#leshen boyfriend

[monstersandmaw]

Male moss leshen x gn reader - Part One (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

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Content: our two main characters meet first as children when the reader gets separated from their group on a school science trip to Wistman’s Woods, only to be rescued by a mysterious young forest spirit with a mask. Years later, the reader returns and wonders if it had been real after all... Wordcount: 6166

Surprise? I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for a while (Discord folks, this is the one I mentioned a while ago after I got back from Orkney, hence the mythology dump halfway through!) and I figured I’d share the first part.

Hope you like it :)

You hadn’t meant to get left behind.

One minute you’d been watching the slow, inexorable stretch of a snail across a small rivulet that led down into a mossy gully below, transfixed by its alabaster body and swirling brown shell, and the next, the group had moved on and you were completely alone in the tangle of twisting oaks and mossy boulders of Wistman’s Wood.

“Oh no.”

You’d spent the morning with your class on the nearby moorland, studying the heather and the soil and taking samples to bring back to the little science laboratory at school, but now the colour green pressed in on all sides — thick on the boulders and roots, and slick on the steam-bed — only to be cut through in a spiderweb of darker, twisting lines of trees like veins in the fog. That fog had rolled in earlier after you’d all eaten your packed lunches on the boulders along the path up to Wistman’s Wood amid flowering gorse and jewelled, silver spiderwebs, but that felt like a long time ago now, and the daylight was fading.

Moss dripped down in draping folds from gnarled and coiled branches, shrouding the oaks that were so old they’d watched the druids dance among them, and clumps of bracken waved their beckoning fingers at you as you stared around and realised you could hardly find the path any more.

Panic clutched your throat and locked your knees. Your little backpack, blue with yellow roses embroidered on the back, was devoid of food and your water bottle was almost empty. Spying an odd, looping branch in a tree that looked like it had been made to let the weary body of an eight year old rest there a moment, you scuttled over to it on shaking legs and sat. If you went back in the direction you’d come — over the moor — it would take hours and you weren’t sure you knew the whole circuit anyway. If you went on, you would most likely find the party soon. It couldn’t be that far.

After taking a puff of the wet, green air for courage, you hopped off the branch, squeezing the twisted form in grateful thanks for the calming pause, and then scrambled up the path. Your foot slipped on a scummy, green-slimed rock and you pitched forwards, landing on your palms with a grunt of surprise. Hands smarting, you pushed on, scrambling up the incline out of the rock-strewn gully and emerging at the top into fog so thick you couldn’t see more than five feet in front of you.

“Hello!” you yelled but the sound was muffled, dampened by the weight of the air, and your voice sounded pathetically small. “Hello?! Help! Where is everyone?”

Ferns and lichen hung down from the trees like the hair of a great tree monster, and branches snagged at your clothes like the reaching fingers of a fairytale monster as you crashed in panic up the incline. You had to get out. They were going to leave without you. You’d catch a cold if you stayed there all night, and the stories Miss. Tremayne had told you all on the bus that morning, about the faerie folk and the blood-eyed ‘Wisht Hounds’ and the old spirit of Crockern that walked the hills at night, all crowded in on you until you let out a strangled scream and crashed to your knees in a small, leaf-strewn clearing.

With snatched and rapid breaths, you tried to get a hold of yourself, but it was no good. Tears sprang hot to your eyes and rolled down your cheeks to spill onto the copper carpet of fallen leaves beneath your scuffed and dirty hands.

A twig snapped nearby and a magpie gave a hoarse, rattling laugh.

You looked up, sniffing back tears and scrubbed your hand across your face to leave a muddy trail across your cheeks. “Hello?” you sobbed. “Miss Tremayne? Mr. Lee?”

In the drifting fog, you started to recognise a pattern to the boulders around you and froze. You were kneeling at the heart of a small circle of standing stones, each one only a foot or so high. In the moss of the nearest one, you could just make out a spiral of bare rock intertwining with the vibrant green of the moss, and on the next one over, you found a different pattern. Beyond the clear bubble of air inside the circle, the fog pressed in, close and silent, and all you could hear was your own, tight breathing.

Someone would come for you soon. Someone had to notice you were missing soon. It didn’t matter that you were the weird kid who played with frogspawn and thought snails were neat and knew how to identify all three kinds of newt native to the UK. Someone would notice that you weren’t with the rest of the school trip.

All you had to do was wait where you were. The first rule of bushcraft when you realised you were lost was to stay put and not panic. One of those two you could do.

Wistman’s Wood really wasn’t that big, and they’d count everyone in on the bus, so you wouldn’t be left behind.

You sat down and waited.

And waited.

You were shivering by the time evening was properly closing in, and the fog was still drifting all around, and beyond the circle of stones, the noises of the night were starting up in a faltering chorus. A vixen’s screaming bark far away on the moor above made your blood run cold, and an owl’s soft, wavering call from the trees nearby drew an answering whimper from your own throat.

Leaves rustled everywhere as if the trees themselves were breathing, though there was no breeze that you could feel. The moss beneath your hands felt warm, as though the sun had been on it all day. You spread your dirty fingers through it and tried to draw some comfort from the warmth, imagining it was the thick coat of a friendly animal, but it was no good.

After what felt like hours, you curled up into a ball on your side and wept.

The ghost dogs would get you and tear you to pieces or the wild hunt would take you away.

Footsteps light as pattering rain over the autumn leaves jerked you awake some time later and you sat up to see a soft, golden glow on the edge of the ring of stones. Silhouetted in the fog just behind the lantern was a dark outline that looked a little too thin to be human and too short to be an adult.

Your scream of surprise and horror filled the clearing and was immediately answered with a gasp and a quiet, “No, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you,” from the other side of the stones. The voice was strange, like two rocks scraping together or the creak of a tree in a high wind, but it seemed kind.

“Who are you?” you hissed.

“I… I’m a friend. Why are you out here?” Whoever it was, the small glow wasn’t enough to illuminate them properly in the fog, and while they seemed young — perhaps about your own age — you didn’t recognise them as anyone from your class.

“I got lost,” you said, and fought off tears again. “Do you know the way back to the road?”

“Which road?”

“The… the one where we got off the bus,” you said. “There was a white building nearby. I think it was a pub.”

“Oh,” the unusual, reedy voice said. “You mean the human road to the south.”

Your heart iced over with wild fear. “You’re… You’re not human?”

“No. You can’t see in the dark, can you?”

“Of course not,” you said. “I’m not an owl. What are you? Are you part of the Wild Hunt? One of the ghosts? A druid?”

The creature laughed, and the sound was like a small brook rushing over loose stones. “No. You’re cold,” they added. “Here, I’ll come and warm you, but you mustn’t be afraid of me. I might look… scary… but I won’t hurt you.”

The light bobbed nearer, and you saw long, root-like fingers holding a lantern made of the lacy remains of old leaves and glowing from within. The arm that held it looked like it was made of dry, cracked wood, interspersed with patches of moss and little rocks that glittered in the light. When the creature knelt beside you, you sucked in a breath as the bare skull of a badger loomed down out of the mist. You knew it was a badger because you’d looked at them that week with Mr. Lee in science class.

Shaking, you waited to see the rest of the creature.

“I won’t hurt you,” they said again. “Please don’t be scared of me.”

“Ok,” you breathed, not sure what else to say. You hugged your knees in close and fought off the urge to close your eyes, pretending none of this was happening. “What about the Wisht Hounds and the ghosts?”

“They won’t hurt you,” they said cheerily, kneeling down beside you and setting the lantern on the mossy grass. “They guard the wood with me but they won’t hurt you if you don’t mean the place any harm.”

“Oh.” You looked up them and tried not to stare at the creature. “Ok.”

If they’d been human, you guessed they were around your own age and height — small, skinny and two legged — but their whole body seemed to have been made of wood and stone and bits of moss, and they had an animal pelt wrapped around their hips and the badger skull over their face. Glimpses of dark, almost-human skin showed here and there though, especially around the neck and collarbones and down the right side of their chest and arm, though the arm holding the lantern was like an old tree branch.

“Come on, you’re getting cold,” they said, and went down onto all fours. “Lie down.”

Not knowing what else to do, you obeyed, using your rucksack as a pillow, and they reached out and simply pulled the forest floor up around you like a blanket. The warm scent of moss enveloped you, and the comforting weight and heat of it took you by surprise.

“There,” they said as they tucked it up around your shoulder before curling up behind you and wrapping their arm around your middle. “Try to sleep. They’ll come looking for you soon, but if they don’t, I’ll show you to the edge of the woods in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Rest now.”

You closed your eyes and found yourself drifting off almost immediately, as comfortable and warm as if you were tucked up in your own bed.

The shrill of a distant whistle jolted you awake and you found a pressure on your shoulder joint, shaking you gently before it moved up to touch your neck with a shy, tender caress. “Wake up,” the creature hissed and you sat upright with a jolt. The blanket of moss and grass simply tumbled away from your body and became seamless forest floor again, as though it had never been disturbed.

