#geralt x woc reader

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

this is hungry work

the wench and the witcher

"this is hungry work”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Your Witcher will be gone at first light. He’s determined to keep occupied until then.

Warnings: NSFT/18+ - you should not be interacting with this fic if you are under the age of 18. Facesitting, overstim, intercourse, sweet-yet-possessive!Geralt. It’s... it’s just smut, y’all.

A/N: Full disclosure, I tried to tell myself I wouldn’t use this song for any of my fics and I should have known better. It’s just peak Hozier, and I would be remiss for excluding it. I have approximately 3 fics left in this series - yikes, I accidentally wrote a series - and then we’ll see where the Wench wants to go from there...

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

The only Heaven I'll be sent to Is when I'm alone with you I was born sick, but I love it Command me to be well, amen...

The light of the full moon shines in from the window, fills the room with the silver-ice glow. It’s cool and soft – enough to see by, making up for the embers that now barely smolder on the hearth. It should be cold without the fire’s warmth, but the heat flashing over your skin leaves you misted with sweat. It weighs down your curls and makes them stick to the back of your neck, to your face; each sharp inhale feels heavy and damp in your lungs. One hand grips the headboard so hard that your palm aches.

The other hand is fisted in Geralt’s hair.

Your thighs bracket his head and he holds you in place over his mouth. His fingers press bruises into your flesh. With a ragged cry, your body arches and your hips press down; you grind down onto the Witcher’s greedy tongue, calling his name as you come again. You briefly wonder if anyone has ever died like this. The low vibration of the Witcher’s growl hums over the tender, throbbing flesh of your cunt and you double over, whining.  Trying to pull away is futile; his grip on your thighs is too strong.

There’s no counting at this point. The pleasure borders on agony and Geralt is relentless.

He leaves in the morning.

It seems he’s determined to keep himself occupied until then.

“Gods,” you pant as your hips rock in time to the tide of your orgasm. “Geralt – “

Hazy golden eyes flash up at you, the dark of his pupils wide and fathomless. Your limbs feel like water, putting up no resistance when the Witcher shifts and turns you onto your back like you’re a ragdoll. He fairly glows in the moonlight, miles of pale skin stretched over powerful muscle that flexes beautifully as he pulls your legs over his shoulders. The tip of his tongue flicks sharply over your clit and you jump with a low hiss, “Son of a bitch – “

Geralt chuckles softly, noses at your damp curls. “I’ve met sailors who swear less,” he taunts.

You give a breathless laugh of your own. “You’re one to talk – oh!”

Fingers press, three thick digits slipping into your cunt with an obscenely wet noise and little resistance. The stretch makes your toes curl.  Geralt laps casually over your aching clit again to pull a sharp, desperate noise up from your throat.

“M’gonna miss that sound,” he growls and repeats the motion.

You whimper. His fingers press and thrust in time with the movement of his tongue until you’re shaking and cursing, fingers gripped tight in his shock-white hair. He groans against you when you tug, pushing the pads of his fingers up to stroke and circle over that soft spot inside of you – the one that makes your back arch from the bed as lightning goes flashing up your spine. His mouth closes over you, his cheeks hollow to apply a teasing suction and your voice breaks on a whine, “Geralt - fuck - I’m gonna - “

It’s a violent rush of blinding sensation – you shout, gushing over Geralt’s fingers as your hips rock into his mouth. He doesn’t stop.

You come again. And again.

He doesn’t stop until your muscles ache, until your voice is raw and you’re begging brokenly for respite. Panting, you glance down to see your Witcher smirking, his mouth pink and swollen, slick with your cum. He bows his head and makes his slow, ambling way up your body, chasing each flex of your muscles with a nip of his teeth. He’s already littered you with deep red marks, spots that you’ll press your fingers to when he’s gone, relishing in the dull ache. You shiver when he traces the bruises with his tongue, whine when he takes a beaded, tender nipple into his mouth. The sharp thrill of pleasure makes your cunt clench down on nothing and you whisper his name.

Geralt rumbles appreciatively. He guides you onto your belly, settles his warm, solid weight over your back. His lips feel like a firebrand on your shoulder blade  – his cock slicks over you, catching over the tiny ridge of your clit and making you gasp, “Please.“

He growls into your neck, easing his hips forward. The length of him splits you open, stretches your sopping cunt around him until you sob. It’s a slow and filthy pace that he sets. He rocks into you on a deep, grinding rhythm that makes you grit your teeth around a moan. Your fingers curl in the rumpled bedding beneath you. You feel the wet heat of his breath against your shoulder, the scrape of his teeth, and the steady, torturous rock of his hips. Your voice is a broken, ragged thing, harsh to your own ears when you cry.

A sharp, sudden push of his hips punches the breath from your lungs. “That’s my girl,” he pants against your hair. “Sweet girl – you take me so well, sweetheart. So fuckin’ pretty, taking my cock.”

He fucks into you, deep and unrelenting strokes. You pant, and grunt, too fucked-out to be self-conscious about how you might sound. You feel utterly spent, like there’s no possible way your body can respond, or keep up, but it does – you do. The Witcher pulls you up in one powerful motion, sitting back on his haunches and crushing your back to his front with one arm gripped tight over your chest. His skin is sweat-slick and scorching hot against your back. You grip at whatever you can reach, grasping at his hair, clawing at his arm; he chokes out a groan and his free hand pushes down the softness of your belly until his fingers brush where the two of you are joined, where you are stretched around him, soaked and quivering.

“Let me hear you,” he rumbles. “Say it, sweetheart – tell me – “

A flex of his hips. You feel every blood-hot inch of his cock, and clench down – your legs shake as you whimper, “Geralt – “

“Say it.”

He thrusts up into you, hard – a claiming. “Yours,” you gasp. “Oh gods – m’yours. Yours yours – “

The pads of his fingers drag over your clit. Your muscles lock. It’s a conflagration in your blood, roaring through your veins, leaving ash it its wake – your voice cracks as you scream. You hear Geralt snarl and swear as his hips stutter – he trembles against your back, pulses deep inside of you – filling you with the sticky heat of his cum. Your eyes roll back and then you’re floating, warm and boneless as if drifting on an ocean tide.

Geralt’s voice drifts through the fog. You come to as he pulls you against him, cradling your head on his shoulder while he strokes your limp curls away from your face with a tenderness that constricts around your heart. He’s watching you. Staring; as if attempting to commit each line of your face to memory while his thumb brushes at the corner of your mouth.

“Say it again,” he mumbles.

You have to remember how to breathe for a moment. “I’m yours,” you whisper.

Geralt kisses you lazily, delicately, and rolls you under him. His remarkable stamina has him pressing against the inside of your thigh again, hard and slick; you gasp when he slides in. You’re tender, borderline sore, but your hips still lift to take him. Your cunt still pulses at the welcome intrusion.

“One more, sweetheart,” he purrs against your mouth “Give me one more, c’mon…”

The Witcher barely moves. Just soft, shallow thrusts of his hips with his forehead pressed to yours and his fingertips tracing soothing patterns over your sensitized skin; you shake beneath him. The both of you balance on that precipice for an age, until a lark begins to call out its song in the courtyard outside. Geralt manages to coax one last slow, shivering orgasm from you; he moans into your mouth as he comes – you feel the steady throb of his cock, the warmth filling you as you shudder. You’re vaguely aware of Geralt’s weight settling beside you. Exhausted as you are, you utter a murmur as he curls you into his side.

Geralt’s fingers trace soft, meaningless sigils over your back as you let sleep take you.

[ughdontbeboring]

no time

henry cavill x woc reader

Henry is in no mood for teasing

warnings: smut (minors dni)

sidenote: of course im my horniest right before bed and when i wake up, so this magic is me just waking up 😅😇 i dont give permission for mt work to be used anywhere in any form.

if you fucks with it, like it, love it, reblog ans comment! 🥰

X

X

X

Her hips rolled back and forth smoothly at a slow pace. The slick seeping from her core wetting his hard cock that was pinned between their bodies.

The waiting game was driving him crazy. 

“Stop teasing love” he huffed up at her. 

Mischief twinkled in her eyes.

“No” she simply stated. 

Her hips rolling slower. She didn’t know how long she’d last playing this little game. She was moments away from breaking, she need him so bad-

She felt his large warm hand grip her throat and pull her upper body forward before she knew what was happing. She was so focused on teasing him some more she had noticed that switch in his eyes.

Now she could see it. The games were over. He was no longer going to be her prefect English gentleman.

His large chest seemed bigger as his tanned skin stretched over his muscles. His hand was tight around her neck, not enough to hurt but enough to let her know he was done with her games. Enough to know he need her just as much as she needed him. 

They were face to face. Her body completely flushed with his. Heat radiated off his hot body warming her against the hotels ac that was blasting. God this man was always a furnace.

“You love this shit” He taunted, it was true she did, she loved when he got rough, when he used her. “I can feel even more slick dripping down my balls because I grabbed you by your pretty little neck”

She whimpered as she sucked her bottom lip. He was right, she could feel more slick dripping from her and onto his cock and balls. Henry made a sound that came from deep within his chest, god she was making him even harder. But she hadn’t moved.

“Sink that wet tight cunt on my fat cock now princess” Henry commanded as grinded gassing her. She jerked at the action, pleasure flooding her body. 

“Y/N-“ He started when she didn’t move. 

He didn’t have to finish using her name before she was scrambling to grip his cock. Henry hardly used her name, unless he was in one of those moods. As much as she loved those moods she also knew they didn’t have the time to fully go there. Henry was never late for anything that his job required of him, it was something he was proud of, she wouldn’t want him to start now just because of her. 

Her starting this situation this morning was risking because they didn’t have much time before his team would be here to get Henry ready for his first premier of his new movie. 

A movie that also required her lover grow a beard. She loved all of Henry’s looks but beards just made her feral and she was constantly jumping on him whenever she had the chance, like now even when she knew their was no time.

But what was she to do when she woke up to a hard cock rubbing against her, while the beast of a man laid sleeping? Wake him up to a wet and warm mouth like he loved. 

Finally she sunk his head with in her as she laid hovered over his chest.

