mothdustfellows

[mothdustfellows]

I’m obsessed with MAN SIZE! adjskdhsjdk the implications <3

The 1960s were wild

[mothdustfellows]

Solstice || The W/itcher

So this very sweet prompt from a couple weeks ago inspired me to revisit some W/itcher feelings, and this is the product of that. I’m not sure how many parts it will eventually be, I’ve got at least another half-written. I’ll just chop it up as it feels natural and back-edit the titles.

In the meantime, here’s a little continuation to this fic. These interpretations of the characters will lean more towards book, game, and fanon than the Netflix series, specifically, but it’s a bit of all of the above. You too are free to mix and match whatever cast you like as you read :>

Keep reading

[mothdustfellows]

These Bonds || The W/itcher

Hello, we’re very touch-starved during this quarantine and sometimes you just need some stupid affection between two similarly traumatized idiots. Sometimes also G/eralt has developed three ounces of emotional intelligence and we’re all very proud of him for it. 

In case it squicks you, I refer to these two a lot as “brothers” in this fic, but it’s entirely a brothers-at-arms situation, and not by blood. 

Keep reading

[mothdustfellows]

So please don’t ask me why (because I honestly don’t know), but I just really love the idea that G/eralt is the only W/itcher who sneezes from his heightened sense of smell? That’s why there’s no potions or anything to prevent it from happening lmao, he’s literally the first person to get this side effect from the mutagens.

[mothdustfellows]

Taking the Path in Stride Part 3 of 5 - T/he W/itcher (G/eralt, M)

Okay here's part 3! It's another shorter one. I've decided this is going to be a five part fic and I'm soo excited to share the last two! I'm just ironing out the plot...wrinkles? That sentence got away from me but thanks for reading this far!

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CW: Implied Contagion, MESS

Word count: 1350ish

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“Heh- HHH’RRSCHHnxg’t-! Urghh…”

Geralt barely managed to stifle into the crook of his arm as he trudged through the wilderness. He shook his head slightly as he reemerged, a pitiful attempt to loosen his worsening congestion. Three mostly uneventful hours had passed since the incident at the river, and the witcher had long since abandoned any notions of appearing ‘presentable’.  He’d taken to blowing his now red rimmed nose into the collar of his gambeson, the scratchy wool no doubt irritating him further, but he had no better options and was positively streaming with cold.

“Ssnndrffff…Nghhuh-! hih-heH- HHD’zzt’iSsch-!”

His least satisfying release yet. Like a samum bomb going off in a bucket of honey.

And the after effects were nearly as sticky.

Geralt regarded his collar with disgust as he pulled away from it. The wet spot was now clearly visible through the front of his shirt, and he could feel it sitting against his sternum, cold and damp. 

The witcher was starting to have doubts about this contract.  He’d come all this way on foot with very few supplies, a burgeoning head cold, and no way of knowing for sure that the fiend was still in the area. He hadn’t picked up its trail once. For all he knew, the damned thing could have choked to death on some vagrant’s femur. Desperate for some small comfort, Geralt had started fantasizing about wringing that pestilent archer’s neck. To his own surprise, the thought calmed him a little. He hummed in amusement as he observed a break in the trees not far ahead. As he neared the edge of the overgrowth, Geralt stooped and peered into the sprawling meadow that lay before him. The Skelligan isle of Undvik was only so large. This had to be the place the blacksmith was talking about.

Geralt sat at the edge of the treeline to collect himself while he had cover. It was nearing early evening, but the sun was still bright and high in the sky. In an open space like the field, his presence would be known to anyone or anything lurking nearby. He swiped a glove under his dripping nose as he took stock of his supplies. In his pocket sized alchemy kit he had a couple of swallow potions, one enhanced cat, a small bottle of alcohol, a few handfuls of assorted herbs, and bits of dried monster guts. The witcher grimaced. Not much to work with if he was being honest, and no antidotes to counter the potions’ toxicity. It seemed like he had enough to make one batch of oil for his blade. That would at least help to bring the beast down. He pulled out a tiny mortar and pestle he stored in a pouch on his belt, and set to work. 

Geralt carefully portioned out ingredients and ground them together. Alchemy was an exact science. Any slight deviation from the age old recipe might render the oil completely ineffective. He paused the grinding as he added the final ingredient into the now powdery mixture. Beggartick blossoms were a remarkably versatile component in the alchemical lexicon, but their use was most notable in the production of the street drug fisstech. A common side effect of the drug was sneezing, which most users attributed to the red flower. 

Even at the best of times, the sharp scent of beggartick blossoms would elicit a reaction in the witcher, and he certainly wasn’t at his best. Just holding the flower within several feet of his snivelling nose had started to make it itch. He scrunched up his face as he began to combine the blossom into the rest of the mixture. Despite his efforts to hold his breath, as he crushed the flower’s stamen a plume of yellow pollen burst upwards and dusted Geralt’s face.

Oh for fuck’s sake. His stuffy nose began to run with reignited fervour and he snuffled as he continued to grind the concoction, daring himself not to inhale. At this point it was inevitable that the flower would set him off, but once it was added to the recipe he needed to complete the formula within a few minutes or the whole batch would spoil. Geralt pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, desperately trying to stave off the impending eruption. He maintained the pace of his grinding, careful to not overmix. 

“huhH-!” The white wolf’s breath caught. He didn’t have much time. The last thing the recipe needed was his cold riddled spray. He fumbled for an empty vial from his pouch, uncorked it, and scooped the powder inside with a fingertip.