You jerked around to stare at your new friend. It was still pitch dark, and your rapid exhales fogged in the air around you, making twisting, ghostly shapes in the small light of the creature’s lantern that had never gone out.

“Told you they’d come looking for you,” they said with a playful laugh.

You heard the baying of dogs in the distance and tensed.

“Not my hounds,” they said, drawing back and looking around twitchily. “I have to go. Please… Please don’t tell them about me? They probably won’t believe you anyway, but… please?”

You nodded. “I won’t tell anyone. And thank you for helping me.”

The creature tipped their head to one side in something you thought was a smile, though the bone mask that covered their face made it impossible to tell.

“I won’t forget you,” you croaked.

At that, the strange creature leaned forwards and hugged you. They were warm, and although the parts of their body that touched you were hard and unyielding, they slotted perfectly against you where you sat in the dead centre of the stone circle. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you,” they croaked. The cold press of those root-like fingertips against the warm skin of your neck made you gasp suddenly, but as a torch beam glanced off the trees, they rose and sprang away like a deer, vanishing into the shadows of the gnarled trees in the blink of an eye.

Someone shouted your name and you staggered to your feet. “Here!” you croaked. “I’m here!”

The yells went up, more dogs barked, and in a few minutes, you were being wrapped up in a blanket and seen to by the rescue team.

The half mile walk back to the road passed in a blur as everyone fussed over you and the events of the night rushed through your mind.

What kind of creature had that been?

You kept your promise though, and never told a soul about them, and when you woke the next morning, you found a small, leaf-shaped mark on your neck where their cold finger had touched you. No more than an inch long, it was the colour of a coppery autumn oak leaf, and whenever you brushed your fingertips over it, you shivered. The creature had marked you somehow, but you never minded. You loved the mark, and it made you feel special, cherished, and protected.

‘Badger’, as you came to think of them because of the skull, lived on in your imagination all throughout your childhood, and sometimes you even dreamed of them, running through the small woods with their ghostly black hounds barking and playing at their heels.

Whenever things got too much, you would pile up blankets atop you in bed for the weight and warmth, and curl up on your side, and remember the way they had pulled the forest floor up over you to keep you warm. Your fingertips would trace the small leaf mark on your neck, and you would feel grounded and calm again. Your parents had thought you would be traumatised by the event, frightened of foggy nights and of the woods, but you had never felt safer than you had on that lonely night with your strange friend among the twisted oak trees and the mossy standing stones.

Your career inevitably led you into wildlife conservation and the protection of rare landscapes just like Wistman’s Wood, though considerably further north.

“You should be going somewhere hot and dry for your holiday,” your colleague grinned at you as you both shrugged into your heavy coats and prepared to lock up the field office. The weather for the past week had been truly awful, even by Scottish standards, and your cramped, barely-insulated, converted shipping container office in the heart of the Highlands — affectionately nicknamed the ‘bothy’ after the more traditional shelters dotted across Scotland and Wales — had taken an absolute battering. Still, you’d somehow got a lot of work done together, and it was time to head back to the centre with the data.

With a laugh, you shook your head and adjusted the jacket around your shoulders with a shrug. “I know, but I’ve been wanting to go back to Devon for years and I’ve finally got enough leave stored up to make it worthwhile.”

Ben’s brown eyes twinkled and he shook his head at you. In his lilting, Orcadian burr, you best friend and fellow ranger chided you affectionately. “Ah well, I always said you were daft, didn’t I? At least it’s nareaboots stopped for the day anyway,” he added, cocking his head to listen to the last lashings of wind and rain on the roof and tiny perspex window. “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint at The Selkie tonight. What time are you off tomorrow?”

“I’m getting the 8.25 train to Inverness from Golspie, then the bus to the airport. My flight’s not til late afternoon.”

You chatted as you locked up your very basic field office and battled the last throes of the autumn storm to get your stuff into the Landrover. With the windscreen wipers on maximum, you jolted down the rough, winding forestry track through patches of forest and open heath, ignoring Ben’s comments on your driving — “Like you’d do any better!” you retorted. You both let out a grunt of relief though when you got back onto the tarmac that would eventually take you to the small, seaside town just before sunset. Not that there was a visible sun to see setting behind the perpetual, pewter-grey clouds.

That night, Ben got more than usually tipsy, and you found yourself listening to his beguiling accent as he talked of the folklore of his native Orkney Islands, prompted by the name of the pub in which you were drinking — The Selkie — and his insistence, again, that the mark on your neck was a mark of the fairfolk. What choice did you have but to refute it and claim it was a birthmark? Even if you could have told him without breaking your promise to Badger, he probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway.

Although…

His large brown eyes glittered as he talked of the selkie-folk and the finfolk, and his expression grew almost dreamy as he told you of their island summer-home of Hildaland, and the safety of the city beneath the waves that was their winter refuge, Finfolkaheem. Ben had always been a good storyteller, filling nights around the stove in the bothy with evocative tales of Scottish folklore, but he talked of it now as vividly as though he’d been to these fantasy places and seen them for himself. His accent got stronger and stronger, and his tone more yearning until finally he realised what time it was, blinked, and sighed. “Ah, but it’s late, and I’ve made myself homesick.”

Ben was tall and strong, though not in the lean, chiselled, way of runway models and gym-goers. Stocky, with a stout layer of fat around his gut, he looked made to weather whatever the elements had for him, and his wild, brown hair was already turning very silver though he couldn’t have been a day over thirty.

“You’ll have to call Mag when you get home tonight and make yourself feel better,” you said, standing up and patting him on the shoulder. “Though I doubt he’ll thank me for letting you get so tipsy.” You’d never met Magnus, but Ben talked of him often enough that you felt you knew him just a little.

His handsome, weathered face took on a softer look, and he smiled at the sound of his boyfriend’s name and pushed himself to his feet as well. “Aye, he always knows how to cheer me up, that’s for sure, despite being the grumpiest, most miserable-looking son of the sea I ever met.”

Ben's stories of the hidden folk of his island heritage haunted you all the journey south for some reason. Images of the tall, stern, shapeshifting and sorcerous finmen, and the soft and kindly selkies, mermaids, and mischievous trows who dwelled in the barrows and the secret places in the earth brought to mind your own childhood experience in the wood, and your thoughts turned yet again to the creature you had come to call Badger.

The following day, as the tyres of your hire car finally crunched over the gravelly tarmac outside the lime-washed, 18th century roadside inn that you recognised from all those years ago, you bit back a yawn. It was just after half four in the afternoon, and the light was still pretty good, so after checking in, dumping your bags in your room, and changing into walking clothes, you set off up the trail towards Wistman’s Woods to stretch your legs after a long day of travelling.

The air was clear, and no mist hung between the trees that evening, but otherwise, nothing felt like it had changed. The woods slept on like King Arthur’s knights, and you stepped reverently over the rocks, placing your palms carefully so as not to crush any snails or other creatures lurking in the spongy, verdant plant life. Tourists and social media had done irrevocable damage to ecologically sacred places like this the country over, but so far it seemed to have escaped the worst of it. Slowly and without haste, you wove your way into the heart of the small oak copse that clung to the line of the little river below.

Small birds flitted here and there among the branches, and the air smelled thick and wet with the coming autumn. You expected to find mushrooms popping their bonnets up from the grass as you passed, and out of the corner of your eye you almost imagined the tiny forms of fairies flying around, but when you turned more than once to look, it was only the dancing clouds of gnats that caught the last rays of sunlight.

Eventually, after rambling around for a while, you found the circle of stones and came to a halt outside it. In the interceding years between that night and the present, you had immersed yourself in folklore as much as you had wildlife conservation, and you stared at the stones in wonder. If the fairytales were to be believed, you had been lucky to have survived your encounter at all, let alone with the freely-given help of a supernatural creature.

The golden light of the dying day flashed along the dewy moss that adorned the spiral stone and your breath caught.

“Were you even real?” you breathed into the silence. “Would you even remember that one lost child all these years later?”

You sat down cross-legged — outside the stone circle this time — and rested your weight back on your hands behind you, face tilted to the twisting canopy of vibrant, shivering oak leaves overhead. It was chilly, but not unpleasantly so, and the moss beneath you was once again as warm as a summer’s afternoon.

After only a few minutes, all the birdsong fell quiet, the sun dipped below the hill, and twilight descended on the woods in the blink of an eye.

With the new chill came a tangible stillness to the woods, like everything was holding its breath until morning, and you felt the back of your neck prickle. Freezing in place for a moment, you strained your ears until finally you heard the faintest shifting in the ferns behind you.

Twitching around, you found a tall, gangling creature standing perhaps three or four yards away, no longer with a badger’s skull, but adorned with what looked like the ancient skull of a red deer stag.

