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hertzwritings · 3 years ago

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The horror and the wild

A/N: We’re BACK BABY! I’m sorry for the lackluster posting, but life happens, you know? Anyway, we’re back with prompts and I cannot say how much I’ve looked forward to this. THERE’S STILL PROMPTS LEFT ON THE LIST, SO GO CRAZY, MY LOVES! Prompt: “You’re bleeding.” “Just a little.” “It’s a femoral artery, asshole.”

You can buy me a coffee here, and I’ll write you a personalized something – the sky is the limit, and it would really help me out with my bills this month.

Remember, feedback feeds the soul (mine, in particular), and my requests and askbox are always open – there’s no limits because I am me and I have none.

MASTERLIST

GERALT OF RIVIA MASTERLIST

PROMPT-LIST

ASK ME ANYTHING/REQUESTS

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x female reader

Contains: language, mentions of fighting, mentions of blood, mentions of medical stuff, light fluff, a little angst, sexual tension, smut (MDNI), fingering, p in v, a little Feral!Geralt, crempie, unprotected sex, MASSIVE AGE GAP (because Geralt is truly an old dude), a little elder speech

W.C.: 3.861

The horror and the wild

You heard them before you saw them. The dull thuds of blades hitting soft bodies, the screeching of the nekkers and the grunts from a familiar voice; Geralt was out again.

It had been several months since you’d last seen him at Kaer Morhen, when you came to aid with the plants needed through winter. He had been gruff – as per usual – and pointed – also on par for him – and he had left in the dead of the night, despite not really talking to you. He was an arse, most of the time, but you understood him well enough to know it didn’t have anything to do with you, not really.

He was just like that. Jaskier had laughed loudly, when he finally figured out who you were, and had the time of his life seeing you verbally stepping on Geralt. Both of them liked it, you supposed. It had been for the almsot ten years, you had known Geralt.

You sighed and grabbed your own blade, crafted from Hattori after you helped him escape his death in Novigrad. It was a nice gesture, and the two-handed sword was one of beauty; the blade itself was slightly curved, carved with intricate symbols of protection, while the handle was wrapped in soft, black leather, the top of silver glinting in the sun. You loved it. You rushed outside, trying to pinpoint where on earth the sounds were coming from, and to your horror, you realized that it wasn’t just male grunts and Nekkers screeching; no, the familiar clicks of endregas echoing around the woods. Damn it. He might be accomplished with swords, but if he was alone with both endregas and nekkers, he was going to die. You ran through the thicket, leaves and branches cracking under your weight, as you ran to the fight.

You had been right in coming – Geralt was breathing heavily, sweat pouring over his brows, his sword a flurry of silver. “Fuck!” He grunted when a Nekker jumped his back and he shook it off, but you saw how tired he was. You jumped into action when you saw him falter for a moment, your blade slashing through bodies of nekkers, trying to reach him. “Kind of you to… Umpfh… Join the fight.” He said through gritted teeth. You flashed him a smile, before swinging your sword behind him, catching an endrega on the soft spot between its plates. It tumbled to the ground, the acidic blood pooling under it.

It had been hard, long and far too dangerous, but the two of you had managed to get out nearly unscathed. You were bleeding from the head (thanks to the sharp talons of a nekker) and Geralt was hoppling behind you, dragging his left foot behind him, trying his best to keep up.

“Geralt?” You turned to look at him and noticed how pale he had gotten. You could see your hut from where you stood, but that didn’t matter to you right now. All that mattered was the way his hand came away from his thigh, covered in dark blood. You gasped and rushed to his side, hitching your arm around his waist – you were about a head and a half short than him, and you were sure that in any other situation, you both would have laughed at the absurdity of you trying to support him like this, but right now, all that mattered was him.

“Fuck.” You almost rolled your eyes at him and ordered him to keep pressure on the wound, dragging him to the hut. When you crashed inside, his skin had grown almost as grey as his hair, and he was breathing raggedly. You laid him in your bed and realized the situation was much worse than you had feared – red pooled under him too quickly for your liking, and the black pants had somehow covered just how much he was bleeding. “You’re bleeding.” You said quickly, scrambling to find your medicines and the kit, you used to stich up wounds. It might not be the smoothest work, but it would do. “Just a little.” You ripped his pants from his legs and groaned, feeling sick to your stomach at the sight of the open wound on his thigh, green and blue veins of venom spreading around it. “It’s a femoral artery, asshole.” You replied dryly, before wetting cloth and proceeded to wipe it down. He clenched his jaw, when you began stitching quickly, adding bunches of your herbs and concoctions to the wound, that already had started slowly healing. Thank the Gods for mutant-genes. “What the hell were you doing out there alone, Geralt?” You muttered under your breath, fingers stained red with his blood. It had stilled a lot since you stitched him up, and he was gaining some pallor back. He grunted and gratefully took the cup of water, you handed him. “I didn’t get to tell you goodbye.” You scoffed. “And a goodbye is worth your life, is it?” “Maybe. In my defense, I didn’t expect to be attacked.” “We’re in Velen, you oaf, there’s always a chance to be attacked here.” You said with a huff, wiping your hands on your pants and tying the bandage around his thigh firmly, before standing up. His fingers shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to your seated position. “I…” You found his eyes, and the familiar warmth you always felt when you were around him, returned. You saw the apology in his eyes, and shook your head. “It was fine, Geralt. You had to find Yennefer, remember?” You said slowly, trying to keep the lump in the back of your throat, back. It had shattered your heart that he apparently had been so enamored with the sorceress, but you wouldn’t stand in his way. He deserved some good in life. Ciri was one, but if he wanted Yennefer… He should have her. “I found her.” He said slowly. “And we broke the curse from the djinn.” You swallowed. “I didn’t know there was a djinn to take into account.” He smiled softly, one of the rare smiles, that could melt ice – it was like years had been removed from him, when he smiled like that. “There was. Now, there isn’t.” “Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say. “You should relax for a moment, Gwynnbleid, or I’ll have your head.” He nodded and reluctantly let your wrist go. It felt oddly cold. “Don’t leave.” He mumbled under his breath. “I would never.” Your cheeks heated under his gaze. “I’ll draw you a bath.”

It took longer than normally to draw the bath. You kept adding things, simply to avoid looking at him again, but when you finally finished and gestured to it, it became clear that he couldn’t get in on his own. Fuck. “Hold me, I’ll support you.” You mumbled and gently tried to help him off the bed – he followed pliantly, leaning on you for support, since his left leg didn’t work at all at the moment, and when you reached the tub, another issue became clear. His clothes.

His pants were ripped already, since you had ripped them to gain access to his wound, so they would be quick work, but also leave him almost naked. You sat him down on the wobbly stool next to him and undid the strings on the side of his armor-plates with shaking hands, staring intently at them. The armor fell loose around him, and you gingerly removed the plates from his chest and abdomen, trying desperately not to think about how warm he was under your fingers. As soon as the armor had fallen away, you began unbuttoning the buttons on his undershirt, eyes trained on them as if they were the single most interesting thing in the world. “You’re blushing.” It was an observation. “Well, you’re getting naked.” You said, unbuttoning the last button and lifted the shirt from his waist, letting it slide past his chest – noting the scars and chiseled abs and chest, which didn’t dampen the heat in your cheeks – and his head, before flinging it in the wooden bucket you had filled with soapy water to wash the grime away from his clothes. “Thank you, me feainn.” He mumbled. You swallowed thickly. “Always.” You began undoing the straps of his pants and kept your mind at ease; it was very damn difficult to keep focus on anything but him, and you nearly moaned when you saw he was naked under the pants. You were certain his heightened sense of everything made it very clear how you felt at the moment, but if he noticed, he didn’t let on. “Stand.” You asked gently, turning your head away from his groin. He grabbed the windowsill and stood on shaky legs, as you tugged the legs (well, leg) down and finally removed the leather pants fully from his body. “I…” You cleared your throat. You were a professional. “Hold my shoulder, I’ll help you into the bath.” When had it gotten so hot in here? His skin was burning against your shoulder, and his scent permeated your senses completely, leaving you shaking just as bad as he was. He sat down with a soft sigh, that went straight to your core, and you drew a deep breath, before handing him a bar of soap. “I’ll wash your clothes and see if I can mend your pants.” You needed to get out of the room.