“hhh-HEH-! hUH’HH-!! Nrghh…ihhH-!” He couldn’t give in just yet. With flaring nostrils, quivering breath and remarkably steady hands, Geralt pulled out the small bottle of alcohol and opened it. As he hitched, he poured a small amount into the vial until the powder was covered. 

“ihHHH-! HIH-! haH’IH-! Ugh… fff-fUH-FFUCK-!”

Miraculously he held on, sealing and putting away the alcohol, before corking the vial of oil and gently shaking it several times. He squinted at the liquid in the bottle as it swirled, a slightly iridescent muddy brown colour. He was nearly there. In multiple ways. With the very last of his concentration, Geralt gripped the bottle in one hand and silently cast an igni sign, heating the vial and sealing the oil’s effect with his magic.

“hH’RUHHH-!” The witcher’s chest expanded with need. He gingerly placed the small vial on the ground beside him, before crushing his uncooperative nose into both leather clad hands.

“-RRRRSCHHH’OOO!! -IRSCHHHHH’OO!- Hih-! HEH-! IRSSSCHHH’UHHH!” 

The sneezes were enormous as his entire body lurched forward, spraying his gloves with pollen filled snot and cold germs. Geralt knew stifling would prolong his fit, but the first round of sneezes was much too explosive. He was near the area where the fiend had been seen last, and if it attacked now he was as good as dead. His eyes shut tighter with the effort as he tried to scale back the outbursts.

“HHH’RRRxngt’CHoo-! Urggh- hih- HIHHH-! IGH’Nxngt-!! hH’IDSSCHhnt-! -IRSSCHht-! -IRRSCHHuh-! Ungh…”

The witcher blinked through the ill and allergic fog that was stuffing his head. His Sinuses were still on fire, but the fit had stopped abruptly, and he was stuck sitting on the verge of a sneeze. He hated this more than anything. Getting crushed to death by a freak deer would have been preferable. He lifted his face out of his hands and confirmed that after several waves of sneezes, the palms of his gloves were indeed drenched. 

“Gonna fuh-fuckindg kill you.” Geralt growled to no one in particular. Either the fiend or the archer, it didn’t matter. He just needed to let off steam. He haphazardly wiped his gloves off on his thighs, and retreated into his collar again to clear his nose. Gods he felt revolting. He reemerged with a thick sniffle and swallowed around the growing ache in his throat. Blowing his nose seemed to have loosened something in his sinuses, because as he sniffed he could smell the lingering scent of beggartick blossoms. His breath hitched for a moment, but still refused to bring him over the edge. 

Geralt's stern brow furrowed. He knew his sense of smell had been dulled by his cold, but he hadn’t realized it was so severe. There was another scent, one that he hadn’t picked up at all before. A gamey stench like livestock and damp fur, unmistakably monstrous. The fiend’s trail had been quite literally under his nose, and he hadn’t noticed. 

The witcher cursed to himself as he gathered his supplies and got to his feet. He’d had enough of this shit. He unsheathed his silver sword, uncorked the vial of relict oil, and poured the entire tube onto the blade. He watched as the concoction pooled in the blade’s fuller, before spilling out and beginning to drip off its edges. After pocketing the mostly empty vial, Geralt swiped his left sleeve across his face once more. He didn’t look pretty, but that was the last thing on his mind. He had a monster to kill.

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Thanks again for the kind words and feedback! I love having an excuse to nerd/horn out! >:)

[mothdustfellows]

when someone is sick and they're warning people about it. 😍🥵👀 just a few prime examples:

"ugh, trust mbe, you don't wandt this."

"you bmight wanna step bagk. I thigk I'b c-contagious... heh-!"

"keeb your distance. I'b really - hih...hah'ISSHiue! ...sigk."

"I don't wand to get you sigk."

"don't combe near mbe unless you want to be in for a world of bmisery."

"huh’GGSSHH’IUE! ugh. enter at your own risk."

"I wouldn't sidt there if I were y-you - ha'iggSHH’iue!"

[feel free to add your own! 🙏]

[mothdustfellows]

here are the snezcanons questions for your OCs!!!! or your fav characters whatever!!!! sneezecanons!!! whatever you call em, ive got em!!!!!!!!!

How DO they sneeze?! (Possible details incl. general sound, volume, frequency, build-up, covering method(s), if they ever deviate from the pattern, and so on.)

Allergies? Other sensitivities? Under what circumstances do they usually experience them? How do they deal with it?

When they get sick, do they talk about it a lot or try to hide it?

What are they like with germs? (Their own and others’.)

Do they have a general routine or anything special that they do when they aren’t feeling well?

Feelings/habits surrounding medicine? What about doctors?

Do they have any obvious/visible tells when they’re unwell? If yes, do they know about these tells themselves?

What do they find more irritating, a bad cough or a frequently recurring urge to sneeze?

How do they respond to other people sneezing? (This is the blesscanons question.)

How do they respond to someone blessing them? (The other blesscanons question.)

Do they have abilities that change at all when they’re feeling off? What about other things, like reflexes, energy, and mood?

Are they good at taking care of people?

Good at being cared for?

What is their limit? How bad does it have to get for them to take a day off and stay home?

Do they tend to always catch the same type of cold, or do the symptoms vary each time?

How often do they get sick?

Do they tend to run fevers? How do they take their temperature?

Least favorite thing about being sick?

Do they have any weird beliefs or superstitions about illness? (e.g. the rain thing, or going outside with wet hair…)

[mothdustfellows]

"A Roll In The Hay" (M/F 18+)

(Witcher fic, Geralt and a sneezy sylvan OC I made up for this story. It's my first time writing anything truly 18+ please be gentle and constructive~ Hope you like it!)

