#geralt of rivia is so very soft

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 25

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: 😁.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen snores in her bed. At last, peaceful. You leave her as she is, piled in bedclothes amid the glow of the low-burning fire. You emerge into the corridor, silent, and the door drags closed with a scrape at your cautious pull. The shadow by the pillar shifts.  

You glance over at the guard. Gilles has been relieved of his watch and another man stands in his place. You think you recognise him. He must’ve been one of those which helped the queen seize your cart. The road feels so very long ago and yet there is still much ahead of you. 

“Hold,” the guard warns and gives a whistle, the noise echoing along the high ceilings.  

There’s scuffling further down and you turn to face another silhouette, this one slender and lithe like a wraith. Ezme steps into the light of a lamp and stare at you placidly. She beckons with a hand. 

“Come, maid, I will show you your quarters,” she says. 

You bow your head and go to her. It is unusual you wouldn’t be left to find your way to the servants wing yourself, likely near the kitchens, and yet you are much too weary to question any of it. She turns and you walk at her side. The promise of sleep, even if only a little, has you aching to recline. 

The corridors are quiet but for the soft pad of your footsteps. Fewer lamps light the way than in the daytime and the path grows black. You follow the stirring of the women next to you as she carries on. She touches your arm to stop you, nudging you to the right. You wait and listen as she lifts a latch, the metallic noise cutting through the din, and hinges creak loudly. 

She guides you into the dark chamber by your wrist. It is lit only by moonlight and a brazier burning at the foot of a broad bed. The door clanks shut and you shiver. Ezme moves around you, her skirts brushing your own, and she goes to the low mattress. You squint, these are not servants’ rooms. The bed frame, the brazier, the space swathed in darkness; more often, bodies crowded over bags of hay or on the scant tatters of blankets. 

“You will sleep here,” she says softly, “with me. You will be safe.” 

“Safe? From what?” You croak and rub your cheeks as they burn with fatigue. 

“Need you ask,” she replies knowingly, “it is much too late for those questions. Come, lay, the morning will be upon us swiftly.” 

You don’t argue. She is right. You go to bed and remove your apron and cap. You fold them and put them to the foot of the mattress. She moves a dark square over the blankets towards you. You pause and reach to touch the obscured shape as the dim light offers only vague outline. It’s soft, furry. You feel around and find the familiar rough patch sewn into the lining. It’s the king’s cloak. 

“You will want to keep that close,” she says, “the soldier made certain to leave it for you.” 

“Bryce?” You wonder aloud, “is he your friend?” 

“He is a familiar face,” she shrugs and pulls her dress over her head. “The Lord of the Castle likes him well enough.” 

You shift the cloak over your apron and strip off your outer layer, standing only in your shift. You mirror the maid across from you and slip beneath the thick blankets. A sigh escapes you as your muscles finally release the tension of the day. She is still on her back as you lay upon your side, staring at the low flicker of the brazier against the wall. 

Curiosity nips at your exhaustion. How does a servant come upon a room like this? Is it simply at your expense? For whatever reason Bryce has bid her to keep you close. Certainly, the old soldier is overly cautious. 

Your eyes close before you can think very much on the unexpected resting spot. The day has been turbulent and full of many surprises. You only dread those that await you on the morrow. 

⚔️

Ezme wakes you from a heavy slumber. You both dress in the morning hue, rinsing from a basin before you face another day. You leave the cloak on the assurance it will be waiting for you. A thought glimmers of what the king might think should it go missing. Would he blame you? 

You emerge and part from your nocturnal companion. You procede to the queen’s chambers to find them open and the corridor a titter. A pair of servants, themselves dozy, carry one of her chests through as her shrill cry careens through. You approach as the steadfast guard with the fiery hair watches you with narrow eyes.  

You peer within and find the Queen Jazlene digging through the contents, tossing fabrics without a care, in a desperate search. You are stunned to find her awake with the sunrise but not disheartened. It might be a good omen. 

"Where is it?" She throws her hands up and scowls as her eyes skim around, "you," she points in your direction, "where is my blue dress? The one with the silver lace? It must be here!" 

"Your highness, perhaps another chest," you step inside. 

"You did remember to pack it, didn't you?" She accuses as she stands, "I did bid it." 

"Yes, your highness," you affirm, though it was Merinda who would've taken the order. "Shall I go look in the luggage?" 

"Oh, yes, you shall," she struts toward you, "I will not be dressed as some northern wench for the banquet." 

Banquet? You withhold your curiosity and bow your head. You have a task and it is always better to tend to it without question. 

You spin and hurry from the room. You nearly collide with another servant, a tray in their hands. Another chore you needn't attend. You press on and find your way through the kitchens to the rear of the castle.  

The luggage remains mostly in the stables which entails a venture into the wintry without. You mourn the cloak upon the foot of the bed but it would be worse to flaunt the king's patch so heedlessly. You tuck your hands into your sleeves and put your chin down before you push through, the door resisting your strength as the wind blows against it. 

You stagger through and the heavy wood slams just as quickly as you clear its breadth. The gales are strong but the snow has relented. You see dark bodies speckled amid the white as powder dusts up in heaps. The servants work to clear away the thick piles and make pathways around the castle's yard. 

You cross to the stables and delve into the stink of horses and hay. The beast nicker and neigh as you pass as others doze without notice. You find the luggage, chests still upon carts as others litter the unswept floor. If you find the dress, it might just reek of horse. 

You recognise the crest of Debray upon a chest and the painted sides of a few others. You unstrap several lids and raise them, the cold nipping but sweat rising nonetheless. The longer you sift through the contents, the number your hands and fingers become, the clumsier you are. 

A patch of blue, so pale and shiny it's almost white, gleams from beneath the heaps of cloth. You yank upon it, bringing out several other gowns with the effort, and claim victory. You do not neglect to suss out a pair of slippers and a hair net you think might go with it. You set it aside and pack away the mess you've made, breathless from the expense. 

You hug your lot and curl around the next row of horses, searching out Daisy as she leans her head against Chestnut's dark neck. Their eyes widen at your approach and they huff almost in time. You pat their noses before you apologise that you must leave them. 

Once more, the violent gusts greet you in the open, sending a spiral of snow around you and dusting you with the chill. Your teeth chatter as the wind pushes you from behind and fill your skirts. You can hardly aim your steps as you end up against the castle wall, sidling along until you're at the door. 

Within, the cold follows and lingers in your bones. You flit through the kitchens, pots steam as the large ovens blaze and bodies cluster and clash. You barely avoid a collision as you pass into the corridor. As you step around one figure, another appears. 

“Aye, there the mouse is,” Bryce greets as he folds a leaf around his finger, readying it to pop in his mouth, “I see she’s got you at work already.” 

“Sir,” you stop before the soldier, “how was your night?” 

“Eh, dark,” he shrugs, “and you? The other maid saw to ya?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good. If ye can, stay close to that one at the feast,” he girds, “she’s wise. She knows well how to bide the shadows.” 

You nod and hug the fabric, another shiver flowing through you. He tilts his head as he continues to play with the leaf between his fingers. 

“Don’t tell me you were outside without a cloak,” he accuses, “where’s yours, then?” 

“Sir, it was only for a moment--” 

“This cold does not soften for summer maids,” he tuts and shakes his head, “you will make yerself sick and who should have to deal with it, hm? Who should have to hear the king rant of it?” 

“Apologies, I was only in a rush,” you pout. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he steps closer and touches the dress in your arms, “in a rush for flimsy gown. These halls are too cold for satin.” 

“The queen bids it--” 

“Oh, I would expect,” he chortles. 

You purse your lips, slanting them one way then the next, as you recall your task. You watch him pinch the silk before he rescinds his reach. He puts the leaf in his mouth and chews. 

“You said feast and the queen said banquet? Is that this evening?” You wonder. 

“Certainly, is,” he sucks on the sweet leaves, “Lord Vesemir would celebrate our departure most fervently but as any good winter lord, he would not send his guests out in the cold without full bellies.” 

“Oh,” you utter thoughtfully. 

“And I suppose, it will appease the queen,” he adds, “for a time before she is once more miserable in the wildlands.” 

“And we are to leave on the morrow?” 

“Aye, by the nightfall,” he crosses his arms. “They must clear the pass and ready the horses and carts. It will be a labour but best we move on.” 

“I believe so too, sir,” you teethe your lip. 

“Aye, you are prudent, as ever,” he lowers his gaze to the floor, “mouse.” 

You shift on your soles and exhale solemnly, “I must...” 

“Yes, very well, go on to your queen,” he steps aside, “I must find our king. I suspect he might be hounding the lord of this castle, if not sparring with him.” 

There is a reluctance between you as you carry on your way; Bryce to one wing and you to the other, as if to mark the divide of king and queen. You come up the stairs and hurry along, the queen’s doors still ajar. Her voice carries still and servant scuttles out as a plate is hurled after them, crashing onto the floor as it narrowly avoids their foot. 

You slow and cautiously peek into the room. The queen shakes her head and pinches a morsel of brown meat on her plate, eyeing it with scrutiny. For a moment, her face twists, then she forces herself to shove it in her mouth. She chews as a battle rages across her features. 

Her gaze is drawn by your movement and she gulps down her mouthful. She stands, nearly overturning the stool upon which the tray rests. She brings her hands up as she storms over to snatch your armful. You back away as she lets the dress unfurl and you bend to gather up the slippers and hairnet as they fall. 

“Ah, wonderful, a proper attire for my first proper appearance as queen,” she beams and dances around with the dress, “oh, my hair, my hair. You must braid it for me.” 

She lays the gown on the bed and gives it a longing touch before she retreats. She clammers to the plain wooden table upon which she’s had a looking glass propped up. She leans forward as you stand behind her. Her hair remains in the braids she’s worn for some time, looking wilted and ratty from neglect. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“I suppose the king feels horrid for his display yesterday,” she preens at herself. “He must realise he cannot keep a lady like me cooped up.” 

You think to mention that it is more send-off than anything. That is on Lord Vesemir’s whim, rather than King Geralt’s. At least that’s how you have it. Yet, you know well not to argue. Let Jazlene believe as she well and the world is always a bit more pleasant. 

You set to undoing her hair, gently as you notice how dry it is, whether from the cold or the air. She snaps her fingers and demands another servant bring her the tray off food. She picks at it as you unwind her hair and let it free. 

She looks at herself one way then the other. She smiles and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.  

“I am still pretty, aren’t I?” She asks, “I will be after the child comes, won’t I?” 

You swallow and nod, “yes, your highness.” 

“Gilles, Gilles,” she chimes and waves a hand, “come, come,” she turns in her seat and you pull away from her, not wanting to tug on her locks. “Tell me, how pretty am I?” 

The man steps into the doorway and clears his throat. He looks as sheepish as you’ve ever seen. You glance back at Jazlene as she poses and bats her lashes. 

“You are beautiful, my queen, as the summer sunsets,” he avows. 

There’s a click in your head, a wriggle in your chest, and a churning in your stomach. No. No, it can’t be. She wouldn’t betray her marriage. 

Yet you thought the very same of her husband. That’s different. The king rules all, even the queen. And that she so garishly flaunts her fleeting affections. But how can you judge, when your own folly looms over you like a cloud? 

You think of the king’s story; Cerrill and Wynifred and their forbidden romance. It tints in a different effect now, it aligns more evenly, for you do not see this ending well for either queen or guard should they stray. Just as you don’t see yourself faring any better. 

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 95

Inspired by this not geraskier (merthur) fic In a world where your soulmate's greatest current fear is written on your arm, Geralt's arm fluctuates between saying "Dying alone" and "Being Forgotten", and though they do hurt him to see this is what his soulmate fears above all else, he's happy. Because just a few years ago, his arm would swap between "Mother" and "Father". Geralt is fine with it all. Until one day the words on his arm say his name. "Geralt of Rivia" Geralt deals with this as calmly and reasonably as anyone would. He has a fullblown breakdown in the middle of the woods and cries into his horse's side and digs a really big hole before just filling it back up because the digging a hole was for the therapeutic feeling and not for anything of substance. So later when he killed a horrible smelling corpse monster and had to dig a SECOND hole to bury the thing when he had a big already dug hole earlier if he just hadn't filled it fucking in-! He's having a tough week, is all. But thankfully, soon enough, he'll be meeting back up with Jaskier! The one person who's never been afraid of him, and Geralt is only just starting to feel like maybe Jaskier never will. Jaskier is terrified of Geralt. Not of him! Not of him, nonono.. Of Geralt.. finding out. If Geralt finds out Jaskier is falling in love with him, Geralt will surely throw him aside. I mean, it took him forever to say they were friends, if Jaskier tells Geralt he's in love with him, Geralt would probably do something ridiculous like... Scream at him on a mountain or something. Alright, sure, that sounds nothing like Geralt, but Jaskier's spiraling doesn't really care for what makes "sense" at the moment. He's fine. When he meets up with Geralt in a week, he'll just hide his feelings as per usual. He'll be fine.

♡!Optional addons!♡ • Jaskier has discovered that Geralt is his soulmate, because he's mended the wounds on Geralt's arm that clearly says "Geralt dying" or "Geralt bleeding out", or "Manticore Venom". Frankly, he's impressed at Geralt's lack of observational skills. Geralt's arm tends to have the name of whatever monster he's currently fighting on his arm.. But perhaps it's hard to notice that when you're currently engaged in life-or-death battle with aforementioned monster. • Jaskier isn't human. When Jaskier sees "Jaskier" on his arm one day, he feels as if his heart has shattered. Geralt must've found out what he is, and now he hates him. Jaskier can't help himself, when he next sees Geralt, he asks if Geralt would kill him, for he won't be able to keep sane by just separating. Geralt, whose biggest fear is Jaskier being hurt, being sad, dying because of him, dying of old age, loving him, not loving him, etc etc etc, is suddenly very confused over what the fuck they are talking about • Geralt knows Jaskier is his soulmate, and upon seeing Jaskier is terrified of him, Geralt begins acting and speaking completely different in order to "Fix it". Jaskier is confused when Geralt is suddenly hiding his fangs, and never touching his swords near him, and begins speaking exclusively in a soft slightly-higher voice, as if he's a scared animal.

