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wrongdodo · 1 year

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Murderous knaves and perverts

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier. But like… don’t tell anyone, because it’s a surprise.

Summary: Jaskier knows a thing or two about witchers. After an impromptu gig at a local tavern gets weird, Jaskier enjoys the long walk home with Geralt and they both let off some steam

Warnings: oral sex (m receiving). More plot that I intended to write.

Word count: 3.6k

Authors note: Bit of Geraskier for your nerve! I always thought I’d write super short smut, but I accidentally some plot again. Oops.

Tag list: @madamemelancholysstuff (different to the last two, hope this is up your street!)

Click below for filth only if you're 18+!

Jaskier knew how to get a crowd worked up. Performing was his bread and butter, after all.

Despite the fact that this tavern was at the bottom of arse-fuck nowhere, by the end of his second verse, some of the dreary locals were even clapping along. The bard might have wagered that nobody else had ever played for the tiny village of Baincord... Or Bincord, or whatever it was called.

As the final chords of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher rang through the tiny tavern, Jaskier swore he even heard some people singing. Tunelessly and barely in time, but definitely there. But it should hardly have come as a shock; he didn’t doubt that there were some individuals here tonight who’d never seen a lute- let alone heard one. His rendition of The Fishmonger’s Daughter ensured that the crowd were eating out of his hand, and even encouraged some of the more bashful locals to join in.

What had started as a charitable gig to alleviate some boredom and impart a bit of culture to this dim shithole, had become pretty enjoyable. He decided to finish his set with a soulful ballad, pacifying the crowd and challenging himself to tug at their heartstrings. On the right night, Jaskier’s ballads could pull tears from even the most hardened ruffians.

After taking a bow to the relative-roar of the small crowd, he lifted a jug of cloudy mead from the bar and settled into the most comfortable-looking spot he could find. Spread out along a ragged, barely-cushioned bench, Jaskier took a moment to bask in a job well done. Such was his comfort, he almost dared to rest his boots on the chair adjacent - but stopped short when the scary innkeeper gave him a look.

As expected, it took mere seconds for a pair of new-found fans to approach.

“Can we join you?” one of them asked, coyly curling a ringlet of jet-black hair around one finger. One tall, the other short - the women stood arm-in-arm, pouting and doe-eyed. Jaskier smiled warmly, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of welcome.

“Please! Ladies, it would be my honour. Did you enjoy the show?”

The duo settled eagerly into the wooden chairs opposite, batting their eyelashes and grinning inanely. The performer smiled back, and idly thought that he was the most famous person they’d ever meet in their plain little lives.

“Oh, it were amazin’!” the red-haired woman beamed. “Felt like bein’ at some fancy party in the city. You rich an’ famous or somethin’?” She could barely contain herself, Jaskier thought with amusement – her entire body jittering with excitement.

“You could say that,” he sipped his mead, slurping in a particularly-chunky bit of something that threatened to make him gag. “I’ve played for a few courts here and there, the odd palace, a royal wedding or two…”

“I said to Ema you was famous!” the dark-haired girl grinned, giving her companion a playful shove. “I knows that song you did! That one about witchers!”

Jaskier could freely admit to himself that he enjoyed attention. This attention, that attention, any attention – he’d take it as it came, soaking up every last drop like gravy on a slice of bread. And although he wasn’t remotely interested in anything else these women had to offer, he could still enjoy a bit of their attention.

“Ah, yes. That’s definitely a crowd-pleaser. One of many crowd-pleasers, I should add. I believe I noticed you two lovely ladies singing along to the chorus?” They looked at each other, giggling shyly.

“Of course, how could I forget such… angelic voices?” The bard’s fibs instantly caused the pair to blush.

“So… you ever actually meet a witcher?” Ema asked –bright eyes sparkling with curiosity in the dim light. Her voice became hushed and breathy. “Daryna reckons there’s one in Baincord. This night.”

“I did says that – seen him with me own eyes, in fact.” The dark-haired woman, Daryna, sat up stiffly in her chair and folded her arms across her buxom chest. Jaskier noted that her tits were almost threatening to pop out the top of her shirt. She suddenly looked quite serious. “Two swords, he had. A grey cloak… and piercin’ eyes, yellow as the moon.”

Jaskier wasn’t surprised that Geralt’s presence was causing a stir among the locals – it often did, especially in smaller villages like this. Still, if all these girls wanted to do was talk about witchers… well, he couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated. Even in absence, Geralt somehow managed to spoil his fun.

“Look, all my works are based on fiction. Myths, tales, legends...” The bard drawled, unable to hide his mild annoyance. It was a disclaimer he’d well-rehearsed. Still, the women seemed not to hear, and were engrossed now in their own conversation, gossiping like loons while he sipped his mead silently. Fucking lovely.

“Devils, they are. Just as like to kill a monster as to kidnap a woman an’ kill her ‘ole family. Murderous knaves and perverts.” Daryna nodded with conviction while she spoke, and her listeners could tell that she truly believed what she said.

“Well, that’s not entirely accurate –“ the Bard cut in, immediately wishing he’d held his tongue. “You know, based on my extensive research. Which was very… extensive.” Nice save, he thought.

When Ema turned to Jaskier, she did so coquettishly – hazel eyes alight. Her gentle smile still managed to show that she had a fair-few missing teeth. “My cousin once bedded a witcher.” Ema reached out to stroke the supple leather of Jaskier’s sleeve, her soft voice far-off and dreamy. “Well, not bedded exactly – ‘cos it were a cowshed... But he loved on her like a man possessed, he did…”

“That weren’t a witcher, you daft cow!” Daryna huffed, snapping Ema from her trance. “That were a weaver. He made baskets.”

“Oh. Well, don’t matter…” the red-head mumbled quietly. She grasped Jaskier’s arm now with a fresh expression of wonder, looking deeply into his eyes. “I heard Bards are even better.” She winked.

That’s more like it, he thought, smiling as he shifted in his seat. Time to flex the old charm. Jaskier’s face settled into a well-practiced expression of flirtation.

“Ladies, ladies… believe me when I say; you’ve heard correctly.” They giggled – no, cackled in response.

But the merriment was short-lived… because Daryna wasn’t done talking about witchers – somethingthat was quickly threatening to bore the bard senseless. She droned on and on; “Unnatural creatures they are - make my skin crawl. My Da says if he catches one sniffin’ round here, he’ll be strung up and gutted like a dog.”

Jaskier bit his tongue – then released it. “Your Father sounds like a treat.”

“He’s the landlord.” she grinned smugly. The scary-looking, bearded chap behind the bar eyed Jaskier as he wiped tankards - with a look that could only be described as quite deadly.

The bard took a nervous mouthful of mead, bits and all, and swallowed it with a gulp.

“Ladies, your interest in the inspiration behind my works is flattering. But wasn’t there something else you’d rather discuss?” Jaskier loved to flirt, and wasn’t going to give up on flexing those particular muscles just yet. He loved the way he could hold someone’s attention, turning on the charm at the drop of an eyelid. Some might say he was out of practice lately, but he’d had plenty of experience to know when someone was into him – and he had suspicions he could have these women hanging on his every word.

