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martha-oi · 9 days

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Where You Are - Part 5

Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader

Series masterlist

Part summary: You're finally back in Geralt's arms.

Word count: ca. 4.6k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, a ghost story, fluffy fluff, and smut. P-in-v sex.

Author's note: I don't know if I'm more excited or relieved that I finally got around to wrap up this chapter, and I had to get it out before I start overthinking. So. Happy reading, lovelies 💕 I really hope you'll like their reunion!!

As soon as Geralt notices the shivers rippling through you and how cold your hands feel even through the fabric of his tunic, he tears his lips away from yours. And before you know it, he has maneuvered you onto his lap and stands up with you in his arms.

"Come, Little Bird, let me warm you," he mumbles.

You, however, find yourself speechless, and you nuzzle your face against his neck, taking in his warmth and the scent of his skin as he carries you to the divan in front of the fireplace. In contrast, your body has decided to shiver uncontrollably, and your teeth chatter the beat in time to it.

As he puts you down on the soft surface, Geralt hums with concern.

"I'll be right back," he states.

You would have loved to wrap your arms around him to keep him here, but his frown and the determined lines around his mouth let you know you better save your breath and let him do whatever he's up to.

Nevertheless, your eyes follow him moving through the chamber as long as you can't touch him. He puts more wood onto the fire before he pours some liquid into a pot and hangs it onto a hook over the flames. And while he gathers blankets and clothes from a chest at the end of the canopy bed, the scent of spiced wine and burning pine wood fills the room.

As he sees you watching him, a tender smile curls the corners of his mouth, and his golden eyes seem to gleam in the dim lighting of the fire as he strolls over to you.

"We need to get you out of those wet clothes, my love," he mutters, kneeling down in front of you.

You just nod, setting about to untie your shoelaces, but your fingers still tremble, and then, Geralt's big, callused hand engulfs yours.

"Let me do that," he says softly, putting your foot on his thigh, and you're in no state to protest.

As he slips off your shoes and socks, you wince ever-so-slightly. And he darts a worried glance at you, brushing his fingertip along the sore spots where the wet leather and wool have chafed your skin.

The creases between his eyebrows deepen further as he unbuttons your dress and slips it over your head. And for a moment, you surmise him to gaze at your pebbled nipples showing through the damp fabric of your chemise. But his fingers skim along the goosebumps on your upper arm, and as your eyes follow his touch, you see the slight swelling and the bruised imprint of Erik's hand on your skin. Then, Geralt captures your chin between his fingers, tilting your head back to regard the barely-healed wound Olaf's sword has inflicted on you.

He remains silent. However, the play of his expressions is like an ever-open book to you - a book written in a language only you can read. And you see concern and anger flick across his features. Along with something that might be a touch of guilt. As if none of it would have happened if he had been with you.

The next shiver running through your body tears him out of his thoughts, and he hurries to remove your chemise and drape you in a woolen tunic, breeches, and socks. The point of culmination is the giant blanket he wraps you in, and you giggle with surprise as he unceremoniously moves the divan closer to the firepit with a jerk, making the feet of the furniture screech on the wooden floor.

"I missed hearing you laugh," he says, and the soft smile playing on his lips is the perfect reflection of yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, and your eyes flutter shut as his thumb brushes along your cheek.

"I missed you more, my love!"

You can tell he has a hard time tearing himself away from you, even though it's only for the length of a few heartbeats as he steps toward the fireplace to pour you a mug of spiced wine. And both of you breathe a silent sigh of relief as he sits down beside you and pulls you onto his lap.

As he hands you the steaming mug, you carefully take a sip and clasp the pottery with your cold hands, letting the beverage warm you from inside and out. But the warmth he radiates is much more enticing, and after you put the mug down on the mahogany tea table, you sink into his arms. He engulfs you in a tight embrace, pressing his lips to your temple.

"Still cold, Little Bird?"

"A bit," you mumble, your voice all muffled and sleepy. And you're almost sure you can feel his smile and the rumbling of the hum in his chest.

Then, he gently tugs at a loose strand of hair on your nape.

"May I undo it?" he asks, and as you whisper your consent, he begins to undo the clips and beads holding your hair together. And he spreads out the damp strands, carefully detangling them one after another.

