#and geralt is not walking into this one absolutely not

[lassieposting]

Jaskier is fucking appalled by the animal-naming habits of every single witcher within three (3) days of arriving at Kaer Morhen

This is a man who named each individual mouse in his prison cell. And now he finds that it's not just Geralt, who keeps buying chestnut mares and naming them all Roach like some kind of imagination-deficient walking time loop.

It's Lambert, the absolute cretin, who always names his poor animal Horse, as though it needs a fucking reminder, because "it's a fucking horse, songbird, it doesn't need a fucking name".

It's Vesemir, who's spent at least Geralt's entire lifetime leaving his horses with whatever name they had when he bought them, even when it's entirely inappropriate for a witcher's mount. Geralt remembers learning to ride on Vesemir's big black gelding Samson, which is not terrible as horse names go, he supposes. But Samson was succeeded by Dame Bubbles III, who was named by her previous owner's eight-year-old daughter, and even Vesemir himself can't keep a straight face at the memory.

It's Coën, who's always named his horses after food, which seems terribly mean. Rump-Steak is actually very sweet, nipping habit aside.

And then Eskel comes home, right as Jaskier is comforting poor Rump-Steak ("Never mind, dear boy, my parents named me Julian and I turned out alright") and finally, here is a man with some sense. Lil Bleater is not the most creative of names, but Eskel picked it himself, and his horse has a suitably witchery intimidating name even if he's a sweet soft boy who gets bullied by Miss Roachie. Someone around here has a brain cell - thank heavens!

(This is a very wrong-footing introduction for Eskel. He's not used to having strange men drowning in Geralt's fluffiest fur-lined cloak stalk up to him before he's even got in the door, addressing him by name and demanding to know what he calls his horse. But he's delighted to be pronounced "the only one around here with some bloody sense", asks Geralt, "Is this your bard?" and promptly explodes laughing at the thought of Geralt getting henpecked every time he names a new Roach for twenty fucking years)

[nullio]

Whatever you do, don't think abt

Established relationship Geraskier, where Jaskier continuously gets invited to parties/courts/masquerades and while he respects Geralt boundaries of not wanting to be dragged out into the crowds to socialize/dance, he still misses the slowdancing and being wrapped around another person on the dance floor

And Geralt absolutely has notice of this longing but cannot bring himself to leave his comfort zone until one time, he sees jaskier perfectly alone staring lovingly yet longingly at the crowd of people and couples dancing to the smaller orchestra band's music and finally realizes how heartbreakingly sweet it is of Jaskier to give up such a joy

And if Jaskier can sacrifice that much of himself, Geralt can too. So soon after that event ends, Geralt pieces together an outfit that's courtly enough and mentally reviews the types of dancing he's seen at the parties over the years

And the next time Jaskier gets invited to play at a big wedding ceremony, after he's finished his set and goes to look for Geralt so they can ravish the buffet together- Geralt is nowhere to be found until he hears some murmurs from behind him and Geralt timidly walks through the crowd in his attire holding a buttercup flower that he offers to Jaskier and asks

Julian, may I have this dance

Despite the glances and Geralts two left feet- he's never seen Jaskier this happy and it's all immediately worth it

Yea just try not to think abt that

[wren-of-the-woods]

Curse Fic Recs

I absolutely love Witcher fics where a character gets cursed so I thought I'd share some of my favorites! All of them are Geraskier except for a few Lambden ones at the end.

If anyone has other fics to reccommend, please feel free to give them a shoutout – I’d love to read them!

~

Cursed Jaskier

A Friend in the Wild by @samstree (Rated T, 1k)

In which Geralt acquires a tiny mouse friend who wouldn't stop following him.

If There's Any Sleep At Night by @smolalienbee (Rated T, 22k)

A mare, also known as a mara or a zmora - a malicious entity, a bringer of nightmares and a demon of the night. An easy enough contract to fulfill, if only frustrating, or at least that’s what Geralt believes when he first sets out to hunt down one such mare. What he doesn’t expect is to be wrapped up in a tale of a wronged soul, of love and of joy.

My Name is Hidden On Your Tongue by @anarchycox (Rated T, 10k)

Jaskier is cursed. Well his whole family line is. Every male born child cannot be named. They can be given a name, but it will never be a true one and people will always have an allergic reaction to saying this false name. Only a soulmate speaking your true name aloud will break the curse. The family though has never cared, they've only cared about the family fortune and marrying well. But Jaskier cares. He is determined to travel the world, find his soulmate and learn what his name is. And the best way to travel the world seems to be with a rather taciturn witcher named Geralt of Rivia. If he started to hope that Geralt would be the one to say his true name, well that was one thing that Jaskier would not say aloud.

The Cursed Jewels of Lettenhove by GoldenDaydreams (Rated T, 8k)

Geralt has no intention of getting involved with breaking a curse and naturally ends up very involved.

Silver and Copper by @heronfem (Rated M, 56k)

Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

Priceless by @handwrittenhello (Rated M, 38k)

Jaskier was cursed as a child; when spilled, his blood turns to rubies and his tears turn to diamonds. When his secret is discovered, Geralt must save him from those who would take advantage of it. Together they work to break the curse, but the cost might end up being too steep.

Set My Wings on Fire by bilboakenshield27 (Not Rated, 4k)

Jaskier gets turned into a bird and has to warn Geralt about an ambush.

Sleep of the Dead by @dancedelion (Rated T, 20k)

Jaskier thinks he hit rock bottom when Geralt flushed twenty years of friendship down the drain, but then he finds himself suddenly translucent and rudely walked through by a traveller. Apparently he's dead - that's certainly a new low. He needs to find out what happened, and who better to help him than the man who's made more than clear he wants nothing to do with him.

The Sandpiper by @welcomemysentence (Rated T, 2k)

When Jaskier gets cursed into an actual sandpiper, the little coast bird, the only way to save him is with true love's kiss.

What's Engraved Upon My Heart (In Letters Deeply Worn) by @made-of-constellations-blog (Rated T, 6k)

Jaskier gets cursed to be a lark with a strange failsafe to turn him back. Geralt misses this, and realizes too late that he's not ready to lose his bard.

to be held by @wanderlust-t (Rated T, 1k)

The knife dropped on the ground. And Geralt’s thoughts reached to a halt for a moment. He had no rope. Not anything to keep Jaskier still. To hold him back. Oh. That was going to be a really long night.

Catskier by @al-in-my-head (Rated T, 17k)

Due to an unfortunate encounter with a mage while him and Geralt are apart, Jaskier is transformed into a cat. It just so happens that Geralt likes talking to animals.

~

Cursed Geralt

A Marvelous Night for a Moondance by @flowercrown-bard (Rated T, 1k)

There was a warning every child living near Oakwood Valley knew. "Don't go out at night, or you'll disturb the Moonlit Dancer." No one truly knew who the Moonlit Dancer was, but everyone agreed on two things: The Dancer must be dangerous. And he must be oh so lonely.

animal instinct by leodesic (Rated M, 13k)

Despite Jaskier's hard work, there are still plenty of people who hate witchers. They think they're monstrous, inhuman, only held back from violence by a thin veneer of control. One mage has a plan to spread his views by capturing a witcher and bewitching them to remove their control. When the Butcher of Blaviken walks into his hideout, he's convinced he's found the perfect candidate - and a convenient way to get rid of the pesky bard that's been singing his praises. Jaskier is forced to agree witchers are not human, but that doesn't mean they're dangerous. In fact, he's astounded by how many of Geralt's uncontrolled impulses involve touching.

Connecting dots by @dapandapod (Rated G, 3k)

Geralt is hit with a lying curse, and it takes Jaskier an embarrassing amount of time to figure it out. Now, it Jaskier only would stick to the safe questions....

Don't Go Stealing My Heart by @thesilverqueenlady (Rated T, 17k)

When Jaskier is stiffed by a lord on payment, he decides to help himself to proper compensation. Alongside the correct amount of gold and silver, he also steals a beautiful silver wolf's head medallion. It's safe to say that he is not expecting the medallion to be haunted by the spirit of a very grumpy, very handsome, very cursed Witcher.

Cuddles, Curses, and Confusion by me :D (Rated T, 3k)

Geralt becomes oddly affectionate after being cursed by a mage. Jaskier would just like his life to be less complicated, please.

Spectre's Soul also by me :D (Rated T, 31k)

When Jaskier tried to go on a date with a man named Rience, he did not expect to nearly be killed. He certainly did not expect to discover a beautiful valley while running away from him. He very definitely did not expect to find out that the valley was haunted — by an absurdly beautiful man. Or: In which Geralt is cursed to be a ghost and Jaskier is the first person in decades to talk to him.

~

Cursed Aiden

Headache at First Sight by YorkAndDelta (Rated T, 12k)

A story of how Lambert ends up looking after a cursed cat, helping a Witcher from a rival school retrieve his gear from angry mages, and maybe finds love along the way.

~

Cursed Lambert

the mortifying ordeal of being known as a cat by @skaldingrayne Rated M, 10k

Lambert is cursed to be a cat. Fortunately, he finds Jaskier.

~

You can find my other reclists here!

[caffieneaddictt18]

Life, Death, and Destiny

Prompt: Witch!Reader keeps giving Geralt weird little trinkets and crystal necklaces saying that this one protects you and this one keeps the bad feelings away and this one will call good spirits and wisdom upon him, and he doesn't believe her until one time he's fighting this monster and somehow, he keeps dodging this monster perfectly without even needing to drink his elixir. He kills the beast, and goes back to Witch!Reader, demanding her to explain how this works when he knows for a fact, she doesn't have magic like a mage or a druid. She simply winks and leaves him curious, so he stays with her and figures out how she is somehow unintentionally magical.

I'm not gonna lie, I did not stick to this prompt. It went a little sideways and flopped. So, my apologies! It is not false advertising, I swear.

As Geralt was walking to Roach, his mare, he heard his name called... It was faint but grew louder as the person shouting his name got closer.

"Geralt!"

Geralt rolled his eyes, thinking it was another townsfolk wanting him to go kill something.

"Geralt, wait!"

But then he recognized that voice...

"Geralt! Would you stop for a minute?"

He stopped. The Witcher slowly turned around and saw y/n. They were panting, keeled over.

"Before you leave, take this." They reach out and in their hand is a little charm that can be added to the strap of leather that keeps his hair up. "It's for battle wisdom. Knowing you, you'll need it. I hope it keeps you safe on your travels." Y/n stands up, and composes themselves.

"Well, I can see you are wandering towards Roach... where will you go next?"

Geralt took the charm slowly. He didn't trust anything magical. Especially when it came from someone that he had never heard was magical beforehand. Nevertheless, he took the charm and clamped it around the leather holding his hair back.

"There was a monster sighting near Waterwood. The locals regularly use the water for business, so they need me to come clear out whatever monster lies in the river." He gruffly divulged the details of his departure.

"Well... if you ever wish to come back, you know where I am." Y/n skipped off down the stone path to the cottage that sat on the edge of the wood, surrounded in wildflowers and other magical plants.

Geralt grunted before stalking back to Roach, mounting her, and taking off into the night.

______________________________________________________________

Y/N woke to a banging on the wooden front door. The type of banging on hollow wood that gave you chills. Especially after being chased from town for giving Geralt a charm. This specific town doesn't necessarily take too kindly to witches and magic.

The banging lessened to a knock. Y/N quickly extinguishes all the candles before slowly opening the door and hiding in the nook between the wall and the door. Waiting for anyone...

someone...

The person walks in slowly, sword in hand, and eyes seemingly glowing in the dark. The stock build of his shoulder balancing out the slender legs of pure muscle. His footsteps silent, but hers are gone.

