Warnings: dub/noncon, smutty smut, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
In his absence, your husband's, you have peace but little energy to do more than sleep. You still find that word strange. Husband. And you are a wife.
You eat the rations he leaves and soak in the hot tub he has drawn on your behalf. It soothes but cannot heal completely. You crawl into the bed and nestle into the blankets and his scent. You doze without a twitch or thought.
You wake only as the door shuts. He is gentle as to not disturb you but even so, you stir. You are still unclothed. The remnants of your clothing were unsalvagable.
He has a bundle under his arm and basket in the other. He sets the latter on the table and brings the former to you as you drag yourself up to sitting. Your thighs and bottom pulse and your insides knot.
He lays the bundle on your lap. You touch in tenderly and examined the twine holding it all together. You tilt your chin up, "thank you, husband."
"Wife," he nods.
You look to the wool-wrapped gift. You untie the string as he looms. You push back the outer layer to uncover a dyed dress within. A shade of green like fir needles. A shift too, and belt, boots, and stockings. You marvel over it with curious fingertips.
"It is all very nice, husband," you praise.
He grunts and points to the mess of fabric strewn over your legs. You keep one arm tight to your side to hold the blanket over your chest. You take the stockings and unroll them. Within, there is a small wooden box.
You peek up at him before you wiggle the lid free. Within, a ring, silver and moonstone. A perfect oval with a frame of delicately wrought thorns, as if a crow's talon were cradling the rock.
You admire it and he cups your hand with his abruptly. He takes the band as he flips your palm down and forces it to your knuckle. You keep your hand still and force a smile.
"It is beautiful--"
"It will keep you close," he insists and lets you go. "As I would always have you."
He bends and gathers the clothing in his arms. He heaps it upon a chair and faces you again. He unclasps his cloak as his eyes shine in the dim light of the crackling hearth.
He is concise in undressing. He strips the layers away without faltering. He consumes you with a gaze before he approaches to do the same in body.
He pets your face and nuzzles into your cheek. He drags his touch to your shoulder and guides you onto your side. He reclines behind you, moulding his body perfectly to yours.
He tickles along your pelvis and traces your slit. He prods at your thigh until you lift your leg. You balance a foot on his calf and he rubs you firmly, swirling and swiping until you skicken.
He spreads you with two thick fingers and shifts to angle his tip between his knuckles. He pushes into you, no easier than the night before as your walls clench around him. He sighs as he thrusts up to your limit.
You arch your back but the pressure only shifts. You put a hand on his hip and squeeze, biting down on the stretch. You breathe through your teeth, little moans trickling out.
He puffs and pumps against you, faster and faster, his voice cloying around you as his grunts grow guttural. He ruts up into you until the bed shakes and scrapes on the floor. He spreads his hand over your pelvis, his middle finger toying with your bud until you spasm and squeak in release.
Still, the uncoiling of tension is not enough to assuage his intrusion. He pounds into you as the thunder of slapping skin deafens you to the noise of the tavern below. His breath blows over you like a tempest and he snares you in a cloud of pleasure.
When he is still, you drift back to the waking world. He caresses up and down your stomach as his skin blazes against yours. His chest presses to you and deflates in an even tempo. He trails up your neck and flutters across the top of your chest.
"We must away shortly," he grumbles. "And you will learn the road quickly. You must if you are to be my wife."
Warnings: suggestions of death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
You watch the witcher set off into the fog from between the slats of the barn. It’s been a fortnight crammed into the space. The stench has faded to something tolerable but the tension hasn’t.
The now orphaned maiden clings to your arm. That’s what she is now. The man in black all but confirmed it. His horse tramps off into oblivion without hesitation as he sits tall in his saddle, disappearing into the haze. You sit back as your companion sniffles.
“They’re dead? All of them?”
“It would seem,” you sigh and lean on the wall.
Your sister was a sweet girl but even before the revelation, you had little hope. Especially as your mother went to search and did not return. Your father has only you and your brother left. Marsh is a child still but he will grow into his legacy, so long as you father lasts that long.
“How could this happen to us? Why Krescent? We are a good pious village,” she whines, her sniveling grating your addled nerves.