Its large, forking antlers stretched up and away from the head in perfect symmetry, and across the darkly-stained bone of the old skull itself were engraved tiny runes. The creature looked emaciated and it hunched over at the shoulders in order to fit into the space between the twisted branches of the oaks on either side, and its lanky arms dangled down well past its hips. Its left arm seemed entirely made up of interconnected sections of wood and bark, adorned at the shoulder like a pauldron with moss and at the elbow with small rocks like ball bearings, and the limb ended in three long, pale, root-like talons like a thumb and two fingers.

The right arm though had a much more human-like quality to it, with a human hand covered in that dark, tannin-stained skin, and the bark coverings seemed more like armour than anything else. Their collarbones seemed to show human skin beneath the patches of bark and wood and moss on their torso, though the colour and texture was like that of skin from ancient bog bodies — dark and leathery looking — and the muscles of their neck were sinuous and withered until it vanished behind the deer mask.

From their shoulders hung a great, woven cloak with moss and lichen and spiderwebs blending seamlessly into soft, dark green wool, and it was held in place by carved and engraved, triangular brooches that seemed to have been made from deer scapulae. Their long, mossy, tree-like legs ended in roots instead of toes. Around their narrow hips, they wore an animal skin loincloth, and at their side hung a carved wooden cup or bowl on a twisted vine cord.

You stared a long time before swallowing thickly. “Is it you?” you whispered at last. “Are you the one who saved me all those years ago?”

Slowly, the creature inclined their head. “You… remembered me?” Their voice was much deeper now, but just as rough and scraping, and they sounded astonished.

“How could I forget you?” you laughed, all apprehension draining away as you scrabbled to your feet.

In a sudden rush of wild elation, you ran towards them and without hesitation flung your arms around that skinny, bony waist and squeezed.

A low, earthy laugh rumbled from the creature and they enveloped you in those strange arms, hoisting you right up off the ground and hugging you tightly to their chest. “I felt sure you’d forget about me,” they mumbled.

“I made you a promise,” you said, wheezing as their grip got somehow even tighter. “Oof, you got bigger!”

The strange creature laughed a little harder and set you down carefully. “So did you,” they said. “Why did you come back now?”

Their voice had an otherworldly note to it, like a high harmonic in a cathedral, and it made your whole body reverberate with the sound of it.

Clearing your throat, you said, “I had some holiday time to use up and… it’s been too long. My friend from work, Ben, he’s been talking a lot lately about selkies and the fae-folk from where he lives, and it made me think of you. I had to see if you really were… real.” You looked up into their face and tilted your head a little. “You outgrew the badger skull, I see.”

A snort of laughter sounded from behind the deer skull, which made you more certain than ever that it was a mask and not a part of them, and they nodded. “A long time ago. This one belonged to my mother.”

“Your mother was a deer?”

Again, the creature laughed delightedly and it sounded like a small rockfall tumbling down a cliff side. “No, my mother was a spirit of these lands. A creature with the face and heart of a beautiful woman, and a hollow, rotting back and the tail of an ox from behind.”

You tried not to grimace at the strange imagery.

“She loved my father, who was a mortal man and who loved her all his life. They were mated, and when he died, she…” they shook their head. “She stopped wanting to live and… returned to the forest, leaving only her memory and her mask behind for me. It had been her father’s before it was hers.” They looked to one side and brought their root-like left hand up to touch the twisting trunk of a nearby oak. “She is still here, in a way. In the way that all who have gone before are remembered here by the forest.” They paused and added ruefully, “As I shall be, one day, I suppose.”

They sighed, a sound like the wind through the leaves above, and looked down at you.

“What… are you then?” you asked.

For a moment, the creature’s chest rose and fell without words. Eventually, they said in their harsh, broken-boulder voice, “I am… a guardian, I suppose. My kind are known by many names across the world: leshy, green men, dryads and hamadryads, lares, Sylvanus, woodwose…” they shrugged. “But I am only a half-breed,” they added with a wry chuckle.

Completely fascinated, you asked, “Do you have a name?”

That again gave the creature pause. “Yes,” they said after a while. “But not as you would understand it.”

You frowned.

“I am named the way a river gully is named, or a wild animal, or one of the high tors is named. Not… Not like a human with a single word.”

“You’re right… I don’t understand,” you breathed, still frowning.

“Here, let me show you,” they said, and they reached out that dendroidal left hand towards your temple. You shrank away instinctively but they shook their head. “I did not hurt you before and I will not hurt you now.”

“Sorry.”

With a slow incline of their head, they tried again. This time when their fingertips touched your temple, you did not flinch, and an image filled your mind. After only a second, it became apparent that it was not an image but an experience.

It centred on the stones of the circle behind you, illuminated as they had been only a few minutes earlier at sunset. Pure, radiant, golden light streamed down and, like stained glass, lit up the moss and lichen that rose a few inches from the stone’s surface. Midges danced in the air above the stone and a drop of dew beaded at the tip of one of the fronds, sparkling for just a second before it rolled down and soaked into the moss. You tasted fresh-fallen rain on your tongue and smelled the earthy, green scent of moss, and the last rays of the day warmed your skin. This was who this creature was. He, you realised. The creature was male.

He let go of you and you gasped, swaying on the spot as the colour and warmth of the vision receded into the grey-blue of dusk.

You blinked. “All that in one name?” you croaked, and he laughed. “And here I’ve been calling you Badger all these years.”

“Badger,” he repeated. “For the mask?”

“Mmm.”

“I like it,” he said. “They’re cheeky and resourceful creatures. It’s quite the compliment.”

You twitched your eyebrows upwards. “Well, at least it’s not been an insult. One more question?”

“Doesn’t have to be your last,” he said, clearly amused. “Ask away.”

“Are you responsible for this mark?”

You turned and exposed your neck to him, and he hummed softly. It sounded like a tree stretching.

Again he reached for you, towering from his seven foot height, but to your surprise, he eased himself down onto one knee as he traced the soft, warm fingertip of his human hand over the mark. “Yes,” he said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t mean to mark you, but I’m glad I did.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked down sharply, almost catching you with one of the prongs of his antlers, and a little, bitter laugh escaped him. “I wanted to keep you safe, but I was only a child too when we met. I didn’t know how to control the magic in me — the magic of these woods — and I didn't know what I was doing. That symbol will mark you out to all the supernatural as someone… loved.”

You smiled and pitched forwards to hug him again. “Thank you. My whole life, whenever I’ve felt lonely or afraid, I’ve touched it and it’s like…” you sighed, unsure how to describe it. Brushing your fingers over it again, you went on, “It feels like it did when you covered me with moss and kept me warm.”

He shivered. “With you so close, I can feel when you touch it,” he said.

His arms encircled you slowly and he drew you close. He smelled like autumn — like misty sunrises with dewy grass and glittering spider webs — and you nuzzled your cheek against the side of his head. The mask moved a little by accident and he tensed.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Do not be,” he said, leaning back a little way without fully letting go of you. He did readjust the mask though. “How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks,” you said as you stepped back to look at him properly. “I planned to go walking on the moors, as well as visiting here again to see if you really were real.”

Before he could answer, a shadow moved behind him and your eyes went wide at the sight of a colossal dog with blood red eyes. You took an uncertain half-step back and Badger turned to look over his shoulder.

The animal — spirit? — stepped carefully over the mossy stones and made its way down to sit silently beside the two of you, regarding you curiously.

“This is… Whisper,” he said, reaching his hand out as the massive dog butted its head up into his palm. “She is the leader of my pack of Wisht Hounds. She’s curious about you.”

“Hi. She’s… beautiful,” you said, realising it was true. The way the shadows rippled through her long, smoky black coat was mesmerising. She looked like a large, pitch-black German Shepherd, though she was slightly rangier and longer legged, and her swishing tail seemed to end in a wisp of smoke. She was also the size of a small pony.

Whisper seemed to like being called beautiful because she rose and padded close, sniffing at your hand and then barging her cold nose into it for some strokes. Her red eyes burned like embers, but she didn’t seem in the least bit frightening now. Her fur was softer than anything you’d ever touched, and the animal made small, happy little noises in her throat as her ears and chin were showered with attention.

“I bet you can be really scary when you need to be,” you said carefully, “But you’re also incredibly sweet…”

Badger laughed and stood up, creaking and cracking like an old tree in a high wind.

“That sounded… painful?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No, not really. My body is a little… dramatic, that’s all,” he said, curling his left hand up for emphasis. As the talons of his hand closed, they made a soft creaking noise.

You shivered as a breeze cold snuck in down the back of your jacket and you straightened up, much to Whisper’s disgruntlement. The spectral hound turned away, nosed a farewell into Badger’s hand too, and then trotted off, melting into the gathering night like a fading memory.

“She’s going to patrol the wood,” he said. “I’m glad you met her. I remember that you were afraid of the idea of them first time we met.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything other than the ghost stories our teacher told us on the bus back then,” you snorted. Your stomach rumbled audibly and you pulled a face. “I’m exhausted. I came down from Scotland today, and I haven’t eaten since this morning. I should get going, but can I come back tomorrow?”

