#geralt of rivia fanfiction

[mystra-midnight]

Dark Paradise

summary: geralt was all-consuming, invading every one of your senses; somehow, he'd snaked his way beneath your skin and between your ribs before burrowing into your heart. he lived there now, and you couldn't breathe without him.

warnings: 18+ only. breeding kink. overstimulation. mentions of multiple orgasm. name calling; slut. dom!geralt.

words: 1k.

notes: no one will ever convince me that geralt is a soft man. he is all strength, and arrogance, and hard muscles. and he will dominate his woman. admittedly this is shorter then i wanted it to be, and maybe not my best work, but i do hope you enjoy.

If ever there was something to be grateful for, it was this: being able to fuck his woman raw without the fear of an unwanted pregnancy. Having you naked beneath him was everything Geralt wanted—to watch your velvet walls stretch around his cock's girth, to feel your body tremble as he rocked his hips against your ass, to watch your cum mixed with his be forced from your tight hole with each brutal thrust.

You knew, completely and irrevocably, that there was no chance of falling pregnant with Geralt of Rivia. The trials had made him sterile, though you boiled fennel and drank it regularly to be certain. Your mother taught you from the eve of your first bleed to protect yourself against others, to trust no one but yourself, and that having a child with the wrong man could lead your life to ruin.

But tonight he had come to your cottage on the outskirts of the village in a foul and angry mood, with snarling tongue and gnashing fangs. He refused to tell you what had happened as he forced you down to your knees. All he'd wanted was your naked body beneath him.

"Geralt." Your voice quivered and rose to a crescendo when he speared through the satin clutch of your cunt and hit the sweet spot that sent your eyes spinning. Geralt of Rivia was not a small man—not in any sense of the word. He was tall and impossibly strong. His eyes were intense, and his hair was the colour of starlight. With broad shoulders and a myriad of scars along his body, he was every woman's fantasy.

And he refused to treat you with fragility. To him, you were not a damsel in distress. So he fucked like he fought, with teeth and tongue, and in every position. "I-I can't. S'too much."

Your thighs trembled under the lingering force of the three orgasms Geralt had pulled from the depths of your soul—on his fingers, tongue, and cock. Another one would surely kill you; you would float away from your body and away from him, never to return. But the idea of him filling you again was heavenly and impossible to deny—not when he dominated you so beautifully.

"You can," he grunted, his voice a rough growl. Geralt followed a bead of sweat that dripped down your spine with the tip of his tongue, leaving your sweat-slick skin goosepimpled. His hand followed the same path until he gripped the nape of your neck and pressed you into the mattress, keeping you cemented in place as he filled into you again. “You can, because I’m not stopping.”

Geralt knew that you wouldn't reply—at least not verbally. The impact of his hips against your ass was brutal, forcing the air from your mouth in pretty moans. The clutch of your cunt was more than enough of an answer. He smeared his lips along your shoulder as he shadowed over you like a terrible, haunting visage. The angle made it seem as though he was in your guts, rearranging your organs.

"That's a good girl," he cooed against your skin, his tone positively mocking. "Now, you stay right there while I fuck a baby into you. That's what my slut wants, isn't it? To be swollen with my child?"

He turned feral and ferocious in a flash, ruthlessly rutting into you. He drove you to the brink of yet another orgasm as you clawed at the sheets. Between whoreish moans, your walls tightened around him, leaving you gasping for air. A familiar warmth moved through your aching limbs and raced through your blood while a thunderstorm roared behind your ears.

"Geralt. Geralt, please, I can't. I can't—oh, fuck. There, r-right there." You babbled mindlessly. You felt lost in the sensation of his hands grabbing here, there, and everywhere. You felt lost in the sting of his teeth and tongue and how he tasted your skin. You felt lost in the pressure of his fingers and how he left bruise-shaped prints everywhere he touched.

"Right here?" He demanded. His fingers dug into the curve of your hips as he pulled you back to meet his pelvis, the sound of wet skin connecting echoing loudly in the small cottage. You squirmed and keened when he hit that sweet spot. "Is this what my slut needed—to feel me this deep?"

You didn’t hear him over the thunderstorm, which had grown into a deafening roar that blocked out the world. And as your vision went white, the pressure snapped, and a bolt of lightning sparked a wildfire in your blood. You felt like you were burning alive; the air in your lungs was superheated, and nothing could cool it. You came hard, screaming his name as he held you in place.

Geralt held you tightly, fingerprint bruises decorating your skin while galaxies burst to life inside your veins. The warmth of your cunt was divine, a heavenly caress as he rutted into you, chasing his own release as he threw his head back. "There you go," he grunted. He slapped your ass just hard enough to get your attention. "You're such a good slut. Does it feel good cumming for me while I breed you?"

You still couldn't answer him; each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, leaving your mouth open as you gasped, squealed, and wriggled in his grasp. Geralt didn't seem to mind. With a final thrust, he buried himself. His hand in your hair held you in place and tinged your scalp with a pleasurable sort of pain as the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving your clit throbbing in time with your heartbeats.

It was a welcomed feeling when his release painted your walls—a feeling that made your brain foggy. And despite the haze clouding your thoughts, you knew in that moment you would give yourself to this man. Not only your heart, but your body as well. You knew that if there was a way, you would give him what he wanted, and you would let him breed you.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [4]

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: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

 The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat. 

 You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.  

“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder. 

 Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day. 

 “Are you alright, Your Grace?” 

 Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations. 

 “You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.

 “You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.” 

 You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.

 “No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”

 The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand. 

 “My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple. 

 “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king. 

 Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.” 

 You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.

 “You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan. 

 “It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well. 

 “You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away. 

 And the dreams…

 You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come. 

 Your father’s rotting face swims before you again. 

 Sugar sweet—  

 You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet. 

 “What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye. 

 “And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—

 “I am apt to know trouble when I see it.” 

 The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial. 

 “Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings. 

 The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee. 

 “My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother. 

 “My Queen.” 

 “Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed. 

 “Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.” 

 To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next. 

 “We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”

 Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.” 

 You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?

 “I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.

 “A most precious gift.”

 “The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes. 

 “We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship. 

 “Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter. 

 Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”

 “And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand. 

 “I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.” 

 “Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”

 “Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure. 

 “As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—

 “I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone. 

 “The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.” 

 —

 The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom. 

 “You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky. 

 “I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder. 

 “Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.” 

 “No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully. 

 “I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.” 

 “Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?” 

 You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips. 

 “O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you. 

 “How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?” 

 “Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly. 

 “Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.

 “Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.” 

 “Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As  if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest. 

 “How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter. 

 “My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”

 “No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?” 

 “Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to  describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant             thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong. 

 “I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”

 “And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”

 “I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.

 “Highness—”

 “I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.” 

 “At once, My Lady.”

 You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back. 

 —

 “How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.” 

 You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them. 

 “I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling. 

 “The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow. 

 “What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt. 

 “Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.” 

 “A bird?”

 “Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.” 

 You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself. 

 You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek. 

 Your face is wet with tears.

 —

 Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown. 

 “I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body. 

 It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams. 

 She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.” 

 “T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.

 “Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow. 

 “What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively. 

 “A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside. 

 “Highness? H-His Majesty is here.” 

 Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods. 

 “I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild. 

 “Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you. 

“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment. 

 “Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely. 

 The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close. 

 “I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.” 

 Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth. 

 The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall. 

 The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.

 She’ll pluck out your eyes. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[deandoesthingstome]

Medieval Fantasy

Pairing: Witcher!Geralt x Reader

Summary: The offerings at this hotel, I swear.

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: 18+, NO MINORS, fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving, 69), p in v (cowgirl, missionary), monster fucking (right?).

A/N: I suppose, strictly speaking we're not fucking the monster, but he's still a treat, so enjoy!

A/N 2: (Edited) I do owe @augustsprincess a little thank your for an idea; I played it out during the group chat here, but I probably wouldn't have included it at all if not for you, so *smooches*

Fantasy Hotel Masterlist

Mike ordered a pizza from room service for the last hour of your reservation with him once he flipped the time switch. You sat cross-legged on the couch with him, munching happily while he narrated the ridiculousness of the rest of the scenes to your scary movie, making you giggle where you’d normally be hiding behind a blanket. You’d remember this night fondly for a long time. Mike’s easy going way had put you completely at ease once he noticed you were a little hung up on Walt.

He unfortunately didn’t know anything about how to get a hold of your missing object of desire.

You set the scene for the story pretty much as it was, but added more spook and gore, opting to split up the experience into two nights. One with live Mike, just barely slipping out the window before the parents came home from their Halloween night costume parties, only to be killed by the tow truck driver who showed up when his car, parked around the corner from the house, wouldn’t start. He was hung on the hook that should have hoisted his beater onto the truck. And one a few weeks later, when the heavy drag of the chains and hook across the attic floor led the heroine to investigate, only to be taken swiftly and with no mercy by her incorporeal boyfriend. Not rough, just urgent, insistent, longing for some other connection that would allow him to leave the vicinity of his undoing. If he could have taken her outside on the sidewalk without prying neighbor eyes, he probably would have.

You put the notice up after you posted. The next would be your last regular monster fucking post. You were taking a hiatus to work on your first novel.

sendmeanangel: and then Walter burst through the window, all wolfed out darkgothnightengale: while they were both fucking you??? sendmeanangel: yeah, and i can only think my subconscious was trying to not kill me when it chose August and Mike for that experience. I can’t imagine having anything else inside me while getting fucked by the Bull MNstrluvr: i would kill for a dream like that darkgothnightengale: well, did he take you away? sendmeanangel: i woke up!!! darkgothnightengale: and still no luck finding him? sendmeanangel: no. i found a guy who seemed like him, but he’s in Minnesota. Or was. It’s like his online presence is either non-existent or ended abruptly at least ten years ago MNstrluvr: another ghost lol! sendmeanangel: very funny. Mike was a lot of fun anyway. I needed that darkgothnightengale: and you’re still going back? sendmeanangel: i’ve never heard of a witcher. He just showed up on the site the other week and i bet he’s softer than he looks. I booked him at the same time i booked Mike, so it’s already scheduled and i could do with one more amazing adventure before i give it all up darkgothnightengale: i still don’t understand why. If you don’t have walter, what’s the harm? sendmeanangel: there’s no harm. Obviously i’m free to do what i want. But i think about him all the time. And i just think maybe it’s time for a break MNstrluvr: when you find him you should see if he’s up for booking a room with you so you can recreate that dream sendmeanangel: oh my goddddd! 

“We certainly hope you haven’t been displeased with your experiences here,” the desk clerk asked gently.

“What? No! Everything’s been wonderful. Why do you ask?” you inquired, at a loss for what may have precipitated the comment.

“We noticed you hadn’t made another future booking yet.”

“Oh, that,” you stammered. ”I just…no, everything’s fine.” You fingered the edges of the card stock bearing the elevator code to get you to L2 and tightened your grip on your bag reflexively. Just a trick you used to bring you back to steady. 

“Well, please. If there’s anything at all we can do for you…” You smiled and cast your eyes down so as not to betray your true feelings, but glanced up quickly to try to judge the meaning behind the next statement made with a hint of weightiness. “Anything at all.”

“Thank you,” you offered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The elevator opened to a small wooden hut, a place for your belongings and coat, a small wash basin filled with still steaming water and fragrant scents set on a wooden stand. You disrobed, dipped a washcloth in the water, and bathed yourself with the enchanting smells, then grabbed a linen towel to dry off before climbing into the outfit you’d selected for the fantasy. You slipped the silver dagger into the holster you’d strapped to your thigh and dropped your heavy skirt down over it before wrapping the cloak around your shoulders.

You had no idea what you were walking out into, only that if things got too hairy, as they absolutely could, he’d be there to save you. There to comfort you. 

You stepped out onto a wooded path leading to a trail along a marshy bog, mostly full moon shining in the sky above you. You were never going to get over the mechanics of this hotel that made it seem like you were in at least five distinctly different places, some of which were outside, while still housed in the same building. But you were solidly on the side of possibility. Monsters were real. Magic was real. This hotel was real.

You carried a small basket of goods, as if headed to a market or maybe home from one. The path ahead of you seemed less than ideal and you began to wonder if you’d made a wrong turn. The churning and bubbling of the bog was lost on you as you looked around for another path that might lead to more solid ground, grateful for the light of the moon since a flashlight app was absolutely not happening, as your phone was left back in the hut.

Suddenly, a loud shriek sounded from the liquid and a large figure began to emerge, long twig-like legs reaching into the space above it as if searching for something. You dropped your basket and ran as soon as it became obvious the thing it was searching for was you. A moment’s respite allowed you to reach under your skirt and grab the dagger before you resumed fleeing away from the monster but suddenly a creepy crawly leg swept around you and it was all you could do to jump out of the way.

You stumbled when you hit the ground, but landed on your back, which meant you could stab up at whatever was coming at you and you did. The blade wasn’t long enough to do full damage, but some gore dripped down your arm as you registered a little casualty point and you pulled back and stabbed again as quick as you could, completely unconcerned with whatever came oozing out. It had to be better than being dead, you thought.

You heard another roar and the distinct slice of a finely crafted blade through the air and the legs that had you trapped were suddenly no longer attached to the larger body that was stalking you. It gave you time to move, scramble out of the way and find a spot to regroup. From behind the boulder you saw him. Leather clad, silver hair flowing, steel blade drawn and hacking through more limbs. As he spun for another attack, you glimpsed his dark eyes and shimmery, pale skin.

It was maybe not the time, but his ass looked great too. 

“Little help,” the strained call came, as he flipped the beast over, tackling what you took to be the lower extremities. A smooth patch on the chest seemed like it was made for stabbing so you climbed onto the rock and jumped, landing right on top of the beast with your tiny blade finding a home in the furry goo. 

One final, ear-splitting shriek and the deed was done. Your compadre stood and held out a hand to help you up and off the steadily shrinking body of the buggy creature you’d just slayed. You felt your feet touch solid ground as you looked up at the mountain of a man who stood before you.

“Alright?” he asked. “I think you got ‘im, but we should head out in case there are more. I don’t think tonight is the right time for this. We’ll come back tomorrow and finish the job.”

“What job?”

