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#geralt fanfic
shellyshellshell · 20 hours
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The Offering: Part Five
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Attn: I know this is random but I’ve been wanting to do like a little epilogue I guess to Geralt and Flower’s story sooo I hope y’all enjoy!!!
Word Count: 943
Pairing: Ancient Deity Geralt (The White Wolf) x Reader
Summary: You and Geralt make your family complete
Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), face sitting/riding, creampie, smidge of breeding kink?
Previous Part:
Part Four
Three Years Later
After the day you and Geralt first made love and the threat of anyone coming after you was gone, you two settled into life together. Sometimes Geralt still went for offerings, others he would hunt and grow crops of your own. You two were truly in love and often spent days lying about making love.
This was one of those days. The two of you had made a proper room for yourselves in the little cottage and in the morning he took you there, before taking you out in the river. Now the two of you were laid on the pile of furs in front of the fire. Geralt was settled between your legs, rubbing his length between your folds slowly. “Please Geralt,” you begged. “Just like this first Flower. It feels good, does it not?,” he questioned. “Y- yes, but I need more,” you gasped. “You are insatiable today Little Flower,” he smirked. He didn’t have to guess why, he knew you were ovulating, his senses telling him so. “I just want you,” you say as you cling to him. “You have me,” he whispers before watching you fall apart for him.
Once you’ve relaxed he leans down and kisses you languidly before flipping you. “I want to taste you,” he says as he pulls you up to sit on his face. He groans as he takes your puffy clit into his mouth. His hands knead at your thighs as you moan above him. Your hips roll against him and he flattens his tongue out so you can ride his face. “Oooh,” you cry out, as your hips still. You haven’t orgasmed, but you’re not sure if you can take much more. You hear Geralt tsk beneath you before grabbing your ass and taking over. “Mmm,” you whimper as his tongue glides over you. You look down, meeting his eye right before you shatter.
He quickly maneuvers you so that he’s on top, and slides into you with one fluid movement. He begins a gentle pace and you cum within moments, squeezing him tight. After you’ve orgasmed twice more he’s unable to hold back anymore. He’s got your legs over his shoulders as he thrusts into you recklessly. “G-Geralt… I- Oh…,” you stammer, trying to tell him something. “You make me ache Flower. I cannot stop,” he groans. “D- don’t stop. Don’t stop until you’ve filled me up with your child,” you beg him. You feel his cock twitch with your words. “You’re sure,” he questions. “O- only of you want,” you say nervously. “It’s everything I want… Been thinking of you round with my child for months now. You’re going to be so beautiful, the perfect mother,” he chokes out.
He’s so close to the edge he can hardly stand it, but he wants to feel you one last time. He leans back and thumbs at your clit, making you clench around him. “That’s it, my love. Once more,” he husks. When you orgasm he lets loose, flooding you with his fertile seed. There’s so much you can feel it sloshing onto your clit, and down the seam of your bottom, and that very moment you know it’s taken. You can feel it within your very bones that he’s just given you a child.
He smiles above you before leaning down and placing a tender kiss upon your lips. “I cannot wait to meet our children,” he says against your lips. “Children?,” you question. “I may have gotten a little excited,” he chuckles. “How many?,” you ask him. “Two,” he replies sheepishly. “Double the work for me then?,” you chide playfully. “I assure you, my love, I will take care of you,” he says, and that he does. Over the next several months Geralt tends to you as he always had, but with so much more intent. Any sign of an ache or pain, he’s placing his hands on you and taking it away. He makes sure you’re taking in all the nutrients you need as well, just taking perfect care of you.
One night when the two of you are lying in bed, he gently caresses your swollen belly, feeling your two children move beneath your skin. “They like your touch,” you tell him as you look up at him. “Yes, it seems they do,” he smiles softly. “You’re going to be such a good father,” you say softly as you touch his face. He places his hand atop yours before turning his head and kissing your palm. “It’s nearing time for them to arrive” he then says. “Do we need a midwife?,” you asked him. “I know what to do Flower,” he assured you.
By the end of the week you had a healthy son and daughter, Flynn and Adara. Watching them grow and learn was both your and Geralt’s greatest pleasure in life. Once they started running about you two quickly realized they both possessed power like their father, though thankfully not as strong. Adara had the ability to create, and Flynn the ability to manipulate water, which was a skill their father did not possess.
It was nearly their fourth birthday. You and Geralt sat in the yard in front of your cottage, you nestled between his legs, your back pressed tight to his chest as he leaned against a tree while they played. You couldn’t help the smile that seemed to stay on your face these days. Geralt cupped your jaw, turning your head so you’d face him. “I never could have imagined a life so complete,” he said before kissing your lips. “Nor could I,” you replied before kissing him once more.
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nickfowlerrr · 3 months
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sit me on your throne.
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pairing: geralt of rivia x curvy!reader
warnings: i don't know what i'm writing about but if you're here for smut, there's smut. 18+ only. probably ooc - i've only seen season one. if i'm missing something that needs to be tagged please let me know.
words: 4.3k
notes: i really truly do not know. forgive me not.
thank you in advance for reading! any thoughts, comments, and reblogs are so appreciated. let me know what you think. (unless its mean then pls don't).
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"You kneel before me?"
Your question is born of nothing but pure confusion as you tilt your head in bemusement at the bulking behemoth of a man before you.
He hadn’t done as much when he first arrived, not to your displeasure, so it was odd to see him do it now - especially after the battle he has just fought.
He is at your feet, his long white hair darker and dingier now, dirty as his clothes and skin; marred with caked mud and what you can only assume is the blood and guts of the beast he has defeated.
The stench he carries with him is pungent, nothing but putrid, and yet that somehow doesn't take from his striking good looks; those paired with his brevity and bluntness have held your attention from the moment he stepped foot in your kingdom.
He is a man of little words, this Geralt of Rivia. His jester of a companion having done much of the speaking - perhaps too much - for him since they arrived.
Geralt says nothing still, only meets your gaze as he takes steady breaths. His yellow eyes, feline and harsh, cut through you in a number of ways - none of which you'd care to share aloud. You have a feeling he knows, however, just how affected you are by him no matter how well you think you hide it.
You are alone together, no guards at the ready, no advisors by your side. Most of your kingdom is now quiet and abandoned, including the halls of your once flourishing and lively home. The halls of this castle have been eerily silent since the night your men went on their mission to save their homestead. You had already sent word for The Witcher, you implored them to keep safe indoors until his arrival. They did not listen. Most of them still having seen you as the young princess you once were, the others simply following the orders of their leaders. You may have been their "Queen", but their faith in their commanders was stronger.
Those commanders who led them to their deaths... You still sigh at the loss.
Those who were not taken, slain, by the beast have long since fled for their lives. You cannot blame them. But you certainly could not join them. Your castle once held many souls, but now it is only you and a handful of others. Titles of servants, but you really never were one for titles.
"Your friend?" you wonder.
"Somewhere," he answers shortly, his voice low and deep as he speaks.
You quirk a brow, "Safe?"
"For as long as he keeps himself from trouble."
You hum, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Their relationship amuses you, you must admit.
"You needn't kneel, Witcher," you implore as you sit back on the throne. It is yours in name alone. It has never felt right to sit in. He seems to sense your unease, but he doesn't speak it. You continue, "You have done what you said you would, I will do the same."
Still, he doesn't stand. Not until you flick your eyes and move to stand yourself. He rises easily as he stands before you still. There is not much distance between you, and the stench of him stings your eyes and threatens to gag you. Your face scrunches in disgust as you turn it away from him, grimacing.
"I've had a bath readied for you, and new clothes set aside," you inform him, moving to pass around. He follows you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze as his eyes cling to you. "Your meals will be served as soon as you're done. I don't imagine anyone would be able to stomach a bite with that smell coming off of you."
He says nothing but lets out an amused "hm" at your words, still following as you lead him to the bathing room.
You thank Amaleah as you enter and she leaves with a nod to you, her breath catching when she smells Geralt enter behind you. It's as fast an exit as you've ever seen.
You move toward the bath and wade a hand in the water. It's a bit hot for your preferences but it should get him clean. You ensure the soap Amaleah brought in is fragrant enough and still look for some nicer oils to add to the water; when you turn around to ask your guest his want, you find yourself stunned silent as you're met with the sight of his broad, bare chest. His muscles flex under his pale and scarred skin as he moves, his solid chest is covered in dark hair, trailing down his torso. His arms are strong and big and a thought at the back of your mind wonders how comfortable he must be to lie with.
You blink, mouth parted slightly as you take a breath. You watch his clothing fall as he discards them and your gaze follows his hand as he begins to strip himself of the rest of his garments.
He is completely shameless as he watches you watch him. You feel as if you are in a trance, you cannot bring yourself to look away despite the heavy weight of his gaze assuring you he sees you staring.
It’s not an act of brazenness, truly you would look away and leave him at once…if you could.
“I’ve slain your monster,” he speaks and your eyes rise back to his chest, trying to ignore the heaviness of his thick cock as it hangs so temptingly before you. No, not temptingly…Shamelessly. He has put himself entirely on display before you, without an ounce of shame or concern, and you are still frozen to your spot. “Was there something else you required of me, Your Highness?”
The title gets your attention, the breath caught in your chest finally flows and your eyes flick up to meet his. You can't tell entirely if he meant it as an insult or if he thought you'd prefer it to Queen.
You remain quiet for a moment as you try to gather a response. Either way...
“I told you that wasn’t necessary, Witcher.”
“Geralt.”
You swallow hard as he takes a small step forward, and you will yourself to not break his intense gaze.
"Geralt. I thank you, for saving what was left of this ruined kingdom, but I consider myself not princess, nor Queen, any longer."
"Did you ever?" he asks, staring into your eyes a moment longer before he steps closer still, looking you up and down then nudging you aside, eliciting goosebumps along your skin, rising under his touch.
You glance over your shoulder as he continues past you, lowering himself into the tub.
You think.
You know your answer, but you won't say it aloud. Clearly he knows it, too.
You can hear the water sloshing with his movements as he begins to clean himself.
You take a deep breath.
"The clothes will be brought in shortly. You might tell Jaskier when you're done that the food is ready."
"Ah," he says amid his washing, "so you do know his name."
"Of course I do. I've grown quite fond of the bard in the week since you've arrived."
"I couldn't tell," he says plainly, yet still biting - his words sharp with sarcasm.
You furrow your brow at his meaning and then there's a laugh at the door and you look to see Jaskier as he leans on it. "You sound jealous, there, Geralt," he taunts, holding folded clothing in his hands as he pushes off the door to saunter in. "I wouldn't worry. I don't believe I'm the one who's caught her eye." He looks to you with a smirk, bowing before you, "Your Majesty."
"I am no longer queen," you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.
"My Queen, none the less," he simpers before standing to his full height.
You smile tightly, eyes narrowed playfully at him before you finally move to exit, leaving them to their inevitable quarreling. And trying not to focus on the tingling still affecting you between your legs.
--
You eat with the women in the kitchen; the dining hall one of your least favorite places to be.
There is a calm yet solemn energy around you all. A peace in the slaying of the monster who took your kingdom, and still the grief from the loss of it all, your people, their families, friends...
Calliope readies the plates for your guests as you bid them all a goodnight, kissing Amaleah's son on his head on your way out with a 'sweet dreams'. Since his father was killed, the poor thing has nightmares recurringly. You only hope with the monster's demise, they might ease for him some. He is far too young to be in such pain...
You think to pass by the dining hall on your way to bed to thank Geralt once more and wish them both a goodnight as well but think better of it.
You will see them in the morning before they set off. You still owe him his coin and you know he won't be leaving without it.
--
You open the heavy door of your chamber and once you are inside, begin to undress.
Slipping into your shift, you swiftly make your way into bed. You thought you'd fall asleep quickly, but as you lay there, your mind wanders to thoughts of only one.
You have one hand on your lower belly, the other resting on the soft skin right above it.
You sigh and close your eyes, but all you see when you do is his built form. His dark, firelight stare set on you. His clothes left on the ground as he stands strong in his glory.
You breathe deeply, your hand starting to slowly drift down your stomach as you tickle yourself. You're so tempted to touch where you want it most, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not just yet.
You slip your hand between your spread thighs, softly running your fingers across the sensitive skin you find there.
It'd been a week of torment, having Geralt so close and not being able to act on your most base feelings. You know he knows what you think when you look at him, if Jaskier can see it, surely, he can too.
You might feel embarrassed but with the way he's managed to get closer and closer to you with each passing day as he awaited the beasts' return, you would wager he feels similarly.
It feels like an age that you lie awake. All the noises about the castle, not that there were many, have settled and it assures you everyone has retired for the night.
Sleep begins to nip at you but the stronger pull is to the dissatisfaction that weighs on you. The emptiness that echos through your body and soul.
Your fingers twitch, and you begin to glide closer to your uncovered core, the need to be touch too much to be ignored for much longer. Your eyes are closed and you imagine it isn't your hand running over your skin, but rather his large, rough palm feeling you, teasing you just so...
Just as you inch closer, your eyes snap open in the dark as a heartbreaking scream cuts through the night air. You sit up, pulling your hands off of yourself. You know immediately where the sound comes from and who it belongs to.
You get out of bed, intent to make sure Hartley and Amaleah both are okay.
You open your door just as the one across the wide hall does the same. You frighten at the unexpected movement but are then unsurprised to be across Geralt.
He is shirtless again, and his eyes are wide as his chest rises and falls with his heavy breaths.
"Are you alright?" he asks, voice hard.
"Yes, I'm fine. It was the boy, Hartley. He has nightmares," you explain, keeping your voice quiet as to not disturb the renewed peace of the night.
The flick of the flame that lights the hallway allows you both to see one another. You say nothing for a moment as your eyes fall to his bare torso.
"Did the clothes not fit?"
He looks down at himself briefly, then back to you. He shakes his head, "I prefer to sleep naked."
You burn at his words, swallowing hard. "Oh. Well, I- I'm going to check on them, make sure they're fine."
"I'll go with you."
It's not a question, it's a statement. You stop in your start, turning to look at him. You say nothing, just blink and quickly carry on as you were.
You make your way down the stairs and down the hall until you see the flames licking at the end of the hallway.