“Bad things happen to all, regardless of prayers,” you resign.
“That is blaspheme,” she accuses.
“It is the truth. It has happened to all in the wretched place. And if this witcher should be able to slay the evil, then I too shall walk off to my own doom, only a living one.”
She looks at you with her watery eyes. They are such a pale shade of green that they look almost yellow. She always reminded you of a swampy witch, the ones in the stories you whispered so the elders did not hear.
“I suppose...” she begins, “marriage is destined to all. It shouldn’t be such a surprise.”
“To him?” You wonder grimly. “Perhaps, at least, I will be away from this cursed land, that I should not look upon it and think of my...” your voice catches as the witcher’s words crash upon you. Your legs buckle and you slide down the wall and fold against your knees. “They truly are gone.”
Caralyn mops away her tears as she kneels at your side. Your own eyes do not weep though your chest concaves. You brace your head as your elbows rest on your knees. You take a deep breath.
“My father did not protest,” you murmur. “He is too dumbed without my mother to do anything.” You look at her, still hunched, “you must promise to look after Marsh.”
“I promise,” she avows and brushes your sleeve softly. “I will keep him close to my own brothers and sisters, now that it is up to me to see to them.”
You nod and frown deeper, “I’m deeply sorry for your parents, Caralyn. They were always so kind.”
“So kind, I do wonder why it should be them instead of me,” her eyes spring with tears again and she lowers herself to her bottom. She wipes her nose messily and heaves.
You wring your hands. You wonder the same of your mother and sister. How can it be that Lessa would wander off and you would be left behind to miss her. Your mother was always the order in your life and now it is chaos.
Along with grief, is more terror. What should happen should the fogler, or whatever he called, it not desist? What if the witcher were to defeat the monster? Should he really claim your hand? A wife?
Caralyn is right, it is not great surprise to be wed. It is a young woman’s fate but this... what sort of wife can you be to someone like him. The tainted. The sort spat upon at even the lowest tavern.
“He was not... hideous,” Caralyn suggests as if reading your thoughts.
You scrunch your nose at her, “how he looks is the least of my woes.”
“Tall. Strong.” She offers.
“Car, stop,” you chide.
“You must... must try to hearten,” she shifts closer so her legs touch yours and she leans a little, as if to comfort you. “As our mothers would always tell us, we must be good wives one day. No matter who. I’m certain if you prove a good loyal wife, he would not treat you as one of his beasts.”
You stare at her and hum. She is not incorrect. You were never to choose your husband so it should be that it doesn’t matter so much who it is. Only that you serve him well.
“A man is a man, even if witcher he be,” she declares.
Warnings: dub/noncon, smutty smut, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
Your stomach presses against the rim of the tub. The water’s lukewarm, the floor is splashed with puddles, his rutting sending more over the edge. His growls remind you of a wild beat, deep and insatiable. Like the animal he mimics, he bites into the meat between your neck and shoulder.
Hot breath dampens your skin as he pinches you meanly. He hammers into you, his hands over yours as you brace the wall of the tub. You whine and pant, spasming against him as your walls ache from his bottomless appetite.
He snarls and snakes a hand down to your stomach. He feels himself in you and unclenches his jaw. He nuzzles your neck as his touch drifts further down. He spreads your lips and uses his middle finger to tease your clit. You babble as the speckling sensation mingles with your fullness and blooms to life.
You cum in a quaking fit, muscles shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse against the side of the tub completely but he doesn’t stop. His finger swirls as he pumps into you, slowing only as he finds his own release.
You hang over the edge as you gasp for air. You stare at the floor, your vision hazy in the flickering light of the single lantern. He growls again and it rumbles through. You tighten around him, whimpering at the tenderness inside. You don’t know how much more you can take.
You could cry at the thought that this is only the first night. That he would expect this of you anon. That you swore that to him.
He pushes himself away but stays inside of you. His damp skin peels from yours as he hooks his arm around your middle and lifts you with him. He brings his other arm under your knees to scoop you up and steps over the side of the tub.
He takes you to the bed, still buried deep, lays you on your side. He puffs as your wet bodies glisten and bumps raise on your skin. You shiver and he groans, holding you close as he inhales the scent of your hair. His hand moves to spread over your pelvis. He bows his head to rest his forehead against your crown.
