#geralt thought he was smooth

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 3

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

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

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

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: wooooo, friday!

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Despite the unease of the king’s proximity, you drift down into a hollow sleep. The sort that is grey and empty and dizzying. When you wake, you’re alone. The bed is sparse and spacious as you lay tucked in the blanket, snug around your figure. You slide your arm up as you feel a cool graze along your scalp. 

You fix your cap back on your head, wrinkled from being caught beneath you. You roll onto your back and tug at the blanket until you can sit up. As you do, you notice the yellow beam around the silhouette at the window. The king’s hair shines brilliantly in the sunlight. 

You rub your cheek, hot from friction with the pillow. You look down at the blanket rumpled around your waist. You kick if off and climb off the mattress. There is no time to be sleeping. By the slant of the light, you know it’s due time to rise. You turn to tidy the covers, pulling them taut, corner to corner. 

You brush smooth your apron as best you can, a dent left diagonal down the skirt. You turn and glance towards the door. You don’t dare leave without dismissal, nor do you wish to break the king’s peace. 

“You slept heavy,” he says without moving, “you must have needed it.” 

“Your highness,” you croak through a dry throat. “I didn’t...” 

“Didn’t what?” He wonders. “All must rest, even the mice and meagre.” 

You bow your head and fold your hands. You stay as you are as he lowers his own head and his arms move as he fusses with something. There’s a soft tear and he brings something to his mouth. He turns and leans against the curtain, crushed to the stone by his weight. 

“And they must eat,” he offers a morsel of salted meat. 

“Your highness, it is generous--” 

“But you mean to deny me,” he challenges. “Does modesty serve you as well as you serve others?” 

You don’t know how to answer that. You press your lips tight and once more lower your chin. You wring your hands and markedly stop yourself. 

He crosses the room with slow, long strides. He stops before you. The morning light limns his thick body through the white fabric of his nightshirt. He brings the strip of jerky before you, holding it below your nose. 

“I do not trust a turncloak to feed me from his trough,” he intones, gently leaning the meat to your lips. “A king must worry about such things, but not a servant. Who would ever need taint their food, if they let them any at all.” 

You look up at him. His eyes blaze down at you, stunningly gold, like sparkling coins. He prods with the strip and you open your lips to let it slip through you nibble through the thick morsel until a piece breaks off and he rescinds the rest, taking a bite of his own. 

“It’s the last of my elk, and stale at that,” he explains, “in the hinterland, we do eat more than salt, but on campaign, we must eat what we have.” 

You chew, watching him as he turns to pace. He makes you curious. He is a fearsome man, even in only a night shirt, but he thinks overly much. 

“That summer maiden will not like the cold,” he mutters as he rounds the tub then comes back to you. Half the strip remains. He offers it, “take it.” 

You do as he bids. He watches you intently as you hold the jerky and you bring it close to your lips. You stop, “thank you, your highness. You are a generous king.” 

“No, I am a prudent king. Not always generous, not always cruel, only when the moment calls for one or the other,” he stays before you, eyes torrid as they cling to you. 

“Well, you’ve been generous to me, your highness,” you say before you bite into the meat. It is heavier than what you are used to but tasty nonetheless. 

“Prudent,” he repeats, “so I must send you away. Send you back.” He inhales, his broad chest lifting, making him appear even larger, “you have done your duty admirably, little maid.” 

You chew, making a face as you can’t answer for your mouthful. He inclines his head towards you. 

“No,” he shakes his head, “say nothing more. Eat and go. There is still a war to be won before I claim my kingdom.” He puts his back to you and marches back to the window, adding in a grey tone, “...and a wife.” 

His last words are so quiet, so dull, you hardly can discern them. He leans on the window ledge as he stares off beyond the walls. The sun rises around him, casting him in gold. You swallow what’s left of the elk strip and shuffle to the door. As you open it, you hear a sigh, and you close it behind you without glancing back. 

The king does not sound pleased with his nuptials. So is the fare of nobles and their titles. Often the very status that brings them privilege brings them just as much misery. A handmaid only need worry about her next task. 

⚔️

Lady Jazlene is far more satisfied with her imminent union. She is aflutter as you enter her chambers. Merinda watches with dulcet irritation. The duke’s daughter flits around, throwing silks and satins. Lady Rezlyn watches her from a cushioned bench, a goblet in hand as she tuts and tisks at very choice. 

“Mother,” Jazlene tosses down layers of goldenrod yellow, “if none should do, a new dress might be cut, yes?” 

“A new dress? Of what fabric? We are in wartime, dearest,” Rezyn scoffs. 

“And yet you have your reds and your citrus,” the younger accuses. 

“I need wine to steel my nerves and citrus to fill my stomach. You needn’t a dress to live. You have many and more,” Rezlyn snickers. 

“Mother, I swear you do goad me. He is a king. And the war should end soon. There must be silk to be had,” Jazlene whines, and what of jewels? Pearls? Emerald? Sapphire?” 

Merinda shifts, you can sense her thoughts and the little whispers she’s hoarding away for you. She always has the sharpest quips about the pair of ladies and their whimsies. You do agree with some but you can no more blame them for being frivolous noblewoman than you can yourself for being a simple maid. 

Jazlene continues her storm around the chamber. Her nerves are contagious, you can feel a similar stirring in your gut. Perhaps she realises the same as you do. All she knows is about to change irrevocably. 

You try to think of what it will be like when she is married. She must have the same thoughts. You can’t quite picture it. Geralt sitting where Rezlyn does, perhaps he too holds a goblet, Jazlene rambling over her skirts and gems and all the things she wants. You don’t imagine he’d listen for long. Then again, you don’t know the king at all. Not enough to presume you would know. 

Lady Jazlene puts a string of rubies around her neck and preens in the mirror. She points to you then her hair. You come forward and set to pinning her hair. Lady Rezlyn rises and you peek at her in the mirror. She scowls at her wine. 

“Enough fussing, your father wishes us to see the king to break our fast,” the elder holds out her goblet and Merinda comes forward to take it. “And I need more wine.” 

Jazlene shoos you away and stands. She hangs her shoulders and drags her feet, “mother, I will be a queen soon. You cannot order me around so.” 

“Not as yet,” Rezlyn warns, “you have much to learn of being a wife before you worry so much of queendom.” 

Jazlene huffs and pushes her shoulders back. She looks at her reflection once more, posing and posturing. She curves her lips in a wry smirk. 

“Queendom,” she trills, “oh mother.” 

“Yes, yes, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Lady Rezlyn stomps over to her daughter and takes her by the wrist, “you must first think of how to please your husband. As I can tell, it won’t be an easy task, and yet he is as any man is. He is... still a man.” 

“Oh mother,” Jazlene giggles. 

“Look at you, you are marvelous,” Rezlyn pets her daughter’s cheek. “He is a warrior; he holds his shield close but he cannot resist your beauty.”  

The mother keeps hold of her daughter and leads her to the doors. You and Merinda follow at several paces. A habit to keep from trodding on their skirts. The enter the corridor and tension coils around them. The descend to the great hall and to the west wing where the dining hall resides. 

Lord Dustan stands by the head of the table. On most days he would sit in that chair but he only paces around it, tugging at his little triangle beard. You rarely see him so restless. Often, he is as careless as his wife and daughter. 

“Husband, I thought we were to break fast--” 

“Yes, yes,” he waves off his wife’s words, “the king has yet to awaken.” 

You stand by a statue, just to one side of the door. You cannot see the opening around it. You find comfort in its shadow, content to go unnoticed. You wonder if anyone looked upon you, would they see your thoughts. The king is awake but why hasn’t he emerged? 

“What about the marriage?” Rezlyn asks, “a contract?” 

“Wife, if I say it is to be, it is,” Dustan retorts, “must you ever heap upon me?” 

“It isn’t my intent. I am only making certain our daughter’s future is secured. That our family name is to prosper. Husband, I ask in the interest of your profit.” 

“You ask too much,” the duke hisses. 

Before he can receive his wife’s sharp response, sturdy footfalls approach and mute their conversation. A shadow casts through the doorway and you know by the silhouette it can only be one person. King Geralt enters, unassuming in his mail and black clothes. His silver hair is half up, a braid down the back of it. He has his sword strapped to his back. 

“Your highness, the cooks are preparing breakfast--” 

“There is not time for you to sit and gorge,” the king snarls, “there is a war to be won. There is no advantage in waiting on word of your deceit to spread.” 

Dustan has the grace to look ashamed. He twitches and paws at his overcoat, “I... your highness, I would need time to prepare for my departure.” 

“You need mail and a sword. You have a barn full of horses. Mount it and we will be away.” The king insists, “my men march within the hour. We will remember who our allies were when the day is won.” 

“Y-your highness, I--” 

“That is the trouble with summer lords. You think war is played across a board,” the king growls. “war is won in blood and steel. If all you can offer me is words, I am not interested in this contract.” 

“Your highness, I will ready. At once,” Lord Dustan kicks his heels together, “you are right. My spurs are ready.” 

The king drones grimly. He sets his shoulders and opens and closes a fist. Jazlene looks at her mother then steps forward. 

“But your highness, our marriage--” 

“That contract will be met when I have my terms. When my kingdom is forged complete, then I shall have a queen. No sooner than that,” he grits at her. 

“Ah, yes, certainly your highness, then you shall have my favour to ride with,” she pulls a handkerchief from her bodice, “to comfort you in the battles to come.” 

She waves the cloth at him and he says nothing. He grunts and turns to her father. He grabs the duke by his scruff, “let’s hope you can sit a saddle. Carriages are not built for war.” 

King Geralt turns, dragging the Duke of Debray like a stray cat. The king’s golden eyes flick over to you and his jaw ticks. He raises his chin just slightly as he passes, putting his eyes straight only as the meet the corners. He stalks from the room with his blithering ally in tow. 

Jazlene presses her knuckles to her forehead and whines, “mother? Am I to wait anon for my husband? What shall I do? War, war, war! Does it ever end?” 

“Daughter,” Lady Rezlyn sweeps around the table to grab her daughter by the shoulders, “there is no use in bawling. Do not be a child. You are of an age--” 

“Of an age where I should be married!” Jazlene blusters. “How can I be calm when I am promised what I have always wanted and then it is snatched away?” 

“The king will return. As will your father,” Rezlyn shakes her daughter, “King Geralt has made it this far, do not think he will falter now. And when he has claimed victory, he will return to keep good on his promise.” The Lady of Debray lowers her voice, “do you think that your father would break his oath on a chance? That he would gamble. No, he sees what the other lords deny. King Waleran is routed. This war will not last much longer.” 

“Truly, mother?” Jazlene bats her lashes, “how do you know?” 

“Trust your mother,” Rezlyn speaks as though her daughter is no more than a child. “Your father has risked his neck to claim you a king. Do not doubt him.” 

Jazlene considers her mother, searching her face, and pulls her into an embrace. She lets out a shrill squeal and pulls back. Her cheeks round with glee. 

“You’re right mother, this is a blessing. This will allow us time to alter a dress fitting for such a wedding.” 

“Don’t forget a coronation,” Rezlyn adds coyly. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #winter's king #the witcher #medieval au

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [4]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

 The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat. 

 You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.  

“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder. 

 Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day. 

 “Are you alright, Your Grace?” 

 Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations. 

 “You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.

 “You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.” 

 You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.

 “No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”

 The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand. 

 “My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple. 

 “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king. 

 Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.” 

 You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.

 “You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan. 

 “It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well. 

 “You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away. 

 And the dreams…

 You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come. 

 Your father’s rotting face swims before you again. 

 Sugar sweet—  

 You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet. 

 “What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye. 

 “And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—

 “I am apt to know trouble when I see it.” 

 The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial. 

 “Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings. 

 The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee. 

 “My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother. 

 “My Queen.” 

 “Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed. 

 “Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.” 

 To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next. 

 “We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”

 Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.” 

 You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?

 “I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.

 “A most precious gift.”

 “The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes. 

 “We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship. 

 “Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter. 

 Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”

 “And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand. 

 “I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.” 

 “Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”

 “Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure. 

 “As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—

 “I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone. 

 “The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.” 

 —

 The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom. 

 “You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky. 

 “I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder. 

 “Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.” 

 “No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully. 

 “I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.” 

 “Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?” 

 You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips. 

 “O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you. 

 “How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?” 

 “Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly. 

 “Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.

 “Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.” 

 “Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As  if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest. 

 “How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter. 

 “My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”

 “No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?” 

 “Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to  describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant             thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong. 

 “I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”

 “And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”

 “I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.

 “Highness—”

 “I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.” 

 “At once, My Lady.”

 You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back. 

 —

 “How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.” 

 You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them. 

 “I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling. 

 “The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow. 

 “What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt. 

 “Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.” 

 “A bird?”

 “Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.” 

 You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself. 

 You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek. 

 Your face is wet with tears.

 —

 Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown. 

 “I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body. 

 It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams. 

 She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.” 

 “T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.

 “Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow. 

 “What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively. 

 “A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside. 

 “Highness? H-His Majesty is here.” 

 Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods. 

 “I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild. 

 “Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you. 

“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment. 

 “Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely. 

 The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close. 

 “I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.” 

 Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth. 

 The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall. 

 The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.

 She’ll pluck out your eyes. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fic #henry cavill x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x you #geralt of rivia smut #geralt smut #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt x y/n #dark fantasy #dark!fic #darkfic #boxofbonesfic #tonality fic

[dapandapod]

Particular with nicknames

Why hello there! This was written last september (2023) and has since been sitting in my draft, making me rewatch streams because no pathetic reasons at all i swear. Anyway, here is Jaskier having a Moment TM when Geralt uses a very specific nickname. Thank you @ahh-fxck for helping me beta read <3 much appreciated! Please enjoy streamer!Geralt and Pathetic!Jaskier! <3 On Ao3 here

For all the love Jaskier has of words and language, he is strangely picky with nicknames.

It’s not that he dislikes them, he is just strangely neutral. Alright, that’s not true.

His famously ill-advised and stormy relationship with Valdo came to mind. Jaskier had fallen promptly out of love with him when he was called ‘Snugglebutt’ in front of all of their friends. They were together for another month or so past that, because Jaskier thought himself cruel and wanted it to work.

Well, it did not.

Nowadays he shares a flat with his long time best friend Geralt, one of the few constants in his life and the one who just might own about two thirds of his heart.

It’s not a big flat, but they have a room each, a small kitchen, and a shared living room. That is also where Geralt has his small streaming corner set up, back against the wall and facing the room.

Easier that way to keep it clean if he streams with the camera on, no accidental flashing unsuspecting viewers that way. Something learned by trial and error, as Jaskier tends to run warm and just forgo pants. And shirts. And socks.

They also share their flat with a terrible little cat named Roach, who has never quite warmed up to Jaskier. Took to Geralt the instant she saw him, however, and the two are inseparable whenever Geralt is home.

All of this in itself is not an issue. Oh no, all of this is more than fine.

Watching Geralt be sweet with the terrible little furball makes Jaskier’s heart ache pleasantly, listen to him coo about her fur being so shiny and smooth, what a good girl she is, wow look at that yawn!

No, the problem came up the first time as Geralt was lazily watching TV on the couch, back to their little kitchen where Jaskier had just served her royal highness some very expensive cat food.

Roach does as she always does when Jaskier is involved, and simply walks out. It’s routine by now, and the food is usually gone by morning. It’s more about Jaskier knowing his place at the bottom of the list than not liking the food.

But as she returns to the living room with Jaskier trailing after, considering plopping down on the couch too instead of working on his doctoral thesis, Jaskier finds himself fundamentally changed.