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It took almost a week for him to gain enough strength to walk again. The venom – which you both deduced had been from an endrega – hadn’t spread too much, but it had been enough in combination with the wound to render him, in his words, utterly useless. You didn’t mind his presence in your little hut. It felt warm and tight, but in a way, that just seemed right. When he did begin to walk again, you had joked that you needed to raise the roof of your hut, since the top of his head constantly hit the supporting beams, and he had a permanent bruise (which was a feat, since the Witcher healed in no time) just over his brow, because he kept bumping into the doorframe. It was almost endearing.

“You seem to be better.” You stated as you watched him walk around the hut, piling wood into the hearth. “I am.” He said, lighting the fire. You sat on your bed, crossing your legs. “I suppose this means that you’re leaving soon.” You smiled sadly. “I cleaned your swords, by the way.” He frowned at you. “Why would I leave?” You shrugged. “You always do. The road calls you more than the whisper of the forest calls me.” He knelt down in front of you, and despite being on his knees, and you being raised above the ground on your bed, his face was still level with yours. Tall, handsome man. “I am not leaving. At least, not until we have talked.” “Talked? Geralt, you don’t talk.” He cocked an eyebrow at you. “First time for everything.” You licked your lips, trying to breathe through your mouth to evade the scent of him, because it would settle in your bones and never leave you again – it would simply make you yearn for him, and you couldn’t handle that. “I…” “Y/N.” for the first time since you found him the woods, he spoke your real name. Normally, he’d call you minne, me blath, or me feainn – you tried not to let those get to your head. Your eyes snapped to his amber ones, and you made the mistake of inhaling through your nose. The scent, that was inherently Geralt was intoxicating, but in combination with the lemon soap, you normally used, it was sinful. “I am not about to leave you. We should…” He licked his lips, and you felt your heart skip out of your chest. “Geralt.” You interrupted. “You should go find Yennefer. Ciri, too. They must be missing you.” “Ciri knows I came to find you. Yennefer…” He sighed. “Yennefer is currently pissy with me. Understandable, though not justified.” “How so?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you. His fingers rested right next to your knee, and they twitched, almost as if he wanted to put his hand on your knee but restrained himself. “The djinn. It created a bond between us.” You nodded. You knew the story well, having had it told countless of times – Jaskier hated it, you disliked it, but Geralt seemed content with it. “I asked the djinn to undo it.” You nearly choked on your own spit. “I’m sorry?” “That’s why Yen is angry with me. Hurt, I guess.” He said slowly, his amber eyes searching yours. “I… Didn’t feel anything when it was lifted. I thought…” He sighed. “Yennefer thought it was more than a curse from a djinn. It was for her. I have love for her, but not the love she expected nor wanted.” Your mind was reeling. He wasn’t… In love? “Which means…?” “You know I’m not good with words, me minne.” He grunted. “Try. I need… I need to know, please, Gwynnbleid.” You echoed his elder speech. “I didn’t have the love to give her, because I had already, unwillingly, and very unknowingly until a few weeks ago, given my heart and all it possessed to someone else.” “Unwillingly?” you stammered. “Yes. I have always been content with being alone. I have never been lonesome, and since Jaskier came along and then Ciri, I hardly think I’ll ever be lonesome, even if I tried.” You laughed a little. That much was true. “But… The last visit to Kaer Morhen…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I saw you, finally. For the longest time, you’ve been in the back of my mind, which was irksome at best, distracting at worst.” He smiled. “And you just stood there, talking to Lambert and Eskel, while Vesemir laughed along, and something just…” He gestured to his chest. “And I had seen you before, several times over the years, but I finally saw you. You were under the window, and the sun shone down on you, lighting you up. And I knew I couldn’t stay. Not at Kaer Morhen, nor could I stay with Yennefer.” You blinked three times. This was the most you had heard Geralt speak in the ten years you had known him. “And we have always been friendly. You’ve helped me more times than I can count. But… I never truly saw you.” “Geralt, I don’t…” “Just… Let me get this off my chest, I beg you.” He pleaded. You nodded, and out of instinct, you lifted his hand to your knee, let it rest there and intertwined your fingers with his. A jolt of warmth ran through your fingers to your heart. He glanced at your hands and smiled before he looked back at you. “I don’t expect you to return any affection stemming from a 100-year-old man, but I wanted… I don’t know. To tell you. I would stay if you asked. I’d be content with making concoctions and weed your garden for the rest of my life, me feainn.”

Your mind was reeling. “I…” You swallowed thickly. “Didn’t know you were a hundred years old.” “105, if we’re being pedantic about it.” You grinned. “That’s quite the dexterity you have for a 105-year-old, Geralt.” He chuckled, but didn’t answer, simply waiting for you. “You know…” You looked at your intertwined fingers. “I’ve always thought myself as somewhat of a lone soul. At least, until I met Jaskier because that dolt won’t leave anyone alone.” Geralt hummed in response. “I just… I met you when I was shy of 18, and you seemed to have been whatever my world revolved around. I never wanted to tell you, because you had too much on your own, Child Surprise, Yennefer, Jaskier, the life you live. I didn’t want to interfere.” “You wouldn’t. You would be the sun, I would orbit.” He said softly. “As you are for me.” It was all you could say. There wasn’t much more to say, at any rate. He knew. “Y/N…” his voice was pained. “What would you have me do?” you looked at him. His eyes had darkened slightly, and you dislodged your hand from his to cup his cheek. His stubble scratched your palm slightly, and it made you shudder. “I wish for you to do what you want, Geralt. I’m not in a position to ask or tell you what to do or what to want, because your life, your choices are yours and yours alone. If you want to stay, you can. If you want to go back on the road, you can. If you want me to come with you, I will.” You whispered.

He didn’t answer but took the beat of a heart to lunge at you, his lips descending hungrily on yours. You whimpered and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him as closely, you could. It was addictive, the way he kissed. It was almost animalistic, teeth and tongue, like he wanted to devour you – you didn’t mind it one bit, and moaned when his teeth tugged on your lips, earning you a small growl in the back of his throat. You didn’t know when or how, but you were on your back, your legs wrapped around his hips, trying to snap your hips up to meet him, and he smiled against the kiss, his fingers quickly undoing the skirt, you had been wearing. If you had any say in it, none of you would be wearing clothes ever again.

You were nude under him in less than a blink of the eye, your nipples pebbled; he grunted and removed his now-mended pants, pushing them to his thighs. You felt his fingers first, dipping between your folds, and you surrendered yourself completely to the feeling of his calloused pads toying with you; you were moaning and writhing under him, as his fingers dipped inside of you, curling upwards with a soft moan that echoed your own. Your back arched, and your fingers pulled his face back to meet yours, kissing him deeply as he drew pleasure from you with every stroke of his long, thick fingers.

The fingers, that normally dealt pain and death to the monsters of the world, brought you pleasure beyond anything you had experienced before. It was like fire was licking your very soul, your entire being captivated by the slight movements of his fingers, as he pumped them in and out of you. You kissed him desperately, feeling an overwhelming sense of belonging intertwined with the fire, that licked gently against you. “Geralt, I…” You moaned against his lips. Your hips rolled to meet his fingers. “I’ve got you, me feainn.” He whispered, speeding up slightly and you came undone. It was like a collision of planets went off in you, spreading their warmth from the tips of his fingers through your entire body. Your cells were screaming in pleasure, and you had no control over yourself, legs shaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

He slowly withdrew his fingers from you, and kissed you again, lining his cock up with your wet entrance. You were begging for him in whispers, letting them wash over him in the same way he had washed over you. “Y/N…” He moaned your name as he entered you, groaning when he sank completely into you, and you understood now, why the women of the taverns spoke in such reverie about him. You could cum just from this, his stillness, because he filled you so much, it was near impossible to think he’d have room to move. “Fuck, Y/N…” He groaned and slowly drew back and snapped his hips, allowing himself to pump in and out of you. You whimpered at his thick cock dragging against your walls when he found a pace, his cock sliding against you, your little hut filled with the wet sounds of your bodies meeting. “Please, Geralt…” You moaned his name. “More.” His eyes snapped to yours, molten gold meeting you, and he growled. You clenched around him at the sound. “Don’t jest.” “I don’t. Please.” You whimpered again and rolled your hips.

