#can we consider this soft!geralt

[sillyrabbit81]

The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood - Part Fifteen

Series Summary: Lori "Babycakes" Tate swore she would never date a biker but when her life is in danger, she is put under the protection of a small club known as The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood. She suddenly finds herself attracted to not one, but five bikers.

A reverse harem, biker AU.

Part Fifteen Summary: Marshall agonises while Lori takes matters into her own hands.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC, Walter Marshall x OFC, Mike x OFC, Geralt x OFC, August Walker x OFC

Word Count: Approx. 3k

Warnings:

Series Warnings: Reverse harem, age gap (OFC 23, ages range from 23 to mid 40s), oral sex (male and female receiving), unprotected p in v sex, anal sex, group sex, masturbation, praise kink, mentions of body fluids, drug use, recreational drinking, sex work, criminal activities, mention of death, violence, use of weapons, mentions of war, mentions of abuse, angst, fluff, probably a lot more that I will add as they come up.

Part Fifteen Warnings: slight angst, mild violence, smut, p in v sex,

Authors Note: Thanks as always to my lovely BBFs (Best Beta's forever) @henryobsessed and @nashibirne .

Been a while since I wrote a sex scene with a character other than Sy! I hope you enjoy it.

Divider made by me. Edited by me, there will be errors.

Masterlist

Parts Masterlist

Part Fourteen Part Sixteen

Marshall

Lori sedately followed me as I led her to her room. 

I was in no hurry, on the contrary, I would have liked to walk with her for a while, hold her hand and do some of the usual stuff you do with a girl you like. But that's not how this was going to go, not in this situation, so I folded my arms across my chest and kept my pace to match hers.

“Did you get everything you needed with Mike?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said softly, “the packages should be at the post office tomorrow.”

“I'll send Mike to pick them up in the afternoon.”

Her brows furrowed, but she nodded.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I told Mike I was going to hang out with him tomorrow afternoon. But it's not like I'm going anywhere for a while, there will be plenty of afternoons.”

“No. You and Mike can do your thing. I will go and pick them up myself.”

“You will?”

“Sure. You seem to enjoy his company. You smile a lot with him.”

She lowered her eyes and grinned.

“See? Thinking about him makes you smile,” I chuckled. Her face dropped a little. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then shook her head, “I was thinking… Have you heard from Sy?.”

“No.” Her frown deepened. “Are you worried about him?”

She shrugged. 

“Do you miss him?”

She shrugged again, but with a forced carelessness that made it obvious that she was.

“I’m sure he misses you too.”

We stopped outside the door to her room. She made no move to open her door so I waited, leaning against the wall while she appeared to be thinking.

“What I said to you this morning,” she started, “what I accused you of, it was wrong of me.”

I shook my head. “Your reaction was completely understandable. We were out of line. And considering where you come from, it makes sense that you might see it the way you do.”

She raised her head and her normally steel blue eyes had taken on a dark smokey hue that sent a bolt of energy tingling through my nerves.

“I don’t see it that way anymore anymore,” she said, huskily.

For a moment I let myself entertain the fantasy that I could spend the night with her again without the mellowing effects of weed to kill my most feral instincts. Heat flooded my skin as I remembered the weight of her body against mine, the sweet citrus like smell of her hair, and the softness of her thigh. I didn’t think there was a snowman’s chance in hell that I could sleep next to her sober and not shred her clothes to pieces to get a taste of the silky hidden skin between her legs. 

I clenched my jaw as I shut that line of thought down fast. I hadn’t changed my mind from earlier; as far as I was concerned, I was no longer a party to the pact. However, I was not made of stone and I knew my resolution could only withstand so much temptation before it crumbled, so I turned towards my door. Then her hand came to rest on my bicep, her gentle touch halted my escape and my back went ramrod straight.

“Spend the night with me?” she asked, her tone so softly pleading that it took my breath away.

“I can’t,” I said, forcing the words out before I had a chance to say something else.

She withdrew her hand quickly, as if my reply had burned her.

The look on her face made me sick to my stomach. The rejection and confusion marring her dollishly pretty features was almost as bad as the accusatory look of betrayal she had given me that morning.

“You don’t want this,” I explained. “What you said this morning, you were wrong, but you were also right. What my Brothers and I did, what we agreed to, we had no right.”

“You said it was my choice.”

“We did, but we put you in an uncomfortable situation you didn’t deserve and one you don’t want, not really.”

“Oh and this situation,” she moved her hand back and forth between us before placing them on her hips, “is less uncomfortable? Rejection is what I deserve then?”

“Lori,” I said, forcing myself to keep a lid on the frustration that began to boil in my guts, “Do you deliberately misinterpret everything I say, or are you just childishly stubborn on purpose?”

Her jaw dropped and she rounded on me, poking her finger into the centre of my chest, forcing me to take backward steps until my back hit the wall.

“You’re a manipulative prick. All of you are. Was this the plan the whole time then? Playing with my feelings, deceiving me into agreeing to your ridiculous pact and then telling me it was a joke?”

“Lori–”

She pushed me then, her palms bouncing hard off my shoulders, and although it didn’t hurt, it was bloody annoying. I grabbed her hands, turning her in my arms until they crossed over her torso and her back pressed against my chest.

“Let me go,” she yelled while she struggled, pulling and yanking on my arms.

“Calm down,” I growled into her ear, trying desperately not to harden up as she twisted like a kitten trying to get free. 

“I’m not your plaything,” she hissed, “You’re supposed to be protecting me or have you forgotten what you’re being paid for?”

“And that’s exactly why I said no. Do you think I don’t want you? Do you not notice how when you’re in the room I can’t look away?”

She stopped fighting, her body was still tense, but she wasn’t thrashing. I dropped my head into her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, my lips brushing against her tender flesh.

“Every inch of me wants you, wants to be inside you,” I mumbled as I my will began slipping through my fingers like sand. 

I released her and ran my hands over her body, until they rested against the burning hot skin of her belly where her tank top had ridden up in the struggle. Her hand covered mine and she didn’t stop me as I slid them under the thin fabric. I rumbled out a groan as the soft weight of her breasts filled my hand, and her hard little nipple teased my palm.

“You’re a constant, tormenting, burn in my chest. Right here,” I placed our hands over her heart, “I ache for you.”

She whined weakly, her body melted against mine as she turned her head towards me.

My lips were on hers before I could think. She was soft, warm, and so perfectly lush that my whole body shuddered and I groaned into her mouth. Without stopping the kiss I grasped her waist, guided us blindly to her door, and fumbled with the handle.

Lifting my lips from hers long enough to turn her, I took her to the bed and laid her on her back before capturing her mouth again. Her thighs fell apart beneath me and I spread my legs to make her widen them until I was grinding my trapped and throbbing cock against her heat. She gasped into my kiss and I didn’t hesitate to slip my tongue into the plush warmth of her mouth. I groaned at the taste of her as she kissed me back and sunk her fingers into my beard, nails scratching gently at my cheeks and jaw. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice told me to stop, that I shouldn’t take her like this. I lifted my head, trying to swallow my most violent basic instincts while I struggled to find the words I needed to stop this from going any further but my body was too raw and my mind was skirting too close to the edge of reason. Then I felt her move beneath me, her hips rocking, lifting up to meet mine and a greedy feral urge overtook any rational thought. 

Fuck it. I was hardly on track for sainthood anyway.

I growled, it's the only way I can describe the animalistic groan I released as pulled her tank over her head. Catching both of her slight wrists, I held them above her head in one hand while the other pulled her jeans and panties down her thighs. She cycled her long lush legs to help me peel her flushed body out of the skin tight clothes.

Below a small short patch of hair, her delicate smooth slit was glistening. As if time had decided to stand still, her legs lazily fell open and she blossomed before me, revealing with painstaking slowness her dewy centre. My cock jerked at the sight, desperate to plunge into that soft and sleek slit.

My fingertip circled her nipple, once, twice, three times, my head pounding as I watched the already pebbled skin grow tighter. She mewled as I took her little pink bud into my mouth; her hips rolled and her arms pulled against my hand while her head fell onto the bed with a long throaty moan. God, that sound made my already throbbing cock so fucking hard, I felt like I could fuck through a brick wall.

“Shh,” I soothed and slipped two fingers into her mouth. Her eager lips wrapped around them and her tongue slid over the pads while she sucked. With a rumble in my throat, I replaced my fingers with my tongue and she reciprocated, hungrily drawing me into her mouth with a torrid pull.

I ghosted my wet fingers over her slit, parting her, making her open for me. Fuck, she felt nice; delicate, small, warm, slick, swollen… just so fucking nice.

Barely able to control the primal part of my brain that screamed at me to completely ruin all that sweet softness, I flipped her onto her chest and lifted her hips until she was on her knees. Her cry of shock hardly slowed me as I clawed at my jeans and lowered them just enough.

“I want to take you like this,” I mumbled as I leaned over her and ran my hand from her hips, down the concave of her waist, and over her ribs until I cupped her breast. My cock nudged against her core and I felt her sharp intake of breath.

“Oh my God,” she whined.

Gathering her thick braid in my fist, I kissed her just below her hairline before turning her head towards mine. She was the perfect picture of a woman lush with arousal; eyes heavy lidded, cheeks rosy, her mouth parted as she panted in shallow breaths.

“Yes,” she whimpered, bobbing her head and chasing my lips.

I let her catch me and she kissed me hard, moaning softly as my tongue met hers. I pulled away but her teeth sank into my lower lip making me hiss and my hips jack. I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“We’ll go slow next time,” I rasped, rising to my knees and I sunk into her molten velvet heat.

“Fuck,” we both groaned as our bodies met.

I stilled, the thrill of being inside her almost too much as she shuddered around me. I swept my hand down her spine to the back of her neck. Her skin was so smooth, supple, and even in this position, with my cock balls deep within her quivering core, she still had that seductive allure of feminine purity that I wanted to take apart piece by painstaking piece.

What the fuck was I doing?

“Shit,” I muttered and started to pull out, “I’m sorry.”

Her hand shot back, grabbing hold of me and sliding down my still clothed arm until her hand held mine.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

All I could feel was the pounding of my heart, from my fingertips to my toes, to my cock. She squeezed my hand while she lifted her head, determination radiating from her fierce, stormy grey eyes. 

Then she moved.

Only a small twitch of her hips, but oh God, the tight, silky, slick friction was heaven. The hold she had on my hand grew tighter and she rocked again as a breathy moan floated from her throat.

“Fuck, Lori…” my voice trailed off as she continued the shallow erotic rotations of her hips and arching flex of her spine.

My lust overrode the last of my hesitations and I began countering her movements, rapidly dialling up the intensity until our bodies were crashing against each other. My fingers were digging into her hips while hers were clutching at the covers, our eyes were locked in a feverish hold, neither one of us able to look away.

“Come here,” I groaned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her up until her back rested against my chest. My hands moved all over her, mapping out every soft curve. 

She stretched, raising her arms to reach for me, turning my head and searching for my lips. Her kiss surged through my body, every muscle straining, the growing tension inside me had me heading for a release that was bearing down on me like a freight train.

I held her tight, one arm around her chest, my fingers mauling at her breast while the other skimmed over her taut, quivering belly going lower and lower until I brushed her clit. Her hips bucked as she cried into my mouth, and her pussy clamped down so hard on my cock, I almost lost it then and there.

Muscling her into place, I kept her still while I fucked her and worked her clit. She was trembling and her hands floundered, searching for purchase to steady herself as she got closer to the edge. I gathered her wrists in my hand and held them to her chest.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“I know, Lori, I know. I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I whispered into her neck, the skin so hot and humid that it made my lips tingle.

“Marshall… Oh my God…” 

“Let go, Lori. I need to feel you.” 

I lifted my head and found her striking, heavy lidded eyes. She was flushed, skin reddened and shiny, panting and gasping, she was more breathtaking than ever.

“Look so beautiful.”

Her eyes widened then squeezed closed as her whole body grew taut and she let out a groaning curse. 

“Fuck, Lori. Just like that.”

Her body rolled as if she were fighting me off again. I moved with her, keeping my fingers where they needed to be, fighting my own release as hers milked and pulled hard on my cock. It was a futile fight. Just as her body went lax and her head lulled against my shoulder, a hot euphoric pulse worked its way through my body.

Gripping Lori tighter, I pulled her closer to me while I pumped up into her, everything focussed on chasing my impending high. The throbbing rush crashed over me in long heady waves, each tide surging through me into her, filling her up until I had nothing left and fell onto my heels, taking her with me.

The sudden silence of the room was jarring; the only sound came from us catching our breath. Still buried deep within her core, my arms were wrapped around her with one hand cupping the firm flesh of her breast and she rested her weight on my thighs. I was sweating through my shirt, my belt buckle cut painfully into calf, and my boots - I still had my fucking boots on - dug awkwardly into my ankles, but I dared not move. I endured the discomfort to avoid the inevitable crash back to reality. Maybe if I stayed still and held her long enough, I could ward off the impending shame and perhaps Lori wouldn’t come to her senses and regret what we had done.

The dead air stretched on and on. Neither of us spoke or moved and the longer it continued, the more I feared I had catastrophically fucked up. 

Then Lori’s hands covered mine and she laced her slim fingers between my thick ones. With some hesitation I rubbed my thumbs over her skin and kissed her shoulder. 

“Say something,” she whispered.

I kissed her some more, trailing my kisses up along the ridge of her shoulders to her neck.

“Something,” I muttered.

Lori shook her head with a snicker and leaned back into me, turning her head until she could look me in the eyes. She was smiling, her face beautifully blushing and glowing, errant tendrils of her voluminous hair stuck to her slightly dampened skin. I brushed the stray locks back, tucking them into her braid as best I could.

Sighing, I shifted and Lori got off my lap, and I sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down to unlace my boots. I felt her hands brush over the small of my back and she lifted my shirt to place a kiss against my spine.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like this,” I told her, placing both boots neatly on the floor and dropping my jeans beside them.

“Neither did I,” she said, raising my shirt higher until I had no choice but to lift my arms and let her pull it over my head and drop it on the floor next to my jeans.

“Lori,” I said, rotating my body and capturing her cheeks in my hands, staring resolutely into her tempestuous blue eyes, “I don’t regret it.”

Mimicking my position, she raised her hands to my cheeks and replied just as assiduously, “Neither do I.”

From deep within my gut, a warm surge of relief flooded my nervous system, making my spine feel like jelly. Expelling a held breath, I snaked an arm around her back and guided her back to the bed. Climbing on top of her, I covered her with my body and hummed at the feel of her skin against mine.

“This time,” I told her, “we’ll go slow.”

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #captain syverson #syverson fanfiction #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson x ofc #syverson #syverson x ofc #cpt syverson #captain sy #august walker fanfiction #august walker #august walker fic #august walker x ofc #walter marshall #walter marshall fanfiction #walter marshall x ofc #walter marshall fic #geralt x ofc #geralt of rivia #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt of rivia fanfiction #mike (hellraiser) #mike hellraiser #hellraiser mike #mike hellraiser fic #mike (hellraiser) fic

[just-some-random-blogger]

Dry Humor

The Blonde Boys Club

Daemon Targaryen x Sorceress!Reader, Geralt of Rivia & Sister!Reader

Summary: I would say you pretty much convinced Daemon not to hold Geralt to his actions against him, considering how heavily he was flirting with you as you shared ale.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: AGAIN THE ONLY INCEST IN THIS IS THE CANON TARGARYEN INCEST IN HOTD I WILL DECK YOU IF U SHIP THE SIBS, fem!reader, witcher!twins, reader is kinda a witcher, I describe reader's hair and eye color, crack fic, typos, etc.

A/N: These gifs man 😩😩😩😩 they just make the scenario in my head so real. This has a part 1, though i dont think you need to read it to understand but it would make more sense though if you did. also idk if i will continue this, but yeah HAHHHA Also not everyone said they wanted to, but im tagging everyone that commented on the first part just cuz Tagging: @khaleesihavilliard @thenovelcarnival @miiikkeey @aomi-nabi @aralezinspace @pinksirensong @cleverzonkwombatsludge @ayamenimthiriel @deniixlovezelda

Daemon released a sigh as he leaned his arms on the table. His glistening, alcohol laced lips were curved and his tilted his head at me

"A very convincing stance," the prince says after hearing my explanation of my twin's cold tendencies, and how, as much as we were a team, Geralt tended to overlook this and act on his own accord.

"Though," Daemon adds raising a finger, "not convincing enough."

I lean back on my chair. The silver haired man, directly in front of me, skids his, so that he was on the other side of the square table, adjacent to me. Now that he was to my right, he gives me a dramatic frown, "I don't think Caraxes will ever recover from your witcher's viscous attack."

I feel my lips pull into a small smile. He is pleased by my reaction and breaks into a soft chuckle before continuing, "you're going to have to atone for your brother's treasonous actions."

I lean towards him, mirroring the way his elbows were propped on the table. His smirk grows when he finds that I am unabashedly moving so close to him that he smells the ale on my breath.

"What if I told you I don't care if you throw my brother in prison?"