Y/N makes no noise as they scampers across the floor of grass and behind a chair. A chair made of engraved wood and hide from a monster, if you can believe it. Absolutely beautiful.

Y/N gently whistled a tune... a tune used when Geralt and them went on a small stroll through the woods. Y/N insisted that it would help Geralt ground himself before the hunt he was about to embark on.

Immediately, he stopped and put the sword away before casting Igni on a candle near him. He carried it to the chair and saw a head of hair peeking out from behind the arm of it. "Y/N?"

"Geralt!" Y/N stands from the crouched position on the ground and goes around to hug Geralt. He accepts it before lighting the fireplace filled with charcoal and adding new wood to keep the old burning.

"Why did you hide? Monsters don't knock. Mages don't bother people in their homes anymore." Geralt was ticking things off a list that might make them be wary of anything.

"Were you... were you scared of me?"

Y/N, who was first scared that Geralt might go on a rage like the one in Blaviken, was now flustered. "Oh no! Oh goodness, no!"

"So why were you skittering around like a mouse, trying to find warmth?"

"I... I was chased out of town..." Y/N can see Geralt tensing, becoming physically angry, "Don't worry about it though! It allows me to become one with nature. I forage all my food now and the butcher is kind, giving slices of meat no one else would want. I have deepened my relationship with magic and peace. I am happy. Don't worry about me."

Geralt was trying to slow his breathing and be rational, staring into the fire. How could they do this to you? You had done nothing but help them, and they turned on you. You had provided them with medicines that don't poison and trinkets that you can only find in the forest.

"Why?"

A simple question that held so much power. The power to anger or calm. The power to cause action or stop it. The power of chaos or peace.

And so, Y/N chose peace.

"I assume they finally decided they didn't like me anymore," Y/N smiled.

"That's a lie. You provided them with medicine. Small villages don't just abandon their healers." Geralt moved, gently pinning Y/N to the monster-leather seat.

"So tell me... why did they do it?"

Y/N looked into his eyes, marveling at how their reflected the flames to look like pools of lava themselves. Y/N knew that their response was too late when he furrowed his brow. Y/N looked down.

"They... they saw me give you that charm..." Geralt quickly got up and leaned against the stone mantle that looked like it had been there forever, made by Gaia herself. A sanctuary for the weak, weary and, what others would call, weird.

"They don't take kindly to magic folk around here, Geralt. It's why I have placed wards around the cottage."

Geralt was surprised. An actual ward? He knew that you liked to do everything yourself, if you could. Wards required mages and you were not a mage.

"A ward?" You nodded, "And who did these wards?"

"I did!"

To him, you sound childish. A person with no real magic was somehow placing wards around their home...

But somehow, the house seems untouched by the outside world. The hurtful one of torches and pitchforks.

"Alright... well, I have a monster hunt nearby. I'll stay here. Just for some extra protection." Geralt announced. There was no turning back or denying him this.

______________________________________________________________

As Geralt was walking out of the cottage that was surprisingly not attacked by townspeople the entire time he was there, Y/N called to him.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nope!" Y/N holds out a small necklace with a complicated charm strung onto it. "Just wanted to give you this."

Geralt gently took it into his hands. "And what does this one do?"

"It's a protection necklace. I know you will inevitably find danger, so this should help keep you on your toes and safe for your also inevitable return," Y/N proudly announces to Geralt as he kept a straight face. He had no real belief this would do anything for him, but he put it into a pouch near his chest.

"Alright. Stay safe, Y/N"

"You as well, Geralt. Blessed be, my friend."

______________________________________________________________

Geralt rode upon the cottage that had a plume of smoke exiting the stone chimney and candlelight coming from the kitchen. It was an exhausting monster hunt and all he wanted to do was rest.

Once he had tied Roach to the small stables that Y/N kept up, he walked to the home. Before Geralt could knock, the door swung open.

"Geralt!" was all that was said before a flurry of greens and browns flooded his sight. He was encompassed with the warmth only you could provide. A hug... something he hasn't felt in a while.

You slide off of him and out of his arms. "How are you, my friend? Why don't you come in?" Y/N opens the door for him to enter and beckon the large man inside your cozy home.

The smell of rosemary and chicken flood his nose. The warm glow of the fire in the living room flickered across the walls and seeped into every crack, spreading the softness that Y/N carried. Geralt walked slowly into the home and sat down on one of the chairs you have. It was soft, like from a castle, but not quite as tall or luxurious looking. He wondered where you got it from.

Over the fire, a soup of chicken, carrots, potatoes, and herbs brewed in a cauldron that seemed to magically hang from the ceiling, even though it was directly under the chimney stack.

"So... how are you, my friend?" Y/N's gentle voice entered Geralt's mind. It's like you were allowing him space to take in the home as he wishes instead of flooding his senses with everything all at once. A nice change of pace of the monster hunter, the White Wolf.

"I am... good. I was surprisingly not hurt on my last hunt. This striga seemed... slower than normal, though..." Geralt contemplated on his latest hunt, mulling it over in his mind, "Must not have been at full strength."

"Would you like some mead?" You offer the Witcher some of your honey wine. A delicacy was not often seen in common households, but you have never been part of the common folk. Plus, you tended to a honey bee hive in a tree near the cottage.

"Why not?" Geralt takes the mug of mead from you as you walk to the cauldron where your stew was done cooking. You ladle the chicken soup into wooden bowls you once bought from a traveling merchant and add a slice of bread to it. It had not been the first time you opened up your home to the infamous White Wolf... and it certainly won't be the last.

"Well, eat up. You are welcome to stay as long as you like." You offer a safe night's sleep before finishing your bowl of soup and putting the bowl in a basket of other dirty plates and bowls. You take the cauldron of soup and take it outside, where you can feed the hungry children of the village. The only people who dare to come near...

Before you can lug the pot of wonderful healing stew outside, Geralt notices. "What are you doing?"

You stop, setting the cauldron on the floor for a rest. "Well... the children of the village have not been eating as much and I feel bad... their parents cast me out, not them. Why should they have to suffer for a choice they had no choice in?" Y/N looks at Geralt in confusion before shaking their head and picking up the cauldron again.

Geralt stands and before you can walk with the heavy pot, he takes it from you. "If they catch ypou doing this... you could be killed."

"I would rather die doing something good than nothing at all." You skip happily besides Geralt as he carries the pot with way less effort than you have to.

As you approach your normal spot to feed the children, you can see the dozens of eyes that hide in the woods. They are scared...

"You have nothing to fear, children. The Witcher will never hurt you."

First, nothing happens, but after a minute, a thin girl walks to you. You kneel, handing her a bowl of the chicken stock. You know this one. This girl has been sick since she came from the womb of her mother, who died during childbirth.

A boy, a bit stockier than he was a month ago, came up to you, slightly avoiding the Witcher's gaze as he also grabbed a bowl from you and started drinking the contents of the soup. You gave him bits of chicken and vegetables, knowing that he won't be full unless the boy has them. He has grown since you first saw him.

One by one, the children gained confidence in you and lost their fear in the monster hunter who was leaning on a tree behind you.

Eventually, you ran out of mouths to feed and food to give, so you grabbed the bowls the children used, put them in the cauldron, and walked home with the pot in hand.

"Well, Geralt, what brings you around this time?"

"Just a reprieve. I needed some... how do you say it... grounding."

You drop the cauldron by the door & clap, "Perfect! I'm going to the well now to grab water. It is chore day. What would you prefer to do?"

As Geralt looked around, he noticed the various plants that were hanging in your window and drying in the sun. And then he noticed the weeds that had begun to grow in your garden.

"Let me grab the water and prepare the pot for another meal," Geralt wanted to take the heaviest thing off you. It would not be too hot weeding the garden considering the time and season.

"I can weed the garden and wash the bowls & cutlery. Fantastic! Make sure to rub the inside of the pot with tallow before hanging it up to dry."

Geralt grunts and walks to the well, buckets in hand.

This is going to be the longest day in a while...

______________________________________________________________

You prep Roach before Geralt is scheduled to take off into the horizon once more.

As you finish getting the saddle tied down, you look around for any peering eyes. Not finding any, you pull out a Rune for speed and chant a small & simple spell before tying said rune to the inside of the saddlebag.

You hurriedly make yourself seem busy by packing his saddlebag with all the necessities, including a jug for water and a fresh loaf of sourdough bread wrapped in some parchment that you covered in beeswax.

Geralt exits the cottage, strapping the last bit of armor down to himself, walking towards you and Roach. Before he can reach you, you walk to Roach's front and say a quick prayer and chant for speed and health. That they may get to wherever they must be, right when they must be there and not a moment too late.

As Geralt approaches, you give him one last hug. And a warning...

"Save the apple bread for when you need it most."

Geralt, understandably confused, watches as you skip towards your cozy home. Before you make it even halfway, the White Wolf shakes his head as a method of clearing it before mounting Roach and taking off into the distance.

______________________________________________________________

You are calmly knitting while waiting for the loaf of bread in the fire to cook when a banging erupts from your door. You are immediately apprehensive, as banging is not usually a good sign anymore.

Before you were chased out of the town banging meant someone was hurt. Also not good, but treatable.

Banging now... that's nothing good.

"Open your door or I will kick it down!" Geralt's gruff voice was muffled by the door, but you could tell he was yelling.

You hurriedly put down your knitting project and let Geralt in. He walks in and turns rather smoothly however quick, effectively shutting the door and trapping you between him and the thick wood the door offered.

"What are you? Are you a sorceress?!" Geralt questioned you with intense yellow eyes. The type of eyes he saved for people who have used him and lied to him.

"No, Geralt... I am not a sorceress. Why do you ask?" You gently take one of his arms down from its tense position leaning against the door to massage his hand in between your fingers. You gently guide him to a chair and sit him down before asking once more...

"What has made you think that I am a sorceress, Geralt?"

He grunts and looks into the dancing flames of the fire that licked the stone and left black soot marks.

"I was faster, stronger... more insightful... Roach rode like the wind and we got exactly where we needed to be just in time, even early. This didn't start happening until you started giving me things. And don't think I didn't notice the rune in my saddlebag. You may be a witch, but you are no sneak. So, what are you?"

A pregnant pause filled the space and time had eaten away at it.

You needed to tell him eventually. Now was as good a time as ever.

"I... You're right. I am a witch. But I am not a sorceress or a mage! I do not dabble in chaos. I am an omnist. I believe in the existence of every god. I also bend and use energy at my will. The thing people call 'Destiny' can be written, but then erased & rewritten. That's what I do. A 'narrow miss' suddenly becomes an 'easy dodge.' I take Destiny... and I manipulate her for my desired outcome. And if my desired outcome just so happens to be a few kids fed and the Savior of the people of the Continent, so be it."

It felt as though the energy had moved from this feeling where something was violently poking and stabbing to try and get out, to absolute stillness.

An eerie calm after a storm.

The sort of calm you feel right before a bomb goes off...

Except...

No bomb went off.

No storm flooded the room.

Geralt could only feel awe.

Not at just your power but how you chose to wield it.

You had the power of Destiny at your disposal, and you chose to help a few kids whose parents banished you from their town.

You had the power of Destiny... eating out of your hands... and you chose to help him...

The last time he felt this... loved... was Yennefer. But even Yennefer's love wasn't baselining love. She was lust. A poor foundation of love.

What is Geralt even thinking?! Love? He couldn't love. No... His path was a lonely, treacherous one.

But it was one many others have joined him on...

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he is thinking...

Maybe...

Just maybe....

A little bit of love is okay.

The White Wolf doesn't howl his praises or paw for attention. All he does is kneel.

Kneel in front of the most powerful, lovely, deadly person he has ever known... and hold them.

"Thank you... for protecting me..."

"Anytime, Geralt."