His movements are skillful and nimble, and both of you revel in how familiar this situation feels. Geralt often used to take care of your hair like that before you laid down to sleep, especially when you were tired and exhausted after being called to a patient late at night. Sometimes, he accompanied you, especially when the patients were drunken men who hurt themselves in a brawl. And if he waited for you at home, he was always there to take care of you as soon as you entered your hut.

And then, a little wistfulness creeps up on you because that place, your homestead, no longer exists, and you still have to tell him about it.

"Could you tell me what happened after I left?" he asks at that moment as if he had read your mind.

And you nod, sitting up a bit to look at him.

"Did you know that Erik sent off his men to destroy the villages of the borderland, along with everything and everyone that stayed there?" you begin quietly.

"Yes. I heard about it," he replies, and you see the muscles of his jaw twitch as he clenches his teeth and his eyes harden a touch.

You know that he steels himself, probably already guessing that it's not a nice story that you're about to tell.

And you tell him about the villagers, about Edda and Gorm, and how the men returned. About the showdown on the square and how you and Björna fled. And how they burned down your hut. And oddly enough, it's only now that he's here with you that you're even able to think about your belongings.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save more of our things," you say, somehow guiltily averting your gaze.

"Don't!" he objects without missing a beat. "Not a single thing I ever owned matters, you know?"

He leans in, gently bumping his nose against your cheek to make you look at him, and you wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his because yes… nothing else matters.

"I had hoped you would flee to the west," he mumbles at some point, leaning his forehead against yours. "I had already braced myself to travel the land, to every single village and every single town, no matter how long it would have taken to find you. And now you're here, at this gods-forsaken place…" His voice sounds almost tormented, and then, he falls silent.

"I couldn't have left without knowing what happened to you," you whisper, and he withdraws a bit, his inquiring gaze roaming your face.

"Didn't they tell you?"

"No. Gorm just said you were a traitor because you didn't… conjure up the victory. And that he didn't know what happened to you."

"He lied."

"I thought so much."

"You should have cursed him after all," Geralt mutters, and the thought makes you chuckle.

"I wish so, too. He would have probably pissed his pants."

The image elicits a small smile from him, but the smile quickly vanishes.

"I'm going to kill him if our paths should ever cross again," he says then, all serious. "I already dread to hear what dangers you were subjected to on your way here. The people in the hall said there's nothing but ash left of the villages along the route to the east."

"That's why I avoided the main route," you carefully begin to explain, and you instantly feel him tense.

"Which route did you take instead, Little Bird?" he inquires, and his eyes seem glued to your lips.

"The route southward. Through the forest-"

"The forest of the shadows?!" he cuts you off, clearly alarmed.

"Yes," you confirm, "it was the only way to get to the battlefield and avoid the main route."

"To the battlefield…"

His expression is almost dumbfounded, his legs twitching restlessly. And if you hadn't sat in his lap, he probably would have leaped to his feet and paced around in the room like the bear in a cage you had seen at a fair when you were little.

"Going to the battlefield was more than dangerous enough, but the forest of the shadows…," he says, shaking his head.

"I know. Because… we encountered the shadows-" You wince slightly as his hands grab you painfully tight. "We were able to flee to a hut on a clearing," you hurry to say so as not to worry him further. "A woman lives there, and she provided refuge for us. And we were both unharmed, Björna and I," you reassure him.

You cradle his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. Nevertheless, he stares at you for a few moments with restless eyes flickering like two flames in the wind. Then he exhales slowly, leaning into your touch.

"Her name is Svala," he rasps after a moment. "The woman in the hut, I mean."

"You know her?"

"Yes. The people of the villages near the forest called me many years ago. They wanted me to get rid of the shadows, but that proved to be more tricky than expected, and I ended up in her hut as well. And gods, did she give me an earful!"

You laugh quietly. "Yeah, delicacy still isn't her long suit. But she saved me, and apparently, she saved you, too, which means I will forever be grateful to her."

"Me, too, Little Bird. Me, too."

You carefully reach for your mug, letting the aroma of dark berries and honey wash over your tongue. And your fingers fiddle with a chipped spot at the rim of the cup.

"What is it?" Geralt asks. Of course, he noticed you hesitate right away.

"The shadows… What are they? I asked Svala about them, but I think she didn't want to tell me."

Geralt seems to hesitate as well, because he gives you a long look, exhaling a deep breath that is more of a sigh before he slowly begins to speak.