“Hi baby.” Geralt says, voice all sweet and dark and gravelly, and fuck.

It is very much aimed at Roach, who is being a cutie, begging pets from under the table. But Jaskier’s insides do a kickflip, his brain short circuits.

Flushing deeply, Jaskier can’t control the little HRK sound escaping his throat.

He is frozen in his tracks, tongue tied and feeling absolutely pathetic. Geralt turns around to look at him with a questioning frown.

“You ok there?” he asks, Roach climbing the couch and up to the backrest, demanding attention.

“Just peachy,” Jaskier squeaks out, and then flees to his room.

Holy fucking shit and mother of turds.

Baby?? Of all the nicknames in the entire world, that is the one Jaskier is going to have a meltdown about?

Just, the lazy way Geralt said it, Jaskier feels like an old maid, clutching his pearls.

It’s fine. He will be fine.

It was meant for Roach, of course, it’s fine.

It is not fine.

Geralt is streaming, talking with some other players. He is not a big name, but he does have a following, and sometimes gets invited to other streams if it's a multiplayer game.

Jaskier is moving around the living room, untangling the nest that their couch has become recently, blankets and hoodies and socks thrown everywhere. He is also holding a banana, somewhat forgotten in his new mission to make the couch sittable.

Part of his distraction comes from listening to Geralt talking, there is a lilt to his voice when he is on stream. It is unclear if Geralt is aware of doing it, but Jaskier can listen to it forever.

While in the process of moving one blanket over to the footrest, Geralt laughs at something said in his headphones.

“Oh baby, I didn’t know you cared!”

Jaskier drops the banana.

Feeling like a deer caught in headlight, Jaskier is unable to do anything but staring, feeling heat climbing his neck, up to his cheek.

Then Geralt’s eyes meet his over his screen, his face is neutral but his eyes are knowing.

Fuck fuck fuck he is in so much trouble.

Maybe it’s fine to have that many blankets. Perfect for hiding, perfect for pretending the way Geralt says ‘Baby’ doesn’t go on loop in his head, and will be for days.

Jaskier is in a constant state of fear.

Ever since the Stream Incident, as he has come to call it, there is this new tension whenever they are in a room together. Where Geralt will look at him consideringly, where Jaskier will pretend everything is as per usual.

He has gotten better at not freezing, but a thrill runs through him every time Geralt uses That Word, making very unsubtle eye contact as he does.

How is his poor heart to cope?

Sometimes, late at night, when Jaskier is unable to sleep and he knows Geralt is still streaming, Jaskier joins in to watch. It is uncertain if Geralt has figured out it’s him or not yet, he has sneakily named his account to Bardelicious, and doesn’t usually join the chat.

Tonight, Geralt is playing a fantasy game. A monster hunter and his bard, fittingly enough, and he makes light commentary about things in the game.

Until there is a scene where the bard does something noble, stupid and somewhat foolish.

“Oh, baby.” Geralt says sadly, shaking his head.

The chat goes absolutely wild, more than one asking him to say it again, to call them baby, which is a little weird and also absolutely fucking valid.

“Why are people so weird about that?” Geralt says, chuckling. The replies roll in, and his eyebrows climb up his forehead. Jaskier’s heart is beating hard, because this could either be really good or really bad.

“Sexy? Doubt that.”

Jaskier regrets it as soon as he presses send, and by then it’s too late.

‘It is when you say it.’ was all he wrote, but it was the first thing he had written in there. Geralt doesn’t know it’s him.

It should be fine. He is fine.

Some more responses follow, but Geralt is strangely quiet. The game scene plays out, the monster hunter and his bard having a nice bonding moment.

It’s soothing to watch, to hear Geralt’s commentary every now and then. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand, earbuds still in.

The next morning, Jaskier is woken up by the scent of coffee and a hungry Roach yowling in the kitchen. She only does that when Geralt is around, so it is safe to assume he is up.

Which is a little odd, because Jaskier fell asleep before the stream was over, and he feels like death warmed over.

His jaw cracks when he yawns. Lured by the scent of coffee, he manages to get out of bed.

Geralt is indeed up and about, Roach winding affectionately around his legs as he prepares her breakfast.

“Morn,” Jaskier rasps, scratching his stomach and giving another yawn.

Roach doesn’t even look at him, fully focused on her man and her meal. The bowl is placed on the floor for the queen herself, and like the gremlin she is, she eats it without a fuss. Little bastard.

Jaskier joins Geralt at the bench, seeking coffee like a flower seeks the sun. He can stop when he wants, coffee is not an addiction, it is a way of life.

“Were you up all night? Hand me a cup, will you?” he says, reaching for the fruit bowl that Geralt for some reason keeps religiously stocked.

In reply, he gets one of the typical hums, which could mean absolutely anything, and two cups. Jaskier pours for them both and Geralt adds the usual unholy amount of sugar to Jaskier’s, which makes him smile.

“Any plans for today? I really should be working on my thesis, but I can’t be arsed.”Jaskier leans back against the counter and sips at his coffee, which is still a little too hot.

Geralt is watching him over the rim of his mug, sipping on the steaming coffee.

“I have a thing I thought to try,” he says, voice gravelly, eyes locked on him.

It makes Jaskier’s stomach flip, and he takes a too big sip, the drink burning his tongue and all the way down his throat unpleasantly.

“Yeah? Anything you want help with?” Jaskier asks nervously, realizing he is still holding his chosen fruit without eating it, so he puts it down on the counter.

The corner of Geralt’s mouth ticks up into a crooked smile, and yeah, Jaskier is in danger. It is way too early in the morning for Geralt to be such an absolute heart throb.

“If you are willing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier finds himself nodding despite himself. If Geralt asks him if he is willing, the answer will probably always be yes.

“Sure! Uh… What is it?”

Geralt takes a step towards him and puts his cup on the side of the counter. Then he grabs Jaskier’s cup out of his hand and puts that down too.

His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat, his hands now clammy and gripping the counter behind him.

Geralt inches forward, the space between them shrinking fast. He stops just shy of touching him, and tilts his head, white hair falling over his shoulder.

“So I was streaming last night,” Geralt begins, and oh dear, oh no. “And there were some interesting comments that I couldn’t get out of my head.”

“Uh… Oh?” Jaskier says dumbly, and Geralt huffs a soft laugh, breath hitting Jaskier’s face.

“You're particular with nicknames, right? I mean, you are still mad at Valdo.”

With growing worry, Jaskier is starting to realize where this is going.

“He called me snugglebutt. In front of people. That’s embarrassing!” Jaskier defends himself faintly. Geralt leans in an inch more, leaning against the countertop and crowding Jaskier against it. Fuck.

“But that’s not what you think when I say ‘Baby’, is it?” Geralt’s eyes are trained on him, and smiles when he notices Jaskier’s flustered little sound, the way heat climbs up his cheeks.

In a weak attempt to save face, Jaskier looks down, anywhere but meeting the intensity of Geralt’s gaze.

It has the unfortunate effect of noticing how close they are, how Geralt’s t-shirt rides down just enough to reveal collarbones, how his hands flex against the counter.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles, leaning close enough for his nose to drag against Jaskier’s cheekbone.

Jaskier pulls in a breath, tilting his head in a way he hopes is invitingly.

“You’re not.” Jaskier whispers, and is rewarded with Geralt putting a hand on his hip, letting his nose drag along Jaskier’s neck. “You really, really not.”

“Is it the nickname? You look so startled whenever you hear me say it.” Geralt asks, one finger finding skin under the hem of Jaskier’s t-shirt.

“Just you. Pretty sure you could call me snugglebutt and I’d thank you.” Jaskier confesses, blurts really, when the rest of Geralt’s hand sneaks under his shirt to find his lower back, playing with the soft hairs there.

“Good to know,” Geralt smiles against his skin and Jaskier braves turning his head, their cheeks brushing together.

“Are you going to kiss me anytime soon, or are you gonna let me keep suffering?” Jaskier breathes, his hands finding Geralt’s and tracing them up his arms slowly.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, considering with a cheeky grin, the absolute bastard, so Jaskier takes matters into his own hands. Quite literally.

Geralt’s face is warm, rough stubble and barely visible scars and imperfections brush against his fingers. Geralt must have turned into it, because their lips slide together, coffee and morning breath mingling as Jaskier finds himself now properly pressed against the bench and Geralt’s body.

Then he is being kissed harder, deeper, and Geralt hoists Jaskier up on the counter, using Jaskier’s thighs to pull him closer, closer still, and presses open mouthed kisses against his neck. With a gasp, Jaskier scrambles to find a grip, to get some control of himself, but it is very, very hard to focus.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me, baby?” Geralt murmurs against his skin, and Jaskier full body shivers. “I can feel you watching me, you are even in my streams.”

“You knew about that?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, stealing a kiss when Geralt shifts to look at him.

“If you wanted to be discreet, maybe you should have chosen something else than ‘Bardelicious’.” Geralt smiles, and Jaskier pouts and pinches his side in revenge.

“Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“Why didn’t you?” Geralt counters, and well, this won’t go anywhere.

“I like listening to you. I like listening to your voice as I go to sleep,” Jaskier says quietly, and Geralt hides his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck.

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Jaskier asks when Geralt stays there, melting into his body.

He doesn’t get anything but a muttering grumble in reply, and Jaskier smiles and strokes his hair.

“I need to find a nickname for you too. I refuse to be the only one being absolutely useless as soon as you open your mouth.” Jaskier murmurs into Geralt’s hair.

“Gmmrmgmg.”

“What’s that?”

“I said, ‘like it when you say my name.” Geralt says, and Jaskier is melting all over again.

“Well then, Geralt,” Jaskier purrs. “Let me finish my coffee, and then we’ll take a nap.”

Reaching for coffee without really letting go turns out to be hard, and when Jaskier with some struggle finally gets a hold of his cup, the coffee is still unreasonably hot.

They nap in Jaskier’s bed, both of them crawling in under the blankets and curling up together. Jaskier’s chin resting on top of Geralt’s head, Geralt’s arm slung over Jaskier’s chest.

When Geralt wakes up and press Jaskier into the mattress, it doesn’t take long for Geralt to discover exactly how to fluster Jaskier enough to splutter broken syllables.

It’s alright.

When Jaskier has recovered from being melted goo, he will return the favor.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #jaskier the bard #modern au #gamer!geralt #dapanda writes #getting together #napping #pining #well something anyway #the draft name of this fic 'baby HRK' because yes that is the sound both author and bard made

[viking-raider]

Soothing A Wolf

Summary: Geralt recalls the memories of a troubled time in his life, while visiting a place that always brought him peace.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning: PG - Fluff, Language, Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Soft!Geralt, Character Death, Projecting, Farm Life, Light Domestic Bliss, Anxiety

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I know I've already written this subject, with A Witcher's Soul, but I've become unhappy with it and decided to give it another try. I'm by far happier with this one. Hope you enjoy!

Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

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

I do remember bits of my life with her.

You had curled up for a late morning nap, after completing all of your morning chores. The sun filtering through the large window above your headboard. It was warm and pleasant, as you drew to the surface of the waking world. You tried fighting it, wishing for a few more moments of rest, before you had to rise and begin the task of the afternoon chores around your quiet, little farm. However, you were drawn out of your slumber, at the sound of someone's approach into your dooryard.

Sighing, you sat up, taking a moment to fix your hair and smooth your skirts, before standing and going out to find who had decided to visit you. You froze on the porch, watching a huge, black Friesian horse come charging up the well-worn path to your cottage. A muscular, broad shouldered man clad in all black clothing in its saddle, his silvery-white hair tied back in a Rivian style flowing in the breeze created by his haste.

“Geralt!” You called out, as the Witcher dismounted from the horse, Roach. “What are you doing here?” You asked, as he stamped through the drying mud towards you, his pale face pinched and set in an expression more agitated than usual, with a tint of something more you couldn't quite put your finger on yet.

The two of you had met nearly fifteen years prior, when you had heard of the White Wolf being in the area and enlisted his help to rid your property of a Graveir that had been threatening it. Not wishing for the alternative, which was moving off the property. You had little to pay him with, offering him the small amount of gold you had. Instead, Geralt had simply asked for a hot meal and permission to camp on your land for the night and use the water from your well, to bathe with after the bloody business of killing the monster.

Naturally, you agreed.

However, after he had killed the creature and washed up to join you for supper, a tension grew between you that popped before the meal ended. Leading to the pair of you being intimate. Ever since, when Geralt was in the area or was taking time off the Trail, he would come to spend time with you. But, you were surprised to see him now, knowing that he should be with Ciri, keeping her safe from Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt that dogged their heels at every turn.

Instead, he mounted the porch steps towards you, catching you up into his arms.

She smelled like embers.

Geralt buried his face into your neck, taking a deep breath of your skin as he did, drawing in your scent. Your skin had a natural earthiness to it, accompanied by the fresh and calming, citrus-y snap of lemon balm and sweetness of licorice root. He wished many times on many occasions that he could bottle it and take it with him. Always finding comfort, calm and desire in your scent.

Like he had in almost no one else.

“What are you doing here, Geralt? I thought you were with Ciri.” You asked, breaking the silence as you embraced him, pressing yourself against his solid body, feeling the dampness of his clothing, from the sparse rains that had been occurring off and on all week.

“She's safe enough for now.” He mumbled into your neck, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you. “But, I needed to see you.” He said, pulling away from you, his hands grasping your shoulders.

“Well, here I am, my wolf.” You cooed at him, resting your hands on his sides and staring up into his face. “I didn't know seeing me was such an urgent thing.” You teased, pushing up on your toes to kiss him, knowing there was something deeper bothering him, but knew better than to press the Witcher for information.

Especially in the matter of his thoughts and emotions. He would tell you in his own time.

“Are you staying or are you riding back off again?” You inquired, looking towards Roach, who was grazing in the damp grass of your dooryard.

“I want to stay the night.” He told you, squeezing your shoulders. “If that's all right with you?” He added, softly.

“Nonsense!” You chuckled, slapping him on the chest. “You know you don't have to ask, Geralt.” You assured him, clicking your tongue. “Are you hungry? I was just about to make lunch for myself. I can add a plate for you.” You said, moving away from him, to go back inside.

She used her magic to create elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.

“I could eat.” Geralt replied, following you inside the cozy home, that always brought him peace. “Especially if it comes with a slice of one of your home-made sweets.” He added, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you move towards the kitchen.

You looked at him over your shoulder, an impish sparkle in your eye. “I don't have any made.” You told him, coyly. “But, if you behave yourself, perhaps there'll be something after dinner.” You teased with a wink, before rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Going into the pantry, you grabbed a large, earthenware jug, carrying it out and set it on your counter, removing the cork. Taking a whiff of the contents that were inside, your nose was greeted by the sweet aroma of honey and blood-orange mead. You had brewed it yourself. You took down a cup and filled it, taking a wee nip for yourself, before taking it out to Geralt, who had made himself at home. He'd taken his shoes off, but stood before the fire, tossing a log into it.

“You don't need to do that, Geralt.” You frowned, holding the cup out to him. “I could have done it.”

“I know.” He answered, watching the strong flames catch the edges of the wood, before he took the cup from you, taking a deep gulp. “You really should sell your own spirits.” He commented, licking his lips and looking into golden liquid.

“Ha.” You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “I have enough to do around the farm, Witcher.” You quipped, going back into the kitchen.

Geralt chuckled at you, taking a seat before the fire, flexing his sore toes in the glowing warmth with a soft and tired sigh, while sipping his mead. He listened to you bump about in the kitchen. The opening and closing of the pantry, the thud of cabinet doors shutting, after you searched through their contents. He finished off his mead and set it on the table beside him, before standing and going to the threshold of the kitchen, knowing better than to go into your kitchen, while you were active in it.