He nodded. “I would love that. The woods have seen more people than usual of late,” he sighed. “People trampling it and breaking off moss and branches and taking acorns away, but it gets quiet in the afternoons. I can remain hidden if necessary though.”

You nodded and sighed as you looked up into the empty eye sockets of the deer’s skull mask. “I’m so glad I met you again,” you said. “After all this time.”

“So am I,” he said with a slight bow. “I will walk you to the edge of the woods, if I may?”

“Sure, thank you.”

The only sounds when he moved were the gentle breathing of the woods themselves and the slight creak of bark and the whisper of wind through the leaves. You felt loud and clumsy and out of place in comparison.

At the edge of the trees, Badger stopped and looked out at the moorland beyond. Bracken whispered in the breezes that didn’t really seem to touch the small oak copse behind you, and the air seemed colder and fresher and somehow thinner out there.

You turned and looked up at him. “See you tomorrow,” you said, and touched the oak leaf on your neck.

He shuddered, and then whickered a low laugh. “Tomorrow.”

He watched you go, and as you rounded a turn in the path, you glanced back to find him still standing there, just barely visible between the gnarled trees. He almost looked like one of them, with his bark-and-moss body and his antlers, but you could see him distinctly enough. Around the edge of the copse, further up the rolling, stony hillside, three black shapes careered over the fieldstones and crumbling remains of a wall: Wisht Hounds.

Raising your arm in a final wave, you laughed when he did the same and then turned to melt into the shadows of his oak wood once again.

___

Hope you enjoyed badger! Any guesses about Ben and Magnus? Want to see part two? Lemme know as always with reblogs to show your interest.

If you do happen to have a couple of bucks spare, you could always drop a tip on my Ko-fi, but reblogs are just as welcome and just as helpful! As always, I look forward to your reactions to this one. Take care of yourselves.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[kuwdora]

WIP GAME tell me more about “witcher allergies” pls

Alright, so this is an idea/scene that I have that I haven’t put on AO3 yet cause part of me wants to include it in one of my longer Leshkel stories. But I probably should just leave this as a standalone scene since it’s pretty funny on it’s own. My Scrivener doc says I created this allergies file in January of last year. That’s how outstanding some of my WIPs are, omg. 😭

The idea is that you turn a mutated witcher into an ancient monster of the woods and that witcher-leshen pollen might affect the immune systems of only witchers. 🤧 And some witchers more than others. Here is a draft that's still rough but gets the point across. 😆 (yo it's scary to put my ideas into the light of day. Hope you like?? Want to see more? Let me know.)

Seasonal Allergies

TWN. post-Voleth Meir. Leshen Eskel AU

Gen, but implied Geralt/Eskel, maaaybe vaguely implied sex pollen.

~1300w

Jaskier reached the great hall and found Ciri and Yennefer sitting across the table from Geralt and Coen, chatting with one another. Coen was hunched over his bowl of food, looking utterly miserable like he hadn’t slept a wink, and Geralt looked like he was ready for a nap.

“Fancy meeting you all here for a spot of dinner,” Jaskier said. “Training going well?” Jaskier asked and Ciri nodded distantly.

Jaskier picked at his food and the loudest godsdamned sneeze he’d ever heard erupted from the table, startling him so much that he dropped his knife.

“Whaaat the!” he said, looking around the table.

Coen’s face was in his palms and the witcher sighed morosely. Jaskier eyed the tatter of scars on the man’s head, the slouch of his shoulders. The witcher sniffled. Sniffled.

“Are you sick?” he asked and Coen sighed again and leaned back to pull wadded linen from his thigh and blow his nose which surely looked like a yes.

“I thought witchers don’t get sick,” Ciri said.

“They don’t,” Jaskier said. He looked at Geralt. “In twenty years the only time I have seen this one sneeze was when he was clearing his nostrils of selkimore guts.”

Ciri pulled the spoon from her mouth and gently tapped it against her plate, her face twisting in thought. “My friends—the ones I used to play with on the streets when I back in Cintra—they used to have a rhyme whenever one of us got too sick to come out and play,” she said.

“Sixth sneeze, let me breathe, selkie please,” Ciri rhymed. She tapped out a beat on the table and Jaskier smiled a little, the pride warming his chest. He never thought it was the smartest or cleverest rhyme, but it had been memorable enough that she could recall it all these years later. Jaskier happily tucked that pride away.

“That was you?” Ciri asked, her eyes flicking from Geralt to Jaskier and back again. Jaskier grinned.

“Sure was,” he said. He was about to reminisce for her, but he glanced at who Geralt barely nodded, and Jaskier lost his train of thought. Geralt still looked half-asleep at the table.

Lambert came stomping his way over with his plate of food steaming mug. He looked far from sleepy.

“Fucken hells,” Lambert growled, obviously congested, and sat down on Jaskier’s other side. Jaskier recoiled when the ginger witcher wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“They’re allergies,” Yennefer said and that didn’t make a lick of sense to Jaskier. He looked at Lambert and back to Coen. Sickness didn’t make sense either, he supposed, but Geralt was still sitting there sleepy-eyed between the two of them.

“Witchers don’t have allergies,” he pointed out.

“It’s the pollen,” Yennefer said and Jaskier frowned again.

“What pollen? I haven’t sneezed since we got here,” Jaskier said and finally took his first bite of the stew. “And it’s the middle of winter.”

His stomach growled and Coen blew his nose on a rag. The sound made Jaskier lose his appetite.

Ciri looked between Coen and Lambert with an amused pity.

Yennefer, on the other hand, was looking at Geralt with a knowing twist to her lips and Jaskier was equal parts curious and confused.

“Jaskier, do you know what animal has the longest orgasm and how long they orgasm for?—And don’t bother saying claiming it’s you,” she said, preemptively rolling her eyes at hi.

“Isn’t it the goat? Because they’re horny. With the horns and,” Jaskier paused, eyeing Ciri for a moment, not sure what the protocol was for discussing animal genitalia and orgasms in front of a Princess. But Yennefer was the one who had asked, “the giant goat balls?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped in surprise again the force of Coen’s sneeze rocked their side of the bench.

“The average length of a pig’s orgasm is 30 minutes. It can sometimes last up to an hour and a half,” Yennefer said carefully, her eyes leveled on Geralt. Jaskier frowned and looked at Geralt who inhaled and he did sound a little congested now that Jaskier was listening.

“Okay… what’s that have to do with pollen in winter?” Jaskier said.

“The average pollenating season of most trees last anywhere between 2 to 5 months depending on the region,” Yennefer said just as Coen was blowing his nose again.

“That tree?” Jaskier eyed the medallion tree which looked quite dead to his eye, but then again he didn’t know much about trees.

“The tree,” Coen mumbled sadly, which was of no help to Jaskier.

“Eskel?” Ciri asked and Yennefer nodded.

“Uh,” Jaskier said and frowned. “What?”

“Eskel is part leshen,” Ciri said as it was obvious…which it was. “Leshen are part tree, part monster,” she added.

“There’s… leshen pollen. In the keep?” Jaskier asked and looked around. “Why aren’t we sneezing? Do you have allergies?” he asked Ciri and Ciri shrugged, showing no sniffle as far as he could see or hear.

Jaskier sniffed. “I’m inhaling leshen tree pollen now?” He couldn’t see any of it or smell it for that matter.

She nodded. “Didn’t they teach botany at Oxenfurt?” Yennefer asked.

“Wait… Pollen, tree. Seeds. Seeds spread their—seed to reproduce and—” Jaskier said and Yennefer’s grin broadened. Jaskier looked at the two witchers again, trying to connect the sneezy thoughts to Yen’s words. “Does that mean Eskel… is orgasming?”

“Fucken hells,” Lambert muttered.

Ciri looked amused and concerned and Yennefer was smiling behind her mug. Jaskier peered over at Geralt who was not sneezing, nor did he seem sniffly.

“Are you still immune?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt took a deep breath and looked over at Jaskier for the first time. It was a strange sight to behold: yellow eyes that were red-rimmed and almost puffy, but he was inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of the air. Like he was scenting blossoms in spring. Clear nostrils, but still affected somehow.

“No,” Geralt said and Yennefer cleared her throat.

“Geralt and Eskel have been working together understand his new leshen anatomy, haven’t you Geralt?” Yennefer asked. It was mild and leading in a way that Jaskier didn’t have to see the way she raised her eyebrows in mirth. Jaskier looked back at Geralt who avoided both Jaskier and Ciri’s eyes and instead ate another bite of food.

“The pollen shouldn’t bring anyone to harm,” Geralt said and took a bite of food, giving Yennefer a brief look that was both pleading and amused.

“Is it because you went through the Trials twice that it affects you differently?” Ciri asked.

“Different? Different how?” Jaskier asked and Yennefer’s smile grew. Before Jaskier could ask another six follow-up questions, the doors to the courtyard opened. He only managed to identify the approaching witcher as Tolbert from the axes hanging from his belt because his face was covered with an unusual helmet. There was a clear plate for his eyes and two knobs protruding from his face.