You follow the glow to Amaleah's room and knock gently as you look in the open door.
She turns and looks to you, her eyes tired and cheeks damp as she rocks her toddler in her arms. He is sleeping again as she rubs his back gently, more to soothe herself than anything.
She sniffles, "Your High-" she stops herself, "sorry, forgive me," she whispers.
"Don't apologize. Please," you implore her. "I know it's habit."
"Are you two alright?" Geralt asks from right at your back.
"We are, thank you. Just another nightmare," her voice gets thick at the explanation. You know it hurts her that there isn't anything she can do but be there to comfort him when they come.
You smile sadly and nod. "We'll let you be, then. Do try to get some rest. He'll be okay," you reassure her.
You pull the door nearly closed and wind up with Geralt firmly at your back.
You turn into him but he doesn't seem to mind as he just looks down at you nearly pressed against his chest. You try to budge him to turn and move back down the hall but he doesn't waver. After a second, he relents and steps to the side, allowing you to go back down the hallway first.
It isn't until you come up on the throne room that Geralt speaks again.
"Might I have a word with you?" he asks.
You stop and turn to eye him as he stands at the entryway of the door.
"Now?" you question.
He nods once, "Now."
You approach him trepidatiously, and as you near, he gestures you in the room before him, extending his arm, "Princess."
Your eyes narrow again. And you turn on him, watching as he enters the room behind you. "Why do you keep doing that?"
"What am I doing?"
"Princess? Your Highness?" you quote him.
"I assumed you preferred it to your true title," he tilts his head at you.
"True title," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "I prefer no title at all."
"And what shall I call you then?"
You remind him your name, not that he really needs to be reminded. You know he knows it full well.
He considers you, then closes in on where you stand in front of the throne.
You don't move back, no, you quite like the closeness when he doesn't reek of death and innards.
Geralt seems to appreciate your resolve, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile as he studies your face.
"It's a beautiful name," he speaks lowly, taking another step into your space and raising his hand to gently caress your cheek before he leans in to speak against your ear. Your hands touch his solid stomach in an attempt to keep yourself upright, you can feel the muscles as they flex under your delicate graze. "I think I might prefer princess," he husks.
He slips away from you, turning to take a seat on the throne instead. You follow his movements and turn yourself to face him. You're stunned and completely set ablaze all at once.
"Well I don't."
"No," he smirks, agreeing with you, one large hand settling on his thick thigh as he spreads his legs, "you don't."
"It's too bad," he tsks, his voice a smooth rumbling. "No title, no throne."
"I don't want any throne."
Your eyes are glued to his thighs as he brings attention to his lap by rubbing the muscle there.
"None?" he asks before his gaze shifts directly on you, his mesmerizing stare burning into you. His voice lowers deeper than you've ever heard as a desperate longing shoots through you once again, resounding deep in your core. "Not even mine?"
Your mouth goes dry and your brain fuzzy as you take in his meaning.
Unthinking, you step toward him closer.
"You mean to defile the very one you sit on?"
"You don't seem to care for it much anyway."
Another step.
You are nearly stood between his spread legs, carefully you reach out a hand, your fingers light on his thigh. You feel his muscle then, flicking your eyes up. His gaze is dark and heated.
"That's true enough," you say, your voice breathy in a near whisper.
You gasp as your suddenly pulled closer by Geralt's rough hands around your waist. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your shift and its only then you realize how much of your figure he has seen thanks to your nightwear.
"Truer still," he speaks, "I don't mean to defile this throne." He squeezes your plush waist, groping you through your shift as your hands latch onto his solid shoulders. "I mean to defile you."
He manages to pull you onto his lap with little effort, leaning in to crash his lips into yours.
You kiss him back hungrily, chasing his lips as you settle on his lap. Your fingers wind in his hair and you can feel his cock growing beneath you through the material of his pants.
His hands slide down your waist and over your wide hips, reaching for the hem of your shift and pulling it up. His tongue slips past your lips and you moan, shifting your hips atop him.
You pull away, reaching for your dress and pulling it over your head, discarding it behind your back.
Geralt holds you closer, letting his lips explore your heavy breasts as you allow your head to fall back in pleasure, your hands returning to his hair.
"Geralt," you breathe, pulling him off you after a moment.
"Mm," he hums, kissing the swell of your breast once more before he moves to free himself from the restraint of his pants. He knows what you’ve both been wanting for days. What you need.
One heavy hand returns to your back, holding you by your waist while his other grips his red, throbbing cock.
He moves his tip up and down your slick center, making you whimper as he teases you - his cockhead rubbing delightfully against your sensitive clit.
He watches your face scrunch in rapture and holds you tighter to stop your wiggling about as you whimper.
He smiles smugly to himself and when you're just about to open your mouth to protest his teasing, he finally pulls you down on top of him. The sound that escapes you is music to his ears as you grasp onto him, your nails digging into the muscle of his back as your walls squeeze and stretch to accommodate his thick length, the size of him almost too much for you to take.
"Fuck," he groans as your walls tighten around him. He gives you a moment before he begins to urge you to move. He guides your hips, slow and sensually. The feeling of his hands on you motivates you to try and ride him yourself. And you do try, but you cry out again at how big he is, how fully he is stuffing you. You can barely move.
Geralt kisses you as he holds you closer, taking pity on your tight cunt and instead he moves his hands to your soft hips again. He holds you on top of him securely before he begins to fuck up into you.
You mewl as he jostles you, bouncing you up and down his cock, your breasts moving in time.
You pull on his hair, forcing him to look up from where his gaze was fixed, watching his own cock as he stretched you out for him, watching as your cunt took as much of him in as she could, up to your hooded lust filled gaze. You lean into him, chest to chest as you kiss him fervently. His lips follow yours as you taste one another. You nip at his lip and he growls, his hands gripping the ample flesh of your ass, "Keep that up," he snarls.
"And you'll what?" you breathe heavily, eyes screwed shut, jaw tight as you deadbrain on the pleasure coursing through you.
Your answer is a harsh thrust of his cock inside of you, stealing your breath while he slaps your ass, your flesh stinging from the force.
"Oh, fuck," you whimper debauchedly, your velvety walls squeezing him ever tighter as you feel yourself growing closer with every bounce. The tip of him hitting exactly where you need it to. Your body is on fire and you are loving every second of it. The feeling of him inside of you, of his hands squeezing and caressing you everywhere he can, of his lips demanding yours for more.
His grunts are growing louder and his thrusts more powerful, you kiss him hard in an effort to quiet him some, but you can feel what is coming.
Geralt is near slamming you down on top of him, the sound of your ass slapping against his thick thighs mix with the salacious sounds coming from you both and of your slick wetness as you're worked up and down his shaft, your cunt taking him better and better with each thrust.
Your hands move to hold his face, your noses brush as you breathe each other's air, lips touching just slightly.
"Geralt, I'm,"
"I know," he pants harshly, concentrated before taking your lips in his. You whimper pathetically as the coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter. He keeps you moving a top him, your clit being stimulated with every brush of your hips over his, and then with another deep thrust it snaps before you can speak. Your voice is an empty high then silent squeak as your legs tremble and your eyes roll back. Are you even breathing? Your walls clench down on Geralt's cock and he finally allows himself to reach his own high as your tight walls flutter around him, squeezing him perfectly. You ride the waves of ecstasy as his come spills inside of you. You feel him shudder beneath you and it only adds to your feeling of weightlessness, stars in your eyes as you feel, think, breathe nothing but him.
You part from his lips and your bodies are slick with sweat as you both pant heavily. Geralt holds you to him as he softens inside of you, his forehead pressed to yours as your hand comes behind his neck, holding him to you in kind.
Your lips mimic a kiss but neither of you lean in close enough to actually do it. You work to catch your breath and settle for a minute before you finally break the quiet.
"Do I still owe you your coin?" you breathe, smiling when Geralt laughs in your face. You reach to move a stray strand of hair from his face, holding his cheek gently once you do.
Your stare into one another's eyes for a long moment, just breathing and being close.
"Where will you be off to in the morning?" you ask, hoping your solemn tone isn't as audible as it sounded to you.
"Don't know," he shakes his head, eyes straying to your lips.
You take a breath and pull his face closer to kiss him softly.
"I envy you, you know."
"Don't."
You huff a humorless laugh, readjusting yourself on his lap. "Not because you're a witcher. You may not have the most enviable life, but at least you have one. I've never made it past the most exterior gates," you smile sadly, playing with the hairs on his chest as you avoid his eye now.
"I suppose I'll have the chance, now, though. Thanks to you."
"And where will you go?" he asks.
Your gaze floats up to his and you repeat his previous answer. "I don't know. But I won't stay here. This kingdom is..." you shake your head. "I don't belong here. Never felt like I did. But I made a promise to my mother when I was young, and another to my father before he passed. I know I've let them down," you swallow the rise of emotion threatening to overcome you, "but alas, the fall of a kingdom is ever inevitable. Especially under such rule as my own."
"I've heard word of your rule from many. You're known to be kind. Caring. Protective, even. I don't believe you've failed. I think you were exactly the kind of ruler you should have been, who you needed to be. But perhaps it's a good thing you won't be forced any longer into holding power you don't desire. You're now free to do as you wish."
"I am," you nod lightly in agreement. "If only I knew where to start,” you muse with an uneasy laugh.
His hand runs up your back comfortingly; he's pensive, deep in thought for a long moment before he speaks.
"If you ready your things, I don't think Roach would mind a travel companion of her own. She seems to have taken to Belfast… I'm not sure she'd be ready to part with him so soon, anyway."
"Is that so?" you ask him, faux curiosity playing in your voice.
"And Jaskier is easier to take when I'm not the only one he has around to bother."
"Right," you nod, fighting your soft smile.
"And of course your coin would be useful as well."
"Of course," you exaggerate your agreement. "…Geralt, are you getting at something here?"
"Just that, if you want to join us…you might."
You lean into him again, thumb rubbing along his stubble lining his cheek, and this time he kisses you first. More gently than you expect. You can’t help your smile now.
You part lightly and breathe,
"I hope you mean that, Witcher. Because I just might."
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2K notes · View notes
nesillia · 10 months
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What You Don’t Know
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-> Summary: You don’t know that Geralt had been searching for you ever since Jaskier returned to him without you. You don’t know that he’d been praying to Melitele to make things right. You don’t know that he said he loves you, every night you weren’t there.
-> Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader
-> Rating: 18+
-> WC: 3k
-> Warnings: very light angst, fluff, most of this is smut ill be honest lol, smut in the forms of: missionary, fingering (f receiving), oral (f), pet names: (my love, love, baby), kissing, biting, marking, panty sniffing (geralt is feral okay), mdni, geralt has feelings and deep regrets (as he should), happy ending!!
-> Notes: this is part two of Tragically, Meant to Be. Please read that first to understand what’s happening here. I didn't want to focus on the angst too much here, so I hope you enjoy this fluffiness/smuttiness and happy ending!
Also, I know the location of Rivia was lost to time in the 13th century (according to the wiki) let’s just ignore that. For plot reasons.
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It’s been months since you and Jaskier walked out of Geralt’s life. Months since he laid eyes on you, held you in his arms, tasted you. And try as he might to convince himself that he hasn’t missed you, or the bard, he knows he’s a liar. 
Geralt missed your scent, your taste, the secret smile you’d give him when you thought he wasn’t aware, the way your dewy skin seemed to glow in the sunlight. 
Most of all, he missed the way you genuinely cared for him. The way you’d make tea from herbs in a bid to soothe his restlessness at night, the way you’d cook the meat of his hunt in a way he liked, or the way you’d massage his tense shoulders after a long excursion. 
And as he lays awake now, body mere inches from the bard who had sought Geralt out, without you by his side, he realizes that due to a stupid mistake, he may never get to have these moments with you again. 
And it’s this realization that makes Geralt promise himself that he’ll search to the ends of the Continent if he has to, to find you. 
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At first, after Geralt leaves Jaskier in the nearby town of Velen, he goes back to Redania and searches the wilderness surrounding Oxenfurt. 
In the months that Geralt had been away from you, Jaskier said you and he never left the big city. Until, one day, you just vanished. 
Geralt spends weeks in the woods near Oxenfurt, to no avail. Next, he searches Temeria and Cintra. Although these yield an abundance of contracts for the Witcher, he turns them down one by one in his hunt for you. Each night he doesn’t find you, his hope slowly diminishes.
But then, when Geralt is about to come to terms with the fact that perhaps he will never find you, you pop up in the unlikeliest town. 
Geralt has just made his way to his oldest home, his first home: Rivia. As he walks through the wooden gates, he finds that although it’s been more than ninety years since he’s been here, it hasn’t changed much. The people he used to know are long dead, but their children and grandchildren now live on here. His old house is still there, a new family living in it. 
The people of Rivia stare, taking in Geralt’s hulking figure and odd appearance. It doesn’t bother him like it used to, when he was a new Witcher. Still, it doesn’t feel great to have the people you save glare and call you the monster. 
Geralt keeps his head down as he hitches Roach to a pole, before he struts into the local tavern. He’s greeted with something that happens every time he walks into an inn — the music suddenly dies, the lively chatter stops, and all eyes turn to him. He lowers his hood as he takes a seat in the far back, and then something peculiar happens. Geralt can suddenly smell your scent, getting closer and closer until — by Melitele, there you are. Standing in front of him, head down as you fuss with the apron tied to your waist. You haven’t noticed it’s him, and Geralt takes this moment to rake his yellow eyes over your form. 
You look the same, if a bit run down. Your hair is longer, pulled away from your face in a style that he knows you love. He can hear the steady thump thump thump of your heart, and it relaxes him to no end. You’re here, in his hometown — looking beautiful and alive and safe. And suddenly Geralt is overcome with the need to pull you into his arms, and so he does just that. 
You’re in his arms, struggling a bit because you still haven’t realized who he is. But he doesn’t care because you’re in his hold, healthy and alive and heart beating so rapidly against his own. 
“Let g-go!” You huff, wriggling out of his strong hold. Geralt pulls you away, big hands plastered to your shoulders. And then your eyes finally rove over him, stopping at the medallion before flicking up to his face. 
“Geralt?” 