Daemon tilts his head, closing the space between us that our noses brush, "and what if I kill him?"

I chuckle, "you could try," I lean back, "but you would regret it, Prince Daemon."

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

I decide not to note on the matter further. If he wanted to know what I meant, he can inquire himself.

"I'm curious," he starts, grabbing his cup, "you mentioned magic is what makes your features so."

I hum, crossing my arms.

"How are you so sure it is not magic of Old Valyria that courses through you?"

I snort, rolling my eyes, crossing my arms, "why are you obsessed with the notion that we share the same heritage?"

"Well, it would explain how my ride obeyed you," he says, hand extending towards me, "and it would make it easier for me to wife you up."

I grab his wrist before he reaches my hair.

He grins at the force, "quite a grip you have."

"You do understand, boy, that you have only met me?" I raise my brows at him, "you've no idea the life I've lead before your parents were even born."

When I release him, his face contorts. It seems he was only now remembering the long life of my kind. Daemon pulls his hand back, only to reach out again and push the white streak of my hair behind my ear. I let him, rolling my eyes as he does so, "then consider me eager to learn, wife."

"Do not call me that," I narrow my eyes at him.

He chuckles, correcting himself by saying my name.

In that moment, I decide to pick the tiny bit of twig that has been sticking out of his long hair the whole time. I show him the object before flicking it away. He appreciates the sentiment it seems. He should not thought of it at all; the thing had been annoying me the moment I spotted it.

"You said your hair burns white because of your brother's," Daemon shifts in his seat to face me, one arm on the backrest, the other on the table.

I nod, "there is a magic between us. I used think it was simply because we were twins, and we had a special bond, which was why the chaos in our beings were so tightly connected. But I've come to realize, throughout the decades, it may be perhaps our mother tied us together, so that no matter what, we would survive through each other."

"You said you did not know your parents," Daemon knits his brows as he tilts his head.

"I never said that," I blurt, uncrossing my hands.

I reach out for my ale, but find that it is all but full. I turn to Daemon, "excuse me while I get us both a refill."

I grab both our cups and head for the keeper. I feel Daemon watch me as I walk away.

It is there by the bar, I walk up beside Geralt, watching him down his own drink. He appears disgruntled. It makes my nostrils flare in amusment.

"Idle flirting amidst pathetic conversation," he notes, eyes on his cup, "I'd say I'm disappointed in the Targaryen, but I don't think that's anymore possible, since he's got about as much prowess as the dirt underneath my boot."

I chuckle as I turn to the bartender, beckoning her by raising my two cups, "a fitting analogy, don't you think?" I turn to my slumped brother, "you cannot seem to get the crust off your soles."

"My blades usually help," he grunts, golden eyes staring at me.

I huff, slapping my hand on his shoulder, "take heart. Our conversation will not last any longer."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing his cup, "does he know that?"

I offer coin to the bartender, telling her I'm paying for Geralt's drink as well. She smiles back at me, then nibbles at her lips at the sight of my brother, who was too caught up with his drink to even notice. I turn away from her when her lips part at the sight of Geralt's throat, dripping with ale, Adam's apple bobbing as he finishes the last of his ale.

I shudder, grabbing my drinks, "maybe you should have tried not to listen to our conversation."

He grumbles wiping his lips, "trust me, I did not want to hear that flying lizard talk about wifing you-" he cuts himself off with a retch-like burp.

I eye the bartender, still ogling my brother, "take care of him."

She turns to me stunned, as if not realizing I was still here.

"Took you long enough," Daemon blurts, leaning on his chair, "did your brother give you a hard time over me?"

I set the cups before him and sit back in my place spot, "if you are so curious of my brother's words, mayhap you have been conversing with the wrong twin."

"Gods," he starts, grabbing the refilled cup, "I would rather die than converse with that dull creature."

I break into a giggle, just as I hear Geralt chuckle darkly from his place. I sigh, rubbing the cup in my hand, "I'm sure my brother would love to arrange that."

Daemon keeps his eyes fixed on me as he drinks. When he props the cup down, I do not hear, or rather, I do not listen to his next words, as I feel a viseral tingle. I straighten up from my chair, looking out the window behind Daemon, looking across the tavern, before ultimately my gaze lands on my brother who was already looking back at me.

The prince watches me, turning to where I my sights were, then back to me, "is something a matter?"

"Someone is looking for you," I mutter, turning back to him. I narrow my eyes at him as I lean in, "are you on the run, prince?"

Daemon is stoic, but I feel his nerves.

All at once, Geralt is upon us, hand on his hilt, annoyance on his face, "times up," he grabs my arm, "I knew this was a bad idea."

Daemon eyes him as Geralt continues, "if you have any further grievances, your grace, I suggest you sort out the ones with your search party first."

Daemon watches as I stand.

I turn to Geralt, who gives me a dark look. I look back at Daemon, who seemed to have stiffened upon hearing my brother's words. I give him a nod, "I trust everything is sorted between us, my prince. May the gods bless you with good fortune in your endeavors."

Geralt releases me as we turn from Daemon. However, we both still when he calls out, "I'll hire you."

I raise a brow as I turn back to him. Geralt's face sours as Daemon stands, "needn't I only toss a coin to a Witcher?"

"Not interested," Geralt hisses.

Just then, a man bursts into the tavern, muddy, bloody, and distraught, "IS THERE A WITCHER HERE?"

I raise my hand up as Geralt turns. He takes in his bewildered expression before calling out, "here."

#daemon targaryen #daemon fanfic #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x you #witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfic #geralt fanfic #geralt fluff #the witcher fluff #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #house of the dragon x the witcher #hotd x witcher

[cas-kingdom]

PLS. GERALT TEACHING AKELA TO ICE SKATE 😩

Find the OC version of this fic here.

The air had been cold all morning, but somehow it was more so as you looked out across the frozen lake. Giggles carried towards you by the wind, soft laughter and teasing remarks from Ciri as she taught Yennefer to ice skate. One part of you longed to go and join them, but the other—

"Y/N."

You glanced over your shoulder. Geralt leant against the axe he'd been cutting wood with. His head tilted, one hand at his hip, he offered a knowing smile. "You can join them, you know."

He had already told you as such, so he knew you knew. Nonetheless, stubbornness ran through your veins like blood, and when your mind was set on something, it was set in stone. Though, Geralt had always considered himself adept at breaking that stone. He had an axe now, after all.

You sniffed and brushed your hair behind your ears, a useless act considering the winter breeze. You turned back to the lake and watched as Yennefer yelled out and slipped, grabbing onto Ciri with a flurry of giggles.

You were long over your aversion to the princess's relationship with Geralt, but this...feeling you had towards Ciri and Yennefer was unfamiliar and unanticipated. The two were obviously close. Ciri seemed to have that effect on people.

"No," you said eventually, "it's alright. Ciri has my skates, anyway."

Geralt shrugged. He dropped the axe and walked towards the lake. "We don't need skates. Come." He stopped by the bank and reached a hand behind him expectantly. When you didn't grasp it, he turned to see you stood in the same spot, unblinking. Geralt dropped his arm and sighed. "Y/N, you love to skate. Come here."

You didn't vocally decide not to listen, but Geralt was well versed in the behaviour of the girl he'd raised. When you crossed your arms over your chest, not defiantly, more unwillingly, he dropped his arm and let a small smile slip onto his face.

"You remember when I first taught you to skate?" he asked, stepping one foot on the lake. He tested it, his boot slipping easily across the smooth surface. "You were four."

You couldn't help but breathe a short laugh. "You mean I taught you."

The Witcher stepped onto the lake, using his arms for balance. He skidded a bit, then turned to face you. "I slipped over once," he reminded you.

"And used four-year-old me to keep you up."

Geralt hummed morosely. Admittedly, that had not been his finest moment. Still. He reached his arm out again and opened his hand. "If you are so good, come and prove it."

There was no hint of competitiveness in his voice, just a discreet encouragement, and you took it with a long sigh and a reluctant smile, trudging over to him and taking his hand. He helped you onto the lake, allowing you to grip his sleeve as you found your footing, and noted fondly that said grip did not slacken even as you both slid slowly along the outskirts of the lake.

Ciri and Yennefer were still far out in the middle, slipping and tripping and laughing until their hearts' content. Somehow, Geralt doubted you wanted to be close to them right now, and not because of your refusal to leave the safety of the lake's edge. He wouldn't discuss it with you until he felt you needed it. He had an idea of what was bothering you, but as long as it wasn't dispiriting you as much as it had when your disapproval had surrounded him, he was sure it would fix itself.

You let go of his sleeve eventually, eyes fixed on the ice as you slid along it. Geralt turned so he was gliding backwards, hands at the ready in case his apparently oh-so-professional child needed some support. You were determined, though, your lack of skates doing nothing to thwart you, and Geralt felt himself relaxing and enjoying the—

"Oh, fuck." The moment he took a single wrong step, everything went to shit. Balance long forgotten, Geralt went into panic mode, arms pinwheeling, feet fighting for traction. You panicked too at first, instinctively attempting to launch forward to catch him lest he fall straight forward, but when you figured out he was in no imminent danger, you straightened with a snort.

"Geralt, you—Geralt—Geralt, you're making it worse!" Your words arrived between barrels of laughter as Geralt continued in the reclamation of his balance. He looked like a newborn deer, its long legs unused to the ground beneath it. You had tears in your eyes and when a burst of hysterics echoed across the lake, you realised Ciri and Yennefer had noticed the spectacle too.

Your laughter died when Geralt did indeed fall forward, though from the look on his face you were sure it was purposeful. Before you could utter a single squeal of anticipation, he lunged towards you, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you down beneath him as he fell. His hands went behind your head to shield the impact but the wind was knocked from you all the same, even more so when the Witcher's tickling hands found your sides.

"Hey!" You could feel the laughter-induced tears on your cheeks freezing, the harsh wind almost as cold as the ice beneath you. Geralt made quick work of boxing you between his arms, poking and prodding and scribbling his fingers across every spot he knew you possessed.

"You may be better than me at ice skating," he ground out breathlessly, "but here is something I will always best you at."

"Stop ihit, you bihig lump!" You pushed at his face and Geralt grunted with his newly blocked vision. Seconds later, a heavy force ploughed into his back and he was knocked off course.

"Attack!" Ciri yelled. She grabbed piles of snow from the bank and shoved as much as her hands would allow down his jacket.

Geralt howled. "Fucking fuck, Cirilla!"

Yennefer leaned down and extended an arm towards you, still on your back and struggling for breath. You hesitated but took it. You stood up slowly, slipping once or twice, but made it safely into Yennefer’s arms. Yennefer held you close, a grin on her face as she watched the princess and the Witcher wrestle, and you found yourself leaning into her. Yennefer leant her chin on your head, and you relaxed. As always, there was never a need to worry.

Your family was too tight-knit to ever leave anyone out.

Witcher Masterpost

#the witcher #witcher #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt x reader #Geralt of rivia x reader #Ciri #princess cirilla #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x reader #Ciri x reader #Geralt x yennefer #Geralt x Ciri #reader #reader fic #daughter reader #daughter!reader #mine #ticklish reader #ticklish!reader

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 17

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 16 🟣 Part 18

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of blood, biting, angst. Girl-gossip shenanigans.

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: I'm very sorry, @deandoesthingstome, but this chapter is exactly what you hate most 😂😂 That said... We need some girl-gossip up in this bitch. Enjoy!

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @mis-lil-red @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld

“Hey, is that Professor Holmes?”

You followed Katie’s gaze to the side only to find that she was right: Sherlock was indeed in the cafeteria of your building, and he was walking towards the table where you and your friends were sitting. “It is,” you answered plainly.

“God, it’s a shame he’s no longer teaching here… I’d almost switch schools to take one of his classes, and that’s just because of that face.” Rose sighed.

Her remark made you chuckle. “You know he’s a vampire, right?” you noted amusedly. “He can hear you.”

Closer inspection of Sherlock’s face showed no sign that he had indeed heard what Rose had said, but there simply was no other option.

“Who cares, I bet the man knows he’s a whole damn meal,” Jenelle helpfully added.

“Mmm, fine dining,” Rose chuckled. “Aren’t you supposed to be a lesbian, J?”

“I have eyes,” Jenelle deadpanned.

“You guys,” you hissed angrily. The whole conversation was making you incredibly uncomfortable. You lived with Sherlock, for crying out loud. You were… involved with him.

His soft chuckle sounded behind you as a strong arm reached around you to put something on the table — a book. “Mike said you needed this,” he said kindly, “and I had an appointment on campus, anyway.” The fact that he skipped out on your usual ‘darling’ left you a little deflated. Of course, you’d never taken the time to discuss if you would take your slightly unorthodox relationship public…

“Oh, really?” you answered, trying hard to keep your nervousness out of your voice. “What kind of appointment?”

“I’m assisting in another plagiarism case,” he answered. “The school was able to replace me as a professor, but my other talents are significantly harder to come by.” His hand landed on your shoulder for hardly more than a second, and then it was gone again. “I will see you tonight, right? August is making pasta.”

“Yeah,” you said softly.

When Sherlock turned around to walk away, it stung. You wanted to hug him, instead of hiding your relationship — although you hadn’t actually ever defined what that relationship was, exactly. One look around the table at your friends told you they already knew there was something going on.

“Seriously?” Katie snapped when Sherlock had disappeared from the cafeteria. “You are cheating on Mike?”

Shit. Of course, you had considered that explaining your situation would be tough, but you hadn’t counted on Katie going full Queen of Judgement.

“I’m not…”

“Save it, bitch,” she hissed. “How could you? Mike is so cute and…”

“Katie, shut up,” you snapped. “I’m not cheating. Mike knows, he’s… he’s okay with it. And it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how, girl?” Jenelle asked, sounding a lot more calm than Katie.

“Alright,” you sighed, “can this stay between us?” The three nodded. We’re you really doing this? Jenelle worked at the Bank, she’d have no problems with this, but Katie… She grew up about as sheltered as you had, and your best guess was that her family wasn’t exactly more forgiving on the vampire stuff.

“I’m a natural,” you blurted out before you could talk yourself out of coming clean to your friends.

“Luxury vampire food, you mean?” Rose said, her eyes wide. “Girl, you can make a killing off that!”

“How would you know?” Katie asked, disdain very clear in her voice.

“Oh, don’t be a hick about it. My sister is one. She’s making fucking bank at some club downtown. She could probably het you an inter— oh my God!”

“What?” Jenelle asked. You didn’t respond.

“You’ve been paying for lunch, not as worried about your student loans… You are making money!” It was impossible to interject, because Rose and Jenelle started to chatter excitedly while the look of disbelief on Katie’s face only grew stronger.

And then she snapped.

“You’re some filthy fucking blood whore?” Right, there it was. She didn’t even wait for an answer — not that anything you could have told her would have calmed her down, because you were, by any definition of the word, a blood whore. Somehow, it stung a lot more now that Katie said it than it had when August had mentioned it.

“Katie, seriously?” Jenelle scoffed. “You know I feed vamps for a living, too, right?”

As she said it, Katie turned pale. “I didn’t,” she muttered quietly, and she began to gather her stuff. “I have to go.”

When she rushed out of the cafeteria, Rose and Jenelle looked at each other, and then at you.

“I guess her family values don’t quite line up with city life,” Rose said.

“With normal life, you mean?” Jenelle sneered, clearly not upset by what had just happened.

“Hey,” you replied, “take it easy, she’s…”

“A bitch, girl.” Rose rolled her eyes. “I know she’s a lot like you, and I know you bonded over leaving your small-town family behind and everything, but even you have to admit that you did a way better job adjusting than she ever did. She honest to God didn’t even try.”

You knew she was right, but it still felt wrong to talk about someone you’d considered one of your closest friends like this. Especially when she was being accused of being what you were, too: A small-town girl.

Then again, they weren’t wrong in saying you’d come a long way since then. In fact, you were absolutely certain that your parents would die of shock when they found out about your arrangement with your roommates. Actually, you were pretty sure they’d already keel over if they only heard you were living with four guys, regardless of whether or not they were vampires.

They also weren’t wrong in saying that Katie hadn’t exactly made the steps you had. Quite the contrary, if you had to admit it.

You sighed.

“Girl, tell us more,” Jenelle said, putting her hand on your arm and squeezing you lightly. “I take it there’s an arrangement of sorts with these hottie-hot-hot roommates of yours?”

“Up to and including Professor McDreamy?” Rose sighed, the look in her eyes revealing she’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.

You nodded. “Yep. I never thought it would be this intimate, though…”

“We’re ditching this lecture, aren’t we?” Rose asked, looking at Jenelle, who nodded.

“Girl we’re out of here. Come on.”

“Hold on, so you slept with Pornstache? I mean… Augustus, was it?”

“August,” you corrected Jenelle, “and… I mean it’s only happened once so far.”

“And the cop?” Rose butted in.

“Not yet…” Why were you having this conversation again?

“And the pretty professor?” Jenelle asked. You’d been wondering about that, actually. Because the truth, which you also told your friends, was, of course, that you and Sherlock hadn’t had sex, even though you spent the occasional night in his bed.