Fatigue tugs your eyelids. You let yourself fall into the void. Those horrors roil in your mind. The fog, the crowded barn, the clop of hooves, the shady cavern and the lecherous eyes, the constant splash of water around the clap of flesh.
Your worn body succumbs to numbness. You drift away from the wakeful torment and into the pit without end. You fall down and down and down until light breaks through and the pluck deep inside of you.
You wake on your stomach. Under him as he rocks his hips lazily. He drones and nips at your ear. He fucks you in the soft light of dawn. You clasp onto the pillow and moan.
Your cunt is brittle around his intrusion. You’re wet and wanting despite the agony. You lift your bottom to ease the pressure. He slides his hand under you to toy with you again. Another orgasm washes over you, shivers crashing down as eagerly as his hunger.
He snarls as he cums. He stills and holds himself over you. He slips free and falls onto his back with a pained grunt. You stay as you are, plastered on your stomach. His breaths even out and you cautiously turn your head to see him.
The lantern has burned itself out and only the morning hues limn his profile. You consider him closely, now that he is still, now that he is not on you. He’s a big man. Daunting even. His dark lashes are long and thick, his chin clefted and stubbled, and his cheek bones high and as chiseled as his jaw.
He exhales and brings his hand over his softening member. He grunts again. You wince and roll onto your side. You bend your legs and whimper as your thighs meet. Somehow the emptiness is worse than being overly full.
He reaches to you and pets your hip. His eyes open and seem to glow in the dim. His fingers swirl over your skin as his seed cools between your thighs.
“I will go and lock the door. You will not open it. Not for any.”
You sniff and gently rest your hand on his, “will you be gone long?”
“Not if I can help it. I will leave food on the table.”
“Yes, husband,” you accept. The promise of peace, of some time alone, a moment to take in all that has occured, is well-needed.
“And another bath to be drawn before,” he states. “You will be easy.” He turns his hand over and grips yours. “And ready for my return.”
Warnings: suggestions of death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
There’s a hush throughout the barn. The guildmen crowd around the doors as Todrick presses himself to the wood. With the help of several others, he lifts the bar that keeps the entrance in place. You sit with Marsh and watch patiently. A group of women titter nervously and wring their hands.
The end of the bar hits the ground with an echoing thunk and the men angle it away to lean against a post. The doors shift as the clustered bodies let them open bit by bit. The smell of dew pervades the space, swallowing up the stink of confinement.
There’s a gasp and the doors are let go. The daylight pours over Todrick and the guildmen. They stare out into the village.
“The fog has lifted,” Marsell declares.
“The witcher has slain the beast,” Todrick adds.
The women creep forward as your little brother stirs against you. His head is wobbly as he sits up, still confused in the dregs of sleep. You rub his bony back and peer around. Your father sits in a corner, as despondent as the day the witcher came.
“Is it true?” Caralyn appears with her sisters, Orania and Aster, “has he done it?”
You look over at the doors as Todrick fusses with the short sword on his belt and steps out with heavy hesitance in his boots. Marsell keeps close as he follows and the other men clutch their tools, hammers and sickles alike, as they brave the open air.
“I am to be wed,” you squeeze Marsh’s shoulder.
“Will you go away?” Your brother asks. “Like mother and Lessa?”
You share a look with Caralyn, “I will go wherever my husband bids, Marsh. And I shall miss you and father but perhaps he would be gracious to let me visit.”
Marsh sniffles, “I will be alone.” He wipes his cheeks mournfully, “without Lessa, without mother, and father...”
“You will have us,” Caralyn says. “We have all lost those we love so we must learn to love what is left.”
He nods but continues to snivel. He turns and clings to you, “promise you’ll come back. Promise.”
You pet his head as icy hollowness consumes you. You stare up at your loyal friend. You gulp, “I promise, Marshy. I will see you again.”
Caralyn gives a bittersweet smile before her sisters tear her way. They catch up to her brothers as the men without holler. “It is gone. It is clear.”