______________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. If you have any requests, please feel free to ask me. Also, I know I made this one non-binary after editing, and I know what I said before I posted anything. Have a great night! Bye!

[thelostgirl21]

Okay, I felt like this post (by @panur & @underthebluerain) deserved some visuals, so people could really understand and truly appreciate just how dramatic the difference in body sizes and shapes between these two gorgeous, absolutely lovely men, is!

And just how skilled the costume design team is, on the show, when it comes to giving the illusion that a character is much smaller (in Jaskier's case) or much larger (in Radovid's case), than their actors actually are.

There was an incredible post, a while back, that really explained how those wizards work their magic!

And it's utterly fascinating!!! Seriously, if you haven't read all of that yet, I highly suggest you go and take a look!

But yeah, when you look at the way their clothes have been designed this season, there's definitely been some attempt to make Jaskier look generally smaller than Joey Batey really is, while making Radovid look generally bigger than Hugh Skinner really is, too.

A few examples (with my extremely humble interpretation / things that have grabbed my eye when I look at their costumes. Please bear in mind that I am but an humble fan with no experience in costume design, so there's probably tons of stuff I've missed, and/or I might have misinterpreted some of those designers' intent):

Then, of course, there's Radovid's cloak that just... triples his size or something!

So, when you look at them side by side with their clothes on (even without the cloak), there really doesn't seem to be such a huge difference in body size and shape between the two.

Why are they so pretty though?

Like yeah, you do get the sense that Radovid might be a bit leaner, and that he has a longer torso, perhaps, but it's not THAT dramatic of a difference...

As soon as you get them out of their costumes, however...

On that last gif, you can really see that Joey's roughly the same height as Henry Cavill, and get the sense that he'd probably fit really well in a Witcher's armor, too!

Technically, their heights are listed as: - Henry Cavill: 1,85cm (6 ft 7/8 in) - Hugh Skinner: 1,83cm (6 ft) - Joey Batey 1,82cm (5 ft 11 5/8 in)

So, Joey's like 1 1/8" smaller than Henry and 3/8" smaller than Hugh.

Since I'm ½" taller than my own partner and virtually never realize it, I doubt they'd notice that 3/8" difference between them.

But yeah, one of the really funny "side effects" of costume designers being so good at their job is when you somehow manage to forget about it while watching the show and then this happens:

and your brain needs a moment to re-calibrate its settings because you're like "Right! Buff bard! Right... 6 feet tall really strong looking damsel in distress that keeps complaining Geralt could break him like a twig, when it would be something closer to splitting a log!"

Makes you wonder if people in Jaskier's family are just... naturally muscular or something (lots of fast-twitch muscle fibers?!)?

Because, while Joey is apparently into climbing, kick boxing, swimming, fencing, medieval sword fighting, etc.

Jaskier complained about needing to walk down the path of a mountain on his own, because his fancy boots kept sliding.

He does a lot of traveling and walking, sure... But that doesn't really help you develop your upper body / pectorals / arms, etc. in such a way!

Unless he just... likes the way those muscles aesthetically look on him?

You know, I really wouldn't put it past him, now that I think about it...

Over the years, Jaskier has just developed his very own calisthenics workout routine to build and maintain his looks, but feels the need to hide it.

Because "body fitness" is not exactly a popular discipline on the Continent at that time.

People tend to train to learn how to fight, or develop muscle mass while working the land or their craft, not because "they like the way those muscles look on them when taking their clothes off!"

So, Jaskier wears clothes that hide his actual body shape, since he's afraid that, if people saw and noticed how built he really is, then they'd just assume he knows how to fight and defend himself, when he doesn't.

People might stop shoving him out of harm's way, pulling him behind them to stand between him and the danger, coming to his rescue, etc.

And, since Jaskier's whole ongoing survival sort of depends on people spontaneously stepping in to save his sorry arse, well...

In the bedroom, however, the added bit of upper body strength and endurance does wonder when you want to be able to fuck someone against a wall while keeping their feet off the ground (for example).

Being able to lift and carry more than your own weight definitely has its advantages...

As Radovid has no doubt found out...

And, if the prince turned out to be a bit lighter and easier to carry around than Jaskier was initially expecting him to be, you definitely won't hear him complaining, either!

Although, I must admit that part of me also likes the idea that they might have been able to accurately "size each other up", so to speak.

Radovid's just there looking at all the lines and proportions on Jaskier's pants and shirt, while figuring out where his shoulders and arms actually stop underneath; being both fascinated by the actual size of Jaskier's body, and the choice of clothing design that's making him look much smaller than he appears to be (if his calculations are, indeed, correct)...

While Jaskier's just looking at all those layers covering Radovid, while attempting to get a rough estimate of the total naked weight underneath, and for how long he could keep him lifted... Hypothetically... For science...

But even there, there's a huge difference between knowing those clothes are playing with your perceptions and briefly getting a mental glimpse of what you think might be closer to the truth... And actually gazing upon or getting your hands all over said truth!

Because sincerely, no amount of me trying to look at this while attempting to make abstraction of the whole illusion created by the clothing design:

is successfully going to be able to make me see this:

Hence why I tend to forget about it, and need a moment to re-calibrate almost every single time Jaskier winds up getting shirtless!

Seriously, just look at the bottom gif of him shirtless, then at the top where he's got his clothes on a few times, one after the other, and try to tell me that you're able to visualize where all of that body at the bottom is managing to fit in there at the top!

It's like part of it literally went missing!

So, even if Radovid had managed to guess that Jaskier was a lot buffer than his choice of clothing was letting on, and vice versa, I'm thinking they'd still have been in for quite a bit of a surprise when they actually got each other's clothes removed!

Therefore, that headcanon would still work, regardless of Jaskier and Radovid having guessed that each of them used their clothes to make themselves appear less threatening, or more imposing than they really are.

[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.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Not So Fast, Darlin' || Joel x Reader

Summary: You know that venturing out into the abandoned QZ was a bad idea–especially alone. But with your rations dwindling to next to nothing, you know that raiding the old settlement for whatever you can find is your only option. You expected runners, maybe a few clickers. What you absolutely did not expect to find was a way too attractive man pointing a rifle square at your chest.

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, this is pure smut lol, I guess age gap but reader is in late 20s and this is only 10 years after the outbreak, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do the pull out method irl, guys), soft!Joel

A/N: I am so used to writing for Geralt, so I hope I manage to give them different voices. Thanks for reading, and maybe consider reblogging if you enjoy! Anyways–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

You rifle your hand through your backpack once again, as if you’ll find something new inside. Your stomach grumbles and a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d think after all these years spent surviving on whatever scraps you could find would have made you stronger by now, but the lack of food is making you sick.

Groaning, you pull out the crinkled map you’ve carried with you since you slipped out of the Chicago QZ years ago. It’s a FEDRA map, so QZs are marked on the glossy paper, as if they were some bastions of society. You scoff, shaking your head at the thought. 

You’re not far from another one now. You’ve spent three days in the forest, atop a hill, watching the settlement below. You know it’s abandoned. You haven’t seen a single person go in or out. No FEDRA officers on patrol, no armored trucks carrying “fresh” rations. 

It should be safe enough, you tell yourself. 

Taking a deep breath, you gather the rest of your things and toss them unceremoniously into your backpack and throw it over your shoulder. You had better go now, while there is light left. Sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ at night could be a death sentence. Granted, sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ in the daytime could also be a death sentence. But, shit, you’ve got no choice.

It takes you nearly an hour to pick your way through the woods, down the hill, and to the perimeter of the abandoned settlement. After being on your own this long, you have learned to trust yourself. No sound, human or infected, can be heard anywhere. Still, you hold your pistol firmly in both hands as you walk as silently as possible toward the gaping hole where the entrance to the QZ must have been. You can never be too careful.

Once inside, your eyes scan the many buildings–mostly falling apart, this hasn’t been a QZ for a long time–looking for any sort of convenience store, grocery store, or anywhere you can possibly raid for ten-year-old canned goods. Down the block, you spot an old building that you are fairly sure must have been one of the QZ market centers. 

Ok, best place to start, you confirm, moving silent as a shadow from building to building until you reach your target. You approach the shattered window and peer inside, barely suppressing a small outburst of happiness upon seeing that there are still cans on shelves, still boxes stacked towards the back. 

Perfect. You are careful not to step on shattered glass in case any clickers are hiding around. You have no idea why this QZ was abandoned–whether it was just one of FEDRA’s many failures or some sort of civilian uprising. No matter how this place ended, you know that there is a high possibility that there are infected lurking around. 

You are so focused on the task at hand and listening for infected that you are completely oblivious to a man hiding just behind an old counter. Well, at least until he sprung to his feet, rifle in hand.

“Not so fast, darlin’,” he says with a rather thick southern accent. 

You jumped at his appearance, but you are used to situations like these, so the fear doesn’t rise in your gut like it used to. Every other day, it seems, someone is pointing a gun at you or you are pointing a gun at someone else. What a way to live. At least he wasn’t a hunter. Or, you are pretty sure he isn’t. They tend to shoot first, talk later. 

You raise your hands, not letting go of your pistol, “I’m just here for–” 

“Food’s taken.” 

First of all, you don’t enjoy being cut off, and second–there is so much food left in the old store that this one man couldn’t possibly take it all himself. Unless there were others with him… But you didn’t see or hear anyone, and certainly if he had any travel companions with him, they would have surrounded you by now. 

“Really?” you cock an eyebrow, “All of it? Bullshit.”

“I suggest you turn around and go back to wherever you came from, little lady.”

“Come the fuck on,” you roll your eyes. “There’s so much here, there’s no way you’re taking it all.”

“Got people that count on me.”

“Well, I don’t,” you don’t back down. “I’ll take a few cans and you can take the rest.”

He seems to ponder your words for a moment, lowering his rifle. 

“You ain’t got anybody with you?” 

“Oh, first you point a rifle in my face, and now you want to play twenty questions? Because in that case, I have a few questions of my own.” 

“Gotta answer mine, first.”

You scowl, slipping your pistol back into its holster and crossing your arms, “Yeah, I’m alone.”

“Fine,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the loaded shelves, “Have at it.”

Despite the fact that your stomach is still screaming at you, you stay where you are. You hate yourself for it, but there’s something about this man that entices you, draws you in. Brown curls, beard, captivating eyes, and damn, his muscles. You can tell just from his bare forearms visible thanks to him rolling the sleeves of his flannel up that he is practically made of stone. 

Even in the apocalypse, I’m still horny, you think, cursing yourself for it. 

“Not yet,” you break the silence, “I have some questions of my own.”

You see the man look from you to the shelves of food, contemplating his next decision. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, either. Why don’t you grab a couple cans and we can sit.”

“Hm,” you consider, “Fine. As long as you promise not to shoot me.”

In response, he simply slings his rifle over his shoulder, “No shootin’, got it.” 

“No shooting,” you confirm. 

You turn to face the still stocked shelves and scan the labels. Chef Boyardee. Shit was full of preservatives and other unnatural ingredients even back before the cordyceps infection broke out, so you’re pretty sure it’s safe. You grab two cans and head to the back of the store where the man is still standing.

“Alright,” you say, “You gonna sit?”

“Yeah, guess so,” he says, lowering himself to the ground. You follow suit, extending an arm to hand him one of the cans. “These won the Least Likely to Give Us Botulism Award.”

His stoic face actually cracks into a small smile at that. “Let’s hope it don’t.” 

“That would be pretty embarrassing,” you say as you open your backpack to dig around for a knife so you can open the ancient can. “There are literal zombies walking around but you just puke yourself to death.”

“At least we know for sure now that expiration dates are a scam.”

The two of you are silent for a moment as you open your respective cans of ravioli. It isn’t as uncomfortable as you’d imagine. 