Both women reached towards him now, leaning over the table and running their hands over the sleeves of his favourite jacket. The sudden reduction in space took the bard by surprise, and he felt uneasy. Now they were closer, the smell of cheap perfume was rank among the scent of tobacco smoke and ale-soaked wood.

“Well, we was thinkin’… you should join us upstairs. Both of us…” Ema winked – this time Jaskier noticed the ugly way her freckled nose wrinkled when she did. The woman nodded towards her companion as she spoke. “You know, she does this thing with her mouth -”

“- I call it the slimy cockatrice -“ Daryna cut in, waggling her tongue lewdly as she looked deeply into Jaskier’s now-terrified eyes.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Want us to show you?”

Jaskier couldn’t hide a look of pure, unchecked disgust. It could have been the mead, but felt the colour drain from his face as his stomach tumbled.

“Ladies, listen. What I’m about to say I mean with upmost sincerity...” The pair somehow managed to lean even closer as they goggled him expectantly.

“That sounds completely fucking horrifying and I will be sure to have horrible nightmares about it.”

Both women withdrew in an instant, as though stung, and eyed him bitterly. “Suit yer-fuckin-self. Arsehole.”

When the sound of barking cut the silence, Jaskier thought he’d never heard a more blessed, welcome sound. It was as though every scruffy guard-hound in the village had been roused – and it was a sound one quickly became accustomed to when traveling with a witcher.

When Jaskier stood from the table, he did it so briskly that the table lurched across the floor with an ugly scrape. “It’s been a pleasure, it really has. But I believe my ride is here.”

Striding away from their sour stares, Jaskier noticed how his boot-buckles pleasantly jingled as he moved, and wondered why on earth he’d chosen to use the word ride. When he reached the door, it swung easily on rusted hinges.

Geralt stood in the moonlight, cloaked and mysterious beside the gravel road which snaked through town. The bard prayed that his sigh of relief went unnoticed as he approached.

“Not staying?” inquired the Witcher. Jaskier didn’t even stop to shake his head – he briskly began striding down the rudimentary path and hoped Geralt would be right behind him.

“No, I’m not staying. No, thank you. I’d like to go far, far away from here as soon as possible.”

Geralt let out a growl of affirmation. “They didn’t like the music, then.”

Not exactly, Jaskier thought. In fact, he was pretty sure they bloody loved it. But it was easier to let the Witcher assume he’d failed, than to go into specifics. Jaskier decided to choose his next words carefully.

“I think it’s something to do with… a lack of culture.” The dim light of the inn was still uncomfortably visible when Jaskier glanced back. “This is a backwards place you’ve dragged me to, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“How was your night?” If he could draw the Wolf into a bit of chit-chat, Jaskier hoped, then maybe he could take his mind off the evening’s… discomfort. “Did you find out what was lurking by the cemetary?”

“Hmm.” Geralt seemed not to have heard.

“Was it a pack of ghouls? A troupe of goblins? A cluster of fiends?”

Geralt continued to ignore the bard - which was fine, because Jaskier loved guessing games.

“Ooh, a gravier? An imp? An alghoul?”

“Foxes.” The Witcher’s response was as gravely as the path, and much shorter.

“Come again?”

“It was foxes. No monsters.”

Jaskier knew better than to laugh, but couldn’t stop his mouth splitting into a wide grin. “Wow, you must be pretty pissed off.” But it was more than that - the dark look of aggravation on Geralt’s face was hilariously delicious. “Sounds like we both had shitty evenings. How far back to our splendid lodgings?”

“7 miles. Think you can handle that in your ridiculous boots?” he rumbled, finally confirming Jaskier’s suspicions that he hated them.

“I’d walk on my hands if it meant getting further away from that forsaken shithole,” the bard stated plainly. He meant it, too.

There was a long pause, and Jaskier was beginning to think they’d spend the rest of the journey like that - walking doggedly in silence. The young man knew he was always treading a fine line with the White Wolf – somewhere between outrageous annoyance and what he hoped might be genuine affection. Although Jaskier generally considered himself someone that could read people… it was rarely easy with Geralt.

“You made friends tonight.” Geralt’s low voice in the darkness brought the bard away from his thoughts. Like many things the Witcher said to him, he could never be sure if it was a question or a statement. At that moment, he realised that the smell cheap perfume lingered plainly on his clothes.

Well, the bard thought hotly, a little surprised by his own defensiveness. Am I not allowed a bit of fun?

Geralt and Jaskier had a thing. And whatever thing they had, it had never been discussed. But there was something. It felt fragile to Jaskier – like it might to fizzle into nothing if he so much as thought about it for too long.

It was relaxing by the campfire, wrapped in the Witcher’s arms. It was Geralt’s lips against his own during a stolen moment. It was drunken, wordless nights at the inn. Sometimes more, sometimes less. They’d go weeks without addressing it, then days where it was impossible to keep their hands off each other. Geralt was more hot and cold than a… really hot-and-cold thing.

The knot in his stomach reminded Jaskier that he should probably answer.

“Yes, friends. Delightful girls.” The words tasted funny in his mouth. “They said they’d heard of me, knew some of my songs...” Jaskier was quiet for a moment as their heavy footfalls crunched in the gravel. “They said they wanted to bed me, Geralt.”

“Sounds like they wanted to rob you.”

The remark struck a nerve – more than one, in fact. Really, he thought, as if Geralt found it so difficult to believe that someone else might want to sleep with him. But the worst part was that the Witcher was probably right… although he wasn’t convinced that the slimy cockatrice had many takers.

Jaskier leant against one of the more sturdy-looking fence posts that lined the path, needing a moment to level his pride. Geralt watched with interest as the bard lifted one foot, busying himself by picking tiny stones from the sole of his stupid boots.

Eventually, Jaskier spoke. “You know, there was a time not that long ago when they probably would have managed it. Robbing me, I mean.”

Geralt had stopped walking now. Only he knew he knew the playfully curious expression with which he was eyeing his companion. “What changed?”

“I think you know what changed.” Don’t make me say it, I don’t want to be the one to ruin it. But it couldn’t stay undisclosed forever, until it died like some malnourished baby bird. “I’m talking about us. When we… do things.”

For someone who was supposed to be gifted with language, the bard found it simply impossible to find the right words. Geralt loomed closely now, but Jaskier didn’t dare face him. It wasn’t until he felt a gentle touch on his arm that the younger man realised how near they were.

“You’ve changed your whorish ways?” Geralt eyed Jaskier with a smirk, taking him in easily under the moonlight.

The bard allowed himself an awkward chuckle, daring to glance at the Witcher now and meet his gaze. It had already occurred to the bard that, without Geralt, he’d have been forced into a miserable night back at the tavern, too scared to venture back along the path in the dark. But around the Wolf, it was easy to feel safe.

“As a poet, I’d put it a different way…” He responded, easing into a sing-song tone that he hoped might draw some amusement. “I’ve tried the best, so I’ll forget the rest-

“You’re a shit poet.” The Witcher growled, connecting his rough lips with Jaskier’s ear and causing his eyes shut to tightly. Fuck this stupid man - the thoughts ignited brightly in the bard’s mind - he can do whatever he wants to me and I don’t fucking care.

