#i can go to bed now goo nigh

[cyphyree]

grimace shakin'

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

happily i’m unfazed here, too

the wench and the witcher

“happily i’m unfazed here, too”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader

Summary: Reader can’t sleep and does what she does best: baking. Geralt discovers something interesting and does his best to be a distraction.

Warnings: This got fluffy as fuck, but there’s still a nice dollop of smut to tide you over.

A/N: I am getting WAY more attached to these two than I initially anticipated and I regret absolutely NOTHING. Lyrics below and title are from Hozier’s song “Wasteland, Baby!” which I fully blame for making this as smooshy as it turned out to be. In my heart of hearts, I know that Geralt of Rivia is basically a tootsie pop - hard to crack, but goo in the middle. Abandonmentissueswilldothattoaperson. Thank you, as always, for reading my lieblings!

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

Be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking Though quaking, though crazy That’s just wasteland, baby

Gods, it’s just unfair, you think, as you watch the witcher sleep. He’s on his belly, snoring gently with one big arm thrown over your waist. You’re fairly certain he hasn’t so much as rolled over since he passed out after your second – third?! – tryst the night before. If nothing else, Geralt is consistent – whatever his mood, a good lay always put him right out.

If only you could be so lucky.

You had managed to doze on and off through the night, but you’ve been awake and staring at the rafters for nigh on a half-hour. It’s not yet dawn, but you can see the sky out the window starting to turn from deep midnight to pale grey. Carefully, you turn to face your bedmate. His face is calm, making him look much younger than his true age – though you’re not sure what that is exactly – and he looks almost boyish at this angle. Maybe even… sweet. Not that you’d ever tell him that to his face.

Unable to help yourself, you reach out, carefully pushing his bed-tangled hair back from his forehead. The rich brown of your skin stands out starkly against the smooth pallor of his; when your thumb brushes his temple, Geralt gives a low, sharp inhale. Bleary gold eyes blink open.  

“S’matter?” he grumbles.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. “Nothing,” you whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

Geralt gives you a half-hearted grunt and does just that. You press a kiss to his cheek before carefully extricating yourself from his loose grip. The wooden floor is chilly under your bare feet, but the temperature contrast helps shake the last of the cobwebs from your mind. You stand, and stretch, finding your chemise and a shawl before you slip from the room and down to the kitchen. You tiptoe across the icy flagstone to the massive hearth and build the fire up as quickly as you can manage, staying crouched for a time to warm yourself as you glance take survey of your space.

The herbs over the mantel should be ready in another day, you think, mindlessly finger-combing the tangles from your hair. You’ll have to get to the market to order the chickens for supper tonight, and there are plenty of potatoes and carrots in the root cellar for roasting. For now… for now, you feel like baking. With a smile on your lips, you stand and begin to gather what you’ll need. You tend to your ingredients with care, drawing your focus as you measure and sift and roll, all the while murmuring low to yourself the words taught to you at childhood. The women in your family didn’t call it magic, not exactly, but you’d never seen your mother so much as burn a loaf of bread, and she’d been sure to pass her knowledge down to you.

Golden fingers of sunlight begin to stretch across the counter as you lay down a dusting of flour. You turn your dough out of its bowl and press at it with your hands, kneading it into itself; the energy you focused flows through your fingers, or at least that’s how you picture it. You think about pressing it into each grain of flour, each speck of sugar, until the dough comes together. Satisfied, you smile down at your creation and wipe at your forehead with the back of your hand.

“You’re a hearth witch.”

“Son of a bitch!”

Geralt raises an eyebrow when you whirl to face him. He’s leaning against the door, dressed in his usual black and arms crossed as he eyes you – you have no idea how long he’s been watching you. “Would you stop doing that?” you gripe half-heartedly as you wait for your heartbeat to slow. “Fuck’s sake… and no – I am not. It’s just what I was taught.”

He hmms skeptically, then tips his chin at your soon-to-be bread loaf. “Anyone else would call that spellwork.”

“Well it’s not, its… it’s what my mother taught me. Just how things are done.”