The man’s cock was large and thick, every time felt like the first time with Henry. She knew he loved that she struggled to take him but that she always did and did well for him. 

She took a deep breathe before pushing down more. She seen his face falter, his brows pinch together in pleasure before returning to a cold icy glare. 

“Oh fuck” she moaned. That harsh glare always did something to her. He just looked so hot angry but she knew it was malice free. She also knew that glare was his trying to contain himself. Oh how she wished they had time for him to spend the day using and fucking her at his whim. 

Tired of her games and the fact that she had hardly taken much of him, Henry took control and started to push more of himself into her wet cunt. 

“Shit Henry” she moaned out trying to steady herself, one hand laid on his furry chest and the other around the hand that still held her throat. Without notice Henry sunk fully into warmth before he started to drill up into her. 

She gasped as she fell forward, trying to hold on. His thick long veiny cock splitting her walls. Her hands moved to grip his large shoulder and the other around the back of his head. The short styled hair cut was ticking her soft palm. 

His thrust were brutal as he planted his feet and drilled into her. The action causing her whole body to jerk forward while she tried to hold on. 

“My pretty girl you better hold on….if I slip out this cunt before I cum, I won’t let you cum the rest of this press tour” His deep voice threatened in her ear. 

Her eyes widen as she tighten her grip on him, her pussy involuntarily gripping him tighter at the threat that had her cunt soaking him more. Henry smiled against her neck, his nasty girl loved this little games just as much as him and she had no clue his publicist texted him last night that they would be meeting later because of a delay at the venue. 

She was in for a few more round this morning. 

[operation-619]

Siren’s lullaby

Geralt of Rivia x WOC/reader

Summary: (Y/N) seeks the Witcher to help her capture the woman that shed the blood of her family. She may have the voice of an angel but her intentions are far from heavenly.

Warnings: Blood, violence, murder, torture, language, nudity, discrimination, abuse/assault  your media consumption is your own responsibility, you have been warned 18+

WC- 1.6K

Masterlist 

I am hosting a little competition of sorts, I will pick five people to have their character be in my story just fill out this form- HERE. 

The ocean flourished under the caress of the afternoon sun; waves lulled softly against the side of the ship as they foamed back into itself, the voices of the men drowned out the song of the birds as they ran about fixing sails and tying ropes. A man sat on the railing of the figure-head and watched carefully as the water rippled around them. His tanned skin glistened with sweat under the sun as he sharpened his knife, his eyes and mind were elsewhere.

A whisper of lust and flesh floated in the air, dancing around his head as he looked of into the distance, his hands worked independently – sharpening the knife on the flat stone he found in the hull of the ship, the motion came naturally to his body after years of repeating the same motion. The whispers grew quietly into a song of men floating to the treasure at the bottom of the sea, where gift beyond men were to be found. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought a ghoul was sat beside him, lips pressed against his ear and lulling him with unforeseen riches.

His eyes casted downwards, watching as the blues and greens mixed together creating an illusion of a fantasy that was always told in fairy tales. A lost city and civilisation of merepeople. He remembers the stories he use to hear from the elders, the upper-body that of a human, and the lower half was that of a fish with tails almost twice the size of their body, decorated in intricate scales and colours, with a fin at the end that helped them propel through the waters. Their hair a celadon-green and nipples of light-green. He remembered how many elders and others of his race were enamoured with their looks calling them nymphs of the sea, singing about their looks and the great power they hold.

But he was a child then, naïve, and simple-minded. Now he’s a man and the branding on his left forearm reminds those he crosses paths with that he is a dangerous man.

“You never think you are going to fall in sir?” his accent catches itself on the syllables, making it seem more pronounced and thicker. The man in question looked over his shoulder, throwing a hearty laugh to his crewman he put his knife back in it pocket and swung his body around before jumping back onto the deck.

“You insult me Mayarnde, all these year on this beauty and you still think I can’t balance myself right.” With a slap on the back, he moved towards the centre of the ship giving orders, joking with his men. The hour of peace brought clarity to his mind, something he needed from the past two moons. He thanked the stars for the peaceful journey, but deep down he really knew the reason, he would be foolish to deny it.

He made his way to back of the ship where the door to his quarters stood red wood splintering with age and the constant battle from the sea. It looked like it could do with a new glaze. The money he was getting paid after this trip would be enough to completely redo the entire ship and there would still be some left over.

“Maybe a visit to a brothel, the men could use the release.” He scratched his head as the thought occurred to him, he hadn’t laid with a woman for two moons. None of his men had, usually when they make a quick stop to grab some previsions, they have time to visit a whore or two. But their current guest was adamant on getting to their destination as quickly as possible. And god was he suffering.

He shut his door behind him and looked over his quarters, the desk was covered in parchments and writing utensils, the table in the middle of the room was completely covered by the map – markings plotting their course and other annotations that made little sense to him, his windows were open letting the warm breeze dance around. The parchments on the dark wooden walls fluttered as the wind gently swayed by, the sound of scribbling told him that someone had awaken.

Taking off his coat and throwing it onto the back of a chair, he wandered over to the map and observed the new markings, a thick circle marked out the city Cintra telling the man that was their final destination. It caused his eyebrows to raise, all this time and not once had he seen any city marked like this one.

“So, he is here then, the one you are looking for?” his violet eyes looked up to the woman hunched over the desk, reading new parchments that had only just arrived by raven. Her (H/C) hair was set free, coiling around her face and down to her navel, her deep-toned skin shone with a light sweat as she sat in the embrace of the sun. He watched her for a second noting the strange celadon-green highlights that would catch the sun every once in a while.

“Mhmm, Minoa told me that she heard talks of him in the area. Last, I know is that no one had seen him for weeks.” She shrugged her shoulders, not once looking up at the man in front of her. “But if Minoa said he was in the area that he is. It kind of her thing.” Her voice always brought a strange sensation over the man. He couldn’t exactly place it but, it felt relaxing almost peaceful.

“When do you want to dock because I saw land. So, we can reach there by the end of tomorrows light.” He rested his hip against the table, his sole focus on the woman. He only now notice that she was wearing his tunic with her trousers. It suited her, it suited her really well.

He really needed to visit a brothel soon.

“We can dock tomorrow, let the men rest, fuck a few whores and drink to get their shit back together. But I won’t leave the ship for a few days.” The language that came from her mouth never ceased to amaze him. When he first met her, he was taken aback by the way she dressed – tunic and trousers but the way she wore them made it seem perfectly fit for her. Her gaze was captivating and pierced his soul as she spoke to him. It trapped him in a trance. She had the air of a regal and noble lady, but the mouth of a sailor. It helped his men feel at ease.

The past two moons had been hard, the constant stopping and starting that only she knew the reason behind. But she helped his men through it, she had plenty of coin to keep their bellies happy throughout their trek across the great sea – meat and drinks that only the finest in life would eat. She was stronger than everyone thought too, she didn’t slink away into the quarter and stay there for the past two moons, she slaved away like the rest of the men. And her fighting skills were beyond anything he’d ever seen.

And he has seen some shit.

She finally looked up from the parchment and held his gaze, her plump lips spread into a soft smirk as she watched the man in front of her dumbly nod his head.

“Sorry Captain Saria, I forget you are not used to a woman using such language. I keep forgetting that, and I will most certainly need to fix my tongue once we land in Cintra.” She puffed out a laugh and bit her bottom lip. It had been some time since she’d been around people. Her life was normally quite and simple, in her term anyway.

She pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes, letting them rest for a moment. She didn’t even remember blinking in the last few hours.

“(Y/N), what exactly are you looking for?” his violet eyes bore into her figure, he waited with bated breath for her to answer. And when her eyes met his, it took everything in him to not falter. It always amazed him how magnificent her eyes were, they could be the most tantalising feature throughout her entire being. One eye a breath-taking colour of (E/C) and the other celadon-green. It did give him some comfort, knowing that there was another out there from an ancient race. Throughout most of his adventures around this world he hardly saw anyone who looked like him, his elven bredrin had become scarce on this harsh world.

He was lucky with the life he has now.

“This man, he.” She put the writing pointe down and stood up from the chair she had been in for the past hour. She came in font of the desk and swiftly pulled herself to sit on top of it. She watched as Captain Saria looked her over, his violet eyes gazed at the shoulders that became exposed when the tunic slipped down.

“We have a lot in common, we are two beings that aren’t accepted in this world, Saria, he is going to help me find the woman that killed my family, my blood.” She brought her left arm forward and used her right hand to slowly roll up the sleeve of the tunic. An angry, jagged scar set itself along the expanse of her forearm. she delicately traced it with her fingers, a light mummer of pain made itself known. She had ran from her past, detached herself from everything she knew and it had worked. She became something she never dreamed of, she doesn’t even recognise her own reflection. (Y/N) looked back up at Saria, his eyes were dull, the sympathy felt mocking to her.

“I am the only one left out of my colony, I had to flee my home and become something I hate because my own home is unsafe. She took everything from me, and I intend to make her suffer.” (Y/N) let her arm flop back down. Her eyes clouded with the memories of her past, the laughter and pain, the children, Her blood.

Her people.

“And the Witcher is going to help me find her.”

__________

Let me know what you think my darlings. if you wish to be tagged let me know in the comments. 

[forthecoloredgirl]

calling all my WOC put in your request!

[emjayewrites]

25 Days of Cavill Writing Challenge

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! *cues Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas”*

In celebration of the holiday festivities, we are going to have 25 Days of Cavill! Now you can write for any holiday in December (i.e. Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, etc.). To participate in this challenge, here are the rules: 

1. Romantic character opposite of Cavill must be either Black or POC/WOC (i.e. biracial as long as mixed with a POC/African-American, Asian, Latina/Latinx, Hispanic, African American, Caribbean, Pacific Islander, Native American, African, etc.)

2. Must involve Henry Cavill or one of his many characters. 

3. Must be either a oneshot, drabble, or headcanon. 

4. Must be holiday-themed

5. If NSFW or NON-CON, please add a warning at the top. 

6. Please no minor x adult relationships

How to tag for the challenge: 

Ex. 

