#flash fic challenge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loki-is-my-kink-awakening · 1 year

Text

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt an eternal summer

His summer

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Tags: feelings realisation

He doesn't want this summer to end.

Not that it had been any different from previous summers. It's still the two of them camping under the stars, the same as ever.

But something in Geralt has shifted. Something he can't explain.

He'd stopped grumbling whenever the bard sang, strumming his lute into the late hours of night.

He didn't complain when Jaskier grabbed a comb and teased out the knots in his hair, carefully braiding it down his back.

He even let the troubadour steal his food, wear his clothes and use his bags to bring along whatever unnecessary items he wanted to.

When Geralt glances up from poking the fire to look at Jaskier, he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.

The bard was screwing his face up, hand scratching his head while he pondered the lyrics for his next song.

The years had been kind to the bard. His features are still soft and full of youth despite the wilderness they frequent.

His eyes shine bright, day or night, but Geralt prefers seeing them right now, across a campfire when they flash at him, piercing and demanding.

"What are you thinking, my dear witcher," Jaskier purrs, setting his quill and notebook down on the log.

Geralt's eyes dart down, flickering back to the fire. That smile on his face threatens to spill out across his lips.

He can feel Jaskier walk around, coming up behind him. His knees drop, perching onto the edge of the stone that Geralt is sitting on.

Jaskier's arms wrap around his neck.

"What's on your mind, love?" he whispers in his ear.

"Nothing," Geralt lies, like he always does.

Jaskier hums in a low voice, a mockery of all the times Geralt made that noise, clearly making a point.

In response, Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's. He wants to turn his head, to kiss him, but he doesn't move.

He can't lose this. These moments they have. He wants more, Melitele, how badly he wants more, but he's never had more. He won't push it.

"I was thinking, it's such a nice night, maybe we can put out bedrolls together and watch the stars after dinner."

Geralt nods his head, then feels his breath hitch as Jaskier brings his lips up to his cheek and places the softest peck against him.

Then he's gone, leaving him to go back to compose while Geralt cooks the rabbit.

He never wants this to end, and yet, as the summer leaves start to turn, he knows it will have to.

His heart aches in his chest at the thought of a winter without him, his bard, his companion, his shadow.

His love.

The thought crashes through him. That's the word. That's what Jaskier means to him: love.

He stands up, dropping his stick, and walks over to Jaskier.

The dirt beneath his feet crunches, but he doesn't hear it for the thumping of his blood pumping around his body.

He feels warm in a way he's never experienced, not even in the throes of passion with Yennefer, or at a brothel.

His fingers twitch, his body feeling heavy with each step.

Jaskier isn't even looking at him, furiously writing down words onto a page. Geralt's never looks at what he writes, but he likes the way he sprawls black ink across the pages.

He steps forward, his leg hitting Jaskier's knee.

There's a huff of protest from Jaskier for a second, then he's looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

The argument is over before it begins, because Geralt reaches out with his hands, cupping his face with one and holding onto his bicep with another, and then Jaskier is rising to meet him.

Those blue eyes sparkle in confusion. They dart back and forth, up and down, as if Geralt's expression will reveal the secret.

Geralt feels breathless, like the air is thin. He moves his other hand up Jaskier's arm, sliding up and behind his neck.

The bard's lips are parted, tempting Geralt to taste them. Jaskier peers up at him, blinking.

There's a brief pause, a moment while Geralt tries to commit this to memory.

Then he leans forward, bringing their lips together.

Jaskier whimpers at the touch, barely responding, then suddenly his hands clutch onto Geralt's shirt, pulling hard.

Their lips slide together, soft and tender. The taste of plum wine that Jaskier drank earlier while they were in town fills Geralt's senses.

This is the perfect moment, something that should never end.

Yet Jaskier pulls back, gasping for air for a second.

Those eyes shine, like they always do, and Jaskier bites his lips playfully, leaning his forehead against Geralt's.

"I have to ask something, Geralt, or I'm going to explode. And, please, I need you to answer me. How long have you wanted to do that?"

"Just…a while," he admits, giving a small shrug.

Jaskier splutters, slapping his arm. It doesn't hurt one bit.

"You…okay, fine. Tell me later. I just need you to kiss me again."

Their lips meet again, sending tingles of pleasure through Geralt. He feels himself melt into it, knowing deep in his bones that this is where he wants to be forever.

This right here is all he needs. Jaskier, his bard, his love, is his eternal summer.

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #i'm obviously feeling soft today #my fic #flash fanfic #flash fic challenge #flash fic friday

146 notes · View notes

lambden · 1 year

Text

2.9K words, explicit, geraskier/competence kink, no warnings. originally posted (anonymously) to ao3 here

Something pulls Geralt from his meditation early. He has no clue what it might have been; when he opens his eyes, the forest is pristine. Picturesque, even. He and Jaskier had set up camp along the actual path of the Path. Fearing that the cold mountains would greet them with a blizzard, Geralt had suggested last night that they might seek refuge in a narrow but deep canyon for safety.

Jaskier had pointed out that a blizzard was about as likely to happen as an avalanche, and that if the goddesses decided to bestow the latter disaster upon them, they’d be absolutely fucked between the high rock walls on either side of them.

The petty bickering of last night seems so trivial in the brisk morning air. The thin tarpaulin Geralt strung up over their bedrolls to shield them from snow was fine yesterday. Functional, if ugly. But now, dappled light from above makes the fabric glow, and the sparse patches of new snow beyond their camp sparkle like glitter. Everything looks beautiful in the dawn— or, not dawn, technically, since he slept in.

Geralt strains his senses for threats and finds no distant monsters to flee; he only hears birdsong. He only sees beautiful nature. He inhales deeply, and the sharp scent of spilled blood hits him immediately before Jaskier stumbles back under the tarpaulin.

“Ah, joy, you’re finally up,” says Jaskier cheerfully. There are no obvious wounds on him and no blood visible on his clothing. If Geralt hadn’t been made to spot irregularities, perhaps he would have missed the sweat at Jaskier’s hairline. Melodious and irritating as ever, the man continues, “Can we pack up camp and start moving now? I’m beginning to understand why you always gripe when I sleep in.”

Geralt doesn’t mince words. “What happened?”

“No clue what you mean,” Jaskier sings. He scooches over to come and sit beside Geralt, resting his back against the mossy wall covered in small icicles of frozen dew. Geralt, unconvinced, leans over the bard’s lap to try to get a look at the side he’s hiding, and Jaskier sighs. “Shit. Alright, you— alright! It’s fine, Geralt, really! Just a spot of bother, nothing to write home about.”

