#idk where the urge and inspo to write has come the last couple days but i’m not mad at it

[yougotthatbilly]

12.6k into lmlys (brothers bff!jaehyun & sheltered oc) and i don’t even think i’m half way done. but i’m in love with jaehyun and their relationship (oc has her moments tho)

[lothlaer]

Proposal: Jaskier's got a fist clenched painfully hard one time when he's really really hurt and Yen has to force his palm open so she can tangle their fingers together and try to keep him from hurting his own hand. And they're both kind of like "oh" at some point idk 😳

Anon this apparently awakened something in me, so thank you for expanding on my post and giving me the inspo to write (checks notes) 1.7k. Hope you enjoy whatever this is!!! 

Pre-yennskier, description of blood and injury, 100% hurt/comfort. Read on AO3

“Stop fucking moving,” Geralt hisses, pushing down hard on the hips beneath his hands to still the man’s squirming.

A choked off, muffled whine dies in Jaskier’s throat, his lips pursed tight enough to turn them pale and thin. He’s panting through his nose, clearly in agony, and too out of it to understand that moving will only make this worse.

Yennefer spares the witcher a glance, noting the anxiety and fear that’s obvious on his face, in the tension across his brow, the frantic not-focus of his eyes that flick between the bard’s half-delirious expression and the gaping wound at his side.

She’s done all she can to heal him, sealed up the torn and leaking insides that they all know would have killed him if they hadn’t been here – that still might kill him if they can’t stem the blood loss and prevent infection. She thinks of it like this; clinical, sensible, because she has to.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is quicker than it should be, his breathing equally fast, panicked and pained and shallow. She keeps her ear trained to its frantic rhythm, notices how Geralt’s heart thumps faster than normal too, almost human, almost matching hers. She’d laugh at the symmetry of it all, if it were funny. She’s sure Jaskier would write a poem, if he knew, but she won’t ever tell him. 

He stills a little under the pressure of Geralt’s hands, though still struggles. He probably can’t help it by this point, too confused and the pain too intense to allow much rational thought. Geralt can’t work if he keeps kicking, shifting his hips to try to escape the discomfort.

“Yen,” Geralt growls, and she’d tell him off if she thought it would help.

She tells him off anyway, growling his name back as she presses her weight onto the bard’s chest, keeping him pinned. She watches his face, stares at the lines of tears down his temples, wrung out from his scrunched eyes.

The tight seam of Jaskier’s lips splits open, a deep groan and hitching sob forcing its way out as Geralt flushes the wound. He shifts again, and it’s only then that Yennefer notices his hands. The one nearest her grips at her skirt, tugging it towards himself, the other clenched tight enough at his side that the whites of his knuckles stand out even against his bloodless skin.

She reaches for it before she can think about it, dragging his hand over his chest, looking at the way he’s digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything as she fits her thumb under his, prying it open like the hinge on a rusted box. There’s no treasure within as she does the same with his fingers, forcing them loose enough that his reflex to clench releases, each digit unfolding only to reveal deep indents in his skin like faint purple mouths.

She slips her fingers between his, taking the pressure into her own grip, resting their joined hands over his heart.

He blinks up at her, eyes wet with tears, then lifts his head to look down at himself.

“Don’t look,” Yennefer snaps, pointedly leaning forward to block the vivid red of Geralt’s hands from view.

She knocks her knuckles against his breastbone, drawing his attention back, and he focuses in on the press of their skin together.

She thinks that if he had enough blood left in his body to do so, Jaskier would be blushing. She feels heat rise in her own cheeks in sympathy. His lips part on an inappropriately dreamy sigh, and she realises she’s stroking her thumb back and forth over his clammy skin, then swiftly stops.

Yennefer checks his expression and discovers his eyes on her again, a long moment dragging on as she finds herself unable to look away, their faces closer than she realised and his short breaths puffing against her skin. She’s horribly aware of their entwined hands, the unpleasant sensation of drying blood and mud between them, the frantic heart mere centimetres away, trapped beneath only by fragile human flesh and bone.

Between another aborted cry of pain and a feeble attempt at another kick, Jaskier lets his head fall back to the ground, gaze swimming and dizzy as he stares up at the canopy of the trees above them, his grip tightening to the point of pain as the joints in Yennefer’s hand compress.

She loses track of time for a while, her knees and back aching from being folded over for so long, the quiet and sometimes unpleasant noises coming from Geralt working opposite her the only way to gauge how long they’ve been here, alongside the warbling beat that still echoes against her eardrums. It’s not like his usual music.

She looks back to his face after some time, catches his eyelids fluttering.

“None of that,” she scolds, loud enough to jerk him back into wakefulness.

She turns her head to look at the wound, relieved to find it closed with stitches, no longer sluggishly leaking blood down Jaskier’s side. He’s still covered in it, soaked into his shirt and the trousers covering his propped-up legs, even on the blanket they’ve thrown over him.

Geralt looks up and the relief is clear on his face; they’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes flick to Jaskier’s hand in hers, looking pointedly at where he’s still gripping her dress too, then walking away with a mutter about getting bandages.