A cheer goes up and draws the women from their fear as they creep forward to see through the barn doors. You stay as you are as those who live erupt in glee. Marsh continues to weep as you find not well to draw from. You are empty.
Your strength only comes with the approach of hooves. You lift your head and look at the wall as if you might see through it. You gently urge your brother away and take him by the hand. You bring him up with you and near the doors.
The dark horse and its rider come up between what is left of the mill and a house. There is ruin left in the wake of the unnatural fog. Whatever that monster was, it ate at more than the living.
You step out with Marsh and stop him. You bend to hug him and whisper to him, “I love you brother, keep well.”
“Sister,” he sobs as you pull back.
You give him over to Caralyn and she ushers him away, her own face streaked in grief. A sombre air falls over the uproar. The villagers quiet and Todrick looks in your direction. The rest follow his gaze. They watch as you stride toward the witcher.
He slows his steed and looks down upon you. You bow your head, “you have defeated the evil as promised, sir, and so, on behalf of my people, I will fulfill my duty. We are most grateful for your service.”
You keep your chin down, your body rigid, your spirit shaky. He does not respond but to extend his arm, his leather gauntlet filling your vision. You steel yourself and latch onto him. He hauls you up and sits you in front of him. He clicks his tongue and the horse sweeps around and canters away.
Just like that, as swiftly as he came, you are gone off to your fate. A witcher’s wife, whatever that may entail.
Warnings: dub/noncon, blood/death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
You nibble on a morsel of rabbit meat. Your eyes flick up above the fire as the air cools with the descent of evening. Your husband wipes his fingers on his dark trousers as his pale gold eyes shine in your direction. They burn hotter than the pit between you.
He stands and you watch. You don't wince or flinch. He walks over to you calmly. You try to appear the same even as your heart pounds in your chest.
He hasn't said a word since what happened. The scent of blood still stains the air as it darkens on the leaves. He grabs your arm and hauls you up to your feet.
Is he angry? He marches you away from the fire. The horse lazily chews oats from the pile scattered before him. You don't understand.
He stops you just behind the wide tree. He spins you so your back hits the bark and tugs up your skirts. You clap your hands against his chest.
As before, he doesn't relent. He bends and slips his hands behind your thighs. He hooks his fingers around your knees and lifts you off your feet. He guides your legs around his thick torso and you cling to him.
He feels beneath you, fingers gliding between your folds. He buries his face in your neck as he teases you, nipping and growling as he feels you respond to his touch. You bring your hands over his shoulder and arch your back.
He dips a finger into you. You gasp. He pulls it in and out as the rough heel of his hand presses to your clit. You roll your hips without a thought. The sensation ripples through you.
You tilt your head back and moan. He adds another finger. You tug at a shank of his thick hair. He bites into the soft flesh that joins neck and shoulder. You whine as he rocks his hand harder and faster.
You buck wildly as you cum. He growls as the wet noise of your pleasure melds into those of the forest. He drags his fingers free and smears them along your dripping cunt.
He shifts you as he reaches into his trousers. He lines up with your entrance and lowers you onto him. He steps closer and crushes you to the tree. He snarls, grunting each time he thrusts, ramming deeper and deeper.
You squeeze his thick shoulders and whimper. The thrum of all the times before adds to the ache of his latest intrusion. Your hand slips up the back of his neck and tangles in his hair. He trails his nose up your neck and chin and smothers your lips with his.
He puffs into your mouth as his tongue delves inside. He breathes into you as he ruts furiously. You reach up to brace the tree as your bones throb from his force.
He impales you again, several times, over and over, dragging himself out slower and slower as he empties inside you. You shudder and turn your hand as a whimper escapes your lips. He snarls and stills completely, sheathed to your guts.
He wraps his arms around you and pulls you away from the tree. He carries you with him, on him, back to the fire. You hang from his grasp, twitching as you feel him leaking out little by little.
He drops to his knees and puts you on your back. He covers your body with his and once more, falls into rhythm. He leans his forehead on yours and your lashes flutter. His bright eyes turn to dark pits and you gasp as you're swallowed up in their depths.