It was a fairly straightforward plan. Valère would hide here in the barn until sundown, while the Geralt distracted the villagers who’d hired him to hunt down the forest-dwelling devil that had been corrupting, meaning “playing with,” their children and seducing, meaning “existing near,” their men. Recognizing immediately that their description was of a benign sylvan and not any kind of dangerous fiend, he’d bargained the villagers into agreeing for him to simply “banish” the creature. So while she hid in this out of the way spot he’d scouted, the witcher would lead the villagers on a long goose chase, eventually convincing them a mundane clearing was in fact a “fairy circle” that served as her lair. He’d insist every villager lock up in their homes while he prepared a nighttime “banishing ritual”, then he’d return and retrieve the sylvan to sneak her away. A few scorchmarks and other added mystical embellishments to the circle would sell them on the idea of the ritual, and she’d be free to live undisturbed so long as she kept to the deepest reaches of the forest. 

After he finished recounting these details to Valère, however, he noticed her eyeing the barn with trepidation, although she had nodded vigorous agreement to his explanation.

“Is there something the matter?”

“No, it’s nothing! I’m just, a little bit allergic to hay, is the only thing.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the sylvan, his catlike eyes going from the tips of her stubby goatlike horns protruding from beneath her bird’s nest of curly chestnut-colored hair, over her long flat ears, past her piercing and slanted green eyes to her broad flat nose, to the patch of fur separating her heavy sun-tanned breasts, following the trail of hair down her beautifully healthy belly to the forestlike bush between her furred legs, ending at her scuffed cloven hooves.

“Seriously?”

“It’s only a little bihhh-bit! Ih-hehhh…Hhheh-ehHEHHH-” She exclaimed with conviction despite her whole face being slowly overtaken by a visible itch, with flaring nostrils, fluttering eyes, and quivering lips. Finally she lost the battle with the sneeze she’d been fighting since before the Witcher had started talking. “HHEEHXT’XIEEEWWW!”

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length, silvery white hair. “Are you sure? It’s really important that you be absolutely quiet for this plan to work. Until nightfall I can’t guarantee there won’t be any villagers patrolling around, and if anyone hears you in here…”

“Nobph, I’b fihd!” Jamming her wrist into her nostrils, she rubbed her moistening nose down the underside of her forearm with a wet snuffle. “That’ll be the last sneeze I do today. Promise! I swear it on the trees!”

Geralt sighed. It wasn’t actually Valère’s safety he was concerned about his she were found; sylvans had wild beastlike strength and were naturally competent sorcerers. Any of the bumpkins who stumbled on her hiding place would likely find themselves maimed or worse if they actually tried to confront her, and then he’d be expected to slay her rather than just drive her off. Of course he could try to stage her escape during their “fight” easily enough, but he seriously doubted he’d still get paid for the job at that point, and he had really been hoping he’d be able to afford sleeping in inns his next few days on the road.

Still, if she was going to insist she could manage it, it wasn’t as though he had any better alternatives. So with a shrug he turned to leave the barn.

“Good luck! I’ll be back in the evening.”

***

When the witcher returned, his keen hearing picked up Valère’s staccato, thickly wet breathing before he even opened the barn door, but he still was not prepared for the sight she’d become. Her nose was a bright cherry red, both nostrils inflamed and rubbed visibly raw even through the mess flooding out from them. Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy, and tearful, and her damp face was flushed almost scarlet. One hand was constantly massaging her nose as it twitched like an energetic rabbit’s, clearly trying to avoid directly touching her sore spots, while the other swapped back and forth between rubbing at either of her eyes or pressing the other side of her nose, itching it with a soggy squish. Her typically bountiful sylvan breasts were spattered with huge drops of snot both wet and dry, and heaving as she hitchily struggled against almost an entire day’s worth of suppressed sneezes.

“Hehhgehh-heh-hhhhEH *snnkkrt* Ehheeeehnnn…Gnk’heh-hehh-haaaah…HaaA-aaaaaaaah…**snrrffle* Gyehhh…”

Ever so slightly, Geralt blushed at the suggestive rising and falling of the sylvan’s chest as she wrestled with her breathing. He gestured a greeting towards his ward, who struggled up from her seat on the floor, waving a hand in front of her nose. “Alright, Valère, it’s all clear.”

“Hhhgh, s-see? I-eh hehhhHhhheh *snrrrgkt* t-told ya-ahheheeeheh-hehhn-NKGGT’tchaah…” 

“Good girl. Well, you know the way through the woods. I’ll stay on the fringes of town and keep any curious lurkers off your trail. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Waihd!” She cleared her throat and sashayed up to the surprised witcher, a sultry expression battling through the snot and tears running down her cheeks and lip. She placed a hand gently on his chest but held it there with enough tension to suggest she was ready to pull him close in a flash at any moment. “You’re goigh to leahb withoud a thangk-you?” She snuffled pitifully.

“You…really want to take the time for that?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, projecting aloofness despite the way his whole body had stiffened in attention at the nude fae’s touch, and the full knowledge that her animalistic senses could certainly tell. Both of them had perfect night vision, him due to the magic alchemy that had enhanced his body for the duties of a witcher and her from natural birth. So he knew she could see how he actually felt, just like he could see her full figured tawny beauty as clearly as day.

But still, caution and courtesy compelled him to provide opportunity for her to reconsider. “I know I said the villagers are all clear, but we still need to be quiet. I don’t know who might still be listening for anything strange…”

“I’ll be quiehd!” She turned her head to the side and sneezed with her teeth shut, her palm still held firm on the Witcher’s chest. “Hehhck’tchht! Chxxt! Hhhnk’Chhxngt! S-see?” She squelchily rubbed the side of her broad nose with her knuckles, eyes squeezed shut in clear concentration on preventing even more sneezes from fighting their way loose.