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to bring it up? He seems like that kind of guy,” Jenelle said when you had finished the story of your first kiss — leaving out the part about Mike running off for now — and the nights you had spent together.

“J, we don’t know him,” Rose laughed.

“No, she’s right. He’s that kind of guy. So sweet, so considerate… Very insistent I take my supplements.” The quizzical looks on your friends’ saves made you laugh. “He can tell when I need vitamins. As in… he can taste it. So he makes sure I take what I need… it’s…”

“God, I want someone to take care of me like that…” Rose sighed. Jenelle agreed with her.

You had to admit; it was nice to have someone look after you. And you had four someones, even.

“But like, Mike was okay with all that?” Jenelle asked, and you knew your hopes of leaving out the part about him running off were shattered.

The story left Jenelle and Rose speechless for a moment, and then Rose laughed. “Christ, he's adorable,” she snickered, “I feel so bad for him. No, really…”

“Oh, the impact that remark would make if you weren't cackling like a crazy witch,” Jenelle said.

“I'm sorry, it's just… On brand for him, somehow? Does that make sense?” It did. It really did.

“August would say that it's because Mike is just a baby,” you blurted out before you were able to really think it through.

“Yeah, wait, how old are these guys?” Of course Jenelle asked the question you'd been dreading.

“Eh… Mike was born in the sixties, if I recall correctly. August and Marshall are four hundred years old, give or take, and Sherlock just under nine hundred years.” Was it just you or was it hot in here all of a sudden?

“Hm…” Yeah. Hmm. That sounded about right — you hadn't really worked out how to deal with that information yet, either.

“How old were they when they were turned?” Rose asked, making you instantly worried about something you had somehow failed to consider at all.

“God… I don't even know,” you muttered.

“You never asked?” Jenelle couldn't wrap her head around that. “How could you not ask?”

“It didn't really matter…”

“It doesn't matter,” Rose said matter-of-factly, “but I still want to know.” Ah. Rose's curiosity was the bane of your existence from time to time — and the reason for some of the better conversations you'd had with her.

“Mike was in his early twenties, I believe. And I'm guessing Sherlock and August are in their late thirties, early forties. Marshall… Mid-thirties, I think? I honestly don't know!” And you cursed yourself for it.

“It doesn't really matter. Their legal documents have their original birthdates on them, anyway,” Jenelle pointed out. “I used to work the desk at the Bank before I decided to give feeding a shot.”

“I know Sherlock doesn't have one. His driver’s license says ‘ADB’,” you remembered. Rose gave you a questioning look.

“Approximate date of birth,” Jenelle explained, although that didn't seem to make it much clearer.

“Legislation changed so many times during his life, and he's had to hide and lie about his age and pretend to be human and whatnot… He genuinely doesn't remember when he was born, exactly,” you clarified.

“Years and days are often just an estimate, even if you only go back about a century,” Jenelle added.

“It sounds horrible to not know when you were born,” Rose said quietly, a worried look on her face.

“I know the guys don't mind much… They're mostly glad they can feed legally,” you muttered.

“They must be really happy they ran into you,” Jenelle said with a wink. “I hear these arrangements are kinda rare, like… people pay top dollar to be a part of one.”

There was a question somewhere in that statement, and it was easy enough to tell what it was, exactly; what's the deal?

“Yeah…” You hesitated. You'd barely come to terms with the agreement yourself. Sharing it was something else entirely.

“You know you can trust us, right?” Rose said. She was at least as curious as Jenelle.

“Yeah, it's just… It's a lot, okay? Basically I don't pay rent and utilities, and I get… let's call it an allowance. Please don't make me tell you how much that is. It's basically a very generous grocery budget, that's all I'm gonna say about that.”

Your cheeks were burning and you couldn't keep your hands from trembling as you waited for your friends' reactions to what you'd just told them.

They were silent for a beat, and then Rose squealed. “Girl, oh my God, that's amazing! I'm so happy for you!”

She meant it — as did Jenelle, who furiously nodded in agreement of what Rose had just said.

“Truth be told,” you said. Now that you were fessing up anyway, there was something you had to get off your chest. “I'd do it for free.”

“No way,” Jenelle said, “I've had shifts where the drip — like, the painkiller chemicals — didn't take well, and I swear I wanted to die after the third or so client.”

“But you're not a natural,” Rose replied. “My sister told me it feels good.”

“Oh, it does,” you blurted out, “it really does. They could feed on me all day and I'd be so perfectly happy! Mike even…” No. That was… It wasn't that you'd never shared any intimate details about your sex life with Rose and J, but this…

“Mike even what?” The girls said in unison, and you wished you could disappear.

“God, alright, eh… He likes to drag it out.” You shrugged. As far as you were concerned, that was plenty of information for them. They disagreed.

“Bitch, I sw-"

“Alright, alright,” you shushed Rose, who seemed to calm down — but looks can be deceiving, especially in very tiny, copper-curled physics students. As far as you'd experienced, at least.

“Mike one hundred percent feeds during sex,” Jenelle said indifferently. You hated how spot-on she was.

“Yup,” you said. “And remember how fond he is of, eh…”

“Boobies,” Jenelle sighed — it was just about the only trait she and Mike had in common. “Wait…” She snapped her head in your direction, her eyes wide. “You mean he… Really?”

Why did this even surprise her?

“Oh, that adorable little freak,” Rose chuckled.

“Never tell him — or anyone else — that I told you this!” you said, mild panic clear in your voice. “Swear on your life!”

“Jeez, chill!” Jenelle snorted. “Like we'd ever do that? Ain't none of my business that he wants to suck on your tits.”

“What does that feel like?” Rose asked. How would you even begin to explain that?

Despite being unsure you'd be able to do it justice, you decided to give it a shot, anyway. You’d made it too far into this conversation to back down now. Besides, it was nice to finally be able to talk about this with your closest friends. Minus Katie — which was probably for the best.

“The feeding itself already feels like a warm bath… I mean, the bite is more sensitive, but other than that, it's pretty much the same. It's his reaction that makes it so good. A few nights ago he got so snuggly — he'd had a rough day and he was very hyper and all over the place, but as soon as he was curled up next to me, he calmed down.” You could tell from the look on her face that Jenelle had a hard time picturing Mike in any kind of way that could be described as calm. “Really! And he has this gift…”

“I can't believe we never asked you about that!” Rose interrupted. “Do they all have one?”

“They do. I'll get to that, okay?” you promised before continuing: “Anyway, Mike has this gift. He senses desires.” Rose's eyes went wide for just a moment, but you happened to catch it. “What?”

“Okay so, hypothetically, if at some point I thought about…” It didn't take a genius to figure out where this was going.

“Yeah. There’s a very good chance he caught that. Marshall is worse, though. He straight-up reads minds.”

Rose stared at you wide-eyed. “Well, it’s good to know I can never show my face at your place again.”

“Eh, you're fine,” you said. “A-ny-way, they warned me that after a while, there was a chance they'd kind of ‘share’ those gifts with me while they were feeding, meaning I get to feel what Mike desires, and… It went beyond wanting. He needed me. It was…” A single tear rolled down your cheek, taking you by surprise. “I love him so much.”

Jenelle wrapped her arms around your neck and pulled you close. “Girl, quit playin'. You love all of them, it's so obvious, seriously.”

“I really do,” you sighed. “This whole thing feels like home. It feels like forever.”

“But babe, you're not going to be around forever,” Rose said carefully. The thought had crossed your mind before, and every time it did, it made you feel queasy.

“You know,” you whispered, “I’m not so sure about that.”

#mike hellraiser fic #mike hellraiser #mike (hellraiser) #hellraiser mike #mike hellraiser fanfiction #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill characters #walter marshall #hc sherlock #henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #august walker #august walker fanfiction #natural fic #naturalfic #mike hellraiser smut #mike x reader #hellraiser mike x reader

[thetriumphantpanda]

Stolen | Marcus Pike (Day Two)

Series Summary | A week on from the biggest museum theft in history, you find yourself shipped to D.C. to track down the most important British archaeological artefacts, stolen from right under your nose. You didn’t plan on Special Agent Marcus Pike getting under your skin in the process. Special Agent Marcus Pike didn’t plan on falling for you either.

Chapter Summary | You fall into a quick routine whilst the hunt for your artefacts is ongoing. Marcus makes good on his promise of the best Italian food outside of Italy as a way for you both to forget your daily stress for a moment.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Archaeologist/Curator F!Reader 

Word Count | 4.9k 

Warnings | Marcus and reader shamelessly flirting with each other, mentions of food and alcohol consumption but nothing much else right now.

Authors Note | Day two with Marcus and this is... not my best. I think because the pacing on this fic is so different to anything I've done previously, I'm not confident that I'm not completely rushing things but here we are! I hope you enjoy it and if you do, please consider dropping me a comment, reblogging or heading into my ask box to share the love! If you're interested in being added to the taglist for this or for any of my other work, please check this post on how to do that! And as usual, a HUGE thank you to @morning-star-joyfor beta-ing this huge chapter and generally just HYPING ME UP. ILY.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You groan at the incessant chiming of your alarm. There is no way that it is already time to be awake. You roll over and through blurry eyes manage to turn the alarm off, rolling onto your back to let your eyes adjust to the soft morning light drifting in through the curtains. 

Rubbing the last of the sleep from your eyes, you pick up your phone, opening it to find your email app overflowing with unread emails from London. They were already five hours into their workday, and each and every email you opened was basically screaming at you for an update on the case. An update you had expressly told everyone wouldn’t come until later in their afternoon. You sigh as you push yourself up in bed, dialing Mark’s number before you can think about what you’re doing. 

“Jones, good to hear from you,” You can hear the familiar background noise of the office behind him, “How’re things over there?” 

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, “Fine, I guess, would be even better if you could get everyone off my ass looking for updates though.” 

“I’m sorry Jones,” He sighs down the phone, “I really am trying, but I’m sure you can understand that everyone here is on edge right now.” 

You sigh again, “I know, it’s not your fault, hopefully I’ll have something to update you with when I call you later on,” You shift on the bed and push yourself up, padding over to the window to draw the curtains, “How’s Geralt?” 

“Geralt’s fine,” Mark chuckles, referring to your dog that he had agreed to look after whilst you’re away, “He’s got a taste for roast chicken now, Miranda cooked him one especially as a treat.” 

“If you spoil him too much, you’re paying for the roast chicken I’m going to have to feed him when I come back, you understand.” 

“Loud and clear Jones,” You can hear someone trying to talk to him on the other end of the phone, “Listen, I’ve got to bounce, but I’ll speak to you later, alright?” 

“Alright, have a good day.” 

“You too Jones,” He finishes, “Go get ‘em.” 

You’re in and out of the shower in record time that morning, cleaning the rest of the jetlag from your skin, swiping on some mascara and painting on your foundation and concealer to cover the pretty large circles around your eyes from sleep deprivation. You’re shrugging on your blazer when there’s a knock at your door.

“Morning, boss,” It’s Lizzie, “Car should be downstairs in ten.” 

“I’m ready,” You mumble, letting her hold the door open whilst you grab your laptop bag and your handbag, checking you’ve got everything before closing the door, “Sorry about last night, I slept for longer than I thought I would.” 

“That’s alright,” She smiles, pressing the button for the elevator, “I managed to entertain myself.” 

There’s a smirk on her face that has you smiling too, “What did you get up to?” You tease, nudging her with your elbow. 

“I just went for dinner,” She unlocks her phone and opens up Tinder, “American men love British women,” She winks, “I met Tod, who took me to the fanciest steakhouse in D.C., paid for my dinner and then blocked me when I told him I wasn’t interested in sleeping with him,” She’s scrolling through her messages to make a point, most of them unread, “Who do you think I should go for tonight?” She’s stepping into the elevator, you’re close on her heels, “David looks nice,” She opens his profile and scrolls through his photos so you can see, before she’s going back to his message, “He seems to think I’ll like a seafood restaurant around the corner from here.” 

You’re both laughing by the time the elevator reaches the lobby, Lizzie pressing send on a message to David, letting him know when and where to meet her, “What about you?” She asks, “Don’t tell me you managed to sleep all the way through to this morning?” 

You shake your head as your heels clip through the lobby, “There’s a great diner just around the corner,” You shrug, “Marcus showed me.” 

Lizzie looks up at you with telling eyes and a smirk on her lips, “Did he now?” 

“Shut up,” You chide, “It was kind of weird to be honest, phones me to ask if he’d upset me and then takes me for pancakes at nine in the evening.” 

“I can’t blame him,” Lizzie shrugs, “You did look like you were about to slap him yesterday.” 

“That’s because he chooses to ask the old white man the questions automatically, instead of me.” 

“Come on Jones,” She’s speaking as she rounds the car that was sent for you, slipping into the backseat next to you, “That’s because Pete works for the police, it’s his job to know the answer to those questions, you can’t blame the poor man for that.” 

“Well, don’t go getting any ideas,” You warn her as the car starts slipping through the city, “It was a one-time thing, just so I had somewhere to go on my own.” You know it’s a lie. You can already taste the pasta and the wine he’d promised you this evening, but Lizzie didn’t need to know that. 

“I knew you agreed with me,” She speaks after a few minutes of silence, just as the car is pulling in to drop you off, she senses your confusion, “When I said he was cute!”

You groan as you both reach for your things and start walking into the building, “I do not think he’s cute.” 

“The blush on your face would suggest otherwise,” She teases, shoving her own bag into the airport style security scanner to be checked, “You never go for dinner for anyone, not even at home, you definitely think he’s cute.” 

“We’re shelving this conversation right now.” You demand, following her actions of setting your things down and heading through the scanners.

Once the security detail is satisfied neither of you are terrorist’s about to blow the place to the ground, they let you through and its only moments until you’re back in the office from yesterday. There’s a similar buzz about the place, people tapping away on computers and walking around with files. You can already see Marcus and his partner sitting in the meeting room with Pete, talking and laughing with each other, which makes your blood boil. You hope they aren’t talking about the case. 

You march over, Lizzie having to run to keep up with you, knocking twice on the glass before you enter. Their conversation goes silent, only adding to your suspicions that they were in fact discussing the case without you. 

“Good morning,” Marcus stands to greet you, “Sleep okay?” 

“I slept fine, thank you,” You reply is curt as you sit down, “I trust you’ve got an update for us?” 

He’s still standing, and his partner is looking up at him with a jovial look that you’ve seen in men before, and it infuriates you even more. Steven is looking at Marcus as if to say, ‘who does this girl think she is?’, flouncing into our office and demanding answers from us. You couldn’t give a fuck, you think, looking back at him, I didn’t make my career worrying about what silly men like you think. 

Marcus takes a deep breath and sits back down, opening up the folder on the table, “So, the good news is, Steven managed to track the gang from the airport,” He pushes some grainy CCTV stills across to you which you take, “We’ve tracked them from here to a warehouse on the edge of the city, but the issue is, in all of the footage, there’s no sign of them carrying anything, no bags, no boxes, nothing.” 

You throw your head back and groan in frustration, “That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?” 

Pete chuckles to the side of you, you shoot him a glare. It wasn’t meant to be funny; you fume silently. 

“Doesn’t mean your artefacts aren’t there,” Marcus reassures, “We see it often that they’ll ship these things separately so they can’t be caught with them, so we’re planning a raid on the warehouse to see if that is the case.” 

“Today?” You ask, optimism in your voice. 

“It’s a big operation, you’ll understand,” Steven speaks now, “It’ll take us some time to pull the right resources in so we’re aiming for tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Are you joking?” You scoff, “I’m sorry, but this is the biggest museum theft in history, of one of the most important British archaeological finds and you’re going to wait until tomorrow afternoon?” You turn to Pete now, hoping for some back up, “If this were the Met they’ve have raided it this morning, right Pete?” 

He looks like a deer caught in headlights, his stutters a little, “Well, I mean, we’d need some time to put things together.” Traitor. 

You take a deep breath in and push it out through your mouth to calm yourself, “Is there any way we can raid tomorrow morning?” You ask. 

This time it’s Marcus who speaks, “We know how important this is, not just to you, but for us as well, so let me see if I can pull some strings and get things moving a little quicker.” 

You nod in understanding, wondering whether he is in fact doing this for the greater good, or just to stay in your good books, “I appreciate that Marcus, thank you.” 

He nods, “No problem, let me head out and make some calls,” He turns to Steven, “Can you get the briefing document ready, just in case we can get things moved around.” 

Steven nods in understanding but you don’t miss the glare he shoots your way as he stands up to leave. What is his problem? Pete also stands to leave, mumbling something about updating headquarters back in London. 

“Is it okay if I stay here to dial into my call with everyone back home?” You ask Marcus, who is shuffling papers back into his file. 

“Sure thing,” He smiles, the warm smile you remember from last night, “Take your time,” He says, shutting the file and turning to Lizzie, “How about I show you where the coffee machine is, I’m sure you both need one.” 

You’re waving her out of the room as your other hand is pulling your laptop out of its bag, she knows how you take your coffee, you just pray that the creamer they use here instead of milk doesn’t make you sick. 