Name of oneshot, drabble, headcanon: Holiday Shopping With Henry

Characters/Persons involved: Henry Cavill x Asian Female Reader

Challenge: 25 DAYS OF CAVILL by @emjayewrites

Warnings: fluffy, smut, etc. 

A/N: Use this for a brief summary and link to your personal masterlist if you have one. 

REMEMBER TO HAVE FUN AND TO TAG ME SO I CAN REBLOG AND LINK IT TO MY BLOG. HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!

[stargirlfics]

Henry Cavill + Characters fanfic masterlist

MUST BE 18+ TO READ - titles marked with * include smut

read from my henry blurbs and drabbles here

all are written as black/woc reader inserts but anyone is welcome and encouraged to read!

Make Me *

Your shitty week at work turns into you acting out at home and Henry is absolutely fed up with your behavior

Everything I Want *

You’re feeling insecure about your weight and afraid Henry might leave you for someone better. Henry wants to show you that’s far from the case

All Nighter *

Henry lets you rest your head in his lap on the way back home from a party when things soon take a messy and steamy the in the backseat

Waiting Game *

You end up quarantined with Henry just months into dating and now you’re both left to deal with your growing connection as well as the rising sexual tension

Meltdowns

(DDLG THEMES - Daddy!Henry x Little!Reader) Insecurities come up after a play date and Henry is there to help work through them with you and comfort you

He Can Only Hold Her

You and Henry get into an argument (hurt/comfort)

Crybaby Blues

(DDLG THEMES - Daddy!Henry x Little!Reader) When Henry discovers you’ve brought your paci out of the house, there’s many a consequence to be had

GERALT OF RIVIA

The Hunt *

Geralt chases you through the woods

AUGUST WALKER

Crawling Back To You *

You love him but know he’s hiding something about who he is, breaking up would be for the best but August can’t just let you go that easy

[burberrybaby]

ʚ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨 ɞ

rules and guidelines for requesting a fic! please read through it all before sending me a request. anonymous requests are completely okay as well.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

your request must be sent as an ask! you can choose whether or not to remain anonymous, and even assign yourself an emoji so i can identify who’s sending the requests.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝

in your request, i encourage to send a few things in the ask. one of which is a pairing, or whom you want me to write for (eg. chris evans x actress!reader or johnathon pine x woc!reader.) sending in a prompt or gif is also very helpful for me for while i’m writing the fic for you, as i can add them in.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐧𝐨’𝐬

if your ask includes a topic i am uncomfortable writing for, i will reject your request. a few things i will not write a fic for include non-con, watersports, and anal. a few i am picky about writing include dub-con, dark topics, and certain au’s.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫

chris evans, andy barber, ransom drysdale, steve rogers, johnny storm, (hayden) harvard hottie, ryan (cellular.)

tom hiddleston, loki laufeyson, thomas sharpe, jonathan pine, james conrad, captain james nicholls (war horse,) doctor robert laing.

bucky barnes, charles blackwood, lance tucker, sheriff bodecker, jefferson (once upon a time.)

anthony mackie, sam wilson, bernard garret, king (the hate u give,) captain leo, adrian doorbal (pain & gain.)

henry cavill, clark kent, geralt of rivia (the witcher,) sherlock holmes.

any other mcu character, a few obx characters

if a character or actor you’d like to request for is not on this list, just ask about them!

❀ 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ❀

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

before the otherness came

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt realizes how much he has to lose.

Warnings: NSFT/18+ - you should not be interacting with this fic if you are under the age of 18. Fingering, intercourse, sex as a coping mechanism (again, jfc Geralt). Smangst!

A/N: This is absolutely the brainchild of @witchernonsense​, who provided me with this scenario and then helped me flesh out the next parts that I have planned because she is my DARLING TUMBLR WIFE. Listen, I got a taste of the smutty angsty and it’s just *chef’s kiss*. Love me some emotional turmoil, y’all. Title and lyrics from “As It Was” by Hozier.

Part 2 can be found here.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

And the sights were as stark as my baby And the cold cut as sharp as my baby And the nights were as dark as my baby And half as beautiful too 

He’s awake long before dawn, too agitated to try for a few more hours of sleep. He tries to relax again. Failing that, he tries to close his eyes and quiet his mind – find the stillness that comes with meditation – but the peace is illusive. It won’t come. He can’t shut out the sleepy, easy rhythm of your heartbeat, nor the warmth of your hand over his chest. Geralt gives up before long, rises carefully - you don’t move, which shouldn’t make him feel relief like this. He finds his clothes, quietly sets about strapping into his armor and tries not to be distracted by the scent of your skin. It teases at his nose. He can still taste you on his tongue.

As he pulls the last buckle taught, he hears you murmur and lets himself look. You turn in your sleep, curl over the pillow he’s vacated. The dark of your hair spills over your neck and face and his fingers itch to push through it. He should wake you. At the very least say goodbye, but the words cloy. They sit heavy in his mouth, an unwieldy chill behind his teeth.

You look soft, and warm, and so fucking lovely in bed that it grips around his heart.

He thinks suddenly, wildly, about throwing down his sword and his armor and crawling back under the covers.

His weapons could gather dust under the bed.

You would wake up curled next to him every morning and smile like the beaming sun. He could repair the roof, keep learning how to bake – smell of your soap and fresh bread instead of gore and road dirt. Worst thing he would be covered in would be cooking oil.

Fuck he can see it – that quiet, boring, simple life and what’s worse, he wants it. He wants it so much that it hurts, deep down into the pit of his stomach and not even the thought of his inevitable return can ease the pain. The idea of leaving, the thought of being without again – it’s a hunger-pang ache. It gnaws at him.

Geralt grits his teeth as he pulls his boots on. You hum sleepily when he ducks in and kisses your cheek, but he’s out the door before you begin to wake.

It’s mostly quiet downstairs, though he hears the rattle of a cart on the road outside. The sky outside begins to wash from inky blue to muted gray with the coming dawn. He takes quick inventory of what remains in his pack, using the list in his head to distract from the pull of desire and the temptation of soft, willing skin upstairs. The scent of you lingers on his hair, in his clothes – you’ve seeped down into his very pores, it seems, soaked him in the sweet, honeyed smell of you.

That scent, clover honey and fresh herbs, suddenly grows stronger and Geralt frowns until sees you coming down the stairs. The soft fabric of your shift whispers over your bare legs and that’s when he realizes your scent is off. It’s tainted – too sharp, too bitter. He sees why when you falter at the last step and the sight strikes like the blow of a mace.

He’s seen you cry – from laughter, from rage, from sorrow – but this is different. This is the sharp, acrid scent of fear under the salt-brine bite of tears and a hollowness behind your dark eyes that hurts to see. Your jaw works, your full mouth twisting before you duck your head, but not before he sees the wet shine on your lashes.

He needs to leave. Needs to walk away because this is suddenly far too real, too raw, but his feet carry him towards you instead and he tastes salt on his tongue when he kisses you. You gasp – sob – against his lips and the noise twists between his ribs. Your heartbeat thunders in his ears and he grips at your hair, your waist, while your fingers tangle and fist into his hair. His hands twist in the light cotton of your shift, bunching the fabric as he lifts you into his arms; your legs grip over his hips.

“Don’t go,” he hears you whisper; it’s soft, and broken, and sad. “Don’t go.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. He manages to set you on the smooth surface of the bar, shivering when your fingernails scratch over his scalp. His gloves hit the floor. Your legs are warm and soft under his palms, and between them is slick and wet and sweet. The smell of you, rich and heavy, sends a shock of arousal straight through him, sudden as a lightning strike. He groans, letting his fingers stroke over your swollen, slick flesh until you’re panting, until you shake apart in his grip, moaning into his mouth. Your fingers tremble as you yank open the buttons of his trousers.

It’s not gentle, not by a long shot. He ruts into you with sharp, greedy strokes and you cling to him, panting hotly against his cheek. Your heels dig hard into his backside. Each shuddering gasp from you seems to take root in him, grips around his heart with grasping vines to squeeze, to bloom with heat and light and fuck all he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to leave you.

So, he kisses you hard. He draws you close and breaks the tracks of your tears with his thumbs, licks each soft, bitten-off sound from your mouth. You whisper his name when you come; the silken grip of your cunt drags him along, blinds him with the white-hot shock of his orgasm. He grits through a moan with his face pressed into your hair.

You won’t look at him, after.

He picks up a clean rag from the pile folded nearby, lets you clean the mess as he rights his trousers again. Still, you won’t meet his gaze. The thick curtain of your hair hides your face. Geralt picks up his gloves, watching you weep silently. You don’t flinch from him when he touches your cheek, pushing back the fall of bed-wild curls, but he feels you drawing away. Like you’re trying to curl up and vanish.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He hears you give a wet sniff; you finally lift your head. Your lovely, dark eyes are bloodshot and bright with unshed tears. There’s a heavy, awful thing pressing at the back of his throat; it’s bitter when he swallows. He chews the inside of his cheek, bites his tongue - he tries not to let himself drown in the deep sorrow behind your eyes. The ache between his ribs thrums.

“I will come back to you,” Geralt whispers in a rush. He crowds close, pressing his forehead to your temple to breathe you in. “You’re - ”

The ache surges in time with the slow pulse of his heart, catches him off-guard. “You’re my home,” he breathes.

Geralt feels panic claw at him, snaring with freezing cold fingers. He forces himself to breathe through it as he presses a rough kiss to your temple and turns on his heel. It feels as if he’s watching everything happen instead of being there – he takes his pack, his weapons and the next thing he knows, he’s managed to swing into Roach’s saddle. The world snaps into clear focus again.

The panic twists, the cold mingling with the ache.

The Witcher grits his teeth, spurring the bay mare into movement. “Shit,” he hisses to himself.

[plussizeappreciationfics]

Idk if anyone has asked this but are you going to do any Geralt of Rivia x woc reader fics anytime soon? You always write the good stuff!

I will this weekend! It's been a while since I've written cause I got some stuff going on but I'm going to sit down and see what y'all got for me❤

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

tame your demons

the wench and the witcher

"tame your demons”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt keeps pieces of himself locked away and sheathed in ice. Sooner or later, the ice does have to melt.