Geralt knew it too. He loved how easy it was to make Jaskier shiver, how the bard bent and snaked in response to his touch. He was used to it with women, but seeing it work on Jaskier was exciting. Pinned between the Witcher’s lips and the fence post, the bard’s knees quivered, as they both knew they would. Geralt ran a lazy hand up Jaskier’s thigh, across the front of his trousers, and tugged purposefully at the waistband.

The owner of the trousers gulped. “You want to do this here? Now? By the road?” He was suddenly pulled uncomfortably away from his lust, and the knot of nerves was back in his stomach. “What if someone sees?”

Geralt’s smile could be felt against the bard’s neck, before rumbling into his ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had your cock sucked under the stars.”

The poet held his tongue, knowing it was probably not a time for honest answers.

Geralt knelt in the gravel, briefly looking up with pale eyes that seemed to reflect the moon. Through nerves, Jaskier bit his lip - but didn’t stop the unfastening of his trousers. There was little doubt in his mind that he wanted it, and when Geralt spoke, all remaining doubt was slain.

“I want to make you feel good.”

Fuck,something about the Geralt of Rivea uttering those words made Jaskier crumble. For all his bombast and confidence, he’d never thought a man like the Witcher would want him like this. But from the first time it had happened, he’d thanked the Gods each day that it had.

When Jaskier’s cock sprang forwards, Geralt wasted no time wrapping his warm mouth around it and drawing a breathy moan from the bard’s throat. They’d never discussed Geralt’s experience with men, but Jaskier had always suspected it was scanty. Not because the Witcher lacked any particular skill, but because of his totally uninhibited enthusiasm. Geralt’s eagerness to please was incomparable to anyone Jaskier had ever been with. If he was inexperienced, the Witcher certainly seemed to relish every chance to practice.

Leaning against a rickety wooden fence under the stars, the poet imagined how they’d look to some local passer-by. Geralt on his knees, serving cock with his mouth, grasping the bard’s narrow hips in his strong hands. Jaskier’s head lolling back, eyes shut in bliss. If those tavern girls could see me now, they’d lose their fucking minds, he found himself musing, with more than a tinge of smugness.

Answering the ache in his jaw, Geralt drew his lips off the bard, gripping his cock in one hand and lapping eagerly over the head. He was enjoying each little groan he could elicit, just by jerking his hand up and down - rotating and sliding the bard’s slick cock across in his palm. This, Jaskier thought, Geralt was particularly good at.

The Witcher rose to plant a heedless kiss on his lover’s shaky lips. When he rolled his pelvis against the bard’s, it drew another groan, allowing the hardness of his own cock to be felt between them.

Jaskier didn’t wait to be asked. Sinking to his knees, trousers pooled around his ankles, he released Geralt’s splendid cock from the confines of his clothing. The white-haired man couldn’t help feeling impressed by how skillfully the bard managed the transition. It was his turn now to lean headily against the wooden fence as Jaskier took the Witcher’s thick cock into his mouth.

There had always been something about sucking cock that Jaskier just adored - but when Geralt filled his mouth, fingers laced in his messy hair, the bard felt transcendent. He settled a hand over his own cock, jerking it skilfully as he enveloped his prize. Hungrily, he worked his lips along the Witcher’s length, tasting every inch with his tongue. They both knew the bard took pride in his ability to please a lover, and in the few times they had done this, it had hardly taken Geralt any time to cum at all.

The Witcher announced his climax breathily, moaning his lover’s name and pulling his pretty mouth deeply against his cock. Gods, how Jaskier fucking loved to hear Geralt moan his name. As he groaned his own reply, the bard spilled his own orgasm messily into the gravel. When Jaskier carefully withdrew his mouth, he ensured every drop was savoured.

The bard glanced up at his lover curiously, watching his broad chest rising and falling against the stars. He was eventually able to stand with only a minor stagger, licking the remnants of his own orgasm from his fingers in a way he hoped was subtle.

“A public footpath, Geralt…” he mused, beginning to fix his trousers nonchalantly. “Never knew you were so filthy…”

“Hmm,” came the gruff reply from the witcher still leaning against the fence. “Not sure I knew either.”

Jaskier smiled, feeling brave enough to plant a kiss on the stubble of Geralt’s jaw. He idly noted how pleased he felt to have the taste of rank mead gone from his mouth. The notion made him smile stupidly.

By the time they met their destination, a tired Jaskier was sure he could see the first pinkish light of dawn creeping from the east. Geralt, of course, had noticed long before. The rest of their journey had passed without incident, giving them both much-needed time to reflect.

If you enjoyed this fic (or even if you didn't) I'd die for feedback of any kind! I'm very new to fanfiction so it would be much appreciated. Thanks :)

Jaskier still hoped that they could leave Bincord as soon as possible, and took comfort in the fact that he wouldn’t be leaving alone.

***

#geralt x jaskier #the witcher smut #witcher sex #the witcher oneshot #geraskeir

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wrongdodo · 1 year

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hey! if you're planning to make a taglist for your future fics, may i be added too? i've just read two of your fics and they were 🥵 thank you for these amazing works ❤️‍🔥✨️

Ahh thank you so much 😭 those two fics are my entire back catalogue! But I'll definitely be writing more, and I'll be sure to tag you!

Is there anything you'd particularly like to see?

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wrongdodo · 1 year

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Actually, what am I saying?

The answer is smut.

I like adult fanfiction. And I'm not too fussy what fandom it comes from, so long as I've heard of it.

hey, what’s a list of fandoms that you like to read from?

hi anon! I've not historically interacted much within any fandoms, but here's some stuff I think I'd enjoy - LotR, LOST, Stranger Things, Mass Effect, Vikings. I'm very focused on The Witcher (Netflix/games/books) right now 👍 but there's always room for more

I've always tried not to nerd over things I like too intensely because I feel like I struggle to draw boundaries.

But maybe life's too short not to let myself enjoy the niche stuff that makes me happy...

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wrongdodo · 1 year

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hey, what’s a list of fandoms that you like to read from?

I've always tried not to nerd over things I like too intensely because I feel like I struggle to draw boundaries.

But maybe life's too short not to let myself enjoy the niche stuff that makes me happy...

#probably more than you wanted to know #is tumblr therapy #thanks for asking though

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wrongdodo · 1 year

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A Lesson in Alchemy

Pairing: Geralt x Fem Reader

Summary: You’ve never been a good alchemist, so it’s not surprising when your latest experimental potion leaves some… unexpected effects on your body. When the Witcher finds out about your predicament, how will he treat you? And will he agree to help?

Warnings: lactation, breast sucking, spanking, grinding, filth

Word count: 3.4k

Special shout-out to fantasy name generator for fictional plant names

Authors note: I’m really happy with how this turned out. I dared to have more fun with the plot, and I think the story flows much better. Lots of dialogue, which was fun to do. I shortened my paragraphs a bit, I feel like it suits tumblr better. I made peace with longer sentences too, so I hope everything reads okay. Please let me know what you think, I’d die for feedback.

18+ only beyond this point…

When Geralt finally returns, you can actually hear the sigh of relief that leaves your body.

He’s often gone, slaying beasts and earning coin; such is the life of a supernaturally enhanced monster hunter. You thought coped better than this - but after over a week of waiting, you’ve become startlingly aware just how difficult his absence has been on you this time. Although, in fairness, there’s a pretty good reason for that.