Still, you break the silence, “Y/N.” You extend a hand in greeting. 

He pauses for a long moment before finally extending his own, “Joel.”

You almost shiver at the way your hand feels clasped in his. You’ve been on your own for so long, you forgot what human interaction felt like. It’s not horrible. 

“So, Joel,” you like the way his name sounds on your lips, “What do you need an entire store full of food for?”

“People.”

“You have a family, then?” Despite your immediate attraction to this man, your hunger wins out and you rather aggressively stab a piece of ravioli and shove it into your mouth.

“No.”

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” 

“Mostly I’m just wonderin’ how you haven’t got yourself killed yet,” He dodges the question. 

“I have my ways,” you smirk. 

“Looks like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“They used to call this look Heroin Chic.” Now they just call it Literally Starving and Trying Not to Get Bit or Ripped Apart. 

He bursts into laughter at that, but his eyes don’t quite match. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked concerned. “Are you even old enough to remember that shit?”

“I was 19,” you clench a fist at the memory, “Plenty of time to learn things.” 

There is silence while the two of you eat before you do what you usually do and break it, “Are you even young enough to understand ten-year-old pop culture references?”

He smirks, looking too damn good while he does it. “Do I really look that old?” 

He actually sounds serious, so you laugh and shake your head, “Nah. You look… good.”

Well, fuck me. 

You can’t take the words back, though. You don’t think you want to take the words back. 

“Good, huh?” There is a glimmer in his eye. The type of glimmer you haven’t seen since before you fled the Chicago QZ. Your insides are in knots.

Well, since you’re fucked either way–”Very.” 

“You tryin’ to flatter me, darlin’?” 

“That depends–is it working?”

“It’s workin’, alright.” 

Forgetting about the Honorable Chef Boyardee, old pop culture references, and all the horrible shit that went down that night nearly ten years ago, you scoot closer to Joel, allowing yourself to fall into old patterns. You haven’t fucked anyone since you left the QZ, and goddamn do you want to fuck Joel. 

For a moment, Joel seems like a deer in headlights, only more stoic than scared. You almost shrink back–maybe you had misinterpreted his words? But a moment later, he sets down his half-eaten can of ravioli and shockingly casually slings his arm over your shoulders. 

The feeling is strange and familiar all at once. When was the last time you had even felt the touch of another person that didn’t involve being kicked in the head or otherwise injured? You can’t recall. Still, you lean into him.

“Tell me, lil’ lady,” he pulls you in closer, “How the fuck you’ve been survivin’ on your own?” 

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you evade yet another question. 

“Since you asked nicely.” He places a rough, calloused hand, under your chin, tilting your head to be even with his. Your breath catches in your throat the way it always did at this moment - the moment before the kiss. The moment where everything is still new and pure and lovely. Except, this wasn’t like those old times. 

Ok, you lean in closer so your lips are just inches apart, maybe not exactly pure. 

Joel closes the distance, pressing his lips against yours. For all his gruffness and rock-solid exterior, the kiss is gentle at first - hesitant. It is nice, sweet. But then again, it is the apocalypse, there is no time for hesitation. 

You deepen the kiss, parting his lips with your tongue. When you do, it seems to flip a switch somewhere in his head. His lips crash against yours, his tongue pushing past your parted lips, vying for control. And you let him take it. 

Jesus fuck it’s been a long time. 

You let him pull you into his lap, sliding your hands up his muscled chest and gripping his shirt so tight you might end up tearing it off. He responds by running his hands down from where he had been holding your face, fingers ghosting over your neck and collarbones. He stops there, pulling apart only inches. The two of you take heavy breaths, eyes locked on each other. 

For a moment it is quiet as you catch your breath. 

“Let’s take this somewhere private.” He smirks, and it’s enough to make heat pool in your core. You need this. You need him. 

So, you follow. 

***

A makeshift tent made up of a tarp hanging over some ropes tied to trees hardly seems more private than the old shop, but you don’t complain. 

“We’re here, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, wrapping his arms around you tightly, almost possessively. He doesn’t even bother to usher you into the “tent.” 

Before he can kiss you, you pull back slightly, “Shouldn’t we be in there?” You jerk your head toward the tarp blowing in the breeze. 

“Ain’t nobody comin’ out all this way,” he laughs, vibrating his chest and making you feel too warm and fuzzy on the inside. You’ve made it a point not to let anything or anyone sweep you off your feet - but Joel seems to be the exception. 

Without warning, his fingers gently brush your cheek before he rests them under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Do you trust me?” 

You don’t even have to think about your answer before nodding in response, “Yes, sir.” 

“Mm,” he growls, “Good.”

When he pulls you closer to kiss him, your knees buckle and you quite literally  lose your balance and fall into the soft grass.  Rather than lean you pick you back up, he simply shifts his balance, so he is positioned over you, most of his weight resting on his elbows. Those strong forearms… There is no more need for words as he leans down and brushes his lips against yours, kissing you slowly and deliberately.

His tongue traces your bottom lip gently and you part your lips for him, sighing contentedly as his tongue begins its careful exploration of your mouth.

The warm sunlight bathes your exposed skin in its warm amber glow, making the process of removing your flannel and jeans all the more pleasurable. Joel is surprisingly careful and deliberate as he pushes your top, over your shoulders, and slightly less so as he pulls your tank top over your head. A growl of appreciation escapes from somewhere in his chest as his eyes rake over you, deft fingers finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it easily.

Wanting something more to look at yourself, you reach up and grasp at his shirt, pulling at it with much less care before Joel finally pulls it off himself. Your eyes widen at the sight of him - bare chest and arms. Muscles rippling beneath his skin. You indulge yourself, letting your fingers trail down his chest and stomach, stopping when you reach his jeans. 

You are about to start undoing his belt, but he stops you with a stern look. “Uh uh, not so fast, baby girl.” You melt at his words, “I got a few things I’d like to do first.”

His mouth travels the whole of your body, drawing small gasps and moans as his tongue explores that sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder and pulls each nipple gently into his mouth, flicking them first gently and then harder, nipping one and then the other between his teeth, making you gasp. 

Your hips buck up to meet his, and a small moan escapes your lips when you feel his hard length between the layers of fabric separating you from him.

“Patience, darlin’,” he drawls, moving away from you to unzip your jeans and pull them along with your soaked panties off your hips, tossing them into the grass.

Before you can conjure up an adequate reply, Joel slides a calloused hand up your thigh and rests one finger on your sensitive nub. You moan louder as his finger traces back and forth with the perfect amount of pressure, just the way you like it - however the fuck he knows that.

You are dripping wet by the time he pushes one large finger into your entrance, gently massaging that sensitive spot inside of you, making you buck your hips in response. “Fuck,” you breathe.

He smirks as he lowers his head, dark curls ghosting over your exposed skin. You can’t help but bury your fingers in those curls as his tongue picks up where his now occupied finger left off, lapping at your clit with fervor while one finger becomes two rubbing against that spot inside you.

It is only a matter of moments before you fall apart under him.  “Joel, oh fuck, Joel!” you cry as you come undone. You’d be embarrassed at how quickly he made you cum, but hell - it’s been so long, and he is just… so good. 

For a moment you just lay in the grass, the world coming in and out of focus as he continues to work his fingers, more gently now, helping  you come down from your orgasm. When he sees that you are spent, he removes his fingers and brings them straight to his mouth, savoring every last drop of you.  But without his large digits inside of you, you are already yearning for more. You need to feel him inside of you. Thankfully, he is already in the process of removing his pants.

“Please,” you whimper, urging him to move faster, “Please, Joel.” 

“Please, what, baby girl?” 

“P-please fuck me. I want you to fuck me.” 

“Well, since the lady asked nicely,” he smirks, finally kicking off his boxers revealing just how large he is. 

“So big…” you murmur, not capable of much more speech. “Holy shit.” 

First, he smirks at the compliment, but a moment later his face grows serious, “Now darlin’, if I hurt you, just tell me and I’ll st–”

“No,” you cut him off, “I don’t want you to stop.” 

“Well,” he growls, “Have it your way then.” He is clearly enjoying this.

When he enters you, it is with the same care that he has exerted this whole time.  So different from the gruff man who pointed a gun at you over some ten-year-old cans of spaghetti-os. He could be as rough as he wanted and you’d still enjoy yourself.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck so that with each thrust, his breath tickles your ear. The grunts that escape his lips rumble in your ear and make you shiver. Goddamn, you would never get tired of this. 

His thrusts come faster and faster as both of you cry out into the empty forest around you. His thrusts, each more bruising than the last, fill you up, his member lusciously raking over that bundle of nerves you can never seem to reach with your own fingers. 

He reaches a hand down, still effortlessly holding himself up with his other arm so as not to crush you beneath him. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on your clit as he thrusts harder, bottoming out with each one, making you a writhing mess beneath him. 

It isn’t long before you feel your second orgasm creeping up on you. It’s just too much, you can’t take it. “Joel, I- I’m–” 

“I know, baby girl, I know.” You had no idea a nickname could have such an effect on you, but here you are. “Cum for me, one more time.”

That was about all the encouragement you needed. You are a writhing mess, the walls of your pussy clenching around him frantically as he fucks you through your orgasm, his breaths growing more and more frantic with each thrust. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m–” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before forcing himself to pull out, finishing with a groan has he spills all over your stomach. You like the way it feels, being covered in his arousal. It makes you feel like you are his. And, fuck, you realize how much you really want to be his. 

But there are too many unknowns in this world, and you know that after this, you will both return to your lives and this will fade into memory. But for now, you can enjoy this moment. 

He rolls off of you and into the grass, and you can’t help but snuggle up close, feeling safer than you have felt in ten years with his arms wrapped around you and your head on his chest. 

You don’t speak. You don’t want to ruin the moment. But, finally, he does.

“I know solo travelin’ can be good,” he says slowly, as if he’s been thinking long and hard about the words he is about to speak, “But I got a group. A few people. Plenty of room for one more.”

“I–” you certainly weren’t expecting this, “I–Yeah, a group. That sounds… nice.” No more sleepless nights with no one to keep watch, no more being hopelessly outnumbered at every turn. And, more importantly, Joel. 

You could get used to his company, that’s for sure. 

[angelltheninth]

Can I get some hds of Geralt being possessive and protective when he sees his female lover being hit on in a tavern and then fucking her hard when they leave and get back to the room they're staying in for the night?

Oh you know just what to ask to get my writing brain started don't you Anon? I hope you enjoy these.

Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, rough sex, come marking, creampies, breeding kink, degradation, dirty talk, possessive Geralt, protective Geralt

A/N: I really think Geralt has the potential to be the most gentle lover and also absolutely break you.

Geralt doesn't get jealous often, he didn't think he'd get jealous at all

He tells himself that you can talk to whoever you want, after all you're a pretty friendly person and quite easy to talk to, one of the reasons Geralt was drawn to you also, despite his more quiet demeanor

However he just can't seem to stomach the way strangers blatantly, and sometimes drunkenly, leer at you, smirking your way and flirting with you

When one tries to touch you, a friendly touch all things considered but still a potential threat in Geralt's eyes, he almost breaks their hand in his grip

"You should be more careful darling, there are all kinds of perverts here. Not everyone has pure intentions. And when you're considered, hm, let's just say that even I have trouble keeping my head pure." He takes your hand in his and walks briskly though the streets, his other hand around your shoulders, keeping you close

His eyes keep finding yours as you walk, his lip nibbled on as he tries to contain himself until you're in the confines of the little room you rented at the local in

"You seemed to enjoy their attention. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get a rise out of me." He pulls you close and lets you feel how hard his cock is, "Well it worked. And now you're gonna take it. And I am not going to be gentle. You've been a bad girl sweetheart. You need a good, long, hard punishment."