His name on your lips sounds like heaven to him, and his eyes flutter close before he opens them to look at you. 
“Can we talk privately?” Geralt asks. After a moment, you nod, and lead him towards the back of the inn towards the kitchen. The owner gruffly nods at the both of you. The kitchen is warm, the fireplace gushing out heat. 
“Mary, the cook, shouldn’t be back for another ten minutes. What do you want, Geralt?” 
Geralt is, for once, at a loss of words. 
“I…” 
“How did you find me?”
Geralt doesn’t reply. He’s not sure what to say, once again. You huff in annoyance, crossing your arms. 
“I’m sorry,” he finally gets out.
“Pardon?” 
He sighs, pursing his lips while running his fingers over the stubble on his chin in thought. Geralt has never been good with words, but for you, he needs to — wants to — try. 
“What happened with Yennefer. I’m sorry, Y/N.” 
Geralt knows the moment he speaks her name it’s a mistake. He can hear it in the way your heart falters, breath hitches. See it in the way little tears start filling your beautiful eyes. In a flash, he is standing inches in front of you, grasping your hands and pressing them into the shirt that covers his chest, right where his heart is. 
“Feel that?” He asks, bringing a hand to wipe away the tears that fall down your cheeks. You bite your lip, worrying the flesh before nodding hesitantly. 
Geralt isn’t sure what he can say to make you understand, so he’ll just show you. 
“My heart is racing, isn’t it?” 
Another nod. Your fingers flex over the plane of his pectoral muscle. 
“That’s for you, only for you.”
Your eyes race to meet his, and a little gasp leaves your teeth bitten lips. You tear away from him, barreling to the opposite side of the small kitchen with a snarl on your face. 
“Don’t fucking play with me, Geralt!” 
Geralt has never heard you curse like that in the years he’s known you. Sure, in the throes of passion you have cursed, but never like this. Not even on the night everything came crashing down. 
“I’m not, I swear. I haven’t even seen Y — her since that night. And even if I did, she’s not the one I want,” Geralt begs. “I want you.” 
“And would you tell her that, should she show up?” You demand, squaring your shoulders and seemingly ready for him to say n —. 
“Yes.”
He can see that you���re thinking deeply on his words, and after you don’t say anything for minutes, Geralt knows it’s time to leave. 
“I’ll go,” he whispers, shoulders dropped in defeat. He takes a step to leave the cramped kitchen, when you speak timidly. 
“Geralt… I’m willing to try again, but I want to properly be lovers. Call me selfish, but… I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you say, and Geralt, as he turns, can see the tears already dripping from your eyes. 
“If what happened back at that inn happens again, I will leave. And this time, you will never find me.” 
Geralt nods his head resolutely, walking towards you and pulling you into his arms. He wants to tell you that he would rather be slain by a Striga than make that mistake again. He wants you to know everything that happened in the past months.
Geralt knows that you don’t know that he had been searching for you ever since Jaskier returned to him without you. You don’t know that he’d been praying to Melitele to make things right. You don’t know that he says he loves you, every night. 
Geralt desperately wants to tell you all of this, to make you aware of the pain he’s been in, but as he holds your face in his hands, he realizes that he’s just content to be with you again. To hold you like this. To smell the lavender scent in your hair. And as his lips fuse with yours, to taste you again. 
“Let me go tell Edmund I’ll be taking the rest of the day off,” you mumble against his lips, a shy smile on your face. Geralt isn’t exactly sure why you seem embarrassed, but then he breathes deeply and — oh. The air is heavily permeated by a thick cloud of your arousal, smelling of lavender fields and bergamot. Geralt smirks, and soon — after getting the go ahead from a grumpy Edmund — you’re leading him out of the tavern and down the mottled streets, towards the edge of town. 
The walk is silent, but your arousal isn’t. It’s a loud song drumming against Geralt’s senses, enticing him and making him ache. You quickly open the door to your small house, dragging Geralt in and slamming it shut. You don’t waste any time, locking your lips to his. You taste of the sweetest of wines, and Geralt is sure he will never get tired of kissing you. 
“Wait,” he grumbles, pushing you away as gently as he can. He can see the bubbling rejection layering in your eyes, and he’s quick to shut that down with a swift peck to your saliva coated lips. 
“I need you to know that you owe me nothing. I didn’t come here just to fuck you, my love.” 
“I know, but… it’s been months, and I’ve missed you so much, Geralt. I want to, please?”
Your timid reply is more than enough for the man, and he easily picks you up and stumbles his way into what he can only assume is your bedroom. He has no time to look around, take in the room you sleep in every night, but he makes a mental note to do that later. 
Geralt releases you on the bed, before he’s kneeling between your spread thighs. He can hear your breath hitch, and he smiles reassuringly at you. 
“May I?” He asks, to which you hesitantly nod. Geralt has never done this with you, and he’s determined to make it a lasting memory for you. 
Geralt’s fingers are featherlight as he shucks off your slippers, as he ghosts over the skin of your ankle and calves. He keeps in tune with your breathing, listening to every stutter the higher he trails his hands. When he gets to the newly healed and jagged scar the Leshy gave you, he can’t help but lean down and press his lips to each line of tissue. 
“Geralt…,” you sigh quietly, and he can only imagine how much anticipation is coursing through you. 
“Patience. Need to show you how much I missed you,” he gruffly says into the skin of your scars. He laves his tongue over the flesh, savoring the taste of your body. He’s so close to where he desperately wants to be. 
Geralt works his hands up the meat of your hips under your dress, shimmying your smallclothes down your plush thighs. He can see that they’re coated in your slick, and in a moment of weakness, he brings them to his nose and inhales while he keeps his amber eyes glued to yours. It’s depraved, but the Witcher can see and hear the effect it has on you. Your breathing short circuits, thighs press as close together as they can with him in between, and a quiet moan slips out from your precious lips.
“Fuck, love…” Geralt mumbles, before throwing your smalls behind his shoulders and hitching both of your legs on top of his shoulders, spread wide for him. 
“I have to taste you properly.” 
That’s all the warning be gives you before he dives in, pressing his lips to your opening. He collects the slick there, sucking softly on the flesh before he brings his mouth up to suckle your clit. You moan loud, and then he feels your hands slither their way into his hair. 
“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles into your clit, vibrations rumbling up through your body at the action. Geralt brings his hand to thumb at your entrance, rubbing the slick around and coating your outer labia. His cock is pressing painfully against his trousers, and he ruts into the creaky bed frame for some relief. Geralt feels drunk off your scent, and your moans, and your taste. It’s almost too much for him, and yet he can’t get enough. 
Your hips are bucking against his mouth, thighs pressed tightly against his head and by Melitele if Geralt doesn’t love it. You taste of the beautifullest lavender fields, bergamot, and like him. Geralt pushes his forefinger and middle finger inside you, rubbing at your gummy walls and pressing deep deep deep. 
“Pleaseplease!” You whine, and Geralt opens his eyes to look into yours, love and admiration and lust all melting and shaping to make his amber ones. 
“Please, what?” Geralt says, thrusting his fingers in and out, smearing the slick, before repeating the motions. 
“M-More!” 
The moans falling from your lips cause Geralt’s cock to swell and pulse and leak. And Geralt can’t take it, ripping his mouth off of you and pushing his tight pants down his thighs. You watch his every movement like a hawk, before you’re bringing your hands low and pulling up your simple dress and tossing it somewhere, exposing your entire body to him. 
“Fuck, I missed you,” Geralt says reverently, watching as your nipples peak into hard buds. He immediately goes back to your pussy, sucking and slurping and pulling until you’re once again a moaning, writhing mess underneath him. You cum hard when Geralt pushes his tongue into your cunt, curling and thick inside you. 
He groans when your arousal rushes over his tongue, some dribbling down his chin when he presses himself deeper, nose bumping into your clit. Your body stills after what feels like forever, and Geralt audibly swallows the liquid in his mouth, before he’s pressing his lips to your clit just to taste you again. He inhales deeply, and if that isn’t almost enough for him to combust. Before Geralt can get too overzealous, you tug hard on his hair, getting him to – begrudgingly – look up at you. 
“‘S too much,” you slur, eyes glazed and cloudy with lust. 
“Think you can take me, love?” He asks, rising on his legs and shucking off all of his clothes, to the appreciative eyes of you. 
“Yes, Geralt. Please, I need you.”
He’s not sure who moves first, but then his lips are on yours and it’s messy. Your arousal is still on his tongue, pushing into yours and mixing saliva and cum into a taste almost as delicious as your pussy. Geralt brings a hand to his cock, pumping the shaft once before he’s lining up with your entrance and – at the whimper of you – thrusting all the way inside. It’s like your body is made for him, giving way and simultaneously pressing tight against his cock. Geralt’s balls slap against your ass, and he stills to give you a breather. 
“Geralt!” You cry, and suddenly your arms are wrapped around his neck, legs up on his hips, and you’re begging for him not to stop and to give you what you want. 
And Geralt obliges, pulling his hips until his cock is almost entirely out of your cunt, and then he’s thrusting back in rhythmically. Your body twists and tightens around his, breasts bouncing with every stab of his hips. He presses his lips to your ears, pressing a gentle kiss before he’s grunting low. 
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grunts, the squelching of your pussy music to his ears. 
Geralt can feel your pussy tightening against his cock, and he feels that familiar coil of pleasure build so greatly in his abdomen – he isn’t going to last long. 
“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” you whine, like it’s all you know, like it’s a mantra that’s the only thing keeping you sane. 
“I know, baby, I know,” he huffs, bringing his mouth to the junction where your shoulder meets your throat, and then he’s biting the skin and crying out your name at the same time your pussy tightens, and gushes over his softening cock. Geralt is heaving like he’s run a marathon, and he gingerly pulls his flaccid cock out of your sopping pussy before collapsing on his back, beside you. 
“I love you,” he whispers, and he feels you turn on your side to nestle right next to him. His eyes are closed, but he feels you when you gently bring up a hand and card through his drenched hair, slicking them back from his face. 
“I love you, too.”
Geralt opens his marigold eyes, bringing a hand to cradle your cheek. 
“I’m never gonna let you go, my love.”
You smile at him, a blinding thing that causes his slow-beating heart to pulse in love. If you give him that smile for the rest of his life, he’ll never get tired of it. He leans forward and presses a chaste – almost too chaste for the unholy things that had been happening, moments earlier – kiss to your cheek. 
“I’m holding you to that, Geralt,” you murmur, eyes droopy.
After a moment, you speak again, “How did you find me?” 
Geralt thinks of what he’ll say. He’s not ready to tell you everything he went through and how he didn’t intend to even find you here, he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. So for now, he’ll tell you what he genuinely thinks, not what he knows. 
“Must have been destiny, my love.”
It seems to placate you, for you give him another megawatt smile before tenderly getting up. He grunts, about to get up with you, but you glance back at him and give him a chiding look.
“Rest, my love, let me take care of you.”
And so, for the first time in almost a year, Geralt relaxes and watches you get up. As you walk through the bedroom door, Geralt knows two things. 
One, that he will always love you. 
And two, that he will always follow you.
1K notes · View notes
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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ultralightpoe · 4 months
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Spellbound Part 3- Geralt of Rivia
Authors Note: Y'ALL I AM SO SORRY! I thought I scheduled it and I do monthly breaks from all social media! Omg I really screwed y'all over! I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY. How can I make it up birdies?
Word Count: 3093
Description: Part One and Part Two
Warnings: Heavy smuttt y'all
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Enjoy!
Before Geralt had lost his entire life he was told as a child that there was always a beginning, middle and end. And though most people always thought that this merely pertained to stories his parents always told him that they belonged to humans too.
Every human had a beginning, middle and end.
Every monster had a beginning.
Every Saint had a beginning.
But none of them mattered right now, because all Geralt could think of right now was you. Your beginning, middle and end. He wanted to know more of your story more than he ever had before. 
You had both settled down at a rundown inn, him covering his hair and you covering the bruises someone had left on your neck. The innkeeper, a straggly old lady that could barely turn to grab the key to the rooms, barely cast either of you a glance. 
You kept close to him as you both made your way up the stairs, and Geralt was embarrassed to admit that a surge of pride crossed through him at this. You seek his warmth and protection, and he would give it. He would give you anything you wanted. 
Yennifer had left as soon as she could, saying that she would be going to find Jaskier and letting him know they found you. 
Geralt would keep you with him in the inn, per Jaskiers request. The bard pretends to worry about you with all the traveling, claiming that it would be best if he came to the two of you. Geralt saw the lie, he just could not give a shit. 
Instead he started a fire, setting you in front of it and mumbling that he would be right back. You snatch to grab his upper arm when he moves to leave, but he merely nods, letting you know it is okay to let go. So you do, swiping your fingers under your eyes quickly, but it was too late and he had already seen the tears.
He makes the trip quick, buying you warmer clothes and heading back and ordering some hot stew from the innkeeper, heading back to the room when she tells him she will bring it. 
You are right where he left you when he comes back in, this time a little closer to the fire and curled up a little tighter. Geralt, who had always struggled to sneak around, tried to lighten his footsteps as he neared you. 
“I brought some fresh clothes. How about a bath and a change?” He asks, his voice scratchy from lack of use, but he does his best to keep it gentle. 
You shake your head, the slightest of movement that somehow managed to clench his heart in his chest. “I’m too tired.”
“Allow me.” He whispers, holding out his hand for you. 
“Allow you?”
“To bathe you.”
“You would do that?” You smile, the beginning of a laugh climbing up your throat at the thought. 
“It would be my honor.” His tone makes it sound like he is teasing, but there is nothing but seriousness behind that comment. 
“You won’t jest?”
“Never.”
And at the simple touch of your fingers reaching up to his own has his skin on fire, shaking slightly as he helps your stand, shuffling to the bathroom and leading you to the center of the room and turning to heat the bottom of the tub with fire as he waits for you to get undressed 
But when he turns back to you he finds you waiting patiently, still in the gaudy thin dress, watching slowly. 
You seem fazed out now, eyes shuttering as you reach to him and begin untying his own shirt. A moment of startlement crosses him before he reaches a hand up and stops you by grasping your own in his larger palms. He rubs softly as he tries to relax you, shaking his head. 