Lambert sat up so suddenly that Jaskier’s bowl rattled on the table and pointed a spoon at Tolbert. “Oi, where the fuck you get that contraption?”

Tolbert sat down next to Ciri but didn’t take the helmet off. On closer inspection it looked more like a mask with thick straps that kept it firmly attached to his face.

“Dwarf named Avlaf. S’what they use in Mahakham,” Tolbert said and his voice was thick and muffled. Lambert leaned forward, nearly twitching and tried to swipe it from Tolbert’s face. Tolbert punched Lambert in the elbow.

“Get your own. I found ‘im through a guard in Vergen. He’ll be able to pretty up your face,” Tolbert said and although half his words were muffled through the mask. Lambert cursed and knocked back half the stein of tea.

WIP Game List

@ghostinthelibrarywrites tagging you since you had also asked about my Leshkel fic in a previous ask!!

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

23 geraskier? feel better soon! <3

23. Covering them with a blanket when they’ve fallen asleep on the couch

Geralt knows that he doesn’t need to bother with stealth as he lets himself in through the front door of his and Jaskier’s townhouse. His boyfriend can sleep through just about anything, especially when he’s been spending lots of late nights working on his and Priscilla’s next album. Geralt could probably fight a kikimore in the foyer and Jaskier would be snoring away happily upstairs.

Except as Geralt shucks off his boots and his armor—Jaskier gets grumpy if he tracks gore on the Metinnan rugs—he realizes that the snoring that echoes through the house isn’t coming from upstairs. Geralt peers into the living room to see Jaskier sprawled across the couch, his head tilted back and his mouth open. The TV is on, playing a rerun of an old sitcom, and there’s an untouched mug of coffee cooling on the end table.

Geralt’s lips twitch into a fond little smile. Tonight’s hunt for a leshen had the potential to be a nasty one—and would have been, if Eskel hadn’t been able to come with him as backup. Jaskier must have been worried if he attempted to wait up for Geralt’s return. He never stood a chance of staying awake, not after two late nights at the studio with Priscilla in a row, but it makes Geralt feel warm inside that he even tried.

Geralt crosses to the couch, bending to brush a kiss across Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier responds by snoring loudly right in his face and snuggling back into the couch. There’s no point disturbing him now, not when he looks so ridiculous and adorable with his mouth hanging open and his face slack in sleep. Geralt will wake him in a bit, after he’s washed the mud and blood out of his hair and had something to eat.

He snags the quilt that Jaskier’s mother gave them as a housewarming present when they bought the townhouse, tucking it around Jaskier. The quilt is the same blue as Jaskier’s eyes, embroidered with little yellow buttercups. His boyfriend makes a contented noise, eyelashes fluttering, but doesn’t wake. Geralt smooths his hair out of his face, smiling when Jaskier lets out another snort, and starts to head upstairs to shower.

“Geralt?”

Geralt pauses on the stairs and turns to find blue eyes peering up at him.

“You’re back.” Jaskier smiles sleepily. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s because you were asleep.”

“Asleep? No, I waited up for you. I even made coffee to stay awake. See?” He gestures to the mug, eyes already fluttering shut again. “Good hunt?”

“Good enough.” Geralt can hear the fondness in his voice. “Go back to sleep.”

“Told you, I wasn’t asleep. I always wait up for my witcher.” He snuggles deeper into the quilt. 

“Sure you do, Jask,” Geralt says softly, but his boyfriend is already snoring again, cocooned happily in the buttercup quilt.

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[teddybasmanov]

Hollow_VA playlists because I like order and all his playlists are pure chaos. (a few times did get petty, because the playlist actually exists but misses a video or two). Generally consisting of more than two videos, but not always. Please, feel free to correct me if I missed something or misspelled someone's name.

Are there any other playlists needed?

Nightmare High - basically a Monster High concept, really sweet.

Adventurers' Guild - being accepted into the guild and finding your first party.

Twin Elves - captured by two elves in the Zetria forest.

Steampunk Runika - Runika after the coup.

Post-apocalypse with mimis - bunny boy and a panther boy.

Old lands, new faces - just a full playlist for the second season of Jackal and his little mage.

Evil Emperor/Yandere Prince - something rotten in the Rapturian theocracy.

Fae - spirited away.

Romantic necromancer - full Ortas Playlist.

Yandere demon hunter - lord Highwinter.

Wolfsegner - from the forest of Zetria.

Demon boyfriend - full playlist.

Noble assassin - full playlist.

General Sarrus playlist - videos that aren't in any other playlist.

Wild Rose - Leshen and then gangster from Runika but the same listener. I'm pretty sure this video is also about the gangster.

Sad boyfriend - who only calls at night.

Old gods, new world - interviewing the Greek gods.

Under the ocean - saved by a cute turtle boy.

Inside of a painting - captured in a panting.

Inquisition - occult in Runika.

Tempting warlock.

Pyromancer.

Circus - the world is a circus, and we're in an abandoned Hollow_VA storyline.

Vampire rambles - crazy uncle Seig.

Wounded vampire - saving, being turning, being captured, escaping.

Feral vampire.

Yanwere - claimed by a werewolf, captured by a hunter.

Spymaster (post coup) - spymaster season 2? Connected to the gangster part of Wild Rose playlist.

Flirty actor - full Percy playlist.

[brighteyedjill]

Remix Smubbles

Thanks to the Smubbles Remix Challenge I wrote ten (10!) short fics over the weekend. RIP my subscribers who got all those notifications this morning. Smubbles is a portmanteau of “smut drubbles,” but they’re neither all smut nor all drabbles. They are all remixes, meaning that they’re each a variation on an existing story from another author. Be sure to check out the originals, too (linked in each fic). Here’s what I wrote:

Fandom: Shadow and Bone

Laid Bare (the As You Wish Remix). Jesper/Kaz. When your fantasies about your boss come true but oops now feelings. (remixing @deerna​)

Proper Business Attire (the Dressed to Impress Remix). Jesper/Wylan. When you have to remind your boss you wearing your boyfriend’s clothes is not his business. (remixing @kallisto-k)

Fandom: The Witcher

As the Tides (the Siren Song Remix), Geralt/Leshen. When the long-lived love of your life is kinda like the sea. (remixing @seasofglass)

Guardian, Aiden/Lambert. When you’re trying to adopt a dog but end up processing your childhood trauma. (remixing @inexplicifics)

Held, Geralt/Leshen. When you’re doing a sex ritual with a Leshen but it feels kinda nice actually? (remixing @eatingcroutons)

Keen, Coën/Lambert. When you discover a new kink while sword fighting. (remixing @ivymandragola)

Near Miss, Eskel/Geralt. When you almost had to watch your best friend get put down like a dog but thank the gods you didn’t. (remixing @bomberqueen17)

Takes One Strike (the Banked Fire Remix), Coën/Lambert. When you’ve given up on having nice things so your friend has to get mad for you. (remixing @gavilansblog)

This Gift a Wound (the White Elephant remix). Eskel/Geralt. When your bestie invites you to a threesome you don’t think you’re gonna enjoy.  (@remixing hobbitdragon)

Your Move (the Patience Pays Remix). Coën/Lambert. When you decide that being edged is kinda fun. (remixing @sassaffrassa)

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Sessile

Rating: NSFW Length: 1614 Pairing: Male Forest Guardian/Leshen/Plant Monster x Male Reader (both cis)

A commission for my friend Dito.

xxx

You’ve never been able to ignore the lure of the forest. It has called you since childhood, its creatures more friend to you than most humans. You spend whole summers catching and releasing bugs and frogs, watching fireflies in its meadows, and swimming with the fish in its rivers and streams. You start to find things in the forest when you’re in your teens—things that you know are for you. There are glittering stones or golden acorns left on your clothing when you return to it from swimming, and at times the crows bring you trinkets like a necklace of bottle caps on a leather string, or small plastic hair clips that once belonged to a small child.

You keep each gift in a shoebox under your bed long after you’ve moved out on your own, aching to return to the forest when life loses the carefree nature of childhood. You make few friends wearing your clips in your hair and acorns strung around your neck, but you don’t care; someone cared enough about you to gift them to you, so you were going to display them proudly. It isn’t until you begin to study biology that you find others who experience the call of the forest, but none of them have been courted by it like you have. None know the call of a crow bearing gifts.

It isn’t until you’re late into your twenties that you work up the nerve to give something back. That summer, you give pretty ribbons and wood crafts you carve or burn back to the crows in exchange for your trinkets, and you’re startled to see that the gifts begin changing in nature. Where once there were acorns, now there was a fine tunic spun from raw silk waiting for you when you came back from swimming. It felt like cool water against your skin when you slipped it over your head and smoothed it down along your thighs, relishing in the soft caress of it against your skin.

The next time you traded trinkets, it was for an orange diamond that was as big as a robin’s egg and warm to the touch. It shone red and gold in the light and reflected rainbows across the grass when you held it up to the sunlight, and you immediately took it home to make a little cage for the gemstone to sit in while it hung around your neck. After that, the crows gave you gold coins that seemed to be priceless, but you tucked them into your shoebox just the same.