It’s late when the Witcher and the Bard enter the keep– the sky outside is pitch dark, but despite the late hour, the atmosphere of Kaer Morhen instantly picks up. It even begins to feel merry.

Jaskier stumbles in first, calling out and plainly in high spirits. The musician is plastered, and clearly has every intention of continuing to drink well into the early hours of the morning. A bottle of Toussant Red is gripped in his hand as he makes his way over to a table; launching joyously into some sort of story that you have little time for. Youare much more interested in Geralt.

Anyone that knew the Witcher well would be able to sense his agreeable mood. Not even Jaskier’s behaviour seems to bother him. As the Bard begins topping up Lambert’s mead with red wine, you swear you see the warrior actually smile at his antics - and with something almost akin to fondness.

You suppose they’ve both indulged in a little wine during the long journey home. Whatever their recent business, it must have paid well. You’re pleased – the cheerier the Witcher’s disposition, the easier things might be for you. What you must admit to the White Wolf is not going to be easy to say.

Tired and dirty from the road, Geralt makes the familiar journey to his room – and you follow, hearing the Bard warbling as you leave. When you catch up to the warrior’s strides, there’s just enough time to slip into the chamber before the door shuts firmly. You turn and see him, his shirt already off and balled in his large hands. If he’s pleased to see you, he doesn’t show it.

“I need to bathe. Can it wait?”

Geralt grabs a washcloth - he’s not even looking at you as he draws it over his face, then under each arm, stopping to rinse the rag into a dish of water. His tied-back hair is still streaked with a little blood; pinkish in the low light. Your arms cross hotly over your chest, making your discomfort plain. It really can’t wait, you think with frustration. So, you tell him bluntly.

“It really can’t wait.”

Your words come with a startling conviction that manages to take you both by surprise. You have Geralt’s attention now, and he turns to look at you – nostrils flaring as he takes you in with every sense.

“You smell different.”

“Is it obvious?” you hug yourself doggedly - really not in the mood to be studied.

“It is to me.”

You sigh, noticing your own gritted teeth and reminding yourself how much you trust this man. The thoughts give you little courage, and there’s another graceless, awkward moment before you’re able to blurt out exactly what you came to say.

“Geralt… I need your help. I think I really messed up.”

His head is tilted now, sternly willing you to go on. You continue.

“While you were gone, I was… experimenting. With herbs.” You suck in a quick breath. “I made a potion, but… something’s gone wrong. I don’t know if I mixed it improperly, or what…” Your words tumble forth - like a runaway apple cart, it’s a battle to keep yourself on track. When you eventually meet his eyes again, he’s clearly bewildered.

“I think it’s easier if I just show you” you admit.

You undo the strappings of your leather overshirt, dropping it to the dusty floor and standing expectantly before him. The blouse beneath stretches thinly over your chest, revealing your body clearly and leaving very little to the Witcher’s imagination. Moisture clings to the fabric over each nipple, darkening the white-ish cotton. It’s not long before he says something, but it feels minutes, squirming under his watch.

“So this potion…” he approaches, boots thudding heavily on the floor. “You… rubbed it over your tits?” a wry smirk. He’s definitely a little drunk- that’s when his dry humour truly becomes unleashed. You, however, are not in the mood for games.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

His amber-yellow stare is fixed on you now, but it feels impossible for you to meet it. He’s close enough to touch, height easily looming above your smaller frame. You notice his arms, still streaked with dirt; a recent wound beginning to heal across his chest. He smells more than a little ripe.

Slowly, Geralt reaches out large hands to cup your breasts through your shirt - his curiosity piqued as he gently rolls them in his palms. His fingers find the outline of your hard nipples. When he pinches them, the fabric darkens, and a hot moan escapes your parted lips.

You mumble shyly. “That keeps happening…”

“Hmm. Explains your scent.” You can’t tell if he’s more fascinated or darkly amused. He feels the weight of each breast with interest, easily discerning that they’re a fair bit bigger than usual.

A playful smile – quite subtle and even more rare – touches his lips, and you know you’re in for more of his teasing.

“Let’s ask the Bard,” he decides.

“Absolutely not.” You hardly have to imagine what Jaskier’s foolish reaction would be. No, you don’t want to involve more people in this mess than you absolutely have to.

Geralt’s eyes flicker with amusement at your protests. He tugs experimentally at your nipples again, drawing forth another moan - and a little more fluid.

“Maybe we should lay you out on the breakfast table tomorrow morning. The Cow of Kaer Morhen...”

You can’t stop the roll of your eyes, your thin patience diminishing even further. Although you’d often found yourself wishing that the Witcher would be more talkative, right now you wished he’d shut up. His comment has made you a little nervous… but you’re fairly sure he’s not serious.

He continues to probe. “Has anyone noticed?”

You don’t think so. You shake your head in earnest.

“How long?” he asks, continuing to run his hands over your aching chest.

“About 3 days”

Geralt lets out a huff, and it’s just short of a laugh.

“They’ve noticed. They’re witchers.” He scoffs. “It took me seconds.”

If you weren’t already embarrassed enough, that particular revelation does nothing to help. A warm flush spreads across on your cheeks and neck.

“Are they sensitive?” At last, his voice indicates a welcome hint of concern.

“Incredibly.”

“Here?”

Your breath catches as he rubs both nipples with the back of each large hand. You nod, but in truth you’re afraid to tell him that you’re sensitive everywhere.

After completing his thorough, if not gentle, assessment, the Witcher steps back and folds strong arms over his barrel-like chest. You find yourself anticipating his evaluation eagerly. His enormous shoulders lift into a shrug.

“I can’t help until I punish you.”

Gods, he’s unbelievable sometimes.

“I hardly think that’s fair!” you oppose.

“You need to learn a lesson. Can’t have you endangering yourself.” His remark might have seemed oddly caring in any other scenario. Right now, it’s just damn annoying. A slight tilt of his head directs your eyes to the bed. “You know the rules.”

You pause, dumbfounded. You’re not sure what you expected, but punishment hadn’t been remotely on your mind. With a bothered sigh, you decide that there’s nothing else to do but lay on the bed. You let out grumpy huff, not really caring if he notices. Deftly, he gathers your wrists behind your back in one large hand. In your prone position, your belly is poked by the straw of his mattress. You can’t see him now – but it’s easy to feel his heat, his presence.

“This potion. How many plants did you use?” his inquiry comes as his other hand lazily traces over your buttocks through your linen trousers. You’re annoyed to discover that you don’t hate the feeling.

“I don’t know. 8, maybe 10?”

“Hm. Call it 10.”

The first smack lands hard, stinging your arse through thin clothing. It’s suddenness tugs a ragged gasp from your throat. There’s another. And another. You begrudgingly realise he intends to give you ten. How terribly clever.

Between Geralt’s blows, his palms running across the hot, stinging surface of your buttocks, over your clothing. You’re sure your arse must be quite red, and practically glowing through the loose weave of your trousers. At the forefront of your mind, you try to keep count, but it’s difficult to focus.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

The tenth comes briskly, landing over your aching pussy and producing a yelp. You’re positively wet, and he can definitely feel it. You’re probably soaking through the thin material between your legs. Gods, his hands are big. That man could pull you apart like hot, fresh bread if he wanted to. The thought gives you a little shiver. Even when he’s dirty and grimy from a long journey, the Witcher turns you on – maybe even more so when he’s a little grubby.