Yennefer finds herself alarmingly embarrassed, and withdraws her hand.

Jaskier doesn’t complain, his fingers falling loose and curled where she leaves them.

Geralt returns quickly, begins packing the injury. Jaskier jerks again, then they begin the agonising process of winding bandages around his waist, having to manoeuvre him upright enough to pass them under his back.

By the end he’s even sweatier and paler than he was before. His noises of pain throughout have been quieter than Yennefer was expecting, the usual volume and raucousness of his voice muffled and contained. It’s simultaneously impressive and irritating – men, she thinks.

He groans long and low nonetheless as they shift him sideways onto a bedroll and prop another bag under his knees.

“It’s done, it’s over,” Yennefer finds herself saying quietly while Geralt resituates the blanket.

She wipes a tear away from Jaskier’s cheek with the backs of her fingers, and tries not to overthink the action in the seconds afterwards as his sobs subside.

He’s trembling, either from pain or shock or the cold, and Geralt wastes no time getting him water with some herbs mixed in. He drinks greedily, water spilling out around his mouth until the witcher urges him to slow.

Geralt lays him back down, calls his name softly until his wobbly attention wanders back to them.

“All better?” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, eyelids already half-mast.

Geralt lays a wet cloth over the bard’s forehead and holds his palm on it, steady and reassuring, long enough to lean over and catch Jaskier’s gaze.

“Good enough,” he says, beginning to wipe away the sweat and dirt from Jaskier’s face in gentle strokes.

“Bastard,” Jaskier mutters, eyes falling closed. He only settles for a moment before jerking awake, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Yen?”

He looks around blearily, waving an uncoordinated hand out – seeking her presence, Yennefer realises. She reaches for him, grasping his hand in hers. His gaze snaps to her, and softens.

“Okay?” he asks.

His skin is cool, his heart still racing.

“You’ll be pissing us off with your usual obnoxious poetics within a day, I imagine.”

He frowns at her and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he swallows dryly, “you okay?”

Yennefer opens her mouth, ready for a witty retort to manifest, but all that emerges is the escape of a surprised breath. She thinks of the way they’d been standing side by side when the attack had happened, the way the bard had fallen against her and brought her to her knees in the grass and mud, last autumn’s shed of rotting leaves compacting beneath her hands. The drip of red blending against the dirt. Her stomach twists, then releases.

“Rest, Jaskier.”

He still stares at her.

“I’m fine, you fool.” She squeezes his hand again, thinks of the indents on his palm. “Rest.”

He does, finally, slipping easily into something deeper than sleep. She knows she and Geralt will have their senses fixed on the pump of his blood for days yet, and that it’ll be a while before his body replenishes what he’s lost.

For now, the steadiness of his pulse and his breathing will have to be enough, even if they remain unnatural and fast.

Yennefer realises she’s been staring for a while when she notices Geralt bringing a bowl over, his hands and arms already washed clean of the mess from the past hour.

“Wonderful timing,” he says dryly, shaking the red-tinged water off his fingers with a couple of quick flicks.

“For what, witcher?” Yennefer says shortly, her nerves strung thin and dangerous.

Geralt snorts. Yennefer glares.

“For a realisation.” He smirks at her, smug.

“Fuck off,” she spits, not turning away quick enough to miss the way the man’s smile widens further.

She draws her hands away from Jaskier, his grip limp now, and washes her hands too, surprised to see the ripples on the surface from where she’s shaking. Geralt comes up behind her, his hand falling to her shoulder, and they both look down at the bard. The porcelain tinge of his skin is unnerving, his eyes bruised, and dirt and leaves still cling to his hair. But he’s alive, alive, and the knots in their chests release.

She thinks about leaving now her job’s done, the unpleasant warmth blooming somewhere in her gut making her want to run away, to flee from whatever the bard’s pain and gaze and hands have triggered in her, the feeling snapping sharp like a wire under her skin.

Geralt squeezes her shoulder.

“Stay with him.”

Yennefer feels the words rumble through her, less than an order but more than a suggestion. Her heart leans into it, giving way so carelessly to harmonise with the rhythm of his.

She stays.

[angelicmichael]

Okay so I have a ton of inspo to write for Stan after last nights episode and I have a lot of fic ideas and concepts I can’t get out of my brain so.. here they are lmfao. The first concept is fluffy and wholesome but the other ones are pretty dark and most involve death and blood.. fair warning hehe. ALSO if any writers see this; feel free to write something based off one of these if you’d like !! 🥺💖 I don’t mind :)

Idk why but I rlly wanna write something domestic and fluffy.. maybe some fluff with no plot djdjd. But maybe reader and Stan are friends, and are hiding in his cabin from the cannibals after a close call (maybe they decided to go hiking earlier and ran into them) and get a bit.. distracted afterwards 👁. Maybe the scare of the cannibals make them have a heart to heart and then.. they decide to stay the night in the cabin bc they don’t wanna leave bc their still scared. And maybe it’s also stormy outside or somethin hehe. and they just 👁 make out 👁 and cuddle 👁 and fall asleep together 👉🏻👈🏻. And their just both rlly grateful that they’re both alive 🥺 and together 🥺🥺

