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sillyrabbit81 · 2 years

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The Fallen Wolves Brotherhood Part 3

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

A reverse harem, biker AU.

Part Three Summary: Lori meets the Brothers.

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

Word Count: Approx. 4 k

Warnings:

Series Warnings:

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

Part Three Warnings:

Masturbation, caught in the act, flirting, smutty thoughts, embarrassment, angst, fluff.

Authors Note: Thanks to @henryobsessed for beta reading.

I hope you enjoy it!

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

Masterlist

Parts Masterlist

Part Two Part Four

Lori

We had only been on the highway for a few minutes when I heard the other bikes. They drew up in formation and briefly took up all four lanes. Each rider was wearing their colours and full-face helmets so I couldn’t get a read on any of them, other than they all looked to be close to Sy’s size and build. Well, except one, who seemed a little slimmer, but was at least as tall as the others.

One of the riders signalled something to Syverson who inclined his head in response. Then two of the bikes pulled ahead while two others fell behind and they stayed that way for the rest of the journey.

The problem with being a pillion on a motorcycle, especially on a long stretch of highway, was that you didn’t have much to do except think.

It wasn’t something I normally had a problem with, I was fairly comfortable with my own company for the most part, but I had a lot on my mind and not a lot of it was pleasant.

There was one incessant thought, one that wouldn’t leave me alone despite how often I tried to ignore it. It was inescapable considering my arms were currently wrapped around the subject of those thoughts.

Syverson. He was a complication in my life that I didn't need right now.

The first problem was that he was attracted to me.

I shouldn’t be surprised really. Not because I thought of myself as remarkably good looking, but because he’s a biker and I’d heard the phrase “any hole is a goal” uttered too many times by guys like him to take his attraction as anything more than a passing interest.

When I realised he was checking me out, my first thought was that I should take advantage of it because if I got him on my side it might make dealing with him and the rest of the Brothers easier. So I played up the innocent girl act by biting my lip and looking wide-eyed. But if I'm honest with myself, it had only been partly an act.

The truth was I found Sy to be ridiculously hot.

And funny.

And honest.

And kind.

And sweet Jesus, when he swept his thumb over my lips I almost moaned.

Which was my second problem. I was attracted to him too.

Sy might appear a little different to most of the bikers I knew, but in the end, he was in the life and that meant he was not a viable option as a romantic partner. I’d seen too much heartache and too many failed relationships to go down that road.

I loved my mother, but I didn’t want her life. A life walking around a clubhouse wearing a patch that read “Property of ….” so other assholes don’t try to touch you, always being worried about his fidelity and the social stigma that comes from being associated. Not to mention the constant stress of knowing your partner could end up in jail or dead.

Still, there was no harm in flirting with him, right? Who knows how long I was going to be stuck with them, so what was the harm in having a bit of fun? I’m sure he’d be up for it. I've yet to meet a biker who wasn't keen for a bit of no strings attached sex.

No, not a good idea. Not with Sy anyway. I liked him too much already. He had made me laugh for God’s sake. After all the shit I’d been through, it only took one perfectly imperfect wink for me to melt. If he'd tried to pick me up in a bar and he wasn't in the life, there's no doubt in my mind I’d go home with him.

No. Hooking up with Sy would be too risky. The last thing I wanted was to catch feelings.

I concentrated on ignoring how hard his body was, how good he smelled, how blue his eyes were, and how cute his dimples were when he smiled.

Fuck. Maybe it was already too late.

After a couple of hours of fixating on Sy and arguing with myself, I finally found something that took my mind off it.

I was freezing.

The icy wind of the Arizona desert cut right through my jeans. My knees were starting to ache and my leg muscles cramped.

I huddled closer to Sy, leaning my head against his shoulder to use his huge form as a windbreak. It worked, mostly, but my hands were unprotected, my gloves were no longer enough to keep my fingers from growing numb. I started making fists, trying to keep the blood pumping, hoping it would warm me up.

I felt Sy take my hands, one at a time, and slip each into his unzipped pockets in the front of his jacket. Instantly they felt warmer, and once again I was surprised by his kind gesture.

I tightened my arms around him, hoping he’d realise I was trying to thank him. He seemed to understand and gave my knee a gentle pat. He left it there for a few moments, and I could feel the warmth of him heating my cold knee through his glove.

Ever so slowly, he moved his hand down my calf and rubbed it gently, as if he were massaging heat back into my cramping muscles, before he worked his way up again. I held my breath as he patted my thigh and I squeezed him tight again, this time tightening my thighs as well.

I suddenly didn’t feel quite as cold.

I was not going to fall for him, I was not going to let his tender gestures fool me. I was not going to be seduced by a few moments of sweetness and a nice smile and a strong body and amused eyes so clear and blue they were like the sky on a cloudless day.

No way. Not worth it.

As soon as the cold ebbed away, a sudden wave of weariness hit me and I felt tired. Dead tired.

The rumbling sound of the v-twin between my legs, its gentle vibration at this speed, and the smoothness of the road became a soothing lullaby, and I found myself dozing, suspended in the twilight between being awake and asleep. It made the final hours fly by and it wasn’t until we turned off the highway that I was able to stay awake.

By the time Sy and the other riders pulled into a motel it was very late, well after midnight, and I felt a little sorry for the other guests. Not many people can sleep through the sound of one set of aftermarket pipes, let alone five.

When Sy killed the engine, I groaned as a muscle in the bottom of my foot tightened. It was gonna take a minute for me to get off the damn bike and I was a little embarrassed as the others were already lifting their long legs over their rides and Sy was waiting patiently for me to dismount. The guy who had signalled Sy on the highway headed towards hotel reception immediately, not even taking the time to remove his helmet.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to clamber ungracefully off the bike. My legs protested, but I was able to clear the bike before they gave out and I stumbled into a firm body that caught me by the shoulders before I ate pavement.

“Ooft! Easy sweetheart.”

I looked up at a man with a beard similar to Sy’s, but his hair fell around his face in thick curls, almost like a cherub from an old painting. His blue eyes were serious and a little stern, even as a smile split his face and his voice was unexpectedly warm. My breath caught in my throat, he was gorgeous.

“Has Syverson already worn you out?” he asked in a gentle voice with a soft and polite English accent.

His hands held my upper arms, straightening me until I was standing again. My legs still felt like jelly, and not just because of exhaustion. I was right when I thought the other riders were as big as Sy, this guy was at least as burly. But unlike Syverson this guy had the appearance of a cranky grizzly, having little of Sy’s playfulness despite his smile.

“Ease up, Marshall,” Sy said. I looked at him gratefully and one side of his mouth turned up in a smile in return.

“She’s fine,” Marshall said, and I turned back to him.

He was staring at me, his head tilted to the side showing off a large black and grey rose tattoo on his neck and a small gage in his ear. He looked like he was studying me, and from the wolfish grin on his face, he seemed to like what he saw. My heart started to race, thundering so loud I thought there was no way he couldn’t hear it.

“Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

I nodded slowly and Marshall tentatively let me go, keeping his hands close as if he thought I would fall again. Once he was satisfied I could stand on my own accord, he loosened the straps of my helmet and gently took it off before smoothing my tousled hair. He tucked the helmet under his arm while he helped me take my gloves off and shoved them into the helmet.

Two more bikers flanked Marshall. Both were unbelievably appealing too. One of them drew my attention immediately because of his unusual and striking appearance. He had silvery-white hair pulled back into a braid which isn’t unusual in itself but his face wasn’t that of an old man; he looked to be in his late 30s. The other was younger, probably my age, no way was he over 25. He appeared to have a youthful enthusiasm that I hadn’t seen in the others.

I stared at all four of them with my mouth no doubt agape. These weren’t bikers, these were models, each one more attractive than the last.

“I’m Mike,” the younger one introduced himself, grinning broadly.

He was cute and cheerful, his blue eyes seemed to sparkle as if he knew something you didn’t. He had a barbell piercing through his eyebrow and a small stud in one of his ears. There was a glimpse of a tattoo that poked above his jacket and up his neck, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

I instantly liked him and returned his affable smile. In a way, he reminded me of my brother before the drugs and the club sucked the life out of his eyes. I stuck my hand out to give him a shake, but before I could introduce myself, he threw his arms wide and wrapped them around my waist. He squeezed with a groan and lifted my feet off the ground. I yelped but started to giggle; I was not expecting this level of flirtation within seconds of meeting him. I liked it though, his flirtations came across as playful and fun rather than sleazy.

“Mike,” Sy barked.

“Fuck, alright.” Mike put me down but not before he whispered in my ear, “He never lets me have any fun.”

Mike planted a quick kiss on my cheek and let me go. Marshall must have seen because he smacked the back of Mike’s head.

“Fucking creep,” Marshall reprimanded.

I was worried that it would go further than that, but Mike just chuckled and rubbed the back of his head like it was something he was used to.

Sy stood beside me and laid a heavy arm lightly around my shoulders, directing my attention to the other biker.

“This old man is Geralt,” he said, smirking.

Geralt gave Sy a weary look from beneath lowered brows before he offered me his hand with a half-smile. I took it and I gasped as I looked at his eyes, I had never seen such bright amber eyes in real life before. They were beautiful and appeared to shine even in the darkness of the car park. I opened my mouth to tell him my name when I heard another voice behind me.

“Syverson.” A set of keys were thrown at Sy, which Sy caught easily in one hand. “Take the client to her room, you take the first watch.”

I turned to the guy, he wasn’t looking at me, his eyes were on Marshall, throwing him another set of keys.

“Marshall, you’re with Mike, second, third shift. Geralt, you’re with me, fourth, I’m fifth. Any questions?”

I felt Sy stiffen, seeming to bristle at the orders. This last Brother was obviously in charge and when he finally looked in my direction, I could see why.

He took my breath away. He was just as attractive as the others but he had a next level aura of danger that the others couldn’t compete with. He shouldn’t be so good looking; by all rights his Tom Selleck moustache should look ridiculous, but it somehow didn’t.

“Walker,” he said simply.

“Lori,” I managed to mumble. There was something about Walker that simultaneously made me feel hot and cold. He wasn’t tattooed or pierced the way the others were, but he was far more intimidating than the rest of the Brothers.

He smirked and raised his eyebrows as he looked me up and down.

“She’s pretty,” he said, while still appraising me, and obviously not addressing me, “but I don’t get what all the fuss is about.”

Heat rose to my cheeks as anger and embarrassment swirled within me. I was tired, sore, and been through hell in the two weeks since my parents had been killed; the last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument in a car park. But I knew if I was going to get any respect from this guy I couldn’t let his rudeness slide. I knew guys like Walker and I couldn’t let him get away with shit like that or he’ll think he can walk all over me.

I was also too exhausted to fight, too tense, so I snatched the keys and my bag out of Sy’s hands and made my way to the room.

“Jesus, Walker,” Sy said behind me. “Do ya always have to be such an asshole?”

If Walker replied, I didn’t hear it.

I opened my room and slammed the door closed, locking it behind me. I went straight for the bathroom, dropping my pack carelessly on the bed and stripping off my clothes as I went.

The room was basic but clean and well maintained, however the bathroom left a lot to be desired. I took one look at the showerhead and knew it wouldn’t be the best shower of my life.

When I turned the water on, the pressure was so hard I had to cover my nipples before I could stand to be under the spray. But the water was blessedly hot and was exactly what I needed to soothe away the aches and pains of the ride.

I leaned my forehead against the tiles and took advantage of the harsh spray, letting the water massage my back. It felt good, real good, and as my thoughts started to drift, a familiar need began deep in my core as my body cried out for my nearly nightly ritual before I slept.

My hand moved slowly over my breasts, nipples hardening under my fingers, I turned around, the water pressure no longer hurt, the stinging pain only served to heighten my arousal. I pressed my back against the cool tiles as my hand drifted lower, the competing temperatures made my skin feel electrified, sensitive to every touch. My fingers danced slowly over my belly, getting lower, and lower until they slid over the small patch of hair on my mound. I shivered as the pads of my fingers ghosted over my clit, seeking the warmth and slick of my throbbing heat.

A moan escaped my throat as I slid two fingers inside me, curling them deeply, feeling for that smooth spongy spot. It was hard to reach at this angle, so I widened my legs, curled my spine and groaned as I found it.

I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts wander, thinking for a moment of Jake, my sometimes fuck buddy, but quickly my thoughts shifted, and it was no longer his face I saw in my mind.

Images of Sy came quickly, the way he felt as I held him while we rode. How he had caressed my leg sent shivers up my spine as I imagined him touching me like that again, skin against skin.

But that wasn’t all, I thought of all of them, Marshall, Mike, Geralt, wondered how each of them would feel. Would their hands be rough on my skin? Would their lips be soft on mine? Would they grunt and groan? Would they whisper words of praise in my ear? Were they dominant, or primal, or tender, or giving, or maybe all of it at once? I know I shouldn’t let these men invade my fantasies, but God, I couldn’t stop.

Then I thought of Walker with that smirk, that teasing grin that made me want to both slap him and drop to my knees.

“Fuck,” I mumbled as my thighs started to tremble.

“Fuck!” cried a louder, deeper voice.

I froze. I became a deer in headlights as I looked towards the door and saw a figure distorted by the thin layer of condensation that clung to the glass of the shower.

Snapping into action, I swiped an arm across the glass catching a fleeting glimpse of a wide-eyed Sy as he slammed the bathroom door shut.

I turned the water off and grabbed a towel, my breath coming in heaves, my guts churning as my face burned with embarrassment.

Okay. Think about this clearly. He couldn’t have actually seen anything, the glass was too fogged up.

He had heard though, there was no doubt about that.

Oh God.

I had been thinking about him, and the others too. I had left the bathroom door open and everything, he’s going to think that I did that on purpose. But I didn’t, I had locked the door to the room and…

Asshole!

Fury overtook my shame and I stormed out of the bathroom.

“You pervert! I locked the door.”

Sy was standing by the window, peeking through the curtains. His jacket was off, slung over the back of a chair and a silver handled gun was strapped to his thigh. He turned slowly, taking in my appearance and sucked on his bottom lip as he took a few steps towards me.

“It’s a hotel, Babycakes. They have spare keys.”

“My name is Lori and I would have thought a locked door meant I wanted privacy.”

Shrugging, he grinned. “You ain’t gonna get much privacy until we get to the Clubhouse.”

“What? You’re staying in here?” My voice was a little shrill but Sy nodded and I shook my head. “No. I thought you’d wait outside the door. I don’t want to be sleeping here with… men I don’t know.”

I almost said Walker but stopped myself. Oddly he was the only one I didn’t feel like I could trust.

“You scared of us, baby?” Sy asked in a low voice.

The back of his fingers skimmed over my still damp shoulder and down my arm. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, his touch was eerily similar to what I had just been fantasising about, gentle yet deliberate, hot and thrilling.

“Why?” My voice was huskier than I hoped it would be. “Does that turn you on? Is that the kind of sick shit your club is into?”

“Not at all,” Sy replied steadily, smirking, “I like my women willin’.” He cupped a hand under my jaw, lifting my chin higher. “Did ya finish the job in there?”

My eyes widened in shock, I didn’t think he would be so bold as to come right out and say what he saw. He chuckled as his hand slid down my neck, resting on the bare skin of my chest.

“I could give ya a hand if ya want,” Sy said, his voice seemed lower if that was possible, deeper, rougher, deliberately seductive, “Might feel good.”

“Is that a standard service you offer as part of your contract or…?”

I tried to sound disinterested, but my voice betrayed me. I was breathless, my body was a hot, throbbing mess. Sy licked his lips and my eyes were drawn to them. They looked so plush and inviting, and the whiskers surrounding his mouth seemed so soft.

“It’s an optional extra,” Sy shrugged and his fingers traced the edge of my towel, “But for you, I’ll throw it in for free, no charge.”

“No thanks.”

It’s what I said but it’s not what I meant. I said no out of habit, having said no to men like him my entire life. It was a lie and an obvious one. My fingers were already sinking into his beard, and I could feel him clench his jaw beneath my touch and his nostrils flared. Taking half a step closer, I met his eyes. They were hooded, dark and still held a glimmer of amusement. His hand moved to the nape of my neck, the other snaked around my waist, resting on the small of my back.

“Then how ‘bout I eat ya pussy cause I want to?”

He pulled me closer, our bodies met and his fingers slid into my hair. I put a hand to the centre of his chest, I had every intention of pushing him away and he must have known because he held me tighter, pressing his hardness into my hip.

“’Cause I wanna hear ya make those noises again, but this time I want you to make ‘em because of me.”

My core fluttered, no it was more than that, every muscle in my body seemed to quiver with anticipation of his offer, and dear God did he have the confidence of a man that knew he could deliver.

“No thanks,” I managed to utter. Barely.

Sy’s grin didn’t waver as he inhaled deeply and let me go.

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug and went back to his position by the window.

It took me a minute to get my bearings. I was completely dumbstruck, still overwhelmed by Sy even though he was now across the room.

I cleared my throat and swallowed hard. Fuck me, was I in trouble here.

Sy glanced at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk.

“You’re really gonna stay here all night?” I asked.

“For a couple of hours, then one of the others will take over,” he said, his voice sounding a little more serious and matter of fact than it had moments ago.

I didn’t like the sound of that. All five of them coming and going in my room while I slept, me not knowing who I’d wake up to?

Despite Sy’s advance or maybe because of it, I felt like I could trust him and would rather he stayed with me than the others. Having to keep an eye on one horny biker would be easier than having to watch out for five.

I took my bag from the bed and dressed in the bathroom, with the door closed. Though I was beat, I blow dried my hair with the shitty hair dryer the hotel had attached to the wall before braiding it.

While I was brushing my teeth I looked at my pyjamas in the mirror, realising now why Sy had chuckled when he saw them. When I packed, I had no idea the Brothers would actually be in my room with me. The tank top was so thin you could see the dark pinkish skin around my nipples.

The thought made my body warm. Part of me liked the thought of them seeing me like this. But I knew it would be a mistake to go down that road. Nope, my pussy would be a barren wasteland for the foreseeable future.

Pointedly not looking at Sy, I went back into the room and grabbed my shirt from the floor, turning it the right way round and slipping it on over the top.

First thing I was going to do when I got to the clubhouse was buy new pyjamas.

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northernolddragon · 1 year

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What was your hardest choice in witcher?

Hello! I thought about this topic for a long time. I don’t know, what to answer, because I recently completed 'Blood and Wine', now I'm going in the direction of 'Hearts of Stone' (later, I plan to return to the main plot, since I've been playing it for a very long time). And I can’t remember, where the choice was more difficult for me, given that I’m playing not the first time. On the first pass, any choice is much harder than, when you know about all the outcomes and consequences.

Maybe, it was difficult for me to take away from the old man his masculine strength in the form of a lover's valorous weapon? xd Or let a werewolf kill his dead wife's sister for bringing her into the forest on a full moon out of her own jealousy? Or, maybe, a quest with a 'she-wolf', where you either need to give in to the robber of one person from the village, or fight with her, although her guilt has not been confirmed, as far as I remember? Do the ancestral elders from the Skelligen village deserve to die, when Geralt chooses to get rid of the leshen, and not the ritual? Or will killing the last white Basilisk be a worthy addition to clearing the continent of monsters? There are enough conflicting quests. Their property to choose their two evils is one. What to say about the endings of the storylines. We may encounter obstacles. Moral throwing in the choice.

I have always respected the nobility of Geralt, which often doesn't pay off with gratitude from the outside. Accordingly, the witcher is used to this, he is no longer surprised by such a scenario. And still, he follows his own code, moral principles, and I try to think over my every move with our valiant wolf. Not without incidents. Especially on the first playthrough. xd

While I was pondering the answer, dear anonymous, I nevertheless remembered, that the position on how to deal with the Bloody Baron led me into long reflections. I wanted to save Anna, and at the same time, the Baron's remorse weighed a little. The first time he found his redemption in death. I felt sorry for him. You always want to save everyone. But, of course, this is impossible. With all desire.

I also faced a doubt whether to take the rose from such a wonderful and infinitely sad Iris? But decided, that she needed rest. As well as her demonic pets on the loose.

If I remember the difficulties of my choice, I will add to this answer later, but I hope I answered your question. Thank you for it.

#ask

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majesticwren · 2 years

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The Wolf and The Snake

Lambert!The Witcher Game x OC!She-Witcher

Words: 7.6k

Trigger Warnings: Canon Violence, Blood, Gutting, Mention of Sex, Mention of Death, Mention of Dead Bodies, Lambert is His Own Trigger Warning but Calanthe is Worse.

Tags: @errruvande

Masterpost Playlist (yes we have a playlist now and I am ok I promise)

Chapter 3 - Rattling Bones.

Calanthe didn’t have the luxury of much movement.

She had been on her knees on the cold stone of the prison floor for so long that her legs had lost feeling a while back. Her arms and hands were still tied together, with ropes constricting her figure. Her upper limbs too went numb, and it progressively became hard to breathe due to the pressure squeezing her chest.

She had thought she could try and slowly wiggle her way out of the constriction. She only needed to free a finger or two to ignite a spark. But the Quartermaster revealed himself to be quite a smart man. So, she soon realised all her attempts to loosen the rope by tensing her muscles and trying to find some space to move, were useless since he ordered his man to ensure the ropes were always nice and tight by checking them often.

Calanthe had soon to find the strength to forget the physical pain and discomfort of her position. Her mind was mostly occupied by trying to plan a way out.

The rest of her thoughts were reserved to plan revenge.

Men had touched her without her consent only to mock her, to prove themselves big and strong enough to touch a Witcher in such a way. She had been degraded and treated like a prisoner when she didn’t do anything wrong. Worse than anything, she had been taken advantage of, tricked into a trap she didn’t see coming because her guard was lowered, or focused elsewhere.

Her pride was more than wounded.

She had already sworn that she would have hurt the Quartermaster as soon as she gained her freedom again. And she had no doubt that moment would have happened. The longer she had to wait, the more her thirst for his blood would grow.

Especially since he had rummaged through her stuff, finding Letho’s medallion, which he decided to take for himself.

How sweet would have been to mark her own skin with his blood freshly spilt, when it was still warm. Just thinking about it made her smile.

During their intimate rendezvous, she found out was called Bines. From that point on Calanthe struggled to take him seriously. Quartermaster was way more intimidating than his name. She had also found out that he quite liked to order people around and had a particular thirst for power and recognition.

But she had very soon stopped listening to his rantings. Her own thoughts were way more interesting.

She was also spending a lot of time thinking about her dear friend Lambert. She wondered for a long time if he had been in cahoots with them, willingly working on some kind of job to deliver her straight to their door.

It checked out with his mysterious behaviour and the fact that Geralt was nowhere to be seen when they arrived. And with the fact that her sixth sense suggested to her not to trust him.

Yet, part of her couldn’t believe it. She still wondered if that had been his plan all along, why bother spending time trying to be friendly? And because of that she was disappointed.

She was determined in finding out the details once she was free, so he could taste her revenge too.

But Lambert wasn’t her priority. Not right now.

A simple soldier stood next to her. His breath was laboured both because of fear and because of the physical strain he was putting into beating her.

Calanthe raised her eyes to the Quartermaster, just after spitting blood on the ground. She then smiled, offering him a view of her smeared red teeth. “Do you think you can beat a woman like me into submission, Bines?”

Point was, she wasn’t a regular woman. She was a Witcher and an experienced one at that. And she could easily take a beating.

They were all submerged in a pool of light after a torch was lit over her head.

Many eyes were set on them from the top of the room. The many prisoners crowding the first cells were silent spectators of the scene. All watched quietly and most were petrified with fear.

Calanthe took a deep breath in and raised her eyes to the simple soldier who just punched her right in the face. He was still squeezing his fists, his knuckles were bloody and the skin broke above the bones, hitting her jaw. Her smile widened. “Is that everything you can do, big boy?” She took a deep breath of air, dramatically pretending to inhale his scent. “I eat up boys like you like sweet pudding.” Calanthe even purred offering the young man a wicked smile.

He hesitated, looking up at the Quartermaster and the man stepped forward, pointing a finger towards him. “Don’t listen to her poisonous words!”

“You should listen to me though,” as soon as she obtained his attention, she looked down to Letho’s medallion that he was wearing only to mock her, “I will rip that off your decapitated body, you know that, right?”

“Oh, yes? Want to tell me again how important this neckless is to you? Then tell me where his owner is. I do not care for your threats.”

Calanthe showed him her teeth, growling like an animal. “I told you. He is dead. I burned his body as our traditions convey.”

“The news of the Kingslayer’s death gets declared and suddenly one of his old pals decides to go on a vengeful rampage. I think it’s no coincidence.”

“No, you prick!” She tried to struggle against the ropes binding her, sending the Quartermaster a glare of pure hatred. “It’s no fucking coincidence, you are right on that point!”

A grim smile appeared on his lips as if he won something. “There was no body reported. We do not have any proof of Letho of Gulet’s death besides this medallion. A medallion you have in your possession. I suppose you gained it after you raided through the mercenaries working for the Nilfgaardians, killing them.”

“We already went through this. I already told you it was me.”

“Tell me again, why don’t you?”

Calanthe rolled her eyes to the ceiling, grumbling loudly.

She wasn’t even trying to be compliant, even if she knew that it could have been one of her keys to get out of there. The Quartermaster was a man easily distracted by flattery – she only needed to pretend that he had won and he had submitted her to his needs, to obtain the upper hand.

But she was too stubborn and too proud to manage to do that easily. She wasn’t that desperate.

Her unsubordinated reaction prompted the Quartermaster to shoot closer to her. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head backwards rudely, so he could look right into her eyes. “What? Do you have anything better to do?”

She shot him a look, ignoring the pain to her scalp. In the beginning, she sealed her lips, not intentioned to talk only to piss him off, but then she decided that maybe she could have kept him talking, at least to understand what the fuck he wanted from her. So, she released a deep sigh, swallowing her pride. “I killed those pathetic men. They had it coming. I wanted to retrieve what it’s not supposed to be kept by simple men and it’s not supposed to become a hunting trophy for anyone. Not even an Emperor or a King.”

She wasn’t afraid of speaking her truth. She knew why people wanted Letho dead as much as she knew how much his hands were dirty. He was called the Kingslayer for a reason. It didn’t mean he was a monster. He was tricked into a job with Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. Killing Kings for him would have granted him the privilege and protection to rebuild the School of The Viper.

Though Letho was soon squeezed into a pretty tight position.

Emperor Emyr was quick to backtrack on his word, ordering Letho’s death.

And as consequences went, of course, the King of the Redanians wanted the man who was responsible for weakening the Northern Realms to pay.

And then there they were.

“Are you sure?”

Calanthe showed her teeth once more, her yellow irises seemed to tremble with rage as she looked into his face. “You can beat me into a pulp and let the rats drink my fucking blood out of this floor, the truth won’t change. Letho of Gulet was my brother. I sought vengeance and I retrieved what was mine to keep. In memory.”

“I don’t trust you.” He whispered close to her face, a moment before giving her a push to distance himself.