He lost control of himself, it would seem; he growled again and buried his head in the crook of your neck, his teeth finding the sensitive spot along your neck, biting down and marking you, his hips speeding up wildly and his fingers gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You mewled and tried to keep up with him, but he refused to let you do anything but take it, and at this moment, you were more than willing. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good…” He mumbled against your skin, leaving wet trails from his lips. You couldn’t think, speak or even fully comprehend anything but the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you.

Your orgasm hit you at the same time as he buried himself deeply, his head nudging your cervix and a growled mine fell from his lips. You tensed like a bowstring, your back arching, pushing your chest flush with his. He stuttered when your wet pussy clenched around him, drawing him deeper, and let himself go. With a string of curses and your name in elder speech, he filled you with his spend, fucking into you hard enough to make it spill from the sides. You were moaning through a coarse throat, having screamed yourself nearly mute.

“I… Sorry.” He mumbled, kissing your neck, jaw and finally, your lips softly. “What on earth are you apologizing for?” You said with a small laugh. “It was too fast.” You grabbed a chunk of his hair and pulled him up – he whined, and you stored that information for later – to make him look at you. “It was perfect.” “Next time, I’ll make sure you get your pleasure at least three more times.” You chuckled and kissed him as he slowly pulled out. He fell to your side, still panting slightly. “I don’t think I’d be able to go three more times.” You mumbled, wrapping your arm around his waist and pulled yourself flush against him. “Ha, that wasn’t a question. It was a promise, me minne.” Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head.

“On one condition.” You answered. “Hm?” You smiled against his chest. “We leave this place. Take me with you on your adventures.” “Death sentences, you mean.” “Death, adventure… I’m sure Jaskier would call it all the same.” He chuckled, and the sound warmed you more than a crackling hearth ever could. “Speaking of Jaskier… I left him at Cunny of the Goose.” You grinned. “He’s fine, he’ll get to woo the ladies and the men with his songs of woe.” You frowned. “Actually, why did you come here? I haven’t seen a call for a Witcher for a while.” He kissed the top of your head. “Is it not obvious?” He lifted your head with two fingers under your chin, his eyes boring into yours.

“For you.”

** Minne: Love Me Blath: my flower me feainn: my sun

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luxeberries · 2 years ago

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hello there. im isaac. this blog is very all over, but i am witcher blog at heart and i always will be.

however, i am currently blogging about: stranger things, steddie, and other random little things that i enjoy.

here is my ao3 account, i am a baby writer but may i recommend: (nsfw ahead, be warned minors)

for the witcher fans:

a necessary detour - gerlion + ciri, 3.6k, rated T

"Your house is a sty, Dandelion,” Geralt says, carefully leading Ciri to sit on the couch after he inspects it for mites. “Ciri, don’t touch anything you don’t have to.” “You know, this man you’re travelling with - Ciri, was it? - isn’t he very mean?” “He is.” Ciri nods solemnly. “When we first met, he threatened to beat me."

there's a bard in my nekker hunt - gerlion, 4.8k, rated E

Geralt goes on a hunt and is suprised by local idiot bard Dandelion, for some reason smut ensues.

how unreasonable - yennskier, 4k, rated T

All the halls look the same and she's tired and her feet ache, so she only realises she's in the wrong area when she's at Jaskier's door. Stupid, she thinks. My legs have betrayed me. "Stupid," she mutters, walking to Jaskier's door. She knocks.

for the stranger things fans:

polaroids and beaten up docs - steddie, 11k, rated E

"Stand up for me real quick, Stevie-baby," Eddie says, ever so sweet. Steve's eyes widen with alarm. "No. No, no way!" Eddie's tongue peeks out from his lips. "Yeah, you're right. You look much cuter sitting like that anyway." And before Steve can even take in what Eddie said, there's a flash of light blinding him quickly followed by whirring and a Polaroid photo emerging from the tray right in front of Steve's face. Eddie's grinning as he grabs up the picture. Eddie cradles the camera in his lap, smiling smugly at Steve. "You wanna have some fun, Steve?"

a lover who will come on in and cover me - steddie, 7.7k, rated E

“Still wanna take care of that?” Eddie asks. Steve exhales, “Yeah,” against Eddie’s cheek. Eddie curls his lips into a grin. “You want a blowie?” Steve shakes his head, nosing Eddie’s cheek. “Wanna be warm with you.”

and my current wip, which i hope to be done by december's end UHH SOMETIME?:

still so many things to say unsaid - steddie + dustin + robin, 44k and counting, rated T

Eddie Munson dies, but a day later he wakes up on the floor of his trailer in the right dimension; alive and whole. Unbeknownst to him, there’s a small price to pay for his resurrection - and it’s not just the gnarled flesh scarring his body. It’s okay, though: his new-found friends have got him.

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on-a-lucky-tide · 4 years ago

Note

Ooh can we get Lambden cuddling for warmth in a cave during a storm/blizzard that turns into some heavy smut/it’s their first time and they’re both nervous bc there’s been -t e n s i o n- for a few years now (canon verse) pls ☺️

A/N: Aiden and Lambert have been friends for years. Until they get stuck in a cave in the middle of a blizzard that is. Warnings: sweet negotiations; past pining; virgin Aiden; experienced Lambert.

“This is your fault,” Lambert seethed through a clenched jaw as they stared out of the cave mouth at the blizzard. He wasn’t that pissed off. It was just that if he didn’t grit his teeth then they were likely to rattle out of his head. “I told you we didn’t have time for that nekker nest.”

The fire wasn’t enough. The flames danced weakly in the space between them, and frozen fingers clutched at the edges of their cloaks to pull them tight around their bodies. “It was just a minor pest control job,” Aiden huffed dismissively. “You’re the one who had to haggle for more money and then get us driven out of the town in the wrong direction.”

“I can’t abide a cheapskate,” Lambert grumbled. “There were twice the number of mini-munchers than they said, and – what?” He trailed off. Because Aiden was smiling. It was a thing he did. A beautiful curve of glossy pink lips that showed just a touch of tooth; it created dimples in his lightly freckled cheeks and made the corners of his eyes crinkle. It was the most gorgeous sight on the fucking Continent – sunsets, the Blue Mountains, Aen Seidhe princesses, could all do one – it was all Aiden. Aiden, smiling and amused, was the only kind of beauty that ever stole Lambert’s attention.

And his heart.

Oh, and Aiden was hot. The tear-my-braies-off-and-bend-me-over-right-fucking-now kind of hot. The kind of hot you saw across the tavern and then had to readjust your damned trousers because they weren’t built for enduring that kind of view. The few times Lambert had seen him naked – showering beneath a waterfall Murivel, changing in the backroom of an inn – it’d required a deft bit of self-maintenance when Aiden wasn’t paying attention to keep things… not awkward between them.

There was one problem. Small – minor – issue. Lambert had never actually told him.

Words were hard, alright? Fuck off. Besides, why should it all be on Lambert? Aiden was the other half of this sexual tension sweet bun. Oh, his ass was like a sweet bun.

And yet somehow, after all this time, Aiden hadn’t noticed. Or pretended not to. Somehow didn’t scent it on the air when Lambert’s hormones all decided he was hardcore Aiden-sexual every time the guy bent over, or flexed, or fucking… smiled.

It was like one of those shitty romance novels full of pining, except the princess was a scarred Cat Witcher with a love of cake and a laugh more beautiful than the winds singing through the caverns of the Blue Mountains, and the prince was… Lambert.

“You know, we should share our cloaks,” Aiden blurted out, like he thought if he said it quick enough he could throw the words down and run away. Two greeny yellow eyes gazed at Lambert from the cave of his hood, wide and… afraid?

Lambert blinked. If he curled up against Aiden, then his body was going to betray him instantly. And what if that drove Aiden off - ? No. This was just… huddling for warmth. Practical. If they didn’t, then the others would come down from Kaer Morhen to find two frozen idiots ogling each other for an eternity over a dead fire.

“Yeah, we should, totally,” Lambert cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly around the fire until he was shoulder to shoulder with his… friend. They sat there for a moment, inspecting the fire as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Slowly, deliberately, Lambert opened his arms, cloak like the wings of a bat and scooped Aiden up in one deft move. Like ripping a bandage off so that the pain was brief.