Warnings: Possibly hard teen - we get a little smexy towards the end of this one, but nothing graphic. We are definitely getting into some angst now, kids.

A/N: I have a lot of feelings about these two. Basically, Hozier’s quote about “trying to love a damaged person” stuck with me and I refuse to give it up. Lyrics and title for this one come from “Arsonist’s Lullaby”, which was actually one of the first Hozier songs I ever fell in love with.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​

When I was a man, I thought it ended When I knew love's perfect ache But my peace has always depended On all the ashes in my wake

Gods, you should be used to the cold by now. For his kindness and warmth, your Witcher is capable of it. Biting cold, harsh as freezing rain. You try to insulate yourself against it, hoping that you can somehow bear the winter of his moods when they roll through, but it never seems to get any easier. You brace against the ice-cold of his silences and the way he draws himself away from you – steel your spine, try to smile when the flint in his eyes chips away at you.

Geralt can drop the temperature of a room without so much as a word. It’s remarkable.

And it fucking hurts.

He won’t look at you as you carefully clean the blood from his split knuckles. You kneel at the edge of the tub he soaks in, focused on the task at hand and swallowing back what feel like chips of ice caught in your throat. Even with the hearth fire at your back and the slight humidity from the steaming water, you feel like you’ve been thrown in a damned snow drift. It aches down into your bones.

The hunt had gone badly. Some alderman and his cronies unwilling to pay up for services rendered – and speaking up would have meant leaving town on the end of a rope. Geralt had blown in two weeks ago with an arctic cold around him, frosted over too thick for even you to break through, and then…

And then, there were those backwater pricks from Hagge.

You’d tried to be firm, but polite at first. The Witcher was your guest, and you didn’t take kindly to anyone speaking ill of the people under your roof, but they’d turned their drunken cruelty on you without so much as a second thought. Nothing new, there. You bore the insults when they came without flinching; it was just how it worked. They were the sort of men that didn’t much like being told what to do by the likes of you. A woman – stupid tavern wench.

‘The Butcher’s Bitch’, they’d called you.

And in all the time you’ve known him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Geralt so furious.

You’d managed to pull him away before it devolved to a full-on tavern brawl and crushed aside the hurt when the Witcher had ripped his arm from your grasp. The instigators were summarily banned from the premises; the rest of the night had drawn to a close without incident, save for the fact that you’d practically had to snarl at Geralt to let you tend to his wounds.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break a finger,” you mutter.

Silence. The cold of it sinks in deep. You bite your tongue, standing and letting go of Geralt’s hand in favor of packing your healer’s kit up once more. The bottles clack together with a little more force that necessary as you grit your teeth; under the sting of your ego, you can feel your own anger bubbling just under the surface. Gods, you want to shake him – shout him down, throttle him around his stupid, thick head.

‘Let me in’, you want to scream.

“I’ll be downstairs,” you tell him instead, tone short and hoarse. “Need to settle the accounts for the week.”

He doesn’t stop you until you try to skirt past the tub. One big, scarred hand reaches up from the water and grips at your wrist, halting you in your tracks. His palm burns on your skin.

“Do you know why they call me that?” he growls out.

“No,” you snap. “And I don’t fucking care – “

“Well, you should.”

Geralt looks at you. Finally – finally – meets your gaze and you’re shocked to see those bright eyes have lost the ice behind them. He just looks tired; tired, and angry, with something that could be sorrow hidden just underneath. The firelight dances over his wet skin, reflects off the hammered copper of the tub to give the Witcher a gilded look about him. Pale and broad, tinged with gold. You study him, taking in the fall of his damp hair around his face. He looks so much younger.

You turn your wrist in his grip, shift to lace your fingers with his, and kneel at his side again. He stares at you and nearly seems to lose his nerve, shifting his gaze to the surface of the water. “Do you know of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he mumbles.

His other hand spins lazily over the bathwater, rippling it with a soft noise against the edge of the tub. “Heard it was shit,” you tell him. “Gave a lot of men the excuse to hurt a lot of young girls.”

The Witcher’s soft mouth twitches up, just for a moment – barely a smirk. The line of his jaw goes tense, same as it does when he’s biting his tongue. “Renfri… she was one of those girls,” he says after a moment. “I met her in Blaviken.”

It feels like the bits of ice at the back of your throat have started to melt and you find you can swallow again. Geralt’s hand is warm over yours, both from his own body heat and the steaming water. He’s silent for a long stretch, the quiet broken only by the quiet whisper of the water and the occasional crackle of the logs on the fire. His gaze stays where it is, but he finally begins to speak again.

You learn about Renfri and her men. How she called them off when they were ready to hang Geralt in the woods outside Blaviken. He tells you of Stregebor, and you can hear the sneer in his voice when he mentions the sorcerer by name. How the old man told him that Renfri was a monster, something mad and deadly that needed to be put down. He tells you Renfri’s story. He tells you about the marketplace.

Renfri’s death.

The stoning.

The Butcher of Blaviken tells you his story in a low, even, almost monotone voice. He doesn’t glance at you, not once. But neither does he push you away.

“That’s where the name comes from,” he says at the last of it, and it’s so quiet you’re not sure if he’s meant to say it out loud. “And with good reason.”

You inhale slow, taking in a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. It catches in the back of your throat. You half expect him to shrug away, but when you lean against the edge of the tub – when you grip his hand tight and press your lips against his temple – Geralt seems to relax into the contact. He smells of your soap, and oiled leather. You nuzzle softly into his damp hair.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “I’m so sorry you had to make that choice, dear heart.”

The Witcher lets out a slow breath, shoulders sinking further into the warm water surrounding him. He lets you take gentle hold of his chin, lets you turn his face until he’s meeting your eyes. You study him, carefully, taking in the sharp cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Your thumb brushes gently over the stubble at his jaw. He leans into your hand, just for a moment.

“You are not the Butcher here,” you tell him, and your tone is fiercely gentle. “You were never the Butcher here, not to me. You are just Geralt – my Geralt.”

Pretty gold eyes flash back at you. There’s a curiosity behind them, something sharp that makes your stomach drop towards your knees because you realize the implication of what you’ve just told him. Shit – shit. Your face goes warm. You bite your lip, but don’t drop the Witcher’s gaze, and you see his soft lips tilt up at one corner. “Yours, hm?” he mumbles.

Your face feels too hot, but you nod regardless. “Aye.”

He stares. Studious, intense, and the heat in your face flushes downward, prickles over your skin until you feel sweat begin to bead at the back of your neck. You duck your head. The Witcher lets you break the spell, lets you escape and stand to grab the large bath sheet hanging by the hearth. You hear water slosh when he stands and steps out of the bath; you feel oddly shy when you hand him the warmed fabric, chewing at your bottom lip as Geralt rubs the water from his pale skin. Shadow and firelight play over the cut of his torso – you watch a bead of water slick its way down the side of his thick neck before it catches on the dip of his collarbone.

All the while, he watches you. You try not to fidget and fail. Gods, you can’t stand it when he looks at you like that – it’s curious heat and shameless, open desire. It makes you feel like you’ve laced your bodice too tight and you clear your very dry throat.

“Are you hungry?” you ask weakly.

The Witcher shakes his head. He stalks towards you – for that’s the only way to describe the movement – dropping the bath sheet as he closes the distance, all pale, naked skin and solid muscle. You can feel the beat of your pulse in your throat when he crowds close and he cups your face in his scarred hands before slanting his mouth over yours. The kiss is deep, but unhurried. Geralt licks your gasp out from behind your teeth, growling in return when your hands grip the solid plane of his back. He kisses you until you feel dizzy, until your heart thunders hard against your ribs and your legs go weak.

“Are you mine, then?” the Witcher growls, low and ominous as summer thunder. He keeps one hand at your jaw; the other trails sweetly down your neck. His fingertips skate over the smooth, polished wolf’s tooth of your necklace. He tugs the laces at the top of your bodice.

“Hm? Does that make you mine, sweet girl?”

The lacing whispers free of its grommets and though the tension on your bodice goes slack, you still find it difficult to catch your breath. You can barely remember how to fucking nod, but you do it. “Yes,” you whisper.

Geralt kisses you again. The heat of it scorches.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

and it’s easy done

the wench and the witcher

“and it’s easy done”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt is gone hunting. Reader is frustrated. 

Warnings: NSFW/18+ - this is dirty, but to be fair, so is the song that prompted it. Masturbation, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), praise kink, sweet!dom Geralt/gratuitous use of the phrase “good girl”, welcome to the sin bin, fam. (And somehow, they still got all soft on me.)

A/N:  Title and lyrics after the cut from “Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)” by Hozier. So, like. Hozier straight-up says this song is about oral sex. Full-stop. I didn’t believe it until I actually read the lyrics and went, “Oh damn, you right.” So, uh, here you go. There’s a part two coming - heh - because reciprocity is important. 

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​

Like a heathen clung to the homily Let the reason come on the common tongue of your loving me

“Good girl.”

 Geralt’s voice is a growling rasp against your ribs. You feel it buzz through you, the vibration humming over your naked skin. His lips leave heat in their wake, licking tongues of fire that make you shudder and arch for him.

 He rumbles out a low chuckle, “That’s my good girl.”

 Teeth scrape over the tender skin of your thigh. You gasp. There’s a soft, sinister laugh before heat and wet presses over your throbbing center and you moan, chasing the pleasure that the Witcher is so generous to provide. You’re writhing, and crying, and you can feel the scorching knot in your belly twist itself tighter and tighter and tighter and –

And you snap awake, panting

Confused, and frustrated, and hot, dear gods, you stare at the dark ceiling above you, one hand pressed to your forehead. You can hear your own heartbeat thrumming behind your eardrums. Worst of all, you can feel it between your legs, so insistent that it hurts. With a ragged groan, you roll to your side, knees pressed tight together in a futile attempt to easy the wicked ache. The darkness behind your eyelids provides no comfort – your mind is hazy with flashes of Geralt’s lazy, seductive grin.

“Fuck,” you whine into your pillow.