“Okay, sure. This wasn’t why you were walking alone late at night in a Krak infested bog? Are you telling me you weren’t hired to clear the area?”

“No?” you answered, unsure what the words coming out of his mouth meant. Was this what a witcher did?

“Were you hired for anything?”

“I’m really not sure what you mean.” You had to find a way to talk to this man coherently. You remembered your basket. “I was just walking back to town from a market. I think I got a little lost.”

“I think you got a lot lost. Can I help you find your way back? I’m Geralt.” His black eyes were  ringed with dark circles, but in the moonlight, those looked like they were fading slowly.

You offered your name and a hand, which he shook, and you felt a line of heat rush straight through your arm, down your chest, and into your core. You gasped as the last of the shadows over his face and eyes dissipated, leaving you staring into amber eyes full of flame. The memory of lights piercing the shadows the other night flooded your brain. What if that wasn’t Walter, as you suspected? But no; the howling.

Geralt helped you locate your discarded basket, into which you stuffed your goo-covered corset and cape, eager to be free from the stench and hoping desperately that dry cleaning would do the trick when you were home. You mounted his horse, Roach, with his assistance and he led you into town. He made a beeline straight for an inn, dropping you off at the entrance with instructions to ask about lodging while he found boarding for his horse for the night.

“Oi! You’re late!” an oversized brute behind the bar exclaimed in your direction as you entered the tavern and you froze, unsure what part of the fantasy this could be. “Have ya lost control of yer legs suddenly? Bring the goods here. Now!”

You looked down at the basket with a realization that was confirmed by another shout.

“Yes. That. The basket. Now!”

You were about to begin the trek across the wooden floor to hand off your basket to the foul looking man, when a pair of comforting hands came to rest on your upper arms, holding you firmly in place.

“I think you have the wrong merchant. This basket of goods is mine,” Geralt’s deep and soothing voice growled. “And we require rooms for the night.”

Rooms? Was this not happening?

“Almost full tonight, Witcher. Only one room left.” You stifled a snort at the cliche of it all.

“We’ll take it. And I’d venture to say you’ll want to provide a meal and round on the house. At least one of your swamp monsters is already dead thanks to this one.” Geralt stepped you into the tavern and over to the bar where a key dangled from the innkeeper's hand.

“She took out a Krak?”

“Practically single-handedly.” There was something like pride in Geralt’s voice, and maybe a little admiration, though you definitely didn't handle that on your own. Still, you grabbed the key with a smirk and turned to find an empty table. Geralt followed once he’d grabbed two tankards of ale, and two plates of stew with bread were set down in front of you after a few moments of awkward silence, during which you took in the clientele. How was the hotel paying all these extras?

“Wolf!” someone called from the entrance and for a moment you thought they’d seen Walter. You looked around, but found nothing other than another sizable man clad in leather and steel making his way to your table.

“Lambert,” Geralt acknowledged him, and introduced you. “What brings you tonight?”

“Just finished up a town over and heard of another job. Looks like you’ve already taken it on. Finished so soon?”

“Hardly started. First kill’s hers anyhow.” Geralt nodded with what appeared to be reverence in your direction.

“Beginner’s luck,” you demurred. “I don’t think a small dagger is going to be of much use with the rest of whatever those were.”

“Looks like I’ll be headed out at first light alone then, to complete the task,” Geralt mumbled, with a comforting look at you before turning attention back to Lambert.  “I’d welcome your assistance with this one.”

A barmaid approached to set another tankard of ale in front of your new red-headed table mate and you didn’t miss the way her hand traced over his shoulder and her eyes met his as she walked back toward the counter to continue serving other customers.

“It’s a good thing you’ve found your bed for the night, since we’ve just taken the last one,” Geralt grumbled with a hint of tease. 

“Unless you need my assistance with anything else?” Lambert’s tone was clear and they both turned their gazes slowly toward you. 

It was a choice. You hadn’t asked for this, but you were being offered an option. Heat filled your cheeks and you cast your eyes down with a sudden shyness. Though two entirely different men, your dream from the other night was somehow presented to you on a platter, and yet…

“I don’t think I’m anything Geralt can’t handle on his own,” you replied, aware this was your call and no one else's.

With the sleeping arrangements out of the way, you spent the next hour or so enjoying stories of training and fighting. If your ears didn’t deceive you, several of their completed jobs seemed to include gratitude delivered by way of sexual favors, sometimes alone, sometimes together. They were cheeky and sly with the language, but the innuendos were there and you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about it. 

You waived off another round of ale and professed you’d much rather find a tub of warm water to sink into for a bit. Geralt agreed and you both said your goodnights to Lambert.

Settled into the room, you were surprised to find there really was a wooden tub full of tepid water. A large cauldron hung over a roaring fire and you watched as Geralt used a rudimentary crane-like contraption to hoist the pot over the tub and dump its boiling contents into the water below.

“It’ll warm the water for a bit, so you should take advantage now, if you were serious.”

“It doesn’t look like there’s room for both of us,” you mentioned with a little sadness.

“We can take turns, just don’t stay in too long,” he replied with a mischievous smirk. “Do you need any help with your garments?”

With your corset already removed, all that remained was to unlace the heavy woolen skirt and lift the flowing linen gown underneath it over your head. Geralt was a huge help nevertheless and your body shivered as you imagined his fingers tracing every inch of you, not just your waist or the lucky bits of leg that received his touch as he bent to grab the hem of your dress.

He held your hand as you stepped into the tub and sat down, knees bent against your chest. How would he ever manage to fit himself in here? you thought. While you swirled the water around you, you watched as he turned away to unbuckle his leathers and disrobe as well. You were right about his ass. 

You smiled a little to yourself at how comfortable getting naked with him was and then you smiled wider when he turned to face you once again, approaching you in all his glory and settling down onto a stool next to the tub with a washcloth in his hand.

Geralt offered to help you wash off, then dunked his hand into the water when you accepted. He ran the soft rag along your back, down your arms, across your chest. He took a few moments to run the soaked cloth along his body as well when the water began to cool much faster than you’d hoped, leaving no opportunity for him to sit in the tub himself. When he “dropped” the rag while dipping it back in the water for another pass, he didn’t hesitate to reach deeper into the tub, fingers searching the bottom for the cloth but finding your bottom instead. He leaned forward to complete the kiss you had asked for with a lick of your lips and smiled into your gasp when his fingers made their way between your legs.

“You know,” he started after pulling away from your hungry mouth, “I do feel as if I owe you a bit of gratitude myself.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Geralt?” you gently taunted with a fake bit of naivete.

“You were the hero tonight. You deserve a reward.” He stood from the stool, exposing his hardening length, and helped you to stand.

“And will you be my reward?” you purred, clasping your arms around his neck as he lifted you out of the tub.

“Gladly,” he replied, slipping his hands eagerly down your side body and around your thighs to wrap your legs around his waist. He captured your mouth again with a searing kiss as he walked toward the bed and deposited you on your back, legs splayed wide and waiting for him.

“Maybe you could finish what you started.”

He dove to the bed next to you and cupped your cunt with a rather large hand.

“This is just the beginning,” he promised as he bent two fingers and slipped them inside. He watched your face with intent as he pumped his fingers in and out, teasing more and more slick from deep inside you. He kissed you when he added a third finger, swallowing the moan that ripped from your throat. 

You couldn’t control your hips if you wanted to, bucking up into his hand, trying to pull him in deeper, trying to find the grind that would let you explode. His lips on your jawline, his tongue on your neck, kisses on your collarbone before he nuzzled into you and whispered how good you fucking smelled from here already. All these words of praise and touches of desire sent you right over the edge with an urgent need to crawl back up and do it again.

He must have been expecting you to take some time to recover because he was off guard when you pushed at his shoulder and sent him to his back so you could sit up and swing your legs over his. Settled on his thighs with an eye toward his very large erection, you smiled and made clear your intentions.

“I want you, Geralt. All of you.”

“However you’d like,” he grinned back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other reaching to stroke himself. 

“Fuuuuuuuhhhck,” you moaned, watching how he handled himself, sure saliva was probably dripping from the side of your mouth. “Kinda like that.”

You scooted back down his legs and leaned forward, eager to let him feed you the cock he was keeping hard for you. As with every other host, it was going to be impossible to take him all the way, but you were going to give your best effort on the parts you could reach. His hand motion shortened as your mouth took over servicing the head and a few inches of length. You let your tongue swirl around the tip and dripped saliva from your mouth to give both of you something to slide over. 

Your pussy was still yearning for touch and since you didn’t need your own hands for the blowjob, you let one travel down your body and between your legs to trace along your folds. You rubbed two fingers over your sensitive clit, curling to dip them into your warm, wet opening a few times before returning to focus attention at the nub. 

“I can help with that, if you’d like,” Geralt grunted breathlessly, the arm behind his neck reaching now for your body, prodding you to turn. While you continued to lave over Geralt’s prodigious member, you crawled around to find your knees on either side of his head and when you felt his hand smooth over your ass, you didn’t resist the pull.  

You moaned around the cock in your throat while Geralt wrapped his lips around your pussy and licked his way into your slit. Eventually, he let go of his dick and wrapped both hands around your thighs, holding you close against his face and lapping in tandem with the bob of your head.

On more than one occasion you found you could not concentrate effectively on the head you were giving, since the head you were receiving was so mind blowing. You found you had to lift your mouth off his cock and beg for more, scream for him to make you come. When he did, you were able to return to pleasuring him, since he didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry to move you away. Instead, it was as if he were playing a game called ‘how many times can you come on this tongue.’

It became abundantly clear that you were never going to be able to return the favor. Geralt was not interested in coming down your throat, so when you felt like you couldn’t handle one more tender lick, one more urgent suckle, one more flick of the tip of his tongue on your sensitive pearl, you begged off. Pleaded for mercy.

“I’m not done,” he called from the other end of the bed. “I still owe you my gratitude.”

You peeled yourself reluctantly away from his cock and eased yourself around again, to lay alongside him, chest heaving and thighs shaking.

“I can’t fathom how one Krak deserves more than you’ve already given, but I’ll gladly take it, if only you’ll let me rest a moment.” You draped an arm over his chest and drifted your fingers through the dusting of hair you found. 

“Perhaps some water?” he offered, reaching for a cup and the pitcher by the bedside. You shared the cool liquid, quenching one thirst while another still burned hot and needy. 

“How long can you last? Surely I’m not that bad at oral.”

His laugh was so bright, it was as if the room was suddenly aglow.

“You are excellent at that. I just have a lot of practice not letting go until I’m sure my partner has reached the absolute peak. It’s a point of pride.”

He wasn’t arrogant about it, just matter of fact. He was here to serve. 

“What if we simply waited until you were ready again? Surely that wouldn’t take forever.” You trailed your fingers down his chest, through the patch of hair at his abdomen, and onto his still rock hard length. Feeling how firm he was, letting your hand trace the veins, your thumb nudging the helmet of the head, you couldn’t help but be hungry for him again.

You found yourself straddling his thighs once more, eyeing his cock, begging for him to fuck you now.

“Do they have condoms in this time, wherever we are?” If an ancient Greek labyrinth had condoms, surely this medieval inn had them, too. You were still in the hotel after all. He chuckled and nodded toward the nightstand, where you found a plain wooden box that revealed what you were after when opened.

Geralt made to take the packet from you, but you resisted. “Allow me, please.”

You tore open the package and worked the rubber onto the tip, then rolled the sides down and checked the fit. You let him make a final adjustment, but when he leaned up as if to roll you over, you protested.

“I’m good right here,” you purred, grabbing ahold of his sheathed cock and lifting up to position yourself right above him. You set him at your entrance, still dripping from your several orgasms, and lowered yourself good and slow. You were getting used to the size of these men, but that didn’t mean the start didn’t require some care.

Your eyes closed almost involuntarily once you’d taken him to the hilt and you sat motionless for a moment, feeling your core loosen around him. You began a steady pulse, up and down, as you opened your eyes to see him staring up at you with desire. He rested his hands on your hips, neither speeding you up nor slowing you down, just feeling the motion, feeling you. 

After a few more strokes, you grabbed his hands and slid them up your body, pressing the palms of his hands against your breasts and tossing your head back at the sensation. He was more than willing to continue cupping and squeezing without your guidance which allowed you to set your hands on his thighs behind you, providing even more leverage for your rise and fall. Now you sped up. 

“Fuck, Geralt, this feels so good,” you cried out.

“I can make it better,” he countered, slipping his hands around your ribs and pulling you forward, chest to chest as he captured your lips once more. With his hands firmly holding your head in place, he began to buck up into you and when it seemed like it was going to be to much, he let his hands drift down your back and onto your hips again, to hold you place while he set a punishing pace, thrusting ever harder and deeper into your pulsing core until he finally exploded with a roar. It wasn’t your peak, but you weren’t complaining in the least. He’d fucked you through several tiny orgasms, each ebbing and flowing with ease. If there was nothing more, no additional gratitude the rest of the night, you’d be just fine.

But he was having none of it. He lifted you off and laid you to the side, urging you back against the head of the bed and lifting the covers for you to climb under. Once you were comfy, he left the bed to deal with the condom removal, grabbing an apple and knife from his bag on the way back. You sat and conversed while he fed you thin slices of sweet fruit, taking his own bites after every third for you.

Geralt was easy to talk to. Not overly wordy, but happy to chat nonetheless. Although you wanted to ask questions about the hotel, you knew it would be wildly inappropriate so you stuck with the script for the scene. What would it take to clear the rest of the Kraks? How dangerous would it have been had he gone alone? What’s the most danger he’d ever gotten into? The most fun? How often, exactly, had he and Lambert been thanked simultaneously?

That question was designed to reignite the passion in the room. You weren’t disappointed. The mere telling of the experiences got him rock hard again and it was with delight that you let him take the lead the rest of the evening. Once he’d donned another condom after feasting on your pussy one more time, he took you on your back, legs wrapped around his waist so he could grab at them when he needed to open you wider or lift your leg over his shoulder to find that one final deep spot that had you panting his name and coming hard around him. He took one more lingering kiss, then pulled out and tidied up, joining you back under the covers for a final round of pillow talk before turning in for the night.