You take his punishment, as you have often done before. When he’s done, you feel your hands released, and weight shifts in the mattress as he sits up. Rubbing your wrists, you see him tap his lap expectantly.

Finally, he seems like he might be interested in helping.

Your movements are unsteady as you move over to the Witcher - you straddle his lap, putting you both face-to-face. He plants a rough kiss on your neck, inviting a murmur of delight. Strong arms wrap around your middle – something about those arms send you feral. It’s easy to feel the hardness of his cock through his leather trousers, and as the heat of the situation unfolds, you really can’t blame him for being so turned on. He can certainly smell your arousal.

Geralt doesn’t ask before moving his hands to hastily unfasten your blouse, and the clumsy, sudden manoeuvre takes you a little by surprise. If he notices any hesitation on your part, it doesn’t stop him. You wrap a sheepish hand around one of his. He growls with frustration against your skin, battling the fabric, and when his rough kiss meets your lips, he tastes a little like wine.

“Do you want me to…?”

Geralt huffs in reply. His hands pull at your blouse in exasperation. “I need to see what I’m working with.”

Grasping the sides of your top, he roughly tugs it apart with a sour ripping sound. When you yip in surprise, he doesn’t slow down – his hands waste no time finding your bare, heaving chest

Your skin feels hot – everything feels hot. Your head rolls back slightly as you give in to his touch, feeling sword-calloused hands smooth themselves over each aching breast. When you’re able to take note of his expression, it’s almost concerned.

“They’re hot. Any rash?”

You shake your head no, and wince as his fingers thrum over your hard nipples. Geralt’s eyes flash with fresh worry.

“They’re hurting you.”

“Not really,” your breath catches in your throat. You’re surprised by the husky quality of your own voice. “They’re just… fucking sensitive.”

“What exactly were you trying to do?”

You immediately choose to ignore his question – but it might have been easy to miss. The sensation of his hands running over your body is completely filling your mind to the brim.

“What potion were you trying to make?” he’s more urgent now. Geralt doesn’t like to repeat himself. It’s almost as though he’s taking your problem more seriously.

“I’d really… rather not say.”

A short growl. You’ve heard that sound before - it’s his irritated acceptance. Geralt carefully lifts each heavy breast in his hands, rolling them, sensing their weight like a miller appraising two bags of flour.

“What did you use?”

You’re not used to him being so talkative while he touches you like this, and it’s incredibly hard to focus as he handles your tits in his enormous hands. The hardness of his cock beneath you is very apparent. But you know better than to ignore the urgency in his voice. You screw your eyes closed and try to focus on his questions. It’s difficult.

“Lots of things. I used… little white flowers. Bryonia, I think.”

“Do you mean cajeora?” he responds. His hands don’t stop. You shake your head, and the gesture comes across a little frantic.

“No. Not that small.” He’s taught you a little about the plants that grow in the woodlands around Kaer Morhen… but any knowledge you had seems impossible to recall right now.

“What else?”

“Opporic leaves. And something purple.” You gasp as his fingers lightly graze the smooth sides of your tits. You blurt out - “Knot bloom.”

From the subtle grunts and growls he responds with, it’s easy to tell the Witcher is listening. He’s considering the facts, working things out.

“Honeysuckle?” he asks abruptly.

You eye him in annoyance. “Is that a joke?”

Geralt’s smile is easy. You wonder if he’ll ever tire of teasing you. Though maybe you could admit temper is shortened under the pressure. Emotionally, you’re as sensitive as your body is physically.

You can’t stop your hips when they wiggle a little on his lap. “I used a plant with red petals” you finally mumble, imploring yourself to remember.

“Beggartick?” his voice is suddenly less gentle now. “You shouldn’t-“

“No, it wasn’t that… I don’t think… Ah, I don’t know.”

He’s teasing your nipples with his thumbs again and you’re so fucking wet. It’s hard to focus. Gently, he tilts your chin and you’re comforted by the safety of his eyes. His voice is a gruff rumble.

“Think.”

You whine and squirm, truly grasping to remember the facts for him. Deep breath. “It wasn’t beggartick. But it sounds like it. Be-“

“Becuger leaves.” Wow, that’s the one. How could he know that? Even now, you’re warmly reminded of his impressive knowledge. The thought relaxes you a little. You’re so pleased that you trusted him with this. You’d trust him with your life, and often had.

Trying to keep your breathing steady, you do your best to answer each of Geralt’s questions. You tell him about the monk’s root. You tell him about the blood nettle – fresh, not dried. And for a moment you’re surprised at your own knowledge too. Time spent with the Witcher really has taught you a lot.

Something about his soothing concern has you softening. You have to admit that your resolve is a little weak… days of stress and worry have taken a toll on your mind. But even knowing this, you’re surprised to find tears begin brim against your eyes. When one rolls down your cheek, he takes notice and looks up at you. You inhale a deep, shuddering breath.

“Spare me the jokes now. Am I to stay like this forever?”

Geralt’s smile is almost warm in the low light of the room. “I do have some ideas.”

“Then tell me.”

“Well… I could take you to the nearest healer tomorrow… but Roach needs rest.” You nod with grave understanding. He continues.

“Yennefer is a skilled herbali-“

“No. Not her.” You don’t doubt that Yennefer would fucking love to lord this over you.

“That leaves one option.” he says. His tone is decisive.

“Fine, do what you must.”

He smiles. “Don’t be worried. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

When his lips finally meet your breast, you shudder in response – a weary, exquisite sigh floating from your open lips. Your sensitive flesh connects with his gentle, searching tongue gratefully – your back arches naturally, pressing yourself against him. When he begins to suck softly, the Witcher is pleased to find you taste as good as you smell. Little jolts flutter through you and bloom in your chest, just behind his soft mouth.

The Witcher’s arms feel protective, surrounding you, and he too feels your stress begin to melt away. Your own limbs find his broad shoulders, locating the back of his neck and willing him closer – tighter against you. As you grind against his hardness, you hear yourself mewl with sensation.

It’s not unexpected when your climax takes no time at all, and leaves your eyes glazed and watery with emotion. Your linen trousers are soaked now, and even you can smell the arousal between your thighs. You can’t stop a gasp of loss as he releases your wet nipple from chapped lips. He eyes you wryly.

“What? I told you I’m sensitive…” you answer through panted breath.

Geralt smiles as he covers your other nipple in his greedy lips. Your hands are draped around his strong neck, fingers creeping and tugging into his dirty white hair. He loves the way your body jerks – how it grinds and lolls against him like a rag doll. You feel your clit rubbing the hard cock inside his leather trousers, and allow it. The sensation is dizzying.

You’re completely pliant in his arms. Hands wrap around the soft flesh of your waist, pulling you hungrily down against to knead against his wanting cock. Now you pant as your joint pace quickens. It’s apparent that your second orgasm will crash at any moment.