Geralt’s glare makes it clear that he isn’t going to repeat his question.

“It’s not my blood,” tries Jaskier, which does come as a small relief, although it hardly puts Geralt’s panic to rest. “It… I had to piss, alright? So I climbed up out of the canyon, and, you know—” he does some truly reprehensible miming— “I was right in the middle when I heard this awful caterwauling coming from somewhere. I thought it was a dying bobcat or something, but… it was actually a few of them, you know. Shrieking and grunting back and forth.”

A chill runs down Geralt’s spine. He leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as he breathes the blood in once more. He should have clocked the scent for what it was: “Nekkers.”

“Yeah, a whole happy family.” Jaskier, sighing again, finally relents and shows Geralt the spray of blood along his side. True to his word, it isn’t human. It still makes the witcher unhappy. He settles back down into his own seat as his friend continues, “There must have been about eight of them.”

Suddenly the amount of blood seems like far, far too little. Geralt stares, and demands, “How are you not dead?”

“It’s a funny story, actually,” says Jaskier, sounding sheepish, of all things. “I’ve seen you fight those little shits before, so I sort of… I dunno, copied what you do. Minus the swordsmanship, and magic fire, and all that, of course.”

If his eyes were bulging out of his skull before, Geralt is sure he looks positively ridiculous now. He can’t rein in his expression or regulate his emotions, too shocked by Jaskier’s story. “You killed them?”

“What was I supposed to do, give them all names?”

“You killed eight nekkers?”

“It was a little hard to tell from the mangled bodies, but yes, I believe so.” Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat. His pulse races. “Geralt, you’re staring at me like you want to bite my head off.”

The witcher doesn’t blink. “I’ve never even seen you kill a fly.”

“Well, why would I kill a fly,” Jaskier is beginning to sound a little exasperated— then before either of them know it, Geralt is swinging a leg over his lap and straddling his thighs and pressing in close, and Jaskier’s voice rises at least an octave. “I— I have no intention of taking on contracts! It was just a minor inconvenience; I didn’t want to wake you from your meditation! You can be quite a cranky prick sometimes, you know. Are you going to teach me some demented lesson about safety by bashing my head in?”

“No,” he informs Jaskier plainly. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a little difficult to think while I’ve got a lapful of witcher!”

Geralt reaches between them to untie the complicated drawstrings of Jaskier’s trousers. His fingers only still when he’s got the cords loose from their knots; he glances up to check in, his gaze meeting the bard’s. Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide and dark, and how his heartbeat raced before is nothing compared to now. The silence is live, the air simmering like a place of power, and Geralt’s question goes unspoken but is understood perfectly by both men.

Jaskier nods, a small, overwhelmed motion— his chin tips forward and his head bobs with it, his lovely hair falling in front of his pretty eyes. Geralt gently pushes the errant strands of hair back, and before Jaskier can properly recuperate from that first delicate touch, the witcher inelegantly and bluntly reaches to free the bard’s cock from his pants.

“Holy ploughing mother of cunt,” Jaskier breathes.

“Tell me what happened,” repeats Geralt, “in detail.”

“Right. Yes. The nekkers.” His fist closes around Jaskier’s length just under the thick flushed head; they watch together as liquid wells up at the tip. The broad pad of Geralt’s thumb brushes over the wetness and a new drop of pre-cum rises to take its place immediately.

Sounding more winded than Geralt has ever heard him, Jaskier manages, “They weren’t trying to sneak up on me, actually, so I had an extra minute to prepare. If they got the jump on me I would have been fucked, but as it was I had the time to rifle through Roach’s saddlebags. And, by the way, Roach was massively unhelpful during the fight. Loyal companion, my arse. I suppose I should stop talking about your horse while you’ve got your hand round my cock!”

“Focus,” says Geralt, stroking Jaskier with firmer, slower motions. “How could you have known what to use?”

That question nets him a very unimpressed look, the effect of which is only slightly dampened by Jaskier’s obvious arousal. “I’ve been your local companion for quite a while now,” huffs the bard. “I do actually pay attention, some of the time. And it’s easy enough to tell Grapeshot apart from the other explosives!”

Geralt adjusts his position atop Jaskier’s lap, fist still moving slowly around his prick. “I only had two Grapeshots made,” he mutters. “And I’ve never taught you the recipe.”

“Two was all I needed.” More turned on than he’s ever been in his life, Geralt keeps his gaze pinned to Jaskier as he tells the story— and his hand firmly in place. “You— You kept a trophy from that nekker infestation a few contracts back, and I figured, you know, they follow some kind of h-hierarchy. So I held the nasty thing up right in front of my head, and I shrunk my shoulders down and hunched my back, and… well, I’m not going to do my impression of a monster growling right now, but needless to say they fell for it.”

“Hard to mistake you for a nekker.”

“They aren’t the brightest,” admits Jaskier. His heart beats faster from the compliment regardless; Geralt feels a thick vein pulsing under the soft side of his knuckles. He chases the feeling, dragging his fingers up and down the bard’s length curiously. “It wasn’t a long ruse, anyway— I just had to get them to follow my orders. Once they’d all lined up in a group, it was easy enough to sling the Grapeshots their way; like one of those prize games from a festival, you know? But right as I threw the bombs—”

Geralt’s prick strains against the codpiece in his armour. Unable to hide the raw edge of desperation in his hoarse voice, he demands, “You threw two bombs at once?”

“Yes,” Jaskier mumbles, a bit pink. “What, is that against the rules?”

Instead of offering his immediate response, which is that Geralt is damn lucky he ran into Jaskier before Lambert ever did because if his little brother heard a story like that then he would have married the bard long before the fall of Cintra, Geralt shakes his head dumbly, and gestures with his free hand for Jaskier to continue.

“Well, one of the buggers noticed what I was doing right before the bombs exploded— or maybe he noticed that his newly beloved queen bee was actually a beheaded, reanimated corpse— and, in any case, he wasn’t too happy. While I was shielding my eyes and ears from the explosions he ran right up to me, and tore the trophy out of my hands.” Jaskier mimes this part of the fight, too caught up in his own story to even pay proper attention to Geralt jerking him off. His passion is beyond endearing. “But unfortunately for him, I had my trusty dagger.”

Geralt can’t help it— before he can restrain the sound, he snorts. “The paring knife you use to cut up Roach’s apples?”