Calanthe let her head fall backwards. She looked at that fucking ceiling so many times she knew how many bloody bricks it had. “It’s a Witcher medallion. None of you is entitled to have it. Even if it was the Kingslayer’s.”

The Quartermaster was pacing around the area as if he needed to cool off and think. She could see his mind working as his heart was racing. Though she hardly dreaded to know what was he planning.

Since he didn’t react to her words Calanthe just relaxed her body and sat back on her ankles. Her legs too had been tied. She lowered her head ready to gather her strength for a second and meditate so as to recharge some of her energy.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The Quartermaster barked. “Hit her,” she didn’t even react, not intentioned in giving him that satisfaction. “That is precisely why you are there, cretin!” She knew he was talking to the soldier next to her.

Cala didn’t need to look up to know the soldier hesitated. She felt his body stiffen as he gasped for air. The blow arrived as he held his breath. A weak punch to the side of her face, directed to her temple.

Pain resonated through her eye socket, as she replied to that hit with a dangerous hiss.

She raised her head with a sigh, looking right in front of her. Her eyes glimmered in the dark, directed to the Quartermaster. “Bines, we are acquainted by now, aren’t we? What the fuck do you want from me?”

Hearing her calling him by name made his upper lip tremble in disgust, but then that twitch melted into another grim smile. “Well, let me tell you, Medusa.” He moved closer, kneeling in front of her. His voice was suddenly controlled and even soft.

That worried her. Something was afoot.

“Did you know of your friend Letho’s affairs?”

She pulled a sharp smile as she looked right into the man’s eye. “We grew up together. We survived the Witchers Trials and hard years of training together. We lived side by side for decades. I’ve been knowing of his affairs my entire life. I knew when he ate. I knew when he slept. I knew when he fucked. I knew when he killed. I knew when he failed. I mended his wounds. So, tell me, what do you want to know specifically.”

“Did you know he was the killer of Kings in the Northern Realms, spreading chaos?”

“Everyone knows that. He was called Kingslayer for a reason.”

“And being so close to him as you so fiercely claim, you never thought to try and persuade him to do otherwise?”

Calanthe looked at the man for a long second before bursting into laughter, as if he had said the funniest joke ever known to men. “You clearly do not know who the fuck you are talking about. And you do not know me.”

A contract was a contract.

That’s why the School of the Viper was different. They were detached, they didn’t learn only to kill monsters but to be ready to kill men too.

She was never too happy to know Letho struck a deal with Emperor Emhyr because she didn’t trust the man, but she understood why he did it. It was worth the risk.

“So, I take it that you were aware of this information and didn’t report it,” Bines smiled victoriously, “therefore it means you are his accomplice.”

Calanthe frowned, shaking her head, suddenly confused. His words revealed a turn of events she didn’t see coming. And that didn’t make any sense. “Witchers do not bend the knee. We are neutral to politics and war sides. You cannot accuse me of treason.”

The Quartermaster simply shook his head, assuming a pensive pose. He tapped his index on his chin, badly hiding his disgusting smirk. “Yeah? And who will come and sustain your case, bringing you justice? Your pals are all dead.”

His words were intentionally shaped like shards of glass to slash through her heart.

“King Radovid will be extremely pleased when I will give you to him.” The Quartermaster smiled, extremely satisfied with himself. He stood up straight and proud, massaging his hand on his chest, stroking his own ego.

Calanthe spat on the floor at his feet, shaking her head. “You have no honour.”

“Imagine,” he just kept talking, ignoring her, his face bent under pure blissfulness, “I could speak to King Radovid and convince him to pass you over to Emhyr. I am sure the Nilfgaardian would be satisfied too to win such a prize. In due time of course, no rush,” he started pacing around, giggling to himself, “I will personally make sure that everyone will know the news of your arrest. Then we’ll see if the Kingslayer is really dead. Uh? If you are as close as you say-”

She gritted her teeth and lifted her chest up trying her best to impose herself. She released a frustrated loud growl, like a wild beast ready to strike. “You whoreson. I will fucking kill you-”

She was ready to shout more insults and colourful threats, but her attention was diverted and her words and anger died in her throat.

The air seemed to change in the room. The crackling of the torch above her head, the noise of the hearts and breathings coming from the men all around her, even the dripping of waterdrops in the corners, all when silent.

Calanthe bent her head, focusing her ear towards the shift of energy that she perceived. She ignored the voices of the two men closer to her as the soldier asked the other what was she doing.

Her sixth sense was well aware of something. The hair on the nape of her neck lifted, and her skin was crossed by goosebumps.

It was that breeze she felt when she first stepped into the prison. The one coming from the back wall, which whistled sometimes as air found its way through the cracks. It was something that, for some reason, up to that moment, helped her feel grounded. And now it was still and silent.

In the far quiet, she extended her hearing in the darkness of the empty corridors that hid behind those walls. She didn’t know what surface they covered and how they developed underground, her senses could go only as far as revealing to her a few details. Yet, even if she had never seen them, she knew they would have been dark and extremely humid, wet and covered in human waste. She could hear the chattering of the streets above, a sound coming from the many manholes all around the city streets, further, hidden between walls, she heard the quickened heartbeat of rats.

And then she found was she was looking for.

A tremendous screeching wailing echoed through the tunnels and through the walls of the prison, sounding clear as day and very, very close.

Calanthe welcomed that noise with a gasp. She knew it was the sound of drowners. But more importantly, above the sound of the creatures’ heartbeats vibrating louder and their disgusting moist noises, she heard the sharp, neat, sweet noise of slashing cutting through their screams.

A silver blade sang to her, as she focused on the extremely slow, extremely strong heartbeat that she immediately recognised as she would her own. It was the heart of a Witcher echoing through the tunnels.

Once she focused on that, she so clearly recognised the weight of his steps echoing through the hollow corridors. It was a primal feeling that she could not explain, but she could smell the leather of his armour, the monster’s blood on his blade, the sweat on his neck, and even the traces of Cat Potion on his breath.

A smile grew on her lips, the blood that tinged her mouth, chin, cheeks and neck made her expression look wicked and feral, as she turned towards the Quartermaster. Her yellow eyes glimmered like the flames of hell. “Heard that?” she wondered, savouring the man's reaction as doubt slid through his mind, “I told you, fucker. Now, run.”

The hesitation he had costed him.

She wanted to hunt him down but would have accomplished her deed and soothed her thirst for his blood with or without the satisfaction of behaving as a predator.

He should have listened to her the moment she offered him the chance to prologue his life for a few minutes. But since he missed his chance, a moment later it was already too late.

Behind her she felt the powerful blow of an Aard Sign being casted into the wall, crumbling the weaker stones into dust and creating an opening.

Calanthe’s smile widened.

She saw the simple soldier that stood next to her bolting towards the back of the room. Swords kept singing to her while the hiss of the switch of blades happened quickly. She didn’t see it happening, but she didn’t need to, she heard the clink of blades meeting ones and then there was a quick movement, air shifted around her, as a blade slashed through soft meat, penetrating deep into a warm body.

As the blade was extracted, the moist noise of blood profusely being spilt caressed her ears.

A second later, a halo of white light surrounded the Quartermaster’s head.

“Be a good boy and lock yourself in that cage, then, throw us the keys.”

Calanthe never thought she would have been happy to hear that sarcastic, prickly voice, yet she had to reconsider her beliefs as she met Lambert’s presence with pure joy. For once.

It wouldn’t have lasted long. She had stuff to solve with him. But for now, he wasn’t her priority. Her focus was directed elsewhere.

As the Quartermaster diligently obeyed his order while under an Axii spell, Lambert kneeled behind her; his sword moved quickly as he cut through the ropes that bound her.

“Took you long enough.” She mumbled. Lambert chuckled at her observation, keeping his face close to hers. “Yes, well. I am here, am I not?” He breathed on her neck. She couldn’t see him, yet she knew he was smirking.

As soon as she was free from her chains, Calanthe fell limp on the floor. Her muscles were cramping and tensing. Lambert guided her and with a surprisingly soft touch, he helped her to roll on her back.

He crouched closer, examining her. “Are you ok?” His eyes travelled to the blood that marked her skin, looking for visible cuts.

“Peachy. You?”

He smiled, amused, and shook his head. “I bet my offer to have dinner and play gwent together doesn’t appear so despicable now, after all.” Lambert even dared to wink at her. Calanthe didn’t give him the satisfaction and shook her head. “No. I still rather spend my evenings like this.”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling. Then, he reached for the bag he had on his side, rummaging through it. He extracted a small vial and pushed it towards her. “Here. Drink it.”

“What’s this?” She really wanted to lift her arm and get the thing between her fingers, but her body didn’t collaborate.

Lambert huffed and, as if he could read her mind, he pulled her up. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he slid behind her, offering her support with his thigh and torso. Not that she could do much to oppose him, she was as limp as a ragged doll, victim of her muscles spasming after hours of forced immobility.

“It’s just some Swallow. Just drink it, will you?” Helping her out, he fed her the potion and, for once, she decided to trust him.

Lambert surprised her again as he softly pushed his fingers under her chin, so she would raise her head and not risk choking on the potion. And more than that she surprised herself because she let him and compliantly looked into his eyes as she let the liquid slide through her lips.

She felt the warmth of the potion seep through her stomach and into her muscles and bones, immediately reviving her strength.

Lambert left her side only to stand up, circling around her like a wolf protecting his territory. He had his steel sword at hand and his yellow eyes were pointed towards the door.

The prisoners amassed in the cells in the front of the prison were howling wildly, some screamed in fear, some in pure surprise, some were even cheering for them. Their mess called for the attention of the soldiers above, heavy steps of men coming to check could be heard vibrating through the building.

Calanthe tried her best to stretch her muscles back into functioning.

As Lambert protected the front, she dragged herself to the back knowing she could find a sword on the corpse of the simple soldier lying dead back there.

She was lucky. She found the sword and a small dagger. A victorious smile appeared on her lips as she did her best to get up. She helped herself using the wall as support, balancing her weight on the sword.

As she finally found herself putting weight on her feet, blood went back circling through her legs. Her muscles were crossed by the stinging pain of pins and needles, but she ignored it, as the cramps, and she forced herself to move.

Lambert sent her a quick look from over his shoulder. “Is everything ok?”

“S-stop treating me like a damsel in distress.”

“I just saved your ass-”

“You haven’t. You only barged through a wall. Now fight well, we’ll talk later.”

She looked at him raising his eyes as he rolled his neck and shoulders trying to diffuse the tension. She knew he wasn’t willing to let it go and maybe she owed him a thank you. Maybe, because she still believed that situation was ultimately his fault. But they both knew the priority for everyone was to get out of there in one piece.

Soon, many men swarmed the prison room.

Calanthe snapped her fingers close to the torch, extinguishing the flame above her head.

And then there was darkness. Blinding the soldiers worked to their advantage.

Both she and Lambert raised their weapons, as the only thing tangible of their presence in the back of the room was the unnatural glimmer of their irises shining with their blades.

The seven men who flooded the room hesitated as the bitter smell of fear stung her nose. She knew some of them were the same who helped the Quartermaster to bind her and occasionally taking it in turns with each other to beat her up in the couple of hours she had the pleasure to be their guest.

Calanthe offered them a grim smile, even if they couldn’t see her. “I’ve told you he would have come for me.”

She didn’t have any pride in knowing she was being helped and saved. She actually hated the idea, especially if it was someone she didn’t know or trust. Knowing she now owed him something made her shiver. But, ignoring her own pride, above all, she wanted to feel those men's fear grow.

There was a moment of stillness just before the soldiers started attacking.

Lambert waited for them, keeping his cool. Though, as soon as they were close enough, he started swinging his sword. She had never seen him fight before but his style matched the idea she had of it from the first impression she had of him. He moved quickly and hit with sharp blows, showing off a level of skill that surprised her.

Calanthe cast a Quen Sign on herself and then, for once, she accepted to stay back, letting Lambert have his moment to shine. She was unstable on her feet, she couldn’t risk tripping on her own steps and falling limp, risking being stabbed, becoming a meat skewer.

From the background she cast Axii against some of Lambert's closer opponents, so as to confuse them, making it easier for him to get rid of them.

Soon, the room fell back into silence.

Calanthe snapped her fingers once more to lit the torch back up. As the light was cast from the back of the room, her sight was met by the bodies that now covered the bloody floor. Lambert was leaning on the last body he just pierced through. The black shadow of his frame slid across the room.

He balanced his weight on his sword as he gave himself a push up. Catching his breath, he sent her a quick look. His yellow eyes glimmered as pure satisfaction took over, stroking his ego. A smirk appeared on his lips.

He was dying to be praised for what he did, she could tell.

Lambert then looked around, exchanging a look with a few of the prisoners. “Now,” his breath was laboured. He stopped to pass a hand on his forehead, drying his sweat off, “the first who makes another sound is fucked. Don’t piss me off or you’ll finish like them,” he pointed at the bodies crowding the floor with his sword, just a moment before putting it away, “remember they were armed.”

Calanthe moved closer; her steps were still uncertain but she had now way more balance than before. As blood went back to flowing regularly in all her limbs the cramps soon passed, granting her the ability to move freely and some relief from the pain. “Also, if you behave, you’ll be freed.” She offered them something worth following Lambert’s order, just in case some of them didn’t think that his threat was enough.

On top of that, she knew they needed an escape plan and a diversion. If the guards’ attention was completely distracted by a mass breakout and security breach, they had all the time to slip away in the shadow and lay low.

Lambert sent her a look. He didn’t agree or disagree, ready to roll with whatever she just said.

Then, both of them diverted their attention to the Quartermaster. He was now curled in a trembling ball, in the further corner of the cell, mattering some words that didn’t make sense. The spell on his mind wore off for a while now.

Calanthe moved closer, not paying attention to the way she had to drag her feet on the ground. She leaned against the rusty bars of the cell, sliding her hands around two of them as she tipped her head to the side, looking down at him.

“Seems like you’ve tripped.” She mocked the words he reserved to her when he imprisoned her. Cala smiled, genuinely amused by her own conquest. “I told you I would have killed you. And I rarely break my promises.”

“No- please, I c-can pay you.” His weak attempt to bribe her, trying his best to plea for his life only tickled her ego, as her smile widened, like the one of a beast drawing its teeth in front of its prey. “I will find pleasure in torturing you.”

She knew they didn’t have much time, but regardless she had many promises to maintain. She would have been quick, but it didn’t mean it wouldn’t have been tremendously painful for him.

The man in the cell was suddenly startled as his attention slid to Lambert, who, in the meantime, had sided with her, playing with the keys he just gathered from the bloody floor. “You! You were supposed to be fed, satisfied and drunk out of your mind! Why are you here?”

“Well, that’s a funny question.” Lambert smiled first to him and then he turned toward Calanthe, leaning his shoulder on the cell bars, remaining close to her. “See, it comes pretty natural to me to appear dumb as fuck. And people believe it! It’s quite the compliment!”

“Yes, he did call you the dumbest dick of them all.” She too, mirrored his position, leaning her shoulder on the cell bar, to look at Lambert as she would with a dear friend.

Lambert shook his head in an aware nod. “Yes, it is my natural talent. A special magic, if you will. So, it was pretty easy to trick the soldiers who were keeping an eye on me that I was done for the night. I think-” he tapped his chin, theatrically pensive, “yep, they finally left me alone when one of the whores you paid to distract me dragged me somewhere private to blow me off.”

Calanthe gasped. “You turned down a blowjob for me? I am flattered.” She placed a hand on her chest, theatrically underlining her words.

She wasn’t amused, nor she gave a shit about that story, but there was something extremely sadistic in the slow-burning fear her sarcasm was instilling in the Quartermaster.

Lambert offered her the keys to the cell and then he turned, pressing his back against the iron bars, finding a relaxed position. “Be quick. We don’t have long.”

Calanthe had her revenge and chaos soon spread.

With bloody hands and traces of lacerated skin gathered under her nails, she took back Letho’s medallion from the Quartermaster’s body exactly as she had promised she would have done.

She gave him what was deserved, letting her brutal, most violent side surface. Maybe she had been a tiny bit too cruel, and maybe the fact that she enjoyed his pain as much was concerning, but she didn’t care. If people wanted to treat her like an inhuman monster then that was what she would have given them.

Then, Lambert and she freed the prisoners, who flooded upstairs through the main prison entrance.

Some of them wanted to escape through the sewers, but both she and Lambert made them change their mind using the excuse of monsters nesting down there. The truth was they needed their cover to be loud and as messy as possible.

Even though Lambert wanted to take advantage of the first spark of chaos to run away through the sewers, Calanthe had to contradict him to go and recover all her weapons and armour. There wasn’t much arguing on that.

They both went, quietly sliding upstairs and acting quickly, taking advantage of the shadows and the distractions granted by the prisoners trying to gain their freedom. The single soldier left in the room to guard over her stuff was easy to be taken down, they only needed to cast Axii and then Lambert rendered him unconscious, while Calanthe picked up her stuff.

And then they were gone.

She followed Lambert through the labyrinth of tunnels and the two surfaced through a drain by the coast.

Calanthe welcomed the fresh air with a deep breath, filling her chest up with freedom. A placid smile crossed her lips, as she tried to defuse some of the adrenaline roaring through her.

The tall walls siding the city above their heads granted them the possibility to remain hidden.

In the background, from quite afar, they could hear the kerfuffle of loud shouting, with every possibility to be coming from the garrisons. That too would offer them invisibility.

Calanthe stepped closer to the water's edge and, leaning by the shore, dipped her hands in the shallow, cold waters, attempting to wash away as much blood as she could from both her hands and her face.

She looked up to the night sky, appreciating to see the stars shining above them. Again, she took another moment to appreciate something small that would help her to ground herself, dissipating her wildest emotion, so she could gain control over herself.

Though, that would have been easier if she was on her own. Specifically, if Lambert wasn’t standing behind her, closely watching over her. She felt his eyes glaring, studying her movements. And even if he hadn’t spoken one word, leaving her the space to do what she felt suitable, she still was as unnerved as if he had been pressuring her to do something she didn’t want to.

“How did you know where I was?” She wondered, keeping her focus on cleaning her skin off the Quartermaster’s blood.

“I don’t trust guards,” Lambert sighed, “especially when they pretend to be commoners – badly – and are willing to pay for my amusement without being prompted to do so.” He paused long enough that Calanthe wasn’t sure if she was expected to say anything, but then he continued. “I’ve been around long enough. People are never that nice to us.”

She nodded, agreeing with him, and then a sigh underlined her thoughts changing. “And how did you know how to find me?”

“After I realised something was up there weren’t many places you could be. I gambled.”

“Gambled?”

“Worth it.” She knew he was pulling a cocky smirk but tried her best not to pay attention to it. “But how did you know precisely how to get to the prison?”

“It’s not my first rodeo in Oxenfurt. Took a job years ago, when I was way younger, to clear up the sewers. I stumbled upon the prisons by mistake. I blew off the weaker part of that wall with a bomb. And since things never change, I imagined the wall must have been put back up with shit and spit.”

“You gambled again.”

“I was right.”

“Yes, but you didn’t even know you could pass through.” She hissed between gritted teeth. Suddenly, Calanthe was getting particularly upset.

“No. Let me correct you. I didn’t know how easy it could have been. But my pockets are still full of the bombs I was ready to lit to take the wall down.”

She raised her head, enjoying the cold breeze on the wet skin of her face. A deep sigh left her chest, as she tried again to find peace into that small comfort. She didn’t need to get angry; Lambert was an idiot and that was not the problem – not the main problem anyway. Not worth her getting upset.

“We need to move.” Lambert observed calmly.

She turned, sending him a crossed look from over her shoulder.

He appeared to be extremely relaxed, arms crossed to his chest and back pressed against the wall behind him. She was wrong, he wasn’t even looking at her, his eyes were closed as he leaned his head against the wall too.

“No. We need to talk.”

“Can’t we talk once we’ll be safe at the tavern?”

“Don’t you think that’s the first place they’ll look for us?”

Lambert didn’t move, absolutely unbothered. “Maybe.”

Calanthe rolled her eyes and then got up on her feet. She passed her hands on her armour and weapons as if she needed to fix something, only to check that everything was in order.

Gods, she needed a bath.

As she stepped closer to him, Lambert opened his eyes, gazing at her. “You want to thank me? It’s ok, no need to be so romantic to do it under the moon and stars. I promise I am a simple boy. A pint of beer and the blowjob I had to refuse to come and save you would be just fine.”

Calanthe's nostrils flared as she drew her teeth. “You wish.” She lifted her chin up, trying to match the small difference in height they had. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Explaining?” He gasped. Finally, a certain tension seemed to slide through his shoulders. “Fine. Hit me up. What is it that still makes you doubt me.”

“Geralt of Rivia. He is not here, is he?”

“No. He is not.”

“Why is he not here, when we are?” Her voice because dangerously low as she breathed her words between gritted teeth.

As Lambert rolled his eyes, she felt she reached the last straw. Her patience and understanding ran out, especially after her night. Calanthe moved fast giving him a strong push against the wall. She clawed at the collar of his shirt, pushing down on his chest with her fist while pressing her face up closer to his. “Listen here you little shit. I’ve met only troubles since I’ve been travelling with you. I need to speak to the White Wolf and then I need to be on my way.” A tip of desperation appeared through her words, but more pressing was the anger that lit her yellow eyes like torches.

Lambert raised his arms in the air, mocking a peaceful gesture, but welcomed her words with a cocky smile. “Do you think I don’t have shit to do? Do you think I had it calm and quiet the last few days? Whatever the fuck just happened in there. Believe it or not, this is not my regular evening in Oxenfurt.”

Calanthe was stunned by his words to reply, but Lambert still had lots to say. “I do not know you. I do not know your reasons. I don’t know your story. I only know your name and some stories about the Medusa of The South from the songs. You do not answer questions. You like to hide away and be unnoticed. And Gods forbid if I ever ask something too personal. Six hours we have been in Oxenfurt and you managed to be captured by Radovid’s soldiers, get tortured and risk Gods only knows what. Still, you won’t speak about what the fuck happened. And you have the fucking nerve to expect me to bring you directly to one of my brothers?” He shook his head. “No.”

Is not that Calanthe didn’t understand his point. It was true, she wasn’t of any help to encourage him to trust her in any way – but that was the way things went. She had been on her own for so long that welcoming others wasn’t her priority. It may also be that she was simply scared to do so. But the main point still remained. He lied to her.

And Calanthe was very close to an edge a Witcher should never reach, where emotions raged wild and the solid hold of control was absent.

That, and her suppressed anger from before, plus the adrenaline of what she just experienced, and the pain that cut through her insides as she kept spiralling through the thought that she was only distancing herself from her goal, only helped push her over.

“You are wasting my time!” She raged. And then, she blew.

She didn’t even register the fact that she punched him until her knuckles hit the side of his face, plunging through his soft cheek and embedding themselves in the solid socket of his jaw. She felt the line of his teeth under her fingers.

A small spark of satisfaction lit through her, as she watched Lambert bend his head to the side, receiving her hit.

He stood still for a moment, without reacting. And then he slowly turned towards her. He passed his tongue on his teeth, nostrils flaring as his yellow glare burned through her. Then, he reacted.

Lambert bolted towards her and, grabbing her from the side, he turned around, pushing her against the brick wall behind them, hard. Her armour shielded her from the impact only partially. He switched positions, now trapping her. Calanthe didn’t let go of her hold against his clothes, solidly clutching her fist on his shirt, and she quickly slid her other arm close to his neck, so as to impose him some distance from herself.

Lambert kept her there, looking down into her eyes, finding her fierce pride waiting for him as she lifted her chin.

“Tell me something, woman. Anything, so I can trust you.” He spoke pushing his chest against her hold, trying to get closer to her, if that was even possible.

Their gazes were mixed into a golden stream of emotions that raged loudly, and yet they both seemed to be blind and deaf to each other.

For a moment Calanthe got distracted. It was only a second, but it was more than enough to fuzz her mind up, confusing her thoughts and mixing them to the vibration that shook her stomach.

As he spoke, his breath caressed her skin and she tasted it on the tip of her tongue, as his scent filled her nose. She felt something shifting inside of her, melting away, warmed by a feeling she didn’t predict.

It was only a second, but it was a second too long, as her eyes slid from confronting him directly to caressing lips. She suddenly was consumed by her curiosity.

“You first.” She whispered, looking back into his eyes, only to catch him being distracted too by the movement of her lips as she spoke. She didn’t let go of her pride. They both didn’t let go. Which meant they were destined to get nowhere.

Tension raised and sparked between them, like a strained rubber band ready to snap at any second.

There was a pause. A moment where everything went quiet. She felt Lambert slowly sigh. Then, he looked down at her lips again. Calanthe held her breath as she slowly withdrew the arm she kept against his neck, just so she could slide her gloved fingers on his skin instead.

Snap.

Lambert dawned on her like a hungry beast, taking possession of her lips without invitation or consent. And yet, she didn’t object to him.

Quite the contrary. She met his kiss with desperation and a frenzy she didn’t know she was feeling. It was as if she had been waiting to be kissed. And not only that, but more specifically, it was Lambert’s lips she wanted.

As soon as their lips touched and she felt his skin on hers as he inhaled deeply her scent, Calanthe found herself surprised and welcoming of the warmth he gave off. Arousal quickly mounted inside of her, leaving her breathless.

It wasn’t only because of the adrenaline that evening gifted her. It wasn’t only given by her storming emotions. It was a pure, hot desire to be held by that man.

She wanted to feel his bare skin on hers. She wanted to hear his quickened breath. She craved to be the object of his sole attention and desire. She longed to feel his hands cruise on her body. To the point, her skin itched. To the point she cursed her clothes, as she felt Lambert pressing his palms on her sides, testing her figure, filling his hands with her hips.

She pulled him closer still clutching on his clothes and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, unapologetically sliding her fingers through his short, dark hair.

As their tongues met, Calanthe melted into a soft moan. Their kiss tasted of blood and potions, and it made her head spin. That, and the fact that Lambert purred under her touch.

As soon as Lambert realised there was no way he could comfortably slide his hands on her body since the full suit of armour she was wearing, he changed his approach ad raised his hands to her head. He wrapped softly a hand around her neck, just under her jaw, as to keep her in place with his other he imitated what she was doing, sliding his fingers through her hair.

He wore fingerless gloves, which made it easier for him to clutch on her locks. Feeling even the smallest of touches of his naked fingers made her tremble.

Calanthe’s every thought evaporated. She couldn’t even remember her own name while he tucked at her, imposing himself in a way that only made her bend and melt between his arms. Now she was the one purring.

Lambert kicked her ankles so to guide her to depart them just enough so he could push one of his legs between hers. She welcomed his move with another soft moan and, forgetting everything about common sense or duty, she started rubbing herself against him, grinding her core against his muscular thigh with no shame or regrets.

Then, like a shot of lightning striking the clearest of skies, clarity hit her.

Calanthe froze, suddenly realising what it meant for her to be so compliant in being pinned by a man she didn’t trust, in such a way. She was getting exposed and the more skin she would have let him uncover or touch – or even just the desire she had for Lambert to do so – rendered her vulnerable.

She didn’t have control over the situation and that made her panic spike violently.

