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#the witcher fanfiction
ro-is-struggling · 3 days
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Safer In His Arms || Geralt of Rivia x Reader
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Requested by anon
Summary: Since you were little you always dreamed of meeting a noble and brave knight, falling in love and marrying him to rule your kingdom together until the end of your days. But as you looked around at the men that had come to the banquet to ask for your hand in marriage, it was clear that those dreams were nothing more than a fantasy. Or at least that's what you thought until fate crossed your path with Geralt of Rivia. The witcher, with his hard expression and cold stare, was the last person anyone would describe as warm or chivalrous. But not you. From the moment you met him, you saw nothing but kindness in his eyes. And when he managed to rescue you from the hands of bandits, you knew that maybe there was still some hope that your fantasy could come true —just maybe not in the way you had always imagined. 
Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of sexual assault (nothing happens but if it’s triggering for you I wouldn’t read it), protective!geralt, SMUT MINORS DNI, virgin!reader, inexperienced!reader, loss of virginity (not accurate this is just porn!), dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, creampie, aftercare, fluff
English is not my first language
Word count: 13500 (not even sorry)
Notes: I don't know why I keep giving every princess I write a sad/tragic story, sorry about that. Also this ended up being way more smutty than I anticipated, sorry about that too (not really). It was supposed to be a fun little hurt/comfort fic about Geralt saving the reader but it developed a mind of its own and ended up being another excuse to write more smut. I tried to make the smut a bit more fluffy than normal since it's supposed to be the reader's first time, but I didn't want it to be too fluffy given that they technically barely know each other, so there's no actual love between them (if that makes sense?). So, sorry if it's a bit all over the place!
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The cold breeze of the summer night hit your skin the moment you set foot outside, reminding you that you should have taken a coat. While the days tended to be hot this time of year, once the sun set over the horizon a cool breeze embraced the entire kingdom, courtesy of the ocean forces that surrounded the borders of the land. It was quite peaceful. On a quiet night you loved to sit in the courtyard listening to the waves crashing against the rocks and smelling the scent of the salty water that was carried by the winds and mingled with the sweet perfume of the garden flowers. It seemed to always bring peace to your troubled mind, and that was exactly what you needed right now.
You could still hear the noise coming from inside the castle, though it was slowly getting lost in the sound of the sea. The laughter, the chatter, the joyful music, it all faded into the background as you plopped down on one of the seats in the courtyard, allowing yourself a moment to take a deep breath and let the beauty of your kingdom impart some of the wisdom you so desperately needed. All the guests were there for you —to talk and dance with you, to make unattainable but romantic promises in exchange for your hand in marriage— and yet all you wanted to do was disappear. You were tired of the politics, the diplomacy, tired of feeling the pressure of having to decide the future of your life and your kingdom in one night. The choice of a husband was very important to your parents, to your people and it should be to you too, but all you wanted was for the day to be over.
"I'm glad to see I'm not the only one feeling overwhelmed in there." A deep voice startled you. 
Looking up you were met with a tall man leaning against one of the stone pillars supporting the roof of the covered section of the courtyard. His arms were crossed over his chest, muscles showing through the fabric of his clothes. His white hair hid part of his face, though you could still make out his hard expression and defined jaw. But what caught your attention the most was not the size of his muscles or the fact that the clothes he was wearing seemed too elegant for someone like him. No, what caught your attention the most were the amber eyes that watched you, admiring you from a distance, hiding behind a few rebellious strands of hair. You had never seen such beautiful eyes before. They were piercing, and yet there was a softness in them. Like the sun on a summer afternoon, they shone with an intensity that would have blinded anyone. But you were mesmerized by them, unable to look away. 
"Though I must admit I did not expect to find you here, your highness, given that you are the center of the party."
"I needed some fresh air." You managed to say, forcing yourself to look away from his eyes. "I lost count of the number of men I danced with tonight...I just needed a break."
"That bad, huh?" His lips curved upward slightly, giving his hard expression a softer look. "I suppose if any of them had made a good impression at least you would remember their name."
"It wouldn't matter anyways. My parents have a very strong opinion about the one I should choose." You let out a bitter chuckle. "This banquet is just a formality, a contingency plan.... Give everyone a false sense of hope so they won't attack us for feeling left out."
"I'm sure you still have some sort of control over the whole thing. You're the one getting married after all."
"Since when does a woman's opinion matter when there's wealth and power involved? I'm just a pawn in their political game." Your gaze dropped, focusing on the embroidered details of your dress to avoid facing the intense gaze of the man in front of you. "When I was a girl I used to dream of growing up, meeting a brave and honorable prince and falling in love with him... now I know that feelings come after marriage, if they come at all."
Geralt watched you walk arround the courtyard, your fingers tracing the petals of the flowers that decorated the place without paying much attention to your movements. You had a blank stare and a sad expression adorned your delicate face. He was not a big lover of royalty —he didn't care about politics and didn't like the arrogant tone with which most of them used to speak—, but you were different. When he looked at you he didn't see a spoiled, arrogant princess or a manipulative political figure capable of anything to get their way. He only saw a sad and disillusioned young woman, confused about her future and the responsibility that fell on her shoulders. 
Geralt felt bad for you and had an inexplicable urge to hug you, though he restrained himself. He opted to move closer to you, just took a couple of steps forward and he was already able to breathe in the scent of your perfume. His nostrils were pleasantly assaulted by the sweet scent emanating from your skin and hair. It was special, a blend of jasmine, vanilla and a hint of sea water. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before and he was sure that your scent would linger in his memory for a long time.
"It is still your life." He spoke behind your back and you turned to look at him. He seemed much bigger now that he was closer to you. His figure towered over you imposingly, yet his eyes were soft. "You can always take back your control over it." Your lips curved upward slightly and Geralt thought the smile suited you much better than the grimace of sadness. 
You appreciated his effort to improve your mood. He was a complete stranger who had no reason to listen to your complaints about a life that many considered privileged. And though his words were simple, they accomplished their purpose. You felt so helpless and trapped that you were unable to see that things didn't end there. Yes, you were forced to marry someone you did not love for the sake of your kingdom, but that was not the same as giving up your life, your control and power over it. There was still hope.
"Thank you..." you trailed off, realizing at that moment that you had opened yourself so sincerely to a man whose name you didn't even know. 
But before he could introduce himself, a voice in the distance interrupted you, answering for him.
"Geralt! There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you. You are supposed to protect me, you know."
Geralt let out an irritated sigh as the man you recognized as one of the many musicians hired by your parents to play at the banquet approached you. You had to stifle a chuckle as you realized that rather than escaping the noise of the party, he had come there to get a break from his friend's vibrant and cheerful personality. They were an odd pair, but you had no doubt that there had to be trust between them from the way the bard addresses him.
“I’ve been doing the impossible to hide from Lord Kaius for ages! What the hell were you doing out her–” The artist's complaints were cut short when his eyes finally rested on your figure. "Your highness." He gave a subtle bow, the tone of his voice changing to a lower, more subtle one from one second to the next.
"I'm afraid it's my fault. I was preoccupying your friend with the problems that afflict my mind on this fine evening and he was too kind to interrupt me. He was a great help, but you can take him back now. You clearly need him more than I do."
"Won't you come inside, your highness? You wouldn't want to miss your own party." The bard asked and you smiled at him. 
"In a moment. I'd like to enjoy the peace and fresh air for a while longer."
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Geralt didn't know why, but his eyes kept searching for you in the crowd of people dancing and eating like there was no tomorrow. After Jaskier dragged him back to the banquet hall —and after saving him from the fury of the man whose daughter had lost her innocence in the hands of the bard—, he kept his eyes on the big dark wooden doors, waiting to see you enter. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of you anywhere. He hadn't seen you come through the door and he couldn't find you in the crowd of people or see you at the royal table sitting next to your parents. You had disappeared and some people were beginning to notice.
For a moment, Geralt wondered if perhaps his words had encouraged certain behaviors in you. Maybe your way of taking control of your life was to run away from there, leaving your parents, your suitors and your responsibilities behind and start from scratch. He was wondering if perhaps he should go out to look for you, when his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a man running towards the king and queen waving a paper in his raised right hand.
"The princess has been kidnapped." He announced loudly, causing the entire room to fall into a deep silence. 
The musicians stopped playing, the people dancing stood motionless in the middle of the room and the queen almost fainted at that very moment. There was a collective sigh and then nothing. Pure silence while the king read the note that had been left behind by the bandits, establishing a payment for the recovery of the princess.
However, the silence did not last long. It was a room full of princes, knights and lords who were there to win the heart of the princess —or at least, the political interest of her parents— so chaos was bound to break out at a time like that. Lord Einar, the one who had found the note in the courtyard, was the first to offer his services to save the princess. His bravery set off a chain reaction of man after man appearing before the king to justify why they were the best suited for the task and not their competitors. And as they fought among themselves, Geralt decided to take matters into his own hands. 
He finally felt comfortable as he inspected the courtyard and its surroundings for some sort of clue as to your whereabouts. For the first time since he had arrived at the castle he felt as if he actually had something to do there. Banquets and politics weren't his thing, but tracking down and hunting evil was. And while his area of expertise was monsters, he was willing to make an exception —anything to find an excuse to get him out of the political mess unfolding in the banquet hall.
His senses enhanced by the mutation allowed Geralt to follow the path that your scent had left in the air. He only had to take a couple of deep breaths and he immediately caught the fragrance of jasmine and vanilla that he had smelled on your skin. It stood out above any other scent near him, almost as if he had you in front of him once again. All he had to do was follow it to the outskirts of the castle, where his tracking skills allowed him to form a clearer picture of the situation.
They were heading north, away from the ocean and into the forest. The four pairs of footprints in the dirt indicated the presence of three heavy men who were accompanied by a fourth subject that was not so pleased to be there. The footprints were more shallow and imperfect. They belonged to a person of smaller build who was being dragged by those men. Geralt found no blood on the path, so he felt optimistic. You were conscious and had no serious wounds that would leave traces of your blood on the road, so there was a high chance that he would arrive in time to save you.
Following the path became a little more complicated the deeper he went into the woods, but fortunately for him the vegetation was not so lush and the bandits had not hidden very far away. Soon he was able to hear their angry mutterings in the distance. The night wind carried your sobs with it and Geralt followed them as if it were a map straight to your whereabouts. 
You were being held captive in what appeared to be abandoned land. There was a dirty old shack and behind it, in the distance, Geralt could make out a barn that he had no doubt was in the same condition. A dim light was escaping through the half-open wooden door, so he knew that was where he had to go. 
Two of the bandits scattered around the property to control the perimeter while one remained inside with you. Geralt was able to slip past them unseen with ease. Clearly, they were not men of great intellect and wisdom. Only a fool would kidnap a princess on the one night she was surrounded by strong and capable noble knights looking to prove themselves to her. Although glancing around, he was the only one there, so perhaps the bandits had a point.
Geralt was very careful with his movements, seeking to stay in the shadows as long as possible to assess the situation. He knew he could take out those men without breaking a sweat, even if they attacked him all three at once. But he had to consider that you were in the middle and any mistake he made could end badly for you. So he took his time, stealing a glimpse of the barn through the cracked door. His vision was limited by the odd angle from which he was forced to observe the scene, as well as the dim light that illuminated the room. Geralt was considering going in with his sword held high and end it all, when a sudden movement forced him to retreat so as not to be found.
Still, he got to see the way the man was mistreating you, pushing you violently against a pile of hay while you cried and begged for your life. And he got to hear the string of degenerate words he spat at you, enjoying the fear in your voice as you struggled to keep your distance from him. It made Geralt angry. Very angry.
The next sequence of actions happened so quickly that it was hard for you to process it. Although, to be honest, your mind wasn't quite there either. A part of you was completely missing, preparing to face the worst. When your captor lunged at you, effectively imprisoning you against the hay and almost completely restricting your movements, your mind transported you to another place. You could still hear his voice in the distance, smell his unpleasant odor and feel his weight on your body, but it all felt distant, muffled by the sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks and the smell of salt water. Your body was still struggling to break free and tears were still streaming down your cheeks, but your mind was preparing to face the horror you knew was coming.
"You can cry all you want, no one is coming to save you." The man clicked his tongue, an evil smile forming on his lips. "A castle full of people and not a single man in sight, what a shame! But don't worry, princess, the time has come for you to know what a real man is." He moved his hands to the buttons of his pants, his leering gaze roaming over your body. You felt like screaming, crying and vomiting all at the same time, but you remained immobile, not knowing how to react. You simply closed your eyes, concentrating on the images of the sea you loved so much, waiting for the moment to pass.
But instead of feeling the weight of your captor's body on you again, you felt the splatter of warm liquid on your skin. Droplets rolled down your cheeks, mixing with your tears, and streams fell on your clothes. When you opened your eyes you found the sharp point of a sword poking out of your captor's pierced stomach. It was his blood that drenched your body, his blood that stained your clothes. It poured down on you from the wound in his stomach and from the cut in his throat that prevented him from producing more than broken cries as he drowned in his own blood.
It took you a few seconds to understand what was happening. Your confused mind, on high alert for new dangers, was not able to comprehend that the death of your captor was something positive for you. You only saw blood in quantities you had never seen before and could not help but scream as you watched in horror as the sword disappeared inside the bandit's body —splashing a few more drops of blood on its way out.
In the blink of an eye, the dying body of your captor was removed from above you and was replaced by a hand that pressed over your mouth to silence you. You struggled against it, your own hands snapping out of their state of shock to clutch at the arm of the new danger in an attempt to separate it from you. But then your eyes focused on the man leaning over you, the one who had saved you and who was desperately asking you to keep quiet.
A surge of calm ran through your body as you made contact with those golden eyes that intrigued you so much. You knew then that you were no longer in danger for Geralt had come to your rescue. Your heart was still beating almost inhumanly fast, pumping adrenaline throughout your body, and your breathing was still rapid, but you were able to calm your whimpers of protest under his hand. You stopped fighting him, trusting that you would be safe under his care.
"There are more-" You tried to warn him as he removed his hand from your mouth, but Geralt shushed you.
"I know, they're outside. That's why I need you to stay quiet and hide while I deal with them. Can you do that, your highness?" You nodded slowly, letting Geralt lead you to the back of the barn. He settled you behind a pile of hay that was large enough to hide your crouched figure, asking you to stay there until he came back for you, no matter what you heard outside.
"Wait! Don't leave me!" you panicked as he took a step away from you. Your hand flew to his arm, clinging to his clothes in an attempt to keep him from leaving. You knew what he had to do, but the thought of being alone again terrified you.
"Everything will be fine." Geralt tried to calm you, his voice a soft whisper. "I promise I will come back for you." 
He gave you a moment before trying to leave once again, waiting for you to let go of his arm willingly rather than forcibly push you away. Geralt knew you were terrified and needed support, and he was more than willing to give it, but first he had to take care of the bandits that were still on the loose. And it would not be wise to fight them while you were present. It would only distress you further and put you in unnecessary danger. So, with a slight nod, he left you in the barn once more, disappearing into the night to finish what he had started.
You curled up in your place, listening to the distant sounds of the fight as you let another wave of tears roll down your cheeks. The smell of blood and dirt surrounded you. You were covered in it —in dirt, from being pushed back and forth around the place; in your captor's sweat, after he threw his body over yours; and in his blood, thanks to Geralt's fierce but effective attack. It made you want to vomit. The reality of the situation was starting to sink in, and your mind was slowly beginning to understand the great danger you were in and how lucky you were that Geralt showed up when he did.
“Princess?” 
His voice brought you back to reality. He was kneeling beside you, looking at you with concern in those beautiful yellow eyes. The skin on his face was stained with a few drops of blood, as you imagined yours to be, but that did not lessen the softness of his expression. You threw yourself into his arms without a second thought, hiding your face in his neck as you sobbed in relief to know that the danger was over.
"It's okay, you're safe. I'm here, it's going to be okay." Geralt muttered against your hair, pulling you into his arms hoping that would be enough to help ease your nerves. 
He held you against his body for as long as you needed him to, stroking your back with his hand in a slow, delicate way to inspire some sense of calm in you. He didn't move for a moment, not even when your sobs began to fade and your breathing became regular. No, Geralt waited for you to make the first move, breaking away from him when you were ready to do so. 
"It's all right. You're fine. Just breathe with me. In...and out...in...and out. All right." 
You let the soft but deep tone of his voice slowly wash away the paralyzing fear and nerves that plagued you. You focused on the warmth of his body and the way his arms wrapped around you, making you feel safe. You mimicked the rhythm of his breathing, letting him slowly guide you back to normal. 
When you opened your eyes again the world around you was no longer spinning. Your vision was still a little blurry from the tears, but you could make out perfectly the yellow eyes, bright as the summer sun, watching you carefully.
"There you are!" Geralt gave you a small smile. "Did they hurt you?" You shook your head. Most of the blood on you at that moment wasn't yours, thankfully. Beyond a couple of bruises on your wrists from the bindings, and a split lip from a slap, you weren't injured. Your head hurt and you had twisted your ankle in an attempt to escape but it was nothing you couldn't handle.
"Who were they?" You asked in a shaky voice as you tried to stand up. You winced in pain as you put weight on your injured foot, but Geralt caught you in his arms before you lost your balance.
"Trust me, you're not going to like the answer to that."
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A collective sigh was heard as you and Geralt entered the war room, where the king and queen were coordinating a rescue party with some soldiers and half of the suitors present at the banquet. It was a sigh of surprise rather than relief. It was clear that no one expected to see you there, much less with the disheveled appearance you had. 
Your mother was the first to react, running up to you with tears in her eyes. Although she couldn't bring herself to hug you, the blood that stained your ball gown was still fresh, so she settled for holding your cheeks in her hands while repeating over and over again how happy she was that you were safe. Your father reacted by sending the guards to arrest Geralt as his worried mind believed that the witcher somehow had something to do with your kidnapping. You had to stand between them, taking your savior's hand in yours to make your position clear. 
"What you imply is ridiculous! He saved me, father. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." you stated firmly, keeping your head held high and holding back tears in your eyes. 
"He very well could still be behind all this. He's a witcher who wasn't officially invited to the festivities and conveniently vanished in the middle of the night without a word. No one can attest to him but that bard..."
"No offense, your majesty, but I just felt as though the situation was not being treated with the necessary urgency." Geralt interjected, speaking in a calm and slightly defiant tone. "I knew for a fact that she couldn't be far away and that time was of the essence, but everyone at that feast seemed more interested in proving themselves worthy of glory and respect than saving your daughter's life. I just did what had to be done."
"How dare you speak that way about these noble men, witcher! Any one of them would be more than willing to give his life for my daughter!"
"He is right, father. If you want to find a culprit, you should direct your gaze to Lord Einar."
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. But his gaze was focused on you, staring at you with a fury you didn't know if the others were able to detect. He took a step forward and you tightened your grip on Geralt's hand, instinctively seeking his support. He stuck to your side, silently letting you know that he was ready to come between him and you if necessary —though he seriously doubted that Einar would be stupid enough to try to hurt you in front of the king.
"This is absurd!" Lord Einar complained with exaggerated outrage. "I will not allow myself to be disrespected in this way! I was invited to this feast to formalize my interest in the princess, which is greater than that of anyone in this room, if I may add. Have you forgotten that it was I who noticed the princess's strange disappearance? If I had not gone out to look for her, perhaps the news of her disappearance would have come too late. And may I remind you, your majesty, that it was I who first offered my services to bring her back safe and sound."
"That was the plan, wasn't it?" Geralt spoke through gritted teeth. "To pay some coins to a bunch of desperate bastards to take her so that you could rescue her and thus win her and the king's heart."
"I will not allow this... thing to disrespect me like this!"
"Your scent was on their clothes. Your name was the last thing they uttered before I slit their throats. You knew you didn't stand a chance with her, so you found a way to force your name to the top of the list."
Intimidated by Geralt's cold, hard stare, Lord Einar turned to look at the king. "These are nothing more than baseless accusations made by someone who clearly wants to distract us from his own guilt and involvement." he said, keeping his head held high as he lied through his teeth. "I beg you, my king, to consider punishment for this insolent witcher."
"Is this proof enough for you?" you snapped, tossing an object on the table. 
After the bandits were dead, Geralt had searched their bodies for some kind of proof that their words were true. That's how he had found a ring in the pocket of one of them that clearly didn't belong to them. It was made of a fine metal and in the center, engraved in gold, was the seal of a noble family: the Blakesley family.
The ring rolled against the dark wood, exposing Lord Einar's lies with each flick of the ring before the gaze of all present. There was nothing he could say to avoid the punishment that was coming, so when your father gave the order and the guards took him by force, he decided to take his rage out on you. His voice echoed through the corridors as he was escorted to the dungeon, shouting a string of insults at you. He questioned your honor and your ability as a ruler, claiming that he only wanted to marry you to ensure that the kingdom would not perish when your father died. 
Those were nothing more than the words of an unstable man who was filled with spite, angered by your rejection. You knew it meant nothing, but you still couldn't help but feel humiliated as he shouted all those things in front of so many people. Your eyes filled with tears and you clung to Geralt almost instinctively, hiding your face in his neck so no one would see you cry. He wrapped his arms around you, ignoring the very unfriendly looks that several of the men in the room gave him. 
Your mother ordered the room to be emptied, realizing that the crowd was doing nothing to help your condition. The last thing you needed at that moment was to feel watched and judged by a bunch of people, so she personally closed the doors behind the last guard to leave the room.
"You should take a long bath, my love. I'll send someone to prepare the tub and clean clothes for you. That will certainly make you feel better." Your mother spoke in a soft voice, placing a hand on your back. "And you, witcher, are more than welcome to stay tonight. I'll have a room prepared for you and bring you some clean clothes. We can talk more in the morning."
You gave your mother a smile as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, trying to convince her that you were fine. She knew you weren't, but she also knew you well enough not to push you at that moment. So she left the room without adding anything else, leaving you alone with Geralt once again.
"Thank you... for everything." Your voice broke the silence, your eyes traveling from the door to Geralt's face. "I just realized I didn't thank you yet." 