You'd chased the Witcher out more than once, with either the rolling pin or a dish towel.

I would have done anything to make her smile.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, cocking his head around the corner to look at you, seeing you wielding a large knife to cut into a small wheel of cheese. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to sit your butt down.” You answered, turning to look back at him. “You rode, god knows how far, to here. So, you need to relax.” You told him, adamantly.

And yet, the day she left me, she was sick. She needed water, so I went to get her some.

“But, I want to help.” Geralt insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sighed softly, giving him a gentle smile. “All right, Geralt.” You conceded, nodding. “My other big brute needs to be fed. So, why don't you go out and do that for me, while I finish getting our lunch done.”

“I can do that.” He nodded, daring to step into the kitchen to kiss you on the cheek, chuckling as you popped him on the bum on his way out.

“That, man.” You giggled, smiling to yourself as you turned back to your task.

Geralt tugged his boots back on and went out, heading towards the small fenced off area to the right of your property, where the few farm animals you had lived. He found the bucket beside one of the fence posts and snagged it up by the rope handle, heading towards the grain storage that was around the other side, filling the bucket.

“Hey, Martigan.” He called out to the brown and white dairy cow, standing in the center of the pen, nibbling on a bale of hay with an expression of no care on his face, but twitched his ears to the sound of Geralt's voice. “And you.” Geralt huffed at the animal you had dubbed your other brute, a solid white goat with horns that nearly curved in on themselves, they were so long. “I see you, Goat-Bert.”

The Witcher called to the Goat, who stood clear on the other side of the pen, as he opened the latch to the gate. But that meant nothing, and Geralt knew it. He had dealt with this Goat-Devil before on your behalf. He had even considered taking one of his potions to increase his odds in dodging that swift, easy to anger, creature. Not even Little Bleater was a match for this fiend. So, keeping one golden eye on the Goat, Geralt moved towards the feeding trough and dumped the bucket of grain into it. It wasn't a split second later that Martigan let out a loud, agitated moo and Goat-Bert bleated with his evil intent, setting his head downward as he charged across the muddy pen towards Geralt's shins.

“Fuck!” Geralt barked under his breath, tossing the bucket over the fence and himself with it. “You damned Goat!” He cursed at him, fuming at Goat-Bert rammed his head into the trough, at full steam. But it was your howls of laughter from the porch that drew Geralt out of his choice words for the farm animal. “You find that funny?” He asked, picking up the bucket and moving towards you, as you grinned and giggled.

“I find it hilarious!” You wheezed, wiping tears from your face. “Watching a Witcher jump a fence to get away from a little goat!”

“Now, you know damn well, what mischief that demon can cause.” Geralt told you, but smirked at your amusement. “I don't need Lambert or Eskel busting my ribs, because I got a broken leg because of a wee goat.”

“Well, no harm done.” You said, catching your breath. “And lunch is ready and waiting for us on the table.” You told him, turning to go back inside.

Following you, Geralt was greeted by a laid out table, containing a round and fluffy loaf of bread with a blossom score on the top of its beautiful, caramel-brown crust. Beside the loaf, was a glass decanter of the mead you'd served him earlier, half a roasted and glazed ham hock, that glistened in the light of the fireplace, and a plate of the cheese slices you'd cut. There were other tidbits, to make lunch more pleasant and filling, as well.

“It looks delicious.” He commented, pulling a chair out and sat down.

You looked at him with soft surprise, cocking a brow as you sat beside him. “Ciri and Jaskier must really be leaning hard on your lessons.” You chuckled, picking up a knife and cut a slice out of the bread, laying it on Geralt's plate, before cutting another and putting it on your own. “Would you like a second piece?” You asked him, knife hovering above the loaf.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, before reaching for the decanter, pouring you both a tankard. “I appreciate this.” He said, watching you cut thick slices of juicy ham from the hock and set them on the edge of his plate, allowing him to build his own sandwich.

“Of course.” You answered, brow creasing as you placed the ham and cheese on your bread, closing it with the second piece, using your knife to cut it in half. “I can't let you starve, now can I? Silly Witcher.” You chuckled, taking a bite.

Geralt hummed, putting together his own meal and allowing the table to fall into a comfortable silence as the two of you ate. Nothing, but the pop and crackle of the fire with the occasional moo or baa of the farm animals outside filled the space. Neither of you moved, once you had your fill, but you watched Geralt, smirking as you saw his lids struggle to stay open and his chin from falling against his chest. You stood, causing Geralt to start and look up at you with wide molten-gold orbs, but you just offered him a sweet smile, as you started to clear away the table, putting things in the pantry, sink or scrap barrel.

Once you were finished, you moved to your bedroom, fluffing your pillows, fixing and folding back the blankets, then pulled shut the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Satisfied, you returned to Geralt, smirking as you found he had lost the battle with his sleepiness. His breathing was slow, coming out in gentle huffs, arms crossed and chin resting on his chest. He looked so peaceful and relaxed, the muscles under the loose black material of his tunic were slack, making the various scars pull taut. Biting your lip, you moved around him and knelt, taking one of his booted feet in your hands, eyes still trained on his face. In case you startled him, knowing it could cause him to burst into defending himself, when startled awake.

But Geralt didn't stir, as you carefully pulled his muddy boots off, setting them in front of the fireplace. You stood, moving around him to open the knot of the string that held his silvery-white hair tied back out of his face.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his ear, resting your hands lightly on his shoulders. “Geralt.” You said, a little bit louder.

“Hm?” He hummed back, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, causing his loose hair to fall forward.

“Why don't you come lay down?” You suggested, patting his shoulders and kissing the back of his head. “You'll be so much more comfortable in bed.” You persuaded him, gently.

Geralt sighed, licking his lips and stretching his legs for a moment, before standing up and allowing you to guide him to your bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into a chair in the corner and dropped into the bed, looking up at you, as you stood before him.

“Lay with me.” He cooed, resting his hands on your hips.

“I have chores to do, Wolf.” You smirked at him, cupping his neck and caressing his stubbly jawline with your thumbs.

“They can wait until tomorrow.” Geralt said, pulling you between his legs. “I'll do them for you.” He smiled, making you sit in his lap as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Before, I go.” He promised, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“Very well.” You conceded, breaking the kiss and rubbing noses with him.

“Good.” He rasped, laying down and pulling you against his chest.

And when I came back... she was gone.

Geralt woke up sometime later, feeling refreshed. He hadn't slept well or very long in the weeks since he and Ciri left Kaer Morhen, with the Wild Hunt and Nilfgaard after them, worried that every moment his eyes were shut, was a moment they'd come and take Cirilla from him. He reached out for you, wanting to feel you against him, but you weren't in bed any longer.

I called for her.

He got out of bed, calling your name, as he searched the house for you. The fireplace was still roaring, telling him you hadn't been gone long. But where could you be, that you wouldn't hear him calling. He yanked the front door open and stormed into the yard, uncaring that he had no boots on, yelling your name even louder, as he turned in circles. His only answer was the breeze through the trees, Goat-Bert, Martigan and Roach.

Not a peep or appearance from you.

But she was gone.

Geralt felt his chest grow tight and his slow heart skip a beat, then another. The dooryard started to spin and blur, a rock-like lump formed in his throat. He flexed his hands and shook his head, trying to get a handle on himself. He wasn't supposed to act like this. He wasn't supposed to show his emotions, let alone allow them to take control over him.

“Geralt!” You frowned, coming out of the treeline, a basket resting on your hip as you found him standing barefoot in the muddy dooryard. “What's going on?” You asked, setting the basket down and hurrying over to him, as you watched tears drip from his sharp jaw. “What's happened? Are you hurt?” You asked, looking him over, searching for a wound you felt you had failed to notice before.

“Where is it? Show me!”

“I'm not--” He rasped, swallowing at the lump and shaking his head. “You were gone.” He said, pressing his lips together and pushing his jaw forward, trying to bring up his walls against the raw feelings he was being crushed under. “I woke up and you were gone. I called for you.” He said, failing miserably. “But you didn't answer. I thought--” He choked, looking away from you.

You blinked up at him, confused and afraid, never seeing this side of Geralt before. “You thought what?”

He chewed on his lip, his face hardening as he slowly started to gain control of himself again. “I thought you left me.” He admitted, deciding not to shut you out.

“Left you?” You echoed softly, blinking up at him with surprise. “No, Geralt. I'd never leave you. I didn't leave you.” You told him, taking his hand in both of yours. “I just woke up from our nap before you did, and you seemed so tired that I didn't have the heart to wake you. So, I went out to pick some blueberries.” You explained to him, half turning back to where you'd set your basket, full of plump, indigo orbs. “I plan on using them to bake you a pie.” You said quietly, looking back up at him.

Neither of you said anything for a long while, before Geralt looked down at you, a sad look in his eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, bending his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You assured him, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

Nodding, Geralt pressed his lips to your forehead and sighed, looking down at his muddy feet. “I'll rinse my feet off.” He said, moving away from you and towards the well.

Watching him go and drop the bucket into the well, you knew the Witcher didn't have the easiest of lives, that he had a lot of trauma in it. But, he would tell you what was bothering him, when he was ready. It seemed too raw, at the moment. So, you went back for your blueberries and carried them inside to the sink, so you could rinse them off, prepping them for the pie.

Deciding to be there for Geralt, when he was ready.

#Henry Cavill #HenryCavill #Geralt of Rivia #Geralt #witcher season 3 #Geralt x Reader #Geralt x You #Geralt of Rivia x You #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher netflix #Fluff #Parental Loss #Loss #Witchers have Emotions #Soft!Geralt #Hurt/Comfort #Hurt #Comfort #Viking-Raider Fics #Soothing a Wolf #Soothing a Wolf *Fic*

[mjolnir-76]

Geralt Of Rivia X Male!Elf!Reader

genre: fluff, comfort

words: 822

summary: Geralt comforts you after you catch sight of a new scar, leading to you braiding his hair as promised and falling asleep in each others arms

after some decision, you, geralt and jaskier arrive at kaer morhen for the winter. you and geralt share a room and share a lovely night together. you both hop out of the bath after relaxing by the fire, drying yourselves off. you walk infront of the mirror, shorts hanging low on your hips and you pull a shirt over your head when you pause, seeing the protruding scar on your abdomen. you remove your shirt from just over your head, dropping it softly to the ground. geralt glances over at the noise, tugging on his own shirt. your fingers gently feel the bumpy skin, eyes contorting in disgust. you love to trace geralts scars, hear every story but on yourself, you felt it made you look gross, undesirable. like it ruined your smooth skin.

"what are you doing?" his deep voice enters your ears. it brings you out of your thoughts and you quickly grab your shirt from the floor, "doesn't matter" you say, unravelling your shirt when geralt takes it off of you, throwing it on the bed behind you. he grabs your bare waist, pulling you closer, his thumb stroking over the scar. "i know what you're thinking, i've spent many a night thinking the same" he murmurs, spinning you around softly to face the mirror again. he kisses your shoulder before he takes off his shirt again. you sigh as you know what he's doing, he points to one of his scars in the same place as yours, "look, we're matching" he says. "yours are just.. different i don't know" you say, finding it difficult to put your thoughts into words. "but they're not. the longer we spend together getting into fights, they'll build up. and then you'll have stories after stories for each one every time i trace them. they won't look out of place, they'll be your trophy" he says, wrapping his arms around your bare waist, pulling your back and kissing at you neck and shoulder.

"you know nothing can ruin you in my eyes, it only gives you more depth. makes you more beautiful, if that's possible" he says with a smile. he gently sways you and you lean your head back against his chest to which he rests his chin on your slightly damp hair. "i love you so much" is all you mumble, revelling in the warmth of your human heater. he kisses your head, "i love you more" he replies and you twist in his grasp, wrapping your arms around his upper abdomen. "nooo" you murmur tiredly into his pec that your cheek rests on. he wraps his arms around your shoulders, one hand softly stroking your head. he laughs quietly, "tired darling?" he asks and you pull back from his arms, "not too tired to do your hair like you promised" you smile up at him as he hopes you forgot about what he promised. "fine, be quick about it alright" he says and you peck his lips before moving onto the bed. your hop on and rest against the headboard, patting the space between your legs.

he smiles slightly and crawls onto the bed, settling comfortably between your legs. he wouldn't admit it but he loves being in your arms. he's big spoon to anyone who asks, but you know he likes to be held. you grab a brush from the side and gently drag it through his now dry hair. you smile at how soft it is, putting the brush down and running your fingers through it. geralt groans, eyes closed, fully relaxed. you can tell he's close to drifting off but he's actively fighting it to stay in the moment. your fingers gently start to weave together sections of hair skilfully, your routine of doing your own hair every morning coming through. geralt wasn't aware of how much this meant to you. as an elf, braided hair had a lot of meaning and symbolism, it was a craft your mother had taught you when you were young. little did you know geralt was fully aware, it's the only reason he let you do it.

after feeling your gentle hands massage his scalp he may let you do it more often. you normally wore braids in your hair and you mirrored a couple of styles you usually had in his, showing your connection. you tie ribbon after ribbon, weaving together braids and hair in intricate patterns. he just has so much hair, it's incredibly relaxing for both parties. you finish the last braid, smoothing down his hair and kissing the top of his head and wrapping your arms around his upper body. he slowly shifts, turning around to face you, "lay down love, let's get some sleep" you nod and geralt lifts his body up on his arms, letting you slide down until your head meets the pillows. geralt moves to lay beside you but you pull him up instead to lay on your chest, still between your legs. he smiles and let's you, wrapping his arms around you and resting his ear to your chest. your heartbeat lulls him into sleep aswell as your fingers still sifting through his now braided hair. his warmth and weight are so comforting, you never want to leave this moment.

#geralt x y/n #geralt x you #tv show geralt #the witcher games #geralt fanfic #geralt fluff #original character #geralt x reader #geralt x male reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher #henry cavil x male reader #henry cavil x y/n #henry cavil #henry cavil fanfic

[somethingqueerisgoingonhere]

A snippet from a very long wip im working on, hope you enjoy!

-

“Are you sure this will work?” Geralt says nervously.

“Of course not,” Yen drawls, “if he rejects you, he rejects you.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he growls as they step through the portal Yen had made and into a strange room filled with obscurities. 

The room is filled with every color imaginable, shining and blinding in every corner.

“What is this place?” He asks Yen.

“You’ll see,” Yennerfer says, coming up to the front desk and ringing a bell that had been sitting unassuming on the counter.

Immediately a small man, about up to Geralt’s hips, comes walking in, so you can only see the top of his balding head, and hikes himself up into the chair, “what can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for a dagger,” Yennerfer says, “handmade.”

“That will take sometime,”

“As quick as you can, we’ll pay,”

“What kind of dagger?”

Yennerfer looks at Geralt expectantly, “broad, short, practical.”

“How romantic.” Yennerfer says snarkily, she turns to the man, “the hilt will need to be decorated quite lavishly with carvings and stones.” she turns back to Geralt, “have you picked a stone?” 

Geralt remembers the small book Yen had passed him and the many worn pages of their significance and meanings, it felt overwhelming. He’d looked endlessly through the blue stones, wanting one the particular shade of Jaskier’s eyes but also with the right intent. There was one that made him think of nothing but Jaskier’s dancing eyes.

“Hotez,” Geralt says firmly.

“For his eyes, really?” Yen drawls.

The mans hums thoughtfully, “quite a meaningful gem, many cultures use it for love or honesty and I believe the elven meaning is ‘I can’t live without you’ or rather ‘our love is eternal’.”