It’s been almost two months. He didn’t tell you where he would be, and you didn’t ask, which is fine – it’s what works, it’s for the best you tell yourself. But it’s been the same brain-addling dream for three days straight and it’s starting to affect your fucking work. If your head isn’t off in the clouds, you find that you’re irritable – snappish and short. Your people aren’t idiots, either. The semi-significant glances you catch are enough; you know they can guess what’s eating you.

Or, well. Not eating you, to be direct.

You take in a slow breath, squirming against the prickling heat that refuses to be ignored before you swear at the ceiling. It’s a pity that the object of your torment isn’t present, but it’s not like you’ve never taken matters into your own hands before.

 Fuck it.

Shaking fingers pull at the cotton of your shift and ghost over your thighs. You hum – it’s enough to send gooseflesh skittering over your skin.  Your hands are smaller, more delicate than the strong, calloused ones you want but it’s something. As you find the syrupy, slick heat between your legs, you let yourself moan and roll onto your back once more. Your other hand creeps its way upward, skates up your ribs and over the smooth curve of your breast to find your nipple beaded and tender. You settle into the rhythm that you need, fingertips pressing at your clit, drawing wetness up from your soaking core to roll over the sensitive cluster of nerve endings.

Sweat sticks your curls to your forehead. You let your fingers dip, press in to where you ache – where you pulse. The shivering pleasure goes liquid, curls itself between your thighs and makes you arch from the mattress. Eyes shut tight, you conjure up the image of white hair, strong hands, and that devious fucking smile. The Witcher’s name is a breathy sigh over your lips.

“Now here’s a sight…”

A familiar rumbling voice throws you rudely out of your fantasy and headlong into horror – you curse with particular gusto as your eyes fly open. When you scramble up right, you find the object of that fantasy darkening your bedroom doorway and looking entirely too smug. Geralt watches you, and the pressure of his gaze feels like the warmth of a bonfire. You feel it trace over you from bed-wild hair to parted knees.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the Witcher rumbles. His voice is rough, a growl so low that it’s nearly subterranean. It makes your heart beat faster, sends a fresh shudder of heat through you.

He inhales, slow and deep, breathing out on a low hmm. You watch him step closer – as your eyes adjust to the dim, you’re able to see his face, meet honey-gold eyes that are nearly overtaken by the dark of his pupils. His battle-scarred hands pull at the buttons of his collar before pulling the fabric from his trousers. Your mouth goes bone-dry when he reveals the broad expanse of his chest. The shirt ends up on the floor somewhere.

“Take off your shift, sweetheart,” Geralt tells you.

For once, you don’t backtalk as you do what you’re told.  He chuckles darkly. “Lay back,” he says.

The mattress is wonderfully cool against your feverish skin. Your eyes stay locked on his face. Goosebumps prickle over your skin, makes you shiver as Geralt moves to light the single candle on your beside table. The amber-toned light throws shadows over his strong features and he is so fucking beautiful it makes your heart ache. His scars stand out, lines of pearl against his pale skin. With a slow, predatory grace, the Witcher settles himself on the edge of the bed at your feet before one strong hand grips your ankle; he pulls gently, until your leg drops off the side of the bed to leave you open and exposed to him.

Maybe you should be mortified, but you’ve never been more aroused in your life.  “Let me see, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Come on now.”

It’s hard to breathe. The air feels charged with electricity, thick and heavy – the moment before a lightning strike. Your fingers play slowly over your skin again as you pant softly, then moan when you pull at your nipple once more. Geralt traces his fingers up your leg, callouses rough, yet gentle as they drawl invisible sigils over the top of your calf, then along the inside of your knee. Once again, your hand finds its way to the aching slick between your legs. The first contact makes you suck in a low breath, almost shocked by the flood of wet that you’re greeted with; your eyes slip closed, but you don’t notice until you hear the Witcher purr down at you:

“Look at me.”

You groan as you pry your eyes open. Geralt’s gaze is has weight and heat, like a living thing – it’s enough to make your toes curl. “Good girl,” he breathes. “That’s my good girl.”

Gods. Those words send fire crackling through your bones - the heat scorches the air in your lungs as your voice catches on a whine. You writhe on the bed, gasp for breath, and somehow manage to keep your eyes locked on Geralt’s face. His soft mouth twists into a wicked smile.

“You missed me, didn’t you, sweet girl?” he asks you. His voice laps at your skin, warm like the ocean tide. “Missed me so much you had to try and make yourself come, is that it?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I – fuck, Geralt – “

“Tell me what you were thinking about, sweetheart.”

He lowers his head. His lips are smooth and dry as he traces them up the quivering flesh of your thigh. You grit your teeth around a moan; the Witcher bites softly at your skin, lifts his eyes to meet your gaze. “Tell me,” he rumbles. “Tell me what makes you so fucking wet when I’m gone, hm? Be a good girl.”

“Geralt,” you whine. The fingers rolling over your clit press downwards, press into the desperate wet heat of your cunt until you cry out and start to babble. “I think about - about you, Geralt, I – I think about your – your hands, your fingers… fuck, I think about how you fuck me open with your tongue, about your cock – oh! Oh!”

The sharp bite of pain from his teeth on your hip sends you soaring. Stars collide behind your eyelids, rush through your veins with blinding heat; you press your hips into your own hand, chanting the Witcher’s name as you come. You’re left shaking, and as you find your breath, Geralt pulls your hand away from where it’s pressed to your sex.

When he presses his mouth there instead, you choke on a yell.

He devours you. Locks one arm over your hips to keep you still when you try to arch away as the pleasure edges toward pain. Your hand flies over your head, palm slapping against the solid wood of the headboard. The other finds the Witcher’s frost-colored hair, fingers gripping into a fist; you’re not sure if you want to shove him away or draw him closer, but you feel him snarl against your cunt, as if daring you to try the former. His tongue presses heavy and hot over your clit, lapping mercilessly while you strain against the pleasure.

The press of his fingers – one, then another, and then a third – into your pulsing heat drags a low gasp out of you. Geralt strokes the pads of his fingers into you in time to the rhythm of his tongue. Those clever fingers hook up, find the soft, sensitive spot deep inside you as he grazes his teeth lightly over your clit.

Everything goes white. You hear the high keen of your own voice as you come again, gushing over the Witcher’s tongue and fingers. His low moan hums against you, makes you shudder and sob.

“Good girl…”

His voice is sweet, soft, and filthy. Still gasping, you force your eyes open in time to watch Geralt wipe the shine of your slick from his chin. He makes his languid way up your body, chasing each shiver of your muscles with his lips until he’s settled over you, braced on his elbows. You arch up to kiss him, all desperate demanding, and taste yourself on his tongue as you swallow down his low, breathless groan. Despite their shaking, your fingers make quick work of his trousers with his help. There’s the sound of boots hitting the floor.

Geralt presses you onto your back, presses himself forward – you gasp, high and sharp as he blunt head of his cock splits you open. You feel him snarl against your mouth. He finds a slow, deep rhythm, one meant to be savored, and savor he does. The pair of you writhe together, coiled like adders in the glow of the candlelight.

“I missed you,” you gasp. “So much.”

Geralt snaps his hips forward, catching your moan on his tongue. “Missed you, too,” you hear him whisper. “I - gods - missed you, too.”  

The last orgasm startles you, a sharp jolt fizzing its way up your spine; you bow up and away from the mattress with a soft grunt when it happens and the Witcher gives a rasping chuckle against your shoulder that slides into a moan as he comes. He’s soft-focus in the candlelight when he lifts his head to look at you, and there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your breath catch short for a second. You bite your lip against a foolish smile.

“Hello,” you breathe.

The Witcher hmms at you. The smile on his face is lazy and satisfied; were he a cat, you’re certain he would be purring. “Hello,” he murmurs back.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

to derail the mind of me

the wench and the witcher

"to derail the mind of me”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt’s temper needs an outlet.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ - Femdom, bondage (kinda?), edging/overstimulation, handjob, oral sex (m receiving), subby!Geralt.

A/N: Well THIS was a thought experiment. To be perfectly honest, I am not as happy with how our dear Witcher’s voice came through on this one - he’s fucking difficult, y’all - but gods be damned, here it us. Based on an idea from @witchernonsense​ with title and lyrics taken from “Sedated” by Hozier. At the rate I’m going, I might accidentally write my way through his discography.

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​ - @witchernonsense​

Just a little hush, babe; my veins are busy But my heart's in atrophy

He’d agreed to this, he thinks to himself. Freely and gladly agreed to this torment, the torture you’d decided to enact upon him. Geralt’s hands grip the edge of the mattress so hard it makes his knuckles pop. He can feel the sweat on his chest and the cool prickle as it dries. His legs twitch; his abdomen burns with the tension of forcing himself to hold still.

 Your dark eyes peer up through soot-colored lashes. The tip of your tongue steals out, tracing a delicate line over the thin skin on his hip – you follow the track of his blue veins, stark on his pale skin and it feels like chaos flashing through him. He teeth click together around a breathless groan; pleasure courses through him, settles with a heavy weight at the base of his spine. His hips lift towards you.

 The pressure of your fist around the base of his cock stalls the breath in his lungs. “What did I tell you, dear heart?” you whisper into his sweat-slick skin.

 His tongue is so dry that it sticks to the roof of his mouth and you bite at his hipbone when he doesn’t answer fast enough. Pain bleeds in through the buzz of pleasure. “Fuck,” Geralt hisses. “I move and – and you stop – gods.“

 Hot and wet, he watches you run your tongue up the hard curve of his cock, still keeping him fisted tight in your hand. He’s slack-jawed, he knows, panting in short bursts of air until you lap your way around the head of him. The sudden jolt of it rocks him – like getting thrown into a wall, sweet fuck – but he holds, unmoved. You ease away and he breathes out on a ragged, desperate noise.

 You release your grip on his cock – the sudden lack of pressure sends a full body shudder through him. Your mouth is soft and gentle over his hip again.

 “Do we need to stop?” you ask softly.