Usually he takes his time with you, preparing you for him, however he's not interested in that tonight, he just wants to, needs to rail you fast and hard

Your clothes and undergarments are practically torn off and he throws you onto the bed, crawling on top of you and spreading your legs open

His eyes take notice of your flushed skin, your hard nipples, the way your pussy glistens with arousal, "Already so wet for me. It's for me isn't it. All for me. That's my hole to fuck. To sink my cock into whenever I want." He does just that, burying himself inside you in one long stroke, stretching you, the stinging sensation painful at first

"You take me so well. You enjoy being punished? You were behaving like a common town whore tonight, so I'm going to fuck you like one. Understood?" Geralt growls and snarls as his hips snap back and forth, his hands holding you still as he fucks you almost violently, making you lose yourself in pleasure that he's giving you

You close your legs around his hips and lock your ankles at the base of his back, allowing him to go harder, deeper

"Still acting like a whore then? Alright. Can you take my come like one too? I'll fill you up with it, and then you're going to walk back out there with it dripping down your thighs so they can all see who you belong to." He comes inside you, his seed warming you up from the inside, "I'm not done yet darling, you didn't finish yet, besides, I have a lot more to give you. See?"

Geralt lets you get on all fours in front of him, presenting yourself to him, you need him inside you again, you can't even describe how much you want him right now, how you want his cock and cum, his hands on you, his mouth all over you

And you bet that he delivers on all of that, he knows you well, knows what you need of him

He enjoys seeing you thrust into him, desperately trying to fuck yourself on his cock as he continues his relentless teasing

"I love seeing you like covered in my cum and craving more. Spread for me, and make sure you take every last drop." Oh you're more than ready to take it, however many times he wants, you're his to take, his to use

"I wanted to give you my cum all evening. It was this close to snapping and bending you over the table in the tavern, showing everyone who you belong to. Would you like that darling? Taking my cock in front of everyone there, letting them know they can't have you. Not now, not ever." The room would be full of the sounds of Geralt's growls, close to your ear, as his full balls slap against your skin

The moment he feels you clamping down on his cock he gives you another big load of cum, fucking you even harder , making a mess of your cunt, your thighs and as well as the sheets, "That's it. Every last drop. You're gonna look beautiful, so full of my seed."

He wouldn't stop until your whole body is shaking, your knees giving and you fall back on the bed, his arms around you, his teeth scraping your neck and shoulder, helping you relax after your orgasm

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

What's the occasion?

Masterlist

A/N: What this was supposed to be: A fluffy comfort fic about reader's husband taking care of her after a rough day/week/month. What this isn't: A fluffy comfort fic about read.... you get me.

What this somehow ended up being: A not-so-fluffy not-so-comfort (?) fic about reader's husband taking real good care of her after a rough day/week/month.

You're welcome, I think? (I honestly don't have a clue how this ended up being some of the smuttiest smut I've written to date... But it happened... I'm not even going to question it.)

Pairing: Syverson x reader (you)

Summary: You come home from a terrible day at work, thinking you have about a thousand things still on your to do list, only to find your husband has taken care of all of that, and has also made you the first thing on his to do list.

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, SMUT, MINORS DNI. oral (m and f receiving), p-in-v sex, Sy being all dominant and massive, some light (yes, really) throatfucking, hair pulling, manhandling. Some of this can probably be considered blasphemy.

Also, fair warning: this story contains a man doing household chores without having been (explicitly) asked to do so. Just... Bear with me. I know it's not realistic, but we're here to have fun, right?

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @ellethespaceunicorn @peaches1958 @sillyrabbit81 @peyton-warren @summersong69 @mayloma @livisss

Parking your husband’s truck in your driveway is an absolute nightmare. It takes you twenty minutes and a breakdown – during which you fight yourself over whether or not to just go inside and ask him to park his stupid car for you – but you eventually manage. Now, it’s time to go inside, after the longest day at the office in the history of long ass days at the office, and do the six million other things that come for free with having a house, husband, and kids. Dishes. Laundry. Dinner. That stuff.

You toss your bag down on the bench next to the front door and put your coat on the overflowing coat rack six times – it keeps coming down because for some reason, your teen daughter owns 12 jackets, yet she still always asks to borrow yours seconds before telling you that all of your clothes suck – before you finally give up and leave it where it falls.

It takes you a minute to realize that you smell food. With three kids and your mountain of a husband, that can only really mean one thing: someone got hungry, your plans for dinner are now in ruins and your kitchen looks like an episode of Hoarders. And even though those are your expectations, your family still manage to exceed them every time, so God knows what you’re going to find when you round that corner and step into your kitchen...

It’s Sy. And it’s not just Sy, but it’s just Sy. Come to think of it... The whole house is suspiciously void of music, screaming or shoes scattered around for you to break your neck over.

“Where are the kids?” you ask as you walk towards Sy.

“With my mother,” he replies without turning around, “to be returned to us on Sunday night at eight, and not a second before then. Are ya goin' to make a habit of not sayin’ hello to me when you get home? ‘Cause I don’t care for it.”

“Well, excuse me for not taking the time out of my busy schedule for pleasantries, but I have a week’s worth of laundry to get to,” you snap. He doesn’t deserve it, you know that, but it’s the kind of day you’ve had, and... And it’s all on you again.

“Laundry’s done,” Sy says calmly, still not looking up from the lasagna he’s putting together.

“Oh,” you stammer. “Well, then I’ll just grab the vacuum and...”

“I did that, too.”

“Alright, I’ll give the garage a quick call to see if they can...”

“I changed the oil in your car this morning.”

“Groceries?”

“Done.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yep.”

“And you’ve obviously got a handle on dinner...” You have to admit it: you’re a little stumped. “What about...”

“Woman, if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ I didn’t do so you can blow up at me for it, I’ll just hand it to ya: I didn’t get to cleanin’ out the gutters today, so I’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

But you’re not planning on blowing up at him over anything...

“Well, hello Mr. Syverson,” you say, still completely in awe that your entire schedule for the night – and probably the whole weekend – just opened up. “Remind me... We got married in October, right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Syverson, we did.” He’s even less subtle than usual, skipping your hips and putting his hands on our ass right off the bat.

“So, what’s the occasion?” you chuckle. Sy pulls you in for a kiss, just passionate enough to leave you wanting more, but not so bad you beg him to take you right here on the kitchen counter. It’s a fine line, really. A tightrope you’ve tried to walk before, only to fall off on the wrong side and be late for yet another dinner with someone who was never going to be more important than having sex with your husband, anyway.

“The occasion is... You’re beautiful. You deserve it. You do so much for our family and somewhere along the lines I seem to have started takin’ that for granted. Take your pick, I’m sure there’s plenty more reasons to come up with.” He squeezes your ass. Hard. “This sensational ass could be the occasion?”

“You’re saying you got rid of the kids for the weekend and checked off my whole to do list to celebrate the existence of my ass?”

“Sugar, I celebrate the existence of that fine ass every damn day. Now, I’ve fallen a little behind on celebrating the existence of the woman attached to it... I’d like to make up for that.” There is absolutely no way you aren’t blushing right now. Sy doesn’t let go of you, but his hands move to your waist. You’re trying your best to not drown in his eyes, but you’ve been hopelessly lost in there for nearly twenty years. For a brief – but lovely – moment, you stand there, just holding each other and making eyes like you used to when you were young and in love. And young...

“This needs about half an hour in the oven, still, so how about I give you forty-five and you can take a nice, long shower?” Sy winks at you – or rather: tries to. “There’s something on the bed I’d love to take off of you later tonight, but I also understand if you just want to wear something comfortable.”

“Did you pick it?” you tease him.

“You’ll be more than happy to know that I did, but under the very strict supervision of Dana.” It seems like your dear husband has finally learned how to use the fact his best friend’s wife works in a lingerie store to his advantage… Took him long enough.

“Right on time,” Sy says as you step into the kitchen. You take the glass of wine he’s holding out to you and take a sip.

“Mmm...” The sound you make is almost a moan. One look at the bottle on the table tells you this is a really nice wine – one from a price range you can’t afford to shop at...

“Gift from a client. Walker said I could take it. I guess his wine cellar doesn’t fit any more.” Sy pulls you in for a hug. It doesn’t last long, but it’s nice, very nice.

Dinner is amazing. Sy is a great cook – when given means, motive, and opportunity – and he has prepared three courses of absolute heaven. He only has to assure you twice that the price of the ingredients won’t put your family in financial ruin.

You’re halfway through dessert – a deliciously indulgent, rich chocolate mousse you’re fairly sure he made from scratch – when you realize something.

“You can’t have done all the laundry. We don’t have the space to hang all of that...”

“I fixed the dryer,” Sy interrupts, “I’m sorry I only did that after it became a problem to me, personally.”

“That’s alright...”

“No, it ain’t,” Sy grins. He knows you.

“Very well, then. I accept your apology. You’re forgiven.” You remember the moment you knew you were going to marry this man: right after your first fight – he had been wrong, although you can’t remember what he’d been wrong about. It had had something to do with your mother. Either way, right after that fight, he’d apologized, and for some reason the lack of excuses had made you want to jump him right where you were standing. You’d almost broken up with him when you realized you weren’t half as good at apologizing as he was.

“Alright, well,” Sy smirked, still. It was incredibly attractive, and at least as annoying. “I was planning on makin’ up for that, but now that I don’t have to…” His voice trailed off for a moment before you gently nudged his leg with your foot.

“How about we finish this bottle upstairs?” You don’t need to tell him twice: he’s on his feet before you even finish the sentence.

“You go ahead, Sugar,” he says before kissing you as gently as a giant like him can muster, “I’ll make sure this kitchen is spotless before I come up.”

“Oh, Mr. Syverson, you are killing me.”

“Oh,” Sy adds with a grin on his face, “and you were right. The vacuum cleaner sucks, we need a new one.”

“Say that again…”

“The vacuum cleaner sucks?” He knows damn well which part you’re referring to. That wasn’t it.

“Before that.”

“Ah. You were right.”

“You have ten minutes to get to bed, or I’m starting without you,” you tease, knowing very well he wouldn’t mind one bit if you did start before he got there.

Sy is impatient as ever when he finally steps into your bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head before the door even shuts behind… Alright, maybe the door doesn’t close because he just leaves it wide open.

“Sy! Close the door!” you shriek, but he just takes a few more steps until he’s right next to the bed.

“Why? Kids ain’t home. We’re alone, we don’t need to close the door,” he says as he pushes you back onto the mattress. “We don’t gotta be quiet, either.” With a devilish grin on his face, he kisses you. First your lips, then your neck. His beard doesn’t tickle – not after all these years. He shaved it off once, only to immediately get on growing it back, because you wouldn’t give him any. You move your hands through the hair on his chest while Sy roughly pulls your shirt over your head. He groans appreciatively when the bra he picked out for you appears.

“Do you like it?” he asks. He doesn’t have the greatest track record when it comes to picking stuff that’s actually to your tastes, but you’d be lying if those items didn’t have their own special little drawer – that you definitely haven’t opened in far too long…

“I do,” you purr into his ear, biting your lip when he grinds his hips into you. He’s hard, seeking friction, release. You love when he gets this worked up over you. “You did a good job.”

“Hm,” he growls, “I didn’t like it at first. Thought it was kinda boring.” That’s not what you want to hear… It’s a good thing he opens his mouth again to continue: “But now that it’s your tits in there… Can’t decide if I wanna keep it on ya or rip it off…” To your surprise, he opts for the former, making sure to kiss every inch of skin that’s newly available to him as he makes his way down your stomach, dragging you to the edge of the bed as he goes along.