“Yes,” huffs Jaskier. “I made do with what I had, alright? Time moves at a normal speed for us humans, you know, even during battle, so I didn’t have a moment to prepare. I just—” he thrusts his hand forward, miming gutting— “in and out, boom, done. Before I knew it, I had stabbed him in the eye. And he let out the most horrible sound, really, I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up!”

“You stabbed it in the eye,” Geralt repeats, dizzy.

“Yes…?”

“Right.” He finally lets go of the bard’s prick, rolling off his thighs. Jaskier watches with hooded, puzzled eyes that quickly widen as Geralt removes the lower half of his armour as quickly as he can. When he reaches back between his legs to shove two blunt, dry fingers into himself, the bard lets out a squeak not unlike a lutestring snapping. Geralt pants, “Tell me again.”

“Tell— tell you— wh-what exactly,” stammers the professional wordsmith. It only gets worse as Geralt takes hold of his prick once more. Jaskier’s cock is hard, standing at attention, and leaking everywhere; Geralt smears the pre-cum over its flushed, angry head. “Gods, fuck, Geralt—”

“Tell me the story again,” Geralt demands. “While I ride you.”

“I’m afraid I won’t last past the inciting incident— oh,” cries Jaskier. Geralt slides down onto him slowly, letting them both feel the tightness, and the lack of proper preparation. Geralt doesn’t care if the stretch is bordering on the edge of pain; he likes the weight inside him. It grounds him. Jaskier’s breath comes in quick, shallow puffs while Geralt inhales and exhales deeply through his nose, the same way he would after taking Killer Whale to dive to the bottom of the ocean. This isn’t too dissimilar from that— except that Killer Whale doesn’t usually make his prick hard as a whetstone.

Geralt sinks down to the very bottom of the sea. Once he’s fully seated on Jaskier’s cock, he can feel the length of it inside his arse, filling him completely. He can even feel Jaskier’s thudding heart under his hands, and echoing through the air, and pulsing deep inside him— almost in the right spot, but not quite.

The witcher places a broad hand on each of Jaskier’s shaking shoulders and uses them as leverage to pull himself up, slowly but firmly gripping onto the cock inside him as he does. Then, right as Jaskier’s cockhead is about to breach him once more, Geralt slides back down in one fluid motion. And rises to do it again. And again.

Jaskier’s grip on his hips is viselike; if Geralt was human, he might bruise. The thought allures him so he encourages the touch, tightening his own grip on the man’s shoulders as he fucks himself on Jaskier’s cock. Every time the bard opens his mouth to undoubtedly let out some irreverent prayer or curse or expression of disbelief, an incomprehensible litany of moans and other dirty sounds escapes him instead. He practically sobs when Geralt adjusts their position, bending his knees on either side of Jaskier so as to ride his cock more efficiently. With each new roll of their hips it seems to strike deeper and deeper inside Geralt. Then one of Jaskier’s hands quests around his backside to press them into a new, closer position, and the new angle has Geralt seeing stars, and suddenly he’s the one making all sorts of embarrassing noises.

“Good, that’s perfect, darling,” Jaskier, though breathless, takes the time to praise him carefully. This almost makes Geralt groan deeper than the pressure inside him. “You’re doing so good for me. Had I known this was my reward coming back from the hunt, I wouldn’t’ve wasted any time with those ugly monsters.”

“How did you know about the— the hierarchies, the family structures— that they follow a chieftain,” pants Geralt, his sweaty hair falling forward in front of his eyes. “You’re not even a witcher.” Jaskier quickly reaches up to brush it back, then holds it in a loose fist, which is, as it turns out, perfect. The hand on his scalp is just enough to ground him, and when Jaskier uses his grip to pull Geralt in closer, he doesn’t resist at all.

“Well,” Jaskier practically purrs against his lips, somehow managing to be smug even as he bounces Geralt on his cock. “It wasn’t that hard.”

Geralt surprises them both by coming all over Jaskier’s abdomen, and as his body tenses the bard follows him over the edge a moment later, arching up into him and filling him with his release. The two eruptions happen in such quick succession that they feed into each other, and it’s all Geralt can do to avoid clinging to Jaskier hard enough to hurt him. Jaskier presses against Geralt with the same fervour, kissing him almost violently; Geralt gives as good as he gets, sinking into the sensation.

When they pull away from each other’s mouths, Jaskier’s lips are bitten red and wet with spit. Geralt moves slightly and feels the odd but familiar heat shift inside him; judging from how Jaskier’s mouth falls open, he feels it too. Even after the aftershocks fade, Geralt doesn’t pull off just yet, enjoying the fullness and closeness. He bends down to kiss Jaskier again, and the bard reciprocates easily and readily.

All those years bickering over petty, pointless nothings, when they could have been doing this instead.

“The next time there’s a monster, wake me up,” Geralt finally reproaches, punctuating the order by nipping Jaskier’s lip.

Jaskier nods, sluggish and satiated; then, because it’s Jaskier, he tacks on, “I handled it, though.”

“You got away with it this time, but you could have been in danger.”

“You like that I handled it,” accuses the bard. Geralt kisses the smirk off his face but can’t kiss away that smug edge in his voice. “You like that I can handle myself… and handle you, too.”

“As I recall, I handled you,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs; it still sounds smug. The witcher hums thoughtfully.

He then rolls them over without warning, and ignores the resulting cry from his bard. He lowers his back onto Jaskier’s bedroll— like hell he’s staining his own bedroll with cum— and hooks his ankles around the man’s back, pushing Jaskier deeper inside. They both groan at that, and Jaskier lowers himself down without hesitation to loom over Geralt. “Shit,” he whines, bottomed out entirely inside the witcher again. “Fuck, how are you hard again?!”

“Takes a lot to tire me out,” grins Geralt. Truth be told, he doesn’t usually want this much— but Jaskier is having an unexpected effect on him. “You said you could handle me.”

“Might be the death of me, but I’ll certainly try,” huffs Jaskier. He holds Geralt up by his thighs and slowly pistons back and forth into him, pushing the load of cum already inside him even deeper. But he pauses as an idea strikes. Divine inspiration, or a gift from the muses; Jaskier talks about the concepts all the time, but Geralt hasn’t seen them really occur before. It is like glancing at the night sky and catching a comet. The man’s entire face lights up, and his tone is new as he says, “You know, I never told you about the one winter we had a pest infestation at Oxenfurt.”