"You don't have to." He didn't need to hear it from your mouth, he could see in your eyes how grateful you were. Your expression hadn't changed much since he had found you, even though you tried hard to hide it, there were still traces of fear and distress in your eyes.
"Of course I have to! You have saved me from a terrible fate, not only at the hands of those bandits, but also at the hands of that... man." There were other words with which you would have liked to describe him, but you decided it was not appropriate for you to utter them. He didn't even deserve that from you. "I'm glad you were dragged here... I don't know what would have become of me without you tonight, Geralt."
The room fell silent as you looked into each other's eyes. You lost yourself in the amber that surrounded his pupils —which seemed to be more dilated, although it could well be an effect of the light, you thought—, trying to discover the secrets hidden in his eyes. Geralt was not easy to read, no matter how hard you tried, you had no idea of the things that could be going through his head at that moment. And yet, there was something in his eyes that calmed you. When he looked back at you, there was a softness in them that invited you to continue to admire them forever. It was a connection unlike anything you had ever felt before. It piqued your curiosity and some other things you didn't quite know how to explain. 
Your hand was still intertwined with Geralt's and you weren't entirely sure for how long. Although you weren't complaining, you found the warmth of his skin against yours extremely comforting. It made you feel less alone, less vulnerable. You trusted him with your life, you knew that as long as he was around nothing bad could happen to you. And boy did you need that at that moment. You were still quite affected by everything that had happened and the idea of being alone terrified you. You needed company, but not just anyone. You needed his company.
"Would you mind escorting me to my chambers?" you broke the silence, clearing your throat to make sure your voice sounded firm. "My foot still hurts a little and I wouldn't want to fall down the stairs."
It was a foolish excuse. You knew it. Geralt knew it. The twisted foot you got while struggling with your captors was not a cause for concern. It hurt a little, yes, but you could still walk normally. All you wanted was an excuse not to be separated from Geralt and luckily for you, he played along. He allowed you to take his arm for stability and walked with you to your quarters. You appreciated his proximity, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against yours as his warmth enveloped you. But unfortunately it only seemed to aggravate his absence when he pulled away from you, willing to leave you alone so you could rest.
Your hand closed around his arm almost as an unwilling reflex. Your body craved his closeness. Your mind needed his company to be at ease. As much as you wanted to, you couldn't let Geralt leave. Not tonight at least. His eyes lingered on your hand, admiring how small it appeared when compared to his arm, before he looked up into your eyes, searching your expression for an explanation.
"Stay, please." Your voice was almost a whisper. Your eyes had trouble making eye contact with him for the first time since you had met. Geralt knew then that you were embarrassed of uttering those words. "I need you. I... I don't want to be alone tonight."
"Are you sure?" He said after a few seconds of silence, his expression firm but gentle. You nodded, looking at him with pleading eyes as you released his arm from your grip. Geralt sighed and finally crossed the threshold of the door, closing it behind him. 
Geralt allowed you to guide him across the room to a door that hid a large private bathtub on the other side. It was already filled with water and salts, ready for you to use it. Everything smelled of you, of that delicious combination of jasmine and vanilla that Geralt found so special. It was intoxicating, like he was breathing in your scent straight from the source. 
"Would you mind helping me with the lace?" Your voice brought him back to reality. Geralt watched as you turned around, gathering your hair over one of your shoulders to expose your back to him so he could unfasten your dress. He knew it was inappropriate and that he was probably breaking some rule —not to mention, taking advantage of the king's hospitality—, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Not when you were offering yourself to him like that.
Geralt's hands caressed your back first, his fingers slowly tracing a path from your shoulders to where the lacing of your dress ended. You closed your eyes, holding your breath as you felt him slowly loosen your dress. You could feel his imposing figure towering over you. He was so close that you could hear his breathing and feel the heat radiating from his body. You liked the proximity, probably more than you should.
When Geralt finished his work and your dress began to slide down your shoulders, you knew you should have been embarrassed. You were used to being naked in front of servants, but they were always women you trusted, handmaidens who had taken care of you since you were little and helped you dress or bathe. You had never been so exposed in front of a man before and you should definitely feel ashamed, but you were not. You simply let the dress fall to your feet and stepped into the tub as if there was no man present.
The water was warm and the tub was deep enough to hide your modesty if you sat in the right position. The dim candlelight also helped, though ultimately you really didn't mind feeling Geralt's gaze on your body.
"Join me, please. The water's nice and there's room enough for both of us."
Your curious eyes unashamedly traced the muscles of his arms and torso as he revealed himself to you. You noticed the scars that marked his skin, some smaller and some larger, and you couldn't help but wonder what the stories behind them were. Geralt was an exceptional man, unlike anyone you had ever met in your life. He was so rigid and reserved, and yet he had shown nothing but kindness and gentleness in your presence. He was a mystery and you wanted nothing more than to discover what he hid behind those beautiful amber eyes.
Out of respect —and some embarrassment—, you looked away as his hands undid the buttons of his pants. You focused your attention on the jasmine petals floating in the water, feeling your cheeks grow warm as a small voice in your head encouraged you to look up. 
Geralt settled next to you in the tub, avoiding being too close or sitting in front of you so that you wouldn't feel uncomfortable or self-conscious in his presence. However, you needed his closeness, so you shortened the distance as much as you could, pressing your arm against his. When he didn't complain, you went a step further and rested your head on his shoulder. Geralt stood still for a moment, debating once again whether his actions were appropriate, but in the end he relaxed. 
He put his arm around your shoulders, effectively pulling you closer to him. A smile formed on your lips as you adjusted yourself in the new position, hiding your face in his neck. Geralt's fingers traced soft lines on the skin of your arm, a caress that both relaxed and excited you. That kind of intimacy was something new to you. Feeling his naked skin against yours, inhaling that musky scent mixed with something you couldn't describe as anything but his own essence, feeling the soft caresses of his calloused fingers, everything made you feel a certain way inside. You didn't have the exact words to describe it. It was like a flame, a warmth spreading through you that was both comforting and exciting. Ultimately, you didn't care about being able to put a name to what you felt. You just wanted to stay close to Geralt for as long as you were allowed.
Without even realizing it, your hand traveled up to his chest, your curious fingers tracing the jagged lines that marked his skin. You used the scars as a map to his body, letting them guide your path as you explored his chest with your touch. And as your fingers moved, you imagined the heroic stories behind each one, wondering what kind of monsters had inflicted them and if there were any that were human-made.
"I wonder how many princesses you've saved to end up like this." You broke the silence, your voice soft as you got lost in thought. It was mostly a joke, but there was some genuine curiosity hidden in it. 
"Surprisingly, less than you're probably imagining."
You didn't quite know why, but hearing Geralt say that put a smile on your lips. It made you feel special, in a way. He hadn't been hired to save you —technically he hadn't even been invited to the party—, he had no obligation to you or your family, and yet he had risked his life to help you. There was something in you that awakened in him his noblest instincts.
"I'm sure that's what you tell everyone." You laughed, looking up at him from your position on his shoulder. You could admire his profile, his sharp jawline and the way his lips curved upward slightly as he let out a huff.
"Often delicate young women like you find my methods to be too... grotesque. They don't see me as being much different from the monsters I kill." Geralt spoke honestly, remembering the horrified expressions on the faces of the maidens he had sought to save from danger in his past, when he had little experience as a witcher. He was young and naive at the time and believed he could use his skills for more than just hunting monsters. After all, evil came in all shapes and sizes, even in humans. It didn't take him long to understand that humans didn't see a knight of noble spirit when he intervened in such situations, only a mutant designed to kill.
You noticed his thoughtful expression, his eyes looking straight ahead as if his mind was transporting him to another place. You wondered what kind of memories he might have swirling around in his head at that moment, outraged to think that someone could treat him badly after he saved their life. You admitted that he had quite an imposing figure and that his expression wasn't very friendly most of the time, but you still couldn't understand how anyone could be afraid of him. Even before he saved you —when he was just a stranger who took the time to listen to your problems— you saw nothing threatening in him. His beautiful yellow eyes inspired nothing but trust in you from the first moment you made contact with them.
“Then they were all fools." You sat up straight, one hand resting on Geralt's cheek to force him to look at you. "I don't understand how anyone could look at you and see danger in you. Even covered in blood, all I see is... safety and comfort." You gave him a small smile as your finger carefully wiped a small spot of blood from his cheek.
"Or maybe you're being naively nice."
Geralt took a cloth that rested on the edge of the tub and dipped it in the warm water. Then one of his hands cupped your chin, tilting your face slightly so he could get a better look at you in the candlelight. The flames danced in the air, creating shadows on your delicate skin. But even in the dim light he could still see the splashes of blood that stained your beautiful face. They made such a contrast that it was impossible to ignore them. The implication of such a violent act had no place on the delicate face of a princess like you. He hated to see the scratch on your lip, the dirt on your cheeks, the dried blood on your skin. You should not have been subjected to such horrors and he wanted to do everything in his power to erase the evidence from your body. So Geralt took the trouble to wipe the blood away, carefully running the wet cloth over your skin until it was all gone.
You remained silent as he worked on you, completely immobile while you watched him closely. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, but his expression was gentle. His hands moved delicately over your skin, as if he was afraid of breaking you if he wasn't careful. You could barely feel the cloth brushing against your cheek from how slow and gentle Geralt was being. But his fingers... his fingers were another story.
They were warm against your skin, caressing every little spot the cloth passed through to soothe any possible irritation the fabric might arouse. They awakened a tingling sensation as they traveled down your face. When they reached your neck, you knew that Geralt could feel the accelerated pulsing of your heart against his fingertips. It was impossible that he couldn't when you could hear the beating in your ears yourself. His hands felt so big against your neck. If he wanted to hurt you, he could probably do it with just one hand. That should have scared you, considering he was a man you barely knew, but it didn't. You knew he wasn't going to hurt you, not when he caressed the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbones with such gentleness.
"Maybe I'm naive," you broke the silence, your voice barely more audible than a whisper. "But I honestly don't think a mutant designed to kill, as you say, would go to the trouble of caring for me the way you are doing."
Geralt's eyes looked up at you, that intriguing yellow you loved so much capturing you in a transe. They were calling you, daring you to dive into the ocean of honey and mystery that was his gaze. And you obeyed without the slightest resistance, letting your heart take the reins of your body. You leaned towards him, slowly. His hands were still on your neck, but he didn't use them to stop you. On the contrary, he leaned towards you too and when your lips finally collided, he used his grip on your jaw to deepen the kiss.
The kiss started slow, a quick brush of your lips as you finally let yourselves indulge in your deepest desires. But as you became more comfortable in each other's arms, the kiss intensified. You let Geralt guide you, knowing that he would undoubtedly have more experience than you. You surrendered to his lips and the caresses of his tongue, giving yourself to him completely as you struggled to keep up with him. 
That wasn't your first kiss, however, it was the first kiss that felt like this, so... intense, passionate. You barely remembered the boy who had given you your first kiss, but you knew you would remember Geralt for the rest of your life. You didn't know how he did it, but the simple touch of his lips and the strokes of his fingers on your skin turned you to mush between his hands. You had never felt anything like it before and you didn't want to stop. But despite your protests, Geralt suddenly pulled away from you.
"What are you doing?" He didn't sound annoyed or confused, more concerned. 
"I'm taking control of my life." You leaned into him once more and Geralt accepted your kiss, his desperate lips demonstrating his true intentions. He let his desires consume him for a moment before regaining control over his body and pulling away from you again.
"Are you sure?" It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but the voice of morality in the back of his mind compelled him to make sure you wanted the same. He needed to know that he wasn't taking advantage of you, that you weren't throwing yourself into his arms as a result of your vulnerable state after the attack.
"For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of meeting a noble prince who would protect me from danger. We would fall in love and live a long and happy life together after our marriage. Now I know that is impossible. I cannot choose who I marry. I cannot choose to marry for love. There's nothing I can do to change it, that's just the way things work." You paused, your hands reaching for Geralt's to entwine your fingers. "But I can still choose who to give myself to, body and soul, for the first time... and you're the closest thing I have to that fantasy."
There was a sadness in your eyes that made Geralt feel bad for you. He didn't know you very well, but he knew you deserved better than a future you didn't want. The inability to choose your own path in life was something that seemed to affect you greatly, and if he was able to bring you some peace he was willing to do so. But the tub full of dirty water was not the place for it, much less considering it would be your first experience of something like that. 
"Speak freely." You said after a few seconds of unbearable silence. "If you don't want to be with me because you don't like me I'll understand. But please don't turn me down just because you think you're guarding my honor or something. I want this... I want you."
Those last words seemed to do the trick, because Geralt's lips joined yours once again. Only this time the kiss was different, much slower and more sensual, though just as desperate. His lips moved in time with yours, tongues intertwined in a sinful dance as Geralt allowed his hands to slowly explore your body. His fingers ignited flames on your skin in their path, pleasure and anticipation building inside you. 
The water in the tub swirled violently as Geralt lifted you into his arms, moving you to sit on his lap as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his shoulders for support, feeling his fingers dig into the sensitive skin of your hips. But it didn't hurt, at least not in a bad way. It was a pleasant ache that made you feel alive. Just like his kisses, which trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin. 
Geralt's kisses continued their way down and you couldn't help but buck your hips against his when his lips closed over your nipple. You pushed your chest into him instinctively, giving yourself to him as one of your hands got lost in his hair. Pure pleasure traveled through your veins as his tongue played with your breasts, giving attention to one before moving on to the other. He held you tightly against his body, one strong arm stretched across your back while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his growing erection. 
You both moaned as your cunt made contact with his cock. The sensation you felt when the tip brushed against your little bundle of nerves was unlike anything you had ever felt before. The pleasure was much more intense, much more raw. You could feel it spreading through your body and into your bones. So, naturally, you sought it again, creating a rhythm that had you panting in no time. 
You were forced to stop when Geralt suddenly stood up, carrying you in his arms. Your moan of pleasure turned into a cry of surprise, the water in the tub moving violently, flooding the room as he moved towards the exit. You clung to his shoulders, afraid of falling, as you asked him what he was doing.
"We can't do it here. It has to be done properly, in a bed where you’ll be comfortable, and not in a bathtub full of filthy water."
You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you understood the meaning of his words. Once again, Geralt was looking after you, worrying about you and your well-being more than any other man in your life had ever done. He wanted to make things right, to make sure that your first sexual encounter was a positive experience. And while he wasn't exactly the man you had imagined doing it with, he was quite close to it. Every thing he said, every gesture he made to you, made you feel more confident in your decision.
Geralt carefully laid you down on the bed, making sure you were comfortable before continuing his assault on your body. He kissed you again and, as you let his tongue explore your mouth, you couldn't help but think how much bigger he felt now that he was leaning over you. He had one arm on either side of your head, holding himself up so he wouldn't crush you with his weight. One of his toned legs rested in between yours, keeping you open and exposed to him. You were essentially trapped under his body, completely at his mercy, and you liked it.
The pleasure building up inside you was starting to feel too overwhelming. As much as you enjoyed Geralt's wet kisses, you needed more. You needed relief. So you pushed your hips into him once more, seeking that intoxicating pleasure you'd felt in the bathtub. Your wet pussy slid easily up his thigh and a wave of pleasure coursed through your body. 
"Fuck!" Geralt moaned as he felt your wetness trickling down his leg. You looked so sensual moving your hips against him with adoring desperation, struggling to find some relief. The little moans that fell from your lips in between ragged breaths drove him crazy, making it difficult for him to control his instincts. He had to be gentle with you, it was your first time and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't pin you down and fuck you until your legs shook.
"Tell me, princess, have you ever touched yourself?" Geralt spoke against your skin as his lips continued their path of wet kisses down your body. "Perhaps when you were alone at night, hidden in the darkness of your chambers."
It took you a few seconds to process Geralt's words, your mind distracted with the way his kisses slowly trailed down your chest, barely pausing on your breasts before continuing to travel down. It made your body tremble with anticipation, wondering what he was up to. He was watching you from his position on your abdomen, lips barely pulling away from your skin so he could observe your face more comfortably, waiting for an answer. The color of his eyes had darkened, the yellow glowing like the flames of the candles that lit the room. There was hunger in them. Geralt was looking at you like a wolf at its prey. You couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, managing to answer him with a simple negative shake of your head. 
"So you don't know what real pleasure feels like, huh?" You weren't sure if it was a question for you, but you shook your head again anyway. You felt Geralt's lips curving into a smile against the sensitive skin of your lower belly and a shiver ran down your spine when you heard his next words. "I'm going to change that."
Despite the firmness in his voice, Geralt was slow and gentle with each movement he made next. He was careful to position himself between your legs, pushing them open and revealing your most secret part to his hungry gaze. He noticed almost immediately the way you tensed with embarrassment, feeling vulnerable, so he was quick to spread sweet kisses on your right thigh, while gently caressing the skin of your left. He could smell the scent of your arousal with every breath he took. It was intoxicating, the sweet nectar he had been waiting to taste all this time. But first he had to make sure you were comfortable. He was there to pleasure you, nothing mattered if you didn't enjoy it.
"It's okay, my sweet. You don't have to be ashamed, you're beautiful." He spoke against your skin, his voice a raspy, sensual, whisper. "I have to get you ready for my cock, all right? This will feel so good, I promise. But if it doesn't, I want you to tell me, can you do that?" You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. "I need you to use your words."
"Yes, Geralt, I will."
"Good."
Geralt gave you a few seconds to relax before diving into your cunt, spreading wet kisses down your inner thighs as he got closer and closer to the place where you needed him most. When his tongue finally made contact with the sweet nectar trickling down your folds, he let out a sound that vibrated in his chest with force. All hint of self-control disappeared then, buried under the primal desire that the taste of your arousal awakened in him.
He ate you like a starving man, his tongue exploring your most intimate place with expert skill. Your hips jolted as his lips closed over your small bundle of nerves, your whole body convulsing as you felt pleasure like you had never felt before. It was so intense it was almost too much. It scared you in a way, as it felt like your own body didn't respond to you —like it didn't belong to you. It belonged to Geralt now, and only responded to the stimulation he gave your body.  You were torn between the need to pull away from his entrancing lips —which were no doubt uttering some spell to claim ownership of your innocence— and your body's carnal desire to surrender to his clever tricks in order to continue to feel such pure pleasure.
"Does it feel good, princess?" Geralt spoke between your legs, his warm breath crashing against your pussy and sending shivers down your spine. 
"Yes! So good... please don't stop." You didn't recognize your own voice as you spoke. It sounded raspy from all the moaning, and there was a hint of desperation you'd never heard in yourself before. It wasn't the first time you had begged someone for something you wanted, but it was the first time you actually meant it.
"I won't, I promise. I'm here to make you feel good." Geralt assured between slow, long licks, focusing his attention on your clit before continuing. "But if you're going to take my cock, I'll need to stretch your tight hole." You tensed again and once more he used his strategy of stroking and kissing your thighs to calm you down. You knew that penetration was an important part of the whole thing and you were ready to face it, but still, the unknown scared you a little. "I'm going to insert a finger inside you, is that all right my sweet? It might feel a little uncomfortable at first, but I promise it will feel great afterwards. But first I have to know that you still want this."
"Yes, Geralt, I want this. I trust you, please." You gave him a shy smile, looking at him with complete admiration. He saw the desire in your eyes, mixed with anticipation and a hint of fear. But you were confident in your decision, so he continued.
"Relax, I'm going to take care of you." He murmured against your skin, his kisses slowly moving closer to your wet cunt. "Just focus on the pleasure."
Geralt's voice echoed in your mind, your body obeying his commands as if he had cast a spell over you that left you with no other choice. You focused on the fire burning inside you, on the skillful way he flicked his tongue against your abused bundle of nerves and on the knot in your stomach that tightened with each passing second. You tried not to tense up as you felt Geralt's finger press against your entrance, biting your lip and taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. His tongue was doing a good job of distracting you, but you could still feel the slightly painful drag of his finger inside you. 
"You're doing so well for me." Geralt complimented you, keeping his finger still inside you to give you time to get used to the new sensation. You couldn't hide how much it pleased you to hear those words, because your walls clenched around his finger, revealing your deepest desires. Geralt grunted against your pussy, fantasizing about how good your tight hole would feel around his cock. 
It took you a moment to get used to the strange sensation of his intrusion. It wasn't painful exactly, mostly uncomfortable since your walls weren't used to stretching like that. But eventually the discomfort faded into pleasure, bringing new sensations as he slowly began to move his finger inside you. 
Your moans became uncontrollable, increasing in volume with each of Geralt's caresses. If you weren't so wrapped up in your own pleasure, you would have worried about the possibility of being overheard by some servant or guard walking down the corridor. You knew it might potentially ruin your reputation, but you couldn't focus on anything other than the way Geralt's long, thick finger stretched you, making you feel full in the most pleasurable way possible. 
"Geralt I-" You tried to speak, but the air caught in your throat as you felt the knot in your stomach becoming incredibly tight, threatening to snap.
"I know, my sweet, I know." Geralt interrupted you as he noticed your trouble forming coherent sentences. He could sense you were getting close to relief in the way your walls tightened around his finger, your juices dripping down your legs and soaking his hand. "Just let yourself go. I've got you."
Geralt added another finger inside you, stretching your walls even further. He was careful, his movements slow and precise as he both prepared you for his cock and brought you closer to the edge. His mouth focused on your clit, his lips closing around your sensitive pearl as his fingers explored your insides, reaching that spongy place deep inside you and rubbing it until your whole body shuddered with your orgasm.
It felt like your insides exploded, the tension that had been building in your core suddenly snapping as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through your body. Your mind went blank, eyes rolling back as Geralt did his best to hold back the violent spasms of your muscles. 
And then your body fell limp on the sheets. You could barely hear the world around you over your racing heartbeat that throbbed in your ears. You knew Geralt was muttering things against your skin as he kissed his way back up, but your mind was too lost in the pleasure to make sense of his words. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, your body desperate for oxygen as it struggled to regain control.