The Witcher finds your gaze, and shakes his head. You’re aglow in the light of the many candles strewn about your room, bronze skin catching the light and turning you soft-focus. The brush of your hair over his naked thigh shoots heat straight through him and he can’t swallow back his moan. You just quirk an eyebrow.

 Geralt has been… well, an asshole. He knows it. The last hunt was, in every plausible sense of the word, shite. Shitty inns, shitty pay, shitty fucking humans – throwing insults and threats until they need him. He’d stormed back into your life with his temper riding a knife’s edge and where anyone else would have thrown him out on his ass, you’d refused to back down. You pushed back when he griped, stood your ground when he snapped and barked for no godsdamned reason.

 It had all come to a head tonight. One snide comment too many had you both shouting over the other until you had yanked him in by his collar and kissed him hard enough to bruise. The need had flared up through the red haze of foolish anger, but when he’d tried to grip at you, you’d slapped his hands away. A second attempt and you had simply shoved him – shock alone was enough to make him sit, hard, at the edge of the bed.

 “Oh, dear heart,” you’d murmured as you’d unlaced your corset. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

 You seem determined to make good on that threat.

 He shakes when your tongue begins tracing patterns again, back and forth – back and forth over his humming skin – with your teeth digging it at random intervals. You’ve already left your marks down his chest and along the other side of his hip. They will fade in good time, but for now, they are deep splotches of red and purple that stand out garishly on his flesh and the idea of wearing the marks of your mouth for even a few days has him nearly vibrating out of his skin.

 You move back to the center-line of his body, lips petal-soft and so smooth on the burning skin of his cock and dear gods, this must be what going mad feels like. The wet of your tongue, the gentle suction as you mouth your way up the length of him and the words tumble out before he can swallow them back:

 “Please, sweetheart - “

 The hum of your laughter against his aching flesh is almost enough to push him over the edge – he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but then you’re there, up on your knees and pressed close into his chest. You smell sweet, and ripe – honeymeade and cardamom – and he grits his teeth; he wants nothing more that to bury his face against your soft, scented hair, but the idea of you stopping now might actually make his heart give out.

 “Have you had enough?” you murmur against his temple.

 “Yes,” he chokes out.

 “Do you want to come?”

 “Gods, yes.”

 You purr; he can almost feeling it, silken and cool over his skin. Geralt closes his eyes, forcing himself to take slow breaths in through his nose, but then he smells the mellow aroma of sweet almond oil and then your fist is slick and warm around him and he shouts. He grips at you, one hand fisting in your hair and the other in the soft cotton of your shift – you don’t stop him when he pulls you in, hungry and desperate, slanting his mouth over yours. The pressure in his belly coils over, wrenches tight, electric and uncontrolled and over the thunder of blood in his ears, he can just hear the way his own fucking voice cracks when he whines your name.

 He smells the rush of arousal that fires through you. It’s what throws him headlong into his orgasm. He pulses hotly over your fingers, against his own belly.

 The plush of your lips just muffles his broken yell.

 Everything goes… fuzzy.

 Your voice is soft in his ear. He hears the rustle of fabric, the delicate brush of a cloth that draws a low hiss from him as you clean the mess from his lap and chest. With low murmurs and careful guidance, he finds himself stretched out on the bed and you, soft and naked and curled against his side. Sluggishly, Geralt wraps you in his grasp, finally able to press his face into your curls. Your low laughter vibrates against his shoulder.

 “You done bein’ a difficult prick now?” you tease.

 He rumbles out something to the affirmative. Probably. Hard to tell – he still feels a bit like he’s taken a full dram of poppy syrup, even as he cranes his neck to look at you. He studies your face, too exhausted to fight the strange wonderment that settles over him whenever he gets to see you up close like this and he feels… fuck. It’s hard to name – liar, his mind hisses – but it aches. It’s like a hunger pain, or the pull of a strained muscle. The difference, though, is that he’s not sure if he wants to make this stop.

 “M’sorry,” Geralt mutters at last. “For being a prick. I wasn’t cross with you, I just... it was a bad hunt, and I didn’t - “

 “Geralt?”

 “Hm?”

 “Hush now.”

 You kiss him. It’s gentle, soft and slow; the deep, ominous – wonderful – ache in his chest thrums. He turns towards you with every hazy intention of making the evening worth your while, but the bed is very soft and he is so very tired. Sleep catches him off guard. The last thing he hears is the sweet murmur of your voice as he drifts.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

i’d be home with you

the wench and the witcher

“i’d be home with you”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Something about the sunlight and fresh air…

Warnings: NSFW/18+ to read, please. Fingering, outdoor sex.

A/N: Listen, almost nothing of consequence happens in this segment, but “In A Week” by Hozier is my favorite morbid-ass love song, so y’all are gonna get what I give you. Title and lyrics from the song, I love these two idiots so much lmao.

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff​ - @yespolkadotkitty​

We’ll lay here for years or for hours Your hand in my hand, so still and discreet So long, we’d become the flowers We’d feed well the land and worry the sheep

You’re unsure of the time that’s passed. The sun burns a reddish-pink tint on backs of your eyelids; raising a hand you shield your eyes before you open them, blinking to adjust to the flood of mid-morning light. The sky is clear and blue overhead, dotted with soft mounds of cloud. In your periphery, you can see the tall meadow grass waving in the breeze, splashed with the yellows and pale purples of the season’s wildflowers. The grass beneath you is still cool, and soft as any fine feather bed. You’re tempted to close your eyes again – it would be so easy, but you turn your head to look at your companion instead. You grin at the picture he presents.

Were it not for the shock of white hair and stark black clothes, he could almost for some contented, pastoral type. His shirt is mostly unbuttoned, leaving a great patch of lightly furred chest open to the air and sun. Geralt is sprawled on his back, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head in a way that makes him look like the picture of relaxation. You roll onto your side to continue your study of him.

It was only supposed to be a quick excursion – you preferred to gather some of your herbs yourself as opposed to buying them in town. Geralt had been unwilling to let you go wandering along in the wood, something about tracking a griffin a few miles away. Terse and insistent, he’d growled until you gave in, though admittedly without much of a fight. He’d followed behind you, grunting at the appropriate intervals while you filled your basket until you’d turned with a taunt and a grin:

“If you’d wanted to get me alone in the woods, darling, you could have just asked.”

You got a raised eyebrow for your cheek, coupled with a sly grin as your Witcher had crowded in close. Next thing you knew, you were on your back in the grass with your skirts rucked up and Geralt between your legs.

With a grin, you reach for your basket, still focused on the dozing Witcher. Your fingers grip the stalk of an echinacea flower and use the tiny purple bloom to trace a line down the middle of Geralt’s upturned face.

“Stop that,” he grunts without opening his eyes.

You chuckle lowly and move to straddle his hips. Flower still in hand, you continue to poke the bear, as it were, this time letting the petals trace their way down one side of his neck before he grips your wrist to still the movement. One golden eye cracks open as he grumbles, “That does not mean ‘try again’, sweetheart.”

“Hmmm,” is your retort. “My mistake.”

“Brat.”

“Yes?”

He finally opens both eyes to glare up at you, but the way he’s pressing his lips together means he’s trying not to smile. You simply grin back and toss the offending flower back to the basket before bracing your hands on either side of his face. Geralt’s hands are warm on your hips when you lean in to kiss him lazily. His grip shifts to the roundness of your backside, even as he mumbles against your lips, “We’ll need to get back soon.”

“You started this, darling.” You stretch out over him, dark curls curtaining around both of your faces. “And it’s quiet today. Lucja’s fine on her own…”

Your lips map the way from his mouth, along the cut of his jaw, and up to his earlobe. Smirking, you catch the bit of flesh between your teeth and tug lightly; Geralt grunts, and you chuckle back, “Are you really so eager to get me back to work?”

The witcher beneath you gives a rumble of a laugh. The hands on your hips start to gather your skirts up and you kiss him again with a little more vigor. His palms are rough against your skin, grip firm when he rolls you beneath him into the sun-warm grass. You wind your fingers in his hair, scratch gently at his scalp –  he hums lowly against your mouth. The sound buzzes through you and you feel your heartbeat begin to race.

Geralt finds that pulse between your legs. The pads of his fingers glide through where you’re still slick, still swollen and ripe from your first tryst and you gasp against him when sensation ripples its way over your skin. He rumbles in return, drawing back from your kiss until you see his handsome face looming over you. Two thick fingers slip inside of you, curl and press up to send a shock of heat through you – your hips rock into his hand as you moan.

“Sweet girl,” the Witcher croons down at you. His soft mouth tilts into a delicately wicked smile. “Always so responsive for me – keep looking at me, sweetheart.”

Your eyelids flutter with the slow stroke of his fingers in your cunt, but you don’t tear your gaze away. Geralt bites his lip, honey-gold eyes intent on your face while you shiver and writhe in the sunlight beneath him. He watches you, praises you, whispering against your lips until you break apart with a high gasp of his name and only then does he settle his weight over you. A few deft pulls free the buttons on his trousers and then he rolls his hips against you, slips his cock through your slick, aching folds.

He fills you slowly, makes you start trembling all over again. The stretch of his cock inside you is enough to force your eyes shut; your fingers grip the black of his shirt and the Witcher presses his forehead to yours with a low moan of your name. He balances over you, one hand gripping your thigh; the other finds your hand, laces your fingers together in the plush, verdant grass.

His hips roll forward, pelvis grinding slow into yours. Your soft cry mingles with the birdsong. Geralt finds a lazy, indulgent pace, murmuring sweetly against your mouth as the sun climbs its slow arc through the cloud-dappled blue of the sky.

Your herbs and basket lay forgotten for a while longer. If someone needs you, they’ll come looking.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

how easy you are to need

the wench and the witcher

“how easy you are to need”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader

Summary: Geralt gives in to his baser instincts.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY/smuuut - kitchen fuckery, Geralt of Rivia has a smutty mind/dirty mouth. 

A/N: I’m back on my bullshit (not that I was ever off it idk) and this got steamy, if I do say so myself. Heavily influenced by “It Will Come Back” by Hozier, which is honestly the sexiest love song I’ve ever heard. Seriously, y’all, I have a giant playlist of ALL Hozier shit and I’m basically just writing my way through. If it’s not dirty, it’s fluff. Most of it’s dirty, lbr. Enjoy, my little chickens!

