question to the bard to get his attention. You'd said it rather loudly. You mouthed 'help' to him as the elf turned to address the bard.

"Is this one yours?" the elf asked, pulling you against his chest, his hand high up on your waist and his thumb dangerously close to the underside of your breast. You grimaced.

"Yes, that lady happens to be my wife, and I would appreciate if you'd take your grubby hands off her," he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand towards you.

You gripped his hand, your palms sweaty and allowed him to pull you into him. "Thank you," you murmured. He smelled of smoke and sage.

His hand cupped your cheek. "Are you alright, dear heart?"

He was good. Then again, as a performer, you weren't that surprised.

"I do apologize," the elf said, backing away. "I didn't realize she was spoken for."

The bard wrapped a protective arm around you. "Even if she wasn't, Sir, no means no. She shouldn't have to say it in elvish for you to understand." His tone was ice and he stared the elf down until he slunk back to his table, tail between his legs. He passed his mug to you. "Here, take a sip."

You raised a brow, but accepted it. It wasn't what you were expecting, the first sip coating your tongue with a warm mix of cinnamon and clove.

"It's a tea I got from a druid. It's supposed to help your voice and calm nerves," he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You can stop acting," you told him, handing him back his mug. You dug around in your pocket for a coin, trying to discreetly hand it to him for his trouble. "For your witcher," you teased.

He folded your hand back around the coin. "You don't have to pay me for doing the right thing," he said with a soft smile. "Somehow, I feel like I'd do so much more than merely this for you if you'd asked, dear heart."

His hand stroked the back of yours and you took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He was handsome, with short chestnut brown hair that swept across his forehead. But, it was his eyes that had you trapped in your place. They were the most beautiful blue you'd ever seen. You'd never been to the ocean, but you were sure in your soul that it would pale in comparison to the color of his eyes. You rested a tentative hand on his puffy shirt shoulder, feeling the way it deflated under the weight of your hand. He wasn't built with bulky strength like the witcher. He was lean, but you could still feel the taut strength of muscle under the fabric.

"My name is Jaskier," he told you.

You told him your name and he frowned slightly. "What's the matter?" you asked.

"'Dear Heart' suits you so much more," he said, the corner of his lips pulling up ever so slightly.

"No one else has ever called me that," you said, feeling your cheeks burn.

"Good," he grinned. "I want to be the only one."

"And will you write songs about me?" you teased.

"No," he admitted. Your smile started to slide from your face, so he quickly added, nodding back towards the elf. "I don't want to share you."

You swallowed, realizing that you'd been neglecting your patrons for a while. You started to pull away from him. "I should get back to work."

He grabbed your hand, holding it to his chest. "When are you done?"

"In about an hour," you replied.

"Would you mind if I walk you home?" he asked, stroking your hand.

"Why would a wife mind her husband walking her home?" you said with a smirk. "And, I suppose..." you said, tapping your chin in thought. You couldn't help yourself, he was so handsome and you were hoping he was feeling whatever was sparking between the two of you here and wanted to explore it, too. "There are some other things that husbands and wives do once they're home that I wouldn't mind, either."

His eyebrows raised into his hairline at that.

"U-unless that was too forward," you stammered.

He kissed the palm of your hand. "No, Dear Heart, you're right. We must do our duties." He winked. He held your hand until you pulled out far from his reach, and then he watched you the rest of the night, stepping in to give you a hand with carrying things if a customer started to get to handsy, reminding them that you were 'married' and therefore off limits.

At the end of the night you waited for him to pack up his things and fetch his lute from the table he'd turned into his makeshift stage. He came over, lute slung across his back, and dramatically offered you his arm. "Milady."

"M'lord," you said with a laugh, sliding your arm though his. You pulled him through town towards your house, marveling at how normal it felt to be like this with Jaskier.

#jaskier #jaskier x reader #the witcher

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