Somehow, with the knowledge that the physical part of the evening was over, the air in the room changed and the conversation did as well. He wasn’t overly concerned with keeping the topics to the scene, but you found yourself second guessing if you should ask anything at all about Walter. It seemed rude, even though Mike had been completely open about it. This stay wasn’t that one. 

You’d booked an overnight and Geralt hadn’t needed to bend time for you, if that was even something he could do, so you had no direct in with a question about his possible gifts. You could maybe ask why Lambert had called him Wolf, since they were both from the same school. But in the end it was Geralt who brought up Walter, without realizing what he was doing.

“I lucked into this spot. The hotel had just lost one of their best hosts, and the guy was booked solid weeks out. They’re still trying to find another werewolf to take his room, but in the meantime they contacted me and set up this level.”

“How did they find out about you?” you asked, trying to keep your heart rate from spiking at the hint of information about Walter.

“The way they find out about any of us, I suppose. Word of mouth.”

“Do you know what happened to him? The guy before you?” You didn’t think you were holding your breath, but Geralt’s answer told you otherwise.

“Not a clue. I try not to get caught up in the gossip. Hey, are you alright? You look like you’re about to faint. That’s a real skill since you’re already laying down.”

You tried to take a breath and laugh it off at the same time, asking your next question with a feigned indifference. “There’s gossip in this hotel?”

Geralt’s laugh was infectious. “There’s gossip at every hotel, but this one's something else. I think the vampire is the ring leader. I try to stay away from it. Keep my head down. Take care of my guests. And I shouldn't have even said that. Please forgive me.”

It was obvious he wasn't going to give up much more information, if he even knew anything specific to begin with. You tried to stifle a yawn, but Geralt noticed and stood up to blow out the candles illuminating the room, leaving one small oil lamp burning. When he returned to bed, you curled up into his warmth. You felt a little bad about imagining it was Walt you were snuggled next to, but it didn’t stop you from drifting asleep with a smile on your face.

You opened your messaging app as you were about to step out of the cafe where you’d gone for a latte the next morning after dropping your bag at home.

sendmeanangel: you’ll never guess who showed up to get coffee this morning 

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[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

A Quiet Moment

Summary: based on some prompt that asked you to write a scene between two characters just being around each other with no dialogue. Immediately thought of Geralt.

Notes: saw a prompt on tiktok first thing I woke up and wrote this in a manic state. Enjoy :)

Taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @lucyinthelibrary @sunndust

Masterlist | requests are OPEN!

Neither of you are talkers. That’s Jaskier’s job, who chatters away about songs, affairs and other dramatic states of the world while you’re on the path. And despite your quietness, there always seems to be some kind of noise around you. Singing, fighting, talking, murmurs – whatever it is, it’s never really quiet.

Always except for these quiet moments, when the people in the tavern below you have gone home and Jaskier is in a room of his own.

It’s been a long day of killing for Geralt and a long day of waiting for him in a town full of talking, prodding people for you. So when you hear him sit down on the bed, you let out a sigh of relief. The day is over, and there are a few precious moments the two of you have to yourself now.

Geralt doesn’t ask you what’s wrong, and you don’t need him to. Instead, you go through your supplies, and grab bandages and ointments. Then, you get a bucket of water and a rag and sit down in front of Geralt.

He stops your wrist gently as you begin to loosen a buckle of his armor, but there’s a pleading look in his amber eyes. Geralt isn’t used to help, but he desperately wants to be taken care of.

Moments later, he lets you go, and you take off his stiff leather armor. The dirty undershirt follows quickly, and you see the bruises and cuts you expected.

You begin with his face, as you always do, wiping away dirt, sweat and grime, as well as some monsters’ blood. Gently, you take out the leather band holding his hair out of his face, before you move onto his chest.

Geralt doesn’t wince when you clean the cuts that run over his body, unlike Jaskier, who talks to compensate for pain. He’s so used to the discomfort that it makes your heart wrench. Carefully, you apply the ointments Geralt would tell you not to waste on him if he had the energy. But he doesn’t, so you give him this ‘luxury’.

Taking his breeches off should be sexual, but Geralt simply closes his eyes as you treat the massive cut that made blood drip onto the floor. If you knew how, you would probably stitch it, but you don’t and Geralt’s not human, so you have to leave it for now.

When you’re done with all the cuts and injuries, you grab him some clean clothes and take his dirty ones to be washed. The washerwomen know you and Geralt from earlier contracts, and they know you don’t speak much.

They don’t mind. You’re kinder than most and you pay. You hand over his sullied clothes and make your way to the innkeep next, preparing yourself to speak. It isn’t easy for you, especially after such a long day, but apparently, Jaskier is your saving grace today.

The innkeep hands you a tray with two meals on it, and only holds out a hand demanding payment. You provide it, taking the tray with stew and ale on it and make your way back upstairs to the rooms.

Geralt opens the door for you before you can knock. Either he heard your heartbeat or your footsteps – or both.

He takes the tray out of your hands and puts it down on the bed. You raise an eyebrow at that, since Geralt is normally unwilling to eat in the place he sleeps. It smells too strongly, he told you once.

You follow him, and he pulls you into his side, handing you a bowl. It’s cold, but you don’t mind. Geralt eats his as if he’s starved for weeks, and you can’t blame him. It does mean that you’ve barely taken three bites before he’s done.

His head is on your shoulder while you finish your dinner, washing down with a few gulps of the ale that has been stretched with water. You scrunch your face at the taste and a smile tugs at Geralt’s lips.

Before he can try to get out of bed, you collect the dishes and put them in a corner of the room where the rats won’t bother you.

On your way back, you can feel a sharp tug in your neck, and before you can stop yourself, you grimace. You hope he hasn’t noticed, but Geralt’s eyes flit up to the afflicted area immediately.

He doesn’t let you protest in any way – the moment you sit on your side of the bed, his hands are on your neck, working out the soreness in a way that would seem too gentle for a Witcher. When he’s done, you give him a smile, and he grunts in return.

The gestures turn into words in your head as you pull the blanket over your shoulders. Geralt blows out the candle on his side of the bed, before he wraps an arm around you.

He won’t sleep for quite a bit, so you stay still in the dark, feeling his hand stroke over your back and head absentmindedly. He does it with Roach too, to calm her down. You know he does it to calm himself aswell, and it feels nice, so you let him.

When his movement stills, you turn around to him, gently cupping his face, and giving him a kiss. It’s your ‘I love you’ before you go to sleep, and he returns it with his forehead against yours.

You can feel the tiredness creep in now, where all sounds but your breathing have stopped. It feels like the world has come to a stop, in the best way possible, and you cherish it. Feeling the warmth of his body against yours, your thoughts come to a stop and the only thing around is silence.

It’s a holy and rare commodity to you – one of the only things that doesn’t grate on your senses.

And as you fall asleep, you feel the Quiet in your bones. Tomorrow, early in the morning, it’ll be gone, but for now, the two of you are at peace.

[sillyrabbit81]

Love Sick

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

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.

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Destiny

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia X Reader

Word count: 1.6 K

Summary: You had to give up on some things when you decided you wanted a life with Geralt, but life has a way of turning things around.

{The Witcher Masterlist}

The nights are starting to grow colder as fall starts to fade, ready to turn into winter. Your small garden in front of the house is still flourishing, even though only a few flowers are strong enough to give you their beauty. So, kneeling on the ground, you pluck some weeds and clean off the dead leaves. The place will be less colorful for some months, but if you keep taking care of them, they'll come back at full power next spring.

You hear horses coming, and a wain. Not many people come this way but some residents of the nearest town since they know this route. Taking the small basket with the weeds and dead leaves to dispose of, you get up. The two horses come into sight and the wain soon after. The couple on it are familiar to you. You buy their carrots, potatoes, and broccoli.

“Good morning.” The man says, not smiling, but with the same respectful expression he always gives you.

“Don't talk to her.” The woman says. She's too young to be his wife, you see it now. His daughter then, but you don't know which one. “She's the wife of that –”

“Hush.” The man says.

“Good morning.” You reply, waving. “Safe journey back home.” Then, you give them your back and head inside.

You throw the weed and leaves on the fire before heading to the kitchen and starting to cut some vegetables for soup, trying not to let the loneliness bother you too much. You knew this was how things would be, but even so, even though you'll have to deal with the cold nights by yourself, it's all worth it. You'd do it all over again.

Passing the sweet potatoes to the pan, you're about to reach for the carrots when you hear it. A low, faint sound of a step on the wooden floor right next to you. Your body moves almost by itself, the grip on the knife getting tighter, but even before you can turn around and give hell to whoever was bold enough to invade your house, a strong arm surrounds your waist at the same time a hand grabs your wrist.

“I was expecting a much warmer welcome, my love.” His voice is what makes your body relax, but your heart, which was already beating fast, starts pounding.

“Geralt?!” You breathe out, dropping the knife and turning around.

Seeing Geralt after two months makes your body almost melt. Immediately, you throw your arms around his neck, your lips chasing his. Only seven months into the marriage, you only had Geralt with you for three. But you don't mind. You love him, and you knew things would be like this. It's the price of marrying a Witcher. A price you're more than willing to pay.

Geralt kisses you tenderly, and you can feel all of his love in it, the warmth, the thirst from all this time away. So you just hold him tight, even when you're both out of breath and have to break the kiss.

“I thought you'd take longer to find that monster.” You whisper, your foreheads touching.

“Ouch.”

“It doesn't mean I'm not happy. I'm... Delighted. Euphoric.” You give a little jump, kissing him again, then placing kisses all over his face as you stand on your toes. “You just scared the living hell out of me.”

“Just wanted to make a surprise. And I hurried with the hunt because the nights are cold and I made a vow to keep you warm.”

“Hm... So let's start by drawing you a very warm bath.” Smirking, you start to walk away, but Geralt grabs your arm.

“Draw us a bath. And let me get the water.”

“I can do it.”

“I know. But I'm your man. Let me do the hard part.”

You don't really enjoy bringing the water inside, so you don't complain.

Minutes later, the bath is ready, and the tub is set in the bedroom as usual. First, you washed with hair and body, and after, Geralt insisted on changing the water so you could get in. And you didn't say anything after the short explanation about how exactly he killed the monster and how some of its guts got on him. So when the new, hot water is ready, you join him in the tub. The temperature is perfect, and you rest your back against his chest.

“I never thought I'd have a real home to spend the winter.”

“Oh, you're supposed to go to that place for the winter. Kar Mare? Kor More?”

He giggles. “Kaer Morhen.”

“Kaer Morhen, yes. I don't mind if you have to go there, I can take the journey.”

“We could make a short trip while the winter hasn't kicked in yet, just so they know I'm still alive but... I have a home now. A real one. And I rather spend my winter with you than with those ugly men.” His embrace grows tighter around your waist, and your smile. “But tell me about you. Anything exciting happened while I was away?”

“Yes! I delivered a baby all by myself.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Marlën was with another mother in difficult labor. So when Alyn started feeling the contractions, I had to go.”

“And how was it?” Geralt always asks about your things, even though they're nothing compared to the amazing adventures he lives.

“A bit of a mess, I was so nervous.” You chuckle, turning around to look at him. “The husband passed out. He was holding a bowl with water and then he just fell, got the floor all wet.”

“Hm.” He mutters, looking down.

“What is it, my love?”

“You love this. And you love babies and children, and you'd be an amazing mother but I–”

To cut him off, you place a kiss on his lips. “Geralt, I knew of this limitation when I married you. And yet, here I am. And I wouldn't change a thing. I love you.”

He takes a deep breath, a small, sad smile on his lips. “I love you too. But it breaks my heart that I can't give you children.”

“Just give me all your love. That's everything I want.” And with another kiss, you both leave the tub and head into bed.

•••

When you start to stir, you feel Geralt moving. He always wakes up first, and then, he just lies there, holding you, looking at you.

“It's so good to wake up next to you.” It's the first thing you say, moving to climb on top of him. “I missed this. I missed you.”

Geralt smiles, softly grabbing your hips. “I dreamed about you almost every night.”

“Well, I'm right here now.” With a smirk, you lower yourself on him, your lips already chasing his.

Loud, obnoxious knocks make you sit back up. “I'll see who's there. Dress up.” Geralt says as he gets up, searching around for his clothes.

You put on the first gown you find, a white one, that you use to sleep, before following Geralt.

“I'm sorry...” You hear a woman's voice, low and anxious. “...died... Has no one...”

When you get to the door, you see Marlën, with a bundle of fabric in her arms. She passes the bundle to Geralt, who takes it as if it's the most fragile thing. You're about to reach the door when she turns around to leave, walking fast. She didn't even see you.

“Geralt, what's going on?” You ask, walking over to him, staring at Marlën's back. “She seemed so distressed...”

Then, a low, soft whimper gets your attention. Looking up at Geralt, you find his eyes locked on something in his arms. It's unbelievable how long it takes you, you, a midwife in training, to realize the sound came from a baby.

“Geralt, what...”

“She said the mother died... That he has nobody left... That a wet nurse will come twice a day with bottles of milk. I don't...” His voice fades when the baby opens his eyes, moving a tiny little hand up.

“Geralt, I think... I think she meant us to raise this baby.”

He looks at you, and you meet his eyes. Geralt's eyebrows are pinched together and... You've never seen him so emotional. Only when you confessed your love for him. “Raise him? As if–”

“As if he's our own.” Stepping closer, you take the baby's hand. “She knows I always wanted a child... And that I gave up that dream because of my love for you. So...”

“Do you think I can do it, (Y/N)? Do you think someone like me can be a father? A good one?”

Smiling, you take your free hand to caress his cheek. “Remember when you asked the same thing about being a husband? I told you you'd be a good husband.” Your smile grows wider. “And you proved me wrong by being an amazing husband.” The baby moans, and it sounds a little like a giggle. “If you agree to do this, my love... It'll mean a commitment for life.”

“A family.” He says, and then a smile breaks through his lips. “A family of our own.”

“Yeah... A family of our own.” Tiptoeing, you kiss him before caressing the baby's forehead. “Seems like destiny is on our side.”

“How did I get so lucky?” Geralt moves the baby up a little, so he can place a kiss on his forehead. And the scene brings tears to your eyes.

