smilemoreimagines

[smilemoreimagines]

i would never fall unless it’s you i fall into (Din Djarin/Reader)

Chapter 5

length: 2,561

author’s note: I'm almost done with the next chapter, but i will probably be moving from Canada back to the US within the next month so ummm wish me luck and hopefully there won't be a big wait while that's happening

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3 Chapter 4

With a little one living in close quarters your days are starting earlier than you're used to, and by the time the three of you are walking to the market, apple pressed into your hand by Mando, you’re still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Mando had brought you closer to Maz’s Castle, another clearing in the woods giving cover to the ship, just a short walk through the trees. As you glance back once you catch the words Razor Crest II painted on the hull. 

“What happened to the original Razor Crest?” You wonder aloud as you bite into your apple. 

“It was destroyed,” the Mandalorian states matter-of-factly, and Grogu chimes in with a boom noise, opening his fists at the same time he makes the sound. “Yeah bud, it exploded,” Mando agrees, giving him another apple chunk.

“Was he there for it?” You ask in surprise before you can think better of the question, eyes flicking between the dad and his kid trailing along in his floating pod stroller-thing. He bounces excitedly in place among the pillow and blankets, froggy plush clutched in the hand not shoving fruit in his mouth, and chants, “Boom, boom, boom!”

“Yeah,” Mando confirms, voice growing hesitant, “He was with me at the time.”

Okay, you’ve obviously pried too much, so you shut up and eat your snack, offering a small smile when the blank visor of the helmet turns your way. The tension that showed in the set of his shoulders disappears, the man reverting back to his natural state of casual grace. Restrained power. You admire him for a moment when he looks away from you, but then you’re breaking through the treeline to the very large, already bustling market.

Rows and rows of vendors calling out their wares, wide aisles between the stalls packed with people shopping. Mando informs you that it’s a permanent market, so all the booths with clothing should be in the same area. You don’t tend to like crowds, so at least you won’t have to fight your way through the whole thing to gather what you need. 

As soon as you enter the fray your shoulders raise in tension, arms pinned to your sides trying to make yourself as small as possible as you’re bumped and jostled. The avenues are wide enough that space wouldn’t be an issue if people walked a little more orderly, but in this part of the galaxy? Not gonna happen. A quick glance behind you shows Mando and Grogu a few paces back, gait leisurely. You wish you could muster that kind of effortless calm.

Your lips twist into a tight smile, still unused to having other people around to keep track of in a crowd. When you face forward again you’re on guard and trying to be as out of the way as you can. You push through another tight throng of people and then it feels like the crowd thins out a bit. You let out a deep breath. Then feel a light touch on your upper back, whipping your head around only to relax again when you see it’s just Mando. The helmet tilts down to look at you and he gives a slight nod. You realize the crowd hasn’t thinned at all, they’re parting to make a path for the Mandalorian a single step behind you that’s turned on his aura of deadly power. Just a moment ago he’d been so casual. Did he do that just for you? 

Din would never admit it out loud, but he hated seeing you try to make yourself smaller. In the short time he’s known you it’s become clear to him that you don’t like loud, sudden noises. That you feel safer with routine and clarity. Which is the exact opposite of this market. It had made his chest ache when you walked right into the crowd even with your hackles so obviously raised, posture defensive. You flinched whenever there was a particularly loud shout or bang. Curled further in on yourself when anyone bumped into you too hard. He couldn’t do anything for you about the noise, but he could get people to give you space. 

Grogu looked at him curiously when he turned that part of himself on, the part that was intimidating, that brought attention to himself, the kind that made people give him a wide berth. It was something that he didn’t have to do very often anymore, now that he was trying to give his son a more normal life. A safer life. Din was still bounty hunting. Just not for much longer. 

Even with her so-called “best friends discount” Peli was still charging him an arm and a leg for his re-made ship. After the Crest was destroyed he tried to find a new ship that would work, but he found he didn’t like making do on the vehicle that was essentially his and Grogu’s home, so he’d commissioned Peli to remake her mostly the same but with some more livable upgrades, like the kitchenette. He knew that what he was asking would cost a fortune, and now with the ship done he was taking the last bounties he needed to finish paying it off. Then you showed up. 

You, who is now looking at him like he personally gave you the stars from the sky, and for such a simple favor. The relief of not being pressed in on all sides radiates from your face as you whisper a thank you like it’s a secret. Din likes how open you are in your emotions, however unintentional it may be. As a man who’s made his living from being able to read people well—to know if a quarry was actually complying or just biding their time to get the jump on him—it’s nice that he can tell from a glance what’s on your mind. He enjoys how straightforward you are, how earnest. 

In the few days that you’ve been on the Razor Crest II he finds his gaze drawn to you whenever you’re in the same room. You just have this… gravity to you. Sometimes you’ll ask questions or make little quippy comments and get him talking a bit, but you also don’t mind the silence that often settles between you. You are a quiet soul, and he’s finding comfort in that. 

And it’s plain to see how much that Grogu is growing on you, and vice versa. That’s part of why he threw the job offer on the table so quickly, because of this life he’s now trying to give his son. He wants him to be happy with whoever will care for him when Din can’t. And you’re a Jedi. Or at least, you have the powers of one. He needs to ask you more about that. If you can help his son learn more about his abilities. Din doesn’t understand much about the whole Force-magic thing or why Grogu’s attachment to him makes him unable to be a Jedi, but he still has the Force and in Din’s mind a power like that should be understood. 

Once you reach the section of stalls piled high with clothes and fabrics he tells you to get whatever you’ll need, that you shouldn’t worry over the cost. These last few bounties will cover the ship, but he’s been considering picking up a few more pucks so that him and Grogu can maybe stay in one place awhile, or explore the planets that Grogu has shown interest in. He’s decided now, and those credits will be for you as well. 

You who is all business right now, choosing practical things: underclothes, socks, shirts, pants. He watches as you run your fingers lightly over a colorful scarf, looking at it wistfully for a moment before moving on to the next stall. He recalls what you’d said the day after you jumped on his ship, when you’d woken up from a wound that could have easily killed you—that was still making you walk with a slight limp—taking stock of your ruined clothes and letting the blood-soaked and stained fabric fall to the floor. “That was my favorite thing.” 

The color of this one is soft, like light hitting a waterfall, a diluted rainbow. He’s paying for it and stuffing it in his pouch before you can notice he’s fallen behind, right at your side before you turn to ask him a question about something or other.

It can be disorienting, how your eyes always seem to land right on his own, even through the inky black of the visor. He knows it’s not possible, but still, the thought distracts him. Most people have a hard time picking a spot on the helmet to look, often wavering between his forehead and chin, but not you. Yet all the vendors you’ve talked to today you could hardly look them in the eye for more than a moment before getting fidgety and looking somewhere else. You’re an odd person, but he finds it more endearing than off-putting. 

“Mando?” You ask for the second time, ducking your head slightly as you look up at him. He’s been lost in his head for a minute, just kind of staring at you, or in your direction, anyway. He does that a lot, the staring—observing, to put it more politely—but usually he acknowledges you when you address him. He clears his throat as he refocuses and asks what you need. 

It’s silly and unimportant, surely more so than whatever he was thinking about, but you’ve been at this one vendor for multiple minutes trying to decide if it would be okay to get this dress or not. The fabric is soft and light, flowy and patterned with flowers. It reminds you of one you had as a teenager, one that was stained in blood and bad memories but that you still miss. 

“Can I get this?” You ask, the hesitance thick in your voice. “I’ve gotten everything else that I need, and I know it’s not practical, but…”

“Of course,” he says, interjecting when you trail off. 

You don’t know it, but he’d have a hard time denying you anything, when you ask that sweetly. It can be hard to connect the you that yelled at him for endangering his son to this shy, soft spoken creature, but here you are. A walking contradiction. Your smile is like sunshine breaking over your face as you thank him, and he finds his own lips curling up in response.

“Not everything needs to be useful,” he says to you as he pays, “Some things can just be pretty.” 

You laugh and respond, “And do you like pretty things, Mando? I bet you do. Maybe when I change into this you’ll sneak something nice too, something an actor in a holonet drama would wear. Am I right?” 

He just huffs that laugh that you’re coming to enjoy maybe too much and shoos you to the changing rooms at the end of this avenue. But when you come out wearing that dress, he thinks that maybe he does like pretty things. He certainly likes how you look. Your smile is bigger than he’s ever seen it, more genuine. You wear your feelings on your face, and right now he can’t see any of the pain that usually lives there. Mesh’la. Beautiful. You look beautiful. 

He needs to get these thoughts in check; you’re basically his employee. A strange concept for a man who’s spent most of his life alone, relying on only his own wits and skills to get by, but child-rearing is something that he knows is too important to just wing it. Grogu is his actual son now, not a foundling to be returned, his. And he wants to do the best job of parenting that he can, regardless if that means getting outside help. 

And now that you’ve got everything you need, Grogu decides to make himself known again. The little guy starts chirping, pointing further down the way at some kabobs roasting over a fire, the tone of his voice insisting it’s time for food, feed me now. You run a hand lightly over one of his son’s large ears, agreeing with him that it is probably lunchtime by now. His pod follows eagerly before overtaking you to beat everyone to the food as if it’ll disappear before he can get his little hands on it, Mando right behind both of you. 

When you go to pay for the food he tries to stop you, but you want to spend your few remaining credits from Tatooine on the little guy. “He’s so food-oriented,” you insist, not putting the credits back in your pocket but rather pointedly dropping them into the vendor’s hand, “He won’t be able to not like me if I get him his meal. And as his new nanny, I would like him to like me.”

As you’re being handed three kabobs, Mando can’t help but say, “He already adores you. Wasted your credits to get something you already have.” 

You just shrug. “It’s worth it.” And indeed, Grogu looks at you very happily as he stuffs cooked meat in his mouth, and you pull the kabob from his hands to force him to slow down. You try to hand one to Mando, but he just shakes his head, gestures to his helmet. 

“Oh, right,” you say, lightly smacking your hand to your forehead. You forgot he can’t eat in front of you. You hadn’t really thought about it since he’s mostly been in the cockpit where you can’t follow because of your leg, and he’s taken all of his meals up there. If you can even call them that. You snag some napkins before leaving the stall to find a place to sit and eat with the kid, wrapping the Mandalorian’s food so he can eat it later. He tries to tell you to split it with Grogu, that he’s fine, but you point out, “It can’t be good for you to live off of ration packs exclusively. You have a kitchen. Why don’t you keep real food?” 

Right. He’d specifically asked Peli to include one, but even though he has it he still mostly eats rations. And fruit, because Grogu loves it so much. It’s such an ingrained habit that cooking still feels like a bit of a waste of time. But he knows he should do better for Grogu. And you now, too. 

You find a fountain with some room on the wide rim for you to sit with his son on your lap. He hooks his thumbs on his belt, scanning the area for trouble. Finding none, he looks down at you, slowly managing to eat your food in between feeding Grogu. It is so very hard to fight the feeling of domesticity as he takes the rowdy little boy from you, especially with the smile of gratitude you throw his way for letting you eat. 

Din is already looking at you so he notices the moment your expression drops, jaw going slack before snapping up with a click to clench your teeth together, eyes wild and face growing so pale he’s worried you might pass out. He’s scanning the crowded square for danger, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary happening. Nothing to protect you or Grogu from. 

[smilemoreimagines]

i would never fall unless it’s you i fall into (Din Djarin/Reader)

Chapter 4

length: 2,457

author’s note: sorry for the delay, friends, I had this finished and posted on ao3 forever ago but forgot to upload here. as an apology the next chapter will be uploaded in the next couple days :0)

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3

The first thing you notice as you enter the atmosphere of the planet is that Takodana is covered in lush green. It reminds you a little of your home planet, some nameless moon, that green growing smaller and smaller as you hurtled away into space in the ship of a couple you didn’t know. Just that they were the parents of a young Force-sensitive wanting a better life for their child than they could provide. Happened to be there the very day you ran, took you for nothing, said one more mouth for a while longer wouldn’t hurt. And that’s about where your luck ran out; they were headed to Coruscant. You wish they could’ve dropped you at any other planet. At the time you’d been excited.

The kid was up in the cockpit with Mando as he’d brought the ship out of hyperspace and you’d been seated on your cot because your clumsy ass would totally fall with any turbulence. But there’s hardly any. And you’re so curious. He hasn’t let you in the cockpit as of yet, not wanting you to strain your leg climbing the ladder. But it feels pretty good and it’s not a particularly tall ladder anyway. You’ve not watched a landing in a long time, the kinds of ships you could afford typically not having any kind of window to look out of. So you climb the ladder as silently as you can before Mando can tell you not to. 

He’s in the pilot’s seat, and you don’t see Grogu, but you can hardly think about that as you let out a soft gasp at the view. That’s all it takes for Mando to know you’re up here and the chair spins so fast you wonder if you possibly startled him. Probably not used to anyone but himself and his son being on the ship. Loose on the ship, at least. The kid is on his lap. You barely take that in before your gaze snaps back to the viewport. So green.

The ship lurches slightly as it enters the atmosphere, and just as you’d predicted you stumble back, but there’s nothing behind you but an open hatch. Your heart catches in your throat as you fall backwards but almost immediately you feel yourself caught by a familiar power; just not your own. The child has his arm outstretched, eyes squeezed shut as he focuses every sense on keeping you stationary. Mando jumps up, Grogu held in one arm, and clasps your wrist, pulling you upright. You remember the moment you were sprinting for the ship and the child seemed to hold the door open the extra second you needed. You’d forgotten in the ensuing chaos. 

“He can use the Force?” You whisper. Mando isn’t listening though, shoves the now-exhausted Grogu into your hands, guiding you to the passenger seat. 

He practically pushes you to sit, says, “I was in the middle of landing.”

Ah, yes. You kind of interrupted at a bad time. You clip your seatbelt and clutch the youngling to your chest as Mando slows the too-rapid descent. 

“Sorry,” you breathe. Truly you do feel bad but you’re once again captivated by the view. There’s some large building way in the distance, but he’s bringing you down in the middle of a forest, a tiny clearing with just enough space to land. You barely notice when the landing gear touches ground, only sure when the engines power off. You unclip and the silver wall of armor stands, gesturing for you to go down the ladder first.