Releasing you from his mouth, his lips find your outstretched neck as your head rolls easily back. He kisses, but when he nips there, you moan - the pleasure-pain tipping you over as you slither in his lap. The sound of Geralt’s own orgasm is stifled against you, groaning as he bites gently at your flesh. In your crazed stupor, you think that it’s probably a good thing that he hadn’t bathed yet.

Your eyes close into a secure feeling of bliss. It’s only apparent that he’s recovered from his own torpor when he kisses your cheek. You now realise how tightly you’re gripping his hair, so you release it gingerly from your delicate fingers.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, lacking any words, just for the moment. You did feel better. Much better, in fact. It could be the final flutters of orgasm, but you felt.. unburdened. Dazed, you slide off his lap and collect your leather overshirt from the floor. The Witcher lies back, stretching languidly over the bed.

“Occlamom tea. It’ll help.” comes his gruff voice - delivered quite curtly.

Your mouth gapes now, eyes wide in disbelief. An antidote? He tells you this now?

“There’s some in the pantry.” He rolls over, meeting your eyes with a smirk that borders-on mischievous

Unbelievable.

“You… you absolute bastard.” you eventually manage to stammer – but even as you spit the words, you feel they’re completely unsatisfactory to convey your utter, utter irritation.

“You were stressed. I calmed you down.” Sitting up now, his amber-yellow eyes meet yours with a touch of amusement. “You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

You hate that he’s completely right. The guilt and worry of the last few days had gone – you have to admit how much lighter everything feels. In that moment, you’re struck by how safe you feel in his presence. It’s nice to have him back here – even if he can be a bastard.

“For the occlamom tea, you need to boil water...”

Your sudden hissed response stops him quickly.

“I know how to make tea, Geralt.”

Fastening the straps of your leather overshirt, you tug so hotly they almost snap. As you turn to leave, it’s his strong hand on your shoulder that stops you all-but storming off. Geralt’s eyes look deeply into yours now, and you know that whatever he’s about to say, he truly means.

“Don’t play with alchemy again.” His body is so close, his breath on your neck. You can’t escape the slither of guilt you feel, fearing his disappointment. “Poison is not a good way to die.”

“Right. I promise.”

Daring to plant a sweet-tasting kiss on his lips, you turn and speak to him a final time before you leave.

“Now please, Geralt. Have that bath.”

#the witcher x reader #geralt x reader #witcher fandom #the witcher smut #geralt smut #the witcher

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wrongdodo · 1 year

Text

The Other Lover

Pairing: Geralt x FemReader x Yennefer (threesome)

Summary: Yennefer comes to Kaer Morhen, and meets you - Geralt's other lover. Under the pretense of getting to know you, she invites you to join her one evening - but she isn't alone, and has something a little different on her mind.

Warnings: threesome, bondage, sub reader, sub(dued) geralt, domme yennefer, jealousy, fingering, oral sex, talk of infidelity, slight non-con, light cock-slapping. Cuckqueen vibes from Yenn

Word count: 3.6k

Sexual themes for ages 18+ only.

Author's notes: This is my first time posting any of my writing online ever - I'm super nervous but excited. Decided that if I wan't to improve, I'll need to get stuff out there. So here it is!

On reflection, I feel like it's a bit too formal? Still developing my style, I guess. And I'm not totally sure about the formatting when it comes to dialogue, so any tips there would be really helpful. Was the speech easy to read?

Anyway, any feedback would be totally adored. I feel like I have a lot I want to work on, and lots of ideas, so please follow if you'd like to see more. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?

Who wouldn’t be mesmerised by Yennefer of Vengerberg? Her very presence demands attention. Most of all, his attention. Quite famously, the sorceress is impossible to overlook – to meet her is to fall under her spell. Yet despite all her beauty, her elegance, her poise… you feel it’s quite frankly boring the way he dotes on her. Since the pair arrived at Kaer Morhen, the Witcher had barely given you a passing glance. But you’re not entirely sure you can blame him. Yennefer of Vengerberg could have anyone she wanted, and she'd chosen him.

You’d heard stories about her – mainly gossip and teasing that the Witcher bitterly endured at the dinner table. But in truth, you knew little of the sorceress. Geralt never spoke of her much to you, so most of the time it was easier to pretend she didn’t exist. Things worked better that way. But when she was here, under your nose, you found that you were a little fascinated, too.

Yennefer appeared young – but you knew she, like he, held wisdom beyond her visible age. Her presence exuded power, but in your limited experience with magic, you had not much idea what her power truly meant. Conjuring things, you supposed. What you did understand was how astoundingly elegant she was. Yennefer always wore the finest clothes – furs, feathers, sumptuous fabrics adorned with ornamentations you’d never seen before. She seemed to exude effortless refinement. If anyone could stand beside Yennefer of Vengerberg without that sinking feeling of inadequacy, you had yet to meet that person.

Of course, these assessments must be made from afar. When Yennefer comes to Kaer Morhen, you try to keep your distance. Considering the nature of your relationship with Geralt, it felt... respectful to give them space. She’d move on soon enough, as she always did. However, during one particular visit, Yennefer had other ideas.

***

“I’ve seen you watching me.”

When your eyes meet, you wonder if their otherworldly appearance is the result of good genes, some spell. Her tone is authoritative –you instantly feel nervous, as though caught red-handed in some delinquency. But you’re relieved to find her expression is… unusually soft. Yennefer knows she needs no introduction here – everyone recognises her esteem as the Witcher’s guest. So, you ready your own pleasantries.

“Yennefer. I’m-“

“I know who you are.” Her eyes are sharp and hawk-like as she examines you. “Geralt’s told me much about you.”

Has he now? That… can’t be good. You wonder how the Witcher must have spun this particular tale – after all, he’s not exactly known to be gifted with words. Lost for a in the thought, she regards you as a wolf might regard a startled rabbit. When you notice the ash-black fox fur around her shoulders it feels fitting – Yennefer the predator, and you the prey. You realise it’s your turn to speak.

“Oh, I… um, it’s a… pleasure.” you eventually offer. It’s awkward - you’re clearly fumbling this exchange, yet for some reason it seems to delight her. A smile curls at the corners of her small lips. You’re grateful when she cuts to the chase.

“I want us to get to know each other better,” she seems almost uncharacteristically playful now, placing a delicate hand on your sleeve. Gods, sometimes her very presence makes you feel insignificant. “Any friend of Geralt's ought to be a friend of mine. Don’t you agree?”

Your eyes narrow as you wonder again just how much Geralt has told her – friend is certainly not the word you’d use to describe your frisky encounters with the wolf. Not that you ever felt the need to offer it a label. It was just nice to share his bed once in a while. Or his bath. Or anywhere else for that matter…

Yennefer continues, and you make note that a woman like the sorceress must be used to doing the talking. “Meet me tonight, under my canvas in the grounds. Come after supper,” you feel her amethyst eyes scrutinizing; your body, your clothing, your character, “and wear something nice.”

***

So this where you find yourself - dressed in your best finery - staring dumbly at the tent that Yennefer calls home during her time at Kaer Morhen. This tent had always amused you – obviously the grime of the keep was not befitting of such grace. Yennefer seemed like a woman used to the finer things in life – roughing it among ruins was probably not her style. When you finally hear her resonant voice, it’s curt - almost bored.