As soon as you dial into the call, you’re wishing you hadn’t. Wishing you could curl up into a ball and forgo all responsibilities. It’s times like this that you really missed fieldwork, sure digging up ancient skeletons could be emotionally taxing, but at least they never talked back to you or demanded why their stolen artefacts were still in fact stolen before they’d even greeted you a hello. 

“Good morning to you too,” You smile sweetly into the camera as soon as Hartwig has demanded his update, “I’ve got some good news, the team here have managed to pick up the gang exiting a flight here in D.C. and then making their way to a warehouse on the other side of the city.” 

“And is there any update on anything being found?” 

“They’re pulling a team together as we speak with the hopes of raiding it in the morning.” 

Hartwig looks bereft in his little square box on your screen, “Is there no way you can push for any earlier?” 

“I already did, they were going to wait until tomorrow afternoon, but Agent Pike is putting in some calls as we speak to get things moving more quickly,” You look up from your screen and you can see the aforementioned Agent Pike stood with Lizzie, who has two mugs of coffee in her hand, they look deep in conversation, when his eyes flit to yours you immediately look back down at your screen, “I’ll be heading out with the team tomorrow, hopefully as early as possible so I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got any news.” 

As soon as the pleasantries are over you slam the laptop shut and bury your face in your hands. God, you just wanted to be at home, on your sofa, with your dog and a cup of tea and all of this nonsense behind you. There’s a soft tap on the glass and you expect to see Lizzie, but it’s Marcus, two mugs of coffee in hand. 

“Lizzie asked me to bring you this,” He sets the mug down next to you, “She had some calls to make so she’ll meet you downstairs when you’re ready to head back.” 

You smile up at him, gripping the mug. You don’t look before you take a drink and yep, the creamer is far too much that it has you pulling a face, but you take another big drink, hoping the caffeine makes today a bit more bearable, “I needed that, thank you.” 

He’s perched himself on the table next to you, a safe distance away that it doesn’t seem inappropriate but close enough that if you wanted to, and you really did, you could put your hand on his thigh. Not this again, you chide your brain. It’s actually him that closes the gap though, reaching one of his hands to rest on yours which is on the table. 

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.” He says softly, clearly able to understand that this might just put you into an early grave with the stress you constantly feel through your body. 

You unconsciously turn your palm up on the table before you know what you’re doing and suddenly, you’re actually holding his hand. He doesn’t seem to mind, just squeezes your hand with his before letting it go. 

“Now, I know that a good bowl of pasta and a glass of wine will help,” He’s smiling, “I’ll pick you up at seven?” 

You nod with a smile that matches his own, “See you at seven, Agent Pike.” 

The rest of your day goes by in a blur. You spend most of it back at the hotel, replying to the myriad of emails you have to get through, all of which seem to be some kind of version of ‘I understand the magnitude of the situation, but myself and the team here in D.C. are doing our best.’. You take a nap in the early afternoon, supposing it’s one of the perks of everyone back home having logged off and gone home, and then soaked in a bubble bath, which did nothing to relieve the stress and tension from your shoulder blades. 

It's not until six that you realise you have absolutely nothing to wear to dinner this evening. Your suitcase either consisted of the suits you wore during the day to give you the confidence to tell off jumped up FBI agents how to do their job, or the comfy clothes you’d favoured when working in the field. Nothing you pulled out screamed ‘dinner at a nice Italian restaurant with the handsome man who should really remain a professional colleague but that you definitely wouldn’t mind kissing.’ 

You shake your head again at the intrusive thought. When was your brain going to catch up with the fact that even if you did kiss him, you were only here for a few weeks at best. You had to remind yourself of the last time you went too quickly with someone. It never ended well. 

Settling on your most casual pair of trousers and a knitted jumper, you sighed. This would have to do. You stuff the company card and your phone into your pocket and head down to the lobby. You’re thirty minutes early but there’s still an incessant vibrating coming from your pocket, indicating you’re still receiving a tirade of emails that will need to be dealt with. When you exit the elevator, you’re not expecting to find Marcus already sat waiting for you, typing on his phone in a way that makes you think he’s probably got the same amount of stress on his shoulders that you do. 

“You’re early,” Your voice makes him jump and you stifle a giggle at the way his phone nearly slips from his hand, “Tell me you’ve not been here for too long?” 

He looks at his watch, “Maybe a half hour?” 

“You turned up an hour early for dinner?” 

“You turned up half an hour early for dinner,” He counters, “I was just catching up with emails.” 

You take your phone out of your back pocket and flash the screen at him, Outlook notifications stacking up by the minute, “Looks like we’re both in the same boat then.” 

He moves closer to you, showing you his phone as he switches it off, “Go on, do the same.” He urges. 

“Marcus, I can’t…” You trail off. 

“Of course you can,” He shrugs, “Unless you were planning to ignore me for the entirety of dinner?” 

He has a point, even you would never dream of spending your evening ignoring this man in favour of your emails. You curse the smile appearing on your face but follow his lead, showing him the screen as you turn your own phone off and put it back into your pocket. 

“Good girl,” He praises, you think it must have been an unconscious choice of words because you’re both blushing as soon as it’s left his mouth, but you don’t complain, “Now come on,” He grabs hold of your hand and starts dragging you outside, “It’s time for the best tiramisu outside of Italy.” 

Marcus manages to hail a cab outside with ease and only let’s go of your hand when he leaves your side to circle the car and take the other seat, but not before opening the door for you to climb in. He makes polite conversation with the driver as he zips through the streets to drop you off at the restaurant. You smile as you look out of the window, he’s ticking one of the green flags you’ve always looked for in men back home, being polite to anyone doing you a service. God, this was bad news. 

The restaurant is a small, hole-in-the-wall, type establishment which has you excited. In your experience these were always some of the best places back home. Much like the waitress from the previous night, the waiter here greets Marcus with a firm handshake and a ‘welcome back’, you wonder if this man ever cooks his own food.

You’re sat at a table for two in the back corner, candlelight splaying across the table. There’s soft music playing in the background and starched napkins. Far too nice for a dinner with a colleague you think to yourself, but let it lie for now. He orders a bottle of white wine and when it arrives you must admit that this man knows his wine. 

“Fuck, I needed this,” You whine, taking a second sip, much bigger than the first, “Thank you, by the way, for getting everything moved up for us.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” He shrugs, something which you realise is one of his quirks that you enjoy, “I know how much stress you’re getting, so anything I can do to make things easier, I’ll do.” 

The waiter comes back to take your order. Marcus insists on sharing bruschetta to start with, you opt for a carbonara because it’s the only tried and true way you know to test an Italian restaurant’s caliber, Marcus goes for a risotto which you’ve already decided you’ll be stealing a forkful of. 

“So, considering this is two for two where the waiters have greeted you by name, do you know how to cook?” You tease over your glass of wine. 

He chuckles, “I do, but when I’m on my own it makes more sense to come out to eat, or order in.” 

“So, there’s no Mrs Marcus Pike then?” You watch closely as his face drops a little and you realise that you’ve probably fucked up, “I’m sorry, that was too personal, don’t feel like you have to answer that.” 

He takes a sip of his own wine and leans back in his chair, his way of creating space between the two of you, “There was, once, but we were young and stupid so it didn’t work out,” He takes a deep inhale now, “And then a failed engagement, she was actually meant to move here with me but decided there was someone else who was better for her.” 

You want to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, whilst his voice doesn’t give away his obvious disappointment in his failed relationships, his face certainly does. Gone is the usual smile, replaced with a frown and a furrowed brow. 

“I’m sorry Marcus,” You lean yourself back on your own chair, “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

He looks up at you and his features finally soften a little, “It’s fine, Jones,” He insists, “It’s part of who I am, the fact that I fall in love without really thinking about it, nothing to be ashamed of, just something to be careful of.” 

“Who told you that was my nickname?” You ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the misery it was sitting in currently. 

“Lizzie,” He takes a break to answer when the waiter puts down your appetizer, “That’s what she called you earlier when we were talking, you want me to call you something else, because I can if it makes you uncomfortable?” 

You shake your head, “No, it’s fine,” You reassure, “Didn’t know if that was another of your federal agent things, knowing my deepest secrets.” 

“If I knew that then I’d be able to answer why you’re here instead of out in the field,” He’s taking a bite of his food and then speaking before he’s finished, something that would normally drive you wild but is endearing here, “Makes sense though, Indiana Jones, world famous archaeologist.” 

“He’s actually a terrible archaeologist,” You speak once you’ve taken a bite of your food, “World famous, yes, but I’ve never seen that man write an archaeological report.”

Marcus actually throws his head back in laughter, which has you giggling too, when had things ever been this effortless with anyone? You think back to all the forced first dates back in London, where one finance man after another had bored you to death. It had never felt like this. 

“Point taken,” He says when he’s recovered, “So, what about you, no man missing you back in London?” 

“There is only one man in my life right now and that’s Geralt.” 

“I’m guessing Geralt isn’t your boyfriend?” 

“No,” You laugh, popping the last bite of your bruschetta into your mouth, “He’s my dog, I’d show you a picture, but you made me turn my phone off.” 

“Remind me to ask you tomorrow then,” He smiles over his glass of wine, “But no actual man, good to know.” 

“I guess jetting all over the world to find pieces of history wasn’t really conducive to anything long term,” You mirror his own shrug from earlier, “And the men in London are just shocking, so I’ve found it easier to be on my own.” 

“Never had the urge to settle down?” He asks as the waiter places your pasta in front of you. 

“Of course, especially when all of my friends are doing the same,” You swirl the spaghetti around your fork, “You and I have the same issue of falling too easily, tends to scare a lot of people off right?” 

You don’t miss how Marcus’ eyes are trained on you as you purse your lips perfectly in order to suck the end of the spaghetti through your lips, or how his eyes flit to your bottom lip when your tongue peeks out to lick the last of the sauce from it. There’s a sudden realization that you might actually have this man wrapped around your finger if you wanted it. 

“Hello?” You move your head down into his line of sight, “Earth to Marcus.” 

You watch as he does something like you do when you find your mind drifting, shaking his head and apologizing, “What did you say again?” 

“I said, falling too quickly is something we have in common and that it tends to scare people off.” 

“Right,” He scoops some of his food into his mouth finally, “That was my mistake last time, asking her to uproot her life to come and marry me after a few months.” 

“Her loss,” is all you respond with, “Lucky me though, I get to sit and have dinner with you by candlelight.” 

“Who say’s I wouldn’t have brought you here if I did have someone?” 

“Because this is totally a date,” You smirk, he raises an eyebrow, “Candle on the table, folded napkins, talking about our failed love lives, you brought me here on a date Marcus Pike.” 

“If the shoe fits,” He smiles, “You want this to be a date?” 

“Undecided.” You tease as the waiter clears your plates; Marcus asks him to bring you a slice of tiramisu to share before he leaves. 

There’s an air of tension as you sit and sip the last of your wine. The tone has definitely changed, and you don’t even really know why you’re doing it. You know nothing can really happen between the two of you. You know that in a few weeks you’re going to have to pack up your suitcase and go back to the mundane life of London. You know if you start something here, you’re probably going to fall in too deep and break your own heart, as well as his, when you leave. But when Marcus Pike is looking over the rim of his wine glass like he wants to devour you, you can’t really help yourself. 

The tiramisu is placed in the middle of the table but there’s only one spoon. He picks the spoon up and drags it through the corner of the dessert before putting it to his mouth. You watch as he drags the spoon back through his lips, stopping to run his tongue over the bit of cream he missed the first time. Then, he’s dragging the spoon back through it and leaning over the table slightly to bring it to your lips. 

You look at him through hooded lids, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out to catch the bottom of the spoon, before closing your lips around it as he pulls the spoon back out from your mouth. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat and this repeats until the whole dessert is finished. 

There’s a sense of haste when he asks for the bill and you throw down your company card to pay, much like you’d done the night before. Even when Marcus is gripping onto your wrist and dragging you outside, you wonder if your minds are thinking the same thing. For you, all you can think about when you’re back in a cab and going back to the hotel is that you want to kiss that delightfully plump bottom lip of his and run your fingers through his hair. 

He practically throws some dollar bills at the driver, mumbling to him to keep the change as he’s following you into the hotel, standing silently next to you whilst you press the button for the elevator. All you can think is that you wish he would make a move, touch you, whisper something in your ear, anything. When he steps inside the elevator with you, you’re finally thinking he might. 

“You’re getting in the elevator with me?” You ask, eyebrow raised as he steps in behind you. 

“Just making sure you get back safe.” 

“Marcus, my room is a two second walk from the lift.” 

“And I would be a terrible federal agent if I didn’t make sure you were safe for those two seconds.” 

The doors close behind you and you let out a silent prayer that you’re the only two in there. You rest your back on the wall as Marcus steps a little closer, “I’ve gotta give it to you, agent, that was the best date I’ve been on in a while.” 

He takes another step towards you, closing the gap so that his body is almost pressed to yours, “You just needed to fly across the pond to find the right man.” 

You tilt your head to the side a little, pushing yourself off the wall to close the final inches of air between the two of you. You can feel his arm wrap around the small of your back to steady you. You’re tilting your head up to meet his. You can see his glazed eyes staring down at you before they flutter shut, much like your own do in the next second. You can feel his breath fanning across your cheeks, his hand at your back pressing more firmly, bringing you even closer into his warmth. You’re almost certain that there is the faintest touch of his bottom lip to yours, but then there’s a ding of the elevator bell and the doors are opening. You hear Marcus groan in frustration, the moment entirely lost as he pulls his face from yours. 

“Guess I’ll have to wait to kiss you when you find my artefacts tomorrow,” You breathe, taking a step around him to exit the elevator, “Goodnight, Agent Pike.” You finish, just as the elevator doors start to close and he disappears. 

If only you could have heard the sigh of his reply as he leant his head against the wall of the elevator, “Goodnight, Jones.” 

Marcus Pike Taglist: @theviolethourdeux @yvonneeeee @dinsdjrn @morning-star-joy @cavillscurls @sinsofsummers @tightjeansjavi @cupofjoel @swiftispunk

#Pedro pascal #Marcus Pike #Marcus pike fic #Marcus pike fanfic #Marcus pike fanfiction #Marcus pike smut #Marcus pike fluff #marcus pike imagine #Marcus pike x you #Marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x female reader #Marcus pike x f!reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fic #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal

[whimsicalmeerkat]

First & Last Lines

I did this a million years ago. I just got reminded of it and thought it would be fun to do again. Basically, post the first and last lines of the last 10 fics you posted. WIPs are welcome. Not going with any sort of strict rules, because that’s just not how I roll. Anyway, here goes!

1. hope for the future, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale

First: As Derek flew back from his uncle's punch, he wondered just how he hadn't realized sooner that Peter was the alpha—that he was his alpha.

Last: He couldn't say he'd ever be be content with the past or that he was happy in the present, but for the first time in years he had hope for the future, and maybe that would be enough.

2. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Teen Wolf, multiple pairings

First: Derek leans his head back so he can stare at the star-studded tree canopy overhead and thinks, not for the first time, that he will never get tired of seeing Stiles’ magic.

Last: “Easy for you and Derek to say—you were both born like this and you took away my chance to get out of this life,” Scott rages back, the arrows hitting Stiles in his soft parts just like they have every time he’s hurled them over the years since Stiles got him turned into a werewolf.

3. 3 Sentence Ficathon 2024: Chosen One, macy blake’s chosen one universe, multiple pairings

First: “I just feels it lacks a certain gravitas,” Eduard says, tugging at the hem of the denim jacket he considers so ugly he wonders if some of his mates are pulling a prank on him until he turns around and sees all eight of them staring at him in a distinctly horny fashion.

Last: “Fucking lions—you’re lucky I love you.”

4. with lightning in his hands, teen wolf, derek hale/peter hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles stares at the ruins of the Hale house and reflects that he perhaps should have taken Deaton more seriously when he told him starting to practice magic would change how he saw the world.

Last: All they have to do is wait for him to come.

5. time travel, teen wolf, derek hale/laura hale

First: Derek bursts through the door of his little apartment in New York City, yelling for his sister.

Last: "It all started in seven days from now for you and five years ago for me."

6. telepathy, black jewels, daemon sadi/lucivar yaslana

First: She’s not trustworthy.

Last: They exited the room without opposition, knowing their point was made and would not be forgotten.

7. dusk, the witcher, emhry var emreis/geralt of rivia

First: Geralt stands on the balcony outside of Emhyr’s rooms and watches the day fade into dusk

Last: Geralt could get used to having a family.

8. Trading Up, teen wolf, derek hale/stiles stilinski

First: Stiles and his (maybe?) girlfriend are walking down Main Street after dinner, holding hands and looking in the shop windows

Last: “Damnit, I need to see if I have to do actual work. While I’m checking my email, you should try to guess why Lydia didn’t turn into a werewolf. You’ll never get it, but it will entertain you while you wait,” Stiles tells Derek, then turns his attention to his laptop.

9. candy, macy blake’s chosen one universe, victor eastaughffe/orsen riggs & gus

First: “Bear!” Gus shrieks from his seat at the table.