Suddenly, Geralt knows precisely what he means. Trying to sit up, he protests, “You swore to me you won those extra vials of arachas venom in a game of Gwent!”

“I’m shit at Gwent, you should have seen right through that,” Jaskier laughs. He leans down, pressing Geralt back down against the mat and rocking his hips to push his length in deeper. “But the good part is that now I can tell you the whole story. In painstaking detail.”

“Oh,” breathes Geralt, quickly surrendering his anger and spreading his legs. His cock dribbles pre-cum between them. “... Yes, alright. Tell me the tale, Jaskier.”

#geraskier fic #power bottom geralt of rivia #geraskier #my writing #flash fic challenge #i was caught up in Birthday Celebrations and unrelated stresses but ! i'm so excited i finally get to post this!!!

138 notes · View notes

thewitcherflashfic · 11 months

Text

TWFF #74 Fics Revealed

Our MoC for this round was @sternenstaub28 and the prompt was:

You can read all the fics here!

And guess who wrote what here! You do not have to have written in order to guess, it's open to everyone!

The authors for this round are: @violaceum-vitellina-viridis, Annvian, Cissy_Evans, @windflowerofskellige, @rauchendesgnu, WhoGeek, @gleamingsilence, @xianvar, @feedingmyinsomnia, @pherryt, @mekana47, @inexplicifics, @lambden and zemyr.

#twff #the witcher #flash fic challenge #fan fic

39 notes · View notes

aprettyspy · 5 months

Text

December 4th, "Sitrep, 007", is up for my 00Q YuletideFlashFic . For the prompt hot cocoa, magic ingredient.

#flash fic #flash fic challenge #spysyuletideflashfic #00q #james bond #superfluous use of tropes

8 notes · View notes

anxious-m3ss · 8 months

Text

Flash fic competitions are dangerous for procrastinators. I wrote this on the last day and submitted a literal minute before the deadline, which just so happened to be 3 am in my timezone.

#m3ss writes fanfiction #dramione #draco/hermione #oneshot #fluff #fanfiction writing #flash fic challenge

10 notes · View notes

queenfisher1 · 1 month

Text

Dreamcatcher

This is in relation to my wip called "Aspen's Wings" which I'm not working on currently, but will continue one day. Thankyou @flashfictionfridayofficial for this amazing prompt.

Aspen burst through the door and began walking deep into the green house filled to the brim with spiny succulents and grass. Following footsteps echoed behind her. She clenched her arms as she sped away at a fast walk.

“Aspen, listen to me!” Dreamcatcher’s voice trailed in desperation. The muscles in her arm began to tense as those words slipped through her ears. The feathers on her wings began to extend from her flesh. “Aspen, will you just stop for a minute?!”

“Just leave me alone!” Aspen growled as she walked through another door, entering a slightly more humid room. She could hear Dreamcatcher let out a sigh. Her blood began to boil as her footsteps followed after her. Her rage muffled out Josephine’s panicked rambling, probably her attempts to calm her down, but she didn’t care. All she felt was the firmness in her fists and the tears being held back by her pride. For a moment, she could remember her mom’s forgiving smile.

“Aspen, please, let me explain myself!” Dreamcatcher continued to beg as she followed her. Aspen’s face began turning red as she ignored her. Her hand grabbed her shoulder and tried to turn her around. “Please let me speak with you!”

“Why should I?!” Aspen smacked her hand and quickened her pace. “You have already explained yourself well enough!!”

“Aspen!” Dreamcatcher cried as she reached for her. “Please, just listen to me!!”

“I already have!!” She soon enters a room filled with large ferns and palms from the floor to the slightly translucent ceiling above her. She walks up to a fountain in the middle of the room, the stone covered in mosses and mildew. The sound of the trickling water made a reminiscing sound that echoed around, bouncing off the walls and floor. Her muscles began to ease.

“Aspen, she doesn’t know,” Josephine whispered urgently. “You need to tell her.”

“She doesn’t need to know,” Aspen grumbled quietly. The footsteps behind her silenced. “I know it hurts, I’ve been living in your head ever since you were brought outside of your realm. I know how much you’ve been trying to get back home.” Dreamcatcher’s presence became known when she heard her large wings brush against the greenery. Aspen let out an agitated sigh, looking down at the fountain water pooled at the bottom, still clenching her arms.

“Aspen, please, just listen to me-”

“Listen to you?!” Aspen grunts as she lifts her hands and combs through her hair, gripping her scalp. The tears began to build up more as she began to open her mouth to speak. “I thought you were my friend!! You tricked me! I thought you actually cared!”

“But Aspen, I do care,” she sighed.

“No! You never cared! What kind of friend abandons them in a cave with no one else to help them?! If you cared, you would’ve come to get me out of there! I had to get out of that forsaken place on my own!! For years, I’ve been trying to get back home, back to who I thought was my friend!! Then you come to me to reveal that you were the cause of my pain!!”

“I’m sorry for making you homesick.”

“Homesick?!” Aspen clenched her fists. “I don’t even belong here!! I’m supposed to be home with my family! You took me away from my family and for what?! Because you’re lonely?!”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?! The anomaly hunters?! They’re after me because of you! I was never meant to explore worlds outside of my home! I’m an anomaly that has traveled across the multiverse! If you hadn’t opened that portal- No, if you hadn’t come to my world at all, I would have still been home where I truly belong!”

“Aspen,” she hiccuped as tears slowly streaked down her face. Dreamcatcher’s long white hair drifted over her wet face as she looked at the ground beneath her. Her almost black wings drooped to the floor, unveiling her armor padded shoulders. Aspen fell silent to let her speak, but she already knew she wouldn’t.

“If you really wanted to protect me,” she paused for a moment to catch her breath as her words began to clog up her throat, “you should’ve left my world alone.”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped as more tears fell from her eyes. She put her hand over her mouth and turned away from Aspen, walking out of the room. As soon as she disappeared, tears began to wet Aspen’s face. Each tear slid off her cheek and fell into the fountain in front of her.

“Aspen…,” Josephine sighed, “would you like a moment of silence?” Aspen knelt on the floor and leaned against the lip of the fountain, blanketing herself with her wings. “Aspen?” She took in a deep breath and shakily let it out, hoping the tears would stop.

“Yes,” Aspen replied, wiping the ongoing tears. Soon, the only sound she could hear was the trickling of the water, and the gentle rustling of the leaves being disturbed by the small breeze leaking through the vents on the walls, the only things comforting her aside from her tears.