He can do it within minutes. Making you come on his tongue, that is. He never does, because the smug fucking bastard likes teasing you too much to ever give you what you want – nay, need – that quickly. That patience, however, is nowhere to be found when it comes to taking your clothes off. He admires you and your new underwear for maybe five seconds, and then your panties are somewhere in the room. No, you don’t care where, exactly.

“Fuck, Sugar, you’re beautiful,” Sy growls from between your legs. “I’ve missed this sweet little cunt.” His words used to startle you so bad you asked him to stop talking multiple times when you’d first started going out. Now, they just make you blush, and they make you wet, and that’s all that you need from him right now. Sometimes, you’re still grateful for the moments he can’t speak – when his mouth is otherwise occupied, so to speak. It’s the moaning, and growling, and the grunts and obscene slurping – hideous word, but sadly the only applicable description – sounds that get you. It’s the pleasure, and the way he knows exactly how and when and where to move his tongue to make you squirm, moan, and scream in his strong arms. Unfortunately, he still isn’t exactly at that point. He’s still teasing, and you’re still whining, and no one is coming.

In no time, you’re going nuts. It’s not bad enough to speak up. And by that you mean: beg him to finally eat you in that way you both know makes you see stars and seek God and scream His name – or Sy’s, but what difference does that make, anyway? Instead, he keeps you right there, at the point where you’re just invested enough in the fantastic feeling that you want to be consumed by it, but it just isn’t enough to keep you from getting distracted. By the feeling of his beard against the inside of your thighs. By the fact that your panties somehow ended up on the lamp on his bedside table. By the gentle pulsing of the vein in his forearm your finger currently rests on. And he keeps you there, and keeps you there until you’ve almost convinced yourself you’ve gotten so used to this – to him – that he can’t do it anymore, forgetting that he really isn’t even trying. That twenty years of ‘this’, whatever the fuck that may mean, just means that he’s found so many different ways to take care of you that he couldn’t go through all of them in one night even if you could physically take it, simply because he’d run out of time before he made it halfway through the list.

And when you get there, to that point where you start thinking he might just not be as good as he used to, you’ve lost. Because from then on, it’s a minute. Thirty seconds. Maybe even twenty, or ten, or less – not that you’d know, because you couldn’t count to three anymore if you tried.

“Darlin’, you taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, never taking his lips off your skin completely. His fingers tease your entrance, pads coarse and calloused. It appears that, even after all these years, you still haven’t learned that if your mouth won’t beg, your body will. Unconsciously, you angle your hips, lean into his touch, use your legs to pull him closer – and he answers. As always. Sy knows what you want, and he doesn’t think twice to give it to you, even if – possibly especially when – what you really want isn’t what you think you want. He’ll know, just like he’ll know exactly when his name is on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be released along with everything he’s building up inside of you.

A loud moan escapes you when his fingers curl inside you, diligently working the perfect spot while his tongue laps at your clit, looking for the perfect move, speed, pressure, everything, until you shriek the words ‘oh God, Sy, don’t stop’, or you gasp, or moan – or one of the million other ways in which you tell him what needs done without saying a single word. And he doesn’t stop. Not until he unravels you completely. Not until you remember why you normally close and lock that door and keep quiet. Not until you know with every fiber of your being that he holds back, and he reminds you of everything he’s capable of.

When he comes back up, caging your body in between his strong arms and broad chest, pinning you down on the mattress, you hope he’s had enough time to catch his breath, because you immediately pull him into a long, deep kiss that says more than just ‘I missed you’. If it was at all possible to stress every syllable of a sentence, now would be the time. But who’s got time for talking when that impatient bulge grinds between your legs, the heavy, coarse fabric of Sy’s jeans harsh against your sensitive skin.

You push against his shoulders – it’s usually pointless, but he seems to have grown at least as impatient as you have, so he gets up. Four hands reach for his belt. You always make a great team, but this is madness, and neither of you are surprised you don’t get anything done this way.

“Move those hands if you wanna keep ‘em, Syverson,” you say with a sly smile on your face. He grits his teeth when you look up at him – it’s one of the things you know he loves to hate, because it drives him insane, and he doesn’t like that. Sy wants to be in control. Tough luck. Getting him naked is child’s play now that his hands aren’t in the way anymore, and you can’t stifle an appreciative moan when his cock appears in front of you.  

“I’m not saying I married you for this big dick, but it didn’t hurt your chances.” You bite your lip and look up at him. The amusement at your words fades off his face within seconds, making room for something darker and more sinister than you usually get to see.

“If you can use that mouth to talk, you can use it to suck my cock,” he says. You’ve played this game a thousand times, yet you’re still stupid enough to open your mouth in protest, and he seizes the opportunity. “That’s a good girl.” There’s a hint more… savagery to his naturally dark and gravelly voice than you’re used to hearing under normal circumstances. It’s a possessive, almost animalistic sound. It’s something that used to scare you when you were first going out. Something he didn’t let you get too closely acquainted with until he knew for sure he could trust you with that side of him – the side of him that sometimes just loves to shove his cock down your throat in one smooth thrust until you’re gagging and fighting back tears. Tonight is exactly the night you want every inch of him in the exact way you haven’t had him in for the longest time.

Your eyes beg, and once again he listens. How one man can be made up of so many contradictions, is something you’ve accepted you might never find out. ‘He gently fucks your throat.’ It sounds completely insane, but it’s possible. And you know it’s possible, because it’s happening. To you. Right now. If that weren’t the case, you probably wouldn’t have believed it yourself. He’s kind and ruthless at the same time, moving in and out of your mouth with controlled movements while moans and profanities escape him with reckless abandon. His hand is tangled in your hair, gathering a good portion of it in his fist, gripping just tight enough to remind you he’s there, but not so tight you’re in pain.

“God, baby, I love fucking this pretty li’l mouth of yours,” he says, teeth gritted, eyes closed, and the expression on his face warped in such a way that tells you it’s taking everything he’s got to keep whatever composure he has left at this stage. “But I gotta tell ya,” he continues as his breathing grows more and more ragged, a low growl barely audible on the exhale, “this ain’t what I need right now.”

He effortlessly tosses you back onto the mattress, finding his way between your legs in no time.

“Baby, I want you,” he growls before he kisses you again. “I need you. Need your tight, wet, fucking pussy around my cock right now.” He doesn’t move away from you much as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders. He’ll be deep, too deep, maybe, and you know you’ll regret this in the morning – but what good has regret ever done anyone, anyway? As he pushes into you, you realize he’s on his last bit of restraint. You take one last good look at him, because after this, it’s going to hurt so good you won’t be able to keep your eyes open for so much as a split second.

“Careful,” you chuckle, already far more out of breath than you like to admit, “you’re too much for me.”

“What’re’ya talkin’bout, woman?” Sy grumbles. “I know you can take me.” He’s not wrong. Exhibit A would be the fact that he buried his cock in your tight pussy with that one, agonizingly slow thrust. The next one is neither slow, nor even remotely as gentle, making you moan as you pull his face down to yours and kiss him. Your legs are trembling on his shoulders within minutes, and you find yourself chanting his name religiously – making it just about the only thing in your life you’ve done in that particular manner.

“Good God, you’re amazing,” Sy growls in your ear as he bottoms out with every erratic thrust. You watch as his jaw clenches when you dig your nails into the flesh of his back, careful to avoid the scars – an unwelcome souvenir from his time in the army. Most of the memories of the times you accidentally caught one in the heat of the moment have faded away by now. It hasn’t happened in years. You could draw a map of his back: every muscle, every scar, every mark on his skin is etched into your brain, and will stay there until the day you die. He’s yours every bit as much as you’re his, although he likes to put a little more emphasis on the latter.

“Want me to fuck another baby into you?” Hearing him say that makes you realize how incredibly happy you are that he can’t make good on that threat anymore. Sy hadn’t been happy when you’d informed him that you were bestowing upon him the incredible responsibility of contraception after having baby number three, but appointments were made, surgeries were had and all was right with the world. He’d only pouted and moaned about shooting blanks for about six months until things went back to normal.

“Do your worst, big guy,” you tease. You heard his breathing when he asked his question, felt the sheen of sweat covering his whole, massive body as he continued pounding you into the mattress with the same relentless pace as before, only slightly wavering in rhythm… You pull him close, gritting your teeth to get through the cramp in your leg as the weight of Sy’s body forces your legs closer to yours. “Fill me up.”

“That was mean,” Sy mutters, out of breath.

“As if you would have lasted any longer!” you say as you slap him in the face with a pillow. “I was about to tap out, anyway.” Not one word of that is a lie. You wouldn’t have walked for a week if you’d let him keep going. It really was a good thing he was a little on edge already…  

“Fine, woman, have your victory,” he growls as he pulls you into his arms and lifts you off the bed. “Ready for another shower?”

[solcorvidae]

Modern Witcher AU: My Headcanons (part 2 of ?)

Jaskier was put in a ton of winter sports as a kid. He knows how to ski and ice skate very well. He can snowboard but prefers skiing.

Geralt, on the other hand, never learned to skate. He and Eskel have not been able to find skates that fit their boot size since they were teenagers.

Geralt likes yard work more than other household chores. He likes maintaining the garden and arranging a nice living space to hangout in and Jaskier is very appreciative.

Jaskier is usually super busy in the winter months. He attends get togethers, dinners, parties, etc. Geralt does the opposite. He and his family head home for some time to relax and catch up with one another after being on the road. They don’t often do big activities or social events, mostly staying in the house with each other for the duration of their stay.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert shared a room until Geralt started to get into his teen years. Their childhood room had a bunk bed for the two oldest boys and a single bed for Lambert. Lambert eventually took over Vesemir’s office and it was converted to his new room. Now, they each have normal bed frames that sit on the floor.

Geralt wears a dark brown, felt, pinch front cowboy hat. He is very attuned to the etiquette and superstitious beliefs around wearing one.

Eskel and Jaskier are the same height (6’0)

Geralt is 6’3 but often people assume he’s shorter. He slouches when he sits and tries to take up as little metaphorical space in the room as he can. When he stands up, his posture is straight as a board and this adds to the surprise many people feel when they see how tall he really is.

Eskel is the opposite. He has a large but warm and inviting presence when he enters a room. He makes himself known and takes up a lot of space with his big personality. People often assume he must be taller than he really is and are often surprised when they stand next to him and see eye to eye.

Lambert is 5’11 and bitter about it.

Eskel has textured, somewhat oily skin but shockingly left his acne struggles in his teen years.

Geralt was blessed with little to no acne most of his life—including as a teenager.

Lambert hasn’t quite grown out of it and still gets the occasional (relatively mild) blemish. They usually appear when his disposable razor starts to get dull and begins to irritate the skin--Geralt tries to get him to invest in a safety razor, to no avail.

All three boys share a bathroom at Vesemir's house and Vesemir has his own tiny ensuite bathroom. He doesn't care if they trash their own space as long as it doesn't start growing mysterious molds…

Everyone having different hair colours (especially Geralt) meant that it was difficult to blame each other for hair left in the bottom of the tub/sink. But oh did Lambert try.

They are banned from using Vesemir's bathroom unless they absolutely have to. The shower however, is non negotiable. It is off limits altogether.

The only exception to this rule is when any of the boys are sick. When one of them is ill, Vesemir sets them up on the floor with blankets and a pillow so they don't have to keep running to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It also helps that he can keep an eye on them and monitor if they start getting worse or need to go to urgent care—Eskel was particularly bad for lying about not being sick for a long time.

As a child Geralt would wake up every night in the middle of the night from the dead of sleep and be afraid to fall back asleep on his own. He always climbed to the top bunk where Eskel slept and he felt safe. If Eskel wasn't there or he didn't want to wake him, Geralt would walk to Vesemir's room to fall asleep in his dads bed where he felt just as safe. It took him a long time to grow out of this habit.