Lambert felt the shift in her mood and immediately moved, breaking contact with her to look into her eyes, probably to ensure she was ok.

Why was he being warm, soft and sweet? Why was he respectful? She wished that if he had to go for her jugular, then he did so without teasing her so.

Before he could breathe a word, Calanthe pushed him off rudely.

The sudden cold air between them slapped her sharply, as missing his closeness made her want to punch the wall.

“Fuck you.”

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fanby-fckry · 7 months

Text

Known to Wander

Day 6* of Kinktober, 2023: Chastity

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Infidelity outside of Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Word Count: 1,571

Fandom: The Witcher

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer, Background Jaskier/Other(s)

Characters: Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer

Additional Tags: Jealousy, Sexual Fantasy, Begging, Dom/sub Undertones

Summary: Jaskier’s ill-fated love affairs have been getting both him and Geralt into trouble. Yennefer suggests chastity as a solution.

Better on AO3

*I am so behind; this is being posted on October 11th

{ ✧ }

“Really, Jaskier?” Geralt deadpanned as they made their escape. He tried to be patient with the Bard – especially after the ‘Mountain Divorce’ as Jaskier had started calling it – but right now his patience was wearing thin.

“What can I say?” Jaskier replied, dreamily. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Geralt would’ve been impressed with the lung capacity it took to keep that tone while running if the words coming out of Jaskier’s mouth weren’t so fucking infuriating.

“Your heart’s not the problem, it’s your cock that got us into this mess.”

Jaskier waved him off. “Eh, same thing.”

“This is the third time this season I’ve had to save you from an angry cuckold, and the snow’s barely fucking melted,” Geralt snapped. “One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh come on, Geralt, live a little!” Jaskier protested.

They were almost safe – they just needed to get over a fence at the edge of the estate of the couple whose marriage Jaskier had just ruined.

Geralt helped lift Jaskier up and over before vaulting over the fence, himself.

“See?” the Bard said, with a smile. “It all worked out in the end!”

“Hmm.”

The pair went on their way, and the perils of Jaskier’s adultery were forgotten – well, forgotten by Jaskier, at least.

{ ✧ }

“I thought I might find you here,” Yennefer said as she slid into the seat across from Geralt. “I heard our Bard singing from all the way outside, and if you follow the Bard, you often find the Witcher.”

Geralt smiled. It’d been too long since all three of them were together in the same place.

“Good to see you again, Yen,” he said.

It was sheer coincidence that they’d found each other. Jaskier might say it was Destiny; a few years ago, it would’ve been the djinn. But Yennefer had taken care of the djinn problem – canceling out Geralt’s wish with one of her own – and Geralt didn’t think Destiny had any interest in him beyond his connection to Ciri.

While Geralt and Yennefer caught up on what the other had been doing for the past few months, Jaskier played the final notes of one song and moved onto the next. It wasn’t one Geralt recognized, which meant it must’ve been new. He let a lull in the conversation stretch so that he could listen.

“My feet are known to wander

As ev’ry traveler’s will

My eyes are known to wander

As they search out my next thrill

My heart is known to wander

I’m just not meant to sit still

Oh, once when I was wand’ring

I met a lady tall and fair

She had a heart as restless as mine

And a husband without any hair!”

Geralt cursed under his breath at the lyrics. Yennefer raised an eyebrow, prompting him to explain.

“He met that woman and her husband less than a week ago,” Geralt said through clenched teeth. “I know because her husband hired me to hunt some drowners that’d found their way into a lake on the property. And when I came to collect my payment, Jaskier was running – half naked and barefoot – with the husband and two armed guards behind him.”

Yennefer took a drink from the glass she’d summoned. “I’m guessing you didn’t get paid?”

“No.” Geralt closed his eyes, trying to keep his voice down. “And then he goes and writes a song about it like it didn’t cost me my contract and almost cost him his life. If he’d kept his cock from wandering for another fucking hour or so, I would’ve…”

Geralt didn’t finish his sentence, but Yennefer seemed to know exactly what he meant.

“You’re jealous,” she said.

“I’m pissed,” he deflected.

“You can be both,” Yennefer told him. “You’re angry with him for costing you your contract, afraid that he could’ve gotten hurt – that he might get hurt next time, and jealous that he took someone to bed when you would’ve been right back.”

Geralt hummed a noncommittal response, but Yennefer didn’t waver. She’d read him like a book without even using her magic.

“I wonder if he’d let us put him in chastity…” Yennefer said, offhandedly.

Geralt almost laughed. “He wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Yennefer said with a shrug. “That Bard has kinks that would make a whore blush. Speaking of, has he asked you about using-”

“Yen,” Geralt interrupted. “Whatever Jask told you, I’d like to hear it from him.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Alright.”

“You two are too much alike sometimes,” Geralt said, and despite his frustration, he felt the corners of his mouth quirk up.

“There’s a reason for that,” Yennefer said with a smirk.

“And what’s that?” Geralt asked.

“It’s because you have a type,” Yennefer answered.

Geralt smiled and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said under his breath.

“As much as I was loath to admit it, I’ve always seen the similarities,” she said. “I expect Jaskier has, too. Probably part of the reason why he was so jealous of me. And why we fought like cats and dogs for so long.”

Yennefer began listing off qualities she and Jaskier had in common. “Talented, ambitious, gregarious,” she said. “Dark hair, stunning eyes…”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Geralt conceded.

“One more,” she said. “We both love being right.”

“And neither of you know when to quit,” Geralt said, wryly.

Yennefer shrugged. “Maybe so,” she said. “Speaking of which, I think we should at least ask him if we can put him in chastity.”

Jaskier in chastity… Geralt could hardly imagine it, it seemed so ridiculous. Although what little of it he could imagine…

“Admit it, you like the idea,” Yennefer teased. “Our unruly little lark, all locked up. He’d look so pretty with his cock in a cage, don’t you think?”

Geralt’s breath hitched. He was trying hard not to think of Jaskier like that. It was wrong – Jaskier would never agree to chastity, so it would be wrong to think about it.

Wrong to think about his cock, half hard and straining against the bars as it filled. Wrong to think about how pent up and needy his Bard would be. Wrong to think about how he would whine and pout and beg.

“How long do you think it’d take him to beg for his release?” Yennefer asked, mirroring Geralt’s forbidden fantasy. “I think it’d be at least a week, but only because he’d be a brat about it first. Huffing and complaining from the minute the novelty wears off. He might beg sooner for you, though. He’s always been so much more pliant for you, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed. He tried to focus on keeping his breathing steady, but his mind kept straying back to Jaskier. The fantasy was so vivid he could practically hear it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier would plead. “Geralt, please… It’s been forever…”

“It’s been three days, Jaskier,” he’d answer.

“Three days that felt like a lifetime!” Jaskier would complain. “Please, I promise I’ll behave. I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t fuck anyone without your permission – won’t fuck anyone besides you if that’s what you want, darling. Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything – anything!”

Geralt felt his own cock begin to stiffen at the thought of it. Yennefer looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him – and knowing her, she probably did.

“You’d have him all to yourself,” she said, in a voice as sweet and as thick as honey. “No more jilted lovers or angry cuckolds, no more nights alone while he warms somebody else’s bed. And without anyone else to satisfy him, he’d be so very eager to please you.”

“Anything…” Jaskier on his knees, sucking Geralt off while humping his boot, desperate for stimulation. “Anything…” Jaskier on his back, his cock caged and neglected as Geralt fucked him. “Anything…” Come leaking through the bars of the cage as Jaskier whimpered through another ruined orgasm. “Anything…”

Geralt forced the fantasy out of his head and turned his attention back to Yennefer.

“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to pull you both upstairs and make you explain why,” he threatened.

“Oh please.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t interrupt his playing for anything short of a life and death emergency.”

“Hmm.”

“Just, think about it.” Yennefer paused for a moment, then offered him a knowing smirk. “Or rather, think about asking him. Don’t keep your wicked little fantasies all to yourself.”

Jaskier finished his set to a round of cheers and applause. “Maidens, men, and gentlefolk of all varieties,” he addressed the crowd. “You’ve been an incredible audience, truly a delight – but I’m afraid that, as all good things must, tonight’s performance is coming to an end.”

Yennefer rose from her seat, catching the Bard’s attention. Geralt could see the exact moment when Jaskier’s eyes landed on her. There was a spark of mischief in his eyes and his showman’s smile gave way to something more genuine.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier said. “I need to catch up with an old friend.”

“I’ll keep him talking for a while,” Yennefer whispered to Geralt. “That way you have time to take care of your…” She looked the Witcher up and down, eyes lingering on his lap. “Well, I’d say ‘little problem,’ but it’s not exactly small.”

And with that, she was gone – leaving Geralt with a not-so-little problem, still rising between his legs.

“Fuck.”

0 notes

seidenbros · 2 years

Note

Can i request a Geralt x fem!Reader Nsfw?

Reader is stealing stuff from rooms in the inn when she stumbles in the witcher's room without realizing but starts snatching stuff anyways until he catches her red handed and that leads to him punishing her (railing her rough basically with spanking and maybe bondage)?

You dont have to do this request if you dont want to as always:)

First of all: Thank you! Second of all... I haven't written that much smut so please bear with me. I thought I knew where I was going with this, but while writing it turned into different direction, but stilll... Not THAT much punishment in the end I think, but there is spanking and a little bondage included I guess. So I hope you enjoy this <3

(I’m always happy to receive requests, so if you want to, send some in. If you need inspiration, here are some prompt lists )

Warnings: smut 18+, minors DNI Word count: 2936

__________________

It wasn't the life you'd imagined when you'd been little. You'd always thought that you would get married, have a happy little family, but that apparently wasn't for you. You were barely twelve when your mother died, your father having abandoned you a long time ago, so it had only been you. Your aunt didn't want to take you in, so you lived on the street for some time. Others might say that you mingled with the wrong people, but they were the ones who provided you with food and shelter. They taught you how to steal without being noticed – or at least rarely get noticed. There were of course the times when people were hyper-vigilant and caught you red-handed, leaving you two options: start crying and hope for them to take pity on you or run. Running was usually the best option, especially after you'd grown up. People took pity on little girls, but not on grown-up women.

You were so used to stealing, that it had become a habit, a way to provide a life for you. Selling your body might have been an option, but that wasn't for you. Oh, you enjoyed sex, that wasn't the problem, but you rather liked to choose your partner. Stealing might land you behind bars one day, but there was also the thrill of it all. For fifteen years, you'd been perfecting your profession, knew when to leave for the next town or when to leave a tavern, but sometimes, you were a little too reckless for your own good.

You would only stay one more night here and then you'd leave. You'd already paid for your room – because that didn't raise any suspicions – so you were set for the night. Maybe, you should have gotten some food and then gone to bed, but you craved the thrill of stealing, so while most people were in the taverns and inns, enjoying their night, listening to some music, you sneaked into an Inn that you'd been watching most of the day already. It was loud downstarirs, songs were sung, people sang along, getting drunk, so it was no problem for you to get inside and into one of the rooms. Picking locks had never been a problem for you, and in case anyone found you, you could simply play the lost drunk and tell them that you were apparently in the wrong room. What? Oh the door wasn't locked, that was why you'd thought it was your room. Never shy of an explanation.

You were in the third room, your bags already full of valuables, when you noticed that this room was different. There wasn't any jewellery, no coin left beneath the pillow, but some other things. Vials full of potions in a leather bag. You decided to take them as well, because whatever was in them, you could definitely sell them.

When door behind you flew open, you couldn't help the shriek that escaped you lips. Eyes wide in shock, you turned around to look at the person standing there. Fuck. You should have realised whose room this was. You'd seen him around, the famous White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, had felt his eyes on you, and it had sent excitement through your whole body, just like it did now, but it was also mixed with something else.

“Ahhh sorry, am I in the wrong room again?” You tried, though you knew that he would see right through you, but you were desperate. It wasn't like you could jump right out the window – and he'd probably get to you, before you even reached the window. So, you tried to walk past him, mumbling an apology.

“Oh, I think you're in the right room for what you want to do, sweetheart.” The Witcher's voice was a low rumble in his chest, when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back, kicking the door shut with his foot.

Sweetheart.

That one word sent a shiver down your spine. Seeing him around had already given you all kinds of thoughts, but being this close to him, the situation potentially dangerous to you, just added to the sensation coursing through your body.

“I don't know what you mean...” You looked up at him, trying to look as innocent as possible, while your heart was beating rapidly in your chest. Play dumb, that's what you'd been taught. “I'm just lost, stumbled in the wrong room.”

“Wrong room, my ass.” He tightened his grip around your wrist, pulling you towards him now so that you were flush against his chest. “What am I gonna find if I look through your bags, hm?” His voice was low, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, that was how close he was to you. You knew deep down that you should try to get away, to get out of his grip and run, but you couldn't. Not when his mere presence sent arousal through your whole body, pooling between your legs.

“Busted,” you simply said, biting your bottom lip. You knew that he wouldn't rat you out and sent you behind bars. There was something else entirely in the air and it made you knees nearly give in. you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this way, which was why you weren't really afraid, rather excited. “What are you gonna do about it?” you asked breathlessly, hating yourself a little for the way he made you feel, because you were usually so confident, but the way he looked at you, the way the whole room was filled with his presence, did things to you that you couldn't even begin to describe.

“I think someone needs a little punishment. To show you that you shouldn't steal from a Witcher.”

“But what if I scream?”

“I doubt that they'd hear you downstairs.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own yes blown wide. His hand came down to clamp sown on your ass, pulling you against him, making you painfully aware of the bulge in his trousers. “And I think the only screaming you'll be doing is from pleasure. I can smell your arousal, woman.”

An involuntary moan escaped your lips, before you pressed your lips together. He was doing things to you and your body with his words already, so you were curious what he would be able to to with his hands, his lips, everything.

He backed you up until your calves hit the bed, but you remained standing.

“Take off your clothes,” he demanded, letting go of your wrist.

“What if I don't?” you asked, feeling cocky for a second, but only until you saw the smirk on his lips that made you shiver in anticipation again.

“Then I'll have to rip them off your body and you'll have to get back to your room with practically no clothes. So what's it gonna be?” Geralt crossed his arms, keeping his eyes firmly on you. Oh, he didn't think that you'd make a run for the door, not when you wanted this as much as he wanted it. He could smell it, hear it in your increased heartbeat, see it in your eyes – and all these things only made him want you even more. He'd seen you a couple of times, had even seen you steal from someone, but that hadn't been his business. But you'd taken up more space in his head than he'd ever admit.

You didn't answer him with words, but instead took off your clothes, your eyes on him all the while, watching his every reaction. You could see him swallow when you exposed your breasts, but he didn't move, simply watched you. Once you were completely naked in front of him, you felt utterly exposed, but one look into his lust-filled eyes made your confidence return to you, because you did that to him.

“On the bed,” he commanded, while he rid himself of his own shirt. You couldn't help but watch him reveal his magnificent body. You didn't mind the scars, they all told different stories and only made him more interesting. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

That made you snap to attention again. Even though you would have liked to look him up and down for a little longer, you turned around and got on the bed, excited to see what would happen next. The sheets beneath your body were cool against your skin, sending goosebumps across your body, making your nipples stiffen.

Geralt was on top of you in a matter of seconds, covering your body with his, and finally, finally crashing his lips to yours. It wasn't a sweet kiss, it was absolutely carnal and you loved it. It was what you needed, what you both apparently needed. You moaned into the kiss, your hands coming up to run through his hair, your fingernails scraping over his neck, digging into his shoulder when he scraped his teeth against your bottom lip.

He let go of your lips with a smirk, but quickly leaned down to press wet kisses along your neck, your collarbone and further down until he reached your right nipple, pulled it into his mouth without warning, making you gasp. Your fingers travelled down his back to his trousers. You needed him to get rid of them, because you wanted all of him, but before you could reach the front of his trousers, he grabbed your hand and pulled it away. Slowly, he sat up between your legs, looking down at you.

“Turn around!”

Your first instinct was to ask him why you should do this, but you thought better of it and followed his instructions. While you were still in your knees and upright, he pulled you back against his chest, the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your own skin. When you felt his lips against your pulse point, you let out a whimper, surprising yourself, but in the next moment, his hand was between your legs. He nudged his leg between your thighs to spread them a little bit further to give him access to your wet folds. His fingers slid between them easily, making him chuckle against your skin.

“You're so wet and ready...” His fingers circled your clit painfully slow, but when he touched out directly, you let out another moan, threw your head back and closed your eyes. Geralt watched your every reaction, especially when he traced his fingers along your entranced and pushed two inside with ease.

“Fuck!” Your fingernails dug into his forearm due to the sheer pleasure of what he was doing to you. You couldn't keep still, though, moved your hips to rub your ass against his groin and fuck yourself on his fingers, but you stopped immediately when he slapped your thigh with his other hand.

“Behave!” the Witcher chastised, his words making you mewl, but you complied, happy when he moved his fingers again, pushing them in and out, getting faster before he added a third finger. The heel of his hand rubbed against your most sensitive spot, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Geralt...” you managed to get out between moans. “I'm gonna...” you couldn't finish your sentence, because the sensation that flooded your body when his hand found your nipple and squeezed it tight, made you curse under your breath.

“Let go... Be a good girl and come for me!”

That sent you over the edge, made you reach your climax, your walls clamping down on his fingers, as you enjoyed every sweet wave of pleasure that wrecked your body. You needed a moment before you could open your eyes again, still breathing heavily. Geralt wrapped his arm around your middle and leaned forward. He grabbed a pillow to put it beneath you, so that you lay comfortably. You needed a moment until you realised what was going on, but he was using his own shirt to tie your hands together and then tie them to the bedpost.

“What...”

“Oh don't think we're done already,” Geralt said with a smug grin on his face. “I told you, you needed a little punishment, though I'm not sure if you'll really consider it a punishment in the end, judging by the way you've acted so far.”

He ran his hands up the backs of your thighs and gave your asscheek a firm slap once he got there. You shivered involuntarily letting out another mewl. You wouldn't admit it out loud, but you did enjoy it, felt tuned on by it, but you were sure that you didn't even have to tell him that, that he already knew. Being in front of him on your knees, hand tied up should make you feel vulnerable, but you didn't. Instead, you felt more aroused than you'd ever felt before.

“You gonna be a good girl?” he asked, and you could hear him take off his trousers. You managed to turn a little bit so that you could look at him, watch him get undressed. He caught your eye once his trousers had dropped to the floor. “Well?” His voice more demanding this time.

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, shivering again when you saw him approach, feel his weight on the bed. He wrapped his own hand around his dick, giving himself a few firm strokes. Your eyes lingered there for a moment, but then they flickered up. “Fuck me!” you heard yourself say, wanting to feel him inside you.

“Try that again,” he said, his palm smacking down on your ass, harder than before. Instinctively, you tugged on the shirt that was tying your hands up, but you couldn't get them free. Not that you really wanted, the feeling of not being able to get away, not being able to move or even touch him, only making you wetter.

“Fuck me, please!” you corrected yourself.

“Now, was that so hard?” he asked teasingly, gently caressing the spot where he'd just slapped you with his fingers, before he wrapped his hand around your waist. When you felt the tip of his dick against your entrance, you had to resist the urge to move towards him, to finally feel him, but you didn't have to wait long. In one swift move, he pushed inside you until he was buried completely. Your knees buckled at the feeling of pleasure and pain all rolled into one, but Geralt didn't give you a moment to adapt to his length, his girth. His fingers dug into your skin, sure to leave marks for the next day, as he started fucking you, not slowly, not gently, fast and hard thrusts that left you gasping for air. It wasn't what you were used to – it was better.

“Fuck... Geralt...” you managed to get out between moans, not able to stay still anymore, so you rocked your hips back to meet his thrusts. This time, he let you, but he slapped you ass again, because by now he knew how much you liked it, that it enhanced the pleasure for you.

“Such a needy girl... you're taking me so good,” he leaned down and growled the words into your ear, before he started kissing your shoulder. He reached around your body to touch your breasts, to squeeze them making you sigh in pleasure. He felt his own climax approaching quickly, which lead to his hand caressing your stomach only to vanish between your legs to caress the little bundle of nerves.

“Fuck... Fuck... I...” you muttered not able to form complete sentences anymore, but he was probably used to that already. Your second high of the night made your legs tremble, your walls contract around him. This pulled Geralt over the edge as well, his movements more erratic than before as he filled you with his seed. A deep guttural grown left his lips, his grip on your waits tightening, leaving bruises there as well.

For a moment, the room was filled with heavy breathing, panting, as you both came down from your orgasm. Geralt ran his fingertips along your arms, rather gentle in comparison to just moments ago, to untie you, free you from his shirt around your wrists. Soft kisses were pressed against your shoulder before he rose again and pulled out of you. When he got up, though, you were confused for a moment, but when he returned with a cloth to clean you up, you were absolutely stunned. You'd never been with a man who'd cared about that, definitely not someone who had taken care of you. Nobody had bothered, but Geralt. The oh so crude Witcher that you should fear, but if you were honest, you'd never felt better in the presence of a man.

“And you think you punishment will keep me from stealing from a Witcher?” you asked amused, rolling onto your stomach. You put you head in your hands to look at him.

“Maybe, I'll need to punish you a few more times. Can't risk you stealing from the wrong Witcher and getting yourself in real trouble.”

“But what if I like trouble?”

“As long as that trouble is only with me... you won't have to fear anything.”

You'd probably take it as as lesson to not steal from Witchers anymore, except for one. You would always steal from Geralt if it meant that this was going to be your punishment.

#geralt fic #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x reader smut #the witcher fanfic #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher x reader #geralt #geralt x you #the witcher smut #staffi writes #I'm so nervous to post this as I always do with smut #the witcher imagine

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 2 years

Text

Of Monsters And Men

(Season 2)

Chapter 5 - The Way Of Swords And Blood

Summary: Deciding to have a little fun with Ciri’s training do you invite her to test her skill with you until Geralt shows up, roping you in for a friendly hand to hadn’t combat session. Then later does he gift you with a little surprise you hadn’t been expecting.

Warning: fighting (all in good fun), fluff, little angst, fluff again

Word count:7580

Masterlist - Of Monsters And Men masterlist here

The sky is bright and blue overhead, gifting a light breeze that blows small snowflakes down from the heavens and all across the yard of white as you sit on a piece of broken wall. A chunk that's undoubtedly been laying there since the sacking of Kaer Morhen when all hell broke loose and a real shit time had befallen upon the Witchers in their isolated fortress.

A time in history when the Witchers were at their lowest upon the land of the Continent all because of some insane mage who wanted their kind brought to extinction. Or so you've heard. When Geralt was just a young boy with his brothers trying to survive the trials with the guidance of Vesemir in his more youthful self.

A time when you were traveling as a rouge in the lands going from place to place, doing as you willed, taking part in things as you wanted, and sleeping with the most handsome faces to cross your path. You didn't give a fuck back then, well, when you have no one to give a shit about or anyone to give a shit about you. Who cares, right? A far far away life is all that it feels like now, so long ago when things where so very different and you had no soul to bring your heart to.

Concentrating on the old sword in your hand do you stare at the steel, you found this seemingly ancient artifact in the armory since you have no actual sword of your own as of now. Considering the only sharp weapon on your person being a dagger you were gifted to by Geralt that's rather too dull for your liking, you miss the one you'd lost in Sodden. Now that blade could cut through dragon hide if you wanted, a gift from your mother, one of your favorite gifts in fact.

Unfortunately now completely gone and lost to the wind, most certainly never to be seen ever again. So goes most things with life anyways, especially with being who you are and all, when one tends to never age does these things tend to happen. Losing stuff and moving on from things adrift, you try not to think too hard about the loss. It was just a dagger anyways.

Ciri grunts and thwacks at the straw man with all her might as you bring the dull white cloth down across the long shaft of the sword. Trying your best to clean it off of the stray minuscule specks of blood and rust and dust that has been covering it for many years. It smells old, like something valuable found in a tomb that should have just been left there. But it's all you've got until you stumble upon a new, better type of sharp weaponry, or someone makes you one since sword forgery doesn't happen to be a prominent skill you've acquired yet.

Ciri's wacking of the straw dummy goes silent as she takes a couple heavy breaths from the physical exertion of it all. She turns her gaze onto you who's still attempting to clean the old shitty sword despite how many times Lambert teased you about it being as sharp as a butter knife coated in honey. You truly do not relent; a sudden thought pops into her head as she begins walking over to you seated on the rock.

"You're good with a blade Y/N." Says Ciri as she takes a break from twirling around with her wooden sword to put her focus to you instead, "Who taught you how to fight so well?"

Observing your blurry reflection in the swords blade do you stare at your blood red eyes before setting the steel in your lap, now looking upon her as she walks over to where you sit. "My mother did. Among a few others of my kingdom." Your hand moves down the slick steel as you rub some flecks of dirt away, "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. I never had anyone at home offer to teach me."

"I did. That was a subject my mother was persistent upon, she wanted me to be able to adequately defend myself." You tilt your head at her, "Looks and status alone cannot do such a thing in this world. She believed that if you never figured how to defend yourself with a blade, then you're easier to die by one."

Ciri's face shifts into a thoughtful expression as she stops a couple feet in front of you, "How old were you when she said this?"

"Seven."

She hesitates a moment, clearly a bit surprised, "oh....interesting."

You shrug, "It was part of my life growing up where I did. And anyhow, by seven I was stronger then ten men and quicker then an arrow. I was havoc and spirit all in one, by the time I turned twelve could I bring down just about anyone in my path." You add with a little chuckle, "The guards were terrified of me."

She laughs as you smile, "Now not because I threatened them...oh no, it may have been that my younger self might of had a tendency to make a game of sneaking up on them at their post. I rather quite enjoyed scaring the daylights out of them just for my simple entertainment. I was an honest nuisance."

Ciri's green-blue eyes twinkle with amusement as she begins to speak, "I used to put pillows all over the floor next to my bed when I was six," She snickers, "...so that I could jump from the bed and pretend that I was flying." Explains Ciri as she crosses her arms over her chest, "I wanted to have wings like a bird. So all I could do was jump over and over again, I have no idea how I didn't end up breaking an arm."

"Now that reminds me of the very first time I flew. My many little selves all flapping around the gardens until I tried to shift back and ended up smacking into a wall. My mother was very proud of me that day, though all I wished was for my friends to stop laughing at me....it was rather embarrassing to be completely honest."

"Besides us, I thought you didn't have any friends?" Quips Ciri as you gift her a halfhearted glare.

"I did. But remember all who live in Alcatraz are pure vampire, and vampires at their heart are not all that well and good no matter of their proficient morals. And I am not all of what they are, human still resides in me no matter what, and that is why I am here and not still in my childhood halls with blood trailing down by face. But anyhow, it seems we have some more training to do on your part if you're going to be killing anything anytime soon."

"A lot." She mutters with a huff, "And I've been trying and practicing with Coen and Lambert but it can be frustrating sometimes. And don't get me started on Geralt when he makes me train with him. Y/N, I just feel like....I just feel like I'm not strong or fast enough yet."