@coconutxraikage​ ; @onyour-right​ ; @kingniazx​

Don’t let me in with no intention to keep me Jesus Christ - don’t be kind to me Honey don’t feed me, I will come back 

You are… kind-hearted.

Not naïve, never naïve – kind. He suspects it has to do with what you do for a living. Part of your job at the tavern is to provide for people. You give them food when they’re hungry, drink when they’re thirsty. Geralt knows you’ve even provided lodging, in spite of not having the space for it. You give a shit about the people who walk through your door, be they regular customers or the stranger just looking for a watering hole. It makes you under-estimated, that kind heart of yours; people expect you to be easily bullied, but that is a mistake they only ever make once.

He’s watched you break a man’s jaw. Definitely not easily bullied.

But always kind. Good.

He watches you talk animatedly with a family and their small children, pouring ale for mother and father. You crouch when the youngest boy tugs at your skirt, tip your ear to his tiny mouth. Whatever he’s said makes you laugh, hard, and the motion of tipping your head back sends your dark curls tumbling over one shoulder. You catch him staring and flash a smile, dragging your teeth over your full lower lip.

That smile makes something hot and desperate settle in his gut.

Always kind. Good.

Makes him feel like more of a beast for wanting you the way he does.

It’s inexplicable and a little disturbing, but when he sees you, laughing like that, smile pulling at your lovely mouth all he can think of is the way that mouth looks around his cock. He thinks of the way you hum around him, staring up with fathomless eyes from your knees; how you moan when he tugs at your hair. It’s base and it’s filthy, and you love it. You’ve never been coy or shy with him – not unless you’re doing it on purpose. He might even call you brazen.

He sees your eyes darken with desire from across the room, as if you can guess his thoughts.

Every time you pass to fill his mug, there’s an extra swing in your hips. Your fingertips linger on his wrist.

Geralt feels something rattle in his chest, feral and vicious. Mine, it snarls.

He finds you in the kitchen at the end of the night, after the tavern is empty and the door has been barred. You’ve tied your curls up, giving him the long line of your neck. You smell of honey and sweet herbs, as always, when he noses against your hairline and crowds you up against the washbasin. Pressing his chest tight along your back, he breathes in deep and exhales on a low rumble. You shiver against him, skin brown and shimmery in the low light of the kitchen fire. Delicious.

“Geralt,” you sigh his name, turning your face towards his for a kiss and he obliges with a pleased hum.

It’s slow. Lazy. He keeps one arm barred across your middle to keep you trapped against him. The other moves freely, fingers stroking and groping. He manages to unlace the top of your bodice and slips his hand inside – finds your nipples in stiff peaks against his fingertips. You whine into his mouth as he toys with you, pulling and plucking.

The thing, the creature in him growls. He bites at your lower lip – you shudder.

Gods, he can smell you. The hand at your breast changes course, extricates itself from the front of your dress to slide down your torso. Gathering your skirts is a little more work one-handed, but he’s pleased at what he finds once he gets there. You’re slippery-wet, swollen, and hot between your legs. He groans at the feel of you, dragging the pads of his fingertips back and forth while you writhe in his grip. One of your hands slams palm down on the counter in front of you; the other reaches up, fisting in the hair at the base of his skull. He relinquishes his claim on your mouth so you can gasp for breath.

Gasp his name.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rumbles into your neck, scraps his teeth. Bites down – marks his territory. “This is all for me, isn’t it?”

You keen, low and agonized, and he’s so hard that it hurts. “Yes - Geralt,” you whine – sob – and tug at his hair. “Geralt, please…”

Fuck.

He unlaces the front of his breeches in record time, lines up, and thrusts home. You clutch around him, so blisteringly hot that any coherent thought is burned clean of his brain. He hears your broken, gasping cry and that’s all the encouragement he needs. Slowly, so very slowly, he pulls back to feel you tremble against him before pushing forward with a single rough snap of his hips. The sound you make is just fucking heavenly, raw and desperate. One of your hands finds his forearm – he feels the pinprick of your blunt nails on his skin.

“Harder,” you plead with him.

He obliges. Deep, slow, unforgiving thrusts that send pleasure hammering up and down his spine as you keen and beg. Your scent fills his nose and his lungs, he feels drunk with it, panting roughly against the back of your neck with each steady push. Sweat beads at your hairline, slips its way down the back of your neck; he follows with his lips and tongue. The hand you have gripped in his hair tightens and Geralt slams his eyes shut with a grunt.

It’s the sweetest, filthiest thing he can imagine, listening to you cry out for him when he takes you like this. Feels like devouring something lovely and clean, corrupting it just a little. Just enough. You sigh when he grips bruises into your hips, you moan when he bites at your neck – you don’t mind when he lets his devils off the leash a little. It’s almost like you relish in it.

You come noisily, shouting his name as you fall headlong over the edge and drag him into oblivion with you. He feels you shudder when he steps back, slips himself from your trembling body; it makes him grin. A light tug on your hip and you turn to face him. You smile up at him, swollen-lipped and bright eyed and wrecked.

Not wrecked enough. Gods, but he feels himself stir again – the beast has not been sated, not in the slightest.

“Leave the wash up for later,” he murmurs. He grips your waist, pulling you into him so he can bite a new bruise onto the side of your neck. “I’m not done with you yet, little rabbit…”

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

by the still of your hand

the wench and the witcher

“by the still of your hand”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: You’re overworked and copping an attitude about it. Geralt forces you to relax.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ Only - spanking, dirty talk, super-mild humiliation, Geralt goes stern-but-soft!Dom, P-in-V intercourse.

A/N: There was that one time our girl basically dared Geralt to spank her, so I figured I would be remiss not to expand upon that. You’re welcome 😉. Title and lyrics below the cut taken from Hozier’s “No Plan”.

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​ - @witchernonsense​ - @owillofthewisps​

Why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird? When it sings so sweet The screaming, heaving fuckery of the world?

“You forget to eat again?”

 “Didn’t forget,” you mutter. “Just didn’t have time.”

 The noise of people and clattering dishes goes dull with the sound of the door closing. You can feel the sharp energy of Geralt’s stare from the threshold. It’s difficult to shake, but you do your best, scowling down into your invoices in the hope that he might give up and let you be. Of course, you know better; the bastard’s got you beat in terms of stubbornness. Nonetheless, you continue to try and ignore the looming presence at your study door.

 “What do you want from the kitchen?” Geralt asks in that way that’s not really a question. More of a, ‘this is happening, you need to make peace with it.’

 It grates at you. He’s right, and you’re hungry – and fucking tired – but you mutter back, “M’fine.”

 “You at least want to take a break?”

 “I’m fine.”

 “Horseshit,” the Witcher rumbles. “You were up at dawn and no one’s seen you since. You need to – “

 “No,” you snap. “No, what I need to do is finish this fucking order so we can continue to feed people this week. I need to make sure this moon-brained girl I hired isn’t going to drive away half my patrons, and I need people to leave me the fuck alone so I can fucking-well work.”

 The truly deafening silence that follows should have been your first warning. You scowl back into your book and don’t notice Geralt’s approach until it’s too late. The quill is tossed from your hand and then the Witcher’s fingers grip the roots of your hair to tug – your snarl of protest breaks off into a gasp. It’s a shock. Like touching a metal pan in the dead of winter, the buzz snaps over your skin, makes the breath stall in your throat.

 “What you need, sweetheart,” Geralt tells you lowly. “Is to watch that mouth of yours. And take a fucking break.”

 He’s not threatening you, not really. His tone is almost matter-of-fact, but the straightforward authority that he speaks with makes your corset feel too tight. You’re hardly able to cock your head to look at him with the grip he keeps on you, though you try anyway; the glare on your face loses some of its bite with the breathiness of your voice when you reply, “I’m not done yet.”

 “I say you are.”

 “Give me the quill.”

 The Witcher drops the quill on the floor. His grip on your hair tightens – you hiss, but it’s definitely not pain. “You don’t listen very well, do you sweetheart?” he mutters.

 “I don’t – “

 Geralt gives you a light shake, as though you were a disobedient pup. “What did you say?”

 There’s a knot tightening itself in your low belly. It’s heavy, and hot, and it beats in time to the rapid pulse of your heart. “No,” you tell him dryly. “I don’t listen.”

 “Need someone to make you?”

 “Mmmhm.”

 Your moaned consent gets you a dark chuckle for your trouble. Geralt guides you to your feet with his fingers still tangled in the scruff of your neck, kicking your chair to the side and out of his way. He pushes you forward until your cheek rests on the open pages of your ledger. The rustle of fabric precedes the rush of cool air over the backs of your legs as your skirts are rucked up to expose you to the Witcher’s inspection. There’s a tug, and then the soft slide of your underthings being guided down your legs. You feel warm all over, prickling with pins and needles – the sensation makes you squirm.

 Geralt’s voice is all heat and thunder behind you. “Told you you’d end up over this desk eventually,” he growls. “Hold on to the edge, sweetheart. Good girl. We’ll call it an even ten, hm?”

 His palm cracks over the softness of your backside. The sharp sting punches a yelp from your throat and you immediately clap one hand over your mouth. Your other hand grips the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles crack. A second smack has you gasping behind your palm. Your face goes hot, like you’e stood too close to the kitchen fires.

 Three.

 Four.

 Blows five and six strike in quick succession, one to each cheek, and you whimper, rocking up onto your toes. You hear a low, filthy chuckle behind you. You hiss when Geralt palms the smarting skin of your ass – his callouses scratch, but the dull pain stokes the heat in your belly, throbs to mingle with the slick ache between your legs.

 The grip on your hair tugs; you moan into your hand and the Witcher growls. “Fuck, I can smell you, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Spread your legs for me. There’s a good girl…”

 Strike number seven comes when you don’t move fast enough for him. The sensation hums through you, makes you whine into your palm and then Geralt’s fingers glide through the slippery mess between your legs. He spreads the slick of you over your swollen cunt, paying special, delicate attention to your clit. Your whole body is flushed, somewhere between embarrassment and base desire; the pressure of his fingertips over your clit is enough to make your hips rock, but the bastard draws away at each shallow movement.