“You deserve it.” Moving to stand next to him, you exchange a look with him before focusing on the baby.

“Guess we'll have to leave Kaer Morhen for next year.”

“And next year, we'll introduce them to a tiny Geralt.” You add, as your heart is filled with bliss. Life has a way of turning things upside down for everyone. But this time, it just was putting things into their places. And you're excited to see where it leads you and this perfect little family you have.

[sourwolf-sterek32]

Broken Heart

Summary: You were the first and only female Witcher.

You and Geralt had been together since you were teenagers, training and fighting alongside each other for decades. However, when Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up, he chose her.

Now, years later, you go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and come face to face with Geralt of Rivia, forcing old feelings to resurface once again.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Language, violence

Previous Chapter

Chapter 12-

Travelling the Continent constantly looking over your shoulder for danger wasn't so different from when you used to walk The Path with Geralt and Eskel slaying monsters for coin.

You missed those days.

Life had been so much simpler back then.

And you missed your twin brother dearly.

Now, you were running from powers across the Continent who wanted to get to Ciri and use her Elder Blood for their own personal gain. You had lost track of how many different factions were hunting the girl, but it didn't matter. You were never letting anyone touch her.

Recently, you had found yourselves taking refuge in one of Yarpen’s cabins situated on the outskirts of the woods by a frozen lake. You were surprised that he was willing to help you, knowing what kind of heat you would bring to his area if anyone found out, but you also knew that he wanted the hush money for his discretion, so actually, you weren't surprised at all.

Yennefer had followed along with you, Geralt and Ciri, moving from place to place with you guys without complaining. She continued trying to train the young girl with her powers, but as far as you could tell, that training hadn't been very successful.

Jaskier had travelled with you for a while too before meeting a woman named Vespula, and well, he chose to stay with her for the time being while the four of you kept moving. You missed his constant ramblings and his beautiful yet annoying singing, but you understood why he chose to stay, and you couldn't hold that against him.

When nobody came knocking at your door after a couple of months by the lake, you all unknowingly began letting your guard down. Your little cabin that you shared with Geralt and Ciri was starting to feel like home.

It was nice.

It was domestic.

Yennefer lived in the small cabin next door. She never once tried to sleep in the same house as you guys which you were grateful for. Although you were willingly dealing with her being around, you still didn't trust her after everything she had done.

The mage wasn't stupid, she knew that you didn't exactly like her, so she respected your privacy and kept her distance. She taught Ciri magic in the mornings, and you trained Ciri in the afternoons on how to fight and be a Witcher. It worked. You had a good routine and Ciri was happy, so that was all that mattered.

"Thank you for the supplies, Yarpen." You said, taking the last crate of potatoes from his horse cart.

"What would you guys do without me, eh?"

"We would probably starve for one." Ciri chuckled, taking a bite from one of the fresh apples.

"We wouldn't starve." You rolled your eyes, placing the crate down on the ground. "We can still hunt food, but these are greatly appreciated."

"Oh, I forgot to tell ya, our Belleteyn festival is down the valley. You should come." Yarpen offered, looking over at Ciri.

The girls eyes lit up, "I'd love to."

"It's not safe."

"No."

"Bad idea."

You, Geralt and Yennefer all answered at once causing Ciri to glare at you.

Well, at least the adults were on the same page.

"No one's asked about me for months and everyone will be in costume. And... I was born on Belleteyn." Ciri negotiated.

"Ah! You'd have had a shot at bein' May Queen. Except my niece's beard is comin' in nice and full this year." Yarpen laughed with a wink causing Ciri to giggle.

Geralt practically hissed as he walked past Yarpen, glaring at the smaller man who sobered up his laughter real quick before sighing.

"Just say yes, already! About time for a fuckin' thaw round here."

Ciri looked between you and Geralt with a bright smile, but you just shook your head. It was too risky. After everything you had done to make this place a safe haven, you couldn't risk throwing it all away for some stupid festival.

"I promise I'll be safe."

Geralt glanced over at her hesitantly before looking over at you with a questioning look, but you shook your head again.

"We can't risk it."

"Please, I'll be safe. I swear." Ciri practically begged before Yennefer walked over and joined the conversation.

"I guess it probably wouldn't hurt. She's a girl, I think she deserves to have some fun with other people for at least a couple of hours."

You turned and gave Yennefer a pointed look that she knew meant, shut up. But she completely ignored you and turned to look at Ciri.

"Yarpen just told me that he dropped off a bag full of old dresses for us to choose from. C'mon."

Ciri's smile spread further as she took Yennefer’s hand and you watched in disbelief as the two of them rushed into the cabin without further word, leaving you and Geralt standing outside.

"What the fuck just happened?" You said, staring at the closed door before glancing over at Geralt. "Does she think that she's in charge here?"

Geralt sighed, "she is not in charge. But... I guess one night won't be so bad."

Whoa, wait, what?

You opened your mouth to argue, but quickly closed it again. This wasn't a fight worth having. Geralt wouldn't allow this if he didn't think Ciri would be safe, and you trusted Geralt.

Later that night, you were sitting at the kitchen table with Geralt debating whether or not you should go with them to this festival or if you should stay back and watch the house, but Ciri had already decided for you.

"Y/N, I found the perfect dress for you!" The girl shouted from her bedroom.

That caught Geralt's attention. He looked away from the knife he was sharpening and raised his eyebrows at you.

"You're gonna wear a dress?" He asked, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. "I don't think I've ever seen you wear a dress."

"For good reason. Dresses are impractical. They get in the way. These pants and shirt are much easier to move and fight in." You replied, motioning towards the clothes you were currently wearing.

"I've never been to a Belleteyn festival outside of Cintra before. You know, this one year, Sir Lazlo tried to jump the bonfire in full armour." Ciri continued to say from her room before her door opened. "What do you think?"

You glanced over your shoulder and couldn't stop yourself from smiling as you took in the beautiful long blue dress she was wearing. That colour with her long light hair, it suited her perfectly.

"I think you need to hide your hair and mask your eyes." Geralt muttered, turning his attention back to his knife.

The smile on Ciri’s face instantly vanished and you kicked Geralt’s shin from under the table causing him to glare at you.

"Would it kill you to say, 'You look lovely'?" Ciri mumbled before she stormed off back into her bedroom.

"Ciri." Geralt sighed, but she was already gone. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"It is a bad idea. But she is also just a little girl. All she wanted was for you to approve of her outfit and maybe tell her she looks nice because believe it or not, that girl looks up to you. Your opinion matters to her." You explained, looking at your boyfriend across the table.

"It shouldn't."

"Maybe. But it does. She cares about what you think. Remember that."

You stood up, giving Geralt’s shoulder a small squeeze as you walked past before you knocked her bedroom door softly.

"Hey, kiddo, can I come in? I wanna see that beautiful dress of yours up close and I believe you have one inside for me?" You asked, and a second later the door opened, but Ciri was still frowning a little. "Don't worry about him. He's just a grumpy old man."

"A grumpy old man that can hear you." Geralt grunted from the table.

"You were meant to!" You shouted over your shoulder causing Ciri to chuckle softly before she stepped to the side and let you into her room.

She walked over to her bed and picked up another dress before holding it up for you to see, and it was gorgeous.

It was a simple long dress that looked a little too small for your liking, but the dark blue was a nice colour, you had to admit that.

"What do you think?" Ciri asked cheerfully.

"It might be a bit small. But I can try it."

"It will fit. If there is one thing I am good at, it is fashion. Trust me."

"Trusting you then."

Ciri was right. The dress did fit, and as much as you hated to admit it, you liked it. It was beautiful and hugged your curves just perfectly.

“Can you go and grab my sword?”

Ciri nodded, walking out the room and leaving you to admire yourself in the mirror for a few minutes before she returned with your sword in her hand.

"Here. What are you gonna do with it?"

"I am not going anywhere without it. Here, I need your help. Can you pull the back of the dress away from my body?" You asked, taking the sword.

Ciri frowned a little but nodded and stepped behind you before grabbing the back of your dress and holding it away from your skin. You lifted your sword up behind you before carefully sliding it down your back until the tip of the handle was in line with the back of your neck.

"Hold the sword there while I tighten the corset."

"This is so cool." Ciri whispered, holding the sword against your back beneath your dress while you tightened the corset enough to hold the sword in place while still being able to breathe in the meantime.

"Ta-da." You said, holding your arms out as you spun around just to make sure that the sword was secure.

By Ciri's silence yet stunned look on her face, you were going to assume that you looked good and that she liked the sword idea. So, you smiled at the young girl before slipping back on your usual boots because why put on fancy shoes that hurt your feet when the dress was too long to see them anyway?

"Oh, wait, almost forgot the masks." Ciri said, snapping herself out of her shock before she rushed over to the desk and picked up the two masks. "Here."

To your surprise, the mask matched the colour of your dress identically and you had a few questions for Yarpen about why and how he had access to such clothing.

You slipped the mask on over your face while Ciri raised her handheld mask over her own and you both grinned at each other.

Dressing up like this wasn't something you thought you would enjoy. You grew up surrounded by boys. You never once had a girl around, it was always boys. And those boys, you loved them all like brothers, but this was something none of them would enjoy or do with you, so it was nice to let your hair down for once.

"Are you two ready yet?" Yennefer's voice called out from the main room.

You glanced over at Ciri, "ready to go?"

"Come on!" She grabbed your hand and pulled you out the bedroom just as Geralt stood up from his chair and had to do a double take when he saw you.

His mouth parted in silent shock, but no words came out. Those beautiful golden eyes looked you up and down, but he seemed unable to speak.

"Geralt, tell her that she looks lovely." Ciri prompted from beside you.

Geralt blinked, glancing at the girl before focusing back on you and clearing his throat.

"You look lovely, Y/N."

His voice was a little rougher than usual and you smiled taking that as a compliment before you glanced over at Yennefer who was standing in the doorway. She had a nice black dress and matching mask on, and as always, she looked absolutely stunning.

Geralt slipped on a large black cloak, hiding his clothes and white hair before the four of you left the safety of your new home and made your way to the festival.

The sound of music blasting and people laughing could be heard for miles before you finally reached the festival, and you weren't sure how many people you were expecting to be there, but it sure as hell wasn't this many.

Crowds of people covered the area. Many dancing, others standing around with drinks talking and laughing with one another.

"I don't like this." You whispered, leaning closer to Geralt.

He snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side while you entered the festival, your eyes frantically scanning the mass number of people cautiously.

"Just be on guard." He whispered back.

"Always."

Ciri had left to go dancing with the locals while you, Geralt and Yennefer found a nice quite spot by the ale tent. You watched Ciri as she danced, her smile so bright it was lighting up the whole area.

She was having fun. She was happy. That was the main thing.

It wasn't long before Ciri managed to drag the three of you with her to the maze. What a garden maze had to do with a festival was something you couldn't quite figure out, but Ciri seemed excited to go inside, so you followed.

You lost the girl within the first 30 seconds, Geralt and Yennefer also nowhere to be seen.

Maybe going in a maze wasn't the smartest idea.

You weren't too concerned though until the sound of people’s laughter around you turned into petrified screams.

Oh, that couldn't be good.

Scared civilians rushed past you trying desperately to get out of the maze and away from whatever had them so frightened. You could hear Geralt and Yennefer calling out Ciri's name from somewhere in the maze while Ciri shouted back at them.

Neither of them was with Ciri.

She was alone and in danger.

That realisation made your stomach drop.

Reaching back behind you, your fingers clasped around the handle of your sword before you pulled it out and held it up in front of you. The civilians were still rushing past, screaming and crying at everyone to run, so you did what you always did.

You turned around and marched towards the danger.

The ground beneath you was starting to rumble and you could hear the sound of something snorting and growling. You were close.

"Ciri, where are you?!" You yelled, trying to run through the maze, but your tight dress was restricting your movements. "Fuck it."

You hacked away at the bottom of your dress with the sword. The blade slicing through the blue material until your legs were free from the restraining fabric, the dress now super short, but at least you could run.

"Ciri!" You continued to shout as you ran, turning left and right, but continuously finding yourself facing a dead-end.

Fuck, mazes really sucked.

"Y/N?!" Ciri's voice shouted desperately.

You looked around and realised that searching for Ciri in this maze like this was too time consuming. The tall hedge to your left had a stone feature beside it and you knew that was your best bet.

Without hesitation, you climbed up the stone wall to get the high ground before spotting Ciri a few rows away. The girl was slowly backing away from a large monster and-

Oh, fuck was that a Jackapace?

Its body resembled that of an armadillo, but a hundred times more terrifying. They were blind though but used their sense of smell to navigate and of course, to locate their targets. It's target right now, was Ciri.

It didn't even care about you, it was zeroed in on one thing, and one thing only, that little girl.

You ran along the top of the maze, jumping over rows to get to Ciri, but the Jackapace was already charging at her and you knew you weren't going to reach her in time.

Ciri raised her hand and started chanting in Elder trying to use her magic before Yennefer suddenly appeared behind her and used her own magic, throwing the monster back a few meters to buy some time.

Oh, thank God.

Geralt appeared out of nowhere, slicing his sword along the side of the creature, but it simply whacked the Witcher away with its thick tail, sending Geralt flying through the air and landing on the ground, hard.

That was all the time you needed before you leaped over the last row of the maze and jumped down, spearing your sword through the Jackapace's head, pinning it to the ground.

The monster shrieked in pain but didn't die. It thrashed its body from side to side while you struggled to hold the sword down through its skull. If you released the sword, this monster would go feral and Ciri who was somewhere behind you, would be dead.

"Geralt!" You shouted, using all your strength to keep its head pinned to the dirt. "It's heart. It needs to be stabbed through the heart!"

"Move!"

You yanked your sword out and jumped backwards, trusting Geralt's word blindly. The monster reared up on its back legs, its body now twice as tall as it roared down at you before Geralt suddenly slid under it and stabbed his sword up into its chest, the blade piercing through its heart.

The Jackapace's angered roar died in its throat before Geralt pulled his sword out and the monster collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

You let out a sigh of relief before you turned around to find Yennefer standing beside Ciri who was staring at the dead creature with wide eyes.

"Hey, are you okay?" You asked, rushing over to the young girl.