"There you are!" Geralt gave you a soft smile as you opened your eyes, his face slowly coming into focus on your clouded vision. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine! That was..." you paused, searching for the words to describe it. Although explaining your feelings proved to be more difficult than you expected. You were convinced that there were no words in any language you knew to describe what he had made you feel. So you let out an airy laugh, hiding your face in his neck and spreading small kisses over his skin.
"Do you still want to go through with this?" Geralt asked you, pulling away from you a little so he could look into your eyes. You kissed him back, tasting the sweet flavor of your arousal on his tongue. It was strangely erotic for you to feel your own essence on him, like a mark that, though temporary, showed to whom his lips belonged. It sent a rush of desire and confidence through your body, igniting the fire inside you once more.
The pressure of his cock was nothing like his fingers. While the stretching sensation was not completely foreign to you, Geralt's cock was much longer and thicker than his fingers so it hurt a lot more when he began to push it into you. The mixture of your arousal and his saliva helped his member slide more easily through your walls, but you still couldn't hold back the whine of pain, which vibrated against Geralt's lips. 
"It's all right... you're all right. Just a little more." He crooned as he rested his forehead against yours. His fingers caressed the skin of your hip, giving you comfort as you clung to his shoulders. "You're doing so good for me, my sweet." His voice was soft, but erratic, laced with the clear pleasure that sliding so torturously slow inside your tight walls brought him. 
Geralt remained immobile once he bottomed out, spreading kisses all over your face and neck as he gave you time to adjust to his size. It was the hardest task he had ever had to do in his life. Facing any monster was easier than staying still when your warm, wet walls wrapped around him so well. He was desperate to move, pull out of you almost completely only to slam back in, thrusting his hips against yours as he pinned you against the bed. But it was your first time, so he had to be gentle with you. You weren't ready for that kind of rough loving, so Geralt pushed his dark desires aside and waited for you to give him the signal to move. 
After a while, your moans of discomfort turned into whimpers of protest, not from pain, but from the growing fire inside you that wasn't being tended to. You experimentally moved your hips against Geralt's, just to see what it would feel like. It was a small movement, but it was enough to push his cock deeper inside you, sparking a pleasurable tingling sensation that spread throughout your body. So you did it again, moving with more confidence this time. And again, only this time, Geralt met you halfway, grinding his hips against yours.
Your walls tightened around his cock and the growl that escaped his lips was so deep and primal that it almost pushed you over the edge once more. Something about knowing that you were the cause of those moans, that your body, your pussy, your caresses, were responsible for such reactions was so arousing. Knowing that even though you were inexperienced you were able to elicit such pleasure in him made you feel more comfortable and confident. You were turning his world upside down as much as he was turning yours.
"You look so beautiful like this." Geralt said as he slightly increased the rhythm of his hips. "So small and fragile underneath me, eyes filled with lust as you try your best to take me in your tight hole." 
You moaned into his mouth, desperately searching his lips for something to keep you grounded as pleasure took over your body and mind. Your cunt clenched at his words, finding the mix of softness and roughness in his action incredibly arousing. His hips moved against yours in a consistent and deep, yet slow and sensual rhythm. His calloused fingers roamed over your body, caressing you in such a subtle way that it gave you goosebumps. His filthy words perfectly balanced flattery and roughness, awakening feelings you didn't know you had. It was all a dangerous, overwhelming mix, slowly getting to you close to the edge.
"Does it feel good? Do you like feeling me deep inside you?" You could only moan incoherently in response, hiding your face in the crook of Geralt's neck as your nails dug into his back. "I like it too. You feel so good wrapped around me, my perfect princess."
"Yes, I'm yours! I'm all yours, please..." You begged, for what, you weren't sure. But that didn't really matter, you just wanted Geralt to do whatever he wanted with you. You knew there was no future in your relationship, but this was no time to think about tomorrow. At that moment you were giving yourself body and soul to him, allowing him permission to use and explore your body as he wished.
"Yes you are, but not just for tonight." Geralt moaned in your ear, his voice a deep hoarse whisper. He sucked a mark just below your earlobe, nibbling the sensitive area playfully before continuing to speak. "You will always remember this night and think of me when your future husband takes you to bed on your wedding night. He's not going to compare to me... to how good I'm making you feel. But that's fine, because at least you had a chance to know what it feels like to be adored like you truly deserve, my princess."
"Fuck, Geralt! I'm-" Your warning was interrupted by a moan as you felt him sink his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck at the same time he pushed his member incredibly deep inside you.
"I know, I can feel you squeezing me so tight. It's alright, just let go for me, my sweet. I want to feel you as you come undone on my cock." 
His hand traveled south, calloused fingers pressing against your abused bundle of nerves, drawing circles over it. The way your pussy clenched around his cock made it hard to focus, his own orgasm approaching with alarming speed. But he kept a steady rhythm, his hips moving in a slow, sensual way to make sure his cock brushed that special place inside you without causing you any pain.
"That's it, keep making those pretty notices for me. You're doing so good for me, my beautiful, perfect, princess. Just let go, I've got you. You're safe with me, just let go."
It was the softness in his husky voice that finally pushed you over the edge, your whole body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Geralt's name was the last thing you uttered before the world around you disappeared behind the waves of pleasure. It was a pathetic whimper, a plea for mercy as you felt frightened by the sheer intensity of your orgasm. Geralt was sure he had never heard a more sensual melody. The way you had uttered his name just before the pleasure exploded inside you was something he was never going to forget.
"That's it, my sweet. You did such a good job for me." He complimented you, slowing down the rhythm of his hips to give you time to recover. "You're alright. I'm here, I've got you. Just breathe... that's it." 
Geralt's voice helped you refocus on the real world, his sweet kisses slowly lifting the fog that clouded your mind. You could still feel him inside you, his cock throbbing desperate for relief. The shallow thrusts weren't enough and you needed to feel him falling apart inside you. You needed to know what it felt like to have a man —and especially him— come inside you. And you knew it was safe with him since witchers were incapable of fathering children as a result of their mutations.
"Geralt, please... I want to feel you." You managed to say between gasps, locking your legs around his hips to keep him in place, pressed inside you. He let out a deep growl as he understood the meaning behind your words, his eyes darkening with lust. You were definitely going to be the death of him.
"Of course, my sweet, how could I deny you anything?" He murmurs against your lips, slowly increasing the rhythm of his hips. "You want to feel my seed deep inside you, is that it? You want me to fill you up, leave a part of me inside you so you won't miss me so much when I'm gone?"
His words alone were enough to ignite that flame inside you again. Your body was tired, but still screamed for more. Geralt's thrusts became erratic with each passing second, desperate to reach his own relief. And in the search for his pleasure he was taking you with him to a new limit. 
"I will give it to you, my princess. I will give you all of me. I could never deny you anything, my sweet, beautiful girl."
His sweet words contrasted with the harshness of his movements, hips crashing against yours in desperate thrusts. He was getting closer to his relief and he could feel in the way your cunt clenched around his cock that you were too. His thumb focused on your clit once more, one, two, three strokes accompanied by his thrusts and you were crying his name again. But he didn't get to enjoy much of the way you tightened around him, because he came seconds later, shooting his load deep inside you.
Geralt collapsed on top of you, his body crushing you against the bed as you both tried to catch your breath. But even though he was much bigger than you, it wasn't an uncomfortable position. The weight of his body felt comforting against yours. You liked the way he hid his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your sweaty skin. It gave you the opportunity to stroke his back and run your fingers through his hair. It felt intimate, in a completely different way than the sex you'd just had. 
You whined in protest as he rolled to the side, feeling the mixture of your arousal and his sliding down your legs now that his cock had left you. It was a strange sensation to feel empty without him inside you. You didn't know such a feeling was possible, for you that used to be normal, the only way to feel. But now that you had had Geralt buried deep inside you, that you had felt his seed filling you to the brim, you would always be aware of that strange emptiness between your legs.
"How are you feeling?" you heard him say and you struggled to open your eyes, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He was standing at the foot of the bed, a cloth in his hand, and you wondered when he had moved from your side without you noticing.
"Great! That was... great." You mumbled, still unable to find an adequate word to describe how good he had made you feel.
Geralt gave you a small smile before lowering his face to your legs, placing small kisses on your skin as he moved closer and closer to your center. "Open up for me, my princess. I need to clean you." 
You reluctantly complied, feeling much more exposed and vulnerable now that the deed was done. However, he was gentle with you, moving carefully as he cleaned you so as not to irritate your sensitive, abused cunt. And when he was done, he kissed his way down your face, caressing your skin with his lips, culminating his journey in your mouth.
"What about you?" you tried to sound casual as you spoke, though you failed miserably. "Was it... good for you too?" You immediately regretted your choice of words, worrying that you had ruined the moment.
"I thought I had been quite clear if not with my words, with my actions at least." Geralt let out an airy laugh and you followed suit, feeling a little more relieved. 
Then the room fell into silence. It wasn't an awkward or uncomfortable one, but a peaceful one. You got lost in Geralt's eyes, admiring the yellow glow that was much softer now, though just as captivating. The candlelight reflected in them in a special way, highlighting their unique beauty. You could stare at them for hours if it weren't for the tiredness that was slowly beginning to take hold of you. 
You didn't realize you had closed your eyes until you felt Geralt move beside you. You stopped feeling the weight of his body on the bed, so you opened your eyes immediately. Your hand flew to his arm, fingers closing around his wrist. "Please don't go," you begged as you saw that he had sat up in bed. "I want you to stay with me tonight."
Geralt smiled, the corners of his lip curving slightly upward as he reached out with his free arm to grab the blanket that had been left forgotten at the foot of the bed. His eyes lowered to your hand and his expression turned hard as he noticed the ligature marks on your skin. He hated to know the horrible treatment that someone as delicate and beautiful as you had to go through at the hands of those bandits. Even though he had rescued you before something even worse happened to you, as he looked at the marks on your wrists he feared he had not been quick enough.
Noticing the change in his expression, your eyes followed Geralt's gaze with curiosity. You felt embarrassed when you realized what he was looking at with such intensity and released his grip on his arm, seeking to hide your injured wrist. But he didn't let you. Geralt intertwined his fingers with yours and brought your hand to his lips. His eyes didn't break contact with you as he scattered delicate kisses over the irritated area of your wrist, showing you that you had nothing to be ashamed of with him.
"I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to, my princess. I'm here to serve you tonight." Geralt said as he lay down next to you once again, covering you both with the blanket.
You took advantage of his words and his desire to please you by curling up against him, resting your head on his chest. Geralt wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you even tighter against his body as he let his fingers trace invisible patterns on your skin. It was extremely relaxing, his gentle touch and the warmth of his body enveloping you was exactly what your tired mind needed to rest. All the fear, the terrifying memories of your attackers and the feeling of danger completely disappeared as he held you in his arms. 
"Good, because I feel safer when I'm in your arms." You mumbled as you closed your eyes, feeling sleep slowly overcome you.
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It was hard to say goodbye to Geralt when the time came for him to leave. He had only stayed at the castle for a couple of days at your father's insistence, but that had been more than enough for you to grow fond of him. He was not a very talkative person, but that only made your conversations more interesting. He was intriguing, a closed book that only opened with the pronunciation of the right words. You had fun unraveling some of his history, hearing about his adventures and the monsters he had faced. He was definitely the most interesting man you had ever met - far more interesting and noble than most of the men who were competing for your hand in marriage. And now you had to see him go.
You always knew that your days were numbered, that Geralt would eventually leave and you would have to go back to reality. You thought you could do it, enjoy his company and the illusion of freedom you had created with him and then say goodbye as if nothing happened, but you would be lying if you said you weren't a little sad about his departure. Especially because you didn't know if you would ever see him again. Maybe on your wedding day, if you invited Jaskier to play at the festivities he would bring him as security again. Or perhaps, if the kingdom was haunted by some evil creature he would find his way back to you. But nothing was certain and that made you feel quite sad.
"I guess this is our goodbye." You watched Geralt settle his horse's saddle, tucking away his swords and clutching his bag as he prepared to leave. You tried to hide the grimace of sadness that wanted to form on your face, but the disappointment in your voice betrayed you. "I'll never see you again, will I?"
Geralt stopped what he was doing to look you in the eyes. You could have sworn you saw a glint of sadness in the golden fire of his irises, though it disappeared as he blinked. "It'll probably be a while, yeah." He sighed. "But nothing is set in stone. Maybe the search for a job will bring me back down these roads."
You smiled. Even moments before he left, he was still making an effort to make you feel good. "I'd like that." You took a couple of steps closer to him, taking his hand in yours to feel his skin against yours one last time. "The gates of this castle will always be open to you, Geralt of Rivia. And as long as I am alive, you will always find safe passage through these lands."
"Thank you, your highness. It is an honor." He bowed slightly even though he knew it was not necessary. Formalities had been forgotten between you since your night together. Then, he took your hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips caressed your skin gently, planting a soft kiss of farewell. "Until we meet again."
You held back the urge you had to taste the flavor of his lips one last time, knowing that there were too many eyes around you that would deem such behavior inappropriate. And perhaps they were right, after all, a respectable maiden like you, in search of a husband to marry and rule with, could not be seen kissing anybody. You knew you would probably regret it for the rest of your life —especially if Geralt never stopped by again—, but it was the right thing to do. Your days of freedom were over, now you had to resume your responsibilities as a princess and that meant holding back the urge you had to run after Geralt, get on his horse and let him take you wherever he wanted. So you just watched him leave, seeing how his figure became smaller and smaller on the horizon while you wished with all your soul that fate would cross your path again.
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bimrwolf · 1 year
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Healing Hands by the Fire
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geralt of rivia x afab!reader words: 3,684 warnings: smut !! 18+ (minors dni) ; squint and you may see a casual plot summary: Geralt visits Reader, a healer, with severe injuries. a/n: very out of my comfort zone. however, i promised my friend to write this as her christmas present because writing fanfics are my love language. good thing i know basic things about the witcher heheehe.
How did she always end up here? Months without a word or seeing him. She had accepted the peace. Only occasionally did she perk up when there was a knock on her door, secretly hoping it was him. But only one could be so lucky. Instead, it was travelers from all over the Continent who heard word of her abilities.
She couldn’t complain. Healing others in exchange for seeds, food, and sometimes money. Not that it was required for her service but she couldn’t complain about the gratuity.
In fact, she enjoyed helping others. However, it was nearing winter and there were less travelers. They were most likely home to prepare for the violent winter storms that damned the Continent. 
It was one of the first snow falls of the season. She had finished feeding the chickens and her horse Atticus. That was always her nighttime routine. Feed the animals, make some tea, study until all the tea is drunk, and finally get ready for bed. 
Some might think the routine would get tiring, but there was never any guarantee. It was the one consistent thing in her life at the moment. She was content. 
However, some nights, she heard the enchanted chimes outside that let her know someone was approaching. But before she made it to the door, it swung open, snow flurries drifted inside. The cold was sharp and pricked her nose, making her sniffle. 
In most cases she would be alarmed. There was no telling what creatures or people were harmless and which ones weren’t. She clutched the nearest thing to her— a broom that always gave her splinters when she used it. 
His snow white hair peeked from under his hood and she recognized the distinct low grumble that could be mistaken as a quake. He slowly closed the door, ensuring it was locked this time. “You startled me.” She said, releasing her grip from the broom, checking her hand for any loose wood. 
“You should keep the door locked. What if I was a dangerous man breaking in?” She played it off as a joke, not seeing the concerned look on his face. 
“Some might say you are dangerous.” She smirked. She never expected him to react to her jokes, but she could feel the warmth blanket around her when his shoulders relaxed. “Are you going to stand there all night?” 
He limped further into the cabin. She could see the snow melting on his cloak, dripping on her floor. “You made a mess,” she huffed. 
His head lifted and cat-like eyes met hers. It was known his abilities and job forced him to lack showing how he felt. But, she noticed right away how his eyes drooped that he was in pain. 
She ran towards him, immediately untying his cloak so that it dropped to the floor. She gasped at the large claw marks scratched into his chest. He could withstand most injuries but the cuts had broken past the many layers of skin. 
“Fuck, Geralt. What happened?” Her finger ghosted over the wound on his shoulder. Almost immediately he grabbed her wrist. But she didn’t pull away. 
“I’m starving.” He took a moment to look her up and down before letting go of her wrist and walking past her. 
Unbelievable. She scoffed and followed him into her den. “Are you serious? Geralt, you’re hurt and need to be healed before you get an infection.” 
“I smell meat pie. Do you have any to spare?” He left no time for her to answer. He grabbed the plate on a table and began to shove them in his mouth. He groaned in satisfaction. 
She wanted to be annoyed, but she had never seen him act this way. So instead she watched as he stuffed his face. He sat down slowly in a wooden chair. His large body mass made it creak, rocking it with the sound of the crackling fire. His spastic breathing mellowed out into a deep sigh.
He was definitely hurting from his wound but there was something else. She could sense that something was bothering him. Yet, she didn’t pry for an explanation. Instead, she let him watch the fire as she gathered her supplies of elixirs and jars. Then she picked up the pot full of water hanging above the fire and poured it into a bowl. The steam warmed her face that was still cold from earlier. 
“Are you still hungry? I think I only have bread.” She sat her things on the table next to him, but not looking in his direction. However, she could feel his piercing eyes watching her every single move. “If you’re not feeling like bread I can stay up and make you soup.” 
His hand flew to her wrist. She jumped, nearly knocking over a bottle with green shiny liquid. She turned her head slightly, sighing deeply. “It hurts,” Geralt mumbled. 
His wound was red, inflamed, and looked worse in the light. And if Geralt says it hurts then it was worse than she had imagined. “Take your tunic off while I prepare.” Although it was her giving the instruction, she couldn’t help the heat on her cheeks arise. Especially when he did what he was told. She had only seen his bare chest a handful of times, but each time made her stomach knot up. 
He took a heavy breath as he settled back into the chair, wincing when she placed a hot cloth on his open wound. His nails dug into the chair. His teeth clenched as he threw his head back. She couldn’t help but giggle. In return, he snapped his head to look at her, visibly annoyed. “What?” 
She swatted him for the rash reaction. “No need to be hot headed, Geralt. I was only laughing because I’ve never seen you act so dramatic.” 
“I’m not being dramatic,” he argued. He winced again when the cloth touched his skin once more. He rolled his eyes when he noticed the smirk she tried to hide from him, her hair covered her face. Not thinking, he took his finger and pushed it out of the way so he could see her more clearly. 
She tried to ignore the knot in her stomach or how her chest was breathing differently. She even tried to look away subtly but the only thing she could look at without being suspicious was his bare chest. “How’s Yennefer?” 
The change of subject was almost as if she had poured salt into his fresh wounds. He yanked his hand away and turned his head to face the fire, jaw ticked. She should’ve felt guilty for bringing up his on and off lover. Instead, she felt relieved his attention was no longer on her and probably wouldn’t be the rest of the night. 
That’s how it always went. He would get too close and right before she fell under his spell she would mention the other woman. She had only met the sorceress once. They neither liked or disliked one another. Yet, she could tell there would not be any attempts to go frollicking in a field like they were the best of friends. 
In some ways, she had been jealous of Yennefer– she was interesting and traveled the Continent and had fought in many wars. She was beautiful and cunning. Of course Geralt would pick her as a lover. 
“Ow.” Geralt grimaced, shifting in the chair. Her fingers were touching the wounds, and spreading them apart. “Are you about done? I’m tired.” 
She continued to inspect his wounds closely, having to push between his legs to get a closer look. “I have to ensure there are no severe damages so I know what to make.” His huff made her roll her eyes. She wanted to swat him for still acting like a child. “Whatever got you, got you good, eh?” 
He looked away then back at her, swallowing. “Yes, I suppose.” 
There was a beat of silence. Only the fire was popping. 
“I thought I was goin’ to die.” He said out loud in a low whisper. Almost like he didn’t want her to hear him.
She stopped briefly to look up at him. He was serious. “Well, fortunately whatever it was missed your heart by a hair.” She pointed to where his heart was and traced a line to the start of one of the scratches only millimeters away. She got up, leaving him with a witty smile as she started to pour the many different potions into a different bowl. 
“Me and Yennefer haven’t spoken in months,” he admitted. 
It was hard not to react, but she had never seen him willingly talk about the woman before. “Oh.” 
“We wanted different things I suppose,” he continued. “If it weren’t for Ciri’s letters, then I wouldn’t even know if she was still alive.” 
“You miss her?” It was meant to sound like a question, but it came across as a statement. 
He looked down at his hands, ashamed. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to miss someone.” 
“Are you not allowed or are you unsure you know what it’s supposed to feel like?” 
He didn’t answer. 
She walked back and found her place again between his legs. “Missing someone feels like always looking at the door when there’s a knock, and your heart skips a beat, hoping it’s them.” She dipped her finger in the cream she had made and started to apply it to the open wound. 
“I don’t live in a cottage with a door.” His hands creeped to his thighs so they brushed her as she moved. 
She finished with the first cut and moved onto the second, which was much deeper and longer. “Well, missing someone can also feel like wanting to cry even when you’re happy.” 
“You do know I have emotions?” He quizzed her. 
She smirked. “Of course I do. I was only trying to help you figure out if you miss Yennefer.” 
He hummed, running a finger over the first wound she had treated which was starting to already heal. His skin attaching itself together again. “I miss her, but not in the way you think I do.” 
“Then in what way?” She raised her brow, clearly confused as to what he meant. 
He didn’t answer her right away. “Not in the way I miss you.” 
The bowl in her hand nearly clattered to the floor. She froze, replaying the words over and over as if she hadn’t heard him. Did Geralt really admit to missing her? No, he doesn’t actually mean it. He was messing with her. “That’s not funny.” Her breath was shaky. In fact, her hands were shaky too as she tried to continue healing him. 
“Did I make a joke?” His tone was unwavering. He placed his hand on her warm cheek, brushing his thumb over her soft flesh. He had never touched her so intimately like he was now. 
She shook her head, using her free hand to brush him away, focusing on the rest of his injuries. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re delusional.” 
“I thought your potions helped with that?” 