“I do see,” The Witcher nodded. Having greedily stared at her heaving breasts during the entire stifled sneeze attack, he decided it was time to stop his perfunctory protestations against the opportunity to lie with another fae. With one swift motion he pulled close to her to plant a kiss on her wet lips, spun the two of them towards the edge of the barn’s wall, and continued the movement to tackle them together into a large pile of hay, all of which the physically stronger Valère playfully permitted while moving her legs to straddle him. As the sylvan’s breath started to hitch again, the Witcher placed a finger under her once again widening nostrils, and looked into her surprised allergy-ridden eyes.

“If you sneeze on me a single time, this ends.”

Uninterested in hearing out any protesting about this sudden condition on his physical attention, Geralt locked Valère’s lips in another kiss and moved the hand he had around her waist lower until he was feeling up fur, his other hand undoing his belt with an autonomy that suggested years of experience in this exact position. He kissed the same way he moved, with agility but not haste, in the focused and fluid manner of a hunting animal. She eagerly sucked his lips into hers while grinding her hips up against him in anticipation, the damp breath of her nose moistened his face as she snorted from both excitement and hayfever.

Slightly shifting up his position, he broke from the kiss with a half-grunt, half-moan as he moved into her, and she sputtered sensually as her increasingly full nose flowed down over her lips. He began to thrust with force right away, comfortable in the knowledge that with sylvan physique she’d certainly handle even his alchemically-enhanced strength, and felt an easy satisfaction at not having to restrain himself at all. Heat rose through his body as he looked down and admired the rapid transitioning of her face back and forth between a seductive lustful gaze and an adorable contortion of concentration. Her breathing oscillated between the two as well, stammering out of her parted, quivering lips as her barely held-in sneezing fought for attention against her own pleasured moaning.

“Hehhh…Hehgghuhh…Heh…Heh…HehhhHHh’gkt…Hehhoaaann…”

Geralt held himself against Valère’s quavering breasts, delighting in the feeling of them rapidly rising and falling against his chest as she strained to get breaths of air past her panting lips and clogged nose. Hungrily he repeatedly kissed her wet cheek, enjoying the feeling of tension in them as she stretched and wriggled her nose, trying to itch it without using her hands so they could continue their vital work of feeling up and down the contours of the witcher’s back and hips. His own free hand ran through the thick fur of her thigh, stroking it with an occasional playful pinch or tickle, and he felt a surge of passion as he reached and satisfyingly groped her chubby rear without holding back an ounce of strength.

It wasn’t long into their ardent fucking that she felt, with a sense of urgency, that it was not in her power to accomplish the feat of suppressing a sneeze hands-free. With a sudden gasp, which Geralt leaned into joltingly, she brought one hand to her nose just barely in time to clamp it closed with all her might, squeezing it tightly enough for its contents to goopily explode out between her tightly-pressed fingers.

“Hehhguh-Hehehhuh-hwuhh…hehh…hetch’xggh hehh-hhiiiih-hiih-hiiIIHH’eh-Etch’ngggh…Tchnnghuh…*snrrk* Heeuh’huhhh-uh…Uhhuhhnnn…” 

Sympathetically, Geralt moved his hand up from feeling up her leg to massage the long bridge of Valère’s nose, matching the rhythm of his thrusting. It was clear from the effort shown on her face that while this definitely soothed the itch, she was teetering on the brink. Each time she tried to remove her hand from her face, she ended up snapping it back into place as her hitching breath rose with abandon, gurgling out from the mess overflowing from her nose as her nostrils flared and twitched crazily.

“Huwhuuhh-huhh-heh-Hiih-I-hihhh-I-heh-ihh-hihh-I’b-I’b guddha-haaaah HAHGK’SHHHXXGT! Shx’nngt! Shshxngt! Shhnxt’tieww! Hegh-Eh-Hehhh’Itshxxxngt! Hext’ggkt! Heughhh’Shhxngt SHHNXGT’IEEW!!”

Finally she couldn’t fully contain it any more, and she started sneezing rapidly into her clenched hand, the torturous itchyness of having been embedded in her allergen finally overwhelming the hayfever that had already been in overdrive. Geralt rocked into her as she sneezed, sweat starting to form on his forehead as he matched her frenetic energy in both speed and power, letting himself get caught up in the pleasure of her repeatedly tightening around him. The force of their coupling sank the pair further into the hay, surrounding Valère on all sides so that the smell of hay filled her nostrils, throat, and head. Hay pressed into her and tickled her ears, itched all over her underside, tormented her eyes and face. Her aroused body was electrified with new allergic sensitivity, making the witcher’s every thrust and touch send a web of shivers through her.

Geralt noticed this state and responded dutifully, sending his hands dancing up and down the sylvan’s back, breasts, arms and thighs to massage wave after wave of pleasure through her. As he looked into her squeezed-shut eyes over the hand that was still clamped over her full nose, mess streaming out of it and over her gasping mouth, he saw a look of helplessness flit across her ruddy hayfever-ridden face. In wordless anticipation, he lurched forward and reached around to support her head, angling her over his shoulder so she faced free and clear into the air. With visible relief she dropped her hand from her face, and thrust her hips up into her partner’s as she sneezed freely and wildly into the air in perfect sync with the two of them finishing, her sneezing drowning out Geralt's growling murmur of ecstasy.