"Yeah, yeah." She nodded, unable to pull her eyes away from the monster.

"Hey." You said gently, stepping in front of her and blocking her view of the creature before her green eyes met yours. "I was never going to let that monster get to you. You know that, right?"

"I know." She answered honestly before she looked down at your dress and frowned. "It's ruined."

You chuckled, "dresses were never really my thing. They look better on you."

That caused the girls eyes to brighten a little, a small smile forming on her lips before Geralt walked over to the three of you, scanning you all for injuries before letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn't see any.

"We need to leave." He muttered, motioning for you all to follow him.

Nobody dared to argue or say anything as you followed him through the maze. You were already lost in this damn thing, but Geralt somehow seemed to know his way around and before you knew it, you were walking back through the woods to your cabin.

"You good?" Geralt asked quietly, glancing over at you.

You nodded, "thanks for the backup."

“Thanks for the save.” Geralt replied.

When you returned to the cabin, you all got to quick work with backing up your things because this location was no longer safe. If that monster managed to find Ciri, then more would too. You had to move on.

"We'll find another home." Geralt insisted, looking over at Ciri who was sadly packing away her items.

"I liked this one." She whispered, refusing to look at him.

"We all did." Yennefer's voice responded, walking into your cabin with her bag already packed. "How did that thing find us?"

"A Jackapace hunts by scent. It found Ciri because it knew her." Geralt answered.

"Her scent? How?"

"Vesemir told me that Rience stole Ciri's blood from Kaer Morhen." Geralt began to say, coming to the same realisation as you. "He must have used the blood as a scent marker."

"Great. That's just great. Perfect. Fucking perfect." You swore, leaning your back against the wall as you pinched the bridge of your nose. "So, wherever we go, that fire fucker will find us?"

Geralt glanced over at you sadly, "yes... unless we find him first."

"We draw him out." Ciri suddenly said, bringing your attention to her. "We give him the thing he wants most. Me."

-

Next Chapter

-

MASTERLIST pinned to profile

Commissions open! Link in bio & DM for enquiries

A/N- Season 3 is finally out!!! (well part 1 anyway)

So I am back with new chapters as we continued on with y/n's journey with Geralt, Ciri, Yen and our favourite bard! I hope you all enjoy ❤️

[darklydeliciousdesires]

20. “Please, remind me again why we’re having sex against a tree?” This one is giving Geralt vibes, I'm intrigued 🤭 x

Intrigued seems to be the word du jour in describing this particular prompt, bestie, hahaha! Here you are!

Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

The lush greens of the late spring canopy occupy every last space within the forest, so thick and blooming that only the occasional beam of light from the bright sun shines through the entanglement of branches above.

The particular tree you are pushed against scattering blossoms upon you, shaken by the gentle breeze, while you are shaken by your lover, your dress and underskirts rucked up around your waist, Geralt behind you, his full cock sliding back and forth into the satin clutch of your cunt.

“Please, remind me again why we’re having sex against a tree?” you pant softly, a particularly deep thrust forcing a groan from you, the noise sending shivers through him.

"Because you complain that I never take you anywhere beautiful, love. So now here I am, literally taking you somewhere beautiful." Your face is a picture of incredulity as you turn to him, Geralt amused by your reaction to his statement. "Stop looking at me in that tone of voice."

You chuckle, gasping as he spears into you faster. "Oh, you assume yourself to be so very clever," you tease, Geralt grunting a 'hm', his lips meeting your neck in a fever of kisses.

"I assume myself to be a much greater fuck."

Well, he isn't wrong there.

[mystra-midnight]

Howl

summary: it was not love that kept him coming back, but a need for company, for an evening of peace where the world outside the shaking walls of your cottage ceased to exist.

warnings: rough sex. choking. slight praise kink. all-around smutty goodness. geralt is a dominant and dirty sob.

word count: 3.2k

notes: honestly i’m not sure exactly where this idea came from but i can say it is partly inspired by the song howl by florence and the machine.

"_____"

You’d not been expecting to see him again so soon. Geralt had visited only a few days ago to satisfy the desire that beat at him incessantly and without remorse. Some of the villagers said you should never have allowed the White Wolf sanctuary within your home—that fateful event had begun your tumultuous relationship—but reclusiveness often came with loneliness, and that was something the two of you shared.

It was not love that kept him coming back, but a need for company, for an evening of peace where the world outside the shaking walls of your cottage ceased to exist. In those few hours before the sun rose, what you’d always hoped for would come true: loneliness would forget your address.

So when you hear his voice, it’s a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

You can’t prevent the smile that finds your lips as you place the bowl on the counter. Your hands ache as you wipe them on the front of your skirts, leaving them damp and dirty. You’d been kneading dough to make bread in the morning, and now your fingers were stiff and clumps of dough were stuck beneath your nails.

But none of that was why you froze after turning to face him.

He was standing in the doorway, filling the frame with his bulk. There was blood splattered on his face, dripping from his plump lips; it was fresh and likely still warm. It was also still wet; you could see it glistening on his dark leather armour beneath the moonlight peeking in through the doorway, but this was not what made your heart skip a beat.

His eyes were as black as the night and narrowed with dangerous focus. There were tendrils snaking along his skin, stretching like a Kraken’s tentacles reaching out through the deep ocean in search of prey. His aura was strong, filling the room despite the distance between you. It was powerful and condemning, making you shiver.

"Geralt." You were careful to keep your voice low and calm, knowing that he was unpredictable in this state. You’d heard rumours about what he was like and what moods would take him when he took his witcher potions. Every one of his senses would be heightened more than they already were: sight, smell, and taste, but those were the obvious ones.

His body was likely on fire with urgent need. His mind would be in a haze. His thoughts would be overwhelmed with sensation and the desire to feel the satin clutch of your cunt wrapped around his aching cock. Your eyes drift down to find the bulge at the front of his pants, confirming your suspicions.

He steps into the cottage, which seems much smaller with him inside. He moves slowly, but you have no retreat; the small of your back is pressed tightly against the counter you had been working at only moments ago. His boots thudded on the woodwork, tracking mud, dirt, and god knows what else across the floor. He hasn’t even closed the door.

His blackened eyes feast on the sight of you—the way your skin prickles with goosebumps beneath the cold air sweeping through the door, how your nipples harden into peaks beneath the assault of his stare and your own thoughts.

You like the Witcher well enough but know enough about him to maintain a healthy balance of respect and apprehension. "Are you hurt?" You ask in a quiet voice, fighting to keep the tremor from your words but failing. "I have bandages."

His low growl was enough to silence you.

"Take off your clothes."

His command was absolute, leaving no room for argument. It was like a slap to the face, leaving you startled and staring at him with wide eyes. But the rumble of his voice was deep and memorising, making your pussy weep as moisture pooled at the apex of your thighs. You press yourself tighter against the counter until the small of your back aches beneath the pressure.

"Geralt, I-"

He crossed the distance remaining between the two of you with unnatural speed, his hand coming up to clutch you roughly by the throat, silencing you as his fingers pressed into the sides of your neck. The warmth of his body is intoxicating, or maybe it was his grip on your neck that made you feel lightheaded as he forced you backwards, bending you back until your elbows pressed painfully into the counter and your skirts pressed firmly against the front of his trousers.

"Do not speak," he instructs. "Not unless it is to tell me you’re cumming."

His fingers clutch tighter at your throat, the pads of them pressing so roughly into the arteries either side of your neck that your vision blurs, and you wheeze in protest. You grabbed at his wrist when your lungs began to burn, your dirty nails clawing at his skin.

Geralt was not a gentleman; you knew this. He had never been a gentleman, nor would he be. When you found him half dead at the edge of the stream, manticore venom oozing from the puncture wound in his shoulder, you knew he was a force of nature, too stubborn to die. And you knew from the rumours that he took what he pleased and ignored the repercussions of his actions. You knew all of this, and you still brought him home.

He'd taken you the first night he’d awoken, delirious and in pain, and you’d let him. His hands held your hips so tightly that they’d bruised, his cock stretching your tight pussy in delicious and delirious ways as he took you from behind, the tip of him pressed against your cervix, your face smushed into the mattress. He’d stayed for four days and taken you repeatedly, until your legs couldn’t support your own weight and your body ached.

So when his fingers bite tighter into your neck, making darkness encroach on the edge of your vision, and tears dance on your lashline, you’re not all that surprised. Geralt fucked like he fought: teeth, tongue, and aggression.

Geralt towered over you, making you feel so small. He has you bent backwards so that your tits are thrust out. Your lips part in a mewl that goes unheard. Geralt kisses you hard, his tongue pushing past your lips and into your mouth, swallowing the little gasp you make when his fingers tear open the front of your dress, exposing your goose-prickled skin to the night air.

His lips taste like blood and something else—perhaps the ingredients of his potions. One moment they’re sweet like berries, and the next repugnant, leaving your desires whiplashed.

At long last, he lets go of your throat and grabs roughly at your skirts, bunching them up at your waist. You suck in a much-needed breath, coughing and spluttering; your lungs burning violently, and your body threatening to collapse to the ground. Geralt palms your tits roughly, his nails scraping at your skin on the wrong side of pleasure. He pinches your nipple hard, pulling on it cruelly to lure you up from the counter.

You whine in protest, but he keeps you silent with another kiss, his teeth dragging over your lower lip, tongue in the wet cavern of your mouth, twisting with your tongue. Geralt is like fire, and you are a moth to his flame.

Your hands move on their own accord, pressing firmly into his chest as though to push him away. Your fingers come away coated in blood, sticky as you fist them in his white hair, bloodying his already dirty locks. Geralt is rough, sitting you on the edge of the counter and shoving your thighs apart, making space for his hand to be shoved to the apex of your thighs, his fingers finding the thatch of damp curls.

His name is a whine that dies on your tongue before it can be said when his instructions repeat in your mind like a warning. You have half a mind to push him away. His lips are too rough as they suck dark marks along the side of your neck and shoulder, and his teeth leave red crescent moons as he tastes your skin.

His hand at your hip is holding too tightly, his fingertips bruising your skin despite the layers of skirts that hinder him. You want to speak, want to tell him to let you go, want to tell him to be gentle, but your throat aches more with each whimper and moan he forces from you, reminding you about the power of his hands.

He could break you very easily.

The tips of his fingers nudge your clit, making your breath catch in your throat in a needy whine. His mouth is still on your neck, having never left, leaving a map of darkening bruises along your collarbones and the hollow of your throat until you pull desperately on his hair to drag his mouth back to yours.

He pushes two fingers into your weeping hole, hitting deep without giving you time to adjust. His hands are large, his fingers thick, stretching your snug walls. You cling to him as pleasure sweeps through you, a bloodied hand still tangled in his starlight locks, your lips parting against his in a breathless plea as his fingers crash into you, forcing your legs to fall further apart.

"Look at you," he whispers against your trembling lips. "Such a good girl."

His teeth trap your lower lip in a voracious bite, one that was hard enough to have your inside walls clenching tightly around his probing fingers, leaving tears brimming at the edges of your eyes. He sucks your lip into his mouth, laving his tongue over the reddening bite, before letting it go with a lewd pop. You whine, your nails scratching beautifully at his scalp when his heel of his palm hits your clit.

"Geralt!" You keen loudly when he finds your sweet spot, a leg kicking out in reaction. He grabs your thigh in a cruel grip and spreads you open again, shushing you with a harsh growl. He works faster now that he’s found it, his palm slapping against your buzzing clit with every thrust of his arm, making your body twitch.

He runs his tongue across your heated skin, leaving a wet stripe from one of your nipples, over the bruises on your shoulder, up your neck, and to your mouth. You feel his smug smirk as he presses a kiss against your cupid's bow and again when he drags his lips across your cheek, tasting the tears that have fallen.

"You can take another one."

He isn’t asking.

You burrow your fingers into his hair in an attempt to anchor yourself when the familiar white-hot heat of orgasm starts seizing your organs. You shake your head from side to side, your hair tumbling wildly around your face, straining to close your legs when the pressure builds.

Geralt pinches the fat of your thigh, then your nipple, and then grabs your face roughly. His fingers dig into your mandible, forcing your lips open. You stare up at him with lust-blown eyes. You think he might hit you; you hope that he doesn’t; you hope that he does; you don’t even know what you want anymore.

The next time he thrusts into your fucked-open hole, it is with three fingers, and something inside you just snaps. He hits deep, finds that spot again with the tips of all three fingers, and you break with full-body twitches that make your entire body tremble beneath him as you come completely undone. "I’m - I’m gonna - cum!"

He doesn’t stop. He keeps going until your juice is escaping around his fingers, coating your thighs and dripping from the thatch of curls that crown your pretty cunt. He doesn't stop when you pant at him, when you moan for mercy, or when you wriggle your hips and try to push him away. Instead, he buries his fingers in your cunt, scissors them in your gummy walls, and kisses you hard: teeth, tongue, and hard male aggression.

You're still coming down from the clouds when he manhandles you into position, the aftershocks of your orgasm still pulsing through your core, beating in time with your wild heart. He puts you on your knees. Your arms are weak and unable to support your weight, so you press your cheek against the ground. Your skirts are bunched around your waist, your glistening cunt exposed to his hungry gaze.

You hear his swords clattering to the ground, followed seconds later by his belt, and then he spreads your lips open with his thumbs, making your inner muscles clench desperately. Geralt licks from your swollen clit to your pretty hole, using his tongue to push the slick back into you. He hums with pleasure when your body jerks at the sensation.

"You taste like heaven." He says it with a hum, his breath hot against your cunt, making your core drip with wanton desire. He eats you like a man possessed, as though he were on the brink of death and your pussy alone could save him. Ever so slowly, one hand started sliding up while the other slid down, moving in a circular motion at your hips.

You whimper at the gentleness, the sound going straight to his cock, which twitches against his stomach in response. His palms the soft globes of your ass and spreads your cheeks, his tongue prodding through your folds once again. He runs the flat of his tongue from your clit, to your pretty hole, then to your nether hole. He has you teetering on the edge of oblivion when he stops, and before you can whine for more, you feel the head of his cock splitting you open.