Her eyes flickered up to meet his, briefly, before averting them back to the bowl. She swooped the last of the cream on her finger and spread it slowly over the last scratch. The others had closed up but one could make out the red scar. “Those will go away in due time,” she mumbled. 
As she tried to get up he caught her arm, standing up with her, and in doing so their chests were against one another. He could feel her heavy breathing. And she could feel the warmth from his body electrifying hers. 
“I should go make your bed. You need to rest.” She tried to walk away but his grip never left her arm. “Geralt.” 
He took the bowl from her hands and placed it back on the table. “How much longer will you deny it?” 
She swallowed the gasp that had almost escaped her, shaking her head. “What do you mean?” Finally, she had pulled away but made no efforts to leave the room, only stepping back to make space between them. And of course he could probably read her like an open book while she only had his stoic expressions to decipher. He opened his mouth, but closed it, sighing loudly. “Thank you, Y/n.” 
Her face softened. 
“I don’t… I don’t know what I would’ve done if it weren’t for you. In fact, I don’t know what I would do without you.” His jaw slacked, watching her intensely. 
She could feel the pull, like a magnet, all too familiar when it came to Geralt. Normally, she had to ignore it. But at that moment, it felt like a boiling pot of water, steaming and bubbling, unable to contain itself. And as she looked into his piercing eyes, the knot in her stomach told her it was time to say something. “Geralt.” Her voice was above a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”
“Yes?” His expression never faltered. 
She shifted her feet, uncomfortable. “I… I um… I’m making oat porridge in the morning.” She had decided it was best to hold back what she really wanted to say. “I’ll go prepare your room.” 
His yellow eyes narrowed, searching for hers. She knew he was watching the emotions swirl through her mind. She knew that he knew that wasn’t what she really wanted to say to him. “No.” He was assertive and the growled vibrations dragged along her back like a dagger, giving her chills. 
Ignoring the goosebumps along her arms, she ran her hand over her face. “What do you want me to say?” She felt like a twig that had snapped. “Why are you being mean? You stand there forcing a confession out of me. A confession you will never get because there’s nothing to say.” Her tears burned in the corner of her eyes. She hated how foolish she looked in front of him. Crying and blubbering because he decided to dig deeper. 
They had a routine. He would knock on the door and she would heal his wounds. Their deep conversations were rare, and sometimes he wouldn’t speak at all. Sometimes he would leave in the morning without a word. So why must this time be any different than the others? 
“You’re angry.” 
She scoffed. “Yes, I’m angry.” Unable to face him, she turned to look at the fireplace, shaking her head. “That’s the most frustrating part of all of this. I’m angry that you’re here. I’m angry that I don’t see you for months with no word if you’re even alive. I’m angry that you show up when I’m missing you the most.” Her eyes caught his, her nostrils flared. She had had enough of it, storming up to him and putting a finger against his bare chest. “I’m angry that you sit there and touch me and talk to me like we’re lovers. I’m angry that you won’t go to someone else for help. Because I can’t do it anymore, Geralt. I can’t do it.” 
And there it was. Years worth of bubbling water, spilling over the pot and all over the floor. She had made a mess that she wasn’t sure if she would be able to clean up. 
Geralt’s jaw ticked, his eyes scanning her face. “You wish to not see me anymore? Would that be easier?” 
Her finger fell slowly from his chest. Her voice trembled. “It’s easier than caring about you.” 
Geralt brought his hand up slowly to her cheek, brushing his knuckle against a tear. “I am angry at you too,” he whispered. Her brows furrowed, unsure what he meant. “I told you I have feelings too. Yet, you assume I don’t. You assume I don’t care about you either.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you?” 
“Why do you think I keep coming back?” His jaw slacked. 
The tension between them was thick and palpable. She wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Her heart was torn. Even with the confession, there was no guarantee. He was a Witcher with responsibilities that were not suitable for the life she wanted. She pushed it away, cracking a smile. “Are you saying that you got injured on purpose? So you could see me?” 
“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth flickered, leaning his head down towards her. 
“You could’ve died.” She stepped closer to him, tracing her finger of his scars, looking at his lips.
“But I didn’t.” He said against her mouth, finally closing the gap between them. 
He wrapped his arms around her, strong and sure, deepening the kiss. It was gentle but fierce, full of longing and tension that had been built up along the years. It tasted like all the warm tea she had made for him over time. 
When she moaned, Geralt took the opportunity to slip his tongue in her mouth, gliding it tenderly and carefully against hers, groaning in satisfaction. He somehow managed to pull her closer as if their bodies weren’t already meshed together.
It was her who broke away first, both of them gasping for air, chests heaving from the heavy kiss. Geralt’s eyes had turned black, his senses heightened, craving more. 
Without a word, she unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her chest as she dropped it to the floor. She kissed Geralt again on the mouth, his neck, and then his chest. She whispered in his ear, “I think I should go prepare your room now.” 
He nodded, allowing her to take his hand to lead him to her room, rather than the room up in the attic that her guests normally stayed in. It was full of knick knacks and books scattered. Her bed was unmade, but neither one of them cared. 
She pushed him on the bed, straddling his lap, peppering kisses all over his chest. If she was smart, she would savor all of it– every kiss and touch. But fuck all of it. She had waited too long to savor it.  She grinded herself against his hardness, smiling against his ear when she felt him jump through his trousers. Something had told her it was too long for him too. 
The rest of their clothes had found a new place on the floor of her bedroom. She was now laying down, Geralt hovered over her, his chain dangled over her face, and his hands roamed over her bare body as she whimpered under his touch. His lips attacked her neck, trailing down her body, relishing every inch. 
“Geralt,” she mewled. 
She felt the vibrations of his chuckle, revitalizing her, the warmth between her legs now ached. “Yes?” He came back towards her mouth, placing a life-wrecking kiss on it. 
She nibbled his bottom lip. “You know.” 
“Mm, I don’t think I do,” he teased. His hand was between her legs, fingers gliding, taunting her. 
She thrusted her hips upwards, forcing friction against her swollen clit, gasping when he slid a finger in her. “I need you.”
The pitiful look in her eyes convinced him enough to give her what she wanted. And because any longer, he felt like he would combust. Geralt pushed her legs apart and then guided his girthy length to her entrance, sliding it in slowly. 
She gasped as he sunk deeper inside her, finally able to marvel all of her. It was sweet like the honey she snuck in his tea. Rich like the pastries she packed in his knapsack whenever he left in the mornings, without saying goodbye because he was afraid he would never leave if he saw her golden smile in the mornings. Yet, he wasn’t strong enough to never come back. 
At first, his thrusts were slow and tender, slipping so deep that his tip reached as far as it could. She gripped his shoulders, nails forming crescents, back arching as he picked up the pace. She wanted to hug him with her thighs, but his hands were sure to keep them open and spread for him. 
The sounds of their sticky skin crashing together blended with their moans and grunts, forming a delectable melody. She pulled him into an open-mouth sloppy kiss, humming. The bed rattled beneath them, his pace was dangerously close to cracking the frame. 
In a swift move, he pulled her up, so that she was straddling him. Their bare chests flushed together, her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering as she bounced on his cock. “I’m… fuck,” she breathed, unable to make the words as it hit her sweet spot. 
“Me too.” He slightly pushed her shoulders back, wanting to see her. His palm cradled her face, swallowing the thickness stuck in his throat. He knew he looked destroyed. He didn’t show how he felt often, but the pent up tension over the year had finally arisen. 
“G…Geralt!” She shouted as her walls closed around him, releasing her orgasm around him, resting her forehead on his chest as he continued to move her up and down. She clutched onto him as if she was about to float away. 
He threw his head back as his cock twitched, finishing, He thrusted through his climax, panting as he slowed to a halt. His senses were still high and could hear the fire still crackling in the den. He could feel her breathing still rugged and hot, sticking to his chest. 
She couldn’t see it but Geralt let a small smile briefly appear as he stroked her bare back. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him, running her fingers through his snow-white hair. “Will you stay one more night?” 
He tilted his head, brows knitted together. “Are you still angry with me?” 
A mischievous glimmer crossed her eyes. “If I am, does that mean you’ll stay?” 
He snickered, placing a peck on her lips, lingering, scared if he were to break away she’d disappear. 
Angry or not, he was going to stay one more night.
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islenthatur · 1 year
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Look, look... plot bunny has bitten me. We all know Jaskier is a man of many talents, he graduated top of his class for the 7 liberal arts.
We also know he would basically do anything to help ease the path for Geralt. So what if instead of teaching each winter, he decided to learn a trade.
Healing from the best healers he knows to make sure that when Geralt is wounded he can help stitch him, carry and make salves, mix the herbs Geralt will need for potions.
New HC though would be a leathersmith? Jask learnt how to tan hides properly from geralt, he'd have to for extra money to trade or sell. But what if one day Geralt's armour was nearly destroyed beyond repair and Jask just thought 'huh I should learn how to fix that' and he does. He spends several winters with many leathersmiths till his own reputation under another name began to proceed him?
Just picture witchers clamouring to get their sword caloused hands on these leather pieces that are Witcher durable and finding one was like finding a dragon... and geralt just... comes home with a WHOLE SET of Julek Armour and his brothers are just 'Geralt where the fuck did you get your hands on a WHOLE SET!?'
Geralt is just confused and mutters. "My bard??"
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sabbqj · 2 months
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Done!
GERALT OF RIVIA
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I will be grateful for any interaction with this post <3
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mayloma · 3 months
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Where You Are - Part 1
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Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader
Series masterlist
Summary: It's the morning Geralt and the other men of the village set off to go into battle.
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, melancholy, a goodbye, a little angst, fluff, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, body fluids. 
Author’s note: To be honest, there’s a lot I don’t know about this fic yet. Among other things, I don’t know if the journey will begin and end at this point or if there’ll be more to tell. However, I’d like to share this part of the story with you while I’ll try to figure it out.  💕
Pictures: from Canva and Pinterest. Full credit to the owners.
Dividers: by saradika
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It is still dark outside. And it will stay dark. 
It is one of those days when the sun fails to burst through the heavy blanket of clouds darkening the sky. Withal, countless tiny snowflakes, each barely bigger than a grain kernel, have begun to sail down on the ground. And they cover the village in a delicate veil, white and cold as ice.
It is not the time to go into battle. (Has there ever been such time?) But this war doesn’t care about the winter descending on the land, and for a certainty, it doesn’t care about the winter it leaves in the hearts of those who stay behind. 
And so you got up long before dawn this morning to prepare breakfast for your husband. While he sits at the table, digging in the fresh bread and last night’s leftover stew, you wrap bread and fruits for him to eat on the way, as much as you can spare. 
His bundle is already packed, leaning against the wall of your hut, next to his swords that gleam in the light of the fireplace. 
As you sat by the fire last night, he pulled up a chair to sit beside you, like he does so often when the day is done. And while you darned a snag in his cloak, he carefully cleaned and sharpened the blades. 
Your eyes flicked between the black woolen fabric in your lap and his form, trying to memorize every detail of his appearance, even though it has long been etched into your mind. However, you’ll probably never get enough of watching him maintain his weapons. There is something calm, something unbudgeable about him and that pensive expression on his face whenever his steady hands wander over steel and silver. And you saw him stare into the crackling fire while his fingers absentmindedly traced Renfri’s broach. 
“Promise not to get involved in affairs that aren’t yours,” you said softly.  
His fingers paused, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch before his gaze lit on you, golden and glowing like the dancing flames in front of you. 
“It might not be my choice to be made,” he said slowly. “Will a promise that I’ll try suffice for you, Little Bird?” 
His deep, raspy voice resonated in the darkness for a few moments, and although there was a touch of irony in it, there was also truth. 
“Whatever increases the chance of having you come back home will suffice for me,” you replied firmly, locking eyes with him. 
The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth, a curt nod signaling his approval. And yet, he remained silent.
He can’t promise you to come back. You know that he can’t. Not this time. Not ever. The world is too dark, too uncertain for such grand promises these days where nothing ever lasts, neither the good nor the bad. 
Nevertheless, the threads of your destiny are irretrievably entangled with his, binding you to each other. In this life. And in the next. Until Ragnarök and beyond, as you promised each other countless times. 
There wasn’t much you could have done in the here and now, and so you made love all night, rough and desperate, then again so slow and gentle it made you want to die right there in his arms. 
Your love left its traces all over your bodies, dark and harsh, as you engraved yourselves into each other’s skin with teeth and lips and nails. Those marks are there for the time being. And yet, they’re fleeting, and they will fade someday soon. Contrary to the scars both of you have been carrying since the day your paths crossed. 
It was also the day both of you almost died, killed by a dread with no name he saved you from. The monster that still haunts you in your dreams once in a while caused him grievous injuries in the fight, and it took you the last of your strength to drag him to your hut.
You spent weeks trying to cure his wounds, and you needed a plethora of healing herbs, teas and ointments and dressing, and every bit of knowledge your foster mother had taught you. In the end, you saved each other, sealing what destiny had long planned for you, ever since the beginning of time. 
You carry the scars of that fateful day with you, and you carry the ink under your skin, intertwined lines that mark you as the White Wolf’s mate and him as yours. 
Those marks will last when he rides out of the village with the other men, traveling toward the unknown and a battle that shouldn’t be theirs to fight.  
You already see him in your mind's eye, on Roach’s back, his pale white hair and vigilant golden eyes concealed under the hood of his cloak. He’ll keep a bit aloof from the others, like he always does, from strangers and even from the villagers who are supposed to be his people. In truth, however, they will never accept him as one of them. They know they need him, and they tolerate him, albeit grudgingly. But they also fear him, and they trust him as little as he trusts them. 
The rumors are spoken in hushed voices, at hearthfires, and behind closed doors. And yet they are there. Rumors about that man, the witcher, who can be no other than the human shape of Fenrir - son of Loki and prisoner in Asgard until the day of Ragnarök, where he'll finally break free and devour Odin and the sun herself. There are rumors about that man, who appeared in the village out of nowhere on the day he saved you. Before they knew it, he had made you his wife - you, the late healer's foundling they had always been a bit suspicious of. He had insinuated himself into their midst, and they were certain that his presence adumbrates the end of all times. 
Once spoken, the rumors stuck, and nothing Geralt had done for this village could cleanse them away. No matter how many times he had set out, putting his life at risk.  
It’s moments like this, when you realize how truly alone he will be amidst a whole army, that your heart tenses and fear threatens to flood your veins. 
“Don’t.” Geralt’s low voice reaches your ears, and his arms embrace you from behind, pulling your back against his chest. 
You didn’t even notice he already finished his breakfast and stepped toward you. And you involuntarily let yourself sink back, allowing your eyes to flutter shut and your body to lean against him. 
He feels so warm, and the heat of his body slowly creeps up your spine. To your neck and your shoulders and your arms. Until it permeates your every limb. And you take deep breaths to your stomach, trying to relax your shoulders like he taught you to. 
“Good girl,” he mumbles, lowering his head until his lips ghost your ear. “Don’t freeze. Don’t let it take control. What will be, will be, and you can’t change what is destined. But you can control your actions at this moment.”
“I know,” you whisper, nuzzling closer to him. “It’s just so… hard sometimes. And sometimes, I don't know how I’m supposed to go on… if…”
“I know, Little Bird. Believe me, I know. But you have to go on. I want you to promise you’ll go on. In any case. Promise me!” he urges.
And as you carefully turn around in his arms, the concern, the pain in his golden eyes takes your breath away. 
You put one hand on his chest, your palm on the familiar wolf amulet, and your fingertips on his heart. Your other hand rests on the Web of Wyrd pendant between your breasts underneath your nightgown. What will be, will be. Just as the three sisters, the norns at the root of the world tree, decide.  
“I promise.” 
He nods. And he smiles.
He smiles his usual hint of a smile, but still, you marvel at how much warmth it can radiate. And then, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your fingertips. One after the other. 
Your fingers brush his unusually clean-shaven cheek. And then, you run your hand through his hair. Your digits get tangled in his thatch, and as you withdraw your hand, a long strand falls into his face. 
“May I braid it for you?” you ask, brushing the curl behind his ear. 
“Mmhm.” His hum is almost a sigh, and he nuzzles his cheek against your hand before he steps to the bed, sitting down on its edge. 
His eyes follow you as you get a comb and a short leather cord, and they wander up and down your body, as you walk over to him. All of a sudden, you’re overly aware of the thin linen billowing around your legs under the warm shawl you wrapped around your form. And you're overly aware of the sweet, sore sensation between your legs. And your fingertips ghost his cheek as you climb onto the bed, kneeling behind him on the soft furskins. 
As you begin to comb his hair, carefully detangling the long snow-white strands, the faint scent of milk and honey from the soap you used last night for his bath floods your nostrils. And you recall how he felt under your fingers as you thoroughly lathered his hair and his body. Warm and slippery skin. His hair, sometimes coarse and sometimes soft. And countless scars, some hard, some raised, others smooth and soft. 
As you gather the hair from his temples, braiding them to an artful pattern at the back of his head, you silently beg the gods to protect him, to ward him from death and injuries and from any malice lurking on his way. To bring him back safely. 
You fix the braid with the black leather cord, smoothing down the silky strands falling freely onto his back. And then, you fail to pull away. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, nestling up to his back - too close the moment when he’ll walk out the door. 
You lean in, pressing your lips to his temple, and then you slowly kiss your way down his cheek to his mouth. One kiss after another while Geralt’s eyes close and his lips slightly part in response to your caress. 
He hums quietly, and as you arrive at the corner of his mouth, you pause right there, letting him, letting you hang in the air for the length of a few heartbeats while your blood begins to seethe with longing. 
As he casts up his eyes and his glowing gaze meets yours, you forget everything around you. You forget the noises from outside where the men are already assembling on the village square. You forget his departure and the imminent danger. You forget the oncoming winter and the cold and darkness it’ll bring. And you forget the loneliness you’ll have to endure. All that vanishes in that moment because he’s still here, right here with you. 
“Little Bird,” he whispers urgently.
And then he kisses you, kisses your lips that are still swollen from a thousand bygone kisses. Yet, he captures your mouth, still reckless in his yearning, and yet, you need this right now, need to feel that he hates to leave you as much as you hate letting him go. 
And he continues to kiss you as he turns in your embrace, pulling you closer, closer until your body is pressed flushed against him, and you lose your balance, clutching his shoulders. But he holds you tight, and then he carefully lets you sink down on the mattress, hovering over you without abandoning your mouth. His hand, however, rucks up your nightgown, and you moan quietly as he settles down between your legs, forcing them apart for him.   
“No!” he growls as your hands move to his pants, and then his teeth dig into your bottom lip, drawing a whimpering from your mouth. “I need to taste you first,” he mumbles, kissing his way down your throat. Down the valley of your breasts, running his tongue over your pebbled nipples showing underneath your nightgown. 
“Geralt,” you whisper as he plants more kisses on your belly, and “Geralt!” you squeak as his teeth grace the soft skin on your hip, and his hand hastily rucks up your gown further to expose your most sensitive spots for him. 
“Need to taste you,” he hums against your skin as his lips brush your thighs and your mound, his breath hot on your wet flesh. 
And your groan blends with his as he licks a long stripe from your dripping opening to your swollen pearl. 
“Mmmm, so sweet, Little Bird!” 
As you briefly raise your head, you see that his eyes are closed, a raptured expression on his features, as if you are the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. However, as he casts up his eyes, seeing you look at him, probably all flustered and breathless, his expression quickly changes to cocky. And he swirls his tongue around your pearl in a way that never fails to make your mind go blank.
The sound leaving your lips is something between a gasp and a moan, and you feel his hum, his smile against your wetness, before he repeats the movement, sending a wave of heat down your spine. 
“Oh gods,” you whimper, throwing your head back against the pillow, balling your fists around the bedding, not even trying to brace yourself for what’s to come.
Instead, you just let it happen, and you leave yourself to him, allowing him to carry you away. 
He is gentle with you this time, so damn gentle, and yet, he couldn’t burn you hotter.
The twilight of your hut becomes blurred and hazy as blistering heat washes over you, churning you, making you helplessly writhe and squirm on the bed. And the room fills with your moans and whimperings and his groans and grunts and the lewdest sounds of his mouth feasting on you.
As your hips begin to buck, eagerly rocking your burning core against his tongue, you feel his body picking up your movements. And his hoarse groan vibrates against your flesh as he humps the mattress, desperately longing for the friction. Desperate for you. And then, his tongue swipes around your pearl in the most perfect way, making you arch your back like a bow while an undefinable sound rises from your throat. 
And he continues what he started and what can no longer be stemmed as your arousal surges inside you like a wave making landfall. Your movements grow desperate, and so do your sounds as you move with him, so eager to break, so eager to get carried away. 
As the wave finally breaks, as you break, and liquid fire sloshes through your veins, his hands hold you in a firm grip that feels iron and oddly safe at the same time. And his lips and his tongue lap around your core while your climax ripples through you in gentle and oh-so-delicious waves. 
At some point, your body goes limp on the bed, and your chest heaves with shaky breaths as you gasp for air.  
“Breathe!” he reminds you, planting more open-mouthed kisses on your swollen flesh, humming with relish as he laps at your dripping opening.  
And then he lays a trace of kisses upward, dwelling on your breasts. 
“Geralt,” you whimper, hastily wrapping your arms around him as he closes his lips around the puffy buds, only a thin layer of damp fabric between his tongue and your soft skin.  
Then his mouth finds yours, and your kiss floods your tongue with the aroma of your lust and his barely suppressed greed, so alluring, so irresistible your heart doesn’t stand a chance to calm down. And you feel his contended hum against your lips as you moan into his mouth. 
“You sing the sweetest songs for me, Little Bird,” he mumbles. “Can you give me one more, hm?”
“Yes,” you breathe, and your hands fumble for his pants without missing a beat. 
You fail to fight back the smirk creeping upon your face as you yank the buttons open, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip as he hastily slips off his pants, freeing his throbbing cock. 
He looks more than ready; his thick, veiny shaft rock-hard, his tip colored a dark purplish red, shining with thick droplets of precum you long to taste on your tongue. A part of you still wonders how you’re even able to take him. Yet, your body opens up for him as if by itself, and you feel more heat pooling between your legs as you spread them wider and your hands reach out for him to pull him closer to you. 