Geralt can feel his face warming at Yennefer’s intense stare. “Well,” she says, “I’m glad you at least gave it some thought rather than picking a random one.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he growls.

“Wouldn’t you?”

The man cuts in, “Along the hilt? Would you like engravings as well?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers sure of himself, the engravings were the part he knew exactly what he wanted, “A wolf and a…” he looks at Yennerfer who arches an eyebrow at him, “a lark,” he finishes lamely.

She actually laughs, “Oh Geralt you’re simple but you’re sweet.”

“Is that supposed to be a complement?”

“That’s as close as you’ll get with me I’m afraid.”

-

Yennerfer pulls Geralt to the side while Jaskier and Ciri enter the dining hall. 

“What?” he hisses.

She gives him a look that says don’t ever take that tone with me again and he listens, his tone is much more subdued when he asks “what’s the matter?”

“The dagger, it’s arrived, you can do this after all. Tonight. Come with me.”

“Yen,” Geralt calls after her figure leaving down the hall, “Yen!” He has no choice but to follow.

She brings him to her room and balks at the interior, “really? You used magic here? To make your room nicer?"

"What they had just wasn’t cutting it," she says shrugging.

"You know the point of the simplicity is to be humbled."

"Well I’m not exactly the humbled type."

He she tosses a paper wrapped package at him that he manages to catch, he frowns at her.

“Don’t look at me like that, go on, look at it, do you know what I had to pay to have this specially ordered and on a deadline and you just had to have one of the rarest stones-”

“Okay i get it,” Geralt says annoyed, “I’ll pay you back.”

“Please, like I need your money, besides I’ve seen what your salary looks like, I’d be dead before you could ever pay me back."

“Yen,” he says annoyed."

“Consider it a gift, for good will towards your love,” she waves him off but he feels a warmth pooling in his stomach.

He carefully unwraps the dagger, the paper rustling, as he reveals the blade of it, it’s broad like he’d asked and smooth. It shines brilliantly in the candle light, flashing as he turns it this way and that.

“The hilt,” Yen says, telling him to hurry up.

He unwraps the hit, met immediately with that striking blue that drew him in and he feels embarrassment crawl up his neck as he thinks of the stone’s meaning. “Do you think he’ll know what it means?”

“Someone as romantic and poetic as Jaskier? He’ll know what it means.”

Geralt runs a hand over the bumps of the crystal blue stones, shaped so their sides flash brilliantly and that’s when he turns it over and sees it, the carving of a wolf arched towards a bird, a lark.

“Well?” Yennerfer says.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Really what has he gone and done to you, you’re never this courteous."

“I really mean it Yen, for helping me with this, even if he says no, I know how much you and Ciri have put into this, it means a lot.”

“My gods he’s good for you, don’t you ever let him go if he says yes.”

“Don’t plan on it.” 

“I’m serious."

“So am I,” he doesn’t buckle under her piercing gaze and when she’s satisfied she turns her attention back to the matter at hand.

Do you need to practice what you’re going to say? He makes a face at the thought of telling Yen what he’s been repeating in his head for days, “No.”

“Very well she says, and you remember what to do?”

He nods.

“Okay then here’s the last piece,” she waves a hand at her bed where there’s something draped on it, as he draws closer he can see it’s fine clothing, clothing that makes him want to die on his own sword to be seen in but finely made clothing of high grade silk and carefully embroidered, something Jaskier would love. “you weren’t really planning on going in your usual clothes?”

“Isn’t this a bit too dressed up for such a place?”

“You think he won’t be dressed up?" She’s right, gods he’s been saying that too often these days. “Besides Ciri and I will be dressed up also so you won’t feel alone."

-

Geralt feels the dagger burn against his skin through the pocket of his pants. Jaskier has just finished a set and walks over to him.

“Jaskier,” he draws Jaskier’s attention, those blue eyes turning to burn into his. He’s a little sweaty from all the movement but it’s not unpleasant, his hair a little mussed.

“Well aren’t you well dressed,” Jaskier says, an easy smile gracing his lips, “you must absolutely hate it,” he laughs, eyes creasing with his delight.

Geralt feels mirth rumbling up from his chest. This is Jaskier, he steadies Geralt even without meaning to do so. 

“I bet Yen had to hold you down while she squeezed you into that. It must have been quite the sight,” there’s teasing to his voice and a glint in his eyes that holds Geralt captive.

Geralt’s voice is quiet to even his own ears, “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” Jaskier says, smile faltering.

“These two weeks have been amazing,” Jaskier stares at him with pure confusion, “I feel that I’ve grown to know you better than I ever have. And the more I’ve grown to know you, the more I’ve grown to appreciate your friendship.”

“You’re awfully talkative tonight,” Jaskier says, trying for another laugh to break the serious tone.

Geralt stares at him with a determination that rivals anything he’s ever felt in his life, “I have thought long and hard about my intentions towards you. There’s nothing that frightens me more than losing your friendship or your respect.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier looks scared now.

Geralt brings his fingers to his side, he watches how his fingers tremble as he unsheathes the silver dagger, the stone encrusted hilt flashes in the low candle light. 

He draws it out before turning it in his hand, grasping the delicate blade and pointing the hilt towards Jaskier. He finally brings himself to look at Jaskier who’s staring down at the hilt offered up to him, eyes wide and glassy, mouth opened in shock. Geralt knows he’s completely caught him off guard.

The seconds stretch by painfully, drawing them both apart with each moment that passes. And then there’s blessed movement as Jaskier brings a hand up to grasp the hilt, and Geralt moves without thinking, pressing his palm into the sharp edge of the blade and pulling back quickly. The sting of blade biting into flesh barely phases him, only knows he’s done it because he can smell the copper in the air.

Jaskier’s eyes flick up to him, swimming with fear and trepidation, he looks so lost. Geralt wants nothing more than to rush forward, to embrace him. Geralt grits his teeth not because of the lowly stinging of his palm. He opens his fingers revealing the two slice marks welling with scarlet blood, it represents the seriousness of his proposition. Jaskier’s eyes drink in the cuts eagerly like he’s starving for the sight of it.

Geralt takes this as a good sign and drops his hand back to his side. It’s now time for Jaskier to make a decision. He must place the dagger back into the sheath on Geralt’s side and either leave it there in rejection and Geralt must not approach him again or unbuckle the sheath from his side and wear it himself. A sign that he’s being courted and not to be approached by any other suitors.

Geralt can feel the blood slicking his fingers and imagines it must’ve begun dripping to the floor. 

Jaskier’s movements are stuttered as he brings the dagger to Geralt’s side, his hand grasped determinedly around the hilt. Feeling, Geralt imagines, the stones and their intent digging into his palm. 

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, listening painedly to the whispering of the blade against leather as it slides into the sheath. He opens them, staring into those cornflower blue eyes. The most beautiful color Geralt’s ever seen. He watches as Jaskier’s hand moves and prepares for him to draw it back to his side, for him to step back away. He hears it, not sees it, when Jaskier’s fingers pull at the buckle, metal tinkling in the air and the rushing of leather pulling free as it whisks through the buckle. And like that the firm pressure of the band around him slides away, held firmly in Jaskier’s delicate hands as he pulls it back to himself into Geralt’s eyeline. Geralt feels like it can’t be real, watches in a daze as Jaskier pulls the band around his hips, the sheath coming to rest against his side and shaky fingers bringing the buckle to meet the notched band before sliding it through and firmly buckling it. Geralt can see his fingers shaking, but Geralt can do nothing but stare as the downcast eyes flick up to his own, watching, waiting.

Jaskier gives him a hesitant smile, “did you really think I’d reject you? I don’t think there’s a world where that happens.”

And like that Geralt crumbles apart at Jaskier’s feet, leaping forwards to grab Jaskier around the waist and hoist him up into the air, spinning him. Jaskier’s laugh is pure delight. He stops, dropping Jaskier against himself, arms crushing him in a hug. Jaskier returns it, laugh sweet in his ear. 

Then there’s Ciri’s shout, “he accepted!” And just like that they’re surrounded. The women of Alietza cooing over Jaskier, bustling him away from Geralt as they make him pull out the dagger so they may admire the jewels and intricate designs in the hilt, it’s then that Jaskier seems to notice the engravings, he runs his fingers over it admiringly just as Geralt had done hours earlier.

“Hotezes,” they gasp. “We hope your courting will prove fruitful.”

He feels like his legs are going to give out from under him from the way the adrenaline racing through him leaves him in a rush. And yet he feels more content than he’s ever felt in his life. 

“Congratulations,” comes a sly voice behind him, he turns to meet assessing lilac eyes, “you managed not to fuck it up.”

“Yen,” he says with a smile on his lips.

“You’re both going to be disgustingly romantic aren’t you?” Yen asks, a look of disgust on her face and Geralt’s laughing. He’s laughing so freely that Yen’s face morphs into one of shock.

He’s suddenly blindsided by an armful of Ciri, she hugs him tightly, her arms around his neck, her hair tickling his nose. She pulls back, flushed and delighted, “Congratulations!”

“He’s only accepted my request to court him,” Geralt tells her seriously.

She punches his arm, not lightly, “yeah but this was the hardest part! Now you get to shower him with affection.”

“For Geralt that is the hardest part,” Yen says into her glass of wine.

“I’m not worried,” Ciri says, and her eyes are filled with something loving and kind that shines in the candlelight and Geralt feels his heart ache with the love he feels for Ciri.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier #geralt jaskier

[poledancingdinos]

Hostile Territory - Chapter 20

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Leah Coleman)

Word count: 2.5K

Warnings: none for this chapter

Catch up: Series Masterlist

Taglist: @amberangel112 @utterlyhopeful-fics @marantha @kebabgirl67 @littleone65 @omgkatinka @luclittlepond @persephonepraxidikechthonios @enchantedbytomandhenry @narnianaos @geralts-yenn @peaches1958 @avengersfan25 @sillyrabbit81 @summersong69 @identity2212 @liecastillo @lena-banena @mrsevans90 @confessionbrain-writings @eclecticfashionbookszipper @happydistraction @hannah9921 @valacircareads @toooldforobsessions @kingliam2019

Masterlist

Day 203

After arguing a little, Ash let Leah pay the normal hourly rate for his work and gave her a final hug before seeing her off.

“So,” Sy began as they stood outside the shop, “where to now?”

That was a good question. Leah had been stunned to see Sy—thrilled—but stunned. All she knew was that she wanted to keep him close but she also couldn’t miss her appointment with Ash. After that, well, she’d been too focused on not messing up Ash’s lines to think about what they would do next.

“I’m going to guess you’re starving since all you’ve eaten since you showed up on my doorstep was a couple of strawberries so… Dinner?”

Dinner was the obvious answer considering it was almost six o’clock but what kind? Did she take him home and make him wait while she found something to cook? Did they go out? If so, where? Was this a dinner and a movie type of thing or a drinks at the bar type of thing?

“I am starvin’. Why don’t you tell me where I can get your favorite takeout and I’ll meet you back at your place?”

Leah released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That sounded perfect. She didn’t know why Sy made her so nervous. She’d never been one to turn into a blubbering mess in front of a guy but damn did she feel like a kid going up to her first crush on the school playground. Maybe it was because, for the first time, she really wanted a relationship to work out. 

“There’s a little place on 2nd Street. Every time the guys talked about what they wanted to eat when they got home, I thought about their bacon cheeseburgers.”

Sy’s desirous groan confirmed that he was fully onboard with that idea. Leah laughed, holding out her hand.

“Give me your phone and I’ll pull up the address for you.”

Sy did as requested, holding on a second longer than necessary as their fingers brushed together.

“Why don’t ya put your number in there while you’re at it. I figure that’s something a good boyfriend should have.”

Leah pursed her lips as she bit the inside of her cheek. “Is that what you are to me now?”

“Give me the next two weeks then you can decide for yourself.”

Why was this man so damn smooth? And how was he still single? The women in Georgia must have been blind. Or maybe Sy just wasn’t around enough to really get to know anyone.

“If you get me that bacon cheeseburger then you might just be able to do it.” Leah finished up with Sy’s phone handing it back to him. “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

After seeing Sy off, Leah rushed home, making a mental list of everything she needed to clean before Sy came back. She started with the living room which had the empty snack wrappers from the previous late night with her brother. She then took the trash out back and moved on to the bathroom to remove all signs of female life. Her wax strips, razor and shaving cream were unceremoniously dumped in a basket under the sink before she threw her dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. Finally, she changed the sheets on the bed, not remembering if she had done so before leaving in order to come home to an already fresh set of sheets.

The front door opened just as she finished fluffing the pillows. She made her way back down, drawn by the familiar scent that reminded her of her many amazing family nights growing up. Sy finished taking his boots off then lifted the paper bag. “Kitchen or couch?”

“It’s probably best if we eat this at a table but we can do a movie on the couch afterwards.”

“Sounds good.”

It was difficult to maintain any kind of conversation over dinner with how messy the burgers were but they both devoured their food so fast that there wasn’t enough time for it to get awkward.

“You were right,” Sy declared after finishing the final bite of his burger. “I’ll be dreamin’ of that meal once we get back.”

“How you just ate two of those and haven’t yet fallen into a food coma I do not understand.”

Although, in Leah’s experience, the more she trained and gained muscle, the hungrier she got. With a body like Sy’s—which looked to be about ninety percent muscle—he was probably capable of eating that much on a daily basis.

Sy huffed a laugh at her comment, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. “I may still fall asleep during the movie.”

Leah stood, throwing the wrappers in the trash and swapping the empty soda cups for beer bottles from the fridge.

“I need to take the wrap off my tattoo before we do that. My jeans are pressing on my skin and it’s starting to hurt.”

Sy opened his eyes, reaching a hand out to catch Leah around the waist and pull her to sit sideways on his lap. She didn’t resist, letting herself be moved and putting an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t stay uncomfortable on my account.” His thumb traced the exposed skin of her side. “What would ya have put on if I hadn’t been here?”

A shiver ran down Leah’s spine at the gentle touch. “Umm… Probably an old t-shirt and boyshorts.”

“Ya didn’t seem worried about undressin’ at the shop. Would it be different with it just bein’ the two of us here?”

No, she hadn’t been worried at the shop and she wouldn’t be uncomfortable undressing now. However, she did care about her appearance. Comfortable and sexy didn’t often go hand in hand. Leah may not have been trying to tempt Sy into bed but she didn’t want to look like a slob either. 

“I guess I shoulda asked before now,” he added after a moment without an answer, “but do ya wanna tell me what your limits are?”

Leah wasn’t quite sure what Sy meant but she’d only heard the word ‘limits’ used in a handful of contexts.

“Like kink limits?”

“That too but I meant any sort of boundaries ya have.”

Sy took a deep inhale, his expression turning thoughtful as he carefully considered his words. The last thing he wanted was for Leah to misunderstand his intentions.

“Imma be honest here,” his tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “I don’t care if we don’t have sex or if we don’t do anything else that would get either of us off but it would be real hard for me if physical contact was fully off the table. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable or do something against your will. If there’s anywhere ya don’t want to be touched I’d appreciate ya lettin’ me know before I do something wrong.”

“Is that why we’re having this conversation with me sitting on your lap?”

Sy looked down as if he hadn’t realized what he’d done. It was like wanting to have her close was so deeply ingrained in him that he’d done it on instinct.

“Yeah, sorry.”

He moved to lift her off but Leah stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“No, it’s okay, I like this. I’m okay with cuddling, kissing or sitting on your lap but…”

“But I should keep my hands in safe territory and avoid anything sexual?” Sy finished when she hesitated for too long.

“Yes but no…” Leah shook her head, making her hair fall over her face. “I know it’s stupid but if you’re doing it for you then it’s usually okay but if it’s with the intention to get me off then it’s usually not.”