“Come in.”

You push your way in, and are awed in an instant. You’re a person with little experience of magic, so the sights before you are enlightening to say the least. Although appearing small from the outside, the interior of the tent is not just large – it’s grand. An abundance of candles cast the room in a warm, golden glow; their flames reflected by silk tapestries adorning the walls. You eye her magnificently exotic furniture with appreciation – no doubt imported from every corner of The Continent. Her quite imposing bed, carved from dark wood, stands in the centre of the room – for now, it’s sides curtained in sumptuous cloth.

You blink nervously as you meet her angular, feminine face. Black-lined eyes with dark lashes flutter in an expression that’s almost coy. Her attire is stunning - you expected no less. Your eyes feast on the garment, woven of delicate velvet ribbons, knotting and twisting themselves over her body in a way that enhances her form, rather than conceals it. Beneath, her lingerie ensures her more intimate areas are covered with black lace. She approaches, and you notice the sumptuous roll of her hips.

There are no civilities. Delicate hands trace the shoulders of your forest-green cloak – pure wool, the most expensive thing you own. She’s close enough for you to admire her scent now – sweet and fresh, seems to cling to her raven curls. With surprising deftness Yennefer slides your heavy garment off your shoulders - it drops to the floor with a slump. Her hands are on your dress now, unlacing the delicate fastenings at your breast. Doubt enters your mind, but no protest leaves your lips. She works diligently without word until your finest garments are reduced to a mere heap at your feet.

“… Is this how we get to know each other?” you eventually ask. Decency probably dictates that you should protect your modesty - but something about her sheer dominance leaves you completely unable to do so.

The sorceress’s painted lips stretch into an easy smile. “I can think of no better way. Can you?”

Incense hangs, thick and fragrant in the room. Coils of smoke snake through the air, giving her boudoir a dream-like quality. You wearily wonder if there’s some enchantment at play. Yennefer wraps her slender fingers around your hand, and you hope she doesn’t feel it tremble.

“Come girl, I have something to show you.”

As you’re guided towards the centre of the room, the sorceress waves an expert hand – at her will, the luxurious fabrics shielding the bed fall and pool on the ground. Your eyes widen as you take in a most unexpected sight. The white-haired Witcher, bound and blindfolded, kneels in the centre of the sheets. In the silence of the room, you can hear his breath. His quickened panting reminds you of an animal in a trap. He’s fully undressed, and you see that his cock is hard and wanting. Despite his constraint, you can’t help but think that he looks magnificent – as always – and you idly wonder if he’s aroused by the spectacle of the situation, or some deviant spell.

You settle upon the bed now, and Yennefer perches on the opposite side of the mattress, poised and cat-like. Geralt is flanked – an uncomfortable position for any warrior. His nostrils flare restlessly as he struggles to take in information about his surroundings. You don't doubt that he knows you’re here.

“Go ahead, girl. Touch him.”

Your eyes search the sorceress, wondering if this is some perverse trick. Before you can be sure of her meaning, she makes herself clear. An elegant hand encircles your wrist and Yennefer guides it over the Witcher’s solid, powerful body. You trace each muscle, each corded scar, all under her watchful eye. His familiar feel tempts a lengthy sigh from your lips. Despite all the strangeness, you might begin to relax.

Yennefer bites her lip, eyes fixed upon your wandering hands. When the Witcher releases a low growl, you’re reminded of his power. Yet, you’ve never seen him appear so helpless as he is now. To see him ensnared leaves you uneasy – you’re truly not sure how you should feel. Sensing hesitation, Yennefer’s hand moves to cover your own, and she begins to guide you downwards – gently inviting you towards his cock. Swallowing hard, you allow her. Surely the Geralt could release himself in an instant if wished?

He feels hot and smooth here, in contrast to the roughness of his body. Yennefer’s hand still envelopes your own, inviting you to work the Witcher in your shared grip. A pearl of precum oozes. His muscles twitch and flex under his pale skin. He moves uneasily against his bonds.

“Here... This is what he really likes.” Yennefer directs your other hand, allowing it to gently fondle the softness of his balls. The stifled moans that escape Geralt’s lips betray him –even you must admit that the sorceress knows him well. With each reaction, you’re encouraged to toy with him further – all under the keen observation of Yennefer, of course. When she eventually begins to caress your own body, the sensation takes you by surprise. A small whimper slips from your parted lips.

Her long fingers trail smoothly over your soft stomach, the curve of your breasts and flutter over your hardened nipples. Gooseflesh blossoms in the wake of her touch. As her hands flow down over your hips, they find the softness of your buttocks. It’s difficult to remain committed to your task, but you endure – steadily pumping the Witcher’s twitching cock in your hand. It’s particularly difficult to focus when she reaches under the globes of your ass and runs a single, probing finger through the wetness of your cunt. You inhale sharply.

“Does he lick you here?” she asks. In spite of everything, the complete lewdness of the question is unexpected, and it takes you by storm. Her delicate finger continues to caress your folds, examining your arousal with interest. Quickly, Yennefer grows impatient.

“Speak, girl.”

You take a short breath. “He does, sorceress.” You barely recognise your own voice – it’s so heavy with lust. Your eyes slip closed as she rubs a finger lazily over your sensitive clit.

“He’s a good boy, isn't he?” she smiles, an expression almost akin to pride. “He’s quite good with his tongue...” You can’t disagree – Geralt is a wonderfully attentive lover, when he isn’t bound and blindfolded.

“Does he make you cum?” she asks brazenly. The teasing lilt of her voice is adjoined by hot breath on your ear and probing fingers at your entrance. The notion of lying to Yennefer of Vengerberg doesn’t enter your mind for a second.

“Ah… he does, sorceress.”

Her response is immediate, tugging a ragged gasp from your throat. Fingers introduced deep into your wetness and removed in an instant - leaving you longing for more. The whimper you produce as she leaves you is positively pathetic. There’s no time to adjust your senses as Yennefer reaches over your shoulder - dragging her saturated fingers over Geralt’s lips and chin messily. Greedily, the Witcher accepts your wetness into his mouth with a small groan. You can only watch; aroused and positively enthralled.

“He can’t help himself. Our taste drives them wild, you know.” Yennefer runs her thumb over his bottom lip, languidly swirling your flavour around his mouth. “A Witcher’s senses are heightened in ways you can’t imagine. He can hear your heart beating like a frightened bird… he can smell when you’re in heat…” Her fingers withdraw from his mouth wetly, and she grasps his chin without tenderness. The sorceress regards him now with a look parallel to loathing and lust, yet she continues to speak directly to you. “A Witcher can sense a wet cunt like yours from a mile away.”

You’re certainly wet right now. The sorceress begins to stroke a hand over your neck, tenting her fingers gently against your throat. In your excitement, you realise you feel a little frightened by her, too.

“You know what it’s like to be fucked by a Witcher, don’t you girl?” Her fingers flex ever-so-slightly, causing her nails to gently graze your flesh. “It’s primal, isn’t it? Like they desire every part of you.”