 “Oh, sweet girl,” Geralt croons to you. “You should see how wet you are – all pretty and ripe…”

 The flat of the Witcher’s hand strikes once over your soaking cunt and you set your teeth into the meat of your hand to muffle your cry. You shake, riding the knife’s edge of an orgasm that Geralt refuses to grant you; he simple rests his palm over the slick heat of you, fingertips barely feathering over the throb of your clit. A desperate kind of sound edges its way up from your throat, a ragged, broken thing that makes the mutant behind you rumble appreciatively.

 “Fuck, I love that noise. Such a needy thing, aren’t you?” Smack!

 Nine – the small of your back arches as you moan. Geralt re-grips the hand in your hair and you follow his guidance until you’re standing with the Witcher pressed tight to your back. His trousers chaff against your sore backside, though the smooth buttons press little spots of cold into your stinging skin. He gently pulls your grip away from your mouth, and your interlaced fingers spread out on the polished wood; his breath is hot against the side of your neck when he murmurs, “You want to come, sweetheart?”

 You bite your lip against a moan, which isn’t enough of an answer – Geralt gives up his hold on your hair and his palm strikes over your ass for the last time as he snarls, “Answer me. Tell me what you want.”

 “Wannacome,” you gasp in a rush. “Fuck me - gods, want you to fuck me.”

 He moans low and hot on your skin. “Fuck, I love when you beg me for it.”

 There’s movement behind you, the soft sound of buttons sliding free, and then Geralt is thick and hard against your slipper-wet folds. He ruts against you, slow and dirty, sending licks of fire darting over your skin; it’s enough to make you grit your teeth and whine. The Witcher shushes you softly, his voice a low, sweet murmur against the hinge of your jaw. One big hand slides over your mouth before he shifts, bending his knees to change his angle and split you open around his heavy cock.

 You keen into his palm.

 It’s chaos under you skin. Sparks and fire, a rushing current that chases its way up your spine and spreads glorious sensation through your fingers and toes. You clench around the intrusion and feel him groan into your hair, “Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good, sweetheart, always take me so well.”

 Geralt thrusts up into you with firm, even strokes. The wet of your cunt flutters and pulses around him, and you gasp with each push. He mouths at your shoulder where it’s bared over the wide neck of your blouse, bites a bruise into the side of your neck. You grunt low into his hand and your legs shake with the effort of keeping you upright; the Witcher’s arm grips over your middle to steady. He stretches you open, makes you tremble and whimper each time he bottoms out. Slick drips around where you’re joined, smearing over your inner thighs and the heavy base of his cock.

 You brace against the surface of the desk with shaking arms. The hand over your mouth pulls back into your hair again, turning you towards him so he can crush his mouth over yours. He laps each broken whimper from the depths of your mouth and keeps you still when he pulls back to stare. He’s a vision of hedonism – lips kiss-swollen and pink, golden eyes hooded in lust. The sight alone is enough to make you flex hard around his cock as you mewl.

 “Geralt – “

 “That’s it, sweetheart – come on, give it to me –“

 It’s a sudden flash of a climax; you clench your teeth around a cry when you come at his urging. Your cunt pulses hotly around him. Geralt presses his face against your neck and you hear him murmuring to you, gripping you close while you tremble.

 The rhythm of his thrusts goes rough, desperate, and your fingernails scrape the smooth surface of the desk. He huffs out a deep, low moan into your shoulder. His cock pulses, throbs inside of you, and Geralt pushes forward so deep that you see stars all over again. He fills you, his cum mixing with the rush of your arousal until you feel it begin to trickle down the back of your thigh. You shudder, moaning your way through a laugh as Geralt traces his nose up the line of your neck. He gives you one last, lovely shudder when he slides free before setting you both to rights. Still pressed to your back, you feel his satisfied rumble; his teeth catch your earlobe and tug.

 “You ready to behave?” he mutters.

 “Not likely,” you hum. “You’re just encouraging bad behavior at this point.”

 “Hmm. Noted.”

 The world turns, then tips; you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over one of the Witcher’s massive shoulders. He has no compunction about marching you out the door and into the mostly full tavern, ignoring your sputtering protests on his way up the stairs. The wolf-whistles and general ribbing make you flush hot, but then you catch Lucja’s eye from behind the bar, and the round-eyed blonde has the nerve to grin. It’s an expression that is far too knowing to be just a taunt.

 You’re not sure if you want to throttle her or thank her.

 You’ll have to decide in the morning.

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

oh what a sin

the wench and the witcher

"oh what a sin”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: It is occasionally impossible to do your damned job because Geralt of Rivia is a menace. 

Warnings: NSFW/18+ Only - heavy petting, oral sex (f receiving), brief description of intercourse, reader continues to be a foul-mouthed little darling. Geralt has a domesticity kink?

A/N: I’m recycling “From Eden” again, because it’s a such a weirdly sweet song about the Devil seducing Eve, apparently. I shit you not, go look it up. 

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly--canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​

Babe There's something wretched about this Something so precious about this Where to begin?

“Geralt.”

 “Mmph.”

 “Geralt – hey!”

 A sharp drag of teeth over your pulse makes you jump and shiver. The witcher’s lips are soft and dry against your skin – he grins against your neck and sets his teeth there again. You gasp and bite your tongue against a moan. He has you trapped, pressed up into a corner of the kitchen as if you don’t have at least two employees on premises and there aren’t four dozen hand pies that need to be finished for breakfast. Your fingers leave streaks of flour over the faded black of Geralt’s shirt when you cling to him.

 He sucks a bruise onto your collarbone. “Asshole,” you gasp. “I’m not wearing a high collar again, it’s too hot back here – “

 The insistent press of his mouth on yours cuts you off. It would be easier to be annoyed if he wasn’t such a damned good kisser. He takes gentle hold of your face, cupping your jaw in his hands as he licks his way into your mouth. It’s a lazy, filthy kind of kiss; the sort of thing that makes your knees quake under your skirts and you’re gripping his waist before long just to keep yourself standing. He kisses you until you’re panting lowly into his mouth, shivering and molding yourself tight against his chest. You feel as much as hear him growl and his hands slide down, fingertips trailing sweetly along the line of your neck before his big hands cover your clothed breasts and squeeze.

 He gets like this sometimes.

 Depends on how long he’s been gone, mostly, but sometimes it happens if he’s stuck around for a bit longer than usual. He wakes up amorous and possessive, biting marks onto your belly and thighs before you’re barely awake enough to form coherent sentences – makes you come with his tongue, or fingers, twice over before he ruts you into the mattress. Only once he’s had his initial fill are you allowed to even consider going about your business for the day, and even that’s a gamble; any little thing could spark that hunger back up.

 This time? Apparently, the sight of you in a stained apron with flour in your hair is what does it.

 Geralt goes for your neck again, laying open-mouthed kisses as his hands grope and you whine his name under your breath. Stringing words together is more difficult than it should be. “You’re a - a godsdamn deviant - oh -  Geralt of Rivia,” you whisper.

 He bites another bruise into your skin, just over the cut of your bodice. “And yet,” he growls. “You haven’t told me to stop.”

 The hands at your breasts drop to your waist, then your hips, and then he’s gathering your skirts up as he presses his face into your bosom. He rubs against you like a damned cat and sinks to his knees; golden, heavy-lidded eyes stare up at you and even with how sore you are already, the blatant hunger on his face lights a fire in your belly. His eyes flash, pupils blown wide, and he lifts the bunched fabric of your skirts to your lips.

 “Bite,” he commands lowly.

 You do as your told, and just in time – the witcher pushes his face between your legs, the hot press of his tongue on your swollen labia makes you keen into the heavy cotton between your lips. He grips one of your thighs, tugging until your knee is hooked over his shoulder to keep you from simply buckling to the ground. Your hand fists roughly in his soft, loose hair, and you feel him moan against your cunt. The low buzz sends pleasure zipping down your spine and you arch your hips to him.

 Geralt devours you, licks you open and drinks you down with single-minded determination. Over the thundering rush of blood in your ears, you’re vaguely aware of the voices of your staff just on the other side of the kitchen door – you pant through the fabric in your mouth, grinding your teeth hard enough that your jaw aches. Geralt flattens his tongue against you, rolling the heavy muscle over you throbbing clit until your legs tremble. A ragged whine cracks up from your throat, and you make the mistake of glancing down.

 Honey-gold eyes darken to polished amber. The witcher smirks, locks his mouth around your clit, and sucks. You come so hard that you swear you go blind for a moment, but your high-pitched whimper blessedly muffled. Damn him.

 Geralt laps at you gently, cleaning the slick mess from your thighs while you try to remember how to breathe normally again. You give a low, shaky moan and carefully pull the bunched fabric of your skirt from your mouth, but that’s when you smell the acrid bite of burning food. Your eyes shoot open.

 “Son of a bitch,” you hiss.

 There’s no polite way of disentangling yourself from the witcher at your feet, so you essentially kick him out of your way, ignoring his indignant grunt. You stumble on wobbly legs and grab the nearest towel to protect your hands before you yank the trays of pastries out of the wood fire stove. There are a number that could be salvaged, sold at a slightly reduced price, but at least half a dozen of them are completely charred on one side, blackened like coal. You groan and scrub a hand over your face.

 “Buggery fucking shit,” you swear vehemently. “Bollocks – “

 You hear a snort behind you. Eyes narrowed, you turn to glower at the witcher, who stands still and impassive – utterly stone-faced, save for a twitch of his jaw. He can’t quite keep the mirth out of his citrine eyes. With a short growl, you grab a cooling pie and whip it at his head. He snatches it out of the air with a smirk and then has the unmitigated cheek to crowd in and press a kiss to your neck.

 “Thanks for breakfast, sweetheart,” he rumbles.

 “You cocky shit –“

Geralt barks out a laugh and dodges your half-hearted swing. He’s out the door, hand pie crammed crudely into his mouth, before you find something else to wing at him.