As you feel his tip against your opening, too sensitive from last night, you inhale sharply, clinging to his arms.  
“I’ll be gentle,” he promises, and you nod, briefly squeezing your eyes shut. 
And he holds you, planting soft kisses on your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks, as he enters you, slowly, bit by bit, pausing again and again while he works you open for him. And you welcome him, reveling in every sensation while the waves of fire that just drew back begin to rush back on you. 
Both of you breathe heavily as he bottoms out inside you, pausing for a moment, and you cast up your eyes to look at him, at his features, almost too beautiful for this world, and at his golden eyes that seem to see so much more than anyone you’ve ever met. Once again, they seem to see right through you, to your soul. And you writhe and squirm under his burning gaze. 
“Fuck!” he mutters. “Fuck! Oh gods…” And he grits his teeth, his muscles twitching as he fights a silent battle with himself. 
It’s a hopeless fight, and its hopelessness is partly to blame on you. 
However, you can’t help but roll your hips, whimpering as you try to get him to move, to feel more of him. 
“Fuck!” he growls through clenched teeth, and his fingers dig into your skin. “I can’t be gentle if you fuck yourself on my cock like that.”  
And then he pinches your nipples. The whining he elicits from you turns into a moan as he repeats the coarse caress. And your hips buck as if by themselves. 
“Then don’t be gentle,” you whisper. 
“Little Bird…,” he breathes, a faltering protest. 
“Please! Please, take me, Geralt!”
Your soft plea is all it takes for him to give in. And your unbridled moans drift through the room as he finally fucks you.  
You wrap your legs around him, urging him to amp up the force of his thrusts while he fucks you into the mattress. He is relentlessness and abandon, a force of nature, devouring your body and soul. And a sea of flames washes around you, rising higher and higher until it surrounds you from head to toe. 
He holds you, just as much as you hold him, and then he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin and his desperate groan reverberating through your body. And his need, the pure need in those final thrusts, makes your feet lose touch with the ground. 
And you whirl around, weightlessly, as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with hot jets, and you clench and flutter around him. 
The end comes all too soon. And you haven’t even remotely stopped floating when you already perceive that the voices, the clopping of hooves, and the commands being barked outside have grown louder, announcing the approaching departure. 
As he pulls back from your heat, you can’t help that hot tears flood your eyes, and you briefly bury your face in his hair. So as not to let him see. 
But of course, he already knows, and he gently withdraws from your chokehold to look at you. 
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, his lips dance across your face, kissing away the stray tears in the corners of your eyes and the lines of worry on your forehead and around your lips. 
As he sees you looking back at him with calm, dark eyes, a soft smile curls the corners of his mouth. And then, he gets up. 
You roll over on your side, watching him clean himself up before he pulls his pants back on. Then, his boots. And his cloak. 
He steps to the stove, putting two more logs on the fire before he pours tea into a mug he sets down on the bedside table. 
Then, he gets two fresh cloths, wetting one with warm water. And he sits down on the edge of the bed, indicating you to spread your legs for him. 
Goosebumps bloom on your skin as he gently cleans you up and dries you off, and again, you see him smile. 
He adjusts your nightgown, and then he envelops you in a thick woolen blanket, pulling it up to your chin. 
“Stay here for a while, will you?” he says quietly. “So I know with certainty where you are. So I know it at least this one more time, before I can only wonder where you are, and what you’re doing, and if you are well.” 
“I’ll be here, Geralt,” you say, cradling his face in your hands. “I’ll be here, and I’ll be thinking about you by day and dreaming about you by night. I’ll be waiting for you to come back to me.” 
And his lips move, without a sound passing them, but the kiss he presses to your mouth tastes like the promise he can’t give. 
“Witcher!” a man yells from outside, banging at the door. “You’re late!”
“Gods,” Geralt growls, resignedly leaning his forehead against yours, not even bothering to give a reply. 
“Go now,” you whisper. 
“They won’t leave without me, anyway,” he shrugs, smirking as you chuckle quietly. 
“Still.”
A last kiss. And then, he gets up.  
At the door, he grabs his bundle and slings his swords over his shoulder. As his hand dwells on the door latch, he turns to you, a lugubrious smile playing on his lips. 
“I love you, Little Bird,” he says quietly. 
“And I love you,” you reply, swallowing hard around the aching lump in your throat. “Until Ragnarök and beyond.”
“Until Ragnarök and beyond.” 
And then, he walks out the door.
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angelltheninth · 1 year
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Little Pleasures on the Road
Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, outdoor sex, clothed sex, making out, groping, dry humping, coming in pants, nipple sucking
Word count: 0.6k
Kinktober Day 5: Dry Humping
A/N: Got to my man Geralt for kinktober! I can't stop thinking about him.
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Geralt was already painfully hard by the time you came back from the waterfall, still in a towel and a little cold. You glanced over him with one eyebrow raised and chuckled, "I knew you'd peak. Pervert."
He hummed and smirked at the corner of his mouth, "I don't have to, I already know what you look like naked and wet." Geralt took a few long steps towards you, his hands just under your ass and lifting you up.
"Geralt! Your clothes! I'm still wet!" Both of you laughed, Gerlat's own slightly muffled by your breasts. Feeling his warm breath on your cool skin made your head spin just a little, causing you to fist your hands into his sleeves, the towel slowly falling from your body.
"I don't mind you being wet. But I really should help you warm up. Let's sit by the fire!" Geralt couldn't help the teasing smirk from gracing his face as he sat down cross-legged, siting you in his lap with the tent on the front of his pants. "Of course that's not the only thing I'm after."
You rolled your eyes, draping your hands over his shoulders and bending your knees slightly to draw yourself even closer, "I figured. You're really easy to read Geralt."
Instead of responding with words Geralt responded with his lips, pressing them against yours. You replied right away, parting them for his tongue and sighing into his warm mouth, your hips rolling on their own. Geralt's hands traveled your naked back, his rough fingers pressing and massaging, then traveling to your ass and grabbing a nice handful of your cheeks, driving your pelvis forward.
The rough material of his pants brushed against your clit, his cock throbbing and hot even though his pants.
"That's not just water is it sweetheart?" You didn't have to answer him, he already knew how wet you got for him, how easily you fell apart beneath his hands, his lips. How easily you spread your legs for him and his big cock.
You could imagine it clearly. Fully erect and pulsing for you, a thick pearl of cum sliding from the angry red tip and down the shaft, more and more gathering, forming a stain on the front of his pants the more his hips jolted upwards and you pushed them back down, only adding to the wetness.
Geralt's mouth travels down your neck, his teeth barely brushing against your nipples before closing his mouth around one, pinching and rolling the other between his fingers.
"You're so sensitive." He whispers against your hard nipple, licking over the swollen bud as he starts to buck his hips faster an faster into yours. You fist and pull onto Geralt's hair, guiding his mouth from your breast to your hungry mouth. As you lightly nip on his bottom lip you can feel him growl his release, his hips grinding wildly into yours, his clothed cock twitching against your wet cunt, sending you into your own orgasm.
He pulls away and leans his forehead against your shoulder, your combined heavy breathing, the sounds of the crackling fire and the low sounds of the wildlife in the forest. "I think..." You relax into his embrace, "I think that you're the one who needs to wash up now."
"Indeed." He tilts his head upwards, a blissful grin on his face as he offers, "Perhaps you want to join me?"
"To clean you up with my mouth?" You licked your lips deliberately, watching as his golden eyes follow. His cock gives another needy twitch, already hardening again despite him just coming mere moments ago. "I feel like you like that idea a lot."
Geralt doesn't even remove you from his lap, he just stood up, making you giggle. His hands braced under your thighs as he gave you a small, teasing peck on the lips before taking of in the direction of the waterfall.
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shy-urban-hobbit · 7 months
Text
"I'm telling you Geralt, my songs are definitely working."
"A few contracts not skimping on payment isn't proof Jaskier. It's coincidence." Geralt replied as he stuffed his newly purchased supplies into Roach's saddlebag. After two years, he didn't need to look to know the bard was probably doing his uncanny impression of a landed trout. His default expression when he thought himself gravely offended.
"Oh hoho. So it's proof you want? Fine, I'll get you proof you old cynic - wait, I'm here calling you old, how old are you? I know Witchers age differently but it's all so contradictory. I remember one text claiming you aged backwards. Backwards!"
Geralt was blessedly distracted from Jaskier's tangent by a small tug on his cloak causing him to look behind him and then down.
A small, tear stained face with huge, liquid brown eyes looked up at him. The hand that wasn't clutching Geralt's cloak fisted in the skirt of a green dress as she shuffled her small, booted feet. Witcher and child stared at one another and even Jaskier had fallen silent.
"Are you the White Wolf?" She asked in a small voice.
Geralt could only nod in response, keeping an eye and both ears out for angry adults about to accuse him of kidnapping.
"I can't find my Papa." She sniffled, voice trembling and eyes welling up.
He felt himself slip into Witcher mode, trying to think what could be snatching people from a crowded town in the middle of the day, "What do you mean you can't find him, has he gone missing or-"
"Sweetheart, do you mean you got separated from your Papa in the market?" Jaskier gently interjected before Geralt could start fully interrogating her. The girl gave a small nod, turning her attention to the bard now kneeling in the dirt next to her.
Geralt felt his face heat up. Right. Just a lost child. That was also a possible (and the most logical) explanation.
"It's ok, we'll help you find him. Won't we Geralt?" Jaskier's tone of voice leaving no room for argument.
It turned out that Jaskier's idea of helping was having the girl perch on Geralt's shoulders and scan the top of the crowd for her father while he stood playing silly little dittys to keep her from crying again. Geralt holding onto her shins lightly and trying to ignore the mess being made on his cloak by muddy feet.
"I see him! Papa! Papa!"
Geralt tightened his grip slightly as her weight shifted with her frantic waving. Waiting until he was clearly making his way over to them before setting her gently back on the ground.
"Mika! Oh thank the God's." He turned his attention to the two men, his eyes widened as he took Geralt in fully.
"You're-"
"Hmmm."
Geralt tried to hide his surprise as the man grasped his hand in a firm if slightly clammy grip. "My thanks Wolf. I swear, if I went home without her my wife would make sure I shared the same fate as that Hag from the song of yours." He said, smiling awkwardly at his own attempt at humour, "Come on Mika, say goodbye. Oh, here."
He reached into his satchel and pulled something out. Geralt could smell warm sugar as he handed it over. "It's not much, but I don't know a single person who doesn't like cake. I could do with cutting down myself." He said, patting his own slight paunch before taking his daughters hand with a final "Thank you." Mika turning back to give a wave which they both returned before the two of them disappeared into the crowd.
"What?" Geralt asked as they left the town. The bard hadn't stopped grinning at him like the cat who'd got the canary.
"Nothing. It just, the timing and everything. Seems Destiny agreed with me for once. The songs are making a difference."
"Hmm." Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Oh don't give me that." Jaskier said, swatting Geralt in the side as he unwrapped the package Mika's father had given them, "You saw as well as I did there were plenty of town guards around but she went to you. She wanted you. Oooh, maybe this would be good for a new song. The Gentle Wolf! Yes I- hey! "
"No cake for you until you stop." Geralt stated, popping a piece into his own mouth to hide his smile.
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boxofbonesfic · 1 month
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Title: Tonality [5]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous Chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.
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“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand. 
Your father is to be buried tomorrow. 
You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.
“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin. 
“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar. 
Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird.  You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone. 
“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle. 
“Please, mother—”
“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch. 
You cannot stop—
She will not let you. 
You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.
“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear. 
“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle. 
“Now close his eyes.”
You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes. 
Perhaps I am mad, after all.
Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady. 
They stay.
“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things. 
At least, you try to. 
The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.
“W-who is it?”
“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?” 
“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face. 
Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression. 
“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.” 
“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”
“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one. 
You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses. 
“You won’t need them.”
The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you. 
“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.
“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself. 
“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.” 
You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric. 
“Even so, our fashion does suit you.”  You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line. 
“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.
“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired. 
“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”
“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling. 
“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways. 
“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here. 
“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”
“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.” 
“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.
“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”
In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—
And then burnt their dreams out. 
“What did it cost?”
“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”
Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know. 
But the witch might. 
The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below. 
There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty. 
The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions. 
You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”
Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges. 
Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone. 
The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms. 
It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again. 
The thought spurs you onward. 
The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.
You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square. 
The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago. 
The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.
“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.
“I—I am looking for—”
“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too. 
She is an elf. 
It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.
“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look. 
“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed. 
“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside. 
The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl. 
“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.” 
“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again. 
“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?” 
Your throat tightens. 
“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.” 
The stone stops. 
“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 
The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence. 
“And what do you dream?”
“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”
“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand,  she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye. 
“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm.  She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.” 
“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes. 
“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.” 
“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles. 
“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron. 
“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead. 
“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace. 
“Please, I—”
“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart. 
“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!” 
“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.” 
“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine. 
“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you. 
It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?
Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known? 
Would he have even wanted to?
Perhaps I can just ask him myself.
The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses. 
It is by that grace alone that you see the man. 
You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. 
“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black. 
Nilfgaardian.
 You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.
“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards. 
The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky. 
“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.” 
Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet. 
“No.” 
“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you. 
“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.” 
“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble. 
“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat. 
“I’ve little stomach for lies.”  
A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you,  clears his throat. 
“Here, my Lord.” 
The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—
No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.
As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.
The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale. 
“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!”  There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth. 
“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not  comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them. 
The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed. 
“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”
Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling. 
“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”
The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night. 
“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.” 
“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear. 
“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”
 “Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.” 
He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck. 
“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.
“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.” 
Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry. 
“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder. 
He came for me.
Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.
“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”
In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse. 
“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”
Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.” 
You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—
A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing. 
“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak. 
“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums. 
“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.” 
You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—
The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours. 
Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.
“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark. 
I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure. 
Just for a little while. 
to be continued…
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swan--writes · 8 months
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geralt and jaskier get whacked with a spell which makes geralt...not so much a djinn as an indentured servant to jaskier with little to no willpower
jaskier spends the whole fic being so fucking careful not to give geralt any outright orders, geralt spends the whole fic being Very Confused as to why jaskier isn't (ab)using his power
it was probably meant to make geralt a slave to the mage but y'know...fanfiction-typical shenanigans
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tielmamon · 8 months
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He meets Radovid in the shed and decides fuck it and sleeps together. He turns to him and promises him all his riches and fineries, all the things Jaskier dreamed of when he first started out as a bard. He re-offers the court bard position from before and Jaskier considers but still says he'll think about it.
Jump to Jaskier alone with Geralt infront of a campfire. He mentions Radovid's offer and his thoughts on taking it. How it might help them in the future, more connections, more people they can trust, more places to feel safe at with the prince of Redania to back them up. He waits for a reaction but Geralt just stares at him with this knowing look.
"But you'd hate it there, Jask." For some reason, this irks Jaskier.
"How would you know? I'm a lavish man Geralt, you know that. I love money and silks and fame. This could be my chance." Geralt simple looks at him, reading him like an open book.
"You're a songbird. You're not supposed to be caged." He watches Geralt polish his swords, and if there's a faint redness in his cheeks, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he sighs because of course Geralt sees right through him. He knew he'd hate it the moment Radovid offered.
"And I suppose I'm free here then? In your little circle?" He teases, feeling much lighter than when the conversation started. The feeling immediately disappears once he feels a hand threading their fingers with his own. Geralt brings their hands closer to him, looking at them while Jaskier stays still with his heartbeat racing.
"I hope so. You're...I haven't told you and I should, because you deserve to hear it."
"Hear what?"
"You're part of this family. You-...You were the first person...." The words fumble and trip over one another on his tongue but the hand clasping Geralt's squeezes and a wave of reassurance washes over him. Like it always does when Jaskier is around. He takes a breath and looks at him, praying to all the gods that Jaskier sees him. Like he always does.
"You're my family, Jask. I can't- I don't think I can do this without you." He whispers quietly but Jaskier hears him loud and clear.
Please don't leave.
"A wolf, a lion cub, a raven and a songbird. Quite a family you've found for yourself, darling." Geralt smiles in relief, and kisses his knuckles.
Stay with us. With me.
"Wouldn't trade it for the world."
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echo-bleu · 1 year
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While I’m staying away from all the speculation, all those posts and memes about Jaskier either being the only one who can see Geralt is different or the only one who can’t and keeps insisting that yes of course, that’s Geralt, are giving me ideas.
Namely: faceblind Jaskier. Bear with me. He can’t recognize any face, including his own in the mirror (when he finds a mirror, it’s not that often). That’s why he flirts with everyone, flirting is just his default mode in case it’s someone he’s met before, because at its core it’s kind of roleplaying. While people may not respond to it well, they mostly don’t bat an eye at cheesy joke-y pickup lines where Jaskier ‘pretends’ to meet them for the first time (”Do you come here often?”). Meanwhile it buys Jaskier time to figure out if he has in fact met them before.
(Demi or ace Jaskier? Who flirts for the reasons above and mostly has sex with people because he figures it’s expected of him?)
It’s also the reason he makes so many enemies. Sure, there are actual cuckooed husbands who hate him, but really it’s mostly former lovers who are horribly offended when Jaskier ‘snubs’ them at a reception because he just didn’t recognize them. Or former lovers horribly offended that he tried to flirt with them again pretending not to know them after they threw him out. There are also plenty of people who were never his lovers at all but are just offended because nobles are Like That.
(There have been some really embarrassing situations. Like the time he tried to flirt with Valdo Marx, his eternal rival, who still laughs about it every time they see each other.)
He latches onto Geralt because Geralt is recognizable. There just aren’t two white-haired wolf-eyed muscular men around. Jaskier never has to worry about seeing him and being unsure if it’s actually his friend and not some random stranger with the same haircut. Geralt also never changes his haircut or his appearance in any way, which is refreshing.
Yennefer is mostly the same, with her violet eyes, although Jaskier does have to get close enough to be sure. They have a few weird encounters where Jaskier starts to flirt with her, gets within a few feet, and immediately backtracks the hell out with a disgusted face. That’s how she figures it out, but it takes her a while. After that she takes great pleasure in teasing him about it, but only in ways that no one else will clock (hence the crows’ feet comment. Jaskier doesn’t even know himself in the mirror. He can’t tell if she’s right. He does obsess over it the whole way up the mountain, but he has other things to think about on the descent).
The witchers of Kaer Morhen, when Jaskier meets them, are so refreshing. They’re all different! Eskel is unmistakeable with his scars, and while they’re within the confines of Kaer Morhen it’s very easy to distinguish Lambert’s red hair from Coen’s shaved head and darker skin from Vesemir’s white beard. Ciri is of course the only kid, so that’s not a problem. For the first time in his life, Jaskier doesn’t feel like he’s playing catch up to a game whose rules he doesn’t know. It’s relaxing.
The witchers, on the other hand, are quite surprised about Jaskier. They’ve been told (many times, over the years) that Jaskier flirts with everyone under the sun. Now Geralt isn’t always the most reliable source, of course, and Eskel never expects anyone to be attracted to him because of his scars (which is a subject for another day), but Jaskier doesn’t even try to flirt, even just friendlily, with either Lambert or Coen. He’s not afraid of them, they would be able to smell that, he seems perfectly comfortable with them, but he doesn’t flirt. At first, they figure that it’s because his newly mended relationship with Geralt is still fragile.
One night they’re all a bit drunk and the witchers are talking about how Jaskier’s songs have helped them on the Path, how many humans are much nicer to them, and in general how hard interacting with humans is. And Jaskier is just nodding along, “Yeah, yeah, interacting with humans is so hard.”
“But you’re always going out of your way to talk to people and flirt!”
“Well yes, I like making friends, but they have so many expectations, and they get angry so easily.”
“That’s only when you flirt with the wrong people,” Geralt growls.
“But how am I supposed to know it’s the wrong people when I can’t recognize them?”
“What do you mean?” Eskel asks.
“Faces are hard! I don’t know how people do it, I mean, obviously your scars are distinctive, and I’d recognize Geralt’s hair anywhere, but most humans all look the same!”
Geralt blinks very slowly as it all slots into place in his head. Jaskier’s very strange flirting methods. The way he keeps making enemies without meaning to. Hell, he’s seen Jaskier say hello again to someone they’d seen just minutes before, or completely ignore one of his bard friends at a festival until she came right up to him. “You don’t recognize people?”
Jaskier, who didn’t survive forty-three(ish) years without figuring out that this wasn’t normal, freezes and suddenly looks like a deer in the headlights. “Uh... no?”
“So if, say, Vesemir was to shave his beard, you might confuse him with Geralt?” Lambert asks.
“I’d... probably be able to tell from up close? Geralt’s taller.”
“Wow.” Lambert seems ready to tease him about it, but Eskel stops him.
“How did you never notice?” he asks Geralt.
Geralt just grunts. Jaskier answers for him. “I’m very good at making people feel like we’ve always known each other, I guess. Mostly I just buy time until I can figure out if I’ve met them before.”
The witchers have a million questions, but they never make Jaskier feel like he’s deficient somehow. Jaskier has always been ashamed of it, but to them, it’s just another quirk, like not being able to eat raw meat.
The next time they’re on the road, or at a festival together, Geralt is brooding just as much as usual, eyes darting this way and that, but before Jaskier can go and greet people (with his usual fake-it-till-you-make-it technique), Geralt stops him.
“Your friend Essi’s wearing a yellow dress with red accents,” he mutters under his breath. “Marx has a green doublet, that shade you hate. Avoid the man in the bright purple doublet and the brown pants, you slept with him last time and he threw you out. That woman at the right of the stage with the braid, she has a husband, you tried before.”
Jaskier gets so emotional that he can’t speak for a solid minute, and he ends up hugging Geralt instead. “Didn’t know you paid attention,” he says eventually.
“Just look at me if you’re not sure who someone is, I’ll tell you who to avoid,” Geralt says gruffly.