"Many years ago, a man was on his way home to his young wife. As he traversed the forest, he was held up by a band of raiders. When he didn't arrive home that evening, his wife went out into the forest to look for him. The raiders captured her as well, and they tortured her all night long in the cruelest way. At daybreak, they abandoned her in the forest without hearing her pleading to tell her what happened to her husband. And she died without knowing that he was long dead at that point. People say she refused to move on to the otherworld, that she's still out there looking for him in the shadows, and that her hamr [one aspect of the Norse conception of the soul] has become one with the darkness. And the shadows wait, filled with bitterness and hate, to wreak their revenge on the living who step into the forest. And maybe they still hope that the man they once loved will return one day."

Whereas you had just begun to feel a bit warmer, Geralt's words send cold shivers up and down your spine.

"She went out to look for him… like I was looking for you," you mumble absentmindedly, and the similarity makes your stomach feel in a knot. "Is that why Svala didn't want to tell me more?"

"Maybe," Geralt shrugs. "Who knows… I'm just glad there was at least someone on your way to help you."

"She wasn't the only help I had," you smile, and then you tell him about Olaf and Kári.

You raise your head in surprise as Geralt chuckles, shaking his head. "Kári! The little smartass… I shouldn't be surprised!"

"You know him?"

"Mhm. He comes around to the castle with his father every few days. He just came up to me one day and offered to provide me with whatever I needed from the town. For a generous tip, as he said."

You can't help but laugh as well. "Well, guess who takes care of Björna at the inn for the next few days? For a very generous tip, as I should mention. I bet the little guy will be rich at some point." But then you think of his father, and your smile faints. "Well, it's more likely that his father will pocket everything he earns," you remark.

"His father is an asshole and a chickenshit," Geralt agrees. "He owns the brewery, and he lets his motherless children slave away, whereas he's his own best customer."

You just nod in silence, and then, both of you stare into the dancing flames.

At some point, Geralt heaves a silent sigh.

"What is it, my love?" You ask, planting a kiss on his temple.

As usual, he thinks about his reply before opening his mouth to speak, and his voice sounds hoarse and strained. "I can't stop thinking about the danger you've been in all the time. About the things that could have happened to you. About what if I had lost you?"

"What if I had lost you?" you reply, and you can't help that tears flood your eyes as your fingertips carefully brush along the healing wound on his forehead.

You can still see clearly where a heavy blow split his skin. And whoever treated his wound didn't do it correctly because the edges look swollen and somehow crooked where they grow together.

"Are you in pain?" you ask softly.

"Hardly at all," he shrugs.

Which means yes, as you know oh-so-well after all those years.

"Has your vision changed? Like blurred or double images?"

"None."

"Dizziness?"

"Either," he whispers, closing his eyes as your fingertips continue to caress his forehead, his temples, the stubble on his cheeks, and he hums quietly, leaning into your touch.

"That's good," you mumble. "But you really need to rest, my love."

"Well, I can try. But resting isn't my long suit."

"I could help you try," you can't help but smirk, raising an eyebrow, and as he casts up his eyes, his grin looks almost wolfish.

"I appreciate your help, Little Bird," he says then, his grin fading. "However, you'll see in the next few days that a couple of things are out of my hands here. And out of yours."

"Like joining the feasts?" you guess.

"Like joining the feasts," Geralt confirms, and then he sighs. "And you will have to act a part as well. We will think about which part, though, but you will have to play-act, just like I do."

"I can do that," you reassure him. "And… which part are you playing? Just so I know."

"The fallen witcher, of course. Injured and deprived of his powers, addicting himself to the booze."

"And to the whores," you can't help but add.

"And to the whores. But that part of our little farce will end now. I promise you that," he reassures you with his eyes and his kiss.

"Thank you," you whisper, nuzzling closer to him, whereas your eyebrows knit in confusion.

There was something in his words, something in his voice that made you prick up your ears.

"Has anything changed about your powers, my love?" you ask quietly.

Apparently, you hit the mark because his head spins around, and again, his eyes flicker restlessly as his gaze intertwines with yours.