[donaweasley]

Promises to Keep

Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader

Plot:

Geralt is tasked with protecting a princess but his feelings keep poking at him, urging him to shed his tough armour and give in to his heart. But the witcher is a righteous man. He won’t succumb to his feelings so easily. Will he?

Some pining, some fluff that will lead to a “part 2” of this story.

Warnings: A bit of m.at.ure stuff. K.i.d.s better stay away!

Read time: ~15 mins

Note: This story has been based in a timeline before the fall of Cintra, and so, Geralt has not yet started his quest for Ciri. Oh, and he doesn’t fall in love with Yennefer. 😉

Prologue:

Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with many a difficult missions but the hardest of them all was probably not killing but protecting a person. That person was a princess whose parents had specifically called for Geralt to take their daughter under his wing as Nilfgaard marched towards their doorstep.

The princess could fight; she had been in battles but Nilfgaard had morphed into something entirely different from what the Continent had previously seen. It was as though Hell itself had poured into their army, leaving a trail of ash and blood wherever it went.

And so, turning all cries and protests from the said princess to deaf ears, her parents sent her away, in return of an assurance from her that, should their kingdom fall, she would come back and restore it to its glory, flying their banners from every nook and corner.

They knew she could, they had said.

The journey with Geralt had not been easy, moving from camp to camp, from inn to inn, not to mention the complications of his profession. But time gradually made things easier for them both, eventually bringing them to a point where they could comfortably pose as husband and wife so as to protect her identity, and avail a temporary shelter in a village.

And even though they were living a lie of being a married pair, their hearts often wished to forget reality, and enjoy the bliss of domestic life with one another. To be with each other unconditionally, forgetting all rules and boundaries.

But Geralt was a man of ethics, and she did not want him to bear the burden of guilt just because her stupid heart could not stop fluttering for this kind, brave gentleman with a heart of gold!

And thus, neither, for fear of straining what they already had, could ever utter their feelings to each other. After all, they had promises to keep.

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

A few months ago:

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

She hurt herself on the thick leather armour as she flung her arms around his neck. But she did not care. That was a pain she would happily endure if it meant seeing Geralt at her doorstep safe and sound.

He smelled of sweat and blood and the swamp. He probably tasted like it, too. Alright, so what? The man returned after three weeks from the edge of the Continent. And perhaps from the edge of life. She couldn't care less about what he smelled or tasted like. But did he really…? She was very close to confirming her assumption - almost there - when Geralt suddenly remembered his place: the protector of the princess, a mere witcher.

“Princess,” the rich baritone vibrating in her ear woke her up from her purple dream. She could not help but lean back when she found her “husband” doing the same.

Geralt spread his arms slightly, and smiled with that usual softness in his eyes that came to the forefront only when she was around. “Safe and sound. Just like I had promised.”

“I am honoured!” She jested, and stepped inside, making room for Geralt to do the same.

“Give me a minute. I'll draw a bath for you. And once you have cleaned that mess off you, you'll have a warm dinner waiting,” she smiled and turned to make her way to the bath when Geralt gently but firmly held her wrist.

Neither could deny the spark that coursed through their veins at the contact. But neither would confess. Involuntarily, the witcher’s thumb made faint circles over her veins. Once he realised what he was doing, he slowly released her but their fingers lingered over the other’s before finally making some room between them.

Geralt pleaded with her to stop fussing over it all but the woman was ecstatic! Who could stop her from doing everything she could for the man she was falling in love with! Not even the strongest witcher.

And so, she hopped away to prepare a warm bath for him while he busied himself with the relieving task of removing his armour and weapons.

Geralt lay in the bath, pondering over the unsaid things that have been passing between the princess and him. Especially the ones that happened that evening. They had never been this close before, and it only made his breath shallower every time he thought about it. His mind wandered away unleashed every time his drunken heart slipped into fantasies of what could have happened had he not pulled away from her embrace…or what might happen if he allowed himself a bit more liberty with his feelings…

A gentle knock on the door startled him, bringing him back to the reality of the small room lit by two candles, back to the fact that the woman living under the same roof with him was his mission, not his real wife, as the villagers knew her to be. There was no way a witcher could dream of having a wife and a family, let alone with a princess!

“Need anything?” The voice was gentle, happy…it was caring. It made Geralt smile to think that someone cared so deeply for him, that he was actually having a domestic life, even though a fake one.

“Your company would be nice,” he quipped.

Geralt grinned wickedly. He did not need to see her to know the blush creeping up her ears and cheek.

Over the months their relationship - real or fake, whatever that was - had built into a strong bond, one that was made of cares, banters, challenges, huffs (and not just from the witcher), puns of all kinds and fluttering heartbeats. And though neither backed down during the banters or the puns, either one of them definitely ended up with blood rushing up their cheeks.

(Y/N) bit her lip and rolled her eyes. Two could play this game. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. It startled Geralt, and she could tell it without seeing his wide eyes and parted lips.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about from your adventure?” She slowly walked in, eyes straining to look anywhere but at him.

She did not receive an immediate response. How could she! Geralt was spellbound by the boldness of this woman! It was inspired by his own recent boldness, perhaps, he wondered.

He cleared his throat, “Indeed.”

She picked up a small wooden stool, and sat with her back to him. “You were saying?”

“I would detail everything but are you sure you can stomach all that? And before dinner?”

Glimpses from his previous tales crept back, and she gulped at the gory imaginations that his words had painted in her head. Perhaps she could not. But would she confess? No!

“I’m tougher than you think, witcher.”

This was their usual way of addressing each other: “Witcher”, with a sarcastic stress in the middle of the word, and “Princess”, with a vanity enveloping the word.

When they had set out for their journey, she had requested him not to call her “princess”. “I have a name, and I would like to be addressed by it,” she had insisted. But Geralt had decided on maintaining his propriety.

When asked whether he would like to be addressed as Geralt or Witcher, he had simply mumbled, “Whatever you like, Princess.”

“Witcher it is then.”

And that has ever been going on, until recently when some rare moments witnessed them addressing each other by their names, and not what they were to the world.

In the small bathroom now, she heard a slosh behind her, signalling the rise of the large man from his bath. She tried her best to stop her shameless mind from picturing his wet body, dripping with water as he stood and stepped out of the tub, as he reached for the towel nearby and dried himself with it before wrapping it low around his waist. But the quiet of the night made sure that every little sound and movement reached her ears, leaving her a slave to her unabashed imagination.

Geralt grunted, the sound coming from right above her head.

“I know you can’t take it…Princess,” the last word was practically breathed on the shell of her ear.

Leaving her a total mess, Geralt sauntered out of the bathroom with a promise to indulge her in his stories after dinner.

That night, in the faint light of the moon, nimble fingers traced the contours of the witcher’s face as he slept - brows slightly arched, lips parted, face as serene as a dawn in Spring. She watched him breathe peacefully, devoid of the cares of the world, until a small smile cracked at a corner of his mouth. With eyes still closed, he placed a hand on hers and brought it to his lips. A chaste kiss was all it was, and yet it had her heart thundering. He had never - ever - shown any affection other than soft looks and gentle smiles.

“Sleep princess,” he rasped in a sleepy voice.

He opened his eyes once, to watch her smile at him, before holding her hand snuggly and drifting back to sleep.

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

Present day:

The sound of the door cracking open brought her back to the present. Quickly slipping a little more below the soapy water, she gripped the hilt of her sword.

It was Geralt. The moment he set one foot inside, his eyes went wide. It took him hardly a second to swing on his heels, to look away, but the sinful image had planted itself in his head. Probably for eternity.

“Pardon me. I…I did not know… I thought you were done. I just returned from outside; I did not notice that you were not anywhere else. I…”

“Geralt!” His name. She spoke his name! That, along with her soothing tone put an abrupt end to his string of stammering apologies. “It’s alright. I know you had no ill intentions.”

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet for a couple of seconds, he asked, “Do you need anything?”

Her lips stretched into a smirk as she recalled an old conversation that had occurred under very similar circumstances.

“Your company would be nice,” she quipped, just like Geralt had a few months ago.

The witcher recognised the joke immediately. A small smile escaped his usual serious features.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about your first kill,” he jested just like she had back then.

The sigh that filled the room made Geralt wonder if he had said something uncalled for. She was shaken by the incident but if she was making jokes now, she must be recovering. Right?

“(Y/N),” Geralt called without looking at her, “are you alright?”

“No, if truth be told,” came the confession.

He understood. Keeping his gaze focused on the floor, he took a few large steps until he was standing near the foot of the tub. In one smooth move, he was sitting on the floor with his back to her.

There was something about Geralt that made her feel protected all the time. Even in her most exposed and vulnerable state, she felt safe and comfortable with him around. And it was not just the love she felt for him. It was something else. It was something…very “Geralt”.

“The monsters we kill haunt our minds till long after. You never get used to it no matter how many kills you have made,” he sighed.

(Y/N) listened quietly. He was a man of few words, and at most times it seemed as though he was not even listening. But he always understood every single unexpressed emotion, every single unsaid word that she carried within her.

“Every time I close my eyes or every time I hear something, fear grips me,” she shivered at the thought. “You are right. I'm haunted by its memory, and … I cannot seem to shake the thoughts off. No matter how hard I try! I cannot even be courageous enough to convince myself that it is all in my head!” She slapped the water in frustration.

Unlike the witcher, killing monsters was not her profession nor did she volunteer for it. But what she did volunteer for was accompanying Geralt to a trip to the river caves for some herbs. Despite the witcher’s efforts to shield her inside the safety of their home, she managed to argue her way out of the proverbial safety net. Which is what led to the unforeseen event of her first close encounter with one of the many monsters that had become part of Geralt’s life. It also led her to, for the first time, being at the receiving end of Geralt’s fury for risking her life .

‘You were very courageous back there,” Geralt smiled at the memory of her driving her sword through the neck of the drowner, thus saving his own neck in the process.

“I had to be! Couldn’t just stand there and watch my favourite grumpy fellow die!” She jested about it but a shiver ran up her spine as she spoke. “It was disgusting, you know? I can still feel all the blood and slime on my skin.”

“It was also very brave. You saved my life!”

He had thought that his statement would make her proud but he was met with silence.

She spoke after a while. “You do know that I shall not be able to live anymore if something happens to you, don’t you? I shall only survive.”

Geralt’s heart suddenly felt very heavy in his chest. What she said was known information to him. Somewhere in his soul, he knew that she loved him. But to hear it aloud was totally unexpected.

“I shall be fine, princess,” he used his most assuring voice. “Do not worry about me.”

Unseen by him, a smile formed on her countenance. “I know, witcher.”

“Maybe we could talk about something else?” He suggested. “Take your mind off the monster?”

“Hmm… How is Jaskier?” She suddenly asked.

Geralt almost turned his head towards her in surprise. Almost. She was naked, having a bath, and the first “something else” that came to her mind was the bard??

“Jaskier?” He asked. “You wish to talk about Jaskier now?”

“Well, you wanted to talk about something else!”

Was that jealousy that she was sensing in his huffs? She hoped it was.

“He must be fine. I do not know.” He ended the topic as quickly as it had begun.

“Hmm.”

The princess laid her head back on the tub and closed her eyes. There was a comfortable silence. So comfortable that she did want to leave, did not want to do anything that might disturb the moment. Even though it was getting late. Even though Geralt still had to wash himself.

Geralt still has to wash himself! Shit! He must be hungry!

Her eyes shot open. “I’m sorry, I forgot you have to wash up, too! I shall be quick.”

The sudden splash of water pulled Geralt out of his own reverie, inadvertently causing him to turn around so as to ask her not to hurry. But the sight before him left him speechless. It was fortunate that she was too busy to see him else he would never have been able to face her in shame. Geralt turned back and shut his eyes as soon as he snapped out of his trance. But that did nothing to erase the image imprinted in his mind. Not that he wanted to.

She had pulled herself up slightly, as she tried to reach for the towel on the nearby stool. In the light of the candles, her body glowed golden as water cascaded off every curve of her body… down the side of her neck, her shoulders, two perfect globes that highlighted particularly well in the candlelight, perky nipples that had hardened in the water, the beginning of a lustful waist…

He did not hear her step out of the tub, did not hear the rustle of clothes as she got dressed, no. His mind was replaying the same thing over and over again. There was an evident twitch somewhere down his body. He faintly heard something about dinner and changing the water. The creak of the door pulled him back.

“I shall…” His voice was hoarse. “I shall change the water. You may leave.”

The change in his mannerism surprised her but then both his voice and attitude were gravelly most of the time. With a small “alright”, she exited, leaving him to his thoughts.

Dinner was quiet as Geralt tried to suppress the feelings bubbling inside him. He wanted to look at her and lose himself in her eyes. He wanted to tell her how he felt. Wanted to show her what it meant to unleash months of bridled love that he had been carrying within his entire being. He wanted to…

Gods! There were so many things that he wanted to do. But every time he talked himself into taking one step forward, his reality made him take two steps back.

And so, once again, he retired to bed without telling her anything at all about the whirlwind in his heart.

Geralt woke up sometime in the middle of the night, sensing some movements near him. Once sleep stopped fogging his senses, he realised that it was (Y/N) tossing and turning beside him in her sleep. Not only was she being restless, she was mumbling something incoherent that only got louder with her movements. It hardly took him a couple of seconds to realise that she was having a nightmare!

Geralt tried to wake her up: called her name, shook her. But she was trapped deep in her own head. He thought he heard something like his name but could not be sure. Seeing his efforts go in vain, he took her face in both hands and shouted her name while shaking her once more. He wasn’t sure if it would work but luckily, it did. With wild eyes she stared at him, as if trying to figure out where she was, trying to put up a wall between her horrid imagination and sweet reality. When she finally came around, she threw her arms around Geralt’s neck, causing him to tumble to the mattress with her below. Once again, he fought with himself as a wave of relief washed over him, eventually crashing into a strong desire to keep her encased in his arms and caress her for the remainder of the night.