“Huuhhh-Huh-Haah-HAHGT’XIEEEWWW! HAAHKT’SHIEEWW Haah-HAXGTCHIEEW! Hahk’shxtieew Heehkshieew Hektxieew! Hextshh-Heugh’shxxsh-Txxtsh-Txxtsh-Txxtsh-Txxtsh-huhh Hhuuhh-Huh-Huh-Hah-HAH-HAAGHTXIEEEWWW!”

Panting, Geralt rolled off his one night consort, still keeping a hand supporting her as she continued to sneeze with wild abandon, although more intermittent than the constant storm of a few moments prior. He’d barely cozied up beside her when both their ears perked up as a figure approached the barn door.

“Wot in th’ name of-”

*KZYOOOWM!*

A flash of light emerged from both Geralt and Valère’s instantly outstretched hands, and the figure was flat on their back, motionless. Geralt turned casually to the sylvan and scratched the stubble on his chin.

“Mine was non-lethal, yours?”

Valère nodded, wordlessly locked in fierce combat against another round of sneezes fighting to get out, her mouth hanging open while tears, snot and sweat flowed down her flushed pink face all the way past her chin.

“Good, ‘cause now that you’ve said ‘thanks’ I wanted to say ‘you’re welcome’ before we left. Turn around?”

[mothdustfellows]

Taking the Path in Stride - Part 2 of ???- T/he W/itcher (G/eralt, M)

Thanks everyone who's read so far! I'm just getting warmed up >:) Here's part 2! It's just a little guy but I'm already well into the exciting stuff. Can't wait to post it!!

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CW: Contagion, MESS. Seriously if you don't like mess maybe don't read this. I don't think its the most graphic but I got a little carried away.

Word count: app. 1200

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The noon sun beat down as the Witcher sniffled his way along a forest trail. He’d figured it was best to go on foot. He’d paid a tidy sum to have Roach comfortable for the night, and a fiend was large game. Geralt simply wouldn’t risk her getting caught in the middle of anything. 

“ h-huHh-…snrrfk… Fuck.” Geralt snarled, his nose and lips still contorted with need.

The infernal tickle had won itself an iron grip on Geralt’s sinuses. Since he’d left the hamlet his prominent nose had started to act more like a faucet. Geralt lacked the sense to carry a handkerchief, and in an effort to keep his face presentable he’d been sniffing back as much of the wetness as he could. It seemed to be working by some miracle thank the gods, but the process had made the mask of Geralt’s face SO DAMN ITCHY that his breath kept catching and throwing him into fits of entirely annoying hitching. 

 Something Vesemir used to say echoed in Geralt’s mind.

“A distracted witcher is a dead witcher.” 

Geralt considered his current predicament pretty fucking distracting.

He was roused from his congested fog by the sound of running water somewhere nearby. 

The dry spell had shrunk the river from its usual glory, but it still ran clear and sparkling. The witcher slid down the riverbank and crouched to get himself a much needed drink. He tugged off his gloves with some effort and dipped in two cupped hands. The water was freezing, probably running from some mountain spring. Geralt felt a shudder run down his spine, despite the thick wool of his gambeson. He brought his hands to his parched mouth and drank deeply from the small pool. The chilled water felt amazing on his throat and he rumbled a sigh through parted lips. 

Unfortunately for Geralt, his nose was less pleased with the drop in temperature. The mess he’d tried so hard to contain the past few hours poured from his nostrils faster than he could react. The torrent was so unbelievably ticklish. He was overcome by the sensation and he couldn’t resist what needed so badly to tumble out. The Witcher’s wide chest expanded urgently.

“-ihHH-HIh’Ih-HIHH’UHxsh’SHOO!! heH-HEH’nxGSH’UHH!”

Somewhere a bird shrieked and took flight. Geralt managed to peel his golden eyes open for a split second. The coast seemed as clear as it could through watery eyes, but he couldn’t keep making this racket. Who knew what monsters dwelled here. He clamped the crook of his arm over his mouth and disobedient nose, holding it there firmly with his opposite hand as he felt himself succumb again.

“mMHRMPH’kshoo! NGGxnt’shuh! -HEH- AH-hhhHRAASCHH!! -hhITSCHngxt! -hEhhh-!...Nrghhh…”

The Witcher rocked as the sneezes shook his hunched frame. They had been a little more muffled than the first pair, but they sapped his energy faster and felt much less satisfying. His sneezes were always powerful, but usually he could stifle them with very little effort, it was a matter of survival.

What the HELL was wrong with him.

Geralt groaned freely, feeling his chest rumble. He coughed twice, wincing as they scraped out of him. They sounded productive. He must have already swallowed enough crud to coat his entire throat. He pulled his arm away from his face, cursing under his breath at the strings of mucus attaching his nose to the reservoir of gunk on his sleeve.

The Witcher turned his head quickly, breaking the sticky bonds and brought both hands over his face. He rubbed angrily at his aching sinuses which had seemed to have stopped itching, for now at least.

“Mmm…snrrrf.” Geralt sighed, before cupping his hands over his nose and blowing gently into his calloused fingers. Warm wetness filled his hands until his nose made a pitiful squeak, and he finally felt a little relief for the first time in hours. 

Geralt was no stranger to being covered in filth, but this always felt…different.

His yellow eyes looked slightly dull as he blinked them open, grunting, and moved to rinse his disgusting hands in the river.

There was no denying that the Witcher had caught a miserable cold.

*************************************************

After he’d washed up a bit, Geralt sat on the riverbank for a moment to collect his thoughts while his head wasn’t as full. 