“Shouldn’t have come up here yet,” he reprimands gently as he takes Grogu back. “Careful going down. Don’t want to rip that leg open again. It was a nasty shot.”

You go slow, then watch as he slides down the ladder with the kid in one arm. How does it look so cool when he does that? You refocus when he opens what is most definitely a fully stocked weapons cabinet. Holy stars. Is this guy a one man army? Well, army of two, if you include the baby. Which you don’t, he’s a kriffing baby for crying out loud. Irresponsible dad. 

“Gonna catch the bounty first, get him in carbonite. After, we’ll go to the market over by Maz’s place. Take care of the kid while I’m gone.” Roger that. Said kid is waddling over to you while his dad is doing boring weapon nonsense, and you scoop him up when he lifts his arms at you for upsies. He chirps, still sleepy, and you smile at him, scrunching your nose at his cute half-awake expression. When you look back to Mando you catch him pausing to watch the two of you, but he snaps back to preparing for his hunt.

“Shouldn’t be any issues for you here, we’re in the middle of nowhere right now and only I can unlock the door from the outside.” He adds, “Just stay in the ship and you’ll be fine.” 

“I guess this is kinda like my trial run,” you comment. “When you return we’ll see if I’m fit for the job.” 

You bounce Grogu in your lap, say to him in a serious voice, “You’ll let your daddy know how we do, huh, little guy?” He coos at you, then reaches out for Mando, who notices almost immediately and strides over, crouching down to tell him, “Be good for them, okay? I mean it, kiddo. Love you.” 

He rubs the little guy’s peach-fuzzy head and nods to you. 

“Should be back in a few hours.” 

With that, he turns to leave, pressing the button to open the hatch, walking down the ramp in a flurry of cape, an impressively large rifle slung over one shoulder. He closes the door behind him with a press to his vambrace, sealing you and the kid in.

“He doesn’t say much, does he?” You comment to Grogu, who gurgles at you. “That’s fine by me,” you continue, “I’m not much of a talker either. Sometimes it’s nice to have peace and quiet, yeah?” 

The little dude doesn’t answer, obviously, but you feel a nudge towards agreement in your mind. Right. He wields the Force. Unusual for it to be so strong in one so young, but not unheard of. He’s already better than you with the mental part of it; you excel in the physical, moving objects, affecting the space around you, but you’ve never been able to do the mind tricks or thought projection. Though the Padawans would sometimes tease that you could project your every thought through your face alone. Your chest aches thinking of them.

A small hand taps yours, deep amber eyes drawing your attention, an artificial though not unwelcome sense of calm flooding your body. And then a very loud rumble from his tummy breaks the silence.

“Okay,” you laugh, “Let’s see what we can find for food around here.”

You discover a tiny kitchen tucked away in the corner of the hold, hidden behind a panel in the wall that slides open with the push of a button. There’s a mini refrigerator, cooktop and oven, single counter space, and pantry. The pantry is… sad. Aside from a couple more of those purple apples there are only ration bars and freeze-dried food. You get a ration bar for each of you and an apple too. 

When you can’t find any kitchen utensils you root around in your pack for your pocket knife so you can cut the fruit into smaller chunks for the kid like Mando had. He eats like he’s been starved for days. (He had breakfast a few hours ago. The kid is a sarlacc pit, you’re starting to realize.) When you’re both done he goes back to playing with his froggy toy, and you have only one thing on your mind.

“Grogu, do you mind if I hold your toy for a moment? I’ll give it right back, I promise.”

He considers your request but ultimately agrees, handing it over to you. You take it, then put your hands in your lap, leaving it suspended in the air. With a flick of your fingers it starts to bounce around, goofy legs flopping as you make it dance. Grogu is delighted, clapping his little hands before thinking a little harder about it. His gaze flicks between you and his frog before he crawls forward, placing a hand on your knee. He understands what you’re showing him, that the two of you both wield the Force. And then he decides that your turn to play is over and snatches the frog from the air, pulling it to him using the Force before plopping back onto the floor, the stuffed toy in his hands once more.

It had been around midday when you’d landed on this planet, so when the sun sets and Mando still isn’t back you start to worry a bit. It’s been more than a few hours, but there’s nothing you can do about it but wait. Eventually you feed the kid dinner, give him a bath in the ‘fresher sink, then put him to bed in his hammock over his dad’s bunk. 

Now that you’re alone you tidy up from the day, hiding the kitchenette away and putting away the toys he’d played with. You wonder how much longer Mando will be, if something’s happened. As you’re finishing up your foot taps something partially hidden, a little silver ball that looks like it’s been unscrewed from a part of the ship. You slip it into your pocket to give back later–whenever he comes back. But what if he doesn’t? 

You try to shake the thought from your head, but is it really that far-fetched? What is a Mandalorian bounty hunter doing with a Force-sensitive youngling? Especially a clearly powerful, yet untrained youngling? Was Grogu an outcast, like you, unfit to be a Jedi? 

The main lights in the hold switch off with a click, scheduled to align with this planet’s day-night cycle. You plop onto your cot with a heavy sigh. At least you can be sure the kid didn’t go off like a Force-bomb, injuring multiple masters and students. That was all you. 

You don’t even know if Kala survived. You can still see the trickle of blood from her head where she’d hit against the wall when you’d exploded. You hadn’t meant to, it just all happened so fast when the Masters said you had to stop using the Force, and you tried to explain that you couldn’t, that the power filled up your body when left unused until it burst out on its own. But they didn’t listen. You couldn’t make your words come out so they understood. And you got mad. You just wanted them to understand. They never understood you. But how can you blame them, when you don’t even understand yourself?

As you lay in your cot, spiraling down old memories, your fingers bump that cool metal in your pocket. You roll it between your thumb and forefinger, the chill of it grounding. Before it can warm in your grasp you flip it into the air, holding it there above you in the dim light. No, you don’t really think Mando abandoned Grogu with you. He’d told the kid he loved him right before leaving. He’s gonna come back. Or he could be hurt, maybe even killed by the bounty. Stupid, irresponsible dad. 

In the dark and alone of the ship, it feels good to use your power. Normally, you do the bare minimum to protect yourself and keep it dormant—under control—inside of you, but you miss using it like you could as a child. Carefree and curious. No guilt to make you feel like you shouldn’t use it at all. 

Everything is so still and quiet that the innocuous sound of the ship’s ramp lowering has you reacting like a shot’s gone off. You scramble for your holster, slipping your blaster—returned to you after he hired you, to protect yourself and the kid, he’d said—into your hand, leveling it at the open door. An unfamiliar man stumbles in and you click the safety off, aim, finger twitching over the trigger… and then Mando follows after, his own blaster trained on the guy’s back. The Twi’lek looks over at you, sneering, but the silver-armored man behind him snaps, “Don’t look at them. Puck didn’t specify they needed you alive.”

You feel like you can breathe again as he’s led into a different chamber you’ve not seen before, and you put the safety on before holstering your gun again. Behind the now-closed door there’s the sound of muffled words, a hiss of air, then silence.

Mando comes back out, helmet turning to scan the hold, you. Then you watch as that helmet tilts, not quite looking at you anymore, to your left. You turn your head. See that silver ball still floating over your bed.

“Oh,” you say, watching as it drops, bounces to the floor, rolls until it taps his boot and stops. “Um. I can explain.” 

“Are you a Jedi?”

The question catches you so off-guard that you choke out a laugh, an exaggerated sounding, “Ha!” You slap your hands over your mouth, uncover it to say, “No. They didn’t want me.” Cover your lips again with both hands. So smooth. You are so good at acting like a normal person. 

That helmet tilts and there’s the barest sound that crackles through the modulator, a choked-off huff. Is he laughing at you?

You lower your hands again, fingers brushing and then pinching the hem of the warn fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, rubbing the material between your fingers to calm yourself.

“That was more than a few hours,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Grogu’s in his hammock, safe and sound. Did I pass my trial run?” A tense moment passes and to fill the silence you ask, “Did something happen? Um, did you get hurt?”

“No,” he says, and you’re at least ninety percent sure there’s amusement in his tone when he elaborates, “The quarry was just further out there than I thought. Was annoying to catch, too. Talked a lot.”

He shifts his weight slightly from one foot to the other. You feel him considering you, shift your gaze away, then back as he turns on his heel, presses a button to check on the kid in his bunk. After running a hand lightly over the sleeping child’s head, satisfied that he’s safe, he moves to go to the cockpit. As he places a hand on the ladder, he says over his shoulder, “Get some sleep. We’ll go to the market in the morning.” 

[smilemoreimagines]

i would never fall unless it’s you i fall into (Din Djarin/Reader)

Chapter 3

length: 2,467

Chapter 1  Chapter 2

When you next wake up, it’s because there are tiny hands on your face. You blink open your eyes to see the child sitting on your chest, little three-clawed hands patting your cheeks. Its eyes are a deep brown, not black like you’d first thought, and its enormous ears flop adorably when it tilts its head at you, burbling something you don’t understand.

“Hey there, little one,” you say softly, resisting the urge to squeal at how cute this weird green baby is. It’s been so long since you last held a youngling, and as you sit up with this one in your arms it hits you just how much you missed it. 

Then you hear heavy footsteps from above before the modulated voice of the Mandalorian whispers huskily, “Grogu, where did you go?”

“Is that the kid?” You call out, bouncing the now-giggling child who looks like he knows he’s in trouble but revels in it.

“Yeah?” He answers; he sounds confused and you guess he probably thought you were still sleeping.

“Then, um,” you pause as you realize you don’t know the kid’s gender, “Well, Grogu is with me.”

To Grogu you whisper, “Are you a little troublemaker? You shouldn’t wander and worry your dad.” 

There’s a scoff and you look up at said dad, who informs you, “Good luck with that. He’s a tiny menace.”

You laugh and stroke one of Grogu’s ears gently. “No way. This is the good-est little guy I’ve ever seen.” 

“You sound like you’re feeling a bit better,” Mando comments, and you nod. It aches, but nothing like the burning pain that it had been. He moves towards you and as he scoops the child out of your arms he says, “You should use the ‘fresher. There’s a spare towel in there if you want to shower.” He shows you the door and you notice how badly you need to use it, and how nice a shower sounds.

Alone in the tiny room you check on your leg again; at this point it’s no longer a hole, at least, and you’re only limping slightly. The shower feels delicious on your frankly kind of grimy skin, never washed after your chase through the dusty, sticky-hot streets of Mos Eisley. You turn the water as hot as it will go as you scrub yourself and let your muscles relax. It’s not something you get to do often. Relaxing. 

You’re not on the run from anyone, but you never have let yourself settle down anywhere. Not since Coruscant. It’s just… easier to leave once people start to expect your presence somewhere, start wanting to get to know you. If they ever get past the stage of thinking you odd, a little different from other people. Alone is safer. Alone means relying on yourself, the only one you can trust. But you can’t even really trust yourself, can you? You proved that the day you left the only place you’ve ever thought of as home. You sigh. Alone is getting tiring. 

You shut the water off and towel dry, putting the Mandalorian’s clothes back on. You hadn’t noticed before, but they smell nice. Like pine. You bury your nose in the soft fabric of the shirt as you slip it over your head. Dank farrik, is this what he smells like? You blush and shake the silly thought from your head. 

You read too many romance novels, you scold in your mind. Don’t make it weird when Mando is going out of his way to help you.

Before leaving the refresher you poke around in the cabinet under the sink, finding the met kit so you can apply the disinfectant yourself. You have to twist awkwardly to reach the back, but you manage alright. The wound is healed enough that you can use regular bandages instead of the gauze. You guess you’ll probably be deemed healthy enough to leave the ship in a matter of days. It takes you a moment to recognize the sinking feeling in your chest as disappointment. You had forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of, and it scares you–terrifies you, really–to realize that it’s been nice. You’ve enjoyed it. 

When you leave the ‘fresher Mando is sitting on a crate with Grogu, cutting small bites off a piece of fruit, some type of purple apple, that he hands to the baby who gobbles each morsel greedily. You laugh lightly, and without looking at you Mando asks, “How’s that leg?”

You sit on your cot with your legs criss-crossed. “It’s a lot better. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair in a couple days. Um, I know I didn’t give you much of a choice when I jumped on your ship, but I appreciate your help nonetheless. You could’ve just tossed me back out to those guys. So thank you.”

He hums, the voice modulator crackling, and instead of answering cuts off a bigger chunk of fruit and hands it to you. You watch father and son as you munch, Grogu exclaiming, “Patu!” when he’s finished the apple, and Mando rumbles back, “Mhmm. What else?” The little green dude is still babbling to his dad when the ship lurches suddenly, and you promptly fall to the floor, catching yourself with your hands before you can hit your head.

The Mandalorian is already on his feet, the kid in his arms, as you yelp, “What the kriff was that?”

“We’re under fire.”

“What?!” 

His voice is hurried when he says, “I’m a bounty hunter, there’s plenty of people in the galaxy that don’t like me much.” 

A karking bounty hunter? You’ll think about that later, for now you grab Grogu and yell, “Then get us out of here! I’ve got the kid, you get whoever is attacking us out there.”

He doesn’t hesitate, just hits a button on the wall that opens a hatch door to a single bunk with a tiny hammock hung over the bed. “Get in there and brace yourself.” 

Then he’s gone up the ladder and you’re scrambling into the small space, bracing your back against one wall and your feet on the other. Grogu squirms and fusses in your arms as the ship threatens to send you tumbling across the hold. You wonder what he normally does with the baby in these situations. The baby himself seems relatively unbothered by the whole thing, squealing in delight when it gets particularly turbulent. 

“Does this happen often?” You ask through gritted teeth and take the answering giggle as a yes. You’ve been hearing laser-cannon fire through all of this, though none of the shots have seemed to hit the ship since the Mandalorian took the wheel. And then as suddenly as it started there’s no more cannon fire and the starship is flying smoothly once more. 

You slowly uncurl your body when you see gleaming beskar approaching, stooping down until you’re looking at the helmet and the man under it is looking at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, holding out a hand to help you up. You just smack it away and use your own hand to shove him back by the chest plate. He doesn’t budge, then after a breath takes a couple of steps back, enough room for you to stand. The bewilderment you were feeling morphs to annoyance.

Careful now, your head warns, He’s a bounty hunter. Dangerous. But with the tiny green kid in your arms still, you jab a finger in his direction and snap, “You hunt bounties with your baby? Are you insane? What kind of a father… Stars, I helped raise younglings for years, this is so unsafe for him!”