Undisturbed by any thoughts of being hunted or having to hide, she felt as if she was on the edge of giving up. She tried to remember the last time she saw her family, thinking of what she had last done with them before she had met her fate.

#my writing #writing prompt #fantasy #writeblr #flash fic challenge #flash fiction friday #writing prompts #writing #wip

5 notes · View notes

moderatelyquicksilversposts · 3 months

Photo

The Moon was a lonely place, even after terraforming. To allay the sense of separation, he would point his telescope earthward, like the omniscient narrator of a distant drama.

Thus he witnessed the world go under, swallowed by wars and famines and plagues, evaporated in a cloud of screams, till nothing but a barren desert was left.

Initially, he grieved. Then it dawned on him. No longer separated from life, he was life. Filled with an ease that made his soul soar in billows of mirth, he stopped observing. And, in the star-pinned silence of existence, he began to dance.

(via The Sentinel at the End of Times)

3 notes · View notes

halfbit · 9 months

Text

◤ see you in the stars

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

theme: an old friend

― LAUNCH DAY ― "Gotta nice view up there?" A person— Dal, waved at the man sitting atop the concrete roof. “Yup, cloud-watching. It’s better without your head blocking it." He quipped, eyes shining. Dal didn’t bite. "Getting it out of your system?" Ray smiled, "Might as well." “Why do you have to be so high up, man?” He laughed, and extended his hand, “Need help, legs?” “No way, I’m not trusting with you with that again.” They huffed and crossed their arms. “Oh come on, that was one time.” “One time, in front of the entire middle school. Jerk.” “Harsh.” “Good.” They grinned together for a moment, and then the red-haired Ray looked back to the clouds. Dal stepped back to take a running start. "Did you figure out what to do with Daisy?" Ray asked, not turning his head away from the glacier-streaked sky. Dal grunted as they pulled themselves up over the ledge, "Yeah." Their lungs crunched through the word, finally rolling onto their back to stare at the sky beside Ray. "We found someone who was happy to take her in." Silence passed, a moment of quiet between them and the world. It was Ray who spoke next, "I'm sorry, Dal." They gave a rueful smile, "It's alright, she's too old for a trip like this anyway. So I know I shouldn't be too sad." "It still sucks." "Yeah— it does." Dal sat up, wind mussing their dark hair, and Ray quickly shadowed them, but neither would meet each other's eyes. They sat, with only the rising moonlight and cooling night breeze, existing alongside one another as time ticked forward. "How long will your stasis be?" Dal finally asked, "They've got me booked for 30 years." They added as they knotted their fingers together, hesitant. This time, the lack of an answer was a knife in their spine, dragging out the dread and embedding it in their bones. "What is it? 50?" They retreated within themselves, feeling the world dimming just a little, and their voice scratched when they spoke again, "Don't make that face, please." His red hair had lost its color in the night, and his face was cast in shadow, its usual wry joy wrinkled by a weak smile and trembling lips. “Ray— how long?” “They put me on the new colony ship.” There was no excitement in this, “The newer planets… they’re all near the edge of the 71st sector.” “Seventy… That’s going to be— hey, you’re joking right?” “I wish.” Ray grinned, it didn’t feel real. “What’s- what’s your exact stasis time?” Their heart twisted. “The conservative estimate they gave me was 112 years.” In this suffocatingly silent night, the quiet was broken, by weeping.

“How am I supposed to say goodbye to you now?” “I don’t know.” "..." “I’ll miss you.”

eeeee man i really cut it close with the time, but i kinda had technical difficulties so i won't beat myuself up for that too much. anyway. space death go brrr

#◤ my writing #flash fic friday #writing challenge #flash fic challenge #writeblr

8 notes · View notes

challengingfic · 8 months

Text

September Sapphics

Autumn is approaching! Time to sharpen the quills and give our girls a little more attention.

You love autumn storms, mushroom picking and colorful leaves as much as you like sapphic stories? Then you've come to the right place!

September Sapphics

is a sapphic flash fic gift exchange on AO3 on autumnal themes. Open to all fictional fandoms as well as original work. Mainly SFW, but NSWF is allowed as an addition.

We are Ship & Let Ship!

All ships, including problematic ones, as well as various identities under the Sapphic umbrella are welcome.

Wordcount is 300 words minimum.

Sounds like a good opportunity to get creative while enjoying a hot cup of tea?

Then check it out. Sign-up is still open until August 27

5 notes · View notes

flame-343 · 20 days

Text

PROMPT

Batman AKA Bruce Wayne had some where houses compromised because the LoA are back at it again and being a pain, He can't leave everything in the cave because there is so much of it, back up batterangs, grappling hooks, old cars, gadgets, the occasional Bat-mech or two. He needs to find a secure place to house all of his stuff while he deals with the LoA. He can't trust his children to take care of everything even in smaller sizes. So when Bruce is at a loss, he consults his dad (Alfred Pennyworth) for advice. Alfred says something that makes Bruce shiver to his core. " Why not give the original justice league members the extra things Master Bruce? You trust them with your life on the battlefield, why not with a few boxes of extra tech?". The thought of Hal Jordan with his extra batmobile is enough to make him reel in mental pain. However, this is Bruce's only hope, so he's called an emergency meeting for the original members of the justice league. May whatever higher being up there make sure this goes well

67 notes · View notes

loki-is-my-kink-awakening · 1 year

Text

For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 198: what comes next

Afterwards

Fandom: Loki

Ship: Loki x Mobius

Rating: Teen

Tags: angst, self hatred, negative self-talk, low self-worth, emotional hurt, hurt/comfort, set post sex but no sex or genitals mentioned, nonbinary Loki, they/them pronouns for Loki

They had been building up to this for so long.

All those furtive glances and soft smiles. Those casual touches, burning like a brand on their skin.

The way they orbited around one another. The countless times their legs tangled under the table in the cafeteria, and many more pressed together between the maze of archive shelves while they sought for clues.

But now, as their laboured breaths filled the space, their bodies slick with sweat, muscles exhausted and trembling against the strain of remaining upright, Loki felt it.

The unbearable weight of what’s next.

They pushed themself back, turning away to face the cupboard door. If Mobius only wanted this once, it would crush them.

With shaking hands, they pulled their underwear up. They could feel the tears in their eyes, threatening to spill down their face.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Yet they felt their inner world collapsing. Their chest tight, stopping them from taking a deep breath.

They leaned their head against the door, closing their eyes and trying to focus.

The whispers in their mind were roaring, like a tumultuous sea beckoning them to their doom.