Contrary to popular belief, Witchers weren’t entirely immune to illness. The myth had started as cruel rhetoric. Yet another way to dehumanize witchers and make them out to be mutant killing machines. Ironically in the end it seemed to work in the witchers’ favour, making them seem invulnerable and less likely to be fucked with when they were under the weather.

It was however, true that a witcher’s mutations gave them a huge advantage immunity wise compared to a regular human, rendering dangerous pathogens completely harmless. 

Geralt chuckled as he remembered one particularly unpleasant run-in with a plague maiden. The wraith had infected nearly half a village and killed an unlucky dozen. He’d managed to finish the bitch off, collect his reward, and ended up sneezing his way back to an inn where he’d slept it off by morning. His witcher constitution simply refused to let any of the disease remain in his body.

Head Colds on the other hand… Were FUCKING ANNOYING.

If a virus was minor enough to slip through a witcher’s defenses, It would take at least a few days to shake the damn thing off. But they were still uncommon. On top of their enhanced resistance, it usually required prolonged or physical contact for a witcher to catch a cold from a human. Most Witchers didn’t keep human company around long enough. 

Geralt still didn’t understand where he’d caught the thing. He’d been in the wilderness for a week and had barely seen a soul. He coughed again and cleared his throat into a loose fist.

Wait a minute…

“SHIT. The Archer.” 

Geralt threw his head back and growled with frustration. He didn’t care that it hurt his throat, he was a FUCKING IDIOT that had done this to himself.

That bastard brigand with the bow had disarmed him, succumbed to a coughing fit of his own, then Geralt had knocked him out with a clean hook to the face. He’d probably gotten the man’s fluids all over his glove. The memory was a little fuzzy after that, but the witcher grimaced slightly. He’d taken an elbow to the face himself, and was pretty sure he’d used the same hand to wipe his bloody nose when the ordeal was over.

“Should’ve killed himb.” Geralt mused, only slightly joking. It wouldn’t have stopped him from getting sick but at least he would’ve been a little vindicated.

Thanks to the archer’s generous gift, Geralt now had to be especially careful with this contract. His least favourite part of a cold was the dulled senses. Senses he would need to both track the fiend, and not get surprised in combat. He was going to need a watertight plan to get through this with all his limbs still attached.

*****************************************************

[mothdustfellows]

Taking the Path in Stride - Part 1 of ???-T/he W/itcher (G/eralt, M)

Hello! Aaa I’m nervous. This is my first time posting my writing anywhere and it’s also the first fanfic I’ve written in 10 YEARS. 

please be nice to me… (o_o)

But also please send me feedback/critique if you’ve got any! I apologize if it’s exposition heavy. I had too much fun playing with juicy words! (Plus G is mostly by himself so there’s not much dialogue to work with.)

I adore caretaking stuff, but sometimes I just wanna see a HOT monster hunter sneeze during a dope fight sequence. So that's what this is. Its basically my take on what W3 G/eralt would canonically do if he somehow caught a cold. 

One last thing... My dumb ass wanted to set this in Skellige… so the background characters all have accents that I attempted to put into the dialogue. It’s supposed to be like… part Scottish, part Irish and part Norwegian…I don’t think it’s very good.

Here's part 1! There's not much snz yet but don't worry. I won't let G Man off the hook so easy >:)

***************************************************

CW: Implied contagion? IDK this chapter is pretty slow…

Word count: 1996 ****************************************************

A chill hung in the early morning air as Geralt Of Rivia rode into a small, port-side Skelligan town. He’d been in the wilds for about a week, and despite the ever present risk of a rude reception, the Witcher was relieved to be back in some semblance of civilization.

 It was midsummer, but you would never know it on the Isles of Skellige. The nights were still freezing cold and the days were chilly at best. The only real difference from the other seasons was the distinct lack of precipitation. It hadn’t snowed or even rained in nearly two weeks and the air was shockingly dry. Any vegetation that had flourished in the spring had been utterly devastated by the chill and subsequent drought, leaving the regularly lush landscape a miserable grey, speckled with a few thirsty looking evergreens. Even the ocean breeze carried no relief, as if the sea itself had turned entirely to salt. 

Geralt surveyed his surroundings warily as he rode deeper into the hamlet. It was quiet, still waking up, save for a few weather worn fishermen hauling supplies on and off their boats. Geralt got a few glances from them, but they were more curious than anything. It was odd, Skelligers usually distrusted outsiders, but Witchers seemed to be an exception. There was a level of respect for the profession not found anywhere else on the continent. Geralt tugged lightly on his reins, signalling Roach to slow, and dismounted nimbly right before the mare came to a halt. He gathered the reins in one hand, and gave Roach a couple firm pats on her neck as if to say, “Good girl.” 

A sudden sensation ran up the back of Geralt’s neck signaling watching eyes. He turned to see a young fisherman staring at him in awe. The fisherman stayed that way for a moment. Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, before startling and staring back down at his work. Geralt huffed a laugh at the young man. He was sitting down on a dock, gutting what was likely his night's catch. The air positively stank of fish. Geralt had smelled worse, infinitely worse in fact, but something about the odor made his nose wrinkle strongly. The Witcher rubbed a knuckle under his formidable nose to quell the strange itch that bloomed there. It seemed to work well enough. 

Leading Roach behind him, Geralt approached the lad at a slow pace in an effort not to frighten him. The boy gasped quietly as he noticed the Witcher’s advance and stared on, speechless until the man had stopped just in front of the dock.

“M-Mornin’ sir!” The fisherman sputtered out. “Is there uh…anythin’ at all I ken do fer ya?” Geralt nodded gently and spoke one word.

