#the geralt candle

[hanzajesthanza]

the headcanon that regis can hang from the ceiling to sleep or rest like a bat is funny on its own, but when i consider geralt and others in the hanza holding conversations with him like this, it’s made better by my understanding of this as just an advanced “neurodivergent sitting” technique

[mikeyy7]

Y'all go support my buddy's small business! The scents are amazing, especially this limited drop of Yennefer, inspired by the Witcher series

[fllagellant]

Thinking about . Mourning practices and Geralt and Yennefer relearning them and only learning because the people caring for them are still in mourning . And it hits them all at once because they had deluded themselves into believing they wouldn’ t or shouldn’ t be mourned or that there would be more important things than that . Like a subconscious belief that they didn’t really notice they held . And then being shown the reality that they were loved so deeply and missed so terribly . Yeah . Y eah

[shitsndgiggs]

Can you please make Kenan x reader where they're doing the Hear Me Out Cake trend

HEAR ME OUT - KENAN YILDIZ

Doing the hear me out cake trend

Kenan Yildiz x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

The camera was set up, phone propped against a candle on the dining table, and Kenan was already cracking up before we even started.

“This is gonna be so stupid,” he said, shaking his head as he shuffled through his stack of photo picks.

“Exactly why it’s going to be hilarious,” I shot back, grinning. I adjusted the cake in the center of the table so it was perfectly in view of the camera. “Ready?”

Kenan gave me a mock-serious look. “Born ready.”

I hit record and took a seat next to him. “Alright, guys,” I began, addressing the imaginary audience, “we’re doing the ‘Hear Me Out’ cake trend, where we stick photos of people—or things—we think are attractive into this cake.” I motioned dramatically to the pristine, frosting-covered cake before us.

Kenan leaned toward the camera. “Don’t judge us... too harshly.”

I started off tame, holding up my first pick: Chris Evans as Captain America.

“Hear me out,” I said, sticking his photo into the cake.

Kenan rolled his eyes. “Typical. Safe. Boring.” He grabbed his first pick and revealed it to the camera: Megan Fox in Transformers.

“Predictable,” I teased, shoving his shoulder lightly.

“She’s literally perfect,” he shot back, planting her photo firmly in the frosting.

The first few rounds were normal enough. I added Zendaya, Henry Cavill as Geralt of Rivia, and Blake Lively.

Kenan countered with Rihanna, Tom Hardy, and Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman.

“Respectable choices,” I said, nodding.

“Same to you,” he replied, grinning.

And then things started to spiral.

I held up Shrek in a tuxedo.

Kenan’s jaw dropped, and he looked at me like I’d just betrayed him. “Are you serious right now?”

I shrugged innocently. “Hear me out—he cleans up nice.”

He burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, okay. You’ve officially lost it.”

I dramatically stabbed Shrek into the cake.

Not to be outdone, Kenan revealed his next pick: the Geico gecko.

“KENAN!” I yelled, nearly knocking the table over from laughing so hard. “That’s not even a person!”

He smirked, sticking the gecko into the cake. “But you can’t deny he’s got charisma.”

It only got worse from there.

I added Danny DeVito, specifically from Matilda.

Kenan countered with the Kool-Aid Man.

“HOW IS THAT ATTRACTIVE?!” I cried, tears forming in my eyes from laughing so hard.

Kenan pointed at the camera. “Big. Strong. Energetic.”

“You need help,” I managed to say, clutching my stomach.

By the end, the cake was a war zone of chaos. Scarlett Johansson and Timothée Chalamet were surrounded by Tony the Tiger, an old Nokia brick phone, and a rotisserie chicken.

For the final round, I pulled out my wildcard: Larry the Lobster from SpongeBob.

Kenan paused, nodding in respect. “Valid.”

“And you?” I asked, curious what monstrosity he’d end on.

Kenan smirked, holding up Mr. Clean.

“KENAN!” I screamed, doubling over in laughter. “What is WRONG with you?!”

“He’s got personality!” Kenan shouted back, sticking him into the cake with pride. “That’s more than Larry the Lobster can say!”

When we stopped recording, we both stared at the cake for a long moment.

“This is a crime against humanity,” I said finally.

Kenan wrapped an arm around my shoulders, grinning. “And yet... it’s perfect.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 8

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: yo, work is driving me nuts.

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. 💖

Lady Jazlene, a queen by marriage, cries herself to sleep. You stay until she snores and snuff the candle as you leave her on her stomach atop the stuffed mattress. You emerge between the guards and wonder if they keep people out or keep her in. 

They don’t react to you. No one really does. A shadow approaches. The thickset man grunts at you as the moonlight shines off his dark mail. Bryce waits patiently as you near him. He turns and walks beside you in silence. 

Much of the camp is asleep. The only fires that remain are those of the soldiers on watch for marauders and bandits. Your soles kick loose pebbles and trample flattened grass further. You yawn as you reach the luggage carts and find the one you rode in. The grey horse is tie to the axle, dozing on its feet with puffing nostrils. 

“The road will not get any less turbulent,” Bryce warns as he grabs his bedroll from across his mount’s rump. “You will need sleep, maid.” 

“Thank you, sir,” you lift the canvas draped over the back of the wagon. 

He grumbles and unfurls his roll across the dirt. You climb up and nestle down beneath the cover, pressed against a chest as you curl up. You hear the soldier lay down with a groan, “...too sweet...” 

You close your eyes and rest your head on a bent arm. The darkness quickly swallows you up into slumber and the day fades into obscurity. You’re not conscious long enough to dread the one ahead. 

As the sun rises, heat gathers in the cart. You wake in a damp sweat, nearly suffocating as you gulp up cool air. You slip down onto your feet and grab onto the cart to keep from stumbling. Bryce grunts as your soles crunch on the ground. 

“Eh, where’re you off to?” He sneers. 

You look down at him. His eyes are still closed as his grey steed sniffs at the dirt close to him. 

“Sir, I... I haven’t... relieved myself since... erm, well...” 

“Go on, but not too far,” he opens his eyes and sits up. “Holler if you meet trouble.” 

The horse huffs into his steely hair and he pets its nose. He grabs onto its reins and hauls himself up. You quickly spin and flit away. You go off into the brush where its thick and squat down, your skirts gathered above your knees. You miss the springs behind the castle where you would bathe with the other maids, you could use a wash now. 

You finish up and peer over the stretch of bodies, horses, and carts. You set off back toward the cart and as you come in sight of Bryce, he unties a dented kettle from his saddles. You feel much better without the pressure beneath your guts.  

“I could fetch water,” you offer. 

He looks over his shoulder. You think you surprised him. 

“Quiet mouse,” he mutters and faces you, gripping the bent handle, “I can manage a potful of water.” 

“Yes, sir, I only was being helpful.” 

“You stay, take Daisy to find some fresh grass,” he points to the horse. 

“Daisy?” You look at the beast, “is that her name?” 

He shrugs and stalks off. You go to the reins and loose them. You glance around and lead her over to an unyellowed swath of grass. She dips her long neck and grazes, tearing the strands noisily as her teeth clack. You pet her ear as she comes rather close to the hem of your skirt. 

Heavy steps tramp up behind you. You don’t bother looking as you assume it’s Bryce. Those who are stirring are barely able to lift themselves out of their rolls. The lazy rise of dawn does not inspire fastidiousness as the clouds haze amber and rose. 

“Fine horse,” the king’s timbre rumbles over you. 

You turn and bow your head, “your highness.” 

He inhales through his nose before he speaks again, “are you a fast rider?” 

“I’ve never... I don’t ride, your highness,” you reply, staring at his black mail, just at the center of his chest. “It isn’t my horse.” 

“I know it, I thought perhaps...” he begins and shifts his weight in his boots, “you might’ve secreted away the mare. That you would be sick for your home.” 

“Your highness? No, I wouldn’t--” You put your hand to your apron, “I am not a thief.” 

He pauses and his thick fingers toy with his belt, fiddling with a leather purse, “that isn’t what I...” he blows out in exasperation, “I do not think you dishonest. In fact, you are the most honest creature I’ve met around here.” 

You keep your eyes down, “I only mean to feed the horse.” 

“Yes, I believe you,” he assures, his tone glum, “forgive my inference. Truly, it wasn’t intended as such.” 

“I understand, your highness,” you say. 

“It was a jape, a poor one, I suppose,” he hooks his thumb in his belt and turns to pace. “I wanted to thank you. I have yet to figure out how to handle Lady Jazlene but you keeping her company, I do appreciate it.” He stops and crosses his arms as he faces you again, “last night, what you heard and saw... we are strangers still, her and I.” 

“I am a maid, your highness, I serve the lady and you now,” you reply, “that’s all I do.” 

His arms bulge before he drops them, “yes, I suppose for you, the matters of nobility are dull.” 

“It is not of my concern, your highness,” you say, “I am to see that all the wine and food and little things are taken care of.”  

You peer up at the sky as the dimness slowly recedes. His figure looms below and he slowly treads closer. You squeeze the reins. 

“You serve the queen, the king, and... a horse,” he reaches to touch its snout, dragging his knuckles along its grey fur. “Make certain we are fed and content.” 

“Whatever is needed, your highness,” you answer and watch his hand stroke the horse. 

“And what do you need?” He asks. 

You quork your head and stick out your lip. It's an odd question. You have what you need. You have a place in the cart, you have some nuts left over from Bryce’s generosity, and you have some hours sleep behind you. 

“Nothing, I think,” you say. 

He scratches behind the horse’s ear, “and what do you want?” 

You purse your lips. You think. Another strange inquiry. What should you want? That’s not something anyone ever worried for. You only troubled after what others wanted. 

“I... I want to see the snow,” you say at last, “I think I dreamt of it but I can’t remember. I don’t really know what it would look like but I remember once Merinda spoke of it. She knew a stable hand who once lived in the north.” 

He’s quiet. Your answer isn’t very interesting. To him, the snows must be so tedious. Nothing more than ordinary. He makes a clicking noise. 

“I want to see the snow too,” he pulls his hand away from the horse and for a moment, he seems to reach for you, recoiling short of touching your grasp on the reins. He withdraws and presses his thumb to his teeth. He hums. “We have far to go before the snow...” he rasps, “should you require anything for the road ahead, you may ask.” 

“That is kind, your highness, but I don’t expect I require much,” you assure, “thank you.” 

“Mmm,” he drones as he faces the sunrise and sets his posture, “onward.” 

He marches away as you stay and watch Daisy munch on the grass. You comb your fingers through her main, loosening the tangles. When another approaches, you glance over. Bryce tidies his own hair with his hands. 

“Water is boiling, maid,” he declares, “I have some spare mint leaf for tea.” 

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you smile down at Daisy and move out of reach of her teeth. “I will stay with the horse until she is done.” 

“Hm, aye, I understand,” his forehead lines, “she is much more pleasant than I.” 

He nods and turns back the way he came. You watch after him as he goes to sit before the hanging kettle, a low flame burning beneath it. He rolls his shoulders and hunches forward as he plants his elbows on his knees. These people of the Hinterlands are not so cold as they pretend. 