You could keep going, but he interrupts to say, “I know.” Which shuts you right the hell up. He repeats, “I know,” with a sigh, before continuing, “I don’t like all the danger he’s been in since joining me. Mandalorians raise warriors, it’s a part of our Creed, but he’s still too young. I’ve been thinking I should get someone to watch the womp rat while I’m hunting quarries.”

You hand the kid to his dad when he stretches his tiny arms for him, flustered at your outburst, and say quietly, “Yes, you should do that. I’m sorry for yelling at you. My emotions get too big, sometimes, and I really love kids. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn like that. You can just drop me at the nearest planet.”

Your eyes are trained on the floor, face burning in shame, half-expecting to be hit like the last time you felt secure enough to speak to a man that way. When you were sixteen and didn’t yet know how cruel men could be. You squeeze your eyes shut and shove the thoughts of that night from your head.

You flinch when a hand touches your shoulder, barely there before settling and pressing softly, reassuringly. 

“Hey. I’m not mad at you. Okay?” He pulls his hand away and you open your eyes, looking back into the visor. “And I’m not dropping you at the nearest planet. It’s a skud-hole. I said I’ve been thinking of hiring someone to keep an eye on him and keep him safe and I meant it. You said you’re experienced with children and you’ve proven you can handle a sticky situation. Can you shoot a blaster?”

“Yeah, rarely miss, but…” You trail off, losing your grasp on language because of where this conversation is leading. 

But then he just says it. “Do you want the position?”

You haven’t worked with kids since leaving the Jedi, but before you can think twice about it your traitorous tongue is already saying, “Yes. I would love to.”  

You start helping out on the ship right away, in small bursts so your leg can still heal but you don’t feel like a burden. Your storage crate bed is improved tremendously when Mando scrounges up a sleeping mat that you can use.

“For longer hunts,” he says nonchalantly when he gives it to you, not elaborating any further than that. You feel grateful, and guilty. You haven’t depended on anyone this fully since Coruscant, and it unnerves you to compare then to now, so you do your best not to. You remind yourself that you’re here to help them, too. 

The kid makes it easier. He’s so precious, and warms up to you very quickly. By the ninth hour that you’ve been on the ship as a hired hand he’s got you sitting on the floor of the hold with him. Listening attentively as he babbles while waving around a scruffy looking toy frog. It seems like he’s telling you a story so you pay close attention to the nonsense words spilling from him.

Eventually his little wrinkled face starts getting more and more sleepy, eyes getting heavier before he tips over, snoozing on his feet. You catch him before he can bump his head, laughing at the surprised face he makes. Then he looks over your shoulder and giggles, waving a little hand. You follow his tired eyes to the Mandalorian standing behind you, a hand raised in a wave back to the kid–how does he walk so kriffing quietly?–leaning against the wall, one hip cocked slightly as he watches you with his son. 

You flush under his gaze and turn back to Grogu, who’s starting to nod off in earnest now that you’ve got him tucked in your arms. Like a stubborn toddler you used to know, he fights against his imminent nap time, looks up at you and blinks one eye at a time before yawning. A huff of laughter from behind you makes you sit up straighter. Of course he’d laugh at his kid being the cutest little thing in the galaxy, but you wouldn’t have expected it from a bounty hunter. Something in your heart says that this man is different from others that you’ve known. You guess you’re along for the ride. 

Mando had spent most of the day up in the cockpit. Was he hiding from you, you wonder? Now that he’s down in the hold with you, the ease that comes with spending time with the kid hardens to nervous tension. Calm down, he’s nothing like Vero Andes. But you don’t really know that, do you? Vero hadn’t seemed like a bad man at first; part of what’s fucked with your mind so badly throughout all these years. You just don’t know what’s going on in another person’s head. 

“I’ve got our coordinates set,” he says, breaking you out of your thoughts as he walks up behind you. You stiffen but he doesn’t stop until he’s in your view. “Should be there in about a day.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, relaxing when you can keep an eye on the man, not sure if he notices or not with that helmet hiding his eyes. Probably, if he’s any good at his job. You can’t help the curious feeling that bubbles up in you as you wonder if it will be a planet you’ve never been to before. Most likely, you’ve not been to many. You like seeing new places though, all the color the galaxy has to offer. 

If you’d been born lucky, you may have been an artisan of some kind, used your creativity rather than stuff it down in favor of more practical skills. You think that you would like painting. At least sewing was a useful skill to learn, and you would embroider your clothes with pretty things when you could afford to get your hands on some thread. That’s all gone now though, abandoned on Tatooine.

He lets you know you’re going to Takodana, and at the blank look you give him, he continues, “Last quarry I need to bring in for now is hiding out there. Also should get you some clothes.”

“I don’t have enough credits to pay for new clothes,” you protest.

“You do now that you work for me,” he says simply, like it should be obvious.

“I don’t want you to pay me, I’m hardly doing anything yet with my leg still karked.”

He snorts, a funny sound through the helmet’s modulator, sounding exasperated when he presses, “Then let the clothes be your payment. Do you really want to keep wearing mine?” You look down at yourself, shirt tight across your chest and looser around your soft belly, pants cuffed multiple times to make up for how long they are on you. 

“Point taken,” you say. He probably doesn’t want you stretching his clothes out. “I’ll be paid in clothes. Not credits.”

“Food and board, too,” he adds on, tone suggesting he’s done negotiating the terms of your payment. Fine. Tomorrow you’ll go shopping with the Mandalorian. 

[smilemoreimagines]

i would never fall unless it’s you i fall into (Din Djarin/Reader)

Chapter 2

length: 2,076

author’s note:  I just wanted to thank everyone who read the first chapter real quick! I appreciate it and I've basically been neglecting my wife to read and write Mando fanfiction for the past week so I'd bet she appreciates it too lol <33 hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Chapter 1

When you wake up the overhead lights are blessedly off, the hold of the ship dim. You must have woken during the night cycle. Your leg feels stiff, and when you sit up to check it, you notice you’ve been moved. It’s decidedly not a bed, maybe a table covered in a layer of blankets, one more thrown over your body. You lift the blanket to see that your legs are still bare, other than the gauze wrapped firmly around the thickness of your thigh. The material is mostly clean white, some blood spotting through over the wound itself, but it’s so little that it doesn’t concern you.

As you wake up more you notice your shirt feels weird on you, stiff with drying blood. Stupid puddle. It and the colorful scarf you keep tied around your waist as a belt are both ruined. Looking around you a little more, you see your bag on the ground, easily in reach of where you’ve been placed. Your boots are lined up next to it neatly, along with your holster, noticeably not containing your blaster. Fair enough. 

You’re parched, and you check your canteen but it’s empty. You slip your legs over the edge of the makeshift cot–not even a table, you realize, just a few boxes of cargo pushed together–and hiss at the cold of the durasteel floor on your bare feet. The shirt you’re wearing is light and loose, appropriate for Tatooine but maybe not the chill of the starship. It’s still better than the heat though. If you never set eyes on the planet again you’ll consider yourself lucky. You wrap the blanket around your shoulders to cover yourself at least a little. It’s soft and brushes the backs of your knees as you walk. 

You need water but don’t see anything that could provide that in this room, and you don’t dare start pressing random buttons or opening doors. That guy may be a father, but with all that armor he’s clearly also something dangerous. You’d like to be on his good side if that’s even possible after jumping onto his ship and you think that snooping won’t help your case. You turn to the hatch in the ceiling. Guess you’re climbing the ladder. You’ve just placed your foot on the first rung when a voice coming from over your head makes you jump.

“What are you doing up? Put that foot down, no climbing.” You put your foot right back down, stepping back to give him room as he starts down the ladder. At the bottom he presses something on his vambrace and the lights turn on with an electrical hum. 

When he’s standing in front of you the helmet tilts down and he sighs. You follow his hidden gaze and see why: your leg is bleeding again, soaking the gauze. Shoot, you fucked it up. You did that with the last thigh wound you had too, did too much too soon, and you’d torn the stitches you’d had to do yourself. I mean, you were practically still a child then, and you were alone and things needed doing. You guess it’ll probably be that way again. The next planet the man stops at is where he’ll dump you, you’re sure, and you’ll need to find work if you don’t want to starve. 

You refocus as the man says, “You shouldn’t be up yet.” He glances down again and adds, “Especially with no pants.” 

Ah, yes, that mortifying tidbit that has you wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself.

“Well,” you hedge, not wanting to come off as rude, “You kind of cut off my only pair. The clothes I have on is all I’ve got. Um, and I need water. If that’s okay.”

Another tinny sigh. But he hits a button on the wall that opens a cupboard, stocked with drinking water. He gives you that and then roots around in a storage bin, coming back with black sweatpants and a short sleeved shirt, both soft from use. He glances back at you again, now holding the clothes to your chest, and says, sounding awkward, “I don’t know if you noticed, but, um… your underclothes are kind of ruined too.” One hand slips under the blanket to check and you realize he’s right, they’re also crusted with blood. Great.

“Kark everything,” you mutter, shuffling your feet. He digs around in the box a little more and eventually comes up with a pair of boxer shorts that haven’t been unwrapped yet. 

When you look at the clothes in your hand for a long moment he’s quick to assure you that it’s all clean. You can’t help but snort at that; you’d been thinking that he was being really generous for you being a perfect stranger. In your experience, help like this doesn’t come without strings. For now you just thank him softly.

“Sit down,” he says, nodding his head to your cot. “Drink your water and let me patch that back up.” His tone is firm and you obey almost without thinking, then tense up when you realize it, body going rigid on the cot when his gloved hands brush your upper thigh. Eyes close and you breathe through your nose, setting the canteen of water aside to clench and unclench your fists, trying not to think of the last time someone touched your thigh like that. So soft. At first. 

But your movements don’t go unnoticed and when you come back into your body after feeling no further touches, you see he’s drawn his hands away and the helmet is tilted, observing.

“You’re okay here,” he tells you matter of factly. “I need to get that wound to stop bleeding though. Is it alright if I touch you to do that?”

You nod once, unused to being asked permission for things. His hands are back and as he unwraps the binding he says, “People call me Mando. What do they call you?”

You give him your name as he stands to get the bacta spray from the med kit. You hazard a glance at your uncovered wound and are relieved that you can’t see through it to the cot. It’s still fucking gross though. 

“How long was I asleep?” You ask as he squats before you, applying the medicine. It stings but not too badly. 

“About two day cycles. It’s good you slept so long, helped it heal.” You hum in acknowledgement and he stands. 

“Let me get the other side too,” he says, offering a hand to help you up. You accept it but then are reluctant to remove the blanket from around your shoulders. It feels more vulnerable. After he’d stabbed your thigh, he didn’t want you to look at him. You recall the feeling of your cheek being pressed to a cold metal floor. Suddenly you can’t stand the feeling of durasteel against your bare feet and you plop back down.

“No, that’s okay,” you say stiffly, gaze unfocusing. He lowers himself to your eye level slowly, hands on his knees.

“It’s not okay though. That side reopened as well. If we don’t treat it, it could get infected.”

You silently shake your head, but find your eyes refocusing on the blank mask of his helmet. You find direct eye contact overwhelming, but you don’t have that issue looking into the black of the T-shaped visor.

“What can I do to help? I need to treat it. What would make it easier for you?”

The direct questions help, and you finally say, “Can I keep the blanket on while you do it?”

“I’ll only lift it as much as I need to see the blaster shot. Okay?” You nod and this time step down onto the canvas of your bag. Nothing important in there anyway.  You can’t believe you don’t have your stupid duffel. You turn, and he’s careful not to brush your skin as he slowly lifts the blanket and sprays the area to his satisfaction.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask. “I could be a bad person, or something. Why are you being so nice?” He’s quiet for a long moment, and you start to worry that you overstepped. 

But a minute later he says, “I don’t think you are. I think you jumped on my ship because you needed help. And the kid trusted you. So I’m helping.”

At his words you start to turn your head, like you want to look at him, but then you still again. Staying quiet. Done applying the medicine he roots around in the med kit for more gauze. 

“I’m going to rewrap it now, okay?” Din looks up to see your nod before nudging the blanket further up. You spread your feet a little further apart so he can wind the material around the width of your leg. He does his best not to touch your skin but you have thick thighs, a rounder build; his stomach drops when he does brush against you and you let out a sound like the light touch hurts. He saw the scar on the front of your other thigh. What the kriff had happened to you?

As soon as he lets you know he’s done you ask him to turn around so you can put on the clean clothes. He hears you drop the blanket, fabric shifting softly. He turns his head slightly in your direction when there’s a stumble, but you’re stepping quickly into the pants he’d given you, rolling the waistband a couple of times so they wouldn't slip down. When you untie the colorful scarf around your waist you sigh deeply before dropping it on the ground. 

“This was my favorite thing,” you whisper. Din looks away again quickly when you start to tug your shirt over your head. He only turns back around when he hears you sitting back down on the edge of your makeshift bed–he feels bad that there’s nothing better, but it’s just temporary anyway. 

You finally pick up the water you’d asked for, ripped your leg back open for when you could’ve just called out and asked, drinking like you’d been stuck in the desert. Which maybe you had been, actually, though you’d been running towards the desert when you’d hopped aboard. Din was about to ask about that when you spoke up.

“Why are you still wearing your helmet and armor? Isn’t it the middle of the night?” Normally a question like that would set him on edge, but there’s no judgment in your tone. Your expression is open and curious. You truly just don’t know. 

“I’m a Mandalorian,” he explains, pulling over a crate to sit down across from you, “Our armor is sacred to us. Beskar is rare, so we keep it close. And to remove our helmet in front of another living being is to break the Creed.” 

You seem to think about it for a second, before simply saying, “Okay. Thanks for explaining.” Din feels like there’s more you want to say, so he stays silent, waiting patiently.

“Where are you going to leave me?” You ask after looking into where his eyes would be for a few beats. It almost feels like you are, like you can see him, and the feeling is so foreign he has to physically shake his head to get rid of it. 

He counters with, “Where do you want to go?” 

Your brow furrows. You weren’t expecting a choice, which is normally how it is when you hop planets. Working odd jobs–bartending, farming, that sort of thing–doesn’t earn you enough to be picky. When you don’t answer he asks something else.