“Not me. You.”
“You, with me.”
“I do not want to-”
“I don’t wanna be exposed alone.” It’s then that Geralt knows what you mean. You don’t want to be the only one naked and vulnerable. So he would join you. Anything for you. 
He turns to undress as you undress yourself, and once he hears you get into the tub he turns himself, his heart stopping in his chest at the sight of you. 
Your breasts are just barely covered by the water, and within that moment you managed to tie your hair up with a leather scrap, exposing the bruised neck and collarbone . In this moment you looked broken, and still astonishingly beautiful. It wasn’t fair. 
He takes a moment to climb in, and suddenly he feels the stress from the last few months beginning to fade from his body as he nears you, sitting across from you knee to knee. 
Silence fills the room, and Geralt stresses to find something to say as you lean forward to rest your forehead on his knee. 
“Turn around so I can wash your hair.” He whispers, allowing you room to do so and beginning to work on your hair with the soap. “My parents used to tell me stories.”
“About kings and dragonslayers?”
“No, about monsters.” 
“How so?”
“They used to tell me that the saints and the monsters of the world all had stories of their own, that everyone you come across has a beginning, middle and end.” 
You turn slightly to watch him, and he does his best to seem relaxed. 
“I spent most of my time stressed in impressing and protecting you.” He whispers. “I was gruff, which I do with most people. Keeping you and everyone else at arm's length.”
“I’m trying to see how this relates, witcher.”
“I want to know your story, I want to know your beginning and middle and I am desperate to be with you until the end.”
“Why would you want to know all of that?”
“I have found that, even with you mad at me, that I am nothing in this world without you.”
“I will tell you everything if you tell me everything.”
—------------
You fall asleep listening to him whisper the same stories his parents once told you, rubbing your hair softly as you keep your nose shoved into his chest. 
You awake around midnight screaming, it takes Gerat a couple minutes to calm you down before he moves to start another fire, bringing you closer to it for warmth and letting you lay in front of it. 
The days follow as this, staying by the fire in the cold winter air, whispering back and forth. Eating the stew and roasts the innkeeper made. 
You tell him about your life, and he tells you about yours. 
Finally you ask. 
“Shouldn’t you be out there? Working for the people?” Your head is laid out on his thigh as he watches the snow fall from the window. “I have never known you to sit still, Geralt.”
His heart lurches at the sound of his name falling from your lips. “I have spent the past few weeks working…..for you.”
“What do you mean?” You ask quickly, lifting your head from his thigh, eyes traveling his scarred abdomen before landing to his eyes. 
“I was trying to buy out the contract. For you?”
“Why would you do that? How much money did that end up being?”
“Not enough. It seems that the monster of a brothel keeper and I can agree on one thing, you are priceless.”
“Then how-”
“Yennifer smuggled you out-”
“Then what of the coin?”
“It’s yours. It’s all yours if you want it. Enough to buy a cottage in the hillside for years and-”
“And what if I wanted to stay with you? And Jaskier? Or do you not want me?”
“There is nothing more that I want than you. But I treated you horribly-”
You snap to stand then, hair flipping as you stomp across the room to fling a pillow at him. “How so?”
“That night, you were under a spell and I was so close to absolutely defiling you-”
“I wanted it! If you weren’t so pigheaded you would know that those charms only work if the one wearing it is-” 
“Stop.” There was a heavy force in the room, pressing through his chest to his lungs as he tried to catch his breath. 
“Stop what?”
“This will ruin everything-”
“How. So.”
“BECAUSE I CAN’T LOSE YOU!” He yells, rubbing at his forehead. “I would rather not have you than lose you. Do you understand?”
“Do you love me?”
“Y-”
“Do you love me as I love you?” 
“Yes.” And just like that the tight feeling in his gut that formed the moment he had laid eyes on you. His body was lighter and his heart felt like it was righted once more. “I love you.”
“Then what does it matter?”
“You’ve….. You have had a long couple m-”
“I want you.” You whisper, slowly tiptoeing around the room. “I trust no one but you. No one has given me the truth more, and protected me more.”
“I was cruel and-”
“I understand now.” You smile, tears filling your eyes. “I’ve seen terrible terrible men-”
His fists clench at his sides, the urge to find every man that harmed you and smash their heads with a hammer, as he watches you move closer until your own hands find purchase on his chest. 
The warmth fills him the second you touch him. 
“But you, in all your gruff warnings and rude awakenings, have never been a bad man.”
“You deserve better.”
“I am a brothel worker. I deserve nothing. But this is not what I deserve, this is what I want. Desperately so.”
“You want me?”
“I need you, Geralt.”
His hands unclench, moving up until they rest at your cheeks as he gazes down at you. “I need you too.”
“Then show me.” It’s a simple whisper, but one he hears through his being all the same, moving you backwards slowly until the back of your knees are pressed to the bed. He waits for you to show him a sign of fear or that you changed your mind. But you merely smile up at him, fingers moving to slide over the scars on his abdomen. 
“I trust you.” You whisper, the tips of your fingers sliding against his skin until they get to the breaches he wears and begin untying them.
“After what you have been through…”
“I want you to remind me of what it could be.” And he can’t help himself after that, moving to grab the bottoms of the night dress, keeping eye contact with you as his fingers graze your thighs while he lifts it up slowly, his heart hammering in his chest as you smile softly, allowing him to stand once more and remove the dress from you. 
You allow him to watch you, the wild look in his eyes as he traces your skin slowly. 
“You’ll tell me the second you change your mind?”
“The very instant.”  It was like a cord snapping, a leash let go and suddenly Geralt could not help himself. In one quick swoop he reaches to toss you onto the bed, watching you with dark eyes while you scooch backwards to get comfortable.
He prowls above you, enjoying the excited gleam in your eye as he crawls between your legs to kiss at your lips softly, then the softness turns to hunger as his hand grabs your jaw and he devours you. Kissing you like a man completely starved of it. 
A soft moan falls from your lips and he is nearly a goner, his breath lost as he pulls back to admire his work, a string of saliva keeping you both connected as you take a moment to open your eyes, lips swollen and red. He holds out his hand, waiting patiently for you to catch your breath before he orders you to “Spit.”
You comply easily, and he stops himself from growling in pleasure before he takes his hand and slaps your cunt harshly, a smile tearing across his face when you moan out before he is crawling back down the bed to shove his face between your legs roughly and lick a stripe between your folds. 
The moment your thighs tighten around his head he vows that he will spend the rest of his life doing this, no matter where and no matter when. He would suffocate in this spot if you would let him. A low growl releases from his chest as you moan, fingers lacing themselves in his hair tightly and tugging as he laps at your clit.
Over and over, feeling you spasm with pleasure twice before you use your hands and tug him up by his hair, whining. 
He drags his eyes up to you then, seeing the tears from pleasure streaming down your cheeks as he kneels in front of you on the bed. 
“Are you hurt?” Even if he had the carnal urge to take you right here and now your safety and well being came first and foremost. You seem to realize this as you move up and reach to wrap your arms around his neck, his hands flying to your sides to help stabilize you. Rubbing softly as he peers down at you, him being twice your size. 
Just the thought of it makes his stomach clench in anticipation as you lean up to kiss him, allowing him to lean you both back down onto the bed and lay over you, picking up the kiss just as hungrily. 
He only pulls away from your kiss to kiss along your neck and collarbone as you reach down to line him up. He has to close his eyes and take in a shuddering breath the second you touch him and it takes everything not to finish there. 
But it is all worth it as he pushes in, a growl once again ripping out of his chest as you moan out, foreheads pressed together as he pushes until he is bottomed out. 
“So….. fuck.”
“Neverstop.” You whine, pressing your chest up into his with your eyes still closed. But that just wouldn’t do. How could he admire your fucked out look if he didn’t have your undivided attention. So he pulls your hair and orders you to open your eyes. 
You don’t listen, instead moving your hips to gain some friction so he shoves his own hips down to keep you pinned into place as he orders one more. “Let. Me. See. Your. Fucking. Eyes.”
When you finally open them he begins moving, a slow pace at first, allowing you to gain pleasure slowly but the second he feels the tightness loosen up and you get wetter he is unleashed, pounding into you at a heavy pace. 
The headboard hits the wall with each hit, and your face is thrown into one of pure pleasure as he keeps going. And Geralt cannot think of anything he has ever done to deserve this. 
He would never actually deserve this, but he was so grateful that you had given him a chance, because this is what pure heaven was. 
“You’re mine.” He grunts out, one fist tightening in your hair as he kisses down your throat, thrusting into you at a rapid pace as your hands fly to scratch down his back in a way that has him holding his breath to stop from finishing. 
“I’m yours.” You moan out, tears streaming down your cheeks. 
“I’m never letting y- FUCK- you leave again.”
“I’ll never leave again.” 
“I’ll kill any man that touches you.” 
“No one else.” You cry out, and he feels you tighten around him once more and knows you’re close so he reaches a hand and pinches at your nipple harshly. “Only you Geralt. My Geralt!” You come undone around him, eyes rolling back as he keeps you pressed to his chest and finishes inside you, keeping you as close as he can while letting you both ride out your highs. 
By the time you both finish he lays you both down, his head laying on your chest with him laying between your legs as you play with your hair. 
“I love you…..” You whisper, twirling some of his hair softly.
“I love you.” He replies, moving until his chin is laying on your stomach and he can look up at you. “And I will never let you forget that.”
—-------------
You are awakened by a boot pressing into your cheek as you grumble out and move to push it away. 
“Geralt I swear-” But when you open your eyes you see none other than Jaskier with a cheeky little grin over his face as he stares down at you, a mug of what smells like cider in his hand. 
“Not your lover, but your closest friend.”
“Roach wears boots now?” You laugh, moving to stretch as he rolls his eyes. It had been months since you escaped the brothel, and since everything has changed. Jaskier seems more clingy than ever which was something you only pretended to hate, and Geralt has gone from the stoic asshole to the stoic love of your life…… well in public. 
Behind closed doors he spent most of his time worshiping you. 
“Where is he?” You ask after surveying to find him.
“He took little one to get some water.” 
Another thing that had changed, the young girl that you had smuggled out of a brothel months ago, who has slowly become like a daughter to you, well youngest daughter since you considered Ciri your daughter as well. 
“We’re here!” Y/d calls, her pudgy hand held in Geralts as he leads the girls back, Ciri with a small smile on her face while Y/d rushes to you. “We got water!”
“And Geralt says we have to be off.” Ciri sighs, leaning forward to accept your loving touch as you fuss over her hair. 
“Let’s get on the horses.” Your lover grunts, lifting y/d from under her shoulders and setting her on roach, moving to help Ciri before getting to you. A hand finds purchase on your thigh as you lift yourself onto your horse, smiling down at him. 
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“While you look like that? How will I ever break the love spell?”
“Guess your spellbound then.”
“Always have been.” He kisses your thigh while Jaskier is turned before turning to his own horse and jumping on, making sure y/d is comfortable before moving on.
(I AM SO SORRY, I REALLY THOUGHT I SCHEDULED IT BABES. How can I make it up? I'll do anything.....)
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468 notes · View notes
januaryembrs · 1 year
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HEARTBEAT | Geralt x reader
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Request: hellooo! if your still up for requests i'd love a geralt one please! perhaps reader is vary of horses (maybe even afraid) and he tries to help? <3
description: After learning your fear of horses, Geralt takes a gentle approach at teaching you to trust his companion, Roach.
Word Count: 1.1k
Trigger warnings: fear of horses? close proximity?
main masterlist
Authors note: I'm back finishing the last of the requests sent, I do so apologise for the wait I've been super busy over Christmas and hope to satiate you all soon!
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“What’s wrong?” Came his rugged voice, knocking you out of the stressed reverie you were in. 
“What?” You asked, half mindedly, “What do you mean?” You repeated, finally coming out of your thoughtful daze. 
“You’re being strange. Have been ever since we left town,” You felt caught. Witcher’s were naturally observant men, something you cursed yourself for not thinking of before, now that it had come back to bite you in the arse. 
And you had been acting strange. First it was refusing to mount the horse Geralt rode, Roach you knew her to be. You were tired all the time from walking the whole way to the next town while Geralt had the luxury of a steed, though you had brought the punishment on yourself you supposed. Then it was flinching every time the poor mare so much as whinnied, which she did so a lot when spooked by the monsters Geralt brought down. And now you refused to even sleep if she was too close to your bedspread. 
When you had been in town, it was not so noticeable. You spent a lot of time at the inn you were staying at, away from the bay coloured mare, so Geralt had not noticed the odd habits before. But now the two of you had hit the road and were sleeping next to a campfire instead of a roaring hearth, it was much more apparent.
“I-” You cut yourself off as the words died in your mouth. Your face blanked for a moment, thinking long about how you were to explain the issue to a man who knew no fear.
Geralt slayed monsters for a living, monsters that knew how to kill and kill well. Some of the bodies he brought back were two, three times his already mammoth size, and he still managed to charge at them without any hesitation. 
How on all the gods names were you supposed to tell him you were scared of horses? 
“Spit it out, then.” Geralt grumbled in his brash manner, though you could see in his amber eyes he was veiling his annoyance over true concern. Perhaps you wanted to leave him, he had expected nothing less. The two of you had only been friends a matter of months, but everyone always tires of him and his lifestyle eventually. 
He knew exactly what was to come out of your mouth. 
I don’t want to know you anymore.
“I’m scared of horses,” His head whipped up to meet your sullen eyes. Your face painted that of deep embarrassment, avoiding his gaze and poking at the fire with a frown. 
“What?” He bit, the confusion of the sentence clear as a bell in his tone. “What do you mean? It’s a horse.”
Your face flooded with heat that surely hadn’t come from the camp. The way he said it made it sound such a foolish fear to have. And it was, you supposed. Roach had never made any move to harm you or anyone else for that matter. But the idea of being atop such a muscled beast and giving her full control of whether she throws you off her or not made you frozen to the bone. 
“No shit,” You snapped, though all rebellion died in your chest as you accepted the fact he was clearly judging your fear of such a harmless creature. “I know it sounds ridiculous, I just always have been scared of them, alright?” 
