#a barter

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Barter 2

Warnings: suggestions of death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.

Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.

Character: Geralt of Rivia

**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.

As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍

You watch the witcher set off into the fog from between the slats of the barn. It’s been a fortnight crammed into the space. The stench has faded to something tolerable but the tension hasn’t. 

The now orphaned maiden clings to your arm. That’s what she is now. The man in black all but confirmed it. His horse tramps off into oblivion without hesitation as he sits tall in his saddle, disappearing into the haze. You sit back as your companion sniffles. 

“They’re dead? All of them?” 

“It would seem,” you sigh and lean on the wall.  

Your sister was a sweet girl but even before the revelation, you had little hope. Especially as your mother went to search and did not return. Your father has only you and your brother left. Marsh is a child still but he will grow into his legacy, so long as you father lasts that long. 

“How could this happen to us? Why Krescent? We are a good pious village,” she whines, her sniveling grating your addled nerves. 

“Bad things happen to all, regardless of prayers,” you resign. 

“That is blaspheme,” she accuses. 

“It is the truth. It has happened to all in the wretched place. And if this witcher should be able to slay the evil, then I too shall walk off to my own doom, only a living one.” 

She looks at you with her watery eyes. They are such a pale shade of green that they look almost yellow. She always reminded you of a swampy witch, the ones in the stories you whispered so the elders did not hear. 

“I suppose...” she begins, “marriage is destined to all. It shouldn’t be such a surprise.” 

“To him?” You wonder grimly. “Perhaps, at least, I will be away from this cursed land, that I should not look upon it and think of my...” your voice catches as the witcher’s words crash upon you. Your legs buckle and you slide down the wall and fold against your knees. “They truly are gone.” 

Caralyn mops away her tears as she kneels at your side. Your own eyes do not weep though your chest concaves. You brace your head as your elbows rest on your knees. You take a deep breath. 

“My father did not protest,” you murmur. “He is too dumbed without my mother to do anything.” You look at her, still hunched, “you must promise to look after Marsh.” 

“I promise,” she avows and brushes your sleeve softly. “I will keep him close to my own brothers and sisters, now that it is up to me to see to them.” 

You nod and frown deeper, “I’m deeply sorry for your parents, Caralyn. They were always so kind.” 

“So kind, I do wonder why it should be them instead of me,” her eyes spring with tears again and she lowers herself to her bottom. She wipes her nose messily and heaves.  

You wring your hands. You wonder the same of your mother and sister. How can it be that Lessa would wander off and you would be left behind to miss her. Your mother was always the order in your life and now it is chaos. 

Along with grief, is more terror. What should happen should the fogler, or whatever he called, it not desist? What if the witcher were to defeat the monster? Should he really claim your hand? A wife?  

Caralyn is right, it is not great surprise to be wed. It is a young woman’s fate but this... what sort of wife can you be to someone like him. The tainted. The sort spat upon at even the lowest tavern. 

“He was not... hideous,” Caralyn suggests as if reading your thoughts. 

You scrunch your nose at her, “how he looks is the least of my woes.” 

“Tall. Strong.” She offers. 

“Car, stop,” you chide. 

“You must... must try to hearten,” she shifts closer so her legs touch yours and she leans a little, as if to comfort you. “As our mothers would always tell us, we must be good wives one day. No matter who. I’m certain if you prove a good loyal wife, he would not treat you as one of his beasts.” 

You stare at her and hum. She is not incorrect. You were never to choose your husband so it should be that it doesn’t matter so much who it is. Only that you serve him well. 

“A man is a man, even if witcher he be,” she declares. 

[wuntrum]

the brushes you use for digital art dont Actually matter that much and its more about core art principles and technique or whatever. but maybe this next brush will be the one

[grayeet]

pov you're bartering with some guy in hell and he hands you a sad crumpled baby.

[sinensis26]

I take back what I said earlier: I would absolutely sell my craft creations, and by "sell" I mean "trade for something I equally value". Do you like my punk rock giraffe stuffie? You can have one for $81... or a bag full of coreopsis seeds. A knit fringe lumberjack hat? Thats $195... or a jar of local honey. Ill sew new clothes for all of your kid's dolls, usually $300+ in labor and material, but Id rather they draw me a really cool picture that I can hang on my fridge.

[let-the-water-hold-me]

Spookykins

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

“The pain. The mess. Give it to me. I’ll hold it. I know that sounds ludicrous, but I’ll find a way.” I lace our fingers. “I will hold everything you don’t want to feel because I love every part of you.” — “You already hold my soul and now you want my pain? Getting greedy, Violence.”

[an-eggs-quest]

HIIIIII :] you shooooould doodle Doey playing “shop” with the critters, they do have an entire trading post in the Safe Haven

Fun fact looking back on the trading post they have Bron and Catbee benches!

Dialogue:

Doey: Aaalright let’s see…how much for the train?

Bubba: 6 crayons!

Doey: Okaaay…the rocket?

Bubba: the BIG ball.