They pressed close, and Lambert’s face buried in Aiden’s hair, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. That hadn’t been the idea. But now that he was there, now that Aiden’s auburn hair spread out over his nose and cheeks, he inhaled deeply. Oh yeah. Yeeeah. That was the good shit. That was – oh, bollocks. Blood rushing. Trousers tightening. Stomach knotting.

Aiden shifted; a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch, but his ass definitely felt everything that was currently pushed out against the ties of Lambert’s trousers. A very heavy silence sat on top of them. Like a huge troll had just come and plonked its fat ass right on their heads. Aiden suddenly sat up a little straighter, like he’d come to a decision. “Lambert.”

“Y’hello,” Lambert croaked, because he was trying his damnedest not to rut up against that pert ass with its tight trousers. Fucking Cats and their tight armour. Why? At the moment, it could pass as a poorly placed knife or something.

“Do you…?” Aiden seemed to lose his confidence for a moment, and so Lambert just… tightened his arms a touch. You know, a little, reassuring squeeze. He wasn’t sure what he was reassuring him about, but the reassuring had been done. Aiden tilted his head back and Lambert could hear him snuffling at the air. Fuck. Busted.

“Aiden, I can explain - ,” Lambert immediately loosened his grip and tried to move away, but Aiden grabbed onto his forearms and suddenly pushed back.

“You like me,” the Cat stated.

“Yeah, you’re alright,” Lambert forced his lips down, pressing them close together, toes curling in his boots. Yes, yes, fucking yes.

“Hm,” Aiden huffed. Another long pause. A pregnant pause, if you will. “Lambert, I’ve never... “ he stopped, again, and Lambert was about ready to throttle him, but just when he was sizing up that elegant neck, Aiden started again, “if you laugh, I’ll punch you.”

“I won’t laugh,” Lambert grumbled, vaguely offended.

“I’ve never…” Aiden sighed, “...had sex.”

“Oh,” Lambert’s brow furrowed, and then realisation bloomed through his head like spilled mead on a tavern floor. There was a reason Aiden was telling him this specific fact right at this specific moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Aiden sagged in Lambert’s arms. “Medallion kinda… puts people off. And there’s a rule about never putting your dick in crazy, and the School of the Cat is just an asylum on wheels most of the time, and - .”

Lambert could feel Aiden bunching up with each passing word. “Hey, oi,” he turned his face into Aiden’s hair again, nosing through the small braid that fell down behind his ear. “If you’re askin’ what I think you’re askin’, then the answer’s yeah, yeah I want to.”

Aiden squeaked. Fucking squeaked. And Lambert’s heart did this little fluttering thing it had never done before. Like someone had replaced it with a sparrow that was trying to fight its way out to settle in Aiden’s pretty hair, where it would nest forever, and -

“Now?”

Lambert’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Can we do it now?”

“Aiden, it’s kinda cold, I’m not really at my full - grandeur,” Lambert did a little shuffle to make sure. Actually, you know, with Aiden all warm against him, maybe he could muster a little bit of a show.

“No,” Aiden turned in Lambert’s arms until they sat nose to nose. “I want - uh, I want your ass.”

“Oh,” Lambert’s eyebrows shot up. That was… unexpected. “Well, I mean…”

“I’ve looked at it a lot,” Aiden said seriously. “You… your trousers are very tight.”

“That’s fucking rich coming from you. Sometimes I think you’ve painted them on,” Lambert growled, and then decided that mouth was too close and, oh fuck, it was smiling again. Their lips pressed together - dry, chapped, not exactly the most dazzling of kisses - but Lambert moaned softly into it nonetheless. He’d been wrong before about the hair. This was the good shit.

Then suddenly Lambert could smell it. A swell of raw need soaking the air, emanating from every single one of Aiden’s pores; it was sweet, and soft, and beautiful. Aiden wanted, and he wanted bad. Agile fingers scrambled at the front of Lambert’s gambeson, shaking with excitement, and he grinned into Aiden’s lips. “Alright, alright. No need to tear me out of my kit,” Lambert guided him away, putting some space between their chests. His gaze travelled down Aiden’s chest to his - well, holy fucking Melitele on a horse cock, it was huge. Even inside the restraints of Aiden’s clothes, Lambert could see that beast of a dick growing down Aiden’s right trouser leg.

“Now I feel somewhat inferior,” Lambert’s eyes flicked up, and then raised an eyebrow when he saw the Cheshire cat level grin sprawling across Aiden’s face. He stared at him long enough for it to falter a little because he was a cruel fucker like that, and then rubbed their noses together. “Gimme a sec’. There’s a bit of, uh… prep, I need to do.”

The mad dash outside for a bowl of snow was totally worth it, his teeth chattering as he melted it down with a little puff of igni. As was the awkward shuffling with a washcloth underneath the cover of his cloak so as not to completely destroy the moment. Aiden watched it all, with big, interested eyes, plucking idly at the ties on the front of his trousers. When Lambert returned with a stoppered bottle though, he squinted in confusion. “Is that oil for - ?”

“Don’t think about it,” Lambert warned, and then nipped that pouty frown as he wiggled out of his trousers and boots. It was too cold to shed his gambeson and shirt, and he was already shivering from his brief time away from the fire. “C’mon, get these down, and sit on my pack… yeah, like that.” Lambert guided Aiden back and tugged his trousers down to his knees. When he finally straddled those well-muscled thighs, he stroked his fingers slowly down the front of Aiden’s vest. Lingering over each button and clasp, allowing their breath to mingle as they both watched his hand progress, Lambert bit his lower lip as he finally slid his fingers down velvet soft skin.

Aiden let out a strangled noise somewhere on the spectrum between a grunt and a whine. The drool of precome leaking from Aiden’s slit wetted Lambert’s palm as he teased his foreskin around his head. “Wolf, fucking… ahh. Oh my - oh my - gods, ahh.”

“Huh,” Lambert smirked, stifling those desperate gasps with another kiss as he thumbed open the bottle. The cork skittered across the cave floor, and he tipped a generous puddle of oil over Aiden’s groin. His hand worked it back up his shaft until every glorious inch glistened, leaping eagerly against his palm with each gentle tug. “You’re not gonna’ be a two minute wonder, are ya’?” Another little shuffle. “Now, are you ready? Because you’re definitely about to put your dick in a whole loada’ crazy.”

Aiden looked almost pained, clearly unable to muster his wit amidst the mire of need, and Lambert chuckled as he leaned their foreheads together. With a little bit of shimmying, he moved his hips forward and reached between his own thighs for a little bit of preparation. Not too much. He loved the stretch of a good prick and Aiden… yeah, he counted and then some. It’d been a while though, and he had forgotten the pleasure to be found in a simple touch at the right angle. Aiden watched, mystified, and couldn’t help but lean up to kiss Lambert's slack jaw and damp lips. “Bert,” he whispered, and smiled hopefully up into those misty eyes as they dropped. “Want you.”

“Mmm,” Lambert cupped Aiden’s jaw and tilted his head back as he angled his hips. The thick head of Aiden’s prick notched into his rim, and with slow, gentle rocks he worked himself down into Aiden’s lap. He didn’t want to miss the moment - that moment - when a person discovered the pleasure of joining with someone they lov--uh, liked very much. So Lambert lifted his lips away, watched as Aiden’s mouth formed an awed ‘oh’, eyes glazing over in bliss, as Lambert’s body gripped around him. “Oh, fu - Aiden, yeah.” Lambert stuttered, stopping only when he was fully seated, his ass flush with Aiden’s groin.

“Feels good,” Aiden gasped out the understatement of the millennia. He looked like he was floating in the heavens; the admiration poured out of his eyes, his body quaking with need. Finally rediscovering the use of his hands, he reached around to grab a handful of an asscheek while the other scrubbed over the bristles of Lambert’s beard with an appreciative growl. Feral fuck.

Those blunt nails scratched through Lambert’s hair next and pulled him down for another kiss; wet, slow, with tongues that brushed lazily together. Lambert began to slowly move his hips in the rhythm he loved; he knew the angle, knew the pace, knew everything that would make this more than just good for them both. As he worked, their combined sweat dampened the warm interior of their cloak cocoon, skin slick and flushed, the cold a distant memory.