Last: “You may have gummy bears after dinner, Gus.”

10. drift, perilous courts by tavia lark, julien sandry/whisper

First: Julien watches Whisper in the sunlight.

Last: “We’ll make sure we win.”

Tags: @dear-massacre @jammerific @shadow-wasser @thotpuppy @lavender-lotion @mrs-steve-harrington @bad-at-names-and-faces @definitively-different-drivel

#tag game #fanfic #teen wolf #chosen one universe #macy blake #chosen one universe by macy blake #black jewels #black jewels by anne bishop #black jewels trilogy #the witcher #perilous courts #tavia lark #perilous courts by tavia lark #author:whimsicalmeerkat

[fangirleaconmigo]

Valdo Marx is like 99% fanon, is he not?

Valdo Marx is 99.999% fanon.

We only know that he is a troubadour from Cidaris who considers Jaskier to be "a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses.” We also known that the moment Jaskier gets his hands on a bottle he thinks has a djinn in it, he wishes for Valdo to die of apoplexy.

That’s all we know! So he is a fandom OC, really. Even more so than Aiden because at least we know *something* about Aiden (how he died and what kind of man he was)

So it’s basically another fun creative writing assignment. Who would Jaskier hate that much?! And why?!

And I know some fans are like…well obviously. Jaskier is a petty bitch. But I think that’s an oversimplification! To me personally, it is still extremely noteworthy! For three reasons.

1) Dandelion (talking books now but I do think this all applies to TWN Jaskier just as well) does not have the focus or attention span required to hold a grudge. I don’t remember the exact quote (I don’t have my books on me) but Geralt comments on it specifically.

2) He is predisposed to liking people and thinking the best of them. Geralt (understandably) has a much gloomier outlook on trust, life, and love.

3) Dandelion may be a bitch (I mean. He IS a bitch) but he also has a soft gooey center. He’s just like most witcher characters in that he has layers. Crunchy outside and smooth inside. So while he has a sharp tongue, he does also have a soft heart.

When Geralt breaks (redacted)‘s leg (ankle? I don’t remember) Dandelion screams as though it were his own. On the dragon hunt he begs Geralt not to kill the dragon because it’s “pretty”. He asks Geralt to bring Ciri to Toussaint so he can hug her. He changes the lyrics to his song about the elves in order to protect them.

He’s a petty bitch with a soft gooey center.

I mean, the Valdo thing is obviously supposed to be funny. Dandelion provides so much of the comic relief. It is very likely that we were never meant to think about it this deeply. But overthinking is what we do for fun, gatdamnit! 😂

I admit I haven’t done anything creative with Valdo in my fics but I love when other people do.

I’ve seen fics that make the conflict:

Just theater. They actually secretly like each other. This usually involves hilarity.

A concept where Valdo has a crush on Jaskier, but Jaskier misinterprets it as competitiveness and they start one-upping each other until it spirals out of control.

Unrequited love, on either side.

A concept where Valdo is actually Klaus from the Umbrella Academy time traveling and bringing all the pop songs from the future with him. He enrages Jaskier by how easily he shits out hits (that one was my concept bc I was just sitting there amusing myself after TUA S2)

Valdo is Jaskier with a mustache

The conflict stems from a misunderstanding or a very complicated ‘both of these people are traumatized” breakup. Both are in Oxenfurt and dealing with their own shit/trauma and manage to hurt each other without meaning to.

Fics where the history of it is very very dark. I’ve seen fics where Valdo is abusive. I’ve also seen deaddove dark!Jaskier fics where he is the abusive one.

Usually there is a romance there at some point to explain the intensity of the hatred, but not always. They can also be true enemies (Valdo has murdered or otherwise harmed someone Jaskier loves), or they can be related to each other, and sometimes both or all of the above lol.

Like. The range. I’ve seen Valdo as the perfect ‘hatesex’ candidate for short PWPs and longer Enemies to Lovers multichapters. I’ve seen Valdo as a convenient stand in character when you need a rival, to multichapter works of in depth character creation for him. Or he’s just there to provide Geralt with the motivation to confess his feelings.

So feel free to rb with your favorite Valdo fics, folks. There’s a lot of creativity out there. Not to brag on the fandom writers (but I’m going to brag on the fandom writers) they are a bunch of badasses.

#the witcher #jaskier #valdo marx #canon or fanon #witcher character meta

[bethdutten]

Could you possibly write something for Bucky/Frank/Geralt (whichever you feel fits) where the reader feels like they talk too much so they'll stop talking in the middle of a sentence, sometimes just won't talk for a day, and constantly asks if she's annoying?

I’ve been in a very Bucky mood lately so hope you like it!!

It wasn’t hard to be considered the most talkative in a group like this— Steve was always reserved, Natasha was a silent and observant presence, and Bucky, well. He wasn’t quite comfortable saying much yet.

But it wasn’t until Tony made a comment during dinner with everyone that you even noticed.

“At least we have someone to talk for the rest of you guys,” he’d smirked from across the table, pointing at you with his fork. “You always been like that?”

You blushed, taking a sip of your wine to hide your face. You cleared your throat, shrugging. “I, uh— didn’t really— I didn’t think I talked that much.”

“You don’t.”

The table all turned towards Bucky, utensils scraping against plates ceasing. He was picking at his food slowly, eyes down, seemingly oblivious to the pause in conversation.

Steve’s gaze shifted to you, giving you a sly smile as everyone else seemed to slowly go back to their meals.

You frowned, glancing over at Bucky, but he didn’t meet your eyes or say another word. The conversations felt a little forced after that.

Now you were more conscious of how much you talked.

When in meetings with the group, you’d catch yourself being the only one talking for awhile, and cut yourself off mid-sentence, giving a quick apology before you asked someone else a question so you wouldn’t be the only one talking.

You still forgot sometimes—you’d gone years without noticing, really—and would be laughing with Steve or ranting about a problem with Natasha before the fear would creep in again, and you’d have to ask, “Shit, I’m being annoying, aren’t I? I’ll shut up.”

You made it a point to just not talk at all some days; smile and nod at anyone who said anything to you, but those days made you realize even more that you did most of the talking.

No one seemed to really notice until one night you were sitting in the main living space, an old episode of Succession playing while you scrolled on your phone. You felt the couch dip beside you, and turned to find Bucky settling in with a blanket on his lap, giving you a shy smile as he threw a corner of it in your direction.

You thanked him quietly, burrowing into the soft fabric as you stared at the tv, not really seeing what was in front of your face.

“I miss your voice.”

You turned, the sudden comment by Bucky taking you by surprise. “What?”

He shrugged, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “You haven’t been talking much. You used to all the time. It was.. I dunno. Comforting.”

You felt the corner of your mouth lift, asking softly, “Yeah?”

He nodded, glancing at you and giving you a grin. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think anyone was really listening to what I said half the time.”

“I listen,” Bucky said earnestly, and you basked in the warmth and genuine acceptance you were feeling from him. You wondered how he was able to do that so easily, knowing not many people made an effort to make him feel that same way.

“I’d listen to you if wanted to talk,” you gently promised, but quickly added, “But I don’t mind if you don’t want to, either.”

Bucky bit his lip, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Would you want to, uh, maybe go to dinner sometime? We can… listen and talk.”

You laughed, the warm feeling in your chest only expanding. “I would really like that, Bucky.” The tenseness that seemed to always reside in his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned a bit more into the couch, a flash of the self-assured Bucky that sometimes comes through.

“Good. So, what is this show about?”

You explained the dynamic of the Roy family while Bucky cuddled closer, and if eventually you ended up dozing together with your head on his shoulder and his left arm curled around your side in comfortable silence, then you’ll just keep that moment to yourself.

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes request #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic

[cowboygenesis]

two: sign from the skies | geralt x reader

part 2 of the "threads of fate" series: masterlist.

pairing: geralt x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 4.4k

series summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

notes: here we go, chapter two! i want to add a lot more geralt-reader interactions from now on… i live for the tension. if you're disappointed with the lack of smut so far, please bear with me! i'm working on some smutty oneshots on the side if you're interested, to satiate all of us as this longer fic comes along.. enjoy x

The air was dewy and cold that morning. Geralt had woken up at dawn to the scent of musk, grass, and a sleek layer of moisture on his skin, cool and sensitive to the soft breeze nipping at his ears and cheeks. As promised, he had taken camp at the edge of the nearby woods; far enough to drown out the buzz of Posada’s rich nightlife, yet close enough to watch the churchbells swing rhythmically once the sun began to rise over the horizon.

“No trouble sleeping last night, Roach?” the man nodded towards his steed, earning a soft neigh. “Last night was peaceful. No sign of that creature the barmaid spoke of, or of anything else for that matter,”

Geralt’s eyebrows raised in agreement, stretching his torso against the rough bark of an oak tree. “Perhaps it only awakens for the foragers after all.”

He crouched down next to the remains of a crude, makeshift campfire. The heavy, weathered stones encircled a blackened pile of ash that housed a tiny, dying flame. The man hummed lowly, reaching his arms into a canvas sack as his fingers poked around the flailing mound of cloth, testing the textures and mounds of the treasures inside. Shining gold, glass potion vials, scraps of leather, and unread letters… finally, his index brushed against a smooth, waxy surface.

“Ah, so we’re not yet doomed.” he smiled coyly, picking out a small, luscious apple and bringing it up to the sunlight. The red skin glistened deliciously, and Geralt could almost feel the tart juices on his tongue.

Roach whined, hooves stomping precociously on the soft grass below. Her beady little eyes were bright, pleading, and Geralt chuckled softly at her reaction to such a delightful treat. With a flick, he tossed the apple towards her and watched as it rolled on the grass, finally making contact with her slender front leg.

“I know you’ll appreciate this more than I would,” he remarked with a nod, legs flexing to stand up once again. He grunted, metal clinging and slashing against his pauldrons while he swiftly fastened his gear. He adjusted the steel and silver swords in their holsters and finally fingered at his chest piece until a metallic wolf revealed its head from under his blouse.

“We can resupply in town, but if there is any truth to the talks of this beastie I might as well see what it’s about. Perhaps I’ll be in luck to find a rabbit or two while I’m at it.” Geralt mumbled, and his mare snorted in reply. Her snout lapped at the red apple in curiosity, tongue slowly flicking against the short stem before she made her first bite.

Geralt moved his gaze away from Posada’s rooftops and instead directed it at the lush forest behind. The treeline was thick, twisting and turning in the soft, white light of the morning sun. Considering their current location, these woods could span for dozens of kilometers with no habitable settlements in between, making the witcher’s next hunt more complex, or, at the very least, very time-consuming. He huffed at the thought, but with a full suit of armor now on, persevered ahead.

Geralt strolled in, boots squelching and creaking against the plush, moss-covered ground below his boots. As he made his way deeper into the pits of nature, the birdsong became sporadic. It dulled down to an occasional tweet, drowned out by the echoing volume of a cool wind weaving through the green and yellow leaves above. This breeze would grow in strength ever so often, tugging at thinner branches and whistling an eery melody into the morning dew.

When Geralt looked up again, the tree crowns had thickened to such a degree that the natural light struggled to pass through. Only singular, thin batches of light made their way through the thicket, beaming down on the earth below and illuminating the surface of a small stream. The clear waters had carved a small grove amongst the trees, allowing for a steady flow of life through the otherwise tranquil, idle surroundings.

There was a snap from behind. The man’s arm quickly tugged at the padded handle of his sword, half-unsheathed as his eyes narrowed. He scanned around, focused and unmoving while he confronted the perpetrator of chaos head-on.

Up ahead, just by a thick, decaying oak stump, stood an animal. Her tawny coat shone with a matted kind of luminance, a thick bristle dotted with milky spots and lines that trailed down her slender limbs. She raised her head, beady eyes looking into Geralt’s through a fan of black lashes. She chewed peacefully on a patch of green moss, nose glistening with a healthy sheen of moisture and no apparent desire to escape her pursuer.

Geralt readied his weapon, slowly letting it slide out of its protective casing as his right foot stepped up. The steel swished against leather, now gripped with two hands: mightily, purposefully. “Better than a rabbit,” he muttered under his heaving breaths.

The man advanced slowly, watching as the doe made peace with her fate. Her head stood still, jaw clenching and unclenching with the chew of her final meal.

Suddenly, another snap, from up ahead. The animal’s ears perked up, large head darting behind, then back forward. She looked at Geralt with glazed eyes and a wet nose. His legs tensed up. Then, she galloped away.

Her speed was unthinkable, furry body darting through the thicket while the witcher sprinted after her. The doe’s nubby tail twirled, hooves stomping on moss and soil before she made a final jump ahead, disappearing into a tall honeysuckle bush.

Geralt’s feet stuck in place, halting rapidly with a quickened breath as he examined the greenery. The blood in his ears was deafening, the birds and wind abruptly silenced. He readjusted his grip on the sword, sweat trickling down his forehead as steel slashed at the twigs ahead. With the self-made opening, he squeezed his body through the branches, feeling a sting as they tugged at his exposed skin. His eyes squinted at the sunlight pooling onto his face, stepping ahead cautiously with his blade leading the way.

He was in a small clearing. The glade was filled with an array of wildflowers and poppies, lined with sparse, decaying fencing and housing a small, swampy pond at the right-most edge of the valley, speckled with rounded stones and water reeds.

Ahead, down a decline, stood a wooden hut, its roof angled awkwardly, holding the four walls together in a matter of unbelievable asymmetry and heedlessness. The small, rectangular window perched on one of the sides had been covered with a decrepit plank, rotten and mossy from the test of harsh elements and time. Walking closer, Geralt realized the shack was completely uninhabited, and perhaps for a while at that.

Seeking an entrance, he strutted alongside the wall, gloved palms feeling the roughened, brittle surface of the wood. A small porch could be visible from just beyond another honeysuckle, this time easily traversable by foot.

He slumped down through the thicket, eyes squinting as he made it to the other side. The air felt stagnant. Geralt’s eyes trailed towards the porch, down the betrodden path, and towards the blinding red below.

The doe was dead. Her soft, white underbelly rested against the soil, tufts of fur stained a brilliant crimson that speckled her snout, ears, and backside. Her eyes looked the same as when she was alive, beady and lifeless. Geralt’s eyes trailed to the liquid pooling at her wound, eyes following her flank. Four deep gashes were carved into the tan bristle, cutting skin and muscle with apt precision. Geralt’s grip tightened.

He stepped away, circling the body cautiously. The porch fencing was tangled up in a mess of twine and ivy, and nestled within a cracked open entrance; an inconspicuous, wooden doorway with no knob or handle. Kicking away at stray vines, the witcher positioned himself against the entryway, shoulder-angled and tense. He breathed in, and out, and with a quick bodyslam, the door slung wide open.

The stench within was indescribable. Sour, earthy, and musky, with hints of myrrh and lavender, heavily lacing the atmosphere within. Singular streams of sunlight flooded into the hut through boarded-up windows, revealing constellations of dust particles dancing and swiveling through the air like stars.

The ceiling was adorned with bundles of dried herbs hanging by a thin twine, so dried up they had begun to flake off onto the floor in little piles.

Along the first wall stood a kitchen drawer, hanging out of its hinges and exposing the void within; the second wall was occupied by a bed, covered in hay and a small, child-sized quilt. Despite its visibly decrepit state, the textile was able to retain traces of handiwork: small, colorful stitches connected individual pieces of cloth, some of which bore tiny floral designs and some kind of animal iconography.

Geralt furrowed his eyebrows with a hum. He took another general glance around the room, licked his chapped lips, and adjusted his gaze to the flickering glimmer at the corner of his vision. He sheathed his sword and cautiously approached, eyes squinting at the object. He dropped his right knee, fingers reaching out to grab a crooked floorboard. As he pulled, the blackened wood crumbled between his fingers, the stench of mold unraveling under his nostrils.

The glimmer of light faded as his figure obscured the sunlight, the small compartment below the deck emanating with darkness. Geralt reached his hand down, feeling around the moist soil and cobwebs before his knuckles brushed against a hard spine.

A book, bound in a weathered skin of tan fur and leather. The cover was simple, unsigned, yet bearing a sizeable silver plate. The metal dipped into a shallow grove in the center, worn with scratches where the valley was deepest. His fingers sunk under the side of the cover, flipping through a few pages until the book lay flat on the ground.

The pages were yellowed, stained with dirt, grease, and herbal residue, but otherwise blank. Geralt flipped a few pages in bulk, but the paper held no writing. A few more, and still, nothing. Raising his arm, he bit at the loose fabric of his glove and with a grunt, removed it entirely. His hand hovered over the crease binding the book together, eyes closing. The exposed skin of his fingers reverberated, gently caressed by an unseeable force emanating from the paper.

“Magic,” he muttered, his hoarse voice cutting the silence of the cabin like a dulled knife. “Unreadable, perhaps purposefully locked away.”

His legs tensed against the dusty floor, smacking the book shut before he rose to his full height. A hum escaped his throat, echoing through his head as his eyes scanned the leather cover of this newly discovered artifact. If there was a sorcerer in town, he could try and decipher the pages. Hells, perhaps an alchemist could aid him.