You scratch at the dirty ground, desperate for something to hold onto, when he buries himself completely in your cunt with a single thrust, tearing a howling moan from your throat as you come undone again, inner walls spasming around him. Nothing about Geralt of Rivia is small, certainly not his cock. He’s pressed against your cervix, and it feels like he's in the back of your throat, like he’s going to break you as your pussy strains to accommodate his girth.

It never mattered how many times he made you cum; accommodating his cock was always a harsh demand.

Geralt does not stay still for long, giving you no time to adjust to his girth; his hips pull back only to snap forwards again. The force of his thrust pushes you forwards, your tits and cheek catching on the muddy floor, and your nipples pebble even more beneath the rough stimulation. His pace is frenzied and without mercy.

In this state, he is unconcerned with your pleasure and instead focuses on his own. He loves the velvet heat of your inner walls and how they wrap so tightly around him. He loves when your cunt swallows every inch he has to give. He loves when your arousal slicks down your thighs, drips from your mound, and puddles on the floor beneath you. He loves the way your thighs tremble when he finds the right angle for his hips, and he always finds it.

He loves when you're gagging on him, on your knees, and looking up at him as though he hung the stars in the sky. He loves seeing your skin marked with bruises, how you flush with embarrassment, and how you try to hide them from the other villages. He loves that you are addicted to him. He does not love you, though, and you're smart enough to know this.

Geralt fucks harder when he feels your gummy walls clamping on his cock in a vice-like grip. Pleasure starts to sear in your veins. His fingers are like coils of iron around your hips, holding so tight that you're sure your bones are bending.

And just when you think it can't feel better and that he can't do anything else to make you lose your mind, he shadows over you, his chest pressing against your back.

You feel the hard buckles of his armour pressing into your back through the tattered remains of your dress; you can feel the fabric dampening with blood, but it’s the furthest thought from your mind. Geralt forces your legs further apart and continues his assault on your core. The pleasurable feeling builds, and you bite your bottom lip hard, almost cutting through your own skin, to keep from screaming. The door was still open; anyone could see; everyone could hear.

But when the mushroom head of his cock crashes into that spot hard enough to make your entire body shudder, you’re lost.

Your muffled moans became screams of pleasure that seem to shake the walls of your cottage. Geralt continued to drill into you with bruising force, his hips hitting your ass with a constant slap, slap, slap. You feel your orgasm start and then instantly crash over you. Geralt buries himself to the hilt with a gutteral groan, his cock pulsing as he exploded, filling you with ribbons of cum.

He held himself perfectly still while your sweet cunt rippled around him, your thighs violently shaking, threatening to go out from under you. It was only his arm wrapped around your waist that kept you up. And when your trembling slowed and you'd barely caught your breath, your inner walls still fluttering around his cock, he fucked into you again and again, dragging his seed out and then pushing it back in, working it like lubricant.

You whine in protest.

"Geralt, I don’t think I-"

He fists a hand in your hair, crushing the sweaty strands in his fingers as he hauls you to your knees, your words morphing into a screech mid-sentence. Fresh tears spring to your eyes and run down your cheeks like rivers. You're crying because it feels so fucking good, because the pleasure is quickly becoming too much, because he is rough and passionate, and you can't get enough of it. You open and close your mouth, your voice refusing to make a sound other than little grunts and groans as he bucks up into you.

If he were to die right now, he would never come to regret this.

If you died, neither would you.

His hands move, are everywhere and nowhere all at once, and then one of them is at your throat, his fingertips finding their earlier position upon the sides of your neck and digging in, making you lightheaded once again. The other one is on your tits, pinching cruelly at a nipple to start and then palming at them roughly.

He was an animal, a beast, and you didn't want him any other way.

"Cum!" You manage to choke out, your vision blurring with tears while you stare at the stars through the opened door. "Gonna cum!"

You cry out in rapture as he groans against your shoulder. Geralt clenches his jaw, his hands gripping brutally at your body, pinning you to him as your cunt chokes the life out of him. If someone were to ask him, he would swear that he'd died when you twitched and trembled against him, your arousal dripping from the both of you, mixing with his as he filled you again.

Geralt lets you fall limp to the ground, your body still trembling, his seed leaking from your fucked-open hole. He falls beside you and rolls onto his back, chest heaving and eyes amber once again.

If someone were to ask him, he'd swear he'd died, and he'd swear he'd found solace buried in your cunt.

[boxofbonesfic]

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​

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…

next

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[deandoesthingstome]

a waiting place

A/N: In honor of @sillyrabbit81 and her milestone event. Congrats friend! I don't know if this is cheating but I took two screenshots, sent one and kept one for myself. I thought it would take me days, but I sat down and this feeling just poured from me.

Her event masterlist is here.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader (my first time with writing him, please be gentle)

Prompt: Slow & Romantic // Geralt // Mirror Sex

Summary: You have finally found a place of your own

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: there is sex in this story so NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI

It was rumored to have been made with magic, but when you finally stumbled across the mirror tucked deep in the recesses of the farmhouse abandoned in Ebbing after the start of the Northern War, it was draped in a dusty cloth and looked anything but.

Still, the vibrations were calling, remnants of your ancestors, whose mastery of craft had placed the various pieces of skillfully forged metal and intricately carved wood together around the silver-backed glass. When you touched it, a warmth spread from your fingertips to your toes, and you knew you were home.

Exactly what kind of home had yet to be determined, since your skills were still newfound and you’d yet to master any sort of transformative spells. Backbreaking hard work was all you were able to put into it, but the efforts were worth it once you were able to lay down in a bed of your own making, the mirror standing in a newly prominent place of honor against the wall across the room.

In the morning, you readied a hot bath, filled with nourishing herbs and healing tinctures, and placed a tray of fresh bread flanked by cured meats and cheeses on the small table beside the wooden tub along with a bowl of warm stew and pitcher of ale. 

And exactly three years after your initial meeting, you called out to him, desire coursing through your veins and energy pulsing in your reflection, clearly bound with the mastery of your ancients.

“I am here. I made it. I need you.” You repeated the words in thoughts through the spells you chanted so that when he arrived, he would know why. Pulling someone through space and time was never easy, on them or you. But the yearning was too great, fueling the need to feel his skin against yours, his breath in your ear. 

You helped him out of his clothes and into the water and waited for him to invite you in next, knowing full well the need he’d feel when he’d recovered from the journey. He held your arm and wouldn’t let go, even as his grunts and groans indicated his agitated and depleted state. So you sat next to him as long as you could before it became apparent you’d need to replenish the hot water in the bath soon. 

He reached for you once the steam was rising from the tub once again. You dropped your sleep shift to the ground and let him guide you into the water with him. “The floor will dry”, you told yourself. “This moment may never come again.”

His gaze was tender and grateful and you smiled back at him, pleased at his reaction to being called here.

“Were you finished?” you asked. “Did I time it right?”

“Just,” he grunted.

“I’ve missed you. So very much.”

“I’m glad you survived your trial. Is this where you’ll stay from now on?”

“Need to know where to find me?” you smirked.

“And when. Yes.”

“I imagine there’ll come a time when I’ll need to go back. I can only learn so much more from books; I’ll need another mentor soon.”

“But for now?” he trailed off with a quirked brow.

“For now you find me here.”

With the water cooled and your bodies’ heat risen, Geralt stood with your legs wrapped around his waist, lips still locked against yours, a hand cradling your ass while the other pressed against your back to keep you tight to his chest. He stepped with ease out of the tub and to the bed, where he laid you down and peeled your limbs from him.

“I want to see you.”

“You’ve seen me. We’ve been in that water together for ages. Please,” you reached for him, but he stood still, head cocked to the side regarding your naked form. You watched him breathe in deeply and sigh the air out as he closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them again, you could swear you saw sparks as he acquiesced to your desire.

He crawled over your naked body, drops of water from his long silvery hair landing to cool the fire on your skin. But that flame for him would never douse, not in a million years. And while he had given in to your need to touch him and hold him in bed immediately, he wanted to take you apart slowly.

“Is that it?” he asked, head turned toward the mirror where he could make out his image poured over you, your leg draped over his thigh.

“Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He pulled back, taking you with him as he shifted to his knees and deftly turned you away from him, facing the mirror.

“What it reflects, certainly.” His voice was low in your ear as you watched the backs of his fingers caress your arms and down your sides. You knew his cat eyes could see more details in that image across the room than you ever could, but he did a good job of putting on a whole show of movement you could see as well as feel, placing kisses along your shoulder as a hand returned to cup your heaving chest. He slid his other hand forward around your waist and down over your belly, reaching for the heat between your thighs. Your eyes closed involuntarily when his fingers found their way inside you.

“Please watch. I want to see all of you, especially your eyes, while you come undone for me,” he whispered in your ear.

You wanted to feel all of him inside you immediately; you were practically bursting with the heat of your need for him but since you knew that would never wane, you gave in and watched the mirror while he slowly and methodically stroked you to orgasm. 

You felt yourself floating back to the bed and watched him peer down at you again while he took himself in hand and lined up at your entrance. He let out a long, low groan as he lowered himself to pulse into you slowly. 

“Fuck, you feel good.”

“I’ve missed this too, Geralt. I wish it would never end.”

“I’m going to make this last, alright?” he asked, head pulled back to gauge your interest.

You nodded and smiled, pleased he felt up to a long night after such a journey. You’d absolutely have to place a mark next to the entry in your spell book you’d used to prepare the bath, as the concoction had clearly done its job.

He didn’t lie. For hours, he teased and tortured you with his cock, grinding you deep and slow into the mattress while he caressed your mouth with his. His tongue tangled against yours, leaving only to trace lines of lust along your neck or chest. Sometimes, he’d roll you over him and urge you to take one of your many releases while riding him upright, his hands firm around your waist. 

You lost count of how many ways he brought you pleasure before he finally pulled you to hands and knees in front of him, once again facing the mirror. Once he was fully sheathed inside you, he gently lifted your torso against him, hand gripping lightly at your neck.

“I want you to watch again. Let the source of your true power soak up every bit of ours together,” his voice rumbled in your ear and vibrated against your back. When you nodded, he pressed you back down, chest all the way to the bed while he gripped your hips tight and rocked into you.

Even now, in this position usually reserved for wild abandon, Geralt made love to you. His movement was calculated, his strokes long and deliberate. His eyes sought yours in the reflection, though it was hard to tear your view away from where his hips disappeared behind your ass.

“Will you come with me one last time?” he begged, completely out of character and for a moment, you felt a sadness you hadn’t expected. Surely he wouldn’t let this be the last time you found each other across this vast lifetime?

“If you promise to come back,” you answered, as if you could ever hold back your release once he began to pump in earnest.

“When I can, yes.” 

With that most useless of promises secured, you smiled and nodded again. “Come for me, Geralt.”

It only took a few more strokes before he came with a growl, and you were lost in a blinding explosion of lights. Collapsed next to one another, you steadied your heart rate and burrowed into him as he curled himself around you. His sustained heat would never allow you to sleep long like this, but you sighed with content anyway. 

You had a home to call your own, and Geralt was willing to follow you here when he could, and that was all you cared about for now.

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[bookished]

MOONLIT NIGHTS: THE CABIN CHRONICLES

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-> Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x f!reader witch

-> Summary: Geralt of Rivia faces the impossible: he is defeated by a monster and, in the middle of trying to escape after being severally wounded, finds a cabin, where a witch who knows what he needs, cures him.

-> Rating: +18

-> Word count: 2.2k

-> Warnings: smut, kinks including breeding, rough sex, neck biting until blood comes out, degradation, domination, a little bit of praise kink, dirty talking

-> Notes: i've been rewatching the witcher and reading lots of fanfics, i got so in the mood of writing a piece and i hope you enjoy it! <3

Geralt of Rivia rode through the dense, ancient Caed Dhu forest, his silver hair glistening in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He had been on the path for days, following rumors of a dangerous creature that plagued the nearby village.

As he ventured deeper into the woods, he couldn't shake the feeling that this particular hunt would be different.

In the heart of the treacherous Caed Dhu, Geralt of Rivia, the renowned Witcher, found himself in a dire predicament. A contract had led him deep into the ancient woods, where he faced a foe more formidable than any he had encountered before. The beast, a grotesque hybrid of wolf and wyrm, had proven to be a match for Geralt's skill and swordsmanship.

As the moon hung low in the night sky, Geralt's silver sword clanged against the creature's impenetrable scales. The battle had raged for hours, and his strength waned with every strike. Blood oozed from numerous wounds, staining his armor and leather boots. His trademark white hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead, and his golden eyes burned with determination.

But in a moment of miscalculation, the beast lunged forward, its jaws snapping shut around Geralt's forearm. Pain seared through his body as his bones cracked, and he let out a roar of agony. With a swift, desperate maneuver, he wrenched his arm free, leaving shreds of flesh in the creature's maw.

Battered and bloodied, Geralt knew he was outmatched. With a heavy heart and aching limbs, he made a fateful decision. He turned and sprinted through the darkened forest, leaving behind the monster he could not defeat. His every step sent waves of agony through his injured arm, but he pushed himself to the limit.

As he escaped, he couldn't help but reflect on his countless battles, his victories, and his unshakable resolve. Yet, this time, survival took precedence over valor. The Caed Dhu closed in around him, a labyrinth of twisted trees and shadowy threats. Geralt, the fearless Witcher, ran for his life, vowing to return to face the beast another day, once he had healed and prepared for the inevitable rematch.

Deep within the heart of the dense and mysterious Caed Dhu, Geralt of Rivia stumbled upon an unexpected sanctuary. The cabin's solitude was a haven for a Witcher in need, a sanctuary where he could mend his battered body and prepare for the inevitable return to the treacherous wilderness.

The cabin stood as a solitary sentinel in the depths of the forest, its timeworn facade hidden beneath a canopy of thick foliage. With aching limbs and a resolve unyielding as steel, Geralt pushed open the creaking door and stepped into the dimly lit interior.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs and alchemical concoctions. The flickering candlelight revealed a modest yet well-equipped witch's lair. Shelves lined with vials of potions and bundles of dried herbs stretched to the ceiling. A cauldron simmered with a mysterious brew, its aroma tinged with both magic and healing properties.

He needed rest and healing. Inside the cabin, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room. The scent of herbs and potions filled the air, a telltale sign of a fellow witch's presence. He knew he wasn't alone.