You give the irritated princess a gentle grin, "You're not going to be like me or like a Witcher in a few weeks time. It took me centuries to become as skilled as I am today, centuries you will never have unlike mine, which is why I'm so incredibly dangerous and amazing." You muse with a wink, setting your sword on the rock to stand, "But as someone who's killed many a beasts, I've had my ass handed to me as well. More times then once."

"Hardly." She mutters unenthusiastically.

You rest your hands upon your hips, "I have indeed princess. You've ever heard of a Striga?" She shakes her head no as you nod, "Well, it's a cursed unborn child who's uglier then a banshee and angrier then a dragon. Which will absolutely beat your ass no matter who you are, or how powerful and strong and quick you might be. I almost lost Geralt to that creature."

She shows genuine shock as her dark brows furrow in puzzled concern, "Geralt could have died? Actually die?"

"He might have. But that's a story for another time when you're not procrastinating from your training."

She playfully scoffs with a roll of her eyes, "I'm not procrastinating."

"You're asking too many questions for this fine mid-morning for someone who wants to learn the blade." You snatch up the steel sword leaned against the rock as Ciri takes a cautious step back, "This sword is steel, it's a half decently sharp blade forged here in Kaer Morhen before your birth and probably even Geralt's... and now it's in my hand. Although I prefer daggers at a size about half this length, unfortunately, mine is somewhere lost on the battlefield in Sodden. So this will do for your lesson today."

Her brows crinkle in befuddlement, "But I don't have a steel sword."

You swing the weapon skillfully in your hand, taking a step closer, "The old shitty dagger of Geralt's at my hip now will be my weapon though I don't intend to use it. This, this is yours." She looks at you strangely as you reach a hand out for her to take the sword. Though confused and not sure where this is all headed does she take it anyhow. "Now with that in your grasp, set the wooden one aside. Show me your first stance as if I was to approach you now. If I was an enemy."

The wooden sword is tossed into the snow as she holds the old steel blade with both hands out before her, arms slightly bent as she concentrates on positioning her body. You take a step forward, "Very good stance, steel protecting your face, legs bent, focused. Now Cirilla....try and cut me."

Her expression appears perplexed at this request, "Cut you?"

"Now I did say try didn't I? That means attempt because the task may be more challenging then you'd anticipated." You explain casually, "So, cut me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

You chuckle in amusement, "Confidence is good." She appears even more confused at this as you begin to slowly encircle her like a caged leopard, you smirk confidently as you continue, "The way in which you believe you can hurt me. It's comical. But I like it, and remember, I'm no weak fleshed Witcher. That steel won't leave a lasting mark, so cut me or I'll give you a mark first."

Ciri swallows her nerves, you've never given her any kind of legitimate threat before and it's a bit intimidating. Especially now, considering you've just asked her to try and cut you with this somewhat heavy sword. You. Not Lambert or Coen, not even Geralt. Now how the hell is she going to do that?

Her enchanted irises follow your slow casual movements as you continue to walk around her, "You're not using the dagger?" She asks while following where you walk, carefully watching your body move.

"This is a test of skill. I want to see how quick you are." Suddenly have you taken a swift threatening step forward, she flinches back as you return to your place with a small chuckle for psyching her out, "Come on little lioness, you've been on the Witcher's training course. You shouldn't fear a thing."

Letting out an anxious breath does she suddenly get a burst of excitement, she can do this. She wants to beat this game more then anything if the goal is to impress you by getting at least a single hit in, anything really. This is a chance to prove herself. "Alright then." She mumbles, taking a calming breath, steadying her sword as she prepares herself for the first move. Smirking at the Cintran princess like a mischievous cat causes her to get a hard look upon her face before swinging her sword to the right in one clean motion as she moves her whole body forward.

At this have you shifted your body to the side, watching as the reflection of your scarlet eyes show bright upon the blade when it moves past you. She grunts, turning around quickly to meet you standing there like nothing even happened. Pursing her lips together in determination does she swing, you smoothly slip away as the blades tip just barely misses your shoulder.

Her boots press hard into the snow as she lets the blade sing on the air once more, frustration clear in her eyes as she tries again and again to even come close to nicking your side. To tearing a stray piece of clothing, to hit anything!

Breathing heavily now, Ciri huffs in irritation as she grips tightly onto the hilt. You tilt your head at her, "Don't fight with anger. You're doing well, and remember, this is to test your swiftness. I just want to see how fast your body moves and how well off your reaction time is."

"Yeah well I want to get you at least once." She mutters, disheartened. You're a lot swifter then she'd come to realize at first, but of course you are. Of course Y/N is going to be faster, thinks Ciri, really wishing right about now that you were completely human instead.

"Not even the most skilled swordsman can manage to do that." You muse, "However, you are a magical princess, I'd expected a little slice by now." You truly do live to tease.

Ciri scowls before fiercely running the short distance to meet you, she swings left and right and right again, missing you each and every time which builds to her already irked mood. She'd really thought that maybe you wouldn't be nearly as fast as you've claimed to be.

Maybe even give her a slight chance, just to slow down a minute. But alas, you're not a fan of making things easy. And when it comes down to it, you're not completely human after all which is glaringly obvious as she swings again, missing....again.

When you suddenly shift left just out of her swords grasp does she return the sly favor with a harsh jut of her elbow to your side unexpectedly.

And with that have you repaid her compulsiveness with a light yet semi-harsh boot to her back leg, she immediately yelps in surprise at the sharp painful sensation, falling to her knees as the sword slips from her hands and into the snow. Her palms hit the cold powdery white, catching herself from face planting into the chilly earth does she suck in a quick breath when her steel is placed at the side of her neck. She gasps in surprise.

All happening so fast. Too fast.

She then nervously swallows before raising her apologetic gaze up to meet your sharp eyes of scarlet, you raise a brow at her, "As much as I agree with how fighting dirty will keep you alive longer. This was a test of swiftness and skill, you're not an impulsive young child anymore, and I know you wouldn't do that to Geralt." She swallows again as you tilt her head up with the tip of the dull blade at her soft chin, "Do that again, and I'll throw you halfway across the yard."

The sword is gone from her chin as you rest it in your hand by your side before tossing it to the snow, Ciri slowly returns to her feet, feeling embarrassed and frustrated with herself for disappointing you like that. She didn't mean to cheap shot, it just sort of happened. "I'm sorry Y/N. Won't happen again." Softly admits Ciri as she lowers her head, "I don't know why I did that." oh, Cirilla.

"I provoked irritation. Understandably I tend to do that, however you must learn to control yourself when that happens. If you let your emotions interfere with your senses when in combat will you find a swifter death....you will lose control and that is not going to help you." She purses her lips together, flustered and ashamed, you reach down to pick up her wooden sword, "Let this be a lesson then instead. Find your control first, then everything will flow into place as it should naturally."

She pauses a moment, pursing her lips together, green-blue eyes shifting from the ground up to you, "I'm sorry." She mutters.

"Forgiven. Now take this and let's see what Lamchops been teaching you recently." The ghost of a smile returns to her pink lips as you nod towards the open yard covered in white, "He does teach you now doesn't he? Not just show off his swordsmanship and boast about all the monsters he's slain?"

"He does that too."

"I thought as much." You muse as the sounds of footsteps across the snow draws your attention up to the sight of Geralt walking over the courtyard with nothing but himself in all his handsome glory. A sight you could watch forever.

"Y/N." He calls, "I was wondering where you went off to. I thought Lambert was training her today?"

You raise a brow as he approaches, "Miss me that much? It's not like we've known one another almost fifty years or anything."

He shakes his head at your dramatics, "Was in search of a training partner myself actually."

"Oh?" You break out into a fangy grin at this, "You want to clash swords with me? But where's your steel?"

"I was thinking a little more on the hand to hand then steel."

"Huh. Well if your intention is to get flung across the yard then you've come to the right person." Ciri snickers as Geralt stops his walking to stand in front of you both, resting his hands upon his hips as he looks to you.

Giving you a knowing look, "Be careful. Your hand is still healing, remember?"

Rolling your eyes do you cross your arms, "My hand is fine, now fight me like a man you old fuck." Geralt snorts at your cheekiness that's never too far from your tongue, especially when he's around.

"No tricks." He says in a halfheartedly serious tone as the two of you unfold your arms to prepare for combat.

You scoff, "I never trick. When do I trick?"

He gives you a look, "All the time."

You gasp in fake shock, "I do not! When do I do anything remotely trickery-like? That's not in my simple nature to do such deeds against an opponent so how dare you say such a vulgar thing about me, your dearly beloved...you, you bastard! I have never done such things in my entire life..." You turn to your right, "oh hello Lambert come to watch the show?" Geralt turns his head to nothing in the vacant yard as a quick white hot stream of lightening strikes the ground right below him from out of your fingertips. Causing an electrically buzzed sensation to fly up his legs, he grunts before jumping back at the sharp weird pain.

He scowls at you, "Y/N." Grumbles your Witcher in a deeply warning tone, "That's exactly what I was referring to."

You wiggle your fingers in front of your face teasingly, "You must be ready for anything."

He points a finger at you, "No vampire magic."

You hold up a finger, "Ah, ah, ah...not magic. Dark gift, yes most certainly. Magic? No."

"Whatever. Just me and you, no powers, promise?"

"Oh fine, if you insist." You assume a fighting stance, legs bent, staggered apart as your hands keep as flat blades instead of the balled up fists of Geralt who looks like he's ready to start a tavern brawl.

You on the other hand have been taught a contrastingly different style of hand to hand combat where your movement will be much more graceful then his. He fights with forceful power, you fight like a sly river dancer, a beautiful flow that tends to confuse and befuddle your many opponents in your time.

He takes a step forward, hands fisted and close to his face as you stand like a mountain cat, watching, studying your prey's every move. From the way that his muscles contract beneath the skin, to the placement of his feet upon the earth, moves calculated and precise. His hits will hurt immensely if they catch your flesh. His golden eyes hold his truth, where he's going next in the way that they flicker like candle flame in the wind.

It's barely noticeable to the untrained eye, yet your enhanced vision could spot it from the top of Kaer Morhen's highest tower. And better yet, he doesn't even realize he's doing it, all you have to do is watch for when his gaze carries even a little. That's all it takes for you to know precisely where he's planning on going next, what he's preparing to do to catch you off guard. Too bad for him though, you're never off guard.

His legs move quick, arms quicker as they flow outwards towards your chest like an arrow in flight gone from the bow. At this does your opened palm launch forwards, making contact with his balled heavy fist that you let flow off to the side, using his own momentum to carry him past you as your hand releases from contact with his. Geralt stumbles a bit as you swiftly turn to meet him though he's already at you again.

Your bodies move swiftly, he throws his punches with great strength and skill yet he's not quit sharp enough to land any solid hits to your flesh. However, he's skilled enough for the moment to keep your hands from landing anywhere worthy of damage or even a bruise. Ciri watches on from the sidelines out of the way, entranced by your rhythmically elegant style against Geralt's more rougher boxy motions. Both forms doing well enough on their own, she's never seen anything so remarkably thrilling in her entire life.

Not even when Sir Eyk would train with her grandmother or the soldiers, you and Geralt aren't just fighting like trained killers, you're practically dancing. You're not scowling when he narrowly punches your cheek, he doesn't appear irritated when you slip from his grasp and laugh at his fault. You're both smiling at one another brightly, highly enjoying this time together to show off and be with each other captivated by the riveting moment.

Ciri's eyes do not simply witness two deadly people here, she sees two lovers who've known one another for decades teasing and laughing as they block and hit and flow. You throw an arm out just as Geralt throws his own forearm with the intention of hitting your shoulder, yet he is diswayed by your quick skill. Your arms block off one another before you move a couple inches back when he readies his fist, it flies forward for your face as you duck underneath.

He grunts when your elbow gets him right in the side of his upper back where the wing of the scapula is set, causing him to stumble forward a little. He whips around as your foot leaves the ground to find it's place right on his broad chest, he grunts, falling back into the snow with a huff. Though to Ciri's surprise is he ready for your incoming hand as he rolls abruptly to the side and away from where your fist would have landed.

In an instant has he thrown a leg out to knock you off of your two feet and into the thin snow below, landing on your back, immediately rolling out of the way from where his fist was about to crash down upon and no doubt knock you of your breath. Now kneeling lowly to the cold earth do you stare at him with blood red eyes to two brightly golden ones, faces about a foot apart. Both of you breathing heavily as you refuse to break first.

His lips slowly turn into a smile as yours does the same, "No trickery." He muses, heartbeat thudding quickly from within his chest.

"I don't need deception to best you, my love."

"Indeed, you are right." He says between heavy breaths.

"Use your power to bring me down, then we go inside. If not, Ciri stays out here another hour." You give her a glance.

"Y/N." She wines, looking from you to Geralt, "Don't let her."

Palms still pressed to the snow does he smirk, "Not with intention."

His golden irises twitch a second before his right hand reaches out with two fingers pointed at you. He calls a sign to action just as you push yourself into the air with sheer supernatural force as the quick blast of silvery white energy flies past the ground from where you just were a moment ago. He misses. You land triumphantly directly behind him.

"Quick as an arrow, wise as the string. A hand steady like a nervous boy's." You tease as he jumps to his feet, twisting around to send another blast your way. You're gone in a reddish blur right before Ciri and Geralt's eyes, promptly returning right behind him as you throw a hand out to send him tumbling into the snow. Geralt goes rolling like a tossed log down a hill until he lands at the feet of both Coen and Lambert a short distance away from where you and Ciri stand.

Letting out a pained grunt does he open his eyes up to the amused faces of his two brothers, he sighs as you keep away near Ciri, laughing like a deranged old bat at his expense. Bent over and holding your stomach as you try and contain yourself but failing miserably, Cirilla on the other hand is holding her mouth to keep from bursting with laughter. Lambert snorts, lending out a hand for him to take.

Standing once more does Geralt let out a breath as he shakes his head at you, Lambert pats a hand upon his back, hard. The white haired Witcher grunts as the red haired one chuckles, "Now that was worth the price of admission." Muses Lambert as he laughs, failing terribly to spare Geralt his amusement.

Coen snickers, "Brother you flew like a raven. How's it feel being the first Witcher to sprout wings?"

"Yeah! You see us from all the way up there?" Howls Lambert as he holds his side that's beginning to ache from how much Geralt's little tumble across the yard made him laugh.

Geralt simply shakes his head, "Who's made lunch?"

----

Feeling well satisfied from the fulfilling meal of leek soup and bread do you watch as Geralt and Ciri exit through the side entrance way on their way to learn about more monsters and what elixirs do what. Not her most favored subject, but she's had an eventful afternoon and needs a break from swinging that sword around.

You set your cup down upon the table, wiping your lips with the back of your hand before reaching for the hilt of that old sword Geralt gave you to have, though it's really you who found it when the two of you where snooping around the armory. The blade is still a bit rusty, smudged by times will when it was held on a rack simply collecting nothing but dust. Holding it in your strong grasp do you put a leg to either side of the long bench as your crimson eyes carefully study the sword.

Turning it in your hand can you see the grip that's a dull old reddish color, the texture like small dragon hide so that your palm can hold it easier. The guard is a duller red color like the round pommel at the very end though in its center is a wolf's head colored silver, you cannot tell if it's true silver or not. Against your better judgment do you let your finger drift closer to it when the voice of Lambert swiftly draws your attention away from possible pain.

"You say something?"

Walking across the evening hall from his table does he give you a lopsided grin, "I did. You want to go another round? See who's the better blade?"

"I know who's the better blade."

He snorts, "Not with that one." Pointing to the sword in your hand, "Mine'd be able to slice that old bastard right in half."

"It matters not who's sword is stronger when I know how to kill a man with or without it." Lambert chuckles as you rest the swords shimmering blade in your lap, "Now what was it about fighting me? Have you not tasted the ground enough this week by my doing?"

Standing a couple feet away does he playfully scoff while crossing his arms over his chest, "Doesn't count if I don't remember it."

"Ah yes...but I do. More then half of Kaer Morhen remembers it, they also remember you letting that blade clatter to the floor when I knocked it out of your hands. But I'll let it slide since you were not in the right mind nor apparent body...as I must be honest, and you moved like an old dog ready for death."

"Alright princess, now that's a plain exaggeration."

You blink, absolutely unbothered, "Ask anyone."

Lambert gives the vacant evening hall a once over as he looks back down at you with a shrug, "Seems there's no comment."

"Well it seems you have watch right about now. So why not leave me to peace and blessed silence?" You deadpan as he snickers looking from your face to the blade in your lap and back to your unenthusiastical face once again, "I am extremely busy." You're not, however messing with Lambert is always fun, he's like the Jaskier of Kaer Morhen.

"Oh I can tell. Forgive me then my dear, never meant to keep you from your dealings." He presses his palms together like he means to pray, looking playfully apologetic as he starts to walk away though still facing you, "I'll just be going now....alone.....in the cold.....all by myself. No one to talk to.....no one but the ravens....no one to keep my old bones warm."

Resting a casual arm against the table do you shake your head at him, "Oh you poor fox. Grow a tail, that'll warm you right up." Lambert waves you off with a dramatic scowl as he pouts.

"Fine! I'll freeze then. If I don't arrive at dinner come break the icicles off of me." He says while turning around, walking off towards the big front doors of the evening hall. You watch as he goes across the short distance, reaching them, he opens the wooden doors. But not before looking at you longingly over his shoulder one last time before giving you a theatrical bow and with that does he leave. Closing the door right behind him.

Blinking slowly do you shake your head at his dramatics, wondering if that's how you are around Geralt? Always ever the flirty satirical woman you are, how does he deal with you? That mystery you'll probably never truly know, same goes for the whereabouts of your lost dagger in Sodden. Oh well, life goes on and he's still entirely in love with you anyways so it all works itself out in the end.

You do miss that damn dagger though.

Your scarlet irises trail down to the old dull sword still in your lap, you purse your lips together, troubled, "You're not going to do at all. Sorry to tell you that." The sword says not a word; you watch the flicker of the hearths dull flames through the reflection of the steel. The arm resting on the table parts from the wood as your hand moves to touch the tips of your fingers along the smooth side of the flat end.

You cannot tell if it's cold or not as the sensation of feeling any sort of chill cannot register in your body, though you can assume it probably would cause someone's skin to prick. Suddenly you catch the sight of white movement in the distorted image seen through the steel by the doorway to your far right, your gaze snaps up to make swift contact with Geralt. He stands there in the entrance way just looking at you sitting on the bench alone.

His brightly golden eyes study you fondly, the corner of his lips rising into an earnest smirk. You tilt your head at him, a small grin finding itself upon your own lips just at the sight of him, "Lingering in the shadows now? You lost?"

Geralt snorts before pushing himself off the side of the opened doorways wall with the side of his arm, "If my intention was to get turned around and stumble upon a rare beauty within the cold of this fortress then I have done just that." He says while walking the short distance, "I was in fact on the hunt for you actually. Figured if you weren't with Ciri or on the ledge out front you'd be here."

"Not like there's a whole lot of places to go." You watch as he finds himself a seat on the tabletop, resting a bent leg on the same bench you sit upon as you look up at him, "This place isn't exactly a riveting carnival if you haven't noticed."

"It's not all that bad." You make a face as he chuckles, "What?"

"Not all that bad you say? Geralt you'd find more excitement at a funeral."

"Oh Y/N, now you're being histrionic. Was our little spar session not exciting enough for you cause if I remember correctly, you found my tumble quit amusing."

You point a finger up at him, "Yes. However, I like to do things. I like to get out into the world and get myself into shit, I'm restless with nothing to do but fix up this stupid old sword." You hold up the blade dramatically before resting it in your lap once more, "Being here is nice, it's safe and where we need to be right now, I understand this. However, again, I am who I am and I cannot help my wild spirit. So, please tell me something interesting or I may throw this sword into the wall."

Geralt snickers, chest rising under his dark shirt in a couple rapid beats at your words. This happens every single time you both come here, things are fun the first few days as you do enjoy a good rest, then you get restless when there's nothing to do in the following weeks as the Witchers here only ever eat, sleep, and train most oftentimes. Talking to the ravens you can only do so much until they start pestering you for bread.

He gives you an adoring look paired with a curiously looking grin, you rest your arm against the table, eyeing him up, "What is it?" You ask, knowing all too well that he's undoubtedly hiding something.

His smile grows as he reaches down into his tall black boot for something unseen, "I got you something." He pulls out a long thin object wrapped in faded white cloth, he holds it in his hand as you study the mystery, "This. This was given to one of my brothers a long time ago on a hunt as payment. It's elven made and has been collecting dust in a special locked box within the armory for far too long, and now, I give this to you." Geralt hands you the wrapped up object that you slowly take from out of his opened hand.

With steel sword balanced in your lap do you hold the cloth covered item in your two hands, crimson eyes trailing down the faded white fabric as you feel it's weight. Not heavy at all; the tip of you pointer finger then lifts up the edge of cloth but you pause a moment, Geralt sees your hesitation, "Y/N, it's yours. You don't even know what it is yet."

Letting out a soft sigh do you give him a small glance, eyes back on the wrapped up item once more, "I know....it's just. Alright, I'll see what it is. Relive myself of the anticipation, and yours." Your finger lifts up the edge of the cloth, it falls slightly undone, then you begin to gingerly unwrap the whole thing until all that remains is a thin sheet covering your view from what it is. You touch the last edge piece before pulling it over to reveal a beautiful elven dagger.

Its the perfect size too, not as large as a common sword, but not as small as a simple butter knife either. A perfect balance. Your eyes trail over the weapon; the grip is an almost faded golden color with a texture of dragon scales made most definitely by skilled hands. This golden grip of dragon hide flows up the blade from sharp triangles into smooth gold that turns into an eagles wing, fading from the wings tip into more blade. A solid sharp edge that begins at the quillion and curves up into a tip.

The dagger is absolutely stunning, no doubt worth more then a farmer's orchard....and all yours. You slowly reach down, picking up the dagger to inspect it, "No silver." You whisper while shifting your gaze to Geralt, "But this is a debt to your brother. I...I cannot accept such a valuable piece of beauty like this. It's not mine to take."

"It is." Assures Geralt as he moves to find a proper seat next to you, reaching over to take the sword out of your lap and set it onto the table, "This is from a Witcher who was found dead with it still in his hand, covered in Warg blood, right next to the dead beast who died by his hand. This is an honorable weapon which should be given to an honorable warrior deserving of such, not to be hidden and gone unused. My brother would have wanted it given another life."

Your eyes fall back down to the golden blade in your hand, "A noble craftsman created this, a gift or stolen or passed from generation to the next I will never know. But it is a fine dagger of elven skill that does not deserve a sedentary life, I will accept this honor to carry a blade by one of your brothers. Thank you my love." You turn to find his adoring gaze already upon you as the corners of your lips rise into a small grin, "This is a wonderful gift, and I will treasure it till my death."

Geralt smiles joyously as he rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, "I'm glad you like it. I've been meaning to give it to you actually, just had to clean it up a bit first and get you alone for a minute. I didn't want to keep it in our room or face you possibly finding it...so, here it is."

Biting your bottom lip do you lean in to press a quick kiss to his cheek, "Geralt of Rivia you sly wolf." He appears rather satisfied with himself as you look at him like he means the actual world, "I will miss my old dagger, but I love this one just as much. I still can't get over how sharp this blade is, look at that edge. It could cut through pure metals, and it's elven made too, that means this weapon will be proficient for centuries more."

"That's why it's yours. We have others like it in size and relative shape, all human made though. This one was made for a dhampir to wield, it was meant to find you I think."

You let out a breathy laugh as his brows furrow at this, "Like destiny?"

Geralt shakes his head, "Perhaps a little. It is my fault you lost your dagger after all, I was the one who caused you to follow Yennefer to Sodden." He says regretfully as his eyes part from yours, "My fault." He whispers.

Your smile fades as you think about your time there and all the shit you saw, all the pain and blood and death. The men who died by your hands, the last of the light in their furious gazes going out as you led them to their death. The screams of the other mages you were there to help aid in the fight against Nilfgaard, the common people and their courage to push on. You saw children die that night, and you watched many more pass violently from steel.

"No Geralt." You rest a hand on his thigh, expression honest and soft as he looks to you, "I have forgiven you from all of that. And now since I've had time to think over it, maybe I was meant to be there. I know many more mages would be dead if not for me......for...for Yennefer too." You whisper solemnly before swallowing hard, "She was, she was incredible."

Geralt frowns as your pensive gaze shifts into a deeply troubled one, "I know Y/N." He says quietly in a means to comfort you, he knows all too well how this is a deeply heavy subject for you to discuss. You haven't openly said a thing about her or anything focused on Sodden in a long while.

You don't say anything for a long time but remain remorseful as you stare at the stone covered ground, Geralt gives you your time to let your mind process things over and think. After slowly blinking back your sorrow do you speak, "I do miss her. I didn't believe I would, I didn't believe I had that power in me to care about anyone else but you. But then fate would have its way....and that damn wish, that damn djinn...but that doesn't matter anymore. The wish you made doesn't matter, that magic link that bound our souls was broken the second she died."

You swallow again, "I cannot feel her. Not since Sodden. And I guess some part of me thought that when she was gone I wouldn't care anymore, I'd feel like I did before. She'd just be a fond forgotten memory again and I'd move on as I always do, but that hasn't happened this time." You explain, lips in a deep frown, "She was my truest friend so very long ago, when she was still just a farmers daughter, a young mage...and even after all that. I've never hated her you must understand, how she chose to live her life is what upset me. But I never hated her."

"I could tell she liked you."

"Yeah." The ghost of a smile dances across your lips till it's soon gone, "I wanted to travel the Continent with her at one time, but she wanted more then what that life offered. A rouge life like mine was never in Yennefer's plans, but I don't blame her, I'd rather have had her do as she wished then pull her into my world. I guess if there's anything I can thank destiny for...its that we got to be together one last time, I got to see her one last time."

Geralt doesn't say a word but rub your shoulder affectionately as you look into his golden gaze, "This pain doesn't want to leave me...and I think....I think I'm okay with that now." You give him a reassuring grin, though a small one at that, "Her memory will stay with me in it's own little place, right here," You point towards your heart, "and if I know anything about her. She'd want me to stop being a sad little bitch about it and go rip off a monsters head or something. And that's what I intend to do, so my love, shall we find a way to distract ourselves?"

"We can rest if that is what you want, I know you are tired from your heavy thoughts." Bastard knows you too damn well. He gives you a telling look as you sigh, "Y/N."

"I do not want to sleep. I'll just see her....and my mother." You whisper as he nods in understanding before taking a breath and getting up from his spot next to you on the bench. You watch as he does this.

Geralt stands tall before you, he tilts his head, a moment goes by then he holds out an opened hand for you to take, "Want to test your dagger out?"

You glance from his outstretched palm to his gentle gaze, pursing your lips together in uncertainty do you take his hand, "Can we watch the sunset instead?" Voice just a soft saddened whisper Geralt has to restrain himself from pulling you tightly into his arms and squeezing you until all your troubles and heartache goes away forever.

You, his dearly beloved should never have to ever feel sad, not while he's around to make you smile. He pulls you to your feet, looking into your dreary gaze does Geralt gently squeeze your one hand.