“Who were you running from?”

You scoff at that. “I didn’t even know them. I was just…” You trail off, then pick up with, “I was in the cantina minding my own business. They drew their weapons and chased me when I ran.”

Obviously there’s more to it than that but he doesn’t press about it. When you yawn, Mando stands and looks down at you, says, “Get some more sleep. We can talk about this when you’re better. As long as you’re not a danger to me or the kid I won’t ditch you somewhere when you can’t even walk properly.” 

As long as you’re not a danger. No problem there, but the subtly veiled threat still sends a shiver down your spine as he climbs the ladder and the lights click back off. 

[smilemoreimagines]

i would never fall unless it’s you i fall into (Din Djarin/Reader)

Chapter 1

length: 2,269

tw: canon-typical violence

author’s note: hey, it’s been a minute since I’ve written a fanfiction, I’m planning on this one being a slow burn sooo let’s buckle in for a bit, friends! reader is force-sensitive and autistic because I can’t help myself. each chapter will have its own trigger warning just so you know :) I hope you enjoy!

You grew up with former Jedi masters and padawans as your only guiding roles, loved and yet kept at arm’s length at the same time. It was a concept you never got, that need for aloofness, uncaring, detachment. You felt every emotion with every fiber of your being. Happiness was bliss. Sadness was misery. Anger was white hot, burning rage. 

You were taught the ways of the Jedi, trained—for a time anyway—as all of the other Force-sensitive younglings that made their way to your small clan on a forgotten moon in the Outer Rim. It was your family. You had no mother or father but you had an abundance of siblings. It just… shifted, slightly, when it became clear that you weren’t meant for the life of a Jedi. You were only eleven.

They tried to fit you into that mold, and you tried and tried to make yourself smaller, less, less of yourself so that you could just fit in like you yearned to, but your emotions would tangle up inside of you, growing until you burst. And that contradicts their way. You couldn’t help it. It was just how your brain worked. But you were a liability. They still trained you in meditation and simple hand to hand combat, which you were bad at, but you were no longer included in any lessons on the Force.

With a new hole in your life you naturally gravitated towards caring for the younglings still too small to train, and your help meant that all of the masters could be dedicated to the training of the new generation of Jedi. You were useful, appreciated. The older padawans would pat your head or squeeze a shoulder on the way out the door to lessons you were no longer welcome to join. You missed learning about this part of yourself.

You were never explicitly told not to use the Force anymore, though, just that you would no longer be able to walk the path of the Jedi. So, you started to train yourself. You would practice when the little ones were asleep, your abilities growing slowly as you felt out how things worked, what you could manipulate and what you couldn’t. As you learned, your power grew, until you were sixteen years old and you couldn’t hide your power from the masters anymore. If you didn’t use the Force often enough it would build up in you, similarly to your feelings, so you had to use it subtly more often. When they confronted you about your self-training everything came to a head in the absolute worst way and you had no choice but to leave the only home you’d ever known, as a teenager. 

Shit was hard, for a long time. You were so young, and naive, knowing next to nothing about anywhere outside of your tiny piece of the galaxy. It was pure luck you were even able to make it off-world in the first place. And you just wanted to assume the best of people. You were empathetic, to a fault. You were used, got hurt. After that you were almost always alone, save for brief moments stolen in a bed if you were lucky, or a bathroom, or a closet, quick and to the point. Alone for about fifteen years. 

And now, in the present moment, you were absolutely karked, being chased out of Mos Eisley by a bunch of idiots. You’d been in a cantina, drinking some type of cactus flower booze popular on Tatooine, and you were long enough into your night that yeah, maybe you were a little drunk. And maybe absentmindedly used the Force to slowly slide your drink from one end of the table to the other as you daydreamed. You were in a corner booth in the back and thought no one was looking, and the noise of the bar was pushing your brain to the point of feeling like you were buzzing. You came back into your body and flapped your hands a few times to get out the nervous energy of the overstimulation. 

Just your luck that a human man with a thing against Force-users glanced over and saw you right before you stopped, nudging his buddies to point out what you were doing with your glass. They drew their blasters without uttering a single word to you. No warning, no honor. The first shot went wide, missing you by a mile and alerting you to the unfriendlies as one of them spat, “Filthy Jedi. Thought they’d killed the last of you.” 

You whipped your hand out and they all slammed into the bar, some of them dropping their weapons, all of them losing their breath at the impact against the bar carved out of the ground. You were already at the door before any of them recovered enough to give chase. If you could just lose them in the streets you’d lay low for the night, grab your pack from the room you’d been renting,  and get a shuttle off-world in the morning. Stars knew you were ready to get off this planet. It was too kriffing hot. 

Before you managed to round the corner of the street–nearly empty, no crowd to get lost in at this hour even in Mos Eisley–another blaster shot went off. You heard it buzz past your ear, too close, and ran harder. They had the advantage of longer legs though and they gained on you easily, firing as you weaved your way through the streets. There was no way you were going to lose them in the city. 

You were no idiot, you kept a blaster on you at all times, and you’d already grabbed it from your thigh holster. You shot behind you blindly, getting a grunt of pain as reward. You weren’t above shooting a person or two. You just never shot to kill. But there were still more people giving chase than you could ever hope to shoot. You were nearing the outskirts of town and at this point your only hope was pretty much counting on them to not follow you into the desert. The Sand People were a big enough threat around here right now that most people would rather stay in the city and not risk it without a ship or speeders. 

It was usually empty out there. So imagine your surprise when you skidded around the last corner and saw a starship with its ramp down maybe a street’s length away. That could give you the cover you needed to make it to the hills where they definitely wouldn’t follow. You were booking it for the ship, desperate for its cover when there was another wave of blaster fire. This time, they shot true. This time, a bolt burned right through the outer edge of your thigh. You stumbled but didn’t fall, and now you were close enough to the starship to see an imposing figure in the doorway, tall and broad��� But he was holding a tiny creature in his arms, that lifted its own hand to point in your direction. A father and child. 

There was no way you could make it to the hills, but you could make it to that karking ship, hole in your leg or not. You put in a burst of speed as the male figure lifted his own hand and slammed it into the button to close the exterior door. His armor flashed silver in the moonlight and all you could think was no way am I dying on fucking Tatooine. You were so close now that you could see when the little creature closed its eyes and held its hand in the air, body quivering in strained concentration. The raising of the ramp slowed the slightest bit, enough for you to launch yourself through the gap right as it slammed closed. 

“Dank farrik!” The man shouts a curse at you as you lay on the floor panting, his voice coming out rough and modulated. Your chest heaves as you fight for breath, unable to offer explanation as the blaster fire is now aimed at the ship. The man curses again, looking from you to the kid to the closed door and apparently comes to a decision as he whirls around in a dramatic flurry of cape and flashing armor. He climbs the ladder one handed, the little green thing peeking at you over his armored shoulder. 

You guess he’s gone to the cockpit and this is confirmed when the engine roars to life, taking off to get out of the range of fire at most before dumping you in the desert, but as you catch your breath you feel the ship leaving the atmosphere. No longer in immediate mortal danger you start to feel the blinding pain in your thigh. You feel around the spot tentatively and suck in a sharp breath–at least it didn’t hit your femoral artery–but when you sit up to assess the extent of the damage and subsequently see the durasteel floor straight through your leg, you think that it’s pretty justified when you let out a shout of, “What the kriff?” and promptly pass out.

When you wake up, you’re pretty sure you were only out for a few minutes, at most. Your hand twitches at your side before you’ve opened your eyes but when your fingers move you can feel that they’re wet. You groan and slowly open your eyes, blinking against the harsh artificial lights overhead, and when you prop yourself up with one arm you’re met by the sight of your own blood starting to form a puddle around your leg. 

Kriffing hell, you’ve never wished so badly that you’d been trained as a Jedi a little longer so that you could Force-heal yourself. Alas, as it stands, you don’t even have bacta patches, or gauze, for crying out loud, in your small day pack. You hadn’t exactly been planning on heading off-planet and didn’t have your duffel with you. The duffel containing all of your clothes, med kit, and most of your credits… You are so karking screwed.

Without any other options that you can see and your mind getting foggy from blood loss, you manage to call out in a voice rough from disuse, “Uh, I think I’m bleeding out on your floor?”

Part of you expects to get no reply. Easier to dump a body and mop up some blood than help a stranger who jumped onto your ship while being pursued by a bunch of blaster-happy assholes. But after just a moment, a little green head–wrinkly head? Not a child?–looks down at you from the open hatch in the ceiling, its dark eyes huge as it takes in what must be a pretty gruesome scene, before a large gloved hand scooches it from the edge as it gurgles and points at you insistently. So definitely a child? You’re so confused. The puddle around you is growing. Is it freezing on this ship or what? You shiver.

“Okay kid, alright. I’m going. Stay there.” That same modulated voice says softly, barely able to be heard over the engines rumbling beneath you.

A silver blur comes down the ladder. You blink and then he’s crouched next to you, lightly patting your cheek with his gloved hand, the helmet’s speaker crackling as he says, “Hey there, stowaway. Stay awake.” You want to say no, petulant as a child, because sleep sounds so good right about now. 

“No?” You open your eyes again–when did you close them?–at the snip of annoyance in his voice. 

Using your inside voice on the outside, not a great sign, but you can’t stop your mouth from moving. “Yeah,” you slur, “Cuz I don’t feel so good.” 

You haven’t been this injured since… no, even in this state you cut off that thought before it can form into a memory. This time the pat to your face is more of a slap, and you wake up with a breathless gasp. Stars, you feel like you're dying. 

“Stars, I feel like I’m dying,” you say aloud. Shoot, why are you doing that? It’s a miracle he can even make out the words, but he responds, “Dank farrik, you might be.” You frown at that. You don’t think you want to die quite yet. You raise your head, seeing spots, to see what he’s even karking doing, you can’t feel shit in your leg now, and see an open med kit, bacta shot syringe empty and your thigh holster unclipped on the floor, this huge armored man currently cutting your pants off with what looks like a hunting knife.

“Don’t do that,” you whimper, and that black T-shaped visor turns to look at you, unreadable. 

“It’s okay,” he says in a low, calming voice, “I just have to clean the area around the wound. You’re alright.”

He uses the bacta spray liberally, and you wince, hissing at the initial sharp sting. One hand, the leather of the glove soft on your skin, flattens on your leg, squeezing lightly, the touch distracting. He shifts you onto your side to clean the back of the wound as well. Phaser shots are nasty things. 

A nauseating shiver of anxiety runs through you, unbidden, from the feeling of your bare legs on a metal floor, a stab wound in your thigh… no, blaster shot through the thigh, your other leg, you’re not there… That must be the last straw though because you pass out, and this time you don’t wake up for what feels like a long, long time.

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 7

length: 2,521

tw: smut

author’s note: fuck me this took forever, so sorry about that.  but it’s finally done.  it’s got smut and it’s the last chapter and i hope y’all enjoy it!  i sure did, i haven’t finished a multi-chapter fic since i was like 14 so i’m pretty proud lol.  it may be a bit out of character at the end, but it made me happy to write so i’m leaving it as is.  once again I hope you enjoy this final part!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

You and the Witcher make quite a pair walking back into Solma, drenched in mud and gore.  His eyes, at least, have returned to their usual gold, so no one runs away screaming--he had warned you that might happen, the casual way he said it weighing on your heart.  On that mostly-silent walk, you resolved that you would stoke the burning warmth that resides in you, chase away the coldness of other people that lingers in the set of his jaw, his hard and guarded face.  

You left that other village because you knew that feelings were creeping up on you; you could have waited for him to return outside of town, but you were too scared of your own emotions.  But you can’t run from them, you don’t want to run from them, not anymore.  

He is clearly headed for an inn, the one he told you Roach is stabled at, but you redirect him.

“We should collect your payment now,” you say, “And I know just where Konrad will be.”

You ignore the question in his eyes, lead him to the bar that those asses entered just a few hours ago.  They are still there, in the crowd that all end up with eyes on the Witcher.  He approaches Konrad, the man who hired him.

“I’ll take my payment,” Geralt says. 

The man, coward that he is, fumbles for his coin purse and hands it over silently, watching Geralt weigh it in his hand, open the bag to check the coin.

“You will find it is all there, Witcher,” he finally says.  “All 250 ducat.”  

Geralt gives a clipped nod, but you aren’t satisfied.  

You step up to the man, tell him, “That’s not nearly the amount he is owed.  You lied about how many Drowners he would find in that swamp, sent him there expecting him to die.  500 ducat.”

He barks out a laugh.  “500?  Who do you think you are, girl?  I do not have that kind of money.”

“Then you will find it.  You hired him saying you’d pay anything knowing that he’d give you a fair price,” you say with a dangerous glint in your eye. “I met your friends earlier, did they tell you about me?  They are alive because the Witcher is.  You are not out of the woods yet; not until he is paid a fair price for the work he’s done.  For saving more of your people from dying.”

It is all an act, one that you are not sure you play well, but he gestures to the men around him and they pass him their coin, most shooting him dirty looks.  He will not be well liked in this town after tonight.

When all of the money is rounded up and counted out, you turn to Geralt.  You cannot tell by his expression what he thinks of any of this, but when you ask him for a bag to fit the coin in, he conjures one.  

On your way out the door, Konrad says, “I am a father in mourning.  You should be ashamed to be taking my coin.”

You pause, remember when he first enlisted Geralt that he said his daughter was one of the people killed.  You feel sorry for her, maybe a little for him as well.  You answer in a softer voice.  “Half of it was not your coin anyway.  I am sorry for your loss, but you should not have lied when the stakes were so high.”  

Outside, you sigh, say, “I need a bath.  I stink like rotting fish.” 

Geralt says nothing and you face him, not sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t the hint of a lopsided smile that he hides just as you see it.

“What?” You ask.

He hums, considers his words before saying, “You’re more fierce than when we met.”

“Is fierceness a bad look on me?  It feels a little silly,” you admit.

“I have a feeling you’ll grow into it.”

You are not sure what he means by that exactly, but he’s already turned his back on you, conversation ended.  He is walking to the inn; to a bath, you think excitedly, and trot after him.

But as soon as you walk in the door you are shooed back out.

“I’ll not have that mess in here, get out, the two of ya.”  The woman barring entry holds no malice in her voice, at least.  