⚔️

The long train continues through the lands. Some days slower than others. There are some where progress stops at midday in favour of passing through a village or approaching a nearby farm. The king departs from the larger party, riding with his soldiers to greet the commonfolk. Lady Jazlene refuses to accompany her husband in favour of her silk tent and wine. 

The pauses in your trek makes you curious; you only ever heard of King Waleran showing his face to the citizens during the harvest festivals and self-aggrandizing ceremonies. You never saw the king yourself, only heard Lord Dustan and his wife resentfully complain of how the king never made the journey to Debray. Did he not recall that once a duchess was married to his great-uncle? 

You spend the hours in Jazlene’s company. She wants her wine and mutton. You notice that her appetite for the former has grown since the first day’s travel. She even requested that some casks be sought during one of the king’s visits. He acted as if he did not hear her entreaty. Their few encounters since that first night have been terse and short, neither offering much more than a word or two. 

The queen swirls her cup, watching the motion of the wine within. She giggles and puts it down, picking up the looking glass and admiring herself. She sits on a wooden stool, her skirts dusted with the dirt of the road. Despite the filth, she insists on sporting a new gown each day, no matter how extravagant. 

“What a fool? To think he is wasting his time on commoners,” she trills, “you know, he should be here, worried about his wife and queen. Not married a week and all we’ve done is ride anon. I’ve had no wedding, no feast. How I am neglected for these dirty farmers.” 

You say nothing. You’re not certain she recalls you’re there. She speaks to herself often as if her mother is there. A few times, she has even called for the duchess. Often when she’s nearly finished the bottle. 

She pouts and sniffs. She drains the cup completely and puts it down heavily on the crate next to her. She grips the mirror with both hands and looks at her reflection. She contorts her face, sucking in her cheeks, pushing out her lips, turning her head this way and that. 

“Aren’t I beautiful?” She nearly whispers. You don’t flinch. You stare at your hem. She sighs and stomps her foot, “I’m asking you!” 

You peek up at her, surprised.  

“Yes, your highness, you are very beautiful.” 

She frowns, “you lie to me.” 

“I wouldn’t lie, your highness.” 

“Don’t argue with me,” she snarls and slams the mirror down, cracking the glass on the crate. She stands and blusters around, her skirts catching between her legs, “if I am beautiful, what makes me so, hm? Tell me!” 

You stare at her. She is beautiful. You always thought so.  

“Your hair, your curls, your highness, they are beautiful.” 

She rolls her eyes, “just my hair?” 

She wobbles slightly as she struts towards you. 

“Your eyes. They are pretty too. And you have a nicely set nose. And your lips are finely curved, your highness,” you explain as she looms closer and closer. 

“Hmph,” she stops, slouching drunkenly as she leans in to consider you, “of course you would say so. Look at you. So plain. An ugly handmaid.” 

You stare back at her, a strike in your chest, then drop your gaze. It is the wine. She huffs, her alcohol-laden breath tinging your nose. 

“The king,” she babbles as she turns on her heels, swaying dangerously, “we’ve only lain together our first night. It was... quick. He didn’t want me to sleep with him,” she raises a hand and flutters her fingers, “he shooed me away like some whore.” She spins and falls onto the stool, “if I am so beautiful, why does he not want me?” 

You watch her. She isn’t looking for your answer. She’s talking to talk. Lady Rezlyn isn’t there so she has only herself and stagnant air trapped in the tent. 

“It is my duty to have his babies. To give him heirs. I cannot do that if he will not touch me. But perhaps when are in one place, he might try again,” she smiles and lifts the broken mirror. She tilts it and lets her hand drift down to your bodice. She pushes her chest up, “when he lets me take this off, he will see. He will want me.” 

She convinces herself as she preens at her reflection, “perhaps it won’t hurt.” She looks around and sees the bottle of wine. She grabs it by the neck. She grips it and wiggles it at you in the air. “He’s even thicker than this,” she puts the mirror down and balances the bottle on her palm as she circles her fingers around the bottom of the bottles neck, just before it rounds out, “and longer.” 

You stare at the silk wall, mortified by her words. She giggles and the movement of her hand draws your eyes up. You watch from under your lashes as she brings her hands up and down the bottle neck. 

“Mother says, just like this,” she pumps it, “that he should like it very much.” She stops and focuses on the bottle, “mmm, he is a man underneath it all.” She tosses the bottle away, “and I am a beautiful woman. He will want me.” 

You lower your eyes again and twine your fingers together. You can’t help but feel bad for her. You only wish you had some words of wisdom or comfort to offer her. Or that she would hear them. You can’t help but touch the fading bruise along your stomach as you languish in the tepid silence. It’s better to let her forget you. 

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 79

Jaskier and Geralt have confessed and gotten together, and Jaskier couldn't be happier. It's like a dream come true, being able to kiss Geralt. Jaskier learns that Geralt isn't a big fan of PDA, a tad troublesome for him, but he'll learn and grow to be a better lover for his witcher! He just might forget and try to kiss him a few times before it actually stays in his noggin! However he also learned that Geralt.. Doesn't like talking about them in public. Or insinuating them in public. Jaskier can't even make dirty jokes or ask Geralt where they should go out on dates. Geralt hisses for him to stop talking about it and glances around. Jaskier has been longing to eat at this one fine restaurant in a crowded town for months, and they have a chance to! There's a table still open! With a vase of flowers, and candles, and a dark red tablecloth, and they're sat right next to a small stage where the performers play! Jaskier goes to sit down, only for Geralt to drag him out by the arm, saying that they can't eat there. Jaskier is of course asks if there's poison in the food, or a monster infesting the eatery, only to get a grunt. "Really, Geralt, why can't we eat there?" "We just... Can't." Jaskier just assumes the owners must be some sort of witcher-hating pricks who tried to... To sell Geralt their daughter in exchange for wanting him to kill something that doesn't need to be killed or... Or some other really hateable things. A pity, he's heard amazing things about that place.. But all is well! Soon enough, they head to an inn, and get settled in a room. Jaskier tries his best to seduce his boyfriend, but Geralt just glances around their room and shakes his head. "Not now." Jaskier shrugs, and heads down to play for some coin, and perhaps get a bit tipsy for the fun of it all. He wakes up the next morning with quite an awful headache, and a very annoyed-looking Geralt. Jaskier apologizes for going overboard with the drinks, but Geralt huffs and says that isn't what's upsetting him. What upset him is Drunk Jaskier telling people that he and Geralt are together. But come onnn! Everyone's been saying "The bard is fucking the butcher" for over a decade! Surely some villager's account of a drunk bard saying the same isn't worth all the fuss Geralt is making over it. Another night, Jaskier is sat by the campfire, idly strumming his lute. "Annnd even though today I had to hide in a tree~ I love my witcher, and my witcher loves me~" Geralt suddenly loses his focus and turns sharply to Jaskier. "That's a new song." "It's not a song, I'm just making things up for fun." "So it's not in your song journal?" "...No?" "Good." 'Good'? Jaskier could just play it off as another one of Geralt's teases about disliking his music, but something about this in particular made Jaskier feel nauseous. A week or so after that, Jaskier has finished his set and is excitedly skipping off to meet back up with Geralt when he overhears some conversation from where Geralt is sat. "Your bard sings well!" "He's not my bard." "No? I thought I heard you two were together." "No. Acquaintances at best. Hardly know him." Acquaintances at best? Acquaintances? Jaskier knows Geralt has been offput by the idea of telling people they are romantically involved, but he couldn't even muster up a 'No, we're just friends.' He's STILL not a 'friend'? That's when it clicks for Jaskier. Oh. Geralt's ashamed of him.

Is it because he's a man? Would Geralt be proud to show off his lover if his lover were female? Is it because of Jaskier's looks? He's been told he's rather attractive, but perhaps he looks quite small and delicate beside a witcher. He didn't think Geralt would care for such things, though. Perhaps it's his personality. Maybe the lighthearted remarks between the two of them were more barbed on Geralt's side than Jaskier at first thought. Maybe Geralt really hates his singing, or how much he talks, or how often he turns things into an innuendo. Is he just some quick fuck in the woods? The second they hit civilization he's not even a friend? Jaskier slips back up to their room, completely forgetting to let Geralt know where he is. Oh well. If Geralt gives a shit he can sniff out Jaskier's perfume. For now, Jaskier is going to curl up in their bed and try not to cry. Jaskier and Geralt have confessed and gotten together, and Geralt couldn't be happier. It's like a dream come true, being able to kiss Jaskier. But Geralt has to keep in mind how many enemies he has out there. Personal, blind hatred based on his reputation, blind hatred based on him being a witcher, the list goes on. Geralt worried for Jaskier enough as it is when they were best friends. Geralt would be powerless and completely devastated if anyone were to take Jaskier. Geralt would be putty in their hands if they so much as threatened the bard's life. Now that they're lovers? Geralt cringes to think at how many people would be chomping at the bit for an opportunity to kill the Butcher's one true love. To use him as a hostage for Geralt to do their bidding. For them to torture Jaskier in the hopes of learning things about Geralt. So Geralt makes a plan. He'll keep Jaskier at an arm's length whenever he thinks anyone could see or hear them. It's exceptionally hard not kissing the hell out of his bard whenever he feels like it, but he must practice restraint in order to keep him safe. Jaskier keeps making it harder on him, though. Kissing him, wanting to go eat at some romantic place, telling every soul he can how much he and Geralt are inseparable soulmates who can't live without one another, all in front of so many people. Any one of which could be just too loose-lipped. Any one of which could lead to a snowballing effect that ends in his beloved Jaskier's harm or death. Geralt just can't wait until Winter comes. He plans on bringing Jaskier with him, and they'll be able to do whatever they want the entire winter, with no fear.

[0dde11eth]

Joey batey's birthday today so I thought I'd do a birthday story.

One year a few days before jaskiers birthday they get hired to hunt a Griffin. It seems to be a straightforward contract: find the nest. Kill the Griffin, return back into civilization in time for jaskier to party his still-hasnt-aged-a-day ass off at his birthday celebrations

Unfortunately, this hunt goes wrong. (don't they always?).

First of all, it's not a Griffin they are hunting down, it turns out to be a pair. Second, the nest is impossible to find, even with Geralt’s tracking skills.

The days pass quickly, and jaskiers' birthday approaches rapidly. Geralt offers to bring jaskier back to the city so he can still celebrate while Geralt continues the hunt. Jaskier refuses to leave geralts' side, and they continue to search.

On the day of his birthday they find the nest and Geralt completes the contract, unfortunately it's late in the day and they have no chance to make it back to the city in time.

Jaskiers quiet that evening as they set up camp. He's also quiet over dinner. It is driving Geralt crazy. He feels as though he ruined jaskiers birthday, if he was a better witcher, he would have found the nest sooner and jaskier would be able to get the celebration he deserves, surrounded by his adoring fans. Instead, he's in the middle of a forest with a grumpy witcher, no alcohol, no guests, no presents, not even a cake!

Geralt pauses... he does still have that honey cake hidden in his bag.. it's probably stale and squished, but it'll be a sweet treat. Maybe if Geralt gives it to jaskier, it'll make the bard happy? And he'll start talking and singing again? It's worth a try.