Lambert lost the capability to coordinate a kiss as his body built to its peak, and slumped onto Aiden’s shoulder. He tilted his head so that his lips pressed to the hammering pulse in the side of his lover’s neck that matched the throb deep in his ass. Aiden was gaining confidence, heels pushed into the floor so that he could meet Lambert’s lazy rolls with firmer thrusts that found the sweetest spot. He nudged Lambert away from him so he could watch their bodies join; his cock pumping into Lambert, and Lambert’s erection shivering, leaking. Aiden wrapped a hand around it, tugging roughly in time with his thrusts until Lambert’s noise filled the cave.

Lambert groaned, and panted, and gasped, moving faster, demanding more, until finally Aiden went rigid below him. His lean body tensed like a coiled spring, and Lambert managed to lift his head to allow Aiden’s to fall back.

Well, that was fucking unfair. Even his orgasm face was pretty.

Pink lips parted, green eyes wide, lean throat perfect for nibbling. In fact, yeah; Lambert leaned down and bit his ownership as he rode himself to completion. The brush of Aiden’s palm down his shaft and over his head was enough, and he painted that ocean blue gambeson with strips of white. They slumped on Lambert’s packs, the cloaks draped over them, their own body heat enough to keep the cold of the blizzard at bay.

Lambert moved with a quiet grunt, ignoring the mess between them in favour of studying his blissed out kitty-cat. “Consider your cherry popped.”

“Huh,” Aiden smiled; it was bleary, almost drunken. “Can’t believe I was missing out on that all this time.”

“How much time?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Uh,” Lambert ran the calculations. “Ten… fifteen years, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Aiden slumped. “That long.”

“Well, fuck,” Lambert stretched, rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Got some catchin’ up to do then. Wait until you see what I can do with my tongue…” Aiden’s eyes went wide, and Lambert wiggled his eyebrows as he shuffled down.

“Oh,” Aiden gasped. Perhaps getting caught in a cave in the middle of a hellish blizzard wasn’t so bad after all…

#rawrkinwrites #smut #Lambden #Lambert #Aiden #Bottom!Lambert

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pressedinthepages · 4 years ago

Text

Curative

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Eskel/Reader

Rating: E

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request: [Hi Erica, I love your writing. I'm having a bit of a crap time at the moment with working in the NHS mid pandemic and doing my MSc in Advanced Critical Care Practice. I feel old and knackered tbh (I'm 39) and would love it (but only if you have the time) if you could write me a smutty Eskel blurb. Anyway, even if you don't, no worries because I think your writing is sublime with or without this request being fulfilled xx] oh you sweet thing, i cannot begin to imagine the crap to time ratio that you must be going through rn. all the best, and i hope you stay healthy and safe <3

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: smut, description of previous injury, oral (fem receiving,) eskel is a pussy eating GOD and you cant change my mind.

After needing a bit of help, Eskel returns the kindness.

“This has healed up quite nicely, Eskel.” You unwrap the bandages from his arm, gently running your fingers over the tender skin. He had shown up at your door the night before, having been bitten by a nekker and taken so many of his own potions that his eyes were black, spreading over his skin in spindly veins.

Now though, he seems back to normal. His skin, while still marred with numerous scars and burns from a lifetime of hunting monsters, has returned to its healthy pallor. The spot that had been so viciously torn open by the beasts was now nothing more than a raised crescent of little tooth marks.

Eskel smiles up at you, crooked and boyish in the morning light. “Well, I would expect nothing less from a healer of your caliber.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, dear Witcher,” you say, flushing nonetheless. You turn to clean up with a yawn, feeling Eskel’s eyes on your back. You hear the chair creak from under him as he stands and then you feel warmth at your neck as Eskel leans to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“May I repay the favor?” Eskel’s lips press over your pulse point, insistent. You tilt your head with a sigh, baring the tender skin to allow him better access.

“Yes…” you breathe, sinking into his grasp. Eskel winds his arms around your waist and turns you to face him, catching your lips with his own. His fingers bunch in the fabric of your shirt as his tongue licks into your mouth. He tastes of strong herbs and the spice of magic and his skin is warm under your fingertips as you run them through the dark hair that dusts over his broad chest.

Eskel walks backwards towards the fireplace, still latched onto your lips as he maneuvers around the odds and ends around the floor. The fur on the floor is soft under your hands when he pulls you onto the floor, and into his lap as he worries another spot on your neck. You moan when he sucks hard, almost guaranteeing a bruise by the evening. You feel his length press against where you sit astride him, hard and hot between your thighs. You grind against him, finding a sloppy rhythm as you both lose yourselves for a moment.

The air is warm on your skin when Eskel slides your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side as he kisses down the newly exposed skin. He takes the peak of your breast into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and just the barest glance of his teeth, and your core aches with the need he instills in your bones. Eskel undoes the laces on your skirt as well, and you feel it loosen around your hips as he fits his fingers into the delicate fabric of your underclothes.

He pushes you back, laying you down as you lift your hips. The skirt and underclothes are pulled from beneath you and you lay bare on the fur, Eskel’s eyes burning as they rove over your body. Every inch of skin feels alight with his attention and you squirm a bit, searching for even the slightest bit of friction to soothe the need in your core.

Eskel chuckles as he leans over you, his arms bracketing your head and his hair flopping down to brush your forehead. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?”

You nod, taking your lip between your teeth as he brushes his nose against yours. He kisses your cheek sweetly before shifting down, settling his head between your thighs. Eskel looks up at you with such wonder in his eyes before he closes the distance between you. His tongue presses flat against your slit, stroking slowly up before swirling around the little pearl of nerves settled at the top. You arch into his touch, your hips chasing him of their own accord.

Eskel tuts at you, throwing his arm over your belly to hold you in place. His other hand finds your thigh, rubbing little circles into the muscle. Your head hits the floor with a thunk as he wraps his lips around you and sucks, sparks flying behind your eyes as you alight with burning embers. Eskel moves slowly but surely, his eyes closing in bliss for a moment as he finds a rhythm. You watch as his free arm disappears under his body and fumbles with the laces of his trousers, trying desperately to free himself.

Instead of returning to your thigh, his hand drifts up to meet his lips at your core, drawing another dark moan from deep in your chest. He slowly pushes one finger into your heat, playing with you as he takes his time with your pleasure. He speeds up a bit as he thrusts in and out, adding a second finger, quickly followed by a third.

“Eskel, please, I-I need…” you plead, mindless as you chase that high that he holds just out of your reach.

“I know what you need, love,” he murmurs and dives back in with renewed fervor, his voice thick and husky as his hips thrust lazily against the floor. His fingers twist just right and hit that tender nerve deep inside of you and you feel fire beneath your skin, trying so frantically to release. You feel him smirk against you as he hits that spot over and over and over, plunging you fast to the edge of your climax. You hang there, right at the precipice of pleasure for a heartbeat before Eskel moans against your core.

You fall, twisting your fingers into the soft hair atop Eskel’s head as your orgasm overtakes you. You’re blinded and deafened by the sudden and all-encompassing relief that washes through you like a wildfire overtaking the underbrush. Eskel prolongs your pleasure carefully, still licking and sucking and fucking you with his fingers, though slow enough to not send you spiraling into overstimulation.

Your chest heaves as you return to yourself, your fingers lazily stroking down the rough side of Eskel’s cheek. He sits up onto his knees, pressing one last kiss against your core before climbing over you. His chin shines with the evidence of your release and you taste it on his lips, earthy and sweet. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him to rest entirely atop you. You can feel his heart beating in his chest, a slow thud that pierces into your bones.

You kiss along his jaw and down his neck and you feel him chuckle above you. His length presses insistently against your hip, flushed and weeping from the tip. “Oh darling,” Eskel murmurs, “we’re just getting started.”

#eskel x reader #smut

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strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years ago

Text

tell me your sorrows, darling

summary: Geralt usually drinks himself past a Witcher’s alcohol tolerance when the world gets to be too much. Jaskier finds out, and decides that that has to change.

words: 2326

tags: geralt/jaskier, gentle dom jaskier, sub geralt, no smut, bigotry & prejudice

main masterlist | story on ao3

Geralt had a habit of internalizing things.

Jaskier knew this, obviously. He figured it out approximately four days after being attacked by the elves, and had a suspicion even before then, but he didn’t know the extent of it until some room at an inn that was too expensive, and insults and names thrown at Geralt, when the Witcher slipped out of the room after the hunt and after dinner. Jaskier found him hours later, leaning against a tree, smelling strongly of ale, and he made sure not to cut himself on the broken glass of the bottle next to Geralt’s feet as he led him back to the inn.