“We wish to pay for baths and board,” Geralt tries to explain, “We’ll pay well.”

“You need more than a bath!  Filthy, you are…  Save your money, there is a water pump and pail around the building.”  She turns and meanders to a closet, putters around for a moment before finding what she’s looking for.  She returns to the front door and presses soap into Geralt’s hand.  “Get yourselves clean out there.  The brisk air will do you good.  I’ll start the fire in your room so you can warm up inside.”

She slams the door in your faces, but that’s fair enough, you think.  Not that you relish the thought of being drenched with cold water.  Geralt scowls but walks around the building as she said, finding the pump nestled between the inn and the stables.  

You peek in and greet Roach and when you turn around Geralt is in the process of stepping out of his clothes.  You flush and turn back to the stable; of course you’ll need to take off your clothes, they need washed as well, but you hadn’t thought about it.  You listen to him filling the pail and tipping it over his head, fidget in the silence as he cleans.  You busy your hands with your bag, which you’ve been wearing the whole time and is as muddy as the rest of you.  Luckily the things inside of it are clean, if not wet.  You finger the embroidery of your mother’s shawl, tucked safely away.  

“Your turn,” Geralt rumbles, walking past you to get clean clothes from Roach’s saddlebags.  Is nowhere safe for you to look?  He may be confident in his nudity, but you are not, and you ask him to please stay in the stable while you wash.  

You do not hear him step any nearer while you strip or in the time it takes you to upend bucket after freezing bucket over your head--he is lucky he was not half-drowned in mud, you think--but you feel eyes on you at one point or another.  You are not annoyed at him for looking.  

Once clean you call over your shoulder, “Do you have a shirt I might wear for the night?” 

He brings it to you where you stand, shivering, passes it to you and when you turn to take it he is looking away obligingly.  The black fabric is worn soft from time and use, and you relish the slight warmth it brings you; you think he was holding it while he waited.  

Even though you’re clothed now you feel naked under his gaze and hastily suggest, “We should go inside now, to the fire the innkeeper promised us.”

He nods his assent and follows you inside, silent as a cat but you trust that he is there.  The innkeeper insists that she take your bag and clean it and the clothes inside for you.  You take out your mother’s shawl before handing over the bag.  She gives Geralt the key to your room.

The fire is burning merrily, crackling and sparking and heating the cold from you.  You kneel at the hearth and stretch your hands out close to the blaze, groaning at the toasty feeling.  The sleeves of Geralt’s shirt slip and bunch at your elbows, past your healing wounds, and you finger the raised flesh lightly.  

“It’s almost healed,” he remarks, that voice of his rumbling behind you.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it from scarring.”

“What a silly thing to be sorry for,” you retort, glancing at him over your shoulder.  He is standing near the door still, and you roll your eyes at him as you say, “Come here, Geralt.  Sit by the fire; you must be freezing.”

He obeys wordlessly and it startles you when his thigh brushes yours before settling firmly beside you.

“Like a mouse you are,  Geralt,” you say a little breathlessly, “So quiet.  I never know what you’ll do next.”

“I could say the same of you,” he says.

You glance at him only to find that he is already looking at you, the fire’s light playing with his hard features, but his eyes are soft, liquid gold.  You open your mouth with nothing to say and so instead of saying anything you turn toward him fully and close the distance between your lips and his.  He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his movements almost tentative. Almost, but not quite.  

But still not enough; you want him to hold you like something cherished, something forged in fire, strong and lovely and stable.  You whine your displeasure against his lips and tug lightly on his hair.  

This does something to him, he slows and pulls back the distance of a breath, rumbles out, “Do that again, little elf.”  

He presses himself to you firmly then, teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you tug again, harder, groans when you shift closer, both of you readjusting until you are seated on his lap, legs bracketing one of his thick thighs.  You feel the fabric of his trousers on your nakedness, press down without meaning to, and he pulls back for a moment, pupils blown wide, before trailing his hands up your thighs, bunching up the hem of the shirt he gave you so that he may hold your bare hips and guide your movements.

You have never felt like this before; by your own hand it was good, but with another person you’ve not felt pleasure.  You throw your head back when he grinds you down harder, baring your neck to him, and as he kisses your throat one hand comes up, tucks your hair behind your ear and you look at him, more than a little fear creeping up in your chest, the way he is touching you so like that boy, so many years ago…

He meets your eyes steadily, his movements not slowing, his calloused finger tracing over the scarred shell of your ear and the tenderness of that tiny gesture is what tips you over.  You are coming and he is kissing you through it, slowing the press of your hips until you are still.  You come down from that high to find yourself still wanting, and you shove his shoulders down.  He complies, plays as if you could actually push him to the ground, his lips quirking up into an expression you can only describe as soft, maybe even affectionate.

Looking down at him, you command in a husky voice you barely recognize as your own, “Make me feel that way again, Geralt.”  

As soon as you’ve said the words you regret them; who are you to be ordering around anyone, let alone Geralt of Rivia, and what if he’s displeased by you telling him what to do?  

But then he is sitting up from under you to tug the hem of your shirt over your head, looking at you like he wants to devour you, and all worry leaves your mind.  All there is is the feeling of his thumb brushing over one nipple, his tongue laving over the other, stubble rough on your skin.  

You are torn between wanting to tip your head back to focus on the feeling of what he’s doing to you and wanting to watch his mouth work on you, but then he is moving, lifting you with him to stand, your legs wrapping around his hips and his face brushing against your neck.  He walks you to the bed, shifts you to hold you with one arm so he can pull the blankets back and lay you down.  

You look up at him, slightly breathless and thoroughly debauched.  He looks back, eyes so dark with lust but his face is open, strong jaw relaxed and for a moment you let yourself think he almost appears worshipful.  

I will die a happy sinner, you muse, and then he is tugging off his trousers and settling himself between your thighs and there’s no more time for thoughts because he is doing something with his fingers that feels absolutely delicious.  He works his fingers in you, stretching, gentle, watching your expression all the while for any signs of discomfort but there are none.

“More, Geralt, please,” you sigh, “I need you.”

“You’re sure?”

You nod too enthusiastically and he hides a laugh by kissing you, stealing your gasp when he enters you.  You discover the sweet pleasured sound he makes when he is seated to the hilt, pausing to let you adjust before setting a slow pace.  This tenderness is what you need, the steady rock of his hips against yours quickly building inside of you until you are on the edge and then coming over it, around him; he follows soon after.

For a moment you lay there together, sleepiness starting to cloud your mind until he is standing up and walking away and your heart jumps to your throat.  

You sit up in a panic and he glances over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised cheekily, simply saying, “I’m just getting a cloth. Stay right there, lay back down.”  

Once again you are flushed when he returns, gaze averted until he is under the blankets and resting on one elbow to carefully clean you up.  When done he drops onto his back beside you; you don’t want to presume anything so you stay where you are, just barely touching, before he curls an arm around you and tugs you closer.  It is his warmth and his slow heartbeat that lull you to sleep and soon you are both snoring softly, more relaxed than you have been in a long time.

You wake feeling pleasantly sore, and unlike the last time you shared a bed with Geralt, he is still lying next to you, even though the sun is already decidedly risen.  You turn to face him, eyeing how low on his hips he’s let the blanket get, his hands folded on his belly just above that tantalizing trail down…  And you notice how he’s tipped his face to you, watching you watching him, his lips quirking up as you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.  

“How did you do that?” He eventually asks, voice pitched low.

“Do what?”

“Make me enjoy your company so damned quickly.  Make me like you.  I don’t just do that.”

You shrug, smile giving you away before you can even get the words out.  “I guess I’m just a people person.”

He laughs that laugh again, so rusty with disuse, and you promise to yourself and to the universe that you will get him to make that sound often and openly.  The way he is looking at you makes you think that you can.

[smilemoreimagines]

I am almost done with chapter 7 and have decided there will also be a chapter 8. Right now I am writing about Geralt getting naked, so maybe that will spark interest for this series after such a long stretch with no updates 😩 thank you for the kind comments and your patience!

[smilemoreimagines]

I am so sorry chapter 7 isn’t out yet, the only reason is that every time I go to my room to write my mom starts yelling for me to hang out with her :/ Eventually I will be free and will have another chapter lol

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 6

length: 1,717

tw: canon-typical violence

author’s note: I hope this chapter was worth the wait; I’m pretty happy with it! I just made Solma up, I imagine it as a small city. Fair warning that I think the next chapter will be the last.  Thanks for reading!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

You aren’t ready yet to face any more people, so you walk along the road all night, slipping into the treeline as the sun rises.  The ground is too wet to sleep on, and your shoes are soaked through and muddy, but after some searching you find a tree with thick enough branches to sit on comfortably, resting against the trunk.  You climb high enough to not worry about wolves and hang your shoes to dry; you fall asleep quickly despite the early winter chill in the air.

But your sleep is fitful, plagued by dreams full of blood and heartache that feel more like premonitions than you would like.  You don’t sleep long enough and are too exhausted to climb down quite yet, so you waste more time up in the tree, eat up half your loaf of bread and cheese, ponder how far less-than-a-day’s-ride is, how long it takes to walk it.

But no, that’s a foolish thought and you’re a foolish woman for thinking it.  You should not expect to see the Witcher again.  You should not be hoping for people to come into your life for good, to stay.  How many times must you learn the lesson that the ones you care for are torn from you or turn on you?  Your parents, the boy you trusted.  The Witcher, someday, if you would have stayed with him.

Huffing, you tug on your mostly-dry shoes, clamber down to the ground.  Your arm hurts from the strain but does not reopen.  You leave the bloodstained bandage at the base of the tree.  Soon enough you will only have scars to remind you of the Witcher who saved your life.

It is well past midday when you get back on the road, walking the muddy way to Solma.  When you finally see it on the horizon, painted golden by the light, it seems like a city out of a fairytale, so much grander than anything you have ever seen before.  You do your best to not let it awe you, but how could it not?

The outskirts of town have more farms than your whole village, and the first real street of cobblestone is lined with two taverns, a brothel, an inn, apothecary, potionmaster… 

What you wouldn’t give to have been dropped in this town as a child.  But then again, you likely would not have met Geralt, which of course doesn’t matter as you won’t see him again and doesn’t change the cruelty you endured before him and will continue to endure after.

And then, as if summoned by thinking of him, wishing for him, you hear his name spoken aloud.

“Geralt of Rivia was hired to get rid of them.”

“If anyone can do it it’s the Butcher, alright.”

“And if not, that’s one less fucking Witcher on the continent.”

There are so many people streaming past you, you whirl to give faces to the voices, and there: two young men, walking towards a bar. 

“I hear Konrad told him there were only two,” one says with a cruel smile, “Thought he might not accept the job if he knew there was a whole pack of them.”

There’s a roaring in your ears, your head a mess of thoughts you can’t string together, your focus narrowing to a point.

“Wonder if we’ll be hearing of the Butcher of Blaviken found dead.”

“Any day now, I reckon.”

No.  No.  He saved you.  He saved you from your life, and you will not let that debt go unpaid.  You will save him in turn, or die trying.

You catch one of the men by the sleeve in the doorway of the bar, certainly sound deranged when you say, “Tell me where I can get a weapon.”

He looks as if he wants to shake you off, instead points, tells you the smith is just down the road.

He turns, but you don’t let go.

“And the Drowners.  Point me in their direction.”

His friend sneers, “A little thing like you?  What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to save the gods damned White Wolf,” you snarl, “And if you don’t tell me where he is and I find him dead, I will hunt you down and gut you.”

Both of their faces are wiped of smiles, and they stammer over each other to tell you, east, the Drowners have been hunting from the swamp a mile out of town.

“Thank you.”  You turn on your heel to jog to the smith, whispering to yourself, “Gut them?  What the hell am I doing?”

The blacksmith sells you a dagger for seven gold pieces, a steep price for a small weapon, but you don’t have the knowledge or time to dispute it, so you thank him and go.  On your hurried way through town you pass through an open market, the sights and smells so new and inviting, but all you can picture is Geralt walking through it on his way to a hunt he wasn’t prepared for.  

The mile to the swamp is the longest of your life.

You arrive around dusk, dagger clutched in your hands, your heart pounding wildly.  You killed Lyden, but that is different than defeating a creature that lives to hunt and is likely starving this far north on the edge of winter.

Out here there is no dry land, and you are ankle deep in freezing mud and so fucking enraged that Geralt was sent out here to die.

That rage does not protect you from the Drowners, though.  The swamp water is to your knees when you hear squelching footsteps approaching and you cannot tell where they are coming from until it is almost on you, a cadaverous humanoid towering over you.  You duck under its reaching arms, a stroke of dumb luck, and while it is turned you tackle it, clinging to the slimy skin with one arm and driving your dagger into its head with the other, again and again and again until it drops, you tumbling down into the murky water with it.  

You pant out heavy breaths and get to your feet, feeling unsteady when you hear a familiarly rough voice bark, “Look out!”

You turn and another one is right there, right in your face, pushing you down and you hear Geralt’s sword singing through the air, tearing through Drowners, but all of that is dimmed when you lose your footing and the creature shoves your head underwater.  Geralt is too far away to help you and you panic for a moment--you do not want to die, don’t want to be drowned out here, don’t want Geralt to have to deal with your death if he lives--but you are not a damsel in distress, never were much of one and you certainly aren’t after murdering your keeper.

You shove your blade up, grit your teeth at the effort of ripping through the monster’s belly, its stinking guts spilling onto you as you shove it off.  You come up spluttering, gasping, but Geralt might still need your help and that thought urges you to stand, eyes darting until they find the Witcher facing the last of the Drowners.  You watch as he slices the head cleanly from the shoulders.  

As soon as it drops his gaze meets yours.  It is night in earnest now, but the moonlight is bright and reflects off of tar dark eyes, black veins creeping along his face.  He sucks in a breath, takes a half step back, and you see now what people were talking about, you see a man that looks like a demon fresh from hell.  

You take two slow steps towards him before breaking into a run, splashing and clumsy; he drops his sword to catch you when you throw your arms around him, lifts you out of the water, so solid against you.  If he is a demon, so be it; you will sin happily as long as it’s for him.

“You’re okay,” you breathe, “I was so worried.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”  He sets you lightly back down onto your own feet, sounding choked, so obviously distressed to be seen like this.  “You could’ve been killed.  Are you fucking crazy?”