It’s not a perfect system, but Jaskier doesn’t offend a single person all day.
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ro-is-struggling · 3 months
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The Chase || Geralt of Rivia x Reader
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Requested by anon: "reader constantly calling geralt the white wolf or just wolf during sexy time and him breeding his pups in her bcs of it???"
Summary: Geralt always tried to keep the wolf inside him caged in order to control his animalistic impulses, but with you that didn't seem to be required at all. 
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI! Porn without plot, public sex (technically since they’re in the woods), rough sex, penetrative sex, fear play? (not really, but Geralt does chase the reader through the woods so maybe? adding it just in case!), scent play, size kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, biting (like there’s so much it’s a warning in this fic), fingering, possessiveness, a little fluff at the end, fem!reader
English is not my first language
Word count: 3300
Notes: This is definitely NOT inspired on THAT scene from beauty and the beast that has been going around twitter all week, nope, not at all
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Geralt was used to being called 'wolf' or 'white wolf'. It was a nickname he'd had for most of his life and was constantly used by Vesemir and the other witchers. He never thought much about it, just like his own name, he had it so internalized that he automatically responded when someone called him by those nicknames.
That changed, however, when you came into his life. There was something in the way you pronounced those words that awakened a primal feeling in him. It was in the way you looked at him, eyes defiant and playful, waiting to spark a reaction from him. It was in the way your lips moved, always ending in a mischievous smile, and in the sound of your voice, sweet and seductive, inducing him to madness, pushing him to his limit. 
Everything about you awakened in him an urge to possess you, to mark you as his so that everyone who saw you would know you belonged to him. He had to make an effort to stop his needy hands to caress your skin, and contain the desperation of his lips to kiss your neck and mark it with his teeth. He didn't care if there were people around him, they all ceased to exist when you called him wolf. 
It didn't help his situation that you always played dumb, pretending not to understand the power you had over him. But Geralt knew it was all an act. He knew that you were well aware of the effect that the utterance of that nickname had on him. And you used it as a weapon, a way to get a response from him when you wanted to play. And today you were in a very playful mood.
"What is it? Is the wolf scared of losing?" you teased him, trying to persuade him to take the bet. It was a simple race through the woods, just get from point A to point B as fast as possible to win. Only you had no intention of winning. All you were looking for was the thrill of the chase.
Geralt gave you an unamused look, taking a deep breath to calm the revolt that your use of that nickname had awakened in him. But then, he sensed your perfume in the air, mixed with the intoxicating scent of your arousal. His look completely transformed, frown relaxing into a firm, intimidating expression. The game was on.
"Oh you don't want to play that game, bunny." He warned you, giving you one last chance to change your mind. Once the race started, he wasn't sure he would be able to stop. He could already feel his insides vibrating with anticipation, the chained wolf fighting to break free. He had been locked up for too long, his needs ignored and repressed, so when he let go there would be no turning back. He was hungry and you were offering yourself to him without hesitation. How could he refuse?
You approached him, taking the sword he was sharpening out of his hand and bending down so you could look him in the eye. Your movements were slow, sensual, captivating your lover's gaze. Geralt's eyes got lost in your cleavage for a moment, admiring the exposed skin of your neck and the valley of your breasts as he suddenly began to salivate with need. His pupils widened, staring at you with yellow eyes turned almost completely black with desire. He could barely contain himself and that only increased your arousal.
"I'm not afraid of you." you said, and Geralt held back the urge to tell you that you should be. "Are you, wolf?"
He stood up and suddenly his imposing figure towered over yours, forcing you to tilt your head up so you could look at him. He was so much bigger than you, so much more agile, that it was ridiculous to even imagine you could beat him in a race. But, again, that's not what the game was about.
Geralt leaned in towards you, his lips brushing your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. "When you lose and you're on the ground begging for mercy, I just want you to remember that you asked for this." he whispered, defiantly, sending a shiver down your spine.
He looked at you and you knew it was time to run. He gave you a head start, knowing he could catch you without even trying —not only because he was faster than you, but also because you had no real intention of winning that bet. He watched you run through the trees, admiring the way your hair moved in the wind. Only when you disappeared over the horizon did he start to move. He walked at a slow pace at first, sharpening his hearing to follow the sound of your footsteps. But when he caught the scent of your arousal, he couldn't help but pick up his pace. It was like a drug to him, an intoxicating scent that messed with the hormones of the big, bad wolf he had set free.
Geralt let the scent of your floral perfume mixed with the sweet nectar hidden between your legs guide him towards you, an invisible force drawing him closer and closer to his prey. When he reached you, he found you hiding behind a tree, taking advantage of the moment to catch your breath. He heard you gasp as soon as you sensed his presence, holding your breath to avoid making your position known. Geralt smiled to himself, finding your small efforts to remain hidden adorable.
"You can't hide from me, bunny." He spoke, approaching you slowly. "I can hear the sound of your quickened breathing from miles away... smell the scent of your arousal... you want this, so why don't you come out and get this over with."
Geralt was offering you a truce, a chance for things not to escalate any further than they already had. Any sane person in your place would have taken it, it was the reasonable thing to do after taunting the wolf like that. But you were not just anyone. You wanted to face the consequences of your actions. You wanted to face the white wolf that Geralt tried so hard to keep in line. You wanted him to do whatever he wanted with you, that was the point of the game in the first place.
You came out of hiding with your hands up in a feigned sign of surrender. Geralt walked a few steps towards you, eyeing you with suspicion. You held his gaze, trying to hide your true intentions. But in the end the smile on your lips betrayed you, letting him know that you didn't plan to give up easily before you had a chance to run.
You barely made it a couple of steps before you felt the warmth of his body against yours, his arms wrapped tightly around you to keep you from escaping. You squirmed in his grip, trying to free your arms from his strong hold, but it was pointless. Geralt was much bigger and stronger than you, so you weren't going anywhere if he didn't want you to. He pressed you against him, pinning your back to his chest as his hands intertwined over your stomach, effectively imprisoning you against his body. You felt his nose against your neck, sniffing your scent with animalistic desperation. It made you tremble, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your heart pounded with anticipation. You pressed the curve of your ass against the bulge growing in his pants in response and you felt Geralt’s chest vibrate with a repressed moan.
"I got you." he growled against your skin before sinking his teeth into the sensitive area of your neck. "You're mine, bunny. Mine."
"I'm yours," you moaned, relaxing into his arms, tilting your head more so he could have better access to your neck. You wanted him to mark you. You wanted him to claim you as his own. "Please, take me." you begged. It was an airy whisper, but Geralt heard it with perfect clarity. And your consent was all he needed.
In a matter of seconds, your back was pressed against the grass as Geralt hovered over you. His hands were all over your body, lifting your skirt and unbuttoning the ties of your top to expose your breasts. His lips kissed every inch of exposed skin, but there was nothing romantic or sensual about it. It was rough, desperate, Geralt sucked your skin with the intention of leaving marks, sinking his teeth into your flesh as he growled that you belonged to him. It was too much and yet not enough. The pleasure coursing through your body was almost unbearable, but you needed more, you needed to feel all of him.
"You knew exactly what you were doing... calling me that name, making me chase you around." Geralt inserted a finger inside you without warning, earning a moan from you. You were so aroused, so desperate for his touch, that he had no trouble at all pushing deep into your core, moving his digit with ease and reaching up to brush against that sensitive part inside you that turned you into a moaning mess. "This is what you wanted, didn't you bunny? You wanted your big, bad wolf to chase you around and pin you down right in the middle of the woods, huh?"
"Y-yes, f-fuck." you managed to blurt out between moans and quickened breaths. Geralt inserted a second finger inside you and the air got stuck in your throat as the pleasure overwhelmed you. He increased the pace of his movements, showing you no mercy as his fingers moved in and out of you in desperate, almost aggressive movements. You could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, ready to snap at any moment.
"You awakened the wolf on purpose. This is exactly what you wanted, didn't you?" he growled in your ear, playfully biting your ear lobe. You could only reply with an incoherent moan, closing your eyes to focus on the pleasure coursing through your body. But that wasn't enough for him, Geralt wanted to hear you say it. "Answer me!" he demanded and you were forced to open your eyes just by the authority in his voice.
"Yes! I-I wanted this, I-I wanted the wolf to fuck me. Please..." Geralt smiled showing his teeth and you couldn't help but think how much he resembled a real wolf when he looked at you like that. His lips were slightly swollen and covered with saliva after working on marking your skin, his pupils blown wide with arousal. He was looking at you like a wolf looked at its prey, desperate to jump at you and devour his meal.
"Beg for it." He said through gritted teeth. He removed his fingers from inside you, leaving you empty and unsatisfied. It took your pleasure-clouded mind a few seconds to process his words, too focused on the high you'd lost to let out anything more than whimpers of frustration. But that was exactly what Geralt wanted. He wanted to see you completely desperate, surrendered under his body, begging for his touch.
"Please, wolf, I need you... I need to feel you inside me, please." You begged him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He took his fingers covered with your sweet nectar into his mouth, sucking them clean as he moaned around them. It was the hottest image you had ever seen. He was so focused on the taste of your arousal touching his tongue that for a moment you feared he might not be able to hear your pleas for attention.
“I’m yours to take… please, wolf. I need you.”
The pathetic desperation in your voice was enough for Geralt. He wasted no time, freeing his cock from its confinement and thrusting it into you in one swift movement that left you breathless. He was big and even though your arousal was seeping down your thighs, it always took you a moment to get used to the way he stretched you. He showed you some mercy, giving you a few seconds to adjust while he enjoyed the way your walls closed around his cock. Nothing compared to the warm feeling of your walls wrapped around his cock, pulling him inside you, inviting him to stay. It was the closest he had ever been to heaven, if there was such a thing.
Geralt let out a grunt as you began to move your hips against him, urging him to move. He placed his hands on either side of your head, effectively imprisoning you under his large, imposing figure. Then he gave you a sloppy, wet kiss, biting your lower lip before moving closer to your ear. "Just remember you asked for this." He whispered, sealing your fate.
The rhythm he set was fast and rough, his hips moving against yours desperately. The sheer force of his thrusts was such that you had to cling to his body to keep from sliding upward each time he entered you. It hurt a little, but in the most delicious way. He hit that special place inside you with every thrust of his hips, turning you into an incoherent moaning mess that could do nothing but dig your nails into his back in a desperate attempt to keep you grounded. Pure pleasure coursed through your veins as you felt Geralt pressing deep inside you, filling you and claiming you as his. Your sweat covered skin was on fire, only finding relief when the witcher's cold medallion that dangled over your face made contact with your body.
"Scream! I want to hear you, bunny. I want to know how good I'm making you feel." Geralt demanded and your body instantly obeyed, as if he was the true owner of your mind. "That's it, don't hold back. No one is going to find us here, you can scream all you want. It's just me and you."
The forest filled with your moans and Geralt's animalistic grunts. He couldn't contain himself, seeing you underneath him with your tangled hair full of dry leaves and your watery eyes full of pleasure was too much for him. He couldn't stop the fast rhythm of his hips even if he wanted to. The wolf inside him wanted to ruin you completely, to mark you as his and make sure you were never satisfied with any other man but him. You belonged to him, now and forever. 
"You wanted this, you craved it... my little bunny, desperate to get fucked like a bitch in heat." He growled against the skin of your neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive area below your ear.
"Yes! F-fuck, please... I'm so close." You begged him, feeling the familiar tingle spreading in your stomach as your toes curled. His fingers traveled to the little bundle of nerves pulsing between your legs, stroking it with rapid circular motions that increased your level of desperation. You were so close to your relief it was almost painful, but you wanted to wait, to hold back your pleasure so you could explode alongside Geralt.
"You want me to fill you up, mark you as mine, huh? Breed you with my pups so everyone knows you're mine?" It was an empty promise and you both knew it. Geralt was sterile and no matter how much he wanted to, he could not father a child. But that didn't make his words any less arousing. The idea of being his and having his child growing in your belly to prove it was so enticing that you couldn't help but entwine your legs around his waist as a way to make sure he didn't slip out from inside you.
"Yes, please! I'm yours, I always will be and I want everyone to know!"
"That's right, you are. And I'm yours." Geralt grunted, leaning his forehead against yours to look you in the eye as he quickened his movements, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased the sweet relief. "Can you feel how deep inside you I am?" He took your hand and pressed it against your lower belly, where you could feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. "I'm going to shoot my seed so deep into you, you'll carry it inside you until your belly starts to swell up with my pups inside it. Is that what you want?"
"Yes! Please, give it to me, wolf! I need to feel you, please." You begged with your last breath, almost bursting into tears from the intensity of the pleasure you felt.
Two more thrusts were all it took for Geralt to push you over the edge. You came with a cry of his name, nails digging into the sweaty skin of his back as your warm walls tightened around his cock, forcing him to stay inside you. That was enough to trigger his own relief, his cock twitching inside you as he shot his load deep inside your cunt, painting your walls with pearly white ropes of cum. And yet, he continued to thrust inside you, making your body shake from the overstimulation. He wanted to make sure his seed stayed inside you. He wanted to be able to smell the mix of his relief and yours on you for the rest of the day.
When he finally pulled away you groaned, feeling empty. Geralt let out an airy chuckle as he dropped down next to you, struggling to catch his breath. He pulled you close to him, wrapping his arms around you and resting your head on his chest. Even after all that, he still needed to hold you close, to feel the warmth of your body against his. 
You stayed like that until your breathing returned to normal, reveling in each other's closeness. You were so relaxed in his arms that you might well have fallen asleep if not for Geralt breaking the peaceful silence by clearing his throat.
"We should head back." he murmured, his fingers tracing imaginary lines on the exposed skin of your arm.
"I would if I could move." You joked as you began to feel the pain in your tired muscles. You didn't regret anything, though.
"I'm sorry."
You lifted your head from his chest to look at him, giving him a smile to ease the guilt he might be feeling for hurting you. "Don't be, you did exactly what I wanted you to do." You reached up to kiss him and he gladly reciprocated, cupping your cheek with his free hand so he could deepen the kiss.
However, he pulled away faster than you expected. You whined again, but he ignored you, getting up from the floor and shaking the dirt off his clothes. "It's getting late, we need to go." He said and you huffed. You weren't ready to move yet.
"Geraaalt" you complained, pouting. He looked down at you, ready to scold you, but was distracted by the sight of his artwork in all its glory. Your sweat-covered skin glowed under the afternoon light, highlighting your beauty. Your body was covered in his teeth marks and a trail of reddened hickeys trailed from your neck to your breasts and disappeared under the fabric of your dress. You carried his scent on your body, his seed inside you and his teeth marks on your skin. That alone was enough to awaken the wolf inside him once again, though he held back.
"You look beautiful." He said, kneeling beside you to help you knot the ties in the front of your dress, hiding your breasts and the marks he had made behind the fabric.
The softness in Geralt's eyes was such that you felt the need to hide your face, feeling embarrassed and somehow more exposed than when you were having sex. However, he didn't give you time to react as he quickly pulled you into his arms and made his way back to the hut. You relaxed in his arms, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck and snuggling against his shoulder. 
"I love you." you said in an almost inaudible whisper. It was as if you were speaking more to yourself than for Geralt to hear you. As if the words had escaped your lips as you were lost in thought.
But Geralt's hearing was exceptionally good. And he couldn't help but smile to himself as he heard those words.
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kittenofdoomage · 4 months
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Awakening (Ao3 Link)
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Summary: Y/N’s always been an obedient daughter and sister, but one foraging trip into the deepest part of the woods changes everything for her.
Pairing: Alpha!Werewolf!Geralt Of Rivia x fem!reader
Word Count: 53615
Chapters: 16 (fully posted and complete)
Warnings: mild assault, dubious consent, corruption, angst, mentions of suicide, biting, jealousy/fighting over a mate, public masturbation, public nudity, voyeurism, heat/rut, possessive behavior, werewolves, size kink, praise kink, smut, pregnancy, A/B/O themes (including mating, biting, knotting, breeding kink), non-canon elements (witchers are not infertile, they’re just a different breed of werewolf), some time-period-level sexism towards women, use of “little one” as a pet name. Please let me know if there are additional warnings I have missed.
LINK TO FIC
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islenthatur · 1 year
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Look we all know Jaskier is basically the same size as Geralt, and very much made of muscle. He'd have to be because Geralt gets hurt more times than Jaskier is pleased or comfortable with, and well someone has to pick Geralt up off the ground and carry him to Roach/Camp/Town.
Geralt knows this of course, he just forgets because Jaskier tailors his clothes to hide the muscle.
But... but his brothers don't know.
Geralt takes extreme pleasure in watching a very reluctant Jaskier tossing Lambert with barely any effort...
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straywords · 1 year
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°•☆Anything You Wish☆•°
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♦️Dark! Geralt of Rivia x Reader♦️
Your father promises Geralt anything he wants for slaying the monsters plaguing your kingdom...unfortunately, the witcher takes that promise quite literally.
CW: Non-Con, loss of virginity, outdoor sex, kidnapping, belligerent tension
Words: ~5k
A/N: I’m really appreciative of all feedback and reblogs.
The day they came was the day yet another plague struck your kingdom. They swarmed the fields and fed on the dead, even lashing out at the living who came too close. 
Men in the surrounding villages couldn’t defeat them. The King’s army couldn’t defeat them. Nothing could get rid of the hungry beasts who run faster than horses and scream louder than banshees. 
Even gathering the nerve to approach them is a feat within itself. 
Their charred, putrid flesh emits a horrid stench that clogs the nostrils and empties the stomach. Their humongous teeth are as sharp as swords and can tear a human apart just as easily. 
They are monsters, nightmarish creatures straight out of the tales you were told as a little girl…only, they are very real. 
So real that, at present, one is screeching right in your face. Your ears almost bleed from the loudness of its scream. 
Foolish. Stupid. Reckless. Many words could be used to describe your thoughtless actions. You saw much bigger men than you falling prey to the monsters…still, you wished to try. Try to take down just one of the fearsome beasts, prove yourself. 
The plan you concocted should have been flawless. 
You lured it away from the group with a bird carcass, cornered it, stalked behind it. You were ready to strike, to show your worth. You so desperately want to be…more. Just more.
And now, your sword’s a few feet away, lost in your attempt to flee from the creature. As its rancid, scorching breath fans over your face, your eyes shut. 
Begrudging acceptance settles in your chest. 
And so it comes, death’s cold embrace. At last, you may join your fallen brother. 
You wait and wait as your lip quakes, terror cooling your veins. Surprise sweeps you when instead of the creature’s sharp teeth, your skin is met by a wet, sticky rain. 
For a moment, your heart pounds a chaotic symphony as you don’t dare steal a glimpse of what occurs before you.
You should be dead, yet you are not. The understanding that you’re intact, still breathing and still whole, struggles to wade its way through your mind. 
Slowly, you open your eyes. A sharp exhale erupts from your mouth as the creature’s guts spill at your feet, a tall, silver-haired stranger emerging behind the slayed remains. Covered in grime and blood, he glares down at your prone, trembling frame. Eerie, golden eyes cut into you harshly. 
"Where’s your king?" the man asks, his deep, gristly voice more akin to a bear growl than anything human. 
"I…"
The words slump along your throat as you process the broad stranger’s presence. Your savior. He pays you little mind however, grunting in annoyance when you fail to respond. Mud splashes over your tunic as his heavy boots stamp the floor. 
Not glancing back at you once, the man takes long strides towards your father’s castle. 
The stench of the creature’s innards still clings to you as you race through the stone hallways of the castle. No matter how much your chambermaid assisted you in scrubbing yourself raw, the gut-twisting scent persisted. Heat nestles in your cheeks as pointed looks land on you, lips curving upward in poorly restrained smiles.
You are the princess, yet your smell is potent enough that even servants and courtiers can barely hold in a laugh as you hurry past them. 
Annoyance sears your insides when you finally reach your destination. 
Your eyes travel to the middle of the throne room.
The air is drained from your lungs at the sight of the silver-haired, grumpy giant from before. The black plates of his armor are still stained with blood and entrails. His white locks spill over his shoulders, caked with dirt and grease.
He smells even worse than you do.
His saffron gaze trails your steps as you shakily advance. When you scowl at him and almost lose your balance, a crooked smirk unfurls on his lips. 
It angers you. Before, he ignored you and now his acknowledgement comes with contempt and mockery. 
You regain your composure by lifting your dress and turning away from him. Still, his eye on you is heavy and it makes your stomach clench in discomfort.
You know his reputation all too well. He may have saved you but he’s a brute, a murderer. A butcher. 
Your father acknowledges you with a lingering, judgemental stare you try your best to ignore. For one reason or another, his disapproval always ends up finding you. His ire is never quite far behind.
Whatever you do, no matter how hard you strive to make him proud, the king always finds fault in your actions.
Today’s another one of those calamitous days where your behavior draws a frown upon your father’s weathered brow. 
It’s no matter. You’re almost certain you slighted him beyond measure the day you were born by simply missing a cock. Your brother’s demise on the battlefield made matters even worse. It reminded him that instead of a suitable male heir, a second son, he only has you.
Your very existence is your father’s greatest disappointment.
All he looks forward to is marrying you off to whomever lord will strengthen his rule most. Then, maybe, you will be useful to him. 
"Apology for my daughter’s tardiness, Ser Geralt," your father notes dryly. Daggers pierce your skin when he glares at you, raising his voice, "And much gratitude for saving her from her own foolishness. Even now it astounds me that mine own daughter does not know what a woman’s place is." You plop into the seat next to his, twitching as humiliation scorches your insides. The wood beneath you is hard and uncomfortable, bereft of the nice pillows scattered on your father’s throne.  
It’s not the first time you’re scolded for your coarse behavior, unbefitting of your station. Your actions are a perpetual source of strife between you and your father. 
If one were to ask the king, even the way you draw breath is lacking. 
Your father continues discussing terms with the man. Despite the prickle you feel on your skin, you carefully avoid crossing the stranger’s gaze. 
Lost in your churning thoughts, you catch the tail end of your father’s sentence. 