With a cautious turn, Geralt turned towards the doorway. The outside light was beginning to fade, the cool tones of dawn melting into a soft warmth. He pushed at the rotted wood and walked out with two short strides, shutting the door behind him. The hinges creaked with the impact.

The air felt fresh. A gentle breeze carried through the small valley, kissing his eyelids as his gaze wandered to a splash of red—the dead doe.

He inhaled, circling a patch of moss until the tips of his boots grazed the animal’s fur. The pool of blood had spread since he last examined her, forming a shallow lake around his feet and sinking into the porous material. With a sharp exhale, he propped his arms under her stained belly. The exposed skin of his left hand dipped in the crimson liquid, letting it lap at his creased palm and sinking under the fingernails. Once his grip felt secure, he lifted with a soft grunt. The deer’s head sunk, lolling lifelessly in the air as Geralt threw the body over his shoulder. The doe felt light, so fragile she could break at any moment if his movements were to become brazen.

The witcher took one last look behind, the insides of the hut greeting him once again with a dark void. He hummed, turning away at the sensation brewing in his gut. His feet stomped across the soil, grunts filling the air as he adjusted to the extra weight on his side. The doe lay perfectly still upon his collarbone, her white tuft of a tail now motionless next to Geralt’s cheek.

Thick clouds had emerged on the azure backdrop above once the witcher had finally returned to his campsite. The sky pulsed in shades of blue and white, clusters of grey hanging with a suspicion of rain, perhaps a thunderstorm if his luck was really down that day.

Geralt had thrown the fresh carcass onto a flattened boulder, letting it sit a while as he re-sparked a fresh batch of coals for a campfire. The sleek, steel blade slid against his flint in jots of white and gold, the sound of slashing metal harmonizing with the sudden onset of distant grumbling. The sky began to darken, the distant clouds fat and ashen with moisture. Geralt hummed, striking the flint once more. Volatile sparks flew into the mound of dried lavender and sage piled amidst black coals.

Another roar in the atmosphere sent Roach into a manic spree, her hooves kicking spastically into the air, cries of fear filling the cool air.

“Easy, girl,” Geralt commanded, yet a gentleness laced his grave tone as a hand raised in the air, reaching towards the mare’s snout. Her snorts calmed, eyes scanning the man’s pale face in search of something familiar and comforting. He smiled. “Just a thunderstorm,” he reassured, “judging from the wind, it might be headed away from us.”

The warm glow of the growing flame lapped at Geralt’s knees, giving the two companions a tiny bubble of comforting illumination. He hummed, gripping the slender blade in his rough palm, and swiftly crawled towards the deer. Her body looked flaccid, restful almost, as she continued her eternal rest against the jagged surface of the flattened boulder.

His eyes shifted towards the horizon, hovering over the betrodden path and along the navy overskirt of a woman heading his direction. His eyebrows furrowed, the firm grip on his blade loosening as she approached with a bright smile plastered across her tired face.

“Geralt?” the girl called out, breaking into a fiddly sprint. Her movement was jagged and awkward, possibly inhibited by the size of her hand-me-down boots that croaked loudly, even at a distance.

“Geralt!” she affirmed, giddiness laced into her breathy voice as she placed a protective hand over the sizeable item in her other arm- a woven basket. She approached the man with a half-jog, eyes wide and bright.

“I… I looked around… everywhere for you,” she heaved, struggling to catch her breath. Her face was reddened and moist with sweat. “I remembered… I’m so glad you decided to stay!” she exclaimed with a kind smile, dusting off her apron. The material was off-white and stained with ale, but came alive with the addition of small beading and sewn decals at the seams. The colors were mismatched and varied, yet somehow brought the girl’s features out in just the right way.

“I took your job offer,” Geralt reminded her with a nod, hand hovering over the deer’s thick bristle. The girl’s eyes dropped at the gesture, her smile fading into a frown; not fearful or disgusted, simply upset.

“Poor girl,” she said quietly, kneeling with the basket perched upon her hip. She placed a nimble hand on the animal’s back, slowly trailing towards her belly. Her pinky grazed gently against Geralt’s, making her withdraw shakily. “Such beautiful animals.”

Geralt remained silent, watching the woman’s eyelashes brush her blushed cheeks as she studied the carcass with a profound fascination.

“I hope she didn’t suffer,” she added with a sharp inhale, hesitantly dragging her gaze away from the doe’s white belly. Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, deciding to stay silent. He didn’t know whether the doe suffered or not, and bringing that up to the woman felt fruitless at the moment.

“When I was little, I would try and count the spots on baby deer, the little white freckles. My mother told me every one of them meant a past lifetime. I think it was some sort of tradition she picked up from her own mother,” the woman continued, that same soft smile returning to her lips. Geralt maintained his composure, hands placed firmly against his knees as he watched the woman fidget nervously. Her nailbeds pressed into the coarse material of her apron, and Geralt scanned along the place where it met her corset. This one looked looser, clinging onto her waist a lot more comfortably than her tavern attire. She must have been taking a day off.

“Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to deal with my chattering this early in the morning. I hope you’re hungry, I brought you something as a ‘thank you’,” she chuckled dryly, giving him a grin as her hands reached into the basket. She dug around for a moment, one eye closed in concentration before she finally withdrew a large loaf of bread. Her other hand unraveled a checkered napkin, which she opted to spread by the campfire. She placed the bread on top, then dug out a small paper parcel and leather decanter. She passed the latter into Geralt’s hands, and he grabbed it haphazardly. “For helping us out,”

The tanned leather felt cool against his fingertips, rough around the seams and adorning a crimson-stained cork at the top.

“The deer was dead when I found it,” he muttered, twisting the flask open. The cork squealed at the pressure, revealing a strong aroma of tart cherries and foreign spices. He tilted the bottle and looked inside, catching a glimpse of the bright-red concoction that swirled in the soft light.

“What is this?” Geralt questioned with a sniff.

The girl’s eyebrows seemed to relax at the notion that the doe didn’t suffer at his own hands, despite that conclusion being far-fetched and faulty. Sparing her the details of the strange occurrence in the woods seemed like the wisest course of action, regardless.

“Black cherry wine,” she declared with a smile, “A traveling merchant was selling these in bulk at the market this morning, for real cheap too. I hope you like it, though the spices might not be to everyone’s taste, I find.”

Geralt placed the nozzle to his lips, taking a modest sip and letting the tangy liquid slosh along his palate. The initial sweetness of the cherry transformed into a mild burn of cinnamon and cloves, filling the witcher’s chest with a comforting warmth that radiated down the stomach and limbs.

“It’s good,” he commented ingeniously, earning a satisfied nod from the girl.

“Right? It’s not so bad,” she chuckled, hands hovering over the fat loaf of bread warming against the fire. Her fingertips pressed into the crisp skin, as she eyed the witcher’s blade. “I don’t drink so much anymore, but these fruity wines from Skellige are always worth the trouble. ‘Lush’, I think they call them, traditionally. Something about the method of preparation. May I?” she trailed, pointing at the man’s knife with a mingy finger.

Geralt paused, taking another drink from the leather decanter. The supposed infamy of Skellige’s wines had never come to his mind. He cleared his throat, tossing the knife upwards to reposition his grip. His hands gently clasped onto the blade, handle aimed at the woman in front. She took it carefully, anxiously, letting the hilt land in her elfin hands, analyzing it meticulously and toying with the base. She let the flat of the knife slide against her palm, securing it in her grip.

“You don’t have to eat that doe anymore, you know?” she declared quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty. She didn’t look up, instead continuing to stab into the soft flesh of bread with a certain might and precision. The knife sliced into it smoothly, producing three slices of perfectly thick wedges that looked soft and delectable in the harsh light of the campfire.

“It’s a waste of meat if I don’t,” he replied, hand extending as the girl handed him two of the three slices in her possession. They felt moist against his skin, rough around the edges where the skin had baked into a thin crust.

“How about you sell it at the town’s market? The butcher could pay you handsomely for such a prime doe,” the woman suggested, peeling back the paper parcel to reveal a white goat’s cheese. She used the knife to slice it, placing the soft rectangles onto Geralt’s bread, then did the same with her own. “Venison spoils quickly, and you won’t make good use of the animal nearly fast enough.”

Geralt hummed, sinking his teeth into the morsel. The cheese was fresh and soft, spilling buttermilk on his tongue as he savored the delicate flesh of the bread below. Perhaps a fat pouch of coin would prove more beneficial than spoiled deer, indeed.

“Would you lead me to this market, then?” he questioned, quaffing the cherry liquor in intermissions. The girl’s eyes lit up, cheeks bunching with a smile. Her teeth sunk into her meal, chewing quickly and negligently. The bread disappeared quickly amongst her teeth.

“Let’s set out after our meal, in that case. The clouds have been brewing all morning, haven’t they?” she pointed at the horizon, thick gusts of silver nipping at the rooftops. “We wouldn’t want to get caught in that squall. Posada is infamous for these storms.”

The refreshments were gone quickly, replaced by a lulling comfort in their guts as Geralt stood up to prepare them for travel. He doused the campfire with water from his carafe, kicking at the remaining flames with his boot. He then unloaded his gear onto Roach. The deer hung off the steed’s backside, accompanied by the witcher’s travel pack and his visitor’s hand trailing gently along the mare’s muzzle.

“Hi, girl,” she spoke with a smile, rubbing her hand alongside the horse’s cheek. Roach whinnied, leaning into her touch. “Oh, just how precious you are! What’s your name?”

“Roach,” Geralt grumbled out, securing the leather saddle onto the horse’s back.

“Roach,” the woman repeated, scratching behind the mare’s ear. “Why Roach?”

“I name all my horses the same,” Geralt huffed, hands snaking down the thick bristle until his fingers tangled into the reigns. The woman chuckled at his explanation, and he raised an eyebrow in response. Her laughter was warm, hearty, and completely uninhibited by her company, it seemed. “There’s only space for one with the deer in the back. Get on.”

The woman’s face turned to face the witcher, lips pursed as she eyed the leather saddle under her palm. She approached slowly, neck craning as she maintained eye contact with the flaxen-haired man. Her cheeks flushed with a soft pink, dusting her nose and temples as she exhaled. She looked at her companion pleadingly.

Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, circling behind her back. His arms extended, hands hovering over the dip in her waist. He took note of the woman’s moss-green blouse, sitting loosely against her shoulder blades and exposing a fragment of the soft skin beneath.

She looked down, locks of mussed hair caressing her neck as her breath quickened, heavy in her chest whilst her breast expanded with every sharp inhale.

“May I?” Geralt questioned, his right hand gently resting atop her hip as he awaited confirmation. With the indication of a quick, subtle nod from the woman, he positioned his grip firmly against her waist and lifted. She gasped softly at the touch, her blue overskirt swept in a gentle breeze as her buttocks landed firmly against the saddle.

“Thanks,” she breathed out shakily, fingers wrapping firmly around the cantle. Her lips curled into a coy smile, watching as Geralt tightened his grip around the leather reigns and tugged, bold gaze relentlessly conversing with hers. He exhaled sharply, letting Roach trail ahead while he placed a free hand on the mare’s neck, nearing the girl’s hip.

“You’re strong,” she declared candidly, followed by a suppressed chuckle.

“Does it come as a surprise?” he questioned, head turned safely away from the woman’s curious gaze as he let a cheeky smile creep onto his lips. She laughed heartily in return.

As they led Roach down down the glade, she let her gaze trail along the stormy horizon, watching as the clouds approached in proximity to the red rooftops of Posada hovering solemnly in the distance.

She shuffled in the saddle, legs crossed as she let her eyes meet with the witcher’s long, flaxen hair, watching it trail down his heavy-set shoulders and toned back. He must have been robust under all that armor, certainly, after years of fighting monsters by hand and sword.

He strode down the beaten path with an air of inexplicable confidence and a certain, palpable grit that was made apparent through the fluidity of his movement. The woman gazed through half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“There’s another reason I wanted to speak to you,” she declared, stroking down Roach’s mane. Geralt kept his steady walking rhythm, allowing the girl to continue with his comfortable silence. “I know you spoke to Sylvanus in his room last night.” she trailed.

“And?” Geralt surmised, eyes glued towards the sky. The woman’s foot fiddled with a stirrup, eyebrows furrowed.

“I spotted him in the market square this morning, while I was resupplying ale for the tavern. He had just left the alchemist’s shop with a hefty purchase, and it very much appeared to me that he didn’t want to be seen or questioned about it, by anyone,” she confided, tone laced with slighted apprehension at the memory.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgment, fingers tightening around the leather reigns in his palm. He recalled the strange man’s declaration last night, his gravelly voice echoing in the witcher’s mind as they trotted down a patch of grass.

“Show me to that alchemist once we’re in town,” he commanded, a loud, crackling rumble filling the atmosphere suddenly. The woman gasped softly, eyes gazing into the darkened skies as the ozonic air entered her lungs, flushed skin met with the soft droplets of the first autumn rain.

#fanfiction #fanfic #the witcher #witcher #wiedzmin #geralt z rivii #geralt x reader #geralt x youu #the witcher fanfic #x reader #reader insert #my writing #writers on tumblr #eventual smut #smut #magic #fantasy #original characters #oc #slow burn #oneshots #ao3 #writer #witcher 3 #witcher netflix #henry cavill

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 8

iorveth/roche weird criminals modern au of reason of state or something

Though an elite team of unsavory characters has agreed to work together with the hopes of assassinating the shady CEO of Redanian Industries, that doesn't mean they have to like each other.

content warning for canon-typical violence and a mostly non-explicit blowjob

The intercom crackled.

"Shit, pack it in, lads, our man's long gone."

A moment later, the staccato hum of the helicopter rising from the roof of the factory confirmed the announcement. Radovid had fucking gotten away again.

With their mission failed, animosity predictably reignited among the ragtag crew of would-be assassins. 

"I fuckin' had him. One damn floor away. If you'd kept those heavies off me on that platform–"

"Ah, my mistake, Vernon. I had assumed you preferred your skull attached to your head. You were too close together to take a–”

“Thought you used to be a better fuckin' shot than that. You losin’ your touch? Your eyes goin’ bad, Iorveth? Can you see this?”

A distant middle finger, blurred through the lens of a scope.

“Permission to shoot him, boss?”

“Sorry, denied,” grumbled Dijkstra’s voice through the intercom. “Unfortunately, we need the unpleasant little bastard. Quit bitching and get out of there. All of you.”

There came a chorus of affirmatives from the crew. Geralt, already in the lobby. Isengrim, packing up in the building opposite. Philippa, disappearing easily into the crowded streets.

“Triss,” called Roche. “Law enforcement?”

“Thirty minutes out,” said Triss, her soft voice warped by the distance. Her van was somewhere down on the streets, parked in a discrete location. “I scrambled their comms but–”

“No rush then.”

“Fuckin’ hell–”

"Roche, don't."

“Damn it, someone make sure he doesn’t kill–”

Roche’s intercom clicked off. 

For a few moments, having clicked off his own noisy comms, Iorveth trailed the barrel of his rifle after the figure scurrying across the roof in the unearthly blur of his night vision scope. He considered how much trouble he’d be in if he took a shot after all. Just a few warning shots whizzing near his ankles. Couldn't hurt.

He leaned away with a sigh and rolled his stiff neck and shoulders, beginning to pack away his rifle. A dozen flights of stairs separated this floor from the lower roof below, but the elevator was already pinging.

Iorveth amused himself imagining Roche jogging in place in the little box as it rose.

All that furious energy wasted just for a chance to hit him once or twice before they had to flee as the building was inevitably surrounded.

The door whooshed open just as he clicked the last latch shut on his packed equipment, and the man descended on him, all but vibrating with rage.

Iorveth deflected a punch with his forearm and jabbed with his own hit that Roche twisted easily away from. There was no real sense in hand to hand fighting like this, both of them too well-matched and too familiar. Each strike inspired a fluid counterstrike. They circled the empty room, locked in a stalemate.

There’d been a time when Iorveth would have played dirtier, unafraid to knock the man’s head against a nearby surface in a move that could split his skull in two. Similarly, Roche did not pull the gun from its holster on his thigh and let loose the way he may once have.

Things had been simpler when Roche was special ops and Iorveth part of a now defunct terrorist organization. For now, they were on the same team, and it wouldn’t do to maim or dismember one another before fulfilling their goal. 

After Radovid was dead, no holds barred.

Time ticked by. This building would be buzzing with cops before long.

Roche managed to pin Iorveth with a rough shove against the long span of windows, the city lights glowing on his furrowed brow. 

When their mouths met, the crush of their bodies together was no less furious.

Roche tugged at his braided hair, and Iorveth bit his lip hard. When hands fumbled at his belt, tugging, Iorveth caught them.

“No time for that,” he said. They’d have enough trouble escaping the building as it was. Iorveth could imagine the panicked demands and warnings buzzing from their silenced comms.

Unfortunately, the bastard couldn't resist a challenge. 

“There’s time,” Roche grunted and went hard to his knees. 

Sirens echoed in the distance. Iorveth shoved back the slouch of Roche's beanie to run his palms along his buzzed scalp.