"I don't know," he rasps after a moment of silence. "I mean… I was well-prepared before the battle, and still… " he shakes his head. His brows are knitted, hard lines playing around his mouth, and he briefly closes his eyes before he continues to speak. "I went through the battle over and over again in my head since I'm able to think again. I've been trying to figure out when and where I made a mistake, why I didn't see it coming, the ambush, the attack. And why nothing, not a single sign, worked."

"Have you tried the signs here?"

"A few. They worked, but I need to find out why they didn't work during the battle. And we have to be very careful. Erik is a dangerous man, and only the gods know what he's up to."

You believe him without a moment's hesitation, and the reminiscence of Erik's ice-cold eyes is enough to make your skin crawl again.

"What will become of us?" you ask quietly after taking another sip of the spiced wine that is almost cold now.

"I don't know. But we will find a way, Little Bird, and we'll be fine. That I can finally be certain of, now that you're here… with me," he confesses, planting a simple kiss on your forehead.

He lets his lips linger there for a moment, and as he inhales a shaky breath, a wave of affection surges up within you. Because of his words. And because of everything he doesn't say.

You squirm free of the blanket with somewhat hasty and clumsy movements, sliding your leg over his until you straddle him. As he pulls you flush against him, his force pushes the air out of your lungs. You, however, couldn't care less for breathing, and you hug him back with all the strength you can muster. And somehow, your strength seems to make him melt.

His head sinks against your shoulder, and his warm breath skims along your neck as he mumbles, "I missed you so much… I need you!"

"I need you, too," you whisper, and all of a sudden, all that longing you choked back so bravely breaks its way to the surface. "I was so lonely without you," you confess, and you can't prevent your voice from wobbling nor the tiny sob from rising in your throat.

"I was with you in my thoughts," he says, his voice oddly breathy as he raises his head and puts his hand on your cheek, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I didn't know where you were or what you were doing, but I thought of you all the time," he reassures you.

And your whispered vows of love still hang in the air as your lips find each other, melting into a kiss that feels like a vow itself and like a remedy for the days you had been longing for each other.

He devours you just as much as you devour him, and you revel in his taste, and in the way his tongue dances around yours. How his teeth scrape along your bottom lip as he sucks on it, both greedy and gentle at the same time, and in the way he hums with relish as you rake your nails over his scalp.

Your breathing has long become heavy and panting when his hands slide along your back, down to your butt. And he cups it with both hands, firmly squeezing your flesh as he pulls you closer to him. A needy moan falls from your lips as his hard cock presses against your core, and you rock your hips in slow, grinding motions, feeling him throb and twitch in his pants.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath before smashing his lips back on yours. "Keep going... just like that," he commands in between hasty kisses, and a whimpering is the only answer you're capable of as you do so, shuddering with pleasure every time his cock rubs against your pearl in the most perfect way.

One of his hands rests on your butt, whereas the other one wanders higher. His palm runs over your breasts, tracing your soft curves and pebbled buds, drinking in your moans and the little mewling you fail to suppress as he captures your nipples between his fingers for a firm squeeze.

As he sets about undoing the front of your oversized tunic, his fingers catch in the lacing. A smile curls your lips while you watch him tug and tear at the laces with increasing impatience. And the grin spreading on his face as he has succeeded, opening the lacing enough to shove his hands into the piece of clothing, is nothing less than triumphant.

"Fuck," he curses as he caresses your bare mounds that seem to downright ache for him, and you welcome every little touch, every squeeze, and every pinch.

"Are you warm enough, Little Bird?" he mumbles at some point, running his tongue along the corner of your mouth. "I would love to see you… to see all of you."

"I'm warm enough," you confirm, and you raise your arms and help him strip off your tunic.

You slide off his lap to unlace your breeches, and a smile plays on your lips as you see his eyes roam your body, only briefly interrupted as he hastily shirks off his own tunic and pants.

You remain standing in front of him, and although you're naked, you don't feel cold.

The heat of the flames in the firepit dances along your back, whereas the sight of him seems to send liquid heat through your veins.

Your eyes wander over his familiar form and features. His broad shoulders and the hair coating his chest. The wolf pendant. The countless scars of which you know every single one, by their look and their story and by the way they feel on your tongue.

His chest heaves with deep breaths while his golden eyes wander across your body, so full of need, and you feel your hands tingle with the same need to touch him.