"Of course."

Tag list: @littlewhiterose @galaxypox @maan24 @lilacs-lavender @letseatnow @certainwonderlandperfection @rafecameronswhore @diegos-butt @ashleyforeverareject @seninjakitey @beck07990 @kmuir1 @a-girl-who-loves-disney @greengrassdiaries @canpillowscry

#the witcher #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #geralt x you #Geralt #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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limerental · 2 years

Text

Witcher Femslash February - prompts by @witcherladiesamirite

Day 7 - Fire

Lambert/Triss - Lambert finds out about Triss' scars and admits to a closely held secret about his gender identity.

Contains transfem non-binary/queer Lambert and a lot of gender complexities. Content warning for dysphoria and general witchery poor self regard, explicit sexual content as well as non-sexual nudity

This is twn!Triss and unspecified Lambert with bias toward game

It was late as shit. That was his excuse.

Lambert hadn't expected anyone to be in the hot springs in the cave system deep beneath the keep so late. He definitely hadn't expect to find Triss Merigold there, standing naked and wet-cheeked, tracing the edges of the extensive burn scars that marred her torso.

He didn't mean to stare. Wasn't some old perv like the old man, and he'd never felt any real desire to see her unclothed. Especially not like this, her breath hitching with tears, eyes closed as she felt out the damaged skin. It was ugly and red and waxy in the way that burns were and stretched up her throat and across both breasts.

When her fingers trailed up a damaged nipple, he watched her face crumple with the weight of emotion, and he turned away. But couldn't quite make himself go back up into the keep.

Lambert knew the story well enough. He knew she'd almost died in battle and been lucky but been left as she was, scarred and shying away from firelight. So what? He'd almost died at least a dozen times over the past year alone with uglier scars to boot, and he didn't cry about it.

Yeah, he tended to avoid looking at or thinking about his own body, all pock-marked and hard and gnarled, but he didn't have it as bad as somebody like Eskel who had half his face gone or like Geralt who looked like some weird albino rodent that had crawled out of this very cave system.

Truthfully, he had some idea of what she might be feeling.

He didn't hate Merigold. Not really. Only bitched and needled so much because somebody like her didn't belong here, all soft and feminine and dainty and sweet and a constant reminder that Lambert could never be any of that.

He'd been around enough whores and establishments of ill repute to know that his kind of thing wasn't all that uncommon. That some men walked in the world as women, some from time to time because they liked it or got off to it, some changed more permanently with potions and spells and transfigurations.

Lambert found himself somewhere in between all that and had accepted it long ago. Definitely no man but never quite a woman. Would never be able to walk the streets like that without some drastic bit of magic, and the idea of being changed that way churned his stomach. A drastic bit of magic had made him what he was now. Mostly beast. Disfigured. Some essential part of whatever it meant to feel like either woman or man forever evading him.

Meanwhile, for people like Merigold, it came so easy. Without effort or thought.

Or perhaps not.

He cursed under his breath and stepped toward the pool.

"Merigold," he said and regretted it immediately as Triss squeaked and covered her scarred breasts with both hands. Lambert made a show of blocking his eyes with his palm. "Oh come on, I promise I'm not here to peep at your geriatric bits. You're hogging all the hot water."

"Go away, Lambert," said Triss, her voice wobbling pitifully. "I'm not in the mood for your juvenile comments."

Eyes still covered, he heard her leave the pool and begin to dry herself with a towel. She still sniffled here and there.

"You're healing well, you know," he said.

"You said you didn't look."

"I said I wasn't here to peep at you not that I didn't-- ow!" A damp towel smacked against his side. He blinked open his eyes to find her dressed in a silk robe. The red skin of her scarring crept above the neckline.

"The pool's all yours," huffed Merigold, tugging the robe tighter.

That was as good an out as any. Lambert should wave her off and step into the pool for a long soak. Forget about the weeping and chalk it up as not his problem. She'd heal more in time. Could probably find some magical way of concealing the damage that left her looking as pretty and downy-soft as ever. She wasn't like Lambert and never would be. They'd both gone into the fire and survived, but that didn't mean--

"I know what you're feeling," he blurted stupidly.

Triss blinked at him, taken off guard.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I saw you in the pool."

"I know you did."

"The--" A gesture imitating juggling breasts. "That. Promise I wasn't ogling."

Merigold fumed.

Ok, yeah, could have done without the gesturing.

"You perverted, little--"

"I swear! I fucking swear! I-- look. I'm trying to be nice here. I'm trying to say I understand."

"I'm fairly certain you don't."

"You're not the only one with scars, Merigold," he said. Lambert was bungling this. Badly. Triss looked close to tears again. Furious, humiliated ones this time.

"So what do I feel, then, Lambert?" she asked. "As if someone like you has any idea."

Someone like you. The words stung in ways Triss couldn't possibly know they did.

"Well," said Lambert, shrugging. "I just know that it's shit to feel like… Like your body's not caught up to how you look in your head. Like the universe screwed you over." He drew a breath. He didn't talk about this shit all that often. It was a part of him he let exist without too much prodding, not denying and denying like he once had but just letting it be without a fuss. He knew it wasn't the same. Not really. But it was-- "Like you're never going to be enough of a woman."

"Oh," said Triss. She blinked fresh tears.

That had been the wrong thing to say again. Maybe she'd been feeling something completely different. Physical pain, even. Shit. Lambert, you idiot, he thought. Bungled that one right up.

"Forget it," he said and turned away, figuring he'd bathe some other time. "Forget I said anything. Night, Merigold."

"Wait, Lambert." She touched his arm, her hand small and soft. "You're right. Exactly right."

When he turned back, she was looking at him all gentle and sympathetic like he was some injured baby bird she'd like to nurse back to health.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not getting all weepy in the baths over it. I am what I am. Can't escape that." It was shit enough to exist in the world as a Witcher, let alone a queer one. He indulged when he could in what little ways he could.

"I'm not entirely sheltered, you know," said Triss. "I know there are plenty of those who… You feel like a woman?"

Lambert's cheeks gave their best effort toward flushing red. He knew that Triss noticed by the way her face softened, her grip shifting on his bicep.

"No," he said. "Yes. As much as someone like me can be anything. It doesn't matter. Don't go changing the way you talk to me or any bullshit like that. I've made my peace with it. I do what I can when I can, and that's that."

"And what do you do?"

Triss was looking at him all doe-eyed and focused. Was she flirting? He couldn't say. At least she'd stopped her sniffling and looked more herself. Maybe he could help. Maybe she needed the same things he did. Maybe they could help each other.

He didn't let himself think too deeply about it as he shoved his waistband down at the hip and hitched up a secret bit of silk fabric. He refused to allow his breath to hitch as she reached to touch with a ghost of her fingerpads.

"There's some stuff that helps," he said. "I've got others. You could--"

He realized at once that it was a foolish thing to propose. Triss probably had wardrobes full of her own feminine lace and tulle and silk. She'd had decades of perfect femininity and only a few months feeling as though she fell shy of that. It wasn't the same, Lambert's shirking of manhood and Triss' ruined breasts. Even in his head, it sounded like a vulgar and tactless comparison.

"Yes," breathed Triss abruptly, her touch burning warm against his skin. Like fire. "Yes, I would like to-- I'd like--"

Her fingers crooked around the silk fabric and tightened.

Oh.

When they fucked that night, it was all velvet and ribbons and indulgent softness, too gentle to bear without wise-cracking that fell easily into breathless, flustered laughter. For all their usual sharp words with one another, so different and at odds, neither of them wanted to sting with a blow that lasted.

Triss kissed him coy and tentative, and he gave just the same. Lambert was not made for delicate care given or received, but he managed well enough, holding onto her like something fragile. Though she was anything but.

She held onto him just the same, cradling and caressing, like his body wasn't furrowed and hard and brutish. Or perhaps as though even the scars were deserving of such tenderness. He kissed the ruin of her breasts with an echo of the same sentiment, the skin rippled and textured against his mouth.

"Oh," she breathed, the healing skin both numbed and sensitive.

"Yeah?"

Her hand touched his face as he kissed down her body, tipping his face up, her thumb catching on his full lips.

"Far too pretty," she said and wasn't lying, was too earnest to lie about something like that. "Oh, you look--"

"Don't need your flattery," he said, feeling his face heat. "You've already got me between your legs, Merigold."

And later, when she shrugged her way down between his, he would never admit how glad he was that she had coaxed him into accepting one small bit of temporary spellwork.

A shift between his legs to something smooth and hot and receptive. His very own cunt, for the duration of the spell.

He'd never wish away his cock, but to feel her tongue the hot swell of his cunt burned more fiercely than an engulfing inferno.

Both of them wept at the crux of it and clung.

Maybe they'd be mortified in the morning, maybe not.

Neither wholly sure what sort of new creature would ever step free of the flames.

#the witcher #trissbert #triss x lambert #lambert x triss

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samstree · 3 years

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4].

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life—for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can’t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

I'm...sorry.

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #lying spell #cursed jaskier #miscommunication #mutual pining #jaskier fucks up real good in this one #and bears the consequences #geralt x jaskier #again i'm sorry #i meant to end it with geralt walking away #and thought #in this economy?#but somehow this is... worse?#hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #hurt geralt #everytime i hurt geralt's heart i go 🥺🥺

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cinebration · 3 years

Text

Give Me Peace (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [Request]

I always had a vision of the witcher where reader is a siren (alternative, land walking type that can still enthrall ppl with her beauty) and her and Geralt always bump into each other over the years. Ppl are always hunting her since sirens are worth a lot of money so he decides to help her. Geralt refuses to admit his feelings are real for her until he figures out that witchers are immune to siren songs. Basically, lots of angst but a fluffy ending! — Requested by anon

I know this was supposed to have a fluffy ending, but it turned into something else, and I couldn’t bear to change it.

Tagged: @bichibibi

Warnings: death

Gif Source: august-walker

Over the span of five decades, you and Geralt crossed paths more times than he had ever crossed anyone’s, Jaskier and Yennefer included. The hand of destiny seemed to be at work, nudging you both into each other’s path every ten years or so.

It started first by the ocean. You had spent much time there in that first decade, drawn to the sea and your marine cousins, the sirens of the water. You were a siren of the land, beautiful beyond measure but lacking the enchanting voice of your sea cousins. You did not call men to their deaths as they did. Instead, your beauty drove men to madness.

Perhaps you were the more dangerous breed.

For the first few years, your beauty kept you safe, as no man who laid eyes on you and met your gaze was safe from your spell. You could topple kingdoms if you so felt with that kind of power.

But there came men and women who coveted the prize of a slain siren, especially one poisoning the minds and hearts of their very best.

Thus came your first encounter with the witcher, Geralt. Hired by the townsfolk, he sought you out on the shores of the sea, where you sat on the rocks in low tide and gazed out over the choppy waters. Careful to avoid your gaze, he drew near, armed not with his sword but with his wits, ready to be enthralled.

Hearing his step on the sand, you glanced at him and paused, stricken by his rugged beauty. Never had you seen a man whose looks could entice you as you enticed others. Though he averted his eyes, you saw their vivid yellow irises glinting in the setting sun.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

He grunted.

“You would kill me for something I have no power over?”

“You’re driving the town mad.”

“They are driven mad by their own desire. I can’t hide myself.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“How do you see it?”

He cleared his throat, glanced over his shoulder to see if any of the townsfolk had followed him.

Slipping down off the rock, you approached him. He took a step back, shifting into a defensive stance. You ceased, bare feet digging into the cooling sand.

“If I paid you more than they did to protect me, would you?”

The muscle in his jaw flexed. “Only if you leave.”

With a sigh, you looked back over the ocean. You would miss it, but forests and mountains were your home; to them you would return.

The following decade, Geralt heard news of a beautiful woman bewitching men near Brokilon. At first he thought she belonged to the druids that populated the dangerous forest, but as he heard report after report of men driven to madness, raving of beauty and unearthly eyes, he knew the woman to be a siren.

He knew it had to be you.

The villagers sent him forth to kill you. Traveling through the forest on the outskirts of Brokilon, careful not to trespass, he found a small hut near the road, partially obscured by the trees but by no means invisible.

Through a half-shuttered window, he glimpsed you brushing your hair. In the light from the fire burning within the hearth, he glimpsed the faint lines of sealed gills. He had heard that land sirens had come from the sea centuries before, but nothing had offered so much proof as the vestigial, malformed organs on your neck.

“Witcher,” you called, seeing him through the window, “have you come for me?”

He grunted.

“You would kill me for something I have no power over?”

“The villagers don’t see it that way.”

“What am I to do? I can’t hide myself.”

“You could do a better job.”

“Come into my home, witcher, and warm yourself.”

Shaking his head, he unsheathed his sword.

“If I pay you double what the villagers are paying, will you spare me again?”

He considered for a long moment. You stared at his face, but he refused to meet your gaze. Out of his peripherals, he saw something of your beauty. It was stellar, he would agree, but it stirred nothing more within him than he expected when seeing a beautiful woman.

It almost made him want to meet your enchanting gaze.

Discipline and strength won out, but not entirely.

“Yes,” he answered. “Just leave.”

Sighing, you put out the fire and gathered your things, amounting to nothing more than a small sack over one shoulder.

“Witcher,” you called, “I have been attacked twice now.”

He nearly met your eyes, so sharply did he turn back to you.

“Men shot arrows through my window, tried to set fire to my home.”

“You are a monster to them.”

“So are you, but you are allowed some peace.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Few men think they can kill you. Every man thinks they can kill me. There is peace in the former.”

Shouldering your sack, you struck off down the road, fixing your gaze on the mountains.

Geralt watched you go until even his enhanced vision no longer saw your figure, your words echoing in his mind.

In the third decade, Geralt came upon you by chance. He passed a hunting party made of hardscrabble men practically frothing at the mouth with anticipation. They rained arrows down into the ravine from their position on the mountain face, arrows with fire burning at the ends. Geralt would have walked on if one of them had not cried, “Burn, enchantress!”

Geralt paused to look down into the ravine. A small shack leaned against the wall, situated by a thin stream. You stood in stark relief among the basalt, knocking away the arrows with a poor shield. One arrow caught in your thatch roof, caught fire.

Geralt hauled the nearest archer off his feet, slamming him against the cliff face. The other men spun, glimpsed his white hair and murderous glare. They fled, screaming obscenities in your direction.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

He didn’t answer, unsure how to.

Running into the burning shack, you stumbled out with your bag and watched the rest of your ramshackle home burn. By the time it had been reduced to a pile of ash and cinders, Geralt had made his way down into the ravine. He avoided your gaze but stared at the curve of your neck.

“They grow bolder every year,” you informed him. “See?” Slipping off the shoulder of your tunic, you presented a livid scar not many months old. “They will be the death of me—and I have not driven any of them mad.”

“Sirens have gone up in price.”

“I have no money to pay you, witcher, to spare me.”

He grunted. “I wasn’t hired to kill you. This time.”

“Until next time, then.”

“Wait.”

You obliged, dropping your gaze slightly so he could look on your face. Wary, he only glimpsed it before averting his eyes.

“They’ll keep coming,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What…will you do?”

“Nothing. We all die at the hands of men.”

Geralt felt something strange constrict his chest. “You can go to the Edge of the World.”

“The elves have no love for my kind. We are as dangerous to them as we are to humans. But thank you for the advice.”

Geralt watched you follow the river through the ravine and wondered why he wanted to tell you to stay.

The fourth decade, he was hired yet again—by you. You tracked him for miles, following instructions given to you by a man in the town. No one had been bewitched therein, for you had bound your eyes with cloth, preventing them from being enthralled.

Only as you navigated the unused road did you remove the cloth. After a day of unceasing travel by foot, you approached Geralt’s campsite. Roach whinnied as you drew near, but she did not rear or cry out in alarm. Geralt sprang to his feet.

Having blinded yourself again with the cloth, you stood at the edge of his campsite.

“Witcher,” you called, “I have come for you.”

“Why?”

“I am being pursued.”

“By?”

“A group of armed men. They seek me out especially, not solely because I am a siren, but because I am the siren.”

Looking on your face, he saw weariness and fear lining your features. The tops of your eyebrows were drawn together, indicative of your distress.

“I have no coin,” you told him.

“You have to pay me.”

“I feared as much.” Pulling tight your threadbare coat, you asked, “May I at least share your fire? I have a penny to pay you for some food.”

Geralt hesitated. As much as he wished to help, felt compelled to—a feeling that worried him—he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a trap. A slip of his guard would be all you needed for you to enthrall him and make him do as you wished.

“I will wear the blindfold,” you assured him. “You won’t be afflicted.”

Grunting reluctantly, he tossed you a hank of meat from the spit roasting over the fire. You ate ravenously with less grace than he expected. Only then did he notice how frail you seemed beneath your coat, how few plentiful days you had seen since he last crossed your path.

A surge of feeling coursed through him, one he identified with an urge to protect. Protection wasn’t strictly in his purview, as he was more of an offensive weapon than a defensive one. Yet the urge remained as he watched you warm yourself in front of the fire, eerie with the blindfold covering nearly half your face.

“Have you found your peace?” you asked in the quiet.

“No.”

“A pity. But neither have I.”

“You don’t actually expect to find peace.”

You smiled thinly. “Surely I do. In death.”

Geralt nodded.

“There is a madness in driving men mad,” you said. “I can find no solace among people, and so, living alone in the most terrible of ways—among others—I know what it feels like to be driven mad.”

Geralt watched you as you spoke. The firelight flickered shadows across your beautiful face.

“Few sirens know it themselves. They live free in their youth, reveling in their power. Few make it beyond that. But those that do begin to run, and that marks their end.” You shook your head. “None of us choose this.”

Geralt tried to quell the emotions rising within him. He hadn’t chosen his path either, his life. Destiny had worked hard to bring him here, with all of life’s misery and suffering multiplied tenfold for his status as a witcher. If only the rumors of the elixirs and Grasses were true, that they could make him an emotionless monster.

Instead, he silently suffered beside a land siren who knew suffering intimately.

You disappeared by morning. The band of men pursuing you crossed paths with Geralt a few hours later. Choice words and a rough scuffle sent them back home.

In the fifth decade, Geralt felt drawn to the sea. There was no work there by the ocean, but he drifted there anyway, away from the turmoil of the interior. Two miles away from a fishing port, the beach was unblemished, free of humans.

Only you were there, seated upon a rock at low tide, overlooking the serene waters.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

“I have.”

Geralt mounted the rock beside you, sat down on the rough and slimy surface. You stared out at the horizon, knees held against your chest.

He dutifully avoided your gaze.

“Witcher,” you said, “you shouldn’t fear me.”

He grunted.

“I do not affect your kind.”

Frowning, he glanced up, found himself staring directly into your eyes. They were gorgeous, truly enthralling—but though his heart rate spiked at being exposed to your naked gaze, he felt no different than he had upon arriving at the beach: pained and joyous. He couldn’t believe it.

“See? You are unaffected.”

“I…why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would it have done? You needed something to fear to still consider me a monster.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re not a monster.”

“Neither are you.”

He wanted to say otherwise, but you were staring at him again. Fighting the feelings in his chest, he reached up and brushed away the hair from your eyes, curling the strands around your ear. The faint gills on your neck revealed themselves.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against yours. You kissed him back gently. You tasted salty, much to his surprise.

When he pulled back, he discovered it was because of the tears streaming down your face. He brushed them away, but you shook your head, holding his hand.

“Give me peace,” you whispered, “and return me to the sea. I was never meant for the land.”

Geralt avoided the ocean for five decades after, but the salty taste of your kiss never left him.

#Geralt of Rivia x Reader #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt of Rivia imagine #Geralt x Reader #Geralt #Geralt imagine #Witcher imagine #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #The Witcher #requests

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years

Text

Devil Didn't Bite

Revenge should have helped. Or rather, avenging Aiden’s death because it wasn’t revenge really. Lambert thought that killing the bastards who slayed his partner so mercilessly would bring him some kind of closure. It didn’t. All it did was cover his hands in even more blood but it didn’t bring Aiden back, didn’t help make him feel better. Sure, there were fewer scumbags in the world now but it didn’t change the past.

He dragged himself up to Kaer Morhen with Geralt. The bitter cold of home paired well with his ice covered heart. Nothing could thaw him out, no matter how close to the fire he sat, his brothers around him. Grief gnawed away at him, made Lambert reckless and stupid. He wanted Aiden back, even if just to be able to tell him the truth that had been lurking in his heart. There were three small words Lambert never got to say, never finding the perfect moment, always thinking there would be a better time in the future. It was all well and good until he ran out of time.

Drink, grief and a night alone never served Lambert well before. The combination made him consider the ridiculous, the impossible. He’d heard about a ritual, a summoning of a demon at a crossroad so a deal could be made. It wasn’t like he had much to offer but he’d give his everything to have Aiden back. Doing his best to remember what he’d need, he gathered a small box of necessities and walked out of Kaer Morhen in the dead of the night, heading down the track until he got to the nearest crossing of paths. It would have to be enough, he had to hope it was enough of a crossroad for the ritual to work.

No sooner had he buried the box than there was a laughing hum from behind him.

“And what does a Witcher of all things want from a demon?”

She was pretty in her own way, long faun-like legs covered in a reddish fur. Her skin was dark from the hip up, the circles and spirals painted on barely visible. From her hair protruded two large, curved horns. All in all, if Lambert had been at his peak wit, he would have said she was curvy all over and quite horny too. As it was, he turned, arms held out by his side to put himself on display.

“You can have whatever you want, I just want you to bring Aiden back.”

His request was met with a low chuckle as the demon walked around him, eyeing him up like some choice meat. At least, he hoped that was how she viewed him, as worth something.

“You don’t have a lot to offer,” she purred. “You’ll die eventually and whatever’s left of your soul will be hell-bound anyway.” That had Lambert swallowing thickly. Surely he could offer more. Before he got even as far as opening his mouth, the demon stood in front of him, eyes dark. “Scrap of a thing, aren’t you? You have nothing to offer that I could possibly want. Especially not for something as difficult as resurrecting the dead. Run along pup, don’t bother me again.”

Just like that, she was gone and Lambert was left standing in the cold darkness. His hands shook as he stood, frozen and world shattering to pieces. He always knew he wasn’t worth much but he had hoped that a demon would at least find something worth trading. Alas, not even the lowest of low, a crossroad demon, found anything worthy in him. What Aiden had seen then was beyond him. Perhaps it was best if he stayed dead, that way Lambert could pretend he was valuable in someone’s eyes and Aiden never had the time to realise he was mistaken.

The trudge back to Kaer Morhen was a blur. Lambert numbly stepped back into the kitchen, uncertain what to do now. He didn’t expect Eskel to be sat by the embers, sipping on a warm cider.

“Took a walk?” Lambert only grunted in response. He didn’t miss the way Eskel’s eyes roved over him, assessing his state. It wasn’t like Lambert had dressed up for his attempted deal. No coat, no gloves, his fingers were coated in dirt from where he’d scratched the hard ground open to bury his box. Most telling though were his feet hastily jammed into slippers rather than boots. “You haven’t been messing with Vesemir and digging up his plants, have you?”

Lambert hadn’t done that in years and he snorted half-heartedly. “In your dreams. Since he stopped trying to grow cumin I’ve stopped doing that.”

Heaving a sigh, Eskel stood up and poured another tankard of cider. He passed it to Lambert and gestured for him to sit down. “So what gives?”

Hesitant, Lambert took a sip, allowing the heat to wash through him, even if it never touched his frozen heart. At least his stomach was warming up, spreading heat into his limbs. The silence stretched and Lambert didn’t know how to explain without sounding like a pathetic idiot.

“I tried to bring Aiden back,” he blurted out in the end, Eskel’s patient silence urging him on. Now that he’d started, it was difficult to stop. “Tried to make a deal, trade myself for him with a crossroad demon.” Lambert was so glad he had a tankard in his hands, it hid the way he shook. “She said I wasn’t worth anything, let alone be enough to bring someone back.”

There were many things Lambert expected. To be berated, to be pitied, to be yelled at. What he didn’t expect was for Eskel to set his tankard aside, lean forward with his elbow on his knees and give Lambert a long, soft look. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

Miserably, Lambert nodded. He couldn’t say the words, not when he never got a chance to tell Aiden first. It was just going to have to be another regret in a long list of them that was his life. The pity party he was gearing up for was rudely cut short as Eskel sighed and stood up with a soft groan. Without any preamble he grabbed Lambert by the wrist and started walking. They marched out the door and into the cold. Eskel unerringly led them down the path Lambert had taken, reaching the crossroad. Without hesitation he called out, “Lilia?”

Just the call of her name seemed to summon the demon and Lambert crumbled internally. Throughout his whole encounter with her, the demon had probably been laughing at his stupid, half buried box, knowing it was useless.

Eskel gave the demon a disappointed frown. “What’s this I hear about you being mean to my brother?”

“He wanted a resurrection. You know those are expensive, especially when not under hell's jurisdiction.”

The hand around Lambert’s wrist disappeared and Eskel approached Lila. He could only watch as large hands settled on fuzzy hips and Eskel’s eyes softened into a pleading puppy look.

“Darling? Honeybuns? Snookums?” Lambert didn’t know how Eskel managed to make it look like he was staring up at Lilia despite behind a good head taller than her. He reached to brush a strand of hair from Lilia’s face, fondness dripping from his voice. “Sweetheart? Could you pretty please bring Aiden back?”

There was no denying that Lilia was fighting a smile, softening in Eskel’s hold. The moment Eskel started swinging their hips playfully from side to side, lips curled into a soft smile, Lambert averted his eyes. He still managed to see the fingers tenderly tracing the curve of a horn, far too intimate for his eyes. The murmured “Maybe even add him to the list too?”

A hand smacked a cloth covered shoulder but Lilia was laughing. “You and your list. It was just that darned goat to start with. Then just one other. Only one more. Starting with just one goat. Then your family. And now your brother’s boyfriend?”

“My little mistress of darkness-” Lambert heard enough and clamped hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut so he didn’t see even the shadow of what the two were doing. The bright peal of laughter from Lilia was too much to ignore though and he looked up.

“You’d better hurry, puppy. There’s trouble in your kitchen.” Lilia told him. Not needing any other excuse to escape, Lambert turned. He still cast a glance behind him and regretted it immediately. Eskel had his hands under Lilia’s thighs, her legs around his hips and back against a tree. His lips were pressed against her neck, both of them looking rather happy with the turn of events despite the cold. That was not something he needed to see so Lambert hurried back towards Kaer Morhen.

He could hear the trouble before he saw it.

“This was no portal. How did you get here?” Vesemir’s voice was loud and clear. Rounding the corner, Lambert tried not to think about why Vesemir and Geralt were in the kitchen in the middle of the night. But, more important than that was the fact that Aiden was backed into the corner, clutching a frying pan defensively.

“Aiden!”

“Lamb!”

“You know this Cat?” The question from Vesemir went ignored as Lambert pushed past them, all but colliding with Aiden in his rush.