It made Sy angry to hear Leah talk about herself that way. It occurred to him that Leah, although confident in her physical abilities and skills in the field, always struggled to express her feelings or share personal thoughts. She usually responded better to specific questions but they still appeared to take a toll on her.

“It’s not stupid. Nothing ya feel is stupid, okay?” He held her tighter, moving a hand the back of her neck in the hopes that the gentle pressure would help soothe her. He was working off a hunch he’d had for a while that Leah had submissive tendencies. Though she didn’t like feeling out of control, Sy had an inkling that she would appreciate giving it up to someone she trusted. And that she needed more praise in her life. “You’re doin’ real good, darlin’, this is helpin’ me understand. When ya say it would be okay when it’s for me, would ya enjoy it or would ya tolerate it?”

“If I was in the right mood, I’d want to make you feel good and I’d enjoy it.”

“But you wouldn’t want me to reciprocate?”

Leah shook her head ‘no’.

“Okay. Thank you for tellin’ me.” Leah leaned into Sy’s hold on her nape, some of the tension finally leaving her body. “Is there a reason talkin' about this is so hard for ya?”

It scared him to ask the question but he needed to know if the reason for Leah’s discomfort was because of a bad past experience or if it was just how she was. Leah had kept her eyes averted the entire time and Sy fought the desire to tip her chin up, not wanting to risk her shutting down completely.

“I guess I find it embarrassing to explain so it was always easier to just act like I was into it.”

Sy touched his forehead to Leah’s temple, closing his eyes as he calmed himself.

“Don’t ever do that with me.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. “If you’re not into it, nothing happens. We don’t need to get deeper into all this tonight but you have to promise me that much.”

Leah shifted on Sy’s lap, turning to face him more fully. Sy’s intense gaze met hers, conveying how deeply he cared about her and her wellbeing.

Feeling a little too overwhelmed for words, Leah pulled Sy forward and gently pressed her lips to his. He let himself be moved, giving her control to slowly explore the kiss.

When they parted, Leah had a shy smile on her face. “I promise.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her temple and tapped her good thigh twice. “Now go get comfy and I’ll finish cleanin’ up in here.”

“If I change then you should too.”

“I’m not the one with a massive wound on my leg but I can take my pants off if that’s what ya want.”

Leah rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “Well, it wouldn’t be a hardship but I meant you should put on shorts or sweats or something.”

After Sy agreed to change, Leah went upstairs and made sure her tattoo was clean and dry before slipping on her boyshorts and oversized t-shirt. She looked herself up and down as she tied her hair into a loose ponytail, declaring herself as ready as she could be.

When she returned, Sy had already made himself comfortable on the couch, scrolling through the movie options. He’d changed into what looked like thin sweatpants and was stretched out in the corner of the L-shaped couch.

“Don’t move for a second.”

He watched as Leah pulled what looked like a drawer out from under the main section of the couch and popped it up to form a mattress sized couch.

“Well that’s convenient.”

“Dad got sick of me and Caleb fighting over the single ottoman we had so he bought this couch instead.”

Spotting the instant change in Leah’s mood, Sy stretched out his arm in invitation. She crawled forward, snuggling into his side and gratefully accepting his quiet comfort. Conveniently, Sy had chosen the side of the couch that allowed Leah to rest on her good hip so she made herself comfortable with her other leg over Sy’s lap.

“Did you find something to watch?”

Sy flipped through the titles again. “I don’t recognize most of the names but I’m up for Friday Night Lights, Taken, Coach Carter—”

“Ooh, I haven’t watched Coach Carter in forever.”

“Coach Carter it is.”

He started the movie and handed Leah her beer, taking a sip from his own. The weight of Leah’s body against Sy’s appease an ache that had been growing stronger in Sy since he’d met her. It had started in earnest after the whole Sharpie tattoo incident, turning into a bone deep need for her touch.

After careful consideration, he placed his hand on her thigh just above her knee. When she didn’t flinch with pain, he began tracing patterns over her skin.

They both managed to stay awake throughout the whole movie although Leah was definitely struggling to keep her eyes open. Sy switched off the television as the credits began to roll and slipped off the couch, leaving a grumbling Leah behind.

“Come on, baby girl, I’m sure your bed will be more comfortable.”

She smiled sleepily scooting out from the center of the couch. Sy couldn’t help himself, he leaned down and pulled Leah into his arms.

“I can walk, you know.”

“Yeah, but the last time I carried ya up a set of steps I couldn’t do it how I wanted. Indulge me.”

Leah pressed her nose into the crook of his neck, humming in appreciation. Sy carried Leah into the bathroom, seating her on the counter. “I’ll leave you to it while I go get my bag.”

“Okay. My room is the one on the left of the stairs.”

After brushing her teeth and relieving her bladder, Leah grabbed her trusty ink towel and set it up in her bed.

“What’s that for?” Sy asked as he came in and closed the door.

Leah took the tie out of her hair, shaking it out. “Blood is easy to get out but ink, not so much.”

“Only you could tell me that blood stains are easy to get out as if it’s an everyday occurrence and without a lick of sarcasm.”

Sy reached behind his head, pulling his shirt off by the collar. Leah shamelessly studied his chest and stomach. His hair had grown back but she didn’t mind it one bit. The pants came off next, leaving Sy in only his underwear and the man looked damn good.

“Well,” she began, shaking herself out of her six-pack induced trance and getting under the covers, “all you need is hydrogen peroxide and it comes right out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sy joked, catching Leah’s chin and tipping her head up for a languid kiss that made her melt into the mattress.

“G’night,” he whispered, placing a final peck on her cheek before switching off the light.

Reversing their positions from their night at the motel, Sy slipped an arm under Leah’s head and drew her closer until her back was pressed to his chest. After a short moment of silence, Sy spoke up again. “For the record, the southern charm worked.”

Chapter 21

#captain syverson #captain syverson fic #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson fanfiction #cpt syverson #cpt syverson fic #cpt syverson fanfiction #henry cavill #cpt syverson fanfic #cpt syverson x ofc #captain syverson x ofc

[cowboygenesis]

one: redanian ale | geralt x reader

part 1 of the "threads of fate" series: masterlist.

pairing: geralt x reader

chapter warnings: blood, animal death, mild gore

word count: 3.9k

series summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

notes: i haven't posted a reader insert since middle school, but since ive been getting into the witcher again recently i thought this would be a fun project :) ill try my best to keep everything canon, especially pre-existing characters, but some things will be made up! additionally, the reader is written to be afab. keep that in mind since there will be smut in the future chapters...

Geralt stepped down the element-worn cobblestone road with a quiet huff, Roach trailing alongside the man’s figure with a seemingly matched sense of fervor.

The homes of the outskirts lined up in tight rows, alternating between maintained and otherwise decrepit wooden skeletons of a once lively hearth. Every stained-glass window emanated a warm light from within, casting onto the solemn sidewalk that led into the main square. Similar structures surrounded the tiled area, adorned with wooden plaques representing various businesses: a butcher, blacksmith, herbalist; something typical of towns on the continent.

It was a chilly afternoon, and the amber treeline of the backdrop was a colorful testament to the arrival of autumn’s harvest. The edge of the cracked pavement carried a lively array of wildflowers, growing sparsely out of the famously fertile earth of the region. It was strange, seeing such an abundant land give birth to such impoverished people. They swarmed the town in a hurry, cloaked in rags and somber faces, occasionally turning to gaze up at the flaxen-haired man with abhorrence, hatred, and curiosity.

Their sunken features flooded the street in the silent mayhem of impotence, weathered muscles bravely carrying the weight of their harvest into the beating heart of the city.

Coarse linen bags lined the trunks of carts for the lucky few being able to afford such transportation, others tried their strength at stacking the burden on their dominant shoulder. A permanent slouch was often a good way to identify the economically wounded. He furrowed his brow at the thought.

The cool air nipped gently at Geralt’s nose, fingers numb as they tightened around the leather horse reigns. His pace quickened, strides bold and purposeful as he spotted the centerpiece of town above the bobbing crowd ahead.

The cobblestone smoothed below his feet, transitioning into a sleek brick that led into the hexagonal center of town. People swarmed out of the tight street and quickly dispersed along various stalls lining the courtyard, allowing Geralt’s lungs to expand with fresh breath once more.

His eyes scanned along the walls, noting the uniform architecture of homes surrounding the plaza. Up ahead, sticking out like a not-so-sore thumb, stood the main attraction of the town. Its broad structure spanned significantly further than any surrounding shop, walls towering high into the third floor.

The off-white plaster was embellished with masterfully painted embroidery: a composition of roosters, red flowers, and various greenery; a traditional kind of adornment in these parts.

Unlike the other businesses, this particular building adorned a shiny, metallic plaque by the heavy-set doorway. It was written in a foreign language, carved into the slate in mechanically-even letters. Geralt approached this unfamiliar sign, fastening Roach to the wooden fencing to the side and leaving her with a soft pat on the muzzle. She neighed in response, a sound debatably considered sentient and acknowledging.

“Won’t be long, girl,” He reassured with a half-smile, adjusting his harness before stepping through the doorway.

The tavern air was drastically different from the outside world, hitting his complexion with a soothing warmth as the soft scent of baked goods and freshly poured ale filled his nostrils. The sensation scored a subtle smile from the witcher, hand swiftly unclasping the twinned holster of his weaponry.

He hummed lowly, scanning the crowd of people in sight: drinking, singing, dancing; warm bodies moving in rhythm to the upbeat ballad of a female bard taking center stage with her polished flute. A song about a lost love, druids, bloodshed. Geralt had recognized it from one of Jaskier’s performances, noting how polarizing the tune sounded with a change of instrument.

He continued walking alongside the wall, finally deciding to take a booth seat near the tinted windows of the northern wall. He propped his equipment against the table, positioning himself closest to the wall. The stained glass poured a soft light onto the scratched surface of his table, outlining every crevice and mug stain with a brilliant azure.

“Welcome to ‘the Manticore’, may I take your order?” Came a quiet voice, somehow bleeding into the chaos of the bustling tavern despite coming from his immediate right. Geralt turned his gaze towards it, eyes met with a pair of rheumy eyes.

A doe.

So was the witcher’s immediate thought at the sight of the skittish-looking servicewoman taking his order.

Her skin looked pallid, almost greyish in the soft light of the candlelight, cheeks pudgy yet somehow betraying her otherwise ghastly appearance. The subtle spread of freckles on her cheeks was the only memory of livelihood in the sunlight, spreading to her temples and ending in a single mole above the girl’s untamed brows. They were thick, straight, and resembling a man’s with how unkempt they appeared.

She held her fists firmly against the dip of her hips and her spine declined forward, giving the woman a folded, relaxed posture; a strange mix of confidence merging with a subtle sense of doubt reflected her apparent social abstinence.

“Redanian ale,” He spoke back, arm extending to rest on the plush couch, gaze wandering.

He first took note of the woman’s boots, how worn the leather seemed with the dried mud still clinging to the nooks and crannies of the laces. Her worn, moss-green blouse shamelessly revealed a perched bosom, held up artificially by the corset hugging her waist snuggly, perhaps uncomfortably.

Finally, he caught the attention of the silver amulet that lay comfortably against the flushed skin of her chest, embellished with a large, iridescent crystal sat in the middle. An opal, maybe a moonstone. It felt out of the ordinary, gleaming with a bright light that seemed to come from within the stone itself.

“You should be wary with that kind of necklace in your ownership,” Geralt warned under his breath, chin dipping to subtly signal towards the girl’s jewelry.

Her eyebrows furrowed at the comment, though her gaze instinctively followed his own. She brought a hand up to toy with the pendant, letting the metal move between her fingertips as if it were her first time seeing it.

“Oh, this old thing?” She questioned, a hint of apprehension lacing her voice as she held up the amulet, “It’s a fake, just a trinket I keep around,”

Despite her reassurance, the witcher’s comment seemed to have fuelled the baseline suspicion a barmaid would hold towards most customers. Simultaneously, she seemed genuinely inquisitive about the man’s opinion, her brow perched high on her forehead.

Her pinky traced along the side of the silver base, running down an array of intricate engravings carved into the metal by hand.

“Looks expensive. Different kinds of folk hang around these parts, you’d know best,” Geralt continued, tone flat yet assertive.

He never once meant to threaten the girl but rather tried offering a kind piece of advice based on his own experiences with such riches. Her prideful display of such an eye-catching jewel could land her in more trouble than she could have expected. His curiosity threw her demeanor off, eyes trailing to her feet. A moment passed without contact, then another.

“That’ll be it, girl,” he hummed, attempting to brush her presence off with a final word to the conversation. She shook her head left to right, almost like exiting a trance, and nodded at him hurriedly. Her nose tinged rouge. She turned heel, boots squeaking as she made her way through the boisterous crowd and back towards the bar.

The man allowed his gaze to linger on the girl until she disappeared into the sea of other bodies, huffing at the comfortable feeling of solitude once again. He let himself sink into the seat below. His eyes turned to study the crevices of the oak table he resided at, keen eyes suddenly focusing on something in the distance.

A raven-haired man sat hunched down at an adjacent booth, head clad in a pristine cloak that clasped off at his chest. The witcher stared back in an unspoken manner of competition, his watchful gaze scanning each visual intricacy the man had to offer. The pigment in his robes was intense and rich, an exotic indigo staining the thick linen, lined with silver thread that connected at the neck with a metallic amulet. It might have been adorned with small studs and jewels, from his position Geralt could not tell for certain.

His pale hands perched atop a leather-bound book surrounded by scattered cards, at least two decks. The fingers were scrawny, bony, wrapped in intricate rings that reflected the same blue light of the stained glass. His eyes bored into Geralt with a certain might, pools of sapphires flickering with candlelight.

They both lingered that way endlessly, both trying to intimidate the other into looking down, a gentle admit of defeat. The man smiled.

“And… there we go,” Came that one quiet voice again, accompanied by the dull tap of a glass mug placed firmly on the table. “Can I get you anything else?” it continued as Geralt made a last-ditch effort to squint at the cloaked man in the back of the room. He seemed satiated by this exchange, quickly returning to shuffling a fresh deck of cards sitting just beside his ale.

“…Hello?” The doe-eyed girl waved her hand to Geralt with a confused look on her sunken face, thick eyebrows furrowing with a twitch of her upper lip.

He turned his gaze towards her, quickly noticing the sudden emptiness around her chest— the amulet was gone. She must have taken his words to heart, or perhaps, more unfortunately, found them to be a kind of veiled threat towards her well-being. The skin of her chest was reddened, maybe hot to the touch.

“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?” She said matter-of-factly. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the sudden inquiry, otherwise maintaining his demeanor. It wasn’t so unusual.

“That’s right,” he replied tactfully, fingers tracing the handle of his mug before gripping it tightly and taking a hefty swig. The alcohol hit his throat with a delicious burn, trailing down the throat and leaving a tinge of plums and spice in its wake.

With a look as infamous as his, Geralt was undeniably used to being spotted out, even in the smallest of hamlets such as Posada. He didn’t mind the musings of others, as most of his encounters happened to be quite harmless and an inconvenience more than anything. He decided to enjoy his drink in peace and allow the girl to ask any questions she might be curious about. If he got lucky, the conversation could score him a new contract; Gods knew that was the kind of excuse he needed to occupy himself for the upcoming days.

“My, my…” The woman whispered, eyes widening a fraction as her fingers began skimming the edge of her apron in contemplation. There was an air of anticipation surrounding her, as if eager to ask about his dangerous lifestyle but abstaining for the fear of rejection. Same old.