“I dreamt that you were…” she almost sobbed. “That I had…” She couldn’t bring those bitter words to her tongue.

Geralt understood.

“You will never lose me. I shall always be by your side. I promise.”

In the dark veil of the night, in those weak moments, he made her a promise that even he did not know how he would keep, for she would be married to some royalty some day; she would have to go away, leaving him with his solitude and monsters. He could not keep her to himself nor could he watch her be with somebody else.

But that was a worry for another day. Right then, she was in his arms, and no one else’s. Even if for a moment, she was his. He lay on his side and pulled her to his chest. A hand cradled her head, drawing soothing lines through her hair, until her warm breath on his skin had become stable.

Geralt never seeked help or answers from the gods; he did not believe in them. But as he kissed the crown of her head that night, his lips prayed for her safety and happiness, and if possible, for her to be bound to him for eternity.

He knew he was being selfish. He did not know who heard his prayers or even if there was someone who might hear them. But he whispered them anyway, believing that it was the only way to make his wishes come true.

***

[changenameno]

My Own (Chapter 6)

Summary:Geralt finds himself once more on the path, gloomily looking at what lies ahead.And you? You had no one, no home and certainly no coin. Well that’d be something you had in common. No coin. You two are surely off to a great start…

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem. Nymph Reader 

Warnings: 18+, mostly fluff, MDNI (there will be smut in the future), some more teasing and sexual innuendo

Word count: 950

A/N: Sorry it took so long, but here’s finally the next Chapter. I know it’s short but I was kinda busy and just wanted to post something. It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/reblogs are much appreciated…Thank you❤️✨enjoy

(FYI: This won’t follow the exact timeline of the Witcher. But Geralt has met Jaskier already.)

!The Witcher characters and world are not mine!

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

(In case you’ve missed CHAPTER 5)

 

CHAPTER 6

Daybreak had come way too early in Geralt’s opinion. Admittedly he’d slept very well. May have had to do with the pretty nymph, snuggled up to him. But right about now, he’d rather have some peace and quiet.

 

Instead you had noisily started rummaging around an hour ago. He hadn’t even noticed, when you’d slipped out of his embrace. Now he was glaring in your general direction, as your nervous energy made you flit from place to place.

 

 

You hadn’t had another nightmare, but you still had woken up quite early and your body still somewhat buzzed with the adrenalin of the past few days. So you had stood up, tidied up ‘camp’, and got Roach something to munch on, leaving you to wait impatiently for Geralt to finally wake. Apparently he did, if his half opened eyes were anything to go by.

 

 

Chirping happily, you greeted him, “Good Morning.”

 

Geralt huffed, crossing his arms.

 

 

Definitely not a morning person, you noted. You kept staring at him, until he opened his eyes completely, at last. The Witcher got up, and started to put his bedroll away, stuffing it into the saddlebag, next to where you had put yours.

 

 

The second he had turned his back to you, he could feel you bouncing up to him, steps feather light.

“So?”

 

Without turning he answered gruffly, “So?”

 

 

“Where are we going?”

 

 

At that he glanced over his shoulder at you, amused by your cheeriness. He still wasn’t convinced he’d actually kissed you last night. But he knew even his imagination wasn’t that good. He couldn’t have imagined the perfect softness of your lovely lips nor the warm pressure of your back against his chest, fitting against him like a glove. He shook his head lightly, “We, huh?”

 

 

The teasing smile on his lips gave him away, so you just retaliated, “Yes, we. You know me and Roach.”

 

 

Geralt thoroughly enjoyed your quick comebacks, full on belly laughing at your comment. Before something struck him as odd. Dark brows furrowing, “Wait a minute. How’d you know, my horse’s name?”

 

 

You winked at him playfully, “She told me of course.”

 

 

Now his eyebrows shot up in disbelieve. Surprise written all over his face. Could nymphs actually talk to animals? Or were you pulling his leg? He honestly couldn’t tell, your own expression, one of amusement, leaving him none the wiser.

 

 

You found Geralt’s confusion hilarious. Though you were aware that very few people actually knew what nymphs could and couldn’t do, as they preferred to live secluded and mostly just among other nymphs. But if the witcher didn’t ask, you wouldn’t tell him either.

 

 

Your next move distracted him anyway. You had moved so swiftly, he felt like his enhanced eyesight betrayed him.

You were now sitting astride his horse.

 

 

“Wait no. No. Get down there. No one’s allowed to ride her but me.”

 

 

Exasperated you laughed, “What? You can’t be serious?”

 

 

“I am.”

 

“You are telling me, whoever you’re travelling with has to walk beside you? Even the bard? Jaskier, was it?”

 

 

Grinding his teeth, as you still hadn’t even tried getting down, he growled, “Yes everyone. Especially the bard.”

 

 

You patted the mare’s neck, giggling back,” Sure. Uhm, I talked it through with her, and Roach seems to agree that, that is a stupid rule.”

 

 

Geralt had to give it to you, you were certainly imaginative, a quick thinker, and you had the guts to taunt him. It didn’t even irk him that you were quite the brat. If anything he was fond of your playfulness.

 

 

“Mmh. If she says so. Who am I, to disagree with my own horse, right?”

 

 

The witcher’s cheekiness astounded you. The little things you had heard about their kind, were anything but positive. Though you’d always believed those things to be rubbish anyway.

 

 

You nodded yes, “Right.”

 

 

With two graceful movements, he had climbed onto Roach’s back as well. Settling in behind you. Very, very close behind you.

 

 

His wonderfully thick thighs caging yours in, on either side. Broad chest against your back, arms pressed into your flanks as his big hands grasped the reins. Your breath hitched, when he scooted impossibly closer. Sure to press everything against you.

 

 

Geralt could once more, smell your reaction to his proximity, as he relished the sweet scent of your arousal he leaned forward, warm breath against your ear, “You wanted this. You didn’t want to walk,” he reminded you.

 

 

Cursing inwardly, you tried to not give him the satisfaction of making you flustered all over again, so you whispered,” I still don’t want to walk.”

Clicking your tongue, addressing Roach, “Come on girl, let’s go.”

 

 

The witcher was left stupefied for a moment, as his mare set out and stared to trot in the direction you wanted her to.

Then the second part of your ‘plan’ started, as the movement of the horse automatically meant, being pushed into the sturdy body behind you. Circling your hips for good measure.

 

 

And sure enough, something hard began pressing into your rear. A low growl left Geralt’s lips, when he felt your curves move teasingly over his stirring cock.

 

Though he had, had enough of your daring and bratty behaviour, big hands stopped your movements grabbing your hips, ordering, “Be still.”

 

 

Antagonising him was so much fun, you couldn’t help yourself and shot back, “Or what?”

 

 

Making you shudder as he hissed darkly, “Or I won’t be able to stop, this time. So you better behave, you little brat.”

CHAPTER 7

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

Taglist:

If you’re interested in being on my taglist, please let me know! And if you want to be taken off (my taglist), feel free to tell me!❤️✨

[just-some-random-blogger]

Dry Humor

The Blonde Boys Club

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

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

Word Count: 1k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

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

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

I hum, crossing my arms.

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

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

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

I grab his wrist before he reaches my hair.

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

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

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

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

He chuckles, correcting himself by saying my name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon is stoic, but I feel his nerves.

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

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

Daemon watches as I stand.

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

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

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

"Not interested," Geralt hisses.

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

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

[thebigbadbatswife]

To Bring You Comfort

Pairing - Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader

Summary - It’s that time of the month and Geralt takes care of you.

Warnings - Fluff, Periods, Soft!Geralt, Implied Sexual Content

A/N - Something short and fluffy cause I had the week from hell and writing this actually made me feel a little better.

Word Count - 600

Geralt rapped his knuckles against the door of your shared room before pushing it open. He shut the door behind him and made his usually silent footsteps audible, as he crossed the room, so you could hear him approaching the bed where you were curled up, beneath a blanket.

It was that time of the month again. Where you were exhausted and pain and would likely be in this bed for the next couple of days, while you got through the worst of it. He was thankful that the two of you had managed to reach this town beforehand. There were many monsters that could easily pick up on your scent and right now you weren’t in any condition to defend yourself. Here you were safe and that was the most important thing to him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. One of his hands came to rest on your thigh and he squeezed gently.

You groaned. “I hate feeling like shit,” you muttered as you sat up. The blanket covering you fell and pooled into your lap revealing that you weren’t currently wearing a shirt. For the past couple of days your breasts had been rather swollen and sore, even his shirts, which fit you like dresses, had been irritating you. So you had opted for staying topless whilst inside the room. Which he certainly wasn’t complaining about. Geralt might not be able to touch them right now, but he could still admire your breasts.

“I brought you something,” he told you, taking a vial out of his ouch and giving it to you. You frowned as you looked it over before looking at him, an eyebrow raised. “The local herbalist said that it will help with the pain,” he explained.

“And they say that Witchers don’t care,” you teased, leaning in close so that he could give you a quick kiss. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly as you pulled away.

When you uncorked the vial, both of you grimaced at the smell. He imagined that it wasn’t going to taste much better and, by your reaction as you downed it as quickly as possible, he was right. At least it would help with the pain.

“Ugh, that was awful,” you muttered, setting the vial aside and reaching for the cup of water on the nightstand to wash away the taste.

“I know, but it’ll help, love.” Geralt cupped your jaw and kissed you again. If you weren’t so sensitive down there right now, he would have offered to take away your pain in a way that had proven very popular in the past.

“Want to know what else will help?” you asked him.

He hummed softly and shook his head. “What?”

“Kissing and cuddles.”

He smiled fully this time. Of course that’s what you wanted, he should have guessed. He was more than happy to give you what you wanted. He got up from the bed and began to remove his armour and equipment, setting his swords to lean against the table. Then he was crawling into the bed and, carefully, pulled you close to him, making sure you were comfortable. You settled your head against his chest, where you could hear the slow and steady beating of his heart.

You were quick to drift off after that, a mixture of comfort from him and the potion. Which was good. He hated the thought of you in pain. Especially when there wasn’t much that he could really do about it. Hopefully the morning would be better.

[velvetcloxds]

if you're too shy- send me a character and a scenario and I'll write a little baby blurb for it

Geralt of Rivia falling in love with a beautiful chubby cottagecore healer, after she helps him, when he is wounded, please? Thank you!

SOFT HANDS | GERALT OF RIVIA

word count: 0.6k

warnings: plus sized reader, not specified per se but definitely implied

You woke up startled by a crash in your kitchen, looking around your room in tired confusion, trying to figure out the time by looking out through the rags you had weaved into makeshift curtains, it was not morning just yet, far from it, but the timing of the intrusion usually only meant one thing- your witcher was there. You stumbled from your bed, pulling one of your blankets with you, covering your nightgown as it did not aid you much in concealing your curves, thin it its design- Geralt never minded though.

"Geralt," you breathed, you were barely awake, stumbling slightly as you found your footing, already smelling him and you were glad that he had managed to bathe before breaking into your home, very considerate of him.

"Good evening, las," he was talking with his mouth full, busying himself among your wooden cabinets, it piqued your interest, making you speed up until you were next to him, his hands hard at work making some sort of stew. "Are you hungry?"

"Let me see first," you were very convincing, voice just soft enough to make him pause to give you a quick glance at his face, new scars, still bleeding as they stretched over the side of his forehead. "Are there more?" he nodded, grunting when you swatted his hands away from the knife and began pulling him to your washroom, the action only possible because of his willingness to follow you. You noted the burning candles he had arranged around the house, knowing you would need the light, always uneasy when he arrived in the dark.

He could not help the sort of amused tilt to his lips as you forced him onto a chair, struggling to remove his armor but he made no attempt to help you, enjoying the little huff and pout the struggle earned from you. When you finally managed to take it off, you threw it to the floor, giving him an unamused glare, not at all fooled by his faux innocent shrug.

You sat down in front of him, folding your legs and shifting the blanket over them, another huff was given as you dragged the bucket of water closer, taking one of the clean cloths from where you had folded them in a pile. Your cheeks burned as you scanned his torso, it was not right, was not fair for that matter that he had that effect on you- none of your other patients had, in fact, you prided yourself on being professional but only Geralt could make you flustered while cleaning his wounds.

"These are fresh," you noted, eyes averted from his as you dragged the wet cloth over his stomach, frowning lightly when he did not flinch. "You know, there are plenty of healers on the road, most if not all of them more suited to treat wounds such as yours," you were done with his chest, drying it with another cloth and wrapping it with strips of cloth that had been soaked in your homemade healing remedy.

"Hmm," a grunt, a familiar sound, a comfortable one. "I prefer coming to you," he stated and shifted lower, leaning his elbows onto his knees so you could easily access his face, a new surge of heat finding your skin at the eyes that soared over your features. "Your hands are the softest," he explained and you nearly pulled away from him, hands just barely keeping still as you wiped lightly at the scar on his face, the other hand gripping his chin to keep him still. "I also do not mind the view," he was being sly, daring, and extremely cruel as he breathed a light chuckle, not missing a single beat of your sporadic heart. "Nor the company," you paused, eyes falling to his without any control and you were stuck, entranced, unable to move or look away, only managing to break the daze when he cleared his throat.

"I assume it would be a waste of breath to ask you to be more careful?" you attempted a change in subject, following the same process as you did for his stomach as you finished up your work.

"Completely," he agreed and you wiped your hands, shaking your head in familiar disapproval as he simply enjoyed the very view he had traveled many miles for. "For what reason would I have for coming to see you if I were?"

"I should go and make myself decent," you dismissed the question, not surprised when he took your hand to help you stand, rough hands uncharacteristically gentle as his thumb brushed your wrist in his hold. "Do you have a place to rest for the night?" he shook his head, he dare not attempt to lie to you with words, tell you that Jaskier had booked the pair of them a room not far from your cottage, because truth be told he rather enjoyed you fussing over him, taking care of him, and he knew you did as well- so, who was he to take that chance from you?

"I was rather hoping you could spare me a room."