"Hurry up," he said, even the hot pleasure of the mouth stretched around his cock not enough to dull his awareness of how close they were cutting it.

Roche pulled back a moment, breathing in sharp pants.

"You're usually more of a hairpin trigger," he grumbled.

"Maybe you're boring me."

"Fuck you."

The renewed focus and intensity brought him to the edge and over in a few quick breaths, and the warm twitch of his belly had barely waned before Roche was on his feet and had him by the collar.

Roche grunted as his back hit the wall, Iorveth punching the flash of the button to call the elevator even as he sucked a red mark onto the man's stubble-rough throat. When the door pinged and slid open, they fell inside with Iorveth's thigh crooked between Roche's legs. Roche gripped the bar along the wall and rutted up against him as the elevator hummed to life and plunged.

Iorveth watched dark eyelashes flutter as his mouth dropped open, almost pretty.

Later, sprawled out across the dark sheets of their shared high-rise apartment, he'd like to take his time and really watch the way this man's expression lost its stubborn tension momentarily at the cusp of his pleasure. 

The fluorescent lights flickered into the red glow of shutdown just as they crashed into a lobby swarmed with policemen. 

They'd have been wholly fucked had Geralt not appeared suddenly to beckon them down a side corridor. A full-tilt sprint took them through a maintenance hallway and out the other side of the building to crouch together behind a dumpster, listening for the roar of Triss' getaway van. 

"Bastard just had to get a fuckin' punch in," grunted Iorveth as he leaned, breathing hard, against the slump of Roche's shoulder.

"Sure," said Geralt as he eyed Iorveth's undone belt. "We'll go with that."

#my fic #ficletvember #iorveth x roche #rorveth #will i ever write a rorveth fic where they don't punch each other? no #pretend like this is a really fleshed out au idea and not an excuse to write sniper iorveth #imagine he's wearing a cool tactical turtleneck and looks cool as shit and is really cool. and roche has a stupid tactical beanie. #and looks like a loser

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern Au) - Error 404 Brain Not Found: Bonus Scene - Part 17

It had been just the thing to lighten the mood after the big argument that had broken out between Lambert and Coen over Lambert casting Fireball for everything.

"You can't just cast Fireball for everything!" Coen had shouted, frustrated. "You just incinerated a whole f***ing barn!"

"And?" Lambert had sniffed.

"You just burnt all the poor farmer's cows!"

"Look on the bright side, now we have dinner taken care of!"

Coen had thrown his dice at Lambert and Jaskier decided that maybe they needed a break from D&D for a little bit.

"Let's put this on pause for now." Jaskier had suggested, "I've got an idea for a game we can play!" and a few minutes later, they were all standing around in the kitchen with bottles of water and Jaskier was handing out tortillas.

Geralt regarded his tortilla critically as the bard explained the rules. The game sounded so stupid. There wasn't much to it, and it didn't really sound like all that much fun. He was strongly considering just dipping out and finding something else to do.

But then Jaskier, mouth full of water, slapped Coen in the face with his tortilla, and immediately started laughing, spraying water all over Coen. The bald Witcher snorted and spat his water out all over the floor. The Kaer Morons burst into laughter.

Ok, maybe this game was going to be more entertaining than he'd thought. Geralt, throwing caution to the wind, decided to play. The Morons stood in a circle, a bottle was spun to pick the two opponents, and then the rivals faced each other.

Lambert and Geralt were glaring at each other, determined not to laugh. Geralt raised his tortilla and backhanded Lambert with it.

Lambert: *angry mumbling noises*

Geralt: *evil chuckle*

Lambert wound up and slapped Geralt so hard that his tortilla flew apart. They stood glaring at each other, cheeks bulging, making various angry grunts at each other. There was a second of stillness before they were throttling each other, spraying water and insults all over. Coen and Eskel broke up the fight, the round was deemed a draw, and the game continued.

Eskel and Jaskier faced off next. Jaskier was just moving his arm to smack Eskel, when the Witcher stuck his long arm out and gently hit him on the nose, making a soft hooting sound.

*Boop!*

Jaskier spat his water out laughing and cussing,"You b**tart!", while slapping Eskel on the cheek with his tortilla.

Eskel giggled around his mouthful of water, but didn't spit it out. The other Morons cheered, and Eskel moved on to the next round. He was disqualified several rounds later, after it was discovered that he was cheating. The clever b**tard had been only pretending to have water in his mouth.

Aiden had a turn, and took Lambert down with ease, using a lighting quick double slap that had Lambert ejecting his water just so he could swear at him. It was several minutes before everyone could stop laughing and continue the game.

It became hard not to laugh for some reason. It should have been an easy thing. Perhaps it was because everyone was so d*mn serious about the game. Or maybe, it was the copious amounts of soft drinks that had been consumed.

The combination of caffeine and sugar was setting off happy fireworks of dopamine in their brains.

On some rounds, merely facing an opponent was enough to cause one or both to spit out their water. It didn't help when the person you were facing was making all manner of noises and pulling weird faces as they fought not to lose their sh*t.

Like right now. Jaskier was facing off against Geralt, shoulders shaking, and frowning determinedly. He was having a really hard time not laughing. It was extremely difficult with how Geralt was standing there, eyes watering, red-faced, and with his cheeks puffed out. One of his eyes was starting to twitch from the strain.

Jaskier's brain, always seeing things from an imaginative point of view, decided to focus on the way Geralt's lips were puckered.

It nudged Jaskier and whispered "His lips look like a prolapsed ar**hole on a duck!" Jaskier started giggling in short little bursts, trying to keep his mouth shut tight.

Geralt saw the look on Jaskier's face. The pinched up look of a man fighting for his life. The grin was trying to pry his lips apart, causing his mouth to do a complicated wriggle. Geralt couldn't help it. He began making a sound. A loud, humming sound that came out in short bursts that sounded familiar. Jaskier recognized it instantly.

It was a sound he'd heard Geralt make before. The same sound that was always accompanied by the mental image of twinkies, and which still made Jaskier sit up in the middle of the night and laugh his a** off. Water shot out of Jaskier's nose as he snorted, coughed, and then choked out, "F***ing Seal Laugh!"

Geralt stood there making that closed mouth barking sound and pointing at Jaskier. It was clearly a triumphant gesture. Jaskier's arm snapped out and smacked Geralt on the head with his tortilla, and the Witcher spat his water out.

Yennefer returned from getting her nails done, and found the Kaer Morons and Jaskier standing in a circle in the kitchen, taking turns slapping each other in the face with flatbread.

"Why is my kitchen floor soaking wet--and what the ever-loving f**k are you a**wipes doing with my tortillas? Those are for tomorrow! Look at this mess, there's water and piles of crumbs every where!"

Lambert, brain sparking and fizzing with sugar and caffeine, decided it would be a great idea to open his mouth and snap "F**k off, witch! We're busy!"

No one could quite remember how it happened, but the next thing they all knew, they were all on their hands and knees, picking up every last piece of tortilla shrapnel, and thoroughly scrubbing the kitchen floor with toothbrushes.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #twn #the witcher headcanon #the witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #geraskifer #geraskefer #yenralt #yenskier #yennskier #yenneskier #yennaskier #coen #aiden #lambert #eskel #kaer morons #error 404 brain not found headcanon #error 404 headcanon #brain not found headcanon

[vesemirsexual]

love ur post about geralt and his hook ups. I hate most of them. Idk how people can hate yen for being “toxic” and be okay with people like Triss/Fringilla…..

God. Out of every woman that Geralt has sex with, Triss and Fringilla might actually be my most hated.

I think for both of them, I side eye anyone who is about it, because well…they’re both really using him, even if they are “in love” with him to some degree. They both have no problem fucking over Yennefer (who, together with or not, Geralt clearly cares deeply about and co-parents Ciri with) and Ciri.

Triss is the more obvious one here. She has no problem fucking Geralt under extremely dubious circumstances, despite being friends with both Geralt and Yen. She betrays Yennefer with Philippa and the Lodge, and is willing to hurt both Ciri and Geralt by letting them think Yen died a traitor. She is willing to let the Lodge use Ciri.

Fringilla I think is easier to miss. Firstly, while it is warfare, she blinds Yennefer for a year at Sodden, and even recovered, Yen is said to have some fairly serious mental scarring from it. I have seen Fringilla characterised as a “nice” or “more friendly” sorceress, and that’s why she helped Yennefer teleport past the blockade on Montecalvo.

Personally, I think it can also be read another way: Fringilla fought on the opposite side of a battle to Yennefer, doesn’t like her, and doesn’t particularly want to work alongside her. Yennefer wants to escape Montecalvo, and Fringilla wants her gone. I don’t think Fringilla was necessarily giving Yen a helping friendly hand as much as she was getting rid of her - as far as she was concerned, Yennefer was leaving a safe place and the Lodge where she had significant influence (even if she wasn’t particularly popular/trusted). Nilfgaard would capture her as an enemy, or the Northern Realms would consider her a traitor/ally to Vilgefortz. Frankly, it was impossible for Fringilla to predict where Yennefer would end up, and how it helped her further research Ciris bloodline.

And then we have fucking Geralt all winter so he didn’t continue to search for Ciri and Yennefer, while knowing Yennefer was captured/likely being tortured, and that Ciri was in danger (rather that be from Vilegfortz or the Lodge itself). She wanted and directly asked Geralt to stay in Toussaint with her because she didn’t give a fuck about Yennefer, or his daughter.

The Triss horse has been beaten to death in terms of her actions (unfortunately I still do have a soft spot for Miss Triss, and think she should be allowed to be an actual disaster away from everyone else). Anyone who has ever talked to me though knows it’s fuck Fringilla forever.

#this became a spiel but yes you’re right #katie txt #asks

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Canyou do a 179 Crescent Street Boobie headcanon please 🥺

Yes, of course! I miss talking about my boys! I love talking about boobs!

I'm gonna go overboard with this and cover three things:

Ass or tits?

Preferences?

Opinion on nice lingerie?

Do I need to put a content warning on this? Like? The whole thing is going to be about boobs. Ok it's going to be mostly about boobs. Ye be warned...

@fvckinghenrycavill @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @ylva-syverson @sillyrabbit81 @ellethespaceunicorn

We can all see that GIF up above. We know how Mikey treats titties. He's 100% a boobs kinda guy.

Does he have preferences? Of course he does! He'd prefer if they were boobs, attached to a cute girl (Dani), naked, and in his hands. Or mouth. Or both.

Big, small, somewhere in between? The owner is going to see every bit they don't like about 'em and he's just going to see boobies. And boobies are good.

Don't waste your money on expensive lingerie to impress him. Spend your money on expensive lingerie because you want to. But don't be disappointed if he maybe looks at it for the duration of however long it takes him to open that goddamn bra clasp. He would also never give a girl lingerie as a gift. Why would he willingly participate in covering up what's most precious to him?

Want to wear that low-cut top to a party? Is he going to be there? Are you going out with this idiot? Then reconsider! Hide those puppies away in public, because Mike is Mike, and you might end up far more naked in a supply closet than you initially planned on.

This idiot will also just happily appreciate other sets present in the room - if you catch my absolutely not cryptic at all drift here. There's nothing to worry about, though, he's really just enjoying the view.

First things first, August is an ass-man. Not that he doesn't appreciate a pair of nice boobs, though. He's a dude, of course he does! You just won't catch him in an inappropriate staring-contest with anyone's cleavage.

Well, maybe Angie's, but that's because she's in his lap and they're just right there. Where else is he supposed to look?

That's why he isn't necessarily picky when it comes to shape or size. Now, a nice set of expensive lace really makes everything a bit more interesting. It doesn't have to be lace, either. It can be mesh. Or satin. Or probably leather or latex, that doesn't matter. Nice things come in nice packaging. And don't you dare think you'll be taking it off during sex, either.

It's a good thing Angie's parents are loaded and she has a generous allowance, because otherwise all of his hard (and illicitly) earned money would disappear in a heartbeat so he could spoil her with nice things he'd like to see her in.

Also an ass-guy but definitely not one to shun a nice pair of sweater stretchers. (I'll see myself out for the use of that description.) His hands, however, will always find their way to where his heart truly lies: your butt.

Only cover 'em up with something pretty if that brings out the confidence to give him a lap dance, otherwise he's just going to take it off as soon as he can. And then he'll touch your butt. Like... A lot.

He loves to take a nap with his head on your chest, though. It's nice and soft - even though he has a slight preference for smaller titties, and he just really needs a nap.

Does Geralt like boobs? Yes. Provided they're attached to Solveig. You honestly couldn't even pay him to fake an interest in any other pair. In the boobs vs. butt debate, he'll say it depends on the girl, though. There's always one he slightly prefers over the other. (On Sol, it's boobs.)

Now, if he were single (Sally, Charlie, calm down) he wouldn't be picky about shape or size, but it would be nice if they weren't excruciatingly sensitive... As we know, Geralt struggles with the concept of 'gentle'.

The whole idea of 'lingerie' is something he considers teasing. It's just something that's in the way. Would he buy it for you? Sure, if you really wanted it. He knows he'll have a better night if you feel pretty. Whatever you're wearing, though, make sure it's either sturdy, or expendable, because he'll practically tear it off - but he'll let you wear your heels.

We know Napoleon appreciates art - and what are women if not the most exquisite works of art? He's not on team ass, he's not on team boobs. (Ok, he's on team ass in the sense that he can be an ass at times.) But that sure doesn't stop him from appreciating it all thoroughly.

Leon likes a woman in lingerie - it adds something for him, for sure, and it's not just the excitement of unwrapping a lovely present.

What's more is that he loves seeing you in things he picked out for you - not to worry. He has good taste. At least you know your sets will match, right? (Cheesy movie reference, whazzup!) He'll gladly take you shopping and buy you all the things he likes on you. They coincidentally also make your ass look phenomenal and make the twins look to die for.

It's tits > ass for Charles, although he wishes it was the other way around, because it's easier to check out a woman's ass without getting slapped in the face - which happens, from time to time, but he just can't help himself. Some cleavages are so mesmerizing... Also, chances are that if you're slapping him in the face for staring, he'll be getting even by spanking you later that night, when he's successfully talked you into bed.

In public - and covered up - it's mostly the exceptionally (back-pain inducing, probably) big ones that attract his attention, but once clothes come off, there's no sign of any preference.

It's good acting on his part, because while all boobs are lovely, he sure doesn't think they're all equal. By now, he's sampled campus thoroughly enough to be completely confident in the assessment that 'great' vs. 'good' boobs depends on way more criteria than just size. And in the end... They're all boobs.

He has a casual appreciation for a nice matching set, but he likes to watch 'em bounce too much to let you keep it on. Unless it's a quicky in a bathroom stall, of course.

When it comes to the age old question 'ass or tits?', Sy really doesn't discriminate. He's very much of the 'all boobs are good boobs' persuasion. That being said, he does like 'em big. Man's from Texas, after all. It also helps that he loves bigger girls in general. In his defense; he has big hands and they're grabby.

Is he going to pass up a chance to get laid by a pretty girl because she has small boobs? Of course not! He'd be shooting himself in the foot, right? So he's not fussy, and he'll love your chest no matter what it looks like.

That being said, if you're blessed with an exceptionally sizeable rack, be prepared to be asked if he can titty fuck you. And let's face it, we'd all say yes to that in a heartbeat. Not in a disrespectful way - is there a respectful way to ask this? I'm not even sure - he's just always kinda want to try it. (Although you're fairly sure he uses that as an excuse to veil his slightly eccentric request.)

Unlike Mike, he cares about your underwear. Not a lot, but still. There's no way it's not coming off before he nails you, but the right set can definitely turn him on like crazy.

Much like Mike, however, this man cannot be trusted around low-cut tops in public. He'll be talking to your chest all night, and chances are you're not going to make it home before his face inevitably winds up in your cleavage.

This guy is not looking at your chest. Can you two have an interesting conversation, play a musical instrument, do you read, can you name three German composers from the baroque era? Those are the important things to him.

Distracting this one is difficult enough, and a pair of breasts just isn't going to be enough. That's not to say he doesn't like them - although several instances at the bar had the guys believing otherwise. For a minute, they suspected he was gay, or something, because every time someone went 'Damn, check out the rack on that one!' he just shrugged.

Now, Elena can testify to the fact that he's not so indifferent when it comes to a more hands-on scenario. As it turns out, breasts look better when nothing's covering them, bonus points if he gets to touch them. Then - and only then - they can be quite alluring, as a matter of fact.

At the moment, he's a little too worked up over all the new experiences to care about underwear, but once he gets the hang of things... Who knows...

#179 crescent street #179cs #179CS Headcanon #hc sherlock #sherlock holmes #syverson #august walker #napoleon solo #charles brandon #geralt of rivia #geralt #walter marshall #mike hellraiser #henry cavill characters

[cherryjuicegf]

Yennskier and 14?

thanks for the prompt dear!! i couldn't be very faithful to this song but it's still close, hope you enjoy ♡

wc 735

14. stavros tou notou - thanos mikroutsikos

Through the morning mist, she discerns Jaskier leaned against the ship's railing, gazing ahead. She approaches with quick steps, hands wrapped around her shoulders as she takes in the cold they could perfectly have avoided if he had stayed in bed.