You spend the next few days on a woodworking project that keeps you up late into the night, but you don’t mind; the bracelet, when finished, is your finest work, carved to display flowers and vines and inlaid with small chips of all the precious stones you’ve received over the years. The response is swift and shocking: this time, the crows bring you a glittering ring. The message is clear, and it frightens you a little. Whatever is in the forest, whatever you’ve been doing, this back-and-forth… Just what have you been courting? A faery? A demon?

You leave the ring and run.

Staying away from the forest is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. The trees seemed to whisper your name in mourning whenever you’re anywhere near it, and the forest followed you into your dreams to haunt you. Each dream was the same, warm and welcoming one moment, cold and lonely the next. You wake with wet lashes and a bitter ache in your heart, until it becomes unbearable and then a day more.

When the time came that you felt your heart might break and never mend, you returned in full regalia, wearing nothing but your fine silk tunic and all of the trinkets that your forest has ever given you. Whatever madness this was, you were ready to accept it. When the crows came again, tentative and wary, you took the ring and placed it on your finger, leaving no room for misinterpretation. The crows took flight and disappeared into the forest, but that is when he appeared.

At first, you thought him terrible. He was half as tall as the trees and just as broad, with long limbs made of twisted wood and thick, flowering vines. Flowers sprouted from his chest and over his shoulder, weaving into what looks like a cape made of vines and leaves. His head was little more than a deer’s skull with sharp, imposing teeth, eyes deep, glowing pits the same colour as the diamond at your chest. He was the forest itself, a guardian lost to man and time.

“I thought you would never return,” he murmured, and his voice was the most wonderful thing you’d ever heard—all birdsong and the hush of wind through the trees.

You ran to him, allowing him to gather you up into his strong, firm arms and wrapping your own around his long, willowing neck. “Oh, I’ll never leave you again,” you whispered, kissing at the skull’s cheeks and along its jaw until your guardian shivered and purred.

“You would leave the human realm behind?” he asked, trembling at your attentions.

“Yes.”

“You would let me love you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!” he cried, speechless with joy, and his long tongue slipped free from his skull to glide into your mouth to kiss you.

He tasted of wood and honey—of something dark and sweet and wonderful—and you knew at once that you would never tire of his kisses. Heart pounding wildly in your chest, you asked him to take you to his home, and he happily obliged. Deep in the forest was a grand house made entirely of wood and flowers, and you held his finger as he led you through and showed you where you would both spend the rest of your days.

“Why me?” you asked at length, looking up into his face and watching as his eyes flickered in and out of existence.

“Why not you?” he countered, drawing you back into his arms to kiss you again and again. “You were always so kind to my subjects, so respectful of the forest, so at home within my realm. How could I not love you?” His hands caressed your backside and chest as though you were a precious thing, the bark of his skin catching gently in the silk of your tunic until you were driven to pull it over your head.

“Take me,” you begged, and he groaned his assent.

He laid you back tenderly into the grasp of several vines as soft as velvet, and you felt both utterly safe and entirely exposed when the vines pinned your wrists above your head and spread your thighs to reveal your hardness. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, carefully tracing the tip of one gnarled finger down along your twitching cock.

“Tell me your name?” you whimpered, pushing up into his touch and being rewarded with a gentle stroke of his warm, careful hand.

“Sessile,” he whispered back, and when he knelt to taste you, hands on your thighs, you noticed the bracelet you made on one of his fingers, worn like a ring.

“Sessile,” you moaned, writhing around the press of his hot, slippery tongue. It was working you open at a pace that was maddening—too fast one moment, too slow the next. “Please.”

“‘Please’ what, my love?” he murmured when he pulled away, eyes a soft shade of red that reminded you of roses.

You squirmed under his gaze, moaning again when his tongue wrapped around your cock and stroked. “Oh, gods, please fuck me.”

“Are you certain?” Sessile asked, standing up so that he towered in front of you. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care if you do,” you said, rocking up against the vine that replaced his tongue. “I just want you inside me.”

“Very well,” murmured Sessile, cupping your body gently in his giant hands. “Hold onto me, sweet thing.”

The vines that held your wrists slid away and let you move again, allowing you to wrap your hands around his thumbs and watch as a strange, pink flower blossomed from between Sessile’s thighs. When it bloomed, it was with a thick sheen of slick nectar, revealing a long, flared appendage that looked somewhere between a cock and a flower’s pistil. When Sessile nudged up against your entrance, you felt the nectar tingle and burn, heightening your sensation as he pushed himself into you.

It hurt, at first, until it didn’t. You suspected the nectar had something to do with the ease of entry, but those suspicions and all other thoughts disappeared the moment that Sessile began to move inside of you, pushing against your prostate time and time again. You lost yourself to sensation as he thrust inside of you, holding onto his hands as though you’d fall off of the face of the earth without him there to ground you. It wasn’t long at all before your balls clenched and cum shot up along your stomach and chest, but Sessile was there to clean it with his long, wonderful tongue, kissing you hungrily so that you tasted yourself on him as he continued to rock his dick inside you.

The sunset found you nestled in the arms of your lover, sharing sweet kisses and a large, mossy blanket that he made just for you. “Will you truly stay?” Sessile whispered to the growing darkness, almost as if afraid to hear the answer.

“As long as you’ll have me,” you murmured back, smiling as you played with the ring on his finger, “and then a day more.”

[advena87]

Lambert and Aiden on the Path

Putting aside my Kaer Morhen shenanigans series, I have repeatedly imagined the dynamics between Lambert and Aiden on the Path. You know how these two met and what it was like before they realized they were more than just friends. I think Lambert would be the surly one who wouldn’t like to bond, and Aiden, on the other hand, would be the energetic and friendly one. Of course, together, these two morons would be masters of mayhem and get into trouble more often than a toddler left alone at the zoo.

.

Lambert: Listen, smartass-

Aiden: Please, call me Aiden.

Lambert: I'd really rather not. If I named you, I could get attached.

***

Lambert: You’re kind of annoying.

Aiden: Kind of? Kind of??? Excuse me. Excuse you. I am fully annoying. I am very annoying. There’s nothing half-assed half-hearted “kind of” about it.

***

Aiden: So what’s the plan ?

Lambert: I thought you were the one with the plan.

Aiden: Nope, I’m the one with enthusiasm.

*later*

Lambert: As far as plans go, this is not a good one.

Aiden: Lambert, this was your plan.

Lambert: I didn’t think you’d actually say yes!

Aiden: I’m the one with enthusiasm, remember? There are many things that I will agree to and most of them will not have logical justification.

***

Lambert: You’ve been hallucinating all day after eating these wild berries and now you lick something you found stuck to the floor?!

Aiden: I have a natural curiosity.

***

Lambert: I’m gonna need a human skull and I can't have you ask any questions why.

Aiden: Only if you also don't ask why--

Aiden, pulls out 7 pristine human skulls: Take your pick.

Lambert:

Aiden:

Lambert: This one is fine.

***

Lambert: What are all these dead bodies doing here?!

Aiden: Not much.

Lambert: …

Aiden: But, listen, I’m not a murderer.

Lambert: ...

Aiden: Okay, technically, I am. Not even technically. Literally. But I refuse to be defined by the times I murdered people.

Lambert: You think you can just bully people, but you can’t. It’s not okay. I’m the bully around here. Ask anyone.

Aiden: Oh.

Aiden: So you're mad because I'm a competition, not because I killed all these people?

Aiden: We'll be such a great team.

***

Lambert: Just letting you know, if we die I blame you.

Aiden: I know.

Lambert: None of this would have happened if you'd just gone to the Inn like I told you.

Aiden: If I'd gone to the Inn, you would be in jail right now.

Lambert: Well, jail is a big improvement over my current prospect of soon to be murdered!

***

Lambert: You know, when I first met you I thought you were a real bitch.

Aiden: What changed your mind?

Lambert: Oh, I still think you’re a bitch. I’ve just grown to like that about you.

Aiden: Are you this rude to all your friends?

Lambert: Yes, don’t think you’re special.

A voice from off: But he was.

***

*Lambert has miraculously survived leshen attack*

Aiden: But you were... How did...

Lambert: 'Cause I'm a badass, princess!

Aiden, chuckling: You're "a badass princess"?

Lambert: What? No, no, no. There's a comma. You know, I'm a badass, comma, prince-

Aiden: Yeah. Yeah, whatever you say... princess.

***

Aiden: Just let me take you TO HEALER-

Lambert: Oh, I’m sorry, is this OUR stab wound? Stay out of it, pretty boy.

Aiden: Wait, you think I'm pretty?

Lambert, blushing: Yes, pretty annoying!

***

Aiden: Truth or dare?

Lambert: Truth.

Aiden: I dare you to kiss me.

Lambert, leaning in for a kiss: You better believe I’m not here to lose!

Lambert, stops: Hold on.