He reaches back with one arm and lifts your knee high. He plants his hand on the ground, keeping your leg bent around his forearm, then does the same to your other. He keeps you splayed and bent beneath him as he lifts his hips higher and drops back down sharply.
Your voice unfurls, wild wails of pain and pleasure, mindless mewls begging for more and less. Your eyes roll back and your arms fall limp around you. You push your chest up as you heave, inhaling the damp air of the forest into your burning lungs.
"Mine," he growls as he plunges into you. "I do not take kindly to those... Who would take what is mine..." He pants as your flesh claps together. "You know it now, wife."
Warnings: dub/noncon, smutty smut, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
Your breath hitches and your breath drones. Your head lolls back on Geralt's shoulder as you writhe and grasp his forearm tighter. Your toes curls and your spine arches. Whatever he's doing, you can't get enough.
It's whispered that the witchers have a touch of magic. Perhaps he has put a spell on you. His finger plucks you like a harp, drawing sweet notes from your lips. You bring your hand to your forehead, water slaking down your face in your delight.
Your pelvis rocks into his hand. Your body moves in instinct alone, on the desperation field by his touch. This man, this stranger, this vaunted witcher tangles you in his thrall.
You whine through your teeth and spasm as ripples roll over you. Gasping, gulping, clutching onto him you shake with ecstasy. Your eyes close as you puff out pathetic squeaks.
His finger crawls further down. He traces along your entrance, up and down, up and down. He pushes slowly into you. As he gets deeper, your walls clench him. He forges past the resistance and sinks in to his knuckle. He pulls in and out, teasing you as your wriggle helplessly.
He slips out and lines up a second finger. He dips into you again, stretching you around his thick digits as you whimper. You reach back to grasp his burly arm and lean into him. The calloused pad of his palm presses to your clit as he rocks his hand, growling over you as his muscles tense with his heavy breaths.
You cum again. Your hand slips back and your fingers tangle in his waves. You tug them as you twitch and clamp your thighs against his hand. You buck through the intense release and babble as he eases you through, his hand moving with the rhythm of your body.
You moan and lay against him, weak and wilted. He snarls and drags his hand up your pelvis. He splays his fingers wide and lifts you slowly. He feels below you and angles his member under you. You squeal and squirm but he doesn’t let up.
“Mm, my good little wife, are you ready for me?” He grits.
He pushes his tip again your cunt. He delves into you slowly, past the taut resistance of your inexperience and the tension of your close legs. He hooks an arm under one knee, then the other, and pulls them apart. He bends your legs high as he thrusts and sinks further in.
“You are doing well, wife, deep breaths,” he cooes.
You exclaim as he splits you. Your insides feel tight as your walls ache. You blow out between your lips and your head lolls down to your chest. Your lashes flutter as you look down at yourself. He’s not even halfway in and it feels as if you’ll break.
“A little more, wife, yes?”
He jerks his hips again, a little deeper, and you cry out again. He plants his feet and gives another thrust. You shriek at the fullness and quiver as your stomach knots and your chest racks. You can’t take all of him. There’s no way.
He drapes your left leg over his knee, keeping your other over his arm. His hand clasps onto your hip and he pushes you down onto him. Your mouth falls open as he buries himself to his hilt. You tremble uncontrollably as your garble senselessly.
“You take your husband well,” he rasps and shudders against you.
You drone and shake your head, touching your stomach as it bulges. He slowly slides out of you. You sigh and bite down on your lip. He pushes in again and you squeal and squall as your nails cut into your flesh.
“A good husband will show his wife how to serve him,” he squeezes your hips as he thrusts once more, the water sloshing around you. “And she will do as he bids. She will keep him happy.”
He pumps up into you and you lean back, your head hanging over his shoulder as you claw at your torso. He brings his hand to your chest and fondles you as he keeps his motion steady. He drags himself out slowly to his tip, only to plunge back in quickly. Each time, his pelvis claps against you harshly.
“Vow to me wife,” he huffs as he quickens, water splashing with his building fervor, “sweat to me you will always obey.”
“I... I swear,” you gasp as he tweaks your nipple.
“Swear you will be loyal.”
“I swear,” you whine as he pounds from below, bouncing you with each unrelenting tilt.