“You’re back!” Lambert’s words were barely audible as he pulled their foreheads together, taking in Aiden’s familiar scent. “I missed you.” An hand on the back of Aiden’s neck kept him in place as Lambert gathered up the courage. “I lo-”

“The arsehole you avenged isn’t even dead,” Geralt muttered darkly under his breath. “The fuck you make me come along for?”

Lips curling into a snarl, Lambert yanked the frying pan from Aiden’s grip and hurled it at Geralt’s head. He didn’t expect a wet laugh from in front of him.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

Aiden’s now free hand wrapped around Lambert and pulled him in, finally claiming the kiss he had been teased with for so long.

#lambden #lambert/aiden #eskel/demon #eskel's monster lovin' ways #lambert #eskel #aiden #vesemir #geralt #tldr: crossroad demon can be bribed to bring aiden back

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sillyrabbit81 · 3 years

Note

Hi dear

I'm a big fan of your writing, especially the way you write Sy. Love it. If you are still taking prompts, I have one.

How would Henry and his characters react to having an Erectile dysfunction?

I think that topic is not being discussed enough.

🖤🖤🖤

Thanks for the ask Anon. I was having trouble with this ask so I discussed it with @henryobsessed and we worked on it together. To be fair, she did most of it! If you haven’t read any of her work I suggest you visit her blog and take a look at her Masterlist . She is a great friend and has a wonderful perspective and a unique style. I love her!

@henryobsessed here I have to interject and have my say too, I loved this request, it was so much fun finding creative ways to discuss a delicate subject. And for the record I may have done more characters but @sillyrabbit81 wrote more words per character HAHAHA. You are a wonderful Friend and Cavill sister you inspire and push me to be myself and I cannot be more grateful. That being said have fun reading guys 😊

Summary: Situations in which Henry and his characters suffer erectile dysfunctions

Word Count: approx 3k

Warnings: smut, masturbation (m), oral sex (m and f receiving), anal play, p in v sex, bad medical advice, incorrect use of prescription medication, bodily fluids, period sex, drunk sex, Dom/sub relationship, descriptions of violence and death,

Masterlist

Erectile Dysfunction Headcanon

Henry Cavill

Henry had been filming for months and now he was headed home for a week’s break. You sat there waiting in the tinted people mover, as Henry was ushered to the car. Lights blinded you as the door opened, he climbed in, and smiling a weary grin, he pulled you into a big bear hug. He missed you so much.

That night, he fell into your arms in a passionate embrace. You had both craved each other, missing one another’s touch. As the night progressed, you noticed things were different. For the first forty minutes you were ecstatic, he had bought you to orgasm three times. Your body was super sensitive, but every time he seemed to be close himself, the phone would ring, indicating someone needed him. You had switched it off after an hour, having enough, and wanting his undivided attention.

Henry had managed to stay hard, but after an hour and a half, it was beginning to be painful for you, and he seemed no closer. Eventually, he flopped beside you, drained from the physical exertion.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s like I’m right there, but I can’t let go.”

You brought him into your arms, and caressing his back said, “Don’t worry love. It will be ok. Just give yourself a day, and maybe we can shut your phone off. I think the stress it is causing you might be a big part of the problem.”

He huffed at the thought. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe.” He sighed and soon you heard soft snores spilling from his lips.

Walter Marshall

It had been a long day, scratch that a long month. Walter had been working day and night to catch a serial killer. That night as he came home, he couldn’t forget the latest victim. What they had found had turned his stomach. In all the years he had been on the force, nothing could have prepared him for what they found that night.

Arriving home he collapsed on the bed, he was so physically exhausted, and for once sleep immediately consumed him. He woke nearly twelve hours later to the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee. He groaned; he had forgotten it was his two-year anniversary with you. Walking into the bathroom he washed his face, staring at the blood shot eyes reflected back at him.

“Come on man, get it together. You promised her,” Walter tried to fire himself up. It was no use, he was spent. Sighing, he walked into the kitchen wrapped his arms around you and breathed in the soft floral scent in your hair. For the first time in days, he felt a spark within himself, and although the horrific images still played on his mind, he felt a slight peace. He kissed your head, relieved, something could still reach him, something was still good. “Happy anniversary, love,” he growled.

After a wonderful breakfast, Walter sat on the couch with you and the two of you cuddled while watching a movie. His eyes kept sliding shut, his exhaustion made worse by his full belly. His fatigue became even more apparent when after reaching your hand beneath the blanket, you could not bring his flaccid muscle to attention.

Normally this situation would turn heated quickly, you had a way with your tongue that often had him begging for more. But Walter couldn’t get rid of the images in his mind, the battered and dismembered bodies, and the fact they were no closer to catching the killer weighed most heavily on his thoughts.

After half an hour of you trying to arouse him, Walter said in a resigned voice, “Sorry love, I don’t think I can.” With eyes that spoke of immense pain he looked at you and asked, “Could we please just cuddle? I think I need that more than anything right now.” In that moment he knew you were the one for him. He had expected huffing or crying because you thought you weren’t good enough or you asking him to please you. Instead, you had adjusted your position, so he was tucked into your body, holding him close while your hand stroked his curls.

A calm filled his soul as you whispered, “I am here for whatever you need my love. Rest now.”

Captain Syverson

You were just about to turn the light off and go to sleep when you heard the front door open with a crash and heard a rough curse. You grin, Sy was home and wasn’t sober. You knew what that meant, rough, wild, primal fucking. You quickly turn the light off and hide under the covers, well acquainted with the game, you knew how to play your part.

“Where are ya, woman?” Sy’s voice boomed at your bedroom door. “Don’t think you can hide from me. I’m hungry!”

You peek out from under the blanket, Sy had turned the light on again and was quickly undressing. You lick your lips, watching your big furry ox as he dropped his jeans, and his cock was revealed already on its way to being hard. Turning suddenly, he saw you, and you yelped covering your face again. “I see you woman, don’t play shy!” You giggle nervously, excited, your core already dampening with arousal.

Sy pulls the covers back and smirks as he sees you’re already naked waiting for him, “You’re a cheeky little thing ain’tcha?” You bite your lip, opening your legs slightly, inviting him in. Grabbing your ankles, he pulls you down the bed and gets on his knees. A low growl emanates from his throat before he dives between your legs feasting on you with an eagerness that brings you swiftly to your peak.

Licking at his lips and sucking on his glistening whiskers, he stands up pumping his cock getting it ready. Your brows pull together, puzzled, he’s always hard when he eats you out. You don’t have time to dwell on it because he’s soon ready. Sy flips you onto your knees before he enters and begins his assault on your core.

Something is wrong though, you can feel him falling out of you. Did he cum already? Sy mumbles curses, pulling out and you turn around and see him fisting himself again as he slips his fingers inside you. In a few moments he is hard again, removing his fingers and replacing it with his cock. You sigh, relieved, as he builds his rhythm, and you hear him start to groan. But soon, it happens again, and try as he might he just can’t stay hard.

“Fuck,” Sy growls. You turn around and see the look on his face, a mix of frustration and embarrassment that melts your heart. “I think I drank too much Sugar,” he says, running his hand over his short hair. “Fuck. This hasn’t happened… Fuck!”

“Hey!” you say sharply to get his attention.

“What?” Sy replies just as sharply, but he doesn’t look at you.

“It’s fine, Baby,” you assure him. You see him jut his jaw and you reach up and cup his cheeks, making him look at you. “It’s ok. You’re just a little too drunk,” you smile and give him a soft kiss. “It happens.”

“Not to me it don’t.”

“It’s not forever,” you say. “Come on, let’s go to sleep. I’m sure it’ll be back normal in the morning.” You kiss him again and pull his head down to whisper in his ear, “maybe you could wake me up like you did last week.” You pull back and smirk raising your eyebrows.

Sy grins, still a little sheepish, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes again, “You’re a good thing, Sugar.” He kisses your forehead and says, “I love you.”

Geralt of Rivia

Geralt had never in his life had this happen before. The bar maid who had eagerly agreed to keep his bed warm on this cold winter’s night, gaped in confusion.

How could it be? She thought, All the myths about Witcher’s said they were virile and could last most of the night. She had been consumed with the thought ever since The White Wolf had arrived in the area and was quick to accept his offer to take her to his bed. She was bitterly disappointed and pouted at Geralt. Her sweet, plump lips alone should have been enough to make his cock stand, but tonight it lay unmoving, and useless.

That blasted sorcerer, it must have been him who had cast a curse on Geralt. It could be the only explanation for his inadequate showing. Looking at the poor wench beside him, Geralt pitied her. She had been most eager to satisfy his needs tonight, giving a valiant effort to arouse him. No matter, he had other ways to enjoy bringing her to the height of pleasure. Granted he didn’t normally concern himself with their needs as his own normally coincided with theirs. But tonight, his fingers, and tongue would be adequate until he broke the curse and returned to give her what she truly deserved.

Mike

The party had been epic, the drinks flowed, pot was smoked in abundance and Mike had managed to capture the attentions of a wonderful long legged blonde beauty. She helped him back to her apartment and his heart rate raised as she slowly stripped him, leaving him in all his naked glory. Laying on the bed he watched as she did a strip tease for him, her perky breasts bouncing as she jiggled her ample peach in his face.

But something was wrong, the situation was right, she was right but… he held his hand out to the two or was it three beauties before him. One took his hand as he guided her to sit in his lap. He caressed her as they kissed, his tongue violating her mouth with as much enthusiasm as his inebriated self could manage. Even with her grinding against him nothing happened.

“Shit” he swore.

The girl frowned and her lips seemed to move in twisted patterns which stilled again before she snickered. An evil cackle reverberated in her throat and her face twisted into that of a demented creature. “Can’t get it up, boy?” she taunted as she continued to laugh. She collected his clothes and managed to push him out of her bedroom and into the night. Standing in the cold with only his briefs covering his body, he stumbled as he began his walk of shame home.

August Walker

August Walker was hands down, far and away, the greatest lover you have ever had. He was the only man who had ever been able to keep up with you, your average session lasting for four hours. He was able to cum and get hard again faster than any guy you had ever been with too.

But being with August meant following The Rules. There were many Rules, rules which governed how you would dress when you saw him, how you were groomed, how you were to address him and when you could contact him. There were punishments too, but you had been a good girl, never broken any of his rules, so you never gave the punishments a thought.

One of the many Rules was absolutely no snooping. He said it was for your protection as much for his privacy. You didn’t know exactly how August made his money, but you assumed it had to be from some sort of illegal activity. So, you obeyed this rule as you did the others until one evening after a marathon session, you realised you got your period. You were shocked August hadn’t said anything, clearly he had continued to fuck you while you were bleeding. You started opening his bathroom cupboards searching for a tampon or pad or something, hoping you wouldn’t have to stuff your panties with toilet paper until you got home.

You opened the cupboard behind the mirror and were surprised to see a pill bottle with little blue tablets. You recognised them and after checking the label and confirming it you were speechless. August used Viagra? But, it didn’t seem possible that he would need it, his stamina was out of this world… unless…

“What do you think you are doing Petal?” August said from the doorway, a box of tampons and a towel was in his hands.

Quickly recovering your senses, you grabbed the box and towel out of his hands and kissed his cheek saying, “Looking for those. Thank you, August.”

Quicker than you thought possible you were bent over the counter, cheek pushed into the stone benchtop. “You found my pills,” August said coldly. Leaning his body over yours, his weight pushed down on you, holding you in place as he kicked your legs apart. You muffled a cry as you felt him hard again against your ass. “I don’t need them, for most women, Petal. But for particularly slutty, insatiable, cock hungry brats such as yourself, it’s a necessary assistance.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” you murmured, hoping he would take pity on you. Tears welled in your eyes as his finger pressed against your ass, forcing your tight muscles apart and you cried as he entered you. “I’m sorry, August.”

“My dear sweet, Pet,” August grunted as he violated you with a second finger. “If you aren’t sorry now, you will be.”

Napoleon Solo

Napoleon had been watching the siren from a distance all night. Her lithe body commanded all around to her attention. After she finished singing her call to the night goddess, he made his move. Two drinks in hand he set his sights and went in for the kill.

The two danced, drank and now were in her apartment, laid out on her bed he was happily pleasing her, mouth buried between her delicious thighs. His tongue flicked expertly over her button bringing her to climax, exciting his body, he climbed forward and for the first time that night claimed her lips. They kissed passionately until something changed, his mind grew foggy, and his cock deflated.

“Aww, is the great Casanova having trouble?” she laughed her sweet siren song changing to a bitter retort. His confused eyes tried to fix on hers as she began to distort, her last words filling his gut with fear. “Don’t worry love. I’ll take good care of you Napoleon Solo.”

Clark Kent

Clark was in college and his new friend Tommy was egging him on to take Crystal out for a date. He couldn’t understand why the cheerleader wanted to take him out. He wasn’t anything special as far as she knew, but she had been flirting with him all week.

Dinner was nice and Clark was surprised when Crystal suggested they return to her share house for dessert. Nervous as he was around her, he was pleased when after ice cream he had allowed her to talk him into a make out session in her room. They had only been in the room a few moments when he had felt strange. They had been kissing, it was enjoyable, but his stomach had begun to feel off and he felt unusually tired and weak.

The more they kissed the more frustrated he was to realise he wasn’t getting a rise out of his little friend. He noticed a pendant hanging on the wall near her bed, the green stone glowed eerily at him giving him a bad vibe. After a few more moments he politely excused himself, saying he must have eaten something off. Clarke murmured apologies and gave promises that he would call her and he left. Strangely, by the time he left her house he felt better, as if he had never felt ill at all. He was only a little upset that he had ruined his chances with Crystal, something about that pendant made him hope he would never see it again.

Charles Brandon

Charles sat in the apothecary rooms, wondering what he had gotten himself in for. The King had recommended him when Charles confided in his friend of his problem.

“So young man, why are you here?” the old man asked, his face kind but stern.

“Well, I’ve been having trouble, when I pee it burns and well, I can get an erection, but it deflates quickly and sometimes I cannot get one at all. I’m also having abdominal pain.”

The old man chuckled. After examining the affected area, he turned to his wall of potions. Pulling together some salves, and powdered herbs he turned to address the Charles. “Here, rub this on the affected area twice a day, and drink this tea three times a day.” The apothecary paused and said with a grin, “And finally, give the ladies from court a rest for a bit, you will regain your vigour again.”

Shame and chagrin filled Charles as he pulled his coverings back over his privates. Taking the medicines, he snuck out of the room trusting that no one saw him, and hoping against all hope, that this would work.

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock sits back in satisfaction, marvelling at his new invention. Based on some literature he read from the America’s he perfected the design and made it fit himself perfectly.

Having commissioned the glass tube and rubber attachments, the contraption worked by winding a small handle, creating the necessary suction to create a vacuum, pooling enough blood into his cock to make it erect. By placing a rubber ring at the base of his shaft, he found he was able to maintain an erection for approximately thirty minutes. He could even bring himself to orgasm by his own hand.

It really was a delightful invention. Now, he just had to find that little vixen of a maid and see if it worked with her too. Perhaps he should try and use her mouth first.

Tag List 1

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @eldarwen333 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @summersong69 @littlefreya @littlebirdofrivia @luclittlepond @myloveforhenrycavill @mary-ann84 @tellingyouastory @beck07990 @zealoushound @sofiebstar @sweetlybigdragonn @bloodyinspiredfuck @marantha @diegos-butt @greensleeves888 @endofalldays01 @justaboringadult @ysmmsy @offroadinjandals @littlewrenofrivia @pussyverson @foxyjwls007 @kebabgirl67

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

Take Anything From Me

Pairing: Geralt x Eskel Warning(s): knotting, oviposition, belly bulge, non-human anatomy Rating: explicit

Summary: Geralt and Eskel have been friends for years now following a contract-gone-wrong where Eskel saved his life. When they meet up again and Eskel is suffering, Geralt is more than willing to help however he can.

I have been so excited for this one, you guys!! Nel did some amazing art for this that can be found in the fic on ao3 or on her twitter!! Please go and check it out, it’s AMAZING!

Geralt's heart thumps heavily in his chest and he refuses to admit that Eskel has anything to do with it. But he can't help but smile when he sees the little island appear through the mist. It's a fairly small island, not even large enough for a lighthouse and easily missed, just outside of the ships' path in and out of the harbour. But a few years back, Geralt almost perished on those same rocks he's so happy to see now. The villagers had lied about the sirens, had said it was one or two attacking ships when it was an entire colony. Eskel had stepped in (so to speak) and saved him, and Geralt had spent the following week repaying the favour when Eskel's face was slashed in the process.

Geralt has been back to visit him often since. It started out as a means to pay Eskel back for his sacrifice, but it was clear after the first couple of visits that there was more than just a sense of obligation there. Geralt likes Eskel and he enjoys their conversations, infrequent as they can be. He looks forward to seeing him again and it's been a few months this time, so his heart beats too quickly and he finds his fingers itching against the rudder, wanting to urge the boat forward faster.

When he does come closer, he sails around to the back of the island where it's sandier and he can pull up further onto the shore. He does so, tethering the boat to keep it from drifting with the tide, and sets off over the rocks to the entry of Eskel's cave.

On the southwestern side of the island, there's a gaping hole in the rock. The sea fills it halfway but during their first interaction, Eskel showed Geralt where to go to reach a hidden ledge inside, lit by an opening in the roof of the cave. It's sandy toward the back - likely from sand falling in through cracks in the roof - with a short ledge where it meets the sea. It's where they always meet because Geralt can't remain underwater for long - even with killer whale, he doesn't have the ability to talk or breathe underwater - but Eskel can stay above the surface for long stretches of time if he's careful about it. So it works and Geralt is relieved to have a place to come back and meet with him.

Most of his belongings have been left at the inn in town, but Geralt keeps a dagger on him at all times, just in case. He jumps into the water in his clothes, swimming in from the entrance and towards the back where he knows the shelf of rock sits hidden from sight. When he reaches it, he pulls himself up, immediately kicking off his boots and stripping out of his wet trousers and shirt. He lays them out in the thin stretch of light and stretches out next to them, hoping they'll dry quickly.

He's usually the first to arrive - Eskel often waits until he hears him, then comes to the surface - but this time, Geralt finds he's waiting for much longer than usual. He tries not to worry about it, but out here in the open, who knows what could happen to Eskel. He knows there's a mer settlement further out, that this cave is just a place Eskel likes to visit, but he's never been late like this before.

So he gets up to his feet, regretting not bringing any of his potions, and peers over the edge of the rock. But the thin light streaming in isn't bright enough to illuminate beneath the surface and Geralt frowns. Reluctantly, he sits down and slips into the water.

He takes a deep breath and dives down, opening his eyes as he pushes beneath the surface, but he can't see anything in the dark. Then, from behind him, sharp hands wrap around his chest, hauling him back up. He breaks the surface and squirms, kicking his feet to avoid hitting whoever has him but to try and get away. But they don't let go and Geralt is shortly lifted out of the water and placed gently back on the rocky ledge. He turns to complain and finds Eskel, submerged up to his chin and watching him.

"Sorry to startle you," Geralt grins, "you didn't show, I got worried." At first, he's distracted by the happiness of seeing his friend again, but as Eskel doesn't respond, Geralt starts to notice a tightness around his eyes. He sits down with his arm resting on one raised knee.

"Something wrong?'' he asks and as Eskel averts his eyes, Geralt notices the aura of… sadness around him. Although it's not just sadness, it's regret and worry and something that brushes against shame and Geralt doesn't know what it is. "You're in pain," he presses but Eskel just bobs a little higher and shrugs at him.

"'S nothing."

"Doesn't smell like nothing."

"Gotta stop doing that," Eskel mumbles, flicking his tail up so it just breaks the surface of the water.

"Who's gonna look out for you if not me?" Geralt teases, but Eskel just stares down at the water. Geralt frowns and readjusts so he's propped up on one elbow, right at the edge of the ledge. "Hey," he says, "what's up?

"Told you, it's nothing. I shouldn't stay today."

"Eskel," Geralt says firmly, "I will come in there after you." Eskel huffs a soft, humourless laugh and flips his tail again.

"It's just not a good time."

"If you want me to go, I'll go, but I won't leave you if you're suffering."

"Geralt."

"Eskel. You risked your own life to save me and you think I'm just going to let you stay here alone and suffering?"

"That was years ago." Geralt just shrugs and Eskel huffs.

"Can I help?"

"No." The answer is abrupt and sharp and Geralt is taken aback by it. Eskel must notice the look on his face because he swims a little closer and ducks his head. "Sorry," he whispers, "it's just… not something you can help with." Geralt nods silently and Eskel flicks his tail again before continuing, seemingly reluctantly. "It's… our season," he explains. Geralt just looks at him in quiet confusion until Eskel lets out a huff, looking away from him. "Mating season."

"Oh." Geralt mumbles, "there has to be something I can do."

"Geralt," Eskel bares his teeth and looks surprisingly vicious for someone so bashful, all sharp teeth and anger.

"Is there nothing? I think I know you well enough now, you can tell me."

"It's not something we talk about with other people, it's… private."

"Okay." Geralt backs off, watching Eskel sadly as he swishes the water around him. "Would you tell me if there was something I could do? To help?"

Eskel is suspiciously quiet. Geralt doesn't expect him to respond, but he doesn't expect the total silence and Eskel's refusal to even look at him. He thinks back to everything he knows about mating rituals - not much outside of the monsters he hunts - to try and come up with a way to help. He knows a lot of egg-laying creatures build nests but he doubts the lack of a nest is the problem here. His own problem is that he knows very little about mer and there are so many different subspecies that any knowledge he does have is probably unhelpful to Eskel.

But there are a few things that are inherent to breeding, the most important of which is the drive to do it, an ingrained need to do it, to fuck, to nest, to reproduce. And the way Eskel is squirming, he has a good feeling that might be part of it.

His stomach clenches at the thought of it and his prick stirs in his trousers. It's just a means to an end, to help a friend in need, but he could do that. If Eskel needs to fuck, it could get painful denying himself and Geralt is here and, well, the thought of fucking Eskel is not unwelcome. It's not even strictly the first time he's thought about it. Especially during those first few weeks, Geralt would catch himself staring, enamoured with the curve of Eskel's tail or the thickness of his chest.

He catches himself now, staring at the plush curve of Eskel's lips and he forcibly drags his eyes away. Eskel is suffering and just because he's fucking stunning doesn't mean he wants Geralt drooling over him.

"If you need to fuck," he says, dropping onto his chest and swirling his hand in the water, "I can help with that." Eskel's eyes immediately snap up to his and he squirms a little, stirring the water around him.

"It's… more than just that," he mumbles, dropping his eyes again. Geralt just rolls off the ledge, splashing into the water to swim over to him.

He floats in front of him, but Eskel immediately snatches him up, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him close. He's unreasonably afraid Geralt will sink or something and while it's incredibly sweet, it's also a little frustrating when he's trying to talk to him. But as he shifts to try to push away, he can feel the swell of Eskel's cock, fully unsheathed and pressing against his thigh.

Geralt lets out a little gasp of surprise and presses against it. Eskel leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering shut and when he doesn't pull away, Geralt reaches down, brushing his fingers along the seam of his slit.

"Geralt," Eskel chokes, "it's not just- fuck. It's not just about fucking." Geralt leans in closer, reaching up with his other arm to rest it on Eskel's shoulder.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it. I don't like seeing you suffer."

"I can't ask you to do this," Eskel says and he sounds genuinely distressed.

Geralt leans back, still trapped in the strength of Eskel's arms. He smiles at him and brushes his fingers through his hair, taking in the expression of pain and frustration on Eskel's face. He's reluctant to offer a solution that doesn't include his own involvement (he doesn't look too closely at that), but he finds himself offering anyway. Anything to make Eskel feel better.

"Isn't there someone else then? Another mer? You said the colony isn't far from here."

"I can't," he says too quickly, ducking his head and turning his head so the scar is mostly hidden from Geralt's view. "They wouldn't want me."

A rush of guilt and pain washes over him and Geralt shuts his eyes. He reaches out unthinking, cupping the scarred side of Eskel's face in his hand.

"That's their loss," he says softly, brushing his thumb over the uneven skin. "Eskel, just tell me what I have to do and I'll do it."

"Geralt, it's-"

"It's not too much, I want to help."

"I need someone to take my eggs," he mumbles and Geralt bites the inside of his lip to keep from seeming too eager, but at this point his own cock has picked up and Eskel is sure to notice soon enough.

"How do you mean?" he asks, "you need to deposit them?" Eskel nods and Geralt's mind helpfully supplies the image of being filled full of eggs. His cock twitches in his soaked shorts and Eskel gives a short huff of laughter.

"I don't think that's the reaction you're supposed to have to that," he mumbles. Geralt shrugs. "This should be weird for you, humans don't take eggs, Geralt."

"Humans do a lot of things their bodies aren't made for," he hums, reaching around to tangle his fingers in the loose hairs at the back of Eskel's neck. "And I'm hardly human anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"More than sure. Anything I can do to help," he says but at this point is becoming less about strictly helping out a friend and more about fucking Eskel. He leans in tentatively and Eskel doesn't pull away when he kisses him.

The arms around his waist cinch tighter and Eskel groans against his lips, kissing him back hard. Geralt's head swims with his eagerness, and he's barely able to drop his arm to circle Eskel's neck before they're moving and he's pressed up against the stone ledge. Eskel makes no attempt to put him back on land this time though, pressing right up against him and shifting his hips to rub his cock against Geralt's thigh.

He reaches down with one hand, slipping under the waistband of Geralt's shorts and pulling them off of him. Once they've been discarded back on the rock, he slides his hand under Geralt's thigh, lifting it up so Geralt can wrap his legs around him. The first brush of their cocks together has Geralt squirming, groaning against Eskel's lips even as sharp claws press into the underside of his thigh. He wants him so badly he can hardly breathe.

Eskel nips at his lip and Geralt hadn't realized how sharp he is until now. But the pain only serves to send him higher, travelling straight to his already needy cock. He manages to get a hand between them, taking both their cocks and stroking them together as Eskel's mouth drifts down his neck and along the expanse of his shoulder. He nips and sucks at the skin and Geralt is helpless in his grasp to do anything but moan and rut into his own fist, pressing hard against Eskel's cock.

"Fuck," Geralt mumbles, "that's good, don't- mm, don't stop."

Eskel presses a little firmer with the following bite and Geralt groans loudly. He'll break the skin if he's not careful, but a part of Geralt likes that, welcomes the idea of a scar from Eskel, a mark to remind him of this in case it never happens again. And he's certain it won't.

But Eskel writhes against him, rutting up into his hand and squirming with every press of Geralt's fingers. He wants it so badly Geralt isn't sure how he held out so long, especially having him pressed against him like that, and he's determined to make it good for him.

Tentatively, he slips his fingers to the tip of Eskel's cock, pressing against the slit. Eskel groans softly, burying his face in Geralt's neck. Geralt presses further, letting the tip of his finger slip inside and Eskel's hips jerk hard.

"You like that?" Geralt asks breathlessly and Eskel nods against him.

"Yeah," he groans, "please, yeah."