“I got to Solma and people were saying you were probably dead.  I was so scared for you!”  His eyes widen at that.  You suspect he expected you to be scared of him, not for him, the dense man. 

But he doesn’t focus on that, not right now.  “Why were you in Solma in the first place?  Where’s Jaskier?”

“It’s fine, he’s fine, he’s still at the inn.  You don’t need to worry.”

“Why did you leave?” He presses.

You are apprehensive of how he’ll react, but he would find out sooner or later, so you say in a sigh, “They found out.  They wouldn’t have me there any longer.”

His fathomless eyes come alight with his fury, and you reach for him but he steps back, winces then tries to hide it, asks, “Are you hurt?”

“Are you?” You counter, scanning his body in the silvery light.  A slash on his thigh bleeding sluggishly, but no other damage that you can see.  You glance at his face only to see him taking stock of you as well.

“The only thing wrong with me right now is that I am covered in mud and monster guts.  I’m fine.  You are the one with a bleeding leg.  Please come back with me, let me patch you up.”

He grunts noncommittally, but when you brush a hand over his cheek, whisper, “Please, Geralt,” he gives the slightest nod and fishes his sword from the water.  You have travelled with him before, know that he is so much quicker than you are, but now he shortens his steps and walks in stride with you all the way back to Solma.  

You think of your lonely, miserable walk the previous night, thank the gods that destiny saw fit to throw the Witcher back on your path.  You have always been in the shadow of death and loss and loneliness, but you are tired of that, so tired.  For a while at least, you will bask in the warmth of this man’s company, as long as he will let you.

[smilemoreimagines]

Hey guys, I’m still working on Something Tragic About You but since the world is falling apart around us I now have some more time on my hands. So if you wanna send in requests for one shots I would be happy to write em for you!

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 5

length: 1,492

tw: mention of past sexual assault

author’s note: I’m sorry it took so long to update, this chapter (and life) kicked my ass and I’m still not totally satisfied with it but I wanted to post anyway.  I hope you enjoy!  and I promise Geralt will return in the next chapter :)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Jaskier is a force to be reckoned with, in terms of conversation, and you are slightly surprised by the relative tenderness Geralt shows when listening to his friend talk and gossip.  The bard throws out names and places that sound beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, inquiring if Geralt remembers whatever adventure Jaskier roped them into, only getting answering grunts which you can’t tell mean yes or no.

When you glance out the window the sun is getting low in the sky and the snow is starting to melt, dripping from the roof.  As you are wondering when it will be fully melted, a man rides up on a horse shiny with sweat and he throws himself from the saddle, the door slamming open a moment later.

“Where’s the Witcher?” He shouts, eyes wild. 

“Shit,” Geralt grumbles.  

The inkeep points to your table and the stranger staggers over, says, “Witcher, I’m in need of your services.  A pair of Drowners, not a day’s ride from here, toward the city, got the mayor’s boy and my own daughter.  We’ll pay anything.”

Geralt closes his eyes and sighs, says under his breath, “Can I get one fucking week without a monster?”

Jaskier is not hesitant to give his two cents.  He tells Geralt to do it, take the coin to buy some new clothes.  He looks at you, takes in your old handmade dress, adds that Geralt could afford to get you something nice as well.

The Witcher hmms, tells the man, “I’ll do it for no less than 250 ducat.  We leave now,” then addresses the innkeeper, “I will pay for rooms for my two companions when I return.  See to it they get food as well.”

“I know you are good for your payment, Witcher,” the man answers.

Jaskier gives the parting remark, “Fight hard and return with coin!”

As the door is closing you call out, “Please be safe, Geralt.”

He pauses in the doorway, looks at you with those liquid amber eyes, murmurs, “I will be.”  

And he is gone.

“Ah, well, there he goes again,” Jaskier says, breaking you from your thoughts.  “It is to be expected though.  He’s always leaving.”

You note a hint of dryness in his tone, but when he speaks again it is with a renewed cheerfulness.

“What to do now but drink, hm?  Maybe find a bedfellow for the night…”  

Those winterblue eyes catch on yours, lingering in his trailed off invitation.

“I will drink with you,” you say carefully, not wanting to offend, “But I wish to sleep alone.”

It’s not that you don’t have desire, just that you engaged in the act only once before and it didn’t end well.  And if you think of bringing anyone to bed, there is only one man who comes to mind.  But Jaskier seems unaffected by your rejection, his eyes crinkling in a smile when he orders your first round of drinks.

You nearly spit out your first sip when the bard says, “I can see that you are getting tangled in his web, you know.  I have certainly looked at him the same way.  But he never quite looked back at me as he does you; like you are something he’s been searching for for a long time.  It’s nice, to see him interested in someone, for once.”

You take a big gulp from your ale, feel your nerves jangling.  You cannot tell if it’s pleasant or not.

“That can’t be right,” you finally manage, “He’s a Witcher, they aren’t supposed to… to feel things like that.”

In this moment Jaskier seems much more knowing than he previously let on, calmly tells you, “Maybe other Witchers.  But you and I both know that isn’t true of Geralt.” 

Deep down you feel his words ring true, but you don’t know what to do with this information, that Geralt may think as warmly of you as you do him.

You don’t know what to do, so you down the rest of your drink and order another.  Jaskier’s coin purse is full and his heart generous, and though it takes a bit to get you drunk, that is how you find yourself some time later, when it is late enough that the townspeople have gathered to drink as well.  

The room is full enough that you feel bad taking up a table when you have certainly drunk your fill already, Jaskier too if his rosy cheeks are any indication, so you suggest a walk.  

He offers you his arm when you step outside; a true gentleman.  The air is chilled and feels nice on your flushed cheeks, the moon lighting enough to see the road muddy with snowmelt, the stars peeking out of the black velvet sky.  You walk arm-in-arm, the bard singing something soft and sweet.  

Feeling bold, you release him for a moment to tuck your hair behind your ears, brush a finger over the small scar there before admitting, “I am not experienced enough to know what to do about Geralt.”

The bard considers, then says, “I find it best to do what feels right.”

You mull over his simple advice, and though it is sound, you don’t know if you can do it.  “The last time--the only time--I did what felt right in regards to romance it ended poorly.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“I suppose so.”  You’ve never told anyone about that night, but the alcohol seems to make you candid, and so you tell him about your job as a barmaid, the travellers who would shamelessly flirt, the one who seemed genuine and funny and kind.  “He took me out back,” you say, “And it was all fun until I was halfway undressed and he saw my ears.  He became mean, he hurt me and did not stop until he was finished.  I don’t like to think about it.  But thank you, for listening.”

You stop walking to take in calming breaths, and the bard stops too, watches as you try to school your expression to something neutral.  

“I really do like him, Jaskier.”  Your voice cracks when you speak, this admission a weight on your heart that you don’t know how to bear, because you’ve never had to bear it before.  Hope and love are new to you, and scary in their mystery.  

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something right as a woman steps out of her door to empty a pail and happens to glance at you.  You notice her mouth press to a thin line, her eyes narrow, and you are confused until she spits, “Filthy elf.”

Your ears, you’d pulled your hair back and she can see your ears.

Jaskier steps in front of you, says, “We’re just passing through.”

You recognize her now; she is the woman who smiled at you earlier today, so friendly when she thought you were human.  Jaskier is tugging on your hand, hurrying you back to the inn, but as he is ushering you up the stairs to the safety of your room, the front door bangs open and she yells your secret to the good people of the town.

She is pointing, and every eye in the bar turns to you, and she hisses, “Endell, are you going to let the creature stay in your inn?  Surely not.”

He sighs, looks to you apologetically, but echoes, “Surely not.  You must go, girl.”

What can you do but obey?  Your heart pounds in your throat as you go, your skin prickling under the scrutiny.  You’re at the edge of town when Jaskier catches up to you with your bag.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, his words sounding like a plea, “You don’t have to leave alone.”

You shake your head.  “You need to be here when Geralt returns.  Maybe we will meet again, Jaskier.”

“Here, at least take this.  The innkeep wanted me to give you some food; he felt bad that woman found out.  He said to be safe.”  The bard presses a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese into your hands, wrapped in a handkerchief.  You slip it into your bag.  “And take this as well.  I also want you to stay safe out there.”  He gives you ten gold coins, more money in the palms of your hands than you’ve ever held before.  You swipe away stray tears, smile at him, though you know it isn’t convincing.

“Thank you, my friend.”

You don’t look back when you leave the town’s border.

You only pause when he shouts, “I pray that the fates cross our paths again.”

The night stretches long before you, empty time with nothing to do but think, but there is only one thought that pounds in your head, drums in your heart.  You should have known not to trust a good thing to last.   You deny the tiny spark of hope that still lingers in your chest, weak but there nonetheless.

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 4

length: 1,472

tw: none

author’s note: this one was fun to write, and I already have the next chapter kinda planned out in my head, so it shouldn’t be too long of a wait! thanks for reading <3

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

It’s not so much brighter when you wake and are ready to face the day, only to see that Geralt is gone.  You dress as quickly as you can, yanking on warm layers and shoving your nightgown into your bag.  The Witcher has not left anything in the room, and you figure that he’s left for good while hoping that he will be waiting at a table for you downstairs.  It’s a stupid wish, yet you still feel a pang in your chest when it isn’t granted.  A few days with a gruff sort of kindness and you’re already addicted.

The innkeep sees you looking around and lets you know the room’s been paid for, asks if you’d like breakfast while you wait for your Witcher to return.

You scoff.  Your Witcher.  You will not dally around waiting for a man that isn’t coming back.

The blizzard has broken and the sun dazzles in the snow, near blinding you.  You were worried you’d have to wade through as you’d done most of yesterday, but you find paths shoveled out, people going about their daily business.  At least until the edge of town you can walk easily.  And after that?  You suppose you’ll head south, far enough that you won’t fear freezing to death when you sleep.  You imagine warm sun, a cool river, soft grass and dappled shade.  

You are snapped from your daydream when a woman walks your way.  When you nod in greeting she smiles in return, passing you by.  How strange the difference that the small distance from here to home has made; you find yourself charmed by this little village where no one knows you.  

Despite willing yourself to begin your journey alone, your feet take you down the path to the small stable beside the inn, only a few horses waiting in stalls.  You have always felt safest with animals near, and you’re comforted by these horses, with their sturdy strength and big brown eyes.  You reach out to the velvety nose of a huge mare, and she whickers and leans into your touch.  She’s a magnificent creature, and as you continue petting her you can’t help but start talking.  

Eventually you settle in the hay with your back to her stall door, and tell her of your past few days.  You tell her that you were ready for that beast to kill you, maybe even welcomed it, that you are ashamed of the growing warmth you feel toward the Witcher, the lack of remorse for killing Lyden.  Your eyes are closed and there’s a small thrill buzzing through you at the thought of your freedom, the sweet scent of hay, and you ask of the mare, “How is it that I feel more peace in murdering a man than liking one?  Has something in me broken?”

For a moment you think you imagine the voice that speaks when you’re done.  “I see you met Roach,” Geralt rumbles, “I find her company engaging as well.”

You startle slightly, feeling guilty that you tense up; surely he’s had his fill of people being afraid of him.

“I’m sorry,” you rush to say, “I just didn’t hear you approach…”  You trail off when you notice he seems unbothered.  He stands over you, rubbing the horse’s nose as you’d been doing.  So this is the Roach he’d mentioned.

“What were you talking about?” He inquires, his eyes dipping to your packed bag before training his gaze on you, watching as you stand and brush hay from your skirts.

“I was asking this lovely mare where she will take you next.”  It isn’t a total lie; you’d mulled over with her what would happen to you now that he’d left the town.  Which he didn’t, apparently.  You wonder now if he’ll allow you to keep tagging along or if it’s time to part ways.  You’ve never had a companion before Geralt and you can’t pretend away the fondness that is growing in your heart.  You frown.

“You weren’t talking to her about where you’re going?”  He looks again at your bag and you shift on your feet, looking at Roach to avoid looking at him.

“It’s just… I thought you’d left, so I was going to move on as well.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You’re surprised he asks, and when you look back up at him he seems genuinely curious. 

“I guess I was hoping you’d come back.”

He has no response for that but a deep hmm.  He turns from you and says, “I’ve just been paid for killing the beast that nearly killed you.  It’s time for lunch.”

That is the closest to an invitation you think he will give, so with one last pat for Roach you scurry after the Witcher, thinking the dazzle of the sun on snow gives him a halo-glow that suits him as much as his armor and swords.  

You can tell from outside the inn that it is infinitely more rowdy than before, rivalling even your own tavern --not yours, not anymore, you have to remind yourself-- and when you enter the people are gathered around an extravagantly dressed man sitting on the bar.  He is telling a story with a cup in hand, his wild gesticulations spilling drink, clearly a little drunk already even though it is barely noon.

Geralt is in front of you in the doorway and he visibly stiffens.  You step abreast of him, notice his clenched jaw, ask, “Do you know him?”

But then the storyteller lets out a delighted yell, hops from the bar and slips between townsfolk to plant his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders and say, “Geralt, you brute, I haven’t seen you in ages!  Best friends should be in contact more often than this.  Who is this delightful morsel of a girl, is she with you?”

It takes you a moment to process that you are the delightful morsel and you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.  

Geralt, on the other hand, shrugs the man off and retorts, “It hasn’t been long enough since I last saw you, Jaskier.”

But Jaskier just laughs, and Geralt walks away from the both of you, setting himself down at a table.  You and Jaskier both trot after him.  Now that the entertainment is over, most of the people leave, dispersing to get back to work.

Jaskier calls for a round for his dear friend and fair maiden then says to you, “Where on this continent did Geralt find you, my lady?  I could write countless songs of your beauty.”  He perks up after his proclamation and trots to the bar to retrieve an abandoned lute and returns, plucking out a melody.  Oh, apparently he is going to do this now.

“Fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt says, but there’s not much force behind the words.  “She needed help and I happened to be there.”

“Ooh, so what was it that almost got you?” 

“Bard, stop,” Geralt warns.

“No, it’s fine,” you interject, “I don’t mind.”  You carefully push your sleeve up to show him your bandage.  There’s less blood blotting the white linen, your skin finally starting to heal after a couple days not using the arm for anything strenuous.  