"Of course, I will prepare it while you clean my kitchen," he smiled, a true smile, one you had not had the chance to see before but you were grateful you could, it was lovely, dreamlike. He nodded in silent appreciation and agreement, looking down to where he still held onto your hand. "They truly are the softest that I had ever held," he told you and you were the one to smile, a shy smile, warm with affection as you tried to consider how you would survive a whole day with this man in your house when he was insistent on stealing your heart and your sanity.

[bambirex]

Tell It With Your Heart

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 2,504

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️

It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe

Read on Ao3

**

Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.

It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.

It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.

That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.

It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.

When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.

But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.

Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.

"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.

"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.

*

The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.

They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.

Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.

"What about you?"

"Lie down, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.

"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.

"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."

"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"

Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.

It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.

*

"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."

"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.

"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.

Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.

They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.

"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.

He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

"What is it? Something for Roach?"

Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.

"It's mine?"

"It's yours."

"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.

"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."

"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."

Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.

He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.

"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."

"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."

*

Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.

He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.

Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.

He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.

"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."

"Did it help you create better?"

"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."

"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.

Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.

He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.

Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.

He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.

"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."

"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."

"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.

"Do you not want it?"

"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."

"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.

Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.

*

The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.

"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"

Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.

"And I'm only thirty-five!"

"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."

"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"

"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."

"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."

His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.

"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.

"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."

Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.

Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.

"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."

"You take care of me as well."

"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."

Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."

Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."

Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.

"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."

He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."

He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.

"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.

"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."

Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.

[northernolddragon]

Part 1. Whatever the vampire and the witcher amuse themselves with.. (note: 1. a little fun for the monster slayer and the very sight of the 'bloodthirsty monster' in Tesham Mutna, where Emiel prefers to collect the herbs he needs; 2. I would like to see their interactions like this sort of in the game, more options for old friends; 3. Due to my inexperience at the time of shooting, I couldn't remove one of the swords, so he remained - one for the monsters, the second for the people and the third for the Regis. xd).

"This season has been a great harvest of "Erysimum canescens L." In the greenhouse of Corvo Bianco, it will be an excellent addition among other herbs, that we have already managed to collect with the respected Barnabas-Basil and my friend Dettlaff ... How nice it is, when you have been given full right to interfere in the garden and the greenhouse. I would plant the necessary herbs to treat the common ailments, that people in this climate zone have. Workers often complain to me about their ailments... " Geralt is sneaking. Quiet, like a very cautious wolf. "I could feel you from a mile away, witcher. Don't stand there. Kindly don't draw your sword. I have enough to worry about." "You will have to fight me, bloodthirsty vampire!" Characteristic clang and soft grin. "I warned you, White Wolf..." The vampire laughs weakly and a swirl of dark cloud covers the area around him. Geralt literally flies up, trying to catch the 'monster' in time. He just turns around, rubbing the petals of that very plant in his hands, rubbing it into the phalanges, watching the movements, which are so fast for a person, and so slow for a vampire. "Are you seeking death, Geralt of Rivia?"

[mystra-midnight]

Kinktober 2023

welcome to my official kinktober 2023 masterlist! below is a list of the upcoming events for the next 30 days. i'm not great at sticking to time frames, i'm very easily distracted, so instead of posting something every day, there will be a theme a week throughout october.

each week i'll post works with different boys about that theme. with that said, if there is particular character you want to see, send through an ask and i'll do my best to put something together for you.

ignore that i'm posting this again, i was silly and deleted it by accident.

Too Drunk To Fuck jax teller - sons of anarchy

he'd never been the type of man to wait. if he had an itch, it needed to be scratched. jax doubted anyone would even notice if he pounded your cunt until you were screaming and creaming on his cock.

╰┈➤ October 1st

Midnight Rider geralt of rivia - the witcher

he was not a kind of gentle man; he was not soft. he liked to use you like a toy; it didn't matter that you weren't small or light; he was strong and able to throw you around with ease.

╰┈➤ October 4th

Dirty Little Secret john winchester - supernatural

he swore that when you bent over to scoop the car keys from the coffee table, he'd been able to see up your skirt and straight to your damn cervix.

╰┈➤ October 7th

Girls On Film sam winchester - supernatural

sam winchester was a fiend, a downright dirty demon. and that was why, since that day, he'd fucked you every way he could—in every room of the bunker, in the back-seat of the Impala, in some dark, dirty ally, in a church confessional for crying out loud.

╰┈➤ October 9th

Lost Boys & Golden Girls jax teller & opie winston - sons of anarchy

It was a known fact that if any of the sons wanted his dick sucked, he could go to cara cara, and one of the girls would be on their knees in a heartbeat. such was the joy of working with pornstars.

╰┈➤ October 12th

Counting Stars bellamy blake - the 100

he was staring at you with those warm brown eyes that made your heart do somersaults in your chest—the same expression that made butterflies wing through your veins and heat pool in the pit of your stomach.

╰┈➤ October 16th

Viva La Vida steve harrington - stranger things

he loved that you weren't above begging him with tears in your eyes. he loved that you were shameless and that you'd wait for him at the door with your ass in the air and your pussy drooling.

╰┈➤ October 19th

Two Tickets to Paradise john murphy - the 100

you'd fought and given up, then started fighting again. the lighthouse, which had started as a paradise, was turning into hell, and it was breaking you—slowly tearing away your sanity.

╰┈➤ October 21st

Untitled geralt of rivia - the witcher

preview coming soon

╰┈➤ October ??

Unholy dean winchester - supernatural

preview coming soon

╰┈➤ October ??

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 21

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I am very tired.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As promised, the king acquires you a full outfit to face the cold. A fur trimmed hat to replace your standard linen cap, a pair of lined hide gloves, and thick boots that go to your knees. He has bolstered you to face the elements but you are wholly unprepared to face the corridors as the glances of soldiers and servants meet you with a new glint of judgement.  

You wear the king’s cloak as before. You keep your head low under the hood as he walks ahead of you. It is a farce. A poorly acted charade. How naive you’d been for so long not see through it all. You were the perfect fool for an intent audience. 

You descend and come out to the west of the castle, through a door beneath a sharply peaked arch. The snow continues to heap over the land though the winds have relented. The king pauses as you emerge and reaches to take you by the wrist, as if he fears you might be lost in the powder. 

He walks you across the yard towards the stables built across a flat of land nestled along a curved rock wall. The doors creaks as he pushes through and the heat of braziers and horses’ bodies greets you within. Sniffs, snorts, and knickers rise in the air as you walk between the stalls. There is one in which a single horse resides, the rest crowded in pairs and trios. 

You look up at the steed’s dark snout, it’s eyes even bleaker as it snuffs out harshly. It’s nostrils flair at your approach and the king clicks his tongue at the beast. It raises its nose then shakes its head. It’s ebony iris fixates on you as its master touches its braided mane. 

“Roach,” you murmur into the dry air. 

“You remember,” he comments gently. 

“Yes,” you watch the horse as it watches you. It bows its head, nose coming close to yours, fuming hot breath around you. It sniffs the trim of your hood. 

“Let the animal see you,” the king advises. 

You bring your hands up and push back the hood, letting it hang over your shoulders. You stare at the dark eyes. Roach continues to twitch his nose in your direction then further dips his head, pressing against your chest. Uncertain, you bring your hands to touch his soft ears. 

“Ah,” the king sighs, “Roach is rarely partial to any but me. Even I receive a nip or too from the curmudgeon.” He chuckles and touches the horse’s thick neck. “others have nearly lost a finger and even sacrificed garment or two.” 

“A creature so volatile, he makes a good war horse?” 

“She,” he corrects you. 

“Oh, apologies.” 

“I doubt she minds,” he muses and pets her long nose as she raises her head. “She is restless. She would do good for the exercise.” 

He lowers his hand and unclasps the stall door. He pulls it out as you step out of the way. The horse clomps through, kicking impatiently as it blows through its lips. The king moves parallel to you and draws you before him. Before you or Roach can react, he has you aloft, urging you onto the horse’s unsaddled back. 

“Hold tight,” he girds and puts his hands to the horse’s shoulder, “come, Roach.” 

The horse starts and you press your hands to her back, clamping on with your thighs. You rock with her motion to keep from slipping. You duck with the mount as she bends through the door the king holds open. The winter snows dusts down on you as you emerge. 

The king drags his palm along the horse’s side and swings himself up with little effort. He sit behind you, Roach not missing a step or buckling at his ascent. He pulls you snug to him, tugging up your hood as the chill nips at your cheeks. He wraps his arms around you and clutches a swathe of the horse’s braids. He whistles and leans, guiding the horse away from the castle. 

“She is obedient,” you remark at her agile response. 

“I prefer mares for that reason,” he returns. You wonder if it is a quip meant for the queen or yourself. Perhaps both. “It isn’t very far, though the path is steep.” 

You nod and stare at the white expanse, a few jutting rocks pocking out above the carpet of snow, leafless branches reaching out here and there. The horse carries you to a ledge, narrow and treacherous, and you lean back into the King Geralt as the edge has you dizzy. He slips his hand beneath your cloak to squeeze your hip. 

“I have you, treasure, you needn’t fear,” he assures.” 

“Yes, your highness, thank you,” you touch his knuckles and shiver. 

“Sweet summer maid,” he purrs as he draws you snugger. “This winter is harsh but I will keep you warm.” 

You shudder and hang your head. For so much comfort as he offers, you find little. It isn’t only the snow which chills you. 

You ride on, the impact of hooves softened by the layers below, the air hollow and biting as it seeps beneath your hood. The sky ripples grey and seems to darken as you descend the curling path along the cliff’s edge. At once, you are plunged into thick blackness. 

The world levels out and the king shifts, sliding off the mount to land on his feet. You peek over your shoulder and see the grim light through the mouth of the cave. The king touches your leg and you turn, letting him help you from the height. Roach kicks and spits. 

The king frames your waist before he releases you. You listen to his steps as he moves through the dim. There’s is a scratch as he strikes flint and flame illuminates his shadow. He bends and takes something from the ground. He pauses and works with one hand, wrapping something around the thick stick. He lights the length of linen around the wood’s tip, a torch to see you along. 

“She will stay, she is not keen on confinement, especially underground,” he girds and removes his own cloak, draping it over the horses back, “the air enlivens me, I shouldn’t need that much.” 

He wears a leather coat, sewn of thick strips of black and studded with silver. He approaches you and bends his arm, offering it gallantly as a gentleman might with a lady. You hesitate and hook your arm through it, hugging his elbow as he leads you deeper, the torch flickering with each step. 

You enter a tunnel with rocky tendrils stretching from top to bottom, encased in layers of ice and frost. The flame illuminates the frozen layers. Deeper and deeper you go, quiet as your curiosity mingles with concern. Where are you going? 

Your boot slips on a slippery patch but the king keeps you upright. You thank him and bring your other arm across to steady yourself on his bicep. You feel his muscle bulging beneath. You do not doubt his promises. He will keep you safe. Down here, but you doubt what he might do without. 

He raises the torch as the air thins and you the cave opens up. You look around as the walls lay beyond the breadth of the torches glow. Your eyes are drawn by the icy fingers hanging from the ceiling. There is one close to you. You reach to touch its pointed tip. 

“Icicles,” the king says, “be careful of the thin ones, they might fall.” 

He moves the torch to show more, all around you, light fangs the line the cave, lining the edges. The flame sparkles on their eerie translucence. Then the king lowers the light and you look down beneath your feet. You’re stand on ice! 

“Your highness,” you instinctively pull yourself closer to him, your soles sliding as you try to walk further. 

“It will not break,” he assures you as he urges you on, “this cave never thaws, even in the warmer months. They call it the Moth’s Den.” He leads you across the ice and your eyes catch on the icicles, thick and thin, some pointed, some reach to touch the floor. You hear an odd hum, almost a buzz, and he sweeps the torch before you. 

You stop to gape at the wall before you. It looks soft and fluffy, almost like fur. Then you lean closer and see the wings. Pale silver moths, fluttering in place, clinging to the wall. Their fuzzy bodies line every morsel of the space. 

“Snow moths. Harmless creatures. Unlike their summer counterparts, the detest the light,” he extends his arm and a circle along the icy wall is sudden bare as the moths move to avoid the glare. “When I was a boy, I always wanted to have one as a pet. I could never get one past the entrance before it escaped and flew back to the depths.” 

You blink and lower your hand from his arm, though you stay hooked onto him, “I didn’t think this was your home.” 

“As a boy it was. At least, that’s how I saw it. My father, king of the day, sent me here to train with Lord Vesemir. As much to keep me out of trouble. I am not unaware of myself. I was not the best behaved. Vesemir took me in and he bides no mischief,” King Geralt explains, “though he does not rule without compassion. He taught me many things more than discipline. He taught me,” the king peers over at you, “that my heart should be heard just as plainly as my mind. If you do not balance them, then it will all topple.” 

You look back at him. Your chest aches deeply. Doesn’t he know you don’t have that privilege? Can he not see that you do not get that choice? Even for a king. 

You might never had cared for Lady Rezlyn and her gossip. You think it cruel and unkind. Often you wonder if she spoke less of others, if she might gain more friends. You never engaged much in Merinda’s whispers either. But you heard them and you know what becomes of mistresses. 

The other woman. That’s what you’ll become. A whore. A name to be spat. A figure to be avoided. A maid might be ignored but she neither favoured or despised. She just is. She has her purpose. A mistress only has the stain put upon her. The one who taints who my walk away, but she never will. 

“The ice becomes you, treasure. The cold it... pales to your beauty,” he smiles down at you. His gold eyes are vibrant and his fine features are even more admirable in the limn of the flame. 

He lifts his chin and takes steady steps away from the wall and leads you towards a jutting stone at the other end of the cavern. He bends to plant the torches base in the crevice at its foot. The torch leans but stands on its own. 

He faces you, untangling from your arm, and puts his hands on your shoulders, “I want to know what you think. Tell me. Do you like my homeland? Do you like the winter?” 

Your lips part and you glance up. Your eyes wander around the space and you turn your head. You raise your hands to touch the king’s leather gloves. 