"Shh," I got you, "Geralt hums, "he slips a hand around the back of Eskel's neck, rubbing gently at the base of his skull as his finger pushes deeper into his cock. Eskel jerks again, pushing up, forcing himself onto the intrusion with a gasp.

Geralt lets him, rubbing along the inside of him and testing out various speeds and pressure. When he switches to his thumb, Eskel bucks against him, apparently eager for the thickness, and Geralt wraps his remaining fingers around his cock, stroking him at the same time as he fingers him. Eskel squirms and moans and Gerslt's own cock throbs with need against Eskel's hips, even the coolness of the water isn't enough to deter it. But he keeps his attention on Eskel, revelling in the pressure when Eskel jerks against him.

"Is that good? Geralt asks, "do you want more?" Eskel looks up at him with pleading eyes and Geralt tips forward to kiss him as he slips off his cock entirely.

Geralt rubs at the head of his cock with two fingers, until Eskel starts rutting up against him and he huffs softly as he pushes inside. Eskel moans, biting down on Geralt's bottom lip and a bolt of pleasure goes straight to Geralt's cock. He lets out his own responding moan and Eskel presses close, wrapping one arm around his neck and pushing webbed fingers up into his hair. They shift against each other, neither moving much but to rock forward into the other and Geralt moves only automatically, so overwhelmed by the press of Eskel's body all around him.

He aches for more, to have Eskel's hand around him, his mouth, to feel that cock pressing into him and splitting him open. Fuck, and Eskel is big. He's not highly educated on the size of mer cocks, but he's willing to bet Eskel is above average. And the thought of him stretching him and shoving into him is incredible.

He lets out a little whine and Eskel shoves him back hard. The rock bites into his back, but Geralt barely notices it as the hand that was firmly wrapped around his side pulls away to wrap around his cock. And Geralt could cry at the relief it brings, rutting up hard against his palm and moaning into his mouth. Eskel is normally so careful when they touch, always aware that his claws are much sharper than human fingernails and doing his best to keep them away from Geralt's skin as much as he can. But in his desperation, he's clumsy and his claws brush along the underside of Geralt's cock as he moves to wrap around the head.

Geralt can feel the way he moves to pull back, but he brings him closer again, groaning to assure him it's fine. More than fine, even, but Eskel pulls away, breathing heavily as he breaks the kiss.

"Geralt," he breathes, "fuck, please-" he lets out a shuddering moan as Geralt presses into him again, "I need to fuck you, I need you-" he devolves to rambling as he presses his face into Geralt's neck, stroking him and squeezing hard as he nips at his skin.

"Yeah," Geralt huffs, tipping his head to the side, "yeah, give me that cock, please-" Eskel snarls against him and in one swift motion he's got his hands on Geralt's hips, lifting him back up onto the rock.

Geralt sits with his feet in the water as Eskel abruptly changes his mind. His fingers dig into Geralt's hips and he holds him forward as he rises up and presses his face between his thighs. He nips at Geralt's skin, licking over the marks and making his way up, temptingly close to Geralt's aching cock.

Precome beads at the tip and Eskel flicks his tongue out, licking it away before pushing himself up further and sinking down on him fully. Geralt doubles over, fingers pushing through Eskel's hair to steady himself as he rocks up involuntarily, seeking the wet heat of Eskel's mouth. As Eskel pulls up, his teeth graze the length of Geralt's cock and he almost loses it completely, moaning and twitching under his grip.

He still wants more, wants to feel Eskel inside of him, feel anything inside of him, so he reaches down, spreading his thighs to press a hand down between them. He nudges against his hole, testing the openness and it's dry, but doesn't hurt when he presses against himself. He doesn't bother with soft touches as he might normally, too impatient to do anything but press into himself.

He gets a finger in up to the first knuckle before it's too dry to continue and thrusts shallowly like that, groaning at the twin pleasures. Eskel, Evidently, is also encouraged by the thought of it, sucking harder so Geralt's eyes roll back in his head. One of the hands on his hips disappears, shortly pressing against his hole, dripping with Eskel's own slick and Geralt groans at the idea of opening himself with it. He moves aside so Eskel can spread it over him, then rubs it into his hole, pushing deeper now than before.

He makes himself slick with it, pressing two fingers in as soon as he is able, but it'll take more than that before he can comfortably take Eskel's cock, even as slick as it is. But it feels good fingering himself as Eskel plays with his cock in his mouth, rising up so suckle at the head before taking him all the way down again so Geralt's weak thrusts push him into Eskel's throat.

Abruptly, Eskel pulls off completely and Geralt thinks he's done something wrong until he's pushed back against the stone and Eskel lifts one thigh, draping it over his shoulder. He pulls Geralt toward the edge of the ledge, sinking further into the water as he presses his face back between Geralt's thighs, flicking his tongue against his skin before licking over his hole.

Geralt goes limp, letting Eskel shove him any which way to better access his hole, licking over it and teasing the ring with the tip of his tongue. When he finally pushes in, Geralt cries out, fingers clenching in his own hair as he tries with no luck to push further onto him.

"Eskel," he groans, "please, I need you-"

Eskel just hums against him and plunges deeper, deeper than any human tongue could reach, and Geralt whimpers, arching off the stone. Eskel's palm presses against his stomach, holding him down and Geralt can only squirm against it as he's taken apart from the inside out.

"Please," he gasps, "fuck, please Eskel, I can take it." Eskel hums against him and Geralt's pleas turn to unintelligible rambling as Eskel's tongue thrusts into him again and again.

Then, carefully, Eskel withdraws, kissing the base of his cock and down his thighs. He lets Geralt's legs drop again, smoothing his hands up them. He hauls Geralt closer and pushes himself up out of the water, bracing himself on the rock on either side of Geralt's torso. He shifts to lean on one arm, brushing the knuckles of the other hand against Geralt's hole and testing the stretch.

Apparently pleased, he reaches down to grip his own cock, stroking himself slowly before pressing the thin head against Geralt's hole and pushing in. He takes very little time to adjust before shifting back onto both hands and rocking forward. Geralt groans as Eskel slides into him, stretching him further as he settles against him. The burn is faint, eased by the cool slick coating Eskel's cock and seeping from his slit and Geralt inhales deeply, shutting his eyes as Eskel shifts impatiently.

"You can move," Geralt rasps, "I can take it. Fuck, I want it." He knows how desperate the urge can be, has been under spells meant to mimic the same urge, and he wants Eskel to take what he needs, not to restrain himself for Geralt's sake.

Eskel pulls back and snaps his hips forward hard and when Geralt just moans and reaches up to grasp at his shoulders, it seems to be encouragement enough. Eskel keeps his pace even, steady but hard, and Geralt squeezes around him, pushing himself further onto his cock. Eskel fills him more than he could have thought and Geralt's foggy with lust, spurred on by the stretch of Eskel's cock inside him.

Eskel leans low over him, kissing him again, but the motion is jolted by his thrusts. Their lips brush and Eskel nips at him, sharp teeth just barely catching so he doesn't risk cutting him and it sends a shock straight through him. Geralt wants him to bite him, wants to feel those teeth sink into his shoulder, right where it connects with his neck. And he's not an idiot, he knows enough about mer culture to know what that means and to know Eskel wouldn't, least of all in the heart of the moment, but he wants it.

He groans softly, wrapping his arms around Eskel's neck and pulling him against him. His thrusts slow and Eskel hums when Geralt kisses him. He knows this is a one-time thing, but feeling Eskel's mouth against his own, slow enough now that he can kiss him properly, is something he won't ever forget. And maybe he's been trying too hard to not feel anything, but when Eskel looks at him, something rises to the surface that Geralt has been carefully avoiding for years now.

He loses himself in the kiss to keep from thinking too much about it, sliding one hand down over Eskel's hip to bring him closer, deeper. But the angle's a little off and he can't get as deep as he wants him. And he wants to feel Eskel's cock in him for the rest of the month.

"Fuck."

Eskel snaps his hips and Geralt whines against his mouth. He pushes his hips down, trying without any luck to push Eskel deeper and Eskel seems to realize what he's angling for. He pulls out and for a second, Geralt is devastated until Eskel leans over him, kissing his stomach.

"Roll over for me?" he asks and Geralt immediately squirms into place, turning onto his stomach. Eskel hums happily and sinks a little lower, pressing his tongue between Geralt's cheeks and licking over him briefly before hoisting himself back up.

He fits himself against Geralt's body, sliding his prick between his cheeks and Geralt shudders at the touch, pushing up to meet him and clenching his hands into fists.

"Please," he whines.

He offered to help because he knows Eskel needs it and because he likes sex - with anyone - but he wasn't expecting it to be like this. He feels empty without Eskel's cock in him, wants him to fill him and fuck him until he can't breathe anymore. When Eskel pushes in, Geralt stills, holding his breath at the first press of Eskel's cock against his hole. He only remembers to breathe when Eskel runs his knuckles down his back tenderly.

Eskel pushes in, sinking deeper than before and Geralt nearly cries when he feels the base of Eskel's cock slip in, spreading him even further. There's a ridge there that he couldn't feel before, but it's obvious now, swollen and right at the base of him. Eskel has a fucking knot. Geralt's own cock hangs heavy between his legs, twitching at the thought of Eskel buried inside him and swollen. He moans into his own arm and nearly chokes as Eskel rocks into him.

He's much deeper this time, deeper than Geralt's ever taken anything before and it makes his head spin. Eskel starts slower this time, letting Geralt adjust to the new position and even though he wants it quick and hard, he's happy for the brief change of pace. Because Eskel leans over him like this, draped over his back with his nose pressed into Geralt's skin. His breath comes in hot, wet puffs and it feels good.

He keeps one hand on Geralt's hip and the other remains planted on the ground, bracing him. The hand on Geralt's hip presses into his skin, holding tight but careful not to puncture, and it steadies him, keeps him calm as the power of Eskel's hips threatens to drive him insane.

Geralt's already dizzy with lust but when Eskel picks up the pace, he nearly collapses against the ground, unable to do anything but moan and shove his hips back against him. His thighs spread, knees scraping against the rock, but it's all a blur; he hardly even notices he's moving until his cock is brushing against the stone as well and he gives a weak little thrust, desperate for any friction. Eskel shifts above him and the hand on his hip slips around to his stomach.

"Can I touch you?" he asks and Geralt lets out a low moan, nodding.

"Yes, fuck, please-"

He doesn't realize how worked up he is until Eskel gets a hand around him and he barely touches him before Geralt's coming, rocking forward into Eskel's hand and spilling all over the ground beneath him.

"Shit," Eskel groans, "fuck, Geralt." He presses his face between Geralt's shoulder blades. His hips jerk and he plants both hands on the ground, claws cutting into the layer of dirt. "I'm gonna come, can you-" he jerks hard, whining against Geralt's skin, "can you take my knot?"

"Yeah," Geralt huffs and Eskel thrusts hard.

Geralt holds his breath as the knot catches on his rim and then with another forward thrust, it slips in. The stretch burns a little, but the thought of being filled so completely only makes him want it more. To know this is Eskel inside him, all around him.

Eskel shifts behind him and while the press of his cock feels amazing post-orgasm, Geralt's head is clearer and when his knees scrape against the stone, it's uncomfortable. Eskel isn't light where he's draped over him, and while Geralt wouldn't in a million years ask him to move, he would like to shift a little. Eskel seems to notice and wraps an arm around his chest, fingers slipping through Geralt's chest hair as he hums against his shoulder.

"Come on," he whispers, and Geralt doesn't know what's happening until Eskel lifts him and pushes off the rock, landing softly in the water. He keeps Geralt's head above water, submerged about halfway up his chest and Eskel nuzzles at his neck.

"Might be a bit," he hums, "tell me if you get cold." A shiver runs down Geralt's spine as Eskel's lips brush the shell of his ear, but he doesn't think he could ever feel cold wrapped up in him like this.

Eskel's arms come up under his thighs, keeping him buoyant so the position isn't uncomfortable and Geralt finds it's quite nice to just lean back against his chest and shut his eyes. Like this, his hearing is his main focus; the gentle crash of waves, sea birds in the distance, Eskel's heartbeat under his head. He breathes lightly, though every little shift has him gasping as Eskel's knot catches pulling against him.

And it's not long before he's antsy again, shifting intentionally to try and press his cock up against his prostate. And when it does hit, Geralt melts into him. He stretched so full of Eskel's cock he can barely think and his own cock bobs with the swirl of the water, hard and needy after only a very short time.

"Sorry," he mumbles but Eskel just hums.

His thumbs rub against Geralt's thighs, soft and gentle and Geralt tries to focus on that instead of the want that fills his veins again. Eskel is soft and gentle with him, despite what Geralt can only manage is an overwhelming orgasm.

"What does it feel like?" he asks and Eskel just makes a non-committal mumbling noise at him.

"Incredible," he breathes, "not like before. 'S like-" Eskel pauses, taking in a shuddering breath, "like reaching the peak and just… staying there. Goes down gradually but- fuck, Geralt it feels amazing. 'S been a long time."

"Glad I could help," Geralt teases. Eskel shifts, bringing Geralt's thighs together and scooping one arm under him so the other is free to wind around his middle, one webbed hand slipping up his chest. He runs his fingers through Geralt's hair, and Geralt hums softly with each pass of his hand, stretching up to nuzzle into Eskel's neck.

"Glad it was you," Eskel murmurs, dipping to kiss the top of his head. "Didn't know what you'd think of me if you knew."

"'S hot," Geralt huffs and Eskel scoffs at him but presses into the touch when Gerlt raises a hand to cup his cheek.

"Thank you."

"Wouldn't do it for just anyone," Geralt breathes and it feels like a confession. Even as the words leave his lips, his heart is hammering in his chest.

"Geralt-" Eskel starts but Geralt interrupts. He pulls Eskel's face down to him, twisting awkwardly to press a kiss to his lips.

"I'm glad it was me, too."

Eskel kisses him soft and slow despite the awkward angle, but there's a heat beneath it, a neediness that returns despite Eskel's softening cock.

It doesn't take much longer for the knot to go down, but Eskel keeps him firmly in his arms and when he shifts to lift Geralt's leg again, his cock thrust deep and Geralt realizes he's still hard. He sinks all the way into him, hooking his jaw over Geralt's shoulder.

"Are you ready?" he asks and Geralt is hot and hard and aching for anything Eskel can offer him, so he nods and throws his head back, turning to meet Eskel's mouth in a brief kiss. "It's a lot if you've never done it before, are you still okay with this?"

"Yeah," Geralt huffs, "yeah, I want this."

"Okay."

Eskel gets both arms under his thighs again, holding him up so he can't sink all the way into him when he thrusts and Geralt groans at the denial. He tries to push his hips down but Eskel just laughs softly and nips at his shoulder.

"Patience," he mumbles, "you'll get it soon enough." But Geralt wants it now and Eskel's promises hardly stop his cock from aching.

This time, when he squirms, Eskel gives him a warning bite and pleasure jolts straight through him, making his cock twitch and his back arch. For a second, Eskel is still against him before leaning down again pointedly and pressing his teeth to Geralt's skin. Not, he notes, close enough to his neck to be considered a mating mark, and something about that is disappointing. Eskel bites down and he forgets all about it, squirming on his cock and reaching down to grab his own.

"Wanna come," he mumbles, stroking himself, but Eskel stops him with a half-growled not yet. Heat rolls up his spine and Geralt lets go of his cock immediately, reaching back to wind his arms around Eskel's neck.

Eskel fucks into him at a maddeningly slow pace, and although Geralt savours the drag of his cock, he needs more. But Eskel seems to be building up, his hips pushing a little deeper, a little quicker. Then, just as Geralt thinks he'll lose his mind before Eskel fucks him properly, he stops altogether.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Now?"

"Mm. It's… fuck, Geralt it's never felt like this before, I don't know- I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," he promises, smiling back at him. Eskel squirms a little, his hips snapping forward seemingly unintentionally. "You need to release them," Geralt guesses and Eskel nods.

"Yeah, it's-" Eskel groans and jerks against him, "fuck, Geralt-"

"I'm ready," Geralt confirms, "do it."

Eskel pulls out and Geralt groans at the loss, but then he's being turned around and pulled back into Eskel's arms. They're chest to chest now and Geralt forgets to breathe when he looks up at Eskel like this. The pure need shows on his face and Geralt reaches up, wrapping his arms around the back of Eskel's neck while his legs wrap around his waist.

"Okay like this?" he asks and Eskel nods, breathing slowly.

"Yeah. 'S good. Like being able to see you," he smiles bashfully and Geralt presses up to kiss him even as he reaches behind him to wrap a hand around Eskel's cock.

Eskel groans low, thrusting awkwardly into Geralt's hand and he breaks the kiss to huff, now. It's urgent and desperate and Geralt's cock throbs between them at the sound of it. He doesn't know much about this process, but Eskel sounds pretty adamant. He guides the head of Eskel's cock to his hole again, pressing him in just a little and Eskel growls low in his throat.

He slides in deep, settling as far as he can reach, and Geralt feels like he's choking on it. For a moment, there's nothing, though he can practically feel Eskel vibrating around him. He feels the instant the egg passes, stretching him open and pushing all the way up into him. It's a heady feeling, like having another cock shoved in him while he's already being fucked, only it doesn't pull out. He tries to focus on the egg, to feel when it leaves Eskel's body and settles in his own, but he can't feel it and soon enough he's distracted by a second.

It stretches him in the same way as the first, and Geralt can feel himself expand just a little to make space. They come consistently after that and Geralt's cock has taken a very serious interest in the process. He aches for any touch, but all he can do is thrust weakly against Eskel's stomach. Strong arms hold him in place and Eskel has his head on Girl's shoulder, eyes clenched shut as he deposits the eggs inside him.

But, as Geralt takes them, Eskel's hips start to roll just a little, thrusting into him lightly and he can feel Eskel's breath become heavy again.

"Does it feel good?" he asks and Eskel groans against his shoulder.

"Not normally, doesn't normally feel like this. Guess normally I'm not with someone-," he mumbles, and Geralt is quick to pick up on the meaning.

"Feels good with me?" he asks and Eskel huffs a laugh and turns to kiss his neck.

"Feels incredible," he breathes. "Never understood why mer travel so far for breeding festivals, but- fuck yeah, it's really good." He punctuates the words with another sharp thrust just as another egg is released and Geralt isn't sure how many more will fit.

He's experimented with toys and fucked people with every sized dick imaginable, but he's never felt so full like this before and when he glances down, he can see the result of it. His stomach swells and he slips his hand over it, he can feel the individual eggs inside him. It should be weird, should make him squirm with discomfort, but the only thing he feels is a vague sort of satisfaction and pleasure.

He likes the look of his stomach, swollen with Eskel's eggs and he can't keep from touching it, feeling as the eggs shift inside him when another is added. And Eskel has noticed. He hums encouragingly as Geralt touches his skin, gently feeling the outline of the eggs though it doesn't show from the outside. He knows Eskel is watching, can feel him looking at him when he does it, but he seems pleased, kissing Geralt's shoulder and neck and nuzzling against him.

Geralt doesn't get much warning when it's over, and it's hard to tell because Eskel's thrusts are nearly constant now, the roll of his hips and Geralt can only imagine his cock inside him, slipping between the eggs that fill him. Something about that is stupidly arousing and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Eske's collar bone.

"Wanna come," he groans, "please, touch me."

"'S too late," Eskel hums apologetically, "you have to expel them first and it can take a lot of energy, I don't want to risk you like that." He brushes his knuckles against Geralt's cheek and Geralt whines softly, shutting his eyes.

"Are you gonna come?" he asks.

"If you want me to. If you think you can take it again."

"Gonna knot me again?" Geralt asks, pressing back onto him, "gonna fill me up and breed me?" He's rambling now, needy and being denied even as he rocks his hips against Eskel's stomach. Eskel groans and wraps a hand around the base of Geralt's cock, squeezing him and holding his cock away from his body.

"Fuck, you don't make it easy," he breathes.

"Then fuck me," Geralt hums, "fuck me, please."

Eskel squeezes his ass, claws digging into the flesh, and hauls Geralt against him, thrusting quick and hard. Geralt can tell he needs it too, can feel it in every shift of Eskel's hips and in the way he clings so tightly to him.

"You're gonna-" Eskel gasps and groans, dropping his forehead against Geralt's shoulder. "You're gonna have to expel them soon if you want my knot. Not gonna be able to hold out much longer."

"I wanna keep them," Geralt breathes, "for a little longer." Eskel moans and his hips stutter and Geralt wants him so fucking badly. Wants Eskel to knot him with the eggs still inside. "Please," he whines, clenching around his cock, "Eskel please."

Eskel growls low and with the next thrust, Geralt can feel the swell of his knot growing. It bumps against his rim and Geralt pushes his hips down to try and take it, but Eskel pulls back again. The next thrust pushes a little deeper, stretching Geralt around his knot but not pushing all the way in. He pushes a little deeper with each thrust until Geralt's thighs are tight around his waist and Eskel holds him so tight he can hardly move.

Geralt's cock throbs between them, so hot and needy that he can hardly stand it because Eskel refuses to touch him. And when Eskel finally pushes inside him, Geralt can feel the eggs jostle inside of him as Eskel's knot spreads him wide again.

Geralt is so unimaginably full he can barely think. His cock throbs and Eskel slides in and out and he's barely aware of anything else. He wants to come but Eskel holds him in such a way that he can't rub his cock on him anymore and it's maddening. Eskel's nose presses into his neck and he's breathing hard, grazing his teeth against Geralt's skin.

"Gods," he groans, "wanna mark you up, make everyone know your mine-" he growls and Geralt clenches around him, biting hard on his own lip to keep from coming. He shudders in Eskel's arms, whining and vaguely aware that he's asking Eskel to bite him.

"Please," he moans, "Eskel please, I want it. Make me yours- I'm yours, Eskel fuck-"

Eskel nuzzles against him, nipping at his shoulder but refusing to bite harder and Geralt groans with it. He needs it like he's never needed anything in his life and he might go mad without it. Eskel soothes him, biting down on his shoulder, dragging his teeth along the line of his neck.

"You feel fucking amazing," Eskel hums, "so fucking good around my cock, Geralt. Fuck. I'm not gonna last long if you keep it up." Geralt doesn't care. He wants Eskel in him, wants to feel that full-body shudder that runs through him as his knot swells and he spills inside him. He shoves his hips back again, clenching intentionally this time. He didn't realize how close he was until Eskel's prick rams up against his prostate again and he cries out, dropping his head back with a whine.

"I'm gonna come," he rasps, "Eskel please let me, please- I can push them out, I can, please, I want to come-" Eskel bites down on him, growling against his skin and Geralt's cock jerks hard.

"Hold on a little longer," Eskel breathes, "you feel so good like this. Just a little longer-"

Geralt hangs on as long as he can, squeezing hard around him and clenching his hands in Eskel's hair to try and hold himself together, but as Eskel's knot slips into him again, he shoots off, coming uncontrollably. Eskel shifts to let Geralt rut against him and he does, working himself through it and pressing down on Eskel's knot.

When he's finished, Eskel's chest is while with come and Geralt can't even hold his head up on his own. One of Eskel's hands slips up to the back of his head, holding him up with a soft little kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Gonna come," Eskel warns him. "Gotta get you somewhere-" he's cut off by his own moan and his hips snap forward hard.

Eskel tips onto his back, flicking his tail to propel them back toward the shore. There's a lower ledge in the rock, only covered by a couple of inches of water and he pulls them onto it, rolling them onto their sides and pulling Geralt up against him. Geralt shivers at the air against his skin but then Eskel's kissing him, soft and sweet but demanding and urgent at the same time. He bites his lips, wraps his arm around Geralt's waist and pins him against him.

"Fuck," he whispers, lips parted and breathing against Geralt's mouth, "gonna come."

"Come," Geralt whispers, "I want it." And he does.

Eskel jerks against him as he buries himself deep, spilling inside him. Geralt's eyes flutter as the knot swells inside him and he shifts to get comfortable, adjusting to the size of it. His body is heavy, but he wants this to be good for Eskel. He winds his fingers into his hair, kissing his neck and his mouth and sliding a hand between them to play with his nipples.

Eskel writhes against him, bucking hard and groaning and Geralt holds him closer. When Eskel finally stills, he kisses him. There's no heat this time, no need or want, just pure tenderness and the softness of exhaustion bleeding into his motions. Geralt melts into him, making no attempt to move other than to fit into the space Eskel makes when he moves.

He nearly falls asleep before Eskel nudges him, humming softly.

"Hey," he breathes, "don't pass out on me yet. We still gotta get those eggs outta you."

"Hmm," Geralt mumbles, "talk to me, tell me how it feels."

"Incredible," Eskel whispers, "Geralt you have no idea. 'S never been- never been like this, you feel so good. Wanna bury myself in you and stay there forever."

"Not gonna complain."

Eskel huffs a laugh and kisses him again, bringing a hand up to brush the hair out of Geralt's face. It's fallen out of its tie and is sticking to the sweat and water on his face, but Eskel pushes it away, smiling softly at him. He shifts closer, pressing his nose to Geralt's and shutting his eyes.

Geralt doesn't sleep, not really, but he drifts, only vaguely aware of Eskel still against him, talking him softly through it and then-

"Geralt," he breathes, "love?" Geralt stirs, opens his eyes to look at him and Eskel smiles. "Hey, told you you'd be tired. Are you ready to push them out?"

"Are you-?" he asks and Eskel nods.

He shifts, slipping from Geralt's body with a moan, and Geralt can feel his come dripping out of him. He squirms and his cock stirs where it's been lying soft against his thigh. Geralt pulls himself up to his knees, but Eskel reaches out to stop him.

"It'll be easier in the water," he says and Geralt doesn't get a chance to respond before he's scooped back onto Eskel's arms and they're splashing into the water again.

Eskel holds him close and Geralt stretches out, enjoying the feeling of the cool water on his skin. Eskel's hand comes down to rest on his stomach, rubbing soft circles into the skin. He turns Geralt around and Geralt rests a head on his shoulder, letting Eskel's hands roam over his body. Eskel presses down on his stomach just lightly and Geralt groans.

"Ready?" Eskel asks, "you just have to push."

The eggs feel strange coming out of him, similar to having a cock slip out of him, but again and again. He's stretched by each of them and it doesn't take much before his cock is twitching to life again, firming up without so much as a touch.

"Keep pushing," Eskel hums, "just a couple more and I'll touch you. Do you want to come again, Geralt?"

He nods, unable to find words as another egg slips from his body. They sink as he expels them, and Eskel continually rubs his stomach, kisses his neck. But Geralt is exhausted and his body begs for rest and Eskel has to readjust him. He presses one hand to Geralt's stomach, helping to push the eggs lower and make it easier.

When the final one slips free, Eskel wraps a hand around his cock, stroking him quick and hard until Geralt jerks and comes, arching off his chest with a cry. Eskel turns him and kisses him. He nips at Geralt's neck, right where he'd put a mating bite and Geralt waits for a pain that doesn't come. But he can't expect that from Eskel, not after keeping silent about his feelings for so long.