Even though his boys are all grown up, Vesemir would never turn them away from any sort of "childish" comfort, especially when they're going through a particularly hard time. If they ever needed a hug or wanted to fall asleep in his room, all they had to do was ask.

[Modern AU Headcanon Masterpost]

[inexplicifics]

💛 (reunion kiss / relief) + Gweld/Serrit?

This is AWAU 'verse, well before Geralt calls the Schools together, and Serrit has not transitioned yet or even realized she wants to, so uses he/him pronouns.

Serrit has gotten used to seeing the Wolf every few months. It’s not regular as dwarf-made clockwork or anything, but somehow they run into each other at least twice or three times a year while out on the Path. It certainly has nothing to do with Serrit asking around about a redheaded Wolf Witcher with a startlingly cheerful demeanor, and Serrit has no idea if the Wolf does the same sort of thing. Probably he does. He certainly never seems terribly surprised when Serrit turns up.

But it’s been six months, and Serrit hasn’t seen hide nor red hair of his…occasional bedmate and hunting partner.

He goes south to Gorthur Gvaed for the winter feeling slightly unsettled. Not that he’d ever admit to that, nor to the reason. The Wolf is a good fuck and a good fighter, and that’s all there is to it.

He does ask around in the spring, though. Even drifts up into the lower reaches of Kaedwen - Wolf territory, where Vipers are not usually welcome - to see what there is to see. It’s just because the contracts are decent in that area, that’s all.

The contracts are decent, and Serrit makes decent money and even finds a merchant selling elf-made pigments that she hasn’t seen before, which means his sketchbook is even more colorful than usual when he makes it back to Gorthur Gvaed in the autumn. But there’s no word of a redheaded Wolf, either living or dead.

Serrit doesn’t actually care, of course. But he’s a little more irritable than usual that winter, and he wears himself out sparring against Ivar at least once a week, which is a lot more often than most people prefer going up against the Viper of Morgraig himself.

He doesn’t bother going up to Kaedwen in the spring. Cintra has plenty of monsters.

It also, he discovers somewhere in the middle of Litha, includes a certain redheaded Wolf he’d assumed was dead.

Gweld shows up in the middle of a really rather annoying bullvore fight - the damn thing is smarter than it ought to be, and keeps dodging - and demonstrates his usual trick of being exactly in the right place at the right time, so when the bullvore dodges Serrit’s attack it manages to walk right into Gweld’s, and once it’s wounded it’s not hard to finish off. Serrit even gets the killing blow.

And then he whirls and grabs Gweld by the collar of his armor and slams the Wolf against a tree. “What the hell,” he grits out, not entirely sure why he’s so angry but absolutely willing to gut the Wolf if he gives the wrong answer, whatever that might be.

Gweld blinks down at him for a moment, and then, bafflingly, smiles. “Ran afoul of a pack of bruxae on my way back to Kaer Morhen,” he says calmly, as if there’s not an angry Viper up in his face. “I won, obviously, but I also broke most of my ribs and all the bones in my right leg and foot.”

Serrit suppresses a wince. That’s a bad injury. Even for a Witcher, that’s almost always going to be fatal.

“One of my brothers found me and dragged me home, and I spent the whole winter recovering; wasn’t quite back to full strength in the spring, so Rennes assigned me as a trainer for a year.” Gweld smiles more broadly. “It was fun, but it’s good to be back on the Path. And good to see you again. I -”

Serrit kisses him to make him stop talking. He has a faint, worrisome feeling that if he actually hears whatever Gweld was about to say, it will change - something. Something Serrit isn’t ready to change, just yet.

Gweld makes a small startled noise and then huffs a soft laugh and takes Serrit’s face in his absurdly gentle hands and deepens the kiss, and when they part, he’s still smiling, but he doesn’t say anything at all.

(Or here on AO3!)

[catierambles]

Alternate Instincts Ch.3

Pairing: The Rogue’s Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)

WC 1245

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood and injury

Stephanie ran out of the cabin, stopping when she reached open air and breathing in deep, trying to calm her racing heart. She hadn’t been afraid, or uncomfortable, quite the contrary.

“Can I have you?”

“Yes.”

If Sy hadn’t interrupted, she would have given Geralt permission to…do whatever he wanted to her, with her. This was crazy, absolutely insane. She just met the man, for Pete’s Sake. It didn’t feel like simple lust, shallow and fleeting, it felt deeper than that, stronger. She had felt his wolf, had seen it in his eyes, and there had been a hollow feeling inside of her that had grown to a yawning void almost in answer.

“Hey.” She heard and looked over, seeing Walter sitting in a chair by a large firepit. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m--” She started, “I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” He suggested, moving his head at the chair next to his and she hesitated a moment before going over and sitting down heavily, leaning back with a sigh. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“That’d be a bit awkward, actually.” She said and he nodded.

“Sy said that the Feral is your boyfriend?”

“Very much ex-boyfriend now, thank you.” She said, moving her toe in the dirt and he snorted.

“You had no idea?”

“I knew he was a wolf, but I was led to believe that Ferals are batshit crazy, can’t control their actions, that kind of thing.”

“They are.”

“But he…” She paused, sighing through her nose, “He had a temper, yeah, but he…I’ve never seen him act erratic. He was always so in control all the time. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Stephanie, unless what?”

“Unless I pissed him off.” She said quickly.

“He hurt you.” Walter said delicately and she nodded.

“He always apologized afterwards.” She said, “And yes, I know how that sounds, but it’s true. He said I made him crazy.”

“It’s not you.” Walter said, “Him being a piece of shit isn’t your fault.”

“Maybe I prodded him too much, let arguments go on longer than they needed, maybe--”

“Hey.” He cut that train of thought off at the station and she looked at him. “There is no reason for someone to lay their hands on their partner in anger. None. Do you understand me?” She was silent. “Stephanie.”

“Yeah.” She said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“Walter.” They looked over, seeing August come out of the cabin, “We need you inside.”

“I don’t exactly want to leave Stephanie alone with that Feral still out there.” Walter said.

“She’s a big girl.” August said with a huff.

“I’ll keep her company.” Mike said, bouncing down the stairs. “I’m not invited to the Super Secret Alpha Meeting, anyway.” Walter hesitated a moment before he got up, Mike sitting down in the newly vacated seat as they moved around each other. “Hey, sweetcheeks.” He said, giving her a wide smile as he leaned towards her over the arm of the chair and she snorted.

“Hey.”

Walter and August turned to head back into the cabin as they started talking, Sy and Geralt standing in the living room.

“Tell’em what you told me.” Sy said and Geralt huffed.

“Stephanie is my Mate.” He said.

“She’s not a wolf.” Walter pointed out.

“I know.” He said, “But my wolf recognized her. She didn’t have one for it to find, but it knew her.”

“He was about five seconds from claimin’ her as a Mate before I walked in.” Sy said and Geralt shot him a look.

“Could she be a passive carrier?” Walter asked.

“Maybe.” August said, “If she ever got a blood transfusion from a wolf. It wouldn’t give her the ability to shift, and she wouldn’t show positive on a test, but she’d have a shadow of a wolf in her.”

“She used to play rugby.” Geralt said.

“Badass, but it'd need to be one helluva rugby accident to need a blood transfusion.” Sy said, “The sport is brutal at times, but it ain’t Thunderdome.”

“It’s a theory anyway.” August said, “Unless we asked.”

“So let’s--”

“Sy!” Mike's yell made them run outside, seeing him on the ground, Stephanie standing between him and Jordan, a naked blade in his hand. Seeing them, Jordan took off, making a break for the treeline, Geralt running after him.

“He came out of fucking nowhere!” Mike exclaimed, holding his arm, blood seeping through his fingers. “I tried to hold him off, but he was damn fast and I--”

“It's okay, Mikey.” Sy said, kneeling by him.

“Steph, she--he tried to go for me again and she put herself between him and me, she…she protected me.”

“So we saw.” Walter said and he went to her. “You all right?” He saw the fresh cut on her lip and took her chin in his fingers, turning her head to look at it.

“I'm fine.” She said, pulling her face out of his grasp lightly, “He hit me when Mike went down. Is Mike okay?”

“It ain't bad.” Sy said, having helped him get his hoodie off after getting him to his feet, “We'll wrap it up inside.”

“I should go.” Stephanie said and Mike whipped his head around to look at her.

“What?” He asked, “You can't go! You can't leave! Sy, tell her she can't leave!”

“You all keep getting hurt because of me.”

“Because of the Feral, Stephanie, not you.” Walter said.

“He's only coming here because she's here.” August said, folding his arms over his chest. “This isn't our problem. She's leaving.”

“Bullshit!” Sy said, “I'm makin’ it our fuckin’ problem, Walker! Or did you forget whose goddamn territory this is?!”

“Sy…” She started.

“Steph, I don't know why this crazy sonuvabitch is fixated on you, but it ain't gonna stop if you go, it'll just make it easier for him to get at you.” He said, “He's rabbitin’ when we make an appearance, so you're stickin’ with us until this gets handled, got it? The only safe Feral is a dead one.”

“August is right, this isn't your problem.”

“And like I told the fuckin’ Donkey, I'm makin’ it my problem.” Mike nodded when he looked at him and Sy moved away from him, going over to her, Walter stepping away slightly. “I don't know what he had planned for you out here, killin’ or infectin’, he came prepared for both, but it's my territory and you're in it. You're not a wolf, Steph, but---” She looked up at him and his words died in his throat.

“Sy?” Walter asked, but he didn't seem to hear him.

“Markus?” August asked.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He whispered and a shudder ran through the area that she didn't feel but the others did.

“Sy?” She asked gently and he reached up, holding the side of her jaw, making her gasp softly as the same feeling as with Geralt brushed over her mind.

“Son of a bitch.” He whispered and leaned into her quickly, kissing her and taking her by surprise. She was unresponsive for a moment before a shiver visibly raced down her spine and she pressed back against him, her eyes closing. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss, a groan shaking his chest as his tongue slipped into her mouth. “Mate.” He gasped as he pulled away after a moment, “Fuckin’ hell, Steph, you ain't just Geralt's Mate, you're mine, too.”

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.5

(canon typical violence below, mild)

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat and made him stumble. Unable to intervene he had to watch Aiden cast the familiar blue shock wave at the group of soldiers behind them. At once the men in front were thrown back, crashing into their fellow soldiers and creating a loud ruckus that made Jaskier's ears ring. Wind caught his hair, blinding him momentarily, as he cursed Aiden for his stupidity.

While the burst of Aard had certainly helped them to gain some distance from the soldiers, they could just have split up earlier than planned, to achieve the exact same thing. It took the soldiers hardly a minute before they were up and running again, this time yelling orders at each other about Aiden not being the White Wolf, but another witcher and therefore their new priority. Aiden who, despite him insisting on the opposite, was not yet fully recovered and still struggled with both his balance and restricted vision. Him being their primary target was a very bad, not good thing that would definitely lead to some unavoidable consequences. Jaskier cursed again, grabbed the witcher by his knotted sleeve and tucked him forcefully to the left, where the street parted into a busy crossroad. “Why on earth would you do that?!” He demanded to know, dodging a farmer's cart by a hair's length and pulling Aiden with him. The Cat could only look at him bewildered, Jaskier's worries completely flying past his head.

With a loud groan, the bard realized that Aiden, like every other damned witcher he had met before, had absolutely no sense for protecting himself. Jaskier had no idea, why he had thought otherwise in the first place. In that regard they all proved to be idiots again and again.