Maybe reader comes to surprise Stan bc they’ve been dating for a while but.. he’s been distant lately. Not picking up calls, and just acting rlly unlike himself. Reader doesn’t exactly know that theirs cannibals in the forest but she knows that theirs something, or that Stan believes that there’s something so she gets concerned and goes to see him. She goes straight into his cabin (maybe she has a spare key.. and it’s night so he shouldn’t be busy) and she sees his jacket, his hat, his gun.. reader grabs a flashlight and starts to look outside for him and finds a trail of blood.. reader immeadietly starts to panic but before she can probably react she sees something running in her direction full force.. but she doesn’t know it’s Stan until he literally is in her arms hugging her. Stan runs into her practically and reader realizes he’s bleeding when she sees blood on her shirt when they pull away.. He has a huge stomach wound and he’s going into shock. Reader is in complete disbelief that this is actually happening and that he could actually die, but Stan is still talking to her.. he urges her to leave and to not wait around for him and to not bother getting help. He tells her about the cannibals and reader doesn’t believe him but.. as she goes to leave to get help anyway she sees a shadow out of the corner of her eye and realizes that he probably wasn’t bullshitting. Reader goes to be with Stan and comforts him in his final moments 🥺

This is so random and not in depth/plot heavy at all but I’m just thinking about Stan confiding in reader about the cannibals.. and then she decides to playfully bite him. At first it’s a joke.. and their dating so it’s not really that weird but then she hears him moan and she completely stops.. purely laughing at the fact that he has a fucking biting kink and how ironic it is (ig this is just me saying that I think Stan has a biting kink LMAO)

Okay so I kinda hate the ending of the episode tbh so.. here’s a fix it fic idea hehe. Major spoiler warning but instead of Stan dying.. maybe he sort of is a ally to the cannibals?? Not necessarily becomes one but more so protects them and in return they protect him u know?? But to make this a fic.. maybe reader and Stan have been dating for a while and she doesn’t realize his ‘alliance’ until she goes to the forest w him.. She sees how the cannibals won’t touch him and she’s beyond fucking bewildered. However the cannibals want reader, but Stan is v protective 😌 and maybe he shoots a cannibal or two and ofc it ends in fluff.. Stan starts fussing over reader and her (little to nonexsisting) wounds and even threatens to quit his job for her but reader tells him to stop bc she’s okay 🥺 but maybe the fic ends w him quitting his job and them both leaving the national park <3

Y’all knew this was coming but a fic where Stan is a cannibal (but not full on feral tho) is necessary LOL. I’m kinda thinking about fairytale or little red hiding hood au for this one?? Maybe reader goes into the forest bc she knows that women have been going missing as of late and she’s curious 👁 and wants to investigate. She goes into the forest and finds Stan, who automatically seems sus bc of how out of it he seems.. his clothes are stained red in a couple places.. he barely makes eye contact and reader can’t help but to marvel at how sharp his teeth seem to be.. the more they talk the closer he gets.. to the point where it would almost be uncomfortable if he wasn’t so attractive and charming.. even with the scent of iron heavy on his breath, reader can’t help but to want to kiss him, to feel his mouth on hers but she also starts to feel like it’s not necessarily a choice. He seems like the primary suspect so reader feels if she wants to survive she’s going to have to seduce him… and not to mention if she truly wants to get info out of him about the missing women.

Okay so after seeing @stanvogel ’s post, I’m just thinking about Michael x Stan so.. here’s a Michael x Stan one 👉🏻👈🏻 hehe. It’s another normal day for Stan.. doing quick checks and patrols throughout the forest. Stan loved his job, he really did but this was the part he always dreaded the most. He gives the forest half a glance as he walks through - hoping that something wouldn’t happen to catch his eye or pop out at him. Hoping he could just go back to his cabin and have a easy shift but of course, he just had to see someone. Seeing people isolated in the forest wasn’t something that Stan was unaccustomed with, but the fact the individual he saw was currently drenched in blood and was still alive was something to marvel at. Stan quickly introduced himself and asked what the fuck he was doing.. after babbling some shit about satan and saying his name was ‘Michael’.. Stan had heard enough. He didn’t exactly want to take care of this lunatic but he wasn’t going to leave him out to be eaten and have his intestines ripped out either.. not on his shift if he could help it. Stan brought Michael back to his cabin, carefully cleaning up his wounds and trying not to stare at his crystal blue eyes for too long.. or his lips. Harshly reminding himself this was a guest, not someone he should even think about asking out but Michael surprisingly took the leap first. Asking if Stan was single and that’s all it took. Stan wasn’t sure if he agreed to start seeing him because he was genuinely interested or because he didn’t want him going back out to the forest and gaining the attention of the cannibals.. either way, Stan couldn’t really argue. He was simply happy that he could finally capture someone’s attention and keep it for once. Someone who would stay with him and make this job a little less lonely.. Antichrist or not.