“I think I do,” you answer. You can’t deny the beauty even if it is deadly. “I might think differently should I meet a bear or a wolf.” 

“It is why you must stay close, treasure, I would never let a beast get anywhere near,” he avows, “I refer to all beasts. Be it man or animal. You will always have me. You needn’t be afraid.” 

You lower your eyes. You can’t say the truth. He knows it but he refuses it. His is a king, he might bend even the world to his whim. You let your hands trails down his forearms. He drops his hands and takes yours. 

“Will you tell me more? About when you were a boy?” You ask, hoping to forget the present a little longer. You are intrigued to think of this man as just a child. It is a rather impossible concept. 

“Hm, well,” he lets go of you and moves around you. He comes behind you and presses himself to your back. He rocks you as he turns you to admire the cave, “I would come to these caves and talk to myself...” he laughs rockily, “you see, if you holler loud enough, your voice bounces back at you. Lord Vesemir, he is not always in the mind for conversation and horses can be just as finicky.” 

He continues to turn you with him. Even without his cloak, his warmth seeps into you. 

“And I would gather bouquets of frostwart and white willowrods for they are the closest to flowers that grow here. I would put the bunches all around, as if I was too be coronated. I was told every day I would be king and I wanted to be ready, but mostly, I’d pretend I was at tourney. I would have my practice sword and I would parry with the air. The air was not so mean as Vesemir with his jabs.” 

You listen, closing your eyes, trying to see it in your head. A white-haired boy with his golden eyes and flowers and swords. Now a man who’s marched through blood and dirt. How time changes more than the seasons, it transforms all. 

“What of you, maid? I want to know of you. When you were a child, did you frolic with the rabbits and the squirrels?” 

You go rigid. You try to pull away but he has you caught. You lean back and exhale heavily. 

“The life of a maid isn’t very interesting,” your murmur. 

“You were always a maid? Even when you were young?” 

“Always,” you affirm. “I emptied pots, brought Lord Dustan his boots, though at times, Lady Jazlene required a playmate...” 

He’s quiet at the mention of his wife. You feel the crack in your heart. Your nose is numb and tingling. 

“Yet, how did you become a maid? Before that, was there nothing?” He asks. 

“Please, your highness--” 

“I bid you call me by my name.” 

“Geralt,” you utter, “please, I beg you, I wouldn’t speak of before.” 

“Did you have parents? Siblings--” 

“None of it,” you hiss and elbow away from him, throwing your arms out to keep balance. You spin and shake your head, “please. My parents are dead. Long gone. And the memories I have of them are nothing more than that. They’ve only ever been dead to me.” 

He is taken aback, his face pale and cheeks tight, “treasure, forgive me, I only... I want to know everything of you--” 

“You know what I am. I am a maid. That is it. That is all I can ever be. I am not a lady, not a wife, not a queen,” you clap your hands together, the impact softened by your mittens, “you cannot make me anything different, king as you may be. I will only ever serve, and you will only ever command.” 

His lips part and he steps towards you, “that isn’t true.” 

“It’s what must be true,” you look to your feet, “might I make a request?” 

“Anything,” he says. 

“Take me back to the castle,” you raise your eyes.  

He nods solemnly and reaches for you, “as you wish.” 

[writerscafehub]

𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙳𝚄𝙲𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙰 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈: @fushic0re

ೀ ㅤ۫ ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ ㅤ ♡ ㅤ . 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐀:

From one to five stars, how would you rate your writing? (No downplaying yourself!)

        I’d say a 3.5. I’m proud of my work, but there’s always room to grow and improve. 

2. What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works?

        I think my writing style focuses a lot on the complexity of the inner emotions the characters feel. I like to take a lot of time fleshing out their inner selves that way when there’s dialogue or they commit a specific act, readers are able to say to themselves “yea, this is very them”. All in all, I like a lot of emotion. 

3. Are there any writers that inspire you?

        My fellow writers café members inspire me! Everyone has such different styles and ideas, it really makes me want to be more innovative. I don’t really have any specific muses, to be honest–the fanfiction fandom in general makes me want to write and see my ideas developed.

4. What’s the fic you’re most proud of?

        “Take Me Into Your Arms, Siren’s Call” and “Dance In The Dark”. 

5. Which character(s) do you find easiest to write and which do you find most difficult to write?

        Steve Rogers for sure is my easiest. I love that man with my entire being and have dissected him and my interpretation of him so many times. I find Geralt of Rivia a bit difficult to write, hence why there’s no work for him.

6. Who or what do you find yourself writing about most?

        There’s not really a who, more like a what–my emotional wounds. Writing is used as a tool for me to not only bring my ideas to life, but use them as vessels to work out these emotions and proverbially close that chapter of my life by turning them into something positive. 

7. Tell us about a WIP you’re excited about!

        I have a very cute “Spy x Family” meets “The Incredibles” one shot for Miguel O’Hara in the works featuring Filipina!Reader, Gabriella O’Hara, and reader’s daughter hehe 

8. First fandom you ever wrote for?

        I’m really gonna expose myself here…it was for Black Veil Brides LMAOOOO 

9. Any guilty pleasure trope(s)?

        GIRL (gender neutral); black cat gf x golden retriever bf, the mean one being soft for the sunshine one, enemies to lovers, reincarnation. 

10. A trope you’ll never, ever write for.

        Mafia/mob boss. I have one singular wip with that trope and after that, I’m retiring it. Cannot stand it, no offense. 

11. Wildest fic you’ve ever written?

        Definitely my demon! Lee Bodecker and ghost!Steve Rogers fics. Those were RIDES.

12. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

ENEMIES TO LOVERS, BLACK CAT GF x GOLDEN RETRIEVER BF, and THE GRUMPY ONE BEING SOFT FOR THE SUNSHINE ONE. I clearly have a preference. 

13. Do you listen to anything while you write?

        Either bossanova, classical music, jazz, lo-fi, or a playlist I made specifically for whatever I’m writing.

14. One-shots or multi-chaptered works?

I don’t have a preference tbh. they’re both very impactful, it just depends on the plot in question. 

15. Have you ever daydreamed about side adventures/spin-offs from your fic? Tell us about them!

yES ALL THE TIME. especially for fluff pieces with family dynamics, I always wanna create little side drabbles in the style of “modern family” like they have their very own sitcom. 

16. Is there anything you’ve wanted to write, but you’ve been too scared to try?

writing for Geralt of Rivia. The deep lore for The Witcher seems like a lot of ground to cover. 

17. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received?

I can’t remember anything specific, but my fic “Take Me Into Your Arms, Siren’s Call” received a good amount of super meaningful feedback from Filipino readers that meant a lot to me. They expressed how much it meant for them to be seen, especially in a fantasy-fairy tale like story that incorporated our culture.

18. Have you ever gone outside of your comfort zone for a fic? How did it turn out?

Yes, lore building for “Take Me Into Your Arms, Siren’s Call”! I’ve never written anything in the fantasy genre, so that was definitely a challenge. It turned out amazing. I loved writing it and that fic is one that is near and dear to my heart. 

19. Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

I’m a fucking baby and I can only have angst if it’s followed with fluff…..but I do love angst.

20. Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them!

EEEEEE I currently have one OC for a re-write of my series called “Keeping Up With The Starks”. Her name is Camila Santos Stark, a Filipina-American who is the only daughter of Tony Stark. She’s a spoiled heiress but is definitely a no-nonsense woman who you do not want to underestimate. She’s described by others around her as the rational version of Tony–the snark is there, but so are a bunch of other characteristics that Tony doesn’t possess. Steve Rogers is her love interest. He thought she was a spoiled brat, but look who fell in love!

21. If you could enter the universe of any one of your fics, which would it be and why?

Definitely “Take Me Into Your Arms, Siren’s Call” – it’s pure fantasy which sounds amazing. Plus, Namor! 

22. Is there anything you wish your audience knew about your writing or writing process?

Eh, there’s nothing really interesting going on behind the scenes–I just write at night with a candle lit. 

23. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

        “I’m a beauty, I’m a beast, it defends on the feast” – “So Cool” by Dounia

24. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want!

        If writing frustrates you, that’s a sign for you to step away and take a break. If you initially started writing because you love it, continue to lead with love–don’t kill the joy.

[honeywitchers]

Awful Plan, Great Result

A/N:  This is from another one of my blogs that I decided to seperate my Witcher content from.  I plan on deleting the original from that blog so if you have seen this before under a different name I promise I didn’t steal the story!  This piece was inspired by @creativepromptsforwriting

Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader

Content and Warnings:  Strong language, love sick Geralt, foggy brained Geralt just wanting to be loved, guy in an all green outfit thinking he can take on a witcher, violence because Geralt has had enough, soaking wet Geralt, love confessions, if you squint during the fight scene it might morph into Fiona fighting off the bandits in Shrek, wee bit of blood because bitches get stitches

Word Count:  2,934

Summary:  Geralt of Rivia finds himself to be hopelessly in love with a soft spirited cottage dwelling woman.  How does he confess his true feelings for her when he doesn’t even fully understand his own emotions?  In quite possibly the strangest, yet most fitting way he could.

She was beauty.  She was not just beautiful, she was the very definition of it.  Even her breathing was filled with elegance.  Her smooth skin mimicked the finest of silks that only royalty could ever imagine to afford.  The way her hair complimented the tones within her face was almost unreal.  Her features appeared cheerful almost always, no matter the situation, positivity leaking from each and every pore…..so why and how was it possible that a man like Geralt of Rivia could fall for her?  He was the complete and utter opposite; rugged, rough skinned, quiet, constantly thinking of the dangers that fill the Continent, often dirty, and skilled in combat.  Yet, despite all of this, she was the very sun in his sky, the stars to his moon, the flower to his soil, the…..you get the idea.  The problem with this, however, was that she had not a single clue that he felt this way for her, completely oblivious to his undying love for her.  All they seemed to be at this point were oblivious, emotionally constipated, and…….idiots.  Complete idiots.  Any onlooker could see that this was not a simply platonic relationship.  Come on, the two were living together!  And they had been for almost a year now!  So anyways, here we are.  The ever so odd tale of Geralt of Rivia and his……roommate.

The spotless wooden dining table Geralt had taken a seat at within Y/N’s cottage kitchen was almost buckling underneath his mass and the weight of his bulky armor.  The dirt covering his arms and legs were surely destroying the cleanliness of it.  He had just returned from a hunt that turned out to be a large group of villagers playing a trick just so they could get a chance at seeing the witcher in action.  Geralt quickly realized this but not before he lost his footing and tripped over a partially buried root in the forest, rolling down a long and bumpy hill.  Way to add insult to injury, universe.  

Quietly grumbling curses under his breath, he did his best not to disturb the cheerful humming of Y/N, who was chopping up carrots for a stew she planned to make.  Or more so attempting.  The blade on the knife was terribly dull.  Her cooking escapades had clearly taken a toll on the tool.  It was all she had, so she had to make it work.  Although, Geralt couldn’t help but find the sight amusing.  Geralt’s eyes blinked rapidly and his posture straightened as if a light bulb had just gone off in his head.  That’s it!  He knows how he will profess his love!  This is quite possibly the most romantic action a witcher could do!  He suddenly stood from the table with determination, almost a little too fast, startling Y/N.

“Where are you going?  You just got back.”  Y/N questioned Geralt as he made his way to the door.

“I uh….need to go into town.  I….forgot something.”  He pathetically tried to come up with an excuse to hide his true intentions.  

Before another word can leave Y/N’s mouth, Geralt was out the door and on his way to who knows where.  She shrugged her shoulders and continued to shred—cut the vegetables on her cutting board.  

Geralt loved and hated the fact that her cottage was practically in the middle of nowhere.  It left them unbothered and with privacy but he still found himself annoyed that he had to trek through a grove and winding dirt paths just to get into town.  He chuckled lightly as he came across a root hiding in the ground of his walking path.

“Hmm….not this time.”

Less than ten minutes later, Geralt began to approach a river.  He was getting close.  

“Thank the gods it’s not raining.”  He said to himself.

The universe, being the absolute pain in Geralt’s ass, decided that sunshine and no rain was much too easy for the dear witcher.  Why not throw a……minor?  Yes, minor inconvenience his way, instead of allowing him to just walk his way into town and back smoothly.  No, no, that would not do.  

“Behold, witcher man!  For I am Wulfgar, and I am here to take your coin!”  A loud, high pitched male voice yelled out.

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed and he turned around in the direction of the voice.  What he sees is not what he was expecting.  Standing ten feet before him stood a short statured man donning a green tunic and matching pants that were just a smidge too tight.  A green pointed hat sat upon his bowl cut hair.  A fashion expert, honestly.

Pointed towards Geralt was his embarrassingly small silver dagger.  Confidence somehow oozed out of the mysterious bandit as he chose to lunge forward without strategy or thought.  Because of the overwhelming bewilderment the witcher was experiencing, he jumped backwards just a hair too slow, resulting in the coin pouch at his hip being slashed open.  Just as luck would have it, half of his coins were dumped into the river.  Geralt grunted and unsheathed his sword, four times the size of the measly dagger Wulfgar wielded.  

“Back off.”  Geralt warned.

“Uh, uh….I…..I mean no harm, witcher.  It’s….just a tough time, you know?  So um…anyway…..please don’t um…..KILL ME!!!!!!!!”  Wulfgar stammered and ran away.

“I uh….okay.”  Geralt rolled his eyes and put his sword back into its holder.  “Fuck!”  He reached down to his coin pouch, coins were still slowly spilling out onto the ground.  Like a beggar, he scoured the ground to pick up and salvage every last one.

Geralt considered turning back but brushed the thought off, knowing he couldn’t show up back at the cottage empty handed after he told Y/N he was going out.  That wouldn’t make sense and it would only lead to more questions that he wasn’t currently prepared to answer.  Instead, he began to think about how much of an idiot he was for believing this could work.  Of course Y/N would never love him.  He couldn’t even do this one self appointed task.  Useless.  

“Fuck.”  Having a way with words, he cursed and treaded forward, feeling light raindrops begin to hit his skin and dampen his hair.  What else could go wrong?