It didn’t happen often; Geralt had an astonishing amount of self control, and Jaskier could count on one hand the number of times he found him that drunk in a single year. He tried to help, anyway; talked to Geralt as if he was an animal that would spook, which he sort of was. Jaskier got him to admit it; he had good days, and he had regular days, and the bad days were when he went to the woods. All Jaskier asked was for Geralt to tell him when it was a bad day, so he could help before he bought the bottle.

In the next four years, the number of times diminished. Not because Geralt had more good days, but because Jaskier was there on his bad days, and he was not to be deterred in preventing Geralt from drinking past his own alcohol tolerance.

Another three years passed, and now they were here. Together, like always, and of course Jaskier had never stopped helping Geralt. He just found a new way to do it.

Jaskier looked up from his lute as the door swung open, admitting Geralt, who stumbled just slightly as he walked in. Jaskier frowned and set his lute aside on the bed, sliding off of it and padding over in bare feet to the Witcher. He swayed just slightly - whether it was drinking or exhaustion or both, Jaskier couldn’t tell.

“Geralt?” he asked quietly. He got a grunt in response as Geralt sat heavily down on a chair, and when pale fingers drifted to his armor buckles, ready to undo them, they were slapped away with a light sting.

“Don’t touch.”

Jaskier’s frown smoothed out into a sterner expression, voice going just that slightest bit harder, though it still held an edge of softness to it. “Geralt.”

He didn’t elaborate - he didn’t need to. Jaskier stood there silently, blue eyes firmly fixed on the Witcher, who, after several long moments in which he simply stared down at his hands, slumped just the slightest bit. Jaskier took a step back, his own shoulders relaxing and a smile easily curving his lips.

“What is it today?” he asked lightly, turning to take one of the pillows from the bed and laying it on the floor in front of the other cheap wooden armchair.

There was a long moment of silence, and Jaskier was turned half around to Geralt before he finally heard the low, reluctant rumble. “Bad.”

Jaskier nodded, but his expression and movements didn’t change otherwise. Geralt could smell the sadness tinging his scent still, but the bard simply took a seat in the chair - which had been adorned with more pillows for him - and strummed a note on his lute. His legs were on either side of the pillow on the floor at his feet - a silent, open offer. “What happened?” he asked while focusing on his lute. To anyone else, it may have seemed absent, but they both knew Jaskier was listening, focused far more on what Geralt was saying than on his lute.

Geralt let out a long breath, broken by the quiet chord of Jaskier’s lute, before he spoke. “Alderman refused to pay,” he said.

Jaskier nodded to himself, testing another note. It was always the big things, first. The things justified for Geralt to be angry at, the things he wouldn’t be seen as weak or overreacting to get mad at. And then, gradually, the small things; someone looked at him wrong, someone moved the wrong way - all things that were not, usually, reasonable for someone to get mad at. Yet, for someone like Geralt, the small things were the ones that hurt the most; it reminded him every time how ingrained it was in humanity to shy away from Witchers, how hated they were, and, well. They were the straws that broke the camel’s back.

“What went wrong on the hunt?” Jaskier asked softly, when Geralt didn’t continue.

Another long silence. Geralt stood up and stepped slowly over to where Jaskier was sitting. He’d divested himself of his armor, and was in only his thin shirt and pants.

Jaskier didn’t play another note. Geralt paused in front of the pillow, and Jaskier felt the slightest

tendril of anxiety rise up in him. This balance they had was fragile, requiring an immense amount of trust on both ends, and Jaskier knew just how much Geralt’s trust had been broken, and how thin it could be if it wasn’t built up properly.

“A nest of nekkers. He said there were only three. I killed seven.”

Geralt slipped down to his knees on the pillow and Jaskier hid his breath of relief. Even after months of this, he was never sure if he’d done something that had unwittingly broken Geralt’s trust; he was as scared of being left as Geralt was.

Jaskier knew there was still tension in his shoulders, but that would bleed out in time. He had to be patient; Geralt couldn’t be forced into anything if he didn’t want it.

“The alderman might get a visit from me tomorrow,” Jaskier said, pulling his notebook to his lap and flipping it open, picking up the pencil he kept in it. He wanted to touch Geralt desperately, wanted to show him how he appreciated the surrender the Witcher gave to him when he didn’t willingly give it to anyone else, but it wasn’t time yet. They’d been doing this long enough that Jaskier knew what made Geralt comfortable and what made him uncomfortable.

The Witcher hummed, then hesitated. Even after how long they’d been doing it, Geralt found it difficult to keep talking, and about his thoughts no less. He couldn’t respond to what Jaskier said with anything but his own thoughts on the person, not a question back at the bard. It was hard, but at least Jaskier didn’t have to find him in the woods and help him stumble back to the inn.

“He’s pompous,” Geralt told him quietly. Jaskier smiled and set his notebook aside, taking up position on his lute and strumming a few soft chords. “Probably wouldn’t have paid me enough if there had been three nekkers.”

Jaskier tsked. “He’ll learn,” he said - calmly, lightly, but not harmless. There was a slight threat to those words, unnoticeable to anyone but Geralt, who had known him long enough to be able to track the little tics and signals that betrayed Jaskier’s true emotion, even if he didn’t already have his scent to rely on.

Geralt didn’t continue again, and Jaskier took it as his cue. Without the slightest signal as to his notice of how Geralt had gone briefly nonverbal, he began playing the soft beginning to a song, humming a tune along with it that sounded like it would be lyrics. Parts of the hum bled into half-formed words, a thoughtful tone pervading it all.

Some of the tension bled from Geralt’s shoulders now, listening to Jaskier, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head against Jaskier’s thigh. The bard faded off into silence, and Geralt felt the beginnings of the pleasant haze, like a fog off in the distance, coming towards him.

It was quiet for a few moments, Jaskier silent and Geralt thinking, before the bard’s thigh nudged him slightly and he remembered he wasn’t supposed to internalize his negative thoughts.

Jaskier waited, and his lips twitched up into a smile when Geralt told him of the next thing; small, not as important as not being paid. He was getting closer, letting go of the feelings he usually kept inside himself.

“There was a woman,” Geralt started, and stopped. His eyes were open now, staring at the pattern on Jaskier’s doublet.

Jaskier set his lute aside and put one hand in Geralt’s hair, running his fingers through in a steady, soothing rhythm. He felt Geralt go still, focusing on the rhythm, and momentarily losing his train of thought as he continued without thinking.

“She was the apothecary,” he said, and tensed when he realized he’d kept going, but Jaskier tugged lightly on his hair as he passed his hand through and Geralt sighed quietly. “Refused to sell me ingredients.”

Jaskier was quiet; he always was during this time, because it was his time to listen. Geralt tilted his head just slightly up into Jaskier’s hand in his hair, and felt the pleasant haze fuzzing the edges of his consciousness, loosening his tongue enough to continue without any guilt.

“The innkeeper,” he started, and his tone turned slightly sorrowful and tired. He closed his eyes and let his head rest heavily on Jaskier’s thigh. “He leaned away from me. Didn’t want to touch me.”

Jaskier’s scent tinged with anger and sadness, but his hand stayed steady in Geralt’s hair and his voice was soothing and soft. “His loss,” he said. “They don’t deserve you.”

Geralt hummed, the haze settling lightly over his mind and only getting heavier the more Jaskier ran his hand through his hair and the more he let go by talking about it. And, that was the whole point, wasn’t it. Geralt knew Jaskier wouldn’t begrudge him his anger towards humans for being so biased, wouldn’t tell him he should be grateful he was allowed to be in their presence at all, wouldn’t be hurt for telling him this. That was how he relaxed, by knowing he was safe and not alone anymore, knowing someone did care for him, even if it took him months to start to believe it.

It was certainly better than waking up with a pounding hangover.

“Is that it?” Jaskier asked softly. Not judgmentally, just neutral. Geralt was tempted to say yes, because if he did then he knew he’d finally be able to relax fully, slip into that pleasant haze, and wouldn’t need to keep talking.

But, he wouldn’t. Geralt knew he wouldn’t be able to truly relax until he told Jaskier everything. It was something he’d gotten used to, not being alone, and it was more freeing than he’d thought.