Geralt retrieves the little cake from his bag and sits next to jaskier, "Here, i know it's not nearly as grand as you deserve, but i wanted you to have something sweet for your special day."

Jaskiers face lights up, "oh thank you dear witcher! I was just thinking about the bakery in oxenfurt and all the treats we need to sample next time we are out that way!"

Geralt isn't finished, he casts igni, just a small flame on the tip of his finger. "Here, blow it out and make a wish."

Jaskier laughs in delight. He closes his eyes, wiggles his nose and crosses his fingers on both hands and blows out the 'candle'.

They split the cake, enjoying the slightly stale dessert, and licking their fingers after to catch any lingering taste.

Geralt bumps jaskier with his shoulder, "what did you wish for?"

Jaskier rests his head on geralts shoulder, "can't say, or it won't come true"

Geralt hums softly. "Happy birthday Jask"

(Jaskier wished that they'll always be together, and have more days just like this one)

[littlefreya]

Summary: Whatever madness drove this woman to board a pirate’s ship of her own free will was beyond comprehension. Yet there she was, in velvet and silk, marching toward certain danger and the sinful desires of the monstrous Captain August ‘Blackbeard’ Walker.

Pairing: AU! Pirate August Walker x OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: 18+. No smut, but sexual themes are mentioned, as well as dark themes - he is a pirate. Possible historical inaccuracy. This is not the real Blackbeard. Mentions of kidnapping.

A/N: Not beta’d. Many thanks to @agniavateira @luna-aestas and @wolvesandhoundshowltogether for the support, and thanks to @geralts-yenn because this story started as a 15-minute challenge, and I ended up writing a whole shot. There might be a part 2, and this might turn into a series. We will see after my anxiety runs its course :D

Thanks for reading, and please reblog and comment if you enjoyed :)

Neptune's Snare

The soggy wooden platform creaked beneath her feet as she climbed onto the main deck. Each step eliciting s husky wail - a sorrowful hymn to the lost maidens of the sea - those who would never return, those devoured by the sinful desires of monstrous captain August ‘Blackbeard’ Walker. 

Whatever madness drove women to go there willingly was beyond comprehension. No more than a tomb, the ship alone looked like a carnivorous maw; black iron spikes stood firmly at the bow, and the sheer size of it was enough to strike fear at the heart of even the bravest sailor.

Yet, there she was, draped in a black velvet cloak and an ivory corset dress, willingly marching toward grave danger. 

Dozens of ragged men welcomed her onboard, filthy scoundrels, all drenched in an exotic mixture of sweat and alcohol. Hungry, their eyes gnawed at her tender flesh, but none would dare touch her. If August’s crew knew one thing, it’s that some fates are much, much more worse than death. 

It didn’t stop them from taunting. Suckling their lips, they followed the girl on her march toward the captain’s cabin. Cheer and chortle in their voice as they imagined the obscenities their captain was about to perform on this naive girl. 

“Pity, he never let us look…” whined one of the pirates while the other bood.

“Aye, you mad to come ‘er tonight. The cap’n hasn’t had his fill in weeks, lass. He would sure pillage each of you’ holes tonight.”

“He gonna paint her full of his sea foam!”

The entire ship roared with their laughter. The girl, however, kept a blank face and, without spending any minute longer, opened the door to the captain's cabin.                                                                                                                                                

Bright, golden luminance blinded Lizette’s sight as she entered the cabin. The walls were plated by ornaments made of gold, reflecting the sparkle of the hundred candles that burnt at the decorated candelabras and crystal chandelier. Fine works of art hung from each wall, and on a vast lacquered table stood a plethora of delicacies that made Lizette’s belly gurgle. 

She stared at the table momentarily, almost fooled by the obvious seduction. In complete opposite to the murky exterior of the ship, the captain’s chamber was a room fit for kings, sputtering style, elegance and riches. Perhaps this was how he lured them. The poor naive girls truly believed he would give them a better life. But Blackbeard was no king, nor was he a gentleman. He was the deadliest man the world has ever known - a serpent, nightshade - all he could give a woman was death. 

“Take off your cowl.”  

A deep voice called from behind, dark and mysterious as the ocean. It struck like an icy shard through her spine, making her shoulders jerk and stiffen. It was odd to know someone by hundred of myths and stories spun around them and have men mimic their voice in an attempt to portray them but never know what they truly sounded like. 

As it turned out, August sounds like a man one doesn’t refuse. 

Obedient, Lizette pulled the cowl from her head - slow as she would unwrap a much-anticipated present. Her gaze kept to the floor still, continuing to play the coy virgin the Captain wanted her to be, though if she had to be honest - she was terrified of whatever hideous monster she would soon have to face. 

There must have been a reason why the women who came here never left. Lizette was willing to bet every dime in her pocket that August was the most gruesome, repulsive creature, and the only way for him to keep people from knowing was by murdering each woman he bedded!    

“Shy, aren’t we?” Blackbeard murmured with a dry chuckle and began to circle her, observing his bounty from side to side.

“I quite enjoy shy,” he chuckled once more, his voice almost a groan. 

She forced herself not to flinch too much. She could sense his glare upon her, stripping her garment by garment, weighing what he earned tonight and considering all the ways in which he would pillage her body. It made her feel like she was one of the delicacies that rested on his table rather than a person. 

After gyrating around her and inspecting each crease of her body, August finally returned to his starting spot behind her and, in a low, delighted groan, demanded, “Turn around.” 

Doing as he commanded, she turned to him, still keeping her glance plastered to the floor, her breathing now shallow as the air in the room grew magically stuffy. She could spot his blurry silhouette from the corner of her eye; a tall and fit man, rather broad. It seemed that he was doing a loose white cotton shirt and dark trousers, and from his waistband - a gleam of silver winked back. 

“Are you a mute?” 

Another chill shot through her as he spoke. Absentminded, she swallowed. “No…”  embarrassingly, her voice cracked; she took a deep breath and reprimanded, “No, sir. Just nervous.”

“Captain,” he corrected. 

Lizette nodded but did not repeat him. She couldn’t. Words died on her tongue as the Captain made a bold step toward her, drawing dangerously near. He paused for a shy second, fingers laced together, contemplating, before he reached a fist beneath her chin and, in a ceremonious tenderness, lifted her chin.  

The air drained from her completely. Her lips parted in a mixture of fear and astonishment. 

It couldn’t be.

Perhaps she had the wrong man?

Grey, ocean-eyes peered at her through a face that women and men would damn themselves for. No! Even angels would. His jaw was sharp and profound, statuesque like cut marble - dashed with dark stubble and a thick raven-black moustache. His lips, though chafed from the salty sea breeze, were plumped and shaped to be kissed, and while some of his curls were streaked with silver, he still had a healthy mane of hair on his head. 

‘He could have been a decent man,’ she thought, ‘and yet he chose this?!’

There was an obscure attractive melancholy to his looks - almost tragic. 

August took another moment to study her face, a frown slowly forming on his ridged brow. “You look familiar…”

“I work the docks,” she answered almost immediately.

His stare deepened, eyes dropping to her cleavage momentarily before returning to pierce back into the back of her skull, “Skin too soft. Too shy to be a prostitute.” 

His fingers wrapped around her chin, caging it between his thumb and his index in a tight grip, making it hurt. He tilted his head, daring her to come up with another lie.  

“The tavern,” Lizette answered, firm and steadfast. She did not flinch from his touch, even though every instinct begged her to.

“And you came to me. Why?”

“What girl wouldn’t give everything for a night with the notorious Captain Blackbeard? The living legend… the king of pirates.” She softened her eyes as much as possible and offered a shy pout to reconcile him. 

August chewed on the inside of his cheek; storm clouds gathered on his pale eyes as he contemplated. They both knew she was flattering him to gain his trust and save her pretty little neck. It wasn’t a situation he hadn’t encountered in the past. They both also knew that he was stronger, bigger and armed and could snap said pretty little neck in less than a split second. 

“Are you a virgin?” He proceeded. 

She nodded, her throat clenching. 

August lingered on her response and, after what felt like an eternity, offered a small grin and pinched her chin sweetly as if to praise her before moving a step closer. Lizette smiled back nervously. She could sense his rum-drenched breath on her face. The scent was so pungent it made her moan invulnerably. 

Or perhaps it was the anxiety that was eating into her heart. 

“Ever sucked a cock, pet?” 

His question was answered by a small click that echoed through the quarter and the press of hard, cold metal against the bare parts of his chest. 

Not stepping back, he slowly, almost theatrically, spread his arms into a gesture of defeat while peering at the girl. No rage nor fear painted his face, and as he spoke, there was neither surprise in his voice. 

“Heh. So you ARE a whore.”

Lizette held the pistol determined, not saying a word.

“What is it that I do, pet?” 

Offering a sly grin, the pirate pressed against the barrel; the oceans in his glare darkened. As Lizette stared back, she could have sworn the many shades of blue in his sights shifted and swayed like angry waves. Quickly brushing the thought away, she cocked the gun in a warning, her little thumb grazing the trigger.

But to August, it was clear that the girl had never killed anyone before, and the longer she stalled, the more shaky her hand became. Taunting, he moved further into the barrel, which forced her to take a step back. 

“Do not move closer!” She finally spoke. 

August brushed her warning away, moving forward instead. He had been so nimble in his movement, fluid, like a sea creature himself. Only now she realised that his hands were no longer in the air. 

“Was it your dear mother?” He suggested. “Father? Sister?” He paused and offered a vicious smirk, “Ah… I see, A lover. Well, to that, I surely deserve to die. Go ahead, pet, pull the trigger.” 

His slender, heavily ringed fingers reached to envelop the barrel, holding the pistol steady for the girl. Every breath he took pressed the metal harder against his sternum. Lizette could sense his heartbeat pulsating through the barrel, the thrum of his blood nearly mingling with her own. No longer steady, her digit quivered around the trigger and in her throat, she felt the strenuous hold of anger, guilt and hatred. 

“You have taken everything from me!” She simply answered. 

Soon her sight became blurry, and wetness gathered beneath her eyes.  

‘Do it, do it now.’ 

Another click sounded in the room. Louder than the cocking of a gun. 

Lizette’s eyes flared in shock, and before she could pull the trigger, August had carefully veered the gun from his chest and, in a tenderness that was accustomed to lovers, snatched it from her hand. His other hand laid still on her neck, fastening the iron collar he granted her.

“Good girl,” he teased and then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the forehead of the girl who was too struck by her own misfortune and stupidity to react. 

With the pistol safely placed in his waistband, the pirate stepped back, face alighted, eyes sparkling with starlight cascade, like a child who had just earned a new toy.  He clasped his hands together, ecstatic; thick silver rings chiming as they collided.

 “I haven’t taken everything from you, pet. but I am going to…”

With one last slanted grin, the pirate turned on his heels and marched toward the door, not bothering to bid farewell as he left and locked the door behind him.

Panicked, Lizette reached her hands to the iron collar, desperately trying to pry it off her neck despite knowing there was no logic in pulling at the heavy metal. 