You had nearly moaned aloud under his searing gaze as you step closer, between his long, muscular legs. And you put your hands on his shoulders, left and right of his neck. His hands find your hips effortlessly, his thumbs drawing circles around your hip bones while he presses kisses to the soft flesh of your belly. Even if you had tried, you would have failed to suppress your gasp for air, and your hands run along his neck, along the lines of his collarbones, of the muscles of his neck, and the elongated scar on his shoulder blade.

As he raises his head to capture your puffy nipple between his fingers, then between his lips, your gazes intertwine, and the glow in his eyes burns just as hot as his mouth on your skin while he sucks and licks and flicks the bud with his tongue, bathing in your moans and your whimpering.

As your knees buckle, he steadies you, cradling your butt in his firm grip. But he doesn't stop. Instead, his hoarse moan and his stubble caress your skin as he steps up his efforts.

Even like this, the tiny distance between you feels like too much, and his name tumbles from your lips along with an almost desperate plea.

"Is that what you need, hm?" he mumbles into your ear as he pulls you back to straddle his lap, and his arms engulf you.

"Closer," is all you can utter, "I need you closer!" And there's nothing you can do to prevent your hips from jerking forward, full of need.

"Aww, come here, sweet Little Bird," he teases gently, but as he grabs your butt to guide you onto his throbbing cock, he breathes just as heavily as you.

Even though you're more than wet, he literally works you open, determined, and yet so gentle as he sinks deeper and deeper into your heat. And as he has buried himself inside you to the hilt, you still feel the stretching of your walls, a delicious pulling and pulsation of your muscles.

He pauses to pull you closer, and both of you smile as the inked lines winding around your ribcages and your arms align with each other until it looks like they form a consistent pattern enveloping your bodies like one.

Complete.

It had felt like that back then when the priest engraved them into your skin. And it still feels like that today.

"You're mine. Until Ragnarök and beyond!" you hear Geralt mutter against your neck.

His words are followed by his teeth digging into your soft skin - a sensation that has you instantly writhing and squirming.

"Yours," you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Yours!" Like a vow, like a prayer. And your body picks up the words, translating them into movements, making you roll your hips, withdrawing from him, just to sink down on him a heartbeat later. Again. And again.

The hoarse groans falling from Geralt's lips make your insides clench, so sudden and powerful you can only whimper in response.

"Good, Little Bird?" he mumbles against your throat.

"Mhm… oh!" you utter as his cock hits just the right spot. And you dig your fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders as your hips involuntarily jerk forward, greedy to feel it again. "Oh, gods!"

"Fuck!" he growls. "Right there, hm?"

"Yes," you gasp as another wave of heat slashes through your body, and your movements begin to form a rhythm. "Yes… please…”

"You feel so good… fucking yourself on my cock like that. Fuck, I missed you!"

And while you clutch at him, slowly turning into a bundle of need in his lap, you revel in the way he watches you with wildly glowing eyes. While a thin sheen of sweat forms on his skin. And the firm grip of his hand on your butt becomes almost painfully tight.

"Come here, my love," he purrs as your movements grow unsteady, and he cradles your form in his arms.

You let him take over, letting him lift you up and lower you down, letting him help you ride him as he forces an angle and depth and rhythm on you that feels almost too perfect to bear. And tiny sobs, heavy with pleasure and yearning, break their way from your throat.

"Let go, Little Bird," he encourages you. "Let go… I need to see you cum… feel you… cum for me, sweet girl… cum for me!" And his every word, urgent and dark and beguiling, seems to drag you further toward the abyss.

"Cum for me," he mumbles one last time. And then, you teeter. Teeter on the brink as he impales you on his thick cock once, twice more until everything in you begins to convulse in the most delicious way.

And then, you fall.

And you fly.

With his arms still around you, and his voice whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and tears brimming your eyes while he fucks you through your high seamlessly blending into his. And then, he crumbles into pieces, into pure need, pulling you down on him with firm jerks while he thrusts upward, desperate to get deeper into your heat. And you feel his cum paint your walls, filling you with hot jets while his groan reverberates against your neck and his teeth dig into your flesh.

You hug him tighter, hold him and stroke his soft hair as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hold him as he laps and nibbles at your skin, as his heart thunders against your ribcage, much faster than usual, yet significantly slower than yours.

"I love you," you whisper into his ear. "I love you so much… in every life we might live… until Ragnarök and beyond."

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