Not insensitively, he wonders aloud, “Could you not have healed at home?”

“Wasn’t much of a home,” you snort.

“Really?  Why not?”

The bard means no harm in asking, but you still feel yourself blanche, your stomach drop.  It surprises you when Geralt speaks.

“This is why.”

He reaches over to you and tucks your hair carefully behind one pointed ear.  Jaskier watches this with rapt attention and your heart skips as you sweep your hair back into place, expecting the man to say something awful about your heritage or to leave or to get up and sing it to the whole inn.  

But he does none of those things; instead, he looks to Geralt and says, “I’ve known you for how many years?  And you’ve never once brushed my hair from my face.  But you know this girl, what?  A week?”

“I think it’s been just four days, actually,” you interrupt, bewildered by this response.

Jaskier sputters, “What?  Four days!  And you touch her all tender and sweet!  I thought we had a good thing going, but I guess I mean no more to you than a two-penny whore.”  He throws an exasperated hand in the air and picks up his cup with the other, taking a long pull from his drink.  “I suppose I’d best start writing something maudlin now for my lost love.”

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, rolling his eyes.

“I like this bard,” you tell the Witcher.

“Fuck,” he says again, more emphatically.  But when you grin, you think you see the corner of his mouth twitch up, just for a second.

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 3

word count: 1137

tw: mentions of blood, not graphic

author’s note: sorry for the wait, I’ve had projects due this week so I was really busy!  just a short & sweet chapter to tide y’all over until I can finish writing the next one. I hope you enjoy!

Part 1, Part 2

You wake feeling blanketed by more than just your cloak, and when you sit up you disturb the drift of snow that started to cover you while you slept.  You look around and spot Geralt in a similar state, dozing upright against a tree.  The flakes are still falling, thick and fast.  When you stand and start dusting yourself off Geralt shifts and rouses himself.  

He brushes the snow from his clothes as you are doing, and says, “It’s unseasonable weather for this time of year; I didn’t think it would pile up so quickly.  We probably won’t get to town before dark.”

He’s right.  It keeps snowing and the drifts grow and walking becomes harder.  You are not very tall and it gets to the point that you are wading as if through a particularly resistant river.

Coming into town, where Geralt is leading to a building with a sign for the inn, it occurs to you that you have no money to pay for a room.  He notices when you stop walking.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you say, “I just have no coin, I was paid in room and board, so I’ll find somewhere outside of town.  I’ll see you in the morning.  Or not!  You’ve got me out of hell already, so…”  

You trail off and turn from him, fully intending to find a stable to sleep in, a porch to burrow under, but the witcher growls, “Don’t be stupid.  You’ll freeze.  Come on, we’re staying at the inn.”

You walk through the door at sundown, shoving back your hood and making sure your hair is covering your ears.  There is a small dining area, a bar, and stairs that go up to a short hallway of rooms.  There are only a few scattered patrons, one of which is sitting at the bar but stands when you come in.  

“You picked a helluva time to be travelling,” he says in a jovial tone. “You’ll stay the night?  I couldn’t in good conscience send you back out into that blizzard.”

Geralt nods.  “We’ll take two rooms.”

You balk at that.  “You will not spend any extra coin on me, Witcher.  I will sleep on your floor.”

He is clearly about to argue this when the innkeep intervenes.  “I’m sorry, but we’ve only got one empty room.  The miss is right, Witcher, you’ll be sharing.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but you can’t stop me from buying you dinner.”

You can’t and you wouldn’t with how your stomach is growling, so you sit at a corner table together, taking in ale and stew, warming you from the inside out.  Yet you still fight down a shiver; you’ve since shrugged off your snowy cloak, but not before it had soaked through and wetted your clothes.

Your head snaps up when Geralt asks if water can be heated for a bath, your face no doubt overeager, but no, surely he’s asking it for himself, and you look down at your hands in your lap with a frown.  He snorts under his breath at your reaction and says, “I was asking it for you.  You keep shivering.”

Geralt stays with his drink while you help the innkeep carry pails of water to the battered old tub in your room.  Or rather, you help him by carrying the washcloth and towel and soap.  You feel badly that you can’t help him with the heavy buckets, but that feeling melts away once you are alone in the room.  It is delicious to sink into the steaming water, and you can’t help your low moan.  You set to work scrubbing your skin with the cake of soap.  You carefully wash at your wound and scrub the dried blood from your arm.  Your torn flesh stings in the water but you endure it to submerge your head, working through your hair languidly.  Your back is burning curiously but you do not want to come up for air yet; you stay under until your lungs feel as if they’ll burst.

When you emerge a deep hmm sounds behind you, and you stiffen as Geralt says, “I thought you’d be done.  Sorry.  I’ll go.”  A pause, and then, “Your back is bleeding.”

You twist uselessly to try and see.  You know that the last time Lyden used his belt on you was too long ago to reopen.  You try to reach with your fingertips and can’t.

“Let me,” Geralt offers. “I think it’s from when you fell, that night.  You have quite the luck, to be attacked and then land on something sharp.”  

You listen as he moves closer and kneels.  He touches your back lightly, running the calloused pads of his fingers over the skin slowly, giving you time to pull away.  You flinch the slightest bit but otherwise stay put; he grabs the washrag from the rim of the tub and wets it, pressing it carefully over the scrape, washing away the blood around it.  You don’t mean to sigh but you can’t take back the pleased sound you make; he pauses before continuing the gentle touches, taking longer than you think is strictly necessary.

It takes you nodding off and Geralt clearing his throat to wake you up for you to realize how tired you are.  You apologize and ask for him to turn around; you get out of the water and towel off in the cold air, yanking on your nightgown as quickly as you can.  You tell him when you’re decent and grab a pillow from the bed and he watches you toss it to the ground before he asks what you’re doing.

“I told you I would sleep on the floor.  You paid for the room, you get the bed.”

He crosses to where you stand, and you take a step back but all he does is pick up the pillow and put it back.

Towering over you, he rumbles, “No one’s sleeping on the floor.  There’s room enough for two.  Climb in.”

You can hardly disobey; you crawl under the blankets and watch him go back to his side.  You don’t look away as he pulls off his shirt, thinking yourself sly, and roll over only when he unlaces his pants.  Your cheeks feel over-warm.  The bed dips with his weight and you wonder what he wears to sleep, then wonder why you are wondering about that.  

You’re falling asleep when he says, “I have enough coin to pay for room and meals for you.  Just let me.”  

You hum noncommittally and he blows out the candle.  You are careful not to touch each other in the dark, but when you wake up to the pink light of dawn and a heavy arm is thrown over your belly, you give a contented hum and go back to sleep.

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Chapter 2

word count: 1,647

tw: physical abuse, canon-typical violence

note: I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who read the first part and reblogged or liked!  I’m working on this in between college assignments so I’ll probably have the night part up in a few days :)  I hope you enjoy!

You heard a song about a Witcher not too long ago.  Someone passing through had some drink and sang it in the tavern; for weeks it was all anyone would hum or sing under their breaths.  You can’t help but think that this must be the same Witcher: one that helps people in need when monsters are afoot.  Maybe he would do the same for a half-elf.  But then again, maybe not.  Maybe the song is an exaggeration, as so many are.  You gather your shawl tighter around you against the chill of dusk and survey where you are.  It’s not far from where you were attacked.  You suppose he must have carried you far enough that you could not see the carcass, or the earth darkened by your blood.  You know how to get back from here.

You return to looking at the Witcher, who is still looking at you.

“Am I well enough to walk back to town?”

“It would be better if you didn’t, but you’d make it without passing out, at least.”

That is good enough.  You stand, albeit unsteadily, and it seems the Witcher might rise to help you but doesn’t.  Looking down at him seated on the ground you say, “Thank you.  For keeping me alive.  You didn’t have to, and not many would… so… thank you.”

He nods, and you walk away through the trees until you no longer feel his gaze, then pause and take in a steadying breath.  You do not want to return, you are on the verge of panicking, but where else would you go?  You didn’t want the Witcher to know this, did not want him to feel any further obligation to you.  You have always only had yourself, and it will still be enough, even though you have had a taste of being helped.  It has to still be enough.

You enter through the front door, hoping that the presence of customers will deter Lyden from killing you, and there are many customers to bear witness, but when you see the expression of the girl who’s taken your place as barmaid you are not so hopeful anymore.  

And when you see his face, you think the floor will not only be sticky from beer.  You see red.

He crosses the room in four long strides and before you can say anything in your defense he strikes your face, sending you sprawling with the force of it.  You drop your shawl and you know the moment he realizes that you are wearing nothing but a man’s shirt.

“You thought you could run away, did you?  That a man would take the presence of you for more than a night, she-elf?  Look at yourself,” he spits out, circling you, the room holding back with baited breath.  You recognize most of the faces watching you, silently beg for one of them to stop him, but most look rather pleased with what is happening to you. 

“You have gained nothing.  You are nothing.  You have been lucky to have me employ you.  Who else on the continent would?”  He rears back a foot and without thinking you block your face with your arms.  You howl when his boot connects with your wound, and upon seeing the bandage he grabs your wrist, tearing the cloth away, fresh blood weeping down your arm from the torn stitches, the skin once again pulling apart.

“And you come back as damaged goods!  I ought to put you out on the street where my father found you.  I ought to put you out of your misery.  But you will make a good enough whore.”

There are whistles and boos, the stomping of feet, Lyden circling you slowly.  You hang your head.  This is the only place you have ever known.  What would you do on your own?  What place on this great continent would allow a half-elf to live among the regular people?  You see yourself sitting in the dirt, starving, being kicked in the streets by passersby. 

A woman shouts down the stairs interrupting your downward spiral, making herself heard over the ruckus, making the rough hands tugging at your shirt and pulling through your hair pause.  She calls, “Do you not have enough whores, Lyden?  Do we not drag enough coin out of men’s sacks for you?”

It is the girl who rooms next to you, and she looks right in your eyes, says only to you, “Would you rather be bedded or be homeless?”

You know which you would choose.  You have been able to imagine the latter, at least.  The former you have not allowed yourself to dwell on.

Lyden raises his arms wide, laughs, “It doesn’t matter what the thing wants.  I say she will be a whore, and so it shall be.”

But you do not accept that.  If towns are treacherous for elves then you will learn to live in the woods, learn to scavenge and hunt and steal, if need be.  You drag yourself to your feet and a hush comes over the room.

“I will be no one’s whore,” you say through gritted teeth, and without thinking through the next moment you snatch a dinner knife from the nearest table and plunge it into Lyden’s throat.

The room erupts.  You pull the knife out and blood spurts and someone screams, high and shrill.  He gurgles as he falls to his knees.

There are hands on your arms, arms around your waist, dragging you away from Lyden where he kneels, one hand uselessly covering the wound, his eyes steady on yours, until there’s the front door banging open, a flash of steel, the Witcher tipping Lyden forward with the point of his sword.

Everyone stills again, the hands on you tightening to the point that you wince.

“Get your hands off her.”

And just like that you are released.  

“Hello, Witcher,” you say.  What a ridiculous thing to do, to greet him right now.  You are shaking.  He steps towards you and takes your wrist, prying the bloody knife away and dropping it with a clatter.  You flinch.

“Go pack your things,” he says, “I will wait here.”  You go numbly, people parting for you.  When you are up the stairs and at your door you turn around, to the woman who defended you, tell her that you don’t have any bag to put your clothes in.  You wonder why you told her that; she is not a friend.  But she nods and goes into her room and brings you her own bag.  It takes but a minute to pull on a pair of trousers, even less to gather everything you own.

When you go back downstairs the Witcher is drinking down a tankard of ale.  Everyone has moved as far from the table he stands at as possible in the crowded room.  You have never heard the tavern so silent at this time of night.  He puts down the emptied cup and follows you to the door, picking up your shawl from where you dropped it.  

He wraps it around you once you are outside, where it has begun to snow.  You tip your face up to the sky and drink in the moonglow.  The last time you looked at its light marked the end of life as you have known it.  Even with your own blood still dripping down your arm, with Lyden’s drying on your hands, you can’t help but smile.

With a deep breath you come back into your body and fasten your own heavy winter cloak over your shoulders, drawing the hood up.  The Witcher has watched this, waiting patiently for you.

“I thought you said you would not stop me from returning,” you say, thinking aloud.  He steps toward you in the steadily falling snow, flakes catching in his eyelashes.  He holds out a hand and you give him your arm to re-bind.

“I said I wouldn’t stop you if it was what you needed to do.  But it wasn’t.  I was coming to get you when I heard what he was… threatening you with.  I’m glad you killed him yourself.  You did well.”  He takes a step back, then turns and starts walking.  You pull the strap of the bag up onto your shoulder.

“I left Roach a village over,” he informs you --though you have no idea who Roach is-- and adds, “It’s a full day’s walk.  Don’t expect much, it’s a smaller town than this.”

You want to tell him your hopes are not too high, but that would be a lie.  He may not realize it, but he is giving you the world.  

So instead you say, “Thank you, Witcher.”

After a moment he glances over his shoulder and gently corrects you.  “Geralt.  My name is Geralt.”

You return the favor with your name.  He hmms.

You walk through much of the night, until finally you have to tell Geralt that you need to sleep once you start dozing on your feet.  He is leading you through the woods, and had been quite far ahead --though he’d pause every so often to make sure you could still see him-- and now he waits for you to catch up.  His lips twitch up the slightest bit when he sees your eyelids drooping.

“Is this a good enough spot for the night, little elf?”

You glance around at the ground, say, “I’ve spent the night on worse patches of land,” and let your bag drop.  You follow in its wake, melting down onto the forest floor, not minding the snow.

“Good night, Geralt.”  Grass tickles your cheek, and you hear him settle next to you.  The thought of him staying there puts you at ease.

“Sleep well, (y/n).”

You can’t help but think about what you will do when he leaves you, and then you are asleep, dreaming of the sadness of the inevitable.

[smilemoreimagines]

something tragic about you (Geralt x reader)

Part 1

length: 1,792

tw: death of family, physical abuse, canon-typical violence

Your ears come out to a slight point, but are not entirely without a human roundness.  On one, at the edge, is a scar, thick and paler than the rest of your skin.  You resent the human in you; years ago, you tried to cut it away into a full point, rid yourself of that which reminded you of your humanity, make yourself into a true elf.  But the pain was too great and you could not finish it.