"...So we are in agreement, whatever you wish to have once the scourge of hell beasts is dealt with, you can have," your father states. He snorts, a clever glint lighting his orbs. "Within reason, of course, you cannot ask for my crown or all that sits in the treasury. Other than that, you may ask for anything you want, witcher."
The mysterious man hums low in his chest. Silence fills the hall and you lift your head in curiosity. Immediately, his honey orbs lock with yours.
A cold shiver shoots through your spine. 
"Anything?" Geralt echoes with a small smile.
"Within reason," your father emphasizes.
You scratch the back of your hands nervously, lowering your eyes again. The expression on the witcher’s face unnerves you, making your chest seize.
He grumbles in acknowledgement. Then, after a few moments, he says, "I’m gonna need a bath."
When the sky darkens above the castle and all is quiet, you sneak out of bed, as is your habit. Grabbing your cloak and the sword below your bed, you tiptoe outside your apartments. Nihma, your chambermaid, nods at you as you brush past her. No word is exchanged as she slips inside the room while you step into the chilly hallway.
She will get underneath your blanket and snore loudly enough to fool any guard doing a casual patrol. You will give her ten ducats for her troubles, almost two weeks’ worth of wages in a single night, a more than fair trade for the simple task of impersonating you.
You need those ephemeral getaways.
Life within those castle walls isn’t just tedious…it’s stifling. Your father’s expectations and all the duties you’re expected to perform suffocate you.
You dream of freedom and adventure, of sleeping under the stars and living off what the land bestows. 
Instead, you are fated to wither away in a cold castle, forced to push out some stodgy lord’s spawn for the remainder of your days. 
You shift the heavy sword beneath your cloak, hiding quickly inside an alcove as a guard strolls by. 
A sigh of relief departs from your lips when the stomping of his boots dwindles. 
You leave your hiding spot and head towards the weapons’ room. It’s always empty at night. When you were younger, it’s where your brother taught you so your father wouldn’t find out. It took so much begging but, in the end, he couldn’t resist you.
Twice a week, you would wake him up and drag him through the dim hallways to practice your swordsmanship. 
Your shoulders slump as you let your fingers caress the pommel of your brother’s sword. 
The thought of him, slain on the battlefield the year prior, elicits a painful twinge in your chest. 
You enter the room and nudge the door closed in practiced silence. 
The cloak is tossed over a nearby wooden chair. 
You waste no time, beginning as soon as you lift the heavy sword. 
You run through each drill, slashing at air on staggering feet. Sweat beads on your forehead as you wave your sword at an invisible opponent. The weight of the steel alone fatigues your limbs. Halting your motions, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.
"Your form is shit," a deep and unfortunately familiar voice utters at your side. A sharp gasp escapes your throat as you whirl in his direction. He walks alongside the stone wall, his honey gaze sizing you up and down.
His attention causes your stomach to wrench uncomfortably. Your eyes linger on the loose-fitting, white blouse he wears and the curling dark hairs covering his broad chest where it opens.
As your gaze drifts down to the black leather pants, latching onto the unmistakable bulge in his crotch, flames bloom in your cheeks.
You lift your eyes to meet his smirking face. A frown wrinkles your forehead as you point your sword at him. 
"Did you follow me here, witcher?"
Geralt’s brow arches as he inches closer. He doesn’t seem threatened by you, just amused, mirth twinkling in his saffron orbs. 
"You’re hiding…which means your father wouldn’t approve." He appraises you while tilting his head. "That sword is far too heavy for you…" Pearly white teeth shimmer in the darkness when he grins. "and you’re holding it wrong."
Anger overflows, spilling over to your shaky grip. With purpose, you lunge at him. He dodges all your thrusts, gliding over the stones and sidestepping you with ease. 
"I do not need help from a murderer," you hiss, angling the blade towards his middle. Again, he avoids your attack. As you lose your balance, the floor fastly approaches in your vision. 
You await the inevitable collapse but it never arrives.
Geralt catches you. While one of the witcher’s thick arms snakes around your waist, curtailing your fall, the other wraps around your wrist holding the sword. 
You audibly exhale as your back presses against Geralt’s chest, warmth leaking from his frame to yours. You squirm but he is stronger, his solid grip keeping you against him. 
His lips skim over your earshell.
"Would you prefer the monsters roam free and eat your people?" he taunts. 
You take a pause, breathing through your nose. His musky scent fills your nostrils, turning your head a little.
Your voice bursts out a quivering hush.
"I’m talking about Blaviken. The people you slaughtered."
Who hasn’t heard of the infamous Geralt of Rivia and his senseless acts of butchery? Before you can go on, more insults burning your tongue, his fingers tighten around your wrist.
A grimace of pain distorts your features as you almost let go of the sword, but Geralt doesn’t let you. 
His raspy baritone rolls along your skin as he lowers his mouth to your neck. 
"You’re slow, princess. Perhaps you’re more suited for needlework than fighting."
"My brother taught me. He was a great warrior," you retort, your pride wounded by his scathing observation. 
He scoffs, "So your brother was either a shitty warrior, or you’re a shitty student. Which is it?" A puppet in his embrace, you quake when his warm breath raises the hairs on your neck. "You’re holding it too low. See? This…" He directs your hand, raising the sword while your arm trembles. "Would be better. You want to aim for the neck."
You gasp when he moves the blade horizontally in a perfect line. The decisive, powerful strike could have brought down an actual enemy. 
Slight awe radiates through you as you lament, your brows crumpling, "I can’t…I can’t hold it higher."
"Of course you can’t," he whispers. His timbre then lowers, too soft and intimate for your liking. "Like I’ve said…this isn’t right for you."
Bells clamor within you when something stirs against your back, something thick and hot beneath the leather of Geralt’s pants. 
You know little of men but enough to sense this isn’t right. 
You tear from him abruptly. His arms open, that conceited smirk still engraved on his lips. Meanwhile, your brother’s sword clatters at your feet, slipping from your grasp, or rather Geralt’s you suppose.
Avoiding his disarming stare, you scurry to grab your cloak and rush to the exit. 
"It’s late. I should return to my chambers," you quaver, too afraid to glance back at him or wait for his response.
The following days, you exert tremendous effort to avoid the witcher, mostly confining yourself to your apartments. Returning to the weapons room after what transpired is out of the question.
Your heart still races and your face heats whenever you recall the warmth of Geralt’s body as it wrapped around yours. 
So you attend to your daily routine, your tedious duties.
Prayers in the morning, then breakfast with your ladies-in-waiting as they prattle on about some gossip or upcoming tournament that fails to catch your interest. 
At noon, you must pray again. Then in the evening, you practice embroidery and meet with potential suitors.
None of them please you, each one of them dull pretenders, leeches who do not see you as a person, but a tool to wrest more power and influence for themselves and their houses.
Father will be upset you refused yet another string of matches. One day, he will tire of simply asking you to do your duty. He will impose, and you will have to oblige, for he is not just your father, he is also the king. His word is law. His suggestions are commands.
By the time night comes, you’ve swallowed the burning urge to run away more times than you can count. 
Yet you don’t. You fall asleep, dreams plagued by golden eyes and silver hair. So you wake up angry, frustrated.
It peeves you.
Your dislike for him burns bright, searing your insides. The thought of him is a sour one. Geralt of Rivia makes you sick. Yet he’s at the edge of every one of your thoughts. The ghost of his smug smile haunts your days.
It’s the sight that flickers in your mind as you prick your finger today.
"Princess?" Nihma calls, plucking the needle and wooden hoop away from your fingers. She kneels before your chair and dabs a handkerchief on the blood trickling down your fingertip. 
You blink, the daze clearing out. You peer down at your chambermaid’s concerned expression. 
"The king awaits your presence, your highness," she informs.
Your brows knit.
"Me? Whatever for?"
A week and a day. It’s how long it took the witcher to slay the hell beasts, having found their queen’s nest and chopped off her head.
Head that bounces at your father’s feet when the witcher tosses it. He looks a fright, bathed in mud and blood, his silver mane black with the monsters’ remains.
You squeeze your fingers in your lap, quelling the shudder the gruesome spectacle inspires. The crimson eyes are open wide and the beast’s jaw parts in a scream that never will be. Your insides lurch. 
"Well, witcher, the realm thanks you for-" 
The witcher interrupts your father’s speech, impatience brimming from his tone. 
"The deed is done. Now I may request what I wish."
"You may. Within reason."
Your father smiles, as usual thinking himself the most clever man in the room. The breath stills in your lungs, unease prickling your skin. You do not know why but trepidation clogs your throat. 
Your hands are tightly clasped in front of you when Geralt speaks again, his deep voice echoing decisively in the throne room. 
"I want her."
Your jaw slackens as your eyes bulge. Geralt’s sizzling gaze lands right on you, unwavering and clear in his request. 
Of all he could ask for, Geralt of Rivia asked for you. 
Your heart bounces when he smirks at you roguishly. 
There’s tension amongst the guards surrounding your father. They’re at the ready, hands at their sides, ready to draw their swords. 
A laugh of disbelief bursts out of the king. His fingers drum anxiously on the armrests of his throne. A warning is laced in the stiff smile he addresses the witcher. 
"You can’t possibly…we can offer you horses, gold, maybe a new sword. Our royal smith is renowned-"
"I want the princess. Nothing else."
The determination in his words staggers you. 
"Why?" your father roars. Your chest clenches. Geralt has offended your father. Blood will be spilled today. 
A lopsided, cocky smirk twists the witcher’s lips.
"What does a man want with a woman?"
Your eyes widen. Your father’s jaw ticks, a scowl distorting his features. Suddenly, he bolts up from his throne, barking orders at the men around him. 
"Guards, arrest him!"
Only one word is uttered by the witcher, annoyance oozing from it. 
"...Fuck."
Chaos unleashes in the throne room. 
The guards lunge at Geralt and you watch in horror as he uses his uncanny magic and extraordinary battle skill to cut each of them down.
They topple to the floor with gargled sounds, falling like flies.
It’s a haunting, macabre dance, the way the witcher moves, his leather boots gliding across the stones, each of his strikes unwaveringly brutal and precise. 
Your father gapes at the display with an expression mirroring yours.
You sidle against a wall, your chest heaving, turning away from the carnage before you. You creep along the stones and almost reach the exit, hoping to sneak away through one of the castle’s many secret passages. 
But your attempt at a getaway is ruined when, all of sudden, you’re swept up from the floor. The loss of equilibrium makes your head spin. You realize you are staring at a broad, muscular back, one that is dreadfully familiar.
The witcher sighs, adjusting you across his shoulders as you hit and scratch any part of him within reach. He barely flinches as he marches out of the castle while carrying you. 
Two more guards try to stop him but Geralt stuns them with that witcher trick again, and slices their throats in a matter of seconds. 
You grow dizzy from your upside down position and the bile rising up your throat.
"Unhand me, you brute," you shout.
Geralt ignores you, finally letting you down once he reaches his horse. Before you can try to flee, he ties a rope around your wrists and lifts you up on his horse. 
"You’re heavier than you look," he notes flatly. He climbs on the horse and grips the reins. The animals neighs as Geralt’s boot claps against his side. He briefly turns to flash you an impish smile. "Do try not to fall, princess. I would hate for my pretty prize to break her neck."
It’s the only warning you’re afforded as he takes off on the horse with you at his back.
You writhe against the sturdy ropes confining you to the oak tree. 
Your eyes scour the clearing as your heart clamors in your chest. You swallow and your hoarse throat aches with the motion. No matter how much you screamed, no one came to your rescue.
A few feet away, your captor's hunched over a river. You look away, cheeks heating as he undresses and washes the blood and grime off his body. 
Thoughts screech inside your head, panic singing in your blood. You’re at the witcher’s mercy. And his words from before echo sickly in your mind. 
You shudder at the prospect of him touching you again, in ways that cannot be erased, in ways that would brand you forever. 
You must escape.
Clarity pierces through the veil of fear as you devise a hasty plan.
The sizzling weight of the dagger against your thigh emboldens you. After your nightly encounter with Geralt, the pressing need for protection bloomed inside you. You have carried the blade beneath your dress since, secured by a leather strap around your thigh.
Maybe if you wait for the right moment, seize opportunity when it arises…
"I’m going to untie you. Will you be good, princess?"
You gasp, your head turning toward Geralt’s. He crouches before you with one knee bent. You note he’s dressed down in black leather pants and a loose blouse, having shed his armor. Hints of his hairy chest peeks from the shirt. Droplets of water still drip from his long, silver mane, the damp locks clinging to the sides of his face. 
You nod, your heart slamming wildly. Geralt begins to pull the heavy rope loose. Tension courses through your taut limbs. You keep a careful eye on him. 
When the rope falls in a heap around you, you rise on tremulous feet. 
You stagger before him, struggling to regain your balance. You rub your throbbing wrists. 
You examine him. He bears no weapon at his side. It’s now or never. The only chance you might get.
You swallow nervously, taking a deep breath.
Then, abruptly, you shove Geralt with all your strength.
He stumbles backward but doesn’t fall, not like you hoped. 
Your feet leap as you dash across the clearing, running without glancing back.
You hear him grumpily mutter "Fuck" under his breath. 
You don’t hear him move but you’re caught and thrown into the grassy dirt before you can get too far. A trembling hand gathers the dagger below your skirt.
You wave it in the air blindly. 
Geralt crawls over you, scoffing as he grabs your wrist.
He smirks.
"Go on. Aim for the throat."
Your hand quakes in his steely grip as you keep trying to stab him. Desperately.
One of your aimless slashes finally meets flesh, grazing the witcher’s face. It leaves a bright red welt that drips crimson trails over his cheek. 
He huffs and pins your wrists above your head. The dagger slips from your grasp.
Helplessness blazes within you as you flick terrified eyes toward the witcher. 
He caresses the side of your face, a slanted smile dancing on his lips. His honey gaze drags up and down your shuddering frame, lingering on every part of you.
A deep sigh rumbles through his chest. 
"You’re exhausting the well of my patience, pretty princess."
You squirm and scream beneath Geralt as his wide hand latches around your throat. He pins you to the ground, trapping you between his knees and beneath his broad, heavy body. You gasp at the taut, throbbing bulge between his legs.  He presses himself against your stomach, his shameless desire blatant. 
"Don’t you dare…" you hiss.
He chuckles.
"Such a feisty thing, even now."
Your chest seizes, fright pulsing through your blood, as he shuffles out of his pants above you. He hikes up your skirt, his large, callused hand plucking at your warm center.
Your cheeks blaze. You’ve never been touched there. 
He swipes his fingers across your folds, tarrying on a tiny, particular spot that has desperate whines unfurling from your throat. You squirm, tears pricking your eyes, as thick fingers explore you roughly. Your toes quiver as he glides over your soft, tender spots.
He does that for a while, collecting a slickness that starts dripping from your core and spreading it over your folds. You keen at the invasion, water and salt hazing your vision. 
It worsens when the pain and discomfort begin to blur into something…more horrifyingly pleasant, warm tingles bouncing through your flesh. Your hips undulate and your lids flutter.
Geralt teases that delicate spot, coarse fingertips caressing your folds. Your thoughts scatter amidst the lustful fog.
"What is…what is going on…" you mumble, scorching breaths rattling through your chest. 
Geralt hums, his sharp teeth grazing your shoulder.
"I suppose you truly are a maiden in every way."
Although the blanket of the night has yet to wrap around the sky, stars twinkle in your vision. A sharp wail ripples out of your throat as you clench around Geralt's thick fingers. You wonder if you’re dying, falling and soaring all at once, fiery sparks traveling across your entire being.
His warm breath ghosts over your neck. 
"I shall have all your firsts, princess."
Geralt rubs his veiny length up and down your slick entrance, groaning against your shoulder. You cry out as the tip of him pushes inside you. He’s already so large, stretching you painfully. You wonder how the rest of him could possibly fit. 
"Fuck, you’re tight," he grunts, straining to bury more of himself inside you. Your core protests the sudden intrusion.
"Geralt, Geralt, please…"
He swallows your tearful pleas with hungry kisses. 
"Yes, princess, utter my name just like that, until there’s nothing in your head and on your tongue…but me."
You whimper when he sheathes himself inside you to the brim. Fire consumes your walls. Tears flood your vision as Geralt snaps his taut hips into you bluntly.
The wolf pendant dangling from his neck sways above you. 
He gives you no time to accommodate him, snarling as his large body ripples above yours, his damp, silver locks sagging over your chest. 
After a long while, you quit begging. It yields no results. In fact, he thrusts into you more ferociously, his honey orbs darkening with lust whenever you demand he stops. 
He remains inside you for hours. The crisp forest air grows chilly and the pale moon crests in the sky above your writhing forms. 
Yet the witcher’s hunger never abates. 
He robs pleasure from you until you’re on the brink of collapse, time melting amidst the befuddling surge of sensations. 
And when you do collapse, it’s with Geralt’s cock inside you, still pouding your core, his animalistic growls vibrating along your flesh and his heat mingling with yours. 
The smoky scent of meat tickles your nose as the light of dawn pierces through your shut lids. You stir awake with a frown, an aching soreness etched in your limbs. Your chest twinges as you peer down at your torn dress and the mess of dried blood and cum still staining your thighs.
As your gaze darts about, it lands on Geralt’s broad back. He’s tending to the fire, already clad in his black armor.  
Alarm engulfs you. 
You suck in a sob and strangle the flood of tears. Agony escalates as you crawl over the dewy grass, inching towards the edge of the clearing. 
"You can either warm my cock or be supper for the wolves. Your choice, princess."
You freeze at his nonchalant warning. You whirl toward him, bolting upward with an enraged scowl. You vacillate, your abused core aching whenever you move.
"My father will hunt you down…" 
Geralt finally turns. He rises to his full height. Your stomach sinks. A slanted smile decorates his lips as he leers at you. 
"The same father who sought to sell you off like a donkey?" he mocks. Your face ignites with shame as you shoot daggers at him with your gaze. "You meant little to him as a maiden, and now that you're sullied… I'm guessing an actual donkey would be of more use to him." Geralt approaches you as you stumble backwards. Your mouth squeezes in disdain when he tilts up your chin. The rough leather of his glove scratches against your delicate skin. "The way I see it I did you a favor, pretty princess. He’d have married you off to the next lord of bad breath for more soldiers and gold."
Your forehead creases.
"Where will you be going now?"
His eyebrow arches. 
"Where are we going?"
Shock parts your lips as your eyes bulge. 
"You mean to keep me? I thought-"
"What did you think, princess? That now that I had what I desire, I would leave you be…" Glimmers of mirth sparkle above a sea of gold. "What makes you think one would ever tire of such a sweet royal cunt?" The sinful dip of his baritone unleashes goosebumps across your skin. 
He frees your face and goes back towards the makeshift camp, collecting his scabbard and other meager belongings. Feet rooted to the grass by stupor, you stare as Geralt saddles his horse. 
"Little town a day's away on horseback. Bruxa problem. Hefty reward." The corners of his mouth lift slightly. "Nice brothel with cozy rooms."
"So I'm to be your whore now?"
Geralt snorts.
"Better a whore than a donkey."
"I could slice your throat in your sleep, witcher."
Geralt walks towards you again. Once he’s in front of you, he surprises you by wrapping a warm cloak around your shivering frame. 
His knuckles drag along your cheek. 
"Then I look forward to those peaceful nights, princess," he replies dryly. 
Your pulse thrums. There’s not an ounce of fear in the words he just spoke. In fact, there might even be a hint of thrill.  
I do not have a taglist anymore. Follow and turn up notifs for my sideblog @straytales to know when I post something new.
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mayloma · 2 months
Text
Where You Are - Part 2
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Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader
Series masterlist
Part summary: While Geralt is gone, you do your best to hold your ground. Until the day when the villagers and you receive word from the ending of the battle. 
Word count: 5.4k
Warnings: Fluff, melancholy, angst, hostility, violence.  
Author’s note: Lovelies. This chapter may be a little different from what you expected. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy how the story of Viking!Geralt and his Little Bird unfolds 💕
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As you straighten up to put the kindling you’ve just collected into your basket, you see him.
The big black raven sits on a branch of the old oak on the edge of the forest, stone still, its head slightly crooked, and its dark eyes fixed on you. You poise too, and for a moment, the animal and you lock gazes. 
You know you should chase him away like everyone else does whenever a bringer of bad tidings crosses their way. However, you can’t help but marvel at the bird’s beauty - its shiny plumage and intelligent eyes, black as midnight. 
Just when you turn your head to look around, a second raven alights on the branch - a female, slightly smaller than her mate. She greets him by briefly preening his feathers, and you involuntarily smile at the sight of them. 
Did you know they do almost everything together, child? They even soar wing by wing, and their bond lasts a lifetime. And when one of them dies, the bereaved one mourns their mate. 
You can still recall your foster mother’s quiet voice. She had caught you cowered down behind the corner of your hut, where you secretly watched the ravens instead of picking herbs in the garden as she had told you to. But instead of scolding you, she crouched down next to you to share everything she knew, as she always did. 
It’s moments like this, when you remember something she taught you, that it feels as if she wasn’t gone. As if she was still here, within your reach. 
As a stone zips past your ear, so close you can feel the draft of air, you flinch. And while the ravens flush with noisy wing beats, you spin around to the direction the stone came from. 
“You must scare them off! Or are you trying to invoke bad luck upon us, woman?” Edda, the armorer’s wife, snarls, and her admonitory gaze pierces into yours. 
You involuntarily raise your chin, looking straight into her narrow eyes. I have a name, you’re tempted to say, but you choke it down. Her word counts for much in the village, and you remember just in time that it’s probably better to keep your head low.
“Of course not,” you mutter instead. 
However, you fail to keep your voice free from contempt, and you compress your lips with amusement as you see Edda’s face turn beet-red with anger. 
“Good,” she puffs like a grampus, and then she rushes past you in a berth, as wide as possible, so as not to brush a tail of your cloak. 
You, however, remain standing on the narrow path, gazing back at the empty spot where the raven couple just sat. And for this one moment, you allow yourself to miss your mate. You allow yourself to miss him so much that your heart aches and it speaks his name with its every beat. 
Geralt. Geralt. Geralt.  