A short time later a now drenched Geralt waltzes into town square.  The place is growing more and more quiet as he notices people rushing inside and merchants packing up the items at their stalls to avoid the increasing rain.  Fearing that he missed his chance to come up with anything, he sprints towards the last remaining merchant.  

“Wait!”  He shouted.  

The merchant looked up to him, eyes widening at his appearance.  “Sorry, the rain is bringing all of us in for the day.  Come back tomorrow.”  The merchant went to turn away and continue packing without giving Geralt a second thought.

“Please, just….show me what you have.”  Geralt pleaded with the man, hoping there is at least one item that even remotely resembled what he was looking for.

The merchant’s eyes narrowed and he stared in silence for a moment.  “Witchers pay double.”  He crossed his arms and stood firm.

Of course, because that’s exactly what he needed to hear after losing half of his wealth to the murky fast flowing waters of the river.

“Fine.”  Geralt gritted his teeth, ready for the excursion to be over.

The merchant moved aside so Geralt could look at what his options were.  His eyes examined the items laid out in front of him.  There were four rolls of twine, a mysterious piece of cloth that appeared to have been white at some point during its existence, two cabbage heads that had been massacred by the wind and rain, rendering them inedible, and…..a knife!  Just what he was looking for!  A perfect kitchen knife to aid his one true love with her cooking!  She shall never fret or strain her wrist again!  He would wrap it in the softest of cloths and bend on one knee, hand stretched out, ready to release all of his pent up emotions and—

He realized it was in fact not a kitchen knife, but a dagger.  A deep sigh escaped the witcher.  It was a slightly rusted short dagger that was surely made for simple combat.  A.k.a not something he originally planned on giving his soft ray of sunshine back at home to help her cook.

“How much coin for this?”  Geralt held up the so-called weapon.

The merchant eyes his torn coin pouch.  “Whatever you’ve got left.”

And so goes the last of his coin.

On his way back to Y/N’s cottage, Geralt is in a constant battle with his thoughts, telling himself over and over that he should not have gone out, how he wasn’t worthy of her love, how she could do so much better than him.  How could he think it was a good idea to bring her a dagger that she didn’t need or even ask for?  Especially one in a not so tip top shape condition.  

Naturally, his one person conversation is interrupted by none other than…..Wulfgar.

“Now, witcher!”  Wulfgar shouted.  “I’ve got friends this time!  And they have bigger swords than I!  You will come to regret the last hour, mutant.  You should have simply given me your coin!”  

Three of the humans making up Wulfgar’s makeshift army came up behind Geralt in an attempted sneak attack and managed to snag the one sword he brought along with him, having left the other behind to be sharpened later on in the day.  The witcher positioned himself into a defensive stance, looking at his surroundings.  He counted six men in the group, all funnily enough sporting the same puke green outfits like they were part of some wannabe cult.  The only thing left that he had besides his fists and signs to defend himself against the five swords and Wulfgar’s short stub was…..the dagger.  

First, he fought off the three men who took his sword, one jumping on his back and immediately being thrown onto the ground, the second being knocked unconscious with a single punch.  He took out the third using the Aard sign, knocking him against a tree.  Two more men came running at him, swinging their swords haphazardly through the air, praying that one of them would draw blood from the witcher.  The men however were very much unaware of their….lacking skills and were disarmed easily and knocked out.  

Geralt then turned to Wulfgar, the last man standing.  He was practically shaking in his boots, having just watched all of his friends fail miserably at taking down the witcher.  After a moment, he bends down and picks up two of the swords left on the ground.  He lunged forward again and this time nicked Geralt’s face, also slicing off a thin piece of leather covering his shoulder for extra protection.  He looked to the side at his ruined shoulder piece and looked back at Wulfgar.  He stepped forward slowly with an intimidating aura bouncing off of him.  Wulfgar was stopped dead in his tracks in disbelief that he just made contact with the witcher.  With one swift motion, Geralt swipes the sword out of the bandit’s hand, causing him to lose his balance and fall onto the ground.  

“Uh….uh….uh Mr. Witcher, please.”  Wulfgar started to stammer.

“You will stay away.  Or I will kill you where you stand.”  Geralt warned, bearing his teeth.

Wulfgar was left in shock, eyes wide and not blinking as he watched Geralt start to walk away.  Somewhere in his tiny little brain, the idea of trying one last time to win overtook rational thought.  He pulled out a small throwing knife that had been hidden in his pant leg, aimed, and threw it at Geralt.  Just as how the rest of the day had gone for him, the knife sticks in his shoulder directly in the spot where his leather had been cut away.  All Wulfgar hears is a short grunt from him and before he knows it, Geralt grabbed the dagger he purchased and sunk it into his thigh.  

“FUCK YOU, WITCHER!!!  YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!!!  YOU AND YOUR…..YOUR STUPID HAIR WILL REGRET THIS!!!”  Wulfgar screamed and was attempting to army crawl away.  “AND….AND YOU KNOW WHAT?!?  YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!!!”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the empty insult attempts and once again continued his journey back to Y/N’s cottage, bloody dagger in hand.  Oh man, he fucked up.

Once outside her cottage, he stopped and took a deep breath.  What the hell just happened?  He started off his day sitting at her kitchen table waiting for dinner and then boom, he’s wielding a dagger he bought for her and used it to stab someone after he beat up six people.  Ah, yes, the unpredictable life of a witcher.  

Finally, he opened the door to Y/N’s cottage.

“Geralt!  Where have you been?  I thought you were just going to market?  Did you take shelter from the rain?  And did you–”  Y/N cut off her own string of questions.  “Is that a cut on your face?”  She stopped cooking the food she was still attempting to make and ran over to him.

“Oh….yeah….”  Geralt responded, still standing in front of the door.

“What happened?!?”  She reached up to touch his face but his head jerked away on instinct, causing her to pull her hand back.  “Geralt….where did you go?”

“I….went to town square.”

“Yes, but…..Geralt.  Your face is cut, you have no supplies from any stall, your coin pouch is gone,”  Y/N pointed to his hip where the pouch once was.  “and….your pocket is….bleeding.”

“Oh…..yeah…..that’s probably from…..this.”  Geralt said quietly, slowly pulling out the dagger he bought for her.

At this point, Y/N has no idea what to say to him.  He said he was going to market, then came back with nothing but a bloody dagger and blood on his skin?  What happened to his coin???  A hundred questions ran through her mind as she stood there in silence, eyes locked onto the dagger in his hands.  

“I….got it for your cooking.”  Geralt broke the silence.

“My….cooking?”  She repeated.

“Yes.  Earlier you looked like you were having….issues cutting the food for your stew and I was just watching you struggle sitting there thinking about what I could do to fix it and how I could make you have an easier time and—”

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“What are you talking about?”  Y/N asked, still dumbfounded.

Geralt stayed silent for a minute, trying to rake over his options.  Should he tell her not to worry about it and walk away for the night?  Should he brush it off as just trying to help with her cooking?  No.  That wouldn’t explain why he had no coin and was decorated with blood.  He started to ponder whether he was ready to risk it all or not…….it was time.

“Y/N…..please accept this gift as a token of my love…..”  His eyes darted off to the side.  “For….uh….you.”  

As if the situation couldn’t get anymore confusing or awkward, Geralt reached out to hand her the dagger laid out on both of his palms.  She wrapped her hands in her sleeve and took it out of his hands.  A moment of uncomfortable silence passed as the two stared at each other.

“Geralt, this is a dagger.”  Y/N said firmly.  “And it….it has blood on it.”

Geralt stood there speechless, fully taking in that he just confessed to someone with a bloody dagger that neither of them needed or wanted.

“Listen, I tried to get you something you could use every day and help you but this fool of a man made me lose half my coin and then it started raining so the merchants started to leave and I saw that and figured it was close enough to a kitchen knife so I bought it but then on my way back I ran into the same dumbass but he brought friends this time and—”

In the middle of his rambling, Y/N had set the dagger on a nearby surface.  She then cut off his borderline incoherent thoughts by grabbing his face and pushing her lips onto his, creating an intense first kiss between them.  She eventually pulled away to examine the face of the confused as heck Geralt.  That….was the last thing he expected to actually happen.  Did….did his dumbass plan work?

“You’ve felt for me all this time?”  Y/N asked, hands still cupping Geralt’s face.

“Mhm.”

A huge grin spread across her face.  “You fought off a gang of men, almost got killed, trudged through the cold rain, lost all your coin, and came home covered in blood…..just to get me something that might help me a few times a day?”

Geralt ran a hand through his hair and laughed at himself, listening to Y/N sum up all of his day’s fuckery.  She was correct.  He did all of that just to bring home the wrong thing.  

“I guess….I just love you.”  

“You guess?”  Y/N prodded.

Geralt’s face softened.  “I love you.”

“I love you too, Geralt.  Now, kiss me again.”  

“My pleasure.”  The witcher smiled and kissed her once again.

It was a terrible, stupid, horrible, foolish plan………and it worked.

[changenameno]

My Own (Chapter 5)

Summary:
Geralt finds himself once more on the path, gloomily looking at what lies ahead.
And you? You had no one, no home and certainly no coin. Well that’d be something you had in common. No coin. You two are surely off to a great start…

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem. Nymph Reader


Warnings: 18+, death, cursing, angst and finally some fluff, hurt & comfort, MDNI (there will be smut in the future)

Word count: 1.2K

A/N: Hahah more teasing, sorry, not sorry…It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/reblogs are much appreciated…Thank you and enjoy ❤️✨

 

!The Witcher characters and world are not mine!


🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

(In case you’ve missed CHAPTER 4)

 

CHAPTER 5

You couldn’t read Geralt’s expression in the moment, it seemed to only show stone-faced indifference. Then at last he opened his mouth, “No.”
Pausing briefly, before adding,” Of course not.”

Relieve washing over you at his answer. Safe at last.

Weirdly he was a bit disappointed that you’d believe him capable of doing something like that. He knew of course that this was unfair to you, as he’d be just as suspicious, if your positions were reversed. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling. You were somehow able to push all his buttons and make him feel drawn to you at the same time, which confused him all the more. He couldn’t explain it, even if he wanted to.

Shaking his head, he went over to Roach, to do what he originally got up for.

Now that you felt somewhat safe and were no longer hungry, the lingering exhaustion and fatigue caught up to you, making you yawn. Just then Geralt returned with two bedrolls in his arms.

Silently spreading them out, close to the fire. It wasn’t particularly chilly but during night-time a glowing fire could certainly help, feel more comfortable. An added bonus: the smoke would keep the mosquitoes at bay.

He knelt down, about to rest his aching body, when your amused voice cut through the silence, “Why do you have two bedrolls?”

Geralt rolled onto his side, facing you, looking more sullen than before. You giggled softly, “It’s the bard’s, isn’t it?” If it weren’t for the most delightful of laughs he’d ever heard, he’d have stayed stoic, but instead he nodded, even a little amused himself that you could look through him so easily.

You didn’t want to antagonize him any further, especially because he’d been nothing but nice to you. Though one last quip left your lips anyway, “Knew you were soft hearted…”

He felt rather pleased with your statement, warmth spreading through him. Content and tired he closed his eyes, about to welcome a better nights-sleep.

There was quiet shuffling as you lay down, on the other bedroll.

“Good night, Geralt of Rivia,” you murmured.

“Good night.”

 

🌻 🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

 

This time he woke because he heard your unsteady and shallow breathing, he kept his eyes shut, listening to your racing heartbeat.

Trying not to wake the witcher, you’d held back the sob that wanted to break free from deep within your chest. A nightmare had woken you a few minutes ago.

As you sat up, breathing heavily, you’d realized it hadn’t been a dream. At least, not really. Your subconscious had replayed recent events, mixing them with the past. Probably because you’d told Geralt about it.

It had all felt too real. An all-consuming sadness spread through you, as the first tears rolled down your cheeks.

He’d opened his amber eyes, even though he didn’t see your face, he could tell you were crying. A salty, bitter scent permeating the air. He sat up, very familiar with nightmares himself, his heart went out to you. To prevent startling you, he cleared his throat.

Making you stiffen and furiously wipe away the tears that didn’t seem to stop flowing down your face. Sniffling, “Fuck, sorry…I didn’t mean to wake you. Go…go back to sleep.”

How on earth was he supposed to go back to sleep, hearing you cry, sounding so distressed and miserable?

When you heard him getting up, you hugged your knees closer to your chest, hiding your face. Your breath hitched when a big, warm hand brushed over your back. Gently stroking up and down.

Geralt didn’t know what overcame him, but he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing, so here he was, attempting to sooth you. After a few tense moments, in which he thought you’d push him away, you finally started to relax into his touch.

Surprising him, when you suddenly turned and slung your arms around him, pushing your wet face into the crook of his neck.

You shocked yourself a little bit, when you turned and hugged him, but you felt so very safe and comfortable in his presents. And he smelled incredibly good, calming you instantly.

Unsure he slowly put his arms around you as well. Small hiccups could be heard, muffled cries leaving your quivering lips.

The embrace lasted quite long, until his slow, soothing heartbeat had reduced the speed of yours.

You lifted your head, wet eyelashes clinging together, as you found his gaze. Now it was his pulse that sped up, as you leaned in closer to his face.

You leaned in, placing a delicate kiss on his lips. Eyes closed, feeling his stubble scratching lightly over your chin when he started moving against your soft lips. The kiss was slow and deep, not rushed or needy. Both of you just wanting to feel the other.

Unhurriedly you pulled back, his ambers already fixed onto your face. His next words came out in a rasp, “We-we should get some sleep.” Because you couldn’t detect unease or regret on his face, you nodded, sliding off his lap and back onto your bedroll. He’d studied you all the while, before he went to get up.

A sudden fear reared its ugly head, what if you’d have another bad dream, so your hand shot out, gripping his forearm. Geralt halted, once he felt your fingers on his arm. Dark brow lifting in question.

“Please. Could you stay?” When you saw him hesitating, you softly sighed. “I just- don’t want to be alone right now. And you-you feel…safe,” mumbling the last word so quietly only a witcher’s keen ears could pick it up.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, too embarrassed as he’d surely deny your wish.