With the steady rhythm of Jaskier’s hand in his hair grounding him, Geralt spent the next fifteen minutes listing off what he’d seen today, all the negative ways society had impacted him. The man who inappropriately touched a woman next to him, who Geralt had saved her from with a few harsh words, and the way the woman didn’t even say thank you, but instead ran from him. The blacksmith, who called him Butcher despite Jaskier’s songs (and that made Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair briefly, and the edge of anger grow slightly sharper). The baker, who refused his coin, and when Jaskier heard that Geralt only wanted to get the bard his favorite pastry since he happened to have enough coin for it for once, Jaskier told him it was okay.

With every new thing he told Jaskier, Geralt felt the haze slip over his mind, settling heavy until he was focused entirely on Jaskier’s hand in his hair and his voice as he softly hummed and sang tunes. It was a more complete relaxation than he’d ever gotten before, and the way Jaskier said thank you and you did so well made him believe easier that he wasn’t burdening him, that he was safe doing this. And, when Jaskier agreed with him, when he said that he’d think the same thing.

It was an experience Geralt never wanted to give up. He wondered how he’d ever gotten any sort of peace from burying himself in a bottle in the woods, how he’d managed without this for so long.

It was an undetermined amount of time, so lost in the pleasant haze Geralt was in, with the scent and feel of Jaskier surrounding him, that he felt his hand tug just slightly in his hair. It registered distantly, but grew more insistent with each pass. The haze lifted, slowly but surely, until Geralt’s eyes fluttered open and he tipped his head up to look at Jaskier, cheek still pressed against his thigh.

Jaskier smiled. “Good,” he said softly, and tilted his head towards the bed. “Come on.”

Geralt hummed, it being farther past him than usual to think of using words, and followed Jaskier’s hand as it lifted from his hair and he stood up.

The haze slipped further away with every step he took to the bed, with every new movement he made, and by the time he was laying on his back in the bed and Jaskier was climbing next to him, he wrapped his arms around the bard and pulled him down on top of him, eliciting a small gasp and a laugh. Geralt wasted no time in burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply and sighing softly when all he could smell was Jaskier. His hands slid underneath his shirt to feel the warm skin there, fingers splayed across Jaskier’s back, one calloused thumb rubbing small circles in his skin.

Jaskier laughed softly and settled in, shifting closer to Geralt. His fingers tangled in Geralt’s hair and slowly ran through, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “Sleep, love. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Geralt hummed and tightened his arms, and the darkness that took him was warm and smelled like Jaskier.

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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garmonboziasworld · 4 years ago

Text

So, here comes the smutty chapter. If you don't want to read it, skip the part from 'Minutes later' to 'That's when realisation hit her'. If you do want to read it, enjoy. While I'm hiding in a corner somewhere. Because this is the first smut I've ever written.

Anyway, the title of the chapter is a song by BANKS. Every time I hear these lyrics, I'm sohehow reminded of Vernon & Mari.

Before I ever met you I never knew that my heart could love so hard Before I ever met you I never knew I would be enemies with disregard Before I ever met you I never knew that I liked to be kissed for days Before I ever met you I never knew I could be broken in so many ways

Chapter 6: Before I Ever Met You

"So? Did the princess arrive safely at the temple in Ellander?"

"She did, your Majesty."

Mari gave Foltest a polite smile before she turned to her dish again. King Vizimir wanted her to escort Dalimira to the temple just to make a stop in Vizima and spend some time at the court. Testing the waters. That's what he told her. And that was also what Vernon meant when he said he'll see her around. And now he was sitting at the table with them. Foltest at the end of the table, Mari and Vernon at the sides next to him. Now every time she looked up she met his eyes. She was wondering why the King allowed a spy to dine with him. Why out of all people Vernon? Although, thinking about how their last conversation went, it was quite obvious. Foltest wanted him to watch her. Probably Vernon told Foltest everything what Dijkstra told him. And now she felt like being in a Nekker's nest. Unpleasantly exposed with nowhere to hide.

"Although," Foltest grabbed his mug of wine and leaned back in his large chair. "I do have to say that I'm a little bit disappointed by you."

She raised her eyes again to meet his gaze. "And why is that, your Majesty?"

Foltest made a gesture with his hand like it was obvious why he would be.

"The temple in Ellander? When she could have stayed in the temple in Vizima? You should have talked to her. Made her stay here in the city. She'd be safer here, we could have watched her."

Relieved, she sighed. "This was the princess' decision to make, your Grace. Don't take it personally or even as a revenge on the refused marriage proposal. Dalimira was just impressed by Mother Nenneke. She wants to learn from her."

"Hm," he hummed and took a sip of his wine. "Well, we are just disappointed that like this you won't come to Vizima to visit the king's daughter."

"... We, your Highness?"

He ignored her question and inspected the wine in his mug as he swirled it. "What do you think about the wine?"

"I don't like it."

Opposite of her, Vernon nearly choked on a piece of meat.

"It is way too watery. And sour."

Foltest kept his eyes on his mug.

"You're right," he nodded. "It is horrible. I knew you'd be honest about that. Not like him who is just too polite to say it and keeps on drinking it like it was water."

Roche still coughed as he replied. "I'm sorry, my king, but I am not an experienced wine drinker. I can't tell the difference, they all taste the same to me."

"Then I guess the 1248 Est Est you requested from me a few days ago was not for you?"

"... No, your Majesty."

"If you didn't need it to fulfil a job then it looks like my Intel worker is courting someone? Someone with taste."

"Assuming I was, would that be a problem?"

"As long as it doesn't distract you from your work? And be careful who you're courting. You know very valuable information. I need your head to be clear. Not between some woman's thighs."

Mari cleared her throat and put aside her cutlery. "I'm sorry, your Majesty, but the journey was rather exhausting. May I be dismissed for tonight?"

"My apologies. Of course you may. Get some rest, we can talk tomorrow."

"Thank you, your Majesty." Mari rose from her chair.

"Vernon, show Lady Mari her quarters."

Her eyes were immediately fixed on him as he stood up as well. "Of course, your Majesty."

He walked around the table to walk past Mari. "If you'd follow me?"

Mari bowed slightly before the king, then she followed Vernon to the door and they left the dining room. As he walked down the corridors of the Palace, she walked behind him, always a step behind as it was the rule at court, even if he wasn't a king. They remained silent on their way. Once they arrived at the quarter and stood in front of the door, they started talking.

"Here we are."

"Thank you. Have a good night then."

"I must insist on coming in as well. Royal orders."

"Nice try, Vernon, but you heard what King Foltest said about courting."

A quiet laugh escaped his throat. "No, I have to make sure that the room is safe. We don't want an assassin waiting for you in there, do we?"

He opened the door and stepped into the quarters.

"Right …" Mari mumbled, angry at herself for saying something so stupid and embarrassing.

"The room is safe, you can come in," she heard him saying from inside, so she entered. She took a look around the room, as Vernon closed the door behind her. Her eyes wandered over the scrolls on the working table, the different swords leaning against the walls of the room and the unmade bed.

"... This is definitely not my quarter."

"No, it's mine."

She turned around to him and looked at his mischievous smiling face.

"You tricked me?"

"I did. And I needed the distraction to prepare this." He gestured over to a small table with two mugs and a bottle of wine.

"If that is the same wine we had for dinner then I thankfully decline."

"It's not."

Mari walked over to the table and grabbed the bottle to take a look at the label. 1248 Est Est. The wine he requested from Foltest.

"I already wondered when Foltest mentioned it. Do I want to ask how you knew that this is my favourite?"

"I'm working for the secret service. Getting information like that is my job."

He followed her to the table, took the bottle out of her hand and uncorked it. "Take a seat."

As she did so, he poured them some wine and handed one cup to her. He took the other and sat down at the table, looking at her.

"So," she started. "Is this courting now or an interrogation?"

"Whatever you want," he replied. "Although it is not common to serve expensive wine at an interrogation."

"Maybe you should think about it, it will loosen your victim's tongue much faster."

"And yours?"

"Mine doesn't have to be, unlike yours, remembering what your king said."

He raised an eyebrow and eyed her, slightly surprised. "You didn't even take a sip yet and your tongue is loose enough already."

"And still I won't waste any of this exquisite wine." She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of the dark and flavourful wine, her gaze not leaving his.