“Please!” Tears trickled down her cheeks and chin, “no! No! No! Please!”

Through the open window, she could hear the captain's voice barking orders, commanding his men to lift anchor and set sail. 

****

Chapter Two

[write-ur-wrongs]

The Set Up

Fic prompt from @always-and-forever-alone : I was wondering if you could write a store of reader, being called a monster for most of her life, and he either telling her she's not or saying something well it's happening(in he's way, because let be honest he probably wouldn't say it directly, God forbid he cares)

A/N: not proofread or beta-ed. I really wanted to get this one out today so I am going down with my typos. I had another idea in the works for this but this idea snuck up on me as I wrote. I honestly might keep working on v1 to post eventually but here's this one for now! :) ______________________________________________________

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” you screamed, your voice overlapping with the immense witcher standing across from you, who said the same thing.

When your longtime friend had asked you to come into town to meet a friend of his, you’d been hesitant. Life wasn’t kind to non-humans, and it certainly hasn’t been very nice to you. But you’d known Jaskier for years, and he’d never given you any reason to think he’d hurt you. Until now of course.

“Woah! Hey,” Jaskier, to his credit, sounded about as panicked as you felt, “please both of you just sit down and let me – Geralt put the sword down for fuck’s sake.”

You tore your eyes off the white-haired brute, his merciless grip easing off the hilt of his still-sheathed weapon, and chanced a glance at your supposed friend. There was a little bit of sweat on his upper lip, his eyes were wide, and he had his arms outstretched between the two of you, palms down – pacifying? He looked nervous but not guilty.

Why the fuck doesn’t he look guilty? You thought, confusion and hurt mingling bitterly in your stomach.

Wait. The witcher – Geralt? – yelled at Jaskier too. Why the hell was he pissed? Maybe Jaskier expected he kill you for free, or maybe he was on some kind of vacation and resented the job.

You set your eyes back on him, still refusing take a seat at their table, and your breath caught in your throat as his harsh, cat-like eyes, met and held your gaze.

“Y/N,” Jaskier said, waving you forward with the hand closest to you, “please sit. Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” you hissed, “How you hired a witcher to kill me?”

“Kill you?!” Jaskier and, confoundingly, Geralt, said in unison.

“Come on,” Jaskier continued, softening his tone and looking from you to his guest, “you know I would never do that. I have no reason to do that. Please, just sit.”

Fighting every instinct, you pulled up a stool from an adjacent table and joined the pair. Your heart was beating into your ears but you figured the witcher wouldn’t make his move in the middle of a busy tavern so you should be safe – for now.

***

Geralt watched the woman sitting across from him with growing curiosity.

When the bard had told him he was looking forward to introducing him to a friend of his in town, he’d rolled his eyes. Jaskier was always trying to introduce him to women he knew, women he hoped would sway and soften him up a little. It was exhausting, infuriating, and frankly, a little embarrassing. Geralt didn’t need any help in that department and he definitely didn’t share Jaskier’s taste in partners.

But this woman was nothing like the others. For starters, she wasn’t human. Geralt could sense her power even before she entered the tavern, his medallion vibrating in warning against his chest. When she entered, he took immediate notice of the way every candle got brighter, each flame now leaning toward her slightly, drawn in by her power.

She must have been a fire elemental of some kind, he’d thought. Or maybe a sorceress who’d given into the Power brought by fire. Either way, Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off her.

His fascination had only grown when she spotted Jaskier from across the room and her guarded face erupted into a wide and open smile. A smile that turned defensive as soon as she locked eyes with him over the table.

She bared her teeth and sent a surge of power through the room, flames flickering around them. How did Jaskier even meet this woman?

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” he said, pushing up from his seat and reaching for his sword, a confusing mix of defensiveness and jealousy settling in his gut. How and where did his soft, flowery friend meet someone like this?

***

“Okay, first of all, thank you both for agreeing to this.”

“I would never have agreed had I known –”

“Jaskier you son of a –”

“Okay, sorry! Sorry! That was a mistake, I admit that, I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, rambling, “but look, Y/N, you’re always saying how you wished you could find someone who saw you for who you are and not what you are.” He turned to you as he spoke, cupping his hand gently over your elbow, urging you to uncross your arms.

“And Geralt, please don’t kill me for this,” he blurted, placing his other hand next to the witcher’s on the table, “you’re too lonely for your own good, and I thought maybe if you met Y/N, someone who could match you, you could, I don’t know…”

“Wait,” you interrupted him, laughing despite yourself, “you’re saying this is a romantic set-up and not a,” you brought your hand across your throat in a mock-slice, “murder-for-hire set-up?”

“Now, wait, hang on. Why would I kill you?” Geralt said, speaking over your realization defensively, as if he didn’t reach for his sword when you made eye contact. “I’m a witcher, not a damned assassin.”

“Because I’m,” you hesitated and glanced around you to make sure no one was looking before briefly demonstrating by drawing a flame up in your hand and extinguishing it just as quickly. Jaskier was looking at you so softly, his eyes betraying the way he pitied you, but Geralt? He was looking at you like you’d just juggled the bread rolls on the table rather than summoning fire.

“Why would that be reason enough to kill you? You’re not a monster.”

“Tell that to every village I’ve ever dared to call home.” You scoffed.

“Geralt can relate!” Jaskier said, jumping in far too loudly and with too much exuberance. “People have been wrongly treating him like a monster for years!”

“Jask!” Geralt hissed, looking pissed and, wait, was he embarrassed?

“Sorry!” he squeaked, throwing up his hands as he got up from the table. “I am going to get us another round, the two of you… get to know each other.”

You watched your idiot friend rush over to the bar for a beat before rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe he did this.”

“We could take him if we team up,” Geralt said, a mischievous glint shone in his eyes when you looked back at him.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you then, nor could you stop the blush that crept up your neck when you saw the witcher’s face break into a wider smile.

“Yeah,” you breathed, uncrossing your arms so you could lean over the table toward Geralt conspiratorially, glowing under his open and earnest gaze, “I think we’d make a good team.”

[inexplicifics]

Oh man so many WIPs to choose from! Feel free to choose the next closest number in any of these or to skip if they've already been shared!

G/J #13

G2/S post tournament

L/A/M #13 (yes 13 is my favorite number 😂)

L/A/V/M Dealer's choice

Vexart tournament (the angst of the tournament is just... so compelling)

Worth the Wyvern barmaid (this was the first fic of yours I read and I still regularly go back to reread it and am STILL wholly delighted by it)

Cats Among Wolves #2

Tbh your WIP list looks a lot like mine, except all of my WIPs are spread across different fandoms but I have.... so many 🙈

Have some Geralt/Jaskier with part-elf Jaskier and angst and hurt/comfort!

Jaskier had not realized that his life could actually get worse than it already has. First he ends up in the back end of nowhere because he thought it was a shortcut and it most certainly wasn’t, then these vicious yokels decide that his ears are excuse enough to ambush him, beat him bloody, and collar him like a slave, then they gag him when he won’t stop talking or fighting, and worst of all they smashed his lute - all of that is miserable enough, and he is nearer despair with every day that passes without some form of rescue. But this - He is lying at the feet of a white-haired man who, given the way Jaskier’s luck has been going since he left Oxenfurt, can only be the most notorious Wolf witcher on the Continent: the Butcher of Blaviken, in the flesh. The monster who slaughtered half a town for no reason at all. And Jaskier has just been turned over to him as - As a toy, Jaskier thinks bleakly. As a disposable body, flimsy and replaceable as a broadsheet, to be used up and discarded and left in a ditch beside the road. The Butcher bends and picks Jaskier up, heaving him over one broad shoulder without any apparent effort, and whistles; Jaskier, his head hanging down, can see nothing but the witcher’s dark armor. It’s not actually all one shade, he discovers; it has been stained so often that the stains overlap, mottled blacks and browns making the leather as ominous as its wearer. He smells of blood and horse and onion.

And as long as we're doing #13s - have some Lambert/Aiden/Milena with minor goddess Milena:

Lambert makes a horrible wheezing sound, and his eyelids flutter briefly before falling shut again. Aiden finds a second wind somehow - or fourth, or fifth, gods, he doesn’t even know how long it’s been - and staggers forward a little faster, his own broken ribs grating as he cradles his Wolf close. There’s a light ahead. Aiden stumbles across a grassy clearing, up a set of slick stone steps, and into a tiny, candle-lit temple. “Please,” he rasps, as loud as he can. “Please, someone help!” There’s the rustle of fabric and the sudden smell of roses, and a young woman appears out of the shadows off to one side. “Oh!” she says. “Oh dear - put him down there, let me see what I can do.” Aiden places Lambert down on the altar with the last of his strength and collapses beside it. “Please,” he begs. “Don’t let him die.”

I wish you the best of luck with your own WIP list!

[pyramultimuse]

@lostxndbroken liked the Starter Roulette, the characters are Grell and Geralt and the theme is Horror AU [Currently Accepting]

Where there is life, there is death. A beginning and an end. But recently peoples ends were coming too soon and were meeting a bloody fate. Woman, or atleast what they could tell from the remains, were being slaughtered in the night. The sounds of screams and a nasty whirling, growling sound of something ripping through flesh and sawing through bone. What was left of the victims would be scattered all over the street and the walls of making an incredibly gruesome sight.

A few had caught sight of the killer on occasion, someone dressed in all red with long flowing red locks. A person? But when they were spotted they could leap effortlessly onto high rooftops and bound from roof to roof and disappear into the night, laughing maliciously as they escaped. The killer had been dubbed Crimson Death, unknowing very appropriate. This murderer was no human, atleast not anymore, they were death incarnate. Reapers, meant to be silent and hidden as they collected the souls of the dying. This particular one had gone rogue, killing people before their time and had a fixation on slaughtering beautiful women. Though more recently men and even children had been killed. Possibly having gotten too close or tried to stop the Crimson Death.

There was only one who could possibly stop the killing spree as the victims were nearing triple digits, who better to deal with the monsters and supernatural than a Witcher. It was their only hope as they feared that the whole city was in danger. People were staying off the streets at night in fear of the Crimson Death, silent and empty like a ghost town. This would make hunting harder.

Grell, the red reaper everyone feared sat atop the rooftop across the street from a brothel. One leg up with his arm resting on his knee as the other leg dangled off the edge, watching like a gargoyle waiting for a possible target. There were definitely people inside, the glow of candles could be seen through the windows and chatter and a lute could be heard. But only a man would enter or leave, no one fitting of a beautiful bloody death.

[the-desilittle-bird]

pls can u write a fic where reader (the bastard daughter of rhaenyra and harwin) is married to aemond for political reasons, but she know how to manipulate him whit her body and have him wrapped around her finger to secure his support in the war that is sure to come (smut pls)

AN- Damn! I really like a manipulative badass boss bitch reader... but the smut isn't as good as I had thought it would be but... sorry.

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

You Love Me Right?

Summary- What is a greater charm than a woman's love?