Geralt pondered with a frown. Not even his usual ‘Hmm’ made an appearance, and so the two of you sat in silence. You feeling more foolish by the second, and him thinking fast of how to get through this problem of yours. 
Until he stood up brashly, walking over to his furred companion. You thought for a moment he was going to leave you here alone, thinking he stood much better chances with someone who was not so cowardly. And how could you blame him? You would hate to be stuck with someone so fearful when it came down to such a hostile environment. 
“Come here,” The behemoth man commanded, though he did so as gently as his rumbling voice would allow. 
You stared after him, eyes flicking to his outstretched hand, following his figure up to the calm mare that seemed unbothered by her owner's close proximity.
You hesitated for a moment, before standing and following his orders. Slowly taking steps towards the two, Geralt caught the moment your breath died in your throat as Roach grunted as horses normally do. He saw the way your fingers clenched at your side and your step faltered. 
He lowered his hand to calmly take yours in his large grasp, gently tugging you towards him and Roach despite the way he felt you resist. 
“Geralt-” You protested, her long snout seeking out your new smell and blowing hot air in your face. You tried stepping away from her, but Geralt’s body encompassed yours and forced you in place. His one arm stayed holding your wrist easily, while the other came around your body to push her snout away from your face softly. 
“She’s just curious about you, is all. She won’t hurt you,” Geralt tried to soothe you, feeling his strong heartbeat pressing against your spine. He began shuffling you forward under her neck with a strength you still tried and failed to resist against. 
“Geralt, please,” The panic was clear in your voice. You didn’t like horses and never would, and this kind of close exposure to them may have worked for some but only made you more on edge.
“Just trust me,” He whispered in your ear tenderly, lifting your arm up to her muscled chest. Your hand met her soft fur, her skin quivering momentarily at the contact though she showed no sign of upset, and his large hands spread your palm out onto her own heart beat. 
“Horses' hearts beat much slower than yours, did you know?” He murmured, keeping you tucked under her head and in front of him. You shook your head, feeling your own chest pounding at the proximity to such a beast. “Witchers hearts beat even slower than that,”  His breath was close to your ear now, as was Roach’s on your opposite side. You felt as if you were being squished in between the two of them, their breaths synchronising as they rolled down your spine in equal parts heat and chill. For every other beat of Roach’s heart came Geralt’s reverberating strongly in his chest, and it was then that you realised what he was doing. They sounded the same, horse and man. Hearts beating alike, breath swarming your senses gently, no danger to be found. 
If you should be worried about anything on your journey, it should be the monster-slaying beast that stood behind you that caressed your hand so kindly, and whispered in your ears that made your breathing stutter. 
This time when Roach nickered in your direction, you felt little fear, atleast half of what you’d had before. There was nothing to worry about when you had a man like Geralt guiding you.
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boxofbonesfic · 11 months
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Title: Tonality [3]
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, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: more creepy dream fuel, Geralt being slimy and having ulterior motives, and a little more tension with reader and her mother. all in all, i think you guys will enjoy this latest addition. as always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​
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The doe’s coat is as yellow as spun gold, and she blinks at you nervously as you approach. You cannot hide your childish squeal of delight, though it vexes her further. She nickers, shifting from hoof to hoof as she blinks at you with wide eyes. 
 “Papa, is she really mine?” You ask, your quiet voice heavy with awe. “She’s beautiful.” You hold out a hand, and her nostrils flare at your scent. Her long ears flick back, laying flat against her head behind her horns. They’re small—she’s young, barely a year old, perhaps less—and still covered with soft, velvety baby fur that you know will shed as she ages. 
 “Careful,” your father’s voice is ripe with caution. “She is new. Young, still, and a bit unwieldy.” You cluck your tongue at her, producing the sugar cubes you’d stolen from your mother’s tea tray from the sleeves of your dress. “I said careful—!” The doe leans forward, pressing her muzzle into your outstretched hand. You raise an eyebrow at your father, who shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh puffing out from between his lips. You stroke her head, running your fingers gently between her antlers and softly flicking ears. 
 “She about took Gaspard’s hand off this morning, she was so wild,” he says, shaking his head. “And yet she eats from your own as if you had weaned her yourself.” 
 “Did Gaspard try sugar?” You ask, giggling as her lips tickle your palm. “Perhaps she mightn’t have tried to amputate his fingers had he kept some of his salt to himself.” The wind shifts, and beneath the doe’s thick animal scent, there is something else.
 Something like sulphur and rotting meat.
 Your hand passes down the doe’s head, and her skin sloughs off beneath your fingers, leaving shiny, white bone behind. You gag, clapping a bloody hand over your mouth as fat flies buzz lazily out of her empty eye sockets. Wrong. This is wrong, it doesn’t happen like this—
 How does it go, again?
 Your father gifts you the doe, the golden doe, you are eighteen, you are a woman now, you will ride with him on the hunt, you will—
 “Su—gar swe—et,” Your father’s voice is the buzzing of a thousand glistening black flies, his tongue is made from them, wriggling in his wide open mouth. His eyes are children’s scribbles, black and writhing, and tears like ink drip from their corners. “It tasted like sugar—”
 It is then that you remember your father is dead.
 He is dead. He is dead here, because he is dead everywhere, dead and rotting and gone but not gone and you mustn’t listen, you mustn’t—
 You wake with a sharp gasp. 
 “—Princess?” The words dissolve into a static, meaningless drone as you are thrust suddenly back into consciousness. For a moment, the dream is still overlaid over the waking world like runny watercolor as you blink groggily in the dark. Beneath your trembling fingers, you can still feel the doe’s soft, golden coat—and the sharp, polished bone of her skull. With a sweaty palm against the wall, you retch, doubling over as you heave. 
 Nothing comes up. 
 The air around you is stale, stagnant, and the taste of dust and decay blankets your tongue as you swallow down lungful after panicked lungful. One thing is abysmally clear to you as you dizzily rest a hand on the cold stone to keep yourself upright—
 You are not in your rooms. 
 Where am I?
 “Princess.” The voice sounds again, and your head snaps about wildly, your eyes wide as you stare into the dark. The dream is still there, sticking the fringes of your waking thoughts like tar, and for a moment there are two voices, one made of dark black honey, sickly sweet, and the other the insectile buzz of a thousand glassy wings all beating in unison—
 “Wh-who goes there?” You ask, dragging the back of your hand across your quivering mouth. There is a sound like the sharp rushing of air, and all at once the room is lit with warm yellow light. You suppress a scream as your father’s withered, sunken face appears before you, his eyes like children’s scribble—you shut your eyes, closing them tightly as you whimper. 
 “A dream, this is a dream, a dream—” A cool, bare hand wraps about your wrist and you scream, pulling and fighting as fiercely as you can manage. “No! No! You’re dead—!” You cry, hysterical tears creeping out of the corners of your closed eyes. 
 “I regret to inform you, little sister, that I am very much alive.” It is not your father’s voice—not the dead—but your step-brother’s. “Despite your best attempts to dispatch me.” Slowly, you open your eyes, sniffling as you meet his gaze. He nods up at your balled fists, still trembling in his grip. You can feel the heat of him through his own loose night-shirt and your thin cotton shift, and your skin prickles as he licks his lips. 
 “Release me.” You say it with more confidence than you feel. For a moment, you feel your step-brother drag his thumb across your pulse point and cock his head, as though he is considering it. 
 “Will you strike me again, little princess?” He asks, a mocking smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You scowl. “I did not plan for a midnight brawl.” You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. Geralt stares at you for a moment, like his golden eyes see something yours do not. As you prepare to make the demand again, he frees your wrists. You clutch your hands to your chest, eyeing him warily. The torch he has lit casts the long room in dim orange light, the flames dancing in his irises, turning them molten. It is the firelight, you think, that makes him look so menacing, so…
 Hungry. 
 You shiver, turning your gaze instead to your surroundings, squinting at the long stone hall in the flickering light. The cool, stagnant air is disturbed only by the sound of your quiet breath, which catches in your throat as your eyes widen.
 “Where…are we?” You ask, though you fear you know the answer already. 
 The walls are lines with alcoves bearing countless candles, stuck into the melted pools of wax left by their predecessors rather than into proper candelabras. And in neat rows in front of them… 
 Graves. Made of the same gray stone as the castle. Highly polished and clean, they are each adorned with ornate carvings of their occupants. You stare grimly at the rows and rows of polished stone, and wonder at how you might have possibly found your way here through the dark labyrinth of the castle. You think again of the dream, and gooseflesh rises again on your skin. 
 ”Did you bring me here?” You round on the prince, your brow furrowed. He chuckles in response, and the sound of it grates against you. 
 “Me? I merely followed you. In truth I had wondered why you would visit the catacombs at this hour. I thought perhaps,” his eyes narrow as a crude grin plays at the corners of his mouth. “A secret paramour, or—”
 “Do not confuse me with yourself!” You snap, wrapping your arms around your body as you shiver. The prince clucks his tongue at your ire.
 “Come now, don’t be cross, little sister,” Geralt purrs. “It wouldn’t have been proper to leave you wandering the hallways in your state of undress, muttering to yourself like a madwoman.” Your cheeks warm at his crude words, and you feel angry, embarrassed tears flush hotly into the space behind your eyes. You blink them back. 
 “I… have not walked in my sleep since I was a child,” you admit, looking down at the space between your bare feet. Geralt hums in response. Old Madge, in her half-blind wisdom had always muttered fearfully to your father about your nightly escapades. 
 A soul shouldn’t walk about at night, she would say, her thin, knobby fingers twisting strands of honeysuckle and dried lavender together into a long chain, one she would wind around your bed’s posts every night for a year until finally you stayed in it. A soul shouldn’t walk about at night. What’s it lookin’ for?
 “I fear I…” You shake your head, swallowing your concerns—they are not for him to hear.  “No matter.” For an instant, a look of disappointment crosses his face before it is gone again, leaving you to wonder if you had even seen it at all. “Thank you.” Your reluctance is palpable. “For waking me.” 
 “You’ve no need to thank me. Not yet.” His eyes glitter darkly. You swallow thickly, and they follow the movement, sweeping almost lazily down the line of your throat. “Let us go.” They flick back up to yours. “Unless you wish to spend the night here?” He gestures behind you, and you shiver again, shaking your head quickly. 
 “Please.” 
 You are grateful to leave the eerie silence of the royal catacombs behind you, following as closely as you dare behind the prince. His torch throws up strange shapes on the walls of the narrow, spiraling stairwell. You can feel the dream sitting at the edges of your thoughts, waiting eagerly to settle back over you like fog. You were not predisposed to bad dreams, and yet they seemed to be the only ones you have had since you arrived. You have been beset with dark thoughts, nipping at your heels like hungry dogs, no—
 Wolves. 
 The two of you emerge from the narrow stairwell into the empty chapel, and the vast hall echoes with your entry. The sconces are dark, and the robed, painted priests nowhere to be seen. The chapel is far less intimidating at night, the sharp features of the northern gods softened by shadow. Cold moonlight filters down softly through the domed ceiling, the colors pale and muted. For a moment, the perfectly round moon is framed perfectly by the pane of red glass containing Father Wolf, shining bright crimson above his head as you pass beneath it. 
 The choking scent of the incense is gone now, and only a trace of it remains in the still air. It is overpowered by a thick, musky animal scent that reminds you of wet fur. As the two of you cross the center of the room, Geralt hooks left, towards the wide, dark archway on the other side of the room. It gapes open like a toothless mouth, the stone floor sloping downward steeply into the dark. 
 You stop at the top of it, the warm air stirring the loose hair about your shoulders. Geralt turns to look back at you, raising a brow and cocking his head p as he lifts  the torch higher. There is a question in the tilt of his head, unspoken on the curve of his lips.
 Are you afraid?
 You are. The dank, pungent animal scent washes over you again, and you shudder. It reminds you of your father’s hunting dogs.
 “Come, little Doe.” His voice feels like cold fingers drawn across the back of your neck. “You need not fear the kennels this night.” 
 “I am not afraid.” You jut your chin out stubbornly, even as gooseflesh erupts along your arms. 
 “Good,” he purrs, licking his lips. “They can smell it.” Geralt descends down into the dark maw, and you reluctantly follow. Like most, you are no stranger to the rumors that leak steadily from King Vesemir’s halls; fantastical tales of furred beasts whose jaws were wide enough to swallow a horse whole. You clutch yourself, inching closer to the prince as the sloped path straightens out, opening into a massive cavern. 
 Geralt’s torch is little more than a pinprick of light in in the vast, unyielding dark. The warm glow only manages to dimly outline the shapes of natural stone pillars, throwing up misshapen shadows. There are still more passageways, little more than tunnels, littering the walls like pockmarks. For a moment, the light of Geralt’s torch throws a long arm across the chamber. 
 Reflected in it’s light are two, glowing orbs. Eyes, the size of dinner plates, their color impossible to describe. It was as if the eyes themselves were ablaze, glowing brightly, breaking the darkness. Over the rush of your own labored breath, you can make out the quiet scratch of claws on stone. It’s coming closer. The thought tightens your throat.
 You are powerless, paralyzed before it like prey. Are you prey? You suppress a whimper. There is warmth at your back, and you realize belatedly that it is  Geralt, so close his breath brushes the back of your neck. 
 “No fear, little princess. No fear.” 
 In less than an instant, the creature stands just beyond the ring of light cast by the prince’s torch. Faintly, you can make out the hulking shape of it; larger by far than any horse. Shaggy white fur, stained a rusty red around its muzzle, it’s ears pricked up and forward as it listens to the sound of your breath.
 “Hold out your hand.” You do, lifting a trembling palm in front of you as if to stop the wolf from coming any closer. The wolf’s lip curls, exposing the wickedly sharp tip of a fang. It sniffs at your hand, and for a moment, you fear you will draw back nothing but a bloody stump. Your shock is palpable when it presses the tip of its snout against your hand, whiskers tickling your palm. 
 “Incredible.” The word escapes with the release of your held breath. You stroke the warm, bristly hair on its muzzle slowly, your eyes still wide with disbelief. The dire-wolf snorts, claws tapping against the stone as it turns from you. As quickly as the wolf appeared, it is gone again, disappearing back into the dark. You remain as you were for a moment more, your arm still outstretched as you watch its retreating back with terrified wonder. 