“And swear, wife, that you will always take me like this.” He groans and clutches your chest, groping you in a tight fist as he bucks furiously. “That you will take--” he chokes and a warmth blooms inside of you, “every,” he quakes, “last,” he puffs, “drop.”
He holds you down as he rocks chaotically and pushes his cheek against your temple. He pants as he fills you up, slowing only as his climax cramps in his thighs. He eases back against the tub and growls.
Warnings: suggestions of death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.
Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.
As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍
You shiver as night falls. The witcher’s warmth contrasts the chill rising around you and even the horse’s steaming heat does little to soothe you. Your teeth chatter as the trees sway and rustle while hooves kick through pebbles and twigs.
There’s a light ahead. A flickering flame, then two. The horse nor its rider falter. You rock as you canter through the silence. Not a word has passed between you.
The man shifts. He tugs at his cloak and you turn your head to see him pull up his hood. He hides his striking white hair and brilliant eyes as he approaches the tavern. He’s probably better for it. He reins the horse to a halt and a young boy emerges from the stables. He reminds you of Marsh.
“For the night,” the witcher hands over a silver coin. The boy takes it along with the reins.
The witcher slides off the other side of the horse and brings you down by your waist. He sets you steady and faces the glowing windows of the tavern. You’ve never been to one, though your mother told tales of drunken men and rowdy bandits.
He nudges you as he starts forward. You walk at his side, stiff from the saddle and the days pent up in the barn. As you approach the door, he steps ahead of you and opens it. He waits for you to enter first. Across from the entrance, a wooden table stands, and a man slouches forward with his head on his bent arms, snoring.
The witcher sighs and moves around you. You hover by his arm as the voices of men stir in the next chamber. You glance through the open archway and meet a few leers in your direction. One of the figures points quiet uncouthly and another cranes to grin at you.
“A room.” The witcher demands and plunks down a coin on the wood.
The innkeep lurches up with a snort and nearly overturns the chair, “Hrkkk, oh, a room?” He clears his throat and grabs a wooden stein to spit into it. “Aye,” he looks at the coin beneath the witcher’s fingers, “might do for that.”
Your escort rescinds his hand and nods, staying under his hood. He grabs your arm, startling you as you quiver against the gaze of the men at their cups. He turns and sends a growl in their direction before he follows the stocky inkeep.
You climb the stairs a step behind him. Down the hall, at the end, a key passes between their hands. The witcher grunts and reaches to his belt. He brings out another coin.
“A bath.”
The shorter man accepts the coin then offers his own grimy glance at you as he departs. You shift closer to the cloaked man. Your husband... though no vows were taken.
He hauls you inside and slams the door. You wince at the crack of wood. He drops the keys beside the copper basin on the table. You twist your hands around each other like a nervous squirrel and watch him.
He unties his cloak and pushes down the hood. He looms like a shadow near the window. There’s a cut above his cheek you didn’t see before. He removes his gauntlets and runs his hands over his hair. He tugs at the tangles there.
There’s a knock at the door. He peers over then gestures at you. He puts his hood up again and turns his back to the chamber. You open the latch for the tavern servants. They enter with steaming cauldrons. They poor each into the deep tub at the heart of the space.
You linger by the door as they mill in and out with their boiled buckets. When the tub is full, you thank them but have nothing else to offer. You shut the door and grind the latch into place.
As you turn, he hangs his cloak. You stay by the door as he unbuttons his black jacket and puts it over his cloak. He strips off his linen shirt and drapes it from the bedpost before he sits on the mattress. You stare at his thick arms and bulging chest. There’s a cut across the top of his chest, a short gash, but darkened by the bruising around it.
You look around and grab a piece of cloth from next to the basin. You dip it in the tub and wring it out. You near him as he unties his boot, one foot propped on his knee. As you reach for him, he flinches and flashes his pale eyes at you.
You recoil and show the cloth defenselessly.
“I only mean to clean your wounds,” you explain.
He stares at you and his eyes narrow. He eases and puts his foot to the floor, pushing his shoulders square. You cautiously step closer and put the cloth softly to his chest. As you drag it across the cut, he lets out a slow breath. You do the same, only realising then you’d been holding it in.