“Blacksmith.” He rumbled, his voice raspy from the dry air.

“Aye! We’ve a blacksmith. I reckon he’ll open ‘is shop upon the next hour.” The young man’s eyes were still wide, but he seemed relieved that the looming figure wasn’t there to fight or steal his fishy spoils.

 He pointed towards a small shack just down the lane, with smoke rising from a sizable chimney. Geralt grunted a thanks and turned away before pausing again and looking back at the boy.

“My horse. Needs lodging.”

“Huh? Oh! Aye! There be a stable not far from here.” The fisherman nudged his head in the same direction as before. “Just a few fathoms past the smithy if I’m not mistaken!”

The witcher nodded and began to lead Roach down the dirt road toward the stable. To his surprise the young man called after him.

“Fare ya’ well butcher!” 

Geralt could have done without the last part, but it was still a hell of a lot better reception than most.

**************************************************** The Witcher and the stable hand that emerged when he knocked on the door exchanged no words, only coin and reins. It was a pleasant exchange. Geralt silently wished everyone could communicate that way. Riders and stable hands tended to understand each other’s needs quite easily however. It was always the same, see to it that the horse was fed, watered, brushed and protected. No more. No less.

The next hour had struck and Geralt retraced his steps back up the road towards the blacksmith. He was in no real rush. He wandered slowly, taking in the quaint atmosphere. Several children had left their homes and were playing together in the street, The sounds of their excitement stopping only as the Witcher passed them, frozen with terror. He paid them no mind, and heard them return to their game a moment after he’d passed. 

Geralt stopped outside the blacksmith’s shop and gazed up at the sign that hung over the door. It read:

 “FJORGAN AN TORRDAROCH 

  MASTER BLACKSMITH”

“Hmmf.” He huffed, slightly amused. He’d be the judge of that. 

True Master blacksmiths were nearly impossible to come by. He’d only ever met a handful himself and they’d all been Elves or Dwarves. He opened the door, a small bell above his head announcing his arrival, and went inside.

The workshop was shockingly warm compared to the street outside. But it was to be expected from a tradesman that dealt in molten metal. Geralt felt his nose start to thaw out and drip the moment he shut the door. Not entirely unusual, but Geralt furrowed his brow slightly. It had come on a bit strong. He sniffed hard and scrubbed his nostrils with his gloved hand again.

The sound of clanging that had been echoing through the shop came to a stop and Geralt heard someone shuffling towards the veil that separated the room in two. An older human man parted the curtains and stepped into his store front, squinting up at the tall patron in front of him. The man scowled slightly and slurred with a thick Skelligan accent.

“Yerr ah Witchar.”

Geralt grunted an affirmative, a little concerned that the only blacksmith for miles wouldn’t help him. He’d tried to do his own repairs, but the item in question was a little too far gone for his skill level. The blacksmith looked the Witcher up and down, making no effort to hide his displeasure with the situation. 

A full minute passed that way…

After it was clear the man wasn’t going to throw him back into the street, Geralt let out a gruff sigh, and slowly moved his arm over his shoulder, grasping a weapon that had been bundled carefully in a piece of fabric. He unwrapped the instrument and placed it on the counter between them. No words were spoken at that moment, but it was clear the blacksmith was a little bit horrified. 

Geralt’s steel sword had sustained substantial damage after an… unfortunate run in with a band of brigands a few days prior. It was in terrible condition, the blade had actually bent slightly where the Witcher had swung it into a boulder while trying to hit a particularly slippery rogue. He’d begrudgingly dispatched their party, but not before his sword took more of a beating, including it getting shot clean out of his hand by a skillful archer. There was a deep gash near the edge where the arrow struck, that was a big threat to the blade’s structural integrity. With precision like that, Geralt had thought the archer was going to be a bigger problem, that is before the wretch had doubled over with a chesty coughing fit. After that, all it took was a swift punch to the mouth to render the unlucky bastard unconscious. Geralt decided to leave him that way, no point in spilling more blood.

“Can you fix it?” Geralt was a little surprised by the congestion creeping into his voice. He sniffed hard and cleared his throat lightly.

“Whattin tha evarlovin’ FECK did ye’ do teh et?!” The blacksmith looked and sounded absolutely bewildered by the state of the sword. He stared up at Geralt with a look that could only be described as half disgusted, half impressed, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“Got in a fight.” Geralt said sardonically. “Can you fix it?”

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

“Got coin ‘ave ye’?” 

Geralt let out a raspy sigh and fought his natural impulse to stare daggers at this man.

“How Mb-ugh! Much?” He swallowed thickly. 

For a few painfully long moments the blacksmith looked back down at the blade, muttering quietly to himself and running a calloused hand over the warped steel. Finally he looked up and spoke.

“Six. Hundred. Croowns.”

Geralt actually barked out a laugh. Just once. No way in hell was he able to pay that. He’d Been on the path a long time but contracts were never consistent, and he was in no way flush. (That is of course apart from the itchy pink tinge that was beginning to form around his nostrils…) He had just under 400 crowns to his name, which was more than enough for him to live comfortably for a while, but he absolutely could not go back on the path without his steel. 

“I…Doh’t suppose you’d go any lower?” The Witcher grumbled. 

The blacksmith exhaled angrily through his nose with a withering glare, and muttered a string of Skelligan curses. Something about shoving someone’s… something up their arse, Geralt noted. Fantastic.

“Listen…” Geralt began huskily. “It’s ndot- sndff…much, but I’ll work to pay for it.” 

It was a total shot in the dark, but he needed that damn sword in good shape, and the last three towns he’d been to had no blacksmith. He figured many would jump at the chance to have a Witcher on call.