Finally reaching the market after what felt like forever, Jaskier zigzagged through the groups of people until he couldn't see the soldiers anymore. “Alright, we're splitting up now. You're of greater importance to them, because those prejudiced piss pots think you are stronger than me.” Aiden raised his eyebrows at that, but Jaskier didn't give him time to argue. “So don't get caught, alright? Be as inconspicuous as possible, disguise yourself if you can. I mean it, Aiden, I am not walking up that mountain on my own, because I will perish of boredom if you're not with me.”

“Whoa, there, shouldn't I be the one that worries about you?” The witcher asked, with a lopsided grin on his face. “You are a tiny, little human, after all.” Jaskier took a deep breath and let the imaginary weight fall off his shoulders. He knew he tended to be overprotective over his friends and family, but Aiden was right, he shouldn't worry too much about the other man. Cats were known for their excellent stealth. He'd probably scale the next building and hide away in the shadows of the rooftops until it was time for the two of them to meet at the other side of the city, were it adjoined the forest.

Feeling a little better about their situation, he grinned back at the witcher, “See you at sun-high.” And with one last wave, he dove into the crowds.

From then on everything felt a little bit easier. He was back in his element. Passing errand boys, dodging groups of chattering wives and stepping out of the way of heavily laden errand boys, Jaskier easily put more and more distance between him in the troop of soldiers, who's redanian armor made them stand out like donkeys among sheep. It was actually quite funny to watch them, how they stumbled around, fishing for some sort of authority the didn't have in a country that wasn't theirs. A troop of redanian soldiers against a single kaedweni innkeeper was one thing, but seeing them trying and failing to shoo away the three old women that were gossiping in front of a young lad that looked somewhat similar to Jaskier was the height of entertainment.

Despite his colorful outfit and obvious lute bag, hardly anyone spared him more than a glance. No matter what Geralt said, walking through a city with just enough confidence to look like you belonged there, but not too much to stand out, was an art form in itself. Truth be told, Jaskier might've only believed so because it took him years to perfect this skill. He was an expert in it now, though and when one of his pursuers came a bit too close to him, he calmly kept on walking, passing the man with just two other people between them. He followed the natural flow of people for a while, discreetly taking down every Wanted Notice with his name on it. Every now and then he tried to look up the rafters and roofs of houses that seemed rather climbable, without appearing too suspicious, but he never saw a hint of his Cat.

Maybe that was for the better, he willed his anxiousness to quieten. If he wasn't here, that only meant that he was already waiting somewhere in the forest. Sun-high wasn't that far away anyways.

He helped a young mother by picking up the knot doll her child had dropped and exchanged a couple of pleasant words while they walked closer towards the forest. Saying his goodbyes with a warm smile, Jaskier stepped off the main street and into a much smaller alley that lead to a few single story houses. He took his time to pet a tricolored barn cat, just as promised, before slowly but surely merging into the slim shadows. More and more aware of his bearings, he crept along the walls of houses and sheds, turning around and pretending to take a piss against a bush when a merchant rode by. Crude but effective. The only thing left that separated him from his goal was a wide dirt rode that carved around the forest.

Standing in the shade of a wooden canopy Jaskier remained still as a statue, eyes scanning through the underbrush, ears strained for any noise that didn't belong. The problem with that being, that everything inside a forest made noise and trying to figure out which once were normal sounds and which weren't usually fell into Geralt's domain. With his witcher hearing he could not only make out a rustling bush, but also listen for a heartbeat and identify it as either animal, human or monster. There was also the fact that Jaskier's sense of smell couldn't pick up anything than the stink of fox and the giant dung heap nearby.

In the end he just had to trust his instincts. And his instincts were telling him to worry.

It didn't take long for him to realize why.

It wasn't the forest that was off, it was the road. The sun was high in the sky, just starting to change from comfortably warm to hot, the market was full with all kinds of people and yet the road was empty. No wagons, no riders, not a single person to be seen. Someone was blocking off the path. Someone that held no authority over a crowd but could easily scare away any passerby. It could be a trap of course, but Jaskier had spent enough time singing in the barracks of Redania to know how they usually operated. The bard had always had a strong dislike for soldiers. Few of them were decent people these days. There was hardly anything knightly or chivalrous about them, as if they forgot what they were fighting for. Unlike them, Jaskier hadn't allowed himself to be controlled by his disdain and had followed his orders properly. Singing and performing in the barracks, listening in to every conversation that would meet his ears. He had learned a lot, almost too much, about how the soldiers really worked behind their pretenses. Cordoning off an area just big enough people on the outside wouldn't make out the noise their prisoners made when they were beat to a pulp, was certainly one of their favorites. There was an advantage though, Jaskier thought as he emerged from the canopy and walked right into the forest, nobody would be able to hear them screaming either. The only thing that kept him from smiling was the knowledge that whatever they had done to his Cat Witcher wouldn't be pretty.

And it really wasn't.

The camp, counting six tents and four horses, was built around an old tree, its trunk wide enough to withstand the hissing and spitting Cat Witcher that was chained to it. His linen shirt was torn during a fight, deep irregular gashes cut through his chest, the witcher's blood soaking into his clothes and the bandages underneath. Aiden was screaming with rage, struggling against his bindings without any sense to it, throwing his head from left to right, snapping his teeth at everyone that dared to come too close. His fangs were bloody, successful. To Jaskier's eyes it was almost alarmingly obvious that Aiden's aggression was mainly caused by pure fear and pain. The witcher's instincts had clearly taken over. He didn't even react to the bard when said one entered the camp. Five soldiers, one archer, turned towards him.

Oh I know. I know you want Jaskier to fight, but please take note, should you choose this, the next chapter will be detailed and violent. (and 100% skipable of course! I know not everyone likes to read that sort of stuff, don't worry, I got you!) The author craves blood.

Negotiating is always an option to keep this pg.

Also there's now a relationship bar in the drawing, so: Aiden/Lambert is set in stone for this fic, but Aiden/Jaskier or Aiden/Jaskier/Lambert is up to you, I will give you multiple chances for this, so don't worry.

please like and reblog if you voted✨🌿🌼✨

Told my brother about J and A hiding in the crowd of the market and he said „Erstmal ein Marktfrühstück und eine Weinschorle bestellen.“ and I was so tempted.

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[the-desilittle-bird]

Author's Note- The Prologue is out! I hope you all like it, and I swear it will get better with each chapter. Also I have decided how will be playing Aerea Targaryen and Cregan Stark. Will try finding Jessica and Sara as soon as possible. If anyone has any ideas (both regarding the faceclaims and the story) can contact me.

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

The White Dragon

The Beginning of All (Prologue)

Chapter Summary- The Name Day of the Dragon Princess was here, and it started with an unusual dream. How will the day be and what all will be new in the end of it?

Tag List- @eliseline, @little-moonbeam-666, @blackhoodlea, @omgsuperstarg, @shopping, @lizlovecraft, @dayane, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @all-things-fandomstuck, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @morganastrucker, @shrexy, @helloitsshitzulover, @daringboba, @minaxcarter, @b-tchymoon, @stargaryenx, @hukio, @saraelizabeth26, @targaryenmoony, @moon-light1415, @eudximoniakr, @themaze13, @candypurplebutterfly, @5moremin, @yariany02, @issybee0611, @beefbaby25, @shine101, @hopebaker, @andlizeth, @hyacinthus007, @lightdragonrayne, @prettykinkysoul, @mcam623, @marvelescvpe

If anybody want their names to be added or removed from the tag list, then leave a comment.

Warnings- Implication of Bullying, Mentions of Deaths, Arrange Marriage and Westrosi Things

Masterlist Chapter 1

The land was covered in white, snow crunching under the paws of the northern predator as it approached the mountain of something white and silvery. His dark furs a contrast to the white surroundings. His golden eyes trained on the moving mountain of snow which went up and down.

The gorgeous and mystical being could sense the direwolf near her; and the moving beneath her wing made her sigh with content. She moved her wings a bit, the snow freezing above her breaking and falling down on the ground.

Gold met sapphire; ice met fire. The dragon lifted her wing, letting her offspring run towards their father. As unusual at it looked, the dragon was mated to the king of the northern woods. Royals of the fire met the royalty of ice.

The dragon bowed in front of the wolf, placing her head on the snow covered lands. The wolf let his children smell him while he walked closer to the snow dragon, nuzzling his face on her snout.

Aerea shot up in her bed, perspiration beading her forehead, as she clinched the red, silk bedsheets. Her breath heavy as she looked around with wide eyes. Her silver hair sticking to her wet skin of head and shoulders.

It was not new for Aerea to dream prophecies when she closed her eyes to let the world fade away. But the feeling left afterwards were never this intense. Never since she dreamt an one-eyed dragon flying in the red and golden sky. It was only after two days that her younger brother lost his left eye to their nephew Lucerys.

Aerea hated Jacaerys and Aegon, for they always teased her about her shy dragon. Little Lucerys would always be close to her, attached to the hip while Aemond... well, Aemond always saw Aerea as his.

He would spend as much time as he could with her. May it be reading books or just sitting in pure silence; they were close until Aemond was injured for his entire life and Aerea was coming of age.

In present, Aerea was twenty name days old with Aemond standing at eight and ten name days; with absolute no attachment on the princess' part. Though the same could not be said for the second son of the king.

Aemond had grown an unhealthy obsession with his elder sister. In his mind, she was his. His to protect, love and ravish...

The door to Aerea's chamber opened suddenly, making the princess jump in surprise. Her handmaiden, a beautiful lady with hair as red as fire, named Jessica strided in with a huge grin.

"Happy name day, princess," she chirped, placing something on the chair near the fireplace. "Thank you, Jessica. Though there is nothing happy about it," Aerea muttered with a sigh, making the lady frown.

"Why, princess? Aren't you excited for the feast tonight?" She asked, stepping near the princess. "The feast might be held in my honor," Aerea started, getting off the bed and walking to the balcony which overlooked the entire King's Landing. "But the objective behind it terrifies me."

"The objective?" Jessica asked, joining the princess. "I reached the age to marry four summers ago, and yet, no men stayed in my presence for more than a few moments. Grandfather is growing restless, which may mean that soon, I shall be betrothed to someone not of my liking."

The handmaiden of the young princess blinked blankly, nodding as she understood the princess' situation. "Who do you think you shall be married off to?" Jessica queried as she watched Aerea move back to her room, walking to the beautiful dress she brought for the princess to wear.

"I have no idea as to who all her the suitors. But the highest bidder will be given my hand in marriage," Aerea said with a sigh, her hand caressing the green dress. Jessica hummed, hugging the princess from back.

"Whosoever it will be, I will be with you forever."

Cregan observed, from near the river bank, the towering Red Keep. Even from a great distance, the tall fort was clearly visible. According to the raven Cregan received two moons ago, today the youngest princess' betrothal was supposed to be discussed and all the eligible lords were supposed to be there.

As much as Cregan wished not to be here, he had to. His was a widower with two wives who left him to join the Old Gods. Perhaps he was cursed by someone; or just karma for killing his uncle.

"Thinking much again, are we?" Came the voice of the Lone Wolf's sister, Sara. Cregan looked up and offered Sara a smile, shaking his head. "You know that any woman would swoon over you, brother," Sara commented with a soft smile.

"I would prefer if the princess doesn't," he muttered under his breath, hoping Sara won't catch it, but she did. "Why do you think that?" Sara whined like a child, making Cregan smile lightly. "Because I don't want to destroy a princess' life. Also, she is accustomed to summer, the North would be too much for her."

"How considerate, brother Cregan!" Sara exclaimed sarcastically. Cregan ignored the comment, letting it slip like always. He stood up, looking at his scattered men. "It is time we set off to the King's Landing," boomed Cregan's voice, making everyone work in frenzy.

Cregan looked back at pristine water of the river, praying for the best to happen in the future. For both the Wolf Lord and the Dragon Princess.