Tag List- @eliseline, @little-moonbeam-666, @blackhoodlea, @omgsuperstarg, @shopping, @lizlovecraft, @dayane, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @all-things-fandomstuck, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @morganastrucker, @shrexy, @helloitsshitzulover, @daringboba, @minaxcarter, @b-tchymoon, @stargaryenx, @hukio, @saraelizabeth26, @targaryenmoony, @moon-light1415, @eudximoniakr, @themaze13, @candypurplebutterfly, @5moremin, @yariany02, @issybee0611, @gossipandspills, @hopebaker, @kateris-world, @lady-athanasia, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @cherryaemond, @watercolorskyy, @literishdegree99, @sunmoon-01, @savagemickey03, @ultrav0lence, @deltamoon666, @severewobblerlightdragon, @hyacinthus007, @andlizeth, @shine101, @beefbaby25

Warnings- Smut [Dirty Talking, Breeding Kink, Teasing, Almost(?) Oral (Male receiving)], Manipulation

GIF Credits to @imagine-all-the-things

The Dance has begun and so far, the Greens had the upper hand; all because of Aemond and his dear Vhagar. His formidable leadership and swordsmanship combined with Vhagar's experience in battles and dragonfire made him an important asset of his brother's cause.

To the world, he was cold and unbending. But the House of the Dragon knew well. They knew how his sweet little wife had him wrapped around her little finger.

Otto considered her smart. She knew her beauty was her largest asset and adding it was her sharp wits and undeniably alluring charms. Each word which fell from her lips were honeyed and well versed; a web made by a spider to catch her prey.

And that is why he remained vary of her when the dance began. Being the daughter of Rhaenyra and Harwin, he knew her devotion to her mother; unyielding and strong.

"Aemond," she squealed as hands wrapped around her petite figure, her plump lips painted in red as she turned to greet her husband with a kiss on his jaw; then down his neck and up to his ear.

"(Y/N)," he hummed, fingers rubbing her sides as his eye took in her seducing structure. Her brown hair open and brushed back, cascading down her spine. Her violet eyes were the curtesy of her mother's genetics.

Her figure was drapped in a black flimsy robe, ending just above her mid-thigh. The robe accentuated the best of her curves; her ample cleavage evoking a desire deep in him.

"Aren't you a nymph?" She chuckled, sending vibrations through his skin as she looked up through her lashes. Her fingers slowly moved up to get rid of the eyepatch covering his left eye and majority of the worst of the scar.

"A nymph in love with you."

Aemond's eye lingered on her covered breast, inviting him to feast on the soft flesh which would surely swell when his child takes place in her body. His finger fiddled with the lace holding the lace together, tugging on it to unwrap it.

"I want you," she whispered, turning around and tilting her head back to give him space to mark his territory. Kisses and nips evoked goosebumps through her body as one of her hand gripped his long hair, while the other grabbed onto the corner of her vanity.

"So do I, my love," he whispered, his sapphire glistening in the light of the candle. A deep moan left her throat when his lips found the spot which made her see stars.

"I received a message from my mother," she hummed sweetly, her fingers swiftly getting rid of the clothes which adorned his lean body; all while gentle kisses and teasing nips were granted in the freshly revealed skin as his tunic and undershirt met her dark robe on the ground.

Aemond only hummed, his mind already clouded with lust as he watched her bare body in front of him; moving like a seductress. Her soft hands found his shoulders, pushing him down to sit on the edge of their shared bed. A place which frequently ends up destroyed due to their marital tasks.

Her fingers nimbly worked on the ties holding his breeches together. They felt painfully tight as blood flew to his cock, making it hard and extremely hard.

"She is sad."

(Y/N) knew how this works. After all, it won't be the first time she is doing this. Seducing her own husband to accomplish something which was otherwise impossible.

"Why?" He rasped, breathing a sigh of comfort as his firmness left his breeches, which joined the pile of robes on the corner. His long, calloused fingers traveled into her brown hair as he felt her lay kisses on his inner tights.

Her tongue met the tip of his hard on, licking like a kitten feasting upon her milk but slower. Her long nails moved up and down his tights, sending a shiver down his spine as he groaned.

"More, my love," he pleaded softly, but both of them knew that she wouldn't compile to it; at least not just yet. Instead of taking him in her mouth, she moved up to lock his lips in a feverish kiss.

Their tongues battled against each other for dominance but at last, the princess let him win; granting him a disguise of control in their relation. One of the biggest lies in their marriage.

"She wanted to see me," (Y/N) gasped as she felt his hands fondling her breast, groping and swiping his finger on her sensitive nipple. A pornographic moan left her throat as she hummed in appreciation. One of the pros of marrying him.

Bringing him impossibly closer to her, she whispered in his ear, "I want you, my love." Suppressing the groans was becoming difficult for Aemond as his fingers traveled south to meet her wet core.

"So wet, doll. All for me?"

"Yes. All for you, my prince."

His fingers were quick to adjust his cock on her entrance; slowly entering her to give her some time to adjust to his large size. His long digits rubbing her clit to bring some pleasure during the slight sting of pain.

"So tight for me," he groaned into her neck, teeth sinking into her sensitive skin. Moving softly, his hips started with a soft rhythm, relishing in the moans which escaped her throat.

"All for you, Aemond," she whispered, breath hitching as his tip grazed over the soft spongy spot inside her which made her see stars. Her lower belly tightening with pure pleasure which rushed to snap at any moment.

"Cum for me, my sweet princess. Take your pleasure on me," her husband continued to speak filth in her ear as he groaned, feeling her walls clamp on his cock deliciously.

"I will paint your walls with my seed. Make sure you carry my child," he groaned, lips finding her nipple to suck on. Tugging on the other with his fingers, he felt her back arch. A loud moan of his name and the clamping of her on him indicated her orgasm.

Aemond came a second later; grunting her name as he filled her to the brim.

"You love me right?" She asked after a while, turning to her husband who was yet to recover. With his face a slight shade of red, eye blown with pleasure, he turned to her with confusion. "Of course, I do."

"And would you do anything for me?"

"Yes."

The smirk on (Y/N)'s face was hid as she snuggled into the crook of his neck; words heating his skin as she whispered, alluringly: "I wish to side with my mother. And I wish for you to be with me."

The silence was deafening and for once, she thought that Aemond would sit up and the next minute, the cold blade of his sword plunging into her warm body. But it never did.

Instead, a light whisper was spoken into her hair.

"Then your wish is my command."

[notyetneedcoffee]

Sexy Mess

Kinktober - Mess Kink NSFW - Adults Only

Summary: You want to get messy with a certain Witcher

Geralt’s deep, gravel voice called your name.

“Get in here.” He demanded.

You stepped out of the bath and into the bedchamber. Stretched out across the bed, the Witcher drank from a tankard of ale. Stopping to enjoy the view, you took a moment to admire his wide bare chest and thick thighs. His body held a map of scars. Large and powerful, you loved the way he made you feel.

When he drained the drink and laid back fully on the bed, his right hand gave his long, thick cock a stroke.

“I’m here.” You crawled up the bed to kneel between his thighs.

“About time.” He sounded stern, but there was laughter in his eyes.

You wrapped your hand around him and dipped your head. You loved his scent when he was fresh from the bath. Burying your face between his legs, mouth wet and dripping, you licked and sucked at his balls, hand gripping his cock harder. Geralt rumbled in appreciation.

Moving up, you took him in your mouth. Drool ran down his shaft to cover your hands. His fingers wound in your hair, pushing your head down and forcing his cock deeper. He pushed you near to gagging, before tugging you up by your hair.

He flipped you both over, looming above you. Geralt took your jaw in his hand and kissed you with tongue and teeth. He pulled away enough to give you a wicked grin, before licking a sloppy trail down your neck to your nipple.

“Please, Geralt.” You begged.

On the tablet beside the bed, a metal flask warmed over a candle. When Geralt opened the lid, the scent of mint filled the air. He didn’t bother to pour any into his hands. He drizzled it directly over your breasts. Warm and slick, it spread over your skin. He poured more, filling the hallow in your belly, and thoroughly soaking your core.

You moaned as his hands smoothed the oil over your body. He lowered himself down to kiss you again, this time allowing you to feel his weight and rubbing his body against yours. Hot. Solid. Covered in slick oil. Your nerves were on fire.

Geralt’s large hand dug into your thigh, massaging, moving closer to your core. Two thick fingers sank into your sex, stroking deep. Wriggling slowly beneath his body, you relished in the sensation of his chest hair against your hard nipples. Slick. Messy. Skin on skin. The heat circling in your belly.

“Need more.” You whined, hands running over his muscles. Hard. Strong. Your fingers dug in, pulling at him and sliding along his flesh.

Geralt’s thighs pushed your legs further apart. His teeth nipped at your lower lip. You felt his cock rub against your entrance. Slippery and hard. He pushed in, filling you. The stretch. Your legs wrapped around him as his began to thrust in and out.

A low growl rumbled up from his chest as he gripped you tighter, fucking harder. The breath rushed from your lungs. Warmth enveloped you. His wet mouth covered yours, sloppily kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck.

Your thighs locked around him. The coil in your core wound tighter. The deep rumble from his chest vibrated through your body. He moved faster. Pushed harder. You quivered.

“Hmmm, fuck, yes.” Geralt hiked your legs up to your shoulders.

You panted and swore, each thrust hitting your deep. Pushing you closer to the edge. You wanted more.

“Come on me!” You plead.

Geralt’s hips snapped hard and fast. With a growl he pulled out. You watched him spurting hot come over your belly, over your tits. He slammed back in. Your cunt spasmed. He pumped hard, impossibly fast. Everything tensed. Heat flared, spreading in a flash. You came apart, flooding over his cock.

He flopped back on the bed. You both lay on your back, panting, sweaty and slick messes. Feeling boneless, you flopped over and curled against his body. He pressed his lips in your hair.

Geralt chuckled. “I am a sweaty mess.”

You laughed back. “My favorite sexy, sweaty mess.”

Want more? Check out my Master List.

[caffieneaddictt18]

Life, Death, and Destiny

Prompt: Witch!Reader keeps giving Geralt weird little trinkets and crystal necklaces saying that this one protects you and this one keeps the bad feelings away and this one will call good spirits and wisdom upon him, and he doesn't believe her until one time he's fighting this monster and somehow, he keeps dodging this monster perfectly without even needing to drink his elixir. He kills the beast, and goes back to Witch!Reader, demanding her to explain how this works when he knows for a fact, she doesn't have magic like a mage or a druid. She simply winks and leaves him curious, so he stays with her and figures out how she is somehow unintentionally magical.

I'm not gonna lie, I did not stick to this prompt. It went a little sideways and flopped. So, my apologies! It is not false advertising, I swear.

As Geralt was walking to Roach, his mare, he heard his name called... It was faint but grew louder as the person shouting his name got closer.

"Geralt!"

Geralt rolled his eyes, thinking it was another townsfolk wanting him to go kill something.

"Geralt, wait!"

But then he recognized that voice...

"Geralt! Would you stop for a minute?"

He stopped. The Witcher slowly turned around and saw y/n. They were panting, keeled over.

"Before you leave, take this." They reach out and in their hand is a little charm that can be added to the strap of leather that keeps his hair up. "It's for battle wisdom. Knowing you, you'll need it. I hope it keeps you safe on your travels." Y/n stands up, and composes themselves.