Doey: Yeesh.. you drive a hard bargain, don’t cha pal

[loktauri]

Pookie...

[helenofblackthorns]

simon lewis is his own pov is so funny because I was rereading the scene of him summoning Raziel and the way he's like "oh I don't know how introduce myself because I'm just Some Guy who has no titles or great deeds to his name :/" DUDE YOU KILLED LILITH?????????

[lunewolf13]

Jason is rereading Sense and Sensibility when his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID to make sure it's not Bruce. It's not Bruce, so he picks up.

Jason bookmarks the page and puts the paperback down: What's up, Shrimp?

Tim, sounding actually, genuinely sad: Despair.

Jason straightens: What? What's wrong?

He's two seconds from grabbing some guns and sprinting to his bike when Tim's voice interrupts that plan.

Tim: No one's dead! Chill! I just need some emotional support. Just tell me I'm not useless and this isn't a reflection on my competence.

Jason breathes out and relaxes back on the couch: If that's what you want, then why'd you call me?

Tim: Because it's Dick's mandatory self-care day and Babs threatened us to leave him alone even if the world is on literal fire.

Jason: So I'm your second choice.

Tim: No, Alfred and Cass are busy.

Jason: So I'm your fourth choice.

Tim: No, but Kon and Steph would laugh at my despair.

Jason: So would I.

Tim: Yeah, but at least you'd offer to feed me if I told you that I genuinely need emotional support right now.

Jason opens his mouth to say something snippy, then gives up and sighs.

Jason: Ugh. Fine. What's up?

Tim sniffs forlornly into the phone speaker: Despair.

Tim: I was trying to pick up my orange juice. And I lifted it too fast.

What.

Tim: So the drink went everywhere. On the floor. On the counter. On me. My place smells like orange juice and it's all my stupid arm's fault. Oh, and there's also glass everywhere. So I used my broom to pick up the glass, but it got on the orange juice and now it's sticky?

'Don't laugh don't laugh don't fucking laugh.'

Jason clears his throat, struggling to control his breathing: So did you clean it up the juice?

Tim: Yeah. But now my shirt's gross and I haven't done my laundry so I'm stuck with no shirt until I wash it.

Jason: Have you put the laundry in the washer yet?

He can just imagine Tim rolling his eyes through the phone: Yesss mom. Can you give me my pep talk now?

Jason: Gimme a sec.

He mutes the call and spends ten seconds laughing hysterically, holding his stomach and laughing until there are tears in his eyes. When that's done, he unmutes and in the most casually reassuring tone begins his Timbit Pep Talk.

Jason: Okay. I'm good.

Tim: You just laughed at my expense, didn't you.

Jason: Maybe. Not important. Listen here, what happened with your juice was an accident. Happens to the best of us. It doesn't change your worth as a person or your skills. You're still a kick-ass hero and everyone's still proud of you.

Tim: ...Wow. That actually made me feel better. Thanks, Jason.

Jason rubs his neck, embarrassed: Yeah yeah. We can watch a movie and eat some pizza before patrol, if you want.

Tim: With bacon, artichoke hearts, and onions?

Jason scowls: Ugh. Yes. I'll order your monstrosity. Come over in an hour.

Tim: Sounds good. Still a little worried about my arm though. It's never just jerked up like that.

Jason: Should probably see a doctor for it.

Tim: Yeah, probably. Man, I knew I should've said no to the electric shocks. I told Damian it wouldn't be effective.

Jason widens his eyes and prays he just misheard: What.

Tim: Oh right. We didn't tell you about the experiments.

Oh for the love of—

Jason: EXPERIMENTS???

Tim: It's not as bad as it sounds! We were just researching invasive thoughts! Just dabbling in neurology!! Totally safe! DON'T TELL BRUCE.

Jason as he's dialing a number on his second burner phone while holding this phone to his ear: Why the fuck would I tell him?!

Tim: Right. Okay, then DO NOT TELL DICK.

Jason scowls as Dick fails to pick up: Fine. But only because I value our kinship as forgotten middle children.

Tim: He didn't answer, did he.

Jason: Nope. He better be having a good fucking time after leaving me with this shit. Now I have to call Alfie and explain to him that you two fuckwads are experimenting on humans.

Tim: First of all, I'm the only one who was experimented on. Second, I'll give you twenty bucks if you don't tell anyone.

Jason: No deal.

Tim: Thirty and you can borrow Alfred for a week.

Jason wrinkles his nose: Alfie's not yours to barter with. I'm telling him that you tried to sell him off.

Tim: Not Alfred the human. The cat.

Jason: Not much better. The squirt's not gonna like you offering his cat.

Tim: He's part of the problem. He should help me fix it.

Jason taps his chin, contemplating: I want a favor from you both and the cat for a month.

Tim: Damian won't agree to losing Alfred for a month. How about two favors from us and no cat?

Jason: No. I want the cat. One month.

Tim: Two weeks.

Jason: Three.

Tim: One week, and I'll throw in a blackmail pic of Steph falling off a roof and landing inside a rat-infested Batburger dumpster.