You’re a fool. He never wanted you. You were just convenient.

Loki wanted to scream. Their stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising in their throat. They clawed at their neck, pulling at their tie.

You’re a way to let off steam. It didn’t mean anything.

Their knees felt weak. They wanted to drop to the floor and sob. How could they have been so stupid?

A hand touched their shoulder, achingly soft. Loki trashed against it, tears already running down their face.

“Sorry, I can’t…”

They pushed open the door, grabbing their pants to stop them falling down.

It was hardly dignified, but then most of Loki’s life had been spent giving the illusion of dignity. They oozed confidence even when they didn’t have it. They pretended they didn’t have feelings so that no one could hurt them.

Lies. All of it. Mobius had been the one to break them open, show them that they could be something more, that they didn’t need to be what everyone told them they were.

That they were worthy of love.

They’d believed it. They really had thought it was true.

Now, that small voice was overrun by the torrent of screams inside them.

You were never the one for him. You’re a monster.

Loki ran. They ran deeper into the archives, their eyes blurry from tears and their heart sinking with each step.

They had no idea where they were going, but as they reached a dead end, they crumbled, sliding down the wall onto the floor and burying their head in their knees.

Sobs erupted from them. They howled like a wild animal, their chest convulsing, their throat tight.

Their mind rushed with images. Loki saw themself standing on the sidelines, watching Mobius be happy without them.

They saw Mobius smile at some imaginary person.

Look how happy he will be without you.

Loki shook their head. They couldn’t believe that voice and its poisonous words, and yet, it infected their mind.

Breath by harsh breath, everything fell apart around them. Minutes ago, they had held their whole world in their hands, and now it lay shattered on the floor.

Their eyes stung, their throat ached, their heart broken.

“Loki?”

Instantly, they raised their head. They sniffed, rubbing at their face. The tears still clung to their cheeks, their eyes puffy.

There, at the end of the aisle, was Mobius. The lights hung off his shoulders, like a halo.

“Oh, Loki,” Mobius choked out. He rushed towards them and Loki squeezed in tighter against the wall, trying to disappear.

They failed miserably. Mobius sat down beside them, pulling them into his arms. He placed Loki’s head against his shoulder, his hand running through their hair, and rocked them back and forth.

The tenderness pierced Loki’s heart. They broke down into tears, loud sobs escaping them, only muffled by Mobius’ body.

The way he held them, humming something soothing, it was all too much.

They didn’t deserve any of it.

They struggled, trying to free themself, but Mobius’ grip was stronger.

“No. You are not leaving. I won’t let you.”

“But why?” Loki croaked. They managed to raise their head, enough to look up at him.

“You forget I know you. I know you run when things get too vulnerable. And, hell, it’s scary. I’m scared, too, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Loki couldn’t speak, their throat choked by the lump in their throat.

They dropped their head again, pressing into Mobius while the voices in their mind warred on.

Mobius held them fast, even as the silence pooled around the both of them.

A silence that Loki would otherwise have filled.

Their arms twitched, their body ready to flee once more, but they didn’t move. They remained half bent over like a twig in the wind.

Eventually, Mobius stopped humming. Loki looked up at him through their clumped lashes.

A thumb rubbed under their eyes, wiping away their almost dried-on tears.

“So, what’s next?” Mobius asked.

Loki made a strangled sound. Their breath still caught in their lungs.

They must look lost, only held together by clinging to him like an anchor.

Mobius gave them a small smile.

“We don’t need to decide right now. But, come on, let’s head somewhere more comfortable. I know a place.”

He got up, helping Loki to stand, then led them both back to his apartment.

They passed people on the way but Loki couldn’t focus on anything until they felt themself being laid down on the bed, Mobius snuggling in behind them and wrapping his arm around their middle.

“We’ve got the whole world ahead of us,” Mobius whispered, “and whatever comes next, I’ll be right here with you.”

#lokius #loki x mobius #loki #mobius #loki series #loki laufeyson #mobius m mobius #wowki #marvel #mcu #time husbands #time frost #flash fiction #flash fic challenge #flash fic friday #my fic #cw: angst #cw: post sex #cw: emotional hurt

24 notes · View notes

lambden · 1 year

Text

my entry for the latest flash fic challenge was revealed! the image prompt was a grand ballroom and I chose to write this ridiculously silly and also sexual-with-no-actual-smut fic where geralt reluctantly LARPs with jaskier. enjoy!!

2.9K, M, no warnings Also on AO3!

“My lord,” begins Jaskier, tentative but with that ever present edge in his voice that means trouble. Geralt sets down his knife hard. The table shakes but the wine does not spill, and the witcher is glad for this, as his companion would no doubt lunge to clean up the mess. “Is the duck to your liking?”

Geralt hisses, “Stop.”

“Oh? Shall I have the chef executed?” Tearing into his own meal with unabashed glee, Jaskier only pauses to grin at him. “Or shall I call your Knight Commander to send out his men in search of a fine pheasant for your dinner?”

“How about roasted bard instead?”

“Very well.” Jaskier accepts his fate with dignity— and a theatrical gulp and grimace. “If you wish it, sire. I’ll have them bring out the pyre immediately, and you won’t hear even a whimper from me; I consider it an honour to die in service of the best king who ever lived—“

“Jaskier, if you don’t stop, I’ll meditate the rest of the night.”

This threat finally gives Jaskier pause, although Geralt doubts he’ll stop the charade for long. He can’t even really blame the bard for his absurd behaviour; not when this is one of the more absurd situations they’ve been thrust into together. Or, rather, that Geralt has been thrust into while Jaskier has clung to his arm, ready and willing to face any and all shenanigans.

They’re on hour three of the confinement. At dusk, the royal family had taken their finest horses on an overnight journey to the next kingdom over. The official reason for the trip was to oversee the wedding of their eldest princess and a foreign prince. But the real reason is that the paranoid king suspects treasonous conspiring in his court. So in secret he hired Geralt, and told the witcher to guard his throne room overnight. If anyone on their staff tries to break in to peek at valuable documents or switch heirlooms, well— the king will have his traitor. And Geralt gets paid either way, so he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

He had been hesitant to take this job, especially since the royals reached out to him specifically and personally. But their kingdom is relatively small, and as soon as Geralt discovered that he wouldn’t be expected to accompany the nobility on their journey, the contract became irresistible. A royal salary for a job involving very little actual contact with royals. Plus a large dining hall with provided dinner, wine, and a bath and bed for him to use upon their return in the morning.