“That makes you a frequent traveler, doesn’t it?” She piped up squeakily, clearing her throat after.

“Somewhat,” Geralt replied dryly, aiding his parched tongue with another swig of the drink. Exactly what he ordered, surprisingly. The girl didn’t bother cheating her way out of extra coin.

“And why do you find yourself in Posada, witcher?” the girl questioned, bright-eyed. Her hips twisted towards him, legs shuffling back and gently resting against the frame of the booth opposite to him. Geralt huffed, placing his ale firmly on the oak below. His face remained in its neutrality.

“Not staying long,” he mumbled with a backhand to his upper lip, cleaning the wetness from it with a smooth swipe. He spotted the barmaid’s coy gaze looking down as she swiftly positioned herself on the seat. When she looked up again, their eyes met.

There was a scar on her temple, kissing the hairline of the frizzed locks growing there. It looked well-healed with time, the weathered strip of skin standing out with the raised edges of its pale, pearlescent grove.

“Just for a rest I assume, then?” she smiled softly, the scar curving with the movement of her muscles. Geralt nodded. Her gaze seemed to falter at that but sharpened a mere second later.

“Just a drink, not much else to get done around here,” he spoke lowly, taking a knowing glance around the tavern; townsfolk swarming the bar in rugged clothing, some barefoot, all baring sunken faces. “Seems like it’s not monsters your town needs helping with,” he scoffed.

The barmaid’s eyes followed Geralt’s gaze, but she seemed to refrain from commenting. Her bony fingers clamped into loose fists before dropping to her lap. She moistened her lower lip with a slow flick of the tongue, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. She stayed silent for a moment, contemplative, then suddenly perked up with a furrowed brow.

“We’ve got monsters, witcher,” the girl mumbled. Geralt’s brow twitched at the comment, but he gave her a nod in recognition. She nodded back. “Something’s been killing off the townsfolk in the night when they go foraging,”

“Foraging? Why at night?” he questioned.

“For Mooncaps. They fluoresce in the dark and so are easier to spot that way; we use them for skin salves, tea, that kind of thing,” the girl explained, “They grow in the woods.”

“Mooncaps…” the man acknowledged, “And the foragers, how certain are you that they haven’t just lost their way back?” Geralt pressed on, fingers tensing around the handle of his mug.

“Rescue teams have been sent out before, but they never come back,” the girl said, “Sylvanus was the only one to make it home in one piece. After the fifth expedition, there were no more volunteers left. We didn’t want to risk any more casualties, you know? I grew up there, too. But I don’t dare go back now, not after I’ve heard the rumors,” she continued.

“Sylvanus?” Geralt interrupted, feeling the name out on his tongue. It sounded foreign to the land, but unfamiliar to him personally. The barmaid nodded.

“He’s this witch-hunter from Temeria. Well, that’s what he says, anyway,” she breathed out, eyes squinting, “He’s not from around here, you’d from the things he wears. Nice things, well-fit and expensive. Arrived one night and asked for the largest room we had, room seven. That must’ve been a whole month ago by now,”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed, gaze focusing on the table he had been examining beforehand. Nothing. The cloaked figure was gone, leaving behind a vacant table and that deck of cards.

“We’ve got spare rooms, plenty of them. I could arrange one for you if you’d like, maybe a hot bath to go with it,” the barmaid piqued in with the same smile, soft and genuine as her gaze seemed to bore into the witcher’s own eyes. She pursed her lips, anticipating an answer, perhaps one in favor of her declaration.

Geralt used a gloved finger to tap the wooden surface of the table, the rest of his body remaining perfectly still. “I’ll camp out,” he declared, hand raising his mug as the last drops of ale trickled down his throat. He still felt parched.

“As you wish,” the girl nodded, a glint in her eye as she reciprocated with a polite smile. Her arms stretched across the padding of her seat, relaxing her muscles before she swiftly stood up. Her hand grabbed onto the upper rim of the empty mug, removing it from the table with a huff.

“It’s on the house. Thank you for helping out,” she added quietly, smiling.

“Hold your appreciation, girl. I haven’t done anything to earn it just yet,” Geralt replied, earning a soft chuckle from the woman. It was airy and warm. Her half-lidded gaze met his own.

“You’ve offered your kindness, it’s all I could ask for these days,” she replied quaintly, taking a few steps back while her fingers tampered with the iron handle of the mug. She looked down briefly, then back up. Her smile had disappeared.

“Geralt,” he responded half-mindedly, out of habit. He assessed the name she had given him carefully, letting it echo in his mind.

“Farewell, then, Geralt,” she giggled once more, sounding somewhat bubbly at the reveal. Her smile stretched wider this time, revealing a pair of dimples adorning each flushed cheek with a shallow grove. She nibbled at her bottom lip, breathing in deeply before turning away, yet she held her gaze with his, somewhat determined to keep the witcher’s attention. She whipped around, her overskirt twirling gracefully around her hips before she leaped away. Geralt caught one last glance of her locks before she disappeared into the crowd again.

He breathed out, eyes closed tightly. His meeting with Ciri would have to wait another day while he took care of the monster plaguing this off-road town. He imagined it to be a Noonwraith, maybe a Werewolf in the worst case. It would be dirty work, but quick, and perhaps the town could spare a decent amount of coin for putting an end to their unfortunate endeavors.

The man stood up with a grunt, eyes scanning the crowds of clientele once again. His mind tried focusing on a certain head of raven-black hair amongst the sea of bodies, but his efforts were fruitless. The witch-hunter was gone, or at the very least in hiding… perhaps somewhere nearby. Geralt recalled the barmaid’s testimony, how she confessed they had rented the man a room just a few nights back.

The witcher’s eyes shifted to the broad staircase at the edge of the room, oddly empty and lit dimly by candlelight adorning the wall. He walked over in a few smooth strides, eyes narrowed and focused. He set his boot on the first stair, hearing it creak pathetically under his boot. He climbed another, another, continuing til the very top.

The gleeful tune of the lute sounded muffled and dull at this level, reverberating through the walls and getting eerily distorted in the process. Geralt lurked down the hallway, passing wooden doors adorned with handmade numbers and watching for light seeping through the gap where the planks met the floor.

He stopped suddenly, faced with number ‘7’. His gloved hand reached to grip the doorknob slowly, but with a firm squeeze, he twisted. To his surprise, it was open.

He stepped in, nose catching the vivid aroma of rosemary and myrrh. It carried in the air heavily, a thin stripe of smoke weaving through the air and connecting at the tip of an incense stick sat on a desk to his left. It was messy, clattered with books and one-off documents stained with slim rings of plum and violet.

“There you are,” came a gravely, monotonous sound. Geralt turned to face it, his eyes met with sapphire ones. They were bulbous, almost too large for the socket, threatening to pop out at any moment. The intensity made the witcher stay put. “Geralt of Rivia!” the man exclaimed theatrically, arms extending wide as he made his way from the bedside mirror. Geralt realized he hadn’t noticed the man when he entered.

“And you are?” the witcher asked firmly.

“You know my name,” the man replied, a smile adorning his lips. There was a thick scar running across them, connecting to his right brow.

“Sylvanus, is it?” Geralt replied, deciding to back into the doorway with his backside. Hearing the hinges squeal as they shut, Sylvanus seemed to relax. His mulberry cloak fluttered as he moved closer, head low. The whites of his eyes were glazed, shimmering like tiles of water. “There’s a monster roaming the woods, I’ve been told you know of it,”

“Certainly, yes,” He replied diplomatically, moving soundlessly to take a seat by the cluttered desk. The incense was shriveled now, copper tray piled with ash. “You’d like to know of this beastie? It was relentless. Ghastly and pale and crimson, drenched in innocent blood. Female in appearance and winged, like succubi,” Sylvanus explained, hands flailing wildly as he recalled the creature’s looks. His tone was low. “It is quite a miracle I made it out with all my limbs still intact,” Sylvanus sighed amongst dramatics.

“It seems we’re dealing with a harpy,” Geralt replied with a nod, hands now placed firmly on his hips as he watched the man before him go dark in the face. His eyebrows furrowed, eyes still bulging as he approached in a swift stride. He pointed a long finger at the witcher’s chest, gaze holding his fervently.

“That is no ordinary harpy, witcher,” the man hissed, offended at the mere suggestion of it. “I’ve seen nothing like it. This is no ordinary occurrence, I’ve come to realize…” Sylvanus carried on, retracting his arm that slivered under his cloak like a snake returning to its lair.

“This town, you’ll learn to know, is cursed. Plagued,” he finished slyly, almost hostile in his manner.

Geralt sighed at the man’s warnings, eyeing his lowly figure as it trailed back to the padded armchair by the desk. His snake-like arm slid out once more, thin and splotchy. It grabbed a match, striking it quickly against the table’s surface to illicit a pale flame that he used to light a fresh incense stick with. The room became smokey within seconds, a thin veil of grey dancing in the light breeze of the window open ajar. When he was done, Sylvanus tossed the match to a pile of similarly decrepit ones.

“If you want to know how I survived, well,” he trailed, “the beastie is weak to light. It fears daytime, sunlight, fire… anything that burns,”

“How did you find out?” Geralt questioned,

“Trial and error,” Sylvanus shrugged with a grin, eyes squinting. He slumped into the chair, tossing and turning until he seemed comfortable. “It only comes out on moonless nights, that’s when it goes out to feed,” he added. Geralt nodded, stopping for a beat to let the man continue on his tirade, but there was nothing else he wanted to say. His focus had now shifted to an opened book on the desk, his fingers skimming through the pages feverishly.

Geralt cleared his throat, eyeing the man once more before turning around to leave. “Thanks for the info,”

“Don’t make yourself allies in Posada, Geralt,” a voice called out behind him, deep and dark. “It might just turn on you,”

Geralt halted. He nodded, head tilting but not enough to catch the man’s figure again. The witcher shuffled away silently, shutting the door behind him with a ‘click’ of the hinges. A soft shuffling came from within, cloth rubbing against cloth and stacks of papers being ripped frantically, in a strange hurry. The flaxen-haired man let the commotion unfold without interruption.

He spotted an ornate window peeking outside, his eyes squinting at the bright lights of the colors flickering around the main square. It was getting late, and he would have to make camp soon. His feet stomped down the flight of stairs, faded music coming back in full effect.

He took note of the blonde-headed bard singing her heart out, and the slowly declining yet continuously vast crowd of townsfolk swarming the vivid scene. His gaze trailed to the bar instinctively, hovering over about a dozen heads that he knew instantly didn’t include the one he sought out.

A soft breath escaped his chapped lips, hands swiftly reaching for the cover of his cape’s hood. As the warmth of the tavern slowly faded from his body, Geralt felt his fingers ache in the cold of the night.

#geralt x reader #geralt x you #x reader #reader insert #fanfiction #ao3 #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #the witcher #my writing #cowboygenesis #smut #eventual smut #slow burn #magic #oneshots #writers on tumblr #ao3 writer

[fanficsforfun]

Shadow

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x female reader

Word count: 2,9k

Warnings: sexual content (handjob, pussy licking, penetration, unprotected sex), mild size kink, indirect references to the reader's inexperience

Summary: You’ve been wanting Geralt for a long time but have always been too shy to approach him. One day you and him end up in the same bathroom and it turns out that he’s good at reading people as well as doing some other things

---

You were hiding in the bathroom to be left alone for a moment because you couldn’t control your emotions. Not at all. You had just been watching Geralt training in the inn’s backyard and you couldn’t help but get aroused of it. The movements of his body were so smooth and controlled, yet so violent and powerful. It was really pleasant to watch. He had clearly done it all before and not just a few times. His technique was as perfect as possible, signaling experience and competence. In your mind you could still see him moving around agilely, dodging the enemy, fingers wrapped around the handle of the sword, and the blade slicing the air with explosive force… Every beat of your heart screamed the desire to touch him, the tight feeling in your chest reminding you that you couldn’t do it. You had always been told to stay away from witchers, they’re dangerous and have no feelings and all, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Geralt, wanting to get close to him, wanting to touch him.

Suddenly you heard someone opening the door. You quickly retreated deeper into the shadows, stricter out of sight. At first you just heard footsteps, someone big walking into the room. Soon he stepped into your sight. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized who it was: Geralt. The man sighed and began to fill the tub. You stayed quiet and still. You knew you should let him know you were there, but you didn’t. He hadn't noticed you yet, or so you thought. Geralt knew you were there, but didn't let it show in any way. He had noticed you following him every now and then, appearing "by chance" in a bar or market while he was there. You thought you had been careful, but for him, your attempt to stay unnoticed was mostly just amusing. An ordinary man might not have noticed you, but Geralt wasn’t ordinary. He was a witcher.

Geralt continued his business as if you weren't there, feeling your gaze following his every movement. When the tub was full, he began to undress. Geralt decided to tease you a little by doing it slower than usual. He pulled the hem of his shirt off his pants and then slowly pulled it over his head, giving you a chance to watch his body movements as if in slow motion. As he did it, Geralt heard your heart rate quicken and smiled as he turned away from you to drop his shirt on the bench.

Completely unaware that he did it all on purpose, you watched as the hem of the shirt revealed more and more skin as it rose. You couldn’t look away even though you knew you should, your gaze alternating between the man’s hands and muscles of his torso without knowing where to focus. After dropping his shirt on the bench, Geralt turned towards you again with his upper body bare. Your gaze kept wandering over his belly, pectorals and muscular arms until his fingers moved down to the buttons on his pants. You tensed as he opened the buttons and pulled his pants off. He still had his underpants on and you couldn’t wait for him to get them off too.

Geralt forced himself to not show any emotions as he slid his fingers under the edge of his underpants and pulled them lower, revealing his large, semi-hard cock. You breathed out and immediately pressed your hand to your mouth, completely in vain. Geralt had no trouble hearing you and had to prevent a smile from reaching his lips. He knew what he was doing to you and couldn’t help but enjoy it. There you were, hiding in the corner, watching him and trying to remain unseen as if it would have been possible.

"Miss, I know you're there," Geralt said with a smile, looking right at you.

You flinched when he spoke to you, shocked that he had noticed you anyway, even though you tried to stay hidden. Your breathing became quicker, but you didn't move.

“Hey, it’s alright. Just stand up and come here”, Geralt tried to entice you to show up.

Your cheeks heated up and you trembled as you got up on your feet and walked closer. You felt so tiny now when you were so close to him. You didn’t dare to look at him, instead you kept your gaze strictly on the floor. There he stood in front of you, completely naked, but his essence was relaxed, like he wouldn’t have had any kind of problem with you stalking him.

“So, this is the kind of shadow I have had”, Geralt said like he’d be talking to himself, but his voice tone didn’t have a dangerous tint which you had expected.

He stepped closer and placed his big, warm hand under your chin to make you look at him. You gulped and felt your heart racing, but he just gave you a slightly mischievous smile.

“I- I’m sorry”, you whispered, feeling ashamed and a little scared.

Geralt hummed.

“Tell me, why have you been following me?” He asked, even though he knew why. It was obvious. Your quick breathing and heartbeat and the smell of your wet pussy ruthlessly revealed what you wanted.

You took a deep, shaky breath before answering.

“Because I think you’re attractive. And I want to touch you.”

“Well, go on then. Touch me. Wherever you like”, Geralt smiled and spread his arms to give you space. His voice tone was gentle and there was not the slightest tint of irony. He sounded like he meant what he said.

“What?” You whispered, totally surprised by his words.

“You heard me. Feel free to put your hands anywhere you like on my body.”