Lambert: What the fuck, I didn't even choose dare.

Aiden to himself: Damn, and it was so close!

***

Lambert, mentally: Wait, is he into me? Quick, make a bad joke and see if he laughs.

Lambert, aloud: Did you hear the one about the skeleton who couldn't go to the party? He had no body to go with!

Aiden, laughs: That's really funny.

Lambert: ...

Lambert, mentally: Well, that's not a fair test. That joke's hilarious.

***

Lambert: Step 1, be straight.

Aiden: *walks by*

Lambert: Failed step 1.

***

Aiden, jokingly: You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.

Lambert, seriously: Won’t be a problem.

Lambert, a weeks later: THERE’S A PROBLEM.

Aiden: Aww, you poor thing.

Lambert: Don’t bring my financial status into this.

***

Aiden: I’ve been dropping him the most insanely obvious hints for over six months now. No response.

Lambert: Wow. He sound stupid.

Aiden: But he isn’t. He is smart actually. Just dense.

Lambert: Maybe you need to be more obvious? Like, I don’t know… “Hey! I love you!”

Aiden: I guess you’re right. Hey Lambert, I love you.

Lambert: See! Just say that!

Aiden: Holy fucking shit.

Lambert: If that flies over his head then sorry, Aiden, but he is too dumb for you.

Aiden: Lambert…

* the same night, Lambert suddenly realizing that Aiden was talking about him all the time. *

Lambert: OMFG, I am such an idiot!

Aiden:

Lambert:

Aiden:

Lambert:

Aiden: If you're waiting for me to disagree with you, it's gonna be long night.

***

Aiden: *kisses Lambert before he goes into a life or death situation*

Lambert: Hot diggity dog!

Lambert: Oh no! The first thing I said after Aiden kissed me is “hot diggity dog”.

Lambert: You know what? It’s my honest reaction and I stand by it.

***

Lambert, on his relationship with Aiden: I was in the friend zone, and before I knew what was happening, he pulled me into the romance zone! It was like quick sand!

***

Lambert: Rubbing alcohol is for outside injuries.

Lambert: Drinking it is for inside injuries.

Aiden, softly: Babe, no–

 ***

Innkeeper: I can't believe you broke the bed last night. Must have been crazy!

*Last night*

Aiden: I bet you can't jump and touch the ceiling.

Lambert: Fucking watch me.

***

*after leaving the inn*

Lambert: Thanks for paying the bill for dinner.

Aiden: But... I thought you did?

Lambert:

Aiden:

Lambert: Well I guess we won’t be going to that place ever again

***

Villain: Now that we’ve captured you, we’re going to call your boyfriend.

Aiden: Please don’t.

Villain: Beggin will get you nothing!

Aiden: You don’t understand. He’s going to cause a massive scene. I’m trying to save both of us a lot of trouble here.

***

Lambert, wakes up: Wait... Where am I?

Aiden, sarcastically: In heaven

Lambert: Oh.

Lambert: ...

Lambert: Didn’t think you’d be here.

Aiden: Honestly, fuck you.

Lambert: We can do that in heaven?

.

Here is Part 2

.

[hardkinkbardkink]

big fat masterlist

since my tags are so bad, and since a few of yous asked for it, here’s a list of all the posts on this blog for your reading convenience x

jaskier milking geralt for payment & for fun

figurative puppy geralt pissing his pants like a bad boy

closeted wolf fucker jaskier

local bard can’t wee in front of people, gets a piss kink instead

tarzan au except with more wolves

area man can’t get laid, discovers Humping™

the gang does a gangbang

small cock appreciation: jaskier edition

geralt milking jaskier for a potion & for fun

small cock appreciation: geralt edition

boot worship with no foot fetish cos i Respect Myself

small cock appreciation: collector’s edition (feat. vague incubus magic mechanics)

actual daddy geralt & his don’t-ask-how-it-happened son

out & proud dog fucker jaskier (with the help of some Magic™)

local hunky himbo confused why art students want to fuck him, more news at 7

eskel deserves the world but the world doesn’t deserve him

man overdoses his boyfriend on viagra, “oops”, he says upon questioning

i don’t know what a threadcount is but pissing your breeches would probably ruin it

that’s Definitely how leshens work (feat. more wolf fucking)

fuck or die curse but Spicy

non-con somnophilia but who is it non-con for?? send in your answers now (feat. bad axii etiquette)

area man just wants some fucking peace, thinks cock cages are the way to go

uno reverse card with witcher jaskier & his New Teaching Methods

it’s not drugs, it’s for my Genuine Medical Problem

the one fic that finally crossed the line of tumblr decency

[kueble]

Thanks @ohnomybreadsticks and @officerjennie for the tags! I started my own post since these get long lol.

List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors! 

“Aren’t you a good boy,” Eskel says softly, and Jaskier wants to nod but he’s been told to stay quiet.  Take Your Pleasure, Eskel/Jaskier (Geralt too?)

The sky is overcast and a gentle rain falls down around him - more of a mist than anything else - but Jaskier’s heart is soaring like the birds chirping in the trees that line his path. Far Too Long, Geraskier

They’re holding hands. How You Want, Geraskier

There’s a quick rap of knuckles against the wood before the door slowly opens.  Such a Pretty Picture - Geralt/Eskel

Geralt eyes the door of the dive bar with distrust. Guilty Pleasure, Geraskier

Lambert normally wakes before he does, so when Aiden opens his eyes to the sunlight beaming through their window, he knows something is off. Put it on My Back, Lambden

Life has been rather chaotic lately, and Geralt only has himself to blame. Bring Out Your Fangs, Geraskier

Geralt knows this fight isn’t going his way, but it’s too late to do anything about it. Completely Unnecessary, Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Jaskier buries his fingers in the feathers of Geralt’s wings, knowing how much the demon loves it. So Pretty When You Cry, Geraskier

Jaskier looks at the entrance of the cave for a long moment before nodding to himself and slipping through it. Pretty Things, Geraskier

Jaskier doesn’t even need to ask because he can tell from the grimace on Geralt’s face that the mage wasn’t in the cave. A Rush of copper, Geraskier

Lambert still isn’t completely convinced that Aiden isn’t just pulling a massive prank on him, but he’s not willing to ignore it if there is a chance his lover needs him. Sunny Side Up, Lambden

They’re both too distracted to notice it at first. Like Vines, We Intertwined, Geraskier/Leshen

If you told Jaskier a year ago that he’d be traveling with a witcher - let alone the White Stallion - he wouldn’t have believed it. The White Stallion, Geraskier

The day’s trip to Novigrad seemed like the longest journey they’d ever taken together. On Soft Sheets Til The Dawn Comes, Geraskier

It’s all his fault. Perfect Pair, Geraskier

Jaskier loves slow mornings like this. Glowing, Geraskier

Geralt treats each one of Ciri’s rugby matches like it's the playoffs. Two Tries, Aro Ciri.

Geralt knows he should be cleaning up their dinner plates, but he can’t help watching his boyfriend as he moves around the apartment. Pure Joy, Geraskier

“Safe-word?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, because they have talked this to death. Another, Geraskier

So I have learned that I either start a fic with a character’s name or a dramatic declaration.  Also, if I’m trying to write smut with no background, I just jump right the fuck in.  Apparently I also have a weird thing for having doors/entrances mentioned?  No clue why?

I’m tagging everyone who would like to do this, because it was fun!

[markodragic]

For the past day or two I've had two RDR AU's rattling in my brain. One about Arthur being reincarnated as a forest deity, and another about Micah making a deal with a demon when he dies (though I'll tell you about that one in a different ask if you want). Basically, after the events of chapter six, Arthur is revived as a forest spirit (deer antlers, glowing eyes, mysterious teal tattoos). After wandering for a bit aimlessly, he runs into Charles, and romance and angst soon ensue. (-spade anon

!! oh I LOVE the idea of charles and his supernatural spirit boyfriend 🥺🥺🥺 I imagine him looking kind of like a leshen from the witcher but less terrifying. and you could totally merge those AUs to have evil spirit m*cah vs chill forest spirit arthur JFKGKGK

[kuwdora]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @deerna and @jawanaka !

How many works do you have on A03? 110 - but this would probably be +200 if I had been crossposting my fanvids there. I still remember when video embeds did not work on AO3 pages. But that was ages ago. And I’m terrible at crossposting. Especially when I have so many to crosspost at this point.

What's your total A03 word count? 280,783

What fandoms do you write for? In the past it was Stargate SG-1/Atlantis, Heroes and Sanctuary and a lovely romp with Being Human UK. Star Trek. These days I’m still on The Witcher, with the occasional fleeting non-witcher stuff I manage to finish.

What are your top five fics by kudos? I can see through you, The Witcher Netflix. My Geralt and Jaskier role reversal thing. More like a role inversion.

Surface Tension, The Witcher Netflix. soft very established relationship Geralt/Yen/Jaskier smut.