If only he’d known in advance how much the bard would love it.

For three hours now, Jaskier has been ‘sire’ and ‘milord’ and ‘your Excellency’ing him, to the point where Geralt is contemplating abandoning the throne room altogether. Geralt had scoped out all possible entrances to the monumental room, including secret trapdoors or hidden windows behind paintings. All the while, the bard had eagerly regaled him with a full set that he never asked to hear. Geralt had carefully examined each curtain for potential lurking spies, as Jaskier built a whole fiction about his wise dominion over his epic kingdom. And now that he feels comfortable enough to sit and eat, the bard insists on laying a serviette over his lap and pushing in his chair.

The lukewarm food is still better than they’ve had in weeks, but the duck is a little dry. Geralt reaches for the carafe of red wine from Toussaint, but to his extreme annoyance, he cannot fucking reach it. Embarrassed, Geralt mutters, “Pass the wine.”

The smile twitching at Jaskier’s lips is positively impish. Not for the first time, Geralt wonders if there’s any truth to Yennefer’s theory about Jaskier’s bloodline being touched by the fae. “If I do, will you play along?”

“Ugh.” The doors are unlocked and unguarded, but there’s no one here. The twilight has long faded from the curtains and they still have a long night ahead. Geralt inhales, nose flaring, and then finally caves. “Is that any way to speak to your king?”

Jaskier’s delight almost makes this silly charade worth it. The bard jumps to his feet, bleating out apologies, “I’m so— my— I misspoke, my lord, please forgive me,” and he grabs the pitcher. In an instant, Geralt’s goblet is refilled; the witcher raises a hand to stop him before Jaskier can pour him far too much. As he backs away and sets the carafe down, the chandeliers hanging above their heads twinkle in his bright gaze. “Will that be all, sire?”

“I should order you to go give Roach a sponge bath,” Geralt snorts. Jaskier doesn’t even falter, still standing at attention. “I suppose my options for what I can ask you to do within this throne room are limited.”

“Anything,” says Jaskier, too quickly. Then his pulse picks up, and blotches of pink creep into his cheeks and along his throat. Even if he didn’t mean to voice that aloud, he doesn’t walk it back either. Carefully, the bard folds his hands behind his back, and adds, “Anything you desire, my lord.”

The grandiose, sprawling throne room suddenly seems as small as a closet. Geralt takes a long sip of his wine, and doesn’t remove his gaze from Jaskier as he swallows. The bard twitches as if uncomfortable, but he doesn’t move an inch— he just stands there, blushing, hands behind his back in servitude. Geralt expects him to break the tension between them with a quip, an awkward laugh. Anything.

Back when they first started adventuring together, Geralt dreamt of having the bard like this; but Jaskier was too young, too inexperienced with the world. There were times when he’d angrily shoved his companion up against his wall and covered his mouth, and he had felt Jaskier’s warm breath on his gloved palm and the evidence of his body stirring between them. Other times Geralt had feigned a meditative state as the bard, only a dozen feet away, took himself in hand and moaned over and over. Always the same name. Geralt wonders if Jaskier still gets off thinking about him, or if his lust for the witcher faded as they travelled together.

Jaskier stands, silently awaiting his orders.

“Sit,” Geralt says, his voice unexpectedly thick. At his command, Jaskier retreats to his seat, and nearly collapses into it. “And eat. I want you to finish your plate, first and foremost. I can’t have… my most trusted advisor starving to death.”

Jaskier nods, lifting his fork and knife. His face is still pink. Satisfied, Geralt reaches for his wine, resting his elbow on the table and leaning a little more into his assigned role. The wine is good, and the food, though cooling, is still enjoyable. He makes sure to keep watch on the door, lest anyone come to interrupt their fun. But… the embarrassment that he thought would be too much to handle is nowhere to be found. Instead he finds he enjoys watching Jaskier actually do what he says for once.

As soon as Jaskier’s lips close around his last bite, Geralt rises from his seat at the head of the table. The abrupt scrape of his chair against the floor makes the bard jump, but thankfully he doesn’t choke; he only swallows his food quickly before mimicking the witcher.

Geralt tosses his napkin away, carrying only his goblet and his swords over to the royal throne. He reclines into it without hesitation, spreading his legs and rolling his head back as any real spoiled king would. In his decades, Geralt has seen a hundred nobles drunk on their own power, bloated with wealth even when their kingdoms live in poverty. He summons that same self-importance now, running his hands through his hair to undo his loose braids. It’s easy to mimic a stuck-up king.

It’s harder to maintain his composure when he rolls his chin back down to see Jaskier already staring, standing before him with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. The bard’s frippery fits him well; he looks right at home in this royal court, as he would in any. Geralt tries not to sound too distracted as he asks, “Is there something else, Jaskier?”

“No, my lord,” Jaskier answers. Again he speaks too quickly; again he’s blushing.

Geralt takes pity on him. “Why don’t you play me another of your compositions? I only invite the best bards into my court, you know. And it’s said across the land you’re the very best.”

Now he’s just teasing. Even as Jaskier frantically grabs his lute, he responds with the utmost sincerity, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Despite that witcher you follow around,” jokes Geralt. “Bit of a prick, don’t you think?”

“He is my muse, my lord,” Jaskier says. He strums the first chord of Toss A Coin. “I could no sooner deliver an insult to him than I could deride my own writing abilities, for, indeed, my work had no meaning until I stumbled across the witcher.”

“I doubt that very much. Trained at Oxenfurt, didn’t you?”

As if chastened, Jaskier lowers his head. Geralt knows better— he doesn’t have to see Jaskier’s flushed face to sense his racing pulse. “Yes…”

“And you have connections all across the Continent,” teases Geralt. He’s beginning to understand why Jaskier enjoys this game so much. “Could one witcher really mean so much to a bard as travelled and distinguished as you?”

“Yes,” Jaskier repeats. He lifts his chin; his eyes are bluer than ever. “I would never have travelled anywhere without him— or if so, it wouldn’t have meant anything. And with all the audiences I have had, none have distinguished me from the others as he has. He means everything to me.”