They talked for the next few hours. They talked about everything. Themselves, Temeria and Redania, about the little things like her favourite book, and they talked about his time at the army before the king took him under his wings. She didn't realise how fast the time went by and how comfortable she felt in his company. She held her head in her hands supported on the table and listened to him carefully.

"And there I stood in front of the king. The king. Ragged, muddy and beaten up. I nearly shat my pants, I thought he'd discharge me for dishonourable conduct. After all, I accused one of his officers of treason. Well, as it turned out, I was right. That's why the King called for me. To promote me. As a reward for my ability for finding it out where nobody else could."

"You followed your instincts."

"I know I can rely on them. I always could."

She recalled what Dijkstra told him and how he responded to it. And how confused she was about it. So she had to know. "And what do your instincts tell you about me?"

"If I only knew …"

And then they felt silent. It was the type of silence that said something. Too much, actually. They looked at each other, brown eyes meeting grey eyes. The longer it lasted the more she realised it. If she didn’t leave now she knew she wouldn’t leave at all. Mari broke their eye contact and stood up.

“I think I should go.”

Vernon stood up, too, and he accompanied her as she walked to the door. But instead of opening it and guiding her outside, he blocked it with his body standing in the way, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Confused, Mari looked at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sick of it, Mari.”

“Sick of what?”

“Us prancing and hovering around each other since the day we met?”

“We don’t do that, Vernon.”

“No? So you say there is no mutual sexual attraction between us? That you don’t feel it?

Oh how she did feel it. She felt it since Foltest introduced them to each other during the banquet in Tretogor. Since then she felt it every time they met. All those looks they shared, the words they said and all the intentional and unintentional touches. But she pushed those feelings aside, keeping things professional.

“We are kind of working together. It’s not a good idea to get feelings in our way of doing so.”

“Could you please toss aside your professionalism and reservedness just for once?”

“Is that what you want from me?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Mari, that’s not what I want from you.“ He pushed himself off from the door and moved close to her. Very close. “You want to know what I want from you?”

“Stop it …” she whispered.

“What I want is you. I want you. I want to kiss you, I want to touch you. I want to know what you taste like, what you feel like. How you say my name in the sweetest pleasure I give you. I want to breathe in your scent while I hold you after we loved each other. I want you to remember me with every movement of your body. I want your skin to scream my name for days after whenever I touched it.”

Her heart was pounding heavy against her chest while she held his gaze. She didn’t even know what to say. His directness caught her off guard. All she could do was stand there and listen to him.

“And don't, do not even try to deny that this is not what you want as well. Do not deny that you never imagined how my lips feel on yours, how my hands feel on your skin, how my body feels on top of yours.”

“… You’re right.” She admitted it. There was no point denying that. Of course she had thought about all of it at some point. Even him saying it out loud made her imagine it all over again. But it was nothing but a desire. A strong physical attraction. Maybe, just maybe, she should give into it. Like he said, just for once push aside all her reasonable thoughts. To ease the sexual tension between them. And after that, things were going back to normal. No more distractions.

"Mari, you measure. You think."

"I don- "

His lips silenced her. The warm, soft feeling of his lips on hers. He grabbed her face and pulled her even closer while he kissed her like a man starved for love. She couldn’t remember the last time she was kissed like that or if she ever had been kissed like that at all. All the times she imagined his kisses, they were deep and passionate. Experiencing them now showed her that they were even more than that and that he was a far better kisser than she expected.

"Stop thinking," he whispered against her lips. "React."

And that’s what she did.

She pulled her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Every kiss she could not give him but so desperately wanted to combined into the one kiss she was giving him now. And while she did so, he wrapped his arm around her waist and brought their bodies closer. All of the tension and attraction and unspoken words erupted in a kiss. A kiss that soon grew more passionate. A kiss so passionate it took the air from their lungs.

Carefully, their lips parted, their faces still close together to feel each other’s heavy breath on their skin. Her hands slid down on his rising and falling chest. She grabbed the liripipe of his chaperon that was thrown over his shoulder and loosened it. Then she slowly reached for the assemblage of rondel and cape and gently took it off. She let it drop to the floor while she looked at him. His brown hair was cropped at the sides but long on top with signs of slight curls. Mari raised her hands again and let it sink into his hair. It felt thick and soft. She ran her fingers through it and Roche hummed in response.

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding under there all the time.”

“Not curious about the rest I’m hiding?”

Minutes later, yearning hands explored the naked body of the other. Roche was sitting on the bed, Mari straddled his lap, their bodies merged and their lips drawn together, exchanging soft and relentless kisses. With his arms around her waist, she cupped his cheeks and felt the stubbles on it. He moved one of his hands up her spine, shortly resting between her shoulder blades, until it moved further up to her nape. Starved for love and affection, their kisses deepened. She wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand grasping his shoulder, the other buried deep into his hair. He broke their kiss and buried his face in her crook of the neck, gently kissing and sucking at her skin, earning a gentle sigh of pleasure.

“I want you, Vernon …”

He shifted their bodies, laying her down onto the bed on her back. He was hovering over her and when she took his face in her hands to pull him down, kissing him, she felt waves of sensation rushing over her body. She never wanted anyone so bad as she wanted him at this moment. Roche clung close to her and their kissing intensified. It was just shortly broken by Mari’s soft and quiet moan when she felt him penetrating her. She held onto his body, both paused for a moment, savouring their closeness. Then Roche slowly moved. Soft and tender. A hushed moan escaped her when she felt his movements. They kissed again, open mouthed, as he continued to curve his hips into hers. His soft movements soon got more passionate, even more when he heard her gasping his name in sweetest pleasure. Roche never knew what it was like, what it felt like to want someone. Until he saw her for the first time. Since then he couldn't stop thinking about her. And now she was lying underneath him, panting his name because of the arousal he was giving to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck again, inhaled her wonderful smell. He kissed her neck, her throat, until he was nibbling at the skin behind her ear. Obviously he found a sweet spot because as soon as his lips were brushing her skin there her hand gripped his hair tightly, the other one clawing into the bed sheet.

“You cheeky bastard …" she whispered with a clearly aroused voice.

“Oh you have no idea,” he answered, his voice raspy and vibrating against her skin. He grabbed her hand clinging into the sheets and pressed it down next to her head, their fingers intertwined.

Soon their bodies melted into a hot embrace. Passion guided their bodies’ movement. Deep and intimate. Mari was breathing heavily, her fingers digging into his skin. She tensed up, her mouth open but it was like her vocal cords cut off. She arched her back up into him as she orgasmed. Sharp pants escaped her throat while coming down from her high. When she did, she still felt him moving inside her, though not as eager as a few moments ago. She held his hips tight with her legs, looking straight into his eyes.

“Go on.” She wanted to feel it, how pleasure rolled over his body, shivering with excitement. Roche watched her face, the glistening eyes and rosy cheeks. He caught her lips with his, kissing her deeply. His pace went passionate again, his hips rolling into hers. His breath quickened and with a deep throaty moan he felt the tension released from his body, leaving nothing but satisfaction. He bent down, resting his forehead against hers and they shared a caring, affectionate kiss. They slowly loosened their embraced bodies and Roche laid down beside her. Mari turned on her stomach, hugging the pillow with both arms and rested her head on it. She looked at Roche, watched his face. His beautiful face. That's when realisation hit her.

"It didn't help."

Confused, he turned his head and returned her gaze "... What?"

"I thought after this I have things settled between us. Dropped it. But I am still attracted to you."

"Wait, hold on …" He pushed himself onto his elbows and looked down at her. "You tried to be reasonable about this? Seriously?"

"Yes, I tried. Didn't work."

"I can't believe it …" He shook his head. Half shocked, half surprised. "We just had sex and all you think about is that maybe it helps you to get un-attracted to me?"

"And I said, it didn't help."

"Hm." He eyed her, before he continued speaking. "Are you sure?"

Now it was her turn to give him a confused look.

"Because if you weren't …" He moved and leaned over her naked back, kissing her spine upwards. "You might want to give it some more thinking."

Mari hummed in response to his kisses leaving a trail of sensation on her skin. "Well, on second thought -“ she turned around on her back to face him. Her hand trailed up his arm until it rested on his cheek. "- I am not so sure anymore."

"Don't worry, we have all night. By tomorrow morning you'll have things figured out."

#fanfic #own work #also on ao3 #ao3 #archive of our own #vernon roche #original character #vernon roche x oc #roche x oc #Spotify

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