He was supposed to, if he wanted to get better.

"Jaskier!" she calls, voice lost with the wind. She reaches his side and sees the small curve of his lips, even though he is not looking at her. "Are you insane? Your fingers will fall off in this cold."

"Gods, Yennefer," he grimaces with a laugh and turns at her, "I'm having a nice moment staring at the sea, no need for horrid imagery."

His eyes are red with yesterday's fever, yet soft. They make her deflate, involuntarily as she looks, and suddenly it's not as cold as before. Still, there's something more.

She swallows, shakes her head. She could drag him inside if she wanted, but instead she reaches for his hand on the railing and laces their fingers together, sending a wave of warmth through his body. Then, she leans against him, shoulders slumped.

She feels him smiling more than she sees him. "That's nice. Thank you." A hint of gratitude in his voice, his look. Not so much for the warmth, perhaps, as it is for letting him stay here for a bit. For staying with him.

It is cold indeed. Every now and then the wind will blow through her coat and despite the chaos she will shiver, and the humidity is sticking on her hair. The waves are crushing against the ship as it slips through, sometimes so hard she feels droplets of water hitting her cheeks. Still, beautiful. The horizon is purple and blurry with the retreating night. And Jaskier's hand is welcoming.

She doesn't admit it, but she will miss him again.

"Do you consider coming back this time?" It's a question she avoids and Jaskier even more. Mostly because she knows the answer. Can see it now too, in the way he looks at her, at the sea. Still.

It's the cold memory of Kaer Morhen's silent walls that makes her shiver now, and not the wind.

A small smile curves Jaskier's lips. He doesn't answer. Only, he tilts his head.

His cheeks are red against pale skin, and she stands on her toes and presses her lips on his forehead, as she has done so many times before the past days. Feels his temperature. Somehow her hands are always cold, and now regretfully hiding in gloves.

He is warming up again.

Still, she doesn't speak at once.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, takes in the sea and the crisp winter and the scent of salt he claims makes him a little happier. Then, he lowers his head. "When we saw the lighthouse, the other day..." His voice is more hushed now. "It reminded me of Geralt. His eyes." He chuckles. "I had almost forgotten them, can you believe?"

Just above the smiling crinkles of his cheeks, a tear is fighting to make its way out.

"He misses you," Yennefer whispers and purposefully avoids the eyes nailed on her, the mirror.

A gloved hand on her cheek. Then on her hair, pulling them back to look at her face clear. Jaskier only nods. There is a sadness in his smile, a stain of pain on his lips he forgot to swallow. Oh, it's been so long.

It will be longer still.

"I will show you which star to look for at night," he says, loving, quiet. "When you look at it back home, our gazes will meet."

Yennefer rolls her eyes. "Oh, quit badly waxing poetic with me, bard." It's not the same, she doesn't say. Stars have no hands to hold hers.

Yet there it is. Her answer.

Something tightens in her chest, and she remembers it's only another day until they reach land. She almost wishes his fever remains, for then she will have an excuse to drag him back and treat him. She will have an excuse to love him.

The ache doesn't have the time to settle. Jaskier sways slightly and his eyes flutter, leaning against her just a little bit more.

The waves howl and she raises her head, letting the cold seep into her heart. "Come. Let's get you inside."

She doesn't hold his hand tighter, hoping it hurts less when he slips away.

#boat time!! #the witcher #yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #chrysa writes #fic recs #prompt fill #dancingwiththefae #spotify prompts

[kueble]

Desperate Little Mess

This is a late fill for the “Sweat” prompt for @witchersummercamp

Explicit. Warnings: biting, rimming. 2,000 words.

Geraskier

---

"How is it this fucking hot?" Jaskier asks, groaning as he stares up at their ceiling fan.  He's stripped down to his boxer briefs and is considering losing those as well.  He gave up checking the weather app on his phone hours ago, because he doesn't need a number to know it's ridiculously hot outside.  The small air conditioning unit in the window has been going non-stop but it's hardly making a difference.  There's a bead of sweat gathering at his temple, and he cringes before reaching up to wipe at it with the back of his hand.

"Because you've been spoiled by central air your whole life.  Welcome to the middle class," Geralt says dryly, and Jaskier would reach over to slap him, but it's too hot to move.  He blows a breath of warm air at his bangs, but they barely move.  He's pretty sure there is sweat pooling in his belly button.  How do people live like this?

He's about to complain again, but when he turns his head to look at his boyfriend, he gets a better idea.  Geralt is always gorgeous, but the glistening sheen of sweat clinging to his skin makes him even more so.  A bolt of arousal hits Jaskier, and he shivers as he lets his gaze roam over the hard angles of Geralt's muscles.  Fuck, he's one lucky bastard.

"New plan, straddle me," Jaskier tells him, and Geralt answers with a raised eyebrow.  He snorts and adds, "We might as well be hot and sweaty for a good reason.  Now let me indulge in some lazy sex, hop on up, big boy."  He taps two fingers to his mouth for emphasis, and Geralt rolls his eyes, but he can see the way his cheeks darken.

"You're ridiculous," Geralt mumbles before moving to his knees so he can slide out of his boxers.  Jaskier ignores him, because they've been dating for years so Geralt should know how ridiculous he is by now.  He does reach down and tug off his boxer briefs, though, because Geralt is a genius as always.  Naked is much better.

"How do you want me?"

"Everyday for the rest of my life," Jaskier tells him honestly, just to watch his blush spread.  He's not disappointed, and Geralt responds by hiding behind the loose strands of hair falling out of his messy bun.  "But for right now, hands on the headboard please."

Geralt sighs loudly, but does what he's told.  Jaskier still can't believe how lucky he is, and his boyfriend is worth leaving behind a lifetime of central air.   But no melancholy thoughts.  Right now he has one purpose and that's to wreck this gorgeous man as lazily as possible.  Thankfully moving his tongue won't work up much of a sweat.

He grabs Geralt by the hips and guides him down, leaning up to meet his body.  Sliding his hands to Geralt's pert ass, he spreads the cheeks and runs his tongue across the exposed skin.  Geralt lets out a gasp above him, fingers gripping the headboard tighter as Jaskier licks him again.

He starts with a hard lick across Geralt's tightly furled skin, and Geralt rewards him with a broken moan.  He digs his fingers into the soft skin of Geralt's ass, spreading him wider as he pushes up for better access.  He circles Geralt's hole before flicking his tongue across the sensitive skin, grinning against him when Geralt gasps and grinds down.  He seems desperate already, and Jaskier could live here, just surrounded by the musky scent of his boyfriend.

Geralt whines, his hips rocking as he holds himself up for Jaskier.  They've both been working so hard lately, and Jaskier can't remember the last time he really took care of Geralt like this.  Usually Geralt is the definition of service top, focusing all his strength and energy on Jaskier's pleasure with his own almost an afterthought.  Perhaps Jaskier's been spoiled by much more than the air conditioning.  He doubles down, catching his tongue on Geralt's rim, determined to make this good for him, to take care of him for once.

He nips at Geralt's rim, raking his teeth over the sensitive skin and reveling in the way Geralt gasps, his thighs starting to shake.  His fingers slip on Geralt's cheeks, the sweat doing him no favors today.  Jaskier accidentally scrapes his nails over Geralt's skin, just trying to hold him open without losing his grip again.   Thankfully Geralt just moans louder and rolls his hips, desperately fucking himself down on Jaskier's pointed tongue.

Jaskier pulls back long enough to mutter, "lube," before diving back in.  He eats out Geralt like he's starved for it, grunting as he fucks him slowly with his tongue.  He can feel Geralt's hole loosening up around him, and he's dying to get a finger in alongside his tongue.  He doesn't want to hurt Geralt in his hurry, though, and is grateful when Geralt tosses their lube onto his chest.

Geralt spreads his thighs wider, giving Jaskier's neck a little break while he pops the cap open on the lube.   He moves back, mouthing at Geralt's balls before circling a slick finger around his entrance.  Geralt whines beautifully, and Jaskier can't help teasing him, dragging his fingertip over his tight hole, but not quite pushing inside of him.  He laps at Geralt's sack and wonders why he never pays this much attention to it.  The noises Geralt is making are enough to have him leaking against his stomach, and Jaskier sucks gently on the skin there in an effort to drag more out of him.

Another choked gasp has Jaskier's cock throbbing, and he decides he's tormented them both long enough.  It's easy to sink a finger inside of Geralt, his hole dripping with spit and slick.  He groans out and pushes into the touch, riding Jaskier's fingers as he slips another inside.  He knows Geralt could take him at this point - sometimes they skip most of the prep just so he can feel the stretch - but there's something about the way he's whining and panting like a desperate little mess that has Jaskier adding a third finger.

Jaskier curls his fingers, and Geralt sings so perfectly for him.  He's falling apart, hips bucking back against Jaskier's hand and his hands gripping the headboard so tightly it's squeaking.  It's a heady feeling, having this much power over someone, and Jaskier can't help teasing him a little more, pressing against his prostate until he shouts hoarsely.

"Shit, Jaskier," Geralt chokes out with a growl, "Stop messing around and get your fucking dick in me."

"So romantic," Jaskier mumbles before licking a stripe up the length of his cock, loving the way Geralt squeaks and looks down to glare at him.   "Gonna ride me?" he asks with a smirk.

"No, you're gonna have to work a little.  Now get up here and fuck me like you mean it," he grunts, and Jaskier is scrambling to slide out from between his legs before his brain even catches up with it.

Jaskier takes one look at Geralt and sucks in a breath, his heart stuttering as he takes in the pretty picture he's painting right now.  The strands of hair falling from his messy bun are damp with sweat, curling around the back of his neck.  His skin is shiny and flushed from the heat, and Jaskier wishes he had the energy to appreciate it more.  As it is, the thought of sinking inside Geralt's tight body is the only thing making him move in this weather.

There's a pool of sweat collecting in the dimples at the base of Geralt's spine, and Jaskier can't help reaching out and rubbing a thumb through it.  Geralt whimpers and looks back at him over his shoulder, pure desperation written in his features.  Jaskier wraps a hand around himself and moves forward, guiding himself to Geralt's entrance.  There's a bead of pre-come at the head of his cock, and Jaskier wipes it on Geralt's hole, shuddering as he watches it spread across his skin.

And then there's no more holding back.  Jaskier sighs as the head of his cock pops past Geralt's wet rim and he slowly slides inside.  Geralt mewls, a high-pitched noise that goes right to Jaskier's gut, encouraging him to move faster.  Geralt's body is taking him so easily that Jaskier can't help pushing the rest of the way in until he's buried to the hilt.  Only then does he give them a moment to breath.

But Geralt won't stand for it, immediately starts bucking back against him, doing his best to fuck himself without Jaskier's help.  And if that doesn't stir Jaskier's blood, nothing ever will.  He palms Geralt's ass, spreading him wide as he slams back into him, pulling a filthy moan from him.  Grinning, Jaskier sets a fast pace, their sweat-slicked bodies filling the room with obscene noises as they move together.

Geralt reaches back, wrapping an arm around Jaskier's neck and pulling him closer.  They move in tandem, both panting as they struggle to hold onto each other's sweaty bodies.  Jaskier digs his nails into Geralt's waist, reveling in the low moan it pulls from deep in his chest.  He knows the half-moon marks will still show tomorrow morning, and he can't wait to kiss them better.  Geralt whines, trembling as Jaskier plows into him.

He sounds so ruined, so absolutely wrecked that Jaskier wants to cry.

It isn't long before Jaskier feels his orgasm building at the base of his spine.  He keeps fucking into Geralt, slamming roughly into him as they cling to each other.  He leans forward, nuzzling Geralt's cheek before ducking down and pressing an open-mouthed kiss at the top of his shoulder.  Geralt tugs on his hair, egging him on, and Jaskier sinks his teeth into the curve of Geralt's shoulder.

He's close - so fucking close - but he wants to feel Geralt come on his dick, so Jaskier fights to work a hand in front of him.  He makes a tight fist, not pumping, but giving Geralt a tight target to fuck into.  Geralt keens, head thrown back and mouth hanging open, and he comes with a sob, spilling over Jaskier's hand and leaving white streaks on the headboard.

"Christ, Geralt," Jaskier hisses as he comes, hips stilling as Geralt clenches around him.  He pumps load after load into Geralt, fucking him through both their orgasms, his teeth still clamped around the flesh of Geralt's shoulder  Geralt is whisper filthy praise at him, stroking his hair as they both writhe together.

Somehow they make it back to laying down, though Jaskier isn't sure how Geralt manages to move him.  He feels half dead, everything is overheated and sore in the best way possible.  Laying on top of Geralt, both of them covered in a layer of sweat and their own spend should feel grosser than it does.  All he wants to do is gather the energy to do it all over again.  He tells Geralt so, but his boyfriend just chuckles softly at him, pulling him into a tighter embrace.

"How about we figure out some kind of takeout for dinner, jump into a cold shower to clean up while it's delivered, and then gorge ourselves silly on the couch?  We're not getting back in this bed until you've drank at least two bottles of Gatorade, too.  No dehydration on my watch," Geralt tells him, holding up two fingers to make his point.  Jaskier moves his head as much as he can - granted not much - and attempts to kiss his jaw.  He manages to lick it a little, but that will have to be good enough.

"I want shrimp fried rice, and I love you," Jaskier tells him with a lazy smile, and Geralt just grins back at him before reaching for his phone.

"I know," Geralt deadpans, and Jaskier would slap him if he had the energy to.  Instead he curls up against his chest while they look at the menu together.  Maybe this heatwave wasn't such a bad thing.

---

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#my fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #modern au #the witcher

[catierambles]

She looked up from the cookpot over the hearth at the heavy knock on the door, setting aside the stirring spoon and smoothing down her skirts as she went over to it, undoing the latch and pulling it open. The man outside was large, taller than her by several inches, clad in black armor that contrasted greatly with his snow-white hair and piercing golden eyes.

"I'm told you're a healer." He said and she nodded.

"You were told correctly, please come in." She said and stepped aside, noticing his heavy limp and the makeshift bandages wrapped around his thigh, the fabric red with blood, as he walked into the modest hut. "What caused the injury? Anything venomous?"

"Rabid griffin." He said simply.

"You must be the Witcher they hired." She said and he nodded. "Off with the trousers and take a seat so I can look at it." There was some hesitation on his part. "Don't be modest, you don't have anything I haven't seen before. Proportions may vary but the equipment is the same." He perked a small smile at that and undid the wrapping on his thigh, letting it fall to the floor. She did give him some privacy, however, turning her back on him as he undid his trousers, hearing his hiss and grunt in pain as the leather was pulled away from the wound. There was a creak as he sat down on the narrow bed in the center of the room and she turned around again, noticing how he had pulled the blanket over his lap. The trousers in question were pooled at his ankles and she crossed the short distance, kneeling by the bed and pushing up the blanket a little to take a look at the deep gashes in his muscular thigh, feeling his eyes on her. They had stopped bleeding but were still worryingly deep, the muscle jumping within the wounds as she pressed on them lightly in the examination.

"You live alone?" He asked and she nodded with a sound.

"The village may find me useful, but they are wary of my magics." She said, "They leave me alone unless I'm needed. Even isolated as I am, word did reach me about the Witcher that was hired. I'm sure the farmers and their livestock are very grateful that it's been taken care of."

"Their coin is more useful than their gratitude." He said and she snorted.

"I'm sure it is. If they weren't scared to death of you, I'd assume they would thank you regardless." She said.

"You're not scared of me."

"Should I be?"

"Most are."

"You've come to me for treatment, Sir Witcher, and currently have your pants down around your ankles." She looked up at him, "Not very scary." She said that last part with a wink and a smile and she caught the slight upturn of his lips as she looked back at the wound. "Ordinarily, this would require stitches."

"Ordinarily?"

"Yes, well, you'll see." She said taking in a deep breath, hovering her hand over the wounds. Her palm began to glow with a soft luminance, pure white light emanating from her skin, and tendrils snaked forward, reaching into the broken skin and making him gasp. "Does it hurt? It shouldn't."

"Warm." He said simply and watched her carefully as she moved her hand over the wounds slowly, feeling the muscle knit together. The skin fused into an unbroken and unmarred expanse and the glow ceased.

"Good as new." She said, sitting back on her calves and looking up at him with a gentle smile.

"Where did you learn that?" He asked.

"I've always been able to do it." She said with a shrug, getting up off the floor. "It is a skill that I can teach for those who have the aptitude, however."

"How much do I owe you?" He asked.

"Depends on the injury, for yours I would have charged hundred-fifty crowns."

"Would have?"

"Something tells me this won't be the last time we'll see each other. Consider this one free of charge." She said and he nodded, "Now, would you like to stay for supper, or shall you be moving on, Sir Witcher."

"Geralt." He said simply, "What're we having?"

#henry cavill #geralt of rivia #my writing #the ongoing saga of geralt and the unnamed healer #how they met