“Ah,” chokes Geralt, unexpectedly affected. “The passion behind your work is clear, then, master bard. You… love this man.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says. He has previously proclaimed his love for Geralt at least dozens of times: when the witcher let him ride Roach after he twisted an ankle, and again when Lambert had asked why he had come to Kaer Morhen, and sometimes out of nowhere. Why are you staring? Just thinking about how much I love you. Geralt had always interpreted the sentiment as teasing and altogether unserious. It is impossible to avoid taking Jaskier seriously when they’re alone like this, and when damp emotion gathers in his already bright eyes. “Of course I fucking do. Um. Your majesty…?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt begins. Speaking is more difficult now than ever, and he chews his lip before probably landing on the wrong thing to say anyway: “Come kneel before your king.”

“Yes,” breathes the bard, before falling to his knees so hard he must hurt them against the polished, cold floor. Geralt does not let his pain go unnoticed, leaning forward so far out of his throne that the chestplate of his armour touches his thighs. He takes Jaskier’s blushing, bright face in his broad hands, laying his fingers on the man’s temples before kissing him deeply.

Jaskier’s mouth is a revelation. Geralt pulls him up, kissing him all the while— he never wants to break away— and Jaskier follows readily and eagerly. It takes very little work to tug the man up into his lap, and once his thighs bracket Geralt’s lap on the heavy throne, Geralt’s questing fingers sneak up to weave themselves in Jaskier’s short, soft hair.

“Oh,” the bard groans, low and desperate. His head moves with Geralt’s hands; the witcher exposes his neck easily by pulling his hair, and it’s just as easy to duck down and kiss his bare throat above his fancy collar. “The king roleplay really did it for you, huh? Or is this the wine?”

“Not the wine,” Geralt growls, nipping his pulse.

Jaskier actually squeaks, which is delightful and adorable and only encourages Geralt to bite him again. “Right. The throne, then? I can’t say I blame you, witcher dearest; I knew you’d have fun playing pretend with me. You only had to let yourself give in—”

“Far too much talking,” he complains, dragging his fangs over an exposed vein. Even though he obviously doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood, his teeth leave a monstrous pink scrape over Jaskier’s neck. Geralt should probably feel worse about that. His cock throbs inside his armour. “And it’s not your stupid game either.”

“Really? Then pray tell—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, exasperated. He’s been exasperated for hours now, and even though this isn’t how he expected his irritation to peak, he has no complaints. He reaches for the man’s hips, dragging Jaskier closer on his lap until he can rock their hips together and show him the hard, hot proof of his desire. “It’s you, you fool. Of course it’s you.” Jaskier’s eyes widen; maybe he truly hadn’t known, all these years, that Geralt returned his affections. “Do you really think I’d do all this stupid shit for anyone else?”

Before Jaskier can voice whatever further doubt is on his mind, Geralt kisses him again. This time the bard kisses back instantaneously, with the same passion he carries himself with on stage. Geralt grins into their kisses— until Jaskier does something very clever with his tongue, disrupting his brain processes entirely.

He hadn’t expected much from this contract. He quickly rewrites it in his memory as the best job he ever took.

The bard’s clothes are hanging off the arm of the throne when, from out in the hall, the witcher hears a distant creak.

Geralt’s warning is somewhat muffled against Jaskier’s lips, and he doesn’t think the bard would have enough time to hide anyway. He ends up lifting the man with one arm, determinedly ignoring the loud moan that Jaskier releases at that. It’s easy enough to set him down next to the throne; grabbing his swords in time is somewhat more difficult.

As the bard takes cover, Geralt strides over to stand in front of the door. Sure enough, it slides open and the royal family’s seneschal enters. He’s as astonished as could have been expected. “What the fuck are you doing in my lord’s throne room?!”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Geralt growls right back. “I was hired to guard this room, and instructed that no one would come calling. Why didn’t you accompany your king and queen to see their daughter off?”

“My job is to stay here and care for the castle and its staff,” the seneschal insists. A bead of sweat drips down his neck, and he does a poor job of hiding his nerves; even a human could detect his stress. He glances around Geralt at the table laden with half-eaten dinner and half-finished wine, and the curtains drawn shut to avoid watchful gazes from below. Luckily, Jaskier had the smarts to yank his clothing out of sight— and the throne, though perhaps sweaty, is empty as expected. “Perhaps… you could take your leave for the night? We’ve a few empty rooms; you could sleep there.”

Geralt huffs, amused. “And leave the most important room in the palace unguarded.”

“How much has the king offered you?” The seneschal fumbles to find coin, still sweating. “I can pay!”

The tiny snick of his dagger leaving its sheath is almost impossible to hear, but to Geralt’s enhanced senses, it echoes around the room. Before the seneschal can draw his weapon and make his attempt at an assassination, Geralt’s steel blade is up against his throat, pressing him back against the open doorframe. “Not interested.”

By the time he returns from the dungeon, Geralt is covered in a thin layer of old dust and new sweat. He’d actually cherish a bath now, although he still won’t have the opportunity until the morning. Even though the seneschal has been secured and is awaiting further judgement, he still needs to maintain his post.

But when he pushes open the doors to the throne room he sees a new king seated atop the throne; although right now, Jaskier looks more like a succubus. His body is entirely bare, and his legs, spread wide open, are an invitation that Geralt eagerly takes. He strides the length of the enormous room in only a few steps, finally coming to kneel before the throne so that he can stare up at his bard.

With a disaffected tone only betrayed by the twinkle in his eyes, Jaskier asks, “Has the threat been disposed of, witcher?”

“He’ll have to wait out the rest of the night in a cell,” Geralt tells him. “Then in the morning his king can hand down his sentence.”

“You’ve done well,” Jaskier murmurs. His hand almost feels like a benediction when it comes down to gently trace the bone in Geralt’s cheek and jaw; the witcher closes his eyes, and Jaskier exhales deep. “You deserve a hefty reward.”

“I have one in mind,” teases Geralt. When he opens his eyes, Jaskier already has a fist around his length, watching the witcher closely. Geralt grins, thrilled, and lunges for his reward.

“While the princess and her betrothed were away,

Back at home the king and his lover did play—”

“No.”

“On a cold winter’s night,

Under chandelier light,

A man of such great might

And an arsehole so tight—”

“Jaskier!”

“Hang on, I’ve almost got it! After apprehending a treasonous foe,

And hanging the bastard by his little toe,

The witcher returned to collect his reward,

And entered the throneroom of the great warlord…

The witcher approached him and began to talk;

‘Sire, I much desi-re to ride on your—”

“JASKIER!”

#geraskier fic #my writing #geraskier #flash fic challenge #this was very fun !!! as i said in the ao3 notes it felt like a bbc merlin shoddy plotline but whatever #anything goes #i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! <3

123 notes · View notes