 “Yrsil.” Geralt’s voice drags you back to the present, and suddenly you are aware of how close he is to you, the way his warm breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.  “The she-wolf. Her name is Yrsil.” You jump away from him, smoothing your hands down your shift as you eye him warily. 
 “Why did you bring me here?” The accusatory note in your voice appears to amuse him, further stoking your ire. “To frighten me?” 
 “If I wanted you fearful, I would not have needed the kennels to do it.” You clench your fists, glaring hatefully at him as he resumes his casual pace across the cavern floor. “Come, now. This is the quickest way back to the eastern wing of the castle. I would not lie to you.” You glare at him, your eyes narrowed.
 “Would you not?” You reply dryly. 
 “I am many things, Princess.” Geralt’s voice drips into your ears like snake oil. “But liar is not one I am eager to add to the list.” 
 True to his word, the two of you emerge from the kennel entrance in the throne room, the hot musk of below sticking uncomfortably to your skin and hair. You half expect the prince to take his leave, now that you are back in familiar territory, but he doesn’t. He keeps pace with you all the way back to your chambers. The heavy door is still slightly ajar, no doubt from your midnight venture. The prince places the lit torch in one of the empty wall sconces before leaning expectantly against the wall, his body partially blocking the doorway. 
 “Excuse me.” 
 He slowly tilts his head, fixing you with a questioning look. “I do believe there is something you are forgetting, my Lady.” He parrots Kassandra’s tone with irritating accuracy. “I know Redania keeps to the old customs as well as they can, however here in Rivia we do require a certain level of decorum.”
 You clench your fists in your nightgown. “What do you want, Geralt?” You ask, exasperated.
 “A kiss should suffice, little Doe.” He purrs. His golden eyes burn the same way they did in the gardens the night of your mother’s coronation. You shake your head in disbelief as you stare at him, your lips parted. 
 “Y-you cannot ask this of me!” Your repudiation is a shrill squeak. “T-tis  indecent, w-we cannot—!” You shake your head again. “The king will not allow—”
 “I think you will find, little sister,” he reaches forward to trace the pad of his forefinger along your jaw-line, “that it matters not what the king will allow if he is not present. Do you see him?”He pushes your head to the side, forcing you to look down the hallway. “I don’t.” This is the closest Geralt has ever been to you, practically pressing you against the wall, caging you in with his massive arms. You understand now, the message relayed beneath his words—you are in no position to negotiate. 
 “You are my brother!” You plead, but he is unmoved. 
 “In name only.” He leans down, twining a lock of hair between his fingers, tugging it gently. “My father’s sham of a marriage has remarkably little to do with me.” You press yourself against the stone as he leans closer. “Come now, little Doe. Let us speak truth.” He tugs gently at the satin ribbon at the neck of your shift and it falls open. 
 “What you saw in the gardens intrigued you,” Geralt traces a path from your chin to your collarbone, his fingers feather-light, “did it not?”
 “No!” His open amusement at your conviction is like cold water down your back. 
 “I saw, Sweetling,” he says lowly. “The look on your face—”
 “Fine!” You shrill, tearing yourself away from him. It is not true, it cannot be—and yet, your blood rushes through your veins, a thin tendril of that same shameful longing uncurling in your belly. The dark curiosity that had driven you to peer around the hedge all those nights ago surges with sinful familiarity, even as you try to stamp it out.
 You lean forward with a grimace, rolling onto the tips of your toes. The prince cups your chin, smoothing a finger along your lower lip. He is unprepared for you to turn your head sharply, your lips brushing against his stubbled cheek. It is only the quickness of your movement and Prince Geralt’s own surprise that allows your malicious compliance, and you dart away, ducking under his arm and through the slim gap in the door. 
 He snarls, reaching for you, but you slam the it shut, sliding the bolt into place with speed that surprises you. Your heart hammers against your chest as for a brief moment, there is silence on the other side of the door. 
 “Aren’t you clever,” he sneers, his voice muffled through the wood.  He tries the handle before letting out a muted curse. “Open the door.” Your silence earns you a dark growl. “Open it!”
  You jump back from the door, muffling the sound of your scream with the palms of your hands as Geralt throws himself against it. It shudders in its frame, and for a terrifying moment you fear it will burst open, revealing the enraged prince on the other side—but it does not.
 “Open it!” You shrink against the wall as he seethes, his threats echoing in your ears. The sturdy wood holds against his assault, and when he finally stops, you can hear the sound of his labored breathing on the other side. That too, gradually fades into silence, and cautiously, you approach the door. Somehow, though you cannot see him, you know he remains there, waiting. 
 “You will regret this night.” There is grim promise in his words. “Little sister.” The sound of Geralt’s retreating footsteps makes your shoulders sag with relief, and you collapse against the wall, your breath labored. Though you doubt he is still there, waiting to ambush you in the hall, you do not dare open the door again until morning—
 Just in case. 
 —
 “It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Your mother flutters her fan daintily as she basks in the warm end-of-summer sun. To her right, Lady Amelia, red-faced and sweating beneath her pale face paint, forces a smile through her obvious discomfort.
 “Oh yes, Highness.” She blinks as a cloudy bead of sweat slides down into her eye. “Lovely.”
 You know the noblewomen fawning over your mother would much rather be inside, sheltered from the hot sun by the cold stone of the castle. It was where you would have been, if not for the summons from your mother. You had spent the majority of the past week or so in your chambers, reluctantly leaving them only when strictly necessary in your attempts to avoid the prince.
 The Prince.
 At the thought of him, you cast a wary glance at your surroundings, looking for the telltale gleam of his golden eyes, or the shock of his snow white hair. Thankfully, you find neither. Crossing the patch of soft, green grass toward your mother, you perch impatiently on the end of the carved stone bench as you wait for her to notice you. You make idle conversation with her ladies as you wait, twisting your fingers nervously in the fabric of your skirts while you try to parse out your request.
 I want to go home. 
 “Ah, daughter,” she greets you, and you drop your head respectfully as she addresses you. “Come to enjoy the weather?” She gestures around her at the blooming garden. “I daresay we shall miss it soon enough.”  She stretches, the jewels adorning her fingers and throat shining brilliantly in the sun.
 “It is lovely,” you say, nodding agreeably. “It does remind me of home.” You curse yourself as the word slips from your lips. Instantly, your eyes fly to your mother’s face, watching for the displeasure you know you will see written in the stiffness of her smile or the narrowed slant of her eyes. 
 “Of Redania, you mean.” The soft curve of her lips belie the dagger sharp edges of her words. The smile you force in return is weak, trembling at the edges of your mouth. 
 “Y-yes. That is… what I meant to say.” You do not miss the way her ladies lean in amongst themselves, whispering. “D-did you wish to speak with me?” Though the day is unseasonably warm, and you yourself are surrounded by people, you feel small and cold and alone. Adrift. 
 “Must a mother need a reason to see her child?” She asks, rising gracefully from her seat. One of the servants rushes over with a parasol, but she waves him away, shaking her head. “If a reason must be given, I suppose mine might be that I have missed you.”  She loops her arm through one of yours securely, steering you off the patch of cool grass and back onto the garden path proper.  The whispers of her ladies follow behind you, biting at your heels they fade. 
 “I am your mother, and yet I cannot recall when last we broke bread together.” 
 “I have found myself quite exhausted, of late,” You mumble the half truth. “I fear the journey weighs heavily upon me still.” You suppress a shudder as you remember the dream, your father’s rotting face bloated with fat maggots—“I have not slept well.” 
 “Late night escapades do tend to be quite exhausting.” Her lips curve into a cold, knowing smile, and your belly fills with hot lead. Shame turns the blood in your veins to ice as your mother inspects her sleeve. A terrible fury rages beneath the placid surface of her pleasantries, and you cower in the face of it. 
 “M-mother, I—” The words will not come, leaving you floundering as your mouth opens and closes in silence. “H-he—”
 “Did you think I would not see it?” She spits. Disgust drips from the words.    “Would not notice his...” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as her mouth twists with displeasure. “Interest.” You swallow against the lump in your throat, knowing it matters not but still wondering who might have seen, who might have witnessed Prince Geralt raging at your door. 
 “Mother, I-I swear to you, I have done nothing—! H-he, I—I walked in my sleep, a-and he found me, I—nothing happened!” You hate the look on her face, like your pleas of innocence have only confirmed your guilt. “Nothing—”
 “Nothing?” Her lip curls. “You must know these games you play, all they have done is pique his interest.” She speaks as though somehow, you should have known better. “Men are stupid, willful creatures, desirous of what they cannot have.” She clucks her tongue at you. “Your father coddled you far too long—you are a woman grown! It is long past time you act like it!” 
 “Father would believe me!” You sob. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks.   “I am innocent!” Your mother stares at you coldly, before reaching forward to cup your chin. 
 “It is not your innocence I question.” Your mother’s voice is deceptively soft.   “It is your sense.” You blink at her through your tears, trembling. “My sweet, naive girl.” She wipes roughly at your tears with the pad of her thumb. The cold distance in her eyes splits you cleanly down the middle like a sharp blade. There is part of you that wants to fawn, to deliver honeyed words on a platter until her love shines down on you again like the sun—
 And part that wants nothing more than to flee. You want to ask—no, beg—for her to send you home, to return you to the walls you knew better than the lines on your own palms. Your mother embraces you, her lips brushing your cheek even as your own work silently. The words won’t come, like they are stuck in your throat. 
 “There should be only honesty between us.” Your mother says. “Understand?”
 I want to go home.
 Send me home.
 Please.
 “Yes.” You hang your head in defeat, the words retreating from your tongue.  
 “Good.” She chirps as she leans away. She is herself again, smiling affectionately as she brushes imaginary dirt from your dress, tucking loose strands of hair back into your fraying braid. “And you’ll tidy up for supper, won’t you? We have missed you at the table these past nights.” You clasp your hands together so tightly that your palms sting as you force a smile.
 “Of course.” 
 For a moment, just a moment, the warm breeze carries with it the smell of rot and earth, and you remember the doe, your father’s gift dead and bloated in the patch of hexweed in the woods. 
 It smells like sugarcane, but it isn’t, your father had taught you young. It smells sweet, but it’s not, understand? 
 Perhaps, you think, as you reluctantly follow your mother’s retreating back, people can be hexweed too.
to be continued…
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Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️
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xzaddyzanakinx · 3 months
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FOUND THIS VA ON REDDIT AND HE SOUNDS LIKE GERALT. Currently dying, screaming, crying throwing up.
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This is so good.
Geralt if you see this, fuck me with the hilt of your sword please and thank you.
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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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muffinsssss · 1 year
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Jealous
➫ Warnings: smut, language, grammer mistake, biting/marking, drunk men and alcohol.
➫ Summary: When Y/N doesn't call off the man who's flirting with her, Geralt has to make it known that she's already taken.
➫ Paring: Geralt x FEM!Reader
➫ Henry Cavill Masterlist
➫ A/N: smut under the cut :) kinda short ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯
⩇3:⩇⩇ am ✔
Geralt's face held a scowl, his arms over his chest as he watched the drunken man stumble over to his girl. As geralt heard the words come out of his mouth, he expected her to stand up and walk away, yet she just looked up at the man with a smile. Oh, she's definitely doing this on purpose. Geralt strides forward, keeping his glare on the man. The drunk men and women watch as the massive Witcher walk up to the two. His large hand gripped onto the man's jacket, pulling him away from her. He growled, pushing the man away, who stumbled over the bar stools landing on his ass.
"Geralt what was th-" Geralt grabbed her arm, pulling her tawords their room. He pushed her into the room, and was quick to lock it. "What type of game do you dare play?" He asked, stalking forward. He watched her chest rise and fall with excitement as she backed up against the wall. "letting that filthy Man get so close to what's already taken." His hand wrapped around her throat once her back hit the wall. His hands found her thighs, giving her the signal to jump. His teeth nibbled at her jaw as his hands pulled the strings that tied her dress. The dress slide down to her hips, bunching up. He kissed down her neck and to her breasts.
"please." She whispered into the air. Her hands moving down to his dark pants. He kissed down the valley of her breasts. The weight of him keeping her pinned to the wall as he helped her with his pants. She bit her bottom lip as her hand brushed against his cock. Her eyes meet his. His fingers pushed aside the cloth that cover her cunt. He felt a growl vibrate as he watched her head tilt back. His fingers slowly sliding between her wet folds. His thumb rubbing against her clit as his fingers plunge into her soppy cunt. "oh fuck-Geralt!" She moaned, her nails digging into his shirt. Her cries and moans echoed around the room, seeping through the thin walls.
Once he had her cumming all over his fingers, he pulled his hand away. Geralt took his fingers into his mouth, cleaning them before aligning his cock. He thrusted in. Both moans and groans filled the room, followed by skin hitting skin. She screamed out his name as he hit deep into her, his cock kissing against her cervix just right. He kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. Swallowing her screams and moans his thrusts became sloppy and fast. He kissed down her jaw and to the crook of her neck. "Mm- gunna cum again." She whined. Her legs shaking in his hands.
Geralt growled, his teeth digging into her flesh as he thrusted into her untill she came. A pleasurable groan left his throat as her cunt clenched around his cock, milking him. His tongue licked the beads of blood that formed, earning a soft hiss in response. He cared her to bed, placing her on the animal skin blanket, he took off the rest of his clothes, followed by hers. He kissed her inner thighs, nibbling of the soft fat. Her hands tangled into his white tangled hair. He pushed opened her lips, watching his cum and hers leak out of her hole.
He looked up at her as his lips and tongue licked and sucked on her clit. He felt her legs shake under his hold, making him smirk. His fingers pumped in and out her used cunt. "Ah-Ah Geralt!" She cried as he sucked harshly and his tongue swirled on top of her bundle of nerves. His stubble rubbing against her silky skin. Short cry like screams left her mouth as she got closer to her release. Geralt pulled away, making her whine and try to pull him back down. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them beside of her. His cock pressed against her hole. He grunted as he pushed in. Loving the feeling of the soft and warm walls contracting around his cock as he stretched her out again.