You felt your cheeks heating up even more, hardly believing what you had heard. You looked him in the eyes but then looked away, hesitating if you could really do that. His gaze was warm, encouraging you to do whatever you wished but still you weren’t sure about it. Geralt didn’t know you and besides, he was naked while you were fully dressed. How on earth did he not feel uncomfortable? Why did he let you do this?

Eventually you decided to dare and placed your hands on Geralt’s hips, then slid them over his lower belly, upwards on his sides, ending up to his chest. His skin was warm, muscles clearly stood out under it. As your fingers slid along his arms, he tensed his muscles, smiling at the look on your face that told him you liked what you felt.

“Mmm, there you go”, he murmured.

You bit your lip and gave him a shy smile.

Geralt let you fondle him as much as you wanted, occasionally groaning when you touched some specifically estrogenous spot of his body. It was enjoyable to him, as your touch carried so much desire, though you hadn’t touched his cock yet. You were just too shy to do it, he reasoned, as it was consistent with the fact that you hadn’t approached him even when you clearly wanted to.

After a while, you carefully touched his cheek, still being a little hesitant. Geralt smiled and leaned closer to kiss you. His lips were warm and soft and the kiss was gentle and careful, as he wanted to take it slow to give you a chance to back out if you felt like it. You wrapped your arms around his neck and answered the kiss more confidently. As you did so, Geralt placed his hands on your lower back and pulled you against himself. The feeling of his hard cock pressing against your belly made you gasp. 

“You like what you feel, don’t you?” Geralt smiled.

You nodded.

“Do you wanna touch it?” He then asked.

You felt your cheeks heat up. Sure you did, but saying it was surprisingly hard. You didn’t have a choice though, you had to get it said, just one word.

“Yeah”, you whispered, looking away.

“That's my girl”, Geralt murmured.

He took you with him to a bench by the wall and sat down. You sat next to him and after avoiding it for a while you dared to look at his cock. It was big, but so was the man. Geralt placed his hand on your thigh, a proper distance away from your private parts and squeezed it encouragingly.

You breathed out and leaned on his shoulder, then sliding your hand along his lower belly, closer to his cock. Your fingers approached it painfully slowly, but he didn't hurry you. You clearly needed time and he was in no rush. Finally your fingers reached the shaft of his cock. You lightly slid your fingers along it, feeling the hardness of it. Your careful touch made him groan. You smiled and wrapped your fingers around him and slid your hand back and forth.

You kept playing with his cock, but sometimes your hand moved to caress his lower belly or thighs. You wanted to press a kiss on his lower belly, but you didn't dare. The thought of taking his cock in your mouth made you even more wet, but you weren't ready for that yet. At that point you wouldn't have had time for it anyways, because Geralt was really close. He didn't want to tell you to stop, so he had to find another way.

“Do you want to go a little further with this?” Geralt asked teasingly with a gruff voice.

“Uh-huh”, you mumbled an answer, your heart racing and breaths becoming heavier. You knew where it was going and you sure as hell wanted it.

“Oh yeah? Okay then”, he said, his low voice making shivers run down your spine.

Geralt slid his hand up your thigh, under your skirt and right between your legs, looking in your eyes the whole time. You moaned as his fingers pressed against your heat. He could feel your wetness through your panties, making his cock ache to sink inside you. Instead of giving in on his desire right away, Geralt ordered you to take off your skirt and panties as he pulled the furs that cushioned the bench to the floor.

“Lay down”, he commanded softly.

You obeyed him with your cheeks burning and your whole body suddenly feeling weak. It all felt unreal, you were there with him (how was that even possible?!), he was so big, strong and powerful, you so tiny, defenseless and vulnerable. You had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm down. Geralt of course noticed it.

“Are you alright?” He asked, sitting next to you on the floor.

“Yeah, I am. No problem”, you assured, trying to sound casual and relaxed but failed miserably. Your voice was shrill and clearly tense.

“I don’t buy that. What is it?” Geralt kept asking, this time softer.

“Umm, I just- We haven’t been together before and…”, you tried to put a word on your concerns.

“I got it”, Geralt interrupted you before you could go any further. “I’ll be careful. Just let me know if anything at all feels uncomfortable and I’ll stop.”

“Okay”, you smiled.

“Are you ready to continue?”

“Yeah”, you nodded.

Geralt laid down too, grabbed your hips with his large hands and smiled to you before burying his head between your legs. You breathed out when you felt his touch. First he just gave kisses on your pubic mound, then your most sensitive spot. Soon he took your clit in his mouth and sucked it hard, making you whine out of pleasure. You sighed when he stopped and only then realized that you had tensed all your muscles while he sucked you.

Then Geralt started to lick you. Every slow lick made you moan and as he began to circle his tongue on your clit, you started whining again. The pleasure was almost too much to take, but he didn’t let you come just yet. It was quite difficult for him as you were already really aroused and his every touch quickly brought you closer to orgasm. Geralt enjoyed it as much as you did, your smell and taste made him horny and your pleasure pleased him.

“Geralt…”, you breathed out when he let you rest for a moment again. “I… I want you inside me!”

“You think you’re ready for that?” Geralt asked with a teasing smile.

“Yeah, please”, you panted, a little embarrassed about how directly you dared to say it.

“Okay then”, he nodded, got on his knees and bent down to give you a kiss before he’d get inside you.

Geralt guided his hard, large cock at your entrance. He looked into your eyes as he slowly pushed in, inch by inch. His cock stretched you to your limits and made you whine, this time out of pain. You squeezed his arm and bit your teeth together. Geralt pushed all the way to the bottom at once, despite your expression of pain. After that, however, he stayed still and bent over you again.

“Shh, it’s all right. It won’t hurt for long”, he soothed you, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.

You wrapped your arms around him and sighed against his shoulder, feeling him filling you up.

“It’s… it’s so big”, you whispered.

Geralt laughed.

“I know”, he admitted. “I’ll take it slow, don’t worry.”

After a while he felt you relaxing in his arms. You had adjusted to him inside you; it didn’t hurt anymore, though it still did stretch you. Geralt started to move, slowly at first. You moaned, squeezed his arms and wrapped your legs around his. The rhythmic, sensual thrusts and the steady movement of his cock inside you filled you with a strange, pleasant feeling. It was almost hypnotic. All your senses focused on him and the surroundings disappeared.

The muscles in Geralt’s arms were tense as he supported his weight on them as well as on his knees. He had to be careful because you were so small under him and he didn’t want to hurt you. But you wanted to get closer and couldn't stand the air between you so Geralt changed his position, pressing his forearms against the furs instead of his palms. That way he was able to get closer to you, remove the space between the two of you. His warm body pressed against yours all the way, making you sigh out of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him even closer. Now that you were no longer nervous to be so close to him, it made you feel safe and protected.

Geralt sped up a little but the tempo of the thrusts was still quite slow. He had sensed that you wanted soft love making rather than passionate fucking, though the second option was more tempting to him. Your hands wandered eagerly along his back, not knowing where to settle. You wanted him closer, closer, closer. His groans and deep breaths right next to your ear made you hornier, wanting more of him, more intensively, harder…

You didn’t even have to say out loud what you wanted, Geralt could read you right without it. His thrust became more intense and firm, he sank deeper in you, provoking more and longer moans from you. You couldn’t take it for long. Soon you had to hold back whines as you were getting closer and closer. Geralt was close too, he could feel tension rising inside him. One more thrust and the orgasm hit you: the warm waves of pleasure rushed through your body, your pussy pulsating hard, your eyes closing and a loud cry escaping from your lips… Another thrust and Geralt reached his peak too and emptied himself inside you with a groan while feeling your walls fluttering around him. You could feel his cock throbbing and his warm seed filling you up as you were still moaning in the grip of the orgasm.

Afterwards Geralt pulled out of you, leaving your pussy feeling a little empty. He spun off top of you and laid next to you on his back. His breathing was heavy as was yours. You needed to get close to him again, needed intimacy and the feeling of safety it brought, so you turned to your side and pressed yourself against his body and lifted your other leg over him. The change in posture with the pulsating triggered by your clit pressing against his thigh caused his cum to drain out from you, ending up on your thighs. The feeling of the warm liquid dripping out from your pussy made you breath out. Geralt wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“That's perfectly normal”, he noted after noticing you tensing when his semen leaked out from you. “It’s a little messy, but don’t worry about it now.”

You two rested on the fur for a moment, but then Geralt decided it was time to clean up the mess. He threw the fur back on the bench, took some water from the bucket with a scoop and helped you wash his semen off you. After that he asked you to join him in the tub to which you gladly agreed. You sat in his lap, leaned on his chest and sighed. It all had made you tired, but left you satisfied.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Geralt noted while caressing you.

You smiled contentedly, pleased by the compliment.

“So are you”, you whispered.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt smut #geralt of rivia smut #geralt imagine #geralt fanfic #the witcher #witcher #witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #smut

[inanoldhousewrites]

For quite possibly the first time in their lives, Jaskier was dressed and ready before Geralt. He stood outside waiting, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in his blush pink suit....

He had never hidden his desire to wear a colorful suit, but he figured Geralt would go with something more traditional. If he didn’t go with the classic black tuxedo, as Jaskier thought he would, he must’ve picked something that went well with pink....

“Okay,” the photographer said. “Have a look.”

Jaskier stepped around the corner, and immediately his breath caught in his throat.

“Oh, Geralt.”

He never should’ve doubted him.

Geralt stood there, not in a classic black tuxedo, but in a deep emerald green one.

From @reallooney's incredible Rugby Geralt AU series

The Fic:

The Art:

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher #twn #my art

[catierambles]

Summoned Ch.5

Pairing: Demon!Syverson x Bethany Stewart (OFC)

WC 1262

Warnings: demon smut Minors DNI 18+ ONLY

@brattymum96 , @ouroboros113 , @peaches1958 , @summersong69 , @eldarwen333 , @omgkatinka , @identity2212 , @lucypaulette , @km-ffluv , @kebabgirl67 , @squeezyvalkyrie , @rebelangel1102 , @geralts-yenn , @sophiejay , @sycochick , @myaimlessuniverse , @dopegardensaladhuman

They lay together in bed, Bethany pressed against his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I can't believe I just did that." She said, burying her face in his chest. "I just had sex with a demon."

"Yep." Syverson said and rolled them over so he was above her, looking down at her with eyes sparkling with mischief. "Demon cock made you come." He leaned down, pressing his lips between her eyes. "Again." The tip of her nose. "And again." Her closed eyelids. "And again." He pressed his lips to hers and she arched up into him, holding his face between her palms as she responded to him. "And you were beautiful each and every time."

"Question for you."

"Shoot." He said, looking down at her softly.

"What did you do to him? David." She said, "There was a lot of screaming."

"Two things. I showed him my true form, and I showed him what his endgame was." Syverson said and she nodded.

"And that made him run out to confess?"

"I also told him that if he confessed it might lessen his sentence. Repentance and all that."

"Will it?"

"No." He said with a snort, "He confessed thinking he was saving his own hide, not to spare the pain of other people. Self-serving repentance doesn't mean dick."

"Oh." Bethany said, scowling slightly and he kissed between her eyes again, smoothing the furrow. "What was worse for him? Seeing your true form, or knowing what was awaiting him?"

"Probably seein' what his punishment is going to be. My true form was just a double whammy." Syverson said and she nodded.

"Can I see it?" She asked and his brows jumped in surprise.

"You want to see my true form?"

"Is that okay?"

"I've just never had anyone ask before." Sy said.

"Is it bad?" Bethany asked and he shrugged.

"Bad is a matter of perspective." He said, "Seein' a demon's true form has driven humans insane before, not all, but some. Their brains can't handle what they're seein' and they break."

"They're also not supposed to be able to understand the demonic language, but I was able to."

"True." He said and thought for a moment. "You really want to." She nodded and he sighed.

"Okay." He said and moved to get out of bed. "Ya don't need to see it up close and personal." She spared a moment to appreciate his backside as he got out of bed and he turned to face her. Bethany rolled over onto her side, propping her head up in her hand and looking him over slowly. "Doll, you keep lookin' at me like that and I will not be responsible for my actions." That made her giggle slightly and he sighed.

The change was gradual, probably for her benefit. His skin darkened, becoming a deep ashen gray, scales like armor appearing on his chest, shoulders, and thighs, what wasn't covered having almost a snakeskin pattern. Glowing, red-hot cracks branched up from his hands and high into his forearms, his fingers ending in wicked claws that glowed like molten metal. His blue eyes were gone, replaced by eyes that glowed just as brightly as his claws, fissures spreading from the corners. His face was more angular, cheekbones and jawline slightly more defined, but she still recognized him as him. There were no horns like she had been expecting, no wings or forked tail.

"Doll?" He asked and she realized she had been staring. Getting out of bed, she went to him, standing in front of him and looking him over. He stood very still, as if afraid of what she was going to do, nevermind she was standing in front of him as bare as her nameday. Looking up at him, she pressed her hands against his chest, hearing his breath catch in his throat, and raised herself on her toes slightly, crossing the gap between them and pressing her lips to his. They were still unbelievably soft and plush and she felt his hands come around her waist as his eyes closed, leaning into her kiss. His hands went to the backs of her thighs as he pulled her against him, letting her feel him against her stomach. He was larger in this form, thicker, and that was saying something.

"Bastron." She whispered and his breath caught again. Picking her up, he took her back to bed, laying her on the blankets and moving over her. Leaning down, he kissed her, feeling as she pressed up into him, her hands going to his waist. His stomach muscles clenched as one of her hands slid around to his front and his breath hitched as she took him in her palm, stroking him slowly.

"Fuck." He sighed, a shudder racing down his spine. "You're somethin' special, doll. You know that?" He slid a hand between her legs as she pumped her palm lazily, moving his fingers through her folds and circling her clit, being careful of his claws. Her breathing started to quicken after a while and she grew slick under his fingertips. "You want me, doll? You want me like this?"

"Uh huh." She said, nodding, and she squeezed him gently, forcing a growl up his throat. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips before he moved off the bed, going to his knees and pulling her to the edge. Parting her legs to fit his shoulders, his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he looked at her.

"So pretty." He whispered and buried his mouth between her legs, licking and sucking at her with fervor. He swirled his tongue around her, through her, pressing it flat against her and dragging it up slowly, pulling her clit between his lips and sucking gently.

"Sy." She sighed, her hand going to his head. "That feels so good." With the claws, he dared not push his fingers into her, so his tongue would have to do. Standing, he took himself in his hand, running the head through her folds and wetting himself with her. "You're so big." Pressing against her entrance, he slid into her slowly, letting her stretch to fit him before starting a steady sway of his hips.

"Fuckin' hell, babe." He said, leaning over her and pumping between her thighs. "You're so fuckin' tight."

"Fuck me, Sy. Please, I want you to."

"Yeah? You want me to fuck this tight pussy? Make it mine?" His head went back briefly, pleasure shivering up his spine at the feel of her sliding over him. "You take my cock so well, babe. Look at us." She looked between them, watching him pump into her and the sight brought a whole new rush of warmth between her legs making her moan. "Bethany, fuck."

"Bastron…" She reached up, holding his cheeks and pulling him down into a kiss, making small noises against his lips every time he buried himself in her. "I'm gonna--"

"Are you gonna come?" He asked and she nodded. "Come on my cock, show me how good I make you feel." Her legs wrapped around his waist as he continued pumping into her and soon she cried out, arching into him as her inner muscles clamped down on him in waves. "Yes, that's it, let go." His hips slowed, swaying into her gently before he buried himself in her completely, looking down at her with soft eyes.

"You didn't--I mean, I didn't feel you--"

"Oh, babe." He said, the glow of his eyes flashing briefly. "I'm not done with you yet."