Jason: Two weeks, and you have yourself a deal.

Tim: One week, and I'll give you the pic and a box of that super nice chocolate B likes.

Jason: ...Fine. I still want the two favors from you two. If anyone asks about what you and the squirt are doing, I know nothing about it.

Tim: Pleasure doing business with you. I have to go put my clothes in the dryer now.

Jason: Yep. See you later.

They end the call. Immediately Jason gets up to do some stress baking. Why do all his siblings have to be freaks? It's so fucked up that the Dead Robin, the literal Crime Lord, is the most normal one.

Jason decides to make caramel pecan cookies.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Barter 7

Warnings: dub/noncon, smutty smut, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.

Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.

Character: Geralt of Rivia

**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.

As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍

Your stomach presses against the rim of the tub. The water’s lukewarm, the floor is splashed with puddles, his rutting sending more over the edge. His growls remind you of a wild beat, deep and insatiable. Like the animal he mimics, he bites into the meat between your neck and shoulder. 

Hot breath dampens your skin as he pinches you meanly. He hammers into you, his hands over yours as you brace the wall of the tub. You whine and pant, spasming against him as your walls ache from his bottomless appetite.  

He snarls and snakes a hand down to your stomach. He feels himself in you and unclenches his jaw. He nuzzles your neck as his touch drifts further down. He spreads your lips and uses his middle finger to tease your clit. You babble as the speckling sensation mingles with your fullness and blooms to life. 

You cum in a quaking fit, muscles shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse against the side of the tub completely but he doesn’t stop. His finger swirls as he pumps into you, slowing only as he finds his own release. 

You hang over the edge as you gasp for air. You stare at the floor, your vision hazy in the flickering light of the single lantern. He growls again and it rumbles through. You tighten around him, whimpering at the tenderness inside. You don’t know how much more you can take. 

You could cry at the thought that this is only the first night. That he would expect this of you anon. That you swore that to him. 

He pushes himself away but stays inside of you. His damp skin peels from yours as he hooks his arm around your middle and lifts you with him. He brings his other arm under your knees to scoop you up and steps over the side of the tub. 

He takes you to the bed, still buried deep, lays you on your side. He puffs as your wet bodies glisten and bumps raise on your skin. You shiver and he groans, holding you close as he inhales the scent of your hair. His hand moves to spread over your pelvis. He bows his head to rest his forehead against your crown. 

Fatigue tugs your eyelids. You let yourself fall into the void. Those horrors roil in your mind. The fog, the crowded barn, the clop of hooves, the shady cavern and the lecherous eyes, the constant splash of water around the clap of flesh. 

Your worn body succumbs to numbness. You drift away from the wakeful torment and into the pit without end. You fall down and down and down until light breaks through and the pluck deep inside of you. 

You wake on your stomach. Under him as he rocks his hips lazily. He drones and nips at your ear. He fucks you in the soft light of dawn. You clasp onto the pillow and moan. 

Your cunt is brittle around his intrusion. You’re wet and wanting despite the agony. You lift your bottom to ease the pressure. He slides his hand under you to toy with you again. Another orgasm washes over you, shivers crashing down as eagerly as his hunger. 

He snarls as he cums. He stills and holds himself over you. He slips free and falls onto his back with a pained grunt. You stay as you are, plastered on your stomach. His breaths even out and you cautiously turn your head to see him. 

The lantern has burned itself out and only the morning hues limn his profile. You consider him closely, now that he is still, now that he is not on you. He’s a big man. Daunting even. His dark lashes are long and thick, his chin clefted and stubbled, and his cheek bones high and as chiseled as his jaw. 

He exhales and brings his hand over his softening member. He grunts again. You wince and roll onto your side. You bend your legs and whimper as your thighs meet. Somehow the emptiness is worse than being overly full. 

He reaches to you and pets your hip. His eyes open and seem to glow in the dim. His fingers swirl over your skin as his seed cools between your thighs. 

“I will go and lock the door. You will not open it. Not for any.” 

You sniff and gently rest your hand on his, “will you be gone long?” 

“Not if I can help it. I will leave food on the table.” 

“Yes, husband,” you accept. The promise of peace, of some time alone, a moment to take in all that has occured, is well-needed. 

“And another bath to be drawn before,” he states. “You will be easy.” He turns his hand over and grips yours. “And ready for my return.” 

[unbfacts]

In 2005, Canadian Kyle MacDonald began with a single red paperclip and, through a series of 14 trades over a year, eventually acquired a two-story farmhouse in Kipling, Saskatchewan. His initial trade was the paperclip for a fish-shaped pen, and subsequent trades included items like a hand-sculpted doorknob, a camping stove, and a recording contract.

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Jesper: I just got kicked out of a council meeting for saying ‘fuck the devil’

Jesper: What the fuck? I thought we hated that guy?

[let-the-water-hold-me]

Spookykins

[everyponie]

Born to be an anarcho-commuinist, forced to settle for socialism.