He's pace became brutal, animalistic. Gasps and breathless moans left her lips as rut into her. He nibbled at the skin of neck, leaking red marks. He fucked her through her release, wanting everyone in this damn tavern. Her screams became louder that his grunts and growls as came again, begging for him to slow down. "Nuh, I don't think so." He grunted out into her ear, keeping her hips pinned down. "Take what I give you." She felt his cock twitch inside her followed by few harsh thrusts before he came. Sweat covered their body's. "I think they know." She whispered, hearing hollering to be quiet.
1K notes · View notes
shellyshellshell · 1 month
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The Offering: Part Three
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Attn: Haven’t been able to stop thinking about these two all weekend so here we go! Hope y’all enjoy!
Word Count: 1,398
Pairing: Ancient Diety Geralt (The White Wolf) x Reader
Summary: A nightmare creates a sense of foreboding.
Warnings: foreboding, supernatural and religious elements, smidge of angst
Previous Part:
Part Two
You awoke with a start. You’d been having a nightmare, but it was all muddled. You then remembered where you were, turning to your right you found Geralt there watching you. “Bad dream, Flower?,” he asked as he brushed the hair back from your face. “Yeah,” you replied softly. “Hmm,” he hummed. “Do you sleep,” you asked, unthinkingly placing your hand over his and keeping it on your face. “I can if I wish,” he replied. “Have you?,” you questioned. “No, I wanted to watch over you,” he told you. “You could’ve slept,” you said as you sat up. “I do not tire Little Flower, and any dream I could’ve had would not have been as sweet as you,” he replied. All of these pretty words he kept saying, the ones that were directed at you, had your heart beating wildly.
He smiled softly. “Are you hungry?,” he asked. “I am but….,” you began awkwardly. “Right. Humans have bodily functions,” he said. “You don’t?,” you asked. “No. Come,” he says, offering you his hand. You take it and let him lead you outside and to an outhouse behind the cottage. “I shall wait for you right here,” he tells you. You take care of your business before coming out and finding him there waiting. You take in the surroundings. The cottage is in a lush spot of woods right near the river. You walk towards it before kneeling down and washing your hands off a bit.
“Feeling better today?,” he asks from beside you. “Yes. Thank you,” you tell him. “For what Flower?,” he asked confusedly. “Taking care of me,” you reply as you look up into his big yellow eyes. “I will always do that, my love. You don’t have to thank me for it,” he says softly. “But-,” you begin before he brings his fingers to cover your lips. “You are mine. I will always care for you, understand?,” he asks. You nod lightly, knowing better than to protest any further because his words are nothing but true. “Now, let’s get you fed, yes?,” he says before taking your hand and leading you inside.
You eat and then realize Geralt hasn’t eaten. “Will you not have anything?,” you ask him. “There’s not much, and I want you to have it. I must go for more offerings today,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone,” you say frantically, surprising even yourself. “You want to be with me?,” he asks. You think about that for a moment and the answer is yes. You’d rather be with him than anywhere else. The thought of being apart from him has a deep ache settling within you. “Yes,” you reply. He smiles brightly, your words satisfying him greatly, before taking your hand. “Then you shall accompany me,” he tells you.
When you’re done, you follow him outside and to a stable nearby where he brings out a brown mare. “This is Roach,” he tells you. You pet her nose gently, letting her get used to you a bit. “She’s sweet,” you tell him. “Ready?,” he asks. You nod before he helps you into the saddle, then places himself behind you. He takes the reins in one hand while wrapping an arm around you protectively, letting his hand splay across your stomach. “Is this alright? I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, Flower,” he asks. “This is perfectly fine,” you tell him. You can’t see it but he smiles behind you, and fights back the urge to place a soft kiss to your cheek.
You two ride through four villages, gathering up all the food that’s still good at the alters before Geralt ends up at your village’s alter. You have a sense of dread washing over you as you two ride up to it. “I don’t want to be here, Geralt,” you tell him. “Just a moment, Flower,” he says as he dismounts. He then grabs the alter, raises it back over his shoulder one handedly and hurls it. Your eyes widen at the display of strength before you jolt lightly at the sound of it hitting the ground off in the distance. “They have nothing left to offer me,” he says as he sits back behind you.
After riding all day you’ve become tired, even with nibbling on a few of the offerings between stops. You feel your head drooping forward before you jump with a start. “Lean back Little Flower. Rest in the safety of my arms,” Geralt encourages, and so you do. You let yourself melt back into his warm chest and go to sleep. Then you’re having the nightmare again and it’s much clearer this time. You’re on the ground on your back, Rosemary overtop of you with a dagger. She stabs you until your covered in blood
“No. No!,” you cry out in your sleep. Geralt has just come back upon the cottage and stops Roach so he can hold you better while you’re flailing. “Flower. Flower!,” he says as he turns you and pulls you closer. You open your eyes and see his boring into you. “Geralt,” you say as you throw your arms around him and cling to him. He holds you tight, soothingly rubbing your back. “What did you dream of?,” he asks as his face rests on your shoulder. “Rosemary was stabbing me, killing me,” you say softly. He pulls back and cups your face. “I will never let anyone harm you. Never,” he tells you. “It was only a dream,” you murmur. “I’m not so sure,” he replies.
“I’ve never—,” you began. “You dreamt of me,” he says before you can finish. The thought unsettles you. Were you prophesying your own death? Could Geralt protect you? It was as if he could see the thoughts crossing your mind. “I promise I will protect you, Little Flower,” he says as he caresses your face. You nod lightly before he gets down and brings you with him. He keeps you close as he stables Roach. When he starts unloading the offerings you try to help. “I’ve got it my love,” he tells you. “I can help,” you reply. He smiles at you sweetly while continuing as he was. He then takes you by the hand and leads you inside.
The week carried on and the dreams continue. One morning you wake to Geralt with a scowl. “Will you not just let me kill them Flower? I cannot stand to see you suffer like this,” he huffs out. “If… if they try to harm me then you can kill them,” you reply. “You have a soft heart Little Flower. They have already harmed you, but I can deny you little,” he sighs. You sit there and contemplate how to ask him for something you want. “What is it?,” he then asks. “I’d like to bathe,” you say shyly. “After breakfast we shall go down to the river. I could use a wash myself,” he tells you.
Once breakfast is over you nervously make your way to the river. He motions for you to go first, then turns his back to you. Once you’re settled you let him know, then turn away so he can enter the river. After cleaning yourself you get out and cover up with the cloth Geralt provided. You hear him coming out of the river as well and for some reason you wait for him. “Ready?,” he questions. You turn to see him bare chested with the cloth hung around his hips. You don’t realize you’re staring until you see his chest begin to rumbled with laughter. “I—,” you begin before he steps forward. “Don’t apologize. I find your form pleasing as well,” he says as he takes your face in his hands.
He’s staring at your lips and before you think much of it, you tilt your head up towards him. He leans in closer, slowly ghosting his lips over your cheek and to your mouth. You release a shuddering breath before he places the gentlest of kisses to your lips. When he pulls away, he looks into your eyes before kissing you twice more. “My Flower,” he whispers as he rests his head against yours. You surprise him when you lean up and give him another kiss. He hums in approval before you pull away. “Let’s get you inside before you get a chill,” he then says.
Part Four
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sillyrabbit81 · 1 year
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Love Sick
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Prompt: Slow & Romantic, Medical Play from @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden (x) Thank you!
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Female Reader
Word Count: Approx. 2.9k
Warnings: Smut, hand job, oral sex (m receiving), mentions of body fluids, made up medical treatments.
Authors Note: As always I need to thank my amazing mates and readers @nashibirne , @amberangel112 and @henryobsessed your thoughtful and honest comments (and special knowledge 🤣) are always appreciated.
I found this prompt particularly tricky as medical play isn't a kink I'm overly familiar with, but in the end I'm pretty happy with how it turned out and I hope you enjoy it.
I'm sorry, but I barely had time to read over it, it was edited by me, on the fly there will be errors
Dividers by me.
Masterlist
Celebration Masterlist
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There is a knock on the door to your small hut. Your hands are busy pouring a heavy pot of freshly prepared Eucalyptus oil through a cheesecloth strainer, so you call out to the visitor.
“Come in.”
You hope it's a customer, you could do with the money, but immediately curse yourself. You love being a healer, but you hate that you often have to rely on the misfortune of others. Maybe it will be a young woman, happy to be pregnant and they’ll ask you for assistance to deliver the baby when the time comes. 
You hear the door open and close. Still pouring the freshy made oil, you glance at the door and very nearly lose the preparation that took you over six hours to make.
“Geralt,” you whisper.
His brows raise slightly in surprise as he greets you by name in a low rumble that you hadn’t heard in nearly two years.
You’re frozen by the shock of seeing the Witcher again and by the uncertainty of how to react to his unexpected appearance at your door. You stare at each other, he seems as unable to decide what to do as you are.
Geralt's brows raise higher and he says your name again, this time with urgency and while taking long strides to your side.
You turn back to your work and curse. In your bewilderment, you haven’t stopped pouring and oil is leaking over the sides of the cheese cloth and onto your table and apron.
Geralt takes the pot out of your hands and you start to mop up the spill. It doesn’t look like you lost too much and you sigh with relief. When you’ve wiped up as much as you can, you  try to take your apron off, but your fingers are oily and make gripping the tie difficult.
“Let me,” Geralt says. You jump, you didn’t realise he was standing so close behind you.
His fingers brush across the bare skin of your neck as he pulls at the strings of your apron and his touch makes your spine tighten and lock. His body presses against your back as he reaches around your waist and unties the long doubled over strings tied your front. He doesn’t move when the apron loosens and you pull it off, instead he rests his hands on your hips while you wipe your oily fingers on the roughened cotton.
“I have to wash my hands,” you say, proud of the fact that your voice is calm and strong. “Take a seat.”
You slip out of Geralt’s reach and over to your fireplace. You take the kettle from its spot on your stove and pour some heated water into your wash bowl and quickly lather your hands in soap. You take the time to compose yourself. There are so many questions running through your mind you aren’t sure where to start.
“How did you find me?” you ask while you dry your hands.
“I didn’t,” Geralt says. “I’m as surprised to find you here as you are.”
You nod and keep rubbing your dry hands against the towel.
“It wasn’t for a lack of trying,” he mutters under his breath.
Your brows furrow. Geralt had tried to find you? You found that odd considering the events that led to your parting of ways.
“So I shouldn’t have to move again? Did I cover my tracks?” you ask, dreading the answer.
“If I couldn’t find you, it’s unlikely those fools could.”
You let out a breath you weren’t even aware you had been holding, then fold the towel and place it next to the basin. Although Geralt’s answers are a relief, they do raise more questions.
“So what brings you here then?”
Geralt shifts in the chair. “I was passing through.”
“No, I mean why are you seeking a healer? Are you hurt?”
“No,” he says.
“Then what do you need a healer for?”
“Nevermind. It can wait until I get back to Kaer Morhen.”
“But that's several weeks' journey from here.”
“Vesemir will know what to do.”
“Geralt, please? Just tell me.”
He hums, his lips thinning as he thinks. Then he takes a deep breath and says quickly, “I think I’m unwell, or maybe poisoned by something I am unfamiliar with.”
You frown. He sounds uneasy, that isn’t like him. Immediately your clinical detachment overrides any other emotions you have about Geralt’s unexpected appearance and you begin your examination.
“What are the symptoms?”
“I can’t sleep. There’s an ache in my chest; it’s as if I can’t breathe sometimes. I get headaches, and my heart races sometimes. I can’t concentrate and I’m slow to react.” He relays the information in a tone that tries to make him appear unbothered, as if any one of those symptoms aren’t serious enough on their own, let alone altogether.
“And how long has this been going on?”
“Months,” he says.
Mentally you start checking off symptoms and ask clarifying questions, but each answer he gives only adds to your confusion.
Eventually you shake your head and begin to gather supplies and motion towards the bed. “I’ll need to do a physical examination. Please remove your clothes and lay on the bed. You can cover yourself with the sheet.”
Geralt doesn’t move and for a moment you think he is going to refuse. Then he stands slowly, and begins to pull his loose black shirt from his leather pants.
Although you are a healer and are used to seeing men in all sorts of compromising positions, your face burns while you watch him undress out of the corner of your eye. The last time you saw him partially naked… You shake your head as if that will stop the memories of the night he helped you escape from your old village’s Alderman and his cronies.
When Geralt is settled on the bed, you begin by finding his pulse in his neck. His skin is so warm, almost hot, but not quite feverish. You don’t know a lot about Witchers and how their mutations affect their anatomy and function, but you know enough that Geralt’s heart is beating far faster than it should be. 
Your hands move over his chest and down to his belly. He jumps slightly as you dig your fingers into his skin. For a moment your detachment slips and you bite your lip as you look down at your hands resting on Geralt’s stomach. Your fingers brush over his smooth skin in a motion that's much too much like a caress to be professional.
“I’m sorry,” you say, “I should have warned you. I get in my head sometimes and forget that the patient doesn’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to feel your organs to make sure none are painful or swollen.”
He nods and you inhale deeply, trying to regain your clinical attitude. 
You prod at his stomach, searching for his liver. You have to press hard, pushing against muscle much firmer than even that of the strong farmers you’ve treated over the years.
Quickly you become lost in the work and your hands move gently over his muscles, checking his stomach and guts, and his bladder. You’re so caught up in your examination that you don’t notice the growing hardness that lays over his abdomen until your palm accidentally brushes against it.
You pull your hands away as if they had been burnt. You look at Geralt and your lock onto his deep amber eyes. He’s blushing.
Geralt is blushing.
But he does not look away and neither do you.
“When was the last time you were with a woman?” you ask.
There is a subtle change in his face, a slight tightening of the jaw before he finally averts his eyes. 
“Months.”
So you can’t rule out some kind of sex disease. Your ears and cheeks feel aflame, but you have to ask. 
“When was the last time you touched your…”
Geralt's jaw still twitches beneath the rough growth on his cheek. “I can’t remember.”
“Days, weeks, months?”
“Months.”
“Why haven’t you?”
Geralt drags his gaze back to you and those amber eyes of his are bright, almost glowing in the firelight. It's the kind of look that would once have had your knees shaking, but you put your hands on your hips and look back just as steely eyed.