You are not angry with your father for being human, but you’re not exactly not angry with him either.  Humans took both your father and your mother from you when you were too young to remember much of them, so that now you aren’t able to feel anything in particular if you try and call them to your mind.  And you are riotously angry for that, that you were never able to know them, that humans stole that privilege from you by burning your village to the ground after slaughtering its people as you watched in mute-horror hidden at the edge of the woods.  All you retain of that night is the scent of coppery blood and screams and flickering fire.  And laughter.

You stayed in the charred wreckage for days, sleeping in the ashes of what had been your home, until a trader and his wife rode in expecting a bustling market day but instead found you, tiny and starving.  They brought you to the nearest village and left you there on the street, not wanting to cart along a toddler half-elf.  All you had left of your family and childhood was your mother’s embroidered shawl, which you were not supposed to wear outside of the house but took anyway; it was cold and you had wanted to gather winterberries and the shawl was warm and beautiful.  You are glad you took it.

You have worked in the tavern of the town ever since.  You no longer know how many years it has been.  Two decades?  Three?  

The original owner of the place was not exactly kind to you, but he very rarely ever hit you.  You’re sad, in a way, that he died, because his son Lyden is not as tolerant of your kind.  He strikes you over the smallest of things: a few drops of spilled ale, a customer complaining of your elven blood, a customer desiring you for that very same reason.  But you’re thankful for that last one, that he refuses to make you join the pretty girls upstairs.  You have instead earned your position as a barmaid, and if you have to avoid the pawing of men wanting to fulfill a fantasy, you will.  Anything to not be a girl faking moans into the night, being pinned night after sleepless night into a hard mattress.  Not that you catch much sleep, either. 

You do not like your empty, lonely room at the end of the upstairs hall.  Rather than sleep there you slip out into the woods, and creep back in before dawn.  The other girls know this, and most are kind and do not tell on you, but sometimes you are unlucky enough to sleep in and come through the back door when the owner has already risen from his bed and crossed the street from his home to the tavern to rouse the girls and collect payment from the men who stayed the night.

On those unlucky occasions when you are caught you are beaten worse than usual.  If ever you catch a glimpse of your back in the mirror after a bath, you try not to think of the sound of his belt meeting your skin. Your keeper does not like that you have some secret place to go in the night.

Even if it is just the stars and the moon that you are looking up at from your bed of moss, wrapped in your mother’s shawl.

Out here you don’t feel as though you’ll suffocate, the open air gifting you with wind, cicada song, animals rustling.  Sometimes, if you lay still enough, deer will walk near you, regarding you with soft eyes.

Tonight though, you hear none of these things that you love.  It is unnaturally quiet and still.  When a twig cracks nearby your body is already coiled and ready to jump up.  You scan the trees, not able to see much from the light of the sliver of moon, until it gives you the flash of eyes in the dark, and then you can see the man walking towards you, fast enough to make you nervous.

“Get down,” he rumbles, but in the next moment another stick snaps behind you and you whirl around in time to see too-long teeth and a clawed hand swiping at you.  You stagger back but it’s too late, those claws tear through your arm and there is only pain, white hot and searing.  You think you would rather the dull ache of bruises.  You think you would rather death.  You think nothing and hear the unnerving sound of something sharp sinking into something living, the thump of a body hitting the forest floor.  You hope that the beast will kill you quickly and be done with it all, but you feel nothing but the persisting agony of your arm and then a soft touch on your shoulder.

A voice full of gravel tells you that you will be alright.

-----------------------------------------------

You wake under the cold blue sky, blink hazily at a sun that is already halfway to setting.  You’re laying on something soft -- a fur blanket? -- with a heavy cloak thrown over you.  Your arm is hot, a stabbing, throbbing pain.  You wonder idly at what happened to it, and then remember throwing your forearm up to block that creature from anything vital.  

And then you process that it’s noon.  You cannot even imagine the beating that you will get.  You bolt up, crying out at the searing pain, but struggle to your feet anyways, letting the cloak fall off of you.  But then a man is in front of you, golden-honey cat eyes wide.  

You sway on your feet, dizziness overcoming you.  “I have to get back,” you say, “Or I think he might kill me.”

“Fuck,” he says, before you tip over.  He catches you easily, but one hand presses into your bandaged skin and you scream.

“Fuck,” he says again.

-----------------------------------------------

When you next open your eyes it’s sunset and the man is sitting right beside you, his cloak once again thrown over you.  

When he sees you stir he places a hand on your shoulder, a gentle pressure, and says, “Easy, little elf.  You lost a lot of blood.”

You don’t have time to worry about that.  You sit up despite the hand meant to keep you down and ask, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Somewhere you need to be?”

“How long.”

He grunts.  “Almost two days.”

Two…?  Shit.  Fuck.

You try to get to your feet again, but he just grabs the hand of your good arm and tugs you back down to sit, which is when you notice you’re no longer wearing your dress.  Instead you are practically swimming in a shirt that smells of pine and horse, and your shawl is wrapped around your shoulders.

You look down at the shirt, then at him.

Unfazed, he says, “Your dress was soaked in blood.  It’s nearly winter; you would have frozen.”  

You can’t say you wish he’d left you in a blood-soaked dress, so you let it go.  

Next, he asks, “Who do you think is going to kill you if you don’t get back?”

You don’t want to tell him.  You don’t know this man.  You grip the shawl tighter around you and look at the ground.

“Is it the same man that bruised you up and left scars on your back?”

Now you look at him.  No one has seen them before.  Lyden never hits you where it will not be covered by your clothes.  He likes to kick you once he has you on the ground, so your back is nearly always painted black and blue, not to mention bloody when he lashes you; you often have to sleep on your stomach.

And now, with this new wound that has already seeped through the bandages…

“How bad is it?” you ask.  “How deep?”

He shakes his head.

Fine.  You pull at the knot tying it together and unravel the stained cloth before he can stop you.  For a moment you worry you’re going to faint again, but the feeling passes.  It is four gashes into the meat of your forearm.  The worst two are stitched fairly neatly, but the edges still tug apart slightly, just enough that you can see more of your own inner anatomy than you would care to.  You are careful to keep your arm palm-up so you don’t brush anything along the ragged cuts.  

“Please cover it again,” you say.  “I shouldn’t have looked.”

He sighs and reaches into a bag laying next to him, procuring a fresh cloth.  As he re-binds you, you can’t help but think that like this you won’t be able to fulfill your duties as a barmaid.  The only work you will be able to do, that requires no lifting, is on your back, under the weight of a man.

You do not like the feeling of fear, of powerlessness, but now it seems to ooze from your heart.  Your eyes are still on his face but your vision unfocuses, blurs.  You can’t remember the last time you allowed yourself to cry, to give in to hopelessness.

“What hurt you?  Left you so beaten?”  The heaviness in his voice requires an answer.

You choke out a laugh that is more like a sob, tell him, “Not what.  A man.  A man who will now have no use for me other than to fulfill the perversions of his customers.”

This man, who saved you and has cared for you even though he knows you are elven, shakes his head and growls, “Then that is no man.  He’s worse than the beast that tried to kill you.  He chooses to hurt.”

You nod and wipe at your wet face, more angry than scared now and annoyed at yourself for crying in front of a stranger.

“If you truly need to return to him I won’t stop you,” he says, but you don’t make a move to leave.  

The dying sun, in a last burst of light, glints on the pendant that hangs from his neck, and something in your memory clicks.  The wolf pendant, silvery hair, gilded eyes...

“You’re the Witcher, aren’t you?”

He hmms, and nods.

[smilemoreimagines]

one cannot have enough of cute and random aus so here have some more

“You’re the cute and quiet customer that frequents the coffee shop where I’m a barista and also where my rival barista works and we’re both fighting for your attention in increasingly creative and inconspicuous ways (making foam art, writing cheesy pick-up lines on your napkin etc. etc.)” AU.

“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU.

“You’re an Art student and I’m an English major and you keep stealing the papers for my assignment to doodle and I would kill you but you’re really cute and hey that’s actually a really nice sketch” AU.

“You’re the perpetual frowner in class and one day as I’m answering the teacher I intentionally make a very cheesy pun and I can hear crickets but you’re laughing out loud and that makes me feel very much accomplished” AU.

“The manager says the only reason the restaurant where we work at is popular is because people enjoy eating while watching our relentless flirting with each other but I swear to God we’re not flirting???” AU.

“I ditch prom to attend a local poetry slam and you’re also there and I never really noticed what a cute smile you have and hey do you maybe want to bond over our mutual love for ‘Howl’???” AU.

“You’re new in town and you seem very intimidating but as it turns out you have an awful sense of direction even with a map and you’re actually adorkable so here let me help you” AU.

“It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m single and you want to cheer me up but you can’t cook nor bake to save your life so you make me hot chocolate instead and it is delicious and I think I love you???” AU.

“It’s gym class and we’re playing volleyball and you spike really well and you manage to hit the ball square in my face and I think I’m bleeding and you’re apologizing profusely and it’s okay but you’re really cute so I guess I’ll take you up on that offer for coffee” AU.

“You’re the jerk-face customer that keeps on thumbing through their phone while ordering their drink so I exact revenge by spelling your name wrong on your cup and drawing phallic pictures on your coffee” AU.

“Our mutual friend invites us to go shopping with them and it’s kind of awkward and now you’re pushing them around the mall in a shopping cart and you’re both screaming like excited children and I’m paying the cashier and pretending I don’t know either of you” AU.

“Our mutual friend invites us for Thanksgiving dinner with their other friends and now there’s a full-fledged food fight going on with potatoes and turkey flying everywhere and we’re both seeking refuge under the table whilst sharing a bag of chips that you brought (just in case)” AU.

“You and I are both baristas at a coffee shop and one day I step out of the café to take a break and walk in on you gleefully drawing phallic pictures on the chalkboard outside that no one pays attention to so what are you doing?” AU.

“You and I go out to a sushi bar and the sushi chef yells at you for being allergic to a particular kind of fish and now you’re crying and I’m trying to comfort you” AU.

“You and I are at a sushi restaurant and you’re continuously snagging sushi off the belt that I have to pay for and you don’t seem to be going to stop anytime soon but you look so cute when you’re eating with that smile on your face what the hell man” AU.

“The mailman constantly mixes up your home address and mine together and keeps on sending me your letters and packages and I’m sorry I look through them but your life seems very interesting as well as those books on black magic in one of your packages so wanna talk about it over a cup of coffee?” AU.

“We’re both strangers sitting in the same booth at an eatery because all the other booths are full and you’re drawing smiley faces on your plate with ketchup and wow your concentrated frown is cute” AU.

“It’s our mutual friend’s wedding and they keep shoving us into each other because we’re the only ones at the ceremony who are single” AU.

“You’re my roommate and it’s way past midnight and you’re talking about how Charles Dickens inspired prison reform and how the moon must feel insignificant because it borrows light from the sun and this is all very interesting but will you please shut up and go to sleep” AU.

“You’re actually a really friendly and chill vampire and at night you float around outside of my bedroom window to talk with me about the universe and stuff” AU.

“You’re going through my sketchbook and giving questioning looks and I swear to God I’m just a deranged artist and not a serial killer” AU.

“We live next door to each other and I can see you through the window while you’re dancing to your iPod in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and God you’re a dork” AU.

“I’ve been standing in line at the coffee shop for hours and you casually cut through for your drink but also buy me my favorite blend and now I’m not so sure what to make of you” AU.

“I’m sick so you make me chicken soup and I’m really grateful but I’ve also seen you read books on magical spells and potion-making so I’m not sure if I should drink your soup in case it turns me into a toad” AU.

“There’s a scrawny black cat in our neighborhood that hates everyone and everything but follows you around for some reason and I see you pet it and feed it fish fries are you a witch” AU

“I’m a perpetual frowner and most certainly not a morning person and I work part-time at a breakfast bar and your disheveled hair and content smile as you eat my waffles and scrambled eggs is the only thing that can get me to smile” AU.

“You’re the one in class who has tattoos all over their arms and piercings and everybody’s scared of you and one day I catch you watching cat videos and doodling in the middle of a lecture and wow you’re a dork” AU.

“I work part-time as a cashier at the local corner store and you come here regularly to shop and bond with me over the microwavable chicken bites so how about I take you out on a proper date instead?” AU.

“I’m the owner of a magic shop and you discover my magics one day when you walk in on my cat flying around inside the shop on a broom and now I have to take you in as my apprentice or turn you into a toad” AU.

“You’re the health-conscious med student and I’m the chain-smoking art student who’s also your barista and you leave me notes on smoking and lung health on your napkins and also a 20-page essay on lung cancer tucked under your saucer” AU.

“You’re a tea-lover yet you come to the coffee shop where I work at just to see my foam art and you give me hefty tips regularly so I’ve taken it upon myself to master the art of tea-making just for you” AU.

“I’m a fashion major and I’m working on my illustrations and maybe I’ve had too much coffee but I swear I just saw one of the mannequins move so here I am calling you in the middle of the night please help I’m scared” AU.

“You work at a fast food restaurant and as you hand me my food you lecture me for ruining my health what is this hypocrisy” AU.

“I’m egging a random person’s house to relieve stress and you join me and as it turns out the house belongs to your ex and now they are chasing us as well as the police and now we’re both in jail waiting to be bailed so um you wanna talk about it?” AU.

[smilemoreimagines]

Some neighbor aus for ya guys

“Listen, I really don’t like you, but you have kittens, so I’m going to be over a lot.” au 

 "Would you STOP coming in through the WINDOWS, it scares the hell out of me every TIME!“ au 

 "Listen, we have very thin walls and I heard you crying in the shower, are you okay?” au 

 "I was very good friends with the guy that lived here before you and basically I was over here a lot and… well old habits die hard, can I stay?“ au 

 "If you set the alarm off in the middle of the night ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR I WI- wait why were you even cooking at 3 am?” au 

 "You burst through the door because you thought you smelled smoke but it was just incense, listen you’re paying for that buddy.“ au 

 "You locked yourself out too?” au 

 "Hey, I locked myself out, can I use your phone?“ au 

 "You bake when you’re stressed and sometimes you give me cookies, but recently you’re giving me whole baskets each day, now I’m not complaining but are you okay?” au 

 "I don’t mean to sound paranoid but I’m pretty sure you’re a serial killer.“ au