He knew he was playing with fire, but he knelt down once more anyway, too strong was his desire to hold you close, to protect you. “Lie down.” Quickly moving, before he could change his mind, you lay down on your side, facing the glowing embers.

As he lay down, broad chest touching your back, Geralt heard the acceleration of your pulse. Which he mistook for nervousness, so he scooted back.

Though he didn’t come far, as your hand had reached back pulling at shirt, until he got the hint and drew closer again. He breathed in, no distress corrupting your sweet and flowerlike fragrance.

His eyes twinkling happily when you pulled his arm over your side, letting his hand rest against your stomach. Smiling even more, when you clarified, “Just…so you’re comfortable as well.”

A delightful shudder running down your spine when his answering, “Mmh,” sounded.

“Good Night.”

“Night.”

 

CHAPTER 6

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[viking-raider]

A WITCHER’S LEGACY - PART THREE: BONDS

Summary: You travel to Kaer Morhen with Lycus and Jaskier, while Geralt hunts down who's behind the Mage attack. Starting with Nenneke, in the Temple of Melitele.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Parts: I II

Warning: PG - Witcher!AU, Dad!Geralt, Soft & Protective!Geralt, Sassy!Reader, Language, Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Jaskier, Uncle!Jaskier, Confession, Separation, Nicknames, Memories, Unrequited Love, Rude Behavior, Fluff

Inspiration: A subject from my story, A Witcher’s Destiny, Season Two of Netflix’s the Witcher and a Quest in The Witcher 3!

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to be added A Witcher’s Legacy Tag List, please message me!

I also have the story on my AO3

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“I don't want to leave you.” You whimpered, tugging on the hem of Geralt's cloak, while trying to stifle back tears.

Geralt smiled softly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in, closing Lycus in between you. “I know you don't, my firefly.” He whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “But it's for the best.” He told you, looking down at Lycus, nestled inside your own cloak. “For you and our son.”

“We've never been apart for more than a day or two, since we've met, you know that?” You said, looking up, and trying to smile for him.

“I do.” He chuckled, golden eyes sparkling. “What is it that married couples say?” He quipped at you. “The ol' ball and chain.”

That drew a genuine laugh out of you. “Is this you suggesting we legitimately marry?” You teased back, nudging him with your shoulder.

“I've told you before, you've been my wife for a very long time.” Geralt answered, catching your chin in his fingers. “I don't need an alderman to tell me that.” He whispered, his forehead brushing yours.

“Unless, you want it?” He mumbled, softly.

“I don't need one either.” You assured him, sweetly. “Besides, I think this sweet guy bonds us together far more than a marriage contract ever could.” You said, glancing into Lycus's face, seeing so much of Geralt in his teeny features.

“That's more than true.” He nodded, smiling at his beautiful son. “Now, hop up on Bell. It's a four day ride from Asheberg to Kaer Morhen.” He told you, grabbing a hold of the rose gray horse's reins to hold it still, while you maneuvered Lycus in his sling and pulled yourself up into the saddle.

“Hey.” Geralt called quietly, squeezing your calf as he looked up at you.

You looked down, lifting a creased brow.

“I'll miss you and I love you.” He assured you, giving you a reassuring expression.

“Same, my wolf.” You rasped back, your voice cracking around the lump in your throat.

Patting your thigh, Geralt turned away from you and Lycus. Taking a deep breath, as he tried to ignore the raging storm inside his body that wanted to keep him from walking away, knowing the danger the two of you were in. Stiffening his jaw and squaring his shoulders, he set his right boot forward in the slimy mud, before approaching Jaskier, who was fussing with the buckles to his own horse's saddle.

“I'm entrusting their safety to you, Julian.” Geralt said, giving the Bard a stony, golden glare.

“Come now, Geralt, I will protect them as if they were my own wife and child.” Jaskier replied, clicking his tongue at the Witcher, in an attempt to sound confidently dismissive. “As if they were my lute!” He added, with a melodic laugh, glancing at his long-time friend.

“That's another thing I want from you.” Geralt said, turning an eye over his shoulder to you. “She probably won't hear of it, but should anyone ask on the journey to Kaer Morhen, they are your wife and child.”

“What, why?” The Bard frowned, shaking his head.

“Because, people are clearly trying to find a woman and her child that she had with a Witcher.” He replied, cocking his head at him, amused by his friend's airheadedness. “While it won't fool the people specifically looking for them, it'll keep word of their location from being spread.”

“Ri-ight.” Jaskier nodded, finally understanding. “If it comes up, I'll claim them.” He promised Geralt, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. “I'll get them to Kaer Morhen and Vesemir safely.”

“I trust you, my friend.” Geralt sighed, returning the gesture. “Until then, I'll be looking for the bastards that are up to this.”

“How are you going to do that?” Jaskier asked, curiously.

“When I took her to the Temple of Melitele, to give birth to Lycus, there was an incident.” He replied, eyes narrowing, as he recalled the moment. “I didn't think much of it, at the time. One of the visitors snooped on a conversation between Nenneke and I. It's a suspicion and my only lead currently.” He explained, biting his lip.

“Other than heading to Aretuza and demanding the name of the Mage, by the description I give them.”

“Well, Hell Hounds know no fury, like a father and a Witcher on a warpath to protect his wife and child.” Jaskier laughed, slotting his expensive boot into one of his saddle's stirrups, but paused, looking back at Geralt. “Oh, this is going to make a great song.” He chuckled, the wheels already turning in his mind.

“No, it won't, Jaskier.” Geralt warned, giving him a knowing look.

“I said, it would make a great song.” Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes and heaving himself into the saddle, but leaned down. “I never said anything about singing it to the Continent, you muse killer.” He grinned, winking, and straightening up.

Geralt shook his head and moved out of the way, catching your eye as you nudge your horse northward, out of Asheberg and in the direction of Kaer Morhen. His slow heart clenched, seeing your reddened eyes, his brow drew together as he nodded his head at you. Doing his best to instill one last bit of hope and strength into you, before you lost each other around the bend in the road. Letting out a heavy sigh, Geralt turned and grabbed the horn of Roach's saddle and swung into it, turning the Chestnut towards the west, where the revered Temple of Melitele was situated, just outside the Duchy of Ellander.

He hoped that Nenneke would remember the man that interrupted their conversation the night he had brought you to her.

“She's resting now.” Geralt said, meeting Nenneke just outside her office. “It was a hard journey from Smallton. We could only ride Roach a quarter of the way, before it became too much for her and the babe.”

“Well, from the examination I gave her, she is quite far along.” Nenneke replied, her expression troubled. “I would expect her to give birth within the next two weeks or so. It was wise you brought her to me, when you did, Geralt.”

“I was worried about more than her just giving birth.” He whispered, pressing his lips together, exhausted from the long travel, as well as the concern about you and the pregnancy.

“I don't want to sound—odious, Geralt.” The Priestess started, trying to pick her words carefully, for the Witcher's sake. “I know you love her and the two of you have been together for a very long time. But-” She gulped, regarding him with a measured eye. “Are you sure that this child is yours?”

Geralt sighed and rubbed his face.

“I am sure that the babe is mine, Nenneke.” He nodded, meeting her gaze. “Without a shadow of a doubt, it's mine.” He said, his voice wrapped with conviction. “I know she would never betray me, and I can hear its heartbeat, it's slow. Just like mine is.”

“But how, Geralt?” Nenneke pressed, shaking her head, surprised and confused. “You are a Witcher! Witchers are sterile. You can not have children, because of your training!”

“I know that, Nenneke. Trust me, she and I both had that conversation.” Geralt grunted back at her. “But she's adamant. She's never lain with someone that can get her with a child.” He huffed, agitated in your defense. “Besides, I know when she's lying to me. Her heart speeds up and her eyebrow twitches. Neither of these things happen, when she's asked about her fidelity.”

“But I have my suspicion about what it could be, that made it possible.” He added, pushing his jaw forward.

“What is your--”

A loud crash filled the stone hallway, startling Nenneke and putting Geralt further on edge. They turned and discovered one of the brass candle holders had been knocked over, spilling the thankfully unlit candles to the floor. Frowning, Nenneke strode forward, discovering the perpetrator of the disruption, a man hiding behind a pillar, like a gecko attached to a wall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Nenneke demanded of him, angered to find him spying.

“I-I--” He floundered, mouth flapping like a caught fish.

“Leave my Temple at once!” Nenneke hissed at him. “I will not have such disrespect to Melitele and her visitors.” She barked, jabbing a finger towards the double doors of the great Temple.

“Begone with you, at once, before I call the city guards upon you!”

Hesitating for a second longer, the man bolted from the Temple and out into the pouring night.

With any luck, Nenneke would remember who the man was, enabling Geralt to track him down, and through him lead the Witcher to those that were now hunting you and Lycus.

You saw the city of Ban Gleán come into view as you rode over the ridge, Lycus snuggled inside your cloak, babbling to himself as he tugged at the neck of your bodice, while Jaskier hummed to himself just behind you; the trail too narrow for you to ride abreast.

“We should stop here for the night.” You called over your shoulder to the Bard. “Restock whatever items we'll need for the last leg of our journey to Kaer Morhen.” You told him, gently pulling on the reins as the trail sloped downwards.

“It's the last trading post we'll see until we get there.”

“What about Ard Carraigh?” Jaskier yelled back to you.

“High Rock is too far out of our way.” You replied, shaking your head. “We'd have to go all the way north, then east to make it to Kaer Morhen. It adds at least a day to our journey, and I don't want Lycus out in the open any longer than I have to.”

“Fair enough, my fair lady.” The Bard twittered, pulling up alongside you as the road widened. “What are we in need of at Lower Village?” He asked, pursing his lips and crossing his eyes as Lycus popped his head out of your cloak, making him giggle.

“Winter is three months away, but judging by the mountain range,” You said, jerking your chin in the direction of the Blue Mountains. “The snow has already fallen in that region.” You guessed, chewing on your lip, wishing Geralt was there to confirm your suspicion. “I'll have to get Lycus something warmer to wear. Since his other warm clothes were from when he was a newborn. But I'm sure Geralt will bring me things to knit him more warm clothing.” You sighed, looking down at the little boy, and smiled softly.

“That's if grand-papa Vesemir hasn't beaten me to that.” You chuckled, amused at the idea of the oldest, surviving Witcher on the Continent knitting baby clothes as he wiled away his time in the Witcher stronghold. You still had the little cap Vesemir had made for Lycus's first winter at the Keep, when he was just a few weeks old.

“We'll have to replenish our food satchel as well.” Jaskier added, patting the bag attached to his saddle.

“Yeah.” You nodded, narrowing your eyes at him. “If someone had re-framed from munching on it, it should have been enough to make it all the way.” You quipped at him, eyes gleaming.

“Madam, are you implying something?” Jaskier gasped, touching a hand to his breast.

“Oh, not at all.” You chuckled, fluttering your lashes at him. “I'm just saying we have some sort of ghoul amongst our party, that's nibbling the food supply.”

Jaskier leaned over in his saddle, bringing his face close to Lycus's. “You sir, need to keep your wee ghoul hands out of the food satchel. You hear your mother, you're eating us to starvation!” He gasped with dramatic outrage.

Lycus stared at Jaskier, froze in place, it made you laugh, seeing the blank, but intent look in his eyes. How you loved them, with the small flake of warm amber at the bottom corner of his left eye, like a coin dropped in a calm sea, of their otherwise cerulean blue. It makes your heart both sore and light at the same time. Your sweet little boy. He was a wonder to the world, both in how he was created and to how the world worked to him.

But your wonder was short lived catching wind of something vile.

“Ugh!” You winced, nose wrinkling and face twisting in disgust.

“What's the matter?” Jaskier asked, pulling back to look at you.

“Someone has soiled his nappy, big time.” You said, shaking your head at your son.

“The ghoul has struck again!” Jaskier howled with laughter, rocking back in his saddle.

You and Jaskier hastily made it to Ban Gleán and you quickly changed Lycus's pamper, before going down to the grocer's stall with the Bard.

“Why are you using your own coin?” You asked, watching Jaskier pull out a coin pouch to buy the two loaves of bread and other food items that would last you until reaching Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier's cheeks colored as he dropped the orens into the grocer's hand, nodding his head to the man, before moving away with you. “It's not really my coin.” He admitted to you, reluctantly.

“Oh?” You replied, cocking a brow at him.

“Geralt gave me the coin, in case you needed any extra, along the way.” He confessed, unable to take the expression you were giving him.

“Why would he give it to you, and not me?” You asked, frowning. “I'm the one he gives our coin to, when he wants to save it.”

“I guess, he wanted to do the same thing, just extending it to me.” Jaskier replied, biting his lip. “You know Geralt trusts you in all things.” He said, trying to soothe whatever worries or concerns you had. “But you also know he's a bit overprotective, especially over you and Lycus. Just wanting to make extra sure you were prepared and taken care of.”

You sighed heavily and gently touched your shoulder to Jaskier's. “I know that, Julian. I'm just--” You trailed off, unable to find the words.

“You miss him and would rather be with that sour puss, than this charmer.” Jaskier chuckled, putting his arm around your shoulders, hugging you against him. “Honestly, I thought you were crazy when you and Geralt got together.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I really had it pegged, you and I would have been a couple.” He said, voice softening and his eyes darting to Lycus for a moment, a hint of something guarded in them, before it vanished behind another laugh.

“But now, I see the two of you have truly been made for one another, and because of that, I found the Countess!”

You cleared your throat, surprised at Jaskier's confession that he had felt something for you. “How is Lara, by the way?” You asked, having met the Countess de Stael on several occasions over the years.

“She's magnanimous!” Jaskier grinned, smiling up at the blue sky.

“You angered her again, didn't you?” You asked, lifting a knowing brow at him.

“I may have, unknowingly, insulted a beneficial member of her circle, in one of my latest songs.” He winced, looking back at you.