The witcher gives you a half-smile, but he doesn’t press you again. You feel his golden gaze on you as you shape the dough and use the flat wooden board to slide it onto the flat stone rack that sits over the open fire. He wanders closer when you move back to your baking station and begin to clean up your mess; you only pause when he presses up against your back, his hands warm on your waist. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, making you shiver. You feel the gentle press of his nose against your unruly curls – it’s almost like an apology for scaring the life out of you.

“Good morning,” he rumbles.

Biting your lip, you turn in his grasp to gaze up into his face. That honey-colored gaze drifts lazily over your features before your fingers catch the collar of his shirt. With a tug, you bring his lips to yours.

It’s a slow, lazy kind of kiss. Geralt steps into you enough to keep you trapped against the counter – keep your body pressed up tight against his. You give a low, pleased little hum when he licks his way into your mouth. His fingers drift down your hips and farther, taking a brief grip on your backside before he starts gather the fabric of your chemise up. You break the kiss with a soft gasp, “Geralt…”

“Shhh…”

His lips are dry and warm along your jaw and before long you feel calloused, graceful fingertips brush their way across the naked skin of your thigh. They move towards the center of your body, leaving gooseflesh in their wake and you widen your stance almost unconsciously. The hand clutched at the collar of his shirt tightens – your other hand finds his waist and grips. Geralt leaves slow, opened-mouth kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His hand slips between your legs and the breath in throat catches. You tug at his collar again, pull him in for another kiss, and he obliges, but only for a moment – you whimper when he pulls away, and the lazy, wolfish smile he gives you makes your knees turn to water.

“I want to watch you,” he murmurs. “Keep your eyes open for me… good girl.”

His fingers rub slow, delicate circles against your cunt and keeping your eyes open is suddenly the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, but gods, it’s worth it to be able to see his face. Those golden eyes darken as he skates his fingers through your wetness, making you arch and gasp. You feel like your being stripped bare layer by layer, between the thrumming pleasure that rolls through your belly and the way his eyes take in each crease and furrow of your brow. He slides one finger into the desperate heat of your sex and you shudder. When a second finger follows, you moan his name lowly.

“That’s it, sweetheart…”

He doesn’t rush. He toys with you, keeping you right at the precipice so he can enjoy the way your face twists in pleasure. You feel like you’re going to swoon – your heart thunders in your ears and it’s almost impossible to catch a full breath as you roll your hips against his hand. Geralt’s breath is warm and soft on your face. He doesn’t drop his gaze once. His thumb brushes over the swollen, aching bud of your clit once, twice, and you shatter. It’s like being buffeted by the tide and you can’t help the way your eyes slam shut.

Geralt kisses you to smother your keening cries. You can feel him grinning against your mouth.

There’s a last, shivering moment of pleasure when he slides his hand free. He licks the shine of your slick from his fingers, eyes on you the whole time. You wonder if it would be feasible to pull him to the floor and have your way with him right there. When he bends to trail his lips up the side of your neck, you actively start planning your takedown.

“Is this your way of trying to get me back into bed?” you breathe.

He rumbles a chuckle against your skin, but finally lifts his head; you give a breathless little whine of disappointment that makes him smirk. “Tempting,” he mutters lowly. “But I have to be going.”

You frown. “So soon?”

“I’ve been here more than a week, sweetheart.”

“… What’s your point?”

That makes him snort out a laugh. You grin in return, but it falters quickly at the thought of his absence. He’s made no pledge to you, nor you to him, but… you’re used to him. It feels odd, this rush of longing for the witcher who still stands before you.  You step forward, arms sliding around his waist as you take the time to study his face for a few heartbeats – the strong, high planes of his cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the fullness of his mouth. A corner of that mouth curls up, one of his almost-smiles, and you feel your face go warm.

“Geralt…”

“Hmm?”

The words stick somewhere behind your tongue. You curl yourself against his chest, breaking his gaze in the hopes of making it easier. It is, a bit, but it’s still little more than a whisper when you say it, “I… I miss you. When you go, I mean. Every time.”

You feel him go still. For one terrible moment, you think he’s going to pry your arms from him and walk away, but to your relief, he wraps you into a loose embrace. There’s a gentle pressure on the top of your head as he presses his face against your mop of curls. You feel him inhale slow, like he’s breathing you in.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me, too.”

Geralt kisses you once more and takes his leave.

You bread ends up burnt on the bottom. You don’t much care.