From the shadows, your hooded figure emerged, revealing the gentle features of a young witch. You had been tracking his progress and had prepared the cabin for his arrival.

He got a closer look of you, which allowed him to see the medallion of the Viper, which matched your dark green eyes, that were glistening under the candle's light. You were, definitely, one of the few Witches left after the Trials that erased most of them from the surface of Earth.

Without a word, you approached Geralt and began to help him remove his clothes, your touch gentle yet firm. As the clothing fell away, his battle-worn body was exposed, covered in cuts and bruises. He hissed in pain as you examined his wounds.

"I'll take care of you, Geralt," you murmured softly, your voice soothing. You mixed herbs and applied salves, tending to each injury with practiced care. Your fingers moved with a grace born of years of training.

Geralt watched you work, silently grateful for your presence. The pain began to ebb away as your healing magic flowed through him, knitting his flesh together.

Once the wounds were tended to, you stepped back, your eyes meeting his yellowish ones with a warmth that belied the harsh world they inhabited.

"Rest now," you said, guiding him to a nearby bed. "You've earned it."

As he lay down, his body slowly relaxing, Geralt couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the kindred spirit who had tended to his wounds. In a world filled with darkness and danger, he had found a glimmer of light and solace in your healing touch.

Also, your touch brought up a slow burning fire within him, making him feeling the need in his body to bring you closer, to lick you, to taste you. He needed to show gratefulness by giving pleasure to you after healing him with such care and knowledge... as if you knew exactly how his body reacted to each one of the remedies you were using. That made the White Wolf groan in approval.

He couldn't help but grab your wrist before you stepped back, not applying so much pressure to hurt you, but enough strength to keep you where you stood. Your breath hitched in the back of your throat, making you stare back at his intense stare.

He started slowly and gently rubbing your inner wrist, where your pulse was accelerated, with his thumb calming it, you, without words, and no further movements needed.

"You're safe, Geralt. You made it home. Let me go, and you rest." You whispered, not wanting to break the calm and enchanted ambience. You don't know how you managed to sound firm, calm, steady and confident, but your tone left no doubts.

He kept staring at you, his jaw tense while the candles in the cabin lightened his skin, and you couldn't help but break eye contact and admire his body. His injured body. But, also, his fit figure.

Suddenly, Geralt pulled you into him without effort, and a groan escaped from him, low and deep. Something that made your body really happy, but you knew you couldn't risk hurting him more than he already was. You needed him fully recovered.

"If you want to keep that hand and arm, I'd suggest you let go." You had no choice but to warn him.

"I can smell you, Witch." He simply replied, his voice low and raspy, while not letting you go. You swallowed the lump in your throat, as you smelled his arousal, too. There was no possible denial in what was going around between you two, in that cabin, as the darkness of the night and the moonlit mixed with the candles surrounding you both.

With his other hand, he grabbed the Viper medallion hanging from your neck, pulling your face closer to his while keeping his firm stare at you. You could even notice the smallest of the dilation of his pupils in that position.

"After taking care of me, let me take care of your needs, witch." Geralt whispered. You knew fighting him was useless, and you couldn't deny the way your body was craving him, either. He tilted his body, not giving a flying fuck about his fresh wounds.

You stared down at his lips, and back to his eyes. He grinned a little before grabbing your medallion and pulling you close until both of your lips were a wet mess against each other, not even letting the air pass between you two.

You moaned against his lips, your groans and whines making him feel rougher and animalistic each passing second. His hands were everywhere on your body, not allowing even one millimeter of skin escape from his touch.

No previous warning, he ripped your dress from behind and continued tearing off your undergarments. You were speechless as you could only feel him. You tried touching him, but he didn’t allow that. He had you naked in front of him in a matter of seconds.

Furthermore, you looked into his eyes, waiting for his next move. "Geralt-" You were anxious for more of what he had to offer.

"You're exquisite, aren't you, witch?" He was appreciative of your exposed body in front of him, meanwhile using your condition as a pet name, which didn't annoy you at all.

He took your silence as an invitation to switch positions, grabbing you by a fistful by your long hair, having you bent over the same surface he was laying on not long ago.

Geralt directed his right hand to your pussy, moving his fingers between your folds while humming appreciatively at your wetness. The sounds filling the room, and the sights you had thanks to the little mirror that wasn't too far away on the wall in front of you, were too much to handle. It didn't take long for your thighs to begin to shake, and the White Wolf knew it too.

His hand, which was teasing you, was now wrapped around your small neck, pushing you down, taking out his digits, spreading you apart with his large girth, and slamming into your cunt.

As you wrapped your small hand around his, he tightened his hold on your neck, taking your gesture as an invitation to be rougher.

He tilted his body on top of your back, replacing the hold of his hand on your neck with his teeth burying in the delicate spot of your skin, as he kept slamming into your wetness, and you could feel his medallion swinging over you as his movement fastened, and his cock was buried deep, still pounding, into you.

"Ah, fuck, Geralt." You mumbled, not being able to keep your eyes out of the reflection in the mirror. The candles lightning his sweated skin, you underneath him as he dominated you on that unstable surface and his aura surrounding your senses.

Your hips began to move on his, as you needed that sweet relief. Geralt's bite on your neck became harder and you could feel and smell a bit of blood running down your skin, which heated up both of you even more, if possible.

His groans were louder against you, the slamming of his cock inside of you more frenetic and he dug his nails into the sides of your hips to keep you steady. He let go of your neck to press his mouth on your shoulder. "You're so fucking tight and behaving like a good girl," he moaned. "Keep milking me, witch, so I can breed you and fill you up with my cum until it oozes out."

The way he was talking to you, saying those things, had you closer to the edge. You needed to feel his cock pulsate inside of you, stretching you out and getting you full of him. Your moans were unstoppable as nonsense dripped out of your mouth.

"I wanna see those pretty thighs of yours covered with my cum." Geralt wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you in place as he circled your nipple with his thumb and index, pinching it.

“Yes, Geralt, yes." Your mind was blank, dazzled with lust and desire, almost making you forget your own name.

Your thighs began to shake, and he felt them, “Yes, witch, come all over my cock.” His encouraging, husky voice praised you. You called out the White Wolf's name, your orgasm hitting hard and uncontrollably, your head dizzy as you saw stars and lights in your vision.

You felt Geralt exploding inside of you, with a few more snaps of his hips against your ass you felt his girth tighten up, and a few more spurts of his cum filling you up as you rode off your orgasm.

"Fuck, you milked me so good, you emptied me, didn't you?" He moaned and grunted again as he felt your pussy tightening lightly on him. "What kind of witchcraft did you use on me, huh?"

He let go of your breast, not moving his position so you were still under his dominant figure while his cock rested inside of you, feeling your thighs sticky of his cum and other mix of fluids.

"Well, you loved the way I was curing you earlier and the attention I gave you, didn't you, Witcher?"

"I'm not one to turn down a healing session when I'm offered one." Geralt whispered in your ear, still not getting off you. "But what's the catch?"

You smiled, feeling chills down your spine. "The catch is, I get to pamper every inch of you and make sure you're completely healed."

"I think I can handle that kind of catch."

Did you enjoy it? Please, consider leaving a comment, reblogging, sending feedback in any way or buying me a coffee. If you would like to request something, go and message me. Also, if you'd like, you can check my masterlist or send me any prompts. Happy reading!

[cardierreh15]

Knight in Shining Leather

I do not give anyone permission to repost or copy my work!!!

Warning 18+: Violence , Cursing , Attempted SA , Blood , Gore .

Pairing: Geralt Of Rivia(modern) x Nessa (Black!Plus Size Female)

Description: Geralt being a knight in shining armor.

Word Count: 2.2K

One shot

It was a beautiful autumn night. The night’s air smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin. With it being just cool enough for her to wear a cardigan over her shoulders. Pretty soon, she would get too warm to even rock it.

It was roughly 9:45pm and she had come from a night out with the girls. Her best friend insisted that she drive her home since she stayed so close by. But Nessa was too hardheaded to let her do that. Besides, the walk wasn’t even 20 minutes away.

But a lot can happen in 20 minutes can it?

Her thick heeled boots clicked loudly on the asphalt, echoing throughout the street and bouncing off of the other buildings. She lived in a small town, so it was no surprise that almost everyone was in the house by now.

Nessa had her hands tucked in her pockets, at this point walking absentmindedly. She didn’t even realize there were two men walking about a few yards behind her. She didn’t think much of it, perhaps they were trying to make it to their destination too.

But their footsteps grew a little impatient.

This caused her to take further strides; holding her purse tightly in her arm as she tried to sneak her hand into it to retrieve her pepper spray.

‘Get her!’ One of the males exclaimed.

A panicked gasp escaped her lips as she did her best to take off but they were close enough to snatch her up by her cardigan. ‘HELP!’ She exclaimed before a man placed his large hand over her mouth and held a butterfly blade against her face. ‘Shhhh, shhh. Now, just be a good girl.’ He whispered against her ear.

She then bit down into his fingers and stepped on his foot. The criminal yelped out in agonizing pain.

‘Fuck you!’ She exclaimed before she was instantly grabbed by another male.

‘Get the bitch into the alley!’

‘No! No! Stop!’ Nessa begged and pleaded as she tried her best to fight back. But they weren’t having it.

They slammed her against the wall and she whimpered out in pain. ‘Urgh!’ She fell to her hands and knees. ‘Please— take whatever I have… it’s all material— I don’t want it! Please.’ She insisted, sobbing as she held her chest.

The bald headed guy began to dump out all of the contents in her purse and searched through it. ‘Awww, the bitch ain’t got nothin’. Lipstick, tampons, some other make up, — a wallet…’ he then looked at her name and then started going through her wallet where he snatched out $500. ‘I found a jackpot…’ then he walked over to the the ginger haired gentleman who towered above her.

‘How much ya find?’

‘$500. And It’s a Chanel wallet, taking that too.’ The male chuckled.

Nessa was on her knees before them as if she were praying to her God. Her hands shook as if her bones were chilling in the Arctic.

‘Nice,’ the ginger chuckled as the bald guy passed him some cash. ‘Now, the question is… what do we do with you?’

‘Hmmm. She’s pretty cute. She’s thicker than the rest of em. And you know I looove when they fight.’ He said as he shoved the wallet and the cash in his back pocket.

She instantly knew what baldy meant, and it caused her to panic a bit more. Until suddenly, the ginger just happened to step out of the way, and the bright LED street light caused a thick shard of glass to glisten in her eye.

Carefully leaning down as the two men bickered about who were going to have their turn with her first, she then grabbed the glass in her hand and waited.

The ginger sighed and rolled his eyes, ‘whatever. Fuck it. I’ll hold her still.’ He then squat down before her, ‘Alright sweet heart, you’re gonna—‘

Nessa instantly swiped the glass upward, aiming to stab him beneath his chin but instead, slicing his cheek.

‘AUGH!’ He practically jumped back; feeling the stinging pain at his cheek. Ginger grabbed the gasp and looked at the bright red blood in his palm. ‘You fucking bitch!’

His partner instantly brought her up to her feet, disarmed her and slapped her across her face so hard, he split the inside of her cheek.

She fell to the ground, her mind spinning as if she had swallowed a whole bottle of tequila. She could only hear the sound of their voices. They were so loud in her ears.

‘Kill that bitch! Kill her!’

She didn’t even know who was saying, all she knew was that she was pretty sure she was going to die in this filthy ass alley. And it would probably take her loved ones days to find her knowing these fools.

The ginger some how had the strength to pull her up to her feet. ‘You fucking— BITCH!’ And he kneed her in the stomach before she fell back down to the ground again. He kicked her, several times in the ribs.

Nessa whimpered out, choking on the air that was fighting so hard to come into her lungs. She lifted her hand up, in a “I surrender” kind of way, ‘please. Stop.’ She was too weak to scream for hell at this point.

‘Stop? Haha… oh wait til we’re done with you… get her up.’ Ginger said to Baldy.

Suddenly, everything felt like it was moving much slower than she was. Between the two antagonists, was a pair of bright golden eyes that reflected in the shadows. She thought she was hallucinating so she just laid there, accepting her fate that was to come.

When Baldy lifted her up to her feet, her head rest back against the brick wall. ‘Come on… make it quick.’ She breathed out tiredly.

Ginger chuckled and then Baldy chimed in. ‘Suit yourself.’

Suddenly, a bright flash whipped through the air like something out of a supernatural movie.

Nessa felt Baldy’s grip on her grow weaker and she noticed a thin line across his neck. A dribble of blood came leaking from his lips and his nose. She then noticed the sunken glare in his eyes.

His neck became a waterfall of his blood and a millisecond later, his head fell to wet the concrete and his body followed.

Nessa felt her stomach turn at the sight. She stumbled backwards in fear; immediately covering her lips to hold back the throw up that tried to fight its way out.

Ginger let out a scream as he saw his buddy’s head roll at his feet.

She felt too damn sick and scared to move really. Also, she couldn’t get over — how could someone be that talented with a blade that:

A.) No blood had spilled on her.

And

B.) None of them were able to see or hear him coming.

Ginger instantly pulled his gun out and walked over towards Nessa. ‘Whose there!? Come out!’ He snatched her up and pointed the gun at her head. ‘Come out! Or I swear to God, I will blow this bitch’s brains out!’

‘Please—‘ she started as she held her hands up.

‘SHUT UP!’ Ginger yelled as he looked all around. ‘Alright,’ he then clicked off the safety, ‘I’ll give you to the count of 3… come out— with your hands up… and I won’t kill her…’

‘Why would you think they’d come out for me?! I-I don’t even know what’s going on!’ She said out as she wiped her bloodied nose.

‘Shut. The fuck. Up. I swear you’re making this so much easier!’ He said as he continued to look around, ‘ONE! …. TWO!….’ He pressed the barrel against the back of her skull.

On three, a white haired male stepped from out of the shadows; those damn golden eyes making an appearance before he did. He wore black leather, and held a huge sword in his right hand. He had a scowl on his face that could kill instantly.

Ginger’s mouth fell slightly as he watched the tall, unearthly being approach the both of them. He stepped back, ‘Y—you… it can’t be. B-BACK UP!’