You laughed, shaking your head. “How do you unknowingly insult someone, in a song, Julian?” You asked, pausing by a stall selling yarn and other knitting goods. “You had to use their name or a general depiction of them for it to be perceived as an insult.”

“Ah, yes! Well-” He laughed, flashing that charming smile at you. “I did happen to attend a banquet, where this Earl was also an invited guest. But word got to me that he made a tactless remark about one of my songs...”

“Oh?” You giggled as he trailed off, picking up a thick ball of black wool, indicating to the seller of your interest in buying it. “What song, if I dare ask?” You shot a look over your shoulder at the Bard.

“One of your own favorites!” Jaskier replied, up playing his outrage. “The Stars Above The Path!”

You gasped, turning towards him. “That's blasphemous!” You huffed, half playfully offended and half actually angered by someone having the gall to say anything negative about Jaskier's music. Jaskier was many things, but a bad song writer wasn't one of them.

He wasn't a multi-hit wonder across the Continent for nothing!

“That's what I'm saying!” He replied, his blue eyes wide with indignation. “That puffed up, misanthrope!” He growled, brows drawing together as he pictured the man in his mind. “Anyway! He said the song wasn't, and I quote, catchy enough.”

“Not catchy enough!” You retorted, your face contorting with your confused exasperation. “I've watched grown men cry by the second verse of that song!” You huffed, ready to track this mediocre critic down and give him a piece of your mind.

“Geralt's tapping his foot to that song!”

Jaskier's head jerked back with surprise. “Geralt...Geralt taps his foot to 'The Stars Above The Path'?” He asked, his voice shaking with disbelief.

“He does.” You nodded at him, smiling at the shock on the Songster's face. “If you ever tell Geralt I told you this, I will deny it on my son's name.” You told him, chuckling softly at him. “But Geralt of Rivia, infamous White Wolf, proclaimed Butcher of Blaviken and supposed emotionless Witcher, loves your music.”

“Well,” He sighed quietly, planting his hands on his hips. “That little shit.” He huffed, rolling his eyes.

You snorted at him, shifting Lycus as he moved restlessly against you. “I'm still your number one fan though.” You added in, paying the stall worker for your yarn and stuffed it into the satchel that rested against your hip. “Yes, I know my son.” You cooed, feeling Lycus tug at your bodice and grunted. “I'm going to the inn to find a room, I need to feed this little rascal.” You told Jaskier, then glanced at the vendor.

“Where's your inn?”

“The Clover Hunter is just down the road, the first building you come to, after the bend.” He explained to you, pointing the way.

“Thank you.” You smiled, nodding your head.

“I'll see you there, just going to finish getting a few more things here.” Jaskier said, waving a hand around the stalls.

“All right.” You replied, then set off for the inn, softly humming the Stars Above the Path as you went. “Your eyes, like the stars above the road, Your lips like a cup of delight!”

You could smell a sharpness of imminent snowfall in the air. Despite how good the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun felt on your back, walking down the cobblestone street, mindful of the horse and donkey piles that dotted it. Turning the corner and glancing up, you found the town's inn. A brass sign of a Hunter drawing an arrow, its glinting tip shaped like a clover, swaying softly from its walnut beam.

Up the creaking steps, that led to a small porch shading the main entrance, you could hear the ruckus inside. Even for it being so early in the day. Situating Lycus, you shoved the door open and the rush of sound filled your ears. People filled the tap room, mostly men and soldiers, sharing mugs of ale and mead, while leaning against the bar top or crowding the long tables. Serving women sailed through the thicket of sweaty and unwashed bodies with ease. Ignoring, swatting at or shooting a look at any of the males that made a grab at them or offered an ungentlemanly remark.

With a quick scan of the room, you found the innkeeper, a rail thin man, in such a state of balding, you might have mistaken him for a monk for a moment, had it not been for the apron and no nonsense look on his face. He only had a ring of salt and pepper hair around his head and a smooth dome on top, that shined in the light of the sconce, he stood beside.

“Pardon me.” You called to a Dun Banner, a Kaedweni light cavalry soldier, who was local to the city of Ban Gleán, and stood in your way to the innkeeper.

The cavalryman turned at the sound of your voice, and lifted a dark brow at you. You stared back at him. The smell of his stained, gold and black tunic, bearing the Kaedwen Unicorn, his lank and greasy, shoulder length black hair, coupled with his unwashed body was a powerful bubble around you and Lycus. You stopped breathing through your nose shortly after entering the inn, to help combat the assault of the smell that permeated in the air. But, it no longer helped.

Making your brow wrinkle, as you took a deep breath as quickly as you could and blew it out, just as fast.

“Excuse me, I'd like to get to the innkeeper, please.” You elaborated, as politely as you could, when he continued to just stand there, his ale thick breath wafting on your face, making your eye twitch.

“Would you now, darling?” He finally spoke, cracking a smile at you to show his one chipped front tooth and its missing partner.

“Yes.” You replied, putting some authority in your tone. “My son and I would like to rest.” You huffed at him, but tightened your hold on Lycus, should the soldier try anything.

The cavalryman's beady eye cocked downwards to see the top of Lycus's white head peeking out of your cloak. The little boy had stopped fussing about you feeding him during the walk from the stalls to the inn. Sufficing himself with sucking on the combination of his fist and the hem of your bodice as he grabbed onto it, steadily soaking the fabric with his saliva.

You didn't mind, he was quiet and content.

But now you were faced with the brute, who decided to test your patience. If Geralt had been here, the Kaedwenian would have gotten out of your way with a hard golden glare and a growl, despite being a soldier for the Kingdom of Kaedwen and Geralt being an evil Witcher. But, you were just a lowly woman with a baby, who would most likely lose interest in his fist soon and start screaming for lunch, if you didn't get this single brain celled, brute to get out of your way.

“Croso!” A voice roared from the thicket of people.

The cavalryman looked away from you, his black eyes lighting on the caller, his smile growing wider, at the woman. She had a hard face. But you had a feeling it was deceiving and she may have been younger than she actually looked in her burgundy and black, buskless, plain fronted corset gown.

“Morana!” He called back to her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at her.

“Stop pestering that lady and buy me a drink, you hound!” Morana scolded him, holding up her empty tankard. “Perhaps, I'll let you play with my toes later on.” She added an impish look in her gray eyes.

At that invitation, the Dun Banner was stumbling over his own feet, as well as into everyone, to get to the bar for a fresh mug of mead for her.

You looked across to Morana and gave her a gentle nod of thanks, which she returned with a kind smile. Now with your path less obstructed, you weaved through the crowd to the innkeeper, just as he finished a transaction with someone else.

“I would like a room, please.” You told him, once you had his attention.

“That'll be twenty Ducats, then.” He replied, hardly looking at you as he grabbed a tankard that was thrust at him, from someone behind you, and started to fill it up.

“That's fine.” You answered, taking the gold coins out of your money pouch and dropped them on the nicked up bar top.

Setting the overflowing tankard down with a slosh, the innkeeper swiped up your money and deposited it into his pocket, before waving you around the bar. You followed after him, mounting a set of stairs to the next floor, but bypassed that for the second floor. He took you to the end of the hall and shoved a door on the left open, jerking his head inside.

“This is the room.” He said, his face uncaring. “Don't cause any trouble.” He huffed, heading back downstairs.

“I don't plan on it.” You replied, looking into the room. “Oh, wait!” You called after him, catching him just as he took the first step down. “If a Bard comes in looking for him, please tell him where I am.” You informed him, not wanting Jaskier to worry you'd been stashed away somewhere.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” the Innkeeper shrugged and continued on.

“All right, my boy.” You sighed, going into the room, closing and locking the door behind you. “Let's get that monstrosity of a diaper changed!”

Geralt felt a small relief as the Temple of Melitele came into view as he crested the top of a hill, astride Roach. Urging the Chestnut onward, his troubled mind mulled over the situation for the hundredth time. He needed to find out who was looking for Lycus, and before they managed to do any harm to his son.

“Geralt?” Nenneke's surprised voice echoed in the vast, stone entryway of the great Temple.

“Nenneke.” The Witcher called back, giving her a wary smile, while handing over his swords to one of the other priestesses.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, shaking her head at him and looking around. “Where is your dear wife and that precious babe?”

“They're on their way to Kaer Morhen.” Geralt returned, leveling a tired and troubled brow at her. “Where it's safer for them.” He added, softer.

“Safer?” Nenneke frowned, her head cocking slightly in her increasing confusion, but she reached out and took Geralt by the elbow, ushering him to the back of the Temple, where her office was. “Tell me what's going on, Geralt.” She ordered him, motioning to the chair before her cluttered desk, while she began to brew them some tea.

Sighing heavily, Geralt folded himself into the seat, rubbing the side of his stubbly face. “There are people—a mage, at least that we know of, currently. Stalking my wife and son.” He put it, simply.

“Stalking, for what reason?” She inquired, skillfully pouring boiling water over a kettle of loose herbal leaves.

“I'm a Witcher that sired a child, Nenneke.” Geralt grunted at her, indignant. “Obviously, they caught word that Lycus is my blood and wish to do him harm.”

Nodding, Nenneke let the tea finish steeping and poured them each a cup, handing one over to Geralt, before taking a seat in her own chair. “You never did tell me how you managed to father a child, Geralt.”

“Since we were so rudely interrupted.”

“Yes, I know. It's the person that interrupted us, I believe is behind all of this mess.” He sighed, holding the hibiscus tea between his hands and stared into its deep red tint. “I want to know, if you remember who they were? Do you know their name? Or, perhaps, where they came from?”

“I might recall his name.” She nodded, pressing her lips together. “But, why don't we start with exactly how you came to have Lycus.”

Geralt gave Nenneke a critical look. He didn't want to talk about how you and he conceived Lycus. As complicated as it was to start with. He just wanted a name and a location of the man he was inquiring about. So he could settle into his room for the night, get a half decent night's sleep, in a soft bed, before traversing across the Continent in search of him and anyone else in the scheme, for the next three months. On top of plying his Witcher trade, so he could bring back supplies for the three of you.

But Geralt also knew Nenneke was far too curious to be deterred away from the subject.

“All right, fine.” He huffed, taking a large gulp of the scolding tea.

“It occurred during our stay in Toussaint.” He started, resting back in his seat, and looking up at the window set high on the wall behind Nenneke. The light slowly fading on the other side. “Originally, we were only supposed to pass through. However, an acquaintance of mine had a letter delivered to me, while in Beauclair, informing me of something that might prove troubling to Witchers.”

[eggcompany]

A Tight feeling in the chest

Geralt lactates because of a potion he took. Jaskier helps.

“Geralt dear you look a bit red, well as red as you can get my Snow White dove, are you feeling well?”

They were settling into camp after a long day of traveling. Geralt did look a bit off. He hadn’t felt very well after his kikimora hunt a few days ago but he had taken something that Jaskier couldn’t even pronounce but it made him feel better.

“Are you sick still from your potions from earlier this week?” Jaskier said and placed his hand on the Witcher’s shoulder. Geralt grumbled.

“Chest hurts.” Geralt didn’t care to talk at the moment. His skin felt far too tight and he could feel his chest being so... full.

It always happened when he took a certain decoction. Lactation was rare in men but more common in Witchers.

“Do you have a wound or muscle aches... Geralt, do you have an infection? You look swelled?” Jaskier looked at his Witcher’s chest as it was pushed out.

“Decoction makes me lactate. Hurts until it goes away or um gets out. It takes three days for it to go down. My chest will just be tender and sore. Don’t worry it always happens.” Geralt said but didn’t pull away. No he didn’t expect Jaskier to wanna... get the milk out. But he definitely didn’t wanna have to wait three days. He always tried to milk himself but it never did anything.

“Oh poor thing! Let me help! I'd love to help you but only if you’d like me too. Do you want me to help you?” Jaskier said and placed one hand of Geralt’s jaw and the other in the center of the older man's chest, away from his nipples.

“Yes please, thank you.” Geralt said with a sigh of relief.

Jaskier led them to his bedroll because it was much softer.

“How about we scoot this and stack up my pillows so you can just. Recline yes. And I can just be beside you. How’s that sound?” Jaskier had talked his way through him pulling his bedroll in front of a tree. Geralt soon laid with his back against the tree and Jaskier sat on his left.

“Can I feel for a moment? I’ll be gentle, I’m sure you're sensitive my dear.” Jaskier placed his hands on Geralt’s scarred forearms and waited for the Witcher to answer. “That’s, that’s fine. Just be careful they really hurt...” Geralt looked almost nervous.

Jaskier slowly and lightly placed his right hand on the very top of the other man's pec. He gently brought his hand down and around the bottom and up to almost his nipple.

Geralt let out a shaky breath.

“Okay? Tell me if you need anything at all. Understand? I’ll be down right angry with you if you don’t!” Jaskier said firmly.

“Oh-okay.” Geralt said and Jaskier nodded.

The bard circled his finger around the swollen and puffy nipple in front of him. He instantly felt the tension under his hand. It probably hurt so bad...

“Poor baby, don’t worry I’ll get all the annoying milk right out.” Before Geralt could answer or say anything at all he was letting out an absolute whimper. Jaskier had gently brought his lips around Geralt’s nipple and gave a soft suck. The bard’s mouth filled with warm milk, it was almost sweet. The taste wasn’t great but it wasn’t off putting.

As Jaskier lost himself in sucking the milk out of his- oh gods he was sucking The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher’s tits. And he was loving it. He calmed and it was almost therapeutic or like meditation.

Geralt was relaxing and letting out low moans.

“Do the other one. Please Jaskier please suck the other one. Gods it feels good. Thank you.” Geralt sounded wrecked. Jaskier always being one to please switched sides.

But he had to reach over Geralt’s chest with his entire body so he swung his leg over to straddle the Witcher.

Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s head. Not pushing or anything just holding.

Soon enough Geralt was nodding off. Jaskier continued his work until there was no more milk in either of Geralt’s breasts.

Jaskier pulled Geralt until he was laying flat on the bedroll and cuddled up behind him. Stomach full of warm milk Jaskier almost automatically fell asleep.

“Thank you Jask.”