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird. 
You remember his words, and his deep, mellifluous voice. How his lips felt when he mumbled into your ear. And you remember the promise you made. The promise to go on. 
I haven’t forgotten, Geralt.  
The memory gives you enough strength to draw yourself up. And a deep breath fills your lungs with crisp, clear air. 
The air is freezing cold, but the sun is shining, and you can feel her bright rays on your face. And you hope that he can feel it too, that gentle touch of warmth, wherever he is. 
On your way back to the village, an indistinguishable mix of conversations and laughter, clanging and clopping reaches your ears long before you reach the first longhouse. It’s the first sunny day in weeks, and the village seems to be twice as busy as usual. Women, children, and the few elderly men who stayed behind - apparently, everyone is outside today. 
When the other men rode out of the village almost two weeks ago, they left silence behind, oppressive and full of uncertainty about the things that would be. However, not even an hour later, the daily routine had already eaten up the silence. Life just went on, and how could it be any different? Even though the men are gone, there are still meals to cook, clothes to wash and to mend, children and animals to care for and things to repair, and if anything, there’s even more work than before. 
Work and routine keep you going, and the children keep you on the run. They romp around the village with the dogs, they yell with laughter and they argue, they fall off trees, knock their heads, and scrape their knees, and the blacksmith’s daughter even broke through the ice of the pond behind the longhouses last week. 
Sooner or later, one or two of them end up in your hut, and you listen to their blithe chatter while you patch them up - at least as long as their mothers aren’t around. If one of the mothers is with them, all it takes is a stern look, and your little patient falls silent. And the familiar silence draws a veil over your hut as you continue your care under watchful eyes. 
You can’t even recall when the silence around you started. Or maybe it had always been there. You remember playing with the other children when you were little, but also being aware that you were different. 
You always knew you were a foundling, barely older than a few days when you were abandoned at the healer’s doorstep. The elderly woman was unmarried and childless, and yet she took you in and raised you. 
Nevertheless, no one in the village ever forgot about your unknown parentage, and while you grew up, your features, the color of your hair, and your eyes were compared to the villagers in an attempt to spot some kind of semblance. Of course, assumptions were made, but they were never confirmed. And still, you stayed an outsider, even more so when your foster mother began to teach you the art of healing, and there was no longer enough time for you to play. 
“Witch child,” the villagers whispered behind your back, and in their minds, it wasn’t even repugnant to the fact they still knocked on your door to seek your help if no one else knew what to do. 
The days were full of work and downright endless sometimes; the years, however, were short, and your foster mother died of an inflammation of her lungs in the winter when you were just considered an adult. 
After her death, you had learned to take her place. And you had learned to fill the days and the years and the silence. You had learned to be alone. 
But not your heart. Your heart had been cold and frozen, and it only began to thaw on the day when Geralt threw himself between you and the claws of the monster in the darkness. 
You still recall its beating in your chest as the forest was suddenly quiet again, both beast and man lifeless on the ground, and you kneeled beside your savior. He was bloody and beaten up, and yet he was, without doubt, the most beautiful being you had ever seen. At this moment, your heart didn’t race with fear, but with anger and revolt against the gods and the Norns themselves. And an iron determination to save him, to not let him vanish to Valhalla yet, suffused you from head to toe. 
During the long weeks it took for his wounds to heal, you got to see him in all his beauty. And even though you hadn’t thought it was possible, you soon realized he was even more beautiful on the inside - full of willpower, wisdom, and sensitivity. You sensed that the insights he granted you bit by bit, were rare and precious, and you cherished them as such. And all the time, you were dreading the day when he would set off and step out of your life, while never doubting that it was bound to happen. 
Little did you know at this point that his heart had been just as cold and numb as yours and that he felt as if your every touch and every glance, every word you spoke, made the ice melt. And it melted further until you were left all warm and raw and open for each other, and your blood began to sing with longing. 
One night, when both of you sat on the edge of the bed where you applied ointment on the cut on his eyebrow as you had already done so often, your hand refused to withdraw. And his gaze locked with yours as your fingers dwelled on his forehead before you tentatively brushed them along his cheek. 
As he reached for your hand, you first feared he would pluck it off his face. But instead, he carefully clasped it and brought it to his lips, and you couldn’t prevent your breath from hitching in your throat as he planted a kiss on the tip of your thumb. Then on your index finger, and on every finger of your hand, while his golden gaze held yours. He still held your hand as he leaned in. And as he bestowed a tender kiss on your lips that had never been kissed before, your heart fluttered and danced in your chest, wild and free. 
Now that he’s gone, you feel the ice creeping back upon you. It coats your heart in frostflowers - stunning and unique patterns made from the memory of his love and the fear that memory is all you have left of him. 
The cold seems to haunt you, even at night in your bed, no matter how many blankets you envelop yourself in or how many logs you put on the fire. It keeps you awake, and the little sleep you get is haunted by the white wolf showing up in your dreams. 
You see the strange and beautiful animal stroll over meadows and clearings, through mountains and woods, its conspicuous fur disguised by the snow. You see it lurking and running, always silent, always on guard. And then, you lie awake for hours, shivering with cold while you feverishly try to read every little detail of your dream. 
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One night, not long after the last sunny day, you don’t wake up cold to the tips of your fingers. Instead, you feel as if you’re burning as you startle out of your sleep, and the remnant of your scream seems to echo in the silence of your hut. 
You sit up in bed, desperately gasping for air as you throw back the blanket. And your fingers tremble like an aspen leaf as you hastily wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead. 
There was blood, is all you can think, shuddering as the cool air creeps into your nightgown. There was blood. In your dream. 
And there were claws and teeth, sharp and bared. Mercilessly digging into skin and flesh until crimson tinted the white snow and the white wolf's fur. 
“Geralt,” you whisper into the semi-darkness, and your chin quivers with effort as you struggle to choke down the sob rising in your throat. 
You numbly stare at the small crack next to the doorstep where blueish light tells of the approaching daybreak. And the edges of the Web of Wyrd dig into your palm as you clench the pendant in your hand, and a sense of foreboding settles deep in the pit of your stomach. 
The day has come, you think to yourself. The day when things will come to an end.
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The first thing to end is the darkness. And the second one is the silence. As soon as the eyes are able to make out outlines and silhouettes in the light of dawn, the first refugees trek through the village. Most of them are women and children. Some of them ride on horses and mules, but most of them walk. They’re heavily loaded, and still, they carry only the bare necessities. 
With them comes the message. Of the lost battle marking the bloody end of a feud that had lasted for decades.
It is an old story, almost as old as the nine worlds themselves. Many years ago, a jarl had ruled over this swath of land reaching from one of the great lakes to the other. He had two sons, Harald and Erik, and as he died, he bequeathed each of them as much land as a man could traverse by horse within two days. In his eyes, it must have been a fair distribution since both parts had fertile ground, woods, and even fishful waters. However, the two brothers had never had anything other than envy and resentment for each other, and after their father’s death, envy and resentment became blind hatred. Over the years, battles were fought, and land was won and lost, sometimes by Harald, sometimes by Erik. Sometimes, there was peace for a few moons until the hatred kindled anew. 
Now, Harald’s army is defeated, and Harald himself is dead, smitten and beheaded by the sword of his nephew - his own blood - and Erik is the sole ruler over his father’s land. But his hatred outlasted his brother’s death, and he issued the order to raze the area in the middle of the two realms to the ground. It had sometimes been his, but recently his brother’s territory, and now he intended to punish the inhabitants for their putative perfidy. 
The villages in the East are already burning, bereaving people of their homes, and still, there can’t be a greater bereavement than the one of husbands and fathers, brothers and sons. 
The refugees don’t know much; not about what has become of their own relatives and most certainly not about the men from this village. The only thing they know is that Erik’s men showed no mercy - not in the battle, not on their revenge campaign - and that too many lives were lost. 
The news travel fast, from door to door, and around midday, most of the villagers have already set off toward the West. A few families, however, have stayed behind to wait for the men, hoping they'll return before Erik’s men invade the village. 
Hope is what made you stay as well. Because you know about the exceptional swordsman and horseman that Geralt is, and about his abilities that set him apart from every other warrior. And you hope and pray with all your heart that he’ll come back. 
At the same time, your dream is still present. The blood on the snow. The bleeding wolf. 
It has settled in your mind and deep under your skin, gnawing at your viscera. It whispers to you that you clutch at a tiny, fragile straw that’s about to break any minute. 
And the only way for you not to lose your mind is to keep your hands busy. 
After packing up necessities and a few memorabilia, you make your way to the barn. As you open the door, you already hear your mare’s nervous snort. She obviously senses that something is off, flicking her ears back and forth and pawing the ground as she looks toward you. 
Where Geralt’s Roach is tall and elegant with her shiny, pitch-black coat and her long flowing mane, Björna is the exact opposite: short and sturdy build, with a dun-colored fur that is downright fluffy now in the winter. 
“Are you sure this is the one you want?” Geralt had asked you at the horse market back then, raising his eyebrow with a skeptical smile. 
“Yes, this is the one,” you replied determinedly with a fond look at your new friend, who contentedly munched on her hay. “She’s strong and hardy. And just look at her eyes! She looks so kind, doesn’t she?” 
“She looks like a bear with hooves,” Geralt muttered, gently picking a straw from her wild mane. 
However, it would have never occurred to him to make you change your mind. And apart from that, you sensed that he secretly doted on her already. 
On your way home, he was the one who gave her her name. Björna. She-bear. Ever since that day, she had proved her value more than just once. And ever since that day, you had to keep an eye that Geralt wouldn’t spoil her too much.  
“You miss him, too, don’t you?” you mumble, slowly rubbing her neck. “You know, we mustn’t abandon all hope. At least not yet. But I’m going to be honest with you; it might take a while until we see him again. We need to leave this place very soon, you and I.” 
Your fingers sink into Björna’s thick fur, and as she gently nuzzles your cheek and blows on your hair, a tiny smile tugs at your lips.  
After carefully grooming her, you bring her fresh water and an extra-large helping of fodder. You know you should eat something, too, even though the mere thought makes your stomach twist and churn. Nevertheless, you finally put a kettle on the stove and fill it with milk and oats, enough to feed you and enough to provide a warm meal in case some of the refugees knock on your door. 
Your guess had proved itself true, and at some point, you suspect that the villagers living in the longhouses don’t even try to help but send everyone straight to your hut instead. There are so many mouths to feed that the kettle is soon empty, and those who don’t ask for food ask for a place to rest or for your art of healing. You try to help as best as possible, providing food, improvising beds, resetting a dislocated finger, and brewing teas against the cold and the ever-present cough. 
The afternoon has just broken when you suddenly hear the noise of galloping horses dashing into the village. 
You hastily straighten up from the edge of your bed where you had just spread another blanket over an exhausted mother and her three little children. From outside, you hear calling, a squeal, and sobbing. Nonetheless, it doesn’t sound like an attack, and you hastily wrap a warm shawl around your shoulders before you rush out the door. 
Just like you, the women and children who stayed behind swarm to the village square, and so do the refugees since they, too, are hoping for news. 
A group of horsemen has arrived, familiar faces without exception. They look exhausted and ragged, with dirt and blood all over them - other’s blood as well as their own. 
“They’re back!” voices chime from everywhere. “The men are back!” 
Are they? Well, at least some of them are back. A few. Barely a dozen men and horses have arrived, not even a third of the warriors who had set out. They have jumped off their horses to clasp their wives and children in their arms. And you’ve seen at the first glance that Geralt is not with them. 
You and so many others stand on your tiptoes and crane your necks to see if there are more riders coming behind the bend. 
But the path is empty. 
With every second passing by, you realize that it will stay empty. 
And you feel more and more blood drain from your face. 
“Is that all of them?” someone asks in disbelief, speaking out loud what all of you are thinking. 
And then, silence descends on the village. 
Deadly silence. 
All eyes turn to Gorm, the armorer and Edda’s husband, who had always claimed to be their leader, loudmouth that he is. 
He puts his youngest daughter back on her feet, drawing himself up to his full height while he solemnly looks around the crowd.  
“Yes,” he finally declares, “that is all of us.” 
It takes the length of a heartbeat for his words to sink in. 
And then, the silence ends as sudden as it came. 
Everywhere around you, voices surge up. Shocked gasps and sobs, whimpering and calling to the gods, a muffled scream, murmurs and whispering. 
However, in your ears, all those noises sound oddly muffled. And none of them gets through to you. 
You suddenly remember the summers of your childhood when you and the other children went swimming in the pond. 
You remember how quiet everything sounded as you dove under, and the water dampened all noise. So quiet you imagined you could hear your own heart beating. And how calm and weightless you felt in those moments.   
Now you stand there, alone on the square amidst all the villagers and the strangers, and so benumbed you feel almost weightless again. 
And you force yourself to keep breathing, whereas at the same time, you desperately wish you could just dive under and disappear. 
As you close your eyes, the things that were drift by your mind’s eye. Along with the things that could have been. 
Your hand involuntarily reaches for the pendant next to your heart, absentmindedly tracing its outlines with your fingers. 
Was that it? you silently ask the three Norns. Was that really his destiny? To die in that pointless battle when all the skills he has were meant for something bigger? When there were so many plans he had? Plans that he and you had. 
But maybe that’s just what death is like, you think to yourself. Bitter and merciless and without a care about the skills or the plans or the possibilities one still has. And about what you leave behind. 
The dull rushing roars in your head, and just when the ground begins to sway under your feet, you hear it. 
A sound. Blending in the rushing.
At first, it is only quiet. 
Then louder. 
And louder. 
Until you can hear it clearly. 
The sound fills your head, and for a moment, you lose yourself in it. 
It’s the sound of a heart beating. 
But it is not your own heart. 
The heartbeat is steady and much slower than any other heartbeat you ever heard. It’s one of your favorite sounds in this world, along with Geralt’s calm voice, his laughter, and the way he whispers “I love you, Little Bird!” against your skin. 
It’s the sound of strong muscles pumping fresh blood through a body. 
It pulses in your ears. 
It sounds fleshly. 
Alive. 
As if… 
Your eyes fly open, and you gasp for air as if you had actually been underwater, on the verge of drowning, and now you briefly managed to get to the surface.
What if.
What if the blood in the snow wasn’t the end yet? 
And you greedily suck in breaths of fresh air. 
As if you were trying to swim. 
As if you were trying to not get dragged back under the surface. 
Not as long as you don't know it for certain.
It takes a few moments until you manage to come back to the here and now, and then, you realize that the crowd around you has dwindled a bit. 
Some people have adjourned to the longhouses. Some have probably set off toward the West. And some gather around the warriors. To ask them about their loved ones. Driven by the need for certainty, just like you. 
And you, too, manage to abandon your numbness, walking over to them. 
You ardously put one foot in front of the other, and every step, every movement seems to take forever. 
As you finally stand in front of Gorm, he just gives a nod to Astrid, the blacksmith’s young wife. 
“He fought bravely, and he died with his sword in his hand,” he tells the sobbing woman whose green eyes swim in tears. “He’s in Valhalla now, so you should be glad.” 
He sounds almost sympathetic to his standards. But as soon as his gaze lights on you over Astrid’s shoulder, his crude features contort with anger.   
“What do you want?” he growls, his eyes piercing into yours, and Astrid and the other bystanders involuntarily take a step back.
“I want to know what happened to Geralt,” you say, determinedly raising your chin. 
“Geralt?” the man barks full of contempt, moving further toward you until he towers over your smaller form. “I don’t give a rat's ass about Geralt and what happened to him, and you shouldn’t either!”
“He’s my husband!”
“He’s a TRAITOR!" he shouts, drops of spit flying from his mouth. "A fuckin’ dirty traitor! He was supposed to win this battle for us! He’s in league with the evil, if he’s not the evil himself! And what did he do? NOTHING! They just trapped and slayed us, and there was no forewarning, no magic! NOTHING! Men died because of him; good men!” 
“That’s not how it works,” you object, involuntarily shuddering as his foul breath reaches your nostrils. 
The spells Geralt can cast are powerful, without doubt. They help him fight all sorts of monsters, human or not. But never could they gain the victory in a battle of two whole armies, on an unclear field full of people, ambushment and chaos. 
“SHUT UP!” Gorm’s voice echoes through the village. “What do YOU know?!” 
“He’s my husband,” you repeat emphatically, returning his piercing gaze as calm as possible. “And I need to know what happened to him. Please!” you even add - a final attempt to make him yield. 
Your motionless posture is the exact opposite of Gorm, who now begins to circle you, corner you. 
“Of course!” he snarls. “Once the child of a witch, and now the darn witcher's mate! Makes you basically a witch yourself, right? So, you probably knew what he was up to! Maybe you’re even cahoots with him! Probably going to cast your spell on us too, aren’t you?” 
While you slowly turn around so as not to lose sight of Gorm, you also see all the people who have gathered around the two of you. Strangers, but mostly villagers. People you have known for your whole life. And they just stand there, watching in silence. With their arms crossed and their eyes squinted. 
You realize Gorm isn’t going to tell you what happened to Geralt. And you realize he could just raise his sword against you right here and now, and no one would come to your help. No one. 
And it’s that moment when you abandon your usual caution, allowing a wintery smile to curl your lips.  
“Are you scared, Gorm?” you ask, and your smile deepens as his jaw goes slack for the blink of an eye. 
Yes, one glance into his eyes tells you. He is indeed scared of you. 
However, he regains his composure quickly. 
“Scared?” he sneers. “I don't see anything to be scared of! All I see is Fenrir’s whore-”
“ENOUGH!” you cut him off. And you clench your fists as burning anger slashes its way through your veins.
“Have you already forgotten about everything?” you raise your voice. And this time, you speak to all of them, looking them straight in the eyes, one by one. “You knocked on our door whenever you needed our help! You came to us! And we never turned you away! We helped you! Every single time! And this is your thanks?!” 
Some of them just stare at you. Some seem to have at least the spark of a bad consciousness, and they avert their gazes so as not to look you in the eye. But they remain silent as well. 
Silence is the only answer you get. Still, it hurts in your ears. And it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. 
You know it’s the end of your life in this village and among these people. Because there is no longer a place for you here. And maybe there has never been such a place. 
A small bitter smile curls the corners of your mouth, and after a last look, you turn away, walking toward your hut with measured steps. 
The sound of metal brushing along leather is whisper quiet. And still, it seems to echo in the silence on the village square, making you stop dead in your tracks. 
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” you say loudly, keeping your gaze straightforward. And the sound stops instantly. 
As you turn around, you see Gorm’s hand dwelling on his sword, frozen halfway as he pulled it out of its sheath. 
“Oh, really?” he sneers. 
“Really,” you retort casually. “And I’m going to tell you what you will do instead. You will let me walk to my hut, and you will let me get my things and my horse. You will let me leave without hindering me. And if you or anyone else tries to stop me or harm me, I will curse you and everyone in this village. I will curse the village itself. I will do it with my very last breath. I will do it either from this world or from another. But I will do it, and I’d think about it if I were you, Gorm Ulfsson. Think carefully!” 
Your voice has begun to quaver with wrath, and you watch with some kind of morbid fascination how their eyes go wide, and the color disappears from their stupid faces. And it wouldn’t have taken much for you to burst out laughing. 
Instead, you dart another black look at them before you spin around and continue your way to your hut. 
The door of your home is open, your hut empty, as the refugees also took to their heels in the face of your ostensible malice. 
After you close the door behind you, escaping the hostile eyes, you lean your back against the wall for a brief moment. And your heart pounds like mad as your trembling hands brush your hair behind your ears. 
That was close! Dangerously close.
But even the touch of relief you feel doesn’t last for long, and you know it’s just a question of time until they'll come back to their senses and see through your bluff.
You hastily swap your shawl against your warm cloak, and then, you grab your bundle. Your bow and arrow. The long hunting knife Geralt left behind for you. And you get on the tips of your toes to angle for the little bag hanging at the ceiling, among other little bags full of dried herbs. As you tuck it into your belt, the scent of thyme fills your nostrils, and the weight of the silver coins sewn into the fabric feels somehow soothing. 
As you stand at the doorstep, you can’t prevent your gaze from wandering through your hut - the place you have called your home for as long as you can remember. The place where you took your first steps. The place where you learned how to speak and how to cure wounds and to brew elixirs. The place where the woman you called mother died. The place where you saved Geralt’s life and the place where he kissed you - for the first time and for countless other times. And maybe also for the last time in this life. 
As the aching lump of memories in your throat threatens to choke you, you squeeze your eyes shut.  
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird. 
I won’t, my love, you promise silently. I won’t. 
And then, you walk out the door. 
The remaining villagers, who haven’t flown yet, have gathered at a safe distance from your hut. They watch you motionless and in silence, how you open the barn and how you load and saddle your horse. 
And they watch you ride past them. You hold Björna's reigns in one hand, letting your free hand dwell on your thigh. And you fight back a smirk as you look down at Gorm and Edda and the others, who stare at your hand as if they feared you could raise it to curse them any second. 
However, your whole body is tense like a bowstring as you have to turn your back on them at some point to get to the forest, expecting to feel an arrow or an ax spear you any moment. And it’s only when you reach the spot behind the last longhouse where the path disappears between trees and bushes, that you breathe a silent sigh of relief. 
“Burn it down!” Gorm's voice reaches your ears, and as you spur Björna on and the two of you disappear deeper into the forest, the smell of smoke already floods your nostrils. But you don’t look back. 
After a few miles, the forest thins out, and as the path furcates in front of you, you bring your mare to a halt. 
You longingly stare toward the West, where the sun is already low, the almost clear sky just turning a soft orange. 
There is peace in the West. There are villages and towns where you could take refuge. And maybe there is even a place for you to stay. Somewhere. 
Nevertheless, you turn Björna around, spurring her on as you take the opposite direction. 
In front of you, in the East, where Jarl Erik’s men have already brought death and destruction, the smoke of burning villages darkens the sky.
You know that death and destruction lurk on your way as well. And still, it’s the only way for you. 
Because there, in the East, is a place where Geralt is. A place where you’ll find him. 
Dead or alive.
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