He just kept walking towards them. The sound of metal clinked with each step.

Ginger had finally hit the wall and Nessa looked back at the both of them.

‘Y—you’re dead! Y-you’re suppose to be dead!’

‘Says who?’ The white haired male asked, ‘You?’ His head fell to the side. Then he looked behind him, noticing the women who still stood there. He then looked back towards Ginger, ‘Go ahead… shoot her.’

Nessa’s eyebrows tugged into one in confusion. She wanted to impose on this reunion but she was hurting too bad to talk.

Ginger’s bottom lip trembled as much as his wrist did when he held that gun.

‘Go ahead…’

Ginger swallowed his spit, glancing over at the beautiful woman. He just didn’t have the guts.

The white haired male let out a sigh, ‘I knew it,’ and stabbed Ginger in his abdomen with the shiny sword.

Ginger began to choke. Wheezing as if he’d punctured his lung.

Nessa let out a harsh gasp and covered her lips in shock.

‘You’re… a coward.’ He twisted the blade to open the gaping wound more, ‘You pray on the weak… women and children… you and your friend don’t deserve to breathe for another second.’

He then snatched out the sword from Ginger’s abdomen and the male fell forward.

Nessa just stood in her spot, watching the man who just tried to kill her moments before, choke on his own blood and eventually took his last breath as the rest of him seeped into the cracks and crannies of the destroyed asphalt.

She was too frightened to scream, to run but also… her body was riddled with pain. Anything extreme would’ve probably caused her to pass out. So instead she asked, ‘A-are you gonna kill me next?’

The being then pulled out a dark cloth and wiped his shiny sword off in one swipe, ‘If I wanted … you’d be dead already.’

Well that was quite evident. She took in a deep breath as she just watched him sheath his sword and bend down to go in Ginger’s pocket.

She peaked over, ‘… he-he said you were suppose to be dead… are you like someone important?’

He didn’t say anything, instead he retrieved her money from the corpse and then ventured to the next.

‘Could I at least— know your name?’ She asked as she began to pick up her purse and the rest of her belongings. ‘You did save me after all, I would like to know who you are… In case I don’t ever see you again.’

He smirked as he grabbed her wallet out of the headless corpse and looked at her ID. She had a glorious smile. A smile that could turn any rainy day into sunshine.

Vanessa Hodge, December 18th, 1997, Address…

He took a mental note of her address before slowly rising to his feet and walked over to her.

She looked from his hands to his chest, that donned a silver necklace with a wolf engraved in it. She wondered what that meant.

‘Here,’ His voice brought her out of her thinking trance, ‘Your things.’ He looked down at her as she rose to her feet and threw her purse over her shoulder.

‘Thank you.’ She said softly before wincing at the pain in her cheek.

He lifted her chin to examine her.

Nessa hissed at the sudden, searing pain.

‘They most certainly did a number on you…’ he said as he looked at her split eyebrow. ‘Come. Let’s get you fixed up.’

‘Alright… only— if you do me a tiny favor?’

‘Hmm.’ A mere stranger, asking him for favors? He wasn’t the type to be handing those out. Especially without pay.

Yeah, she had no idea who he was.

‘You tell me your name…’

Was that it? She wanted to know his name? She almost got taken advantage of, got her shit pushed in and almost got her brains blown out but — she wanted to know his name?

‘I-I think it’s fair… I’d like to know who my knight in … shiny leather is.’

It grew quiet once more before he rested his hand on the handle of his sword and lifted his head with a gentle smirk.

‘I mean I think it’s also fair because you’re still a complete stranger and—‘

‘For someone who is in a lot of pain, you sure do talk a lot.’ He said as he shifted his weight and folded his massive arms across his chest.

Nessa felt the heat rise to her neck, her cheeks and then her ears. She looked off to the side, trying to avoid eye contact for a moment.

God you’re gonna blow this.

‘My name is Geralt. Now, if that is all you request, we should leave now.’

She let out a gentle puff of air and quickly walked towards him, ‘Lead the way.’ She shrugged.

Geralt swiftly turned around and they headed in the direction Nessa was heading.

‘So, you’re gonna tell me what you do and why you walk around with those things?’ She asked; swiping her dainty manicured finger at his silver handle.

‘No.’ He mused

‘And— Please don’t touch the swords.’ He said, hearing the cling that she left behind with her touch.

‘Oh— sorry.’

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Geralt of Rivia NSFW Alphabet

Summary: Geralt of Rivia NSFW Alphabet!!

Notes: this request has been in my inbox forever... sorry :)

Warnings: afab!reader, smut ig?

Taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @lucyinthelibrary @sunndust (hmu to be added for any taglist!)

based on this request | Masterlist | requests are OPEN!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

The BEST backrubs. He’s very quiet, but he takes care of you so so well.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his arms, just because he can pick you up/protect you with them and he knows that you like them so so much.

Loves everything about you, but especially your hips/bodyshape. Just loves to admire, yk?

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s got a little breeding kink. He knows he can’t have kids, but he still likes cumming inside.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Likes it when you get a little rough with him/try to push him around a bit. If he didn’t want to, you couldn’t, but the way you push him against a wall is still hot

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s old and looks good, so he’s got A LOT

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He loves something where you’re really close to him, maybe in his lap. Wants to be able to wrap his arms around you

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It’s more serious to him, but he’ll joke around with you

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The carpet matches the drapes, and he’ll honestly groom however you want him to. Otherwise doesn’t really care that much.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

If you’re fuckbuddies, then it’s just a hookup – no feelings, no strings attached. If you’re romantically involved oml. He turns into the biggest sap.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Idt he jacks off a lot. He’d rather just do it properly with you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding kink for sure. Loves hair pulling, whether that’s on you or him, also enjoys scratching/biting. Loves to mark up your thighs.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Might sound boring, but in a bed. He’s on the road enough, so if he’s ever off it, he wants you to be comfortable.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. Just catching a glimpse of you is enough, especially if he makes you laugh or happy, then he’s practically on his knees

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything with too much liquid, especially blood. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Too much.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Will eat you out for days. He loves giving you head, between your legs gotta be one of his favorite places.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depends on what you want tbh – he likes everything as long as it’s with you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sure, why not? He’ll sneak them in all the time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’ll try out new stuff, but he’s tried pretty much everything. He knows what he likes, and usually sticks to that.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s got that witcher stamina :)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Idt Geralt likes toys tbh, so none.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He���ll tease you outside the bedroom to get you excited, but he’s too impatient once you’re kissing him.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a quiet lover, he prefers listening to you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He’d go crazy for lingerie of any kind, and then he’d ruin it with his teeth right after.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Just like he’s got witcher stamina, he’s got witcher endowment

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is pretty high, especially around you, but he’ll make sure to satisfy you each time

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Witchers don’t sleep much, and Geralt prefers holding you anyway. He enjoys watching you fall asleep in his arms

[thewritersaddictions]

Day Six: Geralt of Rivia + Germlins

What had been a planned trip away for the holidays had turned into precisely the opposite. While you were getting ready to go down to the local pub with Jaskier and Geralt, Geralt was nowhere to be found.

"Jaskier, where is Geralt?" You ask; he gives you that look, the one that tells you Jaskier knows where Geralt is and will probably say to you because he'd instead want Geralt's wrath than yours coming down on him.

"You better tell me where he is!" I wanted to let you know that you demand Jaskier. Fear streaks over his face, and he rambles to get his words out of his mouth. "He went to do a job; someone came looking for him, and I told them he was here." Your face drops, and you can't tell who you're more made at.

Jaskier had exposed to pretty much the whole little town that Geralt of Rivia was there and that he was open for work or that Geralt had taken the job in the first place, knowing that you were all there for a vacation away from monster hunting.

"Fine, we are going to get him back." You say with a serious face, "What do you mean?" Jaskier questions you, "We are going to get him back to celebrate and have fun before we have to return to Kaer Morhen." Jaskier nods, so the two of you get on to go find Geralt.

You'd think it would be harder to track him, but all you have to do is follow his name's snarls and groans when you get further out of the town. "Geralt!' Jaskier starts to shout his name out into the woods. You can practically hear his eye-rolling at Jaskier shouting his name.

"Geralt!?" Your voice echoes in the woods, "Y/n!" You can hear Geralt shouting your name. Playing a game of marco-polo, you find Geralt in a relatively tight situation. Caught between a rock and about twenty little dirty-looking monsters. "what the hell happened?" YOu shout to your boyfriend. Geralt groans. "I- I went to get gifts, and I was fucking ambushed by these things," Geralt calls back.

Your thoughts are taken over by the idea, and imagine Geralt carrying a handful of gifts for the bunch of you to celebrate a holiday, which you know he doesn't care for but will do anything to make you happy.

"Can you daydream later, honey, and help me the fuck out!" Geralt shouts. You roll your eyes and huff out a dramatic sigh, but you gather yourself and get to work slaying the little, cute-looking monsters surrounding Geralt. Once they have been taken care of and your hands are interlocked with Geralts, you ask him what he thinks they might have been after.

"To hell if I know what they wanted." Geralt murmurs, "They were kinda cute." You hear Jaskier comment as he trails behind the two of you. "Like fucking hell they were." Geralt counters, nearly snarling behind him. "And they fucking destroyed all the presents I had in my hands, so no, they were fucking assholes." He's not mad, just a little disappointed. "We can always get more before we travel to Kaer Morhen." With a warm smile, you add while staying stuck to Geralt's side like glue.

"Whatever you want, angel." He murmurs as he comes down to kiss you softly on your forehead. Your eyes light up, and Geralt almost backtracks on his words. "I don't want anything besides to have a good holiday with you." You reply, "Hey, what about me?" Jaskier shrieks from behind the two of you, "And you Jaskier."

Completed on: 11/20/23

Posted on: 12/06/23

The Heros-

The Witcher Master List // The Heros Master List // Christmas Stories Master List

[velvetcloxds]

if you're too shy- send me a character and a scenario and I'll write a little baby blurb for it

Geralt of Rivia falling in love with a beautiful chubby cottagecore healer, after she helps him, when he is wounded, please? Thank you!

SOFT HANDS | GERALT OF RIVIA

word count: 0.6k

warnings: plus sized reader, not specified per se but definitely implied

You woke up startled by a crash in your kitchen, looking around your room in tired confusion, trying to figure out the time by looking out through the rags you had weaved into makeshift curtains, it was not morning just yet, far from it, but the timing of the intrusion usually only meant one thing- your witcher was there. You stumbled from your bed, pulling one of your blankets with you, covering your nightgown as it did not aid you much in concealing your curves, thin it its design- Geralt never minded though.

"Geralt," you breathed, you were barely awake, stumbling slightly as you found your footing, already smelling him and you were glad that he had managed to bathe before breaking into your home, very considerate of him.

"Good evening, las," he was talking with his mouth full, busying himself among your wooden cabinets, it piqued your interest, making you speed up until you were next to him, his hands hard at work making some sort of stew. "Are you hungry?"

"Let me see first," you were very convincing, voice just soft enough to make him pause to give you a quick glance at his face, new scars, still bleeding as they stretched over the side of his forehead. "Are there more?" he nodded, grunting when you swatted his hands away from the knife and began pulling him to your washroom, the action only possible because of his willingness to follow you. You noted the burning candles he had arranged around the house, knowing you would need the light, always uneasy when he arrived in the dark.

He could not help the sort of amused tilt to his lips as you forced him onto a chair, struggling to remove his armor but he made no attempt to help you, enjoying the little huff and pout the struggle earned from you. When you finally managed to take it off, you threw it to the floor, giving him an unamused glare, not at all fooled by his faux innocent shrug.

You sat down in front of him, folding your legs and shifting the blanket over them, another huff was given as you dragged the bucket of water closer, taking one of the clean cloths from where you had folded them in a pile. Your cheeks burned as you scanned his torso, it was not right, was not fair for that matter that he had that effect on you- none of your other patients had, in fact, you prided yourself on being professional but only Geralt could make you flustered while cleaning his wounds.

"These are fresh," you noted, eyes averted from his as you dragged the wet cloth over his stomach, frowning lightly when he did not flinch. "You know, there are plenty of healers on the road, most if not all of them more suited to treat wounds such as yours," you were done with his chest, drying it with another cloth and wrapping it with strips of cloth that had been soaked in your homemade healing remedy.

"Hmm," a grunt, a familiar sound, a comfortable one. "I prefer coming to you," he stated and shifted lower, leaning his elbows onto his knees so you could easily access his face, a new surge of heat finding your skin at the eyes that soared over your features. "Your hands are the softest," he explained and you nearly pulled away from him, hands just barely keeping still as you wiped lightly at the scar on his face, the other hand gripping his chin to keep him still. "I also do not mind the view," he was being sly, daring, and extremely cruel as he breathed a light chuckle, not missing a single beat of your sporadic heart. "Nor the company," you paused, eyes falling to his without any control and you were stuck, entranced, unable to move or look away, only managing to break the daze when he cleared his throat.

"I assume it would be a waste of breath to ask you to be more careful?" you attempted a change in subject, following the same process as you did for his stomach as you finished up your work.

"Completely," he agreed and you wiped your hands, shaking your head in familiar disapproval as he simply enjoyed the very view he had traveled many miles for. "For what reason would I have for coming to see you if I were?"

"I should go and make myself decent," you dismissed the question, not surprised when he took your hand to help you stand, rough hands uncharacteristically gentle as his thumb brushed your wrist in his hold. "Do you have a place to rest for the night?" he shook his head, he dare not attempt to lie to you with words, tell you that Jaskier had booked the pair of them a room not far from your cottage, because truth be told he rather enjoyed you fussing over him, taking care of him, and he knew you did as well- so, who was he to take that chance from you?

"I was rather hoping you could spare me a room."

"Of course, I will prepare it while you clean my kitchen," he smiled, a true smile, one you had not had the chance to see before but you were grateful you could, it was lovely, dreamlike. He nodded in silent appreciation and agreement, looking down to where he still held onto your hand. "They truly are the softest that I had ever held," he told you and you were the one to smile, a shy smile, warm with affection as you tried to consider how you would survive a whole day with this man in your house when he was insistent on stealing your heart and your sanity.