"Well, I can see you are wandering towards Roach... where will you go next?"

Geralt took the charm slowly. He didn't trust anything magical. Especially when it came from someone that he had never heard was magical beforehand. Nevertheless, he took the charm and clamped it around the leather holding his hair back.

"There was a monster sighting near Waterwood. The locals regularly use the water for business, so they need me to come clear out whatever monster lies in the river." He gruffly divulged the details of his departure.

"Well... if you ever wish to come back, you know where I am." Y/n skipped off down the stone path to the cottage that sat on the edge of the wood, surrounded in wildflowers and other magical plants.

Geralt grunted before stalking back to Roach, mounting her, and taking off into the night.

______________________________________________________________

Y/N woke to a banging on the wooden front door. The type of banging on hollow wood that gave you chills. Especially after being chased from town for giving Geralt a charm. This specific town doesn't necessarily take too kindly to witches and magic.

The banging lessened to a knock. Y/N quickly extinguishes all the candles before slowly opening the door and hiding in the nook between the wall and the door. Waiting for anyone...

someone...

The person walks in slowly, sword in hand, and eyes seemingly glowing in the dark. The stock build of his shoulder balancing out the slender legs of pure muscle. His footsteps silent, but hers are gone.

Y/N makes no noise as they scampers across the floor of grass and behind a chair. A chair made of engraved wood and hide from a monster, if you can believe it. Absolutely beautiful.

Y/N gently whistled a tune... a tune used when Geralt and them went on a small stroll through the woods. Y/N insisted that it would help Geralt ground himself before the hunt he was about to embark on.

Immediately, he stopped and put the sword away before casting Igni on a candle near him. He carried it to the chair and saw a head of hair peeking out from behind the arm of it. "Y/N?"

"Geralt!" Y/N stands from the crouched position on the ground and goes around to hug Geralt. He accepts it before lighting the fireplace filled with charcoal and adding new wood to keep the old burning.

"Why did you hide? Monsters don't knock. Mages don't bother people in their homes anymore." Geralt was ticking things off a list that might make them be wary of anything.

"Were you... were you scared of me?"

Y/N, who was first scared that Geralt might go on a rage like the one in Blaviken, was now flustered. "Oh no! Oh goodness, no!"

"So why were you skittering around like a mouse, trying to find warmth?"

"I... I was chased out of town..." Y/N can see Geralt tensing, becoming physically angry, "Don't worry about it though! It allows me to become one with nature. I forage all my food now and the butcher is kind, giving slices of meat no one else would want. I have deepened my relationship with magic and peace. I am happy. Don't worry about me."

Geralt was trying to slow his breathing and be rational, staring into the fire. How could they do this to you? You had done nothing but help them, and they turned on you. You had provided them with medicines that don't poison and trinkets that you can only find in the forest.

"Why?"

A simple question that held so much power. The power to anger or calm. The power to cause action or stop it. The power of chaos or peace.

And so, Y/N chose peace.

"I assume they finally decided they didn't like me anymore," Y/N smiled.

"That's a lie. You provided them with medicine. Small villages don't just abandon their healers." Geralt moved, gently pinning Y/N to the monster-leather seat.

"So tell me... why did they do it?"

Y/N looked into his eyes, marveling at how their reflected the flames to look like pools of lava themselves. Y/N knew that their response was too late when he furrowed his brow. Y/N looked down.

"They... they saw me give you that charm..." Geralt quickly got up and leaned against the stone mantle that looked like it had been there forever, made by Gaia herself. A sanctuary for the weak, weary and, what others would call, weird.

"They don't take kindly to magic folk around here, Geralt. It's why I have placed wards around the cottage."

Geralt was surprised. An actual ward? He knew that you liked to do everything yourself, if you could. Wards required mages and you were not a mage.

"A ward?" You nodded, "And who did these wards?"

"I did!"

To him, you sound childish. A person with no real magic was somehow placing wards around their home...

But somehow, the house seems untouched by the outside world. The hurtful one of torches and pitchforks.

"Alright... well, I have a monster hunt nearby. I'll stay here. Just for some extra protection." Geralt announced. There was no turning back or denying him this.

______________________________________________________________

As Geralt was walking out of the cottage that was surprisingly not attacked by townspeople the entire time he was there, Y/N called to him.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nope!" Y/N holds out a small necklace with a complicated charm strung onto it. "Just wanted to give you this."

Geralt gently took it into his hands. "And what does this one do?"

"It's a protection necklace. I know you will inevitably find danger, so this should help keep you on your toes and safe for your also inevitable return," Y/N proudly announces to Geralt as he kept a straight face. He had no real belief this would do anything for him, but he put it into a pouch near his chest.

"Alright. Stay safe, Y/N"

"You as well, Geralt. Blessed be, my friend."

______________________________________________________________

Geralt rode upon the cottage that had a plume of smoke exiting the stone chimney and candlelight coming from the kitchen. It was an exhausting monster hunt and all he wanted to do was rest.

Once he had tied Roach to the small stables that Y/N kept up, he walked to the home. Before Geralt could knock, the door swung open.

"Geralt!" was all that was said before a flurry of greens and browns flooded his sight. He was encompassed with the warmth only you could provide. A hug... something he hasn't felt in a while.

You slide off of him and out of his arms. "How are you, my friend? Why don't you come in?" Y/N opens the door for him to enter and beckon the large man inside your cozy home.

The smell of rosemary and chicken flood his nose. The warm glow of the fire in the living room flickered across the walls and seeped into every crack, spreading the softness that Y/N carried. Geralt walked slowly into the home and sat down on one of the chairs you have. It was soft, like from a castle, but not quite as tall or luxurious looking. He wondered where you got it from.

Over the fire, a soup of chicken, carrots, potatoes, and herbs brewed in a cauldron that seemed to magically hang from the ceiling, even though it was directly under the chimney stack.

"So... how are you, my friend?" Y/N's gentle voice entered Geralt's mind. It's like you were allowing him space to take in the home as he wishes instead of flooding his senses with everything all at once. A nice change of pace of the monster hunter, the White Wolf.

"I am... good. I was surprisingly not hurt on my last hunt. This striga seemed... slower than normal, though..." Geralt contemplated on his latest hunt, mulling it over in his mind, "Must not have been at full strength."

"Would you like some mead?" You offer the Witcher some of your honey wine. A delicacy was not often seen in common households, but you have never been part of the common folk. Plus, you tended to a honey bee hive in a tree near the cottage.

"Why not?" Geralt takes the mug of mead from you as you walk to the cauldron where your stew was done cooking. You ladle the chicken soup into wooden bowls you once bought from a traveling merchant and add a slice of bread to it. It had not been the first time you opened up your home to the infamous White Wolf... and it certainly won't be the last.

"Well, eat up. You are welcome to stay as long as you like." You offer a safe night's sleep before finishing your bowl of soup and putting the bowl in a basket of other dirty plates and bowls. You take the cauldron of soup and take it outside, where you can feed the hungry children of the village. The only people who dare to come near...

Before you can lug the pot of wonderful healing stew outside, Geralt notices. "What are you doing?"

You stop, setting the cauldron on the floor for a rest. "Well... the children of the village have not been eating as much and I feel bad... their parents cast me out, not them. Why should they have to suffer for a choice they had no choice in?" Y/N looks at Geralt in confusion before shaking their head and picking up the cauldron again.

Geralt stands and before you can walk with the heavy pot, he takes it from you. "If they catch ypou doing this... you could be killed."

"I would rather die doing something good than nothing at all." You skip happily besides Geralt as he carries the pot with way less effort than you have to.

As you approach your normal spot to feed the children, you can see the dozens of eyes that hide in the woods. They are scared...

"You have nothing to fear, children. The Witcher will never hurt you."

First, nothing happens, but after a minute, a thin girl walks to you. You kneel, handing her a bowl of the chicken stock. You know this one. This girl has been sick since she came from the womb of her mother, who died during childbirth.

A boy, a bit stockier than he was a month ago, came up to you, slightly avoiding the Witcher's gaze as he also grabbed a bowl from you and started drinking the contents of the soup. You gave him bits of chicken and vegetables, knowing that he won't be full unless the boy has them. He has grown since you first saw him.

One by one, the children gained confidence in you and lost their fear in the monster hunter who was leaning on a tree behind you.

Eventually, you ran out of mouths to feed and food to give, so you grabbed the bowls the children used, put them in the cauldron, and walked home with the pot in hand.

"Well, Geralt, what brings you around this time?"

"Just a reprieve. I needed some... how do you say it... grounding."

You drop the cauldron by the door & clap, "Perfect! I'm going to the well now to grab water. It is chore day. What would you prefer to do?"

As Geralt looked around, he noticed the various plants that were hanging in your window and drying in the sun. And then he noticed the weeds that had begun to grow in your garden.

"Let me grab the water and prepare the pot for another meal," Geralt wanted to take the heaviest thing off you. It would not be too hot weeding the garden considering the time and season.

"I can weed the garden and wash the bowls & cutlery. Fantastic! Make sure to rub the inside of the pot with tallow before hanging it up to dry."

Geralt grunts and walks to the well, buckets in hand.

This is going to be the longest day in a while...

______________________________________________________________

You prep Roach before Geralt is scheduled to take off into the horizon once more.

As you finish getting the saddle tied down, you look around for any peering eyes. Not finding any, you pull out a Rune for speed and chant a small & simple spell before tying said rune to the inside of the saddlebag.

You hurriedly make yourself seem busy by packing his saddlebag with all the necessities, including a jug for water and a fresh loaf of sourdough bread wrapped in some parchment that you covered in beeswax.

Geralt exits the cottage, strapping the last bit of armor down to himself, walking towards you and Roach. Before he can reach you, you walk to Roach's front and say a quick prayer and chant for speed and health. That they may get to wherever they must be, right when they must be there and not a moment too late.

As Geralt approaches, you give him one last hug. And a warning...

"Save the apple bread for when you need it most."

Geralt, understandably confused, watches as you skip towards your cozy home. Before you make it even halfway, the White Wolf shakes his head as a method of clearing it before mounting Roach and taking off into the distance.

______________________________________________________________

You are calmly knitting while waiting for the loaf of bread in the fire to cook when a banging erupts from your door. You are immediately apprehensive, as banging is not usually a good sign anymore.

Before you were chased out of the town banging meant someone was hurt. Also not good, but treatable.

Banging now... that's nothing good.

"Open your door or I will kick it down!" Geralt's gruff voice was muffled by the door, but you could tell he was yelling.

You hurriedly put down your knitting project and let Geralt in. He walks in and turns rather smoothly however quick, effectively shutting the door and trapping you between him and the thick wood the door offered.

"What are you? Are you a sorceress?!" Geralt questioned you with intense yellow eyes. The type of eyes he saved for people who have used him and lied to him.

"No, Geralt... I am not a sorceress. Why do you ask?" You gently take one of his arms down from its tense position leaning against the door to massage his hand in between your fingers. You gently guide him to a chair and sit him down before asking once more...

"What has made you think that I am a sorceress, Geralt?"