Eskel lifts him up, sitting him on the rock ledge and Geralt immediately lies back and rolls over. Eskel gives a soft huff of a laugh and pushes himself up after him. shuffling over to curve around him. He's warm and solid and When Eskel's tail winds between his legs, Geralt shuts his eyes and hum.

"'S good," he mumbles and Eskel laughs.

"You're incredible." Eskel nuzzles against the back of his neck, throwing an arm around Geralt's waist and it's the last thing Geralt knows before he falls asleep.

When he wakes, Geralt is stiff and aching, back on land again, but Eskel is pressed against his back and Eskel kisses the back of his neck. His nose traces a line down his neck and along the back of his shoulder.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hm?"

"You asked me to mark you," Eskel says softly, "why?"

"I- I know how important it is to you - to mer - I didn't mean to make light of it, I just- You're important to me, Eskel. I haven't been as open as I should be, but you're… I wanted you to. Not just to bite me but to claim me- fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Eskel hums. "Geralt, I couldn't- to tie you to me, to this place and nowhere else-"

"Eskel?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want… this?"

"Do I want to fuck you until you literally pass out? yeah. Yeah, that was incredible. You're incredible. Shoulda told you before, didn't think you'd be interested."

"You saved my life and that week I spent here," Geralt huffs a laugh, slipping his fingers between Eskel's. "I didn't want to leave."

"Don't have to," Eskel hums, "not now, not ever if you don't want to."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Geralt mumbles, settling again against Eskel's chest.

"'M not. I like having you here."

"Mmhm, must be really popular having a Witcher for a friend."

"They feel safer with you around. I feel safer with you around." Geralt snorts and Eskel muzzles up against him. "What do I have to do to prove it to you, hm?" He kisses the back of Geralt's neck and slides to the junction of his neck and shoulder, kissing the skin there.

"Stay for a while," Eskel hums, "maybe we can talk more about that bite."

Geralt's eyes flutter shut at the light touch and he sighs as Eskel pulls him close. He doesn't know how to make this work and maybe that's part of the reason he never said anything until now. But Eskel seems convinced and after tonight, Geralt is willing to trust him with pretty much anything.

#geralt x eskel #mer!eskel #fic with art #rex writes

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

Note

Hi Love!

Can I ask for Lambert having soft spot on reader and actually taking care of her but still being asshole around her? And Eskel developing feelings for her, but feeling really bitter about her relation with Lambert. And one day wolves were drinking together and Lambert blurted out that reader may be interested in Eskel because she often talks about him and stares at him from afar.

A/N: This might have turned into a two part-er but I’m not sure, it just depends on how everyone likes/doesn’t like this, but anywho I did change this a bit because I wanted to keep Eskel’s feelings/reactions in character but I hope you like this! Also, I really enjoy making Lambert the reader’s wing man xD

***

You hummed softly as you brushed Scorpion’s coat. You had busied yourself all afternoon with tending to the animals in the stable at Kaer Morhen, wanting to help Eskel out and take some of the responsibility off of him. He was usually the one to tend to the animals after all. He claimed the goats- Lil Bleater especially -and he seemed to have an affinity for the few hens kept in the stable as well as the horses. Even Roach, who rarely let anyone aside from Geralt touch her, preferred Eskel’s company.

“Hope you’re gonna brush out mine next.” Lambert spoke as he moved into the stable atop Champion, his horse. “Wouldn’t want ole Champ feeling left out, would you?”

“You can brush him while I finish up Scorpion’s mane.”

“That’s not fair. You’re picking favorites.” He climbed down from Champion. He guided the horse down to the stable on the very end, peeking into Roach’s stable. “Roach didn’t even get brushed down!”

“That’s because Roach is very picky about who brushes her. If Geralt was here, she’d be okay with me brushing her. But since he isn’t around, she wants nothing to do with me.” You glanced over to Roach’s stall. The mare was peering out of her stall, eyeing you. “She’s only giving me attention now because she knows I have carrot pieces in my pockets.”

“I swear, Geralt keeps picking meaner and meaner horses every time.” Lambert sighed, shaking his head. He approached you, holding his hand out. “Gimme one of those pieces of carrots for Champ.”

“Brush him down.” You said as you placed the chunk of carrot into the witcher’s palm.

Lambert rolled his eyes. He moved back to Champ, patting the horse’s shoulder.

“Sorry, boy. Guess it doesn’t surprise me Y/N doesn’t like you much.”

“Lambert.”

“Her favorite is Scorpion. Big surprise, I know.” He muttered, unbuckling the saddle.

“I don’t pick favorites!” You exclaimed, placing the brush and picked a different one up for Scorpion’s mane.

“Sure you do! Why else would you spend all day out here in the stables of all places tending to a bunch of stinking animals and brushing down one horse?”

You glared at Lambert out of the corner of your eye.

“Don’t worry, pipsqueak. Your secret is safe with me.” Lambert put the saddle over a couple bales of hay and turned to face you, a sly grin coming to his lips. “But oh, the stories these horses could tell if they talked.”

“Shut up, Lambert.”

“All the conversations we’ve had around them.” He snickered, pulling off the saddle blanket and throwing it over the wall to Champion’s stall. Lambert paused to think about the different conversations. He scrunched his nose up. “Like a couple of teenage girls.”

“Lambert!” You groaned.

“I’m just teasing you, kid.” Lamberet chuckled. He picked up the brush you had put down and began to brush off Champion.

“You’re a dick.”

“That’s why you love me.”

The doors to the stable opened and in walked Eskel.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Lambert said.

“Lambert. Y/N.”

You gave the dark haired witcher a timid smile, nodding your head once in acknowledgement.

“Y/N here’s spent nearly all day in here with your mangy animals, Eskel.” Lambert told him.

“They aren’t mangy.” Eskel sighed, moving towards Scorpion. The horse perked his ears up upon seeing Eskel. “Thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it. You’ve saved me quite a bit of work.”

“It was nothing, Eskel.” You shook your head with a smile. “I was already in here brushing my own horse down. Figured I’d help out.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“It was no bother.”

Eskel nodded, a little smile tugging at the scarred corner of his lips.

“Thank you again.”

You meant to do the polite thing and say you’re welcome or no problem, but all you found yourself doing was smiling stupidly at him and somewhat nodding your head.

Lambert let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. No wonder you hadn’t gotten anywhere with Eskel.

“Come on, Y/N.”

You turned your head to watch the young wolf leave the stable. You excused yourself from Eskel and slipped out, following Lambert towards the keep.

“That was fucking painful.”

“Wh-What was?” You looked over at him, brows furrowed together.

“That back there. Were you not there? Did you not feel the awkward tension in the air? You stood there like an idiot.”

Your stomach twisted up into knots. You crossed your arms and diverted your gaze to the ground as you walked.

“M’only telling you this ‘cause I don’t want you to make yourself look like a fool again. Especially not around someone you…. someone you’re interested in.” Lambert pushed the heavy door to the keep open with his shoulder.

“I-I didn’t think you’d be wanting us to….” You trailed off, following behind him. “He’s your brother.”

“Don’t make this any weirder than it has to be, pipsqueak.”

You put your hand on Lambert’s arm, making him stop.

“Thank you, Lambert. For everything. For helping me and for-for not letting me make too much of an idiot out of myself.”

He looked down at you, a little grin creeping on to his lips.

“Don’t worry, kid. You manage to do that by yourself just fine.” He patted your arm. “Come on. I need your help in the kitchen getting dinner ready.”

***

Dinner had long since been over. You went to bed some time ago, favoring a good book underneath a warm blanket rather than staying up and drinking with the wolves.

The three brothers sat around the dinner table drinking and making conversation. Well, Geralt and Lambert were making conversation. Eskel was too busy gazing at his tankard to join his brothers.

“You’re being awfully quiet.” Lambert commented, glancing over to Eskel.

“Just tired.”

“Sure, buddy.” The young wolf rolled his eyes. “You’ve been staring at your drink all night like it might get up and walk away.”

Eskel shifted in his seat, shrugging his broad shoulders.

“Been thinking, I guess.”

“About what?”

Eskel said nothing.

“What’s he thinking about, Geralt?”

“Why are you asking me?” Geralt swirled the liquor in the bottom of his mug around.

“‘Cause you can practically read his mind. You two have some sort of weird twin power thing going on.”

“Except we aren’t twins.” Eskel pointed out.

“Right, which makes it even more weird and freakish. So come on. You wanna talk about what’s bothering you or do you want a distraction? I’ve got a good idea for a distraction.”

“About Y/N.” Geralt hiccuped. Lambert furrowed his brow. Eskel stiffened up, sending the White Wolf a glare. “It’s just Lambert, Eskel.”

“What about Y/N?” Lambert asked, slumping his shoulders a little. Were his brothers not as fond of his guest as he thought? It was your first winter at Kaer Morhen so there were bound to be some rocky moments, but he thought you were getting along with everyone just fine.

“Nothing, Lambert.” Eskel shook his head. He didn’t want to start any sort of conflict, especially so early on in the winter. It would be literal hell to have to go the entire winter fighting with Lambert.

“Was there a problem with her brushing down the goats and your horse this morning? If there was, I can talk to her about it. I don’t want her stepping on anyone’s toes. I didn’t think it was a big deal but if it was then that was my bad, brother.”

“No, it’s not that.” Eskel shook his head.

Lambert nodded, dropping his eyes to his drink.

“Huh.” He thought out loud. If it wasn’t about what you had done earlier that morning, then why were you on his mind? “You know she likes you right?”

Eskel’s head shot up, yellow eyes immediately finding his little brother’s.

“What?”

Lambert thought about what had just happened, the reality of what he had just said setting in. He cursed and rubbed his eyes, pushing his mug of liquor away from himself before he could do anything else that was stupid.

“Cat’s outta the bad now I guess.” He sighed. “Uh, yeah. She’s, uh, liked you for a bit.”

“Since when?”

“I don’t know. She’s talked about you from time to time since she met you in Cintra last year.”

A little smile tugged at the corners of Eskel’s lips. Beside him, Geralt wore a smug grin.

“I told you.” The white haired witcher nudged Eskel with his elbow.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Lambert told me when he and Y/N first arrived.”

“So you both have known for the last three weeks and you haven’t said anything about it?” Eskel looked between his brothers.

“We wanted to see if you two could work it out yourselves.” Geralt explained.

“But watching you interact is fucking painful.” Lambert leaned back in his seat, rubbing his face with his hands. “Like a fucking kick to the balls, I swear. Eskel, I thought you had more charm to you than that, brother! I’ve seen you win over plenty of ladies in taverns. Why is Y/n any different than them?”

Eskel held Lambert’s gaze for a few moments before looking back to his tankard. He brushed his thumb over the wood.

“I…. I thought you and her…. I just assumed that with the way you two always interacted….” Eskel trailed off.

Lambert dry heaved, putting his hand on his chest.

“Me and Y/N? Oh gods, I’m going to be sick.”

“It wasn’t very far off to think that, Lambert. I mean, I’ve seen her leave your room late at night on more than one occasion and even early in the mornings.” Eskel’s tone became a little more hostile as he spoke. The topic made him upset. He didn’t like to talk about it.

“Eskel, you’ve got it all wrong.” Lambert shook his head. “Y/N sometimes…. sometimes she has trouble sleeping, so she just comes to my room so I can keep her company. She knows I don’t sleep either and she likes to be an annoying little pain in my ass. But that’s all she is. She’s…. She’s like a sister to me, Eskel. That’s all our relationship is.”

Eskel said nothing for a while.

“You’re sure she likes me?” He asked quietly.

“I’d never lie to you about that, brother.”

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#eskel x reader #eskel x reader fluff #eskel witcher #the witcher #lambert #lambert witcher #big brother!lambert #wingman!lambert #kacey answers #the witcher netflix #the wild hunt #the witcher 3 #twh

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

Flora and –yikes! - Fauna

pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

word count: 3k

read on AO3

thank you @kitcatkim for letting me use your idea with the two flower crowns <3

summary: Jaskier is making flower crowns, naturally. Too bad no one warned him that bugs like to swarm around flowers

Content warnings: bugs, insects

--- "Geralt, wait!"

Jaskier didn't give Geralt the chance to protest or grab the scruff of Jaskier's neck to keep him in place. As Jaskier ran towards the wildflowers blossoming in a patch next to the road he could practically hear Geralt rolling his eyes in the way he grunted.

"Jaskier, we can't keep stopping every other minute just for you to gather flowers." Despite his words, Jaskier could hear him bring Roach to a halt. "What are you even going to do with them? Don't tell me you spent your last coin on a vase."

Jaskier huffed indignantly but didn't bother turning around to fix Geralt with a glare.

"Of course I didn't. If you please to remember, I used it to buy some more bandages because someone didn't bother to restock before rushing into a hunt."

"I remember," Geralt grumbled but there was something strange in his tone. Something that wasn’t gruff or dismissive at all. Something that might have even been the exact opposite of that. Jaskier couldn't name it but it made his heart skip a beat. "But fine. We can take a break. Roach could use it anyway."

She didn’t. She was stubborn enough to make it known when she wanted or needed to slow down and she had done no such thing since the last time Jaskier had made them stop.

"Make sure she doesn't eat my flowers," he called over his shoulder.

His smile widened as he plucked the most beautiful blue flower and added it to his already impressive collection. Maybe he had gathered too many flowers, but how was he to know how many he needed? He had never done this before. It wasn't as if he could just pluck flowers out of flower pots at Oxenfurt and he would rather not dismay a town's residents by raiding their gardens.

Besides, no garden could grow such beautiful flowers as blossomed on their own in the wild. At least that's what Jaskier hoped Geralt would think. He never seemed to appreciate the carefully cultivated beauty of cities when instead he could have the open road and woods.

Jaskier eyed his flowers critically. Though most of them had differently shaped and shaded blossoms, most of them were blue. Perfect to bring out his eyes. Hopefully. Surely.

Satisfied and a little giddy, Jaskier marched over to Geralt and thrust the flowers into his hand.

"Hold this," he said, fighting the unreasonable blush that crept up his cheeks.

Geralt's brows pinched together in confusion and he looked almost flustered. Still, he didn't hesitate to close his hand around the flower stems, perhaps a little too tightly, as if he was afraid of them falling if he didn't clutch them in a death grip.

"I-Jaskier, what are you-"

"I need both hands to do this," Jaskier explained and began searching for the best flower to begin with. Not that he had any idea what constituted as a perfect starter flower, but as long as he scrutinised the bouquet, he surely looked competent and there was nothing more attractive than a person who knew what they were doing.

Geralt frowned. "And what exactly is it you need both hands for?"

"Why, making a flower crown, of course." Jaskier beamed up at Geralt and randomly pulled a flower out of Geralt's grip to begin. "I mean, really, it's a shame that I haven't thought if this before. But a bard out there in the wilderness without flowers on his head? That's just wasted potential."

Geralt gave an amused hum. "Are you sure you want to put flowers on your head?"

"Absolutely." Jaskier's voice left no room for argument. "I am going to look beautiful with it."

Geralt is going to look at him and think him beautiful.

"What does it matter? There's no one here to impress."

Jaskier's hands faltered and just for a second his eyes darted up to glare Geralt.

"Who says I want to impress anyone?" His voice definitely didn't waver and there was no way to interpret his words as defensive. "Can't I just want to be pretty for the sake of being pretty?"

Geralt grumbled something dismissively. It was wishful thinking, but to Jaskier is almost sounded like "You don't need flower crowns for that."

More to hide his burning face than anything else, Jaskier turned his attention back to the flowers and started weaving - or rather chaotically knotting – them together.

Geralt let him work in silence, but whenever Jaskier glanced up to pull another flower out of the bouquet, he found Geralt's eyes on him. It made his neck feel hot and his chest tight.

Somehow, as if by some miracle, he finished the flower crown. It wasn't stunning by any means, but it was passable. Kind if pretty even. Actually, for a first try it was downright amazing.

Filled with excitement about his craft, Jaskier hopped the crown around his arm so he'd have both of his hands available again and made to work on Geralt's crown.

"Looks like you got too many flowers," Geralt said, lips twitching up.

"Don't be ridiculous." Jaskier rolled his eyes good naturedly and bound some more flowers together. "I'm making a second crown."

"You know Roach will eat the flowers before you'll be able to put them on her head.”

Jaskier's hands froze and his heart jumped into his throat. He had forgotten to ask Geralt if he even wanted a crown. Judging from how he didn't even think about wearing the crown himself, it was quite clear just how much he didn't want it.

Jaskier's eyes went to Roach, silently begging her for help, but the horse was just munching on some grass, giving him an unimpressed and perhaps slightly judgemental look.

"It's not for Roach." Jaskier blurted, thoughts stumbling over each other to find an excuse. "It's for me. They’re both for me. Obviously. Why would I wear just one crown if I could have two and be doubly pretty, am I right?"

He grinned at Geralt in a way that begged please kill me now and let this embarrassment be over. But Geralt didn't grant him that mercy but at least he didn't call him out in his nonsense either. Instead his lips quirked up and he handed Jaskier another flower, unprompted.

While working on the second crown, Jaskier started talking again. One might also say he was rambling. Anything to distract Geralt from the way Jaskier's cheeks were bright red and he was still cursing himself for his stupidity on the inside.

He told Geralt about how he had always wanted to wear flower crowns ever since he had read a story book about a princess with flowers in her hair as a child.

Occasionally, Geralt would grace his tale with a hum or a barely noticeable upwards quirk of his lips.

Jaskier took that as encouragement. He continued to talk about how his sisters used to wear flower crowns when they were young, about how Jaskier had always been envious about how pretty they looked with pink, blue and yellow flowers in on their heads. He reminisced about all the times he gifted flower crowns to his dance partners during Belleteyn and never got any in return.

More than once it looked as if Geralt was going to open his mouth, but then he always thought better of it and contented himself with listening to Jaskier.

It was only when Jaskier eventually ran out of flower related things to talk about that Geralt spoke up again.

“You’re getting better,” he commented, nodding towards the now finished second crown.

Jaskier’s face lit up but he forced his voice to sound nonchalant and teasing. “Why Geralt, is that a compliment?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, that’s exactly where it’s going.” Jaskier winked and put both crowns on his head.

He felt a little stupid wearing both of them, but the sheepishness was quickly overshadowed by the giddy excitement of finally making his childhood dream come true.

A small giggle escaped Jaskier and he didn’t care how silly he probably looked; there was just too much joy bubbling up inside him that needed to be released somehow. He twirled and threw his head back laughing. Quickly he realised his mistake, when the crowns threatened to fall off. His hands flew to the flowers to hold them in place.

When he came to a stop, he found Geralt’s eyes fixed on him with an unexpected softness, though he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression when he caught Jaskier’s eyes. It wasn't fast enough for Jaskier to miss and try how he might, Geralt would never be able to hide such a fond look from Jaskier.

"So?" Jaskier made a point of fiddling with the crowns as if he was righting a fancy little hat. "How do I look?"

Geralt contemplated him a long moment with a complicated expression. "Happy."

Jaskier's moth went dry. The way Geralt had said it made it sound like he meant so much more.

"Geralt-"

He let go of the crowns, but the universe saved – or damned - him from doing something stupid like take Geralt's face in his hands and kiss him. Now that he wasn't holding onto the flower crowns anymore, they immediately fell over his eyes.

Jaskier let out a little noise of surprise that very much wasn't an undignified squeak.

Geralt chuckled and had Jaskier not been squeezing his eyes shut to avoid having leaves poke them, he would have glared at Geralt.

As if was, he found that he couldn't be upset even when Geralt was making fun of his misfortune. Geralt's laugh was too beautiful a sound to ever want him to stop. Especially if Jaskier was the one making him laugh.

"Guess there were too many flowers after all," Geralt said and Jaskier could practically hear his smug smile.

Jaskier tried to lift the crowns, but he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began and he absolutely wasn't going to risk them falling apart because he tugged on the wrong one.

"I just miscalculated a little," Jaskier grumbled, but his own lips were stretched wide grin. "You know you could do the noble thing and save me from my predicament."

Almost immediately he felt the lightest touch on his cheek. For a second, Jaskier's heart sped up at how tenderly Geralt was touching him. But then it hit him.

Even if Geralt ever were to caress his cheek softly, he would not be able to do it that softly. In fact, the touch was so light it almost tickled.

Jaskier furrowed his brows and his heart began racing in earnest for a very different reason.

"Geralt?"

Something buzzed right next to his ear. Something that sounded very big and very crawly.

"Geralt!" Jaskier almost shrieked, but all the reply he got from Geralt the traitor was another laugh.

Another light touch as something landed on his skin, this time on his hands.

Immediately, he pulled them away from the flowers and clutched them protectively against his chest. He needed his hands. He couldn't let some insect sting his fingers.

He wanted to call out for Geralt again, demand that he help him, but the bug on his face chose that moment to crawl closer to his lips.

Jaskier snapped his mouth shut and held his breath.

"Now there's that blessed silence," Geralt teased as if he didn't even notice the danger Jaskier was in.

Mentally, Jaskier took back everything he had thought before. Right now he wanted to wipe away the smirk that undoubtedly was on Geralt's face. And if Geralt didn’t stop laughing, Jaskier was going to write the most scathing song about him, once he could open his mouth again.

Oh gods, but what if keeping his lips pressed together wasn't enough? What if one of those crawling things decided to go up his nose?

The buzzing around his head got louder. More insects landed on him and Jaskier could do nothing but keep his eyes and lips shut and pray none of the insects were dangerous.

He was tense as a bow string and his heart was thumping like a rabbit’s foot hitting the ground.

He could feel tiny legs all over him, could hear nothing but that horrible buzzing. He couldn't stop the whimper that escaped him.

"Jaskier?" All traces of humour were gone from Geralt's voice. In fact, he sounded concerned.

Oh. Oh no. If Geralt was worried, that could only mean that something truly bad was happening. Maybe one of the bugs had a venomous bite. Maybe one of the things on Jaskier's head was the larva of a giant centipede. Maybe one of them was a were-bug and Jaskier would get turned into a disgusting insect himself!

Jaskier wanted to leave. He just wanted to go back to civilisation where he was safe from those tiny monsters. Adventure be damned. Inspiration be damned. Flower crowns be damned. He would be happy if he'd never have to see another insect again. If being pestered by swarms of insects was the prize for walking the Path, Jaskier would not shed a single tear abandoning it. Good riddance.

If only that didn't mean that he'd also lose Geralt...

"Jaskier?" Geralt repeated, softer this time. He sounded closer.

Strangely enough, the touch if the insects disappeared and got replaced by another sense of tickling, but this was one warm and almost glowing. It washed over his skin and spread wider around him. Slowly, the buzzing grew more distant until it disappeared fully.

A warm hand brushed Jaskier's temple and the crowns were pushed back onto the top of his head where they belonged. Well, we're one of them belonged.

Carefully, Jaskier opened his eyes again. He let out a tiny gasp and then his breath got stuck again for a different reason. Geralt was standing surprisingly close to him, their chests almost touching. The hand not occupied with the flower crowns was twisted into an uncomfortable looking shape.

Quen.

A dome of warm golden light surrounded them. Jaskier hadn't known the sign could be used to keep bugs at bay, but as far as he was concerned insects did definitely count as fiendish enemies and he wasn't about to complain about the protection. Especially not since Geralt was looking at him with his brows knitted together in soft worry and his hand left the crowns to caress his cheek instead.

"I take it the story about the princess didn't warn you about the bugs?" Te corner of Geralt's lips twitched into a half-smile.

Jaskier shook his head and swallowed. "No, definitely not." He leaned into Geralt's touch. It was warm and comforting and Jaskier never wanted him to let go again.

Maybe... Maybe if this touch was the reward he got for bravely withstanding the terror of the insects, he could face the bugs again sometimes. Maybe. Perhaps being in nature wasn't too bad if he had Geralt with him.

"There's one thing the story did teach me, though."

"Oh?" Geralt's brows rose a little.

"At the end the hero gets a kiss." Before his bravery or foolishness could leave him, he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss against Geralt's lips.

He expected the kiss to be over quickly, little more than a brush if lips, but Geralt's hand on his cheek travelled to the back of his head, holding him close.

Jaskier lifted his own hands, burying them into Geralt's hair. Geralt let out a soft sound and then a second hand found its place at the small of Jaskier's back.

Jaskier pulled back, just enough to speak, his lips nearly brushing against Geralt's with every word.

"Geralt, put the damn Quen back." His eyes narrowed. "I am not kissing you with bugs crawling all over me."

"Perhaps you could give one crown to me and share the burden?"

Jaskier drew back suspiciously. "You mean that?" he asked slowly, his insides twisting in excitement. "You would really wear my flower crown?"

Geralt shrugged. "I don't want you to complain about the bugs and the leaves in your hair," he grumbled, but his eyes shone with a fondness that made Jaskier's heart swell. The hand on Jaskier’s back gave a small squeeze and tugged him closer. "And I happen to like my hand right where it is."

Jaskier lifted his chin defiantly, mischief and another, softer emotion lighting up his eyes. "You can pretend not to like my voice all you want, but you just traded your blessed silence for my comfort. I know where your priorities lie."

Geralt hummed quietly, the smile on his lips getting wider and his thumb caressed Jaskier's cheek, coming to rest at the corner of his lips.

"Maybe I don't mind your voice too much when you're talking about something you like. Or when you're singing. Or laughing." He leaned forward, too fast for Jaskier to react and stole a quick peck. "And I prefer keeping you silent by kissing you."

Jaskier rolled his eyes and snorted. "Who knew you could be such a romantic," he deadpanned and shook his head fondly. "Truly, you know how to charm a man with your words."

"It's working isn't it?"

"Perhaps."

With a mental strength Jaskier didn't know he possessed, he let go of Geralt's hair and lifted one of his flower crowns off his head to put it on Geralt's instead.

For a long moment, he just stared at Geralt, admiring him. The colours of the blossoms contrasted beautifully with Geralt's hair. But that wasn't what took Jaskier's breath away. It was the fact that Geralt actually looked happy like this. Happy to be with Jaskier. Happy to make him happy.

"You know" Jaskier said with smug satisfaction as a bug with shimmering green wings landed on Geralt's forehead, "you're lucky I love you more than I hate bugs."

Geralt snorted. "Now who's the romantic?"

Jaskier could have answered with a quip if he wanted to. He most certainly had multiple quick-witted responses to that.

Too bad that he too liked kissing Geralt's words away.

And so that was what he did.

They only broke away again when Geralt's crown fell into his eyes. Jaskier burst out into a well-deserved laugh at Geralt's dumbfounded look. As much as Jaskier liked kissing him, he found that he also rather liked the way Geralt's eyes lit up when he joined the laughter.

He could get used to this. In fact, as he buried his face in Geralt's chest to stifle his giggles and could feel Geralt's heart beneath him, he knew that he could battle any creepy crawlies if it meant that he got to keep this.

---

tag list: @snowfea @diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim @thebloodletter7 @eleos-fawn @palefuckingmeme @irongal21 (sorry for tagging you unasked, but you seemed to like the idea when I posted it a while ago so I figured you might like this too)

#geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geraltxjaskier #flowers #flower crowns #fluff #i think #witcher #witcher fic #fic #my writing #jaskier #geralt #bugs #insects

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