“… Yenn… enough…"

Geralt’s unexpected voice captures your attention. It’s gravely, uneasy, and a startling reminder that the Witcher is very, very far from being in control. With a brisk, annoyed wave of her hand, she easily returns him to his hushed state - a steely yet pained expression restored to his blindfolded face. Yennefer reaches down to grasp his cock – a purposeful, assertive gesture to remind him exactly who’s in charge.

“Witchers are like animals.” she continues, critically assessing his nature while she jerks his cock. “Did you know a hunting witcher must empty his balls twice a day?” You didn’t know - but understanding their increased libido, you can’t say you’re surprised. “They’ll say it helps them focus. Clears their mind of any… distractions.” Her speech is punctuated by his grunts, forced intermittently through pursed lips. You begin to take notice of just how roughly she’s treating him.

“Of course, he doesn’t relieve himself by hand… not this Witcher…” her grip on his cock releases, and instead, Yennefer traces immaculate fingernails over its surface. You’re hanging on every word now, willing her to go on. “You already know what he does, girl – he fucks.” she slaps his cock roughly to emphasize her statement – instantly drawing a moan from the white wolf. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him make a sound like it. “Any. Wench. That. Will. Take. Him.” She cuffs his aching manhood with each bitter word, forcing desperate groans from her target. A drop of precum splatters wetly on his thigh and he tenses at his bindings. “A Witcher like this probably has whores in every tavern in the land.” She sneers, face lit with indignance. Yennefer grips your jaw now and turns your face to meet her wicked stare. “So… don’t feel special, girl” she hisses, narrow eyes hard and malignant. Rising from the bed, she paces away restlessly. You wonder for a moment if Yennefer has completely lost her cool.

It’s hard to know what’s stronger at this point – your body feels chilled with dread, yet some part of you remains ignited by lust. Feeling lost for a moment, you eye her - darting about the room like a tornado. After a deep breath, she seems to regain some composure. The sorceress turns towards the bed once more, and you find yourself obediently following her gaze. Back to Geralt, bound and wanting on the sheets.

In the flickering candlelight, his sweat-sheened body seems to glow, the lean curvature of his muscles creating shadows on skin. The Witcher’s head hangs wearily forward, bestowing him with an air of resignation – as though any fight he had, has now left him. When your own head droops, you can’t help but be taken again by the sight of his cock again – smooth and proud, glistening with precum as it oozes from the tip. Heady with desire, your mouth parts – Gods, despite all the strangeness, all the ritual, all the perverse games… you wouldn’t mind tasting it.

“Not yet, girl.” trills Yennefer’s sharp voice. You wonder, not for the first time, if the sorceress can read your thoughts. You decide that you wouldn’t mind if she could - it feels correct that she knows your every whim, however private and dirty.

Her hand, delicately powerful, grips the base of your neck. Sternly, she dictates your next position. “Turn around. I want you on your hands and knees, girl.” Of course, you oblige her. Shifting gracelessly on the bed, bent knees and elbows press into the deep plush mattress. Behind, you catch sight of the bound Witcher as Yennefer guides him into position. Her hand grips the flesh of your soft waist. Realisation of what’s to come sweeps over you like warm wave. You’re delighted when you feel his hardness at your entrance. Your breath is fierce and sharp.

The wetness of your centre draws him inwards, taking his cock effortlessly. Gods, you’re not sure you’ve ever been so wet; the theatre of the situation seems to have doubled your lust. You must be positively dripping at this point. When he’s fully inside you, a hot growl leaves the Witcher’s lips. The sound is familiar, and your body reacts in accord. Silently, you beg he’ll fuck you hard – rough and deep, how he knows you like it. But Yennefer elects to keep the rhythm slow and teasing. Her hands sweep over your trembling body. She guides his hips, controlling the pace of his thrusts into your needy pussy.

Geralt has fucked you numerous times, but it’s nothing compared to how he’s fucking you now. His restrained movements seem to light your nerves on fire as he drives into you. Moans begin to yelp from your parted lips with each rut. A single word forms in your mind – primal – before all coherent thoughts leave you and you feel your first orgasm build. Yennefer senses it - allowing him to quicken the pace slightly - forcing more choked moans from your salivating lips. Panting between each deep thrust, eyes screwed tight in pleasure, you wonder - should you moan his name? Or hers?

She’s on him now, and from your compromised position you’re unable to see how possessively her hands wander over his broad chest. Soft lips graze his neck, tasting the salt-sweat of his skin with a purr. It’s delicious when he growls back in pleasure, and more-so when Yennefer loosens the Witcher’s bonds. Finally, his roughly calloused hands are permitted to reach your soft hips. You gasp and feel his thrusts deepen.

When your orgasm boils over, you cry out – clamping and twitching on the witcher-cock deep within your centre. Your body shakes, your hips tilt and shudder. Yennefer mercifully allows you a moment of repose, and you need it, panting raggedly beneath him. While the waves of your orgasm ebb, you push back against his shaft, determined to enjoy every last pulse. When his cock withdraws, your whimper of loss invites a chuckle from the deviant sorceress.

“You’re not done, girl. He hasn’t cum yet.”

Fuck.

You sigh, clutching ferally at the bedsheets. There’s no further time for composure as the Witcher drives his cock inside; the deepening angle forcing you into uninhibited gasps. As the pace of his fucking quickens, you realise he’s intent on bringing you another orgasm before his own. His rough fingers begin to rub over your sensitive clit, and the sensation sparks light behind your eyelids.

Geralt fucks hungrily, grunting his passion with each firm thrust, while the sorceress looms. Her nails run possessively over the scarred ridges of his labouring body. On your clit, his now fingers have you whinnying in ecstasy. Yennefer whispers hotly into his ear, loud and breathy enough for you both to hear.

“Good boy. Now cum for me, Witcher.”

Her words tip you over into climax, and you’re struck by the suddenness with which your hips buck and writhe. His thick cock unloads, tense and quivering, and Geralt lets out a deep grunt. As sensation tears through your body, it’s the sorceress who guides you through each fluttering wave of orgasm as she caresses your skin. After a short while, you feel the Witcher withdraw, wetly, and your limbs crumble, leaving you slumped, spent and satisfied on the sheets.

Creeping towards expended Witcher, Yennefer finally removes his blindfold. From your sprawled position, you can see that his eyes are almost entirely black; his pupils completely dilated under their binding. You regard him with interest - his supernatural senses are one of the many reasons to find him fascinating. Geralt’s chest heaves, his nostrils flare. Steadily he overcomes his breathlessness and takes in his surroundings; eyes regaining their familiar amber-yellow glow. When you finally meet his gaze, you offer a wry smile and notice the Witcher’s weary face betraying just a hint of chagrin. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“You can go now.” Yennefer asserts from where she languishes on the sheets, barely laying her amethyst eyes on you. Looking to Geralt, you search to read his feelings - your own expression a dumb combination of satisfaction and bewilderment. Before you, the sorceress places a gentle hand on his chest – a possessive gesture. “Not him. He stays.” Your eyebrows raise. Okay – you suppose you’ll talk about this later.

As you begin to collect your belongings, Yennefer calls out to you. “Come back tomorrow?” It’s not quite a question, but it’s the nearest thing you’ll get to a request from the domineering sorceress.

“To get to know each other better?” you ask coyly.

She smiles. “Yes. I have much more to teach you about Witchers.”

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