He grunts and looks into the dancing flames of the fire that licked the stone and left black soot marks.

"I was faster, stronger... more insightful... Roach rode like the wind and we got exactly where we needed to be just in time, even early. This didn't start happening until you started giving me things. And don't think I didn't notice the rune in my saddlebag. You may be a witch, but you are no sneak. So, what are you?"

A pregnant pause filled the space and time had eaten away at it.

You needed to tell him eventually. Now was as good a time as ever.

"I... You're right. I am a witch. But I am not a sorceress or a mage! I do not dabble in chaos. I am an omnist. I believe in the existence of every god. I also bend and use energy at my will. The thing people call 'Destiny' can be written, but then erased & rewritten. That's what I do. A 'narrow miss' suddenly becomes an 'easy dodge.' I take Destiny... and I manipulate her for my desired outcome. And if my desired outcome just so happens to be a few kids fed and the Savior of the people of the Continent, so be it."

It felt as though the energy had moved from this feeling where something was violently poking and stabbing to try and get out, to absolute stillness.

An eerie calm after a storm.

The sort of calm you feel right before a bomb goes off...

Except...

No bomb went off.

No storm flooded the room.

Geralt could only feel awe.

Not at just your power but how you chose to wield it.

You had the power of Destiny at your disposal, and you chose to help a few kids whose parents banished you from their town.

You had the power of Destiny... eating out of your hands... and you chose to help him...

The last time he felt this... loved... was Yennefer. But even Yennefer's love wasn't baselining love. She was lust. A poor foundation of love.

What is Geralt even thinking?! Love? He couldn't love. No... His path was a lonely, treacherous one.

But it was one many others have joined him on...

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he is thinking...

Maybe...

Just maybe....

A little bit of love is okay.

The White Wolf doesn't howl his praises or paw for attention. All he does is kneel.

Kneel in front of the most powerful, lovely, deadly person he has ever known... and hold them.

"Thank you... for protecting me..."

"Anytime, Geralt."

______________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. If you have any requests, please feel free to ask me. Also, I know I made this one non-binary after editing, and I know what I said before I posted anything. Have a great night! Bye!

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - High

The more time Jaskier spends around Witchers, the more he notices how much they are like cats in some ways. Of course, they had those signature cat eyes that allowed them to see in the dark. And he started noticing how their eyes would dilate when something caught their attention.

A stalk of field grass with a bit of seed fluff on the end would cause Geralt's eyes to immeidately dialte if twitched. He had done it one winter in the Great Hall, with a willowy twig, and five heads had snapped toward the motion, and five pairs of eyes had dilated.

Jaskier had been reminded just how fast Witchers could move. He survived only because he managed to yeet the twig before he got dog piled.

Then he discovered that they purred, and liked cheek and chin scratches. He would start scratching cheeks or chins, and their eyes would dilate, and they would turn into Witcher-shaped puddles.

There were a lot of things that made their eyes dilate: cheek and chin scratches, being warm and comfortable, hugs, seeing something interesting, being excited, White Gull, and now, whatever the h*ll that plant was that Geralt was laying next to.

Jaskier had been waiting for over an hour for Geralt to return to camp. He had said he was going to set some snares, but he'd been gone too long, and Jaskier had gone looking for him. The bard had found him laying on his back next to a large shrub that was all shredded and mashed down, and he'd panicked, thinking he'd been attacked by something and left to die.

After getting a closer look though, he discovered that Geralt was unhurt. He was idly rolling a twist of pungent smelling leaves between his fingers and staring up at the sky, looking like he was having some kind of religious experience. There was only a thin ring of gold around his dialted pupils.

Jaskier *gently shaking his shoulder*: Er...Geralt? Geralt, can you hear me? Are you okay?

Geralt *dreamy voice*: Wouldn't being a-a bird be, like, the best? You could just fly around all day, sh*ttin' on people... I'd sh*t on Whatshisname...Valdo. Yeah, man, I'd totally sh*t on him. I'd just follow him around all day, every day, just sh*ttin' on him for you.

Jaskier: That's very touching, Geralt, and I appreciate the sentiment, but--! Melitele's tits, is that catnip?!

Geralt: Yeah, *rubs leaves on his face and starts purring*

Jaskier: Er, okay, big guy, let's get you back to camp. *slips arm under his shoulders and levers him into a sitting position*

Geralt *dramatic voice* : I ASCEND!

Jaskier: *gently takes the handful of leaves away and puts them in his pocket* Let me just hold on to these for you.

Jaskier heaved Geralt to his feet. The Witcher wobbled but stayed upright. He raised his hand, fingers positioned as if he were holding something, took a bite out of the invisible thing in his hand, squinted up at the sun, then demanded that Jaskier blow out the giant candle in the sky because he couldn't taste his cheese.

Jaskier regarded him silently for the space of a few heartbeats, then took a breath and blew it out at the sun.

"You blew out the sky candle! F***ing h*ll, I can't see anything now!"

"Your eyes are closed, Geralt."

Geralt opened his eyes, frowning irately, and grumbled "Blowing out the f***ing sky candle and plunging us all into eternal darkness-!" he stopped mid-rant as he remembered his invisible cheese, and took a bite. "Tastes like purple!"

Their trip back to camp had been punctuated by more stange ramblings as Geralt talked about all the mysteries of the universe, and randomly stopped to yell at a tree that was giving him a dirty look. He had passed out as soon as Jaskier had dropped him on his bedroll.

Geralt woke later, and in answer to his confused look, Jaskier had gleefully blurted, "You got high off catnip!", and then laughed himself breathless while Geralt growled and grumbled and denied it.

Jaskier pulled a few of the leaves out of his pocket and held them out to him. He'd been rather disappointed when Geralt had taken the leaves, examined them, and had absolutely no reaction to them. Geralt had given him a smug look that screamed "I told you so!".

Days later they stayed at an inn while Geralt worked a contract, and Jaskier entertained himself by tring to make friends with the cat that lived there.

She had stopped to sniff under the door, so he had opened it and tried to lure her in with some food scraps. The cat had been reluctant, having smelled Geralt's scent in the room. Jaskier remembered that cats did not like Witchers, but his inner Disney Princess was going to make friends with this cat through h*ll or high water!

He had taken some of the catnip, rubbed it between his palms, then put it in a little pile on the floor and crouched near it, hoping to entice the cat to come closer. He wiped his hands on his shirt and pants for good measure, in the hopes that he could get his new friend to sit in his lap.

Geralt returned a while later and found Jaskier sitting on the floor with a spaced out cat in his lap. He was curious as to why this cat was not immediately hissing and spitting at him like cats usually did when he encountered one. He slowly moved a little closer and caught a whiff of something herby...

The cat barely even flinched when Geralt dropped his bags and practically knocked Jaskier over trying to rub his face into his shirt. Jaskier ended up pinned to the floor by a hulking Witcher and a cat. He was grinning like an idiot while both the cat and Geralt rubbed their faces on him, and Happy Purred.

Jaskier made a few mental notes: 1. This is gold, tell Yen! 2. Don't mention this to Geralt. 3. Start collecting catnip. Ask Yen to help.

By the time Jaskier went to winter in Kaer Morhen that year, he had, with Yennefer's help, stockpiled a sizeable amount of catnip. He kept it hidden in his pack, wrapped with all his other herbs and dried florals, tucking it down in with his soaps and lotions and scents.

He had originally brought it as a joke, something to use to tease his adoptive family with, but he found that it really came in handy. Fights were a regular thing at Kaer Moren, especially when you were stuck indoors for weeks on end.

Jaskier started secretly burning a pinch or two of catnip in the Great Hall's fire pit when the usual minor scuffles looked like they were going to turn into fistfights.

Sometimes, when they were drunk and starting to try to fight each other, Jaskier would lobb a little catnip stuffed beanbag into the middle of them and let it work its magic.

Catnip tea became a thing.

Along with catnip cookies.

Sometimes, if he was bored, cold, or feeling a little down, Jaskier would rub a little catnip on his clothes and walk into the Great Hall, and then just enjoy the massive cuddle pile that resulted.

Yennefer knew exactly what was going on and was lowkey impressed her bardling had been able to smuggle the stuff into Kaer Morhen without Geralt knowing. It was an amusing distraction. She and Jaskier would sit and listen to their random thoughts.

"Forks are just a hand for your hand."

"Bread has a wetness scale, and here's why..."

" What if dragons had their wings on their back legs?"

" When two people kiss, they make a really long tube with an a**hole at each end."

"Your belly button used to be your mouth."

"If potatoes have eyes, then that means they watch you as you murder them."

And of course there was the humorous behavior, like:

Lambert balancing on the top of a door, claiming that he was a hawk.

Witchers crowding around a window to 'ekekekekek!' at a bird outside.

Geralt standing in the stables, bare a** naked, telling Roach she was pretty.

Eskel swearing that the rats in his room were talking sh*t behind his back, and it was really hurtful so, could Jaskier please go tell them to stop being mean?

Coen standing infront of a mirror, combing hair he didn't have, and swearing that Yennefer was lying to him when she told him he was bald.

Vesemir trying to fight everyone because he was feeling like he was 150 again because his joints didn't hurt anymore.

Then came the event that Yennefer personally could not stop laughing about. Lambert had started a massive drunken brawl one evening. Jaskier had been in his room, trying to make friends with some of the rats, when he'd heard the enraged screaming. He'd run to the Great Hall and seen an obviously inebriated Geralt and Lambert rolling and snarling on the floor.

Coen and Eskel tried to break it up, but were dragged into the free for all. Jaskier started yelling for them to stop, but he was ignored. He ran back to his room and did the only thing he could think of.

Yennefer had heard all the rukus and stormed into the Great Hall just as Jaskier came running back in, carrying the biggest joint the Continent had ever seen. The size of it was just absurd. Yennefer had started laughing as he'd dropped it unceremoniously into the firepit. Smoke billowed up, filling the room, and seconds later, the fight was over. Witchers were laying in a pile on the floor, stoned off their a**es, and contemplating the complex mysteries of the universe. Jaskier was pretty sure some of them were seeing gods.

It had taken weeks for the room to air out enough to were the Wolves weren't getting high just walking in to it, but there were still a few spots on the wall, and one of the furs where the smell continued to cling. It became a big joke after Jaskier guiltily explained what happened. Now when one of them, especially Lambert, started getting extra prickly, someone would say "Go sniff the fur/wall and calm the h*ll down!"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 4

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: double chapter day?

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. 💖

The summer sun brings little warmth to the castle of Debray. Those left behind in the shadow of their lord’s march to war, bide their time with baited breaths and unspoken worries. The duchess sinks into her cups, a nectar to her already sharp tongue, as her daughter buries herself in her wardrobe. 

Lady Jazlene hands you dress after dress, demanding a stitch here or there, only to snatch it back and have you cut the cloth of another to alter yet a third. And a fourth, fifth, sixth. Strips of fabric and loose buttons litter the drawing room table as you and Merinda put your needles to work. 

“Motherrrr,” Jazlene swirls around, swaying her hips back and forth, “it has been a fortnight already.” 