The blacksmith’s expression changed from offended by the suggestion, to suddenly intrigued, to seriously considering the offer in a few short minutes. 

Geralt waited in silence, a dull itch taking root in the back of his throat. He was doing his best to ignore it.

Finally the blacksmith spoke again, his expression starting to become a little wistful.

“I used teh’ have a cottage. Eht was in the grasslunds, Halfa day’s walk from toun. Pehrfect life eht’was… until that beast appear'ed.”

Geralt felt the smallest smirk cross his lips before returning to his neutral expression. This was finally getting somewhere.

“What kind of beast?” He drawled.

The Skelliger’s face fell.

“A horrific creatcharr. Eht walked on four legs, ahnd bellowed like a wahrhorn, with antlers that could piearce th’ sky itself.”

Geralt cleared his throat again quietly. He was familiar.

“Mmm. A fiend.”

“Aye…” The blacksmith’s voice now wavering as he spoke. “My granddaughter loved te’ make daisy chains ehn thaht field. The fiend crushed hehr. This touwn was th’ closest, but not’a soul here could do a theng t'help…I nhever went back.” 

The man fell silent, staring into space, or perhaps memories of happier times. “Tis’all in the past now. About 2 years ago. I cannae tell ye’ if the beast still dwells there, but if you can avenge my Sheilagh, then I will fix your blade, Witchar.

Geralt nodded somberly. He understood.

He left the crumpled sword on the counter. It was useless to him like that. Besides, he had his silver with him. 

With a long stride the Witcher made it to the door and opened it, the bell jangling, before the blacksmith spoke to him once more.

“I pray the gods grant ye’ safe passage.”

“Hmmnb. Thandks.”

The door shut, cutting Geralt’s supply of warmth off at the source, a blast of cold air hitting him square in the sinuses. 

What had been a teasing prickle, turned to a firecracker in an instant, and Geralt was completely helpless against it. Bracing himself on the stoop, his head pitched back, nostrils flaring and glinting in the sun…Before his breath caught and-

“-hiH-! HH’RRSSSCH’UH!! SnnRK… Nghhh…”

Geralt blinked his peculiar eyes open as he heard a small scream. The children that had been playing in the street nearby were scurrying away in fear, shouting and giggling amongst themselves.

“Fuck.”

****************************************************

Thanks for reading! Part two on the way soon! (o_o)

[mothdustfellows]

Sternu- I mean... Um... Salutations!

Welcome to my personal corner of sneezetown!

If you're under 18, kindly get the heck out and DO NOT interact with me in any way! :D

Call me Moth! Any pronouns!

I'm a 24yo, Genderfluid, Queer/Bi Sneezefucker.

I do a little this and that, sometimes doodle something, sometimes write something.

I suspect I'll compile stuff on this post later but there's not much right now. I just wanted to say hi and share a couple things!

MY BRAIN'S CURRENT FAVOURITE THING IS T/HE W/ITCHER! (3rd game, books and mostly season 1 of the tv series.)

I AM INTO: Sneezing of all genders, noses (my beloved <3), colds, allergies, contagion, bdsm, and mess. Coughing is sort of intriguing too but not always.

I DO NOT FUCK WITH: Emeto, hard whump like character death.

Thanks for reading! I look forward to working with all of you >:)

[mothdustfellows]

Sooo like…

Anyone else ever been finger blasted by a soft butch wearing nothing but bondage gear who is inducing at the same time and sneezing all over you?

Or just me? >:)

Happy pride month my fellow snzfuckers.

[mothdustfellows]

Y’ALL I’M LOSING IT.

So I suggested I might write fic right? I’m so fucking deep in the mud of this W/itcher hyperfixation again that I’ve started to write a fucking landslide of a fic, complete with possibly a little too much world building. I swear it will be hot as fuck though you mark my words. Uhhh…I guess stay tuned if you like big G snz?

I hope it’s good lol. I haven’t written any narratives since highschool. ಠ_ಠ

I’m probably 1/3 of the way done and I started it yesterday??? What has this franchise done to me??????

[mothdustfellows]

oh no.

Hello. I’m back. It’s been years since I posted. I’m not even sure if any of my followers are still active but *shrugs*

With me I bring back my newly rekindled fixation with the W//itcher franchise. Playing that game feels like running into the forest and covering myself with dirt in the best way possible… Does that make any sense?? I also missed the W//itcher 4 teaser hype and that shit looks SO GOOD.

Anyways you can expect some rambles from me or maybe short fics. I Dunno I might give up entirely…

Long story short: yes I still get off to snz and sexy monster hunters :)

[mothdustfellows]

Reblog this if you’re a sneeze blog

Given the recommendations I’ve seen on tumblr, I feel like the kink community has expanded over the past few years and I’m curious how many of us there are now. So, if you’d like to help satisfy my curiosity, or if you just want more visibility so sneeze ppl can find your blog, please reblog this. If you’re cool with it, also put in the tags what year you started your blog.

[mothdustfellows]

Okay someone in the community MUST have pointed this out at some point but I haven’t seen it so FUCK THIS WORD!!!

“Eschew”

When I am forced to read this word in any context that isn’t a snz spelling I want to scream. It’s like I am the punchline of some cosmic joke. Who gave it the RIGHT??? TO MAKE??! ME?? HORNEE!!???? How DARE you?

But also sometimes you can read it like someone had to sneeze in the middle of their sentence and that’s very nice...

However...

HOW DARE YOU!!????

[mothdustfellows]

the most accurate picrew of me yet!