“I need to know if it still works, Geralt. Can you still maintain—”
“Yes.”
“Can you reach—”
“I don’t know,” he says harshly. Then his voice softens and he says quietly, “I haven’t tried.”
“Why not? Lack of motivation or interest?”
“No.”
“Then why? Lack of available women? I find that hard to believe.”
“It's not hard to believe when the one you want isn’t available,” Geralt mutters so quietly you almost don’t catch it.
“Oh,” you say softly.
You’re beginning to realise what might be wrong with him, but first you have to rule a couple of things out. Your mouth is dry as you clear your throat and lift the sheet and trail your fingers up his inner thigh.
“I have to check… here.”
Geralt closes his eyes, his jaw clenches, and his whole body goes tight as you enclose his sack with your hand. Gently, you roll them with your fingers, searching for lumps or signs of abnormalities. But you find nothing except a perfect example of male vitality, even if he was unable to father children.
Your fingers itch to move higher, to feel his throbbing cock in your hand. He looks so big and thick beneath the thin sheet. You bite your lip as you withdraw your hand, but your eyes never leave the growing wet patch that turns the cloth translucent enough to see the dark and angry reddish, purple skin of the tip of his cock.
Geralt's hand wraps around your wrist stopping you from making your retreat. He says your name in a voice thick with lust.
“Don’t stop,” he says, guiding your hand back beneath the sheet. “Please, I need…” his voice trails off as the tip of your fingers grazes the silky smooth skin of his cock.
“I can help,” you say. “I can give you relief, but it won’t be enough.”
Geralt looks stricken. “Why not?”
“I think you ache. Your body, your mind, your heart… But most of all here…”
You wrap your hand around him. God, he feels so hot and hard, you’re barely able to suppress a moan. Geralt doesn’t hold back, he groans as his hips give a huge jerk and raises himself up and leans on elbows. He throws off the sheet and groans again at the sight of how small your hand looks wrapped around him.
“She must be beautiful,” you say.
“Who?” he says, his eyes fixed on your hand.
“The one who you’re in love with. The one who is making you unwell.”
Geralt tilts his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
You stroke him, moving your hand softly, while you try and fail to keep yourself detached from what you are doing. 
“You’re nothing more than lovesick,” you tell him, “I can give you some relief but if you want to be free of this pain, then you must have her.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his lips part and his chest works hard as he keeps staring at your hand. No, not your hand, now he’s staring at you.
“She is,” he says sincerely, “She’s very beautiful.”
“She’s very lucky,” you say.
Geralt shakes his head. “I would be the one that's lucky to have her.”
A spike of jealousy pierces your heart and completely shatters your carefully compartmentalised rational objectivity and releases a surge of erotic desire. You pause, staring into Geralt’s scorching eyes and wonder what on earth you are doing.
You take a deep breath and turn away from him, desperately grasping for a way to remain aloof.
“Lay back and close your eyes,” you tell him.
“It’s better for me if I watch,” he says in a voice that reverberates from deep within his chest.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“Keep going,” he says, “I need this.”
So you keep going. You start lazily, stroking, working him, trying not to notice the pulses of the thick veins, the silkiness of his skin as it slides over him, or the fluid that gathers at the tip that your thumb collects with each sweep over the head.
Harder to ignore are the sounds he makes; the moans that start as gentle rumbles, almost purr like in his throat and quickly become guttural groans.
His hand moves down his belly, slipping beneath your pumping arm and his fingers graze his balls before pulling gently on the skin. 
You can’t stop yourself and you glance at him, his eyes are waiting there for yours. He growls, sweat breaks over his brow and makes the hair on his chest glisten in the firelight. He’s beautiful; the quintessential picture of maleness, and full of animal sexual lust. 
And he can’t take his eyes off you.
The hand between his legs is suddenly wrapped around your waist as he sits up. His mouth is so close, all of him is so close, and somehow just being held by him is far more intimate than having your hand wrapped around his cock.
His hand is on your cheek, his nose rubs against yours and he whispers, “Why did you leave?”
Your brows furrow with confusion. “I… Because I got away. You said you’d help me get away and that was it, we’d go our separate ways.”
“I said I’d take you somewhere safe. That I’d keep you safe.”
“Same thing,” you say.
“No,” he says so softly, it's barely more than a rough breath. “No it’s not.”
His thumb runs over your lips, his fingers caress your neck. 
“I searched for you,” he says. “For so long. Then, I mourned you. I still mourn you.”
“I’m right here, Geralt,” you tell him. “I’m alright.”
“But I’m not. You made me love sick.”
You gasp. Your body starts to tremble, as you try to make sense of what he said. 
“Geralt—”
His fingers cover your lips to hush you and he whispers, “Don’t stop, let me have this just once and I’ll be gone if you want me to.”
You nod and he sighs with relief. You look down at your hand still firmly wrapped around his cock. Keeping your eyes on Geralt’s, you bend at the waist, licking your lips. His eyes grow dark as he watches your tongue peek sweep across the soft verges of your mouth.
“Fuck, what are you doing?” Geralt asks, in a voice that hints at panic but also deep longing.
You keep lowering your head until your lips brush over the silky skin of his cock and your lips part, taking him into your mouth. Geralt shudders and with a long moan, falls back onto the bed.
“Fuck.”
His hands cradle your head, stroking your hair, caressing your neck, touching you as much as he can while he arches up into your mouth. You fall into a rhythm, your hand moves over him while your mouth follows, sucking softly and massaging with your tongue. 
It’s not long until his breath starts to catch in his throat and starting at his thighs and belly, tremors seem to work through his muscles until his whole body is trembling.
He’s close, and part of you wants to draw back because you don’t want this to end so soon. But he lifts his head and you see the look on his face, see the need burning in his eyes and the unspoken desperate plea in his parted lips.
You move faster, sucking harder and taking him deeper into your mouth. He needs this and you want to ease him of the suffering he’s had all these months. He bends his leg, his heel digs deep into the hard mattress as he calls your name while his body surges. He holds your head in place while he begins to release thick and heavy jets into your mouth.
A little shaken, you release him from your mouth and raise your head. You let him go, allowing your fingers to trail over his thigh while his muscles twitch as he catches his breath. His eyes are closed and a smile breaks across his face.
While your heart soars to see him enjoying his post orgasm euphoria, there is a heaviness in your chest.
Geralt loves you.
And you don’t know what to do about it.
While he’s distracted and to hopefully give you time to think, you fall back onto what you know. You pour fresh water into your wash bowl and bring it over to the bed, carefully wring out the cloth and begin to wash him. Falling into an almost meditative state, you start to wash his hand, watching with satisfaction as the road dust and dirt wipes away.
You work your way up his arm, then his shoulders, then you lean over the broad expanse of his chest to clean his face. His eyes are open now, watching you expectantly.
He lets you wipe his brow, then down his nose and sweep across his cheeks. Before you get to his lips, you lower your head and press your lips against his.
As his arms encircle your waist and he kisses you back, you decide you will never let him become love sick again.
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notyetneedcoffee · 6 months
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Harvest
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Kinktober - Food Kink NSFW - Adults Only
Summary: You take a tray of Harvest treats to the Witcher
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You brought the heavy tray to the room outside the inn, the one by the stables. Usually, only groups or families with small children stayed in the large room. The owner didn’t like too much disruption in the main house. He was convinced the Witcher was trouble, so he got the stable room.
Knocking with your elbow, you waited.
The big man opened the door with a scowl. He was still wet from a bath, wearing only a loose pair of cotton pants. His eyes swept over the variety of foods on the big tray and his expression relaxed.
“I didn’t order anything.” His voice was deep and rough.
“I know. These are from the Harvest Festival. No one will miss them, and I figured you’d be hungry. Can I put this down? It’s heavy.”
He stepped aside. You put the tray on the big table, taking a dark purple grape for yourself. “You look like you made it out in one piece.”
“Hmm.” He picked up the tankard of ale and drank. With a sigh, he thanked you. “Are you going to help me eat this, or are you going back to the festivities?”
“Geralt of Rivia wants company?” You teased.
“Select company.” He gave a half smile.
Settling into the chair, Geralt pulled at your hand until you sat upon his lap. “So what do you recommend?”
On the tray was a selection of food from the village. Wedges of cheeses were piled high. A bowl held fresh grapes. Another had figs dripping with wildflower honey. A selection of savory pies were filled with venison or ham. Small cakes were decorated with dense creams in fancy designs.
“These are fresh.” You took part of a sticky fig in your fingers, holding it up. He bit into it, taking half. You popped the other half in your mouth. When Geralt captured your hand and brought your fingers to his mouth, you hummed in delight.
Geralt pick up another, holding it to your lips. You ate, staring into his golden eyes. When you licked and sucked his fingers clean, you felt him harden beneath you. His mouth covered yours, tongue battling yours. His large hand cupped the back of your head as he drank from sweetness your mouth.
His hands pulled at the laces of your bodice, releasing your dress. It slipped off your shoulders to expose your breasts. Geralt dipped his fingers into the cream from one of the cakes and painted your nipples until they were tight and hard.
Geralt pulled you higher, taking your flesh in his mouth to suck off the sweet cream. He hummed in satisfaction. You instinctively tugged at his white hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him tighter. He suddenly stood, laying you out on the table beside the tray.
He tugged your dress off as you kicked off your shoes with a giggle. You reached for him, but Geralt captured your hands in his.
“No. I’m hungry. Lay back.”
You followed his orders, excitement tickling your stomach. Geralt picked up a cake with white cream and jam. Tasting a bit on his pinky finger first, his brow arched. Using two fingers, he drew sticky lines over your stomach and along your inner thighs.
A moan escaped your throat as he licked the sweetness from your skin. His fingers dug into your hips. As his head got closer to your core, he held your legs firm to keep you from squirming. As his mouth covered your sex, you gripped his hair. His tongue was talented.
Your thighs tightened around his head as the fire spread. His deep growl reverberated through your sensitive flesh, sending shivers throughout your body. Geralt sucked on your clit, humming deep. You shook, torn between pulling away and demanding more. He did not relent. He relished in his task, devouring you. He knew every mewl and moan, drawing you closer to the edge. The coil snapped, you pulled at his hair and clawed at the table, coming apart.
Geralt tugged your limp body forward, burying his cock deep. Your back arched as he set a fast and powerful pace. Your hand hit the tray of food in your flaying. Rich, sticky honey covered your fingers. Smearing the sweetness over your breasts, you then licked your finger before holding it out for him. Geralt’s mouth licked and sucked at your hand.
He bent forward, sucking and biting at your tits. The sounds he made grew more demanding. His pounded into you harder, making the table creak. “Yes!” You cried. “Fuck me hard!”
Messy and feral, Geralt took your hips in a bruising grip. His pace increased. Groans and curses fell from his lips. You gave over to the feeling, panting, aching, shaking.
“Fuck,” He groaned. “Fuck, going to… fuck.” He roared, burying himself deep, coming hard and pulling you along with him.
Dazed and sated, you giggled at the matting of hair and honey on his chest. “Looks like someone needs another bath.”
“Hmmm.” He gave you a rare smile. “At least this time I won’t be alone.”
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mayloma · 2 months
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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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angelltheninth · 1 year
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Size kink + smut prompt 13. “Think you can handle that much?” with Geralt? i think it would hurt but I wanna try and take him.
No reason why you can't try but you're not gonna be able to walk after.
Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, established relationship, size difference, size kink, teasing, dirty talk, encouragement, pet names (honey, darling)
A/N: I need more Geralt in my life, don't you?
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13. “Think you can handle that much?”
"You've been staring at me for a while darling. See something you want?" Geralt knelt above you with his cocky smile, his shadow looming over you, falling around his shoulders while he looked down at your naked form. "I certainly do. Been wanting you for a long while now."
The evidence of that was right between his legs, and yours. His cock, even bigger then you imagined, wet with his pre as he ran his hand up and down. His other hand pushed your folds apart, his thick thumb finding and teasing your hole, testing the waters.
"Think you can handle that much? If not there are other options we could try." He seemed genuinely concerned about you, and with your difference in size it was no wonder.
"Geralt." You cupped his face, gently at first and then grabbed fistfuls of his white hair and pulled him down, your lips inches from his, "I've been wanting you inside me for months now. Please, I can take you, I swear I can." You opened your legs further, as much as you possibly could, "Please, I really need it."
"My cock? Hm. Needy aren't you honey? Who knew you weren't as pure as you seemed." His hands wrapped around your wrists and pulled you towards him. His cock slid over your pussy and clit, hot to the touch, your clit twitching at the stimulation. "Ever had one as big as mine?"
"No." Some work was gonna be needed to get him inside of you and you weren't sure if you could take all of him. No matter how hard you tried your body had it's limits, "Give me as much as you can, I'll take as much as I can handle."
"That's my girl." He kissed your forehead, drawing a little giggle from you, and then a chuckle from him. "Relax as much as you can, I'm gonna have to open you up a bit, so it might hurt at first." It was seriously touching how soft he was being. It almost seemed like the man who fingerfucked you so many times was just a dream.
You groaned and whimpered, fists clenching while his broad head pushed past your entrance, your walls clamping down on him, resisting the intrusion. "Sorry. You're... its big so..."
"I know." He kissed you again, his hands rubbing over your knuckles, "Take your time, I'll wait."
Breath after breath it became easier to take him in, your pussy opening up for him, letting him slide in a little more. "Geralt- so b- mmn!" His hips jolted forward a little, his cock rubbing along your walls. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes from the sting of the stretch as he finally bottomed out, "Fuck! Fuck, give me a moment. God." You ran your hands through his hair, his warm, solid body a comfort, his kisses relaxing and riling you up at the same time.
"You're wonderful darling. You're doing so well. Your cunt is doing so well, feels nice around my cock, feels right." He felt right. Him. You let out a long breath after a while, not even knowing you were holding it in. At that very moment he moved forward, barely even shifting his hips, "We just need a little practice. Pretty soon you'll be taking me like it's nothing."
Practice. Well... your pussy was a muscle. Makes sense it would get better with training. "Looking forward to you teaching me." Geralt chuckled at your words and enthusiasm, as well as the excited flutter of your pussy around his cock.
Practice makes perfect, and he was all to happy to be your training partner.
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