“Your father will return soon,” Lady Rezlyn slurs before she empties her goblet. She has no husband to chide her away from excess. “Never fear, dearest.” 

“That is not—mother, what am I to do? I have no wedding dress!” 

“You have no mind,” Rezlyn snickers, “you will have only rags by the time you decide.” 

“Hm,” Jazlene approaches the table with her hands on her hips, “mother, that gown with the gold lace. The one you wore last solstice--” 

“My gold lace,” Rezlyn sneers, “no!” 

“But mother. I only want the lace. You can have it re-trimmed. It would look much nicer with pearls,” Jazlene whines, “do you not understand? I am to marry a king. I cannot look as some simple countryside daughter.” 

Rezlyn clucks and shakes her head, “if it hushes your endless moaning, have the lace.” 

Jazlene gives a triumphant grin and turns to you. She grabs your arm and the needle catches in the fabric, slipping from your grasp, “go fetch mother’s dress. It is rosy satin.” 

“And wine! Bring more wine,” Rezlyn interjects. 

Jazlene rolls her eyes and flicks you away with her fingers. You hastily retreat as Merinda grimaces at her labour. Your fingers hurt from the endless hemming and seaming and you’ve noticed she’s jabbed herself more than once as the noble daughter changes course back and forth. 

You flit from the chamber and sweep down to the kitchens. The descent into the cellar is lit by only the candle in your hand, the flame wobbling dangerously before you. You find a bottle of the duchess’ preferred and climb back into the light. 

You snuff the tallow and quickly press on you. You climb the stairs again but falter as the wail of a horn breaks the afternoon din. You spin and turn to the window. Several other servants cluster beneath the arched opening as they try to see the horizon. The blast comes again, three in quick succession, followed by a long blare. 

The noise of chain and mail comes from the courtyard below. The few men left behind to man the castle walls are quick to action. You can see the flap of banners and nothing more between the other curious bodies. 

“Who is it? Enemy soldiers?” Waldon wonders. 

“I cannot see, my eyes are dim,” Margite shields her vision from the sun as leans over the sill. Their chatter swirls at the approach. 

“It is them! The Lord’s banner!” Stellan exclaims, “I can make out the sun and the sword on the banner. And the Winter King’s white crown.” 

“They return! They return!” Another cries out, “are they victorious?” 

You shuffle away. You forget about the golden lace and return to the drawing room. You enter and look down at the bottle in your hands. You blink, trying to recall what you were about to do. You set the wine on the table near the duchess as Jazlene seizes your other arm. 

“Where is the dress?” She snarls, “ugh, are you so useless--” 

“They’ve returned,” you utter cluelessy. 

“They...” Jazlene begins. 

“The king and your father, my lady,” you explain, “we saw them through the window. I thought to say so before I went to your mother’s wardrobe--” 

“Quiet!” She shoves you away, “I need a different dress. The crimson slit with ivory. Yes, yes, now!” 

She pushes you again and you stumble to the door. 

“And slippers,” she calls after you, “Merinda! Get over here.” 

You scurry back out and to Lady Jazlene’s chamber. You enter and sort through the mess of her clothing strewn and heaped about. You find the red and ivory dress and a pair of slippers of a similar hue. You are certain to bring a selection of jewels and pins to assuage any further remonstrance. 

In the drawing room, Jazlene has Merinda fixing her hairpins. You approach with your armful and lay it on the table. Outside the walls, you can hear the chaos unfurling. You can hardly keep the noises straight as cogs grind, ropes groan, and the noblewoman carry on their tittering. 

You help Jazlene step into the dress, Merinda holding the other side. As you work at the sleeves and skirts, she fidgets around. 

“The king? The king is with them for sure?” She breaths. 

You nod, “yes, my lady. His banner--” 

“Mother! They have won. They must have.” 

“Do not be too presumptuous,” the other lady rises and nears the table, snatching up a string of pearls, “come. Put these around my neck.” 

There’s banging and knocking and footfalls and voices yelling. The walls cannot keep out the rising fervour. Horse hooves and rusty hinges. They are close, in the castle or more. You pull tight the laces of the dress as Merinda clasps the pearls around the duchess’ thick neck. 

There is someone before the door. A shadow darkens below it for just an instant before it opens. No permission is asked as Lord Dustan clatters in. His eyes is swollen near shut. 

“Daughter, wife, you must come down to the--” 

Heavy, steady steps follow him. You continue to weave the laces through the eyes, going as fast as you can. 

“Father, I am not dressed. I am not ready to receive--” Jazlene protests. 

Dustan looks behind him and backs away from the doorframe. King Geralt fills it with his large figure, a dark cut along his hairline though he hardly seems bothered by it. Otherwise, he is untouched, unblemished. You knot the laces as you peek over Jazlene’s shoulder and his gold eyes shimmer in the low lantern light. 

“Your highness,” Jazlene gasps and drops to a curtsy. You stand, dumbfounded for an instant before you bend your neck and your knee to his status. “We were not warned of your coming. I pray you have tasted victory,” she raises her head slowly, “and we may wed in celebration to ring your reign in the Summer Kingdom.” 

He grumbles as his eyes search the space. Dull yet vibrant at the same time. He tilts his head as his jaw squares, “a king’s wife mustn’t fret so much about silks and wine,” he growls as he breaks the threshold. He marches to the rigid high back chair and lowers himself, “victory is mine but that does not mark the end of my efforts. I have no kingdom until all that which has broken is repaired.” 

“Certainly, your highness, and I will be by your side to help you amend what has been injured. As your loyal wife and queen,” she wilts as she wobbles just a little, “I am only so happy to see you alive and returned.” She rises as straight as she can and sweeps over to him, pushing out her chest, “but not unharmed. Your highness, you have been wounded.” 

She goes to touch the gash along his forehead and he motions her away with a flat palm. 

“It is not dire,” he insists, “Lord Dustan, where is your bishop?” 

“I sent away for him. He will come,” the duke avows. 

“The bishop?” Jazlene looks to her mother. 

“For the vows, precious,” Dustan assures. 

“The vows? Now? Today? But father--” 

“I haven’t time to wait around on paltry feasts and drunken hordes,” the king insists. 

“But-- but--” Jazlene stammers, “I am a queen, I should have a wedding.” 

“You are still but a duke’s daughter,” the king snaps, “a wedding you will have. Let us swear the words as was arranged. Then we must away.” 

“Away? Away?” Jazlene echoes again. 

“Take this parrot away from me,” King Geralt barks as he slams his fist into the arm of chair, “I tire of her squawking. When the bishop arrives, fetch me and I shall keep the oath I made.” 

The edge in his voice cannot be missed on that single word. He is a man who would not break a promise given, not the like the one cowering by the door. You glance up slowly as you notice Jazlene quaking. You can tell by her fists that she is not so much afraid anymore as she is angered. 

“Daughter,” Rezlyn girds and touches her daughter’s arm, “a wife should learn first to obey. Let us go paint your lips and await the bishop.” 

“This cannot be...” Jazlene hisses. 

“Quiet,” Lord Dustan snaps, “you want to marry, you marry as you are told. Out.” 

Lady Rezlyn keeps the duke from grabbing his daughter, instead steering her through the door herself. Merinda follows first and you trail after. The king grumbles, “Debray, leave a maid. She may fetch me that wine.” 

“My lord,” Lord Dustan points you back tersely, “the wine.” 

“Leave me,” King Geralt demands of his fair-weather lord. 

Dustan retreats and shuts the door heavily. You turn and cross to the table where you left the sealed bottle. You put your hand around the neck and lift it. You face the king and cross to him with your head low. 

“Your highness, would you like a goblet?” You ask. 

“I am not interested in imbibing,” he reaches beneath his mail and pulls free a grey handkerchief, “pour it on this.” 

You crack the wax seal of the bottle and grab the bulbous head of the cork. You wiggle it but cannot dislodge it. You struggle with it and he wraps his large hand around the pregnant bottom. 

“Little maid,” he slips it from your grasp and puts the kerchief in your hand. 

The uncorks it with only his thumb, flicking free the stopper, and he reaches out to you. You press the cloth to rim and he tilts it slightly, wetting the fabric. He pulls it away and reaches to place it on the floor. You look at him curiously. He leans forward and runs his index below the gash in his head. You get his meaning and daintily press the damp cloth to his head. 

“The alcohol cleanses,” he says as he leans heavier into your touch. 

“It looks rather painful, your highness.” 

You wince at your own careless words. You don’t know why you said anything at all. He sits in silence, breathing slowly. At last, he sits back and looks at you. You drop your hand and your chin. 

“Might I get you anything else, your highness?” You offer as you fold the cloth into a tight wad. 

“Tell me, how do you fare?” 

“Your highness?” You peek up at him through your lashes. 

“Are you well? Have you rested? Are you fed?” He prompts. 

You raise your head, surprised by his questions. 

“I am well, your highness. I have a roof above me.” 

His cheek ticks, “same as you were. Same as I remember.” 

He puts his head back and closes his eyes. He sighs deeply. You waver before him, unsure what to do next.  

“I don’t mind the cold. My land is frigid most days but I felt a true shiver out there on that road. Even Roach could not ease it.” 

You watch him, awaiting an order, not so well attuned to conversation. More often than not, a response is not warranted, just action. He gives you little direction though he is a man who easily commands. 

“My horse. Stinky steed,” he muses as he keeps his eyes closed, “valiant nonetheless.” He lets out another heavy exhale, “will you mind the door? Wake me when the bishop arrives should I doze?” 

“As you wish, your highness,” you go to the door, taking your usual stance beside it. 

He is still. The amber light of the lantern limns his large figure as he reclines in the stiff chair. He does not move but a man who has ridden to war has slept on worse. You cannot tell if he truly slumbers but you know it is not appropriate to stare. 

You remain in silence. It isn’t so bad to the duchess and her daughter. Almost serene if not for the tension of the man’s presence. A king. A wintry figure with his icy hair and colder demeanour. You do not envy Jazlene, he will be a rigid husband. She will not bowl him over as her mother does the duke. 

You listen beyond the walls, trying to track the activity beyond. There are softer voices you can’t make out, creaks which could be only the wind, and footfalls which are most certainly only servants about their tasks. The tedium stretches on as the lantern light wobbles. 

You stare at the wall opposite. The summer hue breezes in with a hint of pollen between the open curtains. Still the chamber remains dim in stone and mortar. 

There is the crank of the gates and you shift. You turn your head to hear better the entry of a new party. A man’s tenor from below assures you of the arrival. You wait until the footfalls reach the stairs. You do not relish waking the king should he have managed to sleep. 

You look to the king in the chair but find him alert. His eyes are centered on you as he sits straight, golden irises blazing. You gulp and shy away. 

“I believe the bishop has come, your highness.” 

He doesn’t speak or move. He just watches you. His gaze bores until it burns. You fear you might have strayed somehow. 

Finally, he slides to the edge of the chair and stands. He does not seem eager as he makes slow progress towards the door. As he crosses the room, he stops, just before the door, right beside you. 

“A war for a wife,” he mutters, “a barter, I suppose.” He reaches for the metal loop on the door, “come, little maid, we might need a pillow should the lady faint again.”