Papa’s Got a Brand New Suit, Star Trek: Deep Space 9. Julian/Garak PWP. From ye olde porn battle days. Learning Curve, The Witcher Netflix. Yen/Jaskier, post-season 2 soft feelings and sex with an emphasis on all of Yennefer's pain.

Heart Tap, The Witcher Netflix. Leshen Eskel(/Geralt). My first story about what it could be like for Eskel to live with his transformation into a monster. I'm actually surprised this is in my top 5 kudos considering how niche it is but man I love my tree boyfriend and have so many more thoughts about him that I haven't gotten out yet...

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Yes! I try to respond to comments when I can. Sometimes it takes forever and sometimes I do forget to respond to comments but man I love rolling around in them.

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? My angstiest endings are for fic that I haven’t finished or posted on AO3 yet for more of my witcher fixations. But for posted things?? Hmm. I do have an old Heroes fic called Code of Hammurabi that is Peter/Sylar time travel AU that’s particularly angsty and gave me the chance to rummage around in the way Peter would endure in a very very messy situation.

Oh, my Doctor Sleep ficlet is also pretty angsty. Danny reflecting on his time with Billy when Billy's ghost shows up. I'm smiling upside down is the name of that ficlet.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Oh that’s probably my smutty fluffy thing for Being Human. PWP. Moon Mambo, Hal/Tom.

Do you get hate on fics? No, but I sense that’s only a matter of time before someone directs their hate at me.

Do you write smut? Yup.

Do you write crossovers? Yes, but not for a very long time. I have a “Ciri collects all the young girl protagonists from sci-fi/fantasy books for a group project” crossover idea but my focus is too scattered to get that going. I did start it with a Nona-meets-Ciri Locked Tomb/witcher crossover here: Call to Adventure.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I’m aware of. I think my stuff is far too niche and self-indulgent for that kind of thing but who knows. The internet is a smaller place these days but people seem to find new ways to steal. Alternatively: I did learn that someone submitted one of my Stargate SG-1 vids to a Creation Con fanvid contest that had prize money in it. That was very upsetting to learn well after the fact.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, not co-written. But I do love rolling around with my beta and workshopping my fic into better shape and a lot of my stuff ends up way better as a result of my betas. And I also love doing the same with folks who ask me for beta. It’s a fun kind of collaboration.

What's your all-time favourite ship? Agh this one is so hard. Don’t make me pick just one. Aeryn/John from Farscape. Fraser/Ray(s) from due South. I don’t write a lot of book Yennefer/Geralt but they also are It for me.

What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Oh my god, definitely my TWN Leshkel canonical divergence AU thing. I have something like a whole season 2 (not a fix-it) outlined, with lots of stuff focusing on Ciri and Leshy Eskel, and Leshy Eskel with Triss. With more stuff about witcher-and-leshen biology and Wolf School disappearing, Kaer Morhen becoming a magical greenhouse where a mythical Swallow is rumored to visit every 6 years.

What are your writing strengths? Description, maybe characterizations. Theme and tone.

What are your writing weaknesses? Too much description, comma splices. Slow pacing.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? I think it’s fun to do but it can be a lot to read and I definitely will overthink the writing and both the reading. If it suits the characterization and context clues within the text, I think that’s cool. But I think it’s fine to go without con-lang or other languages in fic. It’s just a matter of texture and color that adds to the scene, you know?

First fandom you wrote for? Stargate SG-1.

Favourite fic you've ever written? Ever??? It’s so hard to pick just one. Hang on, I got several of those ‘rec 5 of your favorite fics’ asks in my inbox. Lemme see if I can pick 5 for that.

[irljimmy]

me and my boyfriend @leshens furries r the cutest

[sgurrdearg]

7, 9, 17

7. What did you do “in the Heart of Woods” and “the Nithing”?

Ughhhh I hate both these quests so much!! I think both times I set out to kill the leshen because I do not trust those fuckos. And then of course, everything still falls to shit. And I am fairly sure I killed Jonna both times in the Nithing too. I wish there was a way to spare her without manipulating Lothar. Like, the dude seriously fucked up and behaved awfully to her by cheating but she was being downright manipulative and abusive, and forcing him to be in a relationship he didn’t want to be in… uhhhh made me feel physically sick so I couldn’t do it.

9. What is your favourite main quest and why?

THE PLAY’S THE THING THE PLAY’S THE THING THE PLAY’S THE THING!!! I love the theatre and I just love it. I love getting to spend time with Priscilla, I love getting to act on stage, I love getting to cast the play. Hands down, my favourite. I love it so much that nothing involving Roche or Regis even gets close tbh.

17. If you could change one thing about the Witcher3 what would it be?

hahaha, just one? oh no… I love this game so much but there’s a lot wrong with it. The things I’d change generally fall into two categories of either: I just want extra content please; or Damn you fucked up. I definitely think they need to be more diverse. The only characters of colour that we see are Ofieri. Which is in a paid DLC. And while not presented totally negatively they are still really stereotyped. It’s just not fair. Like, even random villager NPCs, every single one of them is white. Like. Why.

The game could do a hell of a lot better on queer rep too. We have one gay man in White Orchard, and admittedly he is treated fine. But that’s it. Ciri, canonically attracted to women, and she only has the option to kiss a man. (Ok a friendly kiss, but still.) And you get the option to declare a preference for women, but that’s the only time you get to declare any attraction at all, and sure, she might not want to yell “I’M GAY” in the middle of a sauna with strangers, it does mean giving dudebros the option to erase her sexuality. And Philippa! She is canonically a lesbian!! She has a relationship with Dijkstra to extort information from him. Obviously lesbians can have relationships with men and that does not invalidate their sexuality, that’s not what I’m trying to say here, but the game really tries to big up this big romance they had when it was pretty damn one sided in the books. And they add in a note from an ex boyfriend of hers too, like… ??? Nowhere in the Witcher 3 is her attraction to women mentioned. Yet they really double down hard on a supposed attraction to men. And in the Witcher 2 her attraction to women is basically used as a punchline to a joke!!! As is Dethmold’s for that matter, his attraction to men is literally used as though it is something to be repulsed by and I will always be livid. Anyway this isn’t about TW2. Anyway also I hate straight people and want them to stop making video games and these straight people who defend this shit must die.

[nirerhyz]

The leshen from the Witcher 3 is a cutie and would be a good boyfriend

Pass it on

[kuwdora]

the emoji ask meme is super fun! 💞 & 🤭, please and thank you!

welp, sorry this took me several weeks to get around to answering! Life and anxiety happens!!

💞 Who's your comfort character?

If you had asked me this back in 2021, I would have said writing Jaskier. Easy to fall into the sunshine-y bard with lots of feelings. This year I have really enjoyed and found a lot of comfort in writing Yen. I want to do a lot more with her while she's figuring out her heart and mind after she loses and gets her magic back. There's so much character growth here to play with and explore and I like trying to see things from her perspective. I also have a significant amount of emotional investment in Leshen Eskel which has become a very interesting and happy place for me to explore. Also it's so specific and niche and it's probably a little overwhelming from the outside perspective, ahaha. This comfort character is definitely not anyone else's comfort character but ayyyyy I love my tree boyfriend, okay.

🤭 Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your works?

AO3 tags? Or tumblr tags? I am terrible at tagging, generally, and I spend too much time fretting over it.. and I end up thinking I overtag anyway, and probably feel like people are less likely to read the stuff based on my tags but I think that's just an anxiety brain thing. Anyway, I get a lot of mileage out of the AU - Canonical Divergence and Character Study tags. One of my favorite type of AUs to write and think about are those "what if things are like just slightly different enough to continue deviating slowly as time progresses?" Which is what you can see in my "what if Eskel survives?" and "what if Yen's magic doesn't feel/work the same way once she gets it back and it's a magical disability?" So many possibilities to run with here... it's catnip. Kuwdora-nip. But I really am hammering away at the softness/tenderness tags because I want my blorbos to have some soft, squishy emotional and physical intimacy. I also do plenty Hurt/Comfort, too. My favorite freeform tags this past year is 'soft sex comedy' -- which I get to use for a second time for an upcoming fic, yayyyy.

Anyway, gonna try to answer the rest of my asks this week! I got a lot of writing on my brain this month. Feel free to send me a witcher writing ask and I swear it won't be 3 weeks for me to answer.

Fanfic Writer Emoji Ask Game

[kuwdora]

Driftwood

I forgot to share a story I wrote for Witcher flashfic a few weeks ago! I remain obsessed with my tree boyfriend, Eskel. Please enjoy!

Driftwood (2886 words) by kuwdora Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Characters: Eskel (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alive Eskel (The Witcher), Leshen Eskel (The Witcher), Tentacles, just having a nice day together on the lake, Crack Treated Seriously Series: Part 2 of The Warden Along the Path

Summary: Geralt meets Eskel for an afternoon on the lake.

“Are you a raft or a boat?” Geralt asked with a smirk, reaching for the bag of food. “What I am is relaxing. Or trying to,” Eskel said lazily into the sky.