#henry cavill #captain syverson #summoned

[northernolddragon]

Audience between Emperor and Vampire. (I don't even remember, when I did it. It got lost and found. xd)

Regis focused on the massive gold ring, listening to his thoughts. With Emhyr, they were not loud and colorful, like Dandelion's, or moderately restrained, grumbling, like Geralt's. Rather disciplined burdening, eruditely placed. Sharp as the rays of the golden sun on banners. He needed to focus on that particular stone, determining its significance, its scientific name, and the iridescence of incident light as the Emperor's fingers slid across the map. The audience moved into the category of joint negotiations on trade routes. "The land routes have been virtually smoothed over, despite problematic uprisings by rebellious minorities and attempts at plundering trade waters." "Your Imperial Majesty is really interested in my opinion on the political sphere?" "Speak up. I'm always interested in an opinion from the outside, outside the competence of my advisers on politically important issues." "Well, let me…" Emiel leans over the table, careful not to hit the pieces on it, not to knock them out of place. "I guess there will be no problems with Queen Cerys. She is more loyal and does not seek war. Given the right amount of time, you might be humane enough to build trade routes across the sea." "Yes, Cerys strives for neutrality and peace. My advisers offered to once again go to war on the territory of Ard Skellige, but I considered it reckless to touch neutral waters. When it came to Cirilla, I had no choice but to pay a visit to their domain." "No one likes having pirates in the sea, Your Majesty. I think you should form an alliance with her that will lead you both to the desired result. Trade points and an alliance will be a great resonance for the occupied territories and perhaps you can get along with them relationship." " You're for humanism, Regis. I understand and respect this. But you are well aware that my enemies have a much less positive opinion of me in matters of conquest and striving to overthrow the current position of my heritage. I always expect a stab in the back. And it is unlikely that an uncontrolled part or one standing on the threshold of my borders will be happy with peace with Nilfgaard." "I know, that humanism cannot be achieved in everything. But sometimes, people do not even try to go this way. It is for them impossibly complicated." "The fragility of this design must be supported by two opponents, as you know. Or several. In any case, you only confirmed what I doubted." "At your service, Your Majesty." "Have you thought about my offer?" "Becoming a court physician is quite generous of you." "There is one more thing - as a friend of Geralt - you could help Cirilla. She needs someone she knows, someone from the world that she knew before the legacy that came into force." “Do I still have time to think, Your Imperial Majesty?” " Very little. " "Then I will take it from you. Thank you for the audience."

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #tw3 #emiel regis #regis #emiel regis rohellec terzieff godefroy #emhyr var emreis #emhyr #emhyr x regis #nilfgaard #my game screenshots #my gameplay #my screenshots #virtual photography #old dragon #od: short stories

[geraskierbrainrot]

This is a collection of fics where misunderstandings make for a big, if not the main, part of the plot

Lovely to Love by @snowkatze | T | 2k

When Jaskier flinches away from him, Geralt knows something has changed. That Jaskier must have finally realized that Geralt is someone to be afraid of. If Geralt weren't so selfish, he would leave, but now he tells himself – just a little bit longer.

Should Have Known by poselikeateam | T | 4k

Jaskier didn't mean to keep it a secret. He thought they talked about it, albeit not in so many words. So when he finds out that Geralt still, after all these years, doesn't know he's a Higher Vampire? Well. He doesn't really know what to do with that.

Turn That Whiskey into Rain by @rhubarbdreams | E | 4k

Geralt mistakes Jaskier for a, ahem, lady of the night, and Jaskier goes with it. As you do. "I don't require a whore." Funny thing is, Jaskier wasn't about to offer. He means to convey words to that effect to settle the matter and dispel any potential future misunderstandings, but finds himself saying instead, "Why not?"

To hold, to keep by @goofgoofdildo | M | 5k

Geralt thinks Jaskier finds him repulsive, Jaskier thinks Geralt doesn't like his touch. This is wrong and they are about to find out.

born to blossom (bloom to perish) by MissDinahDarling | E | 6k

Jaskier thinks he has a pretty simple relationship with sex. Until he begins sleeping with Geralt. Until he begins falling for Geralt. Until. Geralt says the wrong name in bed.

That's My Boyfriend by @lurikko | M | 6k

Geralt thinks Jaskier is his boyfriend. Jaskier doesn't know how and when that happened.

shifts by @okaybutfandomthoughts | T | 7k

Of the all of the things Geralt expected to find when he got home, a deeply asleep seal on his couch was not one of them. He bends to set his workbag on the ground, not taking his eyes off of the animal as he does so. After a twelve-hour shift handling the chaos that happens every autumn as creatures migrate and prepare to hibernate for the winter, he has half a mind to simply turn around and walk away. Eskel has a comfortable couch; Geralt could simply sleep at his place and leave the seal to his own devices. It’s been a long day, does it really need to be longer? Roach murrow-ing at him with great offense from her place at the top of the stairs tells him that yes, it does. His cat is clearly not going to deal with their intruder. (Geralt arrives home one day to find that a selkie has broken into his house) (as you do)

when life gives you lemons by @shanastoryteller | Not Rated | 7k

The only good thing about Oxenfurt is the brothels. ~ Geralt thinks Jaskier is a whore, but really he's just an opportunist.

brambleborn by @purpurred| M | 12k

Instead of walking away on the mountain, Jaskier stands his ground, accidentally revealing his true identity as a Changeling in the process. Geralt takes it rather well, and as they continue to travel together, Jaskier lets down his guard, happy that he can now be himself. Only Geralt didn't actually catch Jaskier's slip. Confusion, obliviousness, and idiocy ensues.

long have i loved thee by Shinybug | E | 21k

He hears Geralt leave without a word, the door closing gently behind him. Jaskier wraps his hand around the smooth wood of the nearest bed post and rests his forehead against it. He doesn’t know why he agreed to come here, or why Geralt had asked in the first place. ~*~ Jaskier's first winter at Kaer Morhen gets off to a rocky start in more ways than one. Healing from an injury, he is tasked with fixing the neglected library, which is a good distraction from his hidden longing for Geralt. Add some major misunderstandings, some hard choices, a healthy dose of pining all around, and a song, and you have a winter's tale of love in all its forms.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Match by @dancinglassie | T | 24k

The last thing Vesemir expected when he broke his hip (caused by slipping in his kitchen, of all things) was to meet the future love of Geralt’s life. Now all he had to do was subtly convince Geralt and Jaskier of the fact.

Show love to all these authors by leaving kudos and comments, and happy reading!

#geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskier fic recs

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 3

After leaving Stygga behind, Geralt takes a quiet moment to appreciate Ciri's black mare.

vague about spoilers but does take place toward the end of lady of the lake

The mare was one of the finest animals Geralt had ever put his hands on. Black and sleek. Racing bred, he guessed, by the depth of her barrel, the fine bones of her face.

He had almost asked the girl where she had come from. But could not stomach the thought of the likely answer.

A cold drizzle rattled against the roof of the stable. Their three mounts had to share space with a pair of dull-eyed oxen, but there was ample hay and clean water, this land untouched by the northern war.

He felt down each leg, sturdy yet slender, and could find no fault in them, besides the odd nicks and scrapes of wounds he would have to treat with salve.

The mare pinned her ears when he tried to lift a hoof.

"Let me," said the girl, who had not gone off to bed with Yennefer. He'd expected she wouldn't want to linger after a long day in the saddle, not with the promise of a hot meal offered by the innkeeper's wife and a straw mattress of her own.

Not with how weary she looked, as though any sleep she had had in recent memory had been the fitful, paranoid half-doze of one with no one to watch their back.

Geralt had slept like that most of his life. He would sleep like that tonight, though not for his sake.

The girl snuck close to the black mare, quiet as a shadow, and when she bent, the mare lifted a hoof at the slightest cluck of a tongue.

She would need reshod soon, Geralt noted.

Without being told, the girl picked each hoof free of dirt and loose stones and pressed her thumbs into the soles to check for the flinch of bruising. She cracked open the tin of offered salve and treated each tiny scab, feeling with her fingertips for the slightest mark.

In another lifetime, he recalled stooping to teach her in the watery, winter light of Kaer Morhen's shedrows. Her nose had been red with the cold, sniffling as she ran her hands down the shaggy, blonde fetlocks of Vesemir's nag. The dust motes had spun over her frizzed scalp. 

She had bemoaned the boring nature of the lesson and complained that the old beast would keel over any day now, whether or not she oiled up its bumps and bruises with salve, and he had hid the twist of a smile against the horse's withers and breathed in the warmth of its scent and knew that he would remember all his life how it had felt to press their chilled fingers up under the shaggy mane together, shoulder to shoulder.

The black mare curled her neck to rub her lips against the girl's back and was not swatted away despite her small nips and tugs at her shirt.

Geralt ran his hand along her high withers and the length of her spine. She would be unpleasant to ride without a saddle and may sway through the back as she aged. Though a witcher's mare rarely lived long enough to sway.

"Wouldn't want to ride this one bareback," he said. The muscles of her back twitched under his touch, as though his fingers were nipping flies to be dislodged.

"Her gaits are smooth," said the girl. "It's not bad at all."

Her voice was flat and strange. It had been so since leaving Stygga behind, travelling the dusty road through Ebbing.

Or perhaps he only found it strange. 

Each time, before she spoke, he imagined the cadence of a child and was startled again and again to hear a woman speak. 

Not quite a woman's voice, he corrected himself.

But a voice stripped of all naivety, each word calculated in how much it revealed. 

"Can she jump any?" he asked, and the girl's laugh was bitter and sudden, loud in the hush of the stable.

He had clung to the memory of her laughter, bright and uninhibited, interrupted by occasional snorting and breathless wheezes. Though she stood beside him now, their elbows brushing, he realized he may never hear that sound again. 

The wind groaned along the roof as the light dimmed with approaching dusk. It was not yet so dark that Geralt could not admire the black mare's keen eye and strong jaw as he crossed to her head. He scratched below her sleek forelock and she rubbed her face into the touch.

No markings, not even a fleck of white. There was a whorl of hair at the center of her forehead, and he thumbed at it.

"They say a whorl here means a sound mind," said Geralt. 

"They can say whatever they like," said the girl bitterly. "Kelpie's the soundest there is. I've had enough of what they say."

Enough for several lifetimes, Geralt agreed.

He looked into the brown eyes of the black mare, feeling her whiskers tickle his hand. 

It was easier to look at the black mare than to meet the girl's eye. To look at her at all.

If he looked, he would see the ruin of her scarred cheek. He would see the hollowed shadow of her eyes. He would see a stranger. 

He feared to look too closely and lose the memory of a little girl's round cheeks, her petulant frown, her wide and trusting gaze. To see cold blame in that flinty expression. To see how fully he had failed her.

"She's a damn fine animal," said Geralt and wanted to say something more. He wanted to cup the black mare's face in his hands and lay his forehead against her brow and weep silently. He wanted to whisper with a broken hush of sound againat her thin mane.

You carried her to safety when I could not. I may never carry her again.

"She's finest in the world," said the girl. "Maybe in any world."

Geralt watched the black mare's muzzle puff white fog against his fingers and wished he had the tart swell of an apple or a nub of carrot to offer. Some small show of thanks for an animal who deserved every possible reward.

If he had looked then, he would have seen the wobble of the girl's chin and the streak of a tear. If he had known that the girl would recall that quiet night in the stable standing beside him for years and years after, dredging up the sight of his gentle hands and the sound of his gruff voice and the rain on the roof, he would have looked at her for a long, long while and would have reached to hold her in his arms. 

He could not look. 

In the dark, Geralt passed a steady hand down the sharp bones of the black mare's nose.

#my fic #ficletvember #witcher fic #wahhhh #wahhhhh #kelpie loving hours #weeping about ciri and geralt hours

[some-stars]

twn thoughts, in no order:

1. god i love aretuza and all the wretched sluts there <333333

2. thanedd ep was VERY good

3. this season was so unbelievably gay?? so many lesbians in particular, really appreciated that. also obviously appreciated jaskier/radovid even if radovid is discount lestat. he had charm! and the part of me that is forever 13 will always cheer when the boy i like on a show kisses another boy, i cannot deny this. (also “then take me here” was smooth as all hell, damn.)

3a. but like. everything was gay. all the sorceresses were so gay and emhyr and cahir were gay in a really nasty way (that i love) and valdo and jaskier were gay rivals and you KNOW yennefer and sabrina have banged before and also tissaia and philippa are exes. i don’t know where the hard left turn into homosexual propaganda came from but im LOVING it

4. love love love that ciri is becoming a fully developed Person with flaws and characteristics and not just Fantasy Girl Protagonist, i am absolutely dying to see her with the Rats

4a. OH AND ALSO MISTLE. MISTLE WAS GAY AND GORGEOUS AND ASTOUNDING. BRING ME MORE OF HER POSTHASTE

5. the yen & ciri fight was SO real it was hard to watch, like that is mother-daughter pain coming from someone who clearly knows it. that is just so--right down to the “dad” being idealized bc he doesn’t have to compromise his principles, bc men can get away with that. the gender of it all almost makes me sad that they seem to be dropping the creepy “ciri’s magical womb” element of the plot bc honestly i think they could handle it well, they SEE women so clearly. like aside from jaskier, who is just down to a very fun performance, the weakest points of this show are and have always been the white men, this show is about women!!!!

6. i got mixed up for a second and thought “can’t wait for part 2, i want liamralt” and that should tell you how i feel about twn geralt lmao. hcav was less actively offensive to watch than in s2, at least, although a lot of that is bc he didn’t have the potoo contacts and ab armor, not bc he actually did any better. but whatever this show is about Women so he doesn’t matter.

#the witcher #twn spoilers

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

First Of Her Name update

The last two chapters of First Of Her Name, featuring a wedding, Jaskier crashing Geralt and Yennefer's wedding night, and lots of dancing. You can find them here on AO3!

Excerpt:

Yennefer’s wedding day dawns misty and gray, with an intermittent light drizzle and a chill in the air. Jaskier seems to think it a personal insult.

“If we can’t have crisp, beautiful autumn weather, then we should at least have something suitably dramatic for a warlord’s wedding. Not this!” He gestures disgustedly at the windows. “There should be downpours, lightning streaking across the sky, wind strong enough to carry off a cow…”

“I could ask Lambert to set off some bombs. That would make things more dramatic.” Yennefer smooths down her dress. She spent her day with most of the Raven witchers flitting around her, helping her get ready, with several excruciatingly awkward visits from Queen Visenna. But with only minutes to go until the ceremony, her chambers are finally empty save for her and Jaskier.

“If I see a single bomb near the flower arrangements, Yennefer, so help me…”

Yennefer closes the space between him and takes his face in her hands. “I think we’ve had enough dramatics lately. Or have you forgotten the assassins and kidnapping already?”

Jaskier sniffs. “I’m just saying that a thunderstorm would make for a more interesting tableau.”

“You’re absurd.”

“Well aware, darling, but we’ve established that you’re stuck with me.” Jaskier flashes a self-satisfied grin.

“I think it’s me she’s stuck with, Jask,” Geralt says from the doorway, looking between the two of them with a soft expression.

Jaskier hurls himself in front of Yennefer like he’s protecting her from an archer. “Geralt, you can’t see the bride on the wedding day! Have you never listened to a ballad? This is how you invite terrible misfortune on your union!”

“I thought you were the one who wanted more drama today,” Yennefer says dryly.

“Not like this!”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s fine, Jaskier. Geralt and I have already seen each other twice today and no old women have appeared to curse us for our foolishness.”

“Given that Calanthe is downstairs, I wouldn’t be so flippant.”

#the witcher #geraskefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #warlord yennefer #ghost's fic #ghost's writing